olderbf!nanami who never rushes you, no matter how impatient you get. you’re standing in front of your closet, frustrated, pulling out dresses and tossing them onto the bed.
"i have nothing to wear," you groan. he’s sitting in the armchair by the window, his tie already loosened, watching you with that calm, steady gaze.
"we have forty-five minutes," he says, his voice low and even. "take your time."
you huff, turning to face him. "you’re always so patient. it’s annoying."
he smiles, small and fond. "i’ve waited forty years to find you. i can wait forty-five minutes for you to pick a dress."
olderbf!nanami who always makes sure you eat before you leave the house. you’re running late, your heels clicking on the kitchen floor as you grab your purse.
"we’re going to be late," you say, already halfway to the door.
he steps in front of you, a plate in his hand—toast with avocado, a soft-boiled egg, sliced fruit arranged neatly. "eat first."
you stare at him. "nanami, we don’t have time—"
"we have time," he interrupts gently, setting the plate on the counter. "you’re not leaving this house on an empty stomach. sit."
you sit. you always do. because when he looks at you like that—like taking care of you is the most important thing in the world—you can’t say no.
olderbf!nanami who never raises his voice, even when you’re being difficult. you’re arguing about something stupid—where to go for dinner, maybe, or whether you should cancel plans to stay in—and your voice is getting louder, your hands gesturing wildly.
he just stands there, hands in his pockets, watching you. "you’re not even listening!" you snap.
"i am," he says quietly. "i’m listening to every word. and when you’re done, we’ll talk about it calmly. like adults."
you deflate, your anger fizzling out. "you’re too kind to me," you mutter.
he steps forward, his hands finding your waist. "you’re worth the kindness."
olderbf!nanami who takes his time undressing you, like every layer is a gift he’s unwrapping. you’re in his bedroom, the lights dimmed, and you’re already reaching for his belt, impatient, wanting him now.
"slow down," he murmurs, catching your hands. "we have all night."
you pout. "i don’t want to wait."
he leans down, his lips brushing your ear. "i know, baby. i know. but i’m going to make you wait. because the longer i take, the better it’ll feel when i finally touch you." he undresses you slowly, his fingers working each button, each zipper, until you’re standing in front of him in nothing but your underwear. he steps back, his eyes raking over you. "beautiful," he says. "now lay down."
olderbf!nanami who eats you out like it’s a meditation, like he could spend hours between your thighs and never get bored. you’re on your back, your legs over his shoulders, and he’s taking his time, his tongue moving in slow, deliberate strokes.
"n-nanami—please—" you gasp, your hands fisting the sheets. he looks up at you, his mouth glistening.
"patience," he says, his voice calm even as he slides two fingers inside you. "i’m going to make you cum. but i’m going to do it my way." he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, his tongue circling your clit with agonizing precision.
you’re moaning, your hips rolling, but he holds you down with one hand on your stomach. "stay still," he orders gently. "let me take care of you."
olderbf!nanami who fucks you slow and deep, his hips rolling in a rhythm that has you seeing stars. you’re on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillow, and he’s behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his cock buried so deep you can barely breathe.
"nanami—h-harder!!—" you beg, trying to push back against him. he stills, his hand sliding up your spine to grip the back of your neck.
"no," he says, his voice firm but kind. "you take what i give you." he starts moving again, each thrust deliberate, each roll of his hips dragging against your walls in a way that makes you sob. "you feel that?" he murmurs against your ear. "that’s me. all of me. and you’re going to take every inch, just like this. until you can’t think about anything but how full you are."
olderbf!nanami who makes you ask for what you want, his voice low and commanding. you’re straddling him, his cock inside you, but he’s not moving.
he’s just watching you, his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking your skin.
"p-please, i.... i can't—" you whimper, trying to roll your hips. he holds you still.
"use your words," he says. "tell me what you want."
"i-i want you to move," you gasp. "i want you to fuck me."
he smiles, small and satisfied. "good girl. now ask nicely."
you bite your lip, your face burning.
"please fuck me, nanami. please."
he rewards you with a slow thrust upward, his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes you moan. "that’s it," he praises. "that's my girl."
olderbf!nanami who holds you after, his arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. you’re lying on his chest, your body still trembling, your mind fuzzy with pleasure.
he’s stroking your hair, his lips pressed to the top of your head. "you did so well," he murmurs. "so beautiful. so perfect." you nuzzle closer, your eyes already drifting shut.
"you’re too good to me," you whisper. he kisses your forehead.
"no such thing. you deserve everything. and i’m going to give it to you for as long as you’ll let me."
olderbf!nanami who wakes you up in the morning with his mouth between your legs, because he’s not done taking care of you yet. you’re half-asleep, your body warm and heavy, when you feel his hands on your thighs, spreading you open.
"nanami—" you start, but then his tongue is on you, and you’re gasping, your hands flying to his hair. he looks up at you, his eyes dark.
"good morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep. "lay back. let me love you." and you do. because when nanami wants to be patient, you let him. every single time.
♱ SATURDAY
he didn't call it a date. you didn't either. you both knew.
──────────── ·✶· ────────────
Pairing: Sukuna x F!Reader
WC: ~2,500
CW: Fluff, pining (mutual), the overthinking Olympics, implied neurodivergent reader (shown not named), Shoko being absolutely useless, Sukuna being allergically indirect about his feelings
[written with an Afro-Latina reader in mind — all are welcome.]
──────────── ·✶· ────────────
It happened on a Wednesday.
You were in the library, your floor, your spot, back against the shelf, knees up, book open. Sukuna was next to you the way he always was now, shoulder almost touching yours, scrolling through his phone with one headphone in. You’d stopped questioning his presence three weeks ago. He showed up. You read. Sometimes he said things. Mostly he didn’t. It was the most comfortable silence you’d ever shared with another person, and your relentless, cataloging, never-quiet brain had stopped trying to analyze it. It just was.
“Saturday,” he said.
You turned a page. “What about it.”
“You’re coming with me.”
You looked up. He was still looking at his phone. His jaw was set in a way that could mean anything from mild irritation to deep concentration to the active suppression of something he didn’t want his face to do.
“Coming with you where?”
“Out.”
“Out where?”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He locked his phone. Looked at you. His expression gave you nothing, the same flat, steady face he wore through everything, the one his teammates had learned not to read into because the readings were always wrong.
“Saturday,” he said again. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Then he put his headphone back in and went back to his phone, and the conversation was apparently over.
──────────────────────────
You lasted fourteen hours before texting Shoko.
is "you're coming with me Saturday" a date
Her reply came in four minutes.
depends. who said it
sukuna
lmaooooo
shoko
that's the funniest thing i've ever read
SHOKO
ok ok. did he say where
no. he just said "out" and then stopped talking
that's so on brand it's almost impressive
you're not helping
i'm not trying to
are you free tomorrow. i need help figuring out what to wear
absolutely not. send pictures
You stared at the ceiling for forty-five minutes after that conversation, running scenarios. Your brain did what it always did, mapped the possibilities, weighted the probabilities, assigned emotional risk assessments to outcomes you hadn’t confirmed were even real.
Scenario one: it was not a date. He was going somewhere and wanted company, the way he sometimes wanted company, which was to say he wanted your specific company in a way he would never articulate or examine. You would show up, exist near him, and come home with nothing changed except the growing weight of something neither of you had named.
Scenario two: it was a date. He had chosen Saturday, chosen seven, chosen the word “out” instead of naming the place because naming the place would make it a plan, and a plan would make it something, and something would require him to acknowledge that he was doing this on purpose. Which he was. Obviously. But Sukuna would rather eat glass than say that.
Scenario three: you were reading the pattern wrong. Again.
Your brain ran the numbers on scenario three and returned a confidence interval so low it was practically insulting. You were not reading this wrong. You knew what showing up looked like. You knew what silence that wasn’t silence sounded like. You knew what it meant when someone learned your music and memorized your tea and caught your hand before it fell.
You just didn’t know what to do with knowing.
──────────────────────────
Saturday. 6:47 PM.
You changed three times, which was two more times than you’d changed for anything in recent memory. The first outfit was too casual, your usual, the armor of someone who’d decided not to try. The second was too much, too intentional, too visible, too obviously a person who cared about what was about to happen. The third was the one you kept. Dark jeans. A knit top the color of burnt amber that you’d bought because the texture felt like something you wanted against your skin. Your Docs. Your rings. Your earrings catching the bathroom light.
You left your hair down. The curls fell past your shoulders in their usual density, ringlets escaping at your temples. You thought about clipping them back and then didn’t.
Shoko had texted once, at 5 PM: wear the amber top. don't text me updates i'll know how it went by the way you look on monday
At 6:58, your phone buzzed.
here
No greeting. No on my way. Just here, like his presence was a fact that had arrived and the notification was a courtesy.
You grabbed your jacket and went downstairs.
He was leaning against the passenger side of his car, arms crossed, and the first thing your brain cataloged, before his face, before his posture, before the way his eyes tracked you from the door to the sidewalk, was that he smelled different. Not his usual post-practice scent, not the amber-and-sandalwood that had migrated from your things into his. Something sharper underneath. Something he’d put on deliberately.
He’d gotten ready for this.
Your brain tried to file that under data and your chest interrupted with something that had no filing system at all.
“Hey,” you said.
He looked at you. His gaze moved from your face to the amber top to the curls you’d left down and then back to your face, and something crossed his expression that he killed before it fully formed.
“You’re on time,” he said.
“You said seven.”
“Most people don’t listen.”
“I’m not most people.”
The corner of his mouth did something. Not a smile. The suggestion of one. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “I know.”
He opened the passenger door. You got in. He closed it behind you without comment, and the click of the latch sounded like punctuation at the end of a sentence neither of you had started.
──────────────────────────
The night market announced itself before you saw it, string lights strung between poles, the smell of grilled meat and fried dough and roasted corn carrying on warm air, the low hum of people moving at a pace that wasn’t trying to get anywhere. He parked on a side street and you stepped out, and the first thing you felt was the sky.
Open. No walls. No ceiling pressing the sound inward. The crowd was there but ambient, bodies moving in patterns your brain could track without effort, noise that rose and fell like breathing instead of slamming into you in a wall. Music from a speaker somewhere, something acoustic and warm. The ground under your boots was uneven and real.
You looked at him.
He was watching you the way he’d watched you at the match, steady, unreadable, cataloging something he wouldn’t name. Waiting, maybe, to see if this was right.
It was right. He’d chosen this on purpose. Not a bar, not a restaurant, not anywhere enclosed or fluorescent or loud in the wrong frequencies. He’d brought you somewhere you could breathe. And he’d done it without saying a single word about why.
“You’ve been here before?” you asked.
“No.”
“How’d you find it?”
He started walking. “Looked it up.”
Your brain turned that phrase over three times, because looked it up meant he’d searched for this. Specifically. For you. He had sat somewhere and thought about where to take you, and the answer he’d arrived at was a place with open air and ambient noise and string lights instead of overhead fluorescents, and he had done all of that without once asking you what you preferred because he already knew.
You fell into step beside him and said nothing, because if you opened your mouth right then you were going to say something that would make this real in a way you couldn’t undo, and your hands were shaking slightly inside the pockets of your jacket.
──────────────────────────
The market unfolded around you the way good sensory environments did, in layers, at your pace, without demanding anything. You moved through vendor stalls selling things that invited touch: hand-poured candles in dark glass, woven textiles in colors that looked like they’d been dyed in soil and wine, leather goods that smelled like warmth and age. Your hands did what they always did, reached, tested, lingered. You picked up a candle that smelled like vetiver and woodsmoke and held it for too long. You ran your thumb over a piece of raw silk and felt your shoulders drop two inches.
Sukuna walked beside you. Not ahead, not behind. Beside. Matching your pace exactly without checking the time or giving any indication that moving this slowly through a market was anything other than exactly what he wanted to be doing on a Saturday night.
He didn’t touch anything. He watched you touch things.
At a food vendor he bought two skewers of grilled chicken without asking what you wanted. Handed you one. You ate while walking, and the meat was charred and tender and the spice hit the back of your throat in a way that made you close your eyes for a second.
When you opened them, he was looking at you with an expression that was doing something complicated and losing.
“What?” you said.
“Nothing.” He looked away. His ears were red.
You kept walking.
At a booth selling handmade jewelry, gold mostly, warm-toned pieces with an organic, hand-worked quality, you stopped. Your fingers found a ring. Simple. A thin band with a hammered texture, catching the string lights like something molten that had cooled into shape. You turned it over, slipped it onto your index finger, and it fit perfectly, and you wanted it in the specific, instant way you sometimes wanted things, not a decision but a recognition, like your hand had been waiting for that exact weight.
You checked the price. Put it back. Kept walking.
Sukuna didn’t say anything.
Three booths later he said, “Hold on,” and disappeared behind you. You stood near a vendor selling roasted nuts and honey and watched the crowd move in its slow patterns and tried not to count the seconds he was gone, because counting would mean something and you were already holding too many things that meant something.
He came back. Dropped something into your hand without ceremony.
The ring. The hammered gold band, warm and heavy from being held in his fist.
“Sukuna — ”
“It fit,” he said, flat and final, like that was the whole explanation and it was.
You looked at the ring in your palm. You looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, jaw set, ears still red, the absolute picture of a man who had done something tender and would rather die than discuss it.
You put the ring on. It sat against your other rings like it had always been there.
“Thank you,” you said.
“Tch.”
──────────────────────────
You found a bench at the far end of the market, where the string lights thinned out and the crowd noise softened to a murmur. The air smelled like woodsmoke from someone’s grill and the faint green of grass underneath it. You sat. He sat beside you, close enough that his knee pressed against yours and neither of you moved away from the contact.
The ring was warm on your finger. Your brain was doing its thing, running the data, analyzing the pattern, trying to build a model of what this was and what it meant and where it was heading, but the model kept failing. Not because the data was insufficient. Because the data was too clean. He picked you up at seven. He found a place you could breathe. He walked at your pace. He bought you the ring you put back without you asking.
The pattern wasn’t a pattern. It was just him.
“Sukuna.”
