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philomena130829 · 3 years ago

Note

#6 Saeyoung / fm. Can it be kind of angsty with a good amount of nsfw please thank you

Your wish is my command! But for real though, I got a little carried away with this one because I just loved the scenario too much. Don’t raise the bar for me, y’all—these won’t all be this long! (Maybe. Unless they are. Who knows.)

six: just cause you don’t know what to say

SaeyoungXReader, M (sex!), words: 2846

Warning: this is NSFW! Don’t proceed if you don’t wanna read smut, pls~

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He’s hurt again.

Why is he always…

You thought you’d never have to see it again: Vanderwood delivering him to you unceremoniously, his shoulder bandaged; him limping toward you, holding out his good arm hopefully as if expecting you to run to him.

But here you are again. You stand in the garage, arms crossed over your chest. His expression falters as he takes in your posture—you’re certainly not leaping into his arms.

“H-hi babe!” He plays dumb, tries a big smile. You can see cuts and bruises on his face, and you don’t miss the way he winces as he gives you what he clearly thinks is an enthusiastic wave. You don’t move. He says your name, a little more quietly, a little more tentatively.

You force yourself to take a deep breath—in and out. You want to yell, to launch yourself at him and hit his stupid, beautiful face and make him swear never to leave you again.

“Where were you?” you ask instead, keeping your voice as level as you can. You don’t do a great job—he visibly recoils and you see Vanderwood already trying to slink off into the shadows.

Saeyoung takes another step toward you and you hold up a hand to stop him. There’s a pained look in his eyes, and you don’t think it’s from the injuries.

“You told me you were going to look at some files,” you say, hearing how cold your voice sounds, seeing the way it wounds him. “Did the files bite you?”

He tries to laugh and winces again and you almost take pity on him. He’s shivering a little—it’s cold in the garage, colder outside, and he’s in a t-shirt. Someone (presumably Vanderwood) has ripped off one of the sleeves to bandage up his shoulder.

Vanderwood has almost disappeared at this point—they’ve made it to the garage door, clearly hoping to dodge your wrath.

“Hey!” You point at them they jump, standing up stick straight. It would be almost comical, if not for the situation. “So what was the plan, then? Bring him along on some stupid half-baked money-grabbing mission and just hope I’d be able to track your bodies down if you got killed?”

Vanderwood’s expression softens, just a little. You realize there are tears in your eyes and you wipe them away furiously.

“I swear to god I thought it was going to be an easy one or I wouldn’t have brought him,” Vanderwood says in their calmest, most placating voice.

“Did you know he lied to me?”

Vanderwood slowly shakes their head. “To be fair, I didn’t ask.”

“Fine.” Clearly taking this as a dismissal, they duck their head and slip into the front seat of the car they’ve left running in the driveway. You hesitate, then: “Vanderwood?” They freeze again, turn to face you. “Are you hurt?”

Again, you see warmth in their eyes—just for a moment, and then it’s gone. They look between you and Saeyoung, who’s still standing stock-still in the middle of the garage as if waiting for instructions.

“I’m fine,” Vanderwood says.

“And does he need to go to the hospital?” You’re not messing around; if it were up to Saeyoung, he’d try and mend a broken bone himself.

“No,” Vanderwood says firmly. “Flesh wounds.” You raise your eyebrows as if to say really? and they nod. “This is nothing for him. Give him a day, maybe, and he’ll be back to normal.”

Without giving you the chance to ask anything else, Vanderwood gives you a little salute and revs the engine. You look down at the pavement, pushing back your tears by sheer force of will. You wail till their car is out of sight before addressing Saeyoung again.

“If they say you’re fine, then fine,” you say, and you turn on your heel and stalk back to the bunker—you’ve left the door hanging open, and the cold air is getting in.

Saeyoung still doesn’t move.

“A-are you going to let me inside?” he asks in a small voice. For a moment, you want to tell him no. You want to lock yourself up in his huge empty house (Saeran is out, at a doctor’s appointment, so you really would be alone), leave him there, make him wait until you’re ready to forgive him.

