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aetherraeys · 4 months ago

Text

visual learner

poly!marauder x inexperienced!reader ⊹ 5.1k

for this request!

cw ⟢ suggestive, first kisses, nervous!reader, tension, teasing, slightly domestic, newly established relationship, lots of kissing!

being a late-bloomer was never really an issue for you, until you're faced with figuring out how to go about kissing not just one boy, but three.

a/n: yes this is 5000 words of kissing and what? not proofread

If you were to think back, it honestly never bothered you much, you’d come to terms with it quite well—you were a late bloomer.

Sure, it meant that you didn’t have the exact same experiences as most of your peers when growing up, making those late nights in the dorms when the voices of all your friends danced around the room, feet kicking giddily as they shared which boy they’d gone to Hogsmead with that weekend. Or when they detailed the innocent lingering touches and fleeting eye contact they’d made with their crush—in person demonstrations and all. Of course, those nights were fun, playful girls nights, but it more listening than reenacting for you.

Even as you progressed further, graduating and starting univerisity, it didn’t bug you like your friends had assumed it would—’it’ being your lack of experience.

And it wasn’t that you were undesirable, far from it, opportunity isn’t an issue—you just weren’t in a rush. It also didn’t make you any more eager to speed things along after hearing countless disappointing and awkward recounts of your friends experiences.

Quite frankly, it just wasn’t the be-all and end-all of your youth, you had plenty of other things to worry about, plenty of other things that kept your mind comfortably occupied. And you were still young, there was still time for you to play catch-up, if and when you decided you wanted to.

The thing is, you were under the impression had a say in it in the first place—when in reality, the universe had other plans for you.

And those plans?

As it turned out, took form in the shape of three boys.

You’d thought they were a bit strange at orientation, their dynamic an interesting sight to say the least. But it wasn’t very long before you were sucked into their orbit, well and truly in the thick of it—completely out of your depth.

Because you’d yet to have a boyfriend, let alone three, but alas—you found yourself unable to deny them.

Falling into place with them relatively seemlessly, although the boys had been dating long before you came into the picture and have known each other longer, that wasn’t why you kept finding yourself picking at the skin around your nails, knawing at the flesh on the inside of your mouth, frequently lost in deep thought.

Granted, most of this was fairly new.

Welcomed, wanted, loved—you should be perfectly content right now, but there was small looming inkling of something in the back of your mind every time you saw them.

They were so comfortable together, in complete and almost constant harmony with each other—and it was a sight to behold, perfect and cozy as they lounged around Sirius’ thankfully large flat.

Both him and James lying on one end of the settee, tangled together in an obsure pile of limbs. Sirius had his hands underneath James’ shirt—baring the bottom of his stomach and pretty brown happy trail out in the open, fingers tracing soft and small patterns onto his skin. James’ hand carding and threading through his curls while mindlessly scrolling on his phone, occassional content hums leaving his mouth. Remus—he was sat on the floor resting his back against the sofa, pressed against James’ leg, head leaning on his knee, book in hand.

The epitome of domesticity.

All so very intune with each other, and then there was you.

Sat at the other end of the couch, just over an arms length away from them, scrunched into the corner covered in a blanket—trying to reach the word count for a project and failing miserably to focus on the screen in front of you.

It’s simple, you could go, scoot over and join them in their comfortable bliss, but it seemed just that bit too hard—where would you start?

Until now you never considered being inexperienced a bad thing, but you couldn’t help but wonder how if just a bit of knowhow would’ve make you less shy to join.

Navigating the mass of bodies should really be at the bottom of your to-do list, so taking a deep breath, you force your attention to the painstakingly boring work on your lap, once again starting to type. You’d built up a good rhythm, the words flowing easier as the time went by, and even though your legs had gone numb a while ago, it seemed like a good idea to ride the wave of concentration while you still had it.

So much so that you didn’t notice the shuffling sounds of movement going on a meer meter away. James had made his way up and off the couch, padding into the kitchen, switching on the radio upon entry—a telltale sign he’d about to start cooking.

The space James had left on couch was still hot from his residual heat when, on cue, Sirius reach his hand over to Remus’ shoulder, pouting dramatically, patting the still-warm space on the couch. “You’re not coming up?”

Remus, his neck tilted back slightly to look at Sirius, exhaled through his nose. He hesitated for half a second before shifting to stand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered, pushing himself up.

As he moved past you, his fingertips brushed against your leg—so lightly, so fleetingly that you barely registered the touch, too engrossed in your project to notice. If you had noticed, you might’ve seen the way he glanced at you, how his gaze lingered for just a beat longer than necessary.

By the time he plopped down onto the couch, Sirius wasted no time crawling onto him, sprawling across his lap like a cat seeking warmth. Remus just huffed out a light chuckle as Sirius melted against him, pressing his face into his shoulder and humming contentedly. Instinctively, Remus’ hand came up to his hair, fingers tangling in soft curls, stroking without thought.

But even as he did, his eyes flickered back to you—quick, searching glances that went unnoticed. He can imagine it to be overwhelming, entering an already established relationship—still so many things unspoken, still so much to learn. And Remus ever the watcher, had noticed how your little habits—your tendencies to take up as little space as possible, shrinking slightly under the pressure of intimacy.

It’s not that you’re afraid of it—affection, intimacy—it was that you were just genuinely clueless, there’s not exactly a manual on how to do all; something that they already do so well, so intuitively between themselves.

It made you nervous is all, unable to imagine how awkward it would be if you’d done the wrong thing, put yourself in the wrong place—the room for mistakes seemed endless.

Still, Remus wasn’t going to push, or pry. Not until he was sure, sure that the way your fingers twitch by your side was with the desire to join, sure that your not so discrete hesitant glances were of a longing nature.

All his thoughts were about you, that was until Sirius distracted him in the best way he knew how.

Soft, light kisses pressed against his collarbone, trailing up to his neck, his jaw. His lips warm delicately working his way up until he was scattering pecks across Remus’ face—his nose, the tops of his freckled cheekbones, his temple—Remus was still slightly spying on you despite Sirius’ playful assault.

And, of course just moments before this your concentration had finally faltered, the smell of whatever James was cooking breaking your focus ever so slightly.

His eyes flicked toward where you sat—shoulders hunched ever so slightly forward, brows furrowed in that way they always did when you were deep in concentration. He wondered if you even realized the way you bit at your lip, the way your fingers twitched ever so slightly like they wanted to fidget, to reach out.

Sirius barely registered the amused hum from him before the next kiss landed, this time firmer against the corner of his mouth. Then another—this one lingering, coaxing, before Sirius finally pressed their lips together properly, letting it stretch just long enough for Remus to forget what he was doing.

You blinked, taking in the scene, your eyes widening slightly before flitting away, your fingers pausing over your keyboard. Lips pursing together slightly before your teeth peaked out and took hold of the corner of your mouth.

Sirius felt the way the corners of Remus’ lips spread into a smirk before he pulled away from him, just long enough to whispered to him, breath tickling the shell of his ear, “Watch her,”

Pulling them both onto their side, stealing small looks in your direction as he kissed Remus again—this time deeper, more obnoxious, more deliberate—sighs and hums of contentment bouncing between them.

Naturally, your eyes drifted to the source of the noise, body stilling as though unsure whether to look away or keep watching.

They found it quite cute, the way you eyes darted around the room frantically, trying hard to not stare despite being helplessly drawn to look at the cause of sounds. Teeth mercilessly taking refuge in your cheek, forcing your lips in to a pout that bordered bashful.

Curious thing, you were.

Satisfied with the effect, he exhaled a quiet laugh against Sirius’ lips and decided to stop tormenting you—for now. With a final squeeze to Sirius’ waist, Remus stood, making his way over towering tall over you and, without hesitation, shut your laptop with a soft click.

Whipping your head to find him, brows arched up, a light smirk twitching at his lips as he looked down at you—gaze so intense you couldn’t bring yourself to look over at whatever was causing the sofa to dip beside you.

Only breaking when you felt his hot breath skim along the edge of your earlobe—spine immediately becoming taut, skin prickling down the back of your neck. Sirius was so close and you didn’t need to look at him to know he had a mischievous smirk playing on his lips—“I think you’ve worked hard enough, sweetheart.”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth radiating from them both, of the weight of their gazes—teasing, expectant, knowing. You weren’t completely unfamilar with their touch, James loved to press obnoxious wet kisses on your cheeks. Remus was also very well versed in the language of forehead kisses and hand holding—Sirius had even gone as far to occassionally sneak dangerous little pecks onto the thin skin behind your ear when you cuddled.

Alert, and flickering panicked looks between them, the tips of your ears felt hot as you stammered out the words, “uh—everything okay?”

Your hands were in your lap clasped together tightly—thumb unconsciously picking at the skin around your nails when Sirius came impossibly closer to you, a small huffed chuckle leaving as he neared. Fingertips brushing a few stray hairs behind your ears, voice low and smooth— “Mmmm, everything’s fine—Moony’s just got a question,”

He could feel the slight shudder that ran through your body, gaze shifting to Remus, hands stuffed into his pockets, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he leaned down over you—very clearly entertained by your reactions. His eyes darted around your face, scanning, observing your wide-eyed expression, how you sunk into the soft cushion, trying to put space between you.

The corner of his lips quirked up into a crooked smile, tilting his head as he asked;

“Would you like one?”

The warmth of Sirius’ fingertips trailing light ghostly touches down the side of your neck was so distracting, making your mouth painfully dry, air catching in your throat as your opened and closed your lips repeatedly. Wracking your brain for a response, words, anything—but it felt annoyingly blank, sucking in a shaky breath, your words came out pinched and meek—breathy on the exhale.

Sirius snickered under his breath, barely containing his delight at your reaction, and Remus exhaled a soft chuckle of his own.

“One what?”

Even if you tried to push yourself any further into the couch, practically willing yourself to become one with the fabric—anything to escape this awful flipping feeling at the pits of your stomach—you couldn’t. And it only got worse when Remus leaned in further, precariously close, the tip of his nose just barely grazing the skin of your cheekbones, Sirius could see the way your shoulders inched up and up, closer to your ears as your virtually shrunk into yourself.

Remus’ voice was rough and teasing, making the heat that resided in the tips of your ear spread invasively under the skin of your cheeks. “I saw you—it’s okay to be curious, my love, ” He took his hands from his pockets and brought one to the arm of the sofa, the other resting on the ball of Sirius’ knee, that was flush against yours. He leaned back as he continued, capturing your gaze, “You don’t have to be so shy about it.”

His words were low, steady, laced with that quiet knowing that made your stomach tighten. He was close—too close, and Sirius wasn’t any better, his fingertips still ghosting along your jaw, trailing up toward your ear, his shoulders brushing against yours.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe properly, heat blooming in your chest—radiating outwards, the close proximity, it all just had your head feeling rattled. “I—” You started, but the words immediately died in your throat, and Sirius huffed dramatically, shifting even nearer.

“C’mon, love, we won’t bite.” His breath was warm against your skin. “Unless you want us to.”

Your inhale was sharp, and Sirius grinned, practically preening at your reaction.

But Remus—Remus remained still, observing, reading for any flicker of hesitation, every small tell you didn’t even realize you were giving away. He tilted his head slightly, watching the way your hands curled into your lap, the way your breath hitched when Sirius’ fingers traced your pulse.

And then, his voice dropped even lower, softer—”So would you like one?” The back of his fingers came lightly over the curve of your jaw, lips brushing the bottom of your earlobes when he finally whispered,

“A kiss.”

Your stomach flipped violently, breath hitching and as a light shudder passed over your body—Remus must have noticed, because he smiled—soft and knowing, tilting his head slightly, giving you space, waiting. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t demanding—just offering.

And somehow, that was even more overwhelming.

Lips parted slightly, words failing you completely, barely forcing out the start of a sentence, “B—” When his voice rang just behind you, dripping with amusement; “Have I walked into an ambush?” You hadn’t even noticed James entering the room.

But that was exactly how you felt, ambushed—trapped like a lamb in the midst of a group of lions, chest skipping out of its rhythmic rise and fall when James’ hand slid gently over your shoulder, your lips were still parted, holding the remains of your unfinished sentence. Sirius spoke, turning his head to look at James, smirk taking on a wolfish quality—”Just seeing if our girl would like a kiss,” As the last word left his lips, he was facing you again, head tilting to fit into the dip of your neck, lips almost gliding over the skin.

No where to run, the combined weight of their gaze made you awfully aware of your racing heartbeat, sounding loud between your ears, riccocheting off the empty space in your brain—only able to blink-up at Remus, mouth agape.

