summary: inspired by wake up hj on his knees - think rock in roma outfit without the undershirt
tags: spit, he's tied up, and gagged, subby!hj, oral (m. rec)
word count: 809
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
note: wrote this on 2 pints and a dream, so if there's errors... no there isnt xoxox sorry for the abrupt end, it is purely just smut w absolutely no plot whatsoever.
Hongjoong sits on the bed before you, his legs tucked underneath him, legs spread wide. His hands are tied behind his back, a piece of fabric tied loosely around his mouth, a makeshift gag you’d made for him from his outfit - it wasn’t really doing much other than adding to the eroticism of it all.
With only his shirt remaining, albeit undone and hanging off his broad shoulders, he's the human embodiment of hot and bothered. His hips flex, his cock painfully hard, desperate to be touched.
You lay on your stomach between his legs, blow cool air across him as your hand roams his thigh. You can’t help but giggle when he hisses against the fabric in his mouth.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, stealing glances up at him as you press kisses along his warm skin, starting at his knee, working your way up.
“Please,” he begs, muffled and barely audible against his gag.
“Hmm, can’t really hear you,” you tease, letting him brush against your cheek, deft fingers dancing along him as you watch his eyes roll closed. His head tips back and a frustrated exhale passes his lips. “Oh, I know baby, I know,” you soothe, taking him in your hand, lips caressing him, your eyes never leaving his.
It’s a miracle he doesn’t dissolve the moment your tongue makes contact with his tip, considering you’d already been teasing him for at least half an hour prior to him finding himself in his current predicament. Strangled moans escape him as you swirl your tongue, your lips pouty around his aching head. He almost fucking yelps when you reach your hand further between his legs and cup his balls, rolling them gently as you take him deeper.
Hongjoong thinks he might just start seeing stars if you keep going. He drops backwards slightly, leaning on his loosely bound hands, hips still flinching towards you. Every time he starts to even slightly tense up, you pull off him, starting the whole process again. He looks like he’s slowly descending into delirium, the prettiest sheen forming across his flushed cheeks.
You desperately want to rip the gag from his mouth, let him whine for you freely, hear his voice unmuffled as he pleads for more. But the way his jaw goes slack around the fabric spurs you on, the fucked out look on his face as drool coats the gag and glistens on his lip, hips chasing your mouth with his chin pressed flush to his chest.
Hongjoong is teetering on the edge, has been for the last thirty minutes whilst you’ve had your fun with him. He’s not sure how much more he can take before he bursts into tears as you bring him to the brink of release, over and over and over again.
He’s a mess of sweat and saliva, precum and tears as you pull off of him one last time, sitting up on your knees to cradle his face.
“Look at you,” you whisper, tilting his head up. “Look how messy you are for me,” you praise, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. He nods, still bound and obedient, and so fuckable.
You finally tug the gag down from his mouth, running your thumb over his lips. His head lolls back in anticipation, eyes glazed. You draw his chin down, his lips falling apart for you without hesitation. You spit into his mouth, the taste of his own arousal hitting his tongue and he swallows it with a moan that's almost obscene.
“Such a good puppy,” you tell him, your hand pumping him at a steady rhythm.
“Mhm,” he whimpers in agreement, glassy eyes looking up at you.
“You don’t have the gag anymore baby, let me hear you.”
“Yes,” he struggles through shallow breaths. “Please, let me-” he cuts himself off with a hiss when you run your thumb over his slit.
“So needy, so desperate,” you murmur, watching him thrust into your fist.
You reach behind him and pull on the knot keeping his wrists bound, releasing his hands. One remains behind him, propping him up, while the other grips your shoulder for dear life, holding you close as he drives his hips up, fucking your hand like its the last thing he’ll ever do.
“C’mon puppy, come for me,” you encourage him. He looks at you with his brows upturned in the centre, like he's trying to hold on for as long as possible. He’s a writhing mess beneath you, and it’s a sight to behold. “Let go,” you tell him.
The sound that leaves him is delicious, somewhere between a sob and a gasp as he releases all over your thighs with his head pressed into your shoulder, breath heaving, chest shuddering.
“You did so good,” you whisper reassuringly into his hair as his breathing levels out.
summary: another rendezvous with professor seonghwa (part 1 covers their barely there age gap it’s not weird!!!)
tags: good girl, kitten, v mild dumbification, fingering, sex
word count: 1500
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
You hadn’t meant for your little affair with Professor Seonghwa to go on for as long as it has. It’s been weeks now. Weeks of stolen glances during class, a wink here, a brush of the arm there. Tiny bursts of desire dragging you through every lesson, counting down the minutes to the end of the day. To where you could finally be alone with him.
He’d ruined you in more places than you’d like to admit. Your desk. His desk. The cupboard at the back of his lecture hall. His car in the parking lot. You couldn’t get enough of him, and it seemed he couldn’t get enough of you either. Some might say he was abusing his authority, but you’d beg to differ based on the way he lets you command him in the hushed moments you share in the quietest of hours.
Tonight, he’s got you on his desk, your legs spread, feet resting on the arms of his chair as his hands roam your legs, soft lips sweeping against your skin, breathing you in while he quizzes you on today's lesson.
“I don’t wanna talk about that right now Hwa,” you tell him fondly, fingers caressing his cheek as he leans into your touch.
“But you’re so smart baby,” he says, bringing his attention back to your thighs, dragging his lips higher and higher. “Show me how clever you are,” he whispers, slipping his hands under your skirt until they find the elastic of your underwear, tugging them over your knees.
He gets you reciting facts and figures, but your concentration doesn’t last long when he melts his lips against your centre, distracted whimpers spilling from your lips as you grasp for him.
“Carry on,” he mumbles against you, moaning when your fingers tug on his hair, your body hunching over his head as you lose focus on everything but the way his tongue feels circling your clit.
Before you can even cry out for him, he rips himself away, tutting as he stands to lean over you. “Don’t go dumb on me now kitten,” he clicks his tongue, tilting your chin up towards him.
“Please,” you huff, leaning up to try and catch his lips, pulling at his wrist to move it between your legs but he doesn’t budge, holds you firmly by the back of your neck instead. “Don’t wanna be smart right now,” you tell him quietly, half-heartedly clawing at him.
“Tell me what you want, clever girl,” he murmurs, holding you as you fidget in his arms.
“Touch me,” you mewl, trying again to drag his hand between your thighs.
“You want these?” He asks, holding up his first and second fingers, skimming the backs of them across your cheek, over your pouty lips. You nod, waiting patiently for him to oblige.
“Open up,” he says, slipping his fingers past your lips. He lays them flat against your tongue, twists his hand palm up, in and out, teasing because he knows you want him to fill you up. Everywhere. Anywhere. You’ll take whatever he’ll give you. You hollow your cheeks around his fingers, knowing full well his cock is twitching in his pants. You can’t help the way your hips involuntarily roll, searching for any ounce of friction you can get while he fucks his fingers into your mouth, his gaze sliding over your face with admiration, eyes twinkling with pride.
“Kneel on the desk,” he tells you, guiding you to sit on your calves on the table in front of him, legs spread, straddling thin air. He takes a seat in front of you again and lays his forearm between your legs, the same two saliva glistening fingers upright. He nods his head towards his waiting hand and you don’t need to be told twice, lifting your hips and sinking down onto his fingers.
Seonghwa takes in the masterpiece he’s orchestrated on his own desk, wonders how he’ll ever get through another lecture without replaying this in his mind and needing to excuse himself whenever his eyes inevitably meet yours across the room.
“Look at you, my smart girl,” he says, looking up at you in awe as you ride his hand. “Fucking yourself on my fingers, you look so pretty baby,” he murmurs, kissing your wrists as you cradle his face, his free hand gripping your waist. You let yourself whine out in response to him, even more so when he presses his thumb to your clit in short circles.
“Hwa, my knees,” you mewl, bracing your arms on his shoulders, leaning into him. He shushes you quietly, eases you off the table and lays you down on the desk in front of him, caressing your knees, placing soft kisses to soothe the red raw skin, before spreading your legs wide.
“This better?” He asks with a raised brow, as if to say ‘happy now?’ You nod, pulling him down by the back of his neck with force, his palm hitting the table beside your head with a thud. His face hovers above yours, a smirk tugging at his lips, his fingers disappearing between your legs again. He toys with your clit with his thumb, watches as you squirm under him.
“Need you,” you pout.
“You have me kitten,” he chuckles, thumb circling your entrance, revelling in the way your body keens for him.
“Will you fuck me, please?” You tilt your head slightly, wrapping your leg around him, keeping him close.
“Since you asked so nicely,” he says. His hands make light work of his belt buckle, the sound almost akin to a bell for one of Pavlov’s dogs the way your stomach tightens, a familiar heat rising within you that only he can ignite.
Although you’ve had many different encounters with Professor Seonghwa, there’s something exceptionally hot about him fucking you fully clothed in his black slacks and pristine white shirt.
He teases you with his tip for what feels like hours, groaning deep in his throat when he looks down at himself, watches your walls try desperately to pull him in, the way your hips chase him when he pulls out and slaps himself gently against your clit. You ache for him, grasping at him, nails digging into any skin they can find until he pins your hand to the table. You’re a mess beneath him, chanting your pleas over and over until he catches you off guard, slides all the way in, in one smooth motion. It knocks the air out of you, moans spilling from your parted lips.
He starts to roll his hips, setting an ever increasing pace. He releases your hand and pulls it between you, placing your own two fingers over your clit as he grips both of your thighs, holding your legs apart, using them to pound into you harder, the sound of skin meeting over and over fills the room, accompanied by your pathetic whimpers. With every thrust, he pulls you in, slamming himself into you as your body slides back and forth on the table in his grip.
