#sweet fluff

it’s two in the afternoon, but lando is still buried under the covers. you can hear him from the kitchen every now and then, little miserable noises whenever he shifts or clears his throat. the poor thing has a proper fever this time, not just a sniffle. his voice is almost gone and every swallow clearly hurts. it's his fault though, you told him not to take ice cold showers in the middle of autumn for a whole week in a row just because it's "manly" and it's "healthy" and "you just don't understand, I need this", but he didn't listen, and as the consequences, he was overly sick now, fevers acting up every night, and he actually barely was able to finish a sentence without ending up coughing.

you finish the soup you were making for him, pour it into a bowl, make a mug of tea with honey, and grab the medicine he had to take three times a day. when you walk into the bedroom he’s lying on his side, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, eyes glossy and droppy. the second he sees you he reaches out with a weak hand, fingers making a grabby motion. “c’mere..” he croaks, barely above a whisper, “please..”

you set everything down on the nightstand and lean over to hug him. he immediately latches on, face pressing into your shoulder, arms loosely around your waist. you rub his back for a moment but stay sitting on the edge of the bed instead of lying down with him, “i’m not getting in bed,” you tell him gently, “if i get sick too we’re both fucked, who will take care of both of us, hm?" he makes a sad little sound against your shoulder as an answer, “but i want cuddles.. i feel like shit..”

“i know, baby, i’ll stay right here with you.” you pull back enough to help him sit up against the pillows. he looks miserable, lips pouty, eyes half lidded, breathing heavily just from sitting up. you grab the bowl and offer him a spoonful of soup, but he turns his head away like a grumpy toddler. “not hungry..”

“you have to eat something, come on, just a bit.” you try to convince him, but he's hard to convince. “my throat hurts,” he whines, voice cracking, “and i feel nauseous.. don’t wanna.” he shakes his head again, squeezing his eyes shut.

you keep the spoon near his mouth, “just try, it’s not hot anymore. for me, baby?” he stares at the spoon for a few seconds, still sulking, then finally opens his mouth and takes it. he makes a face while swallowing, just to let you know how mean you are for making him eat. you feed him another spoonful, then another. after a while he starts eating without as much protest, taking the bowl from your hand and eating by himself, though he still looks unhappy about it. you sit properly next to him on the bed, a hand gently patting his hair, then stroking down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades in slow, soothing motions. “there you go.. good boy, just a little more.”

he keeps eating slowly, leaning into your hand every time you caress him. after a while he turns his face away again and shakes his head, wanting to give the bowl back to you. “no more.. ‘m full.” the bowl is only about half empty. “lando, you barely ate anything.” you raise an eyebrow, but take the soup from him, you knew you wouldn't be able to make him eat more right now anyways. “don’t wanna,” he mumbles, already sliding back down into the pillows. “hurts to swallow.. please don’t make me.” he looks up at you with those big feverish eyes, all pouty and pathetic, waiting to see if you’ll push it. you don’t push the soup though, not wanting to make him suffer even more, but you still make him sit up properly again. “you still have to take the meds,” you tell him, reaching for the packet and a glass of water. lando immediately makes a face. “nooo.. it hurts to swallow anything..” he whines, voice all scratchy and small, “please not yet..” he takes your hand, squeezing it, wanting you to listen to him.

“lando. come on, open up.” you say it rather firmly and he sulks hard but eventually opens his mouth and takes the pills, grimacing as he swallows them down with a tiny sip of water. you take a mint candy from your pocket and unwrap it, holding it out for him. “here, this should help a bit with your throat.” he takes it without arguing this time and pops it into his mouth, then immediately flops back down against the pillows. his hands come up and weakly grab onto your thighs, resting his head right on them like a pillow. you stroke his hair gently for a minute, then speak, “i need to go check on the muffins,” you say softly, “they’ll burn if i leave them for too long.” his fingers tighten on your legs. “don’t go..” he mumbles around the mint, nuzzling his face against your leg, “stay, pleasee..” you lean down and press a kiss to the top of his head, “i’ll be right back, i promise, okay?” he lets out a tiny unhappy sound but loosens his grip with a nod. as soon as you stand up, he hides completely under the covers again, only a bit of messy hair sticking out.

in the kitchen the muffins are just about perfect. you pull them out of the oven in time, tip them onto a plate, and leave them to cool while you make yourself a coffee. you’re just finishing when you hear him from the bedroom again, “baaaby.." he calls, voice weak and so, so dramatic, “my head hurts so bad.. i think i’m dying..” you sigh, already used to this version of him, “wait a second, lando.” you try to finish your coffee as fast as possible, nearly pouring it on the counter instead of into the mug. “but it huuurts…” he whines again, and you wonder if his throat hurts when he calls for you like this, or if he forgets that it hurts when it comes to calling for you every minute. you leave the coffee on the counter to cool and carry the plate of muffins back to the bedroom. he’s still under the covers when you sit down next to him again. you peel the blanket back a little and offer him one, but he shakes his head at first. “head’s killing me..” he complains. “the meds need a bit of time to kick in. just try a muffin, yeah? you love these.” he stares at it for a second, still pouty, but the smell wins. he takes one and starts eating it slowly, careful because of his throat and because they’re still a little warm. halfway through he leans sideways against you, “…thank you,” he says quietly, almost shy, “for the muffins, it's yummy..” you kiss his forehead, and mumble against his skin, “finish it for me.” he does, then sets the empty paper case aside. you brush some crumbs off his chin, “you should sleep now.” he doesn’t argue, he just snuggles deeper under the covers, then looks up at you with those big, adorable eyes, “will you come sleep with me too…?” he asks in a tiny, barely there voice. “i still have some chores, plus I'll get sick too -” you try to explain but he immediately starts whining, soft and broken, bottom lip sticking out. the pout is unfair. you last about three seconds before you sigh and climb into bed with him. lando shifts down a bit so he can rest his head on your tummy, arms loosely wrapping around your waist. you pull the blanket up over both of you and start stroking his hair again.

“love you..” he mumbles, already half gone. a moment later his breathing evens out and he’s asleep on you, warm and heavy and still a little sniffly, with his red nose pressed against your skin. you tilt his head a little, not wanting him to struggle with breathing even more.

you keep your hand in his hair, letting him rest. the chores can wait, having him comfy and feeling loved and cared for is way more important.

