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hannieuyuyu · 23 hours ago

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FARMER TOJI X BUNNY READER HEADCANONS

cw - lots of weird shit, dubcon, piss kink in like three of them, anal play, daddy kink… uh dark content?? Idk but just be mindful while reading bc some can be gross.

Toji’s got a fixation—an obsession—with your tail, and it shows in the way he can’t keep his hands off it. You’re bent down to pick vegetables in the garden with your back arched and your butt poking out? He’s already looming over you like a shadow. Rubbing his bulge on your fluffy tail while groaning. He’ll grind against you through his jeans while his big hand cups your tail and squeezes, muttering, “Fuuck, look at this little thing wiggling for me”.

He uses your ears as handles. Doesn’t matter if he’s kissing you, fucking you in the barn, or yanking your bratty ass back into his lap — he’ll tug them just to make you squeal. He loves how sensitive they are, how a light pull makes you whimper and melt. Sometimes he’ll wrap one ear around his fist while pushing his cock deeper, using it like reins.

After a long, sweaty day—he stinks of work and sweat, and he always pulls you right into his spreaded lap before showering. He’ll shove your head down and make you nuzzle against his tented crotch, cooing, “Go on, sweetheart, bunny’s nose belongs right there”. He gets off on you twitching and sniffing him like a desperate little pet while he’s half-hard in his dirty jeans.

He calls you his “little farmhand,” but everyone in town knows you’re really just his cockwarmer. He’ll plop you down on his stiff cock while he sharpens tools or fixes something at the workbench. You’ll sit there stuffed full of cock while it marinates in your creamy cunt, your soft tail brushing his stomach, while he ignores your needy whines. “Sit still. If my cock slips out, you’re getting punished”.

He’ll finger your little asshole just because he can. Usually, when you’re already cockdrunk, drooling, and begging while impaled by his dick—he’ll slide a thick finger up your rim and watch you twitch while swallowing his finger up. He loves murmuring nasty shit while he does it, like, “Bunny’s holes don’t know which one to squeeze harder”. Sometimes he makes you hold a plug while you do chores in the field, just to hear you whimper every time you bend down and it shifts deeper.

Farmer Toji’s favorite way to cum is fucking you on your stomach, burying your face into the hay while he presses your tail down flat and ruts into your ass cheeks while he squeezes them together to fuck between them. He loves watching fat flesh jiggle and spread around his swollen cock, groaning, “Goddamn, this ass was made for me”. Half the time he cums just from rubbing himself on your tail and hole before he even sinks in.

He feeds you carrots straight from the field— except he makes you eat them with your mouth while he rubs your wet pussy with another. Sometimes he’ll stick one inside you and make you keep it there while you squirm around the house. “Don’t drop it, darling. That’s dinner”. He eats it later, laughing while you hide your face in embarrassment.

Toji’s nasty enough to breed you like an actual pet. He’ll force your knees up to your chest, rut into you meanly, and groan about how cute his warm cum looks steeping out of your ruined cunt. “Gonna pump you full every night ‘til you can’t walk straight. My little bunny hole’s nothing but a nest for my cock”. He’s obsessed with how small you are under him, how his fat load leaks down your thighs when he pulls out.

He lovesss fucking you outside, while you’re bent over the fence, tail twitching against his pelvis, his hands on your lower back keeping you pressed down. He gets off on the thought of the neighbors seeing—on you being used like his dirty little slut in broad daylight. He tells you to keep your ears up so anyone passing could see you, even though you whine and protest.

When he’s really mean, he makes you straddle his lap while he milks the cows. Your tiny cunt's stuffed full on his cock, bouncing down gently with every movement he makes. If you whine too much, he slaps your ass and squeezes it hard enough to bruise, and says, “Shut up. You’re just a cockwarmer ‘til I’m done working”. By the time he finally fucks you for real, you’re incoherent, dripping down all his heavy balls and thighs.

Toji can’t walk behind you without grinding on your tail. If you’re carrying a basket of vegetables, he’ll come up behind, sticking his cock between your cheeks, and letting the pre that’s dribbling out his tip leaks on your cotton hair while groaning, “Careful, sweetheart. I’ll spill my seed before you spill those tomatoes”.

He lives to grope you while you’re busy. Washing dishes? He’s behind you, big hands groping your soft tits, cock nestled snugly between your ass cheeks, and letting his angry tip rub against both of your holes. Hanging laundry? He’s got your panties down and two fingers knuckle-deep before you can protest.

Sometimes he just wants to bury his face in your ass. You’ll be bent over feeding animals, and suddenly he’s got your upper body pinned, eager tongue pushing between your cheeks and lapping a long stride from your drooling cunt to twitching asshole. “Mm, your ass smells sweeter every day. Daddy’s addicted”.

He’ll make you ride his cock backwards in the tractor seat while he drives slowly around the property. One hand on the wheel, the other on your hips, muttering, “Don’t stop bouncing. Gotta keep daddy awake”. He spanks your poor cheeks real hard till they’re red whenever you’re slowing down.

He jerks off to your tail when you’re not looking. Sometimes you’ll catch him in the barn, fist pumping his weeping cock while he stares at the way it twitches when you hop around. He doesn’t even look guilty — just smirks, grabs you, and finishes on it instead.

He gets nasty when you wear skirts — always shoving your panties to the side instead of pulling them down. He’ll growl in your ear, “Too much work. Just need your holes”. And he fucks you like that until the fabric is soaked.

Morning wood means you’re getting stuffed before breakfast. He’ll roll you onto your back, still half-asleep, and push in slow. “Shh, bunny. Daddy’s gotta drain it somewhere”. He keeps going until you’re panting, tail twitching, and the sheets are a mess.

He jerks off on your ears just to watch them flop heavy with his cum. Then he makes you lick them clean. “That’s my good girl. Bunny knows daddy’s mess belongs in her mouth”.

He kisses your rim the way most men kiss a mouth — sloppy, wet, sucking at it with obscene pops. Sometimes he’ll mutter against it, “Love this lil’ hole too much,” before stuffing his tongue back in until you squeak.

He’s obsessed with spitting on your cunt. Not once, but over and over, letting it drip in your hole before fingering it deeper. He’ll mutter, “Sloppy holes need sloppy prep,” before shoving his cock in with an nasty squelch.

Farmer Toji hates condoms and pulling out. He cums in you multiple times a day and makes you waddle around leaking, panties soiled and ruined. He’ll check you at the end of the night, pushing two thick fingers in and scooping out what’s left, then shoving it past your lips. “Good bunny eats what she can’t keep inside”.

He’s so vocal and filthy. He’ll say shit like, “You hear that, bunny? Daddy’s cock stirring your guts,” or “Pussy’s foaming all over the place”. He gets nastier the closer he is to cumming, babbling about how tight, sticky, wet, and perfect your holes are.

Toji will piss in the field and make you watch, grinning at your ears twitching as you stare. Sometimes he pulls you over it after and says, “Squat right here, bunny. Mark this spot with me. Let’s give earth a drink, yeah?”. He gets hard just seeing you pee in the dirt, and mixing your piss together.

He jerks off into whatever you’re eating when he’s feeling pervy. He’ll stir it in your oatmeal or smear it on cornbread butter. “C’mon, baby, eat up. Daddy put a little extra protein in there”. He watches until you lick the spoon clean.

He makes you rub your feet on his cock when he’s laid back in his chair on the front porch while smoking. He groans when your toes flex around him, muttering, “Cute little paws. Work daddy’s cock ‘til I mess the floor”.

Toji rarely reaches for lube — he just spits or uses his own cum. He’ll finger your little ass with the load he just pumped inside your pussy, groaning, “Why waste it? Bunny’s holes should be filled with me anyway”.

He’s a pervert about your scent. He’ll push your face into the mattress, spread your cheeks apart, and breathe in deep like it’s air. “Fuck, you smell better than fresh-cut hay”.

He’s gross enough to talk to your pussy while he’s fucking it. “That’s it, sweetheart, squeeze daddy tighter. Good lil’ cunt”. Then he smacks your ass and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll give the backdoor some attention after”.

On long wagon rides into town, he makes you sit on his cock the whole way, skirt pulled down over your lap. He talks casually to passing neighbors while you twitch, cock nudging your cervix with every bump in the road.

When he’s creampied you, he sometimes doesn’t let you run off to the toilet. He takes you to the yard, presses his cock back against your messy slit, and tells you to pee with him while his cum leaks out. “Piss daddy’s load out nice and sloppy. Let me watch”.

He gets nasty about punishing your clit — not mean, just filthy. He’ll tap it with his plump cockhead over and over until you’re squealing, then finally slide in, groaning, “Had to tenderize this little pearl before I overstimulate it”.

Half the time he’s fucking your pussy from behind, he’s spreading your cheeks apart just to stare at your rim twitching at him. “This little eye’s winking at me, begging for daddy’s thumb”. He rubs spit all over it before sinking his thumb in every single time.

While you gush from his fingers, he pins your thighs open and drags his nose side to side over your clit through the mess. He laughs at your squeaks, “Sensitive lil’ pearl loves daddy’s nose more than his cock”.

When you squat to pee, Toji’s already there on his knees, shoving his nose right against your slit while the stream splashes down. He inhales deep through it, groaning, “Fuck…smells so good”. He usually strokes his cock until he nuts in the puddle you just made.

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hannieuyuyu · 1 day ago

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to love wide open 🏐 seungcheol x reader.

sometimes he forgets that he can’t love you the way he coaches. he forgets that tenderness can’t be barked into existence. (or: your boyfriend seungcheol remembers how to love again.)

🏐 pairing. athletic trainer!choi seungcheol x sports nutritionist!reader. 🏐 word count. 5.2k. 🏐 genres/includes. romance, hurt/comfort. alternate universe: non-idol, derivative from haikyuu!! where csc is timeskip iwaizumi. mentions of an injury. new relationship, love in all its forms, do we really ever escape food as a metaphor for devotion?, svt ensemble. title & excerpts from marge piercy’s to have without holding. 🏐 footnotes. there are layers here that i cannot even begin to unpack, but i will say this: @heartepub is one of the most brilliant people i have ever had the pleasure of meeting on this side of the internet. to share the same spaces with her is a privilege; to share the same interests, a joy. here’s the different pieces of our hearts e.g. hq, svt, poetry, all crammed into one 🫶 pagbati, viv!!! ily to no end. :”)

“LEARNING TO LOVE DIFFERENTLY IS HARD, / LOVE WITH THE HANDS WIDE OPEN, LOVE / WITH THE DOORS BANGING ON THEIR HINGES, / THE CUPBOARD UNLOCKED, THE WIND / ROARING AND WHIMPERING IN THE ROOMS...”

Seungcheol clocks in at 8:23 A.M., the fluorescent lights of the training facility buzzing faintly overhead. The hallways smell faintly of disinfectant and resin from the polished floors. He’s already half awake from his morning run, body humming with that restless energy he can never seem to burn off completely. Still, when he sees you waiting by the nutrition office, his chest steadies in a way he never admits out loud.

“Morning,” you say, soft enough that no one passing by would think twice about it. Just colleagues. Just two people who happen to start early.

Your eyes flicker to his, holding for a beat too long. It’s a small thing, but it shifts the air between you. A hinge unfastened.

“Morning,” Seungcheol echoes.

His voice is even, practiced, but his thoughts betray him. He wants to reach for your hand, wants to brush his knuckles against yours. Instead, he slides his ID card through the scanner and lets the beep cover the silence that follows.

Learning to love differently is hard. That line has been stuck in his head since you showed him the poem last week, reading it aloud in the hush of his apartment. He thinks about it now, here. Under the stark gaze of the federation, the players, the staff; his hands feel perpetually curled into fists, holding too tightly.

You walk together toward the gym. Your steps fall in rhythm, though you keep a careful space between you. When you speak, it’s about protein ratios, about the dinner menu for the players returning from Korea. When he replies, it’s about muscle fatigue and recovery schedules. To anyone else, it’s nothing. But he hears the warmth threading through your voice, the way you tilt your head just slightly when you listen to what he has to say.

At the entrance to the training hall, voices echo off the high ceilings. Coaches calling drills, players laughing, shoes squeaking on the polished wood. You pause, glancing up at him with a half-smile that doesn’t belong to the professional version of you. “See you at lunch?”

He wants to say yesyesyes too quickly. Instead, he scratches the back of his neck, keeps his tone measured. “Yeah. Cafeteria?”

“Cafeteria,” you confirm. Your smile deepens, fleeting, and then you’re gone. Back into the tide of movement, clipboard tucked against your chest.

Seungcheol watches you go, then shakes himself, forcing his mind into the day’s work. He knows how dangerous it is, this quiet orbit you both maintain.

Seungcheol tracks the day’s drills with a trainer’s eye, calling out corrections, noting the angle of a shoulder, the hesitation in a knee. Despite it all, his focus drifts, sliding between present and memory.

He shouldn’t let it. Not here, not with the court alive around him. Still—

You’d been there from the beginning, back in the crowded lecture halls of the sports science program. Always front row, scribbling meticulous notes, while he slouched a row back, pretending he didn’t need to try so hard. He hadn’t loved you then. Or maybe he had, in a way that didn’t yet have a name. Admiration disguised as irritation. A laugh he caught himself waiting for. The way you’d tap your pen against the desk when you disagreed with a professor, and how he catalogued it for future disagreements with you.

The memory flickers: a library table between you, stacks of anatomy textbooks, late-night ramen runs when exams loomed too close. He’d thought of you as sharp, untouchable, always two steps ahead. Not someone who could be his.

Years later, a chance reunion at a sports conference. You, in a blazer instead of a hoodie, your voice steadier but still carrying that same bite. A drink shared after the seminar. He hadn’t expected the tilt of the world when your hand brushed his on the table, when you looked at him like you finally saw him for more than the guy always late to lectures.

Dating you still feels new, raw at the edges. Months, not years. He’s still learning what it means to fit his life around yours, to keep something so important hidden in the corners of workdays. Sometimes he wonders if you feel the same ache—the desire to say your name out loud here, in this space, without thinking twice.

A ball slams against the net, snapping him halfway back. He blinks, adjusts his stance, mutters a command. But his mind pulls again, unspooling the image of you on that first night he walked you home. How the streetlight carved a halo out of your hair, how he’d thought, absurdly, so this is what it feels like to start.

“Cheol,” a voice cuts through, sing-song and smug. Jeonghan, leaning against the sideline with all the ease of someone who’s never known shame. “You spacing out, old man? Want me to run the drills for you?”

Seungcheol exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Shut it, Hannie. Focus on your toss before I make you run suicides.”

The players snicker; Jeonghan only grins wider, unbothered. But Seungcheol squares his shoulders, forces his gaze back to the court. He can’t afford to drift now. Later, maybe, when the hall is quiet and the only sound left is the memory of your laugh ringing in his ears.

At lunchtime, the cafeteria sings with the clatter of trays and the chatter of staff and athletes. Seungcheol walks in with Chan at his side, the younger man bounding ahead to wave enthusiastically at the nutritionists’ table. Subtlety has never been Chan’s skill.

You’re already seated, bent slightly over a tray of rice bowls and grilled fish. Wonwoo sits across from you, expression calm as always, though his eyes flicker up when Chan drops his tray onto the table with a clatter.

“Saved you a spot,” Chan grins, gesturing at the open seat beside him. Your gaze tilts, quick, toward the chair across from you. A silent invitation. Seungcheol hesitates only a second before claiming it.

“Busy morning?” you ask, voice casual as ever. Workplace politeness.

