wurlii

[wurlii]

omg favourite writer on this platform???? AHHHHH i have no words, might cry bc of you later idk

you’re the sweetest, thank u so so much for reading + reblogging.

⋆ crush,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: can you read my mind?

cw: me being a WHORE, i think that’s it. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 0.3k

— you think his hands will ruin you first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ ⋆ ugh the work with your hands and malboro reds lyric has messed up my mind, i am SICK

[wurlii]

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

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

pls never stop drawing !!

touch

request for @wurlii 💜

[wurlii]

⋆ crush,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: can you read my mind?

cw: me being a WHORE, i think that’s it. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 0.3k

— you think his hands will ruin you first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

౨ৎ ⋆ ugh the work with your hands and malboro reds lyric has messed up my mind, i am SICK

[wurlii]

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

i’m on it🫡

[wurlii]

Crush by Ethel Cain reminds me of Sang Woo a little

Just thought I would share

i just listened to it and now i’m itching to write a drabble fixated on his hands #needthat

but also listened to the rest of the album bc i’d never listened to ethel cain and i was expecting.. more? i liked inbred ? but i don’t think her music is for me. maybe i’ll listen to another album and change my mind

thank you sm for sharing anon!!!

[wurlii]

hey can u write one about sang-woo where we are married and we cheat our husband with sang-woo(they are friend business with sang-woo) and we are on a business party dressed a little uncovered and sang-woo decides to f!ck us in a room. Ty

⋆ maroon,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: red dress, red mouth, and attention from the wrong man.

cw: infidelity, age gap, fingering, pinv, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, maybe exhibitionism idk, slight degradation. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 1.8k

— you stare up at your husband, lips already painted, smile feigned and set in place for the night.

you watch as his fingers weave around his tie, fidgety and twitching through the loops. stare at how his face falls when you ask if he’d like to help you pick a dress for the night, contempt carved in the lines of his face, laced in the gentle stitching of his freshly steamed shirt. his composure cracks in the confines of the fancy hotel room he thinks makes up for how he swears at you.

“the fuckin’ red one?” he pinches the bridge of his nose, throws his arm outward carelessly. “i don’t give a shit, just bother to look presentable.”

you make an excuse for him, try to rationalise that he’s nervous. worried his event won’t go as well as you reassure him it will. stressed in case the company’s networking isn’t successful. create an entire list of possibilities as to why your husband is no longer affectionate, acts like it’s a chore.

you don’t frown because your smile needs time to settle. you don’t furrow your brows when you catch the tail end of a phone call that had all too much to do with you, or when your eyes snag on the glint of his wedding ring abandoned on the bedside table just as you’re about to leave.

not until later when he’s sipping at the white of his wine and his laughter dies on his tongue and compliments slide off when his assistant arrives directly across from you both; then maybe you’ll consider feeling like a fool for listening to him when he said to wear red.

you pay attention to the swirl and pour of golden liquid, but your eyes are stuck on a silver that should be circling your husband’s finger. he leans protectively over glass, elbows propped up on the round, black table. listening intently to everything that falls from her mouth, like it’s scripture while your own belief falters.

“i’m sorry, i’m having the hardest time placing you,” she says politely. a dimpled smile and perfectly styled hair, manicured nail trailing the length of her boss’s arm. “are you a friend of this wonderful man?”

you stiffen, throat suddenly dry, but you tell her the truth. you don’t see a reason to lie to the pretty woman whose hand stills atop his. her eye twitches and he flares, chokes on his embarrassment. you wait for him to cough it back up, bite at the next words that leave your lips, humiliate you in his charming way.

“are you a friend of my husband’s? outside of work, i mean.”

his smirk returns and she grins at you from behind her martini glass, “something like that.”

“how unfortunate,” you moue and he casts you a glance meant to be a warning, before he’s collecting himself, straightening his spine when he notices a dark head of raven hair across the room.

arm creeping possessively at your waist, grip firm and too performative to offer you any comfort. he leans down and whispers something sweet at the hollow of your temple, loose reassurance that you nod along to as if it will soothe the ache in your chest. warmth absent from each syllable.

and then you see him.

hair neatly parted, suit jacket buttoned and thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. he looks like he belongs here more than anybody else, like the music had been orchestrated for his entrance alone. he’s stoic as the lights glitter and his eyes fall on you long enough to rob you of your breath.

you glance away as if you’ve been caught and your husband greets him with all the eagerness he never spares you. his handshake hardened, laugh rich with relief. “you made it,” he says, voice full of admiration.

