No, thank YOU! This was one of my favorite ones to write so far o(*>ω<*)o
desperate kiss (Saeyoung)
S-m-u-t warning, proceed with caution~ <3
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
There’s something about his hands.
It’s in the angular curve that runs from his wrist over his prominent thumb joint. It’s in the speed of his fingers as they create languages, destroy lives. It’s in the rough pads of his fingertips, calloused and scarred, and the way they feel hot and coarse and electric against your face. It’s in the gentle way his hand grips yours whenever you walk anywhere at all, even from the bedroom to the kitchen, and the rough way they grip your arms, hard, bruising, when he is longing for you.
You are tangled up in him, a wreck of sheets and sweaty limbs. His bright eyes gaze up at you, breath warm on your face; legs intertwined, you hover over him, panting. Needing.
He watches you, hungrily, waiting for your next move; you watch his hand, warm, lithe, inching over your bare stomach.
“Please,” you say, but it comes out a breathless whine. You are on fire; you press your thighs together, needy; he sees you, a coy, sleepy grin on his face.
His hand parts your thighs; you open for him easily, yearning, trembling. Oh, he’s proud of himself; he bites his lip, unabashedly coquettish, as he glides a finger over you. You know how you must feel to him: hot and wet and swollen. You let out your breath in a low hiss and he chuckles.
“You really need me, don’t you, kitten?”
You want to give him a biting retort, but you seem to have lost the ability to speak; he moves his finger against you, questing, taunting, and you’re stripped of coherent thought entirely.
Oh, but he’s barely touching you, finger so soft, a wisp of air, a wonderful ghost—but it’s too much: that one, long finger dances over you, making rainbows burst before your eyes. Fluttering, fluttering, like the soft, wet petals that stick to your neck in spring, tickling you from the outside in, from the inside out.
You think you say his name, back arching, thighs opening; you’ve said something, because he is laughing, golden eyes glittering. His finger curls, does acrobatics, and your vision flickers on and off to the rhythm he’s created. Your heart could burst.
You are in pieces, here and yet elsewhere; as if through a thick fog, you see his lips moving; you nod, agreeing with whatever he is saying—you’d walk to the ends of the earth for this man any day; now, you’d give absolutely anything to keep his fingers at the very core of your being.
Another finger slips inside you; you are so ready for him, and you can see his eyes widen at the feeling of you. He wishes he were inside you right now, you know, he’s picturing it, dreaming of it, and you want him to, want to wait for him, want to envelop him…
His finger curls and your vision fades again; you are in a rainforest, deep in warm, wet, wonderful mud, rain pounding on your face, plants tickling your sides. It is moggy, foggy, delicious and impossible to see or feel and you are sinking, sinking…
Sinking…
And you are in both worlds at once as you come: falling through the permeable rain forest floor, then through the sky, the wind keeping you aloft; and propped above him on shaky legs, sweaty, sticky, his face full of unbelievable pride and delight and lust as he watches your face. As his fingers utterly destroy you.
And now you hear your voice again, gasping his name: “Saeyoung, Saeyoung.”
You can feel how much he wants you and you want more of him; you wrap a leg around him, pinning him down. He sits up then, clutching you in his lap; those heavenly, heart-stopping fingers curling tight around your arm.
“You need me, don’t you?” you murmur, echoing him. He kisses you then, hard, lips melting into yours with the ferocity of his desire for you and the ease of his familiarity with you. He knows your body like he knows his own.
“I do,” he hisses into your mouth; breathless, he kisses you again, and again, lips and tongue and teeth; hazy, heavenly. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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Saeyoung + laughing heart 💕 (I love the idea of this requests!)
Ooooh, thank you!! God knows I’m always happy to write about my best boy~ Happy Valentine’s Day! <3 <3
laughing heart (Saeyoung)
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
You’re in bed, propped up in a fluffy little haven of all the pillows you own, when your phone rings.
You reach for it sleepily, setting aside the book you were reading. Who would call so late? you wonder absently as you squint at the lit-up screen. You burst out laughing when you see his name.
“Baby, why are you calling me?”
