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carnalcrows · 5 months ago

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BABYSITTER - THE SALESMAN

pairing: the salesman x male reader

synopsis: When a broke college student takes a babysitting gig, he signs up for snack time and bedtime stories—but ends up with bloodstains, cryptic employers, and an unsettling crush on the kid’s disturbingly hot dad.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, blackmailing, blood, anal, breeding, creampie, missionary, mating press, dubcon, mentions of kidnapping, too much plot

word count: 5.2k (good lord)

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon when you found yourself perched in the corner of the campus café, a half-empty cup of cold coffee sweating onto the table beside your laptop. Bills, tuition, and the general weight of adulthood had a way of pressing down on your shoulders, leaving you in a constant state of mild panic. You scrolled through job listings with the desperation of someone clinging to a lifeboat.

Barista? You had already been rejected twice due to your “lack of experience.”

Retail? They wanted you available on weekends, which wasn’t feasible with your study schedule.

Dog walker? Allergic to fur.

The list grew more depressing as the minutes ticked by, until one particular post caught your attention:

"Babysitter needed. Flexible hours. Payment upon services rendered. Serious applicants only."

There was no company name, no attached image of a smiling family, not even a hint about the age of the child you’d be babysitting. The simplicity of it screamed sketchy, but the promise of payment dangled in front of you like a carrot on a stick.

“Desperate times,” you muttered, clicking on the post.

The application form was equally bare-bones, asking only for your name, availability, and a short paragraph about why you wanted the job. You quickly typed something generic about being responsible and good with kids, then hit send without much hope.

To your surprise, you received a reply almost immediately.

"You’re hired. Start tomorrow at 3 PM. Address: [Redacted]."

You stared at the screen, bewildered. No interview? No background check? Either this was the world’s most desperate parent, or you were walking into a scam. A friend texted you moments later, asking if you’d found a job yet, and you decided to leave out the details when you replied,

"Yep, starting tomorrow."

The afternoon sun was scorching as you made your way up the steps of the quaint suburban house. The place had a sort of storybook charm—a neat lawn, pastel shutters, and a small porch swing swaying lazily in the breeze. If it weren’t for the suspiciously vague job listing you’d answered, you might have thought you were walking into a feel-good rom-com instead of a potentially shady situation.

You knocked on the door and waited. Seconds ticked by. You shifted awkwardly, glancing over your shoulder as if expecting hidden cameras. But just as you were about to knock again, the door flew open with surprising force, revealing a little girl standing barely taller than the doorknob.

“Hi!” she exclaimed, her voice so cheerful it nearly gave you whiplash. “Are you the babysitter?”

“Uh… yeah,” you replied, startled by the sheer intensity of her enthusiasm. “That’s me.”

“I’m Su-an,” she said proudly, puffing out her chest. “Come in! I was just having a meeting with my council!”

Before you could even ask what she meant, she grabbed your hand and tugged you inside. The house was warm and cozy, if a little cluttered, with toys scattered across the floor and crayon drawings taped haphazardly on the walls.

---

“This is Mr. Snuggles,” Su-an announced, holding up a ragged teddy bear with one ear chewed off. “He’s the president of my council.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, nodding solemnly. “And what does the council do?”

“Important stuff,” she said, narrowing her eyes like she was letting you in on a state secret. “Like deciding who gets cookies after dinner. Also, they voted to make you the assistant.”

You blinked. “I don’t remember running for office.”

“Well, you didn’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “But Mr. Snuggles said you looked like you’d be good at it.”

Before you could protest, she shoved the bear into your hands and pointed to a tiny table covered in a chaotic mix of crayons, plastic teacups, and a single half-eaten cookie.

“Sit,” she ordered. “The council meeting is starting!”

---

The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a whirlwind of nonsensical games and increasingly bizarre “council decisions.” At one point, you were ordered to wear a paper crown (which barely fit) and were dubbed the “Official Snack Prince.” Your royal duties included distributing Goldfish crackers and ensuring everyone—stuffed animals included—got an equal share.

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” Su-an said, eyeing you critically as you handed Sir Fluffington his crackers. “Better than my last babysitter.”

“Oh?” you asked, curious. “What happened to them?”

“They couldn’t handle the council,” she said gravely.

---

After the meeting adjourned, Su-an decided it was time to “train” you in the art of hide-and-seek. You played along, even though she kept hiding in the same spot: under the dining table, her giggles giving her away every single time.

“Found you again!” you said, crouching down to peer under the table.

She gasped, genuinely shocked. “How are you so good at this?!”

“It’s a gift,” you deadpanned, earning another round of giggles.

---

When hide-and-seek got old, she declared it was “dance party time.” She dragged you to the living room, where she plugged in her favorite playlist on an ancient speaker. The first song was a pop hit you vaguely recognized, and before you could even protest, she was already twirling around like a whirlwind.

“Come on!” she yelled over the music.

“I don’t dance,” you started, but she shot you a look so devastatingly adorable that you had no choice but to join in.

What followed was ten minutes of the most ridiculous dancing of your life. Su-an moved like she was powered by pure chaos, flailing her arms and jumping around, while you attempted something resembling the robot. She laughed so hard she tripped over her own feet, and you had to catch her before she face-planted into the couch.

---

As the day wore on, you found yourself genuinely enjoying her company. She was smart, funny, and had the kind of boundless energy that made you wonder if kids ran on caffeine instead of juice boxes.

By the time bedtime rolled around, you were exhausted. Getting her into pajamas was an ordeal—she insisted she couldn’t sleep without her “lucky socks,” which turned out to be mismatched and buried at the bottom of her toy chest. When you finally tucked her in, she stared up at you with wide, sleepy eyes.

“Will you come back tomorrow?” she asked, clutching Mr. Snuggles to her chest.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “I’ll be here.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

---

As you made your way back downstairs, you felt a surprising sense of accomplishment. Babysitting wasn’t what you’d imagined yourself doing, but something about Su-an’s infectious energy and genuine joy made it worth it.

You tidied up the living room, stepping over plastic dinosaurs and rogue crayons, and couldn’t help but laugh to yourself. If every day was going to be like this, maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad after all.

---

And so, your days with Su-an became a routine. Every afternoon, she greeted you at the door like an excited puppy, launching into a new scheme or game. One day, she decided you were a dragon and she was a brave knight. The next, you were her art teacher, helping her draw increasingly absurd animals like “dog-o-sauruses” and “cat-icorns.”

One particularly memorable day, she tried to teach you how to braid her hair. It did not go well.

“Why are there so many strands?!” you groaned, your fingers tangled in her hair.

“It’s easy!” she said, giggling. “You just go over, under, over, under!”

“You sound like a cryptic math teacher,” you muttered, earning another round of giggles.

---

The days passed in a blur of laughter and chaos, and soon, you found yourself looking forward to your afternoons with Su-an. She made you forget about your stress, your bills, and your endless to-do list.

Still, a question lingered in the back of your mind: where was her dad during all of this? But for now, you were content to let the mystery be. After all, it was hard to worry about much when you had a six-year-old demanding you be her “Royal Snack Advisor.”

It was one of those rare evenings when the air felt just right—not too cold, not too warm, with a soft breeze that carried the faint smell of grass and distant barbecues. Su-an had begged to go to the park after dinner, and you’d caved, eager to get some fresh air and give her a chance to burn off her endless energy.

“Push me higher!” Su-an squealed as she swung back and forth, her legs pumping excitedly. You stood behind her, laughing as you gave the swing a gentle push.

“Higher, huh? What are you trying to do, touch the clouds?”

“Maybe!” she shouted, giggling as the swing reached its peak.

The park wasn’t crowded—just a few other families and joggers scattered around. It was peaceful, the kind of evening where you could almost forget the strange tension that sometimes hung around the house, the questions you tried not to ask about her father’s late-night comings and goings.

But the peace didn’t last.

As you helped Su-an off the swing and she dragged you toward the monkey bars, a commotion near the edge of the park caught your attention. At first, you thought it was just a group of people arguing—a not-uncommon sight in the city. But then you saw him.

Your heart stopped.

There, in the dim light of a flickering street lamp, was a man—the man. His tall frame was unmistakable, even in the shadows. He stood over a small group of disheveled, huddled figures, who you quickly realized were homeless people. A plastic bag lay torn at his feet, loaves of bread spilled across the ground.

He wasn’t just standing there. He was stepping on the bread.

Your breath caught as you watched him stomp down with deliberate, almost mechanical force, grinding the food into the dirt. The homeless group stared in silence, some in shock, others looking away as if too defeated to protest.

“Isn’t that Daddy?”

The innocent question cut through the haze of disbelief like a knife. You snapped your head down to look at Su-an, her wide eyes fixed on the scene with a mix of curiosity and confusion.

“No,” you said quickly, your voice sharper than you intended. “It’s not.”

“But—”

Before she could finish, you crouched down and gently placed your hands over her eyes. “Let’s go, Su-an. We’re leaving.”

“Why can’t I look? What’s wrong?” she whined, squirming in your grasp.

“Because it’s not safe,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady as you picked her up and started walking away, her protests muffled against your shoulder.

Your mind raced as you carried her toward the car. What had you just witnessed? That couldn’t have been him—could it? But the silhouette, the way he carried himself—it was all too familiar.

You buckled Su-an into her car seat, doing your best to distract her with promises of ice cream and cartoons when you got home. But even as she babbled happily about her favorite flavors, your hands trembled on the steering wheel.

By the time you got back to the house and put Su-an to bed, your heart was still pounding. You paced the living room, replaying the scene over and over in your head. The way he’d crushed the bread underfoot—there had been no hesitation, no anger, just cold, calculated precision.

Who does that?

And more importantly, why?

The house was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as you shifted on the couch. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but between your classes, assignments, and Su-an’s boundless energy, exhaustion had taken its toll.

It was the sound of the front door slamming that jolted you awake. Disoriented, you blinked into the darkness, the faint glow of the kitchen light casting long shadows across the room. Footsteps echoed through the hallway—heavy, deliberate, and nothing like the hurried, near-silent ones you were used to from the man of the house.

You sat up, your heart beginning to race. Something wasn’t right.

When he appeared in the doorway, your stomach twisted into a knot. His usually pristine white shirt was drenched in blood, the vivid crimson staining the fabric and dripping in thick, uneven streaks. His face was ashen, his dark eyes wild and unfocused, like a man teetering on the edge of something you couldn’t name.

“Wh-what happened?” you stammered, instinctively backing away as the metallic tang of blood reached your nose.

“It’s not my blood,” he said curtly, his voice gravelly and sharp.

As if that was supposed to make you feel better.

“That doesn’t answer my question!” you said, your voice trembling despite your attempt to sound firm.

He staggered toward the kitchen, his movements unsteady but purposeful. Against every ounce of self-preservation screaming at you to stay put, you got up and followed him.

“Are you hurt?” you asked, your tone softer this time.

He didn’t respond, instead gripping the edge of the counter as if to steady himself. The dim light overhead cast harsh shadows across his sharp features, making him look even more unapproachable than usual.

“Sit down,” you said, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

He turned his head, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten. For a moment, you thought he’d ignore you, but then he surprised you by obeying. He sank into one of the kitchen chairs, his movements slow and deliberate, as if every step cost him.

You grabbed a damp cloth from the sink, your hands trembling slightly as you wrung it out. You weren’t sure why you were doing this—why you weren’t running out the door or calling the police. Maybe it was the way he looked, like a man who had seen too much, or maybe it was the faint vulnerability hiding behind his hard exterior.

“This... isn’t normal,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you began wiping the blood from his face. The cloth came away dark and sticky, and your stomach churned.

“You shouldn’t concern yourself with things you don’t understand,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a warning edge.

You paused, meeting his gaze. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them, filled with something unreadable—a mix of exhaustion, anger, and something else that sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m here,” you said, almost defiantly, as you moved to clean his hands. “So I’m already concerned.”

He didn’t respond, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly.

The silence between you grew even heavier, the only sound now being the soft movement of the cloth against his skin. Your hands were shaking slightly as you worked, wiping the blood from his face, his hands, but his eyes never left you. They were intense—piercing, almost as though he were searching for something in your expression.

You couldn’t look away for long. The tension in the air thickened with every passing second, your heartbeat picking up, each thud echoing loudly in your ears. It was like being drawn into a web you didn’t fully understand but couldn’t escape from, no matter how hard you tried.

When you finally stepped back, giving him space, you thought you’d be able to breathe again. But then, his hand shot out, quick as lightning, wrapping around your wrist. The touch was firm, deliberate, sending an involuntary jolt of electricity through your veins. You tried to pull away, but his grip was unyielding. His fingers were cold against your skin, but the intensity in his eyes made your heart race.

"Why are you helping me?" His voice was low, gravelly, and for a moment, you wondered if he was testing you—seeing if you’d reveal the truth, or maybe if you’d run.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your breath, but your pulse was hammering, and you couldn’t ignore the way your body reacted to his proximity. The heat between you both felt suffocating. His touch was grounding, yet it stirred something dangerous inside you. “Because someone has to,” you replied, your voice steady, though you could feel the words slipping off your tongue more as a defense than truth.

His gaze deepened, darkening in a way that sent a chill down your spine. The air between you was thick, electric, as if there were an unspoken promise between you both—a promise you knew you were too afraid to fully acknowledge. Then, before you could even react, he pulled you in close. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a force that made your breath catch in your throat.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was a collision, desperate and overwhelming, like a dam that had been holding back too much for too long and was finally breaking free. His kiss was messy—almost violent—as if he needed to consume you, to claim you in a way that made your knees weak and your thoughts scatter. His lips were demanding, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in a way that made your body tremble.

You should’ve pushed him away, told him to stop, told him that this was wrong. Your mind screamed at you to break free, but your body betrayed you, leaning into him instead, matching the fervor of his kiss. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you even closer, his grip tightening. Your breath was ragged between kisses, and your pulse pounded in your ears as the world outside of the two of you seemed to vanish.

When he pulled away, just far enough to catch his breath, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. You couldn’t think. All you could feel was the lingering heat of his touch, the undeniable thrum of desire that still buzzed beneath your skin. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something in them—something dark, dangerous, but...hungry.

His lips curved into a smirk, and it sent a jolt of unease running down your spine, mingled with something else, something deeper.

“You’re in over your head, kid,” he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your back.

The words should’ve been a warning. They should’ve sent you running. But instead, they only lingered in the air between you, wrapping themselves around you like a noose. You should’ve known then, but you didn’t want to listen.

And for the first time, you realized: you were already tangled up in his web, and maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want to escape.

The obsession grew in subtle ways. You’d arrive to find unexpected gifts waiting for you on the kitchen counter: a sleek leather wallet, a watch so expensive you didn’t dare wear it, a bottle of cologne that smelled like a storm breaking over the ocean.

When you tried to protest—“This is too much” or “I can’t accept this”—his expression would shift. His jaw would tighten, his eyes darkening with something that made your chest tighten.

“Take it,” he’d say, his tone brooking no argument. And you’d always comply, your words catching in your throat as he gave you a look that said refusing wasn’t an option.

Your feelings about him became a tangled mess of contradictions. Every instinct screamed that something about him was wrong. The blood, the cryptic way he spoke, the chilling bread incident in the park—they all painted a picture of a man you should stay far away from.

But then there were the moments that left you reeling. A lingering glance, a brush of his hand against yours, the way he could soften—just slightly—when he saw you with Su-an.

The first time he kissed you, you felt like your world had been turned inside out. It was sudden, overwhelming, and left you breathless. His lips were rough but urgent, like he was staking a claim rather than asking permission. And when it happened again—and again—you didn’t push him away. Instead, you found yourself leaning into him, craving the heat of his touch despite every rational thought telling you to run.

But his obsession wasn’t content to simmer beneath the surface. It began to consume him, bleeding into the delicate balance of your day-to-day life.

He started showing up during your babysitting hours, a presence that was impossible to ignore. At first, he’d just watch from the doorway as you played with Su-an, his dark eyes following your every move with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine.

Then, his involvement escalated. He’d dismiss you early—always with some excuse about needing to talk to you. But the moment Su-an was out of earshot, his demeanor would shift. He’d pull you into his room, his hands firm but not rough as he guided you inside.

“You’re spending so much time with her,” he’d say, his voice low and rough, tinged with something you couldn’t quite place. “Don’t forget who’s paying you.”

His lips would crash against yours before you could respond, his kisses urgent and messy, as though he couldn’t stand the thought of you being anywhere else but with him.

