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[justformyjames]

Kind of sucks cortis want to be genuine artists and be taken seriously when they are under a kpop label and have kpop fans.

This is truly coming into fruition as people are already complaining about the phone rule and the lack of outfit changes during the tour. Also saying they weren’t acting grateful and or… crying?

Why would they cry for an audience that obviously doesn’t respect them? Not following the only rule they requested for the concert.

In the end people should’ve anticipated everything that has happened.

The phone rule was adamant.

They only have around 10 songs so of course they will repeat a few.

They don’t have to change outfits if it doesn’t pertain to their concept.

We’ve known Cortis isn’t like a normal kpop group why are people acting surprised. This isn’t enhypen or txt (I love them both).

They’re trying to change the industry and I think they’ve made that clear.

This is what it looks like when a group actually has a decision in their concept.

[concretejunglefm]

[bfbkg]

boyfriend bakugou…. being out with your and his friends… maybe at a bar. sitting on opposite sides of the room as you chat with your respective friends but when it’s time that you want a drink you go over to him wordlessly and tap his chest as he sits. he immediately knows what that means.

“d’you want me go up ‘nd get it?” he says to you, reaching for his wallet in his back pocket and pulls out his matte black card.

you swipe it from his fingers. “no it’s okay. wanna stretch my legs. do you want me to get you a drink?”

bakugou looks to his empty glass, “rum and coke, please.”

“no problem, beautiful,” you reply and bakugou huffs a laugh out his nose.

you return ten minutes later, two drinks in hand. when you stand in front of him, you spin around, “your card is in my back pocket.”

“long line?”

“not really.”

he taps your bum twice before slipping his hand into your jeans back pocket for his card. once he gets it you spin around and place his drink down.

“thanks!” you grin, then go back to join your friends on your table.

[the-darklings]

PRETTY THING — VALARR TARGARYEN.

pairing: modern!valarr targaryen x f!stark!reader summary: Your boyfriend Valarr Targaryen has been picture perfect for three months. When one morning he comes home from the gym sweaty, you crook your fingers to find out how far that leash goes. contents/warnings: smut (18+), fem!dom undertones, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise kink, hair pulling, biting/marking/scratching, premature ejaculation, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, cunnilingus, cum play/cum eating, dirty talk, possessive behaviour, rough sex, worship, petnames, obsessive!valarr, dragon coding bby!!! notes: Not planned, not proofread, been writing like a fucking maniac since 8am and it's now nearly 9pm. Cannot fully describe the fucking,,, mad grip they suddenly have on me??? i'm sick. This can be read as standalone but is technically part of modern/trailer trash au. ✶ aerion's version.

"You're disgusting." 

You inform him of this calmly around a mouthful of toast.

Valarr leans in the doorway of his own kitchen, looking like a man who’s been put through hell.

Black athletic shorts hang low on his hips, grey t-shirt sweat-dark at the collar and down the centre of the chest. His hair plasters to his forehead in damp, dark whorls except for the white streak at his temple, which has gone almost translucent with sweat. He's breathing through his nose, a towel still slung around the back of his tanned neck. There's a small clean cut at the line of his jaw, and the dried blood is the only thing on him that isn't aesthetic.

"And you're eating my toast," he replies, mouth quirking, mismatched eyes warm on your face. "That's hardly the welcome I was hoping for, love."

"I'm eating my toast,” you clarify, wiggling your toes. “You bought it for me."

"I bought it for the household."

You take another, deliberate bite, staring him down. "I am the household."

Valarr’s eyes crinkle. "Are you, now?"

"Today I am."

You're sitting on his kitchen counter in one of his shirts and nothing else. The white linen one, the soft one, the one he wore to dinner three weeks ago and left here on the back of the bathroom door. Your bare legs rest crossed at the ankles, and you have toast in one hand and coffee in the other. 

May sun spills through the eastern windows of his apartment in long gold panels, lighting up the cut peonies on the island, lighting up the smooth marble, lighting up, especially, the sweat at Valarr's collarbones.

You watch him. You take your time about it, too. Your eyes drag—deliberately, calculated, unsubtle—from the wet hair down to the line of his throat, across the soaked t-shirt where it sticks to him. Your attention lingers on the lean cut of his torso under the cotton, down to the shorts, finally to his bare feet on the dark wood floor. You make sure he sees you doing it. 

You bring your eyes back up to his, and you raise one eyebrow, calmly, as if you’re reviewing a piece of property.

Valarr’s jaw ticks once, the brown eye darker by half a shade than it was a minute ago.

"Love."

"Yes?"

"I'm going to shower," he informs you.

You take a sip of your coffee. "Are you?"

"I am, yeah," he says, half a laugh in it, drinking you in with that fascinated focus that's become his default in your presence. "I'm—I'm fairly gross, I just got off the rower and the trainer was a sadist this morning. I won't subject you to—"

You crook two fingers at him.

It's a small gesture. Two fingers, lifted, curled. Just once. Come here.

Valarr stops talking.

He stops talking with the visible suddenness of a man whose train of thought has just been derailed by the simplest possible signal. Your two fingers, one small motion, the kind of summoning a woman might do to a dog she's fond of. You watch him do exactly what you knew he would do, which is start across the kitchen toward you without thinking about it.

"You don't actually want to—" he begins.

You sigh. "Valarr."

"—I really am sweaty, love, give me five minutes—"

"Valarr."

He's at the counter. His hands land on your bare knees, automatic, because your knees are at the level of his hands and because he can’t stand near you and not touch you. The contact is hot and slightly damp, not unpleasant, and you watch him register the heat of his palms on you and not pull them back.

"Yes, love?" 

Your eyes narrow. "Come here."

His brows wrinkles a little. "I am here."

"Closer."

He laughs. Soft. A little wrecked already, and you've barely started. He steps in between your knees, his hands sliding up your thighs an inch and stopping with that intentional, leashed restraint that’s the central tic of his physical presence. The way he always pauses an inch before he means to land, the calibration he’s constantly performing in the millisecond before he touches you.

Valarr leans down and kisses you.

It's a careful kiss. It's a good morning, sweet girl kiss. Closed-mouthed, warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking once along your cheekbone. He tastes like salt, like the espresso he downed before he left for the gym, like the mint in his pre-workout gum. His nose nudges yours, and Valarr makes a small contented sound in his throat that’s so unbearably boyish that for half a second you almost let him have his shower.

Almost.

You set the coffee down beside you, and set the toast down right after. You free both your hands and you put one of them in Valarr’s damp hair—high, at the crown, where the sweat is—and you fist your fingers in it, and you pull, just enough.

He makes a sound.

It's a small thing, coming out of him like he didn't know he was going to make it at all. A short involuntary catch in his throat—half a groan, half a question—and you feel Valarr’s whole body go still against you. Feel his hand at your jaw arrest, feel the breath leave him and not come back.

You growl.

You don't mean to. It comes out of your throat low and warning and entirely without your permission. A thin rough sound at the back of your tongue, the kind of noise something with teeth makes when it's decided what it wants, and Valarr stops moving altogether.

He stops kissing you, stops breathing. He stops, full stop, his mouth a half-inch from yours, his hand cradling your jaw. The towel still hangs from his neck, his pupils dilating in real time so fast you can watch the brown one go almost black, the blue one going luminous.

"Love," he breathes hotly.

You don't answer.

You hook your bare legs around the back of his thighs, and you pull him forward into you. Yank him in until his hips are pressed against the edge of the counter and against the inside of your thighs. Until the soaked cotton of his t-shirt is against the linen of his shirt you're wearing, and you can feel the heat of him through everything. The post-workout furnace of his body, the damp cling of sweat-warmed cotton against your bare skin.

"You said you needed to shower," you say mildly.

Valarr swallows. "I did say that."

"Do you?" you question, deceptively mildly.

"I—I think I—love."

You're already pulling at the hem of the t-shirt.

You drag it up slowly. You make Valarr lift his arms for you, and he does it instantly, his eyes locked on your face, and the wet cotton peels off him with that particular reluctance damp cotton has. Sticking, releasing, sticking. Until you've got it bunched at his shoulders and then over his head and then balled in your fist and then dropped, wet, to the marble counter beside the toast, where it lands with a small slap that neither of you registers.

He is. He is—

You knew. You've known what Valarr looks like under the t-shirt for three months now.

You’ve catalogued every line of him, watched him strip down in the dim of his bedroom, and traced your hands over him in the dark. You have, several times, watched him swim laps in the building's pool while pretending to read by the glass. 

You know what he looks like. But you haven't ever seen him in this light before.

The eastern sun is fully on him, illuminating him fully, painting him golden. 

He’s the long, lean, particular shape of a man who works out with the discipline of someone who has time and money to consider his body a project. Not bulky, never bulky, that wouldn't suit him, but cut. 

Every line of his body is beautiful and deliberate. The cut of his hipbones above the waistband of the shorts, the smooth, lean stomach with that faint dark and white trail of hair below his navel you've licked twice now. The lift of his chest, where his breath is going uneven, and the long, elegant lines of his toned arms.

There’s sweat in the hollow of his throat. Sweat gathers at his sternum, too, gathers and trails down. There’s a small mole low on his ribs that you’ve kissed three times in three months, and that catches the light now in a way that makes you want to sink your teeth into him.

He’s beautiful. Absurdly beautiful. Valarr is the kind of beautiful that’s been worshipped his whole life and has therefore developed no real defence against being wanted. 

You can see it in his face. In the slight parting of his mouth, in the held quality of his breathing. The way Valarr stares at you like you’ve just announced war against him.

Nobody has ever wanted him quite like this before. Not for his wealth or name, or pretty boy looks, but in an older way, the animal way.

You put both hands on him.

You start at the jut of his collarbones. Both palms flat on the slick of him. You drag them down leisurely over the planes of his chest, your thumbs grazing the small dark points of his nipples because you can’t help yourself and because he makes another small sound when you do. Ragged, swallowed; then over the cut of his ribs, the flat of his toned stomach, the line of his sides where his obliques narrow into his hips; down to the waistband of the shorts, where you stop, where you let your fingers hook into the elastic for one held second.

He’s shaking faintly under your hands.

"Love," he rasps again, like it’s the only word left available to him.

"Shhh."

You lean forward.

You put your mouth on his throat.

Right where the sweat gathers. Right at the hollow at the base of Valarr’s throat, where you can taste salt and the dark woody thing that’s his soap and underneath both of those, the warmer animal smell that is just him, just Valarr. The thing you've known by scent since the third week of knowing him by name. 

You suck. You set your teeth, very lightly, against the tendon at the side of his neck, and you suck until the skin there gives a little. Until you feel the heat rise to the surface of his skin, until you feel his pulse pound against your tongue. His hands come up and land hard on your hips, fingers digging in, ungoverned.

Valarr groans.

No perfect control in that sound.

It comes out of him into your hair, your throat, the bare line of your shoulder where the linen has slipped. It’s the sound of a man whose composure has finally—finally, after three months of every careful, courteous can I, sweet girl, may I, my love—slipped its leash entirely.

His hands tighten on your hips. He goes hard against you instantly. You feel it happen through the thin shorts, against the inside of your thigh where you've pulled him in between your legs. The heat of it shoots up your spine and turns your vision white at the edges.

"Oh," he breathes against your hair. "Oh, fuck."

You keep your mouth at his throat, mouth twitching with satisfaction. You drag your teeth. You suck a second mark, lower this time, near the cut of his collarbone, and feel his hips push forward involuntarily against yours. Then jerk back as he tries to remember himself, tries to remember he's gross and sweaty and was going to shower.

You don't let him remember.

You hook your legs harder around the back of his thighs, rolling your hips against his. Once. Slow and hard. You make sure Valarr feels the line of you against him through the thin linen of his shirt, through the thin cotton of his shorts and through the heat of his own ridiculous body. His hand at your hip slides up your back, under the hem of the shirt, finds the bare skin there, and his fingers spread, and he holds. Possessive, dazed, cradling you close.

You pull back enough to look at him.

His face. Gone soft, completely glazed. Those mismatched eyes are blown, his mouth parted slightly. His hair is pushed back from his forehead where you've fisted it, his pulse going at his throat so visibly you can count it. 

Valarr’s gazing at you the way he looks at you across rooms, the way he looks at you when you laugh at something he said, the way he looks at you when you walk in late to a dinner he’s set up. That immortalising look, the one where he’s making a permanent record of you.

Except now there’s no polish on it. None. The look is stripped down to the thing underneath, which is hunger, which is wonder, the dazed, unguarded face of a man who’s not, in twenty-six years of being adored, ever been taken.

You rake your nails down his chest.

Just enough to leave four faint pink lines that will pink up red within a minute, that he’ll notice in the shower later and trace with his fingers when he looks at himself in the mirror. That will make him hard again four hours from now in some meeting he’ll remember nothing of.

"My love," he says softly. "Christ, what—what are you —"

"Need you," you rasp. “Need you right now, Val.”

It comes out of you low, rough, without softness. Not I'd like, or will you, or any of the carefully negotiated phrasings you’ve used with Valarr for three months, because that’s the register he speaks in. You’ve dropped the register. 

You’re looking at him with your eyes gone dark and your mouth wet from his throat, the linen of his shirt slipping off your shoulder, and you have told him exactly what you require.

He stares at you.

The brown eye is so dark now you can't see the iris anymore, the blue one lit from within. He’s breathing through his mouth in shallow pulls, and his hands have not let go of your hips. You can feel him, hard, throbbing, against the inside of your thigh, and you watch the last of his composure go.

You watch it. You watch the moment.

It’s extraordinary.

Nothing slips or cracks. He's too dignified. It’s a handing-over. Three months of careful patient attentive I won't presume, love, and you’ve asked him for one thing in two words. He has, without taking his eyes off your face, simply given you the leash he’s been holding on to himself the entire time, set it down at your feet.

"Whatever you want," he says.

His voice has gone low and ragged. Half-octave under his usual register. Reverent.

"Whatever you want, sweet girl. Whatever you want. I'll—anything. Tell me."

You lean forward. You put your mouth to his ear. You feel the shiver that goes through him when you do.

"Counter," you murmur, lips brushing against heated skin. "Here. Now."

"But—"

"Now, Valarr."

"Yes, yes."

You barely hear it. He's nodding into your hair. His hand is sliding down the back of your thigh and lifting you slightly and pulling you to the very edge of the counter, the marble cool under the back of your thighs and Valarr’s hand hot under them. 

His other hand comes up, going into your hair, grabbing a fistful at the nape of your neck. Then his mouth comes back to yours, and this time he’s not polite. There’s nothing careful about this at all. The kiss is open and wet, a little desperate, and it tastes like salt and espresso. Valarr’s making small, devastated sounds into your mouth that he doesn't seem aware of, and his hips roll forward against yours without his permission. 

He doesn’t pull them back this time, hasn't apologised, hasn't asked.

You bite his lower lip. Lightly. He groans and you swallow the sound. 

"Sweet girl."

You let out a small, pleased hum at the hungry groan in his voice.

"Sweet girl,” he says again, pecking you, then again, one hand at your jaw. "I—what are you—"

"You said anything?"

He murmurs against your lips, "Anything."

"Then stop talking."

He nods with a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours. His hand tightens in your hair. His other hand has come up under the hem of his shirt and slides up the bare skin of your back, splayed hot against your spine.

You roll your hips against his again. Harder, this time. His whole body shudders.

"Oh."

You peck the corner of his mouth. "Shh."

"You can’t,” he whispers, ragged, “you can't do that—"

"I can."

"—you can't, you'll—"

"Valarr."

His breath hitches. "Yes?"

"Be a good boy."

The sound that comes out of him is going to live in your head for the rest of your life.

You smile.

You bring his face up to yours. You make him look at you. He’s looking at you like you’re a miracle he gets to claim for himself, and you look back at him, letting him see your face. You let him see the wolf in you that you’ve been carefully keeping behind glass since he met you, let him see the thing he’s been suspecting was in there and not been allowed to see until now.

His mouth parts.

"Where," he says quietly, wrecked. "Where have you been all my life?"

You smile gently, dragging your thumb across his swollen lower lip.

"Right here, pretty thing," you say lovingly.

A groan rumbles in his throat. "Pretty thing," he repeats, dazed. 

Your mouth curves, and you kiss the corner of his mouth again, cradling his cheek. "Mm."

Valarr laughs. Silky, ruined. He turns his face into your hand and kisses your palm, then your wrist and then the inside of your forearm. His eyes, when they come back to your face, are dazed and adoring in a way that’s bordering, you realise distantly, on something more dangerous than adoration. 

He drops to his knees. He kneels there, on the dark wood floor, and looks up at you.

For one suspended second, Valarr doesn't move. His hands are at your knees, splayed wide, and he’s on the floor of his own kitchen, gazing up at you. He is, you realise after a beat, waiting.

He’s waiting for you to tell him what you want from him.

Three months of carefully negotiated can I, sweet girl, may I touch you here, may I taste you, will you let me, and you’ve stripped that out of him in eight minutes flat. He’s on his knees, bare-chested, sweat-slick, the early sun gilding the long lean lines of him.

