#he waited that long only for it all to fall apart

[madamechrissy]

Teacher's Pet

Pairings- Boyfriend Takuma Ino x F! reader x Professor Nanami

Warnings absolutely MDNI - oral (f receiving from Ino and Nanami) fingering, messy kissing, Nanami is 35, reader and Ino are like 21, so age gap. Threesome aspects and general freakiness, light choking, dom daddy type Nanami, masturbation (Nanami) and panty stealing

A/N- had a request for college AU Ino/reader/Nanami where Nanami is your 'professor' and teaches you some ahem... things? I haven't written Ino before so I hope I don't fuck him up here - it's PWP lol

Takuma Ino had never thought he would get this, get to feel your slick heat against his fingers, your sweet little cries in his ears as you arch your hips against his hand, trembling as it touches you over your panties. It had been just a harmless kiss, really, after class - only for you both to fall into each other, mouths hungrier and hungrier, even as they're clumsy.

Ino was still a virgin senior year of college, but he swears it's because he was waiting for you, he can't even see anyone but you, long before you decided to date him. Now his cock is throbbing, he's willing it to go down as he tries to find what you like. What is it, here, where he presses and your hips jerk? Or here, slipping under the elastic of your panties now, and finding you soaked.

"Oh, baby you're so wet, d-do you like this?" He asks softly, chocolate brown eyes almost black as he studies your face in earnest, you nod shakily, eyes fluttering shut as he watches you.

"I love it, f-feels so good," you want to guide him a bit, but he's having so much fun exploring you, devoted as he presses kisses across your cheeks, hands fumbling until one dips into your soppy interest. "Ah!"

"There, that's good?" He pulls back again, asking softly, you nod in response and he sinks it just a little deeper, exhaling as he pulls his finger out then.

"Back in, back in!" You're whining out, you're spread wide on Professor Nanami's desk, the thrill rushing through you, making you drip along his polished cherry wood in the empty class.

"Wanna taste it, though," you're a flustered mess when Ino sucks you right off his finger, moaning, cheeks hollowing as if you're the sweetest thing. "Oh my god, you're so yummy..."

"I am?" He kneels now, and you're panicking just a bit, tugging at his sleek brown strands.

"Wanna kiss you here, is it okay?"

"Y-yes if you- oh!" He's flicking his tongue up your slit, pushing your plump lips apart to eye you, breath hitting as you hold up your pleated skirt for him. "Ino!"

"It's so pretty," he doesn't know where to lick or what to do, pressing a kiss against your hood and stealing more of that flavor on his lips, feeling you tugging at his hair and exhaling, hands pressing firmly into your thighs, when the lock clicks, but he doesn't hear it over your soft whines, and neither do you.

Which leads Professor Nanami, exhausted and ready to take a nap in his damn office, to see his prettiest straight A student spread wide on his desk, and his other straight A student kissing her between her thighs. Nanami shuts the door quickly, locking it and striding up, when your fucked out eyes widen and see him, and you panic, shoving off the desk and gesturing wildly.

Ino, who worships the ground Nanami walks on, is clearly pussy drunk - and Nanami can understand, he got a glimpse of it, and just that has his cock throbbing.

He's jerked off to you more times than he'd ever admit, he shouldn't, you're his student and his law student at that, he can't think that way about you, especially being one of his brightest, and with a good kid like Ino. But fuck if he hasn't pictured being between your thighs instead, teaching you what it's like to really get fucked, now he wasn't too much older at thirty five, but he still felt shitty thinking it all.

"Professor Nanami, I'm so sorry! Oh my god, please, I..." You're panicked while Ino is furiously red, covering his face while Nanami crosses his broad arms.

"It's my fault, Mr. Nanami, not her, don't get her in trouble, I couldn't stop myself," he rubs the back of his neck and Nanami eyes his now discheveled desk, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Looked like you weren't doing it correctly," he says, making the both of you pause now, and you're blushing furiously as Nanami eyes you, hazel gaze drifting down your body like a caress. Every girl fawned over his handsome features, you weren't immune to them, but to have him look at you like that, made your situation worse.

"I have no clue what I'm doing, no." You look at Ino with wide eyes. "Can you... show me?"

"Show you!? Ino have you lost it!?" You're tugging at his black sweater, and he brushes a thumb across your cheek.

"I wanna know how to please you, baby." You melt at how sweet he is, fully expecting Professor Nanami to deny the request, but his huge, veiny hand loosens his silky tie as he comes closer now, leaning over you, the scent of his cologne filling your senses.

"Up on the desk then, love," his soft command is met with him lifting you like you're nothing, sitting your right on the desk now, his desk, tilting your chin up to look at him. "So tell me, when you play with your pretty pussy, do you stick your little fingers in, or rub your clit?"

Your mouth goes dry at the statement, Ino is looking at you with those pretty eyes, ever curious, your cheeks heat up, decorating your skin with color. "My clit, Professor."

"So we'll focus there first." Nanami methodically slips your panties down your thighs, biting back a moan when your scent hits him, panties that may or may not have ended up in his pocket. Nanami may or may not need these later. "Come on then," he gestures and Ino eagerly gets on his knees - your boyfriend and your stupidly hot professor, this was not how you thought your first time getting eaten out would be. "Look here."

"Pretty, so pretty," Ino's words make Nanami chuckle, spreading you wide so he can show Ino where your clit is, lifting your hood, and that's when Nanami and Ino see your twitchy little clit, you whine out, biting your lip.

"She is pretty." You can't even look at them then, covering your face. "You'd focus there since that's how she plays with herself." He looks up then, fingers pressing against your calf to get your attention. "Should I demonstrate?"

"Yes, please." Your whisper ends his resolve, shoving him off the deep end, flicking the tip of his tongue on your little clit now, you gasp as it hits, and he moans as your sweetness pours against his slender lips, coating them in your gloss. "Oh!"

"You can finger her too, but she's tiny," he slips a digit in, feeling you grip him tightly, groaning as he thinks how good it'd be to slip inside your hot, slick little cunt. "So be gentle."

"I wouldn't hurt her," you're torn between embarrassment and utter lust, when Nanami curls his thick finger up, pressing on your spot while his tongue works in methodical little flicks, and your hands yank his perfect hair before you can stop yourself. "Oh, look, she loves it,"

"Mnh!" You're gushing down your law professor's face now, he has to palm the bulge over his slacks with his free hand, looking up at your pretty face, all contorted in pleasure.

"Are you close, baby?" Ino leans up now, caressing your face sweetly, you nod, gripping his sweater with your free hand while Nanami drags your cunt against his face. "Then cum, let me see you, then I'll make you cum again."

"Y-you sure?" You ask, he just nods, gripping your breasts, while Nanami's finger curls just so in your gummy walls, and you shatter, screaming out into Ino's lips while Nanami slurps you up, positively filthy - you have never cum like that, even with toys. He's lapping at you, eliciting more and more drooling arousal as you struggle to blink anything into vision. "Oh my god... mnh... Professor Nanami..."

He presses a kiss on your cunt now, and Ino eagerly sinks to his knees, kissing an overstimulated clit when Nanami is just an inch from your face, you flush as you see you've made a mess of him too, thumb brushing his slick on his chin, he grips your wrist then, while Ino slips his tongue up to your clit, and you bite back a moan.

"She likes it, good job," Nanami murmurs, Ino buries his face then, sucking your clit into his mouth without thinking, your thighs are trembling, cunt throbbing while Nanami places a hand under your chin, wrapping your throat. "A little light choking can make it even better, but you have to be careful. Want me to show you?"

You nod weakly, and Nanami squeezes your throat now, giving into the temptation and kissing you, letting you taste yourself on his lips and squeezing your delicate neck, delighting in your whines and cries, muffled as he squeezes. He almost cums just kissing you, seeing your innocent face lost in the pleasure, hearing your squelching wet cunt in his classroom. He's grabbing you, tongue sliding into your sweet mouth, while your cunt spasms around Ino's long, slender finger, delicately curling up.

"You're doing so well, darling," he whispers to you, encouraging you while you cling to his silky cheetah tie, oxygen fading while he squeezes, thumb pressing against your racing pulse while your eyes roll back in your skull, Ino is whining out desperately, his cock already leaking precum as he feels your aftershocks grip his finger, your arousal coating his face.

"Mnh!" You almost faint, ears ringing now, floating damn near blinded when Nanami releases his hand, and gently kisses against it, all while you're gripping his broad shoulders, almost falling the fuck over.

"Oh fuck..." Ino murmurs, leaning up and looking at you, you kiss him eagerly, hips twitching when Nanami runs his fingers over you, already so sensitive you almost cum from the contact, before giving you a firm smack, making you gasp out.

"That's for being bad." He says with a little smirk, you exhale, cunt stinging, before he glares at the two of you, fixing his collar and tie that you've led askew, crossing his arms again. "I better not find the two of you doing this again... without my permission."

"No, we won't, we are sorry Professor." Nanami just hums a bit, sitting with his legs spread wide in his seat, while Ino helps you down, fixing your skirt and eyeing you. "Are you okay? Was it good?"

"Good isn't even the word..." You bury your face a bit, embarassed as he pulls you against him, feeling Nanami's hungry eyes on you.

"I wanna do that all the time now." Ino murmurs, you giggle, taking his hands, before looking at the man who licks your cunt off his lips, raising a thin brow.

Never in a million years did you think Professor Nanami would have devoured you like that, the feeling makes your tummy tense, as you snuggle your boyfriend, who you feel his arousal, making you ever so curious, you touch it just a bit, watching his reaction.

"Baby you don't have to do anything." He's so sweet, you sigh, looking over at Nanami again.

"Maybe you can show me a lesson next?" You say softly, and his cock twitches in response, picturing giving you lessons on your knees, as you look up with those eyes that are fucking Nanami up currently.

"Yes, well, I'll see if I fit it in my schedule," he sets his glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose. "Out you two, now."

"Thank you, Professor." You two run off, and Nanami catches your gaze on him before you two shut the door, when he breaks down, thick cock slapping his dress shirt and drooling pre out of his reddened tip. He hisses as he touches it, panties slipped out of his pocket and right on his face.

"Ino that was insane!?" You're whispering, breathless, he smiles just a bit then, pressing you against the wall, where on the other side your professor is cumming to your taste he's lapping off your missing panties.

"You loved it though. But... I wanna do it alone," his whisper rushes across your skin as he whispers in your ear. "What do you think?"

"Yes," the two of you rush off to your dorm, leaving Nanami to contemplate just what lesson he has for you next while he's busting hot ropes into his hand of his classroom, cursing the clock when he realizes he's not getting a nap and it's your fault... surely a punishment is in order.

LMAO this was so dumb and smutty

perm tags @alt--er--love @nanasukii28 @cuntphoric @loafteaw @n1vi @indiewritesxoxo @miizuzu @beachaddict48 @honeybunnnnie @re-tired-succubus @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @wise-fangirl @moncher-ire @orikixx @uhnosav @baepsays @designerpvssy @orixxxana @airandyeah @nina-from-317 @evelynxxo @naammiii @soyokosuguru @espresso1patronum @tomboy-disaster @iam-souless @lanii-i @cristy-101 @doeeyestoji @cvixmei @mutsu422 @ivyvenus333 @g00seg1rl @suki91 @satoao-main @fairygardenprincesss @theonlyjuggernaut @huntyhuntycunty @lovelockdownff @ibreathesmut @s777athv @twinklywinkly @akiii143 @squeezyvalkyrie @cookielovesbook-akie @oinksa @grignardsreagent @shokosbunny

[circumscribitwrites]

'Bama Bros

Did you like Bro'd Trip? Here's another longer story with a more physical, sensual (18+) transformation at the end. Enjoy!

Of all the roommates I could’ve gotten - obnoxious jocks, moronic meatheads - I’m glad it was Zach. We were the only two people at the University of Alabama actually trying to get an education. While our peers got drunk at house parties, we played video games.

“I don’t get people who do that,” Zach said, having just beaten me at Mario Kart again. “All the partying. And the drinking.”

“I know…I mean, there are party schools, and then there’s…”

“No, not that. I just don’t understand the appeal of it. They get something out of it, right? But what?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you the sociology major?”

“I am…?”

“Well, if anyone could find an answer, it’s you. But good luck! You couldn’t pay me enough money to hang around with those guys.”

Zach paused, resting his chin on his hands. “You know…that’s not a terrible idea.”

I rarely saw Zach after that. He was too busy with his pet project, always coming and going to a frat house, a football practice, a gym session. The whole thing seemed so…stupid. I suppose it was my fault for putting the idea in his head.

“So, are you staying over the summer?” Zach asked. It felt like the first time we’d talked in weeks. I was trying to pack up some of my things, hoping it’d hasten my future move-out.

“Uh, no. I think I need a break. Honestly, I might transfer."

“Oh, wow. Um, I was thinking I’d stay, actually. A lot of the guys I’ve talked to will be here, so I think it’ll be good.” He paused, taking a breath. “But, I hope I’ll see you in the fall.”

“Thanks, Zach.”

I moved out a few weeks later, leaving our apartment in Zach’s hands for the summer. I didn’t care enough to sublet it. The less I thought about Alabama, the better. It wasn’t a hard decision: I had to transfer. But no school would take me - just my luck.

The drive back was long and quiet, except for the rumble of thunder in the distance. The heat and humidity seeped into my car. I was already dreading the prospect of hauling all my stuff inside.

“Hey, Zach!” I really hadn’t texted him this whole time? “Hope you’re doing okay. Good news: I’m coming back! I’ll be there in an hour. Would you mind helping me?”

I turned back to the highway. My phone pinged a few moments later.

“sweet! no prob bro.”

“Great, thanks so much! Looks like those guys have worn off on you, lol!” 

“yeah lmao. u got no idea wat u missed.”

What the…? I meant it as a joke.

I pushed the accelerator down, my stomach sinking. Just under 50 minutes later, I parked outside our building. 

“Yo! Long time no see, dude!”

The guy waiting for me was tall and muscular. His tight gray tank top exposed his stomach, and his arms barely fit into it. They were covered in tattoos, Bible quotes inked on his tricep and forearm; a cross hung around his neck. 

That wasn’t Zach. 

“Hi…Zach?” I squeaked, his embrace squeezing the air out of me.

“Uh, yeah, that’s me, haha! You good? Drive take a lot out of you?” He’d already made his way to my trunk, gesturing for me to unlock it. “Thanks. I’ll take these,” he said, grabbing a box under each arm. “Damn, you sure packed a lot. Good thing I’ve been hittin’ the gym!”

Wordlessly, I followed him back into the apartment. I looked around the place. My stuff was untouched, but I couldn’t help but notice the tubs of protein powder strewn throughout the kitchen. The AC was off, and the place reeked of body odor. I took a seat on the couch, tossing some sweat-stained piece of fabric off the cushion.

Wait, was that a jockstrap?

“I’m glad you’re back, dude!”

“Well, it wasn’t really my decision.” I sighed. “I don’t really fit in here, Zach. I hate it.”

“Nah, don’t say that! Look, I got just the thing. Give me a sec…” He vanished into his own room. 

“Alright, here we go. Just put this on, take a deep breath, and relax.”

He’d come out with a football helmet on his head. The guy it belonged to must’ve been massive. It dwarfed Zach - the facemask alone was wider than his neck. 

He took it off, shook out his hair, and held it in his hands. 

“You don’t gotta say yes. But if you do…it’s all gonna be okay. I promise.”

I opened my mouth. 

“What was that?”

“Yes.”

Before I could blink, Zach pressed the helmet down over my head. It was dark. Quiet. It felt like the rest of the world had disappeared.

My heart raced. 

What was I doing? This was insane!

And then…

Warmth. 

I felt it, every inch of my skin tingling. I could smell the sweat, the cologne, the grass, the cheap beer, the musk. I was with them.

I was one of them. 

So strong. 

So confident. 

So powerful.

I shivered. My arms itched, skin swelling around new muscle. My shirt tightened across my chest, solid, thick pecs pushing outward.

I grunted. “Oh, fuck!”

My voice was lower. 

My cock twitched. I felt it thickening, lengthening, hardening, dripping. I moaned.

I gotta get this thing off me…or not...

My thighs got nice and meaty. My stomach tightened, abs and obliques coming in nicely. I just felt…kinda fuzzy. All soft and warm. 

Ah….fuck. Yeah, I get it now! I don’t have to give a shit about being smart or whatever. ‘Cus…yeah, that’s not what life’s about. I just gotta be strong, sexy, stupid. Oh, my cock liked that! Yeah, little dude’s gonna blow. Not so little anymore though, hahaha!

I palmed myself, feeling my bulge through my shorts. Goddamn. I moaned just a little, thrusting into my hand.

I was fuckin’ built for this! 

“Bro…I’m glad I came back!”

— 

“cant wait 4 that party 2nite! ready 2 show off ;) "

Like the story? Want to support me? Check out my Ko-fi!

[robinminustherichard]

8×18 Spec

BuckTommy Reconciliation | G

Buck is the first to notice that someone is getting close to their location, so he ushers Ravi and their patient away from the crumbling rubble. Light starts to seep its way in and Buck reaches for his radio to report in.

"Buckley and Panikkar preparing for extraction."

"Copy that, Buckley. Your boy's on his way." An unfamiliar voice calls, and Buck feels his eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.

"Who-?" Ravi asks, supporting thier patient and looking as confused as Buck feels. Buck shrugs in response and squints up at the hole that's forming in front of them. When it's big enough that bodies can fit through, a head pops through.

A very, achingly, familiar head.

"118. You called for a rescue?" Tommy says, smirk in place but eyes betraying worry and nervousness.

Buck can't help stop the smile that hits his face and he ducks to keep it from view. He holds a hand out to their patient and directs him toward Tommy for extraction. Once he's through, Buck motions for Ravi to be the next out.

The wall shakes ominously, so as soon as Ravi's boots are clear, Tommy's hand is reaching back through the gap to reach for Buck. Buck grabs it and can't help but gasp when it yanks at the same moment Buck jumps. He's pulled through easily, the hole in the wall collapsing after his exit.

Buck very pointedly does not think about Tommy pulling him with little effort.

On the other side, Ravi and their patient are being looked over by a stocky firefighter in a Captain's helmet, and Buck stands face to face with Tommy. They do nothing but look at each other for a moment, and Buck speaks without thinking.

"Uh, thanks for the assist." He says, and just manages to stop himself from outwardly cringing at how awkward he sounds.

Tommy tilts his head, staring at Buck in the way he always does that manages to make Buck feel like he's being studied.

"I'm sure you'll repay the favor eventually," Tommy says, all cool and confident, "you're only behind by three now."

Buck feels pain shoot through him at the thought of the first two times Tommy showed up for him to save someone, but he smiles all the same.

"Listen, Tommy, I'm sorry. Can we ta--" Buck tries to start, but he's cut off when he's yanked once again and brought in for a perfectly aimed kiss. The words die in his throat and he quickly loses himself in it, feeling warm for the first time in a long time.

The kiss could have gone on for hours, for all Buck knows, he feels lost in it. The world falls away around them--Buck's entire focus coming down to the way that Tommy's lips feel new and familiar all at once.

"Sorry, kid, you ain't gettin' that from me." The same gruff voice from earlier calls, and Tommy and Buck break apart. Buck only has eyes for Tommy, but Tommy rolls his eyes and looks at their audience.

"Sal." He says, exasperated.

"Tom." The man says, and Buck finally looks away and flushes when he realizes that Sal--apparently a Captain--Ravi, and their patient are still there waiting on them. Sal is smirking at them, Ravi is giving Buck a truly embarassing thumbs up, and thier patient just looks nauseous.