“What.”
“What is this?”
He didn’t look at you. His jaw tightened. The knee against yours pressed a fraction harder.
“What do you think it is?” he said.
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m asking what you think.”
“I think you looked up a night market because you know I can’t do loud spaces. I think you’ve been showing up to my floor in the library every day for a month. I think you bought me a ring because I put it back and you noticed.” You were talking to the string lights, not to him, because looking at him while you said this would short-circuit something you needed to keep online for another thirty seconds. “I think you know what this is. I think you knew before tonight.”
The silence after that was vast and specific.
“Yeah,” he said. Low. Rough at the edges. “I knew.”
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because you’d overthink it.”
A laugh escaped you, short, surprised, slightly unhinged. “I overthought it anyway.”
“I know. You’ve been doing it all week.”
“How do you — ”
“You turn pages faster when you’re not actually reading. You’ve been turning pages like that since Wednesday.”
The accuracy of that hit you somewhere below the sternum, in the place where all the data lived, and for a second your brain just stopped. Not the bad kind of stop. The kind where the input is so precise and so unexpected that the system has to reboot.
He looked at you then. Full on, no escape hatch, no flat expression to hide behind. His eyes were steady and certain and holding something he’d clearly been sitting on for longer than a week.
“Saturday,” he said. Like that was the answer. Like the word itself contained every single thing he wasn’t going to say out loud, that he chose today, that he chose this place, that he chose you, that he’d been choosing you in the library and at the match and in every silence you’d shared since the day you forgot his name and told him about his flanker.
“Saturday,” you repeated.
“Yeah.” His hand found yours on the bench. Not grabbing, just covering. His palm warm and rough and large enough to make your hand disappear inside it. “This is a date.”
“I know.”
“Took you long enough.”
“You literally refused to say the word until ten seconds ago.”
“Didn’t need to. You knew.”
You did. You’d known since Wednesday, since you’re coming with me, since the way he didn’t look at you when he said it because looking would’ve made it real and he wasn’t ready for it to be real yet. But you’d needed him to say it anyway, not because you doubted it, but because your brain required confirmation before it could let go of the model and just be in the moment.
The model was gone now. There was just his hand on yours and the string lights and the smell of woodsmoke and the warm weight of a hammered gold ring on your finger that he’d bought because it fit and that was enough.
“For the record,” he said, still looking at you, “I’m picking you up next Saturday too.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Worked last time.”
You laughed. He didn’t, but his hand tightened around yours, and the corner of his mouth did the thing, the almost-smile, the blueprint, and this time it made it a little further toward construction than it ever had before.
You sat there until the vendors started closing. His hand stayed.
──────────── ·✶· ────────────
A/N: He looked up a night market for her. He researched a sensory-friendly date without ever using those words. And then he bought the ring she put back because he was watching her hands the way he always watches her hands. This man is cooked and he has been since the library.
zayne felt tired. he feels as if the days of his business trip seemed to drag on for longer than he accounted for.
usually business trips didn’t bother him, but this time it was different as he was asked by the world’s doctor association to share his findings regarding the rare protocore syndrome that he spent his youth researching and studying for.
of course, he was grateful for the recognition of his work, but if it were up to him, he wouldn’t have travelled thousands of miles away from you just to showcase his findings.
how long has it been? surely it’s been a few weeks, only… a lot more to go. zayne sighs as his green eyes scanned the piles of bulky folders in his hotel room table, each folder almost bursting out with information about the protocore disease.
the doctor takes out his phone, his demeanor slowly relaxes as he sees his wallpaper containing you winking at the camera, the snowman plushie he caught for you squished against your cheek.
his eyes flit toward the time that read 2:30am. he wonders if you’re huddled up and asleep in linkon, maybe you were thinking of him while you hug the plushies he won for you, maybe you were rereading your previous messages, maybe you were as restless as he is.
zayne could only sigh as he pushes up his glasses up to his nose.
the sooner he incorporates the other thesis in his reviews, the sooner he can come home to you. he thinks to himself but he knows that it wasn’t as simple as it sounded as when he gets back home from linkon, surgeries will pile up the moment he clocks in.
he clicks open his laptop, glasses reflecting the blue light of his device.
hours were spent typing and reviewing sentences upon sentences and if zayne were being honest, his eyes and head were starting to hurt. he leans back on his chair as he closes his eyes and breathes in deeply.
a knock interrupts his solitude and he doesn’t know whether he should be thankful for it.
“just a minute.” he says as he stands up, and walks to the door, opening it, expecting greyson to be outside with more findings on the protocore disease.
the doctor freezes in his tracks as he sees you standing before him, your luggage beside you and a beaming smile plastered on your face.
“you…” zayne trails off, eyes wide as for once in his life, he does not know what to say. his hand remained frozen on the doorknob. with all the stress he’s been under, he’s convinced that he must be hallucinating you.
“i didn’t expect chansia weather to be this cold.” you say, as if you didn’t just travel halfway across the world to see your boyfriend.
you looked absolutely beautiful.
“you should’ve given me a warn— zayne?!” you were startled as he pulled you and your luggage in the hotel room. the door clicks shut and his hands were firmly on the side of your shoulders, as if he were analyzing you.
“surprise?” you couldn’t help but giggle, only to be rendered speechless as zayne says nothing.
zayne puts a finger under your chin as he tilts it up, staring deep into your eyes as if he were calculating. without any more warning he dips down and slots his lips firmly against yours.
you let out a surprised noise but almost immediately closed your eyes, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pulled him closer.
with that kiss, you could feel zayne’s longingness, his yearning.
he needed this.
after a few seconds you pull away, you see zayne’s eyes still closed, you give his lips a playful peck and that seems to do the trick as he opens his eyes.
you can see zayne’s tiredness in his green eyes and you unconsciously pout, sympathizing with your boyfriend's fatigue.
“missed me?” you teased. zayne lets out a huff of laughter as he buries his face on the crown of your head, your figure embraced by him so comfortably.
you could feel zayne smile as he takes a lungful of your scent.
SYNOPSIS. On the night of your eighteenth birthday, you and Wonwoo made a pact to lose your virginities together. Ten years later you're co-parenting your unexpected child while figuring out where you stand with each other.
PARING. Wonwoo x F!Reader
GENRE | TAGS. Smau, series, non idol!au, best friends (idiots) to lovers, unexpected pregnancy, slow burn, angst, pinning, fluff, humor/comedy.
WARNINGS. Suggestive, pregnancy, teenage pregnancy, teen parents, explicit language.
A/N: (1) First and most important, it's a pregnancy related smau, so obviously topics that are prohibited for minors will be addressed, so I would feel more comfortable if minors didn't interact. (2) This smau will take place over the course of 10 years.
zayne isn’t obsessed with your scent. he just cherishes it, that’s all.
but as he contemplates donning your puffy purple sweater, he wonders if he’s reached the point of excess.
you left it at his house the last time you came over. ever since, it’s been hanging on the back of the sofa, calling to him like a candy bar.
in your absence, all he wants is to be surrounded by the scent of you. if he only wore it for a few seconds, just long enough to imagine you're next to him, surely you wouldn't mind? it isn't as though he'd offer up the information, regardless. even he has to indulge in secrecy when appropriate.
with shaky resolve, he prowls to the sofa, sliding the shirt down his shoulders.
but like a maine coon who still thinks he’s a kitten, it seems he’s underestimated his size.
the way your scent floods his nose is but a momentary comfort.
he is stuck.
the first rule of being a surgeon: do not panic.
he wriggles around gently, trying to coax his biceps free, but does not thrash. if he thrashes, he might tear something. and the thought of you knowing what he’s done is just as daunting as ruining your favorite sweater.
his attempts are fruitless. not even his dexterous hands are enough to find a way out. as he sighs to himself, his phone chimes on the coffee table. he hobbles over to read the message, leaning stiffly over the screen.
you: good morning! i’m in the neighborhood, so i thought i’d stop by to pick up the shirt i left. i’ll see you in 5!
now, zayne panics.
he flails his arms wildly. he tries to make himself smaller. he bites the end of one sleeve, tugging it with his teeth. but when he hears a tiny rip, he freezes entirely.
then, he hangs his head in defeat.
there’s a knock on the door not long after. it’s both a physical and mental struggle to open it.
when he does, you’re turned around on the patio, distracted by your phone. he clears his throat. “hello.”
“hi, zaynie. sorry for the short notice, i just came for my—”
while you gape at him, his cheeks flush pink. “i believe i have the item you’re looking for.”
“i can see that. it seems to be suffocating you, too. why, exactly?”
“it smelled like you.”
you blink back and forth in a battle of wills—him trying not to melt into the floor, you trying to hold in your laughter.
“can i take a pictu—”
“could you help me out of i—”
you cut yourself off when he frowns at your request, giving him an impish grin. “how about this?” you say, petting one of the fuzzy sleeves. “i’ll help you out of it, after we take a picture.”
a shiver runs down his spine, unfitting for how warm he’s become while trapped. but he has no other options.
“keep it to yourself, please. i’d like to get over this one day. if yvonne and greyson catch wind of it, that won’t be possible.”
♡︎ | take a break — Zayne tries to get his girlfriend to take a break
♡︎ | "zayne's girlfriend" — someone at the hospital accidentally calls her "Zayne's girlfriend"
♡︎ + ✦ | christmas eve (christmas special) — Zayne has to work on Christmas, so she decides to surprise him with their little Christmas dinner.
♡︎ + ✦ | before midnight (valentine's day)
★ | tied wrists • smut — explicit content, tied wrists, oral sex, no underwear, open door
♡︎ | the morning after — the morning after your first time with him
♡︎ + req | talking to his baby (extended ver) — zayne always talked to his baby from the womb, until he noticed she liked hearing him talk about something specific
♡︎ | you again — an arranged marriage was never in your plans. you'd always imagined yourself marrying your best friend zayne, until he left…
★ + req | it's cold • smut — zayne uses his evol to immobilize your wrists…
♡︎ + ✦ | birthday girl — parties weren't your favorite thing. that's why, when Zayne told you you both could go, you never imagined that meant making what you wanted most for that day come true
☆ | hospital at midnight [HALLOWEEN SPECIAL] — Zayne is called to the hospital at midnight on halloween, and you decide to go with him, unaware that you'll have a peculiar encounter with a nurse in an old uniform.
— headcanons
➴ [coming soon]
— drabbles/mini one shots
★ | inside you • smut
♡︎ | his safe place
★ | it has to be quick • smut — something quick in one of the rest rooms at the hospital
♡︎ | talking to his baby
💧| flatline — he couldn't save you
♡︎ | let it got — [dad au] Zayne's daughter is a big fan of Elsa for one specific reason
★ | body • smut — zayne is obsessed with your body
♡︎ | adopt a pet
♡︎ | wedding gift
★ | spanking + fingering — KINKTOBER
★ | voyeurism — KINKTOBER
— series
➴ [coming soon]
— fanfics
➴ [coming soon]
🚫 NO REPOST. NO INSPIRATION. NO COPYING.
all writing here is 100% original—written, edited and translated by myself. you are NOT allowed to take inspiration, copy, repost or translate any of it for another platform and DON'T use my work on AI.
i'm only on ao3 and wattpad under the same username—any other account with my content is unauthorized.
characters belong to love and deepspace and infold but the writing and ideas are totally mine. please respect my work.
"As early autumn stirs, the breeze begins to rise. Red leaves drift, bearing unspoken feelings." Maybe it's just the cooler weather setting in. Somehow, a touch of sadness found its way into my heart.
Still, I'm glad I have a fluffy little companion to share these quiet, uneventful moments with.
I just saw it pacing under the tree for quite a while. If you think about it, its situation wasn't all that different from mine.
But now, the kitten has found a playmate, and the person I was waiting for is here too.
Summery: the start of love between two average people.
Warnings: Non Mc reader. it's happy ending :), contains smut, cheesy romance i guess, fluff, protected syx, Mc is referred to as "Emcee", oral(m! rec), 7.4k words.
Notes: in honor of 2k followers (thank you <3), and Zayne's myth release.
This. This is the life Zayne would never dream of losing. The warmth and fuzzy feeling? That's all you. Even the silence is welcome, all he needs is to be in your presence—
How did we get here again?
Second scene: accidental.
You're haggard. Stupid 9-5 job when you could've focused on your hobbies, maybe earn from it.
If only money didn't matter.
You glance up at the sky, it's getting colder these days, everyone seems to be preparing for winter before autumn even comes.
One thing never changes though, the loud vehicles, pollution, and other people complaining about life.
You hug your bag tighter, the only goal right now is to get home.
The scent of flowers attack you.
And you slow down, turning your head to the right, a flower shop.
Looks new, you decide to peek inside.
Oh, it is slightly packed. buy one bouquet, get a cupcake for free on the first day, The sign reads.
“welcome! how can i help?” a cheery teenage sales girl appears in front of you, and you smile back awkwardly, “just browsing.”
“sure, take your time.” you're left alone once again as she disappears to entertain another customer.
The selection of flowers are limited, for now. The sunflowers seem to have caught your eyes first, then the tulips.
People were starting to swarm around the mini store, causing you to become squeezed in between random bodies.
“excuse me, sorry—” you tried pushing yourself out of the store, and at that moment, you feel a hand pulling at your arm with just enough force to bring you out.
“oh, thank you.” you breathed out in relief, dusting yourself off before lifting your head.
Dr. Zayne.
Specifically… Your friend’s doctor.
“are you alright?” Zayne asks calmly while holding both the bouquet of jasmine flowers, and the small box containing the free cupcake.
You glance back at him, “yeah.” you nod, “thanks again.”
You might be wondering how this is the second meeting? Simple. The first meeting was when you accompanied Emcee to her doctor appointments.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
First scene: appointments.
“I've known Zayne forever but I still feel like i need someone to accompany me, y'know?” Emcee starts fidgeting her fingers around your sleeve as you both make your way to Akso hospital.
“you'll be fine, you need to check up regularly.” you reassure her by taking her hand. “i know, but he always scolds me whenever I'm there.”
You turn your head to deadpan her, “that's because you don't take good care of yourself as a hunter.”
