✚

[wurlii]

✶ WILLOW . . . s/her . . . 9teen . . . uk . . . unlabelled . . . intj . . . wanderer . . . walker-bait . . . slowest writer on earth . . . dominic fike enthusiast . . . multi .ᐟ

requests open ⋮ M.LIST ⋮ NAV

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

PRETTY WHEN YOU CRY

— pairing ⋮ cho sang-woo x assistant!fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ jealousy , power imbalance , crying (obviously) , no use y/n, lowercase intended. unfinished, not proofread.

note . . . i’ve lost interest in finishing this but clearing out my drafts and didn’t want to delete :|

— you’re late again.

there’s the stain of tears on your skin and you can’t remember a time they haven’t been there, but the office moves around you. a brutal reminder that your workday hasn’t waited for you and your coworkers click softly at their keyboards, leer at the paperwork that you’ve let pile up on your desk, the disheveled state of a white shirt you’d uselessly steamed last night on the back of your bedroom door.

you frown and tears start to pool again, line the white of your eyes. drowning in an overwhelming feeling that you can’t name. it’s pathetic and you’d rather cuss yourself out than let your teary eyes stray to your boss, separated by a pane of glass and a light oak door he keeps locked.

although, you can’t help it. it’s fruitless attempt, after another, to avoid looking in his direction as the hours drag on and your desperation to go home is interrupted with the sudden thought of having a reason to cry. you can’t not look at him, especially not when he insists on not wearing a tie, messily opting to leave a couple of his top buttons undone, hem untucked. forearms choked by pushed up sleeves and the frames of his glasses crooked on the flat bridge of his nose.

your heels are silent on carpet as you tap your foot impatiently, but colleagues notice and wonder why you’re antsy in your chair, what you’re waiting for. they give you strange looks and passive remarks as they start to tidy up for the day, returning staplers, refilling tape dispensers, asking questions about nightcaps. an open invitation.

and you think that that’s what it takes for your phone to finally ring.

vibrating atop sleek wood, you smirk and the endearingly oblivious sparkle in the blue eyes opposite you spoils the gratification that causes your thighs to clench together. “s-so, is that a yes?”

your smirk parts, falters, and your head is empty. he’s wearing a tie, navy and slightly off centre as it hangs delicately around his narrow neck, covered by the paleness of his collar. he pulls at it nervously as he waits for your answer, smooths a careful hand over perfectly styled hair. dried gel in his palm. your leg starts to bounce.

you try to smile and his voice sounds so small. the corners of your mouth twitch, tremble as you stare back at him, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. you should say yes, with hands twisting in your lap, making him wait for your answer feels cruel.

before you stammer out something polite, try to soften the embarrassment creeping up his neck, there’s the heavy sound of a door unlocking.

he says your name, drawn from the strain of his teeth. “maybe some other time, no?”

he lingers in the doorway and blue eyes look between the two of you, to the white of his boss’ knuckles still holding the handle. understanding seems to dawn on him at the way sang-woo’s skim over the scene, looking at you when he says it.

blue eyes stammers an explanation, stumbles over a hurdle he’d spent sleepless nights trying to figure out a way to get around. that he’s not in a position of authority, there’s no power imbalance and it’s reasonable for him to want to ask you out. you don’t look at sang-woo, stay fixed on the woven fabric of a navy tie. it hangs.

he hmphs a response. moves to stand behind you and petulant hands sweep hair back from your shoulder, over the nape of your neck until he can see bare skin.

“is this inappropriate?” he wonders quietly, drags a finger where your spine starts under your collar, a delicate trail.

he dreams of the way nails dig into his shoulder when he asks. bury into skin, burrow into memory and his fingertips press harder into your nape.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[antpilee]

LOOK AT YOU

— pairing ⋮ richie jerimovich x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ nsfw content, minors dni , lingerie , teasing , insecurity , spit , mean!richie , degradation i think , no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.7k words.

𖦏 summary ⋮ bitten lace.

— there’s glass in richie’s throat.

jagged shards cut his tongue when he swallows, glittering in the parts he needs to heal, where all the nonsense he’d spewed caught on the way out. the smell of raw and cooked meat clings to the stretched fabric of his black shirt, curved round his neck. hanging heavy on his shoulders, memory of the deafening kitchen cutting into skin.

the apartment’s unlit when he stumbles in, he calls out for you once he’s in the hallway, dropped his keys in the bowl you’d placed at the door. shouts of your name and freshly painted walls, there’s his tie undone and the sound of bare feet in the apartment. he mutters something about carmy being an asshole without looking up.

he bends down to unlace his shoes, shiny from the shoe polish you spent last night using to clean them. he smiles as he kicks them off, down to the black of his socks.

richie tries to say something else but the words line the seam of his lips, never leave the chapped rose of his mouth. you’re stood in black lace, out of place in his shitty apartment you’ve tried to make look more like a home. stockings bite your thighs, silk sliding in the light.

it knocks his breath, but he’d prefer to tease you than admit it.

