Suggestive content âą soft-dom anton âą heavy intimacy âą implied sexual content âą soft dom dynamics âą protected sex mention âą emotional vulnerability âą comfort themes âą kissing âą physical touch throughout âą aftercare âą very affectionate anton
Word Count: ~1k words
Author's Note: Only person in my biaslist that has a permanent place and never changesđđ
The bedroom is dark except for the lamp on his nightstand, the one with the amber shade that casts everything in warm gold. Anton's already in bed, propped against the headboard, and he watches you undress without saying anythingâjust watches, the way he does, patient and certain. There's no rush in him. There never is.
You had a pretty harsh day, and now all you wanted was him to Hold You Through The Night.
You slip under the covers. He pulls you close, one arm settling around your waist, and you fit against his chest the way you always do. His skin is warm. He smells like soap and something that's just him.
"Hi," he says into your hair, and you can hear the smile in it.
"Hi yourself."
His hand moves down your spine, slow and deliberate, fingers spreading wide across your lower back. He's not hurrying. This is the thing about Antonâhe knows how to take his time. Knows that the best part isn't the destination; it's the way he makes you feel seen the entire journey there.
"Rough day?" he asks, and you nod against his shoulder. He responds by pressing a kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple. His lips are soft. Everything about him is soft tonight, but there's something underneath it, and you know the difference. You always know.
His hand slides lower, and you shift to give him access. He takes it as permissionâbecause with Anton, consent is a language you both speak fluently. His fingers trace the curve of your hip, and then he's pulling you closer, one leg sliding between yours. You can feel him already half-hard against your thigh, but he's not pushing. He's just⊠present.
"Come here," he murmurs, and it's not a command, exactly, but it's not quite a request either. It's something in between, and that's where Anton lives. That's where he makes you feel safe enough to let go.
You shift your weight, and he guides you with a hand on your lower backâfirm but not rough, directing but not forcing. He's good at this, at knowing exactly how much pressure to use, exactly when to be gentle and when to be something else. You end up straddling his lap, and he settles back against the pillows, hands on your waist.
"There," he says, like you've solved a puzzle he's been working on all day. "That's better."
You can feel his length against you now, and he lets out a low breath through his nose. His thumbs trace slow circles on your skin, and he's watching your face with that intensity he has, the one that makes you feel like you're the only thing worth looking at in the world.
"You're beautiful," he says, and he means it. You can always tell when Anton means something because he doesn't waste words. He says what he needs to say and nothing more.
You lean down to kiss him, and he lets you set the pace at firstâsoft kisses, unhurried, his hand coming up to cup the back of your neck. But then he takes over, just slightly, deepening the kiss, and you feel the shift in him, the moment he stops being patient and starts being present in a different way. His other hand grips your hip, and he's guiding you against him, and you're already breathing harder.
"Easy," he whispers against your mouth, and it's not a warningâit's a promise.
He's got you. He always does.
He reaches over to the nightstand, and you hear the crinkle of a wrapper. He takes care of it with one hand while the other stays on you, grounding you, and then he's positioning you, and you're sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly, and he's making this low sound in his throat that goes straight through you.
"That's it," he says, his voice rough now, deeper. "Take your time."
But you don't want to take your time. You want to move, want to feel him deeper, and he knows this. He lets you set the rhythm, but his hands are there, controlling the depth, the pace, keeping you from rushing into something that would end too fast. He's thinking about youâabout how you feel, about what you needâeven as his own breathing gets heavier.
"Look at me," he says, and you do. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something so intimate about it that you almost have to look away. But you don't. You hold his gaze while you move, while he moves with you, and it's like he's reading you, anticipating what you need before you need it.
His hand slides up your spine, and he pulls you down against his chest, one arm wrapped around your back, solid and sure. His other hand is in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and he's murmuring things against your earâthat's right, you feel so good, I've got youâand you believe him. You believe every word.
It builds slowly, the way he likes it, the way he makes sure it does. He's in control but he's not controlling, if that makes sense. He's guiding you toward something without forcing it, and when you finally come, it's not explosiveâit's deep and rolling and complete, and he's right there with you, his breathing ragged, his grip on you tightening just for a moment before he softens again.
He holds you like that for a while, both of you breathing, cooling down, his hand still in your hair, his lips against your forehead. You're heavy in the best way, boneless, and he's still inside you but it doesn't matter because this partâthe afterâis almost better than the before.
"Okay?" he asks quietly, and you nod against his shoulder.
"More than okay."
He shifts just enough to slip out and take care of the condom, then pulls you back against him, and you settle into the space between his chest and the pillow. His arm comes around you again, and his breathing is already evening out. He's relaxed now, satisfied in that quiet way he has.
"Sleep," he says, pressing one last kiss to your hair.
"I'm right here."
And you do, because with Anton, that's always enough.
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If it's alright to ask, i wanted to see how you think the boys help a reader/mc who has benign tremors.
