#sweaty hands squad!!!

[tedmustache]

Reader x Robby or Abbot your pick but reader who's dating Abbot or Robby who becomes a mother figure to the newbies, they start calling them Ducklings so that sticks, and Whitaker ends up calling reader mama duck, so she runs with it despite his embarrassment, so at one point spring the day reader yells our "I need my ducklings cmon over!" And the newbies flock to them and they give their ducklings a peptalk and jack or robby are like "fuck now I have a bunch of adopted kids:

Mama Duck

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: Robby's relationship gets a chaotic twist when the newbies start following his girlfriend like ducklings... And the nickname sticks.

Requests are open | Main Masterlist

[...]

It started small. Quiet. Barely noticeable.

You weren’t trying to be anyone’s mentor. You just knew how to get things done and the rookies? They noticed. They started asking questions, following your lead, sticking close. You offered advice, snacks, and a sharp glare when someone was about to do something monumentally dumb.

And without meaning to, you became their mother figure.

You patched up Whitaker’s scraped knuckles after his third fall in drills. You helped Delaney remember his locker code. You lent Freya your hoodie when she forgot hers in the rain. One by one, they fell into orbit around you. Loyal, messy, eager.

They started calling themselves your ducklings.

The nickname “Mama Duck” came from Whitaker.

He didn’t even mean to start it. You were leading them across the yard, newbies clumped together, tripping over each other when he muttered, “Alright, alright, Mama Duck’s on the move. Everyone waddle up.”

You stopped walking.

He froze.

“What did you just call me?”

Whitaker’s ears went pink. “Nothing. It was a joke. I—I rescind it.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “Too late.”

And that was that.

[...]

Spring Training Day arrived hot and unbearable. Everyone was tired, sun-drunk, half-melted. The newbies were flagging. Sloppy in drills, low on morale. One wandered off. Another sat down mid-sprint and declared she was “emotionally cramping.”

You clapped your hands, loud.

“I NEED MY DUCKLINGS! C’MON OVER!”

The reaction was immediate.

Whitaker nearly tripped over his water bottle getting up. Mel shouted “Duck Squad, ASSEMBLE!” and within seconds, they were all around you. All sweaty, breathless, and grinning like idiots.

You looked them over like a general inspecting your troops.

“Alright, my little disasters. This isn’t the day we fall apart. You’ve got this. Push through. Head high, water bottles up, and if I catch any of you fake-limping to get out of drills again, I swear I���ll revoke snack privileges.”

“Yes, Mama Duck!” they chorused.

Robby, watching from nearby, groaned.

“This is getting out of hand.”

You turned to him, smiling. “Jealous?”

He walked over, arms folded. “They’ve been calling me Papa Duck, you know.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“For days. It’s a whisper campaign.”

You grinned. “Fitting.”

“Don’t start.”

Santos, still catching her breath, popped her head up. “It’s better than what we were calling you before.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Which was?”

“Stepdad Robby.”

You bit your lip, trying so hard not to laugh.

Robby just stared at the sky. “Why do I even come here?”

You bumped your shoulder into his. “Because deep down, you love having a flock.”

He looked back at the ducklings. All of them looking like a mess

And then he looked at you.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’ve got a flock.”

You kissed his cheek. “Yeah. And I love you for it.”

[promisingyounglady]

watermelons. | JS x Reader

SYNOPSIS: Jake loves ur boobs. That’s it really.

PAIRING: Jake Seresin x Reader

A/N: written for all my big tit girlies, from a big tit girlie herself.

He’s been obsessed with the girls since he first saw them.

And by the girls, he means your tits.

Like just imagine, cocky little top gun aviator, Jake Seresin, turning into a complete mess first glance at you. Spilling his beer all over his tan golden chest that one summer afternoon at the beach with the dagger squad, just because he saw you in your denim shorts and yellow halter top.

And they sit so nicely, your tits. Full, large, and beautiful.

The breeze carries the scent of salt, the air humid and yet all jake can do is stare at the girl with the sweet smile and pretty tits, laughing loudly with her friends on the Hard Deck patio.

“So you’re just gonna stare like a creep or what?” Bradley’s low voice calls out beside him, crossing his arms across his chest as he adjusts his aviator sunglasses, muscles glistening as well under the heat. He whistles softly when he sees you, to which Jake shoves his friend away playfully, annoyed that he’s looking at you too.

“Back off, Bradshaw”

And so next thing he knows, he’s by your side, immediately serenading you with his charming smile and kind eyes.

“Hi sweetheart”

It’s so fucking cheesy and simple, and yet it works on you. You’re spinning around, eyes going wide at the firm, golden chest your face to face with and the way Jake just looms over you, hands on his hips, sweaty and golden from a match of beach football.

“Would you allow me to buy the pretty girl and her friends a drink?” He asks your friend group, sending a wink that makes the girls swoon.

“Oh my fuck” slips out from one of your friends behind you, the group gawking at the sight of the tall, handsome man in front of them.

And she was right. Oh my fuck indeed.

All it took was one line of southern drawl and you were hooked.

That night when Jake has you pinned against the alleyway wall outside of the bar, both your cheeks hot and the breeze cooler, you stare up at the man you had just spent the whole day flirting to.

“So you’re stationed here for a few months?” you breathe out, staring at his broad chest and chiseled jaw, feeling so small under his gaze. You gasp when his hand shifts closer, holding your waist firm in his grasp.

He nods, no need for words when he’s busy admiring you as well. The tall man gently nestles his lips beside your ear, whispering praises as he pressed a kiss to your neck.

You shut your eyes, fluttering your eyelashes at the proximity and sheer sensuality of it all.

“Can I touch you?” He asks pulling away, looking at your eyes with something more than just lust.

You smile, chest heaving as you replied coyly. “Where do you want to touch me?”

Jake is starstruck at your words, trying so hard to shield you from the world under his arms and selfishly have you all for himself.

You take both his hands in yours and wrap them over your hips, letting them grab the mounds of your flesh and groan, feeling his hard on pressing against your front.

“feel me. and show me where you want to touch me most” you gasp, eyes shutting closed.

Jake pulls his hands away to caress your cheeks, taking your face as he presses his lips against yours.

“Here” he says under his breath. That was where he wanted to touch you most.

The kiss is deep, soft under the starry beach sky.

The same hands slide down to softly squeeze your tits, and that’s when you know that was the second spot he wanted to touch most. You smirk against the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing into him further.

Jake Seresin was a tits guy.

So when Jake comes home to his apartment after a year of steady dating, he’s already making a beeline to find you, settling on the fact that you must be in the laundry room finishing up the chores.

You don’t even have time to greet your boyfriend properly before he’s shoving his face in your tits and smacking a kiss to each one.

“Jake, what is up with you?” You giggled, shocked at how needy and hot he was. “I didn’t know they let you off early”

He sighs, taking them in his strong hands and pressing a kiss to each breast again.

“Just missed my girls, that’s all” he groans, holding you closer as you give him a hug.

you rolled your eyes, watching as he continue to rub them softly, pressing a kiss to your collar bone.

“I cut up the watermelon, it’s in the fridge” you told him, pulling him away to press a peck to his cheek.

You took the laundry basket, propping it against your hip as you smiled when Jake called out while pouting at the loss of contact.

“Not the melons I need!” he exasperates, trailing after you quickly.

[levigarden999]

‪♡ quiet, sweaty nights ‪♡ levi x femreader ‪♡

theme : intimate fluffy smut , sweaty and fulfilling sex with levi warnings : smut , p!v sex , sweat , orgasm , missionary , only 18 and over notes : thank you all for the likes on my previous posts , i'm so happy you've enjoyed my writings ‪♡

levi wasn’t the biggest fan of intimacy. he was rarely affectionate towards you, it was usually just his delicate fingers lingering on your thigh or the faint feeling of his hand on your lower back. the subtle touches and hidden moments of love were his ways to show you how much he cared for you. but also how much he needed you.

even though levi didn’t get intimate often, it didn’t mean he didn’t want you. he was just so busy and focused on his work as the captain of his squad, not to mention the duty of being the strongest soldier. even though he hated that word, he knew he was important for the army and that he had a mission to fulfill. for humanity. for his loved ones. for you.

when he did get intimate, it was on those quiet nights. those quiet nights when the only sound that could be heard was the rain drops on the roof and the occasional sound coming from the wooden building materials of the hq. the moon would push its’ light in through the gaps between the curtains, illuminating beautiful shimmer against the plank floors and walls. shimmer where the small pieces of dust lingered in the now blue-ish air, as if magic was suddenly real and allowed you two to have this night without worries, stress or pressure.

the moon would cast light on levi’s face as well. there was single glistening drops of sweat on his forehead and a hint of a deep mysterious blue in his normally grey eyes as he moved on top of you. soft pants escaped his slightly open mouth with each thrust he did, the hovering black hairs on his face casting thin shadows on his skin.

”levi…” you panted quietly as you felt him do those deep, torturous strokes inside of you. the faint redness on his pale cheeks reminded you of the same lust, hunger and love your body was filled with right in that moment. you believed he felt the exact same sensations as you did. the skin between his hips and your crotch was wet and sweaty, so he had to move carefully not to make too sloppy sounds. there was a blanket covering you two, which made the situation even more intimate and hot.

sweat dripped down your temples as you laid on the soft mattress and you tightened the grip around his body. you held him close to you, his hot and steamy skin clinging against you. his other arm was wrapped around your thigh and it held your leg spread, allowing a deeper angle and a better position to manhandle you.

”m’ cumming…” you whimpered as you felt the hardness of his cock rub against your embarrassingly wet and plushy walls. you knew you had to be quiet since the others were already asleep in their rooms, so you held onto him tighter. levi looked down at you with a desperate frown between his eyebrows, and his other hand wrapped behind your head and tangled in your moist hair.

the heat of the blanket and his body was nearly overwhelming, but you hadn’t felt this close to him in a very long time. the thought made you yearn for even more.

”i’ll muffle those sweet moans f' you, love”, he cooed you. even though you were a strong woman soldier who slaughtered titans with practiced ease, you never managed to learn how to keep quiet. so levi had to help you.

he crashed his moist, swollen lips against yours and his tongue sunk into your mouth. it twisted and turned to the point it almost reached the back of your mouth, successfully muffling your moans.

”l-levi…!” you whined again, those sweet sounds of pure pleasure making his skin shiver with need to make you clench around him. he continued his deep thrusts even though he fastened his pace a little, hitting against that lovely spot over and over again. your hips began to tremble and soon your whole body squirmed as the sweaty, beautiful and longed orgasm crashed over you. levi’s mouth sucked in all your whines and moans and he fucked you through your orgasm, the slight grip on your hair making sure you didn’t pull away from the kiss.

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — chapter two.

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with wild white hair and a grin too sharp for someone who always left dirt on your doorstep. satoru lived to rile you up, stealing your snacks and outrunning you in backyard chases, weaving himself into your life despite every glare you threw. through the chaos of shared summers and endless spats, he became a constant you couldn’t quite escape.

college stretched you apart, states away, the silence of distance swallowing your usual bickering—until summer drags you back. nothing’s the same. the air feels heavier, the days stranger, and satoru’s still all smirks and sly glances, but his eyes linger now, carrying a quiet ache you’re only starting to notice. college has you questioning everything, and he’s waiting, like always, for you to catch up to something you’re not ready to name.

tags –> fluff, tiny bit of angst later, eventual smut, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, growing up together, long term pining, yearner satoru, summer vacation tension, alternating POVs.

previous ch. | collection m.list. | series masterlist. | playlist. | next ch.

a/n : comments are highly appreciated because i really really hesitated sm writing this fic cus i felt like i was dragging it out 🥹

freshman year hits you both like a runaway bus barreling down the street, all chaos and jolts you can’t brace for.

the gym’s a sweaty mess—sneakers squeal on the polished floor, air thick with that sour teenage stench, basketballs thudding like they’re mad at the world. satoru’s found his thing, basketball, his lanky legs finally making sense as he weaves through drills, white hair flopping, damp with sweat, like he owns the place.

you’re stuck here too, cheerleading, because your mom swore it’d “keep you out of trouble”—her voice all pinched over breakfast like she’s sentencing you to jail. your skirt’s short, swishing as you stretch by the bleachers, one leg propped up, pom-poms dumped in a glittery pile next to your sneakers—scuffed, laces loose, the kind that say you’re too cool to care.

you won’t admit it, but there’s a kick in the way the squad moves, even if you’d rather choke than say so.

it’s a thursday—late september, sticky heat clinging like a bad habit—and satoru’s mid-drill, dodging some kid who’s already tripping over himself. girls from your algebra class hover by the bleachers, all giggles and twirled fingers, one clutching a crinkly water bottle like it’s a trophy.

“you’re so good!” she chirps, voice dripping sugar, and the others nod, fluttering lashes as he wipes his brow, gray shirt clinging damp to his chest, grinning like he’s king of the world.

you’re mid-lunge, one hand on the bench, hair tugged back with a clip, and your scowl could burn holes through the wall. ���gross,” you mutter, low and bitter, stomach twisting like you’ve swallowed something sour. he’s eating it up—tossing the ball hand to hand, nodding at them like some sweaty prince—and it’s maddening, how they fawn, how he glows, how you notice.

he catches you staring, those stupid blue eyes cutting through the gym’s haze like a laser. peels off mid-drill, jogging over with that smirk already curling, sweat dripping down his forehead, sticking white strands to his skin.

leans against the bleacher rail—too casual, ball tucked under his arm, shadow spilling over you. “jealous much?” he drawls, voice lazy, bouncing off the walls loud enough the girls glance over, whispering.

you scoff, “in your dreams, satoru,” you snap, venom dripping, cheeks flaming hotter than the gym’s buzzing lights. 

you straighten up, ditch the stretch, and kick a pom-pom—hard, way harder than you mean to. it skids across the floor, tumbling into the wall with a sad little flop, glitter trailing like a crime scene.

his laugh chases you, bright and smug, ringing in your ears as you storm toward the double doors—metal, scratched, groaning under your shove. hallway air hits, cool and stale, but your face stays molten, his words looping ”jealous much?” and you slam a fist into the nearest locker, metal clanging, just to drown it out.

that gym fiasco lingers like a bad smell, satoru’s smug laugh still rattling in your skull as weeks slip by. you’re softer now, less likely to shove him face-first into the dirt, though the urge never fully dies. mornings by the fence settle into a weird rhythm, a dance of sharp words and half-hearted glares, hoses in hand while the sun creeps up lazy and gold.

your nails are painted today—chipped red polish, a little messy from last night’s boredom—and your skirt’s a touch longer, brushing your knees as you shift to prune the roses. then one morning, you ditch the usual shorts for a sundress. it’s nothing fancy, just some faded yellow thing you dug out of the closet, fabric swaying light as you bend to snip a thorn, humming something off-key under your breath.

satoru stops mid-sentence—something dumb about his mom’s flowers—and you glance up, catching him blinking like his brain’s hit a wall. the hose dribbles in his hand, water seeping into his slippers, soaking the little clouds dark. his mouth hangs open a second too long, eyes wide, locked on you like you’ve grown a second head. 

“you look… weird,” he mumbles, voice cracking just enough to betray him. his face flushes pink, splotchy across his cheeks, and he jerks the hose up, splashing you square in the chest before he can stop himself.

you gasp, stumbling back, the cold water soaking through the dress, clinging damp to your skin. “weird?!” you snap, voice spiking high, all offended pride and fire. your hands ball into fists, knuckles white, and you glare at him like he’s just spat on your grave. “what’s that supposed to mean, satoru?”

he’s floundering now, eyes darting everywhere but you—fence, sky, his soggy slippers—fingers fumbling with the hose like it’s a lifeline. 

“i—uh—nothing! just… weird!” he stammers, shoving a hand through his hair, mussing it worse, and his ears are burning red, bright as the roses behind you.

weird. weird ?! your chest puffs up, indignation blazing, because you didn’t put this dress on to get that. you’d seen those girls at practice—giggling, twirling, all soft edges and fluttery lashes, the kind he grins at like a smug idiot. that’s his pretty, not you, not this, and the thought stings sharper than you expect, though you don’t know why.

“you’re such a jerk,” you huff, tossing the pruning shears onto the grass, blades glinting in the sun. you turn on your heel, slippers flopping loud, and storm toward the house, leaving a trail of wet footprints. 

satoru’s still standing there, frozen, hose limp in his grip, water pooling around his feet. his jaw’s slack, eyes stuck on the sway of your dress, the way it clings just a little, and his heart’s thudding so hard he’s half-sure you can hear it across the yard. 

he swallows. hard. adam’s apple bobbing, and mutters to himself, “oh no. oh no, no, no.” his free hand scrubs down his face, dragging over his flushed cheeks, because you’re not just the gremlin he wrestles anymore—you’re you, and he’s screwed.

that night, through your glass window, you catch him glancing over, desk lamp casting a warm glow across his room. he’s hunched over a notebook, pretending to scribble, but his head keeps tipping toward your side, quick little peeks he thinks you don’t see. you flip him off through the panes, lips twitching into a smirk you can’t hold back.

he mirrors it, shaky, his hand trembling as he raises it, and his face is still pink, eyes darting away fast. you don’t know he’s replaying that moment—the dress, the water, your glare—on a loop, kicking himself for “weird” when he meant something else entirely.

the thing is, you've been trudging to school with satoru forever, a routine carved from your dads’ “best buds” gospel, unshakable as the peeling paint on your porch.

every morning, he's kicking pebbles in his sneakers, you're clutching your backpack, your voices clashing over who hit snooze too long as the sun spills gold over the lawns, his shadow stretching longer each week.

it’s normalcy but the spite still festers overnight, bubbling up like lava lamp goo so you don't let it go. you don’t feel too particularly pleased with him at all to bear walking beside him for ten minutes.

so you wake up early, let spite be a living thing, and turn yourself into a 2014 dream: pastel crop top, baby pink, hugging your ribs just right, paired with a high-waisted floral skater skirt that flares out, all daisies and soft greens. you dig out those chunky mary janes, black and scuffed but cute, and you sling a tiny crossbody bag over your shoulder. cream with little roses, zipper half-broken.

lip gloss goes on thick, some glittery pink tube you found under a pile of old magazines, sticky and sweet, catching every flicker of light. stud earrings, tiny silver stars, wink in your lobes, and a thin headband, white and lacy, sits primly, screaming i'm not weird, i'm perfect, choke on it.

you stride out that morning, gloss gleaming, skirt swishing, a light cardigan tossed over your shoulders because the breeze has a bite. he's waiting by the gatepost like always, slouched, hands in his pockets, white hair a wind-tossed mess.

his head snaps up when he sees you, and his eyes bug out for just a second before he squints, like he's decoding some alien language.

“what’s all... this?” he says, voice hitching, and he coughs fast to bury it, his ears going pink.

you don’t stop.

you breeze past, chin high, letting your skirt flare, gloss shimmering like a taunt, not a glance his way. he’s stuck there, blinking, his sneakers shuffling in the dirt as his gaze bounces from crop top to flowers to that little bag, and his throat bobs, a gulp he can’t hide. his heart’s doing flips, and he doesn’t get it.

gremlin girl, spine-breaker, now this candy-coated nightmare?

he’s a goner, and it’s only 7:32 a.m.

“hey, wait up!” he calls, sharper, jogging a step, but you’re already gone, your heels clicking down the block, leaving him choking on your strawberry-scented dust.

school’s a battlefield. you dodge him in the halls, weaving past kids with skinny jeans and chipped flip phones, ducking behind a vending machine when you spot that white mop bobbing through the crowd. in english class, he’s two rows back, slouched over his desk, and you feel his stare prickling your neck.

you flip your notebook pages louder, doodle nonsense in the margins, gloss shining under the buzzing lights like a middle finger.

“you gonna talk to me or what?” he asks before the bell, voice low, leaning over his desk as you pack up.

you pretend you don’t hear. you sling your bag over your shoulder and flounce out, skirt swishing, leaving him glaring at the empty doorway. when lunch rolls around, he tries again. he plops down across from you with his tray, a sad sandwich and a dented juice box, mouth opening. “so, you’re just gonna—”

“not today, satoru.” you cut in, voice slicing the air, standing up fast, chair scraping the tile. you march off to the cheer girls’ table, their giggles forming a fortress as he stares, sandwich dangling, jaw half-open like you’ve slapped him.

the afternoon is humid, sticky air clinging to your skin as you strut out the gates, gloss fresh from a bathroom touch-up, skirt bouncing with every step.

satoru is waiting, slouched against the wall, hands in his pockets, that lazy bounce in his stance until he sees you. you’re laughing with that guy from history class, tall, quiet, harmless, with floppy brown hair and a grin too shy for his face.

he’s mumbling some pun about the revolutionary war. muskets misfiring, lame but oddly charming. you laugh, loud and bright, leaning in just a smidge, mostly because he’s not satoru, and that feels like a win.

“see ya tomorrow,” you say, tossing your hair as the boy blushes and shuffles off.

satoru stands too still, blue eyes narrowing into slits as you giggle at this nobody. his sneakers stay glued to the pavement. his face darkens. lips press tight, jaw clenches. he kicks a pebble so hard it cracks against the fence, bouncing into the grass.

he stalks off, fast, sneakers scuffing loud, not a word, just a glare that could torch the whole schoolyard.

you don’t walk home together that day. nor the next.

days limp by, and satoru is brooding worse than ever. you catch him one morning at home, watering the plants. your mom’s prized roses versus his mom’s smug hydrangeas. the hose dangles in his grip, slippers slapping the patio as he kicks dirt clumps like they’ve insulted him personally.

he’s wearing a faded band tee from who-knows-where and dark plaid pajama pants, loose and wrinkled. his hair is a messy tangle from sleep, pale strands falling into his eyes. he looks half-asleep, fully annoyed at the world.

“you’re drowning them,” you say, standing on your side of the fence, hose in hand, gloss still tacky from breakfast.

he doesn’t look up. he rubs his neck, dirt smudging his fingers. he mutters something low, jagged, sour as week-old milk.

“what?” you say, sharper now, daring him to spit it out with a tilt of your head.

“didn’t know you liked losers,” he says, loud enough this time, eyes still fixed on the roses like they’ve betrayed him.

you blink. your lips part, gloss gleaming as the hose slips a little in your grip. water pools around your feet, and you step back.

“you’re being stupid.”

he flinches, just a twitch, barely there.

“whatever,” he grumbles, turning away, kicking another clump so it explodes into dust. “loser’s not even that funny.”

“you’re the one acting like one.” you say, voice sharp, and drop your hose, letting it splash wild across the patio. you stride off, skirt flouncing, leaving him glaring at the wet mess.

he freezes. his head snaps up, blue eyes wide for a second before narrowing again. he mutters, barely audible, “i’m not a loser.”

“yeah, right. keep telling yourself that.” you call over your shoulder, not stopping. your slippers squish in the grass as you head inside.

he stares after you, water pooling around his slippers, dirt streaked up his pajama pants. he mutters something again, too low to catch, then kicks the fence, wood creaking under the blow. he doesn’t understand how his heart’s still tripping over that pink top, those flowers, that laugh with some guy who isn’t him.

days slip by, sharp and silent, your glares cutting across lawns, his shadow dodging yours under a cooling sun. september’s heat fades, the air biting now, roses wilting as the neighborhood hums with fair prep, flyers flapping on poles.

you don’t talk, but his eyes linger, and you pretend not to notice, your steps quickening past his gate.

the school fair crashes into september like a sugar-high kid on a trampoline, all sticky cotton candy and creaky booths groaning under the heat. you’re roped into the cheer squad’s lemonade stand, decked out in their dress code—a sleeveless yellow sundress, short and bright, with a little white apron tied around your waist, paper flower crown slipping off your head as you fumble with a pitcher.

satoru’s stuck at ring toss across the way, grumbling as kids miss the rigged bucket, but he’s not alone—girls crowd around him, giggling, flipping their hair, drawn to his white tee clinging just right to his pale skin, blue eyes glinting under the sun, white hair catching the light like some annoying halo.

you’re not talking much these days, not since he called you weird and you left him at the gate. mornings by the plants are silent now—you water your side, sassing him off with a flick of your wrist when he tries to speak. 

“save it, satoru.” you’ll simply snap, turning away, and he sulks, kicking dirt, barely muttering back. you don’t walk home together anymore, and it’s fine, totally fine, except he’s been moping like a kicked puppy, and you’re too stubborn to care.

at the fair, you’re squeezing lemons by hand, struggling because someone lost the damn juicer, and your fingers ache as the fruit slips in your grip. you glance up, wiping sweat from your brow, and peek past the cotton candy machine.

there’s a fake wedding booth—some tacky setup with a cardboard arch and wilted streamers—and that giggly girl from your class, braces flashing, bounces up with a ticket clutched in her fist. she’s all blushy, shoving it at satoru, who’s wandered over from ring toss, arms crossed, face blank like he’s bored out of his skull.

