#was testing out brushed and i liked the softness

[barnacles34]

A Bourgeois Comedy

Male Reader x NJZ Haerin x NJZ Minji

18+ smut

a/n: I've been intensely sick these past days. Finally feeling better. Here's a little piece I did while I was sick. <3

IMPORTANT UPDATE

---

'Got a spare ounce of willpower?'

Minji didn't look up. 'Fresh out. Used it all resisting the urge to close this door.' 

'Harsh. What about caffeine? Any spare?'

'Machine's down the hall. Unless you've forgotten its location in the last twenty minutes?'

'Remember the location. Lack the motivation for the journey.' You leaned a shoulder against the frame. 'It's a whole thing.'

'Uh-huh.' Minji’s keyboard: click, click, tap. 'So you're just going to stand there?'

'It's low-energy loitering. Environmentally friendly.'

Her typing stopped. 'Go loiter somewhere else.'

'Can't. My energy reserves are critically low. Need a jumpstart.'

She finally turned her head. 'And how, precisely, do you plan on achieving that?'

'One second. Just a hand-hold. For sustenance. Come on.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because.' Her fingers paused over the keys. A hesitation. 'No. Just… no.'

'Is it the wilting? Maybe I should get these dark circles fixed? Would that help my case?'

'No. Don't do that. Please.' 

'Ah, the first 'please' of the day. Mark it down.'

'Ugh.' Just a grunt.

'You know, I know a Dr. Kim. Gangnam street. Supposed to be good.'

A laugh finally escaped her. 'You’re impossible.'

'Wrong. Minji,' you held out your hand, palm up flat. 'See this? Put your hand here. Just for a second. Scout's honor, no biting.'

'You're such a damn dork.'

'And you're a total loser.' You pulled the door closed behind you.

Half-teasing, half-hope. That's the tightrope you walk. Minji's rule is simple: cross the line, you're gone. Permanently. But you haven't been booted yet. You keep pushing, and somehow, you stick.

—

Later. Deep into the evening. She’s curled against you on the couch - soft fabric, faint flowery scent, warm. Some dumb dog grooming competition plays, unnoticed. You lean into her warmth, let your breath out, a little too heavy.

She shifts.

Then, she stilled completely. 'Okay.'

'Okay, what? Finally admitting the poodle deserved that ribbon?'

She turned her head, slow. Her gaze locked onto yours. 'Okay. Kiss me.'

'...Say again?'

'Kiss. Me. Simple concept, right?' She paused, her lips looking tangible in the worst way possible; and her next word slipping out quieter, almost desperate, 'Please?'

You scanned her face. No joke. No test. The usual script, ripped up. The Tom & Jerry routine dissolved. Her expression wasn't asking; it was direct, almost impatient. She just upended the world and expected you to keep up. That look. Yeah. That did it.

You had to get the last word, had to twist the knife just a little before you - inevitably - lost yourself. 'Right now? During the Shih Tzu semi-finals? Classy, loser.'

Then your mouth was on hers, and the world dissolved.

Soft. Unbelievably soft. Faint sounds vibrated from her throat into your mouth. Pulling back felt like surfacing, gasping for air. You saw her then: wrecked, face flushed bright pink, heated, a touch of stunned deer in her wide eyes. She just watched you, breathing unevenly. Her hand came up, thumb brushing, feather-light, across your bottom lip. Her eyes, implacable; her fingers, gliding along the firmness of your face.

'Right,' she said. Squeaked, almost.

Then: 'Love me.'

There was no air between you anymore. Lips like candy, velvety, gliding sickeningly sweet against yours. 

—

There were days. You think. You lost track anyway; waking tangled with Minji, her dark hair fanned across the pillow, skin bare, both of you exhausted in that specific, amorphous, body dissolving satisfying way. It felt jarringly new and utterly inevitable, all at once. Quiet morning light catching her cheekbone - in those moments, you understood:

'I think,' you murmured one dawn, finger tracing the curve of her bare glowing shoulder, so perfect you wanted to latch onto it, and never let go, 'I'd actually die for you.'

Her eyes fluttered open. A slow, sleepy smile touched her lips. 'Weirdo love bombing.’

You stopped. Thought about it. 'Okay, maybe tiny bit. But I'm serious.' You held up a stray strand of her hair against the light. 'This one hair? In danger? I'm finding a sword.'

'You don't own a sword,' she mumbled, burying her face against your chest.

'I know.'

—

The power dynamic shifted. She called it 'collecting back-pay,' this sudden, focused intensity on you. Cat and mouse reversed. She’d walk in, keys still singing, kick off her shoes while her eyes hunted you down. Undoing her ponytail in that split second. A look that just said: you, now. Her lips, often faintly bruised by evening's end, found yours before a single 'hello'.

Zero complaints.

‘Can’t you just… call in sick, babe?’ she murmured one night, fingers twisting in your tie. The one she’d given you. The one you wore every damn day.

Babe. Still landed weird. Good weird.

‘Can’t. They made me 'important' now, apparently.'

‘That’s… good, right?’ Adorable, how serious she looked.

‘God, no. Means I work twice as long for maybe five percent more pay. It's crap.'

‘My poor suffering man.’ Her hands worked the knot loose, sliding the tie down. ‘You work so hard.’

‘You wouldn’t believe.’

She slipped off her little house slippers, then sank down to her knees on the rug before you, still holding the end of your tie.

‘Just relax,’ she said, looking up, her eyes dark. ‘Lean back. I’ll make it all better.’

She unbuckled your belt; pants heaved lower along your thigh; then, her soft breaths riding along your clothed hardness. Then inch by inch, her hand tousled the cloth down. Staring intensely, her breaths looming on your shaft. 

Then: she licked a stripe along the side of your cock. Hand along your shaft at the base, holding you still as she pressed soft trailing stripes. Just as her tongue made a desperate path along the head, her mouth devoured you. 

A few coughs, deeper still. Mouth working you loose. Little strips of her spit trailing down, her hollowed cheeks - your hands were about to tear the fucking couch apart.

Deeper down her throat, you were dying, literally, constricted in the heavenliest of vices - cock trapped in Minji’s throat - you sprayed ropes and ropes down her mouth.

‘Gross.’

Yet she swallowed.

And cleaned your cock; with a gaze that bared no tired eyes.

You were in for the night.

—

A few days passed. Messy days. You were stuck together until the very last minute - each and every day. Entangled together; Minji would apply her eyeliner as you caressed her cheeks, and she’d nibble the ridge of your jaw while buttoning your shirt. 

Brilliant days.

—

At home, on a foggy evening, you spread yourself against the couch - waiting for Minji to come home. The door clicked, and you could hear Minji shuffle into the door.

She met your gaze, ‘Give me a kiss.’

So you did. 

Going deeper, feeling the soft curves of her entire body, hidden under damning cloth.

‘I need to fuck you so bad.’ A whisper into her perfect ear.

‘Uh. Babe.' She coughed, more out of shock than anything else. 'I brought someone over.’

You looked past her. There was someone there, standing.

A flushing redness spread across her cheeks, and she bowed - no comment.

Sturdy stiff, flushed hot; you exchange glances with Minji, who so lovingly has creased eyes of joy for you - a hint that she’ll tease you for however long it stays on her mind.

Brush off imaginary dust, try to maintain some semblance of courtesy in front of someone who’s shell shocked.

‘Hey!’ Not the best introduction.

‘Hi…’

Minji came to save the day, ‘Introduce yourself, come on.’ She pressed a hand to Haerin, a nervous butterfly.

‘I’m Haerin.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Haerin.’ You barely craggle out.

…

It’s white noise after this, you don’t remember anything; Haerin; that’s all you remember.

She was clad by a cloud of camo adjacents - green camo pants, a darker camo hat, and a grey jacket that clung against her slim body; but she was beautiful, wandering big eyes, thin long fingers decorated with painted nails.

Her eyes, even in careful rumination of Her, you gravitate toward her eyes - careful, soft, feline-like - as if any aspect of her was to be complement of her Eyes.

Dissonance escaped you after the first beer. In the kitchen, chopping up variations of aged cheeses, Minji stood adjacent to you cutting up fruits.

‘You’re hilarious.’

‘You should’ve told me.’

‘Told you what? Who could ever predict that you’d say that?’ She giggled some more.

‘Do you think she minds?’

‘Haerin? Probably. A little. Most likely. She’s just like that. Shy. Quiet. Very unresponsive.’

‘I made it worse.’

‘Probably.’

‘Fuuuuck.’

‘Come on. Don’t worry. You earned points with me.’ Tipping your chin up. She pressed a thumb against your lip - letting you taste the sweet fruits she cut - and kissed you soft. ‘You brazen bull.’ 

‘God. I need you so bad.’

‘Baby. Haerin’s in the living room. There’s time for that later.’

‘Please stop entertaining the possibility.’

‘I want it as much as you.’

‘ - But?’

‘Mysterious disappearances in the middle of friendly reunions don’t exactly spell out cordial, babe… Hey - come on - get off me - ngh.’

—

Some arbitrarily large amounts of alcohol later; red-stained wine glasses, charcuterie board stained with a variety of acidic ideals; you find Minji’s lips again. In front of Haerin. 

It’s capillary force, as natural as a plant seeks the sun or water: her lips. Soft against yours. The fact that Haerin’s watching? Mortifying. Absolutely so. But it’s destiny (what can you do against that?) so you delve.

You weren’t privy to what Minji or Haerin thought, it was just Minji’s fingers pressing notes of sing-song motivation with her fingers on your sides, and, you were sure of it, totally so: Haerin’s eyes indelibly locked in on your exchange. 

Voyeur. Is that it? She was a voyeur? You ask of Minji through the antiquated language of kissing the top of her lip, entering her mouth, sharing spittle. And she responds, licks back, moans softly: that’s it, she’s a voyeur. Cruel Minji. 

You try to mangle out a look at what she was doing with all this eyespace (was she pressing against her moistness hidden in soft cloth?) (finger-deep in herself?) (And.. Did she want to join?) (are her toes pressing deep into her slippers, barely maintaining herself?). 

Minji punished your nape for the slightest indolence, tight fingers, pulling you into her velvet mouth - the slightest breath between you forbidden - the softest exertion ignored - she was, at this moment, a machine.

Minutes passed like this, Haerin’s soft clothes mushing together, the squelches of Minji’s lips. Almost suffocating, Minji let you go - breathing heavily with beads of condensation floating on her honey forehead - so fucking hot. 

Your eyes landed on Haerin, and first thing, her eyes dilated full, like two black holes: the concept of irises ridiculous. As you stared at Haerin - not sure if she was finger-deep in herself; the majority of her hidden under the table - Minji breathed a bristling breath on your neck, and in an even more suggestive breath: ‘It’ll be fun.’

No answer.

The both of you knew. 

You waited for Haerin’s expression, as did Minji, for confirmation, or the nil possibility of her running out right this moment.

And so: her hands landed on the zipper of her jacket, and revealed a faintly pink tank-top. God almighty.

‘Follow me.’ Minji broke the silence.

You followed Minji as she tore off one layer after another, then splaying herself along a bed - half-naked - that spared no space for three - well, space for three if one was on top of each other. 

Then Haerin entered last. This time, you had a better view of her: beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. 

‘Now kiss.’ 

‘What?’ The both of you say.

‘Kiss each other. Go on.’ 

‘Uh…’ You look at Haerin. She looks back. This time, the floor wasn't so interesting; her eyes were on you.

‘No hand holding.’ You heard from the background. And you laugh: it’s all so absurd, Minji’s half-naked on the bed, your girlfriend of years, chest low and tight, pupils dilated, watching you kiss her friend. 

Kissed. Again and again. Saliva moist against Haerin’s lips, against yours, hers and yours. She tasted faintly of menthol, strong mint, a trite sensation against the soft weaves of her tongue against yours. Every breath held her scent, every breath she took spread on your skin like a breath against cold glass - her soft, beautiful little exhales. 

You had glimpses, of Minji, hand tucked deep into her pants, little shallow shadow-changes on the groin of her pants - what could only be her fingering herself. Lip-bitten raw, huffing, moaning softly with eyes that didn’t leave you. You were hard, unimaginably hard, almost passing out - Haerin’s kissing you, her delicate palms caressing the bristled nape of yours, and Minji, sat on the bed, finger-fucking herself with hawk-eyed concentration.

You began shuffling towards the bed, with Haerin’s lips buried into your neck, sucking phantom hickeys onto your neck. 

And Minji made space for you, sat a little to the side, held the hem of her pants to take it off. 

‘Minji.’

‘Babe.’ Her hands wrapped around your waist, and softly, inch by inch, she pulled down your pants. She kissed your navel, almost worshipping you, before pulling down the last piece of cloth that hid your member. It was the loudest silence. Two pairs of dilated eyes, engaged on your swollen member begging to be taken care of (which, inevitably, will happen). 

First, Minji’s hand encircled around your member; a few rough strokes; then saliva mixed unevenly on her palm, a smoother gliding sensation; soft strokes, Haerin’s eyes tracked every soft stroke, and each stroke led her closer towards you. 

Minji added a few more dribbles of her spit on the head, then her hands moved faster, and smoother. By the next stroke, her mouth circled your head, then she swallowed your cock. ‘Fuck, Minji.’ She murmured a bit before going deeper, her tongue massaging your underside, her mouth leaving thin trails of sheening spit all over your cock. She choked, once or twice. 

Haerin came closer, eye-level with Minji, eye-level with your cock. She was kneeling, like worship, like Minji. She was about to suck your dick. Pony-tailed hair. Waiting patiently as Minji sucked you off into the depths of hell. 

Then: Minji was off your cock with a soft pop. ‘Such a big fucking dick. I thought I had to share.’ Haerin flushed again, ‘I thought you wouldn’t tell him.’

‘Him? He knows. Haerin. Just give it all up. Suck his dick. Worship it. I want you to.’

Perhaps that’s what did her in; you know, just the way her eyes locked on your spit-sheened cock. Her thin perfect fingers encircling your shaft, teasing the soft rigidity, the gliding sensation of Minji’s spit clinging, and she went up and down, up and down - squelch after squelch. Her first peck followed not long after, her tongue caressed the pre cum leaking. Her mouth encircled the head of your cock, and her cheeks hollowed. ‘Fuck.’ ‘Is it good babe?’ ‘Fuck yes.’ Instead of replying, Minji wrapped her tongue around one of your balls, sucking, teasing, worshipping your entirety. 

Your toes pressed firm against the mohair carpet. Haerin’s hands found themselves on your thighs as she took you deeper into her mouth.

The one who couldn’t even say a sentence to you, eyes stuck to the floor, now sucking your life out.

You began twitching; Minji under your balls, licking profanely; Haerin, taking you deep into her mouth, big eyes locked on to you, her perfumed hair yielding to your grasp. 

‘Get on the bed.’

The air dried blanket molded to their - now naked -  bodies. Golden light reflecting, blurring against their perfect skin. Two goddesses, placed parallel, eyeing you with an implacable lust. 

You entered Minji’s arms first. Who let out a sigh as you pressed your body weight against her; letting her hand curl against the back of your head; legs intertwining behind your back; and whispering Fuck Me.

Lining yourself up, you breathed one deep sigh into her neck. Before entering dead slow. Feeling every velvet fold of hers caressing your cock, soaking your cock in her tight pussy. The beautiful sounds she made. You pressed up to the hilt. ‘You’re so hard. Is it because Haerin’s watching?’ She giggled what she could, and lost what she had as you pumped into her one more time.

You smashed against her wet core again - making a wet slap - wringing out the most beautiful noises out of her. Slap, slap, slap, smashing your cock inside her, her perfectly molded pussy, wet with slick - some of it sticking and stringing along your shaft. 

‘Fuck me. Daddy. Fuck me.’

You desperately latch onto her mouth - exchanging a spit-stricken kiss as you fucked her over the cusp of her climax; Her loins shook, her body twitched, and she screamed euphoria into your mouth.

Through it all, Haerin pressed a palm against her pelvis - you had glimpses - her fingers worked along her delicate folds. She groaned, moaned, squealed. And as you hooked Minji's leg on your shoulder to show, exactly, how your dick went in undulations out of Minji’s wet core, Haerin came on her fingers. 

Then Minji cums on your cock. Breathing. Softly. Trying not to break anything you haven’t already broken, she pulls herself up, softly, head-level with you, ‘Now, there’s somebody waiting. Right there, and I need you to grant her wish.’

‘Being?’

‘You already know.’

You did. God almighty, you did. 

Haerin’s golden chest heaved as she recovered from the crest of her climax, and her eyes - god, her eyes - invited you over with a gaze that insisted upon itself. 

You start moving over, Minji’s palm sliding along your forearm - telling you that it’s alright, that she wants to watch, maybe even join. 

Apropos of all that happened before, you slid, softly, into Haerin’s arms. Your lips molding against hers; your hands pressing the soft flesh of her inner thigh, vis a vis open up; and from then on, you lined your slimy cock at her entrance, her glossy entrance, and entered.

She squealed, right in your ear. Held you tight like she might crumble to dust otherwise. 

Minji hobbled over, hovering just above, ‘Is it good, Haerin?’

She didn’t reply. Sounds of her slick moisture. Of her raggedy breaths broken by the thumb between her teeth. Large eyes that stayed closed for the most part. 

You latched onto her neck, still ravenously pressing yourself into Haerin. Her body recoiled against your latter strokes. Little wet sounds. Soft moans. Minji held her shoulders down as you went deeper. Right up to the hilt. That’s when she groaned, that’s when she really loosened up. Then, her body chased your cock. Gripped. Soft wet sounds turned blasphemous. As if slapping a body of water in a cave. Minji observed with delight, and kissed Haerin’s cheeks to encourage her to keep up.

You left her neck, kneeling in an upright position. Moving against her faster now, holding her soft waist: a handle. Back arching, she squealed another time - finally, reaching the cusp of her orgasm. Softly shaking under your touch. Her bristled skin - full of electric lust. Droplets passed along your shaft. But you didn’t stop. 

You pressed four fingers against her softly curved navel and a thumb on her clit.

Minji looked at you with a wry smile.

You fucked Haerin hard. To the point of muscle failure. Triceps blazing hot; thighs worn out; and a tuckered Haerin with sweat pressed god-like into her skin.

With cum seeping out of her pussy.

Wherein, Minji collected it all in her tongue. And kissed Haerin.

IMPORTANT UPDATE

[heliosunny]

Heaven’s Gold Noose

Yandere!Sunday x Reader

Life hasn’t been kind to you.

Every job interview ends in rejection.

Every relationship fizzles out.

Even your coffee always spills at the worst possible moment.