You hear him giggling through the phone; you hear it doubled, actually, through the thin wall that connects the bedroom and the office.
“I miiiiiiss you,” he sings. You can picture him: feet propped on his desk, swaying back and forth in that silly, fancy chair.
“I’m, like, approximately a fifteen second walk away,” you tell him. Automatically, you sit up, crossing your legs, tugging the comforter around your shoulders. It’s an old habit, you realize—sitting in bed, wrapped in blankets, clutching your phone to your face. Hearing his voice in your ear.
“Can’t walk,” he says, still giggling. “Too hard.”
“Babe, come to bed.” You roll your eyes; you can hear him spinning around in a circle in his chair, one room over. “Wouldn’t you rather be all cozy here next to me than talking to me on the phone from your desk?”
You can practically hear him pouting. Sweet boy.
“I used to call you when I was right next to you all the time!” he whines.
“That was a long time ago, honey.” You toy with the sleeve of your pajama shirt, rolling and unrolling it. You wait patiently for his point—you know he has one. You can hear it in the timbre of his beautiful voice.
“I have a question,” he says, and he’s got that fake-deep voice on, like he’s playing detective—but you know he means it, or he wouldn’t ask.
“Yeah?” You can’t sit still tonight—maybe it’s the tinny sound of his voice through the phone sending shockwaves through your heart. You’re always together, nowadays; you realize you can’t remember the last time you talked on the phone. You play with the silver band on your ring finger, rotating it round and round.
“Okay, you get one shot at this, so get it right, okay?”
You roll your eyes.
“I’m sleepy, baby. What is it?”
“Ta-da!” You hear him leap up from his chair. What a silly boy; oh, how you adore him. “Iiiit’s…this! What was the first thing you thought of, the veeeery first time you talked to me?”
This takes you by surprise. You tilt your head thoughtfully, thinking back—it feels so long ago now, that hazy, head-spinning time. You remember the first time, of course: you were sitting just like this, propped up in a bed that didn’t belong to you, in a home that didn’t belong to you. He’d startled you: his voice was deeper than you’d imagined, somehow, and more dynamic. He’d been teasing you, right off the bat—you hadn’t fallen for it. He’d panicked. How strange, you’d thought. What a strange, strange time, and a strange, strange boy. Your heart had raced—you’d felt it would beat its way out of your chest.
“I thought, ‘Huh, what a weird guy,’” you tell him.
“You what?!” he growls; you can barely stifle a giggle. Through the wall, you hear him leap out of his chair; hear the door slam; hear his footsteps in the hall.
Saeyoung appears in the doorway, skidding to a stop, phone still pressed against his cheek.
“You what?” he repeats. You shrug, grinning. He pushes off from the doorframe, taking a running leap; you squeal as he pounces on you, landing in your lap and pressing you back against your pillow pile, hands on your shoulders. “I don’t believe you,” he says, hovering over you, his eyes bright. You scrunch your eyes shut, giggling, breathless, pretending to ignore him. “Tell. Me. The. Truth,” he hisses in your ear, and then his teeth are on your earlobe and he’s tugging it into his mouth, sucking, nibbling. He knows all your weaknesses.
“Fine,” you gasp, wrapping an arm around his waist. He is relentless—he bites the side of your ear, your cartilage. “Fine!” You push him, gasping. He sits up—still in your lap, straddling you, a big grin on his face.
“Did you think, ‘Ah, that’s the voice of the man I’m gonna marry?’” He asks, bouncing a little. You smack him; he grins wider.
“No,” you say, honestly. “Not really. You wanna know what I really thought?”
“Yeeees.” He bends down again, nuzzling your forehead with his nose. You kiss his neck, right under his chin. He squirms.
“I freaked out,” you tell him, meaning it. “I thought…oh god, I’m in trouble now.”
He peers at you, gauging whether you’re messing with him; this time, you’re not.
“Yeah?” he asks, lowering himself onto you, tucking his head under your chin. You wrap both arms around him.
“Yeah,” you tell him. “I thought, oh no, this man is hopelessly, impossibly charming, and I have to have him,” you say.
He laughs—bubbling and sweet.