“marry me?” she squeaks, and you snort, waiting for him to roll his eyes and ditch.

except he doesn’t.

his jaw tightens, eyes flicking your way for a split second—caught you looking—and then he shrugs, all petty and sulky. “sure, why not,” he says, voice flat but sharp, like he’s aiming it at you. your stomach flips, but you don’t know why, don’t want to know.

the “ceremony” starts, some kid in a fake tuxedo drawling, “do you take her as your wife?”

satoru stands there, pale hands stuffed in his pockets, white tee stretched across his shoulders, and mutters, “yeah, whatever.”

she slips a paper ring on his finger, giggling like she’s won the lottery, and he just stares ahead, dead-eyed, while she fake-blushes and clutches his arm. the crowd claps, all “aww” and cheers, and you’re stuck, watching, lemon trembling in your hand.

your grip tightens. the lemon’s been a pain all day—slippery, stubborn, barely juicing and now it’s personal. you squeeze harder, nails digging in, and then you see her lean closer, giggling up at him, and pop—the thing explodes, juice spraying everywhere, pulp splattering your apron, your arms, the table.

you yelp, stumbling back, pitcher wobbling as lemonade sloshes over the edge, soaking the wood. a teammate blinks at you, wide-eyed. “you okay over there?”

“fine.” you snap, slamming cups down, wiping your hands on your dress, but your face burns, and your chest feels tight, and you don’t get it—why you’re mad, why it stings. you shove the mess aside, ignoring the whispers from the squad. he’s still over there, twirling that stupid ring, and you want to chuck a lemon at his head.

later, by the lockers, he’s waiting—leaning against the metal, white tee bright against the dim hall, blue eyes glinting as he spins that paper ring on his finger. “jealous?” he asks, voice sharp, eyebrow cocked like he’s daring you.

you scoff, shoving past, shoulder bumping his. “of you and your fake wife? please. hope she makes you scrub your fake toilet with a toothbrush.”

he grins, all teeth, and calls after you, “whatever you say.”

your hand twitches, diving into your apron pocket where a whole lemon’s been stashed—sour, heavy, perfect. you whip it at his head, hard, and he snatches it mid-air, reflexes annoyingly quick.

you don’t wait for that smug tease to spill out, just stomp off, shoes smacking the floor, leaving his “whatever” echoing down the hall, sticking to you like the lemon juice still drying on your skin, and you hate how it lingers, how he lingers, how you’re stomping harder than you need to.

weeks blur, your silence a wall, his sulks heavier across the fence, until october creeps in, crisp and restless, the neighborhood buzzing with game-day fever, gym doors swinging wide.

mid-october sneaks in, and the gym’s buzzing like a hive before the first big game, all jittery vibes and sweat-soaked air. satoru’s out there on the court, navy blue jersey clinging to his pale frame, number 7 splashed bold across his back. he’s weaving through a mock game, proving himself against the team captain, a junior with a loud mouth and a dunk that could shake the walls.

freshmen don’t usually get this shot, so he’s all in, sweat dripping down his neck, white hair plastered to his forehead, blue eyes sharp and locked on the ball.

you’re across the gym with the cheer squad, drilling stunts in your uniform, short navy skirt swishing, white top with gold trim hugging tight. pom-poms lie kicked aside in a glittery heap, forgotten for now. the squad’s a mess of noise, some girls giggling about the basketball players, others barking orders like they’re running a warzone.

you’re focused, determined to nail this flip, even if your ankle’s been twinging since yesterday when you tumbled off the bleachers, distracted by satoru’s dumb fan club and their water bottles.

the stunt goes up. your team hoists you, and you’re mid-air, all gritted teeth and forced grace, legs steady despite that nagging ache. then the landing hits.

your ankle twists wrong, buckling like it’s done with you. pain flares hot and fast, a sharp sting shooting up your leg. you crumple to the mat, gasping, clutching it as your eyes sting. it’s a mild sprain, but it hurts like hell.

the squad freezes. 

“oh my god, are you okay?” one girl squeals, hands flapping uselessly.

another just stares, mouth open like she’s watching a car crash. 

coach jogs over, whistle bouncing against her chest. “someone grab ice, now!” she yells, voice cutting through the gym’s hum.

satoru’s mid-dribble, captain bearing down like a storm. your gasp slices the noise. his head snaps your way, ball slipping from his fingers, rolling off into nothing. he bolts, ignoring the captain’s bellow of “gojo, what the hell!”

he’s kneeling by you in a second, pale hands hovering over your ankle, blue eyes wide with something raw, panic maybe. 

“you’re such an idiot,” he mutters, voice shaky, fingers brushing your skin, checking for damage like he’s a doctor now. 

you’re biting your lip, pain throbbing, tears prickling, no way you’re crying in front of him. “i’m fine,” you snap, voice wobbling, shoving his hand off. 

he doesn’t budge, cheeks pink against that pale skin, all flustered and pushy. “shut up, it’s bad. you’re done, gotta get you home.”

“it’s just a twist,” you hiss, but coach is already nodding exasperatedly.

“gojo, you take her,” she says, final, and the squad’s whispering picks up.

“aww, he’s her knight now?” one girl smirks, elbowing her friend, and you want to vanish, sink through the mat and be gone.

he scoops you up, piggyback style, your cheer skirt hiking up awkwardly, his jersey brushing your legs as you cling to his shoulders. your face burns, pure mortification mixing with the throb in your ankle. he’s worse, heart flipping like it’s auditioning for the circus, hyper-aware of your arms around his neck, your breath grazing his ear. 

“stop squirming,” he grumbles, voice cracking. “you’re heavy.”

“you’re weak,” you shoot back, sharper than you feel, gripping tighter as he starts walking, each step jolting your ankle just enough to sting.

the bags are a nightmare. he detours to the lockers, three slots apart in the hall, a parade of shame as kids gawk. 

“is that gojo carrying her?” someone whispers, loud enough to make you wince.

he slings both backpacks over one arm, yours pink and glittery, stuffed with gloss and candy, his a beat-up navy thing with straps fraying like they’re giving up. 

“this is so stupid,” you hiss, cheeks flaming as he grunts under the weight.

“yeah, well, you’re the one who can’t land a flip,” he mutters, but it’s soft, no real venom, his usual bite dulled by the way your hands hold him.

“didn’t ask for your help,” you snap, shifting, and he stumbles a step, catching himself quick.

“too bad, you got it,” he says, voice low, dodging a kid who nearly walks into you both.

the walk’s a blur, kids staring, your ankle swelling, his breath hitching whenever you adjust your grip. he’s panting by the time you hit your street, pale skin flushed red, not just from the effort. he sets you down on the porch like you’re made of glass, careful, too careful, and you hate how it makes your chest feel weird.

your mom’s out in the garden, fussing over a new batch of roses she’s been babying all week, dirt smudged on her cheek, hair tied back loose. she spots you, then satoru, and her eyes narrow like she’s caught a fox in her henhouse. she grabs a shovel leaning against the fence and charges, petals scattering as she storms the gate. 

“what did you do to her?” she shrieks, brandishing it like a sword, voice high enough to wake the neighbors.

satoru stumbles back, hands up. “nothing, i swear!”

your dad’s right behind, jogging out from the garage, grabbing her arm. “honey, relax, he’s just helping.”

“helping?” she snaps, glaring at satoru, shovel still raised. “that gojo boy’s always trouble.”

“mom, stop,” you mutter, wincing as you shift, ankle throbbing under the wrap you don’t have yet.

she huffs, lowering the shovel but not her guard, muttering about “bad influences” as she turns back to her roses.

satoru bolts the second you’re inside, your mom fussing with ice and a scowl, dad chuckling, “he’s a good kid,” until your glare cuts him off.

that night, ankle propped on a pillow, it’s just a minor sprain, but the pain’s sharp, little jabs with every twitch. worse is the memory of his hands, steady and warm, the way he carried you like it meant something.

you scribble “thanks, loser” on a sticky note, tape it to a pack of sour gummies from your stash, and chuck it through your window to his. it thumps his glass, his shadow jumps, peering out, but you duck behind your curtains before he spots you.

next morning, you hobble out, ankle wrapped tight, still sore. he’s waiting by the gate, first time since the sundress fight you’re walking to school together. looks like he lost a war with his bed, white hair sticking up every which way, eyes half-lidded, swapped his jersey for a rumpled tee that hangs loose. 

“you look dead,” you say, sassy as ever, limping along, lips glossed and pursed.

he grunts, “couldn’t sleep,” voice low, barely scraping the air, dodging your gaze like it’s a trap.

you are a trap.

you already take up too much space in his headspace these past few days and last night was the peak catastrophe—he was a wreck, tossing all night, sheets tangled like his thoughts, replaying yesterday like a broken cassette stuck on loop—your arms around his neck, your breath ghosting his ear, that damn cheer uniform—seriously, who thought skirts that short were a good idea?

it’s not the first time he’s been close, not by a long shot—back when you were still the gremlin tackling him into the dirt, all elbows and shrieks, he could shove you off and laugh.

but now? now it’s different, your perfume clinging to him, something sweet and sharp that’s been haunting his senses ever since yesterday.

he’d paced till dawn, heart flipping like a dumb acrobat, cursing how you fit against him, how he could feel every shift, every twitch, and it’s got him all tangled up, flustered and stupid, wondering when you stopped being just the gremlin next door.

“not my fault,” you only retort, unaware of his inner turmoil, uncaring even, flipping your hair, but you catch him staring, quick glances at your wrapped ankle, your pout, the way you shine even mad.

“whatever,” he mumbles, hands deep in his pockets, sulky and quiet. keeps stealing looks, hates how soft he feels, how stuck he is on that note crinkling in his drawer, chest flipping like an idiot.

kids notice as you pass. some basketball guy snickers, “gojo’s whipped.” elbows his buddy.

a cheer girl nudges her friend, “told you they’re a thing.”

“shut up,” you snap, quick and sharp.

satoru just shrugs, says nothing, but his jaw’s tight, and you don’t see how his eyes linger, all soft and stupid, caught up in you. 

you huff, stomping down the hallway, your glossed lips pursed, muttering “stupid face” under your breath, because his sulky silence is louder than his usual smirks, and it’s annoying, prickling your skin like october’s chill creeping in. your backpack swings, heavy with books and candy wrappers, as the lawns glow gold under a fading sun, pumpkin carvings grinning from porches.

halloween’s crept in and the neighborhood hums with halloween’s fever, pumpkin lanterns flickering, kids plotting costume raids. you weave through the crowd, your vampire costume—black cape swishing, plastic fangs pinching your lips—a grade-school relic you dug out for laughs. 

sweat prickles your neck, glitter-dusted makeup smudging under the heat, and you tug at the cape, half-ready to ditch it for a soda. 

kids shriek past, waving glow sticks, their sneakers stomping grass flat, while your dad’s voice booms over the grill, “teamwork makes the dream work!”—his beer clinking with satoru’s dad, both oblivious to the chaos.

then you spot him. satoru, lounging by the lemonade table, his own black cape flapping loose over a ripped tee, white hair glowing under string lights like a smug beacon. his fake fangs glint as he smirks at some kid’s lame joke, all lazy charm, and your stomach lurches—not from the hot dog you scarfed, but from the horrifying truth: you’re matching. completely unplanned.

“you copied me!” you blurt, storming over, cape billowing like a budget dracula as you jab a finger at his chest. he spins, blue eyes wide, then narrows them, smirking wider.

“you’re delusional, i’ve had this cape since grade five,” he fires back, flicking his collar with a flourish. “well, mine came with fangs,” he adds, baring them with a goofy chomp.

“then you can bite me,” you snap, words spilling before your brain catches up. 

an awkward pause slams down, heavy as the humid air. 

satoru’s face flares red, splotchy across his pale cheeks, ears burning like they’re lit from within. you laugh—too loud, too sharp—your fangs slipping loose as you clap a hand over your mouth. 

“gross!” you yelp, bolting through the crowd, your cape snagging on a chair, ripping a stitch as you stumble.

you dodge behind the dessert table, crouching low, glitter-dusted cheeks burning. brownies and cupcakes loom above, their icing melting in the heat, and you swipe a smudge of chocolate off a plate, licking it from your finger. 

he’s still out there, probably muttering “idiot” to his lemonade, but you catch his shadow later, lingering by the fence, white hair catching the light like a taunt.

“nice hiding spot, dracula,” his voice drawls, sudden and close. you jolt, banging your knee on the table’s edge. he’s crouched beside you now, cape pooling around his sneakers, blue eyes glinting with that infuriating smirk. 

“shut up, you’re not even scary,” you snap, shoving his shoulder. 

he flinches, just a twitch, his smirk faltering, and his ears go pink again. “at least i don’t run away like a baby,” he mutters, flicking a crumb off your cape, his fingers brushing your arm, quick and clumsy.

your chest flips, stupid and uninvited. completely asinine.

“whatever, satoru, go bite your fan club,” you say, voice sharp, but your lips twitch as you stand, cape swishing defiantly. he scrambles up, taller now, his shadow swallowing yours, and for a second, neither of you moves, the air thick with something unsaid.

you don’t stop thinking about it all night—his red ears, that pause, the way your fangs felt too tight when you said it. you flop onto your bed, pillow muffling your mutters, “he’s so annoying.”

through your glass window, he’s sprawled across his bed, tossing a rubber ball—thunk-thunk—his cape draped over a chair. he catches your eye, sticks out his tongue, fangs still in, and you flip him off, your smirk slipping free.

freshman year burns bright and messy, a fever dream of sweaty gyms and sticky gloss, your war with satoru twisting into something sharper, heavier, like a song you can’t stop humming. 

his shadow looms longer now, all lanky limbs and smug grins, trailing you through halls, over fences, into dusk. your jabs land softer, your glares catch on his blue eyes too long, and every shove sparks a flutter you shove down deep. the air’s thick with it—something unsaid, fizzing like soda left in the sun, ready to burst. 

your moms’ roses and wind chimes still clash, your dads’ beers still clink, but you and satoru aren’t just neighbors anymore, not just gremlins wrestling in dirt. you’re magnets, pulling close, snapping apart, your fights glowing like fireflies in the dark. 

through your window, his light flickers, a stubborn star that won’t dim, and your heart trips, muttering “not yet” to the truth creeping in—a sparkler waiting for one of you to grab it.

sophomore year kicks in like a radio stuck on repeat, you and satoru falling back into step, that almost-truce from freshman year holding steady. mornings are for watering plants, hoses dripping as you stand across the fence, your quips sharp but not quite venomous anymore.

you still walk to school together, home too, bickering over who hit snooze too long, his long legs striding ahead while you dodge pebbles he kicks your way.

your backpack swings, glittery keychains clinking, all soft pinks and bows—a girly shift that started as petty revenge for his “weird” jab, now just you, pure 2015 sweet. satoru’s still tangled in that dumb crush, your new vibe nothing like the gremlin he used to tackle into the grass, but he’s not owning it, not even close.

he’s satoru gojo, though, and if you’re messing with his head, he’s gonna mess with yours right back. decides to charm you, flip the script, make you squirm for once. starts in the halls, leaning against lockers like he’s the star of some teen flick, all smirks and easy swagger.

“morning, princess,” he drawls, holding a door open with a bow so dramatic it’s practically a performance.

you freeze, eyes narrowing as kids snicker behind you. “what is wrong with you?”

“just being gentlemanly,” he says, grin splitting wide, all teeth and no shame.

“you look like a budget romcom extra,” you snap, shoving past, your skirt swishing, lips glossed and pursed. your mom’s sassy smile curls on your face, but your stomach flips, traitorously, and you hate it.

he doesn’t stop. next day, it’s during gym practice, both of you sweaty from cheerleading and basketball, when he jogs over to the bleachers, to where you sat, holding out his water bottle—cold, half-empty, gross.

“thirsty?” he asks, tilting his head like it’s a grand gesture.

“that’s literally backwash,” you say, wrinkling your nose, swatting it away. “keep your germs.”

“sharing’s caring,” he shoots back, taking a swig, eyes locked on you, daring you to react.

you huff, storming off to where your teammates are, but your cheeks burn, and it’s not from the heat. he’s relentless, finding new ways to push your buttons, like during a fire drill when he grabs your hand, tugging you through the crowd.

“gotta keep you safe,” he says, all mock-serious, fingers warm against yours.

“i’m not a toddler,” you yank your hand free, glaring, but kids are staring, whispering, and your pulse skips, annoying and loud in your ears.

“suit yourself,” he shrugs, hands in his pockets, but his grin’s too soft and smug at the same time, like he’s won something anyway.

it escalates one lunch period, outside under the courtyard trees, you eating a sandwich, him sprawled on the grass nearby. he sits up, slides closer, and before you can bolt, slings an arm around you—a fake backhug, all show, his chin hovering near your shoulder.

“comfy, princess?” he teases, voice low, breath brushing your ear.

you freeze, heart tripping over itself, and—oh no, you blush, actually blush, heat crawling up your neck like a betrayal. “get off,” you mumble, shoving him away, voice weak, barely a snap.

he pulls back, eyes wide, like he’s just been slapped with something he didn’t expect. “uh, yeah, chill,” he mutters, scrambling up, dusting his jeans.

you’re on your feet, grabbing your bag, muttering “creep” under your breath, but it’s half-hearted, and you don’t look back, missing how he stares after you, face pink, brain short-circuiting.

he avoids you the rest of the day, dodging halls, skipping your usual walk home, muttering “gross, gross, gross” to himself in the bathroom mirror, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape. he felt something, something real, and it’s freaking him out, like you’re a virus he can’t shake.

next morning, he’s back by the plants, hose in hand, but quieter, eyes flicking to you as you water your side, skirt swaying, gloss catching the sun. you smirk, sassy as ever, tossing a quip his way.

“you done being weird yet?” you say, not even looking up, voice all playful bite.

he blinks, caught off guard, then recovers, forcing a grin. “me? never,” he says, but it’s shaky, and he turns away fast, spraying the roses too hard, like they’re to blame for his dumb, flipping chest.

he, in all his stupidity, manages to flip the table that night.

it’s late, the kind of late where the world feels soft and blurry, your room glowing dim from a single lamp as you’re half-dozing, sprawled across your bed with a textbook you’re not reading.

your eyes drift to the glass window, the one that’s betrayed you a million times, showing satoru’s room across the way—curtains half-open, always too inviting.

he’s there, shirtless, because of course he is, strumming a beat-up guitar to some playlist that’s probably all ego and bass, white hair a wild mess as he sways, pale skin catching the desk lamp’s light like he’s auditioning for a spotlight.

you freeze, brain lagging, because—wow, okay, that’s a lot. his shoulders roll with each chord, lean muscle shifting under skin, and he’s so annoyingly into it, head tilted, eyes half-closed like he’s a rockstar in his own dumb world.

your heart does a stupid little hiccup, and you hate it, hate how he looks like that, all careless and confident, like he knows he’s the shit. then he glances up, catches you staring, and his lips twitch into that smug, stupid wink—blue eyes glinting, all “gotcha.”

you yelp, loud and mortified, lunging for your curtains like they’re your lifeline. slam them shut so fast the rod rattles, your face scorching, hot enough to fry an egg, as his laugh seeps through the panes—faint, taunting, curling into your skull like smoke you can’t shake. 

“real smooth,” you mutter to yourself, pressing your hands to your cheeks, pacing a tight circle, because why did you look? why does he have to be like that?

across the way, satoru’s grinning, guitar forgotten in his lap, the echo of your yelp still ringing in his head.

he’s embarrassed—okay, maybe a little, cheeks pink because he didn’t expect you to catch him mid-jam, shirtless and all—but it’s a chance, oh yeah, a golden one. he leans back, smirking to himself, because he knows what he’s working with—those hours shooting hoops, the way his shirts fit just right, the mirror telling him he’s got it. 

“caught her staring,” he says under his breath, strumming a lazy chord, all proud and puffed up. “bet she’s freaking out.”

he’s half-right, half-wrong, because you’re not just freaking—you’re furious, at him, at yourself, at that dumb window for existing.

you flop onto your bed, yanking a pillow over your face, willing your pulse to chill, but it’s no use—his laugh’s stuck, looping like a song you didn’t ask for, and you know he’s over there, probably flexing for no one, loving every second of this.

next morning, you’re watering plants, hose in hand, skirt swishing, gloss shining, determined to act like nothing happened. he’s across the fence, smirking wider than usual, tossing a pebble your way just to see you jump.

“sleep well, princess?” he calls, voice all honey and mischief, leaning on his hose like it’s a prop.

you don’t look up, spraying the tulips a little too hard. “like a rock,” you say, sassy, clipped, but your cheeks betray you, warming fast.

“good, good,” he says, dragging it out, eyes glinting as he waters his side, casual but watching. “thought you saw a ghost or something last night.”

“only thing haunting me is your bad taste in music,” you fire back, turning away, but your smile’s creeping, that sassy one you got from your mom, and he sees it, feels it, heart doing that dumb flip again.

he’s embarrassed still, sure, but proud too—knows he looked good, knows you noticed, and he’s already plotting how to lean into it, charm you till you crack, because if he’s going down, he’s taking you with him.

the war not only escalates between you two.

the moms’ war also explodes into chaos when the neighborhood announces a lawn contest, some shiny plaque for the best yard, and it’s like someone lit a fuse under both houses.

your mom’s out there at dawn, planting rare orchids, delicate purple blooms she babies like they’re her second child, muttering about “elegance” and “taste.”

across the fence, satoru’s mom strikes back, sculpting a hedge into—swear to god—a peacock, all sharp angles and green flair, strutting in the sunlight like it’s mocking your mom’s flowers. you catch them at the mailbox one morning, trading compliments that sound like knives wrapped in silk.

“those orchids are so… bold,” satoru’s mom says, lips tight, eyes flicking to her peacock with pride.

your mom smiles, all teeth, clutching her coffee mug. “and your hedge, my goodness, such a statement.”

“it’s art,” satoru’s mom replies, chin high, like she’s won already.

“of course,” your mom says, voice syrupy, “very… creative.”

you’re stuck watching from the porch, sipping orange juice, rolling your eyes as their words drip venom. your dads, useless as ever, are in the backyard, clinking beer bottles, laughing loud enough to drown it out.

“they’ll bury us all,” your dad chuckles, elbowing satoru’s dad, who nods, “yep, six feet under with perfect lawns.”

you and satoru get dragged into the mess, sentenced to pruning duty on a saturday when you’d rather be anywhere else. it’s hot, sun beating down, your shorts sticking to your thighs, gloss smudging as you wipe your brow, clippers heavy in your hand.

satoru’s next to you, in a loose tee, white hair glinting, snipping at the peacock’s tail like it’s personally offended him. you’re both knee-deep in bushes, leaves littering the grass, and it’s quieter than usual, your sass softer, almost playful, like the fight’s gone out of you.

he flicks a leaf at you, watches it flutter into your lap. “missed a spot, princess,” he says, smirking, leaning closer than he needs to.

you glance up, smirking back, that sassy curl you stole from your mom. “stop being a child.”

“you’re one to talk,” he huffs, clipping a branch with a little too much force, but his grin’s not as sharp, more warm than wicked.

“at least i don’t attack bushes like they owe me money,” you say, tossing a leaf back, watching it stick to his sleeve.

he snorts, shaking it off. “this thing’s ugly anyway. who makes a peacock?”

“your mom,” you quip, quick, and he laughs—real, loud, head tipping back, blue eyes catching the sun.

you pause, clippers still, caught by that sound, and he catches you looking, grin softening. “what, impressed?” he teases, but it’s gentle, testing.

“by you? never,” you say, turning back to the bush, but your smile lingers, and you clip slower, side by side, shoulders close.

he’s quieter now, snipping away, stealing glances—your hands, quick and careful, your skirt dusted with dirt, the way you hum under your breath like you don’t know he hears it.

his chest does that dumb flip, same as always, because for the umpteenth time, he is reminded that you’re not the gremlin he used to shove anymore, and it’s messing him up, bad.

he flicks another leaf, lighter this time, just to see you roll your eyes again.

“you’re hopeless,” you mutter, but it’s almost fond, and you don’t move away, both lingering a second too long before you turn back to the orchids, pretending you didn’t notice.

across the yard, your dads watch, beers half-empty, grinning like they’ve cracked some code. “kids, huh?” satoru’s dad says, and yours just laughs, “give ‘em time.”

the moms don’t look up, too busy plotting their next move, but you and satoru stay there, clipping in sync, the air warm and easy, like maybe this war’s not so bad.

except the war worsens the next day, because you and satoru are suddenly thrown into the roles of romeo and juliet, and it’s like the universe decided to crank the chaos to eleven.

the school play’s a straight-up disaster waiting to happen, some taylor swift love story-fueled romeo and juliet, not shakespeare’s dusty tragedy but a pop-soaked fever dream with star-crossed lovers and a beat you can’t escape.

the drama teacher, ms. hayes, is a shipper with a vendetta, grinning like she’s cracked the code to your souls when she casts you and satoru as the leads. 

