since this concept is making us all insane,,,,,,,
specs: fem reader x seonghwa. you see him roughly once a week when you both visit the laundromat. one day, he takes a chance and interacts with you. it turns out kinda steamy.
misc. tags: hot-headed hwa, enemies to lovers that are still enemies (but it's one-sided), a bit of unserious humor, porn with a plot, obsession, subtle voyeurism, doing it against the wall, fingering, oral sex, "you have no idea how long i've wanted to do this to you," watching from afar, crush, he's had this fantasy for a hot minute, sweat, like lots of sweat, moaning, casual sex, spontaneous sex, "see you next week ;)," etc... as always, let me know if i missed something.
the smut starts like 1/3 of the way down. yw ;)
THIS ONE-SHOT IDEA WAS ORIGINALLY DREAMT UP BY THE EVER-CREATIVE @CHIBIELE. THE ENTIRE BASE OF THE PLOT BELONGS TO HER BRAIN. thanks hehe~
first, separate the whites from the colors. use fabric softener, a healthy dose of detergent that smells like "fresh scent" (whatever the hell that means), then machine wash cold. tumble dry.
this is routine for you. it happens the same way every week on wednesday nights, which are the best nights to go to the laundromat, because who the hell does laundry on a wednesday. usually you'll only see one or two other people there, if at all. you'll put eight coins in to trigger two separate wash cycles, put your headphones on, walk down the street to the park, waste thirty minutes listening to some podcast or album or whatever, walk back up the street to change out the loads to the dryer, put eight more coins in, leave to go check out the video rental store on the corner, drop off last week's films, pick up a new one you've probably-definitely seen before, then return to the laundromat in time to collect your dry clothes. your little rattler of a sedan fits two big baskets in the back seat, but you usually only use one, lights and darks combined. then it's just a ten minute drive back to your cozy little apartment on capitol hill. it's decent, as far as cost, size, and location goes. shame it doesn't have a fucking laundry room.
tonight is no different than normal, except work today was especially heinous and cruel. you feel awful and look as though it's laundry day—and while technically it is, you'd normally never leave your house looking like this, not even to do your lonely hump day ritual.
the lego print pajama bottoms have faded into pastel colors and the wine-stained, oversized hoodie brags about your no-good-horrible day so you don't have to. you don't even want to think about what your unwashed hair looks like.
you put the coins in the slot, and then you're about to push the button to start an entire load without the stained hoodie, even though you only agreed with yourself to wear it so you wouldn't forget.
just then, the front door chimes, announcing another patron's arrival. you glance up just in time to catch your homely reflection in the glass door before it falls shut. the good-looking guy that walks in pays you no mind, earbuds in his ears, sack of laundry over his shoulder. you've seen him here before. this area of town, with its cheap, shoddy housing, is always attracting young adults looking for that fresh start. maybe that's what they should have named this place.
you sigh and lift your oversized hoodie up off your torso, but the day must have gotten to you, because you fail to remove your headphones first. the wire gets tangled in the drawstrings, the headpiece stuck in the neckline. you're standing there like a fucking idiot trying to blindly fight the mass of gray cotton off your shoulders.
you manage to fit one arm back through the head hole, dislodging the plastic piece snagging on the outside of the hoodie, but this just sends your entire headset tumbling to the floor. you hear a sickening splatter of plastic parts. from under the hem of the hoodie, which is your only window into the outside world right now, you can see several pieces skid across the floor and settle against your feet.
with another sigh, you decide to give up for a moment, letting the stupid sweatshirt revel in its own victory. just as you are about to try to climb out of its depths once more, a muffled question sounds from beside you.
it's that guy. embarrassed, you pull up on the sweatshirt with haste, subsequently sending your glasses tumbling to the floor alongside the broken bits of your headphones. in the chaos, you don't notice that you're peeling off your shirt along with the hoodie until the cool laundromat air hits your midriff.
when you come out on the other side, pushing your clothes down, static electricity from the inner depths of the stupid garment make all your little flyaway hairs stand on end. you're met with the sight of a slender, blurry man kneeling down in front of you.
it dawns on you that you just practically flashed a stranger. at least on your worst days you can be someone's comic relief.
but he doesn't even laugh at your predicament, just silently puts your glasses back in your hand.
you put them on and he slides into focus. taller than you, dark hair, pretty face. sort of breathtaking, actually. he's leaning back down to pick up the pieces of your headphones.