"Right, right," Buck says, fixing his helmet and looking back at Tommy, "We should, uh--talk about this. Maybe on the ground. After our shifts end."

Tommy gives him a smile, that crinkly one that always makes Buck's knees go a little week, and gives him a quiet, "sure, Evan."

"Let's move, boys." Sal calls, reaching out to help their patient down the staircase they came from, and Ravi laughs as he too turns to leave.

Tommy sweeps and arm out in front of him, encouraging Buck to head out. Buck can't help but feel safer knowing Tommy will be right behind him as they make their way out.

"I've got your back, Buckley."

[popcornpoppypop]

Salvation

Summary: Jack needs you like air, but he's too wounded to keep himself from breaking everything.

A/N: I don't really know what this is, but it just sort of came out and I went with it. Just using broken characters to deal with my own breaking or something like that I guess. No warnings outside of heartbreak. Also, I was listening to Waiting Room by Phoebe Bridgers while writing this, so strap the hell in!

The ache never really leaves. It’s always gnawing at him. His leg throbs most of the day. He’s learned to ignore it. He’s learned to let it fuel him at times. The pain can motivate him at the end of a long day, push him forward just enough to finish his job. Lately, the ache has extended to his chest. It snakes it’s way up his body and wraps itself around his heart.

He knew that he was a broken man. Not just his leg, though it was a physical sign of what lay in his mind. A broken mind that pecked at him day in and day out. He fought himself every day.

If you were heaven, he was purgatory. He would never dream of saddling you with him and his damage. You fought with his mind as much as he did. He tried to hide the shame of it all. You could see him in a way no one ever had, ever would.

You didn’t flinch when it became too much for him and he exploded, shrapnel flying your way. You would take the wound, clean yourself and him up. Never shied from the pain.

“Jack, I’m not scared of you.” You whispered one night as he screamed, the pain overflowing like lava from his lips.

“I am! I’m so fucking scared!” He screeched, his hands tugging at his grey locks. He could never tell if the things he did were to keep himself together or tear himself apart. They felt like the same thing.

You wrapped yourself around him, keeping what you could intact. You held his face in your hands, it was red and the veins pushing harshly against his skin.

He saw his salvation in your eyes. The thing about salvation is that it isn’t always a guarantee.  

The ache radiated as he walked into the dark house. The quiet hung heavy in the air, a choking fog that floated throughout.

The only thing he could think about lately was the night you had enough. The night his salvation was denied by his own self-damnation.

“Don’t say that to me! Don’t act like I’m not sacrificing things here too!” Your tears fell down your cheeks; each one was a plea and a prayer.

“You are better than sacrificing anything for me! You’re stupid if you stay! Goddammit!” The venom left his mouth and stung his lips but he couldn’t swallow it back up. It hit you like a ton of bricks.

“Oh. Well.” Your voice shook and it reminded him of the first time he saw a child cry for their mother that wouldn’t open her eyes again.

“You’ll never understand this pain. I don’t know why you fucking try.” He dug the knife deeper. He never could tell if he was trying to keep himself together or tear himself apart.

“I’m done trying. I’m done, Jack. I can’t….I can’t do this to myself anymore.” You let the sob fall from your chest and smash his world apart.

The house felt sterile and haunted. He moved through it, never caring what was broken or battered. His body fell into the couch, his muscles screaming in relief. His mind still raced and pounded at him. He took the prosthetic off his leg, the ache easing from his wound but tightening in his chest.

He fiddled with his phone. The thought to reach out to you, try and find a lifeline, try and stay afloat, toyed with him. He didn’t realize he had dialed your number until your voice broke through his icy wall of self-hatred.

“Jack? Jack, are you okay?” Your voice was still so sweet. Still so soft and kind, like a balm for his depressed mind.

“I…I can’t breathe.” He mumbled.

“What do you mean?” Your voice getting worried, unsure how to help. Always wanting to save him.

“You were my oxygen and I held my breath.” He let his chest crack open a bit.

“Jack…I don’t know how to do this.” You were never one to lie to him. Your honesty kept him from raging against the world. But it didn’t stop the sadness from destroying everything good.

“I know. I don’t either. I just…I see a therapist now. I tell him about you. I tell him how I ruined everything, hurt you when you were trying to keep me alive.” His chest cracks more.

“Jack. Why did you call me? To tell me you’re in therapy?” Your sadness turning to rage for what he took from you.

“I’ve been trying to fix everything. I’ve been doing everything I’m supposed to but none of it fucking matters because you aren’t here. I…I don’t know why I called.” His breath leaves him like defeat.

The silence clings to him, tightening around his throat and making him see stars.

“Jack…if I hang up will you be safe?” Your voice is small and afraid of the answer. He squeezes his eyes shut and beats the edge of the phone into his forehead.

“Yeah, don’t worry about me. I shouldn’t have called. I’m sorry. I miss you is all.” He leaves one last chance at your feet.

“I…I miss you.” You whisper, as if the words would ignite the world and never stop.

He feels his lungs ache for breath and realizes he stopped breathing as your words settled into his mind and put out a small fire.

“Can I see you?” He reaches out a little more. His chest is wide open, his beating heart vulnerable and waiting to be stabbed.

“We can start small. Coffee, tomorrow, at the café you liked near your place. With the park next door.” You grab hold of him, lifting him off the edge.

“Okay. Yeah. Small.”  It’s huge. It’s massive. It’s salvation.

[al-1-na]

𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐚𝐲 𝟗 ~ 𝐎𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Drew Starkey x younger gf!reader

𝐂𝐖: age gap kink , lazy morning sex, explicit smut

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Drew wakes up with his younger girlfriend curled against him and takes his time showing her exactly how much he loves being the older, more experienced one. Slow, deep, and full of control, just how she needs it.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

The light was barely bleeding through the curtains when you blinked awake—eyes hazy, body warm, skin humming with that half-asleep softness. You were on your side, curled close to him. Drew’s chest was solid against your back, arm slung heavy around your waist. You could feel the slow, strong rhythm of his breath—grounded, steady—so different from your own still-waking flutter.

His hand moved slowly across your stomach, fingers dragging with the kind of confidence that only came from experience. That was always what got you: the way he touched you like he already knew everything about you. And in some ways, he did.

“You’re awake,” he murmured into your neck, voice deep and rough with sleep.

You nodded, barely able to speak. His voice alone had your thighs pressing together.

He chuckled, the sound warm and low. “Always so quiet in the mornings. That sweet little silence.”

You bit your lip. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

His fingers skimmed lower. “You didn’t. But you’ve been squirming against me for a while now, sweetheart. And this—” He pressed himself against you, thick and heavy, nestled right at the curve of your ass. “This doesn’t just happen by accident.”

You swallowed hard, heat pooling between your legs. He was always like this in the morning—slow, patient, careful. And God, that made it so much worse. Or better.

“Still shy?” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “After all this time?”

“No,” you breathed.

He smiled, voice quiet but certain. “You always get shy when I remind you how young you are.”

Your breath hitched. That hit a nerve—the way he said it. The way he knew what that did to you.

“I like it,” you whispered.

He groaned softly, hand sliding between your thighs. “I know you do.”

You opened your legs for him, helpless under his touch. He stroked you slowly, expertly, finding you already wet, already aching. His lips brushed your ear.

“That’s it. Let me feel how much you want me.”

You whined as his fingers moved in tight, perfect circles—years of experience poured into each stroke. He wasn’t fumbling. He wasn’t rushing. He knew exactly how to make your body fall apart.

“You think boys your age know how to touch you like this?” he whispered, teeth grazing your skin. “You think they’d take their time, make you beg just a little, let you melt before they ever slide in?”

You shook your head, face burning.

“Didn’t think so,” he said, voice thick with satisfaction.

He pulled his hand away and shifted behind you, dragging your top leg over his hip. You were bare, open, waiting—and he didn’t make you wait long. His tip slid against you, slow and teasing, before he pushed inside in one deep, steady thrust.

You gasped, fingers gripping the sheets as he filled you. The stretch was perfect—every inch of him making you feel smaller, softer, more his.

He didn’t move at first. Just held you there, wrapped up in his arms, buried deep in your body.

“I forget how tiny you are until I’m inside you,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “So tight. So sweet. So eager to take me, every single time.”

You whined, grinding back against him, needing more.

But he kept it slow—long, lazy strokes, hips moving in that delicious rhythm that never rushed. He loved mornings like this. Loved taking you when the world was still quiet, when you were soft and pliant and too sleepy to pretend you didn’t want to be ruined.

“You love it, don’t you?” he said between thrusts, voice low and thick. “The way I take care of you. The way I teach your body what it needs.”

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering. “I love it—love you like this.”

He groaned, moving deeper, harder, but still controlled. “That’s it. Let me hear how good it feels. No one else gets you like this. No one ever will.”

Your body was coiled tight around him, so full, so close. And he knew—he always knew.

His fingers found your clit again, rubbing with perfect pressure as his thrusts never faltered. You couldn’t even think. Couldn’t breathe. He owned every nerve, every shiver, every whimper leaving your lips.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispered, right at your ear. “Let me feel how much you need this.”

You fell apart with a cry, legs trembling, thighs tightening around him as your climax rushed through you. He didn’t stop—he held you tight, his own rhythm stuttering as he chased his release inside you.

He groaned deep against your skin, spilling into you with one last, deep thrust. The sound he made was pure, quiet satisfaction.

You lay there in silence after—his body still wrapped around yours, his breath warm on your neck.

“I like you like this,” he said eventually. “All warm, all messy. Filled up first thing in the morning.”

You turned your head, smiling at him through your lashes. “I like being yours.”

He kissed your forehead, brushing your hair back. “Good girl. You were made to be taken care of. I love you, little one.”

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @notkiaralol @rcsbabydoll @cokewithcameron @psychocitylights @favzcarpentr @fatheriimaginedyoutaller @alwaysherother @mavericksice

[mapofsouthdakota]

Maps headcanons -

🧡 Caleb’s 69 smut pt. I

Details: 700 words of pure smut. Title says it all and I’m not spoiling my own smut hehe. 18+. Utter filth, explicit language, worship, and Caleb being the hottest, fittest, filthiest man alive. I split it into two parts so I can shamelessly spam you with my smutty photos lol(:

This is a thing about Caleb.

He loves a good 69. But he hates doing it the easy way.

Lying side by side? Too passive. Gravity doing half the work? No fun. No challenge.

Caleb would rather lift you. Hold you. Anchor you upside down with your thighs locked around his shoulders and your mouth on him—impossible angle, every muscle working just to stay there, and he loves that.

“Head full of static, isn’t it? All that blood racing the wrong way… but this? This is the part I care about.”

The strain. The imbalance. The way your body fights to keep it together while he works you open.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, feet planted, arms locked around your hips like a harness, he holds you there with nothing but raw, burning strength. You’re bent in half, breath punched out of you with every stroke of his tongue.

“Keep shaking like that and I won’t know if it’s blood pressure or how bad you want it.”

And still, Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because even half-delirious from the rush of blood to your head, even bent like devotion made flesh over his lap, you’re still working him—mouth stretched around him, cheeks hollowing, tongue flicking just right. That angle? Unforgiving. Deep.

He feels every inch. Every twitch of your throat. Every sound you try not to make.

“Mm… You’re dripping all over me… Think you can handle one more minute?”

And when it gets too much—when the blood’s pounding in your ears and your legs can’t even tremble anymore—

“You’re shaking. Want me to stop?”

He doesn’t stop.

He shifts.

Flips you around like you weigh nothing. Finds the nearest wall, presses you up against it with your thighs over his shoulders, his mouth back on you before your head even stops spinning.

And then he kneels. One hand on your hip to keep you steady. The other wrapped around himself, working his cock in long, slow strokes while he feasts.

“You taste insane like this. It’s dripping straight down my throat—fuck.”

And this is when it really starts to break.

That edge.

That pressure.

He starts to bite. Not hard—never enough to hurt. Just tiny, teasing bites against your clit, teeth grazing in quick, controlled pulses that make your body jolt every time. Paired with the heat of his tongue, the drag of his lips—he’s relentless.

“There it is… that twitch, right there. I could chase that endlessly.”

And when he feels you getting close—when your hips start to shake and your breath turns into gasps—

That’s when his hand shifts.

The one holding you in place stays firm, fingers digging in like he’s grounding himself through your body. But the other?

The one that’s been wrapped around his cock now slides toward your center. Careful. Slow. A single finger pressing against your entrance—just barely there. Waiting for your body to pulse open for him.

“Let me… Let me in while you fall apart.”

He moans into you, then looks up—eyes glazed, mouth slick, like if you told him to stop right now, it would break him. His lips are still pressed to you, chin wet, breath trembling through his nose, and he doesn’t move. Just stares, begging without a word.

And if you give him anything—

A hand in his hair.

A whisper.

Even just your hips tilting toward him—

Permission is all he needs. He seals his mouth to you and pulls you down, a finger sliding in deep, curling just right as his mouth keeps working you, sucking with ruthless devotion until you’re shaking through it—legs slipping, throat raw. And he doesn’t stop. Not when your hips jerk. Not when your voice breaks.

He only stops when you make him, when your fingers finally tangle in his hair and pull.

“Nh—

… You gonna pull me off every time you come, or can I keep going next time?”

He lifts his head, breathless. Ruined. So fucking proud of it.

“You should see your face right now.”

And even then—even after he’s finished you like you’re some kind of worship piece pinned against the wall—it still isn’t enough.

“… I could stay between your thighs for the rest of my life.”

Because Caleb keeps going.

“… Mm… Just—

a little longer.”

His grip tightens. His mouth finds you again. His tongue keeps moving, like he’s trying to wring every last tremble from your body just to make the high last longer.

Because Caleb? Caleb doesn’t just love a 69.

He engineers it.

And he won’t stop until you’re broken.

“I’m not done. You know I’m not done.”

——————————————————————————

The taste of the divine

You've got my body, flesh, and bone

——————————————————————————

[better-setterv2]

𝒜𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒪𝒹𝒹𝓈 𝒫𝓉.2

Authors Note: Hi everyone, here’s is Part 2 of Against the Odds. I won’t be writing another part to this mini series as I didn’t feel as connected writing it. Possibly down the track I will do another series maybe similar.

Summary: Lewis Hamilton and his younger girlfriend embrace their love publicly during the Monaco Grand Prix, proving their bond transcends age and spotlight.

Warnings: mentions of sexual content, age-gap

Taglist: @harrys-hs-gf1 @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A couple of weeks later you and Lewis are lying in bed starring at the ceiling, relaxing before he had to head off to practice.

The quiet between you and Lewis lingers, stretching out like a thread of warmth woven through the soft light of morning.

Now, his hand rests lightly on the small of your back, fingers warm and still. His breath rises and falls in a lazy rhythm beneath you, his chest a steady, calming presence against your cheek. It's not possessive, the way he holds you, but it’s undeniable. He’s here, and so are you.

His arm tightens around you, drawing you even closer and you let him. His touch is not urgent, but it’s grounding. The pressure of his body against yours fills the space, a promise of something deeper than what’s visible on the surface. You hear the softest sigh slip from him as his fingers begin to trace the curve of your spine in slow, absent circles.

The room is still. But it’s a peaceful stillness, like a sigh after a storm. You don’t feel the need to fill the silence. You just let it be.

His heartbeat thuds under your cheek, steady and real. It’s the kind of thing that would go unnoticed by anyone else, but here, in this space it’s everything. You let your eyes close, matching the beat of his heart with your own.

For a long while, neither of you speaks. And yet, there’s an unspoken understanding that settles in the quiet a language only the two of you share. You think about last night - the way his lips tasted, how your bodies had moved together like it was the most natural thing in the world, even when it felt like a dream.

The way his eyes had held yours, not for just a moment, but like he was trying to imprint you onto his soul. Like he was trying to make sure you were real.

His voice breaks the silence again, quieter this time. “I can’t believe you’re here with me even after the media backlashing you.”

You lift your head just slightly to look at him, studying the lines of his face softened by sleep, the way his dark curls are tousled from being out of his braids. “You thought I’d run?”

There’s a pause and you see the flicker in his eyes, the moment of hesitation. It’s not a simple answer, not something he can explain away with a shrug or a quick laugh. When he speaks again, his voice is raw, almost uncertain. “I wasn’t sure.”

You nod, because you understand. You’ve felt it too - the fear that maybe this, whatever this is between you two, isn’t built to last. The quiet voice that wonders if something so perfect can really exist in a world that constantly pulls everything apart.

But you’re not running. Not this time.

“I’m here,” you whisper, offering him a soft smile. “And so are you.”

He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes tracing your features as if memorising them, then a small, tender smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

He moves a little closer, his lips brushing your forehead in a kiss that’s soft, grounding. Almost reverent. It’s the kind of kiss that says so much more than words could ever convey.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says softly, as if the words are more for him than for you. “I didn’t go looking for someone younger. Someone like you and now the media it taking it all out on the person I fell for.”

You feel his words like a soft tremor against your chest. You don’t flinch, don’t pull away. You just let him speak, waiting for the truth to come as raw and real as it needs to be.

“I wasn’t chasing some cliché,” he continues, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “I just I don’t know. You showed up, and you made me feel something I didn’t even realise I was missing. You made me feel alive. Like I wasn’t just another headline or another name on a list.”

You shift slightly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face and his hand finds yours. His fingers are long and strong, but they tremble slightly when they slip into yours. You don’t mind. You squeeze his hand gently.

“I don’t need an explanation,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

But he does. His eyes never leave yours, his chest rising and falling with the weight of what he’s saying.

“I’ve spent so much time running, you know? From myself, from the life I’ve built around me. Everything’s been in motion, like I’m just a part of a show. People love the idea of me, but no one really knows who I am. And then you came along, and you’re different. You didn’t care about the car or the fame. You didn’t look at me like I was something to be admired from afar. You saw me. The real me.”

You press your lips to the curve of his collarbone, taking a deep breath. It feels like he’s finally letting you see him, really see him, in a way he hasn’t let anyone else. The walls are coming down.

He exhales slowly, the breath leaving his body as if it’s the first time he’s truly exhaled in a long while. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, a gentle caress that feels like a promise.

“I forgot what it felt like,” he murmurs. “To be wanted for just who I am. Not for the car. Not for the titles. Not for the history.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like everything in the world pauses. No cameras. No fans. Just him. Just you.

“I don’t care about any of that,” you say quietly. “You’re someone good. A good man. And I care about you. Not the name, not the fame. Just you.”

His lips brush against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. It’s full of meaning, full of everything he’s been trying to say but couldn’t find the words for. His hands slide to the small of your back, pulling you closer. You kiss him back with a tenderness that surprises even you, as if you’re trying to say everything that words can’t.

When you pull away, your foreheads rest together, your breathing still in sync. There’s no need to speak. You’re both thinking the same thing, and in this moment, it doesn’t matter that the world is waiting. What matters is what’s here, between the two of you.

You remain like that for a while, letting the world wait before you finally pull away. With a glance exchanged, you both know what’s coming. The world isn’t going to let you hide forever.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The next day is race in Monaco but it was going to be even bigger than yesterday’s practice. The cameras. The inevitable spotlight. And though you both know it’s coming, you can’t help but feel the weight of it. The moment when the world will finally know.

When you get dressed, slipping into the sleek red dress that contrasts perfectly with the sharp lines of his Ferrari team wear, you both know what this means. This day, you’ll be seen together publicly, unmistakably, more remarkable then the first hard launch yesterday. There will be no hiding. No pretending.