She scratches the back of her head, “i wish Caleb was here instead to accompany me, but he's always at skyhaven—”
“girl.”
“okay, sorry.”
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
“Everything is stable for now, just make sure to take your vitamins and medications regularly.” Zayne replies professional after placing his stethoscope down, “and no over exertion.” he ends with a cross of his arms, “Yeah, got it, doc.” she smiles before standing up from the patient's bed.
“let me write you the prescription of your vitamins.” Zayne turns around, grabbing the paper and pen from his desk while Emcee slips into the bathroom.
Leaving you two alone. You stand there awkwardly, taking in the scent of antiseptic in his office while tapping your foot on the floor.
Your first impression of Zayne is.. He's kinda quiet? Doesn't speak unless he has to, moves with such precision. He looked like a tired man in general, it's obvious with the dark circles underneath his eyes. But Zayne is a good looking man in your eyes, just your type—
“Uh, did you eat yet?” those were the first words that came out of you when you also noticed how skinny his face looked, maybe he was the one overworking too much.
Zayne stops writing on the paper to give you a short glance before focusing back on writing.
“not yet.”
A simple response that you slowly nod to, and then it becomes silent again.
this is killing you.
“you should take care of yourself too, like how you tell your patients…” you trail off, wanting to say ‘you should take your own advice’, but you're glad you didn't.
“i will be having a snack after this, if it puts you at ease.”
okay, good, great.
Emcee then emerges out of the bathroom, walking towards his desk to take the prescription paper, they exchange a few goodbye words before she takes your arm to leave.
You could say that was your first meeting, was the second meeting really at the flower shop? not exactly.
The flower shop meeting was the first accidental meeting with Zayne outside of the hospital.
You've always accompanied Emcee to her appointments after the first meeting, every time for her appointment, then one time because your knee got bruised so she brought you there, and another when she had a virus.
Let's say you knew Zayne just enough… Well not enough to be a friend just yet.
back to the flower shop meeting.
“how's your knee?” his voice brings you out of your trance of thoughts.
“better,” you unconsciously feel your right knee, “not better enough for me to wear pencil skirts to work yet though.”
Zayne presses his lips into a thin line before sighing, “did you buy the cream i prescribed?”
“ah yes, it healed it fast.”
“what about the other cream? I prescribed two. One for healing, and the other to prevent your skin from scarring.”
You feel the gears turning in your head since you were sure it only said one cream, or did you not understand his hand writing?
“come with me.” Zayne starts walking, expecting you to follow, and you instantly do after a second of contemplating.
“where are we going?”
“pharmacy.”
Oh man, this is embarrassing… You definitely did not expect your first meeting out of the hospital to be a trip to the pharmacy. This was half your fault.
The bell rings when you both enter the pharmacy, and you stand there next to him as he speaks to the pharmacist.
…
When you both leave, you're holding a neat plastic with the new cream in it, and stop him for a moment, “I'm sorry, i could've paid for it, i was also so busy i just didn't have time to pay atten—”
Zayne hands you the bouquet of jasmine flowers, and you're frozen.
“consider this a ‘get well soon’ gift.” he speaks calmly, again. “i only bought it for the cupcake… Ahem, anyway the flowers won't be taken care of since I'm mostly at work.” Zayne continues reasoning out, but you're just in awe.
You blink twice before responding, “i-I'll take care of it, then.”
He nods, a the faintest curve upwards seen on his lips, “good.”
And that was the first time you've felt your heart beat for Zayne. You're doomed, a new crush has been unlocked.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
Third scene: Mr. And Mrs. Snowman.
You were invited by Emcee to an amusement park event.
She first texted you if you were down to go to some park with food trucks and kids around, the thought of it already drained you since you just got back from work, plopping lazily on the couch.
Emcee 🌸: you coming or not?
You: dunno
Emcee 🌸: Caleb will be there for once! :D
You: great… So You want me to third wheel?
Emcee 🌸: nope, that's why Zayne will be there too
You feel your soul almost returning after this dreadful day, damn it this felt too easy. You sit up straight and stare at the typing… on your screen.
Emcee 🌸: cus if i invited only Zayne, then he would be third wheeling, but if i invite you two, it wouldn't be awkward!
You: ok im coming
Emcee 🌸: AWESOME
You almost regret going. Almost.
Emcee was busy chatting with Caleb about everything that happened while he was gone, and they both occasionally share with Zayne too.
And you? You're just listening, standing next to Zayne at the very end.
Although Zayne was also quiet, the other two were too energetic.
“how's your knee today?” Zayne initiates the conversation with you, and your eyebrows raise in surprise as you turn to him.
“all healed up,” you smile, “also, the flowers seem to be doing well. I moved them to a pot.”
“Mm, I'm glad to hear.”
Emcee gasps and points at one specific train ride. More like the killer ride.
“you guys want to—” you and Zayne immediately shake your head. She then shrugs before grabbing Caleb along with her.
“there they go.” you chuckle, “my ears can finally rest.” Zayne adds with a sigh, and you laugh.
Now you're both left alone. And you don't know if its a blessing or a curse.
You try looking around, checking if any rides or games were interesting enough. When you look back at Zayne, you didn't expect him to be focused, eyes almost sparkling at the dessert truck stations.
“uh,” you clear your throat, and his attention snaps back to you, “how about we start with desserts?” you suggest.
“… I would like that.”
a win is a win.
…
“I'd like the macaroons with coffee.” Zayne starts at the cashier, “and I'd like…” you look around at the options, “the carrot cake.” you point at the cake hidden behind glass.
And Zayne turns to you slowly, eyeing you, as if questioning your taste, and you sweat internally. As if you've done a grave mistake.
“A-actually I'd like the earl grey jasmine cake…” you change your option, pointing at the other. You look at Zayne, as if searching for his approval, and he only nods approvingly.
You sigh in relief.
When you both receive the sweets in paper plates, you walk away for the next customer to order.
“so,” you take a bite from the cake, tasting the flavors in your mouth, “you don't like carrots?”
“I'm allergic.”
“You are?”
Zayne stops, “… No, I'm just not a fan.”
Your eyebrows furrow before you laugh again, he must loathe carrots.
“who even comes up with carrots and cake?” he adds, and you just laugh even harder.
This day was going to be an interesting.
You both share the desserts, Zayne takes a few bites from your cake, giving his opinion on it, and he feeds you a few macaroons, which you loved every flavor since you have the reviewing skills of a five year old.
Moving on.
“Oh, Zayne!” you point at the claw machine, then by instinct, you take his arm without even realizing—and Zayne? He doesn't even budge, he lets himself get dragged by you.
“i think i got some coins.” you shuffle through your purse, “three coins!” you take them out. Zayne takes his own wallet out, “two coins.”
You cheer, “great, we have five tries.” you excitedly put the first coin in, Zayne watches in anticipation, “Mm, i want the blue and pink snowman.” you tap almost aggressively on the glass before hitting start!
“I'll just watch…” Zayne says next to you, though he's sure you didn't hear him from how focused you were moving the joystick, making sure it would accurately land on the snowman.
You press the red button, and you both watch in anticipation as the claw lowers to grab the head of the snowman—only for it to slide off.
Now it lays sideways, and you're starting to feel frustrated. “this is such a scam.”
“indeed.” Zayne agrees. But there is still four chances left.
By the second chance, you were focused. Pushing the button when you were absolutely sure it would hold it—
“i did it!” you watch as the claw grabs the blue snowman, letting it go for you to claim it. You giggle as you crouch to hold the snowman close to you.
“actually it looks like you.” you compare the snowman side by side to Zayne, and the faintest smile twitches on his face.
The next challenge was getting the pink snowman, which was in the far corner. And it seems you have run out of luck.
Three more chances, and just like that, you were down to one last chance.
“can i try?” Zayne offers, you turn around, nodding with your shoulders slumped as you both switch.
He starts moving the joystick, and you cheer on him, you're even wondering why he was looking around, making sure no one was looking at your way.
Then, you see it. he's using his evol.
“Zayne!” you gasp, tapping on his arm when the claw lowers to freeze the pink snowman, and you jump in excitement when he managed to successfully bring the fellow plushie home.
“that was sneaky!” you laugh, grabbing his arm again to run off—just in case any of the staff saw you cheating.
Laughter in the air, plushies in hand, and even more dessert? Has Zayne ever done this with a girl?
Alone?
Zayne's head is blank, eyes focused on the way your smile reaches your eyes, the way you talk excitedly about the plushies, he doesn't even hear the outside noise.
It's just you, in his vision, and in his head.
Did his heart just beat faster than usual?
“let's stop here,” Zayne stops you from walking, guiding you to a nearby bench.
“oh, are you tired?”
“yes.” he decides to go with the answer, he thinks his heart is racing because he's tired (despite enjoying running, weird huh?)
You sit next to each other on the bench, the pink snowman on your lap, and the blue snowman on Zayne's own lap.
“what are you going to name her?” the question peaks your interest, your fingers pressing against the sewn heart pattern, “Mrs. Snowman.” simple, the only one you could think of.
Zayne hums, “then mine will be Mr. Snowman.”
The suggestion almost makes your eyes widen, the matching names really got you clearing your throat, looking around, and tapping your foot on thr ground.
“ah, there you are!” Emcee runs towards you, while Caleb behind her is carrying everything they've won from playing all day.
“did you enjoy?” she asks, glancing between you both, and she laughs when you both nod, sensing some sort of tension.
“Alright, alright, let's go eat together now.”
You're almost sad that you won't be alone with Zayne anymore, at least it was worth the fun.
You were so going to journal about it.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
Fourth scene: first text.
It's been a week since that day, since Mrs. Snowman made her debut on the bed along with your other plushies.
And it's been a week since you asked for his social media before you left. Thank god you had last minute courage.
Stalking his page was rather… Interesting.
He had 4 followers. Were you surprised? Not exactly…
Well, 5 now, including you.
The other four were Emcee, Caleb, Greyson, and Yvonne.
You don't have a clue who the other two were, although considering he had only four people on his account, you felt a little special to be joining in.
Posts? Zero. Stories? Never. Profile picture? It's a snowman profile picture… With no carrot as his nose.
silly.
You've been also mentally fighting yourself on whether you should text him or not, you needed more pushing.
text or not text or not text or no—
You push send.
The message was “hey,”
You were worked up over a ‘hey’
You groan before falling back on the bed, and tossing your phone to the side. And when you hear the notification? You gasp and grab it.
oh, it's just a spam message.
Back to waiting, and you waited hours. Staring at the ceiling, cleaning the house while occasionally glancing towards your phone.
Until the sun set, and the moon rised. You hear a notification, but not expecting, you still stare at the lock screen.
Zayne.
You immediately sit up, unlocking your phone with your heart racing.
Zayne: hello. Sorry for the late reply, i just got off work.
Ah, the ever busy man.
You: it's no worries at all! Make sure to get some rest
Was replying too fast a little pathetic? Maybe.
Zayne: i will, and you should too.
You heart the message, and this seems like the end of the conversation. You look around, grabbing Mrs. Snowman to snap a picture of her then hitting send.
Anything to keep the conversation going.
Zayne hearted the picture.
Your heart hurts again, in a good way.
About two minutes later, he sent a photo, and it's a picture of Mr. Snowman sitting on the couch.
This is so cute you never want this to end.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
Fifth scene: late night walk. (first unspoken date)
The phone buzzes on the nightstand.
“Are you free for a late night walk?”
Zayne stares at the message from you for a full minute before typing back—one word at a time, slow and careful.
"…Yes."
He deletes it.
Types again.
"I mean—yes. I’m free."
Deletes that too.
Finally, after three minutes of silent war with himself, he sends:
”If you want to walk… I can go."
And immediately flips the phone face-down on his desk—heart pounding like he just sent something dangerous.
For a second, he's tempted to make some excuse.
Too tired. Too busy. But then your next message comes through, bright and eager:
“yay :)”
Oh how easily you get to him. Just when did it all start?
Zayne sighs, “see you in ten.”
He's screwed. He knows better than this—or he should, at least. He's an adult, a doctor, a logical, rational person.
He's not some teenager who gets weak-kneed at the thought of holding hands with the girl he likes.
And yet he's still grabbing his keys—taking the stairs two at a time—and walking outside to get you.
…
The air between you felt slightly… Awkward yet not in an uncomfortable way.
Well, everything was fine until you brought up how cold the weather was because of the change of seasons, Autumn was around the corner. You refused to wear a coat because it’d ruin the… Outfit.
Ahem.
That's how Zayne ended up shrugging off his coat before draping it over your shoulders.
Your protests die as you feel the coat settle over you, and it's been silent ever since.
The coat smells like him—clean, with a hint of jasmine. And you feel the urge to bury your neck further into his coat.
So how did a late night walk invitation turn into an mini date hangout?
Right, when it turned to an invitation to get food since you had absolutely nothing else to talk about. You just wanted to be with him.
"should we get something to eat?"
Zayne hums. Food is good. Food is safe. Food means not having to constantly look at you—
"sure," he agrees, "there's a cafe a few blocks down. We could—"
“sounds good." you cut him off, literally staring ahead.
"... It's a nice place. They have hot chocolate." Zayne continues, and you turn to him, "cheesecake?"
"definitely cheesecake." he smiles.
…
A few minutes later, you two arrive at the cafe. It's a cozy little place, all warm lights and soft chatter and the sweet, rich smell of sugar.
Zayne leads you to a quiet book near the back, his hand unconsciously a hair away from the small of your back—yet not touching.
He lets you slide into the seat before taking his place across from you.
He's still quiet—watching you as you scan the menu, eyes sparkling when you find the hot chocolate and cheesecake you were looking for.
Zayne felt… Lost. Almost immersed in every little expression you showed, but everytime you would glance at him while yapping, he would look away and nod along with your words.
“And then this customer just really pissed my whole day off—” you sigh while sipping on the cup of hot chocolate before putting it back down, leaving a slight lipstick stain on the rim.
You both were busy with work, you at your corporate job, and him saving lives. It was almost impossible to meet.