“jesus christ,” he booms loudly. laughs and runs a rough hand down his face, an attempt to scrub away the heat that’s spread from the back of his neck. freckles turn red. “what the fuck, sweetheart? you auditionin’ for victoria’s secret in my fuckin’ bedroom?”

lace meant for better men and he wants to tear it from your skin when something ugly spreads through his chest at the thought.

you tilt your head at him. action full of curiosity at how richie’s always so insistent that these kind of things don’t bother him, everything involving you, even when his cock twitches in his slacks. it’s just another reminder that he’s not the kind of man to wear fucking slacks.

he swallows glass again. spills crimson on his gums, tries not to let himself bleed all over his goddamn polished floor. do you polish everything when he’s not at home? he scoffs. swears he smells the lemon cleaner and he clenches a fist when he thinks of you knelt over, but you just stand there fluttering your stupidly pretty lashes.

his voice is in fragments when he speaks, a mutter that’s cracked down the middle, “look at you,” but he was sure you had. probably spent all day spinning round in the mirror trying to look pretty for him, once you were done with the polish, didn’t know that he would still fuck you while you were wearing his unwashed t-shirt. you had to be doing this on purpose. his hand gestures lazily, “fuckin’ ridiculous.”

you frown and move closer to him anyway, he straightens. you bring his hand to your own hip, your palm sticking to the exposed skin of his forearms. half-rolled sleeves and poorly hidden desire, his grip tightens when he feels the little hooks. thumb stroking appreciatively at the cut of lace above, roughly snagging on the lack of fabric. he tugs until it tears and you begin to protest when he interrupts, “you think this is what i like?”

you nod because you know that it is, if he’d let himself. he toys with the strap on your shoulder lets it snap back, “it’s a waste.”

he spits, suddenly, saliva sliding on your collarbones. he lifts the pads of his fingers to spread it over the swell of your tits, noses sweetly at your cheek, “go take it off, hm?”

it’s whispers in your skin, a kiss on your cheekbone, “you can put it back on after, use it on a wall street prick. not on me.”

©ANTPILEE / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

— pairing ⋮ carmen berzatto x fem!reader

note . . . this is the bullshit draft, but i’ve been gone so long that i haven’t read it and no longer hate myself because of it

— carmy sways, limbs heavy, mouth around the open neck of a bottle.

he dances with two left feet and all he can hear is how his sneakers squeak when they catch navy linoleum, stagger in the emptiness of the bear. there’s an unescapable ache in his chest and raspy mumbles of your name, a dish named after you. it’s all he can do, materialise his grief. unread text messages, laminated menus.

printed in a pale blue and stitched between leather, scribbled on a note pad, and he plates it up. watches in the gap as people lick you off their lips, swallow your fucking name like he didn’t put it there. he runs a hand through his hair, pushes a scoff into the gulf of space. stretches across the room like a scar on skin.

warped around a limb, a hand, jagged in a palm. he’s torn. he knows that a hangover won’t make this easier when he presses chilled fingertips to his lips; a kiss of death. however, he smiles at the sparks of heat that glow in his chest with each swig of amber. the warmth of wildfire between lungs that feel so so heavy.

you watch, from the doorframe, and carmen imagines the light behind you. above you. maybe it’s too bright, because he squints and you blur. until there’s the glow around the length and wisps of your hair. the last thing he remembers seeing you wear. maybe one day he’ll be able to say goodbye to the people he loves, but that wasn’t the day of mikey’s funeral. when he sat unmoving in the driver’s seat of his car.

and it’s not today. when he pours more alcohol into his open mouth, lets it dribble down the length of his chin. wets the flush of his chest under the new stain on his white crewneck. carmy sways into a heap on the floor.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

trying to end my hiatus with some bullshit draft but instead i am going to kick and cry and scream and beg for at least 1 person to send me a request

could be 3 words and a character from a show i have not watched. i will sit down and consume all i can about it. 2 seasons or 20, i don’t care, i am DESPERATE and i definitely sound it :<

it won’t be posted immediately (obviously, i’m a loser) but i had some not so good thoughts today at work and i need to obsess over something, even if it takes me moooooonths to write and all that’s typed is a 10k fic that’s just a metaphor for the length of an eyelash

missed u all! and remember ⤵︎

KILL AI, FUCK ICE AND FREE PALESTINE!!!

[wurlii]

NAVIGATION

𖦹 everything you need.

guidelines. ⋮ m.list. ⋮ anons + taglist. ⋮ tip jar.

tell me your sins.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

ANONS + TAGLIST

𖦹 it’s rent free to live here!!!

taglist ⋮ @ferrarifinnick

anon emojis ⋮ currently empty.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

LUNGS

— pairing ⋮ carmen berzatto x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ nsfw content, minors dni. choking , handjob , mentions of panic attacks , smoking. no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.9k words.

𖦹 summary ⋮ why not ruin yours.

— carmen's lungs are ruined.

there's damage done by years worth of uninterrupted panic attacks, stifled breaths, attempts to calm himself and go unheard. shaky fingers tapping and tapping and tapping at his keyboard in the early mornings when he couldn't sleep, too late to even bother, searching for a remedy. an exercise to control the rapid, shallow stutters of breath. choking on cigarette smoke, souring the satisfaction of clean air.

there is ash and then there's a pack in the bin, a promise to quit, but his hands itch near his apron pockets. fish in deep blue, the surface of memory, and then he asks someone for theirs.

he doesn't know how to ask gently, it's carmy, and it's a cough around a question. a lot of looking down, stumbling over words until he can get them all out at once. a quirk in his brow and slicked back hair, then it's tangled curls and the lingering taste of copper in the back of his throat.

it's there when you ask him, it accompanies the dryness in his mouth and guilt on his tongue. he swears the way you look at him is penance.

it's your lungs and his hands. he doesn't know why he agrees when they're unsteady in his lap, shaking as they close over your neck. they don't fit right, his hands, your throat is so pretty under half-healed blisters from boiling water, the nicks of a knife, tattoos he sees as sacrifice on skin. he can't think of a time they ever have, clenched in a fist, folded into a prayer for a funeral he didn't attend.

you tilt your chin for him anyway, as his knuckles tremble when the spread over your pulse and apply the pressure you'd begged him for. you lean into his hesitance and your mouth parts instinctively, he feels the vibration of the noise you make in his palm. carmy watches as your lashes flutter and his heart beats loudly as a gasp dies.

your hand slips lower, nails grazing down the length of his chest, toying with the hem of his white t-shirt. it slips to the bulge in his work pants, thick and straining, curved at the seam. your fingers twist to the shape of him and he jolts, hips slotted between your thighs.