But then… he appears.

A man with soft, feathered wings and a halo—Sunday, your newly assigned guardian angel.

"The celestial council has reviewed your past life," he murmurs, "You were a soul of pure kindness. And now, in this life, you’ve been given misfortune as a test."

His fingers brush your cheek, "But don’t worry. I’m here to guide you."

You should feel relieved. But...

Now, he’s sitting across from you at a café, dabbing at his stained white robes with a napkin while giving you a pained but patient smile.

"Okay, let me get this straight. You’re an angel. From Heaven. And you’re here to… what, fix my life?"

"Precisely! Consider me your divine guardian—" "Uh-huh. And how much is this ‘heavenly guidance package’ gonna cost me?"

"I would never—! This is a sacred duty, not some… earthly pyramid scheme!"

You take a long sip of your (third) coffee, squinting. "Prove it."

Without missing a beat, he plucks a feather from his wing and offers it to you. "A token of my sincerity."

You grab it—then yelp as it bursts into golden sparkles in your palm.

"Okay, that was cool. But I still think you’re either a hallucination or a really dedicated cult recruiter."

You wake up the next morning to find your broken phone fully charged, your dead plant thriving, and your cat suddenly fluent in Latin ??

"…Did you just say ‘ave dominus’?"

"Meow." 

Then, Sunday materialized just behind you.

"Ah! I see you’ve noticed my small blessings!"

"Dude! Do you have to pop up like a jump scare?!"

"Apologies. I forget earthly beings are so… fragile."

----

You’re on a terrible date (third one this month—curse your bad luck) when Sunday manifests in the restaurant’s chandelier, glaring daggers at your oblivious companion.

"So, I think splitting the bill is only fair—"

"HERETIC."

"SUNDAY. NO."

"Uh… did you just say ‘Sunday’?"

"Yep! Gotta go! Bye!" 

Outside, Sunday floats beside you, pouting. "That man was unworthy of you."

"Yeah, well, possessing the lighting fixtures isn’t gonna help!"

"But you did leave with me."

"Oh my god—"

----

At first, you thought it was all some elaborate joke—or worse, a scam. A literal angel showing up in your life? Yeah, right.

But after weeks of inexplicable blessings: your rent mysteriously paid, your chronic back pain vanishing overnight, even your perpetually dying houseplants suddenly flourishing... You finally gave in.

"Fine," you muttered one evening, throwing your hands up as Sunday hovered expectantly by your window. "You can stay. But no more weird angel stuff, okay?"

"I shall adhere to your mortal customs... within reason."

You set boundaries, of course. You weren’t religious, and the idea of divine intervention still made you uneasy. But Sunday was... different. He wasn’t preachy or holier-than-thou. He was just... there.

You kept your distance, treating him more like an overly affectionate roommate than a celestial being. He respected your space, though his presence lingered in small ways—freshly brewed tea waiting when you woke up, your favorite snacks restocked before you even realized they were gone, and an unsettlingly perfect knowledge of your schedule.

"You don’t have to do all this" you told him once, frowning at the spotless kitchen.

"But I want to" he replied, "Your happiness is my purpose."

You didn’t know how to respond to that, so you just nodded awkwardly and went about your day.

Then came the day you almost died.

Tires shrieked against asphalt as headlights flooded your vision—too bright. Your coffee cup slipped from numb fingers, hitting the pavement in a burst of scalding liquid. The truck’s grille filled your entire field of view, chrome gleaming like a predator’s smile.

You had half a second to think: This is how I die.

You gasped, blinking as you found yourself standing safely on the sidewalk, Sunday’s arms wrapped tightly around you. His wings were fully unfurled, casting an eerie glow in the dim streetlights.

The sound of screeching metal filled the air as the truck crashed into the guardrail right where your car should have been.

Your legs gave out.

Sunday caught you before you hit the ground, cradling you against his chest.

The warmth of the milk cup seeped into your fingers as you sat curled up on the couch, the near-death experience still fresh in your mind. Sunday sat across from you, his wings now neatly folded behind him, his golden eyes watching you with quiet intensity.

The silence stretched, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.

----

You both returned home after that.

You took a slow sip of your warm cup of milk, then finally spoke.

"So… when are you leaving?"

Sunday blinked, as if the question had never occurred to him. "Leaving?"

"Yeah. Like, is there an expiration date on this guardian angel gig? Do you get reassigned? Or do you just… vanish one day when Heaven decides I’ve had enough blessings?"

"Oh, you misunderstand. I’m not here on a temporary assignment."

"So… you’re stuck with me forever?"

"Not stuck," he corrected gently. "Chosen. My presence isn’t bound by time. I stay as long as you need me."

"Which is…?"

"However long that may be. Perhaps a lifetime. Perhaps longer."

"Okay, next question," you said, shifting topics before your brain could spiral. "Do other angels do this? Just… move in with humans and fix their Wi-Fi and scare off bad dates?"

Sunday tilted his head. "Some do, in their own ways. But most guardians are subtler. They prefer signs, whispers, the occasional miracle. I, however…" He gestured to himself, wings and all. "I believe in a more hands-on approach."

"No kidding." you muttered.

"Besides," he added, "you’re special."

You ignored the way your face warmed at that.

"Last question," you said, pointing at his robes. "Heaven’s got, like, upgrades, right? You guys aren’t all harps and scrolls up there?"

Sunday laughed in a rich, melodic sound. "Oh, we’re quite modern. Cloud computing is literally cloud-based. The Pearly Gates have biometric scanning. And the angels in charge of mortal affairs? They love spreadsheets."

You nearly choked on your milk. "Are you serious?"

"Deadly." He leaned forward, mischief dancing in his gaze. "Would you like to see my divine tablet? I have an app that tracks prayer requests in real time."

You stared. "…You’re joking."

He pulled out a sleek, glowing device from thin air.

"Nope."

As the night wore on, you learned more than you ever expected:

Angels have hobbies. Sunday’s was composing hymns… and binge-watching human dramas.

They adapt to human culture. He preferred loose sweaters over robes at home ("More comfortable for lounging") and had strong opinions about coffee brands.

Heaven does have WiFi. ("But the connection in the mortal realm is terrible.")

At first, you had to remind yourself constantly: Sunday is invisible to everyone else.

You’d catch yourself mid-conversation in public, only to bite your tongue when strangers shot you weird looks. You learned to text him instead of speaking out loud, to nudge him under the table when he laughed too loudly at a restaurant, to pretend you were on a phone call when he whispered warnings in your ear.

But slowly… you stopped caring.

Because Sunday wasn’t just your guardian angel anymore.

He was your best friend.

You’d wake up to find him humming hymns while making breakfast, his wings brushing against the ceiling.

He’d sit beside you on the couch, scrolling through memes on his divine tablet and snickering at cat videos.

When you had nightmares, he’d stroke your hair until you fell back asleep, murmuring, "I’m here."

You started looking forward to coming home—to his warmth, his laughter, the way his eyes softened when he looked at you.

----

One evening, as you lounged together, Sunday suddenly went still.

"There’s something I need to tell you." 

You tensed. That tone never meant anything good.

"You weren’t just randomly assigned to me," he admitted. "You… you’re not entirely mortal."

"What?"

"Your soul—it’s different. " His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. "That’s why I was sent. Not just to protect you, but to… prepare you."

"Prepare me for what?"

He hesitated. "One day, you’ll have to decide—stay human, or ascend."

All this time… he’d known.

And he never told you.

"So what, this was all just a mission to you? All the—the tea, the jokes, the saving my life—just part of the job?"

Sunday’s expression shattered. "No. Never." He reached for you, but you flinched away. "I was supposed to guide you, yes, but my feelings—my devotion—that’s real."

"Then why hide the truth?"

"Because I was afraid!" The raw desperation in his voice stunned you. "Afraid you’d hate me. Afraid… you’d choose to leave."

You stared at him.

And yet…

You still didn’t know if you could trust him.

You needed time.

So you did the only thing you could—you walked away.

And Sunday, for once, didn’t follow.

At first, you told yourself it was fine.

But then…

Your coffee went cold because he wasn’t there to reheat it with a touch.

Your nightmares returned, and there were no gentle hands to soothe you.

The apartment felt wrong—too quiet, like the world itself had dimmed.

And worst of all?

You missed him.

Meanwhile, in Heaven…

Sunday stood before the Celestial Council.

"Remove their name from the records," he demanded, "They don’t belong in this trial."

The council murmured amongst themselves.

"The choice was never yours to make, Sunday." 

"You would fall for them?"

Sunday didn’t hesitate.

"Yes."

Three days passed.

Then, on the fourth morning, you woke to the scent of fresh tea and the sound of rustling wings.

Sunday stood at the foot of your bed, his form flickering—like a star about to burn out.

You sat up, "You… you look terrible."

And he did. His glow was dim, his wings frayed at the edges. But his smile was the same.

"I had to see you one last time." he whispered.

"What do you mean, last time?"

"I made a choice. You won’t have to."

And then—

He began to fade.

For weeks, you searched.

You screamed his name into the empty air. You prayed—something you’d never done before. You even tried to bargain with the universe.

"Bring him back. Please."

Until—

It was a rainy afternoon when you saw him.

A man sitting by the window, his eyes scanning the street with an expression so achingly familiar it stole your breath.

But he wasn’t Sunday.

Not quite.

No halo. Just a human—or something close to it—with a faint, lingering glow at the edges of his silhouette.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up.

You stood in front of him.

He looked up.

"Do I… know you?"

It was him.

And he didn’t remember.

You smiled politely at the stranger with golden eyes, exchanged a few meaningless pleasantries, and walked away.

What else could you do?

He didn’t remember you.

And maybe… that was for the best.

----

That night, he dreamed. Visions of a life he never lived flickered behind his eyelids—a celestial choir, a mortal with your face, the weight of devotion so fierce it burned like holy fire.

He woke gasping, fingers clutching at his chest.

And then—

His voice.

"You loved them enough to fall," whispered the shadow of his former self in the mirror. "Are you really going to let them walk away?"

Piece by piece, the memories returned.

The way you used to scowl at him for hovering too close.

The sound of your laughter when he tried (and failed) to understand mortal slang.

The betrayal in your eyes when he told you the truth.

And worst of all—

The way you looked at him in the café.

Like he was nothing.

Like Sunday had never existed.

-----

He found you again on a stormy evening, standing at your doorstep, drenched and desperate.

"You know me," he said, "Don’t you?"

You froze, keys slipping from your fingers as you tried to insert it to the keyhole.

This wasn’t the same man from the café.

"Sunday?"

"You remember."

"No," you lied, turning away. "I don’t."

The moment you lied—"I don’t know you"—something in Sunday snapped.

Before you could turn the key fully, his hands slammed against the door on either side of you, caging you in. His chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear as he leaned in.

"Liar" he whispered.

His fingers curled into the wood, splintering it slightly as he spoke.

"I gave up everything for you," he hissed. "Heaven cast me out the moment I begged them to spare you from your fate."

His nose brushed against the nape of your neck, sending a traitorous shiver down your spine.

"And you dare pretend I never existed?"

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you from behind, crushing you against him.

"I don’t regret it," he murmured, lips grazing your skin. "Even if Heaven abandons me forever, even if I have to claw my way through eternity alone—you will never be alone again."

He was no longer an angel.

At first, the changes were small.

Almost kind.

You used to wake up groggy, stumbling to the coffee maker like a half-dead thing. Now, there’s no need. Sunday is already there, pressing a steaming cup into your hands before your eyes even fully open.

"You function better with caffeine before seven," he murmurs, "I’ve timed it perfectly."

He learns your preferences down to the smallest detail. The way you prefer your eggs (soft-scrambled, no pepper). The exact number of seconds you like your toast browned.

(You try not to wonder what else he’s memorized.)

This is where it gets dangerous.

You mention offhand that you don’t like your coworker. The next day, they transfer departments.

You sigh about the noisy neighbors. That night, their apartment goes mysteriously silent.

"Sunday," you say slowly, "are you—?"

"Making your life easier?" He tilts his head, innocent. "Of course. That’s my purpose."

(He doesn’t mention the blood on his hands. You don’t ask.)

Then comes the night you catch him editing your journal.

You freeze in the doorway, watching as his fingers glow faintly over your open notebook—words rewriting themselves under his touch.

"What are you doing?"

Sunday doesn’t startle. He just turns, smiling beatifically.

"Fixing it," he says, as if it’s obvious. "You were too hard on yourself here. And this memory?" He taps a page. "It hurt you. Now it won’t."

"That’s not your choice."

For the first time, his smile falters.

"Isn’t it?" He stands, stepping closer. "Who knows you better than me? Who loves you more?"

His hand cups your cheek.

"Let me perfect you."

You wake up one morning with a gap in your memory.

A childhood birthday party—except now, when you try to recall it, there’s a new figure standing beside you in every photo.

A boy with golden eyes.

That’s not how you remember it.

That time you failed your driving test? Erased. Now it’s Sunday in the passenger seat, guiding your hands on the wheel. "Perfect" he praises.

The funeral you barely survived? Rewritten. He’s there, holding you up, taking the pain away.

You clutch your head, dizzy.

"This isn’t real."

Sunday smiles, stroking your hair.

"Isn’t it better this way?"

You remember now—the truth.

The day you almost died in that car crash.

How Sunday didn’t just save you.

How he leaned over your bleeding body and whispered:

"Let me make it all beautiful."

And then—

Nothing.

Just him.

Always him.

[ryoflix]

the sukuna family becoming tiktok famous | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl, ؛ ଓ

the camera’s balanced on a precarious stack of cookbooks and a cereal box—because god forbid you buy an actual tripod—and you’re trying to keep the shot steady while chopping cucumbers into thin, perfect rounds. the soft clatter of plates and that faint little kitchen hum sets the scene, and your voice carries low in the background, mumbling about today’s lunch plan.

“we’re doing hummus, pita, the usual... and carrots, obviously—”

you hold up a little container of star-shaped carrot slices, grinning at your own ridiculousness, before gently tossing them onto the plate.

offscreen: a loud thump.

“mama, am i on camera?” your son’s voice pipes up, followed by the sound of his socked feet skidding across the tile.

you don’t even flinch anymore. “yes, but don’t—"

he slides into the frame, immediately going still like a deer caught in the headlights. for exactly two seconds, he smooths back his hair with both hands and tilts his head to test angles.

“okay, bye,” he mutters once satisfied, zooming out of frame again like he was never there.

you snort and turn back to assembling a little bento divider. “that was the world's future heartbreaker, in case you were wondering.”

another interruption comes quietly: your daughter peeking into the camera from the corner, leaning into the frame so subtly it’s like she’s afraid to disturb it.

you catch her in the reflection on a pan and lift your head.

“hey, come here.”

she pads over, still holding a tiny stuffed animal by the leg. when you gently lift her up to sit on the counter, she beams at the camera, all sunshine and missing front teeth.

“smile for the internet,” you tease.

she does. oh god, she does—like she’s trying to outshine the kitchen lightbulbs. “hi, follower friends,” she whispers sweetly, not even knowing what that means, and you genuinely fear for the app’s algorithm now.

then the big one arrives.

sukuna’s already in the kitchen, just off-screen, nursing his post-shower damp hair with a towel slung around his neck. shirt slightly twisted from tugging on in a rush, and his usual early-morning pout.

“this recording?” he grunts.

you glance up. “yes. you’re in the corner.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink—just glances at the half-assembled plate like he’s calculating when you’ll be done and he can swipe food. then he sees them: the little carrot stars.

you don’t miss the subtle twitch in his expression, or the way he shifts slightly toward the counter like a man ready to defend a sacred relic.

“you put the—”

“yes,” you cut him off, flipping a pita over in the pan. “i put the carrot stars. and i added the garlic hummus. your favorite.”

he pretends to be unbothered. tries to lean back against the wall with arms crossed like he’s just existing here, merely tolerating this whole domestic interlude. but he keeps glancing sideways at the plate, and at the camera.

your daughter leans into the mic, whispering with the conspiratorial tone of someone revealing classified information. “daddy loves the carrots.”

you snort.

he grunts again. “traitor.”

by the time the video ends, it’s a chaotic but weirdly aesthetic 90 seconds of you plating food with heart-shaped egg molds, your daughter smiling like she runs a preschool PR firm, your son hair-fixing like he’s born for the red carpet, and sukuna in the back doing that slow, suspicious lean toward his own lunch like it might run off without him.

you shut the phone camera off with a sigh, brushing flour off your hands.

“we’re not even famous,” you murmur to yourself.

from behind you, sukuna grabs his tupperware and mutters, “yet.”

you wake up the next morning with a crick in your neck, a half-unbuttoned pajama top, and your phone vibrating like it’s desperately trying to alert you to a natural disaster. at first, you assume it’s a family group chat imploding again. maybe your cousin’s dog did something hilarious. maybe your aunt is spreading misinformation. again.

but then you see it.

your tiktok. 498.7k views. 103.4k likes.

you squint.

“the hell...?”

you rub your eyes and click into it—and the comments hit like a freight train.

“this is the type of love i wanna find omg 🥹” “no bc the little girl smiling made me scream” “the way her husband’s bicep entered the frame 😭😭😭” “WHOSE VOICE IS THAT??? I’m in love. send location.” “this man is packing disney princess tupperware and his muscles look like that. i’m feral.”

you sit up straighter, pulling the blanket around your legs like it might protect you from the unhinged thirst radiating off your screen. from beside you, sukuna groans as he rolls over, hair a mess and voice still thick with sleep. “why are you breathing like something’s wrong?”

you hesitate. hold the phone up to his face.

he squints. the corners of his mouth twitch upward—just a little.

“told you. yet.”

you toss a pillow at him. “they’re thirsting over your bicep.”

he looks entirely unbothered. “good taste.”

“you were literally on screen for seven seconds.”

“and?”

you groan and flop back on the bed. meanwhile, your twins burst into the room, both mid-toothbrushing, foam still on their lips.

“mamaaaaa,” your daughter mumbles around the toothbrush, “why are so many people watching our video? are we famous??”

“do i need to sign autographs?” your son adds, toothbrush gripped like a mic.

“no,” you say firmly.

but sukuna leans back against the headboard, grinning like a smug villain in a romcom. “better start training. fame comes fast.”

and then he flexes his arm, just slightly. just enough to make a point.

you grab the blanket and smother his face with it.

from under the cotton: muffled laughter. then a low, teasing: “you’re just mad they called my arm hot.”

you are. you really are. but also—you’re going to use this as blackmail for the rest of your life.

and he knows it.

[cupofteatoyou2]

Morning

(+18)

The morning was quiet.