“Even then?” he asks you. He wraps his fingers around a lock of your hair.
“Yeah, even then.”
“But you still thought the other thing too, though. Didn’t you?”
You pull him close; he kisses your collar bone as you wrap your arms and legs around his body, holding him tight.
“Yes, baby.” You snuggle into him—he’s better, warmer, softer than any blanket. “I thought, what a weirdo. I guess I’m gonna have to fall in love with him.”
He buries his face in your chest, sighing contently. “Good,” he hums. “You were right.”
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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Ohohohoh certainly~ It’s Saeran day apparently lalalala (I have no complaints)
This is set on day 1 of the AE, during that phone call (the text of which I’ve...manipulated just a bit, or shall we say...expanded). <3
desperate kiss (Saeran)
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
“Mind if I kiss you?”
Saeran laughs softly—he is unfazed, hands resting gently on the steering wheel. There’s something about watching him drive that gives you goosebumps. You’ve seen him confront the most intimidating of adversaries; you know his strength better than anyone. But this simple, real-world task—it feels powerful, to you. Sitting beside him, windows rolled down, cool wind tugging your hair every which way, you feel that your life is in his hands (and it is—your heart, too).
“Uh...do you think we should pull over?” He’s teasing, eyeing you sideways, daring you to make the next move.
I’ll do it, you think. I’ll do it and you won’t know what hit you.
“Why?” you ask, arching your eyebrows, molding your face into what you hope is a look of wide-eyed innocence. “What will happen if we do?”
He laughs again, warm and low, but you don’t miss the way his cheeks flush. Who is baiting who?
“I’d be so happy if I could have you feed me and kiss me,” he says—he’s dead serious now, genuine, and it’s the absolute adoration you see on his soft features that does you in.
You glance at the array of snacks in the back seat, then back at his face. His lips twitch upward; the wind ruffles his hair; the sun makes his skin glow golden.
“I shall do that, after some more patience.” You sit pretty, hands folded in your lap, eyes forward. Patience, you say, as if you have any. You bite your lip, wondering if he will give in first. You’re about a second away from throwing yourself into his lap—even now, here, speeding down the highway.
“I feel elated already,” he says. But his hands are in motion now, twitching against the leather steering wheel. His face is placid but those jittery fingers give him away.
“I changed my mind,” you say. He raises an eyebrow; he’s being so good, eyes on the road. “I don’t want to be patient, after all.”
Saeran exhales loudly; you were right, of course—you’ve got him in the palm of your hand.
“Good,” he says simply. Calm face, calm voice, tapping fingers. And the car is darting across the lanes, and his demeanor is so controlled; you are tempted to see how far you can push him, but you stop yourself. There’s a thin line between eagerness and real danger.
And then he’s pulling onto the shoulder, slowing to a stop, smooth and perfect. When he turns to you at last, there is none of that restraint in his eyes—they’re clouded over in a way that’s become familiar to you, wild and full of longing.
For a moment you just look at each other; the air in the car stops moving. Still faces, still hands, still air. Desperate heart.
“Are you going to kiss me now?” he asks; oh, and he’s taunting you again, perfect pink lips pursed, eyes electric.
“I did promise.”
So you lean across the console, heart pounding, and you think he’s going to keep up his little game, sitting patiently till you come to him—but you’re wrong, he surges forward, meeting you halfway, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s at once softer and rougher than you’d anticipated.
You find yourself panting, straining out of your seat, leaning forward to tangle your fingers in his hair. The soft white strands slip through your fingers and his lips move against yours hungrily—he’s always like this, zero to sixty, patient till he’s not, calm till he isn’t.
He pulls away the tiniest bit; he’s breathless: dizzy eyes and pink cheeks.
“Worth pulling over for?” you whisper and he kisses you again, his smile on yours, his hands reaching out to steady you as you nearly topple onto him. You’re half-out of your seat, seatbelt digging into your neck, muscles shaking, heart racing. He kisses you like it’s the end of the world, or the creation of a new universe.
“Infinitely,” he says.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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I gotchu <3 This is...shall we say...SFW but sexually charged. Do with that what you will.
gentle fingers (Saeyoung)
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
“Hey. Come here.”