"fuck," he curses, drops his forehead against his own bicep. you squeeze him at the same time his grip tightens. you're mirrored and he's hard already, leaking into fabric and twitching under your palm while your throat closes under his.

you rasp something indecipherable.

trying to work him free, tugging at the rigid zip until there's enough room for your fingers to slide inside. he's pulsing angrily, the head of his cock smearing precum across the pads of your fingers. you hold him, gently trace a vein and he groans.

he ruts into your fist messily, your wrist jerking and his knuckles digging deeper when you bump the stretched fabric of his trousers. his hold is jagged when you stroke him harder and he's wet in your hand, a breath caught in his teeth when you circle his tip. it sounds like he's the one suffocating.

there's blue drowning in black when you tell him to look at you. strangled, but he stills hears it and his pupils are wide. tears glisten on your cheeks.

you tighten around his cock and his grip gets stronger. sliding your grasp to the base of him, he lets your breathing shallow, his hips slamming forward when his release replaces air. sticky over the curve of your fingers.

your pussy clenches around nothing, your own orgasm soaking the fabric between you. your thighs shake and his name's on your lips, rot in your throat and swallowed by his hand. he loosens it slowly and your fist slackens around his softening cock.

carmy collapses into your chest, his own heaving and red marks bloom on your neck. he reaches tiredly for a cigarette.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[ferrarifinnick]

A TO Z! | HWANG JUNHO, SQUID GAME (ALPHABET HEADCANONS)

everything you need to know about hwang junho...

warnings: nsfw (obvs), sub/dom dynamics, oral (m/f rec), ejaculation and cum, manhandling, size difference, pet names (inc. daddy, appa, etc), masturbation, foreplay, sex, description of sexual positions, groping, sexual limits mentioned, drunk sex (consensual), brat taming, sexting, dirty talk, teasing, toys, you're still here? it's a nsfw alphabet there's gonst to be sex..

wc: 3.7k (got carried away, fineshyt junho's fault not mine)

i can only write junho as the emotionally intelligent protector who destroys you in bed. sorry not sorry. also he's so experienced. i can't even pretend, facecard goes crazy. based on season 2/3 junho.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

junho's reverts to softness. with touch, words, and presence all the same. it still feels dominant, the way he lifts you carefully to place you more comfortably on the pillows, but it's gentle, considerate. he always takes control of cleaning you both up, but won't leave your side without pressing a long, tender kiss to your temple first. after everything's in order, he's back at your side grounding you with his non-smothering but immeasurably tender embrace. he lets you call the shots of what comes next—be it sleep, quality time, or leaving the bedroom entirely.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

he is tall, broad, physically intimidating. it's what makes him a good detective, in a way. no matter how clever you are, how good your theory, it's a lot harder for a captain to dismiss you when you could lift and throw them across the room. but this isn't what he likes about himself most. he'd never admit it, not even after hearing you praise it hundreds of times, but he likes his smile the most. he thinks it makes him look softer, younger. less... scary. sometimes after brushing his teeth, he lets the smallest little smile flash in the reflection of the mirror, and he sees the gentleness buried behind all those muscles.

meanwhile, in his partner, he enjoys when they have smaller hands. it's not sexual, and it's certainly not a strange fetish buried deep down. it's so much more than that. it's grounding when your hands intertwine casually when walking down the street, draws him out of overthinking when he strokes the soft skin of your wrist. a palm to his cheek never fails to calm him, either. he likes it most when you do this after sex. makes him feel so seen, so strangely protected.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

by the time his orgasm hits, he's so close to the edges of the rigid restraint that he lives by, that he sometimes forgets to be gentle. if you've just finished around him, he'll forget you might become overstimulated while he quickly hurries the pace of his thrusts to follow you over the edge. other times, when his length's between your lips and you're stealing an orgasm from him, he'll sink your head just a little lower on his bucking hips until tears prick your eyes as he finishes in your throat.

it's never intentional. he just gets carried away sometimes. when he does, he's always consistent to softly and regretfully ask, "i'm sorry baby, was i too much?"

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

enjoys the size difference between you a little too much. he's so used to towering over people, manhandling perps that put up fights they can't win but think they can. even you, so small, so fragile, so in need of someone like him to protect your safety. it's like all he ever does is hold back. from treating perps with the physical care they sometimes don't deserve, to gently holding back his strength and weight with your smaller, delicate body.

sometimes he just wants to let that power out. pin you under him, his hands on your back transferring all his weight to crush you against the mattress. strike his hips into yours with enough power to draw gasps, whimpers, pleas of his name that sound like no's but really ask for more. it's the only thing that makes him finish so hard he nearly goes blind from rolling his eyes back for too long.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

he's always been married to work, not women. there was a high school sweetheart once, but that fizzled out quickly when he started his high school exams. then one or two girlfriends who reached the one or two year mark, before fizzling out, too. after that, he understood his dedication to his work took priority over his personal life. that he wasn't what girls wanted when they realised how little time he takes off, how even when he's home, he's still clocked in at work in his mind. that no matter how considerate, handsome, how loving he is, they will never change him.

