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peachylynnie · 28 days ago

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sick

word count: 1.8k

synopsis: in which sylus sneaks into your apartment and finds you sick. yet, you're not resting. why?

contains: sylus x mc!reader (they're not dating but sylus is pining and reader is confused), reader is implied to be in college, slightly obsessive sylus, mentions of violence and sickness, suggestive themes, cussing, and fluff.

a/n: i got sick yesterday. what better way to rest than to write about sylus? do NOT copy or steal my work. sylus WOULD NOT endorse plagiarism :)

you don't want to admit it. you really don't. but you're sick. there's no denying that with how short of breath you are, how nauseous you feel, and the goddamn soreness in the back of your throat that didn't go away with the first sip of water.

"shit…" you mumble as you sluggishly move to empty the dishwasher as your roommate asked. it's bad enough that you were sick, but you were also stressed out of your mind. midterms have been kicking your ass this semester. big assignments have been piling up on your already heavy shoulders. in essence, this was a burnout month, and all that lack of sleep and unparalleled stress had finally caught up to you. in the form of a cold, that is.

"of all the times," you grumble as you struggle to stack the dishes in the cabinet. "why now…" indeed, this was a terrible time to get sick. how were you to complete all your tasks while feeling absolutely miserable? you glance at the microwave clock in desperation. 10:00 PM, it read. although you meant to sigh a breath of relief, you let out a painful cough. maybe you could finish an assignment or two by midnight. that way, you can focus on studying tomorrow, you thought to yourself.

you sniff as you return to the dishwasher to unload the rest of the dishes. as much as you were happy for your roommate leaving for the weekend to finally see her family, you couldn't help but feel resentful. why were you here struggling to do the dishes while she got to have fun? shaking your head at your bitter thoughts, you bend down, trying to grab the utensils from the dishwasher. keyword: trying.

the sudden pair of strong arms that wrapped around you prevented you from doing so. normally, you would've swiftly elbowed the person behind you and turned around to land a hard blow that would have them seeing stars. instead, you exhale shakily. you recognize the mysterious backhugger's scent. the scent of sweet wine and sharp citrus. sylus.

how the hell did he get in? you don’t remember giving him a spare key when you told him your address. you look behind you, angling your head to meet his garnet eyes. "i did not give you my address just so you can sneak in like this," you say, trying your best not to sound like you're dying.

unfortunately, the nasal tone of your voice does not go unnoticed by sylus. instead of offering his usual quips, sylus furrows his brows and unclasps his right arm from your waist. you try not to flinch at the chill of his slender fingers touching your forehead. he frowns. "you're sick."

you immediately avert your gaze. "i'm not sick," you mutter as you try to bend down once more to grab the stupid utensils from the dishwasher. sylus doesn't let go. this time, he spins you around with his left arm, making sure that he can see you properly.

"you're burning up, sweetie." sylus says as flips the hand on your forehead for good measure. "you're sick and you know it."

you roll your eyes, squirming to get out of his grip. you did not want sylus to see you like this. a sick, miserable mess incapable of doing something as simple as emptying the dishwasher. you had an image to uphold after all. being vulnerable with someone like him could mean getting hurt again. last time you were vulnerable with someone… well, let's say you learned your lesson.

weakly, you push at sylus' arm around your waist with your small hands. you try not to think about how minuscule they looked next to sylus' deliciously veiny forearms. great, you're sick, and your mind decides to lust after sylus' arms. you shiver at your thoughts and attempt to push sylus' grip away once more. normally, escaping sylus' hold would be a reasonable task for you. after all, your sparring sessions with him prepared you to get out of sticky situations. but you were sick and exhausted out of your mind. all you could manage was a feeble squirm.

sylus' gaze moves from his hand on your forehead to your eyes. your half-lidded baggy eyes. his frown deepens. you looked extremely fatigued. your face was noticeably pale, and your intake of breath was short. not to mention, sylus could see the slight wince of pain whenever you tried to swallow your saliva. sylus sighs as he removes his hand on your forehead and replaces it with his own. you were neglecting yourself again.

under normal circumstances, you would've shied away from sylus' physical advancements. his hand on the small of your back? an immediate flinch and glare, signaling him to stop. a tap on the crown of your head? a swift jerk of your neck and avoidance of eye contact. instead—again, you blame it on your exhaustion—you tiredly close your eyes, relishing in sylus' cool forehead against your heated one. no resistance to be shown.

you don't see it, but sylus' sharp eyes soften at the sight of you accepting his touch. even with the eye bags and ghastly skin, you looked ethereal. like an angel sent from heaven to save him from his own solitary hell. as much as he wants to savor this moment of you finally giving into his touch, sylus knows what he must do. you're unwell and unrested. you need to be in bed immediately.

"you should be in bed, sweetie." sylus murmurs as he pulls away from your forehead. you try not to sulk at the loss of the soothing chill of his skin. though, not without feeling conflicted because why you would even sulk about him? for god's sake, he was a criminal. he's taken countless lives. not to mention, he choked you upon meeting you, called you a disappointment, and tried to alter you after three straight days of relentless attempts at a forced resonation… just thinking about him drives you nuts and being driven nuts is the last thing you want right now.

"i'm fine, sylus." it was your turn to pull away, trying to put as much distance between you two as his firm grip around your waist would allow. "besides, nothing a little old tea can't fix."

with that, you turn to face the dishwasher and reach for the utensils for the umpteenth time of the night. sylus sighs and pinches his nose bridge with his free hand. as much as he admired your stubbornness, he could not help but resent it at times like these. times when you were in desperate need of a break. before you can grab the utensils, you feel yourself get lifted off the ground effortlessly.

sylus' arm on your waist had moved to your shoulder, and his other arm was hooked under your thighs. he had you in bridal style in less than a second. your eyes widen, realizing the sudden change in positions. "what are you doing?!" you cough painfully. "put me down!"

you do your best to escape sylus' new grip on you by kicking your legs and squirming uncontrollably, but it was hopeless. you were weakened due to your sickness, and sylus was determined to make sure you looked only at him instead of the goddamn dishwasher. one more look at it, and he swears he's gonna break it with his evol.

quickly and confidently, sylus exits the kitchen with you in his arms and arrives at what he guesses is your shared bedroom with your roommate. he tries not to get distracted by the fact that this is his first time in your room. god, the entire space smelled so much like you, he wanted to become one with it and watch you forever and ever. dismissing his intrusive thoughts, sylus gently places you down on your bed and starts to cover you in your blanket.

"wait, sylus," you start, trying to get up. "i have to empty the dishwasher. i have homework, too." sylus tuts as he shakes his head, his messy silver locks following suit. although he doesn't respond, sylus continues to spread out your blanket. you furrow your eyebrows at his strange behavior. "sylus…" you whine. you actually whined. something you never thought you would do, especially in front of sylus. you could feel his intense gaze prick at you like little needles. you avoid his gaze, hoping to hide your flustered state.

adorable. that's what you are. incredibly adorable to the point sylus wants to grab your chin and force you to look at him as he coaxes more and more of your pretty whines out of you.

trying to fight his indecent thoughts, sylus locks eyes with you, a firm yet pleading look on his face. "you need to rest, sweetie," he leans in to adjust your pillow. "you won't get anything done in this state." you try to protest again, but sylus beats you to it. "rest. i'll take care of everything."

well, fuck. how can you say no when sylus, in all of his gorgeous glory, is centimeters from your face, telling you that he will take care of everything and asking you to do the one thing you've been longing to do for a very long time? besides, you felt sleepy ever since sylus took you in his arms. just this once. just this once, you'll allow yourself to be vulnerable with him. so that you can rest, of course. totally not because sylus had a way of comforting you so sweetly and breaking your defensive walls so charmingly.

your labored breathing slows as you cautiously nod. "fine," you yawn. "the utensils go in the very left drawer of the island while the pots and pans go in the stove oven, and…" you can feel sleep beckoning for you as you continue to list instructions. sylus can't help the grin that appears on his face as he watches your cute blinks grow in intervals.

"noted, sweetie." he caresses a stray hair strand out of your face. "i'll make sure everything is back where they belong." like you to him. though, he doesn't say that part out loud. maybe another day. when you are no longer wary of him and are willing to acknowledge his very obvious affection for you. deep in his fantasy, sylus almost misses your cute snores. he chuckles, taking this chance to admire you now that you've fallen asleep.

you truly were an angel. the way your eyebrows furrowed here and there in your sleep. the way your plump lips parted at times. the way your button nose twitched sporadically. oh, sylus loved it all. he could watch you sleep forever. but he had a better task at hand: to take care of you. he assured you that he would take care of everything. and sylus is a man of his words. carefully to not wake you, sylus cups your face with his right hand. closing his eyes, he places a delicate kiss on your forehead.

"rest well, sweetie. i'll see you soon."

#i wrote this while sick #be proud of me #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace fic #sylus x y/n #sylus x you

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nowoyas · 2 years ago

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My fucking dream apartment burned down

#distant citrus sounds #cheapest rent for miles beautiful good location perfect in every way except the lack of dishwasher

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musicaldeductions · 1 year ago

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I meant to buy bagels today from a better bagel shop but I forgot and bought an expensive house plant instead

#going to be regretting my lack of bagels in the morning #personal #it’s a cool little citrus tree tho :)

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acitruscantrhyme · 2 years ago

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hellooo, i'm so sorry there's no citrus tuesday this week. my back pain has gotten exponentially worse and it's made writing anything, including just this post, difficult :(

i promise to heal up and post all my creative thoughts (i have so many!!) next week :,)

#citrus speaks #i know this is mainly cursory since noone follows me ahaha #but its nice to cut myself some lack #i am In The Pains #writing update

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reidmotif · 6 months ago

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Check Your Window (He's At Your Window)

Summary: Reader discovers her window faces into the apartment of her very attractive building neighbor, Spencer. She's willing to do anything for his attention. He's willing to reward her for her efforts.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: voyeurism, lingerie, masturbation, slight dubcon (but for like 5 seconds i swear), nipple play, penetrative sex, apartment break-in.

Word Count: 3.9 k

Masterlist

It’s natural to believe you’re safe in your place of residency. You’re given locks, blinds, a security gate- all measures designed to invoke a false illusion of privacy. Of course, there are defects that no one can plan for that have the ability to shatter this illusion.

Mine happened to be a badly placed window.