“perfect chemistry,” she says, clapping her hands, and you’re horrified, gut sinking, expecting your moms to storm the school and shut it down.

they don’t.

you trudge home, bracing for their meltdown, but your mom’s pruning her orchids with a gleam in her eye, already planning your costume like it’s her oscar moment. “you’ll outshine that peacock,” she says, snipping a stem.

across the fence, satoru’s mom is sketching stage designs, muttering about “upstaging amateurs.” 

it’s not a play—it’s their latest contest, their kids stealing the spotlight, and they’re thrilled, shoving you both into the fire.

rehearsals are pure chaos, a mess of tangled props and tempers, glittery fake daggers and fairy lights flickering like they’re on their last breath. 

you’re juliet, stuck in a floaty dress with lace sleeves, all soft pinks and glowy vibes that make you feel like a cupcake, but it fits, catches the stage lights just right, swishing as you move.

it’s annoying how it makes you feel—pretty, too pretty, and you shove that thought down, glossed lips pursed, because no way you’re admitting it.

satoru’s romeo, strutting in a flowy shirt unbuttoned too far, fitted vest hugging his frame, looking so stupidly good you want to kick him for it—pale strands glowing, blue eyes glinting like he’s the star of this taylor swift fever dream. 

he’s cocky, tossing fake roses like he’s born for this, all swagger and charm, but his brain’s a mess, heart tripping over you in that dress, lace catching the light like it’s mocking him. 

he’s satoru gojo, supposed to be untouchable, but you’re untouchable too, and it’s screwing him up, bad.

costume check’s a disaster. you step onto the stage, skirt swishing, and he trips over a prop sword, crashes into a cardboard balcony, face going red as his hair flops forward. 

“you look… fine,” he mumbles, scrambling up, rubbing his neck like it’s the floor’s fault, but his eyes are stuck, tracing the pink lace, your glossed smirk, and he’s drowning, chest tight, cursing how you’re not the gremlin anymore.

you roll your eyes, hands on hips. “focus, idiot.” your stomach flips, just a flicker, because his stare’s too heavy, like he’s got any right to notice you.

you shove it down with a sassy curl of your lips borrowed from your mom, but your cheeks warm, traitorously, and you hate it.

“i’m focused,” he snaps, but his eyes dart away, cheeks pink, voice cracking like he’s back in middle school. 

he’s not focused—can’t be, not when you’re glowing like that, and he’s kicking himself for saying “fine” when he meant something else, something he can’t say.

next day, you’re running lines, and he’s butchering every one, drawling “marry me, juliet” like it’s a joke, smirking until you step on his foot under the table, hard. 

“you’re embarrassing yourself,” you say, flipping a page, smirking back, that mom-borrowed charm sharp as ever. but your heart skips, just a beat, his grin too close, too warm, and you don’t like how it lingers, how it pulls at something you won’t name.

“nah, i’m saving this play,” he says, leaning closer, propping his chin on his hand like he’s posing for a romcom poster. 

he’s not saving anything—brain’s a loop of your smirk, your dress, the way you smell like gloss and candy, and he’s losing, bad, heart flipping like it’s auditioning for the circus.

“by forgetting your lines?” you shoot back, shoving his script at him, and he laughs, loud, like you’re the punchline, but it’s shaky, because you’re too much, too you, and he’s barely holding it together.

blocking’s worse. he’s supposed to lift you for some dumb dance bit, but his hands hover, shaky, barely grazing your waist, like he’s scared to touch you. 

“what, scared you’ll drop me?” you taunt, arms crossed, skirt brushing his knees, voice sharp but your chest’s tight, his fingers too warm, too close, and you don’t know why it’s messing you up.

“please, you’re not that heavy,” he mutters, blushing again, lifting you too fast, nearly toppling you both into the curtains. he’s blushing because you’re in his arms, lace and sass and all, and his brain’s short-circuiting, hands burning where they hold you, heart screaming to keep you there. 

he sets you down quick, too quick, muttering, “smooth, right?” but it’s not smooth, not even close.

“smooth, romeo,” you say, steadying yourself, smirking to cover the weird tug in your gut, because his grip lingered, just a second, and it’s stupid, how it makes you flush. 

he glares, but his hands shake, stuffing them in his pockets, and he’s gone before you can call him out.

hayes is a menace, keeping you late after everyone’s gone, stage lights dim, just you and satoru on a creaky set, fake stars twinkling like they’re laughing at you. 

“balcony scene, now,” she barks, glasses slipping, script flapping like a weapon. “make it real.” 

you’re stuck, dress swishing as you lean over the prop railing, gloss catching the glow, feeling like a cupcake in a warzone. satoru’s below, climbing the rickety ladder, butchering “juliet, my love,” voice cracking like he’s twelve.

“you’re hopeless, romeo,” you snort, smirking down, but your heart’s doing something weird, his blue eyes too bright, too close, pulling you in like a tide you can’t fight. you grip the railing, knuckles tight, muttering, “get it together,” to yourself, because why’s he looking at you like that?

he glares, one rung up, closer now, vest open, shirt clinging from sweat. “least i’m trying, princess,” he snaps, but his brain’s a mess—your dress, your smirk, the way you’re leaning like you own the stage, own him, and he’s drowning, heart hammering, wanting to climb faster, stay there, say something real. 

“you gonna help or just sass me?” he adds, voice shaky, and he’s mad at himself, because it’s not the script, it’s you, and he’s screwed.

“try harder,” you say, sassy but soft, leaning further, lace sleeves brushing the railing, and you don’t see how it twists him up, how his hands shake on the ladder, blue eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing real. 

you turn away, huffing, because his stare’s too much, and you don’t like how it makes your chest flip, like maybe you’re not just playing juliet.

he pauses, halfway up, muttering, “not fair,” to himself, because you’re glowing, untouchable, and he’s just satoru, tripping over props and feelings he can’t name. 

hayes claps, “better, keep going!” but he’s barely hearing, stuck on you, climbing down fast, kicking a prop rose to hide the pink in his cheeks.

another day, you’re rehearsing the dance bit again, but ms. hayes has the cheer squad and basketball boys perched in the seats, giggling like they’re at a romcom premiere.

“chemistry check,” she calls, smirking like she’s shipping you harder than tumblr. you’re mid-stage, skirt swishing, trying to focus, but satoru’s supposed to dip you, and he’s already a mess, vest half-buttoned, white hair flopping as he steps close.

“don’t screw this up,” you mutter, arms out, glossed lips pursed, but your stomach’s flipping, his hands hovering too close, and you don’t know why it’s hitting you like this, like maybe it’s not just the script. 

he grabs your waist, too tight, and dips you—except his foot catches a glittery dagger prop, and you crash into his chest, noses brushing, skirt tangling.

“nice catch, idiot,” you hiss, shoving off, cheeks burning, because his face was too close, eyes too blue, and your heart’s racing, stupidly, like he’s got any right to do this to you.

you smooth your dress, glaring at the crowd, where a cheer girl whispers, “they’re so married,” loud enough to make you flinch.

satoru’s worse, heart slamming, brain a loop of your breath on his face, your lace against his hands, and he’s cursing that dagger, cursing you, because you’re too much, too close, and he’s falling apart. “you’re heavy,” he mutters, voice cracking, trying to play it cool, but his ears are pink.

his teammates snicker, one yelling, “gojo’s whipped!” he spins, pointing, “shut it!” but he’s blushing harder, hands shaky as he steps back, muttering, “your fault,” like you planned this.

“my fault?” you snap, hands on hips, but you’re smiling, just a bit, because his fluster’s kind of funny, kind of warm, and you don’t want to think about why it makes your chest glow. 

you turn away, tossing your hair, ignoring the crowd’s giggles, but your fingers linger on your skirt, where his hands were, and it’s dumb, it’s nothing, but it’s stuck.

rehearsals drag, and you’re a mess—bickering over cues, shoving him when he steps on your hem, him “accidentally” dropping a fake dagger in your lap during a break.

“oops,” he says, grinning, sprawled in a chair, all fake innocence, but his eyes are locked on you, waiting for your fire, because that’s what he’s chasing, even if it burns him.

“grow up,” you snap, tossing it back, clipping his shoulder, and he flinches, dramatic, like you’ve stabbed him. 

“you’re violent, juliet,” he calls, rubbing it, but his grin’s soft, heart flipping, utterly hopeless, stuck on every glare, every laugh, every second you’re close.

one afternoon, he’s late, jogging in with his vest half-buttoned, and you’re mid-scene, pacing the stage. 

he slides in beside you, whispering “hey, juliet” right as you’re supposed to speak, voice all honey and tease, and his arm brushes yours, sparking something dumb, something warm. 

“you’re not funny,” you hiss, glaring, but your line stumbles, just a beat, because he’s too close, and your heart’s tripping, like maybe it’s not just the play.

“got ya,” he says under his breath, turning away, but his hands are shaking, stuffing them in his pockets fast, because you’re unraveling him, one sassy grin at a time, and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep this up.

this game, this war, when all he wants is you.

somehow, despite his blunders, you’re starting to smile more, sassy but warm and you don’t see how it twists him up, how he’s tripping over props more, voice catching when you laugh.

one day, you’re running the balcony scene, and he’s supposed to climb that rickety ladder again. he pauses, halfway up, staring at you leaning over the prop railing, dress catching the light, all pink and glowy, like you’re not real.

“you’re not gonna actually kiss me, right?” he blurts, voice high, eyes wide, gripping the ladder like it’s his lifeline, because the thought’s killing him, the idea of your lips, your breath, and he’s not ready, not even close.

he’s terrified, heart slamming, brain screaming to run, because one kiss, even fake, might break him.

you scoff, leaning further, smirking. “i’d rather choke.” but your chest’s tight, his eyes pulling you in, blue and raw, and you grip the railing harder, muttering, “just climb, idiot,” to drown it out, because why’s he looking at you like that, like you’re more than juliet, more than his enemy?

“good,” he says, too quick, climbing down, face burning, kicking a prop to cover it, but his brain’s stuck, looping your smirk, your dress, the way you said it, like maybe you meant it, maybe you didn’t, and he’s drowning, again, in you.

“scared, satoru?” you call after him, hopping off the stage.

he spins with an indignant huff, pointing, all flustered. “you wish,” he says, but it’s weak, and he’s gone before you can laugh, heart racing like it’s trying to escape. you’re winning, and he’s not sure he minds.

hayes cuts in, exasperated, clapping her script. “no kissing in rehearsals, save it for the show.” 

you both nod, relieved, but there’s a weird tug in your chest, like you’re not sure you mean it, like maybe his fluster’s getting to you, just a bit. 

you catch him staring, quick, before he looks away, and you turn, tossing your hair, pretending it’s nothing, but your fingers brush your lips, once, and you wonder, stupidly, what it’d be like.

he keeps up the charm between takes—tossing “juliet” like it’s your name, winking when you glare—but he’s a mess when you’re close, hands jittery, voice softer, and you’re smiling too much, not catching how he’s falling apart, one sassy grin at a time, heart flipping like it’s begging for mercy, stuck on you, the one who’s still his princess, still tearing him up without trying.

the date of the school play arrives too fast, a glittery trainwreck barreling down with no brakes. 

the auditorium’s stuffed with students and faculty—no parents, thank god—just a sea of giggling classmates and teachers whispering bets, half of them shipping you and satoru like it’s their life’s work, phones and digital cameras already out, ready to meme this disaster. 

stage lights burn hot, your lace juliet dress itches like crazy, all soft pinks and glowy vibes, but you’re killing it, nailing every line, voice steady even when some jerk snickers at “we were both young when i first saw you.” 

your heart’s steady too, mostly, though it twitches, traitorously, remembering yesterday’s final rehearsal—ms. hayes yelling, “closer, you two!” as satoru’s hands grazed your waist, his breath hitching, blue eyes too close, too raw.

you’d snapped, “back off, romeo,” but your cheeks burned, and you hated how it stuck, how he stuck.

satoru’s romeo, strutting in his flowy shirt, vest snug, all cocky charm and white hair glowing like he’s the star of this taylor swift-soaked fever dream. 

he’s holding his own—mostly—tossing lines with that smug grin, but his brain’s a mess, heart slamming because you’re there, center stage, lace catching the fairy lights, and he’s drowning, again, in you, in the way you move, the way you glare, like he’s nothing and everything. 

it’s killing him, especially after that rehearsal, your snap still ringing in his ears, your warmth still burning his hands.

you’re center stage, fake garden set dripping with fairy lights, glittery vines sparkling like they’re mocking you, pouring your soul into juliet’s lines, skirt swishing as you spin to face him, heart steady despite the crowd’s eyes, their whispers buzzing like flies. 

he’s got one job—“marry me, juliet,” smooth and sure—but satoru, being satoru, fumbles it, voice cracking like he’s twelve again. “marry me, ju—uh,” he stammers, coughing, pale face going pink as his hair flops forward, “juliet.”

the crowd erupts, laughs rippling through the seats, a cheer girl shouting, “gojo, you’re so dead!” and you shoot him a glare, sharp enough to cut glass, because he’s tanking this, tanking you, and your blood’s boiling, but there’s a flicker in your chest, something soft, because his fluster’s almost cute, almost yours. 

you hold your pose, hands clasped, praying he pulls it together, muttering, “don’t ruin me,” to yourself, because this is your moment too, and he’s got no right to steal it.

“i’m trying,” he mutters, straightening, vest pulling tight as he shifts, but he’s flustered, way past what the lights can excuse, blue eyes darting, sweat beading on his forehead. 

he’s trying, but you’re too much—your dress, your fire, the way you’re glaring like he’s the only one here, and his brain’s short-circuiting, heart screaming to run, because the kiss scene’s next, and he’s not ready, not for you, not for this.

the crowd’s buzzing louder now, basketball boys chanting, “kiss her, gojo!” while the drama kids hiss, “stay in character!” 

hayes is in the wings, glasses fogging, script clutched like a lifeline, whispering, “magic, make it magic!” 

you step closer, script pulling you in, skirt brushing his legs, and the air’s thick, heavy with their cheers, their bets, their eyes. you’re juliet, you’re you, and you’re furious, but your heart’s tripping, his panic sparking something in you, something you don’t want to name, because why’s he looking at you like that, like you’re the only thing real?

satoru’s worse, brain a loop of yesterday’s rehearsal—your breath, your snap, the way you felt in his hands—and now the crowd’s yelling, and he’s supposed to kiss you, supposed to make it magic, but he’s satoru, and he’s screwed, heart hammering like it’s trying to bolt. 

“don’t hate me,” he thinks, desperate, because you’re close, too close, and he’s falling apart, one glare at a time.

the kiss scene’s up, the big moment ms. hayes swore you’d “make magic” with, where you lean in and he’s supposed to meet you halfway. 

you tilt your head, slow, lace sleeves catching the light, and your lips part, just a breath, but satoru panics—full-on, cartoon-level panic—jerks his head so fast you wobble, nearly tripping into the fake roses, your heel snagging on a glittery vine prop. 

“uh, love you,” he blurts, miles off script, voice high and wobbly, hands waving like he’s dodging a punch.

the crowd gasps, some kid in the back shouting, “yo, what?!” and you freeze, horrified, blood boiling because he’s wrecking it, wrecking you, and every stare’s burning holes, but your chest twists, his “love you” echoing, stupidly, like it means something. 

“you’re ruining this,” you hiss, louder now, ignoring a teacher’s frantic shush from the wings, shoving past him, skirt flaring as you try to save the scene, muttering, “idiot,” but your hands shake, and you don’t know why it stings.

he stumbles after, tripping over a prop bush, muttering, “not my fault you’re intense,” half to you, half to the air, as the laughs grow, phones flashing from the seats. 

he’s a mess, brain stuck on your lips, your glare, the way you moved closer, and he’s cursing himself, because he swerved, but part of him—stupid, reckless part—wants to try again, wants you, and it’s tearing him up.

you’re mid-stage, trying to salvage juliet’s next line, voice sharp but wobbly, when satoru grabs your wrist, spinning you back, off-script but desperate, blue eyes wide, vest gleaming under the lights. 

“juliet, wait,” he says, loud, improvised, like he’s romeo for real, and the crowd quiets, leaning in. “i… love thee,” he chokes out, script-adjacent, voice cracking, and his hand’s shaking, holding yours too tight, because he’s not acting, not anymore, and he’s terrified you’ll see it, see him.

you blink, caught, heart slamming because his grip’s warm, his eyes raw, and for a second, you’re not juliet, you’re you, and something’s shifting, something heavy, but you rip your hand free, sassy curl snapping back. 

“then prove it, fool,” you snap, loud, ad-libbing to save it, and the crowd roars, clapping like you’ve won, but your pulse is racing, his “love thee” stuck in your head, and you hate how it makes you flush, how it lingers. 

you spin away, skirt swishing, muttering, “don’t do that again,” but your fingers brush where he held you, and it’s dumb, it’s nothing, but it’s not.

satoru’s frozen, heart pounding, brain a loop of your voice, your hand in his, the way you said “fool” like it was just for him. he’s relieved—crowd’s cheering, scene’s saved—but there’s a sting, sharp, because you pulled away, and he’s left wondering, again, what if he’d just gone for it, what if he’d kissed you, what if you’d let him. 

he slumps, muttering, “nice save,” but it’s weak, and he’s drowning, stuck on you, the one who’s still winning without trying.

hayes storms up, script flapping like a weapon. “no kiss, we’re done,” she snaps, glasses slipping, voice sharp enough to slice. “we’ll rewrite the damn ending.” 

you’re offstage in seconds, stomping to the wings, yanking the flower crown off, lace sleeves tangling as you pace, muttering, “amateur,” loud enough for the crew to hear. 

“intense? me?” you say to yourself, fuming, glossed lips pursed, because he’s got some nerve pinning this on you, but your wrist’s still warm, his “love thee” echoing, and you shove it down, because no way, not him, not like that.

satoru’s right behind, tugging at his vest like it’s strangling him, face still red, trying to act cool but failing miserably. “you were glaring,” he says, slumping against a prop wall, voice shaky, avoiding your eyes, because he can’t look at you, not after that, not when he’s still tasting the almost-kiss, the almost-you, and it’s killing him. 

there’s relief, yeah, because kissing you would’ve shorted his brain, fried every nerve, but there’s a sting, sharper, like he’s missed a shot he didn’t know he wanted, and he’s left wondering, again, what if he hadn’t swerved—what if he’d just gone for it.

the play’s a wreck, sure, but you’re not about to admit that to your parents, so you lie through your teeth, swearing it went great, all sparkles and applause. 

they buy it, hook, line, and sinker.

by saturday, your backyard’s a full-blown party, strung with fairy lights twinkling like they’re laughing at you, buzzing with their victory vibes over your “success.” no parents at the show means they’ve got no clue it was a disaster, and you’re definitely not spilling, not when your mom’s clinking wine glasses with satoru’s mom, plotting orchids versus peacock hedge, round fifty. 

the dads are worse, sneaking you and satoru sips of their beers—your first, bitter and fizzy, bubbling on your tongue like a dare, sharp and wrong but thrilling.

you take one sip, then another, giggling too loud as the backyard spins, head fuzzy, world soft at the edges, fairy lights blurring into stars. 

satoru’s nursing his own beer, trying to play it cool, but his cheeks are pink, eyes glassy—he’s tipsy, looser than usual, laughing at your dad’s dumb jokes, white hair flopping, shirt untucked. 

the heat’s sticky, your skirt’s clinging to your thighs, gloss smudged from sipping, and you’re bold, reckless, the night daring you to do something stupid, something you can’t take back.

satoru tries to slip away, heading for his gate, mumbling about “homework” nobody buys, voice thick, swaying just a bit. 

you’re not having it, stumbling after him, beer sloshing in your hand, giggles turning sharp, fierce. “not so fast,” you slur, grabbing his wrist, fingers tight, tugging him toward the side of the garage, shadows hiding you from the party’s glow, the air heavy with heat and secrets.

he stumbles, caught off guard, blue eyes wide under the dim streetlight. “whoa, what’s your deal?” he says, voice thick, trying to laugh it off, but he’s swaying, just as gone as you, heart slamming because you’re close, too close.

you step closer, glaring up, breath mixing with his, all beer and heat, your skirt brushing his jeans. “we could’ve nailed it,” you say, voice low, taunting, slipping into juliet’s lines, “you and me, romeo, we could’ve had them all fooled.” your heart’s racing, fuzzy, and you don’t know why you’re so mad, why his fluster makes you want to push harder, make him crack.

he blinks, frozen, lips parting, no comeback, and you smirk, leaning in, kissing him—quick, clumsy, a challenge, your lips missing half his mouth, teeth clacking awkwardly, beer taste sharp and sour. 

“see? i’m better,” you say, pulling back, smirking wider, thinking you’ve won, but your cheeks burn, his breath still on you, and something’s off, something’s warm, and you hate it, hate how it’s not just a game.

satoru’s stunned, eyes locked on you, breath hitching, brain a mess of freshman year—you in that pink top, glittery keychains, sundress swishing, the way you flipped his world with a toss of your hair, and he’s been holding it in, choking on it, every smirk, every glare, every “princess” he threw to hide it. 

the dam breaks, all that longing, that crush he won’t name, exploding in his chest, and he’s done pretending, done running.

he grabs you, hands on your waist, shaky and too eager, pulling you back, and tries to kiss you—misses, lips hitting your chin, nose bumping yours, a sloppy, nervous mess, his breath hitching like he’s drowning. 

“shit,” he mutters, blushing hard, but he tries again, lips finding yours this time, deep, messy, no finesse, just hunger, all the longing from freshman year pouring out, beer and heat and something sweeter, his tongue fumbling past your teeth, too fast, too clumsy. 

he’s got fan girls, sure, but he’s never done this, not like this, not with you, and his heart’s screaming, finally, finally, as he presses closer, chest to chest, your skirt bunching under his grip, fingers digging into your hips like you’ll vanish.

you gasp, startled, hands grabbing his shirt, pulling him tighter, but it’s awkward, your lips out of sync, teeth grazing, and you’re just as lost, just as new at this, head spinning from beer and him, his warmth flooding you. 

your back hits the garage wall, soft thud, and you’re kissing back, messy, eager, hands fisting his shirt, because he’s satoru, and you’re mad, but you want this, maybe, and it’s scary, thrilling, wrong. 

your legs shake, his knee nudges between yours, clumsy, and it’s too much, too fast, lips swollen, breaths ragged, like you’re both drowning in each other, no clue what you’re doing.

satoru’s brain’s a loop, flashing to freshman year—your sundress, yellow and bright, lemonade stand, the way you tossed your hair, smirked, threw that lemon at him, and he caught it, heart flipping, knowing he was screwed. 

every day since, every quip, every glare, every time you walked by with that gloss, those bows, he’s been building this, wanting this, and now you’re here, lips on his, and it’s real, messy, perfect, and he groans, low and rough, like he’s been starving, because he has, for you, for this.

“you drive me crazy,” he mumbles against your mouth, voice hoarse, barely pulling back, forehead pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, dark, and he means it—every second since that pink top, since you became this you, not just any gremlin, but his princess, his juliet, his everything, and he’s breaking, all that longing spilling out, no holding back. 

your heart hammers, his words hitting deep, and you’re rattled, smirking but shaky, hands still fisted in his shirt, because he’s too much, too close, and you don’t know why it feels like you’re falling.

he kisses you again, slower but still clumsy, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, fumbling, missing the mark, lips sliding half off yours, but it’s softer, like he’s trying to say something, something he’s held since freshman year, when you flipped his world and didn’t even know it. 

you kiss back, hesitant, lips trembling, because you’re new at this too, and it’s satoru, and it’s scary, but your hands stay on his shirt, pulling, and you’re lost in it, in him, beer and heat and his stupid hair tickling your face, until a voice slices through—his mom, sharp and searching.

“satoru, where are you?” she calls, footsteps crunching near the gate, and you both jump apart, breathless, lips tingling, staring like you’ve been caught stealing, gloss smeared, his hair a mess. 

“shit,” he mutters, stepping back, running a hand through his hair, eyes darting between you and the yard, still dazed, heart still racing from you, from everything he’s wanted since that sundress, that laugh, that you.