“of course,” he says smoothly. and his gaze flickers when he answers. you feel it travel down the length of your body, pausing at the line of exposed skin your husband barely noticed when you stepped out of your hotel room. “wouldn’t miss it.”

your husband beams, already diving into conversation about numbers, investors and all the things that leave you cold. frozen and restless, not at all the wife he expects. you excuse yourself quietly, even though you know he’s not listening and feel sang-woo watch you leave.

the bathroom is bright and you steady your hands against the counter, lips pressed together, lipstick already smudged. the door clicks open behind you and you jump, breathing his name when you turn.

he steps inside, locks the door behind him.

“you’re married,” he says it plainly.

you scoff, your tears sting. “i know.”

he takes a step closer and the mirror betrays how your chest rises and falls. how your husband’s friend is close enough for you to feel the press of him, heat at the small of your back.

“then who did you wear this for?” he murmurs, thumb dragging low over the hem of your dress. “your husband?”

“that’s none of your business,” you try, but the words come out fragile and the cracks start to show. deepen as neglect twists in your gut.

sang-woo’s lips graze your ear, “do you want me to stop?”

you don’t answer him and his hands find your waist. fingers digging in with a certainty you’ve been starved of, the deliberant pressure and slide of his palms. his reflection is a shadow over you, suit still pristine, jaw tight.

“say you want me to stop.”

you shake your head and it’s all he needs. barely movement and a sound escapes him. then his hand is between your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress up until cool air ghosts over damp heat. he hisses when he feels the wet cling of lace, his fingers pressing against you through the fabric. you gasp in his impatience, grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

“soaked for me already,” sang-woo whispers, kissing just under your ear, tongue tracing the pulse hammering there. “and he can’t even see you.”

you bite your lip, trying to keep quiet as his fingers slip under the lace, sliding through your slick folds with slow, devastating precision. he finds your clit and circles it with the pad of his thumb, the pressure so good your knees buckle.

he catches you by the waist, holding you upright against the counter. “look at yourself,” he commands, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “look at how pretty you are when you’re about to fall apart for me.”

you watch your own mouth fall open as he pushes two fingers inside you, the stretch sharp and sudden, your body clenching around him greedily.

“fuck— sang-woo,” you moan softly and one hand clamps over your mouth as he pumps into you, curling his fingers just right, hitting the spot that makes your body stutter.

“shh,” he growls, nipping at the side of your throat. “you want someone to hear? want him to know i’m the one making you feel like this while he’s out there laughing with his pretty assistant?”

he says it mockingly and you drip shame on his fingers, you clench harder around him. it pulls a deep, satisfied groan from his chest.

“so fucking tight,” he breathes. “you’ll ruin me.”

he pulls his fingers out, slick and glistening, and you whimper at the loss. you’re about to beg, to plead for more, but he’s already unbuckling his belt with practiced ease, pulling his cock free. thick, hard, flushed at the tip.

“bend over for me,” sang-woo orders.

you obey, chest pressed against the cool marble, dress bunched around your waist. he steps in behind you, the blunt head of his cock teasing your entrance, rubbing through the mess he’s already made of you.

“sang-woo, please.”

“so polite for me now?” he sneers, a taunting laugh, grabbing a fistful of hair and yanking your head back just enough to meet your dazed gaze in the mirror. “just take what i give you.”

and then he’s inside you, filling you to the hilt in one brutal thrust. you cry out against his hand when he covers your mouth again, the sudden fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he growls into your ear, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin drowned only by the pounding music beyond the door. “like you were made for me.”

his pace is relentless, every thrust driving you further into the counter, the edge digging into your hips. your knees tremble, tears prick your eyes, but you don’t want him to stop.

“sang-woo— i’m—”

“i know,” he interrupts, voice ragged, thrusting deeper. a cruel blade of comfort that makes you forget about your husband. “come for me. i want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”

you obey with a muffled scream against his palm. he groans, losing his rhythm, burying himself inside you one final time as he spills deep, holding you there while you both tremble through it. he doesn’t move right away. his chest against your back, breath hot and uneven against your neck.

“look at you,” sang-woo whispers finally, peeling his hand from your mouth. “the perfect wife.”

your dress is still hiked up, lipstick smeared halfway across your cheek, and for the first time in a while, a natural smile curls.