. ~ the end ~ .

Your lips shift into a soft smile when your eyes meet.

Zanka steps in front of the couch across from yours and collapses onto it with a short, expended, guttural groan that reverberates in his throat. He mirrors your position, a hand dragging down one side of his face. His eyes were trained to the ceiling, and his hands fell to lie idle on his stomach. 

He can feel an almost intrusive feeling of eyes still looking his way, causing him to tilt his head on the armrest to return the favor. Air bubbled in his chest, making it rise before ultimately collapsing. – “It was starting to get too loud.” – He grumbled, eyelashes fluttering as he watched your smile turn into a reaffirmed smirk, your face wrapped up in an ‘I figured’ expression.

Closing your book with a black bookmark already in its necessary place, you signed to him, your movements were more energized than when he saw you before you disappeared into your room, looking semi-exasperated from today's work. – “Well, out of everyone, I'm glad that it's you who joined me.” – Moving your body in place to sit up against the armrest.

His heartbeat stuttered out of its regular pace, but his outer composure remained firm. – “I was definitely not up for sitting through all of that tonight.” – She shook her head left to right lightly, the corners of her lips still tugged back into that grin. – “Yeah.. ‘was only there for three minutes, but they were doin’ too much.” – He replied, it was partly true, but with every action, there's always an underlying purpose settled beneath its soil.

Slowly, he drags his body to sit in the middle of the couch, elbows resting atop his knees. He cast his gaze downwards, – “Rudo kept askin’ about these..” – He pondered, fingertips reaching out to loosely take a hold of a pink macaron cookie. 

– “Luckily for us, I got to it first.” – You include him with ease, leaving your couch with your book in one hand, to sit beside him. You both spend an hour or two together eating sweets and talking, eventually ending up with your shoulders pressed close, and thighs quietly, briefly brushing one another before fading.

Three days passed after the Raiders attempted to cross the border. 

The sterile smell of the infirmary was comforting—a stark contrast to the stench of leaking spoil, sticky sweat, and blood coating your tongue. So, the sanitary scent was a valued reminder that your body and spirit can rest, knowing that you are safe. But there is a needle in your skin that wouldn't leave, wondering if everyone else is doing alright. Warmth that lightly pressed at your left side of your thigh, heat seeping into the coolness of your hand.

Your lower eyelids were heavy set, dragging your eyesight from your right hand resting atop your stomach off to your lower left. It's Zanka.

The lower half of his face was barricaded by his arm, head resting in the crook of his inner elbow. But his head was faced towards you, as though he had lost consciousness, looking up at you through hazy vision. His comparatively larger hand had a loose hold on yours, like you were a delicate being, something worth looking after with intimate care.

A minute later, when you had decided to move by the slightest bit by readjusting your head's position on your pillow to turn to the side, hooded eyes never steering from the young man, that'd awoke him from his slumber. His eyelashes fluttered at a slow pace for a second before his head moved to leave from his inner elbow, his body sitting up in his seat. With lips slightly parted, his teeth peeking from behind the flesh, you feel his grasp weaken, fingers uncurling themselves, second-guessing.

Before you could even retaliate with your own hand–

Suddenly, his fingers curled in with renewed purpose and active disregard for his previous, frivolous emotion. The pad of his thumb gently rubs the smooth skin of the back of your hand. He whispered your name, his voice airy, eyebrows pinched into a faintly pained expression that was meshed with a handful of meanings behind it.

He exhaled heavily through his mouth, – “You scared me half to death..” He admitted, the balance of his voice wavered near the end. His other hand joined to hold yours, his grip worsened by the second before completely releasing that tightness, remembering your state, he refrained from doing it again.

He looked away, his upper teeth pulling and rolling his lower lip, forcing it into a new role of being his stress relief. – “That..” – He croaked, his eyes shining underneath the pale light in the infirmary. – “I hate this feeling..” – His words were heavy, intimate, and quiet- meant for your ears only.

He knows injuries are bound to happen with a job like this, but your state startled his core- shaken his calm, rational exterior and exposed the developed, once unacknowledged vulnerability in him that is you.

– “I…” – Even as he continues to speak, he doesn't move his head to look back at you, surely not when he was gaining the courage to be even more open with you. His eyebrows furrowed, his faintly pained expression evolved into one that was enough to make him burst from within, but it was all held in by the intense clench of his teeth, his head lowered to the point his hair dangled across the side of his face, helping obscure parts of his shell crumbling from your point of view.

A shutter rippled in the sharp inhale of breath through his mouth, a single sentence spilling from his lips. – “I don't want to lose you.” – His words were strained; the ache in his heart could be felt through his every movement, breath, and touch.

Enjin mentioned something regarding junctures that dreadfully transpire in everyone’s life at some point.

About how one should make memories with the ones they love, no matter how small, before they meet their predestined mortal coil.

But this was too soon, and he wasn’t as prepared as he now desired. – “Don’t blame yourself, Zanka.” – Enjin added, and he remembered. 

Your reaffirming hold loosening in his hands cleanses his pessimistic trail of thought to avert his attention completely. As his eyes darted from your hand to the lower half of your face, it was when he felt the brush of fingertips gliding from one corner of his lips, to his cheekbone, to laying that same palm onto his cheek. Decisively, his gaze steered upwards- meeting yours that reflected his appearance in irises so clearly, soft lips molded into a relieved smile when he no longer eluded it, now that you’ve centered his concentration on you.

He exhaled heavily through his nostrils, a strained, muffled noise rumbled in his trachea- as if every breath could erase the stubborn heat crawling up his neck. The softness of the cushions reflects how you easily leave his controlled demeanor, willingly conforming to the feelings you make him feel when its just the two of you.

A question rising from his throat melted as soon as it was conceived when you complimented his abilities and undying passion. It wasn't just that, though; it was the nonexistent space between you when you said those words that had him this way. He'd scratched his cheek with his unoccupied hand's index finger. How quickly his calm facade dissolved into a flattered, blushing pug made you chuckle.

That made him worse.

His mouth closed, that single movement a silent confirmation of a vow that only he'll carry.