“go,” you say, shoving him lightly, voice wobbly but sharp, wiping your gloss-smeared lips with the back of your hand, but your smirk’s there, shaky, because you kissed him first—you won, right? 

you slump against the wall, heart racing, skirt twisted, trying to catch your breath, but his taste lingers—beer, him, that longing—and it’s messing you up, more than you’ll ever admit, a flicker in your chest saying maybe you didn’t win, maybe you’re caught too.

tomorrow morning hits like a truck, your head pounding like someone’s hammering nails into your skull, last night’s beer a fuzzy blur you can’t piece together.

you’re out by the plants, hose in hand, skirt swishing, gloss barely smeared from sleep, sassing like it’s your job, because whatever happened at that party didn’t stick—just a haze of fairy lights and giggles, nothing solid.

satoru’s across the fence, watering his mom’s peacock hedge, looking like he got dragged through a nightmare, white hair a mess, eyes half-dead, pale skin blotchy like he’s been up all night fighting demons. he probably has, because you—yeah, you—kept him awake again, and he’s a wreck, replaying that kiss in his head like a movie he can’t pause.

you don’t notice, too busy spraying the orchids, humming some pop song stuck in your brain. you glance over, catch him staring, and smirk, because he looks pathetic, and that’s your cue.

“you look worse than usual,” you say, voice all bite and tease, flicking water his way just to see him flinch.

he blinks, wide-eyed, like you’ve slapped him awake, hand drifting to his lips, touching them like they’re evidence. “yeah, uh, rough night,” he mutters, voice low, cracking a little, eyes darting away fast.

“shocker,” you say, turning back to the plants, tossing your hair, oblivious to the storm in his head—your dress last night, bunched under his hands, your laugh, sharp and warm, that kiss, quick then deep, messy and real, burning him up.

he grips the hose tighter, spraying too hard, water splashing his sneakers. “you sleep okay?” he asks, testing, voice shaky, hoping you’ll give him something—anything.

“like a rock,” you say, shrugging, not even looking, clipping a dead leaf with a flick. “why, you jealous?”

he chokes on a laugh, half-relieved, half-miserable, because you don’t remember—nothing, not the way you grabbed him, not your juliet lines, not how you kissed him first, smirking, “i’m better.” his chest twists, because he’s still tasting you, beer and gloss and that spark he can’t shake, while you’re here, sassing away, still his enemy, still his princess, flipping his world upside down without a clue.

“nah, i’m good,” he lies, forcing a grin, but it’s weak, and he turns to the hedge, muttering, “real good,” to himself, like saying it’ll make it true.

you snort, catching it, and toss another quip. “keep telling yourself that, romeo,” you say, voice light, teasing, already walking off, leaving him drowning in the memory of your lips, your dress, your laugh—everything he’s losing sleep over, while you slept sound, forgot it all, and left him to pick up the pieces.

he stares at the peacock, hose dripping uselessly, and kicks a stray pebble, hard, because you’re oblivious, and he’s a mess, heart flipping like it’s begging for mercy, stuck on you, the one who’s still—somehow—winning without even trying.

days drag on after the party, and satoru’s stuck in a loop, replaying that garage kiss like a song he can’t skip—your smirk, your beer-slurred juliet lines, the way you pulled him back, all heat and chaos. you’re clueless, strutting through mornings with your hose and your gloss, sassing him over the plants like the world didn’t shift.

he’s different, though, quieter in flashes, blue eyes catching on you when he thinks you’re not looking, heart doing that dumb flip he hates. he tries to hint at it, because he’s satoru gojo, and he’s not built to lose, but you’re a brick wall, oblivious, and it’s killing him.

one morning, you’re watering the orchids, dress swishing, humming some pop tune, when he leans over the fence, hose dripping, voice all casual but tight.

“you said something weird at the party,” he says, testing, eyes flicking to your face, hoping for a crack.

you don’t even pause, spraying a leaf clean. “probably called you a loser. why?”

he deflates, puppy vibe sinking in, shoulders slumping as he grips the fence. “…nothing,” he mutters, voice flat, turning back to the peacock hedge like it’s his lifeline.

“okay, weirdo,” you say, shrugging, tossing your hair and walking off, leaving him staring at the dirt, defeated, heart twisting like it’s been wrung out.

he tries again a few days later, in the hall, your glittery backpack swinging as you dig for a pen. he’s leaning against a locker, all forced swagger, but his hands are sweaty, stuffed in his pockets.

“you don’t… remember anything from the party?” he asks, voice low, kicking a tile like it’s personal.

you laugh, loud, not even looking up. “what, like when you tripped over the cooler? classic,” you say, slamming your locker shut. “gotta run, math’s calling.”

“yeah, sure,” he says, smile weak, watching you bounce off, ponytail swaying, while he stands there, stuck, like an idiot who bet on the wrong horse.

he stops trying after that, because what’s the point? you remember nothing—zip, nada, just a hangover and a smirk—while he’s got every second burned into his brain, your lips, your hands, that stupid garage wall. he’s still satoru, still flirty, still throwing “princess” at you in gym practices to make you scowl, still stealing your fries at lunch and dodging your punches.

but it’s different now, quieter in the gaps, like when you’re bickering over the hose and he pauses, just for a breath, watching you laugh, eyes soft in a way he can’t control. 

it’s not about winning anymore—it’s you, all gloss and sass and fire, and he’s screwed, because he knows it, even if you don’t.

you’re oblivious, as always, thinking he’s just being weird, maybe tired from basketball or whatever. you’re back to your old tricks, yelling when he eats your last lunch bar, sneaking a plastic bug onto his locker with a sticky note that says “eat this, loser.” 

“real mature,” he calls after you in the hall, peeling it off, but he’s grinning, tucking the note in his pocket like a sap.

“says the guy who drew a mustache on my chem homework,” you fire back, flipping him off, but you’re laughing, and he lingers, watching you disappear into the crowd, heart doing that traitor flip again.

one afternoon, you’re out by the plants, clipping orchids, when you catch him staring over the fence, elbow on the gate, eyes softer than usual.

“what’s with you?” you say, squinting, tossing a leaf his way. “you’re creeping me out.”

he blinks, like you’ve snapped him awake, and forces a grin. “just admiring the view, princess,” he says, but it’s half-hearted, and he turns away fast, spraying the hedge too hard.

“gross,” you mutter, rolling your eyes, but you smile to yourself, clipping another stem, not catching how his hands shake, how he’s drowning in you without a lifeline.

it all crashes one night, late, when you’re in your room, brushing your hair by the window, half-listening to a dumb radio show, some love song crackling through the speakers. your lamp’s on, curtains wide, and you don’t think twice, strokes steady, hair catching the light.

you glance up, and he’s there—satoru, sitting at his desk across the way, window open, chin in his hand, staring like he’s forgotten how to blink.

you meet his gaze, and for a second—just a breath—it’s quiet, no quips, no walls, just you and him, two kids caught in something neither of you name. you almost wave, almost let it linger, but instead, you tilt your head, voice sharp but curious.

“you look like you’ve got something to say,” you call, loud enough to carry, brush pausing mid-stroke.

he freezes, eyes locked on yours, and for a heartbeat, it’s there—everything he’s been choking on, the kiss, the way you laugh, the way you’re still his enemy and his everything. but he can’t, not when you don’t remember, not when he’s just satoru to you, still a loser, still a tease.

“…nah,” he says finally, voice soft, almost broken. “just tired.”

he pulls the curtain shut, slow, not spite, just a need to breathe, to hide from the ache in his chest, your face still burned behind his eyes.

you roll your eyes, muttering, “dork,” to yourself, brushing your hair again, radio humming low, not catching how the air feels heavier now, how his window stays dark.

you go back to the garden the next day, bickering over the hose, threatening to trip him at practice, taping another bug to his locker. it feels the same—same quips, same fire, same you. like no one's kissed anyone in a garage. like his heart hasn't been left spinning ever since.

satoru plays along. he throws the hose back at you, dodges your jabs with lazy grins, calls you a menace when you tape a beetle to his notes. he laughs at the same things, pushes your buttons with the same smug ease, and you'd think he's fine. you'd think he's still the same. but there's something too careful in the way he looks at you now. something quieter, more searching.

sophomore year burns out like a sparkler, all fizz and chaos, bright for a moment then gone. you're busy chasing grades and skipping stones, slipping in and out of his orbit without noticing how close you get, how your shoulder brushes his in the hallway, how you always sit too close on the bench.

meanwhile, he's a wreck. his heart is still tripping over that garage kiss, your gloss-smeared smirk, the way you grabbed his collar and pulled him close like it meant nothing. like it didn't shatter him a little.

you never remembered.

he stops trying to bring it up.

mornings pass in a blur of shared glances and snarky remarks, your voice ringing too loud in his head. and he watches you—strutting through the school grounds, hose in hand like a sword, laugh sharp, gloss catching the sunlight. he's convinced you have no idea what you've done to him. how wide he's cracked open.

it is safe to say, that satoru gojo is drowning. azure gaze soft, chasing the sound of your laugh in crowded hallways, memorizing the curve of your wrist when you gesture, the way you wrinkle your nose when you're about to say something cruel-but-funny. he knows you're magnets—pulling close, snapping apart, doomed to circle each other endlessly. 

he smiles when you tease him. shrugs when you win. says something sharp just to see you roll your eyes. and still, you don't see it. still, you don’t know.

you think nothing's changed, not a single thing. but satoru knows everything has—every look, every laugh, every second.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice @captainhoneythebunny @scryarchives @fancypeacepersona @anathemaspeaks @ilovebeansyay

plz comment if u want to be added on the tl xx

[4unnyr0se]

❥ messin' with the pretty setter squad | toru oikawa & tobio kageyama

warnings: timeskip! characters, fem! reader, jealously, marking, breeding, doggy, missionary, soft! oikawa

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 650

a/n: okay so the first time i posted this it got flagged so it better work this time...also lmk if i should do more pretty setters or other chars!

Toru Oikawa

Toru fucks you like he’s trying to prove a point. Not to anyone else, but rather to you and himself. He wants to prove to himself that he’s the only one who can make you feel like you’re floating on a cloud whenever you fuck, whenever his head is buried in your neck, whispering sweet nothings as his cock gently moves in and out of you. Whatever you want, he’ll give it to you. You’re his perfect little princess, his one and only. Sometimes, you get jealous that he’s a player and shamelessly flirts with his fangirls after his games. Sure, it’s just for appearances, but you doubt that sometimes. So he fucks you like he’s yours because he is yours. His soft hands trace up and down your sweaty, naked body as his cock thrusts in and out of you so gently, like you’re made of glass. His lips are bruising, yet they’re so delicate and soft, complimented by coconut-flavored chapstick. He leaves bruises on your neck and stomach as reminders that you’re his, and he is yours. Toru welcomes your markings, especially when your nails claw on his toned back as he fucks you just the way you want him to. He relishes in your candied cries of pleasure as your second orgasm of the night washes over you, knowing that he’s the only one who can make you feel that way. 

“Shh, eyes on me, baby,” Toru peels his head from your bruised neck, grasping your jaw as his milky brown eyes bore into yours. His hips roll against yours so expertly, his cock hitting the most sensitive part inside of your aching core over and over again. “Look at me. Look at who’s making you feel so good.” he hisses as your pussy clenches around him, trying to drag him impossibly deeper inside. “Fuck, you like that? Yeah, yeah, you do. You’re my girl, princess. Are you gonna cum again, baby? Oh, fuck, that’s it, cum for me again. Good fucking girl. My fucking girl.”

Tobio Kageyama

Tobio fucks you like he’s angry. Not angry with you, no. He loves you too much to be angry with you. In his gunmetal eyes, you’re perfect. What he’s angry about is other men. Other men shamelessly hit on the setter’s well-known girlfriend because they’re bored, or maybe their management tells them to create drama to cause a scandal and sell more game tickets. He fucks you because he’s angry at other people for flirting with you, flirting with his girl. So he fucks you from behind, with your hands desperately clawing at the silken sheets as his fat cock bullies its way in and out of your pussy until it’s painful, but he doesn’t care. You like the pain, don’t you, sweetie? You like when he slaps your ass until there’s a handprint, treating it like a volleyball he’s serving. You like arching your back so perfectly for him as he fucks your brains out because he’s angry, and you like it. Normally he’s so sweet and awkward with you, but not when he’s jealous. Not when someone doubts for even a second that he isn’t making you feel so fucking good every single day.

“You fucking belong to me,” Tobio grunts as he forces an orgasm out of you, slapping your ass and then quickly massaging the stinging flesh. Your thighs are trembling from the assault of pleasure resonating in your core, your stomach feeling full as his cock fucks in and out of your cunt relentlessly. “You’re fucking mine, you understand that? Those assholes think they can get with you? Fat fucking chance.” Oh, how he adores your precious little cries as his cock presses against your cervix, throbbing as he feels his release coming on. “Gonna cum inside, yeah? Fill you up nice and good so those fuckers know who you belong to, baby.”

[thevillainswhore]

Dancing With The Devil I

Pairing: Alternative!Bucky Barnes x Cheerleader!F!Reader

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: You were always a sensible girl — an angel some would say. But how quickly are you willing to shred your wings when the devil himself is so damn tempting?

Or, Bucky Barnes, college’s resident bad boy, upturns your ethics, your morals, your life when you invite him to support the cheer teams’ fundraising kissing booth.

Warnings: College AU, bad boy v. good girl trope, inexperienced!reader, Bucky has tattoos and piercings, pet names, unwanted groping (not from Bucky!!), violence, mention of blood, sexual tension, almost kisses.

Author’s Note: Unbeta’d. Divider by @saradika-graphics. Part 1 of 2 — this is a build up to the smut. Hope you enjoy!

The fundraiser season was upon you — an event your college went a little crazy for every year and as a new member of the cheer squad, it was a main part of your duty to join in with the festivities. 

A proposition of a kissing booth, shyly put forward by yourself had become a hit amongst the rest of the cheerleaders that they instantly approved of — most of them, at least. It was all in good spirit to raise money for charity. 

And so wanting to gather hype around the event — one you had tirelessly worked day and night to put together — you and your best friend, Sharon, volunteered to hand out fliers together. The two of you wandered aimlessly around the courtyard in your team uniform to spread the word. 

“I think this is going to be really good, sweet,” Sharon excitedly spoke over her shoulder as she stapled a flier onto the notice board. “I checked our hashtag on the school's twitter page this morning and we’re already trending.”

Your eyes widened and you spun your head towards her in shock. “Really?” Whipping out your phone from your skirt pocket, you quickly brought up the app and checked the post — already the most anticipated fundraiser of the night. “That was fast!” 

“Mhm,” she mumbled, nodding her head. Slyly, she looked over at you from the corner of her eye. “I bet you’re excited about all those hot and sweaty football players who are gonna be lining up for a kiss.” 

Your head snapped up from your phone with your mouth parted, struggling to scold her. “Sharon!” you squealed. 

“What?” The smirk on her face was all too teasing for your liking. “You know most of them are gonna be desperate for a small piece of you, sweets.” 

Your cheeks grew warm, an embarrassed heat growing up your neck as you stumbled over your words. “N-No I don’t think so—“

“C’mon babe.” Sharon stopped what she was doing and cocked her hip towards you with a raised eyebrow. “You really don’t see the boys practically drooling over you?” 

Honestly, you didn’t see it. Spending most of your time practicing your routines or studying in the library, there was no time to worry about boys and you didn’t have much experience within the relationship department anyway, which made you blind to any advances. 

“Even if they did, they’re not my type.” You shrugged, not giving in to the disbelieving expression on Sharon’s face. “I’m serious! I’m just not into that.” 

“Okay, sure—whatever you say.” Your friend playfully taunted you with a smile until her gaze locked onto something behind you. A small frown appeared on her lips and a not-so-subtle sneer lined her cheeks. “Just so long as it isn’t them, for fucks sake—the last thing you need is an asshole like that.”

Spinning around, you squinted your eyes, looking for whoever Sharon was talking about. A group of students, dressed collectively in hoodies, leather jackets and combat boots were gathered around the bike sheds with a cloud of smoke billowing over their heads. 

“What’s wrong with them?” you asked inquisitively, genuinely stumped for her dismay. 

“Trust me, sweets. You don’t want to get wrapped up with those people. They’ll fucking eat you up and spit you back out,” Sharon replied. 

Leaning on your tiptoes, you spotted a familiar face in the crowd. “Well, what about Wanda? She’s with them and she’s not an asshole.” 

Your friend seemed to struggle to come up with an answer to your question. “That’s different. She’s part of our squad and she’s actually nice.” 

That didn’t appease you, though. “Couldn’t that mean the others are nice, too?”

Sharon was protective, fierce to those she loved and held dear. She had befriended you the day you bumped into each other on the field for practice; when your eyes were holding back tears after Daisy, the second in command cheerleader, made a remark with her friends about how on earth you had managed to be accepted onto the team. 

Since then, the two of you have been glued at the hip — like sisters you dared to think. Her advice was gospel to you and so you took her word seriously. “Sweetie, they’re no good. Just trust me.” 

“Okay,” you sighed as you turned back around. A solemness took over as you remembered that you had been benched to the sidelines for your very own event. “I don’t actually think I’ll be working the booth anyway. Daisy said she only needs me on clean up duty.” 

Sharon’s body suddenly tensed with aggravation.

“Excuse me?” Her eyes were burning with fury as she turned to look at you. “Daisy said what now?”

“T-That I have to clean up?” you offered once again unsure.

Your friend scoffed. “She can’t do that—she has no fucking right to do that. You came up with the idea!” 

The intensity of her anger, even when not directed at you, was overwhelming and your eyes darted down while you mumbled disheartenedly, “I know but what can I do? What she says goes.” 

The fire in Sharon’s eyes was unlike anything else as she went on a tirade of rage — her own dislike for Daisy getting the better of her. 

You zoned out of the conversation, not wanting to dwell on the upset Daisy’s disapproval of you caused. Instead, you counted the rest of your fliers, satisfied to at least have made progress for the day. 

Just as you were about to jump back into the heated conversation, laughter behind you caught your attention. While Sharon was busy brewing in her hatred, you glanced over your shoulder to once again look at the group you had become so intrigued by. 

The colourful paper in your hand, rustling together with the slight breeze drew you to look at them. You only had a few fliers left and you knew Daisy would have something to say if you came back with them. 

A lightbulb dinged in your mind. Your head snapped up; your whole face lit up with the prospect to gain a wider audience for your event. 

Sharon’s voice became clear then. “I can’t believe she even has the audacity when she’s not even the head cheerleader. Such a stuck up bi—“ 

“We still have fliers left!” you interrupted your friend mid sentence, feigning shock as though you had only just noticed. She stopped talking and frowned while you began to walk backwards. “M-Maybe I should just head over there to hand them out. We do need all the people we can get after all.”

Looking behind you, the direction of your steps, her eyes widened once she saw where you were going. “Sweets—,” she warned, as though she was talking to an animal ready to run. “Come back here, please.” 

But there was no use; you had already spun around and started skipping on over. “Hey—Wait! Get back here you little shit!” 

The pleats of your skirt bounced along with you while you giggled, your shoes scuffing along the pavement until you stopped in front of the large group. With the little confidence you had, you cleared your throat before squeaking your greeting over the loudness. “Hi!” 

Instantly, conversation amongst everyone died down, every single person turning their head to you. A pin drop could be heard over the busy courtyard. 

The amount of beady eyes, all wondering who had interrupted them, caused an overwhelming anxiety to fester in your stomach. Regret soon sank in as what small bout of bravery you once had soon whittled away once you gained their attention. 

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you were sure everyone heard your gulp before you forced yourself to speak.  “I—I um, just wanted to—to hand these out.” Your hands shook as you held the vibrant fliers up — the red and pinks contrasting to the sea of black and greys staring you down like prey. “For our fundraiser cel-celebration.”

The awkwardness dragged on in the silence and your skin crawled with nerves. This was a terrible idea. Sharon was right, you should have never come over and instead listened to her. But you were soon pulled from your inner turmoil. 

A brooklyn drawl, raspy yet smooth cut through the deafening stillness at the same time a tall figure stood up in the crowd, whistling low as he feasted on you. “Well ain’t you the prettiest lil’ thing, hoppin’ on over in your short skirt.” 

It was difficult, even in the daylight, to make out the face of this stranger; long shaggy brown hair, hidden behind a hood. Even partly elusive, you had never seen anyone like him before, but you couldn’t deny the tingles that shot up your arms and made the fine hairs stand on edge. 

His thick-soled boots, covered in buckles that jingled with each step, thudded menacingly along the concrete while he made his way over to you. And as the sun hit his face just right, that’s when you saw his eyes, bright blue and sparkling; giving attention to his silver nose ring.  

You were held to your spot, breathless and squirming. Though you tampered yourself as he drew closer and finally came before you, one step away from touching your toes. “So, what’s this you got planned, sweet thing?”

A gruff blonde with cropped hair and a sleeveless denim jacket snorted behind him, a thick scruffy beard decorating his face. “Go easy on her, punk.” 

The stranger that had you a little starstruck brought himself even closer — within an inch of you — crossing his arms behind his back and squinting curiously to look directly into your eyes, a gleam in his own.

You were intoxicated by the smell of leather and smoke, a combination that should have made you feel sick and yet rendered you dizzy with heat. The spell he bound you with held you in a deep trance. “A kissing booth,” you whispered timidly. 

“Oh?” He grinned wide, a huff of fresh mint from the gum he was chewing combined with his aroma. “A kissing booth, you say?”

“It’s for charity.” You licked your lips with hesitation. “You—um—you pay for a ticket and in return a girl of your choosing from the team can k-kiss you—“ A sudden thought that you had no idea who you were talking to stopped you from continuing and you shook your head apologetically. “I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name.” 

The man in front of you smirked, sinister and perverse. His eyes darted between your own while you trembled, close to breaking a sweat. “You can call me Bucky, sweetheart,” he replied, smoothly. 

Murmurs and quiet chatter from the rest of Bucky’s friends picked up while he took you in, his eyes clinging to the bare skin of your thighs, barely covered by your cheer skirt. 

You began to introduce yourself, too. “My name is—“ 

“Oh, I know who you are.” The corner of his lips curled up while he dragged his eyes lazily up your body. “I’ve seen how you move. The twirls and spins and shit, lookin’ all cute.”  

“Y-You have?” you asked in shock, surprised to find he was already familiar with you. 

“Mm, I’ve heard all about you.” He nodded, before cocking his head behind him. To your surprise, you looked and found your squad mate, Wanda, who threw you a sly wink. Your attention was brought back to Bucky, gliding his pierced tongue across his pearly white teeth. “A cute bunny showing off her tricks is kinda hard to miss.” 

His presence was all too intimidating, but one of the sweetest addictions you knew would give you an all time high. You couldn’t keep still, switching your weight between you feet as subtly as you could possibly manage. Opening your mouth, you readied yourself to respond until Bucky’s eyes flicked to your side. 

An all too out of breath Sharon, weary eyed and scary looking stormed towards you. Uncaring for your new friend, she stood in front of him, blocking his view while her hands grasped your upper arms to check you over. “Sweetie! Are you okay?” 

The strenuous effort to tear your eyes away from Bucky was almost impossible. “Mhm,” you mumbled noncommittally, finally able to bring your gaze to Sharon. “I’m okay.”

Leaning to the side, Bucky caught your eyes once again as he asked. “Will you be workin’, sweetheart?”

Confusion fogged up your mind, disorientated as your eyes played tennis between him and your best friend. “I’m sorry?”

“The kissing booth.” He reiterated, standing straight to pluck the cigarette tucked behind his ear. Those damned eyes never left you while he placed it between his lips and grabbed a light from his back jean pocket. “Will you be workin’ it?” 

“Oh!” You shook your head, trying to get out of your daze as he lit his cigarette. “I—um—I don’t know. I don’t think so. Technically?” Nerves made you ramble on. “I’m sort of working—but I won’t be near the booth and—”

Stepping forward, Bucky gently pushed Sharon out the way. “Hey!” she huffed, glaring at him. But he ignored her in favour of closing the distance between the two of you.  

He placed his thumb over your lips, effectively silencing you as he took a drag of his smoke and blew it out to the side of you with a smirk. “You’ll be there, Bunny.” Your eyes fluttered when he chucked your chin and winked. “Make sure of it and you won’t regret it.”

Struggling to come down from floating in the clouds, you almost whined as he teased his finger along your neck when he stepped back — his chilled rings lit your nerves on fire. You stared hopelessly after him as he started to walk backwards away from you to his friends.  

“I’ll bring some of these fuckers too!” he shouted over the growing distance between you, gracing you with one last grin. “Good for business and all.” 

You sighed, a love-sickening one that caused your friend to roll her eyes. Sharon clicked her fingers in your face, snapping you out of your haze. “Sweets!” 

You shook your head and your hooded eyes darted over to her. “Huh?” 

Sharon grabbed your shoulders, a firm scolding ready on her lips. “Listen to me,” she implored. “You need to stay away from him. He’s bad news.” 

You swallowed, unable to help the flicker of your eyes back to Bucky, watching as he threw his head back while he laughed, his full head of long hair framing his face beautifully. 

Sharonl cleared her throat pointedly and you snapped back to her, a guilty expression to your features. “Okay?” she reiterated. 

You begrudgingly nodded, and she sighed, seemingly appeased for now. Looping her arms through yours, she pulled you away and began to speak about your fundraiser once more. 