But when you meet him at the door, his hand finds yours without hesitation. He squeezes it gently, his thumb brushing over your skin like he’s grounding himself.

“Ready?” he asks, his eyes soft with something you can’t name.

You nod, your heart racing. “Ready.”

You both walk in to the paddock hand in hand, as the area is glimmering and full of people who think they know who you are, but who are so far from the truth. The press is relentless, snapping pictures, calling out questions you’ve already heard a thousand times before.

But you’re not running from it. You walk with him, your fingers tightly intertwined as you move together through the flashes of cameras, the shouts of reporters.

When someone calls out, “How long will you two truly last together?” Lewis doesn’t hesitate. His hand tightens around yours, his gaze flickering to you for just a moment before he answers, the words soft but clear.

“Forever,” he says, voice steady. “But we’re just getting started.”

And for once, that feels like the truth.

You both step forward, into the light, into the noise, into the world that’s waiting for you.

And in that moment, when you’re standing side by side, you know that whatever happens next, whatever the world throws your way, you’re not doing this alone.

The sun climbs higher over Monaco, casting a golden hue over the harbor. The anticipation in the air is palpable as the teams make final preparations. You find yourself back in the Ferrari garage, the familiar hum of machinery and chatter surrounding you. Lewis is beside you, his race suit pristine, the iconic prancing horse emblem gleaming on his chest.

He turns to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Nervous?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the din.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. "Not for the race."

He chuckles, the sound grounding you. "Good. Because I'm going to need all the luck I can get."

As the call to the grid echoes through the garage, Lewis leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "See you at the finish line."

You watch as he strides towards his car, the embodiment of confidence and grace. The mechanics swarm around, making last minute checks. The tension is electric.

Taking your seat in the designated area, you slip on the headset, the world narrowing down to the commentary and the rhythmic thrum of engines. The lights go out, and the race begins.

Each lap is a whirlwind of emotion. You grip the armrests, heart pounding with every overtake, every near miss. Lewis maneuvers through the tight corners of the circuit with precision, his experience evident in every move.

Midway through the race, a sudden downpour adds chaos to the already challenging track. Teams scramble for tire changes, strategies shift on the fly. Lewis's voice crackles through the headset, calm yet urgent, discussing tactics with his engineer.

Despite the hurdles, he maintains his position, showcasing his unparalleled skill. As the checkered flag waves, Lewis crosses the line in second place, a testament to his resilience and mastery.

The garage erupts in cheers as Lewis returns. He removes his helmet, sweat glistening on his brow, a triumphant smile lighting up his face. Spotting you, he makes his way over with the crowd parting to let him through.

Without hesitation, he pulls you into a tight embrace, lifting you slightly off the ground. The world fades away, leaving just the two of you in that moment.

"I'm so proud of you," you whisper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

He leans back, cupping your face. "Couldn't have done it without you."

Cameras flash, capturing the intimate moment. The age difference, the speculations - all seem trivial now. What matters is the genuine connection, the shared journey.

Later, at the podium ceremony, as Lewis sprays champagne and laughs with his fellow drivers, your eyes meet across the crowd. He raises his bottle in a silent toast to you, a promise of more shared victories to come.

As night falls over Monaco, the city transforms into a glittering spectacle. You and Lewis find solace on a secluded balcony overlooking the harbor. The distant sounds of celebrations drift up, but here it's peaceful.

He hands you a glass of champagne, clinking it gently against yours. "To us," he says, eyes reflecting the city lights.

You sip, savoring the moment. "To many more races, both on and off the track."

He chuckles, pulling you close. "I like the sound of that."

The conversation turns to dreams, future plans and shared aspirations. The age difference, once a looming concern, now feels insignificant. What binds you is a deeper mutual respect, understanding and love.

As the night deepens, you rest your head on his shoulder, the world below continuing its revelry. In this quiet moment, you find contentment, knowing that together, you can face whatever comes next.

Months later, as the season progresses your relationship with Lewis becomes fades away from the talk of the paddock. The initial whispers give way to acceptance, the focus shifting back to racing.

You stand by his side through victories and setbacks, your bond strengthening with each challenge. The age difference becomes a footnote in your story, overshadowed by the depth of your connection.

And as Lewis chases his dreams on the track, you pursue your own, supporting each other every step of the way. Together, you've found a rhythm, a partnership that transcends the boundaries of the sport.

In the end, it's not about the headlines or the opinions of others. It's about the love you've cultivated, the life you've built, and the journey that lies ahead.

[gilbertscurls]

unspoken words — chris sturniolo

The evening had started off so well. You had planned a quiet night together — takeout, a movie, maybe a little bit of cuddling before the day ended. But now, hours had passed, and the clock on your wall seemed to mock you with its slow ticking. You’d already eaten your food, watched half the movie on your own, and now you were pacing around the apartment, checking your phone every few minutes.

Chris said he was just going to be a little late — something about a last-minute project. You hadn’t expected it to drag on this long. And then, of course, his phone had died.

You had tried calling him multiple times, but each attempt was met with that frustratingly familiar voicemail message. It was silly. You knew he was probably just busy, caught up in work. It wasn’t like Chris to ignore you on purpose.

But the more you waited, the more your mind began to spiral.

What if something happened to him? What if he was out with someone else? Maybe he was tired of you and was just avoiding you now.

The thoughts turned dark, twisting and growing, until you could barely recognize the person you were becoming. It felt like every ounce of trust you had built with him was suddenly shattered into pieces.

By the time the door opened, you were on the verge of tears.

Chris stepped inside, his eyes immediately finding yours, confusion written all over his face. "Hey, I’m sorry, babe. My phone died, and I lost track of time—"

That was all it took. The dam broke.

"Do you know how worried I’ve been?" Your voice cracked as the tears started to spill over, your anger bubbling to the surface. "I’ve been calling you! What, did you forget about me? Did you just not care that I couldn’t get in touch with you?"

Chris took a step toward you, but you backed away, shaking your head, your hands flying up in frustration.

"Don’t," you said, voice trembling. "You always do this. You make plans and then just disappear, and I never know where you are or what you’re doing. What if—what if something happened to you? What if I never heard from you again?"

You were pacing now, completely losing control of your emotions. "Are you out with someone else? Is that why you didn’t want to answer my calls? I���I can't keep doing this, Chris. I can't just sit here and wonder if you're abandoning me!"

Your voice was shaking with each word, but you couldn’t stop it. The accusations and fears tumbled out of you in a rush, each one more hurtful than the last. You hated yourself for it, hated how easily you slipped into that place of doubt, but it felt like the only way to stop the panic rising in your chest.

Chris didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you, his face unreadable, but his eyes softened as he took in the scene. You were standing there, trembling, sobbing, and he could see how much you were falling apart — how much you were terrified of losing him. He stayed quiet, letting you get it all out, because he knew you needed to say these things, even if they weren’t entirely true.

When you finally ran out of steam, your shoulders shaking with every breath, Chris slowly stepped forward. He reached for you gently, pulling you into his arms as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

"I’m not going anywhere," he whispered into your hair, his voice warm and steady. "I promise, I’m not. I didn’t mean to make you feel this way. I should’ve called, I should’ve kept in touch, and I’m sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t trust me."

He held you tighter, feeling the weight of your sobs against his chest. "I’m here, okay? I’m not leaving you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to show you that."

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his shirt, but somehow feeling a little lighter. The fear, the panic, slowly started to fade as you absorbed his words. Chris wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t abandoning you. This fight — no matter how ugly — didn’t change the fact that he loved you. That much was clear.

After a few moments, you pulled back, sniffling and wiping at your eyes. Chris smiled softly at you, his hand brushing some stray hair from your face, before he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

"I’m sorry," he said again, his voice a little more steady now. "I should’ve been more careful with you. I’ll do better."

The next morning, you woke up to find Chris sitting on the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through Amazon.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice still a little groggy from the emotional exhaustion of the night before.

Chris looked up, his face breaking into a sheepish grin. "Buying five more phone chargers. I’m not letting this happen again."

You blinked, trying to process what he just said, before the corners of your mouth turned up into a smile. "Five? You’re really going all out, huh?"

"I can’t trust one charger anymore," he replied with a wink, his eyes gleaming with affection. "I’m making sure that when I tell you I’m working late, you can actually get in touch with me. I’m not going to make you feel like that again."

You couldn’t help but laugh, even as your heart swelled with warmth. Chris was a bit of an idiot sometimes, but in moments like this, you knew how much he cared.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice soft but full of meaning.

Chris stood up, walking over to you and pulling you into a hug. "Anything for you, babe. I’m not going anywhere."

And this time, you believed him. You really did.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06, @asherrisrandom, @sturniolowhore69, @faith5drpepper, @emely9274, @psychologyloverfr, @lovetaylorrussellgrr, @conspiracy-ash, @helpimateenagerinlove, @ghostlythinggoingaround, @sturmatt, @chris-hallelujah, @goingtojohnkramershouseee, @wurlibydominicfike, @shadowthesim237, @courta13, @frankdelreyy, @evansturn, @bamsblooming, @backwardshatnick, @whore4chris

[jamdoughnutmagician]

The Harrington Dating Experience

Part 2

<- Part 1

The days until you finally meet Steve's family are creeping ever closer, and doubts begin to cloud your mind, is it too late to realise you might be walking into the biggest mistake of your life?

*not proof-read so if you saw any mistakes, no you didn't :)

Word Count: 1,920

Masterlist // Steve Harrington Masterlist

*dividers made by @strangergraphics

Robin sat on the bench in the only department store in Hawkins with a tired huff. She had dutifully tagged along as your best friend to help you find the perfect dress to wear to Steve’s sister's wedding, but this was the fifth store that you'd dragged her into, and she was beginning to feel like a less-than-enthusiastic boyfriend who had been lumped into following around his girlfriend to watch her shop.

“So what kind of dress are you looking for exactly?” Robin asked as she watched your fingers skim through the hangers on the rails.

“I can't tell you, I don't know. I just know it when I see it.” you say holding up one dress against your body before deciding it was way too frilly, frumpy and just plain ugly to win the approval of the Harringtons.

That evening when Steve came over, he told you about how his family liked the finer things in life, and that his parents hung around with the same affluent, oftentimes snobbish, like-minded people. That his parents, whether they meant to or not was anybody’s guess, found themselves looking down their nose at anyone who they felt was inferior.

“So basically you’re spending a long weekend highfalutin with a bunch of rich, snobby assholes” Robin asked, shaking her head in disapproval as you held up yet another dress for her opinion. 

“Robin!” you scold her quietly, continuing to skim through the rails. 

“What? I’ve met them, I know what they’re…Wait, go back a minute, what was that dress?” She says changing the subject mid-sentence, and nodding violently when you pull out a soft pink floral tea dress. 

“This one?” you asked, holding up against your body as you looked in the shop mirror.

“That’s the one, trust me.” 

“Are you sure you don't want to back out now? This is your last chance, and I won't hold it against you, I swear.” Steve's voice crackled through your phone's speaker.

“And leave my best friend to fend for himself? Absolutely not.” You answered, sat on the bed with your phone kept in place between your ear and your shoulder, its spiralling cord stretched across to your bedside table.

“That's a relief.” he chuckles lightly, but you can tell, even over the phone, that he means that genuinely. “Are you packed and ready to go? I'm coming to pick you up tomorrow morning.”

You chanced a glance at the spread open suitcase with only a clean pair of pyjamas and two balled up pairs of socks thrown haphazardly in there.

“Uhhh…yeah…I'm packing…” you erred. 

“Okay, Miss last-minute, I'll let you finish, and for the love of God, have an early night for once in your life.”

“Okay, mom. Goodnight Steve.” you laughed before hanging up the phone. 

Picking on the nicest clothes out of your closet, a white shirt and a soft pale lavender cardigan that absolutely screamed “I'm the perfect girlfriend for your son” and a few more items of clothing you deemed yourself ready and packed, with only your wedding guest dress hung up and waiting on a hanger on your wardrobe door to stop it getting creased with all of your other clothes in your suitcase. 

Finally you fall into bed with a tired smile, thinking of what tomorrow will bring when you

Rolling over with a grumble you're suddenly startled by the blaring buzzing noise of your alarm from your bedside table.

would finally meet Steve's family for the first time. 

Fuck! It's 7:45 already. Steve would be here any moment.

Jumping up and out of bed, you rush around to get ready as quickly as you can, Steve was on his way to pick you up, and he’d surely bitch at you if you weren’t ready to go the moment he showed up outside your apartment.

Deciding on something comfortable for the nearly two and a half hour drive that it takes to get to Bloomington, you reach for your favourite yellow sweatshirt. Technically it was Steve’s sweatshirt, but he left it at your apartment the last time he crashed here after a few too many after-work drinks during your last movie night, and you couldn’t yet bring yourself to return it to him. Not when it still smelled so much like his warmly spiced, woodsy, vanilla cologne. 

Just as you're grabbing your evening dress, stored safely in its dress bag, and laying over your suitcase, Steve's there bang on time, knocking at your door. 

“Open up my darling girlfriend!” He cheers from behind the door, his voice way to chipper for being awake at this time of day on a Monday morning. 

You open up the door and there he is, looking so charmingly casual in his white t-shirt, dark green bomber jacket and those light-wash denim jeans that you swear he wears with nearly every outfit.

“These are for you.” He says, thrusting a warm bundle of tin-foil and a to-go cup from your favourite diner. “Breakfast sandwich. Two slices of bacon, scrambled egg with cheese, easy on the hot sauce. One black coffee, 2 sugars. Just how you like it.” He says, reciting your go-to order. It pulls at your heart to think he would be so sweet to go out of his way to pick up your very specific breakfast order just so you would have something to eat. “Figured you'd need it, because I just knew you weren't going to get up early enough to make yourself breakfast.” he chuckles.

“Steve, you’re a lifesaver.” You say, taking the food from him eagerly.

“C'mon now, you can eat your sandwich in the car, if we go now, we can beat the traffic.” He says looking down at his watch. “You get yourself settled in, I’ll load your suitcase into the back.”

It didn’t take long for you and Steve to be hurtling down the highway on the way to Bloomington, the car’s radio quietly playing soft rock-pop music interspersed with mindless chatter about some regional sports team that you couldn’t care less about.

“I knew you had my sweater.” Steve says from beside you, keeping his eyes on the road.

Heat flushed to your face at his words, knowing you’d been caught red-handed. 

“I-uh..I was going to give it back to you, it’s just I never got the chance to..” you begin to babble in an attempt to save face.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. You can keep it. Looks better on you anyway.”

The compliment hangs in the air for a moment, and you’re not sure how to respond to that with anything more than a mumbled ‘thank you’

“We’ve got a couple of hours to kill until we get to your sister’s place, so test me.” you say, prompting Steve to briefly flick his hazel brown eyes to you before looking back on the road.

“Test you?” he asks, with his dark brows drawing together in confusion.

“I’ve been making sure that I know everything you told me about your family, and that we’re on the same page when it comes to this fake relationship. Ask me some questions, test me.”

“Okay, when’s my birthday?”

“April 24th, come on Steve, I was hoping for something a little more difficult than that.”

“Okay, do I have any tattoos?” Steve says with a challenging raise of his brow.

“No you don’t, but I know you had your left ear pierced when you were going through your George Michael phase” you laughed.

“Don’t laugh, he looked cool.” Steve says as a way of defence.

“Yeah he looked cool because he was George Michael. You looked like a dweeb.” 

“Okay then smarty pants, what was the name of my childhood dog?”

“Trick question. You didn’t have a childhood dog, you’re allergic to dogs, but you did have a pet goldfish, and his name was Carrot.”

“And for bonus points, why was he called Carrot?”

“You said it was because you’d overheard your mother talking about one of her gold necklaces being made of 18 karat gold, and you thought that she meant carrots. So you decided that since he was orange like carrots, and he was a goldfish, that it made perfect sense.” 

“Good, seems like someone’s been studying hard.” he says with a cool smile.

“You know I don’t half-ass anything, Harrington.” you nod. “Wait, what about me though. I know pretty much everything there is to know about you, but how well do you know me.” you suddenly worry. It was all well and good you knowing enough about Steve to be a convincing couple, but he needed to hold up his end of the bargain otherwise this whole operation was going to fall apart.

“I know you well enough, trust me.” he replies confidently. “Everything about you that’s worth knowing is all up here. I know everything there is to know about you.” he says confidently, tapping his finger to his head.

Quickly the thought of how badly you could ruin your friendship with Steve if he truly knew how deeply you felt for him crosses your mind.

There's some things that you're better off being in blissful ignorance, Steve. You think to yourself.

 Soon enough Steve’s car pulled up to his sister and her soon-to-be husband’s home. 

Home was an understatement. Homes were cosy, quaint and petite. This was a house. A house with a perfectly manicured lawn and delicate yellow rose bushes. The quintessential all-american white picket fence surrounding the lawn and a sturdy wrap-around porch in a matching white wood.

If you were being honest, it was beginning to feel a bit intimidating, and you’d hadn’t even met Steve’s family yet. 

Steve rushed around to the passenger side to take you by the hand to help you out.

“Such a gentleman.” You smile, grateful for him to take your nerve-shaken hand in his.

“Well I've got to be a good fake boyfriend, right?” 

Ah, yes, there it is, the little reminder that this happy fantasy that you're about to enter with him is simply that. A fantasy. A farce, a show.

You put on a brave face, giving him a smile that you hope he doesn't notice the way it doesn't quite meet your eyes.

You loop your arm in his as he leads you up the perfectly paved path to the porch steps and up to the glass window door.

Steve knocked his fist against the door, and you steadied yourself with a deep calming breath.

“They're gonna love you, don't worry about it.” He reassures you, clasping your hand in his to ground you.

Then, as the door sweeps open, you're immediately jumping into the deep end.

“Stevie! You made it!!” a woman with a bountiful bounce of dark curls, deep brown eyes framed by long dark lashes and an abundance of freckles bubbles brightly as she wraps her arms around Steve in a tight hug.

“Hey, Abi, how's it going?” Steve chuckles nervously, breaking away from his sister's hold.

“It's going good! Mom and dad are already here, and…” she trails off when her eyes flick over to you “..Oh my god I'm so sorry, I'm being so rude right now, you must be our little Stevie's girlfriend. I'm Abigail, but please call me Abi, we're all friends here! Welcome to my home, come on in!” she smiles as she welcomes you into her house. 

Starting now, you were going to be the best fake-girlfriend that Bridget and Robert Harrington could ever want for their son.

@penguinsandpringleheads @abitchyouhate @mrsjellymunson @myherometalhead @sidereustales @rebelfell @seatnights @scaredofbeingbasic

[earthtoharlow]

Love On Lafayette

main masterlist

The bell above the shop door gave a lazy jingle, but Lila Carter didn’t look up right away. She was arranging daisy’s into a teacup-sized pot, a soft smudge of soil across her cheek. Lila was trying not to swear in front of the tiny pair of eyes watching her from the floor behind the counter.

“Momma, Cinnabun’s ears ripped again.”

Lila sighed and leaned over the counter just far enough to see her four-year-old daughter, Violet, holding up a battered stuffed rabbit with one ear hanging on by a thread. Again.

“Tell him to hold it together for ten more minutes,” she said, grabbing the needle and thread she kept in the drawer specifically for this purpose. “We’ve had a long morning.”

Violet gave her a dramatic eye roll—far too advanced for a preschooler—and returned to her coloring book, propped up on the floor with a juice box at her side.

It wasn’t ideal. But it was life.