You’re perched on the edge of the bed and he’s by the bathroom door, half-dressed, shirt slung over his shoulder. It’s the way you saw his shoulder blades moving under his skin that made you call him.
He spins, attentive as ever; he’s at your side in a moment, and then he’s kneeling on the rug, hands resting on your knees, head level with your waist.
“I’m here,” he says. Of course he is.
He doesn’t ask for an explanation—he doesn’t need one; any word or glance from you is enough for him to drop everything and run to you. You smile, brushing his hair back off his face; it’s almost long enough that you can tuck it behind his ear, though the curls spring free immediately, desperate and playful—just like him.
“You’re pretty,” you tell him, because it’s what’s on your mind; he beams, leaning into your hand, lapping up the praise.
“Thank you,” he lilts: adoring.
You run a finger over his bare collarbone, watching how he shivers. There’s a small, thin scar there, cutting diagonally across the bone. You stroke it with your fingertip—it healed poorly; it’s rough.
“What’s this one from?” you ask him. He twists to peer at it as if he isn’t sure, and he probably isn’t—what is one little scar next to the dozens that mar his body, his strong shoulders, his soft belly?
“It’s old,” he tells you, which isn’t an answer.
You bend, pressing your lips to the scar; he squirms under your touch.
“You don’t need to kiss the scar,” he says—and there’s bitterness in that sweet voice, self-loathing that makes your blood boil.
“I love it,” you tell him. “I hate to imagine how you got it, but it’s beautiful because it is part of you, and you are beautiful.”
You peek at his face; he looks awed, as he so often does, when you praise him—reverent yet startled. He is so strong: brilliant, industrious, clever. He is also still the lonely boy who placed so little value on his own life that he couldn’t see what he was giving up (when he gave up everything).
“This one too,” you tell him, running your finger over another old scar, long and narrow, running down the smooth skin behind his ear. “And this one”—another, almost invisible, on his cheek. There is fire in his eyes as he gazes up at you and you slide your finger over his cheek, his soft lips. He parts them for you, readily, and so you slide your finger into his mouth. He takes it willingly, sucking it with a sort of coquettish twinkle in his eyes.
“You’re so good,” you tell him, and he hums, rounding his lips for you, pulling your finger deeper into his mouth. He looks disoriented already. He is so weak for you; it makes your heart stutter. He waits for your directive, hands folded in his lap, pupils blown wide. “You can touch me,” you tell him, and he does, instantly—reaching up with his hands to graze your waist, caress your thighs. You shift and he opens his mouth for you obediently; you pull your finger out, run it over his bottom lip, down his chin, his bare throat.
“Up here, beautiful,” you say; and he eagerly leaps to his feet, slipping onto the bed beside you. You run both hands down his chest, his belly; you can feel that every cell in his body, every nerve and muscle, sings for you.
“I need you,” he whispers, shivering under your reverent hands.
“You have me,” you tell him. Oh, and he does.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!
Ohohoho what an excellent prompt to start with! Thank you dear ♡
Valentine’s Vignettes requests are open! Guidelines are here.
pleading eyes (Saeyoung)
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
Your head is pounding.
You stare at the screen—too bright—trying to focus on the letters you’ve written; nothing makes sense anymore, and the words blur together into a messy cacophony of meaningless syllables. Oh, you’ve been working for too long, and you’d give anything to just…
Unable to resist any longer, you let your eyes drift away from your computer. In stark contrast with the glaring white light, the room is dim—most of the lights are off. Saeyoung is curled into a little ball on the couch, fingers mindlessly swiping, playing a game. When your eyes land on him, though, his head jerks up, as though most of his attention has been on you this whole time.
“Hi,” he says. He gazes up at you and your face breaks into a weary smile. Maybe it’s the lighting or his funny position, curled around himself, but he looks so small.
“Hi, babe,” you say. You rub your eyes wearily with one hand.
“Are you done?” he asks, too quickly, and you laugh.
“Not even close.”
He pouts—pouts—actually sticking out his bottom lip.