"i got it," you snap, your voice coming out a lot harsher than intended. embarrassment decorates your face like a sunburn. to soften the blow, you utter a quieter, "thanks."
his mouth twitches. he looks at you from where he crouches, seeming to mull something over. then, wordlessly, he rises, looking you up and down.
you stuff the hoodie into the washer and try to ignore both him and the mess of broken parts on the floor around you.
he says it without emotion. you glance down at the mismatched outfit, wanting to disappear.
when you don't look back at him, he takes the hint and walks back over to his own row of washing machines.
you click the start button and then crouch down to pick up the pieces of your headphones, tears stinging in your eyes. at least your glasses survived the fall. this day has just been awful. the worst part is, it's not even over.
as you head out on your thirty-minute walk, you grieve the loss of your trusty headset. with nothing to listen to but the cars, you wind up reflecting on how bad the work day was.
first thing this morning, the intern brought everyone coffee, but accidentally forgot yours. you smiled and waved it off to make them feel better about it. it was an honest mistake and you probably would have done the same thing as a nervous undergrad working at your first internship.
the second inconvenience happened when your coworker, who is currently on vacation on an island somewhere, was discovered to have forgotten to print out the reports with the monday deadline. you were assigned the task of sorting through his desktop files to find wherever the hell the report went, cutting into your own work time.
it could have been worse—that setback could have put you behind schedule. but no, you had already worked your ass off the week before to get all your tasks out of the way so you could leave early this coming friday. your old college friends were getting married and they wanted you to come. now you're not sure you can get work off, in result of all the hours you lost trying to find that stupid report. turns out, your boss had been emailed a pdf of the document before the coworker had even left for vacation. your boss laughed when he found out. "silly me!"
you don't want to think about any of this though, because anger is a relatively useless and unfruitful emotion.
it's about as unfruitful, actually, as your love life, according to your mom. on your lunch break she called you trying to convince you to download hedge or cinder or whatever the hell the dating apps are called these days. you laughed good-naturedly about it, playfully scolded her for trying to get involved, then ended the phone conversation and sat alone with your instant rice, which had by then gone cold, for the rest of the lunch break.
after that the afternoon was smooth sailing until your boss dropped by to let you know that instead of giving summer bonuses to the top three employees this year, the company had collectively decided to pool that bonus money together and fund a cash drive for a family in need. never mind that your student loans were defaulting and you could only afford instant rice for lunch for the past month while you had been working late nights and holidays to meet that bonus quota. maybe someone out there could really use that money, though.
without intending to, you return to the laundromat bleary-eyed from crying. you're early, so you just sit on a washing machine opposite from the two you have running. it's humid as hell. the impending summer months will make this place feel like a sauna.
that guys is still here, his nose buried in some french book. you fish out your vhs rental return and study the back cover for the remaining handful of minutes on the cycles.
when it's time to transfer your laundry, you catch the guy glancing at you in the reflection of the dryer door. you stuff the rest of the whites in and slam it shut, then deposit your coins and start each machine. by the time you turn around, he's engrossed in his literature again.
although he's pretending not to take note of you, you wonder what he must think of you, the clumsy girl with wine-stained laundry who is now crying in public.
you make your way to the video rental store and decide to not even go inside, just using the drop off box on the outer wall of the building.
when you return to the laundromat, you're somehow early. even after deciding not to pick out a new movie, you still should have arrived after the tumble-dry was already finished, but it reads five more minutes. maybe you walked fast this time.
the guy is no longer there, but he had picked out the dryer right next to yours when he transferred his clothes. you scoff, noting how he didn't even separate lights from darks. his clothes are loud with buttons and zippers, a sound that hurts your ears a little.
when it's time, you gather your finished laundry and head out.
you see him one more time as you speed off towards the freeway, leaning against a blue car on a street adjacent to the laundromat. he watches as you drive past, and you swear you see a smirk on his face.
the week passes. you end up making it to your friend's wedding, but just the reception. work doesn't get any less frustrating.
your coworker returned from his vacation on monday, bragged in the break room about the beach, then at the end of the day put his two-weeks notice in. this means you'll be taking on his clients, more than likely. double the work for the same pay. when your boss cheerfully announced this morning that he's so glad you're sticking around, you laughed, then promptly updated your resume.
overall, you're nearing your limit. usually you ride out road bumps with ease, handling happenings in stride, never taking anything too personally. for whatever reason, it's all just been too much lately.
it doesn't help that you seem to have misplaced some of your things—your water bottle, your favorite white tee, a twenty dollar bill. at one point you lost your keys, only to find them in the freezer with the week's groceries—a frozen pizza, some frozen berries, and clearance ice cream. you feel like you're losing your mind.
as you roll up to the lonely laundromat, right on your wednesday night schedule, you're reminded of your outward presentation last week you were here, and ultimately suffice that maybe things are looking up. this time you're in some casual pants and a nice button-down. you even dug through the junk drawer and found some old earbuds to wear on your walk today. last week was your lowest point, or so you hope. only up from here.
inside, it's busier than usual. by those standards, that means there are three people instead of zero. more laundry means higher temperatures. the condensation fogs up all the windows, making the outside world blurrier in result.
there are two small, older women sitting next to the vending machine chattering quietly, and down a couple chairs from them is a familiar figure, his head is leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, earbuds in. his arms are folded over his chest, hands pulled in the sleeves of his leather jacket. you can't tell if he's sleeping or not.