You spread your legs. Just enough. You shift your weight onto the marble and let your knees fall a fraction wider, watching Valarr’s eyes drop to where the linen of his shirt has ridden up. His breath leaves him in one long, painstaking exhale through his nose.

"Love," he breathes. “Anything for you. Just ask.”

You say nothing for a full minute. "Then eat, Valarr."

The sound he makes goes through you like a struck bell.

He surges forward. There’s no other word for it. Doesn't crawl, doesn't lean, he surges, both hands pushing your knees wider as he comes, his mouth opening against the bare inside of your thigh first. High, where you’re softest, and biting, not hard, just enough to make you arch off the marble. Just enough to leave a small crescent he’ll be staring at later in the bathroom mirror like evidence.

Then his mouth is on you.

A sound you don’t recognise slips past your clenched teeth. 

It comes out of your throat broken and surprised, unbearably loud in his quiet kitchen, the morning sun slanting across both of you, and Valarr—who’s been so unfailingly polite for three months, who’s asked permission for every step, and eaten you out before with that slow reverence—Valarr eats you now like a man who’s been waiting his entire life for someone to tell him he can do this.

His hands drag across your body, devouring each curve. One comes up under the linen shirt, spreading hot and wide across the small of your back, anchoring you, pulling you to the absolute edge of the counter. 

The other hooks under your thigh and lifts, draping your leg over his shoulder, the bare back of your knee against the slick, damp skin of him. Valarr’s hand grips your other thigh hard enough that you'll have small fingertip bruises by lunchtime, four neat ovals in a row on the inside.

And his mouth. His mouth. He’s using his teeth in a way he hasn't before. Lightly, with calculation. He’s using his tongue with the same focused accuracy he’s always used it, but he’s shed the carefulness; he’s shed the I won't presume, he’s going at you with the dazed greed of a man who wanted this for a long, long time.

You fist your hand in his hair.

You pull. Hard. You drag his face deeper into you because you can’t help yourself. 

Because the sun is full on both of you and the marble is cold under your thighs, his hair damp under your hand, and his mouth is exactly where you need it, and Valarr moans into you, the sound vibrating against you. His hand on your thigh tightens, and his shoulder presses harder under your knee, making him go at you with renewed focus, as if the pull of your hand in his hair were an instruction he;s just gratefully received.

You come embarrassingly fast.

With one hand fisted in his damp hair and one hand braced flat behind you on the marble. Your back arches, your toes curling, the linen of his shirt sliding off one shoulder, your thighs clamping around his head, and Valarr’s hands grip you through it, holding you exactly where he wants you while you go to pieces against his mouth. He doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. He keeps going through it, soft and persistent, his mouth gentling but not lifting, his tongue dragging through the aftermath of your release with the same dazed, reverent focus.

"Valarr—"

He hums against you, and your hand spasms in his hair.

"Valarr."

He lifts his head a fraction, mouth wet, chin wet too. The white streak at his temple is plastered with sweat, and the dark of his hair is sticking up in places where you’ve been pulling, and his eyes, when they meet yours, are destroyed.

He licks his lower lip.

"More," he states, voice low. “I want more. All of you, sweet girl. Let me taste you. More.”

It's barely a word. More so, a request, a question, and a small wrecked plea rolled into one. You watch Valarr’s face, and you feel—sharply, delightedly, with a clean cold satisfaction in the centre of your chest—that you have him.

That you’ve just had him in a way you haven’t had him before. 

Those three months of polished, restrained worship have just been redrawn, definitively, in your favour.

You drag your thumb across his wet lower lip, holding his eyes. You let him see you.

"Up," you tell him softly.

"But I’m not done—"

"Up."

Valarr rises. Like a man who’s forgotten how legs work and is figuring it out in real time, sluggish, stupefied, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs as he comes, his mouth coming up to yours. He’s kissing you before he’s fully standing, his mouth open against yours, and you taste yourself on him. Sharp and bright and warm. You make a low sound of approval in your throat, biting his lower lip, hard enough to leave a mark, and he whimpers into your mouth.

Oh, that sound.

That sound is going to live in your head until you die. 

A beautiful, rasping sound of a man who hasn’t known he was capable of producing that sound until a moment ago. Your hand fists tighter in his hair in reward, and you yank his head back. Your mouth goes to Valarr’s throat where you’ve already marked him once, but you bite him there a second time, harder now, dragging your teeth across the place his pulse is pounding, sucking until you taste salt and the faint copper-edge of where you've broken a capillary, and Valarr—

Valarr's hips jerk forward against yours.

Once. Twice. Hard. Involuntary.

You feel him through the thin gym shorts, against the bare wet of you on the very edge of the counter, and the heat of him is shocking. His gasping breath breaks against your hair in ragged little catches, so you set your teeth into the muscle at the side of his neck and bite. 

Hard, unapologetically, the way you would bite into something you intended to keep, and Valarr makes a sound you haven’t heard from him before in your life, low and shocked and delightfully animal. His hips jerk forward one more time and stop, his whole body going rigid against you, his hands clamping on your hips, his forehead dropping hard to your shoulder, and you feel him—

You feel him come.

In his shorts. Through his shorts. Against the inside of your thigh, the bare wet of you, the marble counter underneath. You feel the pulse of it through the thin cotton, and you feel the heat of it bloom against you. He’s shaking, properly shaking, his fingers digging into your hip. Valarr’s mouth slacks open against your collarbone, making small ragged pained sounds into your skin.

You go very still.

You watch his face, eyes wide. His face angles into your throat and stays there, hidden, his shoulders shaking finely under your hands.

You feel the wet heat of him soak through the cotton against your inner thigh, slow and too warm and absurdly intimate, and you understand—with a low, bright pleasure that has nothing to do with reciprocation—that you’ve just made Valarr Targaryen come in his pants in his own kitchen on a Tuesday morning by biting his neck.

He’s gone, distinctly, several shades pinker.

"Fuck," he chokes out, faintly, into your throat. "Oh, fuck."

Your mouth curves into a pleased, feline smile.

You already hear the apology forming on his tongue when he whispers, "I didn't mean—"

"Look at me," you drawl.

"I—"

"Look at me, Val."

He lifts his head.

His face is wrecked, cracked open by pleasure. His mouth gapes, his perfect hair destroyed. His pupils are blown so wide his eyes are nearly black, both of them, even the blue one, and there’s colour high on his cheekbones and the hollow of his throat is heaving. There’s a fresh red bruise blooming under the line of his jaw where you’ve just sucked it into being, and he’s looking at you, just looking like you’ve cracked something open in him. 

He swallows.

"I—" His voice is ruined, quiet, faintly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that has—that hasn’t happened to me since I was—"

You stroke your thumb up his jaw. "It’s alright. I liked it."

"—fifteen, love, I—" 

"Valarr, I liked it," you tell him. "I like making you fall apart just as much as you enjoys doing the same to me."

His eyes sharpen, focusing on your face. "You do?"

You drag your hand down his chest in response, watching his eyes track the path of your hand.

You feel him still hard against you—still hard, even through what just happened, the impossibility and the inevitability of him, twenty-six years old and beautiful and on a strict regimen, his body already rallying—and you drag your fingers down across his stomach. Down to the soaked waistband of the shorts, and you slip two fingers into the waistband, and you tug playfully.

"Off."

"Are you sure?" he croaks.

"Take them off."

He nods, fumbling with the drawstring. His hands are shaking—actually shaking, you can see them, his fingers can't manage the knot at first—and you watch him laugh once, breathless, embarrassed, and it makes you smile at him fondly. His own expression softens further when he catches you looking at him like that, some tension melting from his shoulder blades. 

The knot finally loosens, and he pushes the shorts down, stepping out of them. He kicks them aside, naked and sweat-streaked. Wet at the front of his thighs where he spilt moments ago, but still hard, gloriously, almost insolently, his cock heavy and flushed dark against the cut of his hip. 

You look at him.

You take your time looking at him.

He stands there in his own kitchen and lets you. Valarr’s hands hang at his sides. His face is naked in a way that pricks inside your chest, so you take your time with him. 

You let your eyes drag inch at a time. Over the planes of his chest, the four pink lines down his sternum where you scratched him five minutes ago, the two darkening bruises at his throat, the smoothness of his stomach, the trail of hair below his navel. You watch him bear your hungry examination. Watch him stand there and let you look, watch a small, almost-shy smile pull at the corner of his mouth.

"Sweet girl," he says quietly.

You tilt your head. 

"You're—"

"Hush, pretty thing," you say instead, still drinking him in. 

You reach down between your own thighs.

You don't break eye contact. You drag two fingers through the wet mess of you—your own, his, the slick of both of you mixed at the edge of the marble where his shorts had pressed against you—and you bring your fingers up between you, glistening, and see his face change.

"Oh."

"Open your mouth, Valarr," you instruct gently. 

He opens.

He opens with the same dazed, automatic obedience he’s been giving you for the last fifteen minutes.

His head tilting back a fraction, his lips parting, his eyes locked on your face, and you slide your two wet fingers into his mouth, and you push—past his teeth, past his tongue, two knuckles deep—and Valarr's eyes flutter half-shut. 

He makes a tiny, muffled sound around your fingers and his hands come up to brace on the counter on either side of your hips. His tongue moves against your fingers, sucking at them, lapping up the wet of himself off your skin with such immediate pleasure that something hot and possessive unfurls in your chest.

You push your fingers a fraction deeper. He takes them. Valarr’s throat works around the heel of your hand. He keeps his eyes on yours.

You pull your fingers out slowly, dragging the wetness across his lower lip, leaving a slick smear.

He makes a small, ruined sound.

"You taste yourself, pretty thing?" you ask quietly. 

"Yes," he answers, breathless, eyes hooded.

He leans forward and kisses you.

He kisses you with his mouth still wet from your fingers and your wet still on his tongue, and he kisses you the way he ate you ten seconds before. Open, urgent, no carefulness anywhere in him. You taste him in your own mouth, salt and bright and warm and slightly bitter and him, and his hands have come up off the counter and gripped your hips again, fingers digging in. You feel him roll his hips forward against the bare wetness of your core and groan into your mouth.

He’s so hard. Again. Still. His cock is hot and heavy against the inside of your thigh, and there’s wetness against your skin, and you don't know whose anymore. Valarr’s mouth moves against yours, slick and fully open-mouthed. 

You break the kiss after another moment. You hold his face in both your hands.

"Harder," you order huskily. 

He groans against your lips. "My sweet girl."

"Harder, Val."

He nods. He kisses you harder. His teeth catch your lower lip, and he sucks at it, tentative, and then—when you make a hungry, pleased sound into his mouth—bolder, biting, the carefulness sliding off him in real time as he learns that you want this. That you’ve wanted this for a while. That the ferocity he’s been keeping behind glass for three months because he was afraid of frightening you was, in fact, the thing you were waiting for.

You drag your hand down between you. You wrap his length in your fist.

Valarr chokes.

"Shhh." 

You kiss his cheek, stroking him, once, slow, grip tight. He’s hot and slick at the head from his own coming, from his own anticipation. Valarr shudders against you, his forehead dropping to your collarbone. His hand fists in the linen of his shirt at your back.

"You can't,” he groans, barely audible, “I'll come again, I'll—"

"You will," you agree softly, kissing the shell of his ear. 

He loosens a groan. "Love."

"You will, pretty thing,” you say again, thumb rubbing over the slit of his cock. “As many times as I want."

He makes a sound, a ragged half-groan, and you smile against the side of his head, kissing the spot where his white streak meets his temple and you feel him shudder under your mouth.

You keep stroking him. Just at the edge of unbearable. You watch Valarr’s face turn into your shoulder, his hips pushing forward into your hand. You watch the discipline of him—the man who deadlifts at five in the morning, who runs his portfolio with surgical precision, who has never not been in control of a room—fall to absolute pieces against the linen of his own shirt on your shoulder.

"Show me," you murmur into his hair.

"Mm?"

"Show me, Valarr," you whisper into his ear.

Valarr ruts into your fist, a hot, wet pant burning the hollow of your throat, "Show you what, sweet girl?” he croaks. “I—anything, for you—"

You hum, twisting your wrist as you exhale, "Show me your strength."

He stills.

You feel it. He stills against you, his face still pressed to your shoulder, his cock heavy and pulsing obscenly in your hand, his hands locked at the small of your back. You can hear him breathing. Can hear the pulse in his throat against your shoulder. 

You feel him register the words, feel him understand them, exactly.

"You're a dragon, aren't you?" you wonder idly. “My golden, beautiful dragon.”

"—yes." 

No hesitation. 

"Then claim me."

He lifts his head.

The stupified, shocked compliance of the last fifteen minutes is gone. 

What’s in its place is something you haven’t seen on Valarr's face yet. He’s not the polished, smiling, immaculate boy who brought you peonies and asked permission to kiss you; what’s in its place is the thing his very polite Targaryen ancestors used to be before three generations of money and manners stripped it out of them, the thing he’s been told all his life he’s too well-bred to be. 

The thing he didn't know was in him until you put your two fingers in his mouth and said hello to it.

He doesn't say anything.

He yanks you up off the counter.

One motion. His hands are on you, and your back hits the cold marble of the kitchen island. His mouth is on your throat, and he’s biting you, properly biting you, hard enough to make you gasp. His hand fists in your hair at the nape of your neck, and he’s angling your head exactly where he wants it, and his other hand drops between you. Between your legs, two fingers, no asking, sliding into you with the slick that’s half him and half you and the heel of his hand grinds hard against your core. Your vision goes white.

"Yes," you breathe. “There, yes, Val.”

He kisses your throat, jaw, and tip of your nose. "Sweet girl."

"Yes—"

He pecks your mouth, curling his fingers. "Tell me again."

"Claim me. Use me, Val."

He kisses you. Bruising. He kisses you like he’s furious with you, like he is grateful to you, like he’s been holding his breath for three months and you have only just told him he’s allowed to use his mouth.

Valarr’s fingers work you with the kind of precision that asserts he’s been studying you the entire time and remembers every signal you’ve ever given him.

His thumb—Christ, his thumb—is exactly where you want him, mean and relentless, and he’s learning you all over again. Learning what you sound like when he’s rough with you, learning what you look like when you stop being careful with him, his eyes on your face the whole time, immortalising, committing the whole thing to a permanent record he will not let himself forget for the rest of his life.

You come around his fingers in under a minute.

You come with your forehead pressed to his, moaning loudly, and his mouth open against yours, swallowing the sound.

The fingers buried in you keep moving, and his other hand stays fisted in your hair, and you’re making sounds that are not words, and he’s murmuring into your mouth (that's it, my sweet girl, there she is, my beautiful girl, give it to me, that's mine, you’re mine) in a tone of voice you haven’t heard before. Low and hoarse, certain of himself, and you feel the mine hit something in your chest that makes you bare your teeth with pleasure. 

He pulls his fingers out of you, pushing them into his own mouth.

Valarr sucks them clean while watching your face.

You stare at him, still panting, your nerves on fire.

He smiles around his fingers, slow, crooked.

"Love," he says, drawing his fingers out with a wet pop, "tell me where you want me."

"Inside," you tell him. "Need you dripping out of me, pretty thing."

Valarr squeezes his eyes closed, counts mentally, then, croaked, "Counter or floor?"

"Floor."

He doesn’t lower you carefully.

Valarr goes down with you. Goes down to his knees on the dark wood floor with you locked around his waist, and he tips you back, one hand braced behind your head, the other splayed wide at the base of your spine. 

He lays you down on the wood with the gentleness of a man laying out a relic and the greed of a man about to break it open. 

The wood is cold under your back, the linen of his shirt crinkled up around your ribs. The morning sun is on you both, gilding the slick lines of him, lighting up the white streak at his temple, painting the bruises you've left on his throat in dark purple.

He braces above you.

His hair falls forward over his face. His hand slips between your thighs, lining himself up, and his eyes are on your face, and he’s waiting for the word.

"Now," you urge him.

He pushes into you.

You arch off the floor.

Valarr watches your face, he gives you the half-second to adjust, reading you in real time the way he reads everything. But he doesn’t give you the deliberate measured slowness he’s given you for three months. 

He pushes in to the hilt in one long slow stroke that has you fisting your hands in his hair and tipping your head back and making a sound that is going to embarrass you in approximately twenty minutes when you can think clearly again, and Valarr—sweat-slick, marked, beautiful,so beautiful, gone—drops his forehead to yours and breathes against your mouth and doesn't move.

"You’re so perfect," he exhales, a silky sound.

You breathe out a small, pleased sound.

"You drive me insane," he whispers, and there’s a hint of laughter in his ragged voice. “You undo me, love. Do you understand that?”

"Val,” you breathe out, feeling how the fond shortening of his name makes him pulse inside you. “Move."

He does. 

He moves the way you’ve asked him to move, the way you’ve told him he’s permitted to move. 

