#I really not having a great time at the moment

[rorynni]

vbs doodle idea: toya discovers nail polish (probably by An or Mizu)

/nf!!

OKAY SO my thought process here was that an and toya are both wearing black nail polish in their BURN MY SOUL outfits, and since that was actually the first time toya wore nail polish in a card, an did his for him

[shotmrmiller]

(Unnamed for now, 4.8k words of nothing but self indulgence because ex bf simon is king. just porn without plot, the usual filth. also i wrote myself into a hole with the smut but whatever.)

If your friends knew that you'd gone to great lengths to look presentable— less cave-dweller, more human— hoping to get lucky tonight only to end up waving off anyone of interest because you're too busy sulking about a relationship you willingly broke off, they'd kick you from the group chat.

(Or never let you live it down.)

But here you are, perched on a barstool, its cracked leather slightly sticky beneath your legs, the cocktail you'd ordered a while ago sitting mostly untouched on an even stickier bar top. Lamenting. Moping all over a guy who hasn't bothered to return a single phone call since you left him the voicemail. And it hadn't been his fault, really. He'd been upfront with you from the get-go; he's a busy man with a job you don't want to know about and are safer not knowing about.

You'd noticed the specific wording he'd used. Not better off but safer off, its implications perilous. The hardened look he'd given you when you'd pressed him on it, hoping for a slip of the truth, had been the first and only warning you'd needed.

Get off his case, understood.

You clench your teeth, irritation nipping at your nerves. You'd like to think that you've mourned this ex-relationship plenty and feeling an acute, smoldering ache again over a whisper of a memory (and not even a fond one at that)—

Time to douse these flames.

Waving the bartender down, you push away the watered-down drink and gesture for a shot. She eyes you warily, hesitating for a moment before sliding an empty glass over and reaching for some top-shelf bottle your bank account already feels the bite of. The fiery burn that courses down your throat resembles the one in your chest.

The alcohol swiftly does its job, offering a sense of relief, and you're grateful for it, even if fleeting. The room starts to blur a bit, the strobing lights overhead bleeding together like a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and you let yourself sink into the moment, the gentle ebb of intoxication pooling heat in your cheeks, warmth seeping into your limbs.

Things don't look so bad now; the world has taken a dreamlike quality to it, with softened edges and vibrant colors. With the liquid courage dulling the sharpness of your previous thoughts and easing the tension in your shoulders, you reckon that now you can start looking for your prey of the evening. It's why you even bothered to slink out of your comfort zone in the first place.

Mission directive: Get laid. Or plan B: go home with a new number saved in your contacts.

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes lazily scanning around the room, taking in the hazy but lively atmosphere. The dance floor is a whirl of energy, couples moving to the rhythm of the music, a group of friends huddling in a corner, hands gesturing animatedly as they chat each other up, and at the front—

If you swiveled away in your chair any faster, the courage you'd knocked back 10 minutes ago would come back up, spilling onto the bar top the barkeep gave up trying to keep clean. There have been numerous instances where your mind plays tricks on you, teasing you with glimpses of big and blonde in your peripheral while out running errands, the miserable lump in your throat only dislodging once you've made your grand escape.

(It's not running away; It's a tactical retreat. You'll face the music when it's less deafening.)

And in keeping with tradition, you settle your tab and scurry off to the bathroom, clutching your bag like a lifeline. A familiar shadow just walked in through the front door, once again haunting you. No matter how many times you whisper reassurances under your breath, dismissing it as a cruel joke your mind loves to play, the semblance of him never fails to arouse a bit of panic in you.

The trip to the bathroom feels like you're trekking across the country, weaving in and out and around crowds of people, dodging flailing limbs like an extreme sport. The inside is relatively small and cramped; three stalls for the entire bar. It's blessedly empty, so you beeline to the sink, hoping for a splash of cold water to settle your nerves.

The water is startlingly cold, or maybe it feels colder because you're flustered, and you're mid air-drying your hands when you hear it: that unforgettable gait, heavy and solid, like a tank rolling over rugged terrain. It's something that you can still hear echo in the small confines of your flat when the world is quiet. The mirror in front reflects your tense face, its edges cloudy with time and poor-quality cleaning solutions.

Get a grip, you're losing it.

Until the door swings wide, hinges screeching as it gives way with no resistance, and you realize that you're not losing it. But you just might.

"'Ello, poppet."

Incredulity forces a chuckle out of you because it's either you laugh or you cry.

"Nice," he eyes the cracked tile beneath your feet, "choice for a night out. Beer's more piss than ale, though." The door closes behind him.

The mockery in his voice is wildly unwarranted, especially for a man you haven't heard from for a better part of the year, and you finally gather your wits to bite back indignantly.

"What? It's not your cuppa? I always assumed you ratted out in seedy holes like this." The bruise-tight grip you've got around your bag makes your fingers ache. "I'll be sure to pick a more refined place for you next time."

He wastes no time closing the gap between you two, your three steps back negated by his single one with laughable ease, and the space around you seems to shrink, his presence swallowing it whole. You'd forgotten just how large a man he was— is.

A different beast altogether.

"No need. We won't be comin' back 'ere again." Your brows quirked at that. He's gone and learned French, apparently. Oui. You try to keep your personal bubble intact by taking another step back only to come in contact with a stall door, its chilly surface forcing your spine rigid. Cornered, caught in the crosshairs of the hunter's gaze, and the intensity of it makes you feel vulnerable, bare, as if you're staring up the barrel of a loaded gun.

"Easy, lovie, no need to look at me like tha', 'm jus' 'ere to talk," he says with a tone that's tinged with condescension, and his giant mitts are up and palms facing you like he's dealing with a skittish animal. There's a thought there, buried deep, that you refuse to acknowledge.

"Talk?" The question bursts out before you can stop it, followed by a sardonic laugh that feels unexpectedly cathartic as it leaves your mouth. Talk now, when you not only kept your line of communication open but also actively tried reaching out for weeks? Weeks spent waiting for a response, foolishly hoping he'd give a damn enough to at least put up a fight for you and what you had?

He tilts his head slightly, eyes unreadable. "Better late than never," he remarks, but that's the problem, isn't it? You were forced to come to terms with never, whether you liked it or not. And you had not liked it, but it had been necessary. To know there was a part of his life you weren't welcome to, regardless of reason, was something that shadowed your interactions. The realization that you were kept at arm's length due to the duality of his life was too bitter a pill to swallow.

It'd been a painful process making peace with the fact that maybe things just hadn't been meant to be. C'est la vie and all that tripe. But now, here he stands before you, having materialized out of thin air, a bloody intrusion upon the fragile peace you've built for yourself— it feels like a mockery of the emotional distress you've had to endure.

"Better late than—? You honestly fucking think you can just," you stumble over yourself in disbelief, "just corner me in a tiny bathroom of a dingy bar to talk?"

Simon raises one bulky shoulder, unconcerned. "You chose the place."

His piss poor attempt at a joke is like a slap in the face. "Right. Goodbye, Simon." You step around him briskly, your arm brushing against his. Just as your fingers graze the cold metal of the door handle, his encircle your wrist and gently pull you away. The span of his palm could easily engulf the entirety of your hand, and you can't help but wonder if you're as delicate and fragile as you feel in his grasp.

"Let me try that again," he murmurs tentatively, and you curse your good nature— the one that's always been too quick to soften even when you know better. You know just how clumsy he is with words, how his tongue ties itself in knots when emotions creep into the conversation. Simon gives your wrist a tender squeeze. "Ya can leave whenever you want."

Damn it. Damn it. Fine. This confrontation has been a long time coming anyway. "Then try again and make it fast," you snap, words short and clipped. "How we haven't been kicked out of here yet is a bloody wonder."

He steps away from you and leans his hips against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. Here Simon stands, no longer a hazy apparition in the corner of your eye but fully here. Real. Uncomfortable so. You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"Didn't mean to disappear on ya," his tone carries a note of something resembling regret. "Work took me across the world, couldn't reach out t'you even if I wanted to." And there it is, the crux of the problem. His job. Always his job. The one part of his life you've never been allowed to see, what had been the ever-constant shadow hanging over your relationship. What tore him away from you for weeks at a time only for those same gaps to start getting longer and longer while his stays grew shorter.

That's not good enough.

