blondechariot

[blondechariot]

Hi can I plz request Saja Boys (separate) react to their s/o having massive tits and spotting some guy staring at them?

pairing: Sajaboys x female!reader

warnings: possessiveness, jealousy

disclaimer: not my pic!

Jinu

You were laughing — cheeks flushed from the heat, your hand wrapped around a cup of tteokbokki as you kept pace with the boys.

Jinu walked a few steps behind you.

His hands were in his coat pockets, chin lifted, always alert. Not just because he was the oldest — but because when it came to you, he didn’t miss much.

You turned to say something over your shoulder, and that’s when it happened.

A breeze caught the hem of your oversized hoodie, fluttering it just enough to reveal what you were wearing underneath.

The thin, low-cut tank clung to your chest in a way that made him blink.

And then someone else saw.

The guy standing by the takoyaki stand across the street — early twenties, hoodie halfway off his shoulder — was staring. Not subtly. Not passively. His gaze dragged slowly down your chest, lingering with a smirk.

Jinu saw it all.

His smile disappeared.

He stepped up beside you immediately, casually draping an arm around your shoulders like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the first time he’d ever touched you like this.

“Cold?” he asked smoothly, voice low.

You blinked, startled. “Huh? A little—”

He tugged the oversized hoodie down, more forcefully than necessary, adjusting it to fall over your curves again. “Here,” he muttered, fingers grazing your arm. “Don’t want you catching anything.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips parting — but you didn’t get to question him, because he was already glaring across the street.

The guy was still staring.

Still smirking.

Jinu’s jaw flexed. Not dramatically. Just enough to show restraint was wearing thin.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t yell.

He just held the guy’s gaze until it burned — eyes sharp, narrowed, cutting. A stare that made it clear: “Not yours. Not even close. Try it again and I’ll break your neck without raising my voice.”

The guy looked away.

Quickly.

And left.

You glanced up at Jinu. “What was that?”

He smiled — but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Nothing,” he said lightly. “Just didn’t like how he looked at you.”

You paused.

“Why?”

He looked at you then — really looked at you. His hand was still around your shoulder. His chest barely brushed yours.

And for a second, the air between you thinned.

“I don’t like when people look at what they can’t have,” he said quietly. “Especially when they look like they want to take it.”

You swallowed hard.

Your voice was soft. “And what if they’re not the only ones who want to?”

His gaze dropped — briefly — to your lips.

Then your chest.

Then back to your eyes.

He didn’t say anything.

He just leaned in, breath brushing your cheek.

“Then they better look fast,” he whispered. “Because I’m about to stop sharing.”

Abby

Abby had one hand in his pocket, the other holding a soda cup, grinning lazily as you tugged him toward a booth selling handmade necklaces.

“C’mon,” you called, not noticing the eyes following you. “You’d look good with a moon charm.”

He snorted. “The only charm I need is this smile—”

But then he stopped.

Eyes narrowing.

His entire body language shifted.

The guy in front of the next booth — tall, smug, leaning back like the world owed him something — had his gaze locked straight on you. More specifically: your chest. His jaw slack, tongue visibly running over his lip as he checked you out like you were on a goddamn menu.

Abby saw red.

He was already moving.

You didn’t even notice the guy until Abby stepped in front of you — shoulders tense, mouth twisted in a way you never saw unless he was about to punch someone.

“Yo,” Abby barked, loud enough for half the street to hear. “You wanna die or what?”

You froze. “Abby—?”

But his eyes were locked on the guy.

The man flinched. “What’s your problem, dude?”

“My problem,” Abby said, stepping closer, “is that you’ve been staring at her tits like they’re yours to look at. News flash — they’re not.”

“Chill, man,” the guy laughed weakly. “She’s the one dressed like that—”

You barely saw it happen.

One second, Abby’s hand was clenched.

The next, he’d grabbed the front of the guy’s shirt and slammed him against the booth wall.

“What did you just say?” he growled, voice low and dangerous.

“Abby—!” you grabbed his arm, trying to calm him.

The guy held up both hands, clearly shaken now. “Okay—! Alright, my bad!”

Abby stared him down for a long, tense second.

Then he let go, turning on his heel and tugging you with him, jaw tight.

You followed silently down the sidewalk, your heart racing.

Only when you were out of the crowd did you stop him. “Abby…”

He looked at you — and for a second, the raw edge in his gaze softened.

“He was looking at you like he wanted to touch you,” he muttered. “I couldn’t stand it.”

You tilted your head. “Why do you care?”

He looked away — then right back at you, slower this time.

“Because every time you laugh, or wear something tight, or bend over a little too far — I lose my goddamn mind,” he muttered. “And I still don’t get to touch you either.”

Your eyes widened.

Then narrowed.

You stepped in close — close enough for your chest to brush his. “What if I let you?”

His nostrils flared.

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured. “Not unless you mean it.”

Mystery

Mystery sat in the corner, half-hidden behind a bookshelf, pretending to skim through a hardback novel.

But really — he was watching you.

You, tucked into the corner seat, one hand playing with your necklace while the other held a book in your lap. You weren’t doing anything suggestive. You weren’t even aware of yourself, lost in the story. But the way your top stretched across your chest, just enough to outline the shape of you—

It had him distracted.

But then his eyes flicked to the counter.

And someone else was staring too.

A guy. Mid-twenties. Sitting backward on a stool with a cup of coffee and zero shame. His gaze was laser-focused — slow, crawling down your chest and back up again with an appreciative smirk. Like he was trying to memorize you.

Something cold shifted in Mystery’s stomach.

His jaw tightened.

He stood slowly, closing the book with a snap, and moved silently between the shelves — until he was right behind the guy at the counter.

The guy didn’t even notice.

Not until Mystery leaned forward, voice low and calm and deadly in his ear.

“Stop staring.”

The man flinched. “What?”

“You heard me.”

The guy twisted in his seat. “Who the hell are you?”

Mystery didn’t blink. “The one deciding how many of your fingers you need to keep drinking that coffee.”

The guy stared. “You serious?”

“Very.”

The man scoffed, trying to play it off — but one glance at Mystery’s eyes, and all the bravado drained from his face.

He stood. “Fine. Whatever, psycho.”

And left.

Just like that.

Mystery watched him disappear down the street before turning to walk back to you.

You glanced up, confused. “Hey. Where’d you go?”

He paused.

Then sat next to you, closer than usual.

“You didn’t notice?”

“Notice what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his hand lifted slowly — then hovered just beside your collarbone. Not touching. Just… close. His fingers curled slightly, like he was resisting the urge to reach for something he didn’t have permission to touch.

“He was looking at you like you were something on a shelf,” he said quietly. “Like he had a right.”

Your breath caught.

“Does that… bother you?”

Mystery’s eyes finally met yours. They were sharp. Dark. Hungry.

“I don’t share things I want,” he said simply. “And I want you.”

You blinked.

And for once — he didn’t retreat.

He stayed there, right beside you, his hand still hovering over your skin, as if daring you to close the gap.

Romance

Romance leaned on the railing, trying to stay cool.

He was good at that. Being relaxed. Teasing. Smirking even when he was losing his mind.

But right now?

He wasn’t smirking.

Because you were laughing with someone by the drink table — and that guy was staring.

Not at your smile. Not at your eyes.

At your chest.

Romance caught it instantly.

The way the guy’s gaze dipped and lingered. How his lips curled just slightly when you leaned forward, completely unaware of what you were offering him — not on purpose, never on purpose, but God, that guy didn’t care.

Romance pushed off the railing, heart beating faster than it should.

He didn’t go straight for you.

He went to him.

“Hey,” Romance said coolly, smile gone. “Something wrong with your eyes?”

The guy blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been staring at her chest for the past five minutes like it owes you something.”

The guy laughed, unbothered. “It’s not a crime to look.”

Romance’s entire body tensed.

He leaned in closer, voice dangerously quiet.

“Say that again.”

The guy hesitated.

“You think you’re slick?” Romance continued. “Think I didn’t notice the way your eyes dragged down her body like you had a right? You didn’t even see her. You were too busy drooling over something you’ll never touch.”

The man scoffed, stepping back. “Dude, chill.”

Romance took one more step forward.

“I am chilled,” he said, tone flat. “But if you so much as glance at her again, I’m gonna make you wish you’d gone blind instead.”

The guy left.

Quickly.

You turned around right as Romance was brushing off his jacket.

“Did something happen?”

He looked at you — chest rising and falling — and this time, he didn’t bother faking a smile.

He walked up, stopping inches from you.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he said, voice low.

“See what?”

“How many people want you. Not just like... normal want. Staring-at-you-like-they-would-burn-their-own-mothers kind of want.”

You blinked, surprised. “Why do you care?”

He leaned in, eyes dark and trained on yours.

“Because every time I see another guy imagine what’s under that shirt, I imagine it too. But at least I hate myself for it.”

Your lips parted.

His hand brushed your waist — almost touching your side.

“I don’t want to just look at you,” he murmured. “I want to deserve to.”

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

He just stood there — voice steady, pulse not — daring you to say something. To move closer. To let him break that line.

Baby

Baby had just been laughing.

Teasing Kai for spilling broth. Nudging you with his knee under the table. Warmth practically radiating from his eyes as he snuck glances at you every time you leaned forward to sip from your bowl.

But then he saw him.

A man, alone at the back table — face blank, beer in hand — and glaring straight at your chest like he had no idea people around him existed.

Baby’s entire body stilled.

His smile faded.

His eyes narrowed, but his shoulders stayed relaxed. At first.

“Hey,” he said softly, leaning closer to you, fingers brushing your knee under the table. “You still hungry?”

You looked up. “Not really.”

“Good.” He slid out of the booth and turned, grabbing the guy’s table before the man even noticed him standing there.

“Something you like, dude?”

The man blinked, confused. “Huh?”

Baby’s smile was gone. “Because you’ve been staring at her tits for the past fifteen minutes.”

The man scoffed. “Maybe if she didn’t dress like—”

CRACK.

Baby slammed his hand down on the table, making the soy sauce jar fall.

Every head in the restaurant turned.

He didn’t care.

“You finish that sentence,” he said through gritted teeth, “and I swear you’re leaving here without your teeth.”

The man backed off instantly. “Relax, man—”

“I am relaxed. You should be thankful I am.”

Then he turned his back.

Walked right past the now-silent crowd, back to you, and sat like nothing happened — though the vein in his neck was still twitching.

You stared. “Baby…?”

He looked at you, softer now. Still tense.

“I can handle people looking at you,” he said quietly. “It’s not like I don’t do it too.”

Your eyes widened.

He met your gaze dead-on.

“But when someone looks at you like they own the view — like it’s theirs to take in and comment on and imagine — I see red.”

You swallowed. “Why?”

His hand slid to your thigh under the table, just barely.

“Because I’ve wanted to touch you for months and I haven’t even let myself dream of it.” His voice dropped. “Because I know once I do, I won’t stop.”

You didn’t breathe.

Not when he leaned in.

Not when his lips brushed your ear.

And especially not when he whispered, “Don’t ever think I don’t see you. I see everything.”

[blondechariot]

Hello! Ahhh I love your fics!! The writing is like divine!! Can I have a enhypen x reader and their reactions to you dancing to a dirty song(maybe even one of their songs) and seducing them? Hope this is okie! Xx -✨

pairing: Enhypen x female!reader

warnings: none...well it's my first enhypen fanfic so be gentle haha

Disclaimer: not my pic

Thank u so much for the compliment :3

I'm not that much of an expert of enyhpen so i really hope you like it <3

Jungwon

Jungwon was leaning against the mirrored wall, a water bottle dangling from his hand, towel around his neck. He was watching you stretch with that usual calm — polite, focused, quietly curious.

“You ready?” you asked, standing up, a glint in your eye he didn’t catch at first.

“Yeah,” he said. “What song are you doing?”

You didn’t answer.

Just tapped your phone.

And then the first slow, breathy notes of “Fever” filled the studio.

Jungwon’s brow furrowed — curious.

Then you started moving.

The first roll of your hips was smooth, slow, almost lazy — and yet deliberate. Your hand trailed up the side of your body as you turned, gaze flicking to him in the mirror just long enough to make his grip on the bottle tighten.

He didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

You kept going — gliding across the floor, body liquid with the rhythm. Every movement emphasized something: the curve of your waist, the slow twist of your neck, the way your fingers slid down your thigh like a promise.

When the beat dropped, you stepped closer.

Jungwon’s throat worked. His eyes were locked on you now — wide, stunned.

You didn’t stop.

You danced right up to him — didn’t touch, but came close enough that he could feel the heat of you. Your gaze dropped to his lips just as your hips rolled to the beat, slow and deliberate.

His jaw tensed.

“Y/N…” he said softly, warning and question all at once.

You leaned in near his ear, your voice low and sweet. “Something wrong, Jungwon?”

“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re dancing like you’re trying to drive me insane.”

You smiled. “Is it working?”

He blinked, cheeks flushed but eyes dark. “You don’t play fair.”

You finally let your hands settle on his chest, body swaying lightly against his. “Neither does the song.”

Jungwon exhaled — a shaky breath that turned into a groan when your fingers slid just a little lower, hovering at the hem of his shirt.

“You really shouldn’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, playful. “Why?”

“Because if you keep going…” He leaned in slowly, voice dropping into something rougher. “I won’t be able to keep pretending you’re just a dance partner.”

Your smirk faded into something softer — something hotter.

Then you whispered, “Then stop pretending.”

And when you kissed him — all heat, breath, tension — he didn’t pull back.

He gripped your waist and pulled you in, letting the beat throb in the background while your bodies pressed closer than choreography ever allowed.

Heeseung

Heeseung sat cross-legged near the speaker, one arm lazily slung over his knee, watching you with that lopsided half-smile — confident, easygoing, curious.

“What song are you using?” he asked.

You grinned. “You’ll recognize it.”

He didn’t get the joke — until the synth-heavy intro of “Drunk-Dazed” blasted through the room.

His eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”

But you didn’t say anything.

You just started dancing.

And it was nothing like the choreo he remembered.

This was yours — sinuous, unhurried, seductive. A slowed-down remix that let every movement breathe. Your body moved like the beat pulsed through your skin — hips rolling with the downbeat, hands trailing across your own waist as your hair fell around your face in lazy waves.

Heeseung blinked.

Then again.

“Wait…” he murmured to himself, sitting up straighter.

You locked eyes with him as you moved closer, every sway of your hips screaming confidence — and intention. Your fingers tugged gently at your shirt hem, exposing just enough skin to make his jaw tense.

You danced around him — deliberately, never touching, but close. Close enough that when you dipped low in front of him, he actually forgot to breathe.

“Y/N,” he said, voice suddenly a little too serious. “You’re playing with fire.”

You leaned forward, lips close to his ear. “You look better breathless.”

His eyes snapped to yours — no more teasing. Just heat.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered, standing in one smooth motion. “Do you even realize what you’re doing?”

You stepped into him, your chest grazing his as you kept moving to the beat, slow and heady. “Completely.”

Heeseung exhaled hard — and then grabbed your waist, pulling you in so your hips aligned with his.

The beat was still thumping behind you, but it was nothing compared to how he was looking at you now — jaw clenched, pupils blown wide.

“You want to tease?” he said, voice low. “Fine.”

His hands slid down your sides.

“But don’t expect me to stand still and watch.”

Your breath hitched.

Because the way he kissed you — slow, deep, drawn out — was not teasing at all. It was claiming.

And somewhere, the track faded out.

But you didn’t.

Not for a second.

Jay

Jay leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, sharp in all black, watching you with his usual cool focus — the kind of man who didn’t rattle easy. Even when you said, “I’m dancing to ‘Chaconne,’” he just nodded thoughtfully.

“A classic,” he said. “Can’t go wrong with that.”

You smirked. “You’ll tell me if I go wrong, won’t you?”

“Always.”

And then the music began.

But you didn’t start with choreography.

You started with a stare.

Your gaze locked with his as the intro swelled — and then you turned your back, rolling your shoulders with slow grace, hips swaying to the beat. Your hands grazed your waist, dragging the fabric of your cropped shirt higher as you danced with elegance, precision — and something darker simmering underneath.

Jay’s posture shifted.

Just a little.

Your body curved with the strings, every step a contrast of sharp and sensual — classical lines with deliberate seduction laced through. You moved as if the music worshipped you.

And Jay? He was locked in.

His jaw tightened. Arms fell to his sides.

By the time you hit the center of the room — facing him, body undulating with that signature blend of ballet-meets-R&B — his mouth parted just slightly.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t break eye contact.

You moved right in front of him, close enough to feel his breath, swaying your hips as your fingers danced down your sides. You bent back just slightly — enough to make his hand twitch like he wanted to touch you.

“Y/N,” he said lowly, “you know what you’re doing.”

You smiled. “So do you.”

He stared at you for a beat longer.

Then: “You think you’re in control?”

You didn’t get the chance to answer.

Jay’s hand caught your wrist — gently, but firm. He stepped into you, one arm sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

“You’re playing with restraint,” he murmured, his breath brushing your lips, “but you forget something.”

“What?”

“I don’t always do restraint.”

And then he kissed you — slow at first, precise, just like him — until your fingers gripped his shirt and the kiss broke open into something hungrier. His hand slid down your back, guiding your hips against his as the music played on behind you.

You moaned into his mouth — soft, breathy.

He pulled back, eyes darker than you’d ever seen.

“Dance for me again later,” he said.

“Like this?”

“No.” He smirked. “Less distance. No mirrors.”

Jake

Jake had one leg propped on the edge of the practice mirror, bouncing his phone in his hand, watching you stretch.

“You gonna show me this new choreo or keep pretending you’re warming up forever?” he teased.

“Patience,” you said with a grin. “You’ll like this one.”

The lights were already dim. The air was heavy. And the second “TFW” started playing — his head tilted.

Jake blinked. “Wait…”

But you didn’t answer.

You just started to move.

Not fast. Not flashy.

Smooth.

Your body rolled like honey — liquid and deliberate. Every shift of your hips matched the beat perfectly, like you’d melted into the rhythm. Your arms wrapped around yourself, dragging fingertips along your sides, eyes half-lidded as you let the melody carry you.

Jake sat up straighter.

His smile was still there — but it was smaller now. Focused.

You danced with soft confidence, moving toward him in time with the music, rolling your hips with low, teasing sensuality. At one point, you spun, dragging your fingers through your hair before dropping into a slow body roll that made his mouth part slightly.

“Okay,” he muttered, blinking hard. “That’s not fair.”

You raised a brow. “What isn’t?”

“You dancing to that song like you’re trying to seduce someone.”

You smirked. “And if I am?”

Jake chuckled — but it cracked halfway through. His eyes darkened.

“You want to play like that?” he said, standing. “Fine.”

You barely had a chance to react before his hands were on your hips, guiding you back with a single step as he pressed close.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to look at me like that?” he asked softly, breath ghosting over your cheek.

“I’m counting on it.”

Jake laughed under his breath — rougher now — then kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t slow.

It was hot.

His lips parted yours, one hand sliding to your lower back, pulling your body flush to his. The music thumped quietly behind you as your hands tangled in his hair, moaning softly when he deepened the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, just a breath apart, he was panting.

“So,” he said hoarsely, “you do know what that feeling is.”

Sunghoon

Sunghoon stood by the wall with his arms crossed, focused and unreadable.

He always looked calm. Perfect posture. Clear gaze. Not easily fazed.

But the second “Criminal Love” echoed through the room — low, sultry, addicting — something in his expression shifted.

You didn’t give him time to comment.

You stepped into the music.

Your movements were smooth, precise, but dripping with sensuality — hips swaying in hypnotic rhythm, your fingertips brushing down your body with deliberate confidence. You weren’t just dancing — you were performing. Tempting.

And Sunghoon… froze.

His mouth parted slightly. His eyes followed every curve of your body like he couldn’t stop — like he didn’t want to.

You slid a hand up your thigh, then over your stomach, and caught his gaze in the mirror — eyes dark, challenging.

He inhaled sharply.

When you dropped into a slow roll and stood back up with your hair falling around your face — he blinked hard.

“Y/N…” he said, his voice tight, “what is this?”

“Stage presence,” you teased, circling him. “Is it working?”

He turned slowly, eyes locked on you now, lips parted. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

You stepped in close, chest nearly brushing his. “You like it?”

Sunghoon hesitated.

Then said, low and barely controlled, “Yes.”

That one word lit something in you.

You raised your arms, resting them around his neck, hips still moving slightly to the beat pulsing in the background.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’ve been thinking about how you'd look watching me like this.”

His breath hitched.

And then he moved.

His hands gripped your waist and pulled you in tight, lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that was all tension breaking loose. It was sharp, messy, so unlike his usual control — like he’d been waiting way too long.

Your fingers slid into his hair as his body pressed yours against the mirror, his lips trailing along your jaw, down to your neck.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered between kisses.

You smirked, breathless. “That makes two of us.”

Sunoo

He was still breathless, sprawled on his back in the middle of the floor, eyes fluttering closed as he tried to recover from rehearsal.

“You gonna dance for me now?” he teased lazily. “Or are you just gonna keep staring at me?”

You smirked. “You’ll see.”

He cracked one eye open.

And then “Shout Out” filled the room — smooth, slow, the beat low and steady like a pulse under skin.

Sunoo sat up.

“Wait—” he started, but stopped when you rolled your hips to the first beat.

His mouth hung open slightly. “What… are you doing?”

You didn’t answer.

You danced.

With intention.

Your movements weren’t overly explicit — but they were confident. Magnetic. The way you ran your hands down your sides, the arch of your back, the way your hips swayed and your gaze lingered on him with just enough heat…

Sunoo’s entire expression shifted.

His breath caught, smile fading into something stunned and wide-eyed. “You’re kidding me.”

You moved closer — slow, smooth, your fingers grazing your bare stomach as you danced in front of him. When you turned your back and glanced at him over your shoulder, your body dropping into a slow, sinuous roll, he physically choked.

“Okay—” He sat up fully, now bracing himself with both hands. “Y/N, this is so unfair.”

You stepped in close, nudging his knees apart with yours and standing between them.

His eyes were huge now. His jaw slack.

“You okay?” you teased, lowering yourself to straddle one of his thighs, moving your hips lightly with the music.

Sunoo’s breath hitched hard. “You can’t just—just do that.”

“Why not?”

He grabbed your waist instinctively, grounding himself.

You leaned in, lips brushing just against his ear.

“I like it when you lose your composure,” you whispered.

He groaned — full-bodied, real — and pulled you closer.

When he kissed you, it was surprisingly deep — warm and needy, with an edge of desperation like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Your hands tangled in his hair as your hips pressed tighter to his thigh, and he gasped against your mouth.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured.

You smiled.

“Good.”

Ni-ki

“You wanna dance?” Ni-ki smirked, spinning on his heel with that cocky, effortless energy. “Alright, show me what you got.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

His grin widened. “I don’t scare easy.”

But the second “Sacrifice” began pulsing through the speakers, he froze.

You didn’t start dancing like someone showing off technique.

You started like someone possessed.

Controlled. Hot. Sharp.

Your movements hit every beat with a slow precision — the roll of your hips timed to each heavy bass hit, your body snapping forward, then slinking back with fluid seduction.

Ni-ki’s arms dropped to his sides. His grin? Gone.

“Wait—what is this?”

You didn’t answer.

You stepped into the strobe of red light spilling from the mirrors and dragged your hand down your stomach, locking eyes with him as your leg slid out in a clean, confident turn. You moved like you weren’t just dancing — you were challenging him.

And Ni-ki?

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

“Y/N…” he muttered, watching you circle him. “You’re playing dirty.”

You smirked. “You like it?”

“I’m not blind.”

He said it like a joke, but his voice cracked slightly.

You brushed past him — close enough for your chest to graze his arm — and dropped low into a body roll that had him blinking, jaw tight.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you murmured, straightening and facing him. “But you’re not doing anything about it.”

Ni-ki licked his lips — nervous, excited, undone.

“You’re the one teasing,” he breathed.

“So stop letting me.”

That was it.

He grabbed your wrist and spun you around in one fluid movement, your back hitting his chest as he gripped your waist — the music still throbbing through the floor as he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“You’re gonna drive me insane.”

“Then don’t hold back.”

He turned you to face him and kissed you — rough, fast, hungry.

No more teasing.

Just release.

You gasped into his mouth, hands gripping his shoulders, legs bracing as he walked you backward into the mirror, his body pressing flush to yours. The tension crackled between you like the bass still rattling the walls.

When he pulled back, breathless and flushed, his grin was back.

This time, darker.

“Round two,” he whispered. “My turn to dance.”

[blondechariot]

Do you do scenarios or headcanons? If so, how many characters can we request for scenarios or headcanons? Would you do the same prompt with different characters? Can we request for male reader, female reader, gender neutral reader, etc? Are there any characters you won't do in each fandom? Can we request characters from different fandoms in a request? Are there any topics you won't do like rape, suicide, etc? Do you do poly ships x reader? Would you mind if we request for Alternate Universes or Aus like AU where the character lives happily? Would you mind if the request is suggestive, implied sex, or mentioned sex but no explicit sex? Would you do NSFW requests? If so, can we request Dom/sub, creampie, bondage, cunnilingus, spanking, finger fucking, size kink, deepthroating, threesome, virginity loss, squirting, nipple play, praise kink, shibari, voice kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, body worship, crossdressing, coming in pants/underwear, and lingerie? What kinks would you accept for requests? Can anons request smut? Can we check with you if you received our requests? Thank you in advance!

Helloooo

Okay I think it's better if i just make a list what i DO and what i DON'T

DO

all genders

all sorts of relationships (as long as their legal)

i do any topic except self harming or worse (we don't glamorize or romanticize those things)

explicit NSFW content

any character/idol etc i KNOW (if I don't know them, I obviously won't have any ideas)

All kinks (as long as they don't harm anyone)

I do crossovers or several characters from different fandoms or groups

I only do Scenarios, Reactions or Headcannons (No Full on Story)

Different AU's (like Non!Idol, College!AU etc)

you can request however you feel comfortable :)

if you want to check in if i got your request you can always DM me

DON'T

self harm or worse

non consent Content

illegal relationships (incest, underage, child etc)

Body Shaming

Discrimination

Groups or Characters I don't know or never heard of

very very violent content like domestic violence or yandere

If you have a request but you're not sure If I'm doing it. Just DM me :) I'm only a Bitch in Real Life and pretty nice on the Internet.

[blondechariot]

You write for the saja boys!! Can I request a saja boys x reader where she finally sees their demon form but she’s into it, the claws and the teeth? Make it as spicy as you’d like! Thank uu!

pairing: Saja Boys x reader

warning: slight tension, suggestive themes

Disclaimer: not my pic

let's be real, who WOULDN'T give them their soul?!

Jinu

He stood in the shadows, his back to you.

Still.

Too still.

You stepped forward carefully, your boots crunching over debris. “Jinu? You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just shifted slightly — the kind of movement that came with discomfort, not pain. As if something inside him was... straining.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

He finally turned.

And what you saw wasn’t human.

Not entirely.

His skin had darkened into charcoal tones — not black, but shadowed. Smooth and seamless, almost like marble kissed by ash. Veins of faint gold pulsed under the surface like slow lightning. His eyes, usually so calm and dark, were glowing amber — not bright, but deep, as if something ancient looked out from behind them. His back carried faint lines — wing-like etchings that pulsed faintly in time with his breath, and something unreadable curled in the corners of his jaw, too sharp, too quiet.

He didn’t move toward you.

Didn’t speak.

He just… waited.

Waited for you to step back. To flinch. To run.

But you didn’t.

You stepped closer.

And he blinked, just once, confused.

“Jinu,” you said gently, your voice low. “You thought I’d be scared of this?”

He stayed still, but tension bloomed in his shoulders. “Most people are.”

“I’m not most people.”

He said nothing.

So you reached out — slowly — and touched his face.

Warm. Solid. Not human… but him.

Your thumb brushed just under his eye. “You’re still you.”

“You don’t understand what this part of me is.”

“I don’t have to. I know you.”

He looked at you for a long, tense moment — as if trying to find something false in your voice.

Then you leaned in and kissed him.

Soft at first. Steady. Meant to show him you weren’t going anywhere.

But the second his hand came up to your waist — the second his mouth opened against yours, just slightly — it shifted.

You felt the heat under his skin like fire trapped beneath glass.

His fingers dug into your hip as he pulled you closer, your chest against his now-warmer skin. He was breathing harder, deeper, like he’d been holding everything back — and now the leash had snapped.

Your hand moved up to cup the side of his neck, feeling the hum of restrained power beneath your palm.

He broke the kiss, just for a second. His voice was lower now. Rougher.

“You’re not scared.”

You shook your head. “No.”

“Even though I don’t look human right now?”

“I’ve never been more attracted to you,” you whispered.

His mouth twitched — something like a grin, but darker.

Then he kissed you again — harder.

Pinned you lightly against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he needed you grounded there, needed proof you weren’t fading.

And for the first time since he transformed — he let out a sound.

A low growl, not threatening, but hungry.

It vibrated against your lips.

He pulled back just enough to whisper against your mouth, “Tell me when to stop.”

You didn’t.

Because you didn’t want him to.

Abby

He had blood on his knuckles — not his own — and was pacing.

Not frantic.

Not loud.

Just... off.

“Abby?” you said, cautious.

“Don’t come closer.”

You stopped mid-step.

“I mean it.”

You studied his posture. His shoulders were tense, fists still clenched even though the fight had ended ten minutes ago.

He wasn’t cooling down.

He was holding something back.

Then he said it.

Voice low.

Tired.

“You ever wonder why I never show you what I really am?”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Abby turned to face you — and his eyes were glowing.

Not faintly. Not subtly.