“Take a break?” he wheedles. You sigh, trying to stretch out your neck. It’s stiff—humans weren’t designed to work sitting down like this, you think bitterly.
“I can’t,” you say. He makes a silly little sound, wriggling in place, and you shake your head—how often have the tables been turned, and he’s been the one working late into the night? Where was this impatience then?
He’s quiet for a moment, and you turn back to the computer. If you could just focus, then maybe…
“Pleeeaaase…” he cajoles. You tear your eyes from the screen again and burst out laughing—you can’t resist. He’s wiggled himself into a half-sitting position on the couch, perching on his knees, and he’s gazing up at you with the brightest, roundest puppy dog eyes you’ve ever seen. He opens his arms, reaching for you—like a baby or a small animal, you think, begging to be lifted. “Hold me,” he says, half-plea, half-whine, and you simply cannot take it anymore.
You trip over your own feet as you jump out of your chair, launching yourself at the couch. He has the audacity to cackle as you land ungracefully beside him. Wordlessly, he holds out his arms to you, and you crawl into his lap, wrapping your arms and legs around him.
“Yessssss,” he cheers, burying his face in your shoulder. His mussed-up hair tickles your cheek.
“Just for one minute,” you tell him—though you can already feel your muscles giving out, melting into him. As helplessly as he’d begged for your attention, he holds you now with a firm grip; you’re aware, all of a sudden, that you’re basically straddling him—your spine tingles.
“…just a feeew more minutes?” he whispers. His lips graze your neck and then, without warning, they’ve trailed up your jaw. He nibbles your earlobe and you squeak.
“Saeyoung, I have to…” Your voice trails off as he slides his glasses on top of his head, leaning his forehead against yours.
“A break won’t hurt,” he whispers, and—oh, there’s a different look in his eyes now, a sort of bottomless hunger that makes your toes curl. He’s got you now, and he knows it. He trails one long, calloused finger up your arm, over your shoulder.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” you say. And you kiss him—because how could you not?—taking a fistful of curls in one hand. He kisses you back hungrily, as though he’s been waiting for ages.
“You win,” you mutter against his lips, and you feel him grinning—he knew he would win, in the end. He always does.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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Valentine’s Vignettes requests are open! Guidelines are here.
anxious tears (Saeyoung)
You wake abruptly from a strange dream—your heart thuds hollowly in your throat as the last remnants of it fall away, leaving you with a bitter taste in your mouth and the hazy memory of feet pounding on uneven pavement.
The first thing you hear is a sort of mewling and your weary mind thinks oh, a cat, before you pull yourself together, twisting in bed—the sheets are tangled hopelessly around your legs.
You can just barely make out his face by the light of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. His eyes are shut, face turned to the side—but he’s whimpering. The comforter has fallen off his shoulder and he’s trembling, arms wrapped tight around the pillow.
“Babe.” You nudge him gently—you know better, by now, than to startle him awake from a nightmare. You know better, too, than to let him sleep through it. You nestle closer to him, pressing your fingertips to his forehead, which is hot, his bangs sweaty and sticking up every which way. “Saeyoung,” you murmur, and he twitches toward you, eyes shut tight.
He mutters something you don’t understand, and you curl your fingers around his—tough, warm, trembling. You say his name again, pressing a soft, tentative kiss to the skin just below his eye.
He wakes slowly, as if being dragged from the bottom of a deep hole that was created by his own mind.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” you whisper; as he wakes, his fingers curl around yours, gripping you tightly. He opens his eyes; they’re clouded with sleep and a little red-rimmed. There are tear tracks on his cheeks, salt in his eyelashes.
“…you,” he mutters. His eyes are wide now, desperate, and he takes you in longingly, bringing his free hand up to cup your face.
“I’m here,” you murmur. Suddenly—with the zero-to-sixty agility you’ve long grown accustomed to—he catapults himself into your arms, burying his face in your chest. His fingers grasp at the back of your shirt; he grips you hard, as if terrified of letting go.
With long, soothing strokes, you caress his back; you bury one hand in his disheveled curls. You breathe deeply for him, letting him feel the steady, peaceful way your chest rises and falls.
