note to self: do not fucking fall asleep in jung wooyoung's bed after fucking him
🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au series, part 15/? 🎤︎︎ 18+ | 7.7k words | reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore | smut minors dni, So Much Fucking Kissing, fingering, oral, pinv, dirty talk, choking, multiple orgasms, praise kink, hair pulling, biting condom used, wooyoung sexy, alc consumption?? aftercare is just Them being Them | also my first pov switching without adding a break so Keep Your Eyes Peeled And Brains On
THIS ISN’T YOUR FIRST TIME IN Jung Wooyoung’s bedroom. The first time, you were trying to get Yeonjun to fuck you in his bed. The second time, you showed up with the sole intention of begging him for advice, to help you save your relationship. The third time, you walked in on him fucking two women, a threesome you never wanted to see, a memory you wish you didn’t keep. You’ve been to Wooyoung’s bedroom to have sex, but never in your fucking life did you think you’d come up here to have sex with Wooyoung.
He didn’t say another word after you told him to bring you upstairs, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you through the living room, up the stairs. He’s still pulling you, his fingers firm around your wrist, his grip intentional. You swear you don’t see a single face on your way up, as if everyone disappeared, or maybe it’s because your eyes are glued to his back, the twin dimples at the base of his spine with every step up.
Heat pools with every step you take, your gut leaden with anticipation. He opens his door, tugging you inside, closing it and locking it with one quick motion, and there’s not even a second before he’s grabbing you by the hips. You brace your hands on his chest, looking up at him, and he keeps his face close enough to share breath, but he doesn’t close the distance.
He asks a question you finally know the answer to. “What do you want?”
“This,” you whisper without thinking about it. You don’t need to fucking think anymore. “You.”
His eyes drop to your lips. It feels slower than it happens, him connecting his lips with yours, soft, careful; like he doesn’t want to cross a line, even after all this time. Your hands slide up his chest, cupping his cheeks, and you surprise yourself by deepening it, parting your lips in a silent command to continue.
When you taste him, beer, vodka, a hint of vermouth, your stomach flips. “Wooyoung,” you whisper into his mouth, and he responds by kissing you harder, faster. His hands tighten in the belt loops of your shorts, pushing you backward, your hands finding his hair as you let him, crossing the room until the backs of your thighs hit something sharp.
“Hold on,” he whispers in your mouth, and you attach your lips again instead of obeying. He bends you backward, the edge you’re up against cutting into your skin, you don’t care. He grins into you, but his order is clear, “Hold on to me.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you quip, but you swing your arms around his neck anyway, gasping as he grabs you by your thighs, lifting you up on what you can only assume is his desk– you’re so fucking drunk on the taste of him you can’t bare to part from him and look.
You hear shit falling, you don’t care, he doesn’t so much as twitch toward it. Your body sways backward with the force of him, his hands sliding up to your waist, fingers tugging at the hem of your top. It’s a blink of an eye, getting your shirt over your head, your lips on his again. It’s messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, tugging at his roots while his hands pull you toward him by the waist, your spine bending.
“Yours, too,” you mutter as your hands find the hem of his tee, tugging it upward. He pulls it over his head by the collar, and it feels like slow motion, the reveal of his abdomen, his chest, the two lines diagonally sinking into his briefs. You curse under your breath, lifting your eyes to him again, and it’s like you’re in sync, the way you grab for each other like animals in fucking heat.
You kick your boots off behind his back before crossing your legs behind him, pulling him toward you, his hips meeting yours, tipped off the edge of the desk. He grits out a rough noise, “Fuck.”
“Yeah,” you whimper at the feeling, his body pressed against yours, his hips digging into you like he’s acting without a brain. He reaches behind you, unclipping your bra with one hand, and you smirk into his mouth, “So easy.”
“Always,” he quips, throwing it to his floor, one hand grabbing your waist again, pulling your chest flush to his. You wish you could muster up an equally cocky rebuttal, but instead you moan into his open mouth, his lips that have already found yours.
You stay there for what feels like forever. Bodies pressed together, your hands in his hair, his fingertips grazing your back, feeling each other like you don’t want to miss even the smallest detail. He’s smooth, as soft as he looked earlier, but so sculpted you can feel every ridge of his abdomen, his chest flexing against you.
He grits out a harsh noise into your mouth, his nails sinking into your sides like he’s had enough. His fingers tug at the belt loops of your shorts as he mutters, “Want these off.”
“Why are you telling me?” You’re no better, immediately untangling your legs from around his back, arms extending behind you, palms flattening against his desk. “Take them off.”
His eyes are low, chest rising and falling rapidly, visibly reaching the point of losing restraint. You don’t think he’s ever been more attractive. Your brows raise just a little, and his fingers work the button of your shorts so fucking fast you barely have time to lift your hips to get them off.