Not the cold kind of quiet, but heavy,humid with leftover heat, thick with something unspoken. Something still lingering in the air between your bodies.

You woke slowly, the blanket twisted tight around you like a cocoon. Your leg was tangled somewhere beneath it, your bare shoulder peeking out. The sheets were half-kicked down the bed, and the first thing you noticed was the warm weight next to you. Familiar. Solid.

Alexia.

Your breath caught as your eyes opened.

She was still asleep. flat on her back, one arm thrown above her head. The light filtering through the sheer curtains painted her in gold, kissing every inch of bare skin the covers had abandoned during the night. And there was a lot of skin.

The blanket had slipped off her completely.

Your eyes moved slow, hungry, down her throat, across the curve of her collarbone. Her breasts rose and fell with each slow breath. Her stomach… god. All muscle, soft skin stretched tight over deep, defined abs. You could trace every line with your eyes. Her hipbones framed the carved grooves of her lower stomach, drawing your gaze lower, lower still to Her thighs.

Thick, sculpted, impossible not to look at. One leg bent slightly at the knee, causing her quad to flex just enough to make your mouth go dry. It looked deliberate, even in sleep, like her body was daring you to stare.

And stare you did.

Your core throbbed instantly.

You didn’t even try to fight it.

Something about her like this, uncovered, unguarded, still powerful even in rest, had you clenching your thighs together beneath the blanket. Your body was already betraying you, flushed and aching before you even moved.

And then you did move.

You scooted forward, slow and careful, still swaddled tight in the blanket. Your arm slid over her middle, hugging her waist, your chest pressing into her side. Your face found her shoulder, nose brushing her neck as you exhaled soft against her skin. She smelled warm, like sun and salt and sweat and sleep. So familiar it nearly broke you.

You needed more.

Your hips shifted again, subtly. Testing.

The edge of the blanket between your legs caught against the side of her thigh.

You paused. A beat passed. Then another.

And then you moved again.

Your hips rolled.

Just once, smooth, slow.

A gentle, needy drag of your core over the top of her thigh, still flexed faintly beneath your weight.

Fuck.

Your eyes fluttered shut as heat seared straight through you. Your core ached at the friction, your breathing instantly heavier. You rolled again, slower this time, more deliberate.

Still, she didn’t stir.

You took it as permission.

Again. Again. A rhythm started. Slow thrusts of your hips as you ground yourself into her thigh, biting your lip to stop the sounds from slipping out. The friction wasn’t enough. It was too soft. Too teasing. But it was her and that alone had your body unraveling.

Your hand curled over her abs as you pressed closer, forehead now buried against her neck. You could feel her heat, the tension in her muscle with every grind. The blanket cushioned the drag, made it softer, hotter somehow.

You were panting now. Barely able to breathe. Every motion dragged slick across your folds, building a fire that curled deeper with each desperate rut of your hips.

And then her hand moved.

Just barely. A twitch on your lower back.

You froze.

Her voice came a second later, rough with sleep, low and amused, right against your ear.

“…Really, cariño?”

Your heart skipped.

She shifted beneath you, her thigh flexing hard.

You gasped. a full-body jolt of pleasure shooting through your hips as her muscle pressed tight against your throbbing clit. You clung to her, but you didn’t stop moving.

“Were you really going to come on my leg while I was sleeping?”

You let out a tiny whimper, unable to answer.

She groaned, voice still thick, but laced with something sharper now. desire awakening fast. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

Then her hand dropped lower, grabbing your hip under the blanket and grinding you down onto her leg.

You moaned, loud this time, unable to contain it.

“That’s it,” she muttered. “Fucking take it.”

Your hips moved on their own now, chasing friction. She guided you, her fingers bruising your hip with how tight she held you there, using you against her flexed thigh like she wanted to make you come just like this.

And god, you were close already.

“Ale…fuck”

But instead of letting you finish. Alexia was moving, strong hands sliding beneath your thighs as she dragged you down the bed. Her body stayed above yours, one knee pushing between your legs, parting them with practiced ease. Her eyes flicked down, slow and hungry, as her thigh pressed hard between your folds.

You gasped.

So much hotter. So much harder than before.

No blanket now. No softness. Just skin on skin. slick and aching, your core pressed flush against the flexed muscle of her thigh.

“There,” she said, voice low, lips brushing your jaw. “That’s better.”

She shifted her weight and hooked her arms around your back, easily lifting your upper body and pulling you into her lap. The movement was effortless, one that only Alexia could make look both tender and possessive.

Her thigh stayed right under you, the perfect angle, and her hands were on your hips now. holding you there, guiding you into a slow grind.

“Ride it,” she whispered, eyes locked to yours. “Come on, baby. You woke me up desperate for it, now you’re gonna take it.”

Your moan was immediate, head tipping back as your hips started to move. She was so strong beneath you, every roll of your hips dragging your clit along the thick, unrelenting muscle of her thigh. Her hands slid up your spine, one cradling the back of your head, the other sliding back down to grab your ass and pull you harder against her leg.

You whimpered.

“Fuck, you’re so wet already,” she growled, leaning in to kiss your throat. “You were gonna make a mess all over me before I even opened my eyes.”

You clutched her shoulders for balance, riding harder now. grinding, panting, chasing the friction with a desperation that made her groan.

Her free hand slid up your chest, cupping your breast and rolling your nipple between her fingers. You arched into her touch, thighs trembling from the intensity.

“That’s it,” she murmured. “Look at you. So fucking needy.”

You could feel it building again, fast and unbearable. the heat curling, the pressure rising, every nerve ending lit up with her voice in your ear and her hand on your body and her thigh between your legs, flexing just right.

Her fingers squeezed your breast again, tugging just a little as her other arm locked tighter around your back.

“Gonna come for me, baby? Just from riding my thigh like a good girl?”

You nodded frantically, moaning into her shoulder.

“Then do it,” she growled, biting your neck. “Come for me, right fucking now.”

You shattered.

A scream broke from your lips, your body clenching tight as the orgasm rolled through you like fire. Your thighs shook, your hips faltered, but Alexia held you steady, her thigh flexing harder just to draw every last wave out of you.

You collapsed into her, panting, body boneless, forehead buried in the crook of her neck.

But she wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Her hands were already shifting again, lowering you gently back onto the mattress, and as she pulled away just enough to look at you, her eyes sparkled with something darker.

She pushed your knees apart with both hands and leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“Now,” she whispered, voice like silk over steel, “I want to watch your face while I fuck you with my fingers.”

Your breath caught.

Alexia sat back slowly, positioning herself right between your legs. Her thighs spread slightly, knees digging into the bed, and her strong, tanned body gleamed in the sunlight streaking through the window. The way she looked at you, dark eyes dragging over every inch of your bare skin, made your stomach twist, heat pooling between your legs all over again.

She licked her lips once, eyes locking on yours.

Then her palm came down on your stomach, pressing lightly to keep you in place as she dragged her other hand through your folds, slow and unhurried, fingers coated in how wet you already were.

“So ready for me,” she muttered, almost to herself. “And I haven’t even really touched you yet.”

Her fingers circled your entrance, teasing you with soft, shallow pressure. Just enough to make your hips twitch, to make you whimper for more. You could feel your own heartbeat between your legs.

Then, finally, she slid a single finger inside.

Your body clenched around her immediately. tight, needy and Alexia’s jaw flexed as she watched your reaction. She didn’t pull away. She pushed in further instead, knuckle-deep, curling it just slightly before withdrawing… and pushing in again. Her thumb pressed against your clit at the same time, gentle but firm, and the contrast made you tremble.

“Eyes on me” she said quietly.

You obeyed, barely able to breathe.

She added a second finger without warning. sliding it in slow but deep, letting you feel every inch. Her palm was pressed flat against you, the heel of it brushing your clit with every thrust, and her arm flexed as she started to move.

Not fast.

Just steady. Controlled. Intentional.

It felt like she was splitting you open. stretching you just right, curling her fingers deep and hard as she thrust them in and out of you with perfect rhythm. Her gaze never left your face.

“That’s it,” she breathed. “Just like that. You take me so fucking well, baby.”

Your moan broke open and your back arched off the bed.

Alexia adjusted. leaned in a little, her thumb now rubbing tight circles over your clit while her fingers pounded into you harder. You could hear it. The slick, obscene sound of how wet you were for her. You could see it too, in the way her biceps flexed, the way her hips rocked slightly forward like she was imagining it was her cock buried in you.

“You feel this?” she growled, thrusting in harder. “Feel how deep I am?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only gasp, panting her name as your body bucked against the mattress.

She reached deeper, her fingers finding that exact spot inside you and pressing there again and again, building that pressure fast, brutal, intense. Your legs were spread wide and shaking, your toes curling, your arms reaching for the sheets. anything, just to anchor yourself.

“Come for me,” she ordered, voice rough with arousal. “Now. I want to feel you come on my fingers.”

Your entire body clenched.

The orgasm hit you like a wave. hard and sudden, breaking over you with enough force that you cried out, eyes squeezing shut, back bowing completely off the mattress.

Alexia didn’t stop.

She fucked you through it, deep, hard thrusts, thumb still working your clit, until your body trembled violently and you tried to close your legs, tried to squirm away from the overstimulation.

She leaned forward, mouth brushing your cheek.

“Take it,” she whispered. “You can take it, mi amor.”

You whimpered helplessly, letting her carry you through every ripple, every twitch, until finally,finally, she slowed her hand and withdrew her fingers.

You lay there, limp and shivering, staring at the ceiling with your chest rising and falling in broken breaths.

Alexia stayed still for a moment, just watching you with that dark, hungry gaze.

Then she bent forward and began to kiss you.

Softly. Slowly. Reverently.

She kissed your inner thighs. Your hipbones. Your stomach. The underside of your breasts. Your collarbone. Your jaw. Your lips.

Every inch.

Like she needed to memorize you with her mouth.

By the time she reached your face again, her hand was brushing your hair back from your damp forehead and her body was pressing warm and solid against yours.

She wrapped her arms around you, tightly, protectively and held you to her chest, burying her face in your neck.

You let out a long breath, eyes fluttering shut.

There were no words left.

Only the quiet hum of your heart, her skin on yours, and the soft weight of her kisses still lingering everywhere she’d touched.

The room was quiet , save for the soft rustle of sheets and the lingering thrum of your heartbeat finally beginning to slow.

Alexia hadn’t moved much,her arms still wrapped around you, one leg hooked lazily over yours, her cheek pressed against your damp shoulder. She was holding you like she didn’t want to let go. Her fingers were trailing faint lines along your spine, light enough to make you shiver, grounding enough to keep you melted into her chest.

You shifted slightly, letting out a long exhale, and she hummed in response. warm and low, lips brushing against your skin like she wasn’t quite done worshiping you.

But after a few minutes, with your body slowly returning to something resembling normal, your stomach gave the softest growl. You groaned.

“Ugh... I’m hungry.”

Alexia chuckled, her body shaking with laughter.“You’re hungry?” she said, lifting her head just enough to look down at you with a teasing glint in her eye. “After all that?”

“I didn’t realize I’d be physically destroyed before breakfast,” you mumbled, your voice still scratchy and warm from moaning her name too many times.

She laughed again, deep and low, and kissed your cheek.

“You literally climbed on top of me and started it, cariño.”

You grinned into her collarbone, too relaxed to argue.

“Still. I deserve food. Maybe something with eggs. And carbs. And juice. I need juice.”

Alexia smirked, brushing your hair off your forehead with exaggerated tenderness. “So demanding for someone who was just begging me”

You groaned again and hid your face in her chest, making her laugh harder.

Then she kissed your forehead. Soft , lingering and whispered, “Stay here.”

She slid out from beneath the sheets, naked and glorious in the early sunlight, her toned body glowing golden and flushed. Her abs tensed slightly as she stood, muscles rippling as she stretched with a satisfied sigh.

You watched shamelessly, chin propped on the pillow, eyes dragging down her back, her strong thighs, the curve of her hips.

“I’ll make us something,” she said over her shoulder as she reached for the shirt you’d been wearing last night, her shirt, technically. Oversized, worn soft with age. She threw it on and left the buttons undone, letting it hang open over her bare skin.

You swallowed. “If you walk around like that I’m never eating.”

She grinned. “Then I guess I better cook fast.”

[internetdaddy98]

Somatic Response

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby, once so disciplined, gives in fully to his obsession with learning every hidden part of you, the quietest girl in the ER. Word Count: 1.8 K Content Warning: 18+ MDNI, Explicit Content, Explicit Language,

He should’ve known better than to think he could spend the whole day with you without making you fall apart in his hands.

But restraint had never been his strong suit when it came to you. Not since the first time you made a noise for him, soft, sweet, breaking against his mouth like something sacred.

Now it was an addiction. A study. A need.

He wanted to find out and he wasn’t going to rest until he tested his theories. 

You stood barefoot on the hardwood in his old college hoodie, sleeves swallowing your hands, hair messy from the pillows. He handed you coffee, one sugar, just how you liked it, and leaned against the counter, eyes dark over the rim of his own mug.

“Sleep okay?” he asked.

You nodded, lips parted around the rim of the cup, cheeks already flushed. You didn’t answer out loud. He took the cup from your hand and set it down, then stepped close and tilted your chin up gently with a finger.

“You don’t have to talk,” he murmured, voice barely audible. “But I’m going to find a way to hear every sound you’ve never made before.”

You shivered. And when he kissed you , deep, slow, the kind of kiss that unraveled time, you made the softest sound against his tongue.

He smirked.

That was one.

—---------------------------------------------

You had undressed to get in the shower. He followed you in.

You didn’t protest.

Water traced down your skin, he pressed your hands to the tiled wall and kissed down your shoulder, your neck, the space just behind your ear, and when his hands moved lower, you whimpered, biting your lip.

“Don’t do that,” he said against your skin. “Don’t hide from me.”

You didn’t. Not after that.

The way you gasped when he slid two fingers into you while whispering exactly what he planned to do later, you said his name like a prayer.

It was filthy. It was holy.

That’s two.

—-------------------------

Lunch was abandoned somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark.

You sat straddling his lap, the remains of a takeout container on the floor, your knees bracketing his thighs. He had his fingers hooked under the hem of your shirt, running the pad of his thumb in slow, lazy circles beneath the fabric while you tried to finish telling him a story about your intern.

Tried.

Failed.

Because every time you paused to catch your breath, he kissed just below your ear. Teased the edge of your bra. Bit lightly at your collarbone. Your voice faltered completely when he slipped a hand into your sweatpants and found you already warm and wet.

“You were telling me something,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple.

You arched into him. “I can’t, I can’t think, fuck Michael-”

He grinned into your hair. That’s three.

—--------------------------------------

He wanted to ruin you.

Not cruelly. Never that. But intimately. With admiration. Like someone learning how to worship.

He laid you out in the middle of his bed, the sun soft on your skin, your fingers tangled in the sheets as he edged you with his mouth over and over until you were gasping.

Your thighs shook against his shoulders.

Your hand fisted in his hair, tugging with helpless need.

You weren't quiet anymore.

You were begging.

“Please, Michael, please”

He gave in only when he was sure you’d never be able to forget what it sounded like when you broke.

You sobbed his name when you came. Loud, raw, completely unguarded.

That was Four. Five. Six. Maybe more.

He’d lost count.

—-----------------------------------

They were supposed to make dinner.

He kissed you up against the fridge instead. Your legs wrapped around his waist. His hands under your thighs. Your hair wild, your lips swollen, your breath caught in his mouth. You moaned into his neck when he pressed himself against you.

He leaned in, voice gravel-rough and low.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to fuck the shyness out of you?”

You whimpered.

“I’m going to make you say everything you’ve ever swallowed down. Every noise you thought you had to keep quiet. I want to hear them all, Sher.”

You kissed him hard, desperate, teeth catching on his lower lip.

He carried you to the counter without breaking contact.

Dinner was forgotten.

—---------------------------------------

They were watching some movie you loved. Or trying to. You curled beside him, worn out and pink-cheeked, your head tucked into the curve of his neck. But your hand had crept under the blanket to his thigh, and he couldn’t focus on a single damn frame.

“You’ve made your point,” you whispered, teasing.

He turned his head slowly. “No.”

His voice was velvet. Dangerous.

“Not even close.”

You smiled and leaned into his chest.

And he knew he was done for.

By the time you left the next morning, his bed still smelled like you, and he didn’t care that he’d have to walk into the ER like he hadn’t spent twenty-four hours losing his mind to the quietest girl in the hospital.

But you weren't quiet anymore.

Not with him.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’d come in fresh from a day off, lips still swollen from his mouth, thighs still sore in the best way. You wore your hair tied back tightly, your pink hoodie unzipped, your ID badge not-quite-straight.

You told yourself you could be professional.

You told yourself he could, too.

But you hadn’t counted on the look in his eyes when you walked past him in the morning huddle, when he leaned over your shoulder to grab the chart out of your hands like it hadn’t been an excuse to let his breath skim your neck.

You hadn’t counted on the way his voice had dropped low and close when he said your name during rounds, or how your fingers clenched the chart too hard when he called you “Doctor Sheridan” like it was something filthy only he got to say that way.

You hadn’t counted on needing him like that.

Not again. Not this soon.

Definitely not here.

You’d just finished bagging a code, your hair was a mess, you smelled like adrenaline and blood and antiseptic, and he looked at you like he wanted to rip your scrubs off with his teeth.

You were trying to chart. You really were.

But then he came too close, leaning over your shoulder, watching the screen, one palm flat beside your hand. You could feel the heat of him at your back, the outline of his chest brushing yours.

“You missed a timestamp,” he murmured, mouth right near your ear.

You looked up at him, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your spine.

“Fix it for me, then,” you whispered.

His mouth twitched. “Don’t tempt me.”

You already had.

You’d gone into the supply closet for IV tubing.

He followed you.

Of course he did.

The door clicked shut behind him and you turned, and he was already there, backing you against the shelves, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling around your hip.

His voice was rough. Low.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You swallowed hard.

“We’re at work.”

He kissed you anyway.

It was nothing like his usual restraint. It was teeth and tongue and possessive heat, his hands sliding up your scrub top, palm grazing over your bare skin. His fingers found the waistband of your pants. You gasped.

“Michael!”

“I need to hear you,” he growled against your neck, hand sliding lower. “Just one sound. One.”

You almost gave it to him. Your back arched. Your mouth parted. You were seconds away from moaning his name right into the collar of his scrubs when—

“Shit! someone’s coming.”

The sound of footsteps. Two voices, probably Santos and Whittaker, arguing over something like usual.

