#and he looks so concerned and his voice is so soft and so you break and spill everything

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Daylight savings ( Night Bravings)

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader (pre-relationship)

Genre: Fluff, slow-burn

Summary: When Lando shows up uninvited to your backyard with iced coffee and taking his hoodie off, you know trouble is ahead.

⸻

The sun was unapologetically bright, the kind that soaked into your skin and made your bones feel like they were humming. You were stretched across an old striped towel in your backyard, sunglasses crooked on your face, legs lazily splayed and still damp from the garden hose.

Your phone lay beside you on the grass, playing soft music. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. Boring, even.

Until your back gate creaked.

You didn’t move at first—too content to be concerned. “If you’re a murderer,” you called, “at least bring me a cold drink before you kill me.”

“No promises,” came a familiar, smirking voice.

You turned your head and squinted over your sunglasses. There stood Lando, curls slightly wind-tossed, wearing a hoodie far too warm for the weather and a self-satisfied grin.

And in each hand? A large iced coffee.

You stared. “You actually came.”

He raised the drinks. “You sounded like you were melting. I figured it was a caffeine emergency.”

“I was also enjoying the solitude,” you teased, sitting up slightly.

“Sure you were.” He kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the towel next to you without hesitation. “Your Spotify taste says otherwise.”

You snorted. “You mean excellent and unbothered?”

“I mean chaotic and vaguely nostalgic.” He set your drink beside your knee and then—without warning—reached behind his neck and peeled his hoodie off in one slow motion, tossing it to the side.

You blinked as your brain short-circuited.

He was already tanned from traveling, the sun catching golden on his shoulders and arms. He was only wearing swimming shorts underneath. No shirt. No warning. Just him, stretching out beside you like it was nothing.

You took a long sip of coffee mostly to hide your face. “Okay. You can stay.”

He gave you a smug little smile. “I already did.”

The two of you sat in the sun, quietly sipping, the air warm and comfortable. His bare shoulder bumped yours once. Then twice. You didn’t move.

After a moment, Lando said, “You know, this could be a trap.”

You tilted your head. “Me, in a swimsuit, sunbathing in my backyard, drinking iced coffee… is the trap?”

“No, the trap is me letting my guard down because you look like that,” he said, casually, but with just enough edge to make your stomach flip.

You choked slightly on your coffee. “Excuse me?”

Lando turned his head to look at you, eyes glinting. “I’m just saying, you know what you’re doing.”

“I literally look like a swamp witch trying to get a tan.”

He leaned in a little, voice low and amused. “And yet, here I am. Flustered.”

You raised a brow. “You’re flustered?”

He hesitated. “Slightly. It’s the sunglasses. The smugness. The legs.”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “Wow. So much power I didn’t know I had.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he said, sipping his drink again to hide his face.

You smirked. “Want me to cover up?”

He shot you a quick look. “Don’t you dare.”

Silence settled again, thick with amusement and a little bit of something heavier.

You were the one to break it. “You’re not usually this easy to fluster.”

“I’m not usually around you when you’re laying in the sun looking like a smug little goddess.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “…Okay. That one flustered me.”

He grinned wide, triumphant. “Finally.”

You shook your head, leaning back beside him. “You really just show up in my yard with coffee, take your shirt off, and make me blush?”

“Apparently.”

“Rude.”

“Effective.”

You both laughed, and something warm settled in your chest. Something that wasn’t just the sun.

After a while, you whispered, “You said you were flustered…”

He hummed. “Mhm.”

You grinned slowly. His eyes flicked to yours. That familiar smirk returned—but fainter this time. Softer.

He leaned back again, arms folded behind his head like this was just any normal day. His stomach stretched as he yawned, obnoxiously comfortable.

“You still drinking that coffee?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Good,” he said. “Because I think I’m staying a while.”

And you let him.

⸻

The sun had started to sink, lazy and golden, casting long shadows across the grass and dipping everything in that soft, almost-fictional light that made the world feel dreamlike.

You were still lying beside Lando, half on your towel, half on the warm grass, your now-empty iced coffee cup abandoned somewhere by your foot. The silence between you was easy, broken only by the occasional flutter of leaves and the soft clink of ice in the cup Lando kept swirling around just to annoy you.

But then the breeze picked up. Subtle, but cool. Enough to make your skin prickle.

You shivered just slightly.

Lando noticed instantly. “Cold?”

You considered lying. Then considered freezing. Then gave up. “A little.”

Without a word, he reached over to the spot beside him, grabbed his hoodie—the one he’d casually stripped off earlier, ruining your afternoon in the best possible way—and tossed it onto your stomach.

“Put it on,” he said. “You look like a sun-drunk cat who forgot the temperature drops after 6 PM.”

You made a face. “It probably smells like you.”

He grinned. “Yeah. That’s the point.”

You narrowed your eyes but tugged the hoodie on anyway. It was warm. It was soft. And—ugh—it smelled like him. That mix of sun, something expensive, and just a little bit of mischief.

It was also so soft.

He snorted. “You look like a child who stole from the laundry basket.”

“You chose to give it to me,” you said smugly, pulling the sleeves down over your hands. “Now you’ll never get it back.”

“Oh no,” he deadpanned. “What a loss.”

You turned your head and looked at him, his curls now glowing from the dying sun, his bare chest freckled with gold. He looked… calm. Too calm.

So naturally, you had to ruin it.

“You know,” you said sweetly, “it’s getting a little unfair how good you look shirtless in this light.”

His head whipped toward you. “Don’t start.”

You batted your lashes. “I’m just appreciating the view.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“No, I’m trying to enjoy my evening.” You stretched dramatically, arms above your head, hoodie sleeves flopping uselessly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Too late.”

You swallowed. The air suddenly felt warmer again.

After a beat, he shifted a little closer. Not a lot. Just enough that his knee bumped against yours.

You didn’t move.

“Do you do this often?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Lay out here like this?”

“Sometimes,” you said. “When I want to escape my brain.”

“Is it working?”

You looked at him. The way his fingers played with a stray blade of grass. The way he wasn’t looking at you, not really—just watching the sky above with a soft frown.

“Yeah,” you said honestly. “But you’re kind of making it worse.”

That caught him off guard. “Me?”

You smiled gently. “My brain doesn’t shut up around you.”

Lando blinked. You could see the moment he froze, like his brain couldn’t decide between laughing or running away.

“You just say things like that?” he muttered.

“What, the truth?”

He finally looked at you. “No one’s supposed to say that stuff out loud.”

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand. “Then why are your ears red?”

He groaned and flopped backward, covering his face with his arm. “I’m never going to recover from this afternoon.”

“You’re welcome.”

He slowly peeked out from under his arm, curls sticking in every direction. “You’re dangerous.”

You leaned a little closer. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t let you suffer.”

That got him. He laughed—bright and surprised—and reached over to flick your hoodie sleeve.

“You’re not even trying anymore,” he accused. “You just know it shuts me up.”

“And yet,” you said, dramatically flopping onto your back again, “you’re still here.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“You’re mine.”

Silence.

Too much silence.

You panicked a little and added quickly, “I mean—technically. Just in the sense of—like—this backyard? I claim it. You’re on my turf. So.”

He was still staring at you.

You were not going to scream into the grass again.

Then—softly: “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t like that.”

You blinked.

He was still staring.

You were 90% sure your heart had just stopped.

And then—his voice broke the quiet. Light. Casual. But not.

“Move over.”

“What?”

He nudged your leg. “The grass is poking me. Your towel’s softer.”

You slid an inch away. He slid in, closer than before. Your arms brushed. Your knees touched.

And just like that, the sun disappeared behind the trees, and all the light that was left seemed to be coming from him.

⸻

By the time the last of the sunlight dipped below the fence line, everything had quieted. Even the breeze held its breath.

You could hear the distant buzz of summer—bugs, maybe, or far-off lawnmowers—but it all felt miles away. Here, in the tiny world you and Lando had carved out on one towel in your backyard, there was only warmth, silence, and the sharp, steady beat of your heart.

He hadn’t moved much since sliding in beside you. Maybe his breathing had slowed. Maybe yours had quickened. All you knew was that every inch between you felt alive.

Lando exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding something in. “You know,” he said, so quietly it almost didn’t register, “I wasn’t planning on staying this long.”

You turned your head slightly. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t look at you, just traced a faint line in the grass with his finger. “I was just gonna drop off the coffee. Make a dumb joke. Leave.”

You smiled faintly. “You still made the dumb joke.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. But now I’m here. And I… don’t really want to go.”

That made your chest ache a little. The good kind. The kind that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one caught in this slow-burn spiral.

You tilted your head, voice gentler. “Why’d you stay?”

He glanced at you then. Not a full look—just enough for his lashes to catch the light. “Because it’s quiet here. And warm. And I like the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

Your breath hitched. You opened your mouth to deny it. To joke. To change the subject. But nothing came out.

Lando finally turned to face you fully, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. His eyes searched yours, like he was looking for permission he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And then he said, very quietly, “Can I try something?”

You nodded before you even understood the question.

His hand moved slowly—almost uncertain—as he reached up and pushed your sunglasses up into your hair. His fingers brushed your temple, lingered just a second too long. The world seemed to pause.

“I like your eyes better when I can see them,” he murmured.

And just like that, your body forgot how to function.

You were still processing that when he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, leaning in—not fast, not demanding, just close enough that your noses were nearly touching.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, like the words might break if he said them any louder.

But you didn’t.

You didn’t say anything at all.

You just closed the space between you.

The kiss was soft. Careful. So much tension threaded through it that it almost came apart at the seams. It wasn’t desperate—it was deliberate. A question wrapped in warmth. A quiet confession dressed in sunshine and old towels and iced coffee.

When he finally pulled back—barely—he pressed his forehead to yours and sighed like he’d been holding that breath for years.

“Well,” he murmured, “there goes my afternoon.”

You laughed. Quiet. Breathless. “I think it was already gone the moment you took your shirt off.”

“Tragic,” he whispered. “But fair.”

He shifted again, this time flopping back onto the towel with the most dramatic sigh you’d ever heard. His arm, without really asking, found its way beneath your head, pulling you gently to rest on his shoulder. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stayed there. Together. Quiet. Close.

And when the stars finally began to show up—one by one like shy guests—you felt his thumb trace idle circles along your arm.

“Hey,” he murmured eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Next time,” he said sleepily, “can I still be flustered? Or is that a one-time deal?”

You smiled against his shoulder, heart impossibly full. “Depends on how short your shorts are.”

He snorted. “Evil.”

“You knew what this was.”

“I didn’t. But I really, really want to.”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached down, tangled your fingers with his, and held on.

And in the cool night air, wrapped in his hoodie and something that felt like the start of everything, you stayed.

⸻

Eventually, the stars multiplied—spilling across the sky like someone had cracked it open and let the light leak through. The warmth of the day had faded, replaced by something quieter, something slower. Lando was still beside you, arm beneath your head, fingers linked with yours.

You weren’t sure how long you lay like that. Long enough for the last bits of light to vanish. Long enough for your heart to settle into a rhythm that matched his.

And then his voice broke the silence, low and hesitant: “So, uh… do we just… sleep out here now?”

You turned your face into his shoulder to hide a smile. “You’re the one who said you were staying a while.”

“Right. I meant like… emotionally. Not physically.” He paused. “I didn’t bring a toothbrush.”

You laughed softly, and it made him grin. “You’ve stayed over before.”

“Yeah, but that was Mario Kart and couch blanket territory. This feels different.”

You lifted your head just slightly, enough to look at him. His curls were a little messy now, his expression open in a way that made something in your chest twist.

“It is different,” you said quietly.

Lando blinked. Like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

Then, “I don’t want to ruin it.”

You tilted your head. “Lando…”

“I’m serious.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I don’t want this to be a moment we pretend didn’t happen.”

You studied him. “Do I seem like someone who forgets kisses that easily?”

He smiled faintly. “You’re kind of intimidating, actually.”

That made you laugh again. “You’ve literally watched me cry over a burnt quesadilla.”

“And I still showed up in your backyard with iced coffee. Clearly, I’m in too deep.”

You hummed. “Yeah. You kind of are.”

Another beat passed.

Then: “Wanna come inside?”

He blinked, surprised by your question.

You added, “There’s leftover pasta. And probably a blanket that doesn’t smell like grass.”

“And toothbrushes?”

You grinned. “I might even let you borrow mine.”

Lando sat up, stretching with a dramatic groan, and then offered you a hand. “You’re the worst host ever, but I’m weirdly into it.”

You took it, standing slowly, a little cold now that you’d left the towel behind. His hoodie still hung around you, the sleeves long past your hands.

“You are keeping that, aren’t you?” he said, eyeing it.

You nodded solemnly. “Forever. It’s mine now.”

He just smiled, slipping his hand into yours again like he didn’t even have to think about it.

The two of you wandered back inside—quiet footsteps, soft laughter, the sliding glass door clicking shut behind you. You didn’t bother with lights. The moonlight spilling in through the windows was enough. Familiar shapes, soft shadows, the comfort of a home that already knew him.

You tossed your empty cup in the sink. He leaned against the counter, still shirtless, still golden from the sun.

And he was still looking at you like he hadn’t quite recovered from earlier.

You gestured toward the hallway. “Blanket or pasta first?”

He hesitated. Then crossed the room in a few slow steps and tugged gently on the hoodie sleeve that hung from your arm.

“I think I want you first.”

Your heart gave a traitorous skip.

You didn’t say anything—you just stepped in closer, arms looping around his waist, forehead resting against his chest.

And in that quiet, kitchen-lit moment, Lando wrapped his arms around you and held on like he wasn’t going anywhere. Like this was exactly where he was always supposed to be.

He kissed the top of your head. “This is a very emotionally reckless hoodie.”