when you find your usual pair of washing machines, a cycle is already running in one. across the room, two dryers are going. you deduce that this must be his load here, and the other two belong to the women. he never arrives with more than one load, that you've noticed.
his wash cycle has just started, with twenty-eight minutes remaining. you head down the line and choose some farther away.
by the time you've completed the process of starting up each washer, the ladies are collecting their dry clothes and heading out to their little station wagon parked out front. as they exit, your untangling the ancient wires of your earbuds, preparing to head out.
that's when he stands up and moves toward the exit, hands in his pockets. you glance up as he nears, moving out of his way so he can reach the door.
but he stops right in front of you, withdrawing something from his pocket. it's a twenty dollar bill.
you look up at him, confused. you're about to say something smart, like you don't solicit, but then he speaks.
"it was in the dryer your clothes were in. you left it here last week." his voice is a gentle drawl.
"oh." you stand there for a moment, registering, then tentatively accept the crumpled bill. "thanks."
he nods, pushing past you to the door. as he does so, he intentionally slides his jacket down off his shoulders, tilting his head back and basking for a moment in the setting sunshine just outside.
it's not how serene and beautiful he appears, or even that the shirt underneath his jacket perfectly accentuates the width of his waist, the shape of his shoulders, the definition on his chest... it's something else that makes your jaw fall to the floor.
you find yourself putting your hand out to stop the door, a scowl all over your features. the condensation on the glass leaves your palm damp.
he glances back at you, eyes wide and all too innocent.
somewhere in you, the despair and dragging nature of the week stops pulling you down, giving way all at once to an unfamiliar surge of anger. at first it seethes, then it boils. paired with the sticky heat of the air, you may as well be steaming.
"that's my fucking shirt," you point.
in your other hand, you hold the twenty dollar bill. as he turns to face you, giving you a fuller view of the shirt on his body, it crumples in your fist. you suck in a breath.
the white tee isn't quite big enough for his long, slender torso—on you, it rides a bit high, but on him, it's downright slutty.
there's nothing that prepares you for the toned muscles peeking out from underneath the shirt, disappearing into a very visible elastic band. his thumbs curl into the belt loops on his jeans, and he leans on one hip, unable to his his smirk.
"why are you wearing my shirt?" you blink several times, tearing your gaze back up to his face. you must be raising your voice a little bit, because the little old ladies pause where they place their laundry baskets in the trunk.
the guy just stares back at you, his smirk fully manifesting.
"do you think this is funny?" you demand loudly.
his eyes drift to the station wagon, his smile fading a bit. he takes a small step toward you, lifting one gentle hand, his demeanor calm as ever. "maybe we should discuss this inside..."
the old women hurry into their respective seats and speed off.
"give me back my fucking shirt!" you cry, incredulous. "how did you even—?"
he's laughing, dipping his head as he moves toward you and corners you back inside. he doesn't touch you, but he puts his arms out as if guiding. You reluctantly step back, taking your anger indoors.
your mind is reeling. as the door shuts, you start back up. "what, are you a freak or something? do you get off on this?"
he laughs out loud now, an expensive laugh, hands still raised as if to calm you. "no, nothing like that—"
you throw up your arms. "then why the hell would you do something like this? give it back."
he's grinning, leaning against an empty machine as he tugs the leather jacket off completely. he seems in no rush to comply, and gives no signal that he's even taking you seriously.
you step closer, putting your foot down, literally and figuratively. "hello? are you just gonna sit there, or—"
"you want the shirt back?" he looks you up and down as you clench your fists at your sides.
"yeah, it's mine. i assume you have others you can change into. give mine back."
"you really want it back?"
"of course i want it back, it's my favorite fucking shirt—!"
"fine." before you even understand what he's doing, he stands up off the machine, putting himself closer than is comfortable. he holds your gaze as he slaps the leather jacket onto the flat surface behind him. he crosses his arms down over his front, pinching the bottom hem of your precious tee with his thumbs, then lifts.
you choke, your heated hostility giving way to a confused flush. this is certainly a huge deviation from your regular routine.
that damn smirk is back when he holds the shirt out to you. "here."
your hands come up to take the article of clothing, awkwardly brushing with his, but you're sort of shell-shocked. after a second too long, you find your voice. "y-you could have—you didn't have to—you have a whole load of laundry, don't you—?"
his stomach clenches in a soft laugh. "what, my wet clothes?"
"oh my god," you shake your head, flustered. your blush has flooded all the way into your ears by now.
"i think it suits me. probably looks better on you though, right?"
you glare at him. neither of you have moved an inch. to your horror, he leans closerand glances at the shirt in your hands, his voice getting softer.
"maybe you should try it on. whoever it fits better gets to keep it."