Sirius made an amused little noise in the back of his throat. “She’s thinking too hard again,” he murmured, his fingertips moving from their place on your collarbone, to travel down the curve of your skin—fighting every urge in your body to not arch away from his touch. His palm stopped and rest in the small of your back, hot and anchoring.

“Darling, it’s a yes or no question.” The words were still soft, still pressure-less, leaving you all the room in the world to stop this.

Your fingers twitched slightly, curling into the fabric of your sweater, throat suddenly unbearably dry—still completely entrapped under Remus’ watchful eye.

“I’ve never—” You swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

It was more breath than words, was barely a whisper, almost inaudible, but they all heard it.

Sirius exhaled sharply through his nose, amused, James’ palm soothed comfortingly over you shoulder, while Remus’ smile softened further, something impossibly tender flashing across his face.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, voice quiet, patient. His hand lifted slightly, fingers hovering near your cheek but barely touching, waiting for any sign, any indication from you. “I could show you.”

Sirius hummed lightly beside you, clearly pleased with where this was going. “Mmm, yeah, Moons is an excellent teacher.”

Your gaze flickered between them, caught between the heat of Sirius’ mischief and the warmth of Remus’ patience, the quiet promise in his eyes.

Your heart was pounding.

Opening your mouth, but nothing came out, your throat tight—only able to nod shyly. Sirius took pity on you, grinning as he shifted back and patted his lap invitingly.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he purred. “Front row seat for the lesson.”

You blinked at him, completely dumbfounded,

“What?”

Remus, ever patient, gave Sirius a look, but there was amusement there, too. “We’ll give you a demonstration.”

Sirius patted his thigh again, eyes glinting with mischief. “Come on, love, don’t be shy.”

You hesitated for a long moment, but Sirius just raised an eyebrow, waiting expectantly, his fingers tapping against his leg. James had already made his way around the sofa, and looked just entirely too pleased at the idea.

Eventually, you sighed, heat creeping along the back of your neck as you shuffled over, hesitantly perching yourself on Sirius’ lap. His arms immediately wound around your waist, back flush against his chest, keeping you snug against him as he leaned in, breath tickling your ear.

Remus huffed out a quiet laugh, already reaching for James' collar, tugging him forward until their lips met in an easy, practiced rhythm. Practically melting into each others touch.

It was undemanding, natural. And unconsciously, your eyes darted away from the scene, flickering down onto your hands that still endlessly fiddled with the hem of your sleeve. But, against your luck, Sirius caught you.

“No no no, keep looking,” His voice was gentle, no traces of reprimand, he could feel stiff you were—breath shallow, shoulders tense. Pulling you in further against him, hand moving from your waist to settle on the round of your thighs—thumb stroking in a soothing pattern. Along with the way his voice rumbled of his voice in chest against your back and the velvety hum of his words, “Relax, love,” purged some of the nervous tension that had settled in your bones away.

It wasn’t just that they were kissing—it was how. The effortless way James’ hands slid into Remus’ hair, the way Remus exhaled softly into it, melting just a bit. The way their noses brushed, the way Remus tilted his head slightly to deepen it, slow and unhurried, languid in a way that sent something strange and warm curling in your stomach.

It was so fluid, second-nature.

James made a quiet noise in the back of his throat when Remus bit at his bottom lip, and Sirius hummed behind you.

��See that?” he murmured against your ear. “Slow, but firm. It’s not a race, love. It’s about feeling it, letting it happen.”

Your breath was shallow, completely entranced, and James—who had definitely caught the way your fingers curled against Sirius’ hands your thighs—broke the kiss just long enough to grin at you.

“You taking notes, sweetheart?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Sirius chuckled, chin propped on your shoulder. “Don’t worry, Prongs, I think she’s getting the idea.”

Your entire body was on fire.

And he could feel it, the heat radiating off your body against his, trying not fidget in his lap, and he didn’t help your case. Opting to torture you more with his low teasing cadance and lips dangerously close to your pulse, whispering; “Think you’re ready to try?”

You swallowed thickly, pulse hammering in your throat. Ready to try? That was the question, wasn’t it?

Because in theory, you knew what kissing was supposed to be. You’d seen it a thousand times—in movies, in books, in passing glances stolen between strangers. But knowing wasn’t feeling, and feeling was something else entirely.

Especially when three sets of eyes were locked onto you, waiting.

You wet your lips unconsciously, and Sirius made a pleased little sound behind you, his hands settling more firmly, squeezing lightly against your thighs. “That’s a good start,” he murmured. “Mmm, maybe she’s a natural, Moons.”

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head slightly to catch Remus’ expression. He was still watching you, his gaze steady, unreadable. You searched for impatience there, for amusement, for any sign of frustration—but there was none. Only quiet, open curiosity, waiting for you to make the call.

Inhaling deeply though your nose, a light wave of hesitance flickering through you.

“I…” You trailed off, glancing over at James, who had since leaned back against the couch, all easy confidence, his head tilting slightly to the side. “With…who?”

The second the words left your mouth, Sirius laughed, delighted.

“Oh, love,” he purred, adjusting his wide legged position even wider, causing your hips to fall further into his middle—sinking into his touch. “That’s the best part.”

James smirked at that, hazel eyes flashing. “Mmm, guess it’s only fair we let you pick,” he mused. “We wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”

Liar.

You didn’t believe that for a second, not when Sirius was grinning like the cat that got the cream, and certainly not when Remus had the nerve to sit beside James, looking at you like he was already in your head, reading your thoughts before you could even think them.

Your heart was racing so fast you were surprised they couldn’t hear it.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to—you did. But what if you messed it up? What if you got the angle wrong, or forgot to breathe, or—

“Darling.” Remus’ voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, quiet but firm. You snapped your gaze to him automatically, fingers twitching, picking at the jean fabric of by Sirius’ hands. “There’s nothing to get wrong.”

You barely had time to react before he leaned in—slow, deliberate—just close enough that the warmth of him made your breath stutter.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured.

You hesitated, but after a beat, you did.

The next thing you felt was the feather-light brush of his lips against your cheek—not quite a kiss, not really, just the barest ghost of contact. Lips parting, letting a shallow hitching breath pass.

“There,” he murmured. “Easy, isn’t it?”

His lips brushed another kiss over the curve of your jaw, still unbearably gentle, giving you time, giving you space. You inhale shakily, body still burning against Sirius, Remus just hummed, trailing the kisses just slightly lower. There was barely any time for you to respond before he finally—finally—pressed his lips against yours

It was so much softer than you’d expected, warm and welcoming. Not demanding, not urgent—just there, patient, waiting for you to catch up.

Your stomach flipped, and Sirius hummed his approval against your ear, his hands rubbing absent, slow circles into your sides. James, let out a quiet exhale, watching intently from beside Remus—hands twitching almost in efforts to stay put.

Trying your best to stay out of your head, focus on the kiss but not too hard, pace yourself, enjoy the moment—your hands curling into themselves at your sides. But when Remus hummed, a small pleased sound into the kiss, the tension building in you slipped away. Further and further into the back of your mind.

He kissed you like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he wanted to be kissing you, and your brain was getting more mushy as the contact continued. Your hands twitched again, and this time, you actually moved, leaning slightly into the kiss—one of them hesitantly lifting to rest against the front of his shirt.

Sirius, sensing the change immediately, grinned, chin still propped on your shoulder.

“That’s it, sweetheart.”

James hummed in agreement, eyes dark with interest. “Looks like she’s a fast learner.”

Remus, still entirely too composed, simply smiled into the kiss, his hands finally moving to cradle your jaw, holding you there as he deepened it just slightly.

By the time he pulled back, you were breathless, cheeks flushed—lips wet and reddened.

James, evidently unable to contain himself, turned your chin slightly toward him, eyes practically shining with mischief.

“My turn.”

His lips were on yours, and if Remus was patient and careful, James was the opposite.

Kissing you like he was playing—feverish and teasing, like he knew exactly how new it was for you, how you were still unsure, and he was more than content in exploring.

Initially he let you take the lead, barely pressing into you, lips moving slowly, teasingly, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your jaw as if coaxing you forward. But as he leaned further into you, hands planting themselves firmly on your thighs—parting his lips against yours.

You were vaguely aware of the sound of Sirius humming in approval somewhere behind you, his fingers tightening just slightly on your waist as James’ tongue flicked playfully against your bottom lip. Your breath caught in your throat, and he grinned against your mouth, clearly pleased with your reaction.

James littered more kisses onto your skin, starting at the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, bringing the exposed skin of your collarbone gently between his lips—nipping and sucking softly. Earning him a breathy whimper, exhaling “Jamie,” as you craned your neck into him more, hands jumping to find purchase on his arms.

Remus’ hand inched up James’ spine, almost as a reminder that said, don’t be greedy. Withdrawing, he allowed the other a better look at your expression—half lidded, satified hums leaving your still kiss-flushed lips, unbareably pretty.

Sirius let out a low, appreciative whistle behind you, a low “Damn,” passing into the air, breath skimming over the back of your neck.

“Ready for round two?”

You hadn’t had time to come back down into the room fully before Sirius’ hands came down to your hips—the words barely proccessing in your mind as you spun on his lap. Positioning you so your legs split across his thighs. His hands settled on your waist, warm and steady, fingers splayed just under the hem of your shirt, grounding you.

Sirius was still watching you, that signature smirk playing at his lips, but there was something softer in his expression now—something reassuring, like he was making sure you weren’t too overwhelmed.

But how could you not be?

You could still feel the lingering warmth of Remus’ kiss on your lips, still taste James’ breath against yours. And now planted on Sirius’ lap, he was moving closer, eyes flicking over your face, searching for hesitation.

You didn’t even realize you’d clenched your hands into nervous fists until Sirius made a small noise of amusement and pried one open, lacing his fingers through yours. “Breath, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. “You’re in good hands.”

Unlike Remus’ patience or James’ teasing, Sirius kissed you like he was yearning.

its like a torch had been lit, your body was set even further ablaze when Sirius pressed his lips firmly against yours, immediately tightening his hold on your waist. Pads of his fingers grasping almost desperately onto the flesh trying to pull you closer than you already were—shifting his hips upwards into you. Your voice trembled in your throat, failing to make it to your lips as muffled moan threatened to leave you. Hands coming up to his neck, fingers threading and tugging at the hair at the base of his neck.

“Fucking hell, you two,” sounded from beside you, but it felt so far away, dulled by the thumping echo of your pulse in your ears and the soft hums and mewls leaving the both of you.

He kissed like he meant it, like he wanted you to feel all of it, tongue just barely teasing against the seam of your lips, making you gasp out a whine. He took full advantage of the sound, his hands squeezing at your curve of your hips before he pulled back just enough to grin against your mouth.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

The words sent a sharp jolt of heat down your spine, it had you arching into him against you will, rocking involuntarily into him, and Sirius let out a delighted little laugh. Head falling into the crook of his neck, slightly embarrassed by the reactions he so easily compelled from you.

“Ohh, Pads,” James drawled, chin resting on his shoulder, breath warm against his ear. “You’re gonna break her.”

Sirius hummed, utterly unbothered. “Dunno, Jamie—” his lips ghosted against your neck again, just barely touching, a tease, “—she seems to be holding up just fine.”

You weren’t.

Your thoughts were scrambled, body thrumming, your hands clutching onto Sirius as if he were the only thing tethering you to the earth.

And when you brought your head out of its hiding spot, Remus’ could barely contain the laugh that bubbled in his chest, musing with a tilting his head. “Mmm, think she likes it.” Your parted lips, chest heaving trying to catch your breath—pupils blown and hazy expression Remus was more than convinced you liked it.

Sirius, still curled up comfortably beneath you, pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone. “Yeah, sweetheart?” His voice was teasing, syrupy sweet, lips dragging up to your jaw, inching up to the corners of your mouth—almost kisses—then trailing back away. And you could only melt into them, breathless and dizzy and completely, utterly lost in it all.

“Should we stop, or do you wanna keep learning?”

this is my first time writing poly! so pls be kind x

part 2 - hands-on lesson!

