#Blink twice if you’re after me…..

[chaosfantasmic]

Guys what does this mean😭😭😭

[tonycries]

SODA POP! - G.S.

Synopsis. Five times Gojo Satoru - the hottest k-pop idol right now - gets exposed for wanting you, his pretty, totally-not-girlfriend best friend. And the one time he gives them headlines to talk about.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, idol!Gojo, k-pop idol au, 5 + 1 things, best-friends-to-Iovers, PINING, dispatch, fandom shenanigans, lie detector tests, variety shows, ISAC, he’s SO down bad, matíng presses, oraI (fem. rec.), spítting, chokíng, p sIapping, Gojo’s tongue píercing, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, manhandIing, semi-public, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D slipping, running from it, bIindfolds, talking you through it, first times (Gojo’s), creampíes, cúmplay, getting together, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.8k

A/N. Guess who’s back from the beach-each and watched Kpop Demon Hunters-

“And here we have the goddess, the myth, the-” 

It would take quite the feat to leave Gojo Satoru - self-proclaimed king of idols (debatable), world-class chatterbox (not debatable) - of all people gaping soundlessly at his screen.

For a second. Two. Three- before he’s sputtering at the blur of incoming comments, “O-oi! Don’t you lil’ perverts think you can get away with flirting with my best friend.” Arms crossed, he nods seriously at his fanbase, “Even I don’t get away with flirting with my be-”

“Satoru, they’re about to cut the cameras.”

“A joke. Obviously.” Smooth. Ever-so-smooth, Gojo’s flashing a winning smile at his stern-faced manager behind the tripod.

It was hard enough to convince Yaga into letting you join his livestream, but as a near-veteran in the entertainment industry, Gojo knew how to handle a little slip-up like this. He’s got this- “Because I am definitely not in love with my best friend, and am definitely not held hostage to say this.”

“...”

“A…a joke?”

In mild concern, the two of you can only watch as stoic, composed Yaga lets out what sounded like a strangled sob. Before whispering to another PR manager on-site, “Write a company statement.” 

“Oi-” Gojo pipes up, “Why would you need a company statement when I’m perfectly- user Fushidaddy type another pick-up line and I’m blocking you.”

The dark-haired man chokes through almost tears, “Just start writing already.”

You try to smooth things over from your seat right beside your best friend, this was not what you’d anticipated after Gojo had practically begged on his knees asking for you to join him in one of his Bubble lives. Then again, what else could you expect from anything to do with him? “Ah, it’s alright. I don’t mind-”

“I do.” 

Snowy brows furrowed, he’s leaning in closer to the camera to take in every traitorous word- 

satorusxkitten: okay but guys think ab it!! he’s rlly talented but no actor so it’s okay if he’s ass at pretending to not be a simp!! can u blame him??

“Blocked.”

P1BANG: took a shot every time he stares at her thinking he’s slick now I’m at the hospital (this live started 3 minutes ago)

“Blocked.”

Fushidaddy: Pretty girl, blink twice if you’re being held hostage x.

“Blocked and reported what the-” Gojo frowns glancing over at you from the corner of his eyes, (thinking he’s slick, thank you very much). Before catching the way you lean in dramatically to flutter your eyes- “Don’t you dare blink.”

As you’re bursting into ribbing laughter, so are the sheer amount of comments asking about you- and he can’t help but entertain the sneaking suspicion that his own viewers were here simply because of you.

At least, that’s why he would’ve kept watching.

Fushidaddy2: Put us out of this pining misery or end the live, kid.

“I thought I blocked you.”

“Okay then.” You clap your hands once to gain the room’s attention, slightly worried about the blood vessel about to burst near Yaga’s temple. “Satoru, I think you brought me here to do a Q n’ A, right?”

“Well yes…” Gojo’s grumbling underneath his breath - that was the initial plan, to finally introduce one of the most precious parts of him to the fandom. 

He just didn’t account for the possibility that everyone on the livestream would fall in love with you - when that was clearly supposed to be his job! “Alright- ask away, and no funny business. I’m looking at you, user Fushidaddy.”

sugu-rizzed: Are you single?

“How dare you-”

“Yes. Yes, I am.” You’re nudging the towering man right next to you, subtly moving his hand off of that treacherous block button. “Lighten up, Satoru—”

“Yes, ma’am. Correct, ma’am.”

What a sight it was. 

Honestly, you’re sure you hear at least several management staff gasp at just how easily you’d shut up their arguable star. Being the center of one of the fastest bands to sky-rocket into the k-pop world hadn’t made it any easier for an agent to pose authority over Gojo Satoru - Yaga was barely hanging on by a thread and he submitted at least a few resignation letters every week.

Once the on-set whispers break out, you’re squirming in your seat. Rattling off yet another question-

ge.akuge: what do you think about the allegations of him wearing wigs?

“Well-”

“Blocked.”

KunaLuvrr: does he wear wigs?

stanjutsu: will he wear wigs?

Fushidaddy3: Y’know I don’t wear wigs, baby, x. 

“I-”

“You- blocked.”

haibarabias: Did u know he was yapping about you non-stop on the last live?

You’re blinking in slight surprise, turning to Gojo - who’d now stuffed himself into his oversized designer hoodie until you could only make out the tips of his ears. His bright, burning red ears. “Really?” Turning to the feverishly nodding staff at his silence, “Really?”

One of the fresh-faced interns in charge of lighting tries to hold back a squeal, “Y-yeah! We tried to keep a tally of your name to edit on-screen but it went into…the triple…digits- eep!”

“E-hem.” Gojo cuts the newbie off with a slight glare, snitches. The whole lot. “I was just talking to them about what a boor you are and to be prepared-”

realistic.one: liar, you were giggling and kicking your feet the whole time-

“-which you would have known if you actually watched me.” Finishing off with relish, he’s mockingly glowering down at you. The perfect vision of a neglected best friend - if it wasn’t for the way that he was flushed all the way from his cheeks to the back of his neck, that is. 

And then your fingerpads reach out to pat the silky crown of his bangs, soothingly. “I do watch you, Toru. I must have missed that stream, sorry about that.”

He melts. And there’s tens of thousands to watch him.

“Y-yeah?” Gojo’s briefly snapping a scowl at the screen, already knowing that this particular clip of his voice breaking would be making rounds on the internet tomorrow. Crossing his arms with a huff, he acts like he isn’t nuzzling his head even closer for you to caress, “Tch, you make a shitty best friend, my star.”

Somewhere across the room, Yaga puts his head in his hands and sighs. 

sugu-rizzed: My star?? Guys is he…

CandyKento: that moment when you highkey ship them but realize bro has no game

sunflowerboy: Gojo-san fighting!!

Fushidaddy7: I could treat you better, girl x. 

torutoaster: wonder what her type is from our boys^^

It’s as if the room itself had hiked a few degrees in temperature, and you’re darting your eyes away from Gojo’s burning ones. From the staff that was snickering behind their hands, giving you knowing looks. 

Instead, choosing to distract yourself by answering that last question– “Hmm, my ideal type from Six Eyes, huh?”

“Hah- what a silly little question.” Your best friend cocks his head with a smirk, “Why- tell ‘em, my star. Who else has the visuals? The dance moves? The charisma? Of course, it’s-”

“Suguru.” You smile innocently, whilst the flashy idol next to you crumbles. “He’s such a sweetheart.”

returnofP1BANG: five more shots for that wet cat look he gave her

Fushidaddy9: Ouch (lol).

sugu-rizzed: F in the chat

CandyKento: f

sunflowerboy: F

Fushidaddy10: F

ge.akuge: F

“Tch- childish.” Gojo scoffs at the wave of that same letter flooding his comment section, he’s counting about twenty…before typing his own ‘F’ in there. 

Immediately reinvigorated, he’s stabbing a determined finger in the air. “But- but I have something that none of y’all and that stinky Suguru doesn’t have-” And it takes every ounce of will, every shred of shamelessness in his body to wrap two strong arms around you and crash you to his broad chest. Emulating all those hours he’s spent watching k-dramas with you, Gojo’s barking out. “-she’s mine!”

Fushidaddy14: Yeah. Your best friend. LMAO.

“Blocked-”

Masamichi Yaga handed in yet another resignation letter that very same night.

Which was likely why the livestream didn’t last too long after that little catastrophe- and it’s about a few hours later once you’d safely made it home with excuses of work the next day, and Gojo was lying wide awake on his phone, that it happens.

It is sent to him, by none other than Geto - the most unthinkable, unspeakable link to a fan-made YouTube video aptly titled ‘100 Gojo Satorus vs. trying not to make a fool of himself in front of his baddie best friend challenge (failed)”

Edited and clipping every single moment he’d completely n’ utterly destroyed his cool idol façade during the brief live. Every (fine, not-so-slick) glance your way, every blush, every voice crack.

Fuck.

In two seconds he’s sending Geto a paragraph of middle finger emojis, and in one he’s slowly downloading the video…for research purposes. 

.

.

.

As a celebrity hair stylist, Miwa Kasumi had never felt that she wasn’t paid enough - after all, nearly unlimited contact with her favorite idols and she gets to see her work come to life on stage? What could go wrong?

Well…she’s feeling her weary eyelid twitch just about the twelfth time she hears the same repeated meme audio blaring from Gojo Satoru’s phone. 

Headphone-less. On full volume. 

All on the set of one of the most important comeback shoots of this year, the much-anticipated music video for their single ‘Blue.’ Penned by none other than the giggling idiot that was her client. 

And it was only considering all her years of professionalism that she didn’t whack the phone out of his hands the way she’s been dying to for the past hour. “Gojo-san, you are quite the fan of that video, hm?”

Subtle cues- subtle cues!

But Gojo was never one for subtle cues, as she has the misfortune of learning. And he only blinks up from his padded seat in front of her, “Huh? Oh yes-” In fact, increasing the volume of the dramatically edited fan video - one of those crack compilations she had the guilty pleasure of watching before bed sometimes. 

But Gojo didn’t seem to be watching for the laughs, his twinkling sapphire eyes were only locked on one thing on-screen - you. 

Sighing at a short clip of you from the livestream a few days ago, grimacing at one of his bragging monologues. Giggling, he zooms in on you- “Isn’t she gorgeous–?”

“O-oh!” Now, introductions and love for artistry might be two of the main perks of working in such close proximity to idols - but who could forget the gossip. Immediately perking up, she’s setting down one of the curlers and working on fluffing up Gojo’s ethereal white hair for the camera. “Girlfriend, Gojo-san?”

“Not at all.” Dreamily, he’s taking a blatant screenshot of the zoomed-in visual of your face. A man in heaven. “Not. At. All.”

Huh? Maybe all celebrities were just eccentric. What was that one saying about never meeting your heroes? 

Well, it seems that the universe decided that Miwa hadn’t learned enough of her lesson just yet- which is why she’s startled by the swoosh–! of curtains being drawn back in the dressing room, and the heavy footsteps of none other than Gojo’s bandmates. 

Who could mistake them?

Geto Suguru, long inky hair tied back, slow strides almost predatory, is the first to reach the two - one of them shivering in rapt excitement, the other glued to his phone. “Oi- Satoru, they want you for your solo shot.”

Gojo grunts noncommittally, hands gripping his phone. “Hm-”

Irritation gripping the other’s tone, his best friend taps his feet. “Satoru.”

“Mm.”

“Satoru.” 

“…”

“You little-” 

It’s a damn miracle that the thin glass of Gojo’s phone screen doesn’t crack with how swiftly Geto’s snatching it from the other’s hands. Only to get a glimpse of the screen and have his mouth drop.

“Satoru…” 

“…Suguru.”

Pierced brows furrowing, Adam’s apple bobbing with a guffaw at the blatant screenshot of you displayed. Clearly taken from that one compilation video that he had sent the link to a few days ago. Their center gulps. “Satoru, what…the…f-”

“Gojo-san! Gojo-san–!”

The youngest - Haibara’s - sweet, sing-song voice dips through the tense dressing room as he stumbles in - all sunny smiles and the cutest bowl cut. Followed excruciatingly closely by a cameraman recording behind-the-scenes content, “Kento and I are done, so Director Shoko wants you on set now or she said she’ll do some violent things that can’t be said on camera~”

“Of course, of course– you should go, you strange little lecher- I mean, Satoru.” Geto waves the other over, “C’mere Yu, let your elder show you a little something.”

Gojo blanches, “No-”

“Oh? What is it–?”

Gripping onto Geto’s jacket, “No.”

Careful of the rolling camera, he’s mercilessly sidling up to the other and flashing the latest addition to Gojo’s photo album - that soft, slightly blurry screenshot of you. Simply smiling. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ is right.” Geto’s smizing out such a cat-like grin at the camera- this was sure to have the internet talking. Maybe even screaming. And as the staff with the lens steps closer in curiosity, he’s swiftly covering the screen, “Let’s just say our Satoru is ah- quite the fan of our cute little fans’ creations.”

Haibara titters, “Enough that it’s filling up his phone storage-” Catching Gojo’s groan, ready to jump out of his seat- “Ah, my apologies, Gojo-san~”

Geto nods, “No no, he’s right.”

“He’s not.”

“I am?”

“And remember, kids—” The pierced man calls out, finger hovering over the glaring screen of the phone. 

Gojo gasps- “No-” Realizing. Shooting to his feet. “No no no-”

Registering the way his other best friend was giving particular attention to that bright, burning DELETE button. “-always help your friends in need.”

The scream that Gojo Satoru, most polished idol of the 21st century, lets off is devastated. 

Enough that the cameraman - watching each interaction like a hawk - jumps, enough that even ruthless Geto Suguru himself feels a semblance of slight regret. Almost turning his thumb over to click on the recycle bin before Gojo can cry himself hoarse- until he’s scrolling just an inch - an inch - along the full camera roll and finding…more…screenshots?

About 75,328 in his album, to be exact. Of you. 

He looks at Gojo Satoru - knees cradled in such a pitiful fetal position on the floor, whimpering at the loss of his prized screenshot. And he looks at the 75,328 screenshots. He looks back at Gojo. Then at the screenshots, all 75,328.

Then back at Gojo.

And Geto doesn’t even feel bad about the good kick he’s planting on the other’s back, “Get out.”

If the dressing room was a hellhole made to ruin Gojo’s life - Geto being the devil incarnate, of course - then being on set wasn’t any better. 

The long lens of Shoko’s famed camera stares him down like it knew exactly how he was acting minutes prior, and any false façade of coolness would easily break through. 

“Ugh…” Shoko’s crinkling her nose in slight distaste at the footage playing on her screen, motioning for the rest of the crew to start putting each prop back in place for a reshoot. 

Make-up airy, white bandages haphazardly falling from his eyes, surrounded by sparkling ivory decorations of stars; it was supposed to be something on theme with the song, something romantic, something that didn’t make her want to hack up her coffee in a bad way.

But she could feel her stomach churning already. Leveling a glare at Gojo that’s enough to make the much-taller man flinch- “You- if you can’t do the sparkly idol thing, just try looking at the camera and smiling. It’s all we need for the solo shot today.” Tapping her camera, “Look at the lens like you’d look at a lover.”

Voice octaves higher, “A-a lover?” 

His dignity was scarred! 

“You got this, Gojo-san! Twentieth try’s the charm–!” Haibara’s voice echoes. “Ah- or was this the thirtieth…somewhere along the line I lost count.”

“Thirty-seventh.” Nanami helpfully supplies.

His reputation as a reliable elder ruined!

“Satoru, good luck! Geto called me- I don’t know why but um, good luck!”

He didn’t call himself the king of idols for nothing!

In a split-second, Gojo perks at the slightly-metallic sound of your voice through the other end of the line. Breath hitched, flashing irises widened- it doesn’t take him even a nanosecond to snap his head towards where Geto was holding his phone up for the sound to project.

Your name flashing on the caller ID, Geto’s smile priggish at the reaction wrenched out of his best friend. 

And Gojo can’t help but let the mere sound of your voice make him smile—

“There we go- that’s the shot! That’s the shot.”

The music video is edited and uploaded only a few weeks later, that behind-the-scenes following hastily afterwards. 

It was a hit, of course, as every management and billboard had already predicted it would be. But what was unpredictable were the eagle-eyed comments-

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV

torutoaster: KYAAA THEY REALLY FED US LOOK AT HOW OUR TORU AND SUGU LOOOKKK

ryomichael: not even a satoru bias but…wow…his visuals…the way he looked at the camera made my heart just go…wow

zbstan: stream this song (and esp Gojo’s bridge) for clear skin guys!!

SIX EYES - ‘BLUE’ MV Behind [All]

getosuggs: Geto and Haibara giggling at Gojo’s phone screen…wonder what they were looking at…

torutoaster: wonder why the filming of toru’s solo shot was muted?? strange but as long as we get more content of my bias oh well^^

sugu-rizzed: @torutoaster I think because they were on a call? Oooo imagine if it was Gojo’s best friend from the livestream…

mahitoe: @sugu-rizzed smh delulu shippers

zbstan: @mahitoe STFU look at that caller ID ik they tried to blur it but like there was an anonymous hair stylist on set who said it was so GUYS IT COULD BE-

Fushidaddy17: I would’ve had no problem looking cool for her aha x.

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.

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“Takada-chan! Takada-ch-AAAAAAN–!”

Honestly, what a woman to be able to smile politely in the face of a big, beefy high schooler ripping his shirt off from the stands of the stadium. The Idol Star Athletics Championships were always quite rambunctious considering the star-studded players, especially this year. 

All lined up in their groups, donning flashy colored tracksuits. 

And as the boy starts crying, Geto winces–looking back at their own section of fans invited to attend the annual celebrity sports tournament. Some squealing at the feeling of Geto’s stare, some waving banners hysterically - but thank goodness that none were as bad as-

“MY STAAAAR–!”

Geto takes that back very quickly.

Deadpan, exhausted- the leader of Six Eyes is turning to stare down their infamous center, the exact one who’d been hogging every headline for the past few weeks for his exact antics with you. ���Satoru…what are you doing?”

Ignoring him for your figure seated at the very front row–“MY STAR, YOU BETTER CHEER FOR ME.” You pretend not to hear him as he waves frantically, and Geto reaches over to tug Gojo back in line. “Oi- OIII, DON’T LOOK AT NANAMI LOOK AT ME!”

On second thought, he backs away into another group’s line. 

You weren’t the only one looking at him now- so were the announcers. Seasoned entertainers who’ve probably never seen a scene in all their years, “Aaaand over in this row we have Six Eyes. Their center - that Gojo boy - seems to be a little preoccupied, no?”

“With the girl? Oh, when is he not? Have you seen the clips from that livestream?”

“Ahh–you know my wife showed me and-” Seemingly catching the eye of whatever higher-up, or maybe the way that Yaga was swooning in his bench as if he was about to faint right then and there. “Ehem- anyways, welcome all to this year’s The Idol Star Athletics Championships–!”

It goes off without a hitch. 

Well, as much as it could with Gojo Satoru being in attendance. 

Which meant having to wrangle him back by the scruff of his neck every time he meandered off to the shrieking stands to ask you to pet his tired head - “for good luck.”

Which meant having him blow kisses to the stands suspiciously near you as he dribbled expertly during the basketball event, their team tied with yet another idol group.

With only a few seconds on the clock, every eye glued to his sprinting figure - breath stilling just as soon as he does near the netted hoop. Gojo had jumped, and pointed straight at your figure—“This one’s for my star.”

Before he swung. 

And…

…missed.

But that was all water under the bridge.

It didn’t matter that it was a failure recorded in 4K on hundreds of cameras, it didn’t matter that you’d been the one laughing the most while watching his precious shot completely miss the hoop and bounce sadly on the floor. 

It didn’t matter that his ears were still burning red from embarrassment by the last leg of the tournament - the track-and-field events. 

Geto had already won the gold medal in archery, Haibara with silver in football, and even woe-is-me Nanami had snagged a silver in fencing. 

And this time, this year’s new addition - one of those borrowed item races you’d play in middle school, those ones where he’d have to run to a box and pick out something silly to bring over the finish line - was about to be his turn. 

“Ready…”

Gojo’s steadying into position, making sure his back flexed just right so that you’d be able to see from the stands. And if the way that Nanami sighed was anything to go by then it was working, right? 

“Set…”

Azure eyes locked on the small wooden box that loomed a few yards in front of him.

“Go!”

It’s a blur- one moment his expensive designer sneakers touch the ground, and the next he’s one of the first idols to run over to the box. Fighting to stick his hand inside, Gojo’s sure he elbows someone’s dolled-up face to grab the first slip of paper he can. 

Tugging it out with a grin, the neat typing stares back at him mockingly—‘Someone you love.’

Fuck.

Why did it have to be this one?

The announcer’s booming baritone breaks through- “What’s this? Six Eyes’ Gojo seems to have stalled? What could that paper say?”

“Run!” Geto’s voice calls over the chaos of countless other artists bee-lining towards their own missions, their own ‘item.’ He’s waving at Gojo impatiently, “Run, you fool-” 

“Gojo-san, you got this–!”

In a confused hurry, he’s darting a look down at the staff manning the box - some older, dryly deadpan man who merely takes a peek at his slip of paper and gives a thumbs up. And Gojo could have sworn he smirks.

Well.

“Oh- oh, he’s running.” Both hosts gripping onto the edges of their tables, “The legs on that boy- Gojo Satoru is overtaking his peers easily- ah, we promise we’re not biased.”

Yaga and the rest of his overworked PR team would have to forgive Gojo for this later- but his legs are turning towards your direction in an instant, just as they always have. Running. Sprinting. 

“Gojo- Gojo! Is it true you two eloped?”

“An insider source is saying that your best friend was present on-set of Blue- any comment?”

“Are you two dating?”

It’s like he’s running through a tunnel where the only thing he can see is you at the end. Announcers’ voices cotton in his mind- “Oh, we think we know where this is going, ladies and gentlemen.” The only voice his popped ears can hear are yours-

“S-Satoru–!” You’re shrieking, nearly as loud as the throng of fans and cameras surrounding you. Clawing down his beefy upper bicep as your best friend leans his long torso over the barrier of the stands and throws you into an easy princess carry, “Are you crazy-”

“Nah, we’re gonna win, my star.” He has his arms steady, jaw clicking - and you can’t help but feel his strength thrum gently in his arms. Those lucky to be near enough for the entire ordeal would later claim to tabloids that they’d never seen Gojo Satoru this serious.

This…responsible when he’s carefully striding with you in his hold - an easy first place running past the finish line. 

Stars in his eyes, mouth turned up into a smile that twitched when he gazed down at your own. Wantingly. 

But he only hugged you in thanks, and took your half-joking swats with a smile. 

They couldn’t quite blatantly show the cameras what Gojo’s little paper had required him to bring, but you got to keep Gojo’s gold medal after the tournament - it was always meant for you, anyway.

And he gets an earful from Yaga, Geto, Haibara (though that was more grumbling about why those last two weren’t the ones carried like a pretty princess instead), and a few articles speculating your relationship, and a Twitter timeline having a complete meltdown over clips of his race. 

A video of those particular few seconds with you in his arms racked up a solid few million views in only a few hours since it was posted- but honestly, one million of those views might just be from him alone.

@torutoaster: THE WAYYYY HE CARRIED HER OMG- GOD I SEE WHAT YOU’VE DONE FOR OTHERS-

@CandyKento: did anyone watch the isacs? no but i am soooo curious what gojo’s item was-

@chorusito replying to @CandyKento: no but to bring his ehem ehem- “best friend” it has to be something scandalous right~

@CandyKento replying to @chorusito: right??

@mahitoe replying to @chorusito: lmfao idols can’t date. you guys cant handle anything it was obvs just a friend or something. delulu. 

@sugurusshampoobottle replying to @mahitoe: FIGHT ME.

@satorusxkitten: gojo and geto’s arms are so big!! fuck!! 

@sugu-rizzed: That staff-member manning the box saw what the paper said oh what I would pay to know…

@fiendingforsixeyes: AHHHH I BET IT WAS SOMETHING OR SMTH HE LOVED IK U GOJO U LOVERBOY

@Fushidaddy33: She would’ve looked better in my arms tbh…

Gojo reports that last account.

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.

.

“So, who do you think is the cutest from Six Eyes?”

“Me.”

“And who do you think is the best dancer?”

“Me.”

“The most romantic?”

“Ah…” Regular interviews could be tedious - but an interview with a lie detector strapped to you somehow surpassed even the ninth chamber of hell. And Gojo thinks that anyone would shrink under the beady, unwavering gaze of the hostess interrogating- ah, interviewing him right now.

Not a hair out of place, not a lie she wouldn’t be able to catch.

Damn that management for signing him up for one of those lie detection interviews - part of him already felt that this was punishment for rejecting Yaga’s seventh resignation letter since the chaos of the Idol Star Athletics Championships.

And damn Geto for goading him into going first.

The rest of the group watch leisurely from their comfort of a sofa away from the spotlight - thankfully lie detector-less for now - tittering as their bandmate cowers. Gulping through a slightly-wobbly grin, “Me. I’m the most romantic.”

Nodding as the polygraph examiner gives the thumbs up for truth.

“Not quite humble, but quite honest aren’t you, Mister Gojo?”

Gojo’s cracking his neck in his uncomfortable seat, the sooner he can get this over with, the better. Still strapped with leather buckles, “I think you’ll find that I’m very honest about things I truly feel.”

Geto sputters through faux coughs- “Pfft– Liar.”

Nanami looks away- murmuring just loud enough for the microphone to pick up, “Ehem…fibber.”

And Haibara? Haibara merely snaps his fingers in realization- “Aaaah–! I see, they’re calling you a ‘liar’, Gojo-san, because you aren’t honest about your feelings towards-”

“Ah ah!” He tries to make a motion to shut up, but only ends up rocking the chair from side-to-side. And Gojo already knew he was done for the very second he’s catching the hostess’s eyes gleam at this juicy morsel of information.

“Well, I actually did have…” Trailing off, she’s shuffling through her pack of pre-written questions. Painted nails fingering one at the very back that she seemed to have stowed away for when the interviews took a particular turn, she clears her throat. Saying your name-

“Impressively high heart rate.” The examiner drones out, bushy brows raising at what his screen flashed. Just from hearing your name.

As his self-proclaimed friends cackle - those traitors - the hostess shows off her pearly smile, “Mister Gojo, is it true that she’s your best friend?”

Gojo shifts slightly, “Very true.” Truth.

“And she is very beautiful- correct?”

“Very true.” Truth.

“And smart?”

“Very true-” Truth.

“And you’re in love with her?”

“Very tr-” He gasps, “Wait no-”

To which the older lady cocks her head in genuine confusion, “Despite all the shipping- well, it’s all everyone’s been talking about online these days- you’ve never done anything? You don’t have feelings for her, young man?”

“N…no.” 

Geto raises his hand in a split-second, almost as if he was some model student in a classroom. “You’re mistaken, my lady, he doesn’t have feelings for her. He has a lot of feelings for her-”

“Suguru!”

The final nail on Gojo’s coffin might just have been the way the polygraph examiner tries - and fails - to keep a largely neutral face. Instead raising his fist in the air, into a blatant thumbs down, next word tinged in amusement. “Lie.”

Gojo fights against the belts tied to his wrist, monitoring his heartbeat, his deception. “It’s faulty, I tell you- faulty. Did you know that polygraphs are actually only 80% accurate and–”

“So you honestly wouldn’t mind if your best friend showed up with a fresh new boyfriend to introduce to you?”

“-I would rather die.”

It’s silence.

Gojo basking in the shock of what he’d just blurted out, everyone else squinting at the overtly clear thumbs up that the examiner was gesturing. A truth. Trying to see whether it would change shape whether they stared hard enough.

Clearing her throat, their seasoned hostess is the first to speak- “Ah- well, that was certainly, um.” Shuffling her cards, she stares at the rest of Six Eyes in bewilderment and they stare in bewilderment right back. 

Muttering, “I wish my husband was more like that- anyways.” She leans in close to Gojo, “So if I showed you…” Waving her hand at a few of the tech specialists in charge of the projector behind him, “-this picture with a particular known tattoo artist?”

It wasn’t even a question.

And a damn good thing it wasn’t, because as soon as the screen behind Gojo lights up with a paparazzi shot - one of you, from years and years ago when you were dating that damn tch- asshole Ryomen Sukuna. All bathed in the light of the city at night, pretty hands in his, smile blinding - oh-so-gorgeous that he feels his heart stop.

Literally.

There’s a slight, sharp beeeeep–! that emanates from the lie detector—

Geto stands, “Satoru, what-”

“Gojo-san, are you okay-”

“I know CPR.” Hell, even Nanami was looking on with some degree of concern, “But I wouldn’t do it on you, no offense.”

As the examiner fiddles with his contraption, the hostess is the one to wonder whether she should call over the medical personnel in the studio. Reaching over her lil’ interrogation table to tap Gojo’s pale hand lightly- “U-uh, Mister Gojo-”

Gojo gasps- “Huh? Oh yeah-” 

The steady rhythm of his pulse beeps once more on the monitor, albeit it slightly faster than before after he’s setting his eyes on you. After his poor, pathetic heart had skipped a beat just at the mere sight of you. 

“He’s ruining the picture.” Gojo’s nose bridge wrinkles, gaze straying back to your smile the way an anchor follows a ship to see. No matter how far and deep they may go. The examiner signs out ‘truth’ as the other man continues, “Can you crop the buffoon out and give me five printed copies of that photo, please?”

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Gojo-san, eh?”

Nanami rubs his aching temples, “This is why I’d never give him CPR.”

That particular episode easily became one of the most watched of the season. 

Six Eyes’ Gojo Satoru Takes a Lie Detector Test | Heart-stopping Revelations!

torutoaster: WHAT THE FUCK WHEN THEY SAID HEART-STOPPING THEY MEANT IT FRFR-

eathaibara: the pure aura to have your heartbeat stop then the first thing you do is simp over your girl.

100menvsmpreg: @eathaibara wait so are they actually dating?

fluffykento: @100menvsmpreg worse

jennyk10: @100menvsmpreg I meannn-

ButterSixKpop: Need me a real freak like this.

CandyKento: kento is so real ngl

getosuggs: @CandyKento the only thing we love more than satoru is bullying satoru

fiendingforsixeyes: LMAO GUYS HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PERSON GOIN’ ON RANTS UNDER SUKUNA’S INSTA-

Gojo didn’t read these comments, unfortunately, or see any of the edits they were making of him on tiktok. He was too busy spamming comments of his own on Sukuna’s official instagram. 

Very colorfully-worded ones. 

.

.

.

“What’s your name?”

“Gojo da strongest.”

“What are you drawing?”

“A star.”

For an eight-year-old, Gojo thinks you had the most pensive expression on your face after that particular answer. Brows scrunched cutely, and your tongue sticking slightly between missing teeth- and it was alright, Gojo wasn’t a stranger to the staring.

He knew how to handle all the cooing from aunties at the marketplace, he was used to all the praises for being the fastest kid in all of primary school. 

So surely the great, wise, nine-year-old Gojo Satoru could give a fellow classmate as much time as you needed to muster up the very best compliment-

“It’s kinda ugly.”

“Wha- huh?” How dare you- Gojo’s pouting, snowy brows scrunching until you’re giggling. “My star is not ugly.” Sticking a thumb proudly between his puffed-up chest, “And I should know because I’m going to be a star.”

You’re nodding, seriously. “Mm, that’s good.” 

And that makes him falter- just a bit, because true superstars never falter. “Y-you think so?” Okay, maybe they falter a bit. But in Gojo’s defense, no one had ever taken his little daydream so seriously, “You don’t think it’s stupid? That I can’t go up on stage?”

“No, why would it be?” Oh. You’re tapping his smudged crayon drawing, “But that’s still an ugly star.”

Stomping, “Is not.”

“Is too.”

“Is…” He looks at you - in all you sparkly humor - then back at his fifteen-pointed star. He looks at you, then back at his brown-colored star for “artistic purposes.” He looks at you, then back at his star with a spotty face on it because it reminded him of Patrick Star.  He looks at you and-

“Fine…”

“Let me teach you how to draw an actual star.” You’re stumbling over your words a little, and it offends the great Gojo Satoru that he should be taught by such a child like you, a year younger. 

