wurlii

[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.

[wurlii]

⋆ cattails,

౨ৎ ⋆ tracklist:

1. cattails | kang dae-ho.

2. spit | cho sang-woo.

3. quiet | the salesman.

4. stand so close | jesse.

⋆ pretty jane.

[wurlii]

⋆ cattails,

pairing: kang dae-ho x fem!reader

summary: reality bleeds.

cw: post rebellion dae-ho, angst, themes of cptsd. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 0.6k

— the sky is blue and the sun spreads like golden honey on the overgrown grass.

you’re barefoot, adorned in a dress as white as the clouds and the wind kisses at the hem, tickling your calves. your hair is as wild as your eyes as they roam over all the different plants that stroke the skin of your ankles. the soles of your feet are caked with mud, sticky in the soil, and dae-ho smiles a few feet away.

his hair is wet from the lake, darker than it usually is, clinging to the nape of his neck and the sides of his face. you call his name in the hopes that he can see you amongst the sea of green drowning you, but it’s never been difficult for him to find you. warmth trickles into your chest when his smile brightens.

the bows formed from the fastening of your dress straps dance at your collarbones when you run to him, beaming with excitement. you can already feel the heat radiating from his hands before he’s even gripped your waist. his touch is soft, feather-like while he’s attempting to push strands of hair from his temple.

you place an assertive palm on his chest, “do you miss me?”

he wrinkles his brows in confusion, a bewildered stretch of a smile, his eyes shift back and forth between your own. “i’ll always miss you, but you’re here. i don’t need to.”

you don’t argue, scrunching the bridge of your nose when he bends forward to kiss it. light bleeds over the two you and you squint up at him. there’s blatant adoration in the way his eyes kiss each of your features and you’re certain there will never be darkness here, even when you know better than the man that doesn’t think there’s anything to know.

he flinches quietly when you reach to tuck a strand of hair he missed, his ponytail messy, but the whispers of his ghosts are loud when you take him by surprise.

you find his strength in your distractions, “what are you going to do when you’re out of here?”

“hopefully dry off,” he jokes and he expects you to laugh. he’s confused when you don’t, instead you follow the drop of water that’s clung to his skin. a path glistening on its way to the edge of his chin.

“no,” you shake your head gently, finger collecting the water that’s yet to fall. “look around.”

he does, pretending to know what you’re talking about and you glance over the broadness of his shoulder.

you pull away, his grip loosens without thought, but he tries to pull you back. when he notices the sun get darker, he tugs at your wrist but there’s no heat, he squeezes and he can’t feel the way you burn. even in the sun, you’re not warm.

he can’t feel the bone his thumb always flickers over and the flames in his hands are sweat. he’s grasping at air and there’s panic reflected in the calm of your eyes.

“please,” he rasps. his fear twists into desperation and his palms are stained red.

the sun’s faded completely by now. he wishes he’d held you tighter when there’s nothing but the black of the room left and the sounds of distant gunshots.

distant pleas and his dread.

[wurlii]

⋆ quiet,

pairing: the salesman x fem!reader

summary: there’s blood on his skin and something heavier in his pocket, and your obedience means survival.

cw: games winner reader, oral (m!receiving), coercion, sadism, dubious consent. no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 1.1k

— he’s already inside your apartment by the time you get home.

shirt unusually dishevelled, hair tousled and the angle of his jaw blemished. he’s made himself at home at your dining table, a mug that would look too small in his bruised hands sitting empty in front of him, a ring of condensation on the wood.

his suit jacket is folded over the back of a chair he asks you to sit in. you don’t ask him how he got in when you oblige, you know better, and there’s a lopsided smirk on his face when he notices.

it’s small, clinical, and almost sad.

“check my breast pocket,” he orders and you try not to flinch.

you do hesitate and it’s a threat to your composure. his smirk twitches, it deepens and burrows into muscle.

“go on,” he continues.

your hands are careful, jacket warm under the weight of your back. it’s damp near the collar and the inseam is ripped. it smells faintly like sweat, a lot like rain and the sharp scent of something metal. cologne too, cutting through your senses and worn down to the bone.

you fish for the beige card, thin, but heavy with expectation.

“you’re bleeding,” you speak to fill the silence. eyes flicking to the skin splitting in a neat crescent. it’s the indent of someone’s ring and you wish it made you feel better.

“no,” he corrects. “that’s just a scratch.”

his voice is gentle, and you divert your attention to the print of black ink. three shapes you’re unfortunate enough to see again in the same order.

he leans back like he’s bored of your reaction, the chair creaks under his weight and his shirt gapes near one of the buttons. there’s a flash of his ribcage, hints of pale skin that’s never been burned.

you sigh in the quiet, and he searches for that pause. finds your instinct to run and holds it in the palm of his hand. his expression doesn’t change, but something in you does. you narrow your eyes, colour darkening, and you want to hide under the table like a small child. he’s playing a game you want out of, rules hidden, buried under your own curiosity.

you shake your head, “no.”

“no?” he laughs dryly. you tighten your grip on the card, it crumples faintly at the corners. he says your name with a pout, mockingly like he’s disappointed. you feel cursed.