after that, it turned casual. he's not quite one for meaningless one night stands, and only indulges occasionally when drunk and sexually pent up. situationships aren't quite the right word to describe the majority of his experience either, he's too sentimental for empty sex like that. but every now and then he'd have one girl he could occasionally eat dinner with, have sex with, and not speak to for a week from being busy, and things would still feel comfortable.

by the time you cross his path, he knows what he's doing from his broad range of experience. knows where to put his hands, what words to say, how to build you up and break you apart the way you need him to. but what really stands out is the effort he puts into learning, guiding, and working for you in sexual intimacy.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

he enjoys dominating you physically, and there are two positions that take the cake. when it's rough, harder than usual, fuelled by emotion or frustration, he has you in prone bone. hands on your back, weight fully on you, hips slapping down into the cheeks of your ass as he fucks the stress out of himself.

the other is mating press. legs over his shoulders, eyes locked on you gasping and open mouthed from the heavy crush of his hips on yours. it's here where he can't stop switching from eye contact to watching himself disappear inside you. it's dizzying, and takes effort to hold out long enough for you to finish before him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

he leans more serious, out of focus more than anything. he likes to work for your pleasure, and a lot of the time the knot in his brows is from observing the reactions your body gives him. or from the strain in his hand, tongue, or hips. but there are times where he cracks.

when he slips out in between thrusts, your hips moving just enough that he ends up missing re-entry and grinds over your clit instead. the way your eyes light up in surprise, gasp slipping from your lips, hand catching the bicep bracketing your head. junho always pauses, hips slowing as his eyes find yours. the smile is always slow to form, laugh gentle but amused, like the glint in his eyes. he finds it especially amusing when you whine and lightly slap his bicep, half-needing him back inside, half-embarrassed he's laughing at you. he'll always tease, something like "so needy," grinning when you whine and cover your face, but he's quick to drag your hands above your head, the other guiding himself back into you.

the grin edges into the territory of taunting, as his hips slowly ease him length back into you. "ah," a mocking breath he drags out, "feels better now, right baby?"

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

he doesn't over do it.

he likes a sprinkle of stubble, even thinks it looks better on him than clean shaven. the way his pubic hair blends perfectly into his happy trail on his lower abdomen, it just looks right. masculine in a way he likes, but not unruly. but when his pubic hair starts growing that little bit too long, he’ll clean it up with an electric shaver, the kind you shave the hair on your head with.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

he tends to lean away from romantic during sex. it's not always rough, but generally there won't be hand holding or tender words exchanged. he does plenty of romantic acts outside the bedroom, like buying you flowers, making dinners to share a tender moment together in your busy schedules. he's so thoughtful and considerate of you that in the confines of the bedroom, you just need him to ravish you. to roughen up that softness. to use his height, strength, weight. to let go of all that control.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

he can go a couple days without sexual release. he's not a teenager anymore, and his sexual urges have gradually become less urgent in his thirties. but by day three, he finds himself wound up. snappy at work over little things, more affected by you brushing past him during pre-work morning routines in the hallway, that he just can't fight it anymore.

he'll steal a quick five minutes between you leaving for work and him having to leave, too, and work the sexual frustration out just fast enough to still make it in time for work. other times, when you're too tired for sex, he cups your cheek in bed, brings your lips to his, and pumps himself until he cums. most of the time he'll have you swallow his cum, just so he doesn't have to leave you to clean up. then you'll fall asleep together.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

to him, anything to do with speech always increases the quality of sex. if it's talking you through it, praising the way you take all his length in your mouth or between your legs, it works. even if all you do it say his name, call him daddy — or "appa!", if he's hitting that spot just right — it ignites a switch in his brain that has him moving his hips better, speaking his own string of words clearer. as an added bonus, it makes your orgasm stronger, and because he makes you finish first, it lets him cum to the blinding sensation of you clamping down on him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

junho's relatively spontaneous, so when you're initiating or he's too desperate to wait for somewhere specific like your bed, he gives in to the urges. movie isn't gripping either of you? there's something else ready to be gripped right there on the sofa. your hand's riding too his on his thigh while he's driving? "head down, baby, suck it for daddy." one he likes more than expected is the bathtub. he likes showering together, but sometimes you end up on all fours crying out as he grips your wet hair from behind.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

it takes just a little more than casual touch to light that spark in junho. he's pretty touchy as it is, so just holding his hand or pulling him into a hug won't override his love of casual affection. you'll have to tease it out of him. hand on his shoulder, sliding across the muscle in a way that's just too curious to be casual. pressing your hips back against his in bed just a little too wriggly to be innocent. that'll wake him up.

but if you can't wait, standing close and casually dragging your hands down his abdomen with an innocent flick of your eyes up to his will do it. especially if the tips of your nails run over his skin. or sliding your hands over his thighs, gripping onto that thick muscle in his powerful legs, sliding up slow enough for his eyes to lock on yours. or just reach out and grab him by the crotch. the first time you did it was the first time it happened. when you saw something awakening in his gaze, like a predator's hunting sense activated. that was the first time he really unleashed himself on you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

anything dangerous is strictly prohibited. no ropes in risky positions. no knifeplay. and absolutely no choking, spanking or hitting that goes beyond a light hand at your neck, cheek, or ass. not even if you request it in the heat of moment. not even if you're both about to orgasm and that higher pain tolerances kicks in. just simply no.