Running a small flower shop in Brooklyn while raising a child alone wasn’t exactly a recipe for luxury. Especially not after Violet’s dad decided the whole fatherhood thing wasn’t quite for him somewhere between “I’m pregnant” and “It’s a girl.”

Lila’s older sister had offered her the spare bedroom in her apartment over the shop, and Lila had taken it without hesitation. Rent was too high, babysitters were too expensive, and Violet’s daycare had shut down six months ago.

So now, the shop was home, work, and a playroom all in one. It was chaos. But it was hers.

The bell jingled again, and this time, Lila looked up.

A man walked in wearing a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that didn’t belong indoors. He moved like someone who wasn’t used to being ignored, which immediately made her suspicious.

He took off his sunglasses, paused in front of the succulents, picked up the tiny cactus, and inspected it like he was waiting for it to talk.

“That one’s not technically a flower,” Lila called from behind the counter, needle still in hand. “But points for effort.”

The man glanced over, clearly surprised to be addressed. “Right. Of course. I knew that.”

Lila arched a brow. “Sure you did.”

He looked around, eyes scanning the shelves like he was searching for the meaning of life in a pot of daisies.

“What flower says, ‘I mean well, but I’m a bit of a disaster’?” he asked finally.

Lila froze mid-stitch, she could tell from his accent that he was not a New Yorker. “Sorry?”

“You know,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “Like—‘Hi, I vanished for a few days and maybe forgot your birthday, but I swear I’m not a bad person.’ Something like that.”

She gave him a look. “So… the universal man bouquet.”

He let out a laugh—rich, low, and surprisingly genuine. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

She walked out from behind the counter, brushing her hands on her apron. “Sunflowers, then. Big, showy, fall over without support. The metaphors built-in.”

As she handed one to him, he noticed the little girl peeking over the edge of the counter with wide, curious eyes.

“Hello,” he said, crouching slightly. “Small creature.”

Violet blinked at him, unimpressed. “Hello, big human.”

He grinned. “Fair enough.”

“That’s Violet,” Lila said, unable to hide her amusement. “And no, she’s not for sale.”

He raised his hands. “Didn’t even ask. But she seems cool.”

Violet turned back to her coloring with an air of dismissal only toddlers could pull off.

The man stood and looked at Lila again—long enough that she finally looked closer, too.

She considered him again. He looked familiar, in a vague, have-we-met-once-at-a-party-you-don’t-remember kind of way. But she chalked it up to him just having one of those faces.

Lila quickly wrapped the sunflowers and handed them to him.

He just offered a smile and a twenty-dollar bill.

“Keep the change,” he said. “This place has good energy.”

And then he was gone, walking back into the city.

Lila turned to Violet, who was watching the door like she half expected him to come back.

“Do we know that man?” Violet asked.

“No, I don’t believe so.” She said, still staring at the door he walked out of.

“He talks funny.”

“You think so?”

Violet picked up her stuffed bunny again. “I liked it.”

And that was that.

But it wouldn’t be the last time he came in.

Not even close.

****

A nice little short story, this probably won’t have more than 6 chapters. I already have it all written so 😌 please let me know if you like this because validation makes me post chapters faster 🥰

Tag List:

@harlowsbby @heavyhitterheaux @harlowcomehome @https-harlow @hoodharlow @itsyagirljaz @cosypinky2 @theyoganarrative @ann2sno @bugheadfanatic @umicornlove @venice-bxtch @muli-wam @jackharlow502 @aga21 @iknowdatsrightbih @theboujeestofboujee @babygirl-htx @chantelaustingunn @wabi-sabi1090 @dstark-0706 @hufflewhore128 @jackiehollanderr @katiaw2 @firepuma @easternparkway

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — sae itoshi & rin itoshi: new frames, same heartthrob !

synopsis: coming home from a long day, you're caught off guard by the rare sight of him wearing glasses.

sae itoshi x reader / rin itoshi x reader ⭑ drabble / fluff / hot nerd moment ??? + likes & reblogs are appreciated <3

note: I LOVEEEE MEN WHO WEAR GLASSES AND ARE ATTRACTIVE AND READ LIKE LORDDD GIVE ME ONE OF THOSE PLEASE

— rin itoshi

you came home from uni later than usual, keys jangling as you pushed open the door, already rehearsing your dramatic sigh about how your day had been hell. but the words died the second your eyes landed on your boyfriend.

rin was sitting on the couch, a novel in one hand, his other arm resting casually along the backrest. a soft, lamplight glow spilled over the room, catching in the dark strands of his hair and the clean lines of his fitted shirt, the one with the sleeves just tight enough to show off the way his biceps flexed every time he turned a page.

and the glasses.

thin. black frames. new. sharp. criminal.

your mouth may have gone a little dry.

he didn't look up at first, flipping the page with that same casual grace he always carried, but you swore you saw the corners of his mouth twitch upward.

"stop staring," he said without looking at you.

you blinked, still frozen in place. "since when do you wear glasses?"

"a few days," he replied, finally glancing at you over the top of them. his eyes, usually sharp and cool, softened just slightly like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

"i-" you started, then stopped. "you look really good."

his lip quirked. "obviously."

you walked over and dropped your bag by the couch. "no like, unfairly good. unethically hot and everything."

he finally closed the book, slipping a thumb between the pages. "then come here."

you did. because you always did. and when he pulled you into his lap and kissed you slow, glasses and all, you decided sleep could wait a little longer.

— sae itoshi

you didn't expect sae to be home yet.

the apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, only the soft hum of the heater breaking the silence. you dropped your bag by the door and rounded the corner, then froze.

sae sat on the couch, legs crossed, a book resting in one hand while the other toyed absentmindedly with the edge of the page. a fitted button-down hung loosely off his shoulders, sleeves rolled just high enough to reveal his forearms. but it wasn't the shirt or even the way his fingers moved with quiet precision.

it was the glasses.

thick, black, perched perfectly on the bridge of his nose. he never wore them. at least, not around you.

you blinked, your breath catching in your throat like your body had short-circuited at the sight.

sae glanced up slowly, noticing you for the first time. his eyes met yours, unbothered.

"you're home early," he said, voice low and even.

you swallowed hard. "you never told me you wore glasses."

"they're just for reading," he replied, then went back to his page like he hadn't just shattered your heart with how he looked.

you stood there, dazed.

he looked up again after a moment, faint amusement tugging at his mouth. "you're staring."

"you're unfair," you muttered.

that earned the ghost of a smirk. "and you're easily distracted."

you crossed the room and flopped onto him, your body pressing into his side as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. sae stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, his hand shifting automatically to your waist, pulling you closer in a way that felt almost natural.

"you're too good-looking for your own good."

he exhaled, something between a chuckle and a sigh. "is that so?"

you nodded into his shoulder, not even caring that he could feel your heartbeat racing.

sae was quiet for a moment before he muttered under his breath, more like he was talking to himself, "you're ridiculous."

but his arm around you tightened and you smiled.

he might never know how much that tiny, fleeting moment of him in glasses made you fall in love all over again.

[vicedmuses]

everything that he was doing had a purpose. several if he was being honest with himself. one, he did want to relax caius' body to the point where it would welcome his shaft without too much worry. he knew that he was big and if the man regularly didn't let others fuck him, then he was going to need to loosen up a bit. that was only the first part. then, he also wanted to know his body head to toe. which parts were sensitive, what made him tick. he wanted to be able to draw his new employee with his tongue and hands alone in the dark. to recognize his body in a lineup even if he was blindfolded. to know where to expect a curve, dip, muscle, or some thickness. that's why he let his hands wander while his tongue was doing the majority of the work on his hole. he didn't let them stop either. by the time that he was done, there was going to be no part of the man's body that was untouched. no element that he didn't know. if he was going to be his new boy, then he was going to be branded with his scent. their bodies were going to meld together soon enough, almost like they were made for each other.  

so he would continue to see what made the man twitch, moan, groan, throb, or any other reaction that he could possible have. seeing how he jolted when his balls were toyed with would've brought a smirk to the older man's lips. if his mouth wasn't filled with something that was. so he sucked on the sensitive sac, massaging the ball with his tongue inside of his mouth, before letting it fall back into its original place. another part of him that he would commit to memory. another part of him that he knew was now sensitive. all of this information was invaluable. “i have to make sure you're completely at ease, don't i? plus, you just taste so goddamn good, it's hard to keep my mouth off of you.” that was also the truth. if he wasn't already hooked on his employee when he got down on his knees to give him the best blowjob of his life, then he was now. getting a taste for him.

there were no parts of him that he wanted to leave undiscovered. even with that, every single movement had a purpose. his rimmed entrance, his taint, his sac, his own dick. everything was toyed with to help him relax. clayton was playing the long game and the end goal was to ensure that he would be able to slide his full length inside of the man that was spread out for him. like a meal waiting to be devoured. like temptation personified. so, again, he didn't care how long it was going to take. all that he knew was that he was going to fuck the orgasm out of caius by the end of the night.

with the new position that they were in, his own body was finally able to feel some relief. he couldn't help but remember how good caius' mouth felt. how accepting it was paired with his throat. almost welcoming his shaft like it belonged inside of there. did he feel that pleasure mere hours ago? yes. was he ever going to grow tired of it? hell no. he would do whatever it took to make sure that he got to feel that expert mouth suck him off one more time. plus, it gave ciaus something else to focus on while he continued to open him up. he found himself having to do multiple things at once just to make sure that happened. 

so his legs spread apart until they were resting comfortable on each side of the other man and his body lowered so that he could have free reign over his length. all of that also brought him closer to the sweet spot that he had been after this whole time. to the hole that would soon feel his load bursting from the inside. again, he wasn't in a rush to get there, but he had to keep that in the back of his mind to help.

as his own cock was told with, he couldn't help the moan that slipped out of his lips. it was carnal, almost animalistic, and he couldn't even focus on anything else aside from caius anymore. clayton brought his mouth back to lick the tip of the man's cock. he swirled it around and let his saliva slowly drip down the impressive length. then he wrapped his mouth around it again, wanting to make sure that pleasure was coming from every side possible. he lowered his own head, tongue pressed flat against the under side of the man's shaft. it vibrated slowly as the hums of his moans also pushed against the dick. the pleasure that he was getting hopefully was making this an even better experience. he could feel his own nipples harden with everything going on, his cock leaking pre into the man's mouth. fuck.

his left hand was focused on his sac and taint. his thumb, index, and middle fingers fondled caius' balls, massaging them in between the digits and tugging on them every now and then. while his ring and pinky fingers would press up against his taint. they massaged the area in between his balls and his hole. not too much where he thought it was going to be more than was caius could handle, but enough. it also helped that he thought highly of the other man. he knew that he could take more than the average person.

clayton lowered his head further onto the man's cock until his nose was pressed up against his balls. then he found a good rhythm for himself, giving him a blowjob that hopefully also felt good. he knew he couldn't be as skilled as the man beneath him, that just wasn't humanly possible, but this wasn't the first time that he had a dick in his mouth. he started to swirl his mouth around too, slowly moving around as his head moved in circular motions. he wanted to create as much friction, movement, and pleasure as he could to please caius the same way he had been pleased.

then, the ceo continued to work on his hole. that was the sweet spot that he was here for. the one thing that he could never leave untouched. after his finger was comfortably lodged inside of it, he added another. now his index and middle fingers were pushing him open, going as far as he could. whenever his knuckles hit the base of the man's entrance, his fingers curled upward. almost like he was searching for the prostate, like it was the spot marked with x. then he would pull them back out, slowly twisting them at the same time. only to slide them back inisde.

Caius lay utterly spent into the plush depth of the couch, his limbs sprawled without resistance, chest rising in a lazy rhythm beneath the weight of smoke and the sensation he was experiencing. The haze of the drug clung to him, relaxing and calming, curling the edges of his vision, but it did little to obscure the flood of heat rushing through his core. If anything, it enhanced everything. Clayton's hands were no longer a mystery—they were mapping him out. Each touch, each adjustment of his spread thighs, felt deliberate, patient, but utterly famished for that little puckered hole. His entrance, once shy and tight, now throbbed with warmth, kissed again and again by a tongue that moved with devotion and certainty, enough to have his toes curl and his abs to flex beneath Clayton's work. The pleasure wasn't just physical—it was psychological. Caius wasn't being touched so much as studied, understood, owned. He felt completely at peace, safe, desired. It was a rare moment in time, since he very rarely allowed men at his prized cunt; he could count the amount of times he had allowed it in just one hand. Clayton was a special case.

Every lap of Clayton's tongue felt like a gift. He didn't rush—God, he never rushed. The slow, wet circles, the occasional push of his tongue inward, the deliberate retreat and return, all of it played out like a song Caius didn't know the words to but couldn't stop humming in approval. He moaned into the smoky air, low and unfiltered, thighs twitching at the relentless attention to his hole, nobody had ever played with him quite like this, so passionately and voraciously. His cock lay untouched but swollen, twitching in time with every flick and swirl of that skilled tongue. When Clayton sucked one of his balls into his mouth and rolled it languidly over his tongue, Caius' eyes shot open. He thought he might combust—his body jolted, an involuntary buck that left him breathless and flushed, his stomach sinking and inflating with the surprising act. "Fuck... my God, you really know how to make someone melt, don't you, Boss?"

He tried to center himself, one hand sliding down to his neglected length—not to stroke, but just to hold, to offer some relief to the throbbing pressure, to manage its constant twitching and pulsing. But his body didn't want to be managed. It wanted to give in. To open further. To let that tongue press deeper until it was replaced with something longer, something bigger, thicker. He whimpered, and he didn't care that he did. Clayton was unraveling him like a professional, slowly drawing out each layer of Caius' until all that remained was desperation—whines, winces and moans, nothing hindered from the beauty of the man kneeling before him.

When Clayton finally pulled away from his hole, the sudden absence was jarring. His rim tingled, spit-slicked and twitching, as if mourning the loss of that warm mouth. And then—finally, finally—Clayton's mouth found his cock. Just the head. Just enough for that tongue to swirl and tease and taste, to milk a groan out of Caius so deep it vibrated through his ribs. If he had more confidence and a dominant nature in him, he would have seized the man's head to plunge his cock into that hot mouth. But alas, it was not in his nature. After all, Clayton had given him so much already. It was only fair he be pliant and receptive, thankful.

Caius barely had time to process the loss before Clayton moved. His boss' thick thighs framed his face, that delectable aroma of sex permeating the air around him. And then, like some obscene blessing, that massive, perfect cock swung into view, looming above him like a treat. His mouth parted on instinct as he looked up past the length to the man's face, his gaze searching for permission—or perhaps surrender, a subtle sign of gratitude for the offering.

But he didn't need to ask, he knew that now.

His lips parted wider, tongue sliding out just enough to greet the heavy head with a deep, rumbling moan. The taste—just the faintest trace of salt and skin—sent a thrill down his spine. God, how could he taste even better now than he did earlier in the day? He tilted his head, adjusting as Clayton hovered, holding him in place as if he were precious cargo. Caius moaned around the first inch, the sheer girth a challenge and a delight, his jaw a little sore from the earlier work he had done. Still, if sucking dick was a sport, he would be winning gold every time. He forced himself to relax his throat as best he could, eager to prove his worth once again, to deliver what he knew the man wanted. His own pleasure was set aside for the moment, buried beneath his singular goal of worshipping the monster currently residing in his mouth.

And still, even as his lips sealed around Clayton's shaft and his tongue lavished the underside with smooth, swirling licks, the attention didn't stop from his end. A new slickness coated his rim—spit freshly delivered—and a moment later, the press of a thick finger nudged inward. Caius' hips jerked, a muffled moan vibrating against the cock in his mouth, the muscled ring tightening around the digit out of instinct. The stretch was real, but it didn't burn or ache. It felt like the next step. The natural escalation of this monolith he was currently slurping on.

Clayton's finger had pushed in deeper, curling in, testing his readiness, and Caius welcomed it. His legs trembled, still held aloft by his natural state of submission, perfectly spread and raised, knees up to his chest at its side. His ass was entirely exposed and pliant, offering itself as freely as his throat did now. He took more of that cock into his mouth, inch by inch, cheeks hollowing as he sucked greedily. Every moan that escaped him now was into Clayton's flesh, his lips stretched, jaw straining, drool beginning to slick his chin and causing the fluids to froth and bubble.

He was aware of how desperate he sounded, how hungry. But there was no hiding it now. No pride, no posturing—just hunger. The heat, the musk, the comfort and pleasure he felt with this man, the finger stretching his ass and the weight of that thick cock pressing deeper into his mouth all collapsed into immense joy. It helped that Clayton was such a masculine, strong man. Successful, kind, passionate. A sculpted body worthy of daily worship, which he hoped he would get a chance to get acquainted with. Plus, with a cock the size of Caius' forearm, he couldn't quite fathom just how lucky this day turned out to be.

[can-of-pringles]

You ever think about how the first time Crowley finally gets to kiss Aziraphale after 6000 years of not confessing it ends in disaster

[shokocide]

HEY, EMO BOY! - CHOSO KAMO

summary. Choso doesn’t do distractions. But then you walk into his show and ruin his focus with one look. And now, he’s handing you his guitar, his heart, maybe more. And baby, you haven’t even seen what those fingers can really do.

word count. 10.5k (i got a lil carried away)

content. mdni fem! reader, bassist! choso, mutual pining, heavy tension, choso is a tease (and so down bad), really lovey-dovey shi like bro's not even emo, pet names, smut, fingering, oral (fem rec.), p in v, mating press, praise, creampie, slight overstim, aftercare

author's note. saw this fanart and started ovulating on demand.

"Come on, it'll be fun," Shoko says, tugging on your sleeve with the persistence of a woman who knows you have no other plans. "You like music. You like hot guys. This is both."

You squint at her, unconvinced. "You said that last time and we ended up at some dude’s garage while he rapped about capitalism."

She grins. “And it was unforgettable.”

“You spilled beer on my shoes.”

“And I’ve had character development after that.”

You roll your eyes, but she already knows she's won. She’s practically vibrating with excitement as she drags you through the dimly lit alley that opens into an even dimmer basement venue—graffiti-tagged walls, sticker-covered speakers, the scent of cigarettes and something vaguely fruity in the air.

The lights are low, the crowd humming with quiet energy, and the stage is set but empty—just a drum kit, a couple mics, and a bass propped against its amp like it’s waiting for someone.

“You’re gonna love them,” Shoko whispers, already pulling out her phone to snap photos. “The music’s sick. And the bassist—”

You blink at her.

“The bassist,” she repeats, dramatically placing a hand over her heart. “Tall, broody, pretty eyes. Never says a damn word on stage but plays like he’s in pain.”

You scoff. “You’ve got issues.”

“Just wait,” she says. “You’re not ready.”

And you’re not.

Because when the band finally comes on stage and the lights cut through the haze, your eyes lock onto him—tall, dark, dressed in all black with his bass slung low, rings glinting on his fingers, and a half-lidded stare like he’s seeing ghosts.

And when he starts playing? Oh. Yeah. You’re done for.

The lights dim, bathing the room in moody blue and red hues. The crowd hushes—just for a moment—then the first chord explodes through the speakers. It’s loud, raw, electric, vibrating through the floor and straight up your spine.

You don’t flinch.

You should. The guy next to you does. Shoko’s already swaying to the beat like she’s been here a thousand times. But you? You’re frozen—entranced.

Not by the music. Not really.

By him.

The bassist, standing off to the left like he doesn’t crave the spotlight, like he’s content letting the others take the lead. But he’s the one you see. The one who owns the stage.