When once, incessant talk and arrangement of the kissing booth would have spilled from your lips, you held quiet; basking in whatever the hell had just happened. 

It was impossible to stop yourself from looking over your shoulder once more. To catch a final peek of Bucky, and your heart jumped as you caught his steel eyes already focused on you. Glancing back to Sharon, she was in her own world, already deep into discussion about decorations. 

Discreetly, you turned around, happy to find Bucky’s gaze still reciprocated and so you waved, small enough to not catch your friend’s attention. You held back a squeal, fighting to stave off the bubble in your throat that was desperate to escape when he brought his inked hand up to his mouth and blew you a kiss. 

It was a couple of days later while you were grabbing your books for your next class when you next saw Bucky. Earlier than expected but not at all in the way you imagined. 

You were at your locker, reaching to the back for that one annoying book that always seemed to hide from you. Your back was turned to the busy corridors, other students passing by as your fingertips ghosted along the textbook you needed when the feel of someone’s hand groping your ass caused you to jump in fright. 

Spinning around in shock, you came face to face with an all too pleased Tony Stark — the school’s rich playboy. “Hey, sweet cheeks.” 

The sleazy grin he donned made you feel queasy, but to avoid confrontation, you instead laughed nervously, hiding your discomfort. “Um, h-hi, Tony.”

He leaned his arm over your head against the lockers, trapping you in with no way to escape. “How haven’t I noticed you before, hm? Nothing better than some fresh meat on the cheerleading team.” 

Beginning to squirm, you shifted away as best as you could with hardly any distance between you — the unease you felt clear from your expression. “Excuse me—I’m sorry—you’re just—a little too close—“ 

“Let me take you out tonight,” he interrupted, careless to your lack of comfortability. “I’ll show you a real good time.” 

Alarm bells started to ring in your head. The fact that he had touched you without permission in such a crowded place and continued to ignore your requests unsettled you deeply. 

You looked around frantically, trying to silently scream for help. But no one batted an eyelid to your situation.

“Tony,” you quietly said, not wanting to cause a scene. “I’m not interested and I’ve really got to go—“

“Don’t be a prude, babe.” A lump tightened in your throat as Tony pawed at your waist, his clammy fingers digging into you harshly. “It’s not a good look on you.” 

Fear clouded your ability to shout out. Sharon wasn’t there to be your knight in shining armor like usual and you clawed down your cries as best as you could. To your dismay, tears began to gather over your waterline. “Please. Just—just move back and we can talk—“ 

“It’s okay,” he whispered against your neck. “Just say yes and I’ll take care of you.” 

Closing your eyes tight, you willed for him to leave you alone, your fingernails digging into your palms so hard they created indents into your skin. His breath against your neck made you desperately want to crawl out of your skin, his unwanted touch and proximity more of a burden than a compliment. 

You were rendered useless, weak. His heavy weight pinned you down to the lockers and left you unmoving. Overwhelmed, your breathing started to become erratic, panicked and just as you thought you couldn’t take it any longer, Tony’s presence disappeared and the air rushed back to your lungs. 

A loud commotion sounded on the other side of the hallway, but the blur of it all was disabling. It took you a while to gather the courage to squint your eyes open and once your vision became clear, you gasped at the sight of Bucky slamming Tony against the other side of the lockers, holding him up by his shirt with an unparalleled fury in his darkened eyes. 

“B-Barnes!” Tony squeaked in shock. “Heyy there, take it easy big guy—“ 

Bucky jolted him brutally another time. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ to her?” he growled, venom in his voice and a tone that held no room for humour. 

Tony laughed, apprehensively. “C’mon man, we were just having some fun.”

Disgust was clearly visible on Bucky’s face as he reeled back, only serving to make him angrier. “Fun?” he scoffed. “You think it’s fun bein’ a fuckin’ creep? She told you no.” 

Soon enough, a mob of students had gathered around the commotion, filming with their phones and whispering amongst themselves in anticipation for a fight. 

You watched as Tony’s cheeks flared red, the embarrassment of being so easily overpowered by Bucky in front of the whole school paralysing him when his eyes suddenly shot to you, a vein bulging from his forehead. 

You cowered back as much as possible, covering your body with your arms while he spat, “Are you fucking kidding me? She—she wants it! Look at her! The bitch is practically begging for it in that skirt.” 

There was a stilted pause, a deathly quiet over the hallway before a chilling laugh echoed from Bucky. “You’re gonna fuckin’ regret that.” 

A flock of shouts and cheers bounced off the lockers as Bucky threw Tony to the ground. Without remorse, he grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt before he tried to desperately crawl away and pummeled him to the floor with a single punch, the silver rings on his fingers cutting the skin of Tony’s cheek and smothering blood over his face. 

You winced as you heard Tony’s pleas for mercy as Bucky continued to lay into him. The sight should have worried you — Sharon’s previous warnings clear as day in your head — but your thighs rubbed together instead, an ache between them leaving you equal parts aroused and concerned.

The one sided fight seemed to be over within seconds. Bucky stopped, letting Tony flop to the floor, gifted with an instantaneous black eye and most likely broken nose. 

Stepping over his body, Bucky squatted down, a grave warning grunted as his chest rose and fell with adrenaline. “If you ever talk about Bunny like that again, or even look at her.” He paused, laughing sadistically. “Who am I fuckin’ kiddin’? If you dare breathe the same air as her again, I won’t be so fuckin’ kind next time.” The humour died from his tone within seconds. “Are we clear?” 

When he didn’t hear a response from Tony, he forcefully kicked his boot into the side of his ribs. “I said, are we clear?”

“Y-Yes! Yes—please—we’re clear!” Tony coughed out a quick reply, the pain in his voice evident. 

Satisfied, Bucky swept his long hair back from his face and stood up. He caught his breath for a moment, hands on his hips as the students watched on, just as mesmerised as you. 

But he paid them no attention as he suddenly brought his gaze over to your direction. He had no trouble finding you as he towered over the crowd and they immediately parted the way for him while he strode towards you. 

You held your breath when he reached you and immediately cradled your face with his hands — his delicacy while he handled you compared to Tony stunned you. He wiped the remaining tears away with his thumbs as he looked at you with concern. “Angel, are you okay?”

It took you a while to respond, still reeling from the previous events. “I—I think so,” you stuttered, though not from fear of Tony anymore. 

Bucky’s hands gently fell down to your waist, the cutout of your uniform allowing him to touch your bare skin. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll make sure he—“

As he lightly squeezed your hips, you inhaled sharply, a shoot of pain radiating through your body. 

Bucky instantly stopped in his tracks and quickly lifted his hands, only to find bruises in the shape of fingertips staining your skin. A dark cloud fell over his cerulean eyes. “That fucker,” he growled, turning to shoot daggers at Tony’s form still crouched on the floor. “I’m gonna kill him.” 

Before Bucky could lunge back at him, you grabbed at his arms, a desperate need to keep him close. “No!” you cried, waiting until he whipped his head back round to you as you pleaded, “Please stay with me.”

His gaze flicked back to your bruise, confliction locking up his muscles. “Bunny, he fuckin’ marked you. No way am I lettin’ him get away with that shit—“

You grabbed his hand and began dragging him along, away from everyone still lingering and staring at the two of you. “Please, Bucky?” 

The fury dissolved from his features, your sweet request too difficult to ignore. “Okay,” he sighed, following you blindly as you led him into an empty storage closet. 

Locking the door behind you, you turned the light switch on. There was limited proximity between you in the tight space, but Bucky seemed to have no qualms being so close to you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, diverting your eyes away from him and fidgeting with the hem of your skirt. 

You didn’t see the confusion on Bucky’s face, how perplexed he was for your apology. “Bunny,” he called for you, waiting until you looked at him. “What in the fuck have you got to be sorry for?” 

Your breaths started to come in heavy, lips trembling as you tried to hold your tears back. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—to cause a fight,” you sniffled. “I shouldn’t have been wearing my uniform and—“ 

“Hey,” Bucky cut you off, stern and resolute. His fingers sweeped your hair out of your face gently. “You did absolutely nothin’ wrong, you hear me?”

Your eyes darted down, however he was quick to catch your chin with his forefinger and thumb. “Look at me.”

With glassy eyes, you did just that, reluctant but submissive to his order. 

Bucky wrapped his hand around the back of your neck, his thumb running back and forth soothingly, “Don’t you ever apologise for that shit.” His blue eyes bore into your soul. “I beat the shit out of that fucker because he deserved it. No one talks to you like that and gets away with it. You understand, baby?” 

Timidly, you nodded your head. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.” He reiterated, determined to make you see sense. 

You weren’t convinced, Bucky could tell. Delicately, he smoothed his free hand over your waist. “Besides,” he shrugged his shoulders, a teasing smile crawling onto his face. “My Bunny looks fuckin’ hot in her uniform.” 

Heat began to creep up your neck and a nervous giggle escaped from your lips. The anxious knot that had built in your stomach slowly began to unravel in Bucky’s presence. 

“There she is.” He stroked your bottom lip with his thumb. “C’mon, sweetheart you’ve gotta know how fuckin’ good you look in that outfit, waving your pom poms and puttin’ on a show.”

“You’ve watched me?” Your breathing picked up. 

“Course I fuckin’ have. Knew you were somethin’ special when Wanda mentioned you.” 

You relaxed into his hold, melting from his touch. However, from the corner of your eye, a flicker of dark red running down from his hand down to his wrist caught your attention. 

You gasped, grabbing his hand and turning it to get a better look at the damage to his knuckles. “Bucky! You’re bleeding!” 

He raised his eyebrows, a little surprised to see he was in fact bleeding. Laughing it off, he tried to ease your worries. “Ah sweetheart—it’s nothin’. Don’t even worry about it—“

“Like hell I won’t!” The unexpected fire in your voice stunned Bucky as his eyebrows rose in shock. Thinking on your toes, you spun around towards the shelves. “Let me find something.” 

While you were busy rummaging through storage boxes, you missed the heated glint in his eyes and the subtle squeeze of his own dick through his denim pants. 

You searched until you found an unopened pack of bandages along with some ointment cream. Softly, you took his hand over to the old sink in the corner and began washing the dried up blood staining his skin. 

Bucky watched intently while you gently cleaned him up, your tongue stuck out between your lips as you wrapped the bandage around his knuckles in concentration. 

“There. Good as new.” You smiled happily with your work and without thinking, you carefully lifted his damaged hand up to your lips to kiss over the bandage. 

The realisation of how bold your action was finally caught up to you. With caution, your eyes flitted up expecting the worst. However, your mouth slightly dropped open as you noticed the wicked glint in his eyes while he stared you down like a wolf. “You’re just precious, ain’t you, angel?” 

You didn’t have the chance to respond as Bucky spun you around and cornered you against the wall. You should have felt as vulnerable as you did with Tony, but you only whimpered with curious delight as tingles shot down your spine. 

Your noses bumped together when Bucky moved in even closer, lips so close to touching. “This okay, Bunny?” 

Fighting off a shudder, you quickly nodded without hesitation. “Yes.”

He chuckled breathily. “I haven’t stopped fuckin’ thinking about you.” 

Common sense seemed so far from reality as you closed your eyes and rested your head back against the wall. His scent dizzied you, his whole presence threw you for a loop. How the hell had he gotten into your system in such a short span of time? 

“You know I’d kill anyone who tried to touch you like that don’t you, baby?” Your fingers tangled into the lapels of Bucky’s leather jacket while his soft lips teased yours. “No one else can have you. You were mine since I laid eyes on you.” 

“Oh—Bucky.” Just as wrecked as you, he began to lean in and you closed your eyes in anticipation for his kiss. All he had to do was push forward, connect the remaining distance and claim you. 

But to your luck, the school bell for the beginning of class rang loud through the hallway. Sense came back to you then. Opening your eyes, you quickly untangled yourself out of Bucky’s hold. 

You half-expected him to be annoyed, but instead he had the biggest grin on his face, almost predatory. 

Skittishly you started to walk backwards towards the exit of the storage closet. “I—um,” you began. “I need to go—go to my class.” 

Bucky smirked even wider while he combed his ringed fingers through his messy hair and then slid his hands into his pockets. “Mhm,” he mumbled devilishly. 

“I’ll s-see you around?” You offered, lamely while you fumbled with the handle of the door. Your nerves built even higher when he started to stalk towards you and the simple task of opening the door seemed impossible. 

“You sure will, Bunny.” Bucky gained closer, a couple of steps away from you when you finally managed to swing the door open with urgency.

Hurriedly, you excited the closet, breathing heavily. But you shrieked as you collided into another person. Turning around to apologise, your words died on your tongue when you found the person you had bumped into was none other than Sharon. 

“Sweets?” she asked, instantly concerned at your flustered state. “What’s wrong? Did something happen—“ 

Then, her eyes glanced behind you, a scowl appearing on her face while a disheveled Bucky exited the same closet you just stumbled out of. 

You gulped as her fierce gaze shot to you. “I can explain.” 

“We’re having a serious talk.” Once again, Sharon dragged you away from Bucky and you fought to keep up to pace with her. 

You felt like a child being pulled away from their favourite toy. Bucky was trouble, that much you knew. But of course, you couldn’t help but look over your shoulder — a common occurrence it seemed — and you also couldn’t help the grin that crept onto your face as you watched him wiggle his fingers at you in goodbye with a wink. 

Trouble had never looked better — with horns and a tail that could make heaven’s most loyal angel want to sin. 

[m4y4wasnthere]

dating hc’s

k.bkg x f!reader

warnings: cursing

a/n: my first k.bkg post !!😋 this is a bit short because i wanted a quick writing break from all the outsiders stuff

✩₊˚.⋆💥⋆⁺₊✧

very loyal; he holds himself up high, theres no way he would ever cheat on someone

not very pda like during his highschool years, most he would do is hold your hand but kisses and hugs are not likely during school

loves to brag about you subtly

“what do you mean shes weak? y/n’s more capable of beating me then any of you extras !”

“tch, talk bad about her one more time and ill kick your ass.”

even with a girlfriend, he still goes to bed at 8pm, he’ll try forcing you to do the same

“dumbass if you keep sleeping late (10pm mind you.) then you’ll start lacking in training.”

secretly loves whenever you steal his clothes and wears it around him, especially if its in the common room

gets jealous super easily, doesn’t matter if you’ve known a guy since childhood, he’ll never trust any guy around you (he wouldn’t tell you unless it becomes an issue)

hes actually bad at comforting. during highschool, hes not the best at understanding emotions. he would try his best but it might not be enough for everyone.

“stop overthinking dumbass, your stupid if you think i’d ever look at someone else.”

“you seriously think your not pretty enough for me? you must be sick in the head.”

the only way he’d actually date you is if you were capable of taking him on in a fight.

loves to cook for you, not that he’d admit it. he would sometimes leave bentos of food outside your door, coincidentally your favorite dishes

only wants to spar with you or the baku squad, anyone else would have to be because of class

the first one to visit you if you ever got injured

was scared to hold your hand at first because he’s naturally sweaty but you didnt mind at all

would be even cuter if your quirk made you naturally more dry; making you love to hold his hand

doesn’t use any ‘exotic’ pet names, mostly uses your name or baby/babe, once in a blue moon he would say sweetheart

“im going down to the store later, do you want me to get you anything y/n?”

“tch, keep cutting your vegetables like that and you’re gonna cut your hand. give me the knife baby.”

a lot of stay home movie dates, because you need to get authorized to leave the dorms, most of the time you guys just watch stuff in each other’s dorms

your first kiss was on accident. bakugou tripped and fell on your face during sparring

doesnt like people touching his hair or styling it but he would allow you to play with it

because of the fact hes trying to be the #1 hero, it might seem like he has no time for you, but if you tell him he’ll just say your dumb for thinking that and give you a kiss on the forehead

loves being the big spoon because it makes him feel like he can protect you

tries to teach you how to cook but he always ends up taking over

loves being affectionate behind closed doors after not doing an pda the whole day

has your contact name as mrs. explosion murder 🧡💥 or just y/n 🧡

was super scared during his kidnapping because of the fact he didn’t know if he would see you again

✩₊˚.⋆💥⋆⁺₊✧

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x Reader

[Chapter 16] || [Chapter 18]

Pairing: Gaz x Reader x Ghost x Soap || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.7K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: we're getting there.

Gaz's outfit is 100% a rip off of this fanart by the lovely @temeyes.

Chapter 17: Guard Dogs

You don’t exactly know what you did to deserve this.

You really don’t.

You went on Tinder one time. One night after work.

So why the fuck do you have three men lurking around you like guard dogs?

Ever since the Ethan incident last Friday, they’ve been taking turns going to pick you up at work and walking you home.

Monday - Kyle

Tuesday - Simon

Wednesday - Kyle

Thursday - Simon

It wouldn’t be so bizarre if it weren’t for the fact that people (especially your coworkers) stare when there’s suddenly men waiting for you after work… 

Especially when one of them is a 6ft4 man that’s built like a fridge, giving everyone copious amounts of side-eye as they walk out.

And then you wonder why they ask you get asked questions the next morning.

Today, Friday, you exit work to see not one, not two, but all three of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder. They look frankly adorable, all beaming at you as you come out of work and preening themselves a bit.

Kyle’s on the far left, wearing a cream-colored hoodie with a blue flannel shirt atop, black cargo pants and white and black Air Jordans. The hoodie is pulled up over his hair and his hands are tucked into the pocket of his hoodie.

Simon’s next to him, in the center, wearing black boots, jeans and a black parka with an inner pollar layer that’s zipped up all the way, so as to cover his mouth, in lieu of his usual mask. His hair is sticking up all over and you just know he put hairgel on it. 

Johnny’s on Simon’s other side, the far right, and wearing a pair of distressed blue jeans, a shaggy burgundy Ramones t-shirt and an unzipped grey hoodie jacket. Just like Kyle, he’s also wearing some Nikes and they’re so pristine and clean you’d swear he’s gotten them from the box a minute ago.

“Hi…?” You said in surprise as you adjusted the sling of your laptop bag on your shoulder.

“Hey!” Johnny greeted you.

“Hi, lovie.” Kyle said with a beaming smile.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Simon said simply and nodded upwards at you.

“What are you… doing?” You trailed off as you came to stand in front of them, your eyes going back and forth between them.

“Couldn’t decide who should come get you. So we decided to both come” Simon told you sincerely. “And since the two of us were coming, Johnny wanted to tag along.” He added.

“Why are ye talking like I’m a puppy that couldn’t be left at home by myself?” Johnny said with raised brows.

“Because you were begging for us to take you with.” Kyle retorted from Simon’s other side.

“Go fuck yourselves.” Johnny added. “You look nice.” He complimented you with a boyish grin.

“In my work uniform?” You retorted as you looked at him with a playful look of disbelief.

“Aye.” He replied. “Always love seein’ someone all knackered and sweaty after work.” He admitted.

“Johnny are you flirting?” Simon asked and he gave Johnny a look that could kill someone.

“Aye.” Johnny replied with a mischievous look in his eyes and pursed his lips together. “Is that forbidden now?”

“Mate…” Kyle quipped, his tone a soft warning.

“What? They already got two blokes after them, can have another one.” Johnny remarked with the same casualty of someone saying they ‘might as well have another biscuit from the box’.

You blinked away the surprise at the flirting. It was still bizarre to have one man like Simon interested… And you felt overwhelmed to have Kyle on top of it… And now Johnny too?

“Okay, erm… So… let’s go?” You announced and turned to start marching up the street to work before anyone could say anything else.

The guys followed behind you wordlessly, in a formation lead by Simon… like you were a mother duck and they were your ducklings… Or, rather, like they were your pack of guar dogs.

-

You’re standing by the door of your kitchen feeling like a guest in your own flat. 

Kyle and Simon are cooking… without even being asked. You stopped by the shop and they immediately announced they’d cook for you and… now they are.

Johnny’s sitting at the dining table behind you, sprawled open and sipping a can of Monster he got himself at the shop when you were all there.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” You announced as you watched the two men move about your kitchen as they made your meal. Simon’s was first in charge of chopping and dicing things… and now he’s in charge of frying… something, while Kyle takes care of basically everything else.

“What do you mean, lovie?” Kyle asks as he turns to glance at you while stirring something.

“You all came to pick me up together… And now you’re cooking for me…” You trail off as your nails clink a bit against the glass of wine they poured you. “What’s going on?”

“You’re adorably annoying with how perceptive you are, you know that?” Simon asks as he glances back at you as well before plucking something out of the frying pan and to a dish on the side. The oil sizzles loudly when he puts something else down to fry.

“Thank you.” You say with a playfully smug tone as you shift around. “But you didn’t answer the question.” You remark.

“After dinner, alright?” He answers and Kyle makes some sounds of agreement.

“They want to be yer boyfriends, officially.” Johnny says behind you and it causes you to whip around to look at him… Which also made Kyle drop whatever he was holding, in shock.

“SOAP!” Both Simon and Kyle shout, scolding the Scot who’s sitting at the table with a broad grin on his lips.

“You… You do?” You ask as you turn to look at them, mouth parted in surprise.

“Yeah...” Kyle replies as he looks at you. 

Simon simply nods and turns away to focus on the food he’s frying.

“I… I’m honored…” You admit and feel your cheeks warming up so bright you fear you’ll start sweating. “I…”

“I’d like a shot at it too, if ye don’t mind.” Johnny adds. Once again, all eyes turn to Johnny with another ‘JOHNNY?!’ which causes him to laugh.

“I’m serious.” He replies. “I’ll gladly date ye too.” He adds.

Your eyes widen. “You-”

“Mhm.” He adds.

“No.” Simon replies as he turns around once more.

“What do you mean ‘no’, L.T.?” Johnny asks in exaggerated offense.

“I mean, I don’t wanna date you.” Simon adds.

“I- Wait.” Now it’s Johnny’s time to get flustered. “Date me?” Poor lad, his whole face warms up bright red.

“Y-Yeah… Kyle and Simon kiss each other sometimes.” You announce and out of the corner of your eye you catch both of the other men stiffening up.

“I KNEW IT. I FOOKIN’ KNEW IT!” Johnny jumps up to his feet, spilling his Monster can on the table. “Ah, shite!” He says as he scrambles to pick it up again before it spills too much.

“What do you mean you knew it?!” Simon asks in shock.

“I KEN YE LIKE EACH OTHER! SAW THE WAY YOU SHARE THOSE COY LOOKS BETWEEN YE!!” Johnny shouts as he points a finger at the two men.

You’re pretty sure they’re all blushing now, you included.

“We didn’t share any looks!” Simon says defensively.

“DID TOO!” Johnny insists. “AND I TAKE OFFENSE TO YE NOT WANTING TO DATE ME, L.T.!” He adds. “I THOUGHT YE LIKED ME!”

Your eyes widen and you move your head side to side trying to keep up with the banter between them as Johnny marches his way into the kitchen so him and Simon can keep bickering.

“Are they always like this?” You find yourself asking Kyle, your eyes widened as they shout your house down.

“Yeah… This is a tame day for them actually. Should hear how they are on comms during missions.” He leans over to whisper in your ear.

“Ah…” You say softly. “I don’t know if I can handle dating this all the time.” You quip playfully, making Kyle laugh.

“You’ll get used to it.” He adds.

As you two continue watching the two men arguing, during which Simon is still, somehow, still tending to the food… You find yourself sneaking little pieces of carrot from the salad Kyle’s making.

Only to stop chewing halfway and let your piece of carrot fall right out of your hands when Johnny suddenly grabs Simon by his face and plants a big kiss right on the taller man’s lips. No warning.

At that moment, Simon looks every bit like Kyle did when they kissed for the first time. Perfectly statue-like still, eyes widened, both hands hanging in the air as if he was frozen…

Johnny’s hands are wrapped around Simon’s face, his palms over his ears, and fingers in his blonde hair, their mouths pressed together…

And then Simon comes back from the trance he’s in and his hands wrap around Johnny’s head too, his fingers digging into the back of his mohawk as their tongues battle together.

“Jesus Christ…” Kyle replies next to you, voicing your exact thoughts.

Once they pull apart, both the men are blushing red and out of breath, eyes widened.

“Ye’ll date me now?” Johnny replies.

Simon doesn’t reply, he simply turns around to finish cooking.

“I think that’s a yes.” You finally announce, finding your voice softly.

Johnny turns to look at you and smirks. “From him or from you?” He asks with a cocked brow.

“Both.” Simon quips with his back turned.

“I think that was the hottest kiss I ever witnessed.” Kyle says softly.

“I’ll give ye a smooch too, don’t get jealous, Gary.” Johnny quips and winks at Kyle.

Then, the Scot grabs a paper towel from the roll and walks toward the door to go mop up the spilled Monster from the table.

But not before he cups Kyle’s face and stealing a peck off his lips…

Then, he does the same to you… before licking his lips at the end. 

“Your wine’s tasty.” He adds, before slinking back out of the room.