“Move your fingers,” he instructs, but you can’t seem to focus on anything other than how good he feels sliding in and out of you. You’re so wet, and he’s filling you just right, sounding so perfect with every restrained moan that escapes him. You’re so cock drunk you don’t want to do as you’re told, don’t want to move your fingers because that means the end will crash over you, and you’ll inevitably have to go home, alone, without him and his burning touch.
“Has my smart girl gone dumb for me, hm?” He mocks softly, but the thrust he punctuates his sentence with is anything but soft. He slams all the way in, buries himself inside you and holds you there, leaning over you, one hand cupping your jaw. All you can do is nod, slowly circling your fingers. He feels it, of course he does. He feels the way your walls flutter around him, the flexing of your arm against his stomach as you touch yourself just as he’d asked you to. “Good girl,” he praises, before returning back to his relentless pace.
Once your fingers find their rhythm, it doesn’t take long for your walls to tighten around him, over and over again until he’s hunched over you, rough moans heaving from his chest with every breath as he spills into you, face buried in your neck.
You toy with damp hair at the nape of his neck, fingers gentle against his skin as his breathing finally slows. You lay quietly on the uncomfortable tabletop with him in your arms, contemplating your actions.
“I’m sick of fucking you on tables and in cupboards,” you blurt out. “When are you going to fuck me properly, in a bed?” You ask.
His head flies up in disbelief, propping himself up on his hands. He looks at you like you’ve just kicked his pet dog. “What?”
summary: ur hot professor gives you an irl example of adrenaline (their age gap isn’t that big it’s not weird pls)
tags: slight abuse of power dynamic if u squint, semi public sex
word count: 2.3k
PART TWO
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
Professor Seonghwa will see you now…
The lecture hall empties with soft shuffles and tired footsteps. You remain in your seat until only you and Professor Seonghwa are left.
Professor Seonghwa, who always looks a little too good. His dark hair combed back on one side, dark-rimmed glasses framing his eyes perfectly, white shirt always tailored just right to show his slim waist and broad shoulders. Professor Seonghwa, whose eyes like to linger on yours when you speak, giving you his undivided attention. He makes it difficult to concentrate sometimes, your eyes drifting to his plump lips when he’s talking facts and data and case studies.
He’s your biology lecturer, and probably the best academic professional you’ve ever encountered, especially for his age—only a few years older than you, probably twenty-six. His lectures are always calm, filled with thought-provoking questions, and he never says no to discussing topics further—even if it cuts into his lunch break.
Today’s sessions are based around hormonal stress responses and behaviour, and looking at stress versus arousal. You’d be lying if you said you understood the concept fully. One line from this morning’s notes stands out to you the most:
The body reacts first, the mind explains later.
You linger on that thought, wrack your brain trying to think of all the times you’ve been in situations where your stress responses have kicked in, and what those scenarios entailed. The instance that immediately springs to mind is your first lecture with Professor Seonghwa. He’d picked you out to answer a question, and you vividly remember the heat that rushed to your cheeks, the rate your heart had kicked up its pace. You’d always put it down to shyness, anxiety, not wanting to be the centre of attention.
“You should go and get some lunch before this afternoon's lecture,” he says, leaning against the back of the seats in front of you.
“I was actually planning on heading to the library.” You start to pack your things away.
“After you’ve had lunch,” he tells you, firm but with a smile that says I know you were planning to keep working and not eat. You roll your eyes at him, and if you were delusional you might’ve believed he just raked his eyes over you, clocked the way they flared when you looked up at him through your lashes.
“Okay but-”
“But nothing,” he cuts you off, lingering by the edge of the table.
His eyes flick over your notes, he spins the paper on the desk, spots the question marks you’ve scrawled around the main premise of what he’d said. He taps the page with one finger. “If you’re struggling, I’ll be in the library for an hour before next lesson, we can go through this again, if you like?” He offers, looking at you expectantly.
You nod, blushing under his gaze. “Thanks,” you smile.
After doing as you were told and grabbing some lunch, you find Seonghwa in the library. He’s tucked away in a quiet corner, his diary in front of him and his phone in hand; he almost looks like he’s doing nothing more than waiting for you.
You take a seat next to him, and he greets you with a coy smile. It’s surprisingly quiet, the light tapping of keyboards and pages turning is distant and spread thin. You take out your notes, lay them out on the table for you to discuss quietly.
“Okay, what’s your argument?” He asks, referring to the paper that will inevitably have to be written.
“That the way in which physiological reactions are interpreted is essentially a social construct,” you tell him, but you kind of pose it as a question, because you're still unsure.
“And what’s your evidence to back up your argument?” He muses, scanning your notes.
You flick through a few sheets, your shoulder brushing his as you lean over the table to find the printout he’d given everyone this morning. “Participants reported arousal, but based on the data alone, this could easily be interpreted as fear, or vice versa,” you explain.
“Right,” he agrees, waiting for you to continue.
“Well that’s where you're stuck,” you sigh. “If the data is identical, how can you ever be certain about behaviour?”
“I’m not claiming certainty. Differentiation comes from context, not science.”
You can feel the frown form between your brows, avoiding his gaze as he sits at your side, angled towards you with one elbow resting on the back of his chair, the other on the table.
“Come with me,” he says, touching your elbow gently to usher you out of the booth you’re in. “There’s some older books with behavioural journals in the archive, those examples might be more useful.”
You leave your table as it is, and you follow him through the library to a staircase off to the side, with a sign pointing up that says Staff & Archives. He holds his arm out for you to go first, following close behind you, his hand on the rail beside you. You become hyper-aware of the length of your skirt, can feel it brushing the backs of your thighs.
When you get to the top, the dimly lit room is filled with tall shelves, tightly packed and overflowing with books. You let him lead the way.
“Somewhere around here,” he mumbles, tracing his finger along the spines, his shoulders moving under his shirt as he checks different shelves. There’s only just enough space to hold both your arms out at your sides, and when he stops abruptly, you bump into him.
He reaches above you to pick out an old journal, half-caging you in without realising. Or maybe he does. He’s so close you can smell his laundry detergent combined with his cologne, fresh cotton and warmth mingling into one.
“Ah, here,” he says, slipping the book off the shelf. He holds it out for you, but he doesn’t step back, towering over you as he braces one hand on the wood behind you.
His eyes meet yours, dark and trying their best not to fan over your face. Your heart pounds, flush creeps up your neck under his attention.
“Your pupils are dilated,” he observes, his voice low. He lifts his hand, presses two fingers to your neck. “And your pulse is up,” he smirks.
You let out a deep breath through your nose. “Stress response,” you tell him.
“Is it?” He tilts his head, studies you shamelessly. The corner of his mouth curves into another smirk. “You tell me,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Context, not science, like we discussed.”
You lean up on your tiptoes, get a closer look at his eyes in the low light. “Your pupils are dilated too, Professor,” you note, hesitantly feeling his pulse with your own fingers, but you don’t pull them away. You don’t need to say it; you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. A short, knowing laugh leaves his lips.
He dips his head to your ear. “So, what’s the context here?” He asks, pulling back to look at you, your hand still resting against his neck. The question hangs between you.
The aisle feels even smaller now, the air around you warmer. Afternoon sunlight beams through the small windows, cutting between shelves and catching his dark hair. You let your fingers curl into the fabric at his shoulder, let them rest there, holding him still. The wheels of a cart roll somewhere in another aisle and he shifts, moving until his body shields you from the open end of the aisle, from prying eyes. The sound eventually fades, the world around you continuing on.
“You should step back,” he says. Not commanding, but almost restrained. You don’t move. Your hand slides from his shoulder, up to the nape of his neck. Slowly. Carefully. Giving him time to stop you. He doesn’t.
He watches you closely, eyes lingering like they do in lectures. Attentive. Analytical. Except there’s nothing academic about the way his gaze drops to your lips.
“If this is stress,” you whisper. “It’s very persistent.”
He lets out a soft exhale, amused. “Persistent stimuli produce sustained responses,” he smirks. You lean up towards him, until there’s only a breath between you, your noses almost brushing. Almost.
He moves first. Lets the old journal slip from his fingers, hitting the ground with a soft thud before he cups your jaw, steadying you. His fingers slide under your ear, rest there as he tests the waters. Your pulse still kicks hard under his touch.
“Last chance,” he murmurs.
For a moment he’s still, the book long forgotten on the floor as he threads his fingers through your hair, angling your head back as he takes control. The kiss, it starts gentle, slow, hungry. Hot. Weeks of tension unravelling. Like he’s trying to memorise what restraint feels like before he abandons it.
He huffs a quiet breath against your lips. The world around you feels so distant. Muffled. You could be anywhere right now and you wouldn’t know the difference as he towers over you, sending you reeling when his tongue licks into your mouth.
You half stumble into the shelf behind you, he takes a step forward without thinking. Following.
“You’re trembling,” he says. And he’s right. You are.
“Adrenaline,” you tell him softly.
“Mm,” he hums, his thumb shifting to brush over your bottom lip, slow and lazy. Your breath hatches, he notices. Of course he does.
“You’re very responsive,” he says, voice low.
“Stop studying me,” you whisper.
“I’m not, I’m observing.” He nudges his glasses up his nose.
Deft fingers trace along your collarbone, roaming back up your neck. Testing.