“Same as always,” Seungcheol grunts, unwrapping his chopsticks. He doesn’t add that he’d spent half of it trying not to think about you, that his focus had frayed like worn tape around an ankle.

Conversation unfolds easily enough. Chan launches into an animated retelling of a rally drill, his arms flailing wide as though the cafeteria itself might transform into a court. You laugh, head tipping back, and Seungcheol feels it for a moment.

A tight coil low in his chest. It isn’t mistrust. It’s more—the sharp reminder that he isn’t the only one who notices the way your smile softens the air around you.

Even Wonwoo cracks a small grin, dryly remarking, “You’re exaggerating again. No one jumped that high, Chan.”

Chan protests, you laugh again, and Seungcheol pokes absently at his rice. For a flicker of a second, jealousy nips at him. Irrational, but real. He imagines what it would be like to eat with you alone, without Chan’s dramatics or Wonwoo’s quiet observation. Just the two of you, like last Thursday when you’d shared a corner table and your foot brushed his under the table until he nearly forgot to eat.

Your eyes catch his then, lingering. You raise your chopsticks, gesture lightly at his untouched food. “Don’t let it get cold.”

Simple words. Beneath them, something steadier, something just for him. Assurance. His chest loosens, and he exhales a huff of a laugh, finally taking a bite.

He listens as Chan continues his theatrics and Wonwoo interjects with understated wit. But his gaze drifts to you again, to the curve of your smile, to the way your sleeve brushes the table edge.

In that moment, he knows: no matter the noise around you, it’s him you’ll go home with tonight. That thought alone settles him, a secret weight he carries like a talisman.

Love, he thinks, might be this. Doors locked to the world but open in the spaces between your eyes and his.

“… TO HOLD BACK WHAT IS OWED TO THE WORK / THAT GUTTERS LIKE A CANDLE IN A CAVE / WITHOUT AIR, TO LOVE CONSCIOUSLY, / CONSCIENTIOUSLY, CONCRETELY, CONSTRUCTIVELY.”

Here’s the thing, though: Seungcheol knows he is not a perfect man. He doesn’t even come close.

He’s stubborn to the bone, the kind of trainer who shouts until his throat is raw, who smacks a ball across the net hard enough to bruise just to prove a point. Firm, unrelenting, sometimes too much. The players forgive him because they know his anger burns out fast, replaced by dogged care. He prays your forgiveness will come just as easily.

It slips out in small ways. The same bluntness that gets a setter to snap his wrist properly comes out when you suggest a new supplement. “That won’t work,” he says too quickly, too sharp, and the flicker in your eyes is enough to make him hate himself.

You don’t argue, but you go quiet, and the silence cuts more deeply than any shouted retort ever could.

At lunch, at meetings, even at home—sometimes he forgets that he can’t love you the way he coaches. He forgets that tenderness can’t be barked into existence.

Tonight it shows up again. You’re at his apartment, sprawled on the couch with player reports between you. You mention an idea for recovery nutrition, and without thinking, he shoots it down. “That’s not practical. They won’t stick to it.”

You lower the papers slowly, look at him with a calm he both fears and craves. “You don’t have to talk to me like I’m one of your athletes, Cheol,” you say.

The words settle heavy. He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling as if he’s trying to wring out his own lungs. “I know. I’m—shit. I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything at first. He meets your gaze and forces himself not to look away. Finally, you lean back, lips curving into something small but steady. “I need you to remember I’m not one of your players.”

He lets out a rough laugh, the kind that tastes almost like relief. “Right. You’re worse. You actually win the arguments.”

You nudge his knee with yours, and the warmth of it spreads through him, grounding. “Then let me win this one.”

He nods. “You win,” he sighs, arms already reaching out to pull you in.

Maybe this is what it means—to love with the doors open, even when it means seeing the drafts, the places where the wind sneaks through. To admit he isn’t perfect, but to try anyway. To love not in instinct, but in practice.

Seungcheol tries to remind himself that he’s always been responsible.

Back in high school, responsibility was practically stitched into his skin. Aoba Johsai’s vice-captain, the one who stayed behind to pick up stray balls, who kept the team from splintering when Jeonghan’s temper ran hot. Seungcheol wasn’t brilliant, not like the setters or the aces, but he was steady. Dependable. The one who never let the line break.

He tells himself he can be that same man with you.

After last night—after the way his words came out too edged—he tries harder. He cleans up the apartment before you come over, folds the laundry instead of leaving it in the basket, sets a glass of water by the bed without you asking.

None of it feels grand, but that isn’t the point. It’s the small, deliberate acts. He wants you to feel that steadiness in him, even when the rest of the world spins madly on.

But sometimes he falters; he’s only human. He feels it in the flare of annoyance when you tease him for forgetting your umbrella, in the tightness of his jaw when you argue over recovery methods for the players. He hates that he can’t always hold himself in check. Responsibility, yes. He can take the weight of a team, the burden of discipline.

This is different. This is you. He never wants you to feel like his temper is something you have to weather.

This time around, you notice the tension before he can smother it. You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, when you glance at him and say, “You’re grinding your teeth again.”

He startles, unclenches his jaw. “Sorry,” he grinds out.

You tilt your head. “Don’t apologize. Just… don’t hold it in like that.”

The simplicity of it barrels him over. He rubs at the back of his neck, forces a laugh. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy,” you answer, eyes steady on him. “It’s just supposed to be honest.”

Something in his chest pulls taut, then exhales. He leans back. “I’m trying,” he admits. The words taste raw, but true. “I don’t always get it right, but I’m trying.”

You set the laptop aside, lean closer, and rest your hand over his. Seungcheol looks the way it fits so naturally, and thinks of how he wants to be the steady burn, not the sputter. He laces his fingers through yours, as if to remind himself: love isn’t just what he feels in his chest. It’s what he chooses, again and again, even when it’s hard.

You have your own way of loving him. Seungcheol notices it in the way you hover by the stove, or the way your eyes flick toward his plate, calculating whether he’s eaten enough, eaten right. Constructive, he thinks. The way you put the body back together, brick by brick, meal by meal.

It makes sense. You’re a nutritionist. Of course you’d see food as a language. Of course you’d speak it fluently.

He sits at the counter and watches you portion out his dinner with the same focus you bring to the team’s meal plans. It should feel clinical, maybe, but it doesn’t. It feels personal. Sacred, even. Like every grain of rice, every slice of chicken, is a reminder: I see you. I care for you.

“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he muses, though the words have no weight. He knows you’ll ignore them.

Sure enough, you glance at him over your shoulder, smiling ruefully. “And let you live off instant ramen? Not a chance.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. Stubborn. Just as stubborn as he is, but in a way that softens rather than hardens. “You’re going to spoil me.”

“That’s the point.”

Every meal you set in front of him is more than food—it’s an invitation to stay, to belong. He indulges you, lets you slide another portion onto his plate even when he swears he’s full; lets you nag him about hydration, iron intake, vitamin D. He indulges it because every time he does, he falls a little harder. And maybe that’s reckless, maybe it’s too soon, but he can’t bring himself to stop.

When you set the bowl down in front of him, he meets your eyes and breathes, “Thank you.”

You raise a brow. “For the food?”

“For the food,” he says, then, quieter, “and everything else.”

You don’t press him, don’t make him explain. He picks up his chopsticks, keeps his head down, and tries desperately not to taste the vouchsafed devotion in each bite.

“IT HURTS TO LOVE WIDE OPEN / STRETCHING THE MUSCLES THAT FEEL / AS IF THEY ARE MADE OF WET PLASTER, / THEN OF BLUNT KNIVES, THEN / OF SHARP KNIVES.”

There’s a reason he keeps trying not to fall too hard. A reason he tempers himself, reins in the instinct to give everything.

Once, he loved wide open, without restraint. Volleyball had been that first love—the court, the burn in his lungs, the rush of his teammates’ voices ringing in his ears. He had stretched himself toward it the way a body strains past its own limits, aching but alive.

Until his body broke.

Not all at once, but in the slow betrayal of cartilage and tendon, the throb that began as nuisance and sharpened into absence.

The kind of injury that lingers even after the doctors clear you, that leaves a ghost inside your muscles. He remembers the way it felt: as if the very fibers of him had become a rebellious teenager. He learned the body’s cruelty. He learned the silence of the bench.

Even now, years later, the phantom ache flickers when he’s too still. A tightness in his knee when he climbs stairs. A dull protest in his shoulder on humid mornings. He hides it easily enough; he can run drills, bark orders, demonstrate with perfect form when the players need reminding. But he knows better. His body knows better.

And maybe that’s why he’s cautious now, when it comes to you. Because to love you feels like that same wide stretch, that same risk of tearing something he won’t recover from. He wants it, desperately, but he knows what it costs to give himself over fully. He remembers the ache of losing the thing he loved most. He can’t bear the thought of repeating it.

Guilt, heavy as lead, settles low in his chest. Your kindness unnerves him. Your patience guts him. He doesn’t know what to do with something so steady when he himself has always been a creature of extremes.

Some mornings, he wakes before you and presses his mouth to your shoulder, whispering promises into your skin. Coffee waiting, a walk together before training, a kiss so deliberate it feels like a vow. By the time you’re both at work, he’s stone-faced, barking at players and refusing to meet your eyes. Later, when you finally pass in the hallway, you only get a clipped “Good work today.” He means it, but he hates himself for how thin it sounds.

Then there are evenings when his guilt catches up. He comes to you with an apology, awkward in its repetition. “I shouldn’t have been like that. You didn’t deserve it.” He says it again the next week. And again the week after, as though every apology will wear down the damage, polish away the hurt.

You bear it with a grace that both comforts and unsettles him. Sometimes you smile, soft and tired, and tell him, “I knew what I was signing up for.”

Other times, there’s a silence between you that says forgiveness isn’t effortless, that you’re fraying in ways you won’t confess. He sees it in the shadows under your eyes, in the way your hand lingers a beat too long before slipping from his.

And yet, you still choose him. That truth devastates him.

It’s easier to face the memory of torn ligaments than to accept a love this steady, this undeserved. So he tries, in clumsy bursts. Flowers left on your desk, your favorite snack slipped into your bag, a hand brushing yours when no one’s watching. It’s not enough, he knows. But it’s the only way he can keep learning: to love, even when he falls short. Especially when he falls short.

Like today.

The ball leaves his hand wrong. He knows it the second it connects. Too much wrist, not enough shoulder. Pain streaks sharp through the joint, and the sound that follows is nothing like what he remember. Hollow, flat, humiliating. Seungcheol lets the ball drop, bouncing away across the court. He doesn’t chase it.

His body had told him this a thousand times already, every dull throb in the mornings, every stiff ache after drills with the team. But today he thought—just once. Just one clean toss, one clean swing. As if muscle memory might still love him back.

By the time you find him, he’s pacing the sideline, expression already pulled into that hard mask he wears when he doesn’t want to be read. You step into the gym with your clipboard, easy smile in place, but he can’t look at you without the weight of failure tightening his chest.

“Rough morning?” you ask gently, tone almost playful.

“Drop it,” he snaps before he can stop himself.

Too cruel. Too cold. The kind of voice he uses on rookies when they’re slacking off.

Your expression flickers for a moment. You set the clipboard down and cross your arms, not defensive, just steady. “Alright,” you say, tone betraying nothing. “Dropping it.”

That patience of yours—endless, infuriating—wrecks him. He wants you to fight back, to call him out, to remind him he’s being cruel. But you don’t. You just stay there, soft where he is jagged, calm where he is restless.

The silence stretches. He exhales harshly, dragging a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know.”

Two words, no accusation in them, and it makes him feel worse. You know. You know him, know this, know why.

The guilt flares hot, heavier than the ache in his shoulder. He wishes he could offer something equal in return. All he can manage is a rough, unpracticed honesty, his voice cracking around the edges.

“I hate that I can’t do it anymore.”

You take a step closer, close enough that your shoulder brushes his arm. “I know that, too.”

It isn’t much, but it’s enough to bring him back to earth. Your presence settles like firm and patient, even as he wrestles with the sting of loss and the sharper sting of hurting you. In that moment, he understands again why he both clings to you and fears breaking you.

You love him in ways he cannot yet forgive himself for needing.

“I CAN'T DO IT, YOU SAY IT'S KILLING / ME, BUT YOU THRIVE, YOU GLOW ON THE STREET LIKE A NEON RASPBERRY,... / ... TO HAVE / AND NOT TO HOLD, TO LOVE / WITH MINIMIZED MALICE, HUNGER / AND ANGER MOMENT BY MOMENT BALANCED.”

Another fact for the records: Seungcheol isn’t a cook.

He knows this, has always known this, the way he knows which ligaments pull first in a bad landing, which muscle groups will burn out too soon if you don’t treat them right. He’s good at the human body when it moves, when it strains, when it breaks. Not when it stands in front of a stove, blinking into a pot of simmering water as if it’s an opponent he can’t quite read.

But tonight, he tries anyway. Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s love. Some days, they look like twins to Seungcheol.

The cutting board is a battlefield of unevenly chopped vegetables, the pan smokes when it shouldn’t, and there’s oil dotting his forearm like the aftermath of bad serve receives. He mutters curses under his breath, trying to remember the order you always do things in. Garlic before onion? Or is it the other way around?

The door opens and he nearly drops the spatula. You step inside, shoulders slumped from the day, exhaustion clinging to you in the way you tug at your jacket sleeve. He should feel triumphant at the sight of the meal-in-progress. Instead, he feels like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You take one look at him and laugh. It’s not mocking; it’s surprised, affectionate. “Cheol,” you say, and the fond exasperation wedges somewhere deep inside him, tender enough to hurt.

“Don’t,” he warns, flustered, waving the spatula like it can ward off your amusement. “Go shower. I’ve got this.”

“You’re sure?” you tease, still standing in the doorway, bag slipping from your shoulder. “The kitchen looks like it went to war.”

He snorts, shakes his head, turns back to the sputtering pan. “I said I’ve got it. Shower. Now.”

You listen. You laugh again, leave your bag on the couch, and disappear down the hall with a new lightness in your step. It buys him time. Time to wrestle with the pot, with himself, with the stupid tenderness of wanting to feed you the way you always feed him.

By the time he hears the water running, the worst of the smoke has cleared. He straightens his shoulders, steadies his hands, and keeps going. Not for the food, not even for the apology, but for the ordinary act of loving you in the language you speak.

Steam curls from the bathroom when you step back into the apartment, hair damp, clothes soft against your skin. Seungcheol is hunched over the dining table, fiddling with cutlery. Two plates sit crookedly, rice clumped and a pan-fried something resting too long under the glow of the kitchen light. The effort hangs in the room like a heartbeat. Messy, awkward, painfully sincere.

He doesn’t hear you until you move closer. His shoulders jolt when you lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, still warm from the stove. He turns his head too quickly, ears tinged pink, muttering, “You were supposed to stay in there longer.”

You laugh, tease. “You wanted me to take an hour-long shower?”

“Would’ve helped,” he grumbles, but his mouth twitches like it can’t hold back the smile.

Dinner feels sacred.

You eat without complaint, without so much as a wince when the rice crunches or the meat tastes faintly of too much soy sauce. He watches you between bites, chest tightening at the sight of you swallowing every imperfection like it’s nothing. Like he’s enough.

Halfway through dinner, the words leave him before he can stop them. “I want us to go public.”

Your chopsticks still, hovering mid-air. “At work?” you clarify.