It's exactly what it sounds like, my body/hands shake, and i can't control it. While I haven't been diagnosed, my ma has and I've inherited it from her. My hands/body shakes even if I'm not particularly afraid or anxious (and I am an anxious person)
It does make life a little hard. Sometimes I just cannot get my hands to be still enough to really do anything. Getting water? Someone else better hold the cup, typing is always difficult.
Though when I get sick or im anxious or tired, then I be shaking like some wet and cold chihuahua, seems very dramatic.
Hopefully this isn't too specific, I've not seen anyone write about it before..least j dont think so.
Either way, thanks for taking the time tk read this
Hello! Thank you for the request! I can't imagine what it's like to have benign tremors and the difficulty it must bring to what feel like they should be simple tasks, but I know the lads men would take great care of you.
This also hits a little close to home because my family has a history of Parkinson's and it makes me afraid of the future sometimes.
At first, it was little things. A cup rattling in your hands. Struggling to fasten a button. Taking longer than usual to type out reports.
Then it started affecting your missions.
Some days, you could barely keep your firearm steady.
You hadn't told anyone, especially not Xavier. You didn't want to say it out loud because then it would become real. The thought had been eating away at you for weeks.
What kind of Hunter can't even hold their weapon steady?
The two of you were in the middle of a mission when it happened again. A Wanderer appeared from the shadows, and instinctively, you raised your gun.
Your hands shook.
Not enough to drop it, but enough. Enough that the sight wouldn't stay still and your finger froze on the trigger.
Xavier looked over, concerned. He didn't say anything at first. Then, quietly he asked, "It's not a good day?"
The words struck something deep inside you, and your shoulders immediately tensed, and you shook your head in denial.
"I'm fine."
"You don't seem fine."
"I said I'm okay." You shouted, louder than intended.
Xavier looked at you for a long moment before nodding once.
The Wanderer moved again. You raised your gun. Your hands trembled harder. You couldn't do it. You couldn't pull the trigger.
"No, no no nono." you muttered quietly to yourself panic flooding your chest.
The Wanderer lunged.
A burst of light flashed beside you. Then another. A few seconds later, the area fell silent.
Xavier had taken care of it.
You couldn't breathe. Your hands were shaking worse now, and the gun suddenly felt like it weighed 100lbs.
Then your hands gave out entirely. It slipped from your grasp and hit the ground.
The sound echoed loudly in the silence.
You stared at it, then at your hands. And suddenly, you couldn't stop the tears.
"What if this is it?" you whispered.
Xavier's looked at you gently, raising his eyebrow slightly, a silent ask for you to elaborate.
"What if I can't do this anymore?" Your voice cracked. "What if I can't be a Hunter?"
He stepped toward you slowly.
"You don't know that."
"But what if I can't even hold my weapon anymore?"
The tears came faster, the shaking spreading throughout your whole body.
"I've worked for this my whole life. I've never known another dream."
Xavier was quiet for a moment, as though he was trying to chose the write words. Instead, he gently took your trembling hands in his.
"They're shaking."
You let out a bark of a laugh.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
A small smile tugged at his lips before it faded again.
"But they're still your hands."
You looked up at him.
"You know there are Hunters who don't use firearms." He started gently. "There are different weapons. Different specialties. Different positions within the agency."
"But..." You interrupted, but he raised his hand to quiet your protests.
"You aren't at the end of your story. You don't have to decide your future today."
His thoughtfulness surprised you and more tears streaked down your cheeks. "What if everything changes?"
Xavier's thumbs brushed your cheeks softly, wiping away the tears, a reassuring smile on his face."Then we'll figure out what comes next."
You looked at him."We?"
"Of course."His answer came so easily that it made your chest ache.
"So what if your hands shake?" he said softly. "You're still strong. You're still capable."
Another tear fell.
"And you're still the person I love." He whispered, pulling you close. "A little shaking doesn't change any of that."
You had tried to ignore it. Every time your hands shook a little more than usual, every time you struggled to button your shirt or spilled your coffee, you told yourself it was just because you were tired. But then it started happening on missions, and then it started getting worse.
You knew benign tremors ran in your family. You also knew that benign didn't always make something easy to live with.
When Zayne noticed your hands trembling while you were trying to sign a report, he didn't say anything. Not then. Instead, a week later, he quietly asked, "Will you come to the hospital with me tomorrow?"
You looked at him. "Why?"
"I'd like to run a few tests."
You sighed. "I knew this was coming."
He reached over, gently taking your hand before it could disappear into your lap. "I don't want to frighten you."
"You already have."
His thumb brushed absently over your knuckles. "I want answers."
You did, too, so you went.
Bloodwork. Neurological exams. Questions that seemed endless. By the time the last appointment was over, you were exhausted.
Zayne sat beside you in his office, reviewing the results one final time before setting the file down. He looked up. "It's nothing. It's benign."
You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding. "So..."
"So," he repeated softly, "everything points to benign tremors."
You searched his face. "You're sure?"
"I'm as sure as I can be."
There was a quiet moment, while you registered the news.
"But they're getting worse."
"They may."
Your heart sank, and he immediately reached for your hand. "They may also stabilize. Symptoms can fluctuate, especially with stress, fatigue, illness, or caffeine."