Last night, with darkness greedily consuming every corner, he left his side of the infirmary to be close to your supine form, eyeing the small rise and fall of your chest as a gentle balm in soothing his frayed nerves. He sat down on the short, wooden seat beside your bed. He lowered the upper half of his body, resting his head behind his arm, he stared at you for so long.

His hand slithered, as though it individually gained consciousness of its existence, its trail leading forward to one thing. 

– “I won't let this happen to you again.” – His tone is a direct contrast to how he's been since he's awoken. A finality to it. Wasn't spoken through gritted teeth‐ the sentence flowing past his lips with a yearning to improve himself.

– “I'll make damn sure it doesn't.” – He promised again, muttering it to himself as his head gently shifted in your warm hold to allow the tip of his nose to graze your wrist.

He's reminded of what he did.

His hand leisurely slid up yours; he took his time, etching the smooth, curved slopes of your palm with the pads of his fingers. Up, all the way until his fingers slid into the space between yours, sneaking a featherlight kiss –that was a spur-of-the-moment kiss– on the apple of your cheek, carving himself a newfound home. 

Me and Tom had hated each other for YEARS. For as long as I knew him I fucking despised him. We argued over the stupidest things, we got annoyed at each other for the slightest things. Everyone around us knew us as enemies, knowing we'd explode at each other. They found it funny, cute almost, my friends always shipped us, said we were perfect for each other.

I always disagreed, but in the back of my mind...the possibility hung, beckoning me almost to give it a try..

One day we were both at the same party, I was with my girlfriends, dancing and having fun. We gravitated towards the kitchen island where all the drinks were, bottles of hard liquor scattered.

Tom and his crew stood at the end of the island, he was nursing a beer, his shirt dishevelled, showing a slight glimpse of his toned chest. He stared at me through blazing eyes, as if I was the worst person on earth.

I poured my friends some shots, shouting and celebrating. Tom stalked over with his friends and grabbed the shots from my hands, downing them himself. His friends laughed alongside him as if he was the funniest guy ever for pulling this immature shit. He then turned to me with a smirk, his piercing gaze cold and challenging.

"Oops.." he pouted mockingly, my girlfriends gasped behind me in outrage, murmuring angrily. He tried to walk past me but I blocked him with my shoulder, "oh you think that's funny huh? You're a fucking comedian?" I mocked, eyeing him up and down.

He caught himself, staring at me for a moment. His expression darkened almost immediately, jaw clenching. "Move out of the fucking way.." he growled, towering over me menacingly.

"Cmon..it's not worth it.." one of my girlfriends said, grabbing my shoulder. I quickly shoved her hand off, "no, this piece of shit needs to be taught a fucking lesson, you can't fuck with me and think you can fucking get away with it.." I said, staring at him the whole time.

His eyes narrowed dangerously as he watched me stand my ground, his friends falling silent behind him. A cruel smirk slowly spread across his face as if he found my defiance amusing. "Oh yeah, princess? And..tell me, enlighten me on how you're planning to teach me this so called lesson?" he challenged, stepping closer intentionally, thinking he was scaring me with his height.

"Look at little miss high and mighty..aww, trying to act tough. What are you gonna do, hit me? Slap me like a little bitch?" he chuckled mockingly, deliberately invading my personal space. "Come on then, try it.." he chuckled and looked at his friends behind him, pointing to me as if I was beneath him.

Before he could react, I drew my hand back and punched him in his jaw, hard. The room instantly fell silent, his friends stopped laughing instantly. He staggered back slightly from the impact, his hand immediately going to his jaw, a red mark already forming from where my knuckled connected.

"What..gonna cry? Don't challenge someone if you don't know their strength, princess.." I used the name to degrade him, just as he did with me. His face turned red with rage and..embarrassment..? No one had ever hit him before, especially not a woman. He took his jacket off angrily and threw it aside. His voice was low and deadly when he spoke, "you just made a huge fucking mistake.." he growled.

We started screaming at each other, fighting over the shot incident. "You're a fucking bitch!" he shouted, running his hand through his braids, blood tricking from the corner of his mouth. Even in a heat of rage I could admit seeing him like this was kinda...hot.

"Fucking bitch...what he hell makes you think you can just.." he was seething with anger, his typically controlled demeanour crumbling. Without warning he grabbed my wrist forcefully, "you wanna fucking punch me? HUH?!" he yelled in my face. His friends behind him cheered him on, egging him on to 'teach me a lesson'. He gripped my wrist tighter and pulled me closer, I squirmed in his grip and kept screaming in his face.

I clawed at him, everything felt like it went in slow motion. We both went at each other, becoming a blur of fists, hair pulling and harsh words. Toms shirt was torn, his lip was bleeding and he had scratches down his face from my long nails.

I wasn't faring much better, my dress was ripped and my hair was messy, and I had red marks on my cheek. Everyone realized how serious it was getting, one of the hosts grabbed me roughly and his friend grabbed him too, trying to break us up. "NO! LET ME AT THAT MOTHERFUCKER!" I struggled against the guys grip.

Tom was equally enraged, struggling against his friends hold, "FUCK! LET ME GO! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL HER!" he managed to break free momentarily, lunging at me again. The host holding me had to pin my arms behind my back to stop me from hitting him back.

His friend managed to grab him again, forcing him to sit down and chill. I screamed a few more insults before giving up. Tom was breathing heavily, his chest heaving with anger as his friends gave him some water, talking to him, trying to bring him back but all he could focus on was me.

The room was fucking chaos, broken glass and torn pieces of our clothes everywhere. People were shouting, and the music had been turned off completely. My friends rushed to my aid, the host scolded tom, "what the hell is wrong with the both of you?! You could've ruined this whole fucking party over some stupid argument!" Tom just scowled, not saying a word. The host sighed heavily and stormed off, turning the music back on and screaming for everyone to continue partying.

A week had passed and the tension between us was palpable. In class I would catch him glaring at me from across the room. This was the longest we had gone without fighting and everyone was surprised and shocked to say the least. But it didn't affect either of us, we were glad not to talk to each other, we did in fact hate each other.

One night as Tom slept in bed, images of me haunted him in his dreams. Tom woke up with a start, his head racing and the sheets beneath him damp. The dream had been intense, we were back at the party but instead of fighting we were kissing passionately, and he was fucking me against the wall.