He nods, jaw set, eyes steady. But you don’t move yet, don’t answer. You place the chopsticks down carefully, study him in the way you always do—measured, piercing. “Cheol… is this just part of the apology tour?”

His reaction is immediate. “No.” He shakes his head, stubborn as stone. “It’s not about that. Not this.”

Silence threads between you. The only sound is the clock ticking, the faint hum of the fridge. You sit with it, then lift your gaze, steady as his. “Then why the sudden change of heart?”

Seungcheol sits across from you, the dim glow of the kitchen light catching in his hair, making him look younger than he feels. He folds his hands together, then unfolds them. He doesn’t quite know where to start.

Loving you feels like standing at the edge of a cliff: dizzying, terrifying, but charged with a kind of wonder he can’t name. He remembers how it felt to give his whole heart to volleyball, how that ended in pain sharp enough to cut him away from himself. He remembers now how different it feels with you, bigger than his fear, more patient than his body ever was.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, voice low. He doesn’t quite meet your eyes at first, staring instead at the chopsticks you’ve left by your plate. “Being with you… it’s not like anything I’ve known before. It’s harder, sometimes. But it’s better, too.”

He pauses, searching for the right words, knowing he’ll stumble. “I know I’m not easy. I get frustrated, I say things I don’t mean. But you…” He exhales, steadying himself. “You make me want to try anyway.”

Your gaze stays on him, unwavering. He feels it, and he forces himself not to look away.

“That’s why I don’t want to keep this quiet anymore,” he continues. “Not because of guilt, or—some apology. But because when I look at you across a table like this, I don’t want to pretend we’re less than what we are. I don’t want to keep acting like you’re not the most important part of my day.”

The words feel terribly cliché while leaving him, but they are true, rooted. He waits, heart racing, afraid he’s botched it all with his blunt honesty and his piss poor attempt at a meal.

You tilt your head, a small smile flickering at your lips. “That’s the reason?” you ask gently.

“It’s the only one,” he says, this time without falter. His hand twitches on the table, resisting the urge to reach for yours, to anchor himself in your touch. “I just… I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

The decision is made quietly, almost gently. No grand declarations, no fireworks—just your nod across the table, the slight softening of your mouth as if to say you’ve been waiting for him to catch up.

Seungcheol feels it settle in him, not as a burden but as a kind of loosening. The untying of something that’s been knotted beneath his ribs.

You go back to eating dinner. So does he.

Afterwards, he washes the dishes with sleeves rolled up, shoulders still tense out of habit. You dry beside him, the clink of bowls softened by the rhythm of your movements. Every now and then, your arm brushes his. Small collisions that remind him you are there, steady as breath. He wants to tell you again—thank you, I love you, I’m sorry—but the words snag, and instead he hands you the next plate.

“Are you sure about this?” you ask suddenly, towel brushing over porcelain.

His eyes flick to you. “About what?”

“About us. Everyone knowing.” You keep your gaze on the plate, as if it carries the weight of the answer.

Seungcheol lets out a breath, slow and measured. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

“Not even volleyball?” you tease, the corner of your mouth tilting.

He almost pouts. You hear it in his voice anyway. “Volleyball never kept me awake at night.” A pause, then softer: “You do.”

You slide the dried plate onto the stack and nudge his shoulder. “Don’t get sappy while we’re elbow-deep in dishwater,” you joke, although he catches the slight haze in your expression. The hint of emotion, appreciation.

He smirks, but his eyes linger on you. “Can’t help it.”

Later, water still clings to his skin, dampening the collar of his shirt as he steps out of the shower. He finds you already in bed, bent over a book, hair spilling like ink across the page. You glance up when he enters, and the recognition in your eyes is enough. He sits on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair slowly.

“You’re staring,” you point out, closing your book with a soft thud.

“Maybe I am.” His voice is low, unguarded. “I just… I don’t want to forget this. Any of this.”

You tilt your head, a small smile flickering. “It’s just us. Nothing special.”

“Everything about it is special,” he says before he can stop himself. It comes out rough, unpolished, but true.

You laugh, set the book aside, reach for him. “Come here, you big softie,” you sing-song.

He should deny you. Argue that nothing about him has ever been soft.

Instead, he slides under the covers, body heavy with the day, and instinct pulls him closer. His arm finds your waist, his forehead presses to your shoulder. When you shift, it’s only to make more space, as if this has always been the ending he was meant to arrive at.

In the hush, your hand smooths over his knuckles. “Cheol,” you whisper, not a question but an anchor.

Seungcheol feels the last of his fear dissolve. He holds you tight, holds you to him, and comes to the conclusion that has been staring him in the face all along.

Love is this.

Love is here.

Love is you.

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hannieuyuyu · 1 day ago

Text

Toji and his cockblocking children

A/N: good morning gift for @riveredmoon hehe part 1 ∘ part 2

It happens again.

Not in the morning, this time (which is arguably worse because he’s been waiting for this all day), but at night, when the kids are finally sleeping, the dogs are finally quiet, and you’re curled up on the couch next to him, some show flickering across the TV. Toji couldn’t care less about the screen. His hand is already on you, warm, creeping higher and higher, squeezing the plush of your thigh as his thumb brushes the hem of your shorts.

You give him that look. The one that says you better not start something we can’t finish.

But he’s bored, restless, and most importantly, painfully hard. His mouth ghosts over your ear, low enough so only you can hear. “C’mon,” he murmurs, rough and coaxing, “Ten minutes. Fifteen, tops.”

“Fifteen,” you repeat, flat.

“Okay, twenty if I’m nice.”

You’re about to shoot back something sharp when his fingers slide beneath your waistband, hot and calloused against your cool skin, and your breath catches. He grins, smug, pulling you half onto his lap as the rough pad of his thumb rubs oh-so-satisfying circles on your puffy clit through the cotton barrier. His fingers dip beneath your panties, and a shit eating grin spreads across his face when he realizes you’re wet.

Two fingers sink in knuckle deep, swirling around and making your head fuzzy with little sparks of pleasure. His fingers are so big, stretching you out, and after so many years of marriage he knows exactly what spots to hit to make you fold.

The TV is nothing now – static light while he kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, down your neck. His other hand cups your ass like he owns it, because he does, and you’re just starting to melt into him when–

There’s a thump upstairs. Then another. A door creaks.

You both freeze.

“Dad?” Megumi’s voice calls from upstairs, muffled and small, “The puppy’s on my bed and she won’t get off.”

Toji squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight.

He loves that boy, he does. But right now, he’s imagining drop-kicking the dog and locking the door.

You laugh into his chest, push his hand away, and get up to grab a tissue. He groans, low and frustrated, and drags his other hand down his face. “Un-fucking-believable.”

By the time he trudges upstairs to deal with it, blanket wrapped around his waist, his dick is aching and his mood is wrecked. And when he comes back down, you’re turning off the TV and the lights with a little yawn. You look up at him, sleepy-eyed, then slip your hand in his as you head to your room. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“You promised me fifteen minutes.”

“Toji.”

He groans, wraps his arms around your body, and tackles you into the bed. Half-hard and wholly defeated.

Toji loves his kids, and he'll say it over and over again. But if they keep this up, he’s not sure how much longer his patience – or his balls – are gonna last.

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hannieuyuyu · 1 day ago

Text

Toji and his cockblocking children

part 1 ∘ part 2

Toji loves his kids, he does! Megumi’s smart, your youngest is outspoken, and most of all, you’re a family. A functioning one that doesn’t send children into fights their minds can’t comprehend, that doesn’t value people based on any metric other than pure, unadulterated, unconditional love.

But sometimes he can’t stand them.

Like in the early morning, when the sunlight’s barely cracking through the windowsill, and his arm is resting around your waist. And you’re so, so soft, and yeah the kids might wake up in half an hour, but half an hour is enough for him to get off, right? Especially when he’s already all hot and bothered. So he slips his aching length between your thighs and laughs when your head raises and he sees your little frown.

“The kids,” you mutter drowsily.

Ugh. Yeah, the kids. He loves the kids very dearly!

But also, he hasn’t had a taste of your cunt in ages. He’s starved.

He lets out a low laugh and buries his face in the crook of your neck. “..yeah,” he hums, eyes fluttering shut, “this’ll only take a few minutes.”

You roll your eyes and shuffle closer, hand slipping down to let him underneath your panties. And he stays like that for a bit, cock sitting pretty against your folds as he listens to your breathing.

Then he starts to move. Slowly. Back and forth, grinding right against your cunt, letting out a huff of amusement when your slick starts to soak down against him. It’s quiet except for the rustling of sheets, morning light filtering through and making the moment seem almost angelic. It is, for him. He wraps an arm around you and pulls you on top of him, smiling at your bleary-eyed look.

The moment is small, and the room is warm, and his heart pangs all happy against his chest.

This is enough.

And then he’s cut off by your daughter’s whine from downstairs. “Daddy, Megs is stealing the puppy from me!–”

He groans. You snort and roll off. And then the both of you are up in a flash, cleaning up and getting ready for the day. He comes downstairs to see you in an apron making pancakes, telling your daughter she can’t hog the dogs all to herself and that Megumi’s entitled to petting at least one this morning, and he sighs a little. It’s like earlier didn’t happen at all.

Toji loves his kids. But he’s got a massive fucking libido, a massive fucking cock, and they can be two massive fucking cockblockers.

Well, whatever. That’s the married-life-with-two-kids-two-dogs-jobs-and-a-house for you.

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hannieuyuyu · 1 day ago

Text

the pocket pussy incident ᢉ𐭩 yunho & mingi

yunho filled it, mingi swallowed it, you drenched them both

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

✮ yunho x f!reader x mingi

✮ warnings: a lil plot (if u squint), nsfw, smutty, multiple rounds, m/f/m threesome, sex toy play, cum play, cum eating, switch between dom/sub dynamics, spit play (lots of it lmao), oral (m!&f!receiving), face sittin, p in v, creampies, cum stuffing, cockwarming, overstimulation, recording, squirting (bless reader's heart), degradation/praise kink, double penetration, hair pulling, light choking, bf!yunho shows slight jealousy, mingi is a whiny baby (his stuttering is intentional), aftercare(??), i may be missing some

✮ if ur new here, hi!!! this is a spin-off from my pocket pussy drabbles. if you want a teensy bit of info on how these two were characterized, i recommend reading their sections. thank you sm for reading <333

side note: yunho (solo) was tied in the polls with this duo, so i gave him the est. relationship w/ reader!!

You were kind, if not gracious—even when it meant sending your boyfriend a mold of your pussy while being out of town.

It started off as a joke one morning while sitting in your hotel room on the phone with Yunho. He had been longing for you, your body. His hand was not doing the job, the pent-up energy almost being too much to handle.

You still had another two weeks until you could see him again, so you figured you’d take matters into your own hands–and quite literally you did.

That same evening, you went to the local sex shop nearby.

You walked into the store, scavenging every aisle for a molding kit. This needed to be special and uniquely you; in the process, you didn’t know if this was for your own gain or his.

The determination on your face as you read each box left the shop workers in awe or potentially concerned. Despite that you made the purchase of a whopping $90 and didn’t even bother to cover up the bag’s name, “Orgasms Galore,” as you entered the elevator to your hotel room.

You're glad your company booked you a single room for your work trip because you knew you were about to be bust wide open in many different ways.

You took a quick shower to trim and shave, trying to make the molding process as seamless as possible. Afterwards, you got the instruction page and spread eagle on the king mattress.

You mixed everything, double-checking every note, a mirror positioned in front of you to make sure you were getting everything just right.

It had to be just right.

Right for him.

It was mid-evening by the time the cast was set, thankful for its speedy process, you find the nearest mail dropbox addressed to Yunho with an expedited request, a small note accompanied with it: “all yours, whether im present or miles away ;)”

A few days later, Yunho receives a box at his doorstep–he wasn’t expecting anything from you, but he wasn’t complaining about what graced his apartment doorstep.

He was fresh out the shower, hair damp and pushed back. He was wearing one of your oversized shirts that still had the smell of your perfume, hanging lazily off his collarbone.

He examines the box, turning it every which way, even shakes it a little–like he was trying to play the guessing game of what it was.

His examination was disrupted by a text message from you.

you: listen to my voice notes, baby

He immediately tracks his way to his bedroom. It’s nighttime, his lamp softly lighting the room, he was about to go to sleep, but your message left too much mystery for him to ignore.

Yunho finally opens the box with careful hands, his ears turning the same color as a strawberry once he realizes what it was.

yunyun: you’re insane

i’ll be busy the rest of the night, gn, love u <3

He takes out the pocket pussy and tosses the box aside while skimming the note you left him. He then scrolls to his hidden voice notes on his phone–he has a favorite folder of your voice: “quick nut.”

Yunho is always hard for you; the text of you saying “baby” is what started it, but seeing the clone of one of his favorite body parts had his cock leaking.

“Fuckkkkk. Can’t believe she did this.” He was in awe of what you created for him, but also flustered in the best way.

Yunho drops his shorts and sits on the edge of the bed, grabs his headphones from his nightstand so he can hear every moan, groan, and squeal from you explicitly.

His cock was hitting his stomach, begging to be touched in some way. He strokes it with his hands a few times and presses play on his phone, your voice emerging into his ears.

“Hi, baby, hope you’ve been good while I’ve been gone.”

He groans, spitting into his hands as a replacement for lube, and slowly inserts himself into the pocket pussy.

He tilts his head back at the feeling, a replica of the actual pussy he loved so much. The audio continues to play as he speeds up his thrust, the leaking of precum and mix of spit making the most lude noises.

“I miss you, my pussy misses you.”

“I’m almost there, Yun, how about you?”

“Finish with me, yeah?”

Yunho begins to feel the buildup of it all, the emotion and the raw need of wanting you in his arms right now.

His hands gripping the sheets as his toes curl at the feeling.

He eventually disregards the audio and starts whispering to himself, caught up in the lust and love of it all.

“I missed you…I just fucking need you.”

He then closes his eyes, trying to imagine you, your scent, the way you clench around him just the way he likes, the way you leave marks along his back and arms.

With one more hard thrust up into the pocket pussy, he fills it up to the brim. It’s filthy and overwhelming altogether.

“Damn it, I’m sorry, babe–I didn’t even ask to fill you up like this.”

Looking at the wall after finishing, still undressed, he feels something wet hit his thigh–figures it's just a mixture of spit and his cum–but he was actually tearing up.

The desire and guilt of wanting you was so much, he was needy and alone. Never a good combo.

He didn’t bother to clean the pocket pussy, but he did slide it into the top drawer of his nightstand while glancing at it one more time, leaving him even more embarrassed by the time he pulled up his shorts and laid down for bed.

He was on the brink of deep sleep until he got a message from Mingi: “comin over tmr mornin, be up.”

And for once, Mingi actually came at the time he stated, without ever waiting for a response from Yunho.

Mingi was bright and early, knocking on the door of Yunho’s apartment with coffee and donuts in hand. Just trying to catch up with a close friend.

Yunho was slow to the door–hadn’t even gotten the chance to brush his teeth yet, the scent of your shirt still lingering on him, his hair disheveled in all kinds of ways.

“Hey bro—”

“Woah, what the hell happened to you? You look terrible.”

“You’ve been crying? Your face is–”

“Good morning to you, Mingi. I’m doing great.”

“Your breath stinks, man.”

“Get in the damn house and take off your shoes.” Yunho motions to Mingi, and he does as he’s told, going into the kitchen to set the breakfast onto the island.

“Since my breath stinks so bad, I’ll be in the bathroom, I’ll be back.”