"you're absurd," you mutter.
who does this? what sane adult acts like this? and yet...
that raging anger in you burns down to something worse. maybe it's the unopened dating app on your phone, or the way he's probably the most drop-dead gorgeous person you've ever seen, but suddenly you have the urge to play along.
a victorious smirk grows over his lips as he sees the thought linger in your head. his eyes glint as they watch your fingers reach for the uppermost button on your blouse.
your heart beats louder with every button until you can hear it in your ears. you remain relaxed, shrugging off the linen and letting it fall to the dirty concrete floor. so much for laundry day.
he doesn't try to hide the way he looks at you, but he does hook his thumb back into one belt loop and let his arm relax, dragging the top of the jeans slightly lower on that side.
you take a brief glance. "alexander wang, huh?"
"better than calvin klein," he scoffs, eyeing your bra.
you try to glare at him, but he's not looking at your face anymore. to your horror, his full, pink bottom lip curls up and catches in his teeth.
you lift the tee shirt, your tee shirt, over your head and tug it down over your body. immediately, it feels wrong.
to your dismay, as you look in the reflection of the laundromat windows, you can see where the shirt has been ruined by the broadness of his shoulders.
"my shirt," you deflate, and in the reflection you see him reach up.
he snickers as he tugs playfully at the stretched fabric. "what a shame."
you're shocked he's touching you. an electricity in the air you were unaware of before, or at best trying to ignore, suddenly intensifies. his fingers touch at the warped sleeves, but then his knuckle grazes south. as he brushes loosely over your arm, you finally look at him again, your heartbeat suddenly silent.
he watches his fingers move down, then over to your waist, touching the cotton shirt again.
then his palm slides over the side of your ribs, his hand lightly taking hold of the curve of your waist.
behind him, on the other row of machines, both cycles are in full spin, drowning out the soft noise you make by mistake. you'll tell yourself it was out of grief for your favorite shirt, and not because of whatever his touch is doing to you.
his eyes return to your face, watching, surveilling as he gradually moves closer. at first you put your arm out to stop him, acting only on instinct, but then your hand is on his stomach, and all you can do is suck in a sharp breath as the heat radiates into your palm.
"you can keep the stupid shirt," you breathe, reaching to rip it off before he can get any closer, but he helps you, closing the distance, backing you into the wall and peeling the shirt up off your body.
you freeze, electricity rippling over your skin where his knuckles had grazed over you.
he stops, the shirt falling uselessly to the ground. you see his chest rising and falling a little faster. there's a strange vulnerability about the moment.
"is this okay?" he's only looking at your eyes now, completely serious. his gaze clouds with restraint. it's like he's holding back a hunger, fighting a craving.
when you hesitate, he starts to move away, his expression shifting, and he bends his knees as if to grab your clothes off the floor.
"wait." you reach out and grab his wrist before he can hunch down. "it's fine."
when his eyes flick to yours, you feel your heartbeat catch up all at once. your breath quickens to accommodate. the humidity of the room seems to lay thicker.
he doesn't say anything for a moment, slowly rising to his feet. you regard each other in silence.
the likelihood of getting caught in the act would be slim. you visit this laundromat after work every single week. he's here most of the time, and usually it's just the two of you. in the time it takes to wash and dry your clothes, you've only ever seen another person here after seven two times. it's six. there are no cameras. the door is glass, and even though water droplets cover all the windows, a passerby could still reasonably ascertain what two silhouettes were up to. you shouldn't do this.
he moves toward you again, and apparently he's pieced all of this out already, because he takes your waist and pulls you toward the space behind the vending machine, sweeping the chairs out of the way with his leg. your back hits the wall again, and then his hands are on either side of your head.
"stop me if you don't want this." his eyes bore into yours. then he dips his head, and it's like you've left your brain out on the curb where you first saw him in that damn shirt.
his mouth is hot and wet against your throat. your knees turn to jelly, and you let out an unintentional moan.
the sound makes him let out a huff of a breath and crash his hips into yours, effectively pinning you there. his fingers sink into your waistband and start to pull everything down while his words grow hotter and heavier on the side of your neck. "god, if you knew how often i've thought about this... you'd throw my brain in one of those washers."
frazzled, you hold onto his hips. they're warm. "what?"
"i can't help it. look at you." he moves to kiss the curve of your breasts, letting out a moan. "god, i need you."
"i don't even know your name," you utter, your eyes fluttering.