But he does have to admit that you drew pretty nice stars. 

Crossing his arms with a pout, “Fine then- teach me how to draw stars-” And the grin breaking your tiny face was too bright, too pretty. Suddenly the classroom is too humid, and he’s scrambling for something - anything - to throw back in your face. “-star.”

“‘Star’, huh?” But you only smile, “I like that.”

Only to have it thrown back in his. 

In a way he’s remembering nearly two decades later, your hand in his, your mouth near his earpiece. Quieter than the producers screaming in his ears, but louder than his very own racing heartbeat.

“Take it easy, Satoru.” You’re humming, over the velvety-smooth voice of the MAMA award announcer. The one that was ecstatically saying the name of the very band that Gojo might just have forgotten he was a part of the moment your hands wound ‘round him. 

You lift up his dark blindfold, part of his outfit for the day. “Go up, you fool.”

It wasn’t every day that Six Eyes won a MAMA grand prize, and it also wasn’t every day that the best friend he’d begged to be let in as the group’s honorary plus one (also the very same best friend he’d been in love with since he knew what love was) was in his arms like this.

But you’d been in them when after he’d drawn the first star all those years back that you’d deemed ‘acceptable.’ You’d been in them when he decided to take up dancing lessons in middle school, waiting all those hours after dark to walk back home with him. You’d been in them when he entered high school and told you he’d be a trainee slaving the days away in some dingy company basement. You’d been in them even tighter when they debuted. 

And you’d been in them the very second their name had been announced as artist of the year.

In front of all those cameras. All those gasping audiences.

And Geto who thumps him heartily on the back, “Get a room later, lovebirds- if Yaga doesn’t kill you that is.”

“Come on, Gojo-san, we have to go up for our award–!”

Nanami flashes you what you swear was a slight smile, “I am happy for you.” Before frowning at a shining-eyed Gojo, “Not quite for you, though.”

“Aww Nanamin, you love me~”

“O-kaaay-” Once the 6’4 mess of limbs had finally set you free, Geto was pushing them all to climb up the stage. In time with the blasting background music of their very own Blue, “Let’s have the aneurysms when we’re on stage.”

But what Gojo had on-stage wasn’t anything to make Yaga wish to retire, or to have Nanami’s pounding migraine throb harder. It was a single, sliding tear - and if the lights glaring down on them were bright enough that no one could tell for sure, then all was well with him.

“To our fans, our family-” Gojo’s starting off into the mic in the middle, deep tone dry and hoarse, metal award cool in his hands. He’s looking at you. “-and my star, this one’s for you.”

It’s all. 

And later they’d write articles about the hug, the speech, and what it means that you’re his ‘star’ - but for now, that was for Gojo to know. And for him to step away from the booming mic, letting Geto take his place with much more eloquent words; knowing that in future interviews they’d joke about all the speeches that they had planned.

That Gojo had planned in particular, but nothing came out just right. 

Later, he would also wonder why he waited so long - when you were always there in the audience, clapping louder as if it was just for him. 

And your best friend mouths—all bedazzled in his dangling earrings, white suit starkly handsome. “Meet me after the show.”

That very same clip is made into a gif that gets replayed about twelve million times before the award show actually ends. 

.

.

.

“O-oh fuck-” Your tongue lolls out until it’s hitting midway down your chin, mouth watering with every curly swipe n’ prod of Gojo’s tastebuds. 

His nose hits the edge of your treacly cunt and he whines, watchin’ the cute way your pupils roll allll the way to the back. The front of your chest polishing with a few wads of saliva that he can’t lick up right now- no.

Not when his mouth was already so occupied.

All it took was a single step - a single step - inside Gojo’s personal dressing room after the MAMAs, before he’d crashed your lips against his in a way he’d just been dying to do.

Folding you easily over the armrest of the fluffy pink sofa, door locked, sparkly dress hiked up. Gojo hadn’t even bothered to take off your flimsy panties before he’d started making out with your sweet, sweet pussy from behind.

Lavishing his tongue between the crevices of your cunt like he was a man parched- “Fuck, my star.” With your underwear just pushed to the side and his throat vibrating with a guttural groan once he’s feeling your tight, cozy hole clench ‘round his tastebuds.“Fuck- s’all I want-”

“A-are you seriously- ngh–!” And you couldn’t believe anything your hazed mind was telling you right now - not of those familiar lyrics, and not of the smooth, frigid brush of something metallic studding just the end of Gojo’s tongue. “-quoting your song right now?”

“Mmm– can’t help it. Wrote it just for you y’know…” Voice just a bit hitched, just a bit raspy. 

There was something in it that made you oh-so-much wetter, and Gojo’s summer blue eyes flash as he’s taking in the sappy slick gluing your shivering thighs together. 

“Sh-shit.” Gurgling out the candied taste of you, you were dripping all down his tongue. He’s pulling you close with a hand stuck on your hip, letting your slick splash at the bottom of his throat- and it still wasn’t enough. 

“Shit, my star.” His usual lip gloss smeared all over your pussy, Gojo takes the time to lean in and lick it all clean off. Before pursing his lips to once more spit—“Shit-”

He didn’t know what to say.

Your pretty pussy had him speechless, and it’s a damn miracle that he’s not tearing that suit off of his body. Stained all down the front with a snail-trail of your sappy juices-

“Need- this-” Once his heavy fabric strikes the floor, Gojo’s inching even closer in his kneeling position. Thick fingers slide-slide-sliiiiding teasingly between your swollen folds, before tugging on your poor panties. “-off.”

Ripping.

And his little prize is now finding a home somewhere inside his pocket for later, but right now Gojo has to stop himself from fucking salivating as you’re exposed for him.

It takes one kiss before he pants- “Oh my god.” 

And another- “O-oh fuck- oh my god.”

Fully shoving his face between your legs and letting you shiver at the feeling of his bejewelled earrings. That sunken in. 

Flattened tongue slapping down between your driveling slit, Gojo takes his agonizing time lapping up every inch n’ cranny you have. “My star—” Humming almost drunkenly, his pointed muscle swerves between the insides of your pussylips. 

“F-fuuuck–!” Just where you were most sensitive, Gojo lets the stubbed piercing on his tongue slip inside your hole and streeeeetch you out. Slipping out to draw a wet, sickly sweet star– “Since when did you have a- nghh- a tongue piercing, Toru?”

The first answer you’re getting is a sharp swat on your pussy, “Mmm- ever since you dated that fucking bastard with a tongue piercing.” Sukuna. Gojo croons out, more honest than he would’ve usually been. “Never put it in but…I got it because I thought it was your hah- type.”

Another smack!

Another squeezing inch of his pierced tongue trying to fuck into your entrance, he’s impatient. He’s throbbing in his pants with every tiny clench of your gooey insides, “Got buffer, too- cooler.”

“Oh my…god- your tongue, it’s- hck! going in-” Crying out through whines.

“Wrote so many songs for you, my star–” He’s drawling out, and you can feel the scorching breeze of his hot breath. The way that Gojo’s parting his lips even wider to let his tongue glue against your cunt, grinding all the way inside- “Well- heh- not for her, but…”

You’re still hypnotized by the sensual massage of his ridged taste buds rubbin’ across the front of your dripping pussy. 

So much so that the lecherous sluuuurp–! drawn out into the claggy air almost shocks you. Your cunt’s letting off the most sexual noises once Gojo’s dragging up a hand to tease your wet clit. “-but I’ll write a song for her as well.”

His metal rings are just sparkling with coats of slick, and your best friend doesn’t waste even a second latching onto your sensitive nub. Dexterous fingers drawing cute circles over and over that have your hips lurching off of the sofa- 

“Please- ngh- pleeease-” Your head throws backwards, legs already starting to quake at the utter pressure of having his fingers on your clit. Tongue inside your pussy. 

So lengthy that the slimy tip of it mazes between your walls, and Gojo’s purposefully stirrin’ around your insides with the icy edge of his piercing. Chin rubbing all red with friction as he’s leaning in even closer to dig the muscle of his tongue into your sweetest spots, “Yeah- yeah n’ I’ll have her sing-” Another hand this time, another finger - pushin’ deeply inside you. And the syrupy sound is enough to make him close in on the side of the couch and rut- “-lead…h-heh.”

And if you thought being fucked into the cushy surface by Gojo’s tongue was making your head spin, then you’re being driven positively mad by the wild lashes of his fingertips. 

Two ringed fingers fighting for space right along with his sticky tongue, Gojo glues the thick crowns of his digits to the top of your g-spot and watches as you shrill. “All the reading paid off, hmm–?”

“Y-you read about this?” You’re blinking through your tears, mouth dangling open once he’s pulling back. All the way to the rotund tips of his fingers- and slamming right down to press on your favorite nerves like a button. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- just for- for me?”

“You don’t know what I’d do for you, my star.” And it would sound sweet coming from your usual best friend. 

But Gojo right now looked feral - pale eyes half-lidded, hair unruly, light make-up replaced by slimy oodles of your slick. Worn like a badge of honor, he’s gnawing down on your outer pussy, voice turning into something breathy. Octaves higher. “Noooo fucking idea what I’d do.”

Gripping onto the dampening covers of the sofa, you’re bucking animalistically like you don’t know whether you want to pull away or grind back down for more, more, more. Yelping, “T-Toru-!”

“No- no no no- come back.” Gojo panics, beefy arms wrapped enough around your body to haaaul you backwards. 

And when that wasn’t far enough, Gojo’s lust-fogged mind tugs off the blindfold still looped ‘round his neck. Tightly restraining one over your thigh and manhandling you deeper onto his face-

“Sh-shiiit, Satoru–”

“Fuck- haven’t had anything so sweet- so addictive, my star.” He’s murmuring into your pussy, knuckles getting sloppier with all the spanks against the front of your cunt. Tongue lurching in n’ out until his jaw was sore and raw with all the movement- but he’s still rummaging his muscle along your insides. 

Gojo’s eating you out like a man lacking a proper meal for eons, and you swear you could feel the way his Adam’s apple bob with each heavy gulp of your saccharine slick. “N’ now I don’t think I can- haaaah- live without your sweet pussy on my face, sweetheart.”

The furniture creaks with every bump of his ravenous hips against the sofa, because Gojo didn’t even want to spare a single handle to jerk himself off.

Not when he could target the throbbing nub of your clit, rolling over it until the harsh pleasure makes you squeeeal. “Don’t have to- don’t- ngh-”

“D’you think so?” That overeager thumb latched to your clit does a quick circular motion that renders your mouth drier than the Sahara. Swooping. Pressing down. “Really really th-think I can?”

“Yes- fuck- yes-” Whining, back arching into such a perfect curve. “Just make me cum, Satoru-”

“Yes, ma’am.” Gojo huffs out a cloud of breath, long lashes fluttering. The rapid thump-thump-thumps of his two fingers burrowing into your g-spot hasten, “But only if you mmmm– say my name.”

“Satoru.”

“Louder?”

“Satoru.”

With your wailing tone knocking off each corner of the wall, it’s like he’s rattling off all the unspeakable dreams he’s had of you. “Thennn– spit in my mouth?”

Almost like he’s testing it out- and you’re snapping your head over your shoulder. Not knowing whether to give him a piece of whatever’s left of your mind, or whether you would spit in his mouth. 

But you didn’t need to wrack your pretty brain over it any time soon.

Because Gojo’s shaking his bleary head, “Hmm- guess you already have, though- heh.” Partially-closed eyes locked onto your agape cunt every time you’re suckin’ his tongue in- and it’s only then that you realize he’s talking to your pussy. 

Letting your pussy spit out wads of juices that slip n’ slide down his throat, that get fucked back in by his relentless mouth.

Your hands grip the couch, “S-stop teasing– please, m’so close.”

“And then finally—” The tender edges of his fingers scrape your sweet spots in that strangely swooping motion that makes your toes curl restlessly. Dragging it oooon with his lilted bass, “-spell this out, my star?”

Your thighs twitch, the semicircles he’s drawin’ on your g-spot taking the formation of an ‘S’. Then an ‘A’-

“Sa-sa-”

“You got it. You got it, sweetheart.”

With the probin’ deepness of his fingers, he’s flicking his fingertips until your vision flashes white. ‘T’, your favorite dragged-out ‘O’ that makes his pierced tongue swoop in tiny circles, too. “Sato-” 

You knew where this was going. Faster. Harder.

You knew, and yet, you’re still letting him finish off a soppy ‘R’ and ‘U’ - branded in big capital letters from the gooey, heated insides of your pussy until you’re finishing off, too. “Satoru- Satoru. M’cumming, oh fuck, m’cumming…ngh.”

With a slight, stiled sob, you’re being run over by your high - just in time for Gojo to twist the orbed piercing on his tongue over in a S-A-T-O-R-U as well. Sloppily salivating down the sides of your slit, your thighs trickle with every ounce of sap you’re spraying out. 

Whimpering, deep into the cavern of his mouth- “Sh-shit-” Gojo’s hissing in that airy tone of his, feeling hot wetness seeping into his pants the very second you’re cumming - he is, too. 

And yet, the only thing he can think about is dragging out your high. 

To strike the bruised n’ battered areas of your walls until your thighs are shaking with every peak of your orgasm, mouth slobbering everywhere and anywhere.

From the pearly spatters of slick sheening your legs, to the pulsing top of your clit. Fucking and fucking your quivering entrance until your body feels all raw and sizzling. Every thrust of his fat, velvety tongue makes your pupils whirl stupidly in the whites of your eyes. “Sh-shit- nghhh- shit.”

And it takes him such a long time to let go of you - especially when he’s this drunk on your pussy. 

Pulling back with a final push of his piercing on top of your clit, and the loudest squeeelch—!

“H-heheh.” Gojo whispers against your pussy and you mewl, falling onto your elbows over the cushions of the sofa. 

Wearily, you look over your shoulder to take a good, solid look at him - only to feel your heart stutter at the utter grin on his face. Dopey. Glittered with slick. It beads down your best friend’s sharp jawline as he speaks, “Replaced my lipgloss- heh.” He cocks his head to the side, sapphire eyes fluttering priggishly. “Did I ever tell you that was my first time? Been savin’ myself for you, my star…”

Your mouth drops open at his words.

Oh.

Oh.

You weren’t making it out of this alive. 

Within a few bats of your teary lashes, Gojo has you pushed onto your back on top of the springy cushions. His towering form hovering over you-

Pinkish tongue snagging at the end of one glistening lip, “You should know…I’ve never done this before either.” He shivers, top layers shrugged off into a pile, golden clasps of his pants unbuttoned—pop! pop! pop!

With your stringy panties pulled out of his trousers, n’ the rest pushed down until he’d sexily bare in front of you. You can’t tear your widened eyes away as Gojo wraps your underwear ‘round his thick, bulging cock and jerks.

And fuck- did it make your mouth water.

Oh, fuck.

Because Gojo was just so big - in every sense.

From the width of his towering shoulders, all chiseled with bouncy pecs. To the way he was so ripped with lean muscle that you couldn’t stop imagining how it’d feel to have them pressed down against you. 

A feverish blush drifts down the back of his neck, alllll the way down between his pale happy trail. And right up to the fat, pinkened globe of his cock - all heavy and long. So, so long that it had your thighs squeezing in both fear and anticipation. 

You breathe, “Y-you’re so…”

Gojo gnaws down on his bottom lip with a moan, “Mm- yeah, tell me, sweetheart.” Vein-covered fist flying up and down his shaft, the rub of your panties was just so delicious that he’s splurging out a thick wad of precum straight down your slit. “Tell me- tell me.”

“So big.” You’re wondering where he even hid something like that.

Making such a mess. 

And he’s made a mess before too - cumming in his pants just from eating you out. So your cunt was being soaked with a few wires of his ivory sap. 

Being pushed in the very second Gojo slouches over your body and slaps his thick mushroom tip between your pussylips. Rutting his sloppy hips without even realizing-

“You don’t think it’s weird, my star?” Head hunched, white bangs covering his eyesight. The tone in his voice is thick with something primal, “How I was- haaaah-” And so was his cadence, sandwiching between your soppy folds back n’ forth back n’ forth. “-fisting my cock to the thought of my ngh- pretty lil’ best friend for yeeeears?”

Dragging it out. 

Just aaaaaching with a particularly sensual slide of his vein-covered shaft down your cunt, “Just aaaaching.” The knobbled top of his length slips against your oversaturated pussy and plugs up your hole. Hitting it with a damp plop! “For one taste- for anything.”

Your hands claw up to the tufts of his soft hair, pulling and it makes his cock twitch. “Want it in. Please, Satoru?” 

“A-are you sure I- hah-” And fuck- his eyes gape as he looks down between your cute, shivering legs. Marvelling at the sheer size difference between the plump girth of his cockhead, and your tight hole. “If it’s too much, I can just put the tip- oh, fuck.”

But you were impatient, and you’re wrapping your legs ‘round his toned waist to tug him closer. Deeper. Inside. 

To feel the tender underside of his length scrape your walls, each n’ every zig-zagged vein snaking inside your cunt. Gojo was just so big that your vision flashes black and white with just a few inches stuffed-

“I take it back.” He gasps. He heaves - pants so labored that it was like he’d given up on catching his breath. Trying to hold his head up - failing. 

“Take- oh, you’re so big- take what back?”

And the only thing Gojo can do is grab both sides of your waist and use the lecherous leverage to pull and pull you further down his rock-hard shaft. Straining out, his thumb cranes over to push inside a gluey wad of cum. “I t-taaake it back. Just the tip- n-never-” Just one singular taste of your sopping wet pussy on his cock and his voice cracks. “-never gonna be just the tip, my star.”

He’s so untouched, biting down furiously on his lower lip. 

Biting down furiously on your sodden panties just as soon as he remembers they’re still in his hands, muffling every whimpering wail that threatens to leave his maw. 

“Ngh- ngh- what the f-fuck.” Gojo’s ripping from the back of his throat, head falling backwards to bare his attractive throat as he slips deeper in. Fighting against that snug resistance with a few good half-thrusts, not even able to pull out properly. To even move. “It can feel this good?” 

And through your half-closed eyes you’re making out the fact that he’s pinching himself with a free hand. “Or m’I just in heaven?”

You feel his big, bulbous tip swab near your g-spot and start to mewl- “Mmm– and what if you are?”

“Don’t even wanna know if s’real.” Strings of saliva stick to Gojo’s lips as he babbles, still lathered in a layer of your pussy juices from before. And his mouth only waters even more when he’s feeling your hot insides clench around him, “Don’t need to know anything else- ngh.”

Every syllable is punctuated by an almost vulgar rut. 

You’re screaming as he’s bullying his slimy, pre-glazed tip inside. Letting the rotund crown of his cock pry apart your cute walls, harder. Deeper. 

Gojo smears your pussylips further open with one of his thumbs, letting just the top part of his digit fit into your entrance. Just so that he can fit his cock in fully. 

“P-please fit.” Muttering underneath his breath, teeth clenching tight on your panties. Looking up at you ferally through his lashes, “Please- please, didn’t wait s-so fucking long for you not to take it, my star. For this pretty pussy to be left unsatisfied.”

Your nails dig into his back, “Fuck- please- oh my god.”

“It has to fit-” 

“Will it?”

“Yes- yes, you’re gonna take it alll, my girl.”Fucking you furiously, sloppily. No rhythm or rhyme - or even sanity in each of his jagged strikes aiming for the very bottom of your pussy, “Has to it has to it- fuck! It has to-”

And when it does - when it finally, finally does - Gojo Satoru is left gaping, your underwear now dropping from his mouth and cleanly onto the floor. Speechless. 

Shit, if he hadn’t cum just minutes prior then he’d be creaming himself all over again.

Blinking once, twice down wordlessly at the sultry vision of your bloated pussylips kissin’ his pelvis. Bottomed-out until his cock was swallowed all the way up until those tufts of white at his base-

And then it all happens at once.

In a singular split-second, Gojo has your legs thrown over his shoulder, your knees pushed all the way down to your tits. Striking your spongy cervix with a dull thud of his weepy cocktip, before he’s reeling out halfway and doing it all over again.

And again.

And again and again and again-

You’re just shrilling– “Toru- hck!” Feeling your weary throat clog up with so many sobs n’ whines every time his globular head was piercing your cunt, pushin’ all the way into your womb. “Toru Toru Toru-”

“M’on vocal rest after this, y’know?” He blurts, seemingly out-of-the-blue. 

That is, until Gojo stares down at you with such a heady grin, leaned down just close enough that his hot respiration wafts the shell of your ear. And his tongue lurches out to lick up the drooling spittle leaking from each side of your mouth, “So you hafta scream twice as loud f’me, my star.”

Slamming the lines of his chiseled hips against yours, Gojo’s shaft was oh-so-veiny enough that you’re feeling your mind melt at the constant massage of your g-spot. “Like that- nghhh please-”

“Like- like this?” And it’s so difficult to remember that this was still Gojo’s first time– especially when he roams a palm over your tummy to feel for a particular bulging outline and press.

Carnally caressing the cylindrical bump that he was pounding into you, branding the fatness of his length right against your girth. “Shit- you really took it all.” He’s in awe at the feeling of his rotund cockhead pokin’ your very womb, “You wanna be fucked like hngh- this, don’t you? Want it hard? Fast?”

He was speaking utter filth, but his cadence was even filthier. 

Shivering hand pushing down on your stomach, the other slithering between your sheeny legs to toy with your neglected clit. 

“Your legs are shivering, my star- m’in trouble.” He arches his sculpted back to pick up the ruthless pace, throbbing cock stirrin’ within you to bash constantly straight into your g-spot. “S-sooooo much trouble.”

“More- ngh! Satoru, more-” You’re crying out through wobbly lips, “Want it even harder.”

“Fuck-” Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s doughy fingertips speedily smack your slope. Making your legs grow all numb, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- then ngh- yeah, open those pretty legs and take this fat fucking cock-”

With a few more strokes he’s holding onto your throat, pinning you down so that Gojo can scratch the rough texture of his happy trail down your clit until you cry. “This fat- haaah- fuckin’- cock-”

You’re so dumbified by the size and sheer pleasure that you can only repeat after him, stupidly. “Fat- ngh- fuckin’...”

A velvety tongue drags over your salty beads of tears, “Atta girl—” Grindin’ the circumference of his thick cock against your g-spot, Gojo’s biting down on your earlobe just to hear the way you sing. “Louder.” The dangly metal of his earrings are frosty against your own clammy face, sensual. “Louder- let them hear, let them know.”

Uncertainly, your eyes drift over to where the door of the dressing room was innocently positioned. Notably closed. Notably locked.

But your moans were reaching a fever point at the rough bludgeons of Gojo’s cock, the way he was swervin’ his hips juuuust right to snag your sweetest spots. 

All those years of dancing helped him expertly target long glides down your g-spot. Leaving a trail of wet mucus from that particular bundle of nerves, n’ straight down-down-dooown to your cute cervix. “Let them all see-”

“S-see?” You’re gasping out in disbelief. 

With what almost sounds to you like a growl, “Mhm- yeah, fuck!” Gojo spanks his hips hard enough against yours that the impact leaves his v-line reddening, the papping sound echoing within the dressing room. “You think I wouldn’t fuck you in front of every nosy lil’ camera out there?”

You don’t even know what to say - what to do.

The only thing your pathetic body is capable of doing is gyratin’ back down to meet his tempo. Letting your limp legs tighten over his shoulders, “Y-you would?”

“Oh, my sweetheart—” Gojo’s crooning, snowy brows scrunching together. Giving your treacly cunt yet another hard jackhammer, “If this pussy wasn’t mine and mine alone, then that door wouldn’t even be- hah- locked right now.”

And he was drilling into you like he meant it - like he was furious with himself for holding out this long on the heaven of your sweet, sweet pussy.

Wailing, your eyes crossing at the sheer pleasure.

Now that he’d slurped up one sip, he was eager for the next- and before you know it, the blindfold that’d been dangling on your thigh was suddenly coiling ‘round your ankles. “You’re not getting out of this- oh.” Gojo’s beefy biceps flex as he’s tying your legs behind his neck, all for him to pull back on—“Gonna- gonna fill you up so we hafta be- ngh- prepared.”

Your salivatin’ chin hits the front of your chest and you whine, “Please- please make me cum, mm-”

“Yeah? Gonna make you cum- hah-” Gojo’s mouth hangs ajar, blush so rosy. He feels your goopy walls tighten on reflex and that makes his hardened cock twitch, “Then- then m’gonna fuck you through that.”

Strike after strike. 

His swollen lips lean down to suckle on one of your fingers - your left hand’s ring finger, to be precise. “Then m’gonna put a ngh- ring on it. Gonna- gonna I swear-”

Push after push.

“Toru—” Your tits jut up as you’re bowing your back off of the drenched sofa, “-not gonna- gonna- fuck!”

You don’t even have the privilege of letting that sentence finish before your orgasm takes you over, thrumming white-hot zaps of pleasure through your veins. Your teeth set on edge at how utterly good it feels to have Gojo’s fattened cock swabbing your tight hole through every peak, “Oh my god- oh my- fuuuuuck, there’s jus’ so much, Toru.”

Toes curled, mouth unfastened.

Pinching your clit until you’re squeeealing- “So- so much.” He’s echoing in a whisper, crushing you tight to him once Gojo’s finishing off, too. 

Abs plastered against your front until you memorize each ridge, his pecs smooth n’ plump against your tits. Your best friend just looked so pretty with his pearly whites grit in a snarl, brows knitted as he’s pumping you with cum until you overspilled. 

With thick, seedy knots of cum that blanketed your pussy - his pointed cockhead nudges every droplet inside until you can feel your walls stretch with the utter size. 

Thighs shaking with your release, his mess sploshing around inside of you. Your vision was still completely hazy- “Fuck- fuck, Satoru.”

And it’s like the sound of his name plummeting from your mouth sends shockwaves down his spine.

Because Gojo’s staring at you - mushroomy tip still leaky, still slidin’ through the sappy puddle he’s formulating at your cervix. For a good few seconds, maybe even minutes until he’s chuckling–“God, they could see right through me. Everyone could.”

More to himself.

Although those next words were entirely for you. 

“I love you.” Gojo’s pale lashes flutter, almost shyly, and you’re speechless at the fact that he was still fucking you. In slow, aching grinds that have him fucking his cum deeper n’ deeper inside you. “I’ve always loved you, my star.”

Your heart quivers, and you can’t help but reach a hand out to run through the sweaty valleys of his locks. Smile dazzling - something he could write songs, ballads, sonnets about some day. But for now it only makes his azure eyes wet, “And I love you, my Toru.”

Something weeps out of Gojo that sounds like a husky, drawn-out groan— and you can feel his thick tip twitch inside of you with a few more beaded dollops of seed.

Cumming for the nth time tonight until all his heavy balls could let out was misty white, just from hearing that you loved him back.

And for once it’s silence.

Calm, warm silence— that is, until Gojo’s pulling his ravaged, red cock just far enough that your cunt lets off the soppiest wet sluuuurp! 

You’re gasping, still feeling the rush of your high make your head whirl. Thighs clenching around his broad deltoids automatically, “Satoru- wh-what are you-”

“Oh, well…” Long, pale hands reach for the pile of fabric on the floor - your boyfriend’s pants. And Gojo has the sleaziest grin on his face as he’s digging his fingers into the depths of his pockets, promptly pulling out a lengthy line of condom foils. One he’d packed just in case, just for you.

You’re mentally counting about twenty before he’s letting his proud stack drop right down to your front. “You didn’t think we were done, right, my sweetheart?”

Oh, fuck.

Neither of you are making it out of this alive.

.

.

.

“There’s the wall of perfume, my books- especially songwriting books. And these clothes and, yeah, that’s really it for my room…” Gojo kicks away the pile of his Digimon socks on the ground with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. 

Something he was sure the cameraman intruding his dorm room would capture, and yet still edit to make something cute out of it anyway. 

Ah- such was the life of an ever-popular idol.

And here he was, up bright and early in the morning to let some variety show stomp all through the Six Eyes’ penthouse as a sort of ‘house tour.’ Well, sure he knew that this was bound to be a hit with the fans that probed into his life, but was it really necessary to not even give the man a heads-up?

Plastering on his most polished smile, he nods politely as the camera records a few more details. The hosts cooing over each little thing - all those fan letters he kept, a pretty crayon drawing of a blue star from years ago, and the-

“Eh?”

“Eh?”

“Eh?” Geto’s poking his head in, grin already plastered just in case there was to be some sort of chaos upheaved in Gojo’s room. And why wouldn’t there be?

Gojo’s following both hosts’ lines of vision, all the way down to his bed, “Eh?” Was it not made properly? Was it an offense to have sheets of his own boyband at this day and his age? Or was- “Oh.”

And then Gojo sees it - that. 

The familiar, gauzy fabric of your panties that he’d stolen all those nights ago. Hidden neatly underneath the puff of his pillows - well, almost hidden.

Because obviously it was exceptionally still in the bedroom right now- fuck, even Geto had gone quiet from his station near the door, realizing what it was. Attracting the attention of two very curious other members that were currently fighting to get a glimpse-

One of the hosts clears her throat, “Um- Mister Gojo, is that…” Eyes dazzling at the possibility of a scoop this big - all in their almost-family-friendly home-touring show. “Is it possible there’s a lady in your life the fans and world may want to know about? Is this that very same best friend everyone says you pine over?”

And the other host cackles, “Well, they certainly don’t seem to be your size, boy. And ones so skimpy- oho, kids these days.” 

Unabashedly pushing a mic into his face, “Anything to say for yourself?”

“Ah-” Gojo coughs out, jumping once the cameraman immediately swivels his lens towards him for his response. “Aha, well- you see-”

Gojo looks at Geto.

“…”

At Haibara.

“…”

At Nanami.

“…Fucking idiot.”

And finally at the camera itself- “Cut the cameras. Deadass.”

Yaga might have bribed the network to never air that particular episode, and Dispatch might have done their best to leak it, anyway.

Right along with a few grainy paparazzi shots of figures that looked undeniably like you two. Hand-in-hand, suspicious blemishes on both your necks, wandering down the sidewalks of Han River. 

And if Yaga was having a tough PR day with just that then it would’ve been too merciful of the universe. Because how could you discount the fact that Gojo Satoru, notorious dodger of paparazzi questions, had proudly held up your joined hands and exclaimed at a few buzzing reporters—“Fuck yeah- my girlfriend now, suckers!”

No resignation letter would ever be enough.

@sunflowerboy: let it be known that I always believed in Gojo-san!!

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: we bow before you great sunflowerboy (the only one to believe in toru’s loser rizz)

@torutoaster: i luv how #go(jo)outthefriendzone is trending worldwide- LOSER RIZZ ALWAYS WINS 

@fiendingforsixeyes: HE DID IT?? MY BOY ACTUALLY DID IT??

@mahitoe: tch whatever

@zbstan replying to @mahitoe: womp womp

@sunflowerboy replying to @mahitoe: LMFAOOOO SUCK IT YOU LOSER HATER FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK-

@eathaibara replying to @sunflowerboy: omg sunflowerboy??

@sunflowerboy replying to @eathaibara: sorry got a little excited^^

@sugu-rizzed: I just know pr is SCRAMBLING rn but not as much as my boy scrambled to get that cookie.

@satorusxkitten: bi panic is wanting both of them!!

@ge.akuge: idk what she sees in him it must be the wigs

@CandyKento: the ‘my star’, isacs, the awards speech, the PANTIES?? gojo satoru it was always meant to be idk what to tell ya. now get married

@Fushidaddy107: I still think she’d be better with me smh.

@officialgojosatoru replying to @Fushidaddy107: Blocked.

A/N. This was SOOO self-indulgent omg- ALSO DADDY TONY’S BAAAACK!!

Plagiarism not authorized.

[cod-bin]

obsessively domestic simon headcanons

-he sleeps better when you’re touching. doesn’t matter how—your ankle resting on his, your fingers tangled, your whole body draped over him like a blanket—if you’re not touching, he won’t sleep. just lies there, blinking into the dark.

-he never says “i love you” the same way twice. sometimes it’s “text me when you get home.” sometimes it’s “eat something.” sometimes it’s him holding your wrist a little too tight before he lets you walk away.