[wurlii]

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

And he watches us all night and then decides to go with us to an hotel. (agegap, mentions of alcOh°l). Idk if it arrived.

it did!! i’m just ridiculously slow + have been neglecting the fics in my drafts bc i’ve had a really weird week, but once i’m finished the one i’m working on it’s up next :3

also, i started watching money heist korea bc of your comment and i’m on episode 7(?) and i cannot wait to write for berlin.

[wurlii]

fathers are difficult. could you write a little thing about sang woo comforting reader (who’s of age of course) about their dad’s wrongdoings? cause yall know why i like older men LMAO

idk i just need him to be soooo gentle and soothing

⋆ porcelain,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: nameless bruises.

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, toxic family dynamics, references to physical abuse — the wrongdoings i’ve picked aren’t vague (i think), dialogue is my death sentence, i feel inclined to ask if you’re okay anon. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 1k

— bruises twist under your eyes, spoil the reason you’re here.

they aren’t from the contours of his fists, but the familiar ache settles in your bones regardless. you feel the scratch of the apartment door against your knuckles and expect him to be annoyed when he opens it.

you’re stood shivering, with a voice too torn to speak, trained not to. face wet from the rain. that’s what you’ll say if he asks, but he just opens the door wider, without question. moves aside so you can slip past.

his apartment’s silent, like it always is. boring white walls, small amber light, thin sheet crumpled on the sofa that makes you wonder why it’s there. even if your mind wanders and you think you know.

he’s barefoot, padding closer on hardwood floors. still dressed in his work clothes, white shirt rolled clumsily on his forearms. “are you cold?”

you shrug and he watches you carefully for a moment, then nods to himself. tangled hair falling into his eyes.

“sit.”

you do and he disappears. leaves you wiping the sting from reddened skin, absentmindedly tracing the pattern of a worn pillow. there’s a reflex that tells you that you wanted to be hurt like this. that there’s a part of you that wants to make yourself smaller, settle into the quiet that sang-woo provides.

but then he returns with a ceramic mug in hand that you didn’t ask for and you flinch. the heat burns, it bites into the palm of your hand when you accept it, and he waits. settles beside you with the type of patience that does nothing but make you feel guilty.

your heart flickers, ignites a poison that makes you falter when you try to explain why you’re here. it’s like your body knows it’s saying something unfixable when your voice cracks open on the word dad. bleeds with the memory.

you can still hear him raise his voice at you, the catch of your breath, stifled sobs when you were too slow to avoid the flash of a fist. the hiss of a belt pulled too fast through loops.

a dinner table stained with an apology that you never got.

your dad had snapped, cursed and spat, and you look at sang-woo like he might know the reason why. nitpick how his eyes flicker, spark on certain words. burn holes into his coffee table.

you try to be funny. tell him something sharp, that you need to stop crying like a little girl, toughen up, grow a spine.

but he pats his thigh, sighs, “come here.”

his hand settles on your lower back when you crawl into his lap, cautious. his hands are cutting and he’s trying to best not to pierce skin. you’re expectant, waiting for forgiveness from someone who’s never tasted iron in their mouth. love leaking red.

he holds you, pressure on a wound. your body knows how to hold pain like it’s a secret so you shift in his arms, knees bent awkwardly and cheek pressed against his shoulder. but you’re new to the comfort and your own shoulders begin to shake.

a tremor, eyes squeezed shut. you press your face into his collar, buttons undone, and sob into his chest. it wrings itself out of you without grace, soaks into gauze.

shame festers, grows into something wilted and words echo. you let yourself cry, the kind that comes from somewhere you thought you’d hidden.

sang-woo rubs circles on your back, uneven strokes on your jaw, until your breath steadies, after your tears have dried and his heartbeat lulls you.

“do you want to forgive him?” he asks and you shake your head.

"i think i have to," you try. worrying at your bottom lip, tongue catching on the pattern, the bite of salt. "am i not supposed to? he's my dad. and i-i know, i am supposed to-"

"no."

"what?"

"no," he repeats. "that's up to you."

his eyes are dark. so thoughtful when he stares at what’s been left of you when you don’t argue. scathed from a home where paternal love’s been twisted into something that hurts you more than hatred. his touch is featherlight when he pushes hair from your temple.

settles a kiss on broken skin, whispers there when you’re curled in caged arms and don’t feel stuck.