They burned gold, molten and alive, and the skin around them looked darker — not shadowed, tinted, like heat had kissed across his cheekbones and bled into his veins.

His arms shimmered with faint markings — like cracks in skin, glowing from within.

“You scared yet?” he muttered.

You stared. “That’s it?”

He frowned. “What?”

“This is what you didn’t want me to see?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, like your calm threw him off more than anything else.

You stepped closer.

“Abby,” you said softly. “You think I wouldn’t still want you like this?”

His throat worked once. “You’re looking at me like I didn’t just shift into something out of a nightmare.”

“I’m looking at you like you’re you,” you whispered. “And I want you. All of you.”

Something snapped — not violently, but like he let go of restraint in one breath.

He reached for you, pulling you in by your waist, the heat of his skin pulsing through your clothes as his mouth met yours.

The kiss was rough.

Hungry.

Not because he wanted to scare you — but because he needed to feel you respond. To feel you choose him, even now.

And you did.

You kissed him back with just as much fire, threading your fingers through the short hair at the back of his neck. His hand slid down your spine, gripping, grounding.

He broke the kiss with a shaky exhale.

“You sure?” he rasped.

“You’re still you,” you said. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

He grinned — crooked, cocky, breathless.

“Then get ready,” he murmured, pushing you gently back against a stack of crates, his body flush with yours, eyes glowing like wildfire.

“Because I don’t think I’m stopping this time.”

Mystery

His shoulders were tense.

Still bleeding power.

You knew that look — the one that came right before he vanished into shadow and silence. But this time, he didn’t move. He just stood there, facing the dark wall like he couldn’t breathe.

“Mystery?” you said quietly.

He didn’t turn.

“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s done.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He exhaled. Slow. Measured.

“You should go.”

You stepped closer. “Tell me why.”

His voice dropped, rougher than usual. “Because I let go. You weren’t supposed to see it.”

And then — finally — he turned.

It wasn’t like the others. There was no glow, no heat.

There was… stillness.

His demon form was cold and ethereal. Pale-gray skin traced with dark patterns like smoke or ink. His eyes had no pupils now — just silver, like storm glass. His voice echoed faintly, even in a whisper. Not from power, but from something older.

And yet — it was still him.

His mouth tightened when he saw your face.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m trying to remember this.”

“Why?”

“Because you look beautiful.”

He blinked — like the word didn’t compute.

“You’re not afraid?”

You stepped close enough that your chest brushed his. “Should I be?”

He said nothing.

So you reached up, touched his jaw.

He flinched. Not from pain — from the surprise of contact.

Your hand slid to the back of his neck, fingers curling into the faint ridges of his skin. He was colder than before, but the moment your lips brushed his, he shuddered.

The kiss was soft. Careful.

But when he responded — when he gripped your waist and kissed you back — everything shifted.

He wasn’t cold anymore.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, tilting your head so he could deepen it, his body pressing forward like he couldn’t stop himself. Your back hit the edge of the dusty archive table and he didn’t stop — just angled your hips until you were flush with him.

He pulled back just far enough to whisper, “You’re sure?”

You looked at him, breathless. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

That got the faintest curve of a grin from him — low, dark, and rare.

Then he kissed you again — less hesitant this time.

His body wrapped around yours like smoke, like shadow, like something ancient trying to remember how to be human again.

Romance

He stood in the middle of the ballroom like he’d been carved into it — rigid posture, hands clenched tight at his sides.

You stepped toward him carefully. “Romance?”

“Don’t.”

You stopped.

He still wouldn’t face you.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “You felt it.”

“Felt what?”

His voice dropped lower. “What I really am.”

Then, finally, he turned.

And everything about him had changed.

The lines of his face were sharper, glowing faintly with a low, violet hue. His skin shimmered in places like molten glass — warm and luminous, but edged. His eyes were no longer dark brown. They were violet-gold, like a sunset burning just before it went out. Wings — not feathered, but sleek, shadow-made — arched faintly behind him. Not fully formed. Not aggressive. Just… there.

He looked down, not at you.

“I wanted you to see the best of me first. Before you saw the rest.”

You stepped toward him.

He didn’t move.

“Why are you afraid?” you asked.

“Because you’re not,” he said, finally looking up.

That stopped you.

He met your eyes. “You should’ve backed away the second I turned around. But you didn’t.”

You stepped right in front of him now. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“You should.”

You reached up, gently brushing your fingers against his cheek. His skin was warm, pulsing faintly with power — like a heartbeat under glass.

“Romance,” you whispered. “This is you.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching.

And then you kissed him.

Soft at first. Slow.

His hands stayed frozen at his sides — like he didn’t trust himself to touch you.

But when you didn’t stop — when your hand slid into his hair, your body arching into his — he broke.

One arm wrapped around your waist and yanked you flush against him, his other hand cradling the back of your head as he kissed you properly — deep, consuming, starved.

Your fingers pressed into the warm skin of his back where his shirt had shifted. He groaned softly into your mouth — a sound you’d never heard from him before — like he’d been waiting for permission.

“Is this what you want?” he whispered, breath brushing your lips.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Even like this?”

“I want all of you.”

His grin was brief — not smug, not polished.

Just relieved.

And then he kissed you again — darker this time. Slower. Like he had centuries of tension to let go of.

And you were the only one who ever made him feel human again.

Baby

“Wait,” he said.

You turned back, catching the tension in his shoulders.

He rubbed the back of his neck. Didn’t look at you.

“I… need to show you something. Before someone else does. Or before it happens by accident.”

You frowned. “Show me what?”

He exhaled. His voice wasn’t teasing now — not even a little.

“My real form.”

He didn’t wait for a reply.

And in the space of a single breath, his appearance shifted.

The change was subtle at first: a soft glow under his skin, veins like starlight crawling up his arms. His features sharpened — still unmistakably Baby, but now edged with something feral. His eyes glowed a soft silver-blue, almost like moonlight on water, and tiny horns curved back from his temples, sleek and barely visible in the dark.

When he looked at you, he didn’t smile.

He looked almost afraid.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

“I’ve never shown anyone before,” he admitted. “Not all the way.”

You stepped closer, letting your gaze wander across him — not with fear, but with awe.

He noticed.

“You’re still looking at me like that,” he said under his breath.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to kiss me.”

“I do.”

He blinked. “Even with the—” He gestured vaguely to his face. “The demon thing?”

You closed the distance between you, your hand coming up to brush his jaw — still warm, still him, even if he felt like something born of stars and smoke.

“You’re still Baby,” you said. “Still mine.”

He swallowed hard. “That’s—hot.”

You grinned.

And then kissed him.

He melted into it instantly — all the nervous energy collapsing into heat. His hands slid to your waist, gripping tight as he pressed you against the brick wall, tongue brushing against yours like he couldn’t stop himself now that you’d really touched him.

“God,” he muttered between kisses, breathless, “you have no idea what you do to me.”

Your fingers curled around the back of his neck. “You say that like I don’t feel the same.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes — silver glowing faint behind his lashes.

“I wanted to hide this part of me,” he whispered. “But now you’ve seen it…”

You leaned in, voice soft and sure. “Now I don’t want you to ever hide again.”

That did it.

He kissed you like he’d waited too long — hands roaming, mouth insistent, body pressed tight to yours. The alley was quiet, but the heat between you roared.

And in that moment, demon or not, Baby had never felt more wanted.

Or more seen.

[blondechariot]

hi can i req for saja boys x reader where the reader gets hurt badly by another demon/supernatural and how they'd deal w it? thanku :)

🩸~ SAJA BOYS reaction to you getting hurt by a Demon~🩸

pairing: Saja Boys x Huntress!Reader

warning: Mention of blood, violence, angst

disclaimer: not my pic

Y'all lucky that I'm a miserable Employee (I'm writing all of this during work lol hehe)

Jinu

The call came through comms — short, scrambled, and then nothing.

Jinu didn’t ask questions.

He just ran.

The warehouse doors were open when he got there. A trail of blood led down the corridor, smeared and fast-drying, like someone had been dragged. Or stumbled.

He didn’t shout your name.

He didn’t call for help.

He just followed the trail, eyes scanning every corner like he was already preparing to find the worst.

And then — he did.

You were collapsed near a wall, your back propped against rusted metal. Your arm was covering your stomach, soaked in blood, and your breathing was… shallow. Too shallow.

His feet hit the floor hard as he dropped next to you. “Hey—”

Your eyes fluttered open, barely focused. “You came.”

“I always do,” he said quietly, immediately checking your wounds. He pulled your hand aside, jaw tightening at the sight — deep gashes. Not clean. Not simple. Whatever hit you had meant to rip you apart.

He didn’t let the panic show.

But it sat like a stone in his chest.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said. Flat. Controlled. “Just keep breathing.”

Your lips were pale. “Didn’t see it coming.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I can tell.”

He wrapped a pressure bandage around your side with quick, efficient movements, his hand steady even as his eyes flicked to your face over and over again. Watching for changes. For signs of slipping.

You started to fade again — lashes drooping.

“Hey,” he said, firmer now. “Eyes on me.”

You blinked. “Sorry. Tired.”

“Don’t care,” he muttered. “Stay awake.”

Your head lolled, and for the first time, his voice cracked — just slightly.

“Y/N.”

You looked at him. Barely. “I’m not… dying.”

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not letting you.”

Then his hand closed over yours. Not tight. Just enough to anchor.

“Help’s almost here,” he added. “I need you to hold out until then. Can you do that?”

You nodded. Weak, but still there.

And in that moment — for a flicker of time — Jinu looked away from your wound and up at the dark ceiling, as if trying to level something inside himself. Reining it in.

But his grip on your hand never loosened.

Not once.

Abby

Abby didn’t remember climbing the ledge.

One moment, he saw the demon’s claw slam into your side — your body folding, stumbling back — and the next, he was running.

The scream in his throat never came out.

The rooftops blurred. Metal and concrete flew under his feet. He didn’t think. He just ran.

When he reached you, you were on your side — half-conscious, blood soaking the back of your shirt, one hand twitching like you were still trying to reach for your weapon.

“Shit,” he muttered, dropping to his knees beside you. “No, no, no— Y/N—hey, hey—”

You stirred weakly.

He didn’t let you try to speak. “Don’t talk. Just stay with me.”

He rolled you gently onto your back and froze at the sight of the wound. Long, deep, torn across your ribs. Too close to your spine.

The kind of injury that doesn’t just bleed — it drains.

His hands shook as he pressed gauze into the wound. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Why didn’t I stop you?”

You blinked up at him. “Had to… catch it…”

“Not worth it.” His voice was rough. “Nothing’s worth this.”

The demon was gone — vanished into the skyline. He didn’t care. Not anymore. Not if it meant you were here, like this, and he hadn’t been fast enough.

“I told you I had your back,” he muttered, eyes flicking to yours. “And I let you go anyway.”

You didn’t answer.

Your eyes drifted again.

“Don’t you dare,” he said.

Your brow twitched. “What?”

“Don’t pass out. Don’t go quiet on me.” He leaned in, voice low, frantic. “Stay here. You hear me?”

You tried to speak. Nothing came out.

Abby gritted his teeth. Pressed down harder. Blood seeped between his fingers.

“You’re not leaving me like this. I swear to god, I’ll—”

He stopped.

Swallowed.

Then took a shaky breath and lowered his forehead to yours.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, voice steadier. “I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”

And for the rest of the time it took the others to reach you, he stayed there — hand over your wound, eyes on your face, refusing to blink for even a second too long.

Mystery

He’d been listening the whole time.

Not through a comm. Not with his eyes.

Just with that instinct of his — the way he could track someone by energy alone.

And yours had been strong.

Focused.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it flickered.

Until it dropped.

Mystery was moving before he even fully registered it. Down rusted stairs, through hallways that twisted like mazes. No wasted steps. No words.

Just one thought looping in his mind:

She’s hurt.

He found you crumpled on the cold floor — one leg bent under you, blood pooling slowly beneath your side. Your hand was shaking as it pressed against your ribs, trying to keep pressure on what looked like a deep gash.

He knelt beside you soundlessly.

Your eyes were half-lidded. You didn’t register him at first.

“Y/N,” he said.

Soft, but firm.

You blinked. “I didn’t… see it.”

“I know.” His voice was steady. Too steady.

He pulled a scarf from his belt, pressed it into the wound. You hissed in pain, your hand gripping his wrist.

“Breathe,” he murmured. “Just keep breathing.”

The demon’s presence still lingered, somewhere deeper in the shadows — but he didn’t even glance up. Not yet.

“You’re okay,” he said, low. Not a promise. A decision.

Your lips parted like you wanted to protest.

He cut you off. “Don’t waste the energy.”

You didn’t. You just closed your eyes — and that was when something changed in him.

“Hey.” His tone sharpened. “Not yet.”

You forced your eyes open.

He exhaled slowly. “Good.”

Then finally — finally — he looked up.

And the air shifted.

There was no shout. No flash.

Just one movement of his hand — and the walls around the chamber groaned as pressure dropped hard, like something massive had just exhaled.

The demon let out a low snarl in the distance.

Mystery didn’t chase it.

He let it feel him coming.

Later, when you were patched up and lying still in the van, half-conscious, you asked quietly, “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I wasn’t. Not when you went quiet.”

You stared at him.

He met your gaze for a long moment, unreadable.

“But you’re still here,” he added.

A pause.

And then, almost softly:

“Don’t stop being here.”

Romance

He never liked splitting up.

You told him to hang back, that it wasn’t serious, that you’d be careful.

He’d nodded.

But he followed anyway — quiet, at a distance, not wanting to hover. Just close enough to keep an eye on you.

It was a good thing he did.

Because not five minutes after you disappeared through the rooftop access door, he heard the wrong kind of noise.

A dull thud.

A sharp, short breath that cut off too fast.

He ran.

And when he found you — slumped against a rusted ventilation pipe, one arm limp, your side soaked in blood — something in him short-circuited.

He dropped to his knees so fast his own breath caught.

“Y/N—hey—look at me.”

Your eyes flickered open, unfocused.

The wound on your side was deep. The skin around it was torn in a pattern that made his stomach twist — something had tried to pull you apart.

“I didn’t… mean to let it get that close,” you mumbled.

“Don’t talk.”

He pulled off his jacket, pressed it to the wound, hands moving fast but careful.

“You’re okay,” he said, like he could will it into truth.

You grimaced. “Romance…”

His voice cracked just slightly. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re not gonna be able to say it again.”

Your hand found his sleeve, weak.

“I’m serious,” he whispered. “Don’t make me say goodbye. I can’t—”

He stopped himself.

Swallowed hard.

And then, quieter: “You’re not leaving like this. You’re not.”

You didn’t answer.

Your grip on his sleeve tightened just a little, and that was all he needed.

“Good,” he muttered, eyes not leaving yours. “You’re staying right here. With me.”

For once, there were no metaphors. No poetry. No charm.

Just desperation, buried under control.

He stayed like that until the others arrived — still pressing down on the bleeding, still watching your face like if he looked away for a second, you might disappear.

Because Romance could survive heartbreak, loss, even death.

But not yours.

Baby

He shouldn’t have let you go alone.

He told himself that as he ran — boots hitting concrete, breath stuck somewhere in his throat. The others had split up, clearing corners. He hadn’t even noticed you were missing until he heard something hit a wall. Then the scream.

He never moved so fast in his life.

When he skidded into the alley, the scene didn’t register at first — not completely.

The demon was still there, crouched like a predator, just a few steps away from your slumped figure.

You were on your knees, hunched over, both hands pressed to your stomach. Blood soaked through your clothes. You weren’t crying. You weren’t even moving much.

You were just trying to breathe.

And Baby stopped thinking.

He launched himself at the demon before it even turned around.

His first hit didn’t aim — it crushed.

He tackled the thing into the pavement so hard it cracked. He didn’t feel its claws slice across his arm, didn’t register the scream in his throat.

All he knew was that it had hurt you.

And that was enough.

He didn’t stop until the body beneath him stopped twitching.

Even then, he stayed crouched for a second — breathing hard, fists tight, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Then he turned to you.

“Hey—” He was at your side instantly. “Y/N—hey, hey—look at me.”

You lifted your head slightly. “Hey…”

“You’re bleeding. You’re—fuck, okay, it’s a lot. It’s okay. We’re okay. You’re okay.”

Your hands trembled as you tried to push yourself up.

He stopped you. “Nope. Stay down. Don’t move.”

“I think it hit something deep,” you mumbled.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know. I saw. And I’ve got you.”

He pulled off his hoodie — again — using the thick cotton to press into the wound, hands shaking. “I’m gonna keep you awake, okay? Just until help gets here.”

You blinked at him. “You’re hurt too.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I don’t care.” His voice dropped. “I care about you. So just—stay with me.”

He let out a shaky breath and leaned in closer.

“I didn’t know I could get that angry,” he admitted softly. “I didn’t know I could hurt something like that.”

Then, after a beat:

“I’m glad I was here. Even if I was almost too late.”

You reached up with what little strength you had and touched his cheek.

He closed his eyes for a second — just a second — then looked at you again.

“I’m not gonna let anything touch you again,” he whispered. “I swear.”

And as he held pressure on the wound, watched your eyes flicker but stay open — he kept that promise with every breath.

[blondechariot]

Hello can I plz request Saja Boys (separate) react to another demon trying to hurt their s/o?

👹~SAJA BOYS reaction to another demon trying to hurt you~👹

pairing: Saja Boys x Huntress!reader

warning: some Action, some fluff

disclaimer: not my pic!

I really hope you like it! I love you guys for giving me requests it makes me soooo happy!

Who is your favourite Saja Boy?! Mine is Jinu

Jinu

“She shouldn’t be down there alone,” Jinu said quietly.

He wasn’t panicking. He never did. But his eyes were locked on you — moving fast, dodging blows, holding your own with impressive precision.

“She wanted to be,” Mystery murmured beside him. “Said she could handle it.”

Jinu didn’t respond. His jaw clenched slightly. You were fast, but the demon was faster than expected. Bigger too. The kind of opponent you don’t send someone in solo for — not unless you’re damn sure they’re at full strength.

And Jinu could see you weren’t.

Your breathing was uneven. Footwork sharp, but tiring. The rain was soaking through your clothes, making your grip slippery. He caught the moment you rolled your shoulder — favoring it. Probably sore from a hit earlier.

Still, he waited.

He respected your ability.

But then it happened — a misstep. Subtle. You slipped on the wet ground, and the demon was on you in seconds.

Claws raked across your upper arm. You hissed in pain and lost your balance, skidding across the pavement. Your weapon clattered out of reach.

That’s when Jinu moved.

He dropped from the rooftop cleanly. Landed in a crouch, then stood tall between you and the demon like he’d been part of the storm all along.

The creature snarled and lunged again.

Jinu didn’t even flinch.

He stepped in and caught the demon by the throat with one hand. Tight grip. No wasted energy.

The demon thrashed.

Jinu’s gaze didn’t waver.

He didn’t speak. He just squeezed until the creature’s resistance turned into panic — until its limbs stopped moving, until its body went limp.

He dropped it to the ground without ceremony.

Then turned to you.

You were still sitting up, holding your arm, soaked and bleeding but conscious. You looked at him — almost defiant — like you wanted to say you had it under control.

But you didn’t say anything.

And neither did he — not right away.

He crouched next to you, checked your injury. He didn’t touch you, just assessed. Then met your eyes.

“Why didn’t you call it in?”

You swallowed. “Didn’t think I needed to.”

“Right.” He nodded once. “And if I hadn’t come down?”

You didn’t answer.

He sighed through his nose, glanced at the demon, then back at you.

“You don’t have to prove anything,” he said. Quiet. Even. “Not to me. Not to them.”

You blinked up at him. “It wasn’t about that.”

“I know,” he said. “But if something happens to you, it still matters.”

A pause.

He finally stood and offered you his hand.

You took it.

He pulled you up gently, his hand lingering at your elbow to steady you. “Let’s get out of the rain.”

You nodded once.

As you both walked toward the others, he added under his breath, almost like an afterthought:

“Next time, you tell me before you go in.”

You didn’t argue.

Because this wasn’t about control.

It was about care — and the way it crept through his actions, steady and unspoken, even when he said almost nothing at all.

Abby

“You sure she’s okay in there alone?” Romance asked.

Abby didn’t look away from the tunnel entrance. “She said she was.”

He cracked his knuckles absently, leaning against a support beam, watching the flicker of your flashlight bounce along the wall deep in the tunnel.

“Still,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Doesn’t feel right.”

Romance stayed quiet. The air was off. Humid, metallic. And there was a tension in Abby’s gut that he couldn’t shake.

Then it happened.

Your voice echoed faintly — a grunt, sharp and cut off.

Seconds later: the screech of steel. A loud crash.

Then silence.

Abby was already gone.

He ran full speed through the dark, skipping every logical step. No strategy. No backup. Just motion.

He found you fast.

You were on the ground — propped against the tunnel wall, holding your side. Bleeding. Your sword a few feet away. A demon — tall, twisted, grinning like it had already won — stalked toward you.

Abby didn’t stop to think.

He launched himself at it.

The hit was brutal — shoulder first, a full-body slam that sent both of them flying. He rolled on top of the creature and landed a punch so hard it cracked the floor.

The demon clawed at him, hissing.

Abby didn’t flinch.

“Shouldn’t’ve touched her,” he muttered. His voice was low. Tight. “That was your first mistake.”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t even sound angry.

He just sounded done.

He broke the creature’s arm.

Then its jaw.

When it stopped moving, he stood — chest heaving — and turned to you.

You were awake, trying to sit up, face pale.

He crouched immediately.

“You okay?”

You nodded, breath shallow. “Got hit harder than I expected.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

You tried to smile. He didn’t return it.

His eyes dropped to your side. “You’re bleeding more than I like.”

“It’s not deep.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” he said. “Still matters.”

You looked at him for a beat, quiet. “I didn’t think it’d be that strong.”

“I didn’t either,” he admitted. “But I came anyway.”

He exhaled. Sat back on his heels. Let the tension bleed out of his shoulders slowly.

“I’m not mad,” he said after a moment. “But I’m not letting this happen again.”

You raised a brow. “You’re going to stop me from doing my job?”

“No,” he said, finally giving you a small, exhausted smile. “But I’m gonna start doing mine better.”

You didn’t reply.

You just reached for his arm. Gripped it.

And this time, he didn’t say anything else.

He just helped you up.

Mystery

From the rafters above, Mystery stayed still.

He wasn’t there to interfere. You knew what you were doing — moving through the broken pews with sharp eyes and sure steps. You were confident. Quiet.

But he’d been watching long enough to know the difference between confidence and pressure.

Your breathing was tight.

There was tension in your posture — not quite fear, but something close. Something tired.

He stayed put. Hands resting on the ledge, hood drawn up, every inch of him carved from shadow.

Until he felt it shift.

The air.

The demon stepped out behind you — tall, fluid, cocky. Not the usual feral type. This one was smart. Experienced.

And fast.

You didn’t hesitate — you spun, struck, blade slicing in a clean arc. You pushed the fight hard, trying to keep control of the pace.

Mystery watched. Calculated. You had a chance.

But it wasn’t a clean fight.

Your leg gave out slightly on a pivot — old injury, maybe — and the demon was on you in seconds. Claws sliced across your back. You hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of you.

That’s when he moved.

He dropped from the rafters with no sound.

One moment the demon was lifting its claws again — the next, it was airborne, thrown clean across the cathedral by an invisible force.

Mystery didn’t look at it.

He walked to you.

Kneeled next to where you were trying — failing — to push yourself up.

“You need to stop,” he said quietly.

You looked at him, dazed, blood trailing down your spine. “I’m— I’m fine.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not.”

He checked the wound quickly. Not fatal. But bad. Too much blood already.

“You should’ve waited for backup.”

You didn’t argue.

He pulled off his outer layer, pressed it gently to your back.

“Hold this.”

You did.

Then he stood. Walked to the demon.

It tried to recover, growled something unintelligible.

He didn’t respond. Just raised a hand — and closed it into a fist.

The air around the demon collapsed inward.

When it hit the ground, it didn’t get back up.

Mystery came back to you slowly.

You were breathing steadier now. Still alert.

“You always watch from rooftops?” you asked, voice low.

“When I’m worried,” he said simply.

You didn’t push it.

He crouched again beside you, kept his tone quiet. “I know you can fight. That’s not the issue.”

You glanced at him, skeptical.

“You just don’t have to prove anything when you’re already bleeding.”

You looked away, biting back a sigh.

Then:

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

He helped you to your feet without a word. Kept one hand on your arm until he was sure you were steady.

Then walked with you toward the broken doors of the cathedral, silent and close.

Not angry.

Just… relieved.

And underneath all of it — shaken.

But he’d never let you see it.

Romance

He sat quietly in the upper balcony.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t even let the others know he’d followed you. You’d told him not to. Told him to let you handle it.

And he meant to respect that.

He did.

But watching you walk into this place alone with a shrug and a joke — it didn’t sit right. Something about the energy here was off. Too still. Too quiet.

So he followed.

Just in case.

And when the silence broke — when he heard the sudden crash of debris, your breath catching hard — he was already moving.

He found you on the grand stage.

Your blade had been knocked away. You were crouched behind a piece of broken set design, clutching your shoulder, blood seeping through your fingers.

The demon was moving toward you — slowly, almost playfully.

You didn’t see Romance arrive.

But the demon did.

Just as it lunged, it hit something midair — a shimmer of light, sharp as glass — and was thrown back into the wall with a brutal crunch.

Romance walked out from the wings.

No theatrics. No words.

He didn’t even look at the demon.

He went to you.

“You hit your head?” he asked, kneeling beside you, eyes scanning for worse injuries.

You shook your head. “Shoulder. Got blindsided.”

He nodded. Quiet. Calm. But his jaw was tight.

“You said it was low-level,” he said. “That it wasn’t a big deal.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly: “That’s the part that scares me.”

You looked at him. He wasn’t angry. Just tired. Strained.

He pressed the edge of his coat to your wound to slow the bleeding. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” you muttered.

“I’m not looking for an apology,” he said. “I’m just glad I didn’t listen.”

You blinked. “You followed me.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I did.”

He finally looked you in the eye. “Because I care about you. And if I hadn’t come…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

You reached up and touched his sleeve. Lightly. A silent thank you.

He sat back on his heels. “We need to stop doing this thing where you almost die and I show up too late.”

“Wasn’t that close,” you murmured, wincing as you sat straighter.

“Close enough.”

He helped you up carefully, guiding you off the stage without letting go.

And even once you were outside — even once the others arrived — he stayed close.

Not hovering.

Just there.

Present.

Because he couldn’t protect you from everything. But he would be there when you needed someone to catch you.

Even if you didn’t ask.

Baby

From the ridge above the junk piles, Baby watched you move.

You looked focused — calm, even. He could see the way you scanned the area, steady hand on your weapon, boots crunching through the gravel and steel.

And yet…

Something felt off.

You kept glancing over your shoulder. Your jaw was tight. Your pace was a little too fast, like you knew you weren’t alone anymore.

Baby started walking before he saw anything.

Just instinct.

Then it happened.

The ground under your foot triggered a trap — an old demon sigil, rigged and buried beneath the rust. It flashed once and exploded outward in a concussive wave.

You went flying.

You landed hard, hit the edge of a wrecked car. The sound of impact made Baby’s stomach drop.

You didn’t get back up right away.

And that was all it took.

By the time the demon stepped into view — small, wiry, teeth too sharp — Baby was already in front of you.

No warning.

No shout.

Just a blur of motion.

The demon lunged at him, fast — too fast for a normal person to dodge.

Baby didn’t dodge.

He grabbed it mid-swing and slammed it into the ground.

Hard.

Then again.

And again.

Until it stopped moving.

He didn’t say a word.

Only once the thing was down for good did he turn to you.

You were trying to sit up, clearly in pain. Blood on your side. Breathing sharp and shallow.

“Hey—” He dropped down next to you, already pulling his hoodie off, pressing it gently against your wound. “You okay? Where else are you hurt?”

You blinked at him, dazed. “Didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t tell you I followed. That’s on me.”

You winced but managed a half-smile. “Kinda glad you did.”

He exhaled, steadying himself. “I saw the trap a second too late. I should’ve shouted. I—”

“You got there in time.”

He looked at you — really looked — and nodded once.

“Still,” he said quietly. “I should’ve said something sooner. Or not let you go alone at all.”

You didn’t reply.

He adjusted his hoodie around your waist, knotting it to hold pressure. “Let me get you back to the others. We’ll patch this up right.”

As he helped you stand, you leaned into him without thinking — exhausted, shaky. He caught you easily. One arm around your waist. No hesitation.

“I’ve got you,” he said.

And that was it.

No dramatic promise.

No performance.

Just a truth spoken low and steady.

“I’ve got you.”

And from the way he held you — the way his steps stayed sure and his grip never loosened — you believed him.

[blondechariot]

Plz can I request Saja Boys (separately) react to their s/o doing a sexy performance on stage? She's a famous soloist and during her tour she did a sexy dance performance.

🪩~SAJA BOYS reaction to your sexy Performance on stage (Idol!Reader)~🪩

pairing: Saja Boys x Idol!Reader

warnings: slight suggestive theme

disclaimer: not my Pic!

I hope you like it!!! Please let me know if you have any other Requests :3

Jinu

He doesn’t move.

Not when the lights shift to crimson. Not when the music kicks in. Not even when you appear from the floor, bathed in smoke and skin-tight black leather that hugs every curve like a secret finally revealed.

Jinu just watches.

From the outside, he looks composed. Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, hands folded loosely in his lap. Calm. Detached.

But inside?

He is burning.

Because the second your body moves — a slow, calculated sway of your hips, the deliberate way your hand slides from your shoulder to your waist — he knows this performance isn’t just for the audience. It’s for him.