You looked down at your intertwined hands. "So... I just have to live with it?"
"For now."
The words stung more than you expected. "I hate it."
"I know."
"I can't even hold a cup some days."
His grip tightened slightly, careful not to hurt you. "I know."
Tears clouded your eyesight. "What if it keeps getting worse?"
Zayne was quiet for a moment. "I can't promise you it won't change."
The honesty hurt, but somehow, it was comforting too.
"What I can promise," he continued, "is that if it does, we'll adapt. We'll find ways to make everyday tasks easier. We'll adjust your treatment if new options become available. If you ever need another opinion, I'll find the best specialist."
His expression softened. "And if one day this becomes more than benign..." He gently lifted your hand, pressing a kiss against your trembling fingers. "I'll be beside you every step of the way."
The tears finally spilled over. "I don't want to become a burden."
Zayne frowned at the thought. "You won't."
He held your gaze with the same quiet certainty he always carried. "Your hands may shake." His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles. "But they still hold mine."
A small, laugh escaped you as you squeezed his hand tighter. "And I have no intention of letting go."
You had been watching Rafayel paint for nearly an hour. His brush danced effortlessly across the canvas, each stroke deliberate and confident, as though he'd already seen the finished piece long before the paint ever touched it.
It was beautiful.
He was beautiful.
Everything he created had this elegance you couldn't describe.
Without thinking, you looked down at your own hands. They were trembling again, so you curled them into your lap. "You know," you said quietly, "if your hands shook like mine do...you wouldn't be able to do this."
Rafayel hummed distractedly, still painting, until your words fully registered in his head. His brush went still, and the room fell silent. Slowly, he set it aside and turned to look at you. "Is that what's been bothering you?" he asked.
You laughed quietly. "I mean...look at you." You gestured toward the canvas. "Your hands are your livelihood. If they shook like mine..." Your voice faltered. "You'd lose everything."
Rafayel simply stared at you with a look you didn't know how to describe. Then he smiled so gentle. "Cutie." He stood and crossed the room until he was kneeling in front of you. "You've misunderstood me."
You frowned. "If my hands started shaking tomorrow..." He looked down at them, turning them over thoughtfully. "...I'd probably have to paint differently. I might paint bigger canvases, or switch to sculpting. Maybe I'd use charcoal. Maybe I'd learn something completely new." He shrugged. "I'd still create. My hands don't make me an artist. I do."
The words settled over you and his gaze found yours. "So why," he asked softly, "have you decided that your hands get to decide who you are?"
His question caught you off guard as you pondered your response. "I..." you started, but he shook his head gently.
"You are so much more than the way your body moves." His hands found yours, his thumbs brushing lightly over your trembling fingers. "You think I look at these hands and see something broken? I see the hands that reach for mine. The hands that make tea when I'm working too late." He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze. "The hands that hold my face."
Tears welled in your eyes. "I don't even notice that they're shaking." He admitted.
"You don't?"
"No." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss against your knuckles. "I only notice that they're yours."
The tears came then, and he smiled as he wiped one away with his thumb. "And if one day they shake a little more..." His forehead rested lightly against yours. "...I'll still think they're the most beautiful hands I've ever held."
It wasn't the first thing that had gone wrong that day.
Your hands had been shaking since you woke up. You'd struggled to button your shirt, nearly dropped your toothbrush, and by the time you got home that evening, your nerves were frayed from pretending none of it bothered you.
Still, you told yourself you were fine.
Until the bottle.
You stood in the kitchen, twisting at the cap with both hands. Nothing. You adjusted your grip and tried again. Nothing. A third time. Then a fourth.
Your hands trembled harder with every failed attempt, and frustration built in your chest. With a sharp breath, you slammed the bottle onto the counter.
"Fuck."
The word came out harsher than you intended, and before you knew it, tears were spilling down your cheeks.
It wasn't about the bottle. It was never about the bottle. It was every cup you'd spilled, every button you'd struggled with, every mission where your hands shook just a little too much, and every quiet fear that one day, your body would stop cooperating altogether.
The front door clicked open.
Sylus stepped inside and immediately stopped when he saw you standing in the kitchen. His eyes flicked to your face, then to the unopened bottle. Without a word, he walked over, picked it up, twisted the cap free with one hand, and set it back on the counter before sitting beside you.
You stared at the bottle and he stared at you, taking in the flush on your face, the tears in your eyes.
Finally, he spoke. "That wasn't just about the bottle."
The tears came harder. You laughed through them, shaking your head. "No."
You buried your face in your hands. "I'm so tired."
His hand came to rest on your knee. "I know."
"What if it keeps getting worse?" you whispered. "What if one day I can't do anything by myself anymore?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached over and gently took one of your trembling hands in his.
"If tomorrow your hands shook twice as much..." His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles. "...I'd open twice as many bottles."
You looked up at him. His expression was calm, unwavering.
"If they shook so much you couldn't tie your shoes..." A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I'd tie them."
"If holding a cup became difficult...I'd hold it."
Your lip trembled. "I don't want to need help."
His gaze softened. "You won't need help."
You frowned, a puzzled look flashed across your eyes.