His hand finds the side of your neck to pull you toward him, his other hand slipping between your bodies, and you gasp a sharp sound into his mouth as his fingers press against you, over your panties.
“Gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he tells you, two fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, the dampness of lace clinging to you. “Then you’ll do it again on my cock.”
“Just twice?” you tease, hips twitching toward him. Your tongue pokes out, running along his teeth, “You can do better than that, no?”
There’s a faint smile playing on his lips before he silences you with his teeth clamping over your bottom lip, fingers pulling your panties to the side. “I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”
“Why n–” you’re cut off by his fingers slipping inside, your slick that soaked your panties welcomes him in without resistance. You choke on a moan, back going rigid, knees twitching upward.
“F-fuck,” you manage to get out, jaw pried open, eyes squeezed shut. His lips find your neck, your head tilts back as his fingers curve into you, finding the spongy spot inside like he can see through your skin.
“So fucking wet,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice a vibration you can feel down to your core.
His teeth graze as his fingers curl, pressing purposely against that same spot, making your moans raise in pitch. You cling onto his shoulders so you don’t collapse on his fucking desk as he picks up speed, sucking on your neck, teeth sinking into your skin, you can feel him smile as your moans grow louder.
You try to say his name as your nails claw into his shoulders, you can’t manage anything more than a measly mumble of syllables as his fingers hook upward. He finds your lips again, kissing your non-responsive lips, the pleasure is overwhelming, too much to focus on anything else.
“Look at me,” he says, and his voice is stern. Your eyes flutter open at the command, and one look at him, the way he’s looking at you, makes you kiss him back. Another clash of teeth and tongue, your spine bends, hips tilting into his fingers even if he can’t fuck into you any deeper. He tries anyway, curling into you with every thrust of his fingers, a perfect pace, perfect rhythm.
You can feel heat spreading, and it barely dawns on you that he hasn’t touched your clit once. Your hips are warm, gut heavy, a slow bleed of pressure building steadily. His other hand stays tight wrapped around your jaw, thumb on your chin keeping your lips open, you’d kiss him if you could. He’s drawn your mind empty, enough pleasure to make your body stiff, you want to cum.
“Please,” you find yourself begging, your voice no more than a pitiful whimper. “Ple– Wooyo– please, please please.”
“Don’t beg,” he says into your open mouth. “Take what you fucking want.”
He doesn’t change his rhythm, his pressure, his pace. Your toes curl, socked heels lifting to try and find leverage against the edge of the desk, it’s too high. Somehow it’s worse, legs dangling, body stiff, the pleasure carves out something vital inside you until you have nothing else to give.
“Woo–” your voice is edged, panicked. He swallows it as he pushes you to the edge, you can’t kiss him back, so wound up with pleasure it takes every bit of focus to allow it to crash over you. It’s a different kind of orgasm, stronger, longer; it begins in your hips, spreading to every limb, every nerve ending, he holds you steady with his hand around your jaw as you convulse, what would be an embarrassing display of pleasure if you could form a single fucking thought.
“Yes, yes,” he encourages, voice coated in awe. “Knew it, fuck, baby, let me see you cum.”
Your thighs are shaking, your body folds, knees lifting up into your clenching abdomen, you don’t know what sounds are leaving you, if any at all. He kisses your unmoving lips, fingers fucking you through the waves of pleasure, the orgasm that lasts so long you can’t remember when the fuck it started.
You whimper as the rush dies down, body still twitching, thighs falling back down to the desk. You kiss him back when your body returns to you like it’s instinct, like you’ve already gone too long without his tongue in your mouth to go any longer without it. You trace the crescents your nails left in his shoulders, you can feel the raised, bumpy lines you left, you don’t remember dragging your nails across his skin, but you don’t care.
He doesn’t slip his fingers out, he leaves them hooked inside, massaging so slowly it’s nothing more than a lingering, steady pressure. Your body rides the aftershocks, he follows each twitch, kissing you until your body softens, melting into him again.
“What–” you finally manage, voice ragged and wrecked. “How?”
“What do you–?”
“You didn’t even touch my clit,” you cut him off, pulling away to look at him, consciousness in your eyes again mixed with genuine confusion.
You cry something sharp as his fingers crook inside you, legs lifting off the desk. He smiles like it was intentional. “Never done that before?”
“I’ve tried,” you whimper, because he’s still fucking fingering you. Your head droops, eyelids fluttering, “S-shit– I’ve tried, but I never– fuck.”
Slower is worse, you’re already overstimulated, and even if it’s not enough to get pressure building again, it’s enough to render you boneless. He grins, lips pressed against your forehead, “I’m sure there’s more than that, too.” Your head picks up. “Plenty of things you had no idea you could do that you can.”