"So that's it?" Simon cannot honestly expect you to take his paltry excuse and run with it. As if it's enough to stitch together the wound his silence left behind. "Work? That's what you're going with?" It's the audacity that stings the most, the hope that you'd simply accept it and move past all of this heartache.

For all you know, he could be lying through his teeth, spinning enough truth to make it seem believable. You must have your suspicions plastered on your forehead because Simon peels himself off the sink with a sharp breath and narrowed eyes.

"'M many things, love, but a liar ain't one of 'em." His hand disappears into the front pocket of his worn denims, and when he pulls it free, you instantly recognize the tattered, frayed edges of his wallet. Still clinging to life, it seems. As stubborn as the man holding it. He opens it and extends it to you because it's imperative you see...?

"Work." And right there is an ID, not your plain old driver's license, which you're unsurprised to see absent. The man has no business being behind the wheel of any vehicle; he's a threat to all life and limb while on the road— but a military ID, the insignia emblazoned on the card unmistakable. You'd pieced together as much but never fully assumed, never formed a picture, just a blurred outline that left more questions than answers.

Name: Simon Riley. Rank: Lieutenant. Special Forces is right above the square where a photo is supposed to be. "There's no picture." You flash your eyes up at his in question.

"Never," he states.

You swallow thickly. An admission, this is. A roughly hewn olive branch tucked away in the ratty wallet you'd told him to toss ages ago. He snaps it shut with a practiced flick and then rucks up the right sleeve of his jacket up to the crook of his elbows, exposing his forearm, stark and freckled, the skin pale but then closer to his wrist, his flesh taking on a more golden hue— honeyed, sun-kissed.

Simon Riley does not tan.

"Sat on my arse out in a barren stretch o' land f'r months on end, cookin' under the blazin' sun while waitin' for orders tha' never came," he grumbles, voice weary. He doesn't flinch when your wandering fingers feather across the darkened strip of skin. "The only form o' communication was local." You flip his hand, the underside of his wrist startlingly pale like the underbelly of a fish. "Couldn't 'ave reached out even if I wanted to. No signal."

It hangs heavy, what he was willing to share, and you're wondering if he's only asking for understanding or something else. Your treacherous heart flutters in your chest, breath squeezing from your lungs. A tiny part of you hopes for he's asking for that something else.

There's a new scar on his palm, close to the hardened calluses on his knuckles, the deep, puckered groove still red and raw— fresh enough to make you wince— and you can't help the frown that pulls at your lips. You can bet he took care of this himself, the oaf. Probably spit it clean and wrapped it up with whatever he had on hand. He's lucky it didn't infect.

"Only when I came back did I receive the missed calls, the texts, the bloody voicemail," he gnarls, and while the sharpness of his tone isn't aimed at you, you feel the biting sting of it anyway. Simon cradles your hand in his much larger one, and he doesn't squeeze, doesn't hold too tight; he simply holds it, the choice to refuse him if you wanted.

You don't.

"And this isn't something you could've told me before? I know I pressed when I shouldn't have," chagrin pools in your cheeks, "but I worried for you. You were sometimes so unreachable, standing between two worlds at once. I couldn't help ease the weight of your responsibilities because I didn't know what I was dealing with." As you thread your fingers with his, they feel impossibly small, brittle— like the bones of a bird swallowed in the expanse of his hand. How unsettling.

(Yet you wouldn't have it any other way.)

Simon shakes his head, slow and deliberate, but his grip on your hand tightens. "I've more enemies than friends," he mutters, raising your hand to his masked lips, the gesture oddly tender as he presses a kiss on it even though it forces you to rise onto your tiptoes. You blow a puff of air, mildly exasperated. Big geezer.

"Every time I rid myself o' one, two take their place. I only did it t' keep ya safe. There's nothin' they'd love more than to exploit any o' my weaknesses." He says it as though the admission itself is dangerous, and maybe it is, but the risk, you believe, is one worth taking even if he won't.

Where he sees danger, you see trust. And that's all you ever wanted. Trust, because either you'll have all of him or none of him, so you tell him that.

His grip tightens imperceptibly. "Only wha' I feel is safe f'r you to know. Nothin' more." You know he means it. You've seen how far he's willing to go, how much he's willing to sacrifice, to keep you out of harm's reach.

Simon will shoulder just about anything alone if it means you'll be kept safe.

How lovely. He's taken it upon himself to play Batman when no one cast him into the role. Ah, well. A win is a win, and you've long learned some battles aren't worth the effort today, so you tuck this conversation into the back of your mind, a note to revisit at a later date. As for now, though...

"Alright, Si," the old nickname slips from you so easily, as if it never left, "We can continue this tomorrow, if you're able, but as for me," your gaze flickers to the faint ring of grime around the drain and the scribbles covering the peeling walls, "I've just about had it with this place."

But he's got no interest in letting you go now, not when you've given him the second chance he'd been desperate for. Instead, he jerks you to him, your shoulder colliding into his chest, his arms cinching tight around you. There is no grace, no soft pretense to it— just a raw, unfiltered need of a man clinging to what he's been too afraid to lose; your arsecheeks apparently because that's what he's currently pawing at.

Pervert. Honestly, you'd applaud him for holding back from groping you for this long. No shame in giving credit where it's due. You thought about letting him have his fill, indulging his starved-dog behavior until his hands started to wander beneath your clothes. You ought to make him stop this before it spirals into something completely out of your control.

Ah, but then he latches onto the sensitive spot on your neck, right below the ear, so close to your drumming pulse and your words snag in your throat like fishhooks when he suckles.

It's tragic how quickly you cave.

Simon's breath fans hot over your spit-slick throat, slow and composed while yours is sharp and shallow as if you can't quite catch it. He jerks his head toward the stall, and you freeze, disbelief rooting you in place.

"You're joking." He's gone and lost whatever scraps of sanity he had left back wherever he was because there's no way you're getting down and dirty in— your lip curls in distaste as you look at the industry-grade bottle of disinfectant that sits in the corner— here. But then he's dragging you toward the nearest stall anyway, your bag tumbling to the ground, not my bag, Simon, shit, you owe me another. The door is a pitiful excuse for privacy, barely clinging to the hinges and sporting a gap wide enough to make you grimace. You've hardly any time to register anything else before Simon is already at your feet, smoothly dropping to one knee, the crown of his head dipping slightly below your navel.

Simon's hands cup the back of your thighs, palms spread wide as they trail upward, the tips of his fingers finding lace and not your everyday cotton. With a deliberate slowness, he lifts the hem of your skirt, his neck craning just enough to bring his line of sight under the drape of fabric, and his gaze lingers.

Oh right. You've got on that set— the one he'd carefully chosen for your birthday, that one that fits you so perfectly it almost feels unfair. A little indulgence that'd been meant for his eyes only. Even as you'd slipped it on earlier tonight, it'd felt like you'd been breaking the rules.

It makes you wonder...

You hook a leg over his shoulder, the heel of your shoe digging into the straight plane of his back. "Well?" Your question is wrapped in feigned nonchalance. "Does it make you upset?" Simon shrugs, dismissive, his eyes steady as they lock onto yours. The dim light above buzzes faintly, its unkind glow spilling over his rugged face. It does nothing to soften the sharpness of his features.

And you notice a new scar, tiny, close to his hare's lip.

"Doesn't threaten me, sweet'eart."

A sharp laugh escapes you. How infuriatingly arrogant. Simon leans in, his nose brushing against your sex roughly before he takes a crude sniff, unrestrained, unapologetic. Nasty as always.

The faintest smirk curls the corners of his lips. "Can't blame me, my girl and I 'ave been apart f'r too long." Humming, you place a hand on his head, palming over the short bristles of his hair before curling around the back of his neck, and you grind down on him.

"If you're hungry, then eat." The smile you give him after your gracious offer is nothing short of salacious.

Simon thumbs your gusset to the side and slips his tongue through your folds, and it's electric, raw. Frissons ripple through you, starting from your nape, and it cascades down your arm and your legs, and the sensation is sharp, almost overwhelming, and you bow forward, nails digging into the dense muscle of his traps.

It's been so fucking long.

Hot, wet pressure circles around your swollen clit, purposefully shy of what you covet, enough to stir something within you but not enough to satisfy— nowhere near enough. It makes you testy. Impatient. It pushes you to lose control, feeling it slip from his grasp, only to land squarely in his.