It was only at this moment did Zayne feel relief that he agreed to accompany you on this “walk”, because he would've missed out things he just learned about you.
And it was at this moment did Zayne think, ‘maybe letting myself relax around her wouldn't hurt.’
Although… He feels slightly uncomfortable right now, and you could see it.
In the way he's fidgeting in his place, constantly trying to lean closer to you to listen better, and fingers tapping against the table?
You knew it was time to leave.
…
You paid after excusing yourself to go to the bathroom.
And zayne was very upset about it.
“i told you, it's okay. I'm the one who suggested we go out to eat.” you explain for the nth time, yet he's still looking at you like a disappointed parent.
“you looked uncomfortable.”
“i was not.”
“you did. Was it me—”
“it's not your fault—”
“was the cafe too crowded?”
You both stop walking under the lamp post light, and you could see the guilt on his expression.
Zayne takes a deep breath, “I'm sorry.”
His apology catches you off guard, and you unconsciously take his arm, “Don’t ever apologize for things you can't control. Only if it doesn't harm anyone.” your thumb rubs at his sleeves. And it somehow guards him, calms him down in ways he never thought.
The night ends with Zayne's head still clouded by many scenarios he could've thought of to make things right again. Yet he still somehow feels it's his fault for not being able to get over one of the things that stresses him out.
Even when you have assured him a thousand times it's okay.
He believes you, for now.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
Sixth scene: flowers by your desk.
“Thank you for calling customer service, how can i help?”
That line almost makes your throat dry, with every hour passing by, you slouch at you desk, typing away at the keyboard while some angry customer yells at you.
Then, break starts.
You stretch your limbs as you stand up from your chair, heels clicking against the flooring as you make your way outside.
“delivery.” a man knocks at the door, and you open the office door for him.
“delivery for miss—” the man repeats your name, and… There's only one that had that name in this office.
“wait, that would be.” you start, and he hands you the bouquet flowers with stunning arrangements. “uh, who is it from? I didn't order anything.” you respond nervously, wondering if you should go and run for your wallet to pay for something you didn't even order.
“it's been already paid for, ma'am. And sorry, I have no idea who is it from. But you have a good day!” he ends the conversation with a smile, and you smile back politely, “you too.” you then close the door.
Your fingers run through the petals as you further inspect the bouquet, that's when you find a note card tucked in the blooms.
The season changed, and it reminded me of you. Think of it as a gift for paying for our hot chocolate the other day.
You can't help the smile that spreads across your lips—the fluttering in your chest.
If this was not a romantic gesture, then what would it be?
You return back to your cubicle to hide the bouquet away, then you take your phone out.
You: I got the flowers.
This time, he responds immediately,
Zayne: good. I was going to text you about its arrival.
Typing.
Zayne: do you like it?
You: I love it.
You both smile from opposite sides of the screen.
…
“come over.”
Zayne blinks at your next text, “what?” He types, waiting in anticipation for your reply.
“my home, I meant.”
It almost sends him into cardiac arrest—Zayne closes his phone for a minute to contemplate everything he's done in his life.
“Dr. Zayne?” Yvonne knocks on his office door, and he clears his throat before straightening back up, “yes, come in.”
Zayne's last text before switching it off was, “send me the address.”
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
Seventh scene: burning touches.
It's cold.
“coffee or tea?” you stand by the kitchen counter, glancing back once to wait for his answer.
"Tea."
The answer is immediate, almost reflexive. It's his go—to—warm, not too sugary, just enough caffeine to keep him awake but not wired.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of his trousers, his gaze still roaming your apartment, taking in the little details. Your couch, the blanket draped over it, soft, well-worn, like it's been hugged countless times.
The books on your coffee table, novels, a few on art and science.
His eyes flick back to you, "...Earl Grey, if you have it.”
He sits on the edge of your couch. Not too comfortable. Not too close to anything personal.
But still… he’s here. In your home. On your couch. Waiting for tea you’re making just for him.
When you return with two steaming mugs, hands careful not to spill, he looks up at you, “Thanks." he says quietly, taking the mug from you. Their fingers brush ever so slightly when their hands meet, and neither pulls away quite fast enough.
You then take a seat next to him, pulling both of your legs on the couch to make yourself more comfortable, “you got work tomorrow?”
"...Yeah," he says, sipping at his tea. "Morning rounds, surgery in the afternoon, then office hours."
His mind—ever the efficient machine, is already gearing up for another long day. But there's something else. Something… off about his tone.
You frown, “what's wrong?”
“just tired.”
“you can rest here, I have extra blankets.” you immediately say, placing your mug down on the coffee table.
Zayne almost panics, and he sets his mug down as well, “i don't want to impose…” he gently grabs your arm to stop you from standing up.
You don't stand, instead, you grab the one that was already resting on your couch.
Zayne doesn’t move as you drape the blanket over him. warm, soft, smelling faintly of lavender and home.
And when the fabric settles around his shoulders and your fingers brush his collar just slightly in the process—he does flinch.
Just a little.
His eyes lift to yours, guarded. but searching.
Trying to find a reason for this kindness, for this warmth that has nothing to do with the tea or the blanket.
Zayne's breath hitches just slightly, his shoulders tensing beneath your hand. But he doesn't pull away—not immediately, not quickly.
You're testing the waters with the way the tips of your fingers brush over the skin of his neck, and he just sits there, perfectly still, as if his body isn’t screaming for more. More touch. More contact.
His jaw tightens, an internal battle raging beneath the stoic facade. He knows he should push you away. Should get up, leave, go back to his safe, familiar solitude.
But he doesn’t move.
And when that gives you the green light signal? Your hand starts caressing his jaw. And he melts. Exhales like all the burden on his shoulders became much lighter.
“let's share blankets.” you say as if that's an excuse to get closer to him, and he does, without hesitation, pulls you closer to wrap the other half of the blanket around you.
You don't only move your body closer, but your face moves even closer.
The hand is firm—yet gentle on the side of his jaw, and you your eyes searches his for permission before they slide to his lips.
You tilt your head, “can we?”
Zayne's throat bobs, “should we?”
“Yeah,” you exhale through your nose, “we should.”
Any lingering, fading thoughts of restraint are washed away like sand beneath a brutal wave.
Zayne's fingers thread into your hair, gripping and tugging you closer—closer than you were before, until you're half off that damn couch and half onto his lap. He swallows the gasp of breath from your mouth the moment your lips touch his, tongue sweeping over yours in a desperate, greedy search.
You're both greedy for the first time.
Heat pools in his veins. His breath comes ragged between kisses. He can't get enough—the taste of tea on your lips, the softness of your mouth moving with his own—he wants it all.
And when you let out that quiet whimper?
Zayne stills for half a breath. Then he moves.
He turns you in one smooth motion, pressing your back against the couch as he hovers over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other still gripping your hip hard enough to leave warmth behind. His knee slips between yours—just enough pressure to make you gasp again.
Holyshitholyshitholyshit.
“Zayne,” your head rolls back when he buries his face into your neck. Kissing, and biting without stopping, “I'm not on anything—”
Control, control, control.
Zayne's jaw clenches as the word runs through his head on a loop. Control, control— He should pull back. He should move away, find some distance to get his head straight.
He swallows hard, gaze raking over you like he's a man starving and you're a feast. His hand moves higher, fingertips tracing the seam on your pants. His voice is low when he speaks.
"Do you trust me?”
“yes.”
“then, can I?”
“yes.” you exhale, and your sweatpants are being taken off slowly, along with your panties.
He doesn't look down, not yet, but he does pry your legs further apart.
“stay with me.” he whispers, and when you do lock eyes, he gives you what you've been fantasizing about.
A slow stroke, his thumb finds your clit in the most devastatingly gentle circle, one that makes your body shudder, and his name spill like a prayer.
You grab him close, wrapping your arms around his shoulders while you pant softly with each press and roll of his thumb on your little bundle of nerves.
“M-mh, faster please.” you plead, your hips already having a mind of their own by rolling against his hand.
The sounds of your moans, the feel of you moving against his hand, the heat pooling low in his gut as he watches you come undone...
His thumb moves faster, presses harder and occasionally pinches to watch you jolt in surprise, every soft sound you make makes him even harder.
“Waitwaitwait,” your cries grow louder as you press your head against his shoulder, “I'm gonna come, gonna cum—” your eyes roll back when you snap. And he doesn’t pull away. Can’t.
Instead, he rides it out with you—slow, deep strokes as you tremble through your release, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, “sweet angel.”
His fingers slowly withdraw, careful, gentle. He doesn’t move far—just enough to lean back and look at you.
You're dazed. Sated. He grabs the blanket that was discarded on the couch, and tugs it over you with quiet care, one hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead.
"...Rest," he murmurs, voice low but tender in a way only you ever get to hear. "I'm right here.”
You shake your head, “no. Your turn.”
Zayne's eyes widen, “we can't, I mean, we don't have—”
But you're already off the couch and on the ground, on your knees. With two stubborn hands pushing his legs apart this time.
oh, he's fucked.
“you don't have to,” Zayne is more concerned about your knees (and lips) becoming bruised more than anything. But you only huff while pushing his hand away.
“i want to,” you look up at him, “can i?”
Zayne's hand almost trembles while he's caressing your face, pressing gently while you're hands are working on taking everything off.
His dick? Big.
The tip? Flushed and leaking.
Your lips? Already wrapped around that leaky red head.
His fingers find the back of your head. Not forcing. Not demanding. Not pushing you into it. Just holding. The feel of you around him is already overwhelming.
Zayne's breathing is ragged. Rough. Strained. His free hand grips the couch, clenching against the fabric as your name comes out in a strangled choke…
"Oh—” his head rolls back, and it only fuels your excitement by pushing yourself beyond your limits, until you almost choke around him.
And Zayne jerks—hips twitching forward before he catches himself, one hand tightening in your hair not to push, but to stop, thumb brushing your cheek in silent apology.
"Hey," he rasps, voice breaking. "Don’t… don’t force it." His chest heaves. But even as he says it… his hips betray him with a small, helpless roll, just enough to make you choke again.
"I'm so close," he warns, “too fast—I'm sorry—” He can feel himself getting closer with every flick of your tongue, every hot pull of your mouth. His hips twitch forward involuntarily and he fights it—fights the urge to lose control completely.
But when you take him deeper this time… that’s it.
“I’m—I’m coming—”
You suck the life out of the poor man, your other hand coming to squeeze his balls, and Zayne whimpers.
His hips lifts off the couch as he spills into your mouth, a choked groan ripping from his throat like he can’t breathe. His fingers tremble in your hair, torn between pulling you closer and pushing you away because gosh, it’s too much.
And when you don’t stop? when your tongue keeps moving, relentless, greedy. He gasps like he’s drowning.
“Enough," he chokes out, voice raw with overstimulation. "Angel—I can't—I’m sensitive—”
Zayne grabs you and pulls you up, his hands gripping your shoulders as he drags you into his lap. He looks wrecked—hair tousled, skin flushed, eyes darkened with desire.
He takes in your expression—that look of satisfaction, the soft gleam in your eyes, the smirk on your lips.
“You're trouble," he mutters, voice still raspy. He then leans in, his lips brushing your shoulder.
“next time, we do it right.”
next time. You're already thinking ahead, and Zayne is glad. He's glad this isn't a one time thing.
“i will get everything we need, next time.”
The mugs were long forgotten on the coffee table.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
Eighth scene: In love*.*
“So, see you tonight?”
That one word, tonight, was enough to make his hand tighten around his phone.
Then, just as you're about to hang up—
"Eight o'clock," he says quietly, and you hum.
"I'll pick up dinner."
A silent pause.
“...And the condoms.”
…
food was supposed to come first, and zayne suggested it would be good to eat first, to build stamina, that is. but you were hungry for something else.
food could come later.
Zayne lets out a groan the second your lips meet his, like he's been holding his breath for days, because it has been days without much contact.
One hand fists in your hair, the other yanking you flush against him until there's no space left between you. The kiss is desperate, hungry, messy, needy—his tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to devour every sound you make.
“did you purposely ignore me these past few days?” your teeth catches his lower lip as if to punish him, and his breath catches.
“No,” he ghosts his lips over your ear as he tilts his head, his hands swiftly pulling your top over your head until you're bare above the waist now. Soft skin, flushed chest, your nipples pebbling in the cool air.
“I…” his face flushes, eyes unfocused as he slides his palms up your ribs to brush his thumbs over your nipples, You shudder, and he exhales, “i had to reconnect with nature after we—”
you giggle at the image, your hand caressing his jaw while he hides his face into your collarbone.
Zayne is trying to hold it in him, doing everything to control himself from pouncing at you, because you deserve more than a quick, rough fumble on the couch.
He stands up in one smooth motion, lifting you with him. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, "bed," he growls into your neck, "now."
He doesn't trust himself to walk fast. Every step down the hall is tense, one hand clutching your ass, the other braced against the wall as he turns into your room.
And when he finally lays you down?
your hand are on his, peeling his shirt off to toss it aside. and for a moment, he just lets you look at him, chest rising and falling with each breath. But when your hands glide over his stomach, down towards the waistband of his pants, he catches your wrist—gently squeezing before loosening his grip so you could take them off.
And he does the same to you, except you're already soaking through your panties that he can see the wet patch in the low light, the evidence of just how goddamn gone you are for him.
His hands run up your thighs slowly, like he's worshipping, committing you to memory. One hand slides to your center, teasing you lightly, barely even touching you.
“need you inside,” your arms are covering your face, a small smile curling up your lips.
"You do, do you," He leans up, pressing his lips to your throat, teeth grazing over your pulse point.
"You want me now, huh? Want to skip all the foreplay and just have me?" His fingers skim over your clothed cunt, and you tense at the contact. your hips lift so he could take the flimsy panty off, "be good.”
He shifts down the bed slowly, kissing your stomach, the inside of your thigh.
Each kiss soft.
Each one making you gasp louder than the last.
When his mouth finally brushes over your clit—just once—it's enough to make you whine.
"Still want me inside first?" he presses another kiss to your hidden pearl, his hands making sure you don’t close your thighs together, "Or are we going to do this properly?”