“I’m here,” you say again, and you repeat it for him: “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.”
He’s shallowly gulping in air now, his grip on you loosening. You unwind one arm from around him and tilt his chin upwards; he gazes up at you with fearful, needy eyes.
“Hey,” he says weakly. He tries for a smile—it’s bittersweet, clashing with his red-rimmed eyes. You kiss the tip of his nose and he closes his eyes, sighing as though he has made it to the end of a long, arduous race.
“Hi,” you say. “Do you want to tell me what you dreamed?”
Eyes closed, he shakes his head resolutely; you pull him closer, tugging the blanket up around his shoulders. He hums. “Don’t wanna,” he mutters. “It’s over now.”
“Yeah,” you tell him. “It is.” You cover his face in kisses and he giggles a little wetly, bunching up the soft fabric of your shirt with his fingers.
“Can I stay like this?” he asks, twisting to rest his cheek on your chest. He’s being cute, but you know it’s purposeful, too—know he’s listening for your heartbeat. You let him.
“Of course,” you say. You lean back onto the pillows; he’s not heavy at all, his head a solid, comforting weight. He nuzzles against you and you brush his hair back with sure fingers, peppering his forehead with little kisses. “Stay right here,” you whisper. “I won’t let you go.”
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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👉👈 ... maybe ,,, maybe saeyoung + awestruck embrace? for the vignettes? hmgnfm uωu
Oh oh oh I love this combo. Thank you my friend <3 This one’s set mid-SEs~
Valentine’s Vignettes requests are open! Guidelines are here.
awestruck embrace (Saeyoung)
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
It’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since the very first day you met him.
You stand in his garage, cold arms around your cold body. One leg bounces impatiently; you still it.
You understand all of it: why he felt he needed to run away, why he felt his brother would be safer here. Why he felt you would be safer staying away, for a while. You trust him—he owned your heart long ago, perhaps before he was even ready to have it. But oh, the waiting has been misery.
You hear the series of clicks and beeps that indicates the activation of his security system, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake—if a bomb is going to go off, or if a robot is going to appear before you and hurl you out of the garage. But no, of course not—he’d never put you in danger. Not if he can help it, anyway.
Your blood rushes in your ears. Click click click and the single door is thrown open, casting a long ray of bright fluorescent light over the dimly-lit garage.
Ah.
He appears in the doorway, eyes wild, hair disheveled. And somehow, he’s brighter and more solid than you remember—as if the few weeks you’d spend beside him had blurred into an indistinct fantasy. His eyes fall on you and his whole face changes, as though the sun is coming up in his mind.
You freeze. He freezes.
“Hi,” you manage, through lips that feel numb—all of a sudden, it’s like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to stand, how to be.
“…hi,” he says. There’s a quiet reverence in his voice, as if he’s seen a ghost, or an angel. You think you understand. He walks toward you then, the door falling shut behind him with a resounding clang. His strides are slow but long.
He reaches you and you wince at the sight of the newly-healed scars on his arm, the purple bruises that are just visible on his wrist, his neck.
And then you see nothing at all, as he throws his arms around you, pulling you tight into his chest. Your whole world becomes his heartbeat, loud and insistent against your ear, and that spicy-sweet smell that makes you dizzy.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” he says, and his fingers are bunching up the fabric of your shirt, grasping at you as if determined to find proof that you’re real.
“It’s only been a few days,” you say, but your voice is shaking, and you feel like you could cry.
His hands are moving now, up and down your back, tickling your sides, stroking your neck. You bury your face in his chest and drink in the scent of him. You want it imprinted in your mind forever.
“If that felt like just a few days to you, you don’t love me as much as I love you,” he says.
You laugh.
“Saeyoung, if you don’t believe I love you by now, you never will.” You pull back the tiniest bit so you can see his face. His expression is open, warm, shining—practically worshipful.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
“That I love you?” Arms still clasped around his back, you lean forward to touch the tip of your nose to his; it’s soft and makes you giggle.
“My name,” he says. “Please.”
“Saeyoung?” Unable to resist, you kiss his nose, then his cheek, then his lips. He parts his lips, panting into your mouth.