The final straw came on a night like any other—or so you thought. Su-an had already gone to bed, and you were tidying up the living room when your gaze drifted toward the slightly ajar door of the man’s study. It was a room he rarely used in your presence, a space he kept locked most of the time.

You hadn’t intended to snoop. But the door was open, and your curiosity, already inflamed by the strange events surrounding him, got the better of you.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of leather and faintly bitter cologne. The dim lighting cast long shadows over the mahogany desk and the shelves lined with books and files. One particular folder caught your attention—it was open, papers spilling out as if hastily shoved aside.

Your heart sank as you picked up the first page. It was your class schedule, neatly printed and highlighted. Beneath it were receipts from your favorite coffee shop, notes about your usual order scribbled in the margins.

And then there were the photos.

They weren’t candid shots taken on the street or at the park. They were intimate, the kind of photos someone would take if they were watching closely—too closely. You recognized the outfits, the moments. One was of you laughing as you pushed Su-an on the swings. Another showed you sitting on a park bench, earbuds in, entirely unaware of the camera.

The air in the room felt too thick, like it was choking you. Your fingers trembled as you shoved the papers back into the folder, heart hammering in your chest.

“What the hell is this?”

The words left your mouth before you even realized he was standing in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the light from the hall. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something intense.

The folder in your hands felt heavier than it should have, its contents seared into your memory. Photos of you, notes about your life, details no one should know unless they’d been watching you for far too long. Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at him, standing so calmly in the doorway as if this was all perfectly normal.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded, your voice shaking.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped further into the room, his movements slow, deliberate. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing you in with the man you were starting to realize you knew far less about than you’d thought.

“I warned you,” he said, his voice low, almost soothing. “I told you not to go looking where you shouldn’t.”

“This—this is insane,” you stammered, backing up until the edge of the desk pressed against your hips. “Why do you have these? Why are you—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he interrupted, his tone softening as he drew closer. His gaze was unrelenting, pinning you in place. “I’ve been watching over you. Protecting you. You’re... important to me.”

“Protecting me?” you shot back, your voice breaking. “This is stalking. This is obsessive. This—this isn’t normal!”

He stopped just a breath away from you, his height and presence overwhelming. His eyes, dark and piercing, searched yours for something, though you couldn’t tell what. Slowly, he reached out, his hand brushing against your cheek.

“I can’t lose you,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “Do you have any idea what you mean to me–and to my daughter? You’ve become... everything.”

The warmth of his touch sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. Your body tensed, torn between the instinct to pull away and the undeniable pull of his closeness.

“Stop,” you whispered, though your voice lacked the strength it should have had. “This isn’t—this can’t—”

But he didn’t stop. His other hand moved to your waist, firm but not forceful, as he leaned closer.

“You keep saying it’s wrong,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath warm against your lips. “But you don’t push me away.”

His lips brushed against yours, testing, as though giving you one last chance to stop him. But when you didn’t move, when your breath hitched and your hands gripped the edge of the desk behind you, he took it as permission.

The kiss was slow at first, deliberate and searching, as though he was memorizing every inch of your mouth. But it didn’t stay that way for long. His hand slid up to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer, deepening the kiss.

You gasped against him, your hands instinctively gripping his shirt. The heat of him, the sheer intensity of his presence, was dizzying. When his teeth grazed your bottom lip, you couldn’t suppress the small sound that escaped you—a sound that seemed to ignite something in him.

His movements grew more desperate, more consuming. He pressed you back against the desk, his body caging you in as his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down to the sensitive skin of your neck. The scrape of his stubble sent sparks of sensation racing down your spine, and you couldn’t help the way your head tilted to give him better access.

“You drive me insane,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough, almost guttural. “Do you even realize what you do to me?”

You swallowed hard, your mind racing even as your body betrayed you, leaning into him. His hands gripped your waist, his thumbs brushing just under the hem of your shirt, and you shivered at the contact.

“This... this isn’t okay,” you managed, though the words came out weak, shaky.

“No,” he agreed, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze was dark, filled with something you didn’t dare name. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t want it.”

The words hung between you, heavy and charged, as he leaned in again, his lips claiming yours with a hunger that left no room for argument. And though your mind screamed at you to stop, to push him away, your body betrayed you, pulling him closer instead.

His hand slowly trailed to the hem of your sweatpants, lightly tugging on the strap, you flinched when his cold hand suddenly went under your boxers.

“We shouldn’t be doing this– Su-an might-” you were interrupted with his other hand covering your mouth.

“Hush now, this room is soundproof,” he merely stated before harshly pulling your pants and boxers down with one tug. He then picked you up and placed you on the desk, pushing aside all the files and paper, which now seemed so insignificant.

“You’re hard. Are you still telling me you don’t want this?” He questions, his warm breath fanning your ear. You shuddered at the feeling, not knowing what to say, or what to do.

Before you could form words, he wraps his hand around your aching cock which was standing erect, partly due to the cool air, and partly due to what was happening.

His movements were minimal, slowly moving his hand along your shaft, while his other hand fetched a packet of lube from his back pocket. Where he managed to get that, you couldn’t tell.

He ripped the packet with his teeth, and spread the substance all over his fingers, before swiftly flipping you over, so that your ass was facing him.

Before you could utter a word of process, he had slipped a lubed finger in you. A wanton moan left your mouth at the sudden intrusion.

“Fuck–don’t stop, please,” the man only smirked at this, slowly sliding in another finger, and then another. Three of his fingers slowly pumped in and out of you, and oh, it felt heavenly. His other hand held you up just a bit, to keep you from falling off the study desk.

Your hands gripped onto the desk, frantically trying to keep yourself upright, but to no avail. You kept slumping off, the pleasure being too overwhelming.

“Stay still for me pet, that’s it–good boy,” the praise went straight to your dick, your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Soon, the man determined that you had been prepped enough, and removed his fingers. You whined at the sudden emptiness, wanting to feel full once more.

He stared at your twitching hole, clenching around nothing. The sight did nothing but turn him on even more.

He removed his belt and cast it aside, while tugging down his pants and boxers with a sense of urgency. He easily flipped you over with his strong arms, now getting a clear view of your already fucked-out face.

He merely grinned, and before you could respond, he slid into your awaiting hole. You gasped at the intrusion, the head of his cock bullying its way into your hole. He groaned feeling the way you clenched around his length.

Without waiting for you to adjust, he fucked into you like an animal in heat, holding your legs in such a way that your knees where at your shoulders.

The new angle made his length hit your prostate with every thrust, making your head fall back on the table, a loud moan leaving your lips.

The man was savouring every single reaction, every little noise you made. “Such a sweet little thing,” he cooed. “Can’t even keep a straight head while getting fucked, hm?”

The only thing that left your mouth was a string of garbled noises. Your brain had quite literally turned to mush with how well he was fucking you.

Soon, you felt your orgasm wash over you like a waterfall, but the man didn’t stop. Instead, he fucked into you harder, a bulge forming in your stomach with every thrust.

He lightly pressed on the bulge, which made you squeal– the overstimulation doing too much to your head.

He kept rutting into you until he felt his climax. When it came, his thrusts slowly started to stutter. Without warning he emptied his load in you, painting your gummy walls white.

He kept you on the desk, without pulling out as you whimpered, feeling so, so full.

With your mind in such a disarrayed state, you didn’t notice him slip a small ring onto your finger.

“Now you can’t leave me–or Su-an, ever. Poor thing needs a mother after all.”

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rajaniesh · 1 year ago

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Empowering Your Business with AI: Building a Dynamic Q&A Copilot in Azure AI Studio

In the rapidly evolving landscape of artificial intelligence and machine learning, developers and enterprises are continually seeking platforms that not only simplify the creation of AI applications but also ensure these applications are robust, secure, and scalable. Enter Azure AI Studio, Microsoft’s latest foray into the generative AI space, designed to empower developers to harness the full…

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chaoticgoodcaptain · 1 year ago

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when you apply for the "astrophysics" specialization in physics primarily because it's your dream, but expect to get only to the second "physics" specialization, and now your acceptance exam results are probably too good to land the second position, so you regret and celebrate your decision at the same time, while some career advisors laugh in the distance

#glad i at least applied for the bioanalyst last minute and hold one application in physics and chemistry for education #this is going to be interesting...#and i don't even want to think about my parents right now ^^#on the other hand i can at least frame the letter with “accepted to astrophysics” in it #xdxdxdxdxdxdxd #(puts on her ragged clown shoes and dark red nose)

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eternlmoonshine · 4 months ago

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theoretical knowledge vs. practical application ☆ spencer reid

summary: spencer studies intimacy like any other subject, but nothing prepares him for the reality of being with you. in your arms, he finally learns that some things can’t be understood- only experienced. pairing: inexperienced!spencer reid x reader warnings: fluff galore, lots of kissing (practically making out), intimacy, but no explicit sexual content! wc: 1.1k masterlist. a/n: this brilliant idea came from my very lovely moot @/jackiesistired over on twitter <33

Spencer had read five books about kissing.

Not just any books, no. They were scientific, psychology-based books that broke down the act of kissing into its most basic neurological, physiological, and psychological components. He’d also skipped numerous peer-reviewed journal articles, and, at some point, had managed to venture into less scientific territory- modern dating guides that made his skin crawl but ultimately did provide insight into what people expected in relationships.

And then, there was the… other research.

The kind that led to him sitting in front of his laptop at 3 a.m., his ears burning as he read about intimacy in ways he hadn’t yet experienced. He took notes. Intricate organized, handwritten notes in which he annotated his key findings, storing them away like highly classified information.

But all of it- all of the extensive research- meant absolutely nothing the moment your lips crashed against his.

⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰

You and Spencer had been dating for a few months now, and while things had been progressing steadily, he hadn’t made any major moves beyond gentle, lingering kisses and hesitant, shaky touches.

He was shy about it- not because he didn’t want you to know, but because he was terrified of messing up. He’d told you early on about his utter lack of experience, and you had reassured him earnestly that there was no pressure.

But he wanted more. He wanted to touch you the way you touched him. He wanted to kiss you until you were both breathless, and he wanted to see if reality could really live up to things he had spent so long reading about. He wanted to know if he was capable of making you feel good.

Most of all, he desperately wanted to stop overthinking.

Which is how he found himself here.

Spencer hadn’t realised just how sensitive he was until he was beneath your hands, beneath your lips, and was trying (and failing) to stay coherent.

You had started slow and gentle, kissing him with a sweet, lingering tenderness, but the moment he responded- the moment he made the quiet, needy sound in the back of his throat- you deepened it. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he could survive this.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging softly, and the delicious whine that escaped him was so involuntary, so desperate, that you felt him tense in embarrassment.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Don’t hold back.”

His breath hitched. His head spun as his grip on your waist tightened, unsure whether to pull you closer until there was no air between you or to push you away before he completely unraveled under your touch.

“I- I don’t-” He swallowed harshly as your lips gently brushed across his jaw. “I didn’t know I was this-”

“Sensitive?” you supplied graciously, dragging your lips down his neck.

Spencer shuddered. “Y-yeah,” he admitted, voice wrecked already.

You smiled against his soft skin. “I like it.”

He let out a ragged breath, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed kisses down the column of his throat. “I- I think I do too.”

You laughed softly as you trailed lower, and Spencer actually whimpered.

You’d never heard a sound quite like that from him before- so high and desperate- a noise that he clearly hadn’t intended to make. His whole body twitched beneath your teasing touch, and he was gripping the couch cushions like they were his sole tether to reality.

“Oh, God-” His voice cracked as your teeth grazed over his pulse point, his hips shifting instinctively beneath you.

He inhaled sharply as you went back up and pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw. Suddenly, his brain kicked into overdrive. "Did you know that the skin along the neck has an increased concentration of sensory receptors? It’s why-" His words cut off with a sharp inhale when your lips gently caressed the skin where his neck met his shoulder.

"Why what?" you teased, brushing your lips lightly over his neck.

"Why- it’s- um- " His breath hitched. "It’s a- an erogenous zone- highly sensitive- oh-"

"You were saying?" you murmured, dragging your lips up the column of his throat.

"I-" He tried again, but when you nipped lightly at his jaw, his thoughts crumbled.

You pulled back to take in the sight of him. He was flushed, panting, his pupils blown wide with something akin to pleading.

“Spencer,” you murmured, running your fingers through his tousled curls, reveling in how he leaned into your touch like he was starving for it.

He looked up at you in a daze, his lips parted like he was trying to form words, but he failed to find them.

“I-” He swallowed hard. “I did research on this.”

You tilted your head slightly and bit your lip, amused. “Uh-huh?”

“Very extensive research,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “A lot of it.”

“And what did your research tell you?” You hummed softly as you trailed your fingers lightly down his chest.

He inhaled sharply as he tried not to react to your touch. “That, uh- physical contact increases oxytocin, which promotes bonding, and- oh-” His voice broke when you pressed a kiss just below his ear, his whole body trembling beneath yours.

You grinned. “Go on, Spencer.”

“I- I-” His fingers clenched at your hips as you shifted, his breath stuttering. “Oh, my God-”

You kissed him again, slow and deep, and he let out the softest moan against your lips, feeling utterly helpless.

His hands trembled where they held you, like he was overwhelmed and he didn’t know where to move them. Like he was afraid that if he moved too much, or breathed too much, he might just lose control completely.

“You are adorable,” you whispered against his lips, dragging your nails lightly down his back.

He exhaled shakily. "I- um- "

Your smile softened, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s practice more.”

Spencer’s hands tightened on your waist, and for once, he didn’t overthink.

He just felt.

And it was so much better than anything he had ever read.

⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰

Later, when you were curled up against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

You lifted your head. “What?”

He shook his head, cheeks still tinged pink. “I spent weeks preparing. Studying. Making sure I knew everything I could possibly know. And yet…” He looked down at you, still dazed. “Nothing I read could have prepared me for you.”

You smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw.

“That’s because,” you murmured, “some things you just have to experience.”

Spencer exhaled shakily, pulling you closer.

“Then I think I still have a lot to learn.”

You grinned, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Good thing I loved teaching you.”

And when you kissed him again, he decided that practical application was his new favorite subject.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x you #inexperienced spencer reid #cm #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fandom #criminal minds fanfiction #my writing ✧#spencer reid ✧

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lighting-and-shadow · 2 months ago

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Ikigai, Part 4

Summary: You’re desperately in love with a man who already belongs to another.

Ikigai (n.) (Japanese): "A reason for being," the thing that gets you up in the morning.

Part 3, Part 5

She’s holding a gun at him.

Normally the sight of someone pointing a gun at Sylus wouldn’t floor you so much. It might make you a little worried. Sometimes it’d be humorous. Right now isn’t either of those times. No. You were flooded with a concoction of emotions, a sick and twisted storm that came up from the depths of your stomach.

Anger. Fear. Jealousy. And strangest of all, relief. Relief that maybe, just maybe, your eyes might be wrong for once. That the string from Sylus doesn’t lead to her. How else would you explain this?

Soulmates don’t do this to one another. They don’t spend days trying to force the other to cooperate. They don’t perpetuate lies to one another. And they certainly don’t press guns against one another’s chest and scream about how they murdered their family.

You want to intervene. To stop this nonsense right now. But Sylus’ gaze tells you otherwise. His very soul says otherwise. So you wait. You wait for something good to happen.

Bang.

Who knew such a familiar sound could make your blood run so cold? Never did one sound cause you so much turmoil. Everything goes blank at that moment. One second you’re standing a fair bit of distance away from the pair, the next you’re at Sylus’ side, pressing down on the wound that strangely won’t heal like it normally does.

Miss Hunter is one the ground, unconscious once again like the first time you saw her. You don’t hear her breathe. In fact, you don’t hear anything but your pounding heart and:

”My dragon is dead.”

It’s her voice. A voice so full of grief and rage that it puts what you heard shouted earlier to shame. A voice that weighs on you, drapes itself across your shoulders in a cold embrace. Your skin prickles at its touch. Bile wells up in your throat.

”My dragon is dead.”

There’s flashes of a different Sylus overlaying the one before you. One with horns, a gemstone in the center of his chest, and a long tail. You’ve seen this Sylus before. It happened the first time you two met. So the sight of him doesn’t change anything for you at all.

What does change things is that he seems paler. Pale from blood loss, something anyone from the N109 Zone would recognize immediately. He’s more ragged than you remember the former dragon being. Beaten. Broken. Defeated. So unlike the Sylus you know from both timelines. You can’t bare this image any longer. You look to a familiar sight: his eyes.