Your fingers are tugging his hair away from in between your thighs, “Zayneee,” you plead while shaking your head.
"Fine," he hisses surging up over you in one smooth motion. "You want me? You'll have me."
He reaches for the nightstand (for the box he just bought) , fumbles for a second before tearing open the foil packet with his teeth.
His hands tremble slightly as he rolls it down his cock, and God, you’re the only one who’s ever seen him like this.
He positions himself at your entrance, hips pressing forward, "look at me," he demands softly. "I want to see your eyes when I’m inside you.”
Your eyes are locked on his, and he thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
He reaches up to cup your cheek, stroking a thumb over your cheekbone, "I'm going to start slow. Tell me if it hurts.”
With that, his hand finds your hip, gripping for dear life. "And tell me if anything—”
“i got it.” you cut him off, already pressing yourself needily against him.
Zayne feels your gasp against his lips when he pushes in, your walls instinctively tightening around him even as he’s barely inside.
He pushes in deeper, slow, and careful. but the second you whine, his hips twitch forward on instinct. ”You feel so good," he groans, forehead dropping to your shoulder. "Too good.”
Zayne lets out a broken moan—his hips jerking forward against his will.
You're so damn tight, clinging to him like you never want to let go, it's not like he wants to pull out either.
He wants to stay buried inside you forever.
"Sweetheart, please—" he rasps, voice raw. "You’re killing me… loosen up a bit, hm?”His hands clamp down on your thighs, spreading them wider as he leans over you.
“I-I don't think it will go in,” you whimper, “it's too… Much.” you almost sob.
And Zayne’s breath stops.
"Hey. Hey," he whispers, voice suddenly gentle. "Stop. Breathe.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t push further. Instead, he presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then your lips.
"You’re okay," he continues. "I’ve got you. Just breathe with me.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, where you feel safe.
"I won't rush you," he says quietly. "Never. We stop whenever you say."
Zayne lets out a shuddering breath as you relax beneath him, your muscles slowly yielding, letting him sink deeper.
"There, just like that. You're doing so good." He presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming heat of you wrapped around him.
His hips roll forward, a slow, torturous glide that makes you both gasp again
"Still okay?”
“M-mhm. Is it all the way in…?”
"Not yet,"
your heart almost drops to your ass.
"You can take it, sweetheart. I know you can.”
He's just so gentle with you, that you can't help but let him in. Taking him all the way in until your nails start scraping his skin.
"Feel it," he whispers. "Feel how I fit inside you.
His hips pull back, slowly, and then snap forward hard.
A deep thrust that draws a moan from your throat, eyes rolled back.
And Zayne?
A goner.
“Again, more—” your lips are parted as you breathe heavily, and he grips your hip like an anchor as he drives into you, each thrust faster than the other.
"This what you want?" he grits out between thrusts. "Huh?”
The snapping of hips together in your room echoes in your room, his heavy breathings next to your ear with the mix of his fingers playing and tugging on your nipple makes your pussy ache.
“Zayne,” you tap on his shoulder, and he's still snapping his cock deep into your cunt without stopping, “I'm close, I'm— *oh fuck right there—*I’m **gonna cum—”
"No holding back, just for me. Can you do that? Are you going to come for me, sweetheart? Please.”
Your release comes so fast, creaming and clenching around his cock like a vice. And the sound you make, it shreds what little control he has left. he lets out a broken moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fights not to follow right then.
His hips stutter once, twice—trying to stay steady even as you continue pulse around him.
don’t come yet, notyetnotyetnotyet—
“a-ah shit—” Zayne whines while biting your shoulder as his thrusts grow sloppier, and even when he finally cums, he continues rutting into you, although slower this time, almost sleepily.
when he finally stops, your rest your head back while groaning out, your hands patting the hair that’s in your view.
“Zayne,”
“sweetheart, please. let’s not talk about it…”
“i was going to ask if you want to go for another round..”
he starts laughing quietly against your skin, and laugh too.
— ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ —
final scene.
The apartment is quiet in the early morning light as dawn creeps through the blinds of the window, Zayne is already up and dressed in his scrubs.
But instead of heading straight to work, he’s standing by your kitchen counter, quietly making your drink for the morning, the way you like it.
Now, He turns slightly as he hears you stirring down the hall.
And for once, his guard isn't up. He's just… waiting. For you.
He knew you were being serious with your proclaimed sex ban. You were nothing if not stubborn. And you always stuck to your word.
But what he hadn’t expected is how badly it would affect him.
For the most part, Zayne left initiating sex up to you. He never wanted to pressure you, or have you worry about meeting his needs. He was truly satisfied with anything you were willing to give him. As far as he could tell, you enjoyed initiating sex. You did it so often he never felt the need to.
But now he does.
Despite his sweet talking last night, you had remained firm in your decision. With a soft kiss goodnight, you had turned over and fallen asleep, leaving him hard and desperate.
He manages to make it a few (two) more days before he simply can’t take anymore. An extra layer of the torture had been that you hadn’t been depriving him of physical affection at all. You still kissed him, hugged him, cuddled him, really everything that he loved. But still…it wasn’t enough.
“You look beautiful.” He mumbles against your skin, arms wrapping around you from behind. You laugh quietly, as you often did this past week. You were enjoying this, much to his chagrin.
“I never realized how insatiable you are,” you muse to yourself, “I wonder how you’d be if I never initiated sex.” Zayne sighs at your observation, his lips brushing your neck.
“Don’t you think this has gone on long enough? You accepted my apology.”
“I did. But I don’t think you’ve learned your lesson.” You turn to face him, still smiling sweetly. Your perfume smells like some type of dessert, and it goes straight to Zayne’s head.
“I promise to never ruin the mood again.” He whispers earnestly, resting his forehead on your shoulder. You laugh quietly once more, running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck.
“You promise, huh? Alright. I’ll lift the ban. Let’s go up to the bedroom?”
contains: newlyweds!reader and wonwoo, minor injuries, lots of fluff, multiple smut scenes (MINORS DNI), they're sick and in love its gross
synopsis: You and Wonwoo have said your I dos in front of the entire world, and now it's time to uphold them when it's just you and him.
[a/n]: HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY ONE AND ONLY MY GUIDING STAR MY WIFE AND PARTNER IN CRIME CAMOTHY @highvern I love you so much this fic is purely to torture you and only you and no one else. you asked for honeymoon wonu and you are receiving honeymoon wonu. I hope you enjoy it ily ily ily
thank you so much to @starlightkyeom for betaing and listening to me yap about this, I love u to the moon and back, and thank you to @shadowkoo for all the help on the banner, ly raven <333
ps: heads up that is isn't very plot heavy I tried something new this time and attempted to let it flow as it came out. hope it holds up!! if you aren't cam then u must pay taxes in A) going to her blog and wishing her a happy birthday, and B) tell me ur thots about the fic in da reblogs heh!!! :3
masterlist
You let out the deepest exhale of your life.
Haphazardly strewn chairs, and you find the nearest one and plop yourself and your skewed reception dress on the padding. Your numb feet don’t have a chance to thank you immediately, but the tingly feeling means they aren’t entirely a lost cause.
Slouching as far as your shoulders would go, you pan the nearly empty venue, one that now looks like you accidentally slipped a tornado an invitation. Your eyes land on where Wonwoo is saying goodbye to the last few guests who definitely did not pay heed to your request for temperance at the bar. The uncle grips his bicep like a vice, blubbering congratulations you could hear all the way where you sat.
Wonwoo’s suit jacket and waistcoat are gone with the wind, hair tousled and spiking every which way—near inverse of the gelled, waxed and styled they sat earlier in the day; the first time you laid eyes on him standing at the altar with the sun in his eyes. The crisp of his shirt is now wrinkled from the dancing and the hugging and every other excessive movement he had to subject himself to today.
The final stragglers are your family, your sister already moving over to push you out of your chair.
“I just sat down!” you whine, not caring for decorum with the absolute day you’ve had.
“Go on with him, you have a flight to catch!” she stresses. “We’ll handle everything here.”
Wonwoo catches the last bit as he returns, hands in his pockets, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Blatantly, you stare. “Handle what?”
“You guys should go ahead first,” she says.
“We have some time till we need to start rushing,” he responds, twisting his arm to look at the watch on his wrist. The lights are back on, so you can see him significantly clearer without the disco lights and low spotlights. His forearm is practically in your face, and if you weren’t so exhausted you would’ve taken a dive at the divot, teeth first.
But you don’t, because what stares you both in the face right now is a month long getaway of blue sky, green waters and lots and lots and lots of completely alone time. Since your sister is already so keen to get rid of you both, Wonwoo decides for you as he excuses himself to grab his strewn clothes.
She turns to you in his absence, and you immediately know there’s a grenade smoking behind her goading grin. “Well…?”
Brows raised, you’re defiant in your decision to remain nonchalant. “Well what?”
“Are you excited?”
“Of course I am, I just got married.”
“I mean the honeymoon.”
“Who isn’t dying to go Seychelles?”
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “You’re no fun.”
You shoot her an equally infuriating smile, “You can’t be mean to me today.”
“I already have,” she responds.
You don’t have a chance to be annoyed because Wonwoo is back, clothes draped over his arm as you are suddenly ushered into saying your last goodbyes. Flats on and heels in hand, ready to peacefully stroll out of the building you got married in.
You hook your arm around his as you cross the threshold out, the wind pleasant in the pitch black night. Walking to the car, the one you bought together, you feel like the threat of your dangerously full heart might finally erupt.
All day has been a rushing incline of adrenaline, from the moment you woke up, sticky eyed with bridesmaids over your head, to getting into your dress, to standing behind the giant oak doors that led you to the altar of your future. To the moment you heard the love of your life say I do for everyone who mattered to hear.
It’s late, and your flats crunch under gravel, pressuring every sore point in your foot. But you don’t care. One of Wonwoo’s arms is draped by his coat, and the other by you, a pressing silence falling over your pair. At peace.
“I’m glad we didn’t have a grand exit,” Wonwoo speaks your thoughts.
“Mhm,” you reply. “I like this better.” You look up at him as he halts his steps for a minute, and he leans down to kiss you for the nth time that night. All smiles.
The finality of an Exit felt like a staggering halt to your special day. You already knew you’d never want it to end, opting to let the night trickle out, ending it with just you left on the floor.
Something told you this would be more memorable anyway.
Everything’s packed and ready when you get home, a service to present you from past you. You turn to Wonwoo, who’s toeing his shoes off, who also was a horrendous sport when it came to packing early.
“Aren’t you glad we did this beforehand?” you taunt, waving your hands at the packed bags near the door. He only smirks, leaning in to grab your face and kiss you again.
“Of course, wife’s always right,” he mumbles against your lips, and the giddy feeling that’s been simmering all day gushes once again.
Wife.
“Welcome to the rest of your life.”
The dim bathroom light seeps into the bedroom, where you scratch your skin with makeup wipes to get the first layer off your tired face. It’s easy to slouch, wanting nothing more than to lay back against the pillows and fall asleep, fully dressed. You’re aware of all the outside germs you’re transferring onto your pristine sheets, but also cannot find the strength to care.
The water shuts off, and you take it as your cue to slug off the bed and take off your dress. Reaching over, your fingers grapple for the hook with no avail, arms already showing the first inklings of a very sore weekend. The zipper isn’t even within your vicinity, fingers aiming for nothing but skin and fabric.
You smell Wonwoo before you can register he’s out of the shower, the humidity carrying the scent of his body wash to where you stood on the other side of the room. It takes no time for you to feel both his hands on your waist, pulling you towards him before you can open your mouth to ask.
Cold fingers brush the skin above the hook of your dress, and it takes an effort to not melt into the carpet entirely. The dress is unhooked, the zipper pulled down as you feel the fabric release you into the bedroom air. He helps you push it over your hips, letting it pool onto the floor.
The sigh you release lingers in the air, prompting him to put his hands on your shoulders, squeezing your shoulders, thumbs digging into the back of your neck to release all the pent up tension. Then your upper arms, where he pulls you even closer, bare back hitting his damp chest.
“Tired?” he mumbles, arms circling around you and squeezing you tight.
Leaning back is the easiest thing you’ve ever done, only humming in response as you close your eyes, head against his shoulder. Droplets hit your skin in a cold cascade, his hair still wet. His hands roam around any expanse of skin he can find without releasing his pressure on your form, squeezing and massaging. The weight is welcomed, nearly falling asleep by the time he’s mouthing at your shoulder, breathing in the sweat of your skin.
“Are you gonna need help in the shower?” he asks. You know he’s not being cheeky, and you consider saying yes seeing as you’re five seconds from falling asleep standing up.
“I think I’ll be fine,” you mumble. “I’ll keep the door open in case I crack my skull on the tile.”
“Can’t have you dying on our wedding night,” he says.
“Enjoy the life insurance payout,” you crack one eye open, staring up at him.
“How many hours have we been married?” he muses.
You want to kiss him, suddenly slammed with a tsunami’s force of affection for the man that holds your leaning body against him like an ever-present pillar. Married.
He lets you go, but not before helping you pick out every last bobby pin in your hair, during which he remains in nothing but the damp towel around his waist. At one point you face him, forehead on his chest as he unravels your hair from the crown.
“Your towel’s inside, I’ll grab your clothes,” he says when he releases you, letting you walk into the bathroom to wash off the day.
Simply raising your arms to shampoo your hair is turning out to be a conquest despite the fumes of the scorching water invading your vision. The door is half open, and you can hear Wonwoo shuffling about in the bedroom, no doubt fixing the last bits before you have to leave for the airport.
Immediately, you sigh, the thought of loading and unloading the uber, going through security, checking your bags and then the god-knows-how-many hours of flight time settling in your bones like an additional phantom ache. By the time you’re done, towel wrapped around your chest and droplets of water still cooling your skin after a half hearted attempt at drying yourself, you’re spent.
Wonwoo is zipping up a bag when you emerge, unfortunately wearing clothes now.
“You wanna sit in the towel while I dry your hair,” he asks, already pulling out the hair dryer from the drawer.
“Are you done packing?” you ask, frowning.