"does it matter?" he pants softly, working on his belt. "call me whatever you want, beautiful."
any sane girl would see this flag for what it was: red. but his hands are turning your blood into syrup and your brain to mush.
he pulls something from his back pocket and puts it between his teeth—a condom, you discover—before shifting down his jeans. his arousal is clear as day through his boxers.
somehow the laundromat feels even more humid than before. he tears the condom from between his teeth and tucks it between his fingers, tilting his head and moving back in to put his lips on your skin.
his kiss is soft and supple and wet and needy. it's a drug. you'd always considered him attractive from afar, but up close like this, he's unreal.
there's no pause that usually comes with first-time coital interactions, no stopping to figure out where to touch or what way to angle your body. his hands direct all of that.
he moves your fingers to his hair while his hips press into yours, slow but hard, lifting you up a bit, his knee pressing between your thighs and forcing you to let him in. the weight of his hips keeps you up, and you feel your own moisture start to seep into the stretchy fabric covering him.
as if silently demanding more, his palm slips underneath your cunt, the heel of his hand pressing hard where it feels good.
you hum out a moan, the pleasure making everything a bit more real, a bit more intense.
"don't be afraid to make noise," he growls. "i like it." when he nibbles at your ear, you oblige.
nothing prepares you for his fingers.
careful and intentional, he slips the first fingertip over your slit, coating it nicely in your wetness and then circling back up to tease your clit. keeping pressure, he then dives in, and you're easily taking his second finger.
your head falls back against the wall, and you groan.
he's breathing heavily. his cock twitches against your thigh.
his jeans sit on his thighs, growing taught as he spreads your thighs with his own, moving his fingers deeper inside you.
"god," you blink at the ceiling. "you're good at that..."
he smiles, watching his wrist work.
you let your eyes close, relaxing against the wall, angling your hips so he touches you just right. after a while, you can hear a faint, sloppy noise coming from between your legs. with awful timing, you also hear the washers stop.
with a sigh, he withdraws his fingers. he lingers for a moment, his jaw flexing in irritation. "stay here," he mumbles, and then he's gone, leaving you panting softly in the humidity.
you peek around the vending machine to see him tossing your ruined shirt into a washer, start it, then cross the room to load your wet laundry into one of the dryers.
"don't steal another shirt," you warn.
he just grins, throwing everything in and slamming the door. you realize after a moment that he's already depositing coins.
you start to bend down, shaking off your shoes and the rest of your pants, feeling for the pockets. "here, i have change—"
"don't worry about it," he calls.
soon, he's back in front of you.
"did you only start one dryer?"
"yeah," he's shifting down his jeans again, eyeing you up and down.
you frown. "into the same dryer?!"
he grins, adjusting himself before sinking to his knees. "i only had eight more coins."
"so you mixed our laundry, and you didn't even separate the whites? there's a coin machine, you know."
"i'm a bit busy at the moment."
his audacity makes you wonder if he wants you to hate fuck him. but you don't have time to dwell on it, because he's looking up at you with these big, needy eyes, his hands smoothing up and down your thighs, melting into a firm grip under your knees. it's enough to make anyone forget what they're thinking.
he tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to open up. when you do, he takes your fingers and migrates them back into his hair, then leans towards your hips.
there is no hesitation. he kisses harshly on your clit and then plunges his tongue into you immediately, giving you no warning. you squeak in surprise and grab a fistful of his hair, your knees nearly giving way.
he makes an amused rumble that tickles against your pussy, then uses one arm to pull one of your thighs up onto his shoulder, the other bracing across your lower stomach and pushing your hips against the wall, sort of holding you there. the noises around his mouth start to get sloppy as he tucks in.
you've been eaten out before, but not like this. he's fucking greedy. your cries are coming like your legs—shaky. at first you try to watch, but the sight of his full, velvety lips making out with your clit while his tongue swirls is making you feel dizzy, and you have to lean your head back, whining into the thick air. maybe you're getting heat stroke. the condensation starts to combine with the moisture on your skin, forming droplets that roll down your forehead, your neck and stomach.
his skin has a sheen to it too. you're not sure how he keeps up the steady press of his arm against you, but he hardly seems phased, the honey skin on his shoulders rippling as he nods his head, lapping away.
only when the moisture starts dripping down his chin, and you've become a whimpering mess, is he finally satisfied. he gently puts your foot back onto the floor and wipes his face on his hand. then he looks up at you, refusing to break eye contact as he rises off the floor. soon you're staring up at him, chest heaving, legs wobbly.
his hooded gaze flicks over your face, the corner of his mouth creasing in amusement as he assesses that state he's put you in. your eyes must be glossed over. "turn around," he murmurs.
he doesn't wait for you to listen. his grip on your hips is gentle, but firm. soon you're spun to face the wall, and you out one forearm up to brace yourself.
his hands move down your sides, his thumbs pressing gentle shapes into the muscles on your back. you relax a bit, though the sigh that escapes you is a trembling one.
his fingers brush your hair to one shoulder, then his mouth lays an open-mouthed kiss on the opposite one. his other hand slides under the curve of your ass, then down between your thighs, assessing your body's response. you let out a choked whine as his fingers graze over the nerves he's just sucked raw.