-every time you wear his hoodie, he watches you like it’s the first time. like he forgot how good it looks on you. he doesn’t say anything. just tilts his head a little. maybe bites the inside of his cheek.

-he always smells like smoke, metal, and your shampoo. he uses it when you’re not looking. swears he doesn’t. but his side of the pillow always smells like you. it’s better than that shitty 7-in-1 anyways.

-he’s terrifyingly quiet when he’s angry. except with you. with you, he talks. not loud. but honest. “that scared the hell out of me.” “don’t do that again.” “i can’t lose you.”

-he doesn’t take pictures, but he has so many of you. little ones. secret ones. blurry and off-center. your hand on his thigh. your silhouette in the kitchen. your laugh mid-bite. he looks at them when he misses home.

-sometimes he just stares at you mid—conversation, like he forgot everything you were saying because your face is doing something soft. like smiling, or existing.

-when you’re sick, he’s unbearable. no one else can take care of you right. he brings you water, meds, hot tea, his hoodie, five blankets, a knife, and a death glare for anyone who even breathes near you.

-he gets shy after sex. not during—he’s dangerous during—but after, when you’re in his arms and breathing hard, he gets quiet. almost sweet. brushing hair from your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

-he doesn’t say “forever.” but when he fixes the cabinet in your bathroom without asking? when he memorizes your coffee order? when he adds your birthdate to every form he fills out? that’s him saying it.

I LOVE WRITING THESE

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[whenstarsundress]

you flirt back for the first time:

sylus

you say something like, “you keep looking at me like that, sylus… you’re gonna have to do something about it,” with a shy little smile.

he completely malfunctions. his eyes grow wide, he swallows hard, his heart visibly skipping a beat.

sylus stares at you like he’s trying to determine if you’re possessed. then, quietly, with his voice a little huskier than usual, “that’s new.”

he recovers fast, though. steps closer and gently brushes your hair behind your ear. “is this your way of telling me you want me to kiss you? because i’m listening.”

bonus:

… sylus.exe has crashed.

his lips part and his eyes darken. he stares for a moment, like he’s trying to decide between kissing you soft or ruining your life. eventually, he just breathes, “say that again. i dare you.”

zayne

you casually murmur, “if you’re gonna keep biting your lip like that, at least let me do it for you,” while scrolling your phone.

dead silent. zayne stops breathing. his jaw flexes, his pupils dilate.

“…excuse me?” his voice drops an octave and he looks at you like you just kicked open the doors to a side of you he definitely wants to explore.

he walks over real slow, tilts your chin up and says, “say that again. no, no—i need it word for word, baby. because if i heard what i think i heard…”

bonus:

zayne chokes on air. his head snaps around so fast, his whole brain reboots. “wait. what? you never—?!” he chuckles lowly. “okay, okay. who are you and what did you do with my sweet, shy angel?”

caleb

you’re teasing him during one of his gym sessions and say, “keep showing off like that and i might have to reward you. privately.”

caleb drops the dumbbell. literal pause. he stares at you with wide eyes, mouth slightly open like a golden retriever who just got called a bad boy.

“wait. wait. wait, back up. say that again?” he starts laughing, but it’s nervous, like he doesn’t know how to process it.

he immediately gets 10x more flirty and tries to re-assert dominance with a grin. “okay, but only if you’re the reward too.”

bonus:

his jaw clenches, breath catches and you can feel the tension shift. like something in him just snapped. he leans back, clears his throat and gives a tiny smirk. “you’re playing with fire, and i’m not the type to pull away when i get burned.”

xavier

you’re both deep into a high-risk deepspace operation. he’s focused, assessing potential threats, guns calibrated, his hud flickering with tactical readouts. you, cool as ever, lean in behind him and murmur through the comms. “you look sexy when you’re in control like this. makes me want to follow your every order… after hours.”

immediate system crash. xavier stops walking, literally halts mid-movement in zero gravity like his whole code just corrupted.

“…repeat that,” he says into the comm, voice a little rough, a lot lower than usual. he doesn’t turn to face you. he’s trying to regain composure while actively calculating threat levels.

he doesn’t miss a beat on the mission afterward, but the tight grip on his weapon and the way he refuses to look at you say everything: you broke him.

bonus:

he stammers, short-circuits, then just covers his face and laughs into his hands quietly. “okay. that’s unfair. you can’t just… out-flirt me like that.”

rafayel

you’re watching him get dressed and casually comment, “if you’re going to tease me with that shirt unbuttoned, the least you can do is let me take it off for you.”

rafayel blinks, twice. “what did you just say?” not offended, not teasing. he’s actually stunned.

a slow, devilish smile starts to curl on his lips as he puts down whatever he was holding. he steps toward you and murmurs, “are you seducing me? because i have to warn you… i’m very easy to seduce.”

bonus:

rafayel freezes. for one glorious second there’s silence. then he smiles a bit mischievously. “oh? okay, i see you. someone’s been hiding from me the whole time.” he never lets it go, but he wants more of your flirty side. “you gonna flirt like that again, or was i just blessed once?”

author’s note: sometimes i can’t decide in which direction i want to go with a headcanon, so, i went with a little bonus 😊

[heejamas]

MANCHILD

➢ pairing: cowboy!jake x fem!reader … ﹒cowboy au, strangers to lovers, smut \\ ➢ synopsis: you’re trouble, and jake sim knows it. you flirt like it’s your job, wear sin like perfume, and make men beg without even trying. he’s the only cowboy who doesn’t chase you. so naturally, he’s the only one you want. a small-town, slow-burn, filthy little game of who breaks first. ➢ word count: 9.5k

➢ warnings: smut!! minors dni. oral sex (f and m receiveing), unprotected sex (dont do it!!), public-ish sex, dirty talk, possessive!jake, softdom!jake, bratty!reader, spanking, cum eating, praise and degradation, cowboy kink™, jake is a menace but so are you, yeehaw but make it slutty

you’re wiping down the counter when you say it, voice low and lazy, like it’s just another tuesday night and not the kind of sentence that rearranges a man’s brain chemistry.

“i like my boys playing hard to get.”

you don’t mean it to land anywhere in particular. you’re just talking, tossing it out there between gossip, your voice sweet, meant only for the girl beside you. so she laughs, nudges you with her hip. “you mean the ones who ghost you after three days?”

“no,” you sigh, stretching like a cat behind the bar. “i mean the ones who pretend they don’t care. the ones too proud to beg. makes it more fun when they do.”

you say it like it’s a joke, but you mean every word. and across the room, jake sim hears you.

he hadn’t meant to. hadn’t even realized he was eavesdropping until the words tangled around him. he’s not the type to pay attention to chatter. he’s been coming to this place for years, knows how to tune out the flirting and the country drawls and the clink of empty glasses. but your voice is different. and he’s seen you around, of course. everyone has.

you’re the kind of girl people build myths around. the kind they write country songs about, because you have a laugh that could ruin a man. and every guy in town’s tried his luck. most ended up a little poorer, a little dumber, and twice as obsessed. and you never even blinked.

so when you breeze past his table, tray balanced on your palm, perfume trailing like a challenge, jake doesn’t move. doesn’t shift, doesn’t look up from his drink. not obviously, at least. he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. and you notice. oh, you notice. because you’re used to stares, to whistles and clumsy compliments and boys who fall over themselves to hand you things you never asked for. you’re used to the way they sit up straighter when you walk by, the way their words fumble out of their mouths like dropped coins.

but this one? this one just sits there. quiet and unmoved.

you catch him watching only once, just once, when you lean forward to grab a bottle from the bottom shelf, and when your eyes flick up, his are already somewhere else. not pretending, not faking it, just gone. and it pisses you off more than it should.

you don’t say anything. you just toss your hair over your shoulder and smile at the other girl again, louder this time. “i like my men all incompetent,” you declare, tucking a dollar into your apron, “and i swear they choose me, i’m not choosing them.”

jake lifts his beer to his lips, slow. doesn’t smile. doesn’t even smirk. and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel in control of the game. you hate that, but you also love that.

but you definitely hate rodeos.

too loud and sweaty. too many men with too little brain and too much cologne. it’s just the same loop every time—horses, hats, hollering, and someone calling you “sweet cheeks” like that’s supposed to make you blush instead of gag. normally, you stay far away. but tonight’s different. because you heard jake sim was riding.

so you show up. late, of course, on purpose. your boots crunch over dirt and beer cans as you make your way through the crowd, hips swinging just enough to remind everyone you don’t walk, you arrive. every man you pass straightens his spine like you might look at him if he behaves, and every woman rolls her eyes in that half-jealous way they always do.

but you don’t care. you’re not here for them. you’re here for the man on the horse.

and when you spot him, out in the pen, one hand gripping the reins, the other resting light against his thigh, you feel that slow, low flutter in your stomach that tastes a little like trouble. because he’s wearing that stupid hat again, the same beat-up one that sits just low enough to make his eyes a mystery and his mouth a promise. his shirt’s rolled up to the elbows, collar unbuttoned, forearms dusted with dirt and sin. he looks like sin. he rides like sin.

you lean against the fence, pop a piece of gum into your mouth, and pretend you’re not watching. but you are, everyone is. but he doesn’t look into the crowd, not once. he doesn’t wave, doesn’t show off, doesn’t even smile. he just focuses—on the gate, on the bull, on the seconds ticking down before the chaos. there’s something precise about it, almost like he’s not here to perform, just to win.

and you hate how hot that is.

when the gate finally opens and he bursts out, body moving like he’s part of the beast beneath him, the whole crowd goes wild. people scream, hats fly, beer spills. but you just chew your gum and watch. he holds on longer than anyone else that night. and when he lands, smooth and sharp and smug, your stomach does a traitorous little flip.

he still doesn’t look at you. not even when he walks past, later, towel slung over his shoulder, shirt sticking to his back, sweat dripping down his neck like something out of a country girl’s fantasy.

you’re standing by the concession stand now, pretending to look at overpriced chili fries when he walks right past you again. and for the first time, maybe in ever, you don’t know what to do with that. because everyone looks at you. everyone wants something from you.

but jake sim? jake sim doesn’t even blink.

you pop your gum again, louder than necessary. he still doesn’t turn. bastard. so you lick your lips, tilt your head, and mutter just loud enough for the girl next to you to hear—just loud enough for him to maybe hear, too— “god, i hate cowboys.”

except you don’t. you really, really don’t.

so you decide to wear red on saturday. not a soft red. not a muted, tasteful, wine-country red. no, this is bright, dangerous, stop-sign red. the kind that glitters when you walk and blasphemes when you bend. you slip it on slow, knowing exactly what it does to your body and your ego. it’s the kind of dress that starts fights and finishes them.

you don’t wear it for him, not technically. but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t check your lipstick twice before heading to the bar, or if you hadn’t spent a good three minutes wondering if jake sim was the type of man who noticed sequins.

(it turns out—he isn’t.)

he’s already there when you walk in, sitting in his usual corner like a piece of furniture carved from patience and denim. same hat, same shirt, same maddeningly blank expression. he doesn’t flinch when you walk by. doesn’t scan your legs like every other man. doesn’t lean over to whisper something to his friend and then laugh too loud. he just looks. once. and then looks away.

you could scream. instead, you smile. you spend the next hour putting on a show—not for him, of course, never that. just for… the atmosphere. you take extra time leaning over the bar. you laugh a little louder, let your fingers trail longer. you flirt, you twirl, you dance like you’re made of sugar and smoke.

and he just sits there. solid. steady and stoic in the face of sin.

when the jukebox shifts to something slow and sweaty, your friend pulls you out from behind the bar and spins you onto the floor. you go willingly, you always do. you dance with her, and then with some other guy, who’s a terrible flirt but a decent dancer. you laugh as you move, hips swaying, hands up, hair stuck to your neck. people cheer, whistles echo. someone shouts your name.

and still, jake sim doesn’t look. he sits there, beer untouched, fingers drumming slowly against the table. his eyes are on the wall, or the floor, or nowhere at all. you want to throw a chair at him. instead, you press your body just a little closer, let your head tip back, your laughter bubble out like champagne. 

and for half a second, just half, you swear you can feel his gaze. but by the time you glance over, it’s gone.

you finish the dance anyway, cheeks flushed from effort or ego or something worse, and when you walk past jake’s table again, you pause. just enough. he still doesn’t say anything. but his knuckles are white around the bottle, and that’s something.

and ​​you’re not much of a smoker, not really. it’s more about the image. the ritual of it—door swinging shut behind you, the hum of the saloon dulling into background noise, a lighter flicked slowly. you like the weight of the cigarette between your fingers, the way it makes your mouth look meaner. you especially like the way people look at you when you do it.

on sunday, though, the sidewalk is mostly empty. the neon sign above the door buzzes like it’s dying, and your heels click against the pavement. you’re alone, almost. because he’s there. leaning against his truck—of course it’s a truck, stupid and long and matte black— arms crossed, hat low, chewing on a toothpick like he was placed there by god.

you try not to look. but of course you fail.

“you always stand like that,” you say, taking a drag and blowing smoke sideways, “or is this a special occasion?”

he doesn’t turn, god, he doesn’t even smile. “like what?” he asks, voice low and scratchy, like he only uses it when necessary.

you flick ash toward the gravel and shift your weight, one hip out, just enough to suggest: i am here and i am wearing very little. so you say: “like you’re being painted,” you say. “by someone too obsessed with denim.”

that gets a reaction, barely—a twitch at the corner of his mouth. nothing close to a smile, but you count it anyway. “you don’t like denim?” he asks.

“i like it just fine,” you say, letting your eyes travel up and down. “i just think it likes you a lot.”

he hums, quiet and unfazed. the toothpick shifts from one side of his mouth to the other with devastating nonchalance. “you always flirt like that?” he asks finally, and it’s almost cruel, the way he says it—like he’s calling you out without even looking at you.

you tilt your head. “like what?”

“like you’re bored.”

you take another drag, slower this time. it buys you a second. maybe two. “i’m not bored,” you say. “i’m offended.”

he finally looks at you then. really looks. not a glance, not a flick of the eyes, but a slow, full scan that starts at your boots and ends at your mouth. “offended?”

“yeah,” you say. “you’re the first man in town who hasn’t tried to get a shot with me.”

he raises an eyebrow. your breath hitches, and you curse yourself for it. because god damn it. he pushes off the truck, and he steps forward, just one step, just close enough for you to smell him. smoke and leather and desert heat. “that why you came out here?” he asks. “to collect another admirer?”

“no,” you say, a little too quickly. “i came out to smoke.”

he nods, glances at your cigarette. “you’re holding it backwards.”

you look down, you are. shit.

he walks past you then, amused and infuriatingly tall, back toward the saloon. and just before the door swings shut behind him, he tosses the toothpick into the dirt and says, without looking: “you’ll have better luck with someone who gives a damn, sweetheart.”

you stand there for a minute, blinking smoke out of your eyes, lips parted in disbelief, cigarette still backwards in your hand. you don’t know whether to chase him or marry him. probably both.

the annual summer festival happens a week later, and the whole town’s lost its damn mind. kids run wild, drunk uncles argue, and there’s a man singing country ballads off-key on the main.

and you look stunning, obviously.  short dress, boots too clean to be from here, a pair of sunglasses you don’t need but wear anyway. you walk through the crowd like you’re not sweating like everyone else. and your arm? it’s linked tightly through lee heeseung’s. the sheriff’s son. walking cologne bottle. he thinks calling women “sugar tits” is flirtation and not a felony. you smile like he’s the most charming thing this town’s ever coughed up. and across the lot, jake sees everything.

he’s standing near the fence, drink in hand, chewing on his pride. he looks like a warning sign, his arms crossed so tight his biceps look like they’re planning a mutiny. he doesn’t blink, he doesn’t even pretend not to be watching. you glance at him once, and once is enough.

you laugh louder. lean closer to heeseung, who’s talking about god-knows-what—his truck, his workout, his daddy’s badge—and you nod like you care. every move is calculated. every smile is a weapon. because you know exactly what you’re doing. so you excuse yourself after a while, muttering something about needing another drink, slipping away from heeseung before he can say something else that’ll make your ears bleed. you walk through the back, your boots clicking fast.

you’re halfway to the bar when you feel a heat at your back. 

“fun night?” his voice is behind you. dry and quiet. 

you don’t turn around right away. you let the moment hang. and then you say, “depends,” running a hand through your hair like it’s not dripping down your neck. “you havin’ fun watching?”

he steps in closer. you feel him before you see him, his chest just a breath away from your shoulder. “you always hang off men you don’t like?” he asks, voice low enough to make your knees consider collapsing.

you shrug. “what makes you think i don’t like him?”

“you’re bored. i know what you look like when you’re havin’ fun.”

you hate how that line makes your stomach twist. hate it more that he’s right. so you finally turn to face him, hands on your hips, head tilted with mock sweetness. “what, jealous?”

he laughs. it’s short and dark. “of lee heeseung?” he scoffs. “sweetheart, i’m jealous of his dog before i’m jealous of him.”

you bite your lip to hide the smile, and you fail. “then why are you here?” you ask, eyes locking onto his. 

he leans in, just enough to make you dizzy. his gaze dips—down your lips, down your throat, down your dress—and lingers there, shameless. he looks like he wants to say more. or do more. and you kind of wish he would. but instead, he straightens up, steps back, and lets the space between you fill with heat again.

“because, darling, next time you wanna get under someone’s skin,” he says, “maybe pick a man who ain’t wearin’ daddy’s badge.”

and just like that, he turns and walks off. no touch. not even a goddamn smirk. you’re left standing there, pulse racing, drink forgotten, mouth parted like a woman halfway to disaster.

you fan yourself with your hand, mutter to no one, “fuck my life.”

and over the next few weeks, jake sim makes a habit out of losing his mind quietly.

he tells himself he’s just thirsty. that’s the only reason he keeps showing up to the saloon. he tells himself that every night he parks that stupid truck in the same stupid spot and walks through the same door into the same bar where you’re working, and where you, lately, won’t even look at him.

and that’s what kills him. because you used to look. all big eyes and evil little smiles, like you were constantly cooking up something sinful and he was the poor bastard about to taste it.

but now? now you barely glance in his direction. you walk past him like he’s just another part of the furniture. take other tables. pour drinks with your back to him. laugh at other men’s jokes.

and jake watches silently. desperately. he tries not to, he really does. but his eyes betray him every time. they flick to you the second you walk by—legs bare, hair pulled back with a pen, lips glossed to hell. you smell like vanilla and cigarette smoke, and it’s infuriating how much he wants to bite that smell off your throat.

and the worst part is that he knows you’re doing it on purpose. because sometimes, just sometimes, he catches the way your mouth twitches when you pass his table. the way you shift your weight a little slower, lean over a little further when you’re grabbing something. and when he doesn’t look up—when he pretends not to notice—you bite your lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

you’re playing hard to get. which is adorable, really. but it works. fuck, it works.

jake sim, who’s spent most of his adult life being aggressively unbothered, now sits at this bar like a man possessed. he sips beer and imagines things he shouldn’t. he watches your mouth wrap around straws and thinks about how it’d look wrapped around something else entirely. he stares at your hands pouring drinks and thinks about them fisting in his shirt, pressed against his belt, sliding down—

he coughs. shifts in his seat. takes another sip and pretends like he’s not half hard just because you leaned against the fridge five minutes ago.

he doesn’t talk to you. hasn’t, since the festival. because that would mean giving in. and if there’s one thing jake sim is worse at than feelings, it’s losing. but god, the way you walk? the way you smile at the wrong people? the way you drop the occasional “cowboy” into a sentence like it’s not meant to ruin him?

it’s almost sweet, the way you’re trying to get under his skin. but also: it’s working. and he thinks, not for the first time, that if you asked—if you looked at him a certain way—he’d let you wreck his entire life. you could tie him to the back of his own truck, spit on his mouth, call him useless in front of god and the sheriff, and he’d probably thank you. 

but you don’t look at him anymore. you just brush past him one more time, close enough for your skirt to kiss his knee, and say to no one in particular, real sweet: “why so sexy if so dumb?”

and jake swears to god he’s gonna start a bar fight just to calm down.

but the moment you step onto the dirt lot of the fairgrounds, sundress fluttering and sunglasses perched high on your nose, his brain short-circuits. ​​he sees you the second you walk in. he pretends not to, of course. jake sim has made an olympic sport out of pretending you don’t exist. but you’re here, again. and he’s fucked. 

he’s in the chute, adjusting his gloves, boots already caked in dust, chest strapped down tight like it might explode. he tells himself to focus on the ride, on the bull, on anything but the way your thighs are peeking out from under that goddamn dress.

you shouldn’t be here. he was hoping you’d show up, obviously, but now that you’re actually here, it feels like a setup. like god’s decided to make him fail in front of everyone and look good doing it. so he refuses to look directly at you. not while you’re standing near the fence, leaning against the railing like you’re modeling for the “ruin a man” calendar. not while you’re laughing at something some poor bastard just said, tossing your hair over your shoulder. and certainly not when you suck on that red snow cone.

he adjusts his hat lower. counts backward from ten. tries to remember how to breathe.

he’s still got it under control—mostly—until the moment he’s mounting the bull and glances toward the crowd just once. just a peek. and there you are, watching, with your lip between your teeth and a look that could sterilize holy water.

he slips. just a little. just enough for one boot to miss its mark and his hand to falter on the rope. no one notices. not really. but he does.

the ride still goes fine. better than fine, actually. he makes it the full eight seconds, lands smooth, wipes the sweat off his brow like he’s not a mess on the inside. like he didn’t almost fall off a 1,500-pound animal because you were licking syrup off your finger.

later, after the noise dies down, after the dust settles and the crowd starts dispersing into beer and music and gossip, you find him. he’s near the back of the stables, away from the noise. hat off, hair damp, shirt sticking to his back in places that make your hands twitch.

you lean against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted. he sees you coming. of course he does.

you don’t say anything right away. just look him over like you’re checking for bruises. “didn’t fall this time,” you say.

“not for lack of tryin’,” he mutters.

you raise an eyebrow. “the bull or me?”

he doesn’t answer. you take that as a win. so you step closer, slow. toe the dirt with your boot, pretend to be casual. but everything about you tonight is a performance, and he knows it. the cherry lip gloss. the dress with buttons that strain when you breathe. the way you keep shifting your weight like your thighs are begging for attention. you’re trying to get to him, and you are. but he’ll die before he admits it.

“you always ride that well,” you say, voice syrupy and cruel, “or was that just for me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darlin’.”

“too late,” you grin. “flattered myself the whole way here.”

he laughs at that, but he still doesn’t move. you take another step. now you’re in front of him, barely a breath of air between your bodies. the tension crackles, like something’s about to snap. he looks down at you, his jaw tight, eyes darker than usual. you could kiss him, you could push him. you could drop to your knees and he wouldn’t stop you. but he stays still. and you know what that means. he’s losing it. slowly and deliciously.

so you just smile, all teeth and trouble, and say: “you gonna say thank you for coming, or do i gotta leave and come back so you can do it right?”

he looks down at you and decides—fuck it. if this is a game, he’s gonna play. so his hand lifts. two fingers hook lazily in your belt in your dress, just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees forget how to behave. he doesn’t pull, doesn’t tug, just lets it sit there. you blink up at him like you weren’t expecting him to do this. because you weren't.

“thought you came to watch the ride,” he says, voice like gravel and heat. “didn’t know you were hopin’ to start one.”

you’re stunned for a second, flustered. but you recover fast. your hand comes up, trailing a single finger down the buttons of his shirt, slowly. and you giggle. you say nothing, you only giggle and smile. then you step back, leaving him standing there with nothing but the smell of your perfume and a growing problem in his jeans. he blinks once. twice. and you’re already gone.

a few days later, he sees you again at the gas station. you’re sitting on the hood of your car. your car is pink, of course it’s pink. girly in that deadly way. floral air freshener, fuzzy dice, a sparkly steering wheel cover and a bumper sticker that probably says something like “yee-haw, bitch.”

you’re licking a cherry lollipop. wearing the tiniest pair of shorts known to mankind and a tank top that does nothing to hide your agenda. your legs are crossed, one foot bouncing lazily in the air like you have nowhere to be and every intention of being stared at. and people are staring. two guys walk by, heads snapping so fast they nearly sprain something. an old man in a tractor cap gives a long, disapproving look that lasts until he crashes into a trash can.

you? you smile sweetly. wave. keep sucking on that lollipop like you’re not ruining lives. and jake watches from the far pump, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying so hard not to enjoy the sight of you doing exactly what you do best.

and then, just like you’ve sensed him from across the lot, you slide off the hood, sway your hips across the concrete, and approach him with the most dangerous sentence in your arsenal: “cowboy,” you say, “i think i got a flat.”

he raises an eyebrow. looks at your car. no flat. you grin like the liar you are. “could you check for me?” you ask, voice all syrup and fake innocence. “i’d do it myself, but—” you shrug, twisting a strand of hair around your finger. “i don’t wanna chip a nail.”

he stares at you and you stare back. he knows what this is. you want him on his knees. and god help him—he’s thinking about it.

“you sure?” he says, tone dry. “seems like you’re the type to pop a tire just to see what crawls out the woodwork.”

“you caught me,” you beam. 

he sighs, but he walks over anyway. you trail behind, delighted, watching him crouch down in front of your car, like he is your personal cowboy-themed thirst trap come to life. he’s in front of you, all strong hands and dirty jeans, touching your tires like it’s a performance.

you lean back against the hood. cross your legs the other way. suck louder on the lollipop, just to be mean. and jake knows the tire’s fine, he also knows he’s losing. and when he looks up—sweat on his brow, eyes half-lidded, gaze landing right between your crossed legs—you don’t say a word. you just smile and keep chewing. you got what you wanted: him on his knees.

and it happens on a thursday. the saloon’s half-full, sticky with the usual noise, and you’ve got a tray in one hand. you spot him before he sees you. or maybe he lets you think that. he’s sitting at the bar, same stool as always. sipping something dark with his hat tipped low and one leg stretched out like the floor belongs to him. he’s talking to someone, a girl you don’t recognize, leaning in just enough to make your stomach twist.

he’s smiling. he never smiles, at least not like that. and that’s when it hits you: he’s doing it on purpose.

your first instinct is to roll your eyes. your second is to walk over there and ruin both their nights. instead, you drop off your tray at the counter, smooth your skirt, and remind yourself that you’re not bothered. not even a little. so you circle around the bar, busy yourself with orders. chat with a guy in a cowboy hat, laugh too loud, lean too close. and eventually, you feel that static buzz that only comes from being watched.

you turn your head, and of course he’s looking. not just looking, jake is devouring. his eyes trail down your legs, up your hips, pause at your chest like he’s making a list of crimes he’d commit if the sheriff weren’t his boss’s daddy. and your heart stutters, your mouth dries. you take a step toward him before you even realize it.

but then he gets up and walks past you, doesn’t say a word. and you think, what the hell?

but then his hand brushes yours, just barely. like an accident that wasn’t an accident. you whip around to say something sharp, but he’s already halfway to the door. and you follow. you don’t mean to, really, but you do. you catch him near the back hallway, one hand braced against the wall, like he knew you’d come after him.

you open your mouth to say something clever, but he steps in real close. close enough that your back hits the wall and your knees almost collapse. “somethin’ wrong, darlin’?” he asks, voice all silk.

“what was that?” you hiss, trying not to stare at his mouth. “flirting with that girl like i wasn’t in the room?”

he smirks. smirks. “didn’t know i needed permission.”

you cross your arms. push your chest up just enough to be annoying. “you’re playing games.”

he shrugs. “so are you.” his hand lifts, not to touch you (the bastard’s too good for that), but to brush a piece of lint off your shoulder. “you looked a little jealous,” he murmurs, voice dipped in sin. “cute look on you.”

your pulse stutters, but you refuse to show it. “you’re gonna die alone,” you say, breathier than intended.

“probably,” he says. “but not before i ruin you first.”

you suck in a breath. his face is right there, close enough that if you leaned forward, you’d taste the whiskey on his lips. you think he might do it, you think maybe this is it. but he doesn’t kiss you. instead, he leans in slow, his breath hot against your cheek, then presses a kiss right there, soft and warm and maddening. the kind of kiss that doesn’t take anything but still leaves you ruined.

then he pulls back. smirking, so smug and infuriating. “goodnight, sweetheart,” he says. and then he walks away, like he didn’t just light a fire in your chest and leave it burning.

and there’s a party on the edge of town on that week—somebody’s cousin’s birthday or maybe just an excuse to drink next to a fire. there’s music blasting out of speakers in the back of a lifted truck, people doing shots, and you’re there, of course, making every poor bastard lose his mind just by existing.

you’re wearing denim shorts and a little white top that ties in the front, and jake sim wants to fight the concept of clothing for making something that looks that illegal.

he sees you before you see him. and he sees heeseung before you do. pretty boy with too-white teeth and too many opinions about his own biceps. he’s been in love with you since high school and never got the hint. but tonight, you’re letting him talk. you’re laughing, you’re standing close. and you don’t even have to look across the fire to know jake’s watching.

you toss your hair over your shoulder. heeseung says something about his new truck and how it “purrs like a mountain cat,” which isn’t a thing, but you smile anyway. you’re about to make some flirty comment just to push it further when a hand wraps around your arm.

not rough, not mean, just firm. you whip around and there he is. jake. his face is unreadable. calm, almost. but his grip says something else entirely.

you blink. “well, hey there, cowboy—”

“walk,” he says.

you try to act annoyed, dramatic. “what if i don’t feel like—”

“walk.”

so you do. he leads you away from the fire, away from the crowd, toward the gravel lot where his truck is. you expect him to say something, yell, maybe. accuse you of something dramatic and delicious. but instead, he spins you around and presses you up against the passenger door.

his hand is still on your arm. the other braces beside your head. his body doesn’t touch yours, not really, but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat off his skin and the tension coiled under it. you blink up at him, wide-eyed and fake-innocent. “is this how you treat all your women, cowboy? dragging them into parking lots and pinning them to cars?”

“no,” he says. “just the ones who know better.”

you gasp softly, it’s almost a laugh. “oh, so now you’re mad?”

he leans in, mouth inches from yours, eyes dark and hungry. “you wore that top on purpose.”

you smirk. “maybe i was hot.”

he looks down, pointedly. “you are. and you know what you’re doin’.”

“do i?”

he exhales sharp through his nose, like he’s trying not to combust. and when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “you really want him to touch you? that what you’re lookin’ for?”

you blink slow and wet your lips. “maybe i just want somebody who actually does it.”

the look on his face shifts just slightly. then he leans in. you think this time it’ll happen, finally, the kiss, the collapse. the moment the game ends. but instead, his lips graze your jaw, not your mouth. his hand dips low, fingers brushing the hem of your shorts like he’s thinking about it.

“you don’t want ‘somebody,’” he whispers. “you want me.” you’re not breathing. he pulls back again, just enough to leave you gasping in the space between what was almost and what still isn’t. “but you’ll have to beg, sweetheart,” he adds, smirking. “and i don’t think you’re ready to do that yet.”

he turns like he’s going to walk away again, like that’s the last word. like he didn’t just light a match and drop it between your legs. but this time, you don’t let him. your hand shoots out fast and grabs his belt loop. he pauses and stills, and slowly, turns his head back toward you.

“you think i won’t?” you ask, voice low and deadly sweet.

he looks down at your hand, still fisted in his jeans like a challenge. then his eyes flick back up to yours—dark, wild, curious. he steps closer, just one step. then another. until he’s right in front of you again, and this time there’s no space. no teasing, no gaps. just you, caught between a truck door and the worst mistake you want to make.

he leans in. both hands come to rest on either side of your head. caging you in and claiming the air between you. “careful now,” he murmurs, voice rough. “you’re not the only one who likes to play.”

and then his knee presses forward, between your legs. you gasp. it’s not subtle, not even a little. he fits it there, deliberate and slow, until your thighs part just enough to make room for the solid weight of him. his thigh is strong and warm. your breath catches and your fingers twitch where they’re tangled in his shirt.

he’s watching your face. watching your mouth, like he’s trying to memorize the exact second you lose composure. but you don’t, you smile. then, slow and wicked, you roll your hips just a little against his thigh—enough to make him grunt, low in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it. “you started it,” you say, feigning innocence. “don’t get shy now, cowboy.”

he exhales sharp. one of his hands drops and wraps tight around your waist, pulling you flush against him. your shorts ride up. the pressure of his thigh against you gets sharper, filthier, almost unbearable. “you think this is a joke?” he growls.