“Just your toothbrush left.” He plugs it into the outlet. “I’ll grab it while you change.”
Forehead leaning on his tummy, he tousles the wet mop of your hair as the dryer fills the room with its white noise. That, paired with the bed where you sit, once again, is turning out to be a seductor of a lifetime.
When he’s done, and brushing out the tangles in your hair, you find the strength to ask him. “Why aren’t you as tired as I am?”
He chuckles, eyes focused on a knot that’s giving him a hard time. “For starters I slept for five extra hours. You know, considering my side of the party didn’t need to cake their faces.”
“You didn’t like my makeup?” you jab in jest.
“I loved it,” he responds, leaning down to kiss you on the forehead. “We’ll talk about it on the plane, considering you don’t fall asleep before we can even take off.”
“Or in the car. Or in the lounge.” You yawn openly. “Or right now.”
When you stand up, you wrap your arms around his neck, wanting to touch him for a little bit before attempting to put on clothes. His lips find the crook of your neck immediately, hands gripping you through your towel.
“I love you,” you mumble against his skin.
“I love you more,” he responds. “I know I already said it a thousand times, but this is still the happiest I’ve ever been.”
You have to bite back a snarky reply, but you feel the pool in your eyes anyway. Inexplicably, you hold on to him tighter. Worried if you opened your mouth you’d begin to sob—again.
He does let go of you, but only when his eyes land on the time. You’re dressed by the time he’s called the Uber and grabbed your toothbrush, shoving it into the front pocket of one of the bags. You’re quite useless the entire time, but Wonwoo doesn’t mind as he loads your limited bags into the trunk.
You manage to keep your eyes open on the ride to the airport, manage to not be a nuisance as you check in, and make it to the lounge with limited hassle.
“We only need to wait like twenty minutes, we were pretty on time,” he mentions, handing you a to-go cup of coffee the approximate size of your face. “We get to board first anyway.”
Months ago, while you were thick in the trenches of wedding planning, you went back and forth for a very long time about flight tickets. Not your destination, but the decision between business and economy was a conversation that stretched over weeks.
Today, with your jelly arms and mushy mind, you thank your heavenly stars through bites of fancy lounge sushi for making the collective decision to splurge. Wonwoo is taking it upon himself to let your friends and family know you’d checked in, while you lean wholly against his arm, dreaming about the flat, comforter clad surface of your plane seat, and the joy you’re going to have for the hours to come.
Inhaling the amount of coffee that you did in the lounge meant the prior sleep in your eyes had decided to evacuate for the time being, getting tucked into your seat soon after take off.
To be clear, you were more than happy with your decision on the seat, but you realise quickly that you and Wonwoo are blocked out by a divider between you, closing you off. You assume you were pouting at the realization, because you hear him ask.
“Don’t like the seat?”
“No, I do,” you say. “But you’re so far away.”
He smiles, close mouthed, the one where it looks like he might be smirking. An arm snakes over the console, elbow towards you as his forearm rests against it. Immediately, like this was nothing but a usual drive in your car, you lean your head against his arm, your own two arms wrapping around his.
There’s nothing in the air except the whirring of the plane's engine, the quiet chatter of the cabin as the crew prepares for turndown service.
A realisation befalls you, that this is the first time you’ve been able to sit down with Wonwoo today, without the constant buzzing in your brain about everything that has gone wrong and what could go wrong. It might be your defeated conscious talking, but it may have even been months.
Shifting your head so you can look up at him, you speak, “We have to stay married. ‘Cause I don’t think I can plan an entire wedding again.”
“So no vow renewals?”
You raise your brows, surprised this was something he’d be interested in. “Maybe when we’re sixty.”
“Oh,” he frowns. “I was thinking more like every five years.”
“God.”
“I’m glad we decided to do this,” he says.
“The seats?” you ask.
He looks at you, and you raise your head from his arm.
“Getting married.”
“That sounds like an afterthought.”
“I was nervy,” he says. “It’s like coming out the other side of a roller coaster. Took guts but you’re glad you did it.”
“Glad our special day was a vomit inducing experience for you.”
“Didn’t you cry five times while getting ready?” he jabs.
Scowling, you turn away. “Who told you that?”
“So you can throttle them in their sleep?”
It was no use, since you were both crying at the altar, but you have a bone to pick with your sister once you’re back home.
“Go to sleep,” you grumble, removing yourself from his arm. He only laughs, grabbing your arm with a force that pulls you back in.
He leans into your ear, familiar press of his lips against the skin. “You looked beautiful today.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Similar to this, with his lips pressed against your ear, hours ago on the dancefloor, he said the same thing. Over and over and over.
“I’m gonna confess something,” he whispers. For a wild moment, your heart is in your throat.
“What?” you ask sharply.
“When I went home after our first date—”
“You noted my drink order?”
He nods against your head, “That. And I dreamt of you.”
“Was I pretty?”
“Prettiest. Big smile like it was the happiest day of your life. In a white dress.”
It’s silent for a moment as neither of you move. The lump in your throat is ever present, breath quickening as you brace for the waterworks.
“Dang,” is all you say in a watery voice, one that earns you a laugh from him. The absurdity is not lost on you. “What other secrets do you possess?”
“Just that,” he responds. “Didn’t wanna tell you before. Thought you’d freak out and run away.”
“Idiot,” you mumble against his hoodie, tears wetting your lashes.
You don’t get to continue, because a flight attendant hovers over your joint seats, asking if you’d like to turn down for the night.
Wonwoo answers for both you and your aching bones. Fatigue would make you gloss over many things about the aftermath of your wedding night for years to come, but you’ll always remember the first night asleep next to your husband over rocky terrain in the sky, with so much changed, yet nothing at all.
Your first night in Seychelles was a blur, mostly because you both ate room service in expensive robes and watched The Pitt before falling asleep again.
Eyes closed, you know it’s sunny with the exceeding warmth in the room and the light against your eyelids. Opening them takes a minute, no desire to move in the morning light. At least you think it’s morning.
Shifting around, you realise you fell asleep in your robe, the tie unravelled, turning it into a loose shrug over your naked form. Through bleary eyes, your eyes meet the linen curtains and how they blow in the wind that pours through the open sliding doors. Blue skies and hanging branches of deep green trees are all you see, and your husband, standing over the railing overlooking your private pool.
Maybe it was the haze of being half asleep, but for a second it feels like a dream. He’s in a white T-shirt, messy hair indicating he didn’t wake too long before you did, basking in the sunlit glow of the morning. His back is to you, but it’s enough.
He hardly notices you get up and walk to the bathroom, the rustling of the trees masking most of your movements. When you’re done washing up, robe tightened around your waist, you emerge onto the makeshift porch of your hotel suite.
Arms immediately make their way around his waist, alerting him of your presence. “Morning,” you mumble into his shirt.
“Morning, baby,” he shifts so he can hold you too, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead. “Sleep well.”
“As well as I could.” It was a frivolous question, considering he was well aware you could sleep well on pavement if he was next to you, presence inches away.
“It’s so pretty in the day,” you comment. The private pool was one thing, but the way the trees and plants hovered over the open area, swaying in the breeze left the impression they’d situated the room in the middle of a jungle.
“Mhm,” he responds, having had his fill of the view of the hotel, currently more interested in the bare expanse of your neck. His lips trail over the skin, leaving kisses and gentle nips, now caging you between him and the railing. “Pretty.”
Of course, the obvious connotations of a honeymoon hadn’t escaped you—in the weeks leading up to your wedding, there wasn’t a loved one who would let you. But it feels like a delayed reaction after the hectic 48 hours you’ve had, finally at peace in what feels like the most beautiful place in the world.
You let him grope you over the fabric, let his mouth run over every sliver of skin he can find. Facing him, your hands find the back of his neck to pull him down towards you, mouth to mouth properly.
You melt, sighing into his mouth as he moves impossibly closer, pressing you against the railing as your head moves further back. Mouthing at your jaw, he lets you push him back in through the open door.
He understands when you’re being pushed right back into your unmade bed. Pulling at the mountain of comforters, he lets them drop to the floor. “God it’s been torture,” he groans, hands moving up your thighs, through the irregular folds of your robe, cool palms against your hot skin.
“You wanted to leave right after the reception,” you tease. The robe remains tied, and you make no move to undo it yourself.
“Didn’t realise I’d have to hold back for this long,” he says, hands reaching the knot. His mouth is back on yours as he undoes it, pulling agonizingly slow.
Tucking his hands into the undone robe, he runs them over your naked body underneath, pulling the fabric away from your body. Migrating down your neck, his hot breath mixes with the wind coming through the outside, casting shivers down your spine.
Mouth over your breast, his teeth graze over your skin as he sucks. His free hand gropes your other breast, fingers pinching and flicking over the erect nipple. Head thrown back, you can’t stop the way your hips gyrate on nothing, moving to feel friction of any sort.
He only lets go when your hands grapple at his shirt, noises of frustration for every passing moment you couldn’t feel his skin on yours. Shirt thrown somewhere behind him, his shorts follow, before ripping the robe off you entirely, leaving you completely bare.
Moving higher up against the bed, Wonwoo situates himself like he’s about to live there, hands pushing your thighs apart as wide as they could go. In the morning light, he stares his fill of the glistening swells of your core. Fingers grazing over the back of your thighs, he massages the skin closer and closer to where you need him most.
“You’re gorgeous,” he mumbles, moving back up to kiss you one more time, deep and long.
Distracted, his thumb pressing a stripe down your clit catches you by surprise, gasping into his mouth at the feeling. His thumb reaches your hole, catching the wetness at the entrance, dipping shallowly. Travelling back up, he presses into the centre of your clit beginning with tight circles around the area.
Whining into his mouth, your hands travel to his shoulder, down his arms to grip the muscle. Your other hand grips the sheet as he presses harder into your clit, localising his torture to one tiny area, occasionally rubbing all over.
“Wonwoo,” you moan into his mouth, hardly kissing anymore as you pant into his mouth.
Two fingers push into your hole, the pads pushing up against your walls as his knuckles graze over them. He begins to pump in and out, scissoring his fingers to open you wider. The feeling has you throwing your head back, breathless.
When he removes his fingers you nearly scream, but his hand is at the waistband of his boxers, just as desperate as you feel. The tent is obvious even as he pulls the fabric down, watching his painfully erect member slap against his stomach. Your hands wrap around his own that lay at the base, caressing past to pump him as he positions himself between you.
It’s hypnotising, the redness of his tip, the way it leaks onto your fingers after just a few strokes. Wonwoo’s face is pained, and you realise he may have been serious about feeling tortured.
Not that you were any less desperate, but the agony of needing to remain celibate for the weeks leading up to your wedding weren’t planned—you could hardly find time to eat and sleep. It flew over you, that it might've been a little tougher on him than it was on you, but when you pull him in closer, you make sure that changes.
Knees bent, he pushes your thighs apart as he settles in. He sinks in slowly, “Oh this is gonna be quick.”
You don’t mind, because you’ve remained untouched long enough to not last very long either. “Right there with you,” you groan out, engulfed by the stretch.
He’s slack jawed, hair falling over his eyes as he struggles to keep his eyes open. His fingers dig into the plump your thighs, gripping them like they were the only things keeping him tied down to earth.
It’s bliss, even as he remains stationary for a moment, buried into you till the hilt. Slowly, he pulls out, rocking back in. He picks up the pace, folding your legs over as he watches the way he disappears into your wet pussy, milky white beginning to rim at the base of his cock, a mix of your slick wetness and his precum. He nearly cums at the sight.
Your fingers play with your stiff nipples, head thrown back as you moan without a care of your volume or coherence, Wonwoo’s name on your lips like a mantra. His fingers find your clit, rubbing it in circles as you whine loudly at the feeling.
“You feel so good,” he moans, hips snapping up to slap against the back of your thighs. “So good, you’re so good.”
Eyes blown open as he slams a hard one into you, his groaning and moaning ensuing another warm gush out of you.
Wonwoo pauses for a moment, ducking closer to lay his forehead on yours, his spread legs keeping yours apart, hands coming up to cup the top of your head to protect you from the hard headboard.
“I love you,” he whispers into your ear with effort. “I love you so much.”
“Fuck, I love you too,” half sobbing.
“You’re amazing,” he blabs, words hardly coherent. “All mine. Mine forever. All of you.”
His words, paired with the hand that grazes over your tits, down to your swollen clit to rub it harsher than before, is enough to send you careening over the edge.
“Won—oh my god, Wonwoo I’m cumming,” you moan so loud you’re sure it’s carrying over. But you don’t care, because you wonder how you went so long without clenching around his dick like this, gushing over him as he pounded into you like it was his last day on earth.
He holds you steady as he rides you through it, the contracting of your walls pushing him into his own orgasm, shuddering in your hold as his thrusts become increasingly sloppy yet running with force.
It’s euphoric, hot spurts of his cum painting your walls, leaving his traces where no one else could ever touch you. The thought sends him into overdrive, thrusting into you long past his release dripping out of you, pooling onto the pristine sheets, glazed over your gorgeous skin.
Resting his head against your collarbone, he breathes in the salt of your sweat, mixed with the scent he calls home.
It feels like an eternity, both of you silent as the wind blows into the room over your sweaty forms, laying there in each other’s arms. Wonwoo continues to keep his mouth on you, your shoulders, tummy, waist, worshipping every last inch of your being as you catch your breath intertwined in his heat. He’s at your knees where your legs fold, hand wrapped around your ankle as he caresses it with his thumb, leaving kisses above your knee.
For a moment, he rests his head against your thigh, and the world becomes clearer. His silhouette against the light, the nature beyond your crystal windows. The weight of him now, the traces of his touch that persist, to lay here bare for your lover for life—a glimpse into the rest of time.
The moment is ruined when you feel your stomach growl, and Wonwoo is close enough to hear the rumble. He shifts so he can look at you, “Shower time? I think I saw a restaurant downstairs.”
The shower went from quick to an extra thirty minutes, considering you’d hardly washed the shampoo off before he pushes you against the tiled wall to kiss you breathless, water going cold over you as he works you with his fingers again, the thudding of water hitting the shower floor paired with the squelching of his fingers dipping in and out of your already spent hole, and the pants and moans that fill your ears.