You’re left blinking away the shock with an equally stunned Kyle next to you… And you’re pretty sure Simon’s stunned too…

Meanwhile, Johnny’s giggling to himself in the living room.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

taglist (CLOSED! not adding anyone else, sorry!):

@daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe , @kariiiel , @ltbarnes , @irregulardongyoung , @spacelia , @hayleybarnesx , @infpt-zylith , @xxshadowbabexx , @frescoisnotinthemilitary , @leeeenistop , @lucienbarkbark

@severenswife , @enarien, @agoodmoviekiss , @l0lziez , @whos-fran , @greatstormcat , @openup-yourmind , @neoarchipelago , @sodavrr , @cutiecusp , @lilliumrorum , @c-nstantine , @kneelforloki , @comeonatmebruh , @codsunshine , @waiting-so-long , @captainquake42 , @gazspookiebear , @mynameismisty , @reap3erslov3 , @reaper-chan666 , @poohkie90 , @kitwithnokat , @stick-the-dumbass , @mothsdrabbles , @justanerd1 , @thesinsoflust , @thriving-n-jiving , @blckbrrybasket

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober: Day 12

Kinktober Masterlist vi coactus - "under duress" Simon "Ghost" Riley/TF141 x f!reader Kinks > SHAME, forced orgasms, bimbo/dumbification Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

“Under duress” — A quick exfil means limited seats in the TAC-V. Simon lets you sit on his lap, but it’s a really bumpy road. When you realize that his thigh is the perfect shape, and that it’s pressing against your most sensitive spot, there’s not much you can do to stop yourself. Might as well enjoy the ride.

Warnings: SHAME! EMBARRASSMENT! SHAME!!!!, mean teasing, slut shaming, it's not non-con but no one asks for permission; this truck is not a safe-space.

No one said a word. Once the noise of the petrol explosion and the machine guns faded from your ears, all that you could hear was the rattle and rumble of the engine of the TAC-V. The mission had been successful, but barely. You’d secured the package, but it had cost you the chopper exfil that you’d been desperately counting on. What was a quick twenty minute flight was now an eight hour drive through the bumpiest mountain road known to man, and you were sitting on Ghost’s lap for the entire trip.

The TAC-V sat two in front and three in back, so with Price and Gaz up in the driver and passenger seats, you should have been able to fit in the rear with Ghost and Soap. But, the care package was taking up your spot. As the smallest member of the squad, you were relegated to lap-status, much to your audible dismay. 

“Shut your mouth and get in the truck, Corporal!” Price had shouted, spraying cover fire over the hood of the vehicle. 

So, that’s where you found yourself. Mouth shut. Seat secured. 

There was only one problem. Ghost’s thighs were enormous. He never skipped leg day, and when you tried to sit against his hips to distribute your weight, his gear vest was in the way. So, he’d shifted you over onto his right thigh, forcing you to straddle him, and now you could feel… everything. 

Every time Price hit another bump – which was once or twice every few seconds at this point – Ghost’s rock-solid quad muscle would jerk up into your pussy, shaking your most sensitive bits. It was savage, but it was making your body respond in ways that you did not appreciate. And now, you were in the middle of fighting off the most embarrassing orgasm of your life. 

You could feel how wet you were through the canvas pants you were wearing. Your panties were soaked in the first hundred kilometers, so they were useless against your slick pleasure. Soon, Ghost would be able to feel the warm stain of your cunt imprinting itself on his own trousers, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

You had tried to shift away in the beginning of this trip, rotating your hips back and forth, trying to search for a less-shameful angle, but he had grumbled, 

“Sit still, love. Tha’s enough squirmin’ around.”

His hand had reached out to secure your hip, pulling you down into a deep seated position, crushing your soft lips against his thigh and spreading them apart unknowingly.

You’d managed to suffer in pure silence so far, but that was becoming more and more challenging as the ride got rougher. The desire to roll your hips against him to take the edge off of the blinding friction you were experiencing was mind-numbing. You were sweaty from battle and now you were sweaty from nerve-racking lust, and there was no escape. You still had hundreds of kilometers to go, and you didn’t know what you were going to do.

Your body knew exactly what it was going to do, though. It was going to come whether you wanted to or not. 

“You alright, lass? Car sick?” Johnny asked, peering over at you as your head rested against the driver’s headrest in front of you. 

“Need a break, babes?” Gaz turned in his seat to check on you. 

“No can do,” Price shook his head and peered at you in the rearview mirror, “Still in the red zone. We can’t stop here and expect to make it out without drawing unwanted attention.” 

“Here,” Gaz reached back and unclipped your vest, “At least take this off so you can catch a breath.”

You let him slip the vest off your shoulders and stuff it in the footwell on the floor in front of him. He passed you his canteen, and you tried to open it with trembling hands. 

“She’s not fuckin’ sick,” Ghost hissed, grabbing the canteen and opening it for you before lifting it to your lips so you could drink.

The rest of the truck-full of men waited to hear the rest of Ghost’s explanation. You felt heat rush to your cheeks in painful humiliation as you waited for him to reveal your predicament. You knew, now, that he could feel you. You had thought you’d gotten away with it so far, but it was too obvious. He could feel the wet, sticky patch on his quad growing with every tremulous shake of the truck, and he knew what was happening to you. You could almost hear the jeering smile on his lips when he told them, 

“She needs a quick wank, innit that right, Corporal?”

You tried to keep your eyes trained on the floor, but you had to see what their faces looked like. You lifted your gaze to meet Price’s bright blue eyes in the mirror, the evidence of Ghost’s truth written all over your expression. 

The silence was broken up only by the road noise. No one spoke and no one breathed. You looked to Gaz and saw his mouth open in shock, curling at the edge of his lip with a boyish glee. Soap’s brow was furrowed in disbelief,

“S’that true, bonnie?”

Ghost didn’t even give you a chance to answer him. He shoved his gloved hand under your crotch as if to feel the evidence on his hand that he was sensing on his thigh, chuckling at your sorry predicament,

“Bumpy road, been wet and warm for almost an hour. Gonna have myself a pretty little pussy stain by the time we get to base. And if I give her somethin’ to work against…”

Your lieutenant curled his fingers that he had shoved underneath you, finding your swollen clit with a surprising ease. As if he’d pushed a button, you let out an obvious moan. You cut it short, unable to hold it back from crawling out of your throat, but the damage was done. 

Silence again, and then Gaz’s low voice,

“Holy fuck.”

Ghost removed his hand and settled back in his seat, keeping his grip on your hips with a steadfast strength. He was looking at you in the mirror along with Price who kept glancing up from the road. The message in Ghost’s eyes was a clear challenge; he wasn’t going to give you any more relief, and if you wanted to come on him, you’d need to figure it out yourself. 

The urge to hump his solid thigh was overwhelming, and now that the cat was out of the bag, you thought it wouldn’t be possible for you to be any more ashamed, so you started to hump your pussy against him, ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly… but, Ghost couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

“See? Needy thing’s grindin’ on me. Can’t help yourself, huh, love?”

You shook your head, looking to Price for some sort of rescue, but what could he do? Your captain was driving as fast as he could out of enemy territory, and you were stuck in place, tumbling into an orgasm and suffering the pain of embarrassment in front of your whole squad. 

You moaned, trying to hold your breath, but your whole body shook as you came. Your hole was so wet and burning hot, and you could feel yourself gush as you clenched your muscles around nothing, wishing you had something… someone… inside of you. 

“There she is… good girl,” Ghost teased you, rubbing your back as you shuddered above him, rolling in your high. 

“Did she just…” Soap gaped.

You looked up at him, and even though your eyes begged for pity, you received none from him. He met you with a filthy grin,

“Come over here with me, lass. I’ll give you somethin’ to fuckin’ sit on.”

He reached for your arm, attempting to drag you over the care package, but Ghost jerked his hand away and wrapped his arm around your belly, forcing you to lean back against him, the tools in his vest digging into your flesh,

“She’s fine where she is, Sergeant. Aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

You felt hot tears stinging the corners of your eyes, and you squeezed them shut, whispering,

“I’m s-sorry…”

“Shh, love. Nothin’ to be sorry for. Can’t be fuckin’ helped. C’mon,” he snarled in your ear, his mask smelling like his menthols and sweat, “Beg me to help you. Beg for my fingers, princess.”

“Simon,” Price warned, watching your degradation unfold behind him. 

“Eyes on the bloody road, Cap,” Ghost chuckled, “Bumpy enough back here as it is.”

Gaz hadn’t stopped staring, and you watched in horror as he palmed his hard length over the rough denim of his jeans. 

You felt yourself building to another crescendo, the waves of your first orgasm swelling to threaten a second, easier now that you’d let down so much silky come, allowing your pussy to slip that much faster over Simon’s huge thigh. 

“Beg me, baby,” Ghost growled in your ear, “Beg me to fuckin’ touch you right here where they can all watch me make you come.”

“No…” You gasped, “I can’t… I’m not…”

“Not what? Not a dumb little slut? Oh, sweetheart. Yes, you are. You’re so fuckin’ wet it looks like you pissed yourself. I bet those pretty knickers are fuckin’ ruined, aren’t they?”

He grabbed you by the chin roughly, startling you, making your core clench tight, turned on by his cruel aggression as he almost shouted in your ear, 

“Aren’t they? Tell the fuckin’ truth. Tell it to him,” Ghost’s eyes turned toward the rear view mirror and you looked up at Price, pleading with him for forgiveness in your tone. You mumbled, 

“My panties… are…”

“He can’t hear you, baby.” Ghost held your face, forcing you to look at his captain in the eyes through the reflective glass.

“My panties are ruined, sir.”

“Is that so, Corporal?” Price asked in a low droll, and you saw him readjust himself in his pants before putting both fists back on the steering wheel, gripping it so tight that his knuckles turned as white as bone. 

“Better see for myself, yeah?” Ghost chuckled, unbuttoning your trousers and yanking down the fly. 

He reached inside and grabbed the fabric roughly in his hand and, with a strength that shocked you, he tore them right off of your body with a loud rip, breaking the elastic at the seam and slipping the scrap from under your lips and ass. He held it up for the entire truck to see, showing them how the gray cotton was stained dark from your wetness, how they gleamed in the light of the setting desert sun. 

Soap reached out and snatched them from his hand, and Ghost laughed out loud, watching Johnny shove them to his nose and moan out a breath of satisfaction. 

“Go on, then,” Ghost turned his attention back on you, “Beg me for it. I wanna hear you say please, sir. You got that, Corporal?”

He snaked his hand back down the front of your belly, barely touching your furry mons, resting his gloved finger just above the hood of your clit, touching you with a light, teasing pressure. 

You could feel the rough canvas against your soft pussy now, and the seam was giving you something to grind against, but it was nothing like the feel of a strong finger. You chased another orgasm, but it was just out of reach. You were humping him lewdly, at this point, rocking your hips back and forth with abandon, unable to stop yourself from chasing your second, hard burst of pleasure. 

You bit your lip, struggling with all your might, but you were failing to surge over that exaltant peak. You needed his help, but you didn’t want to beg for it. You couldn’t. You were too dismayed at your fallen state.

You looked at Gaz, hoping he could talk some sense into your lieutenant, but he was jerking himself off with a hand down his pants, watching you through hooded eyes. You turned your gaze to Soap who had your ripped panties in his hand and was using them to wet his own heavy cock, smearing your juices all over his ruddy head. 

Ghost’s grip tightened on your jaw, and he turned your head toward his passenger window, stopping you from looking at the other men, 

“They can’t help you, love. Just me. Now, use your fuckin’ words.”

“Please… touch me,” your voice was barely a whisper.

“Please, what?” He bit back.

“Please touch me, sir,” you whined, sick to your stomach at your own weakness.

“Tha’s a good girl,” he smiled.

He moved his fingers lower, shoving two of them between your lips, applying firm pressure to your clit. He didn’t even need to rub you. Your pussy started to come the moment it had his relief, and you cried out like a paid whore, keening into the hollow cab, rolling your hips against him, chasing your crashing orgasm. 

Then, he started to move his hand frantically, rubbing you back and forth, dragging out your bursting come even further than you thought was possible, turning one orgasm into two, back to back, a painful overstimulation, enough to make your body convulse from his effort.

“No, no… oh, fuck!” You screamed, trying to close your legs but his thigh was in the way, and all you could do was ride him. 

“Yeah, tha’s it, love. Give it to me. Come on me, you filthy fuckin’ slag. Let ‘em hear what I’m doin’ to this needy cunt.”

“Mmngh! Please… Ghost, please, oh, fuck…” 

“Listen to that sound, lads,” he grunted, commenting on the wet, milking noises your cunt was making under his hand, “Runnin’ like a hot tap.”

“Hurry up, LT,” Soap barked, pulling on his cock with your panties wrapped around the hard shaft like he was furious with it, “I’ll only be so patient.”

Ghost shook his head,

“Tsch, tsch, alright, Johnny. If you insist. C’mon, baby. Keep those legs spread f’me like a good girl, yeah?”

You felt him ruck down the back of your pants and shove them onto your legs, exposing your ass to the whole truck. Then, you felt the tell-tale drag of his cockhead over your folds, and before you could even think to protest, he was shoving himself inside of you, slipping through your slick without much resistance, your wet come helping guide his length all the way up to your womb. 

Once he had whet his prick down to its root in you, he used both hands to lift your hips and slam them back down, using you like a cocksleeve. He was so thick, but your body was primed and ready to take him, and you found yourself without words, only able to moan and whine as he filled you up. 

Gaz reached over, leaning out of his seat to grab your face, turning you towards him so that he could kiss you. You couldn’t even kiss him back, you were so mindless, and he spent most of his time licking your lips and sucking on your tongue as you whimpered for Ghost’s heavy dick, your body jerking up and down as he slammed you onto his steel-hard length repeatedly. 

“Does he feel good, babes?” Gaz asked you, sticking two of his fingers into your mouth and down your throat, making you choke on him until you started to instinctively suck and swallow against him, “Tha’s it. Pretty thing just needed somethin’ in her mouth, didn’t she?”

Every time you choked from Gaz’s hand in your throat, you clenched around Ghost’s cock, and he begged his sergeant for more,

“Choke her again, Garrick. Makes her so fuckin’ tight.”

Gaz laughed, full of mischief, and reached up with his other hand to pinch your nose. Then, inside of your mouth, he pressed his fingers in a downward motion over and over and over, making it feel like he was fucking your face with a throbbing dick, too big for you to breathe. You gagged, and then, when you tried to take a breath, you gagged again, your whole body spasming, fighting for air. You could only suck in short breaths when you opened your mouth wider, and Gaz held the relief of those moments from you for as long as he could. 

Finally, Ghost wrapped both of his hands around your torso and ripped you away from Gaz’s cruel hand, laying you against his chest and fucking his cock up into you from below, creating loud, pornographic slapping sounds that filled the truck. 

“Fuck!” Ghost groaned, “Gonna make me come, love. Say please, baby. C’mon. You can do it. Say it.”

“Dinnae think she’s still with us, LT. Fucked her brains right out of her head,” Soap chuckled. 

“She can do it,” Ghost insisted, “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re not gettin’ my come until I hear you beg for it.”

 You looked at his eyes in the mirror again, not recognizing yourself in such a mindless state of indulgence, drowning in pleasure and losing yourself to it. He was looking at you with such an intensity, you wanted to please him. You wanted to follow his orders. You wanted to show him that you could be such a good girl. 

“P-please…. Please! Ungh, please, sir… Give me your come. Please, sir… I need it. I need it. I need… mmnff-fuck!”

You felt his cock swelling, throbbing, and bursting with hot, sticky ropes of his cream, buried deep inside of your walls, coating the head of your womb as your pussy squeezed out another orgasm, milking him like a hungry mouth. He pulled out a bit only to ram himself back in, deeper this time, stretching to touch the end of your sheath, aching to plant his seed. 

“Fuck, finally,” Soap grunted, reaching over the crate with both hands this time to drag you from Ghost’s lap, “Couldnae wait much longer, LT.”

You felt Ghost’s cock slip from you, spilling his come down your leg, your pants sliding down to your boots as Soap dragged you into his lap.

“There she is,” Gaz smiled, returning to his efforts and shoving his fingers back down your throat, this time shifting them back and forth, massaging your tongue as he fucked you on his hand, “Suck them for me, baby. It’ll be my turn, soon.”

“Better enjoy the easy ride while you can, Corporal,” Price sneered, “You’ve got PT in my quarters as soon as we get back to base. Might take all night.”

As Johnny’s fat dick squeezed into your come-soaked pussy, you wanted to protest. You wanted to make some snide comment back, but your usual biting retorts were unavailable at the moment. You really were blissed out of your mind, and the only thing you could do was fuck and suck like the dumb little slut that you were.

If anyone comments on this OBVIOUSLY TAGGED shame kink fic that it was "too embarrassing to read!! huehueuhe"/"i tried but i couldnt do it. too cringe!", I'm gonna come to your house and shit in your shoes, you coward. Get the fuck off my page.

[oceannote]

Seventeen Reaction—Him saying 'I love you' for the first time. (Hyung Line)

Note from author: My lovessss, the feedback on my previous one was soooooo good that now I have 101 ideas for these, so here is a little something longer for you guys. Hope you will enjoy🤍🤍 Summary: OT13's saying I love you for the first time in their relationship. Warnings: Established relationship

1️⃣ S.Coups:

You were sick, the can’t-even-stand-up kind of sick, where everything from your head to your stomach throbbed in waves and the screen on your phone looked like a blurry mess of meaningless colours. You hadn’t expected your super busy idol boyfriend to drop everything, his packed schedule, rehearsals, meetings, and all … to show up at your apartment like a one-man rescue squad.

But here he was. Choi Seungcheol, dressed in sweats and a cap pulled low over his eyes, sitting cross-legged on your bed and literally spoon-feeding you warm chicken soup he made himself. You could smell the ginger and garlic, comforting, healing. And him? He looked a mix of focused, annoyed, and oddly soft.

“Yah, Cheol…” you murmured hoarsely, your voice cracking against your sore throat. “You don’t have to baby me this much, seriously.”

You tried to push his hand away, half-heartedly, barely lifting your arm, but the full spoon hovered stubbornly in front of your mouth.

“Eat. And stop giving me an attitude.” he said with no room for negotiation, nudging the spoon gently against your closed lips.

You gave in, swallowing the warm broth slowly, even though every muscle in your face protested. You sighed. “I feel like shit… and now I made you come all the way here. I shouldn’t have told you I was sick. That was dumb.”

That hit him the wrong way.

He dropped the spoon into the bowl with a loud clink and placed it on the nightstand, already cluttered with tissues, cough drops, and a half-empty bottle of water, with a bit more force than necessary.

His expression shifted.

“You really know how to piss me off when you talk like that.” His voice was low and sharp, eyes locked on yours, serious, unwavering. “Do you honestly think I’d just stay busy while knowing you’re lying here, dizzy, shaking, and not eating?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he leaned in closer, his elbow resting on the bed beside you, his face just inches from yours now.

“I love you.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper. “So much that the idea of you going through this alone makes my chest feel like it’s being crushed.”

You blinked, stunned, not by the words themselves, but by the weight of them. You knew he cared. You knew he was protective. But this? This was the first time he’d said it out loud.

He noticed your silence and continued, softer this time.

“Don’t act like you're a burden. You're not. You're mine, and I show up for the people I love. Especially you.”

You swallowed hard, eyes stinging, but it wasn’t the fever this time.

“…You love me?” You croaked.

He exhaled, reaching to tuck a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead. “Yeah. I thought that was obvious already.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “But I guess you needed to hear it, huh?”

You nodded, barely able to speak.

“Now shut up and eat your soup,” he said gently, bringing the spoon back to your lips. “I’m not leaving until you feel like yourself again.”

And you knew he meant it.

2️⃣ Jeonghan:

It was late evening, the golden hour long gone, and the park had grown quiet, lit only by the warm glow of scattered lampposts and the faint hum of distant city noise. Jeonghan’s arm rested comfortably over your shoulders, your fingers laced with his as you strolled slowly through the cool air.

“You’re so dumb,” you said between bursts of laughter, playfully bumping his side. “How could you even say that to him with a straight face?”

Jeonghan grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down at you like he was the proudest man alive.

“I just have a natural talent for persuasion,” he said with mock seriousness. “People believe me when I say things. It’s a gift.” Then, without warning, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, casual, but lingering just enough to make your heart flutter.

“For sureee,” you drawled sarcastically, rolling your eyes at his smug tone.

That’s when he smirked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Yah,” he said, bumping your shoulder gently. “You’d cry if I told you I loved you.”

Your laughter faded ever so slightly, the teasing grin still frozen on your face, but your heart… it skipped. Just once, but loud enough to echo in your ears.

You looked up at him, intending to fire back with another sarcastic remark, but stopped short when you saw his expression change. His gaze locked with yours, and for a moment, something shifted in the air between you, like the pause before a song’s final note.

He stopped walking, hand still in yours. His smile faltered just a little. “I mean…” he began, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. His eyes flicked away for the briefest second before returning to yours. “I do.”

You blinked. “What?”

A nervous chuckle escaped him, something rare, something genuine. His free hand moved up to scratch the back of his neck, his signature flustered tell.

“I do love you,” he repeated, this time without teasing, without the playful glint. “No games. No drama.” He swallowed, the moment hitting him as hard as it did you. “I really, really love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. But it was real. And for someone like Jeonghan, always toeing the line between mischief and charm, this was him being completely unguarded.

You stood there in the quiet path, the world briefly narrowing to just the two of you. His fingers tightened ever so slightly around yours, as if silently asking you to say something, anything, but also okay if you didn’t.

Because for once, he wasn’t trying to win. He was just trying to be honest.

3️⃣ Joshua:

You arrived at your boyfriend’s apartment in a quiet rush, breath shallow with anticipation. The hours felt like sand slipping through your fingers, only a few remained before Joshua would fly to the States for a music video shoot. You let yourself in with the spare key he’d shyly handed to you just under two weeks ago, his thumb brushing your palm when he placed it there, murmuring, "Use it whenever you need me."

You stepped into the apartment expecting him to greet you like always, waiting barefoot by the hallway with that soft smile and open arms. But this time… nothing. The space was still. Quiet. Almost unusually so. Just a warm, dim light spilled from the living room, casting long, gentle shadows on the walls.

“Joshua? Babe?” you called out, slipping off your shoes, your voice echoing a little too much in the silence. “Are you here?”

Still no answer. You padded softly toward the light.

What met you in the living room stopped you cold.

There, on the couch, sat a beautiful handcrafted wooden basket, overflowing with items that tugged immediately at your memory. Around fifteen or twenty balloons floated gently above, tethered by strings, each string held a small, square photo clipped delicately onto it. Pictures of you and Joshua: laughing over street food, asleep on his shoulder during a movie night, holding hands in the reflection of a cafe window.

You felt your breath catch.

Your feet moved toward the couch without thought, drawn in by the overwhelming intimacy of it all. Your fingers hovered over the contents of the basket, your chest tightening as you noticed your favorite moisturizer, your go-to ramen flavor, your comfort tea blend, even a fresh tin of ceremonial matcha complete with a bamboo whisking set, the exact one you’d once pointed out in a shop window, only half-joking.

You were so wrapped up in it, you didn’t even hear the front door open. Or the soft steps behind you. Not until a pair of arms slid gently around your waist from behind, pulling you into a familiar warmth.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, your hand clutching your chest. “You scared me.”

You turned to find Joshua’s face, all dimples and starlight, that boyish grin lighting him up from the inside out.

“Sorry,” he murmured, brushing a kiss over your temple. “You like it?”

You looked at him, eyes wide and full. “Joshua, it’s… it’s beautiful. But what is all this?”

He took your hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles before turning it over and holding it between both of his.

“I know I’ll be gone for a while,” he said softly, thumb grazing over your skin, “and I hated the thought of you missing me and feeling lonely here… so I wanted to make sure that if you stayed, you’d still feel like you. Like this place was still warm, still full of your little comforts.”

He motioned toward the basket. “I remembered all the stuff you love. Even the tea you drink when you’re stressed… I wanted you to feel like home was still here.”

You blinked, heart swelling so full you didn’t know where to put the feeling. “Babe, this is too much. I can’t just…”

“Don’t even start,” he said, waving a hand in the air with a smile. Then, slowly, his expression softened. His voice dropped, quiet and steady, his eyes fixed on yours like he was afraid to miss a single second of your reaction.

“I really do love you, Y/N,” he said.

Time stopped.

“I love you. And I want you to feel at home in my home… because that’s exactly what you’ve made me feel since the day we met.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. The air between you shimmered, delicate and fragile and impossibly real.

4️⃣ Jun:

The flight had just taken off toward Shenzhen, and to your surprise, the cabin was quieter than expected. A handful of other passengers occupied the business class section, which gave the whole space a soft, calm energy. You weren’t complaining. Between the plush seats, warm lighting, and Jun sitting just one divider away, things felt oddly peaceful, like a hidden pocket of the world that belonged just to the two of you.