His hand was still gripping the sheets tightly, his dick painfully hard. "...Fuck.." he muttered to himself. While Tom had dreamt about shoving you against walls and fighting you one minute, the next minute he would dream about pushing you onto his bed and fucking you senseless. He didn't understand these new feelings..he was confused. One minute he hated you, then the next he wanted to kiss you and hold you..fucking you until you screamed his name.

For the next few days, everytime he saw me his heart would race and he'd almost get a slight flush on his face. I caught him throughout the week staring at me and when I caught him, his eyes wouldn't go cold and he wouldn't glare at me, they would just widen and he would turn away quickly. "Strange.." I thought, turning back to do my work.

Tom realized that everytime he saw me laugh or bend over to pick up my books, his pants would feel tighter. He would find himself staring ar your lips when you talked, or watching your ass as you walked up the stairs. He seemed to be everywhere I was.

He finally had enough, he showed up at my apartment, his fist pounding angrily against the wood. He was confused, frustrated and horny as hell. The dreams and unwanted thoughts had pushed him to his breaking point. When I cracked the door open slightly he didn't give me a chance to speak.

He pushed the door open, speaking up, "we need to talk.." he muttered impatiently, his eyes meeting mine. I scoffed and stepped aside, letting him inside. "You're so fucking stubborn, you know? You act like I'm the problem when you're just as bad!" he turned around, his words like venom.

My eyes widened in surprise, "are you fucking kidding me? You really wanna fucking show up and start accusing me of all this shit? You're the fucking problem, you always get on my fucking nerves!" I screamed at him, stalking closer. I pointed a finger at him angrily, "you're such a manipulative asshole.." our eyes locked, the fire igniting, roaring, begging to be set free.

He stepped closer, his voice rising to match mine. "I'm the fucking problem?! YOU'RE ALWAYS FUCKING PUSHING MY BUTTONS! You think I like this?! I hate you!" his chest was heaving, his face flushed with anger and something else..something he couldn't quite understand.

As we screamed at each other some more he slowly backed me up against the wall. He finally snapped, my backed slammed against the wall as he pushed his body against mine, smashing his lips into mine.

He bit my bottom lip, making me gasp and giving him the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue into my mouth. My hands fisted his shirt, pushing him away one second but then pulling him closer the next.

Between kisses his snarled against my lips, "I fucking hate you.." he grabbed a handful of my hair, tugging hard as he mauled at my neck. "You're annoying, you're stubborn, you're fucking beautiful and I can't stop thinking about you!" he panted, "I hate that you're so hot when you're mad..I hate that I like fighting with you..god I hate that I like you so much.." he accidently confessed his feelings.

When he realized his eyes widened and he stuttered trying to save his ass, "shut up..shut up and kiss me again," I growled. He didn't need to be told twice. His lips crashed back onto mine, harder this time. He pushed his body against mine against, letting me feel how much he wanted me. He was angry, frustrated and horny, he wanted you to know it all.

He suddenly lifted me up, his hands gripping my ass as he walked over to my bedroom. He threw me onto the bed and crawled up my body, his hands were rough and hurried as he pulled off my shirt, practically ripping off my bra along with it. Then he took off his own.

He kissed me aggressively while unbuttoning my jeans, pushing them down my legs along with my underwear. He hoisted my legs over his shoulder and he immediately dived down.

His tongue attached onto my clit, working relentlessly. I moaned loudly, sliding my hand down and gripping onto his braids. He licked and sucked with a ferocity that matched his anger and desire. He gripped my thighs tightly, spreading me wider as he buried his face between my legs. His moans vibrated against my sensitive flesh, making me squirm and gasp.

Loud, desperate moans left my mouth as I threw my head back in pleasure. He lapped at me hungrily, tasting my arousal. He slid to fingers deep inside me, fucking me with them roughly. He growled, the sound muffled against my pussy. He looked up at me, watching me fall apart under his touch.

He hit every spot as he curled his fingers inside me, making me see stars. His tongue circled my clit in tightly circles while his fingers pumped in and out of me rapidly. He could feel me getting closer, could hear the needy sounds escaping my lips. "Oh tom..." I whimpered, tugging at his braids tighter. "Keep going, holy shit it's so good!" I begged, "cum on my tongue baby.." he smirked.

He lifted his head just enough to speak against my sensitive flesh, his fingers still moving inside me. "Shit..you taste so fucking good..I could eat this pussy all day and night." His dirty talk only intensified as he went back down, sucking harder on my clit.

"Look at how wet you are for me..your pussy is soaking my fingers and tongue.." he groaned, lapping up my juices, "you love it when I fucking eat you..huh? Fucking slut.." he smirked and dove back in.

I rolled my eyes back, moaning his name over and over as if it was a prayer. Hearing my loud moans only spurred him on. He sucked my clit into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as he curled his fingers inside me to hit that spot over and over. The sight of me coming undone was driving him crazy with desire, "that's it baby..cum.." he growled.

"TOM!" I screamed, my pussy clamping viciously onto his fingers as my orgasm crashed down. "Jesus.." he muttered. He watched me fall apart, my back arching off the bed, my breasts bouncing slightly. He pulled his fingers out, sucking them clean.

As I sighed and laid back he chuckled darkly, "you think I'm done..? Done with this pretty pussy already?" He kicked off his own pants and boxers, his hard cock springing free. It bobbed as he crawled closer, leaning down and kissing my neck roughly, trailing open mouthed kisses. He bit and suck marks onto my skin as he positioned himself between my thighs.

He moved from my neck to my lips, kissing me passionately. Our lips moved against each others desperately, my hands resting on his face. I let out a shuddered gasp against his lips as he entered me.

He pushed into me slowly, his thick length stretching me wide. He groaned deeply, feeling my tightness envelop him. "God damn it..I love this pussy... so addicted.." he began to move, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace. "Take it baby..take all of it.." he murmured against my lips.

We made out aggressively as his cock pounded in and out of me, he swallowed all of my moans, whispering dirty words against my lips. He kept kissing me fiercly, his tongue dominating me mouth as his hips snapped forward brutally.

"Such a good girl..taking my cock so well.." he gripped my hair tightly, angling my head to deepen the kiss further as he fucked me mercilessly. He migrated his lips back to my neck, leaving dark purple hickeys everywhere, claiming me as his.