“Tell me to stop,” his voice hushed. But you can’t. Your hands rest against his chest, feel the rise and fall, the warmth of his skin under the fabric. His forehead drops to your temple. “We shouldn’t,” it’s almost a whine. But his hands say something different as they make their way down to your waist, holding you between him and the shelf. “You understand what this is,” he says, and you nod. His eyes scan your face, looking for a hint of hesitation. He finds none.
His lips brush your jaw, down the curve of your neck, soft, unhurried, and so fucking hot it makes you impatient. A whimper slips past your lips when he slots his thigh between yours seamlessly. He looks up at you instantly, eyes sharp.
“Quiet,” he tells you, not harsh, but firm, and the authority in his voice only serves to make you roll your hips against him, pull him in for another kiss because the way his lips claim yours with slow precision is like oxygen and you need it. “If we keep going,” he mumbles against your lips. “We won’t stop.” He’s right. And you don’t care. Don’t want to stop.
His hand trails down your side, tracing the hem of your skirt, and you pout when he takes his leg from between your thighs. But then he starts to caress, fingers dancing along your underwear, feeling the heat soaking through it.
“Is this also a stress response?” He asks, running his finger along you at an agonizing pace. You whine, clinging to him when he brushes your clit through the fabric just once. He kisses you again to shut you up, your arms draping around his neck, hands in his hair.
He’s hard against your hip, and the knowledge that it’s because of you makes you dizzy. Makes you wetter. He pushes your underwear to the side, sinks his finger into you, sets a pace so slow you want to rip his hair out. He works you with precision, reading your body like one of the books around you, and you’re falling apart for him embarrassingly fast.
“Please,” you murmur.
“I know,” he moans into my mouth as he adds another finger. You throw your head back against the shelf, hissing when he starts nipping at your neck.
He tilts your chin to look at him. “Can you keep quiet for me?” He asks with a kiss, hot and open-mouthed. You nod, which is a bare-faced lie as you whimper at the loss of his fingers, but the sound of his belt unbuckling is music to your ears. You wrap your hand around him, and the way his head tips back makes you feel like God.
He scoops you up, wraps your legs around his waist, pinning you in place. The shelf digs into your back but you don’t care. Not when he lines himself up, teasing with his tip as his tongue melts against yours. He finally pushes into you, inch by inch, all the way to the hilt. His cheeks are flushed too now. He curses under his breath, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mumbles, which just turns you into an even whinier mess.
When he finally starts rolling his hips, it’s slow but desperate, needy but precise, his hand over your mouth to muffle the whimpers you can’t seem to stop from spilling past your lips. The shelf creaks, books threatening to topple, but you can’t bring yourself to care about anything other than the way he feels. His chest heaving against yours, breathing ragged.
“Come for me.” That headspinning authority in his voice again. “Now.”
And lo and behold, the body reacts first. White hot and crying out against his palm, you bite down on his hand to keep from moaning loud enough for the whole library to hear. He follows you over the edge with a quiet whine as he buries himself in you.
For a moment, neither of you move, ragged breathing filling the stacks as he rests his forehead against yours. He pulls back, sets you on your feet gently before fastening his belt. He tugs your skirt back into place, smoothing it with deliberate care, running his fingers over you one final time.
His eyes meet yours, dangerous, mischievous. “Don’t clean up,” he tells you. “D’you think you can concentrate on my lecture with me dripping out of you?” He places one final sweet kiss against your lips. “See you in twenty.”
reuploading my shit because my lovely friend @joonginism inspired me to do so! GO CHECK THEM OUT, THEIR WORK IS BETTER THAN ANYTHING I CAN SPEW OUT!!! if u love sub!teez you will fall in love with them like i have <3
this one's getting reuploaded first because it was the most popular one on ao3 lol - ENJOY, whether its ur first time reading it or u remember it from when i originally posted xoxo
summary: wooyoung is a little shit
word count: 3.7k
PART TWO
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
Bad neighbours aren't so bad when they look like Jung Wooyoung...
There are so many perks to living alone. You get to decorate however you want. You get to eat whenever you want. You can watch whatever you want. Come home whenever you want. Stack the cupboards with whatever snacks you like without worrying that someone is going to steal them when you aren’t looking. Living alone is a dream. That is, until an annoying, loud-mouthed toe rag moves in across the hall, whose living room is on the other side of your living room wall. And said loud-mouthed BRAT is always knocking on your door, asking to borrow sugar, or milk, or tea bags, or a fucking battery for his TV remote.
He’d moved in a few months ago, and he wasn’t too bad at first. You never saw him, didn’t hear a peep from him. Until about three weeks in. He started thumping around, blasting his music, and you could only assume it was him parking in your spot, seeing as it only started happening after he moved in. Night after night he’d scream at his friends on FIFA, or cackle at the top of his lungs. That was the first of many crash outs. “SHUT UP YA NERD,” you’d shouted through the wall, which only earned muffled retaliation, the frown that was undoubtedly on his face almost audible in his voice. After a few especially irritating evenings of him playing his music obnoxiously loud, you decided to hoover your walls at five in the morning just to get back at him. There was a box of chocolates on your doorstep the next afternoon.
It got to a point where he was always parking in your spot when you weren't home. Which, in the grand scheme of things, isn’t the end of the world. But… that’s your spot. You lived here first! So you wrote him a note, shoved it under his door on your way in from work one night.
To my RAT BAG neighbour
Can you kindly stop parking in MY spot. It doesn’t have my name on it, but don’t think I won’t get a can of spray paint if you need reminding.
And while I’ve got you. Do you HAVE to scream on FIFA so late? Who even plays FIFA anymore? Isn’t it just the same game every year? Anyway, SOME OF US have to get up for work.
Thanks for the chocolates tho, more of that, less of the bratty screaming.
Thnx
Your lovely neighbour across the hall xoxo
Maybe it was a bit too much. But it was too late, the paper was already gone, disappeared under his door. You settled down for the night, cooked dinner, took a shower, and when you strolled past the front door, there was a piece of paper. He actually sent a message back, his response scrawled onto the back of your original note.
Babygirl, turn the paper over and read what you wrote. You did NOT just call ME bratty? I’ll keep it down when you stop blow drying your hair at midnight. Here’s my number, text me when you need me to move my car and I will.
Much love, RAT BAG x
You laughed to yourself. Someone thinks he’s smooth. You punched his number into WhatsApp to see if he had a profile picture and—oh.
He was hot. Devastatingly hot. And not in a ‘oh, he’s hot’ way. In an, oh fuck, you were wet just looking at him way. Perfectly posed with the camera angled low, flawless honey skin, dark hair brushing his eyes, Chrome Hearts adorning his slender fingers, pristine white Stussy tee. Yeah. You knew you were in danger. He had the kind of face you see on the cover of a magazine. The kind that belonged on a big screen to be adored by millions.
Panic started to set in. Maybe that wasn’t him. Maybe you’d misread his handwriting and typed in the wrong number. You double-checked. Triple. Nope. You got it right. That was him. And then you had a horrifying realisation. He’d called you babygirl. You clocked his name on his profile. Wooyoung. And it dawned on you that once you sent him a message, he’d also see your picture and name.
You spent approximately twenty-six minutes crashing out, telling yourself you were playing it cool by not texting him immediately. You eventually pulled up WhatsApp again, sank into the sofa, and hid in your dressing gown when you looked at his profile picture again.
But just as his last message came through, you heard his front door click. You think you moved faster in that moment than you have in your whole life, your socks skidding against the wooden flooring, almost slamming into your own door as you scrambled to look through the peep hole. And there he was, looking just as delicious as his photo, walking down the hall, car keys in hand, black hair pushed back like it dried that way after a shower.
You threw yourself back onto the sofa, satisfied with yourself. But you were also mortified at the prospect of bumping into him in the hallway. Once you heard his door click shut again, you checked out the window to find his car in the next space over, sent him another message.
That chain of events triggered a love-hate relationship. He’d text you if you used the hairdryer even one minute past midnight, and would keep the conversation going with nonsense that felt like rage bait but also had you cackling. You’d text him whenever he forgot the no-door-slamming rule, because who shuts doors that loudly for no reason?
You started bumping into him in the hallway more often after that, but you're not sure if that was partly his doing, considering you always managed to miss each other before. You’d be lying if you said you weren't flustered under the surface every time he’d tease you. But he also drove you insane. He would leave his bin bags outside his door to ‘take them out in the morning’ just because he knew it wound you up to see them sitting in the hall.
Some evenings you’d stand at your respective doors, winding each other up. Like the night you’d knocked on his door to ask him to turn his music down and ended up sharing a bag of gummy worms with him by launching them at his head across the way.
“I’m gonna play FIFA all night tonight,” he bragged, his hands gripping the top of the door frame, his shirt lifted slightly, and your eyes betrayed you as they drifted to steal a glimpse. You flung your foot out, tried to kick him, but he dodged backwards, cackling.
“Fuckin’ rat,” you laughed, lunged for him and grabbed the shoulder of his hoodie, and gave him a shove into his flat. “Go on, piss off, had enough of you now,” you told him in between giggles.
After many hallway encounters, he’d started knocking on your door. “I’ve run out of sugar,” “I’ve got no milk left,” “Got any more of those gummy worms? I can never find them at the shop,” all with a pout that was incredibly difficult to say no to. And if you did dare to say no, the bratty tantrum wasn’t worth the bickering—him slumping his shoulder against your doorframe, whining, but not in the way you’d like him to. Because if you’d learnt anything about Wooyoung, it was that he would definitely be a whiner, a whimperer. It was something you tried not to think about for too long. Because although you’d become somewhat friendly neighbours, despite the rage baiting and constant bickering, he was, of course, lovely to look at. And by the amount of times you found him at your door, or received texts from him under the guise of borrowing yet another cup of sugar, you couldn’t help but think he felt somewhat the same.