“no,” you breathe. “i think it’s foreplay.”

his hand tightens. he shifts his thigh just barely upward, grinding it between your legs, and you have to bite your lip to keep the sound in. he leans in, mouth ghosting over your ear. “i could make you come like this,” he says, voice like a sin you want to confess over and over. “right here, against my truck, with nothin’ but my thigh between your legs.”

you shiver, but you smile. “you talk a big game,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “but so far all you’ve done is flex in tight jeans and give me blue balls.”

he lets out a sharp laugh, dangerous. then his hands drop to your hips, grip possessive, and he rolls you against his thigh again. this time harder and filthier. like he wants to see how far you’ll let it go. your knees almost buckle. your head hits the truck window. but your hands are in his hair now, pulling, tugging, dragging his face closer.

and still he doesn’t kiss you. you pant, flushed and desperate and mad as hell. he just smirks. “look at you,” he says. “makin’ a mess on me and i haven’t even touched you proper.”

you glare at him and your lip curls in frustration. “maybe you’re scared.”

he arches a brow. “of what?”

“of me.” you press down hard against his thigh again—your move now, your game—and you feel him tense. feel him curse under his breath like you’ve just won a round he didn’t even know he was playing. you lean in and whisper against his mouth: “i could ruin you.”

he inhales sharp. you swear you hear him mutter fuck. but still, still he doesn’t kiss you. he pulls back, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile.

and then he steps away. leaves you there. aching and panting. blinking like you just came out of a trance. “one of these days, sweetheart,” he says, adjusting his belt like he needs a minute. “you’re gonna be the one beggin’.”

and then he climbs into the driver’s seat and drives away. you stare after him, thighs trembling, heart racing, and mutter:

“i’m gonna set his truck on fire.”

and jake sim spends the week trying not to think about you. which is stupid, because you’re everywhere. in his sheets, in his hands, in his mouth when he mutters fuck at two in the morning and fists his hair like it’ll shake you out of his head.

he sees you in the curve of a beer bottle. in the red of a stoplight. in the fucking grocery store, standing in front of a watermelon display like you invented sin.

he can’t focus. can’t sleep. can’t work. every time he bends over a fence or climbs into the truck, he hears your voice in his ear: i could ruin you. every time he closes his eyes, he sees your thighs wrapped around his fucking leg. he’s losing it. actually, clinically losing it.

and the worst part is that he let it happen. he swore he wouldn’t. told himself he wasn’t like the rest of them—the boys who lined up for your attention like fools in heat. he used to watch you tease and twist and toy with every man in town and laugh. not because he didn’t get it, because he did. but now he’s just another name on your list. and he hates it.

he’s a grown man. a cowboy, for christ’s sake. he should be immune to lip gloss and flirty banter and skirts short enough to send him to jail. but he’s not. and the worst part is that you know, you know what you’re doing. you know exactly how to stand, how to talk, how to glance up with that little tilt of your head like oops, did i break you again?

and he’s fucking gone. he’s a freak for it. a perv. he thinks about your mouth at church. he imagines your legs wrapped around his waist when he’s driving. he’s so far gone it’s pathetic.

so on thursday, when the thought of you cleaning up at the saloon alone hits him like a truck, he doesn’t fight it. he gets in the truck, drives like the devil’s chasing him. when he gets there, the bar is dark, empty. just the faint sound of clinking glasses and a broom dragging across the floor.

you’re behind the counter. sweaty and tired. loose hair falling around your face. still the hottest thing he’s ever fucking seen.

the door creaks open. you don’t look up. “we’re closed,” you call out, distracted.

then you lift your head, and you pause. your lips part. 

his boots hit the floor. he doesn’t say a word. just crosses the room in four heavy steps, reaches for your wrist, and pulls you in like he needs you to breathe. and then— he kisses you.

not sweet. not shy, not teasing. hot, open and filthy.

he groans when your mouth opens under his, when your fingers clutch his shirt like you’ve been waiting for this just as long. his hands are everywhere, your waist, jaw, the small of your back. he kisses like he’s mad about it, like this is a punishment.

your back hits the counter. your teeth knock. a glass falls off. and still, he kisses you like he’s trying to erase the space between you. 

he pulls back just enough to speak, breath hot on your cheek. “you win,” he mutters. “is that what you wanna hear?”

you’re panting, flushed. “not yet,” you whisper. “i like my man playing real hard to get,” you whisper, breath ghosting his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to tease.

and that’s the moment he snaps. his hands come up, cup your jaw like he’s trying to memorize it, and he kisses you hard, messy and desperate. and you moan, you can’t help it. he tastes like whiskey and salt and everything you’ve been dreaming about at three in the morning.

his hips press forward, tight against yours, grinding you back into the edge of the counter like he wants to leave a dent in your spine. and you grin against his lips. you reach back blindly, “you gonna keep kissing me like a saint,” you pant, pulling back, “or you gonna bend me over something, cowboy?”

his eyes go dark. “oh, you wanna act like a brat now?” he growls.

you smirk. “what gave it away?”

he grabs you, lifts you right off the floor and sets you down on a table like you weigh nothing. your legs part without hesitation and he steps between them, his hips hard against yours, and his hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to decide which one he wants to ruin first. “look at you,” he mutters, eyes trailing down your body. “pretty little mouth, dirty little attitude.”

you tilt your head, all fake innocence. “you like it.”

he leans in close, mouth against your ear. “i’m gonna fuckin’ break you.”

your breath vanishes. his fingers trail up your thigh, slow, teasing, maddening. he doesn’t go where you want him, but just next to it, brushing the edges, watching you squirm. “i know what you need,” he murmurs. “you need someone to shut that mouth. teach you some fuckin’ manners.”

you wrap your legs around his waist. “you volunteering?”

he laughs, low and filthy. “baby, i’ve been applying for that job all month.” then he grinds forward, slow and mean, dragging a moan out of you that echoes across the empty bar. you gasp and clutch at his shoulders. he grabs your hips, presses them down, holds you there. “no running now,” he mutters. “you been beggin’ for this.”

you roll your hips up into his. “you liked it.”

he groans, kissing down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp again. “liked it so much i nearly wrecked my truck thinkin’ about you.” his hand slips under your top. calloused fingers on your skin, rough and reverent all at once. he palms your chest like he’s claiming it. like he’s mad you let anyone else look. you arch into him, moaning. “so impatient,” he teases, voice a growl. “what happened to makin’ me beg, sweetheart?”

“shut up and fuck me.”

he smirks against your throat. “say please.”

you groan, kick your heels against his ass. “cowboy—”

“say it.”

you hiss, then lean in and bite his lip. “please.”

he pulls back just enough to smirk, breath hot against your lips. “please what?” he asks, voice low, gravel rough.

you glare at him, or at least, you try to. but your legs are wrapped around his waist, your hips aching for friction, and his hand is already creeping up your thigh like he’s got nowhere to be but inside you. so you say it, no shame. no power left to pretend. “please, fuck me, jakey.”

he groans loudly, like the words physically hit him. then he mutters something that sounds like jesus fucking christ, and crashes his mouth into yours. and this kiss is different. it is hungry and starving. he grinds against you, slow and hard, pressing you down into the table with the full weight of his body. your shirt rides up. your back arches. the wood creaks underneath like it might give out, and honestly—if it breaks, let it. you’ll thank it for its service.

his hands are everywhere. palming your thighs, squeezing your ass, gripping your waist like he owns it. “look at you,” he rasps, lips trailing down your throat. “fuckin’ dream girl of the county. all these poor bastards lining up for a smile, and here you are—legs open for me.”

you gasp and whimper and dig your nails into his shoulders. he presses his hips harder, grinds right against where you need him most. your head drops back, your moan echoes. “you love this,” he says, panting now. “bein’ up here where anyone could walk in. where anyone could see you gettin’ ruined by me.” you don’t answer, you can’t. “what happened to that bratty mouth, huh?” he growls, dragging his teeth along your jaw. “where’s all that sass now?”

“shut up,” you breathe. “just—please.”

“beggin’ again?” he taunts. “thought you didn’t do that.”

“i’m making an exception.”

he laughs, dark and hot, and grabs your hips tighter, pulling you to the edge of the table. “you should see yourself right now,” he mutters, undoing his belt with one hand. “look so fuckin’ pretty like this. so desperate.”

“you’re the one that came after me.”

“yeah,” he admits, lining himself up, voice breaking a little, “because i’m a goddamn fool for you.”

and then he pulls back. his hand wraps around your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face up to look at him. he’s flushed and panting. pupils blown wide. and his voice, when he speaks, is low and dangerous and thick with control he’s barely holding. “get on your knees.”

your heart stops and your grin widens. “you asking or telling me, cowboy?”

he presses his thumb into your cheek, leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth like he’s being nice before doing something awful. “i’m tellin’ you,” he mutters, “be a good girl and make me feel good.”

you blink slow, mouth open, pretending to think about it. “what’s in it for me?”

his hand slips down, fingers wrapping around your throat just enough to make you feel it—not choking, just owning. “my cock in your mouth,” he growls. “and maybe if you do it right, i’ll let you come later.”

your knees buckle, but your pride doesn’t. you hum, all fake sweetness. “guess i could use something to suck on.” you drop to the floor, knees hitting the sticky saloon wood like you belong there. he watches you, chest heaving and jaw tight. trying not to come just from the sight of you looking so cute on your knees for him. you look up at him, eyes wide, lips parted. “you nervous?” you tease.

he barks a laugh. “just waitin’ to see if the mouth that talks so much can finally do something useful.”

you pout. then reach for his belt, slow and dramatic, undoing it like it’s the last gift under a christmas tree. and when his cock springs free, hard, flushed, huge, your mouth waters. you glance up again. “you been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you?”

he hisses as you wrap your hand around him, thumb brushing the tip. “every fuckin’ night,” he admits, voice ragged. “jesus, i’d wake up hard just rememberin’ how you looked struttin’ around in those little shorts behind the bar.”

you stroke him once, twice, slow and sweet. then you lean forward, kiss the tip. just a whisper of a touch. he groans. his hand finds your hair, pulling it already. you drag your tongue along the underside, all the way down, then back up again. he swears, low and filthy. “look at you,” he rasps. “knees on the fuckin’ floor, pretty mouth full of me. you know how many men in this town would give their right hand for this?”

you hum around him. smile with your eyes, because you do know. and you love that it’s you doing this to him. so you take more of him in, then more. until he’s deep in your throat, and he’s gripping the edge of the table so tight you think he might snap it in half. “fuck,” he moans. “that’s it, sweetheart. just like that. takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

his hips twitch forward. just a little, just enough to make you gag—on purpose, and he loves that. he loves the sound. he loves how messy your mouth is for him. so he starts to move in shallow thrusts. hand in your hair, not rough, but claiming. “you gonna let me come in your mouth, baby?” he groans. “gonna swallow it all, show me how good you are?”

you nod and moan, sucking harder, and that’s it. he gasps, his hips snap forward. his whole body shudders. he comes hard, hot and thick on your tongue, fingers tangled in your hair, voice wrecked. you swallow it all, slowly. wipe the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, like a brat.

you’re still on your knees, lips wet, tongue peeking out in satisfaction like you just finished dessert and might go back for seconds. he looks down at you, utterly wrecked. and then he laughs breathless and disbelieving. “jesus christ,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair like you just short-circuited every last nerve. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin, smug as sin. but then he leans down, and his strong arms slide under your shoulders, lifting you like you weigh nothing. you squeal, half-laughing, hands flying to grip his shirt. “hey—!”

“shut up,” he breathes. “my turn.”

he sets you down on the table again, right where you were before. but this time, he doesn’t kiss you yet. doesn’t even touch you. he just steps back, eyes dark and hungry. and says, “spread.”

you blink, chest rising. “what?”

he tilts his head, steps back in, hands firm on your knees. “you heard me, sweetheart. open up. now i’m gonna make you feel good.”

you part your thighs slow, watching his eyes drop, watching his breath hitch. you lean back on your elbows, head tilted, and he glances at the wet mark through your shorts. he drops to his knees, his hands grip your thighs, dragging you to the edge like he’s pulling you into hell with him. he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a prayer and a sin at the same time.

“you wet for me already?” he murmurs, hot breath brushing your core through your shorts.

you nod, breathless. “since you walked in.”

he grins. bites the soft skin just above your knee. “should’ve told me. i’d’ve come sooner.”

he yanks your shorts and panties down fast, like he’s impatient. because he probably is. so then—finally—he licks you. one long, slow stroke that makes your back arch off the table. you gasp. grab the edge and moan his name so soft it sounds like a confession.

and he devours you. not gentle, not slow. just hungry and precise, like he’s got something to prove. his tongue works you open, circles and flicks and drives you fucking wild. he hums when you buck your hips, groans when you moan. his grip on your thighs bruises. his tongue never stops. “so fuckin’ sweet,” he mumbles against you. “no wonder they all wanna taste.”

you whimper. he slides a finger in, then another. crooks them just right. your whole body tightens. your breath catches. “that’s it, baby,” he whispers. “ride my face. let go. give it to me.”

you do. you shatter, legs trembling, back arched, voice gone. you’re gasping his name, tugging his hair, begging him to stop or keep going—you don’t even know. he doesn’t stop. not until your whole body is shaking. not until your thighs twitch and your breathing turns ragged and your hand slaps the table in surrender.

then finally he pulls back with his mouth glistening with you. his smile is wrecked, his eyes wide and wild. he looks up at you like you just handed him the goddamn meaning of life. “holy fuck,” he whispers, swiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “you came so good for me, angel.”

you try to glare, you really do. but your limbs don’t work. your knees are jelly. your stomach’s still twitching in aftershocks. and then he stands, towering. glowing like he just found religion between your legs. and then he leans down, kisses your jaw, and says—soft and cocky— “think you can take one more?”

your eyes flutter open, you blink at him. “you’re insane.”

he grins and kisses the corner of your mouth. “that ain’t a no.”

you roll your eyes. but you’re already lifting your hips, already turning. and then his hands are on your waist, firm and steady, spinning you around until you’re bent over the table. your cheek presses to the cool wood. your arms stretch forward. “fuck,” you whisper.

he hums behind you, hands sliding up your back, bunching your shirt at your ribs. “look at you,” he mutters. “so goddamn ready. still drippin’ for me.” he leans over you, chest to your back, mouth at your ear. “tell me you want it.”

you inhale shakily. “i want it.”

his hand slides between your thighs. fingers glide through your wetness. “tell me who’s gonna make you come again.”

you gasp. “you are.”

“say my name, sweetheart.”

“you, jakey.”

he groans. lines himself up. and then he pushes in. you gasp, you arch and whimper. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, controlling the pace. his hips move slow and deep, dragging a moan out of you every time he bottoms out. “so tight,” he pants. “like you’re fuckin’ made for me.”

you moan his name again, cheek still to the table, one hand reaching back to grab at his wrist. he laughs low and feral. “no runnin’ now,” he growls. “you said you could take one more.”

his thrusts get faster and harder. the table starts to creak. your moans start to sound like pleas. and he’s loving every second. he leans in, bites your shoulder, mutters against your skin, “gonna fuck you so dumb you forget how to sass.” you gasp and grin. you push back against him just to be a brat. he grabs your hips, pulls you back onto him hard. “jesus,” he hisses. “you like this, don’t you? bein’ used like this.”

“i like you like this,” you pant. “all obsessed.”

he grunts, and slaps your ass with a sting that makes your knees wobble. you yelp. and then he laughs, breathless, wicked. “i’m not lettin’ anyone else touch you again,” he mutters, voice cracked open, raw in your ear. his hand comes down to your hip, gripping. “this?” he growls, grinding into you harder, deeper. “this fuckin’ mouth, these thighs, this perfect little pussy— all mine.”

you moan, loud and shameless. he leans in, mouth hot on your neck, and his hand slips around you, fingers finding your clit like they never forgot it. he rubs in tight, fast circles, exactly how your body begs for. “come for me again, baby,” he pants. “show me how fuckin’ pretty you fall apart.”

and you do. you break, and your cry punches through the empty bar, your walls clenching so tight around him it nearly knocks the air from his lungs. your hands scrabble for the edge of the table, your face buried, your voice gone, just moans, sobs, his name like a prayer you can’t stop saying. and then—still shaking, still high on it— you whisper, broken and filthy: “inside. jake. please—come inside.”

he fucking loses it. his hips stutter, his breath catches, his hand grabs your ass roughly. “fuck, baby—” his head drops to your back. his rhythm falters, he’s right there. “you want me to fill you up?” he growls, desperate. “want me leavin’ you dripping with me?”

you nod, frantic. “yes—yes, please—i want it, i want all of it—”

he groans, loud. his thrusts go messy. erratic. wild. “goddamn, you’re gonna ruin me,” he gasps. and then he comes, deep and hard. body shuddering as he spills inside you, hips pressed tight, your name falling from his lips like a sin he’s finally ready to be forgiven for.

his hand stays in your hips. his forehead pressed to your back. both of you panting. shaking. wrecked. and you smile, eyes closed, face against the table, voice barely above a whisper:

“told you you were obsessed.”

he laughs—hoarse, drunk on you—and kisses your spine. “shut up,” he murmurs. “you fuckin’ love it.”

after, at your place, after he wrecked you in every possible way, you watch him fall asleep beside you, arm slung across your waits like he is still trying to stake a claim. cowboy hat on the floor. love bite on his throat. your lipstick on his chest.

you smile to yourself. “i like my men playing hard to get,” you whisper.

lucky for you, he never stood a chance.

author’s note: soooo i saw this edit of jake in full cowboy mode and lost every functioning brain cell i had left. then i watched manchild by sabrina carpenter and went wait what if… so this fic accidentally became the most porn-with-plot thing i’ve ever written. but i regret nothing. cowboy jake has a chokehold on me and the saloon girl in my brain wouldn’t shut up until he was wrecked and begging. anyway, yee-fucking-haw 🤠

my masterlist // perma taglist: @rairaiblog @nqdirr @iyoonjh @saeris-world @jayparked @solonenova

© all rights reserved @/heejamas — do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my works without explicit permission. these are works of fiction and are not meant to represent real-life actions, thoughts, or personalities of any public figures

[screampied]

r/AmITheAsshole •

by u/BigdickBigheartKamo_

WIBTA if I *accidentally* hid my human roommate’s vibrator only to try it on myself? Help! (╥﹏╥)

r/wc. 6.8k

r/warnings. fem! reader, modern au, loserboy choso, he’s kinda pervy here, crack fic, protected -> unprotected, cóndom breaks, vírgin! choso, size kinks, multiple rounds, he fucks you while wearing your hoodie, óral, panty stuffing, bulges, cervíx mentions, switch choso sorta, toy usage, manhandling, use of ‘mommy’, & ‘good boy’, brèeding, body worship, petnames

r/an. he’s trying

TLDR: “… basically, i, (150 M) hid my human roommate’s vibrator just so I could try it out for myself. yeah, i’m actually 150, and no, this isn’t clickbait. please don’t downvote me :(”

“…of course, i properly cleaned it and everything before using it - but, she uses this glittery thing all the time. not the mention the fact that it’s so…big. and another thing, it glows in the dark. this squishy thing can’t be the reason why i can barely sleep sometimes, can it? i swear, i can sometimes hear her loud, belting moans in my dreams. sounds painful. i’m kind of too shy to confront her about it, what if she kicks me out? she’s so nice and pretty - oh, i’m getting off-topic, sorry.

but it was this one particular night that happened, i was in our apartment alone and i hid her toy. she only noticed it was gone after about say, maybe three days. she asked me had i had seen and i just shrugged. in reality though, i tried the thing out for myself and experienced the best organism orgasm of my life!

the down side though, was that she caught me red-handed on her bed … ”

“is that my fucking vibrator?”

“n…no…?”

this looked pretty … bad.

choso had the most wide-eyed look while his legs were spread, wearing nothing but a hoodie - your hoodie.

you blinked twice, barely able to get a word out as you’re presented with your century-old roommate literally rubbing one out on your bed. from cheek to cheek, he was flustered as his right hand froze. it gripped the top part of your toy which was a bright hot pink.

“no?” you deadpanned at his blatant lie, flipping on the light switch. choso’s eyes squinted from the light and oh, the mess that displayed on his stomach. half of your sage-colored university hoodie was pulled up, showcasing his abs that had a bit of his mess painting against his pecs. “you told me you didn’t see it.”

“i didn’t!” he huffs, knowing how this looked.

there was a tiny pout that creased across his thin-lined lips as he tried to momentarily think of an excuse.

“but uh-” and as you watched him flip the power button off the toy with a faint ‘flick’, choso sighed at his ruined release. “you left it out one night on your bed and i got … curious.”

rolling your eyes, you snatched the pink wand with each finger wrapping around the rubbery handle. “so, you just decide to be a perv and use it on yourself?” and choso sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. he stayed quiet, and all you could hear was his heavy, breathy pants.

oh.

curiosity got the best of you though because that’s when you realized - choso was half-naked.

his boxers were pulled down to his ankles with his cock already pulled out. it stood tall with just the riiiight amount of thick girth. near the very maroon-shaded tip, he was leaking a bit of pre-cum that dripped down all sides. the muscles in his tightened abs tensed after each shallow breath he took while he remained manspread.

“and of course, you’re wearing my hoodie,” you muttered, but your tone sounded . . . different. you didn’t sound pissed, you were a bit intrigued.

choso glanced at you, letting off a dramatic gulp as his naturally hooded eyes cutely roamed down your body.

was he getting off to… you?

the risqué thought suddenly plagued at the back of your mind and you let off a giggle. perplexed, his dark brows wriggled before he saw you scooting closer.

“oh my god, you’re such a slut.”

“no, i told you, i was curious,” he corrects you. “but i’m sorry! look, i’ll even buy you a new one,” choso timidly grins. “heh, fun fact though, did you know that um, orgasms can shut down a single part of your brain? the more you kn-”

as you kept yourself from rolling your eyes a second time, you sighed. “choso, if you wanted to get laid, you could’ve just straight up asked.”

“what? what… what makes you think that?” he clears his throat, nearly choking on the lump hiding in his throat.

choso’s burning, red face was a true dead giveaway of how he truly felt though. the longer you stared at him, the more he felt himself growing harder.

in fact, he’s so hard - it’s practically painful.

choso couldn’t help but wrap a big, veiny hand around his shaft just to give it a few comforting pumps. a shaky, shallow sigh departs from his lips as his thumb zigzags its way down the side of his cock. “f… fine,” he digs the top part of his teeth into his bottom lip, dragging out the lone syllable. “i just didn’t wanna freak you out. besides, i’ve never um… did the laid before.”

right as he mentioned ‘laid’ - choso wriggled his brows to emphasize and it was so unintentionally cute.

“ ‘did the laid?’ ” you repeat back with a snort, forgetting your half-curse half-human of a roommate didn’t exactly have much physical contact with women. he never really spoke much about himself.

choso got more embarrassed at your teasing, and you rubbed your glossed lips together before glimpsing back down at the powered-off vibrator. “the real thing feels a lot better than this thing, anyway.”

“really?” he mumbled, maintaining eye contact with you. from each part of choso’s head, he was sweating profusely. in a way, it was pretty.

his hair wasn’t in its usual two ponytails this time. it was sweated out, matted, and unkempt while having a few black strands messily strung down his face. the teardrops of sweat that streamed down his face decorated his skin perfectly. “is that why you’re screaming every night? because of this thing?”

. . . .

as you plopped down on the bed, you took another glance at him. choso lazily laid back with his legs spread. such a position alone made you gnaw on the bottom of your lip, and him dragging a hand through his hair didn’t make things much better.

“show me.” you purred, your interest fully piqued now.

“show you…?” choso blinked, feeling a sudden shiver once cool air set against his bare skin.

you grabbed your switched-off vibrator, wrapping a hand around it before handing it back to him. “show me how you played with yourself with my toy, silly.”

“oh-” choso nervously grinned, a barred thumb gently brushing over the back of your palm. as he raised both brows, he gave you a timid look. “just don’t laugh.”

“promise.” you muttered, averting your gaze toward his hardened cock.

he was big.

far bigger than you imagined, actually.

choso’s tip was more of the bulbous type with a strawberry-red tint painting near its top. he slipped out a hoarse grunt once he brought a hand toward his shaft, slithering all five stubby fingers ‘round his length. two veins prod near the thick sides before he switched the vibrator back on with his thumb. with a loud ‘flick’, it lights up, signaling that it’s on, and the buzzing starts.

“i just… um,” he swallowed thickly, his voice trembling the longer you stared at him. anxiously, his dick twitched once your stare went from his lap to his face. “earlier i uh- i rubbed the tip against mine like… t- this.” he gulped, and you watched as he gradually guides the pink toy toward the leaking crown of his cock.

choso exhales deeply, letting off unsteady deep sighs once the vibrating tip slooowly rubs its way against his tender head. immediately, it's coated with a bit of his pre-cum and he could feel the muscles in his thighs tense instantly. “fuck..” he bites down on his chiseled jaw, avoiding your lust-filled gaze.

oh, he knew he was screwed.

he didn’t know whether he wanted to feel embarrassed, turned on, or both.

choso’s burning up in your hoodie. the fleecy, soft material felt like it was clawing at his ripped biceps from the inside.

he’s covered in your signature scent entirely, and despite how you’re a hair’s breadth away from him, he’s even daydreaming about you too. in one hand, choso’s giving his veiny cock solid, two-second pumps while the other was using the toy to swirl tender circles around his aching tip.

the entire scene was so lewd, you didn’t know what to say. your body did though, and its initial reaction was to squeeze your thighs shut. the repetitive buzzing of your toy only got louder, and pretty soon - it was repeatedly ringing through choso’s sensitive ears plus yours.

“i couldn’t-” he whined, slouching back against your fluffed pillow. red-ridden lips of his tightly pressed together as he pouts before his thighs nearly collapse. “i couldn’t really get far last time. i didn’t know how to finish and i thought straight up asking you would be um… well, rude.”

you giggled. “do you want me to help you finish?”

million dollar question.

choso’s heart felt like it was about to beat straight out of his chest. you couldn’t see it, but he already had hearty eyes. with his dilated, darkened pupils merely forming into cute shapes he was already so down bad.

“mhm-” he nodded eagerly, his slick lips trembling the more you scooted yourself closer toward him. the room around you both felt substantially hot, and the walls continuously felt like they were closing in after each dreadful second that passed.

choso’s staring at you with a look of not want but need, and that cute ‘lil pout that creases across his lips never faded away. “please,” he adds, and with his husky, trembling voice, you heard his voice slightly crack.

“please?” you took the toy, turning it off with a flip of a button. “please what, ‘cho?”

you heard the ‘power off’ sound, indicating that it’s off again before placing your hand on top of choso’s. you could tell he wasn’t fond of your teasing because of the way his eyebrows parted together in frustration. even his scowls were cute, not intimidating in the slightest.

“please,” he swallowed, tugging on the string of your light green hoodie that swallowed his frame. “make- help me finish, princess. i just-” he paused, his words sounding more whiny once his quivering bottom lip got caught in between his teeth. “wanna fuckin’ finish so bad.”

and as he’s quietly rambling out pleas, choso already looked like he was about to break any second.

dark almond-shaped, eyes followed your every move, studying the direct placement of your wandering hand that trailed up his bulky thighs. he felt so hot, and your touch to his skin felt like electricity. just one finger trailing up his thigh was enough energy to create a spark.

“okay,” you said, and you could hear him sighing a quick sigh of relief. choso leans back, taking a few more seconds to swallow before he starts to pant.

you still couldn’t wrap your head around the fact that your roommate was getting off to you, on your bed, while wearing your hoodie.

honestly, you couldn’t even lie - it was starting to make you grow a bit of a big head, and choso gulped once he saw your head lowering down. “did you steal any more of my toys, choso?”

“no, swear,” he quickly denied, shaking his head. choso’s dick in front of you stood tall as pulse after pulse shooting from his veiny sides within each nanosecond. silently, he watched as your dominant hand gingerly wrapped its way around his length before giving it a few greeting pumps. with choso’s fat size and additional girth, he could barely even fit in your palm. “o- oh, fuck keep touching me p- pleaaase.”

within seconds, choso was already melted putty in your hands. you had him so sensitive, and his brain felt like it just turned into straight mush. he’s feeling the thick air inside the small apartment the two of you shared suffocate him all at once. “mngh-” he groans, taking a quick peek once he feels something abnormally hot.

it’s your tongue, and you took a quick second to softly drag it across his leaking pink tip.

the head of his cock was swollen and large with the perfect plump shape. instantly, your lukewarm tastebuds were met with a bitterly sweet taste of his pre-cum and you let off a moan of your own. without thinking, the same hand from before softly went around his narrow base before you pursed your lips.

“ngh, y- you’re sooo gooood, princess,” and choso’s already pathetically dragging his words.

the way you filthily zigzagged and dipped your tongue over ‘n around his sensitive tip scratched every single itch in his brain. his long, black lashes forcibly flutter shut once he hears the faint ‘pop’ of your slick, wet lips. “like that, just like hah- that.”

choso’s curve itself was attractive too. his heavy cock would sometimes slant a bit on its own, having it's own lean - showing just how big he really is.

you didn’t even realize how much you were starting to shamelessly salivate from the sides of your mouth. once you began to shower each side of his throbbing shaft with kisses, you glanced up at him. “do you want me to st-”

“no, ple-ase,” and cutely, enough, choso’s voice cracks again. both of his ears twitched in embarrassment before he deeply sighed, clearing his throat. “i- i mean,” choso put a hand on the top of your head. “please, please keep going, princess. make me f- feel good. teach me.”

“and you’re not gonna steal my stuff behind my back again, are you?” you muttered, pausing your hand on his dick mid-stroke.

“never-ever,” he nodded impatiently, his deep voice trembling after each quavering syllable.

all choso wanted to feel was your warm, hot mouth taking in every inch. he was inexperienced and maybe a bit old-fashioned but he knew a thing or two about twitter.

twitter and reddit.

why you were roommates with a whole century-old half curse half human was another story within itself. choso pays half the rent every month and even occasionally helps with some of your college work. but sometimes though, while you’re out doing whatever - he gets bored.

choso oftentimes finds himself searching up random things on google while missing your absence. as you’re swiping a thumb over his flushed tip, you run your melting, wet tongue over the head one more time before opening your mouth. imitating the shape of an ‘o’ with your lips, choso whimpered once he felt the soft heaving breaths escape from the back of your eager throat. his cock gradually makes its way inside as you’re batting both lashes.

chocolaty, gentle eyes intently staring at you as he bit back sultry moan after moan that’s threatening to leave his lips. “god-” he grunts sweetly, giving the white-striped string of your hoodie a solid tug.

inch after inch leisurely disappears inside of your mouth and choso’s losing it.

one of his hands absentmindedly slithers its way under your head before he slings four fingers around your neck. the pad of his thumb was caressing the nape of your neck whilst he watched you starting to sink further down. “m- mhm, take all of it, princess. use that pretty throat ‘n take all of me, f- fuck.”

choso’s natural deep voice alone was enough to make you throb. after a few dragging seconds, you managed to fit him halfway down your throat. his tip tenderly smashes its way against your uvula and you moan. glossy saliva ran from both sides of your mouth as your head started to bob.

“oh, you’re already makin’ such a mess,” he breathily mutters, using another hand to awkwardly pat your head.

choso’s never felt anything like this, and all of his senses felt heightened. as his lips continued to quiver from the overwhelming stimulation, choso delicately rubbed his thumb over the spit that streamed down the corners of your lips. “i … i love your voice but you sound a lot prettier when your throat’s hah- stuffed.”

you gave choso a deadpan as you continued to sloppily take him in your mouth, using your hand to twist around his veiny cock.