His pace quickened at my loud moans. His cock jackhammered into me repeatedly, the bed shaking with each thrust. "Jesus.." he smirked against my neck, "you're so loud..do you have any idea how sexy you look getting railed?" his dirty talk only increased my moans.

He growled and wrapped his arms around my thighs, pulling my legs higher against his chest, changing the angle. He slammed into me even harder, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars. "Like that baby..? You like how fucking hard you're taking me..?" he smirked, kissing me roughly again.

I felt my orgasm build up quickly with how his tip kept hitting my cervix, his shaft continously rubbing against my g spot. He could tell I was getting close by how my pussy clenched around him urgently. He quickened the pace and slid his hand down in between our bodies to rub my clit. He rubbed it in tight, fast circles, "you're so close baby..so wet for me.." he groaned against my lips, hitting all the right spots.

After one last hard thrust my orgasm hit me like a train, I screamed out his name just like before and gasped, my legs trembling as my orgasm washed over me. Feeling my pussy clamp down on him like a vice, Tom lost control. He roared my name as he came hard inside me, his hot seed filling me. His body shook with the intensity of his release as he continued to grind against me, milking every drop.

"Fuck.." he collapsed beside me, both our chests heaving as we tried to calm down from the mind blowing orgasms we just had. "Jesus christ.." I sighed. He chuckled breathlessly, "yeah that was fucking intense.." he slowly pulled out.

He looked down at me, panting heavily. "You okay beautiful..?" he smiled softly, a kind of fondess I'd never seen from him. I nodded softly and rolled onto his chest, closing my eyes.

tags: @ballhair @bills-wife-1 @bkaulitzlover

tags: @billsdolliest @tomscumdoll @tomsfuckdoll

tags: @t0mkslut @emopriestgerard @starxbill

The sea was louder than Levi expected. Not deafening. Not violent. Just a constant noise. The sapphire waves rolled endlessly against the sandy shore, stretching farther than the eye could see. The scent of salt hung in the air, carried by a warm breeze that tugged at his clothes. Around him, the others celebrated.

Hange was jumping and splashing in the water excitedly. Jean was arguing with Connie about the water being drinkable. Sasha was trying to shout over them to find out if anything in the sea was edible. Armin stood knee-deep in the water, staring at a shell with wonder in his eyes. The dreams he'd carried since childhood finally coming true. Mikasa stood near Eren, who were both looking out to the horizon, the sun shining off the water around them.

For a moment, Levi watched them. His squad. They were survivors. They were dreamers. They were the fools who had somehow made it this far. His chest tightened. So many others should have been here. Every Scout who gave up their life for this moment. The ghosts followed him everywhere. Even now. Especially now. His gaze dropped to the golden sand beneath his boots. He should have felt relief. Victory. Something. Instead there was only a familiar ache. A weight he'd grown so accustomed to carrying that he barely noticed it anymore.

Then he heard your laugh. Soft. Bright. Levi looked up. You were standing a short distance away, the waves brushing against your ankles. Your boots abandoned on the shoreline and your trousers rolled to your knees. You were watching Jean and Connie tasting the salty water, then immediately spitting it out. The sunlight danced across the water around you, turning the sea into liquid gold. For a second, he couldn't breathe. Not because you looked beautiful. Though you did. It was because only weeks ago he thought he'd lost you. He could still remember the sight of your broken body among the rubble. The blood. The panic. The sick certainty settling in his stomach. Another one. Another person he'd failed to save. Another name to add to the endless list. Yet here you were. Alive. Laughing. Then, all of a sudden, looking back at him. The sunlight caught your eyes and something inside him cracked. Not painfully. Just quietly. Like ice thawing after a long winter.

You smiled. It was a warm, soft smile. The kind of smile that said 'there you are'. The same smile that had greeted him through countless mornings. The same smile that had stubbornly remained even when the world was falling apart.

"What?" you called.

Levi blinked. "What?"

"You're staring."

His first instinct was to deny it. Instead he found himself walking toward you. One step. Then another. Your smile faltered slightly. Not from fear. From curiosity. Your head tilted, questioning his movement. The expression on his face must have looked strange. It felt strange. Levi stopped in front of you. Close enough to see the freckles scattered across your cheeks and nose. Close enough to see the details of your face that most would miss. Close enough to reach out. Yet he hesitated because this was dangerous. Not Titans or war or blades and guns. This. Wanting someone. Needing them. Allowing himself to imagine a future that included them. His entire life had taught him that the things he loved didn't stay. That happiness was temporary. That people left or died. But standing there beneath the warmth of the sun, watching the waves stretch endlessly toward the horizon, he found himself tired of living by that rule. For once, just this once, he wanted to be selfish.

Your voice was gentle.

"Levi?"

The concern in your eyes nearly undid him. He let out a slow breath. Then, before he could convince himself otherwise, he lifted a hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from your face. The gesture was so careful almost as if you might disappear if he moved too quickly. Your eyes widened. The world seemed to still. The sea. The wind. The distant laughter and arguments. All of it faded away. There was only you. Alive. Here. With him.

Levi swallowed. His voice came out rough, raw with an emotion he never let himself feel.

"You scared the hell out of me."

You blinked. Then your expression softened.

"Oh."

Just one word because you understood everything he couldn't say. The fear and grief that he felt. The guilt he held on to. The affection he'd buried beneath duty and survival. So your hand found his, gently. Warm. Real. And suddenly the future didn't seem quite so impossible.

Levi looked from your face, to your intertwined hands and back to your face. That usual intense gaze replaced by a look that could only be described as relief. For the first time in a long time, it felt like there might be something waiting for him beyond the next battle. Something worth holding onto. You.

Levi's eyes drifted shut. His breath caught in his throat. He leaned forward at a painfully slow rate, like he expected you to take the chance to pull away. To run from him as far as you could. But you didn't. You moved closer.

The kiss was tender. Gentle like it was made of glass, a fragile thing in a cruel world. He was not demanding or desperate, it was a soft longing that couldn't have been described in words. The quiet collision of two people who had nearly lost the chance entirely. His hand found your cheek. Yours tightened around his. And for a brief, perfect moment, the weight he carried every day felt lighter. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. His breath ghosted across your face. A content sigh left his lips.