It was a strange game you were playing. Like when you pick on someone at school because you secretly fancy them. Except sometimes it didn’t feel so secret when his eyes would flick down to your lips, or when he’d run his thumb over his own bottom lip whilst speaking to you.
Which brings you to today, months since he moved in. A Friday evening, freshly showered with no plans except couch rotting and doom scrolling. Your phone pings, and you don’t even need to look to take a guess at who it is.
Fucking babygirl. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he calls you that. Never been bold enough to say it to your face, but loves to throw it around over text.
You fling the door open and let it shut loudly behind you so he knows you’ve arrived. His apartment is the mirror of yours, decorated totally differently. Where yours is all pinks and warm lights, his is dark wood and charcoal black. Sleek. As expected based on his dress sense. You go straight to the living room, find the outlet, and unplug the charger like it’s your own.
His bedroom door is open, and you can see him laying on the bed, grey joggers and a white tee, craning his neck waiting for you to appear. You stop just short of his bedside table, and hold the charger out for him.
“Took you long enough,” he snorts, so you snatch it away before he can take it from him.
“Ah ah,” you smirk. “Be nice, or I’ll leave and take it with me,” you threaten, holding it behind your back, tutting at his attitude.
“Hey!” He shouts, pouty as he grabs your arm. But you just slip out of his grip, grabbing his wrist and holding it firm with a raised eyebrow. You crouch down to get to the extension lead, plug the charger in, and hold the cable out in between you, pulling it just out of reach when he goes to take it again. He lets out a groan of frustration turned laughter, slamming his face into the pillows. “Why!” He huffs, which just makes you laugh more.
You look around the room to try and see if he has everything he might need for the rest of the night—drinks on his nightstand, TV remote on the bed, charger now acquired. He should be set for the evening.
“Alright, well if that’s all you wanted me for, I’ll see myself out,” you tell him, scanning the room again, avoiding the way he’s looking at you, slumped into his bedding, head tilted, hair splayed on the pillow.
“Wait!”
You roll your eyes at him. “What else?”
“Can you turn the heating up a bit?” He asks, sitting up. “And also get the painkillers off the kitchen counter?”
“Why didn’t you ask one of your bros to come have a sleepover to look after you?” you ask, returning to the bedroom. Paracetamol box in hand, you perch on the edge of the bed next to him. He’s moved again, fidgeting every time you look away.
“They’re going out tonight, and they all live at least half an hour away, I didn’t wanna bother them.”
“Oh, so you just bother me instead?” You try to keep a straight face, pretend to be serious, but you can’t when amused shock fans over his face, eyes flaring back at you.
“Because you only had to walk like, three steps to get here!” He defends.
“Yeah yeah,” you wave him off. “If you wanted to hang out that badly all you had to do was ask,” you tease.
“Alright, bet,” he says. “Will you stay for tea if I order food?” He asks, using his best puppy-dog eyes. “You’ll have to answer the door though,” he adds, looking at his ankle awkwardly.
“I dunno,” you sigh, over-exaggerated. “Kinda feels like you’re just using me for my legs,” you shrug, leaning back on your arm. His gaze drifts down, sweeps along your bare legs hanging off the bed, pausing when he reaches the top of your thighs where your pyjama shorts end.
He smirks at you. Cheeky. Dangerous. “I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he says, his voice an octave lower than before, his eyes dropping to your lips, back up. You launch the paracetamol at his head to break the tension.
“Fine,” you huff, getting up to flop down on the other side of the bed, seeing as you're chilling together for the evening now. “But I’m choosing. We’re getting burgers from that dead nice place just outside town,” you tell him.
“But they take ages to deliver!”
You throw him a look that dares him to keep whinging. “Do you wanna eat tonight or not?”
And you swear to fucking God if he looks at your lips and smirks one more time. “Yeah,” he murmurs.
You lay on your side next to him, elbow propped under you, scrolling while he orders your food.
“Okay, it’s done,” he says, throwing his phone to the side. He shoves his head in between your face and your phone screen, asking what you're looking at and if he can look too. You drop your phone and choke-slam him down onto the bed in one swift motion, catching him off guard.
“Will you just fuckin’ sit still for two minutes?” You laugh, keeping him flat on the bed with your hand around his neck. He takes it well, shakes it off as he sits up again, and you let go of him. But you'd already clocked the way his eyes fluttered closed for a split second when you pinned him down, the sharp intake of breath.
“But it hurts,” he whines, drawn out and pouty, wiggling his leg.
“Right,” you huff, leaning over him to get the pills off the bedside table. You pop two out, hand them to him, followed by the glass of water. He doesn’t argue back.
You puff up the pillows, rearrange them, get them just right. “Lay down,” you tell him quietly, tugging on his shoulder gently. You get him comfy, lay next to him, slightly further up the bed than he is, half sat up on your elbow, head resting on your fist so you can keep an eye on him, his head level with your collarbone. He looks up at you, lips parted slightly. “Close your eyes,” you whisper, running your fingertips up and down his tattooed forearm, and to your surprise, he does as he’s told.
You watch his chest rise and fall, admire his hand resting on his stomach—the kind of hands you want to watch as they work their magic. He keeps his eyes closed, and after a little while, he lifts his hand until it’s almost in front of your face. You press your thumb into his palm, massage it gently, toy with his fingers, sliding yours in between his, curling your hand around his first two fingers mindlessly, but knowing exactly what you're doing. His breath catches when you do it a second time, pushing your luck.
He turns onto his side to face you, forehead resting on your jaw, legs tangled. Neither of you inclined to put a stop to whatever this is. He brings his hand up slowly, wraps it gently around your throat, returning the favour from earlier, nudging the side of your face with his nose. You drop your arm that was keeping you propped up, sink into the pillow next to him, and bury your hand in his hair.
“What are you doing, babygirl?” He asks, his voice a low, slow purr against your ear, your weak spot. It causes an instant reaction. A quick intake of breath, almost a hiss. A tightening of your fist in his hair. A clench of your thighs that he most definitely feels, pushing his own thigh up to slot perfectly between yours. You run your hand up his arm, rest it on his shoulder.
“Distracting you,” you murmur, flexing your fingers to tug on his scalp softly. You feel him smile, a hum of approval as he tests the waters further, pressing a kiss below your ear. “Is it working?” you ask, low and quiet when he finally looks up at you. It’s enough to open the floodgates. He looks at you like he wants to devour you, and you look at him like you want to be devoured.
“M’yeah,” he mumbles between kisses, getting closer to your lips. “S’working.”
He leans over you, fingers caressing your neck, eyes drifting over your face. He teases with his lips, dips closer and then pulls away at the last second. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, tugs lightly and you involuntarily roll your hips, the friction against his thigh sending you reeling, mewling, tugging him closer by his hair until his lips finally meet yours. It’s hot. Slow. Months in the making.
You can feel him pressed up against you, firm, big. You snake your hand between you, cup your hand around him through his joggers, letting him roll his hips against it while he kisses you harder, needier, moaning into your mouth.
He runs a finger along the waistband of your shorts. “M’hungry, babygirl,” he moans, pulling away to look at you, eyes scanning yours. It’s cute how mumbly and whiny he gets. “And food won’t be here for another hour,” he adds, running his hand up your ribs, cupping your chest, kissing your cleavage, back up along your jaw. You guide his hand back to tug your shorts and underwear down in one swift motion.
“Off,” you mumble, shoving your hand up his shirt. He pulls it over his head from the back of his neck, flinging it wherever he threw your underwear.
“Lay back for me again,” you tell him as you sit on your heels next to him, pushing him down by his shoulder, skimming your fingers over his v-line, slipping his joggers and boxers past his hips. A little satisfactory gasp passes your lips at the sight of him. You let your fingertips dance along him, light, gentle, barely there, just enough to tease as you kiss his neck, getting him incredibly needy. “Can you do something for me?” you ask, your hair falling around you.
“Mm?” He whines. You take his wrist, bring his palm to your mouth, spit into it, and get him to wrap it around himself as you straddle his shoulders. He whimpers so loud as you hover over his lips that you think you probably would’ve heard it from your apartment. You rake his hair back, hold his head between your hands, peeking over your shoulder to make sure he’s still working himself, cursing under your breath as you watch his hand.
“Sit,” he growls, impatient, pulling you down.
His tongue melts against you, his nose nudging just right, moans muffled. With one hand gripping the crown of his head, the other braced on the headboard, you can see his arm flexing out the corner of your eye, still fucking his own hand like you asked him to.
“Good boy,” you praise, hushed as you thread your hands through the side of his hair, circling your hips with your forehead pressed into the wall.
You try to pull off him, but he stops you. “Not yet baby,” he moans. He gets you to rest against his chest so you can watch him use his hands, tight circles with his thumb while he eases one finger, then two into you. Then drags you back to get another taste. You get too close to the edge, don’t wanna finish like this. You grab his jaw between your fingers and thumb, rough enough to get his attention.
“Don’t be gree—”
But he doesn’t listen, yanks you back down with both hands, pins you against his face until you give in and he goes to town, devouring you like his eyes promised they would, his hand back between his legs. He has you ride his face until you’re a whimpering, writhing mess, clawing at the headboard, almost ripping his hair out at the root, pulsing against his tongue.
His chest heaves under you, his whole body tenses, arm hooked around your thigh, head pressed against your stomach as you preen his hair, talking him through it.