he is your guardian in all matters safety, and the thought of harming you in such a way physically or sexually nauseates him. it upsets him, actually. deeply. he might fuck you like he's punishing you sometimes, but it's more calculated than you know. he brushes limits in your size difference to excite you, but he would never violate you with the full brunt of his physical capabilities. absolutely non negotiable, and he will become upset if you push the matter.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

junho's a service!dom, so getting on his knees to put yours over his shoulders excites him nearly more than it does you. he takes it so seriously, too. teases you with kisses along your thigh, lets his breath breeze over your heat, hovers to make you desperate for it, before taking one long, light brush of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. he starts slow, doesn't rush it, and lightly chuckles against your heat when you become eager for more. he knows what he's doing.

but he's still a man, and having his length in your mouth will be a weak spot that you will able have an easy time taking advantage of. just don't ask for that designer bag you want, or a new car, because when he's in your mouth he'd nearly agree to anything.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

it varies. what stays the same is that he's always in control, dominant, usually towering over your body unless he's bouncing yours on top of him. he likes controlling the tempo, let you sit back and just focus on your own pleasure. what changes is the tempo. he's nearly always some degree of rough — hands holding your body in position, thighs slapping against the backs of yours. but sometimes it's slower, passionate. almost emotional sometimes, letting his body claim yours in a way that feels like ownership. he's like this when he's tired, in need of emotional connection, or when he just needs you to feel his love.

other times he's less merciful. he'll fuck you to the fast, steady beat of a song in the background, not deterred by the desperate moans he draws from you, so loud it drowns out the music and he loses track of the rhythm. he gets like this when he's stressed, when you've shared too much wine over a dinner date, or when you've acted like a brat and he's putting you back in your place.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

while junho has a preference for building up with foreplay, he can be easily swayed by spontaneity. if there's a spare ten minutes before you have to go to work, and you're walking around in that towel he just wants to tear off, he will. and you'll show up to work on time, but those heels get harder to walk in after he's done with you.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

he's up to try almost anything once, as long as safe words are in play. he has a healthy range of experience, so he's the kind of partner you want when you're trying something new together — he has that natural instinct to sense what works for you and what doesn't, too.

he enjoys risk within reason, too. he won't stop wearing condoms until you both get tested, just for reassurance, and after a few months he'll give in to you asking mid-sex for him to finish inside. he stubbornly resists and uses the pull out method for a while, enjoying the thrill of timing it just right and finishing on your body. it feels like a form of ownership, and it's nearly arousing enough for round two. but finishing inside without protection is one entirely new experience for him, and one that sticks after he does it.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

generally he goes for one round at a time, but he isn't shy to taking you more over the course of the day. just usually not in the same session. he finds he can't last as long for round two, and it bothers him if you don't get to finish together in the same method. him finishing during sex and eating you out is something he just doesn't feel is fair to you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

toys aren't really junho's style during sex. for the positions he likes, vibrators become difficult to use in a way that offers enough pleasure to warrant using them. but sometimes he has you in missionary, just to personally hold the vibrator to help you finish on him.

in foreplay, he's nearly strictly against it. only because he'll help you masturbate with the use of a vibrator when he's too tired for sex. in foreplay, he wants to personally build the connection between your bodies with his hands and mouth. but if you do ask, he won't always disagree.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

he enjoys teasing. sensations are one of the primary methods. the pressure of his tongue dragging lighter and lighter across the side of your neck, before pulling away just to blow on the wet trail. kissing up your thigh, gradually letting his teeth brush, scrape, then bite at your skin. he understands how to build you up, and he takes advantage of it all the time. sometimes in casual touch. like after guiding you with a hand between your shoulder blade, he'll let the tip of his finger slide down the length of your spine. and when you look at him accusingly, he'll tilt his head. innocent raise of a brow, filthy pull of a smirk as his lips.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

junho likes the sound of skin slapping skin, and you will never have sex without hearing just how filthy your bodies sound when he's inside you. but in terms of his mouth, he's pretty vocal — not as much as he makes you, but it's there, always. grunts when you stroke him just right, low moans from the back of his throat when you have his head tilting back. when he's driving his hips into yours, his moans are louder, deeper, matching the rhythm he sets. and when he finishes, he's always chanting out an "oh baby, baby, babyyy,"

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

he has a thing for sexting.

in the beginning of your relationship, you'd quickly learn how restricting his career can be with the way it clashed with your own steady routine. late nights, shifts that should've ended so many hours ago that it was now the next day. it made dates a headache to pencil in, let alone ravish each other like you so desperately needed when everything was all so fresh and exciting. so you learned to compensate in other ways.

on nights where your beds were one person down, you'd exchange pictures from work bathrooms to heated bedrooms. an unbuttoned blouse from a stall, the flash of abs under a shirt in the mirror over the men's bathroom sink, an upskirt under the desk. all saved in folders and put to good use.

and later down the line, when your schedules continue to misalign in ways you'd grown used to, spoiling plans that ache between the legs, he always brings it back. slips into the bathroom at work to send you a video of him sliding up his shirt, and he'll save the video you send showing just how much you like it for when he finally decides to clock out.

and when he's home alone, he likes telling you how much he needs you. likes showing it, too. always ends with "look what you did to me." brings a hit of nostalgia, too, thinking of how badly he wanted to learn the secrets of the body you pictured for him all that time ago. the one whose secrets were now his to carry, too.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

he's in the gym often, and it shows. broad shoulders, thick thighs, every muscle in his body swollen and carved to sculpture levels of perfection. and beneath those gym shorts or dark detective jeans, he's packing heat. above average, without bordering on inconvenient. girthy, straight not curved length, and exactly what every girl wants in a boyfriend. ego stroke if you compliment it. "yeah, baby?" he'll ask with a smirk as you spill compliments about it on your knees. "go on, show me how perfect it is."