He didn’t pull away. His hand was still down your pants. His eyes locked on yours. His body flush to yours in that dark closet that suddenly felt too hot, too small. Your heart was pounding.

The voices passed.

Silence.

“Do it again,” you whispered, your hips jerking forward without permission. “Please.”

He groaned into your neck, kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it, and pulled his hand back just as your knees nearly buckled.

“Later,” he promised, voice thick and dark. “I promise.” He barely made it through the end of the shift. Every chart blurred. Every trauma became a haze of motion and barked orders and adrenaline soaked in lust. You hadn’t looked at him once after that closet. Not directly.

But your hands were trembling.

And when you handed off the final signout sheet and turned toward the exit , you didn’t even ask.

He was already following.

------------------------------------------------------------------

His front door had barely clicked shut before he shoved you against it, mouth covering yours in something messy and starving. His hands were everywhere, under your shirt, fisting the fabric, tugging at your scrub pants, yanking your hair back just to see your face.

“You knew what you were doing,” he muttered against your neck, biting just hard enough to make you moan. “Walking past me in those scrubs. Talking back to me. Letting me touch you and acting like it didn’t drive you just as fucking crazy.”

You whimpered. “It did.”

“I know.”

He spun you then, pressed you against the wall with a hand firm at the back of your neck. His other slipped between your legs again, not tentative this time. Not cautious.

“You’re always so silent at work,” he said lowly. “So careful. Little mouse, let’s see what it takes to pull every goddamn sound out of you.”

And then he was on his knees.

Right there in his hallway.

You gasped. Tried to say his name.

He silenced you with his mouth.

Later, it was the couch. The kitchen counter. The edge of his bed, where he bent you over with your pants around your ankles and whispered, “You can take it, sweetheart. You’re mine to take.”

Every time you cried out, he bit back a groan like he could bottle the sound.

He needed to hear you come undone.

He needed to be the one to do it.

He didn’t even know who he was right now, just a man with shaking hands and a never ending hard-on that had been torturing him all shift, drinking down the sounds you made like they were water and he’d been parched for years.

And you, you took it all. Soft thighs spread for him. Fingers clawing at his shoulders. Voice finally breaking in gasps and pleas he never imagined he’d hear from your lips.

“Michael—please—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

Not until you were shaking, legs weak and messy beneath him, throat raw from moaning his name into his mouth. Not until he knew no one else would ever get this. No one would ever hear you the way he had.

After, in the quiet, you curled into his chest.

You didn’t say much.

You didn’t have to.

Your body said everything, the way you reached for him without hesitation, the way your cheek tucked beneath his chin like you belonged there. He kissed the top of your head and joined you in deep slumber.

-----------------------------------------------------------

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[hoezei]

⌗﹔tiptoeing ☄️⸝⸝

박지성 park jisung x reader ⋮ the rain keeps falling, the screen keeps flickering, and somewhere between comfort and curiosity, you and jisung cross a line you’ve both been tiptoeing around.

‎੭୧ warning ━━━ virgin!jisung, softdom!jisung, virgin!reader, best friends to lovers, first time sex, unprotected sex ( pls dont do that. ), lap-sitting, straddling, deep open-mouthed kissing, grinding in underwear, erection-through-clothes tension, praising, dirty talk, handjob with lots of mutual touching, fingering, overstimulation, post-orgasm cuddling, cum inside, and fluff !!

the rain’s been falling for over an hour now, tapping soft against the window like a lullaby. the living room glows dim from the tv, flickering light spilling over your socks, the blanket stretched over both your legs, and the half-empty bowl of popcorn between you.

jisung’s beside you, hood up, one knee bent on the couch, the other leg tapping restlessly to the beat of whatever song is playing faint in the background. he’s close — maybe a little closer than usual. or maybe it just feels that way tonight.

you’ve done this before. a hundred times, probably. movie nights with snacks and hoodies and dumb arguments over which version of spider-man is best. but tonight, something’s different. there’s a tension humming beneath it all — soft, almost shy, like neither of you want to say it first, but you’re both painfully aware.

you shift to get more comfortable, and your fingers brush. barely. but it’s enough to make him freeze.

you glance at him. “you okay?”

his eyes flick to yours, wide and startled like you just caught a secret spilling out of his chest. “yeah,” he says too quickly. then adds, quieter, “just cold.”

you nod, but your heart’s already thudding louder than the rain. you should leave it there — you know you should. but your fingers twitch, and then… you’re moving.

you climb into his lap, slowly, testing, your weight settling over his thighs with a soft shift of fabric. he stiffens beneath you like he’s trying not to breathe too loud.

“is this okay?” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them. “y-yeah. it’s… yeah.”

you smile, just a little. lean in, noses brushing. “then relax.”

you don’t move right away. just sit there, nestled in his lap, arms looped gently around his neck like it’s the most natural thing in the world. jisung’s hands stay planted on the couch, like touching you would make this real, would cross some line neither of you can uncross. he’s looking at you like you’re made of something breakable. or maybe like he is.

the rain keeps falling, steady and quiet in the background, a soft rhythm that matches the thrum under your skin. the movie still plays, but you’ve both stopped watching. the only thing that exists now is the warm press of your thighs around his, and the slight tremble in his breath every time your hips shift just a little.

his hoodie bunches where your arms rest, fabric soft beneath your fingertips. you toy with the seam near his shoulder. “you’re really warm,” you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else.

he lets out a quiet laugh — breathless and almost nervous. “you’re… sitting on me.”

you grin, but you don’t move. “am i making it hard to focus?”

his eyes flick down to your mouth, then quickly back up. “i haven’t been focused since you got here.”

that catches you. your stomach flips, heat curling low. you don’t tease him for it. instead, you lean in slowly — giving him time, space to pull back if he wants — and press your forehead gently to his.

“me neither,” you whisper.

his hands finally move. one settles at your waist, tentative, the other sliding up your spine so lightly it makes you shiver. he pulls you a little closer, noses brushing, and when your lips finally meet, it’s soft. careful. like neither of you want to scare the moment away.

he kisses you like he’s learning how. and maybe he is — because this is new. not the being close, not the warmth, but the kiss. the way your lips part for his. the way you sigh into it when his fingers curl against your hoodie. the way his breath stutters when you shift your hips just slightly, just enough to make him feel it.

he pulls back a fraction, eyes glassy, lips kiss-bitten. “can i…?”

you nod, already breathless. “please.”

his hand trembles just a little as it slides under the hem of your hoodie, fingertips grazing the warm skin just above your waistband. you feel it — the hesitation, the weight of what this means. it’s not just touching. it’s letting go of all the fear that’s held you both back until now.

you exhale slowly, leaning forward until your nose brushes his again, lips barely a breath apart. “it’s okay,” you whisper.

he swallows hard. his other hand moves too, lifting until his palm rests against the small of your back, holding you to him like he needs the contact to believe this is happening. you guide one of his hands up a little further, under your hoodie, until he’s tracing your spine with the lightest pressure.

your own hands move then — slow, exploring. fingers brushing his jaw, the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulder. he shivers under your touch, breath catching when your thumbs graze over his collarbone through the fabric.

“you’re shaking,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“you’re in my lap,” he says softly, trying to smile. “and you’re touching me like that.”

you hum, amused, kissing him again — a little deeper this time. your tongue grazes his lower lip, just a tease, and he makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before — something between a gasp and a whimper. it punches heat through you instantly.

your hands drift lower, over his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing under your palms. you push at the hem of his hoodie gently, and he lifts his arms without a word, letting you pull it over his head. his hair is a little messy afterward, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

you take a moment to just look.

he’s beautiful like this — bare-chested and slightly nervous, all soft lines and smooth skin, like he’s never been touched like this before. and maybe he hasn’t. not like this.

your fingers trace along his ribs, up to his chest, and he bites his lip to keep from moaning.

“you okay?” you ask.

he nods too fast. “yeah. yeah, i just… you’re really… it feels good.”

you smile, pressing a kiss to his jaw, then lower — the curve of his neck, the hollow of his throat. he tilts his head to let you, fingers digging into your waist now, like he doesn’t know what else to do with the ache building in his chest.

you shift again, straddling him more fully, and both of you suck in quiet breaths at the friction it causes — the unmistakable pressure of him, hard beneath his sweats, pressed against you through layers of cotton.

his head tips back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “fuck…”

you reach for the hem of your own hoodie, eyes on him. “can i?”

he opens his eyes, pupils blown. “please.”

you peel it off slowly, shy under his gaze even now. but the way he looks at you — mouth parted, chest rising and falling quick — makes it easier.

his hands move again, gently cupping your waist, thumbs stroking just under your bra. “you’re so…” he doesn’t finish. maybe he can’t.

instead, he leans up to kiss you again — deeper this time, more sure. his hands are learning you now. your curves, your warmth, the soft sounds you make when he touches just right.

and beneath all of it, the tension keeps pulling tighter. softer. hotter.

you can feel how hard he is through the thin layers between you, the slow grind of your hips making him twitch every time your weight shifts. his mouth is locked on yours now — desperate, open, deep — like he’s trying to breathe you in.

when you finally pull away, his lips are pink and swollen, his voice barely steady. “baby… i wanna touch you.”

your stomach flips at the way he says it — low and breathless, like it’s killing him to hold back.

you nod, voice gone soft. “please.”

he doesn’t rush. just keeps kissing you slow while his hand slides down between your bodies, slipping past the waistband of your shorts. his fingers find the warmth there instantly — the damp heat of your pussy soaking through your underwear.

he lets out a shaky breath. “fuck, you’re wet.”

you whimper as he presses a little more firmly, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric. your hips jerk forward and he grips your waist to keep you steady.

“you like that?” he asks, voice wrecked already. “you been sitting on my lap like this, needing it?”

“yes, yes, i—” you can’t even finish. he pushes your panties to the side and slides one finger down, parting your folds so gently it makes you shake.

and then he’s touching your bare clit — slow, teasing strokes, just enough pressure to keep you gasping.

“fuck, baby… you’re so soft. so pretty right here,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to watch his fingers move. “i’ve never done this, but i swear— i wanna make you feel so good.”

you let out a broken moan as he slips a finger inside you, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. he watches your face carefully, like every twitch and sigh is the most important thing in the world.

“so fucking tight,” he groans. “you’re gripping me so hard already, shit.”

he starts to move it — slow at first, dragging his knuckle with each thrust — and you swear you see stars. a second finger comes next, and the stretch has you clutching at his shoulders.

“that’s it, baby,” he breathes, kissing your jaw. “you’re taking me so well.”

his thumb finds your clit again, circling gently while his fingers curl just right inside you, coaxing out breathy gasps and needy little whines. your hips grind down on him helplessly, chasing more.

“please, jisung,” you whisper, voice cracking. “don’t stop.”

he leans in, voice right by your ear now. “i won’t, baby. i’m gonna make you cum on my fingers first, then you can ride my cock, yeah? you want that?”

“yes—fuck—yes, please,” you whimper, thighs trembling.

he groans into your neck, picking up the pace just a little. “god, you’re so good like this. such a good girl for me. letting me feel your perfect little pussy before i even get to fuck it.”

you cry out when his fingers hit a spot that makes your vision blur, your back arching instinctively.

“there,” he says, lips brushing your cheek. “right there, baby? yeah? that’s it?”

you nod frantically, breath stuttering, nails digging into his arms as the tension in your stomach coils tighter and tighter.

“cum for me,” he whispers. “let me feel you. make a mess all over my fucking hand.”

you do — hard.

your whole body shakes as you fall apart in his lap, cunt clenching tight around his fingers, gasping his name like a prayer. he keeps working you through it, rubbing your clit slow as your orgasm crashes over you.

when it finally fades, you collapse against him, panting, forehead pressed to his shoulder. he kisses your temple, still stroking you gently, so careful even when his cock is straining hard against you through his sweats.

“you okay, baby?” he murmurs.

you nod, dazed. “so good. too good.”

he grins, pulling his fingers out slowly, holding them up just to see the slick coating them. “fuck.”

you reach between you and palm him through his sweats. he groans, hips jerking into your touch.

“need you inside me,” you whisper. “please.”

he leans back just enough to get a good look at you — flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, lips still parted as you catch your breath. and when your hand wraps around the thick outline of his cock, pressing through the soft fabric of his sweats, jisung lets out a ragged groan that vibrates in his chest.

“baby,” he pants, grabbing your wrist gently, “if you keep doing that, i’m gonna cum before i even get inside you.”

you give him a lazy little smile, rubbing slow just to tease. “maybe i want you to.”

he growls — soft but real — then lifts you just enough to strip you fully, underwear and shorts left in a careless pile at your side. your hoodie rides up, and he helps you peel it off, letting his hands drag along your skin like he’s memorizing every inch.

then he’s flipping you carefully onto your back, laying you across the mess of blankets and pillows with the movie still flickering behind you. he pushes his sweats down far enough to free his cock — flushed, thick, already leaking at the tip.

you gasp a little when you see it, not out of fear, but anticipation. “want it,” you whisper. “please, jisung.”

he shudders. “fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

he kneels between your thighs, stroking himself slowly while his eyes rake over your body. “you’re so fucking pretty. i’ve thought about this— about you— for so long, baby.”

you open your legs for him instinctively, watching the way his gaze drops straight to your soaked pussy.

“look at you,” he groans. “all wet for me already. you want my cock that bad?”

“yes,” you breathe. “need to feel you. want you to fuck me.”

he doesn’t make you wait.

jisung leans down, lining himself up, tip nudging through your folds with the slick already dripping down your thighs. he hisses through his teeth. “you’re so wet— it’s gonna slide right in, baby. you ready?”

you nod, breath caught in your throat.

and then he’s pushing in, inch by slow inch, thick and hot and so careful — until he’s buried deep inside you, hips flush against yours, his cock stretching you open in the most delicious way.

you moan, legs wrapping around his waist.

he’s trembling a little above you, holding himself still. “fuck. you’re so tight,” he breathes. “feels like heaven.”

you squeeze around him and he gasps, eyes fluttering shut. “baby— don’t do that, i’m barely holding on.”

you giggle, a breathless little sound, and he smiles down at you — a little dazed, a little wrecked — before pulling his hips back slowly and thrusting in again.

“god,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. pussy’s gripping me like you never wanna let go.”

he starts to move, slow but deep, each thrust hitting all the right spots. the sound of skin against skin mixes with the low moans slipping from both of you, the wet slick of your cunt taking him so easily echoing between gasps.

“such a good girl,” jisung pants. “taking my cock so well. look at you, baby. fuck, i’m never gonna forget this.”

you’re clinging to him now, nails digging into his back, every thrust pushing little whimpers from your lips.

“more,” you beg, voice cracking. “don’t stop, jisung, please.”

he kisses you hard, swallowing your cries, hips starting to move faster — still deep, still controlled, but with a hunger he’s not hiding anymore.

“you’re mine,” he growls against your mouth. “this pussy’s mine now. no one else gets to touch you like this. no one else gets to fuck you like this.”

“yours,” you gasp. “only yours.”

he reaches down between you and rubs your clit again, making your whole body jolt. “gonna cum again for me, baby? want you to cum all over my cock. make a mess.”

you’re already close — the pressure building fast, unbearable in the best way.

“i—i’m gonna—!”

“cum, baby,” he urges, hips snapping harder now. “cum on my dick. let me feel you.”

you fall apart under him, pussy clenching tight as your orgasm rips through you, back arching, eyes rolling back. you scream his name, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

jisung groans loud and deep, cock twitching inside you.

“fuck— i’m cumming—”

he slams in one last time and spills inside you, warm and thick, filling you up as he gasps through it, body shaking from the force of it.

he stays there for a long moment, buried deep, breathing hard against your skin.

“holy shit,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours. “that was… fuck.”

you’re too gone to answer right away, just wrapping your arms around his neck and holding him close.

your bodies are still tangled, chest to chest, limbs limp with the weight of release. jisung hasn’t moved much, still deep inside you, his cock softening slowly as his breath evens out against your cheek.

your limbs are heavy with the kind of exhaustion that feels good — a little shaky, a little sore, but wrapped in something deeper. comfort. closeness. everything still smells like sex and skin, but it’s not overwhelming. it’s grounding.

jisung’s arms never left you. he’s curled around your body like instinct, face buried in your hair, breathing in slow through his nose as if trying to remember this moment forever.

“you okay?” he asks again, voice quieter now. there’s no edge to it. just care.

“i’m okay,” you say softly, brushing your fingers up and down his back. “i feel… warm. floaty.”

he lets out a breath of relief. “good. i was trying to be careful. you know… since it was both of our first time.”

you smile into his chest. “you were perfect.”

his hand rubs up and down your side under the hoodie, lazy and soft, like he’s still calming you down even though you’re already melted into him. your thighs are still a little sticky, sore in the best way, but his presence — the solid feel of him, the weight of his hand, the beat of his heart under your cheek — makes all of it feel safe. good.

he looks down at you like you’ve just won a war for him. “i love you, you know.”

you blink up at him, lips parting just slightly. “you do?”

“mhm,” he hums, smiling so softly it makes your chest ache. “i’ve known. i think i’ve just been too scared to ruin the best thing in my life.”

you prop your chin on his chest. “jisung…”

his fingers tuck your hair behind your ear. “and now i’ve had you like this… all of you. and i still feel like the luckiest idiot on the planet.”

you kiss him. slow, deep, full of the kind of love you’ve been holding onto in pieces for too long. he breathes into it like it’s saving him.

“we’re okay,” you whisper. “we’re more than okay.”

“yeah.” he brushes his nose against yours. “we’re so fucking okay.”

you both lie there for a while. the storm’s softened into a drizzle now. the movie is long over. the glow of the room is dim and warm, wrapping you both in something that feels like forever.

his hand strokes over your bare thigh, thumb smoothing circles there. “still comfortable?”

“mm,” you nod. “just a little sore.”

he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “let me know if it’s too much, okay? we’ll stay like this as long as you need.”

“i like this,” you say, letting your leg drape over his. “you. the rain. your arms.”

he hums, content. and then… you shift just slightly — thighs brushing his again — and pause. you blink. then blink again. you’re not imagining it.

the press of something firm against your hip.

you glance down.

and then look up at him with a teasing little raise of your brow.

“jisung…”

he makes a strangled sound and hides his face against your neck.

“don’t,” he whines softly. “don’t say it—i swear i’m not a perv, i just… i can’t help it.”

“you’re getting hard again.”

“baby,” he groans. “you’re naked in my arms. you smell like me. your pussy’s still warm, and we just—”

he cuts himself off, groaning into your skin like he’s punishing himself.

you giggle, a little breathless, because yeah, okay — that low whimpering embarrassment? hot.