"yeah... you're ready now," he sighs, laying a sickeningly hot kiss on your neck. his hands grow hungrier, wandering a bit, and one curves over your hip bone to pull your hips slightly closer. "can you stand on your toes for a second for me, beautiful?"
his gentleness has gooseflesh rising all over your body. you do as he asks, arching to tilt your pelvis so it aligns a bit more with his.
he lets out an appreciative groan, his fingers sliding down to feel the wetness between your thighs again. you gasp softly as they drift upward, rubbing appreciatively over the mess he's made of you.
you hear a crinkle of foil and glance over your shoulder to see him ripping the condom wrapper with his teeth. the sight of something between his lips like that triples the desire simmering in your belly. his eyes are on your ass, and as he fits the rubber over himself, he lets out a sigh that makes his head tilt, his other palm coming up to brace on the wall beside your shoulder.
then, planting one last fervent kiss to your spine, he presses his cock against your dripping slit and starts to spread you open.
you bite your wrist, doing your best to stay up on your toes as he gets comfortable. the push is gradual, giving you time to stretch, but the way he's prepared you to take him in has made the whole process so much easier.
he groans, a guttural noise that brings the heat to your face. the air feels like it's going to burst into flames. the sweat on your skin makes your hips slippery, but he holds one anyway, keeping you still while he works his way deeper.
when his body presses flush to yours, he draws back a bit, then teases into that spot, swaying his hips gently, feeling how you clench.
his voice is a bit broken. "you can relax," he chuckles, seeing how your knees tremble with the effort of keeping on your toes.
he doesn't wait for your heels to touch the ground, he just starts moving, nice and slow, pulling your hips slightly closer each time he buries himself to the hilt.
you do your best to keep to the wall, which is much cooler than the air around you. your breath adds to the condensation clinging to its surface. this whole situation is wet as hell. hot in more ways than one.
just when you think you've adjusted to the feeling of him filling you over and over again, he starts to go faster, his fingers gripping so tight on your hips it almost hurts.
"god," he pants, his breaths ragged. he sounds like he's clenching his teeth. "holy fuck... you have no idea... how long i've wanted to do this... oh, ffffuuuck..."
as he pounds into you, you start to hear the way your body responds to him, the sound carrying even over the clanging of the dryer. a particularly sopping squelch makes you close your thighs and whine aloud. you think of your clothes all mixed together across the room, your sweat and pleasure mixing over here.
god, this feels fucking good.
it gets worse when he wraps one hand around the front of you, adjusting his stance to sort of buck his hips upward into your ass, and then he starts to grind his fingers into your clit.
your hips jolt, and he lets you settle for half a second before he's mercilessly shoving up into you again. as if on their own, your hips arch for him, and you nearly sob at the sensation.
you're making sounds you've never heard from yourself before. his knees dig between your legs, pushing them apart again as his hands keep your hips still. his cock must be completely drenched, because your slick is dripping down your thighs now. he's going to have to wash his jeans.
your body is thrumming and responding to the onslaught of pleasure by squeezing down on him. he's letting out desperate grunts and whimpers, somehow holding his relentless pace, then speeding faster. you're surprised at how easily you feel yourself near that limit, its approach coiling tight in your lower belly.
"do you want..." he pants. "are you comfortable moving to..."
he's gasping for air. he slows, still pumping as if reluctant to stop, but his movements grow weaker until he eventually peels back, fully removing himself. his absence gives you a second to breathe.
you lean heavily into the wall for a few seconds before pushing yourself off, turning to see where he's gone.
he's hopping up onto the washer. not just any washer—the one he just put your shirt in. it rumbles and trembles underneath him as he works his jeans off over his ankles.
you're so needy you're dripping, but you have some decency.
"someone could walk in," you point out.
he only grins and pats his lap. his erect cock waits, and you shoot one more apprehensive look toward the door before stepping out of your hiding place.
as you climb onto the shaking machine, settling overtop his hips, your face is burning.
"no one ever comes here past this time on a wednesday." he must pay attention too. it makes you wonder what else he pays attention to.
"people could still drive by and look in the windows." even as you argue, you're lifting your hips for him. you're not sure what overcomes you, but you're pushing your hands through his damp hair while he lifts up his throbbing cock and stands it up underneath you.
"they're foggy." even though he's right, you can't help but wonder if he likes the thrill of potentially getting caught.
he's more impatient than you are. his hands are gentle as they pull you down onto him. you take him completely, hips meeting his, and whimper softly. his eyes close, and he lets out a breath. beneath the both of you, the vibration of the laundry cycle gives you extra friction.
your thighs squeeze his hips as you begin to grind, working your wetness back over him for a moment. then you're lifting, hips bobbing, and he watches as he fills you over and over again, leaning back on his palms.
his figure's toned contours are exemplified by the sweat dripping over his skin. you let one hand smooth down the side of his neck, fingertips trailing, and then slide your touch to the front of his throat, moving down from there. as you descend his curves and edges, appreciating the obvious work he puts into maintaining his figure, his head tilts back, and his face flickers in a groan. he might like this more than anything else you've done so far. you grind a bit harder, heightening his pleasure.
as you reach the bottom of his stomach, you flatten your palm there and fit your other hand to his thigh behind you. bracing on his body, you start to bounce on his cock.
eagerly, he lifts his hips, a whine escaping his parted lips. "oh my god..."
the washing machine starts to shudder, and at first it throws you off balance, but then you learn how to move on top of it, rolling your hips as you come down on him, your pussy closing desperately around his cock.
he grabs your waist and forcibly guides your hips forward a bit, shattering the illusion that you're in control.