But you don’t do this—of course you don’t.

“Come in, then.”

You leave the door open for him and slip out of your shoes, kicking them against the wall with perhaps slightly too much fervor. He follows you, so slowly, so quietly, like he’s afraid to make a sound. Again, you feel a twinge of guilt. You wonder if it’s too late to go back, to forget it all, to wrap him up in your arms and kiss his bruises and reassure him that he’s safe.

Not yet.

He follows you, silently, down the hall and into the living room. You cross your arms again and face him. He looks so pitiful. Don’t give in.

“Saeyoung, tell me why you lied to me.”

He fidgets, like he always does when he’s nervous. He taps out a pattern on his leg with one hand; his injured arm hangs limply at his other side.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, almost inaudibly. There’s a dark, hollow look in his eyes, like he’s receding into himself.

“Hey.” Finally—finally—you move closer, and he flinches when you reach for him. You run a gentle finger along a new cut on his cheek, which intersects with an old scar. “You put me through about eight hours of torture, wondering where you were and if you were even alive, after I finally figured out you weren’t just ‘looking at files’ at Vanderwood’s house. You owe me an explanation.”

He swallows; his throat is dry. “It’s the only thing I know how to do,” he says in that same toneless voice. You sigh loudly. There are a million emotions battling inside you: you want to scold him; you want to check his wounds and re-dress them; you want to scream at him; you want to hold him.

“Sit,” you say. He sits on the couch, a little stiffly, and you go to the kitchen, get him a glass of water. You know enough about the kinds of missions he used to go on for the agency to understand more or less what he’s been doing for the last day. “I thought the agency didn’t exist anymore,” you say, returning to him; he takes the water gratefully and drinks it all, a little too fast.

“It doesn’t,” he says. “This was, um. Somebody Vanderwood owed a favor to. I think they just want…a clean slate.”

“And?” You perch on your knees beside him. You don’t have to forgive him, but you do have to see what’s going on with his shoulder. He flinches, inhaling sharply, as your fingers graze the bandage.

“It’s done,” he says hoarsely. He hesitantly takes your hand off his arm and clutches it tightly in his own. “I’m—I’m really sorry I lied to you,” he stammers. “I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” You slip your hand out of his grasp, return to the bandages. He tries his best to sit still as you unwrap them. Vanderwood was right—the wound is already healing. You’ve seen him with much, much worse.

You leave him again, gather the supples you need. When you’d first moved into the bunker, it was bare—he had no food to speak of, minimal personal possessions. Even then, though, he had first aid supplies: enough to stock several small hospitals.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, and he’s quiet as you clean the deep cuts in his shoulder and arm, as you wrap them with fresh bandages. You don’t ask how he got these particular injuries, and he doesn’t volunteer the information.

Finally, you stand, eyeing your work. You’ve done a pretty good job.

“Now take off your clothes.”

His eyes, which had been half-lidded as you worked—he’s exhausted, you can see it written in every line on his face—shoot open. Wide open. He laughs nervously.

“Umm, d-does that mean you forgive me?”

He’s blushing. Oh god.

“Of course not,” you say, too loudly. The back of your neck feels hot. “I need to see where else you’re hurt, idiot.”

“R-right.” He looks crestfallen and you almost laugh, almost bend down and press a searing kiss to his cute lips, dry and cracked as they are. But you don’t.

“I’m serious.”

He gulps and tugs off his shirt. It gets stuck on his head due to a combination of his bandaged shoulder and the one roughly torn-off sleeve. He struggles a little and it’s so adorable and sad that you can’t stand it, so you help him.

“Thanks,” he says in a low voice. The shirt is off.

“Shit, Saeyoung…”

His shoulder is the worst of it, but there are little cuts and bruises everywhere. A dark bruise, already purpling, runs up his side. You touch it as gently as you can and he shivers.

“Does it hurt?”

“N-not exactly…”

You feel his eyes boring into you and when you look up you can’t help but shudder—there’s a very familiar dazed, needy look on his face.