Mingi nods with a concerned look, not sure what was going on with Yunho.

Looking for clean dishes as his friend leaves the kitchen, Mingi accidentally bumps the coffee he brought on the counter, creating a small mess.

“Shit.”

He begins to look for napkins, but none were on the counter, under the sink, or even in the pantry.

He huffs and whispers to himself, almost defeated over a small spill. “This dude never goes shopping.”

Mingi is so familiar with Yunho’s apartment, he knows he leaves smaller takeout napkins in his drawers, so that becomes his next stop.

But he is astonished when he goes to open the bedroom door as he talks to himself.

“Why does it smell like sex in here?”

“Wait, but she’s not back yet…is he cheating?”

“No, he would never.” Mingi brushes off his thoughts and just continues to the nightstand and reveals the smell that hit him.

The pocket pussy that Yunho didn’t clean in all of its glory in his top drawer, Mingi goes to pick it up with his heart almost pounding out of his chest.

He holds it like a baby, like it’s something special, admiring the attention to detail until Yunho’s voice echoes throughout the room.

“Put. It. Down. Now.”

He puts it down.

Mingi doesn’t know if he should be jealous or intrigued; he’s always had a soft spot for you, but going after his best friend’s girl would just be morally wrong in his eyes.

Mingi hesitantly turns to face Yunho in the doorframe, not looking as disheveled as he did before. A smirk gracing his face.

“Fucking a pussy that’s not yours, huh?”

“It is actually. It’s molded specifically from her.”

Mingi’s smirk falters a bit, realizes the love and care you have for Yunho, not knowing if he’ll ever experience you in that capacity.

But he doesn’t miss the opportunity to inquire about the item sitting in the drawer.

“So this is the accurate replica?”

Yunho’s eyes widen a bit, was mindful of your relationship with Mingi–close friends, nothing more. The lust seemed one-sided, but was it reallyyy?

“Why do ya wanna know?”

“Just… educating myself.”

“Educating yourself on my girl’s vagina? Right…seems logical.”

Mingi just shrugs, taking a quick glance at the pocket pussy again, looks harder–sees the dried white liquid coating the outside lips and involuntarily shivers at the sight.

“Didn’t seem to clean it, must’ve been that good. Must be nice, but I would’ve cleaned this up and the real one— ”

Instead of getting angry, Yunho gets shy.

The mess he left shows his obsession with you, something that was supposed to be kept secret, was now on full display.

In front of his best friend, nonetheless.

“I–I, it was good. She’s that good. I miss her.”

“I miss her too. Been thinking bout’ her non-stop. Her laugh is everything—”

The room goes dead silent at the revelation of how much fondness Mingi holds for you, and the tension in the air gets heavy and thick.

Their eyes locked onto one another, not paying attention to the jingle of keys outside the door.

The padding of shoes on the hardwood.

The spilled coffee dripping and getting sticky on the counter.

And the text you sent Yunho earlier.

you: manager is sick, rest of trip cancelled, will be home soon <3!

You noticed as you stepped through the door that there were donuts on the island, bathroom light was on, and there was coffee for two–thinking that he wanted to surprise you for your arrival back, how wrong you were.

After not seeing Yunho in any of the other rooms, you went down the longer hallway, and you see Yunho’s tall frame standing in the doorway.

One hand on his hip, another hanging on the door frame–his knuckles clenched, almost white. He’s tense; his shoulders not relaxed, and you have no plausible idea why.

Yunho takes up the whole door, so you can’t see who or what is in the bedroom.

You place a hand on the small of his back as you walk up he instantly relaxes under your touch. You smile a bit and take note of your perfume being on him.

Yunho froze for a fraction of a second, his chest tightened as your eyes looked past him, a flush crept across his cheeks, his Adam's apple bobbing.

When he turns to fully face you, you catch a glimpse of the figure inside the room.

Mingi.

But Yunho’s hand twitched at his hip first, shifting on one foot to the other, kind of avoiding your eyes.

“I’m guessing no one read my text, huh?”

Yunho blushes–smiles and engulfs you in a hug and kisses your forehead.

While Mingi stays back a bit but with a small smile, not sure where he stands at this point.

“Text? What text? Why are you back so early?”

“If you would actually read my messages, that wouldn’t be a question.”

Mingi speaks up, “Who cares? We’ve missed you.”

You break away from Yunho to look at Mingi, his long dark hair partly covering his eyes, his expression mixed and a bit unreadable, which is a first for you to see.

“I’ve missed you guys, too. So much. What were you two doing in here anyway?”

That’s when you hear the creaky nightstand being closed as Mingi pushes back against it, everything that equaled suspicious.

“We were just talking, babe.”

“Oh, so you’re lying to me now?”

“How do you know–”

“Neither one of you has made direct eye contact with me since I walked in here. What’s in the drawer?”

“Noth–”

“Fuck, what the hell, it’s the pocket pussy you sent me. Mingi walked in and I-I…we just missed you.”

“So you two were having fun without me?” You said jokingly, a smirk on your face.

But you notice that maybe Mingi didn’t take it that way.

That’s when Mingi’s eyes light up, the tiniest inkling that you just may see him in that way, that maybe you would give him a chance to experience everything Yunho has had.

“You would let me… ‘have fun’…with you?” Mingi’s voice is unsure, his face heating up at the thought.

Mingi was always attractive in your eyes, tall, built, sweet–everything a woman would want. A man who’ve you been close to all this time, but never took it to second base.

Yunho’s hands go to your waist and squeeze, his jaw tight at the question, waiting for your response.

He put your wants and feelings first all the time, and he couldn’t deny the thought aroused him, but also couldn’t deny the possessive wave that rushed through him.

You rub your hands along his, soothing him, a small it’s okay. Can feel all the emotion and tension that’s in the air surrounding the three of you.

You then look up at Yunho, eyes trying to search for the light in his. He gives you a nod, his eyes darting toward Mingi.

“Show me.”

“Show me what you two were doing before I got here.”

Your tone was sharper, no longer in joking around—not that you really were in the first place.

You can hear Yunho gulp beside you, getting fidgety. Mingi eyes the drawer he’s still standing next to and opens it again.

“I wasn’t doing anything, but I can’t say the same for him.” Mingi motions towards Yunho, who has since let go of your waist and makes strides toward the drawer.

“We really were just talking, but since you insist, want to see how I fucked this copy of your cunt last night? Hm?”

You go silent, lips parted but no words forming, the heat rushing to your cheeks.

Yunho watches your expression shift, his chest rising fast, while Mingi’s hands flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Mingi blinks. “You’re serious?”

Yunho swallows, but instead of stopping it, he reaches into the creaky drawer.

His long fingers curl around the toy, lifting it like evidence.

“Last night… I couldn’t stop,” he admits. He glances at Mingi, then back to you.

“I thought about you. About you choking me while I fucked it. I filled it up until it leaked all over my hand.”

You bite your lip, the confession making your thighs clench. Yunho never talks like this unless he’s too far gone, and Mingi looks like his knees are about to give out.

“Well then, once again, show me how bad you really missed me.”

Yunho places the toy back on the nightstand and looks at you helplessly, like he still can’t believe you’d ask him to reenact it.

Mingi, though, is burning. His chest is heaving, his gaze darting between you and Yunho like he’s asking for permission.

“Mingi,” finally looking directly at him. His breath stutters.

“Yeah?”

“You wanted to know if it was accurate, right?” you say, fully stepping into the room.

You press yourself against Yunho’s side, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist.

“Why don’t you find out?”

The words hang there, almost dangerous. Yunho stiffens, then groans quietly into your hair. He’s too far gone to deny you, too turned on to stop it.

Mingi’s lips part, eyes glassy, and for the first time, he looks at Yunho.

“If I touch her, you won’t hate me?”

Yunho clenches his jaw, dragging his gaze down your body. His thumb rubs your hip bone in nervous circles.

“If she wants it.” He looks at you, desperate for your answer. “…then I don’t get to hate you.”

That’s all Mingi needed to hear.

He steps forward, trembling with restraint, and the way he looks at you, like you’re something divine, makes your pulse race.

You reach out and tug his wrist, placing his big palm low on your waist, right next to where Yunho is already gripping. Their hands nearly touch. Both men stare at each other, then at you.

“Fuck,” Yunho whispers, burying his face in your neck.

Mingi’s thumb brushes your skin like he’s not worthy.

“Show me how much you’ve both missed me. Right fucking now.”

Yunho groans, the sound raw in his throat. Mingi swears under his breath, lips parted like he’s seconds away from begging.

“Take off your shirt,” you tell Mingi. His chest shudders. He peels it off fast, and it makes your pussy throb when you realize he’s wearing one of yours underneath, another oversized tee you left at his place months ago.

“You kept that?” you ask.

Mingi nods, cheeks red. “Smells like you.”

Yunho’s jaw tightens, but his cock twitches through his sweats. You feel it press your hip as he mumbles,

“I fuckin’ get it.”

You grab the toy from the nightstand and hold it up between them.

“Show me how you fucked this, Yunho.”

He freezes, ears pink, but his eyes are filled with need.

Slowly, he takes it from your hand, sits on the edge of the bed, and pushes his sweats down. His cock springs free, flushed and leaking

“God, baby, look at me,” he whispers, lining himself up. And then he pushes into the toy with a whimper. His head falls back, and the filthy wet sounds fill the room as he thrusts.

You crawl onto the bed, straddling his thigh. Your eyes flick up to Mingi. “Film him.”

“What?”

“Use my phone. I want more voice notes, wanna hear him moaning for me when I’m gone.”

Mingi scrambles for the phone, fumbling with the camera, hands shaking so bad it makes the footage blur. But then he steadies it, filming Yunho’s flushed face, the slick movement of the toy swallowing him down.

“Say something, baby,” you purr, running your nails down Yunho’s chest.

He whines, so red his ears burn. “I’m filling you up, fuck—I need you so bad.”

The moment cracks something in Mingi.

You turn to him. “Take your pants off. Sit on the other side of me.”

He obeys instantly, cock springing up, precum leaking down his shaft.

You spit into your palm, the sound loud in the room, and Mingi’s eyes go wide when you use it to slick him up. You stroke him slow, your thumb smearing precum over his slit.

“Spit in my mouth,” you order.

Mingi gasps but doesn’t hesitate. He leans down, drool pooling on his tongue before he lets it drip right onto yours. You moan into it, the sound making Yunho’s thrusts stutter.

“Damnnnnit,” Yunho groans, pounding harder into the toy now.

You break the kiss with Mingi and spit right onto the head of his cock, stroking him harder, watching his thighs shake.

“Want to cum already?” you tease.

“I—I’m trying, fuck, I can’t,” Mingi’s voice cracks, his head dropping onto your shoulder. He looks ruined just from your hand.

“Hold it,” you snap.

Yunho suddenly pulls the toy off, stroking his slick cock in his fist. He looks at Mingi with dark, blown-out eyes.

“Eat it.”

Mingi freezes. “Excuse me?”

“Eat what’s inside.” Yunho’s voice is shaky, but firm. He tips the toy up, and cum drips from the molded lips.

Mingi’s eyes roll when you tilt his chin and push the toy to his mouth.

“Open.”

He parts his lips, shaky, and you tip Yunho’s cum into his mouth. He moans as it hits his tongue, tears springing to his eyes, and he swallows hard. “Fuck—”

Yunho looks like he’s going to cum again just from watching.

You then unstraddle Yunho and push Mingi down on the bed, straddle his face, and tug Yunho’s wrist so he’s hovering behind you.

“You get to compare the real thing now,” you taunt, grinding down onto Mingi’s mouth.

“Find out which is your favorite.”

Mingi’s tongue is everywhere—messy, desperate, like he’s been waiting years. You gasp when he spits on your pussy, then sucks your clit like he’s starved.

Yunho groans behind you, his hands gripping your waist as he watches.

“Fuck, she’s squirting.” Yunho chokes when Mingi shoves two fingers inside you, and you gush all over his face. Mingi moans into your cunt like he’s drowning, swallowing everything.

“Good boy,” you pant, tugging his hair. “Don’t waste a drop.”

Yunho can’t take it anymore. He lines up behind you, pushes in slow, and you both moan at once.

“You’re so warm, babe,” Yunho gasps, already gripping your hips like he’ll lose it.

“Fill her up while I taste it,” Mingi begs from under you, voice muffled against your pussy.

Yunho pounds into you, loud and sloppy, groaning your name. You cum hard again, squirting all over Mingi’s face and chest as Yunho empties inside you with a cry.

When Yunho pulls out, you slide off Mingi’s mouth and down onto his cock. He’s already shaking, tears streaking his face, and when he sinks inside you, he sobs.

“You feel so good, I’m seriously so close.”

“Cum inside.”

He wails and does, thick, hot, endless, his hips jerking, tears spilling down his cheeks as he fills you.

Yunho leans over, panting, and smears the mess leaking out of you onto his fingers before pushing it into Mingi’s mouth.

“Taste,” he orders.

Mingi moans around Yunho’s fingers, swallowing everything like it’s his life calling.

The three of you are still tangled, bodies sweaty and twitching. Mingi is still inside you, cock softening but refusing to leave, clinging like he can’t bear to let go.

Yunho lies behind you, peppering desperate kisses down your neck, his fingers lazily stroking the mess leaking out of you.

Your phone is still recording the whole thing on the nightstand, red dot blinking. A new “voice note,” only this time it’s both of them.

“You’re dripping,” Yunho murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Cum’s just spilling out of you, baby. So messy.”

Mingi whimpers at his words, hips jerking shallowly inside you.

“Don’t… don’t let it fall out. Please.”

You laugh softly, tilting your head back against Yunho’s shoulder.

“Look at him, Yun, my pussy’s squeezing him, and you’re pressed up right behind me, all hard. Cock pressed to my ass, needy. You’re warming each other up perfectly, baby.”

“Not fair,” Yunho mutters, pouting. His palm presses into your stomach. “I wanna keep her warm, too.”

Mingi lifts his head, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, voice shaky. “We can share, right?”

Yunho’s eyes darken, but when you squeeze his thigh, he gives you a tiny nod. His voice comes out low.

“Fine. But I’m not just letting her go.”

You grin, stroking both their arms. “Good boys. Then let’s play again.”

You roll your hips deliberately, and Mingi shouts, his cock twitching inside you like he’s never been used before.

“Sensitive?” you tease.

“I can’t, I can’t—” He’s trembling, already halfway to tears again.

Yunho smirks into your neck. “Pathetic. You cum once and you’re already begging off?”

Mingi’s head shakes violently. “N-no, I can keep going, I’ll take it, fuck, I’ll take it all.”

You reach for Yunho’s drawer again and pull out a sleek vibrator you’d left there prior, pressing it into Mingi’s unsteady hand.

“Put this on my clit while you’re inside me. Don’t stop, no matter how much I beg.”

Mingi stares at you like you’ve sentenced him to death, but flicks it on anyway.

The low buzz makes your whole body jolt, and Yunho’s laugh is breathless against you.

“Oh, she’s gonna squirt again,” he whispers, eyes fixed between your thighs.

“I can feel her clenching already.”

“Don’t stop,” you moan, grabbing Mingi’s wrist to pin the vibrator harder against you. “Do it until I soak both of you.”

“Good god, god, god—” Mingi’s babbling now, chest heaving, cock jerking inside you with every squeeze of your walls.

Yunho growls in your ear. “You hear that? She’s gonna make a mess all over you. My girl’s cunt is using you, Mingi.”