Whatever emotions and thoughts that swirl in those eyes evade you. You can’t look at them for long because that red doesn’t give you comfort. That red eats at you, devours you like the fiend he once was probably would’ve done to you. So you look elsewhere.

That’s when you see it. The thread, his and Miss Hunter’s thread, transforms before your very eyes. Standard red, the red of all threads, warps into the red of Sylus’ eyes. It shines and shakes until letters begin to dance out of both of their hearts. Those same letters curl along the thread, spiraling up and down it. You know it means the second you see them.

Messages on each other’s skin. How fitting.

Soulmates are never apart. But the fact that universe decided to give these two a way to communicate no matter the distance makes your heart burn. Even worse when you think of the applications: secret love notes on one another’s forearms, little doodles on the hand that remind them of each other, entire discussions taking place on their skin (discussions you’ll never be privy to)…

Wells of feelings, of emotions, churn in your threadless heart. You stare at Sylus’ with contempt, pain, and grief. The same sensations from your talk with Sylus on Miss Hunter’s first day come back. And it’s all because of some stupid thread. That thread made you this way, so you decide to gaze even further down.

You already knew you’d be getting glances of the old Sylus the further you looked down. Any dragon parts should not faze you.

The giant claymore through his chest does.

_”There’s so much blood,”_both you and the Miss Hunter from the past think.

Rational thinking is out the window.

“It’s stuck…” you hear yourself whisper. You don’t feel your voice come out from you when you do. You don’t feel your lips mouth the words. You don’t even feel the vibration of the sound in your skull.

It’s all overtaken by the weight on your chest. An elephant in the room that made its home right on your heart. Sitting there, waiting. For what, you don’t know. All you know is that you want that blade gone.

Your hands move on their own. They try to catch the imaginary blade, to yank it away from the chest of your beloved. As if that would do any good. Your hands meet air, and your tripped up brain still isn’t convinced to abort this useless mission.

“I-it won’t come out…” your voice comes out broken at first. “It won’t come out!”

Now you’re screaming. Large palms latch themselves to your shoulders, and you’re forced to face the dragon before you. Blood drips from his mouth. Yet, the same mouth seems to be forming words.

“Gamayun,” they read; it’s still not enough to bring you back. At least not to the present.

You hate your job as an auctioneer. Standing on a grand stage in front of sleuths of people who’re eager to buy whatever it is you’re selling with their blood money as you spin tales about this and that. Jewels, relics, weapons, protocores, and other such things are presented by you as you barter for the highest prices imaginable.

It’s terrible. But manage through it with a plastered smile and beautiful suit as you egg the nouveau riche on. They were, of course, your only real entertainment during work. Seeing flocks of people with too much money raise paddles to try and upstage their rivals never ceased to make you smile. They spend their money on such useless things.

You found joy in the little moments to survive. A man buying a prized jewel for his wife. A child’s eyes lighting up at some obscure antique. People happily finding that one missing piece for their collection. Those are the moments that keep you going; they’re what get you on stage.

That, and people watching. Some days you’d have the same crowd; other days an entirely new one. The auction house was just that kind of place. People come and go like the tide.

Because of that, it took a lot for anyone to truly catch your eye. So as you prance on that stage in your tailored suit, you pray for someone, anyone, to end your boredom. Today hasn’t been a good day for people watching. Nor has there been any of those sparse happy moments.

”Now, before we get to the real stars of the evening, I bring forth a more humble prize, an unassuming masterpiece. A rare gem not all get to have their eyes on, let alone own.”

As you spoke, you stand in front of the display case, blocking the object from view. Your gestures are dramatic, your voice is loud, and everything about you screams at the crowd for them to look at you and only you.

You play upon their greed, upon their pride and need to feel special. Because this next piece is yours. It’s something you crafted and begged for your boss to let you put it in. All the profits will go to you.

”Now, this piece has quite the history, ladies and gentlemen. A diamond rumored to bewitch and curse whoever is foolish enough to wear it.”

A different sort of a silence falls over the crowd. But you smile to yourself. You’ve planned for this exact scenario, the moment where weariness and fear begin to set in among the superstitious gang members of the N109 zone.

”What I have behind me is the infamous Hope Diamond, plucked away from the ruinous cage a silly museum once held it. Now, it rests in a crown of great value once again. Jewels are made to be owned, after all. Who in their right mind would listen to rumors of a curse when they could own such a beauty? Why do they let it rot in storage when it should be owned by the most powerful, rather than seen by the eyes of the poor?”

As you speak, you allow the guests to fully see the necklace you’ve crafted. It’s some of your finest work. It had to be, given what you were selling.

”Why would anyone allow such silly thoughts to stop them from owning such a gem? Who would be foolish enough to pass over such a beauty because of a little fear? Life is all about the unknowns and adventure. Perhaps previous owners didn’t know this, and fell because of their weakness.”

You add flare to your words, putting your heart and soul into selling this crown.

”And who knows? Maybe our lucky buyer will be the one to break this curse?”

You play to your audience well. Everyone here is full of greed, whether that be for money or power. And what better display of power is there than proudly wearing a cursed diamond?

Your ploy works. Guest can’t take their eyes off of the beautiful necklace. You mentally pat yourself on the back before calling out prices.

”Can I get 100 million for it?”

The resounding gasps warm your heart. Exactly what you wanted. Low-balling a gem as famous as the Hope Diamond, beginning bids at less than a third of its value, gets people to sit up. It makes them hope they can win. And it makes them spend like there’s no tomorrow. After all, even the criminals of the N109 zone love a great deal.

”150 million!” One familiar guest yells.

That’s all it takes for chaos to unfold.

”200 million!” Goes another.

”300 million!” And another.

”500 million!” And another.

You go all over the place, calling number after number, until the price reaches 800 million. A price higher than the original value of the gemstone.

”Going once,” you call. “Going twice…”

You let yourself pause, long and dramatic as you walk around the stage. You lock eyes with all those who had previously bid, but they shrink back in shame. The price was just too high. And you open your mouth to seal the deal.

That is until a new voice calls, “1 billion.”

You barely keep your composure.

”1 billion from Number 109.”

Silence. You call once, twice. More silence.

”Sold!”

The display case is wheeled away behind you. You barely notice the crew moving. All your attention is the man who just bought your piece. Because the amount it sold for was beyond your greatest dreams.

But there’s little time to dwell on it. There’s more things to be sold. So you resume your job, calm and collected, as you weave stories to the ignorance and prideful people.

The new guy continues his streak, showing off his wealth by spending an exuberant amount of money on practically nothing, or coming in and snatching away someone else’s prize at the last minute with a ridiculous bid. The reactions he gets each time almost causes a smile to cross your lips at inappropriate time. And he could tell, judging by how he stared at you.

Despite how far you are from the man, many details stand out to you. The first is how he, for some reason, seems to flicker. Back and forth his appearance shifts. From human to something more. Something with horns, scales, claws, and a tail. A dragon. He stays that way for a moment before returning to what you assume to be his normal look, a human.

The next thing you notice is his hair. The bright silver contrasts the darkness of the auction room, and his own black/red attire. It’s a beacon of color, matching well with his pale skin.

You can’t see his eyes from here, but you do feel them on you as you leave the stage. You don’t quite know how you feel about that.

As soon as you slip out of a view, you drift to your little private room and instantly deflate. You’re alone now. Away from prying eyes and soulmate threads that shake you to your core. You can be you here. You don’t need to pretend anymore.

The slight bit of reprieve is enough for you to regain your strength. Because you know your boss doesn’t like for you to hang around when you have a client as big as the new man. He hates when you go anywhere near them. And since you’d rather not be fired, you quickly move out. Only to be greeted by a strange sight.

The same man is backstage. Now, you can see him in full detail. He smells a bit of gunpowder and cologne. A perfect face, broad shoulders, and beautiful eyes. Oh how his eyes make you stop for a moment. That red; that blazing red. He had the red of soulmates, the red of fate, in those eyes.

You can’t help but stare. The only thing that gets you to rip your eyes away from him is the call of your name. Your boss. He says something about giving the man a tour and a few special gifts. The usual treatment for someone who spends so much at your auction house.

What’s weird is that you’re doing it. You employer values your orator skills too much, but he also trusts you too little to let you do something like this.

”And why ever would it by my responsibility to do this? Tours aren’t my thing.”

”I was curious about the crafter of my crown.”

The first words the strange man say to you give you pause. You turn away from your boss to look directly at him. Your crown, the Hope Diamond, sits precariously on his head. He stares into your eyes as he crooks it more with one hand, teasing you.

”You told him I made it?” You address your boss this time, weirded out even more.

He never gave you credit for your past creations and contributions to the auction house. Your boss only cares for the pretty words you spout. Not the endless nights setting and resetting jewels. Not the countless hours of researching and scouring the world for the perfect gem. None of your other work goes noticed. Why would that change now?

Looking at your boss again, he’s nervous. Cold sweat on his face. A subtle shake in his shoulders. The way he leans away from your guest in fright, something he’s never done with anyone else. You pretend not to notice. He opens his mouth to speak, but another voice cuts him off.

”I asked him about you,” the mystery man interrupts. “I was curious about the person bold enough to sell a cursed jewel. Who’d willing want anything to do with such misfortune.”

”Strange words from the man who bought it for such an exuberant price.”

He lets out a breath; not a laugh, but not a scoff. Just some acknowledgement of your words and the boldness they carry.

”Besides, I for one like to see things with my own eyes. Only I myself can make such a judgement with my own knowledge and experience. Whether that be about curses or people.”

”And why’s that?”

”Because people love to twist the narrative. A pretty lie always garners much more love and affection than a bitter truth.”

That seems to resonate with your guest. He smiles at you. And in that smile lies something you’d rather not dig into. In the N109 Zone, you know better than to dig into things that don’t concern you. It’s how you’ve survived this long.

Knowing that, you keep your guard up as you stare at the stranger. He stares right back, scanning you. He looks at you as if it’s only now that he truly takes you in.

”Mr. Qin?” Your boss breaks the odd tension between the two of you.

”Ah, yes. The tour,” Mr. Qin turns to you and offers his arm to you. “I’d like to get started now, if you don’t oppose.”

”Why ever would I?”

You turn to your boss, trying to hide a smug smile when he reluctantly presses the key to his private stash in your palm. You never go down there; other staff do, but you’re different for some reason. Maybe because you’re not originally from the zone? Or maybe because you have principles, line you won’t cross, unlike them?

The two of you leave, and descend below the stage. You arm still rests on his as you walk down the familiar stairs. You’ve walked down here dozens of times. But you’ve never been able to enter the treasure trove that laid in it. Today was different.

”You seem awfully chipper,”

”I’ve never been allowed near his majesty’s treasure room,” you smile up at him. “And now you’ve allowed me to do so.”

That seems to catch Sylus off guard. But he quickly recovers.

”You’ve worked for him for how long now?”

”About a year."

”You’d think you’d have earned more trust by now.”

You shrug.

”I’m just a simple spokesperson. A seller, if you would. And trust isn’t a thing here.”

Sylus lets out a chuckle. It sends delightful shivers down your spine.

”A spokesperson who crafts crowns made of cursed gems?"

”Crowns? I believe you mean crown. I’ve only even made one crown out of a rumored to be cursed gem.”

He laughs a bit as you finish descending the stairs and begin to maneuver down the winding hallways.

You speak again, “I used to be a jeweler before I fell out with my past employer.”

”Fell out? That’s not what I heard.”

”Fell out? Murdered? Same thing,” he chuckles a bit before you continue. “We had irreconcilable differences and moral standings.”

The rest of the walk to the room is silent. But something to had shift in Sylus. He looked at you more now, glancing every once a while as if he was trying to figure you out. But you just focus on the key in your hand and what was in store for you.

The moment the door appears before you, made of dark wood and carved with designs dotted with protocores, you almost pause. But then the sensation of Sylus pulling his arm away from yours snaps you out of it. You insert the key, turn it, and walk inside.

Your boss’ treasure room isn’t what you imagine it to be. It isn’t covered in jewels, or antiques, or protocores. Rather, a single desk with chairs on either side sit in the room. And on it, lies a single notebook.

Sylus doesn’t stop for a moment. He makes a beeline for the notebook, reads it, and his expression changes again. This time to something darker. But it’s only for a moment before he puts on the same cocky look before leaning against the desk.

As Sylus sits on the desk, something begins to peak out from his pocket. But it’s enough for your heart to drop. A detonator switch. You look at it for a bit before forcing your eyes to snap upwards. Sylus smirks at you.

”He knows,” you think. “He knows you know.”

Your survival instincts kick in at that moment. And you talk. You talk about your skills. You talk about your past. And you talk about your hatred of your boss. Then, he takes the bait.

”Sounds like you’re in desperately need of a new employer.”

_”You offering good sir?”

_He looks at you with eyes that say he knows what you’re doing. Eyes that know your words are just that of a person desperately trying to survive. Those eyes scan you, dig into you to try and discover something. You don’t know what that something is, but you hope they don’t find it.

_Then they suddenly change.

”You don’t know, do you?”

”Pardon?”

It wasn’t just his words that gave you pause. It’s his tone, the gentle and tame look in his eyes, and the overall sudden shift in his demeanor. But before you can ask questions, he shows you the notebook.

Suddenly, your blood is cold. You’re cold. Full of dread and fear and bitterness. You want to throw up. You want to scream. You want to cry. But you can’t do anything of those things. Because none of that would measure up to the feelings that that notebook gives you.

There are names inside of the book. Pages and pages and pages of names with numbers next to them. Ages. Victims. A log of people your boss didn’t want you to know where dragged here

You left your previous job because of trafficking. You burned that place to ash and strangled your old boss to death with her own thread of fate because of the children she kept chained up below her establishment. You told your current boss the day you signed on that if he did the same, you’d be out.

But he did it anyways. According to these records the man, Sylus, gave you, he’s selling people on your days off.

”I’m bit surprised I’m not on here,” your tone is bitter, and it surprises Sylus, judging from the way his eyebrow raises and his eyes shift. “He’s willing to break the terms of our deal, and yet’ll keep me free.”

Neither of you can speak after that.

”Do you know where they are?” You force the words out of your mouth.

”My people have already taken care of things. All that’s left is the aftermath.”

You both stare at the little device in his hand. Your heart pounds in your chest.

”Would like to do the honors, my dear diplomat?”

You stare at his open hand for a moment. You could take this and run. You could ruin his entire plan. You could betray him. Your eyes flit back and forth between his hand and his eyes. There’s no weariness in them. No worries or judgement. Just curiosity.

Then you replay his words in your head. _His diplomat. You were hired. And because of that, you take the device from his hand, cautious and watching. But, at the same time, anticipating your new future._

”It would be my honor,” you fiddle with the device for a moment. “But one more thing."

”And what would that be?”

”My benefit for this deal. It’s hardly a good one if one party isn’t satisfied.

Sylus laughs at you and summons his Evol to pull you close to him. You don’t struggle. In fact, you embrace the red energy swirling around you.

”Name your price.”

You’re a bit surprised at his nonchalance. But you take it.

_”Don’t betray me. Don’t lie to me.”

”And I ask the same for you.”

”How do you know I’m not lying to you like your former boss?”

You smile. “I don’t. Just as you don’t know if I’m lying. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

He shakes his head at you playfully.

”If I do, will you add me to your roster of murdered employers?"

”Absolutely.”

”Then I look forward to it.”

”As do I,” and the you press the button.

Explosions ring out. Rubble falls around the two of you, people dying left and right with screams. And yet, you feel so at peace. It’s serene and lively here with Sylus, his Evol shielding you as his grin widens when he sees your expression. Are you smiling too? You can’t tell because all your senses are drowned out by the pounding of your heart.

Something touches the top of your head, and you look up. It’s Sylus. His hands situate something onto you and you touch your head. It’s your crown. He adjusts it carefully, cautiously, and a wide smile crosses his lips.

”There,” he mutters. “It suites you.”

You just stare into Sylus’ eyes. You look at his red, and you love it. For once, the red of fate isn’t so lonely.

And you snap back to the present. You wish you hadn’t. You wish you could stay in that time and place before your life got complicated. Before you fell in love with the wrong man. Before said man’s soulmate appeared and wrecked your life.

Your vision steadies. But you wonder if you’re still stuck in some weird medium between another time and your present. Why else would Sylus look so scared?

Author's Note: Also, please go to the original blurb to ask to be added to the taglist (it's impossible for me to keep checking every part every time I update).