Getting here, though? Chaos.

Dating Jun for the past three months had been more than anything you could’ve dreamed of, sweet, thrilling, a little surreal. But it also meant dealing with the quiet storm of secrecy that came with being in a relationship with someone constantly under public scrutiny. Getting through the airport without being recognized had taken careful planning, disguises, separate entrances, decoy staff. Honestly, it had felt more like a spy movie than a trip for a photoshoot.

“You good, babe?” Jun’s voice broke through the silence, soft and laced with concern. It came from just beyond the seat divider between you.

You pressed the button that lowered the partition and turned to look at him. His eyes met yours immediately, warm and attentive.

“Yeah, of course,” you replied with a reassuring smile, reaching across the small space to squeeze his hand. “Just… a little nervous to meet your parents.”

Jun winced playfully, lips pulling into a tight smile. “Ahh, yeah. Sorry about that. I know it’s a lot, especially this early on. But I didn’t want you just waiting around in a hotel room while I was off doing the shoot. It didn’t feel right.”

Your smile softened. “I don’t mind, really. I’d wait for you for ages if you needed me to.”

Something flickered across his face at your words, a look that passed so quickly you almost missed it. It wasn’t surprise, exactly. More like something in him had been seen, understood, and it showed in the way his gaze suddenly dropped, shy and thoughtful.

He didn’t say anything. Just gently brought your hand to his lap and held it there, fingers laced.

About an hour drifted by. You both spoke in that quiet, easy rhythm that only people truly comfortable with each other can fall into. Talk of schedules, weekend cravings, a practice video on Jun’s phone that had you laughing until your sides hurt. Sometimes you talked. Sometimes you didn’t. But even in silence, your fingers stayed intertwined over the seat divider, a little rebellion against the world that had made you hide.

“Thank you again, babe.” Jun said suddenly, voice low, as he lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles.

“For what?” you asked, eyes scanning his expression.

“For coming with me on this trip,” he said, his eyes meeting yours in that full, sincere way of his. “I know you had to move a lot of things around. Work. Meetings. Everything.”

“Jun…” You shook your head gently, your thumb brushing against the back of his hand. “You don’t have to thank me. If anything, I should be the one thanking you, for letting me be part of this side of your life.”

He was quiet for a moment. The cabin lights dimmed slightly as if giving the moment a stage.

Jun shifted a little in his seat and looked down, then back at you, this time more hesitant, more exposed.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately,” he started, voice softer than before. “And I don’t want to freak you out or rush anything but… I love you.”

The words hung in the air, not loud, but clear, like he’d been holding them in for a while, trying to find the exact right moment, and finally realizing that maybe there was no such thing. Just the right person.

Your breath caught slightly. Not because you hadn’t felt it too, you had, but because hearing it out loud from someone like Jun, who thought so deeply before he spoke, who held things close to his chest… It meant something.

Your heart was racing, but your voice came out steady.

“Jun…” you whispered, eyes stinging in the best way. “I love you too.”

The smile that bloomed across his face wasn’t his usual stage grin, it was something softer, more vulnerable. He brought your hand up again, this time pressing a kiss to your palm, then resting it against his cheek.

“Good,” he murmured with a small, breathy laugh. “That’s… really good.”

5️⃣ Hoshi:

Hoshi was driving you home after your date night, the car still echoing with laughter and the occasional sarcastic jab as you both recounted your chaotic escape room adventure.

“Yah, you should be thanking me,” he said, eyes flicking between the road and you, a wide grin stretched across his face. “If it weren’t for me, we’d still be in there, dusting the floor with our jackets and sniffing around for clues like detectives in a bad drama.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing. “Thank you?! Hoshi, the clue was right in front of your face and you still managed to walk past it three times.”

He gasped dramatically. “Okay, wow. There were like, 500 things on that board. How was I supposed to know it was that one weird riddle we needed?” he replied, turning the wheel with a flourish as he entered your street.

“You literally could have all the answers handed to you and still miss the most obvious one,” you said, smirking as you turned your head to face him.

He glanced over, already looking at you. But this time, the usual teasing glint in his eyes was replaced with something softer, a quiet kind of intensity. His gaze lingered, and for a second, everything in the car went still. The playful air settled into something warm. Familiar. Different.

Then the car slowed to a stop in front of your apartment building.

“Well, here you are, miss,” he said, slipping back into character with a mock-posh accent. “Back at your royal quarters.”

You smiled, unbuckling your seatbelt. “Thanks, babe,” you said, leaning across the console with a playful pout.

Hoshi met you halfway, lips brushing yours in a kiss that was supposed to be brief… but the moment it ended, he was already chasing another.

“One more,” he murmured, catching your lips again, and again. Each kiss lingered a little longer, held a little more.

You laughed against his mouth. “Hosh, I really have to go,” you said breathlessly, pulling back just enough to reach for the door handle.

But before you could step out, his hand gently grabbed yours.

“Wait,” he said, and this time, his voice had none of the usual flair or teasing. It was just him, raw, unfiltered.

“I love you. Like… seriously. I really love you.”

Your heart stopped for a beat, caught between the familiar warmth of his laughter and the weight of his words.

He blinked, suddenly sheepish but not backing down. “I didn’t plan to say it like that. But I’ve been thinking it for a while. Tonight just… made it impossible not to say it.”

You stared at him, a soft smile forming on your lips as your fingers squeezed his gently.

“I love you too,” you whispered.

His face lit up in a way that made your chest ache, like he had just won a prize he didn’t even realize he was scared of losing.

“Now,” he grinned, confidence back in full force, “that was the real clue I’ve been looking for all night.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him again, just once more, before stepping out of the car with your heart full.

6️⃣ Wonwoo:

“Maybe if we put the pillows up there instead of at the bottom of the blanket, we could see the stars better,” Wonwoo says, crouching beside the blanket he just spread across the park hill. He points up toward the slope behind your heads like he’s mapping out constellations.

You glance over at him, amused. “The stars will look the same from every angle, babe,” you reply, your hands busy digging through his backpack for the snacks you both brought.

“Yes,” he hums thoughtfully, already settling into position with his head tilted downhill, “but we’ll be upside down and you’ll get nauseous. You always do.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “I don’t always.”

“Mm. You do,” he says with a quiet grin, the kind that makes his cheekbones rise and his eyes nearly disappear. He pats the space next to him without looking.

You sigh with a smile, give in, and lie down beside him, head resting against his chest, your leg brushing against his. His arm moves naturally around your shoulders, and his fingers find yours without needing to search.

The breeze flows gently through the rustling trees around the edge of the park, cool but not cold. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounds and then fades away, leaving you both in the stillness again. The only thing you hear clearly now is the soft rhythm of his heartbeat, pulsing under your cheek. It’s faster than usual.

“You okay?” you murmur, eyes on the stars that pepper the sky like salt on black velvet.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s a beat of hesitation in his voice. “Why?”

“You just feel… tense.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his gaze on you, his eyes watching the way your fingers absentmindedly trace along his knuckles. But you don’t press. You know him well enough by now to let him take his time.

A long sigh leaves his chest, and then his voice comes low, quieter than usual. “You know… since my mom passed, I’ve found myself looking up more. At the stars, I mean. It’s strange. I never really noticed them before.”

You squeeze his hand gently, your voice soft but steady. “She’s up there now. I imagine there’s some peace in that. Knowing she’s watching over you.”

He nods against the blanket. “Yeah. It’s peaceful… but also kind of lonely.”

You don’t rush to fill the silence that follows. It stretches between you like a bridge, not uncomfortable, just open. His fingers tighten slightly around yours, then loosen again.

Then, after another quiet breath, he says it, like it’s been sitting behind his ribs for months, waiting for the right moment to break free.

“I don’t say things like this lightly,” he starts, and you can feel his chest rise with the effort. “But I love you.”

It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t sit up or turn to look at you. He just says it into the air, like a truth he no longer wants to hold inside.

You blink up at the stars, heart catching in your throat.

And then, slowly, you tilt your face up toward his.

“I know,” you whisper. “I love you too.”

He smiles down at you, not with his lips, but with his eyes, the kind of smile that lingers even after you’ve stopped looking.

7️⃣ Woozi:

You’d been dating Woozi for a little over three months now, three full months of proudly carrying the “girlfriend” title like a badge of honour. In that time, you’d spent more hours curled up in his studio than you had at your own family’s home in the past three years. It had almost become routine: late nights on the cold leather couch, your legs tucked under you, scrolling on your phone while he hovered over his laptop or piano, trying to push through creative blocks. You never minded. Being near him, even in silence, always felt right.

Still, there was one thing you couldn’t help but notice.

Woozi had never said “I love you.” Not once.

You didn’t doubt his feelings. Not even a little. He showed them in his own quiet, thoughtful way, pulling you closer when you shivered, placing your favourite snack on the desk without a word, walking you home even if it meant doubling back in the freezing cold. He showed love, but never spoke it.

And for a man who pours his emotions into lyrics and sings them before thousands of screaming fans, he was… oddly guarded when it came to saying anything about how he felt.

That’s when it hit you again, like it always did, as you sat back in your usual spot, legs folded, scrolling absently on your phone while Woozi worked silently, fingers dancing over his MIDI keyboard.

Then, out of the blue:

“Should we get some food?”

His voice was soft but cut through the quiet of the room like a snare hit. You blinked, looking up from your phone.

“I mean, I’m not really hungry,” you replied, eyes still half-focused on your screen, “but if you want something, I can go grab it for you.”

There was a pause.

“…You’d go get food just for me?” he asked, a subtle smile in his voice.

You glanced up to find him fully turned toward you, one eyebrow lifted, arms resting casually over the back of his chair.

“Yeah?” you said with a soft laugh. “Why’s that so surprising?”

He leaned back in his chair slightly, squinting at you as if trying to read something between the lines of your face.

“I don’t know. It’s just…” he trailed off, thoughtful. “Why would you go out of your way like that? Just for me.”

You tilted your head. “Because you’re my boyfriend? And I deeply care about you? Isn’t that… kinda how it works?”

He laughed under his breath, but there was something different in his expression now. Not amusement. Something softer. Maybe even a little vulnerable.

Woozi turned fully toward you and rested his elbows on his knees, fidgeting slightly with the hem of his sleeve, a rare crack in his normally composed demeanour.

“I know I’m not the best at saying things,” he admitted quietly. “You probably noticed that by now.”

You gave him a gentle look. “I mean… it’s crossed my mind.”

He exhaled a small chuckle. “Figures.”

There was a stretch of silence then, not awkward, but full. Like he was weighing every word carefully before letting it go. His fingers tapped against the armrest, eyes flicking to you and back down to the floor.

Then:

“I think about it a lot. Saying it. But then I overthink it, and it gets stuck in my throat.”

You blinked slowly, your heart catching a little in your chest.

“Saying what?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. No smirk, no guardedness. Just him.

“That I love you.”

The room felt suddenly too still. Like the world paused to let those words echo.

You sat there, stunned for a moment, warmth rising in your chest and blooming all the way to your fingertips.

“I… I wasn’t waiting for you to say it,” you whispered, smiling gently. “But I’m really happy you did.”

Woozi gave a tiny, almost embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I should’ve said it earlier,” he murmured. “You’ve been here for me more times than I can count, and I… I just didn’t want to say it before I was sure I meant it the way you deserve to hear it.”

You stood from the couch and walked over to him, wrapping your arms gently around his shoulders as he stayed seated. His hands instinctively found your waist.

“You always show it,” you said against his hair. “But… it means a lot to hear it too.”

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, cheeks faintly flushed.

“Then I’ll start saying it more,” he said with a quiet smile.

“I love you.”

This time, it came easier.

And you knew he meant every word.

[midnightquips]

What We Never Were

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth. She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.

Themes: fake dating, bestfriends to lovers, pining, slow burn, fluff

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

💫 What We Never Were Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1 

Part I - The One He Waits For

To say Jake was excited would be an understatement.

His childhood best friend of 27 years was visiting—you were visiting—and he couldn’t wait to introduce you to the Dagger Squad. It had been too long. Seven months, ten days, eight hours to be exact. But who’s counting?

Jake was. Every damn second.

He stood near the bar at the Hard Deck, posture loose but eyes locked on the entrance. He’d offered to pick you up, but you’d insisted on taking a cab—“I don’t want to be a bother, Jake.” As if you could ever be.

He wasn’t sure why he was nervous. Okay, maybe he was. You hated bars like this—packed, loud, overrun by sweaty Navy guys trying to flex their wings. A voice in his head kept whispering that you might back out. You never liked being the center of attention, and this place guaranteed it. Still, you’d promised.

And you always kept your word.

“So what’s this friend like, Bagman?” Bradley asked, raising an eyebrow as he nursed his beer.

Jake didn’t like that tone one bit.

“Don’t even think about it, Rooster.”

Phoenix leaned in with a smirk. “It’s the girl on his Instagram.”

Rooster looked genuinely confused. “There is no girl on his Instagram.”

“Scroll waaaaay down,” Phoenix drawled.

Rooster did just that, flicking through Jake’s feed until he landed on a sunlit picture taken three years ago. You were laughing mid-spin, hair flying, a slice of pizza in one hand. The post had no caption. It didn’t need one.

“She’s hot,” Rooster said, clicking on your profile—private. Of course. “How’d you keep a friend like that?”

Jake opened his mouth to warn him but—

“Request sent,” Rooster announced with a grin.

Jake groaned. “You’re a menace.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “He’s put an imaginary shield around her.”

“More like an imaginary white picket fence,” Javy added with a snort.

“It’s not like that, bet—” But Jake didn’t finish.

Because the door opened.

And his world fucking stopped.

He didn’t even say anything—just moved. Like gravity had shifted and you were the center of it. His boots thudded against the hardwood floor as he crossed the bar, fast, focused, chest tight.

You were standing just inside, scanning the room, a little hesitant.

Hair pulled into a low bun. A soft pink sleeveless dress hugging your curves, split high on your thigh. You looked like something out of a daydream. Familiar, but more radiant than he remembered. His heart thudded too hard in his chest, and he suddenly hated how fast it was beating.

Friends don’t feel like this about friends, he reminded himself.

“Darlin’, you made it,” he murmured, slipping his arms around your waist, pulling you in close, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

You groaned. “Jake, you know I hate the pet names.”

You still hugged him back.

He grinned, unapologetic. “I’m never gonna stop. If the shoe fits.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still gripping your waist. “I thought you were gonna back out on me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m nothing if not a woman of my word, Seresin. Even if it means squeezing into a packed, sweltering bar in the middle of a beach town filled with your coworkers.”

He whipped out a napkin from his pocket like a magician and dabbed the light sheen of sweat from your forehead.

You batted his hand away. “Ugh, stop it, Dad.”

He clicked his tongue with mock irritation but did it again anyway—just to annoy you. You sighed dramatically and let him finish, arms dropping to your sides in exaggerated defeat.

He smiled.

You were here. And for the first time in a long time, he felt like himself.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for your hand. “I can’t wait for you to meet my friends.”

[writingdumpster]

secret wife

pairing: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

warnings: none, all fluff

summary: When you go to pick up Bob at the base the dagger squad finds out that Bob's been keeping a wife from them.

word count: 1k

A/N: Thanks for 3k followers!

Bob pulled his phone out of his locker as the guys all piled into the locker room behind him. There was a text from you awaiting Bob. 

I’m waiting in the lobby for you. Don’t take too long. xoxo

“Did you guys see the hot girl in the lobby?” Coyote asked as he walked into the locker room. Bob smirked to himself as he started to take off his flight suit. 

“Who do you think she is?” Fanboy pondered. 

“I was gonna find out after we got changed,” Rooster said. 

“Don’t bother. Bet she’s a recruit’s girlfriend,” Payback suggested. 

“Who do you think?” Asked Hangman. 

“I don’t know,” Payback responded. “But I know what a woman in love looks like.”

“I don’t believe that,” Hangman teased Payback. 

“I’m married,” Payback pointed out. 

“So you tell us, but we’ve never seen your wife,” Rooster taunted. 

“Her picture is on my dash,” Payback said. 

“Could be anyone,” Fanboy joined in. 

“You’ve met her, Fanboy,” Payback said. 

“You can’t prove anything,” Fanboy teased. Bob was quietly enjoying the conversation as he grabbed the rest of his things. He slipped his bag over his shoulders and closed his locker. 

“See y’all tomorrow,” Bob said as he headed out to meet you in the lobby. When he rounded the corner his smile widened as you stood to greet him. You were wearing paint stained jeans and an old t-shirt that used to be Bob’s, but it had been years since that was true. It was yours now, just like he was. 

“You changed out of the flight suit,” you said forlornly when Bob walked up. 

“It was all sweaty, angel,” Bob told you.

“I wanted to take it off you though,” you whined. Bob gave you a cheeky grin. 

“You want me to put on the white uniform when I get home?” Bob offered. He leaned down and kissed you tenderly before you could answer. 

“The hot girl is your girlfriend?” Hangman practically shouted from behind Bob. He turned over his shoulder to see the whole squad watching the two of you. 

“Wife, actually,” Bob said. “Been meaning to introduce ya.” 

“You didn’t say you have a wife!” Phoenix exclaimed. 

“Didn’t come up,” Bob said. “We’ve only known each other for a month.” Everyone gawked at Bob, thinking a month was plenty of time to let your friends know you have a wife. 

“He likes to keep me protected from his work,” you piped in when Bob failed to explain himself. Bob wound his fingers between yours. He lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. 

“What’s your name?” Phoenix asked. 

“Y/N,” you told her. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Phoenix murmured. You could hear in her voice that she felt betrayed by Bob. You knew he wouldn’t notice though. You wanted to stop him from hurting her more.

“I keep my ring on my dog tags,” Bob said, pulling them up from his shirt to prove it. 

“I thought it was your dad’s,” Phoenix told him. “You always talk about him.” 

“Bobby’s told me a lot about you,” you interjected. “I was hoping you would have dinner with us. I’d like to make the pilot who saved my Bobby a good meal.” Phoenix met your eye and you gave her a warm smile. She gave a tiny nod and smiled back. 

“I’d love to, ma’am,” Phoenix said. 

“I’m her wingman,” Rooster called. “Could say that I kept Bobby safe too.” Bob blushed brightly. 

“Payback and I were on the mission,” Fanboy said.

“I saved Bob’s wingman,” Hangman added. You looked up at Bob in question. 

“They know you’re the one who makes my lunches now,” Bob said. You giggled. You always made Bob his lunches. When he was deployed he didn’t get good home cooked meals, so you made sure he had them three times a day when he was home with you. 

“Well, some of you might have to sit on the couch, but I’d be happy to cook for my husband’s friends,” you said.  

“I can’t believe that baby on board has a wife and you don’t even have a girlfriend,” Hangman teased Rooster. 

“You don’t either,” Rooster spit back. 

“No woman can hold me down,” Hangman joked. 

“He’s the one your sister would like, right?” You asked, trying to keep your voice quiet. 

“You’ve got a sister?” Hangman called out. 

“Yeah,” Bob said. “And I’m quite sure she could hold you down if she wanted.” Hangman’s eyes widened. You chuckled. 

“You’re going to set him up with your sister?” Rooster complained. 

“That’s y/n’s scheme. She wants my sister to live near us,” Bob explained. 

“She’s funnier than you, Bobby,” you said. 

“You do spend a lot of time laughing at me together,” Bob teased. He didn’t really mind though. Everytime he had come home to find you and his sister in tears from laughing so hard it had made him even more sure that he’d chosen the right person to marry. 

“Well, when do I get to meet her?” Hangman asked, a wide smirk on his face. 

“I’ll have her come over for dinner with all of you,” you said. “Next Sunday at 6:00. Don’t be late,” you told them. Then you tugged on Bob’s hand, signaling you wanted to go home. 

“Bye, guys,” Bob said. “See ya in the morning.” With that he slung his arm around your shoulders and led you out of the base. 

“I can’t believe Bob didn’t tell us he has a wife,” Payback muttered. 

“I can’t believe Hangman’s the first choice for his sister,” Fanboy said. 

“Why not? You think Bob wants to be related to any of you?” Hangman asked proudly. Rooster snorted. 

“Yes. I would have thought he’d want any of us before you.”  

A/N: There is a part two of the dinner now available

[theseinfernalangels]

Fragile — Sawyer Henrick ❤️‍🩹

Synopsis: Mender!Reader comes back from RSC worse off than the rest of your squad. Sawyer is heartbroken and takes care of you.

A/N: I pumped this one out surprisingly fast! I may post my OC reference sheet after this for more context, since there are references to characters you haven’t met yet, such as Reader’s dragon, Cridhe, and Eden (Liam’s girl!). We’ll see how it turns out! I might even do a part two for this hehe.

Includes: blood, injuries, insecurities, and anxiety. Oh, yeah; don’t forget the dragon telepathy, fluff, hurt-comfort, slight angst. Takes place during Iron Flame.

Sawyer knew something was up when you didn’t meet him outside the Gathering Hall. 

It wasn’t like you to be late for…Well, anything, much less seeing him. He certainly wasn’t an anxious person, but it made his fingers twitch with nervousness when he didn’t spot your cautious frame lingering close to the sides of the hall. He waited anyway. He’d always wait for you.

At the ten-minute mark, his thoughts began to race. He could understand if you stayed behind for a word with one of your professors – you were a genius, anyway. Perhaps you could have gone off-track to help another cadet in need of extra notes. That was just in your nature (even though Sawyer and Ridoc had tried to convince you to charge a couple coins for it – you’d be swimming in gold by now). Maybe you were in the infirmary with Eden. The two of you studied together, after all.

But no. Another fifteen minutes slowly ticked by, and his reasonable side began to veer off a little. Maybe you’d been injured somehow. Maybe the other cadets had finally taken advantage of your anxious, gentle nature and were in the middle of ganging up on you. Maybe they’d finally gotten you – the Marked cadets who weren’t too fond of you for what your parents, Navarrian military legends, had done to them.

He heard Sliseag’s chiding voice resound in the back of his mind. Easy there, Ashling, he soothed. Do not worry too much. She is exactly where she is meant to be.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I would beg to differ, he replied, trying to calm his racing heart. If she was in the right place, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.

The dragon snorted. Really, now? he mused. Look up.

Sawyer had just turned, his palms sweaty, when he saw a figure moving sluggishly in his peripherals. He squinted, then froze, the sight making his blood run cold.

You finally showed up…But you looked awful.

Damaged was the best word to describe it. Your hair was messy, your bangs falling in your face in a way it only looked after an intense flight. One of your eyes was swollen shut, and the rest of your face was battered. Your bottom lip was split and bleeding, the blood oozing out sluggishly and staining your chin crimson. That was only your face; the rest of your body was probably just as bruised and injured.

Go, he heard Sliseag urge. Go to her now. She needs you, Ashling.

He broke out of his trance; he couldn’t run fast enough to get to you, his legs moving on what felt like autopilot. Gods. What did they do to you?

You held up a hand when he neared you. “I’m fine,” you whispered hoarsely. “I…It looks worse than it feels.”

Sliseag made a noise of disapproval in his mind. I doubt that.

Sawyer, in that moment, felt almost scared to touch you, as if putting his fingers anywhere would shatter you like glass.

Finally, he found his voice. “What the hell happened to you?” he murmured, wincing at how sick he sounded. His eyes traced your face; you still looked gorgeous as ever, but just looking at your good eye made his heart wrench.

“I,” you began, faltering as you fell forward a bit. Sawyer caught you with ease, splaying a hand on your back as you leaned into him. “I RSC again. I…I didn’t expect for it to be so…awful this time.”

Again?

You looked down, and Sawyer made a soft sound of protest as he lifted your chin back up to face his. Skies above, he thought. He’d seen you injured before, obviously – there was no avoiding that at Basgiath. But this…

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, ghosting a kiss on your forehead. “I’m so sorry. You…You haven’t been to the infirmary yet?”

You shook your head. “No. I saw a clock and remembered we agreed to meet up. Wanted to see you first.”

Oh, he thought. Damn you, you sweet, sweet girl. Damn you and your loveliness. 

He sighed quietly, glancing at the sky. It was getting close to dusk, which meant that the infirmary was probably winding down for the day. His gaze flitted back down to your trembling form, his heart aching.

“Do you want to go?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound pushy. “I’m sure your friend is still there; she’d be willing–”

His voice trailed off when you vehemently shook your head. “No,” you said softly. “Not now. Can we…Can we just go to yours?”

At that moment, with you looking up at him hopefully, your good eye wide but exhausted, Sawyer would have given you just about anything. 

He nodded, perhaps a little too hard. “Of course, darling. Just hold on to me. I don’t trust your legs right now.”

The pained smile you gave him twists his heart. “I don’t, either.”