You mumbled into his chest, “Should’ve thought of that before you took it off.”

He chuckled. “Next time, I’m bringing two.”

You felt his laughter vibrate through his chest where your cheek rested. It was warm, steady. Familiar.

Then came the quiet again—the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled. His arms stayed around you, fingertips tapping a slow rhythm against your back like they had nowhere better to be. Like they already belonged there.

But after a moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him. “You’re still not getting it back, by the way.”

Lando raised a brow. “The hoodie?”

You nodded. “It’s legally mine now. Common law ownership.”

He grinned, lips twitching. “I see. You’re going for emotional squatter’s rights.”

“Exactly. It now lives in my closet, between my emotional baggage and the sweater I stole from my sister.”

His smile softened again, like it always did with you. “What if I asked nicely?”

You stood on your toes just a little, nose brushing his. “Then I’d let you visit it. Supervised.”

His breath caught, almost too quietly to catch. But you did. You always did with him.

“I think I’d rather visit you,” he said.

It was barely above a whisper.

You stepped back first, only because you had to. “Okay, Casanova. Pasta’s going to get lonely.”

He groaned, throwing his head back like you’d just delivered the greatest tragedy known to man. “You can’t just flirt like that and then pivot to carbohydrates.”

You smirked, already padding toward the kitchen cupboards. “Watch me.”

He followed you anyway, of course. Still barefoot, still a little dazed, like gravity didn’t quite work right when you were near. You grabbed the pasta container from the fridge, popped it into the microwave, and leaned against the counter while it warmed—arms crossed, hoodie sleeves bunched at your elbows.

Lando watched you in that quiet way he sometimes did. Less teasing, more observing. Like he was memorizing you in the mundane.

“You really gonna let me use your toothbrush?” he asked finally.

You tilted your head, playful. “I said maybe.”

He squinted, suspicious. “So that wasn’t a flirty offer? That was a trap?”

“Everything’s a trap with me. Haven’t you learned that by now?”

“I’m learning it the hard way,” he said, inching closer. “Still here, though.”

You looked up at him just as the microwave beeped, loud and ridiculous between you. He didn’t move away. Didn’t stop smiling.

“I’m not kidding,” he added softly. “I think I could get used to this.”

You opened the microwave door to buy yourself a second. “Leftover pasta and emotional sabotage?”

He bumped your hip with his. “Exactly.”

You plated the food—he stole a bite before you could even grab forks—and the two of you ended up curled on the couch with a shared bowl, legs tangled under the blanket you found in the linen closet.

He fed you a spiraled noodle with way too much ceremony. You retaliated by flinging a bit of basil at him.

The laughter came easy. So did the closeness.

Eventually, the food was gone, the bowl abandoned on the coffee table, and your head found his shoulder again like it was meant to. The room was dim, TV humming low in the background, some sitcom neither of you were really watching.

Lando shifted slightly, resting his cheek on top of your head. “So… this is definitely not Mario Kart and couch blankets anymore, huh?”

You hummed, content. “Nope. It’s hoodie theft and pasta-based intimacy now.”

He grinned against your hair. “God, you’re dangerous.”

And you smiled—because he said it like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

You stayed like that for a while, the kind of while that made time stretch and slow and feel like it didn’t need to be counted. His arm stayed around your shoulders, your legs draped across his like they’d done it a thousand times before.

The TV murmured some laugh track in the background, and you could feel him breathing—steady, calm, like the day had wound down into something safe.

“You know,” he said eventually, voice soft, “I used to think nights like this only happened in movies.”

You glanced up at him, your cheek brushing his collarbone. “Because of the pasta?”

He smirked. “Because of the girl who keeps stealing my clothes and making me feel like I belong somewhere.”

Your chest tightened. That quiet, aching, warm kind of tight.

“I’m not trying to make you feel that way,” you murmured.

“I know,” he said, eyes on you now. “That’s what makes it worse. Or better. I haven’t decided yet.”

You reached up, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “You belong, Lando.”

His breath hitched again—barely. But it did.

The teasing was gone now. So was the grin. What was left was this soft sort of awe, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know what to do with how he felt.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” he said.

You blinked.

Not because it shocked you—no. You’d felt it, too. In the way he looked at you. In the way he always came back, always stayed.

But hearing it out loud made something inside you crack open.

So you whispered, “Then maybe you should start bringing a toothbrush.”

Lando stared at you. Then laughed—quiet, breathless, full.

“I’m serious,” you added, your fingers playing with the hem of your stolen hoodie. “I can’t exactly be seen dating a guy with poor dental hygiene.”

He pulled you in again, arms tight around your middle, face buried in your neck now.

“You’re unreal,” he mumbled against your skin.

“You’re unreal,” he mumbled against your skin. His voice was muffled, warm, a little dazed.

You felt the soft brush of his curls against your neck as he lingered there—breathing you in, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just ran your fingers gently through his hair, slow and steady, until his grip loosened enough for you both to breathe again.

“Come on,” you whispered, nudging him slightly. “Bed before one of us falls asleep on the kitchen floor.”

“I’d risk it,” he said, but let you lead him anyway.

The hallway was dim, the kind of quiet that made the whole house feel softer somehow. Familiar shadows, creaking floorboards, your hoodie sleeves still swallowing your hands as he followed close behind. His fingers brushed your back lightly as you walked, never quite letting you get too far ahead.

You pushed the bedroom door open and turned back toward him, only to find him already watching you.

“You sure?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want you here.”

He didn’t say anything—just stepped closer and kissed your forehead in a way that made your knees go a little weak.

It wasn’t rushed, what came next. It wasn’t fumbling or heavy or unsure.

It was slow.

He waited as you pulled back the blankets. Let you crawl in first. Crawled in after, his arm sliding beneath your head like it belonged there, like this was already routine. And when you turned to face him, eyes adjusting to the moonlight slicing in through the blinds, he was already looking at you.

You tucked your hand beneath his shirt, just at his ribs, fingers brushing warm skin. He didn’t flinch. Just sighed, a little content noise, and moved in closer.

His nose bumped yours.

“Still not over today,” he whispered.

You smiled sleepily. “Me neither.”

You leaned in and kissed him once, soft and slow—no pressure, no rush. Just two people who had been circling something for far too long finally letting it happen.

And when you pulled back, his eyes were still half-closed, his lips still curved.

“I like falling asleep next to you,” he murmured.

You buried your face against his chest. “Then don’t stop.”

His arm tightened around you. “Not planning to.”

And with your heart steady against his, the two of you drifted—wrapped in borrowed clothes, lingering affection, and the quiet kind of comfort that didn’t need any more words.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[hy6erion]

I am here on behalf of the Viktor + pronebone propaganda team. I need him to hold me down so badly girl.

heard you loud and clear. i am not just on that train — i’m in the front row seat with my suitcase packed and a little snack for the ride. viktor + pronebone supremacy is real, and i am nothing if not a loyal soldier in this beautiful, feral little army. let’s hold hands and scream into the void together.

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 (𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢), 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭 !

Your knees were slipping on the sheets, skin damp, thighs trembling from how long he’d been fucking you like this— flat on the bed, barely able to think. Viktor had you stretched around him, slow, punishing strokes that dragged his cock through every inch of your soaked, swollen cunt, pulling slick, squelching sounds from between your thighs that made your cheeks burn.

He hadn’t said much. Just low, breathy curses under his breath in that delicious accent, his mouth occasionally brushing your spine when he leaned in—hot and open and silent, like he couldn’t trust himself to speak.

The headboard tapped the wall in time with the wet slap of his hips meeting your ass, steady and deep. Every thrust sank him all the way in, his hips grinding just enough at the end to make you jolt. It was filthy, obscene, the kind of fucking that left you raw and open and used—exactly how he liked you.

Your cheek dragged on the sheets as you turned your head to breathe. “You’re so deep—fuck—Viktor…”

He exhaled hard, grip flexing on your hips. You could feel his fingers dig in like he was holding back—like the only thing keeping him from absolutely destroying you was restraint and a flicker of concern.

But when you pushed back on him, deliberately, tightening around him like you were daring him to lose it, he snapped.

The next thrust drove you forward, face buried in the mattress. He grabbed your wrists, pinned them down, chest pressed to your back as he began pounding into you—filthy, fast, with a rhythm that was pure need. The sound of him using you filled the room: the wet, messy slap of his cock driving in and out, your ragged breaths, your voice breaking every time he bottomed out.

Your cunt was drooling—slick dripping down your thighs, coating the insides of your legs, sticky and hot. You could feel him all the way up inside, the drag of every vein, the stretch at the base, the weight of him grinding in so deep you swore he was fucking you into the goddamn mattress.

You were babbling now—nonsense, desperate little whimpers between gasps of his name—and he loved it. You felt his mouth at your ear, breath trembling as he finally let himself go.

“I can feel every inch of you” he said, quiet, strained, “like you want to pull every drop out of me.”

You couldn’t answer—just sobbed into the sheets as your orgasm snapped tight and tore through you, brutal and soaking. Your body shook under him, cunt fluttering so hard it forced a groan out of his throat—low and real and wrecked.

He buried himself to the hilt with a shudder, cock twitching as he filled you, hot and thick and too much. It leaked immediately, sliding down your inner thighs, but he didn’t pull out. Just held you there, still pressed deep, his palm on your lower back like he couldn’t bear to leave your body just yet.

Your breath was ragged. The room smelled like sweat and sex. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still thick, as the mess between your thighs got stickier by the second.

“You made a mess” you whispered, voice ruined.

He kissed your shoulder—soft, gentle, such a contrast to how he’d just taken you—and finally, finally, he pulled out slow. A rush of cum followed, slicking your thighs, running over your cunt in sticky trails. He looked down at it, and you felt him smile.

“Good.”

[22ayla21]

Haii, could you please do a fanfic about mydei’s wife cooking but she accidentally cut her finger so mydei have to “heal it” with her finger on his mouth? (Sucking the blood away)

Blood and Care

A small cut on his wife's finger becomes the reason for an unexpected yet touching gesture from Mydei, in which all his love and protectiveness are manifested.

Magical scents wafted through the kitchen. Stewed vegetables, spices, garlic, and meat broth mingled, creating such a cozy atmosphere that it could be felt even in the distant rooms. It seemed as if the very magic of home hovered in the air, permeating everything, intertwining with the warm steam above the pots.

She adored cooking. Especially for her loved ones. Especially when the children were engrossed in something, and Mydei – in those rare moments of quiet – was home, somewhere nearby. Tonight's dinner was supposed to be special. Simple, but heartfelt. Her signature dish – a rich soup with fresh, day-old bread. Everything was going smoothly… until the knife treacherously slipped.

Barely suppressing a yelp, she felt a sharp, thin pain in her finger, and almost immediately a scarlet drop fell onto the wooden board. A moment – but for her, it felt like an eternity.

"Damn it…" she breathed out, instinctively squeezing her finger. Blood oozed, the cut was small but sharp. And annoying. Her own fault, she had been daydreaming.

Before she could even reach for a towel, a quiet, confident step sounded behind her. There was no need to turn around – from that single sound, she unmistakably knew who had entered.

"You cut yourself," Mydei said calmly, almost evenly, approaching her.

"Oh, it's… nothing," she mumbled hastily, trying to hide her confusion. "I'll just find a plaster…"

But he had already taken her wrist. Gently, but firmly. Without any fuss. Her hand was in his, like a fragile flower in reliable hands. And then something happened that made her heart skip a beat.

He slowly bent down and, without breaking eye contact, gently took her injured finger into his mouth, letting his lips touch her skin. His warm breath burned more intensely than the pain, and the light tingling sensation as he began to lick the blood caused a flush on her cheeks that couldn't be attributed to mere physiology.

She froze. Unable to inhale or exhale.

"M-Mydei?.." she whispered, surprised by the tremor in her own voice.

But he didn't answer. He simply continued to silently and intently "treat" her, as if it were something ordinary. As if there was a naturalness to it, almost a ritual. As if he had long known that this was the way, and hadn't even considered the strangeness of the situation.

And it would have been nothing… if not for his eyes.

He looked up at her from below – attentively, piercingly, as if reading all her thoughts. And in that gaze, there was not only concern, but also something deep, ancient, almost primal. Attraction. Instinct. A connection that didn't need words.

When he finally released her hand, she still couldn't catch her breath. It seemed as if the air in the kitchen had become thicker. Denser.

He examined her finger and, making sure the bleeding had almost stopped, lightly touched the injured spot with his lips one last time. Almost a kiss. But not quite. Something in between.

"Better," he said quietly. His voice was low, soft, without a hint of jest.

And she stood there, feeling her cheeks burn. Her heart pounded. Her legs felt weak.

"Do…," she swallowed, "you often… treat people like this?"

He shrugged, as if it were a matter of habit. As if he hadn't just "drunk" her blood and then left her standing like a melted ice cream cone in the sun.

"Only those I love," he replied briefly and headed towards the stove, as if nothing special had happened.

And she was still standing there with her cut finger and a silly smile that she couldn't get rid of. Warmth spread through her chest. Goosebumps ran down her spine.

Then, after a couple of minutes, having calmed down a bit, she looked at the almost ready soup and muttered to herself:

"Well… now it's definitely going to burn. How can I cook when he does things like that?.."

And even the slight pain in her finger faded into the background – after all, the "treatment" had really helped. But what warmed her even more was his care. And his silent, alluring, boundless "I'm here."

[revelboo]

Heres photos of my furry toddlers in exchange for all the lovely food you've been giving us

Any chance for a TFA Megs update?

Aww!