Taglist: @eolivy, @rafayelridesfisheatsfish, @animegamerfox, @jasperjokester, @schrodingerskimdokja, @just--crys, @snowdynasty, @shi-thats-kiera, @mansonofmadness, @dwuclvr, @ameilli, @katiedoesstuff101, @everythingistaken00, @napa-the-yappa, @hanaluxx, @lovesick-sylus, @tenaciouszombiewombat, @ladyparamount, @applepi405, @midnight-reverie, @69-gojos-wife-69, @bellagrayson-wayne, @phisen, @idkmanimjusthorny, @munchychuusy, @autumn2534, @poptrim, @sillyfreakfanparty, @zaynesfirefly, @flamedancer13, @thissmartdumbass, @mrsllawliet, @jeondyy, @ssetsuka, @dels-page, @that-lost-one, @johnnysactualgf, @mariquitas-en-verano @toelady, @sinnamon-bunn, @yesbiaswrecked, @doggyteam2028, @little-rays-of-darkness, @albatrossblue, @vyntheria, @silverianni, @browneyedgirl22, @tiklestar, @beaconsxd, @pepperushia

#sylus x reader #sylus fluff #sylus angst #sylus x non!mc reader #sylus qin x reader #sylus x mc #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #lads x reader #ikigai

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marsreds · 6 months ago

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Ough ough ough, you're cooking with this!! Because this ties it all so nicely and like. The laying out of the various ways it could've gone and who is actually good for Zaun/the Undercity.

What I mean is that if you look it as Jinx=Zaun you also get to project all these other relationships as metaphor for how all these characters (and their ideologies) interact with the idea of Zaun (in season 1):

Sevika being single-mindedly furious and uncompromising which can only lead to something breaking down the line.

Ekko who claims to reject it, but when it comes to it, he can't let it go. Stripped of all, he does in fact want a free Zaun, even when it's to his detriment. (Boy Savior indeed.)

Caitlyn is just. Terrified but can't manage to take the shot, because no matter how much Piltover tries to stomp it out it's not gonna happen.

Silco who loves her/Zaun with all of his being, identifies with her/its suffering but in spite of all of that, he's just not what she/it needs but he's also, due to circumstance, the only one she/it has at the time.

Vi is the odd one out here in this reading imo, but I also think that is intentional because Vi was always supposed to pick her sister over anything else, and that means transcending the metaphor and caring for Powder/Jinx the person, once the synthesis happens in her mind. But thinking about it, even that fits because Zaun the ideal is worth nothing if it isn't centered on people coming together in community.

Anyways, Arcane season one you will always be famous.

Arcane S2 wasn't as good because it wasn't about air

The common critique of Arcane season two was that "it didn't let the story breathe." I'm going to one-up that and state that season one set up an entire story about breathing and forgot that in season two.

Yes, yes, Arcane was a story about Piltover oppressing the undercity, but unlike a lot of other stories about social stratification, Arcane was very explicit about the methods Piltover uses to disenfranchise Zaun. Season one was clearly a story about eco-apartheid maintained through extractivist practices.

WHAT IS ECO-APARTHEID?

Ecological apartheid (also known as enviromental racism) is a form of disenfranchising and spatially separating a class of people through pollution, exploitation, and abuse of their local environment.

[E]nvironmental apartheid was largely instituted through rural marginalization, the use of rural space as an environmental means of marginalization... - Environmental apartheid: Eco-health and rural marginalization in South Africa

Topside and the undercity are basically one nation state with a blindingly stark fence between them. Piltover and Zaun are simultaneously connected and separated by the Bridge of Progress. Progress unites them and alienates them from one another. Progress is why Piltover is wealthy and clean, and it is why Zaun is impoverished and polluted. It is was on the Bridge of Progress that Silco incited the riot that led to Vi and Powder's orphaning and Vander's betrayal. It's where Ekko and Jinx have their standoff, and where the Hextech core is exchanged. In other words, progress is a border.

WHAT IS EXTRACTIVISM?

Prior to the proliferation of shimmer and the chembarons, industry in the undercity appears to be heavily centralized around one thing — fissure mining. Vi and Powder's parents used to be miners along with Vander and Silco. Jayce and Vi visit one of these mines and she explains the masks the workers use. Oh, and let's not forget the children don't have to yearn for the mines when they're dying in the mines!

The Zaunites' livelihood being dependant on the extraction of natural resources for the benefit of the Piltovans is what is known as extractivism — the exploitation of a resource-rich land and its people by a separate "global North."

In practice, extractivism has been a mechanism of colonial and neocolonial plunder and appropriation. This extractivism, which has appeared in different guises over time, was forged in the exploitation of the raw materials essential for the industrial development and prosperity of the global North. - Extractivism and neoextractivism: two sides of the same curse

The "North," in this case, clearly being Piltover. The resources being abused and exploited here aren't only the fissure mines, but also the bodies of the workers and those born around them. Viktor's illness, for example, is a product of growing up around the gaseous waste of the fissure mines. The Zaunites take the brunt of the side-effects of the pollution so that the topsiders don't have to. The "dregs" are kept below while materials, both people and things, that are deemed useful get to rise to the top. The processing of raw materials and shipping happens in Piltover, so it's the Piltovans who get a final say on the profits.

Silco and the chembarons establish their power by creating an industry that operates outside of fissure mining that doesn't rely on the patronage of the global North. Needless to say, drug dealing isn't exactly a noble trade, but extraction, processing, and distribution are mainly controlled and operated by Zaunites, which allows them a source of wealth and power that they can leverage against Piltover. To use a more recognizable phrase, they own the means of shimmer production.

I find it fascinating that shimmer is made by killing innocent underground creatures. Cannibalizing your own kind for a temporary boost of strength that eventually turns the user into a monster? It's a poignant metaphor about the infighting of not just the chembarons' gangs but of oppressed groups in general. And while shimmer offers power and brings in wealth, that's not what the undercity truly needs and only corrupts it even further.

Nah, the show has been very clear that what Zaun needs is breathable air.

SEASON 2 FORGOT ABOUT AIR

Even outside of the air pollution caused by fissure mining, the theme of breathing and air is everywhere in season one. Ekko and the Firelights' community is built around a tree — the clean air it provides is the reason they've been able to sustain themselves. It is considered an oasis in polluted Zaun. Jinx's is often heralded by brightly colored smoke, and the way she signals to Violet is through a flare that emits it. Silco's altercation with Vander involves him almost drowning — Vander literally choking the air out of him. Silco, in reponse to this traumatic event, teaches Jinx to willingly submerge herself in a place without air by baptizing her in the same filthy water he was choked in.

In other words, air is life and purpose. Zaun's aesthetics are defined by gas masks and smoke. Meanwhile, the scenes in Piltover are clean and clear. Ekko and the Firelights' tree represented hope and the possibility of clean air in Zaun. Viktor was similarly associated to flowers that grew in the underground, symbolizing how beautiful things can live even in the harshest circumstances.

Environmental degradation, more specifically air pollution, is the raison d'être of topside-undercity conflict. Silco says as much when he threatens the other chembarons and reminds them of why he's in charge.

Have you forgotten where we came from? The mines they had us in? Air so thick it clogs your throat — stuck in your eyes. I pulled you all up from the depths, offered you a taste of topside and fresh air. I gave you life. Purpose. But you've grown fat and complacent, too much time in the sun. We came from a world where there was never enough to go around. That is why we fight. Do you remember? - The Boy Savior, Arcane S01E07

But by the second and third acts of season two, pollution may not as well exist in Zaun. How does Viktor's commune plant its flowers and grow its fruits? Does the Firelights' tree ever get cured of its corruption? Did everyone forget that the undercity is literally suffocating? Seriously, why is Ekko's storyline with the tree never resolved? Why give Jinx that monologue about a wispy goddess of air the fissurefolk pray to and never go anywhere with it?

JINX SHOULD HAVE BEEN ASSOCIATED TO JANNA

The Grey presented an opportunity for Jinx to be the revolutionary hero Arcane wanted her to be. The enforcers have clearly aligned themselves with pollution and poison, and Jinx could have been the herald of their wind goddess come to answer the people's prayers for relief. But the people don't rally behind Jinx because of her association to Janna, clean air, or her repelling the invading cops using bioweapons.

I firmly believe that Jinx being a symbol of the revolution because she blew up a government building is missing a few steps. She'll get radicals who already hated Piltover behind her, sure, but the everyday Zaunite would more likely blame her for causing chaos and bringing trouble to their streets. Because the average person doesn't really care who's on the council or if a politician so far from them dies. But they do care if the cops are suddenly at their door with tear gas because an extremist junkie decided to commit arson.

The first act of season two had me very optimistic that the show was picking up where it left off with its enviromental themes. The enforcers use The Grey, polluted air, to surpress dissent and hunt down Jinx. Jinx fights back under a mural of Janna, the goddess of clean air. Her plan involves her using air to push back The Grey and send the gust up to Piltover. After being actively gassed by the enforcers, Jinx and her association to colorful wind becomes a symbol of hope and revolution to the people of the undercity.

Except that's not what happens. The Grey is only shown affecting targeted criminals with no collateral damage to civilians despite it being deployed all over the trenches. The gusts of wind Jinx pushes up to Piltover don't make topsiders experience the air pollution Zaunites suffer. Instead, it just midly inconveniences them with paint splatters. In the end, The Grey is forgotten and has nothing to do with their fight in front of Janna's mural. Caitlyn gets a promotion despite gassing the entire underground with nothing to show for it, and the undercity idolizes Jinx despite her being the reason they were gassed in the first place.

ECOLOGICAL RESTORATION IS INTERPERSONAL RESTORATION

Unlike in the game, Arcane chose topside and the undercity to be originally established as one city — and I don't think that was done without reason. The nation of Zaun and its identity is established as a reaction to the suffering of those underground. A community developed centered around helping one another cope and survive through the pollution. In short, Piltover created Zaun.

Thus, the interplay between Piltover and Zaun extended to all plotlines and the relationships they explored and developed. Jinx and Vi, Vi and Caitlynn, Viktor and Jayce, Ekko and Heimerdinger — these are all relationships that reflect the tension between Zaun and Piltover. Family torn apart by civil war, bitter ex lovers, different ideological approaches to scientific advancement, intuitive inventiveness and practiced genius. Their relationships are born from a common desire and degrade because of that looming border inflicted by the pursuit of progress.

Piltover and Zaun is a single house fractured because of how it threw all its detritus in the basement as it sought to build a tower that will reach the skies. The whole building is threatening to crumble, especially now that someone threw a bomb at it like in the finale of season one. The status quo Arcane and we as a globalized eco-apartheid have is extremely precarious as is any foundation built on abuse and exploitation. A lot of people will cheer on the Jinxes who don't care so much about fixing it than they do burning it all down to express their understandable rage and grief, but that doesn't really fix the problem of having breathable air, does it?

Unfortunately, we'll never know how the show will wrap up the Zaunite plight because it was all but forgotten in season 2. The problem of Zaun was never that they needed to evolve or be perfect — it's that their environment and the people by extension were being suffocated.

In my perfect world, the finale would have addressed the lack of light and clean air in the underground. It would have mirrored how some bodies and relationships can never truly fully recover the damage that has been done. As in real life, restoration is not a substitute for not doing harm in the first place. But it could have ended with a hopeful message that burning it down and running away isn't the answer either.

When Viktor was healing Vander and decided that, despite the unprecedented effort and time, his natural, non-weaponized humanity was worth saving because of how much he means to his local community, I thought that was what they were going for. Alas, they didn't let the show breathe.

#arcane #arcane meta #this is also another reason for me to be sad about Jinx and Viktor never *really* interacting #but he's in a different faucet of the self-extractivism story #mainly the self-destruction in the pursuit of “usefulness”#my personal read on Viktor is that he's obviously an immigrant #and i feel like he fills this interesting spot as someone who very explicitly embodies the consequences of Piltover's oppression #but at the same time belongs to neither #and i think it fits into this metaphor because i think he proves his brilliance with very careful and calculated application of chaos #the running yourself ragged #unless you've won the charisma lottery the way jayce had #it's what that stupid “cindy you're beautiful even with your glasses” speech should've been about #it's not about flaws #it's about inherent worth as a person divorced of your “contributions to society”#and it needed to come from Mr. Modernism himself #but that's a tangent #the point is that they (jinx and viktor) have parallel roads of self-annihilation ahead of them #bc capitalism chews up all #physical laborers #intellectual laborers #children #the disabled #ideas and innovation and anyone who isn't making money in the name of more money #woof #this is like 7 different trains of thought but whatever #season 1 you will always be famous

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youthguk · 2 months ago

Text

Entropy: Collapse (Finale) | jjk (m)

College AU | Fuckboy Jungkook x Physics Student Y/N

“The universe tends toward chaos.”

You said it was just sex. But gravity doesn’t stop pulling — and entropy always ends in collapse.

genre: smut, college AU, fuckboy!jungkook, explicit sexual content, strong language

Wc: 10k

part 1 here (!!!) your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You’ve spent the past four hours staring at the same simulation code, and the red blinking cursor feels more like a threat than a prompt. Your desk lamp is the only light on in the room, casting long shadows over textbooks, half-drunk tea, and the wrinkled copy of your research grant application — still unsigned, still mocking you with possibility.

It's one forty-seven a.m., the kind of hour that strips everything quiet, even your thoughts. The sky outside is the color of unfinished ink, and the campus streets below are empty. No movement. No noise. Just the occasional flicker of a hallway light going out down the corridor — dormitory entropy, in real time.

You rub your eyes and stretch your neck, but nothing shifts. Not the physics paper. Not the persistent heat blooming in your stomach. Not the memory of how his voice rasped when he told you to open wider. Five days have passed since Jeon Jungkook's last text.

Well — not since you left him hard in the TA room, lips bitten raw and pants around his thighs, after whispering “Don’t think this means anything.”

Your phone lights up with his name again - no message this time. He's already sent plenty that you've left unanswered, filling your notifications with desperate attempts at connection.

Something tugs at you, an invisible force as real as gravity. Your hand moves toward the phone with the careful slowness of someone trying not to startle fate. Each moment feels weighted with possibility, with the kind of weakness that threatens to become something more significant.

Without responding to his messages, you press call. The phone rings twice before his sleep-rough voice answers, "...Y/N?"

That sound - deep, warm, familiar in the worst way - hits you like a collapsing wave. You lean back, eyes closed, phone pressed to your ear. "Are you alone?"

A pause. "Yeah."

Your voice softens instinctively. "I'm in bed."

Through the speaker, sheets rustle. "Are you okay?"

"I can't stop thinking about that night."

His exhale trembles. "Baby..." The word slips past his pride. "I've been going crazy."

You wish you could stop, wish you could call this a mistake, but the moment has already consumed you. "I've been touching myself."

A guttural groan tears from his chest. You picture his hand flying beneath the sheets, his cock hardening as your thighs press together. "Fuck," he rasps. "Tell me what you're doing. Please—"

The leather chair squeaks as you shift, fingers trailing over your sleep shorts. "My hand's already there. I'm so wet, Jungkook."

His moan fills the line. "Are you rubbing your clit?"

"Mhm..."

"Slow?"

"Not slow enough."

His rhythm becomes clear through the phone - his ragged breathing, rustling fabric, the unmistakable sound of him stroking himself. You picture his tattooed hand wrapped tight around his cock, eyes closed, lips parted.

"Fuck, I wish I was there. I'd spread you open, use my mouth until you begged."

"I don't beg."

"You did," he growls. "You do."

Your breath catches as your fingers quicken, hips rolling toward something forbidden. "You'd fuck me slow first, wouldn't you? Just to tease."

His groan sounds pained. "Yes. God, yes. I'd make you come on my cock until you forget your name."

"Too late."

His laugh comes broken, winded. "God, you're unreal."

Your soft moan makes his rhythm falter. "Don't stop," he gasps. "Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop—"

You let him drown in your breathing, in the slick sounds of your movements, let him believe you're about to unravel. Then you pull away, letting silence fill the void.

"Y/N?" His voice comes breathless.

"I have to go," you whisper. "Goodnight."

"Wait—"

The call ends before he can finish. You stare at the dark screen, pulse still hammering between your legs, throat dry and cheeks burning. Somewhere in his room, he's still hard, still aching, still alone.

Without smiling, you let your head fall back and whisper to the ceiling, "Thermodynamics never warned me about this kind of heat."