“i’ve got you.”

౨ৎ ⋆ i think i missed the mark here and lowk hate this, but i hope you’re okay anon bc parents are difficult :( maybe i’m reading into it too much idk, stay safe

[wurlii]

i feel like you would write this perfectly, so i have a request. sang-woo comes home so frustrated and has his way with you but it is SO incredibly intimate and then afterwards he gets kind of vulnerable and just wants you in his arms and reassurance that you love him… maybe make him cry if you can… anyways i love your works and if you are uncomfortable writing this that’s completely fine!!

⋆ in between days,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: he needs more than he can admit.

cw: pinv, unprotected sex, creampie, submissive sang-woo, established relationship, overstimulation (he cries lol), glasses did not make an appearance D:, references(?) to religion, need him biblically after this and i’m agnostic. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 1.1k

— your morning is an apology.

following the slam of a door, the shapes of his shadow against the wall. unsure and scraped raw between clenched teeth, the rasp of his throat. you rub sleepily at your eyes, try to adjust to the glow of a light you’d left on for him, catalogue the way he strips himself of his clothes.

his silhouette in front of an artificial sun, bare skin and black briefs. the shirt you’d ironed for him yesterday morning now wrinkled on the floor and he reaches for you with hands that tremble. he doesn’t say anything else.

his palm is unsteady, splayed across your lower stomach. you’re warm under him, docile, and he wants to melt into your skin. there’s a heavy smell of whatever he drank on the way home and your brows furrow as his hand trails lower.

he cradles the slope of you, slides his finger over the wet patch on your underwear. he’s a puddle in your hands and you don’t know it as you arch into the feel of calloused palms.

sang-woo hikes up your t-shirt. it pools on your belly, ash grey that belonged to him.

“need you,” he breathes, breath hot between your legs. “let me be good for you.”

his grip on your thighs is harsh, contradictory to the softness in which he waits for you to answer. you nod, you welcome the burn of him, and his fingertips bruise. a hurried pull at your waistband, cotton sunken like the material of his tie, he presses himself against you.

notches his hips closer and bottoms out without a warning, pelvis flush to yours. hesitation in his restraint as he stills at the feel of you clenching around the stretch of him. he’s thick and he aches, breath stuttered against your cheek. his forearm braced beside your head, but you can feel the weight of him.

you shift, let your thighs part wider, split him open. he rocks his hips forward in a long, deliberate thrust like an offering. stifles a whimper at the shell of your ear.

with a naked chest flat against the front of your t-shirt, he withdraws. the slow movements ridding you of the feel of him throbbing inside of you.

“sang-woo..” you plead, tracing the hard line of his lips. a shallow prayer that he answers when he rolls his hips forward with a broken ‘god.’

his pace is urgent at the sound of his name, deeper. it’s like he’s sinking in the way your walls draw him in. there’s the wet catch of skin on skin, a quiet gasp when he hits that spot that makes your toes curl, legs hooked over the back of his.

you clutch at his shoulder blades, scratch your nails down the curve of his back. he marks the hollow of your throat with open-mouthed kisses. tongue smoothed over the beat of your pulse, latched onto skin. you moan and he thrusts on instinct.

“so good,” he shakes his head. “you feel so good — f-fuck — i’m not going to last.”

his rhythm falters, self-control thins and everything feels heightened. it’s still dark outside and you unravel him in the early hours. he’s an open wound and he bleeds onto you, tries to give you everything, cock dragging against that spot again.

his back is taut, slick with sweat. muscles twitch under your palms, so desperate in his thrusts. you adjust the angle and the arm beside your head gives out, mouth dropped to your shoulder. sang-woo’s reduced to the grind of his hips and the choked devotion leaving his lips.

“please,’ he pants, fingers sliding between you. “want you to come. wanna feel you.”

his thumb is clumsy when it finds your clit, desperate circles, but you tighten around him. pulse when he buries himself inside you, spills, cock twitching. you’re already leaking and he doesn’t pull out.

his body trembles in the aftermath, but he’s silent. you reach to push the sweat-damp strands of hair from his temple, stroke a tear from his skin, and press a kiss there instead.

he finds the hem of your t-shirt and bunches the fabric in his fist. salt stains his face when he ends your morning with another apology.

౨ৎ ⋆ i kicked my feet and giggled when i first read your request ngl ^-^ + i wish i could make this longer anon, but i’m a loser.