“Again?”
“Saeyoung, I love you.”
“Ahhhhh.”
He kisses you harder this time, practically lifting you off the ground with his enthusiasm. You tangle a hand in his messy curls and he pulls you tight against him, snuggling his face into your shoulder.
“I can’t do it again,” he murmurs against your skin. “Can’t be apart from you like that. From now on I’m not gonna let you go.”
“Good,” you say, kissing the soft skin behind his earlobe. “Don’t.”
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
Let me know if you’d like to be added to my taglist!
ray + desperate touch? for a female mc, please! nsfw is most definitely allowed!
thank you in advance! :)
Thank YOU, and happy Valentine’s Day! <3 It’s horny-for-Ray hours, it seems. Always happy to oblige.
Nsfw warning, proceed with caution~
desperate touch (Ray)
・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・
The first time you touch him, it is by accident.
He stands facing you, light eyes downcast; in the dimly-lit room, adorned with all the trappings of his fantasies, all you can see is him. Oh, but he’s close, closer than he’s been before.
“Thank you,” you murmur, accepting the bouquet he’s made for you—pastel-colored flowers, like the room, like his eyes, like your feelings. You take the flowers with both hands, and maybe you’re too eager, and maybe he holds on a little too long, and maybe it’s none of those things—but your thumb brushes the exposed skin of his wrist, above his pulse, right where his gloves end.
Ray jumps as though he’s been burned.
“Oh,” you say. You set the flowers aside, on the bed behind you—neat, beautiful, large. For a princess, which you certainly aren’t. For the incandescent version of you he has created in his mind.
“N-no, I…I’m sorry,” he stammers. He holds the hand you touched in his other one, clutching it to his heart. He gazes at you face now, as though he can’t help himself—he drinks you in. You bask in his eyes.
“The flowers,” you say, “are beautiful.” He looks like he wants to absorb you with his whole body. This time, when you touch him, it is on purpose.
You reach for him with a slow, cautious hand, certain he will flinch or back away or run. It seems to take a thousand years for you to reach him; his gaze follows your fingers, reverent, worshipful, as though he is in a dream.
So little of him is exposed, as though he has armed himself against the world, covered himself in layers—both real and imagined—that no one can penetrate. But you can, you think; and you touch his arm with a finger, just at the crook of his elbow. You feel a ripple go through his body; he inhales sharply, but this time, he does not move away.
Oh, and the way he looks at you—in Ray’s eyes, you are the moon calling the tides, the sun warming the earth.
“May I…touch you like this?” you ask him. Emboldened by his stillness, you curl your fingers around his arm; his coat is soft, thick, warm. Through it, you feel that he is trembling. A flower petal in the wind, you think.
“I…” he tries, and you wonder if anyone has ever touched him before.
“Will you tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable?” you ask him. “Please?” You find that now you are here you’ve gotten greedy. Night of half-sleep, twisted up in the sheets, your head full of him—fantasies of those thing, nervous fingers in your hair; those small, chapped lips ghosting over your cheek—it is overwhelming and heady and delicious and terrifying to finally be near him like this.
It seems your body is moving of its own accord: you’ve got both hands on him now, one on each arm. You can smell the flowery scent of his hair and see every line on his weary face. You drift your hands down, over his arms, toward his wrists—he is so very, very thin.
“I shouldn’t…be here,” he gasps, and you pause, eyeing him cautiously. But he doesn’t look afraid: his eyes have gone dark. He looks…hungry for you. “I’m not supposed to…”
“Do you want me to touch you, Ray?” you ask. And even as he hesitates his body drifts toward yours, his posture shifting, his feet inching him closer and closer; a moment, and your bodies will be pressed together. Your heart stops.
“You don’t…really want to touch me, do you?” he murmurs; he’s learning forward, so close, so close…
“I do,” you tell him; oh, if only you could say how much.
“I’m not, hah…someone who…”
His voice is cut off as one of you closes the distance; your hands are on his wrists, now, circling them gently, as your body presses up against his. His heartbeat overwhelms your senses; there is an inexplicable heat pooling in your belly as his hips push into yours, as if begging to be closer, closer…
You gasp. He has fallen silent; your face is level with his neck, and you feel the wild urge to take that pale, almost ethereal skin between your teeth. Your mind is blurry.