The Devil You Know Pt 6

TFA Megatron x Reader

• He’s moving. Feet sliding to keep as far from his pulsing spark as you can, you hear his rumbling voice. Realize he’s talking to someone even if you can’t make out the words. You’re not sure how long you’re trapped, but finally there’s light and a massive servo hooks around you. “Apologies,” he growls as you’re ferried into his other palm. And looking around, you have no idea where you are. “That must have been unsettling,” he adds, deep voice soft with concern as you’re gently lowered onto a metal berth.

• “Where are we?” You ask, looking around, but there’s no fear in your voice. So delightfully trusting still. And he can’t decide if he wants to break you now or stretch it out. To find out if he can coerce you into helping him and betraying your own kind. Because once you realize what you’ve unwittingly done? Watching you break? It’s going to be delicious.

• “My habsuite upon my ship, the Nemesis,” he says, gesturing around the huge space. “My people are refugees and they’ve been so lost without me to lead them home.” And you smile up at him, happy that you could help save him from Sumdac’s cruel manipulation. Can’t believe the professor has been so cruel as to keep him locked away. To experiment on and dissect him. “But something precious was stolen from us when he crashed here and I’m not familiar with this world or its people.” Heart aching for him, because he’s lost and far from home, scared in a strange land.

• “Can I help?” You ask without hesitation and he smiles. Making this far too easy. Bending and reaching out, he lays a servo on your shoulder. Words faltering when you lay your own soft hand on his, still smiling trustingly up at him. How can you believe him so easily? He’d be doing you a favor teaching you this lesson the hard way. If he doesn’t, someone else will and he’d be deprived of the entertainment. Better that it’s him.

• “I’ve already asked so much of you,” he says, deep voice rumbling with worry as he frowns and draws his servo away, staring at his hand. “I’d hate to burden you with my problems.” He must be so worried about his people, eager to check in on them and catch up after being trapped alone so long. And he’s lingering here with you instead.

• “But I want to help.” Of course you do. Feels a ping from the bridge and grits his denta. His followers impatient to be debriefed, to be given direction. Because they’ve failed to accomplish anything in his absence. Straightening, he glances around his habsuite. Supposes you’ll need human things. A place to rest, food, that sort of thing if he’s going to keep this facade going and keep you alive. ‘I’d love nothing more than to have your help,’ he growls, heading for the door. ‘I’ll return, my dearest friend. I’d bring you, but I’m afraid the shock of an alien might upset my people. They’ve been through so much.’

Previous

[glamourscat]

BDAY BOY | NAGI X READER

bday smut and nagi being a hopeless romantic. came out more romantic than I anticipated but I’m not complaining lol

Hopeless romantic. That’s it. That’s how Nagi would describe himself. Not that he would admit it. You had to see it. Understand it. Feel it on your own skin. In order to truly comprehend the sheer audacity of this man.

From the appearance a bored sloth. But inside is a simple guy who’s longing for his own fairytale ending.

Which is why, on the morning of May 6th, his birthday, his officially sanctioned day of slacking off he does the most un Nagi thing imaginable.

He wakes up before noon.

Well. Almost before noon.

The sun filters through his window just enough to be a bother. His phone is buzzing where it’s fallen between the mattress and the floor, Reo probably, sending him aggressive birthday emojis and reminders to please eat something besides convenience store melon bread. But Nagi’s eyes don’t open until he feels the weight on the other side of his bed.

You.

Half asleep, curled into a ball and your scent that smells like that sakura body cream you so much love. You mumble something into the pillow that he didn’t manage to catch. But your voice alone was enough to let his heart do a stupid little flip.

He stares at you for a minute. Two. Maybe three. The minutes slip away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And he thinks quietly, the way Nagi always thinks “Yeah. This. This is the fairytale stuff I have always longed for.”

He could take a picture. Post it. Caption it something annoyingly cryptic. But instead, he just nudges closer. Presses his nose into your hair. He’s not good with words and besides, this feels like enough for now.

Eventually, you crack an eye open. “You’re staring again.”

“Birthday privilege,” he mutters into your neck.

You laugh, soft and raspy. “So what’s the plan, Mr. Hopeless Romantic?”

He grunts. “Weren’t you planning it?”

“Was I? What am I now? Your personal maid? I fear you have been spending too much time with Reo” you tease lightly, voice still laced with sleep.

You can hear Nagi grumble something but your ears don’t catch it. In fact, you’re too busy focusing on the slow, lazy trail of cold neck kisses he is leaving on you.

“Nagi?” You murmur softly, a gentle call as your hands run in his white hair.

“Uhm?” He hummed, not even bothering looking up. Not even bothering stopping.

“It’s your birthday. I should be the one spoiling you, not the other way around.” You chuckle quietly, moving your head just a bit to allow more access to his lips onto your neck, which he gladly takes.

“Little details that I am absolutely not concerned about right now” he murmurs quietly, each word punctuated by a kiss.

A soft moan leaves your lips. And your lips, tired of waiting, greedily unified with his in a slow yet enticing kiss. It was the way his hand slipped right under your (his) hoodie. Gently letting his finger trail your body as if he hadn’t already countless times before.

It’s the way he prolonged the kiss more and more. Letting his tongue savour each and every corner of your mouth. Dancing tongues and breaths mixing together as his face squished with yours. His body suddenly on yours as you arched your back for more contact, which the bastard sneakily denied. Pressing his chest more into yours and he lets you feel all of him.

“Nagi” you managed to gasp between kisses, as your hands move to his lower back.

He hums again, low, distracted and entirely too pleased with himself. His lips trail down your jawline and neck again like he’s committing your skin to memory for the thousandth time and still thinks it’s not enough.

“This doesn’t feel very birthday boy of you,” you mumble, though your voice is already breaking into something softer, needier. Your fingers caressing his exposed lower back, gently tracing his spine.

“Don’t wanna move,” he says into your collarbone, “You’re warm.”

“You’re heavy.”

“You like it.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. You do. You like the weight of him on you, the lazy grind of hips he probably isn’t even aware he’s doing, the way his breath hitches just a little every time your nails trace over his spine. The way his morning erection is hitting right against your heat. And it’s such a hazy, addictive moment you can’t help but be captivated by it.

His hands explore your body slowly, with care and wander. One slides up your thigh under the covers, ghosting over the bare skin like he’s in no rush, because he’s not. Because Nagi is never in a rush and right now the only goal is unraveling you. Making you squirm just enough to make you lose your mind.

He pulls back from your neck to fully and really look at you. Sleepy eyed, hair a mess, mouth kiss swollen and still asking for more. And yet, still the most beautiful thing he had ever had the privilege of laying his eyes upon.

“You look…,” a pause. A long breath as he tried to take hold of his thoughts. “Absolutely breathtaking” he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth in the world.

“Nagi—”

“No, listen.” He shifts his weight a little, enough to lean in even closer, foreheads pressed “You make everything feel like spring. Even when I’m tired. Even when I don’t feel like talking.”

Your heart skips. It’s corny. He’s corny. But when Nagi says things like that, they’re always weirdly devastating because you know he means it.

“Can we stay like this forever?” He whispers. His fingers find yours under the blanket once again. And for a moment the world outside disappears. Just enough for you two to enjoy another kiss.

His hips slowly rolling into yours as he lets a small whine slip out. Quiet. Raw. Almost shy. It’s the kind of sound that turns your insides to mush.

You don’t even know when his hand slid higher, only that now his palm is pressed between your thighs. His touch is teasing. Deliberate.

“You always get like this on your birthday?” you ask against his mouth, your tone all sarcastic, betrayed by the way your hips are already pressing into his hand.

“Only with you,” he says, too fast. Then blinks, like maybe he hadn’t meant to admit it out loud.

You smile, triumphant and wrecked all at once. “Hopeless.”

“Romantic,” he finishes. And there’s that smirk again, lazy, lopsided, only half conscious of its own charm.

His fingers finally trail down, slipping between your thighs, finding your clit. And it’s like all of the air in your lungs gets sucked out. He moves his fingers with the patience of someone who’s worshipping, not just touching. And when your head falls back, he watches you like he’s never seen anything more important. Like you’re his center of gravity.

“You’re so warm… so wet. Damn it. I’m so greedy,” he murmurs to himself.

You want to tease him again, but the words dissolve somewhere between his fingers and his mouth on your neck. There’s no room for sarcasm when he touches you like this.

“Fuck,” you breathe, voice caught somewhere between laughter and a moan.

He groans into your skin in response, low and desperate. “I love you.”

It’s not the first time. But it’s always breathtaking when he does. He doesn’t do it often. Not this loudly and straight to the point. And when it does? Yeah. When he does, it feels intense.

Your hand slides into his hair again, tugging gently. “Say it again.”

“I love you.” His voice cracks just slightly, like he’s giving you something tender and breakable.

And then he’s kissing you again, deeper this time. The air between your bodies hot and humming with everything left unsaid. He removes his fingers out of you and you guide him in. And when he finally pushes inside of you, all of you, the loud moan that leaves your mouths was inevitable.

His hands are grasping at your hips as he keeps thrusting slow and yet deeply. Like you two are becoming one with each movement you two share.

Each kiss and each confession of love he whispers on your skin burns in passion as you two cannot keep your hands off each other.

“Nagi I am—“

“I know” he murmurs with a kiss at your temples. “Let go love”

You aren’t sure if it was the nickname that made you speechless. Or maybe the way he was moving right now, hitting that perfect spot just for you. Or maybe it was the simple realisation that he knows you. All of you. Every inch, every single aspect of you. But you let go. Letting your body be taken over by pleasure, and he follows soon after, smashing his lips against yours once more.

It was probably thirty minutes later, but what felt like hours, that you spoke.

“Happy birthday by the way” you murmured softly against his hair, not daring moving from the cuddle position you two were in. His head on your chest. One leg thrown over your stomach. And arms wrapped around you tightly.

For a moment you thought he didn’t hear you. That he had dozed off. But one of his eyes opens slowly, moving his head just enough to meet your eyes as he whispers against your skin. A final confession, a confirmation. One that doesn’t need anything else because everything has already been told and shown.

“I love you”.

© GLAMOURSCAT (all rights reserved. do not share, modify, translate and re-upload my work outside of tumblr)

[mocchiixxx]

Words in Ruin Series # | 05 : Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi) 🐯

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Outburst, Reconciliation, Soft Romance

Warnings: Raised voice, mental and physical exhaustion, emotional vulnerability, guilt, crying, self-doubt

Summary: Hoshi lives and breathes performance. As SVT’s performance leader, he pushes himself beyond his limits just to deliver perfection— not just for fans, but for the team he treasures. But when pressure turns to frustration, and exhaustion becomes too loud to ignore, he ends up saying something he shouldn’t. When he sees your reaction— your flinch, your silence, your tears, he realizes he’s just hurt the one person who sees him as more than a performer. Can Hoshi learn that he doesn’t always have to roar… especially with you?

The clock on the studio wall ticked past 2:18 a.m.

Soonyoung’s body was on autopilot; pivot, spin, pop, freeze— every move executed with force, as if perfection was just one repetition away. Music blared from the speaker in loops, over and over, until the beat felt like it was stitched into his heartbeat. But it wasn’t right. Not yet. Not enough.

Never enough.

You sat quietly near the mirror wall, watching his every move like you always did. Not because you were assigned to be there, not because someone told you to, but because you wanted to. Because if he wasn’t going to look after himself, someone had to.

“Soonyoung,” you tried, standing slowly, voice soft with concern. “You’ve been at it since before dinner. Can we stop for ten minutes? Just to breathe? I brought your vitamins and a protein bar—”

“I can’t take a break!” he barked, whirling around. “Don’t you get it?! This has to be perfect!”

You froze.

“I’m trying to carry this team, these expectations, this image— do you think that just happens without blood and sweat? If I rest now, someone else will outwork me. I’ll fall behind!”

You opened your mouth, stunned by the storm in his voice.

“I just wanted to help,” you whispered.

“Well, don’t,” he snapped. “I don’t need help. I don’t need you here right now. Just leave me alone!”

The air went still.

Something fragile broke between you. Not with a shatter, but with a soft, stunned silence that cracked the center of your chest.

You looked down, blinking fast, trying to gather your emotions before they slipped out and betrayed you.

“Got it,” you murmured, your voice trembling like a loose string.

“You don’t need me.”

Your words echoed louder than the music.

Soonyoung’s breath hitched.

“Wait,” he said, panic bleeding into his voice. “Y/N, no—no, no, I didn’t mean that.”

You were already backing away, slowly gathering the jacket you had draped over a chair for him earlier.

He rushed toward you, desperate, his hand catching your wrist. “I didn’t mean any of that. I’m so sorry. Please just… don’t go.”

You didn’t pull away, but your voice was quieter now. Tired. “Hoshi… do you know what it feels like to watch someone you love tear themselves apart, piece by piece? And still be told you’re not needed?”

His lips parted. A thousand words swarmed his head, but none of them felt enough.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, this time softer. “I’m just… so exhausted. Everything’s spinning. I feel like I’m being watched all the time, like if I stop for even a second, I’ll disappoint someone. So I keep pushing. I keep dancing. Because that’s what Hoshi does, right?”

You tilted your head, brows furrowed. “And what about Soonyoung?”

He blinked.

“What about the boy who loves tigers, who drinks banana milk before bed, who texts me three times just to ask how I’m doing even when he’s the one falling apart?”

Your voice cracked slightly. “You don’t have to roar with me, Soonyoung. You don’t have to perform. Just let me be here— for you, not the stage version of you.”

The guilt on his face twisted into something heavier— remorse, grief, and a desperate need to be forgiven.

“I thought I had to carry everything alone,” he choked out. “But when I saw your face just now, when I realized I made you feel unwanted— God, Y/N, it broke something in me.”

You reached up slowly, brushing back his damp bangs. “You don’t have to be perfect for me. You just have to let me in.”

His lips trembled.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice breaking. “I’m scared if I take the mask off, there’ll be nothing underneath.”