"fuck," he sighs, gazing down the bridge of his nose to where your hips connect. his eyes wander up your body as you continue riding his achingly-pleasant erection. after a couple more wet slaps of skin to skin, his knuckles graze up your ribcage and his thumb and forefinger roll over your nipple, softly pinching.
you feel your pussy start to throb, and you unintentionally let out a weak whimper. one of your hands lifts, curling around your front to touch yourself.
he watches as if fascinated by your fingers dipping down between your hips, learning how you please yourself. you fuck him a bit faster, crying out softly.
he allows you to continue for a bit, making sounds to let you know how well you're doing, but his eyes glint dangerously as he suddenly reaches down and pushes your wrist out of his way.
his thumb touches your sensitive, throbbing clit with ease. he smiles softly as he feels your cunt clench up for him, and in your bout of pleasure, your thighs weaken, so he starts to make up for the faltered pace by thrusting his hips upward, a repeated swinging motion that makes your mind go blank.
"fuck," you moan, your hole fluttering.
"look at you, the girl who hides her panties inside other clothes when she moves them, getting fucked by a stranger in public." his lips curl into a vicious smile, sweat beading on his forehead. god, the air is so hot it's suffocating.
"you don't sound... like a stranger... if you know that much," you pant, unease and pleasure both making your brows furrow.
he doesn't respond to your statement, instead asking, "are you close?"
you look into his eyes, your own surely dazed. he doesn't stop shoving up into you, and each thrust makes your vision blur slightly. you nod.
"good." he sighs, desperation scrawling across his features as his eyes rake back down your form. "god, you're so pretty, riding me like this."
the unexpected praise makes you breathless for a second. you try to retake control, bringing your hips down a little harder, but he grabs you with one hand, fingers so tight under your thigh they might bruise. his breathing is ragged, and he's begun to have this sort of starry, far-off look.
his insistence on fucking you, even from his underneath position, has thrown you off. you try your best at this point to hold your hips where he seems to want them, but it's difficult because your thighs are so weak and shaky now.
he grunts, pushing his cock into you so hard that he lifts you higher off the washing machine. you yelp in surprise, and he takes advantage of the widened space, grabbing your waist and flipping you over. his feet hit the floor, but your hips are shelved onto the edge of the machine, and he grips your knees, pulling your thighs up around his waist, sinking back into you yet again.
you lay back on your elbows, the wash cycle quaking beneath you, making your body sway as he finds his pace. his skin is slick, and so is yours, and it's only his grip on the underside of your knees that gives him leverage. the humidity entraps you. you swear you can drink the air. he's pounding pleasure into you, and you're not sure if it's heatstroke or impending bliss, but you feel a bit faint.
"i'm—" you muster, and he understands.
he somehow picks up his pace, and you cry out, squirming. "oh—mmh, fuck, yes, god, like that—mmnh—"
"fuck," he barks, slamming into you, hard.
you arch, feeling a hot flash sear through your body, the heat and the moisture and the pressure eclipsing into a pleasure so strong you feel like you have to hold onto the machine.
he holds his cock in you as far as it will go, both hands in a death grip on your hips now, trying to hold steady against you, but the spin cycle jostles you around, causing him to cry brokenly. his hips shudder, grinding desperately into yours as he doubles over, his forehead on your chest.
your legs give up, hanging uselessly off the side of the machine. you blink up at the ceiling, trying to wipe the water off your brow, but everything around you is covered in sweat and condensation, and there's not escaping it.
he takes another moment before gathering you up in his arms and kissing across your breasts and shoulders, slowly relaxing his hips and slipping out of you.
"holy shit," you mutter, catching your breath.
underneath you, the washer shudders to a stop.
he starts laughing against your shoulder, and you look at him as he uprights himself and helps you to sit up.