You don’t know how, for a split second there, you forgot who he is. This is the second time now that he’s proving his skill to you, showing you that he can play your body like a well-tuned instrument, that he can make you feel things you’ve never felt before. You want… you want to see him lose himself.
You grab him by his hair, tugging him down to kiss you again by his roots. His fingers glide now, but instead of sinking into the pleasure you reach for them with one hand, pulling them out of you. You lift off the desk, still kissing him as you push him backward, willing strength into your shaky legs. He lets you, much to your surprise, even if nothing about tonight should be surprising anymore.
You want to see what he looks like consumed by pleasure, you want to hear what he sounds like when you’re the one giving it to him. Your nails claw down his abdomen as he meets the edge of his bed, you make quick work of his jeans, his belt, the button, the zipper. His fingers are in his mouth before his ass hits the mattress and you throb at the visual, wanting so badly to crawl on top on his lap and fuck yourself stupid, but you force yourself to stay focused.
You’re speaking as you sink down to your knees, “Wanna taste you.” He says your name softly, as if he means you don’t have to. Your fingers slip into the elastic of his briefs, “Please?”
He stares at you for a second, reading your expression before he mumbles, “Hearing you beg is almost as fucking foul as hearing you apologize.”
You smile, “So, yes?”
He nods, and your body ignites with thrill as you tug on his briefs, he lifts his hips to help you get them down. You don’t even read the fucking tattoo on his thigh as his length springs against his hips, curved, long, red and fucking eager, precum gathered at his tip, your mouth waters at the sight. There’s no part of Jung Wooyoung that isn’t jaw-droppingly beautiful.
You lick your lips, realizing Wooyoung probably receives more head in a month than you’ve given in your entire life. Your cheeks heat up, but your determination outweighs your insecurity. You lift your gaze, “Tell me if I’m doing– if I’m making you feel good.”
“You will,” he nods, cock twitching against his hips. “Get out of your head.”
It’s not enough to get your body to relax, but it’s enough to lean forward, taking his length into one hand. His brows twitch together, lips parting ever so slightly. You watch him as you wrap your lips around his tip, ease barreling into you as he lowers himself onto his elbows, head tilting, face twisting up in pleasure. Your tongue slides against the underside of him as you take him deeper and his head tips backward, a low groan tumbling out in the shape of your name, your thighs clench together at the noise.
Salty, natural, him; you take him deeper, saliva sinking between your palm and his cock, you use your hand and your mouth to form a rhythm. “Fuck,” he grits out, voice rough, chest heaving. You can see his tattoo, unreadable words on his ribs, dark, dainty lettering against his flushed skin. His head lifts up like he wants to see your face, “Just like that.”
It sends electricity through your veins. You use your other hand to push your hair out of your face and he leans forward to gather it as you take him deeper with every bob of your head.
“So fucking good,” he keeps encouraging, you feel like you’re on fire. You swallow around him and his hips twitch, grip tightening on your hair. “Look so pretty like this, full of me. Keep using your hands.”
Your grip tightens, using two hands around his length, lips swirling around his tip as your pace quickens. His breath catches before he moans, and the sound is music to your fucking ears, arousal floods you so thoroughly you moan, too. He holds your hair with one hand, the other finding the mattress, clawing at the sheets like it’s all he can do to stop himself from fucking his hips into your face.
You pull your hands away, clawing at his thighs as you sink down until your nose touches the patch of hair at the base of him, swallowing. He moans again, higher in pitch, almost panicked; he tugs on your hair to pull you off of him, “Gonna fucking cum if you do that.”
You meet his eye for a split second, breathlessly muttering, “Then cum.”
Doing it all over again, his hips twitch up into your throat, making you gag. Your fingers claw into the skin of his thighs as he hisses an apology, “I’m so– Too m– fuck, gonna– I’m gonna cum.”
You don’t let up, your body so consumed with his pleasure, you need to see it through. Your eyes squeeze shut as you take him as deep as you can, moaning around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, stinging your scalp. It’s enough to push him over, and you barely taste it, you can feel him twitch, the warmth sliding down your throat. You can hear the bright, pitched moans as he empties himself inside your mouth, but he’s too deep for you to taste a drop.
He curses roughly as you bob your head again, pulling you off his length by your hair. You’re already smiling by the time you see him, flushed, panting, lips glossy, eyes low and dark. There’s pride in his gaze, surprise, arousal, your grin spreads as soon as you see him.
“Good?” you ask, voice as raw as your throat.