2K notes · View notes

highway-143 · 1 month ago

Text

babygirl- sim jaeyun

genre: smut, based on the desire : unleash make ver and this idea by @samluvikue

pairing: posessive bf!jake × fem!reader

taglist: @urlocalmultigroupfan @minkilicious @vrusha01 @shyoko @emisluvr (open taglist)

word count: 1.9k

now playing: into it- chase atlantic

a.n- ty bbg for this idea teehee | also for my bbg @keehoes bc she wanted a jake fic 🤭🤭🤭

tw: hard dom!jake, profanity, light fingering, unprotected sex, bondage, daddy kink, doggy style, degradation, light spanking, hair pulling, dacraphylia, creampie, dubcon.... might be it idk

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ.ੈ✩‧₊

jake was pissed.

at you, to be clear.

how could he not be? you were giggling at the bar with some friend from college, and her boyfriend that you had noticed halfway through the party.

her boyfriend who wouldn't stop looking at you.

jake was trying to focus on the conversation, an important one that could boost his career, but he couldn't stop looking at you, your fucking smile, looking like you had just heard the funniest joke in the world.

that was his smile. his laugh. his girl.

he was ready to punch the shit out of this guy. he was staring at you like his fucking girlfriend wasn't standing right next to him.

jackass.

"i'm sorry mr. hwang," he says, nodding to the man in front of him. "now isn't really the best time to discuss work. perhaps i could meet you for lunch sometime to discuss it more thoroughly?"

"of course. i'll give you a call. this is a golden opportunity for you mr. sim."

"i understand, thank you sir." jake bows out of the conversation and places his champagne glass on a platter held by a waiter. he saunters over to where you were standing, coming up behind you and placing his hand at the base of your spine.

"hey baby," he says, plastering a smile onto his face.

a fake one.

"who's this?" jake asks, gesturing to your friend, not bothering to include her boyfriend.

"it's mai, baby. she and i went to college together before i transferred."

"oh, that's a coincidence!" says jake, smiling at mai.

she nods and pats her boyfriend's shoulder. "this is liam."

liam sticks his hand out to shake jake's, smiling at him.

jake doesn't take it.

"very nice. look, y/n," he turns to you, whispering in your ear. "it's time to go now."

"but-"

"now."

you glance at mai and give her an apologetic smile. liam's smirk fades faster than he swooped in on you.

jake guides you out of the room and outside to his parked car, keeping his hand on your back the entire way.

"jake, what's going on?" you ask, nervously glancing at his cold expression as he slid into the car.

he doesn't say anything. just clenches his jaw and starts the engine.

you tap your fingers on your thighs and bounce your leg, a nervous habit.

jake knew. he let one hand drop from the wheel and latch onto your leg, holding it down. his fingers dug into your skin, his thumb pressing hard against your outer thigh while his others squeezed between your legs.

you let a soft gasp slip out, and it takes all of jake's willpower not to smirk. not to fold.

because he wasn't going to let you win.

"ikeu... what's happening? did i do something wrong?" you bat your eyelashes innocently at him. you didn't know what you had done to make him so... mad, but you did know how to tease.

"you want to know? get inside." he says, pulling into the driveway and climbing out of the car.

you slowly follow him into the house, making a point of not keeping up with his brisk pace.

"you can go faster." he hisses, glaring at you. "hurry the fuck up."

you speed up ever so slightly.

"oh don't fucking start," he groans, grabbing you by the arm and practically dragging you through the front door. his grip is harsh, exactly what you wanted.

he pulls you to the bedroom, and pushes you onto the bed. you watch him open and rifle through his nightstand, pulling a rope out.

your heart stops.

not because bondage was new, god knows it wasn't with how possessive jake got, but ropes weren't ever part of the picture.

just handcuffs... maybe a blindfold.

not this.

"jake, please don't" you say, scared and yet still dripping for him. both of you know that you dont mean it. you want this. the evidence was pooling in your panties from the start.

"it's time to tie you up babygirl." jake smirks, twisting the rope in his hands. "just be calm and listen to daddy."

you feel his fingers from behind you as he kneels on the bed, pulling the straps of your dress down and revealing your bare breasts. they lightly graze over your nipples, and you twitch at the sensation.

"you like that?" he asks, pulling your dress further down your chest.

"yes, daddy" you whimper, shivering at the cold air on your skin. his hands sink lower, slipping the dress off your legs and leaving you in only your panties.

exposed.

his.

"you wanna keep going around lookin' like that and making other guys fucking drool over you?" he questions, tying your arms back and wrapping the rope around your waist.

you couldn't move now.

you didn't want to.

he grabs your hand and presses it against his cock, your wrist contorting in the bonds to feel how hard he already was.

"feel that? feel how much im gon' pump into you? how much im gonna make you mine?"

you whine and give him a small squeeze, feeling his bulge press against your timid fingers.

he climbs off the bed to stand in front of you, holding the end of the rope near your face. "gon' put this in your mouth baby, need you quiet while i fuck some sense into you."

you nod, heart racing and legs shaking. "please daddy."

"stay quiet f'me babygirl." he says before gagging you with the rope.

you sputter around the rough material, and jake hovers over you. you feel so vulnerable in front of him. he's still fully clothed in front of you, his white shirt unbuttoned a little and his pants straining from his cock.

he kneels down, hands dragging up your thighs and pulling down your panties.

"fucking soaked.... this turning you on baby? being tied up like a fucking animal?"

your nod is frantic, a desperate sound coming from your throat. jake smirks and lets his fingers trace over your clit, a knowing look in his eyes as he smirks up at you.

and then his fingers dip lower.

and lower.

until he's spreading your folds with his middle and ring finger, his free hand attached to your thigh like it was glued there.

you twitch against the ropes, jake's hands like ice on your skin that felt like fire while he collected your slick on his fingers.

"little slut... so fucking wet for daddy, huh? nice 'n ready for me to fuck every little whine and moan out of you yeah? jesus christ, you want it so bad, don't you?"

you whimper into the rope in your mouth, thighs twitching while jake stands back up and slowly traces his fingers across the scratchy cord wrapped around your breasts.

"gon' pound you so fucking hard... you're gonna be screaming through those ropes before i'm anywhere close to done... god, you look so damn hot like this, babygirl." he groans, reaching for the cuffs of his shirt and slowly rolling each sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his veiny and muscled arms.

you were already drooling against the rope shoved between your teeth, but good lord that probably made your mouth even more wet.

his eyes are heavy, half lidded and dark with the desire of everything he wanted to do to you. of every sound he wanted to force you to suppress. of every twitch and shift he wanted to feel. wanted you to feel.

"get back... c'mon, turn around for me babygirl... wanna see that nice fuckin' ass." he groans, twisting you around by your hips and shoving your face into the pillow. he kneels behind you on the bed, rubbing his erection onto your exposed and sopping pussy.

"you like that?" he chuckles when your fingers fidget against the rope, your wrists pulling against the knots. "you gonna let me ruin you? fuck you so hard you can't even remember your name? make you go dumb on my cock and show you who you belong to?"

you can't help it when you scoot backwards to grind against him.

jake slaps your ass and laughs when you whimper into the gag. "no, you're gonna stay put babygirl. you don't get to move, to tease. you get to take it like the little whore you are."

you can hear the zipper of his pants being pulled down, can feel the fabric brush against the backs of your thighs and his dick fall out and slap your cunt.

tears are starting to slip out of your eyes now, the ache between your legs too much as jake teases your clit with his tip.

and then he pushes in.

all at once.

your scream is muffled against the rope and the pillow, but he still smacks your already marked ass for it.

"shut the fuck up." he practically growls, already setting a pace that your poor cunt was struggling to keep up with.

he grabs the rope on your wrists, using it as leverage while his other hand grips your hair and pulls hard. you cry even more, your chest heaving with sobs as jake pounds into you like he's trying to wipe your memory of everything other than his name from the inside out.

and he is.

he watches while his pants, still pooled at the middle of his thighs, collect your slick as he rams his hips into you. the liquid stains the hem of his dress shirt too, and he doesn't make a move to fix either.

he just fucks you until you're at the edge.

then stops.

you gasp into the rope, shaking at the loss of his wonderful cock and begging for more without words. the way your cunt clenched around nothing was enough.

"look at you, all ruined f'me, huh?" jake removes his hand from your hair and pulls the rope out of your mouth. "what's my name, babygirl?"

you choke on your words, throat sore, lips dry and cracked. "j-jake..." you whisper, watching his smirk turn to a frown out of the corner of your eye.

"wrong." he says, grabbing the back of your neck and shoving your face back into the pillow. he doesn't bother to gag you again, just pushes his cock back in and starts fucking you faster.

"you're gon' get it right before i let you cum, okay babygirl? gonna be a smart little slut, huh?" he moans, pushing you deeper into the pillow and barely leaving enough room for you to nod.

"good girl... my girl."

his dick hits so deep inside you, you think you might pass out with how good it felt. you could feel his shirt sticking to your skin with every thrust, your slick coating all the way from the tails to the first button.

you were a mess.

all for jake.

he felt your cunt clenching harder, your walls pulling him in and practically pushing him out at the same time.

"c'mon baby. you wan' cum? yeah?" you moan into the pillow, squeezing his cock impossibly harder. "what's my name?"

"shit.... daddy! please!"

he can't stop himself from filling your cunt with his seed, a loud groan ripped from his throat as he tells you "fuck- good job babygirl, cum on my cock, make a mess on me like the good girl you are."

he doesn't have to tell you twice.

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ﾟ.ੈ✩‧₊

masterlist you may also like: mirror image- y.jw

#── ブーン #˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ─── 재윤 #jake #sim jaeyun #jake smut #enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen x reader

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yeowangies · 10 months ago

Text

Sweet disposition

PAIRING: Goku/AFAB!Reader. CONTENTS: Established relationship, Overstimulation, slight angst and comfort WORDCOUNT: 1288

Summary:

You had been crying the night before Goku returned from training God knows where; had you known, you would have put some tea bags on your eyes, to try and hide the puffiness and redness around them.

Notes:

KINKTOBER DAY 5: OVERSTIMULATION

I refuse to elaborate on how i started writing this...

@actuallysaiyan

divider by @/saradika-graphics

You had been crying the night before Goku returned from training God knows where; had you known, you would have put some tea bags on your eyes, to try and hide the puffiness and redness around them.

Goku wasn’t as absentminded as people thought.

The moment he walked through the threshold he looked at you with a slight frown and narrowed eyes. He didn’t say anything at first, and you momentarily thought that he wouldn’t comment on it.

“Why have you been crying?” Goku asked while you left some clean clothes for him to wear on the bed.

And of course he was naked when you turned around.

“What are you talking about?” You replied, looking at the ceiling to avoid staring at him. “Put on some clothes, please.”

“You know I can always tell when something’s wrong.” Goku commented casually, and you eyed him carefully when he took a few steps closer to you. “Did I do something? Was I gone for too long?”

“No, no, it’s not that. Put some clothes on.”

“Then what is it? Did something happen while I was gone?”

You sighed when he put a hand on your shoulder. Goku would not let it go, and while you hated talking about your feelings (as much as you encouraged him to do it with you), you made the effort for it anyway. Vulnerability had spooked you in the past, but knowing Goku for as long as you had, you knew you couldn’t be safer.

“It’s no big deal,” You started, sitting on the bed and shutting your eyes again when he stood in front of you in all his naked glory. “I just had an uncomfortable conversation with a friend yesterday.”

“That can’t all be it if you ended up crying…”

“No, it’s not, but can you please put some clothes on!”

“Oh.” Goku laughed quietly, and you glanced at him as he grabbed his underwear and put it on.

“Like I said, it’s no big deal,” You repeated once he sat down next to you, with his boxers on at least. “But… I got the sense that she can’t even stand me as a friend at all.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It was just the way she talked…” You sighed, embarrassed to be saying so much out loud. “She kinda joked about how boring I was, especially when it comes to… sex.”

You felt incredibly stupid for even telling those things to Goku of all people. Goku, who saved the world as a hobby, and traveled to so many planets that you didn’t even know existed.

Though you couldn’t deny that it had touched a nerve to even consider that Goku might think of you as a boring person, a boring partner, in comparison to the marvelous things he had done and the powerful people he had met in his life.

He might enjoy a more adventurous partner after all that.

“Boring?” Goku frowned, leaning closer to you and making you look him in the eye. “I don’t get it? Why did she say that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t think you’re boring.”

“No?” You eyed him carefully.

“No!” He beamed, wrapping an arm around you. “You’re the coolest person I know! I’m never bored when I’m with you!”

His genuine smile, the way his hand firmly held onto you, his wide eyed gaze fixed on you. Your heart fluttered because of the attention you were getting, tears threatening to spill from your eyes again. Goku wasn’t one to elaborate too much, though you knew he would keep talking if you let him; but his words were sincere, just like his affection.