He’s tall and he’s wearing a loose black button-up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top few buttons left undone to tease just enough of his pale, sculpted chest. The stage lights catch on the gleam of sweat on his collarbones, highlighting every sharp angle and subtle flex of muscle as he moves with the rhythm. His fingers dance over the bass strings with practiced ease, and that’s when you notice it—apart from the black nail polish, each one is tattooed with a letter: C-H-O-S-O.

His long, dark hair is loose, falling in waves to the base of his neck, the ends brushing over his collar. The soft purple eyeshadow dusting his eyelids makes his deep-set eyes pop, casting shadows that only add to his sharp features. A bold tattoo cuts across the bridge of his nose, stark against his pale skin.

His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a hard, concentrated line, and his fingers—god, his fingers—they dance over the strings like he was born with a bass in his hands. There’s something hypnotic about the way he plays. Focused. Intense. Like the world doesn’t exist outside of this moment.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Shoko elbows you lightly. “Told you,” she shouts in your ear, grinning like the smug little shit she is.

You nod, but your eyes don’t move. You can’t look away. It’s like you’ve been put under some kind of spell.

And then—then—mid-song, his head lifts just slightly. His gaze cuts through the haze and crowd and colored lights, and lands right on you. You swear it. A spark of something sharp and electric zips down your spine.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just holds your gaze for a breath longer than necessary before he looks away, like he felt it too.

Like he knew.

Like the music wasn’t the only thing pulling strings tonight.

The band keeps playing, song after song bleeding into one another, but you barely register any of it.

Your eyes keep straying to him. Choso—at least, you think that’s his name, judging by the ink on his fingers. Fitting, really. It lingers in your head like a low bassline: heavy, addictive.

At one point, you swear he looks at you again.

Really looks.

And even if it’s just for a second, it feels like a live wire pressed to your skin.

You down the rest of your drink to keep yourself from combusting.

Shoko leans in and shouts something in your ear over the music—probably the band’s name or some fun fact about the drummer—but your eyes are locked on him. You nod absently, your smile weak, dazed, because how the hell are you supposed to listen to anyone else when he’s up there, commanding your every thought?

By the time the band wraps up their final song, you’re already craning your neck for a better look. You don't even realize you're moving toward the stage until Shoko’s hand snags your wrist.

"Where are you going?"

You blink, startled like you’ve been caught red-handed. "I—I don’t know."

But you do.

You’re hoping to get closer. Maybe he’ll notice you again.

Maybe he already has.

-

You find yourself outside the venue before you even realize what you’re doing—leaning against the brick wall, half hidden in the shadows, heart hammering like you’d just finished a set yourself. The crisp night air cools your skin, but it does nothing to quiet the heat bubbling beneath it.

You tell yourself you just needed some air.

That’s all.

Totally not waiting around like some groupie for a guy you don’t even know.

The door creaks open behind you, and a familiar pair of boots crunches against gravel. Shoko squints at you suspiciously.

“You good?” she asks, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a quick flick. “You just disappeared.”

You shrug, too casual. “Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

She takes a drag, exhales slow. “Right. A breather. After not dancing and not drinking that much.”

You shoot her a side-eye. “Do you always interrogate people for wanting fresh air?”

“Only when they’ve been acting weird since the bassist took the stage.” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not slick, y’know.”

You scoff, glancing away before she can catch the way your face warms. "I don't know what you’re talking about."

Shoko chuckles like she definitely knows what she’s talking about, but bless her, she doesn’t press it. Just smirks, gives your arm a little nudge. “He was hot, though.”

You give a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning every shadowed corner, every rusted doorway, hoping—just hoping—you might catch another glimpse of him. Choso. You’re almost certain that’s his name. It suits him. Dark. Sharp.

You won’t tell her, of course, but—yes.

Yes, this was fun.

Yes, she was absolutely right to drag you here.

Yes, the bassist was fine as hell and maybe, just maybe, you’ve developed the tiniest, stupidest little crush on a guy whose voice you haven’t even heard yet.

But god, you want to.

Even just once.

A glimpse. A moment. Anything.

And just when you think it’s time to give up, to stop being delusional and head home—

The door swings open again.

And this time, it’s him.

Panic.

Real, irrational, full-body panic.

Because there he is. Standing a few feet away. In the flesh. The bassist.

Loose black button-up clinging to his frame, sleeves still rolled up from the show, revealing forearms that shouldn’t be legal. The glint of his rings catching the light. A faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his collarbone—god, you can see it because the top few buttons are still undone, teasing just enough pale skin to keep you up at night.

And his eyes—

His eyes are rimmed with that soft, dusty lavender, and they’re looking straight at you.

You glance side to side like you might Houdini yourself out of this moment. Maybe if you ran fast enough, you could avoid embarrassing yourself beyond repair. Maybe if you—

Shoko bumps your shoulder, casual and smug. “Now’s your chance.”

“Chance for what?” you hiss, heart thudding in your ears. “To spontaneously combust? To make an idiot out of myself?”

But it’s too late.

Because before you can overthink your next twelve moves or plan a strategic escape—

He’s walking toward you.

Slow, calm, confident.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

Before you can say something completely unhinged, like “your bass playing did something weird to my hormones”, you feel Shoko shift beside you.

You whip your head toward her, silently begging for assistance, for backup, for escape. But she just smirks, looking between the two of you like she already knows exactly how this night’s gonna go.

“Well,” she says with a wink, already turning on her heel. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull. “Shoko. No. Shoko, wait—SHOKO.”

But she’s already walking away like she didn’t just abandon you to the mercy of the hottest man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

And now—

Now he’s standing right in front of you.

He smells like sweat and incense and something dark—something addictive.

“You waited,” he says, voice lower than expected, rich. His lips curl, just barely. “Were you hoping for an autograph… or something else?”

You blink.

He knows.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

An autograph? Something else? What the hell does something else even mean—wait, you know what it means, OH GOD—

“I—I wasn’t waiting— I mean, I was, but not like—like in a weird way or anything!” you blurt, the words tumbling out like a panicked avalanche. “Not that liking your music is weird. I mean, it was good! Really good. You were good. Not in that way, I mean—not that you wouldn’t be—oh my God—”

You slap a hand over your face.

Abort mission. Let the ground open up. End scene.

When you peek through your fingers, he’s just watching you, amused, head tilted slightly to the side.

Then—he chuckles. Actually chuckles.

It’s low and quiet and kind of devastating.

“I was right,” he murmurs, voice all honeyed steel. “Cute.”

You make a high-pitched noise that cannot be classified as human.

And Choso—Choso just leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s offering a secret.

“Relax. I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you want me to.”

You definitely stop breathing.

Your brain is just a dial-up tone as you stare at him, stunned into silence, because did he actually just say that? He did. He really did. And he’s still looking at you like he’s waiting for your answer.

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is: “I—uh—yeah. I mean no. I mean—I don’t know what I mean.”

He grins. Not a smirk. A real, soft little grin, like he likes the mess you’ve become.

“Wanna get some air?” he asks, jerking his chin toward the alleyway beside the venue, quieter now that the band’s done and the crowd’s thinned.

You nod way too fast.

So you end up outside, standing under the faded neon of the venue sign, arms crossed to hide how jittery you are. Choso leans against the wall beside you, lighting a cigarette. The glow flares against his sharp cheekbones, his lashes casting shadows on his skin.

“So,” he says, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “You liked the set?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to look at his hands. His tattooed fingers. “You were… really good.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Still not in that way?”

You bury your face in your hands again.

He laughs under his breath, then nudges your shoulder with his. “You got a name, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. 

Oh, how you were so very fucked.

You tell him your name. And when he repeats it softly, your knees almost give out.

Then he offers, “I’m Choso, by the way.”

Like it’s a gift.

And before the night ends, he asks if you’re coming to the next gig.

“Only if you’re playing,” you manage to say.

To which he replies, “I’ll be there if you are.”

-

shoko: hello?? where are you???

shoko: ANSWER ME

shoko: sigh

shoko: i didn’t want it to come to this but you leave me no choice

shoko: i’m checking your location.

shoko: GIRL WHAT ARE YOU STILL DOING THERE

shoko: 2 missed calls

shoko: you better give me answers the second you're online...or else.

you: dot dot dot

shoko: WHAT. HAPPENED.

you: emergency phone call

shoko: 🧍‍♀️

shoko: you’re a terrible liar

you: ok but like. 

you: it wasn’t a lie. it was an emergency. a hot boy emergency

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GOD. 

shoko: OH MY GODDDDD.

you: he talked to me

you: HE TALKED TO ME SHOKO

shoko: AND???

you: and i said dumb shit

you: and he still talked to me

you: and i think i blacked out at one point??

you: but like. the good kind

shoko:YOU’RE TELLING ME MYSTERIOUS HOT BASSIST MAN TALKED TO YOU AND YOU LIVED???

you: barely

you: i think i ascended actually

shoko: you’re telling me you were about to dip and then HE approached YOU????

you: he remembered me from the front row 😭

you: called me cute 😭😭

you: asked for my name 😭😭😭

you: CALLED ME SWEETHEART 😭😭😭😭

shoko: …girl.

shoko: i don’t wanna be dramatic

shoko: but i might start planning your wedding

you: pls help i’m still outside the venue trying not to combust

you: he said he’d see me again if i came to the next gig

you: SHOKO WHAT IF I GO TO EVERY GIG UNTIL I DIE

shoko: yeah bestie we’re in our groupie era now

-

You show up a whole forty minutes before the doors even open—Shoko said she’d meet you later, but you’re already leaning against the building like a total loser. Or an over zealous fan. Same thing, really.

You're debating if you should take a walk to kill time when the door swings open, and out steps him. Black button-up, sleeves rolled up again, a few buttons undone, and that familiar purple eyeshadow hugging his tired eyes. His lip quirks up the second he sees you.

“Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking his head as he strolls over. His voice is low, teasing—but not unkind.

Your face goes up in flames. “What—n-no. I mean yes. I mean—Shoko said she’d meet me later and I didn’t wanna be late, obviously.”

He hums, clearly amused. “Mhm. Obnoxiously early, huh?”

“Fashionably early,” you grumble, and he laughs, like you’re the most entertaining thing he’s heard all day.

Then he nods his head toward the door. “C’mon. I’ll introduce you to the guys.”

You blink. Wait. Right now??

You glance down at your outfit—cute enough for the gig, maybe not cute enough to meet him again, let alone his entire band. But he’s already walking, and you’re a fool if you don’t follow.

The door creaks open, and you’re hit with the low hum of conversation, faint music playing from someone’s phone, and the scent of sweat and cologne. Your heart’s going a mile a minute.

“Yo,” Choso calls, and two heads turn.

The tall white-haired man draped across the couch offers a lazy grin. “Oh? Who’s this?”

Choso leans against the doorframe and jerks a thumb toward you. “She’s the one I was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. Talking about?? Since when???

“Ooooh,” the other guy drawls from where he’s fiddling with a drumstick, hair tied back and gaze sharp as ever. “So this is her.”

“Shut up,” Choso mutters, but there’s a hint of pink dusting his ears. He looks back at you, eyes soft. “That’s Satoru—he never shuts up. And that’s Suguru. Don’t let him fool you—he’s worse.”

“Lies and slander,” Satoru says with a wink.

You’re frozen. Do you wave? Speak? Die on the spot?

“Hi,” you say, awkwardly.

Suguru offers a small nod. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally???

Satoru leans forward with a devilish grin. “Choso wouldn’t shut up about you, y’know?”

Choso visibly tenses. “Go bother someone else.”

But it’s too late—you’re already flushed to your ears, and Satoru’s howling with laughter.

“You’re cute,” he tells you. “You can stick around.”

You glance at Choso, and he gives you the smallest smile. Like you belong here.

And for the first time—you think maybe you do.

He walks ahead a bit, glancing over his shoulder as he gestures toward the sound booth. “That’s Nao, our sound tech. She’s the only reason we don’t sound like trash onstage.”

Nao waves without looking up from her monitor, and you awkwardly lift a hand back. Choso chuckles under his breath.

He keeps going, showing you the light setup, where they stash backup guitars, even the vending machine he’s pretty sure is haunted. Every person you pass gives you that look—oh, so this is the girl.

Your fingers twist nervously around the strap of your bag. It’s not like they’re being unfriendly. If anything, everyone’s nice. Welcoming, even. But still—you can’t shake the nerves bubbling in your chest.

You feel his gaze before you hear his voice.

“Nervous?” he asks, quiet and low.

You blink up at him. He’s standing close now, one hand tucked into the pocket of his jacket, watching you like he’s not sure if he’s scaring you or if you’re just shy.

You swallow. “A little.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. “You don’t have to be. Everyone’s chill.”

You nod, but you know the tension is still written all over your face.

And then—he reaches out. Just a light touch to your wrist. “Hey. I asked you here ‘cause I wanted you to come. Not to freak you out.”

His voice is soft now, just for you.

You manage a sheepish smile. “Sorry. It’s just… new.”

He shrugs, lips curling slightly. “Yeah. But I’m not that scary, right?”

You meet his eyes, and the look he gives you—teasing but warm—makes your stomach flip.

“…Not yet,” you murmur.

And he laughs, head tilted back like you just said the funniest thing all night. “You’re cute.”

Great. Now you’re even more nervous.

He walks you over to the stage setup, lights dim and moody, the buzz of crew members in the background. The instruments are neatly arranged—drum kits, amps, tangled cords, and at the center, his guitar resting on its stand.

He picks it up effortlessly, letting the strap fall over his shoulder. His fingers settle over the strings, and he begins to strum, absentmindedly. It’s not even a real song, just soft notes—but it’s hypnotizing.

Especially the way his fingers move. Long, slender, practiced.

You're staring. Absolutely entranced.

“Wanna try playing?” he asks suddenly.

You snap out of it so fast it’s embarrassing. “H-huh?”

He chuckles, soft and low. “Bit distracted there, sweetheart. You okay?”

“I’m good. Mhm.” You nod a little too quickly, plastering on a tight smile as your face warms. You hope he doesn’t notice, but that knowing glint in his eyes tells you otherwise.

He steps toward you with the guitar, offering it out with a slight tilt of his head. “Here.”

Your hands hover uncertainly. “O-oh… I don’t know how to play.”

He just smiles. “It’s alright, I’ll help you.”

He walks behind you, close enough that you feel the warmth of him at your back. You swear your heart skips a beat when his arms slip around you, guiding yours. He’s gentle as he places your left hand along the neck of the guitar, adjusting your fingers over the frets, his hand covering yours.

“Just relax,” he murmurs, voice right by your ear.

Your breath hitches.

“Shit—sorry, too close?” he asks quickly, voice laced with concern.

“N-no! It’s fine! Totally fine.” You somehow manage to stand upright.

He smiles again, that soft kind of amused. “Alright, just press here... yeah, that’s it.” He places your fingers on the strings. “Now, strum with this hand—lightly. Let the strings breathe.”

You try, hesitantly dragging your fingers down the strings. A clumsy note sounds out.

Choso hums. “Not bad. Now, try a G chord—here, like this.” His fingers mold yours again, warm and careful.

You nod, barely able to think with him this close, and repeat the motion. It sounds... slightly better.

“See?” he says, praising you with a smile in his voice. “Fast learner.”

You glance up at him over your shoulder, heart fluttering. “Maybe I just have a good teacher.”

His lips quirk, and he looks at you like you’ve just made his night.

“Well,” he says, “I am good with my hands.”

Your brain short-circuits.

He grins when he hears that soft, breathy little sound escape your lips.

“O-oh,” you stammer, eyes wide as you blink up at him.

His smile deepens, all teasing and low charm. “Didn’t mean to make you nervous,” he says, though he definitely did. 

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but your brain’s gone completely blank. The only thing in your head is him. His voice, his scent, the low buzz of his guitar still humming in your hands.

“I—uh, yeah. No. You’re doing great. I mean—I’m doing great. I mean—thank you.”

He laughs. Not mockingly—it's soft, sweet, like he finds you genuinely adorable.

“You’re cute when you get flustered,” he says, voice quiet.

You look down at the guitar in your hands, pretending very hard to be focused on the strings.

“Maybe we’ll get you to play a whole song next time.”

You blink. “Next time?”

He shrugs casually, stepping back just enough to make you miss his warmth. “If you’re coming to the next gig, I figured I’d see you again.”

And then, with the most casual confidence, he adds, “You wanna?”

You blink up at him, heart still pounding from the way he practically wrapped himself around you moments ago. But then—somehow—you find your footing, just enough to muster a sliver of confidence.

You clear your throat, giving him a lopsided little smile. “Let’s see how this one goes first.”

His brows shoot up, clearly amused. “Is that a challenge?”

You shrug, trying not to melt under his gaze. “Depends. You think you can handle it?”

Choso laughs—a low, warm sound that vibrates in your chest more than your ears. He leans in again, just a little, his face dangerously close to yours. “Sweetheart,” he says, voice like silk, “I know I can.”

-

The crowd is thicker than last time. Hazy neon lights wash the walls in streaks of violet and red, and the room thrums with anticipation. You can feel the energy buzzing through your fingertips, your legs bouncing where you sit off to the side of the stage.

Choso catches your eye just before stepping on. He’s dressed in that same loose black button-up—top few buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tattoos stark against his pale skin. His eyes are lined in that soft purple hue again, hair falling wild to his neck, and yet he somehow looks composed. Grounded. Like he was born to be here.

He doesn’t say anything, just gives you a look—half smirk, half something softer—and it sends butterflies flurrying in your chest.

And then: the lights dim. The crowd erupts. The band takes the stage.

Suguru on drums, flashing a grin at the front row before twirling his sticks and slamming into the first beat like a force of nature. Satoru struts forward, mic in hand, already oozing charisma, and Choso—Choso slides into position with his bass like it’s a part of him. One hand gripping the neck, the other plucking strings with a lazy, practiced ease.

The sound hits you like a wave. Loud. Gritty. Addictive.

But even as the music drowns everything out, your eyes stay locked on him.

Choso doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t need to. He’s in his own world—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, swaying with the rhythm like the bass is leading him. And yet, somehow, he still finds a way to glance at you.

Just for a second. A flicker of a smirk.

And that’s when you realize it.

He’s playing for them—but looking at you.

And that smolder in his gaze? That spark that coils low in your belly?

It’s all for you.

-

The crowd’s roars have faded, the lights are dimming, and you’re still standing there, heart racing. Choso’s walking off stage, sweat-slick and glowing, bass still strapped to his back, and the second his eyes find you he smiles. Soft. Lopsided. Like it’s just for you.

He weaves through the staff with ease, and before you can fully brace yourself, he’s in front of you, that same lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Didn’t think you’d actually stick around,” he teases, voice low, raspy from the set.

You roll your eyes, a little bashful. “Had to see if your fingers really lived up to the hype.”

His brows shoot up, surprised—and then he laughs. It’s deep and warm and it makes your stomach do flips. “Oh? And?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I’m not sure yet. Might need a private performance to decide.”

And damn, now he’s the one blushing.

He blinks. Once. Twice. And then that lazy grin deepens into something more—something that makes your throat dry.

“A private performance, huh?” he echoes, slinging the bass off his shoulder, setting it down like he’s done this a thousand times before—cool, collected, practiced. “You planning to book me?”

You cross your arms, trying to look unbothered despite the heat crawling up your neck. “Maybe. Depends on your rates.”

He steps closer, just a little, enough to tilt his head down to look at you properly. His voice drops lower. “I charge in coffee. Late-night conversations. And the occasional secret.”

“Oh?” you arch a brow. “That’s expensive.”

He chuckles, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re worth it.”

Pause.