He needs to help you into your clothes after that, which he chuckles through before pulling you to the hotel restaurant. Housing down everything in sight, Wonwoo remembers to keep your glass full in an attempt to keep you from choking on croissants of all things.
“Do you wanna hit the beach after this?” you ask.
“I was thinking about a nap before that,” he says, belting out a burp that earns him a kick under the table. It shakes, earning you looks from the rest of the vacationers. He only laughs, “But I could nap on the beach.”
Wonwoo does not, in fact, nap on the beach and instead follows your example as you pack a book in your beach bag, realising very quickly he brought none of his own, choosing to snipe one of the many you brought for yourself.
It’s you needing to turn your brain on this time, because the random book he’s grabbed has him so enraptured at the synopsis you have to pull him away from slamming directly into people and poles alike. There’s posters and notices as you walk through the connection that leads to the beach; cocktail classes, trivia nights, and tutorials on Seychellois cuisine.
“Isn’t this that movie you watched on the plane?” he asks, reading the Crazy Rich Asians on the front cover.
“Mhm, didn’t mean to pack that, I’m reading the sequel right now,” you hum as you look for the path that leads to the beach, hand in his.
It’s a gamble as the view of the white sands and water come into view, visibly smiling as you see the near empty sands. It was the off season, which you expected to mean less of a crowd.
Finding a double beach chair is easy, dumping your things as you make yourself comfortable. “Water’s nice.” Wonwoo comments, and you wonder if you did wrong with keeping your bathing suit away for today.
Squeezing a generous amount of sunscreen onto your hands, you agree with him as you dot his face with sunblock. He lets you rub it in as he looks over the water, perfectly aware that he’d never willingly put sunscreen on his face if it were up to him. He’s done, and he settles in while you protect yourself.
Leaning against Wonwoo’s arm, you’ve both grabbed your books under the giant parasol. The sun is out and warm just right, deep sounds of crashing waves, and the smell of salt—-you feel giddy.
The beachside bar is seconds away from bringing you your cocktails when his hand finds your thigh, tracing his fingers over the skin, while his other holds open the book he’s reading, twisting the cover back like a heathen.
It’s perfect.
“These are good,” Wonwoo pauses to comment, brows furrowing at the flavour of your espresso martini and his cosmopolitan.
“I think I saw something about a cocktail class at the hotel. We could try it later.”
“Oh yeah,” he agrees, sipping his drink again.
You don’t know how long it’s been, but both your glasses are now empty and Wonwoo seems to be growing distracted after a few hours. It’s still late afternoon upon you as he announces he’s going to dip his feet in the water.
You think about it, and walk to the shallow end behind him, leaving your flip flops near the chairs. The sand is plush beneath your feet, cool between your toes despite the warm afternoon. Walking closer, the water is almost blinding with the way the sun dances on its crystal surface, waves breaking and sending pleasant sprays as you walk closer.
You gasp audibly as the water touches you, turning to look at Wonwoo wide eyed and giddy. Colder than you’d expected, washing over your ankles and shins as you walk further into the water, pulling up the hems of your skirt to keep it from getting wet.
Wonwoo leans down to touch the water, fingers dipping into the clear, coming up to splash you with a handful. It earns him a yelp from you as he laughs, but you soon recover and send another one right back. You don’t panic till you see both of his hands cup enough water to practically drown you.
“Wonwoo, I didn’t bring extra clothes!” you yell, already running away.
The irony doesn’t escape you, considering sprinting through the water has wet your clothes more than his splashes. But you're laughing harder than your breath can catch, and even more so when his wet hands grab you by the torso and pull you back in a lurch, suspended in the air for a moment.
“Wonwoo!”
It’s funny for a few minutes, still encased in a fit of giggles as you kick at the water. Until it isn’t.
Wonwoo separates from you for a moment, venturing a little deeper into the water, swearing he saw a ring of colourful fish swim past the shallow end. You’re in the middle of convincing yourself to follow him when you hear him suddenly splash at the water with shocking force.
Stunned, you hardly register what’s just happened, thinking you’ve just heard him yell. He’s out of the water before you, hunched over and grabbing at his calf. By the time you reach him, you can see it.
An ugly red slash across his calf, long and thin. It looks like a chemical burn.
“What—”
“Shit,” he curses. An anomaly, considering you’ve only heard Wonwoo curse about five times in the years you’ve known him.
“What is that?” you ask, immediately on your knees to get a closer look. It’s growing redder by the second, the swelling clear.
Wonwoo stretches over to try to see, “That might’ve been a jellyfish.”
“You weren’t even in that deep!”
“Deep enough I guess,” he winces.
Bringing him to the shallow end, you try to pour more seawater on his reddened skin, hoping your memory is serving you right and you aren’t just making it worse.
A few minutes later, a life guard is applying a topical cream on the area and giving you instructions to let the wound soak in warm water, assuring him he can get back in the pool in a couple days.
Once the shock wears off, it’s almost a little funny. “That’s a story we’re gonna be telling forever,” you mumble as he gets up from the table in the tiny lifeguard tent.
The man turns to you, “It happens sometimes, people usually just sleep on it and have a great rest of their vacation. Don’t worry about it too much.”
You thank him as you mutually decide to call it a day, moving back towards the hotel. Wonwoo seems alright, walking fine as he holds your hand talking about dinner plans. You suggest room service by the pool so he can keep off his leg, but insists he wants to try the traditional spot just outside the hotel.
Heeding, you let him pull you back into the hotel room to clean up and rest. Except this time he’s serious about the nap.
Wonwoo doesn’t fight you when you suggest staying off the beach today, choosing to occupy yourselves with the cocktail class instead.
It’s in the hotel so you don’t have to leave the premises, the venue moderately full when you enter the room. The instructor introduces himself as Marcus, taking the time to make small talk with you both as you wait for everyone else to file in. His face lights up when Wonwoo tells him this was your honeymoon, very outwardly enthusiastic about having a couple in the class.
So much so, that when the class eventually does begin, you hear a loud call for congratulations from the room for the only newlyweds (you). Mortified a little, you both fluster in your thank yous, attempting to move the attention back to the front where Marcus remains jovial as ever.
“I think that’s too much ice,” you comment, attempting to compare the pile in your glass to Marcus’ up front.
“No, it’s one scoop. It’s what he said,” Wonwoo says, but he’s beginning to look a little lost.
“Doesn’t that look like a lot?” you ask, not convinced. But there isn’t much you can do about it, because you’re suddenly being asked to find one of the syrups on the counter, still rummaging while Marcus is already two steps ahead of you.
It’s hard not to giggle, the energy from your station overwrought. But as you finally make your first drink after 20 whole minutes, you stand with straight shoulders.
It’s another two hours of this, spilling precious spirits on the counter, floor and yourself, hands stained with syrups and fingers numb from picking up the giant spill of ice courtesy of your husband. You have to duck under the table for a moment, knowing your chortles would disrupt the class even more than you’ve done unintentionally already.
Making cocktails meant drinking cocktails as you made even more cocktails. Marcus only seems to encourage the class to get day drunk, but that only resulted in added chaos.
But even when you’re back in your hotel room, tipsy and giggly, you’re glad you did it.
Wonwoo is spread eagle on the bed, still laughing about tripping over air in the hotel lobby. You join him, tucking yourself into his arm. Head lolling over to look at you, he dips his head down to kiss you, lips over your own in a close mouth peck. He doesn’t stop, lingering with every press to your mouth, still slightly smiling against your lips.
“It’s been a day and this is already the best trip of my life,” he mutters against your lips. You’re very aware of it this time, a habit he’s had forever.
You flashback for a moment, and suddenly you’re both a lot younger, alot less wise with constantly flushed cheeks in each other’s presence. It’s at the door of your old apartment, the same one where he would take you in more ways than one in the following months and years.
But for now, it was your third date, and you were shifting your weight between your feet, trying not to feel disappointed as he bid you a goodnight with nothing but a smile and a wave. Mustering a smile of your own, you unlock the door and begin to walk in.
Except instead of descending steps, there’s a pause. And Wonwoo was back before you could even cross the threshold. He didn’t ask when he cupped your face and planted one on you, mouth to mouth for the very first time, one hand over your door handle and the other on his wrist.
“Sorry that took so long,” he mumbled against your mouth, the first time of many, sheepish smile on his face.
But your heart felt like it was about to burst, so you went in for another one, opening your mouth to kiss him properly. And then the door had shut behind you both, and you’d dragged him inside.
Tipsy haze and a little love drunk in your hotel room, on your honeymoon, you laugh against his mouth. “What,” he asks, laughing with you over nothing.
“I’m glad you didn’t chicken out that night. After the drive in.”
Wonwoo doesn’t need any more information, because the events of the day were ingrained into his mind like a brand. Not your first date, but your third, where he almost didn’t kiss you, where he almost never took the steps back up the stairs, where you almost slammed the door in his face.
“I don’t think I would’ve wanted a fourth if you didn’t do it,” you say, eyes locked in on him.
The thought scares him, that tiny mistake that never happened, how it would have altered the trajectory of his life. It’s terrifying, dread settling into his stomach. To this day he’s unsure why he’d hesitated as much as he did, especially considering he dreamt of your wedding the first night after he’d laid eyes on you.
“You looked sad,” he says. “Disappointed. Just, not happy. I thought that meant you didn’t enjoy yourself, but…I was on the staircase when I realised I felt sad too.”
He leans into you, lips planting kisses on the apples of your cheeks, to your fluttering eyelids, “Didn’t think much after that. Glad I didn’t, because I probably would have chickened out in the end.”
“We’re married,” you whisper like it’s a secret. “Can you believe that?”
“I can’t. Sometimes I still wake up and think I dreamt you up.”
“Are you calling me unreal?”
“Because you are,” he says. “I’m not sure how you exist.”
That sticky feeling engulfs you again, and you know it’s because you’re a little drunk, but you’ve been teary enough to last you a lifetime just these past few days. Before you turn into a blubbering mess, you push yourself up.
“Well,” you clear your throat. “I’m gonna go ahead and be unreal and not exist in the pool we are yet to use.”
He stares as you get up, walking to your open suitcase to rummage around for your stack of bathing suits. He remains on the bed, head propped up with his arm as he watches, content.
You don’t bother with going to the bathroom, stripping off your shirt and shorts in the room. You fish out a green piece, only to hear a refute.
“Where’s the yellow?” he asks, and you fish around to come out with the butter yellow two piece you didn’t realise he even knew you had.
“Actually,” he slips off the bed, walking over to open the sliding doors that lead to the outside, glancing around. “Do you really need it?”
You only give him a look, proceeding to go to the bathroom to change out of your underwear anyway. He makes a noise of disapproval, but you respond with the loud sound of the door locking shut.
When you emerge Wonwoo has soothed himself by taking a dip into the pool himself. You have to laugh, watching him paddle through the water with his swim goggles on.
“Does it hurt? The sting?” you call out as you sit by the edge of the pool, dipping your feet in the water to start yourself off.
He breaks the surface, hair flat over his head like a bowl. He spits out a mouthful of water before calling out, “No! I put the topical on this morning, I think it’s working.”
If that were you, you’d probably be out of commission for the rest of the holiday, but as he dives back in to check how long he can hold his breath for, you want to applaud him. You jump in after a few minutes, finally getting yourself wet.
Wonwoo comes over to you, letting you wrap your legs around him as you float as one. You do, however, rip the goggles right off his face. He doesn’t refute, letting them sink to the bottom of the pool.
“Don’t you think I’m so strong?” he asks.
“I’d say the water’s doing most of the work,” you note.
“I meant my fatal injury.”
“Hardly fatal if you’re making jokes about it,” you snort. “Do you feel like a man?”
“Yeah.” He’s smiling a dumb smile, and you know he can hardly see a thing without his glasses. “Are you impressed?”
“So impressed,” you sigh, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose.
You let him go for a little bit, wanting to float by yourself for a while. As the sky breaks through branches of low hanging trees and giant green flats of leaves, you realise your not-soberness is probably contributing to how psychedelic the view looks.
But you aren’t complaining, content with the weightless feeling.
Wonwoo can’t help himself from meddling for too long, because suddenly you're being lifted off the surface just to be dunked under the water, flailing for a moment before breaking the surface.
“Wonwoo!” you screech, but he’s already on the opposite end of the pool, laughing maniacally. You’re rethinking your stance on drunk Wonwoo, because you aren’t liking him too much.
He’s unfortunately a faster swimmer, but you have him cornered in the pool. He makes to go below, escaping your wrath of you and your dripping wet hair, but instead you hear him yell.
Through the water, you watch him grab his calf, face contorted like he banged the sting wound on the wall of the pool. Immediately, you move forward to check on him.
“Does it hurt?” you ask sharply, mind already racing to where the topical was inside the room.
But you should’ve known, because as soon as you’re close enough for him to grab, you’re being snatched off guard and caged between him and the pool wall.
You want to stay mad at him, but it’s difficult when you note how his shoulders are blocking the entire sun from view, casting you in a shadow shaped like your husband.
“What was that for?”
He only shrugs, hands roaming the expanse of your skin in the water. “I missed you.”
Rolling your eyes, you attempt to break free. He blocks you, whining as he buries his face into your neck. “I said I missed you.”
Another thing about drunk Wonwoo—his sex drive shoots for the clouds.
Even now as he’s mouthing the side of your neck, you can feel him through his swim trunks, pressing you against the pool wall, water spilling over the edge. His input on your choice of swimwear should’ve been your sign, but as he fiddles with the straps of your bottoms, you decide to resign into him.
Water is Wonwoo’s biggest enemy as he finds out how difficult it is to create friction like this, the tent in his bottoms pressing against your stomach. You decide you’re going to be nice, palming him through his trunks. Your other hand is around his middle, roaming to his front as you let them wander over his skin.
He groans contently into your neck, coming up to take your mouth. His tongue pushes in, and you let him lick and suck on your tongue, pulling away only to go right back in. It seems your hands aren’t enough, because he’s suddenly gripping you by the sides and pulling you out of the water, finding yourself sitting by the poolside.