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

medium-high. he doesn't need sex all day every day without fail, but likes a balance of once every day or two. if you ask or initiate, he very rarely turns you down. he's your provider in all matters sexual, and he will always deliver. don't leave him waiting for too long, though. he gets a little carried away when he's all pent up.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

typically only if you do first, or if he's neglected sleep lately. otherwise, he prefers laying together or shifting to another room to share each other's company. put on a film, cuddle on the couch, or talk over a hot drink if it's late. all to re-establish emotional intimacy. reassure you in his subtle, thoughtful way that he loves you beyond sex. but whenever he does fall asleep on a night where you've been intimate, it's never without a kiss and a long, meaningful embrace.

what i wouldn't give for one chance with this perfect fictional man. like, comment, reblog. love <3

taglist: @wurlii @tastemytears

[wurlii]

CHOOSE THE LATTER

— pairing ⋮ ryohei arisu x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ post borderlands , minor inaccuracies , mentions of death / injury , depictions of grief , canon typical violence. post season 2 but pre season 3. this has been in my drafts so long it’s grown mould, i need it gone. no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.5k words.

𖦹 summary ⋮ are you there?

— arisu’s quiet in his grief.

it’s a familiar creak in the wooden floors of a home he eventually returns to, a silent curse through gritted teeth when he hurts himself by not paying attention. it’s so much self-blame that his father starts to notice; wonder why his son’s muttering a name he’s never heard in his sleep. it belongs to you and your embedded in every part of his brain.

the part he needs to function falling apart when he thinks of the way your smile’s stained red. stretched around a goodbye and stuck on words that never took shape.

he doesn’t know how to make sense of your absence.

he dreams of the night his wrists burned under the heat of rope and the pit in his chest is an inferno when he wakes up to a futile attempt his body makes to extinguish the fire. he wipes the water from his eyes and fights the flames licking at the back of his throat.

you find him, blindfolded in the dark, head pointed to his lap in the empty room and his head’s a constant reminder that he’s yet to picture the crimson bubbles on your chapped lips. he’s wiping the death sentence away, but you keep coughing it back up. you keep choking and there’s always more.

it’s hard to know what’s real when he sits in the bath until the water runs cold and his fingertips are tracing scars that shouldn’t exist anymore. it’s rough and the evidence won’t disappear.

he doesn’t ask anyone about it. he assumes it’s something his grief has made up to cope with the loss of karube and chota, but there’s whispers. they curl in the air like smoke and they’re always so close. they’re kisses at the shell of his ear, molten hot against his skin and they don’t burn. it’s recognition when the world’s gone quiet, yet all he can hear is the twist of a blade in your side.

burrowed just below your ribs, making a home in the flow of scarlet from your stomach. there’s the weakest smile on your face as your head starts to lull against his knees.

the witch hunt’s started and bodies burn and he’d been alone. bullets fly and he thrashed against his restraints, worrying that that was how you’d die in the games he relives.

but if it’s between forgetting now or losing himself in the memory of you, he knows he’ll always choose the latter.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

BLOOM

— pairing ⋮ rick grimes x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ implied age gap , post-apocalypse , grief , yearning rick :p , s3-4. no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.4k words.

𖦹 summary ⋮ possibility in his palm.

— rick almost forgets the sound of it.

not gunfire, the sounds of the dead rattling the fences keeping his family safe, never death; but the sound of laughter. it startles him, so jarringly bright and he can do nothing but stare. his eyes squinted, dirty hands on either side of his hips, the scuffed toe of his boots sinking into healthy soil. colt python in his holster, always where it’s meant to be.

he can’t take his eyes off you. there is war in his chest when you look at him and your smile is even brighter. he’ll carry it like marrow, feel rust in his bones when he moves. bury it when you’re gone because a sound like that doesn’t belong, it splits the air and he can tell that everyone else thinks so too.

it’s never been touched by the cruelty the world has brought, so alive he wants it to be dangerous. use it as an excuse to step away when you move closer, but the soil feels like quicksand. softness turned to rot when you press a wildflower into his palm and his hands curls into a fist on instinct. you frown.

he wilts.

under your probing gaze, he chokes out an apology. accent so thick it gets caught in his throat. you swipe self-consciously at the mud dusted on your cheek and before you second guess the action, you unfurl his fingers from the stems. scarred knuckles clutching light petals like they’re a weapon.

“judith will like them,” you say shyly, while blue eyes move across your face. drift to where your laughter had leaked, too slow to catch himself. “carl, too, maybe.”

your own boots leave a print next to his feet as you begin to walk away, make your way to c-block. he brushes a calloused hand against his forehead, clenches his eyes shut when he glances down, then calls to you.

“i do,” this is worse than hunger, worse than thirst and he inhales a breath that makes his lungs ache. the war in his chest shifts, catches on something sharp, “like them. pretty.”

hope hangs in the air, memory of a world that lets things like this grow. the corners of your lips twitch into a smile and rick wants to kiss it away, the risk that blooms.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

WHERE IS MY MIND

— pairing ⋮ cho sang-woo x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ nsfw content, minors dni. male masturbation , hallucinations , depression , s1 ep2 sang-woo , author has not written anything in what feels like a lifetime. no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.4k words.

note . . . i hope u didn’t think i forgot abt this beautiful and tragic man that makes my heart hurt

𖦹 summary ⋮ slick skin and a soap-slicked mouth.