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

And suddenly it’s too quiet. The post-show noise is just background hum now—muffled cheers, clinks of beer bottles, bandmates laughing somewhere behind you. But he’s looking at you like you’re the only person who matters in this moment. Like he wants to learn you.

So you try to deflect, half-teasing, “You say that to all the girls who hang around after shows?”

He hums, like he’s pretending to think. “No,” he says finally. “You’re the only one who stayed quiet the whole time. Just… watched.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Was it creepy?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. It was nice. Felt like you were listening to more than just the music.”

You weren’t. You were listening to him.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you glance away, pretending not to be swooning.

And then—

“Hey,” he says softly, nudging your chin with two fingers to bring your gaze back to his. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your breath hitches. “Huh?”

He smiles, easy and relaxed, eyes scanning your face like he’s memorizing it. “There’s this spot a few blocks from here—low lights, decent drinks, great fries. Thought maybe I could buy you one. A drink, not a fry,” he adds with a little chuckle.

Your heart is thudding so loudly you're sure he can hear it. “Are you… asking me out?”

He shrugs, casual but undeniably charming. “If I said yes, would you say no?”

You try to play it cool, crossing your arms even though your insides are a whole storm. “You planning to pull that whole mysterious musician act the whole time?”

He leans in just a bit, close enough for your noses to nearly brush. “Only if it gets me a second date.”

And just like that, you’re done for.

“...I guess I could go for a drink.”

His grin widens. “Good. I’ll grab my jacket.”

-

The bar he takes you to is tucked away on a quiet street, the kind of place you wouldn’t find unless someone told you about it. There’s warm yellow lighting, a soft hum of old-school music playing on the speakers, and barely anyone around. It’s intimate in a way that makes your skin feel warm before you’ve even taken a sip of your drink.

He lets you slide into the booth first, then settles in across from you. His hands rest on the table, rings catching the light, and you find your gaze drawn to them—again. Damn those fingers.

“I’m not used to people sticking around after shows,” he says, eyes not leaving yours.

“I’m not used to chasing after bassists,” you shoot back, lips twitching.

He smirks. “So I’m special, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile you’re fighting wins. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

Your drinks come. He lets you steal a sip of his. You let him steal two of yours.

“What got you into music?” you ask after a while, resting your chin on your hand.

He leans back, gaze flickering up like he’s searching the ceiling for the answer. “My dad, actually. He taught me how to play. He was obsessed with rhythm—said it was the heart of everything.”

You nod slowly. “He still around?”

Choso shakes his head. “Nah. Been a while. But I think he’d get a kick out of seeing me like this.”

There’s a quiet between you, not awkward, just full. You sip your drink.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do when you’re not falling for mysterious musicians at dive bars?”

You raise a brow. “Who said I was falling?”

His lips curve. “Touché.”

You end up telling him more than you thought you would. About your work, your favorite food, even boring little details. But he listens like every word matters. Laughs when you least expect it. His foot nudges yours under the table halfway through the night, and it stays there.

Eventually, the lights get lower, and the bar empties out.

“Guess we closed the place down,” you say, glancing around.

Choso’s watching you with a soft look. “Wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

Your heart flutters. “Same place?”

He smiles, gaze never leaving yours. “Sure.”

The night doesn’t end there.

He insists on walking you home—no arguments, no jokes, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you let him, fingers intertwining with his, warmth blooming in your chest. It’s a quiet walk, but not the awkward kind. It’s that gentle, late-night calm. Like the whole world slowed down just for the two of you.

And for once, he’s not the brooding bassist with sharp eyeliner and calloused fingers. He’s just Choso. A guy who likes the way your hand fits in his. A guy who lets out a soft chuckle when you shiver and instinctively step closer.

You reach your place too soon.

You stop at the doorstep, neither of you making a move. No one says anything. You should probably say something. Goodnight. Thanks. This was fun. But the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

He steps closer instead.

There’s a breath between you. Just one.

And then his lips are on yours—soft, almost hesitant, like he’s asking if this is okay. And you answer him by fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him in. His hand comes up to your cheek, holding you steady as he kisses you again. Still gentle. Still quiet. But it makes your head spin all the same.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, forehead pressed lightly to yours.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Your heart might’ve actually stopped.

You slam the door shut behind you, back pressed against it, heart pounding so hard you swear it echoes in your ribcage. You stare at your phone, wide-eyed, thumbs flying:

you: SHOKO

you: SHOKO I NEED YOU TO WAKE UP

you: THIS IS AN EMERGENCY 

shoko: it’s literally 1am

shoko: you better be on fire 

you: I KISSED HIM

shoko: what

shoko: WHO

shoko: WAIT

shoko: WAIT.

you: YES. HIM.

shoko: THE HOT GUITAR PLAYER???

you: CHOSO. YES. YES. YES

shoko: oh my god you’re so gone

you: HE WALKED ME HOME. HELD MY HAND. KISSED ME. I AM GONE GONE.

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAA

you: HE SAID ‘GOODNIGHT SWEETHEART’

shoko: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you: I KNOW

You toss your phone onto the bed, face planting right after it, squealing into your pillow like a teenager all over again.

Because you kissed him. And he kissed you back. And you’re never sleeping tonight.

-

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet—too quiet. You’ve already scrolled through your entire feed twice, tried reading, even got up to make tea you didn’t drink.

Then your phone lights up.

Incoming call: Choso.

Your heart stutters.

You take a breath and answer. “…Hey.”

His voice is warm on the other end. “Hey. Did I wake you?”

You shake your head even though he can’t see. “No. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Same,” he says. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, like it might calm your racing heart.

There’s a small silence, but it’s not awkward. It’s soft. Comfortable. Like neither of you really wants to hang up.

He speaks again, voice a little lower. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You try to play it off. “I put in effort. Didn’t want to show up looking like I did last time.”

“I liked that too,” he says. “But tonight you walked in and I forgot what the hell I was doing.”

You laugh, hiding your face in your pillow.

“I wish I could see you again right now,” he says.

“Me too.”

“Would it be too much if I said I kinda wanna fall asleep listening to you?”

Your stomach flips.

You whisper, “Then stay on the line.”

And you do—both of you quiet, just breathing, letting the silence say everything.

-

You're standing outside the bar, shifting on your feet, trying to act like you haven’t been checking your reflection in every window on the walk here.

This time, your outfit isn’t casual by accident. You planned it. Styled your hair just right. Even put on that gloss you save for special occasions.

You step inside and immediately spot him, leaning back against a booth like he owns the place, one arm slung lazily over the seat. His eyes lift—

—and damn.

They rake down your figure slowly, like he’s drinking you in. And when they return to your face, there’s the smallest upward curve to his lips.

“Someone dressed to impress,” he says, standing as you approach.

“Maybe,” you reply, coy. “You are the star of the show, after all.”

He laughs low in his throat, hand brushing the small of your back as he leans in close. “Nah,” he murmurs. “Tonight, it’s all about you.”

You sit together in the same booth. This time, there’s no ice to break. The tension simmers warm between you—his knee bumps yours under the table and doesn’t move away. His eyes flicker to your lips more than once.

“So,” you say, swirling your drink. “What happens after drinks, guitar boy?”

He smirks, elbow resting on the table as he leans closer. “Depends. You thinking of letting me kiss you again?”

You raise your brows. “You planning on asking?”

He tilts his head. “I could. But you didn’t seem to need much prompting last time.”

That earns him a playful nudge. And a flustered laugh.

He grins. "Take your time, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."

The jukebox crackles as the next track begins—slow, dreamy, sweet.

Like falling asleep in warm hands. Like the part in a romance film where everything softens.

Before you can even comment on the vibe shift, Choso is rising from the booth, hand extended toward you, palm up.

Your brows lift. “You serious?”

He just smiles. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

You hesitate—because, what? In a bar? With him?? But his fingers flex, waiting, and the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible to say no.

You slip your hand into his.

He pulls you gently to the dance floor. There’s no one else there—just you, him, and the slow rhythm bleeding from the speakers. His hands settle on your waist. Yours hover awkwardly before curling behind his neck.

You sway.

“I didn’t take you for a dancer,” you mumble, heart skipping when he twirls you suddenly.

He smirks. “I’m not.”

You laugh—loud and sweet and so damn happy. And when he catches you again, you don’t pull away. Instead, you melt into him, resting your head against his chest, feeling the soft thud of his heartbeat under the fabric of his shirt.

His hand traces slow circles on your back.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, nuzzling in closer. “Yeah… It’s perfect.”

He rests his chin lightly atop your head. And neither of you says another word.

Not when the song ends.

Not when the next one starts.

Because for that moment—it’s just the two of you, swaying under dim lights, held together by the sound of a love song.

-

You step outside into the night, your breath curling in pale puffs. The air is colder than before, wrapping around your bare arms like a whispered warning. You shiver.

Without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders, tugging you into his side. His hand rests at your waist, warm and firm, grounding you.

For a while, you just stand there—side by side, quiet. The city buzzes in the distance, cars passing, streetlights humming.

You glance up at him, and he’s already looking at you. Hard.

Like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your jaw. The way the wind lifts your hair. The way your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

“What?” you ask, a soft laugh in your voice, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just wets his lips. His fingers flex against your hip.

“I just…” he starts, voice rough with restraint. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

You blink, heart thudding once. Twice.

The pause stretches.

“Yeah?” you murmur, leaning in a fraction. Teasing.

He nods once. Barely.

You smile—heart pounding in your throat. “So why don’t you?”

And that’s all it takes.

He cups your face with both hands, thumbs brushing the apples of your cheeks like you’re made of porcelain. And when his lips finally meet yours—it’s soft. Slow. Full of the tension he’s been carrying all night, unspooling between you in breathless silence.

His nose bumps yours. Your hands fist the front of his shirt again. Just like last time.

Only this time, you don’t stop at one kiss.

And when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours, his voice low:

“You’re gonna ruin me, y’know that?”

You laugh, barely a whisper against his lips, breath mingling with his. “Then I guess I better make it worth your while.”

That gets a reaction.

His gaze darkens just slightly, lips twitching into the faintest smirk as his hands slide down from your cheeks, one settling at the nape of your neck while the other pulls you flush against him. “You trying to kill me, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer.

Because you’re already kissing him again.

This time it’s different.

Less hesitant.

More hungry.

Your fingers find his hair, tangling in the dark strands that fall just past his neck, tugging gently until he groans into your mouth. He kisses you deeper, like he’s starved, like he hasn’t been thinking about this since the first night he met you in the crowd, eyes wide and awe-struck.

His hand grips your waist, fingers digging in—not too hard, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You gasp, and he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, tongue flicking against it before pulling back just enough to breathe:

“You’re trouble.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips kiss-swollen and heart racing. “You’re one to talk.”

And he laughs—low and breathy, pressing another quick kiss to your mouth like he can’t help himself.

“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let me walk you home before I get any worse ideas.”

The walk back is quiet—but not the awkward kind. It’s heavy with something, charged with unspoken words and lingering touches. His fingers brush yours with every step, and each time it happens, your breath catches.

You swear he’s doing it on purpose.

But you don’t stop him.

The streetlights cast a soft glow on him, turning his features golden for a moment, then shadowed the next. He looks… different like this. Softer. Less like the untouchable bassist who had you practically drooling the first night, and more like someone you could fall for if you’re not careful.

You sneak a glance at him.

He’s already looking at you.

You look away fast, heart leaping, and he chuckles under his breath.

"Cold?" he asks, tugging you gently closer.

You nod, even though that’s not why you’re shaking.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your head fits against him perfectly, and his hand rubs slow circles against your arm, warm and grounding.

“Still nervous?” he murmurs.

You laugh quietly. “Little bit.”

“Me too.”

You tilt your head to look at him, surprised. “Really?”

He nods. “You make me nervous.”

You’re about to say something—anything—but then you’ve reached your place.

And suddenly, you don’t want to go inside.

He stops in front of your door, letting you go with a reluctant sigh. His hand lingers on your arm for a second longer before falling away.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and asks, “You gonna call me?”

You nod. “If you answer.”

He grins. “Always.”

You hesitate—just for a second—and then press a soft kiss to his cheek. It’s quick, but the way his breath hitches tells you it did the trick.

“Goodnight, Choso.”

And before he can pull you in again, before you can throw all common sense out the window and kiss him properly, you slip inside.

Heart pounding. Lips tingling.

-

You wake up with your heart still pounding.

And not because of a nightmare.

Nope. This was worse.

Because it was real.

You kissed Choso.

Again.

And not in a dreamlike, floaty, “this could be a maybe” kind of way. You kissed him after swaying in his arms like some romcom protagonist. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you felt your knees give just a little, and you definitely whimpered against his mouth like a fool.

You groan and roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow.

You’re so doomed.

Your phone vibrates.

You blink and grab it, squinting at the screen.

choso: didn’t want to wake you but i just wanted to say

choso: thank you for last night

You freeze.

Sit up slowly.

Your heartbeat? Violent.

You tap out a reply, delete it, rewrite it, delete again. Finally, you just go with:

you: it was nothing :)

Immediately after sending it:

you: i’m being weird aren’t i ignore me please

And then:

you: but also don’t ignore me because i liked it and i like you and i’m going to stop talking now before i make it worse

Your phone is dangerously quiet for thirty seconds.

Then it buzzes again.

choso: you’re not being weird.

choso: you’re being adorable

choso: i like you too

choso: also… can i see you again tonight?

You shriek into your pillow.

And then type:

you: you better

-

You weren’t expecting it when he texted you earlier that day.

come to the studio. i want you to hear something.

Now here you are, walking through a narrow hallway that smells like cigarettes and worn leather, Choso’s voice telling the receptionist to let you in. He meets you at the door, hoodie on, hair loosely tied back, a pair of headphones slung around his neck.

“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes raking over you with a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smile back, brushing past him as he closes the door behind you. The studio is dimly lit, a warm orange hue cast by the LED strips lining the edges of the ceiling. There’s a worn-out couch in the corner, an empty coffee cup on the desk, and wires everywhere.

He leads you to a chair beside him. “Wrote something last night. Thought you might want to hear it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Inspired by anything?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look.

He clicks a few keys on his laptop, and music starts playing—slow, rich bass, soft drums, a melody that feels like it’s watching you breathe. Then lyrics—his voice, lower and raspier than usual.

And the words? They burn.

It’s about being unable to get someone off your mind. About how they haunt your quiet moments. About wanting something that feels dangerous and delicate at the same time.

When it ends, there’s a beat of silence.

“…You wrote that?” you ask.

Choso nods, slow. “All of it.”

“It’s…” Your voice catches. “It’s beautiful.”

He leans back, watching you carefully. “It’s about you. In case that wasn’t obvious.”

The room feels smaller. Hotter. You swallow.

You murmur, “I didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you.”

“You don’t,” he says, stepping closer. “You have more.”

He’s standing between your knees now. One hand on the armrest beside you. The other gently tilts your chin up.

“Can I kiss you again?”

You nod before your brain even catches up.

And then he does—slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. His lips slot against yours and the world blurs. His hand slips to your waist, drawing you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck without thinking.

The music plays on in the background. But neither of you hears it.

His lips are warm against yours, stealing every thought from your head. One kiss turns into two, then three—deeper, slower, more intense. His hands settle on your waist, firm, grounding. You melt into him without thinking.

But then—between kisses, you manage a breathless whisper, lips brushing his as you speak.

“Choso, not here—there’s people around.”

His eyes open slowly, pupils blown wide. He glances around, then back at you, and that look in his eyes? It's trouble.

Without saying a word, he grabs your hand. “Come on.”

You barely catch your breath before he’s pulling you along, weaving past people, straight toward the exit. His grip doesn’t loosen, even when he’s fumbling for his keys. He unlocks his car in a rush and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver’s seat himself.

The whole ride is charged—silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional stolen glance. He taps the steering wheel with his fingers, the ones that had just been ghosting over your skin minutes ago.

When he pulls into the parking lot of his building, he doesn’t waste time. Hands still locked with yours, he leads you upstairs, heart pounding just as fast as yours.

The second the door shuts behind you, he turns around—and everything finally snaps.

Choso doesn’t pounce. He doesn’t rush.

He leans against the door, just watching you. Taking you in like it’s the first time. His eyes roam your face, your lips—your heaving chest. There’s a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, husky.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes off the door slowly, strides over like a man with nowhere else to be. His hands find your waist, gentle at first, then firm. His head dips down, lips ghosting over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—but he doesn’t kiss you yet.

“You look so pretty tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with restraint.

His nose grazes your neck, and you shudder. Every place his breath touches feels like it’s burning.

“You always look pretty,” he adds, kissing just below your ear now. “But tonight?”

He sucks in a breath through his teeth, lips brushing lower.

“You’re killing me.”

Your hands find the hem of his hoodie, fingers twitching as you lift it up slowly—exposing the pale skin of his stomach inch by inch. He lets you, arms raised, letting the fabric slide off and onto the floor. The tattoos swirl over his chest, catching the soft glow of the apartment lights, and your fingers can’t help but trace them.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice rougher now.

You shake your head. “No. Just… can’t believe this is real.”

Choso tilts your chin up, makes you look at him. His gaze is so intense it steals the breath from your lungs.

“It is,” he says. “And we’ve got all night.”

He kisses you again, this time softer, slower. No rush. Just lips moving against yours with quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth.

His hands stay on your waist, warm and steady, but you feel the way his thumbs are drawing lazy circles on your skin—like he’s trying to ground himself. Like he’s savoring the moment as much as you are.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. He hums into the kiss, one hand sliding up your back, fingers curling into your hair.

The path to the bedroom is a blur.

You’re not sure how you get there—if he carries you, or if you walk, tangled up in each other, lips never parting for more than a breath.

The room is dim, lit only by the city lights bleeding through the blinds. It paints both of you in silver and shadow. Choso backs you toward the bed, and when your knees hit the edge, he pauses. Looks down at you like you’re something sacred.

You swallow, heart thundering. “Are you gonna keep staring or—”

“Shh.” He dips his head, kisses your neck, just under your jaw. “Let me take my time with you.”

You shiver. God, his voice—low, velvet, dangerous.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

He pushes you onto the bed and you bounce slightly on it. He’s crawling up your body, hands trailing along your sides, slipping beneath your shirt—fingertips so gentle it sends goosebumps across your skin. You raise your arms, let him take it off. He discards it carefully, almost reverently, and then he’s touching you again.

It’s not frantic. It’s worship.

The way he kisses down your chest, murmuring things you can’t even process. The way he handles you like he’s scared you’ll break. His mouth is everywhere—leaving warmth and wetness and little marks that’ll be there tomorrow. Proof that this happened. That he happened.

When his hands slip lower, and he finally asks, “Can I?”—you nod, breathless, and he grins, slow and sinful.

“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not stopping tonight.”

His touch starts soft. Teasing.

His fingers graze along your thigh, slipping under your skirt. Just the pad of one finger tracing your inner thigh, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to unravel you. He watches your reactions closely—every breath, every twitch, every clench of your thighs like it’s his favorite show.

“Already shaking,” he murmurs with a smirk, fingers drifting up higher, stopping just at the edge of your underwear. “And I’ve barely touched you.”

When he finally slips his hand beneath the fabric of your panties, his fingers are warm, his touch confident. He finds you wet—soaked—and he groans low in his throat.

“Fuck... all this for me?”

His middle finger drags through your folds, slow and deliberate, gathering everything, spreading it around before circling your clit—just barely touching it. It’s maddening.

“You’re already this worked up,” he breathes, leaning in to kiss your jaw. “What happens when I really start?”