The waves continued their endless song around you. The sunlight warmed his skin. And for the first time, in longer than he could remember, Levi allowed himself to hope.

“Yes,” you said, lifting your chin defensively. “It’s abstract.”

He pressed his lips together, clearly failing to hide a smile. “Baby… this snowman looks like he witnessed a murder.”

You gasped dramatically. “It's called personality!”

Keeho snorted. “It's called trauma.”

You glared at him, but he was too busy chuckling to notice. He picked up one of your cookies and held it delicately, like he was afraid it might jump out of his hand. “And what about this one? The reindeer with one antler pointing north and the other pointing… left?”

“That’s how real life works,” you said proudly. “Nature is unpredictable.”

He finally looked at you, face softening despite his teasing. “They’re adorable. Just… not exactly perfect.”

You pouted, crossing your arms. “Wow. Okay, boomer.”

Keeho froze mid-icing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you said, lifting another cookie. “Boomer energy. Perfectionist. Organized. Gets mad when cookies aren’t runway-ready.”

He burst out laughing so loudly he had to set down the piping bag. “Me? A boomer? I’m literally the youngest oldest person you’ve ever met—be serious!”

“I am serious,” you insisted, trying to keep your expression stern. “You cookie-shamed me.”

He stepped closer, still laughing, and brushed his fingers against your cheek. “I wasn’t shaming you. I just wanted them to turn out perfect because…” His voice dropped, warmer. “We’re doing this together. And I love making things with you.”

You felt your pout wobble a little. “You still made fun of my snowman.”

“Only because he looks like he needs therapy.”

You gasped again, clutching your chest. “He is beautiful.”

Keeho grinned. “And you should be proud. Seriously.” He cupped your jaw lightly. “I love your cookies. They make me laugh.”

“So you admit it,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You laughed at them.”

“I laughed,” he confirmed. “Affectionately. Fondly. Lovingly.”

You hummed like you were considering forgiveness, then reached for the frosting bottle casually. Keeho didn’t suspect a thing.

Big mistake.

In one swift motion, you reached up and dabbed a huge blob of white frosting right onto the tip of his nose.

Keeho blinked at you, stunned. “Did you just—”

Before he could finish, you leaned in and licked the frosting right off.

He froze.

You grinned. “Now your face is perfect.”

His expression melted instantly into something warm and fond—and maybe a little flustered.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around your waist.

You smirked. “And your snowman still sucks.”

Keeho groaned into your shoulder, laughing. “Boomer slander will not be tolerated in this household.”

You kissed his frosting-free nose this time. “Then stop insulting my masterpieces.”

He sighed dramatically—but squeezed you closer. “Fine. Abstract chaos cookies are officially approved.”

“And your perfect ones?”

“They’re just cookies,” he said, eyes softening on you. “But you? You’re the best thing I made today.”

Theo

The kitchen felt warm, almost cozy, the soft sound of whisking mixing with the faint hum of the oven preheating. Theo stood at the counter with sleeves rolled up, completely focused on the bowl in front of him. He mixed the cake batter with calm precision, every movement smooth and steady—like he’d practiced it a thousand times.

You leaned against the counter beside him, watching the way his eyebrows pinched when he concentrated. It was unfair how handsome he managed to look while mixing flour and sugar.

“Wanna try?” he asked without even looking up, scooping a small amount onto the spoon and holding it toward you.

You didn’t hesitate. The moment the batter hit your tongue, your eyes widened.

“Oh my god.” You clutched your chest dramatically. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He laughed, soft and warm. “It’s just batter. The cake will taste even better.”

“Impossible,” you said, already reaching for the spoon sitting beside him.

He noticed instantly. “Hey,” he warned gently, tilting the bowl away. “Don’t eat too much. Raw batter isn’t good for you.”

You froze for a moment… then pretended you didn’t hear him at all, grabbing a clean spoon and scooping more before he could stop you.

“Yah—!” He cut himself off as you shoved the spoon into your mouth with a victorious grin.

“Mmm. This is sooo good.”

Theo sighed, the kind of sigh he used when you were being cute but impossible. “You’re going to get sick,” he reminded you, nudging the bowl out of your reach again. “Just wait until it’s baked.”

You nodded very seriously. Then immediately reached around him to sneak another spoonful.

Theo caught your wrist gently. “No.”

You whined. “But it’s good.”

“I know,” he said patiently, “but that doesn’t mean you can—hey!” He caught you again, this time mid-scoop.

You stared at him with a fake glare. He stared back with the unimpressed expression of a long-suffering boyfriend who knew he was doomed.

“You know what?” you said suddenly.

“What?” he asked slowly.

You scooped another spoonful of batter, turned to him with a mischievous grin—then pressed the spoon right against his lips.

Theo jerked back a little. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Try it,” you sang.

“I’m not eating raw batter.”

“Live a little.”

Theo narrowed his eyes at you. “I am living. That’s why I’m not eating this.”

You inched the spoon closer. “Just a taste.”

“No.”

“One bite.”

“No.”

You sighed dramatically, then brought out your secret weapon: the look. Wide eyes, soft expression, the faintest pout—pure, innocent, irresistible.

Theo froze.

You held the spoon under his nose. “Please?”

He let out a long breath, muttering something in Korean that sounded suspiciously like him scolding himself for being weak.

Then, finally, he opened his mouth.

You cheered like he’d won an award. “Yes! Taste it!”

He took the bite.

And his eyes widened instantly.

“Oh my god,” he murmured.

You smirked triumphantly. “See? I told you.”

“It is really good,” he admitted, going in for another tiny taste before catching himself and pulling away. “No. No, no, no—we’re not doing this.”

“So you love it,” you teased.

“I love you,” he corrected, pointing the spoon at you like a warning. “And that’s why I’m telling you—if we both end up sick, I’m blaming you.”

You grinned, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “Worth it.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you still love me.”

He sighed, pulling you into a soft, warm hug. “Unfortunately for my health… yes.”

Jiung

It started innocently enough. A shared desire for something cute, pastel-colored, and Instagram-worthy. Macarons. Expensive? Yes. Complicated? Probably. Still, the two of you stood in the kitchen, a mixing bowl between you and a YouTube tutorial paused on the counter.