“what? it’s true,” choso sheepishly grins, but his smile quickly fades once his left thigh started to twitch. his entire body falls limp against the cushioned pillows behind him before he gasps. “oh, shit-” he groans lowly, absently thrusting his hips into your mouth.

as both of your hands grabbed onto each side of his hips, you loudly moaned. it was muffled but still sounded so pretty. choso’s thick, slightly curved cock tap tap tapped it’s way against the back of your throat each time. flawlessly, it tickled down the roof of your mouth after a single vigorous stroke that made your whole body shake.

choso’s (your) hoodie that was still on him was a bit pulled up now, and above his sharpened, hairy waistline - you saw just how ripped he was.

come to think of it, out of the seven months you’ve been living with him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen your roommate shirtless.

“princess, i think ‘m gonna-” he pauses, his eyes widening before pulling his aching dick from your lips.

as you pout, choso looks at you with a timid expression. “is it- can i?” and he’s fumbling on how exactly to ask you. “i … i didn’t ask to use your toy before so i feel like it’s only appropriate if it’s okay to uh- finish in your mouth. sorry.”

“ ‘cho, it’s fine,” you held back a giggle, giving his rosy-pink tip a soft kiss. it convulses upon impact, and choso’s eyes roll back ‘till they show nothing but milky white.

he’s feeling it come all at once - literally, and he’s groaning the minute your plump lips wrap around his cock for its final time. “go ‘head.”

choso didn’t know what it was, but your voice sounded as smooth as honey. he could feel his cock stiffening inside of your clogged-up throat with multiple veins pricking at the sides of his length.

his brain feels oh-so clouded, and that’s when choso’s jaw tightens.

once you give him yet another teasing flick of your tongue over his sensitive slit, that’s when he finally explodes.

choso whimpers once he starts to spurt rope after rope, painting the roof of your mouth including your pretty pink tongue. “ ‘m sorry,” he shuts his eyes, starting to babble with both barred hands delicately gripping the crown of your head. “hah- ruined your mouth ‘n make such a mess, princess,” and as he’s spewing sweet nonsense, choso finally meets eye contact with you again. “fuck- you took it all though.”

your cheeks were both filled, and you hummed at the taste that was stored inside your mouth. while staring at choso, you swallowed - although there was still a bit of remnants left on the corners of your lips.

before you could even attempt to lick it away though, choso does it for you.

almost immediately, he sits up to softly press his body weight against you. choso’s lips crash against you hungrily, and needy muffled whimpers slide their way inside your mouth. you smiled against his lips as you threw your arms around his neck.

choso didn’t really know how to kiss either - he was mostly following your lead.

with one of your hands hanging behind his neck, you lead it up toward his hair before feeling a few matted black tresses tangle between your fingers. briefly, your foreheads touched against each other and you felt the sticky sweat that stuck against his tepid skin.

“mhm-” you moaned, feeling choso’s impatient hands claw at your thighs. his tongue’s swiftly making sure to lap up any remnants of his own cum, not caring in the slightest about his bittersweet taste.

it was broad daylight out, probably about a few minutes ‘till four in the afternoon. as you made your way onto choso’s bare lap, his dick painfully rubbed itself against your denim shorts.

every few seconds, you’d take a peek at choso to see the golden tints of sun that would illuminate certain parts of his face.

“m- mommy,” he whispers against your lips as his roughly-textured fingers ardently tug at the lower fabric of your shorts. choso’s eyes instantly flutter open before a dark red shade color over his face. “i mean-”

“baby, you were right the first time.” you cooed, and oh, choso thinks he just got another boner.

fuck.

in sheer embarrassment, the bridge of choso’s nose cutely scrunched up before he leaned in again.

you think he’s going in for another kiss but instead - he’s making a beeline straight for the the frilly tank top you wore.

two rough hands gently pull up the fabric, and he stuffs his face in between your tits. “s- sorry, princess, mhm,” and you glance down, watching him use your chest as a pillow. you smiled, patting his head. choso’s probably dreamt about this at least about a million times.

poor guy.

“i… i need a minute, fuck,” he muffled between your tits, pressing tender kisses down the valley of your chest. you let off sweet gasps after each peck, and you’re just hearing wet smooch after smooch. choso felt like he was literally in heaven. by now, he’s a sweat-drenched mess. dark, thirsty eyes glance up at you as if he’s asking to touch you more and you gave him a wordless nod. “you’re so perfect, ‘s unfair.” he murmurs, cupping two big hands around your tits.

choso rolled his tongue out of his mouth, gently running the tip across each sensitive nipple of yours. you moaned, feeling your back arch before your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. “c- choso,” you whined, dragging a hand down his already ruffled hair. with his eyes closed, choso kept tending to each breast lovingly.

with his tongue, he’s trying to mimic each video he stumbled upon online that he did for ‘research purposes.’

choso sucked intently on each tit, departing from each one with loud ‘pop’ sounds that forevermore ringed through your ears. coral, pink lips of his compress together before he sits back up to create a wet trail of kisses down your jaw. abruptly though, choso grunts against your slickly glossed lips before laying on your chest. “no good, i’m still so hard.”

“what are you waiting for then?” you sweetly purred, tossing your arms around his broad neck once more.

with wide, mousy eyes - choso sheepishly smiles. “oh, right, right…” and as you pulled the covers up over choso’s back with you underneath, he’s ‘attempting’ to align himself. of course, choso doesn’t know what the actual fuck what he’s doing.

he’s done a lot of ‘research’ about intimacy but he never expected it to be this intimate.

“oh-,” he pauses, his bare tip resting against your already dripping cunt. choso reaches near his nightstand before pulling out a rubber. “i read somewhere that i should wear this unless i wanna get pregnant.”

as you absentmindedly strummed a thumb down the stood-up hairs that decorated the back of his pale neck, you giggled. “don’t you mean me, choso? unless i get pregnant?”

“oh..” he cringes, scratching his head in embarrassment.

after a few seconds - with a faint-sounding snag, choso successfully put the rubber on. it was a tight fit, but it fit. just barely.

choso was slightly shy, and you could tell by his hesitant arms trying to find the right placement. you looked at him, rubbing the back of your heel down his back in an attempt to soothe him. “relax,” you coo, helping him align his aching tip. he was already moaning the second it slipperily slides its way down your slit that’s so desperate for him to just go inside already. “you weren’t this shy when i saw you using my toy earlier.”

“tch, shut up,” choso smacks his lips, and you let off a soft gasp once he lifts your legs. he firmly pushes them back ‘till they reach just above your exposed chest. “ ‘m gonna show you how shy i really am, princess.”

“yeah? go ‘head, baby.”

☆ ☆ ☆

and fuck, he does.

calling choso a quick learner was the understatement of the year.

one minute he was shy and the next, he was strenuously plowing through you as if his occupation was a construction worker. choso’s animalistic stamina caught you off guard entirely. each stinging slap of soft flesh hitting against each other makes you moan. he’s buried deep, grunting each time his rubbery tip rams itself against your g-spot with no mercy.

choso stretched you out so well while easily locating each tender erogenous zone until you short-circuited.

“f- fuck, choso- fuck,” you whimpered, clawing your nails down his back. the entire time he’s inside, he’s still wearing your hoodie. you might as well let him keep it anyway.

he’s just a straight-up untamed animal, growing feral after each rigor thrust. the bed beneath you both grunts out creaks of despair with the headboard sounding like it’s on its final rusty hinges. choso’s heavily panting, pushing your knees up further to your chest mid-thrust. “yeah, yeaaah, there ‘cho- hit there, ugh-”

“here?” he hoarsely utters, bringing his spit-glossed lips toward the caps of your knees. choso maintains intimate eye contact before with a single deep stroke, he introduces his tip to your g-spot for another nth time.

you nodded, choking on your little mewls before choso mocked your pout. “mhm, all i had to do was hit this spot for you to stop teasing me, princess?”

and he hits it again, and again, and again -

constantly.

choso’s cock was basically bullying your cunt by this point, and you moaned after each direct hit. he’s precise and accurate, using your clit as a target while striking a perfect bullseye with his reddened crowned tip. you held onto him tight as the bed rocked and swayed roughly, both sticky bodies melting together into one.

“ ‘m getting close,” you whined, your pathetic sweet cries against his ear making him even harder.

choso dragged calloused hands down your body as his dick drove through your sobbing pussy repeatedly. all ‘round his length, you’re squeezing him tight and convulsing continuously. choso groans into your neck and his pace slows a bit for a few seconds. “c- choso.”

“shh,” he whispers, and you watch him reach beside you. choso flicks your denim shorts aside, picking up your panties before bawling them up in his hand. “you’re so loud, princess. forgive me for bein’ rude, but i don’t wanna hear you right now,” and despite how his voice was so silkily smooth and gruff, that’s when he softly stuffs your panties in your mouth. after that, his hips give you one big thrust and it causes your poor pussy to squelch out pretty ‘lil sobs of its own. “wanna hear her.”

and choso wasn’t even looking at you anymore.

his attention’s solely on your wet cunt, and he’s silently in awe at how you’re taking every hefty inch like a good girl. you’re so wet too, and each thrust was making his head spin.

but right as he starts up his rocky pace - he hears a certain tearing snaaaap.

your eyes flutter open as your chest heaves, and choso blinks twice. his thighs relaxed before he looked at the sudden ‘rupture.’

the condom actually broke, and his bulbous tip was fully poking out of the rubbery top part of the hole. choso grunted, not even realizing how close he was because he could feel how full he was already. “oops,” he pouts, abruptly pulling out. despite how your own panties were still stuffed in your mouth, you scrunched up your brows as if you were saying - ‘what happened?’

“it broke,” choso frowns, and you could hear him ripping the tattered condom off his erect length. he looks back at you, pressing a kiss on your cheek. “do i just get a new one?”

instantly, you shook your head. the panties ended up falling out of your mouth and you took a millisecond to breathe. “no, you can- hah, you can go in raw.”

“raw,” choso repeated, and you moaned once he gently pressed a palm on the center of your bare tummy. “are… are you sure, princess?”

“i’m sure.” you panted, already feeling your mouth water at the sheer filthy imagery of choso dumping you with his load.

choso leaned in, closing the suffocating gap between you both with a kiss and you moaned. he tasted so sweet, and yet again, you’re immediately met with his cherry-mint flavor as both lips violently smashed into each other.

while he’s still trying to follow your lead with his lips, choso removed the condom before tossing it in the trash bin. cool air sets against his tip and lets off the sweetest-sounding moan ever into your mouth.

he’s carnal - swaying his hips against yours impatiently while trying to align his feverishly-hot tip. “you’re gonna make me cum just by staring at you,” he huffs quietly, delicately smacking the fat head of his cock against your puffy slit.

you whimpered, feeling all ten of your toes curl before he presses himself against your held-up knees. “pretty, messy girl.” choso grunted, using two fingers to dip inside of your pussy. you were about to whine again, but that’s when choso stuffed your panties back in your mouth.

with a loud ‘pop’ - choso pulls his now sticky-covered fingers out of your cunt before guiding them toward his lips. as his bare tip’s slowly making its way inside of you again, he sucks on his fingers in front of you. “mhm,” choso closed his eyes for a moment, taking in your sweetened arousal. “never knew my roommate could taste so g- oh, fuck.”

choso gets caught off guard by the unexpected feeling of him rawly cumming. a breath gets caught in his throat before he slumps against you, filling you rope after rope with oozing hot cum. it’s unlike any feeling he’s ever felt before, and he’s speechless.

you let off faint, muffled moans in the background as your tongue and teeth snagged against the lacy fabric of your panties. choso’s aching limbs felt like they were about to fall off. his head buried inside of your neck before he started to whine.

no matter how dominant he tried to be, the clingy sticky grip of your pussy would always put him in check.

“ugh-” he gruffly grunts against your bare collarbone, delicately pressing down a bit more on your stomach.

while he’s still pouring out such a thick, ribbony load of cum, choso ends up brushing his fingertips against his bulge that even makes a faint noticeable print against your tummy. he thought it was cute, and he even groans out a sweet, “fuck.”

hungry, dark-bronze eyes flicker down at your stuffed cunt that’s just dripping from all sides and he sighs. “it’s spilling,” choso pouts and your eyes widened once he suddenly lifted you, propping you right back up on his cock. “can’t- can’t let it go to waste, princess,” he breathes airily, helping you sprawl your already shaky legs. your arms wrapped around choso’s shoulders before with one hand, he gives your ass a soft squeeze before whispering in your ear. “ ‘m not done filling you in yet. s- sorry.”

☆ ☆ ☆

one hour turned into two, then three, then four.

choso had the stamina of a stallion, and it didn’t take long at all for him to be utterly addicted to your sweet, sweet pussy. continuously, he’s effortlessly ripping out shrilling orgasm after orgasm ‘till your chords went raspy.

he’s got you riding him now, and oh he might just think he’s in love.

it was just something about you moving your hips so perfectly.

both scarred palms of his securely gripped your rotating ass, gently squeezing at the loud plopping skin that stung against his lap every second. “jus’ like that, pleaseplease,” he groans, glancing up at you with half-open eyes. the stretch of choso’s cock always left both of your pried open legs shaking with your jaw slightly left ajar. he’s just ridiculously big, jackhammering all nth-inches of his cock deep into your dripping cunt. “god, your hips are gonna kill me-”

“fuck-” you breathed, peeking around a bit to see your ass ruthlessly slamming back down on his time and time again. in a lewd, dirty way - it was almost pretty. the way your hips rolled into him, the sparkly tear of sweat that tore down your bare spine, how your tits just mindlessly bounced in choso’s face.

he felt like he was heaven.

deadly sharp echoing slaps of skin fiercely ricochet against each other as you kept up a decent pace, burying your face into his left shoulder. choso’s stammering out cute inaudible babbles while you continued, taking the opportunity to help you drag your hips faster.

you made sure to dig your knees into his thighs, twisting and turning your ass while pulling yourself forward. your hips alone had choso hypnotized, and if you squinted enough you could make out the cartoonish rings swirling in his irises.

“mhm, fuck me mommy-” he slips it out again, but at this point, he doesn’t even care. as your body’s languidly swayed into him, you moaned once his crowned tip surprised your cervix with a multitude of sloppy kisses. one tap turned into three taps within seconds, and now you felt like you were really short-circuiting.

choso’s whining near your right ear before he gasps out a sweet, “ohh, fuck i- if you keep riding me like that, you’re gonna get me… pregnant.”

you held back a giggle, wondering how he forgot already that he couldn’t actually get pregnant.

choso’s head was just so clouded that he couldn’t think straight at all - not when your pussy was snatching him out of reality.

“yeah?” you cooed, bringing a soft kiss toward the side of his mouth.

choso’s pink lips tremor instantly and you watched as his mouth instantly opened for you. just then though, that’s when you got an idea.

you could tell choso was already getting close again judging by his erratic spasming beneath your body, and you then abruptly stopped your hips.

“wha- why’d you stop?” he frowns, not even realizing how much he was sweating.

your hoodie that he was wearing was practically drenched with sweat, and there were so many jet-black strands of hair gluing to his forehead.

choso pants, staring at you as you reach near the edge of the bed for your pink vibrator from earlier.

a hand of yours swiftly wrapped around the wand, and with a single thumb, you switched it on. right away, it lights up - singing out loud buzzes before you look at him with a playful expression. “may i?”

“heh, you’re a kinky girl huh,” choso slouched back against his pillow. he took a second to admire how pretty you looked over him - just nude with your sweat-dripping skin glistening from the rays that shined from your cracked open window pane. “okay, yeah. whatever you w- oh, my god.”

as you re-aligned yourself on choso’s cock, you guided the vibrating tip of your toy over his pearly-coated tip. as he was just barely a few inches in, you were gently rubbing the vibrator over choso’s cockhead and he instantly knew he wasn’t gonna last much longer.

“p- princessss,” he hisses sweetly, tightly holding onto your hips. choso clenched down on his jaw until it wholly tightened, and he’s feeling every single vibration from the toy. as the both of you moaned in sync, you never did really realize how pretty your roommate looked with his eyes rolling fully back, his mouth just idly dangling open. “fuck, fuck, ‘m gonna cum, ugh-”

“look at me,” you whisper, greeting his quivering lips with three kisses. a glossy trail of saliva departs each time. beady, docile eyes meet yours after about four delayed seconds and you whimpered, hearing the sharp whack of choso’s palm meeting against your ass. “are you gonna use my toys again, ‘cho?”

choso whines as you slowly kept rubbing the vibrating tip of the toy over his tender cockhead, and he’s feeling every compressed his lips. “p- probably,” and he quickly backtracks, sheepishly letting off a dry laugh. “i mean no. i’ll ask first, promise- ugh.”

you smiled, using another hand to stroke his veiny length that was still so rock hard. his entire body was trembling beneath you, and choso’s louder than you now. “are you gonna be a good boy ‘n cum for me now?”

“mmm-hmm, fuck,” choso groans, and the sudden pitch of his husky tone makes you throb. he tosses his head back, eyeing the wooden rotating ceiling fan before licking his lips. “princess ‘m cumming-”

your vibrator was only on level one out of the four other levels - and yet, choso cums hard.

it's way more than his other releases, and it comes out in creamy thick ropes. you raise your hips while looking down, hearing choso break apart in front of you. his tip’s the hottest shade of red you’ve ever seen, and the way he just continued to erupt made you twitch more. a bit of his cum shoots near your drooling cunt and your inner thighs - but especially on the head of your vibrator.

“wait,” he exhales timidly, pulling his black brows apart as his eyes remain closed. choso’s trying to catch his breath while still feeling so euphoric all over. “f- fuck, look at how messy she is.” choso breathes, gradually pulling out once he finishes.

satiny, white ribbons of cum decorated the front of your pussy with a bit of his mess salaciously spilling out of you. he didn’t just stuff you, he double-stuffed you.

you moaned as he stared, getting in between your legs for a moment. you felt choso’s warm breath aerate against the opening of your dripping clit before he spreads your thighs. “so pretty,” he murmurs, bringing the print of his thumb to glide it straight down the glistening valley of your pussy. “hah- want a little taste.”

and within a blink of an eye, choso’s tongue laps itself at the sticky mess that was glued between your legs. “s- shit,” you heaved a deep breath, clawing a shaky hand in his hair. again, choso didn’t care at all about tasting his aftermath. it tasted even sweeter because of you, in his mind. he’s like a starved animal, flicking his tongue inside before it turns to a sloppy vacuuming suck. “yesyes, choso hngh-”

choso makes out with your clit - literally. he’s slightly shaking his head from side to side, relishing in the bittersweet taste of you.

you felt his lips cup ‘round your pussy before he gives it a greedy seven-second suck. “mhm,” he groans, reaching an arm down to stroke his cock. your moans alone ended up getting him off, and choso felt his dick twitch in his palm once he felt you softly push him further in between your legs. “i’m gonna clean you all up princess, p- promise.”

not even minutes later, the entire lower portion of choso’s chin was completely shimmery. even the tip of his button nose was a bit wet.

he sat up from between your legs, taking a few deep breaths before licking his lips. “thank you.” he lowly murmured, giving your pussy a soft pat. he felt you throb on his palm and it made him grin.

“good boy,” you spoke in tiny airy breaths, heavily panting yourself. almost forgetting, you turned off the toy that was still in your hand, tossing it aside before getting back on choso’s bare lap.

choso wraps his burly arms around you, hugging you while one hand crept toward your ass. his lips met the inside of your neck before he pulled you into his chest. “we should-” he breathed, finally opening his eyes to get a good look at you.

oh, he was whipped.

“we should do the laid more often.”

“we’ll see.” you stroke his right cheek, bringing a chaste kiss to his lips. choso makes you fall on top of him before the both of you are lying in bed next to each other.

perhaps choso was a bit too whipped though, because he lays on top of you, kissing your forehead before blurting out a husky short-winded, “i love you, yuki.”

smiling, you stared into his eyes before that same smile quickly faded. “i love you too ch- wait who?”

“……………..”

u/BigdickBigheartKamo_ ✓ • 2min. ago

So, we aren’t roommates anymore but at least I still have her hoodie I guess :( but help. (◞‸◟；) the real question is though,

[lillilybells]

Family dinner✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader summary|Damian tries to keep his girlfriend a secret from his family, keyword, tries.

word count|1499

warnings|hickeys, teen romance.

notes|hey so, fic about my baby Damian!! Tell me if anyone wants a part two, it felt a little too long. Family dinner masterlist

It started with the missing hours during patrol.

At first, no one thought anything of it. Sometimes when the night was slow, Damian would vanish for forty minutes or so. Not totally weird — except that it kept happening. Night after night.

Barbara was the first to catch on. During a group patrol, when Damian ghosted again, she pointed it out over comms. “He’s been going dark. Same time every night. About forty minutes. Sometimes more.”

That got their attention.

None of them brought it up to Bruce. He was already carrying too much and tensions between him and Damian were frayed enough. Plus, they trusted the kid — he wasn’t twelve anymore, and he wasn’t stupid.

But then came the other stuff.

Damian started fighting with less... bloodlust. Training matches didn’t end with bruises or near-death experiences. He was lighter. Looser. Happy, even. Jon Kent noticed it during game nights — Damian wasn’t trying to obliterate him in Mario Kart. He was laughing.

Then Tim caught floral and various other feminine scents trailing off him. Strong. Familiar. Victoria’s Secret Bombshell — Stephanie’s go-to from what he remembered. It clung to his hoodie.

Naturally, Tim assumed this was an awakening of sorts.

“Hey,” he began awkwardly, knocking on Damian’s door. “So, uh... I just wanted to say, if you’re experimenting or figuring yourself out, that’s totally cool. Y’know. Gender-wise. Or cologne-wise. Just— you can talk-”

SLAM.

Door. In. Face.

Alfred, for his part, noticed lipstick and foundation stains on multiple shirts during laundry. Said nothing. But he noticed.

Then came the phone calls. The texting. Damian, the guy who used to reply to “what are you doing” texts three days late, was suddenly glued to his phone 24/7. Full-volume message alerts. Hour long calls. Sometime Cass could hear him all the way from her room. He even walked into Bruce twice because he was too distracted reading something on screen.

Duke once interrupted him mid-call to say dinner was ready and got a pillow to the face for his trouble.

This was weird.

Sure he deserved his privacy, and usually the wouldn’t care but this was also Damian, the baby of the family. If he had a girlfriend — they had to know.

The final straw? Dick and Damian on patrol.

The boy arrived late. Looked dazed. And when they stepped under a streetlight, Dick saw it — a constellation of pink, glossy kiss marks trailing from his jaw to his collarbone. And a faint bruise just below his ear.

Dick blinked. Got punched in the face by a random mugger. Finished the fight. Then turned to him.

“Hey… Dami?” he tried. “What’s, uh, what’s that on your… neck? And cheek. And… is that lip gloss?”

Damian froze. Reached for his cheek. Blushed.

Then threw a smoke bomb and vanished.

“Hey guys…” Dick entered the living room that weekend, looking slightly dazed. They had gathered for monthly family dinner — even Jason had shown up, weirdly chipper.

“Do you think Damian—”

“—has a girl? Totally,” Tim cut in, sounding more confident then ever.

Jason’s head snapped toward them. “WHAT.”

“You didn’t notice?” Duke asked, amused.

“Dude, no. What?!”

“He’s been... giddy,” Duke said, wincing. “For him.”

“And he smells like expensive girl’s perfume,” Tim added.

“Yeah, you’d know a lot about that,” Jason muttered.

“Guys. I saw a hickey,” Dick said grimly. “It messed me up.”

Jason looked physically pained. “There’s no way. That little gremlin has a girlfriend?”

“We have to ask him,” Tim said, already too excited. “Like, now.”

“No.” “No.” “Definitely not.” The chorus rang out. Except for Cass and Jason.

Jason stood. “Democracy time. Cass?”

She tilted her head. “You can try. It won’t go well.”

“That’s enough for me.” Jason marched up the stairs. Dick tried to stop him. Failed.

He burst into Damian’s room. Immediate silence.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

“My family is getting closer to finding out about us…” You were both in bed — Damian leaning back against the headboard with a deep frown on his face, while you lay beside him, propped up on your elbow.

“Is that so bad?” you asked softly, your tone teasing. He raised a brow.

“They’re insufferable. They’d never let me live it down,” he huffed, and honestly, it was kind of adorable. “I don’t want them acting weird around you—why are you smiling?”

“You just look cute when you sulk,” you giggled.

He rolled his big green eyes, but the faint smile tugging at his lips and the pink rising to his cheeks betrayed him.

“I’m being serious, beloved,” he muttered. “I don’t want my family to know about… this. Us. Not yet.”

You sighed and sat up a little straighter, his gaze following your every move.

“Are you ashamed of being seen with me?” The question came out quieter than you intended. You knew the answer, deep down. But the insecurity had been itching at you ever since he started getting cagey about his family.

His eyes widened slightly. “No—no, it has nothing to do with you.” He furrowed his brows and slumped back with a quiet groan, reaching lazily for your phone on the nightstand and holding it up like proof. “I let you post us on your… whatever” he said, and let it drop with a soft bounce.

“It’s not about you. It’s about them,” he added more gently, the rare softness in his voice making your heart squeeze. “I can’t let them scare you off.”

You sighed again and reached up to cradle his cheek.

“Baby… I learned that you were raised by assassins. I know all about your ‘extracurriculars’ at night. And I’ve met your dragon-bat. If that didn’t scare me off, what makes you think your family will?”

You grinned, and so did he — just a little.

“I suppose you make a fair point…”

You locked eyes for a long moment before naturally leaning in, sharing a soft, chaste kiss. It was gentle and familiar and grounding — like home.

When you pulled away, you gave him a cheeky smile. “I’m gonna go get ready for our date.”

The plan was simple: his family wasn’t supposed to be home today. Their schedules were usually packed, so he’d invited you over with every intention of sneaking in a cozy evening together, followed by a fancy dinner downtown.

Unfortunately, he’d gotten the days mixed up.

Which meant: his entire family was downstairs.

Which meant: you were doomed.

He was buttoning up his shirt as you darted around in your nightgown, applying makeup in the mirror you’d begged him to keep on his desk.

And that’s when it happened.

That’s when Jason burst in

At first everything was frozen, you and Damian were staring at him with widened eyes and he was staring right back, mostly at you, he was shocked.

Then the rest of the Batfam piled in behind him.

You fled to the bathroom in a blur of mortification. Damian looked like he wanted to kill all of them.

“Uh... congrats?” Tim offered.

“She looked pretty,” Dick said.

“She looked terrified,” Jason corrected.

“Of you,” Cass deadpanned.

“Okay, but in our defense—” Duke began.

SLAM.

Door in their faces this time.

They stared at each other.

“So… what now?” Tim asked.

“Don’t look at me. I told you idiots not to do this,” Dick replied.

“He seemed pissed” Jason stated, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, we broke into his room and scared the shit out of his girlfriend” Duke’s voice was dripping with sarcasm and Jason groaned.

“Whose girlfriend?” said a voice that shouldn’t have been able to sneak up on them.

Everyone jumped.

“I’m out,” Cass whispered — and ghosted away.

They spent thirty minutes confessing every detail to Bruce like a bunch of nervous criminals. The stoic man just absorbed the information. Slowly. Silently.

Then he walked over and knocked on Damian’s door.

Three short knocks.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Inside, Damian had knocked on the bathroom door.

“Sorry—” “Sorry—”

You said it in unison. Then froze.

“I’m sorry they walked in on us like that,” you said.

“It’s not your fault beloved, I didn’t know those insuffereble idiots would be here today” he huffed out, and you gave him a look of sympathy, giving him some space to process the development.

“You.. you seemed scared, when Jason and the rest..” he had trouble speaking his mind, he’d grown, sure, but he still had trouble.

“I was just caught off guard..” you spoke quietly, “I promise, I’m not scared Damian, I’m not scared of you, or your family..”

And he smiled a little, just a little, leaning toward you as your hands reached up to button up the top few buttons of his shirt, “not even a little?” And you gave your own cheeky smile at that.

“Well, maybe a little..”

Knock, knock, knock.

Your heads whipped toward the door.

Damian sighed. “Get dressed.”

He turned back to the door, straightened his collar, and braced himself to face the family.

Again.

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru thought this was gonna go differently.

like, way differently.

there was supposed to be sparkles. blushing. a dreamy sigh and you flinging yourself into his arms like, “satoru, that was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. i think i love you. i think i wanna marry you and have your absurdly pretty babies.”

but no.

you’re just standing there. blinking. in silence. on the private rooftop he rented. at sunset. where a live quartet is playing your favorite song in the background.

you look like you're still buffering.

he’s smiling on the outside but internally? he’s going through it. he’s sweating. he thinks his lungs collapsed five seconds ago. he might actually pass out.

because instead of melting into his arms and swooning like a lovestruck anime girl, you're staring at him like he’s grown two heads. (which—okay, to be fair—if he had, he’d still look majestic as hell.)

but that is not in his ten-step seduction plan.

“...so?” he says, trying to recover, giving you his best wink. “pretty romantic, huh? for our third date?”

you finally blink. you slowly tilt your head. “did you… rent a rooftop?”

“…yes.”

“and a live band?”

“yes?”

“…for dinner?”

“yes?!”

you keep staring. like you’re waiting for him to yell ‘gotcha!’ and reveal that this was all an elaborate prank. but it’s not. it’s real. he's real. he just wanted to see you smile.

and now he’s spiraling. because what if it’s too much? what if he overwhelmed you?? what if you’re like ew he's insane i just wanted ramen and a walk and you’re going to ghost him right after this and marry someone normal??

he fidgets. plays it cool. leans against the table casually like “haha unless it’s weird. is it weird? no pressure. i can cancel the shooting stars. i mean they’re just drones, not real stars, i didn’t bribe the universe or anything—unless that would’ve been more impressive, in which case, i’ll try harder next time—”

you blink again and finally, finally—you laugh. soft and breathless. a hand to your face like you can’t believe him. “...you’re insane.”

he thinks he might actually ascend from relief.

he breathes. barely. something uncurls in his chest. “yeah,” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck, grinning like he doesn't know where to look, “but i’m your problem now, right?”

you roll your eyes and reach for his hand anyway. and that’s all he could ever need. he doesn’t care that the pasta’s gone cold or that the damn string quartet’s been playing the same song twice now. you smiled. you stayed.

he’ll call that a win.

(even if he does need to rethink the proposal plan because this woman clearly doesn’t rattle easy.)

[stzrgirl4norris]

P1 in World History - OP81

Oscar Piastri x Historian!Reader

summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events

based on this request (by my favorite ever)

liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others

f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE

Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀

Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.

view all comments:

lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest

charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please

yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.

mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.

redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂‍↔️

fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed

alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭

user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?

user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…

user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something

user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀

user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩

user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue

user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭

user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay

user charles i expected more from you

user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet

user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.

> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost

> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch

Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story

"Great read 👍"

liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others

SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:

“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”

View all comments:

user not me googling “how to become a historian”

user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor

user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭

user that household must be insufferable

user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast

user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak

user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??

user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?

user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too

user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is

user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.

lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?

> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar > yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors > lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME

alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep

> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint. > yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate. > user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film > user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn

georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.

danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀

> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable. > danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad

mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.

user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE

> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it > user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD >user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time

charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺

> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa > charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄

user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?

> user omg what would she even do there? > user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc

liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others

oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.

view all comments

lando i want her to quiz me

charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you

georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me

alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source

danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format

maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it

user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹

user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead

user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one

liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others

yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚💋

view all comments

oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe

georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way

> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE. > georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅

charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔

lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets

> oscarpiastri are you 2??

user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS

user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range

user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle

user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen

hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story

kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????

> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?

user is this a kink thing?

user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.

maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?

> yourusername sure thing!! > oscarpiastri NO

liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others

mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚

view all comments

oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”

> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling” > oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble > user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME

lando does this mean i can’t cheat???

> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes > lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.

yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.

> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak

alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast

> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.

charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.

> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe > fernandoalo_oficial finally.

user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture

user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire

[barnesonly]

Imagine telling bestie!Bucky you’ve always had to fake it in bed with men… You know he’d fuck you till you see stars

STOP. you are a genius honestly. the bestfriend energy turning into fucking?? i’m so damn bad for this…. And bucky would be also so confident about himself in bed like UGH i just know HE knows how good he is… squeezing my thighs at the thought.