You’re not just performing.

You’re daring him.

Each body roll, each glance into the camera, each teasing flick of your tongue across your bottom lip — they’re challenges. Commands.

And Jinu?

He accepts the challenge. But he won’t show it.

No clapping. No shouting. No grin.

Just the smallest shift in his jaw. A quiet inhale when you lower to your knees. The way his pupils dilate when the camera zooms in on the arch of your back, your lashes low, mouth parted.

He hears fans screaming. He hears your name shouted across the venue. He hears nothing at all.

You look at the camera and wink.

And for the briefest second, he could swear your eyes flick to him in the front row.

It’s not in the choreography. It’s not part of the planned routine.

It’s personal.

You finish the routine on your feet, breathless, hair mussed, sweat glistening on your skin.

The lights cut.

The crowd explodes.

Jinu rises slowly.

Still silent.

Still composed.

But one hand runs down the front of his blazer — smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there. A subtle attempt to distract from the heat rolling off his skin. From the tension in his jaw. From the way his thoughts aren’t clean anymore.

Not at all.

She knew I’d be here.

She wanted me to see that.

And she’s going to have to answer for it.

Abby

Abby should’ve known.

You’d warned him — kind of. Said something vague like, “It’s a little different from my usual stages.” Then you winked and disappeared into rehearsal.

But he didn’t expect this.

Didn’t expect the lights to go blood-red.

Didn’t expect the beat to drop with a deep, throbbing pulse.

Didn’t expect you to walk out in that outfit — all black mesh, tight leather, garter straps, and attitude — like you were the main event at a sin-themed fever dream.

And when you dropped to the floor in that slow, intentional body roll, back arched, mouth parted—

Abby stopped breathing.

“Oh my fucking God,” he blurted, grabbing the guy next to him by the arm. “Are you seeing this?!”

People around him laughed. Cameras panned to the crowd. Abby didn’t care. He was already halfway out of his seat, jaw slack, hands tangled in his own hair.

“That’s my girl,” he muttered. “She’s gonna ruin me.”

The second chorus hit, and you walked forward with slow, predatory steps, heels clicking in rhythm. You stared straight into the camera — then tilted your head just slightly to the left, in the exact direction of where Abby sat.

You didn’t wink.

You just smirked.

And that was worse.

Way worse.

“No. Nope. She’s doing this on purpose,” he whispered to himself, flopping back into his seat. “She planned this. She knew I’d be here. She’s trying to kill me.”

When the stage lights finally faded, and the crowd exploded around him, Abby didn’t clap.

He couldn’t.

His hands were clenched too tightly in his lap.

And his heart?

Going a hundred miles a minute.

Backstage, he paced.

No cameras. No audience. Just concrete walls and a dozen thoughts crashing into each other.

She’s lucky I didn’t rip her off that stage.

She’s lucky I kept my hands to myself.

She’s not going to be lucky for long.

Someone passed by and tried to congratulate him on her performance. Abby nodded — barely.

Because his mind was already fixed on one thing:

You.

And that look you gave him that said: You saw that, right?

He did.

He saw everything.

And he’s not letting it go.

Mystery

He didn’t sit with the others.

He rarely did.

Instead, he watched from the shadows of a private box seat above the crowd — a single spotlight on the stage below, the rest of the arena swallowed in darkness.

And when your silhouette appeared?

He leaned forward.

No reaction.

No sound.

But everything about him shifted.

His elbows rested on his knees. Fingers laced loosely in front of his mouth. His pupils dilated the second your hips began to sway.

The choreography was smooth. Intentional. Every movement honed to perfection — but you? You weren’t just dancing. You were casting spells.

Your smile was sly. Your eyes half-lidded. Your fingers traced your body with a slow, delicious care that made it intimate, like a private show in front of thousands.

And when your hand brushed your inner thigh?

His jaw ticked.

His fingers curled in tighter.

You were performing like no one else was in the room — like you belonged to the moment, like your body existed for the rhythm alone.

But Mystery knew better.

He watched you step toward the front of the stage. You turned slightly, tilting your head just enough to gaze up toward the exact part of the arena where he sat hidden in shadow.

You know I’m here. You planned this. You want me to see what I can’t touch.

And that made him furious.

Not in a loud, chaotic way.

But in the slow, smoldering way he always unraveled — like a fuse burning down inch by inch.

When the crowd roared and your name echoed through the speakers, he still hadn’t moved.

Only when the lights cut to black did he exhale — one sharp, controlled breath through his nose.

His gaze dropped to the stage.

“You don’t know what you started tonight.”

Then he stood, adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, and disappeared into the dark without a word.

Not toward the exit.

Not toward the crowd.

Toward backstage.

Romance

He didn’t expect to feel like this.

He knew you were performing. He’d seen you rehearse in sweats. Had heard you humming the melody under your breath while brushing your teeth. You’d even teased him about it once — something like “Don’t freak out when you see the final look, okay?”

But now?

You walked out like a vision from a dream he definitely shouldn’t be having in public.

Lace. Leather. Skin.

Every step you took radiated command. Every movement was calculated to wreck. You didn’t just perform — you owned that stage like it owed you rent. And Romance… didn’t even try to play it cool.

He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, mouth open, eyes glued to your body like a man possessed.

The crowd screamed.

Phones flashed.

Backup dancers moved with you — hands brushing your hips, breath close to your neck.

That was when it hit him. The first sharp jab of jealousy.

Someone in the audience shouted your name in a way that made his jaw clench.

Someone whistled when you licked your lips and slid to your knees.

Romance’s eyes narrowed.

He saw the way people were looking at you — like they were just now discovering what he’d always known.

You were magnetic.

Irresistible.

Dangerous in the best way.

But you were also his.

Mine before they even knew your name. Mine before the stages and the lights. Mine before you ever wore that look for anyone else.

His hands balled into fists.

Not out of anger.

Out of need.

And somewhere between the body rolls and that final hair flip, he bit his bottom lip so hard it left a mark.

When the performance ended and the lights dropped, he clapped once — sharp, proud, almost reverent.

Then he stood.

And left his seat.

Someone asked where he was going.

He didn’t answer.

But the thought pounded through his mind like a war drum:

“She can steal the whole world tonight. But after the curtain drops — she comes back to me.”

Baby

The lights dimmed, and he perked up.

You were next.

He leaned forward in his seat, hoodie up, a sweet grin tugging at his lips. He had no idea what was coming — no clue that this night would be burned into his memory forever.

And then the first beat dropped.

And you walked out.

In that outfit.

Black velvet, deep-cut neckline, sheer slits up your thighs. You moved like sin had taken human form — graceful, sensual, fearless. The moment your hand traced down your own stomach, Baby froze.

Like literally froze.

His body stiffened. His mouth dropped open.

The grin?

Gone.

He blinked once. Twice.

“Oh my God,” he whispered.

The dancers flanked you, framing your body with sharp, choreographed movements — but you stayed fluid. Soft and slow. When your fingers toyed with the hem of your skirt, letting just a hint more skin show, he made a small sound in the back of his throat.

“Oh—oh my God.”

He couldn’t breathe.

His heart was beating so fast it felt like a medical emergency. His hoodie was suddenly way too hot. His knees were bouncing uncontrollably. And when you dropped into a full-body wave and arched your back, he nearly choked on air.

Someone next to him nudged his arm.

“Yo, is that your girlfriend?”

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He was staring at you like you were untouchable — something sacred and dangerous at the same time.

When the performance ended and the applause erupted around him, he didn’t move.

Didn’t clap. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.

Just sat there in stunned silence, cheeks burning, lips parted.

She looked like that. In front of everyone. Knowing I was watching.

Backstage, he was a mess.

Pacing the hallway. Hoodie pulled low. AirPods in, but not playing anything. He kept rubbing his face like that would somehow help him calm down.

“It’s fine,” he muttered to himself. “You’re fine. You’ve seen her in short skirts before. You’ve seen—okay no, not like that. Never like that.”

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the way you ran your hands down your body. The way you smirked. The way the crowd screamed.

And still — all he could think was:

“She’s mine. And I don’t know whether I want to brag or hide her forever.”

[blondechariot]

😽~SAJA BOYS and how they would make out~😽

pairing: The Saja Boys x reader

warnings: slight NSFW

Disclaimer: not my picture!

Jinu

You were lying back on your bed, barely aware of how close Jinu had gotten.

The TV hummed softly in the background, playing something neither of you had paid attention to in at least twenty minutes. He was beside you — one arm behind his head, the other resting on his thigh. Casual. Calm. Way too calm for how he’d been looking at you the last ten minutes.

Eyes dark.

Focused.

Like he was holding something back.

“You keep glancing at me like that,” he said lowly, “and I’m going to stop pretending I’m harmless.”

You turned to him, biting your lip on instinct.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

He didn’t move right away — didn’t rush you — but you could feel the tension shift like gravity itself was pulling you closer.

“Jinu…” you whispered, not even sure what you were asking for.

His hand moved to your chin, tilting it toward him gently. His eyes searched your face, dragging slowly over your lips before finally locking with yours.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

You nodded.

He stared a second longer. And then:

“Use your words.”

Your lips parted. “Yes. Kiss me.”

That was all it took.

He leaned in, but not fast. Not greedy. He kissed you like he was claiming something he’d waited too long for.

His lips brushed yours — once. Twice. Teasing. Controlled.

Then he deepened it.

And your breath vanished.

His tongue slid past your lips, hot and slow, tasting you like he planned to memorize every inch. One hand gripped the back of your neck, angling your mouth just right. The other slid to your waist, squeezing firmly as he pulled you closer.

“You taste like sin,” he whispered into your mouth. “Do you know what that does to a demon?”

Your fingers curled in his shirt, tugging him on top of you. He went willingly, settling between your legs with a low groan as your bodies aligned, heat blooming where his hips pressed into yours.

His kisses grew deeper, filthier. He licked into your mouth, sucked your bottom lip, made you gasp — and then swallowed the sound like he owned it.

“Tell me to stop.”

“I won’t.”

He smirked against your skin. “Didn’t think so.”

His hand slid under your shirt, fingertips dancing up your ribs, grazing the edge of your bra. He didn’t rush. He wasn’t in a hurry. This was discipline — and it made you ache.

When he finally slipped his hand beneath your bra and cupped your breast, you moaned into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispered, kissing down your jaw to your throat. “You make the most beautiful sounds.”

His teeth scraped your skin as he sucked a bruise into your neck, pressing you deeper into the mattress.

You arched against him, desperate for more friction.

He growled — a low, primal sound that vibrated against your chest.

“You want more?”

“Yes.”

“Then ask for it.”

You whimpered. “Jinu… please. I need you.”

His eyes glowed — just for a second — like something inside him finally snapped.

He kissed you again, rougher this time, grinding into you with a deliberate roll of his hips that made you cry out. His cock was already hard beneath his sweats, pressing against your core like a threat and a promise.

“Feel that?” he growled. “That’s what you do to me just by looking.”

He pulled off your shirt in one swift motion, his hands immediately replacing it, palms warm and wide as they roamed your bare skin.

He kissed down your chest, biting lightly at your breasts through the lace of your bra.

“Every inch of you… mine.”

And when you finally cried out his name again — back arched, body burning — he looked up at you, face flushed and jaw tight.

“One more kiss,” he said, voice low and dark. “And if you beg me again, I won’t stop at just making out.”

He leaned in.

This kiss was different.

Slower. Deeper. Possessive.

And when it broke, you were left breathless, lips swollen, thighs trembling.

He smiled down at you, wicked and impossibly fond.

“Now you know what I’ve been holding back.”

Abby

You were the last two left in the studio.

The lights were off except for one overhead — flickering faintly — and your sweatshirt clung to your back with heat. You hadn’t even meant to stay late. Neither had he. But when Abby offered to “walk you out,” and you made the mistake of calling him hot while stretching—

Everything changed.

Now?

Now he was stalking toward you across the room, shirt damp with sweat, his smirk laced with danger.

“Say it again,” he said, cornering you against the mirror.

You blinked, heart pounding. “Say what?”

He tilted his head, mouth inches from yours.

“That I’m hot.”

You rolled your eyes, breathless. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

And then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not gentle.

Messy. Rough. Tongue-first. All fire.

He groaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks for this moment. His hands grabbed your hips and spun you, pressing your back to the mirror as he caged you in with his body.

“You don’t get to say things like that and expect me not to react,” he rasped against your lips. “That’s your fault.”

His hands were already under your sweatshirt, sliding up your stomach, gripping your sides.

You gasped as he yanked your hips against his.

He was hard.

So hard it made your knees weak.

“Feel that?” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “That’s what just looking at you does to me.”

You whimpered.

He growled.

You were done for.

He kissed you again, deeper this time — tongue exploring, teeth biting at your bottom lip, his hips grinding against yours like he couldn’t help it. His fingers dug into your ass as he lifted you against the mirror, sliding a thigh between your legs.

“Wrap around me.”

You obeyed.

He hissed as your legs hooked around his waist.

“Fuck, that’s it—so fucking pretty like this.”

Your back pressed to the cool glass. His heat? Unbearable. His mouth moved from your lips to your neck, sucking bruises, biting gently, licking over the sting until you were squirming in his grip.

“You like being manhandled, huh?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “More.”

“You’re gonna kill me.”

He ground against your core with slow, torturous rhythm, each motion drawing a moan from your lips. He watched you fall apart like it fed him.

“You’re soaked,” he groaned into your neck. “I can feel it through my pants. Shit—keep grinding on me like that and I’m gonna lose it.”

You kissed him hard, nails dragging down his shoulders, hips rocking in sync with his.

His hands slid under your shorts, fingers squeezing your ass as he slammed you back against the mirror, making it shake.

“I want you to remember this,” he growled, voice rough. “Next time I walk past you in the hallway. Next time you’re sitting across from me acting all innocent.”

Your eyes rolled back when he shifted just right — cock rubbing perfectly against your soaked panties.

“Abby—please—”

“Please what, baby?” His grin was wicked. His eyes were feral. “Use that pretty mouth.”

“I wanna come on you—just like this.”

He cursed under his breath and dropped his forehead to yours, moving faster, harder, using your body like he needed you to fall apart on him.

You clung to him, riding the friction, eyes locked on his, lips kissing between moans until your entire body snapped.

You came — loud, legs trembling, jaw slack.

And Abby didn’t stop.

He kissed you through it, his hips never stopping until he groaned and pressed against you hard, his own orgasm crashing into him in shaking waves.

He finally let your legs slide down, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you tight.

Still breathless.

Still touching.

“Damn,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “You might actually break me.”

“That was just making out?”

He chuckled, nuzzling into your neck.

“Round two’s gonna be the real fun.”

Mystery

You shouldn’t have come here.

He didn’t ask you to.

But something about the way Mystery looked at you earlier — after practice, lips slightly parted, a barely-there smirk — stuck in your mind long after you’d gone home.

So now you were here.

In his private room. Low-lit, quiet, the windows half-fogged from the warm night air.

He didn’t say anything when he opened the door.

Didn’t ask why.

Didn’t need to.

He just stepped aside and let you in.

You stood there for a long second — your heart pounding, throat dry.

He watched you. Always watching.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said finally, stepping closer.

“No.”

“Then you shouldn’t look so nervous.”

You tried to breathe normally, but your body was already reacting to him — the way his voice dipped when he said your name, the way his eyes darkened when they dropped to your lips.

He stepped into your space, not touching yet — just hovering, reading you.

You swallowed.

“Mystery—”

“Shhh.”

His hand rose to your chin, tilting it upward.

His touch was featherlight — and still, your entire body reacted.

“Do you want this?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I want you to kiss me.”

His eyes flared.

Then he did.

Slow. Intentional. Destructive.

His lips pressed to yours with a control that felt more like possession. He kissed you deeply — not messy, not rushed — like he was savoring every second. His tongue slid against yours in a slow dance that made your knees weak.

His hand slid to your throat, thumb under your jaw as he tilted your head just right.

“Don’t move. Just feel me.”

You did.

You let him take his time. Let him explore your mouth with precision — every lick, every nip, every shift of pressure designed to undo you.

He pulled back for a second — not far — lips brushing yours as he whispered:

“You’re already trembling.”

You were.

“That’s good.”

He kissed down your jaw, down your neck, teeth grazing skin until you gasped. One hand gripped your hip, pulling you closer until you could feel his body against yours — lean muscle, quiet power.

You pushed his shirt up and he let you.

His skin was cool to the touch, but everywhere he touched you? Burned.

He slid his fingers under the hem of your top, brushing over your bare stomach, inching higher, until his palm cupped your breast beneath your bra.

“No one’s touched you like this before,” he said, lips against your collarbone. “Not like I will.”

You couldn’t speak.

He smiled against your skin.

Then he brought you to the bed and laid you down like something precious — kneeling over you, fingers dragging your top off slow, like unwrapping a secret.

You were fully clothed still — but the intensity of it?

You felt naked under his eyes.

He leaned down again.

This time the kiss was rougher.

More claiming.

His hips pressed between your thighs, grinding gently, the friction making your breath hitch. You could already feel him — thick, hard — through his pants.

“I could take you apart without ever undressing you,” he whispered. “Make you come just like this.”

You whimpered.

“Do you want that?”

“Yes. Please—”

He kissed you again, grinding against your core harder now, one hand under your thigh, guiding you to move with him.

“There we go,” he breathed, kissing the edge of your lips. “Feel how wet you’re getting for me?”

You nodded, desperate, thighs clenching.

He kissed you until you were moaning — soft, needy, utterly at his mercy.

And when he pulled back, lips swollen, breath ragged, he looked down at you like you were something he’d been waiting centuries to touch.

“You’re already wrecked,” he said. “And I haven’t even taken your panties off.”

You reached for him — but he caught your wrist.

“Not yet. You came here for a kiss. I’m going to kiss you until your body forgets how to speak.”

And then he made good on his promise.

Again. And again. Until all you could do was gasp his name.

Romance

He didn’t speak at first.

Just leaned against the dressing room table, arms crossed, watching you pace like a predator biding his time. His eyes never left your body. Every step you took only fed the tension thick in the air.

“You knew I’d come,” you said finally.

“Of course I did,” he murmured. “You’re drawn to me.”

He pushed off the table and walked toward you slowly. One hand reached for your waist — and you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t.

“You’ve been haunting me,” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear. “Every night, I think about kissing you until you cry.”

You gasped.

He smiled against your throat.

Then he kissed you.

It was violent. Starved. Obsessive.

His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to consume you — tongue deep, breath hot, his body already pinning you to the wall before you could think. His hands roamed everywhere at once — cupping your face, gripping your hips, sliding down your thighs to lift you.

“Wrap around me,” he groaned.

You did.

His hands grabbed your ass, pulling you tightly against the heat of his body. You felt how hard he was already — thick, aching, grinding into you like he couldn’t help it.

“You do this to me,” he rasped. “You ruin me.”

His lips trailed down your neck, biting a bruise just under your jaw, then licking over it. You moaned — loud.

“That’s right,” he growled. “Let me hear you.”

He carried you to the old couch in the corner and dropped you down, climbing over you in one smooth motion.

His kisses slowed — but only to drive you insane.

He kissed your collarbone, your chest, your ribs. His hands slid under your shirt, pushing it up, mouth following every inch of bare skin he exposed.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered. “Mine. All mine.”

You arched into him, fingers gripping his hair as he kissed the swell of your breasts.

“Do you want me?” he asked, voice ragged.

“Yes. So badly.”

“Then let me worship you.”

He kissed your stomach, tugged off your shorts, dragged his tongue along the inside of your thigh like it was sacred ground.

Then he came back up — lips swollen, eyes wild.

And kissed you again.

This time, it was slower.

More intimate.

Like he was memorizing you.

His tongue explored your mouth like a secret. His hand gripped your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss. He groaned into it, hips grinding into yours in slow, torturous rolls.

“Every time I’m near you,” he panted, “I feel like I’m losing control.”

“Then lose it.”

“Careful,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I might never get it back.”

You tugged him down again, and he kissed you hard, fast, sloppy — all tongue and teeth and breathless moans.

Your bodies moved together like you’d done this a hundred times, even if this was the first. His hands were everywhere — under your bra, down your panties, gripping, teasing, claiming.

He kissed your neck again.

“You’re going to let me make you mine,” he whispered. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please.”

And the way he kissed you after that?

It didn’t stop.

Not until you were trembling under him — lips swollen, body soaked, begging for something you couldn’t name.

Not until he knew you were his.

Baby

The moment you opened the door, he was already shaking.

Soaked from the rain. Hair dripping, hoodie clinging to his chest and arms. He looked like a kicked puppy — eyes wide, lips parted, breathless.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

His voice cracked.

You let him in without a word, closing the door softly behind him.

The minute it shut — he was on you.

His mouth crashed against yours in a desperate, reckless kiss that stole your breath. His hands grabbed at your waist, pulling you against him with a force that shocked you — not rough, not controlled — feral.

“I need you,” he panted against your lips. “I can’t— I’ve wanted this for so long—”

He kissed you again, deeper, tongue hot and wet as it slid past your lips, messy and addictive and raw. His hands slid up under your shirt, trembling, fingertips brushing your skin like he couldn’t believe he was finally allowed to touch.

“Tell me you want it too,” he begged. “Please. I need to hear you say it.”

“I do,” you whispered, breathless. “I want you.”

He whimpered — actually whimpered — and kissed you like he was going to die without it. Your back hit the wall. He pinned you there, grinding into you hard, his cock already rock solid under his jeans and perfectly aligned with your soaked core.

“You’re so warm,” he moaned. “So soft—fuck—your mouth—your body—I can’t stop.”

You tugged off his hoodie, hands dragging down his soaked chest, and he moaned into your mouth like the contact burned.

His hands found your thighs and lifted you effortlessly — demon strength kicking in — legs wrapped around his waist, your panties soaked, the friction of his jeans making your head spin.

“You feel that?” he growled, hips rolling up against you. “That’s for you. I’ve never been this hard for anyone.”

“Then take me.”

He froze.

Eyes wide. Lips red from kissing.

“You really want this?”

“So badly, Baby. Please.”

He let out a shaky breath — then slammed his mouth against yours again, hungrier than ever. His tongue tangled with yours, one hand behind your head, the other gripping your ass, grinding you against him harder.

“Don’t call me sweet,” he gasped. “Don’t pretend I’m gentle. Not with you. You make me fucking feral.”

You moaned his name — and that was it.

He laid you down on the couch, tugged your clothes off with frantic hands, kissing every new patch of skin like it was a drug. His lips on your thighs. Your stomach. Your chest.

He worshipped. He devoured. He couldn’t get enough.

“So perfect,” he groaned. “So mine.”

And when he kissed you again — lips swollen, pupils blown, body trembling from restraint — it felt like fire and heartbreak all at once.

He wasn’t holding back anymore.

Not with his mouth.

Not with his hands.

And definitely not with how hard he needed you.

[blondechariot]

🌸~The Saja Boys reaction to you finding out they're demons~🌸

pairing: The Saja Boys x reader

warnings: None really, maybe some tension

Disclaimer: not my picture!

Jinu

The dressing room was darker than usual.

Dim blue lights glowed low along the walls, casting sharp shadows across the vanity mirrors. You shouldn’t have come in—at least that’s what your gut told you—but Jinu had been missing since the end of rehearsal, and something wasn’t right.

The minute you opened the door, you felt it: heat in the air, like static before a lightning strike. The scent of something ancient and unfamiliar.

And then you saw him.

Jinu stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, his back to you, but not quite human anymore. Shadowy veins crawled up his arms like ink in water. His reflection�� it didn’t match his movements. His eyes in the mirror were glowing red.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He froze.

For one heartbeat, neither of you moved.

Then slowly—deliberately—he turned.

And for the first time since you met him, Jinu didn’t smile.

“You shouldn’t be here, Y/N.”

His voice was low. Rough. It scraped your name like it hurt to say it.

You stumbled back a step, heart pounding, your voice barely working. “You’re… You’re not human.”

He stared at you, the red glow fading from his irises like embers dimming—but it was too late. You’d seen the truth. The illusion was broken.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t try to lie.

“No,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “I’m not.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything you’d ever felt. It made your bones ache.

You could see it now: the too-perfect symmetry of his face. The unnatural stillness in the way he stood. The faint wisps of black mist curling at his fingertips, even though he tried to hide them behind his back.

And yet… he looked tired.

Not evil. Not monstrous.

Just—exhausted.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Jinu said finally, stepping forward. “I was going to tell you eventually. I was trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you demanded, your voice shaking. “From you?”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. His usual calm façade was cracking.

“From all of it. The war. The truth. The part of me that doesn’t deserve to be near you.”

He was closer now. Only a few feet away.

Your back hit the wall.

His presence was overwhelming—not because of his power, but because of the restraint in it. You could feel it in the air: how much effort it took him to stay still. Not to touch you. Not to pull you in.

“Then why keep me around at all?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. He exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Because I’m selfish.”

The admission hit you harder than any lie would have.

“Because I thought if I just had a little more time… I could pretend.”

Your breath hitched. He was so close now you could smell him—incense, heat, and something darker. Not unpleasant. Just... ancient.

“You pretended to care?” you asked, hating how your voice trembled.

His hand hit the wall beside your head, trapping you in. But not in threat—in confession.

“I never pretended to care about you.”

His words landed like a weight in your chest. His fingers grazed your arm, but stopped before holding you.

“I lied about everything else. But not that.”

You didn’t know what scared you more: the fact that he was a demon… Or the fact that your pulse raced as he leaned in.

Your lips were inches apart. The heat between you was unbearable.

“Say something,” he whispered. “Hate me. Scream. Run.”

You searched his face. And for a moment, all you saw was the boy who stood beside you during late-night dance practices… the one who teased you when you were nervous, who wiped sweat from your brow with his sleeve… who always looked like he knew something you didn’t.

Now you knew.

“I should walk away,” you said breathlessly.

“Then why aren’t you?”

You didn’t have an answer.

He leaned in even closer—your noses nearly brushing—and his voice dropped to a whisper that burned against your skin.

“I won’t touch you unless you ask me to.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a vow.

Your lips parted.

But before anything else could happen—

A knock slammed against the dressing room door.

“Jinu-hyung! We’re needed on set!”

He flinched like the sound physically hurt him. Then slowly—so painfully slowly—he stepped back.

The mask of the idol returned. The glow in his eyes vanished.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated, softer now. Regretful. “But now that you are… I’ll never lie to you again.”

And then he left—leaving you breathless, confused, and burning.

Abby

You were looking for your phone. That was all.

You had left it somewhere backstage after the showcase, and the staff had cleared out hours ago. The corridors were silent, the lights dimmed to a sleepy blue. You didn’t expect anyone to still be here—especially not in the auxiliary storage room behind the stage.

You heard a thud.

Then a hiss—inhuman and guttural.

The sound made your skin crawl.

You cracked the door open just enough to peek inside. What you saw sent every nerve in your body into overdrive.

Abby was floating.

Not standing. Not crouching. Floating—several feet off the ground, surrounded by jagged red runes etched into the air, glowing like coals.

His shirt was gone. His entire torso shimmered with black markings that pulsed like veins, crawling up his arms and across his chest. His hair whipped around his face as if moved by invisible wind, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were molten, not gold or brown but fire itself.

Then his head jerked toward the door.

Your heart stopped.

“Y/N?”

You gasped.

He dropped out of the air and hit the ground with an impact that cracked the tiles, the glowing marks vanishing as if sucked back into his skin. You turned to run—panic rising like bile—but in a blur of movement, he was already there, slamming the door shut with one massive hand and stepping in front of you.

“Wait—wait. Don’t freak out.”

You backed away. “You’re… What the hell was that?!”

He winced. “I was gonna tell you eventually. Like… after I eased you in with snacks or something.”

“Snacks?! Are you—are you joking right now?!”

That made him grin, which only pissed you off more.

“You always said I made jokes when I was nervous. So, uh… yeah. This is me panicking.”

But the humor died quickly.

His grin fell. His voice lowered.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

You were shaking, but you couldn’t stop staring at him—because even now, there was something magnetic about him. His muscles flexed with tension, jaw clenched, breath ragged like he’d just come out of a fight. Or a nightmare.

“Are you a demon?” you asked quietly.

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“Yeah. I am.”

Silence stretched between you like a chasm. He looked everywhere but at you. Then he stepped back, lifting his hands in surrender.

“If you want to scream, I get it. Run, call the cops, throw holy water—whatever works.”

Despite the words, he looked… crushed.

You swallowed hard, staring at his chest—at the faint remnants of glowing lines still fading beneath his skin.

“How long were you going to lie to me?”

“I wasn’t lying,” he said immediately. “I just wasn’t telling. Not because I don’t trust you. But because I—” He stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck, muttering under his breath, “God, I suck at this.”

“Try,” you whispered.

His eyes finally met yours.

“Because I like you,” he said, too fast, too loud. “Okay? I like you. A lot. And I knew that if I told you I was literally a soul-draining fire demon, you’d probably stop laughing at my jokes. And that’d kill me.”

Your throat tightened.

The ridiculous part? He was serious.

You could see it in the way his brows furrowed and his posture slumped—like the strongest guy in the room was terrified of one person’s opinion.

“Do you… do you drain people?” you asked carefully.

He grimaced. “Only when I’m forced. Not for fun. I’ve fought it every damn day since the band started. That’s not who I want to be anymore.”

The room was hot. Uncomfortably so. Not just because of the fire magic he’d just unleashed—but because of him. The way he looked at you now: desperate, unguarded, raw.

You weren’t sure when your back hit the wall, but suddenly he was standing just a foot away, looming without meaning to.

“Y/N,” he said lowly, “I know I’m a lot. Loud. Crude. Definitely not boyfriend material. But I’ve never lied about how I feel about you.”