The phone is face-down on the desk now, like it’s guilty. Your hand is still sticky with want. Your heart still beats faster than it should. But the room is quiet again — painfully, cruelly quiet. As if nothing just happened. As if you didn’t just break your own rules for the fifth time in two weeks.

You don’t move. You just sit in the stillness, surrounded by half-solved equations and the low hum of your old desk lamp. Your body is flushed and your mind is disgustingly awake.

The post-call static crackles louder than it should in your ears. What the hell are you doing? This wasn’t supposed to be anything.

Jeon Jungkook was entropy incarnate — hot and careless and untouchable. A beautiful disaster contained in perfect muscle memory. A reputation in motion. You were supposed to observe him like any other chaotic system: from a distance, with your hands behind your back and your lab coat on.

But now? Now you’re one of his goddamn data points. You swipe your tongue across your lips, still tasting the desperation in your own voice. He sounded wrecked. And the worst part? You liked it.

You liked knowing you could pull him apart with a few words. You liked the way his breath shook when he said your name. You liked the way you made him beg, even when you were the one unraveling.

The thrill of power over him was intoxicating, but that only made it worse. Your control slipped too easily when his voice came through the line - low and desperate, cock in hand, saying things that made your breath catch. He spoke like you were his whole universe, the only constant worth orbiting, and that terrified you.

With guilt tightening your spine, you push back from the desk and stand. This is exactly why you don't let yourself get attached. This is why you insisted it was nothing more than sex.

Because you can’t afford to lose focus. Not now. Not when you’re a finalist for the CERN summer rotation, when your advisor just asked for your draft proposal, when your whole future has to be measured in unit conversions and GPA decimals. And Jungkook? He doesn’t fit into the equation. He’s not a constant. He’s not a vector. He’s not even a variable. He’s the error term — the chaotic, unpredictable, heat-inducing mistake that corrupts the entire model. The kind of anomaly your professors warned you about.

And still, the memory of his moan echoes in your mind - that raw, strangled "baby" when you confessed your hand was between your thighs. Your knees buckle and you collapse face-down into your pillow, groaning into cotton.

You make the same promises you always do: You'll delete his number tomorrow. You'll end it properly next time. You'll mean it when you say it's over.

Because you are not a girl who gets off to old mistakes. And even thought entropy is inevitable — collapse is still a choice.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus courtyard is flooded with late-morning sunlight, the kind that turns everything golden and too warm, like the world’s trying to trick you into slowing down. You don’t. Your sneakers hit pavement with the same clipped rhythm they always do — fast, focused, efficient. A girl with a purpose.

There’s a coffee cup in one hand, a folder clutched to your chest, and your headphones are in — not for music, just for armor. Physics department office hours, then lab, then TA prep. No room for detours. No reason to look anywhere but straight ahead.

And yet, something catches your attention - his laugh. That low, boyish sound you've memorized despite yourself. Your steps falter slightly as your eyes find him: Jeon Jungkook.

Back leaned casually against the stone column outside the business department, one ankle crossed over the other, sleeves rolled up to his elbows like the heat doesn’t dare touch him. Two girls are perched far too close on either side of him, their voices high and coy, like everything they say is an invitation. One twirls a strand of hair around her finger. The other leans in, whispering something near his ear.

His smile is polite but distracted - his eyes are fixed solely on you. The moment your gazes meet, you freeze, blood rushing through your veins as your mouth fills with the bitter taste of caffeine and regret. He's not doing anything extraordinary, just standing there, yet the air seems to bend around him like he's become the center of gravity itself.

The sunlight catches him perfectly - illuminating his golden skin, the intricate tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt cuff, the silver ring glinting as he absently brushes hair from his face. You despise how vividly you remember those fingers against your skin, how he's the only one who's ever made you come undone with just his voice through a phone, making you feel completely his.

When his expression shifts into a subtle frown, hurt evident in the slight crease of his brow, you immediately drop your gaze. Without hesitation, you continue walking, shoulders squared and headphones suddenly deafening despite their silence. Behind you, Jungkook pushes away from the column, his eyes tracking your retreat until you vanish behind the admin building.

The girl beside him notices, nudging his arm with a pout. "Who's that? She looked... intense."

He doesn't answer, because only one thought consumes him: She saw me. And looked away like I never happened.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The seminar room smells like chalk dust, overripe fruit from someone’s lunchbox, and too many minds running on too little sleep. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Your pen taps lightly against your knee, bouncing in rhythm with the low buzz of voices filling the space before the professor arrives.

You’re early. As always. You’ve got your notes laid out like a defense line: printed equations, a crisp copy of the grant rubric, your half-drafted proposal for the summer placement. It’s the kind of prep that should settle your nerves, that should root you in facts and numbers and control.

But exhaustion weighs heavy, and your mind wanders to dangerous territory - his voice still echoing in your ears. Please, baby—talk to me—don't stop

Behind you, two girls slip into their seats, their laughter cutting through your thoughts.

"God, he's such a slut," one says, voice dripping with disdain.

"Who?" her friend asks absently.

"Jeon Jungkook. I swear if I see him flirting with another freshman outside the business library again..."

"He doesn't even try," the other scoffs. "Girls just throw themselves at him like they want their lives ruined."

Their gossip continues - something about a chemistry student with green hair, an economics major who fell off a table. Their words blur together as you stare at your notes, at the clean columns of formulas. ΔS = ΔQ/T. Entropy as heat divided by temperature. Order, motion, equations - these should be your constants.

But your stomach twists as memories flood back unbidden: your knees on his bedroom floor two weeks ago, his fingers teasing you under a library table while Newton's third law lay forgotten, his name on your lips just last night as aftershocks rippled through you.

They don't know. They shouldn't know. This was meant to be meaningless - for both of you. You were supposed to be different, just an anomaly in his system, a temporary spike in temperature. Yet here you are, his touch branded into your skin, his name still burning on your tongue.

When the professor walks in, you force yourself to focus on the equations before you, ignoring how your throat constricts and your hand trembles around your pen.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The air outside the lab building is heavy with spring. Not fresh — just close. Like something’s about to happen, but hasn’t yet. The sky’s turned white with too much light, and your skin feels a few degrees too warm as you step outside, research proposal folder pressed tight to your chest.

You need coffee. You need silence. You need distance from the way your body still pulses whenever you remember his voice on the phone.

Your heart stops when you spot him on the ledge near the back entrance. Jungkook lounges there with deceptive casualness - one foot propped on the low wall, black ball cap shadowing his face, fingers toying with his hoodie drawstrings. Though his posture seems relaxed, you know he's been waiting. Your stomach sinks as reality settles in.

A futile glance over your shoulder confirms this isn't your imagination. His eyes lock onto yours, and there's no escape.

And for a split second, his face breaks open like light through cloud cover — too fast, too warm. He stands up.

“Y/N.”

You continue walking, but he matches your stride, undeterred.

Keeping your eyes fixed ahead, you barely acknowledge his soft "hey" with a slight nod.

“Didn’t think I’d see you outside a textbook this week.”

You huff out a dry sound that might pass for a laugh. “I’m busy.”

He falls into step beside you. His hands are in his hoodie pockets. You can feel the heat coming off him like a small sun — too close, too real.

“You always say that,” he says, trying to joke. “Even when you’re coming on my—”

“Don’t.” The words come out too fast, too sharp. He falls silent as they continue walking, the tension between them thick enough to slice through.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is lower, gentler: "Hey... about the other night..."

You pause mid-step, refusing to meet his gaze. "There is no other night," you say coldly. "There was nothing."

He flinches as if struck, and you continue walking, leaving him behind.

And before he can recover enough to respond, you’ve already pushed through the glass doors of the research wing and disappeared into the building.

Behind you, Jungkook stands frozen in the courtyard, lips parted, jaw tightening.

He watches the door for a full ten seconds before muttering to no one, “…yeah. Fucking nothing.”

You don't stop walking until you're inside the stairwell, out of sight, out of breath.

Your fingers are white-knuckled around the folder. You hate that your hands are shaking. You hate that your heart is doing that thing again — the stuttering thing, like you just sprinted across a field when all you did was stand in his shadow for sixty seconds.

There was nothing. The words left your mouth with practiced ease, rehearsed like a formula you'd memorized. They should have felt precise and clinical - a clean incision to excise what had grown between you. Instead, the declaration burned like touching a live wire, leaving aftershocks that refused to fade.

The cool wall against your back offered little comfort as you tried to steady your breathing. His appearance had shattered your careful equations - that smile that hinted at shared secrets, that look that suggested you still held meaning. You'd convinced yourself he was forgettable, reduced him to simple physics: just impulse, just friction. But one glance was enough to resurrect every memory of his touch, every place his mouth had mapped your skin.

What twisted deepest was the hope in his eyes - that earnest belief that you might want conversation, that you hadn't truly relegated him to past tense. You pressed your knuckles to your lips, drinking in oxygen like it could douse the ember in your chest. You'd told him there was nothing, but your body betrayed you with every quickened heartbeat, every nerve ending crying out for more.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The third floor of the physics library holds a particular kind of silence - tense and punishing, where even the slightest sound draws sharp glares from focused grad students and ambitious TAs. Usually, this atmosphere helps clear your mind, but today the quiet only amplifies your thoughts.

From your favorite corner cubicle, you stare at your open laptop and notebook, equations sprawling across the pages in messy trails. The grant deadline looms just three days away, but instead of focusing on formulas, your mind keeps drifting to Jungkook's expression when you dismissed what was between you - not angry or smug, just wounded in a way that makes your chest ache.

You shift in your seat, grateful for the comfort of your loose sweater and short black skirt, hair clipped back carelessly. Relief should come easily after ending things, but your body betrays you - thighs pressed together, fingers twitching with muscle memory of threading through his hair.

The soft scrape of a chair breaks your reverie. An iced Americano appears at your elbow, condensation beading on the plastic, and your breath catches as Jungkook settles across from you uninvited. He's wearing a hoodie and black cap, a light sheen of sweat suggesting he rushed here. When his eyes meet yours, the silence between you grows thick with unspoken words.

He just nods once toward the drink. “You look like you needed it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

He raises his palms, surrendering. “Just being nice.”

You remain silent, knowing you should tell him to leave but finding yourself unable to form the words. Returning to your notes proves futile as the numbers blur together, his presence impossible to ignore. His leg brushes against yours under the table once, then again. Though you shift away slightly, you don't completely break the contact.

He leans in, his voice low, soft as static. “You don’t have to say anything.”

You blink slowly. “Then why are you here?”

He shrugs, lips curling into something unreadable. “You’re the only person who’s ever made me come from a phone call.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “I was alone.”

“You didn’t sound alone.”

You glance at him, sharply. But he’s not teasing. His gaze drops to your lips.

“I keep thinking about the way you sounded. Like you were trying not to moan.”

His voice dips lower. “Like you wanted me to beg.”

Your mouth is dry. “That’s not—”

His hand moves beneath the table, landing on your knee with deliberate intent. You freeze as he speaks in a low, steady voice: "Tell me to stop and I will." His fingers trace upward along your thigh in a slow caress, and though you know you should stop him, the words catch in your throat. His touch continues its path until he reaches the heat between your legs, pausing just shy of where you need him most. You can feel the warmth of his skin hovering there like a promise, and your body betrays you - already wet, wanting, yearning for more.

“I knew it,” Jungkook whispers, so quiet you almost don’t hear him. “I fucking knew it.”

Then he touches you. A single stroke through your folds — not too hard, not too soft — just enough pressure to make your back lift a half inch from your chair. You suck in a breath. Sharp. Audible.He doesn’t stop.

His fingers slide through your slick again, this time slower, almost reverent, parting your folds like he’s learning them from scratch. His middle finger circles your clit, not quite touching it directly — just close enough to make your thighs tremble.

“You shaved for me?” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “Came to study like this?”

Words fail you, conscious thought evaporating at his touch. Because just then, he pushes two fingers inside you. You bite your fist, hard.

The stretch is immediate. The way his fingers hook — upward, firm, unrelenting — makes your eyes roll back. You clench around him, wet and hot and embarrassingly ready, and he groans low under his breath like he feels it in his spine.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking tight.”

He starts moving — slow at first. A careful pump. Testing. Feeling how you open for him. His thumb brushes your clit, and your thighs jerk again. The table shakes slightly. You dig your heel into the floor to ground yourself, but it’s useless. He has you.

Every curl of his fingers finds that same spot inside you — the one that makes your knees want to give out.

Every stroke deeper makes your walls flutter. And every second your body stays silent is a war.

“Good girl,” he breathes. “Taking my fingers so well. So fucking good.”

You glance at the students two rows away — hunched over laptops, lost in problem sets. They have no idea you’re being finger-fucked within arm’s reach. That he’s curling his fingers just right. That his thumb is pressed to your clit now in slow, deliberate circles. That you’re already starting to twitch, to break.

“Keep your eyes open,” he whispers. “I want you to see how good I make you feel.”

You try with every ounce of willpower you possess. But when he leans across the table and growls “Come for me like this — right now — let them sit and fucking listen if you can't stay quiet,” you lose it.

Your orgasm shatters through you with the force of a detonation, your body pulsing desperately around his fingers as your hips buck forward. Stifling a moan, you bite down hard on your hand, stars exploding behind your eyes as waves of pleasure leave you trembling and wrecked. His fingers slow their torturous pace before slipping free, leaving you clenching around empty air, your skin feverish and oversensitive. When you finally manage to look up, you find him watching you intently as he slowly licks his fingers clean.

And before he can speak — before he can smirk or tease or reach for your hand — you’re already standing, already shoving your notebook back in your bag.

Wordlessly, you brush past his chair, pausing only to whisper close to his ear, "Don't follow me next time." Before he can respond, you slip away, leaving nothing but the ghost of your breath against his skin.

Jungkook remains in the sterile silence of the library, his chest heaving and body aching with need. Beyond the physical desire, something deeper and unfamiliar takes root in his chest - a feeling he can't name or shake.

The journey down the stairs passes in a haze, your legs unsteady and skin electric with lingering sensation. Your skirt clings damply, and every breath carries the taste of what just happened - salt and secrets, wild and unspoken.

The bright afternoon sun assaults your senses as you exit the building, the glare through the glass awning making your eyes water. Your heart still pounds an erratic rhythm as you stride forward, refusing to look back. You don't need to - you can feel his gaze following you from the third-floor window, heavy and inevitable as gravity itself, weighted with something that feels dangerously close to guilt.

By the time you make it to the research building, your pulse has evened out — mostly. You’ve redone your lip gloss. Pulled your hair down to hide your flushed neck. Smoothed the back of your skirt at least twice.

No one would suspect what had happened in that silent library just minutes ago, but the memory burns fresh in your mind. You climb the stairs rapidly, attempting to focus on anything else - trying to reclaim your identity as the dedicated student who lives for equations and late nights of study.

Your advisor stands outside his office, leaning against the doorframe with a coffee mug bearing "I Void Warranties." After exchanging greetings, you follow him into his paper-strewn office clutching your proposal folder like a shield.

"I read your draft," he says, thumbing through the pages. "The structure and math are solid. Your quantum modeling section exceeds expectations. If you complete the final sections this week, I'll submit it early to the CERN summer board."

Your breath catches at the mention of CERN - the pinnacle, the dream, your escape route. You manage a quiet thanks as he continues.

"Remember, you're competing with grad students," he adds, pausing to sip his coffee. "Stay focused. Don't lose momentum now - especially not for a boy, no matter how good he looks in sweatpants."

Your spine stiffens at the casual observation. Though he delivers it like light banter, the implication makes your ears burn. You respond with a quick "Understood" before taking your folder and retreating to the hallway.

Outside, the ambient noise feels overwhelming - footsteps, vending machines, the persistent hum of academic ambition. As you press your hand to your chest, the reality crystallizes: Jungkook represents entropy while this grant embodies order. The math should be simple, with order emerging victorious - shouldn't it?

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There’s something almost sacred about an empty hallway just past four p.m. — the way footsteps echo too loud, the way the scent of old paper and aging floor polish settles like a hush over everything. The way the fading afternoon light slices through the tall windows in strips, dust motes dancing like particles suspended in time. You’re alone in the TA room.

The door’s cracked open. Your laptop hums softly beside the thick stack of lab reports you haven’t graded. You’ve half-forgotten what time it is. The world feels far away — a distant thing made of unread emails and unreadier feelings. The hum of fluorescent lights above your head offers the only company.

The soft click of the door opening makes you freeze. You look up to see Jeon Jungkook standing in the doorway, his presence filling the room with an unspoken tension. His footsteps echo as he moves closer, each step weighted with purpose.