You’re walking side by side, milkshakes in hand, the way you always do after a long week. your hands occasionally brushing. It’s easy — it always is with him. Talking about everything and nothing — something stupid. First dates. Red flags. Sex that was just… meh.

And then, casually, like it’s no big deal, you say it.

“I’ve faked it, like, every time.”

He slows mid-step. “Wait. Every time?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “I mean, yeah. Guys always think they’re doing a good job if you moan a little and say their name once or twice.”

Bucky blinks at you, stunned. “That’s…” He shakes his head, lips twitching. “That’s criminal. I think I need a moment.”

You laugh. “Relax, Barnes. It’s not like they were terrible. It just wasn’t… memorable. Or about me, really.”

He’s still looking at you — only now, there’s something behind his eyes. Heat. Focus.

“You’re tellin’ me not one guy’s made you come?”

“Not from sex, no.”

He stops walking. You take another sip of your milkshake, trying not to smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say lightly.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” he mutters, jaw tight, voice low.

“Oh, you’re looking.”

He licks his lips, eyes dragging down your face, your throat, the shape of your mouth around the straw. “You shouldn’t tell me shit like that, doll.”

You raise a brow. “Why not?”

“Because now I can’t stop thinking about what I’d do different.”

There’s a beat of silence — thick, electric. You swallow, hard.

“…You think you could do it right?” you ask, teasing, testing.

He steps closer, leans in. You feel the heat of him, the weight of that look — the one that makes your knees go soft.

“I know I could.”

———

You’d said it was a bad idea.

That crossing that line would ruin everything.

But now you’re ruined in a completely different way — your body spread beneath him, flushed and trembling, every nerve frayed raw from the way he touches you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s waited years.

He kisses you like he owns your mouth. Fucks you like he wants to prove every man before him was a waste of time.

“Look at me,” he growls against your throat. “I wanna see it.”

Your eyes flutter open just as your body clenches around him again. You moan his name, your voice cracked, your legs shaking.

He watches, entranced — every twitch, every gasp, the way you fall apart under him, for him.

“God, Bucky—” you gasp, and he leans down, lips brushing your ear.

“You feel that?” he pants, dragging his cock deep again, slow and deliberate.

You nod helplessly, mouth open on a cry as he fucks into you again — rougher now, steady, each thrust angled perfectly to grind against that devastating spot inside you. His name tumbles out of you over and over, no space left in your brain for anything else.

“Bucky—oh, fuck—don’t stop—”

“I’m not stoppin’, baby,” he growls, gripping your hips tighter. “Not ‘til you give it to me again.”

He lifts your legs over his shoulders without warning, folding you in half, and the new angle knocks the air from your lungs. You sob, reaching for him, your hands trembling as they claw at his back.

“That’s it,” he hisses, watching you unravel. “You gonna come for me again? Let me feel it?”

Your whole body’s on fire, skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles clenching around him so hard it’s a miracle he doesn’t come first — but he holds on, jaw clenched, arms straining as he pounds into you like he means it.

You break with a cry — raw and shaking beneath him, thighs quivering, your release crashing through you like lightning. And Bucky loses it.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so tight—god, you’re perfect,” he gasps, driving into you harder, chasing his high as your body pulses around him. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He buries himself to the hilt one last time and groans, deep and wrecked, as he spills inside you, his entire body going tense, then trembling against yours. His mouth is on your shoulder, your neck, anywhere he can reach, pressing kisses between desperate breaths.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours.

You nod, dazed. “I… I saw stars.”

[danysdaughter]

After Hours

pairing | au!bucky x teacher!reader

word count | 7.8k words

summary | when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominant!bucky, flirty!bucky, modern au, cocky!bucky, no-nonsense!reader, slow burn to smut, mutual pining, enemies to lovers-ish, no description of reader, BUT reader does have surname (racially ambiguous as always), ABBOTT ELEMENTARY CROSSOVER (this is fanfiction so I can do whatever I want)

a/n | this is filthy you guys, based on this request, and after reading this if you haven't I beg you to watch abbott elementary, literally rewatching for the fourth time, it's everything and changed my entire personality

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“You do realize we’re ten minutes late, right?”

The voice came from the backseat—small, unimpressed, and filled with the kind of quiet disappointment usually reserved for tax season and slow Wi-Fi.

Bucky glanced at his rearview mirror and caught sight of his nephew, Danny, hair flattened oddly on one side from sleep, Superman backpack twice the size of his torso, and the most judgmental frown a five-year-old could possibly muster.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

[ggukivrse]

JUST THIS… TWICE? | JJK

summary. when you complain to jungkook about your lack of action in the past year, you're not really asking for a solution. but when he casually offers to help, you just can't seem to bring yourself to say no.

after all, what's the worst that could happen in hooking up just this once?

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre: friends to lovers, smut, fluff

word count: 8.3k

warnings: more porn but with a tiny bit more plot :0, swearing, explicit sexual content (mdni), car sex, kissing, making out, oral (f. receiving), again he’s very cocky but can we blame him, breast play, multiple orgasms, banter and teasing as dirty talk, petnames (baby), jk's actually a menace but lowkey down bad, the ending deserves a warning (i’m sorryy), let me know if i missed anything!

notes: thank you SAURR much to my bae j @tranquilreign for beta reading!! (i’m still giggling at all ur comments pls :3) likes, comments, reblogs, asks and feedback are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angelss <3

ps. READ PART ONE HERE!!

⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ feedback

You wake up to the dull throb of sunlight pressing through your curtains and the sharper ache between your legs.

It's not unpleasant — just a lingering reminder. A hum under your skin, like a bruise you don’t mind touching again and again.

You blink slowly, your eyes gritty from sleep, mouth dry, brain hazy in that half-dream state where everything feels like it could be made up. The heavy comforter is kicked down to your hips, your legs tangled in each other, and for a second — just one — you think maybe it was a dream.

But then you shift, and your thighs protest, and it all comes back.

The couch. His fingers. His mouth. The way he looked at you like he’d already had you a thousand times in his head. The things he said — low, teasing, mean. The things you said back. Your stomach tightens, breath hitching as your body tries to replay it too fast, too much.

You squeeze your eyes shut and will your brain to shut up.

You don’t usually let people sleep over. Not like this. Not in your bed, under your sheets, in your space.

But Jungkook’s always been the exception to things. It’s not new, waking up with him in your apartment. He’s been here for movie nights that turned into sleepovers, for hangovers that turned into late mornings, for heartbreaks that turned into shared pints of ice cream and shit talk.

You’ve seen him in your space more times than you can count. But never like this.

You breathe in slow and exhale even slower, eyes fluttering open. The room is still, the air thick with the kind of silence that begs to be broken but doesn’t quite want to be. You shift again, turning onto your side, and your eyes land on the shape beside you.

He’s lying on his stomach, one arm thrown across your pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The blanket’s halfway down his back, exposing the mess of tattoos curling across his shoulder and the dip of his spine. His hair’s a wreck — pushed off his forehead, flattened in the back — and his lips are parted, soft. He looks young like this. Calm. A little too good for your peace of mind.

You stare at him a moment too long.

And then you very, very carefully roll onto your back again.

You feel like you’re in a minefield. Like one wrong move will detonate something you're not ready to name.

You slept with your best friend.

Not just slept. Fucked.

Fucked him like you meant it. Like you’ve wanted to for longer than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

You exhale again. A sharp, quiet puff of air through your nose. Maybe if you stay still long enough, he’ll just keep sleeping. And you can sneak to the bathroom. Or back in time. Whichever’s easier.

You’re not panicking. Not technically. You’re just… thinking. Overthinking. Remembering how you sounded begging him not to stop. Remembering how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. Remembering how, when it was over, he held you like it meant something.

You feel his warmth next to you, steady and real. His leg brushes yours, his knee nudging slightly against your calf, and your whole body goes still again.

You wonder what he's going to say when he wakes up; if he'll still smile at you like he did last night — like nothing about this is complicated. Like your world didn’t tilt just a little off its axis the second he kissed you back, like he wasn't allowed to and never planned on stopping.

You should feel weird. You should feel guilty. Or ashamed. Or something more than this weird, electric calm.

But mostly, you just feel like you don’t want to move.

His breathing shifts — subtle, but enough that you know he’s starting to wake up.

Your heart trips a little.

He shifts, and the arm he’d slung over your pillow curls slightly in, fingers brushing the back of your hand. He lets out a groggy hum, the noise half in his throat.

You freeze, eyes still closed.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?”

You swallow. Your voice doesn’t come right away, caught somewhere behind your tongue. When it does, it’s soft, a rasp. “No idea.”

He exhales. Shuffles a little closer. You can feel the heat of him now, bleeding through the sliver of space that still separates you. A moment passes. Then another. You brace for it — for the tension, the shift, the stammered joke to smooth over the jagged memory of last night.

But all he says is, “Damn. My back hurts.”

You blink, startled by the normalcy of it. “You’re not supposed to sleep like that. You looked like a crime scene victim.”

“Sexy,” he mutters, eyes still closed. “That’s what I was going for.”

You huff a quiet laugh. And weirdly, the knot in your stomach loosens just a little.

Another silence stretches. But it’s not bad. Not heavy. He makes a small sound as he shifts again, propping himself up just slightly on one elbow. You don’t look at him, not yet, but you can feel his eyes on you.

“How do you feel?”

You hesitate.

He waits.

You turn your head slowly toward him, and finally meet his gaze. His hair’s a mess, his eyes still sleep-warm, but there’s something sharper under the surface. Not regret. Not even nerves. Just… attention. He’s watching you the way he did last night — carefully. Like you matter.

You chew your lip for a second. "Sore," you eventually say, voice quiet.

He smiles. “Good sore or bad sore?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want a Yelp review?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, if you’re offering. I’d love a star rating.”

You stare at him for another second. Then you snort, burying your face in the pillow. “You’re such a dick.”

“You didn’t mind last night.”

You groan, muffled. “Please don't. It's too early for this.”

He laughs — really laughs — and you feel it wash over you like a warm breeze. He’s not weird about it. Not cagey or distant. And maybe it’s a little disarming how himself he still is. Like nothing’s changed.

Like everything has, but it’s fine.

He shifts again, flops onto his back beside you with a loud sigh and an arm flung dramatically over his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungover and this smug at the same time. It’s honestly kind of impressive.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Your ego’s going to explode.”

He peeks at you from under his arm. “Can you blame me? I mean, damn.”

You roll your eyes and toss a corner of the blanket over his face.

But your heart’s still racing.

You don’t know what you were expecting — some awkward shuffle out of bed, a strained goodbye, maybe even him pretending it hadn’t happened. But he’s still here. In your bed. In your space. Making you laugh.

Just like always.

Your fingers brush against his under the covers. Neither of you pull away.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, letting yourself breathe. Letting the silence settle between you again. It feels different now, not loud with questions or demanding anything from you.

It feels like… him.

And maybe you’re not ready to ask what it means yet.

But for now?

This doesn’t feel like a mistake. Not even a little.

You’re standing outside your office building, arms crossed and scowling.

The sidewalk’s sticky with the leftover heat of the day, and there’s a cluster of your co-workers behind you laughing about something you’re not a part of. Their voices blur into the honks and hum of Friday traffic, and all you can focus on is the time.

Jungkook is two minutes late.

You know how stupid it is — two minutes. But today, even two seconds of anything feels like too much.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, the back of your neck damp with sweat, the strap of your bag digging into your shoulder in just the wrong way. Your phone sits heavy in your palm. No new messages. No “almost there.” No “sorry, traffic’s ass.”

Nothing.

The week has wrung you out like a wet towel. Every day, some new tiny disaster: deadlines moving without warning, your boss micromanaging you like you’re an intern again, and a meeting yesterday where a client talked over you so many times you wanted to crawl under the table and scream.

You’ve barely slept. Your eyes are scratchy. You snapped at someone in the break room this morning because they made a passive-aggressive joke about your “resting bitch face.” And now, Jungkook is late. On your day. Friday. The one consistent thing in your life.

Every Friday, he picks you up from work.

It started almost a year ago, after a breakup left you crying into your salad at your desk. When Jungkook had texted you to come down that day, you'd expected takeout and tissues. But instead, he’d cranked up the music in his car and driven you to a late-night ramen spot where you ended up laughing so hard you nearly choked on your noodles.

It became tradition. No matter what kind of week you’d had, no matter what mood either of you were in — Friday nights belonged to you two. You didn’t even have to plan anything. Sometimes it was tacos in the car and talking shit about your co-workers. Sometimes it was video games at his place or walking around the city until your legs ached and your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He always showed up. Early, even.

But today, the sun is setting in your eyes, and he’s late.

You tap your foot. Then stop, because that’s annoying. Then sigh loud enough to get a look from a passing stranger.

You grip your phone tighter, squinting down the street. Still no sign of his car. Your thumb hovers over the call button.

Three minutes late now.

Your stomach twists — not from worry, but frustration. Because this — this quiet, unnecessary delay — is the cherry on top of the shit sundae that has been your entire week. And you hate that it’s him. That even Jungkook gets to be a part of the unravelling now.

You lean against the metal pole of the bus sign, letting it bite into your spine. A bead of sweat slips down your back. The sun is way too bright for this hour.

Your phone buzzes.

Finally.

You snatch it up like you’ve been waiting for a lifeline, and there it is:

Kook 🍜: here in a min

You glare at the screen. Then type:

You: You’re late.

Kook 🍜: exactly 3 min. that’s barely anything

You: You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to castrate you.

Kook 🍜: bet you'll still get in the car

You don’t respond.

You just shove your phone back in your bag and take a breath that doesn’t do anything to help.

Jungkook’s car pulls up slow, music low, window already halfway down. He’s in that stupid black bucket hat he always wears, curls pushed out from under the brim. You catch the grin he’s wearing before he even says anything — wide, lazy, like he’s proud just to have found parking.

He leans over and calls out through the window, “Damn. Which poor intern did you kill today?”

You glare at him.

His smile falters a little, but he keeps going, still trying to crack you open like usual. “I mean, you’re kinda glowing with hate. It’s kinda hot. Very—”

“Jungkook,” you cut in, sharp.

His eyes snap up to yours.

You immediately hate how sharp your voice came out. You look away, fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

“Sorry,” you mutter after a beat. “I just… I’ve had a fucking awful week, and I’m really not in the mood for jokes right now.”

There’s a pause. Just the hum of the engine and a soft beat coming from the speakers — some song with a lazy bassline and breathy vocals.

Then he shifts. You hear the click of the lock before he leans over to push the door open for you. “Get in.”

You do. Without arguing.

The cool air hits your face the second the door closes, and you let your head lean back against the seat. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just starts driving, hands loose on the wheel, his bottom lip tugged between his teeth like he’s thinking.

“You wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually, softer this time.

You shake your head. “Not really. Just one of those weeks where everything goes to shit in slow motion. Work, people, the world. My brain. I think I hate everyone.”

He hums. “Cool. We can start a club.”

You huff a laugh, just barely. But it’s something.

He glances at you sideways, like he’s measuring how far he can push. “So when do I get to punch your boss?”

“I’m serious, Kook.”

“I'm serious too! I’ve been doing push-ups.”

You snort, against your will. “You do three push-ups and call it training.”

“First of all, way more than three. Second, the form was perfect. Don’t disrespect me in my own car.”

You smile — tiny, fleeting — but it’s the first time today you’ve felt even remotely human.

“Thanks for picking me up,” you murmur after a second. “Even if you were late.”

“Exactly three minutes,” he says, defensive. “And I was texting you while driving, which is dedication. Illegal, but dedication.”

You glance over at him. He’s wearing his usual all-black like he’s trying to look tough, but the corners of his mouth are soft. His grip on the wheel is loose. Familiar. Like this is just another Friday, like nothing’s changed since last week.

But something has. You feel it.

You clear your throat. “Can we just go back to mine? I kind of want to curl into a blanket and pretend I don’t exist.”

“Nope,” he says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“I have a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Yep.”

“What kind of plan?”

He just grins, eyes still on the road. “You’ll see.”

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to god, if this ends with me getting roped into karaoke—”

“No karaoke,” he says with a laugh, holding up one hand solemnly. “I promise. You’ve suffered enough.”

You sigh and let your head fall against the window. The glass is cool against your temple, and you let your eyes slip closed for a second. “I’m serious though, Kook. I really don’t think I have the energy to be around people right now.”

“No people,” he assures you. “Just us. Little detour. Nothing dramatic.”

You peek one eye open at him. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being nice.”

“That’s what’s weird.”

He smirks. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You fall quiet again. The road noise fills the silence, the gentle whir of tires and the low pulse of the bass. It’s soothing in a way, the way riding with him always is.

Your fingers drift to your lap, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t ask again about your week. He just drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift, fingers tapping to the beat of the music.

You glance at him again.

He looks good when he’s focused but relaxed. The way he hums along to the music without realising. The way the light paints the side of his face gold as it streams through the windshield. You feel it crawl up your chest: that annoying, warm pressure. That thing you haven’t named yet.

That thing you’re starting to feel more often when he’s near you.

And it’s so stupid. So inconvenient.

You stare out the window, try to shake it off.

He turns down a street you don’t recognise.

“Seriously,” you say, finally. “Where are we going?”

He just grins again, eyes still forward.

“You’ll see.”

You’re parked at the top of a hill you didn’t know existed.

Below you, the city stretches out — tiny glints of light catching on glass and metal, and cars threading through the streets like slow-moving ants. It’s not some tourist lookout spot. There’s no crowds, no fences or coin-operated telescopes. Just a dusty turnout on the side of a winding road and a view that makes you feel like the world finally shut up for a minute.

It’s quiet up here. Real quiet. Even the music in the car has been turned down to a soft background hum — just instrumental now.

You’ve got a milkshake in your hands, condensation slipping down the side and catching on your fingers. It’s thick and rich, the kind that takes actual effort to sip through a straw. The sweetness coats your tongue, dulls the bitter edge that’s been living in your chest all week. In your lap is the discarded wrapping of a burger so good you had to ask where the hell it came from.

“I’ve literally never heard of this place,” you say around a mouthful of fries. “Is this one of those ‘secret menu, don’t tell anyone or they’ll kill you’ joints?”

Jungkook grins around his own bite, sauce already on the corner of his mouth. “Maybe. The guy who owns it doesn’t even do social media. Total off-the-grid.”

You nod like that explains the magic burger. “They probably sold their soul to the devil for the recipes or something.”

He laughs, mouth full, and leans over to wipe the sauce off with the back of his hand. “You okay now?”

You pause.

The question isn’t heavy. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it — just stares out at the view like he’s asking casually. But you hear the real version underneath. You always hear it with him.

You take a slow sip of your milkshake before answering.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

And for once, it’s not a lie. Your body still feels wrung out, your muscles sore from being tense for too many days in a row, but something about this — about being here, with him, with real food and fake silence and a breeze that smells like clean air and french fries settles something in you.

You glance over. He’s sitting back against the driver’s side door, one knee propped up. His hat’s on the floor somewhere — he'd thrown it off after complaining about the heat — and the curve of his neck is exposed just enough to distract you when you look too long.

Which you are. Looking too long, again.

“So,” you say, casually. “How many women have you brought up here to seduce with mystery burgers and pretty views?”

He snorts. “You’re the first. Most of my dates prefer the classic ‘come over and watch a movie, but don’t actually watch the movie’ route.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Wow. Such effort.”

“Right? I’m kind of romantic like that.”

You toss a fry at him. It bounces off his chest and lands in his tray.

He doesn’t flinch. Just picks it up and eats it. “Thanks.”

You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile that tugs on your lips.

The air settles into a rhythm again. You chew slowly, the kind of silence between you that doesn’t need filling. It's never been hard, being around him. Even now — after everything — you find yourself slipping back into the easy groove of just existing next to him.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t even want to know.

You glance over at him again.

He’s still working on his burger, brows furrowed like he’s trying to solve it. Like he’s mad at how good it tastes.

It should be funny.

It is funny. But your heart stutters instead.

You don’t laugh. You just watch.

The way his lips press together before each bite. The little crease between his eyebrows. His jaw, flexing with each chew. The thick column of his throat when he swallows.

You’ve seen him eat a thousand things in a thousand places. Messy tacos. Gas station snacks. Instant noodles straight from the pot. But somehow, this moment feels different.

Or maybe you do.

Something in you has been tilting all week.

You’ve been tired, angry, brittle with exhaustion. But under it — every time he texts you, looks at you, shows up — there’s something else rising. Warm and low.

You’re not sure when being around him stopped feeling simple.

Maybe it was that night. Maybe it’s been creeping in longer. But it’s louder now. Clearer. It fills your throat and sits behind your ribs and presses up against the edges of your self-control.

He licks ketchup from his thumb.

And you can’t stop staring at his mouth.

He glances up and catches you looking, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

You blink. Swallow. Try to think of something else, anything else, but your body’s already too aware. Too wired.

“Would you hate me if I did something?” you ask, voice low.

His head tilts. “What kind of something?”

“Would you?” you repeat, ignoring his question.

He puts his empty milkshake cup and spare tissues into the paper bag you got the food in, then puts it on to the dashboard of the car before meeting your gaze again.

“You know I could never hate you,” he says, voice casual.

Your pulse stutters.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your fingers fist in the front of his shirt and you’re moving across your seat, crashing your mouth into his.

It’s not sweet or delicate.

You kiss him like you’ve been holding it back for weeks. Like you’ve hit your limit and there’s nowhere else for the feeling to go. Your teeth scrape his lip. Your noses bump.

He makes a startled sound, hands finding your waist instinctively. You pull back a bit, heart hammering in your chest, and for a beat, neither of you move. He just stares at you — wide-eyed, lips parted — like he’s trying to memorise this exact second.

His mouth opens and closes for a second before his lips are on yours again, chasing your mouth like he needs you to breathe.

Fuck. You weren't actually expecting him to reciprocate.

Then again, you hadn't been thinking at all.

"This is a horrible idea," you mumble.

Jungkook smiles into the kiss. "Mhm. Terrible."

But neither of you stop. You're not sure you could even if you tried. Jungkook's an addicting man, especially when he's kissing you like this.

You grunt into his mouth when your knee hits the centre console, frustrated — not at him, not at this, but at the fucking layout of his stupid car.

You pull back just far enough to say, breathless, “This car is the worst possible place for this.”

He’s panting a little, lips flushed. “You’re the one who launched yourself at me.”

You roll your eyes, shifting your position to try and get comfortable, but your impatience only grows with every second that your lips aren't on his.

“Fuck,” you mutter, pushing your hair out of your face. “This is so—”

“Hot,” Jungkook cuts in, his hand sliding under your shirt to palm your waist. His touch is warm. Steady. “It’s hot.”

You pause. Look at him.

His gaze is on your mouth again and his hand flexes against your skin like he’s trying to stay in control. But you see it — how much effort it’s taking.

And that…

Yeah, that does something to you.

With the help of his hands, your weight sinks down into his lap, both knees straddling his thighs.

The position isn’t comfortable — your head almost knocks the ceiling — but it’s better than before. Your mouths press together again, desperate.

Your tongue slides against his, your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and he pulls you tighter like you might disappear if he lets go.

One of his hands snakes up your back, under your shirt, fingers splaying across your spine like he wants to map it. You grind down against him, slow and deliberate, and his breath stutters.

“Fuck,” he mutters into your mouth. “Do that again.”

You do.

He tilts his head and deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to taste everything you’ve never said out loud. You lose your balance for a second, your body leaning into him, your chest flush with his. His hand slips up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheekbone.

You roll your hips again, slower this time, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp, resting his forehead against yours.

“Shit,” he says, voice wrecked. “We can’t do this here.”

“Why not?” you murmur, mouth still grazing his.

He laughs — short, breathless. “Because I’m gonna break the gearshift with my dick if we keep going.”

You laugh too, the sound getting lost between the kisses you press to his jaw, his neck, the line of his throat.

His fingers dig into your waist. “You’re evil.”

You bite his earlobe gently. “You like it.”

He groans, the sound full and needy, and his hands are on your ass, dragging you harder into him, his hips rolling up to meet yours.

You both freeze at the contact.

Your breath catches. His does too.

You pull back to look at him. His eyes are blown wide. His lips are red. His chest rises and falls like he’s run a mile.

His mouth breaks from yours, breath ragged, lips swollen.

“Backseat,” he says, voice a little raspy.

You blink, still breathless. “What?”

He grabs your waist again, eyes dark with lust pooling in his pupils. “Backseat. Now.”

You don’t question him this time.

You clamber into the back with far less grace than you’d like — knees catching on leather, thigh knocking the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn let out a pathetic chirp. Jungkook laughs behind you, but it’s breathless and reverent, the kind of sound that makes you feel seen. Wanted.

You fall into the back seat, legs tangled, heart hammering, your skin hot beneath your clothes. Before you can even fix your hair or adjust your position, he’s climbing in after you.

His body slots over yours, knee between your thighs, hands bracing on either side of your head as he dives back in.

You fist his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as his mouth breaks from yours and moves lower — along your jaw, down your neck. His lips are soft but relentless, nipping at the skin just below your ear before sucking hard enough to make your hips buck into him.

“Fuck,” you whisper, head falling back. “You’re—god—”

“Still not tired of me?” he murmurs against your throat.

You grip his shoulders, legs falling open to make room for him between them. “Shut up.”

He huffs a laugh against your skin, but he listens. Fingers move to your buttons, surprisingly nimble despite how wrecked he looks. He doesn’t tear anything. Doesn’t rush it. He undoes each one slowly, as if he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been waiting way too long to open.

As each button pops free, his mouth follows — kissing down the newly exposed skin between your breasts, over the curve of your ribs. His hands slide beneath the fabric, pushing it open until your chest is bared, and hooks a finger beneath the centre of your bra, tugging it down and out of the way until you're fully exposed beneath him.

He pulls back to look.

And when he does, he breathes your name.

Low. Like a prayer.

You watch his eyes drag over you, dark and worshipful. One hand cups your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, lazy circles while the other grips your waist, holding you steady as your back arches into him.

He leans down again, tongue flicking over your nipple before his mouth closes around it — sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl. Your fingers fly to his hair, anchoring yourself in him as his teeth graze sensitive skin and his free hand teases the other side, drawing a sharp gasp from your throat.

“Kook—” you breathe, hips shifting beneath him, desperate for friction.

His mouth drags away with a wet sound. “Yeah, baby?”

The pet name sounds dangerous in his voice. Too natural. Like it belongs.

You don’t even call it out. You just say, “Need more.”

That’s all he needs to hear.

He drops one hand between your thighs, pressing it there over your pants with firm, maddening pressure. Just enough to make your breath stutter. His mouth is back on your chest, and his fingers start moving — slow at first, then harder, more purposeful, dragging against the seam of the fabric like he knows exactly how to push you to the edge.

He does.

And you’re already spiralling, body burning under his touch, chest heaving, lips swollen, the back seat of his car too cramped, too humid, too perfectly wrong for what’s happening.

But you’ve never wanted anything more.

Your head drops back against the seat, a soft moan catching in your throat as Jungkook keeps working you over through your pants, his fingers circling you like he has all the time in the world and none of the patience to waste it.

“I swear to god,” you pant, “if you don’t get these off me right now, I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

He laughs, still panting himself. His mouth presses hot and open to your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already buzzing. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

“You started this.”

“And I’m gonna finish it,” he mutters, breath warm against your collarbone.

He shifts down your body and you feel him fumble with the button of your pants, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth in concentration.

“I can do it,” you say, breathless. “You’re slow.”

He blinks up at you, eyebrows raised. “Oh? I’m slow?”

You undo the button in one motion, zipper halfway down, and shoot him a sarcastic smile. “There. Congrats.”

He smiles, wide and wicked, and in the next second, he’s got your pants halfway down your thighs, your panties bunched right after. “Cool. I’ll just use my mouth then.”

That wipes the smugness off your face in an instant.

You freeze.

“Kook— wait, no—”

He pauses, glancing up at you from where he’s knelt between your legs, hair falling into his eyes, hands gripping your thighs with intent. “Did you just try and say no to that?”

“I mean…” You squirm, thighs twitching under his touch. “Last time was already— like, I came. A lot. You don’t have to do the whole… y’know…”

“The whole what?” he asks, voice dangerously innocent. “The part where I make you forget your own name with my tongue?”

You glare at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

He smirks, leaning in until his nose brushes your inner thigh. “Say what? That I’m gonna eat you out until you’re dripping into the seat?”

Your whole body jerks. “Jesus— Kook.”

“That’s not a no.”

He presses a kiss to your inner thigh, slow and warm. Then another. And another. Higher. Closer.

“Didn't get to do it last time,” he murmurs. “And I’ve been thinking about it. All fucking week.”

“You think about this?” you ask, trying for teasing, but your voice wavers as his mouth brushes closer to your core.

“Every night.”

Your breath catches.

“Every time I jerked off, it was to the sound you made when I had my fingers in you. You remember that?” he asks, dragging his mouth up until he’s just hovering over you, warm breath ghosting across your heat.

You nod, because you can’t speak. Your fingers are curled tight into the edge of the seat. Your thighs twitch.

“You remember what you said? ‘Please, don’t stop,’” he mimics, voice low and mocking. “But now you wanna tell me to stop this?”

You open your mouth to fire back some bratty reply — but then he presses a single, firm kiss against your cunt.

Your brain blanks.

Your hips buck.

“Fuck— okay,” you gasp, voice breaking.

He grins like he’s won a bet. “Knew you’d cave.”

Then his mouth is on you.

Hot and slow at first — just one long lick from bottom to top that has your eyes rolling back. His hands pin your thighs apart, anchoring you in place as he buries his face between your legs.

His tongue is obscene. Soft and firm in perfect rhythm, flicking over your clit before sealing his mouth around it and sucking hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cry out, hips stuttering up into his face, but he just groans against you.

“Fuck, you’re so messy already,” he mumbles against you. “Is that for me?”

You’re beyond words.

Your fingers snake into his hair, anchoring yourself as he eats you out like a man with something to prove. He moves with precision and hunger, memorising your every twitch, every gasp, every breathless curse.

“God, Kook—” you pant, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re such a fucking overachiever.”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, chin slick, pupils blown. “You gonna dock my grade if I make you come too fast?”

You glare down at him, chest heaving. “You’re insufferable.”

He presses a kiss to your clit, slow and sharp. “As if it doesn't turn you on."

You can’t argue. Not when he dives back in, tongue sliding over you with maddening confidence, his nose bumping against your clit as he hums.

The pressure builds fast.

Too fast.

And you know it’s coming — the kind of orgasm that starts at your toes and climbs like a fuse to the rest of you — but you don’t care.

You come hard, shaking through it, barely aware of the sounds leaving your mouth. Everything goes white-hot for a second — your grip in his hair, the tremble in your thighs, the pleasure that pulses through you.

You’re still gasping, thighs trembling, when he finally pulls back. His lips are slick, his chin wet with you, and he looks fucking wrecked.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You good?” he asks, cocky and a little breathless.

You shoot him a look. “Do I look good?”

He smirks. “You look like I just rocked your shit.”

You scoff, weak but grinning. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He kisses your inner thigh, then leans up, mouth dragging over your ribs as he moves back over you. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Your hands slide under his shirt as he settles above you again, dragging it up over his toned stomach until he gets the hint and peels it off. You press your palms to his chest, warm and solid and slick with sweat.

Then your hand starts moving lower.

Jungkook freezes above you, eyes flicking down to where your fingers are tugging at his waistband. You smirk up at him.

“My turn?”

“Your turn to what?” he asks, voice already hoarse.

You shift, nudging his hips up so you can start pulling his jeans open. “You think I’m gonna let you have all the fun?”

He groans — actual, full-bodied groan — as you work the zipper down and slide your hand beneath the waistband of his boxers.

But the second your fingers wrap around him, he grabs your wrist.

You look up, surprised. “What?”

He’s panting now, jaw tight, brow furrowed like he’s holding on by a thread.

“I can’t.”

You blink. “Can’t what?”