“Babe, not right now…!” The pet name slips out before you can stop yourself. You feel yourself melting a little, scorched by his gaze.

“I’m so sorry I lied,” he whispers and he makes his voice sound husky in a way he knows always sends a shiver up your spine. “I won’t do it again.”

Oh god.

Tentatively, he runs one hand down your side, skating over your hip. Fuck.

“Will you promise me never to do that again?” you ask him, trying to keep your voice stern—but it still comes out breathy and desperate.

“I swear,” he says. He’s getting more confident, bolstered by the yearning you can’t keep out of your voice. God, how you’d missed him. His slips his hand under your shirt, skating up your ribcage. You let him.

“What do you swear?” you ask. He takes your hips in both hands then and tugs you roughly onto his lap. You wriggle, straddling him, and he gasps, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

“T-to never lie to you again,” he says. His hips are shaking. “To not do stuff that might get me killed anymore.”

“Even if Vanderwood asks you to?” He moans softly as you grind your hips against him; realizing you have all the power, you fumble with the button of his pants—unhook it, undo the zipper.

“No matter who asks m-me—ahhhh.”

You palm him through his boxers and he moans, wriggling beneath you. You take his good hand in yours and guide it to your leg, up your thigh, under your skirt, around your hip. You brush a hand over him again, feeling the way he’s straining against his underwear.

“And you’re really, really, really sorry?” you ask. You grind your hips against his erection and he mumbles something incoherent. He’s got a death grip on your thigh.

“What was that?”

“I-I…yeah, I…d-don’t know what else to say…” he mutters. You flutter your hips back and forth and feel his legs shuddering beneath you.

“Then don’t,” you say firmly. “Just touch me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand springs to action, trailing up your inner thigh and ghosting over your already-wet underwear.

“Don’t tease me right now,” you say. He audibly gulps and then moves one calloused finger over your clit, through your underwear. You see sparks and your vision goes blurry. There’s a burning heat inside of you now—you feel swollen and needy.

He flicks his finger over you again, falling into a rhythm. He’s gentle yet persistent. You scrunch your eyes shut and fireworks burst behind your closed eyelids and you have to grab the couch for purchase, avoiding his hurt shoulder. Your toes curl.

“Goddammit, Saeyoung…!” you whimper, and he moves faster, stirring the burning, blinding feeling inside you. You can’t help the way your hips are shaking and you can tell it’s driving him mad, too; he moans, deep and low, as you brush against his trapped erection again, and the sweet sound tears you open.

It’s as if you’re floating just above your body, watching from outside yourself. You feel the warm ocean of sensations cascading around you; you see yourself from above as your eyes fly open, your arms trembling, barely holding you up as you crest into him.

The feeling recedes in bits and pieces, trickling away, and you pant as you come down.

“Th-that was so hot,” he whispers. His eyes are dark, his pupils huge; through both of your underwear, you feel him twitch.

“I’ve never come quite like that before,” you murmur, inches from his lips; and then you kiss him, searing hot like the longing you felt when he was gone, hard like the way you wanted to hit him when you saw he’d gotten himself hurt again.

There’s a moment—a brief, flickering moment—when you think about sliding off his lap and walking away, leaving him trembling and desperate. You could.

But you want to feel him inside you too badly—want to see the look of utter relief and release on his sweet, bruised face.

You slip from his lap and tear your underwear off, not bothering with the rest of your clothes. He gazes up at you, adoringly, as if waiting for confirmation that you’re going to allow him the satisfaction he so desperately craves.

You bend over him and slip his boxers down; he sighs with relief as he springs free of the constraining fabric.

“Stay still.”

You straddle him again and brush against his tip, just barely touching. Another little spark bursts behind your eyes.

“P-please…” he whispers, and you see he’s long gone already; he looks almost drunk, his eyes unfocused.

So you oblige him. You slide onto him, sinking him deep into you, and moans a string of incoherent syllables. You lift up your hips, using the couch for support, avoiding his hurt arm, the cuts on his chest.