“There you go,” you hush him, sliding off him to lay next to him, cradling his face, pressing kisses all over it. You lay in silence, catching your breath, his arm around your shoulders. When he finally opens his eyes properly again, half-lidded but breathing steady, you shove his shoulder, half sitting up to look down at him.
“What were you playing at, I wanted to fu—”
“Oh, behave, I’ll fuck you after food,” he laughs, pulling his pants back up over his hips, resting his forearm over his face.
The door goes about twenty minutes later, and he hops up out of bed, swiping his shirt off the floor and throwing your shorts at you. You look at him in utter disbelief.
“Uhm, hello? Ankle?!” you scoff.
He shrugs at you with the cheekiest grin on his face. “Guess you cured me.”
FIN.
HAHAHA LITTLE FUCKER.
up to u to decide what happened…
was he tellin fibs??? or did the pain killers work a treat?
summary: yandere stalker hj but you are also kinda sick in the head. this one is all over the place but he as a character is also a mess so, i guess it works lol
tags: he's a psycho but like a tame one lol, stalking, he gets a bit aggressive
word count: 4.7k
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
Is having a stalker really a bad thing when he looks like Kim Hongjoong?
This one is dedicated to myself
I will not elaborate further xxx
We all wish that we lived in a world where if we ran out of shampoo, or cotton buds, or that super expensive perfume that you have to use sparingly, that it would just magically reappear. Fortunately for you, you don’t have to wish, because for the last eight months, that's been your reality.
Some may say it’s stalker behaviour, and they’re probably right. (They’re most definitely right.) But your stalker, he doesn’t stalk to scare. He doesn’t do it to torment. He looks after you from afar.
Maybe that thought process alone makes you just as sick in the head as he is. You often ask yourself, if he thinks so highly of you, why doesn’t he approach you? But maybe he’s shy, which is incredibly cute. Or maybe he doesn’t trust himself around you, which is incredibly hot.
It started small around your birthday last year. A bunch of flowers were left on your doorstep, your favourites, and they were perfect, pristine. They came with a beautifully handwritten note.
I hope these flowers find you before anyone else does. Happy Birthday, My Love.
You remember it like it was yesterday, standing on the porch of the house you inherited from your aunt. You’d looked around, scanned the street. Nothing, no one to be found. My Love.
As you arranged the flowers in a vase, your brain worked overtime, thinking through everyone it could be. It had to be someone you already knew, or so you thought, to have been able to pick out your favourite flowers. Was it Mingi, your childhood best friend who lived down the street when you were kids? Was it your cheeky co-worker Wooyoung? Was it the cute guy who worked in the coffee shop you always go to after work? Or the hottie who always serves you at the record store that you frequent with your girlfriends? Although, the latter two wouldn’t have known enough about you.
You brushed it off, decided not to linger on it too much. They were harmless flowers, and the note was sweet despite your not knowing who it was from. After that, the flowers became a weekly occurrence. Your home always showcasing a fresh bouquet as soon as the last bunch started to wilt. Sometimes there would be a note, sometimes there wouldn’t. Sometimes there would be an extra gift, a restock of body wash that you were running low on, or a crate of your favourite drink when you ran out. It was like having Amazon watching you, but better because you didn’t even need to do anything, he just knew.
It probably should’ve bothered you more than it did. For him to know whenever you were about to run out of all these things, he either had to be watching, whether that be through your window or cameras. Or he was breaking in so stealthily that you never knew. And if he was breaking in, he was very discreet, never leaving anything out of place.
But you never felt scared, not once. Not even when it reached the point where the gifts started appearing inside the house, rather than the doorstep. He would leave the flowers in the usual vase you use, gifts placed neatly beside them with a card propped up. One of your personal favourites was when your vibrator died one night, and the next day you received a multipack of batteries. It got to the point where when you ran out of cotton buds one evening, you looked around, still not sure if he was watching you through the windows or cameras, and shook the empty box upside down to show him you’d run out. A three-month supply showed up the following day.
It wasn’t long after that you started finding polaroids. His hand holding the flowers next to your kitchen counter, his arm laid on your bed with his head resting on it, his hair and a sliver of his forehead in the shot, as if he was kneeling next to your bed. Tease. None of them gave you any hints as to who it was. Only that he had dark hair, and lovely hands. Some of them were even goofy, like the time he’d bought you a new plushie and took a photo of it in front of all the others dotted around your room, gathered them up like it was introducing itself to everyone.
As the months went on, you started to become restless. Not because of his actions, but because of the distance he maintained. It was eating you alive, knowing he was watching and not doing anything more. The gifts were perfect, the teasing pictures showed you he was a similar age to you, the notes he left were so sweet they gave you toothache. But the longer he kept his distance, the more you began to wonder if there was some other reason he was keeping this as a one-sided deal. Did he have a girlfriend? Were you a secret he was ashamed of? My Love, he always called you. But it didn’t feel like that the longer he made you wait. Did he know that he was also your love?
So you made a plan to draw him out. His notes had always had an undertone of possessiveness, despite their sweetness. You loved it, it made you feel even more wanted. But it was the only leverage you had on him. So you decided to let your co-worker, Wooyoung, take you on a date. He’d been trying for a good few months, bless his sweet, boyish heart. He was cheeky, and charming, and so handsome. Under any other circumstance you would’ve bitten his hand off at the offer of a date. But you had been holding out hope that your love would make a move. You felt awful for using him as bait, but you justified it in your mind that you could call it off after one date and say you liked him more as a friend, and that you at least tried but you didn’t want to ruin your friendship. Which wouldn’t be a lie. You loved goofing around with Woo at work.
That brings you to now. A rainy, cool summer evening on an average weekday. Woo agreed to pick you up after work; you picked a restaurant that you both loved to visit and always talked about going to. You didn’t dress too fancy, just cute and casual, different to how he normally sees you at work. The date goes well, which pains you because you know you're going to have to let him down gently. In another life, maybe you’d have worked. Maybe you’d have met in a different, mundane way, as neighbours who have a love-hate relationship and end up dating. But here, in this life, you're waiting for your love.
When Wooyoung brings you back home, he walks you to your door, lingers there until it’s a little awkward, so you invite him in. Only planning to offer him a drink and see him on his way after a little while. You hover around the kitchen, and you can see the way he clocks your fresh flowers, the small gift card next to them.
He does all the right things: gentle touches on your arm, brushes your hair off your shoulder, and glances at your lips every now and then when he speaks—all the things that would have you swooning were your mind not elsewhere. He suggests watching a film. You say you're not sure, that you're kind of tired. You pretend not to notice how his face drops. But you'll give him his due, he doesn’t get knocked down easily. He’s just about to suggest something else when a faint buzzing hums through the room, electrics powering down, and all the lights go out.
“Power’s gone,” you huff, trawling through your drawers for a lighter to set up some candles. “It’s probably the rain, it’s pretty bad around here for tripping out when we have bad weather,” you tell him as you move around the kitchen.
“Rest of the street seems fine,” he muses, peeking through the blinds in the hallway.
“Hey, listen,” you start, meeting him in the doorway that connects the kitchen and the hall. “Maybe we should call it a night, not much we can do with the power out.”
“I dunno,” he smirks. “Kinda romantic, no?” He tilts his head, and God, you wish things were different.
“Woo, I had fun tonight. Let’s just leave it at that for now, hm?” you tell him gently, squeezing his elbow.
He gives you a short nod. “Thanks for tonight,” he smiles, before kissing your hand and heading out the door.
You feel fucking awful. But now… you wait.
The power comes back on about ten minutes after Woo leaves. So you take your chance to get in the shower, blow-drying your hair at record speed in case it goes out again. Although, you have your suspicions that this power trip was nothing to do with the weather.
Twenty minutes later, there’s hammering at your door. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was bailiffs coming to take away everything you own.
You open your front door, and standing still as a statue, as the heavens open above him, is a man whose eyes hold storms that could rival the one outside. Rain drips from his dark hair, into his lashes, rivulets sliding from the tip of his nose, running off his jawline onto his chest, his shirt unbuttoned criminally low. He doesn’t say anything, stares at you through his brows, one hand braced on the doorframe. You rake your eyes over him, note his bloody knuckles. You stare at each other for what feels like an eternity.
You know it’s him. Your Love.
He’s beautiful. More so than you ever could have imagined. But that’s unsurprising, because Mingi’s older brother Hongjoong has always been breathtaking.
Your mind spins from the revelation that it’s been Joongie all along, but there’s a tiny part of you, pushed deep into the back of your mind, that you think knew it all along. Or, maybe you just wanted it to be him.
As if all the tension in him breaks, he lunges forward, grabs your face between his palms, tilts your head up and forces his lips against yours, kicking the front door shut behind him. So fast it feels like one smooth motion. He’s soaked from the rain, right through to his warm skin, droplets trickling onto your face as his lips move against yours. You stumble until you hit the wall in the hallway and he pins you against it forcefully. When he pulls away to catch his breath, your hand flies up, clean across his cheek, and he looks at you like you’ve just made the worst possible mistake.
You’re angry. Angry because he kept you waiting all this time, that he’s been so close all along. Angry that he’s clearly been up to no good based on the state of his knuckles, and Wooyoung has most definitely been caught in the crossfire. He stares you down, lips pursed, rolling his tongue against his cheek, an almost undetectable raise of his eyebrows as your warning.
Your phone buzzes in your pocket; you pull it out to dismiss it as Wooyoung’s name lights up your screen. Before you can even decline the call, Joong swipes it from your hand, launches it at the wall, and it shatters.
“You betrayed me,” he hisses, his hand clamping around your jaw, pinning you to the wall, his face inches from yours.