Finding this apartment felt akin to love at first sight. It sounds dramatic, but I’m serious. Do you know how horrific real estate is these days? But when my eyes came upon piano oak flooring, the soft light of the day streaming onto a marble island, and of course, an in-home washer/dryer system, I was sold.

Due to my inherent awkwardness around meeting strangers, and lack of overt charm, I’d never been one to initiate introductions with my neighbors. I moved in quietly, packing up my life into neat little boxes and dispersing them throughout the emptiness of my new space. It was only then, when I realized a strangely placed window that seemed to fall exactly where I’d wanted my bed to be.

And while examining my outlandish situation, I saw him.

I didn’t want to assume he’d been watching me. I wasn’t paranoid like that. Nevertheless, I didn’t want to give off the aura of, for lack of better words, a creep, so the quick aversion of my eyes from his gaze felt instinctual. Curiosity won over me a millisecond later, though, and against my better judgment, I quietly peered into the window again, wondering if the man in the glass had slipped away, or had looked away from where our eyes met last.

What I hadn’t anticipated, however, was to be met with the unflinching stare of his eyes, far from concerned with how he came off, holding his gaze with an almost disconcerting and defiant presence.

He gave me a subtle nod, before walking away, disappearing from view. I was left feeling.. unsettled. But also strangely thrilled. There was a certain peculiarity in knowing you were susceptible to an audience at any given moment. I vaguely recalled social facilitation as a possible explanation as to why the concept roused me the way it did, but whatever it was, I didn’t feel compelled to attach curtains or any kind of barrier to avoid the phenomenon.

While my thoughts occasionally drifted to the man, I didn’t actually know anything about him. He lived in the building beside mine, so we didn’t even share so much as a landlord. I truly never expected to gain any insight on him besides the location of his domicile in relation to mine, and the thought didn’t bother me by any means. I was completely fine with letting our connection stay as severed as it was.

Fate, on the other hand, had other ideas.

I found myself a few weeks later, struggling with an overstuffed grocery bag in front of my building, and in a terrible game of mismanaged weight and the flimsiness of grocery-store plastic, my bag gave way, scattering the contents of it across the ground. Further misfortune plagued me, as the bag in question had been holding a good pound of lemons, that rolled quite far from where I’d been standing. I immediately dropped to the ground, trying to gather up the ones by my feet in my arms, and noticed a presence nearby doing the same and bringing the runaway citrus to me. I was thankful, and was ready to express my gratitude to the helpful samaritan, until I saw a flash of recognition collectively pass over our faces as we made eye contact.

Him. The man in the window.

“You dropped these.” He says, his voice a little quieter than I’d expected from him, and I nod.

“Yeah, no. It’s these bags. Not really equipped to hold a pound of lemons.” I say, trying to gather the rest to my chest, our eyes still trained on the other.

“Can I ask why a pound of lemons?” He asks, a sort of playful lilt in his voice.

“Lemonade.” I say, almost immediately.

There’s a bit of confusion that flashes over his face. “Are you making a joke?” He replies, furrowing his brows a bit.

I realize that my response might’ve come off as too deadpan, and I shake my head to correct his misconception. “Oh, no. I’m serious.” I say, offering a grin. “I love lemonade. There’s a work party I’m attending, and I offered to make some for the office. Hence, the lemons.” I continued, gesturing at the aforementioned fruit, and feeling myself ramble slightly, but it didn’t seem to offend the recipient.

“That.. is a surprisingly normal response, given the situation.” The man says, nodding. “I love lemonade too.” He adds.

There’s a bit of silence as we both picked up lemons together, the man more focused than I on the task. I took the oppurtuinity within the lull of our conversation to truly examine the man, finally no longer separated by a pane of glass, and my observations all seemed to point towards one glaringly obvious conclusion.

The man in the window was hot.

He appeared older than me, yet his age did nothing to diminish the beauty of his features. His doe-like eyes seemed to shine with the same curiosity that I felt towards him. His hair was a bit longer than I’d expect from a man his age, but it suited him. The smooth slope of his nose had a certain charm to it, and his cheekbones were impossibly sharp. I wanted to run my thumb over the bone, and kiss him senseless until we could barely remember our own names.

“I’m (Y/N). You’re free to come over.” I say, a little more rushed than I’d wanted to. “For the lemonade, of course.” I add, trying to not drop the ball when it came to inviting this gorgeous man over to my apartment.

“Spencer.” He replies, offering his name to me. “I'll keep it in mind.” He says, smoothly. He flashes me a kind smile as he places the last of the lemons into my other bags or directly into my hands.

I’d hoped “I’ll keep it in mind” meant “within the next few days or so” but waiting seemed futile after a certain amount of time had passed. He never came, and I even stopped seeing him as often through the window in passing. In hindsight, it was rather naive to genuinely expect a near-stranger to come to my apartment, on account of an invitation that could have been interpreted as a thinly-veiled proposition.

It felt a bit dull, his lack of interest. I’d had a taste of his attention, and for some reason, I was hooked. It was irrational, and illogical, but I couldn’t help the desire I felt simply at the thought of this man. And in a mixture of perversion, desperation and pure brainlessness, I tried to use the one thing that had rarely failed me in the past. Sex.

I reasoned by telling myself it wasn’t like it was guaranteed he’d see me.

And it wasn’t as if I was standing directly by the window, exposing myself for his pleasure, and his pleasure only. So hey, if he saw my figure adorned in lacy lingerie in passing, and felt compelled to act on that in any way he chose, well. No harm, no foul, right?

So that’s exactly what I did. To my benefit, it was one of the hottest summers D.C had ever had, so the lack of clothing worked in my favor. I’d always felt quite confident in my own skin, so lounging around in bras, panties, barely-there cover-ups around my apartment didn’t strike me as the oddest thing to do. I felt comfortable, and in turn, possibly seducing the man in the window. Win-win.

And “win” I did, in some way at least, because I noticed the arrival of lingerie correlated in a sudden uptick in the times I’d see Spencer taking a longer-than-normal glimpse into my apartment. It was fucking exhilirating, to have his regard in this strange, taboo way. I’d find myself imagining him, surrounded by a sea of sheets and pillows slowly stroking his cock to the images of my scantily-clad body. I had no real way of verifying if this was the actual case, but the fantasy was enough to bring heat to my cheeks and an ache in my panties.

It started to drive me a little crazy, however, when after a week of this, literally no tangible reward came from the fruits of my labor. While I’d enjoyed his eyes on my form, that seemed to be all he was capable of. He seemed completely at ease with just watching (to my utter dismay) and it seemed the action I wanted him to take was sorely out of reach.

Reflecting on his shy, soft demeanor from the one time we’d spoken, I concluded that he might not be as forward as I am. It made sense; he never seemed to have visitors in his apartment and, seeming to be in his 40s without a stable partner, he probably wasn't accustomed to a woman's attention in this way. He didn’t exactly exude “womanizer” anyway from what I knew about him, and I began to connect his lack of initiative to these points.

It didn't deter me from continuing my attempts though. At best, I was at least providing a lonely middle-aged man some sorely needed imagery in the meantime. I’d always been a giver, anyhow.

It’s reasonable to assume there’d be some payoff down the road, right?

Wrong. I continued to wear increasingly revealing lingerie, going as far as just walking around naked once in a while. Nothing. I was a fucking saint at this point for continuing this for him.

It didn’t help that my mind insisted on taunting me with what I couldn’t have, as a moment of spare time in my day would constantly be preoccupied with thoughts of him in my bed, pinning my hands down and kissing up and down my neck. I’d imagine him pounding into me, or bouncing up and down on his cock, bringing us both to the throes of pleasure. I couldn’t halt the depravity of my thoughts, no matter how hard I tried.

What I also couldn’t stop, was the slow descent of my fingers into my panties one night, finding a delectable mess within them, signifying my deep arousal associated with the man. It’d been a long few weeks, the smell of summer and heat encasing my apartment, and a profound craving I couldn’t resist. I breathed out a sigh of relief as I began rubbing the small nub, alternating between up and down motions, and then a slow, circular rub. Little moans poured out my lips, before I quickly shed my panties entirely, watching a string of arousal stuck to them, kicking them haphazardly to the side, wanting more access to my clit.

My eyes naturally closed as I found myself lazing towards the precipice of release. Soft sighs and moans filled my apartment as I let my fingers rub a bit more desperately. I could see flashes of him again behind my eyes, his hand on me, instead of my own, mirroring the actions I was performing. A gasp of his name came tumbling out of me as the image became clearer and clear, my eyes opening almost frantically as I felt myself closer and closer.

That’s when I got the strangest sensation, and felt a pair of eyes on me. I jolted my head to the left, and saw Spencer, who was clearly watching at this point. His gaze was entirely trained on me, and similar to the first time he saw me, our eye contact didn’t deter him from his observation.

I refused to let it either, and kept my gaze trained on him. I was entirely exposed. I wouldn’t have been able to stop my actions if I’d had a gun to my head. It just felt too fucking good. A moment more of eye contact from him, and I felt the familiar clench and release from my body, waves of pleasure wracking my body. I let out another moan, but not once did my eyes leave his, as my back arched against my sheets, a silent plea on my part being conveyed.

Come here. What could you possibly be waiting for?

I watched him disappear from the window as I finished, both literally and figuratively, and panted, wondering if finally, finally, my prayers and fervent supplications would be answered.

After about 30 minutes, my anticipation was replaced with severe disappointment when I realized even after then, he wasn’t coming. I could no longer see him in the window, and at this point it seemed a little silly and pathetic to continue expecting him to come.

Maybe he was just entirely sexually inadept. That could be a possibility, right? How much more explicit could I get than this? I’d masturbated in front of him! Albeit, through a window, but masturbation regardless! Was this seriously all he was willing to do?

I roll my eyes at the thought. I came to accept that maybe, truly, there was nothing I could do to get this man to fuck me the way I deserved. Fine.

As I closed my eyes to get some necessary rest after my endeavors, I made up my mind that I’d buy curtains tomorrow. Fuck Spencer Reid, and his absolute inability to take any action in his goddamn life. Fuck this apartment. Fuck everything.

Was I dramatic? Yes. Was I still right? Also yes.