[wurlii]

I LOVE YOUR SANGWOO FICS PLEASE WRITE MORE!!

thank u so much!! guys send me requests so i can make ivy1309 happy

[wurlii]

⋆ geezer,

pairing: nam-gyu x fem!reader

summary: sleep comes easy to you. the same can’t be said for him.

cw: male masturbation, exhibitionism, noncon voyeurism, implied somnophilia, best friends to nam-gyu being a little freak. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 0.5k

— nam-gyu doesn’t consider the weight of your dad’s words when he makes an awkward joke past the food in his mouth, or the lines of his face, etched with his disapproval, contorting into a scowl.

the look he sends you at the sound of gentle laughter.

but he notices when it’s gone. as quick as the flash of teeth biting into your bottom lip.

he knows the man doesn’t like him much, it’s never really bothered him. not until his back was flat against the navy sleeping bag on your bedroom floor. hair strewn against the pillow under his head, sweat on his upper lip, and cock in his hand.

maybe he’s not good enough for you, the kind of guy that would violate your trust. the kind of guy that ensures his moans are loud enough for you to hear, hoping you’ll wake up to the sloppy sounds.

you’re lost in your sleep, face pressed against the ridges of your fingers, mouth parted and eyelids fluttering. even in your dreams you can’t escape how he studies you.

how you fuel his actions and that he’ll blame you for the buck of his hips meeting the pump of his hand. the throbbing that he can feel against his palm. leaking tip and precum smeared on his skin.

he’s red in the face, flushed in his makeshift bed, and he swears that you’re responsible. reasons that you’ve made him do something as pathetic as jerk off as you sleep peacefully. unsuspecting and adorned in a thin blanket. wrapped in the walls of your room and nam-gyu can’t look anywhere else.

clothes tossed on the floorboards, posters torn at the corners, your door wide open.

his dick twitches when he finds the trail of drool on the side of your mouth, the wet spot beside your jaw and the dark patch staining your pillow. the pump of his hand speeds up, rutting into his palm uncontrollably, his breath hitching.

your name leaving his mouth with strangled groans. stomach, thighs and sleeping bag painted white.

and the heavy feelings in the aftermath are all he can consider when he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, and he knows that he’s done something wrong.

but it’s nam-gyu, and he can’t help it when he thinks of what it would feel like if it was your hand in place of his.

[wurlii]

⋆ i wasn’t there,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: he’s older, tired, and unraveling in the driver’s seat.

cw: midlife crisis, age gap ofc (reader calls him old man once), pwp, car sex, p in v, unprotected sex, submissive sang-woo, i think i just made him sad, exhibitionism ig? glasses stay ON, i'll probably never ever get over this man. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 1k

— he's slumped in the driver's seat when you open the car door.

bloodshot eyes ahead with an undone tie and grown out hair. he sits with fidgeting fingers and the smell of cheap motel soap, rain on the shoulders of his suit jacket and his face hollow. you reach over to brush your hand against the unfamiliar shadow of raven stubble on his jaw.

"did you miss me?" you're teasing, hand travelling to the stiff slope of his neck, you smile small when he leans into the feeling of your skin on his. "i've been thinking about you."

his lip twitches downward, fighting his own tired smile.

your hand drifts lower, to the damp material of his folded collar sticking to his throat. his thighs part, knee knocking the centre console, when your fingers glide over the sharp crest of his ribs. he turns to you then, red engulfing the black of his eyes. purple marring pale skin and glasses low on the bridge of his nose.

sang-woo's breath hitches when you reach for his belt, the typical line of his lips parted into something sweet. welcoming in a way that forces you to crawl into his lap.

"say it," you whisper in the space between you. unbuttoning the seam of his dress shirt with lazy precision.

"i missed you," he rasps.

his voice frays near the end, lips still split around the threads of his restraint when you push his shirt off his shoulders. material stretched against the broadness of his arms.

you don't wait to kiss him when you spread your knees to straddle him properly, dress bunched up, framing the lilac marks littering your inner thighs. his mouth rushes to cover yours, but you suck on his bottom lip, smirking into the prominent pink.

he curls his hands around your waist, still clothed in a desperate grip. your hand travels to grip at the hair on his nape, the other squeezing between the buckle of his belt and abdomen. he lets out a sound akin to a sob and you melt further into his lap.