— there is lather in his mouth.

the taste stings the pink of his tongue. it’s clean, cloying, and it doesn’t make sense when his broken moan sounds like regret. he drools and his knee knocks the porcelain of the motel’s tub.

he sucks until he tastes something sweet. traces an outline, how you move on top of him through heavy-lidded eyes. his vision’s bleary in the bathroom and he can hardly make out the small tub of cheap, toppled over ramen. the smell’s the only reminder that it’s there, that and the smoke.

it burns the top layer of his skin, but all the heat is where your thighs settle on his hips. where your hands linger on his collarbone. he doesn’t smell you, which he’s too far gone to remark as odd, he figures he doesn’t need to. his mouth is open around you, reverent. that’s all he needs to imagine the scrape of your nails on his neck and the swipe of a thumb on the column on his throat.

he’s something pitiful and perhaps, he has always been. with this, with you. he tongues a drip from your chest, lets it melt on his palate. you taste like soap.

he feels you move forward, shifts inside you with a hum around your breast while the water stirs between you. a groan stifled before it has the chance to meet your nipple in the dark. you murmur something he doesn’t hear, it’s like all his senses have numbed to the meld of how the bath overflows and how your breath ghosts.

there’s a phantom of your moan and he moves harder, tightens the length of his fingers around your waist. pushes you, himself, and it rings. your breath echoes now, there’s the choke of your name and everything is so loud. wet.

the water cools in the time spent. sang-woo thinks his eyes are fully open now, stinging and strawberry red in the aftermath of a dream. your weight replaced by the heavy feeling that there’s no hair in the drain. a dry towel still slung over the bend of rusted metal mounted to the tile.

he’s alone. cock soft, thighs aching and his hand slippery with bubbles. he fades in the dark. waits for the soap to dissolve.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[boywithantlersao3]

Bloody Cho Sang-woo

[wurlii]

Hi, could you make one about sang-woo (not set in squid game world) where our dad has a business dinner and we go with him, and we meet sang-woo in the restaurant and we're dressed.. a little..(yk🤭).

And he watches us all night and then decides to go with us to an hotel (we lie to our dad saying we're going to a friend's house), (agegap, mentions of alc0h⁰l).

I really like the way u write!

JUST LIKE A WOMAN

— pairing ⋮ cho sang-woo x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ nsfw content, minors dni. age gap , mentions of alcohol , oral (f!receiving) , face riding , power imbalance? guilty reader , shit author ( i seriously think my brain stopped working when i was writing this ?? i’m so sorry ). no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 1.3k words.

note . . . i’ve been back and forth on posting this for days and idk, i really hate it D: sorry it took FOREVER

𖦹 summary ⋮ a string of lies.

— your father’s hand is heavy on your shoulder.

weighted with expectation and his voice full of pride as he introduces you to his colleagues. littered around the table with welcoming smiles and wandering eyes. they lean forward too much and ask your age with thinly veiled curiosity.

your mind is elsewhere, stuck on how the hem of your dress inches up every time you cross your legs and unable to pinpoint the slow slide of somebody’s gaze every time your father isn’t looking. it clings tighter every time you shift in your seat and it’s something you knew he wouldn’t comment on. not in front of the men he’s trying so hard to impress.

you do it so easily, something you don’t even have to think about as you sip at the black of your straw. something citrusy, handed to you by a waiter that didn’t ask for your id. you just fluttered your eyelashes prettily, asked him for something he recommended and a timid smile bloomed.

but still, you were unable to stop thinking about the subtle study of the way your thighs sink into cherry leather. you suspect the man two seats away, fitted grey suit and top buttons undone. maybe mid-40s and not the most eager to laugh, but definitely the most watchful. you think his glasses are cute, useful.

you lick lemon from the tip of your finger, tilt your head as you listen to your father speak. his gaze flicks from you and back to his drink. it’s your turn to watch when he swallows, adam’s apple cutting through the flushed skin of his throat.

something swells and you start to cross your legs just for him, wait until the conversation turns away from you. it fades into business talk, politics, things that don’t take long for you to not care about. you excuse yourself, stand slowly and your dress rides higher. you brush your hand over the back of a chair and smile to yourself when you return to his seat empty.

you know where he is when you slide back into your own seat, dad looking at you with a distracted sort of warmth that makes the alcohol burn the back of your throat. you cough up guilt when you picture sang-woo outside, waiting for the lie to slip of the pink of your tongue, cigarette pressed between two fingers. other hand in his pocket and glasses catching on the streetlight.

there’s seeds of hesitation when you plant a kiss to your dad’s cheek, let dishonesty bloom. the root of his trust wilts, but he nourishes you with a gentle be safe and you feel like rot as you stumble into the arms of an older man that won’t look at you as he blows smoke in the opposite direction.

“you shouldn’t wear that around men like them,” he mumbles, eyes on the toe of his shoes. you lean beside him, shoulder brushing the fabric of his suit jacket, take a drag of his cigarette.

“you’re not like them?” you tease, fanning the smoke over his face.

“i didn’t say that.”

you roll your eyes, “i like the way you watched me.”

he hums in response, finally lets himself stare at the line of your neck. the bare stretch of your collarbone and where your dress dips to your sternum.

“your dad trusts you too much.”

you falter, “i told him i’m going to a friend’s house.”

“and are you?”