Despite the sour mood I’d taken to bed with me that evening, my dreams were anything but. The idea of Spencer Reid holding me down, whispering sweet and dirty nothings alike were all still incredibly tantalizing to my subconscious. I could hear his voice in my ear, soft pink lips brushing against the shell of my ear, a deep pressure imprinted onto my body, keeping me in my bed.

“Wake up, sweetheart.” He murmured, beckoning me out of the peaceful cocoon of sleep.

I felt a few more wet and warm kisses trailing up and down my neck, the sweetest sensation of pleasure being granted to me with every touch he gave.

“Need you to wake up, pretty girl.” He mumbles. “You really are so pretty up close.” His voice is slightly patronizing, and it does nothing to help the excitation that was steadily growing inside of me.

Suddenly, I became incredibly aware that the stimuli I was receiving didn’t appear to be a byproduct of my psyche, but rather- he was here? My eyes opened slowly to realize I wasn’t at all mistaken, the soft brush of his brown hair against my neck slightly tickling me as I came to.

“Atta girl.” He mumbles, his lips still mapping out every inch of my skin. Out of pure instinct, a slightly alarmed moan came from me, still unsure if I was dreaming or not. Surely I had to be dreaming. I had to be, because how the fuck did Spencer Reid get into my apartment? Into my bed?

“You want this, yeah?” He murmurs, taking a second to gaze down at me. I realized he’d been on top of me this whole time, and the pressure I’d felt in my dream was his skin on mine, trapping me in between his strong chest and the soft sheets adorning my mattress. “I know you do. Saw your little show and everything.” He breathes out, desperately, almost.

I know I should’ve thought about it. Perhaps I should’ve pondered on the idea of letting a man who’d just broken into my apartment full access to my body as he pleased, but there was no time. He was here, and how could I have ever said no to that?

There’s an equally as desperate and breathy, “yes” that escapes my lips, and before I can finish saying the word, he dives down, meeting my lips with his, absolutely devouring me with no hesitation whatsoever. If I'd thought his previous ministrations were delightful, this was absolutely heavenly.

I moan softly into his mouth, wanting to tangle my hands in his hair, or latch them onto his shoulders and sink my nails deep into the skin that resided there- anything to show even a semblance of control in this situation, but it seemed Spencer had already thought of that, pinning my hands against the mattress so tightly, I couldn’t have moved if I’d exerted every last bit of strength into it.

“God, the first time- first time I saw you.” He mumbles in between kisses. “With those lemons. I knew they’d fall. Saw you through the window across the street and practically ran. Wanted to meet you so badly.”

A small whimper escapes me, and I can’t help but get wetter at the thought. I knew he’d been watching me through the window, but the idea that I captured his attention, outside of my apartment, in the most mundane of situations only served to heighten the arousal I felt, my thighs rubbing together for any kind of relief.

He notices the movement and grins, planting one last kiss on my lips before slipping down. His hands cup the backs of my knees, forcing me to spread my previously shut legs.

“You had the prettiest voice.” He breathes out, examining my glistening heat. “Fuck. Couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, screaming my name.” He leans forward, planting a chaste kiss on my clit that caused an incredibly breathtaking jolt through my body.

“Spencer-” I moan, my head rolling back as I felt it, my back arching slightly.

“Yeah, just like that.” He mumbles, clearly pleased. “Good girl.”

His hands traveled upward from where he’d been situated between my legs and squeezed my breast blindly. It didn’t feel like it was for my pleasure, but rather that he was desperate to touch anywhere he possibly could. Anyone else, and I might’ve been annoyed with the incessant touching, but with him?

It was so fucking hot.

“That goddamned lingerie.” He mumbles. “The things I wanted to do to you. Did you know that?”

I looked at him through hooded lids, unsure what he meant, and he took my diversion of attention to quickly tweak one of my nipples, eliciting another surprised moan from my mouth.

“I’m so much stronger than this, usually.” His large hands continue to squeeze and grope at my breasts. “But you.” He whispers, a hint of a growl making its way into his tone. “Had to push the limits. Practically begging me to come here and take you.”

I let out a gasp as I felt his hands trail down my stomach, the cool touch of his fingertips causing the muscles to tense up there.

“I’m gonna do it.” He whispers, his face only illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the open window, but I could still see the dangerous glint in his eye, thrilling me even further. “Fuck you exactly how you want it.”

Before I’m able to react to the sentiment, he’s grabbing onto my hips and turning me over, a yelp drawn out from me.

“Hands and knees.” He says, in an authoritative tone that doesn’t leave any room for any disagreement. I comply quickly, much to his elation.

“You’re so good for me, yeah? Gonna ruin you. Just how you want.”

There’s a hint in condescension in his tone, like he’s making fun of me for wanting to be fucked this badly, but I can barely pay any mind about it, especially when I feel his cock slotting itself betweet my folds, separated only by his boxers, a shaky moan coming from Spencer.

I can feel his hands leaving my hips and the slight lean away as he quickly shucks off the fabric, and within the next second, he’s pushing into me, providing me with a stretch and fulfillment that was so much better than I could’ve ever imagined. It doesn’t take him long to set a fast pace, the sound of our skin slapping and the smell of sex permeating the room.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He moans out, and I let out similar noises in tandem.

I can barely find it in me to stay coherent. I want to scream how good he feels, how big his cock feels in me, how close I was- but instead the only thing I could manage was the borderline scream of his name and loud sobs of pleasure, fully at the mercy of the man behind me. I can feel the way I clamp down on him, absolutely imploring him for as much as he could give me.

“Gonna come for me, yeah?” He says, feeling the clench of my walls on his cock. “Come on, pretty girl. Give me what I want.” He murmurs lowly, leaning down closer to my ear. His hand shoots out a moment later, beginning to rub my clit, similar to how I had been doing a few hours earlier as he watched me, and the memory and sensation of it is enough to hurl me off the edge, my walls tightening around his cock as waves of pleasure wracked through my body.

It seemed that was enough for him as well. I felt his hips still, and a sudden warmth at my deepest point. He let out a groan of relief as he thrusted once, twice more, and then pulled out, his cum slipping down my thighs as he plopped down next to me. I’d already collapsed the second he pulled out, panting as I came down from the orgasm.

“You good?” He mumbles, wearily, and I can feel him moving aside my hair to kiss at my shoulder.

“Mhm.” I murmur back, a small sigh of relief escaping me. There’s a beat of silence, before he breaks it.

“Tomorrow.” He murmurs. “Wanna go out with me?”

I raise an eyebrow, turning at him with a playful expression- as playful as I could get in this state anyway. “Where to?”

“Target.” He mumbles, still stroking my back lazily, his eyes shining with something less intense than lust now, but still enough to turn my stomach over with butterflies.

“Target?” I say, squinting my eyes. “Why Target?”

“We’re buying you some curtains.” He says, a small grin appearing on his face. “And maybe a stronger lock.”

I giggle at that, rolling my eyes a bit. “But then you don’t get to see me anymore. I kind of liked what we had going on.”

“I did too.” He whispers, his tone slightly vulnerable now. “But I like this a lot more.”

A small smile plasters itself to my face as I nod.

“Me too.” I whisper back, biting my lip.

A mutual understanding passed through the both of us as we smiled at each other in the dark, and for a split second, I imagined myself possibly loving this more someday.

All in good time. Right now, I was going to sleep, protected by his soft, strong arms. That was enough for now. We’d finally gotten what we wanted.

woah!! trying to finally get back into writing semi regularly i see. i hope this was enjoyable. this is one of those pieces i'm kind of unsure about, so please, please interact if you liked it! likes, comments, reblogs, anything! or let me know if you didn't! i live for feedback of any kind. thank you for reading anyhow, i am very grateful for it <3

also lol if it wasn’t obvious i listened to “she” for fic inspo lol. linked below

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writingjourney · 2 months ago

Text

Closer to the Gods || Alicent

Years into her marriage Queen Alicent permits only you to share in the more intimate parts of her routine. Despite the deep bond that connects you to Her Grace you are not certain that your feelings are returned – until she shows you.

Pairing: Alicent Hightower x lady-in-waiting!reader

Content: 3.1k words, repressed feelings, yearning, religious guilt, somewhat post-partum alicent, no y/n, smut (wlw, thigh riding, body worship, oral, v fingering, gentle smut), 18+ MDNI

Masterlist – Ao3 link

Her hair smells like citrus. The fragrance, enhanced by the steam of the hot water rising from the surface of her bath, mingles with the one of the perfumed oils that slick your hands as you weave them through her tresses. The scent makes you light-headed, as does the sight of her bare skin above the water. Her Grace sighs deeply when you massage her scalp, leaning into your touch with all the weariness she carries. You breathe her in, subtly, applying some pressure to her temples where you know her headaches to linger.

Born into a lesser house you were sent to be raised at court at a young age, a token of loyalty after the coronation of King Viserys. However, life at court changed after the death of his first wife and as a lady-in-waiting you soon became the new queen’s favourite. Ever since the birth of her first son she keeps you closer than any of the other ladies, allows you to take on the more intimate chores such as dressing and undressing her, brushing and washing her hair, keeping her company during the late hours of the day, singing and more often than not reading to her. Two years into her marriage now the queen will allow only you to take care of her in such a way and send away her servants once the more menial tasks such as filling the tub have been completed.

By now you know her whims and preferences better than your own. You feel an intimate affection for her Her Grace and it translates into the gentleness with which you touch her. Most evenings it is only you and her – unless the king requests her presence. Those nights you spend thinking of her in her soft white nightdress with her auburn hair falling in waves over her pale breasts underneath. You try to distract yourself from the thoughts of him touching her smooth skin, lacking the gentleness you know she desires. No one else but you is allowed to see her in any state of undress, let alone touch her. But he simply takes what he wants, what he thinks he is owed by right of being her husband. By right of being the king. Would that you could give her what he does, but you can never sire a son, you could never be anything but what you are now.

In front of the fire with your hands covered in scented oils you feel a shameful heat rising to your face, the immoral thoughts of replacing her husband a constant source of guilt. Rinsing her hair, you finish your routine. The water has cooled down and you know Her Grace will want to retire soon. During these moments she prefers solitude, as she told you once, dedicating herself to prayer or silent contemplation.

“I will have the servants remove the tub.” You absent yourself from her side, drying your hands on a piece of cloth. “If that would be all, Your Grace, I shall retire for the night.”

You are already turned around, placing her nightdress on the nearby table. Your hand traces the delicate ornaments of Myrish lace when her voice reaches you again. “Wait.”