You kissed him promptly and sweetly on the lips, giggling softly when he pressed you closer, not letting go of you even after you tried to pull away for air.

“Boring in bed, she said?” Goku asked playfully, sneaking one hand around your waist.

In the blink of an eye, he had unceremoniously thrown you on the bed, making you yelp as he swiftly got rid of most of your clothes, faster than you could ever imagine.

“How would she know?” Goku asked again, amusement written all over his face, as if the mere idea of it was laughable. “I’m the only one who gets to see what you’re like!”

Pressing his lips against yours with a smile, he ground his hips against you, forcing you to part your legs. You moaned into the kiss as he purposely pressed his bulge against your core, the fabric of your underwear rubbing nicely against your clit.

Goku sneaked his hand down your panties, reaching for your most sensitive parts, pressing his fingers against your already wet entrance without further delay. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you gasped when he easily slipped two fingers inside.

“You’re always wet when I touch you.” He smiled against your lips, moving his fingers at a steady pace, making you moan.

You were always wet because you were easily turned on by Goku and his body and his touch and his sweet disposition. You couldn’t hide it and you didn’t even try; it would be pointless considering how easily affected you were by his presence. Even at that moment, when you were upset, he had managed to free your mind and make you focus on the pleasure he was giving you.

The slick dripping down your hole as Goku pumped his fingers was making a mess on your panties but you couldn’t care less, not when he picked up the pace, pressing his thumb to your clit and rubbing it with purpose.

You would have been embarrassed of how easy you reached your peak, but Goku was smiling against your cheek when you came, and it was one of the most comforting orgasms you had experienced. Back arching off the bed, thighs shuddering as you saw stars dance behind your lids, pleasure pulsing through your veins.

The descent would have been nice and soothing, but as he kept stroking your clit and sliding his fingers in and out of your wet pussy, your body wouldn’t stop quivering.

“Go-Goku…” You whined, pushing at his shoulders. “Wait, I can’t-I can’t anymore…”

“But you’re so pretty when you come,” Goku grinned mischievously, not budging an inch when you tried to push him away. “And this is the most fun, making you come as many times as I want.”

You would have protested more if he hadn’t picked up the pace again, producing a sinfully wet sound when his fingers slammed against your pussy.

Air wasn’t reaching your brain, or so it felt when you reached your next orgasm. It was inevitable, Goku never even slowed down his moves, and the warmth that had spread on your body with your first orgasm washed over you again, like waves that made you shudder.

You couldn’t register what was happening after that. He kept pressing kisses on your face, on your cheek and jaw and down your neck, but never attempted to alleviate himself, erection trapped in his boxers, pressing against your hip, while his hand focused on your clit and pussy.

It was easy to make you come, your body and mind sensitive enough to reach to the slightest touch, and you lost count of how many times you had reached your climax after that. By the time Goku finally got rid of your panties, they were all drenched in your slick and sweat; even his hand was sticky with your releases, and he happily lapped at it before burying his face between your thighs.

Goku was happy to please you, and your heart skipped several beats every time you gazed at his satisfied face with each orgasm you reached.

#my writing #dbz fics #dbz fanfiction #dbz imagine #goku x reader #goku x you #kinktober #k2024 #(i was just sad when i wrote this that's why)

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ushamartinuniversity · 2 months ago

Video

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Step into the World of Library Science – BLIS Admissions Now Open

#blis course #blis degree #bachelor of library and science #blis course in ranchi #blis course jharkhand

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aspenmissing · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, love your work! Sorry for anon but I’m shy lol. Could I request the arcane guys/girls (in particular Silco and Viktor), and how they respond to a S/O that simply refuses to stop working? As in, needs to be tied down/forced to take a break, because they refuse to take a break for themselves.

Finals projects had me working every waking moment of every day for the past 2 weeks, no social life, no breaks lol. Kept thinking “wow a lot of the arcane characters would find this completely unacceptable lmao” 🫠

Thanks for posting so much fun stuff, and happy writing!

ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴡʜᴏ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜱᴛᴏᴘ (ᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴠᴇʀ.)

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 5892 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ʙᴜʀɴᴏᴜᴛ, ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴀɪɴᴛɪɴɢ (ɴᴇᴀʀʟʏ), ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏɴᴇꜱᴇʟꜰ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: ʜɪ ʜɪ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ!! ɴᴏ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪꜱᴇ, ᴡʜᴀᴛᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛᴀʙʟᴇ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ 100% ᴀɢʀᴇᴇ, ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇʟᴀx! ꜱᴏ ɪ ᴅᴇᴄɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴘʟɪᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴜᴘ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ, ꜱᴘʟɪᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴʟʏ. ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰɪɴᴀʟꜱ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ (ɪꜰ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʀᴇᴀᴅʏ ꜰɪɴɪꜱʜᴇᴅ), ʙᴜᴛ ᴇɪᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʏ, ꜱᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴀʟʟ ᴍʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜ!!! <3 <3

ᴀɴᴅ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪᴅᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛᴇʟʟɪɴɢ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʙᴜʀɴ ʏᴏᴜʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴏᴜᴛ. ʙᴜᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ��ᴏ, ɪᴛ ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴅᴏᴇꜱ ʜᴇʟᴘ! ɪᴛ'ꜱ ᴀᴍᴀᴢɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴅᴏ ʙʏ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟʏ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ (ʜᴏᴡᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴏɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪꜱʜ) ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴡɪᴛʜ ꜰʀᴇꜱʜ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴀɪɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ᴛʀᴜʟʏ ᴀᴄʜɪᴇᴠᴇ ʙʏ ᴅᴏɪɴɢ ꜱᴏ! ꜱᴏ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ, ɪ ᴡɪꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ! <3 <3

JAYCE

Y/N’s fingers danced over the delicate circuitry, eyes sharp behind smudged goggles, barely blinking as sparks flew from the intricate hextech device sprawled across the workbench. The dim light of the lab flickered in sync with the relentless hum of arcane energy coursing through the project, illuminating beads of sweat on Y/N’s furrowed brow.

Around them, tools and half-finished sketches littered the table, a chaotic testament to countless sleepless nights. But Y/N paid them no mind — all focus was locked on the fragile device that could change everything.

“Y/N, you need to stop,” Jayce said softly, stepping closer, his voice threaded with concern. He watched the subtle tremble in their hands and the dark circles deepening under their eyes. “You’ve been at this for hours. You look like you haven’t eaten since morning.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N replied without looking up, voice tight with stubborn pride. “This has to work. If I stop now, it’ll lose its charge. We don’t have the luxury of waiting.”

Jayce sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He’d seen this before — the way Y/N threw themselves into their work like it was the only thing keeping the world from crumbling. But he knew better. He’d seen how exhaustion blurred their vision, how it chipped away at their health and their spark.

“You’re going to burn out if you don’t take a break,” Jayce insisted, stepping closer still. His fingers reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s damp forehead. “Please, just for a little while.”

Y/N swatted his hand away, eyes fierce and determined. “I can’t stop now. There’s too much at stake. If I rest, even for a moment, everything we’ve built here falls apart.”

Jayce’s jaw tightened. He knew their drive was born of hope — hope to save, to build a better Zaun, to protect the people they cared for. But hope without rest was a flame burning too close to the wick.

“Alright,” he said, voice low but firm, “if you won’t rest willingly, then I’m going to have to help you.”

Before Y/N could protest, Jayce reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a length of sturdy ribbon — soft silk, but strong enough to hold firm. In a matter of moments, Y/N’s hands were gently but securely tied to the armrests of their chair. The ribbon wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but firm enough to prevent them from reaching the workbench.

“Jayce!” Y/N blinked, cheeks flushed with surprise and a touch of embarrassment. “This is ridiculous!”

Jayce smiled softly, thumb brushing over their knuckles in a tender, grounding touch. “Ridiculous or not, you’re going to sit here and rest. No more work tonight. I promise.”

Y/N struggled playfully against the ribbon, lips twitching into a reluctant smile despite themselves. There was no anger in their eyes — only a quiet surrender born from exhaustion and trust.

Jayce moved to a nearby shelf and pulled down a thick, worn blanket. He draped it over Y/N’s shoulders and tucked it gently beneath their chin. “You’ve saved enough people today. Now let me save you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, eyes softening. A flicker of something tender — gratitude, maybe even love — passed between them.

“I don’t like being powerless,” Y/N whispered, voice barely audible.

Jayce leaned in closer, his breath warm against their ear. “You’re not powerless. You just need to recharge. Even the brightest inventions need downtime to shine.”

The hum of arcane energy dimmed, replaced by the quiet rhythm of steady breaths and the soft rustle of the blanket. Slowly, Y/N’s muscles relaxed against the chair, finally allowing themselves to rest. Tethered, yes — but safe. Loved. And for the first time that night, still.

Jayce stayed by their side, brushing stray hairs from their forehead and murmuring soft reassurances until the weight of exhaustion pulled Y/N into peaceful sleep. And in that quiet moment, Jayce promised himself he’d protect this fierce, brilliant soul — even if it meant tying them down to keep them safe.

VIKTOR

The dim glow of Piltover’s evening light filtered weakly through the laboratory’s grimy windows, casting long, stretching shadows over scattered tools and humming machines. The air was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and burnt wires—a familiar smell that Y/N had come to associate with late nights of invention and near-obsession.

Y/N sat hunched over the workbench, their brow furrowed, eyes sharp and unyielding as they delicately adjusted the intricate mechanism before them. Their fingers moved with relentless precision, but every so often, a slight tremor betrayed the exhaustion they refused to acknowledge. Their breathing was shallow, shallow enough that if someone else had been watching, they might have called it holding their breath.

Viktor limped into the room, the steady tap-tap of his cane breaking the quiet hum of machinery. His gaze softened as it landed on Y/N—so utterly absorbed, so focused, but undeniably worn down. There was a thin sheen of sweat on their forehead, and the shadows beneath their eyes were deeper than they’d admit.

“Y/N,” Viktor’s voice was soft, a quiet plea as he stepped closer, careful not to startle them. But beneath the gentleness, there was an unyielding edge — an iron determination born of concern. “You need to stop.”

Without sparing him a glance, Y/N shook their head slowly, lips pressed in a tight line. “Not yet, Viktor. Just a little longer. I’m almost done.” Their voice was steady but faintly strained.

Viktor’s sigh was low, his shoulders sagging slightly as he leaned on his cane. It pained him to see them like this — driven, brilliant, but teetering dangerously close to breaking. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” he said carefully, reaching out to rest a hand on their shoulder. The touch was gentle but firm, a reminder that they weren’t alone. “You need rest. You’re not a machine.”

A flicker of frustration passed over Y/N’s face, eyes flickering with a mix of defiance and weariness. They swallowed hard, jaw clenched. “If I don’t finish this now,” they whispered, voice cracking just a little, “the whole project could fail. You know how important this is.”

Viktor’s gaze softened, filled with a tenderness that only deepened the more he watched them suffer in silence. “And if you collapse from exhaustion, what then?” His hand squeezed their shoulder lightly, grounding. “You’re brilliant, Y/N. But even the brightest minds need a pause. You need to breathe.”

Y/N finally looked up, meeting his eyes — tired, stubborn, and utterly human. “I can’t stop, Viktor. Not when there’s so much left to do.” Their voice was a fragile mix of hope and desperation.

For a moment, Viktor said nothing. Then his expression softened even more, a quiet resolve settling over him. “Then I’ll make you.” His tone left no room for argument.

Before Y/N could respond, Viktor carefully closed the distance, taking their hands gently in his own. His cane tapped lightly against the floor as he used one hand to steady himself, the other to guide them away from the workbench, away from the dangerous pull of the unfinished invention.

“You’re coming with me,” he said softly, the warmth in his voice wrapping around them like a protective cloak.

Y/N opened their mouth to protest, but the heaviness of fatigue was catching up, and Viktor’s steady presence was impossible to resist. Their shoulders sagged as they allowed themselves to be led away from the bright chaos of their work.

Viktor settled them down on a worn leather couch nestled in the corner of the lab, away from the buzzing machinery and the sharp scent of solder. He brushed a stray lock of hair from their damp forehead and murmured, “Rest.”

His fingers traced gentle patterns on their temple, calming the restless energy that had bound Y/N for hours. “I won’t let you work yourself to ruin.”

Y/N let out a long breath and finally relaxed into his arms, their body melting against his. The tight tension in their shoulders began to unwind, the sharp edge of their exhaustion softening with every heartbeat.