He’s unraveling before your eyes and it’s beautiful to watch. You slide your hips up and back, down and forward, slowly and then faster, faster, and he whimpers, and you feel a little shudder deep inside you as he thrusts back against, pushing himself deeper. He’s gasping for air and you clench your thighs around his hips and take control again, moving in a figure-eight, excruciatingly slow.

He groans and suddenly his arm is around your waist and, in an instant, you’re on your back on the couch, his face hovering over yours. Then he’s inside you again and the thrill of the moment gets to you and you moan along with him, clutching desperately at the fabric of the couch.

“S-Saeyoung, your arm—” you gasp. He holds up his injured arm and wiggles it in the air, showing you that it’s safe, and you laugh, clenching as he thrusts into you, and he’s completely undone.

He closes his eyes as he comes, head thrown back, and you skate your fingers over the exposed skin of his neck.

Eventually, he stills, panting—he lowers himself, collapsing against your chest. You wrap your arms all the way around him and nuzzle your face into his hair.

“So,” you say softly. “Was that your way of distracting me from scolding you?” He opens one golden eye and peers up at you.

“Did it work?”

“Saeyoung!”

“Ahhh! Sorry!”

You playfully bat at him and he rolls off of you, pulling himself up, running a hand through his sweaty, messy hair. His eyes are clear now.

“You can’t use sex to get me to forgive you whenever you do something bad, you know,” you tell him.

He waggles his eyebrows at you. “Can’t I?”

“No!”

“I know.” He sounds serious now, and he carefully knees beside you, taking your hand. “I am genuinely sorry I lied to you,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I am sorry I got myself in another dangerous situation and made you worry. I promise not to do it again.”

“Good,” you say. You press little kisses to each of his calloused fingertips. “Now go change and get emotionally prepared because Saeran’s going to be home soon and he’ll be even madder at you than I was.”

Saeyoung yelps, shoots up from the couch, winces, and stumbles to the bedroom, pants still bunched around his thighs.

You’re serious about the promise—you mean to hold him to it. But it’s so hard to stay mad at him, you think, stretching and collecting your underwear from where it’s gotten wedged between two couch cushions. He’s just too easy to forgive.

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philomena130829 · 3 years ago

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Unless I missed it, I haven't seen anyone request for Yoosung. Sooooooo how about "anxious hands" with our boy. Female MC, and I'm okay with NSFW if it happens that way. 😉

Thank you for taking me out of my comfort zone, dearest True. This is, indeed, only my second time writing for Yoosung, and certainly my first time writing anything NSFW for the sweet boy. I love all these requests, but particularly the ones that push me to explore new territory~ ♡

anxious hands (Yoosung)

S-m-u-t warning, proceed with caution <3

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜

It’s dark in his room.

By day, it’s entirely different, flooded with sunlight: the big window by the desk overlooks the courtyard and fills up the room with bright light and the shouts of students. You’ll hear someone strumming a guitar, friends calling to each other, a group yelling or laughing or singing. The energy of the campus lives in every crevice of this little room: in the delightfully messy bed with its heaps of colorful blankets and pillows, in the neat rows of books under the window, in the brightly-colored decorations he’s hung on the walls to make the place feel more like a home.

And it does feel like a home, you think: the room is full of him, and that’s enough for you.

At sunset, the room is bathed in shocking pinks and purples; this is your favorite time, and you’re most in awe of how beautiful he is then, too: the way he curls into your side, playing music for you through shared headphones; how he smiles big, the glowing sunset lighting up his startling eyes.

But at night, it is so dark.

He has no lamps, just the overhead light—artificial and flickering. It gives you both a headache.

So tonight, you’ve opted for no light at all. You’re propped up next to him on a giant pile of pillows and stuffed toys. His laptop is opposite you, on its own stack of pillows (the boy has so many pillows).

“It’s movie lighting,” he said, grinning as he set up the computer—and really, you think, the light from the screen is more than enough. Even in shadow, you can see him clearly in your peripheral vision: eyes trained on the screen, gentle features slightly aglow. Soft eyes, sweet face.