Jiung rolled up his sleeves with a dramatic flourish. “How hard can it be?” he asked.

You stared at the thumbnail of the video—perfect, glossy macarons that looked like they were made by professionals, not exhausted humans on a Sunday afternoon.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “They look… very chique.”

He grinned. “We are also chique”

He clicked play, and the cheerful, overenthusiastic YouTuber began explaining steps that sounded suspiciously like sorcery.

“Separate the eggs,” she said.

“Done,” you said.

“Beat them until they form stiff peaks.”

Jiung blinked. “Define stiff.”

You shrugged.

“Don’t overmix.”

“What’s overmix?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“And don’t undermix.”

You stared at the screen. “What’s undermix?”

Jiung looked at the bowl, then back at the video. “This feels like a trap.”

But the two of you tried anyway.

For a while, it actually looked decent. Jiung sifted the almond flour like he was performing a magic trick. You folded the batter gently—at least you hoped it was gently. He piped little circles onto the baking sheet, humming under his breath, and they even resembled… something.

Then they went into the oven.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen smelled sweet.

Fourteen minutes later, they smelled too sweet.

Sixteen minutes later—

Jiung opened the oven, looked inside, and froze.

“Um,” he said quietly.

You leaned over his shoulder.

Your macarons—your dreams, your hopes—had transformed into one giant, bubbly, cracked, mutated cookie.

A single pan-sized creature.

Your mouth fell open. “What… what is that?”

Jiung slowly shut the oven door again like he was trying to hide a crime. He turned to you, expression blank.

“We did everything wrong.”

That was it. That was all it took for you to break. You started laughing, covering your face as your shoulders shook. Jiung held it together for thirty seconds, maybe less, before he doubled over beside you.

“It looks like a—” he tried to say, but laughter cut him off. “A macaron pancake.”

“No,” you wheezed, tears gathering in your eyes. “A maca–wrong.”

That made him laugh harder.

When you finally calmed down, he opened the oven again, solemnly inspecting the failure. You joined him, both of you crouched like scientists examining a rare specimen.

“Okay,” he said seriously, pointing. “The feet are missing.”

You nodded. “It has no feet because it is one foot.”

“It also exploded.”

“Maybe we overmixed.”

“Or undermixed.”

You sighed. “Or both.”

Jiung straightened suddenly, clapping his hands together. “Alright,” he declared. “I have an idea.”

“Oh no,” you said immediately.

“Oh yes.” He grinned. “We buy macarons.”

You blinked. “Buy them?”

“Buy them,” he repeated, nodding firmly. “Then put them on a cute plate. And when everyone asks, we say—‘Yeah, we made those.’”

You gasped, pretending to be scandalized. “That’s cheating!”

He shrugged casually. “So? We already did the hard part.”

“What hard part?”

“Suffering,” he said seriously, gesturing to the macaron-monster behind the glass. “Emotional damage. Bonding. Teamwork. That counts.”

You laughed again, leaning your head on his shoulder. “So we’re frauds.”

“Cute frauds,” he corrected. “And no one needs to know.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, still smiling. “Come on,” he said, taking your hand. “Let’s go buy some before our dignity burns too.”

Intak

Intak looked annoyingly good while decorating cupcakes.

He stood at the counter with sleeves pushed up, hair fluffy and slightly messy from running his hands through it earlier. Every time he leaned forward to squeeze a swirl of frosting onto a cupcake, his jaw tightened just a little, and you found yourself staring instead of helping.

You sat on a stool beside him, chin resting in your hand, watching every movement like it was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

You saw the moment the realization hit—his lips curled into a slow grin, that signature playful one that always meant trouble. He didn’t say anything, just held your gaze for a beat too long before returning to his cupcake like he hadn’t just caught you admiring him.

“Mhm,” he hummed under his breath. “Enjoying the show?”

You jolted a little. “I—I’m just watching your technique.”

“Oh?” He piped another perfect swirl. “My technique?”

You nodded, trying to play it cool.

He leaned down just a bit. “You can watch closer, you know.”

Your stomach flipped.

Then he held out the frosting tube toward you, eyebrows raised. “Your turn.”

You blinked. “My turn to what? Ruin them?”

He chuckled, nudging the tube into your hand. “Just try. They’ll turn out cute.”

You huffed but moved to the next cupcake, carefully squeezing a line of frosting. At least—you tried.

It was impossible to focus when Intak kept standing too close. His arm brushed yours every few seconds. His fingers grazed your waist “accidentally.” His breath tickled your cheek each time he leaned in to watch what you were doing.

You couldn’t tell if he was actually trying to help or trying to make you mess up.

“Keep going,” he murmured, his hand lightly touching your back.

You inhaled sharply, nearly dropping the cupcake. “Intak, stop distracting me.”

“Me?” he asked innocently. “I’m not doing anything.”

Liar.

You squeezed the frosting tube too hard by accident, and a messy blob landed right on your finger.

“Oh no,” you said dramatically. “Oops.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

You lifted your hand, showing him your frosting-covered finger. “Can you… help me?”

You blinked up at him, playing innocent—sweet, harmless, absolutely not harmless at all.

Intak froze for a second, eyes darkening just slightly before he grinned.

“Come here,” he murmured.

He took your wrist gently and brought your hand closer. Without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and licked the frosting slowly off your finger, warm tongue sliding across your skin in a way that sent a jolt straight through you.

Then he winked.

Actually winked.

You almost forgot how to breathe.

“Well,” he said softly, “that was messy.”

You swallowed hard. “Your fault.”

He smirked. “You did that on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

He stepped closer, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Maybe we should clean up.”

Your pulse was ridiculous. “Mm… or…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Or?”

You leaned close to his ear, your voice just above a whisper. “We could take a break from baking… and do something else.”

Intak’s grin turned wolfish in an instant—mischief, excitement, and affection all mixing in his eyes.

He reached past you and casually turned off the kitchen light. “Yeah,” he said, tugging you closer. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

The cupcakes were very, very forgotten.

Soul

You and Soul stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, staring down at the cookies you’d just decorated. They were… fine.

Plain frosting. Soft pastel colors. No sprinkles, no shapes, no glitter. Just simple.