It took a little while, but the two of you finally made it to his dorm in relative silence, save for the pained gasps and whimpers that occasionally fell from your swollen lips. The whole time, Sawyer was clenching his teeth. It didn’t matter that RSC was something that happened to everyone – not even his injuries hadn’t looked this rough, nor did he have to do it a second fucking time.

He sat you down gently on his bed. He didn’t want to leave you, not when you looked that beat up, but he pushed that aside to grab the little box of medical supplies you kept in his room for when he was beat up after sparring. If you weren’t huddled beside him looking more fragile than he’d ever seen you, he would have made a joke about it.

You’d already removed your jacket and shirt, leaving your torso bare save for the bindings you always wore. Sawyer relaxed for a moment before he took note of your ribs, black and blue bruising rippling up both sides. Save for that, though, and other bruising and – Gods forbid, handprints – you honestly didn’t look too terrible.

He brushed your bangs away from your face, tilting your chin up so he could assess the damage. “Have you tried mending yourself?”

You sighed, sounding almost disappointed in yourself. “No. I’ve never tried that, but it won’t work, anyway. I tried to mend Anya’s arm after it got dislocated, but it didn’t work. I’m either terrible with my signet, or the injury was too bad, or–”

He cut you off before you could delve deeper into self-doubt. “No,” he assured you, taking a wet rag and wiping the blood on your chin. “They tampered with your water again, I guess.”

Your lips formed an O in realization. “So that’s why I couldn’t feel Cridhe,” you mumbled, hissing in pain once he actually touched your lip. “I got worried there for a while.”

He nodded, ducking his head lower to check the area around your neck. There was an angry red line around your throat; someone had tried to choke you, he assumed. Bastard.

“I know,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “When they took me, the serum didn’t wear off for about a day. I thought Sliseag randomly chose to hate me or something.”

The aforementioned scoffed softly. As if, Ashling, he muttered. I didn’t choose you just to leave you behind.

The words warmed Sawyer’s heart long enough that your silence didn’t bother him for the next few minutes while he looked you over.

He only paused when you spoke softly, your voice faint. “I…think I have a concussion,” you mumble. “The light hurts, and I’m dizzy.”

A tight-lipped smile fought its way onto Sawyer’s face. “Trust you to diagnose yourself barely an hour after it happens.”

You don’t respond, prompting Sawyer to lean back up and look into your eyes. Sure enough, your pupils were unfocused and exhausted. Smart girl.

He opened his mouth to make another little quip, only for it to die on his tongue once you leaned into his side.

“Tired?” he prompted you gently. A soft hum from you confirmed his suspicions, and he hesitated for a moment before relenting. He could carry you to Nolan or a healer in the morning, after you slept the night away.

He looked away for a moment, and you had somehow managed to snag a random shirt off his floor and slip it on. His eyes softened, and he reached over to help you out of your pants and under his covers. You looked so…unusually small in his bed, curled in on yourself like a flower without the sun to warm it. He didn’t even bother to change out of his uniform, opting to kick off his boots and leave himself in his undershirt as he settled next to you. You slowly unfurled from your tense position and rested your head on his chest. Pure bliss.

You both lay there in silence for what seemed like hours before Sawyer found his voice again, feeling weirdly sentimental. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you don’t want to talk about it.”

Your silence was an answer enough.

“Thought so,” he murmured. “That’s okay. We don’t have to. Just…I hope you know that I’ll never let that happen to you when the time comes. Whoever it was, they’d have to kill me first to get to you.”

More silence from you. Sawyer thought for a moment that you fell asleep, but his eyes popped back open once he heard your weary voice.

“Sawyer?”

“Yes, darling?”

A beat. Two beats.

“Thank you for this. I didn’t want to be anywhere besides here.”

…You don’t have to thank me, he thinks, a pained smile tugging at his mouth. I’d do anything and more for you, anyway.

[nerdycheol]

Courtside Hearts || C.S.C

Pairing | highschool!seungcheol x fem!reader

wc:732 words. Note: My first ever fic. Been meaning to write something about this gose seungcheol.

Feedbacks & reblogs are appreciated. English is not my first language.

You stood near the bleachers, the air thick with excitement. The loud squeak of sneakers against the polished gym floor mixed with the roar of the crowd, creating a rhythm that echoed in your chest. Boys howled, whistles pierced the air, and basketballs bounced in a constant drumbeat, heightening the electric atmosphere.

Seungcheol’s team was neck-and-neck with the opposing squad, every point hard-earned, every second fought for. Your eyes were glued to him—the way he moved, the determination etched on his face as sweat dripped from his brow. He was commanding on the court, his focus sharp as he signaled plays and dodged defenders.

When he was at the free throw line, your heart pounded so hard you could hear it in your ears. You crossed your fingers, muttering under your breath, “Come on, Cheol. You’ve got this.”

A girl next to you leaned closer, her grin teasing. “Your boyfriend’s good, but the guy on the other team’s totally stealing the show.”

You raised an eyebrow, shooting her a smirk without breaking your gaze from the court. “What are you talking about? My man’s the star.” Your voice brimmed with confidence, a pride you couldn’t mask even if you tried.

He dribbled twice, his hands steady despite the pressure. As the crowd quieted, you noticed the subtle twitch of his lips—a barely-there smile, almost as if he knew you were watching. Then, he bent his knees, flicked his wrist, and let the ball fly.

Time seemed to stretch as the ball arced through the air. The crowd held its breath—and then, swoosh. The ball swished through the net, clean and perfect. The gym erupted in cheers, and you threw your hands up, beaming with pride.

“That’s ma man!” you shouted, your voice cutting through the noise. For a fleeting second, Seungcheol’s eyes found yours amidst the chaos. He gave you a shy smile, his cheeks tinged red, but the sparkle in his eyes told you he heard you.

Seungcheol’s team won, and your excitement had you practically skipping toward the locker room. You could already picture him, sweaty but smiling, maybe even making a little joke with his teammates. You pushed the door open and found him sitting on the bench, his uniform sticking to his skin, but his grin as bright as ever. His teammates were laughing and nudging him with knowing smirks.

"Look who’s here," Jeonghan called out, his voice carrying over the chatter. “Your girlfriend’s here to see you, huh, Seungcheol?”

You felt your cheeks warm at their teasing, but you weren’t bothered. All you wanted was him. You stepped forward, eyes locked on his, and before anyone could say another word, he stood and closed the distance between you, pulling you into a quick kiss, his lips soft but full of meaning.

“Did you see that last shot?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look at you with that confident, playful glint in his eyes.

“Of course I did,” you grinned, stealing another kiss, this one lingering a little longer. You pulled away, your voice soft as you whispered, “You were amazing out there.”

Seungcheol’s teammates laughed and made a few more teasing comments, but he didn’t care. Not when you were in his arms. He leaned down, his lips brushing yours again before pulling away with a smile. “I’m glad you think so.” His eyes flickered over to his friends, who were still laughing, but he didn’t give them a second thought. His attention was all on you now.

“They’re gonna keep teasing me, aren’t they?” he murmured with a smirk.

You laughed, your hands resting on his chest. “Let them. They don’t understand that I’m the luckiest one here.”

With that, he kissed you again, a soft but definite press of his lips against yours, and for that moment, the rest of the world disappeared. Just the two of you, locked in your own little bubble, despite the teasing laughter and playful whistles echoing from his teammates.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered between kisses, his smile never fading.

[ccwritesninja]

Show you- Genma

A/N: Genma girlies come get ya'lls juice!!!!

CW: Smut, porn with plot, Minors DNI 18+

Summary: You're feeling insecure after receiving a new scar on a mission. Genma is determined to show you that he still finds you beautiful.

Read on Ao3

Despite his typical aloof demeanor, Genma’s eyes trailed you across the crowded bar. You were there with your squad, surely celebrating the success of your latest mission, though you didn’t seem quite as happy to be there as you normally did.

Genma saw it then, the minute you turned your head to respond to Raido. A puffy, jagged scar that ran from the corner of your right eye all the way down to your mouth.

His heart leapt in his chest. You had been injured.

You cast a glance over your shoulder, as if you sensed him staring. You met his dark brown eyes, something unreadable in your gaze. He lifted his hand in a casual wave, but you quickly glanced down and away from him. 

Mystified by your reaction, he turned back toward the bar. You never ignored him like that. 

Sure, you and Genma weren’t exactly in a relationship. You met each other’s needs, simple as that. Plenty of shinobi did it. Keeping up serious relationships was difficult when you disappeared on missions every other week, when there was a high chance that you would be returning to the village in a body-sealing scroll.

At first, it had been simple. He had never been interested in anything serious. He had always been content with jumping from bed to bed, finding one random girl at the bar after another. It was supposed to be the same with you.

He wasn’t sure when or how it happened, but you weren’t just another romantic tryst. Yes, you made him feel good physically. That fact was undeniable. He was obsessed with the way you felt wrapped around his cock, with the sound of your whimpers as he buried his head between your thighs.

But he also loved your laugh and the way you looked when you slept next to him, hair mussed and drooling onto his pillow. He relished the sharp, teasing remarks you leveled in his direction during nights out at the bar, and the way you felt in his arms when he woke, limbs tangled with yours, the morning after.

“Is there something wrong with Y/n?” he asked.

Kakashi, who was planted in the stool next to him, didn’t look up from his romance novel. For a moment, the only indication he heard Genma at all was a lazy, upward twitch of his brow. “You mean aside from the giant scar on her face?”

Genma frowned. “She totally just ignored me.”

“Maybe she’s got more important things on her mind.”

“Like what?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the mission she was just permanently disfigured on? I doubt she’s concerned with wetting your dick right now.”

Genma jerked back at the bluntness of Kakashi’s remark. “That’s not…”

That’s not all we are, Genma wanted to say.

“Isn’t it?” Kakashi pressed, still engrossed in that stupid book. He flipped to the next page, only half listening.

“I’m worried about her, not me,” Genma insisted.

Kakashi glanced up at him now. His visible eye crinkled slightly in amusement. “Maybe you should tell her that.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He rose from the bar once more, snatching up the beer he had been nursing when he first saw you enter. As he pushed his way through the throng of drunken, sweaty shinobi, he saw you sitting at a long table with your squad. 

He recognized one of your purple-haired teammates, Yugao Uzuki, as she raised a glass in a toast.

“To Y/n,” she announced. “Without you, I wouldn’t be here.”

“To Y/n,” your team echoed. 

“Genma!” Yamato called, as he watched the other shinobi approach. “Come have a drink with us.”

He gestured to the free seat next to you. Genma grinned, but you visibly stiffened as he approached. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you muttered.

He watched, dejected, as you slipped out of your seat. You disappeared into the crowd.

Yugao offered him a sympathetic smile. “She’s not feeling herself. She took a kunai to the face for me. Totally saved my life, but…well, you saw.”

“It was badass,” Raido told him. “She didn’t even scream.”

Genma frowned. “I’m gonna go check on her.”

He pushed up from the table and worked his way toward the bathrooms. He waited for you to exit, leaning against the wall of the dimly-lit hallway. His teeth clicked thoughtfully against the senbon between his lips. The scar was prominent, but it didn’t change the fact that you were beautiful. Nothing would ever change that.

You exited the bathroom, and Genma perked up. He expected you to at least pause and acknowledge him as you walked by, but you kept moving, as if you hadn’t even seen him. His hand shot out before you could pass him completely. He gently grasped your wrist and spun you around to face him. 

“Hey, wait.”

“Genma,” you complained. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to see if you’re alright.” His thumb gently traced the skin of your wrist, stroking across your pulse point. “I was worried about you.”

Your brow furrowed. “Worried?”

“Is that so wrong?”

“I guess not, but I’m fine. I just…I don’t want company right now.”

You tugged your wrist from his fingers. He let you go, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Did I do something to piss you off?” 

A twinge of guilt spread through you. “No. You didn’t.”

He nodded. “You know, even if you’re not trying to fuck me, you don’t have to avoid me.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I know.”

He pursed his lips. “It’s not that scar on your face, is it?”

Heat shot into your cheeks. Genma leaned closer, peering down at you with those dark, knowing eyes. “Because you can’t actually think that I’d care about something like that, right?”

Shame washed through you at the statement. It wasn’t like you and Genma were dating. You hadn’t exactly thought he was shallow, but you couldn’t deny that the scar was jarring. 

The shock and curiosity that filled everyone’s gaze when they looked your way was unmistakable. In the days since you had gotten it, you had become increasingly self-conscious. 

Civilians quickly averted their gazes when they happened to look your way. Children stared, too young to know better. Even your fellow shinobi probed you for the battle story. Always with eyes full of reverence, but it still made you uncomfortable.

Maybe it was shallow on your part, to mourn the unmarred beauty you had taken for granted. It also wasn’t fair to Genma to assume his feelings, but surely he couldn’t find the jagged, twisting scar attractive?

“You’ll always be beautiful to me.”

Was he only saying that to be kind? Despite how often he joked around, Genma was fairly perceptive. He was excellent at reading people and saying what they wanted to hear. Was he doing the same thing for you now?

“Thanks. I’ll, uh…I’ll see you around.”

He frowned as he watched you turn and disappear back into the crowd. You just kept running away from him. He could tell that you didn’t believe in the sincerity of his words. Was that his fault? Had he not told you enough that he found you attractive before? Did he joke around too much for you to take him seriously at all?

Whatever the reason, he was going to fix it.

When he arrived back at your table, Yugao explained that you decided to head out early and go home. Genma downed the rest of his beer, said a quick goodbye to Kakashi, and slipped out into the cool night. If you were running from him, he would just have to go after you.

—

You tugged the fluffy towel around yourself and stepped out of the shower. When you slipped out of the bathroom, you yelped at the sight of a figure splayed out in the middle of your bed.

Genma was lying there, hands placed casually behind his head. He rested back against your pillows as comfortably as if they were his own.

He must have hirashined inside, bypassing any traps and the front door altogether. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before, and at least this time he was fully clothed, but you couldn’t help the sense of dread that filled your stomach.

“What are you doing here?”

He mockingly clutched at his chest. “Ouch.”

You rolled your eyes. “Didn’t I tell you I want to be alone tonight?”

“Yeah, you did, but I can tell when you’re lying to me.”

You swallowed. Why did he have to be so perceptive? Why wouldn’t he just let this go? It wasn’t like you were in an actual relationship.

“You don’t want to be alone, you just don’t want me to look at you.”

He pushed himself up from the mattress, coming to stand in front of you “You’re impossible not to look at.”

“Trust me, I know,” you muttered, glancing down toward the carpet. 

“No.” His fingers came up to grasp your chin, tilting your head back up to face him. “Not like that. You’re stunning. You always have been, always will be.”

He thumb stroked over the pink, raised skin of the scar. The act was so tender, so purposeful, that it made a vivid blush rise to your cheeks. It was decidedly un-Genma-like. 

He didn’t do things softly.

“This doesn’t change that,” he continued. “This is the mark of a battle won. That only makes you more beautiful to me.

He cupped the side of your face. You fought the urge to look away.

“If you really want me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“No,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to leave.”

His lips slammed against yours in an instant, hot and persistent. He walked you backward, gently easing you back onto your soft mattress. His fingers curled around the cotton, tugging the towel free from your body.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured into your neck. “Every part of you. I’ll show you.”

He peppered a trail of kisses down your body, starting at the top of your scar. His lips traveled down, setting each new spot on your skin ablaze, until he finally paused between your legs. 

His fingers began curling inside of you as his tongue licked hot, wet strokes against your clit.

A soft whimper escaped from your lips.

Genma grinned between your legs, satisfied that he had gotten you to relinquish control, at least a little bit. 

“That’s it, pretty girl.”

He pulled his fingers out of you for a moment. He laughed softly at the disappointed whine that left your lips.

You heard a soft, slurping sound, and then he was delving back inside you. This time, a third finger, slick with his spit, began to circle the rim of your ass. 

Genma relished your soft moans as he slid the finger in. He stroked against your tight, hot walls, growing harder with every whimper that escaped from your lips. You were so full.

You let your head fall back against the pillows, any hesitancy gone as Genma fanned the fire building inside your lower belly. He always knew exactly how to touch you. He was so purposeful and skilled with his movements that everything else just seemed to fade away. 

The world was reduced to just the two of you, and the pleasure you felt.

Soon, your thighs were shaking and clamping around his head. He hummed in approval as you came, hips jerking against his mouth.

His free hand came up to rest on the soft skin, pinning your pelvis into the mattress as you trembled. He lapped at your clit, fingers still working, as you came down. 

Your palm came down to gently push at his head, becoming more frantic as he continued to work you through and past your orgasm.

“Genma,” you gasped. “S-stop.”

He pulled back, fingers slowing slightly, and met your desperate gaze with a smug one. 

“Throwing the towel in already, gorgeous? I think you can take another one.”

You shook your head, hips still jerking. “I want to fuck you.”

“Say no more.”

His pants and boxers were tugged off in an instant, freeing his cock, already standing at attention for you. He suddenly flipped the two of you, urging you into his lap with a gentle hand against the small of your back.

Genma watched as you sank down onto his cock. His fingers pressed into your hips, guiding you down. That last mission was a long one. He hadn’t stretched you open in an entire month, and he wanted to give you time to adjust to his size.

“Fuck,” he breathed. His mouth was practically watering as he watched himself disappear inside you. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

He fought the selfish urge to buck into you immediately, instead letting you set your own pace. His patience was rewarded when you started to shift your hips, rolling them atop his own. You closed your eyes.

His hand came up to grasp your hair, grabbing a fistful and tugging. Now that you were comfortable with the pace, he bucked his hips to meet yours. 

“Look at me,” he ordered. “Look at me, baby.”

You opened your eyes, mouth parting in pleasure as you stared down at him. 

“That’s it, pretty girl. I wanna see those eyes…see what I’m doing to you.”

He rewarded you by reaching up and circling his thumb around your sensitive clit. You gasped his name.

“Yes, gorgeous?”

“I-ungh-feels so good…”

He hummed in agreement, tightening his grip on your hips. The pads of his fingers pressed into the smooth skin, guiding you, deepening the rhythm.

Your breasts bounced in front of him. He wanted to lean forward and capture one in his mouth, but that would have meant relinquishing his punishing grip on you. 

Your moans were growing louder and more frequent. He knew you were close, and he didn’t want to release his hold on you. Your walls were clenching around his cock so perfectly, fingers tugging at his shaggy hair. 

“Fuck,” he ground out. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

The pretty flush coloring your cheeks deepened. Genma grinned. He leaned up, capturing your lips with his. 

“So beautiful,” he mumbled between kisses. “So fucking gorgeous.”

Your hands were shaking as they grasped at him, grabbing for anything you could. His soft hair, the taut, chiseled muscles of his shoulders.

“That’s it baby, hold onto me.”

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, stuttering and shaking. “F-feels so g-good.”

You rocked against him, nails scratching at his back, his shoulders. One of his hands came down to grip the plush flesh of your ass, squeezing. He pried your face from his neck, tilting your head back with two fingers resting on your chin.

He couldn’t resist the urge to slip his thumb inside your mouth. You closed your lips around it, sucking.

His breath hitched in his throat. He almost came right there and then, but he tamped it down.

“Let me see it, baby. Let me see how pretty you look when you cum on my cock.”

Your eyes, dazed and shining, locked onto his. Your lips parted, letting out a desperate moan as you clenched around him. Genma tugged you down into a hot, messy kiss. The sensation of your tongue exploring his mouth and your release was enough to trigger his own. 

He came with a groan, spilling into the condom. You rocked your hips against his, milking him through his orgasm, until he softened inside you. 

Genmas gently eased you off of him, settling you down into the sheets at his side. He rolled over, and reached out. His thumb gently brushed against the skin of your face, tracing the scar once more. He couldn’t help the satisfied smile that graced his lips as he watched you catch your breath. You looked so gorgeous like this, flushed and breathless. He couldn’t help but lean forward and press another kiss to the raised skin.

“You know I love you, right?”

You froze. Genma did the same, suddenly realizing what he had just admitted.

 “I-I mean, the way you look! I love the way you look!”

He looked absolutely stricken as he laid there next to you. His muscles had gone stiff with fear. Now it was his turn to blush. You reached out, gently capturing his chin with your fingers. 

He swallowed audibly as he looked over at you. You simply leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. 

“I love you too, Genma.”

[starsinthesky5]

How’s songbird doing with this 😏 https://www.tumblr.com/squad-3/786544831354863616/oh-my-god

a/n: we're all still unwell. wrote this last night when i couldnt sleep ;)

warnings: smut (blowjob), mdni

oh she’s absolutely unwell.

songbird sees this version of joe, sweaty post-workout, arms and thighs pumped, gym shorts sitting just a little too low, the tank top clinging to every dip and line of him—and it’s like a switch flips. something primal takes over. she’s already feral the second he walks through the door, hair damp, chest still rising a little faster from the workout, that cocky little smirk tugging at his mouth because he knows exactly what he looks like and what he’s doing to her.

and those damn shorts? they’re her villain origin story. gray, sinfully thin, and hugging him like a second skin—low enough to tease the waistband of his briefs, tight enough to trace every obscene inch of his cock. the outline alone is devastating. thick and heavy, slung low against his thigh, a darkened patch near the tip making her pulse spike. she doesn’t even realize she’s moving until her knees hit the ground, already salivating, fingers curling into the back of his legs like instinct. no hello, no patience—just hunger, already parting her lips as he stumbles back, laughing breathlessly, caught off guard by how fast she’s dropped into worship.

it’s not sweet or slow. it’s needy. desperate in a way that makes her hands shake with anticipation as she grips his thighs, guiding him backward until he hits the couch. he’s barely had a chance to sit down when she’s yanking those cursed shorts down his legs, eyes glazing over as his cock springs free—already half-hard, flushed, and glistening at the tip. she breathes out a soft curse and wraps one hand around the base, the other braced on his thigh, thumb stroking absently over his skin as her mouth finds the head.

she starts with a teasing swirl of her tongue, tasting him like she’s been craving it for days—because she has. then she sinks down with purpose, lips stretched, cheeks hollowing as she takes him deeper, wetter, messier. it’s the kind of blowjob that turns obscene fast. drool dripping from the corner of her mouth, her throat working around him, nose bumping at his base as her moans vibrate down his length. joe’s fingers dig into her hair, tight and twitchy, breath hissing through clenched teeth as his hips buck despite himself.

“fuck, baby...your mouth—,” he gasps, voice hoarse, jaw slack with disbelief. “you’re gonna make me lose it already,”.

she doesn’t mind. she wants it like that. unhinged. needy. she looks up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, mascara smudging slightly as she moans again, loud and deliberate. joe groans deep in his chest, almost pained, his thighs trembling beneath her. “you were waiting for this, weren’t you?” he mutters through gritted teeth, one hand fisting tighter in her hair. “fuckin’ knew you’d drop to your knees the second i walked in looking like that,”.

his head tips back against the cushion, and all he can do is mutter her name—over and over, like a prayer unraveling at the seams. his hips stutter forward in shallow, involuntary thrusts, the wet suction of her mouth pulling a string of raw curses from his throat. she’s got one hand stroking what her mouth can’t fit, twisting her wrist with each stroke, her tongue works along the underside with practiced precision—pressing into that sensitive spot that makes his whole body jolt. “jesus, sweetheart,” he pants, voice shredded, “you’re fuckin’ filthy for this...like your mouth was made for me,”. his abs tighten every time she moans around him, spit sliding down to pool at the base of his cock, and he can barely hold himself together, fingers clenching the couch cushion, knuckles white. 

and when he comes, it’s wrecked. violent and visceral, like it’s been building all day. she holds him there, mouth sealed tight, the sudden throb of him at the back of her throat making her moan around him, swallowing it all in slow, greedy pulses. he lets out a ragged, choked-off growl, one hand flying to his forehead like he’s physically overwhelmed, the other still tangled in her hair. his thighs twitch beneath her palms, his body trembling, every muscle pulled tight like a bowstring, chest rising in desperate heaves like he’s just run drills in the summer heat. his voice breaks on her name, eyes squeezed shut as the aftershocks roll through him, and she doesn’t stop until she’s milked every last drop from him, like it’s hers to claim.

afterward, she pops off with a filthy little slurp, eyes sparkling, mouth shiny and red. she tugs those damn shorts all the way off and tosses them toward the laundry basket like they’ve personally offended her. because if she has to see that dickprint again without preparing first, it will end in a public indecency charge.

and joe? he’s still slack against the couch, legs splayed wide, chest still heaving like he’s climbed out of war. one forearm draped over his eyes, the other limp across the backrest, hand twitching as if her mouth were still on him. his lips are parted, swollen from the way he’d bitten down to muffle his groans, and his hips give the occasional twitch—ghosts of pleasure still wracking his nerves. he’s staring at the ceiling like he’s seen god—or at least touched heaven—and she’s sitting back on her heels, licking her lips, her smile pure sin. a slow, satisfied curve like she knows exactly what she’s done to him, like she is the divine force that just shattered him.