“i can’t,” you murmur and it’s cracked.

it’s his turn to sigh when he rises from his seat. he hovers behind you, warm breath at your ear, fingers curling at your chin and toying with your bottom lip. he still wears half a smile. “i’m not forcing you.”

you’re not sure if he’s referring to the games or what you’re about to do to get out of them so you just breathe. uneven and whispered.

you look up at him through wet lashes. waiting for him to offer another way. something that isn’t as cruel, cleaner than what you know is your only option. he tilts his head to the side. everything about him is taunting.

he drags the chair back, making enough room for you to move. to stand, leave or kneel, and you hate that your body knows exactly which of the three he’s waiting for.

you drop the card, your stomach drops and you drop lower.

the floor is cold, he’s colder, but your hands find his thighs. his belt is already undone and you don’t question how you missed the clink of metal. his slacks hang loose enough to suggest that this idea had occurred to him hours ago.

he exhales through his nose and his hands find your jaw again with the same practiced touch you imagine he uses when he straightens his tie. his thumb presses and his cocks strains against the fabric, tamed behind expensive tailoring.

“good girl,” he grins, and it’s almost reassuring. “i knew you had it in you.”

you drag the zip of his trousers, hoping that the shake of your fingers doesn’t give anything away. there’s no rush or guidance when his cock finally springs free. hard, thick and flushed at the tip. it’s the kind of size that your mouth would remember the day after.

when your fingers wrap around him and he hums low in his throat. it’s rich and familiar, a craving he hasn’t felt since his last threat of the games.

your lips part to take him in your mouth, salt on your tongue. his hand moves to your hair. he holds it there. a reminder that he can take more, set the pace. if it weren’t for the enjoyment he felt in your hesitance.

he groans when you hollow your cheeks, muttering something intangible, head tilting back.

you take more, jaw aching already, but you push deeper. your tongue flattening on the underside of his cock. his hand tightens in your hair possessively.

you gag when he goes deeper and doesn’t pull back. “you choke so pretty.”

then he starts to fuck your mouth. controlled thrusts that blurs the line between reverence and use. every sound he makes is for you, whispers of your name entwining with sin he has no problem tasting.

he comes suddenly, sharp breaths and a wrecked moan heaved from his throat as his hips jerk forward. his release hits the back of your throat and you try not to gag.

you swallow.

he stays still for a moment. hand stroking through your hair, softening in your mouth, chest rising and falling. then he steps back to tidy himself up.

he crouches, mouth returning to the shell of your ear. “you’re not going back,” he grins. “you’re staying here and you’ll be good for me, yeah?”

your knees are bruised. you nod.

“clean yourself up,” he plants a dry kiss to your cheek. “i’ll make more tea.”

[wurlii]

⋆ spit,

pairing: cho sang-woo x fem!reader

summary: where words fail.

cw: pre-games sang woo, guilt, oral (f!receiving), angst, established relationship, ooc sang woo? no use of y/n, lowercase intended.

word count: 0.5k

— he’s on his knees and his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. pale skin under the thin, wired frames. he pushes them up clumsily with the pad of his index finger, a printed smudge on the previously spotless glass.

you smile fondly at the way he avoids your eyes, his own darting wherever they can find comfort, and you bring the pad of your thumb to smooth over the furrow in his brow.

“what are you thinking?” he thins his lips at your question, your voice a soft whisper that he fights the urge to play again. and again.

he shakes his head in response, removes his glasses, and the silence stretches in the dark. gentle breaths slipping from the back of your throat, the pink of your tongue swiping over your bottom lip, and he finally looks up at you.

he stares with something unreadable. devotion in the black of his eyes that you’re none the wiser to and guilt in the way his hands tense in the parting of your thighs.

he feels his heartbeat in his skin, calloused atop yours. his palms are hot and although they’re steady, there’s something bruised and broken in his desperation to please.

you’re already aching and when his mouth is finally on you, it’s tender. punishing. you pull at his hair, and he groans into you, a deep sound that makes your hips buck. his fingers dig into you as he licks slow, unrelenting circles, sucking your clit like he’s trying to erase something.

it’s greedy and he doesn’t shy away when you’re close, searching for forgiveness when you gasp his name. and when you come, crying out and trembling, he stays to swallow everything that you can give him.

when you look at him again, his chin is slick, lips reddened and swollen. he doesn’t wipe his face, tries to meet your eyes.

his are fixed on your face, unmoving as they drift over your features. they’re glistening, a detail noticeable even in the darkness of the room.

then he mumbles an apology into your inner thigh and all you can do is pretend you know what he’s talking about. comb through his hair and play along. settle an open palm under the fabric of his wrinkled dress shirt. watch as smoke curls into the air on your shared bedside table.

completely oblivious to the light brown card in the pocket of his slacks with smudged shapes.

[wurlii]

⋆ welcome,

𖦹 about | willow. 8teen. she/her. uk. unlabelled. aquarius. dominic fike enthusiast. lurker. slowest writer on earth.

𖦹 links | masterlist, guidelines.

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