“I suppose even geniuses need a break,” Y/N whispered, voice barely audible.

Viktor smiled, the sound of his cane tapping softly on the floor beneath them. “Especially geniuses,” he replied, voice low and full of promise. “And I’m not losing you.”

He pressed a gentle kiss to their temple, anchoring them to the moment, to the quiet peace Viktor was determined to give them—if only for a little while.

JAYVIK

The workshop light was still on.

Jayce sighed when he saw it spilling out under the door, casting a sliver of gold across the darkened hallway. The rest of the apartment was still and quiet, save for the hum of the old radiator and the occasional creak of wooden floorboards settling. It was nearly two in the morning.

He’d already gone to bed once, curled protectively around Viktor, who had dozed off with a book resting open on his chest. The blanket had risen and fallen with the slow cadence of his breath, and Jayce had thought for a moment that maybe, maybe you'd join them soon.

But the space beside them had remained cold, undisturbed.

Jayce had waited. He always did. And he always knew when to stop waiting.

He ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair and padded barefoot down the hall, pausing in front of the door. His knuckles rapped gently against it.

“Y/N… come to bed.” No answer.

Just the soft whirr of a tool, the occasional scrape of metal, and the faint scribble of a pen moving across paper. That blend of industry and brilliance had a signature rhythm, one he could recognize even half-asleep.

He opened the door.

There you were. Exactly as he expected—elbows braced on the workbench, hair slightly mussed from running your hands through it a hundred times, eyes wide and shimmering with focus. The lamplight illuminated the smudges on your face, the faint grease stains on your shirt, and the soft bags under your eyes.

A half-finished prototype sat in front of you, wires still twitching with residual heat. It was surrounded by a fortress of scattered blueprints, toolkits, bolts, and discarded mugs long gone cold.

Jayce crossed his arms. “You’ve been at this since dinner.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, barely glancing up. “I just want to finish this calibration. It’s almost there, I can feel it.”

“You said that three hours ago.”

“And I meant it then, too.”

He exhaled through his nose, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him with a soft click. The dimness of the hallway vanished behind him, replaced by the warm, quiet chaos of your workspace.

“Sweetheart…” he said again, softer now, more worn. His eyes trailed over your slumped posture, the tension in your shoulders, the way your hand trembled slightly when you reached for another tool. “You look like you’re running on fumes.”

Still scribbling. Still mumbling calculations to yourself. Still working. And still completely, utterly, and heartbreakingly unaware of how exhausted you looked.

That was it.

Jayce stalked forward with sudden purpose, brushing aside a rolling stool with a squeak. You gave him a warning look, eyes narrowing.

“Don’t you dare,” you said, pointing a tiny screwdriver at him like a dagger. “Jayce, no, don’t you dare—”

But it was far too late.

With practiced ease, Jayce bent down and scooped you up around the waist, lifting you clean off your stool. You let out a startled yelp as he tossed you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing at all.

“Jayce!” you shouted, fists thumping against his back. “Put me down right now, or so help me—”

“Nope,” he said, utterly unfazed. “You’ve been sentenced to mandatory bed rest by your incredibly patient and extremely worried boyfriends. No appeals, no parole.”

“You caveman! I will invent something that shocks you in your sleep!”

He chuckled, carrying you easily down the hallway like a squirming sack of very angry potatoes. “You’d have to sleep first. Which, last I checked, you don’t.”

“Put me down!”

“Later. Once you’ve been sufficiently cuddled.” You were still wriggling like a defiant cat when a dry, amused voice floated out from the bedroom.

“Finally,” Viktor said, voice warm but weary. “I was going to come get them myself, but stairs and canes make for poor dramatic rescues.”

Jayce nudged the door open with his foot. “Don’t worry. I got this part covered.”

Viktor sat propped up in bed, surrounded by a small mountain of pillows. His book was now closed on the nightstand, his cane resting within reach. A faint, knowing smile played at his lips as he patted the empty space beside him.

“Bring them here.”

Jayce dropped you onto the mattress with zero ceremony. You gave one last squirm, preparing to bolt—but Viktor reached out with graceful precision, catching your wrist and guiding you down beside him.

You landed with a soft oof, breath catching in your throat as Viktor’s arms looped around your shoulders, tugging you close with surprising strength.

“You’re both ganging up on me,” you grumbled, pouting even as your body began to relax into the sheets. “This is a coup.”

“Undeniably,” Viktor murmured, already brushing a lock of hair from your face. “But a compassionate one.”

Jayce climbed in behind you, large hands settling firmly around your waist, anchoring you between them. “We’re not mad, Y/N. Just worried.”

“You’ve been working nonstop,” Viktor added, voice quieter now, like the soft rustle of silk. “You never pause. Not even to eat properly.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to us,” Jayce said, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “You already give so much. You’re allowed to stop. To rest. To just be.”

You let out a long, unsteady breath—like a tension spring slowly unwinding. Viktor’s hand threaded with yours, grounding and tender. Jayce’s warmth at your back was steady, like a hearth fire, always there, always burning for you.

“You can pick up the soldering iron again tomorrow,” Viktor murmured. “But tonight… just be here. With us.”

And with the weight of them—Jayce curled behind you, Viktor warm and patient in front—you finally felt your body surrender. Your muscles ached in the best way. Your eyelids drooped despite yourself.

“…I still have one more adjustment to—” Jayce groaned. Viktor pinched your side.

“Sleep,” they said in unison. And wrapped in the warmth of the people who loved you most, you finally did.

VANDER

The warm light from your desk lamp cast long, flickering shadows across the cluttered walls of your workshop. The steady hum of Zaun’s undercity buzzed faintly through the floorboards beneath your feet — the distant hiss of pipes, the occasional clatter of boots against metal. But all of it faded behind the rhythmic scratch of your pencil across old parchment, the hiss of a half-heated soldering iron cooling in its stand.

Blueprints were spread out in a messy array, curling at the edges from use and age. Gears, wires, copper coils, and loose screws littered the table like confetti after a long festival. You’d been working for… how long now? Hours, definitely. Maybe since breakfast. Or was it before that? You couldn’t remember if you’d eaten today.

But the ticking in your brain refused to stop.

Just a little more, you told yourself again. It was a mantra now. Just finish this one repair, maybe sketch out that hinge design for Huck. Then I’ll rest. I swear.

You blinked slowly, head bobbing forward before snapping up again. Your fingers twitched around the pencil in your grasp, stubbornly trying to keep scribbling despite the fatigue dragging on your shoulders like iron chains. Your back ached. Your neck was stiff. You were barely upright.

A soft creak came from the hallway.

Vi peered in through the cracked workshop door first, her small hands gripping the edge of the frame, brow furrowed in that determined little way she always wore when she thought something wasn’t right.

“She’s falling asleep,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

Behind her, Claggor leaned in, peeking over her shoulder. “Should we wake her up?” he asked, worry colouring his usually easy tone.

“She never listens,” Mylo grumbled, flopping his arms across his chest in dramatic fashion. “Last time I tried, she handed me a wrench and said, ‘Make yourself useful.’” He pitched his voice higher in a poor imitation of yours and earned a snort from Vi. “I did, by the way. I tightened, like, three bolts.”

“She’s gonna fall over,” Powder whispered, her eyes huge, clutching her threadbare stuffed bunny to her chest. She took a cautious step into the room, her gaze bouncing from the scattered tools to the way your shoulders drooped dangerously forward. “What if she hits her head?”

Vi stood straighter, her decision made. “We’re telling Vander.”

You didn’t hear the pounding of small feet against the stairwell or the worried whispers tumbling over each other as the kids explained what they’d seen. You didn’t hear the door creak open a second time, this time with purpose, or the heavy, sure footsteps that followed.

What you did hear — cutting through the hazy exhaustion clouding your mind like a blade through smoke — was that voice.

“Alright, love.” Low. Steady. Firm enough to make your body react before your brain could catch up. “That’s enough.”

You jolted awake with a sharp inhale, eyes flying open as you straightened too fast in your chair. Your pencil clattered to the floor.

“M’fine,” you croaked out before even looking up. “Just resting my eyes…”

“You said that yesterday.”

The voice came closer — gravel and warmth wrapped in familiarity. You blinked sluggishly as Vander stepped into your peripheral vision. He crouched beside you, his brows drawn with quiet concern, his broad hand already reaching to pluck the tools from your loose fingers.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he said, gently but not without weight. “Again.”

“I’m just—” you started, but his expression shifted. He raised that brow — the one he only used when he was pulling rank. Not as the boss of the Last Drop. Not even as the Hound of the Underground. No, this was personal. This was the you promised me you’d rest and I’ve had enough kind of brow.

“The kids came to me,” he said, voice softening. “Vi said you’re about to pass out right here. Powder’s scared you’ll fall asleep with a soldering iron in your hand. Again.”

The fight in you fizzled like a spent fuse. Your chest sank. You hadn’t realized how tightly your muscles were wound until shame made them unclench.

“I just have things to finish—”

“You always do.”

His tone wasn’t scolding. If anything, it was heartbreakingly understanding. That unbearable tenderness he reserved for moments like this — moments when he saw through you too easily.

“But if you burn yourself out,” he murmured, reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from your face, “there won’t be anyone left to finish them. We need you here, Y/N. They need you. Whole. Alive. Rested.”

Your eyes stung. It was silly — you weren’t that tired, were you? Or maybe you were. Maybe it had been days since you let yourself stop moving. Maybe the adrenaline that had kept you upright was finally starting to fade.

“I didn’t mean to scare them…” you whispered, throat tight.

“I know.” He stood slowly, his hands moving with care as he offered you one of them. “You’d never hurt them. But you’ve got to stop hurting yourself trying to protect us all. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I’m not—” you began again, then stopped. He didn’t look convinced. You weren’t convinced, either.

He gave a faint smile and wiggled his fingers. “Come on. I ran a bath. Hot water, bubbles, the whole shebang. Told the kids you’d read ’em a story afterward once you’re settled. I’m not above emotional blackmail.”

Despite yourself, you let out a sleepy laugh. “That’s cruel.”

“I prefer ‘effective.’” He pulled you up gently, his arms wrapping around your waist as you leaned into him. “Besides, you’ve got five pairs of eyes watching to make sure you follow through.”

Sure enough, when he guided you toward the doorway, four heads ducked away from the doorframe with terribly timed subtlety. A chorus of soft footsteps thundered back down the hall.

“I guess I’m outnumbered,” you murmured, burying your face in Vander’s chest as his hand rubbed soothing circles into your lower back.

“You always are.” He chuckled, his voice rumbling against your ear. “But lucky for you… I’ve got strong arms.”

As he led you toward the small washroom, the scent of lavender and warm steam met you before you even stepped inside. The water shimmered in the claw-foot tub, the edge of your favorite towel folded neatly on a chair nearby.

He kissed your forehead before letting go. “Take your time. I’ll wrangle the monsters.”

“And my tools?” you teased, half-hearted.

“Locked the door already.”

“You what—”

“Y/N.” He leaned back in, kissed your temple again. “Let me take care of you. Just this once.”

You nodded, too tired to argue. “Okay. Just this once.”

But in your heart, as the door shut behind him and you sank into the bath with a content sigh, you knew the truth.

He always took care of you.

You just finally let him.

SILCO

The office was dimly lit, shadows pooling in the corners like secrets no one dared speak aloud. The only light came from the green shimmer of bubbling vials lined along the back wall and the weakening flicker of your desk lamp, its bulb on the verge of dying, much like the fraying thread of your own stamina.

Your back ached with the stiffness of hours spent hunched forward, the kind of ache that went ignored when adrenaline did the thinking. Your eyes stung from focusing too long on the small, sharp details — hand-written reports, tactical maps marked in red ink, the ticking internals of a smoke bomb prototype you’d taken apart and rebuilt twice over.

The chair creaked under your weight as you leaned in again, fingers smudged with soot and oil, mind a storm that wouldn’t calm. Zaun didn’t rest. So neither could you.

“You’ve eaten?”

The voice came like smoke, low and smooth and deceptively soft, curling through the room from the doorway behind you. It was a voice that never announced itself too loudly — Silco’s version of mercy.

You didn’t look up. “I had something earlier.” It was a lie. And you both knew it.

His footsteps echoed against the metal floor, steady and deliberate. He didn’t rush — he never did — but his presence pressed in like a tide.

“That’s not what I asked,” he said. There was weight in that voice now.