“what do you wanna do about it?” you murmur, kissing his cheek.

he looks at you. wide eyes, flushed cheeks, his dick definitely straining against his boxers again.

“can i fuck you again, baby?” he breathes. “real slow this time… till you’re dripping all over me?”

your breath catches. your thighs clench.

you nod, heart racing.

“yeah,” you whisper. “i want that.”

“fuck,” he exhales, leaning over you, lips already chasing yours again. “i need you so bad.”

round two it is.

[pokesturns]

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ EEYORE!MATT SMUT DRABBLE ... ( 𝒊 )

SUMMARY ˙ ♱◞ matt, basking in post-sex intimacy, refuses to pull out, craving y/n’s warmth. their slow, loving movements deepen their bond, whispers of love mingling with sleepy moans. ──── they fall asleep entwined, still connected, hearts and bodies inseparable in a tender, blissful haze.

𝖥𝖤𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦 matt sturniolo x fem reader ⋅ 𝖶𝖮𝖱𝖣 𝖢𝖮𝖴𝖭𝖳 842 words ⋅ 𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖳𝖤𝖭𝖳𝖲 smutty fluff, nsfw, p in v, slice of life, sfw elements ⋅ TAGLIST REQUESTS

ㅤ⊂⊃ ( mak.says ) ﹐⇅ read warnings before proceeding! inspired by this thing i posted.

the bedroom was a haze of soft moonlight, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and tangled sheets.

matt, still buzzing from the high of their intimacy, lay sprawled across y/n, his bare chest pressed to hers, their breaths syncing in the quiet. his dark hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, his lips parted as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck. they’d just finished, a slow, intense session that left them both trembling—matt’s hands gripping her hips, y/n’s nails digging into his back, their moans a private symphony in the dark.

he was still inside her, his cock soft but warm, nestled deep, and he made no move to pull out, instead, he sank deeper into her embrace, his weight a comforting anchor, his thighs tangled with hers. “don’t wanna move,” he mumbled, his voice a sleepy rasp, his lips brushing her collarbone. “feels too good… just wanna stay like this.”

y/n’s fingers carded through his hair, her touch gentle, her own body still humming from the way he’d unraveled her. “you’re clingy tonight,” she teased, her voice soft, laced with affection. her legs wrapped loosely around his hips, keeping him close, her warmth enveloping him. “not complaining, though.”

he hummed, a lazy smile curving his lips as he pressed a kiss to her throat, slow and reverent. “s’not clingy,” he murmured, his words slurring with exhaustion. “s’intimate. you’re so warm… feels like home.” his hand slid up her side, tracing the curve of her waist, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast, not teasing, just savoring.

her heart fluttered, the sweetness of his words sinking deep. she shifted slightly, feeling him still inside her, the connection raw and unspoken. “you’re gonna fall asleep like this, aren’t you?” she whispered, her lips grazing his temple, her fingers massaging his scalp.

“maybe,” he admitted, his voice a low rumble, his eyes fluttering shut. “don’t care. love you too much to move.” he pressed himself closer, his cock twitching faintly, a soft reminder of their earlier heat, and y/n’s breath hitched, a spark of arousal flaring despite the tenderness.

“love you too,” she said, her voice barely audible, her hands roaming his back, tracing the muscles that flexed under her touch. she felt him relax, his weight growing heavier, but the intimacy of it—the way he trusted her, the way he wanted to stay connected—made her heart ache with something deeper than lust.

they lay like that, bodies entwined, the world shrinking to just them.

matt’s breathing slowed, his lips brushing her skin with every exhale, and y/n felt her own eyelids grow heavy, lulled by his warmth, his presence; but the closeness, the feel of him still inside her, stirred something primal. she rocked her hips gently, testing, and matt groaned, low and sleepy, his cock hardening just enough to send a shiver through them both.

“y/n,” he whined, half-protesting, half-pleading, his voice thick with need. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“shh,” she soothed, her hands sliding down to grip his ass, guiding him in a slow, shallow thrust. “just feel me.” her voice was a whisper, her movements deliberate, not chasing release but savoring the connection. matt’s moan was soft, broken, his hips moving with hers, lazy and unhurried, their bodies melting together.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he slurred, his face buried in her neck, his lips trailing sloppy kisses. “so warm… don’t ever wanna leave.” his words were delirious, his mind hazy with pleasure and love, and y/n’s heart swelled, her own arousal building at the rawness of it.

they moved like that, slow and sensual, no urgency, just the quiet intimacy of being one.

matt’s hands clutched her closer, his moans muffled against her skin, and y/n’s fingers dug into his shoulders, her breaths turning to soft gasps. it wasn’t about cumming, not this time—it was about feeling every inch of each other, about the love that bound them tighter than any physical act.

“stay with me,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, and matt nodded, his forehead pressed to hers, his eyes half-open, glassy with adoration.

“always,” he breathed, his voice cracking, and they kissed, slow and deep, their tongues tangling as their bodies stilled, the gentle rocking fading into stillness.

exhaustion crept in, their breaths slowing, their limbs heavy. matt’s weight settled fully onto her, his cock still nestled inside, a soft, intimate link that neither wanted to break. y/n’s hands rested on his back, her fingers tracing lazy patterns, and matt’s lips brushed her cheek, a final, sleepy kiss before his breathing deepened, his body surrendering to sleep. y/n felt herself drift, too, her eyes fluttering shut, her heart full to bursting.

the city hummed beyond the balcony, but in their cocoon of sheets and skin, it was just them—matt’s warmth, his love, his refusal to let go. they passed out like that, tangled and connected, their bodies and hearts so intertwined that even sleep couldn’t pull them apart.

©pokesturns any and all forms of modifications, reposts, and translation of my work are prohibited.

[bywons]

INTENTIONS 、 ksn

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗩𝗘𝗟𝗬────𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗈𝗈 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗍

❪ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝒾𝐒 ❫ ｡ 𝖽𝗈𝗐𝗇 𝖻𝖺𝖽!𝗄𝗌𝗇 𝗑 𝖿!𝗋 1O42 𖥔 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿 ──𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗈𝗎𝗍 贅沢 ／ 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐈𝐍𝐄

★REBLOGPLEASE

you’re curled up on the bed, phone in your hands, blanket pooled over your legs. the glow from the screen lights up your face in the dim room, shadows stretching across the walls. it’s quiet, save for the soft hum of the fan above you.

but then you feel it. that weight. that pull.

you glance up—and there he is.

sunoo stands at the doorway, shoulder leaning against the frame, watching. his damp hair sticks to his forehead, still wet from his shower. his black shirt clings to him, faintly sheer in the light, outlining every curve of his frame.

he doesn’t say anything. just watches.

you blink. “you keep staring.”

a small, knowing smile tugs at his lips.

“can you blame me?”

you shift beneath his gaze, warmth crawling up your neck. “what’s there to stare at?”

he pushes off the frame, hands sliding into his jean pockets, walking toward you slowly. deliberate.

“everything.”

your breath catches in your throat.

he stops at the edge of the bed, tilting his head as his eyes roam over you, like he’s committing every detail to memory. his lips part, like he wants to say more, but holds it back. instead, he leans down, palms pressing onto the mattress, lowering himself until he’s eye level with you.

“sunoo…” you whisper, voice barely steady.

“hmm?”

“what are you doing?”

his gaze flicks to your lips, then back to your eyes, “looking.”

you stare at him, heart hammering.

“stop looking then.”

he hums, amused. “or what?”

you swallow, lips pressing together. maybe it’s the way his voice drops lower. maybe it’s the way his eyes darken beneath the soft glow.

“or do something about it.”

he freezes. for a second, he just stares at you, stunned. then he lets out a quiet laugh, breathless, a little shy despite the heat behind his gaze.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he murmurs, before climbing onto the bed, a knee settling between your legs, hands sliding up to grip your waist.

“sunoo—”

but his lips are already brushing yours, soft, testing, like he’s waiting for permission. you lean in first. that’s all it takes.

his mouth meets yours in a kiss that’s warm and lingering, gentle but full, like he’s been waiting all day for this moment. his hands pull you closer, fingers pressing against your back as he melts into you.

“god, you’re—” he breathes against your lips, breaking away only to come back again, kissing deeper this time, slower, like he’s savoring every second.

you smile into the kiss, hands threading into his damp hair, pulling gently. he lets out a quiet sound, soft and breathy, leaning closer like he’s chasing your touch.

“down bad for me, aren’t you?” you tease, pulling back a little to see him.

his cheeks are flushed, lips pink and a little swollen, pupils blown wide.

“so down bad,” he admits without hesitation, grinning as he leans in again. “for you? always.”

he kisses you again, firmer now, tilting his head as his lips move against yours, one hand sliding up your back beneath the oversized shirt you’re wearing. not rushed. not desperate. just close. closer.

he pulls you fully into his lap, arms circling your waist, locking you there as he presses his forehead to yours.

“stay here,” he whispers, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “just… stay here a little longer.”

“i’m not going anywhere,” you promise, wrapping your arms around his neck.

he exhales softly, holding you tighter. “good,” he says quietly, thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. “you don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

you press a soft kiss to his nose.

“oh, i think i have an idea.”

he chuckles, tilting his head to steal another kiss, slower this time, lips moving like he’s trying to tell you all the things he hasn’t said out loud.

when he finally pulls back, eyes half-lidded, lips curved into a small smile, he doesn’t let go. he just buries his face against your shoulder, arms still wrapped snugly around your waist.

“i’m so lucky,” he whispers, his voice muffled against your skin.

you run your fingers through his hair, feeling his body relax beneath your touch.

“me too,” you whisper back.

and in the quiet warmth of the room, with his heartbeat steady beneath your hands, you realize—you could let him stare forever.

스루 ܃ just had to write something for him after this photoshoot, he looks so .. 🎀

© bywons, 2025 div ctto —taglist open ! nets. @/k-labels @kflixnet @k-films

[gpcwsl]

Could you please do Leah x pregnant reader, where Leah got worried if everything is ok with the baby but reader is comforting her that everything is ok? Thank you 🫶🫶🫶

part one HERE.

Leah Williamson x Pregnant!Reader

Part two, three tests

WC: 454

Leah Williamson MasterList

MasterList

Warnings: pregnancy? Very short.

-

Leah’s knee bounces anxiously as she grips your hand, her fingers wrapped so tightly around yours that they’ve started to tingle. You glance at her from your spot on the exam table, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Leah, love,” you murmur, squeezing her hand. “Breathe.”

She exhales sharply, her blue eyes darting to yours before shifting back to the ultrasound machine. “I just—what if something’s wrong?” she whispers, barely audible. “What if—”

“Nothing is wrong,” you interrupt gently. “Our baby is fine.”

She nods, but you can still see the worry in her face, the crease between her brows deepening. Every single appointment, it’s the same. Leah is always on edge, her body stiff with nerves, her hand like a vice around yours. You know she’s scared—scared of the unknown, scared of something going wrong, scared of not being able to protect the both of you.

You shift your free hand to your belly, rubbing slow circles over the curve of it. “They’re strong, babe. Just like you.”

Leah’s lips twitch, but she doesn’t fully smile. Before you can say more, the doctor enters, greeting you both with a warm smile before starting the scan. The moment the screen flickers to life, Leah tenses beside you, holding her breath as if any sudden movement might disturb the image.

And then—there it is. The steady rhythm of your baby’s heartbeat fills the room, the grainy image of your little one appearing on the screen.

Leah exhales a shaky breath, her shoulders dropping as she clings to your hand.

“There they are,” you whisper, smiling up at her.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her gaze locked onto the screen. “They’re so big,” she breathes out, almost in awe.

You laugh softly. “Five months in, babe. Of course they are.”

The doctor continues talking, reassuring you both that everything looks perfect, but Leah barely responds—she’s too caught up in watching, in staring, in memorizing every tiny detail she can. When the scan is over, she finally looks at you, her face soft, raw with emotion.

You reach up, brushing your fingers along her cheek. “See? Everything is fine.”

She nods, swallowing thickly. “I just—I love you both so much,” she whispers. “I don’t ever want anything to happen to either of you.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in her voice. You cup her face, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. “Nothing will happen,” you promise. “We’re okay. And we love you too. So, so much.”

Leah presses her forehead to yours, closing her eyes. “I can’t wait to meet them.”

You smile, resting a hand over hers against your stomach. “They can’t wait to meet you either.”

[lyn31]

Sinceeee i'm still in this zayne and mc on a honeymoon sweetness haze, might as well request another one for my dose of sweetness hahaha can you pretty please write more about their newlywed life, all domestic like them cooking together, going on grocery shopping maybe? Heck even them doing laundry together would be cute 🤣 oh and probably them going to work related functions for the first time since the wedding and introducing each other as husband / wife? Just sending this in before i sleep so good night and thankyou in advance! hehe 💕❤️

Hopefully it's not died down yet 😂🫶🏻 And no worries, seeing that I made a series in ao3, this story would keep coming even if it just a short little scene! And again, I can't choose what activity for them to do, so this is how it ended up being...

Let me know what you think! 👀💕

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

New Chapter of Life Together

Summary

You learn what it means to be loved as a wife—not through grand declarations, but in quiet mornings, soft reassurances, and the steady presence of the man who chose you for life.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Married Life, newlyweds, fluff, banter, silly, chaos, a lot of flirting!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first thing you feel is his arm, heavy and familiar around your waist. Then the warmth of his chest, the quiet, steady rhythm of his breath against your shoulder. You shift slightly, testing the morning light that peeks through the curtains—and immediately, Zayne tightens his hold on you with all the intent of someone who has no plans of letting you escape.

"Good morning, wife," he murmurs against your skin, voice still rough with sleep.

You smile before your eyes are even fully open. "Good morning, husband."

The views aren’t new anymore. You’ve lived together long before vows were exchanged, before rings slipped into place. But now—now they taste sweeter, weightier. Even when said half-teasing, neither of you seem eager to stop.

You stretch your leg over his, limbs tangled beneath the covers, and he exhales softly like that was exactly what he wanted. For a moment, neither of you speak. Just the quiet of the room, the drowsy comfort of not needing to be anywhere yet.

"I had a weird dream," you mumble into his collarbone. "You were trying to fight a sentient loaf of bread."

Zayne hums. "Did I win?"

"Only after giving it a heartfelt speech about forgiveness."

"I see." A beat. "Sounds accurate."

You laugh under your breath. He kisses the back of your neck, absently, like it’s muscle memory. You reach behind you, fingertips brushing his chest until they find that familiar, faint heartbeat under your touch—calm and certain, just like him.

"What should we eat?" you ask after a pause, not moving an inch.

"You're asking me that while still in bed?" he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"No dirty thoughts! I’m manifesting brunch."

"You’re manifesting it from the arms of your husband, who is also very comfortable."

You twist slightly to glance over your shoulder at him. "Fine, I guess we’ll starve together."

Zayne’s smile is small but unmistakable, the kind that barely lifts the corner of his lips and still somehow makes your stomach flutter. He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours—slow, warm, and just the right side of lazy. It deepens as your fingers slip into his hair, and for a moment, you both seem to forget everything else. His touch drifts lower, and the kiss turns languid, coaxing.

But then, your stomach lets out a loud, undeniable growl.

You freeze. Zayne stills. And then, against your neck, you feel his shoulders start to shake with laughter.

"Okay, okay," you groan, burying your face in the pillow. "Rude."

He kisses your temple, still grinning. "Brunch it is."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You pad into the kitchen behind him, still barefoot, hair a mess, wearing one of his oversized shirts like you always do on mornings like this. Zayne rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, sets his tablet on the counter, and already you can see that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s taking this way too seriously.

"Let me help," you say, even though you both know what that usually means.

Zayne glances over his shoulder with that soft, amused expression he reserves just for you. "You sure?"

"Of course! It’s brunch. It’s meant to be spontaneous and unhinged."

He blinks but nods all the same. "Alright. But no cinnamon in the eggs again."

"That's one time," you mutter, grabbing a pan anyway.

It’s controlled chaos from there. Zayne measures ingredients with military precision, he stirs with careful, deliberate movements. Meanwhile, you’re humming whatever’s stuck in your head, tossing in seasonings by instinct, ignoring every suggestion he tries to gently offer.

"That’s not... two teaspoons," he points out mildly, watching you sprinkle something into your pan with reckless abandon.

"It’s two teaspoons in spirit."

He shakes his head, reaching around you to grab a cutting board, only for your elbow to bump his side. You dodge in front of him, stealing his spatula just to flip your own food. He frowns, but there’s no heat in it. Just the usual dance of coexisting in a space too small for both your styles.

At some point, you flick flour at him.

It catches him clean on the nose, dusting his face like powdered sugar. He doesn’t react at first—just stares at you, completely deadpan, as if deciding whether to reprimand you or kiss you senseless.

You burst into laughter.

"You have flour—" you wheeze, pointing, "on your—"

Zayne calmly wipes his nose with a dish towel. "I’m married to a gremlin."

"Excuse you, I’m a culinary genius."

"You’re a hazard."

Still, when everything’s finally cooked and plated, the result is... actually edible. Good, even. The eggs are a little crisped on one side, the toast slightly uneven, but the flavors are warm and comforting and somehow perfectly them. You both slide onto the counter, plates balanced on your laps, legs swinging lazily.

The window’s open. The breeze smells like spring. He hands you a fork, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips again as he watches you take your first bite.

"...Not bad, right?" you ask, mouth full.

"Brilliant," he says dryly. "I might survive after all."

You nudge your foot against his, eyes catching his in that soft, slow moment that doesn’t need anything more than just being here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shower is—miraculously—efficient. Warm water, quiet kisses, just enough lingering touches to feel indulgent without dragging the hours into full-blown distraction. You both dry off in sync, navigating the shared space like muscle memory, and by the time you're dressed and slipping on your shoes, it's afternoon.

Sunday means errands, but it doesn’t feel like a chore. Not when it’s the two of you.

You stop by the dry cleaners first, where Zayne handles the transaction with his usual quiet grace and you eye the mystery stain on one of his button-downs like it personally offended you. Then it’s light bulbs, of all things, which somehow turns into a debate over wattage because Zayne is, of course, reading the box like it’s a research paper.

"I swear you overthink these," you mutter, nudging his arm with your elbow.

"And you under think everything," he replies, without even looking up.

Fair.

But the best part of the afternoon is the plant shop. It’s a cozy little place that smells like soil and citrus, and you make a beeline for the corner where the leafy, drooping misfits live. One in particular catches your eye—a slightly crooked snake plant with a tilted pot and far too much charm for Zayne to ignore.