His voice dropped further, turning almost velvety.

“And I’ve never wanted to kiss someone this badly without actually doing it.”

You blinked. Your pulse roared in your ears.

He saw it. Felt the shift.

Then he leaned in—just a fraction.

“Say the word,” he murmured. “Tell me to back off, and I will. But if you don’t…”

You couldn’t breathe.

You should’ve said something. Pushed him away. Demanded answers. Screamed.

Instead—

You tilted your chin up.

He paused, every muscle in his body taut with restraint. His lips were so close you could feel his breath—warm, tinged with something smoky and sweet.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He backed away first.

Just enough to make your knees weaken in frustration.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I don’t want to scare you. That’s the last thing I ever want.”

You swallowed hard.

“I’m not scared,” you said, surprised at yourself.

His eyes darkened. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

You stared at him. Let the silence speak for you.

He grinned—but this one was different. Not teasing. Not cocky.

Relieved. Grateful. And maybe a little dangerous.

“God, you have no idea what that does to me.”

Another knock interrupted the moment.

“Abs! Come on, we’re rolling in ten!”

He groaned, head falling back. “The universe hates me.”

Then he looked back at you, softer now.

“You don’t have to decide anything tonight. Just… don’t run. Please.”

And before you could answer, he winked, pulled the door open, and disappeared into the hallway—leaving the room smelling faintly of fire and adrenaline.

And you?

You were still leaning against the wall, skin burning from heat that had nothing to do with magic.

Mystery

It was nearing midnight when you stepped into the practice studio. The others had gone home hours ago, the building quiet save for the hum of electricity and your own footsteps on the floorboards.

You hadn’t meant to follow him. But something about the way Mystery left the dressing room—without a word, without a glance back—stirred something in your chest.

He always disappeared like that.

Like mist.

Like a secret begging to be chased.

The studio lights were off. Only the mirror along the far wall reflected the faint moonlight through the high windows. For a moment, you thought the room was empty—until you saw him.

Mystery stood alone in the center, bathed in pale silver light.

And his reflection didn’t match him.

Your breath caught.

In the mirror, his eyes were glowing a cold, icy violet. A black crown of shadow twisted around his head like smoke. His skin shimmered with symbols—ancient, eerie, almost regal—and two jagged, semi-transparent wings stretched behind him, ghost-like and pulsing.

But when you looked directly at him—none of it was there.

“Mystery…”

You didn’t mean to say his name. It just slipped from your lips.

His eyes opened.

In the mirror—his reflection smiled.

But the real him didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

He turned his head slowly to face you.

“You see it now.”

The words weren’t surprised. Or scared.

Just… inevitable.

“What is that?” you whispered, pointing to the reflection.

He didn’t look at it.

“It’s what I am,” he said simply. “What I’ve always been.”

He took a step toward you.

“And what I didn’t want you to see.”

You backed up instinctively—but he didn’t chase. He kept a careful distance, watching you with that unreadable gaze that made your skin heat in ways you didn’t understand.

“You’re a demon,” you breathed. “Like the others.”

His eyes flickered, unreadable. “Not like them. I’m... different.”

Your voice cracked with disbelief. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Something flickered in his gaze—regret, maybe. Maybe guilt.

He stepped closer, and this time you didn’t move.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked softly.

You blinked. Caught off guard.

“I was sitting on the balcony,” he continued. “You were late for your shift. You thought I was asleep.”

You remembered. You had tripped over a mic stand and cursed under your breath. You thought he hadn’t heard.

“You laughed at yourself,” he said, the tiniest curve touching his lips. “That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

Your breath stuttered. The air in the room felt thinner, tighter. He was standing only a few feet away now—close enough that you could see the faint shimmer of markings under his skin, like stardust pulsing beneath the surface.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice shaking.

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

That stopped you.

“Like you’re afraid,” he added.

“I’m not afraid,” you whispered.

“Then what are you?”

His voice dropped lower, quieter, like velvet wrapping around your spine.

You didn’t have an answer.

He stepped closer. The mirror behind him pulsed again—his reflection still wrong, still monstrous, still somehow... beautiful.

“I’ve seen a thousand versions of myself,” he murmured. “In glass, in water, in people’s eyes. But when you looked at me, you saw something no one else did.”

He reached out, slowly, fingertips brushing yours. Cold. Electric.

“You made me feel like I could be more than what I am.”

The room tilted.

“You’re manipulating me,” you said, but even you didn’t believe it.

His touch slid to your wrist, featherlight, his thumb tracing your pulse.

“I could,” he said. “But I won’t.”

Your heart thundered.

He leaned in—not close enough to kiss, not quite—but just close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips.

“Not unless you ask me to.”

The words echoed exactly like Jinu’s—but this time, they felt… dangerous. Like the edge of a blade held against your throat, but the blade was your own desire.

You hated that your body responded.

You hated that you wanted to say yes.

“Mystery…”

He tilted his head, eyes burning into yours.

“Say it again.”

“Mystery.”

“No,” he whispered, brushing his lips just barely against your jawline. “Say my real name.”

You froze.

He was testing you.

He wanted you to fall. Wanted to see if you could love the demon—not the illusion.

You clenched your fists.

“I don’t know your real name.”

“Exactly,” he whispered, pulling back, face suddenly unreadable again. “Which means it’s not time yet.”

A voice crackled through the hallway intercom.

“Five minutes until final check. Saja Boys to makeup.”

He stepped back fully now, the ghost of something haunted flickering in his expression.

“When you’re ready to really see me… look in the mirror.”

And just like that, he turned, leaving nothing but his reflection still staring at you—

And it winked.

You stumbled backward, heart racing, unsure what shook you more:

That he was a demon…

Or that he still somehow made your knees weak with a single look.

Romance

It started with a hunch.

Something had felt off about Romance lately. His smiles were still flawless, his flirting still constant, but his eyes… they lingered too long. His voice always dipped a little too low when he said your name.

And tonight, he hadn’t gone home after rehearsal. You knew because you checked. You weren’t even sure why you cared—why you followed the hallway past the sound studio and into the old, unused prop storage room.

But as soon as you opened the door, you knew you’d made a mistake.

The room was bathed in a low crimson light.

Candles—dozens of them—flickered in a perfect circle around a makeshift shrine.

Your face stared back at you from the center.

Photos.

Candid ones.

Some from shows.

Some… that you didn’t know had been taken at all.

There were rose petals arranged around your image, but they weren’t soft. They were charred. Crumbling. Scorched black at the edges. A glass of something dark—thick like blood—sat in front of the arrangement.

And then—

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

You froze.

The voice came from behind you, low and calm and infuriatingly smooth.

You turned slowly.

Romance was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he had all the time in the world. His arms were crossed, lips curled into a smirk—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You followed me,” he said simply. “Didn’t peg you for the curious type.”

“What the hell is this?” you demanded.

“Devotion,” he said, stepping into the room. “But I guess that sounds creepy when you say it out loud.”

He moved closer, deliberate. Unhurried.

You stood your ground, though your heart raced.

“Are you seriously stalking me?”

“No,” he said, voice soft. “Worshipping you, maybe. There’s a difference.”

“That’s not funny, Romance.”

He stopped a few feet from you, hands lowering to his sides. The playfulness in his tone faded, like a mask slowly slipping.

“I wasn’t joking.”

You swallowed hard, searching his face—desperate to find some trace of the harmless flirt you thought you knew.

But the man in front of you?

His eyes were glowing faintly red.

Not bright like fire—deep. Like embers buried under ash.

“You’re one of them,” you whispered.

He tilted his head. “A demon? Guilty.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You backed up a step. “Why me?”

That pulled a real reaction from him.

He looked at you like you'd asked something sacred.

“Because you saw me.”

You shook your head. “I saw the version of you that you let me see.”

“No,” he said. “You smiled at me when I wasn’t performing. You looked at me when I wasn’t trying to be charming. You made me feel like I was more than the thing crawling under my skin.”

His voice dropped—intimate, fervent.

“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t mean to get addicted to you.”

He moved closer again.

This time, you didn’t move.

Your back was already near the wall.

“Romance, this is wrong.”

“It’s real,” he said.

His hand reached out—slow, cautious—and brushed your cheek.

The contact sent a shiver through your spine. His fingers were warm. Too warm.

Your body betrayed you. You didn’t flinch.

“I think about you all the time,” he whispered. “Not just the way you laugh, or roll your eyes when I flirt—but the way you see me. The way you say my name like you mean it.”

His thumb traced your jaw, then stilled just under your chin.

“You’re the only thing that keeps the hunger from swallowing me whole.”

You stared at him, helpless.

“Are you feeding on me?” you asked quietly.

His eyes darkened. “No.”

“Have you wanted to?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

His hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side.

“But I haven’t. Because some part of me still wants to deserve you.”

That confession cracked something in your chest.

He turned away suddenly—like showing too much scared him more than your anger.

“You should run, Y/N.”

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because if you don’t…” His voice broke. “I might finally cross the line.”

You took a step forward.

“And what happens if I don’t run?”

His shoulders stiffened.

He turned back around slowly.

Something shifted between you—something sharp and electric and dangerous.

He crossed the distance in two strides.

You were against the wall before you could think, his hand planted beside your head. His face was inches from yours. Breath mingling. Heat blooming between you like wildfire.

“Then I’ll ruin you,” he whispered. “And I’ll thank you for letting me.”

The silence was deafening.

You were trembling—not from fear.

From the war inside your own chest.

His eyes searched yours, one final time, for resistance.

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t stop him when he leaned in, brushing the ghost of a kiss against your cheek, then your jawline, then just barely grazing your lips.

But he didn’t kiss you.

“Not tonight,” he breathed. “You still have time to run.”

And then he vanished—

A swirl of black mist where his body had been.

Leaving behind a room full of dying candles and your own thundering heartbeat.

Baby

It had been a long day. Too long.

The studio was empty. The hallways were dark. You weren’t even sure why you were still here. Maybe it was instinct—something gnawing in the back of your mind.

Something… wrong.

You passed Baby’s dressing room and paused.

The door was open.

The light was off.

And something inside was moving.

Your fingers wrapped around the handle. You pushed it open—

And froze.

He was crouched in the corner, curled in on himself, back heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. His hoodie was bunched at his elbows, revealing arms glowing faintly with silver runes that pulsed like veins of light beneath his skin.

Wings—not fully formed, just shadows of wings—trembled behind him, twitching violently. Horns curled from his head, half-faded and jagged like they were still growing. His eyes… they were wide and glowing a pale, eerie blue.

“Baby…?”

He flinched like you’d shot him.

“No. No, no, no—” He clutched at his head, shrinking further back into the corner. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

You hesitated, stepping in slowly. “What’s happening to you?”

“I lost control.”

His voice cracked—raw, panicked, not the cheeky, playful tone you were used to. This wasn’t the boy who threw popcorn at you during movie nights or pouted until you shared your snack.

This was something else entirely.

“Are you hurt?”

He looked up at you, and it broke your heart.

Tears clung to his lashes, glowing faintly in the dark.

“You’re scared of me now.”

Your stomach twisted. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie.” He laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and broken. “Everyone is. Eventually.”

“I’m not everyone.”

You moved toward him carefully, like approaching a wild animal. One wrong move and he’d bolt—or worse, explode.

He stared at you like he couldn’t decide if you were real.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“And yet I am.”

You knelt a few feet from him, trying to keep your voice soft. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His wings twitched again, like the tension in him had nowhere to go.

“Because I didn’t want to see that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“Like I’m a mistake.”

That shattered something in you.

“You’re not a mistake,” you said fiercely. “You’re just… you.”

His gaze darted to you, unblinking.

“I’m not just anything. I’m dangerous. Broken. I was created for destruction, Y/N. And I like it sometimes. That’s the worst part.”

You reached out, placing your hand on the floor between you both. Not touching him—just offering closeness.

“Then why do you always pull back when you get angry?”

He blinked.

“Why do you always leave the room instead of lashing out? Why do you let the others tease you? Why do you laugh with me even when your hands are shaking?”

He didn’t answer.

“Because you’re trying. Every day.”

You moved closer.

He didn’t stop you.

You sat in front of him now, knees nearly touching.

Slowly, shakily, he raised his hand—and hesitantly brushed your fingertips.

“My control isn’t always perfect,” he said, voice barely a breath. “I feel things too much. And sometimes I want to…”

His voice trailed off.

“Want to what?” you whispered.

“Touch you,” he said. “Hold you. Kiss you until everything else disappears.”

Your breath hitched.

His eyes darkened—shadows pulsing in his irises.

“But if I lose control while I’m that close to you…”

You reached out slowly, resting your hand over his trembling one.

“Then I’ll help you find your way back.”

That made him shake.

Not from fear—but relief.

Overwhelming, bone-deep relief.

“Why aren’t you running?” he asked, voice cracking.

“Because you’re not scaring me.”

“Even like this?”

He looked down at himself—horns half-grown, wings flickering like broken shadows. His demon form wasn’t elegant or regal like Mystery’s or fire-forged like Abby’s.

It was chaotic. Raw. Vulnerable.

And yet, you cupped his face gently, tilting it up.

“Even like this.”

He stared at you like you were light in a world that had never known warmth.

And then—

He leaned forward.

Your lips brushed—soft, searching, full of unshed fear and aching restraint. It wasn’t deep. It wasn’t hungry. It was trembling and fragile and real.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wide. Disbelieving.

“That was real,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you breathed. “It was.”

A voice crackled from the hallway speaker.

“Saja Boys — final call. Last scene of the night.”

Baby swallowed.

His wings flickered once more before disappearing. The runes faded. The glow in his eyes dimmed.

He looked like your Baby again.

Just… quieter.

He stood slowly, then offered you a hand.

“You coming with me?”

You took it.

“Always.”

[blondechariot]

🫰🏻~ATEEZ reaction to making out with them mid fight~🫰🏻

Pairing: y/n x Reader

Warnings: slight suggestive Themes

Disclaimer: Not my picture

Hongjoong

You’re standing in the middle of the room, fists clenched, heart hammering in your chest. The silence is thick after the last words you threw at him, still hanging in the air like smoke from a fire that refuses to die out.

“You always take over, Hongjoong,” you snap, voice trembling with restrained emotion. “You act like I can’t handle anything on my own.”

He stands across from you, arms crossed, face unreadable—but the storm in his eyes says it all.

“That’s because when you screw up, it’s not just your ass on the line,” he grinds out, stepping closer. “You think I like being the one who always has to fix things?”

Your breath catches. The audacity. “You don’t have to fix me. I never asked you to.”

His jaw clenches, and you swear you see something flicker across his expression—panic, maybe? Desperation?

He scoffs under his breath. “Right. Because you’d rather run into danger alone and get yourself hurt—just to prove a point.”

You flinch. The words sting because they’re too close to the truth. “At least I don’t treat people like pawns on a chessboard.”

That does it.

He’s suddenly in front of you, close enough to feel his breath on your face. His hands are curled into fists at his sides, and you’re practically daring him to yell back. Instead, his voice drops low—dangerously low.

“You really wanna do this right now?” he murmurs, his gaze flickering to your lips.

Your stomach tightens.

“Yes,” you whisper.

The next second, his hand is gripping the back of your neck, and his mouth crashes into yours. It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s war. Teeth and tongues, lips moving in a brutal rhythm as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall. His thigh slips between yours, and you moan into his mouth as he presses in harder.

His other hand slides under your shirt, fingers splaying across your waist as he growls, “This what you wanted? Me losing control?”

You don’t answer with words—just arch into him, grabbing his shirt in both fists and tugging him closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. You feel the hard line of him through his jeans, and it sends a thrill through you.

He drags his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, biting just enough to leave a mark. “You drive me insane, Y/N.”

“Good,” you breathe out, gasping when his teeth graze your collarbone. “Then maybe now we’re even.”

His laugh is low and wrecked. “You always have to get the last word, huh?”

His thigh presses up firmly between your legs, and you gasp. He smirks. “Not this time.”

Seonghwa

You’re done pretending everything’s fine.

“Why do you keep shutting me out?” you ask, your voice sharp as glass. “You act like I don’t matter when things get hard.”

Seonghwa doesn’t look at you. He’s standing by the window, jaw tight, arms crossed over his chest like a shield.

“I’m not shutting you out.”

You laugh bitterly. “Bullshit.”

That gets his attention. He turns, eyes dark and unreadable, but there’s something brewing under the surface—something raw.

“I’m protecting you.”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “You’re protecting yourself. Every time things get intense, you disappear. Emotionally, physically—you vanish. And I’m left feeling like I’m in this alone.”

His silence cuts deeper than any reply.

You’re both breathing heavily now, the space between you charged like a live wire.

“You don’t get to decide that I can’t handle you,” you continue, voice trembling. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for real. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re scared.”

He moves then—slowly, deliberately. When he reaches you, he doesn’t touch you right away. His eyes search yours like he’s still looking for an excuse to keep his distance. But you don’t flinch.

“I’m not scared of being with you,” he finally whispers. “I’m scared of what I’ll become if I lose you.”

That’s when you kiss him.

It starts slow, almost unsure—like neither of you wants to shatter the moment. But when his hand cups your cheek and you feel him melt into it, the hunger rushes in all at once. His lips part, and your tongue slips inside, meeting his in a wet, desperate kiss. He groans low in his throat, hands sliding down to your waist and pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, tugging it up, and he lets you—raising his arms so you can pull it over his head. His skin is hot, smooth, and you can’t stop your hands from running across the firm planes of his chest.

“I’ve been dying to touch you,” you murmur into his mouth.

Seonghwa presses you backward until your knees hit the couch. He eases you down, climbing over you with a knee between your legs. His lips return to yours, but this time, slower—deeper. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers grazing your bare skin, then gliding up over your bra.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he breathes, lips brushing your ear.

You shake your head quickly. “Don’t stop.”

His hand moves to unclasp your bra, pulling the cups down just enough to expose your breasts. When his mouth wraps around one nipple, hot and wet, you gasp loudly—arching up into him as heat pulses between your thighs.

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking soft… all mine.”

Your hips shift, grinding slowly against the thigh he’s pressed between yours, and his breath catches. He kisses you again, harder, more urgent now, hand sliding between your legs over your clothes, pressing against your heat.

“I should stop,” he groans, biting your lower lip.

“But you won’t,” you whisper, staring into his eyes.

And he doesn’t.

Yunho

“You could’ve died, Y/N!”

Yunho’s voice booms louder than you’ve ever heard it, echoing in the kitchen where you’re still catching your breath from the mess you got yourself into. He’s pacing in front of you, eyes wild with disbelief.

“And you didn’t even think to tell me? You just handled it all on your own like I’m not even here?”

“I handled it,” you snap. “It’s over now.”

He stops dead in his tracks, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as they lock on yours.

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He storms toward you, towering over you, eyes burning with something so intense it makes your breath hitch. “The point is that you didn’t trust me. That you’d rather get yourself hurt than let me protect you.”

“I didn’t need protecting,” you whisper.

He grabs your chin, not rough, but firm—tilting your face up toward him. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “Bullshit.”

Your lips part just as his crash into yours, like something inside him finally snapped. It’s not sweet. It’s fierce, possessive, and messy—like he’s been holding back for weeks and can’t anymore. His hands slide down your back, gripping your hips hard as he walks you backward until your thighs bump into the counter.

You pull at his shirt, yanking it over his head, revealing the lean, strong lines of his body. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, muscles rippling as he lifts you up onto the countertop like you weigh nothing. You gasp when your legs fall open around him, the thick bulge in his jeans pressing right against your core.

“You drive me crazy,” he growls, lips moving down to your neck. “Always so stubborn. So fucking reckless.”

You tilt your head, giving him more access, moaning when his teeth graze your pulse point. “You love it.”

“I hate it,” he mutters against your skin—though the way his hands are grabbing your ass, grinding you down on him, says otherwise. “And I love it. And I don’t know what to do with myself when you scare me like that.”

Your breath hitches. “Yunho…”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand sliding up under your shirt. “Take this off. Now.”

You don’t hesitate, lifting it over your head, leaving you in just your bra. He growls again, hands roaming your sides, then unclasping your bra with one practiced motion. The way he stares at your chest—dark eyes glazed over with hunger—makes you clench around nothing.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, bending to kiss between your breasts, dragging his tongue over one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. You moan loudly, thighs squeezing around his waist.

His hands grip your hips again, grinding you hard against him—slow, controlled rolls that make you whimper.

“You’re gonna tell me next time,” he says, voice low, dangerous, teasing. “Or I swear, I’ll punish you.”

You whimper again. “Yunho—”

He smirks, cocky now. “Say it. Tell me who takes care of you.”

“You do,” you whisper breathlessly.

“Damn right I do.”

Then he kisses you again—deeper, slower now, like he’s tasting every piece of you. His hand slips between your thighs, pressing against your clothed heat, and you swear you’ll melt if he keeps going.

And maybe he will.

Yeosang

“You don’t even try to understand me,” you say, voice rising with every syllable. “Every time I open up, you shut down. Every damn time.”

Yeosang stands across the room, arms folded, expression unreadable. That perfect poker face that’s driven you mad since the day you met him. Always too composed. Always a little too quiet when things get emotional.

“I don’t shut down,” he says coolly. “I think before I speak. You should try it.”

You glare at him. “You think that’s some kind of strength? Silence? Detachment? It’s cowardice.”

That hits. His jaw tightens, and for a moment you think he’s going to walk away—like he always does.

But he doesn’t.

He walks toward you instead. Slowly. Deliberately. Until he’s standing right in front of you, so close you can smell his cologne—clean, soft, and maddeningly addictive.

“You think I don’t feel things just because I don’t perform them for you?” His voice is low, but there’s heat under every word. “You have no idea what’s going on inside my head when I look at you.”

Your breath catches. “Then show me.”

His hand lifts to your jaw, thumb brushing across your lower lip. You see the crack in his composure—the tiniest twitch of his lip, the fire finally reaching the surface.

“I’ll do more than show you,” he murmurs.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle. It’s precise. Controlled at first, like he’s tasting you on purpose, exploring every corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing it. But when you moan into him—when your hands clutch at his shirt and pull him in closer—he finally lets go.

He pushes you gently but firmly back until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You sit down, and he follows, his body towering over yours as his hands lift the hem of your shirt and slip it over your head in one smooth motion.

“You always talk like you want a fight,” he whispers, staring at your exposed skin. “But I know what you really want.”

He leans in, kissing down your throat, teeth grazing lightly before sucking a mark into your collarbone. You gasp, grabbing at his waist to pull him closer, and he smirks against your skin.

“Take off your bra,” he orders softly.

You shiver—not from the cold, but from his voice. The quiet command, the unexpected dominance laced into his calm demeanor. You obey, unhooking it and letting it fall, and the look in his eyes darkens instantly.

“Fuck,” he whispers, palms sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. “You’re even better than I imagined.”

You whimper when he dips his head, licking and sucking one nipple while rolling the other between his fingers. His hips press against yours, and you feel how hard he is through his jeans. Slowly, he rocks into you, just enough to make you arch against him.

“I bet you think I’m boring,” he whispers into your neck.

Your hands tug at his shirt. “Take this off.”

He does, revealing sculpted lines and smooth skin, his gaze locked onto yours the entire time.

“I’m not boring,” he says, pressing a hand between your thighs. “I’m just patient.”

You whimper at the pressure, grinding against his palm instinctively.

“And right now, I’m done being patient.”

San

You storm down the hallway, wiping angrily at your face, hoping he won’t follow you—but of course, he does.

“Don’t walk away from me!” San yells behind you.

You spin around, fuming. “You don’t get to tell me what to do!”

His eyes are blazing, his chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile. “I do when you’re acting like this!”

“Like what, San? Like someone who doesn’t want to be pushed around by a guy who can’t handle his own emotions?”

He recoils slightly—only for a moment. Then his lips curl into that sharp, bitter expression he gets when he’s barely holding it together.

“Don’t fucking twist this. You keep acting like you don’t care if I’m there or not.”

You flinch.

He sees it, and his voice softens—but only for a second.

“You know what that does to me?” he says, stepping closer. “Do you even know what it feels like to care about someone who always pretends they don’t need you?”

You’re breathing hard. Your fingers shake at your sides. “I do need you. But you make it impossible sometimes. You’re intense and demanding and—”

“I’m like this because I feel everything, Y/N!” he roars, fists clenched at his sides. “I’m like this because when I look at you, I lose every bit of control I have left.”

You stare at him, chest tight.

Then—suddenly, violently—you crash together.

His mouth slams against yours, lips bruising, teeth clashing, breath short and panting as your hands tangle into his hair. He lifts you up without a word, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you into the bedroom, dropping you on the bed like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted to ruin.

Shirts are yanked off. You drag your nails down his back as he grinds into you, his hips already frantic, already needy.

“You make me fucking crazy,” he growls against your lips, kissing you again and again, like he’s trying to erase the fight, the anger, the doubt—everything but this moment. “I hate fighting with you. I hate it.”

You reach down, fingers fumbling at his belt. “Then shut up and fuck me already.”

He stills. His hand grabs your wrist tight, eyes burning into yours.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I mean it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

Something inside him breaks. He growls your name like a curse, like a prayer, and his hands roam your body—hot, rough, greedy. He kisses down your neck, down your chest, tugging your bra down to reveal your breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth while his hand dips between your thighs.

“You’re already soaked,” he whispers, almost in awe. “Just from yelling at me, huh? You like the fire.”

Your only answer is a moan when his fingers press against your clothed heat, rubbing slow circles that make your hips jerk.

“San—”

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I always do.”

And that’s exactly how he kisses you: like he owns you and he’s never letting go.

Mingi

“You think I didn’t see that?” Mingi snaps the second the door shuts behind you both.

You whirl around, confused. “See what?”

He’s pacing now, hands running through his hair, the vein in his neck pulsing with restrained rage. “That guy at the bar had his hand on your back. You didn’t even push him off.”

You stare at him, breath catching. “Are you seriously mad about that? He brushed against me, Mingi. I didn’t even notice—”

“Oh, you noticed,” he cuts in sharply. “You just didn’t care.”

You take a step forward. “So what, now I’m not allowed to exist near other men?”

“You’re mine,” he growls before he can stop himself.

The room goes silent. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“What did you just say?”

He looks up, eyes burning.

“You’re. Mine.”

You don’t say a word. You just stare at him—and the jealousy bubbling in his chest spills into something else. Something darker. Needier. His fists unclench, and he takes two slow, heavy steps toward you.

“You like making me jealous, don’t you?” he murmurs, backing you toward the bed.

“I wasn’t—”

“You want me like this? Furious? Possessive? You like seeing how far I’ll go?”

Your knees hit the mattress, and Mingi doesn’t give you time to answer. He grabs your waist and throws you back onto the bed, crawling over you like he’s ready to devour you.

The kiss is wild—hot, fast, too much and not enough. You gasp when his hips grind down against yours, already hard, already desperate. He tears your shirt over your head, bra following a second later.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, eyes roaming every inch of you. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You arch into him, tugging at his hoodie. He rips it off, mouth crashing into your collarbone, licking and biting until you’re moaning, breathless and clinging to his shoulders.

“You think I’m gonna let anyone else touch you?” he groans. “Not after this. Not after the way you sound when I do this—”

His hand slips into your pants, fingers pressing against your soaked panties, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that make your hips buck. “Mingi—!”

He moans into your neck, grinding into you harder. “You’re gonna come just from this, aren’t you? So fucking needy for me.”

You whimper, dragging your nails down his back. His pace speeds up, rubbing you faster, rougher, and the tension is unbearable.

“Say it,” he demands. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you pant.

He kisses you hard, needy, tongue claiming your mouth like he’s marking you from the inside out. “Damn right you are.”

And he doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking around his hand.

Wooyoung

“Oh, you’re mad again? What else is new?”

You slam the door shut so hard the frame rattles.

“Don’t fucking act like this is nothing, Wooyoung!”

He’s lounging on the couch like he doesn’t have a care in the world, one leg over the other, fingers tapping his phone screen.

“I’m not acting. I genuinely don’t know what I did this time.”

“You embarrassed me in front of everyone! You made a joke about me sleeping in your bed like I was some random hookup!”

He smirks. Slowly. Infuriatingly. “It was a joke. They all know you’re not random. They know you’re mine.”

“Then why do you always make me feel like I’m just some game to you?”

That wipes the smirk right off his face.

He stands.

And suddenly he’s not the cocky flirt anymore — he’s dangerous. Focused. His jaw is tight, his gaze burning through you.

“You think I’m playing?” he asks, stepping toward you. “You think this is some fucking game to me?”

Your breath catches as your back hits the wall. He leans in close, nose brushing yours. “You think I haven’t thought about bending you over that table while they were still in the other room? About making you scream my name until they knew exactly who you belonged to?”

You try to speak. You really do. But your mouth is dry, your heart pounding so hard you feel it in your fingertips.

He smirks again — but this time it’s dark. Dangerous. “No words now?”

His hand slides up your thigh, under your skirt. You gasp when his fingers find your soaked panties, stroking slowly. “You get this wet when we fight? That’s fucked up, baby.”

“Wooyoung—”

He cuts you off with a filthy kiss, tongue slipping between your lips, one hand gripping your hair, the other teasing your clothed heat. You whimper against him, and he chuckles low in his throat.

“I’m gonna ruin that smart mouth of yours,” he whispers against your lips. “Right after I make you beg for me.”

You moan when he presses harder, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit while his fingers slip the fabric aside.

“Say it. Say who makes you feel like this.”

“You do,” you gasp.

He kisses down your neck, biting hard. “That’s right. Say it louder.”

“You, Wooyoung. Fuck—you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He kisses you again, hard and unrelenting, grinding his thigh between yours until your hips move on their own. He doesn’t let up — not until you’re moaning his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

Jongho

“You’re cold sometimes, you know that?” you spit, pacing the living room.