"i have excellent time management skills, by the way," he's still grinning ear to ear, standing between your knees, proud of himself.
the situation is odd, unprecedented, probably one of the stupidest things you've ever done—but as you look up at his face, framed by damp hair, rolling with sweat, you feel your heart stutter. he really is gorgeous, even after all that. you must look all red and blotchy and greasy from the perspiration, but he's glowing.
his eyes squint in amusement at you, but he doesn't comment on your starstruck expression. instead, he surprises you even more by leaning in to plant a kiss on your forehead. and after everything that you just did together, this feels the most intimate of all.
he leaves you sitting on the machine, heading to the dryer and opening it up to test the dryness of the clothes. they must be dry enough, because he pulls out a couple articles and then makes his way back over, tossing some of them at you.
he chose well—you're able to pull on a fresh tank top, some lacy underwear, and some cotton shorts. when you're done, he's tugged on some basketball shorts and is gathering the clothing strewn about, like his dirty jeans and his underwear.
"where are my dirty clothes?" you inquire aloud, still a bit dizzy, and now thoroughly exhausted.
"i put them over in your basket," he explains nonchalantly, heading for the vending machine. he pulls some crumpled bills from his jeans. "except that shirt. i'm washing that."
you find your shoes, then cross over to the dryers, brain whirring. did that just fucking happen?
as you're pulling out the clothes piece by piece, sorting them into his bag on the floor or your basket, you shake your head at the strangeness of the situation.
"so what's—" you call, turning to look at him, but you're surprised to find he's right behind you, holding out one of the two bottles from the vending machine. they're some generic brand of lemonade. "...what's your name, then?"
"seonghwa." he smiles warmly as you take the ice cold bottle, cracking open his own.
the sweet, sour drink tastes like it must be ambrosia. you have to stop yourself from chugging the entire bottle.
seonghwa has no such restraint. he tips his head back, some of the liquid escaping and making a trail down his throat as he gulps. despite your satisfied state, you feel a fizzle of desire in your gut. you turn back to the laundry, chastising yourself internally. you had your fun. you need to stop finding this weirdo attractive.
"what's your name?" he exhales after his long drink.
"oh, you don't know already?" you jab. "since you seem to know so many other things..."
"i'm not a stalker," he grins, stepping up beside you. he bumps your hip so you'll make room, then begins to help sort the clothes. you catch him playfully putting one of your socks in his bag, and you snatch it away from him. he snickers. "kidding, i'm only kidding..."
"so why did you wear my shirt? did you think i wouldn't notice?"
he puffs a breath of a laugh. "god forbid i try to flirt with you."
this makes you stop. you don't look at him, but you can see him grinning in your peripheral as he continues sorting the last of the clothes.
"i have a tip for you. next time a woman leaves their clothes in the dryer, don't put them on to 'flirt' with them."
"seemed pretty effective."
he sounds too amused. whatever refreshment the lemonade had offered now fades, replaced with the suffocating heat again. your annoyance, still rooted in incredulousness, begins to simmer.
"freak," you mutter, and you toss the last bit of laundry in your basket, hoisting it onto your hip.
"see you next week," he laughs.
you roll your eyes as you storm out of the laundromat.
work doesn't get easier, but not for the usual reasons. your boss is still an oblivious idiot, your coworkers are lazy, and every minor inconvenience that can go wrong, does. this is all as per usual, but you feel like they're the least of your concerns now. the real problem is how you can't get the weirdo from the laundromat out of your head.
on wednesday you roll up at the regular time, and he's already there, along with one other older guy you see around sometimes.
seonghwa has his headphones in, his head tilted against the wall, eyes closed. just like last time.
only one dryer is on. this is strange. maybe one of the machines has a load of laundry waiting to be removed? whatever, it doesn't concern you.
you start your wash like normal—separating lights from darks, first and foremost. luckily your whites survived last week's dryer mix, and you seem to have gotten all your clothes back, save the shirt that was washing when you left. you wonder if he'll really keep it, or...
as if on cue, you feel a presence at your side. you're about to roll your eyes, but he drops something on the washer in front of you before brushing past you and heading for the door.
it's a shopping bag. you frown, looking after him as he disappears. then, curiously, you stick your hand inside to feel several things, all tied up in some sort of string. when you withdraw the parcel, you are surprised to see a little bow, its ribbon sandwiching together a brand new copy of your white shirt, a handwritten note, and on top, a small, sealed box containing some earbuds.
you slide the note out from under the box, still frowning, but as your eyes skim the page, your expression softens into almost a smile. it reads:
sorry for being a creep and stealing your shirt. what i told you about it being in the dryer after you left wasn't true. you dropped it on the way to the dryer that day and i could have given it back to you, but i didn't. i wanted to wear it and see if you'd do anything.
anyway, i'm keeping the shirt. it looks good on me. here's a new one to compensate.
you never told me your name. if you're not super creeped out by me, you should text it to me. if i don’t hear from you, i’ll change my laundry days to Tuesday. the last thing i want is to make you uncomfortable. i know it probably doesn’t look that way, but it’s true.
his number is scrawled out at the bottom. you flip the paper to find another little paragraph.
p.s. i'm sorry about your headphones. they looked really cool and vintage. i hope this isn't weird, but i had an extra pair of regular old earbuds just sitting in a drawer. i want you to have them.