He doesn’t answer, he lets go of your hair, knees spreading to reach for your cheeks with his palms, attaching his lips to yours before he guides you upward. You crawl over him, into his lap, throwing your arms over his shoulders, getting lost in the taste of him all over again. It’s easy when his hands squeeze your ass, sliding up to your chest, thumbs brushing against your nipples, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s trying to taste himself.
“I wanna fuck,” you whisper into his mouth, taking his cheeks into your hands.
He huffs a small laugh. “Ever heard of a refractory period?”
“Didn’t think you needed one of those.” You’re smiling, running your hands through his hair. “I assume your dick is just eternally hard, I think.”
His brows raise, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I don’t think you thought that through.”
“I try not to think about your dick,” you shrug, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. You feed him a short peck, then whisper into his mouth, “If I think about it for too long, I want it.”
You’re kissing between words, smiling into each other’s mouths. “Then why are you just coming to get it now?”
“Loaded question.” Your panty-covered clit catches against his cock, he hisses out a sharp noise. “Your refractory period will be up before I get through half of it.”
He laughs at that, soft, genuine. Then his hands find your hips, “Let me eat you out then.”
“No,” you press your finger against his chest, smiling. “Fuck me.”
He uses his hands on your hips to flip you off of his lap in the blink of an eye. You yelp as your back hits the mattress, still processing the move as he pulls you to the edge of the bed, you almost miss his mumble of, “Too fucking bad.”
He tugs at your panties, marveling at how the lace sticks to your core before getting them down your thighs, throwing them to his floor. Your knees fall apart on instinct, arching when the cool air of his room hits your glistening folds. He stares with low-lidded eyes, and you swear if you look hard enough you can see the saliva forming behind his lips.
“Get hard again,” you order him, reaching for authority you don’t have right now.
He looks up at you through his brows, “One taste and I will be.”
Your grin is lazy, you don’t have a comeback, nor do you want one. He curls his arms under your thighs, bringing his tongue to your slick folds like a dog to a bowl of water. You reach for his hair automatically, a shallow moan falling off your tongue, and he responds with a groan so guttural you want to take back every beg for him to fuck you.
His lips swirl around your clit, tongue flicking over it, and your face scrunches together as something pitched escapes, fingers tightening in his hair. You moan his name, head falling backward, heels digging into his back. His tongue is warm, heavy, but a weapon as it rolls over your clit steadily, building rhythm.
You moan his name again, with more urgency. You want him inside you. He ignores you, eyes closed, blissed out. Like he could do this for hours and not get bored, like he’ll refuse to let himself get tired. You want to sigh, but the sound is stolen from you as his teeth graze over your clit, your body goes rigid, eyes nearly popping out of your skull.
He’s grinning, amused as he stands up. Your brows are furrowed as you bark out, “Did you just fucking bite me?”
“No,” he shrugs, reaching into his bedside table. “But I could if you liked it.”
“Not my fucking clit,” you argue, but you did kind of like it. “Well, at least not like, hard.”
His amusement is verbal as he grabs a condom, ripping the packet open with his teeth. You frown at the foil, an involuntary reaction. He doesn’t look at you as he says, “Don’t even fucking complain.”
“I wasn’t going to!” you defend yourself, voice pitched. Your legs are still spread, the rest of your body relaxed. “Is it so bad that I wanna feel you?”
“Is it so bad that I don’t want chlamydia again?” he asks, brows high as he rolls the latex over his hard length.
Your jaw drops. “You think I have chlamydia?”
“Don’t start an argument,” he holds up a finger. “Not when I’m literally about to fuck you.”
“Fine,” you respond, short. He stares at you with a flat expression. You basically fucking twitch with anticipation, “Oh my god, fuck me. I’ve been waiting long enough.”
A tiny huffed laugh sneaks past his lips as his hands find your knees, pushing them toward your chest. Your breath gets caught in your chest as he holds your shins with one hand, lining himself up with the other. You want it so fucking bad, you want him so bad you’ll fucking cry for it, but nerves ebb their way up your spine, surprising you, unwelcome.
“Wait,” you whisper, knees spreading under his grip. He glances upward, brows already raised, pausing immediately. Your tone comes out uneasy as you whisper, “Come here.”
Keeping you at the edge of the bed, he leans over you and lets you guide him to your lips. One pass of his tongue against yours and you’re whispering, “Okay.”
“You sure?” he mumbles into your mouth.
“Please,” you whimper, kissing him again. He doesn’t say anything else, blindly lining himself up, brushing his tip through your folds, swallowing your breathy noises as he slowly pushes inside. His lips find your neck as your body bends, his cock filling you up thoroughly, curving up against the spot his fingers were abusing earlier.
Your nails find his back, knees up by your shoulders, your face is scrunched in pleasure as you feel him splitting you open. He moans into your throat, his cheek replacing where his lips had been, like he’s too overwhelmed with the feeling to focus on kissing you, either.