He fucks you on the kitchen floor, his hand fisted in your hair. Valarr’s other hand hooks under your thigh, pushing your knee up against your chest, opening you wider for him. His mouth is on your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder where the linen of his shirt has slipped, biting and sucking and leaving marks of his own, finally, claiming you along the line of your throat the way you’ve just claimed him.

His hips snap forward. Again. Again.

You feel him in your teeth. The tempo is so painfully efficient that it drives you insane. You feel him through your spine in every stroke. The wood of the floor is cold against your back, and your shoulder blades are going to be bruised by tonight, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

His pelvis grinds against yours on every powerful thrust and his hand slips between you, circling where he’s pushing into you, and his thumb is—his thumb is— 

You come again, your walls fluttering around his cock, embarrassingly, helplessly, with your nails dragging four red lines down the middle of his toned back. Valarr groans into your throat, yes, yes, that's it, sweet girl, my wolf, that's mine, that's it, give it to me, and he’s fucking you through it without slowing, his rhythm only stuttering for a second and then catching, his eyes wild on your face, his mouth open against yours.

He’s sweating. He hasn’t stopped sweating since he came back from the gym. 

The whole of him is slick and hot, the morning sun on him and you feel the salt of him against your mouth when you pull his head down to yours. His hair is a complete wreck where you’ve been yanking at it. His back is going to be a map of your nails by tonight and his throat is going to be a map of your mouth and you almost laugh in delight.

You arch under him instead. You hook your heel into the base of his spine, dragging him deeper.

"Harder, dragon."

The sound that comes out of Valarr is barely human.

A low broken thing. His name lands exactly where you placed it, dragon, not pretty thing, not sweet boy, dragon, the old word, the one his blood has been waiting for. 

Valarr’s eyes darken, impossibly so, and his hand at your hair tightens and he gives you exactly what you asked for. 

He gives it to you so completely that the world around you becomes very narrow and very sharp and he’s fucking into you with the strength he’s been hiding for three months, the strength of a man who deadlifts at dawn and rows until he aches, the strength of the thing in him that his ancestors used to ride into wars on, and it is—

It is exactly what you needed.

You bite his shoulder. Viciously. Copper burns on your tongue and you feel Valarr’s whole body lock against yours and his hand fist convulsively in your hair and his hips drive forward one last time hard enough to push you up the floor by several inches, and Valarr—

Valarr comes inside you with a sound that’s torn between a sob and a roar, his face pressed into your throat, his other hand braced flat on the wood beside your head with his fingers spread wide and white at the knuckles. 

He shakes. Through the whole thing, his hips jerking against yours in small uneven thrusts, and you can feel the heat of him filling you up, gushing deep, and you can feel the pulse of him and you can feel his teeth set into the side of your throat at the very end, marking you, finally properly marking you. Your answering moan sounds more animal than woman, your body coiled around his.

You both go still.

The kitchen is suddenly painfully silent. 

It takes you several minutes to come back to your body. 

You blink up at the ceiling blearily, squinting. You’re on the dark wood floor of Valarr’s kitchen with his weight on top of you and his face buried in your throat. The linen of his shirt is soaked through at the ribs with sweat that’s now also half his and half yours. 

Valarr breathes against your throat. 

Then he lifts his head.

He’s looking at you with an expression that’s not quite settled into anything yet. Not fully shock, or joy, not even fear. There’s only the unguarded face of a man whose entire model of himself has just been rearranged by the woman pinned under him on a kitchen floor.

He laughs. Gentle, breathless, fond. He drops his forehead to yours.

"My sweet girl," he says, and his voice is hoarse, "what the fuck have you done to me?"

Your mouth curls into a pleased grin.

You bring his mouth down to yours, kissing him gently, lingering at the seams of his lush mouth. You taste yourself on his mouth, and you taste sweat and salt and the metallic edge of where you broke skin on his shoulder, and you keep your hand fisted lightly in his hair.

"My golden dragon," you murmur fondly. “My beautiful, perfect Val.”

He laughs into your mouth, a terrible, broken sound. He shakes his head against yours.

"Christ."

You only tighten your arms around his shoulders in response. 

"You're going to ruin me," he rasps, mouth on your collarbone. "You're my ruin, sweet girl."

"Yes," you agree lightly, stroking his flushed face.

"My love, I need—"

You know what he needs; even if his body is spent, he still wants more, always more. Your knuckles fondly skim over the white streak against his temple. 

"Yes, Val," you say quietly, closing your eyes when he begins jerking his hips inside you again, pleasure raking through your oversensitive nerves as his cum drips onto the kitchen floor between you. “Take what you need.” 

an: at this point I need a fucking intervention??? what the fuck is going on??? why am I suddenly obsessed with these two? anyway, sound off if you want Aerion version of this concept (¬‿¬)

[jupitereleven]

tengen with his hair down just do something inside of me (and you know what)

[words-of-a-pyt]

Am I the only one who never liked using "Y/N" in fanfics?

I mean, I know it literally stands for "Your Name" but IDK IT ALWAYS BROKE THE IMMERSION FOR ME😭 So me, I found ways to write around it.

"He passed Y/N the cup." ❌️

"He passed you the cup." ✅️

Another example being...

"I did it because I love you, Y/N" ❌️

"It was always you. Everything was for you. My heart, belongs to you."✅️

This is not me saying this is THE RIGHT WAY to write fanfics. This is just my opinion, and writing style.

I also REALLY REFUSE to use it because of this fucker😭

[uranicolunare]

I can feel that, like, sometimes you don't need to overuse Y/N, it makes the reading less immersive and unserious in my opinion.

Writing is art, even if someone is simply making something less serious like a fanfic, it still needs creativity and good structure.

[kawaluvs]

We almost broke up again

synopsis: You and oikawa break up, a LOT. Except you're not really together.

You and Oikawa had always had a complicated relationship.

You were together but not really. Something that existed mostly behind closed doors and late-night conversations. No one really knew about it except Iwaizumi, who had figured it out months ago and decided it wasn’t worth the headache of asking questions.

And honestly, the secrecy probably wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was that you argued constantly.

Usually about the same things.

You hated how he let girls confess to him for way too long, standing there soaking in the praise like it was sunlight. Sometimes he’d even flirt back a little just to keep up the image everyone had of him. You’d call him inconsiderate, and he’d shrug it off, saying you shouldn’t care because you weren’t even dating.

He, on the other hand, gets irritated when you skip his games. You always had some excuse—homework, a family thing, a friend’s birthday. And every time you'de make some passive comment about how you had more important priorities than watching a guy you weren’t dating play volleyball.

You’d get annoyed by his mixed signals. In private he was affectionate—touching your waist, brushing your hair behind your ear, whispering compliments like they were secrets meant only for you.

But at school he barely acknowledged you.

Every single problem between the two of you could have been solved if you’d just put a label on whatever this relationship was.

But neither of you wanted to face that conversation.

Oikawa didn’t want anything getting in the way of volleyball—even if a part of him wanted you there cheering for him more than anyone else. But he would never admit that.

And you refused to acknowledge how hard you’d fallen for the school’s most infamous heartthrob. You were stubborn, and the last thing you wanted was to become another girl orbiting around Tooru Oikawa.

So instead, the two of you stayed stuck in this weird in-between.

Between arguments, you and Oikawa had a pattern.

After a fight, neither of you would talk for days. Sometimes it stretched into a week or two, both of you too stubborn to reach out first. You would tell yourself you needed time to cool down.

But the truth was that everything felt off during those days.

Oikawa wasn’t doing much better.

Iwaizumi would notice it first—the way Oikawa became more irritable at practice, snapping at teammates or missing sets he’d normally land perfectly. His focus slipped just enough to make it obvious something was wrong, even if he refused to talk about it.

But eventually, like always, something small would pull you back together.

Maybe it was a casual message late at night. Sometimes he’d suddenly show up at your door with that stupid, charming smile like nothing had happened. Or when you’d “accidentally” run into him after school.

And just like that, the tension would melt.

The sweetness would return.

For a little while, things would feel easy. Like maybe the two of you had finally figured things out. But as time passed, the same frustrations would slowly creep back in.

And before long, the cycle would begin again.

This particular argument started because you’d gone quiet.

You were both sitting on your bed watching a show on your laptop, the screen balanced between your legs. Oikawa lounged beside you, leaning toward your side of the bed with his elbow propped against the mattress, his head resting lazily against his hand.

You sat against the headboard, a pillow behind your back, mindlessly scrolling through your phone.

You hadn’t said anything in a while.

At first Oikawa didn’t think much of it. But then he started sneaking glances at you, trying to see what had you so distracted. Eventually his curiosity turned into annoyance.

The movie paused abruptly.

You looked up.

Oikawa had sat up straight now, his brows furrowed.

“Why are you so quiet?”

“You’ve barely said two words since I got here,” he said, tilting his head. “Do you even want me here?”

You shrugged slightly, eyes drifting back to your phone.

“If you want to go, you can go.”

You hated yourself a little for saying it like that. For always playing this stupid game instead of just saying how you actually felt.

“But do you want me to leave?” he asked, leaning closer.

His eyes locked onto yours so intensely it almost felt like a challenge. Like if you looked away first, you’d lose.

So you didn’t.

You just stared back in silence.

Eventually he broke first, rolling his eyes dramatically and dragging a hand through his hair.

“God, you’re seriously impossible.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes, yeah!” he snapped. “You invite me over and then sit there acting like I’m some annoying guest. What’s your problem today?”

“I—”

The words got stuck.

That familiar tightness in your chest returned, like it always did when you tried to say something real. Like your feelings were slamming into a wall inside your ribcage and couldn’t break through.

“What?” Oikawa pressed impatiently. “Spit it out already!”

Your frustration finally boiled over.

“Fine! I’m annoyed!”

“About what?!”

“You act like I don’t exist all day at school,” you blurted. “But the second you get to my house it’s suddenly ‘you looked beautiful today,’ and ‘you smell nice,’ and ‘I’ve wanted to hold you all day.’”

Your voice shook slightly as the words tumbled out.

“Do you even mean any of that?” you continued. “Or are you just sweet-talking me like you do everyone else?”

Oikawa froze.

For a moment he just stared at you, clearly trying to process the sudden explosion.

“You’re mad because I compliment you?” he said slowly.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

“Oh my god, you don’t even understand. That’s why I never say anything!”

“Then explain it!” he shot back, throwing his hands out dramatically. “I’m not a mind reader!”

You threw your hands up in frustration.

“You only say those things when we’re alone!” you said, gesturing between the two of you. “Never at in public. It doesn’t even feel real sometimes. It feels like you’re hiding me.”

Oikawa’s brows furrowed.

“Like I’m hiding you?”

“Yeah! Like you’re embarrassed of me!”

“What?!” he scoffed.

“Like it’s embarrassing for you to say those things to me where anyone else might hear.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting from me,” he said. “We’re not dating. That’s the kind of stuff couples do.”

“Well why not?!”

The words came out before you could stop them.

Both of you froze.

It was the first time you’d ever actually admitted something you wanted from him.

Oikawa blinked at you like his brain had short-circuited.

“Why... aren’t we?” he repeated slowly.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice softer now but still firm. “Why not?”

You gestured vaguely between the two of you.

“We make out, we cuddle, you cook for me, we fall asleep together watching movies… but we’ve never gone on an actual date. Not dinner, not the movies. Nothing.”

Your chest felt tight again.

“Why?”

Oikawa looked genuinely thrown off.

“I… didn’t think that’s what you wanted,” he admitted.

In reality, he’d never let himself think about whether it was what he wanted either.

You stared at him.

“Why do you think I’d be doing all this if it wasn’t what I wanted?” you said, your voice cracking slightly.

Your anger softened as the realization of what you were saying sank in.

“I wouldn’t be yelling at you to understand me,” you murmured, quieter now, “if this wasn’t what I wanted.”

“You just never express your feelings to me,” he said, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Half the time I have no idea what you’re actually thinking.”

You blinked at him, brows knitting together in offense.

“Well I am right now,” you shot back quickly, almost defensively. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, you know.”

Your chest tightened.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“Is there something wrong with me?” you asked quietly. “Something that makes you want to keep me private? Like you don’t really want to date me.”

For once, Oikawa’s usual confidence cracked.

“No—no! Of course not!” he said immediately, sitting up straighter.

“Then. Why. Not.” You leaned toward him as you said it, emphasizing each word. One hand pressed into the mattress beside him to hold yourself up, the comforter bunching beneath your fingers.

The distance between you shrank.

He sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as his eyes drifted around your room—your desk, the posters on the wall, the messy stack of books by your nightstand—anywhere but your face.

When he finally looked back at you, the expression there was different. Less playful and flirtatious.

It made your stomach twist.

“Because I can’t put you before volleyball,” he admitted quietly. “And I don’t want to disappoint you.”

For a moment you just stared at him.

“I’m not asking to be put before volleyball,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “I’m not stupid, Tooru. You tell me how important it is to you all the time.”

Your voice softened without meaning to.

“I just want to be another important thing in your life. Alongside volleyball.”

The space between you felt smaller now. He was close enough that you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

Slowly, his hand drifted across the mattress until it rested over yours. His palm was warm and rough from years of setting and serving.

“You are important to me,” he murmured.

You looked down at where his hand covered yours, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric beneath them.

“It doesn’t feel like it when I’m getting pushed to the side most of the time,” you said, your voice flattening again despite yourself.

Oikawa’s brows pulled together.

“Well if you want to be that important to me,” he said slowly, his thumb shifting slightly against your hand, “then I want to be that important to you too.”

He leaned forward a little, eyes locking onto yours again.

“I want you at my games,” he said. “I want you cheering for me loudly. And wearing my jersey, obviously.”

You huffed quietly.

“I would already be doing all of that if we made it official.”

“Then why haven’t we made it official?!” he burst out suddenly.

“I don’t know!” you snapped back at the exact same volume.

The words hung in the air between you. Neither of you spoke.

Your eyes drifted down to your hands again. Oikawa’s was still there, resting over yours. Slowly you turned your palm upward beneath his. Your fingers slid between his, lacing together.

His hand tightened instinctively.

“You’re really sweet to me,” you admitted after a moment, your voice much quieter now. Your thumb brushed slowly over his knuckles. “And I hate having all these stupid arguments.”

You exhaled softly.

“But I can’t give you the same commitment and energy I would if you were actually my boyfriend.”

Oikawa watched you carefully, his usual cocky expression gone.

“Then I’ll take you on dates,” he said.

Your head lifted to catch his expression. It was real, like he truly meant it.

“Real ones,” he added quickly. “Dinner. Movies. Whatever you want.”

His fingers squeezed yours.

“I’m sick of these fights too,” he admitted. “And when we go days without talking I end up feeling like crap.”

“You really mean it?”

The way you looked at him—soft, hopeful, a little vulnerable—made something in his chest twist painfully.

“Yeah,” he said, meeting your eyes again. “Of course I do.”

A familiar confidence crept back into his smile.

“I mean, I’d love for everyone to know this beautiful, gorgeous, unbelievably stunning girl is mine.”

You rolled your eyes automatically at the dramatics, but warmth spread across your face anyway.

Before you could think too hard about it, you shifted forward onto your knees and wrapped your arms around his shoulders.

Oikawa didn’t hesitate.

His arms slid around your waist instantly, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. One of his hands settled at the small of your back, firm and grounding, while his face buried into the curve of your shoulder.

You could feel his breath warm against your neck.

For a moment neither of you moved.

Then you murmured quietly against his ear...

“Then prove it.”

[notesfromthemirror]

Aventurine simping for reader 🙏🏻🙏🏻

The Calculated Probability of Being Whipped (Aventurine x Reader)

A/N: Hi anon! :) Thank you so much for your request and your patience. I originally meant to post this in late December, but the draft felt like it still needed… something. (It was shorter at first!) Turning it into little vignettes finally made it click. I hope you enjoy Aventurine in all his varied forms of simping. :)

Tags: Fluff. Modern AU (Vaguely). Coworkers. Simping!Aventurine. Light Humor. Whipped Behavior. Slice of Life. Pining (Except He’s Obvious). First Kiss. Getting Together.

Word count: 2789

⋆ ✦ ⋆

I. THE GIFT

Aventurine tells himself he’s just being practical.

The boutique window caught his eye during a routine walk through the market district. Pure coincidence, really. And that scarf displayed in the center, the one in your favorite color with subtle embroidery that would complement your eyes perfectly? Well. It would be rude not to at least look.

Twenty minutes later, he’s walking out with not just the scarf, but matching gloves and a bracelet that “happened to coordinate”.

His wallet is lighter. His heart is… something. He doesn’t examine it too closely.

“For you,” he says the next time he sees you, presenting the bag with characteristic nonchalance. “Saw it and thought of you. No big deal.”

(It’s a very big deal. The scarf alone cost more than some people’s monthly salary.)

“Aventurine, this is too much.”

“Is it?” He leans against the doorframe, all casual confidence that doesn’t quite hide the way he’s watching for your reaction. “I’d say it’s exactly enough. Besides, I won it in a game. Easy come, easy go.”

(He didn’t win it in a game. He bought it with his own money after spending an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over which shade would look best against your skin tone.)