“I’m fine, Silco,” you replied quickly, too quickly, eyes locked on the paper you’d just smudged. “Just a bit more to do, and I’ll—”

“—Drop.”

The word sliced through your sentence like a razor. His interruption was quiet, but carried the same power as a pistol cocked behind your head. Your hand stilled. The tension in the room thickened, heavy as oil smoke.

“You’ll collapse,” he said, voice calm but tight with something dangerous, “because that’s where you’re heading. Again.”

You finally looked up. Slowly.

He stood at the edge of your desk, his eye a blazing copper beneath the mop of black hair that always fell just slightly out of place. The scars that split his face looked deeper in this light. He wasn’t angry — not exactly.

No. Worse than that. He was worried.

“You’re pushing too hard.”

“I have to,” you said, louder than intended. You hated the desperation in your tone, but it was true. “You said yourself — we’re low on resources. The East Quarter’s getting more volatile. And Sevika’s report from Piltover needs—”

“Is already on my desk,” he growled. “I’ve read it. Dealt with it. That is no longer your burden.”

You clenched your jaw, your fists curling as you stood up. “It is my burden. This entire city is. You think I can just shut it all off? Walk away while people starve and fight and die?”

“No one’s asking you to walk away,” he said, his voice calm but frosted with warning. “I’m telling you to stop before you break.”

“I can’t.” The words left you in a rush, as raw as an open wound. “If I stop, everything falls apart. It always does.”

Something in him changed. You saw it. A flicker of something unspoken pass through that one visible eye. The kind of shift that only happened when someone you loved said something that terrified you.

In three strides, he was in front of you. He grabbed your notebook — the one you always carried, the one filled with months of planning and damage control — and slammed it shut with a finality that made you flinch.

“You’re falling apart,” he said. “Can’t you see that?” You recoiled, words caught in your throat. “I watch you skip meals. You work through injuries like they’re inconveniences. You sleep, what? Three hours a night if you’re lucky?” He stepped closer, lowering his voice into something razor-sharp. “You think Zaun needs your corpse to lead it?”

You stood up straighter, stubborn. Always stubborn. “I’m not fragile, Silco. You of all people should know that.”

His hand moved before you could step back — not harsh, not angry. He cupped your face, thumb brushing the hollow beneath your eye where exhaustion had carved its mark.

“You’re not fragile,” he echoed softly, “but you are human. And I will not stand by while you grind yourself into dust for a city that would burn you just as quickly as it praised you.”

Your throat tightened. Something warm stung at the back of your eyes.

“I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered. A pause. A beat of silence between you, heavy as lead.

“Then I’ll make you.”

He pulled you in — arms tight, commanding, like a wall that rose up around you. You gasped, struggling at first, your palms pressed flat against his chest. He didn’t yield. Not even an inch.

“Let go,” you said, but there was no bite to it.

“No.” His voice vibrated against your cheek. “Fight me all you want. You’re still taking the night off. You’ll rest. You’ll eat. And if I have to drug you like one of Sevika’s rowdiest thugs, so help me—”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” he growled. “Because I love you. And I won’t lose you to your own damn stubbornness.”

Your strength — what little you had left — finally broke. Your arms fell. Your weight leaned into him. “I’m trying,” you murmured. “I’m trying to hold it all together.”

“I know,” he breathed, softer now, his hand cradling the back of your head. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

Silence fell over the office like snowfall — soft, solemn, still.

“…Fine,” you whispered.

“Say it like you mean it.”

You exhaled, your cheek pressed against the lapel of his coat. He smelled like ink and smoke and the faintest trace of Shimmer — dangerous and familiar.

“I’ll stop,” you said, quieter. “Just for tonight.”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Good.” Another beat.

“…Will you stay with me?” you asked, voice cracking like brittle glass.

His lips pressed to your temple, reverent. “Always.”

And for the first time in weeks — in months — your hands finally stopped moving. Your shoulders dropped. Your breathing slowed. And in Silco’s arms, you finally let yourself rest.

Not because the work was done. But because you finally believed someone else could carry it, too.

CLAGGOR

The static hum of welding filled the dim, makeshift workshop buried two levels beneath Zaun’s surface, where pipes rattled above and the neon glow from the street level didn’t reach. Sparks leapt from your workbench like rebellious stars, catching in the folds of your sleeves, reflecting in the curve of your safety goggles. Each flare was born from the heated kiss of metal on metal—controlled, precise, relentless. Just like you.

Your shoulders were stiff, neck angled painfully over a spread of blueprints, half-sketched schematics, and wiring diagrams. The glow stone lamp above you flickered intermittently, and still, you didn’t pause. Your hands moved with mechanical certainty, steady despite the ache in your wrists and the tremble of exhaustion creeping up your arms.

The truth was— You hadn’t left that chair in hours. Possibly since yesterday morning.

Not to drink. Not to eat. Certainly not to sleep.

At the door to the workshop, Claggor stood silently. He didn’t knock. He didn’t call your name again just yet. His arms crossed over his broad chest as he leaned against the doorframe, watching you through the low haze of smoke and the golden arcs of light blooming from your tools.

The air was thick. Not just with solder and oil and scorched metal—but with something more human. More personal. The kind of worry that coils low in the stomach and doesn't leave, no matter how many times you tell yourself they're just "working late."

He had seen you like this before. Too many times. Driven. Obsessive. Stubborn.

Too much like him, once.

“You’re still at it, huh?” Claggor’s voice was quiet, rough like sandpaper softened by concern.

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t look up. Didn’t even twitch.

You were in it now—completely consumed.

“Just a bit more,” you muttered, though it didn’t sound like it was meant for him. It was something you’d been saying all day. All week. Over and over again, like a promise to yourself you knew you wouldn’t keep.

Claggor sighed. A long, patient, loved-you-too-long-to-be-surprised kind of sigh. He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room. One boot after another echoed against the floor, soft but certain.

Your jacket was still thrown over the stool behind you. A cold, untouched mug of tea sat on the edge of the bench, forgotten amid bolts, crystal cores, and scribbled notes in your frantic handwriting. Claggor spotted at least three missed meals—half a protein bar, a bowl of soup crusted over, and an unopened packet of those candy drops you liked to chew while thinking.

He came to a stop just behind you, taking in the slight tremble of your fingers as they gripped the welding torch. Your shoulders had tensed, your back hunched slightly forward. You probably didn’t even realize how much you were shaking.

“Y/N,” he said gently, that dusk-warm tone he reserved only for you. “It’s two in the morning.”

“I know,” you said without missing a beat, the words clipped and efficient. “I’m almost done with the stabilizer core. Ekko needs it for the hoverboard upgrade.”

“He said if you had time,” Claggor countered. “Not if it breaks you.”

You waved a hand without looking, brushing him off like static. “I’m fine.”

But your hand shook. More than it had before. You tried to clamp it still, to flex your fingers like it would pass—but the strain of pushing past your limits was catching up to you, and fast. When you reached to adjust the capacitor coil, your knuckles scraped against the jagged edge of the bench and you flinched hard, sucking in a breath between your teeth.

Claggor was beside you in a heartbeat.

His big, calloused hands wrapped gently around your wrist before you could pull away. “That’s it,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “That’s enough.”

You tugged your arm back, stubborn. “I said I’m—”

“Don’t,” Claggor interrupted, not unkindly. He didn’t shout. He never did. But his voice was a brick wall. “Don’t say you’re fine when you’re shaking like that.”

You turned toward him slowly, goggles still over your eyes, breathing shallow. He reached up and carefully slid them off, revealing the dull ache behind your gaze. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your expression stretched too thin.

“You’re burning yourself out,” he said, softer now. “You haven’t eaten anything real in two days unless I handed it to you. You sleep like someone’s going to steal the time from you. This thing you’re building? It won’t work if you’re too tired to see straight.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words tangled in your throat.

“I know you want to help,” Claggor went on, eyes searching yours. “I know Ekko needs the tech. I know you think you’re the only one who can get it right. But I’m telling you the truth, okay?”

He knelt in front of you then, carefully, like he always did when he needed you to really hear him. One knee against the cold floor, his hands resting gently on your thighs—not to hold you down, but to anchor you.

“I want you. Not your work. Not what you build. Not what you give everyone else. You.”

You swallowed thickly, throat suddenly dry.

“I can’t lose you to your own damn stubbornness,” he whispered, the last part falling between you like a plea.

His hand reached up, brushing a smudge of grease from your cheek with his thumb. You leaned into the touch without realizing it. Your body was betraying you now—letting go in pieces. And Claggor saw it all.

“Just come to bed,” he whispered, eyes still locked on yours. “Please. Just for a little while.”

You hesitated.

It felt like if you stopped now, the momentum would collapse. The drive, the rhythm, the adrenaline—it would all dissolve, and you’d be left with nothing but the weight of how tired you truly were.

“Claggor…”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered again, voice like a promise.

And he meant it.

He eased you out of your seat, slowly, cautiously, like you might break if he moved too fast. Your legs wobbled, knees weak from disuse. Your arms wrapped instinctively around his waist, and he caught you, strong and steady.

He kissed your temple, long and grounding. And when your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt—clinging more than holding—he wrapped his arms around you tighter.

Then, with a grunt of quiet effort, he scooped you up.

You protested, weakly.

“I can walk,” you mumbled.

“Uh-huh,” he said, already carrying you out of the workshop. “And I believe you. Just not right now.”

He took you through the narrow corridor connecting the workspace to your shared quarters. The hallway light buzzed overhead as he carried you past it, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.

Inside the room, he set you down gently onto the mattress. The sheets were still warm—he must’ve tried to wait up for you again. He pulled the blanket up around you and slid in beside you without a word.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, one hand finding yours beneath the covers.

“You’re allowed to rest,” he whispered into your hair. “You don’t have to earn it.”

You didn’t answer. But your body melted against his like it had been waiting for permission.

And this time, when your eyes finally drifted shut, you didn’t dream of blueprints. You dreamed of warm hands, and steady hearts, and the quiet truth of being loved—just as you were.

#Arcane #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #reader insert #jayce x reader #jayce x you #jayce talis x reader #jayce x y/n #viktor x y/n #viktor x you #vander x reader #viktor x reader #jayce x reader x viktor #silco x reader #jayvik x reader #claggor x reader #claggor x you #Au!Claggor #arcane angst

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dreamersparacosm · 4 months ago

Text

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene. You pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling, mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still coursing through your veins, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights

#jeon jungkook #bts jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #bts #bts x reader #jungkook x you #jjk #jeon jeongguk

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im-so-normal-iswear · 6 months ago

Note

hiii!!

May I request some Yandere Sonic with a ballerina reader??

A/n: any other hispanics not show up to work/school today?

Yandere Sonic x Ballerina Reader

Tw: yandere, obsessive, stalking, sonic being creepy. Forced affection, forced touch (not sexual)

The first time Sonic saw you, it was like something out of a dream.

You were in the middle of a dance, you legs grazing the floor with stunning elegance, defying gravity with a grace he'd never seen before. It was mesmerizing, how effortlessly you moved, how precise and fluid every motion was. The world seemed to slow as you spun.

He didn't know how long he'd been watching.

Minutes? Hours?

It didn't matter. You were beautiful.

Sonic isn’t the type to sit still. He's constantly moving, constantly seeking the next thrill. But when you appeared in his life, suddenly, he found himself stopping just to watch. He hid in the trees outside your studio, dashed past your performances just to get a glimpse, followed you home at night to make sure you were safe.

At first, he told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity. He was fascinated by your ability to move so flawlessly, almost inhumanly so. It was like you existed in your own world.

He started showing up at your practice sessions.

At first, it was subtle. Small things out of the corner of your eyes, a figure that would appear for maybe a second, but as soon as you focused on it, it was already gone.

And then, one day, you turned around, and there he was.

"Yo!" Sonic grinned, leaning against the bar like he belonged there. "You're crazy fast on your feet. Well, not as fast as me of course, but, still fast, y'know?"

You were startled, but not frightened. Sonic the Hedgehog is a hero, everyone knows that. He's saved the world more times than you could count, and he was standing right in front of you, acting like you were the coolest thing he'd ever seen.

"You... were watching me?" you ask, unsure whether to be flattered or weirded out.

"How could I not?" His grin widens, but there’s something sharp behind it. "You dancw well. Just had to come see it up close."

That’s how it started.

Sonic becomes a constant in your life.

You never invited him, hes just always there, before practice, during, after. He watched from the shadows, but the moment you look his way, he acts casual, like he just happened to be passing through.

"You're amazing," he told you one night, after walking you home.