Jongho just watches you, arms crossed, jaw tight, unmoving.

“You act like nothing touches you. Like I could disappear tomorrow and you’d barely notice.”

His expression doesn’t shift — but something in his eyes goes dark.

“That’s not true,” he says, low.

You scoff, not even hearing the warning in his tone. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I said, that’s not true.”

You stop. “Then why do I feel like I’m the only one falling here? Why do I feel like you’re holding yourself back—like you’re just waiting for me to break first?”

Silence.

Then Jongho moves.

One second he’s across the room — the next, he’s right in front of you, grabbing your face in both hands and pressing you back into the wall with enough force to make your breath catch.

“You think I don’t care?” he growls, forehead pressed against yours, breath hot against your lips. “You think I’m not fighting every single day to keep my hands off you so I don’t ruin you?”

Your eyes widen.

“I want you all the fucking time,” he continues, voice like thunder, chest heaving. “I want to strip you bare and fuck the attitude out of you, but I hold back because I respect you.”

His lips crash into yours — no finesse, just hunger. Raw, aggressive, claiming.

When you whimper against him, his hands slide down, gripping your ass hard as he lifts you effortlessly and pins you fully to the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist, and you can feel him already thick and hard between your thighs.

“Don’t you ever say I don’t care,” he whispers, grinding into you. “You have no idea how much I care.”

You tug at his shirt, desperate, and he peels it off quickly before grabbing your own top and yanking it over your head. He groans at the sight of your bare chest, then leans down, biting into the soft skin below your collarbone, leaving a deep, possessive mark.

“You think anyone else gets to see you like this?” he mutters. “Think I’ll ever fucking let them?”

His hips jerk up, making you cry out, your panties soaked and clinging to you. He presses two fingers there, right against your slit, even through the fabric, and grins when you whine.

“This? All mine,” he growls, thrusting his fingers against your heat harder.

You moan helplessly, back arching against the wall.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you gasp.

He kisses you again, slower this time, but no less intense. “Damn right it is.”

And in that moment, you know he’s not cold — he’s burning for you, always has been. He’s just been waiting for the moment you were brave enough to strike the match.

[blondechariot]

🙈~STRAY KIDS challenging you to stay quiet while in the Dorm/Common Room~🙈

pairing: Straykids x female foreigner Reader

warnings: slight SMUT!

disclaimer: not my pic

Bangchan

The living room was loud. Felix and Han were arguing over who cheated in Mario Kart, Hyunjin was lying dramatically across the beanbag like he’d just been betrayed by life itself, and Changbin was shoveling chips into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days.

You were nestled on the far end of the couch, curled into the corner with a blanket over your lap, scrolling on your phone. At least… that’s what you looked like.

Chan sat beside you, a controller in one hand, the other arm stretched lazily across the back of the couch behind your shoulders. His fingers drummed against the fabric behind you absentmindedly — at least at first. Then… they dipped lower. Touching your neck. Brushing your hair aside.

You glanced up at him.

He wasn’t even looking at you. His eyes were fixed on the screen — a total picture of calm. Except his hand? Now resting on your shoulder. His thumb dragged lightly over your collarbone, back and forth.

You sucked in a quiet breath.

“Something wrong?” he asked casually, voice low — for you alone.

You shook your head, pulse quickening.

Then his fingers slipped under the edge of the blanket. No one could see. Everyone else was too busy screaming at the TV or arguing about snacks. And Chan — cool as ever — was still gaming. Laughing. Talking.

Meanwhile, under the blanket, his hand ghosted over your thigh.

He leaned closer, his voice brushing your ear. “You’re warm,” he said, deceptively innocent. “How warm, though?”

His hand slid higher.

You squeezed your thighs together, a desperate little grip of resistance. His fingers just stilled, resting right at the inside of your thigh, no pressure, no movement — but it was enough.

“You don’t wanna move?” he whispered. “Or are you waiting for me to do it?”

You gave him a small, panicked look. “They’ll see,” you mouthed.

He smirked.

“They’ll hear if you don’t stay quiet.”

And with that, his fingers moved again — slow strokes over the inside of your thigh, featherlight at first, then firmer. His palm cupped the heat between your legs, dragging over the fabric of your shorts.

You bit your lip so hard you thought you’d bruise.

He slid closer to you on the couch, shielding you with his body, his arm fully around your shoulders now. You leaned into him instinctively, disguising the motion — but he felt the way your legs trembled, the way your fingers dug into the blanket.

Then… his fingers slipped under the waistband.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t look at you. He just kept playing the game, casual and smug as if nothing was happening — while his fingers found your slit, already wet and needy.

“Fuck,” he murmured under his breath. “Soaked for me already? That desperate, baby?”

You whimpered — barely a sound, but he heard it.

And his fingers stilled.

“What did I say?” he whispered, turning just slightly toward your ear. “You make a noise, I stop. So try again. Quiet this time.”

He kissed your jaw once — slow and warm — and then resumed the slow torment between your legs.

Two fingers stroked up and down your slit, slick and teasing, barely brushing your clit — enough to make you shake, not enough to push you over. He wanted you like this. On edge. Trapped. Aching. Too turned on to speak, too surrounded to scream.

You swallowed a whine, pressing your face into his shoulder.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Stay quiet for me, good girl.”

His fingers curled inside, just enough to make your thighs snap shut. He didn’t stop. He wanted you to clamp around him like that, holding him in while he worked you open, deeper and slower with every movement. He flexed his hand once, twice — and you almost gasped.

“Hey, Y/N,” Han called from across the room. “You good over there? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Your eyes widened. But Chan didn’t move. His fingers were still inside you. Still moving.

“She’s fine,” Chan answered smoothly, grinning. “Probably just tired.”

“You tired, baby?” he whispered in your ear, voice like gravel. “Or just too close to coming to answer?”

You were. Your nails clawed at the blanket, your lips trembling against his shirt. Your whole body was tight — seconds from snapping.

And Chan… leaned in and bit your neck. Soft, slow, with tongue and teeth.

You came without a sound.

Your whole body shook — but you didn’t scream. Didn’t moan. Just trembled in his arms while he held you, rocked you through it, his fingers still buried deep as you fluttered and clenched and melted around them.

“That’s my girl,” he murmured, proud and smug and impossibly turned on. “You did so fucking good.”

He kissed your cheek like nothing had happened and gently withdrew his hand, sliding it out from under the blanket.

Your head spun.

Then he lifted his hand — slick with your release — and sucked one of his fingers into his mouth.

You gawked at him. Eyes blown wide.

He winked.

“Needed a little snack.”

Lee Know

It started because you got cocky.

You were curled up beside Minho in the dorm’s common room, surrounded by the rest of the boys, pretending to be completely normal — like your legs weren’t barely touching, like he hadn’t been eyeing you for the past hour with that look.

You’d whispered in his ear while he was eating chips.

“I bet I could stay quiet even if you touched me right here.”

You smiled. Smug. Flirty. Deadly.

Minho didn’t smile back. He just licked the salt from his fingers, stood up wordlessly, and sat back down — right next to you.

Too close.

Your thigh was pressed to his. His knee brushed yours. And under the blanket he suddenly tossed over both of your laps, his hand crept in like a shadow.

“You sure you wanna play that game with me?” he asked, so softly only you heard. “You sure, angel?”

You nodded — too proud, too brave.

So he gave you exactly what you asked for.

His hand slipped between your thighs casually, thumb brushing where your shorts hugged your core. He didn’t dive in. No — Minho waited. Just… ghosted his fingers over the fabric, so light it barely counted.

“Already tense,” he muttered, sounding amused. “How long do you think you’ll last?”

Your jaw tightened. You blinked at the TV like it could save you, but your body betrayed you — legs twitching, hips subtly shifting into his palm.

He smirked. You felt it without even looking.

“That’s right,” he whispered, finally pressing the heel of his palm against you. “Grind on it if you want. But no sounds. No gasps. No begging.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Then he hooked two fingers under your waistband.

You flinched. But the blanket covered everything. Everyone else was still arguing about takeout orders and debating whether Felix should cook again. No one noticed what Minho was doing.

But he noticed everything.

“Don’t look at me,” he whispered darkly. “Look forward. Say it with your eyes.”

Then his fingers slid into your panties and met slick heat.

“Oh… fuck,” he murmured. “You’re soaking. That turned you on?”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there, fists clenched in the blanket, breath tight.

His fingers dragged slow circles over your clit, cruel and deliberate, while you blinked back the heat in your eyes.

“No whimper?” “No trembling lip?” “Disappointing.”

Then — just when you were adjusting to the rhythm — he shoved two fingers inside without warning.

Your whole body jolted.

But no sound came out.

Minho smiled, leaning toward your ear, voice so low it sent a full-body chill through you.

“That was cute,” he said. “But you’ll break. They all do.”

His fingers curled inside you, hitting just right, dragging against that perfect spot over and over until your thighs were shaking. You weren’t breathing anymore — you were surviving.

And he loved it.

“What’s that face, baby?” he whispered. “You’re gonna cry? Right here? In front of everyone?”

You looked at him — furious, desperate, lips parted in silent agony.

“You’re welcome,” he said smugly. “Don’t come yet. I’ll know.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to fall apart on his hand and make him deal with the consequences.

But then Han called from across the room:

“Y/N, you good? You’re looking a little red in the face.”

Minho’s fingers stopped completely.

He looked at you, brows raised.

“You gonna answer him?” “Or do you want me to?”

You shook your head, body trembling, and somehow managed to call back:

“I-I’m fine! Just warm!”

The room went back to chaos. And Minho?

He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, dragging the motion to make you feel every inch of it — then licked one of them clean while making direct eye contact with you.

“I win,” he said, smirking. “You came the second I stopped, didn’t you?”

Your cheeks burned. You couldn’t even deny it.

“You owe me now,” he whispered. “And I collect in private.”

Changbin

You were sitting on his lap.

That alone wasn’t suspicious — not with how close you two had always been, not when there weren’t enough seats and Changbin had patted his thigh and said, “C’mon, just sit.”

You had. But the look in your eyes said something else. And the way your hips shifted — subtly, slowly — made his brain short-circuit.

You weren’t being innocent. You never were.

He leaned into your ear, breath hot.

“You’re seriously doing this? Right now?”

You smirked. “Unless you’re too scared to keep up.”

That was all it took.

His arms wrapped casually around your waist, one hand resting over your stomach like he was just being affectionate. But the other?

The other slid lower. Beneath the hem of your oversized hoodie. Beneath the waistband of your soft shorts.

“If I get caught with my hand down your pants, you’re not gonna be able to walk out of here,” he warned softly.

But when his fingers dipped between your thighs and felt just how wet you already were…

His breath hitched. His hand clenched.

“Oh my god,” he muttered against your shoulder. “You’re soaked. You’re soaked, baby. What the hell—?”

You bit your lip, trying to look normal, your thighs twitching on either side of his lap. He shifted his hips slightly, and you felt him — hard, straining beneath you.

“Now look what you did,” he groaned. “Fuck. Now I have to touch you.”

He slid his fingers through your folds slowly — dragging every movement, torturing you with the lack of pace. The dull rumble of the TV, the boys yelling over their game, the snack bags crinkling — it all blurred out.

“Stay quiet, okay?” he whispered. “You moan once, and I swear I’ll make you come when everyone can hear.”

That shouldn’t have made your stomach flip — but it did.

His fingers moved faster. Just enough to make your hips shift, searching for more. You tried to rock forward subtly, trying to keep your breathing even.

But he caught it.

“Greedy,” he muttered. “You’re doing this to yourself. Sitting on my lap, pressing that little pussy right into my hand like it’s yours to use—”

You clenched around nothing, jaw tight. His voice alone could finish you off if he kept talking like that.

“I bet if I slid my fingers in, you’d suck me in so tight I wouldn’t be able to pull out.”

Then… he did. He slid two fingers into you, slowly, carefully, and you stiffened in his lap like you’d just been zapped.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re being good so far. Just a little more.”

You could barely breathe. Your hands clutched his thighs for support. You were wet and throbbing, and you were doing everything in your power not to make a sound.

He was rock hard under you now, his teeth clenched, sweat forming along his brow.

“Fuck,” he said softly, mouth at your ear. “You're gonna make me come in my pants if you keep squeezing me like that.”

You almost did make a sound at that. Almost.

But then Hyunjin shouted, “Hey, Binnie, you good? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“Just hot,” Changbin called out, trying to keep his voice steady. “She’s warm.”

The rest laughed.

He bit your shoulder — just hard enough — and whispered,

“I’m gonna ruin you the second we’re alone. But right now… I want you to finish. Just like this. Quiet. Or I’ll make you start over.”

You came seconds later, body shuddering in his lap, completely silent except for your gasping breath against his throat. He held you still, hand locked around your waist, fingers still buried inside as he kissed the side of your head.

“You’re crazy for that,” he whispered. “And I’m obsessed with you.”

Hyunjin

You were sprawled together on the massive beanbag in the common room. The lights were low, music humming softly through the Bluetooth speaker while most of the guys scrolled on their phones or quietly talked.

You were lying half on your side, facing the others — and Hyunjin was behind you, pressed against your back, legs tangled.

It looked innocent.

But it wasn’t.

His hand was already under your sweatshirt. Slowly tracing shapes on your stomach. Dragging lazy patterns. Dipping lower. Then rising again — never quite low enough.

“You’re not stopping me,” he murmured at your ear, voice lazy, smug. “So either you want me to keep going… or you’re curious what I’ll do next.”

You didn’t answer.

So he slipped his hand under the waistband of your shorts.

“There she is,” he whispered, lips brushing your hair. “You’re already warm for me.”

You shifted your hips just slightly, biting your bottom lip.

“Don’t worry,” he continued, fingers sliding over your folds. “No one will know what I’m doing to you. That’s the beauty of it.”

His hand moved so slowly it was criminal. He was savoring this. Like it was art.

“Do you realize how pretty you are like this?” he whispered. “Trying so hard to keep your mouth shut while I make you fall apart?”

His fingers dipped into your heat, just barely.

You shuddered.

“Tsk. Don’t move too much,” he teased. “We wouldn’t want the others to see how wet your shorts are getting, right?”

You turned your face into the cushion. You didn’t trust yourself to stay composed. Not with the way his fingers were brushing over your clit now — featherlight but consistent. Cruel. Wicked.

“You know what I want?” he whispered. “I want you to come with your eyes open. Looking right at them. Knowing you’re getting off while they talk about dinner plans.”

Your breath hitched.

He smiled.

“Or are you too scared?” “Afraid you’ll make a sound and give us away?” “Afraid I’ll slip just a little deeper and you’ll lose control?”

You were already close. He could tell.

So he added pressure — just enough to make your thighs tremble against his.

“There you go,” he breathed. “Don’t fight it. Be a good girl and let it happen. Quietly.”

And you did. You had to. Your entire body shook, pleasure crashing through you in waves while he stroked you through it — slow, delicate movements that made it worse, not better.

You didn’t moan.

But the way your fingers clenched the blanket and your lips parted in silent desperation — it said everything.

He was still hard behind you, grinding into your backside subtly.

“Now you owe me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your ear. “Later tonight. I want you loud.”

And you knew he meant it.

Han

You should’ve known better than to tease him.

You were sitting side-by-side on the floor in the dorm’s common room, backs against the couch, blanket thrown over your laps while the others were busy watching a movie and eating popcorn.

You leaned over and whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under these.”

Your shorts. Thin. Loose. Dangerous.

Han froze. Slowly turned to look at you. Blinked.

“I’m sorry… what?”

You smiled. Then faced forward again, smug as hell.

He didn’t speak for two whole minutes. Not because he was shy — but because he was processing. And planning. And plotting.

Then, so suddenly you barely noticed, he leaned closer and muttered:

“Okay. Game on. Stay quiet for me, yeah?”

You didn’t even get a chance to respond before his hand slipped right under the blanket.

No warm-up. No warning. Just palm to thigh, spreading you open under the soft cover like he’d done it a hundred times.

“You’re really not wearing anything,” he breathed. “You’re insane. I love it.”

You sucked in a shaky breath.

“Shh, don’t start already,” he whispered. “We’ve barely begun.”

He dragged his fingers between your folds, slow and deliberate, and when he felt how wet you already were, he let out a barely-audible laugh.

“This is so bad,” he whispered. “Like... really bad. We could get caught. And I don’t even care.”

You slapped his thigh lightly, warning him to behave.

He just smirked.

“What? I’m not doing anything. Just... worshipping my girl in the worst way possible.”

Then he slipped a finger in — slow and easy, curling it immediately — and you saw stars.

You clutched the blanket with both hands, chest rising with short, shallow breaths. You couldn’t even look at him.

“Aw, baby,” he whispered. “You’re already clenching. You’re gonna come stupid fast, huh?”

You wanted to tell him to shut up. But you couldn’t trust your voice.

So instead, you gave him a deadly glare.

He giggled. Giggled.

“Okay okay, serious mode, serious mode,” he said, shaking with quiet laughter.

But then he added another finger. And this time — no more teasing. He fucked into you slowly, precisely, watching your face for every twitch, every hitched breath, every trembling lip.

“If I say something really filthy right now, will you moan? Will you get us caught?”

You shook your head. Big mistake.

He leaned into your ear, breath hot.

“I wanna see your legs shaking while my fingers are buried inside your dripping little pussy, and I want you to look me in the eyes while I ruin you in front of eight clueless idiots.”

You almost made a sound. Almost.

He grinned. “Thought so.”

You were close. He could feel it.

“Come for me,” he whispered. “Quiet. Quick. Show me how good you are at hiding how bad you want it.”

You did — seconds later — biting your lip so hard you thought you might bleed, gripping his wrist under the blanket while your entire body tensed in silent bliss.

And Han? He withdrew his fingers. Sucked them clean. Looked absolutely dazed.

“That was so hot,” he whispered, a little breathless. “Can we do that again? Like... right now?”

Felix

It wasn’t supposed to be anything.

You were curled up with him on the couch in the common room, blanket draped over both of you while the rest of the boys were spread around — gaming, yelling, talking over each other.

You were cuddling. Nothing suspicious.

Until Felix leaned in and murmured low in that sinful deep voice:

“You’re shifting a lot, sweetheart. Is something wrong?” “Or are you doing that thing where you grind on me and pretend it’s innocent?”

Your heart nearly stopped.

You didn’t answer. Just stayed pressed against his side, frozen under the blanket.

He tilted his head.

“Hmm. Not denying it. Guess I’ll have to check.”

And his hand — warm, slow — slid down between your legs, under the blanket, moving so casually no one would even notice. His fingers ghosted over your inner thigh.

“Relax for me,” he whispered. “We’re just cuddling, right?”

You couldn’t help it — your thighs tensed, your breath caught.

And when his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts and found nothing underneath, he let out the softest, lowest groan.

“You’re not even wearing panties?” “Baby… you planned this, didn’t you?”

You shook your head quickly.

He smiled — slow and dark.

“Liar.”

Then he slid a single finger through your folds, dragging slow, teasing circles over your clit, and you nearly choked on your own breath.

“You’re already dripping,” he whispered. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, body trembling. The sound of the others playing a loud game was your only shield. But even that didn’t feel like enough.

Felix kept his eyes forward. Like he was watching the screen. Like he wasn’t devastating you under the blanket.

“You can’t make a sound, love,” he whispered, breath tickling your cheek. “But I want you to come for me anyway. Think you can do that?”

You nodded, heart racing.

He pushed two fingers in — warm, slow, and so gentle it was cruel. You clenched around him instantly, thighs twitching, and he kissed the side of your head.

“So good for me. Always so tight and wet. You make me want to ruin you.”

His pace was slow at first. Rhythmic. He knew your body — knew how to touch you just right, with the perfect pressure, the exact curl of his fingers that had you blinking up at the ceiling, trying not to fall apart.

“Doing amazing,” he whispered. “Such a good girl. So quiet for me. You’re perfect.”

Your eyes stung with how close you were. Your hand clutched his thigh. He smiled.

“That’s it. Come for me, angel. Right here. Be brave.”

You did — silent, broken, trembling — and Felix didn’t stop touching you until your whole body was limp against him, legs shaking under the blanket.

He kissed your cheek once, sweet and soft.

Then leaned down and whispered:

“Next time, let’s try this in the practice room.”

Seungmin

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch with Seungmin beside you, both tucked under a blanket that had become your shared shield of sin. The others were on the floor or in beanbags, playing a board game that had gotten way too intense.

Seungmin hadn’t said anything to you all night.

He didn’t have to.

He just glanced at you once. A long, pointed stare. And then, under the blanket, his hand found your knee.

“Spread,” he whispered, voice like a knife. “Now.”

You blinked at him — heat crawling up your neck, heart thudding.

He didn’t look at you again.

Just left his hand resting until, slowly, trembling, you obeyed. You parted your thighs just enough under the blanket.

His fingers slid inward like he’d been waiting for this moment all night.

“You’re already wet,” he murmured. “How predictable.”

You wanted to say something back — anything. But the second his fingers brushed against your bare slit, your mouth clamped shut.

“That’s right. Quiet,” he said. “If you make a single sound, I’ll pull away and leave you like this all night.”

That shut you up real fast.

His touch was steady. Precise. No teasing, no build-up. Just fingers sliding over your clit like he was testing your limits.

And the worst part?

He didn’t even look at you.

He kept his eyes on the game, answering questions, giving input, and occasionally throwing shade at the others — all while his fingers dipped into your core and curled.

You almost cried.

“You’re already shaking?” he whispered, lips barely moving. “I’ve barely started. Pathetic.”

Your hands dug into the couch cushion, every muscle in your body screaming to react, to breathe, but you couldn’t risk it. Not with how close everyone was. Not with Seungmin so calm beside you, like his fingers weren’t knuckle-deep inside you.

“You think you’re doing well?” he said, still softly. “You’re not. You’re barely holding it together.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder — sweet, fake — and then sped up.

You choked on a sound and had to cough to cover it. One of the boys asked if you were okay.

“She’s fine,” Seungmin replied smoothly. “She just choked a little.”

The look he gave you after that nearly made you combust.

“You wanna choke on something else?” he whispered. “Then finish. Quietly. Now.”

And you did. Your entire body locked up — every muscle tight as the orgasm took you, sharp and fast, dragged out by his unforgiving rhythm. You didn't make a sound. But he knew.

He withdrew his fingers without a word.

Then, eyes still on the game, he sucked them clean.

“You owe me one now,” he muttered. “And next time, you’ll thank me properly.”

Jeongin

You thought you could fluster him.

That was your first mistake.

You’d sat next to him on the couch in the dorm’s main room, pressing your bare thigh against his as the boys watched a late-night movie — nothing special, just chill background noise.

But when you leaned over and whispered,

“I’m not wearing anything underneath,” Jeongin’s ears went red.

He turned his head toward you slowly.

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

You smirked. He blinked. You stayed quiet.

His eyes flicked down under the blanket over your legs. Then back to your face. Suspicious. Curious. Dangerous.

“If you’re lying, I’ll be pissed,” he muttered. “But if you’re not… then you’re in trouble.”

You didn’t expect him to actually do anything.

You really didn’t expect his hand to suddenly slip under the blanket and land on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Steady.

Your breath caught.

He hesitated for just a second — still unsure if you were bluffing. But then he moved his hand higher, higher, brushing over your inner thigh and—

He paused. Froze.

And then exhaled, stunned. “Holy shit.”

“You’re not wearing anything,” he whispered, voice tight. “You’re really—Y/N.”

You tried to hold in a smile. Tried not to show how much you were squirming now.

His hand cupped your heat, fingers sliding through slick folds like it was instinct.

“You’re already wet?” he muttered. “God, you’re so—”

He cut himself off.

And then, with that deceptively soft look still on his face, Jeongin leaned in and whispered:

“You’re not allowed to make a sound. Not a single one.”

Your eyes widened.

“You thought you were teasing me?” he said, his voice a little darker. “Guess what, babe. You just gave me permission.”

His fingers started to move — slow and shallow, drawing gentle circles over your clit as he sat there like nothing was happening. Like he wasn’t breaking you open with those long, careful strokes.

“You can’t even sit still,” he muttered. “You’re squirming already.”

You buried your face in your palm. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t breathe, really.

He slid two fingers inside. Just like that.

You flinched.

“Tsk. Don’t be dramatic,” he whispered. “No one can see. But they might hear.”

His pace stayed slow. Purposeful. He was taking his time now, letting you feel everything — the stretch, the drag, the way his fingers curled up into that exact spot that made you grip the cushion like your life depended on it.

“If you clench any harder, I’m gonna come in my pants,” he muttered.

You almost choked.

And he grinned.

“You love this, don’t you?” he whispered. “Getting off with everyone in the room. You like being mine where no one else can see.”

You nodded frantically. He rewarded you by pressing his palm against your clit as his fingers moved inside you faster.

“Good girl. Then come. Come for me, silently.”

And you did.

Your whole body went stiff as you came hard around his fingers, your thighs trembling under the blanket, your mouth pressed shut so tight you thought you might pass out. He slowed his fingers down, gently easing you through it.

And when it was over, when you were breathless and dazed and half-melted against the couch…

Jeongin leaned into your ear and whispered, voice like silk:

“Next time, I want you to moan for me. But only when I say.”

[blondechariot]

💋~SEVENTEEN reaction to you kissing another Member to make them jealous~ 💋 PART 2

pairing: Seventeen x reader

warning: jealousy

disclaimer: not my Pic

Part 1

Mingyu

You were used to Mingyu’s attention.

The way his eyes always found you in a crowded room. The way he bent down just a little when he talked to you, lips too close, voice too low. He was touchy, sweet, a little bit cocky — the kind of man who could melt you with a single look and knew it.

But lately? He’d been teasing. Withholding. Sitting close, leaning in like he was going to kiss you — then pulling away with a stupid grin like he was in control.

So you decided to remind him what it felt like to lose control.

DK was easy to work with — affectionate, full of sunshine, and completely unaware of what you were doing. That made it better. That made it meaner.

So while the boys were laughing and crowded on the floor with snacks and music blaring, you leaned into Seokmin and said something that made him laugh — then reached up, took his face in your hands...

And kissed him.

Right in front of Mingyu.

DK gasped softly against your lips but didn’t pull away. His hands fluttered uselessly in the air before one awkwardly landed on your hip.

Everyone saw.

Especially Mingyu.

When you looked up, his expression was already shattered. His smile gone. His drink untouched in his hand. His eyes dark and heartbroken.

You didn’t even have time to stand before he was on his feet, towering above you, staring down at you with disbelief.

“You kissed him?” he asked, voice hoarse. “You kissed him? In front of me?”

The room was silent.

DK looked like he wanted to apologize and disappear.

But Mingyu didn’t even glance at him. His gaze was locked on you.

“Come with me,” he said tightly.

When you hesitated, he leaned down, voice low enough that only you could hear it.

“Now, Y/N. Before I stop being polite.”

You followed him into the hallway, heart hammering.

The second the door clicked behind you, he turned and crowded you back against the wall, his hands caging you in — one braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip.

“Why?” he whispered. “Why would you do that to me?”

You stared up at him, breath catching at the heat in his gaze. The rawness. The need.

“I wanted a reaction,” you said quietly.

He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “You think it’s a game, don’t you?”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, breath hot against your lips.

“You wanted jealous?” he growled. “You got jealous.”

His mouth brushed your jaw, his voice breaking.

“God, I wanted to be the one kissing you tonight.”

You trembled under his touch, and he felt it — because his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Next time,” he whispered, lips grazing yours, “if you even look at another guy like that…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He just kissed you.

Hard.

Desperate.

Possessive.

Like he was trying to erase the memory of someone else’s mouth on yours — and replace it with his forever.

DK

Seokmin was warm. So incredibly warm. The kind of man who made people feel safe just by standing next to them. He smiled easily, laughed loudly, and flirted with you like he had no idea it meant anything — even though it meant everything.

He was sunshine. And tonight? You were in the mood to make it burn.

You’d been sitting beside him all evening, trying to get a reaction. A real one. Not his usual dorky grin. Not the bashful chuckle when your legs brushed. Not the “oh stop~” when you got too close.

But Seokmin kept deflecting. Too scared to push the boundary. Too polite to say what was clearly in his eyes every time you touched him.

So you pushed it for him.

Seungkwan was loud, easy to tease, and right there beside you. So when the moment opened — when the conversation dipped and all eyes turned away — you leaned in and kissed him.

He yelped.

Actually yelped.

Everyone turned to look.

Including Seokmin.

And for the first time all night, he didn’t laugh.

His mouth parted. His smile froze. He looked like you’d taken a bat to his chest.

You pulled back from Seungkwan with a smirk, eyes flicking over to DK. Waiting.

And then?

He stood.

No words.

Just walked over, took your hand, and pulled you up with a grip so tight and uncharacteristically firm it sent shivers down your spine.

“Hyung—wait—” Seungkwan started, alarmed.

But Seokmin didn’t answer.

He dragged you out of the room and into the dim hallway, then turned, backing you up against the wall with his arms caging you in.

His face was red. But not from embarrassment.

From rage.

“You think that’s funny?” he asked, voice low and shaking. “Using me to get a rise?”

Your breath caught. “You weren’t doing anything. You just sat there, pretending nothing was happening between us—”

“Because I was scared,” he snapped. “Scared that if I touched you, I wouldn’t stop.”

You blinked, stunned.

“And then you kiss Seungkwan?” he growled, stepping closer, chest pressed to yours now. “Right in front of me? You really thought I could take that?”

His hand brushed your jaw, trembling slightly. “You broke something in me tonight, Y/N.”

And then he kissed you.