"You'll have me. You've convinced yourself that accepting help means you've lost something." He intertwined his fingers with yours. "I don't see it that way."
You stared at your joined hands.
"I see someone I love."
His grip tightened. "Your hands don't carry this relationship."
Your eyes met his crimson ones.
"We do." Sylus leaned over and pressed a kiss to your forehead. "When that day comes, if it ever comes, we'll face it together."
Then, with the smallest smile, he nudged the now-open bottle toward you. "Drink your water, sweetie."
Despite the tears still clinging to your lashes, despite your still trembling hands, you laughed, feeling a peace you didn't know you were capable of.
Caleb couldn't remember a time your hands didn't shake.
When you were little, he'd hold your juice box while you pushed the straw through the foil. Your hands never seemed to stay still long enough to do it yourself.
As you got older, he learned the signs.
If you were sick, they got worse. If you were tired, he'd carry your tray in the cafeteria before you even asked. If you were anxious, he'd quietly take your drink without making a fuss, then hand it back once you'd both sat down.
He had never thought it was a burden, because it was just you.
So when you showed up at his apartment one evening and were unusually quiet, he knew something was wrong.
"Pips?" he asked gently.
You smiled, but it didn't quite reach your eyes.
"I'm okay."
He didn't believe you for a second.
You disappeared into the kitchen while he finished putting away groceries. A moment later, he heard something clatter against the counter.
By the time he rounded the corner, you were staring at a mug lying on its side, tea pooling across the countertop.
Your hands trembled violently.
"I've got it," you whispered, reaching for a towel.
Caleb caught your wrist before you could.
"I've got it."
He grabbed the towel and wiped up the spill.
"I'm sorry," you said immediately, voice higher than normal.
"For what?"
"I keep making you do everything."
He looked up, genuinely confused.
"What are you talking about?"
"Cleaning up just now, carrying drinks, opening things...The list goes on forever" Your voice cracked. "You've been helping me my whole life."
"Yeah."
"You shouldn't have to."
He frowned.
"Says who?"
"I hate that you always have to take care of me."
Caleb set the towel down and walked over to you. Carefully, he took both of your trembling hands in his.
"Pipsqueak." His voice was so soft and gentle it made your chest ache.
"I've seen you at your best." His thumbs brushed over your knuckles. "I've seen you at your worst."
You looked down.
"I've seen you shake so hard you couldn't hold a spoon when you had the flu."
The smallest smile graced your lips at the memory.
"And I've seen you take down Wanderers that would've sent other Hunters running."
You slowly lifted your head to meet his gaze.
"So don't stand here and tell me your hands are all I should see."
You shook your head, thinking about the future, what was yet to come. "What if they get worse?" You wondered aloud.
He smiled softly.
"Then I'll open more jars."
You laughed.
"I'll carry more drinks."
Another laugh.
"I'll button your jacket when your fingers don't want to cooperate."
His smile grew warmer.
"I'll do whatever you need me to do."
You searched his face.
"Doesn't that scare you? Having me be completely dependent on you."
"Not even a little." He answered quickly, without hesitation.
"Because no matter what your hands decide to do," He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. "I'll still get to love my Pips."
He wrapped his arms around you without another word.
"You've spent your whole life worrying that your tremors would make people leave," he murmured.
Four days of fighting, blood, screaming, and watching you throw yourself in front of danger over and over again. The last thing Zoro remembered was you taking a hit meant for half the crew before disappearing beneath collapsing debris. When you finally woke up in the infirmary, bruised and barely able to move, he was sitting beside your bed.
For a moment, you thought he'd stayed.
Then he looked at you with tired eyes and sighed. "You need to stop doing that." No I'm glad you're okay. No you scared me. Just frustration. "One day you're gonna get yourself killed trying to save everyone." Before you could answer, he stood up and grabbed his swords.
And then he left. Just like that. Training apparently mattered more than the person who had almost died four days ago.
The first thing you saw after waking up was Sanji.
The second thing was the bandages covering almost every part of your body. Relief flooded your chest when you noticed him there, waiting beside your bed. Maybe someone had stayed. Maybe someone had cared enough to wait. Then Sanji started talking.
"Do you have any idea what happened because of that stunt?" His voice was sharper than you'd ever heard it. "Nami-san got hurt trying to get to you!" Never mind the fact that Nami herself had insisted it wasn't your fault. Never mind that you'd nearly died protecting them. Somehow the conversation became about everyone else's pain instead of yours. By the time he stormed out of the room, you felt smaller than when you'd woken up.
His eyes filled with tears, his smile huge as he squeezed you into a careful hug and told you how worried everyone had been. For a few minutes, everything felt normal again. Safe. Familiar.
Then Boa arrived.
And suddenly Luffy was being dragged away for food, celebrations, and whatever Boa Hancock wanted. "We'll hang out later!" he promised with that same bright grin. The same grin he always wore. The same promise he'd made a hundred times before.
You watched him leave the room without looking back. Later. Always later.
You'd expected that much. He was a doctor. He was busy. But when he finally arrived, you found yourself hoping for something. Anything. A sign that almost losing you had mattered.