“I get it,” you choke out, body tight with pleasure. He mumbles out a curious, questioning noise, like words are too far for even him right now. “Why everyone wants to fuck you. I get it.”
He huffs a laugh into the pocket of your shoulder, “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Yes, I’m fucking–”
Your words are cut off as he rolls his hips, fucking into you sharply. Breath escapes in a wheeze, and he moans as you clench around him, pushing himself up onto his elbows that cage in your head. “Fuck,” he mutters roughly, glancing between your bodies. Then he looks up at you, finding your eyes that are only half-open, “Gonna get addicted to this.”
“To what?” you ask, absentmindedly. He doesn’t answer, rolling his hips, and as he starts moving you’re reminded of every single story you’ve ever been told about him. He’s perfect, you think; the shape of him, how he feels inside you, how he smells, his weight on top of you. It’s very fucking plausible that you might get addicted to this, to him, too.
It’s a nasty, slow grind, his hips fucking into yours, but each thrust knocks more air out of your lungs, brings you another wave of growing, steady pleasure. Your hands find his face, his cheeks, hitting his teeth in a messy, shaky kiss.
He presses his forehead to yours as he steals your hands from his cheeks, “Pussy so fucking tight, baby, gotta stop clenching around me.”
“Can’t,” you cry, shaking your head, your wrists victim to his grip.
His brows are scrunched, jaw slacked. “Swallowing me,” he whispers, almost in awe, like your cries mean nothing to him. His hands cradle your cheeks as he moans out, “Fuuck, baby. So fuckin’ good.”
He’s close enough for your lips to graze, all you can do is make pitiful, strained noises into his mouth. You grab at one of his hands on your cheeks, sliding it down over your jaw, guiding him until his palm is resting over your throat. His brows raise a fraction, a smile tugging at his lips, and your returning grin is lazy like you can read his mind, and he can read yours.
His grip tightens as his hips pick up speed, adding pressure to both sides of your neck, he moans when your eyes roll backward. All you can feel is him, inside you, on you, wrapped around you, every single sense has been stolen by him, and you fucking love it.
“Pussy so perfect,” you can barely hear his muttered words, your ears starting to ring. “Everything so fucking perfect, oh my god–”
Your pulse throbs against his grip, vision going blurry at the edges, the pressure in your belly builds. Warmth spreads quickly, fast enough to make you panic, fingernails sinking into his grip on your throat, he lets go as your nails make contact. You blink, sucking air into your lungs, blood flow returning to your veins. The pressure fades too quickly.
You urge, “Do it again.” He kisses you. You add pressure over his hand, stubborn, whining, “Do it again.”
“Trust me,” he says, barely finishing the words before he’s kissing you again. Trusting him is easy, especially as his hips pick up, fucking into you impossibly harder, faster, angling his hips so his cock hits the same spot inside you over and over. The pressure starts building again.
You moan his name, the following sounds heighten in pitch as you twitch beneath him, grabbing at the sheets on either side of you. “So good,” you moan, forcing air down. “G’na fucking cum.”
He keeps his hips angled, bullying the same spot so aggressively your tear ducts burn. “Little more,” he mumbles, voice tight, eyes focused. Pleasure spreads, your cries turning into babbled words, incomprehensible bullshit you’re sure he can’t decipher, either. As your orgasm approaches, clawing its way up, his hand wraps around your throat again.
You don’t know how he keeps fucking into you steadily, your body thrashing beneath him with the force of your orgasm. Your nerve endings sizzle with pleasure, the pressure blowing at a magnitude. Your vision whites out, ears ringing, but never once does his rhythm falter. Never once does he not hit that spot inside you perfectly.
When your hearing returns, all you can hear is yourself. “...Again, again, please, again–”
You don’t know when he let go of your throat, you don’t know when your orgasm ended. He pushes up, pulling out to turn you over, on your stomach. He shoves a pillow under your hips, and you’re still fucking babbling as he crawls over you, shins bracketing your thighs, and slips inside you again.
You claw at the sheets with one hand, reaching behind you with the other, “Wooyoung–”
“I know,” he says, soothing words, grabbing your outstretched hand. “I’m here, baby, you can take it.”
“Yes,” you whimper, nodding. “More.”
“Give you whatever you want,” he seems as far gone as you are, his chest pressing to your back, arm snaking under your body as he picks up his pace all over again. “Keep fuckin’ coming for me and I’ll give you whatever you want.”
You’re nodding as his palm holding yours lands at the base of your neck, splayed across your chest, your thighs pinned together tight enough that every thrust feels ten times deeper. The angle renders you silent, moans caught in your chest, only tiny squeaks escaping with every sharp snap of his hips.