You try the scarf on, and something in his chest does a complicated maneuver that definitely isn’t covered by any insurance policy.

“How do I look?”

“Like I have excellent taste,” he manages, smooth as ever, while internally he’s thinking: Perfect. Divine. I’m ruined.

Later, when you’re gone, he’ll catch himself smiling at nothing. His phone will buzz—a thank you message with a photo of you wearing the scarf—and he’ll save it immediately, trying to convince himself this is normal behavior.

It’s not.

━━━━━━━━━━━

II. THE EXCUSE

“I was in the neighborhood.”

You look up from your desk, surprised to see Aventurine leaning in your doorway like he just happened to materialize there. “You were in the neighborhood? Your office is on another floor.”

“I meant the general neighborhood. Cosmically speaking.” His smile is perfectly calibrated. Charming, unaffected, hiding absolutely nothing from anyone with eyes. “Besides, I had some paperwork to drop off nearby.”

“Nearby?”

“Relatively speaking.”

“Aventurine.”

“Fine.” He pushes off the doorframe, sauntering in with his hands in his pockets. “I wanted to see you. Shocking, I know. Try to contain your amazement.”

Your laugh does something dangerous to his composure. “You could’ve just said that.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” He perches on the edge of your desk, too close to be professional, not close enough for his liking. “So. Coffee?”

“I just had coffee.”

“Lunch?”

“It’s ten in the morning.”

“Brunch is a thing. A very legitimate thing.” He’s grasping now and he knows it. “Or we could just talk. I’m flexible.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

“Anything. Everything. The existential dread of corporate bureaucracy. Your favorite color. Wait, I know that one.” He grins. “See? We’re making progress already.”

He stays for an hour. Then two. Invents increasingly transparent reasons why he can’t leave just yet. Needs your signature on something (he doesn’t). Wants your opinion on a proposal (he’s already submitted it). Thinks he left his pen here (it’s in his pocket).

When he finally leaves, it’s only because you have a meeting. He walks away feeling lighter and more anxious all at once, already planning his next “coincidental” visit.

Pathetic? Maybe. But when you smile at him like that, he’ll take pathetic over absent any day.

━━━━━━━━━━━

III. THE GAMBLE

“Call.”

Aventurine lays his cards on the table with his signature flourish, eyes never leaving yours across the poker table. The underground game is high-stakes, invitation-only, exactly the kind of place he thrives.

Usually.

Tonight, he’s distracted.

You’d mentioned wanting to attend one of these games—curious about his world, his element. So naturally, he’d arranged it. Pulled strings, called in favors, ensured you’d get an invitation to the most exclusive table in the city.

Now you’re here, sitting three seats down, and he can’t concentrate on anything else.

“You’re off your game tonight,” the player to his right observes. “Not like you.”

“Just keeping things interesting,” Aventurine replies smoothly.

What he doesn’t say: he’s been counting cards, tracking probabilities, and subtly manipulating every hand to ensure you’re winning. The chips stacking in front of you? Orchestrated. That straight flush two rounds ago? He’d folded a better hand to let you take the pot.

It’s shameless. Obvious to anyone who knows how he plays. He’s literally cheating. For you.

“Another round?” someone asks.

“Why not?” Aventurine’s smile is all confidence. His hand under the table, however, is calculating trajectories, planning three moves ahead to make sure you end the night victorious.

Later, when you’re cashing out your winnings, you lean close. “Did you let me win?”

“Let you?” He presses a hand to his chest, wounded. “I’m offended you’d even suggest it. You won fair and square.”

“Aventurine.”

“Fine. Maybe I encouraged certain outcomes.” His grin is unrepentant. “Can you blame me? You look good when you’re winning.”

“You look good when you’re being obvious.”

His mask slips for just a second—genuine surprise, genuine pleasure—before snapping back into place. “Obvious? Me? Never.”

But he doesn’t deny it. Can’t, really, when the evidence is stacked quite literally in your favor.

━━━━━━━━━━━

IV. THE PHONE

The thing about Aventurine is that he’s always in control. Always three steps ahead, always composed, always aware of exactly how he appears to others.

Which is why finding himself staring at his phone for the better part of an hour, rereading the same conversation, should be concerning.

You: Thanks for the coffee. You didn’t have to.

Him: I wanted to. Besides, I owed you for that filing help last week.

You: You didn’t owe me anything, but I appreciate it. :)

That emoticon. That single, simple emoticon has been living rent-free in his brain for forty-five minutes.

He scrolls up. Rereads the entire conversation from the beginning. Your greeting. His response. The easy back-and-forth that shouldn’t feel as significant as it does.

There’s a photo somewhere in here—you’d sent it three days ago, something mundane about a book you’d found that reminded you of a conversation you’d had. He’d saved it immediately. Has looked at it approximately sixty times since then.

“This is normal,” he tells himself, aware he’s lying.

His phone buzzes. Another message from you.

You: Random question: if you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?

Aventurine's heart does something stupid. Something that definitely isn’t covered by any insurance policy or explicable by any rational thought process.

Him: Whatever you’re cooking.

He hits send before he can overthink it. Then immediately regrets it. Too much? Too obvious? Too—

You: Smooth. But seriously.

Him: I am serious. Your taste is impeccable. I trust it.

You: You’ve never had my cooking.

Him: Then we should fix that.

There’s a pause. He watches the typing indicator appear, disappear, appear again. His heart is racing in a way that has nothing to do with gambling and everything to do with the terrifying possibility that he’s just crossed some invisible line.

You: Is that an invitation?

Him: If you want it to be.

You: Then yes. Next Friday work for you?

Aventurine stares at the message. Reads it again. A third time, just to make sure he’s not hallucinating.

Him: Friday’s perfect.

You: It’s a date then. :)

A date.

It’s a date.

He sets his phone down carefully. Picks it up. Reads the message again. Sets it down. Picks it up.

“Okay,” Aventurine says to his empty office. “Okay. That’s… that’s good.”

His phone buzzes again.

You: Stop rereading this and get back to work. I can feel you smiling from here.

He laughs. Genuine and surprised and completely helpless.

Him: Impossible. You’re three floors away.

You: And yet I know.

He’s doomed. Completely, utterly doomed.

And for once in his life, he doesn’t mind the odds being stacked against him.

━━━━━━━━━━━

V. THE SLIP

It happens on Tuesday.

Aventurine’s in the middle of a presentation—quarterly reports, profit margins, the usual corporate theater he navigates with practiced ease. He’s charming the board, deflecting difficult questions, maintaining perfect control over the room.

Then you walk in.

You’re not supposed to be here. This isn’t your meeting. But someone apparently called you in for a consultation on one of the proposals, and now you’re slipping into a seat near the back, trying to be unobtrusive.

He loses his train of thought mid-sentence.

“The profit margins for Q3 show a—” He stops. Blinks. Finds his place in his notes. “Show a significant increase due to—”

You catch his eye. Smile apologetically for the interruption.

Something in his chest clenches.

“Due to strategic investments in—” What was he talking about? “In key sectors that have demonstrated—”

You’re trying not to laugh now. He can see it in the way you’re biting your lip, eyes sparkling with amusement.

He’s completely lost.

“Aventurine?” One of the board members prompts. “The key sectors?”

“Right. Yes.” He clears his throat, drags his attention back to the presentation. “Strategic investments in emerging markets have yielded returns that exceed initial projections by fifteen percent.”

He makes it through the rest of the presentation on autopilot, hyperaware of your presence in the room. When it finally ends, he’s fielding questions with his usual charm, but his eyes keep drifting to where you’re sitting.

The meeting concludes. People file out. You approach him as he’s gathering his materials.

“Sorry for crashing your presentation,” you say.

“Don’t be.” His smile is genuine, warm, missing all his usual artifice. “Made it significantly more interesting.”

“I distracted you.”

“Pleasantly.”

You laugh, and he thinks he’d derail a thousand presentations just to hear that sound again.

“Coffee?” he asks, even though he had coffee an hour ago. “Or lunch? Or—”

“Aventurine.” Your voice is soft, knowing. “You don’t have to keep making excuses.”

“I’m not—” He stops. Studies your expression. “Okay. Maybe I am.”

“Why?”

The question hangs between you. He could deflect. Could make a joke. Could slip back into his usual persona and laugh this off as nothing.

Instead, he says: “Because I like spending time with you. Because you make everything feel less like a gamble and more like a sure thing. Because when you’re around, I don’t feel like I have to perform.”

It’s the most honest he’s been in years. The mask has slipped, and he can’t quite get it back in place.

You’re quiet for a moment. Then: “You know I like spending time with you too, right?”

His heart does something complicated. “You do?”

“Why do you think I keep saying yes to all your ‘coincidental’ coffee invitations?” You step closer. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

“I’m… moderately subtle.”

“You bought out a coffee cart.”

“That was practical.”

“You’ve given me seventeen gifts.”

“Fourteen,” he corrects automatically, then winces. “I mean—”

You’re laughing now, bright and unrestrained. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered. I’m strategically regrouping.”

“Uh-huh.” You reach out, adjusting his collar even though it doesn’t need adjusting. “For what it’s worth? I like you better without the mask.”

He’s not used to this. To being seen. To someone looking past the performance and finding something worth keeping underneath.

When you leave, Aventurine stands there for a long moment, trying to process what just happened.

Maybe being obvious isn’t the worst thing in the world.

━━━━━━━━━━━

VI. THE REALIZATION

It’s 2 AM and Aventurine can’t sleep.

This isn’t unusual—insomnia is an old friend. But tonight it’s different. Tonight he’s lying in his expensive apartment, staring at his ceiling, trying to figure out when exactly he lost control of the situation.

(He knows when. He’s known for a while. He’s just been avoiding thinking about it too directly.)

His phone is on the nightstand. He’s resisted checking it for approximately twelve minutes, which might be a personal record.

He checks it.

You: Can’t sleep either?

The message is from twenty minutes ago. He should wait. Play it cool. Not respond immediately like some—

Him: Insomnia is my constant companion.

Three dots appear immediately.

You: Want some company? I’m told I’m decent conversation.

His heart does that thing again. That stupid, complicated thing that makes him feel seventeen and out of his depth.

Him: Your company would be significantly better than staring at my ceiling.

You: Give me 20 minutes.

He’s out of bed before he can talk himself out of it. Changes clothes—casual, but not too casual. Runs a hand through his hair. Tells himself this is normal. That friends do this. That there’s nothing significant about you coming over at 2 AM just because neither of you can sleep.

He’s lying to himself. He knows he’s lying to himself.

When you arrive, you’re in comfortable clothes, hair slightly messy, looking absolutely perfect in a way that makes his chest tight.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he echoes, stepping aside to let you in.

You sit on his couch, wrapped in one of his blankets, talking about nothing and everything. Work, dreams, random observations about the universe.

He’s barely drinking his tea. Too busy watching the way you gesticulate when you’re excited about something, the way you laugh at your own jokes, the way you fit into his space like you’ve always belonged there.

“Aventurine?” you ask, and he realizes he’s been quiet too long.

“Sorry. Lost in thought.”

“About?”

He should deflect. Should make a joke. Should do anything except tell you the truth.

Instead, he says: “You.”

You go still. “Me?”

“Yeah.” He sets his mug down, turning to face you fully. “I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. Probably too much. Definitely more than is professionally appropriate or personally advisable.”

“Oh?”

“I’m—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not good at this. The genuine thing. I’m much better at performance, at keeping people at a comfortable distance. But you…” He gestures helplessly. “You make me want to be honest. And that’s terrifying.”

You’re quiet for a long moment. Then you set your own mug aside and shift closer. “For someone who claims to be bad at genuine, you’re doing pretty well.”

“I’m completely out of my depth,” he admits. “I’ve been making excuses to see you. Buying you things. Literally cheating at cards to make sure you win. It’s pathetic.”

“It’s sweet.”

“It’s obvious.”

“That too.” You’re smiling now, soft and genuine. “But I like obvious. I like knowing where I stand.”

“You stand—” Aventurine has to pause, gather courage he didn’t know he needed. “You stand somewhere terrifyingly important. Somewhere I didn’t think I had room for anymore.”

“And where’s that?”

“Here.” He touches his chest, right over his heart. “Taking up residence. Refusing to leave. Making me do stupid things like rearrange my entire schedule just to see you for five minutes.”

You laugh, reaching out to take his hand. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Because I’ve been doing the same thing. Finding excuses to stop by your office. Wearing the things you gave me. Saying yes to every invitation even when I know you’re making them up.”

He stares at you. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew. You’re not subtle, Aventurine.” Your smile is gentle. “But I didn’t mind. I liked it. Liked you.”

“Liked?” His heart is racing now. “Past tense?”

“Like,” you correct. “Present tense. Very present.”

“Friday,” he says then. “You said Friday works?”

“For our date? Yes.”

“It’s definitely a date,” he confirms, because apparently his brain-to-mouth filter has completely abandoned him. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Crystal clear.”

“Good.” He’s smiling, really smiling, the kind that reaches his eyes and stays there. “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven’s perfect.”

He’s kissing you before he can overthink it. Soft, careful, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But you don’t. You lean in, hand coming up to cup his face, and it’s better than any gamble he’s ever won.

When you finally break apart, you’re both smiling.

“So,” you say. “Still think you’re bad at genuine?”

“Jury’s still out,” he manages, slightly breathless. “Might need more data.”

“Well.” You shift closer, settling against his side like you belong there. “Good thing we have time.”

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer, and thinks about odds and probabilities and the million ways this could go wrong.

Then decides he doesn’t care.

For once in his life, Aventurine isn’t gambling on a sure thing.

He’s gambling on something better: possibility.

And somehow, despite everything, he thinks the odds might finally be in his favor.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :) Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :) Masterlist.

[mooncleaver]

He's Kind of Cute.

ღ summary: Your (not so) quiet crush on Sanji through Nami’s eyes

ღ pairing: Sanji x fem!reader

ღ warnings: Disgusting(ly bad) flirting :D not an established relationship but they act like a couple anyway! reader with long-ish hairr, she's chalant af

Nami finds out about your crush on Sanji during girls night. 

You don’t know what was better, when no one knew about this thing you had for him, or having your best friend aware, which meant that you finally had someone else to rave on about Sanji and everything that he is. 

She calls you “lame”, but the truth is that you are helpless. 

You’re seated on a twirly chair in front of the vanity, right foot up on the cushioned surface to better polish your toes. They’re a vivid coral, matching the ones on your fingers. Nami’s lying upside down on her cot across from you, hands behind her head and feet up against the wall like it’s nobody’s business. She's finished her toes already, all coated in a beautiful teal that compliments her hair.

Everything is perfect tonight. As perfect as being bountied pirates on a ship can get. The flower scented candles around the girls’ cabin run warm, making sweetness blossom around the room. Your beds are made perfectly, pillows fluffed up just the way you like it. You and Nami move with an unspoken understanding, of unwinding and finally taking time to yourselves after a day full of adventure. 

The sound of the sea has been quietly lulling the two of you into peace, though you have to delay your sleep for an extra hour of chatting away your complaints.

Girls night always welcomes honesty—when you and Nami can talk about everything the boys would never understand. And she’s being real truthful alright, hand enthusiastically waving around like a maestro to her own words. 

And of course, the current topic of conversation was the blonde, women-loving cook in your crew. 

Nami can be blunt, to say the least. It’s what you appreciate most about her, although you wish she’d soften her words up just a little bit. 

Or maybe try to see him the way you do.

“He’s a lot.”

She’s talking about typical Sanji behavior. The incessant flirting, the hovering and his I-live-to-serve-women attitude, which she’s convinced is some type of overcompensation. 

You definitely don’t think it’s annoying. If anything, you think it’s really sweet that he tries his hardest to impress Nami. 

Matter of fact, you love it when he tries to impress the girls on this ship. Fortunately for you, the only two available ones include an independent, no-bullshit navigator who doesn’t easily fall for his smooth-talking. Now that just leaves him to focus more of his affection onto you, and you absolutely love being the center of his attention.

You bite your lips, trying to hold back your laughter. “I mean, he’s intense for sure.”

She rolls her eyes at your attempts to soften her complaints, and she truly can’t find it in her to understand why you would defend the cook. “Annoying.”

“I think it’s kind of cute.”

A beat of silence. 

And then Nami literally whips her head to face you so fast you’d think you were a treasure made of a trillion berries.

The sight she’s greeted with is one she will never forget. And not in a pleasant way, because you look positively, 100%, absolutely sure about the words you just uttered out of your mouth.

You’re hugging both your legs up to your chest, lips still bitten in a silent restraint. You’re actually melting into yourself, lost somewhere in the clouds as you swing yourself right and left in your chair. 

Where do you even begin? 

From memorizing your likes and dislikes,—and not just about food—attending to your needs, whether you voice them or not, and genuinely wanting to know you for who you are. Sanji somehow manages to embrace who you were, who you are now and who you hope to become in the future, all in the same breath. 