Instead, Law checked your pulse, adjusted a few bandages, and informed you of your recovery timeline like he was reading a weather report. No emotion. No relief. Nothing.
Then, before leaving, he paused at the door. "If you pull something like that again, I'll leave you on the nearest island myself." The threat was probably meant to stop you from getting hurt. It probably came from concern. But all you heard was that even after nearly dying, you were still a burden.
A stupid bouquet he'd probably stolen from somewhere because he definitely hadn't bought them. He dropped into the chair beside your bed and spent ten whole minutes telling you how worried he'd been. For a little while, your chest felt lighter.
Then he laughed.
Actually laughed.
"You know everyone's calling it your hero complex now?" he said. "Seriously, Y/N. You gotta stop acting like you're invincible." Maybe he meant it as a joke. Maybe he was trying to lighten the mood.
But after four days unconscious, hearing your near death reduced to a bad habit felt like a slap across the face.
By then, everyone else had already come and gone. The room felt emptier than before. You thought maybe Sabo would understand. Out of everyone, Sabo was usually the one who listened.
He sat beside your bed and stared at you for a long time before speaking. "You can't keep making people choose between the mission and saving you."
The words weren't cruel. If anything, they sounded tired. But somehow that made them worse. Because it sounded like disappointment. Like the person who always understood you had finally run out of patience. When he left, he squeezed your shoulder gently. But the warmth didn't stay.
Maybe throwing yourself into danger had been stupid. Maybe you should've thought more about yourself. Maybe you deserved the lectures, the frustration, the disappointment.
But lying alone in that infirmary bed after four days unconscious, one thought kept repeating inside your head.
Not a single person asked if you were okay.
Not really.
They were worried. Angry. Frustrated. Relieved.
But nobody stayed.
And as the door clicked shut behind the last person, the room suddenly felt very, very quiet.
Content Warnings: None. This is pure, heart-melting fluff with heavy non-sexual physical affection and loving intimacy. No smut, no angst, no triggers. FIANCE JKK
The apartment was wrapped in peaceful silence, the only light coming from the soft golden lamp in the hallway that you always left on for him. You had just slipped into your silk sleep top and shorts when the front door opened with a quiet click.
The energy in the air changed immediately â warmer, lighter, brimming with something beautiful.Before you could turn around, familiar arms circled your waist from behind.
Jungkook pulled you back against his chest, strong and solid, burying his face into the curve of your neck with a long, contented sigh. His breath was warm on your skin as he inhaled your scent, hands sliding under the hem of your top to rest flat against your stomach, thumbs gently stroking.âHi, baby,â he murmured, lips brushing softly against your neck. He held you like that for a long moment, swaying you both gently from side to side.You smiled, covering his hands with yours.
âYouâre finally home. I missed you.âHe didnât answer with words. Instead, he pressed slow, lingering kisses along your shoulder, working his way up to that sensitive spot beneath your ear. You turned in his arms and your heart fluttered at the sight of him. His cheeks were flushed a pretty rose, his large doe eyes sparkling with pure joy, and that signature bunny smile was soft and glowing.
You reached up, cradling his face in both hands, thumbs brushing over his warm cheeks. âAre you drunk?âJungkookâs smile deepened, eyes crinkling with affection. He slowly shook his head, leaning in until your foreheads rested together and your noses brushed.âNo,â he whispered, voice low and velvet-soft. âNo⊠just very, very happy.â
The words settled over you like warm honey. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as they always did. Jungkook carried you down the hallway with slow, unhurried steps, his lips never leaving your skin â pressing tender kisses to your collarbone, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.In the bedroom, moonlight poured through the half-open curtains, bathing everything in a silvery glow.
When he pulled back, he shifted to lie beside you but kept your bodies pressed close â one leg tangled with yours, an arm wrapped securely around your waist, chest against your side. His free hand moved in continuous, soothing patterns: gliding up and down your spine, tracing the curve of your hip, brushing lightly over your arm.âYouâre so clingy tonight, Kook,â you whispered lovingly, running your fingers through his silky dark hair.He hummed, a low, pleased sound vibrating through his chest as he nuzzled deeper into your neck. âI canât help it. When I feel this happy⊠I need you closer. I need to feel every part of you against me.â His hand slipped further under your top, palm warm and gentle against your bare back, holding you as if you might disappear.You tucked your face into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent.
Jungkook tightened his embrace, one hand continuously stroking your hair while the other kept its place on your skin, thumb drawing lazy, loving circles. He pressed kiss after kiss to the top of your head, your forehead, your closed eyelids â each one slow and full of meaning.Minutes melted into hours of quiet, golden intimacy. His touches never stopped. Gentle fingers tracing your jaw, smoothing down your back, intertwining with yours only to bring your hand to his lips. Every so often he would pull you impossibly closer, legs tangled, hearts beating in the same rhythm.âI love you,â he whispered into your hair, voice thick with emotion. âNot just because today was good⊠but because I get to come home to this. To you. To my forever.âYou tilted your head up and he met you halfway, kissing you with endless patience and sweetness.