He’s surprisingly still, now, his hands folded in his lap. You find this suspicious, because he’s always moving: leaning, shifting, eyes wide, hands in your hair, head on your shoulder. You sneak a peek at his face: his cheeks are pink, and you think perhaps he isn’t watching the movie at all.

And you’re right, so right, you think, as his left hand drifts to your leg. He’s careful, almost sneaky—as if it’s happening by chance, but you know it isn’t, know he’s been dreaming of this. Gathering his nerve. Oh, you want to grab his adorable cheeks and kiss him, but you bite your lip. He is all energy, eager yet timid—you don’t want to frighten him.

So you lean back on the pillows, stilling your breath, dying to see his scheme play out. His fingers are soft and small, drifting over your thigh—wonderful, warm, full of promise.

And his hand moves, slowly, slowly, creeping around your leg, curling, drifting. He is bold, you think—you sneak a peek at him again and his eyes are clouded over. Focused. Again, you want to kiss him, want to drink him in, absorb this tender, darling boy into your very being. You take a quiet breath.

In the movie, something is happening: close faces, eyelashes and shadows and exhales. Subtly, you part your legs, helping him. You wore a skirt tonight—on purpose, just in case. He’s not the only one with schemes and daydreams.

His fingers bunch your skirt, carefully pushing it aside; a tingle runs up and down your spine. He’s so careful, so thoughtful, giving you a million opportunities to stop him. Never, never.

His fingers are on your bare skin now, dipping under your skirt, skimming up your inner thigh. You wonder if he notices that he’s given you goosebumps.

“Ah,” he says, voice low; he’s glancing over at you through his beautiful eyelashes now. His hand trembles; god, you love him. “Is this okay?” he asks—acknowledging what he’s doing at last, peeking at you timidly.

You feel his fingers at the edge of your panties and your mouth feels dry, face hot. You feel so exposed all of a sudden, torn open.

“Yes,” you say, and it comes out funny—your breath is stuck in your throat, and his fingertips are trembling, and your body is screaming for him. “Yeah,” you say, louder this time; you reach for him then, curling a finger through his belt loop. He squeaks.

And then his hand is moving again, hovering over you; can he feel how hot you are, you wonder, even through your underwear like this? Can he tell how easily he’s made your body sing for him?

“How…” he murmurs through the dark. “How should I…?”

He’s so tender you just want to melt into him.

“Here,” you say. And you wrap your fingers around his, guiding him; his fingertips graze you at last and you can see that his eyes grow wide. “Like this,” you say, and you move your own finger over yourself, hissing—you’re so on edge, made needy by his clean laundry smell and his warm shoulder against yours and his trembling fingers and his astonished eyes.

He copies you—readily, obediently—with his own finger; and he’s so soft, like butterfly wings, and he makes a proud little sound when he sees the way your thighs are shaking.

“Is that…good?” he asks, and you can’t help but giggle at the adorable way he’s peeking at you, the cautious way he’s moving; but your laughter is cut off as he takes over, fingers skating over you through your underwear, making you gasp.

“Good,” you murmur, meaning it; his fingers pick up the pace you’d set. He’s so eager to please you, this boy; your heart is weak for him.

He grins, blonde hair falling into his face; he’s pleased with himself, you think, and you dig your fingers into his waist, loving him hopelessly.

“Can I keep going?” he asks. Bright eyes, bright cheeks, bright boy.

“God,” you say, toes curling, fingers tingling. “Please do.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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philomena130829 · 3 years ago

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yoosung + beloved hands pls? 🥺

An absolutely ADORABLE request.

Full disclosure: this is, somehow, my first time writing Yoosung. I~...really wanted to do the sweet boy justice. Thank you @currentlyprocrastinating for consulting with me about darling Yoosung. <3

Valentine’s Vignettes requests are open! Guidelines are here.

beloved hands (Yoosung)

・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

He is uncharacteristically quiet beside you. His gait is hesitant—as though he’s waiting for something.