“There’s everything underneath,” you whispered back. “So much warmth, so much love. So much you. You just forgot where it was buried.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as a single tear fell. “Then help me remember. Help me breathe again.”

You nodded. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” he echoed, barely above a breath.

You smiled gently. “Where you can rest. Where you can be Soonyoung. Not the leader. Not the performer. Just you. With me.”

He let out a long, shaky sigh, arms wrapping tightly around your waist. “Okay. Just Soonyoung.”

“And if you ever forget,” you said, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, “I’ll remind you. Over and over again.”

For the first time that night, his shoulders dropped.

The tiger stopped roaring.

And Soonyoung finally let himself rest.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv

[art-by-jas]

if you're taking john carter prompts maybe the "dancing together in the kitchen, in the refrigerator light" or back massage ones 🥹 moments where they can be soft and not in the chaos of the hospital

Backrubs

Summary: Carter and you are hanging out, and you notice his back is giving him pain.

WC: 1171

A/N: Thank you for submitting this :) I hope you like it <3

It’s that time of late summer again when you have the windows open and the fan whirring. You have the TV on, enjoying one of your favorite movies. You glance over at Carter, sprawled on the other side of the bed, reading some medical book he picked up at the library this morning. Since he's returned home from work, you've noticed him wincing as he moves or turns. He stretches his arms as he settles back into the bed beside you. You hear his back crack as he lets a long breath out, but then he winces slightly. He closes his book and sets it on the bedside table. A slight grimace crosses his face as another twinge of pain hits his lower back when he rolls onto his side. He mumbles something under his breath while rubbing that sore spot.

With a furrowed brow and concerned look, you turn to him, your voice softening as you ask, "Are you okay? Your back seems to be giving you some trouble." 

He exhales deeply, a sigh escaping his lips as he meets your gaze. "Yeah, I’m alright," he replies, though a hint of strain lingers in his tone. "It’s just a bit sore. I had to assist in lifting a patient onto the OR table earlier."

John stretches a little more, attempting to alleviate the pain, but it doesn't help too much. He shifts on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, but the nagging ache persists.

You continue to look at him, noticing that he seems pretty uncomfortable despite his downplayed reply. 

With a gentle, concerned tone, you break the silence, asking, "Would you like a back rub or something? It could help ease the pain you seem to be feeling."

Carter meets your gaze, and a small smile flickers across his lips. "Yeah, that actually sounds really good," he replies, the tension in his expression lessening ever so slightly. "Thanks." You can tell that he appreciates your support in this moment.

Eagerly anticipating the chance to pamper him with a soothing back massage, you spring off the bed, your hands coming together in a delighted clap. The thrill of the moment courses through you, filling the air with electric excitement.

Turning back to Carter, you flash him a smile and say, "Alright, go ahead and take off your shirt and lie face down. I'll get the oils and all the good stuff from the bathroom."

As Carter begins to peel off his shirt, a curious expression crosses his face.

"Wait, you just have oil and stuff like that lying around in your bathroom?"

You give him a playful smirk as you head towards the bathroom. "Of course I do. My friend gifted me a whole set of massage stuff a little bit ago; I might as well put it to use." As you rummage through your cabinet, you find the bottle of massage oil nestled amongst various other hair products and other random items. You grab it and return to the bedroom.

 As you enter the room, Carter is now lying face down on the bed, shirtless. You sit down on the edge of the bed next to him, setting all of your materials on the bedside table.

He feels your weight shift as you straddle his lower back, your legs resting on either side of him. He inhales deeply, the pressure of your body causing the tension in his muscles to release slightly. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his skin warm under your touch as you begin to pour a generous amount of oil into your hands.

As you work your hands in circular motions across his shoulders, the oil makes your touch glide effortlessly over his skin. You press deeper, feeling the tension and knots beneath your fingertips. You focus on the area between his shoulder blades, applying just the right amount of pressure to loosen the tight muscles.

Carter let out a low moan of relief as you skillfully work out the tension. "That feels amazing," he murmurs, his voice muffled slightly by the pillow. You continue to massage his back, moving lower, gently exploring every inch of tension. Carter feels your hands moving lower, the pressure increasing. You pay close attention to the specific areas where he seems to be wincing or experiencing pain, working your fingers and knuckles deeper into the taut muscles.

He clenches his hands into fists, gripping the sheets as you work on a particularly stubborn knot. "Ah... right there," he gasps, the soreness mixing with a hint of pleasure. Encouraged by his response, you continue to work on that knot, applying a bit more pressure. After a few moments, the knot finally gives way, and Carter lets out a deep sigh of relief.

"Oh, god... you're a godsend," he breathes, the tension releasing from his body. You move your hands down his spine, working on other areas. You smile, feeling a sense of satisfaction as you continue working on his back. As you lean down to press a quick, tender kiss to the side of his neck, you hear a soft exhale escape Carter's lips. He turns his head slightly towards you and opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours with a flicker of affection.

"Thanks again," he whispers, his voice carrying a hint of appreciation. "You're really good at this." Your heart warms at his words, and you respond with a soft chuckle.

"No problem. I'm glad I could help," you reply, returning your focus to his back.

You spend a few more minutes working on his back, making sure to tend to any remaining knots or tension. Carter continues to lie there, his body slowly melting into the mattress under your skilled touch. The tension that was once there has now been replaced by a sense of relaxation.

"Mmm... I could get used to this," he teases, his voice groggy with satisfaction.

You chuckle at his teasing comment, feeling a warm sense of satisfaction in being able to make him feel better. As you bring the massage to a close, you run your hands along his spine one final time, savoring the feel of his smooth skin.

"All done," you announce, moving off his back and sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. "Hopefully, your back feels a bit better now."

He turns his head to look at you, a small smile on his lips. "It feels so much better," he says gratefully. "You're an actual miracle worker." He pushes himself up into a sitting position, stretching his arms above his head to test out his back. It feels looser, freer, and the pain he was feeling earlier has significantly diminished.

"I'm glad I could help," you reply, a smile on your lips.

As you both lie down on the bed, the rain outside begins to pick up, the sound of droplets hitting the windows creating a cozy atmosphere. The TV continues to play in the background, providing a pleasant distraction.

MASTERLIST

[thatstrangegiiirrlll]

Title: Hands to Yourself

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x Female!Reader

Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Protective!Si-eun

Warnings: Sexual assault (non-graphic but present), violence, emotional aftermath, intense themes

Synopsis: While out enjoying an evening with your boyfriend, things turn extremely dark when a pervert makes the fatal decision to grope you from behind…

⸻

It’s around 7 p.m. on a cozy Saturday. You and Si-eun are out taking a quiet stroll, the hum of city life dulled by the calm of early evening.

“This is nice,” you say, stretching your arms as you glance at your boyfriend. His usually tense posture is noticeably relaxed — the furrow in his brow has softened, his shoulders no longer hunched with stress.

He offers a small smile in agreement, hands tucked in his jacket pockets. His warm, deep eyes meet yours before darting away, a subtle blush tinting his pale cheeks.

The view is beautiful: the bridge glows under soft lighting, casting sparkles across the water. Above, the sky is painted in shades of indigo and violet. You both needed this — a rare, peaceful break from the grind of being college freshmen.

“Si-eun,” you say gently, drawing his gaze. His eyes flick to yours, curious.

Both of your footsteps halt as you turn to him. You take one wide step in front of him, bringing your face close enough to feel his breath against your face — the sensation tickles your skin. Ever so gently, you place a kiss on his lips.

He kisses you back without hesitation, a quiet sound caught in his throat.

“Come on,” you grin. “I saw the cutest café nearby.”

Later, when you arrive, Si-eun kills the engine. You’re about to head inside when he pauses.

“Go ahead and get a table,” he says. “I forgot my wallet in the car.”

You nod — but just as you near the entrance, a tall, lanky man steps in your path. Something about him feels… off.

“Can I help you?” you ask cautiously, taking a step back.

He scans you shamelessly, eyes trailing your body. “Actually… you can.”

Disgust twists in your gut. You turn, making a quick retreat — but then a hand clamps over your mouth. Another grabs you from behind.

You choke on your panic. You twist, bite down on the hand silencing you — hard. He yelps and lets go. You spit out the taste of his palm and scream out Sieuns name, your voice cracking in fear.

And then he’s there.

Before you can even process what’s happening, Sieun is standing between you and the man, bending his fingers back so far you could barely watch. Your breathing stops when you hear his bones shatter, his hand completely obliterated.

The man collapses with a howl, cradling his shattered fingers.

Si-eun turns to you. His eyes are wide and blazing, his chest heaving.

“Go to the car,” he says.

You hesitate — not because you fear him, but because you fear what he might do.

“Si-eun…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I know you want to. But you can’t kill him.”

He clenches his jaw, trembling with restraint.

Then — with cold precision — he raises his foot and stomps on the attacker’s broken hand one last time. The man shrieks, writhing.

A concerned café employee rushes out. “Do I need to call the police?”

You don’t hesitate. “This man assaulted me — right in front of your café. My boyfriend didn’t start this. He was protecting me.”

The manager nods grimly and pulls out his phone.

⸻

The police arrive. You give your statement. Turns out, the man had prior charges. Of course he did.

Back in the car, the silence is thick — but it feels safe.

Si-eun looks at you, his expression tight with guilt.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

You shake your head. “Don’t be. You weren’t wrong. And I love how deeply you care for me.”

It wasn’t his fault you were violated like that. You didn’t want him to be sorry for what he did either. You certainly weren’t sorry for stopping him from doing something that could’ve landed him behind bars for God knows how long.

He doesn’t reply — just reaches for your hand and laces his fingers through yours, holding on like he might never let go.

𝐴／𝑁：𝐼 𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑒 𝑎 𝑆𝑖𝑒𝑢𝑛 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒， 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 （ಡ‸ಡ）— 𝐴𝑠ℎ <3

[aventurineswife]

Welt and/or Himeko with Reader who got so absorbed into their work they unwittingly starved and/or dehydrated themselves and they ended up passing out and waking up in their room? 😅

A Moment of Stillness

Tags: Welt x Reader, Himeko x Reader, Comfort, Mentorship, Slow Burn, Dehydration, Exhaustion, Whump (light), Caregiving.

Warnings: Dehydration, Exhaustion, Passing out, Light whump.

It had been hours—longer than you’d intended—since you last moved from your desk. The lights on your terminal blinked in a steady rhythm as your eyes moved from one screen to the next. The files, numbers, and calculations needed to be perfect. There was no room for error, not when so much was at stake. You were so absorbed in your work that the world around you seemed to blur into insignificance.

The quiet hum of the train became a distant background noise, one you barely registered anymore.

However, as the hours passed, the grogginess in your body began to take hold. You ignored it, pushing through as always, but your hands were shaking slightly. You hadn’t eaten in hours, nor had you taken a sip of water since morning. Your head ached, and your vision grew blurry—yet you kept going.

That was when you slumped forward, the world around you tilting, before everything went black.

When you woke up, you found yourself in your room. The bed was soft, warm, and inviting. You could taste the faint bitterness of a pill on your tongue and the remnants of a cool drink by your bedside. The familiar scent of Welt’s cologne lingered in the air. Your mind raced with confusion. How had you ended up here?

The memories slowly came back. You’d passed out at your desk… but how? And why?

The door creaked open softly, and Welt stepped in, his tall figure framed by the light of the hallway. His face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes gave away a hint of concern. He set down a small tray with food and a cup of water on the nightstand.

“I see you’re awake,” Welt’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of exhaustion to it. He raised an eyebrow as he glanced at you. “You’ve been working nonstop again, haven’t you?”

You could only give a sheepish smile, realizing how much you’d neglected your own needs. “I guess I got a little carried away…”

Welt’s dry smile appeared, though his eyes were soft. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

You winced. He was right, of course. You hadn’t been the best at taking breaks when you had a task to complete.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” he continued, sitting down beside the bed. “At your desk. It’s… not good for you to push yourself like this.”

You were about to apologize, but Welt held up a hand, stopping you.

“Don’t apologize. You’re not alone in this,” he said, his voice low and steady. “But you need to take care of yourself first. No one can carry the world when they’ve run out of fuel.”

You glanced at the tray and, suddenly, felt the gnawing hunger in your stomach. The food looked delicious—more inviting than it had any right to be.

“You’re right,” you muttered, taking the glass of water. “I’ll be more mindful next time.”

Welt nodded, his expression softening. “I’ll make sure of that.”

He stayed with you for a while longer, silently watching as you ate and drank, making sure you were recovering. When he finally stood up to leave, he hesitated at the door.

“You’re a strong one,” he said with a slight smirk. “But even the strongest need rest. Don’t forget that.”

You smiled, feeling oddly comforted by his words.

The day had been long. You’d been tackling a particularly complicated project that required your full focus. Every moment you spent working seemed to drag on longer than the last. But you didn’t mind—it was an opportunity to put your mind to something, to escape the chaos of everyday life for a bit.

The world around you, however, seemed to fade. The hours stretched on. You barely noticed the dry, aching feeling in your throat until it became unbearable, and even then, you refused to stop. You were almost done, and just one more step—one more detail—was all that was needed.

But before you knew it, you were slipping off your chair, your body giving way to exhaustion. The floor came rushing up to meet you, and then... everything went dark.

When you came to, you found yourself lying in your room, the soft blankets tucked around you. You blinked in confusion, trying to make sense of your surroundings. The faint scent of tea lingered in the air, and you could hear the soft rustling of papers nearby.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Himeko’s voice cut through the haze in your mind. You turned to find her sitting at the edge of your bed, watching you with a concerned look on her face. In her hands was a cup of tea.

“Wha—” You blinked. “What happened? How did I…?”

Himeko placed the cup of tea in your hands gently. “You passed out. From dehydration and exhaustion, I’d say.”