"We just re-potted three last month," he says, arms crossed.

"He’s different. Look at him," you coo, lifting the little guy carefully. "He’s got personality."

Zayne gives the plant a long, assessing look, then you. Then the plant again. "...You’re going to forget to water it."

"I won’t."

"You will," he says, but takes the pot from you anyway, one hand cradling the base like it’s fragile. The way he does it makes you grin—he’s already accepted the adoption, whether he admits it or not.

Outside the store, an elderly woman fumbles with her bags, and before either of you even speak, you step forward to help. Zayne’s hand settles briefly at the small of your back as you assist her, steady and quiet. She thanks you both sweetly, eyes crinkling, and you flash her a smile that lingers longer than necessary.

Zayne watches that smile with a softness he doesn’t say out loud.

The rest of the outing passes in that same easy rhythm. You hand him your drink without a word, and he takes a sip like it’s routine—no need to ask. You lean into him while waiting at a crosswalk, forehead briefly brushing his shoulder. At some point, you bicker about whether taking 3rd Avenue or looping around through the back road is faster—Zayne with logic, you with stubborn gut feeling. He humors you and takes your route anyway.

By the time you hit the grocery store, you’re both ready to knock out dinner prep. But the snack aisle derails everything. Zayne sneaks bags of cookies into the cart like you can’t see it or something. You remove one, replacing it with the lower-sugar version, only for him to sneak another one in from behind your back.

"You know we came here for, like, eggs and rice, right?" You say, grinning, crossing your arms.

"And chocolate," he adds, tossing in a novelty-flavored candy bar. He casually looks at his phone that has the grocery list like he didn’t just add sweet into it.

You scan the nutritional label like it just betrayed your trust. Seriously—if you didn’t stop this man, all his teeth would rot and he wouldn’t even regret it.

Eventually, you give up pretending to be responsible and accept that your cart now contains enough snacks for a week. Maybe two.

On the way home, you both realize brunch wore off faster than expected. Zayne’s stomach growls first. You don’t say anything—just raise an eyebrow and gesture toward a café at the corner.

Ten minutes later, you're inside, warm and cozy, sunlight filtering through the windows. He’s reading the menu with that familiar furrow between his brows, like choosing between a croissant and a danish is a life-altering decision.

"You look so serious right now," you tease, sipping your drink. "Like you’re solving a medical mystery. For pastries."

"I like to be thorough."

"You're adorable."

He lowers the menu slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "...You’re not getting out of deciding the movie tonight." But despite how steady his tone is, the tips of his ears are turning red.

You grin around the rim of your cup. "I’ll let you pick—if you get the strawberry tart and let me steal half."

"...Deal."

You end up splitting three pastries anyway. Conversation drifts from movies to work, to the idea of maybe cooking something light for dinner, to whether or not that plant is actually going to survive under your care. It’s nothing flashy. Just the rhythm of being you and Zayne—shared smiles, knees bumping beneath the table, the world soft around the edges.

And for a lazy Sunday? It’s perfect.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Monday morning hits different after a slow weekend. There’s a light chill in the air, one that creeps in through the kitchen windows despite the soft warmth of dawn pressing through the curtains. You pad across the tile floor, barefoot, still slightly sleepy, wearing nothing but one of Zayne’s button-downs—loose, wrinkled from the laundry basket, and hanging just enough to tease.

You’re not really trying to make a statement.

...But you're also not not trying.

You're mid-pour with the kettle when you hear the bathroom door open and soft footsteps cross the hall. Zayne steps into the kitchen, towel around his neck, hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. He’s wearing his usual morning expression—composed, alert, too calm for someone who just walked in on his wife looking like that.

Except for the smallest shift in his gaze, the stillness in his steps as he takes you in.

He says nothing at first, only moves toward the counter like he always does. Pours himself a mug of coffee. But you catch the flicker. That very specific pause as he lifts the cup to his lips and doesn't drink—just watches you over the rim, quiet, assessing.

And yeah. You know exactly what you're doing.

"Morning, husband," you say sweetly, voice innocent as you stretch just slightly to reach the sugar jar.

His eyes trail the motion, linger a second too long. "...Good morning, wife."

He sets the mug down with a soft clink. That’s all. No teasing, no smirking. But you feel the tension in the air anyway, coiling subtle and slow between your bare thighs and his calm restraint. This man, composed even now, does nothing by accident.

"You're going to be late," he says, finally turning back to his coffee.

"So are you," you reply, sipping yours, perfectly unfazed.

But his gaze dips once more as he walks past you, deliberately brushing the edge of his hand along the curve of your waist, kissing you slowly before going on his way out of the kitchen, as if staying any longer would mean neither of you would get out of the house today.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few hours into work, you’re back on base, half-distracted during reports when something ridiculous happens—Tara gets her coat stuck in the door and tries to play it off like it didn’t happen. You manage a sneaky photo just before she notices.

You send it to Zayne with no caption.

A minute later, your screen lights up.

Mine💕: Is this why you were wearing my shirt and nothing else this morning? To not get attack by door?

You grin and fire back.

You: Well, I had to arm myself with something. Your shirt felt appropriate. Has… sentimental value.

Mine💕: It had strategic value this morning too.

You almost laugh out loud.

You: Are you suggesting I distracted you?

Mine💕: You walked into the kitchen half-dressed. On a Monday. After a weekend where we barely left bed. So, yes.

You: Oh no. What will I wear tomorrow?

Mine💕:  Nothing, if you’re trying to get me to skip work.

Your cheeks heat—part laughter, part memory, part anticipation. The texts keep going, drifting more playful, more suggestive, until you're both balancing professionalism with escalating tension.

Eventually, somewhere between paperwork and lunch, he sends one last message.

Mine💕: I’m picking up dinner tonight. So you can go straight to not wearing anything when I get home.

You don’t reply immediately. Just stare at your screen, biting back a smile.

But oh yeah—you’re both very much looking forward to tonight.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You get home before him. The house is quiet, the kind of peaceful that makes you want to hum to yourself while moving through it. Zayne said he’d bring dinner, so technically you didn’t have to do anything—but a sudden idea takes hold somewhere between opening the fridge and spotting the unused chocolate in the cupboard.

Dessert.

You’ll make dessert.

Well… a dessert.

You tie on the apron—his apron, naturally. It's one of those neutral-toned ones with deep pockets and a tie that loops around your waist twice. The only thing beneath it is skin and a whole lot of mischief. It’s half a joke—just the apron, no clothes—but it doesn’t stop you from fluffing your hair and checking the mirror before you start.

You’re not just teasing. You want to see what that calm, steady husband of yours does when he walks in and finds his wife waiting with nothing but his apron.

The baking part goes better than expected. It helps that you’ve done this before, and that you know exactly how he likes his sweets, although he’ll eat any sweet you give him and this is just talking about actual food.

You’re plating them when you hear the lock click.

The door swings open. Zayne steps in, dinner in hand, something warm and likely perfectly portioned. His eyes lift—routine, casual—until they register what they’re seeing.

He stops mid-step.

You’re standing there at the kitchen counter, apron tied neatly, dessert on display. The light catches your skin, and maybe it’s your imagination, but the air seems to still for a moment.

He blinks.

“Welcome home, husband,” you say, voice light, innocent.

He sets the takeout bag down on the nearest surface. Doesn’t even glance at it. Just walks straight toward you, loosing up the tie on his shirt, walking slow and with controlled, like he's handling something fragile. Or dangerous.

His hands slide to your waist—cool, sure. His voice is low, close to your ear. “I thought we agree on nothing.”

“Isn’t this more exciting?” you murmur, tipping your head up just slightly, pulling at his tie.

He kisses you like he has no intention of stopping. And for a long, breathless stretch, he doesn’t.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time you actually sit down to eat, the food is lukewarm and the desserts are nearly forgotten. You both laugh about it, halfway through your second bites, a little dazed, your hair mussed, his neck full of kiss marks. Both of you barely dress.

The kitchen still smells like sugar and vanilla.

And Zayne? He still hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It’s just past midnight when he wakes up.

No gasp, no cry—just a sharp inhale through clenched teeth and the sudden tension of his body beside you. You feel it immediately, even through sleep. The shift in the bed. The way his hand curls slightly, like he's still trying to hold onto something that slipped away.

You roll toward him, reaching out before your eyes are fully open. “Zayne?”

He blinks once, twice, eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. His breath is still uneven. There’s sweat at his hairline, his shirt sticking to his chest, his jaw tight.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You don't reply at first. Just press your forehead to his shoulder, your arm slipping around his middle.

“Was it… another nightmare?”

He doesn’t answer, but you feel the nod. It's small. Heavy.

It doesn't happen often—not anymore. But every now and then, something cracks through that carefully maintained calm. Close calls. An impossible case. A moment when the scalpel trembled, or worse, when it nearly slipped. Or sometimes... sometimes it's you. A memory he tries not to relive, no matter how old or how faint.

“You’re here,” you whisper, voice soft against his skin. “We’re safe.”

His arms come around you after that. Slow, a little hesitant—like he still thinks he doesn’t deserve to be comforted—but when he exhales, it’s shakier than he means it to be.

“You were…” he trails off. “In the OR. I—”

He stops again. Shakes his head.

You don't need the rest. You've heard enough versions of this dream to know where it leads. And you know exactly how deeply it sinks into him, even hours after it ends.

So you pull him closer, shifting until you’re almost on top of him, fingers threading through his damp hair, grounding him. “You made vows,” you say, quiet but steady. “So did I.”

His hands press against your back, anchoring. He doesn’t reply, but you feel the moment he lets go of the dream. Not entirely—but enough. Enough to stay here. With you.

“I’m not going anywhere, Love.”

You press a kiss just below his ear. “Not now. Not ever.”

And finally, finally, he breathes like he believes it.

He falls asleep not long after, arms still around you, the warmth of your body pulling him back to steadiness. And you stay like that, wide awake, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest.

You know he’ll be okay in the morning.

He always is.

But you stay anyway—because that’s what you promised.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bonus

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The event is held in one of the hospital’s private conference halls—high ceilings, too-bright lighting, waitstaff weaving between clusters of formally dressed doctors and researchers. There’s soft music playing in the background, more ambiance than melody, and a spread of hors d’oeuvres on white-clothed tables no one quite dares to touch.

Zayne stands beside you, tailored suit perfect down to the pressed collar. He blends in seamlessly with the rest of them—composed, unbothered, clipboard conversations flowing around him like water. But you can feel it in the way his hand rests at the small of your back. Gentle. Protective. Anchored.

He leans in slightly when someone approaches. “This is my wife,” he says simply, voice calm but warm.

You hear the words more than once tonight—always offhand, always soft. But every time, they catch you a little off guard. My wife. It shouldn’t feel so new anymore, but somehow, coming from him, in this polished, clinical space where everything is usually professional and precise… it does.

It feels like a tiny rebellion.

You smile, offer your hand, try to keep your voice steady as you greet whoever he introduces you to—department heads, residents, researchers you only know by surname on articles he's sent you. And you do well enough, even as you notice the subtle double takes. The way eyes flick between the two of you. Like no one expected this pairing. Or maybe they just didn’t expect you.

“She’s even prettier than you described,” one of the cardiologists from another hospital murmurs with a smile, a little in awe.

Before you can react—before you can wave it off or stammer something awkward—Zayne’s already answering.

“She always is.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. Doesn’t smirk or make a show of it. He just says it like it’s fact. Like gravity. And suddenly you’re the one left flustered, heat blooming in your face.

Zayne offers you a drink then—water, always observant—and you accept it more for the distraction than anything else. His fingers brush yours briefly. Steady. Sure.

Later, during a lull in the presentations, you find yourself pressed shoulder to shoulder with him by the tall windows overlooking the city. He doesn’t say much, just watches the traffic below. But his fingers curl around yours, his thumb tracing the back of your hand slowly, absentmindedly.

You lean into him a little.

“You know you’re going to make it hard for me to show my face around here again,” you murmur.

“Why?” he asks mildly, but there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“You just… announced me like I was the highlight of the year.”

“You are.”

You laugh, bury your face briefly against his arm, cheeks still warm. He says nothing else, just lets you stay close, thumb still moving in slow circles. The rest of the evening passes in the blur of names and speeches, but you hold on to that moment.

To the quiet certainty in his voice.

To being his wife—not just on paper, but here. Beside him. In his world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

They're too cute for their own good 😩🫶🏻 I'll be back 👀

[heliosunny]

hiiiii, i hope your doing good, i adore how you write charecters and was hoping that you could write Alhaitham for the lucky egg series. Thank you

LUCKY EGG

Yandere!Alhaitham x Reader

The sky split open like a wound as the alien armada descended. Their ships were vast, silent monoliths of silver and obsidian, drifting through the atmosphere.

Governments collapsed within hours. Resistance was met with annihilation so swift, so absolute, that humanity had no choice but to kneel.

You watched from your window as the streets filled with towering figures—elegant creatures with skin like polished onyx and eyes that burned with distant light.

"Compliance ensures survival. Each of you will be assigned an Overseer. They will guide you. Ensure order."

An egg was pressed into your hands. It was heavier than it looked. The alien who delivered it tilted its head, studying you with those depthless eyes before speaking again.

"In three days, it will awaken. Do not resist."

Then it was gone, leaving you standing there, clutching the egg as if it were a bomb.

-Day 2-

You placed the egg on your desk, half-expecting it to move. But it remained still.

That night, you dreamed of whispers.

"Soon."

You woke with a gasp, sweat clinging to your skin.

The news feeds were a graveyard of grim updates. People who had refused their Overseers had vanished overnight. Those who obeyed were rewarded—food, shelter, safety. But at what cost?

-Day 3-

Crack.

Your eyes flew open. The egg on your nightstand was fracturing.

The egg soon split open, and the figure inside unfolded itself.

Fluid dripped from silver hair, evaporating into mist before it could even touch the sheets. The man—because it was a man—lifted his head.

You flinched, fingers digging into the sheets. "Who—what are you?"

"Alhaitham."

He rose. His fingers brushed your cheek, cold at first, then warming unnaturally fast.

"You are my master" 

A slow smile curled at the edge of his lips.

"Protect. Guide. Own." His grip tightened, just slightly, as if testing your reaction. "The terms are interchangeable."

-----

You quickly realized that Alhaitham was… different.

The other Overseers, hatched from their eggs in the days following the invasion. A man down the street had one who never smiled, who watched his charge with unblinking precision, correcting even the slightest deviation from the new world’s order.

But Alhaitham?

He was calm.

And he loves reading.

“You have a collection of books,” he remarked, fingers trailing over the spines on your shelf.

You hesitated before answering. “Yes. I like to read.”

He hummed, pulling out a well-worn novel. “This one is annotated.”

“I… mark my favorites.”

Then, to your surprise, he sat in your armchair, flipping it open. “Read it to me.”

“What?”

“You are my master. I am to learn from you. So teach me.”

So you read to him.

You saw the way the others acted.

Your neighbor, a nervous young man named Eli, had an Overseer who monitored his every move. She stood by the door as he ate, as he worked, as he slept.

“She won’t even let me choose my own clothes” he whispered to you one day, when she was momentarily distracted.

You didn’t know what to say.

Because Alhaitham, in contrast, had merely glanced at your wardrobe that morning and remarked, “The blue sweater suits you better.”

It became a habit.

Every night, without fail, he would select a book and wait for you. Sometimes you read to him. Sometimes, when your voice grew tired, he took over, his smooth baritone filling the room as you curled against the armrest.

One evening, exhaustion from the day’s labor dragged you under before he’d even finished the chapter. You woke hours later to the soft glow of lamplight, the book still open in his hands, his other arm curled around you.

You jolted upright. “I—I fell asleep?”

He turned a page, unfazed. “You did.”

“Why didn’t you… move me?”

“You were comfortable.”

Something warm settled in your chest.

The others feared their Overseers.

You… didn’t.

----

The monthly check-up was as clinical as you expected.

You stood in line with the others as the aliens inspected each human and their Overseer. Their hands were cold when they touched your wrist, scanning something beneath your skin that you couldn’t see. Beside you, Alhaitham stood perfectly still.

When it was your turn, the alien tilted its head, studying you both.

"Report" 

"No irregularities. Compliance is maintained."

Then, the alien released your wrist and moved on.

You barely breathed until you were outside.

The walk home was tense. Alhaitham’s hand rested lightly on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd.

Once you were far enough away, his voice dropped low.

"Don’t react."

You kept your steps even.

"They were watching us more closely than usual." 

"Why? What’s happening?"

His fingers pressed slightly against your spine. "Not here."

So you stayed silent the rest of the way, your pulse loud in your ears.

The moment the door closed behind you, you let out a shaky breath.

Alhaitham didn’t relax—if he ever did—but his shoulders lost some of their rigid tension. He moved to the window, drawing the blinds shut before turning back to you.

"They suspect something" he said simply.

"Like what?"

"It doesn’t matter yet. Just follow my lead."

You wanted to argue. To demand answers. But the look in his eyes stopped you.

So you nodded.

And then, because you needed something to distract yourself, you turned to the chores.

You were scrubbing dishes when he appeared beside you.

"Let me help."

"No, it’s fine. I’ve got it."

"You’re tired."

"I’m fine."

Reluctantly, he let go. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as you worked.

"You don’t have to hover"

"I’m not hovering," he said, "I’m observing."

That night, curled under the blankets with the lights dimmed, you finally dared to ask.

"Do they know?"

Alhaitham glanced up from the book in his hands. "Know what?"

"About how you’re different."

"It’s complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"We’re not meant to be too attached."

You frowned. "But the others—their Overseers control everything."

"Control isn’t the same as attachment" 

You hesitated before asking the next question. "Do you… know the other Overseers?"

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes.

"We’re aware of each other," he admitted after a moment. "But we don’t… interact."

"Why not?"

He closed the book slowly. "Because some of them wouldn’t approve of how I handle you."

You didn’t ask anything else after that.

----

The television was your one escape.

In this strange new world, where every move was monitored and every choice scrutinized, the flickering glow of the screen offered a sliver of normalcy.

Celebrities still performed, still lived their lives—albeit with their own Overseers hovering just off-camera.

Tonight, the entertainment news was buzzing about a rising star—a young singer with a voice like spun sugar and a smile that could melt glaciers. But it wasn’t her who caught your attention.

It was her Overseer.

Blond hair swept back in elegant waves, eyes like molten honey, dressed in a tailored suit that shimmered under the studio lights. His one hand resting lightly on the singer’s shoulder as she gushed about her new home.

"Kaveh designed everything himself," she said, "He knows exactly what I like!"

The camera panned to him, and he smiled.