Messy. Desperate. Rougher than you expected from someone who smiled so much. Like he’d been holding back a storm and you’d finally given him permission to let it destroy you both.

When he pulled away, his voice was quiet. Broken.

“You wanted fire?” he whispered. “You’ve got it. But don’t you dare give my place to anyone else again.”

Seungkwan

Seungkwan always filled the room.

He was loud, dramatic, quick-witted — and when he teased you, it was effortless. Sometimes he flirted and pretended he didn’t mean it. Sometimes he meant it and pretended he didn’t care.

But you noticed everything.

Like the way he got quiet when another member got too close to you. Or how he avoided eye contact after a compliment, like he didn’t trust himself not to say too much. He loved hard, even if he didn't always say it.

Tonight, he was in full “MC mode,” cracking jokes and tossing around playful digs — at everyone but you.

That silence? That avoidance? It told you exactly what you needed to know.

So you decided to break it.

Vernon had been lounging beside you all night, mellow as always, laughing under his breath, occasionally brushing shoulders with you. When the moment came — quiet, soft, private — you turned, cupped his jaw gently…

And kissed him.

He froze under your lips. His hand came up to your waist, uncertain, like he was waiting for the punchline.

When you pulled back, the whole room felt still. Warm. Awkward.

Then you heard it:

“You’re kidding, right?”

You turned. Seungkwan stood there, stiff, face unreadable — not dramatic, not loud.

Just crushed.

His arms were crossed, but his fingers dug into his own sleeves like he was trying to hold himself together.

“You kissed Vernon?” he said, voice soft. Too soft. “Him?”

You opened your mouth, but he stepped forward before you could explain, grabbing your wrist with shaking fingers.

“Come here. I don’t want to do this in front of everyone.”

He pulled you out of the room, into the hallway. Closed the door. Turned around.

And for the first time ever — Seungkwan didn’t know what to say.

“You kissed him,” he repeated. “Right in front of me.”

His voice cracked on the last word. You hated yourself for it.

“I… I just wanted to see if you’d care—”

He laughed. One broken, disbelieving laugh. “If I’d care?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before he turned and looked at you. “Y/N, do you have any idea how hard I’ve tried not to care?”

His eyes were glassy now. “Do you think this is easy for me? Watching you? Pretending I’m not in love with you every time you laugh?”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer. His hand brushed your cheek, trembling.

“You want drama? You want a scene?” His voice dropped. “Fine. You want to make me jealous? Mission accomplished.”

Then he kissed you — not smooth, not practiced.

Raw.

Everything he’d been holding back crashing into one breathless kiss.

When he pulled back, his voice was a whisper against your lips.

“You’re not a game to me, Y/N,” he murmured. “So if you ever do that again, don’t expect me to play."

Vernon

Vernon had always been hard to read.

Calm, cool, borderline unreadable — but the kind of cool that made you want to rattle him. There was always a beat of hesitation in the way he touched you. A flicker in his eyes when someone got too close. Like he was trying to stay in control… and slowly losing the war.

He didn’t flirt like the others. He didn’t play games. But when he looked at you? It was intentional.

Still, tonight, he’d barely said a word.

Not even when you sat close. Not even when your knee brushed his under the table. Just a small smirk. A glance. That maddening restraint that drove you up the wall.

So you pushed.

You leaned into Chan — sweet, eager Dino — during a lighthearted group convo, and whispered something into his ear. He laughed. Blushed. And you used that moment, when his smile was still soft, to kiss him.

It was quick. Surprising. And everyone noticed.

Dino blinked, stunned. “Wha—Y/N??”

You turned to look at Vernon.

He was already standing.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t make a sound.

Just walked out of the room.

You were on your feet before your pulse had even calmed, chasing after him into the dark hallway.

“Vernon—wait!”

He stopped, spine rigid, one hand raking through his hair like he was trying to process it all.

“You kissed him?” he said quietly, without turning. “You kissed Chan?”

You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t expecting the hurt in his voice.

“I was trying to get your attention,” you admitted, heart pounding.

He turned around slowly. His expression was tight. Controlled. But his eyes? They were filled with something bitter and bruised.

“Well,” he said, voice low. “You got it.”

He stepped closer — not fast, but deliberate — until he was right in front of you. Close enough for you to feel his chest rise and fall.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “I’ve been keeping my distance so I don’t ruin this.”

You stared up at him, breathless.

He shook his head, laughing bitterly. “And instead you kiss someone else. Right in front of me.”

He backed you against the wall in one smooth step. His hand came up beside your head, and when he leaned in, you felt it — the storm just under his skin.

“You want me to stop holding back?” he whispered. “Because you won’t like what that looks like.”

His lips hovered near yours — barely touching.

“You think I don’t get jealous?” he muttered. “I just hide it better than the others.”

Then, finally, his mouth met yours — slow at first, but then deeper. Hungrier. Like all his quiet had been building to this.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged.

“If you kiss anyone else again,” he said softly, “I won’t walk away next time. I’ll take what’s mine right there in front of them.”

Dino

Chan had always walked the line between maknae and man.

To the others, he was the baby — cute, eager, always trying to prove himself. But not to you. You saw the way his eyes darkened when you teased him. The way his hand lingered at your lower back when no one was watching. The way he looked at you like he was trying so hard not to do something reckless.

Still… he hesitated.

Always respectful. Always waiting for permission you never gave.

So tonight, you gave him a reason to stop being polite.

You kissed Seungcheol.

You did it slowly. In front of everyone. You waited until Chan was close enough to see it — standing just a few feet away, looking at you like he’d lost the ground under his feet.

S.Coups kissed you back without question, hand warm on your hip, murmuring your name like it was a warning. But you were already watching Chan.

And he was frozen.

His expression didn’t move. His body didn’t flinch. But his eyes?

Shattered.

He turned and walked out of the room.

No words.

Just silence.

You were after him in seconds, heart thudding, guilt blooming already. You found him down the hall, hands in his pockets, pacing like he was trying not to punch the wall.

“Chan—”

“Don’t,” he said without turning.

You stepped closer. “It didn’t mean anything. I just—”

He spun.

His voice was low. Tight. “You kissed him.”

You nodded. “To get a reaction.”

He laughed once — sharp, bitter. “Well, congratulations. You got it.”

He stepped forward, slowly, eyes burning. “You know how long I’ve been trying to be patient? Trying to show you I’m not just the youngest, not just some background member who’ll worship you no matter what you do?”

You swallowed hard, back hitting the wall as he closed the distance.

“I see the way you look at me. I feel it every time I touch you. And you kissed him instead?”

He grabbed your chin, gently but firmly, tilting your face up to meet his gaze.

“You want fire, Y/N?” he whispered. “I’ve been holding it in for months.”

He kissed you then — hot, reckless, hungry — all tongue and teeth and built-up frustration. There was no hesitation now. No shyness. Just raw claiming.

When he finally broke the kiss, he rested his forehead against yours, still breathing hard.

“Don’t treat me like a kid again,” he murmured. “Because I will make you forget every man who came before me.”

[blondechariot]

💋~SEVENTEEN reaction to you kissing another Member to make them jealous~ 💋PART 1

pairing: Seventeen x reader

warnings: jealousy

disclaimer: Not my gif!

Part 2

This goes out to all Military wives :( stay strong!

Scoups

The room buzzed with music and laughter, the usual energy of a SEVENTEEN afterparty. Everyone was loose, a little tipsy, sprawled out in the dorm’s living room — drinks in hand, cheeks flushed from alcohol and teasing jokes.

You were sitting on the couch beside Mingyu, his arm resting behind your shoulders casually, though nothing was happening. Yet.

Across the room, S.Coups — Seungcheol — was sitting with his legs spread, drink in one hand, a smirk playing on his lips. But his eyes? They were fixed on you. Watching.

You knew it. And God, you were sick of it.

Sick of the way he stared like he owned you — but never made a move. The stolen glances. The subtle possessiveness. The tension that never went anywhere. He was a walking slow burn, and you were tired of waiting.

So, when Mingyu leaned in to whisper something dumb into your ear, you turned your head and kissed him.

Right on the mouth.

His eyes went wide for a second — startled — but he didn’t pull away. He kissed back, lips warm and full, hands twitching at his sides. You didn’t drag it out. Just long enough to make a point. Just long enough to make someone watch.

When you pulled back, the room had gone quiet.

And S.Coups was already on his feet.

You barely had time to blink before he was crossing the room, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. He didn’t say a word — not at first. Just stood in front of you and Mingyu, chest rising and falling, radiating heat and fury.

“Get up,” he said. Not to Mingyu. To you.

You hesitated — not because you were afraid, but because of how his voice sounded. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.

He reached out and grabbed your wrist. Gently. But firm enough to make it clear this wasn’t a request.

You followed him into the hallway, heart pounding, legs shaky, half-thrilled and half-terrified.

The second you were out of sight, he pushed you back against the wall with one hand braced beside your head, crowding into your space, his breath hot against your cheek.

“That what you wanted?” he said, voice low and gravelly. “My attention?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“You think kissing him would make me jealous?” he continued, nose brushing yours now. “You think I’d just sit there and watch while you give someone else what’s mine?”

Your breath hitched. “I’m not yours,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened. “Aren’t you?”

His hand slid to your waist, gripping tightly, possessively, while his lips hovered just a breath from yours — not kissing. Not yet.

“I let you play your little game, Y/N,” he murmured. “But don’t think for a second I’m going to let you walk away from this without a reminder.”

Your back hit the wall harder as he leaned in, lips ghosting yours, heavy with promise.

“Next time you want to make me jealous,” he growled, “you better be ready for what comes after.”

Jeonghan

You weren’t even that close to Joshua. He was charming, sure, and sweet — a little flirty when he wanted to be. But mostly, he was safe. And tonight, you needed a safe choice.

Because Jeonghan had spent the entire evening hanging off some girl’s shoulder. Some stylist’s assistant with a shy laugh and too much perfume. And every time he touched her lower back or leaned in to whisper something in her ear, your stomach twisted a little tighter.

You tried to be cool. Tried to focus on your drink. On the others.

But Jeonghan kept glancing at you over her head. Subtle. Just a flick of his eyes, just a little smirk tugging at his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you — and loved it.

So you got up and walked across the room, right up to Joshua. You leaned down, hand on his knee, and murmured something into his ear. He blinked at you, surprised, but when you pressed your lips to his in full view of everyone, he didn’t pull away.

It was soft. Warm. Innocent on his part — but not on yours. Not when you let it linger just long enough for Jeonghan to see.

When you pulled back, the room buzzed with low chatter again. But Jeonghan was frozen on the couch, wine glass paused midair, staring at you like you’d just smacked him across the face.

You raised your eyebrows. Smiled. And turned to leave.

You didn’t get two steps before he was behind you.

“Really?” he said, voice like honey laced with venom.

You turned to face him. “Problem?”

He tilted his head. “No. Just… didn’t think you’d stoop that low.”

You scoffed and started to walk again, but he grabbed your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop you.

“Come with me.”

You rolled your eyes but let him tug you into the hallway, away from the others. He pressed you back against the wall the second you were alone, lips inches from yours, his breath warm and furious.

“That little stunt?” he said. “Cute. But you forget who taught you how to kiss like that.”

Your heart pounded. “You didn’t seem to care when your hands were all over her.”

His smile turned sharp. “Oh, I cared. I just know how to wait for the right moment.”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, eyes locked on your lips.

“You wanted to see me snap? Is that it? Make me jealous?” His hand slid up your side, resting just under your ribs. “I don’t get jealous. I get even.”

He didn’t kiss you.

No — Jeonghan hovered. Teased. Let the tension stretch so tight it hurt. His fingers dug into your waist, and he smiled like a villain dressed in silk.

“Hope Joshua enjoyed that kiss,” he whispered, lips grazing yours. “Because it’s the last one you’re giving to anyone but me.”

Joshua

The boys were playing cards on the floor, legs tangled over pillows and blankets, bottles of soju passed lazily around. You sat between Joshua and Jun, nestled comfortably between the angel and the flirt.

Joshua had been ignoring you all night.

Or maybe it just felt like that because earlier — when you brushed your leg against his, when you whispered his name — he barely reacted. No smirk. No look. No spark. It was infuriating.

So, naturally, you did something about it.

Jun had been his usual teasing self all evening — brushing your hair from your shoulder, cracking flirty jokes, playing with your fingers under the table. He was low-key and unbothered — and completely game for a little harmless fun.

So when the room buzzed with laughter over some joke, and everyone’s attention turned for a moment, you leaned in and kissed Jun.

Right on the mouth.

It wasn’t just a peck. It was slow — just a little. Lingering. Enough to make it believable. Enough to make it dangerous.

Jun froze for a second… then kissed you back, amused and clearly enjoying the chaos.

When you pulled away and turned toward Joshua, your stomach flipped.

He wasn’t laughing.

His hands were clasped between his knees, eyes fixed on you, jaw tight. No smile. No trace of that soft, gentlemanly charm. Just silence. Intensity.

He stood up without a word, offered you his hand, and said:

“Come with me.”

You hesitated — just long enough to feel the heat in his stare burn hotter. Then you slipped your hand into his, heart hammering.

He didn’t take you far — just into the hallway — but the second the door clicked behind you, the air changed. He backed you up against the wall and pressed a hand beside your head, the other curling under your chin to tilt it toward him.

“What the hell was that?” His voice was low. Rough. American accent slicing sharper than usual.

You blinked. “A kiss?”

“Don’t play dumb.” He stepped closer, chest brushing yours. “You did that for me. Didn’t you?”

You swallowed. Didn’t answer.

He leaned in, lips a breath away from your ear.

“You want to see what happens when I get jealous?” His voice was silk over fire. “Because I don’t do possessive, Y/N. I do precision.”

Your breath caught as his fingers skimmed your waist, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of your ribs.

“You want my attention?” he whispered. “You got it. But next time you try that shit, don’t expect me to just walk away.”

He finally pulled back, eyes dark, unreadable.

“You kissed him like that?” he murmured. “Then imagine how I’m going to kiss you when it’s just us.”

And he walked off — leaving you breathless, knees weak, heart completely wrecked.

Jun

Jun had been teasing you all night. Flirty glances. Gentle touches. Whispered comments that left your skin tingling. But it was always just that — teasing. The kind that never crossed the line. The kind that made your head spin but never gave you what you wanted.

And tonight? He was pushing it.

Leaning a little too close to someone else. Laughing a little too hard when you weren’t in the room. He kept catching your eye with that smug, unreadable look — like he knew you were getting frustrated, and like he loved it.

So you decided to flip the script.

You turned to Hoshi, who was dancing around the room like a hyper puppy and flopping down beside you every ten minutes to throw an arm around your shoulder like it was nothing. He was affectionate. Playful. Safe.

And he didn’t say no when you suddenly grabbed his collar and kissed him.

It wasn’t deep. But it was heated. Messy. Just enough tongue to cross a line. You didn’t even close your eyes.

You watched Jun over Hoshi’s shoulder.

And Jun? Froze.

His smile vanished. One eyebrow lifted — then dropped. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move, didn’t even blink. But his jaw flexed, slow and dangerous, like a predator watching someone else touch his kill.

Hoshi broke the kiss with a flustered laugh, blinking in surprise. “Uh—Y/N? What was that for—”

But you weren’t listening.

Because Jun was already walking toward you.

Each step calm. Measured. Deadly.

He didn’t look at Hoshi. Not once. But the moment he reached you, he grabbed your wrist — gently, but firmly — and helped you to your feet like a gentleman.

“Excuse us,” he said, voice syrupy sweet, but with an edge like shattered glass.

Hoshi nodded, confused and already backing away.

Jun didn’t speak until you were in the hallway.

Then he pinned you against the wall, one hand pressed just beside your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you gasped.

“You kissed him?” he murmured.

His lips hovered over yours, eyes blazing. “You kissed him — in front of me?”

You bit your lip. “Maybe.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You like playing with fire?” he whispered. “Then get ready to burn.”

You shivered as his hand slid up your waist, slow and possessive. Not rushed — intentional. Every touch was a warning. A threat. A promise.

“I don’t share,” he said. “So next time you put your mouth on someone else…”

He pressed his lips to your throat, just below your jaw, but didn’t kiss. Just breathed there.

“…make sure you’re ready for me to do the same. In front of him.”

Then he stepped back, eyes raking over you like a slow drag of heat.

“You look good jealous,” you teased breathlessly.

His smirk returned — but this one was lethal.

“You haven’t seen jealous,” he said. “You’ve only seen patient.”

Hoshi

Hoshi wasn’t just flirty. He was relentlessly flirty — playful touches, sly grins, whispered comments that made your knees weak. He always kept it light, though, never going further than teasing, never giving you the satisfaction of knowing he meant it.

Tonight, he was in his element — loud, wild, the center of attention. Dancing around the dorm like a tornado in a hoodie. But he wasn’t looking at you.

Not once.

So when you sat down beside Wonwoo — calm, unreadable Wonwoo — and let your hand linger on his thigh during a conversation, Hoshi didn’t notice.

Not until you kissed him.

Wonwoo barely blinked when your lips touched his. He responded slowly, gently — not surprised, just curious. His hand came up to your cheek, and it would’ve been sweet… if it weren’t so calculated.

When the kiss ended, you heard it.

A quiet thud.

You turned.

Hoshi was standing frozen, one hand clenched around a can of soda he’d just crushed mid-step.

The smile on his face was fake. Tight. Dangerous.

He walked over, slow and quiet. No laughter. No jokes. His eyes didn’t even look at Wonwoo — they were locked on you like a heat-seeking missile.

You stood.

“Hos—”

He grabbed your wrist before you could say his name fully and dragged you out of the room, straight down the hallway. He didn’t speak. Didn’t glance back. His grip wasn’t painful — but it was final.

The second you were alone, he spun you around and pushed you against the wall. Not hard — but enough to make your breath catch.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, voice low and shaking.

You blinked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You kissed Wonwoo?” His hands braced on either side of your head, body pinning you without touching. “You kissed Wonwoo to get me to react?”

Your silence was answer enough.

His laugh was dry. Humorless. “You think that’s funny? You wanna make me jealous?”

He stepped closer. You could feel the heat of his body now, the electricity rolling off him.

“You have no idea what you just unlocked.”

His hand slid up your thigh, slow and heavy, until it rested just under your hip. His forehead pressed to yours, breath shallow, furious, needy.

“You want to play dirty?” he whispered. “You just gave me permission to stop holding back.”

You swallowed, heart racing.

“And just so we’re clear…” His thumb traced your jaw, and his lips grazed your cheek.

“I don’t share. I never share.”

And then he finally kissed you — hard. Hot. Possessive. The kind of kiss that said, Mine. Mine. Mine.

By the time he pulled back, your knees were jelly.

Hoshi smirked. “Try that again,” he said. “I dare you.”

Wonwoo

There was something about Wonwoo’s silence that made you ache.

He never played games, never made a scene — but his eyes said everything. You could feel it in the way he watched you: focused, heavy, like you were a book he wanted to memorize but hadn’t decided whether to touch yet.

But tonight?

Tonight, he’d barely looked your way.

He sat in the corner of the living room, curled up with a book, glasses low on his nose, calm and distant. When you walked past him, he didn’t blink. When you sat near him, he didn’t move.

And it burned.

So you sat next to Woozi instead. He was warm, open, surprisingly affectionate when he wasn’t busy producing half the nation’s music. You knew he liked the attention, and tonight, you gave it to him — leaning into his side, laughing a little too easily at his jokes.

When he brushed something off your lip, you grabbed his wrist.

And kissed him.

Quick. Sharp. Pointed.

He blinked. Flushed. “Y/N…?”

But you were already turning.

Wonwoo was no longer reading.

The book was closed, hands clasped neatly on top of it. His expression? Blank. Controlled. But his eyes?

His eyes were glacial.

He stood, slowly. Quietly. And the way he looked at Woozi as he walked past him made even him shrink back a little.

He said your name once.

Soft. Dangerous.

You followed him before he could disappear — because if there was one thing worse than making Wonwoo jealous, it was making him walk away.

You caught up in the hallway. “Hey—”

He turned so fast you gasped, your back hitting the wall as his hand pressed beside your head.

“You really kissed Woozi?” he asked, voice barely louder than a breath — but sharper than a blade.

Your mouth opened, but he didn’t let you speak.

He leaned in, slow and searing. “You did that because I didn’t look at you tonight. Because I didn’t say something first.”

He stepped even closer. His hand came up, brushing the side of your neck. His touch was gentle. His gaze was not.

“I’ve been holding back,” he whispered. “Because I thought I owed you patience.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, his eyes locked on yours.

“But now you’ve made it clear: you want the version of me that doesn’t wait.”

Your breath caught as he leaned down, mouth barely touching yours.

“You want jealous?” he breathed. “You want to know what it feels like when I stop pretending to be good?”

And then he kissed you.

Not soft. Not sweet.

Devastating.

By the time he pulled away, you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even remember what Woozi’s lips felt like.

“Next time you kiss someone else,” Wonwoo said quietly, “don’t come running. I won’t be this gentle twice.”

Woozi

Woozi had always been the most unreadable member of the group.

He could sit two inches away from you and not give a damn thing away — no blush, no twitch, not even a change in tone. But you knew. You knew when he was affected. The stillness of him. The way his jaw locked when someone else got too close to you. The flick of his eyes when he thought no one noticed.

But he never acted on it. Never claimed you. Never let the tension between you go anywhere but simmer.

So tonight, you decided to force his hand.

You made your way over to Minghao, draped an arm around his shoulder, and leaned in to whisper something completely meaningless in his ear. He grinned, amused. He could read you just as well as Woozi — and he didn’t mind being a weapon in this little war.

Before Woozi could look up from across the room, you kissed The8.

Right on the lips.

It was slow, deliberate. The kind of kiss that left no room for misunderstanding. And you made sure to angle yourself just right, so Woozi saw everything.

The room went quiet for a second.

And Woozi... didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He just stood up.

Walked out of the room.

You excused yourself and followed him down the hall, heart pounding.

“Jihoon,” you called softly.

He didn’t stop walking.

“Woozi—”

He spun so fast you barely saw it coming. The door slammed behind him, and you were suddenly pressed against it, his hand flat beside your head, the other gripping your waist so tight it left no space between you.

“Was that supposed to hurt me?” he asked, voice low and cold.

You swallowed. “It got your attention.”

His mouth curved. Not in a smile — something darker.

“You already had my attention, Y/N.”

His fingers slid up your side, slow and intentional, resting just below your ribs.

“What you just bought with that kiss?” he murmured. “That was permission.”

You exhaled sharply as his lips hovered over yours, not touching — teasing. Threatening.

“Permission for me to stop being careful.”

You trembled when he finally kissed you. It wasn’t hesitant. It was a claim. Years of silent tension breaking all at once — rough, possessive, sharp enough to make your knees buckle.

When he pulled away, his lips brushed your ear.

“Go kiss whoever you want,” he said. “But just remember who’s the one that makes you forget their name when I touch you.”

Minghao

Minghao had always been calm. Composed. Mysterious in that quiet, lethal way — like a knife under silk. He never said too much, never raised his voice. But you always felt the heat in his gaze. The way his eyes followed you across the room. The way he stood too close when no one else was around.

But tonight? Nothing.

He barely looked at you.

Instead, he was laughing with the others, lounging on the couch like he hadn’t just spent a month quietly flirting with you every night after rehearsal. As if you were invisible.

You could’ve let it go.

But then Mingyu sat down beside you — tall, warm, endlessly touchy — and smiled at you like he knew exactly what you needed.

You didn’t hesitate.

You straddled his lap, cupped his jaw, and kissed him.

Hard.

Mingyu froze for a second — then let out a little surprised laugh against your mouth and kissed you back, deepening it. His hands went to your waist, and you made sure everyone saw.

Especially him.

Especially Minghao.

You didn’t need to look to feel it. The shift in the room. The way the air turned sharp. Cold.

When you pulled back from Mingyu, breathless and satisfied, you finally turned.

Minghao was staring at you from across the room, still and deadly calm — legs crossed, hands folded.

But his eyes?

Burning.

He stood up slowly. No rush. No emotion on his face — but every step he took toward you was filled with dangerous purpose.

“Mingyu,” he said, voice soft, “do me a favor and leave.”

Mingyu blinked, confused. “Uh, bro, it was just—”

“Now.”

Mingyu stood. Wordlessly. Slipping out of the room with a confused shake of his head.

The moment the door closed, Minghao turned back to you — and the mask dropped.

“You wanted my attention?” he asked, his voice like steel wrapped in velvet.

You opened your mouth, but he didn’t wait. He grabbed your jaw, fingers delicate but firm, tilting your face toward his.

“You don’t make me jealous, Y/N.”

His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, gaze locked on your mouth.

“You make me possessive.”

He kissed you then — slow and deep, like he was unwrapping a gift with dangerous patience. Like he was memorizing you just to ruin you later.

When he finally pulled back, he leaned in close to your ear and whispered:

“Next time you pull a stunt like that, don’t expect me to wait my turn.”

He let go of your chin, stepped back, and smiled.

But it wasn’t kind.

“I don’t compete, Y/N,” he said. “I replace.”

[blondechariot]

🗣️~Stray Kids reaction to you speaking Korean during Sex~🗣️

pairing: Straykids x female foreigner Reader

warnings: SMUT!

disclaimer: not my pic

Bangchan

You were straddling him, hands splayed across his sweat-slick chest, rolling your hips at just the angle you knew drove him crazy. His head was tipped back, lips parted, eyes glazed as he watched you move on him like a vision—like a dream he wasn’t sure he deserved to have.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, fingertips digging into your thighs, “you’re so—ah, shit—just like that.”

But then you leaned forward, hair falling over your shoulder, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered:

“제발… 더 깊게 해줘…” (Please… go deeper…)

The effect was instant.

Chan’s entire body tensed beneath you like you'd just detonated something inside him. His fingers twitched, and he blinked up at you, like he hadn’t heard you right.

“…Wait. What did you just say?”

You smiled down at him, flushed and breathless. “Didn’t expect that, huh?”

His mouth dropped open a little, and for a moment he just stared—like he was seeing you for the first time. Then a slow, crooked grin curled on his lips.

“Oh… you’re in so much trouble.”

Suddenly, you were flat on your back, legs hitched up around his waist, the full weight of his body pressing you into the mattress. He thrust into you once—hard—knocking the breath out of your lungs.

“You’ve been holding out on me?” he growled, his accent thick and his voice ragged. “You’ve been able to say shit like that this whole time and didn’t?”

You gasped as he thrust again, even deeper. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Oh, trust me,” he hissed, lips brushing your jaw, “you fucking did.”

His rhythm shifted—no longer slow and teasing but rough, relentless, his hips slamming into yours with a purpose now. He dipped his head, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered in Korean, filthy praise pouring from his lips like a prayer, daring you to answer him in the same language.

And you did. You whimpered and moaned in Korean, each syllable shakier than the last.

He lost it.

“Shit—say it again. Say that again.”

You obeyed. And every time you did, he got rougher, dirtier, more obsessed. It was like your tongue had unlocked something deep in him—a hidden button marked “Do Not Press” that you smashed with both hands.

Later, when you were both breathless and wrecked, tangled together under soaked sheets, he looked at you with a dazed grin.

“You know… if you ever stop doing that, I might die.”

Lee Know

His fingers were locked tight around your wrists, pinning them above your head as he moved inside you with slow, calculated thrusts—each one designed to drag a new sound out of your mouth. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, bodies sticky with sweat, breaths mingling in the heated air of your bedroom.

He was completely in control, and you loved it. But you weren’t about to let him have all the power.

So when he leaned down, brushing his lips across your jaw and whispering, “Tell me how good it feels,” you looked him dead in the eye and moaned:

“진짜 미쳐버릴 것 같아… 너무 좋아…” (I think I’m going insane… it feels so good…)

Minho froze. Mid-thrust. Eyes wide.

“…Say that again.”

You licked your lips, breath stuttering. “너무 좋아… 당신 때문에…” (It feels so good… because of you…)

Something snapped behind his eyes.

He let out a low, strangled groan and released your wrists—only to flip you over in one fluid motion. Your cheek hit the mattress, and a second later he was inside you again, this time harder, his grip bruising on your hips.

“You’ve been hiding that from me?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Speaking like that… moaning like that… In Korean?”

You could only whimper, gripping the sheets as he fucked into you with punishing force.

“No, no—don’t stop now,” he growled, reaching forward to fist your hair and pull your head back. “Say every damn word you know. Let me hear you fall apart in my language.”

And you did. Between gasps and sobs of pleasure, every phrase you knew slipped out of your mouth like it belonged there. He cursed with every one—low, guttural, desperate.

By the end, you were both shaking, your throat hoarse, your body trembling from how deep he'd pushed you—emotionally, physically, linguistically.

He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his forehead. You felt his hand find yours, fingers lacing slowly.

“…You’re never allowed to speak English in bed again.”

Changbin

Your thighs were trembling, legs spread wide across his lap as he sat back on his heels, holding your hips down while he slowly rolled into you again… and again… and again. He watched every twitch of your body, every quiver of your lips, his eyes dark with hunger and the sheer thrill of having you so undone beneath him.

“You like that?” he asked with a crooked grin, his voice low and teasing. “Yeah? You can’t even speak, huh?”

But you could speak.

Just not in the way he was expecting.

You bit your lip, stared straight into his eyes, and moaned—voice breathy, shaky, dripping with need:

“계속해줘… 제발 멈추지 마…” (Keep going… please don’t stop…)

Changbin stopped breathing.

Literally. He just stared.

“…What. The fuck. Did you just say?”

You whimpered again, hips lifting to chase him. “계속해줘…” (Keep going…)

His jaw clenched. “You—you speak Korean?”

“a little,” you whispered with a smirk, like you hadn’t just flipped a switch in him.