It's the exact reaction Simon craves. You can grind down on the tip of his nose all you want, push and pull at his head every which way, but you don't come without his say so, and to earn that, there's something you have to do.

By the way your teeth sink into your bottom lip, bite-swollen and glossy with spit, peering down at him with bleary eyes after having rutted against his face without restraint, frantically seeking the friction you yearn for, you also know what to do.

Good.

Now he waits. Your pussy is dripping slick, dewy honey trailing down his chin and joining the sticky mess pooling near his knee, but he doesn't care— his focus is entirely on you. Simon knows exactly how this will end. You're as mulish as ever, he muses, but you'll break. You always do. It's not a question of if but when, and he's content to wait as long as it takes for the inevitable. After all, he's a patient man when he chooses to be.

Your chest heaves with every ragged draw of air to your lungs, your pretty lips quivering with need, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. If he had the skill, he'd pencil this very moment onto paper, immortalizing it. The desperation that clings to your features, the frustrated grunts you give when he laps at your— his— cunt, tongue skimming just shy of your pearl.

It's intoxicating. A heady visceral rush that courses through his veins and pools white-hot in his groin, stiffening his cock almost painfully.

And then, when a finger dips into your sopping entrance, the composure you'd been desperately clinging to begins to come apart. Simon watches it unfold through heavy-lidded eyes, the gentle part of your lips, the tremor in your breath— he drinks up every single second.

"Please," your voice is barely more than a breadth of a whisper. Your surrender is almost as sweet as you.

The kiss he plants on the inside of your thigh is searing as he hums. "What's it?" The prickly stubble of his jaw scratches against your skin. "Don't lose ya courage now," he murmurs, "you've already fought 'alf the battle.

Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, but you truck on, dignity long lost, in tatters next to your bag on the floor. "Please let me come." Your words come out in a half whine, half plea, and Simon's response is immediate; he cants your hips as two thick fingers enter you fully, and at this angle, it's more than he knows you can take, but you asked for it. Begged for it.

Simon takes it slow, not easy, the suction on your clit maddening; strong, fluttering pulses that seemingly beat in tandem with your heart and the world begins to tilt on its axis, his strong hands keeping you anchored lest your knees give way beneath you.

The world narrows down to the sound of your hiccups, the tension coiled spring tight below your navel, the feel of his shirt knotting in your fist— if he had hair long enough to tug, you would've ripped it out.

You knock your head back against the door almost violently, the dull throb stamped out by the livewire crackling beneath your skin when you finally do come, a scorching heat radiating from within your core out, leaving a raw, tingling sensation in its wake. It stings, you dazedly muse. The orgasm that was wrenched from you was so thunderous your pussy stings. It's short-lived but potent, and you can't help but wince, your lips curling, teeth slightly bared in discomfort.

Ouch.

Simon, on the other hand, is just peachy, unbothered as ever, leaned back on his haunches, chin glistening with slick, his thumb sweeping what's about to drip off his nose.

"Don't think for a second I'm returning the favor here. I've standards, Simon." He huffs in response but says nothing, expecting nothing less of you, instead opting to shrug his jacket off and place it over your drooping shoulders. Your limbs feel leaden as you exit the stall, Simon nimbly reaching for your health hazard of a bag before leading you toward the door.

Your fingers curl around the knob, and twist and pull—

and nothing. Confusion knots your brows together as you retrace your steps. Had you pushed or pulled it open? You can't quite recall, so you give it a firm push it instead—

and nothing. Again. The door stays closed.

"Need help there?" Irritation sparks within you, wishing your glare would eviscerate the obstinate door. Does Simon think himself funny? All you want is to go home, scrub yourself sparkling clean, and sleep until the late afternoon, but the door is conspiring against you. Good. Great, even.

"Bloody door," you grumble, "It won't open." Simon steps forward, unhurried, and twists the handle once, twice—

"Open sesame," he says, tone utterly flat and casual, and you snap your slackened jaw shut. "Oh for fuck's sake, Simon, keep your shit jokes," but the door opens with a click.

You're joking.

You're fucking joking.

It swings wide with a creak, and you glance around instinctively. Nothing out of place— just the usual drunken bodies flowing in and out, their laughter and slurred conversations blending into the background.

Simon drapes a heavy arm around your shoulders, large hand squeezing firm as he walks you out, and you trudge alongside, your gait sluggish, until a massive bulk stumbles into your path, and Simon quickly places himself between you and the drunken mass, both a protector and a threat.

The bloke is a guy with a row of thick hair that runs from his forehead to the nape of his neck, the sides clean shaven. "Sorry, bonnie, didnae mean ta-" limpid blue flashes to Simon, his thin-lipped smile stretches wide— too wide— flashing too many teeth for comfort, "bump into ye." He doesn't linger though, clodhopping his way back to the bar. There's a bold-lined tattoo on his nape, of a... revolver? A choice.

"Walk. I'll take ya home. Won't come in for a nightcap," the lines by his eyes becoming more pronounced. "Scouts 'onor." Simon pulls you along, and you're fighting off the sleep in your eyes when a man in a cap, his profile partially hidden by the brim, bumps his knuckles against Simon's shoulder, and curiosity outweighs your fatigue.

"Who's that?"

Simon grunts. "Security."

You don't remember having been frisked by security when you came in.

The crisp air outside bites your cheeks when you step out, and you're grateful for Simon's forethought as you tug the sides of his jacket closer to you, burying your nose into the collar— it smells of cigarette smoke and him, musky and woodsy— a quiet comfort. Sleep tugs at your eyelids, each step feeling heavier than the last as you make your way towards his vehicle.

The metal door groans as it opens, and he extends a hand, aiding you up when you squeeze it as you slur out a confession.

I missed you.

He doesn't falter in his movements as he guides both your feet inside, and his hands are steady as he adjusts the belt, buckle quietly clicking into place until he straightens, gaze dark and fluid as it lingers on you.

He runs the rough pad of his thumb along your bottom lip tenderly.

"I know, sweet'heart. Get some sleep."

The door closes with a firm but gentle push.

I know, he says. Exhaustion pulls at you, dragging you further away from consciousness. Bastard.

Simon doesn't wake you when he pulls up to your driveway, hooking an arm under your knees and the other around your waist to take you inside, your head lolling on his shoulder. Tomorrow, you'll ask him how he knows where you live, considering you moved for a new job months ago.

[rosones]

social media au - being in an all-girl K-pop group touring with bigbang

liked by taeyangforevaaa & 1,203,998 others

tmz_tv ✓ - y/n from lumina and big bangs Top spotted together in a parking garage !! after multiple flirty on-stage interactions during their joint tour, is this the start of a budding romance? are these two k-pop stars taking their romance off stage? fans want to know !

view comments

user - paparazzi is so invasive .

user - I KNEW ITTTTT

user - don’t know why their companies allow them to be out in public like this

userlikespepperoni - let them do whatever they want, they’re full grown adults

user - /@userlikespepperoni exactly !! everybody is so parasocial it’s weird

user - i think they look great together idk

liked by ttt, xxxibgdrgn, & 3,478,629 others

y/n ✓ - thank you for having me @breakfastclubam <3

view comments

user - does she address her dating rumors with Top in this ??

user - ugh brown is her color

cinephile2015 - she’s so beautiful

user - /@cinephile2015 preach 🙏

user - your relationship is beautiful and you shouldn’t let anybody ruin it for you ❤️

liked by author

the following article was written by maya peters and published by tmz .

Are Lumina’s Y/N and BIGBANG’s T.O.P More Than Just Tourmates? Fans Think So!

K-pop fans are buzzing after Y/N from Lumina and BIGBANG’s T.O.P were spotted together in a parking garage late last night, fueling already rampant dating rumors. The two idols, whose groups have been touring together for the past few week, have been serving undeniable chemistry on stage—but is there something more happening off-stage?

The duo’s interactions during performances have been a hot topic, with playful glances, inside jokes, and even a few “accidental” touches keeping fans on their toes. While some chalk it up to stage presence and fan service, others are convinced there’s something real brewing behind the scenes. And now, after Y/N’s recent interview on The Breakfast Club radio show, the rumors are only gaining more traction.