You stared at the tea in your hands, realizing how parched your throat felt. “I… didn’t realize…”

Himeko’s lips quirked into a small smile, but there was a warmth in her eyes, mixed with worry. “You have a bad habit of pushing yourself too hard, don’t you?”

You tried to sit up, but Himeko gently placed a hand on your shoulder, urging you to rest. “No, no. You need to take it easy for a while.”

“But… I’m fine now,” you insisted, though your voice was hoarse.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly, her tone light, but there was an underlying firmness to it. “I’m here, and I’m making sure you take care of yourself. We all need to remember our limits.”

You took a sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through you, and sighed in relief. She was right—you’d been so caught up in your work that you forgot to care for the one thing that mattered most: yourself.

Himeko smiled, her gaze softening. “Promise me you won’t do this again?”

You hesitated, then nodded, feeling the sincerity in her eyes.

“I promise.”

She chuckled softly and stood up, picking up a small plate with food. “Good. Now, eat up. You’ve got a lot of making up to do.”

With Himeko by your side, you couldn’t help but feel reassured, even though you knew your focus needed to shift from work to your own well-being. You were thankful for her—her steady presence always seemed to pull you out of your spirals, reminding you that it was okay to slow down sometimes.

And with that promise, you took the first steps toward taking care of yourself once again.

[trombonechurchill]

I can't decide if I'm more curious about 🪐 or 🔮 so both please?

🪐🪐🪐🔮🔮🔮

(Lowkey why I haven't picked a WIP to be my new "main" project is cause I like both of these way too much to choose hahah

🔮- Antique Shop AU, continues directly from here.

Tommy's hands are warm on his skin, a stark contrast to the cold sting of the wipes as he carefully runs them up Buck's shin. Over the curve of his knee. The crease of his inner thigh. The bite of the antiseptic the only thing keeping Buck grounded against the drag of Tommy's fingers against his leg hair. The way he can feel Tommy exhale on his skin. He's gentle, so so gentle considering the bulk of him coiled there on the floor, hands still soft as he picks out a few errant thorns. Carefully brushes down the edges of each bandage as he slowly patches and catalogs each scrape. Buck's barely breathing when Tommy finally finishes and looks up. Feels something catch and burn, a struck match as their eyes meet. Tommy doesn't break the silence as he finished, simply sets the rest of the medical tape carefully aside (and Buck should not find it so attractive that Tommy still puts it back in it's original place in the first-aid kit, the inside organized with military precision) before shifting onto his knees, leaning further into Buck's space. "Better?" Tommy asks, thumb skating the apple of Buck's cheek, voice barely above a whisper though his eyes are soft with concern. Buck can only nod, struck dumb having Tommy so close again. Thinks about their kiss outside the coffee shop. Tommy's lips warm and perfect against him. Watches the way Tommy's eyes track his tongue as it darts out to lick his lower lip. Tommy leans in, Buck can smell him, feel the heat of him, feels a faint chill as the temperature in the room suddenly drops- Wait, shit- "The gun's haunted!" Buck yelps right before their lips meet and Tommy's head jerks back, baffled.

🪐- Star Wars!AU under the cut cause this is getting long lol

"Alright, who gave Buck a blaster," Chim called over his shoulder, throwing himself down onto couch next to Buck. Buck looked up from where he was fiddling with the A-180 to give Chim a sour look. "Well you guys won't give me a lightsaber so-" "Because you'd loose a leg before we'd even finished handing it to you-" "So I figured I should have something," Buck continued, fingers skating over the railing that would theoretically hold the scope and other parts to configure the blaster into its proper rifle form. Maybe Eddie had some parts. "Buck we've seen you with a cutter, I think you're well off enough without adding blasters into the mix," Hen offered from where she'd tucked into the dining nook, not looking up from her datapad. "What, you guys don't trust me?" Buck asked, tilting the blaster in his hands and frowning as Chim surreptitiously pointed the barrel down at the floor. "The Force is practically screaming in horror at the sight of your holding it alone," Chim said gravely. "No it is not-" "Sorry, but it is, it's a Jedi thing, you wouldn't know-" "Stop lying about the Force, Chim that's not how it works-" Still at the table, Hen sighed.

Make Me Write!

[tanobatcher]

heyyyy!! looking for a hurt/comfort + angst + soft!Hunter fic where the f!reader starts to notice how overstimulated he gets sometimes. how he winces at loud noises, flinches under bright lights, or rubs his temples when he gets overstimulated. she gently asks about it one day, but he brushes it off like it’s nothing. but later she finds him alone in his quarters, trying to quietly ride out a brutal headache caused by sensory overload. this time, she doesn’t ask any questions. she just helps him. maybe she dims the lights, speaks softly, massages his scalp, sits beside him in silence. something intimate but comforting like that. would love if he eventually lets his guard down, maybe whispers something like “you don’t have to do this,” and she responds, “you don’t have to deal with it alone.” just all the soft, quiet vulnerability stuff. thank you <3

waves

hunter x fem reader

summary: basically what the request says lolz sorry writing summaries is actually my worst nightmare so i will take advantage of the detailed-ness (??) above <33

warnings: none

a/n: i decided to make this more pabu civilian brainrot because post tbb finale life is all i think about tbh. also sorry for the delay on this, im wrapping up finals season 🥲

˚₊ ⋆ ☠︎︎ ⋆ ₊˚

You haven’t seen Hunter in a while. A little over one day, to be exact, but that feels like a long time when his presence is usually so noticeable across this tightly acquainted island. It’s unfair to say that he and his brothers stick out like sore thumbs in any crowd, and yet, it’s also true. There must be a different reason why your eyes always search for his specifically, though, lighting up when you’re successful. For this same reason, a pestering observation has caught your attention during moments he believes go largely unnoticed or ignored.

He’s oddly sensitive, not just to the weather but also to sounds that often fall into background noise for you and anyone else. He doesn’t like being in the sun for too long, only holding out for Omega when she spends her afternoons at the beach. “Did you sleep well?” You frequently ask him whenever he’s near enough for a conversation. And to this, he often shrugs before answering, “Better than what we’re used to.”

“It’s quiet here,” you would say back, thinking that makes this place the easiest in the galaxy, “Is it quiet for you, too?”

But again, it’s only quieter than what he’s used to. He doesn’t bother explaining that it’s almost too quiet, for he can hear skittering footsteps and the brush of wind against walls much better than the average person. He doesn’t bother telling you that he’s far from normal in that way, simply dealing with the noise as he always does. His discomfort extends beyond little irritations that he’s lived with his entire life, though. Sometimes, you find yourself craning your neck to look for him when he disappears like he needs a break from…everything. The last time you followed to ask if he was okay was the last time you tried to talk to him.

And now, according to “intel” you extracted from word of mouth, he’s holed up in his room on an exceptionally bright and hot summer day. There’s no response when you knock on his door, but you know he’s inside. The silence is worrisome, just like his sporadic absences, so you gently twist the knob while saying, “Hunter? It’s me.”

The room isn’t dark enough for you to miss the shape of his figure lying on the floor with his arm draped over his face. You’re unsure if he’s aware that you’re even here, standing under the dim light as all your questions about why he’s not outside like everyone else drain away. These curiosities are only replaced with more concern. He’s so still and calm, but he looks like he’s in pain. You frown, not knowing what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. Kneeling before him, you reach forward to touch his cheek, stopping when he catches your wrist in his other hand.

His eyes are still closed, and his voice is hoarse when he tells you, “Leave. Please.”

You ignore the way your stomach hollows out at this, wiggling yourself free from his grip to touch the back of your hand to his forehead. His temperature isn’t particularly alarming. Touching him might have been a mistake, though, because you can’t bring yourself to pull away anymore. You’re hesitant as you sit on the floor with him, gently pulling his head into your lap before swiping some of his messy hair out of his face. His eyebrows twitch in reaction, but he doesn’t fight you off like you expected. He lets you run your fingers through his hair, silent other than the sigh he exhales when you begin rubbing circles along his temples.

Some sunshine casting across the floor draws your attention away from his face to his window. The curtains are slightly strewn apart, letting this sliver of light paint a long line through the hardwood. You’re about to get up to close it more tightly when he notices your hands have slowed down and whispers, “Don’t stop.”

You relax your posture again, shifting him even closer as you whisper back, “I just want to close the window.”

He opens his eyes and looks up at you. “It’s fine.”

His stare makes you squirm, so you turn away from him a bit and sweep your gaze across his room. It’s emptier than you thought, with most of his belongings packed away in boxes and left to your imagination. Perhaps he still isn’t fully settled in yet. Your thoughts are startled when his fingers brush against your jaw, lingering until you glance at him in surprise. He meets your eyes with a certain heaviness behind his own before closing them, sinking into your touch despite his instinct to push you away before. It doesn’t seem like he’s fully processed this moment, maybe treating it like a dream as he simply breathes at the pace of your touch. Slow and patient, waiting for nothing in particular except for more.

“What happened?” You ask quietly, “Why are you down here?”

“Just dizzy.”

“You didn’t fall over, did you?” You slip your hands into his hair again, feeling for any signs of collision.

“No,” he nearly smiles, “But that feels good.”

Your cheeks warm, and the room is silent once again from your lack of response. You’re unsure how to carry this conversation forward until you look at him again and decide you don’t need to. He appears to be more at peace than just a few moments ago, as the lines across his face loosen like the rest of him. You feel that you can watch him this closely forever. Minutes pass into the double digits from the time you lose track of until you notice that his breathing is now a little quieter and shallower. Maybe he’s close to falling asleep, so you try to figure that out for yourself without disturbing him. Leaning downward, your heart seizes in your chest when your mouth positions itself to be hovering over his. He looks even prettier up close, where you can see the dark coloring of his tattoo absorbed into his tan skin. There are some creased indentations here and there, too, and you imagine him laughing loudly with his family—people he might have less trouble opening up to, at least. You’d like to be one of those people, one day.

Your next decision surprises even you as you press your lips to his forehead so lightly that you don’t think he feels it. Not until you pull back a bit and find his eyes open, heavy-lidded but still staring at you. Your faces are still close as you murmur, “Let’s get you back in bed.”

He doesn’t protest as you sit him up slowly. You pause before guiding him toward his bed, realizing that he’s far from weightless. Still, you manage, and he rolls onto his side with a slight groan. You assume he’s not watching you cross the room to close his curtains, but his eyes follow your movements despite pulling against his fatigue. They’re sealed shut when you return to his bedside, sitting at the edge of the mattress while wondering if you’re taking up too much space already. Pushing his hair back from his forehead, you trail a gentle caress down the side of his face and look at him closely.

“Does this happen often?” You murmur.

He adjusts his position so that he’s lying on his back now, which forces your hand to fall toward his chest. Blowing out a breath, he answers, “More or less.”

A frown tugs at your lips at this. “How do you deal with it?”

“I just wait it out. It comes and goes.”

“I see.”

Pressing his head back into his pillow, he sighs and says, “I’m fine now. You don’t have to stick around.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you reply.

He opens his mouth to respond, wincing sharply instead of saying whatever he had in mind. Startled, you shift forward and cup his face with both hands, swiping your thumbs back and forth to soothe him out of whatever is bothering him at the moment. He’s breathing a little heavier now, staring at you as he calms the rise and fall of his chest. You don’t say anything as you lean over him and begin rubbing his temples again, occasionally stroking his hair since he seems to like that. The silence must feel better for him, too, since he finds the energy to rasp, “You don’t have to do this.”

You steal a touch to the tip of his nose while reassuring him, “You don’t have to deal with this alone.”

He closes his eyes and releases a halfhearted chuckle. “It’s nice outside.”

“It’s nice in here, too. I…like what you’ve done with the place.”

“You can skip the flattery,” he mutters under his breath.

“No,” you stifle your laugh, “No, I mean it. Truly.”

“Uh-huh.”

You let him have the last word, smiling to yourself as the lines on his face relax more and more from the passing time. Any twitches of discomfort don’t slip under your radar, to which you respond with a soft whisper that reminds him you’re here. At one point, you find yourself curled up beside him while brushing your hand across his cheek and skimming the wilder parts of his hair. There’s enough space between your bodies for you to know he’s probably not planning on touching you in return—maybe he isn’t even thinking about it. Or so you believe when you pause, believing he’s sound asleep and safe from his pain. Just when you’re about to retreat, he reaches quickly and laces your fingers together before placing your joined hands in front of his lips. You feel the ghost of a kiss against your knuckles, but it spreads flaming goosebumps through your skin as if it’s something more.

You think you’re quiet enough when your breath hitches, but he hears and opens his eyes. He sees you so clearly despite the hazy darkness. Your vision hasn’t fully adjusted to capture the dark pupils staring right at you, seemingly telling you something you’re not sure you understand beyond this moment. Nonetheless, you feel his observation—his desire to keep you close. And he feels you, skin to skin, with only your palms and pulses. He feels your heartbeat quicken and leap, somehow controlling what he doesn’t know he has full access to. He feels your body like it's his own, vaguely hearing the ocean below pulling and crashing in the distance. In waves that collide before subsiding, like the way he imagines you. So near, and yet so far from the distance he tries to create himself. You would cross any island to prove him wrong, though. And you’d stay right there with him.

[koyagifs]

𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞

pairing: hongjoong x reader au: 9th member | idol | poly genre: angst with comfort word count: 1.2k synopsis: you didn't mean for it happen, but it did.. warning(s): hospital, description of passing out, bad eating habits.

You were burning up.

So hot that even with the staff frantically fanning you, sweat clung to your skin and the water you chugged did little to cool you down. Hongjoong noticed how winded you were and rushed to your side, quickly pulling out his earpiece.

"Are you okay? Do we need to call a medic?"