Tears start to line your eyes. Not from fear. No. “Eight months,” you say, your voice just as sharp as his. “Eight months I’ve been waiting for you. Fuck-” your chest heaves. “I didn’t even know your name,” it almost comes out as a sob.
“So what? You just let your bratty co-worker try and fuck you instead?” He spits. “When you know I see everything.”
“Joong,” you whisper. He shuts his eyes with a deep breath, like he can’t look at you while you say his name so softly. You curl your fingers around his wrists as they still hold you in place. “Why? You’ve known me forever, I don’t understand why it had to be like this.”
“Don’t change the subject,” he says, giving you one swift slam against the wall. “Were you going to let him fuck you?” He demands, punctuating every few words.
You shove him back as best you can in the hold he’s got you in, but your back stays pressed firmly against the wall. “Well you weren’t going to,” you scoff. He sees red. And you wonder if maybe you’ve pushed too far. But the way he’d reacted when you slapped him… It made you hot, made you press your thighs together.
He throws you over his shoulder. His clothes, cold and still wet from the rain, soak through your own. He makes a beeline for your bedroom, throws you on the bed, and wastes no time in pinning your hands above your head.
“You forced my hand,” he seethes. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”
You lean up closer, whispering as your eyes roam his face, focusing on his pouty lips. “Bringing him here was bait, I wanted to draw you out, and look,” you smirk. “It worked,” you smile to yourself, slumping against the bed in his hold. “Here you are.”
He laughs in a way you’ve never heard in all the years you’ve known him. It’s more of a giggle, evil and born of some twisted amusement. “My Love,” he whispers, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Leaving him alive for long enough to get that close to you was a test,” he says, tilting his head as he admires you. He leans in, lips brushing your ear and you start shuddering before he even speaks, his breath sending waves of heat straight to your core. “You failed. And if I have to chain you to this bed for you to behave, make no mistake, I will do it.”
He outsmarted you, and the revelation hangs between your bated breath. But not for long, because he seems to become distracted, sitting back slightly, watching his free hand as he runs it down the side of your body, placing his palm flat on your stomach while he keeps both of your wrists pinned. His breath quickens, fingers trembling, eyes wide as they roam over you. His chest starts to shudder even more and he pulls all the way back, off the bed, standing in front of you.
“Come closer Joong,” you ask him gently. He shakes his head. The look in his eye is almost psychotic, but you’re not scared. Only scared that he’ll leave. Leave you alone and clueless again. “Please?” you beg, sitting up on the edge of the bed. He huffs a shaky breath, standing over you, and you spread your knees so he can stand between them as he hovers over you. “Talk to me, help me understand.”
“You want to understand why I never came to you? Why it had to be like this?” He asks, his hand sliding to cup your jaw. “You were always there, in our house, in the kitchen, in the hallway, half asleep on the couch,” he recounts all the times you’d spent hanging out with Mingi back in the day. “I’d walk past the door and see you curled up under a blanket and it would ruin me for fucking days,” he explains, voice tight. “I spent years watching you like that. Do you know how maddening it is? To always be a few feet away from the only person your body responds to?” His breath catches, his fingers in your hair again to tilt your head to his will. You loll your head in his grip, letting him do as he pleases with you. “I memorised your footsteps, could tell when it was you walking up the stairs. Could pinpoint your laugh from three rooms away,” his brows tug together, fingers still tugging gently against your scalp. His voice drops to no more than a whisper. “I wanted you so much it scared me.” His grip on you tightens the more he unravels. “So,” he breathes. “If I had come to you back then, if I’d given myself even an inch, I would’ve kept you. Locked you in my room. So I waited,” he muses, tugging at your bottom lip with his thumb. “I waited for you to grow into someone who could handle me. And now here you are, with your hands on me, asking why I didn’t come sooner,” he laughs under his breath in disbelief. He leans down, eyes level with yours. “I stayed away to give you a choice, and if you never chose me?” He whispers, looking at you with eyes that should make you want to run a mile. “I would’ve just taken you anyway.”
You take him in for a moment, watching his face as he waits for you to respond. “I liked it,” you tell him quietly. “I liked knowing someone wanted me that much.”
“Don’t,” he murmurs like he’s in pain, pressing his forehead to yours, still hunched over you, hands in your hair and on your jaw keeping you close.
“Why?” you ask innocently, running your hand along his broad shoulder, resting it on the side of his neck.
“Because you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that,” he says. “All those years of hating myself for the way I wanted you, and you’re telling me you liked it?”
“You watched me,” you claw at his neck. “Now I want to watch you drown in me,” you purr, looking up at him through your lashes, noses brushing. He’s on his knees immediately, like they buckled under him at that statement alone, a slight whine passing his lips. He buries his head in your lap, a trembling mess, hands grasping at your clothes. A stark but welcomed contrast to his demeanor when he barged through your door. Needy. Putty in your hands. Delicious. “If you want me,” you whisper, voice low, forcing his face to look up at you. “Then you take me.” You hook your finger under his chin softly. “But you don’t get to leave. Ever.”
He chokes out a breath, shakes his head slightly like he can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. And if you were oil, then he was certainly fire, and you were about to ignite.
It happens fast: one minute he’s kneeling before you, the next he’s on his feet, arms lifting you back to the centre of the bed, hovering over you, lips on yours, starving and desperate and rock hard against your thigh.
He’s hot and heavy on top of you, shaky fingers roaming. You catch him off guard, finding a strength in yourself you didn’t know you had to flip him over, straddle his hips, letting out a blissful hum when you settle over him through his jeans. Too many layers between you. You pin his hands above his head now, fingers intertwining.
“Princess-”
“Shh,” you kiss his jaw, down his neck, to the slice of exposed chest. You lean back, releasing his hands but they just follow yours, holding them as you look down at him. “You’ve been watching me all this time, now it’s my turn.” You settle your hand against his cheek, run it along his jaw with delicate fingers, over his Adam's apple, spreading your hand around his throat for a second, down his chest, watching the way his breath shakes with every move you make. “Look at you,” you hum, head tilted and a condescending thread running through your tone, hands still roaming over him. “Breathing like you’re the one being hunted.”
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs.
You kiss a trail up his chest, stop at his ear, kiss the shell of it. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“If you keep talking like that I’ll-”
“You’ll what?” you tease, rolling your hips against him. The whimper that leaves him makes you think he might just cum in his pants. “Flip me over? Take control again?”
“No,” his eyes roll closed as you grind down against him again. “I’ll give you all of it.”
You whine at the prospect. To have him at your disposal. “Then stay still, let me have you.”
You slip your hands between you as you kiss him slow, tongues fighting for dominance, but you win when he gets distracted by his jeans being unzipped. You tug them all the way off, stiff from the rain that’s still hammering down outside. You lift your shirt over your head and his breath hitches, settling between his legs, kissing along his toned stomach, his v-line. Kiss him up and down through his boxers, open-mouthed, wet, teasing. He sounds like he’s about to start sobbing.
“Please,” he heaves as you pull him out. You try to hide the gasp that wants to pass your lips at the sheer size of him, wondering how you’ll take all of that. “Fuck, I’ll come just from- ah,” he hisses when you lick his tip, kissing softly, wrapping your lips around him like he’s the sweetest lollipop you’ve ever tasted. Which wouldn’t be a lie.
He grabs you by the back of your hair, drags you up, meets you in the middle. “Can you lay down for me baby?” He asks while your fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders. But he gets impatient, throws you down into the spot he was laying in, ridding you of whatever clothing you had left. He drapes your underwear off your foot, brings your ankle up, kisses it as his hand roams your leg, kisses along your calf, your thigh, settling between your legs, leaving kisses in his wake. He rests his head on your stomach, hands caressing your hips.
“It’s okay Joong,” you whisper, combing your fingers through his hair. “Do all the things you’ve imagined yourself doing for years,” you tell him, pushing your hips up, soaking and desperate for his touch. He curses under his breath, looks up at you, spreading your thighs further apart with his palms. You gasp when he presses his lips against you. Kisses like a sunset, slow and inevitable. And when he runs his tongue through your centre, your thighs flinch to clamp around his head but he refuses, keeping them pinned to the bed as he devours you, slow and lazy and moaning against you.
You watch him; the way his brows furrow, the way he rolls his hips against the bed beneath him gets you messier than you’ve ever been. You tug at his hair, wanting him off before you finish, but he just rips your hand away, pinning it to your side, so you put your foot on his shoulder, trying to force him away.
“Joong please,” you beg, breathless and whimpering. “Please, fuck me before I come,” and you realise you’ve walked into another trap. You told him to do all the things he’s dreamt of, and here you are, begging him to fuck you. But you don’t care; you want him to have whatever he wants. You would beg for him over broken glass and hot coals if that’s what he asked of you.
He finally comes up for air, chin glistening, kissing his way back up to you. “Baby, I don’t think m’gonna last very long,” he mumbles against your skin, flexing his hips back and forth, coating himself in you.
“Mm, me neither,” you reassure him, cradling the back of his head as he buries his face in your neck, biting and sucking.
“Just let me touch you a while longer, hm?” He asks, his eyes locking on yours, brows relaxing as he holds your gaze. It feels like time slows just for you, accounting for the way he explores every inch of you at his own pace. He toys with you, runs his thumb up and down, slipping it just past your entrance enough to tease, then back out, over and over as his lips roam your chest. You revel in the feel of him, dig your nails into his skin, drag them along his shoulders, watching the muscles flex under your touch.
He sits back to line himself up, and you prop yourself on your elbows to watch.