You hear Her Grace stepping out of the tub and keep your gaze lowered respectfully. Once her robe is fastened around her narrow waist you dare look up again. She approaches you on bare feet, drops of water glistening on her skin like morning dew on the petals of a soft pink rose.

A damp thumb comes to swipe along your cheekbone as she considers you, soft eyes roaming your face. “You look lovely with your cheeks flushed.”

Her lip trembles as she says it, as though the confidence she displays is nothing but an act. Your queen has complimented you many times before but never in a such a way that you feel her words caressing your very soul. For a moment you are quite out of breath.

Her fingers dance along your collarbones then, toying with the seams of your dress. “I do not know why you should be allowed to see me and yet I am deprived of the same pleasure.”

“My queen, I do not know–”

Her face falls as she misreads your words for rejection. You catch her hand before she manages to tear it away and press it to your heart instead. Looking down you see that she must have been biting her nails again, her skin red and scabbed where she pulled at it.

“What I mean is…” You feel tears gathering in the corners of your eyes, the sting of insecurity and hesitation. “I am not much to look at. Not compared to Your Grace.”

She shakes her head, dismissing your words. “Call me Alicent.”

“I would not–”

“Please, for once let us not hide behind curtesies. I have grown tired of it, I have grown tired of you leaving when I want you the most.”

Her words claw their way underneath your skin, your heart racing at the implicit confession. You always thought your feelings to be unreciprocated, that Her Grace merely considers you a companion, perhaps a friend. But her eyes are wet with unshed tears, her hand pressing against your aching chest as though she is trying to reach inside.

“You would truly want me?” you ask, your voice barely audible.

“Every night you leave,” she says and it sounds like an accusation, laced with pain and longing.

“But Your Grace, you wished it so– I did not–”

“I know,” she interrupts. “I know.”

Her other hand moves to cradle your cheek, wiping a stray tear from your skin. She looks away for but a moment, as if to collect her thoughts, and when your eyes meet again her gaze is fierce, determined.

“I have tried to repress my feelings,” she says, her lips trembling again. “But I cannot stop– I cannot stop thinking about you. When you are not here I have to restrain myself not to call for you. I have to fight off the urge to run to your chambers to be near you. I am… so tired of pretending.”

You lean into her touch, closing the gap between you to rest your forehead against hers. “So am I, Alicent. So, so tired.”

“It is sin,” she whispers, brushing her nose against yours, her fingers ghosting over your lips. “To covet another, to covet–” Her words trail off, the thought left unspoken. “And yet I never feel closer to the Gods than when you touch me.”

Your queen swallows the air between you when she presses her lips to yours. Tentative and searching her mouth moves against yours with a softness that almost pains you. She tastes like sweet wine, smells of lavender and citrus. Unsure where to touch her you mirror her movements, stroking along her warm cheekbone, tracing the line of her jaw down to her neck where a few droplets of water have gathered. Your other hand still holds hers against your chest but then she slides it upwards to grasp your throat and you gasp into her mouth, warmth pooling into your belly. Her tongue grazes yours and she winds her fingers around the curve of your neck until they press against your spine and she can pull you in closer, lips firm and bruising.

You can feel her body through the garments between you, soft and pliable. She deepens the kiss and you get dizzy, your head spinning at the taste of her. The sensation is new, thrilling and addictive. When you break away she glances down at your dress and you make to untie it, glad to have chosen one that is not quite so hard to take off.

In your shift, you feel well-nigh naked. The cool sea air has goosebumps spreading all over your body, a breeze streaming in through the wide windows that overlook Blackwater Bay. Alicent takes you in, her eyes following her hand that drags the neckline of the sheer fabric down your shoulder until her fingers dance across your bare skin. The loose undergarment falls once it slips from your arm and you are fully bared to her. Instinctively, you cross your arms in front of your chest but she soon takes your wrists to pull them down.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers. “Do not hide from me. I have longed to see you as I have felt seen by you for a long time. Let there be nothing between us from now on.”

You nod and she unties the robe around her waist and lets it fall from her shoulders, silky fabric pooling at her feet in iridescent waves. Even though you have seen her bare many times before this time feels different. You do not have to hide your admiration, do not have to worry that she might catch you staring. Instead you allow yourself to revel in the sight of her, a body that has never truly been her own, changed from the months she carried her child, from the way she lent it to the king so he might have his son at last. Even though she does not look much changed when she is wrapped in her beautiful gowns you are witness to the subtle changes she wears underneath, the lines that run across her abdomen where her skin used to be stretched, her hips fuller and her breasts hanging lower than they used to.

To you, she is even more beautiful than ever before.

“May I kiss you?” she asks. The answer is a desperate nod.

She is more bold this time, even if you still hesitate, still wonder how you can ever touch her freely when she is your queen, when she can never truly be yours. The apprehension soon dissipates when you get drunk on the taste of her, of the feel of her soft curves following the shape of your own when she pulls you close. Her nipples brush yours and you moan wantonly, craving her so much that the feeling is akin to physical pain. Your whole body is burning, melting, your blood hot and heavy as it gathers between your legs.

You tentatively begin to run your hands over her body, following the line of her hips over her lower back, then up the ridges of her spine. She shivers underneath your fingertips, the same goosebumps that cover your body spreading across her still damp skin. As her tongue flattens against yours, her own hands curling firmly around your backside, you cannot hold back the desperate whimper that falls from your lips.

“I want you,” she whispers into your mouth. “I want all of you.”

“I am yours, Alicent,” you say. “I will always be yours.”

She breaks away and takes your hand to lead you over to her bed. Your lips are already swollen, your mind clouded by your need of her. She gently pushes you onto the soft mattress, expensive, silken fabrics welcoming you in her space. It feels too intimate, to be here, to lay where she lays. When she comes to rest on top of you it is like a vision from the Heavens, her slowly drying curls falling like a veil over your face until it is only you and her, breathing in tandem as the world around you blurs into nothingness.

Her mouth is hot when she kisses you and you meet her eagerly, pull her down until your bodies touch and you feel her weight on top of you. She moves her leg between yours, her thigh pressed against your core, and you whimper as the warmth of her touch spreads within you. A throbbing pain settles there and you cannot help but cant your hips to rub against her, soon grinding more feverishly as her tongue delves into your mouth. Alicent's hands roam your body but you hardly take note of each individual touch, so focused on the pleasure that builds inside of you.

"Please," you whisper, inching ever closer to a tipping point, your lungs struggling to inhale enough air.

Alicent looks down at you through heavy-lidded eyes, as though she wants to fully take in your reactions, helping you along as she presses her thigh firmer against your cunt, fingers teasing at your nipples. You gasp, forgetting to breathe as the pleasure tears through your body in hot tingling shudders. Alicent swallows your moans with her mouth, reaching between your legs now to feel your release, two fingers pressed against your wet core until they enter you easily. She carries you through your crest with slow rolls of her hand but soon the pressure builds again and you clench around her intrusion, unable to hold back.

When the rolling waves of pleasure finally subside, kisses turn slow and aimless and you take a moment to calm your racing heart. Alicent presses her lips to your face and neck with an ardent intensity while you hold her in your arms, fingers curled around her thigh. You can feel her arousal dripping against your fingertips and begin to stroke her there, revelling in the gasps she releases against your skin. The gentleness with which she touches you sends tears to your eyes, for what you are not quite certain. Perhaps it is the realization that you have never been loved like this, the fact that it is your queen, the woman you have been dreaming about for years, who holds such affections for you.

"Alicent," you say and she lifts her head to meet your gaze. "Please, I want to taste you."

At first she seems hesitant, almost like the young girl she used to be, uncertain whether your intentions are true. But after a moment she seems to come back to herself and remember who you are, her gaze softening, gaining confidence and trust. She settles on her back beside you, propped up by silken pillows with her skin glowing like embers, draped in the faint light of the fire and a dozen candles.

She is beautiful with her lips swollen by your kisses, her pale breasts exposed and hardened, a faint line of hair leading from her belly button to a thicker tuft at the apex of her thighs. You admire her for a moment, kneeling in front of her with your limbs still trembling in the aftermath of your pleasure. What love you held for her before this night has grown insurmountably and you believe with all your heart that this cannot be sin, that it cannot be wrong when it is nothing short of worship.

You gently spread her thighs, revealing her to you fully. Reverent kisses to the insides of her knees, down her thighs that feel so soft against your lips. She moans when you caress a particularly sensitive spot and the sound is like music, urging you to leave more kisses all over skin, following the lines on her abdomen up to her breasts. You take one into your mouth, sucking gently at her hardened nipple until it is pink and swollen. Alicent weaves her fingers through your hair, the other hand caressing your shoulder. Her hips buck, wanting for attention, and you finally succumb and settle at her core.

With your eyes locked on hers you leave a kiss on her mound. Alicent links her fingers with yours and presses your intertwined hands to her abdomen as if to ground herself. Her other hand brushes a stray curl from your forehead. You slowly press your mouth to her cunt, tongue dipping between her folds to taste her. She moans again, louder this time, and you continue to attend to her, dipping your tongue into her and kissing every part you can reach. You forget yourself after a moment, lost in the whimpers and gasps that fill your ears, her soft skin and sweet taste.

As her pleasure builds, Alicent's hand fully tangles in your hair and she pushes your face deeper against her, her other hand gripping yours so tight that you begin to feel a distant pain. You cannot help your own wanton moan, wanting to make her feel like she made you feel. As you focus on her pearl, applying gentle pressure to her most sensitive areas, you use your second hand to spread her folds and dip your finger into her entrance. When you meet no resistance you add a second one and begin to rub them back and forth inside of her. It does not take long until her hips stutter as she rolls them against your face, the music falling from her lips now muffled by her hand.

You can feel her release as though it is your own, her muscles clenching around your digits, her release wet on your tongue as her whole body shudders. You continue until she pushes your face away, looking up at you see chest rising and falling rapidly, her brow damp and lips parted. A sense of deep bliss settles inside of you at the realization that you made her feel such pleasure, that she allows you to see this intimate side of her that you are not sure anyone else has ever seen.

She releases your hand to brush her hair back and you sit back on your heels to clean your face, taking in the sight of her without shame this time. You are not sure you could leave her now, not sure if you could ever have enough of her, already feeling the need again to touch her, kiss her, worship her.