He cradled the back of your neck, thumb brushing your cheek as the kiss lingered, soft and unhurried. When you parted, he chased your lips for several more gentle pecks, smiling against them.âVery, very happy,â he breathed, repeating the words like a sacred little secret.Long into the night you stayed like that â bodies intertwined, his warmth surrounding you completely. Jungkookâs hands kept moving in tender, soothing strokes, never wanting to let go, as if his happiness could only be contained by holding you this close.And wrapped in his arms, feeling every gentle touch and every whispered word, you felt it too â that deep, glowing, effortless joy of being loved so completely.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader
Summary: The first time Dean Winchester kisses you
Word count: 861
A/N: I am debating on making this a series, covering different "Firsts" with Dean.. Any interest in that? Let me know!
The first time Dean Winchester kisses you, it happens in the least romantic place imaginableâan old gas station parking lot on the outskirts of nowhere. The sun is setting, casting an amber glow over the cracked asphalt and the Impala parked nearby, her paint gleaming like polished obsidian. The faint smell of gasoline mingles with the crisp scent of impending rain, a storm brewing in the distance.
It wasnât planned. Nothing about Dean ever feels planned, really. Heâs a mess of contradictionsâcocky and self-assured one minute, guarded and vulnerable the next. Youâve been riding shotgun with him for weeks now, chasing down leads, salt-and-burning restless spirits, and fighting things most people wouldnât dare to believe existed. Somewhere along the way, you became more than just hunting partners. You donât know what to call it yet, but thereâs a connection between you, an unspoken pull that youâve both been too stubbornâor scaredâto acknowledge.
Until now.
It starts with an argument. Of course it does. Dean has this way of pushing your buttons, and tonight heâs doing it with the precision of a master.
âYou canât just run in there without a plan!â you snap, your arms crossed over your chest.
âAnd what was your plan, huh?â he shoots back, his voice rising. âTo stand around and wait until the ghost decides to play nice? Thatâs not how this works.â
âItâs called strategy, Dean. Maybe you should try it sometime instead of going full kamikaze every damn hunt!â
He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. âYou know what your problem is? You think too much. Sometimes you just gotta act.â
âAnd you think too little!â you retort, your eyes narrowing. âOne of these days, your impulsiveness is going to get you killed.â
The words hang in the air, sharper than you intended, and for a moment, Dean just stares at you. His jaw tightens, and thereâs a flicker of something in his eyesâhurt, maybe, or regretâbut itâs gone before you can be sure.
âFine,â he says, his voice quieter now. âIf youâve got it all figured out, why the hell do you even need me?â
Itâs not the first time youâve fought, but thereâs something different about this one. The air between you feels charged, like the storm rolling in above. You donât answer right away, and Dean takes a step closer, his boots crunching against the gravel.
âWhy, huh?â he presses, his tone softer but no less intense. âWhy do you keep sticking around if Iâm such a screw-up?â
Your heart pounds against your ribs, a wild, erratic rhythm that matches the storm clouds overhead. You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Because itâs not that simple. Because you donât stick around in spite of his flawsâyou stick around because of them. Because Dean Winchester, for all his faults, is the kind of person who will throw himself in harmâs way without a second thought to save someone else. Because heâs loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and has a smile that could light up the darkest corners of the world, even when he doesnât believe it himself.
âDeanâŠâ you start, but his name barely makes it past your lips before he moves.
Itâs not hesitant or tentativeâitâs sudden, like heâs been holding himself back for too long and finally snapped. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused but somehow gentle, and then his lips are on yours.
The kiss is everything you didnât know you needed. Itâs not perfectâDeanâs lips are a little chapped, and the angle is slightly awkward at firstâbut itâs real. Thereâs an urgency to it, a raw, unfiltered emotion that leaves you breathless. His hands are warm against your skin, grounding you even as the world seems to tilt on its axis.
You donât know who moves first, but suddenly your hands are fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer as if the space between you is unbearable. He responds in kind, deepening the kiss with a low, almost involuntary sound that sends a shiver down your spine. Itâs like the dam youâve both been holding back has finally burst, and thereâs no going back now.
When you finally break apart, youâre both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together. The storm is closer now, the first drops of rain starting to fall, but neither of you seems to notice.
âWow,â you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.
Dean chuckles, a low, self-deprecating sound. âYeah, uh⊠sorry about that. I probably shouldâveââ
âDonât,â you interrupt, your fingers still gripping his jacket. âDonât apologize.â
His eyes meet yours, and for once, thereâs no wall, no mask, no bravado. Just Dean.
âIâve wanted to do that for a while,â he admits, his voice soft and almost vulnerable.
You smile, your heart swelling in your chest. âTook you long enough.â
He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and the tension between you finally seems to ease. The rain starts to pick up, but neither of you moves. For once, the hunt can wait. For once, the only thing that matters is this momentâmessy, imperfect, and absolutely perfect all at once.