You waved him off, taking a deep breath before straightening up. "Just need a minute," you mumbled.

The staff exchanged glances with Hongjoong, concern etched into their expressions. Still, he stayed close, silently offering you your microphone. You took it with a small nod as the two of you followed the others toward the stage.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, fans screaming as Wooyoung, San, and Yeosang lit up the stage with their performance.

Behind you, Mingi and Yunho appeared, concern flashing across their faces the moment they saw how closely Hongjoong was hovering by your side.

"You look... pale? Y/N, are you okay?" Mingi asked, his brows furrowing.

You waved him off, nodding as if that would settle it. "I'm fine," you insisted, though your voice lacked its usual strength.

Hongjoong let out an annoyed huff beside you, clearly not convinced. He was one second away from calling off the rest of the show—there was no way he was letting you push through when you looked like this.

But just as he turned to call out to the director, the crew was already ushering you all toward the stage, headsets crackling with urgency.

“No time—go, go, go!”

You barely had a moment to collect yourself before the stage lights flared to life, blinding and hot, the deafening cheers crashing over you like a tidal wave.

You moved on autopilot, slipping into position as the music kicked in. When your line came, you lifted the mic with trembling fingers, your voice barely catching the beat.

Then your vision blurred.

Your words slurred, the mic slipping slightly from your grasp just before your knees gave out beneath you. A sharp ringing filled your ears, drowning out the roar of the crowd—though you could still feel the shift in energy, the panic breaking through the cheers.

Someone was in front of you—reaching, calling your name—but their face was a blur.

Then everything went dark.

Hongjoong hadn’t left your side since you were admitted. He sat in the stiff hospital chair, your hand cradled tightly in his, his knee bouncing restlessly.

How did he miss the signs? The exhaustion in your eyes, the way your energy had been slipping day by day. You’d been skipping meals—he knew that now—but he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen you eat.

The guilt clawed at his chest, sharp and suffocating.

Then you stirred. A soft groan slipped past your lips as you slowly sat up, disoriented and sluggish.

Hongjoong was at your side in an instant, the chair screeching back as he leaned over you, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you or let you breathe.

“Hey—hey, take it slow,” he said gently, eyes scanning your face for any sign of pain. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“What happened? I just remember going on stage,” you mumbled, your voice hoarse as your hand moved to your head, wincing at the dull throb settling behind your eyes.

Hongjoong let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He gently guided your hand down, his touch careful.

“You collapsed,” he said quietly. “Right in the middle of the performance. Scared everyone half to death.”

Your eyes widened as his words sank in, panic bubbling up as questions rushed to your lips—but Hongjoong held up his hands before you could speak.

“Yes, the boys are okay,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “They’ll come visit once you and I have a nice, long chat about your health.”

He gave your hand a light squeeze, his gaze unwavering.

“The schedule’s cleared for a few weeks—for all of us. We’re not letting you keep running yourself into the ground. You’re going to rest, and you’re going to eat, and we’re going to make sure you’re actually okay this time. We’ll be damned if we let you keep going like this.”

Hongjoong let out a sigh—not one of disappointment, but one heavy with worry and guilt.

“Why didn’t you say something?” he asked softly, his brows drawing together. “You nearly scared half of us to death. Do you have any idea how worried we were, Y/N?”

His voice cracked slightly at the end, and you saw it clearly now—how shaken he truly was. Not just as your leader. Not even as your teammate.

As your lover.

Your eyes welled up, the weight of everything finally crashing down. You looked down at your interlocked fingers, gripping his hand tighter as the tears began to fall, silent and steady.

“We were just so busy,” you whispered, voice trembling. “And I didn’t want to disappoint any of you. It didn’t feel like something to worry about… not until today.”

Your shoulders shook as you tried to steady your breath.

“It just got so hot, and we’ve worked so hard to be able to perform on that stage. I didn’t want to screw it up.” You paused, tears slipping down your cheeks. “But I did anyway. And I’m so sorry, Hongjoong…”

His heart broke a little more at the sight of you blaming yourself. Hongjoong’s expression softened instantly, his own eyes glistening as he reached up to gently wipe a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Hey, hey… no,” he murmured, voice low and full of emotion. “You didn’t screw anything up, Y/N. You scared us, yeah—but not because you failed. Because we love you.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead gently against yours, his grip on your hand never loosening.

“You don’t have to carry everything by yourself. Not with me. Not with the boys. You’re not a burden, and you never will be. We’d rather a thousand cancelled stages than see you like that again.”

His thumb brushed over your hand, slow and grounding.

“You’re more important than any show. Please don’t ever think otherwise.”

“Now,” Hongjoong whispered, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, “be real with me. I won’t be mad, I promise.”

His thumb continued to trace soft circles against your skin, grounding you in his presence.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked softly.

His voice held no judgment—just concern. And love. The kind that made your chest ache all over again. Because you knew the answer wasn’t something he’d want to hear.

You slowly pulled your hand away, gaze dropping to the blanket, unable to meet his eyes. And that alone was all the answer he needed.

Without hesitation, he reached out and took your hand back, holding it even tighter this time.

“Oh, Y/N…” he whispered, heart breaking.

Your shoulders began to shake as the guilt and exhaustion finally caught up with you. You looked up at him, eyes glassy and voice cracking.

“I’m sorry, Hongjoong. I didn’t mean for it to happen.”

He didn’t say anything right away—just pulled you into his arms, holding you close like you might slip away if he didn’t. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist.

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. “I know you didn’t. But you don’t have to be sorry for falling apart. Not with me.”

He held you like that, letting you cry, letting you be human.

[kaiist]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐈𝐒

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The soft melody from his expensive royal-looking piano had drawn you in. Xavier was elsewhere in the living room, probably asleep. You couldn’t resist pressing a few keys, trying to recreate the tune he’d played yesterday. As you leaned over to reach a higher note, your sleeve caught on several keys, and with a sickening crack, they snapped loose.

Your hands flew to your mouth. Three keys hung at awkward angles, completely broken from their moorings. The room suddenly felt too small, your heart pounding as tears welled in your eyes.

You heard his footsteps before you saw him in the doorway. His eyes widened slightly at your tears.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted. “I was just—I didn’t mean to—” You couldn’t finish the sentence as your voice cracked.

“Why are you crying?” he asked. He walk towards you, then knelt beside you, hands gentle as he took the broken piano keys from your trembling fingers.

“The piano...” you managed. “I broke it... I’ll pay for repairs, I promise...” you stammered, wiping at your eyes.

Xavier glanced at the damaged instrument, then back to you. A small smile formed at the corners of his mouth as he sat beside you.

“It was an accident,” he said simply, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his warm palm cupping your face. His touch lingered there, gentle and reassuring.

“But it’s your piano,” you insisted.

“The keys were already weak,” he replied with a slight shrug. “It’s already old, and I’ve been meaning to replace it.”

When you still looked uncertain, he added, “I don’t want you to be upset. Things break, and it’s okay.”

The way he said it—so matter-of-fact yet somehow gentle—made you feel like the broken piano truly was insignificant to him. In Xavier’s quiet, straightforward way, he’d made it clear that your distress concerned him far more than any damaged items.

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The hospital had called Zayne in for emergency surgeries three nights in a row. When you woke up early on his rare day off and found him already at his desk in the home office, surrounded by patient reports, you decided breakfast was in order.

You pushed the door open with your hip, balancing a tray with coffee and toast, just as Zayne reached for a folder. Your foot caught on the edge of his rug, and before you could regain balance, hot coffee splashed across his desk—directly onto the stack of patient reports he’d brought home. Dark liquid seeped into what looked like hours of meticulous work.

“I’m so sorry!” Your voice pitched higher with panic, ignoring the stinging pain on your palms. “Zayne, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—” Your hands shook as you tried to salvage the papers, only smearing them further.

Zayne stood immediately, his chair rolling back. The stern lines of his face were there, but not directed at you.

“Stop,” he said firmly, holding your hands away, and taking the tray from your shaking hands and setting it aside before you dropped it too. “Leave the papers.”

Tears welled up despite your efforts. “Your reports, all your work... I just—I just ruined your day off... I’m really sorry…”

Zayne set the papers aside and surprised you by taking your warm hands in his, turning them over to examine your skin.

“Did you burn yourself?” he asked, his voice soft.

You shook your head.

“Good.” He guided you to sit in his chair. “These are just copies. I can print them again.”

“But—”

“No ‘but.’” His thumb stroked across your knuckles, a small gesture of affection that contrasted with his authoritative tone. “I keep digital backups of everything, so don’t worry. And don’t feel bad about an accident you couldn’t control.”

He leaned down, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead, then reached for his phone.

“The reports can wait. Let’s order some breakfast, and I’ll get us something to heal your palms.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Rafayel’s studio windows, casting a golden glow across his workspace. You’d come to surprise him with lunch since he often forgot to eat when absorbed in his art.

As you walked between tables covered with half-finished projects, your bag caught on something. You turned to see a delicate sculpture teetering on its pedestal—a twisted form of glass and clay that Rafayel had spent weeks perfecting. Your heart stopped as it fell, shattering against the floor with a sound that seemed to echo forever.

“Oh…! No, no, no,” you whispered, dropping to your knees. Your fingers trembled as you tried to gather the larger pieces, tears blurring your vision.

“What happened? I heard—” Rafayel’s voice cut off as he entered the studio. You looked up, seeing his expression shift as he took in the scene.

“Rafayel, I’m so sorry,” your voice broke as you continued frantically collecting shards. “I can find someone who can repair it, or—”

“Hey, hey, stop!” He crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside you. “Leave it. You’ll cut yourself.”

When you continued reaching for a particularly sharp piece, he gently captured your hands.

“Your art…” you said, tears now falling freely. “I broke it...”

“It’s just clay and glass,” he said, pulling you away from the broken pieces and into his arms. “I can make another whenever I want.”

“But this one was special—”

“Not as special as you are to me.” Rafayel’s arms tightened around you as he rested his chin on top of your head. “You’re going to hurt yourself on these pieces,” he whispered. He rocked you gently until your breathing steadied, then pulled back to wipe your tears with his thumb.

“Besides,” he added casually, “now I have an excuse to try that new technique I’ve been thinking about. I’ve been wanting to replace that one with something new anyway. Do you wanna see, cutie?”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

The wind through your hair, the purr of the engine between your legs—there was nothing like late-night rides on Sylus’s custom motorcycle. He’d let you borrow it occasionally, knowing how much you loved the freedom it gave you.

The evening ride had been your idea. “Just around the perimeter,” you’d suggested, and Sylus had agreed because honestly—what wouldn’t he do for you?

You didn’t see the oil slick until the bike suddenly skidded, then tumbled, throwing you clear but scraping across the pavement with a horrible screech of metal on asphalt. Pain shot through your arm as you landed hard.

He swore he’d never been so scared before. He just ditched his motorcycle and was at your side in an instant, his typically composed face taut with an emotion you rarely saw—fear.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, kneeling beside you, hands hovering as if afraid to touch you. “Where does it hurt?”

“The motorcycle—” you managed, tears forming as you looked at the mangled vehicle. Half the custom bodywork was destroyed, the handlebars twisted beyond recognition. “I’m so sorry—I’ll pay—I’ll—”

“Forget the motorcycle,” he snapped, voice sharp but hands gentle as they examined your scraped arm. He was mad at himself for letting the situation even happen.

You’d never seen him this shaken—Sylus, who always had a plan, who always remained calm and controlled.

“I shouldn’t have—” he cut himself off with a sigh before carefully helping you sit up. His fingers brushed your face, wiping away tears and examining you for injuries with tenderness. “I’m just glad the feisty kitten is all okay.” Sylus’s expression shifted to relief, though concern still lined his eyes.

“I’m sorry it got wrecked…” you whispered again.

“I have others,” he said dismissively. “Stop thinking about it.”

When he helped you to your feet, he kept his arm firmly around you, as if afraid you might vanish if he let go. The destroyed motorcycle lay forgotten on the road behind you as he carried you away to his own.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The storage room in Caleb’s work room was cluttered with mementos from his piloting days. You were searching for an old photo album when your elbow knocked against something on a high shelf.

You turned just in time to see the model spacecraft—the intricate replica of Caleb’s first fighter that you’d given him last year—tumble and crash onto the floor. Pieces scattered everywhere, the delicate wings and engines breaking apart on impact.

Panic seized your chest as you dropped to your knees. Caleb had spent two days putting it together; you remembered how his face lit up with boyish excitement when you’d presented it to him. Now it lay in ruins.

Frantically, you gathered pieces, trying to fit them back together, but your shaking hands only made things worse. You were so focused on your desperate repair attempt that you didn’t hear the door open.

“Hey, what are you doing in—” Caleb’s voice cut off abruptly.

You looked up to see him staring at the broken model, he looked surprised but his gaze softened when your eyes met, and tears welled in yours as you held broken pieces in your trembling hands.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—”

Before you could say more, he was on the floor beside you, pulling you on his lap, into a tight embrace. His arms were firm around you.

“Hey, hey, hey… it’s okay. It’s just a model,” he murmured against your hair, his voice steady and reassuring.

“But you worked so hard on it...”

He pulled back slightly, brushing tears from your face with a gentle thumb. His smile alone radiates comfort as he looks at you.

“Then we’ll build a new one together,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “And I bet we can make this one even better.” He looked down at the pieces scattered around you both. “Maybe add some modifications here and there, what do you think?”

His warm laughter finally broke through your guilt, and he held you close as if the broken model was the furthest thing from his mind.

Based on this request.

[cathnospam]

Bakugo, but his sex drive sky rocketed when you both got together and he doesn’t realize it.

“Here. Drink.”

“Mm.” Was all you were able to mumble out from your face being smooshed into the pillow.