“I— fuck, if you put your mouth on me, I’m not gonna last.” He grips your wrist tighter, not pulling away but not letting you move either. “And I need to be in you first.”

You raise a brow, amused. “What happened to all that stamina you brag about during Mario Kart?”

He glares, cheeks flushed. “That’s different. You don’t suck me off during Mario Kart.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Don’t joke right now,” he grits out, pushing your hand out of his boxers with an almost painful kind of restraint. “I’m serious. I’m already dying.”

You pout, dragging your nails lightly down his stomach just to be a brat. “So needy.”

His eyes narrow, before moving back onto you.

You squeal as he pins your hands above your head, his body crashing into yours, mouth crashing against your neck.

“I’ll show you needy,” he growls, voice thick and dark.

Your heart kicks hard in your chest, and you’re smiling — giddy, wrecked, turned on beyond belief.

“You promise?” you whisper, voice almost mocking.

His hips roll down into yours.

“Oh, baby. I promise.”

The second his hips grind down again, dragging against your soaked heat, you feel your breath punch out of your lungs.

He lets go of your wrists and shoves his jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself, cock flushed and heavy, already leaking at the tip. You reach for it instinctively, wanting to feel him, stroke him slow just to tease — but he swats your hand away like it’s nothing.

“No,” he growls, leaning in to press a kiss to your collarbone, rough and reverent all at once. “You had your chance.”

You open your mouth to argue, to push his buttons just a little more — but the head of his cock nudges your entrance, and whatever snark you had queued up melts into a gasp.

Jungkook groans under his breath, burying his face in the crook of your neck like the restraint is killing him. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, gripping his shoulders, nails digging in. “Wonder why.”

He shifts his hips, just a little, dragging the thick head through your folds. Not pushing in yet, but slicking himself up with you. You moan despite yourself, arching into him, your body desperate to be filled.

“You ready?” he mutters, voice ragged.

You look at him — really look at him. His hair’s a mess, stuck to his forehead. His lips are kiss-bruised and red. His abs flex as he holds himself up over you, barely restraining the shake in his arms.

And you’ve never wanted anything so badly in your life.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

He pushes in slow, thick and stretching, and your breath catches at the burn. Your back arches. One hand flies to the window for leverage, the other fists in the back of his neck.

“Jesus,” Jungkook groans, barely halfway in. “You feel— fuck— you feel insane.”

You laugh, short and winded. “That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, and I meant it.”

He bottoms out with a curse, hips flush to yours. For a moment, you both just breathe — heavy and ragged, bodies locked together, the air thick with sweat and want.

His movements are slow at first — just a shallow roll of his hips that drags his cock along every nerve ending inside you. You moan, legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs.

“Faster,” you breathe, already twitching around him.

He leans back just enough to watch your face, eyes locked on yours like he’s chasing every reaction. Then he picks up the pace — slamming into you with long, deep strokes that have the car rocking.

You cry out, snapping your hand up to press against your mouth. “Kook— fuck, don’t stop.”

He laughs — laughs, breathless and wrecked. “You think I could?”

Every thrust punches a gasp from your lungs. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but hold on.

He shifts, bracing one knee on the seat and angling his hips just right — and when he hits that spot inside you, your whole body jerks.

“Oh my god,” you moan.

“Right there?” he grits out, sweat dripping down his jaw. “Fuck, I feel it— your pussy’s so fucking tight, you’re gonna— shit— you’re gonna make me come.”

“Thought you said I’d be the one begging.”

He groans, pulls out almost all the way, then slams back in so hard you scream.

“Still wanna be a brat?” he growls, panting.

You nod, grinning through the moans. “Always.”

“Fine.” He grabs both your wrists again and pins them above your head, his body pressing into you harder now, relentless, sweat slicking your skin. “Then you can take it.”

And fuck, you do.

Your second orgasm creeps up on you fast — your whole body tensing as his thrusts get rougher, deeper, desperate. You cry out his name, high and wrecked, and the sound makes him snap.

His rhythm falters. His mouth crashes against yours, sloppy and hot, all teeth and tongue as he chases his own edge.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps, pulling back to look at you, eyes wild. “Fuck— can I—?”

You nod fast, moaning. “Inside. Just do it.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself one last time and shatters — groaning low in your ear as he spills into you, body shaking, arms trembling with effort as he holds himself up.

For a moment, it’s just the sound of breathing. Wind through cracked windows. The slow drip of sweat down your temples. The burn in your thighs. The mess between your legs.

Jungkook lets out a choked laugh and slumps down, burying his face in your neck. “Okay,” he mumbles. “That might’ve been the best sex I’ve had in a fucking car.”

You laugh, dazed. “You say that like it’s a long list.”

“Give me some credit,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. “I’m not that trashy.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “We just fogged up every window in your car.”

“Worth it.”

He doesn’t move.

You’re still tangled together, his weight heavy on you, his softening cock still inside.

After a moment, he shifts slightly and lets out a low, satisfied sigh. You can feel the smile against your neck before he presses another kiss there. Then another. And another.

You squirm, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re clingy as fuck after sex.”

“Mm-hmm,” Jungkook hums, completely unashamed. “Deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, still grinning. “You’re like a weighted blanket.”

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, sweaty curls falling into his eyes. “You love it.”

“Debatable.”

He snorts, then finally pulls out, slow and careful. You both groan at the feeling, and you feel it immediately: his cum, warm and slick, already starting to slide out of you.

You shift to reach for your underwear, cringing at the sticky feeling.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “When we get home.”

You blink at him. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off—”

“No.” His tone is firmer now, jaw set. “I’m not just dropping you off.”

You stare at him for a beat, surprised by the sharp edge in his voice. Then you glance down pull up your bra and button up your shirt, suddenly very aware of your heartbeat again.

He watches you the whole time, his eyes dragging over your skin like he’s memorising every inch of it before covering it back up. And when you finish with the last button and reach for your jeans, he leans forward and kisses your jaw — soft, almost reverent.

“I mean it,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And for some reason, you don’t fight it.

You’re lying in his bed, hair still damp from the shower, the curve of his hoodie soft against your bare thighs. The sheets smell like fabric softener and his cologne, and the room is dim — just the small lamp by the closet casting a low amber glow. There’s a bowl of ramen on the nightstand, still steaming. You’re not hungry, but he made it for you, so you took a few bites anyway.

Outside, the city hums. A car passes on the street below. Somewhere down the hall, the radiator clicks.

It should feel normal. Comfortable. It did feel normal — until maybe twenty minutes ago.

Things were fine when you got here. He’d pulled you toward the bathroom and handed you a towel, that stupid grin still half on his face. He even said something about making noodles if you promised not to pass out in his bed again. You’d laughed. Called him a housewife. Everything felt fine.

But when you came out of the shower, something was different.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling his phone like he didn’t hear you walk in. And when he looked up, the smile was there, yeah — but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. You shrugged it off. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe he was just zoning out.

But then it kept going.

Quiet, too quiet. He’d made the ramen without talking. Brought it to you, set it down, and just... sat on the floor for a while, scrolling again, saying nothing. When you asked what he was doing, he just said, “Checking something,” and didn’t elaborate. Eventually he stood, turned on a random playlist, and flopped into the chair in the corner with a bottle of water.

Now he’s across the room, scrolling again, leg bouncing slightly like he’s keyed up and trying to burn it off. He hasn’t looked at you in a few minutes. You watch the light from his phone flicker across his face, the way his brow furrows every now and then, and something in your chest tugs.

It’s not dramatic. He’s not being rude or distant. He’s not treating you like a stranger. But he’s not treating you like you, either — not the way he usually does.

You know him too well not to notice. The way he’s moving isn’t right. Like he’s stuck in his own head. Like there’s something he wants to say but doesn’t know how to bring up.

Or maybe he’s trying not to say something. Either way, it sits in the air between you, subtle but heavy.

You pull your knees up under the hoodie and wrap your arms around them, resting your chin there. Watching him. Waiting, maybe, for him to snap out of it. Say something dumb. Make fun of your hair. Crawl into bed next to you like it’s nothing.

But he doesn’t.

You shift slightly, tugging the hoodie down over your thighs even though it’s already covering you. The ramen’s gone lukewarm on the nightstand.

“Kook?”

His head lifts just a little. “Hmm?”

You hesitate. “What’s going on?”

He blinks, finally looking at you. His eyes are soft. Tired, maybe. Or just dimmer than usual. “What do you mean?”

“You just feel…” You trail off, unsure how to word it without sounding dramatic. “I don’t know. A little off.”

He smiles, and it’s almost convincing. “I’m good. Just tired.”

You don’t push. Not really. You know him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. And whatever this is — it doesn’t feel sharp enough to cut yet. It just feels strange.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He glances down, then back at you. “Eat your noodles before they go gross.”

You glance at the bowl, then back at him. “You eat yet?”

He nods. “Earlier.”

You don’t believe him, but you let it slide.

He shifts in the chair, stretching his legs out and resting his head back for a second before sitting up again, like he was about to let himself relax and then thought better of it.

“I’m gonna get some work done before bed,” he says, standing up slowly. “Couple things I need to catch up on.”

You watch him move toward the door, half expecting him to stop, change his mind, come back and say something dumb like he always does. But he just opens it, hand braced against the frame.

His voice is gentle when he adds, “Don’t stay up too late, alright?”

You nod. “Yeah. I won’t.”

He gives you a small smile — soft, careful — and then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You stare at it for a long moment. The hoodie sleeves are pulled over your hands now. The ramen sits untouched. The playlist keeps playing, quiet and aimless in the background.

You let out a soft sigh before reaching over to flick off the lamp.

The room goes dark, soft shadows stretching over the walls. The sheets rustle as you shift down into them, tugging the comforter over your legs, the warmth doing nothing to quiet the noise in your head.

Maybe this is why people don’t sleep with their best friends.

Maybe this is exactly why those lines exist — because crossing them means risking everything else. And maybe you knew that. Maybe you ignored it anyway.

Because it was him.

Because part of you has been circling this for longer than you want to admit.

You close your eyes, breathing slow and steady. The scent of him still clings to the sheets. Still wraps around you like he should be here. But he’s not.

Regret settles low in your chest, dull and heavy. You hate the way it sits there, thick in your ribs, twisting slow in your stomach. You’ve always hated how it creeps in after the fact, when it’s already too late to take anything back.

You shift onto your side and pull the blanket up to your chin. Try to sleep. Try to stop thinking.

He said everything was fine.

You just wish you believed him.

→ read part three here

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[gutsby]

Stiff

Pairing: Old!Joel x Reader

Summary: At fifty-nine, Joel isn’t sure his dick can keep up with every day it’s going to take to get you pregnant. He seeks help from Jackson’s local apothecary and gets more than bargained for when that little blue pill kicks in.

Or, your old man wants to knock you up. Viagra helps.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v (obviously 😵‍💫🤙🏼). Breeding kink. Age gap. Peepaw Joel. Blue Pill Joel. Post-apocalyptic-Viagra-dosage-gone-horribly-wrong-and-now-his-dick-won’t-deflate-for-a-day…but it’s OK!

Note: This is the crackfic counterpart/sequel to ‘Make It Stick’

Word count: 2.9k

Forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes until his fate was sealed for the night. His pulse would quicken. His head would start to swim, and any last sliver of rational thought would be lost to the ether or the cold, snowy air around him. Joel Miller had to hurry now, because that bite-sized blue pill he’d just taken was in his belly, and if his dick didn’t find its way in you, he was fucked. Or at least huge and swollen and leaking out beads of hot desire the size of golf balls.

Well, maybe that was just his cock.

Joel looked down, scanning his pants.

Yeah…definitely just cock. He walked faster.

At home, he knew he’d find you curled up on the couch, nose in a book. What to Expect When You’re Expecting, if he had to guess. Then, sure enough, you’d lift your eyes and smile—‘Thank goodness you’re back, daddy’—and lift the hem of your night dress just slightly. Spread your legs and beckon him in. It was a nightly routine by now.

You wanted to be knocked up as fast as possible, after all

At almost sixty years old, Joel couldn’t believe he was actually saying these words aloud. But here he was—crawling overtop you on the couch, situating himself between your legs, and pulling his cock out, mumbling:

“Gonna let me put a baby in you tonight?”

You nodded sweetly—eagerly—every time.

Joel knew he could never resist that look. He was as good as finished the first second you let him sink inside your tight, weeping hole, and when he stretched it, he could already tell this was all he would ever want to do. Make you happy, fill you up, give you lots and lots of him.

It was why he’d stopped by the apothecary tonight. Why he’d hesitated only a moment before clearing his throat and asking for a pill like Viagra—Joel knew that the man behind the counter would flash him a wry, knowing grin.

Trouble keepin’ up with that sweet young thing’a yours?

David was a dick.

He wasn’t entirely wrong, either.

Ever since agreeing to start trying for a baby, Joel had become acutely aware of his own physical limitations in that department, and one of them was stamina. He could scarcely fuck twice in the same night without needing a long and rest-intensive breather. You were young and could roll over ready to go in five minutes.

It wasn’t fair to deprive you now on account of his age.

If you wanted his cum, you were getting it, no question.

Not just once, but multiple times. Again and again and—

“Again,” Joel grunted once he’d shot off his last spurt.

Fifty-eight minutes had passed since he’d taken that pill. It had fully kicked in, and his dick was still hard, even after finishing inside you with a sticky, white-hot flood.

You blinked dreamily up at him.

“You mean it, old man?” you teased him lightly.

I’ll show you what I mean, Joel thought to himself before flipping you over on the sofa. He had your hips tilted up and his cock driving back inside your freshly-fucked cunt in no time at all. He felt his spend coating your walls; it let him glide right in. Joel groaned and jerked himself back out, then fucked back in again and again and again.

“Again?”

Your word was exhaled in a laugh.

You stood in front of the bathroom sink, trying to tidy up the insides of your legs and push some more of Joel’s load back in, when you felt a presence at your back.

Stabbing your ass.

You started to turn then, puzzled.

“Bend over,” Joel commanded before you could.

You did as you were told because, frankly, you loved getting fucked wherever your old man wanted it—even if he had broken the sink one time he’d pounded you here.

But there was palpable confusion, too. How in the hell had Joel Miller, certified silver fox and owner of a dick old enough to remember Woodstock and the moon landing, managed to get his dick hard in the five minutes since he’d had you face-down, ass-up on the couch?

Or had his dick gotten soft at all?

You wanted to question him about it, or else give a long, hard look at his uncharacteristically long, hard friend, when the next moment had you gripping the counter. Stretching between the legs as Joel pushed back in.

“There she is,” he murmured affectionately.

Really, you’d never been wetter. Or warmer. Or filled to the brim with more sticky-white spend than you could ever hope to hold inside, it felt like. You bent at the waist and let him have his fill. You closed your eyes and rested your head on your forearms while Joel’s hot, bulbous tip grazed your cervix with dizzying alacrity. A smile crept in.

Whatever this was, you wanted more of it.

His dick was still hard.

Four mind-numbing fucks and another forty-five minutes later, Joel’s cock hadn’t deflated the tiniest bit.

The thing had hammered you so thoroughly he’d nearly destroyed the sink again. You’d whimpered, and whined, and warned him quietly, ‘We just fixed the porcelain, baby,’ and right before he’d painted your walls with his seed, you’d cum for him practically shrieking. Shaking.

Letting him turn you around for a kiss, only to mumble against his mouth with a sleepy, cockdrunk sort of lilt:

“I think you gave me twins.”

Then he’d fucked you in the shower to make it triplets.

Now you were laying out on the bed, truly spent, eyes following him in the semi-darkness of your bedroom after you’d toweled off and collapsed among the pillows.

“What’s gotten into you tonight, Miller?” you breathed.

Joel made it over to the dresser, back turned to you. He rifled through a drawer looking for something extra tight.

“Just missed you is all,” he said, shrugging.

What he needed right now was fabric that was very thick to hide the boner he was sporting. Joel could tell from the way you spoke that you were too tired for round five, and he didn’t want you feeling like you had to go again.

He would be fine.

His dick might not deflate until dawn, but that was okay.

“Wish you missed me like this every day,” you giggled.

When Joel turned around, he was shocked to find you sprawled out on the bed—hands between your legs.

There was a shy smile on your face.

“Baby…” he trailed off, watching your fingers flit through that sticky mess where he’d left it. Where you glistened.

Where you slid your index and middle fingers up and down your slit and drew circles on your clit, eyes shining.

“What? I missed you too,” you said, tone all faux protest.

You had no idea what you did to him when you talked like that. Especially when he was drowning in a state like this.

Hard as a rock.

Throbbing.

Needy.

Scarcely even knowing what he was doing, Joel found himself over by the foot of the bed in a second. Watching your every move with a wild, wipe-open stare he still couldn’t believe you found appealing. He swallowed.

He not only looked perverted, but he felt it, too. It rarely ever left his mind, save for the four or five seconds he spent in ecstasy emptying the contents of his balls inside your cunt, that he was his age, and you were yours. That perhaps the rest of Jackson was right, and he was wrong: he had no business being around a girl like you, much less getting off inside you every night. Was this really what you wanted? A bewildering mixture of guilt, lust, and love all circulated through his skull at that moment, and the longer he spent looking at your fingers, ogling the way you teased them through his cum between your legs, the more he felt certain he was bad.

No one corrupted a thing this sweet and got to call themselves good, anyway, he thought to himself idly.

“I keep gettin’ that…feelin’,” you said under your breath.

Joel’s hand tightened in a fist, and it was then that he realized it was wrapped around his cock. Still watching.

“Yeah, baby? What feelin’?” he returned, almost as quiet.

Still stroking himself up and down, up and down, softly.

You had your legs spread open—knees splayed wider than they’d been before. And your eyes had a tender, placid sheen to them, like they just might cry if they didn’t get release of some kind soon. Then you slowed.

Your touch slipped from your clit to the opaque, sticky globs between your thighs, and that look got even softer.

More desperate.

“Can’t…explain it.” You shook your head, as if pained, and then you sank two fingers inside. Joel could hear the tiny schlick from where he stood, and it almost did him in.

You sucked in a breath and added, “It’s a special feelin’.”

Joel’s fist had already worked its way up to a ridiculous speed. Again, he sensed this might be the worst and most pathetic he’d ever looked, but by the glint in your eyes and the way you kept holding him there, he also knew you weren’t asking him to stop, either. You were needing something else—something he could provide.

Thanks to that one stupid pill.

Joel’s smile was strained as he gripped the edge of the bed, like he was trying to assuage you and him at once.

“Try me, baby. Tell me ‘bout that special feelin’.”

Your middle and ring fingers disappeared inside you.

You whined, “Ain’t fair to say it now. You’re tired, daddy.”

Like hell he was. Joel crawled over the footboard and made his way straight to you, where your body was limp.

His breaths were coming in so fast and his pulse was thrumming so hard that he almost couldn’t hear himself talking. But he ventured to speak as gently as he could.

“I’m wide awake, sweet pea. I’m all ears. Talk to me.”

And if his words didn’t communicate as much, surely the look in his eyes would’ve told you all the rest. Quietly, he slipped his torso between your legs, where you’d inserted a third finger and were moving your hips again. You were fingering yourself, breathing shallow and quick.

“It’s a feelin’ like I wanna be…stuffed…a-and full’a you.”

Joel’s whole body could’ve liquified on the spot. His brain, presently, had all the consistency of a plate of scrambled eggs if he’d had to guess. Feeling his cock swell even bigger and his hips sink lower to yours of their own accord, he had only to grit his teeth and nod his head. He felt the tip of him bump your fingers, and the sensation and the expectation nearly drove him insane.

He mumbled quietly, “Then move your hand.”

You did. You winced again. You looked as though you might be ashamed for wanting him to fill you with his spend, and Joel simply wouldn’t allow that any longer.

Without saying another word, he slid back in.

Your cum and his facilitated the slide, and you opened right up for him. You whimpered, while Joel grunted like an animal. He couldn’t help it; it all felt so fucking primal.

How you could ever feel the need to apologize for wanting more of this was more than he could take.

“Every inch of me,” Joel said, rutting deeper, “is yours.”

He withdrew to the tip, and he could feel strings of arousal linking him to you in a sickeningly sweet way.

You could scarcely even nod, just waiting for him again.

When Joel plunged back in, he heard a feral little cry, and he felt your legs wrap around his waist. He went faster. You fisted the pillow behind your head in one hand, while the other laid flat on his chest, like you were checking for a heartbeat. You could probably hear it thudding a million miles per minute right now. Your hips collided in tandem.

“D— Daddy,” you whimpered.

“That’s it, open up for daddy. Good girl. It’s all yours.”

The sounds his thrusts were making were obscene.

“Every inch?” you breathed, “E-Every drop, too?”

“Every fiber of my fucking being, sweet girl.”

That made you smile, at length. Your hand slid from his chest, down his round belly, straight to a groin that was pounding hard and fast against your own. Joel groaned when he felt your touch sweep inside your legs—right in the space where his cum had come trickling out. You slid your fingers through that mess, then whimpered again.

Then you brought your hand up to your mouth.

You wrapped your lips around your cum-soaked fingers like they were the single sweetest thing, and you sucked.

Joel had no say after seeing that: he had to cum again.

It likely stunned you both—you more than him, by the look that crossed your eyes the second you felt him throb and pulse inside your cunt—but then it kept going.

Rather than stop, or slow down in the slightest, Joel found his hips pistoning faster than they had before. The whole bed frame shook, and your body trembled with every thrust, and the noises between your legs grew even louder; the sound of skin slapping skin was only amplified by the addition of Joel’s hot load in the mix.

The man was operating on impulse. You, through sheer awe and an animalistic need to have every crevice filled. You held him and you grit your teeth, and you let him keep using your body, while you used his. You kissed him.

“Go on, then—make me a daddy. Take my cum, baby,” Joel babbled, brainless, “Make your old man a daddy.”

He couldn’t tell if it were the words or the rhythm or the pleasure that had already been blossoming deep in your gut this whole time, but he felt you fall apart. You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist than you had all night, and you screamed his name. Begged for more.

“Cum in me, daddy—pleasepleaseplease just cum, ju—”

And there he went. Again. Flooding your insides with his warmth and letting his cock carve a wild, relentless path through your cunt like it was all the man knew how to do. He filled you up. He felt it leaking down his length with every stab of his hips, and frankly, he didn’t care what he looked like now. You were smiling big, drawing him in for more kisses as he panted and grunted and whimpered like he never had before. He kissed back. Slowed down.

Found himself lost in your mouth as your tongue wove delectably through his own and your hands made their way to his wild, greying hair. You tugged, and he moaned.

He fucked his spend deeper without even meaning to.

All instinct again, it seemed he couldn’t get enough.

Suddenly, he felt a new, strange urge bubble up.

“I-I-I took a pill tonight,” he blurted out, “Know how badly you want this baby, and I wanna give you one.”

Or two. Or twenty. He was barely capable of speech, let alone rational cognition, so he just spoke whatever came to his mind then, still snug inside your legs and panting.

“A pill?” you whispered back.

Joel’s gaze locked with yours.

He felt stupid for it all at once.

“Yeah. Yeah, I just— I know I’m gettin’ on in years, and I probably can’t fuck the way I used to. And you deserve someone who can…Maybe a guy your age, but that—”

“—is the single dumbest thing you have ever said to me,” you finished for him, eyes narrowing swiftly in a scowl.

When Joel tried talking again, you cut him off.

“I don’t care what any guy my age is doing, or could do. I want babies with you, and that includes every part, OK?”

Your look softened momentarily, seeing his lips twitch down—you could probably see he wasn’t believing you.

Then you cradled his face in your palms. You smiled. You brushed his nose with yours, and you kissed him again, and with what little strength you likely had left in your body, you dug your heels in his ass and pulled him deeper. Both of you let out soft, low grunts at the effort.

“If you fucked like this at twenty-five, my body wouldn’t have survived anyway,” you whispered in reassurance. Biting back a laugh as Joel smiled, too, “I like things just the way they are. Just like how I hope you like me, too.”

“No—I love you.” Joel shook his head, almost plaintive.

And for the first time that night, he felt himself soften.

Whether it was the pill wearing off or that first thread of vulnerability stretching out between your body and his, he didn’t really care. He kissed the tip of your nose and was about to say something more, when you cut back in.

“I love you more. And since we’re being honest tonight,” you started quietly, nipping at your bottom lip a second, “I might…need you back at the apothecary tomorrow.”

Joel’s face fell.

“Wh— is something wrong, baby?” His voice was tight.

He hated seeing David, but, of course, he’d go back there in a heartbeat if it meant getting you the medication you needed. His stomach was starting to churn, when you reached up to hold his face again. You shook your head.

“No, no, Joel, I’m fine. But I may need prenatal vitamins.”

Now his eyes were going wide. His cheeks heated under your palms, and his cock twitched inside you, reflexively.

“You mean…” he murmured, unable to finish. Swallowing.

Beneath him, he saw you smile and nod.

He nearly choked hearing what followed:

“I meant to tell you earlier, but…my period’s a little late.”

[bunnyinvanilla]

imagine soft bunny girl wanting to play a silly little prank on sugar daddy!dilf john price by paying for the check. only an harmless little prank, nothing serious, right?

not for him. as an old fashioned gentleman, he wouldn’t take that well. he’d never let you pay for a single thing, you’re his sugar baby after all (his unconventionally too young girlfriend)

let’s say you’re on a date. restaurant, sweet treat break, anything you’d like, and when you’re done, you stand up in your frilly little skirt, glossed lips, strawberry and vanilla perfume that swirls around him when you lean down to kiss him on the corner of his mouth, right above that mustache you go crazy for.

“be right back sir, lady needs” you use the bathroom excuse, he gruffs out a “aight doll” but instead of heading to the toilet, you secretly go pay. innocent, naive little bunny, you think he’s gonna laugh at that, find it hilarious.

little does he know, you slip to the front and quickly pay the bill, before slipping to the toilet.

but after you actually hop to the bathroom, he stands up. broad shoulders, straight, imposing stance that exudes confidence, pure masculinity that stretches like leather with every step he takes, a cigar that’s not lit yet hanging from his mouth.

he doesn’t say a word, leisurely takes his wallet off the back pocket of his expensive suit jacket and proceeds to hand the card to the waiter, who, cluelessly, just smiles at him,

“the bill has already been paid, sir”

john blinks, once, then twice, maybe his ears are starting to play on him, given his seasoned age. he’s not sure he’s heard that right. so he mutters a rough “ ‘scuse me?”

“yes, the lady who’s here with you paid earlier”

those words feel wrong in his head, unwelcome. he wants to spit them out, but he’s always a man of undeterred and outmost control, composure. only the way his jaw clenches underneath his thick beard, salt and pepper like the mixed thoughts running in his mind, says otherwise.

he doesn’t how how long he remains still like that, buff muscles somehow becoming thicker, building a stonelike wall that prevents the boiling fire within him to flow outside. unmoving, like the endless times spent eyeing the target from afar, waiting like a statue for the perfect moment to bounce on them.

feigned stoicism and broodiness decor his mature face, as he tucks his wallet back inside his pocket with more strength that before — he nods to the waiter, and waits for you outside. when you come back, careless, sugary bunny that hops close to her brown bear, unaware of the way she’s offended his sense of manliness, you grab his hand with both of yours, smiling sweetly, blinking your long lashes. “we can go sir”

“what did you do, doll?” his rough tone should’ve made you halt, but you, sweet soul, think that his usual half, lazy smile is going to appear on his mustache. you shrug, like it’s nothing, really, giggling playfully soft.

“treated you for once,”

he’s gonna find it funny, you thought.

but he doesn’t.

“did i give you permission to do that?”

your smile falters. you blink, bunnies are slow in their movements when they’re processing their surroundings. but then, they haste.

“what? oh, no, but i just wanted to pay for once. it was a j—“

“get in the car, now.”

oh no. you hope you didn’t ruin your date with your little prank. it was supposed to be harmless, just a mere little thing to take him off guard. but—

“it’s fine, you always pay, sir, i thought you’d find it funny that i paid for once” you try to justify yourself, but he doesn’t laugh. his characteristic authority and intimidating nature comes out, a second skin that fits him perfectly.

“i said get in the car, doll, don’t make me repeat myself again, angel”

and when you do arrive home, you don’t even have time to take off your heels. you’ve always been a good girl, obedient, well mannered. you never disobeyed him once.

he never had to punish you for anything.

you squint when he pats his thigh, sitting on the edge of your bed. the rustling of his leather belt being unbuckled. manspreading his legs, he invites you.

”how much did you pay?” his voice could cut on stone, deep, low and husky.

you almost shiver, poor bunny, you keep your eyes down, fidgeting with your hands,

“and don’t lie to me, sweetheart. i can check your account.”

your mumble is almost a mute one as you whisper ”sixty, sir”

his hand looks large, heavy, you knows it’s gonna leave red marks on your butt, as red as your flushing cheeks. ”good. gonna keep count until half of it, come here, princess, thirty spanks, and then you’re gonna be my good girl all over again. understood?”

“but—“

“not mad at you, princess. you’re still my good girl. you didn’t mean to misbehave, daddy knows that. but actions have consequences, angel, even if it was well meant and intentioned, now,”

he patted his thigh again, and you swallowed, docile eyes downturned.

“don’t make me wait, have to put those money back in your account”

[inseobts]

Busted! (Secret Relationship)

what if the two of you are in a secret relantionship and suddenly everyone start to realize something is going on?

characters: zoro, sanji, law, koby, ace

(luffy, sabo, kid, shanks, bartolomeo)

words count: around 0.8k - 1.3k each

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

── .✦ Zoro:

The Thousand Sunny is quiet most days, but today feels especially peaceful. The crew’s scattered across the deck sunbathing, napping, playing cards, and you? You’re on a mission.

Zoro’s disappeared again.

“Where did he go this time?” you mutter, padding softly down the hallway. You’ve checked the deck, the crow’s nest, even behind the kitchen. Nothing. Then you think... of course! The training room.

Sure enough, you step inside and spot him, dead asleep on the floor, his swords lying beside him like loyal dogs. He looks peaceful, his breathing deep and even. You smile. He really can sleep anywhere.

You don’t mean to sit down next to him, but somehow, you do.

Just for a minute.

Just long enough to rest your head against his shoulder.

Next thing you know, it’s dark. The room’s dipped in shadow, the ship creaking gently. You jolt upright, a little dazed.

“Zoro—sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

But he just grunts, shifting a little. His shoulder doesn’t move from under your cheek.

It becomes a pattern after that.

You find him again a few days later, this time slumped in a corner of the dining room. You lie down nearby. Sleep drags you under before you can think twice. When you wake, your head is in his lap.

“You’re fine” he murmurs, when you apologize again. Like it’s no big deal. Like he’s used to you being there.

And you start to think… maybe he is.

The naps become frequent. Easy. Comfortable. You stop trying to come up with excuses. You sit beside him on the deck while the others chatter. You lean against him while he sharpens his swords. He never pulls away.

One night, you find him leaning against the wall of the storage room, eyes half-lidded, arms crossed. The moment you walk in, he straightens, just barely, but enough for you to know he was waiting.

He pulls you in without a word. A kiss. Slow, familiar. His hands are warm on your back.

“I missed you” you whisper against his collarbone.

Zoro exhales through his nose “You saw me four hours ago.”

“Still.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans his forehead against yours.

It’s sweet. Undisturbed. Until you hear footsteps and both of you freeze.

“Shhhit” you whisper, slipping away as quiet as you can.

Neither of you sees Chopper peeking from behind a barrel.

The next day, the crew is watching. Not subtly.

You notice Nami watching you with a knowing smirk. Robin sips her tea, but there’s amusement in her gaze. Sanji is glaring daggers at Zoro (okay, that’s normal), but Usopp is squinting at you both like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

You clear your throat “What?”

Usopp narrows his eyes further “You and Zoro have been acting weird.”

Your heart nearly stops.

You glance at Zoro, who doesn’t even flinch as he takes another bite of his rice “What the hell are you talking about?”

“That you two are obviously acting weird lately...” Nami finally says.

Zoro doesn’t even blink “You’re imagining things.”

“You’re eating your vegetables...” she points out.

Zoro shrugs “Coincidence.”

“You showed up early to dinner” Usopp adds, suspicious.