Tag List: @roseblue373 @hobby27 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers @jollyhunter
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*a story full of tenderness, quiet affection, and that gentle warmth that is known for. It keeps things heartfelt, romantic, and wholesome.*
It had been two years since you and Minghao got married. Life wasnât always smooth your schedules clashed, the world kept demanding too much, and sometimes, you both got tired. But one thing never changed: Minghaoâs soft spot for you.
It was the little things.
Like how he made your tea just the way you liked it, even if he had a hundred things to do. Like how heâd silently pull you into his arms when you seemed on the verge of shutting down from stress, not saying a word just letting his presence be enough. Like how heâd whisper, âYouâve done enough for today. Let me take care of the rest.â
That morning, you were curled on the couch in one of his oversized shirts, sleep still clinging to your eyes. You didnât hear him come in he had gone out to buy your favorite pastries from the shop across town. Minghao didnât tell you, didnât make a big deal about it. He just walked over, placed the warm bag in front of you, and smiled.
âYou didnât eat well yesterday,â he said, brushing your hair out of your face.
You blinked up at him, surprised. âYou remembered?â
His smile turned fond. âI always remember the things that matter.â
It wasnât grand gestures. Minghaoâs love showed up in quiet ways a hand on your lower back in crowds, subtle glances across the room when you were overwhelmed, the way he always made sure to hold your hand in public because âif I donât, I miss you more than I can explain.â
Sometimes, at night, youâd be curled up in bed together, your head on his chest, his fingers gently stroking your back.
âI donât know how I got this lucky,â you whispered once.
He laughed softly. âYou think youâre the lucky one? I wake up next to the love of my life every day.â
You shifted, snuggling into him deeper. âYouâre so cheesy.â
âAnd you love it,â he teased.
He always let you rest in him emotionally, physically, completely. And in return, you became his peace too. A shared sanctuary.
Even when he was busy with his art or practice, heâd always check in. A quick text. A voice note. A flower placed on your desk. A sticky note on the mirror: âHave you smiled today? I love you.â
No matter how chaotic the world was, Minghao made it his mission to be the calm in yours.
One night, when you were both dancing in the living room to a slow ballad playing from your speaker, he rested his forehead against yours and whispered, âIf I had to live a hundred lives, Iâd find you in every one of them.â
It had been a quiet few weeks. Minghao had been busy with overseas schedules, and you had been working nonstop yourself. Even when you two were in the same room, your moments together felt like passing trains full of love, but constantly on the move.
So when Minghao walked into the room holding a small envelope, eyes lit with mischief, you already knew something was up.
âPack a bag,â he said with a grin. âWeâre leaving in an hour.â
You blinked. âWait, what? Where?â
He simply shrugged. âSomewhere peaceful. Just us.â
You wanted to argue you had emails to respond to, things to finish but the way he looked at you with that soft, patient smile stopped you.
So you packed.
The drive was long but comforting. Minghao had made a playlist of songs that made you both smile from indie ballads to silly tracks youâd danced to at 2 a.m. in the kitchen. The destination turned out to be a cozy villa by the coast quiet, tucked away from everything, with large windows that opened up to the sound of waves.
That night, after you two had eaten, you lay on the deck together watching the stars. Minghao had his head on your shoulder, arm wrapped protectively around your waist. The moonlight danced in his eyes.
âIâve been thinking,â you whispered.
He turned to you gently. âMm?â
You sat up slowly and reached into your hoodie pocket, heart racing. You handed him a small, carefully folded card on it was a sketch of two adult penguins holding flippers⊠and a tiny one between them.
His eyes widened slightly as he opened it. Inside, in your handwriting:
âComing soon â the littlest Xu.â
Minghao didnât speak at first. He just stared at the card, eyes glistening in disbelief.
âWait,â he said, voice shaking. âYouâreâ?â
You nodded, tears slipping quietly down your cheeks. âSeven weeks.â
He set the card down, reached for your face with both hands, and kissed you deeply not urgently, but with so much emotion that your heart swelled.
When he finally pulled away, his hands were still trembling.
âIâve never loved you more than I do right now,â he whispered. âI didnât even know it was possible.â
You both sat in silence for a while, overwhelmed but full of joy. He rested his forehead against yours again, and you could feel his smile even in the dark.
âYouâre going to be the best dad,â you whispered.
âAnd you,â he said softly, âyouâre everything Iâve ever dreamed of. And more.â
For the rest of the night, he didnât let go of you once. He kept one hand over your belly protectively, gently rubbing circles as if he were already calming your baby from the outside.
âIâll protect this family with everything I am,â he said.
And you believed him. Because Minghaoâs love didnât need grand declarations. It lived in the quiet in every soft word, every gentle hand, every look that told you: You are where I rest. And I will always come home to you.
The sound of keyboard clicks fills your apartment while you lay sprawled half asleep on his bed, the room is dark and the only source of light came from Vernon's monitor and RGB keyboard. His voice echoes in the room as he speaks to his chat.
"Yo chat, should I go to bed?" Vernon mumbled lazily, leaning back in his chair, making it creak beneath his weight.
"My girl is sleepy and I think I should log off before she gets mad at me for staying up this late"
He glanced back at you before looking at his chat again, the comments already exploding with people begging him to play one more game
"Okay then, one more game" he hummed quietly into the mic, adjusting his posture to sit straight as he started yet another round of the game he'd been playing all night.