He’s rushing to take your underwear off, almost ripping them in the process. Then—finally—he eases a finger inside.

It’s slow at first. Just one finger, shallow thrusts, curling up and stroking that spot inside you until your hips start chasing him, greedy for more. He watches your face the whole time, eats up every whimper.

“Choso… more,” you whisper, barely able to speak.

His eyes flick up, dark and hungry. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You can take another?”

You nod, breathless.

He slides a second finger in—thicker, deeper. His palm presses against your clit as his fingers work inside you, curling just right, just enough pressure to make your back arch. His other hand grabs your thigh, keeps you open and steady as he builds a rhythm.

It’s obscene—the wet, messy sounds of his fingers fucking into you—but it only makes him grin.

“You hear that, sweetheart?” he says lowly. 

You’re gasping now, clutching the sheets, legs shaking. He really is good with his hands.

“C’mon,” he whispers against your neck, tongue darting out to taste you. “Let go for me.”

And with one more curl, one more stroke—you do.

You come around his fingers, back arching, a moan ripped from your chest as he keeps moving through it, working you until you’re twitching, thighs trembling against him.

When he finally pulls his fingers out, he brings them to his lips.

“Tastes even better than I imagined,” he says, voice low and ruined.

He doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

The second those words leave his mouth, his gaze drops—hungry, wicked—and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s already moving.

He’s moving down your body, settling between your legs, hands parting your thighs, spreading you wide open for him. You barely manage a gasp before his mouth is on you.

And fuck.

He licks a slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—moaning against you like he’s tasting something divine. His tongue is hot, wet, firm—flicking against your clit before flattening and dragging against it again. He’s not shy. He devours.

You twitch under him, gasping, and his grip on your thighs tightens.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs against you, breath fanning over your soaked heat. “Let me eat, baby.”

And oh, does he eat.

He buries his face between your legs like he’s starved—lips and tongue and heat and mess, sucking your clit into his mouth, groaning when your fingers grab his hair and pull. His nose nudges your clit, the piercings in his ears cold against your thigh.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just right so he can get even deeper. His tongue fucks into you, messy and wet, before he pulls back to mouth at your clit again.

You’re a wreck—panting, eyes rolling back, legs trembling on either side of his head. He loves it. You can tell by the way he hums into you, nose buried in your folds, like every whimper out of you is a personal victory.

Your thighs start to close around his head—he lets them. Arms locking around your legs, holding you there like he wants to be suffocated. And with one more flick of his tongue—one more swirl, one more perfect pressure—

You cry out, hips jerking, thighs clenching, and he doesn’t stop. He works you through it, licking, kissing, groaning against your cunt like he’s drunk off you.

When your body finally slumps back against the mattress, dazed and spent, he pulls back just enough to look up at you.

His mouth glistens. His eyes are wrecked.

And he licks his lips.

“Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Choso’s mouth is still hot against yours, the kiss messy and hungry, his tongue sliding over yours like he can’t get enough of the taste of you. 

He unbuckles his belt, pushing his pants down along with his boxers, his girthy length slapping against his abdomen. Your mouth parts in a soft gasp at the sight of it. But you don't have time to marvel at it. His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them up—higher, higher—until you're folded in half in a mean mating press.

“Gonna keep you like this,” he murmurs, voice rough, chest heaving. “Wanna see your face while I fuck you.”

Your breath catches.

His hands hook behind your knees, holding them open as he shifts forward. The position has you completely laid out for him, helpless beneath the weight of his body. You feel his cock, thick and hard, dragging over your slick entrance—and then he pushes in, slow and deep.

You whimper—a sound torn from your throat, soft and wrecked, your back arching as he presses deeper.

Choso groans, low and guttural, head falling forward to rest against yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek, and you swear you can feel the tremble in his arms as he holds himself still—just for a second.

“F-fuck…” he breathes, voice rough with restraint. “You’re so fucking tight like this…”

His hips roll forward again, slower this time, the movement deliberate—like he wants you to feel every inch. “Feels like you’re made for me,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp.

Your fingers scramble across the expanse of his back, nails dragging, searching for something to ground you. His shoulders, his arms, anything—because the way he’s filling you, stretching you, it’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Then he starts to move. Deep. Steady. And the new angle is devastating.

He hits every spot just right, his cock dragging along your walls, slow and purposeful, grinding into the deepest parts of you with every thrust. Your legs tremble in his hold, pinned back and open for him, the pressure building with each stroke. Your jaw falls open, a moan slipping free—high-pitched and desperate.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

But it’s not pain. No—never that.

It’s overwhelming. It’s perfect. It’s him.

“You’re taking it so well,” he grits out, eyes burning into yours as his pace deepens. “Fuck—just like that, baby. Taking all of me.”

You blink up at him, dazed, lips parted as your moans spill freely. He leans down—closer, closer—until your thighs are nearly flush to your chest and his weight settles on top of you, heavy and grounding.

And he fucks you.

Not rough, but intentional—each stroke slow and deep, hips rolling so he never leaves you empty. He watches your face, watches every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes. Like he’s trying to memorize it. All of it.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling when his thrusts grind just right. His name escapes you in a whimper—over and over, his name like a mantra.

“Choso—” you gasp. “Oh my God—Choso, I-I…”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re soaked—messy, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wet slap of skin on skin is loud in the room, underscored by the soft creak of the mattress and your broken cries.

He shifts, angling just so, and you shatter.

Your body seizes, nails digging into his back as your orgasm rips through you, sudden and all-consuming. A sob leaves your throat, your back arching as your walls flutter and clamp down around him.

With a low groan, he shifts—gently, carefully—his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lower them. You gasp softly when he wraps your legs around his waist, keeping you close, keeping you full, as his hips press flush to yours.

He groans—a raw, broken sound—his hips stuttering. “Shit—fuck, I’m close—where do you want it, sweetheart?”

You barely think. You just nod, desperate. “Inside—please—inside.”

That’s all he needs.

He presses in deep, body trembling, a shudder running through him as he spills into you, cock twitching with every pulse of his release. You feel the heat of it—so much, thick and warm as it fills you up. And still, he doesn’t stop.

He keeps moving—soft, shallow thrusts that drag it out, that make your body twitch and whimper, overstimulated and glowing.

His name slips from your lips again, quieter this time, your fingers trailing down his back, soothing over sweat-slick skin.

And then—finally—he stills.

Buried to the hilt. Breathing hard. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice low and reverent.

His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s grounding himself.

"Don’t want to let go just yet," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion and aftermath. He leans down, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “Feels too good like this.”

You hum, dazed and pliant, arms winding around his neck as your forehead rests against his. His weight, his warmth—it’s comforting. Heavy in the best way.

Every small shift makes you gasp—too sensitive, too raw—but you don’t ask him to move.

You don’t want him to either.

And neither does he.

So he stays there—buried deep, your legs locked around his waist, your bodies tangled as if they were always meant to be like this.

After, when the haze finally starts to fade, Choso is the first to move—but only just.

He brushes your hair from your face with slow fingers, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and full of concern. Gentle. So gentle. “Was that… too much?”

You shake your head, barely able to speak as you whisper, “No. It was perfect.”

He exhales, and the breath sounds like relief. Like he needed to hear that.

Without a word, he slips out of bed, grabbing a warm cloth and returning to you. He moves with such care—his hands slow, wiping between your thighs with reverence, like you’re something precious. You flinch a little at the sensitivity, and he mumbles a soft “Sorry” as he presses a kiss to your knee, his gaze flickering up to check on you again.

Once you’re clean, he tosses the cloth aside and crawls back under the covers. You instinctively curl into him, and he opens his arms wide, pulling you in, tucking your head beneath his chin.

His fingers trace slow, lazy circles along your spine. Your legs are tangled with his, your body warm and sore and safe. He smells like sweat and sex and his cologne, and you want to fall asleep in this exact moment, forever.

“You’re amazing,” he murmurs against your hair.

You blink up at him. “That’s my line.”

He smiles, barely-there but so real. “Guess we’ll take turns.”

You laugh—quiet, muffled against his chest—and he hums along with it, fingers still moving along your back.

A silence settles between you, but it isn’t awkward. It’s peaceful. The kind that only comes after letting someone see you bare in every way.

He breaks it eventually, voice thick with sleep. “You staying over?”

“Mhm.”

“You sure?”

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

And neither would he.

So he kisses the top of your head one more time, murmurs something soft and unintelligible against your skin, and lets himself fall asleep with you in his arms.

Exactly where you both want to be.

author's note. this is just pure choso brainrot because i could not get that fanart out of my head so ofc i had to write something about it. (choso girlies, i'm borrowing your man for a while, thank you)

please do not steal, modify or translate my work.

[alygator77]

just a little drabble for my current wip. arranged marriage with clanhead gojo.

warnings: mdni, smut, breeding kink, lots of breeding, praise, creampie, bit of angst.

arranged clanhead! satoru who still isn’t used to sharing his space, even after months of marriage. the grand Gojo estate, once his sanctuary, feels smaller with you in it—your scent lingering on the furniture, your soft hums echoing in the halls—not unpleasant, but… unfamiliar.

arranged clanhead! satoru who notices how your shampoo smells so sweet, clinging to his pillow. how your hair clogs his drain and it drives him fucking insane, yet he still finds himself instinctively reaching for your favorite brand of conditioner while he’s out, tucking it into his basket without a second thought. he doesn’t know why—it’s not like he cares… right?

arranged clanhead! satoru who steps into the kitchen late one evening to find you leaning against the counter. your hair falls in loose strands around your face, messy but still maddeningly pretty, and you sip tea from a mug—his favorite mug. you’re draped in one of his shirts, the hem barely brushing mid-thigh—your bare legs illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light.

for a fleeting second, he freezes. you look… almost at home. he doesn’t want you to look at home. or does he? he shakes the thought away.

“couldn’t sleep?” he drawls, his eyes lingering on the curve of your legs. “or… were you waiting up for me? ‘cause I could really blow off some steam.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who emerges from the bathroom later that night, his snowy hair damp and tousled, a towel slung lazily over his broad shoulders. he’s wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants, the defined lines of his abdomen on full display as he rubs the towel through his hair, his gaze sliding over to you lying on the bed.

“ready for tonight?” he asks, tilting his head with that signature nonchalance, as though he isn’t about to fuck the hell out of you, as though his sole intention isn’t to fill you so full of his cum that there’s no question the Gojo Clan will get their heir.

arranged clanhead! satoru who pushes you into a mating press the moment he’s on top of you, his large hands gripping your thighs as he folds your legs back against your chest, pinning you beneath him. his cock slides against your slick folds before splitting you apart, and his breath shudders as your cunt swallows him greedily.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, panting through thrusts. “always so good f’me. always takin’ me so fucking well.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who hates himself for the shameful thrill that bubbles up within him, the sick satisfaction of watching you come undone beneath him. the way your pussy clenches around his dick, the way your gasps and moans echo in his ears, drives him to thrust harder, deeper, as though his very existence depends on filling you—which it does.

arranged clanhead! satoru who’s pace is merciless, hips slamming into you with an almost feral hunger. he tells himself it’s just biology, but deep down he knows better.

“good fucking girl…” he smirks, pushing your legs higher as you squirm beneath him—your nails digging into his arms, but the sting only spurs him on. “don’t worry sweetheart—haaa—this time, for sure, m'gonna breed that pretty pussy. gonna make you drip with my cum ‘til you can’t hold it all…”

arranged clanhead! satoru who watches your eyes roll back as his cock slams into you, the bed shaking beneath you as his focus narrows on the way your breasts bounce with every forceful thrust.

“you’re mine,” he groans, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you—hot, thick ropes of cum painting your walls. his body trembles against yours as he buries himself to the hilt.

“fuuuck, take it…” he rasps, his forehead dropping to press against yours. “so fucking good f’me.”

arranged clanhead! satoru who doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest pressed to yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. your breath mingles, warm and uneven, and for a fleeting second, he almost forgets why he’s here. why you’re here. but then reality creeps in, sharp and cold, and he pulls out slowly, watching as the mix of his cum and your slick drips onto the sheets.

arranged clanhead! satoru who remembers his duty as clanhead, as the leader of the Gojo Clan. like a good husband—like a good leader—he doesn’t waste a single drop. he shifts, his fingers dipping between your legs to scoop up the cum leaking from you.

“can’t let this go to waste, sweetheart,” he mutters as he pushes the thick mess back into you. his thumb presses against your clit, and he smirks when it earns a soft gasp from you—his fingers sliding deeper. he watches, transfixed, as his cum disappears inside you again, his cock giving a weak twitch at the sight.

arranged clanhead! satoru who rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling as his chest heaves with the effort of catching his breath. he doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t hold you, and you don’t reach for him. the silence afterward is louder than any moan you could make. he tries to ignore the ache in his chest, something he refuses to name.

arranged clanhead! satoru who lies awake long after you’ve drifted off, his arm slung over his eyes as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. he won’t admit it—not to you, not to himself—but he’s starting to crave more than your body. he craves the softness in your voice when you call his name, the quiet way you laugh when you think he’s not listening.

but this is just obligation. just duty. just… fucking. right?

full fic in the works 🫶🏻 lmk if you wanna be tagged. update: it's out! read it HERE!

[tonycries]

Welcome To The Itadori's! - C.K.

Synopsis. Three times Choso really, really wanted to hold you without his family barging in, and the one time he actually does. 

Pairing. Best friend! Choso Kamo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, childhood best friends to lovers, slowburn, cameos from the Itadori’s (Yuji, Jin, grandpa, SUKUNA), smút only when they’re adults, first times, oral (female receiving), cúnnilingus, marking, rough, Choso’s a bit mean in bed, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.0k

A/N. The unc-kuna brainrot got me here, Yuji’s family tree is HILARIOUS.

“You’ve never what?”  

“I mean, yeah? So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Whatever the answer was, Choso could only pray that no one walked into your apartment right now.

---

Choso swears his family is well and fully intent on ruining every waking moment with you. 

He’s convinced even, at this point. Because in the 13 long years of being inseparable from you - ever since you were both whiney, snot-faced brats - Choso’s racked up more interruptions than he’s seen on those k-dramas that his grandfather swears he doesn’t watch.

It was like some cosmic joke, really. All he wanted was a moment with just the two of you…and maybe a second or two to confess his undying love. But that didn’t seem too realistic when the Itadori’s were a bit of a packaged deal, unfortunately.  

Alas, Choso’s resigned himself to accept the fact that maybe - just maybe - this was the universe’s way of telling him that his pretty best friend was indeed too good for him. Something he’s suspected ever since the both of you were eight.

The realization had hit him like a semi-truck back then - five of them, in fact. And a whole zoo of animals afterward.

Of course, it’s not like that was any secret. He always thought you were perfect from the second you’d moved in - that new family next door he’d been eagerly waiting ages to arrive. And Choso, being the dutiful oldest son, was the one to deliver welcome cookies to your doorstep. Stumbling, and carefully trying to reach for the doorbell without dropping any. 

“Um, welcome to-”

“Your hair’s funny.”

Now, Choso’s never greeted neighbors before, but it surely wasn’t supposed to go like this. Why was he being insulted by some little girl - you were missing a few teeth, and his had just grown back in so obviously he was much older and wiser. All unapologetic smiles and twinkling eyes as you blink up curiously at his space buns. Pretty, even when you were tearing his heart out because hey, he thought this hairstyle was cool, okay?

Which is what had him huffing and puffing back home, running straight into the arms of his dad while he tried not to cry. That is, until you came knocking at his door with your parents. Very much bawling and pulling him into a bone-crushing hug with wet mumbles of “M’sorry, meant your hair’s very cool. Wanna match-”

And, if his cheeks burned just a bit, well, Choso blamed the tears. 

After a disaster like that, of course you’d grow to be best friends within the day. 

But what that didn’t explain was when - after hours of bickering over whether to play tag or house - you were all tuckered out and sat beside him in a corner of his room, too exhausted to talk his ear off. Head lolling once. Twice. Falling softly onto his shoulder.

Oh. 

Now, Choso might just be having the first epiphany of his entire, grueling eight years in this world - that you were very, very pretty fast asleep with your head on his shoulder. 

Why? Why were you here barging into his life and turning it upside down? Calling him your “new best friend” and dragging him along wherever you went. It made his poor head absolutely spin, not daring to move a muscle so that you didn’t wake up and see this tiny predicament.

He didn’t know why. But what he did know was that he found himself subconsciously reaching for your hand, a strange little part of himself wanting to see how much smaller they were than his. They looked so soft and warm and-

“I WANNA PLAY T- Oh.”

Oh indeed. He hastily lurches away from you like it burned, hands raised like he was caught red-handed. Feeling slightly sorry when he sees you blinking away the sleep to take in your surroundings, eyes bouncing off of a very excited Yuji and resting on the clock.

“Oh no. Mommy’s gonna be mad.” you gasp, hastily getting up. And he feels a weird pang as you quickly dust down your dress, running out the door with a laughed out, “Bye, Yuji! See ya later, Cho~!”

“Bye, crybaby.”

And then it’s quiet. Only Choso still staring after you, and Yuji staring at his older brother, somewhat awestruck and wondering only one thing-

“Big bro, why are you so red?”

Choso doesn’t think he’s gotten a moment alone with you since that first initial meeting. 

Fourteen was definitely the worst, in his opinion.

“Hey, Cho, y’know the girl sitting next to me in math said she had her first kiss today.”

“Oh.” It’s all Choso can manage to get out, paying more attention than he should to the gravel beneath him as he tries not to trip over air beside you. Hot under his uniform collar at the sudden shift in conversation from the usual after-school banter. 

Looping your arm with his, you heave out a playful sigh, “I wonder what that feels like. Have you ever thought about it?” 

No, but Choso has never thought that he’d be here - face burning at your body pressed up against his. Just knowing that his ancestors above are laughing at what a loser he is, barely able to stammer out an answer to your question. 

Okay, maybe he was being dramatic. Because it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought about kissing before - it’s just that whenever it popped into his mind, you were usually accompanying him. Along with those strange thoughts of whether your lips are as soft as they looked? Or would your heartbeat be as fast as-

“Man, are you even listening?” 

Shit. 

Your hand waving in front of Choso’s face brings him back to reality. Blinking hastily, he tries to gather his thoughts, mumbling out a quick, “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought.” averting his gaze as he feels the heat rise to his cheeks at your intense gaze.

Your smile only widens, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you nudge his side. “Thinking so hard about kissing, huh? Cho, you lecher!” 

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Am not.”

“Am to.”

“Who were you imagining it with, huh? Gonna give ‘em a big smooch tomorrow?”

God, you were going to be the death of him. “N-no! I haven’t even- shut up, crybaby, it’s not like-” he sputters out useless protests over your laughter - his favorite song, even when you were teasing the hell out of him. But ah how you relish in his embarrassment, tittering out little giggles all the way until you’re steering him onto your lane. 

Choso, on the other hand, keeps wishing the ground would swallow him up more and more with each step towards his porch. He’d have broken into a sprint right then if he hadn’t known you and the way you’d race him there instead.

“Alright.” you declare once you’re stood at his front door, jolting Choso out of his reverie. And he’s barely opening his mouth to register your words before you plowing on confidently. “We’ll just have to practice our first kisses with each other.”

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. 

The final nail on his coffin. You might as well have planted a bombshell right in the middle of his already-chaotic world with the way he was reeling in- shock? Fear? Anticipation?

“Practice.” Choso whispers, more to himself than you. Yet you nod anyway, eyes locked with his like you were studying his reaction. “For…practice.”