“Did I fuck you stupid?” You can hear the smile in his voice, a nasty smirk. “Did I fuck the words right out of your pretty lil’ head?”
You whimper, a pathetic noise. You can hear the rumble of his chest, the amusement tumbling off his tongue. He kisses the side of your head, “Just lay there and take it.”
“No,” you manage to get out, strained, raw. “Kiss me.”
He uses his arm wrapped around your front to lift you with him until you’re both sitting on your shins, you settled in the space between his thighs, his cock still buried inside you. You twist to catch his lips, and he lets go of your hand to squeeze at your chest, the other sliding down your front, between your thighs.
You bounce automatically, moaning into his mouth, fucking yourself against him as two of his fingers circle your clit. He groans, hips twitching against you, but he lets you decide the rhythm, he lets you fuck yourself as you please. It’s a slow grind, his tongue tangling with yours, fingers rubbing at your clit like every movement is solely to get you off.
Your jaw goes slack, lips unmoving as pleasure blooms. Your head dips, your hand coming up to your chest, fingers tangling with his. He keeps his mouth close to your ear, humming before he asks, “Gonna cum around my cock again?”
You nod, eyes rolling, squeezing his palm. “Uh-huh.”
He bucks his hips into you and you cry out, hips twitching, but his fingers follow, circling your clit. “Cum,” he whispers into your ear, tongue poking out to lightly lick the shell. You shiver, eyes screwing shut, crying out a broken sound, his name, you think. “Cum for me baby, let me feel– wanna feel you cum around my cock.”
His hips pick up when yours fail, following you as you lift onto your knees, fingers still working your clit steadily. One cry bleeds into a long noise of pleasure, a song of an orgasm, your hips convulse as it crashes over you, falling into him, but he fucks you through it until your cries turn to staggered whines.
“So fucking good for me.” With one hand on your hip, he folds you. “Do whatever I fucking want you to.”
Your elbows hit the mattress, knees falling apart, and the speed he fucks into you with is brutal. He’s chasing as you’re still coming down, his other hand splayed at the root of your spine, arching you into the perfect shape for him.
“Wooyoung,” you moan, turning your head to the side, barely seeing him through your wall of hair. You can see his strong thighs flexing with every thrust, the tattoo you still can’t read.
“Pussy so fucking tight,” he says it like a curse, rough and under his breath. “Feels so fucking good, baby, you feel so fucking good.” You moan at the praise, as his fingers sink into the plush of your ass, fucking you against him. “Wanna cum inside, wanna fill you up.”
Your moans grow louder, toes curling. The noise that leaves him sounds like a laugh, maybe a broken groan. “Clenched around me,” he muses, low, ragged. “You want me to? Want me to fill you up?”
You nod, even if you’re sure he can’t see you. “Want it,” you moan. “Do it.”
He grinds out something harsh, a noise that sounds something like restraint. “Fuck, don’t fucking say that.”
“Please,” you moan, fucking back against him. “Wanna feel it inside me, wanna feel you.”
His hips twitch, pace staggering wildly like he’s approaching the edge fast. You clench around him again, wishing he’d take off the fucking condom and do it.
“Holy s-shit,” he grits through his teeth. “Do that again, baby, please.”
It takes everything in you to do it again, but it’s all he needed, a few more strokes and he’s stilling inside you, a choked-out broken moan tumbling off his tongue, followed by a heavy exhale. You can feel the warmth even if it doesn’t spread, it makes you shiver, moaning with him.
“Fuck,” he says after a second, the word rough. His hands soothe your skin, gently running over your ass, the arch of your back before he asks gently, “You alive?”
You mumble something noncommittal, too deep in bliss to form words. You assume he smiles, because he forgoes a response, pulling out slowly, softly. You shiver, whining at the feeling, the loss. He shushes you, using his hands on your body to lower you down to the mattress, laying you down with a touch you didn’t expect. You don’t know what you expected.
“I feel like jelly,” you mumble into the bed, ears still ringing, bones still vibrating. He laughs at that, and you hear the bed squeak, mattress dipping behind you.
“Is that a good thing?” he asks, and you hear him tying off the condom, throwing it in the trash. You don’t even know where the trash is.
Your grin is lazy, fucked out, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”
The bed dips again, you can feel his body heat before his touch. He moves your hair out of the way, and you blink at the brightness of the room, at him, leaning over you. “Talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling.”
“Good,” you mumble out, turning over beneath him, wiggling yourself into the small amount of space he gives you beneath him. He’s glowing; tan skin flushed, eyes sparkling like he’s a fucking demon who needs sex to survive. Jennifer’s Body. Wooyoung’s Body. It’s a useless question, but you ask it anyway, “What about you?”