After a moment Alicent reaches out, her hand wrapping around your wrist before she pulls you toward her. Curling against her side you sigh at the softness of her body, hiding your face at her neck. She welcomes you, arms slung around you tightly as you notice her calming down more and more. You are exhausted, in a way, and yet you are not sure that the night will come to an end so soon. Her hand in your hair and the fingers trailing the curve of your breast remind you that she has not had enough of you either.

For the moment you are both content holding the other close. You breathe in the scents of her bath, listen to the slowing rhythm of her breath. Alicent trails gentle kisses along your brow, then her arms tighten around you and her mouth comes to rest by your ear.

"Promise you won't leave again."

You pull back, shifting to bring your mouth back to hers. “Promise you won’t make me.”

Thank you so much for reading! Kudos, comments, reblogs etc are as always much appreciated but most of all I hope you enjoyed the story ♡

Masterlist – my Ao3

#alicent hightower x reader #alicent hightower fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfiction #alicent hightower fanfic #alicent hightower #alicent x reader #alicent x female reader

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eoieopda · 4 months ago

Text

whiskey neat | jwy

there’s no common ground between yours and wooyoung’s vastly different circles. that is, until tuesday nights at the black cat form the center of the venn diagram.

pairing: jung wooyoung x reader au: strangers to something type: one-shot | smut wc: 8.3k rating: 18+ | minors do not have my consent to interact. cw: inspired by hozier’s “too sweet”, primarily wooyoung’s pov with one switch at the end; bartender!wooyoung, musician!reader, alcohol use, setting is a bar, uhhh wooyoung is a (to the tune of that arctic monkeys song) cigarette smoker, oral sex (v), protected sex (p in v), corruption kink kind of?, use of “sweetheart” (fatal). reader notes: afab (gender identity not designated); kind of naive; into fitness/“wellness” (no body type/weight is described, except wooyoung thinking they’re “strong” + reader thinking that they are in the best shape of their life); wears a sundress at the beginning. the following terms are used in the scenes involving smut: pussy, cunt, clit, tits (no description given). a/n: i quite literally started this in march 2024 and then experienced the most severe hobby death of all time. this is coming after five (5) months of scooping it out of my brain with a melon-baller, so… not my best, but here she is! thanks @sailoryooons for beta-ing because i’m self-conscious lately 🍤

Tuesday nights at the Black Cat never used to be busy.

For three years, Wooyoung spent the majority of his shifts behind the bar doing fuck all: Folding receipt paper into increasingly complicated and wasteful shapes; replacing citrus wedges that went unused and then brown; paying visits to the stray cat camping out in the alley near the dumpster. He’d go hours without talking to another human being, and he never took issue with it, even if his wallet did.

Two months ago, however, things changed.

Two months ago, management started panicking about the lack of revenue. To keep the lights on and draw in a crowd of (hopefully) soon-to-be regulars, they implemented a schedule of recurring events — some monthly, others weekly, most stupid.

Wooyoung’s precious solitude disappeared, and in its place, he got trivia nights and turntable DJs, showing off their collections of vinyls. Games of bingo targeting hipsters, who show up en masse to fight it out for prizes — potted plants, of all things — they could easily buy on their own for far less than their tabs’ totals. Themed brunches.

A million other events and just as many used glasses to wash.

Despite his ever-present scowl — his face just looks like that — it hasn’t been all bad. Without the newly-added acoustic sessions, the bar wouldn’t need a local performer to both play and host on a biweekly basis. Management wouldn’t have reached out to you; and you’d have no fucking reason to come to a dive like this. Suffice it to say, your pilates-practicing, daylight-disciplined circle of doers would never otherwise overlap with Wooyoung’s, in all its nocturnal, nicotine-dependent grit.

Tuesday nights at the Black Cat now occupy the center of the Venn diagram.

As usual, you come traipsing in half an hour before your set starts with a gig bag slung over your shoulder and a megawatt smile on your face. This is your natural state, he’s come to learn. Solar-powered. It shouldn’t be possible, but you manage to brighten further when your searching eyes find him sitting on the counter behind the register.

Through no fault of his own, Wooyoung’s gaze trails down from your face to the little sundress you’re wearing. It’s new, he notes immediately. The skirt of it flutters with each step you take, showing off more and more of your thighs as you move.

You don’t react to the migrating fabric. Just the same, you don’t notice his appraisal or the way patrons’ heads turn as you cross the bar.

No surprise there, he thinks.

From the four (4) entire conversations the two of you have had so far, you’ve made one thing abundantly clear: You’re inclined to assume the best of people and their intentions.

Nine times out of ten, Wooyoung dodges naivety like that the second it starts skipping his way, well-versed in the consequences of trusting so implicitly. You and your cotton-candy smile have proven to be the outlier, though. Working in tandem, you and that grin have him pinned where he sits with no urge to run.

You don’t notice that, either.

When you slide onto the stool across the bar from him, Wooyoung finally clocks what you’re holding. Your right hand grips some green concoction that he suspects was made with kale. Or moss? In your left hand, an iced Americano — beautifully black — weeps condensation onto manicured fingers, making hard-earned calluses glisten.

Wooyoung’s racing thoughts about those hands are still inflicting psychic damage when you lean further over the counter.

“Extra shot of espresso,” you hum as you hold the coffee out to him. You do your best to tease him, though you’re shy as hell about it, so the words still manage to come gently: “For those of us who were still awake when the sun came up.”

Wooyoung mentioned his coffee order several weeks ago in passing. It’s sweet in a way he’s not used to that you’ve not only remembered how he takes his coffee, but that you’ve brought it to him ever since, apropos of nothing, when all he’s ever done is his best to get a rise out of you. What he’s up to isn’t sweet — not by a long-shot — but it’s easily done and well worth the misplaced effort when he sees how flustered he can make you.

Wooyoung tilts his head, draws his lips in a straight line, and gestures to your cup with his. “Worry about those waking up shortly after sunrise, sweetheart. They’re drinking algae.”

As intended, you’re visibly affected by the pet name, so much so that you stumble over your defense. “It — it’s healthy!”

“It’s swampy.”

Your nose scrunches indignantly, prompting the edge of Wooyoung’s mouth to tick upwards. He doesn’t emote more than that. Five (5) conversations in now, and he’s already picked up on how much it gets to you when he only concedes a hint of a smirk.

As much as he’d relish the opportunity to sit here and keep toying with you, the crowd surrounding you has doubled in a matter of minutes. Just over your shoulder, Wooyoung sees a patron glance down at the screen of her phone to check the time; then, he hears the complaint she thinks is muttered quietly under her breath. It’s not. In fact, you hear it, too, and you divert your wide, heart-shaped eyes away from him. That smile of yours curves in the wrong direction once you do.

When you look back at him, you say, “I should go,” but he hears it for what it is: an apology.

He’s never been good at ending conversations — especially in the rare case that he’d prefer to keep one going — so he nods, leaves it at that. You pause for a nanosecond, as if you’ve got something else to add, but you don’t. You smooth down the back of your dress once you’ve hopped from the stool to your feet. Then, you mimic his gesture.

You make it two steps towards the stage before Wooyoung calls out to you, prompting you to spin back around and your dress to flutter:

“Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart.”

Your frown disappears instantly. The smile that replaces it is still there when you disappear into the crowd, only to resurface several seconds later on the tiny stage across the room.

Guitar now in hand, you duck your head through the woven strap, shuffling carefully closer to the microphone stand. You introduce yourself, strum a quiet, major chord, and chirp, “Welcome to both the Black Cat and my favorite day of the week.”

Normally, you leave shortly after your last set, as if you’ll turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes ten. With the schedule you keep, it’s no wonder. From what Wooyoung has gathered so far, you wake up before dawn most days to get a workout in before heading to the office. The very idea makes him nauseous whenever he thinks too long about it, so he does his best not to.

Mornings are for sleeping, he told you once.

Life is for living, you’d replied.

Apparently, the two of you have drastically different ideas about what living looks like.

For Wooyoung, life on Tuesday nights looks like catering to a steadily dwindling crowd once you finish up and disappear with a friendly wave goodbye. It’s cleaning up sticky spills, resetting migrated stools, and doing a half-ass restock that will make the opener — him — complain about the closer — again, him — when his next shift starts at 5:00 PM on Wednesday.

In the gap between his shifts, life looks like meeting up with his similarly shadow-dwelling friends on someone’s balcony to chain-smoke, sip whiskey, and watch the sunrise until he gets bored. From there, it’s either walking back to his apartment or kicking said friends out of his, so he can rot in front of his PC. Eventually, life looks like blackout shades and crashing into bed while the world around him heads out for brunch.

Tonight, however, life is starting to look a little different.

When you wander over, it’s not to say goodnight or close out the tab you think you’ve accrued, which Wooyoung never opened in the first place.

Maybe, he thinks, you’ve finally caught on that all these “technical issues with the point-of-sale system” — occurring for the last four (4) shows in relation to one (1) patron in particular — can’t possibly be a coincidence. That a free drink given will always beget a free drink received. That Wooyoung doesn’t deal in unpaid debts, even if he hasn’t and won’t own up to his petty workplace theft.

You sidle up to his bar and slip back into the stool you’d previously occupied, no more aware of the way your sundress shifts now than you were earlier. Likewise, he’s no less blatant with the way he looks you up and down, eyes lingering unabashedly and hungrily. The pair of you float in each other’s orbit for a few moments just like this: waiting for the other to speak first.

“Don’t you go to yoga class at ass o’clock on Wednesdays?” He eventually inquires, leaning back against the counter behind him with his arms crossed and head tilted.

Your eyes flick down to the screen of your phone, which rests face-up on the bar between your elbows. You clock the time but not the way your current posture causes the neckline of your mostly modest dress to plunge. Conflict creases between your eyebrows, then you tilt your chin to look at him.

Wooyoung knows that look, although he’s never seen it on you before. That look begs to be talked into something, rather than out of it. It’s a look he gets often. For better or for worse, it’s one he never turns down.

“I do,” you admit through a sigh.

Offering nothing more than a hum to indicate his intrigue, Wooyoung watches you and waits patiently for you to elaborate. Another few seconds slip by without a word. His attention makes you shy, he notes; he loves it.

But he loves the idea of toying with you even more, so when you don’t say anything else, he takes that attention and diverts it to the few remaining patrons, all of whom have vested interest in closing out and getting out.