You let out a tired groan from his bed, burying your face deeper into his pillow, the fabric had a faint scent of his cologne.
Vernon glanced back for a second, his headset almost slipping off as he smiled softly at your sleepy form
"See? she's already mad"
the chat flooded with messages telling him to go sleep
"Relax chat, I'll survive" he mumbled, running a hand through his hair as he continued playing
Not even ten minutes later you felt the mattress dip slightly beside you
"You lost already?" you mumbled sleepily
"Nah" Vernon replied, pulling you into a warm hug from behind "I just like you more than ranked."
Hi, I would like to place a request pleasee. Something like:
How would the Weak Hero Class boys react to you being asexual. Like, the first time they want to s3x with you, you reject them and tell them that you don't feel/like those things. And you keep rejecting them every time they ask
I would love it if you could do it, either way its okay if you can't
I Need Nothing More
Summary:
How the weak hero class boys (Sieun, Suho, Baku, Gotak, Juntae, Seongje, Baek Jin) would react to finding out youâre asexual â the first time they try to initiate something sexual and you reject them, and how they handle repeated rejections.
Contains:
Character reactions, emotional exploration, mentions of rejection, frustration (especially Seongje), comfort, supportive dynamics.
Relationship:
Reader Ă Weak Hero boys (platonic/romantic depending on interpretation).
Word count (approx.):4k (long reactions, semi-narrative style).
TW:
Discussions of sexual rejection, mentions of frustration/anger (Seongje), light emotional conflict.
Sieun
When you tell him youâre asexual and reject his advance, he falls silent for a moment. Heâs not the type to make a fuss; instead, he studies you, as if trying to read your feelings.
â âI seeâŠâ he murmurs, processing.
He doesnât push or pry, letting you share only what you want. Then, in his calm voice, he adds:
â âDonât worry. I donât need that to stay by your side. What matters to me is how I feel when Iâm with you.â
And he proves it with actions: no pressure, no insistence, just quiet loyalty that shows nothing has changed for him.
Suho
Suhoâs reaction is much more intense. When you reject him, his brows knit and he asks directly:
â âSo⊠is it that you donât want to, or that you donât want me?â
It stings because he takes it personally at first. He needs an explanation, and even then, he doesnât fully understand right away. Still, heâs not someone whoâd force you. After a pause, he mutters:
â âAlright⊠I donât really get it, but if thatâs who you are, then Iâll learn to live with it.â
Over time, he realizes what he values most isnât the physical side, but how important you make him feel. But in the beginning, thereâs definitely a clash with his pride.
Baku
The first time you reject him, he laughs nervously and blurts:
â âWait, seriously? I thought you were just in a bad mood.â
When you explain you simply donât feel sexual attraction, he goes quiet for a beat, then covers it with a joke:
â âWell, guess that means more time for games and stupid adventures, huh?â
Behind the humor, thereâs real respect. He doesnât push, doesnât sulk. Instead, he shifts naturally, finding other ways to bond. Baku shows affection sideways, but you can feel it.
Gotak
He reacts with immediate understanding. The moment you finish explaining, he either takes your hand or looks you dead in the eye and says:
â âYou donât owe me an explanation. I just donât want you to feel pressured around me.â
For Gotak, loyalty and emotional closeness are far more important than anything physical. He never brings it up again unless you want to. His quiet patience and steady presence remind you heâs here because he chooses you, not because of what you can give him.
Juntae
With Juntae, things are awkward. He just stares, blinking in confusion.
â âHuh? What do you mean you donât like it? Doesnât⊠doesnât everyone like it?â
Itâs not malice, itâs just his inability to process new ideas. At first, he might even bring it up again later, thinking maybe youâll change your mind. But heâs not trying to push; he genuinely doesnât get it.
Eventually, when he sees your resolve, he accepts it. He might never fully understand, but he adapts in his clumsy, roundabout way because being with you matters more.
Seongje
Heâs the one who struggles the most. The rejection hits his pride and temper all at once. He may lash out immediately:
â âThen whatâs the point of this? Why are we even together?â
Itâs not that he wants to hurt youâitâs his frustration boiling over. For Seongje, passion and intensity are part of love, so he canât wrap his head around letting that go.
If he truly cares, though, his anger will eventually soften into a rough attempt at compromise. Heâll still be frustrated, still grumble, but he stays because his feelings are real, even if theyâre messy.
Baek Jin
Baek Jin listens quietly, never interrupting, just letting you finish. Then he nods once.
â âI understand. You donât need to worryâIâm not here for that.â
He doesnât make you feel odd or broken. Instead, he searches for other ways to show intimacy: deep conversations, trust, small acts of care. Maybe he has questions deep down, but heâll never burden you with them. His calm maturity makes it clear that, for him, your bond is enough.
Authorâs Note:
Waa, I love trying out new things and playing with different ideas âšđ I hope you enjoy this as much as I loved writing it <3 thank you for reading, it honestly means so much đ«¶