“Must’ve been a fluke.”

Brook, not missing a beat, says, “I saw you napping with her head on your lap again. Yohohoho~”

You wish you could melt into your chair. But Zoro? Calm as ever.

“She was tired,” he says flatly “What’s the problem?”

Luffy gasps dramatically “You’re dating!!”

Zoro sighs “We were resting.”

You stare at your plate, but a warm touch to your hand under the table grounds you.

Zoro, looking at you like the whole world could wait.

Days pass. You try to be extra careful. Less glances. Less sneaky meetings. Less…everything.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because one night, the crew catches you.

It happens so fast. One moment, you’re on watch duty, and the next, Zoro is there, dragging you into a kiss. It’s heated, his hands gripping your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair, completely lost in each other.

Then “AH-HA!!”

You jolt apart.

Usopp is pointing at you both, eyes wide with betrayal “I knew it!!”

The entire crew is gathered behind him, staring.

Luffy tilts his head “Wait, were we not supposed to know?”

Sanji is fuming “Why him?! You could do so much better, Y/N-chan!”

Robin chuckles “It was quite obvious, honestly.”

Chopper bounces excitedly “I saw them sneaking around weeks ago!”

You cover your face in embarrassment “Oh my god, it was you!”

Zoro groans, rubbing the back of his neck “Tch. Should’ve known you idiots would figure it out. You never mind your own business.”

Luffy grins “Well, at least you don’t have to sneak around anymore!”

Zoro pauses, then shrugs “Guess that’s true.” He turns to you, smirking “Means I can kiss you whenever I want now.”

Your face burns “Zoro!!”

The crew erupts in laughter (except for Sanji, he cries louder).

Secret’s out.

Now you nap by his side without hiding. You lean against him on long afternoons. You sit close at meals. Luffy teases you both constantly. Sanji mutters curses under his breath. But it’s fine.

It’s more than fine. It’s peaceful.

That night, after dinner, you find yourself heading below deck. The ship rocks gently with the sea, moonlight shining through the portholes.

You already know where you’ll find him.

He’s sitting in the training room, back against the wall, swords neatly stacked beside him. When you walk in, he glances up, but he doesn’t say anything.

You sit beside him, stretching your legs out in front of you.

“I thought I might find you here” you say.

Zoro grunts, not disagreeing.

Silence settles in. Comfortable. You shift slightly, laying your head in his lap. He doesn’t move, just lets his fingers find their way into your hair, slow and soothing.

It’s a simple thing. The kind of closeness that doesn’t ask for anything in return.

His hand runs gently over your scalp. You feel your eyes drifting shut again.

“I like this” Zoro says, voice low, almost a rumble.

You blink sleepily, your cheek still pressed to his thigh “Hm?”

“You. Sleeping like this.” He pauses “On my lap.”

Your heart flutters at the quiet honesty. You glance up at him, but he’s not looking down, he’s staring straight ahead, the barest hint of pink on his cheeks.

“I like it too” you murmur.

Zoro’s thumb brushes just behind your ear, then down the back of your neck, repeating the motion. A steady rhythm. Grounding. Careful.

His fingers slip into your hair again, and he continues tracing lazy circles on your scalp. His other hand rests lightly on your arm, as if to say, I’ve got you.

You drift off to the sound of his breathing, calm and slow.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the windows.

You wake slowly, still curled up in Zoro’s lap. His fingers are tangled gently in your hair, and his thumb brushes your temple in slow, steady passes.

You tilt your head, eyes meeting his.

“How long have you been awake?” you whisper.

Zoro smirks, eyes warm “Long enough.”

You stretch, reluctant to move.

“I’m comfortable” you mumble.

He doesn’t stop touching your hair “Good.”

“Zoro?”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m getting used to this.”

He finally looks down at you, something quiet in his expression, softness, maybe. Peace.

“Yeah,” he says “Me too.”

And you smile, because in this floating world full of chaos, monsters, and adventure… it’s the quietest moments like this that feel the most real.

── .✦ Sanji:

Sanji is always everywhere. In the kitchen. On the deck. Serving drinks. Flirting with Nami and Robin. Spinning around like the lovestruck idiot he is.

Which is exactly why no one suspects a damn thing.

No one notices how his hand brushes against yours just a little longer when he passes you a plate. No one questions why he always makes extra of your favorite dish. And no one, not even Usopp, the self-proclaimed detective, realizes that when Sanji disappears from the kitchen at night, it’s to be with you.

Like right now.

It’s past midnight, and the kitchen is dimly lit. The scent of fresh tea and something sweet lingers in the air as you lean against the counter, watching Sanji work. His sleeves are rolled up, his vest discarded, and the soft glow of the lantern makes his golden hair look even more unruly.

“You’re spoiling me” you murmur as he places a small plate in front of you a delicate pastry, still warm.

Sanji grins, wiping his hands on a towel “Of course, mon amour. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t?”

You take a bite, humming in satisfaction “Mmm. Amazing.”

His eyes soften as he leans in, resting his palms on the counter on either side of you “I can think of something even sweeter.”

Before you can respond, he captures your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. You melt into him, gripping the fabric of his shirt as his fingers gently tilt your chin up. His lips taste like mint and a hint of the dessert he just made, and you lose yourself in the warmth of him.

Then a loud BANG from outside the door.

Both of you freeze.

Sanji pulls back, glancing at the entrance “Shit—”

You practically shove him away, wiping your lips as the door swings open.

“Oi, I swear, I'm not here to see your ugly face, I need—”

Zoro stops mid-sentence, looking between the two of you. His eyes narrow.

Your heart stops.

Sanji, ever the smooth talker, immediately turns to glare at him “Moss-head, do you have no manners? Barging into my kitchen?”

Zoro scowls “Tch. Like I wanna be here. Luffy’s whining about meat, and I—” His gaze shifts back to you. Suspicious.

You force a casual smile “Uh… late-night snack?”

Zoro doesn’t look convinced. His eyes flick between the two of you once more before he grunts “Whatever. Just bring food before Luffy eats Chopper.”

He turns and leaves.

You don’t breathe until the door clicks shut. Then you glare at Sanji “We almost got caught.”

Sanji just smirks, brushing his fingers over your wrist “But we didn’t.”

You always try to act normal. You really do. But Sanji makes it so damn difficult.

He’s always sneaking glances at you across the table. Always brushing against you when he walks by. Always bringing you your favorite snacks, acting like it’s nothing.

And apparently, the crew is starting to catch on.

“You guys ever notice that Sanji doesn’t flirt with Y/N as much as he does with Nami and Robin?” Usopp suddenly asks one day.

Your spoon nearly slips from your hand.

Franky strokes his chin “Huh. Now that you mention it…”

Brook chuckles “Ohhh, that is unusual.”

Luffy, mouth full, tilts his head “But Sanji flirts with everyone.”

Zoro scoffs “Yeah. Except Y/N.”

Your stomach drops.

Sanji, who had been stirring a pot at the stove, doesn’t even flinch “I’m just being a gentleman.”

Nami raises an eyebrow “Are you, though?”

Sanji turns, flashing his usual charming smile “Of course, my dear! Why would I treat Y/N-chan any different?”

You force a nervous laugh “Right! That would be weird, huh?”

They don’t look convinced.

Robin simply sips her tea, giving you both a knowing look.

In the end, it’s Luffy who ruins everything.

One day you and Sanji are in the storage room, tucked away between crates of supplies, wrapped up in each other. His hands are in your hair, his lips teasing against yours, and the rest of the world doesn’t exist... at least until the door slams open.

“SANJI, ARE YOU IN HE—oh.”

Luffy stops. Blinks. Tilts his head.

You and Sanji are frozen in place, practically tangled together.

Luffy’s face slowly lights up “OOOOHHHH!!!”

You scramble back “L-Luffy, it’s not what it looks like—”

“YOU GUYS WERE KISSING!!”

Sanji sighs, rubbing his temples “Goddammit.”

Before you can even try to shut him up, Luffy sprints out of the room.

You stare at the door in horror “Oh no.”

“OH YES” Sanji groans, already dreading what’s about to happen.

“GUYS!!” Luffy yells at the top of his lungs “SANJI AND Y/N ARE KISSING!!”

A beat of silence. Then an explosion of multiple “WHAT?!”

Usopp “I knew something was up!!”

Franky “That’s SUPER unexpected!”

Brook “OHOHO, young love~!”

Chopper “How long has this been going on?!”

Nami “You guys really thought you were being secretive?”

Robin chuckles knowingly “Adorable.”

Zoro grinning smugly “Called it.”

Sanji groans, burying his face in his hands “Kill me now.”

You sigh, crossing your arms “Well. Secret’s out.”

Sanji straightens, huffing dramatically before flashing you a smirk “At least now I don’t have to hold back anymore, mon amour~”

He dips you backward, kissing you full on the mouth right in front of the crew.

Cue, another round of screaming.

── .✦ Law:

Dinner on the Polar Tang is always loud. Jokes, clinks of silverware, and Bepo’s laugh echo off the metal walls.

You sit between Shachi and Penguin, pretending to listen to their story about a giant sea bass they swear was “this big”, but your eyes keep drifting across the table to Law.

Your secret boyfriend. Your captain. The man who never smiles in public, but melts when you’re alone.

No one knows. Not even Bepo. You’ve kept it quiet for months. Private looks, quick touches in dark halls, and soft kisses in his room late at night.

Today, before dinner, you stopped by his quarters. Things got… heated.

“Hold still” you say, laughing as you straddle his lap, pressing kiss after kiss on his jaw, his cheek, his neck.

“You’re gonna leave marks” Law murmurs, but his hands stay firm on your hips.

“Good,” you whisper against his throat, lips painted with your favourite lipstick “Let everyone wonder who’s bold enough to kiss the Surgeon of Death.”

He smirks, but you clean him up after. Or so you think.

Now, mid-dinner, you notice it.

Right on the collar of his white shirt, just above the neck, there's a soft red smudge. Lipstick. Your lipstick.

Your eyes widen.

Shachi nudges you “Hey, is that… is there something on Captain’s shirt?”

Penguin leans forward “Yo, Captain. You spill something?”

Law blinks. Looks down “What?”

Bepo tilts his head “No, that looks like lipstick.”

Silence falls over the table. Everyone stares.

You try to act innocent, chewing your food and glancing around like you’re just as confused.

“Lipstick?” you say, blinking “Who around here even wears lipstick?”

They all look at Ikkaku.

She doesn’t even look up from her bowl “Not me,” she mutters “That's not even my color.”

Penguin raises an eyebrow “So… that means…” He turns his head slowly toward you “You’re the only one who does.”

Shachi points between you and Law “Wait… Are you two…?”

Law doesn’t say a word. He just sips his tea like nothing’s happened.

You smile, wide and unapologetic “Guess I missed a spot.”

Silence.

Then chaos.

“WHAT?!” Shachi practically jumps over the table “YOU AND THE CAPTAIN?!”

“How long?!” Penguin shouts, eyes wide “Since when?! HOW DID WE NOT NOTICE?!”

Bepo stands up so fast he knocks over his stool “You’re dating the captain?!”

You raise an eyebrow “You guys okay? You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“Don’t play innocent!” Penguin waves his spoon “You’ve been sneaking around with him! That’s our captain!”

Shachi gasps dramatically “All those times you disappeared after dinner… And that one time you came back with messy hair! I thought it was just wind!”

“Eheh, I am the wind” you say with a smirk.

Law sighs “You’re all loud.”

Bepo stares “So it’s true? You and Y/N?”

Law glances at you, then shrugs “Yeah.”

Another wave of panic.

“THE WAY HE SAID THAT!” Penguin screams.

“SO CALM—SO COOL—WHAT THE HELL!” Shachi is holding his head like it might explode.

Ikkaku finally looks up, deadpan “You’re all idiots.”

You lean into Law’s side, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Told you they’d freak.”

“Mm,” Law mutters “Still worth it.”

Bepo sniffles “I feel so betrayed… I thought we were a family.”

“We are,” you say “Just… a family with a very attractive captain who’s taken.”

“STOP,” Shachi yells “I CAN’T UNSEE IT.”

Law smirks just a little. And you can’t help it, you kiss his cheek in front of everyone, just to drive them a little more insane.

It’s been two days since The Lipstick Incident.

Two days of nonstop teasing.

“Morning, Y/N.”

“Or should we say Mrs. Surgeon of Death?”

You roll your eyes as Shachi and Penguin trail behind you like annoying seagulls.

“Captain! Can Y/N still go on missions or is she on girlfriend duty today?”

“Should we start knocking before entering the medbay now?”

Law mostly ignores them. Mostly. Except that time he dead-eyed Penguin and said, “Keep talking and I’ll switch your arms.”

The jokes died down for a few hours after that. But Bepo has become the most dramatic.

“I still can’t believe I found out at dinner like that,” he says, curled in a blanket like he’s mourning “I needed time to process.”

You plop down next to him on the couch “We didn’t mean to keep it from you. It was just… easier that way.”

He looks at you “Are you happy with him?”

You pause, then smile “Yeah. He makes me feel safe. And seen. Even if he doesn’t say much.”

Behind you, Law’s voice chimes in “I say plenty.”

You turn, surprised “You were eavesdropping?”

“It’s my ship.”

He walks over, drops a kiss on your forehead right in front of everyone. You expect chaos again, but the room is quiet.

Then Bepo grins “Okay. I approve.”

Shachi sighs “Fine. But if we ever hear weird noises from the engine room again—”

“—I will personally sedate you” Law cuts in.

The crew bursts into laughter.

Penguin raises his cup “To our captain and his secret weapon—Y/N!”

Everyone cheers. Even Ikkaku raises an eyebrow and gives you a subtle nod.

You look up at Law. He doesn’t smile much. But you see softness around the eyes, just for you.

Secret’s out. And honestly? It feels kind of nice.

── .✦ Koby:

The marine base is quiet at night, almost peaceful. You walk along the edge of the courtyard, your boots barely making a sound on the stone floor. The moon is high, casting soft light over the base. You pause near the training field and look around. No one’s there.

Good.

“Koby?” you whisper, stepping behind a storage shed.

A soft rustle comes from the shadows. Then he steps out. His hair is a little messy, his uniform jacket open.

“You’re late” he says, but he smiles.

You roll your eyes “Only by five minutes.”

Koby glances around. He takes your hand and pulls you closer into the shadow of the wall. His hand is warm. You lean into him, your heartbeat fast.

“If anyone sees us…” he says, his voice low.

“No one will,” you say quickly “They never do.”

He chuckles “We’re getting good at this.”

“You mean I’m getting good at it,” you tease “You still get nervous when someone says my name.”

“That’s because Garp keeps watching me like he knows something” Koby says, eyes wide.

You laugh “Maybe he does.”

Koby groans “Don’t say that.”

You lean up and kiss his cheek “Relax. We’re always careful.”

He smiles at you, that soft look he only gives when it’s just the two of you “I missed you.”

“I saw you this morning.”

“That doesn’t count. You were in uniform. You called me Sir.”

You smirk “Would you prefer Captain Sweetheart?”

Koby covers his face, laughing quietly “Please don’t.”

The sound of footsteps suddenly cuts the moment short.

You both freeze.

“Did you hear that?” you whisper.

Koby nods, already pulling away. You both hide behind the shed just as two lower-ranked marines walk by, talking about some drill tomorrow. They don’t see you.

Your heart pounds. When the footsteps fade, you let out a breath.

Koby looks at you, serious now “We can’t keep doing this forever.”

You know what he means. But you don’t want to think about it. Not tonight.

“Let’s just have this,” you say “Right now.”

He nods slowly, fingers brushing against yours again “Right now.”

Neither of you say the words out loud, but they’re there, floating in the silence.

This is dangerous but it’s totally worth it.

The sky looks angry today.

Wind whips through the courtyard, and the clouds hang low like they’re ready to fight someone. Fitting, considering your brain’s in a brawl with itself after what Helmeppo said the day before.

"Koby, huh?"

You can’t stop hearing it. His smirk. That I-know-something-you-don’t-want-me-to-know tone.

You march past the barracks, straight toward the supply shed, your usual spot. You pace in tight circles. The door creaks. Koby walks in, drenched from the rain already starting.

“I heard Helmeppo” he says.

You nod “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“I know. But he knows. He’s probably telling his pillow right now.”

You snort, even though your chest feels tight.

“What do we do?” you ask.

Koby looks out the cracked window “I don't think anyone would even care about what Helmeppo says, but I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

You wait.

“…What if we stop hiding?”

You blink “Just like that?”

He shrugs “We tell the truth. If we get in trouble, we get in trouble. At least it’s not lying anymore.”

You walk up to him, water dripping from the edge of the window onto your boots “You’re serious?”

He nods “You’re worth the risk.”

Before you can answer—BOOM! The door BURSTS open like it owes someone money.

There stands Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, holding a giant sack of snacks.

“I KNEW IT!” he bellows, pointing a meat bun at both of you like it’s a pistol “I KNEW YOU TWO WERE SWAPPING LOVE NOTES INSTEAD OF LOGBOOKS!”

Your soul nearly leaves your body. Koby jumps like he just got hit by lightning.

Garp stomps inside, water puddling under his boots “You think I’m old and blind?! I see everything! The glances! The disappearing acts! The suspiciously timed bathroom breaks!”

You and Koby look at each other, stunned.

“I—uh—we weren’t—” you stammer.

Garp holds up a finger “Don’t lie! I’ve seen more romance in your sneaky hallway nods than in a whole damn soap opera!”

Koby finally finds his voice “Vice Admiral Garp, we—”

Garp grabs two rice balls from his bag and tosses them at your heads.

“About time! I was betting with Sengoku you two would crack by this month!” He slaps Koby on the back so hard he almost falls over “Make it work, kiddo. Or I’ll make you regret everything.”

He stomps back into the storm, yelling at the sky.

“I WANT A WEDDING INVITE WHEN THIS BLOOMS INTO MARINE-SANCTIONED LOVE!”

Then he’s gone.

The silence is unreal.

“…Did he just bless our relationship and threaten us at the same time?” you ask.

Koby looks dazed “I think he also gave us lunch.”

You both stare at the rice balls on the ground.

You reach for one “So… no more hiding?”

Koby grins “No more hiding.”

You nod “Good. But that wasn’t romantic. That was a jump scare.”

By the next morning, everyone knows.

You’re not sure how.

Maybe it was Garp yelling across the courtyard. Maybe it was the rice ball slap. Maybe it was the way Koby smiled at you in front of a full squad meeting like it was no big deal. But now, it’s official.

You’re walking through the halls and two marines actually wink at you.

One gives you a thumbs-up. Another whispers, “Cute couple” like this is high school.

And then there’s Helmeppo, waiting by the stairs like he’s been practicing his lines all night.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls “Look who finally stopped sneaking off like a pair of guilty raccoons.”

You roll your eyes “Don’t you have training or something?”

“Oh, I do. But this is more fun,” he says, grinning “You two really had me fooled. All those ‘Yes, sir’s and ‘Permission to speak freely’s. Cute. Very professional. Very fake.”

“I will tape your mouth shut” you say calmly.

“Spicy,” Helmeppo whistles “No wonder Koby’s in love.”

You expect Koby to stammer. To panic. To turn bright red and pretend none of this is happening.

Instead, he wraps his arm around your waist and says “Yeah. I am.”

What.

You turn to him “Who are you and what did you do with the shy marine I was dating in secret?”

He grins, a little pink in the cheeks, but steady “I’m done hiding. I like holding your hand. I like saying it.”

Helmeppo looks personally attacked “You’re gonna make me throw up.”

Koby shrugs “Go drink some water.”

You’re still trying to recover from the whiplash when Koby turns to you again, softer this time. No audience, no drama, just him.

“I missed being close to you,” he says “Even just walking next to you without pretending it means nothing. I hated pretending.”

Your heart tugs.

“I know,” you say “I did too.”

He leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours “Now I can do this.”

He kisses you. Just a short, sweet kiss. Right there in the hallway.

Someone behind you gasps. Someone else claps. It’s probably Garp. Or Helmeppo. Or both.

You laugh into Koby’s shoulder “We’re never gonna hear the end of this.”

“Good,” he says “Let them talk.”

── .✦ Ace:

It starts small.

Ace, lover of chaos and borderline inedible food, begins pushing onions off his plate.

At first, nobody says anything. Maybe he just wasn't in the mood. Maybe he’s just not feeling it today.

Then it happens again.

And again.

.........And again.

By the fourth time, Thatch is watching him like he’s trying to solve a murder.

“You good, man?”

Ace blinks, mid-push “Huh?”

“You keep banishing onions like they stole your ship or something.”

Ace shrugs “They just taste weird lately.”

Thatch narrows his eyes “You used to eat them raw.”

“Tastes change.”

“You once drank onion juice.”

“I was bored.”

“You said it ‘cleared the sinuses.’”

Ace looks up at him with a done expression “…And it did.”

Thatch is unconvinced. He stares at the sad pile of abandoned onions like they hold answers.

A few days later, Marco walks across the deck and almost trips over you.

You’re napping.

Not unusual. But you’re napping exactly like Ace. Flat on your back. Arm flopped over your face. One boot still on, one off. Dead to the world.

Marco leans down “You good?”

You snore lightly and mumble something about “I hate onions... mh”.

Marco’s eye twitches.

He walks off slowly and finds Thatch.

“We have a situation.”

Izou, Marco, Thatch, and Jozu sit in a huddle like they’re planning a heist.

Thatch slaps down a napkin with dramatic flair.

“Exhibit A: Ace has stopped eating onions.”

“Exhibit B,” Marco adds, “she naps like a dead log in the middle of the deck. Just like him.”

“Exhibit C,” Izou says, adjusting his coat, “he brushed his teeth twice in one day.”

Silence.

Jozu blinks “…What does that mean?”

Izou sighs “He’s trying not to taste bad, obviously.”

Marco nods slowly “Only one reason for all this.”

Everyone says it at once “He’s kissing someone.”

They all lean back like they’ve cracked the code.

Thatch grins wide “And we all know someone who always hated onions.”

Back on deck, you yawn and stretch, bumping into Ace as he leans on the rail.

“Morning” he says, smiling softly.

“You smell like mint” you mutter, surprised.

He leans in slightly “That a bad thing?”

You shake your head, trying not to grin “Nah. Kinda hot, actually.”

What you don’t notice is the small army of Whitebeard pirates across the deck, hiding behind barrels, crates, and a suspiciously placed sail, watching you both with the intensity of trained spies.

Thatch whispers, “Look at him. He’s glowing.”

Marco squints “Is that a love glow?”

Jozu nods “He’s never glowed before.”

Izou fans himself “My heart can’t take this.”

Thatch whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary “Observe: the rare, emotionally available Ace, brushing his teeth and avoiding onions for the sake of romance.”

Marco chuckles “Should we say something?”

Thatch shakes his head, evil smile creeping in “Not yet. Let’s have a little fun first.”

The crew knows. You just don’t know that they know. Which is why things get weird really fast.

First, Thatch starts offering you food. All the time. Which wouldn’t be strange except “Here, Y/N, extra meat, no onions. Just how you like it” he says sweetly, placing it in front of you with a wink.

You blink “Thanks…?”

He beams “Y’know. For important stuff. Like kissing for example.”

You choke “What?”

“Kissing your enemies goodbye in battle, of course. Wouldn't be cool if you smell like onions.” he says innocently “What else would I mean?”

You narrow your eyes. He walks off humming the wedding march.

Weird.

Later that day, Marco corners Ace.

“You ever think about switching toothpaste brands?”

Ace looks up from his nap spot, squinting “What?”

“I heard mint’s nice” Marco says, deadly casual.

Ace raises a brow “I already switched. Why?”

“No reason,” Marco shrugs “Just figured you’d want to impress… someone.”

“…Like who?”

Marco just walks off.

Ace stares after him, confused.

Then there’s Izou.

He appears next to you while you’re doing your hair, watching like a hawk.

“Hmm” he says thoughtfully.

“What?”

“You’ve got a new little strand tucked behind your ear. That’s new.”

You frown “So? My hair just got a bit too long.”

“Just reminds me of how Ace tucks his hair sometimes. Cute. Subtle. Copying your crush is a classic move.”

You freeze “Wh-What crush?”

He smiles slowly “Oh, I didn’t say you had one.”

You almost trip over the comb.

And don’t even get started on Jozu. He starts playing “matchmaker” out of nowhere.

“Hey Y/N, what do you think of guys with freckles?”

You pause “I mean, freckles are nice... why?”

“No reason.” He grins “You like fire powers too?”

“…You’re literally describing Ace.”

“Am I?” he says, like he’s shocked at himself.

You walk away suspicious. The crew snickers behind your back.

By the end of the week, you’re starting to get twitchy. Ace too.

“Are they acting weird?” you whisper one night as you sit beside him on deck.

“Definitely,” he says, arms behind his head “Thatch winked at me when I refused onions at dinner.”

“Marco suggested I take a nap ‘in a more open, sunny place.’” You glance at him “Sound familiar?”

Ace groans “They’re onto something.”

You whisper, “Do you think they know?”

He shrugs “They’re dumb. I think we’re safe.”

The crew, literally hiding, listening in with cups pressed to the wood.

Thatch whispers, “They think we’re dumb.”

Marco snorts “They’re in love and hiding it like toddlers under a table.”

Izou fans himself “Give it another day. Then we strike.”

It starts over breakfast.

Again, totally normal day. Birds chirping. Sun’s out. Pirates being loud. You stroll in beside Ace, acting casual. Like you didn’t kiss him good morning five minutes ago behind the barrels.

You sit down.

He sits next to you.

Everything is fine. Until Thatch slams his fork on the table and stands up dramatically.

“Okay, this has gone on long enough.”

You and Ace both freeze.

Marco leans in lazily, sipping his coffee “So. You two are dating, right?”

Your eyes go wide.

Ace doesn’t even blink.

And at the exact same time:

You: “No! Who would even date him?”

Ace: “Yeah, we’re obviously dating.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then Jozu chokes on his juice. Thatch drops his spoon. Izou wheezes like he’s been punched.

Marco just blinks “Well. That answers that.”

You turn to Ace in slow motion “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY??”

He frowns slightly “That we’re dating? What—why did you say that so disgusted?”

You hiss “Because you weren’t supposed to just admit it!”

“Why not? We’ve been caught.”

“I was trying to lie!”

Thatch is howling “Oh my god—‘Who would even date him??’ Babe, the man LITERALLY has your name carved into his pillow.”

You whip around “He WHAT?!”

Ace shrugs “Just the initials. It’s cute.”

Izou fans himself “I’m going to die. This is the best breakfast of my life.”

Marco grins “This is better than I expected”

Jozu “It’s like watching a romance novel crash into a comedy sketch.”

You bury your face in your hands “I hate this. I hate ALL of you.”

Ace pats your back gently “I think it’s going great.”

You glare at him “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course. I don’t have to sneak around anymore. I get to call you mine out loud now.”

That… makes your face heat up. You try not to smile. You fail.

Thatch yells, “THEY’RE BLUSHING. IT’S REAL.”

Ace slings his arm around your shoulders, smug and unbothered “Don’t worry, babe. We’ll survive the embarrassment.”

Izou smirks “Barely.”

Marco raises his cup “To the worst cover-up attempt in Whitebeard history.”

Everyone cheers.

You groan and slump against Ace, who kisses your temple like the traitor he is.

Soft. Smiling. Loud and proud.

And now you’re never living this down.

[maskedbyghost]

What’s better than a jealous, possessive Simon? Nothing. Get ready for all the drama and dirty you didn’t even know you needed. cw: jealousy, possessiveness, explicit language, rough sex, dirty talk... MDNI

You didn’t mean anything by it.

Really, you didn’t. Just a harmless laugh at some half-assed joke from one of the new guys on base. He was nervous, awkward, trying to find his footing among a team full of people who didn’t blink twice before throwing themselves into the line of fire.

So you were being nice. You smiled. You touched his arm when he said something funny. You laughed—not even your real laugh, just the polite one. The one that lets people think they’re charming even when they’re not.

But Ghost saw it.

He was halfway across the room, but he saw the way you leaned in, the way your lips curved, the way you let your hand rest on that guy’s forearm just a second too long. His jaw clenched, his arms crossed.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye and figured he was just being his usual silent, broody self. But the look he gave you? That wasn’t just disapproval. That was something else...

You forgot about it after a while. Finished the briefing and headed back to your room. You got halfway through pulling your shirt off when there was a knock—no, a thud—at your door.

You barely had time to register it before the door swung open.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask. He just stepped in, shut the door behind him, and locked it.

“Something you need, Lieutenant?” you asked, arching a brow, still standing in your half-unbuttoned pants.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, jaw tight behind the mask, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. Then he walked toward you, calm and quiet, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked. “Ghost—”

His gloved hand came up, grabbed your chin—not rough, but firm enough to shut you up.

“You like makin’ other men laugh?” he said low, his voice rough and close.

You swallowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” He tilted your face toward his. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought I was watchin’ my girl giggle like some fuckin’ schoolgirl over a guy who couldn’t make you come even if you spelled it out for him.”

You snorted nervously, trying to keep it light. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He leaned in until his mask brushed your cheek. “Next time you flirt,” he growled, “I’ll put a leash on you.”

Your breath caught, and that’s all it took.

He grabbed the waistband of your pants and yanked them down in one smooth motion, spinning you around and pressing you up against the wall. His hand was at the back of your neck, pushing you forward until your cheek was flat against the cold surface.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the sound got caught in your throat when you felt him behind you—already hard, already pressing into you through his gear.

“Ghost—”

“Simon,” he corrected. “You’re gonna say my name when I fuck the brat out of you.”

His hand slid between your legs, rough gloves against bare skin, and you gasped when he touched you—no teasing, no buildup, just dirty, possessive fingers sliding right through your slick, like he’d expected it.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured, voice darker now, lower. “Drippin’ for me while you’re out there laughin’ at other men’s bullshit. You think they could make you feel like this? Think he’d know what to do with a needy little thing like you?”

You whined when he pressed harder, after yanking off his gloves and sliding two fingers inside, curling them deep, rubbing against that spot that made your knees weak.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, he wouldn’t,” you breathed out, already shaking.

“That’s right.” He pulled back just long enough to undo his belt, shove his pants down, and drag your hips back against him. “You’re mine. Been mine. Just forgot for a second. S’right—I’ll remind you.”

You moaned when he pushed in, when his cock stretched you open without warning, just thick, hard, possessive pressure that made you arch your back and grab at the wall for something to hold on to.

He groaned behind you, one hand fisting in your hair, the other wrapped tight around your throat. “Fuckin’ tight,” he muttered. “Can feel how wet you are—fuck, bet you were thinkin’ about me when he made you laugh. Bet you were hopin’ I’d get like this. Mean. Messy. Jealous.”

You couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe past the way he was fucking into you, deep and rough, hips slamming into yours with every thrust like he wanted to fuck the memory of that other guy right out of your body.

“Let me catch you lookin’ at someone else again,” he said, teeth at your shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise. “I’ll make sure they know who you belong to. I’ll fuck you in front of him if I have to. Let him watch you come on my cock while you scream my fuckin’ name.”

“Simon—fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s it. Say it again.”

“Simon—please—”

“Please what?” he snarled, snapping his hips harder, angrier, dragging every inch of him out slow before slamming back in like he needed to ruin you.

“Please don’t stop,” you gasped, fingers scrambling at the wall, legs shaking.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Not until you learn your fuckin’ lesson.”

He reached around, rubbed your clit in tight, messy circles, just enough to send you spiraling. You came with a cry, body locking up, trembling around him, and he didn’t stop—not even when your legs gave out. He held you up, kept fucking into you with punishing pace, chasing his own release like he had something to prove.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice ragged now. “I’ll fuck you so full you’ll be leaking for hours—so every step you take reminds you who fucked you stupid.”

You whined, barely able to keep upright, and with one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, filthy growl, his hips jerking against you as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out. He just stayed there, chest heaving, hands still on your hips, like he couldn’t let go.

After a long pause, he leaned in and said, right against your ear:

“Do it again, and I’ll make sure the whole base hears what you sound like when you’re mine.”

-------------------------------------------

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