He shrugs, shoulders rising, hands planted on either side of your head. “I feel great, but I’m not the one who just got the life fucked out of me.”
You run your hands over your face, muffling your laugh, you push your hair away from your face and then scoop it from under your neck, laying it behind you. “You did the fucking, though. Should I ask about your bones? Your muscles? Your dick?”
He laughs, head dipping down like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you ever fucking serious?”
You smile, brightness returning to your eyes and Wooyoung swears it might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. He can’t stop himself from leaning down, catching your lips in his, kissing you with a softness he rarely uses. You’re everything he imagined you’d be. You’re more than that, he thinks, and he fucking meant it when he said he might be addicted. He might be fucked, actually.
Your soft hands cradle his cheeks like he’s something delicate, your tongue slipping into his mouth like you’re addicted to him all the same. He wonders. He wants to ask. He doesn’t, because he’s terrified of the answer.
He breaks away to rest his forehead against yours, asking the question that’s been bugging him all night. “Are you ever gonna tell me what happened today?”
Your smile falters and he wants to cut his tongue out of his mouth. You sigh, hands falling to your chest, looking to the side for a moment before giving your gaze back to him. “We workshopped a story in class and people were picking it apart, asking me questions and stuff. It just…made me feel seen in a way I didn’t like.”
He watches you for a moment, just a second before his lips tighten to one side. “Do you feel better now?”
“Much,” you mumble, smiling again, pushing his hair away from his face. “Thanks for getting me out of my head, again. You’re weirdly good at it.”
He gives you a close-lipped smile, huffing feigned amusement through his nose before crawling off you. His skin crawls, he doesn’t want to be good at making you do anything other than cum. Or at least he tells himself that to keep his heart rate even. “A favor,” he says, his voice even as he lays back into his bed normally, head finding a pillow. “We’re good at the favor thing.”
“Ooh!” you sit up, eyes wide like you just remembered something. His brows twitch together as you crawl up his bed, laying beside him, your head finding another one of his pillows. “Wanna know what I was thinking about the other day?” He raises his brows, silently saying continue. “I was thinking about your car. What if they can’t fix my car and I have to buy an old, piece-of-shit car? What if it’s manual, and I don’t know how to drive a manual?”
His face morphs into disdain, he should bet money on the next words out of your mouth. “I don’t like where this is heading–”
You sit up on an elbow, pointing at him with your other arm, “You should teach me how to drive stick.”
“How the fuck is your car not fixed yet?” he asks, brows tied together in confusion. “Also, fuck no.”
“Come on,” you pout, brows upturned, pinched together. “Please?”
“You’re going to blow up my transmission by stalling eighty times,” he sighs, sinking lower into his bed, reaching for his duvet. “Don’t waste your breath.”
He pulls it over his body, closing his eyes, waiting for the rebuttal. It doesn’t come. When he opens one eye, you’re staring at him, pouting. He turns his head, closing his eye again.
“Come on!” you whine, and he genuinely can’t believe he’s having this conversation right now. He can’t fucking believe you’re butt-ass naked, talking about his fucking car.
He turns his head, “If I say no enough times, will you stop?”
“No?” you say it like he’s stupid. His face flattens out. “Hi, are we meeting for the first time?”
He groans, folding his duvet over his chest. “I’ll take you out one time, and if you stall it more than three times, you’re done.”
“Yay,” you say, satisfied, laying down on your back, head on his fucking pillow. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, and to his surprise, you grab his duvet and pull it over your body, too. Your head turns toward him, but your eyes are focused somewhere at the foot of his bed as you ask, “Are you going to Jungwon’s tomorrow?”
“If everyone goes, I’ll go,” he shrugs, looking where you’re looking, like maybe there’s something fascinating at the foot of his bed. “Debatable whether or not everyone will be too hungover.”
“I think a whole floor of his home dedicated to sex is a little absurd,” you mumble, under your breath. The laughter starts in his chest before it shoots out of his mouth. You look at him, a little smile on your lips, “What?”
“It is absurd,” Wooyoung nods. “It’s kind of gross if you really think about it. How often do those rooms get cleaned?”
You’re smiling as you add, “How do they get all the stains off that couch?”
Wooyoung’s laughter just gets louder. “The couch is probably what gave me chlamydia.”
You snort, and Wooyoung turns his head to see you laughing into his duvet, shoulders shaking. He smiles at the sight. You lift your head, still giggling, “You think a fucking couch gave you chlamydia?”
“Okay, maybe not the couch, but the people on the couch–”
You shriek, “People?”
His finger slides out from the duvet to hold it up to you. “I’ve cleaned up my act since last year.”