That sends you over, your body convulses, gushing so hard it sprays Yunho’s torso and Mingi’s stomach as you stay sandwiched between them.

Mingi leans up a bit and screams into your shoulder, rutting helplessly.

“Holy fuck, she’s flooding me,” he sobs.

Yunho’s hand shoots out, gripping Mingi’s throat. Not choking, but firm enough to make him freeze.

“Don’t you dare cum until she tells you to.”

Mingi whines, nodding frantically, precum spilling down his shaft even as he holds back.

You tilt your head, panting, smirking through your aftershocks.

“Good job. Now I need both of you to spit in my mouth, kay?”

Yunho groans, leaning over your shoulder, letting a thick string of spit fall onto your tongue.

Mingi follows clumsily, drool dripping down his chin as he misses the first time, then hits your tongue.

You swallow, moaning loud. “Fuck. My boys taste so good.”

Yunho’s eyes roll back, his cock twitching again. “Say it again.”

“My boys.” You drag your nails down both their arms. “Mine.”

Yunho grabs your phone off the nightstand again and shoves it at Mingi.

“Now it’s her turn. Do it.”

Mingi hits record, slowly becoming your personal cameraman throughout this.

He pointed it at your soaked pussy stretched around his cock, vibrator still buzzing against you.

“Tell her what you want,” Yunho demands, voice rough.

Mingi’s voice cracks. “I want my seed in her, please. I wanna cum inside until she can’t hold anymore, I’ll eat it if it spills, I swear.”

“Fuck—do it,” you moan, arching back into Yunho. “Fill me up again.”

Mingi’s cry is wrecked, body jittery as he finally lets go. He spills inside you hard, sobbing, tears streaking down his flushed cheeks.

Yunho immediately slides his fingers down, scooping the overflow and shoving it into Mingi’s mouth again.

“Swallow your mess,” Yunho snarls.

Mingi whimpers around Yunho’s fingers.

But Yunho isn’t done. He shoves two of his cum-slicked fingers inside you, pumping them fast.

“Gotta give me one more squirt, baby. One more for the camera.”

You scream, body jerking as you gush again, soaking both of them, the sheets, the phone lens.

The video ends with Yunho’s voice—rough and possessive.

“That’s mine. All fucking mine.”

Yunho doesn’t give you a second to breathe once he’s had his fill of watching Mingi whine while in your pussy.

He’s dragging you onto all fours, hand gripping the back of your neck like a leash.

“Up, baby. Knees apart. Show him who fucks you for real.”

Mingi’s already flushed, cock leaking against his stomach, but Yunho just jerks his chin at him.

“Get in front of her. You wanna be useful? Stuff her throat while I stuff her cunt.”

The second Mingi shuffles forward, cock hovering by your lips, Yunho sinks into you from behind, one brutal thrust that makes your arms buckle.

You cry out around Mingi’s cock when he slides into your mouth, Yunho’s hips smacking your ass in a punishing force.

They don’t let you rest. Mingi’s hands are trembling as he holds your face, his cock nudging deep enough you choke. Yunho watches the way your throat bulges, groaning.

“Look at that,” Yunho hisses, yanking your hair a bit so you arch.

“You’re nothing but holes for us, sweetheart. Pussy gushing all over me, throat gagging around him. She was made for this.”

Mingi almost folds. “She—she’s soooo tight, I can feel her throat.”

Yunho slaps your ass, hard. “Shut up and use it. Don’t waste my girl’s mouth.”

Your drool’s everywhere, soaking Mingi’s cock, dripping down your chin.

Yunho spits into the mess, smearing it over your cheek with his thumb before shoving it back into your mouth alongside Mingi’s length. Your eyes roll, gagging as your throat takes them both.

Yunho’s pace gets nastier. Deep, hard pumps that shove you into Mingi’s cock until you’re choking every stroke. The wet slap, gag, and squelching fill the room.

“Gonna make you squirt again, all over my dick while your mouth’s full of his cock,”

“Let’s see if you can come like that.”

You shudder, thighs shaking as your cunt gushes down his cock. Yunho groans, pulling out halfway just to watch the spray hit his abs before slamming back in.

Mingi’s already breaking, “Shit, she’s drooling all over me, she’s so good. Yunho, I'm so close.”

“Not until she swallows. You hear me? You don’t come on her face, you come down her throat,” Yunho demands.

Mingi whines hips stuttering as his cock pulses against your tongue. The hot flood of him hits your throat, and Yunho makes sure you choke it all down, holding you in place.

“Swallow. Every drop. Good fucking girl.”

But Yunho’s still going, his hips snap faster, thrusts that drag your squirt-slick walls raw until he groans, spilling deep inside you.

Then he pulls out just enough to push his cum out of your pussy with his fingers, letting it drip down your thighs while Mingi stares wide-eyed.

Yunho smirks, still holding you by the hair.

“Look close, Mingi. That’s what she looks like when she’s fucked right.”

You’re wrecked, throat raw, and cunt dripping cum, when Yunho finally pulls you back into his chest.

He lays down, tugging you with him until you’re spooned against his body, cock still hard and nudging at your swollen folds.

“Hush hush. Don’t cry, baby,” he coos, kissing the salt off your temple.

“I’ll take care of you. Just one more.”

Mingi’s still kneeling there, face a mess, cock twitching even though he’s already come. Yunho smirks at him and pats your thigh.

Then he slides in from behind, slow this time, grinding in inch by inch until you’re full and whining.

His arm wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush to him. Each thrust is deep and dragging, making your overstimulated cunt flutter helplessly around him.

Mingi crawls closer without even thinking, pressing against your front. His lips find yours in sloppy, desperate kisses, his whines muffled as Yunho rocks you both with every thrust.

You’re caught in between them, Yunho fucking you slow from behind, Mingi clutching you like he’ll break if he lets go.

“So good like this,” Yunho murmurs into your ear, voice a deep rumble. “Full of me, kissing him, dripping everywhere. Fuck, baby, you’re so perfect.”

Your body gives up control, you gush again, just becoming a wet mess with both of them.

Soaking his cock as he grinds the orgasm out of you. Mingi gasps against your lips, needy noises spilling when he feels you wet his chest.

Yunho's hips finally still as he spills inside you again, heat pooling deep in your belly. He holds you there through it, not pulling out, whispering filth-soft praises in your ear.

“That’s it. Take it all. My girl. Always mine first.”

Mingi just clings, kissing your face over and over like he’s worshipping what’s left of you.

All three of you are a sweaty, sticky mess, tangled together across the bed. Your hair plastered to your face, your pussy and both their cocks glistening with cum, spit, and sweat.

Yunho presses a soft, kiss to your shoulder, hand cupping your hip, thumb tracing lazy, reassuring circles. His chest rises and falls beneath yours, steadying you, grounding you.

Mingi leans in from the other side, brushing damp hair from your face, pressing a trembling kiss to your neck. His hands linger along your thighs, gentle but hungry, careful not to hurt you but refusing to let go.

You gasp, shivering, toes curling over the sheets. “Both of you. Still here,” you whisper.

Yunho murmurs against your ear, low and rough, “Mine, all mine.”

Mingi speaks softly, “Yours, every inch.”

Your fingers weave into their hair, holding them close. You feel their need, their devotion, their awe at how much they ruined you tonight.

Despite the chaos, the mess, and the overwhelming sensations, you feel completely adored.

The room is silent except for your heavy breathing and the occasional whimper or soft moan as your body twitches in the aftermath.

You tilt your head back, letting both of them steal a soft, lingering kiss. It’s fleeting, but it’s theirs, an unspoken agreement that no matter how messy you are, they’re right there with you.

869 notes · View notes

hannieuyuyu · 2 days ago

Text

better than advertised (18+ only, mdni.)

summary. don't tag along with mingyu to photoshoots— or do.

pairing. (idol!)mingyu x f!reader

word count. 2279

cw. daddy kink & (medium heavy?) ddlg themes (mg alternates between dad/daddy), SIZE KINK, fingering, reader is stubborn and a huge brat, brat tamer mingyu if u squint

i am not responsible for the content you consume. proceed with caution.

author's note. ck pics birthed this. thank u to @belovedgyu and another friend for beta reading!

you knew tagging along with your hot boyfriend to a calvin klein — of all brands — shoot would be a horrible idea. not bad. horrible.

because calvin klein meant boxer bands peeking out from jeans, being shirtless under denim jackets, and kim mingyu being a smoking hot piece of ass in front of the camera. his tan, honeyed skin, his thick, strong arms, his adonis belt, like a constellation, pointing down to where you crave to be the most— all of it on full display. just unfortunately not for you.

you know how hard your boyfriend worked to get into shape specifically for this shoot. those weeks of dieting, of eating plain chicken breast and broccoli when he wanted a hearty bowl of shin ramen cooked by you, of adding an extra hour to each day of his three-day workout split.

so fuck.

you can’t fuck this up. you absolutely, by any means can’t fuck this up by letting your hormones get to you in the middle of a shoot, even if all you want is disgusting, brain-melting sex that would leave you filled and feeling him for days.

but of the many things that mingyu has taught and trained you for, patience has never really been your strongest suit.

“love, behave.”

mingyu’s tone is firm. his voice is deep and rich, demanding authority and respect, and above all, so fucking sexy.

and you? mingyu loves you. he loves you down. you are the love of his life and his whole world. he would walk through fire for you, willingly let you drag him to hell if it meant holding your hand. but holy shit, you are nothing if not stubborn, especially now.

because right now, he has you trapped between his much larger body and the now locked door to his dressing room, one hand on the door to hold him up, the other cradling your cheek as he looks at you with pleading, puppy eyes.

he looks like he’s about to cry. that is, relative to you, whose eyes are already glassy with tears. if anyone else saw you, they’d think you were distressed and overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of the shoot, of staff running around to make sure everything was perfect.

nope.

you’re overwhelmed by the heat brewing in your core that only mingyu’s mouth, fingers, or cock can extinguish.

your lips tremble. and your voice is so small, so cute that mingyu’s jeans suddenly feel tighter when you quietly cry out, “dad—”

jesus fucking christ.

despite mingyu loving the title, you try not to call him dad when you’re in public because you know heads will turn and people will hear. but right now, you’re begging him dad while you look up at him with teary eyes, looking so tiny trapped between him and the door—

it feels like an attack. like you’re doing this on purpose. pushing his buttons to get what you want. but he knows you’re not. at least, not consciously.

he knows that, for the most part, your brain turns off around him so you never really think about your actions or anything at all. and he knows that, ultimately, this is all his fault for spoiling you so rotten. he hates having to say no to you.

“i’m sorry, princess. i know,” he tells you gently, in a voice that’s halfway soothing and halfway begging because he knows he’s on the verge of losing it. “i know, i know, i know—”

“but daddyyy,” you whine in response, dragging out the last syllable as you beg and bounce on the balls of your feet, hands clumsily gripping at the waistband of his jeans. “dad—”

he cuts you off by pressing his plush lips against yours, swallowing up your whines and silencing you with a kiss. he cradles your face in the warmth of his big hands and kisses you until you’re breathless. he kisses you so tenderly yet with so much ardor that when he pulls away, you don’t even remember what you were whining about for a good few seconds.

but when your eyes flutter open as he pulls away, and you look at him with those adorable, clueless eyes that tells him your headspace has slipped, he actually considers it— he actually considers fucking you here and now, to keep you satiated until you both get home, and to ease the raging boner in his jeans.

“god, don’t look at me like that, please,” he pleads, actually whimpering even though this is his fault. he curls his body around yours, arms winding around your middle tightly, and nuzzles his face into the curve of your neck.

it just had to be a calvin fucking klein shoot. of all brands.

“i promise, baby—”

you squirm in his arms, trying to push him away because he’s just not where you need him.

“please, daddy,” you beg again. “i wan’ dad.”

“i know you do, princess, but we can’t, okay? not here. when we get home, dad promises—”

“no!” you fuss, more tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, like a pampered child being told no for the first time. “i wan’ daddy—”

he tries to calm you down. he really does. he calls you princess and baby and little one, but nothing works. you fuss and you bounce and you beg, still.

he peels himself off you and takes a step back as he figures you’re not going to stop squirming and pushing at him until he caves. hands on his hips, he observes you, biting his inner cheek by habit as he wracks his brain to come up with a solution to calm you down without having to actually fuck you.

god, you really could be so stubborn.

so he calls you by your name, in that same firm, dominant voice and tone because it’s the only way he can ever get your attention whenever you’re throwing a fit. like a flipped switch, you freeze, immediately going silent. you hold his gaze for a second, vision blurry with tears, before your eyes dart to the ground in guilt.

with a deep sigh, he cups your cheeks again with gentle hands, tilting your jaw up to force you to meet his gaze again.

“m’sorry, daddy,” is the first thing you say. your voice is soft and shy, and mingyu pouts faintly, looks at you apologetically.

“s’just— is— s’tingly,” you stutter, pout deepening, “an’ it hurts, an’ i wan’ dad.”

he kisses your forehead.

“it’s okay,” he says soothingly, “i know you jus’ want daddy.”

it’s always so hard for him to tell you no, to discipline you, especially when your headspace is little and fuzzy like it is now. his eyes flicker to the wall clock above the door.

it’s only been a few minutes since his break started, and by the looks of it, he still has some time before he’s shoved into the next outfit and onto the next set. he looks at you again.

wordlessly, he slots his lips against yours once more, kisses you with reverence and want, hands travelling down to grip at your hips while he guides you to the sofa. then he makes you lay on your back and situates himself between your legs.

“listen to me, princess,” he starts, hands slipping under your skirt and pulling down your safety shorts and panties with practiced ease. he tosses the pieces of fabric behind him.

“dad’s gonna touch you right here. can’t give you my cock, but it’s still gonna feel really good,” he says slowly, like he’s giving you time to fully process his words. his middle and ring finger rub along your folds, already slick and wet and ready for him. “but you need to be quiet and you need to promise me you’ll be good for the rest of the day.”

he leans in closely to your poor, sopping cunt, then drips a thick glob of spit over your clit. you shudder and whimper at the feeling.

“that means no more throwing fits.” his two fingers spread his saliva over your sensitive bud before slipping between your folds again but never dipping in. “and when daddy says behave, you behave. got it?”

you look at him and nod dumbly.

he kisses your forehead. “promise me you’ll be good, baby. let me hear it.”

“i promise,” you say, Rs and Ls slurring, “i promise i’ll be good, daddy.”

“that’s my girl.”

he wastes no time and pushes his thick digits into your hole. it’s a bit of a stretch— it always is when your boyfriend is twice (maybe thrice) your size. your breath hitches as he buries his fingers knuckles-deep into your cunt, and a quiet, breathy dad falls from your lips.

mingyu shushes you, almost patronizingly— “quiet, sweetheart,”— as he starts to pump his fingers in and out of you, his other hand pressing your thigh to your torso to open you up even more for him. he takes his time, massaging your walls slowly with firm pressure, just the way you like it.

“pretty,” he compliments you, smiling down at you adoringly, canines peeking through, as if his fingers weren’t stuffed deep in your pussy. “so so pretty.”