"condom," you breathe. "do you have a condom?"

he shakes his head, pushes his glasses up.

"we don't need one."

you lick at his skin, there's the taste of salt and soap on your tongue and he lifts his hips. pulls his slacks low enough and lets you grind against him.

he's hard beneath you, shifting under your weight. his hands start to tremble when you drag the head of his cock over cotton, unhurried. his forehead falls forward into crook of your neck with a small plea.

you tease, your head tilts. "what?"

"just need to feel you," he says again, toying with the sides of your underwear. "please."

you pout at him with the same ease it takes you to sink down onto him and he bites into your bare shoulder. teeth marks on skin, dried spit on bone.

he throbs inside you and you rock your hips, lower back hitting the steering wheel as the car trembles with it. you stretch around him, painfully aware that you're so full. he's buried in you, an angel above him and you moan heaven into his ear when he lifts you just to slam you back down.

"sorry," he pants, but he's so deep and so needy that you don't work out why he's apologising.

you settle at the base of him, tangling a hand through damp hair, trying to adjust to the size of him before moving again. his hands wander, fixed on your lower back, supporting your weight when you finally shift.

you're all-consuming and he curls into you, watching as you rise, bouncing up and down on his cock. his tip greedy and kissing at your cervix, desperate jerks to match your rhythm.

you can feel how close he is, breath shallow and sharp exhales in the hollow of your throat every time your hips snap back down onto his thighs. his glasses are foggy, lower on his nose and he doesn't stop to fix them.

his mouth's aching for somewhere to go. the curve of your jaw, your collarbone, cheek. he moans into flesh.

he thrusts up once, eager and too hard. your nails digging into the span of his shoulders. he's frantic, teeth clenched. "sorry. fuck. i'm—“

you cut him off with another rock of your hips, cunt slick along his length and he shudders. his whole body jerks, twitching up into you. he's so deep you swear you can feel another apology forming behind his teeth.

"don't— please, don't stop-"

he's whining and you clench around him, your spine arching. your hand falls to his chest, you can feel the beat of his heart in your palm.

you lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "you going to come inside me, old man?"

you ask it sweetly and he breathes it in.

"please, i need to," you slide down on him one more time, slow until your thighs meet again, and he goes rigid.

he finishes with his face buried in your shoulder, arms tight around your waist, cock pulsing inside you. he moans your name one more time and you don't let him soften.

you're full of him, come dripping between you and you don't stop moving. sang-woo whimpers, sensitive so early and you smile.

"my turn."

౨ৎ ⋆ based on a request i can no longer find :P

[wurlii]

⋆ my library,

𖦹 albums | cattails. more coming soon…

𖦹 books | alice in borderland. squid game. the last of us. the walking dead.

[wurlii]

Hello i have a request can u write one about cho sang-woo where he have a young son and we are engaged, and then we start having a relation with his dad smut and age gap ty.

⋆ everytown there’s a darling,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: town saint, house devil; his darling.

cw: infidelity, oral (m!receiving), implied age gap, sang-woo in a dress shirt and his slutty little glasses bc i can’t help myself, i need him so bad. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 0.6k

— you’re polite smiles and timid handshakes.

warm skin at the dining table when his hand brushes yours. his blood heats and his lungs burn when he takes a drag of his cigarette, replaying the shy smile when his son plants a kiss to the apple of your cheek.

his composure slips and there’s whitened skin around the slick metal of his fork. you’re apologetic when your gaze shifts to narrowed eyes displayed through glass and he’s stoic in the creak of a wooden chair.

all he can hear is choked sobs and muffled gags when he stares at the hand his son rests on your shoulder. the stroke of someone else’s thumb against your collarbone and your open palm wrapped around his cock. mouth stretched around the tip and your chin wet with your own saliva, precum glossed on the seam of your lips.

willing and knees pressed into tile, sang-woo’s hand lost in the tangles of your hair as the other grips the countertop. he feels the light graze of your teeth and his hips buck forward, tongue at his cheek, glasses slipping on the bridge of his noise.

eyes teary when he continues the assault on your throat, cock cradled on the pink slip of your tongue.

“s’pretty,” he mumbles and your pace falters. nails digging into the back of his thighs, his head tipped back against the cabinet.

he stutters your name in the dark like you aren’t there and you hum around him.

the wet heat of your mouth is ruin, and the subtle ache in his gut, a reminder that you’ll blush under an easy grin from his son when he calls you his girl, is ignored when he picks up his pace.