“depends,” you shrug. “where are you going?”

the hotel isn’t far and the carpet muffles your footsteps. you think of your dad telling you to be safe, that this doesn’t feel like doing that. not when sang-woo walks ahead of you, jacket slung lazily over the crook of his arm. when he doesn’t touch you until the door closes, waiting for the lock to click.

he tracks the shape of you in the light. legs bare, dress high and your cheeks warm from the walk. red from the lies you tell.

“you should call him,” he says, unbothered. his shirt’s untucked now, wrinkled where it ends. “tell him goodnight.”

you scoff, step out of your heels. “you’re such a dick.”

his mouth curves at your reply, at how you continue to cross the room to him. you reach for the frame of his glasses, pause when he flinches, but he lets you take them anyway and you slide them on with a playful smile. they sit too low on your nose, oversized on your face. you look at him through his own lenses and something darkens.

it’s hard to see in the black of his eyes, but you lean in closer. close enough for him to smell the alcohol on your breath, clinging to the swell of your throat.

his fingers curl at your hip.

you straddle him before he can move, settle into the stretch of his slacks. you claim his lap and he leans back, palms resting on your thighs and sliding under the hem of your dress.

“do you want me to take it off?”

he shakes his head no.

you grind down gently, his grip tightens and you rock again. he kisses up your neck like he’s biting back restraint.

then he lifts you. effortless as your breath ghosts, sang-woo shifts and guides you up until your knees are on either side of his face. he’s stretched out, sprawled back against the sofa, and you’re straddling his mouth. his hands settle heavy to hold you still.

he leans in, nips the inside of your knee, then the soft skin above it.

“maybe i should call him,” he kisses faintly at the inside of your thigh. “tell him how good his daughter’s being for me.”

you whine, hips twitching forward and hand tangling in his hair. “sang-woo, shut up.”

he smiles into you and then his tongue licks over damp fabric. he presses harder when you squirm, the flat of his tongue dragging over you again. you gasp, your grip on his hair tightening, the alcohol in your veins turns warm.

the wet heat of his mouth seeps through the thin fabric, and you can feel his breath against you.

“take them off,” you plead, tugging at the edge of your underwear.

he shakes his head against you, “not yet.”

a flush creeps up your chest when he finally hooks one finger underneath, he slides them to the side. the first touch of his tongue against bare skin makes your stomach clench.

you tilt forward, press down on him, and he groans. his hands are firm on your thighs, urging you to move. you rock over his mouth in slow, shaky movements. his tongue works into you, relentless, while his nose bumps against your clit with every shift of your hips.

you look down, and the sight knocks the air out of you. his eyes are half-lidded, glasses gone, hair tousled messily. his mouth wet and open under you.

“you’re — fuck.. good at this,” you keen, try to keep your voice quiet, but it cracks when he sucks.

his eyes flick up to meet yours and he hums in satisfaction, the vibration making your legs shake. “your dad would be so proud,” he taunts between licks, and you let out a desperate moan.

“stop,” you complain, but you don’t mean it. you roll your hips harder, and guilt knots tighter in your chest with every pass of his tongue.

“not until you make a mess,” he says roughly, before sealing his mouth over your clit.

your thighs clamp around his head and your back arches. his name spills from your lips in a ragged cry as you grind through it, every muscle trembling. his hands don’t let you pull away until you’re limp, forehead resting against the wall.

when he finally lets you go, you slide off him, legs shaky, dress still bunched at your hips. he sits back, wipes his mouth with his thumb before sucking it clean, his gaze steady on you.

“you look better in those than i do,” he whispers, referring to his glasses.

you roll your eyes again, readjust the frames.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[publpi]

touch

request for @wurlii 💜

[wurlii]

still not over the hand in his hair and his own HANDS, ugh i love. and his EYES.

thank u thank u thank u, this is so gorgeous.

pls never stop drawing !!

[wurlii]

CRUSH

— pairing ⋮ cho sang-woo x fem!reader

content warnings ⋮ me being a WHORE , i think that’s it. no use of y/n, lowercase intended. 0.3k words.

note . . . ugh the work with your hands and malboro reds lyric has messed up my mind, i am SICK

𖦹 summary ⋮ can you read my mind?

— you think his hands will ruin you first.

broad palms, fingers cut sharp. spades, a quiet violence in the way they curl and uncurl at his sides. river-veined above the shadows of his knuckles. you think of them digging your inevitable grave, planting seeds, lifting stones heavier than your body and you’re something fragile in their path. you would let yourself be buried alive.

the air smells like the sweat from the last game and the blood of what remains and you don’t know if his hands are bruising or a blessing. you want to place your own in his, wait for him to close his fist and crush the marrow from your bones. call it mercy.

sang-woo continues to talk to gi-hun, eyes never on you, but he moves and the tendons in his wrist shift beneath his skin. you think the smell of him would stay on your own skin forever, sink into you until your more him than yourself, and the more you stare the hunger grows.

gi-hun laughs and sang-woo’s fingers flex against his thigh, lips thinned. you imagine his palm around your throat, thumb pressed where your throat hollows. you bite the inside of your cheek, taste the same iron you can smell, and he finally spares you a glance.

your pulse climbs and it’s an offering that he ignores, let’s the muscle in his jaw tick as he turns back to gi-hun. the weight of his gaze stays, presses into the white of your ribs, burrows into your gut until the hunger turns to sickness. it’s when you imagine his hands again, closed around your wrists and pinning you open.

your fingers twitch restlessly in your lap and you focus on the way his knuckles pale. undecided if survival’s clawing at your chest or need for the man with broken glasses.

©WURLII / all rights reserved.

[wurlii]

Girl yes can you write a little drabble about his hands cause now I need that

i’m on it🫡