You don’t look up at first. You can’t. Because the second you do, the second you see the way his sweatshirt hangs off his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens as he closes the door behind him — you know this whole room is about to become a physics problem you can’t solve.

“I need help,” he says, casual, soft, like he’s reciting a line from memory.

You finally meet his eyes. “Wrong department.”

He exhales a laugh — just air, no humor. “I know.”

You glance past him toward the hallway, toward the closing door. The click echoes too loud in the silence. You straighten in your chair, fingers curling loosely around your pen. “If someone sees you here...”

“They won’t.”

Silence hangs between you, the air thick with tension as he moves closer, each deliberate step echoing in the quiet room.

“I’ve been trying to leave you alone,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, head tilted like he’s trying to read your expression. “I really fucking have.”

“Try harder.”

His lips twitch at the edge. “You don’t want that.”

“You don’t know what I want.”

He nods slowly. “No,” he says. “But I know how you sound when I’m inside you.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press together instinctively. The chair creaks beneath you, traitorous. You stand before you know why. Maybe to put distance. Maybe to make it worse.

“I told you,” you say, not quite steady, “this isn’t anything.”

He steps into your space so slowly it feels like a drug — all heat and closeness and scent. His fingers reach out, grazing the hem of your sleeve.

“But you keep letting me in,” he says, and this time there’s no teasing. Just tension. Raw and real. “You keep looking at me like this means nothing, then moaning like it’s the only thing that’s ever made you feel alive.”

You look up at him sharply. And that’s when it breaks. His hand catches the side of your jaw as his mouth crashes into yours, and there’s no slowness now, no subtlety. His other hand is already at your waist, pulling you in, gripping you like he’s waited years for this. Your folders scatter to the floor behind you, pages fluttering like panicked wings.

He pushes you against the door — not hard, but firm, solid. You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the sound like it belongs to him.

“You want me to stop?” he asks, lips brushing yours, breath hot, chest pressed to yours like he’s daring you to lie.

Your silence answers for you, and without another word, he sinks to his knees. Hands sliding up your skirt, mouth already open against your thigh, biting gently as he drags your underwear down — not teasing this time, not patient. His fingers dig into your ass as he pulls you closer, lips ghosting up your inner thigh, nose brushing your skin.

And when his mouth finds you — hot, wet, already aching — you nearly scream. He licks you slow and deep, like he’s memorizing every inch. Tongue flattened, circling your clit, then sucking it softly until your knees buckle. You press your palms against the door behind you to stay upright. He groans into you, like the taste of you is something that hurts. His tongue works faster. You’re panting now, trying to stay quiet, trying not to grind against his mouth — and failing.

“Jungkook...” you whisper, broken, breathless.

He hums in response, lips wrapping around your clit again, two fingers suddenly sliding inside you. The stretch, the fullness, the sound of your wetness filling the room — it all hits at once.

You bite down hard on your knuckle as your legs tremble beneath you, feeling the heat of tension radiating through the wood at your back. The familiar tightness builds deep inside as he senses your approaching release.

“Come on,” he growls, lips slick against your cunt. “Come for me. Right fucking now.”

And when it hits, your world dissolves into pure sensation. The force of your release ripples through you like an inverted gravitational pull, your body writhing against the wall as waves of pleasure crash over you. Through the haze of your climax, you're dimly aware of your thighs clenching around his head, your desperate gasps for air echoing in the empty room.

He continues his relentless attention until your breathless pleas finally make him stop. When he pulls away, his face is slick with evidence of your pleasure, his swollen lips curved into satisfaction as he takes in your thoroughly debauched state.

Before he can speak or reach for you, your mind snaps back to reality and the words are already forming on your tongue.

“This doesn’t change anything.”

He flinches, barely. Straightens slowly, chest still heaving.

“I’m busy,” you say again, voice steadier now, cooler. “You should go.”

Jungkook doesn’t move. He just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising and falling beneath his hoodie, the look in his eyes something molten and close to violent. Not dangerous. But on edge. Like he’s been keeping something down and you just dared him to let it loose.

He takes one step closer and you don’t back away.

“You really want me to go?” he asks, voice too calm, too soft, too furious. “After everything?”

“Yes.”

Another step. Close now. You can smell yourself on him. and it makes your knees lock.

“After the fucking library? After this?” He gestures downward, voice rising. “After you came on my face and still had the audacity to look me in the eye and pretend it meant nothing?”

You straighten your spine. “It doesn’t.”

His face hardens. “You’re such a liar.”

“I told you what this was.”

“No,” he growls, “you told me what it wasn’t.”

The air shifts. You feel it happen — the weight of the silence that follows. Heavy. Stifling. The kind that carries consequence.

Then his movements shift - he takes hold of your wrist with a grip that's firm yet gentle, his touch deliberate and sure. You shove him back instinctively, but he catches you again, faster this time. Presses you to the door — hard, body flush to yours, arm braced beside your head.

His mouth is just inches from yours. His eyes burn like he’s standing at the center of a star.

“You want me to stop?” he asks again, voice low, cracking at the edges. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t, instead, you tilt your chin higher and whisper, “Make it quick.”

Without hesitation, his hand finds its way between your thighs as he shifts your panties aside. His hardened length presses against your slick entrance, drawing simultaneous sounds of pleasure from both of you - your sharp gasp mingling with his deep groan.

“No time,” he mutters, lining himself up. “No teasing. I need to be inside you now.”

And then he’s pushing in. You cry out — soft, sharp — your fingers digging into his hoodie as he fills you in one deep, unrelenting stroke. He’s thick, hot, and you’re still too wet from before. Your walls clench around him instantly.

“Fuck,” he growls into your neck. “You feel—so—fucking—good.”

You whimper, nails catching the fabric on his back.

He starts to move — slow only for the first two thrusts, then fast, desperate, furious — hips slamming into you with a rhythm that’s more like punishment than pleasure, but it still makes your toes curl. The door rattles. The room fills with breath and skin and the slap of his body against yours. Your head hits the wood behind you as he thrusts harder, deeper, fucking into you like he’s trying to leave his shape inside you.

“Tell me it’s nothing now,” he spits, voice hot in your ear. You moan.

“Say it,” he growls, hand gripping your thigh, hiking it up higher. “Say it while I’m fucking you so deep you can’t think straight.”

You can’t speak. You’re too full. Too gone. Your fingers claw for purchase as he pounds into you again and again, the pressure building fast, filthy, sharp. Every thrust pushes the breath from your lungs, and every time he slams in deeper, your walls tighten helplessly around him.

“God, you’re so wet,” he gasps. “So fucking tight. You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You shake your head — a weak denial. He grabs your face with one hand, turning your mouth to his.

“You’re mine when you come,” he whispers. “No lies. No running.”

And then his fingers slip between your bodies to find your clit.

You shatter in seconds.

The orgasm rips through you — fast, brutal, silent but screaming in every nerve. Your body arches, clenches, legs shaking as he fucks you through it, still chasing his own. It only takes three more thrusts before he groans and stills, cock pulsing deep inside the condom, forehead pressed to yours. The silence after is deafening.

Your breath comes in ragged gasps as his arms cage you in, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric between you. When you finally open your eyes, you find him already watching - no smile, no smirk, just an intense gaze that makes your chest tighten. For a fleeting moment, everything feels weighted with possibility.

The silence stretches between you as he slowly withdraws, his movements careful and deliberate. His fingers trace delicate patterns at your waist, like he's memorizing the curve of you, and his breath fans hot against your neck. When he finally breaks the quiet, his voice is barely above a whisper, but carries a gravity that makes your pulse skip.

“You’re more than this,” Jungkook says. “Why do you keep acting like I’m not supposed to see that?”

You blink, stunned by the softness in his voice. By the truth in it. He looks at you — really looks at you — and there’s no arrogance left, no cocky smirk, no boyish charm to hide behind. Just eyes that burn too bright and too honest, like he’s tired of pretending this is all it is.

Something inside you fractures at his words. No one has ever spoken to you with such certainty, touched you as though you were irreplaceable. Not even him, until this moment.

Yet you can't afford to let him in - not when you've finally built something stable, something that won't crumble under the weight of feelings over logic.

With practiced ease, you retreat behind your walls. As you smooth your sweater and adjust your skirt, you keep your gaze fixed anywhere but his face, methodically erasing any evidence that his touch had left you trembling just moments ago.

"I have work," you say flatly, turning away. "And you need to go."

His brows pull tight as he whispers your name, but you cut him off.

"You got what you wanted."

"I didn't come here for sex," he says, voice strained. "I came here to see you."

You grab your folder from the floor, each movement deliberate and distant. "Well, now you have."

Before he can say anything else - before he can make you stay or tell you something you're not ready to hear - you slip past him and out the door, leaving him alone in a room that still echoes with everything left unsaid.

His texts light up your screen, but you can't bring yourself to open them. Three messages in total - two from last night, one this afternoon. Each notification feels like a weight on your chest.

Deep down, you already know what they say. His words echo in your mind without needing to read them: "hey, you okay?" followed by "can we talk?" and finally, "just tell me what's going on, please." The familiar cadence of his concern makes your heart ache.

You've repeated the mantra countless times - that you're done, that letting him in again would only lead to more heartache. Yet when the knock echoes through your building, your body betrays you. Despite every logical reason to stay put, your feet carry you downstairs, drawn to him like gravity refusing to let go.

He waits outside, hood drawn and hat low, hands tucked in his pockets as if trying to make himself invisible in the daylight. When you step out and close the door behind you, the sharp morning air fills your lungs.

His posture straightens at the sight of you, but his expression remains solemn. "You've been ignoring me."

You cross your arms tight against your chest, offering a noncommittal shrug. "I've been busy."

His jaw tightens as he studies you. "I needed to see you."

"Why?"

"Because I don't know what we're doing anymore."

"There's no 'we,' Jungkook."

He draws a careful breath. "You've said that before."

"Because it's true." Your voice wavers despite your resolve.

"You claimed there was nothing between us," he says, "yet you kept coming back."

"It was just sex."

The words strike him visibly, making him flinch. You force yourself to look away, focusing on the empty street while he shakes his head. "You're lying."

A bitter smile crosses your lips. "So what if I am?"

His eyes meet yours, filled with a desperate kind of hope that's beginning to fade. "Then prove it. Look me in the eye and tell me I meant nothing."

You face him, mouth parting to speak, but the words die in your throat. The truth is, you can't bring yourself to be that cruel.

The silence stretches between you like a thread about to snap. Finally, you break his gaze. "I don't have time for this. I have a future to think about."

He accepts this like a final verdict, nodding once. "Then I won't bother you again."

As he walks to the curb without looking back, you remain frozen on the steps, heart caught in your throat. You try to convince yourself this is what you wanted, even as you watch the one person who truly saw you walk away.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The bass vibrates through the off-campus house, each beat sinking into your ribs like a reminder of something long forgotten. You wonder, not for the first time tonight, why you let your friend drag you to this party where you clearly don't belong.

The scene feels foreign now - dim lights casting shadows, sharp laughter cutting through stale air, and hallways thick with the scent of vodka and poor choices. You lean against the kitchen counter, nursing a sour drink, dodging the occasional stumbling partygoer.

Despite telling yourself you'll leave within an hour, your eyes keep searching the room. And there he is - Jungkook, lounging in the corner couch with casual grace, his hoodie unzipped and a restrained laugh playing at his lips. It's nothing like the unguarded joy you remember from more intimate moments.

But he's not alone. A blonde in a short skirt presses against his side, her fingers trailing his arm with practiced familiarity as she whispers against his jaw. The sight makes your chest constrict. He neither welcomes nor rejects her attention, remaining perfectly still as she continues her advances.

Your grip tightens around your cup while someone - your friend, probably - says something you can't process. Heat rises behind your eyes as you watch this scene unfold, jealousy coursing through you despite having no right to feel it. After all, you were the one who insisted there was nothing between you.

The girl moves closer, her fingers now skimming his necklace with clear intent. But then he turns his head and catches your gaze across the room. Everything freezes - her voice fading to background noise as his eyes lock with yours, intense and unreadable.

You want to look away but can't, knowing exactly what he sees: you in your tight black dress, perfect lipstick masking hollow eyes, jealousy written in every line of your body. After three endless seconds, you break first - turning sharply and walking out into the spring night that smells of cigarettes and missed chances.

When his footsteps follow you onto the porch moments later, you cross your arms tighter and whisper to yourself: "Don't be stupid. Don't turn around. Don't let him be the thing you'll regret."

When he says your name behind you - just once, soft and broken - you already know this night will undo you again.

The cold night air wraps around you as you stand at the edge of the porch, arms crossed tightly against your chest. From here, the party's music feels distant, muffled like memories you're trying to forget. The street beyond the lawn stretches dark and empty, while you remain fixed in place, caught between staying and leaving.

The door opens behind you, followed by his footsteps and then his breath. You stay facing forward as he hovers there, the space between you charged with everything left unsaid.

"I wasn't going to kiss her," he says quietly.

"I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to."

You close your eyes, letting silence settle between you before he speaks again.

"She doesn't matter," he says softly. "None of them do."

A bitter laugh escapes you - not because you doubt him, but because it would be easier if you did. "I'm sure they'd be thrilled to hear that."

His voice comes rougher now, raw with honesty. "I didn't even want to be here tonight."

"Then why come?"

"Because I knew you might be."

Something in his words makes you turn. The porch light traces silver along his features - his messy hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes that makes your breath catch.

"You think showing up changes anything?" you ask.

"I don't want to change things," he says. "I just want you to stop running."

"Running?" The word comes out hollow.

"Yes." He steps closer, voice dropping low. "You come to me like you need me, then leave like we're strangers."

Your chest tightens. "It was just sex."

"No." His eyes narrow, voice sharp with frustration. "Say it like you mean it."

You stay silent as he continues, moving closer still. "You say that, but you look at me like I've broken something. Like you hate me for making you feel."

"I don't hate you."

"But you don't trust me either."

The truth of it makes your heart pound as he softens, vulnerability bleeding through. "I'm not asking for forever. Just... a chance. I want you to try."

"You don't understand."

"Then help me."

You look down, fingers twisting in your dress as the words you've been holding back finally spill out. "I'm leaving. I got the grant."

His expression shifts subtly - not shock or anger, but a careful kind of hurt. "When?"

"End of term. Three months of research abroad."

"You weren't going to tell me."

"What would it change?"

"I don't know," he says quietly. "Maybe I wouldn't have wasted time trying to hold onto something that was always leaving."

His words sting more than you expected. When your eyes meet his again, the world seems to pause, holding its breath.

"It wasn't supposed to be anything," you whisper.

"Then why are you still here?"

You have no answer, but he isn't finished. Drawing closer until you can feel his warmth, he speaks again, voice raw with emotion. "If this was just sex, why do I still taste you every time I close my eyes? Why do I check my phone constantly for a name I know won't appear?"

"I've been with others," he continues, "but never like this. Never feeling like I'm losing something I never had the right to claim."

The silence that follows feels heavy with possibility. You want to tell him so many things - not to wait, that he deserves better, that you're terrified. Instead, you whisper, "You shouldn't want me."

"Then stop making me."

His words hang between you like static, making everything else fade away. When he looks away and runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betrays his vulnerability. The quiet between you has transformed from tense to aching, filled with unspoken pleas.

"Let me go with you."

The words stop your breath. "What?"

"I mean it." His voice grows gentle but determined. "Wherever this grant takes you - I don't care. I'll follow."

"You can't just-"

"Why not?"

"Because it's not realistic," you say. "This is my work, my life. Not a vacation."

"I'm not trying to make it one."

His gaze holds steady, all pretense gone. "I'll figure it out. Find something short-term, take time off. Get a place nearby."

"You can't be serious."

"I've never meant anything more."

Looking at him now, you see past the facade - beyond the cocky student who once teased you under library desks, beyond the reputation that follows him through whispered conversations. This is him stripped bare, offering something no one else has: the promise that you're worth chasing, worth disrupting a life for, worth not having to face everything alone.

"I can't promise anything," you whisper.

"I'm not asking for promises. Just a chance."

As your arms finally fall to your sides, the tension shifts but doesn't break. He moves closer, voice soft and intimate. "I don't want to be your distraction. I want to be the reason you don't carry everything alone."

You close your eyes, the desire to say yes burning in your throat. But when you look at him again, all you can manage is, "I need to think."

He nods, understanding. "Okay. Think."