Good riddance, he thinks as the last of them stumbles out and away, leaving the two of you in charged silence.

Even more seconds pass.

Still nothing.

Wooyoung glances around and finds a bottle of Jameson on its very last leg. It’s the perfect amount for a litmus test — two shots left, nothing more to give and everything to prove. Snatching two overturned shot glasses from where they dry on a holed rubber mat, he empties the whiskey evenly and turns back to you with an eyebrow raised.

Your eyes widen slightly when he sets the spare on the bar in front of you, more so with interest than surprise. For a moment, you stare at it with the same ambivalent expression, nibbling thoughtfully on your lower lip.

Finally, you all but whisper, “I should’ve been in bed an hour ago.”

With his left palm flat against the bar, Wooyoung rests his weight and leans in, eyelids and voice dropping. “Why aren’t you?” He murmurs, gaze flicking down to your lips then back up again — just long enough for you to notice that he was, in fact, looking. “Hmm?”

Your breath hitches — just loudly enough for him to notice that you are, in fact, finding it hard to function this closely to him.

“On a school night, no less.” His eyes narrow teasingly.

“I’m asking myself the same question,” you confess, though you’re the picture of innocence. Your fingertip traces idly down the side of your shot glass, then back up again.

He’s as distracted by the mindless movement as you are, albeit for different reasons. Before he lets himself get carried away in wondering whether or not your touch is always that delicate, Wooyoung lifts his glass and gestures for you to do the same. “Sounds like you could use a bad influence.”

A soft clink permeates when your glasses touch, followed by a muted thump when the bottom of each one is tapped against the bar. Your heads are thrown back in unison, just like your drinks, and when your faces finally level out towards one another’s, you counter him breezily, “Maybe you could use a good one.”

Wooyoung thinks he could use more than that.

Breaking eye contact, you glance down at your phone again. It’s obvious that you’re second-guessing your decision to linger. He wants to chuck that brick in the bin with the other useless shit, to get rid of any excuse you might give for having to leave, but he doesn’t.

And you don’t give him an excuse.

Your hand wraps around that fucking phone, then you stand up slowly.

“Try not to stay up too late,” you advise with a smile that still manages to read like disappointment.

Don’t.

Reaching into the pocket of your jacket, you pull out the tips you made tonight and collect a few bills before dropping them on the counter to cover the shot you didn’t even order. Wooyoung wants to tell you not to — that your money isn’t good here, even if you are — but he knows it won’t make a difference.

You sling your gig bag over your shoulder, thank him, and tell him that you’ll see him in two weeks.

He scrubs his hands over his face the second you walk out the door and mutters through gritted teeth, “Fuck.”

You don’t see Wooyoung in two weeks.

As a matter of fact, you cancel your acoustic session for the first time ever. Management either doesn’t know why you bailed or doesn’t think it’s any of Wooyoung’s business, so no one bothers to tell him. If he’d ever thought to ask for your number, he could check in on you himself, but he didn’t and therefore can’t.

Ignorant and annoyed, he resigns himself to occupying an empty tavern on a goddamn Tuesday night, yet again.

Nobody brings him coffee.

Nobody worth talking to crosses the threshold.

No one makes little comments — genuine concerns poorly disguised as digs — when he uses the paring knife to carve little stars into the lip of the bar top, instead of slicing limes.

And when he gives up and closes down early, he’s so tired of his own shit that he simply goes home and goes to bed.

Bed being the operative word.

He doesn’t go to sleep, even though he has nothing better to do. Alternatively, Wooyoung replays your last interaction on a loop in his head, daydreaming about what could’ve happened if you’d stayed. While his thoughts spiral, his hand drifts, finds the pulse beneath the zipper of his jeans, and feels the throbbing ache building through the denim.

It’s pathetic.

He knows it.

Too bad that doesn’t stop him from fucking his fist every night for the next several, imagining how much softer yours must feel.

The patron pulls a face the absolute second Wooyoung slides her glass across the bar.

Wholly uninterested in the response one way or another, he slathers on his customer-service smile and asks her, “Alright?”, in a tone that doesn’t match his expression in the slightest.

“There’s no ice in it,” she mumbles, cringing in mild horror as she does. As if the liquor features his spit instead. “I wanted ice.”

There’s a split second where he almost lets his mask crack, says something shitty just because his mood was already sour before she walked over. Wooyoung doesn’t get the opportunity, however. Over the girl’s shoulder, someone gently intervenes: “Neat means no ice. You’d have needed to order it on the rocks.”

A beat passes, then comes, “Or — you know, with ice, please.”

Wooyoung neither hears nor cares what the girl says in response. She shuffles off, and that’s all that matters. Without her body blocking the way, he sees you clearly. You’re more done-up than usual, like you’ve just come from somewhere far nicer than here.

“It’s Saturday.”

Probably should’ve started with hello.

After eyeing the glowing, neon clock on the wall, Wooyoung notices that both hands are pointed skyward. He corrects himself, “Nah, it’s Sunday.”

You slip into the now-unoccupied stool ahead of him and nod, chuckling like you can’t believe it, either. When you settle in, you prop your elbow on the bar top, then your chin upon the heel of your hand. Just above, your eyes twinkle with a kind of mischief he’s never seen you wear before.

That might be the thin veil of tipsiness, actually.

Not that he’s complaining.

Wooyoung hides his amusement by bending over and rummaging through the under-counter refrigerator that hums beneath the register. The rush of cool air has nothing to do with how awake he suddenly feels. He wonders if you feel the same but can’t ask outright; eagerness isn’t his style.

“You’re here on purpose?” He asks instead, resurfacing with a bottle of soju — some new, fruity flavor he assumes you’ll like — and a raised eyebrow.

You hum appreciatively when you see what he’s holding. That soft sound that punches him right in the center of his chest with force. “I was out with friends, but…”

Your voice trails off, too distracted by his hand enveloping the seal-covered bottle cap. With a firm grip and quick twist, it’s gone. You’re still eyeing his hands, he notes, even though all they’re doing is holding the bottle.

Normally, he’d love to give you the benefit of the doubt and attribute your sudden fixation on the rings he wears. It wouldn’t be the first time a man in jewelry snags attention, complimentary or otherwise. Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately? — for you, Wooyoung forgot to put his usual accessories back on after this afternoon’s shower.

Nope, he thinks, biting back a wolfish grin. He’s not alone. You daydream about his touch, too.

Catching yourself staring, you shift atop your stool with a quiet, self-conscious laugh that sounds more like a sigh. He opts to let it go without further teasing, but he doesn’t let it go entirely. That breathy little noise echoes in his ears, drowning out the faint slosh of liquor as he fills your glass.

In a weak attempt to distract himself, he remembers your half-finished sentence and prompts with a low voice, “But?”

“They wanted to end the night.” You accept the glass into your hand from his and raise it slightly in thanks. “I didn’t,” you whisper, then bring the rim to your lips to cloak their upward curve.

Wooyoung would be lying if he said your tiny act of defiance didn’t send all the blood in his body rushing straight to his dick. Maybe it’s arrogant of him to assume that he’s the source of this newfound rebelliousness. The spark that lit the fuse, or whatever. Maybe that should bother him. Of course, it doesn’t.

In an effort to hide how strong of a chord your confession has struck, he gestures with one extended finger to the clock. Your eyes follow, and he leans in closer; the smirk you can’t see is still evident in his voice, he’s sure. “How much of a coincidence is it that you showed up right before the trains stop running?”

When your gaze flicks momentarily back to him, he spots a hint of surprise. This impeccable timing wasn’t a scheme at all, he realizes. Not a plot. If he had to bet, Wooyoung would guess that you’re never out late enough to know that the train schedule ends at all.

God, you’re going to give him a cavity.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Coincidentally, I know someone who gets off just in time to walk you home.”

“This gonna bother you?”

Having stepped out of the bar before Wooyoung, his question prompts you to look back over your shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised slightly out of curiosity. He lifts his right hand from his jacket pocket to reveal the half-spent pack of cigarettes he’d been storing there.

He expects it to, and to his surprise, he cares enough about that possibility that he doesn’t light up without asking in the way he normally would.

“In theory, yes,” you laugh, “because I’d prefer your lungs to be tar-free.”

“And in practice?”

You must not have expected him to note the distinction; you fluster. Grinning slightly, Wooyoung answers his own question on your behalf, “In practice, you find it kind of hot.”

He keeps his eyes on you as he pulls a cigarette from the pack — slowly, to test his hypothesis that you’ve got a thing for his hands — and then, Wooyoung slides the cardboard back into his pocket.

Your gaze follows while he gently places the filtered end between his lips. It stays put when he furnishes a lighter, holds the flame to the opposite side, and inhales. Turning his head to the side, Wooyoung exhales the smoke where it won’t reach you.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he assures you, eyes devilish. Deer in headlights that you are, you freeze but for the bob of your throat as you swallow. “I won’t make you admit it out loud.”

Yet.

Once he’s decided that he’s played with you enough for the time being, two of you head south, ambling under streetlights without any sense of urgency. Making up for lost time, maybe; picking up where the last Tuesday left off.

He can’t tell if it’s the alcohol making you more talkative than usual, or if you’re feeling the rush of your off-brand decisions, but Wooyoung’s fine with it, either way. You tell him about your week — in full and without hesitation — like you’re chatting to a friend and not someone you’ve only just started to encounter on a brief, twice-monthly basis.

You had a date this Tuesday night, he learns. It didn’t go well. Too similar, you explain with a wave of your hand. According to you, it’s boring to sit with you at a dinner table. Wooyoung looks pointedly at you as soon as he hears it, noting his disagreement. For a second, you assume something he doesn’t mean: that he enjoys his own company more than you enjoy yours.

“No,” he corrects you. “I just can’t picture dinner with you as something boring.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “Oh,” is all you manage in reply.

Wooyoung follows your lead across several more city blocks, hanging on every word you say in the meantime. When the pair of you reach the front of your apartment building, his cigarette is spent, but neither one of you is. He takes an extra step towards the garbage can near the door and drops the butt amidst the others in the lid, which doubles as an ashtray. A faint vein of smoke bleeds out until the dark sky laps it up entirely.