“f-fuck..” his jaw’s tense. restraint wavers, “look at me.”

his open palm is on your jaw when you open your eyes and there’s no guilt when he finishes with a strangled groan. thumb tracing where your throat bobs, patient when he feels you swallow.

you fall back on the heel of your socked feet. he breathes hard, glasses crooked and the material of his dress shirt stuck to the gleam of sweat on his abdomen. neither of you speak and your fiancé’s voice breaks the silence.

your name lazy on his lips, dry with exhaustion. never said like his dad. your knees still sting, scalp sore, throat cramping when you glance at the staircase.

you quickly adjust the thin fabric of your sleep shirt, fingers wiping at the corners of your mouth, you even bother to smile at him. twitchy like you’ve been caught with your mouth wrapped around him. he hates it.

he hates himself. resents the thoughts that keep him up, the way his dinner has turned to rot in his stomach when he thinks of how much his son spoils you. how it’d be easy for him to do the same when he melts into the folds of spoiled fabric as white as the splatter on his stomach and hand.

you’re stifled moans and the glint of an engagement ring he helped his son pick.

you’re not his.

౨ৎ ⋆ i’m desperate for u to like this anon.

[wurlii]

⋆ guidelines,

౨ৎ ⋆ requests + rules:

𖦹 what i won’t write | please do not send me requests that include vomit/scat/piss, ageplay, illegal age gaps, race play, incest/stepcest (it’s the same thing whether you want to admit it or not and should NEVER be romanticised), cnc or rape, necrophilia etc.

𖦹 what i will write | anything that hasn’t been listed above, unless i’ve forgotten anything specific. don’t be scared to ask + i’ll do my best to answer. i’m open to writing about anything that isn’t listed.

𖦹 status | open!

𖦹 fandoms | alice in borderland. squid game. the last of us. the walking dead. potentially breaking bad/bcs.

𖦹 etc | i’ve only ever written fem!reader, but open to gender-neutral!reader. i’m not interested in writing male!reader.

detailing your requests is so, so helpful.

please be patient.

𖦹 dni | if racist, homophobic, transphobic, bigoted in any sense of the word. minors dni.

[wurlii]

hi could you write one about cho sang-woo: we are a young girl (20) and he decides to take us to the motel for f*k (smut/humping) ty.

⋆ look don’t touch,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: there’s detachment in the way he likes to do things, but your lack of restraint is making it hard.

cw: dry humping, female masturbation, implied age gap, degradation if you squint, teasing. lowercase intended, no use of y/n.

word count: 0.7k

— the curtains are drawn tight, but the glow of the streetlights leak through the damp room.

his back is straight against the headboard and the top buttons of his shirt are undone. gold light slices across his bare chest and you feel so small, straddled across his lap.

“don’t pout,” he murmurs, his voice scraping deep at the base of his throat.

he toys with the hem of your skirt, puddling on the top of your thighs, the pads of his fingers skimming over the span of soft skin. your need drenched through cotton and dragging against rough fabric as you roll your hips defiantly.

he exhales hard through his nose, grip tightening when you fail to stifle your whimpers. his eyes are dark as he listens, pupils simmering and hands boiling where they move to rest on your waist. one shifting to rest flat on your stomach, thumb brushing just under your ribs.

your knees dig deeper into the mattress underneath him, legs shaking with the effort. his eyes flick downward to the press of your clit against the seam of his zipper, the metal unforgiving as you push harder.

“you’re making a mess,” he’s hard under you, thick and straining against his slacks, and he says it like it’s your fault, but you feel him every time you move.

sang-woo leans his head back, the stretch of his bare throat glittering the same way his chest had. shadows catch on the cut of his jaw, stubble growing there, and you rock your hips again. “just so greedy.”

you try to respond, but your mouth falls open around the words, pulling a sound from the both of you. it’s sharp, quiet and wrapped in the shame of having to meet somewhere neither of you will talk about when you leave.

you don’t discuss the flower patterned curtains or the disconnected phone on the nightstand, the lingering smell of what strangers had done before it was your turn. you can’t when sang-woo shifts his hips up into you, tilting to press himself deeper.

your forehead falls forward near his neck, you whine and his hands don’t leave you.

“so pathetic.”