“Spit,” he tells you, holding his palm in front of your mouth. He watches intensely as you do. “Good girl,” he whispers, fucking into his fist a few times with your saliva. You watch him start to push into you, unsure how he’s going to fit.
“Lay back baby, relax for me,” he soothes, smoothing your hair, kissing you softly as he eases into you. You both gasp. He didn’t stretch you out first, and he’s so big.
“Fuck,” you murmur, gripping onto his hair for dear life, keeping his forehead pressed to yours as he pushes further and further. “Too big,” it comes out as a quiet whimper, and he goes even slower at the tone of your voice.
“You’re okay baby,” he shushes, with one arm braced next to your head while the other hand cups your face, keeping you looking at him while you squirm beneath him. “Breathe for me baby,” he tells you, taking in a deep breath through his nose, nodding his head for you to do the same, and you do on instinct. “Perfect, now out,” he says, and you both exhale together as he pushes all the way until your hips are flush. A pathetic moan falls from your lips, pain and pleasure mingling. He gets you to take a few more deep breaths with him, all the while caressing your cheek with the backs of his fingers, thumb tracing your jaw. He peppers you with kisses along your neck, burying his face there. “So perfect, take me so well, made for me, all f’me,” he mumbles mindlessly against your skin.
You pull his face back up, your lips brushing his ear. “I need you to move now,” you whisper, fingers trailing along his skin as you lay beneath him, leaking around him and getting needier for friction by the second.
“Mm, I’ll come, don’t want to yet,” he moans.
“Please,” you beg, rolling your hips up and he gasps, lips on yours immediately, and you moan into his mouth when he finally pulls out to thrust back into you.
He whimpers with every slow rock of his hips, looking at you like he’s trying to commit every stroke to memory, as if it might never happen again. The steady rhythm he sets only serves to build you up for a greater fall, his hand disappearing between you to set that same pace with his thumb, and your head starts to spin.
“M’close already,” you mewl, drawn out and desperate.
“I know baby,” his voice is strained, feeling you getting tighter and tighter the closer you get. “It’s okay, let it go.”
The lazy, fucked-out tone of his voice is what tips you over, the way he licks into your mouth when he kisses you. You pulse around him harder than you ever have for anyone or anything. You grab at him even more. Closer. You want him closer. You can tell he’s about to topple over the edge when his whines become sobs. He buries his face in your neck, so you yank his head by the hair at the nape of his neck.
“No, wanna look at you,” you tell him, breathless.
His brows knit together, turning up in the middle as the end crashes over him, trembling and whining over you.
“There you go,” you run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp gently as he collapses on top of you, arms wrapping around his head. He doesn’t pull out right away, just lays in the aftermath, face nestled in your hair as you lay under him, legs numb and arms weak. After a few moments, he sits back up on his elbows to look at you, pulling out as he does. He preens your hair, brushing away the strands clinging to your face, and you do the same for him. He kisses your cheek, your nose, forehead, like he simply can’t get enough.
summary: inappropriate use of a confessional and yes i did have crying during sex by ethel cain playing on repeat while i wrote this
tags: priest!yunho, infidelity, religious themes
word count: 2k
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
For the religious trauma & the hot catholic in a boyband
We gather here today to take the Lord’s name in vain
I’m so sorry x
You’re not sure how you ended up here. Almost midnight on a weekday. The church is silent, cool in the summer evening, the only light flickering from the candles. You light one for no one in particular. Maybe it’s for yourself.
You’ve been in your own head, in agonizing turmoil over something you can’t have. Something forbidden—for a multitude of reasons. And the reason for your aching is sat in the confessional. He always is. Always there whenever you find yourself lost, wandering between the pews with no rhyme or reason.
He’s there on a Sunday morning too, greeting you with a bright smile, eyes lingering for always a second too long. He doesn’t hide his wanton gaze when he gives you communion, on your knees in front of him as he places the bread on your tongue, tips the wine past your lips with an intimacy that can only be felt, not seen.
It’s been like this for weeks. Too long. The pull to him betrays everything you’ve been taught. Everything you’re supposed to uphold. And yet, you step into the confessional once more. The door creaks quietly, your footsteps soft against the stone. The wooden bench inside this tiny room is smooth, too familiar these days.
You both sit in silence for a moment, your thighs already pressed together at the thought of him sat on the other side. His dark hair, fluffy and perfectly tousled. His hands that you’ve only ever encountered in innocence but dreamed of illicitly. His legs, never-ending, and one would argue a more appropriate seat to confess your sins in.
You take in a shaky breath. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.” Your voice is barely audible. “It has been… eight days,” you whisper, “since my last confession.”
You hear him shift slightly. “I’ve missed you, Angel,” he says. Certain. Sure. “What’s troubling you, hm?”
You rest your head in despair against the wood separating you, the weight of wanting tiring you with every day that passes. A sigh falls from your lips, short from your heaving chest. No tears, just your melancholic longing sitting heavy on your shoulders. You don’t know what happened, you don’t know how you allowed yourself to get into this situation. You claw at your own neck, frustrated. You’re almost inclined to snap the chain of the crucifix around your neck, rip away the sheer veil pinned into your hair, for your lack of devotion is laughable.
“You seem more distressed than usual,” he remarks, resting the back of his fingers against the wooden lattice. A simple reassurance. You reach your own fingers through the gaps, curl them around the wood, anything to feel closer to him. A soft velvet sweeps across your skin, followed by warm breath, and you realize he’s pressed a kiss to your knuckles. You gasp.
“I can’t keep doing this,” you almost hiss it. “I can’t keep sinning, and coming back to repent. I don’t think it works like that, Father.”
He leans forward, enough for you to see his silhouette on the other side of the booth. “Come,” he says. You surely must have descended into delirium, can’t possibly be hearing him correctly. But you did. “Come, Angel,” he tells you, jerking his head for you to join him on his side of the confessional.
You step out hesitantly, place your wary hand on the door of the opposite side. When you open it, he greets you with a smirk. Legs slung apart, his elbow resting on the edge of the screen, head tilted, leaning on his fist. He is sin itself. You lift your head slightly, your eyes drifting towards the ceiling as you ask God to forgive you for whatever is about to take place under his roof.
He reaches out for you, so you take his hand. He tugs you closer to stand between his legs, sits up straight, and toys with your wrists, your fingers.
“This is better,” he hums, looking up at you. “Do you still wish to confess?” he asks. You nod, and he shrugs his blazer off, folds it neatly and places it on the ground in front of your feet. “So confess.”
You drop to your knees before him, your hands resting on his thighs. You let them inch closer to his hips, then back, repeating the motion. He takes your face, cups your jaw to tilt your head up, his fingers threading through your hair in a gentle but firm grip. He leans in, his breath teasing your lips, breathing each other in. You can feel the flush creeping up your chest, your neck, taking over so much that your fingers start to dig into him.
“Do you still fantasize about things you can’t have?”
You laugh, short and sharp. “Yes,” you breathe, your eyes flicking up to lock with his. His grip firms as he tilts you more, the heat between your legs becoming unbearable.
“And what of your husband? Remind me of his name,” he taunts.
Your husband. You shut your eyes for a moment. You try not to think about the sickness that would embed itself in his soul if he ever knew. “Seonghwa,” you murmur.
“Yes, that was it,” he smirks, his fingertips massaging circles against your scalp. “And does he know? That you crave the hands of another? That you act on that thirst with your own hand while he sleeps?”
“No,” you breathe, high-pitched and whiny. You sway closer to him, your hands reaching for his waist, running up his chest until you’re gripping his shoulder.
“Does he know that the hands you long for are the same hands that give you the body and blood of Christ? Does he know that he also receives it from those hands?”
You shake your head, pulling free from his grip and pressing your forehead against his chest. Your hand, still on his shoulder, now slides up his neck. “I need you,” you huff against his shirt.
“No, Angel,” he smiles, smug, pulling you back so he can look at you. “You want me,” he whispers, lips hovering over yours, his eyes flicking across your face, your furrowed brow at the frustration of it all. “And that’s okay,” he nods, running his thumb over your bottom lip, tugging it down slightly. “I’ll never say no to you.” His words draw a moan from you, putty in his hands.
When your lips finally meet, it’s soft, tender. Your whole body leans into him, craving more before he’s even pulled away from you. He holds your jaw, still and slack, runs his tongue along your bottom lip, meets yours halfway before slipping it past your lips in another kiss.
“Let me taste you,” you mumble into his mouth. He chuckles against your lips, eyes crinkling. “You said it yourself, you’ll never say no to me.”
He leans back in a half-shrug, cups your jaw as you remain on your knees for him. “Take me to heaven, Angel.”
You make light work of the buttons of his slacks, settle against your heels, and let him free himself. Already solid. You open your mouth, let him slap it against your tongue. Once. Twice. His moans fill the confined space, his breath strained. You wrap your lips around him, swirl your tongue around his tip, taking him further and further with every motion. His hand guides the back of your head, careful not to disrupt your veil, the other braced on the wall, and when you look up at him, he looks almost flustered. Cheeks flushed. He gets whiny when he starts hitting the back of your throat, pulling you off with a hiss, dragging you into his lap as you lift up your skirt to straddle his waist. His hands are firm around your ribs as he buries his face in your chest, resting his chin against you as he looks up. You take his jaw, tilt him back, mouth one word to him—open—with a raise of your eyebrows, which he does without hesitation. You let the taste of him drip from your mouth to his, his eyes fluttering closed with a guttural moan, pulling you flush against him. He claws at the straps of your dress, pulling them down to expose your chest and cover it in kisses, trailing up your neck.