Painfully simple.

Exactly what you’d been told to do.

You placed another perfectly boring cookie onto the tray and forced a smile. “Yep. Love it. So cute. Very… minimalistic.”

Soul nodded stiffly beside you, his jaw tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Mm. Simple,” he muttered.

You both stared at your trays again.

You hated it.

He hated it.

You could tell by the way he kept tapping the table—light, impatient taps—and the way his eyes drifted toward the shelf where all the forbidden, colourful decorations sat. Sprinkles. Neon frosting. Edible glitter. Everything that was outlawed for today’s “keep it clean and elegant” assignment.

You sighed. “I’m not dying inside, you’re dying inside.”

Soul gave a tiny huff, something between a laugh and an exhale of desperation. “These look… okay,” he said, but he sounded like he was apologizing to the cookies.

“Yeah,” you echoed, staring down at your beige, soulless creations. “Totally happy. Absolutely thrilled.”

Silence.

Then, at the exact same moment, you and Soul looked at each other.

One second of eye contact.

That was all it took.

“Wait,” you said slowly. “We don’t have to listen.”

Soul blinked. The corner of his mouth twitched. “No one’s here,” he said quietly.

“No witnesses,” you added.

He tilted his head. “No evidence.”

You grinned. “Unless we make some.”

Soul’s eyes drifted again toward the decorations shelf—this time not with longing, but with intent. The mischievous spark lighting up his expression was the clearest “yes” you’d ever seen from him.

Without another word, you marched to the cabinet and pulled out the edible glitter stash like a pirate uncovering treasure.

Soul followed, grabbing the neon frosting tubes in every color imaginable.

The rebellion had begun.

“Simple,” you scoffed under your breath as you squeezed a huge swirl of electric blue frosting onto a dough ball.

Soul shook his head, applying red and yellow lines that clashed violently. “We can do better.”

And then it escalated.

Very quickly.

You coated a cookie in gold edible glitter until it sparkled like a disco ball. Soul added rainbow sprinkles so thick the cookie disappeared underneath them. You grabbed a handful of dough and shaped it into a lumpy ball, shoving it toward Soul.

“Make this ridiculous.”

He didn’t even hesitate—he pumped streaks of purple, green, and orange frosting on top until it looked like an explosion at a unicorn factory.

You burst out laughing. “Soul! It’s a glitter bomb!”

He nodded proudly. “Good.”

Then he made one himself: a chaotic masterpiece dripping with sparkle and color. He lifted it toward you as if presenting art.

You covered your mouth, laughing so hard you had to lean against the counter for support.

“This is amazing,” you wheezed.

“This is freedom,” Soul corrected, eyes bright with triumph.

Soon the tray was filled with every color imaginable—edible glitter mountains, sprinkles piled like confetti, frosting drips, weird shapes, chaos everywhere. And Soul looked—happy. Fully, openly happy, the kind of happiness he rarely displayed so plainly.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Think we went overboard?”

He shrugged, a tiny smirk forming. “We were told not to overdo it.”

“And?”

He squeezed a massive dollop of pink frosting onto another dough ball. “We didn’t listen.”

Jongseob

The table looked like a dessert explosion in the best possible way. Bowls of strawberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, a can of whipped cream, and a bottle of chocolate sauce sat scattered between you and Jongseob. A stack of warm pancakes steamed gently in the center.

You took one, carefully sliding it onto your plate. He did the same, glancing over with a small smile that said he was already planning something mischievous.

“Ready?” he asked.

“For what?” you replied suspiciously.

He lifted the whipped cream can and shook it once, grinning. “Art.”

You laughed, grabbing the chocolate sauce bottle like a weapon. “Bring it on.”

He started simple—neat lines of whipped cream across his pancake, a few strawberries placed precisely. It looked aesthetic, tidy, very him.

You, meanwhile, decided to be bold.

Very bold.

“I’m gonna draw your face,” you declared dramatically.

Jongseob froze with a blueberry between his fingers. “My face?”

“Yes. With chocolate sauce.”

He blinked slowly. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’ll be beautiful,” you said confidently.

It was not beautiful.

The second the chocolate sauce hit the pancake, things went downhill. The eyes were uneven, one bigger than the other. The mouth came out crooked. The hair turned into zigzags that looked like electrical wiring gone wrong.

Jongseob stared. Then his lips twitched.

Then he burst out laughing.

He bent over slightly, clutching his stomach, shoulders shaking. “No way—no way that’s supposed to be me!”

You gasped in fake offense. “It IS you!”

“Why does he look like he hasn’t slept in three days?” he choked out between laughs.

You poked the pancake-face with the bottle. “It’s called artistic interpretation.”

“It’s called a cry for help,” he teased, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye.

You tried to glare at him, but you ended up laughing too because, honestly… the pancake did look like a haunted version of him.

“Fine,” you said, leaning back with a sigh. “Let’s see you do better.”

“Oh, I’m not drawing a face,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “But—here.”

He grabbed the whipped cream, leaned over his pancake, and started carefully shaping it. His hands moved delicately, thoughtfully, surprising you with how precise he was even when decorating breakfast food.

When he stepped back, you saw it.

A heart.

A fluffy whipped cream heart right in the center of his pancake, outlined with strawberries placed perfectly around it.

You blinked.

He pushed the plate toward you. “It’s for you.”

You felt your cheeks warm. “You made that really fast.”

“Fast and perfect,” he said with a proud little shrug.

You laughed, poking the whipped cream heart with your fork. “You’re too cute.”

He looked up at you, eyes warm—and then he winked.

A smooth, confident, absolutely devastating wink.

You nearly dropped your strawberry.

“Stop that,” you said, pointing your fork at him.

“Stop what?” he asked innocently, grabbing a handful of blueberries.

“The wink.”

He winked again, just to be a menace.

You groaned, laughing despite yourself. “You're an idiot.”

“And you,” he said, squeezing chocolate sauce onto another pancake, “are terrible at drawing my face.”

“Rude!”

“True,” he countered, nudging your shoulder gently. “But cute.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and went back to decorating another pancake—this time with less artistic ambition and more chaotic enthusiasm. He joined you, adding patterns, shapes, and messy swirls, both of you laughing as the pancakes became more dessert than breakfast.