"Thank you," you replied, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "You don't get it. I mean, you're really amazing. Icve never seen anyone move like you. It's like... you belong at my side."

Those words sent a chill down your spine.

It only got worse.

Your shoes go missing, only to mysteriously reappear in your locker, laces tied in a neat little bow. Your schedule, which you've never shared with anyone, seems to be known by Sonic down to the second. He's always there, waiting for you.

And then there are the notes.

Neatly folded pieces of paper, slipped into your dance bag, your locker, even your pocket when you aren't looking.

"Youre the only thing that can keep up with me."

"I need you to dance for me."

"You're the only one I want to see move."

You tell yourself it's just admiration. That Sonic is just... intense. But deep down, you know better.

The breaking point came after a late night rehearsal.

You were exhausted, muscles sore, feet aching as you stepped outside. The streets were quiet, and for once, you thought you were alone.

Until...

"Going home alone? That's dangerous, y'know."

Sonic's voice wass too close.

You spun around, heart racing, and there he is, standing inches from you. His usual easy-going grin is still there, but the false sense of calm is eerie.

"You've been working hard," he says, tilting his head. "Hurts, doesn't it? All that pressure, all those expectations... but you keep going. Just like me."

"I-I need to go home," you say, stepping back.

Sonic moves faster than you can react. In the blink of an eye, he's behind you, his breath hot against your ear.

"But you don't wanna leave yet, do you?" His voice is almost teasing, but there’s something possessive in it, something suffocating. "You belong out here, under the stars. Dancing just for me."

Your hands shake. "Sonic, you're scaring me."

For a moment, just a moment, his expression falters. Then he laughs, stepping away like nothing happened. "Ah, don't!....dont look at me like that. I'd never hurt you." His grin returns, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I just... need you close, okay?"

You don't answer.

You don't have to.

Because Sonic had already decided.

From that night on, things spiralled out of control.

You see less of your friends because Sonic always intercepts them, leading them away with some excuse before they can reach you. Your performances start feeling wrong, you can sense him watching, always watching, his eyes tracking your every move.

You try to confront him, but it's useless. Sonic knows what you're thinking before you even open your mouth.

"Thinking about running?" he teases one evening, hanging upside down from a tree as you try to sneak away. "You won't get far."

"You can't do this," you whisper.

"Do what?" He hops down, landing inches from you. "Love you?"

Your stomach churns. "You're being delusional"

He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Oh, delusional, really? Im not delusional, you just don't get it yet. But you will! Soon..."

You stopped showing up to practice.

Not because you want to, but because Sonic doesn't let you.

He keeps you close, always within reach. If you try to slip away, he's there in an instant, arms wrapped around you in a crushing embrace. "You don't need them, youre too good for them, the dont deserve you... You have me."

He's not lying.

You do have him.

You have Sonic when you wake up and find him curled beside you, despite locking your doors. You have Sonic when he carries you through the wind, the world blurring past as he whispers how only he can keep up with you.

You have Sonic when he grips your hands just a little too tightly, his voice trembling as he asks, "You love me too, right?"

You don't answer.

Because you don't know what would happen if you did.

A/n: just realized i accidentally changed tenses alotvin this, uhm, im not gonna change it because im lazy.

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic the hedgehog x reader #sonic x reader #yandere sonic the hedgehog #yandere sonic the hedgehog x reader #yandere sonic x reader #yandere sonic #yandere

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juyeonszn · 2 years ago

Text

SWEET

PAIRING lee juyeon x f!reader

WORD COUNT 4.61k

GENRES fluff ﹒ smut ﹒ minuscule bit of angst

WARNINGS 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, mature language, boy next door/neighbor au, reader was in a toxic-ish relationship, juyo is so cute and so sweet, until he’s kinda 😵‍💫 yk?, um kevin and changmin appearances, reader being absolutely irrevocably impossibly down bad for juyeon’s hands, so hand kink lol, making out, vaginal fingering, cum eating…. lol, they get a little sappy at the end

SUMMARY maybe this was for the better. maybe it was okay to let your guard down every once in a while, so long as it was always for your flirty neighbor.

MORE i would like to apologize for putting this out a day late… um i was really busy preparing for my enhypen concert so 😭 not a lot of writing was happening since there wasn’t enough brain juice flowing. anyways. ENJOY <3 pls rb if u did! (ALSO THANK U REESE AND @sungbeam FOR BETAING AND EDITING <<<3 i love y’all sm)

PERM TAGLIST @winterchimez @maessseongs @itsbeeble @zzoguri

If there was one thing you took pride in, it was your keen sense of hospitality.

You’d been raised as the type of girl to always be welcoming when a new face arrived, to be that guiding light for them as they adjusted to all the changes in their life. When you were little, your mother taught you to introduce yourself first, because you never knew if that person was shy or not. Of course, there was the usual ‘Stranger Danger’ pep talk, but it differed greatly from the new friend pep talk.

The first time you exhibited this wonderful trait of yours was in middle school when the foreign student in your class was forced to stand at the front of the room. He wasn’t necessarily shy, but you could tell he didn’t really enjoy being put on the spot, hands behind his back as he said his name and where he was from.

Kevin Moon. Age 13. Vancouver, Canada.

The only empty desk in the classroom was the one beside yours, and that was the golden opportunity to become best friends with the new kid. As soon as he settled into his seat and class had resumed as normal, you leaned over slightly and cupped a hand over your mouth to whisper loud enough that he could hear.

“Hi! I’m Y/N!”

He gave you a small smile in return and from then on, you and Kevin Moon were the best of friends.

The second time you proved your kindness was your freshman year of college. It was still syllabus week, but your professor had sent out an email over the weekend with papers that needed to be printed and brought to class. The guy next to you didn’t get the memo, freaking out over already messing things up on the first day.

You didn’t know him at all, but you felt bad that he was so stressed. In turn, you decided to rip up your own papers. He looked at you like you were crazy, maybe because you were. What idiot does something like that?

You give him a warm smile. “There. Now we’re both missing it.”

All he can do is laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’m Changmin.”

“Y/N.”

After that, Ji Changmin came to be another one of your closest friends. It was kind of silly that something your mother instilled in you at a young age had become such a big part of your life. It brought you people who you’d cherish forever. But it also brought people you wish you’d never met.

“Get the fuck out.”

“Y/N, babe, we can work through this—”

“Are you deaf?” Your tone raises and your feet carry you to the front door, swinging it open. “I said to get out of my apartment.”

“We’ve been together for three years. You’re not gonna fight for us?” He pleads, clasping his hands as he stands in front of you.

“Why would I? Why should I stay with someone who doesn’t value me enough to stay loyal?” You seethe, your anger growing in size the longer you glare at his pathetic face. The face of a man you thought would love you until death did you part.

“She meant nothing to me!” He tries to rationalize with you, but you won’t have any of it. You weren’t stupid and you sure as hell weren’t blind.

“Do you take me as a fucking fool, Daehyun? I’ve known for months that you weren’t ‘working late at the office’. She even DMed me and showed me screenshots of your messages. Now get out before I call the cops.” You’re so pissed off that you don’t even realize you’re crying, fat tears trickling down your hot cheeks.

“After all I’ve done for you and all I’ve given you? You’re gonna act like a bitch?” He drops the innocent boyfriend act, backing you into the doorframe.

“Leave, Daehyun.” You say flatly. You’re not gonna give him the satisfaction of crumbling beneath the weight of his words. You knew the truth, you knew what kind of person he truly was after all this time.

He scoffs, grabbing his jacket off the hook beside him and finally storming out of your apartment. You cover your mouth with your hand to muffle the sobs that so badly want to escape. You watch as he bumps shoulders with a stranger holding a box, thankfully not looking back at you.

You make eye contact with said stranger, eyes wide like a child who’d just gotten caught with their hands in a cookie jar. His eyes resemble those of your friends’ when you told them you’d found out about your boyfriend’s infidelity. You both stand there for a moment, an impromptu staring contest ensuing.

Quickly, you snap out of your trance, cowering into your apartment. You vaguely remember the elderly woman across the hall mentioning that someone was moving into the unit beside yours. She had never told you a specific date, though. Had you known it was today, you might’ve expedited the dramatic break-up with Daehyun.

How could you possibly introduce yourself to him after he witnessed that? And in your current state; snot-nosed and teary-eyed? There was no way. You’d just have to postpone that for another day. Hopefully he didn’t mind too much.

“Was he cute?”

“Kevin, why is that what you’re worried about?” Changmin’s mouth pulls into a thin line, smacking the slightly older male over the back of the head. He winces, caressing the spot to ease the pain.

“I wasn’t really paying attention to that when I had just shoved my cheating ex boyfriend out of my apartment,” you push around the ramyeon on your plate with your chopsticks. “I do feel terrible that he had to see that though. But how can I face him after that?”

Kevin taps his chin with his index finger, lips pursed in thought. “Why don’t you bake for him? Welcome him to the complex like the hospitable neighbor you are.”

“That’s not a half bad idea, actually.” Changmin nods, shoveling some rice onto his spoon. The Pisces deadpans and reclines in his chair.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Okay, enough bickering you two. I need you to finish eating so I can start planning what to bake.”

The third time you practice your mother’s life lesson, is the next evening when you’re face-to-face with your neighbor’s door.

Your hands have begun to clam up beneath the warm tupperware of cookies you were holding. Were you supposed to just knock on his door like everything was fine and dandy? What if he wasn’t even home? Maybe you should just leave the baked goods with a note and—

The door swings open to reveal the stranger from a few days ago. However, this time he also wears that expression of shock, cat-like eyes widened. Your mouth moves like fish out of water, not sure what you should say or how you should say it. So you don’t think and you just act, extending the tupperware towards him.

“H-Hi, I’m Y/N, I’m your neighbor,” your speech is a little shaky, but you’re too nervous to focus on that. “I— um— I baked these for you as a housewarming gift to welcome you to the complex. As well as an apology for making you a bystander in my messy breakup.”

His features relax as a smile inches its way onto his face, graciously accepting the treats you made for him. “Thank you, you didn’t have to do that. And don’t even worry about it, I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“N-No, you’re fine, I swear! We shouldn’t have aired our dirty laundry so publicly like that. You did nothing wrong.” You wave your hands as if physically dismissing his words. He lets out a little chuckle that warms your chest.

“If it’s any consolation, I’m glad that you left the dude. He sounded like a total asshole,” your neighbor tucks the tupperware under his arm, leaning against the threshold of his apartment. “You seem too nice to settle for somebody like that. From what I’ve seen, of course.”

You don’t know why that has your heart skipping a beat like a high school girl. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he really was cute. He had a boyish charm to him, but not so much so that it overpowered how handsome he was. Kevin was going to have a field day with this information.

“Uh, thank you. I should be getting back to my place now. I have an early day at work tomorrow. Have a good night!” You clear your throat to kick yourself out of whatever stupor you were about to fall into, bowing. As you’re turning on your heel to make the ten foot trip to your own apartment, he calls out your name.

“I’m Juyeon, by the way.” He grins, waving as you push open your door.

“Now that is quite the interesting development.” Kevin snorts, helping himself to one of the raspberry filled donuts you’d just finished baking.

“If you keep eating my product, I’m gonna have to kick you out of the kitchen and out of my bakery,” you chide, swatting his hands away from the baker’s rack. “And how is that interesting in the slightest? I literally gave him the cookies, apologized, and that was that.”

“He was literally flirting with you, Y/N. Changmin, tell her I’m right. Apparently I’m no longer a voice of reason here.” He says through a full mouth.

“I mean, yeah? Kinda? Calling a girl nice is usually guy code for ‘I think you’re attractive and I could see myself sleeping with you’,” Changmin shrugs, tearing off a piece of Kevin’s donut. “But I also see where you’re coming from. You did just meet each other. He could’ve just been trying to console you in a way.”

“Why am I even friends with men when they’re useless?” You throw your head back, speaking to no one in particular.

Perhaps Kevin truly was overthinking the situation. Juyeon seemed to be a kind person who probably didn’t want any problems with his neighbors. It made sense why he’d side with you after witnessing your break up. Besides, the wounds were still too fresh to even consider thinking of anyone else in such a way. No matter how hot they may be…

You’d just have to wait and see for yourself. Only time could tell what would become of the nature of your relationship with your cute new neighbor.

You look insane with everything in your cart, filled to the brim with baking ingredients. It was around 10 PM and here you were, at the grocery store buying the things needed to make cinnamon rolls. Being a baker with a bit of a sweet tooth meant your cravings got a little out of hand at times, forcing you to make drastic decisions. (I.E. grocery shopping so late at night.)