You look conflicted when he turns back in your direction. Clearly, you don’t want him to leave just yet, but asking him upstairs is likely way out of your pattern of behavior. Wooyoung sees two options: He could say goodnight and go; take a few steps towards his side of the city, and hope you to act even further out of character, or —

“If you’re asking, I’m saying yes.”

— he could go off-script entirely.

Your apartment looks exactly the way Wooyoung expected it to. Everything is cozy; a far cry from the modern and monochrome edge of his place. It all makes sense, based on what he’s learned about you so far. Feels like you, although he’ll concede that you haven’t been felt by him just yet.

Each shelf features a tchotchke or framed photograph — or several — but not a single speck of dust. Likewise, the various potted plants you’ve displayed artfully around the space are well-kept. Flourishing, he assumes, despite the fact that he doesn’t know shit about fuck when it comes to plants.

His shoes, ratty in comparison to yours, are toed off at the door before he follows you further into the kitchen. You stop at the island, bottom lip between your teeth once again. Unsure, you nibble on it, like it’ll help you set your dizzy mind straight.

When Wooyoung inches closer to you, he does it slowly, even though every part of his body demands that he ramp up the pace. As badly as he wants his hands — and his teeth, and his tongue…— all over you now, he can’t be the jump scare that sets your little bunny heart to sprinting. The adrenaline is practically vibrating off your frame already with every step he takes in your direction.

Though you could, you don’t move further away, the nearer he gets. You stay put with the small of your back against the lip of the granite counter, hypnotized. Right where he wants you.

Once he’s close enough, Wooyoung tests the waters. You let him; your gaze clings to him so strongly that he feels the weight of it without reciprocating. With his thumb and forefinger, he traces the belt loop closest to your left hip, then tugs slightly, making your breath quicken for a moment.

Eyes still focused on his own ministrations, he murmurs, “Am I the first stray you’ve ever brought home?”

You don’t answer with words. His gaze flicks upwards, and from under heavy-lidded eyes, he sees the tiny nod.

“Full of surprises.” He looks down again, purposely depriving you of eye contact, and moves his fingers from your belt loop so that the pad of his thumb brushes over the top of your jeans. There, the skin of your hip peeks out from under the denim, hot to the touch. “Not just sweet, are you?”

“Someone told me I needed a bad influence.”

The sudden re-introduction of your voice pulls his focus. You stare back at him boldly, and it feels like a dare. Both of his hands move to your hips now, simultaneously guiding you closer to his chest and keeping you pinned between his body and the island.

“You’ll miss your Sunday morning pilates, I fear,” he tuts with a slight shake of his head.

“You’ll make attending redundant, I hope.”

And then your mouth is on his, all tongue and teeth, while you card desperate fingers through his hair. It occurs to him, as he licks into your mouth, that the split-dyed strands you're clinging to are a microcosm.

Black and white.

Conflicting tastes, like sugar and salt, that only make sense together in certain contexts. Like this one — right here, right now — with the two of you tangled up in your half-lit kitchen, so caught up in exploration that inhibition takes the backseat. Steeping in the aftertaste of soju and cigarette smoke, scent heady like arousal.

You break the kiss to catch your breath but can’t make it very far. His teeth claim your bottom lip, pulling forth the softest little growl he’s ever heard.

“Fuck,” he echoes with a growl of his own.

That’s it. Breathing is overrated. Wooyoung’s ready to suffocate, so long as you let him.

“Lay back on the counter.”

You’re stunned into silence for a second, and while you blink back at him, he wonders if you’ll actually let him eat you out where you eat. It’s objectively filthy, he knows, but he might drop dead where he stands if he has to wait another second — or take another step elsewhere — before he tastes you.

Your answer is a leap, figuratively and literally. The hands you’ve been using to cling to him each flatten palm-down on the island behind you. With his grip on your hips to boost you, you scramble to your new stage; and you shatter the conservative expectations he had for you in the process.

A newfound confidence flashes in your eyes, making his stomach flip and his dick twitch. A patronizing frown graces your kiss-bitten lips. “You didn’t walk three kilometers here just to look at me, did you?”

He sure as shit didn’t. Still, he can’t help but bask in the odd sense of pride he feels in staring up at you on the pedestal he put you on. The more time you spend with him, the rougher you seem to get around the edges; and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t love the grit.

In lieu of a verbal response, Wooyoung locks eyes with you and gestures downward with the index finger of his right hand. You follow his silent command eagerly and without question; he keeps the praise you’ve earned on the tip of his tongue, saving it for later.

It takes less time than he expects to strip you of your jeans, most of which is attributed to slipping them off your ankles and dropping them blindly over his shoulder. They hit what he believes to be the range with a soft twack, then a barely audible crumple when they finally find the floor.

Your lace underwear disappears in a similar fashion, albeit more eagerly. Couldn’t be helped, he thinks. That scrap of fabric was the last barrier between him and the thing he’s been craving most since he met you; and fuck, if you don’t exceed his expectations once again.

“Christ,” is all he can say.

It’s rare to find a pussy so perfect that it wipes out his vocabulary, let alone makes him want to weep. That’s exactly what’s waiting for him when you spread your thighs wide enough to accommodate his body between them. Really, the only thing driving him more insane than the sight of you is the thought of how many self-imposed rules you’ve broken to get to this point — the self-discipline you’ve thrown out the window on your way down to him.

He accepts the invitation, descends upon your wet heat like a man starved, and loops his arms underneath your thighs. Immediately, your thighs tighten around the sides of his head, muffling the groan that slips out of him the second your taste hits his tongue. Just the same, you’ve got him drunk in an instant while he laves his way through folds sweeter than cherry wine.

From under his own lashes, he looks up and sees yours flutter at the sensation of his lips encircling your clit and suckling slowly, deeply.

“Oh, my g-god,” you hiccup before your fingers are in his hair again, nails scratching perfectly along his scalp. “You’re so —”

Wooyoung’s wickedly curved lips are slick in more ways than one, though he doubts you can see them through all those stars in your eyes. You don’t see the switch-up coming, either. Unwilling to let you race too far ahead of him, he scales it back, trading his deep pulls for targeted kitten licks.

“— evil.”

Your frustration rings out with a tortured whine. Wooyoung can’t blame you; he knows he’s cruel for guiding you so close to the edge, right out of the gate, then refusing to send you off of it. But he has to draw this out as long as he can, savor what he can for however long you give him.

And to your credit, you take it well.

You give, too, offering up the moans, whimpers, and sighs he couldn’t have dreamed up correctly if he tried.

Well…

Wooyoung did try. Gave it his best shot, even, but his imagination fell short. He knows that now. The pitch was wrong, the timing was off, and he failed to anticipate just how badly it’d fuck him up to feel you grinding against his tongue. To have your fingers tied off in his hair, refusing to accept anything less than closeness.

That particular chorus swells for the first time when he unwinds his right arm from where it secures your left thigh; and his middle finger slides into your cunt, curls upwards to greet that spongy patch of nerves along your front wall.

Eyes swimming with previously untapped desire, you look so pitifully perfect. Only breaking eye contact to throw your head back, you start to wail, “Wooyoung, I —”

But the rest of that thought must turn to static before you can finish it. Charged silence settles in its place, save for your ragged breathing. All the while, his tongue never lets up on your poor, abused clit, though your arousal already has him coated, leaking down over the knuckle.

A particularly needy tug of his hair seeks what you can’t verbalize.

More.

Closer.

When he adds his ring finger to fuck you further open for him, you can’t keep his name from spilling out of your mouth. Wooyoung starts to sound like a summoning spell; an invocation repeated so desperately that he just might give you what you want.

“W-Wooyoung, please,” you choke out, hips bucking up to chase his mouth. “I’m so close!”

The fact that you’re downright begging — on the brink of tears, no less — goes straight to his head. He lets up for a moment to purr, “Since you asked so nicely…”

The hand he doesn’t have half-buried in your heat grips your right hip, hard, securing you against the granite. It’s for the best, really. You jolt so much when he finally lets you cum that you could’ve knocked him out otherwise.

Not that he’d complain.

When the aftershocks peter out, and you gain back some control of your trembling limbs, you collapse back onto the countertop, chest heaving as your breath struggles to even out. One leg stays put, hinged over his shoulder, the best kind of dead weight; the other pools off the edge of the island, hanging limply.

Before pulling away entirely, Wooyoung presses an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh, suckling slightly — just enough to leave a calling card, though he doesn’t want anyone but you to know it’s there.

“You fucking menace.”

Your eyes flutter open and catch the way he’s grinning, the lower half of his face otherwise shining with a mix of spit and slick. With you watching intently, he licks his lips, simpering, “Think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear.”

“Deserved.” You sigh contentedly and close your eyes again for a second, but the blissed-out look on your face doesn’t dissipate.

Wooyoung wonders if you’re holding onto the image of him between your thighs, replaying it behind your lids. The sight of you is going to haunt him — then and now, before and after. Even if your stamina is depleted now, his appetite’s been sated. He can survive off of this moment alone for weeks if necessary.

But you summon the strength to stretch your arms over your head, to moan breathily while you arch your back off the counter and ease the tension in your muscles. Then, in a burst of vitality, you sit upright. Eyes alight, you give him a smile to match.

“Help me down?”

As if he’d say no to a question asked that sweetly.

You wobble when your feet touch the ground again and thank him when he snakes an arm around your waist to steady you. With a nod in the direction of what Wooyoung assumes is your bedroom, you beckon him, “Come with me.”

“That’s been the plan, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at him — another first — and take his hand in yours. Fingers intertwined, you lead and he follows through the adjoining living room towards a door on the far side of the apartment. The pair of you barely cross the threshold into your bedroom before you turn and tug his hand, pulling him into a kiss.

“Do me a favor,” you murmur against his lips.

Wooyoung has no questions about that — the answer is yes, no matter what the favor is — but there is something he’s wondering about: when you open your mouth against his, can you taste yourself on his tongue?

Distracted by that thought, and the way your free hand makes its way to the button of his jeans, he nods. It gives him the opportunity to swallow down the groan that builds in his chest when you squeeze his still-clothed cock.

Your mouth leaves his then, drops to the side of his neck. Something about the light nip of your teeth below his ear makes his resolve start to crumble. It only gets harder when the warmth of your tongue flicks over his skin to soothe the sting. He sounds fucked out already when he sighs, “Anything.”

“Let me repay you for all those drinks you never charged me for.” Between kisses down the length of his neck, you purr, “Not exactly subtle, you know.”

He clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping. “Have I been hustled?”

“Is it hustling if I offer to reimburse you?”

Knowing damn well what it’ll do to him, you flutter your lashes against his skin, forcing him to fight off a shiver. There’s no hiding the rush of heat that follows; he doesn’t need to ask to know that you feel it creeping up his neck. “I’ll make up for it,” you promise. “Atone, and all that.”

Wooyoung reaches up and cups your jaw with his hand; you follow his direction and look up at him with excitement twinkling in your eyes, juxtaposing the deep black in his. “I’m charging interest,” he bites back. “The rates are astronomical.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed. Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

With a light smack on your ass, he sends you on your way. In the few seconds it takes you to skip over to your mattress and jump onto it, he tugs his shirt up and over his head, then tosses it aside. Before unbuckling his jeans and tearing those off, too, he snatches his wallet from the back pocket. More specifically, the condom he’s been keeping within just in case you ever decided to stoop to his level.

You’re a second away from drooling when he makes his way over and stops at the edge of the bed. That kind of hunger is yet another thing he failed to see coming. There’s something insatiable in your eyes now, darkening by the second.

You reach out for the condom, but he pulls his hand back, holds it up where you can’t reach. Frustration makes your eyebrows pinch together. Out of context — if you weren’t naked, wet, and wanting him — he’d likely go out of his way to tell you how fucking cute you look when you’re annoyed.

“Don’t pout at me, sweetheart.” Wooyoung’s warning tone is gravel-lined, sharp to the touch when it hits you. Whether you intend it or not, your breath hitches in tandem with your pupils dilating. “I’ll let you do it, but I have one condition. Consider it a repayment term.”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing with intrigue. “And what’s that?”

“No hands.”

The surprised look he was counting on never comes. He gets sheer determination instead. You pull the packet from between his fingers, rip the foil open with your teeth, and flick the empty wrapper onto your nightstand. Not a second is wasted in you tugging his black briefs down his thighs.

You don’t deal in unpaid debts, either, it seems.

What happens next nearly puts him in an early grave. Wooyoung fucking wishes for a fly on the wall to witness you — someone else to memorialize the finesse you exhibit in working that latex down his length with your mouth alone — because he can’t believe his own eyes. In fact, he has to screw them shut to keep from cumming at the sight of you with his dick down your throat, lips flush to his pelvis.

“My god,” he groans, head dipping backwards. “If that’s how good your fucking mouth feels…”

You give him a second to pull himself together. Then, you wrap your hand around his wrist and pull him. He drops into the space you were occupying just a second ago, and as soon as his back hits the mattress, you steady yourself with your palms on his chest and position yourself over him.

Now, he can’t keep his hands to himself. His fingertips scratch up your thighs, leaving goosebumps along the fastidiously trained muscles underneath his touch. Palms gliding up the curve of your ass, then your waist, then those fucking tits.

“Shit,” you mewl. He lightly pinches your left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, spurring you on to rake your nails over the flesh of his chest. The way he tenses under your touch must embolden you. “Play with me all you want, but I need you inside of me now.”

Wooyoung has no idea where this assertiveness came from, but he’ll be goddamned if he doesn’t give you everything you want and then some. To prove that you’ve earned the lot, you line yourself up and take everything he has.

Somehow, you manage to take his vision, too. The world gets blurry as your heat envelopes him; everything in the periphery blackens until all that’s left is you throwing your head back in pleasure. No other light, no noise beyond the obscene sound of your pussy soaking his length and the collision of your perfect ass against the tops of his thighs.

As strong as you are, Wooyoung knows your orgasm will wipe you out long before your body tires. He sees your eyes start to roll back in your head, even when you put your palms down behind you and lean away from him to perfect the angle.

Not good enough, he decides. He wants to watch your pupils blow when you fall apart.

“C’mere,” he rasps.

Fuck, he’s about to break, too.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You push off your hands and move to lean in, but you wind up crumpling against his chest, immediately overwhelmed by the depths of his strokes when you re-enter his gravity. With the proximity perfected, every movement that follows is desperate — animalistic, even. Clinging fingers, sweat slicked bodies swapping searing heat. He lifts his hips to drive himself further into you with every downbeat, sets a pace so punishing that he has you speaking in tongues.

When you cum the second time, the moan that rips through you almost sounds like a sob. It really might be. The droplets on your cheeks are either tears or sweat; one or both would be justified, considering the show you just put on for him.

Shit, how you managed to blow his world to pieces just by walking into his bar, he’ll never understand. All he knows is that when he cums — not long after you — and his entire fucking body goes numb, you’re there on the other side of the cataclysm to kiss him back to life.

Sweet.

When you wake up, you don’t even have a guess as to what time it is. That’s your fault, you know. You didn’t think to connect your phone to its charger prior to falling asleep in a mess of sheets. The numerous alarms you always keep set didn’t go off, obviously, but right now, that’s the least of your worries.

Until your phone has enough juice to power back on, you won’t know if Wooyoung texted you before sneaking out of your apartment.

You’d taken it as a good sign when he asked for your number in a fucked-out haze. Now, you realize, that naivety of yours was operating in full swing, even when the rest of you was down for the count. That’s what one-night-stands are for, you tell yourself. That’s the decision you made.

Uncharacteristically, you’re tempted to spend the rest of your day — however much of it is left — rotting in bed. It’s an urge you’ll give in to, you can already tell; just like the one that got you here in the first place. The only thing stronger than the call of your bed is the grumbling of your stomach, begging for sustenance.

Sighing loudly, you throw your comforter off your lower half and wiggle towards the edge of your bed. Bare feet meet the braided rug below, then unsteady legs do their best to get their bearings. As you ache, you realize that you need to give credit where it’s due:

You’re currently in the best shape of your life, and Wooyoung still managed to fuck the constitution out of you.

You bend slowly to scoop a shirt from your untouched laundry basket, groaning all the while. On its own, it’s long enough to cover your ass, so you don’t bother to dress yourself further — except for the fuzzy slippers waiting next to your bedroom door.

It’s closed, you note when you finally bother to look at it. It wasn’t when you fell into bed with Wooyoung. He probably didn’t want to disturb you on the way out, you figure. This would strike you as thoughtful if it didn’t feel like a chapter ending too soon. Reaching out to reopen it, you tell yourself to be less sentimental.

In the living room, laying eyes on an empty kitchen, you also tell yourself, I told you so. This isn’t a drama, after all. There’s no love interest in your kitchen to cook you an unexpected breakfast.

Pre-made frozen breakfast sandwich it is, then.

You tear open the package with more effort than you should’ve needed to expend, then dump the single-serving lump onto a paper plate. As if on autopilot, you shove the plate into the microwave and smash a few buttons without registering much of it. The quiet hum of the machine nearly lulls you straight back to sleep.

Well, it likely could have.

The metallic rattling up the hall catches your attention, prompting you to step backwards so you can peer over at your front door and confirm that it’s locked. It is. You turn back to your breakfast in progress, and it takes five (5) entire seconds before you realize the issue here.

Keys jingle with more determination, right on cue. You spin around fully this time, eyes wide, to find Wooyoung in your doorway. He holds the door open with his elbow because both his hands are full; and as if that all wasn’t enough, he tries to toe off his shoes without being able to see them over the cardboard to-go tray in his hands.

“Fucking —” he grunts, wobbling.

It must’ve been louder than he intended because he winces immediately. In his moment of panic, his eyes flick over to your bedroom door. Then, when he realizes it’s open, they search for you, blinking in surprise when they find you. He peeps, “Oh.”

As it turns out, his ability to make you lose your words isn’t limited to late hours. The sun is beating through the sliding glass door to your balcony, and you confirm that you’re just as dumbstruck by him in daylight. So, you simply point to the drinks and paper bag he’s holding with your eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“Found that café you go to on Tuesdays,” Wooyoung explains gruffly. His morning voice is every bit as ruinous as you imagined it would be. “The logo on their cups is just a cloud, so it took a lot of wandering to solve that fucking mystery.”

This time, it’s you who peeps. “Oh?”

It’s then that he finally succeeds in getting his shoes off. With his hip, he nudges the door shut; your key ring chimes in the process, having been attached to his belt loop. In a few steps, he sets his burdens down on the kitchen island and looks up at you with a wicked glint in his eye. Apparently, his immediate thought is the same as yours. Simpering, he picks everything back up and makes for your living room’s coffee table instead.

“I’m glad to report that the green shit you drink doesn’t include algae or moss.” He lifts a smoothie from the carrier and holds it out to you, flashing you a smile that makes your knees wobble. “However, I regret to inform you that it does contain vegetables.”

If you try any harder to bite back your idiotic grin, you might lose your lips. “Did you — did you really think there was moss in it?”

He waves his hand dismissively. Notably, he doesn’t say no. That hand then lowers, finger crooked to beckon you closer. You move in, and you try to focus on the moment in front of you, rather than the obscene flashbacks the gesture gives you. The knowing look you expect doesn’t follow, though. Wooyoung simply places your drink in your left hand and your keys in your right.

“Sorry for borrowing those without asking or — well, notifying you in any way, whatsoever.” He grimaces. “I figured I’d be gone for a minute, and I didn’t want someone to waltz through your unlocked door and wake you up.”

“Was burglary on that list of concerns, or is sleep truly your main priority?”

At this, he grins like an idiot. “You’re getting better at that, you know.”

The look on your face must convey your confusion.

“I like the version of you that doesn’t pull punches,” he continues, sounding almost embarrassed to admit something about himself.

You take a move from his playbook and slide your finger through his belt loop, tugging him forward until he’s squarely within kissing distance. “This Wooyoung?” You murmur, “The one who got up early to hunt down a smoothie he’s disgusted by? Objectively likable.”

He rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t distract from the pink tint overtaking his cheeks. “I don’t know about that.”

You kiss him before he can offer to agree to disagree. And when you finally pull back, you nod firmly. “He might be sweet enough for me.”

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

ateez masterlist. multi masterlist. navigation.

tagging: @jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz @sourkimchi @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @notevenheretbh1 @borabitsch @bubbly-moon (also paging @moni-logues because i feel like woo is our sister wife, lmfao.)

#ateez #wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #wooyoung fanfic #wooyoung fic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung scenarios #jade writes #kvanity #re: whiskey neat

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