He is never quiet with the way he loves. God forbid he doesn’t worry about others for even one day. He’s dramatic, over-the-top, theatrical. All the synonyms of spectacular you can find in the dictionary. But also grounded, selfless, and so genuine that it makes your teeth ache and your heart clench erratically. 

Sanji treats you with a kind of gentleness that makes you think you’re the most precious diamond in the Blue Sea. You are. To him. He never ceases to convince you of so. 

So it’s an absolute no-brainer that you think he is the one for you. If not the only man ever. And, the fact that you aren’t alone in this fortifies your belief. You and Sanji have your own thing. A quiet game that only you seem to understand the rules of. A kind of connection that isn’t defined by or bound to labels; one that grew from quiet glances and secret smiles. The others may not notice—for now. They’d probably brush it off as you being kind to Sanji and finding genuine friendship in him. 

But you like it that way, and you really, really like him. You don’t need to say it out loud, because you’re sure he knows you do. You’re content with what you have because you can feel it that he reciprocates. 

You are his just as much as he is yours. 

“Say that again.” Nami pumps out the sentence like she can’t believe her own ears. She’s fully upright now, propping her upper body with her hands. She leans towards you as if it’ll make her hear better. 

“I think..” you mimic her pose and lean your chest forward, palms resting on both knees as if preparing to tell her a secret, “—that he’s kind of cute.”

It’s he, now. Not it, anymore. 

God, you are hopeless. And crazy. 

“You’re kidding.” The navigator hits you with the most deadpan stare you’ve ever seen her muster in her life.

Nami tries to look back at all your past interactions with Sanji. From the first time you joined the crew to the most recent ones. Then it all clicks for her—like a puzzle piece to answer a question she’s never bothered to ask. 

It starts with the way you get quiet when Sanji’s around, a secret smile and an undeniable warmth seldom missing from your face. Gosh, you’re so shy when he talks to you sometimes. It’s crazy that it didn’t register to her because you’re typically always so sure of yourself. Then it’s how you never, ever brush off his attempts at flattery. How your sweet compliments always seemed to be drowned out by Luffy’s shouts and Zoro’s arguing. She looks back at the way you naturally gravitate towards him. It didn't matter if you were on the ship, jumping from island-to-island, in the middle of a fight or simply lounging around with the rest of the crew, you always found your way right beside him. 

Huh. 

It was all in her face the entire time. Loud and apologetic. She feels silly at the fact that she’s never thought to even look because she couldn’t fathom that any woman could genuinely put up with him. And you never denied anything either—not when there wasn’t anything to deny in the first place. 

Her words set you off like a pirate looking for the one piece. 

“Nami don’t you ever dream of a guy who’ll sweep you off your feet?”

You’re breathless, absolutely lost in your own daydreams as you twirl around your chair with a force that could blow the Going Merry across the Grand Line. There are stars in your eyes, genuinely. Your hands shoot up in a rainbow above your head, and your body melts further into the seat. 

Something’s definitely gotten into you.

“And Sanji’s that guy for you?!” She exclaims. You watch her go through all the 7 stages of grief in the span of 3 seconds. 

You laugh at her silliness, and then you’re back to swooning again.

It was as if she’d unlocked your inner beast. A lovesick, crazy girl who was spouting her dreams of romance and everything that was butterflies and rainbows. A woman who was absolutely mooning over Sanji.

From then on the navigator makes it her mission to uncover where this crush of yours came from. She can try asking the rest of the crew, but she’s 98% sure the boys are oblivious to this, or simply aren’t as perturbed as she is. (Because how has no one questioned this before?!)

Starting wasn’t hard. At all. Turns out you and Sanji are shameless. It just takes the right time for someone to pay attention and see how deep the connection runs between the two of you. 

It happens bright and early a few days later. Nami—by instinct or intuition—woke up to an empty cabin. Your bed looked freshly mussed, like you couldn’t be bothered to tidy it up before getting up. She looked through the small window, greeted by the sight of the barely peeking sun in the darkness of the horizon. Way too early for anyone to be up. Except for Sanji, who she knows is already prepping for breakfast in the galley. And conveniently, you seem to be missing in action as well. It doesn't take much to put two and two together. 

She catches you right as you are entering the kitchen.

Of course, Sanji is already busying himself on the counter, chopping an array of fresh fruits into—what Nami can’t see—hearts.

“Mon trésor.” 

It barely takes a second for you to enter before Sanji is calling out to you, gaze immediately snapping towards your figure. He doesn’t need his sight to know that it’s you. He can’t admit that it’s because he’s memorized the weight of your steps on the ship, and the sweet scent of your perfumed clothes. 

A lit cigarette hangs off from his lips, though he quickly puts it away when you make your way to the dining table. 

You rub your eyes tiredly, hand then moving down to hug yourself closer in an attempt to chase some warmth. “Hi, Sanji.”

He’s melting at the sight of you. 

This might just be his favorite part of the morning, second only to when you start talking to him. You’re in your pajamas still, shirt hanging loosely over your bare shoulders. Absolutely radiant, and so domestic. You can barely open your eyes in the morning sun, and the way you carry yourself feels heavier, but more honest. Relaxed. A good sign that you slept well. 

Sanji doesn’t fight off the small flush that makes itself known across his face.

“Do you know that every time you say my name an angel gains its wings?”

You grin at the early morning flattery while you settle down on your seat. You could look like the messiest thing on the ship and Sanji will find a way to compliment you regardless. “Heaven must love me,”

“Heaven would be a fool not to love you, darling.” It doesn’t take even a beat for him to answer, and the cook puts down his knife to come closer. He makes a point to lean his face down to yours to greet you with an open teeth grin. 

And that genuinely brings a giggle out of you, leaving Nami mildly disgusted. 

When he's finally seen your smile, he returns back to the stove, slathering butter over the surface of a pan. The familiar rich aroma and the oddly calming sizzling sound makes you soften into yourself. You slouch onto the countertop, folding your elbows into each other and laying your chin on top. “I take it that this is a good morning for you?”

“Everyday better when I see your beautiful face.” He curls his lips into a smile, sneaking a quick glance at you before winking. 

Thank goodness he goes back to focusing on the pan because you are already throwing your face away to the sea, pursing your lips in a barely restrained smile before burying yourself into the crook of your arms, releasing a hidden breath. 

Sanji, that sly man, takes a quick peek from his shoulders. Seeing you, confident you, turn into a flustered puddle from his words makes him puff up so quickly. He wears his pride so boldly on his chest. No one could tell him anything for the rest of the day, and it was insufferable. 

Unbeknownst to you, he’s already started on your breakfast. He knows that you’re an early riser, and that you will almost always seek him out first thing in the morning. So everyday he sets out your breakfast ingredients and preps as much as he can. He doesn’t start cooking them before he sees your face, because he only wants the most warm and freshly cooked meal for you.

You notice it though, the way he always serves you first, no matter the time and place. Dinner? A plate of the finest meat for you first (Luffy hates it.) Going over logs with Nami? All the snacks you like are immediately placed in front of you, and a drink to compliment it following behind. He always thinks about your needs first, and if that isn’t love then you don’t know what to believe. 

Just as you are in the middle of your daydreaming, Sanji interrupts with the sound of cutlery against porcelain. He’s plating up your mouth-watering breakfast, made to absolute perfection. 

“For you madam, golden brown honey toast with freshly whipped cream on top,” he dishes out the plate in front of you, and the aroma itself sends you straight to heaven. “—extra fruit, just the way you like it.”

You didn’t think it was possible to fall deeper in love with him, but you’re proven wrong once you see the fruits that decorate your toast, all of them heart shaped. Both hand-cut and perfectly uniform using the cutter he specifically bought to use for your meals. 

You gasp in exaggeration, though deep inside you’re aching about how sweet he is to remember your preferences. “You spoil me,”

“Only the best for my favorite Strawhat.” He answers, pouring you a glass of freshly brewed coffee. 

You’re in the middle of cutting your toast in half when you look up at him, teasing by saying, “Don’t let the captain hear you say that.”

Sanji exclaims back to you in all his confidence, turning away as he places the pot on the counter. “Bah! One sirloin steak and he’ll forgive me like it never happened.”

Your giggle is like the brightest melody in his ears, and the words that follow it could bring him back from the dead. “Thank you, my chef~”

“You know my heart can’t take it,” He playfully sighs out your name, clutching his chest. Sanji stands across the table now, resting his chin on his hand against the counter top. Just happy to watch you.

“Delicious!” You continue to shoot honeyed words at him, not just as a means for him to keep sweet-talking you, but also because you think Sanji deserves all the love and goodness of this world. 

“Sing me your praises, my angel of music,”

Nami can almost see him propel himself to the sky with giddiness. 

“So perfectly crunchy,”

“—and I’m yours forever.” He takes your hand in his from across the aisle, pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles as he looks up at you. 

Nami felt chills sweeping up her spine. 

You guys were so cheesy. But sort of.. cute. That was something she couldn’t deny. She’s never seen Sanji this genuine, and when someone actually reciprocates, it makes him look less like a fool. 

And the way you were bouncing back and forth on each other was like a sick game of ping-pong she couldn’t look away from.

She couldn’t figure out for the life of her why you two aren’t together already. It’s perfectly clear that you both feel the same way, and aren’t afraid to act upon it. A small part of her wants to meddle, and she’s halfway into a plan that’ll somehow get either of you to confess to each other, but then she abruptly stops.

Eh, you guys will sort that out yourselves. Eventually. You look like you’re exactly where you want to be. So, Nami shrugs and beelines into the kitchen, hoping to get a fresh plate of breakfast seeing that he’s already started with yours. 

The next time Nami catches a moment between the two of you wasn’t intentional. Right, because she wouldn’t be caught dead seeking the conversations you and Sanji had after that traumatizing event. 

It was late at night. For once a quiet one between all the chaos that seemed to follow the Strawhat Pirates. Luffy was snoring away somewhere with a full belly, Ussop tinkering away in his cabin, and Zoro likely in the crow’s nest. Nami decided to look for fresh air, feeling a little bit holed up inside her room. Between the gentle rocking of the sea and the soft melody of the waves, it was the perfect atmosphere to spend watching the horizon. 

She didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, but the door was open and a ship doesn’t exactly leave much room for privacy. She tried to leave the two of you alone at first, but found herself leaning against the galley wall to listen in in the end. 

When she takes a peek through the door, she finds you seated still and pretty on the stool close to him, cross-legged in your pajamas. Like a sous chef who wasn’t really a sous chef but boosted the cook all the same—if not a million times more. 

When you first got to the galley, you paid mind to his laser-focused expression. You didn't want to break his flow, so you stuck yourself against the counter at a distance. You were content with the picture of him from afar, but Sanji had absolutely none of it. He began your conversation of the night while silently dragging a stool and placing it right next to him by the stove. Safely away from getting blasted by the heat, but close enough to where he could feel you around him and talk to you without feeling a million miles away. 

He’s got on one of your top favorite get-ups: a classic blue striped dress-shirt unbuttoned just the right amount and his pink Doskoi Panda apron tied around the back. Sleeves deliciously rolled up to his elbows for a bonus. Though Nami isn’t attracted to him the way you are, she isn’t blind. She has to admit that the image of his forearms are a sight for sore eyes. Sanji can be quite charming at times, mostly when he keeps the talking to a minimum and does what he does best. 

You’re not even hiding it at this point, gaze tracking every languid move of his hands like you were hypnotized. 

It’s not hard for you to admire him when he’s deep in his element. You find yourself going quiet, not because you don’t want to talk to him, but because it’s mesmerizing to see the way he commands the kitchen like his own battleship.

There’s a small smile on your lips as you take in the passion he carries, and on your lap you fidget with the shiny silver ring on your thumb. It’s his ring—your favorite one that's shaped like a skull—that he gave to you for “safekeeping”, even though Sanji never ever takes them off. Even when he’s cooking. It’s incredibly intimate; a symbol of his trust for you.

He’s just finished cooking a dish of his own creation. A classic menu made of meat, but a little more experimental with the seasoning. You can only describe it as heaven in a plate, sweet and savory at the same time, with a hint of something that you can't fully describe with words. Yet, you enjoy it for all that it is, and the delectable fragrance isn't something to complain about, either. It’s almost shocking that Luffy hasn’t come running down the kitchen from the smell alone. Sanji isn’t technically done with the recipe, seeing as he’s trying to perfect the ingredients being used. He has his worn-out notepad by the counter, filled with endless scribbles and notes of improvement. The cook will come back to it once you’ve given your own comments on the taste.

Once finished turning down the heat, he takes a clean spoon out of the cabinet and offers you a small portion fresh out of the pan, where the dish was still simmering in the heat. 

You feel honored that you are Sanji’s unofficial taste-tester. The first time you came across the cook experimenting with new creations was a complete coincidence. That particular night you’d been restless in bed, stomach aching for a bite of food. You ended up pattering into the galley to get maybe a few crackers, a slice of bread or cheese or something that’d temporarily distract you. But you didn’t expect to feast on a five star meal once Sanji found out you were hungry. You? His precious princess starving? Not on this ship. 

What began as compliments to the chef turned into fully fledged reviews of each flavor profile, and eventually became something more intimate. A space for honesty just for you and Sanji. 

You like to think that’s where you found the real Sanji. The kind heart beyond the ladies man, the truths behind his endless honeyed words. 

You sought him out like a moth to a flame, and every night Sanji welcomed you with open arms. 

Most of the times you were there to actually be his taste-tester, which is just his excuse of having a private late dinner with you. But, other times he’s prepping meals for the next day and you’re simply there to keep him company. Either way, you’ll never skip out on an opportunity to spend time alone with Sanji.

Funnily enough, more than once you’ve caught Luffy sneaking in and rummaging through the pantry, already halfway stuffing his face with something that makes Sanji tick before he notices that the two of you are occupying the room. It’s a bit adorable that he doesn’t make a fuss about it. He never questions anything beyond “Hey… are you sneaking for snacks too?!” and then an “Okay!” followed by his high pitched laughter after Sanji kicks him out for offering you the stolen goods from his sticky hands. 

You take notice that he never lets Luffy get a bite of his cooking. Sure, if the captain asks, Sanji will make him something, but not from the same pan. A different dish all together. You think that maybe it’s because he isn’t open to someone tasting something he considers isn’t “perfect” yet, but another part of you just believes that it’s because he only trusts you to give him the honest truth. 

Still, you find it hard to believe he’d ever need one, considering everything that he makes turns out flawless. 

“More seasoning?” The cook watches as you chew on the meat slowly.

You shake your head in disagreement. “No, this is perfect, Sanji.”

“Not too sweet for you?” 

Nami sees you visibly recoil at his questions, body moving as if he was spouting blasphemy. 

He’s got his back turned to you while he rinses his hands over the sink, so he can’t see the flabbergasted frown on your face.

“This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life.” You make an emphasis on the word “best”, sticking the wooden spoon back at him to signal that you wanted more.

“You flatter me, angel.” He grins, pulling the dish towel from his shoulders to wipe his hand. Then he goes straight to follow your command exactly and dips right back into the pan, scooping up a portion before blowing it softly to cool it down. 

You’re practically vibrating in your seat, legs bouncing and arms holding up the weight of your body as you lean towards him. 

“Nope. I’m just sayin’ the truth!” The words come with a pause as you’re swallowing your last bite, and the brightness comes right back up your face while you praise Sanji.

By the All Blue, he just wants to scoop you up and squeeze you in his arms for all eternity. You can be so shy around him, but also incredibly animated when expressing yourself. 

Once Sanji deems it the perfect condition for you, he motions the spoon to your mouth.

It’s a stupidly sweet gesture, and also his way of stopping you from eating the whole thing. You can just take the spoon from him and feed yourself, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like being pampered by Sanji. You’re not ashamed to admit that it makes you feel very special. If you truly weaponized your voice and asked him for the whole pan, he’d give it to you without a single doubt. But, it’d be a shame if he didn’t wait until he could properly serve it with some rice so you could have your very late dinner “date”.

He holds the spoon out for a beat longer to look down at the way your lips wrap around the surface, turning away only when you finish munching happily at the taste. After all, your satisfaction is his number one priority. Nami can’t see your face from where she’s at, but she can absolutely make out Sanji’s, and the way he’s staring is sensual, borderline debauched. It makes the navigator feel like she’s intruding on a private moment.

You are none the wiser to this, Sanji needs to get it together, and Nami’s very close to throwing up in front of the galley. 

Your eyes are closed as you hum contentedly once the flavors settle nicely in your stomach, and it’s then when you start to feel the weight of his stare. 

You’re only chin level on this short stool, so you have to look up to meet his eyes.

He's quiet and awfully still, taking you all in and leaving no part of you starving for his attention. There's an evident tension swimming around the kitchen, and it makes you acutely aware of just how close you are to him. Inches away. The position is a tad intimate, to say the least.

“What? Is there sauce on my face?” 

You know there isn’t anything on your face except for pure happiness, though you’re a tiny bit flustered by his attention. 