He dips his hand under the skirt of your dress, running his finger along the fabric that covers you with precision. With his lips brushing your ear, he whispers, “Christ.” Ironic. “You’re soaked.”
“Mhm,” you whine, readjusting on his lap, letting out little gasps as he creates friction between his finger and the material separating you. You hook your finger through his collar, toss it onto the ground next to you, and unbutton his shirt, leaving soft kisses in your wake, back up his chest as you slip his shirt off his shoulders. You can’t help but bite down as his hands work miracles, switching to his thumb to press down in circular motions that get you circling your hips. You end up leaving a mark where his shoulder meets his neck.
“What’s this, hm?” He laughs, warm, his eyes soft. “I’m yours? Even though you’re not mine?” he asks, his eyes dropping for a moment. It makes your heart twinge in a way you don’t care for.
He slides his other hand under your dress, hooking his fingers under the elastic of your underwear. You think he’s about to tug them down, until you hear the fabric tear. Ripped clean in half. You curse against his lips, pulling yourself closer to him, tightening your thighs around his hips, your fingers tugging at the hair at the nape of his neck as he slides just the tip of his finger inside you. He circles it, using his other hand to rub tight circles where you need him the most, his head tipped back against the wall as you writhe on top of him.
“Want you,” you mewl against him.
“I know baby, I know,” he hushes, lining himself up. “Not all the way to the end though,” he murmurs, holding your chin between his fingers, pretty kisses ghosting your lips. “You know that, right?” He caresses your cheek with his thumb. It doesn’t soothe your squirming, and in the moment you don’t care, even though when the time comes, you’ll hate him for not finishing with you. The way it’s supposed to be. The way God intended. You nod regardless of the pout forming on your lips, the crease between your brows. He smooths it out with a kiss, kissing you gently as he lowers you onto him, both of you gasping against each other as you cradle his face while he guides you into a steady rhythm. Your knees are red raw, but you don’t care. There’s a tightness within you, not only because you get closer to toppling over the edge with every thrust, every brush of his thumb, but because this is wrong, so so wrong. It’s not guilt. It’s longing. It’s missing him before he’s even gone. Tears line your eyes, and you pulse around him, strong and certain and all his. “I’ve got you baby,” he whispers, hands in your hair, holding your forehead to his as you ride it out. “Fuck,” he moans. “Fuck m’gonna finish.” He pulls out, and you keen at the emptiness, but he doesn’t give you time to mull over it. “On your knees,” he says, eager but gentle. “On your knees again for me baby.”
You do. You slip off his lap, mouth open for him. He pushes past your lips once more, hitting the back of your throat without warning this time. He pushes himself into your mouth, as gasping, broken sobs fall from his lips and your veil finally loses its grip and hits the ground. You swallow, taking whatever he’ll give you, and when he’s done and you feel his absence yet again, he leans over you, tilting your head to look at him.
“Baby, did you swallow it?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes glazed, just as spent as yours. “No, baby, don’t swallow all of it,” he whispers, swiping his finger over the corner of your mouth. “Because when you get home, you’re gonna kiss your nice husband for me, hm?”
summary: wooyoung is a little shit
word count: 1.4k
disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
The aftermath - is Jung Wooyoung a dirty sneaky liar?
Lets see…
He hops up out of bed, swiping his shirt off the floor and throwing your shorts at you. You look at him in utter disbelief.
“Uhm, hello? Ankle?!” you scoff.
He shrugs at you with the cheekiest grin on his face. “Guess you cured me.”
You jump up off the bed, launch yourself at him, try to tackle him and grip his chin between your thumb and fingers, forcing him to look at you as he cackles.
“You filthy liar!!” You laugh as he squirms in your grip. “It was a lie to get in my pants!” You chase after him as he moves towards the door, hanging off him as he gets closer, your arms draped around his shoulders. He shuts you up with a kiss, arm around your waist moving you to the side.
“Lemme get the door,” he mumbles against your lips.
He pulls you off him, sets you aside with your back to the wall to the left of the doorframe before he opens it. Your eyes rake over him, grey sweatpants low on his hips, shirt showing a sliver of his pelvis, hair a mess. Painfully delicious. You’re starving.
He greets the delivery driver, makes small talk with him because it’s what he’s best at. You stare at him, tilt your head as your fingers start to unbutton the shirt he’d given you to wear, twisting against the wall to face him because you know he can see out the corner of his eye. He props his forearm against the doorframe so he can’t see you anymore, and when he finally takes the food and bids farewell to the driver, he swings the door shut and dumps the takeout bag on the entry table.
“Just can’t help yourself, hm?” He asks, lifting you against the wall, your legs locking around his waist, a smug smile on your face.
“At least I don’t lie to get in your pants,” you smirk, running your fingers along his shoulders, admiring his arms as they hold you in place like it’s nothing.
“I think,” he starts, nudging your nose with his. “That you’ve wanted me in them for a long time,” he says, his voice low and sultry. He tugs on your chin slightly with his thumb, licks into your mouth, lips claiming yours, heat flashing over you like lightning.
“So you admit it, you made it up as an excuse to get me over here?” you ask, tilting your head. He takes the opportunity to kiss your neck. Soft and painfully slow.
“You forced painkillers down my neck,” he murmurs against your skin. “How do I know you weren’t just taking advantage of me in my time of need?” He pouts as he pulls away.
You use his shoulders as leverage, lean over him slightly, tease his lips with yours. “I dunno, you seemed like you were enjoying it.”
He pulls you away from the wall, delivers a swift spank to your ass. Not too hard, but enough to make you hiss. He carries you to the lounge, places you on the couch that sits against the wall that backs directly onto your living room. Your sofa backs onto the same wall on the other side.
He hovers over you, one hand on the back of the couch, the other cupping your face. “I’ve wanted to be in your pants since the day you moved in,” he tells you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Almost cummed in mine the first time you texted me.”
His chain dangles in front of your face, and all you can do is hum in response, hips rolling towards him but he feels so far away. He notices, smirks, laughs a little before looking back to you. He takes your hand, pulls you up and takes a seat in the same spot, drags you onto his lap, straddling his hips.
“Y’know,” he whispers, tilting your chin. “These walls are so thin,” he runs his hand up your thigh. “That sometimes,” there’s a tilt to his voice, mischievous as he hovers his thumb over your sweet spot through your shorts. You’re clawing at him now, desperately want him closer, want to feel him. “Sometimes I can hear you,” he presses his thumb down fully, one slow circle of pressure as he continues. “After we’ve bumped into each other outside, after we’ve been texting…”
You writhe against his thumb, legs spread with your knees digging into the cushions beneath you.
“I wonder,” he mumbles against your ear, moving down your neck. “How many times we’ve sat back to back, touching ourselves, thinking about each other, hmm? What do you think babygirl?” He picks up his pace, gets you squirming over him.
“Fuck—Woo,” you huff, breathless. You grip his wrist between you, work yourself against him, hunched over him, a whimpering mess because every time he speaks you unravel a little more.
“Look at you,” he coos. “Fucking yourself against my hand, acting like I’m in the wrong for telling a little white lie to get you over here. Can you blame me?”
You bury your face in his neck, chasing the ever-tightening coil in your stomach. He puts his free hand around your throat, not rough, not mean, just holds you there in front of his face as your hips roll at their will. Your breath catches, so close.
“Tell me,” he whispers, his eyes flicking over your face. “Tell me you felt it too, from the start. Tell me you want it.”
You nod frantically at his words, tensing over him, so fucking close to the edge. He rips his hand away and you almost sob, collapsing over him, feeling how hard he is and automatically moving against him, but he stops you with firm hands on your hips.
“Please,” you whine, resting your hand on his leg behind you, rolling your hips against nothing as he keeps a gap between you. He undoes the last few buttons of your shirt with one hand, runs his hand up the centre of your chest, pulls you to him by the back of your neck. “Want you,” you tell him, whiny and needy against his lips. “Wanted you the moment I saw you, just looking at you made me wet,” you babble, shame becoming a foreign concept while you're in his grasp.
He taps your thigh gently for you to lift your hips, slips his sweatpants down and frees himself, spits in his palm, and you watch as he pumps himself a few times, head thrown back. The thought of him doing exactly this while thinking about you is enough to make you cum.
“C’mere baby,” he tugs you toward him, shuffles down to get comfy against the couch cushions, guides you over him, and teases you with his tip. “Y’know how many times I’ve pictured you like thi—mmh,” he cuts off with a whimper as you sink down onto him, slow so he can watch as he disappears inside you.
You melt into him, circle your hips, drag his shirt up and shrug yours off because you want to feel his skin against yours. You ride him slow, drag it out because he feels so good, and tell him so. You watch him, let him guide your hips, bury your hands in his hair and your face in his neck when he holds you up and drives himself into you.
“Sit up f’me baby, lemme look at you,” he tells you against your cheek when he feels you tightening up, pulls your hand between you, and gets you drawing tight circles on yourself as he thrusts into you at the same speed. You're almost crying over him as he whines beneath you with every flex of his hips, whimpering into your mouth when you pulse around him and crash your lips against his. His whines become quiet moans into heavy breathing as you both come down, sitting you in his lap and dragging a blanket off the arm of the sofa and pulling it around you.
You kiss his lips softly, flick his hair out of his eyes. You think about all the time wasted if this was always on the cards for you, and decide not to bring it up just yet.
“C’mon, we’ll shower and then I’ll warm the food up,” he says, kissing your nose.
disclaimer: these are works of fiction, characters and events portrayed are entirely fictional and do not represent or reflect on real people and/or events.
another disclaimer: header not mine. found it on pinterest. if its urs pls lmk so i can credit!