Then he steps away and leaves you standing there, your heart beating out of rhythm as the universe seems to tilt on its axis. For the first time, you're not sure if running is what you want anymore.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

There's a hidden principle in thermodynamics that textbooks rarely mention: systems naturally resist equilibrium, fighting against stillness until the very end. Like heat dispersing through space and time, energy spreads itself thin across moments and people until everything settles into quiet calm.

But what happens when the natural order breaks? When something you're meant to release keeps drawing you back in - like gravity with too much memory, like a particle defying probability?

Jungkook is exactly that - a force of chaos and warmth, disrupting every calculated decision. He collapses your carefully constructed equations, making you realize that entropy isn't about disorder at all. It's about surrender, about letting go of control and allowing yourself to drift toward the heat that's always been there, waiting.

So this time, you’re not fighting it anymore. Every calculation, every logical path leads to him. And instead of running, you’re finally walking toward what you've been trying to deny all along.

✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.✧.

The campus has quieted into hushed twilight when you arrive at his door, the usual bustle of footsteps and laughter faded to memory. Your heart beats steady and low like background radiation as you stand there, fingers curled at your sides - not urgent or frantic, just persistent.

Neither of you has reached out since that moment on the porch, since you said you needed time to think. But in the silence between then and now, your mind has done nothing but circle back to him, again and again.

When you finally knock - just once, soft - and hear movement inside, you know with certainty that you're not here for closure. You're here for him.

The door opens to reveal Jungkook looking beautifully disheveled - hoodie inside out, chain visible, hair mussed as if he's been running his fingers through it endlessly. But it's his eyes that catch you - they come alive the moment they find yours, filled with recognition and something deeper.

No words pass between you as you step into his apartment. The door closes softly behind you, and you're enveloped by warmth - his cologne lingering on the couch fabric, an open book abandoned spine-up on the table, another hoodie draped over a chair. Everything speaks of waiting, of anticipation.

When you turn to face him, his gaze is both cautious and hopeful in the dim light. The silence stretches between you, heavy with possibility, until you finally bridge the gap - reaching for him with steady hands and certain heart.

You don’t say anything when your hand curls into his hoodie, pulling him forward. You don’t explain when your mouth finds his — soft, slow, shy. He gasps like he wasn’t sure you’d really come. And then he kisses you back.

And suddenly nothing matters but the way his hands cradle your face like it’s fragile, like he can’t believe you’re real. The way he breathes your name between kisses, reverent and raw. The way you slide your hands beneath his sweatshirt and find warmth, skin, muscle — him.

When your clothes hit the floor, it’s not frantic. It’s intentional. His fingers pull your shirt over your head like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His lips brush your shoulder, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. He whispers something — too low to catch — but it sounds like finally.

You fall into his bed and he follows. When you wrap your legs around his waist, it’s not for leverage. It’s to keep him close. When he sinks into you, slow and warm and so deep you forget how to breathe, it doesn’t feel like friction — it feels like home.

He’s careful at first. One hand gripping your hip, the other splayed across your lower back as if to shield you from the world while he pushes in, inch by inch, holding his breath like your body is holy.

“Fuck,” he whispers, jaw tight. “You’re so warm… baby, you’re perfect.”

You let your head fall back, lips parting in a soft gasp when he bottoms out. He stays there, not moving, just breathing — buried so deep inside you it feels like he could disappear there, if you let him. And you would. When he starts to move, it’s unhurried — slow, deliberate strokes that drag against every nerve ending, make you arch your back into him, make your thighs shake.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with restraint, as though he’s trying to hold back from letting go too fast. “I need to hear you.”

You meet his eyes, dazed and already drunk off the stretch, the pace, the way he’s looking at you like nothing else has ever mattered.

“You feel…” you start, and the words melt in your throat. You don’t want to say “good.” That’s not enough. Not nearlyenough.

“You feel like I finally exhaled.”

He groans, and it sounds broken, like you cracked something inside him that he didn’t know was still fragile. His thrusts deepen. Not faster or harder.

Just… more. More skin. More closeness. His chest flush against yours, lips dragging across your cheek before his mouth finds the corner of yours.

He doesn’t kiss you, not right away. He nuzzles. Soft. Slow. Like he’s trying to memorize your breath. And then, finally, he kisses you — not possessive, not filthy, but aching. A mouth pressed to yours like a secret, like the beginning of a confession, like if he could live in the space where your lips meet, he would.

You moan into it, hips rolling to meet his. His hand moves to your breast, fingers circling your nipple with the lightest brush, and when you whimper, he does it again — soft, slow, coaxing your body to bloom for him like it never has for anyone else.

Your voice is almost too breathless to be heard.

“Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

You wrap your arms around his back, press your palm between his shoulder blades, hold him like you’re afraid this is all a dream.

He starts to move faster then — a new rhythm building, deeper now, hungrier, but still sweet, still controlled. Each thrust pulls a sound from your throat, quiet, high, desperate. Your nails rake softly down his spine and he hisses at the contact, fucking you harder for a beat before slowing again.

“God,” he pants, forehead to yours, “you take me so well—always. Fuck, I missed you.”

You clench around him and he notices.

“Ohhh,” he moans, voice guttural, “you like that?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Say it again. Let me hear you.”

You arch into him, voice softer than a whisper. “I missed you too.”

His pace stutters. Something in him gives way. And suddenly, he’s grabbing your hand — the one beside your head — lacing his fingers through yours like he can’t bear to come without holding you.

“I’m close,” he warns, and it sounds like an apology.

“Me too,” you whisper. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

He moves faster then. His hips slap against yours. Sweat beads at his temples. His thrusts grow sloppy, raw, needy. Your legs lock around him. You feel it building — low and sharp and inevitable.

Your climax rushes up from your spine and down your thighs, spreading like a slow, golden shatter. You cry out softly, clutching him, your whole body arching into his as you pulse around him, wave after wave rolling through you.

He breaks a second later, burying his face in your neck with a sharp groan as he spills into the condom. His body trembles above yours like a string pulled too tight while you whisper his name into his shoulder until he stills. He stays there, holding you close, neither of you wanting to break the connection.

When he finally lifts his head to kiss you — soft and unhurried and achingly tender — it feels less like an ending and more like the beginning of whatever comes next. The moment calls for words, but you let your body soften against his instead, finding comfort in the silence between you. For the first time, that silence feels full. Not empty. Not scared. Just real.

.🖤

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violetszn · 3 months ago

Text

one

summary ✩ you found it hard to believe that it could actually be this hard finding a roommate. when you take up your boss’s offer and end up letting his daughter move in, you find it even harder believe that a match could be this perfect.

warnings ✩ 5.3k ✩ swearing and drinking but that’s pretty much it for this chapter. also one little innuendo towards the end.

notes ✩ so this one is around 5k words but i haven't decided yet if i wanna leave the rest of the chapters around this length or if they'd be better longer. definitely let me know what you're feeling about the length !! <3

chapters ⇨

The Last Drop hummed with its usual late-night energy, laughter and low conversations falling over the clink of glasses and the occasional small argument among friends. You wiped down the counter, only half listening to a group of regulars argue over a card game while keeping an eye on the random drunkard who always underestimated his tolerance.

“I don’t need to slow down, I can handle my alcohol — I’m a grown man alright? Back off!”

Vander leaned against the bar beside you, arms crossed, surveying the crowd like a guard dog. His presence was grounding and authoritative. The kind that made people behave without him ever having to say much.

“You look tired,” he noted, his voice carrying over the noise.

You exhaled, pressing your hands against the cool surface of the bar. “Yeah, I’ve been dealing with a headache of a situation. Trying to find a decent roommate is way harder than I thought it’d be. Way harder. The last guy that sent in an application actually asked if he could have a pet puma, for ‘future references’.”

Vander raised a brow. “Sounds… rough to say the least. You put up a flyer?”

You gestured toward the message board near the entrance. “Couple days ago. I’ve had some applications, but nothing promising. Another guy asked if he could keep his pet tortoise in the bathtub.”

Vander let out a deep chuckle. “That’s a new one.”

“Yeah, so unless you know someone who won’t bring in a wild animal or hog my bathroom, I think I’m out of luck.”

Vander tilted his head slightly, considering something.

“Actually… I do know someone.”

You glanced at him, intrigued.

“Vi.”

You hesitated. The name was familiar. You’d heard plenty about her from Vander and Powder, seen quick glimpses of her on Vander’s lockscreen or when Powder was excitedly showing off pictures. And yet, despite how often she supposedly came to the Last Drop, you’d never actually run into her. Just bad timing, you guessed.

“Your… daughter?”

“Yeah. She’s looking for a place closer to campus,” Vander continued, reaching for a clean glass and absentmindedly polishing it. “She’s responsible, keeps to herself most of the time. She can be a bit of trouble sometimes but I promise she’s got a good heart. Knows how to throw a punch if you ever need backup.”

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Why would I need backup?”

Vander gives you a raised brow in return. In a place like Zaun, that was a rhetorical question.

You mulled it over. Vi was somewhat of a mystery to you, but if Vander recommended her, that meant something. Plus, finding a roommate was proving to be a nightmare. At this point, you’d take a mystery over a guy who collects wild animals.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally said, tossing the rag over your shoulder. “but it sounds promising.”

Vander smirked. “I’ll let her know.”

And with that, the conversation shifted, but something told you your search for a roommate might be over sooner than you thought.

The steady hum of the city outside your window was almost comforting, a distant reminder that the world kept moving even as you buried yourself in coursework. You sat at your desk, fingers hovering over your keyboard, eyes blurring slightly from staring at the same paragraph for too long.

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, rolling out the tension in your shoulders. Just as you were about to force yourself to focus, your phone buzzed beside you.

A new email.

You grabbed your phone and squinted at the screen.

Subject: Roommate Application – Vi

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. That was fast. You hadn’t expected Vi to actually apply so soon — hell, you weren’t even sure she’d be interested. But Vander must have mentioned it to her right away. You couldn’t help but wonder if he talked you up the way he did her.

Curious, you opened the email.

The application itself was pretty straightforward.

Name: Violet. Preferred Name: Vi. Occupation: Student. Side gigs: Boxing instructor, part-time fighter. Hobbies: Same as my side gigs.

You huffed a quiet laugh. At least she was honest.

Scrolling further, you skimmed through the standard details; her budget, preferred move-in date, and emergency contact which, unsurprisingly, was Vander. But what really caught your attention was the attached photo.

It wasn’t anything posed, just a casual shot, probably something Powder had taken. Vi sat at a gym bench, hands wrapped, sweaty and mid-laugh, her pink hair a little messy. Even through the screen, there was an energy to her, something sharp but effortless.

You sat back, tapping your fingers against your desk.

So, this was Vi.

Technically, you’d seen her before, but this was the first time you were really looking at her. And now, she might be your new roommate.

“Well,” you muttered to yourself, “could be worse, I guess.”

You were just about to close the email when something at the bottom caught your eye.

Socials: @ CherrybombVi

Your eyes flickered back to your assignment, then back to the email. You hesitated, then scoffed at yourself. It wasn’t even a question, you were obviously going to look. If she included it, that meant she didn’t care if you saw. And honestly? You needed to know what kind of person you’d be living with.

Tapping the link, you landed on her Instagram profile. The username fit, CherrybombVi. Bold, confident, and straight to the point. Her bio was just as simple: 🥊

Most of her posts were fight clips, training footage, or gym shots, but even those had an effortless appeal. One video showed her in the ring, body fluid and sharp as she dodged a punch before delivering a brutal counter. Some seemed to be borderline thirst traps but something tells you it isn’t even intentional - she just looks like that.

Then there were the more casual posts; Vi leaning against the ropes, smirking at the camera, a candid of her laughing with Powder, a rare mirror selfie that showed off her tattoos, muscles, and sweat-slicked skin in a way that had your brain misfiring.

Your face felt hot.

This was your potential new roommate? You had only ever caught glimpses of her in photos before, never enough to form a real impression, and yet somehow you hadn’t expected… this. Before you could spiral too much, your finger moved on autopilot and hit Follow.

You set your phone down, exhaling sharply, only for it to buzz almost immediately.

New DM from CherrybombVi.

Your stomach flipped as you opened the message.

CherrybombVi so ur the one vander’s been hyping up?

Your breath hitched slightly. She followed you back that fast? Fingers hovering over the keyboard, you tried to come up with a response that didn’t make you sound completely unhinged.

You depends what exactly has he been saying?

A typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

CherrybombVi that ur looking for a roommate that ur not an asshole and that u can make a decent drink

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You i mean yeah he’s not wrong

CherrybombVi cool so when do we meet?

Your stomach did another stupid little flip.

You how’s tomorrow?

CherrybombVi works for me Last Drop?

You figured you’d say that

CherrybombVi best place in town. vander pays me to say that

You does he?

CherrybombVi nah, but he should

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

You alright, Last Drop tomorrow. we’ll talk, see if this’ll work

CherrybombVi sounds good hope ur not easily scared off ;)

You bit your lip.

You guess we’ll see.

As soon as you hit send, you set your phone down again and let your head fall back against the chair. Why did that make your heart race?

The Last Drop was busy tonight, the usual crowd packed into their favorite corners, drinks in hand, conversations rolling over the music playing from the old speakers overhead. You were behind the bar, moving on autopilot as you poured drinks and exchanged easy banter with the regulars.

Despite keeping yourself busy, there was a part of you that kept one eye on the door. You weren’t nervous exactly, just… anticipating. When the door finally swung open and she walked in, you knew immediately.

Even without the pink hair, Vi carried herself in a way that made her stand out. She was relaxed but sure-footed, like she belonged in every room she stepped into. She was dressed casually, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

Your stomach did something weird.

Vander, who had been stacking glasses nearby, glanced up and grinned. “Right on time.”

You barely had time to react before he clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Go on, take a break. I got the bar.”

You blinked. “You sure? It’s busy.”

“I’ve handled worse,” Vander said easily, already moving to take your spot. “Vi’s here to see you. Go talk.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. After drying your hands on a towel, you stepped out from behind the bar and made your way over to where Vi had already claimed a booth near the back.

Up close, she was... yeah. The photos hadn’t lied. Sharp jawline, freckled skin, toned arms resting on the table as she leaned back in her seat like she had all the time in the world.

“Hey,” she greeted, smirking just slightly. “Guess you’re real after all.”

You raised an eyebrow as you slid into the seat across from her. “Did you think I was fake?”

“Wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing I’ve seen on the internet,” she said, shrugging.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Fair enough.”

Vi leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on the table. “So. Roommates.”

“Roommates,” you echoed, feeling a little caught off guard by how direct she was. Not in a bad way, just… unexpected.

Vi tilted her head. “I’ll be real with you. I don’t make a mess, I always cover my share of the rent, and I don’t bring random women over. Schedule-wise, I’m out a lot for training and classes, but I’m usually home at night. I crash early when I can.”

That last part caught your attention. Not because it was weird, just that Vander made it sound like she was always busy.

“You sleep early?” you asked, more curious than anything.

Vi nodded easily. “Not super early. At a regular time, really. I get up early for workouts often. Kinda have to if I don’t wanna get my ass handed to me.” That made sense. If she was constantly training, she’d need the rest.

You nodded. “Vander did say you keep busy.”

Vi smirked. “That’s one way to put it.”

You leaned back in your seat, studying her. She was easy to talk to, even with how little you actually knew about her. It made the whole thing feel… simple. Like this might actually work.

“What about you?” Vi asked, tipping her head toward you. “Vander said you’re not an asshole, but that’s a pretty low bar.”

You huffed a laugh. “I’m clean, I don’t throw parties, and I pay on time. Only real downside is I have early mornings sometimes, so if you’re planning on sneaking in at sunrise, try not to slam the door.”

Vi grinned. “Deal.”

You looked at her for a moment, then exhaled. “This might actually work.”

Vi smirked. “Guess we’ll find out.”

And just like that, it was decided.

You and Vi shook on it, sealing the deal with a firm grip. Her handshake was just what you expected: strong, confident, and steady.

"Guess that makes it official," Vi said, smirking as she leaned back in her seat.

"Looks like it," you replied, mirroring her expression.

By the time your break was over, you had worked out the details; rent, move-in date, all the necessary logistics. Vi would be moving in the following week, giving you time to clear the spare room and make space for her things.

That night, you wasted no time. As soon as you got home, you started rearranging—cleaning out the closet, dusting off the shelves, and making sure everything was ready. You even sent her a quick message:

You room’s all set whenever ur ready

Vi’s reply came fast.