There’s water everywhere as you get a headstart, but he’s enthusiastic even while tipsy, lifting you off the ground at the steps. To your surprise, he doesn’t head for the bedroom, and instead places you on one of the beach chairs on the porch.
“Wonwoo,” you begin, slightly scandalised.
“It’s just us,” he says, nipping at the shell of your ear.
It was sheltered enough, canopied but exposed enough to have you giggling through it. Wonwoo is an efficient man, not a second wasted as he rids you of your bottoms, his own swimming trunks coming off, landing somewhere on the floor with a wet thwack.
He’s sinking into you within seconds, hovering over you as he mouths your cleavage spilling out of your bikini top, licking and dragging his tongue over your skin. You move to take it off, but he stops you.
“No,” he says sharply, pinning your hands in front of you. “Stays on.”
So maybe you underestimated how much he liked it, but you can’t bother to think about it when he picks up his pace, slamming into you so hard the chair rattles and shakes beneath you. Your wrists remained tied with his hand, reaching out as far as you can to touch his stomach, needing to feel him somehow.
The noises you're making are only fueling him, hand coming up to squeeze your breast through the wet fabric, slipping his fingers underneath to play with your nipple, erect from the cold. His knees are in place steadfast on either side of the beach chair, and you have to ask.
“Isn’t that–humph–burning?” you ask through pants.
“Don’t,” he thrusts up hard, “care.”
Taking a moment, you look up at him, and he’s enamoured with the sight of your wet body in front of him, but all you can see is how he manages to encase you with his body alone, the flop his hair over his beautiful eyes, How pretty he looks in the partial shade. How in love he looks with you.
His thrusts are getting sloppier, and you’re moaning so loud it’s beginning to hurt your throat. “Wonwoo, I think—”
“Me too, me too, me too,” he babbles as he feels the familiar clamp of your walls around him, the mesmerizing arch of your back, the way you rip your hands from his hold, only to seize his arms to ground yourself as you ride out your high. He doesn’t fail to abuse your clit, fingers pressing and rubbing just hard enough to send you to a place so far away from here.
“Oh…Wonwoo, fuck, that’s so–so good.” It sounds like a sob, and maybe you are crying a little bit.
He follows you on your descent, hips harried and face contorted like he’s forgotten how to hold himself back. He cums inside you, and you can’t help moaning at the feeling.
He’s hardly brought himself down to Earth when you’re being yanked towards the side of the beach chair, legs over the edge. There’s a loud groan from the chair as it's yanked to the side so Wonwoo can sit on the floor in front of you.
Legs thrown over his shoulder, he watches as the white of his cum leaks out of your raw hole, the sight nearly giving him another erection before he can even dry off. His mouth meets your cunt, lapping at the mix of his cum and your release off your thighs, your hole, spilled over your clit.
You’re overstimulated, but you only prop yourself on your forearms to watch him suck on your clit like he was starved, tongue flat on the muscle as he rubs against your folds. His finger pushes through your entrance, the sound downright sinful as he pumps his cum in and out of your hole.
The second orgasm hits you like a truck, shaking like you’d lost yourself on the chair as you finish hard. Seeing stars in daylight, painting the blue sky.
When Wonwoo emerges, eyes dazed and a slight smirk on his face, he’s panting, leaning against your thighs. He places one last open mouthed kiss against your thigh before dealing with your jellied form, slumping against the chair as you attempt to relearn how to breathe.
“You–” you pant. “We need to get drunk more often.”
He only grins at your suggestion to turn into alcoholics for the sake of mind blowing sex.
“I love you,” he says as he scoops you up into his arms, and you want to ask what ounce of superhuman strength he even had left to pull you into a sitting position, seeing as your own muscles are of no help whatsoever.
Your legs are swung across his thighs as you sit on his lap till you can recover. His mouth is covered in your bodily fluids, but you’re reminded what love feels like when you let him kiss you all over regardless.
“I love you too,” you say. “And I’ll keep loving you if you keep eating me out like that.”
“What happened to unconditional love?” he laughs.
You push back the wet mop of his hair, letting his face come into full view.
“Still unconditional,” you respond. “Always unconditional.”
He leans in to kiss you, and you immediately taste the salt on his tongue, but all you want is to move deeper.
“Unconditional,” he mumbles into your mouth, and you're immediately smiling.
He pulls away for a moment, staring at you for a moment. “I think you’ve recovered.”
“Hm?” you question.
You know the answer when you’re suddenly being yanked by the hand back inside. “Wonwoo,” you scream as he gives you no room to prepare, pulling you indoors while the sliding door slams shut behind you.
A/N: i have exams soon so i have lots of ideas to write so i'm posting as much as i can rn 😭😭 also these contain some nsfw
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older boyfriend!nanami who always adjusts his pace to match yours. whether you're walking down a busy street or folding laundry side by side. He’s not rushing anywhere when he's with you. Being present with you is the point.
older boyfriend!nanami who folds your laundry exactly the way you like it. even your silly socks. even your oversized tshirts. he’s meticulous and thoughtful, and you didn’t even ask him to do it.
older boyfriend!nanami who keeps track of the smallest details: how you take your tea, what skincare products you’re running low on, that one book you said you wanted but never bought. He doesn’t announce it. You just find things quietly replaced or added to your shelf.
older boyfriend!nanami who doesn’t mind being teased for being a little bit of an old man. You’ll call him grandpa for drinking herbal tea before bed or sighing when he sits down, and he’ll just raise an eyebrow and say, “And yet you still insist on keeping me around.”
older boyfriend!nanami who keeps one of your hair ties around his wrist even though his hair is short. says it’s “just in case,” but you’ve never actually seen him use it. You catch him playing with it absentmindedly during meetings.
older boyfriend!nanami who calls you “darling” when he’s tired and his guard is down. It slips out like second nature; warm, low, reverent.
older boyfriend!nanami who always makes sure you’re walking on the inside of the sidewalk. It’s instinctive, not performative. If you switch sides by accident, he’ll gently guide you back with a hand on your lower back, no need to comment on it.
older boyfriend!nanami who sends you articles and short stories during his lunch break that “reminded me of you” sometimes it’s thoughtful, sometimes it’s hilarious, but every time it’s his way of saying I’m thinking about you.
older boyfriend!nanami who reads to you in bed when you’re too tired to focus. voice low and steady, thumb rubbing slow circles into your thigh as your head rests against his shoulder.
older boyfriend!nanami who doesn’t raise his voice when he’s upset. His anger shows in restraint. longer silences, slower breaths, the way he closes his eyes for a second like he’s trying to steady the weight of what he feels instead of letting it lash out.
older boyfriend!nanami who apologizes when he’s wrong. sincerely, without ego, and who listens when you’re upset. even if he’s tired. even if the day was long. You matter more.
older boyfriend!nanami who listens when you talk about your day. actually listens. Not just nodding along, but making thoughtful comments, remembering coworkers’ names, and offering advice only if you ask. Sometimes he just says, “That sounds exhausting. I’m proud of you for handling it.”
older boyfriend!nanami who takes his time undressing you, piece by piece, like every layer is a gift. You get the sense that he doesn’t see it as just getting you naked. it’s about revealing the parts of you you trust him with.
older boyfriend!nanami who is very aware of his size, not just in height but everywhere. He’s careful, unless you ask him not to be. And when you do? His restraint crumbles just a little. He’ll fuck you slow but deep, jaw tight, voice strained with want.
older boyfriend!nanami who is unexpectedly vocal in bed. low praise, soft groans, breathy murmurs of “just like that” and “you’re doing so well.” Always with a hand somewhere on your skin like he’s grounding himself through touch.
older boyfriend!nanami who isn’t into degrading or overly rough stuff, but dirty talk? Soft filth murmured into your ear while he’s deep inside you? Absolutely. “You’re taking me so well.” “You don’t even know what you do to me.” “I’d give you anything.”
older boyfriend!nanami who fucks you with his whole body, not just his hips. His arms around you. His lips on your skin. One large hand holding your jaw gently while he kisses you deep and slow like he’s reminding you (and himself) that you’re real, and his.
older boyfriend!nanami who prefers intimacy over performance. He’s not interested in theatrics. he wants to feel you, slow and deep, with your hands tangled in his, your breath on his neck, your voice in his ear.
older boyfriend!nanami who’s very composed most of the time, but the second you take control, straddle him, or kiss down his chest, that composure cracks. his voice gets breathier. his grip on your hips tightens. you see the restraint unraveling in real time.
older boyfriend!nanami who gets possessive in subtle, understated ways. he doesn’t say “you’re mine” in bed, he shows it in the way he touches you like you're sacred, the way his voice deepens when someone else flirts with you, the way he fucks you slow and deep like he’s leaving something behind.
older boyfriend!nanami who loves aftercare. loves wiping you down, pulling you into his arms, holding your hand against his chest. He’ll murmur, “You okay?” with his lips at your hairline, and doesn’t fall asleep until you do.
older boyfriend!nanami who takes his time during aftercare. he wipes you down with warm towels, gets you water, runs a bath if you're too sore. he massages your thighs, kisses your forehead, and holds you close with his arms tucked protectively around your waist.
Parting from the ring was the most painful part of all of this; His beloved lover had gifted it to him during a moment of unexpected revelation. All those happy years, his darling had out of the blue blurted their love for him. The scarlet blush upon their cheeks, the bright beam of love echoing in shaking eyes.
Winter snow fell all around them. Satoru was beyond surprised, his clutches were all that was keeping him still and balanced. They never even dated before. Yet, they knelt beside him with all their might in their heart and soul, defying convention to be honest about love.
kayu's current favorite ― wildflower— nanami kento.
playground guide
💭stand alone winds (stories with no connections)
🪻lilac swing (various stories connected to each other)
🪷flowering starts (series stand alones and or AUs)
MISCELLANEOUS
↳ loving is caring - jjk men x reader
↳ buono san valentino; 2024
↳ kayu's playlist, side 400;
↳ kayu's playilist, side 700;
↳ kayu's playlist, side 800;
↳ kayu's playlist, side 900;
↳ kayu's playlist - side 1000;
↳ kayu's playlist — side 1500;
↳ kayu's playlist — side 2000;
↳ kinktober 2024 — kayu's version.
↳ buono san valentino, 2025;
GOJO SATORU
↳ u s and t h e m ― gojo satoru. 🪻
↳ time after time ― gojo satoru. 💭
↳ unholy ― gojo satoru. 💭
↳ pied piper — gojo satoru. 💭
↳ tears are getting sober ― gojo satoru.🪻
↳ ten minutes— gojo satoru. 💭
↳ no more sad song for my broken heart ― gojo satoru. 💭
↳ don’t take that name away (the one only you know) — gojo satoru.🪷
↳ strip poker — gojo satoru. 💭
↳ triassic love song — gojo satoru. 💭
↳ city of loving angels — gojo satoru. 💭
↳ house of cards — gojo satoru. 💭
↳ live updates — gojo satoru. 💭
↳ imagine gojo satoru who….. 💭
↳ the good life ― masterlist. 🪻
↳ imagine you and best friend! satoru ending up having to pretend dating.....💭
↳ how can we go back to being friends? (when we just shared a bed) — gojo satoru. 🪻
RYOMEN SUKUNA
↳ devil by the window ― ryomen sukuna. 🪷
↳ animals ― ryomen sukuna. 🪷
↳ ashes of love ― ryomen sukuna. 🪻
↳ i wanna be your slave — ryomen sukuna. 💭
↳ drunk tonight — ryomen sukuna. 🪷
↳ pretending as always — ryomen sukuna. 💭
↳ the other woman — ryomen sukuna.🪻
↳ map of the soul — ryomen sukuna. 🪻
↳ gum — ryomen sukuna. 💭
↳ hey lover! — ryomen sukuna. 🪻
↳ fairy of shampoo — ryomen sukuna. 💭
↳ lovesick — ryomen sukuna.🪻
↳ somebody does love (but im thinking ‘bout you)— ryomen sukuna. 💭
GETO SUGURU
↳ to build a home ━ geto suguru ft nanami kento. 🪷
↳ love wins all ━ geto suguru. 🪷
↳ logic≠love ― geto suguru. 🪷
↳ ghost of you ― geto suguru. 🪻
↳ nightingale — geto suguru. 💭
↳ quiet eyes — geto suguru. 💭
↳ of vodka, beers and regrets — geto suguru. 💭
↳ ashes — geto suguru.💭
↳ love of my life — geto suguru 💭
↳ casual — geto suguru. 💭
↳ chasing heaven — geto suguru. 💭
↳ come back to me — geto suguru. 💭
↳ no. 1 party anthem — geto suguru. 💭
↳ don’t they know it's the end of the world (cause you don’t love me anymore) — geto suguru. 💭
↳ aphrodisiac — geto suguru. 💭
NANAMI KENTO
↳ what a wonderful world ― nanami kento. 🪻
↳ seesaw game ― nanami kento. 🪷
↳ lay your love on me — nanami kento. 💭
↳ bed chem — nanami kento. 💭
↳ wife — nanami kento. 🪻
↳ you belong with me — nanami kento. 💭
↳ is it new years yet? — nanami kento. 💭
↳ widower! nanami 💭
↳ the good life ― masterlist. 🪻
ITADORI YUJI
↳ mr. kupido ― itadori yuji. 🪻
↳ love countdown ― itadori yuji. 💭
↳ ligaya — itadori yuuji.💭
↳ kinikilig — itadori yuji.💭
FUSHIGURO MEGUMI
↳ dm ― fushiguro megumi. 🪻
↳ love me back ― fushiguro megumi. 💭
↳ from the start — fushiguro megumi. 💭
↳ love me anyway — fushiguro megumi.💭
↳ ikaw lang — fushiguro megumi. 💭
↳ blanket kick — fushiguro megumi. 💭
↳ boy, i, boy, i, boy, i know i know you got the feels — fushiguro megumi. 💭
↳ apt — fushiguro megumi. 💭
↳ and there was something 'bout you (that now I can't remember) — fushiguro megumi. 💭