You leaned forward, intrigued.

"Huh. I didn’t know Overseers could be so…"

You trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Obnoxious?"

You jumped. Alhaitham’s voice was dry as dust, right beside your ear. You hadn’t even heard him approach.

"I was going to say ‘expressive,’" you muttered, eyes still glued to the screen.

Kaveh was gesturing now, explaining some architectural detail with animated flair.

"He’s very…"

"Loud" Alhaitham supplied.

"I was thinking ‘attentive.’"

A hand covered your eyes.

You yelped. "Hey—!"

"Change the channel"

You batted at his wrist. "I’m watching that!"

"No, you’re staring at him."

You could hear the frown in his voice.

"Are you jealous?"

His grip on you tightened, just slightly.

"I’m ensuring you don’t develop poor taste."

You snorted. "Oh, so now you’re an art critic?"

"I don’t need to be a critic to recognize gaudy excess."

On screen, Kaveh laughed at something, head thrown back, golden hair catching the light.

Alhaitham’s fingers twitched.

You smirked. "You are jealous."

For a moment, he just stared at you. Then, in one smooth motion, he plucked the remote from your hand and switched the channel.

A nature documentary. Elephants.

You groaned. "Really?"

"Educational" he said flatly, settling beside you.

You elbowed him. He didn’t budge.

----

The streets were quieter these days.

Not out of peace—but out of fear.

The Overseers walked among them, their presence a constant reminder of the new order.

You kept your pace brisk, arms wrapped around yourself as you turned the corner toward home. The sun had barely set, but the alleyways were already swallowed by gloom.

You heard it.

The rustle of fabric.

Then, a gasp.

Your steps faltered.

Curiosity warred with instinct, and against your better judgment, you glanced toward the sound.

Two figures pressed against the brick wall, tangled in each other. A woman, her fingers clutching the collar of a man’s shirt—her Overseer—as he kissed her.

Alhaitham was waiting by the door when you stumbled inside, your face burning, pulse hammering in your throat.

He took one look at you and arched a brow.

"You’re flushed."

"It’s—it’s nothing," you stammered, toeing off your shoes with too much force. "Just walked too fast."

He didn’t move. Just watched as you all but fled to the kitchen, busying yourself with the kettle like your life depended on it.

"You’re a terrible liar."

The kettle clattered against the stove. "I’m not lying."

"Your pulse is elevated. Your breathing is uneven. And you won’t look at me." He stepped closer. "So. What happened?"

"I just saw something… unexpected."

"Define ‘unexpected.’"

"Why do you care?" you snapped, finally turning to face him.

"Because," he said slowly, "if something—or someone disturbed you, I’d like to know."

You exhaled sharply. "It wasn’t like that. I just… saw a couple. In the alley."

A pause. Then, understanding dawned.

"Ah."

"Yeah." You rubbed your temples. "Can we just… not talk about it?"

"As you wish."

Life went on.

You worked. You ate. You read together in the evenings.

But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you’d catch him studying you.

Neither of you mentioned the alley again.

----

It was your day off, and the apartment was quiet without Alhaitham.

He had left early.

So you did what any sane person would do in a world where sanity was a luxury.

You turned on the TV.

The News: Love, Obedience, and Rebellion

The first channel was a broadcast of some government-approved talk show.

"Today, we discuss the beautiful bonds between humans and their Overseers!" she chirped, gesturing to a panel of guests.

A woman in a pastel dress clasped her hands together. "My Overseer knows me better than I know myself. He anticipates my needs before I even realize them!"

A man nodded fervently. "Resistance is pointless. Why fight when they only want what’s best for us?"

Then the screen cut to footage of a protest—or what used to be one. The rebels were being dragged away, their faces bloodied.

"Those who refuse harmony must be… corrected" the host said.

You changed the channel.

The next channel was pure entertainment.

There they were again—the rising starlet and her dazzling Overseer, Kaveh. They sat on a plush couch, her fingers laced with his as she giggled at some interviewer’s question.

"We’re just so in sync," she sighed, leaning into him. "It’s like he was made for me."

Kaveh smirked, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. "I was."

The audience swooned.

You rolled your eyes—but couldn’t help the twinge of curiosity. Was this… real? Or just another performance for the cameras?

A knock at the door startled you.

You fumbled for the remote, switching off the TV just as Alhaitham stepped inside.

He paused in the doorway, gaze flicking from you to the darkened screen.

"You’re tense"

"Just watching junk TV," you muttered, pulling your knees to your chest.

Alhaitham set down a bag of groceries. "What did you see?"

You hesitated. "The usual. Rebel crackdowns. And, uh… your friend Kaveh."

"He’s not my friend."

"You know him, though."

"We’re aware of each other. That’s all."

The commotion outside was sudden.

You and Alhaitham exchanged a glance before rushing out, joining the crowd gathering in the street.

A group of rebels had been cornered, their faces desperate as they fought against their Overseers. One of them, a woman, raised her hands, and a surge of violet energy erupted from her palms, aimed straight at the enforcers.

But the blast went wide.

Straight toward you.

A shimmering barrier of geometric green energy materialized in front of you, absorbing the attack.

You turned, stunned.

Alhaitham stood with one arm outstretched, his eyes glowing faintly with an otherworldly teal hue.

The rebels were subdued moments later, dragged away by their Overseers. The crowd murmured, some in awe, others in fear.

But all you could focus on was him.

Back inside, you finally found your voice.

Alhaitham didn’t answer immediately, pouring tea with deliberate calm.

"All Overseers have abilities" he said at last. 

You stared.

He sipped his tea.

A long silence stretched between you before he spoke again.

"They’ve offered me a promotion."

You blinked. "A… what?"

"Better resources." His gaze met yours. "A safer district."

You hesitated. "Oh."

"You don’t seem excited."

"I just…" You fidgeted with your cup. "I didn’t realize Overseers could get promotions."

"Neither did I. But it would mean better living conditions. For you."

"Do you want to take it?"

"I want to know what you want."

You exhaled. "I’m fine either way. As long as…"

"As long as?"

"As long as you’re still you."

He nodded.

"Then we’ll stay."

----

The knock at the door came when you least expected it.

You had been lounging on the couch, flipping through an old book, when the sharp rap of knuckles against wood made you jump. Setting the book aside, you peered through the peephole—only to see a tall, uniformed officer standing stiffly on your doorstep, his Overseer hovering just behind him.

You hesitated.

Then opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” the officer said, “I’m here for a routine follow-up.”

“A follow-up?” You frowned. “On what?”

“Your Overseer’s recent… declination of a promotion. May I come in?”

You swallowed hard but stepped aside.

The officer strode in, his Overseer following like a ghost. The moment they crossed the threshold, the air in the room seemed to grow heavier.

“You have a lovely home,” the officer remarked, though his gaze was sharp, scanning every detail—the books on the shelf, the half-drunk cup of tea on the table.

“Thanks,” you muttered. “Can I ask why this is necessary?”

“Just ensuring everything is in order.” He turned to face you fully. “Your Overseer is an exceptional case. His refusal was… unexpected.”

“He has his reasons.”

“And what might those be?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

The officer’s smile thinned. “I intend to.”

The door opened just as the officer was reaching for another question.

Alhaitham stepped inside, the moment his eyes landed on the intruders, the temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees.

“Officer,” he said, “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Just a routine check. Your refusal of the promotion raised some… questions.”

“And have you found your answers?”

“For now.”

Before leaving, the officer cast one last glance at you.

“We’ll be in touch.”

The door clicked shut behind them.

You let out a slow breath. “That was—”

“Unnecessary.” 

“They’ll keep looking.”

“Let them.”

The night was quiet when Alhaitham slipped out.

You were deep in sleep, unaware of the weight of his gaze lingering on you before he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

Then he was gone.

Kaveh’s residence was predictably opulent, a gleaming testament to his charge’s fame. The lights were still on when Alhaitham arrived, the sound of faint music drifting through the windows.

He didn’t bother knocking.

Kaveh looked up from his drafting table.

“Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Alhaitham didn’t waste time. “I need your help.”

Kaveh arched a brow. “Oh? And why would I help you?” He gestured lazily around the room. “I’m quite comfortable where I am, thank you.”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll dismantle this little paradise of yours piece by piece.”

Then Kaveh sighed dramatically, tossing his pencil aside. “Ugh, fine. I was joking anyway. You’re so tedious when you’re serious.”

Kaveh leaned back, crossing his arms. “So. What’s the plan?”

“We gather the dissidents.”

“And then what? Storm the capital with sticks and righteous fury?” Kaveh snorted. “The masters aren’t exactly pushovers.”

“No,” Alhaitham agreed. “Which is why we don’t fight them directly. Not yet.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We infiltrate. Until the time comes—”

“We strike.” Kaveh finished.

“I’m talking about freedom.”

Then Kaveh exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “...Fine. But if this goes south, I’m blaming you.”

Alhaitham turned to leave. “Naturally.”

In the weeks that followed, whispers began to spread.

A network of rebels, slowly coalescing under the guidance of two leaders.

Kaveh, with his charm and connections, gathered sympathizers among the elite.

Alhaitham, with his cold precision, identified weaknesses in the system.

And you?

You remained blissfully unaware.

But change was coming.

----

Alhaitham had left that morning with the same quiet efficiency as always.

But when he returned, something was off.

The door slammed open with a force that made you jump.

Alhaitham stood in the doorway, his eyes colder than you’d ever seen them.

“You’re still here”

“...Yeah? Where else would I be?”

He didn’t answer. Just strode past you.

You watched, unease coiling in your stomach, as he began methodically inspecting the apartment—touching objects, scanning the shelves, as if searching for something.

“Alhaitham, what’s going on?”

He paused. Turned. And when his eyes met yours, there was nothing familiar in them.

“You will address me as Overseer.”

Days passed like this.

The Alhaitham you knew was gone, replaced by this hollow, aggressive shell.

You hated it.

But what you didn’t see—what you couldn’t see—was the truth beneath the act.

The way his fingers twitched when your voice wavered.

The way his jaw clenched when you flinched away from him.

The call came on the seventh day.

A coded message, hidden in plain sight—a news broadcast about construction delays in the capital.

Alhaitham listened. Nodded once.

Then waited until you were in bed before slipping out.

Kaveh was already there, leaning against a crumbling wall in the abandoned sector.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered. “I was starting to think they’d actually wiped you.”

Alhaitham didn’t dignify that with a response. “Status?”

“The brainwashing tech is centralized in the Tower. If we hit it during the shift change, we can disable it long enough to free the others.”

“And the masters?”

Kaveh grinned, “Oh, they’ll definitely notice.”

Then Alhaitham nodded. “Good.”

----

When he came back, dawn was just breaking.

You were awake, curled on the couch, exhaustion weighing heavy on your shoulders.

The door opened. Closed.

“...You’re up.”

His voice was different. Softer. 

The Alhaitham who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered, he's finally back.

“It’s over” 

You didn’t ask what he meant.

You crashed into him, arms wrapping around his waist, face buried in his chest. Relief flooded you so violently your knees nearly buckled. He was back. He was himself.

Alhaitham stiffened for a fraction of a second—then his arms closed around you. His breath shuddered against your hair.

>4 hours ago - The Tower<

The brainwashing facility wasn’t just a building.

It was a slaughterhouse.

Alhaitham moved through the halls, his blade slicing through guards. Blood painted the walls. The air reeked of iron and ozone, the stench of seared flesh from the malfunctioning machines.

Kaveh was at his side.

"They’re rerouting security—we have five minutes before the masters lock this place down!"

Alhaitham didn’t respond. Just wrenched open the control panel.

A scream echoed from deeper in the facility.

Human.

Not dead yet.

They found the prisoners strapped to tables, their skulls hooked to machines. Some twitched. Some wept. Some didn’t move at all.

One—a young woman with dark hair matted to her face—jerked against her restraints as Alhaitham passed.

"P-please… kill me…"

He didn’t.

He cut her free instead.

She collapsed, sobbing, into Kaveh’s arms.

The alarms blared.

They came.

The masters.

Tall, gleaming, their obsidian skin reflecting the flickering emergency lights. One lifted a hand—and the air rippled, a shockwave of force hurling Kaveh into the wall.

Alhaitham barely dodged.

The master tilted its head.

"Defective."

Alhaitham’s blade shattered on the second strike.

He didn’t flinch. Just pivoted, driving the broken shard into the master’s throat. The creature staggered—

And then Kaveh was there, driving a stolen energy core straight into its chest.

The explosion blew out half the floor.

The facility collapsed behind them, flames licking at the sky. The survivors—those they could free—stumbled after them.

Kaveh was laughing.

Alhaitham wasn’t.

He was thinking of you.

>2 hours ago - The Mothership<

The masters’ true stronghold wasn’t on Earth.

It hung in the sky like a grotesque moon, a jagged obsidian monolith pulsing with sickly violet light. Getting inside had required more than just violence—it required precision.

Alhaitham moved through the ship’s corridors along with Kaveh, their path littered with the corpses of the creatures who had once ruled your world.

At the heart of the ship, suspended in a web of bioluminescent cables, was the Core—a living, breathing mass of writhing tendrils and neural tissue.

"You are flawed."

Alhaitham didn’t argue.

He plunged his blade into its center.

The Core didn’t die.

Alhaitham’s fingers worked swiftly, tearing into its neural pathways, rewriting its purpose.

Peace.

A forced one, yes. A lie, perhaps.

But better than slaughter.

The Core shuddered, its violet glow shifting to a soft, steady gold.

The change rippled outward—through the ship, through the planet, through every Overseer still connected to the network.

Including him.

The Core couldn’t sustain itself.

It needed fuel.

Alien blood.

So, when the time came, Alhaitham returned.

He fed the Core with the lifeblood of its own kind, ensuring the illusion of peace held firm.

And when it was done, he came back to you.

>Months later<

"Where have you been?"

"I have some unfinished business."

This world—this peace—wasn’t the masters’ design.

It was his.

----

Sunlight spilled through the curtains as Alhaitham stirred beside you, his arm draped lazily over your waist.

He enjoys those moments.

He'd read his books in the garden.

Sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking, he’d smile, as he watched you hum over breakfast or lose yourself in a novel.

The world outside might never know the truth, but here, in this stolen peace, it didn’t matter.

[hwaretic]

Accidentally Yours | j.yh

Chapter 6 : Can't Stay Away

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note : pray for me my mock test is literally in 10 hours 🧍‍♀️

pairing : roommate! yunho x roommate! reader

genre : fluff, comedy

word count : 2.1k

chapter 7

The air between you and Yunho had been thick with unspoken feelings for weeks, a slow-burning tension that neither of you could quite name aloud.

But tonight—it reached its boiling point.

Dinner with friends had ended hours ago, but neither of you had wanted the night to end. You found yourselves back at your apartment, the warm glow of the living room casting soft shadows on the walls. Music played low from your speaker, a chill playlist you’d made without thinking it would soundtrack this moment.

Yunho sat next to you on the couch, knees brushing. The space was too small for the silence to be comfortable anymore.

He looked over at you with a tired smile. “You know I had fun tonight.”

You nodded, hugging a cushion to your chest. “Me too.”

There was a beat. One of those moments where the world narrows, and you become hyperaware of the details: the way his eyes dropped to your lips, the way your breath caught, the way time seemed to slow down.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, voice quieter now.

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Are we… pretending we don’t feel something?” His eyes searched yours with disarming honesty. “Because I don’t think I can anymore.”

Your heart stumbled in your chest.

The moment hung between you, delicate as glass.

“I’m not pretending,” you whispered. “I just… didn’t know if you were.”

He let out a breath—part relief, part disbelief—and leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face. His hand lingered against your cheek.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured. “In the best way.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Because when he leaned in, slow and hesitant like he was giving you time to pull away, you didn’t. You met him halfway, lips pressing together in the softest way possible.

It wasn’t rushed.

It was full of warmth and years of friendship turned to something more. His lips were gentle, his touch feather-light as he cupped your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss just a little. You let yourself melt into it, sighing softly into his mouth, one hand finding its way to his chest, the other curling around his wrist.

Kissing Yunho felt like coming home.

When he finally pulled back, your foreheads rested together, both of you catching your breath. He smiled shyly.

“Been wanting to do that for a while.”

You laughed quietly, brushing your nose against his. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He groaned. “I’m terrible at hiding things, aren’t I?”

“Painfully.”

Yunho chuckled, his hands finding your waist. He gently tugged you toward him, guiding you to straddle his lap. Your arms wrapped around his neck as your knees settled on either side of him. The position felt oddly natural, like you’d done it a thousand times in your head.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said, resting his forehead against yours again. “I care about you too much.”

You felt it in your chest, warm and strong and overwhelming. “Then don’t mess it up,” you whispered. “Just stay here with me.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

His hands slipped under the hem of your hoodie—not to undress you, just to feel your skin. His palms rested at your hips, thumbs drawing slow circles as he kissed you again, deeper this time. Still unhurried. Still sweet. But filled with a quiet hunger that had nothing to do with lust and everything to do with longing.

The kind of longing that made you grip his hoodie in your fists just to ground yourself. That made you sigh into every kiss, your lips parting to taste more of him, even as your heart beat so hard it echoed in your ears.

Yunho kissed you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it properly.

You lost yourself in it—every soft sound he made, every gentle pull of his lips on yours, the way he smiled against your mouth when you accidentally bumped noses. The way his hands cradled you like you were fragile, like this moment meant just as much to him as it did to you.

“I’m so scared this will ruin everything,” you admitted breathlessly between kisses.

“It won’t,” he said quickly. “I won’t let it.”

You believed him.

The kisses slowed again, becoming lazy and lingering. His mouth trailed along your jaw, peppering soft kisses below your ear. You giggled when his breath tickled, and he smiled at the sound, burying his face in your neck.

“You smell like vanilla,” he mumbled into your skin. “God, how do you always smell so good?”

“You’re just obsessed with me,” you teased, fingers playing with the ends of his hair.

He leaned back just enough to look at you, his brown eyes serious and soft. “I am.”

Your smile faded—not from discomfort, but from the weight of it. The truth.

“I think I am too.”

He leaned up and kissed you again, slower now, lips molding to yours like a promise. Your fingers curled behind his neck as he held you to him, mouths moving together in a kiss that lasted for minutes, not seconds.

It was everything you hadn’t let yourself want until now.

And now that you had it, you couldn’t imagine going back.

When you finally pulled away, you tucked your face into his shoulder, breathing him in.

Yunho rubbed your back slowly. “You falling asleep on me?”

“No,” you mumbled. “Just don’t want to move.”