And then he lost it.

He grabbed your legs and shoved them up over his shoulders in one quick motion, folding your body in half, slamming back into you with a force that made the headboard crack against the wall. “Say it again,” he growled. “Say it again, right now.”

You sobbed the words. He went harder.

Your fluent moans between harsh breaths turned him into something dangerous. Each Korean syllable from your lips pushed him closer to unraveling. He had one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding under your back to pull you even deeper onto him.

“You know what that does to me?” he gasped against your mouth. “You knew. You little—shit—fuck—say something else. Anything. Say it like that again.”

You cried out the filthiest phrases you could remember, and he rewarded every one with a thrust so deep your toes curled. His grip turned possessive, his mouth pressing sloppy kisses against your jaw as he whispered back to you in Korean, voice trembling with need.

By the end, when you were both ruined and breathless, he collapsed beside you and dragged you into his arms—still flushed, panting, heart racing like he’d run a marathon.

“…If you start talking like that in public,” he murmured, voice rough against your neck, “we’re gonna have a problem. A very naked, urgent problem.”

Hyunjin

It had started soft. Intentional. Romantic.

Hyunjin had you spread beneath him, bodies tangled in moonlight and sheets. He moved slowly—his hips rolling into you with a rhythm that felt more like worship than sex. His fingers ghosted across your face, your chest, your waist like he was painting you from memory, learning you all over again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I don’t even know how to breathe when I look at you like this.”

You cupped his cheek, breath shaky, overwhelmed by how deep he was—not just inside your body, but inside everything. Your thoughts, your heart, your entire chest felt cracked wide open under the way he was looking at you.

And when the pleasure became too much—when your back arched and your nails dug into his arms—you gasped the words without thinking:

“너 없으면 안 돼…” (I can’t be without you…)

Hyunjin stilled.

His lips hovered above yours, barely brushing.

“…Say that again,” he breathed.

You swallowed, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how vulnerable it made you feel. But you said it again. Softly. Honestly.

“너 없으면 안 돼…”

His mouth dropped open slightly. You saw the shift in his expression—a mix of awe, heat, and something like pure devotion.

Then his hands were cupping your face, his pace suddenly changing—not rougher, not faster, just deeper. Every stroke now deliberate, like he needed to carve himself into you.

“You’re speaking my language,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Do you know what that does to me?”

Your only answer was another moan—this time: “진짜 너 때문에 미쳐…” (I’m really going crazy because of you…)

That broke him.

Hyunjin buried his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he whispered “fuck, fuck, fuck” between ragged breaths—each thrust now messier, hotter, more desperate. His hands clung to your waist like he needed you to anchor him.

And when you came, trembling and gasping in his language, he followed instantly—moaning your name like a man undone, spilling into you with shaking thighs and a cracked voice.

He didn’t let go for a long time.

Afterward, your head rested on his chest, his fingers trailing mindlessly down your back.

“You saying that in Korean… that’s gonna haunt me,” he murmured, dazed. “Like a fever I never want to break.”

Han

Jisung was already struggling.

He had your legs wrapped around his waist, your hands clutching the sheets, and his name falling from your lips in breathless moans. He’d been holding back—barely—because he knew if he let go, he’d lose it too fast. You were too good. Too hot. Too fucking everything.

He was already panting like he’d run ten miles, body soaked in sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, mouth open with a permanent, ruined gasp as he rocked into you, slow but deep.

And then, out of nowhere—you moaned:

“하느라 너무 힘들지 않아?” (Isn’t it exhausting… doing all the work?)

His entire brain glitched.

“…Wait—wait. What?!”

You blinked up at him with innocent, glossy eyes. “I asked if you’re tired… since you’re doing all the work.”

His jaw dropped. You could see the exact moment his soul left his body.

“You speak Korean?! Fluently?!” His voice cracked three different times in one sentence. “No, no, no—you don’t get to drop that kind of sentence while I’m inside you like this.”

You bit your lip. “Do you want me to stop?”

He grabbed your thighs and snapped his hips forward so hard your breath caught in your throat. “Absolutely fucking not.”

From that moment, he was a disaster. No rhythm, no control—just chaos. Every time you whispered another Korean sentence, he got worse. His hands roamed frantically, his breath hitched in full-body shudders, and his mouth never shut up.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re so hot. That was Korean. That was fluent. Fluent as fuck. Say something else. Say something else right now.”

You giggled, breathless and cocky. “이런 반응이 나올 줄 몰랐는데…” (I didn’t expect this kind of reaction…)

He literally whimpered.

“You’re evil,” he gasped, hips stuttering. “You’re actually trying to kill me. This is murder.”

He managed maybe four more thrusts before he completely fell apart, moaning your name like a prayer, collapsing onto you with a broken, satisfied laugh.

After a long moment of sweaty silence, his voice came muffled from your chest.

“…If you ever dirty-talk me in Korean again, I might spontaneously combust. Which, honestly, is a hot way to go.”

Felix

He was so gentle with you at first.

Your bodies moved together in a slow rhythm, his hand cradling the back of your neck, his lips trailing warm, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. The lights were dim, music faint in the background, and his deep voice rumbled low every time he moaned your name like it tasted sweet.

Felix didn’t rush. He liked to feel you — every whimper, every twitch, every little gasp like it was the most precious thing in the world.

You ran your fingers down his back, nails dragging just enough to make his hips jolt. He gasped quietly against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, accent thicker from the strain. “You’re perfect like this. So perfect for me.”

And then you whispered, soft and low against his ear, trembling on the edge of pleasure:

“나도 그렇게 느껴… 나 완전히 네 거야.” (I feel the same… I’m completely yours.)

He froze.

No thrust, no breath. Just silence.

Then he slowly pulled back, just enough to look you in the eye — face flushed, lips parted, pupils blown. “Wait… was that—Korean?”

You gave a shy little nod, brushing his sweaty bangs away from his forehead. “Surprise.”

He blinked at you, still buried deep inside, completely wrecked. “Say it again.”

You did. And then you added, voice softer this time, more sinful: “더 깊게… 찔러줘…” (Deeper… fuck me deeper…)

His whole body trembled. “You’re gonna break me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You just… you can’t say that to me and expect me to behave.”

Gone was the soft boy. In his place was a man gritting his teeth, gripping your thighs tight as he buried himself even deeper. He moved faster now, harder—still gentle where it counted, but with a kind of desperate urgency that only came from being completely overwhelmed.

“You sound so sexy,” he groaned, breathing hard. “Fuck, I didn’t know I needed that until now—please, keep going.”

You whispered more, testing words, your voice fragile but fluent—and he answered in Korean too, voice wrecked, low and reverent as he praised you for every phrase you gave him.

When you both came, it wasn’t loud—it was intense, soul-clutching, like the air itself had stopped for a moment. Felix held you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, whispering between shaky kisses:

“You’re my weakness. Literally. My fucking weakness.”

Seungmin

Seungmin was the worst.

Not in bed—God, never in bed. In bed he was focused, brutal in the way he pulled you apart, and almost too calm about it. That was the problem. He stayed composed while he teased you half to death, like he wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

Right now, you were straddling him on the couch, completely bare and trembling, your hands braced against his chest as he guided you up and down on his cock with an infuriatingly steady pace.

“You’re being so noisy,” he said coolly, voice maddeningly unaffected. “Is this really all it takes to make you fall apart?”

You clenched around him in response, and he raised one perfectly smug eyebrow. “Yeah, thought so.”

So you decided to ruin him.

You leaned down, lips at his ear, and whispered:

“말은 잘 하네… 근데 나 무너지는 거, 네 잘못이야.” (You talk big… but me falling apart? That’s your fault.)

His eyes snapped open.

“…Did you just—?” You sat up with a wicked smile. “What? Don’t act surprised.”

He stared at you, stunned silent for all of three seconds. Then he grabbed your hips so fast it made your head spin.

“Oh, that’s how you wanna play it?”

His grip turned bruising. His hips surged up into you—hard—and the calm, quiet Seungmin vanished in an instant. “Talking to me like that in Korean?” he snarled. “You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?”

You whimpered as he fucked up into you with sudden, devastating rhythm, every thrust hitting so deep it stole the breath from your lungs. “Go on,” he growled. “Say something else. Come on. Smart mouth now.”

You tried, gasping: “너무 좋아서… 말이 안 나와…” (It feels so good… I can’t even speak…)

He let out a dark laugh. “Too bad. You will. You’re gonna say every filthy word you know—out loud—for me.”

He kept you there, panting and shaking, whispering filth in Korean while he punished you for every syllable. Every time you managed a phrase, he answered it with a brutal snap of his hips and a sharp intake of breath like he was addicted to the sound of your voice.

When you finally collapsed against him, trembling and used, he ran a hand down your back and kissed your temple.

“Next time you pull something like that,” he murmured, “don’t expect me to hold back at all.”

Jeongin

At first, Jeongin was gentle—nervous even.

He kissed you like you might disappear, fingers trembling as they trailed down your spine. Even when he was deep inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, you could feel how hard he was working to keep control. His voice shook. His breathing stuttered. But he wanted this. Wanted you.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice soft but strained, “God, I—” He swallowed hard, clearly holding himself back, his hips rolling slow, steady, almost reverent.

You were trying to keep it sweet. You really were. But he was so focused, so careful, so composed it made you want to ruin him.

So you leaned up into him, breath brushing his neck, and whispered—

“나한테만 이렇게 해줘… 아무한테도 말고.” (Only do this to me… no one else.)

His body jerked.

You felt it. The way his cock twitched. The way his hips stuttered, almost losing rhythm. He pulled back slightly, eyes wide, mouth parted in pure disbelief.

“Did you just… speak Korean?”

You gave a shaky nod, trying to look innocent.

He blinked at you like you’d just slapped him and kissed him in the same breath. Then he muttered something you’d never heard from him before—low, raw, and filthy:

“…진짜 미치겠다.” (I’m seriously losing my mind.)

That was the last warning you got before he grabbed your waist and slammed into you, the sound echoing off the walls. You gasped. He didn’t stop. Just kept fucking into you, faster now, rougher, like something in him had snapped.

“Say something else,” he panted, teeth gritted. “I want to hear it. Say something just for me.”

You moaned the next phrase out like a prayer: “안에다 싸줘… 나 너 거니까…” (Come inside me… I’m yours…)

He let out a guttural sound—something between a growl and a sob—and came so hard he nearly collapsed on top of you. His arms wrapped around you like he couldn’t bear to let go, his entire body trembling as he whispered a breathless string of Korean against your skin, too wrecked to switch back to English.

Later, when you were both tangled in the aftermath, hearts still racing, he kissed your shoulder and mumbled:

“If you ever do that again, I’m gonna lose every last shred of sanity I have left.”

But he was smiling when he said it. And his hand was already sliding between your legs again.

[blondechariot]

Hi! Could you write a wonwoo fic with a female reader in an university nonidol au? I would love it if it would be a slow burn where both leads are really shy. Up to you how much fluff, angst or smut there is. Just a uni girl struggling with socialisation and finding friends asking to break free from reality 🫠 THANK YOU 💜💜💜💜

~Quiet Hours~ (NonIdol!Wonwoo)

pairing: reader x Wonwoo

warning: none really, very shy reader and awkward Wonwoo

disclaimer: not my pic

i hope you like it!💋

🕓 4:07 PM — Tuesday, October 8

It’s always the same corner.

Back left of the third floor library, under the squeaky ceiling fan that never quite spins all the way. You’ve unofficially claimed this seat as yours since the first week of classes. It’s quiet. Hidden. Safe. The perfect place for someone like you—someone who isn’t good with... people.

That’s when he starts showing up.

🕠 5:30 PM

You don’t notice him at first, not really. Just a tall silhouette across the aisle with noise-canceling headphones and a perfectly organized desk setup. He types fast. Drinks black coffee. Always wears black or dark gray. And he never looks up. You name him Library Boy in your head, because you don’t know his name. You’re too shy to ask. Even though you’ve shared the same space every Tuesday and Thursday for three weeks now.

Today, he glances up. For half a second.

And your whole chest tightens.

🕖 7:01 PM

You’re stuffing your laptop into your bag when you hear it. A low voice, slightly hoarse from disuse. Like it doesn’t get much practice.

“Are you working on something for Lit 204?”

You freeze. Literally freeze, like someone hit pause on your existence. Then, very slowly, you turn.

He’s looking at you now—Library Boy. Close up, he’s... well, dangerous for someone with a weak heart. Dark-framed glasses. Clean, sharp jawline. Softly messy black hair that he keeps pushing back without realizing.

“Sorry,” he adds, “I just saw the Hemingway book. We’re reading that too.”

You blink. Then nod too fast. “Y-Yeah. Um. Fitzgerald next week.”

“Right. Professor Langford assigns way too much.” He gives a quiet smile. It’s barely there, but it makes you forget your own name.

“I’m Wonwoo.”

You clutch your bag tighter and try not to faint. “Y/N.”

You think you might have imagined the way his mouth twitches into something warmer.

🕚 11:12 AM — Friday, October 11

You find a note tucked inside your Hemingway book.

“If you want a better seat, there’s one near the window on the second floor. Less drafty. But I get it if you’re loyal to your corner. - Wonwoo”

You re-read it six times. Then you place it gently between pages 147 and 148, like a pressed flower.

🕕 6:03 PM — Thursday, October 17

You both sit in silence. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... quiet.

Once in a while, he pushes his glasses up and glances at you.

Once in a while, you pretend you don’t notice.

He doesn’t talk. Neither do you. But he slides a small coffee toward you when yours runs out. No words.

And your fingers tremble just a little when they brush his.

🕒 3:36 PM — Tuesday, October 22

“You always wear that hoodie.” Wonwoo says it like an observation, not a tease.

You tug the sleeves instinctively. “It’s... it’s comfy.”

“Looks warm.”

Pause. Then— “It suits you.”

You don’t remember how to breathe.

🕗 8:42 PM — Tuesday, October 29

You knew the weather was iffy. It said “20% chance of rain.” You took that gamble. You lost.

The downpour starts just as you step out of the library.

No warning.

Just cold, needle-like raindrops smacking your face and soaking through your hoodie within seconds. You squeak—a literal squeak—and turn to run back inside, but someone is already holding the door open behind you.

Wonwoo.

Of course it’s him.

He’s got one hand on the door and the other holding a black umbrella—not open yet. His hair is damp. His glasses fog slightly from the sudden cold.

“Hey,” he says calmly, like this isn’t a movie moment, like you’re not seconds away from dissolving into puddle form.

You mumble, “I... didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I figured. Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll walk you.” He lifts the umbrella between you. “You live in the dorms, right?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a confused goldfish. He takes your silence as a yes.

“I’m parked by the west lot. It’s on the way.”

You’re already moving before your brain catches up.

🕘 9:04 PM — West Path, Behind the Language Building

The rain sounds soft on the umbrella fabric—almost rhythmic. You’re walking too close to him, but you don’t know where else to go. He’s tall, so you’re partially under his arm, and your hands are shoved deep into your hoodie pockets, trying not to focus on the fact that you can feel the warmth of his side through his coat.

Neither of you speak for a long time.

Then, out of nowhere:

“You don’t like talking much, huh?”

You nearly trip.

“I—no—I mean, I do. I just... I’m not very good at it.”

He lets out a quiet breath. It’s not a laugh, but it’s close.

“You’re better than most people I know.”

You look up at him, surprised. He’s staring forward, raindrops flicking off his glasses, expression unreadable.

You swallow. “You don’t talk much either.”

“That’s true.” A pause. “But I like sitting near you. It’s not... noisy.”

You nearly choke on your own heartbeat.

🕤 9:17 PM — Dorm Entrance

He stops when you reach the side entrance of your building.

“You made it,” he says softly, half-smile curling on his lips. “Still dry?”

You look down. Your jeans are soaked. Your hoodie is a lost cause. You nod anyway.

“Thanks for the umbrella,” you murmur, shivering slightly.

He glances at you, and then—

“Here.” He peels off his jacket—his actual jacket, warm and heavy and lined with that fleece material that smells like laundry and maybe coffee.

You blink up at him. “I’m—I'm fine—”

“You’re shaking.”

You don’t argue again.

He settles it on your shoulders with the most careful touch, like you’ll flinch if he moves too fast. (You might.)

It covers your hands.

“Bring it back next week?”

You nod so fast you almost fall over.

He smiles again—just a flicker of it this time—and walks back into the rain, umbrella still up, leaving you standing on the steps like someone dropped a blanket of thunder over your head.

You pull the jacket closer.

It’s way too big.

And you’ve never felt safer.

🕓 4:52 PM — Thursday, November 7

You’ve been thinking about his jacket for days.

It’s still folded neatly at the end of your bed. You tried washing it but stopped halfway, worried it wouldn’t smell the same afterward. It still does—fresh, warm, faintly like peppermint and old paper.

And now you’re standing in the library entrance with your fingers curled tight around the sleeves, heart thudding loud enough to echo.

You spot him instantly.

Same desk. Same headphones around his neck. Same dark hoodie. He’s flipping through a battered copy of The Bell Jar. His brow furrows every so often like he’s in deep disagreement with Sylvia Plath.

You could leave the jacket on his desk and run.

You could.

But you walk toward him instead.

🕔 5:06 PM

You don’t sit in your usual seat across the aisle. You sit next to him.

His head turns slowly, a little surprised—but not in a bad way. There’s something soft in his eyes when he sees the jacket in your arms.

“Hey,” he says. Simple.

You nod and offer the folded jacket. “Thanks again... for that night. I didn’t get sick, so... mission accomplished.”

“You sure?” “You looked like a drowned squirrel.”

Your mouth drops open.

And then, to both of your shock, you laugh.

It’s a small sound. Shaky. But real.

“That’s cruel,” you whisper, covering your smile with your hand.

“It’s a little true.”

You look away before he sees the pink blooming in your cheeks.

🕠 5:44 PM

You both end up reading separately, but this time, your legs are crossed under the same table. His elbow is close. Closer than usual.

You notice something this time: He always turns the page with the same rhythm—tap, pause, flip. His handwriting is narrow and slanted. He chews the inside of his cheek when he’s deep in thought.

And he keeps looking over at you when he thinks you won’t notice.

So you say it. Quiet, but clear:

“I’m not always this quiet. I just... don’t know how to talk to people I like yet.”

He freezes mid-note.

Looks at you like you just broke the sound barrier.

“You like me, huh?”

Your whole body lights up like faulty Christmas lights. “I—uh—I meant—I like being around—”

“No,” he cuts in gently. “That’s... that’s good to know.”

You look up.

He’s smiling again. No flicker this time. Just soft and steady.

And then—

“Do you want to meet for coffee sometime?” “Not just library hours?”

It’s so unexpected you almost forget how breathing works.

But then you nod.

And this time, you’re the one who smiles first.

🕘 9:13 AM — Saturday, November 9

You’ve never been more aware of your outfit in your life.

It’s casual. You swear it’s casual. Just jeans, a simple knit sweater, and your hair pulled back the way you usually do when studying. But for some reason, it feels like every thread of fabric is holding its breath with you.

You arrive three minutes early. Not on purpose, of course. You just… like being punctual. Definitely not because you couldn’t sleep and ended up getting ready way too soon.

The café is small, tucked between a laundromat and a florist, with foggy windows and the faint smell of cinnamon drifting through the air. There’s a table by the window. He’s already there.

Wonwoo wears black again, but softer this time — a hoodie and a grey beanie pulled slightly down over his forehead. He looks up when you enter, and there’s that smile again — the one that’s only for you.

“You came,” he says like he was still half-expecting you wouldn’t.

You nod, heart jittering. “I almost didn’t. My nerves filed for early retirement.”

“Mine got stuck in traffic,” he replies dryly, and it makes you laugh.

You slide into the seat across from him.

🕤 9:38 AM

You sip your drink slowly. He likes americanos. You went for chai because it smells like safety.

The conversation starts clumsy, like shoes on the wrong feet.

But you both find rhythm again — just like the library. You talk about books. Classes. Favorite types of weather.

He surprises you by admitting he writes poetry sometimes. You surprise him by blurting out that you used to have a plant named Moby (as in Moby Dick) that you accidentally killed via overwatering.

He actually laughs. Like, full smile, head-tilted laugh.

You think you could listen to that sound for the rest of your life.

🕙 10:01 AM

You both watch the rain start outside the window.

Wonwoo leans forward on his elbows. “Do you come here often?”

You shake your head. “Never.”

“Then why here?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly: “Because you said you liked the window seat last week.”

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“You remembered that?”

You nod. “I remember… most things you say.”

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Me too.”

🕥 10:31 AM

You’re walking side by side now, both of you heading nowhere in particular. It’s still drizzling, but neither of you care.

And then it happens.

A split second. A breath of courage.

You reach out and hook your pinky with his. Not his whole hand. Just the smallest touch. Barely there.

He stiffens for half a second—like he wasn’t expecting it—but then?

He curls his pinky around yours.

Neither of you say a word.

But your heart says plenty.

🕑 2:17 PM — Sunday, November 17

It’s the first time he’s been in your room.

You spent the entire morning cleaning it even though it’s always tidy. You lit a candle. Then panicked and blew it out because it felt too much. Now your hands smell like vanilla smoke and your brain hasn’t stopped buzzing since he texted “On my way :)” forty minutes ago.

Wonwoo sits cross-legged on your floor, laptop on his thighs, back against your bed. You’re on the other side, curled in your desk chair, trying to look like you’re reading—but you haven’t absorbed a single word in the last fifteen minutes.

You can see the veins on his forearms from here.

The way his sleeves are pushed up. The way his eyes narrow a little when he’s thinking. The way his hair falls over his temple and you want so badly to brush it back but your hands are glued to your highlighter like it’s a lifeline.

You’re not concentrating.

You’re surviving.

“This project’s gonna kill me,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles.

You hum in agreement, then nearly fall out of your chair when he looks at you suddenly.

“You okay?”

You nod—too fast, too small. “Just… tired.”

Not a lie. Just not the truth either.

🕝 2:32 PM

He stretches with a groan and shifts, leaning back on one hand, the other adjusting his glasses.

“Why are dorm floors so damn uncomfortable?”

“You could sit on the bed,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Silence.

He looks at you. Slow blink. Like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You panic.

“I mean—only if you want! It’s not a big deal. You’d have more space, and—”

“You sure?”

You nod. Pretend to go back to reading. Your heart is not pretending. It’s slamming against your ribs like a prisoner with a spoon.

He stands, crosses the space in two slow steps, and sits next to you.

Not far.

Not touching.

But close enough that you feel the warmth of his thigh near yours through two layers of fabric.

🕞 2:46 PM

You don’t know how to act normal anymore.

You’ve read the same sentence six times. You’re hyper-aware of everything: your breath, your posture, the fact that your sweater is slightly askew and your bra strap might be peeking out and oh god what if he notices and—

“You’re really quiet today,” he says softly.

You glance at him. He’s not teasing. He looks... thoughtful.

“I’m just... distracted,” you admit, voice small.

“Anything I can help with?”

Yes. But not in a way either of us is ready for.

You give a tiny smile and shake your head. “It’s fine.”

He watches you a moment longer. Then:

“You know you don’t have to say ‘I’m fine’ all the time, right?”

That one hits harder than you expect.

You swallow. “I know.”

Another silence. Not awkward.

Just heavy.

🕒 3:02 PM

His shoulder brushes yours when he shifts slightly.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

You stiffen, then force yourself to stay still. You want to lean into it. You want to tilt your head and rest it there. You want—

But you don’t.

Because you’re still shy. Still afraid. And he’s still Wonwoo.

Perfect, patient, unreadable Wonwoo.

You grip your pen tighter.

And then, softly—so softly—you whisper:

“Do you ever feel like something’s... just about to happen?”

He looks at you slowly. And for the first time today, something flickers in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low.

🕓 4:03 PM — Sunday, November 17

The room is silent.

Not the kind of silence filled with studying or shy small talk.

This silence is alive. Breathing. Trembling between you both like an unspoken question that neither of you dares to ask.

You’re still sitting side by side on your bed.

Wonwoo hasn’t moved away since his shoulder brushed yours. In fact, now your knees are almost touching. Almost. And you can feel it — the way his body is angled ever so slightly toward you, the way his hand rests near yours, palm open on the blanket like it’s waiting.

Your heart is a storm.

You should say something. You should breathe. You should—

“Y/N,” he says quietly. So quietly.

You glance at him, and this time... he’s already looking at you.

His gaze doesn’t waver. And it’s not unreadable this time. It’s warm. Intense. Like he’s finally letting you see something he’s been holding back for weeks.

“I keep thinking about what you said earlier. About something about to happen.”

You nod, throat dry. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. Then—he shifts closer. Just slightly. His knee brushes yours now. His hand, still open on the bed, inches toward yours until your pinkies are touching again.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t push.

But his voice drops lower, softer.

“I want to try something. But only if you’re okay with it.”

You know exactly what he means.

And you want it too.

You can’t speak, so you nod.

He leans in—slowly—eyes flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes.

You feel everything.

The heat.

The closeness.

The possibility.

Your heart stutters.

And then—

📱 BUZZZZZZZ

The sound shatters the moment like glass on tile.

Wonwoo curses under his breath—barely audible—but pulls back just enough to fumble for his phone.

“Sorry,” he mutters, glancing at the screen. “It’s my roommate.”

He answers.

“Yeah?” A pause. Then: “Dude. Seriously?” Another pause. A sigh. “Fine. I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up slowly.

“He locked himself out. Again.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You nod, trying to keep your face neutral.

“That’s okay.”

But it’s not really. Not completely. Because you were so close.

He stands, reluctantly. Grabs his bag. Looks at you again—hesitating.

“I… I didn’t mean to ruin the moment.”

You shake your head fast. “You didn’t. It’s okay. Really.”

He looks down at you—eyes searching, unsure—then does something unexpected.

He leans forward and presses his forehead gently to yours. Just for a second. No kiss. No promises. Just warmth.

“I’ll call you later?”

You nod. Whisper, “Okay.”

And then he’s gone.

The room feels colder without him. But your fingers are still tingling from where his touched yours.

🕓 4:08 PM — Monday, November 18

The library feels... different today.

Not louder. Not busier. Just charged, like the air is made of static and someone’s holding their breath waiting for lightning to strike.

You’re in your usual seat. So ist er.

But neither of you has spoken yet.

You tap your pen against your notes, eyes locked on a page you haven’t actually read. Your mind keeps flickering back to yesterday—his voice, his nearness, the almost. And then that forehead touch. Like he wanted to say more but didn’t have the time.

Now he’s here. Right next to you again.

And it’s so much worse.

Because you know what his mouth almost tasted like.

And now you can’t stop wondering.

Wonwoo keeps shifting in his seat. His pen hasn’t moved in minutes. Once in a while, you catch him looking at you—but when you glance over, he looks away again. Fast. Too fast.

Neither of you knows how to start again.

🕠 5:02 PM

You close your book and mumble, “I’m gonna grab something else. Be right back.”

He stands, too. “I’ll come.”

You both move toward the back shelves in awkward silence, feet padding softly against the old carpet, surrounded by towering books and too many unspoken thoughts.

Your fingers trail along the spines. “It’s up there,” you say, pointing to the top shelf.

He follows your gaze. “One sec.”

He steps in front of you, reaching high above—his body stretching, hoodie riding up slightly at the back. His arm grazes yours. Then his chest.

Then—

He shifts, leaning just slightly over you to steady himself as he grabs the book.

His scent is close. So close.

You look up—

And there it is.

His jaw. The curve of his throat. The slight parting of his lips as he breathes.

You don’t think. You can’t think.

You just do.

You lift your face—

And press the lightest kiss to the edge of his jaw.

The second it happens, your brain catches up.

Your whole body seizes.

“Oh my god—” You pull back instantly, eyes wide in horror, your voice shaking. “I— I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I— I didn’t mean to—”

You step back, heart racing, heat flooding your face. You can’t even look at him.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat again, softer. “That was stupid—”

But he doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just sets the book down gently on the nearby shelf.

And then turns to face you.

And in one fluid, sure motion—

he steps forward, grabs your waist, and pulls you to him.

And kisses you.

Not gently. Not questioningly.

Like he’s been waiting.

His hands grip you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His lips find yours like they already know the shape. There’s nothing hesitant about it—just warmth and need and finally.

You don’t move at first—frozen in disbelief.

But then your hands find his hoodie. And your body leans in. And you kiss him back.

And it feels like every unfinished sentence has finally been said.

🕠 5:09 PM

He pulls away just slightly. His forehead rests against yours again. Just like yesterday.

Only this time, you’re both smiling.

“So,” he whispers, breath still uneven. “That happened.”

You nod, stunned.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” you say softly. “It was... impulse.”

He lets out a short laugh.

“Good impulse.”

Then he kisses you again—quieter this time. Slower.

And nothing about it feels accidental anymore.

[blondechariot]

☕️~Study Break (Xiaojun smut)~☕️

pairing: reader x Xiaojun

Warnings: SMUT!

disclaimer: not my Gif!

You’re sprawled across Xiaojun’s couch like you own it, one leg thrown over the back, a bowl of popcorn dangerously balanced on your stomach. The TV is playing some trashy reality dating show, but you’re way more interested in complaining than actually watching.

“Okay, I swear,” you groan, tossing a popcorn kernel in the air and catching it with your mouth. “If I have to fake one more orgasm because some guy thinks jackhammering me into oblivion is sexy, I’m going to cry.”

Xiaojun snorts with laughter beside you, nearly choking on his drink. “Maybe you just have bad taste.”

You turn your head slowly to give him a look. “Excuse me?”

He grins smugly. “Hey, I’m just saying. If every guy sucks, maybe it’s a you problem.”