When asked about her relationship with T.O.P, Y/N played it cool—but her response left plenty of room for speculation. “T.O.P is… a great guy. He’s been in the industry for a long time, so I really respect and admire him,” she said with a knowing smile. “Touring together has been an amazing experience, and I think we’ve all gotten really close.” While she didn’t outright confirm the romance, that little smirk (paired with the way she quickly changed the subject) didn’t go unnoticed by fans.

Life on the road has only made these whispers louder. The joint tour has been a dream for fans of both groups, with electric performances and unforgettable moments in every city. From sold-out arenas to late-night fan interactions, Y/N has expressed how much she’s loved connecting with supporters around the world. “It’s been exhausting but also the most fun I’ve ever had,” she shared. “Seeing fans’ reactions, hearing them sing along—it makes everything worth it.”

But between the hectic schedule and endless travel, it seems like Y/N and T.O.P have still found time to enjoy each other’s company. Whether it’s subtle matching outfits, disappearing from afterparties at the same time, or that now-infamous parking garage sighting, all signs are pointing to a potential K-pop power couple in the making.

So, is it official? Y/N isn’t saying… but she isn’t exactly denying it either. And in the world of K-pop, that says everything.

liked by ttt, xxxibgdrgn, __yungbae__, d_lable_official, & 8,372,746 others

y/n ✓ - thank you for everything

view comments

user - omg are they like official now???

user - the group photo ❤️‍🩹

user - THEY KISSED I WAS THEREEEE

ilikebagels1234 - love that they confirmed their relationship on stage 💓

user - /@ilikebagels1234 they love and trust their fans sm

user - never want this tour to end

[lexiputellas]

Pillow Talk

It’s your first day back at work.

You stretched your maternity leave as far as humanly possible, used every single vacation day, and worked from home until you ran out of excuses—but today, there was no escaping it. You had to go back. At least your office has a daycare. If it didn’t, you’re pretty sure you would’ve quit on the spot.

Now, finally home, you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see Alexia. Not only did she get back before you, but she also brought dinner. You could’ve kissed her right then and there—actually, you did. You love her, truly, but if she had waited for you to cook—or, God forbid, asked you to help—you might have had a breakdown.

Dinner was great, dishes were ignored, Alice fell asleep peacefully, and now you’re both getting ready for bed. It’s your favorite part of the night—when everything slows down, and you can just be. Alexia already talked about her day, and now it’s your turn. Normally, this would be when you two discuss important things, but Nicole unloaded so much gossip at work today that you have to let it out before your brain explodes.

You’re fluffing the pillows as you talk, and Alexia, already lying on her side under the covers, is nodding along like a very patient woman.

“Nicole told me Amanda from Compliance is literally faking a relationship online.”

Alexia blinks, lifting her head slightly. “How?”

“I don’t know yet! I’m getting more details tomorrow,” you say, putting in your bruxism mouth guard. “I don’t even get why she’d lie, she doesn’t need to.”

Alexia hums, settling back in.

That’s encouragement. You keep going.

"And you won’t believe this—the sitter at daycare said Alice was the easiest baby to deal with. She barely even cried! Which, like, I knew our baby was perfect, but now it’s confirmed by an expert."

Alexia hums again. This time, it sounds more like sleepy agreement than actual interest, but you’re on a roll now.

“And remember that guy from the party last year? The one who told you he was a Real Madrid fan?”

Alexia makes a vague noise of acknowledgment.

“Not that he was special or anything,” you continue, “but he invited Nicole out.”

That gets a reaction. Alexia forces one eye open. “That guy?”

“That guy.”

“She said yes?”

“She said yes. And if she’d asked me first, I would’ve told her absolutely not.”

Alexia exhales, long and slow, adjusting the blanket. “Baby, I love you so much, and I want to hear all of this… tomorrow. We have to wake up early.”

Which you think is fair. She was the one running around after a ball, going to the gym, lifting weights—you mostly just fought with spreadsheets, tried not to cry when Alice waved goodbye way too enthusiastically at daycare, and dodged an email from HR that felt suspiciously passive-aggressive.

“I know,” you say, climbing under the covers. “I love you too. But can I just finish really quick? I swear, I’m almost done.”

She hums again. That’s permission.

“So, turns out the guy? He was dating someone else the whole time. Poor Nicole, bless her heart, but maybe a little stalking would’ve helped her.”

Silence.

You glance over. Alexia’s eyes are closed, her face relaxed, her breathing slow and even.

“Oh,” you whisper. “You’re already asleep.”

You sigh, amused, and watch her for a moment. The way her eyelashes rest against her cheeks, the way her hair falls across the pillow, the faintest hint of a smile still lingering on her lips—it makes your chest ache in the best way.

She looks warm, soft, safe. Like home.

Carefully, you scoot closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder.

“Good night, baby,” you murmur, even though she’s already lost in dreams.

Then, finally, you close your eyes.

[tillysslife]

ACTORS ON ACTORS–D. Starkey

pairings: drew starkey x actress!reader

warnings: actress!reader taking place of margot robbie in the barbie movie

word count: 1.9k

Your heart fluttered with nerves as you smoothed down your dress in the back seat of your Uber. It was a pink silky dress that clung to your curves, accentuating your skin tone beautifully.

You had recently been invited to the Variety set for a segment called Actors on Actors, and it felt like your career was skyrocketing over the past year. Last year, you won your first Oscars, for Best Actress in a Leading Role for your portrayal of Stereotypical Barbie in the Barbie movie. And now, here you were, doing an interview with the great Drew Starkey, someone who seemed so far removed from your own humble beginnings.

“We’re here, Miss Y/L/N,” your driver pointed out politely. You had been so wrapped up in your thoughts that you hadn’t realized he’d been waiting for you to exit the car for the last two minutes.

“Right,” you chuckled, offering him an apologetic smile before taking the final steps to prepare yourself for the anxiety-inducing environment—another quick adjustment of your dress, lip gloss smeared onto your lips, and a toss of your hair.

When you forced a smile this time, you dialed it up to perfection—the smile that could only be produced from fear of constant scrutiny. “Thank you.” You beamed, accepting his help as he guided you out of the car.

You watched as he drove away, almost wishing you were him—escaping from your fears, the terror of being put on a screen that would magnify all your imperfections.

You were ushered into the warm studio before you could fully process the motions of your body. The exterior was dull, a stark contrast to the bright, welcoming interior. “You’ll be needed on set in about 15 minutes! Drew’s already here… oh, he’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

You zoned out the wide-eyed assistant. Normally, you would’ve made an effort to at least pretend you were interested in what someone was saying, offering the occasional noncommittal hum or nod. But under pressure, you were never great at multitasking, which felt ironic given your profession of pretending to have it all together.

Soon enough, you were whisked onto the set of the interview. The first thing you noticed was a broad-shouldered man, his presence larger than his already tall frame. You took in the room—two velvet armchairs sitting atop a grey carpeted floor, a decorated black table nestled between them. The set was simple, designed to ensure that viewers’ attention would be on the two actors, not distracted by anything flashy in the background.

But your eyes wandered upon seeing those sharp blue eyes meet yours across the room. His lips tugged into a small smirk as he registered your presence.

Your heels clicked against the floor, sinking into the plush carpet beneath your shoes as you made your way toward him. You summoned up all the charm and confidence you had, giving Drew a saccharine smile and extending your manicured hand.

“Hey, Y/N, I’m Drew,” he greeted, his large, rough hand meeting yours in a soft shake. You only had a moment to admire the sheer size and power of his hand before he withdrew it to his side.

A small blush crept up your cheeks, hopefully hidden behind the foundation meticulously applied earlier in the day. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve been looking forward to this,” you admitted, your eyes flitting up to meet his. The dark lashes framing your gaze locked with his, an unspoken energy buzzing in the air between you.

Drew’s smirk softened, his blue eyes flickering with curiosity. “Likewise. You were incredible in Barbie,” he said, his tone warm but with an underlying admiration.

Your lips curved into a modest smile. “Thank you, that role meant a lot to me,” you replied, your voice quiet, reflective. “But I have to say, I’ve been hearing so much about your new project, Queer—I’m really excited to see it.”

Drew chuckled softly, a light blush creeping up his neck. “It’s definitely been a wild ride,” he admitted. He was about to expand on his opinion before the film crew instructed the duo to take their seats. 