“more,” you squeak as quietly as you can manage. “please, daddy.”

he pulls his two fingers out only to push in three. the stretch burns, punches the breath from your lungs, and your hands clasp over your mouth as you can’t help but whimper— but you wanted this. mingyu would take his time with you, stretching you open slowly but surely, but his break is only an hour long and after fingering you, he knows he still has to talk you down from your high.

so he pushes past the resistance of your little, tight hole and fucks you open on three thick digits, the pads of his fingers pressing into your walls deliciously.

he knows you, every part of you, like the back of his hand. he’s got you memorized inside and out so he finds your g-spot like it’s second nature to him. you feel him curl his fingers into your spot just as he places a hand on your lower belly and presses down.

you keen. your back arches, your walls clench, and your hands fly to grip at his forearms. you want to whimper and cry, let daddy know how good he’s making you feel, but you can’t. it’s taking all the strength in you not to make a sound. your brows furrow and you purse your lips together.

he never lets up, repeatedly curling his fingers into your spot while the heel of his palm digs into your clit. it’s getting harder not to whimper and cry, so you chant his name and title under your breath like a whispered prayer— gyu, dad, daddy.

mingyu smiles down at you. that familiar, blinding, devious smile. he thinks you’re just too fucking cute whenever you’re struggling like this.

it doesn’t take long before you’re cumming. your walls close in on him, eyes squeeze shut, high-pitched ringing loud in your ears. it feels like blinding white, like your nerves are on fire, like a cord finally snapping after too much tension.

your jaw drops open in a silent moan and your thighs close around mingyu’s hand.

but he pries you open and leans over you, using his free arm to prop himself up so he doesn’t crush you under his weight. he kisses up the side of your neck, to your temple, and to your forehead.

“easy, princess. that’s it. good girl,” he praises as his fingers continue to pump in and out of your cunt to help you ride out your high. “just breathe for me.”

he kisses your temple again, over and over, between sweet, loving whispers of good girl, deep breaths for me, i love you. he pulls his fingers out when your eyes finally flutter open, then pops them into his mouth so he can at least get a taste of you.

even in your tired, fucked out haze, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out, silently asking for his fingers, but he just shakes his head no.

“this is mine, baby. daddy needs a taste of you too,” he tells you as he licks up the last of your arousal from between his fingers. “you can have my fingers at home, okay?”

you barely understood what he said, brain too fuzzy to comprehend anything, but you nod regardless. you’re too tired to fight him on that anyway.

then mingyu rises from the couch so he can clean you up. he wipes you down and helps you back into your panties and safety shorts, then cuddles you on the couch in comfortable silence. he squishes you between his body and the backrest of the couch, chest to chest, legs entangled. he has about 30 minutes before he’s called back on set.

“we need to work on your patience,” he comments, breaking the silence.

you pout and hide your face in his neck. “...no.”

“yes,” he chuckles and nuzzles his nose into your hair, “you can be such a brat, baby.”

you huff in complete denial. “am not!”

“then what do you call this right now, hm?” he retorts as he gives your body a tight squeeze. you don’t say anything and whine stubbornly in response, mostly because you know deep down that he’s right.

“but m’good,” you say softly with a childish, indignant pout. “m’always good.”

mingyu just hums, “usually, baby.”

there’s a teasing edge to his voice that tells you he has something planned.

“let’s see how good you can be, yeah?”

423 notes · View notes

hannieuyuyu · 3 days ago

Note

who in atz do you think is a munch…

personally i would say san, mingi and seonghwa. it would get VERY messy

IVE BEEN ON THE MINGI ORAL FIXATION AGENDA FOR YEAAAAARS MY FRIEND!!!! something about him just screams "i eat pussy like it's my last meal" and/or "i suck dick/strap like my life depends on it". so YES mingi, hard agree. fix on this p-

seonghwa, also hard agree. he puts that tongue to WORK. he, more than literally anyone other than hongjoong (i <3 my husband), would be my first pick to eat me out because he KNOWS what he's doing and he enjoys it so you know you're gonna get five star treatment. unlike mingi who i think loves eating pussy to keep himself busy/turn his brain off or something of the sort, hwa does it cause he likes making his partner feel good (pleasure dom vibes are strong idk what to say)

san i had to think about a bit but i also agree. i feel like he wouldn't actively seek it out but if you asked him he would drop to his knees in an instant and make you see stars. gentleman, through and through, holds your hands while sucking on your clit- whhhhhhhokay yeah san munch i like this idea 🙂‍↕️

also: wooyoung. he would literally die a happy man between his woman's thighs. shoves his face in it- that one trend is kinda annoying to me but it applies here "TALKIN BOUT INNNIIIIIT" 😭😭 his fucking nose too omg omg omg let me grind on it and im not even going to make a joke about "who said that ?!" ME !! ME !! I SAID THAT !!

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hannieuyuyu · 3 days ago

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S Coups cake 🍰

seventeen

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hannieuyuyu · 3 days ago

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18+ switch!choso x switch!reader

choso doesn’t fight the way you pin his wrists. doesn’t so much as buck up against you, simply takes it like it’s his role to play. you ride him like that for what feels like hours, drinking in the pretty sight of his perpetually fucked-out expression. sometimes his biceps flex as he tugs once against your hold, before going slack again. (if not for his sweet temperament, you’d almost think he was humouring you.)

when you lean down, choso meets your kiss without hesitation. his mouth moves lazily against yours, and you swallow the low murmur that slips past your lips.

“my turn.”

and with that, his wrists slip out of your hold like it’s nothing. in an instant, the world tilts and you’re the one on your back, staring up at him. inky strands of hair falling loose around his face, tickling your cheek—choso still looks bored, right up until he pushes back his cock right back inside you, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. the power has shifted.

“fair’s fair,” he states, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. the air fills with the staccato rhythm of him fucking into you, cock dragging in and out of your cunt with lewd squelches, every thrust deeper, like he’s testing just how much of him you can take. a strangled moan bubbles up from his throat when your velvety walls clutch at him, refusing to let go, as if your body itself is trying to hold him hostage. a broad hand splays over your lower abdomen, forcing you to feel the blunt head of his cock jostling your guts around.

the glorious fullness has your toes curling, and that’s when his thumb finds your clit, no teasing—simply another law he lives by. part of the same rule he’s followed from the start: if you give, he gives back.

you fall apart hard around him, vision strobing white as your cunt milks him for everything he’s worth. choso lets out a pathetic whimper as he spills into you—hot, endless spurts that overflow, dripping down your thighs even while his cock keeps twitching inside.

he stays buried inside you for a long time, still holding your wrists pinned as his expression slides back toward its default blankness—save for the faintest curve tugging at his lips. when he finally lets you go, his voice is quiet, almost thoughtful.

“next time… i go on top first.”

#PLEASEE #I NEED A LOVE LIKE THIS 😭😭😭#choso kamo #choso smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut

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hannieuyuyu · 3 days ago

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Picking Lemons | Choi Seungcheol | 🔞, fluff

Pairing: choi seungcheol x fem!reader

Summary: You’d fought for this trip. Fought his grumbled insistence that turning thirty was no different than twenty nine, that he wanted nothing, least of all a fuss, least of all dragging him across Europe. But you’d planned, booked, and packed with the quiet determination of a girlfriend who knew her boyfriend’s secret: beneath the provider’s instinct and occasional gruffness, Seungcheol thrived on being cared for, on playful indulgence, on moments where he could simply be adored without the weight of expectation. You just had to get him there.

Word count: 7.6k

Genre/warnings: fluff, smut, established relationship, au, slice of life, Italy trip, kinda failed bday surprise, Seungcheol is a scaredy cat, whines and complains but secretly loves everything, reader gets to be called multiple petnames like baby, princess, bunny, my love, etc.

Smut warnings: Minors DNI, birthday sex (just the whole theme of the smut scene), reader in charge, handjob, oral (m receiving), piv sex, unprotected sex (don’t do it kids), cowgirl, reader is very determined but has low stamina and suffers, cheol is vocal af throughout, lots of praise, so background praise kink, aftercare

A/N: so… many of you voted for hbd text and now here it is, a very belated birthday text but I’m still happy I’m posting it after all. I’m also going to buy myself some cupcake or something to celebrate my beautiful baby’s birthday. I wanted to do it back on 8th but totally forgot because i was kinda busy :( btw, did you watch his puzzle seventeen live?? He’s so ugh (>_<) gives me cuteness aggression, i smiled like a fool the whole time 😔 as always, hope you enjoy the text and I’ll be happy to see your comments, tags and asks ᙏ̤̫

If you see any mistakes: I try to proofread but English isn’t my first language, proceed at your own discretion.

Masterlist.

The predawn light stains the kitchen tiles the colour of ripe peaches when you creep out of bed, the mattress sighing softly as you escape Seungcheol’s heavy, warm arm slung over your waist. He murmurs something unintelligible, face buried in your pillow, smelling of sleep and the faint, clean scent of his skin. You hold your breath until his breathing evens out again, deep and slow. Mission: Birthday Surprise is a go.

You’d fought for this trip. Fought his grumbled insistence that turning thirty was no different than twenty nine, that he wanted nothing, least of all a fuss, least of all dragging him across Europe. “Just stay in bed with me, princess,” he’d whined, nuzzling your neck with a pout you knew was only half-feigned. “All day. That’s the perfect birthday.” But you’d planned, booked, and packed with the quiet determination of someone who knew their partner’s secret: beneath the provider’s instinct and occasional gruffness, Seungcheol thrived on being cared for, on playful indulgence, on moments where he could simply be adored without the weight of expectation. You just had to get him there.

Now, in the quiet rental kitchen overlooking an Italian courtyard already buzzing with unseen insects, you assemble your secret weapon: a tiny bento cake. Vanilla sponge, layers of tart lemon curd, whipped cream frosting. You’re painstakingly piping wobbly letters onto the top with more lemon curd, tongue caught between your teeth in concentration. Happy B-Day Grumpy.

“Baby?”

You freeze, piping bag poised mid-air. Seungcheol stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the soft gloom of the hallway leading back to the bedroom. His dark hair is adorably sleep-tousled, sticking up in several directions. He’s squinting against the weak kitchen light, clad only in soft grey sleep pants slung low on his hips. The sight of him, rumpled and half-awake, makes your heart squeeze.

“Why’re you…” His voice is thick with sleep. He shuffles closer, bare feet silent on the cool tile. His eyes land on the cake. “...is that cake?”

“Surprise?” you offer weakly, trying to angle your body to, at the very least, block the inscription.

He’s suddenly right behind you, his warmth radiating against your back. His chin hooks over your shoulder, his arms slipping around your waist, pulling you snug against his bare chest. His skin is sleep-warm, his breath a soft puff against your ear. “Princess,” he groans, the word vibrating against your shoulder blade. “I told you. No fuss. Should be in bed.” His fingers find the hem of your thin sleep shirt, tracing idle patterns on your hip. “Come back. It’s early.”

“It’s your birthday morning,” you protest, leaning back into him, savouring his warmth despite your mission. “And this is just a tiny cake. For breakfast dessert.”

He hums, unconvinced, his gaze fixed on the cake. You feel the exact moment he deciphers the wobbly letters. A slow, incredulous chuckle rumbles in his chest. “‘Grumpy’? Really?” He nips playfully at your earlobe. “Is that how you see me? On my special day?”

“It’s aspirational,” you retort, setting the piping bag aside and twisting in his hold to face him. You loop your arms around his neck. “Happy Birthday, Cheol.”

He looks down at you, his sleep-softened eyes crinkling at the corners. Despite his protests, there’s a softness there, an openness reserved only for you in these quiet moments. He sighs, a sound of mock resignation that doesn’t quite hide the flicker of pleasure. “Tiny cake. Fine. But only because you made it.” He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, warm kiss that tastes of sleep and shared breath. You don’t have the heart to tell him that the only thing you did with it was attempt to decorate it before he wakes up. “Now,” he murmurs against your mouth, “can we go back to bed? For just… an hour?”

You relent, putting everything back in the fridge and letting him steer you back towards the bedroom, the cake momentarily forgotten. The battle for the birthday adventure was only half-won.

The mattress creaks quietly as Seungcheol pulls you back down, his arm a warm, heavy band across your waist, tucking you firmly against the furnace of his bare chest. “One more hour, princess,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “Birthday privilege.” His breathing quickly deepens, settling into the steady rhythm of near-sleep. The scent of him—sleep-warm skin, faint clean cotton—envelops you.

But to you sleep is impossible. Adrenaline from the failed birthday cake surprise and the sheer anticipation of the day thrums under your skin. You lie perfectly still, listening to his heartbeat against your back, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest. The peach-gold dawn light has strengthened, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets. Your mind races: the Vespa keys hidden in your beach bag, the picnic basket packed and stowed in one of the cabinets in the kitchen, the lemons waiting to be picked. And Seungcheol who doesn’t know of all your plans for his big day.

A restless energy builds. You shift minutely, your backside pressing more firmly against the hard line of his hips. He hums in his sleep, his arm tightening instinctively. The sound, low and drowsy, sends a spark straight down your spine. I want to take care of him today. The thought, whispered in your mind, ignites something fierce and possessive. Not just the trip, the cake, the lemons. This. Right now.

Before the world wakes up and demands your and his attention. Before all his and your friends and relatives calculate that you’re not sleeping anymore and start calling with birthday wishes.

Slowly, deliberately, you turn in his arms. He makes a soft, questioning noise but doesn't wake, his face relaxed, lips slightly parted. You prop yourself up on one elbow, gazing down at him. The plump lips and all his soft features, the sweep of dark lashes against his cheekbones, the vulnerable curve of his throat. He looks younger in sleep, softer. And all of that beauty is yours. You must’ve saved a country in your past life to deserve him.

Your hand, seemingly of its own volition, drifts down. Not to wake him gently, but to… stake a claim. Your fingers trace the defined line of his hipbone above the low-slung grey sleep pants, then dip lower, sliding beneath the worn elastic waistband. You find him already half-hard, warm and heavy in your palm. You close your hand, not roughly, but with deliberate, possessive pressure, a slow stroke from root to tip. Your eyes are trained on him, watching his reaction.

Seungcheol's breath hitches. His eyes fly open, bleary, confused. “Baby...?” His voice is gravelly with sleep, thick with sudden, disoriented arousal.

“Shhh,” you murmur, leaning down to brush your lips against his. But it’s not a gentle and sweet ‘happy birthday, my love’ type of kiss. Your tongue traces the seam of his lips, demanding entry, and he yields with a groan, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair, but you catch his wrist, pinning it gently but firmly to the mattress beside his head. You break the kiss, holding his gaze. His eyes are wide, dark pools reflecting the dawn light and your own determined expression. “My turn, Cheol,” you whisper, the words a soft command. “Let me take care of you on your special day.”

His brow furrows, a flicker of his usual control surfacing. “Princess, we should—” But your hand moves again, a firm, rhythmic stroke that steals the protest from his lips, replacing it with a sharp gasp. His hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction. “Fuck,” he breathes, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut. “Bunny...”

You watch him, mesmerized by the flush spreading up his chest to his neck, by the way his teeth sink into his lower lip. You use your grip on his wrist to keep him anchored, your other hand working him steadily, firmly, learning the rhythm that makes his breath catch and his thighs tense. His free hand fists the sheet beside him, knuckles white. Whimpers, low and breathy, escape him with every stroke—soft, broken sounds you've rarely heard from him. “Baby... oh god, baby... please...” You’re fascinated because what you hear from him is a surrender, a plea falling from lips usually so quick to command.

The sight of him like this, unraveling under your touch, the sounds he's making—it fuels you. You release his wrist only to push his sleep pants down over his hips, freeing him completely. He's fully hard now, flushed and straining. His eyes open, heavy-lidded and dazed, fixed on you. “Look at you,” you breathe, the dark appreciation sharpening your voice. “So pretty for me, baby.”