It’s cold today; you stuff your hands in your pockets, slowing your pace to match his. He walks on the outside of the sidewalk, always: a protective gesture his friends mock him for. You find it unbearably charming.

The air feels still and quiet: maybe it’s the cold, or the gray, wet whether. You wonder if this is the reason he seems sad.

“Yoosung?”

He turns to face you too fast, his eyes too bright, his smile too big. He’s pretty good at this—playing pretend—but you know him too well.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?”

His face falls; he’s been caught.

He tries one more time: “Nothing,” he sings, with a big, false grin. Nope. You’re not letting him get away with that.

You sigh, stopping at the crosswalk. Cars rush by, windows rain-speckled. And that’s when you notice it—he stands close to you, as always, but there’s something...

His left hand, the one closest to you, hangs a little awkwardly. It’s half-outstretched, fingers reaching vaguely toward your pocket. Ah-ha.

“Yoosung, did you...did you want to hold hands?”

An expression crosses over his face that puzzles you: a mixture of surprise and relief and something else, too. He blinks, eyes wide and innocent. Oh, it’s too easy to read him.

He laughs, plays it off. “What makes you say that?” You recognize the other emotion now. It’s written all over his face. He’s afraid.

You pull your hand out of your pocket and hold it out—perhaps excessively enthusiastically.

“You’re my boyfriend, Yoosung. Of course you can hold my hand.”

His cheeks flush; he’s so cute like this you could tackle him to the ground right here, at the crosswalk.

“It’s not that...” he murmurs. The light’s green, but you stand there still, side by side. Your hand is outstretched and he peers down at it, but he doesn’t move.

“Yoosung, please hold my hand.”

He giggles, face red. “When you say it like that, you make me want to even more!” Finally, he grabs your hand. His is warm and soft and wonderful; you interweave your fingers.

You step off the curb, crossing the street—he follows, a pace or so behind you. You clutch his hand tightly. Somehow, you know there’s more—his face didn’t look like that just because he wanted to hold hands.

“So why were you sad?” you ask him. You swing your clasped hands, like a little kid on the playground—it makes him smile.

He hums, hesitating. “I know you wouldn’t laugh, but...don’t, okay?”

You squeeze his hand. “Please tell me.”

“My hands...” His face is red again and he stares straight ahead.“They’re…small,” he says at last, in a quiet voice.

“They’re what?”

He sighs, stopping again. He pulls his hand free and holds it up, palm facing you. Understanding, you hold up your own hand, line up your fingers. It’s true that they are similar in size—you’d never thought about it before.

He doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “See? I thought you’d like someone with bigger, stronger hands, you know. There’s stories about that. Men in romances always have...um, large, manly hands.”

He’s looking down, biting his lip. You know this isn’t just about hands. Somewhere deep inside this beautiful, loving boy, there’s a little demon that whispers you’re not enough.

Moving closer to him, you take his hand in both of yours. You dip your head and press a soft kiss to his thumb. His gaze finally falls on your face—his eyes are huge.

“What are you doing?”

“Yoosung, I love your hands,” you tell him. You kiss the tip of his index finger. “They are beautiful and they are soft. They cook me delicious food. They write me wonderful messages.” You kiss his middle finger, his ring finger. “They rub away the tension when I have a headache. They hold me when I’m cold at night. They...do all sorts of things for me, at night, actually.” You wiggle your eyebrows, taking his pinky into your mouth and giving it a gentle nibble. He squeaks.

“You don’t wish they were more…”

“No.”

You take both his hands and place them on your cheeks. He’s so close now, fresh-smelling and enticing.

“B-but if I only...” He’s got that quality in his voice he gets right before he kisses you: lilting, musical.

“Your hands are perfect,” you tell him. You lean in, begging with your eyes; he gives you what you need—he always does—brushing his soft lips over yours.

“You promise?” he whispers and you kiss him again, parting your lips, pulling both his hands down to encircle your waist.

He deepens this kiss this time, and there’s relief in the way he holds you. You slip your own hands inside his jacket, wrap your arms all the way around him.

“Mmm,” you hum into his lips. “You are perfect.”

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

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