You chuckle darkly. “Wow. Thank you, therapist Xiaojun. What do you even know about good sex anyway? You blush when the characters on screen start making out.”

“I do not blush.”

“You blushed when I said the word ‘thighs’ last week.”

“That was contextual! And graphic!”

You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach. “Okay, okay. I’m just saying—you’re adorable and nerdy and all, but I can’t picture you being, you know... good in bed...or even having sex at all.”

He stills. “...Excuse me?”

“I mean, no offense,” you say, waving a hand, still giggling. “I’ve just never exactly looked at you and thought, ‘yeah, he probably wrecks girls.’ More like... ‘he probably folds laundry with aggressive focus.’”

That earns you a raised eyebrow. “Wow. I see how it is.”

You smirk, tossing another popcorn kernel into your mouth. “What, you gonna prove me wrong?"

He closes his laptop slowly. “Maybe I should.”

You pause mid-chew.

“What?”

Xiaojun turns his full body toward you, a glint in his eye that makes your stomach flip. “You think I’m just some harmless little nerd who doesn’t know how to make a girl come?”

You blink at him. “I mean… you do wear astronomy socks.”

He leans in. Not enough to touch you. Just enough to make your pulse spike. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks I could give you the best night of your life.”

You laugh, but your voice falters. “Yeah right.”

He shrugs and leans back again. You watch him from the corner of your eyes while he grins to himself.

"You're bluffing." You say with a frown and toss some Popcorn at him.

He laughs and shrugs again. "I guess we'll never know."

You look at him, watch his movement and the way his hand is running through his hair.

"You're like...serious? Completely serious?"

“I’m serious.” His tone is lower now. Dead serious. “I bet all those guys you’ve been with? They never learned how to actually listen. I’d learn you.”

You should be joking back. You should be roasting him, calling him delusional or pulling a pillow over your head. But instead, you stare. Because your usually awkward best friend just dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes and suddenly looks like he’s two seconds from pinning you to the couch.

You swallow. “You really think you’d be that good?”

He smirks. “I know i am.”

Your throat is dry.

“Okay, nerd boy,” you say, standing to your feet slowly and cocking a brow. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He rises too—still calm, still quiet. But there’s something dangerous under the surface now. A tension you’ve never seen in him before.

He steps toward you, eyes never leaving yours.

“No turning back,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t plan on it.”

There’s a beat. Then—

He grabs your thighs, throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing, and carries you down the hall without a single word while you yelp in surprise.

You're thrown onto his bed—not rough, but firm. You’re breathless from the shift. From nerdy, witty Xiaojun… to this Xiaojun. Commanding. Confident.

He climbs over you and hovers. “Last chance to back out.”

Your fingers tug his hoodie off.

No backing out.

His lips crash into yours. There’s nothing soft about it—he kisses like he’s been thinking about this. Like he’s had every detail mapped out in his head, waiting for the moment you finally let him show you.

His hands roam. Not awkward, not unsure—he knows exactly where to squeeze, where to drag his nails, how to thumb over the thin fabric covering your chest until you're arching up into him.

“When did you become so cocky?” you pant, fingers tangling in his hair.

He kisses down your neck, bites just enough to make you gasp. "You gonna act like, you don't like it?"

Clothes fall. His hands don’t just touch—they study you. Like he’s committing every sound, every reaction, to memory. He pulls down your leggings and bites his lip before he also slides down your panties.

He watches you with dark eyes while his fingers caress your thigh and come closer to your center. You want to squeeze your thighs together but he pulls them apart again.

He slides his fingers between your folds like he owns the space.

And when he finally pushes inside you—slow, deliberate—you both still.

“You okay?” he whispers, voice breathless.

You nod, nails raking down his back. “Don’t you dare go easy on me.”

His mouth curves into a smirk against your throat. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning to.”

He sets a rhythm that drives you insane. Not just rough—calculated. Slow thrusts that grind deep, dragging your body across the sheets. He talks the whole time, low and filthy:

“So quiet now… not laughing at me anymore, huh?” “You gonna admit I’m the best you’ve had?” “Bet they never made you this wet…”

And when you whimper, when your voice catches on his name, when your body shakes around him—he loses it.

“That’s it… fuck, you’re so perfect like this…”

He flips you and presses a hand between your shoulder blades and pushes you down until your ass arches up, exposed and waiting. You feel him kneel behind you, hands parting your thighs — and then, his tongue.

You scream. There was no other word.

Xiaojun devours you. No teasing, no shyness — he licks and sucks like a man on a mission. His tongue swirls, circles, fucks into you as two fingers join the rhythm, pumping inside with precision. Every nerve in your body is lit, burning.

You are sobbing his name by the time he stops.

But he isn't done.

He stands, positioning himself behind you, and pushs inside with one powerful, fluid motion. You gasp, breath stolen by the stretch, the pressure, the way he fills you completely.

“Fuck,” he groans into your shoulder. “You’re so tight, so wet…”

He pulls out almost entirely—then slams back in.

You cry out.

And again. And again.

He grabs your arms, pulling them behind your back with one hand, pinning you while he pounds into you with relentless rhythm. You are unraveling, drooling against the cushion, unable to think or speak or breathe.

“You think I’m not wild?” he growls in your ear. “You think I don’t know how to fuck a girl right?”

You shook your head wildly, sobbing out his name.

“You talk all that shit,” he says, thrusting deep, “but you’re the one falling apart.”

He let go of your arms, flipping you onto your back, spreading your legs wide, and plunges back in. Your cries fill the room.

You claw at his shoulders, your second orgasm already building, body hypersensitive and writhing beneath him.

He kisses you — hard and filthy — as you come again, screaming into his mouth.

Xiaojuns hips stutter. His breath hitches. And then he groans low in his chest, holding you still as he spills inside you.

You lay there, legs trembling, chest heaving, completely wrecked.

Your skin is flushed, glowing with sweat, and your thighs are slick and trembling where you are still spread open beneath him. Your hair cling to your damp face, and your lips are kiss-bruised and parted around shallow, shaky breaths.

Xiaojun is still inside you.

He doesn't move for over a minute. Just rests on his forearms, forehead pressed to yours , his weight comforting and heavy, heartbeat thudding against your ribs.

And then—

He pulls out.

You whimper immediately, missing the warmth, the stretch, the weight of him. You instinctively close your legs, trying to catch your breath—

But he stops you.

“Ah,” he murmurs, grabbing your thighs. “I didn’t say you could close those.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Are you kidding me?”

He sits back on his knees, reaching down, and gently taps the inside of your thigh with two fingers.

“Wider.”

“You just came.”

“So?”

Your stomach flips.

“Xiaojun,” you breath, “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he says simply. “And you will.”

Before you can argue, he reachs down and drags his fingers through the mess between your legs, then slowly pushs two of them back inside.

You cry out — hips twitching, legs kicking reflexively.

“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he mutters, watching you squirm. “But your body still wants more. You’re already clenching.”

“X-Xiaojun”

He leans down and presses a kiss to your knee. Then the inside of your thigh. Then higher. And higher still.

By the time his mouth is on you again, you are already shaking.

He licks slow, deliberate circles over your clit while his fingers curl just right. He doesn't need to go fast now. He knows your body. Knows every flicker, every breath, every tremble.

“You’re gonna give me one more,” he says softly. “I want to feel you come on my tongue.”

Your hands reach down instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair, trying to both push him away and pull him closer.

" I can’t—fuck—fuck, it’s too much—”

“I know,” he says between licks. “Let it happen anyway.”

And you do.

The orgasm rolls over you like fire. Your entire body tenses, bowes, then collapses into the mattress like a ragdoll. You sob his name, thighs trying to close around his head—he lets them. Doesn't stop. Kissing you through it.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth and chin are slick, eyes dark and reverent as he looks at you.

You are boneless. Your eyes half-lidded. Your voice nothing more than a whisper.

“I’m... I can’t feel my legs.”

Xiaojun chuckled softly. Then stands up.

Yo watch through hazy vision as he walks to the bathroom. The sound of running water echoes back — a towel being soaked, wrung out.

He returns a moment later with a warm washcloth and kneels beside you, wiping gently between your thighs, slow and attentive.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing damp strands of hair off your face.

You nod. Barely.

“That was… insane. You are insane,” you whisper.

He smiles, soft now. “You’re insane. For thinking I wouldn’t know how to treat you right.”

Your chest swells with something strange—something tender.

You reach for his hand and pull him down beside you, curling against his side.

“You are right,”you murmur, voice sleepy. “I didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“I know,” he says, wrapping an arm around your waist. “That’s why I had to show you.”

You bury your face in his shoulder and grin.

Then whisper, “...Do you always go this hard when you’re proving a point?”

Xiaojun turns to you, and smirks.

“Only when I really want to be taken seriously.”

The room is silent. Except for your breathing. And his heartbeat against your back.

“…Holy shit,” you mumble.

He chuckles softly, lips brushing your shoulder. “Still think I’m just the cute nerd?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because you’re busy trying to remember how to breathe.

[blondechariot]

😈~NCT 127 reaction to you asking to be on Top~ 😈

pairing: NCT 127 x reader

warnings: SMUT!

Disclaimer: Not my pic!

Why does no one hand in any requests :( I'm running out of ideas

Taeyong

Taeyong’s apartment is immaculate, just like him. Candlelight flickers on the edges of your vision, and the scent of amber and something faintly citrusy lingers in the air—subtle, clean, comforting. He’s always been intentional with everything. You noticed that early on: the way he pours tea, the way he folds the sleeves of his shirt, the way he looks at you like you’re something delicate and precious.

But tonight, you want to break that tension.

He sits on the floor in front of the low coffee table, one leg stretched out, the other bent casually—but his fingers twitch against his knee every time your eyes meet. You’re both quiet, post-movie, pretending to be normal, but the silence is charged.

His throat moves as he swallows, jaw flexing.

You pad across the carpet in your socks, and instead of sitting beside him, you kneel over his lap. Slowly. Like a choice. Like a claim.

His breath hitches. You see it in the way his lashes flutter, the way his whole body freezes—not out of discomfort, but out of sheer anticipation.

You press your hands to his chest, feel the beat of his heart beneath your palms. It’s pounding.

And then you say it. Low. Warm. Direct.

“I want to ride you.”

His pupils blow wide, instantly. He stares up at you like he’s not sure he heard you right—like the earth tilted.

“Y/N…” he says, voice soft and hoarse, “Are you… sure?”

You nod, your lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never been more sure.”

Taeyong leans his forehead against yours for a beat, grounding himself. His hands come up to your hips, fingers flexing like he’s trying not to grip too tight, trying not to lose himself too fast.

“I want it to be good for you,” he murmurs.

You smile, tilting his face up. “Then let me take care of you.”

That undoes him.

The clothes come off slowly—like unwrapping something fragile. He kisses you like he means every second of it, like he’s memorizing your mouth. His lips are warm, his hands tentative at first, brushing down your sides as if asking permission.

You give it.

When you finally straddle him, fully bare now, his hands shake against your thighs.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You guide him—gently, deliberately—positioning yourself above him, the head of his cock nestled against you, throbbing and slick with anticipation. His hands find your waist as you sink down slowly, and his head falls back.

A strangled moan leaves his throat. He clutches at your hips, not moving—won’t move—just feeling you wrap around him inch by inch.

“Oh my God…”

He says it like a prayer. Like a confession.

Once you’re fully seated, you pause. Taeyong’s chest is heaving, his eyes half-lidded, lips parted. You roll your hips, slow and deep, and he groans—his voice low, helpless, overwhelmed.

“Please… go slow. I don’t want to come too fast—fuck…”

You smile, leaning down to kiss along his jaw. “You don’t have to hold back.”

And when you start to move—riding him with lazy, deep rolls of your hips—he completely falls apart.

His hands roam your back, up your sides, into your hair. He lets you set the pace, lets you tease him, lets you whisper filthy little things against his neck that make him shudder and buck his hips without meaning to.

“You feel so good,” he rasps, eyes shut tight. “I can’t—I can’t think when you’re like this…”

You clench around him deliberately, and he gasps—his hands tightening.

“God—Y/N—fuck—”

You’re soaked. He’s so hard, so thick, filling you perfectly, hitting every spot with just the angle of your grind. You ride him deeper, faster, now gripping his shoulders for balance.

He groans loud, ragged.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

You already have.

When he finally lets go—mouth against your shoulder, arms wrapped around you like he’s drowning—he moans your name so sweet and desperate, you think you’ll never hear it the same way again.

Afterward, he pulls you against his chest, still breathless, still shaky.

“You didn’t just ride me,” he murmurs. “You devastated me.”

And he kisses you like he’s ready to be wrecked all over again.

Jaehyun

You’d never seen Jaehyun nervous. Not once. Not when he gave a speech at your friend’s event. Not when he was asked out by someone bold right in front of you. Not when you brushed your lips across his neck last week, teasing, just to see if he’d crack.

He didn’t.

He always plays it smooth—cool, calm, collected. The type of man who could be wrapped in fire and still ask if you’re comfortable.

But tonight? Tonight, Jaehyun’s nerves show.

It’s in the way he leans back against the headboard of his bed, shirt undone but still on, chest rising and falling slower than usual, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. He’s watching you. Letting you explore his body. Letting you decide.

He’s waiting for your cue.

And you give it—climbing into his lap with the kind of slow, practiced confidence that makes his gaze drop instantly to your hips.

You straddle him, knees bracketing his waist, palms splayed across his shoulders. “I want to ride you.”

His eyes snap to yours.

Still unreadable. Still calm. But the way he swallows—hard—betrays everything.

His voice is lower than usual when he speaks. “You want to be on top?”

You grin. “I want to take you apart.”

Jaehyun exhales a quiet curse, jaw tight, arms flexing slightly like he’s restraining himself. You feel the shift in him. The loss of composure under the skin. He’s trying not to react too much—but your confidence cuts straight through him.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Take what you want.”

And he means it.

You lean forward and kiss him. Not soft. Not sweet. It’s deep and wet, your tongue sliding past his, pulling a low groan from his throat. His hands move to your waist, gripping gently, but not leading.

You break the kiss and whisper, “No touching unless I tell you to.”

He blinks. Something sparks behind his eyes.

And then—you see it.

That flicker of heat, curiosity, submission.

He nods once. “Yes, ma’am.”

When you lower yourself onto him, both of you breathless, he’s so thick and warm it makes your thighs tremble. His hands grip the sheets instead of your waist like you told him. His neck arches back against the headboard as you sink down—inch by inch—watching every change in his expression.

“Holy fuck…” he growls.

You start moving. Slowly. Deliberately. Grinding your hips in deep, precise circles that make him twitch under you.

Jaehyun bites his lip. He’s losing the rhythm of his breathing.

“You’re driving me insane,” he rasps. “You feel so—tight—fuck…”

You reach forward, placing your palm flat on his chest and pushing him back.

“No talking unless I ask.”

He groans like the restraint is killing him.

Your movements become harder, sharper—your thighs burn with effort as you bounce on him now, chasing the high, watching him unravel under you. His hands are gripping the sheets so tight his knuckles are white.

“Y/N,” he gasps, breaking. “Please—let me touch you—just once—”

You pause, smirking. You lean down until your lips brush his ear. “Beg.”

He does. Softly. Low. Full of hunger and reverence.

“Please. Let me touch you. I want to feel all of you—please…”

You guide his hands back to your waist.

And the second he touches you? He snaps. His hips drive up into you, his rhythm meeting yours, and it’s fast, desperate, filthy. He’s groaning now, breathless, jaw slack as you ride him faster.

“I can’t—Y/N—I’m gonna—”

You clench around him, hard. He breaks.

Afterward, he stays silent for a long moment. One hand running up and down your thigh, the other buried in your hair, holding you to his chest.

“You win,” he murmurs.

You laugh against his neck.

“I know.”

Johnny

Johnny has always been a flirt. It’s practically his second language—easily spoken, smoothly delivered, always paired with that devilish smirk and arms that stretch across the back of the couch like he owns the room.

Tonight is no different.

He’s leaning back in bed, shirtless, in nothing but sweatpants that hang dangerously low, grinning at you like he’s already won.

“So,” he says, voice deep and warm, “you finally ready to let me wreck you?”

You quirk an eyebrow, standing at the foot of his bed. “Is that what you think’s about to happen?”

Johnny raises a brow, half amused, half turned on. “You tell me.”

You walk forward slowly, eyes locked on his, not breaking the gaze even as you climb onto the bed. You straddle his thighs, hovering just above him. His hands automatically move to your hips, ready to guide.

You stop him.

Fingers wrapped around his wrists, you push them down to the bed. “I’ll take it from here.”

His smirk falters—just slightly. His chest rises with a slow inhale, and for the first time tonight, you have his full, stunned attention.

“You wanna ride me?” he asks, voice huskier now, rough at the edges.

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw.

“No, Johnny. I am going to ride you.”

You kiss him, hard. Deep. Full tongue, no hesitation. Your body rolls against his as you grind down, and his hands twitch under your grip. When you pull back, he’s already breathless, lips red and parted, eyes searching yours like he’s seeing you for the first time.

You make quick work of the rest of his clothes. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling with anticipation as you straddle him again—this time bare, confident, ready.

You lower yourself onto him slow. Deliberate.

His head drops back against the pillow with a guttural groan.

“Shit, baby…”

You ride him slow at first. Deep, rolling motions. His hands are fisted in the sheets because he’s trying not to take over. Johnny—dominant, cocky, smug Johnny—is letting you lead.

And it’s driving him insane.

“You feel so fucking good,” he mutters, hips twitching beneath you.

You lean forward, your lips brushing his ear. “Then don’t move. Let me show you what it’s like when you’re not in control.”

His whole body tenses. His mouth drops open.

And then you start moving faster.

Your thighs slap against his hips with every bounce. His moans get louder. His eyes keep rolling back, his jaw clenched, hands gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping him from losing it entirely.

“You’re so cocky,” you pant, grinding down in sharp circles. “But you fall apart so easily.”

“Y/N—fuck—baby, please—”

You grab his chin, force his eyes open. “Say it. Who’s in charge?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He’s too close. Too overwhelmed.

So you slow down, tease a grind that makes him whine.

“You are,” he breathes, desperate. “You’re in charge—fuck, I’ll do anything—just don’t stop—”

You ride him harder.

It doesn’t take long after that. He finishes with a full-body shudder, his name broken and raw in your mouth, his hands finally flying up to grip your waist like he needs you to stay grounded.

After, his chest is still heaving. You’re laying half on top of him, fingers tracing lazy shapes across his abs.

“You alright, big guy?” you tease.

He laughs—ragged and amazed.

“I have never been that turned on in my life.”

You wink. “Good. Now you know how it feels to be out of your depth.”

“Holy shit,” he mumbles. “I think I might be in love.”

Yuta

Yuta’s the type who watches you like he already knows your secrets. Half-lidded eyes. Slight smirk. Sitting back like a king while you pace his room, slightly flustered from the tension that’s been building all week.

He’s in a loose black t-shirt, rings still on his fingers, dark hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it since you arrived.

“You’re acting nervous,” he says, lips curling. “Didn’t expect to end up in my room tonight?”

You snort. “You think too highly of yourself.”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice dropping. “You walked in here in that little skirt and didn’t plan on fucking me?”

Your cheeks flush—but not from embarrassment.

From excitement.

Because you’re about to knock him off that high horse.

You take a slow step toward him, then another, until you’re standing right between his legs. He looks up at you, expression smug, but curious.

You trail your fingers along his jaw.

“Actually,” you whisper, “I planned on riding you.”

Yuta blinks once.

Then twice.

His breath hitches, and that arrogant smile wavers.

“Say that again.”

You push him back with a palm on his chest. He falls against the bed, dark eyes glued to yours.

You straddle him, lowering your hips until your heat brushes against his obvious arousal. He groans—low and guttural.

You lean in, your lips brushing his. “I said I’m going to ride you.”

“God, I love you,” he mutters like a prayer.

You undress him slowly, deliberately, making him feel every second of it. His smirk is gone now—replaced with hunger. With awe.

You kiss him as you sink onto him, a slow, drawn-out slide that makes both of you shiver. His hands grip your thighs, but you plant them back on the mattress.

“No touching,” you purr.

“You’re killing me,” he groans.

“Good.”

You roll your hips in lazy, deep circles. He watches you like you’re art—like he’s never seen anyone so confident, so devastating.

“You look so fucking sexy,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pick up the pace. Ride him harder. He moans—loud, unfiltered.

“Y/N, shit—if you keep moving like that—fuck—”

You grab his wrists and pin them above his head. He whimpers.

“You’re not the only one who can be in charge, Nakamoto.”

“I know,” he gasps. “I know—I love it—don’t stop—please—”

He finishes with your name on his tongue, his voice wrecked and pleading.

After, he pulls you close, kissing your temple with a dazed smile.

“Next time,” he whispers, “you’re saying that line before we even make it to the bed.”

“Which one?”

“I’m going to ride you.” He shudders. “Fuck. Say it every day. Say it at my funeral.”

Doyoung

Doyoung likes control. Not in a dominating, growling, handcuffs-on-the-headboard way—but in the precise, everything-has-a-place kind of way. His shirt is always neatly tucked. His apartment is spotless. His plans are airtight. He thinks he can handle temptation—especially when it’s you. He’s wrong.

Tonight you’re on his couch, knees tucked under you, wearing one of his oversized button-downs and nothing else. He doesn’t know that part yet.

You’re talking about something simple—music, probably—but Doyoung’s barely registering your words.

Because you’re stretching. And the hem of his shirt hikes up. And your skin is glowing in the low light like some sort of divine challenge to his self-control.

He licks his lips and shifts uncomfortably.

“You keep doing that,” he says, voice strained, “and I’m going to kiss you.”

You smirk. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

He looks at you. Really looks at you.

And that’s when you say it.

“Or…” “You could lie back and let me ride you.”

He goes perfectly still.

Then: “What?”

You crawl into his lap, eyes locked on his, and slide your fingers into his hair.

“You heard me.”

His breath catches. Hands gripping your waist on instinct. He tries to stay calm, but his voice wavers.

“Y/N, we’ve never even—this is our first time—”

“Exactly,” you whisper, lips grazing his ear. “Let me make it unforgettable.”

Somehow you make it to the bedroom. He’s flustered, trying to hold it together while you slowly undress him, kissing your way down his neck, unbuttoning his shirt one… by… one.

He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time, jaw clenched, as if losing eye contact would mean losing control entirely.

But once he’s bare, and you’re straddling him, and he feels your heat sink down around him for the first time—

He’s gone.

“Oh my God—Y/N—” “Feels good?” “Too good. I—I wasn’t ready—”

You move slowly. Tenderly at first. You want to feel all of him. Want him to feel you.

And Doyoung’s hands?

They don’t stay obedient for long.

He grabs your hips, helps guide your rhythm, his head falling back against the pillow.

“You’re so beautiful,” he moans. “I don’t want this to end—please, just—don’t stop—”

You ride him harder. His words get messier. Desperate.

The man who walked in buttoned-up and self-controlled now has tear-wet eyes, flushed skin, and a voice reduced to pleading and breathless gasps of your name.

Afterward, you’re curled up against his chest, both of you sweaty and dazed.

He kisses your hair.

“If that’s what you’re like on a first time,” he murmurs, voice wrecked, “I’m scared for the second.”

You grin. “You should be.”

Jungwoo

Jungwoo’s the type to flirt without even knowing he’s doing it. Always giggling, always touching your arm when he laughs, always throwing in a cheeky wink that leaves your stomach in knots.

But he’s also shy.

Which makes what happens tonight so much better.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his bed, trading stories and snack bites from a shared bowl. His hair’s messy, his hoodie’s sliding off one shoulder, and his smile is so warm it should be illegal.

“You always look at me like that?” you ask playfully.

He tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re undressing me in your mind.”

He chokes on a gummy bear, laughing. “Y/N!! I would never— okay, maybe. Sometimes.”

You grin and lean in, brushing his cheek with your nose.

“So why don’t you let me ride you, then?”

Silence.

Utter.

Complete.

Stunned silence.

His jaw literally drops.

“I—what—ride me?!”

“Mhm.” You tilt your head innocently. “You want me, right?”

His ears go tomato-red. His hand clutches the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping him on Earth.

“Y/N, you can’t just say that kind of thing—my brain isn’t—my body—holy shit—”

You crawl into his lap. His breath hitches so violently it might’ve taken a year off his life.

“You want me on top?” you whisper. “Right now?”

He nods so fast it’s a blur.

“Yes. Please. Oh my God.”

Clothes are gone in record time. Jungwoo’s still babbling compliments and half-sentences when you straddle him fully, guiding him in slowly. His back arches, hands flying to your hips like instinct.

“Oh—oh my God, you feel—this is insane—Y/N—”

You roll your hips slowly, riding him in gentle, deliberate motions that make him twitch and gasp beneath you.

He watches you with wide, adoring eyes. His hands caress your thighs, your waist, your chest—like he’s trying to memorize you.

“You’re so confident,” he breathes. “I’ve never—fuck—I’ve never had anyone like you—”

“You like it when I take control?” “I love it—please don’t stop—ride me—harder—”

You do.

And the sound he makes when you do it?

Absolutely sinful.

He comes completely undone beneath you—whimpering, gasping, kissing any part of you he can reach.

After, he’s sweaty, dazed, still wrapped around you like a human blanket.

“That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“You say that now,” you whisper, nuzzling into his neck, “wait till round two.”

“You’ll kill me,” he laughs.

“Worth it?”

“A thousand times.”

Mark

You and Mark have always had chemistry.

The kind of chemistry that makes people look at you two and whisper, “Just get a room already.”

Except you haven’t.

Not yet.

Because Mark gets nervous. Not that he doesn’t want you. He does—a lot. But he’s overthinking everything. What if it’s not good enough? What if you expected more? What if he—

“Mark.”

Your voice snaps him out of his thoughts as the two of you sit side by side on his bed, post-movie, with your knees brushing.

“Yeah?” he says, trying not to sound like his heart’s beating a hundred miles an hour.

You look him straight in the eyes and smile.

“Let me ride you.”

His soul leaves his body.

“HUH?!”

You giggle, watching him glitch like an overworked laptop. He blinks, then stutters, then opens and closes his mouth like a cartoon fish.

“You… you wanna—like now?!”

“Unless you’re scared,” you tease, crawling into his lap.

He squeaks.

“I’m not scared! I just—holy sh— okay—give me a sec to mentally prepare—”

You kiss him.

And all his little nerves melt like butter in the sun.

When you finally ease down on him, Mark’s head hits the pillow with a thump, and a broken moan escapes his lips before he can stop it.

“Oh fuuuck, Y/N—wait—oh my god—this is happening—this is actually—”

You roll your hips slow and smooth. His fingers tighten on your thighs.

His brain? Gone. His mouth? Useless. His eyes? Glued to where you’re joined.

“You’re so hot,” he mutters breathlessly. “Like, stupid hot. This is insane.”

“You okay down there?” you ask sweetly, leaning in to kiss his jaw.

“I’m—I think I’m ascending.”

You move faster.

He moans louder.

His hands trail under your shirt, gripping your waist, your back, like he doesn’t know where to touch first.

“This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he gasps. “No, seriously—ever.”

You keep going, taking your time, watching him fall apart under you.

The confident way you move—how you look on top of him—it completely undoes him.

After, Mark is splayed out, sweaty, flushed, and completely wrecked.

He laughs breathlessly as you collapse on top of him.

“Remind me to send a thank-you letter to the universe.”

“Why?”

“Because somehow, somehow, I got you.”

You smirk against his skin.

“And now you’ll never be the same.”

He groans. “Exactly.”

Haechan

You knew Haechan liked you.

You also knew he was playing a game.

For weeks now, he’s been pushing boundaries—smirking when you wear something tight, whispering filth in your ear when no one’s listening, pretending it’s all a joke when his hand stays a little too long on your waist.

And tonight? He’s in rare form.

You’re on his couch, fake-fighting over which movie to watch. He’s got one leg under him, the other stretched lazily, sock half-off. The smirk hasn’t left his lips all night.

“Admit it,” he says, voice low and smug. “You keep coming over because you like me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re tolerable.”

“Tolerable? Baby, you’re obsessed.”

You roll your eyes. “If I was, I’d have ridden you by now.”

He chokes on his own spit.

“I’m sorry??”

“You heard me.”

His jaw hangs open. He stares at you like you just hacked his entire operating system. His cocky expression shatters.

“Wait—you’d—you’d really…?”

You lean in slowly, straddling him like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“If you’re lucky.”

“Holy shit—okay—YES—please be lucky—”

Clothes disappear like magic. And for all his teasing and swagger, the second you sink down on him, Haechan shudders like you short-circuited every neuron in his body.

His head hits the back of the couch. His hands grip your thighs like he’ll die if you move too slow.

“Y/N—what the fuck—you feel—oh my God—”

“Still think I’m obsessed?” you murmur, rolling your hips.

“I—I take it back, baby—please—don’t stop—”

He’s panting now. All that cocky bravado? Gone. In its place: a whimpering, desperate mess who can’t believe he’s being dominated so deliciously.

You slide your hands up his chest, arching your back, keeping your rhythm just slow enough to torture.

“You gonna be good for me, Haechan?”

“I’ll be so good—I’ll do anything—”

“Then sit back,” you whisper against his ear. “And let me wreck you.”

He gasps.

And you do.

Over and over, until his fingers are shaking, his voice is cracking, and he’s coming with a loud, broken moan that echoes off the walls.

After, he’s boneless.

Absolutely, gloriously wrecked—sweaty, flushed, and mumbling nonsense with a dopey grin.

“I’m never talking shit again,” he breathes.

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe. But only if you promise to shut me up like that.”

You kiss his jaw and smile.

“Careful what you wish for.”