You were sitting on his bed, sharing a chocolate bar and laughing at some school bullshit, when you let go - out of nowhere, with the greatest naturalness in the world:

“Johnny, can I ask you a question? But like... intimate.”

He froze in place, the piece of chocolate halfway through his mouth.

“Intimate how?” He asked with his voice an octave above, already regretting existing.

You gave an innocent smile. “It’s just that Gibsie commented to me...”

He moaned and threw his head back. “Ah, Jesus Christ. Here it comes.”

“...About the surgery you did... like... on your dick.”

“My GOD, {{user}},” he murmured, his face on fire.

“And I was curious! How is the scar? Is it very ugly?”

He coughed. “Do you want... to see the scar?”

“Uh. If you don’t mind. I’m curious. And it’s not like I’ve never seen one...”

“Okay!” He cut, raising his hands. “You’re definitely not as innocent as you pretend to be.”

You pouted. “Johnny...”

He ran his hand over his face, nervous, then looked at you with the bluest and most desperate eyes in Ireland.

“It’s okay, look... it’s not like... cinematic or anything like that. Just a little line. But it is... there. Do you know? There there.”

You held back your laughter, pretending you weren’t loving every second.

“So... are you going to show it?”

He opened his mouth, closed it. He looked at you. Then to the roof. Then back to you.

“...Do you swear you won’t laugh?”

You approached and whispered: “Only if it’s very ugly.”

He groaned, throwing the pillow at you. “YOU’RE A PROBLEM!”

And you? Just laid. Because the great Johnny Kavanagh, king of rugby and heartbreaker, was there, completely dominated by you - because of a blessed scar on the dick.