“Sorry, darling,” He's not sorry at all. He leans in to wipe the non-existent sauce, and for a second you think he’s going to deny his obvious admiration of you but then he pivots into something that is so Sanji it makes your brain melt. 

“Your beauty demands to be seen. I can’t deny you that.” He traces the back of his finger over your cheek before tucking a stray hair behind your ear. 

Time and time again, Sanji is able to surpass your every expectation. You continue to feel the weight of his stare, now much different than before because he looks at you with deep, unabashed, reverence. Not hidden, and not in halves. A softness he reserves only for you.

You’re speechless for a moment, but then he cups your face into his palms and it feels like everything just melts away. 

Now Nami understands. Why you adore him so much. Why you don’t need to scream it out to the world that you love him (although you would love to). The two of you aren’t “together” officially not because you don’t want to, or are too shy to say it out loud. But because you enjoy every part of who he is. The chasing, the teasing, the thrill; it’s everything in him that makes you feel alive. You don’t need words for him to understand that you love him, just as he doesn’t. 

Nami watches the way you look up at him, positively beaming. The silence is broken away when you start giggling to yourself, and it only makes Sanji move closer to you, his forehead bumping gently against yours as he sports an identical grin on his face.

She shakes her head, both astonished and happy to see you flourishing in his presence, before walking away with an affectionate eye-roll.

Yeah. You two are the lamest.

Mon trésor: My treasure

Aaah I couldn’t really decide which sanji to base this fic off of. I ended up doing a bit of both 🍽️

masterlist @ pls don't repost or feed my works into ai thaaank you

[bluebellhairpin]

Sanji Vinsmoke X Fem!Reader

Summary: Sanji takes his job as cook on the Going Merry very seriously, and seeing as he has yet to discover what you enjoy eating, he makes finding out his top priority. Lucky for Sanji, Luffy lends a hand. (a.k.a, reader has a complicated relationship with food, and Sanji finds a way to help fix it.) (wc. 2.8K)

Warnings: Food, food, more food (possibly a ED warning needed). They make out in the end :) Reader has she/her pronouns + fem bodied +tragic backstory.

Listening to: 'clementine' by Halsey - "Left my shoes in the street, so you'd carry me, through a breakdown. Through a breakdown or a blackout, would you make out with me on the floor of the mezzanine?"

Masterlist || AO3 link

To Sanji Vinsmoke you were an enigma, and it was driving him half mad trying to figure you out. Sanji had figured out everyone else in Luffy’s crew fairly quickly. In regards to food that is.

Luffy loves meat, Nami has her tangerines, etcetera and so forth. But you? He barely saw you finish a single plate of food, let alone go back for more - or forbid look like you were enjoying eating at all. Sanji’s whole life revolved around food, and he wasn’t going to have someone he decided to care for so deeply dislike it so much.

His stare pinned you to your seat at the kitchen table, fingers tapping the wood as he ran through the list in his head to find something new to try your tastes at.

“You’re really sure you don’t like tangerines? They’re in season at the moment.” Sanji watched your face form into a grimace, teeth bearing as you sucked air into your mouth.

“Not really. Sorry.” He waved his hand, shooing away your worry like swatting a fly. His thoughts wandered again before speaking after a few long moments of silence.

“Your not liking seafood feels like a crime.” he mumbled. As he looked at you he saw your eyes flicker to the side.

“I’ll eat it, I just can’t say it’s my favourite.” you said.

“You’re just saying that.” he smiled, “I saw your face screw up the first time Zoro had a poor attempt at making sashimi.”

“It wasn’t that bad!” You sat up, ready to defend yourself from Sanji’s interrogation. “I’m just not used to eating raw fish!”

“He can’t make it like I do.” he said softly. You looked into his eyes and he had to hold himself back from sighing dreamily.

Sanji, besides believing food shouldn’t be wasted, loved seeing people who needed to eat happy with what they ate. You worried him, since it had been weeks and yet you’d never expressed such approval. You never even went back for seconds - which obviously was on his mind more than he’d ever admit. He tried so hard to find something you’d like, and hadn’t yet. He wondered how happy you’d look when he finally found out what you liked. How your pretty eyes might light up, or how you might finally bless him with a real toothy grin instead of a shy smile.

He almost sighed again at the thought of how beautiful it would be.

“You care a lot about food, don’t you?” your voice was quiet, but it cut through Sanji’s thoughts like a knife. He watched your face soften. “You don’t have to answer. I can tell.”

He watched you, the way you took a deep breath and how it shifted your shoulders. Then you stood, and came around the table. You hand rested inches from his, and he knew he shouldn’t want to hold your hand as badly as he did. He wondered if your fingers were soft or calloused, felt hot or cold. He wanted to hold your hand so badly, but he didn’t.

“You don’t have to care so much about me, Sanji. I’ll eat whatever’s put in front of me, whether I like it or not.”

Your words made him frown, and he watched you turn and leave. Something about your words left him feeling an immeasurable amount of sadness. He once said women were mysteries to be unravelled slowly, you were the slowest he’d come across. You sounded so sad when you spoke, as if resolved to a fate you never wanted.

It made him scared to uncover what possibly happened to you to resign like that, and sad to think about how different you might be now if you hadn’t gone through it. Clearly, you had gone through something, or someone, to make you so uncaring for something many people found joy in.

He decided then that he would help fix it. Sanji would bring joy back into your life through food.

Calm, quiet nights on the Going Merry were a favourite of yours. The sea was still, the salt sat lightly in the air, and the sky was so clear you could see stars no matter which direction you looked. It was peaceful. Carefree. On nights like these you could clear your head, spread out your thoughts like photos on the floor and organise them one by one.

You kept nights like these a secret because you knew if someone found you and got you talking that you’d keep no more secrets. With your vulnerability laid bare before you it was also laid bare to anyone who came by. Doing this small ritual late at night meant no one ever had seen it. Tonight changed that.

A hand reached at the railing inches from your face, and a wide grin soon followed. Someone had found you.

“You trying to scare me into a heart attack Luffy?” His grin softened at your nonchalant reply.

“I don’t believe I really scared you with how you’re reacting.”

“My heart’s beating right out of my chest, really it is captain. You should feel it.” You said, watching him climb over the railing and sit down beside you. His quietness while doing so was unusual. “You don’t usually come up here.”

“I wanted to ask you something -”

‘Here we go,’ you thought, rolling your eyes.

“- You gave your dinner to Ussop tonight. Distracted him by getting him to tell a story then put your plate in front of him so he wouldn’t notice. But I did.” he said. Luffy looked across at you, his hat rested around his neck by its drawstring. Without the hat he looked more serious - that paired with the genuine concern in his eyes and your own aforementioned vulnerability was dangerous.

“Why did you do that?” You looked at him, and he looked back at you. You sighed.

“Before dinner he said he was starving.” you said, “After he finished eating I gave him mine so he didn’t have to get up.”

“You need to eat too. He says that all the time, it’s just a joke.”

You sighed. Your arms rested across the banister of the crows rest, and your chin now nestled on top of them. When you spoke again your voice was soft, and you didn’t look back at Luffy.

“It’s not a joke to me.” From the corner of your eye you saw his position mirror yours, and his legs slowly started swinging from where they dangled over the edge.

“Why?” he asked. It was such a small unassuming word. Normally it wouldn’t bother you, but tonight it was the one thing you were most worried about. It could open a floodgate you’d been dying to keep closed since you joined the Straw Hats - and now it had opened.

“My family.” you said. “My island was good. We weren’t well-off but we never went without the things we needed. Then pirates came, and the marines came. Then if we had something and it wasn’t stolen by pirates, it was allocated to the marines. We started starving.”

Finally, you looked across to Luffy. He stared at you with a frown, the kind he’d get when he was focusing and trying to understand. You’d seen him direct it to others but had never been on the receiving end yourself - it felt strange. With that look, however strange it was, he made you feel like you needed to keep talking just so he understood. So you kept talking.

“With the lack of what we needed, my mother died, then my father. I had to look after my sister on my own, so I worked. I skipped eating so she got breakfast and dinner, I only ate the food I got from work. I did my best to go hungry so she didn’t have to and she died anyway.”

The weight of your words sat heavy in the night air. Your words were gentle, resigned - you’d gotten used to the thought long ago that losing your family was an act you were helpless to stop no matter how hard you tried. You’d spent the rest of your life until now trying even harder to see if that would have made a difference.

For a long time all you heard was the lapping of seawater on the ship’s hull.

“I don’t want to see the people I care about go hungry again. I want them to be happy. I want you all to be happy.” You turned your cheek to rest on your arm, suddenly feeling tired as you looked back at Luffy. “So I give up my food, I don’t eat more than my share.”

Luffy, again, mirrored your action. His cheek squished against his forearm as he looked at you. He lacked the frown now, and his eyes held understanding. You could tell your story made him sad, but he also looked grateful. Eventually his face broke out in a new, wide grin.

“If you could eat anything without a care in the world, what would it be?”

At the look on Luffy’s face, you let out a quiet noise that almost could’ve been a soft laugh. His eyes were expectant, so you looked back to the ocean and thought.

“I know it’s a drink, but I loved tea.” You sighed dreamily. “French earl grey was my favourite.”

Sanji knew you liked your quiet time, so he never went up to the crows nest with you. He stayed on deck, out of sight and smoking, until you climbed down and went to bed. He liked to think he was making sure you didn’t fall, but really he treated it like your own secret.

You up there, him down here, and that's the special time you get to spend together, a moment where it was just the two of you - even if you didn’t know about it. When Luffy started climbing the rigging, Sanji was prepared to get really pissed off for ruining your peace. He was glad he didn’t though.

Still night’s means sound travels well and fast. He heard everything you and Luffy talked about.

Thanks to your Captain, he’d figured you out - and he wasn’t going to bed tonight. He stomped out his cigarette and turned around back into the kitchen.

The plan for today was to dock the Going Merry and spend most of the day ashore, either gathering supplies or, in Luffy’s case, finding some local trouble to get in the middle of. Sanji’s original plan was to do that too, but after last night he had new plans.

The fact everyone else would be gone was fantastic - and your own plan to stay close to the ship to spend time around the hull scraping off barnacles was even more perfect.

Sanji was even more grateful to Luffy’s talk with you last night, since your whole mood seemed lighter today. Convincing out to climb back aboard was almost too easy - and the lack of trouble it took to get you to entertain his shenanigans was almost just as easy.

“Sanji I don’t know why you have to cover my eyes, I can keep my eyes closed just fine.”

“I don’t want you peeking.”

“If you’re going to show me some food sculpture again,” you trailed off. Sanji controlled the fluttering in his chest at the feeling of your cheeks moving under his palms - movements that meant you were smiling.

“If I was, you’d be very impressed.” He guided you to a stop, making sure to position you just right. He suddenly felt very nervous. This felt worse than when he made his very first meal. What if you didn’t like it? What if this was a big mistake? What if-

“Sanji?” you whispered. He didn’t even realize his hands were resting on your shoulders until your fingers came up and grazed his own. “Are you okay?”

He smiled. Of course you’d ask that - it made sense now, now that he knew you were the most selfless person he’d met.

“I’m perfect.” he said, hands squeezing your shoulders, “Are you ready to see your surprise?” You nodded. He let out a soft ‘okay’ and reluctantly pulled away to stand next to the kitchen table.

Sanji watched as you took it in, but your face gave nothing away. He nervously looked toward the table again - maybe something was out of place? - then back to you.

“What is this?” you asked. Your voice was so soft that if he wasn’t on a knife's edge he wouldn’t have heard it.

“Earl grey and chocolate cheesecake, and a lemon and earl grey chiffon cake.” He noticed your eyes lingering on a porcelain set just behind the cake. “And tea ready to brew.”

“Sanji, you didn’t have to do -”

“No!” His objection was abrupt, and it made your eyes snap from the spread to him. “I’m sorry, but no. I won’t hear you say it. Just eat it. Please.” Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest, too scared to even blink.

You could tell Sanji felt just as tense as you did. No one had ever gone through so much just for you - hell you didn’t even know there was French earl grey tea anywhere on the Merry, and here Sanji was with a whole morning tea that was themed after your favourite flavour. You didn’t know what to do.

“I’ll get on my knees and beg if you want.” he offered with a small and unsteady grin. Your head shook, declining, and his eyes glanced down at where your fingers nervously fiddled with themselves. You stilled them, instead gripping the coarse fabric of your skirt.

“What I want?” you said softly, almost to yourself. You looked at the food, so carefully prepared and baked, then back at him. “Could you join me? I don’t want to eat alone.”

Instantly, his nerves seemed to visibly melt away - and you in turn felt like you could relax too. He was by your side again, guiding you with a phantom hand at your waist into a seat, and then took the one beside you.

“You’ll have tea, obviously.” Sanji offered, reaching for the teapot, “You’re sweet as you are, but do you need some sugar today?”

Your hand faltered for where it reached for a piece of the chiffon cake. He turned his head to face you, to see you frozen again. This time the look on your face was different. Like a cheeky child had been caught with their hand in a cookie jar.

“Do you think I need some sugar today?” you asked, snickering.

“I’d give you some any day you want.” Then you started giggling - a sound he’d never heard from you before. He looked over and there it was - the smile he’d been longing for a chance to see.

“I think I need some sugar today,” you said with a smile. Your giggling had stopped, but you looked up at him with a soft smile. He couldn’t have been dreaming, but he might’ve since he swore you lent closer.

Sanji decided to be brave. His arm came up to rest on the back of his seat, and his fingers brushed your jaw. His heart skipped a beat when you let him do it.

“How much sugar?” he asked, feeling like he’d been lulled into a daydream at the sight of your happiness.

“A little bit,” you replied, shyly smiling over at him.

“Like this?” he said softly. Ever so carefully he lent forward. His fingers held your chin gently, and when he was close enough to count your eyelashes, your eyes fluttered closed. Gently, he pressed a kiss to the edge of your mouth. It was a short kiss, but he could die happily now - he knew he’d remember the feel of you on his lips even from beyond the grave.

“No,” you whispered, and your fingers ghosted across his jaw to guide his head closer still, “Like this.” you said. Then you kissed him. Your kiss was just as soft, just as gentle, but it was longer, and less afraid. When you pulled away your eyes finally opened.

Before, Sanji could tell you weren’t the kind of person to have done that. To have taken a kiss for yourself, no matter how willing the recipient was. To think all that it took to break that spell was a morning tea.

“Thank you Sanji, for doing all this for me.” You said. Your smile was content - it wasn’t the full toothy grin Sanji had hoped for, but it was genuine, and it made him feel fuller than any meal ever could.

“No, thank you,” he replied, “Thank you for letting me know you.”

[miunicornfluff]

coming back on here 2 say this

fuck I.C.E

fuck tr*mp

fuck ep*tein

fuck shitrael

fuck sexism

fuck k*rk

fuck pro-life

fuck white supremacy

fuck racism

everything is political.

no one is illegal on stolen land

arrest everyone mentioned in the files

i love immigrants

free palestine, cogo, venezuela, etc

abortion is healthcare

blame the predator, not the victims clothes.

no uterus no opinion

love is love

trans woman = woman

trans man = man

mental health matters

all addictions matter

[lyraaorion]

claim your badge here!

[03jyh23]

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏ ‎‏‏‎🎮┆gaming distraction

roommate jeong yunho x fem!reader

Synopsis: All you wanted was a quiet night while your gamer roommate screamed at Valorant. What you didn’t expect was for the Wi-Fi to die, the rage to kick in, and your hormones to betray you spectacularly. One minute he’s cursing at his monitor, the next you’re wondering if asking your roommate for a “favour” counts as friendship or a really bad life choice. Genre: smut with plot, failed attempt on comedy Trigger Warnings: explicit sexual content (!mdni!), consensual sex, fingering, oral (f. receiving), p in v, protected sex (condom), some dirty talk, praise, nipple play, honestly nothing too crazy?, yunho calls the reader good girl once, hand kink??? WC: 7k

Author’s Note: hi.... so, ekhem, the long-awaited smut… is FINALLY HERE 😳 IN MY DEFENCE! LISTEN. I was whatever Yeosang’s username is (im_ovulation) and… WELL. IT’S YUNHO, OKAY?? do you think i could resist him??? do you??? NO. and let’s be honest, i know i feed you angst on a daily basis, so this?? this smut?? it comes once in a super rare blue moon. savour it. worship it. burn it into your brain. you’re welcome. side note: beta reading and smut editing was done by @pixlpxie 🙏🏻 so thank her too because if she hadn’t guided me through this… it would have been an absolute disaster.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎Yunho had been holed up in his bedroom for hours, completely sucked into another Valorant match. You could hear the furious clicking of his keyboard and the occasional curse slipping through the door. It was typical of him—when he wasn’t working, he threw himself into gaming like his life depended on it. Usually, you let him be. Roommates needed their own space, and his hobby kept him out of your hair.

But today, you were restless in a way that had nothing to do with boredom.