Drew gestured for you to take a seat first, nodding towards the area. You sank into the red armchair, crossing your legs, inadvertently making the hem of your dress rise. You watched as Drew settled into the chair across from you, giving you the chance to fully inspect him.

He was dressed in a matching navy pinstripe suit with a cream undershirt. His legs stretched long in front of him, posture relaxed, but his eyes were intensely fixed on you as if studying your every movement.

He rested his chin against the palm of his hand, his blue eyes never moving from your figure. “So, finally face to face with the exceptional Y/N Y/L/N.” He began, readjusting his position in the chair. 

You breathily laughed “Wow what an introduction.” You smiled softly, your eyes flickering from his eyes, darting down to his lips and then back up again. “It’s hard to believe honestly. I’ve admired you and your work for so long. I feel like I’ve been waiting for this moment longer than I realised.”

“I just call it like I see it.” Drew’s smile grew warmer, his eyes flickering with an unknown spark. “But you know I was just thinking the same thing. It feels like we’ve both been running in separate circles, but somehow, here we are.”

You cocked your head to the side, the smile never leaving your face. You crossed your legs over the other and leaned slightly forward “Well if we’re giving out title, I guess I should return the favour. The incredibly talented Drew Starkey.”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head lightly. “Hard to compete with Barbie herself.”

“Well you could pass as Ken.” You retorted, your eyes lighting up. He had this way of making you feel at ease, even though there was a whole camera crew filming you, watching you every move all you could think about was this beautiful man in front of you who made you laugh at every turn.

Drew laughed, the sound deep and genuine “I’m not sure I’ve got the abs for it.” He joked. 

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as you fought back a grin “I think you’d be just fine.” The words escaped before you had permitted them, bringing the second and certainly not the last blush of the day.

His eyes light up with amusement. The ait between you two holding quiet electricity–the kind that settled in stolen glances and unspoken thoughts.

“So,” you continued, shifting the topic before the heat in your cheeks betrayed you again. “Tell me about Queer, I haven’t managed to watch it yet but I’ve heard it’s one of your most challenging roles yet.”

Drew nodded, his expression turning thoughtful “Yeah, it’s… different from anything I’ve done before, a period piece. The story is raw, really personal and significant. It follows this guy, Lee,in the ‘50s as he struggles with identity, his relationships. It’s messy and heartbreaking, but also really beautiful.” 

You listened intentionally, caught up in the way his voice softened as he spoke and the passion in his eyes. “That sounds incredible. I think films that really shed light on hard topics are lovely. It’s what the key to acting is, it's truly storytelling. Especially for those who weren’t able to tell their own story.”

Drew nodded and the shine in his eyes confirmed that he admired your words. “I couldn’t have said it better.”

A few moments of prolonged eye contact lingered between the two of you, only broken by being signalled to speak. 

“So, Miss Barbie. Tell me how that was like.”

You interlaced your fingers on your lap, gathering your thoughts to translate your thoughts in the best way. “Every role that I have the privilege to bring to life is an honour. But Barbie really spoke to me. As many other girls, I played with barbies growing up.” You laughed elatedly, recalling your memories. “ Barbie just seemed so… perfect, she was something that I looked up to. Even if I didn’t look like her it was so encouraging to see all of her careers and journeys. There are countless things that I loved while making this movie but it was truly inspiring to have so many strong and individual women in one space. The movie explores topics of patriarchy and male superiorism, something I'm sure every woman has unfortunately experienced before in their life. But then it shows how women come together, it isn’t a hateful jealous relationship, like how it is constantly portrayed in the media but it was true sisterhood. And god don’t even get me started on America’s speech or ‘What was I made for’, I’ll just start bawling.”

“Right,” Drew started, “I remember when I watched Barbie with my sisters the look of… feeling so totally understood was astounding from them, it hurt that this was something they could relate to. But it’s so powerful and impressive how you represented women all around the world, validating feelings they may have been harbouring.”

You met his gaze, your fingers absently tracing shapes in your dress. “Yeah,” you murmured, holding the weight of his words for a moment longer before letting out a light-hearted sigh. “Wow, that got deep fast.”

Drew tilted his head, scratching the back of his head with a smile “I guess you bring it out of me.”

You shook your head lightly at his antics “So, tell me something shallow about you. Balance things out.”

He chuckled, leaning back “Alright, um… I have an embarrassingly extensive collection of sneakers. I don’t even wear most of them, but I keep buying more.”

You gasped dramatically “Drew Starkey, a sneakerhead? Who would have guessed.”

He held up his hands “I contain multitudes.” 

“Alright, my turn. I have an unhealthy addiction to lipgloss. If I leave my apartment without at least three in my bag, I go crazy fighting out what I’m missing.”

You felt Drew’s gaze flick to your lips, his smirk lazy but unreadable. “I noticed. Looks good on you.”

Your breath hitched slightly before you played it off with an eye roll “Very smooth, Starkey.”

He grinned, “I try.”

The crew began moving around the set, adjusting the cameras, but you barely noticed. The energy between you two was magnetic—effortless. It wasn’t just scripted conversation or polite industry chatter. It was real. And if you weren’t careful, it could become something even more dangerous.

But right now, you weren’t sure you minded.

[kxsagi]

"𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞"

a/n: includes three different alternative endings!

the moment yoichi isagi stepped onto the pitch, he felt the familiar heat rise in his chest, not just from the roaring crowd, but from the sight of him. 

michael kaiser. 

the guy had been a thorn in isagi’s side since their blue lock days. now, playing for rival clubs in the german league, their rivalry was a headline every season. their clashes were fierce, their words sharper than any referee’s whistle. 

but neither of them knew how much worse it could get.

until you.

you weren’t just beautiful. you were brilliant, an up-and-coming fashion designer whose work was making waves in elite social circles. you had designed custom suits and jerseys for some of the biggest names in sports, and somehow, both isagi and kaiser had ended up on your client list.

at first, it was harmless. just fittings and polite conversation. but then kaiser started noticing how isagi looked at you. how he lingered after appointments, how his usual tough demeanor softened when you adjusted the collar of his jacket.

it became a silent war, more ruthless than anything on the field.

kaiser would "coincidentally" schedule fittings right after isagi’s, ensuring you had to compare their styles, his tailored elegance against isagi’s effortless confidence. isagi countered by requesting custom pieces on short notice, forcing you to spend extra time working with him. if isagi sent you flowers to congratulate you on a successful fashion show, kaiser sent a limited-edition designer handbag.

the rivalry bled onto the pitch. if kaiser dribbled past isagi, he’d smirk and tug at his jersey, the one you designed. if isagi scored, he made sure kaiser saw him pointing toward the VIP section where you sat, elegantly unimpressed.

you weren’t stupid. you knew exactly what was happening.

and then came the night that changed everything.

a high-profile charity gala. both men, suited up, courtesy of your designs, having a stare-down. you, in a sleek black dress, looked between them with an exasperated sigh.

“you two are ridiculous,” you said, swirling the wine in your glass.

kaiser leaned in. “ridiculous? we just happen to have –”

“– great taste,” isagi finished, smug.

you rolled your eyes, then took a sip of your wine before smirking. “so, you both like me. that’s cute.”

kaiser and isagi exchanged uneasy glances.

you set your glass down and grinned. “and it’s a shame, really, because i don’t date clients.”

silence.

then, your laughter, soft and amused.

you walked away, leaving two of the league’s fiercest competitors standing dumbfounded.

isagi exhaled. “we’re idiots.”

kaiser nodded, rubbing his face. “yeah.”

for the first time in years, they had something to agree on.

and the rivalry continued. just, perhaps, with a little less venom. 

a/n: alternative ending: instead of saying you don’t date clients, you say you’re dating rin itoshi

𝐤𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

you had been around footballers long enough to know that rivalry ran deep. you just never expected to be part of one.

isagi and kaiser were both your clients, both infuriatingly charming, both unbearably competitive. for months, they had turned your fashion studio into a battleground, one-upping each other in ridiculous ways.

but kaiser was different.

it wasn’t just the grand gestures or the sharp suits he requested. it was the way he lingered after fittings, asking about your designs with genuine curiosity. the way he brought you coffee without asking how you took it because he already knew. the way he listened, really listened, when you talked about your dreams of launching your own boutique.

so when he showed up at your studio one rainy evening, you weren’t entirely surprised.