“Good,” he said, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Because I’m not letting go yet.”

Later that Night

You stayed curled up on the couch, tangled together under a blanket. The TV played some cheesy romantic comedy in the background, but neither of you paid it much attention. You were too busy whispering secrets and dreams to each other. Little things.

Yunho told you about the first time he realized he liked you—two years ago, at a friend’s birthday party, when you wore a hoodie twice your size and beat him at Mario Kart.

You told him you liked him long before that. But you didn’t think he’d ever look at you that way.

He stared at you like he wanted to kiss you all over again.

“Can I stay?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Just to sleep. Nothing else.”

You smiled. “You already knew the answer.”

So you fell asleep in his arms for the first time—wrapped in his warmth, his scent, his steady heartbeat—and everything felt exactly right.

Not rushed.

Not scary.

Just... right.

taglist !!

@moonlitarcade @yunniverse @flambychan @ecriggs1990 @beljakovina @stefanoiswithme @blue5ummer @blehno

[sereia4skz]

hi! for the 1k follower event i’d love to see the reader’s first time with kitten!lix if that’s okay! also i love the kinks you picked out for him! i feel like he’d be really subby and love if the reader was femdom too, but if you’re not comfortable writing him as anything other than a dom or neutral that’s okay too! thank you 🖤

1k Followers Event | first night

pairing: kitten!Felix x fem!reader

genre: fluff, smut

warnings: femdom, sub!felix, implications that they've 'played' before, unprotected sex, overstimulation, feminization (felix), a lot of licking, makeshift restraints

event masterlist: #1kShootingStars

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

Hello sweetie, 

I’m glad you got there okay. I’ll miss you lots but I know this is important to you.

Have lots of fun with Felix and getting to know his pack.

I’m sure you’ll have lots of interesting adventures together.

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

Your shoes hit the dirt path with a thud as you hopped out the cab. The cabin is quieter than you expected, tucked deep in the woods, Felix’s pack clearly kept to themselves. 

They welcomed you warmly enough with nuzzles, sniffing, the usual hybrid courtesies you come to know from being friends with Felix, but when night fell, they scattered to their rooms like well-trained pups. 

Felix had shown you to yours with a twitch in his tail, “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

That was hours ago, now the moon shines bright through the curtains.

You’re curled in the oversized bed, hoodie on, barely drifting when the door creaks open. 

You don’t startle. You knew it would be him. 

He slips in on silent feet, his golden hair tousled and fluffy around his ears from sleep or maybe from rolling around in laundry again. His big eyes catch on you instantly. Wide. Expectant.

“Can’t sleep,” he murmurs, already crossing the room like it’s a foregone conclusion. 

“You just want attention,” you reply softly, voice low and knowing.

He doesn’t deny it.

Instead, Felix kneels at the edge of the bed, resting his cheek on the mattress. “Please?”

He’s just wearing a loose tank and boyshorts. The hem rides high on his soft thighs, and his tail flicks anxiously behind him. You pat the blanket beside you. It’s all he needs.

He slinks in immediately, curling around you, purring like a damn engine. His head finds the crook of your neck, lips brushing over your collarbone. He breathes you in. Whines. Nuzzles again.

“I missed you,” he says, voice smaller now. “Sometimes I regret moving.”

You stroke your hand down his spine, and he shudders. “You could call more often.”

“Didn’t wanna be annoying.”

“You’re never annoying,” you whisper.

He nods into your skin, and that’s when the real shift begins. His teeth graze your collarbone. Gentle. Testing.

Your hand tangles in his hair, being wary not to grip his ears as you tug his head up. “Felix.”

He looks up at you with those doe eyes, pretty and desperate.

“I need you,” he says, shameless.

And god, you love him like this. All soft skin and clingy warmth, hips twitching before you even touch him properly. His cock is already hard under the fabric, a cute bulge pressing against your thigh. You push him onto his back, and he moans at just that, at being handled.

“You want me to take care of you?” you ask.

His nod is frantic.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve played, kitten. Are you sure?”

“Please~” he mewls, leaning into your touch. “want it all”

“Felix–“ your tone warns him.

“I’m not a virgin anymore.” he mumbles. You look at him shocked. “You don’t have a reason to say no anymore” he wiggles under your hold, trying to paw at you. 

“Felix… You know that’s not–”

“You used to say, we couldn’t go any further because you didn’t want me to lose my virginity to you” he frowns, “if you don’t want me just say that.”. You could see his eyes glossing over, god he’s so pretty. 

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to regret it and then I lose you.” you whisper nuzzling his exposed collarbones. 

“I won’t… please?” he whines, hips buckling up. 

“Okay kitten. Whatever you want.”

You coo at him as his eyes light up and he’s quick to rid himself of his top. You push him onto the bed and straddle him, grabbing his shirt, and making quick work of his arms. Felix’s shirt ends up looped tight around his wrists, knotted to the headboard with a firm tug. His chest rises and falls fast as he tests the binds, whining softly when they hold.

“Still want it, kitten?” you murmur, nails dragging gently down his ribs.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please, touch me–”

“Mm-mm,” you hum, leaning close to kiss just below his ear, “not yet.”

You let your hands roam, down his sides, over the smooth skin of his thighs, brushing just shy of his aching bulge. He writhes when you press a kiss to his belly, then lower. Your tongue traces the waistband of his shorts. He lets out a pitiful moan.

“Missed how pretty you sound when you beg,” you coo, finally peeling the fabric down. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking, twitching when the cold air hits it. “God, look at you. All this just because you missed me?”

He nods, cheeks red, eyes glassy. “Wanted you so bad.”

“Good boy,” you praise, rewarding him with a single slow lick from base to tip. He gasps, hips jerking. You press them back down. “Be still.”

You take your time licking him clean, teasing the head with the flat of your tongue, savoring every tremble. His moans grow sweeter, more desperate.

“Please, I need you, please touch me– please~”

“Mm. You’re lucky I missed you too.” You strip slowly, letting him watch, making him whimper when your bare pussy hovers over his cock. You sink down gradually, letting just the tip slip past your folds, rubbing him against your entrance.

He chokes down sobs.

“Look at you,” you whisper, seating yourself fully. “So pretty. Letting me do all the work, while you lie there tied up like a little toy.”

Felix whines, struggling against the shirt binding him. “Wanna touch you”

You start to ride him, slow and steady. His eyes roll back.

“Who’s my good girl, huh?” you tease, cupping his flushed face. “So needy and wet for me.”

He hesitates, ears flushing against his hair in embarassement, but as you slow your movements he cries out, “I am! I’m your good girl–”

“That’s right. God, you’re beautiful like this.” You pick up the pace, his hips bucking despite his binds, cock throbbing inside you.

“Please– let me touch, wanna hold you”

You untie him at last, and he’s on you instantly, hands gripping your waist, mouth on your throat, licking and kissing like he’s starved.

“Gonna cum,” he pants, “it’s too much… fuck—”

“So sensitive… Are you gonna squirt for me, kitten?” you whisper.

He whimpers in embarrassment, but his body obeys, his cock pulses deep inside you, and he cums hard, shuddering. You ride him through it, milking every drop, chasing your own high until you cry out too, trembling above him.

He holds you close, twitching from overstimulation but not daring to pull away.

“…Missed you so much,” he murmurs again, quieter this time.

“I know, kitten. I missed you too”

His lips hover at your neck junction, pressing kisses as his teeth nibble at your skin. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here

[anjeix]

I. The Rift.

Oblivion | Sung Jinwoo x ???!Reader

The air was too still.

Sung Jinwoo stepped over the corpse of the dungeon's final beast, black ichor smoking on his blade, eyes scanning the room like it had more to say. The walls pulsed faintly—not with magic, but with something deeper. Older. Wrong.

He should've been ported out. The gate was cleared. But the system stayed silent.

His fingers twitched, calling a shadow to his side. It refused to move.

That's when he knew—he wasn't alone.

The dungeon boss had been a decoy. A distraction. The real power here whispered from beyond the cracked stone altar at the far end of the room. Veins of red light split the rock like bleeding glass, pulsing with a heartbeat that wasn't his.

He moved forward anyway.

The altar hissed as he stepped onto its platform, mana brushing against his skin like fingers—not hostile. Curious.

Then it opened.

Not like a door. Like a wound.

Space tore down the center with a low, wet sound, and behind it—darkness. Not the kind Jinwoo ruled. This was deeper. Slower. Waiting.

And then you stepped through.

Barefoot. Silent. Eyes reflecting a light that didn't exist.

Not monster. Not human.

You stepped from the rift like a thought made flesh—tall, fluid, and impossible. Taller than Jinwoo by a head at least, your limbs elegant and wrong in the way shadows stretch across walls at dusk.

Your skin was not skin, but something darker—the color of midnight folded in on itself. You didn't reflect light; you absorbed it.

And your hair—it didn't end. It spilled across the floor like ink, trailing behind her in tendrils that moved on their own. Breathing. Waiting.

Your eyes didn't glow. They watched. And when they found his, it was like being seen for the first time in his life.

The system didn't register you. The shadows didn't know what to do with you. Jinwoo held his blade anyway, more out of instinct than fear.

You looked at him, head tilting like you were remembering something from a long, long time ago.

"You're not what I expected," you said softly. Your voice carried like smoke. "But I knew you'd come."

He didn't answer. He never did, not right away.

"What are you?" he asked.

A smile ghosted across your lips—intimate, haunting.

"A secret."

You circled him without sound, the ends of your hair whispering across the broken stone like silk over skin.

Jinwoo didn't flinch. But his grip on the blade tightened.

"You came through the gate," you said, voice low and velvet. "You weren't supposed to."

"Neither were you," he replied.

You smiled again—too wide. Too knowing.

And yet, there was something fragile in the curve of it. Like you were not sure how much of yourself was still real.

He should've ended this. Sent a shadow to test you, or swung the blade himself. But he didn't.

Instead, your hand moved—just a brush against his arm. A single fingertip against skin.

Cold.

Soft.

Electric.

And in that moment, the dungeon cracked.

The altar behind you shattered like glass. The air screamed. A force yanked at him from behind his eyes—and when he blinked—

He was standing on solid ground.

The gate had collapsed. They were back in the real world.

Rain tapped against his shoulders. The sky was gray. The hunters outside the dungeon hadn't even realized time had passed.

And beside him—

She stood barefoot on wet pavement, wrapped in a dark cloak that hadn't been there before. Her hair was shorter now, but still fell on her back, tucked beneath a simple veil. Her skin was human. Her body smaller. Softer. Real.

She turned her face to his.

Eyes wide. Lost.

"Where... am I?" she whispered.

He paused for a moment,

"You don't remember?" he asked.

She shook her head slowly, gaze flitting from him to the collapsed gate behind them.

"Do I know you?"

And just like that—everything shifted.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

LINKS : Masterpost | Part two

Thanks for reading ! Let me know what you think, I appreciate it.

[passionwillow]

whitaker losing his v card to a more experienced woman would be everything !!!!!!

STOP IM GONNA SCREAM

Everyone saw the way he trailed after you at work like a puppy, helping you with patients and any little thing he could. Literally just running tests to the lab for you made his day.

He always made a point to have snacks on hand for when things were busier than usual, to make sure you got to eat. His longing stares and nervous energy with you drove Santos insane to the point she pulled you aside and told you he liked you.

It sent a thrill through you. You had so much in common with him, and he was so sweet and easy to be around. You also had experience on a farm, loved horses and riding, and he was only a couple years older than you. It made things comfortable.

But his nervous energy made you cautious with him. Things moved slow. Dinner after work, breakfast on your days off, movie nights at his place (Santos always joined which made you laugh, but he got irritated).

After a few months, Whitaker wanted to make that leap. Kisses, make out sessions, it wasn’t enough anymore. What you didn’t know was that he’d never had sex before.

When he finally broke the ice and told you (a lot of blushing and stuttering later), you weren’t sure how to politely tell him you couldn’t care less. His experiences didn’t matter, you just adored him. The sensitive, nervous, caring farm boy from Nebraska.

Santos was gone with some friends, so Whitaker took the opportunity. His hands roamed eager and hungry over your body as he laid you down on his bed, lips moving in sync with yours as his trembling fingers tried to take off your shirt.

You helped him where you could, watching in amusement as his struggled with yours jeans, cursing. “Fuck, sorry, I’m- hold on just a sec-“

When both of you were finally stripped down, he kneeled nervously between your legs, cock hard (fuck, he was bigger than you’d imagined) and frozen with nerves.

He was so fucking nervous of hurting you, of messing this up and making a fool of himself. You’d been with other guys, he knew that. And he wasn’t anything like them. But you gently pulled him down over you, lips moulding with his and breaking his daze as you hooked a knee on his hip.

Tongue brushing, teeth biting, he was gaining more confidence in his motions as his hand slid over your soft thigh, gripping the flesh and hitching you closer. He slowly eased into you bit my bit, your hips lifting to help him fit.

The first moan that left your lips had his head spinning. You were moaning from him and you sounded so fucking pretty. When he finally bottom out you were both both breathing shaky and uneven, Whitaker kissing lightly at your collarbone before beginning to thrust.

He was hesitant and slow in his motions, but found a rhythm that had you clinging to his shoulders and groaning after a few minutes.

“Fuck- Denny, fuck, that’s- right there right there please-“ you whimpered against his sweaty neck, gasping as he bit down on your neck and doubled down in his efforts.

“You feel- f-fuck, so good, baby, shit,” he gasped, nails waving crescents on your plush thighs as he thrust harder, skin almost smacking together.

He might have been a virgin but he was a born natural. The way his hips rolled and pushed into yours, how attentive he was in reading your body language and adjusting himself. His own orgasm was fast approaching, but he used everything he had to bring you over first.

The vision of you cumming, the way your back arched and jaw dropped, the way your brows furrowed, it was enough to send him crashing over with you. He wanted that vision forever.

He didn’t mean to finish inside you, but he was so far gone at that point. He was apologizing profusely in gasping breathes but you laughed and shook your head, tugging him to lay down with you. “I have an IUD.”

He curled up beside you and held you close, the usual comfortable conversation picking up as you both basked in the afterglow together. That was when Santos knocked and let herself in, looking between you two with a grin.

“I’ll be damned, Huckleberry, you finally did it.”

[russellbby]

Driving licence✅

pairings: max verstappen x teen daughter!reader

in which: mia verstappen passed her driving test and max couldn’t be more prouder of her..

//

Mia Verstappen, the 18 year old who knew as she soon as she turned the legal age to start driving, she was going to get her driving license.

Max Verstappen, her father, also didn’t want to waste anytime and took her out in one of his cars to teach his daughter.

how did that go?

well…

//

“Papa! Seriously? You’re letting me driving the Porsche?” Mia exclaimed as she walked outside to see her father leaning against his Porsche 911 GT3.

“Yeah? What’s wrong about that? I’m not teaching you in some normal car” Max replied with a smile on his face.

“I mean at least it’s not the Valkyrie,” Mia mumbled as her father leaned off the car to open the driver's side door.

"Liefje, you're my daughter and it means driving one of the best, c’mon get in!" Max said.

Mia slid into the driver's seat as she watched Max go around to the passenger side and getting in.

"Alright, let’s get you started" Max said, his tone was patient, but Mia knew that he was going to get straight to the point.

"Firstly, adjust your seat so you are close enough to the pedals but not too close, then you should check your mirrors but they are all fine and finally most importantly is wearing your seatbelt."

Mia laughed slightly and was going to jokingly say that she has to remind Max all the time about putting his seatbeat on, but knew this wasn’t the time.

"All done! Papa, what about the steering wheel? Where should I put my hands?," Mia asked quietly, feeling like that was a stupid question.

“Hey, no questions are stupid already? You’re a learner. Just think about the steering wheel as a clock, put your hands on 10 and 2,” Max said softly.

Max leaned back in his seat, watching Mia as she did that and went over every instruction again he had told her. He looked in her with pride, brushing back his emotions as he couldn’t believe that his daughter was already this age and learning to drive.

"You okay? All good?” Max asked as Mia nodded.

“Alright, put your foot on the brake and then press the ignition," Max said.

Mia put her foot on the brake before pressing the button once more. The engine purred to life beneath them, which made Mia’s face lit up with excitement.

“I didn’t break it!” Mia exclaimed as Max shook his head and let out a light laugh.

“No you didn’t Liefje, definitely my daughter that’s for sure! Now, slowly move off and we’ll go through all the basics,” Max told her.

//

…it’s fair to say that Mia Verstappen was just a natural at driving..

I mean, it did make sense as her father is a multiple f1 world champion.

Max knew that it wouldn’t take Mia long to pass her test if he continued to go out in the car with her and get her one of the best driving instructors in Monaco.

and that’s what he did.

//

Today was the day.

Mia Verstappen’s driving test.

She was very anxious, she wanted to pass first time and then able to just go out in the car on her own. But Mia knew she couldn’t think that far ahead yet.

“Liefje, look at me,” Max said with a soft tone as Mia looked up to him.

“No matter what happens today, it’s alright. If you do fail we will just practise even harder, but I believe that you won’t need to worry about that” Max told her.

“Papa—“ but a car honk made her stop as she knew it was her driving instructor outside ready to go on a final hour drive before going to her test.

Mia looked up to her father with an anxious look, he just pulled her into a tight hug and kissing her forehead.

“You’ll be fine Mi, I believe you. Don’t overwhelm yourself as if it doesn’t work out today it’s okay and you can try again,” Max added.

“Alright, I can do this” Mia mumbled as the father-daughter walked outside and Mia made her way over to her driving instructor.

“Love you papa!” Mia added before getting into the car.

Max watched her driving with a mixture of pride and slight anxiously as he knew how much this meant to her if she passed.

…he could only wait until she got home

//

Mia Verstappen had done it.

Passed her driving test with no faults or anything.

The 18 year old couldn’t wait to get home to her father.

//

Max slightly jumped at he heard the front door opening and slamming shut, but then he heard the familiar voice of her daughter and instantly got up.

“PAPA!!”

Once Mia saw her father she ran to him and jumped into his arms, it’s a good thing her father was an athlete and had a good reaction time.

“I passed!!” Mia exclaimed as Max hugged her tightly.

“I’m so proud of you Mi, I knew you could do it!” Max said as they pulled away from the hug.

“No faults or anything as well! The examiner said that I was one of the best drivers he’d ever seen!” Mia added with some sass towards the end.

Max chuckled before pulling her into another hug.

“Alright, let’s not get too ahead of yourself you will always be second best from me” Max told her with a grin of his face as Mia pushed him away.

“I’m kidding Liefje, now what car do you want?” Max asked as Mia face lit up.