You’d tried sinking into a show, flipping through a book, scrolling your phone—nothing stuck. An uncomfortable warmth curled low in your stomach, the kind that made you overly aware of your own body and how alone you were in it. You shifted on the couch for what felt like the hundredth time, but even the soft brush of fabric against your skin made everything worse. You groaned into your hands. Of all days for your hormones to riot, it had to be a day when you were stuck at home with an infuriatingly attractive man who made noises that were borderline pornographic when he played games.

Your thoughts drifted against your will—broad shoulders hunched toward a screen, sleeves pushed up over forearms, fingers dancing across his keyboard with focused precision.

You’d pretended not to notice details like that before. Being attracted to your roommate was already dangerous territory—you didn’t need your imagination turning it into a full production.

Still, it betrayed you.

You caught yourself picturing what he’d look like leaning back in his chair, stretching that long body, maybe glancing at you with that half-smile he got when he was feeling smug about a win. And worse—you imagined what it would be like if he actually knew what kind of mood you were in.

A shout of triumph erupted from his room. You jolted and then immediately cursed yourself. He really was in there having the time of his life while you suffered like the world’s neediest houseplant.

You flopped onto the couch with a dramatic exhale. Maybe you could bribe him out of his cave with food. Or pretend you needed help reaching something stupidly high. Or “accidentally” make enough noise that he’d come check on you.

Another muffled “yes!” came from behind his door—happy, breathy, entirely too easy to reinterpret if you let your mind go there.

Living with Yunho was supposed to make splitting rent easier—not slowly destroy you from the inside out. If he would just leave the apartment for a few hours, you could deal with this in peace, get it out of your system and move on. But with him on the other side of the wall, every thought felt too loud, every breath too obvious. Trying to take care of things with him so close wasn’t even on the table.

You buried your face in the couch cushion and groaned into it, hoping the fabric would muffle your misery. The apartment suddenly felt too small, like the walls were closing in with every muffled sound he made. You thought about taking a cold shower but even that felt risky—what if he heard the water and got curious? What if he knocked on the door to ask something stupid, like if you’d seen his charger?

Another shout—victory, probably—rattled from his room. You glared at the wall like it was personally mocking you.

You were debating whether running a quick errand would help clear your head when his bedroom door finally creaked open. Your whole body tensed. Footsteps padded down the hallway—slow, lazy, totally unsuspecting. A moment later, he emerged in the doorway of the living room, stretching one arm over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a strip of skin.

“Thought you went out,” he said casually, brushing his hair out of his eyes. His voice was raspy from hours of not talking.

“I didn’t,” you managed, hoping your face didn’t give anything away.

He nodded, eyes still half on whatever match he’d just finished. “I’m grabbing water. Want anything?”

Yes, you thought. Absolutely not water.

But out loud, you cleared your throat and said, “I’m good.”

He hummed in acknowledgment and headed toward the kitchen. You kept your eyes glued to the TV—even though it wasn’t on—because watching him move around the apartment in that loose, sleep-worn shirt and those grey sweatpants was not going to help your situation.

A cabinet opened. A glass clinked. The faucet ran. You focused on breathing like a normal human being.

Then, because the universe apparently hated you, he called out, “You okay? You look kinda flushed.”

You stiffened. “I’m fine. Just warm.”

He poked his head back into the living room, brows slightly raised. “I can turn the AC up?”

“No!” you blurted, too fast. “It’s fine. Seriously.”

He blinked, then shrugged like he couldn’t be bothered to figure you out right now. “Alright. Holler if you change your mind.”

And with that, he padded back down the hall, door closing behind him with a soft click.

You exhaled like you’d been underwater.

Great. Back to square one—with even more images you didn’t ask for now elbowing their way into your brain.

Would it really be that crazy to ask him?

The thought slipped in quiet and shameless, and you froze like you’d been caught thinking it out loud. You and Yunho were close. Closer than most roommates ever got. Months of shared takeout, late-night movie marathons, venting on the couch at 2 a.m.—you trusted him. You were comfortable around him.

Too comfortable, maybe.

The idea sat there, bold and reckless. If anyone would take you seriously—even in the most painfully awkward scenario—it’d be him. He’d never made you feel judged for anything before. And wasn’t that what friends were for? Favours, help, honesty?

Except this wasn’t asking him to pick up milk or plunge the sink.

You sank deeper into the couch, pressing your palms to your burning face. You couldn’t even imagine forming the words without combusting. But then your brain, messy traitor that it was, whispered: he wouldn’t have to say yes. He could laugh it off. Pretend it never happened. You could blame hormones or delusion or heatstroke. You’d both move on, maybe with a few weeks of mutual avoidance, but you’d survive.

And if he didn’t laugh?

If he actually considered it—

You shut that door in your mind so fast it nearly came off the hinges.

Still, the question lingered like static in your blood: was it really that out of bounds to want something from someone you already trusted with so much of your life?

You stared at the hallway, at the sliver of light under his door.

You were not going to ask.

Probably.

Maybe.

God, you needed help.

The floor creaked in the hall, and you shot upright like you’d been caught with contraband thoughts. Before you could collect yourself, his door flew open with a bang.

“What the actual fu—” Yunho stormed halfway into the living room, face twisted with raw frustration. His jaw was clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking beneath his skin, and a vein pulsed visibly along the side of his neck, pronounced and throbbing with each angry breath. “Did the Wi-Fi just die completely?” His voice was louder than usual, sharp-edged and bristling. “I was in the middle of a fucking match and everything crashed! We were winning—I had the last kill lined up and—” He raked a hand through his hair roughly, making it stick up at odd angles, his chest heaving with the kind of anger that came from hours of buildup suddenly snapping.

You blinked at him, words dissolving in your throat. The flush across his cheekbones, the way his shoulders were tensed and drawn up, the visible strain in his neck… Your brain, scrambled beyond repair, reached for the first possible lifeline.

“Do you… have any single friends?” you blurted.

Silence.

His brows pulled together slowly, like he was running diagnostics. “What?”

You wanted to crawl into the couch cushions and never return. “I mean—uh—just curious. You know. For—uh. Research.”

“For… research,” he repeated, expression unreadable. Then, as if deciding not to question it too hard, he chuckled under his breath and shook his head. “You’re so weird sometimes.”

He padded back toward his room, muttering something about restarting the router.

The second his door clicked shut again, you dropped your face into your hands and groaned. Out of all the possible things to say, that was what your brain had offered? Fantastic. Just fantastic.

You told yourself to just sit there. Be normal. Pretend the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened.

But normal had packed its bags hours ago.

Before your dignity could wrestle your mouth shut, you called out, “Wait!”

His door stopped halfway through closing. Yunho leaned back out, one hand on the frame. “Yeah?”

Your brain fired off exactly zero sensible sentences, so you picked the worst possible one.

“Are you… leaving tonight?”

He stared. Not even suspicious—just confused in the purest, most innocent way. “Leaving?” he echoed. “Like… the apartment?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Or, like, hanging out with someone. Or going to a friend’s. Or… I don’t know. Doing something that’s not here.”

His face did a slow-motion frown, like he was trying to load context that didn’t exist. “Why would I go anywhere? It’s almost midnight.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Just asking.”

He squinted a little. Not accusing—just baffled. “Are you okay? You’re being weird. Like, weirder than usual.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, probably unconvincingly.

He held up his hands in surrender. “Alright. I’m gonna reset the damn router and finish my game.” And with that, he disappeared back into his room, door clicking shut while you sat there wondering if spontaneous combustion was a thing that could be willed into existence.

The problem was that he looked concerned. Not annoyed. Not amused. Just… worried. And that somehow made everything worse.

You went into his gaming room before your brain could veto it. His chair was still spun halfway toward the door, his monitor glowing with a paused match. You stood in the middle of the room like a stray cat having an episode.

He looked at you with raised eyebrows. “Okay,” he said carefully, “start from the top. What’s going on with you?”

You opened your mouth, absolutely intending to lie. Something vague and dismissible. Something recoverable.

What came out instead was:

“I’m too horny to function and you won’t leave!”

Silence.

Not quiet—dead. Like the world buffer-spun and disconnected.

Yunho just stared. His brain visibly bluescreened.

You slapped both hands over your face and let out a noise that sounded like a ghost getting tasered. “Oh my GOD, I can’t believe I said that, please kill me, actually kill me—”

He made a sound. A soft, stunned laugh of disbelief. “Wait—what?”

You turned away like maybe if you didn’t see him, he didn’t exist. “I told you I’m having a crisis! My body is… doing stuff! And you’re over here making noises through the wall like—I don’t know! Sound porn?!”

“I was playing VALORANT!” he said, both horrified and defensive.

“You grunt when you’re focused!” you accused, pointing at him like that was a crime.

“I—what was I supposed to do, stop breathing?!”

“Yes! No! I don’t know! Move out!”

“That escalated—”

“I told you I needed you to leave!” you wailed. “I was trying to handle it like a normal, sane person but I can’t do that when you’re in the next room moaning every time you get headshotted—”

“I DO NOT MOAN—”

“YOU DO ENOUGH.”

You were breathing like you’d just outrun the cops. He looked like he was considering reincarnation.

Finally, he raked a hand through his hair and said, weakly, “So… just to confirm… you’re—like—turned on and I’m the problem?”

You threw your hands up. “Congratulations, you’ve solved the mystery.”

He made another noise—somewhere between a laugh and a stunned exhale. His ears were bright red. “And your solution was to ask me if I had single friends?!”

“I WAS SCRAMBLING!”

“And then you tried to evict me from my own apartment for the night?”

“Yes! Because I have self-control! Until I don’t!”

He just… stared at you for a long, long second.

Then, very quietly, very carefully, he said, “You know I’m single too… right?”

And THAT was the moment your soul evacuated your body.

You swore something in you tightened at his words—an involuntary pulse of heat that made you want to sink through the floor. Your mouth went dry. You just stared at him like an idiot, eyes wide, brain blank, body unhelpful.

Yunho, of all people, was blushing. Not a little, either—his ears were red, the tips of them practically glowing, and colour was creeping up his neck like he’d been caught doing something illegal. He cleared his throat, but his voice still came out a touch higher than usual. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You blinked once. Twice. “Because—I didn’t—You’re—You can’t just SAY that.”

“I was trying to help!” he shot back, flustered and defensive and very much avoiding eye contact. “You were yelling at me to evacuate the premises so you could—handle—whatever, and I— I don’t know! I panicked!”

You dragged a hand down your face. “You can’t just… offer yourself like a make-up sample.”

“I DIDN’T—” He stopped, groaned into his palm, and muttered, “Okay, maybe I did a little.”

Silence crawled back in, thick and buzzing. Your heart was thudding like it was planning an escape. His gaze flicked to you, then away, then back again, like he couldn’t decide if looking at you made this better or worse. Finally, he said, quietly, “So… what do we do now?”

Your brain responded with static.

Your body responded with betrayal.

And you? You just stood there, staring at him like a glitching sim, praying the Earth would develop a sinkhole under your feet immediately.

You’re dying inside. Each second that passes is torture, and the way he’s standing there—uncertain, flustered, his fingers nervously tapping against his thigh—is making everything worse. When did his hands become so goddamn fascinating? The way his fingers flex, the veins that trace up his wrists, the little nervous habits you’ve never noticed before are suddenly the most distracting thing in the universe.

He clears his throat. “Maybe we should just forget about—”

“I need you to fuck me right now,” you blurt out, the words practically exploding from your mouth, “or just tell me which one of your friends would be willing to. Because I’m losing my damn mind.”

Yunho’s eyes go wide, mouth dropping open in shock. He stares at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “I—what?” he stammers, his voice cracking. “My friends? You want me to—” He stops, processing what you just said. “Wait, did you just ask me to—”

“Yes,” you say, past the point of embarrassment. “I did. Because apparently subtlety isn’t working.”

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it slightly, and you swear the simple gesture sends another wave of heat through your body. You’re going to combust if he keeps doing things like that.

“You...” His voice catches. “You can’t just say that.” Something shifts in his expression—a flash of heat behind the shock. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and it’s such a small gesture but it makes your stomach do a free-fall.

“I just did,” you say, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. “Look, I’m going insane here. You keep doing—” you gesture vaguely at all of him, “—THAT.”

“What am I doing?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“EXISTING!” you practically shout. “Standing there with your stupid hands and your stupid face and—god, you were just playing with your hair and I swear I almost launched myself at you.”

His eyes widen fractionally, and then—oh no—his lips curve into something that’s almost a smirk. Almost. “So...” he says slowly, “you’re saying I’m the problem?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!” You run your hands through your hair in frustration. “I’m the problem. My body is the problem. The fact that you won’t stop fidgeting with your hands is the problem.”

And then, because apparently you’ve lost all control, you point accusingly at his fingers, which are currently drumming a nervous pattern against his thigh. “THAT. That right there! Stop it!”

He immediately freezes, looking down at his own hand like it’s betrayed him. “I’m not doing anything!”

“You’re breathing too loud!”

“I’m—” he sputters, “I can’t control that!”

“Exactly my point! ” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “So either help me solve this problem or point me to someone who will, because I am DYING here.”

There’s a split second where time seems to stop. Yunho is staring at you, his pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling rapidly. Before you can process what’s happening, he moves.

In two quick strides, he’s in front of you. His hands cup your face, rough and urgent, and then his mouth crashes against yours. His fingers thread through your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss as he walks you backward until your back hits the wall.

“Is this what you want?” he growls against your mouth, his voice so low it sends shivers down your spine. “You want me to fuck you senseless? Make you forget your own name?”

The sudden change makes your knees weak.

Your answer is to grab his shirt and pull him back to you, kissing him hard. “Shut up and do it already,” you whisper.

You found his lips again, hungry and desperate. There was no time to waste. Your mouth met his wild and uninhibited—a delicious mess of pure want. You didn't care that your kiss betrayed a hunger that left no room for grace. But could you be blamed? Every single touch burned you from the inside out.

Something in him snaps. Your soft, desperate sounds pull him under completely. The kiss turns fierce—your mouths clashing, breath mingling, tongues chasing each other in a dizzying rhythm. His hands roam everywhere at once—up your sides, over your hips—before gripping firmly and lifting you as if you weigh nothing.

You gasp, a small, startled sound that quickly melts into a moan when your back hits the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, drawing him closer, the friction between you sparking heat that steals your breath. The world narrows to this moment—his body against yours, the taste of his mouth, and the hunger that refuses to be tamed.

He trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, teeth grazing the rapid beat of your pulse. His hands slip beneath your clothes, and the moment his skin meets yours, you swear nothing else has ever felt like it. His touch is addictive leaving searing trails across your skin that make you gasp and arch into him, desperate for more.

You’re burning from the inside out, every touch sending electric currents through your body. Yet even through the fire, a shiver runs down your spine—not from cold, but from the dizzying rush of it all. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you up with effortless strength. You barely notice how hard he’s gripping you until you feel the dull ache blooming under his fingertips—marks you know will linger, proof of how completely you’ve given in.

His breath is hot against your ear when he murmurs, “Been thinking about this for months…” The confession sends a shiver straight through you. You can’t hold back the sound that escapes your throat when his fingers slide higher, teasing at the edge of your underwear. Your head falls back against the wall, offering yourself up as he trails open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

“About how your body would feel under mine,” he whispers between kisses, his lips dragging heat across your skin. “How you’d taste.” Each word is punctuated by another mark, another slow press of his mouth, until you can feel every bruise blooming where his lips have been.

He doesn’t seem to care who might see the evidence later—but you know you’ll wear each one like a secret, a quiet kind of pride.

His mouth lingers against your neck, a low sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, the words half-growl, half-confession. Every movement is firm, deliberate—claiming, not asking.

“Need you...” you gasp as his hands slide over the curve of your ass, squeezing possessively, earning a moan from you. “I’ve never—ah—never needed anything this badly.” A sharp sting follows—he can’t stop himself from slapping your ass again. The faint burning on your skin is addicting.

Yunho’s teeth graze your earlobe. “Tell me how badly,” he demands, his voice rough with desire. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.” He kneads the soft flesh in his hands a bit more, only to move them up to the most dangerous zone, where it feels like you are about to burst. He drags his long fingers along your skin till he finds your heated core. The slight touch makes your stomach flip—like free-falling.

His fingers tease at your entrance through the thin fabric of your underwear, and you whimper, pressing against him desperately. The evidence of his arousal is hard against your core, making your entire body throb with anticipation. You curse under your breath, not sure if Yunho caught it or not.

“I want— ” Your breath catches, a shaky moan leaving your lips as his thumb circles exactly where you need it most. It's slow and deliberate, each move tantalising. The fabric—no matter how thin—keeps you from feeling him completely. It's torturous, like chasing a mirage. A moan rumbles deep in your throat. Shivers run down your spine. You try to continue. “I want to feel you inside me. Want you to make me scream your name.” Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. The pain seems to fuel him, you catch him smirking — he shifts his grip to support your weight with one arm while the other finally, finally pushes your underwear aside. The chill air hits your warm core for a brief second, making you shiver.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his slender fingers meeting with your warm slick, voice filled with wonder as his fingers slide through your folds.