“hey,” he said, leaning against the doorway, looking unsure for the first time since you’d met him. “i know you said you don’t date clients.”

“i did,” you said, crossing your arms. “still true.” 

kaiser exhaled, then stepped inside. “then let’s change that.”

you raised an eyebrow. “how?”

he pulled out a neatly folded contract, sliding it onto your worktable.

“i’m officially switching to another designer.”

you blinked. “what?”

“i already talked to someone else. from now on, i’m just michael.” he smiled, slow and confident, the way he did right before scoring a goal. “not a client. just a guy who really wants to take you out to dinner.”

you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. the idiot had actually fired you.

you shook your head. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re beautiful.” he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “so… what do you say?”

you pretended to think about it, even though you already knew the answer.

“i say,” you said, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze, “you’d better not be late picking me up.”

and just like that, the rivalry was over.

at least, for one of them.

𝐢𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢'𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

you had dealt with egos before, but nothing compared to isagi and kaiser. the two were locked in an endless game, using you as the unwitting referee.

it was exhausting.

but isagi… isagi made it fun.

sure, he was cocky. but he was also the one who showed up unannounced with dinner when you were working late. the one who made you laugh with ridiculous impressions of his teammates. the one who, despite all the posturing, always looked at you like you were something he hadn’t figured out yet.

so when he walked into your studio one evening, drenched from the rain, his usual bravado stripped away, you knew something was different.

“i’m done,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. “i’m tapping out of this stupid game with kaiser.”

you raised an eyebrow. “game?”

“the competition. the ridiculous stunts. the flowers, the bags, the suits, the –” he exhaled. “i don’t want to win against him. i just want you.”

you stared at him, your heart hammering.

“so,” he continued, shifting awkwardly. “if you don’t feel the same, tell me now, and i’ll walk away. but if you do –” he paused, then smirked, some of his confidence returning. “then i’d really like to take you to dinner.”

you bit your lip.

isagi was bold, relentless, and sometimes infuriating.

but he was also standing in front of you, completely vulnerable, offering something real.

you stepped forward, slowly, until you were close enough to hear his breath hitch.

“dinner,” you murmured. “no competition?”

he grinned. “no competition.”

you smiled. “then pick me up at eight.”

and just like that, isagi had finally won… without even trying. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[bunni-v1]

smilk winning the pettiest jealous bitch award every year until beast yeast 8 cuz the man dead ass is just "yeah doll it's just a test :)" but the second you start getting close to truthless recluse he's just ">:( no I don't like this anymore"

we're just befriending your other half bro!! u wanted this and you're mad about it!! little bitch (affectionately)!!

i love my petty husband-

(also, your honor, was the "remembering who you belong to" thing a hit to jealous intercourse?? 🙏 cuz i love that 👀 love to hear more about that if ur in the mood, if not, ignore this lmfao)

MDNI!!!

Ohhhh, Shadow Milk is a jealous petty little bitch, and he knows it too! He really wants you two to get along, it’s great! Until it isn’t…

Oooo seeing you being so sweet on Truthless Recluse really makes him feverish. You were his little dolly, so why were you so sweet to some other cookie? You should be giving him all that attention! It’s not right! You know who you belong to, don’t you?

You’ve got that bite on the back of your neck, is that not enough? The tug and burn of his annoyance should’ve reminded you, but… Well. If you need the reminder, he’s more than happy to give it to you! Just be a good little cookie and he’ll take care of you <3

But seriously, he doesn’t really cause a fuss, mostly pouting and grumbling, UNTIL you touch Truthless Recluse. Just a brush of the hand was all it was, nothing with any meaning, but oh did it set him off. He was patient! Kind! Benevolent even! But you crossed a line with that one, and he won’t tolerate your actions any longer.

You are swooped up off your feet and transported to your shared bedroom within a fraction of a second. Having been with him for so long, you already know where this is going, so you don’t bother fighting him. But jealous sex with Shadow Milk Cookie is something entirely different than the norm.

What you think will be a regular session turns into something else entirely. Not only does he intend to remind you just who’s you are, he means to show Truthless Recluse that as well.

He’ll tie you up and blindfold you, which isn’t strange by any means. He likes forcing you to use your sense of touch, heightens the experience and really makes you squeal like he wants. All the while he’s playing it nice and cool, jealousy not quite bubbling over for the sake of the performance.

He runs his hands all across your body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His mouth following to leave marks all across your pretty dough, nipping a few bites where he can. He pointedly avoids touching you where you need him most, though. Knowing better than to give you what you want right away, lest he ruin the fun for himself.

He gets you positively squirming beneath him, then, he stops. Not only does he stop, leaving you whiny and flustered, but he leaves. He leaves you tied up and dripping and alone. It’s a cruel punishment you’d never experienced from him before, and it nearly makes you cry until you hear his pleasant little giggle.

“Ohhh, did you think I left you all alone? Poor thing… you know better than that, dolly~” He’ll coo, returning right back to where he was before.

He’s a bit more aggressive about his ministrations now, leaving bites that leak jam and are sure to scar. Licking up the wounds with a kindness that gives you whiplash, until finally that sinful mouth of his reaches right where you need it.

With practiced precision, he swallows you whole, forked tongue working over you like a dream. It knows all the right spots, moving across your most needy areas and leaving you weak and breathless. He goes and goes until you reach the edge, and then he pulls away like he always does.

He lingers a moment longer, though, and you feel his eyes burn into you from his place. You wonder if this time he’ll just give you what you like, but instead you feel a sharp pain shoot up from where he just left. A shout of surprise forces it’s what out of your lungs, and before you can process what he’s done, he’s already licking away to soothe the bite on your most sensitive areas.

“Did you just bite me?” You accused.

He snickers like a delighted kid, “What? Not into it?”

Aching and huffy, you grumble out a ‘no.’ Though it was certainly more pleasant than you’d like to admit, you’d prefer to be told before he tries something like that.

“Well…” He purrs, and you feel him crawl onto the bed, positioning himself nicely between your legs. His eager member is already free, and like it has a mind of its own, is rubbing against your inner thigh in a sort of apology. “Lemme make it up to you then, hmm?”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he is pushing into you. It tears a moan out of your lips, never quite used to how odd he feels the first time he enters. You swear he can expand the damn thing on command with how it fills you, rubbing all the right places at all the right times.

He’s kind enough to let you adjust, though you know he doesn’t have to be. The damn thing squirms excitedly inside you anyway, negating the whole point of his waiting. Maybe he just liked watching it press up against your stomach, or maybe… something else was going on. Before you can mull on it too much, he moves his hips in a brutal thrust.

It nearly knocks the wind out of you, pushing yet another surprised noise from your mouth. He giggles to himself at the sound, making his next thrust even harder to draw it out again, and again, and again, and again, until you can’t think straight. Each harsh thrust is another reminder that he’ll be carrying you around all of tomorrow, and your raspy throat tells you speaking won’t be much easier either.

He leans over you at some point, though you’re not exactly sure when. His body covering you from the cool air of the spire. He uses the closeness as an excuse to leave more marks across your neck and shoulders, happy to scar you up for everyone to see.

His dick twists in a way that has you seeing stars, throwing your head back into the sheets to cry to the heavens. He has every intent to fuck you until you couldn’t think straight tonight, and just as you think he’ll let you cum, he pauses his rough pace. You nearly whine, but stop when the blindfold stars to be undone.

He’d turned off the lights, so your vision adjusts much faster, and you are met with his sharp toothy grin. He seems satisfied with himself, so you smile weakly at him.

“Awwwwh, you’re so cute! Aren’t they cute?” He coos.

It takes you a second to realize he is talking to someone else, blinking in confusion a few times before you follow his gaze across the room. You meet dull ones, seemingly uninterested in the affair unfolding before them. Your jam freezes, jerking in your restraints in surprise. Why was Truthless Recluse here? How long had he been watching? Why was Shadow Milk okay with it?

“Oh, nonono, you’re not going anywhere!” He purrs, rubbing his cheek into yours like your attempt at escape was cute, “Don’t you like the surprise I made for you? It seemed like such a good idea, don’t tell me you’re upset!”

It’s hard to keep up with him, so all you manage is a very stupid, “What?”