CherrybombVi damn ur quick i’ll be there next week

You stared at the message a little longer than necessary before shaking your head and setting your phone down. This could be good. It'll be nice sharing the burden of rent and livening up the quiet apartment a bit.

The knock at your door was solid, deliberate. You took a steadying breath before opening it, and there she was, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a couple of boxes stacked neatly at her feet.

"Hey, roomie," Vi greeted, smirking slightly.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach twisted at the casual way she said that. "Hey. You, uh… you travel light."

Vi glanced at her stuff and shrugged. "Don’t need much."

You nodded, stepping aside so she could come in. As Vi walked past, you could feel the presence she carried, like she was used to taking up space without trying.

Clearing your throat, you motioned down the hall. "Your room’s this way." Vi followed as you led her to the spare bedroom, pushing open the door to reveal the space you had cleared for her.

"It’s not much, but, uh…" You shifted slightly, tucking your hands into your pockets. "You can do whatever you want with it. Move stuff around, redecorate, it doesn’t really matter to me."

Vi stepped inside, scanning the room with a thoughtful nod. "Yeah, this works. Thanks."

You exhaled, relieved that she seemed satisfied. "Cool." For a beat, neither of you said anything. Then, remembering something, you added, "Oh, uh, Powder wants to come over for dinner later. Hope that’s okay."

Vi turned to look at you, eyebrows raised. "Powder?"

You nodded. "Yeah, she, um, she said she wants to throw you a welcome dinner where 'I do all the cooking and her presence is enough' or whatever it was she said."

Vi studied you for a moment, arms loosely crossed over her chest. "You and Powder are close?"

You hesitated, then shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so. We met a couple of years ago in an art class."

Vi’s brows lifted slightly in surprise. "She never mentioned that."

You smiled a little. "She probably doesn’t think it’s a big deal. She sat next to me the first day, and we just kinda clicked. She’s the one who told me about the job at the Last Drop, actually. Said Vander needed someone and that I should give it a shot."

Vi huffed a quiet laugh. "Figures. She always did like pulling people into her world."

You nodded, shifting on your feet. "So… dinner?"

Vi smirked. "Yeah, alright. Could be nice."

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. "Cool. I’ll start dinner in a little while."

Vi gave you a long look, something unreadable flickering in her eyes before she nodded. "Sounds like a plan, cupcake."

You tried not to think too hard about how that word made your heart do something weird.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich scent of garlic, tomatoes, and seared chicken as you finished up dinner. You’d gone with something comforting; pasta, creamy and packed with flavor, with garlic bread crisping up in the oven.

Powder arrived first, waltzing in like she lived there. "Damn, something smells amazing."

Vi followed behind, empty boxes in tow from her unpacking earlier. "Wait—you actually cooked?"

You glanced over your shoulder, stirring the sauce. "What, did you think I was bluffing?"

Vi smirked. "No, I just figured I was gonna be living off instant noodles and bar food."

"You still might, jury's not out yet," you teased. Powder snickered as she stole a piece of garlic bread straight off the pan.

Once everything was plated, the three of you gathered around the small dining table, Powder practically vibrating with excitement as she took her first bite.

"Okay, what the hell," she mumbled through a mouthful. "You made this? Like, from scratch?"

"That’s usually how cooking works, Pow." Vi grins, watching as you tease her sister in a similar fashion to the way she does.

Vi took a bite, pausing for a second before nodding approvingly. "Alright, yeah. I’m impressed."

You smirked as you grabbed the bottle of wine you’d set aside for you and Vi, pouring a glass for each of you. Powder gave you both a pointed look, crossing her arms.

"I feel like I’m missing out," she said.

"You are," Vi said, taking a sip.

Powder huffed dramatically before refocusing on her food.

The conversation flowed easily after that, mostly Powder bouncing between ridiculous stories from their childhood and Vi occasionally cutting in to correct the details.

"And then she—" Powder pointed at Vi with her fork, "—convinced Mylo that licking a frozen pipe wouldn’t actually make his tongue stick."

Vi grinned, unbothered. "To be fair, I thought he’d be fine."

"He had to drink hot water through a straw for a week!"

"Okay, but I was the one who got yelled at, so really, haven’t I suffered enough?"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Sounds like you two were menaces."

"We were," Vi confirmed, smirking. "What about you? Chaotic too?"

You shook your head. "Not really. I was pretty quiet. Spent most of my time drawing, painting, reading, or writing."

Vi tilted her head. "Writing, huh? What kind of stuff?"

"Just little things," you said, suddenly self-conscious. "Short stories and stuff—whatever came to mind."

Vi nodded, looking genuinely interested. "That’s cool. And what do you read?"

"Mystery, horror, romance – stuff like that."

Vi’s brows lifted. "That’s a mix."

You smirked. "I like a little balance."

"So you’ll read about a guy getting murdered in one book and then flip to people making out in the next?"

"Pretty much."

Vi huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Alright, yeah. You’re an interesting one."

The night stretched on like that — easy conversation, laughter, and shared stories over empty plates. By the time you realized how late it had gotten, the food was long gone, Powder was curled up on the couch half-asleep, and the wine bottle between you and Vi was completely empty.

Vi stretched, rolling her shoulders as she leaned back in her chair. "Alright, now it feels official. I’m moved in."

You exhaled, smiling. "Yeah. Guess so."

She glanced at you, something unreadable in her expression before she smirked. "Not bad, roomie."

"Not bad yourself," you said, and for the first time since you’d started looking for a roommate, you actually felt relieved.

Maybe this was going to work out after all.

The night wound down slowly, the energy in the apartment settling into something quieter, warmer. Powder stretched out with a yawn, rubbing at her eyes before glancing at her phone.

"Alright, Ekko’s on his way to pick me up," she announced, pushing herself up from the couch.

Vi smirked. "Finally getting rid of you? Thought we’d have to drag you out."

Powder scoffed. "Please, I’m leaving before you two start acting all old and responsible." She turned to you. "You better keep her in check."

You let out a soft laugh, the wine making everything feel pleasantly hazy. "I’ll do my best."

Powder slung her bag over her shoulder, then pointed at Vi. "Don’t scare off your new roommate yet."

Vi rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

The night had settled into a comfortable quiet after Powder left, leaving just you and Vi in the kitchen as you worked together to clean up. The occasional clatter of dishes and the sound of running water filled the space, but neither of you seemed in any hurry to finish.

Vi leaned casually against the counter, drying off the last plate as she watched you with an amused smirk. "Gotta say, didn’t expect my new roommate to be such a responsible drunk."

You huffed a laugh, placing the last dish in the drying rack. "Yeah, well… unfortunately, I have class pretty damn early tomorrow, so I should head to sleep. Hopefully, I can sleep off this wine."

Vi pushed off the counter, stepping into your space just enough to make you notice. "Shame. You’re kinda fun when you’re a little tipsy."

Your stomach did a weird little flip at that. "Oh, so I’m not fun when I’m sober?"

Vi smirked, tilting her head like she was sizing you up. "Didn’t say that. Just means I’ll have to stick around to find out."

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was. The buzz from the wine definitely wasn’t helping.

Vi’s smirk deepened like she could tell. "You should drink plenty of water before bed. Wouldn’t want you waking up miserable."

You cleared your throat, ignoring the warmth creeping up your neck. "Yeah. Good idea."

Vi stepped back, giving you an easy grin. "Goodnight, then."

You hesitated for a second before nodding. "Goodnight, Vi."

And with that, you slipped into your room, shutting the door behind you. You were so in trouble.

Sure enough, you wake up at six with a pounding headache and the overwhelming regret of past decisions. The wine from last night lingers unpleasantly, a dull throb at your temples that makes you groan as you drag yourself out of bed.

You quickly pop some Tylenol and chug a glass of water, wincing at the way your stomach protests. The apartment is quiet. Vi’s still asleep, and you do your best to move through the space as quietly as possible, getting ready with slow, deliberate motions.

By the time you step out the door, the worst of the headache has dulled, but you’re still exhausted. And with your schedule ahead of you, you don’t have time to recover.

Mondays are always brutal. Between the early morning classes, tutoring sessions, and art class, you barely have a second to breathe. The hangover becomes background noise, something you push through as you move from one thing to the next. By the time you finally head home, you feel like you’re running on fumes.

When you step into the apartment, Vi is in the living room, dropping effortlessly into a set of push-ups. She looks up as you shut the door behind you, barely even out of breath.

"Damn," she grins. "You just getting home? Thought you might’ve died out there."

You groan, dropping your bag by the door. "Yeah, my Mondays are usually packed. It’s when I have my earliest classes as well as my art class. On top of that, of course, I had tutoring scheduled for this afternoon. I’m beat."

You rub your hands over your face, feeling the exhaustion settle deep in your bones.

Vi pushes herself up to sit back on her heels, resting her forearms on her knees. "Sounds like a lot."

"You have no idea," you mumble, kicking off your shoes.

She watches you for a second, then smirks. "You survive the hangover at least?"

"Barely," you mutter. "Didn’t really have time to deal with it."

Vi chuckles, shaking her head. "Damn. And here I was thinking I was the overachiever."

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small, tired smile that creeps onto your lips.

Vi stands up from the floor, wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. She’s dressed in just a sports bra and a pair of sweats, her toned muscles catching the dim afternoon light.

"You look beat," she remarks, stepping closer, her gaze flicking over you like she’s assessing just how exhausted you really are.

You let out a tired sigh, rubbing your temples. "Long day."

"Yeah, no kidding." Vi tilts her head. "Why don’t you sit down for a bit? I’ll make you some tea or coffee — whichever gets you back to life."

She steps closer still, reaching out to touch your arm. It’s just a light, fleeting thing, but it’s enough to make you pause. "Seriously," she says, her voice softer now, edged with something almost… considerate. "You should take it easy tonight."

You exhale slowly, your body already sinking into the pull of exhaustion. "Some tea sounds nice… thanks, Vi."

She just nods and heads to the kitchen. You collapse onto the couch, your limbs aching as you listen to the quiet, rhythmic sounds of her moving around. Soon enough, she’s pressing a warm mug into your hands before settling beside you. The tea is perfect — soothing, the heat seeping into your fingers as you take slow sips.

Vi doesn’t rush you. She just sits there, the hum of the television filling the silence as you drink. Her presence is steady, grounding in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

Once you set the empty mug down, Vi stretches, then stands, shaking her head with a smirk. "Alright, time for you to crash."

You groan but make no move to get up. "I should probably—"

"Not push yourself until you pass out on the couch?" Vi interrupts, nudging your arm. "Yeah. Let’s not do that."

You sigh, dragging yourself upright. "Fine, fine. You win."

"Damn right I do," she quips, watching as you shuffle toward your room. "Drink more water before you knock out."

You mumble something unintelligible as you push open the door, already peeling off your clothes in favor of pajamas. The second your head hits the pillow, I’m you’re out.

You don’t hear Vi moving around the apartment.

You don’t hear the quiet stretch of tape wrapping around her knuckles, the slight pop of her joints as she shakes out her limbs in preparation.

You don’t hear the door unlatch or the way it clicks shut behind her as she slips out into the night, her steps light and deliberate, leading her toward the only place that gets her heart pounding the way she craves.

The underground pit calls to her, as it always does. The roar of a nameless crowd, the thrill of a fight that doesn't come with rules or restraints. It’s a part of her she refuses to let go of.

By the time you wake up the next morning, groggy and still half-buried in sleep, Vi’s already at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone like it’s just another normal day.

She looks the same. Same easy smirk when she glances up at you, same casual posture.

But when you step closer, you notice the fresh bruises on her knuckles, the faint swell of her lip. Injuries that definitely weren’t there yesterday.

And yet, she doesn’t say a word about them. And, for some reason, you don’t ask.

After about a month of living together you pick up on Vi’s… personality. She’s a flirt through and through and honestly? A fucking menace. Guess you see where Powder gets it from.

You’re trying to read. Really, you are. But in your defense, it’s incredibly difficult when Vi has decided that the living room is her personal gym and you have a front-row seat to the show.

She’s in the middle of her workout, wearing nothing but a sports bra and sweatpants that hang low on her hips. Her abs flex with every movement, her arms tense and defined as she pushes through another set of sit-ups. She’s completely in the zone, brow furrowed in concentration, jaw tight, strands of pink hair falling onto her face.

And you, despite trying your hardest not to, are watching.

It’s not your fault. Vi is just… really fucking distracting. It’s an effortless kind of attractive. Like she isn’t even trying, like she has no idea how good she looks. But she has to know, right? There’s no way she doesn’t know.

You drag your eyes back down to your book, determined to focus. It works for all of ten seconds before Vi shifts into a plank position, muscles taut, posture flawless.

Shit.

You must be staring harder than you thought because, without even looking at you, Vi smirks.

“See something you like?”

Your entire body tenses up.

“No,” you say immediately, forcing your gaze back to the page in front of you. “I’m reading.”

“Uh-huh.” Her tone is full of amusement. “Didn’t realize your book was in my direction.”

You clench your jaw, refusing to take the bait. “It’s not.”

She finishes her set, stretching her arms over her head as she sits back.

“Oh, come on,” she teases, rolling out her shoulders. “You’ve been staring for, like, five minutes. I’m flattered, really.”

You huff, sinking further into the couch, arms crossed over your chest. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re a bad liar.” Vi grins, leaning back on her hands. “But hey, it’s fine. I like looking at you too.”

Your brain practically short-circuits. Vi says it so easily, so casually, like she’s not making your stomach do flips. She’s so smug about it. Meanwhile, your stomach does something inconvenient, and you have to force yourself to maintain an expression that doesn’t immediately give you away.

You clear your throat, trying not to sound as flustered as you feel. “You’re messing with me.”

She tilts her head, all innocence. “Am I?”

You narrow your eyes at her, but she just smirks. Desperate to change the mood, you pick up the nearest pillow and chuck it at her. She catches it effortlessly, laughing.

“Shut up.”

“No shame in it.” She tosses the pillow back onto the couch before stretching her arms over her head again, arching her back slightly as she groans from the stretch. You force yourself to look away, determined not to give her the satisfaction of catching you again.

But even as you turn back to your book, you can still feel her watching you, like she’s just as entertained by your reaction as she is by the workout itself.

“So,” she starts, casually leaning back on her hands, “since you were so obviously checking me out, what’s the verdict?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “The verdict?”

“Yeah. On me.” She smirks, flexing her arm like some over-the-top gym bro. “Do I pass inspection?”

You roll your eyes, fighting the urge to smile. “Oh, absolutely. Five stars. Would ogle again.”

Vi laughs, tilting her head as if considering. “Only five?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Vi. I wasn’t checking you out, alright?”

“Come on… I feel like I deserve at least a six.”

You finally set your book aside, leaning forward with a feigned serious expression. “Sorry, but I don’t go higher than five. Gotta keep my ratings fair and unbiased.”

Vi grins, clearly enjoying herself. “Unbiased, huh?” She shifts forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “So if I were, say, a random dude at the gym, you’d still rate me the same?”

You blink, caught off guard. “Well, no, because if you were a random dude at the gym, I wouldn’t be—” You stop short, realizing too late where that sentence is going.

Vi’s smirk widens. “Wouldn’t be what?”

Your face burns. “Nothing.”

“Oh no, that sounded important.” She leans in, elbows on her knees, like she’s trying to coax the answer out of you. “You wouldn’t be… checking me out? So I am your type, hmm? Good to know.”

You groan, pushing your hands against your face. “Oh my god, I hate you.”

Vi chuckles, shifting to sit cross-legged on the mat. “You love me.”

You peek at her through your fingers. “Bold assumption.”

She winks. “I’m a bold girl.”

You shake your head with a dramatic sigh. “I’m moving out.”

Vi gasps in mock horror, pressing a hand to her chest. “No, don’t go! Who else will stare at me while I work out?”

That finally pulls a laugh from you, and Vi grins like she’s just won something.

“Alright, alright,” she says, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll stop messing with you… for now.” She grabs her water bottle, taking a long sip before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and shooting you a lazy grin. “But hey, next time you wanna watch, you could always just join me.”

You scoff playfully. “In your dreams.”

She throws you a look as she walks past, heading toward the kitchen. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Your heart does something foreign in your chest. You turn back to your book, pretending to read, but the words are still a blur. How are you meant to put up with her if she acts like this?

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#lesbian #wlw #arcane #arcane fanfic #arcane smut #masterlist #vi #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi smut #vi league of legends #arcane x reader #arcane x female reader #𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐥 𝐦𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐯.✩#───𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠.✩

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