“It’s your fault” You roll your hips against his hand, seeking more friction. “Take responsibility for it.” He plays with your aching bud a little more, making you squirm with need. 

He captures your mouth again, swallowing your moans as one finger slides inside you. He wasn’t rushing not to hurt you, letting you take him in with delicacy. You inhale sharply, the length of his finger alone takes your breath away. The stretch is exquisite, but not nearly enough. “Another,” you plead against his lips. “More, please—”

He loves hearing you beg. He obliges gladly, adding a second finger, curling them in a way that makes your vision blur at the edges. “Like this?” he asks, smirking as you cry out. “Is this what you’ve been so desperate for?” His fingers move inside you, in and out, almost—but not quite—touching where you need him most.

“Don’t—ah—don’t tease,” you manage to say in between pants, your voice breaking as his thumb finds your clit, already swollen with arousal. “I’ve been thinking about your hands on me for so long.”

His rhythm falters for a split second. “You have?” The question sounds genuinely surprised—almost vulnerable—despite the position you're in.

“Yeah,” you admit, cupping his face and forcing him to meet your gaze. “Every time you walk around shirtless after a shower. Every time I hear you through these paper-thin walls.” You roll your hips against his hand for emphasis. “Every. Fucking. Time.”

The confession is the last drop—the leftover inhibition dissolving in an ocean of primal desire. Without warning, he withdraws his fingers, leaving you whimpering at the loss. Before you can protest, he’s carrying you to his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

Yunho lays you on the bed with surprising gentleness, then stands back to pull his shirt over his head in one fluid motion. As the light reflects off his skin, you realise his form is no different than the ancient statues people gaze at with awe. The sight of his bare torso—all lean muscle and smooth skin—makes your mouth go dry. You can’t help but watch the subtle flex of his muscles, your gaze lingering on the v-line that disappears into his sweatpants. Each move feels like an invitation to touch him. Your fingers instinctively find his body, trailing down the lines the light contours to perfection. He isn’t a game your mind is playing—he’s flesh and bone in front of you—yet it feels surreal.

“Take your clothes off,” he says, pulling you out of your deep haze, his voice a command that sends heat pooling between your thighs. “I want to see all of you.”

You comply eagerly, tugging your shirt over your head and shimmying out of your bottoms. His gaze is heavy on your skin, tracking every movement as you reveal yourself to him.

When you’re down to just your underwear, you hesitate, suddenly feeling a flash of vulnerability. Yunho seems to sense your uncertainty. He leans down to press a surprisingly tender kiss to your lips. “So fucking beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes.”

The confession makes your heart stutter. “Yun...”

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, pressing kisses down your neck, your collarbone. “Let me make you feel good.” And you surrender to him.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before moving to unhook your bra. He helps you slip it off, then kisses his way down to take a nipple into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure racing through you. Your nipples harden under his attention. His mouth works wonders—sucking the soft skin as if he's been parched and deprived, flicking the hard bud with deliberate strokes of his tongue. Your moans overpower every other sound in the room.

You arch into him, one hand fisting in his hair while the other grips his shoulder hard enough that your nails dig crescents into his skin. “More,” you gasp, the word barely coherent as he switches to your other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. The heat between your legs is unbearable now, your body begging for him to touch you where you need it most.

He lavishes attention on one breast, then the other, alternating between gentle licks and firmer suction that has you writhing beneath him. He bites down too—small, sharp nips that leave subtle red marks you know will darken by morning. All the while, his hands explore, learning every curve and dip of your body like he's memorising you by touch.

When his mouth travels lower, pressing hot kisses across your stomach, your breathing becomes shallow with anticipation. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, looking up at you for permission.

“Please,” is all you can say, lifting your hips to help him.

He slowly drags the fabric down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze makes you feel exposed in the most exhilarating way. Once you’re completely bare, he takes a moment just to look at you, he studies each and every curve of your sweet body, memorising the landscape of your figure with a devouring gaze.

A possessive smile creeps on his lips slowly, “Spread your legs for me,” he says, his voice hoarse with want. You comply, knees falling open as he settles between them.

The first touch of his breath against your core makes you shiver.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste you,” he confesses, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “How many nights I was thinking about making you come on my tongue.” Each word is rewarded with kisses on your sensitive skin. The closer he gets, more you start to tremble with anticipation. 

The words alone nearly push you over the edge. “Then do it,” you challenge, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Show me.” You pull on the soft strands as you pant.

His eyes flash with determination before he lowers his head. And you can swear you just went to heaven and back, the moment his mouth meets your core you feel ecstatic. The first swipe of his tongue has you crying out, its wide across you, stimulating each nerve there at once. Your hips buck involuntarily. His tongue is warm on your wet core. The sensation is immaculate, you can’t help but to melt in his mouth. He pins you down with strong hands on your thighs, holding you open as he works you with his mouth.

“Oh god—Yun—” You can barely form words as he circles your clit with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and targeted precision that makes your toes curl. “That’s—fuck—right there.”

He hums against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure crashing through your body. He could swear he's never tasted anything sweeter. Your slick coats his mouth—he loves devouring you, loves the mess of it all. It's driving him insane. As he sucks on your clit, he slides two fingers inside you, heightening the pleasure. He curls them to hit that perfect spot while his tongue continues its relentless assault. You feel yourself rapidly approaching the edge.

“I’m close,” you warn, voice breaking. “So close—”

He redoubles his efforts, establishing a rhythm that has you gasping for air. The combination of his fingers and his tongue sends you careening over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as pleasure explodes through you, waves of it crashing over you as you cry out his name, hand harshly pulling his hair.

He works you through it, gentling his touch as you become oversensitive, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you struggle to catch your breath. He gladly cleans your sweetness from you with his tongue. 

When you finally open your eyes, he’s looking up at you with a mixture of awe and smug satisfaction that should be illegal. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, slowly making his way back up your body.

You pull him down for a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on his wet lips. “Your turn,” you murmur, reaching between you to palm the hard length still confined by his sweatpants.

He groans into your mouth, hips instinctively pressing into your touch. “These need to come off,” you insist, tugging at his waistband.

Yunho strips off his remaining clothes. Your mouth waters at the sight of him—all of him—finally bare before you. He’s gorgeous, his body lean and strong, his arousal evident and impressive. You can’t fathom what's waiting for you. If his fingers alone reached so deep inside you how would his dick feel?

“Condom,” he mutters, fumbling in his bedside drawer. You watch, still pleasantly dazed from your orgasm, as he rolls it on with practiced ease.

When he returns to you, hovering above your body, there’s a moment of perfect stillness. His eyes search yours, a question in them that goes beyond physical want.

Something in his expression shifts, softens, then blazes with renewed hunger. He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing against your sensitised flesh.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he says, voice strained with the effort of holding back. He gives his length a few strokes. Then, with a groan that sounds like surrender, he pushes forward, entering you in one slow, deliberate thrust that has both of you gasping. The stretch is delicious, your body accommodating his size with a pleasure that borders on pain. The girth is not what you’re used to, no, this is revolutionary.

“Fuck,” you breathe, his forehead pressed against yours, his body trembling. “You feel—you're so big—” He’s clearly amused by your words, pride flickering across his face. You dig your nails into his shoulders. “Oh—fuck.” You clench around him, the grip so tight it nearly prevents him from moving any further, and he moans at the sensation of your walls wrapped around his cock.

He gives you a moment to adjust, stroking your hair as you both breathe against each other’s lips. “You okay?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” You nod, then roll your hips, taking him even deeper, and the broken moan that tears from his throat is your new favourite sound.

He finally begins to move, setting a rhythm that has you clutching at the sheets. Each thrust sends waves of pleasure radiating through your body, building on the sensitivity from your previous orgasm. The drag of him inside you is exquisite—filling you completely before withdrawing just enough to make you chase the sensation. 

“God, you’re perfect,” he groans, his voice strained as he watches where your bodies connect. “So tight around me—so fucking perfect.” He’s mesmerised by the sight of you taking him in completely, like you were made for each other. It drives him wild.

You can’t help the whimpers escaping your throat with each roll of his hips. The pressure is building again, faster than before, coiling tight in your lower abdomen. “Harder,” you plead, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. “Need you deeper.”

Yunho’s eyes flash dark with desire. Seems like that’s what he wanted to hear desperately. He shifts his angle, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to drive even deeper. The new position hits something inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. As the new position offers you more freedom, he is now plunging in the deepest spots of your core. Each thrust is making you cry out with screams of pleasure, rocking your body and pushing you closer to the edge. 

“There!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Right there—don’t stop—fuck!”

His rhythm becomes more urgent, more desperate. His thrusts are precise, relentlessly hitting the spot that has your eyes rolling back. The sight before him is almost pornographic: your eyes rolled behind your lids, the whites peeking through; your mouth agape, tongue practically lolling out; your body twitching with each stroke. Sweat beads on his forehead, his muscles tensing under your fingertips as he chases both your pleasure and his own. “Touch yourself,” he commands, voice rough with exertion. “Let me see you come again.”

You slip a hand between your bodies, obeying his command, finding your clit swollen and sensitive.

“Good girl.”

The praise sends another surge of heat through you. Your movements falter for a second—you're so lost in pleasure that your body struggles to obey. The dual sensation of your fingers and his cock has you spiralling toward the edge almost immediately. Your moans grow even louder, as if that were possible considering how vocal you’ve been all along.

“God my cock is so wet going in and out of you.” Your fingers move faster against your clit, matching the rhythm of his increasingly erratic thrusts. “You love being filled like this, don’t you?”

His words only drive you closer to the edge. “Look at me,” he demands, and your eyes snap open to meet his. The intensity in his gaze nearly undoes you. “I want to see your face when you come on my cock.”

The building pressure snaps like a wire pulled too tight. You come with his name on your lips, your inner walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The intensity of it leaves you gasping, arching, trembling, clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing in a world gone liquid with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he groans, his rhythm faltering as your walls clench around him. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—” His words dissolve into a guttural moan as he follows you over the edge, his hips stuttering as he spills into the condom. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin as aftershocks roll through both your bodies.

For several long moments, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. He collapses beside you, careful not to crush you with his weight, and pulls you against his chest. His heartbeat thunders under your ear, gradually slowing as you both come down from the high.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, his touch gentle and reverent—a stark contrast to the intensity of moments before. “That was... ” he starts, then laughs softly, seeming unable to find adequate words.

“Yeah,” you agree, smiling against his skin. “It really was.”

A moment passes between you, the air heavy with what just happened. Yunho shifts slightly, and you notice a flicker of uncertainty cross his face—so different from the confident man who just took you apart.

“Do you...” he starts, then clears his throat. His eyes dart away from yours briefly before returning. “Do you want to stay? Here? With me?” The question comes out hesitant, almost shy, as if he’s bracing himself for rejection. The vulnerability in his voice makes something warm bloom in your chest. You reach up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his skin.

“I’d like that,” you reply softly. “Very much.”

He smiles, relief washing over his features, before pulling away briefly to dispose of the condom. When he returns, he gathers you back into his arms, and the comfortable silence stretches between you, your fingers still absently tracing patterns on his chest. Yunho shifts slightly, catching your hand in his. He brings it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your palm that makes your heart flutter.

“Can I...” he starts, then stops, a blush creeping up his neck. He looks surprisingly bashful for someone who was so commanding just minutes ago. “Can I kiss you? Again, I mean.”

“You know,” you say, smiling as you trace his bottom lip with your thumb, “for someone who just had his dick inside me, that’s an adorably hesitant question.”

His blush deepens, but he laughs, the sound rumbling pleasantly against your skin. “Yeah, well... that was in the heat of the moment. This feels... different.”

You understand what he means. The desperate hunger has given way to something more tender, more vulnerable. More dangerous, in its own way.

Instead of answering, you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that’s gentle but unmistakably wanting. When you pull back, his eyes remain closed for a moment longer, as if savouring the sensation.

“How many rounds of Valorant did you play today?” you ask, your voice low as you trail a finger down his chest.

He blinks, thrown by the sudden change in subject. “Uh, seven or eight, I think? Why?”

You push him gently onto his back, swinging a leg over to straddle his hips. His hands automatically come to rest on your thighs as he gazes up at you.

“Because,” you say, rolling your hips just enough to make his breath catch, “I want at least that many rounds with you.”

A slow, dazed grin spreads across his face. “Well, you know what they say about gamers,” he murmurs, his thumbs making small circles on your skin.

“What’s that?”

His grin turns wicked as he flips you suddenly, pinning you beneath him with a smoothness that makes your pulse race. “We have excellent stamina and very, very good finger control.”

As his mouth finds yours again, more demanding this time, you think that you’ve never been so grateful for his gaming obsession.

“So,” you murmur when you finally break apart, “does this mean you’ll take more breaks from Valorant now?”

His laugh vibrates through both your bodies. “For this? I’d uninstall the damn game completely.”

[ateezlibrary]

LET'S FUCKING GO • FRAT!TEEZ SERIES

ALPHA TAU ZETA (ATZ) the most rushed frat on campus. if you're not a brother, you're fucking one! a deliciously toxic series of oneshots dedicated to our eight favorite frat boys.

pairing: frat!teez x reader (member-by-member oneshots)

tags/genre: college au, frat au, smut, sneaky links, situationships, hookup sex, hate sex, all the toxic frat boy tropes you can imagine lol

notes: disclaimer that ATZ is made up for the plot LMAO, also heavy mentions of mature content (18+, mdni). no cheating, tho! y'all said bring back 2016 and i was there when history was written so i'm inspired :-P

status: 8/8 completed!

ONESHOTS BELOW THE CUT ⤵️

KEEP QUIET (M) • kim hongjoong, atz president

pairing: frat president!hongjoong x sorority president!reader

synopsis: hongjoong has a way with words and it's a talent that comes ever-so in handy as president of atz. when it comes to you, not so much. your role as one of the sorority presidents and a rule enforcer might have something to do with keeping him wrapped around your finger …

word count: 5.7k words

TAKE A SEAT (M) • park seonghwa, atz vice president

pairing: frat boy!seonghwa x reader

synopsis: you've never been able to stand park fucking seonghwa. he was a walking red flag and somehow everyone was still obsessed with him, ever since freshman year. even when you steered clear of him, he found his way under your skin. and, well ... your sheets ...

word count: 5.8k words

HUSH MONEY (M) • jeong yunho, atz philanthropy chair

pairing: frat boy!yunho x reader

synopsis: yunho was everyone's favorite nepo baby (especially considering he kept the house's rent paid and the social events afloat). after meeting him at an end-of-year rager, you were both head over heels … or at least, you were. seems like yunho is more in tune with his wallet than his heart …

word count: 5.7k words

MISSED SIGNALS (M) • kang yeosang, atz secretary

pairing: frat boy!yeosang x reader

synopsis: when your best friend told you he planned to rush for atz, you thought he had lost his mind—there was no way kang yeosang would end up in a frat. fast forward to junior year, everyone loves him. and he loves the attention, except he seems to not notice that you were there first ...

word count: 5.9k words

IN FOR IT (M) • choi san, atz rush & recruitment chair

pairing: frat boy!san x reader

synopsis: san is the frat sweetheart. he keeps the house tidy after ragers, updates the calendar, sends out the text reminders. he's even the plug for the potheads! when he meets you at yet another atz rager, he realizes there might be more worth taking care of than a group of silly little frat brothers ...

word count: 5.9k words

FACE TIME (M) • song mingi, atz social chair

pairing: frat boy!mingi x reader

synopsis: everyone wants mingi. unfortunately, that includes you. he wants you, too, but only after midnight and once the liquor hits. once you've had enough and you play him at his own game and keep your distance, he doesn't seem thrilled ...

word count: 6.6k words

PRINCESS TREATMENT (M) • jung wooyoung, atz house manager

pairing: frat boy!wooyoung x reader

synopsis: there's one guy that will always be standing on the table at the end of the night, hooting and hollering for attention—jung wooyoung. what does he do when a girl the polar opposite of him takes a liking to him?

word count: 6.2k words

END OF THE YEAR (M) • choi jongho, atz treasurer

pairing: frat boy!jongho x reader

synopsis: forget the president and vp—jongho runs atz like the fucking military. for a frat brother, he sure is type a. maybe it's up to you to ensure he learns how to live a little and let loose ...

word count: 6.1k words

[kalisburnerphone]

Whatever yall are doing, stop and check this out 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽a masterpiece

[smokers-corner]

Gotta repost for later

[fcb-lumirys]

i FULLY understand the discourse against HotD in comparison to AKotSK and lowkey Game of Thrones don't get me wrong, i completely understand it and share almost all opinions about it, but I'm also so SAT for season 3 of HotD because it still has dragons to show😭😭 and they (next to the Stark's direwolves) were the whole reason why i first watched Game of Thrones and was on the front row when House of the Dragon premiered, so don't mind me being the only HotD fan remaining and not even for good reasons😭😭 to me there is no team blacks or greens when it comes to the dragons💔💔

[smokers-corner]

Where the valarr fanfics tho

[whiteoakoak]

Just me, waiting for A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms fanfics…