You don't give him time to process the praise or reclaim any control. You slide down his body, the sheets whispering against your skin. You press open-mouthed kisses along the inside of his trembling thigh, feeling the muscle jump under your lips. His breath comes in ragged pants. “Little girl...” he gasps, the endearment sounding strained, almost desperate. “What are you—”

Your mouth closes over the head of his cock, swirling your tongue, tasting the salt-slick precum. The groan that rips from his chest is guttural, primal. His hands fly to your hair again, not pushing, but clutching, his fingers tangling desperately. “Oh fuck! Bunny!”

You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, setting a relentless, deep rhythm. You listen, attuned to every hitch in his breath, every stifled cry. He tries to lift his hips, to thrust, but you pin his hips down with your forearm, holding him still, forcing him to just take it. His control is utterly shattered. Whines and choked-off moans spill from him, a continuous, desperate litany mixed with your pet names. “Baby girl... so good... fuck, yes... please, please... oh god, little girl, right there... don't stop... can't... baby...”

His thighs tremble violently beside your head. Tears gather at the corners of his squeezed-shut eyes, spilling over onto his temples. He's a wreck, lost in sensation, completely at your mercy. The sounds he makes—high, breathy whimpers, broken gasps of your name—are unlike anything you've ever heard from him. It's intoxicating.

You pull off with a slick pop, leaving him gasping, his cock weeping against his stomach. You quickly discard of your panties and crawl back up his body, your own need a fierce throb between your legs. Cheol’s eyes fly open, wild and pleading. “Need you,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. “On me. Now. Please, princess.”

You straddle his hips, positioning yourself. His hands scramble to grip your waist, but you catch them, pushing them back down onto the mattress above his head. “No,” you say firmly, holding his gaze. “I’m in charge today. Let me.” You sink down onto him in one slow, deliberate motion, taking him deep, so deep you both gasp. The stretch is exquisite, the fullness overwhelming. For a moment, you just sit there, adjusting, feeling him pulse inside you, watching his face contort with pleasure so intense it borders on pain. “Fuck, baby girl,” he chokes out, his hips straining upwards involuntarily. “You feel... heavenly…”

Then you move. You set a hard, demanding pace from the start, riding him with a fierceness that surprises even you, using your thighs to lift and sink, grinding down on him with every descent. Your hands brace on his chest, fingers digging into the hard planes of muscle. The sounds he makes are obscene—high-pitched cries, guttural groans, your name sobbed over and over. “Bunny! Yes! Harder! Fuck, baby... just like that... my good girl... my perfect little girl... oh god, yes…”

His hands stay pinned, trembling and sporadically clutching into fists where you've placed them, his only outlet the torrent of words and the desperate arching of his back. Sweat slicks both your bodies. The room fills with the sounds of skin slapping skin, his ragged sobs, your own increasingly labored breathing.

You're relentless, driven by the sight of him breaking apart beneath you, by the power thrumming through your veins, by the sheer, overwhelming need to give him everything. But your stamina isn't infinite. Your thighs, unused to this sustained effort, begin to burn fiercely. The pace you set starts to falter. The hard bounces become slower, grinding undulations. Frustration wells up, hot and sharp. A sob tears from your own throat—not just from pleasure, but from the sheer effort, the delicious exhaustion, the stubborn refusal to stop until he's utterly shattered.

“Tired, baby?” he gasps, his voice thick with concern beneath the wreckage of his own pleasure. His hands flex, desperate to touch you, to help. “Let me—”

“No!” you cry out, the word sharp, almost angry, pressing his wrists into the bed with your grip. Tears of exertion sting your eyes, blurring your vision of his beautiful, ravaged face. You force your screaming muscles to obey, lifting yourself up and slamming back down with renewed, if shaky, force. “Mine! You're... mine... today...” Each word is punctuated by a desperate grind. “Gonna... make you... come... like this...”

He sobs as if in response, his body bowing off the bed. “Gonna... Bunny, l'm... fuck...” His control snaps. His release hits him like a tidal wave, tearing a raw, broken cry from his throat that echoes in the dawn-lit room. His hips piston upwards uncontrollably as he empties himself deep inside you, his entire body seizing, trembling violently beneath you. “Baby! Baby girl! Oh god... oh fuck... yes...” His voice cracks, dissolving into wordless, shuddering moans as the waves crash over him.

You ride him through it, grinding down as his cock pulses within you, your own climax slamming into you a moment later, triggered by his violent release and the sheer intensity of his surrender. It's less a peak and more a shattering, a white-hot explosion that rips through you and your exhaustion, dragging a hoarse cry from your lips as you collapse forward onto his heaving chest.

Silence descends, filled with the frantic drumming of two hearts beneath damp skin, the ragged symphony of lungs fighting for air, the faint, residual tremors running through Seungcheol’s body beneath yours. Sweat cools rapidly, leaving a sticky film on your chest and his, separated only by the dampened layer of your sleep t-shirt, but you lack the strength, and honestly the will, to move. You are boneless, utterly spent, the fierce energy that possessed you drained away, leaving behind a hollowed-out exhaustion and a profound, buzzing satisfaction. Your face is buried in the hollow of his throat, your limbs heavy weights pinning him to the mattress as much as his arms are locked around you, crushing you impossibly close.

His breathing is still harsh, uneven, but it’s gradually slowing. His hands roam your back, slipping under the fabric of your tee, and you can feel them trembling slightly, tracing the bumps of your spine, the curve of your shoulder blade, with a reverence that feels new. Awed. And you can see why, you both discovered each other from new angles just now. His face is still buried in your hair, his lips moving against your scalp, whispering fragmented, shattered endearments into the sweat-damp strands.

“Fuck... baby... my little girl... holy fuck...” The words are muffled, thick with lingering shock and something deeper, rawer. “You... you wrecked me.” His voice cracks on the admission. Seungcheol holds you like you’re the only anchor in a churning sea of the afterglow, his grip almost desperate. “My good girl... my perfect bunny... absolutely fucking perfect...”

You manage a weak hum, nuzzling instinctively against the pulse beating wildly in his neck. Every muscle screams in protest, your thighs burning fiercely from the effort, a pleasant ache settling deep in your core. You feel his lips press softly, lingeringly, to the top of your head. Then, slowly, his arms loosen their vice-like hold, though one hand remains splayed possessively on the small of your back. The other slides up, fingers gently pushing sweat-slicked hair away from your forehead.

“Baby girl,” he murmurs, his voice still rough but gaining a fraction of its usual timbre, layered thick with tenderness. “Look at me. Just for a sec.”

It takes monumental effort, but you tilt your head back just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils still blown wide, but the frantic edge has softened into this warm, liquid, overwhelming affection you so often catch him watching you with lately. The faint tracks of tears glisten on his temples, catching the strengthening dawn light. He looks utterly wrecked and impossibly beautiful. A soft, slightly dazed smile touches his lips as his thumb brushes over your cheekbone.

“Hi,” he whispers, the simple word loaded with awe.

“Hi,” you rasp back, your voice sounding wrecked.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “Feel like you ran a marathon, princess?” His thumb traces your lower lip, feather-light.

“Fought a war,” you mumble, letting your head drop back onto his shoulder. “Won.”

His chuckle deepens, warm and rich. “Damn right you did.” He presses another kiss to your hairline. “You were... fuck, baby. Unbelievable. Absolutely fucking incredible.” The praise pours out, unrestrained. "So strong. So beautiful taking what you wanted. Taking me.” His hand strokes down your back again, soothing now. “My perfect, fierce little girl.”

Seungcheol lets you rest against him for a few more precious moments, his hand continuing its gentle, worshipful path over your skin, murmuring soft endearments—princess, bunny, baby girl, my love—against your hair. But practicality, his ingrained need to care, soon surfaces. He shifts slightly beneath you.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice firmer now, laced with gentle command, the tone he so often uses when there’s a decision to be made for the two of you and he needs you to follow his lead. “Can’t stay like this forever, tempting as it is. We need to clean up. Quick shower. Then back to bed for that sleep I was promised, yeah?”

You make a small noise of protest, clinging tighter. “Tired. Comfy.”

“I know, baby. I know you're exhausted. You worked so hard for me.” His praise is immediate, soothing, acknowledging your effort to send him to heaven and back. “My strong girl used all her energy making me feel so good. Let me take care of you now. Please?” He kisses your temple. “Just a quick wash. I'll do everything. Just lean on me.”

The promise in his voice, the sheer devotion, melts your resistance. You heave a sigh and nod weakly against his skin. “Fine.”

“Good girl,” he praises softly, the words sending a fresh, different warmth through you. He maneuvers carefully, first pulling out his softened length which makes you gasp at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Then he’s sliding out from under you with surprising grace considering his own recent state. The cool air hits your damp skin as Seungcheol leaves the bed, the soaked t-shirt doesn’t make the experience any better, but he’s back instantly, scooping you up effortlessly into his arms before you can even shiver. You instinctively loop your arms around his neck, clinging as he carries you through the quiet villa to the bathroom. His strength, so recently surrendered, is back in full force, a solid, comforting presence.

He sets you down gently on the closed toilet lid. “Stay right there, bunny. Just a sec.” He turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam begins to billow, filling the room with warmth. He grabs two large, fluffy towels, hanging one within easy reach. Then he’s back before you, kneeling, his hands warm on your knees.

“Arms up, princess,” he instructs softly.

You obey, lifting your arms weakly. He carefully peels your sleep shirt up and over your head, discarding it. His gaze sweeps over you, not with hunger now, but with pure, tender appreciation. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His hands go to your waist, helping you stand. He doesn’t linger, his touch practical yet infinitely gentle. He straightens before lifting you again, stepping smoothly into the warm spray.

The water is blissfully hot, sluicing over your aching muscles, washing away the sweat and stickiness. Seungcheol positions you with your back to his chest, his arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you upright. He reaches for the soap, lathering his hands.

“Just relax, baby girl,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice a low rumble under the water's patter. “I've got you.”

And he does. He washes you with meticulous care, as if you’re something infinitely precious and fragile. His soapy hands glide over your shoulders, down your arms, massaging the tired muscles. He washes your back, his thumbs pressing gently into the knots beside your spine. He turns you carefully, washing your front with the same reverent attention, his touch lingering nowhere inappropriate, focused purely on cleansing and soothing. He washes your hair, even though you insist it’s washed—you did it only yesterday. His fingers massage your scalp with firm, delicious pressure that draws a soft moan from you.

“Feel good, bunny?” he asks, his voice thick with affection as he rinses the suds from your hair, carefully shielding your eyes from the spray.

“Mmmhmm,” you hum, leaning heavily against him, your energy utterly depleted. “Perfect.”

“You are perfect,” he corrects softly, his lips brushing your wet temple. “What you did... fuck, baby. I've never...” He pauses, rinsing the soap from your body, his hands smoothing the water over your skin. “You owned me completely. It was the most incredible fucking birthday gift. Sucked the soul out of me and sent me to heaven.” He nuzzles your neck. “My bossy, demanding, perfect princess. Thank you.”

He turns off the water and reaches for the large towel, wrapping you in it immediately, rubbing you dry with the same thorough, gentle attention. He dries himself quickly, efficiently, before wrapping his own towel around his hips. Then he lifts you again, carrying you back to the bedroom, depositing you gently on the edge of the bed. He fetches another towel, carefully drying your hair, rubbing it gently until it’s just damp.

“No pajamas,” you mumble sleepily as he moves to find clothes. “Just sleep.”

He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “Okay, bunny. Just sleep.” He discards his own towel and pulls back the slightly damp sheets on the side you hadn't occupied. He guides you down, pulling the cool top sheet over you both. Then he climbs in beside you, immediately gathering you back into his arms, tucking your head under his chin, your back flush against his chest. His arm is a heavy, warm band across your waist, his legs tangling with yours. He pulls the blanket up over your shoulders.

His body is warm and solid, a haven. His lips find the crown of your head again, pressing a lingering kiss into your damp hair. “Sleep now, my love,” he whispers, his voice a deep, soothing rumble against your back. His hand strokes slowly, rhythmically, up and down your arm. “My perfect girl. My birthday miracle. Sleep. I've got you.”

The last of the tension bleeds out of you. The world narrows to the circle of his arms, the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth, the safety, the overwhelming sense of being cherished. The fierce determination to take the lead you wielded has been met and mirrored in his tender, all-encompassing care. Exhaustion, deep and complete, pulls you under. As your eyelids flutter shut, the last thing you register is his soft, contented sigh against your hair and the faint pressure of his lips on your shoulder. The birthday adventure could wait another hour or two.

A few hours later, standing on the sun-baked pavement outside the rental villa, Seungcheol is radiating skepticism. He’s swapped his sleep pants for crisp white shorts and an aggressively oversized, red t-shirt of some football team that hangs loosely even on his big frame. Sunglasses perched atop his head, pushing his still-slightly-unruly hair back. He looks effortlessly, infuriatingly cool, which only amplifies the pout currently forming on his lips.

He eyes the vehicle before him like it might bite. “A Vespa?” he repeats, disbelief colouring his tone. “A yellow Vespa? Princess, Italians drive these. Not Koreans. Especially not…” He gestures vaguely at himself, then at the cheerful, lemon-coloured scooter. “...this.”

You’re already adjusting the strap of your helmet, your floral sundress fluttering around your knees in the warm breeze. Your own sunglasses are firmly in place. “It’s iconic!” you counter, patting the leather seat. “And perfectly matches our destination. Hop on, birthday boy.”

“Hop on?” He scoffs, though there’s a hint of amusement beneath the grumbling. “It looks… unstable. And small. Are you sure it’s safe?” He circles it slowly, kicking gently at the stand.

“Completely safe,” you assure him, swinging your leg over and settling onto the seat. It feels surprisingly solid beneath you. You twist, looking back at him expectantly. “Trust me?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh, the sound dramatically loud in the quiet street. “I trusted you about the ‘no fuss’ birthday, and look where that got me.” But he’s moving, reluctantly fitting the spare helmet over his head, fumbling with the strap under his chin. He climbs on behind you, his long legs folding awkwardly. Immediately, his arms lock around your waist, tight and secure. He’s warm, solid against your back. “Okay. Go slow. Very slow. Like… walking speed. Is walking speed an option?”

You twist the throttle gently, and the Vespa purrs to life beneath you. “Relax, baby. We’re just going for a scenic cruise.” You ease out onto the narrow road, aiming for a steady 30 kmph. The breeze is instantly pleasant, ruffling your hair that’s peeking out from beneath the helmet.

“Slow down!” Seungcheol’s voice is muffled against the back of your neck, his arms tightening further. His face is pressed into your shoulder. “Are you trying to kill me before my birthday? This feels like 100!” His breath tickles your skin.

You laugh, the sound snatched away by the wind. “It’s barely 30!” You navigate a gentle curve, the sun-drenched landscape of rolling hills and cypress trees unfolding around you. It’s breathtaking.

“Feels faster,” he mumbles, his voice vibrating against your spine. But slowly, incrementally, you feel him relax. His grip, while still firm, becomes less panicked. He shifts slightly, his cheek resting against your shoulder blade instead of being buried. “Okay,” he concedes after a few minutes, his voice clearer. “It’s… not terrible. The view is nice.” You know he doesn’t mean the hills. You grin, unseen.

A few kilometers later, approaching a slightly wider stretch of road, you feel him tap your hip. “Pull over? Just… for a second.”