Doubt starts to creep into your pretty features, “Well, we don’t have to if you do-”

“No no no no, I want- ahem.” he cringes at the pathetic desperation in his voice. Desperately trying to scramble back some semblance of sanity as he clears his throat, “I want to. Just-” Choso urgently looks around for- ah, there it is. 

Dragging over the brick from the side of his porch because goddammit he might be 14 but he sure hadn’t hit that growth spurt yet. “Practice, right?”

You nod with a fiery determination that, later on, would make Choso chuckle with fondness. Muttering out a firm, “Practice.” Letting the boy in front of you nervously leans closer, breath fanning your face. And shit if you were nervous then you didn’t show it, but Choso felt like he was about to spontaneously combust. 

Brows furrowing in concentration, eyes only squinting ever-so-slightly as he takes peaks at how pretty you looked. Close enough that he could count every lash as your pretty eyes closed shut, lips glistening with that strawberry chapstick you loved, puckering adorably. Only inching closer and-

Click! 

“You two are so cute! But um- dear, how do you mute this thing?”

You spring apart so fast that Choso wouldn’t be surprised if you’d teleported. He doesn’t even know what’s happening before, from the safety of about three meters away from him, you’re muttering out an embarrassed little, “Hi there, Mr. Itadori. The gardenia are coming along nicely.”

His dad smiles like he hadn’t just starred in what was likely Choso’s villain origin story. Waving happily, “Aww, thank you, sweetheart. Now, why don’t you two go back to doing your lil’ thing and I can ah- practice my photography.”

“Dad, I’m running away.”

That practice kiss never happens. And, well, if there was a proudly framed photo down the hallway of the two of you - with Choso absolutely bright red and standing comically on a brick to meet your height, faces nervously scrunching towards each other - well, neither of you ever mention it. Jin Itadori does, though - every time you come over, in fact. 

It’s only when you’re both eighteen, when Choso’s a lot deeper in his feelings - and only slightly less embarrassed about it - that he thinks that maybe not all family interruptions were that bad. 

Graduation was…something. Not exactly something that he’s sure if he’ll ever want to relive with the sheer amount of awkward photos and tears that his dad lets out. God if he has to shuffle into another-

“You alright, Cho?”

Ah. 

Traitorously, a smile makes its way onto his face, peering down at your beaming face. Both of you having made it way past the awkward early teens. Well, at least you certainly have - Choso still feels like the same awkward little boy with an even more awkward crush. “Hm? Yeah, m’great.” 

“Are ya sure? Because you look like you’re about to have an aneurysm any second now.” you raise a brow teasingly. Ah, how gorgeous you were - even when you’re picking him apart. 

“Yeah. Great. Only had this smile plastered on for the last five hours.”

“Aww, but you look so pretty smiling.” you shrug, with the audacity of someone that didn’t just have Choso’s knees dangerously weak. “Anyway- A bunch of us are gonna try to convince ol’ Yaga to let us take photos with his shades, you wanna come?”

“You think m’pretty?” he muses, embarrassingly late.

“Cho.”

“Yaga. Shades. Got it.” Choso mock salutes, drinking in the little laugh it startles out of you, eyes sparkling with mischief and looking right into his soul. Beautiful. You were always beautiful. 

And Choso can’t just stand around and do nothing about it.

“Crybaby, look, I-” Fists clenching, he takes a steadying breath. The heat only rising to his cheeks at your awaiting gaze, “I…”

“HEY, GRANDPA HELPED STEAL YAGA’S SHADES LET’S TAKE A PIC-”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP ITADORI. YOU’RE RUINING A MOMENT, LET THEM HAVE THEIR MOMENT.”

“I don’t know either of you two.”

It would be a miracle for a moment not to be ruined with two overly-energetic first-years (and a very reluctant Fushiguro) pushing their way into your little bubble. Choso bites back a groan as you’re immediately swarmed by a bickering Kugisaki and Yuji, one apologizing for “ruining your k-drama moment” and the other trying to get you to put on some sunglasses. Well, at least he could empathize with the black-haired boy, who gave him an apologetic nod. 

He’s only halfway through waving off the interruption before a voice speaks up from his side. “Why didn’t you say it?”

Whirling around, Choso comes face-to-face with the disappointed look on his grandfather’s face. Already having some idea of what you mean, “Wha-”

“I may be old but m’not deaf, yet, boy. Why didn’t ya tell her?” he sighs, tilting his head to where you were wearing those shades and taking ridiculous pictures with two animated first-years. 

“I don’t know what you-”

“M’not blind, either. Quite frankly I’m insulted.”

And, well, if there’s anyone that he can’t hide from - it would be his grandfather. So he heaves out a defeated sigh, touselling his hair while muttering out a pathetic little, “M’not- Ugh, she’s too fuckin’ perfect and I…I chickened out.”

Choso doesn’t know what he expected in response but it definitely wasn’t for his grandfather to laugh. Full, and raspy - loud enough that even you stop to stare. “Thought so, idiot boy.” he chuckles, drawing indignant protests. “Did she tell you?”

Raising a brow, “What?”

“Did she tell you that you weren’t good ‘nough for her?”

“No, but-” Whatever protest on the tip of Choso’s tongue is cut off by a rough hand smacking his back in what he thinks is reassurance, but felt more like a punishment for being such a pussy around you all these years. 

“Then go. Ya might just be surprised. After all, you’re my grandson, and all the ladies at bingo love me.”

Shaking with both adrenaline and the effort to keep that image out of his mind, he makes his way towards you. Purposeful. Pointedly ignoring the matching smirks flashed his way. 

“You really think they’ll finally get together today?” Fushiguro deadpans from where he’d snuck up beside the old man, in an attempt to escape the public nuisances he calls ‘friends’. 

Choso’s grandfather hums thoughtfully, watching the scene play out before him - Choso flushed such a delicate shade of pink as you playfully put Yaga’s sunglasses on him. Settling on a gruff, “I’ll give it a few months more. He’s my grandson, after all.”

“That’s generous. I’d give it a couple years more.”

“Wanna bet, brat?”

“...”

Safe to say, his second button ended up safely in your hands that day. But Fushiguro would be the one to really win the bet. 

Because it was only 2 years, 4 months and 3 weeks after this little incident that Choso finally had you exactly where he wanted - with no interruptions. All for him. 

Freshly twenty one, splayed out on your apartment bedroom and having a conversation that he never in a million years would’ve even dared to imagine he’d have - with you of all people. All because of that stupid R-rated film you’d put on for movie night. 

“You’ve never what?” you gape, turning down the volume to those painfully fake moans coming from the tv.

Oh, how gorgeous you looked - all shocked and batting your lashes up at him in surprise. Choso almost swoons inwardly (and outwardly) before he realizes that shit you were probably waiting for an answer.

“I mean, yeah?” he sputters out, cheeks heating up as you lean in closer to hear him. Close. “So what if I’ve never…uh-” eyes darting to the erotic scene on-screen. “M’surely not missing out on that much.”

Goddammit, some strange, carnal part of himself twinges dangerously at the little smirk that curls your lips. One that he quickly - and embarrassingly - realizes has the blood rushing straight to his cock. Humming a low, “Maybe. Maybe not.” The mattress dips slightly as you shift closer, lips ghosting his ear. “Want me to help you find out?”

Which is, well, how Choso found himself shoved against the armrest. Blanket thrown on the floor now, swollen cock leaking furiously through his pants as your pretty lil’ cunt hovers above his mouth. So wet that if he stuck his tongue out he could have you dripping all onto him. 

“Y-you sure about this, sweetheart?” he hisses despite his hands looping around your thighs, bringing you closer to him.

You raise a brow, “Are you sure, Cho?”

He should say no. He should laugh this all off as a bad joke. He shouldn’t ruin this friendship - but oh how badly he wants just a taste of your dripping pussy - see if she’s as sweet as the rest of you is. So, throwing caution to the wind, Choso nods slowly. “Yes. Want it s’bad.”

Grinning wickedly, you whisper, “Thought so.” And then he’s pulling you onto his mouth, hot and urgent.

“Oh fuck-” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head at the first taste of your sweet sweet juices. “Shit shit shit.” So sloppily licking up your swollen folds - barely moving with any method or patience, just that he’s drunk on your pussy and wants more more more-

“Hngh- f-fuck. You sure this is your hah- first time, Cho?” you gasp breathlessly. And oh your best friend was so fucking beautiful. Dark hair untied and tousled, eyes half-hooded, your slick already smearing across the bottom half of his face and trickling down his jaw because shit he was so messy. So addicted to that desperate expression on your face that he just can’t help but tease you a little bit. 

“Mhm?” he smirks, tongue swirling around your pulsing clit. Purposefully missing right where you wanted him the most because shit he loved those cute lil’ whines spilling out of you. 

You let out a huff, hips trying pathetically to inch him closer - but Choso wasn’t budging. Holding you so firmly by the hips that you’re sure he leaves bruises, licking all over your cunt except for your clit. “Cho.” you warn. Brows furrowing in frustration at the way he bats his long lashes up at you so deceivingly innocently, “What?”

“You know…”

“I don’t.” he titters teasingly into your pussy. 

“Choso.”

Now, Choso’s known and seen everything there is to do with you - but never like this. Spread open shamefully and pouting so adorably on top of him, so needy for him. It made his head spin to think of just how much the dynamics had shifted. 

Shit, he really should’ve watched that godforsaken movie with you sooner. “Tell me what you want, crybaby.”

And oh how his cock twitches at the way you manage to get out an embarrassed little, “Wan’ you to ngh- tonguefuck me properly. Wanna cum on your pretty face, Cho.”

And that’s all that’s said before he’s surging forward, glossy lips wrapping around your pulsing clit to suck harshly. Rolling his soft tongue over and over-

“Wanted this for so long.” Choso mutters, muffled as he buries himself deeper into your pretty pussy. The vibrations sending white-hot pleasure running down your spine. “You have absolutely no idea, pretty.”

And you barely even have the time to register his little confession before Choso’s moving down to bully his tongue past your folds. Nose pressing against your throbbing clit as he dips into your sloppy hole. 

“Oh shit. Jus’ like that.” For a beginner, your best friend really knew what he was doing. Eating you out like his favorite meal, tongue squeezing into your snug pussy to thrust in and out, swipe against your walls, stretching you out right to his will. Over and over-

“Use me.”

Your eyes snap down to meet the pure adoration in his eyes as he makes out filthily with your cunt. Choking out a little, “What?”

“Use me.”

There it was again - that strained little mantra. And as if to prove his point, Choso reaches out to deftly place your hands on his head, bucking into you touch. 

And, well, how could you say no to that?

Because before you know it, you’re bunching Choso’s soft strands in your fists. Angling him just right to ride his pretty face. “C’mon, Cho. Ngh- H-harder, jus’ a bit- Oh!” he just devours the way your mouth drops into an adorable little oh! as his tongue curls deftly against that one spot. Again and again. Letting himself be so used, dragging your dripping cunt harder on his mouth. 

And he likes it. Hell, he loves it even - because you’re so sweet n’ pretty on his mouth. Better than everything he’s ever been dreaming of for the past few years. And always in his dreams, you’d be clenching so deliciously around his tongue when you were close - just like right now. 

So he speeds up his movements, breathing you in maddeningly. A hand snaking down from it’s favorite place on your hips to draw quick, frenzied little circles on your poor, ravaged clit. Jaw almost aching with how filthily he was dripping in and out of your entrance - be he did give a shit. Only wanting to have you breathless and creaming all over his face.

You jerk violently on top of him, “Hah! S’too much, Cho. M’so close- gonna cum- gonna-”

And then you’re cumming. Fast, and hard. 

Plushy walls clamping down on Choso’s tongue, hips stuttering on his face as he laps up all your juices, an arm around your waist helping you ride his face through your high. 

“S’sweet. Could get used to that.” he slurs into your cunt. Tipping his head back as far as it’d go to let the last of your juices slide down his throat. “Better than I imagined.”

The words ring in your ears as you blink back your vision. Deliriously whirling down to look down at Choso - still beneath you and looking more smug and content than you’d ever seen him. “Imagination? S’that why you’re so good.”

“No.”

You’re being flipped before you know it. Manhandled so easily by your best friend as he lays you on your back, sinking into the cushion while he looms above you. “S’jus’ that…” grunting as he flings his shirt off, “Been dreaming of your pretty cunt on m’tongue for years.”

Okay, now his confession hits - more than it did when he was tonguefucking you into insanity, anyway. 

“Years, huh?” you breathe out, eyes roaming all over his sculpted torso. Taking in every dip and curve of Choso’s toned abs - all the way from his broad shoulders to the rock-hard cock straining against his pants. As if in a trance, your hand reaches out to cup his leaking erection, “S’that all you’ve been dreaming of?”

“You little minx.” he lets out a low hiss. 

Before you can even react, Choso’s fumbling with that belt - cursing because shit, he’d have worn sweatpants instead if he knew they’d end up on your floor. 

And you’re not any better, fingers popping open his buttons and tugging impatiently and oh- You always thought that your best friend would have a big dick - but this?  He was so intimidatingly long - and thick enough that you wondered whether you’d hurt yourself. Fat tip flushed such a pretty shade of pink to match his cheeks, leaking down down down, all the way to his heavy balls. 

You’re only jolted out of your little reverie by Choso spitting a steady stream of spit onto your quivering cunt, spreading it lazily across your pussy with his thumb. A ringed fist pumping his cock slowly, as he drags his tip across your folds, pooling your sweet juices. Muttering out a raspy, “I’ll be gentle.”

“You better not be, now jus’ fuck me-”

Well, you didn’t have to ask Choso twice. Because you’ve barely gotten the words out before he’s bullying massive cock into your tight cunt. Pressing in inch by fucking inch as you gasp and buck underneath him. 

“Shhh, s’okay, crybaby. This is what you wanted, right?” he mumbles, with all the audacity of someone that wasn’t fucking into you in rapid, mindless little jabs to fit inside your snug lil’ pussy. Struggling to hold back at this point. “Wanted to be split apart on m’cock?”

You were so full of him. Even more so when he throws your legs over his shoulders, bending all the way down and folding you in half so easily beneath him. 

He drinks in the barely-lucid squeal that leaves your swollen lips. Kissing your forehead gently, whispering against the skin, “Because I’ve wanted this for so fucking long.”

And then it was like something snapped - maybe his sanity, maybe the restraint that Choso’s been holding back for too long. Because immediately he’s plunging his throbbing cock into you - all the way till his balls, all angry and squeezing so painfully, smacks against your ass. 

“Wanted this.” he rasps into your open mouth. His hips were out of control now, thrusting you in shallow, desperate rams. Pounding into you like a man possessed, and running his mouth just as much. He laces his fingers on top of your head, pushing you down even deeper into his relentless cock - as if the bastard wasn’t fucking you dumb already. “Fuckin’ needed this needed this. Shit- so bad.”

“Ch-Choso- fuck hah-” you plead as his mouth clashes with yours. All sloppy with teeth and spit and his profanities - and it felt so damn good. 

“Yeah? Who’s fucking you silly, now?” he’s going harder now, tip hitting your poor cervix over and over. And you’d be sobbing at the burn and the stretch but all you can think of is shit this is Choso - the kid you used to play hide and seek with. And now he seems fully intent on breaking you. “Say m’name.”

A rough thumb starts toying with your clit, in time with the cute lil’ whines of his name that escape your mouth like a prayer. “Shit. Y’look so pretty like this.” he babbles. “Gonna cry, pretty girl?” smirking down at the way you were too cockdrunk to even snap back, only looking up at him with delirious, teary eyes. “Be a crybaby for my cock?”

You’re tugging on his hair, thighs shaky and bucking upwards. “Cho-”

“Mhm?”

“W-wanna cum. Need you to fill m’up till I can’t take it anymore.”

Oh if Choso was any lesser man he’d have cum right then and there. Instead settling for a guttural groan, drunk off the way you were milking his cock so hard as if to prove your point. It almost made him want to stay like this forever. But no - not right now. 

“Oh yeah?” Hips becoming sloppy now, “Need it? Shit- m’so close.” Each word slurred, punctuated by a harsh thrust, strokes long and frenzied. Using your heavenly pussy like his personal fucktoy. So hard that he’s sure you’d have embarrassing matching bruises tomorrow - his balls on your ass, your nails raking down his shoulders.

“Me too- fuck fuck fuck-” you mewl into his neck, as Choso buried his face into yours. 

“Cum f’me, my girl.”

My girl. 

And then you are - and he is. And you don’t know who cums first, just that you’re seeing stars behind your eyes and Choso’s teeth digging into your neck as he thrusts once. Twice. Before cumming and cumming so hard he might as well have seen the pearly gates of heaven. And you were an angel.

Thick, hot ropes of cum that paint your walls white, so much that it gushes out of your poor overfilled pussy. Dripping down your legs and pooling into a sinful, creamy ring at his base. 

“Mm- shit. Choso.” you moan, barely audible over the lewd squelches from below. 

“M’here, my girl.” he grits out, voice shot. And it seems that that was his new favorite nickname, because Choso keeps murmuring it over and over as he keeps fucking his seed into you. Not even thinking about it at this point - just mindless, shallow grinds of his hips. 

In the haze of your orgasm, you think you hear his quiet voice, strained with exhaustion and something that you weren’t in the right state of mind to decipher right now. 

“Shhh, m’here. “Can’t believe I waited so fuckin’ long.” Whispering against your lips, “Love this. Love this pretty cunt.” Kissing softly, “Love the way y’take me. Fuckin’ made f’me.” And maybe even a soft little, “Love you.”

And maybe - just maybe, you whisper the same into his. Kissing him softly, exactly the way you’d wanted to all these years. 

Neither of you speak after that. Not when Choso’s hips stall, body sticky and collapsing onto yours. Nor do you speak when he pulls away with a playful nip to your lower lip - a promise. Searching through your clothes for a washcloth he can wipe yourselves clean with. 

It’s only when he settles back under the covers beside you, looking at you with such dark, hazy eyes - whirling with too many emotions to name - that the silence is broken. 

“Crybaby.”

“Cho.”

“Corny.”

“You started it.”

Chuckling, Choso pulls your body close to his. Not even a hair’s breadth between you two because shit now that he’s got you, he doesn’t think he ever wants to let you go. 

“Y’know…” he starts, “I think we should- I mean- if you want…” nervous now more than he was even after all that just transpired. Cheeks flaring as he meets your amused gaze, just daring him to go on - because you saw through him. You always did. “I lov-”

“Am I late for the mov- WHAT THE FUCK I ALWAYS KNEW BRATS WEREN’T JUST FRIENDS-”

---

Itadori Family Groupchat + Two More

Dad: Hey, all. I can’t seem to get a hold of Choso to confirm tomorrow’s dinner plans. Can anyone else let me know if he’s ok? XX

-Jin.

Yuji <3: He’s probs at rhat “best friend movie night” still 

Dad: Hello, Yuji. What is a “probs”? XX

-Jin.

Kugisaki: He’s suspiciously quiet, though… Y’all think that “best friend movie night” is codeword for something else? 

Yuji <3: Better not be cuz Sukuna stole my sparw key sayin something ab crashing it idk

Kugisaki: *spare

And you just LET him?

Yuji <3: HE THREATENED TO BURN MY MEGAN THEE STALLION POSTER 

…

AND DID IT ANYWAY

Kugisaki: L

Fushiguro: L

Gramps: L

Sukuna (do not answer): DID Y’ALL KNOW THOSE TWO WERE FUCKIN????

*Fushiguro has left the chat*

Dad: :0

-Jin.

A/N. Spiritually, this is a crackfic idk.