Your body was already growing in soreness and your little blonde firecracker could tell, he rolls his eyes playfully at your starfish figure, littered in pre developed hickies and your decorative blanket covering only what’s between your legs

He takes a sip of the cold water bottle he took from your mini fridge to sit beside you back on the bed, “Y’ still with us or what. I wasn’t even that rough this time.”

“I know, but you have to count this morning too when you had me damn near do the splits on the wall.”

“You said you wanted to try that move next time I ate your pussy?!”

“Yeah well.” You groan rolling over, his hand touches your side while guiding you to sit up and take his water bottle, “Didn’t realize I’d be in that position for 4 minutes.”

“Yeah…you usually cum within like 2 and a half when I eat—“

You cover his dirty mouth and sip the drink, it felt like your body was already getting cooled down from the inside you gulped it for a few more seconds, “Shut up.”

It was a comfortable silence, you threw your head back on the headboard to focus your thoughts again. You knew Bakugo had stamina like a mad man but the way how he’s able to get so viscously pussy drunk and the moment he cums he’s able to just get up and walk around like it’s nobody’s business concerns you.

He just had you face down a few minutes ago, crying out and hollering his name and now he’s just staring at you with a soft look of love

….and possibly lust because his eyes wandered back down to your breast and back to your neck. You couldn’t see him do it, but you definitely could feel it.

He leans in to suckle your throat, peppering quiet kisses to pull you closer. You eventually felt his warm hand slide between the wet mess between your thighs, gliding against your clit to make you shriek and clench your legs as a reflex.

“Hey!” You giggle at his ministrations, but firmly grasp his hand, “Again?”

“Only if you want to. Figured you wasn’t sleep right after so….”

It was really a surprise to you Bakugo was more than willing to have sex back to back and so much with you once you both started doing it, it’s almost all you two do when you have free time together if you aren’t training or studying. You’re not complaining at all, but it definitely was something you giggle thinking about.

“What?”

Your thoughts resurfaced and he quirked his eyebrow up in confusion almost breaking into a laugh without you, but still curious, “What? Spit it out.”

“I don’t know…I just never pegged you for a guy that liked to have sex this much.”

Almost immediately his cheeks burned a tinge of red, eyes widening he sit back and crosses his arms in a pout, slightly embarrassed at the realization, “Just because I never fucked anybody, but you doesn’t mean I’m a fucking prude or something.”

“Of course you’re not. I just…assumed after we had sex the first time you’d only wanna do it like…once every two weeks or something.”

The look on his face was pure confusion and offense.

“Every t—- so you think I’m a fucking prude???!!”

“I don’t!”

“You do, —-TWICE EVERY MONTH ARE YOU INSANE?!”

His tone was annoyed and offended you couldn’t help but to laugh even more, but he seriously was confused as to why’d you think that. I mean have you seen yourself ? He can’t get enough??!!

“Well excuse me for wanting you. God forbid a man loves his girl.”

Hearing his voice gravel and wear down you stop your laughter to look at him, he tries looking the opposite way, but you knew from how he side eye’d you he was just being dramatic.

Using the bit of strength you had left you climb on top of him. For a moment you admire his scars and flushed body, the way his chest practically turns into a deep cleavage when he crosses his arms, his sharp jawline, the veins.

Hell, you was happy as fuck he loved to fuck you. Look at him.

“That’s not what I meant. Growing up you always were so focused on being a hero, that seeing you doing anything but is….fun to see. And im happy I’m the one to bring that fun side out of you.”

Still looking away you cup his chubby cheeks, thumb rubbing against them and you kiss his forehead, he looks up at you, “If you think I’m only with you for the sex you’re wrong, dumbass.”

“I know. Sex is just a plus. You remind me that everyday we are together.

Though he was still a little pissy about your twice a month comment he pulled you closer, chest to chest, “yeah? I feel the same way, and the whole reason why I started having consistent sex with you is to catch up.”

“Catch up?”

“Yeah….we dated for 2 years and never done it…gatta make up for it.”

“Baby we been having sex for 3 weeks straight, 5 days a week.”

“So.”

“We started having sex almost 4 months ago.”

“SO?! Jeez if you don’t like fucking then tell me.”

“Oh no…pfft I love when we do this. You make pretty faces when I ride you.”

“Fuck you!”

“Nah…but can I fuck you?”

You didn’t let him respond back, you just kissed him again, before adjusting your body to grind against his already growing erection again.

“Damn nympho.” Bakugo wanted to retort again, but it was broken up into a strained groan when you started stroking his dick.

“Takes one to know one.”

[prosypepper]

this is love ft. kento nanami

a/n: a few sappy slices of life with my main man :3 enjoy as i dig up motivation to finish kinktober. 18+ mdni!

"honey?" kento's voice is muffled through the door as he calls out to you, "everything okay?" the door rattles as he tries to open it, knob jingling.

"uhm, yeah! everything's fine!" you nervously shout, much too loud, and rush to unplug the iron that had melted your husband's favorite shirt. you panic and yelp when the hot iron scorches the side on your hand, throwing the stupid device to the ground in a clatter.

"why is the door locked—are you okay?" he asks, voice becoming more concerned as he hears the movement inside.

"i'm—i'm fine! promise! just give me a minute!" you're rushing into your shared master bathroom to run cold water over your hand, and kento’s using a screwdriver pulled from thin air to break into your bedroom. tears well in your eyes when you catch the sight of kento seeing his favorite shirt burnt and melted to his own ironing board. "i’m so sorry…"

in reality, he doesn’t care about the shirt—he’s already at your side to inspect your burnt hand. after a few seconds, he speaks.

"did you try to iron my shirt for me?" nanami asks, a small smile on his face, "you didn’t have to do that." he turns off the faucet and takes a small towel to dry your hand off.

"i tried to, i’m sorry—i didn’t know it would do that." you apologize, looking down at the cold tile flooring in defeat.

"oh, honey." he coos, "it’s only a shirt."

"have you seen your father?" you ask your son, yū, who’s sat at the dining table, eating breakfast. he shakes his head no, and when you look at your daughter, mayu, she does the same.

"jeez," you grumble to yourself, bedroom slippers pattering down the hallway as you go to search for your husband. saturday mornings were his time to sleep in, but realistically, he never slept past 9am. and currently, it was nearing 10am.

you check everywhere. he isn’t found in the bedroom, living room, his office, the garage, the patio or in the little garden he kept. upstairs, downstairs, everywhere, he isn’t there. and when you check in your bedroom for the last time, you hear a soft buzzing coming from the bathroom. upon entering, you see your husband bent over the counter, leaning close in the mirror as he shaves his stubble with an electric razor.

"there you are—when did you get that?"

kento had always been a clean shaven kind of man, going to a barber shop once every two weeks for his straight razor shave. it hadn’t even crossed your mind he didn’t go after work yesterday.

but when he looks at you—you burst out laughing. he’d shaven most of his beard off, but a few fuzzy patches remained on his cheeks, along with a mustache grazing his upper lip. peach fuzz and a few knicks litter his chin. this was the first time you’d seen him unable to do anything perfectly. and he looks ridiculous.

"is it really that bad?" he groans, pouting when you wrap your arms around yourself in a giggling fit. you shake your head, although your unforgiving laughs are a testament to the opposite.

"no—no, let me help," you say after calming down.

after gathering a new razor and some shaving cream, you sit atop the counter and your husband stands between your legs. kento is surprised how flawlessly you shave his face, without creating any more marks or cuts. you giggle and kiss him, getting some shaving cream on your face.

"ken?" you shout from the kitchen, where you’re sat, working on your dissertation. it’s been a long road of blood, sweat, and many, many tears; but you’re finally getting towards the end. about to earn a doctorate.

"yes, darling?" kento replies, walking into the kitchen on queue, his timing impeccable.

"can you read over this paragraph, please?" you kindly ask of him, pointing to your most recent written paragraph. he leans over you, planting one firm palm on the table, the other on your back; his eyes read along the sentences and his fingers tap along your spine.

"ah," his finger becomes more focused on a certain word, "wrong 'there', honey."

"no it's not..." you instantly retort, squinting your tired eyes to read over your writing. and you're right, it was the correct one the first time. this was his version of teasing you. but kento couldn't keep up the face much longer before he's giving in with a shit-eating grin you didn't see that often. "you're funny." you groan as kento stands back up.

after reading over the paragraph for about the nineteenth time, you notice kento silently slipping you some tea before turning back around to keep himself busy with cleaning. you absentmindedly take a few sips, then some more...and you find yourself becoming more and more sleepy...

and you're out like a light, forehead pressed directly against the table as a puddle of drool forms on the papers below. kento already has a warm blanket straight from the dryer to drape over you, and you stir just enough to get comfy on your arms.

kento knows that his back will hurt in the morning, but he sits around the corner of the table next to you, settling his head into his arms to drift off to sleep alongside you.

music of your taste plays rather quietly in the kitchen. you stir the pot of soup and inhale the flavorful aroma that wafts through the air.

kento sets two bowls next to the stove, then rummages through your silverware drawer to find two spoons. the kids are at their grandparents for the weekend, it's only you and your husband, converted into the duo you were long ago.

you step away from the stove to go fill up two glasses of wine, the brand kento had as his favorite had slowly turned into your favorite over time, too.

kento fills up the two bowls to the brim of the delicious food, grinning on the inside at the simplicity of it all. just you and him. he lids the pot with the matching glass top and makes his way over to the table.

you set out place mats for the both of you, then place the wine glasses in their prospective areas. kento places the bowls on top of the mats as you grab the spoons from the counter.

in the kitchen, your bodies subconsciously dance around each other. carefully, in perfect tune and pace. delicate steps of a routine formed over so much time together.

in the universe, your souls are tied, striding alongside one another in each lifetime repeated.

and this, is love.

[dearieshima]

WANT

✦SUMMARY

╰┈➤ Choso, your big-dick, virgin boyfriend, had never ventured beyond the fervor of deep kisses. His unfamiliarity with human intimacy, coupled with the fear of losing himself in the overwhelming rush of release, kept him tethered to restraint. He wants to overcome his fear and have a mind-blowing experience with you and he needs your help to guide him through.

"Please, please," he panted incoherently, his words a mix of desperate pleading and mindless begging. "Please don't stop... I'm... I'm right there... so close... please..."

✦C.W

╰┈➤ virgin!choso, submissive!choso, dominate!reader, established relationship, hand job (m!receiving), kissing the tip, crying, soft sex kinda, praise, 3586+ words, orgasmophobia, AFAB reader, comfort

The heat between you two was electric as your lips locked in a passionate battle for dominance. Your bodies were pressed close, hearts racing with exhilaration. As the kissing grew more intense, you found yourself tiring from bending on your toes. Your thighs ached, crying out for a change in position.

Slowly, you lowered yourself, allowing your body to sink onto Choso's lap. As you did, you felt his hardness pressing instantly against you through the fabric of his sweats. He hissed at the sudden contact, his hands gripping your tights with a firm grasp.

You began to leave a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the column of his neck and down his collarbone. All the while, you grinded your hips against his, relishing the delicious friction. Choso groaned, tossing his head back off the edge of the couch, exposing more of his throat to your eager lips and tongue.

But suddenly, he sat up straight as a board, his back rigid against the cushions. At the same time his chin clashed with your forehead, his hands clenched your thighs, lifting them slightly off him as if to create some distance between your bodies.

He was panting, his mouth wide and his breaths shuddering. "Not yet..." he said, his voice a low, husky whisper. His eyes were dark with desire, and his hands gripped your thighs tightly as he held you in place. "Fuck..."

You raised an eyebrow, concern flickering in your eyes as you slipped off his lap. "Is everything alright?" You pressed a hand to your forehead, your own breath still shallow and uneven. You asked not just because his chin likely throbbed like your head did, but because of the suddenness with which he had ended things, like you were hot coal thrown on his body.

Choso nodded, his eyes squeezed shut as he took in deep, steadying breaths. His hands clenched together in a bundle in his lap, guarding his obvious arousal. Then they unfolded and Choso bent down, his hands now guarding his face in embarrassment. "Yeah," he rasped, his voice rough. "Just... need a moment. Can you turn off the music?"

You reached for the remote, your movements quick and deliberate, and silenced the T.V, the sensual ambient music fading away. The room was now filled with the sounds of both of your ragged breathing.

He straightened and looked back up at you with lust-clouded eyes. "Sorry…” he began, his eyes averting, “I didn't expect you to... get so aggressive," he whispered.

"I’m sorry," you whispered sincerely, concern etched on your features. "Should we stop for a moment? I won't be offended if you need a break, or if you want to stop all together."

Choso shook his head and then chuckled weakly, still trying to catch his breath. "No... it's okay. You just..."

He paused, his hands loosening their grip on his sweats. He took another deep breath and looked up at you with a gentle smile. "You just caught me off guard, that's all."

Choso, your big-dick, virgin boyfriend, had never ventured beyond the fervor of deep kisses, not even tempted during in the intimacy of shared showers. His unfamiliarity with human intimacy, coupled with the fear of losing himself in the overwhelming rush of release, kept him tethered to restraint. The idea of surrender, of being swept away by ecstasy, haunted him. He feared that in offering you all of him, laying his soul bare, he might unravel in ways that would make you turn away.

Yet, beneath that fear, a deep yearning stirred within him. He longed to share those tender, unspoken moments of intimacy with you. He had watched scenes of lovers consumed by their lust, eyes ablaze with passion. Choso wondered how they could give so much, how they could surrender fully and still be loved for their vulnerability, how their eyes could carry so much love and at the same time a burning hunger to devour each other. He ached to know that with you, to feel your skin against his as you moved together in perfect sync, to look in each other’s eyes in worship and at the same time, think of how much you wanted to see the other crumble. He imagined looking into your eyes in that moment, seeing the reflection of love and desire, wanting to watch you break apart, knowing he was the cause.