You carefully steer the Vespa onto a gravel pull-off overlooking a valley painted in shades of green and gold. You kill the engine. Silence floods back, filled only with the buzz of insects and distant birdsong. Seungcheol climbs off, stretching his long legs with a groan. He pulls off his helmet, running a hand through his flattened hair. He then proceeds to pull out his phone and take the scenic photos of the valley with colourful houses scattered here and there.

“You okay?” you ask, removing your own helmet, to quickly shake out your hair and put the thing back on.

He turns to you, sunlight catching the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. His expression is serious for a moment. Then, without a word, he steps close. His hands come up, surprisingly gentle, to adjust the strap of your helmet that is currently undone. His fingers brush the sensitive skin of your jaw as he clicks it fastened, sending a shiver down your spine despite the warmth. His eyes are intent behind his sunglasses as he carefully tightens the strap, ensuring it’s secure but not too tight. His focus is absolute, a quiet intensity that momentarily steals your breath. “Safety first, bunny,” he murmurs, his thumb smoothing over the strap under your jaw. It’s a simple gesture, practical, yet it feels incredibly intimate. He steps back, the cool moment dissolving as quickly as it came, replaced by his softer smile that barely touches the corners of his lips and yet changes his face from scary to open and approachable in seconds. “Okay. Can we avoid any more death-defying speeds now?”

You snort in response and roll your eyes.

The lemon grove is a revelation. Rows upon rows of vibrant green trees, heavy with fruit the colour of captured sunshine, stretching towards a sky so blue it hurts. The air hums with life and the intense, clean, sharp scent of citrus. It’s heady and beautiful and exactly as you pictured.

Seungcheol, however, looks like he’s walked into a nature-themed horror movie. He accepts the small wicker basket from the cheerful attendant with the air of someone being handed a live grenade. His sunglasses are firmly back on his nose, his posture rigid.

“Right,” he says, surveying the grove with deep suspicion. “Sunny ones. Got it.” He takes a tentative step onto the grassy path between the trees.

You’re practically vibrating with excitement, already reaching for a plump lemon gleaming like a jewel. “Look at this one! It’s perfect!”

“It’s yellow,” Seungcheol observes dryly, keeping a careful distance from the tree you’re admiring. He peers at a leaf. “Are there… things living in here?”

“Things?” You laugh, carefully twisting the lemon free. It comes away with a soft snap, releasing a burst of fragrant oil into the air.

“Bugs,” he clarifies, flinching as a tiny gnat flies near his face. He swats vaguely at the air. “Bees. Wasps. Spiders.” He shudders dramatically. “This isn’t an entertainment, princess, it’s torture. Why couldn’t we just buy lemons at the supermarket? Like normal people?”

“Because it’s fun!” you insist, placing the lemon gently in your basket. “And authentic! Feel the sun, smell the air!”

“I feel the sweat,” he grumbles, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “And I smell… imminent insect attack.” He jumps as a slightly larger bee drones lazily past him, heading towards a cluster of blossoms. “See! It’s targeting me! Why is it following me?!” He whines and ducks reflexively, bumping into you.

You steady him, laughing. “It’s not targeting you, baby. It’s busy.”

He glares in the direction the bee flew, clutching his basket like a shield. “It looked aggressive. They can sense fear, you know.” He eyes the leafy canopy above with deep mistrust. “Are there spiders in that tree? Big ones?”

“Probably tiny ones,” you reassure him, though your eyes twinkle with mischief. “Harmless.”

“Harmless is relative,” Seungcheol mutters, cautiously reaching for a lemon on a low-hanging branch several feet away from you. He picks it like it might explode, holding it gingerly first then scrutinising from every angle. He drops it into his basket with a look of profound relief. “One. That’s my contribution. Can we go now?”

But you’re already deeper into the grove, enchanted by the dappled sunlight and the sheer abundance. You lose track of him for a few minutes, focused on selecting the most perfect, unblemished lemons. When your basket is satisfyingly heavy, you turn to find him.

He’s leaning against a tree trunk a little way off, looking bored but slightly less tense. His basket rests at his feet. As you approach, he pushes off the trunk and picks it up. “Here,” he says, thrusting it towards you. It’s filled almost to the brim with beautiful, large lemons. “Sunny ones. Like you said.”

“Cheol! This is amazing!” you exclaim, genuinely surprised. “You harvested all these?”

He shrugs, looking down, a faint flush creeping up his neck under the sunglasses. “Had to do something while you were communing with the citrus spirits.” He nudges your own basket. “Swap you. Mine are probably better.”

You laugh and accept the heavier basket. As you transfer the lemons into your larger tote bag, nestled amongst the picnic supplies you brought along, your fingers brush against one that feels different. You pull it out. It’s flawless, large, and heavy. And carved delicately into the bright yellow rind, clear as day, are two words and a tiny heart: Princess ♡.

You look up at him, your heart doing a funny little flip. He’s trying very hard to look nonchalant, examining a leaf with intense focus, but the tips of his ears are bright red. The contrast between the grumpy insect-paranoid man and this hidden, sweet gesture is overwhelmingly endearing. You don’t say anything, just cradle the special lemon for a moment before carefully placing it back in the bag, a warm glow spreading through your chest.

The picnic spot you find is a small, secluded clearing under the dappled shade of what looks to be an ancient olive tree, overlooking the groves and the distant hazy blue of the Mediterranean. You spread out the blanket, unpacking crusty bread, fresh mozzarella, slices of salty prosciutto, juicy tomatoes, some wine and other snacks. Luckily for you the owners of the grove agreed to store your picnic basket in their fridge that they offered to their guests specifically for such occasions.

The air hums with heat and the scent of sun-warmed earth and citrus as Seungcheol flops onto the blanket with a groan that’s only half-exaggerated. “Sanctuary,” he declares, stretching out his legs. He pulls off his sunglasses, squinting up at the canopy. “No bees here. Just… peace. And food.” He eyes the spread appreciatively. He pats the blanket beside him. “Come here, birthday curator. My hands are tired. From escaping death-by-wasp and harvesting your lemons.”

“Limoni! Signora, limoni!” you echo the funny TikTok video you saw a long time ago, shifting to sit closer, and you both laugh. He immediately rearranges himself, dropping his head heavily into your lap with a satisfied sigh. He looks up at you, his dark eyes soft, the earlier tension completely gone from his face. He looks relaxed, younger, utterly content. The late afternoon sun gilds his features, catching the faint laugh lines around his eyes.

“Feed me?” he asks, his voice a low rumble. He opens his mouth comically wide, like a baby bird. “Bread first. With the mozzarella. And tomato.”

You laugh, tearing off a piece of crusty bread, layering it with creamy cheese and a slice of ripe tomato. You hold it to his lips. He takes a bite, chewing slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. A crumb clings to his lower lip. You brush it away with your thumb, and he catches your wrist, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. The simple touch sends warmth radiating through you.

For a while, it’s quiet. The only sounds are the rustle of leaves, distant insects, and the soft crunch as you both eat. You feed him bits of prosciutto, a slice of tomato sprinkled with salt. He accepts it all lazily, his fingers idly playing with the hem of your sundress where it rests against his shoulder. The world narrows to this patch of shade, the weight of his head in your lap, the shared silence filled with affection.

He breaks it first, his voice quiet, thoughtful. “...Okay,” he murmurs, gazing up at the fragmented sky through the olive leaves. “This is nice.” He turns his head slightly, nuzzling his cheek against your thigh. “Thanks for not listening to me, princess. About the no-fuss thing.”

You smile down at him, tracing the familiar curve of his eyebrow with a gentle finger. “Still grumpy?”

He catches your tracing finger, bringing it to his lips for a brief kiss. His eyes hold yours, warm and open. “Mmm. Maybe a little.” A playful glint sparks in them. “Think you could kiss it better?”

You lean down, brushing your lips softly against his. It’s slow, sweet, tasting of sunshine, salt, and the faintest hint of lemon. He sighs into it, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, deepening the kiss for a lingering moment before letting you pull back. “Better?” you whisper.

“Much,” he murmurs, a soft smile playing on his lips. He closes his eyes, settling back against you. “Don’t move. This is perfect.”

The Vespa ride back feels different. The late afternoon sun paints the landscape in richer golds and deeper blues. Seungcheol, radiating contentment and perhaps a little drowsiness from the picnic and the short nap he took while you were chilling under the tree, insists on driving this time.

“My turn, captain,” he declares, holding out his hand for the keys. There’s a new confidence in his posture, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Revenge time.”

You eye him warily but hand over the keys. He settles onto the seat, looking much more at home now. You climb on behind him, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your cheek against the sun-warmed fabric of his red t-shirt. You can feel the solid warmth of his back, the steady beat of his heart.

He starts the engine, the familiar purr vibrating beneath you. He glances back over his shoulder. “Hold on tight, baby,” he says, the smirk audible in his voice.

You brace yourself, expecting a burst of speed. Instead, he eases the Vespa forward with glacial slowness. You’re barely moving, a sedate 15 kmph, if that. Pedestrians could easily overtake you.

“Cheol!” you laugh, squeezing him. “This isn’t revenge, it’s… snail speed!”

“Safety first,” he intones solemnly, mimicking his earlier words. He navigates the road with exaggerated care, taking corners so wide and slow you almost tip over. “Enjoying the scenic route?” he asks innocently and you feel his voice vibrating against your cheek through his back.

You are, actually. It’s ridiculously slow, but it gives you time to soak in the fading light, the deepening colours of the countryside, the scent of cypress and warm earth. And holding onto him like this, feeling the rumble of the engine and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, is its own kind of perfect. You press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “It’s perfect,” you murmur.

He hums, a sound of deep almost smug satisfaction. “Told you.”

The rental villa is cool and quiet after the warmth of the day. Seungcheol deposits the bags of lemons on the kitchen counter with a sigh of relief. Before you can even think about unpacking or getting the cake, he steers you gently but firmly towards the bathroom.

“Go,” he says, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument. “Draw the bath. Use the fancy bubbles.” He gestures towards the expensive-looking bath salts you’d bought during the couple of days you stayed in Rome.

“But the cake—” you start.

“Later,” he interrupts, his hands settling on your shoulders, turning you fully towards the bathroom door. “You planned all day. Drove the scary Vespa. Harvested lemons under insect siege.” His thumbs rub small circles on your shoulders. “Now I plan. And I’m saying bath. Now.” His tone brooks no argument, but it’s laced with tenderness. “Go on, bunny. I’ll bring wine.”

You obey, the warmth of the day and the lingering contentment making you pliant. The bathroom is soon filled with steam, fragrant with the scent of lemon verbena and rose from the salts. You light candles, their flickering light dancing on the tiled walls. You’re just slipping off your sundress and underwear when Seungcheol enters, carrying two glasses of pale local wine. He’s shed his red shirt and shorts, wearing just his boxer briefs. He sets the glasses down on the wide ledge of the deep stone tub.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, looking at the steaming, fragrant water. He holds out his hand. “In you get.”

You sink into the blissfully hot water with a sigh, the heat instantly soothing muscles you hadn’t realized were tense. Seungcheol quickly discards his briefs and climbs in behind you, the water sloshing gently. He settles you back against his chest, his legs bracketing yours. For a moment, you just breathe, enveloped in warmth and steam and his solid presence. You reach for the glasses, pass one to him and take a small sip from yours. The only sound is the soft lap of water and your combined breathing.

Then you hear him setting his glass of wine aside and his hands slide over your shoulders, strong thumbs pressing into the knots at the base of your neck. You groan softly, melting back against him. “You drove so well today,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the damp skin just below your ear. His voice is a low rumble, barely audible over the water. “My brave captain.” His hands work gently down your shoulders, massaging the tension away. “Kept us alive. Got us our lemons.” His touch is firm, purposeful, yet incredibly tender.

You laugh breathlessly from his exaggerated praise. “You did good too,” you sigh, tilting your head to give him better access. “Conquered your fear of Italian wildlife.”

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “Barely.” His hands move to your upper arms, kneading gently. “Still think that bee had it out for me.” His fingers trace light patterns on your skin before returning to the soothing pressure. The intimacy is quiet. Has been for a while now. Over the past couple of years of your relationship it has softened and deepened. Has become less about passion—though it’s still present in abundance—and more about care, about connection, about washing away the day’s small exertions together like you’re doing right now. You feel utterly cherished, utterly safe.

You relax completely, leaning your head back against his shoulder. His lips find your temple in a soft, lingering kiss. “Best birthday,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your damp skin. “Even with the bees, the terrifying Vespa speeds… all of it.” He nuzzles your hair. “Because you were there.”

You turn your head just enough to find his lips. The kiss is slow, deep, tasting of the herbal bath salts and the faint sweetness of the wine. Steam curls around you, the candlelight flickering on your closed eyelids. It’s a kiss of pure contentment, of shared warmth, of unspoken love.

“Stop squirming,” he murmurs against your lips, a smile in his voice, as his hands suddenly find your ribs, tickling gently. “I’m not that ticklish— Cheol!” But he finds a spot even you didn’t know about. Your surprised yelp dissolves into laughter, echoing brightly in the steamy room. The wine in your glass sloshes from sharp movement. Seungcheol laughs too, holding you tighter as you try to squirm away, the water spilling over the edge of the tub. The sound is pure, unadulterated joy, bouncing off the tiles.

Later, wrapped in soft towels, the world outside dark, you finally have the opportunity to finish decorating the main dessert of the day—you banish Seungcheol from the kitchen so he at least doesn’t spoil the finishing touches you’re planning on—and bring the bento cake to bed. You sit cross-legged facing each other on the cool sheets, the cake sitting between you on a pretty plate you found in the kitchen. The single candle on top flickers, casting dancing shadows.

“Make a wish,” you whisper.

He looks at you, his face illuminated by the tiny flame, his eyes impossibly soft. He doesn’t look away as he leans forward and blows the candle out in one gentle breath. The room plunges into near darkness, illuminated only by the moonlight streaming through the open window.

“What did you wish for?” you ask softly, breaking off a small piece of cake, the lemon curd glistening.

He catches your wrist as you move to pop it into your mouth. Instead, he guides your hand towards his own lips, taking the cake from your fingers. You watch with amusement and free your hand to bring your fingers back to your lips, licking the crumbs and some frosting off. He chews slowly, then leans forward, his hands cupping your cheek. Then he pulls you in, his plush lips finding yours again, slow and deep and tasting of vanilla, lemon, and him.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours. The silence stretches, comfortable and deep, filled with the scent of picked lemons you brought back from the groves and your fancy bath salts, and the quiet intimacy of shared space.

“Next year?” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against your skin. His thumb traces your lower lip where the curd had been. He licks a tiny trace of it from his own thumb, his eyes holding yours in the moonlight, gentle and full of love. “Just this. No lemons, no Vespas…” His lips brush yours again, feather-light. “Just you.”

Your heart flutters. Of course you’re going to come up with something else next year, of course you won’t let his special day be dull and forgettable. Maybe you’ll ease up on the travelling part and not drag him across the globe and torture him with yellow Vespas and bees and picking lemons. But the single fact that you’re enough for him undoes you in ways that nothing else can.

You wrap your arms around his neck basically launching yourself at Seungcheol, cake forgotten, and deepen the kiss, pouring all your feelings of love and gratitude you have for this man, for having him in your life. He laughs, falling back onto the bedsheets with you on top of him. You hug him tightly, feeling suddenly sentimental.

“I love you so much,” you mutter, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. His arms vine around you in response, strong and secure.

Seungcheol sighs, the sound content and loaded with feelings that can’t be expressed in simple words. His hold on you tightens minutely as he presses a kiss to your temple and mutters against your skin. “I love you too, baby. So fucking much.”

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