He giggles with good nature, “Well, you seemed to like Vanilly’s attention sosososo much, that I thought it would be fun to have him watch us! And I was right, you’re never this vocal… it’s a little annoying honestly. Y’know, I’m getting the impression you like him more than me!”

You shake your head adamantly at him, and you mean it too, even though you’re fucked out and stupid you still manage to understand what he’s saying. You can’t come up with a good argument against him in your state though, petrified eyes unable to focus on staring at him or hiding from Truthless Recluse. It seems to make him happy, but he doesn’t stop his teasing despite the satisfaction.

“You do know who you belong to, don’t you dolly?” His words are accompanied with a thrust, a gasp forcing its way out as you nod, “Use your words pretty~”

Another thrust and you manage, “Y-you.”

“Mhm~ What’s my name, c’mon. You’ve still got some brain left up there, dontcha?” He teases, tapping on your forehead. If you weren’t so horrified you might’ve laughed.

“Sha~adow Milk— shit.” You manage between the steady smacks of his hips against yours, the tip of his dick rubbing your g-spot each time making things all the more difficult for you.

He smiles proudly at you, as if you were a pet he’d broken in. You certainly felt that way right now, not that you’d complain too much. His hand grabs your face tightly, jerking your head to the side with a smug smile.

“Tell him who you belong to.” He commands, and there is not room for debate.

“I belong to Shadow Milk Cookie,” You cry out to the silent cookie. He seems… unsure of the sight in front of him, whether he enjoys it or not, but Shadow Milk pulls your face back to his before you can make it out.

“Good job! I’m so proud of you! Now,” He squeezes your face tight in his grip, smiling cruelly at your struggle, “Keep your eyes on me. Don’t make me have to remind you again, alright?”

You nod dumbly, only verbally responded when he raises an eyebrow, “Of course, I’ll be good.”

He giggles, pressing the kindest kiss he could muster to your lips, “That’s my dolly~”

[cvnt4him]

I think tobios the kind of guy to really REALLY be in love with his first love. I mean this guy would be obsessed with whoever took his virginity, I solely believe that.

He literally would be so in love with you without even noticing. He would love being close to you, he'd get all smiley with you and y'know his smile isn't all that but when he's genuine with it, it's the prettiest thing to see on him.

Holding his face and peppering kisses on him in front of the team, Hinata and tsukishima teasing him for it. He groans but ultimately loves it. He loves you.

When you met his sister she was kind of scary. She had this unapproachable look about her, there was so much stress and pressure to be good and great for his family. But she was actually really sweet, really interesting and a genuinely great sister for the most part.

His grandfather was absolutely hilarious and tobio wouldn't admit it to you or anyone else, but it meant a lot to him that his grandfather actually took a liking toward you. The way you unintentionally made his grandfather crack up at your occasional mishaps on your words and the weird little sounds you made when you realized you fucked up your sentence, or when you sounded so robotic to remember the interesting things you told yourself you were interested in for the sake of his grandfather.

I like to think kageyama is REALLY emotionally constipated to the point he knows NOTHING....about love or even being interested/attracted to someone. He gains such a genuine attraction towards you, it physically hurts him. He can't help but to groan in some sort of annoyance when he sees you because he knows his body betrays him. It always makes it clear that he's happy to have you around.

Whether he becomes a flushed mess, his stupid cheeks filling with blood and getting all warm and red. His ear become impossibly warm as well, he swears he can't even hear you speaking to him. Or whether it be his eyes wandering down to your lips, his thoughts thinking about how he loves it when you kiss him. He prefers those quick kisses you give, to him those are more than enough. His eyes began to trail all over your body, his mind thinking about every part of your body they stop on

His eyes move to your hands, goodness does he love holding them. He really does. When he holds your hand I think he would often squeeze them for a little, like you could just be hiding hands and a for the most part gentle squeeze comes out of nowhere. He holds it in a tight grasp like that for a while before the tightness retreats.

It's so sweet really. You call his name and his blue eyes shoot right back up to yours, kageyama doesn't shy away from anyone but damn why did you have to look at him like that with those stupid fucking eyes of yours..

You offered him a genuine warm smile, your eyes creasing a bit as your smile met them a small chuckle leaving you as you watch him fail to keep eye contact with you. He had a silly little pout on his face as his brows furrowed and his cheeks warmed.

You sigh at your silly boy and pull him into a hug, it was mostly you hugging him. Wrapping your arms around his body as he stiffly stood in your grasp, you give him a long squeeze and groan slightly. You pull away and grab his face pulling his down, with his face in your hands he takes a moment to really feel your hands the softness of them on his cheeks and how he could smell perfume on your wrists.

You give him a couple of kisses on his face causing him to squeeze his eyes shut and groan lightly. He slowly fluttered his eyes open to leer down at you. He's so tall even when you pull him down to level with you.

“ I love you, tobio..”

You whisper to him, clearly not quiet enough because you can hear people snickering behind you. You kiss his nose one final time, you can see the way he's mentally cursing you with his mind. He hates that you had to do this in front of them. He loves you, he swears he does. He may have a funny way of showing it but he genuinely loves you.

“ ...mmn... love...you too..”

Tobio made damn sure he said it quiet enough. He refused to let them hear him say that.

Trust after being with you for a long time he gets out of that. He doesn't care who hears him say he loves you. He's so happy that he's had you for this long.

[fanged-fanfics]

Headcanon of the beast cookies and the reader who was the only cookie who was able to brew ambrosia? Both before and after corruption. (Headcanon name for this reader cookie is Ambrosia Cookie)

☆ Sweet Like Saccharine — Beast Cookies x GN Reader HCs ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

A/N: I avoided using pronouns for Eternal Sugar and Silent Salt Cookie since they both don't have confirmed genders, and since they're unreleased I'm basically guessing their personalities

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Burning Spice loved using your talents for celebrations. He's an extremely prideful Cookie, and the ambrosia you brewed was better than anything on Earthbread. He always made sure to order in whole jugs of it, especially for when he won over Golden Cheese

ᯓᡣ𐭩 As the Herald of Change, he used your drinks as a sort of pick-me-up. Whenever he was stewing in his turmoil, a bottle of ambrosia with you was his favorite way of relaxing, if only for a while

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Eternal Sugar would use your gifts to bond. A quiet moment with you shared over praising your talent was a great way to get closer, especially when Sugar could laze around drinking with you rather than working

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Before becoming a beast, Eternal Sugar would almost always take time off to just drink with you. A moment of calm, Sugar lounging around and consuming all Sugar can in the carved out free time

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Silent Salt always drinks right before a fight. Salt's concentration is always so sharp that not even the strongest wine could dull it, so Silent Salt deemed it harmless to indulge just a little

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Even when Silent Salt wasn't known as an amethyst knight, Silent would use your talent to keep busy when in a noisy situation that Silent didn't want to be in. Silent would also stay right by your side, being a social shield for you so no one could bother you

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Mystic Flour essentially never drinks, but she remembers receiving your bottles fondly and never turns down ambrosia when it's offered. Though she has to be careful not to open her eyes, or it would immediately sour

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Back when she was granting gifts, your ambrosia was what she'd always adore the most. It was an offering that she gladly accepted, rejuvenating her just a little longer to push through the day

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Shadow Milk would basically drink for any reason. To celebrate, when bummed out, for really any excuse he felt deserved it. Ambrosia is sweeter and richer than anything on Earthbread, so of course he wanted to indulge whenever possible

ᯓᡣ𐭩 Before lies and deceit became all he knew, he used to split it with you over work. It'd be a way to try and work through the realization of existence together. A dull cure, but something that helped nevertheless

[visenyaism]

top ten clinically depressed asoiafers

I don’t think anyone ever wrote out the Westerosi DSM but I’ll take a crack at it.

Honorable Mention- Mance Raider and Qhorin Halfhand. We don’t get enough to make a full conclusion because it’s not important to Jon’s story so this is just a vibe but I feel it strongly.

10. Rhaena the Lesbian- like one of two actually great fire and blood characters. Convalescing in Harrenhal for like a decade after her wife left her and her third husband killed all her girlfriends plus she was one dead kid and one dead mother down. Kind of epic. Should have survived long enough to be weird and bitter to Jaehaerys’ insane children.