“Oh, cleaned up your act?” you retort, brows raised. “This… you, that I know now, is the Wooyoung that’s cleaned up his act?”
He shrugs, “You complained about the condom, not me. Oh, and let me fucking add that you just basically begged me to take it off and cum inside you.”
You groan, bringing the blanket up to cover your face, voice muffled as you say, “That wasn’t me, that was someone else.”
“That was you,” Wooyoung says, an amused finality to his tone.
“That was me with you,” you argue, and as soon as the words fall off your tongue, your lips snap shut. He stares at you for a second, unblinking, letting the words sink in. You look away, “I don’t act like that with anyone else, you brought it out of me. It’s your fault.”
His insides feel so fucking strange. He hates it. He doesn’t know if he hates it. He looses a breath and pretends it’s relieving. “If it was anyone else they would’ve taken off the condom and busted inside you, so it’s a good thing.”
There’s a moment of silence between you, and Wooyoung isn’t completely sure if it’s comfortable. Maybe he just can't read the room. You break it by asking, “Can you tell me about the couch?”
What the fuck? His head turns, brows tied together, and you look sleepy. Eyes low, duvet tucked up under your nose, lips hidden beneath it. His voice is shallow as he asks, “Why do you want to know about the couch?”
You shrug, the blanket moves with you. “Sounds like a funny story.”
His brows stay tied together, but you don’t budge. So he takes a breath, redirects his gaze to the foot of his bed that has nothing fascinating about it, and begins the story. He did that shit all the time last year, the year before, if he got super fucked up and there was one person on that fucking couch he wanted… He finds himself leaving out details, even important ones, telling a version of one story out of many that made him look the best, the least like an animal.
You already know damning things about him, though, and yet you still ended up in his bed. So why is he trying to make himself sound better?
At the start, you asked a question or two, and then Wooyoung assumed you got locked into the story and wanted to listen. He used his hands as he spoke, pointing out small details, getting side-tracked once or twice, doubling down on things he shouldn’t have been worried about at all. Then his ears catch your breath, even, soft, and when he turns his head to the side, you’re fast asleep.
He stares at you for a minute, maybe longer. You’re asleep, in his bed. His bed. After having sex with him.
He frowns at first, because you probably should’ve peed before falling asleep. Then he can’t believe he’s worried about a fucking UTI, because you’re asleep in his fucking bed after having sex with him. There’s a first time for everything, but never in a million years did Wooyoung think he’d experience this kind of first.
His heart picks up speed in his chest, moisture growing on his palms. Carefully, he peels the duvet off his chest, slipping out of his bed with uneven breath, tiptoeing across his room, pulling a pair of boxers out of his top drawer.
He slips out of his own fucking bedroom like a spy, keeping his eye on you the entire time just to ensure that you didn’t wake up. There’s still a party downstairs. He’s in boxers. He looks to the left and then to the right, running both hands through his hair, grateful that at least there isn’t anyone lingering in the hallway. He goes with his gut, beelining to Yunho’s room, and crosses his fucking fingers that the two of them are in Mingi’s room for the night.
He lets out a breath of relief when Yunho’s room is empty. He crawls into the older man’s unmade bed and collapses, pulling his sheets, his blankets over his body. He stares at Yunho’s anime figures, somehow still visible in the dark, then the thought of them being visible creeps him out, so he forces himself to close his eyes. It isn’t long until exhaustion tugs him into a long, dreamless sleep.
Six hours later, you’re still across the hallway. You remember where you are before you’ve even opened your eyes, and still half-asleep, it brings a sleepy grin to your cheeks. You stretch, arms reaching out on either side of you, just to feel nothing but cold sheets.
Your eyes shoot open. His room is still dim, lighting coating the room in yellow, but there’s no warmth in his bed. He’s not in it. You look toward the bathroom, softly calling out, “Wooyoung?”
His blinds are still closed, your clothes still on the floor. His clothes are still on the floor. You’re still naked. You get up, crawling off the bed, walking on sore legs to the bathroom. “Wooyoung?” you ask again, softer this time as you walk inside the dark bathroom. Your bladder is agonizingly heavy, and as you empty it, you come to the sickening realization that he’s not here. He didn’t sleep here.
Your brain runs through reasons why, but you can’t really come up with anything. He got sick. No, he has a bathroom, he’d be asleep on the floor. Someone else needed him for something. Sure, but why didn’t he come back?
You run your hands through your hair, groaning into your palms. Still on the toilet, you can’t bring yourself to stand up yet. Your head hurts, your stomach feels heavy, your legs are sore. You had arguably one of the worst days of your life yesterday, and Wooyoung was the one who made it better. Wooyoung was the one who made you forget about it, and turned your shitty day into such a fucking good night, and yet he left.
He left.
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