“R-Ray…” you stammer. It is almost unfathomable to be close to him like this; his heart is pounding so fast you are afraid he will simply float away, and you feel the way his hips tremble as you instinctively lean in, resting your face against his chest. Your lips just barely brush the base of his neck.
He makes a sound as though he is trying to speak, but his words come out an incomprehensible jumble, breathy and overwhelmed. And ah—as he shifts his hips, you cannot help but notice, even through all the layers of fabric, the evidence that his body is reacting to yours; there is an obvious bulge in his pants, pressing firmly, insistently into you.
Oh.
So he wants you.
You sneak a peak at his face, and he looks lost: his cheeks are red-hot, his eyes unfocused and cloudy.
Your bare toes curl against the warm, scratchy carpet.
“Ray, can I…?” you ask, voice shaky, praying he’ll understand; you let go of one of his wrists, ghosting your hand across his torso, over his hip. He realizes what you are about to do; he stops breathing. “Can I?” you repeat. You slide your hand in between your bodies; there is heat built up already between your hips.
Fascinated, you hover over him; the fabric of his pants is pulled taut, straining. Heat radiates off him. You wait for his permission.
“I…you…I should…I have to…” He is panting; trying his best.
“Shh,” you say; and again you press your lips to the base of his neck, and he hisses. “Do you want me to?”
You are both, you think, losing your grip on reality.
You press your hand against him, over his pants: hard, hot, tender, trembling. His whole body twitches and he makes a sound you’ve never heard before, a breathy, vulnerable moan—almost a whine.
You’ve never wanted someone to feel pleasure more desperately and wholeheartedly in your whole life.
You palm him again and he moans, giving into you, uncertain hands reaching for you, clutching at your hips. And it’s so easy to undo the button of his pants, slide down the zipper—and he is panting helplessly as you pull down around his hips, and he whines as your fingers graze his tip. You hold onto his hip with your other hand, bracing him, your forehead pressed against his shoulder—and we should move to the bed, cries your hazy mind, but there’s no time, and he is trying to speak, but no words are coming out.
“Please, will you let me do this?” you ask him, fingers skating over him, curling around his base. He whimpers. “Ray.” His head falls back, his legs shaking uncontrollably. “You’ve got to give me an answer,” you say. It is blinding hot, white hot, dessert hot inside your mind.
“…y-yes…” he gasps, at last, voice high-pitched and needy. “I…yes…p-please…”
Thank god you think as you wrap your hand around him at last. He is so warm, firm; you stroke along his length several times and he keens, hips questing forward, breath unsteady against your shoulder.
Has he been dreaming about this all along? you wonder in a brief moment of lucidity, before any rational thoughts trickles away. His pleasure is your pleasure—you are overcome by his trembling body and his delightful, needy sounds. His hands are on your arms now, cautious, needy, grasping for any part of you he can touch. You move faster now, encircling him with both hand, twisting your fingers gently inward as you slide up and down, enveloping him, cherishing him.
And he tries to warn you, garbled whimpers coming out of his mouth as he holds you more firmly than before—but you would never leave him like this, and you flutter your lips over his neck as you stroke him again, knowing it will be the last time, feeling something snap inside him as his body gives out and he comes, head falling onto your shoulder, gasping for air, legs barely holding him as he falls apart entirely.
He stills, after a moment; sapped, shaky. You kiss every bit of exposed skin you can reach: his neck, his jaw, his ear.
“Are you okay?” you whisper. Against your shoulder, you feel his head shift: a tiny nod. Your skin feels wet.
“You…” he murmurs, voice muffled and thick. “I…”
You hold his waist, half-supporting him, nuzzling his neck with your nose, your lips.
“I have you,” you tell him, meaning the way you are holding him now, the way you want to hold him in the future, the way you would run head-first into a fire for him without any hesitation. “If you let me, Ray, I will always want to be touching you.”
His hands shake. His head shifts. Another nod.
“…please,” he whispers.
★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★
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