The thought sent his heart racing - the idea of tracing slow kisses along the curve of your neck, feeling the softness of your body beneath his fingertips, hearing your breath hitch in pleasure. Choso wanted nothing more than to make love to you, share whispered confessions meant only for your ears. But his fear stood like an unmovable wall, holding him back, uncertain if he could ever give in to that kind of surrender.

But tonight, he’s willing to climb that wall, just as long as you scaled it with him.

"How about this," you whispered, your breath tickling his ear. "How about you tell me how I should help you? Tell me what you like."

Choso’s eyes widened, pupils widening like ink spreading in water, his breath steadying as your words sank in. A soft flush bloomed across his cheeks, warm and unbidden, like the first light of dawn catching fire in the sky. If you didn’t know better, you might’ve mistaken it for the stirring of his blood technique.

Choso swallowed hard, trying to gather his thoughts. He took a moment to think, swallowing heavily as he tried to put his thoughts into words. "I... I don't really know," he admitted sheepishly. "I've never done anything like this before, so I don't really know what I like."

"We've kissed before, and touched a little. Did you like anything I did before?"

Choso nodded, his blush deepening. "I... I liked it when you were on top of me," he admitted, his voice slightly hoarse. "And when you... when you kissed my neck."

With a graceful motion, you swung your leg over Choso’s lap, settling into place as your gaze locked with his, deep and smoldering. His hands found your hips as if drawn by an unspoken force, fingers curling gently against your skin, the connection between you as natural as breathing. "Do you want me to kiss your neck?"

Choso nodded, his breathing growing heavier as he imagined it. "Yes," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, thick with yearning. "Please," he added softly, the word trembling in the air, as though without it, you might deny him what he so quietly craved.

Slowly, teasingly, you leaned in and brushed your soft lips against the sensitive flesh of his neck. Choso shuddered, his hands gripping your hips as a soft gasp escaped his parted lips. You continued your assault, trailing open-mouthed kisses along his throat, tasting the salt of his skin. "Don't stop," Choso whispered urgently, his voice thick with desire.

You followed the unspoken rhythm, lips grazing softly down to his collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth in your wake. Your mouth lingered at his throat, brushing the delicate curve of his Adam’s apple as it dipped with a quiet tremor of pleasure. With a slow, deliberate path back upward, you paused to let your tongue dance over the quickened beat of his pulse. Choso’s breath escaped in a quiet, low groan, his head falling back in a gesture of blissful surrender, as if yielding entirely to the moment between you.

"You're being so good for me," you murmured against his throat, nipping lightly. "I love how responsive you are."

"More," he breathed, his voice shaky. "I want... I want more."

"What do you want me to do?" you asked, your voice soft and inviting.

Choso's hands gripped your thighs tighter, his body tensing. "I want... I want you to keep touching me," he said, his voice trembling a little. "I want you to keep making me feel good."

"Where do you want me to make you feel good, Choso?"

Choso's breathing grew ragged as he considered your question. "Everywhere," he said hoarsely. "I want you to touch me... everywhere."

As he spoke, his hands moved from your thighs to your hips, his fingers tracing patterns against your hips. "I want to feel your hands all over me," he added, his voice strained with need.

Your fingers trailed from his neck, down the center of his chest, following the contours of his muscles. "Like this?"

His own hands flex on your hips, fingers digging in slightly as if to anchor himself. The air between you is charged, heavy with anticipation. Choso's chest rises and falls rapidly, his skin flushed and gleaming in the low light. He looks utterly debauched already, and you've barely even touched him. "Y-yes," he gasped. "God, yes. That feels... that feels good."

As you run your fingers along his chest, you can feel the warmth emanating from his skin, like a furnace burning beneath your touch. His muscles twitch and ripple under your fingertips, responding to your gentle caresses. You can sense the power and strength within him, and it's utterly captivating. "Do you want me to continue going down?"

Choso's heart rate quickened as your question sunk in, and he swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing. "Yes," he whispered, his voice ragged. "Please, yes."

Your hands move lower, tracing the contours of his abs, feeling the way they tighten and relax as his breathing becomes more labored. You can hear his heart pounding, the rhythmic thumping echoing in your ears like a primal drumbeat. It drums fast, and you have a hunch to where the extra blood flow is traveling to.

When your fingers skim over the waistband of his pants, Choso lets out a choked moan, hips canting upwards in a silent plea. His hands gripped your hips tighter, his body trembling in anticipation when your forefinger hooked both his sweats and boxers.

"Color?"

Choso shuddered as your finger teased the edge of his pants, and he took a moment to catch his breath before responding. "Green," he said, his voice raspy but determined. "Definitely green. Please, don't stop."

You sank to your knees, your hands caressing his thighs as you parted his legs. With deliberate slowness, you parted his legs, revealing the bulge beneath his pants. Your mouth watered in anticipation as you peeled away his restrictive garments, unveiling his rigid, pulsating cock. It stood proud and erect, a deep shade of purple at the engorged tip, the foreskin pushed back, a clear sign of its untouched, virgin state. You noted he was uncut, which also fueled the testament that nobody had ever ventured near his dick before.

Droplets of pre-cum glistened at the tip, hanging like droplets from a leaf, beckoning you to catch them with your tongue. Your heart raced as you leaned in close to adjust yourself, your warm breath teasing the sensitive head of his cock. The salty musk of his arousal filled your nostrils. You couldn't resist any longer. Your tongue darted out, catching one of the droplets, savoring the taste. The sensation of your velvety tongue on his hypersensitive skin caused Choso to gasp, his hips bucking instinctively in a whine. After, you leaned in close, your warm breath ghosting over his skin as you placed a single, feather-light kiss on the very tip.

His hands gripped the couch cushions on either side of him, as if clinging to something to anchor himself. "Color?" you asked softly, your voice gentle and soothing.

Choso took another shaky breath, his chest heaving. "Green," he repeated, his voice hoarse. "I-I'm okay. Just... please keep going."

His hands remained clenched tight around the couch cushions, his knuckles turning white.

"Are you sure?" you asked, reaching out to gently touch his hand. "You seem so tense."

Choso swallowed, his cheeks flooding with a deep blush as his thumb circled nervously at your hand. "I... I'm just a little nervous," he admitted softly. "But... but I want this. I want you," he added, his voice a strained whisper.

Listening to him, you let go of his hand and snuggled up between his thighs, your breasts gently pressing against the soft cushions of the couch. Your fingers, like curious tendrils, began to snake their way down his rigid shaft, tracing the bold, pulsing veins that ran along its length.

Choso let out a sharp gasp, his body involuntary jerking at your touch. His eyes squeezed shut, and he panted heavily, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths until he could steady himself enough to speak. "Y/N..." he breathed your name, his voice a mixture of awe and desire. "That... that feels good..."

"You look like you're about to explode."

Choso's breathing grew even more ragged, his chest heaving erratically as you continued to touch him. "I... I feel like I am," he admitted, his voice strained. "But I don't want to… I don’t want to make a mess…"

He grips the edge of the couch tightly, his knuckles turning white from the force. You can see the conflict in his eyes. "If I keep going, you're going to," you say, stopping your hands. "It's okay to let go, Choso. I promise you'll feel better, and I'll be gentle."

Choso took a couple more deep breaths, his body visibly shaking with the effort to hold himself together. His eyes met yours, a mixture of fear and desire in them.

"I... I don't want to embarrass myself," he said, his voice low and vulnerable. "I want to make you feel good too... I don't want to fail."

"You won't embarrass yourself because it's just me and you," You said, gently. "Making you feel good makes me feel good."

Choso's gaze held a mixture of vulnerability and yearning, and you could see the relief wash over him as he nodded. His voice, a soft, husky whisper, trembled ever so slightly as he spoke, "Just... just go slow, please."

Complying with his request, you allowed your hands to reclaim their position, your fingers tracing languid circles around his hardening length. Your fingers danced along his shaft, tracing the pulsing veins and ridges. You could feel him throb and twitch beneath your touch, his breaths coming faster now. Gently, you swirled your thumb around the sensitive head, smearing the glistening precum in slow, teasing circles. Emboldened by his whimpers, you wrapped your fingers around him fully, stroking up and down in a steady rhythm. Your other hand came up to fondle his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm.

Choso's head fell back against the edge of the couch, his eyes pinched shut. A deep, guttural moan escaped his lips, and his body trembled. "Oh God," he panted, his head falling back onto the couch.

"Shh," You said, "it's alright, Choso."

Choso shuddered, his hands clenching the edge of the couch even tighter than before. "I... I can't..." he breathed, his voice ragged. "I don't know how..."

His body tensed even more, the muscles in his thighs trembling. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breaths came in sharp gasps. "I... I’m going to..." his voice trailed off, too overwhelmed to continue.

"You don't have to think about it, just trust your body." You whispered, your breath hot against his skin.

Your hands moved faster, stroking and squeezing with expert precision. Choso's body writhed beneath you, his muscles tensing and releasing in a delicious rhythm. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps, and his eyes rolled back in ecstasy.

"Please, please," he panted incoherently, his words a mix of desperate pleading and mindless begging. "Please don't stop... I'm... I'm right there... so close... please..."

His fingers dug deeper into the cushions, leaving small indentations behind. His breathing grew more ragged, and you could feel the tremors running through his body. You slowed your movements, teasing him mercilessly, watching as he struggled to maintain control.

"Y... Y/NNN..." he croaked, your name coming out slurred in his mouth, drunk on the feeling you were giving him.

"Don't beg me," You said, gently as my hands continued their speed. "I can't make you release. If you want it, you need to let go yourself.”

Choso's body was taut, his legs trembling from the effort he was exerting to keep control. He took a shuddering breath, opening his eyes to look at you, tears of frustration and pleasure brimming in them.

"It’s going to be okay."

A bead of sweat trickled down Choso's temple as he drew in a labored, quivering breath. His chest heaved, the muscles straining with the effort of restraint. His eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with desire, flickered shut, surrendering to the insatiable hunger that had been gnawing at him. He trusted you, and he trusted his body.

His head fell back against the plush, velvety cushions of the couch, the softness cradling his skull as he succumbed to the tidal wave of carnal bliss. His right hand slammed on his mouth just as the dam within him burst, unleashing a primal, guttural moan that reverberated through the room.

Choso's hips bucked off the couch, his body arching in a frenzied, involuntary response to the euphoria coursing through his veins. Warm, sticky semen gushed forth, painting the air with strings of rampant lust. Some of the thick, pearly essence landed on your face, tracing a hot, wet trail down your cheek before you could tilt your head. Your tongue darted out, tasting the salty favor of Choso's essence.

As the final, shuddering spasms wracked his body, the last of his release coated his abdomen, your fingers traced the path of the spilled cum, smearing it across his skin in a sensual caress.

“Good job,” you whispered softly, your words a gentle anchor, bringing him back from where he had drifted.

Choso's body, slick with sweat and the remnants of his climax, trembled beneath your touch. His chest rose and fell in deep, ragged breaths, signaling the aftershocks of his orgasm. His eyes, still closed, fluttered open, meeting yours with a hazy, satisfied gaze.

Choso let out a long, shuddering sigh as he collapsed back onto the couch, his body spent and trembling. He looked dazed, his eyes half open and his breaths still shallow.

His chest rose and fell rapidly with each breath he took, his body still recovering from its release. "Wow," he breathed, his voice a little raspy. "That was... that was..."

His eyes darted to you, as if trying to find the words to express what he'd just experienced.

They widened, unabashedly taking in the sight of his cum in your hair as you cleaned yourself, the crimson hue staining his cheeks blazed in a vivid blush. His voice, still rough, trembled as he stammered, "I... I'm sorry. I didn't mean for... for that to happen on... on you."

You smiled, the corners of your lips curling upward as you crawled back onto his lap, your body pressing against his, igniting a spark of desire between you. Choso shifted, pushing himself into a sitting position, his fingers raking through his disheveled hair in a mixture of embarrassment and lust. "It's okay," you reassured him, the warmth in your tone inviting. "I liked it, and you were enjoying yourself so it's okay."

Choso's blush deepened, spreading to the tips of his ears as he admitted, "I... I did enjoy myself." His voice quivered, the intensity of his confession palpable. "A lot. Like...a lot a lot."

"That's good," you murmured, your voice a soft caress against Choso's ear, as you eased yourself onto his lap. The heat of his body enveloped you, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat. Your fingers threaded through his hair, each stroke a tender exploration, eliciting a low, contented sigh from the man beneath you.

His strong arms encircled your waist, drawing you closer, their warmth a comforting embrace. Choso leaned into your touch, his body yielding to the gentle pressure of your fingertips, the tension in his muscles dissolving like snow under a spring sun.

"I don't think I've ever felt so..." he began, struggling to find the right word. "So... spent. But in a good way."

Your eyes met his in a brief, intimate glance, and you offered a small, knowing smile. "Do you feel as if the weight of the world has been lifted, if only for a moment?"

Choso considered your words, his brow furrowing before he shook his head.

Your head tilted to the side, an innocent quirk to your expression as you gazed up at him, the flicker of curiosity in your eyes. "Hm? Why?"

He returned your gaze, his own eyes now smoldering with a newfound hunger, the fire of lust consuming the depths of his gaze. The intensity of it shot a shiver down your spine.

"I... I feel relaxed," he began, his voice slow and deliberate, "but I also feel... I feel like I need more. You haven't cum yet."

"I’m okay, Cho. Tonight was just about you."

Choso's head shook from side to side. "No," he said huskily. His fingers drawn circles on your waist as his hold on them tightened. He looked at you, his pupils widening and a blush settling in his face. "I want to make you feel good too. I don't want to be the only one to feel this."

part 2