“please,” you breathe, voice broken in the static.

both of his palms travel to your hips, dragging you forward harder. your cunt’s swollen, soaked through cotton and flooded on his tailored slacks. the rhythm’s sloppy, messy with slick and startled gasps.

“you going to come like this?”

you nod without thought and he groans.

you grind down harder, the zipper still where you need him to be. the heat in your stomach twists, legs trembling where they cage his hips. “rubbing your pussy all over me?”

his hands flex, holding you down, forcing you to stay pressed against his cock. his jaw ticks and his thigh flexes under you. he shifts his head, ghosts a kiss hot at your temple and he doesn’t stop moving you. he can feel you getting closer when he mutters, “you like it messy, hm?”

it’s written in the way you rock against the outline of him, carved in the way you can’t close your mouth.

“like ruining me?”

you’re helpless, chasing friction with short, tight circles on his clothed thigh. your own are aching.

his hand leaves you for a split second and in the panic to feel the familiar, calloused touch, you reach for his wrist, collapsing into his chest when the heel of his palm grinds against your centre.

“sang-woo,” you cry into the gleam of skin at his collarbone.

“i know,” he says quietly. “i’ve got you.”

at his words, you come with a choked sob and his cock’s still hard beneath you. untouched as you slow the roll of your hips, your face buried in the curved of his shoulder.

you’re still panting as he sighs into your hair, cradling the back of your neck as your eyes flutter closed.

“so good.”

౨ৎ ⋆ sorry if you hate this anon D: thank you for requesting regardless!

[wurlii]

⋆ stand so close,

pairing: jesse x fem!reader

summary: close enough to hurt.

cw: slight angst, jealousy, yearning bc a man that yearns is a man that earns (just not rn :3). no use of y/n, lower case intended.

word count: 0.6k

— jesse watches. he doesn’t think he can do anything but watch.

especially not when your shoulder’s touching somebody else’s as casually as it does his. he thinks he’s going insane admitting it in his head, letting the thought simmer long enough that it melts and manifests in the clenching of his fists. you’re smiling and he doesn’t know why. you’re smiling so hard and his heart’s starting to feel heavier in his chest.

he’s working and he can’t focus when fucking ryan’s eyes linger longer than his do.

you glow in the sun and jesse’s skin is burning. part of him doesn’t even need to wonder why no one else can take their eyes off you, but he wants to hide you behind the broadness of his shoulders. shield you from the unapologetic stares of jackson in the shade he’d created.

he holds his axe tighter when you bat your lashes at the sandy haired boy, tries to shake every thought of you out of his head. turns to the eldest miller he can bet has already called his name about five times.

“so, you can hear me?” tommy jokes, eyes drifting to where he’d been staring as if the first thing he wanted was another pair of eyes on you. he knew it was probably the last thing from rational to feel what he did, and truthfully he didn’t care.

he couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t figure you out. you were an anomaly in his typically organised brain. he hated not knowing. despised the ache he’d get in his chest when you looked at him longer than you were supposed to. but he decided it was worth the sleepless nights when you did.

he ran his gloved hand through sweated hair, “uh, yeah, what’s up?”

“lunch in five,” tommy reminded with a slap to his upper arm and a knowing laugh before walking away to inform a few more of the workers. some stuck working til’ they returned.

he sighs, standing still long enough that his jealousy curdles in his veins, feels hot in his forearms. five minutes, he has five minutes to scrub you from his mind.

he wipes his palms on the scratch of his jeans and tries to think of anything else. how many planks of wood they’ll need to fix the fencing or if tommy would let him skip the late patrol, but you creep back in like sunlight. casting over everything.

your smile, your laugh, your shoulder.

you catch his eyes when you finally start walking over. not on purpose, but you continue to look at him with a softness that means he won’t be able to sleep tonight either.

“you good?” you ask breathlessly, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. you squint up at him in the light, face glistening and dirt caked on the cut of your cheekbone. he feels like he can’t stand any longer.

he shrugs, “yeah, just tired.”

“you look pissed.”

“you always say that,” he grumbles and you furrow your eyebrows, holding your hands up sarcastically.

you smile at him and it gnaws. there’s crinkles around your eyes and he’d rather break his back hauling timber than admit that it makes his insides twist.

“lunch?” you motion to the mess hall and he nods, swallowing hard. your shoulder nudges his bicep as you walk and this time jesse doesn’t need to clench his fists.

but he does, because it helps fight the nausea that tells him you might never feel this way.