Even your clothing choice was silly: flimsy pajama shorts with Care Bears patterned on them, a baggy t-shirt, and matching slippers. It’s not like anyone cared anyway. And it wasn’t like you were trying to impress anybody either.

But as you’re walking towards the registers, you start to regret your outfit. You very quickly spot your neighbor with a basket on his arm, waiting in line for self-checkout. You feel all the color drain from your face as you stand there, staring like an absolute idiot.

He’s dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants, a hoodie swallowing his figure. He looks so effortlessly good, it kind of makes you upset. Because how are you just now meeting a guy who’s both kind and attractive? As far as you were concerned, they didn’t exist in real life— they only existed in fairytales.

Juyeon looks up from his phone and catches your eye, his hand coming up to give you a little wave and one of those crinkly eye smiles that he does when you pass each other in the hall.

As the weeks have passed, you’ve seen him more and more than you deemed normal. You’d bump into each other on the way to or from picking up your mail, you’d hold the elevator for the other in record time, and you’d even leave your apartments at the same time. Now it appears you’re running into the guy at the supermarket, too. You tried to chalk it all up to coincidence, that you just both happened to be thinking on the same wavelength.

But shyly waving back to him right now reminds you that divine intervention had crazy ways of working its magic. Perhaps those had all just been openings for you to engage in something more with your cute neighbor. And there was only one way to find out.

You psych yourself up as you walk towards him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Juyeon’s smile grows wider as he notices you approaching. “Hey, stranger. What are you up to tonight?”

“Some late baking,” you giggle, wanting to punch yourself in the face for sounding like a goddamn school girl. “I was actually wondering if you’d like to come over and keep me company? Totally up to you of course! I just thought it might be nice to get to know each other properly.”

Your suggestion is what leads the two of you to meet back up at your apartment after purchasing your respective groceries. You attempt to tidy up as best you can while you wait for the knock at your door, setting out all the ingredients on the counter and preheating your oven.

The soft knock comes moments later and you find yourself practically running to open the door, grinning at the sheepish expression on Juyeon’s face. You allow him inside of your apartment, trailing after him into the kitchen. Part of you felt like you were moving on too fast after Daehyun. As a baker, your kitchen was your safe space. It was where you went when you needed to be alone and in the comfort of what you knew best. Kevin and Changmin were the only ones you trusted to be within that element. For you to let Juyeon in— to let him permeate the walls you’ve never let down before, not even with your ex— was brand new territory.

“I almost forgot you own a bakery,” Juyeon speaks up, fingers tracing along the stand mixer. “But seeing all this expensive equipment reminded me of that. It only makes sense that someone as sweet as you would constantly be around sweet treats.”

You fail to bite back your smile. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe it was okay to let your guard down every once in a while, so long as it was always for your flirty neighbor. He laughs when you nudge his shoulder, grabbing all the dry ingredients for the dough.

“On a scale of one to ten, how patient are you?” You ask, avoiding his eyes as you open the flour. The question was in regards to several things.

“I’d say about an eight or nine. Patience is a virtue, you know. It comes easily if you practice hard enough.” He answers, leaning against the counter and watching you.

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding in, searching for your measuring cups. Both you and Juyeon begin to measure out the dry ingredients, dumping them into the mixing bowl. You decide to let him take some of the reins, folding in the mixture of milk, egg, butter, and yeast. While he does that, you prepare the cinnamon sugar.

“I think I’m done. What do I do next?” He turns to you, head cocked to the side slightly. You might actually die of cuteness aggression. The duality of man would one day drive you to the brink of insanity.

“Now you just knead it until it’s smooth.” Your back is to him as you say this, putting away any refrigerated items so they don’t go bad. But as you face him again, you wish you hadn’t.

Your eyes zero in on his hands, kneading the dough with careful, nimble fingers. You feel light-headed as you slip into a spell, gawking at how long and slender they are, massaging the dough like an expert. How had you never noticed how big and pretty his hands were?

Maybe baking with Juyeon was a bad idea. You could barely focus on anything but his fingers pressing the under-construction-cinnamon rolls into the counter. Oh how badly you wanted to be that dough— his hands all over you, groping and massaging and kneading and caressing everywhere they could reach.

The veins running up his arms weren’t helping either, instead fueling the fire burning in the pit of your stomach. You feel your lips part, eyes glossed over with that all too familiar lustful intensity. You wouldn’t be surprised if you had to wipe away drool after this.

“Y/N?” Juyeon glances up from the dough, a little taken aback by your reverie. He follows your line of sight, grinning to himself smugly when he realizes what has you so transfixed. He’s finally found your weakness, and he couldn’t wait to dangle it over your head. Patience was a virtue, but perhaps it would be okay for him to dabble with a vice for once.

He pushes out the dough, using his thumbs to spread it into a rectangular shape. He feels his blood pressure rising the darker your eyes get. However, he’s aware that you just recently got out of a relationship. He wants to move at a pace you’re comfortable with. So he won’t take the first step. He has to leave that up to you.

It’s at a certain point that you come to, blinking to force away the dirty thoughts plaguing your mind. You travel your field of vision to his face, where you find him already looking at you. Your cheeks heat up in mortification from being caught red-handed. You were just gawking at the poor guy’s like they were a piece of fresh meat. This was terrible.

You swallow thickly, averting eye contact to grab the bowl of cinnamon sugar. “Uh, we can start forming the rolls now so they can rise. And then— um— and then we can make the glaze.”

The burn of his gaze on your profile has you tripping over your words, cinnamon sugar sprinkling onto the counter space surrounding and the knife almost slipping from your grip when you go to cut the dough. Juyeon catches it for you, wrapping his fingers around yours to guide your movements and keep them steady.

You feel his breath behind your ear, his chest pressed to your back. His hand is so much larger than your own, nearly covering it entirely. He doesn’t make an effort to move either, rolling the dough into swirl shapes along with you. The whole time this is happening, neither of you are saying a word, letting the silence consume you and the air around you.

As the rolls are rising/baking, you set up everything necessary for making the icing. Juyeon watches with hearts in his eyes as you whisk the sugar, cream cheese, vanilla, and butter in a separate bowl. He wonders how many other people you let see you in this setting. How many people get to see you do the thing you love so dearly?

“I’d like to visit your bakery sometime, if you wouldn’t mind,” Juyeon suddenly says, resting his elbows on the counter as you taste test the icing. “I wanna try all of the desserts you bake.”

“I’m opening later tomorrow morning actually,” you smile, humming in appreciation when the sweetness of the glaze hits your taste buds. “You can come with me to try the fresh batches before I put them out? I’ll warn you though, I get there at like six.”

“AM?” His eyes practically pop out of their sockets.

“Yes, AM.” You laugh, lightly shoving him backwards.

“I’ll put like ten alarms so I can make sure I’m up in time, then.” He pokes his cheek with his tongue, tipping his head to the side. The goofy smile on your face remains even after minutes have passed and the two of you are just waiting for the cinnamon rolls to finish baking.

It feels like hours have gone by with the two of you standing there when they’re finally ready. The ding of the oven has you springing into action, putting on some oven mitts and taking out the baking sheet. Juyeon's eyes light up and even though you’d just been losing your mind over how insane he was making you, you find yourself cooing at him.

He laughs as you grab a couple spare icing bags for the cinnamon roll glaze, filling them generously. You hand one over to him and decide to split the rolls evenly, icing one half yourself while he does the other. And for once, you think that tonight might end normally. You think that nothing eventful will happen and you’ll just ice the cinnamon rolls without problems.

But you were wrong, like always.

“Ah, shit—”

You glance up from the roll you were glazing to see what the fuss was about. Juyeon’s icing bag tore somehow, the sticky topping getting all over his hand. Truly, you were no better than a man, with the filthy thoughts inhabiting your brain almost instantaneously.

He brings his hand up to his mouth, licking the glaze off the back of his hand and wrapping his lips around his thumb. You felt dizzy, drunk on the sight of your extremely attractive neighbor doing something so sensual without even trying to. You bite your lip, accidentally dropping your own icing bag due to lack of attention.

Juyeon smirks slightly, relishing in the way it takes absolutely nothing to hypnotize you with his hands alone. He really tried to keep himself contained. He really wanted you to extend the first olive branch, but he knows you’re apprehensive. So just this once, he tells himself that it’s okay to initiate, to give you a little push in the right direction.

He takes a step closer to you, caging you against the counter. You stare up at him with wide, doe eyes, as if you were completely innocent despite the naughty images flashing behind them. Juyeon brings his thumb up to your lips, the pad of it still covered in icing.

“Think you could clean this up for me?” He asks, voice low and husky. You could actually combust with that all on its own.

Just like your formal introduction, you don’t give yourself the time to think, and act, instead, running your tongue along the length of his thumb. Juyeon doesn’t restrain the groan in the back of his throat, holding your face in his hands and pulling you in for a kiss.

You reciprocate immediately, fisting his hoodie like it was the only thing capable of stabilizing you. Maybe it was, with the way Juyeon’s lips synchronized with yours and his fingers tangled in your hair. You thought the ground would swallow you whole and wake you up from this dream. On what planet did someone like Lee Juyeon like a girl like you?

His hands slide down your body, groping everything in their path desperately before cupping under your thighs and lifting you onto the counter. He knocks the baking sheet of cinnamon rolls out of the way, palms rubbing up and down the sides of your legs. You want more, so much more, but you’re afraid to ask. You’re afraid to start something you’re not even sure you can emotionally handle.

Juyeon senses your hesitation, detaching from you momentarily. “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want. I understand if you still need time.”

“N-No, I want this— I want you— I'm just… scared.” You breathe, your forehead using his shoulder for support.

“I'm not him, Y/N. I can give you the world if you’d let me. I’d never do what he did to you, that’s a promise.” He holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger, kissing the crown of your head.

“Okay,” you nod, smiling up at him. “I trust you, Juyeon.”

You reconnect your lips as his fingers slip beneath your pajama shorts, toying with the waistband of your panties. His lips curl up when he feels you squirm, legs parting to make more room for him in the middle of them. You sigh, body shuddering when he drags his knuckle down your clothed slit.

Juyeon hooks his fingers into your shorts and underwear, hauling them down your legs. You place your hands behind you to brace yourself, a shiver trailing your spine when the cool air of your apartment hits your warm core. He groans again at the sight of you bare for him, using two fingers to spread your lower lips.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he swears, his thumb slowly circling your clit.

You whine, tossing your head back as he applies more pressure. Bit by bit, you begin to lose yourself to the pleasure of Juyeon’s gorgeous hands. Soon the stimulation on your clit amplifies when he adds another finger, thrusting it in and out of your entrance. He curls deep inside of you, like he was reaching for something he’d left.

One finger turns to two, and before you know it, Juyeon’s openly finger fucking you on the counter. He leans over your body to keep your lips together, kissing you sloppily while all his focus is on drawing you to the edge. You can almost taste it, your saccharine release in your field of vision now.

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly he was able to wind you up and trip you over the edge, but you feel too euphoric to care. You pause in your kiss to look down at his handy work. (No pun intended.) It makes your head feel foggy and your vision blurry to see his deft fingers fucking you open, veins bulging, like he’d done this many times before. Your hooded eyes follow them up his forearms, a whine escaping your lips.

A particular curl of his fingers and circle of his thumb have you clenching around him, creaming like you’d never had an orgasm in your life. He doesn’t slow his assault, bringing you down just to put you back up on that summit once again. The overstimulation has you cumming a second time in a matter of what felt like seconds, whimpers becoming voluminous moans.

Juyeon kisses you softly, gently pulling out his fingers to lick them clean like he did with the cinnamon roll glaze. A choked groan bubbles past your mouth, tossing an arm over your eyes. He laughs, towing you to the edge of the counter.

He brushes some stray hairs out of your face, moving your arm to smile dopily at you. “I hope you know I was being serious about the whole treating you better thing. If you’ll give me the chance.”

“I know. I told you I trust you, remember?” You nip at the inside of your cheek. His eyes crinkle up like they tend to do when he’s smiling so genuinely. It forces the wind out of you, because how could you ever get used to a sight so stunning?

“You’re so cute.” He laughs, kissing all around your face and smushing your cheeks together.

“Juyeon,” you mumble. “I’m half naked…”

“Even better,” he grins, pecking the tip of your nose. “Makes it that much easier to do all of the other things I wanna do to you.”

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