9. Daemon Targaryen- hey speaking of killing yourself in Harrenhal. Him never being happy with what he had or knowing what he wanted beyond getting his big brother to be proud of him so he just had to constantly chase dopamine in the form of insane levels of violence grooming teenagers and getting his cop frat brother employees to like him for money. Chemical imbalance with a body count in the thousands for his last midlife crisis wife leaving teenager grooming riverlands murder suicide bender alone.

8. Rhaegar Targaryen- Hey speaking of making your clinical depression everyone else’s problem at Harrenhal leading to the death of thousands. Why do people keep letting them do this is the question. Could estrogen have saved her is the second realer question

7. Lysa Arryn. Free her.

6. Daeron the Drunken- what if you were HAUNTED by PROPHETIC DREAMS that were only BAD and spelled the death and doom of your ENTIRE FAMILY and you COULDNT ESCAPE THEM except through SUBSTANCES and you were also the HEIR and your DAD was so DISAPPOINTED IN YOU and you had to take your RUDE and disrespectful plucky BABY KING ARTHUR brother to the CIRCUS and he was TEN and BALD and picked up by the hedge knight you DREAMED OF because he is going to INSTIGATE TO THE ETERNAL MISERY OF YOUR FAMILY a little bit on accident because you are DRUNK. NO HOPE. also honorable mention to post-fratricide Maekar who just locks himself in summerhall for years and post-treason court hostage Daemon II Blackfyre. I hope he and Daeron got brunch.

5. Ned Stark- classic flavor original variant Father Depression. Things went wrong for him young that he will never explain to anyone ever and they form a veil that serves as a barrier between him and the world and everyone he loves. Poor Ned.

4. Stannis Baratheon. Never let himself enjoy anything ever. Melancholy from birth. Rude and extremely blunt with everyone. Smiles twice both at Davos. Anorexic. Bald. Who among us has not been there.

3. Alannys Harlaw Greyjoy- finding out that Theon and Asha have an alive mom who is a gothic horror attic wife who never recovered from the loss of her family to the point that she’s still asking when all her dead and missing sons are going to come home to her and then Theon comes home and does not visit her. Actually agonizing for me the reader

2. Jon Connington- I’m about to get real sincere with these last two because Dance was a really good book that hit at a pivotal time for me. Everything he is in the world to do is motivated by this deep and profound grief and repression that simultaneously makes him a worse person (hungry to commit war crimes) and his best self (dives into the river to save Tyrion contracting greyscale in the process, being as loving and supportive of a father to Young Griff as anyone really could possibly be in this series.) The fact that he is such a late-game addition but feels like a missing piece as a character because of the emotional weight he carries is really cool. I love all his chapters. Tried to grasp a star overreached and fell is so powerful.

1. Tyrion Lannister- I adore his dance with dragons chapters where after his big moment of patriarchal catharsis he is suicidal and misanthropic and an alcoholic and hurting himself and others. It is really compelling because sometimes people get worse. And yet this is interspersed with moments where he is confronted with real genuine danger or real genuine joy and he consistently chooses to be kind to others for no material gain. Like comforting Penny during the storm or tackling a Stone Man into the Rhoyne to to save Young Griff’s life. Arguably these moments do not outweigh all of the harm he is actively inflicting, but they do show that he is incorrect about his self concept that he’s a monster and is actually just a deeply hurt person who has been traumatized so profoundly and is struggling as a result of it.

[teenidlegirl]

⠀✸⠀⠀𝓑𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝓞𝐅 𝓣𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝓜𝐄𝐒𝐒⠀⠀┈⠀﹙⠀𝓒𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟏⠀﹚⠀ა ︎ ﾞ .

꒰⠀⠀⟡⠀.⠀military!miguel⠀𝓍⠀fem!neighbor!reader⠀.⠀⟡⠀⠀꒱

⠀ ᰦ 󠄀 ྀ .⠀♥︎⠀summary.⠀you’re nine months pregnant and your baby could arrive at any moment. you and miguel are excited until he’s called back for a dangerous mission, left to deal with the hardest decision ever, leaving you and the baby.

⠀ ᰦ 󠄀 ྀ .⠀♥︎⠀content.⠀angst, some fluff, pregnancy, heartbreak, arguments, emotional distress, firearms, mentions of violence, mentions of death, military shenanigans, sorta hurt/comfort

❛⠀ previous chapter⠀⋅⠀masterlist⠀⋅⠀next chapter⠀ ❜

time has passed and you’re 9 months pregnant and your due date is three weeks away. while feeling utterly exhausted, you and miguel are excited for your daughter to come and start your life as a family. everything is prepared when the time comes. hospital bag filled with everything you need, nursery set up looking pretty for your baby girl, the entire apartment is baby-proof which was miguel’s doing. until you find another apartment or a house, which miguel has been house-hunting for months now, your apartment will be your home for your little family. you two couldn’t be more excited for this.

you, especially, are excited to pop out this baby because damn you are tired as hell. you told miguel no more babies after your first because pregnancy is exhausting. well, at least no more babies for a long time since who knows if you and miguel wish to have more in the future. he can’t blame you after seeing the exhaustion on your face during these last few months. but for right now, this baby is all you need and you can’t wait to meet her.

“i just realized we don’t have a name yet.”

you and miguel sit outside the patio of your apartment, sunbathing while enjoying a bowl of fruit. you wear a simple periwinkle babydoll dress with daisies, your large baby bump sticks out adorably in it. the bowl of fruit rests on top of your belly as a table, a tiny plastic bowl of course, easier to eat from. your legs rests comfortably on miguel’s lap as his large, calloused hands caressed them.

“oh, you’re right. we haven’t thought about one.” his brows furrowed slightly, thinking as miguel takes a few grapes from the bowl.

“all this time, three weeks until she’s born and we still haven’t thought of a name for her.” you giggle, munching on a few of your favorite fruits.

miguel huffs, grinning. “great parents, huh?”

you think as you feed him a strawberry. “any ideas?”

he ponders for a moment of possible names but nothing comes to mind. “not really, ¿tú?”

no ideas popped in your mind. “nope.”

“what about your name?”

you wipe off that smirk on his stupid handsome face by feeding him another strawberry.

“we’re not following that damn hispanic tradition of naming your first kid after you.”

miguel chuckles at your bluntness. “just an idea.”

“my sister wasn’t named after my mom because she hates her name and didn’t want to do that to my sister so we’re gonna do the same thing.”

“you hate your name?” one of his thick brows arched.

“well… no. i didn’t say that! there’s one person in this family with my name and that’s me.”

that elicits another chuckle from him. “i’m just messing with you, bebé. but i love your name.” he leans forward and leaves a soft kiss on your forehead.

you roll your eyes, shyly smiling. “thanks.”

while munching on fresh fruit, no name ideas popped in either of your heads.

“ugh! why is it so difficult to come up with a name?” you slouch in your seat grumpily.

“we still have time, we’ll figure out something.” miguel reassures you, rubbing your swollen belly. “don’t stress about it, okay? it’s not good for both of you. it’ll come to us one day.”

a sigh escapes your lips. “hopefully.”

another kiss on your forehead. “for now it’ll be princesa.” his hand caresses your swollen tummy which results a kick from your baby. “she likes it.”

you hum happily, leaning against him. “i love it when you call her that, it melts my heart.”

his arm wraps around your shoulders, embracing you comfortably as his other hand grabs the bowl from on top of your belly and holds it. “i’m glad to know. she is mi princesa y tú mi reina.”

you lift your head up and look at him with a loving smile. “té quiero, mi osito.”

miguel’s heart flutters every time you call him that. you consider him your big teddy bear and he loves it. resting the fruit bowl beside him on the sofa, his hand gingerly cups your face as he leans closer and captures your lips in a gentle, loving kiss. your hand does the same and cup his cheek. the kiss is interrupted by a faint kick in your tummy.

you pull away with a giggle, caressing his cheek. “every time we kiss, she always kicks.”

“maybe she’s happy that her parents are in love.” a silly grin plastered on his face.

“they are and her parents love her.”

you and miguel go in for another kiss, resulting in another faint kick. you agree with miguel, your baby girl is happy that her parents love each other. you want nothing more than your daughter to grow up with loving parents and who love each other, to demonstrate a loving relationship.

later in the evening, you and miguel just finished having dinner. tonight was ravioli, a craving of yours which miguel had no problem making. he loves cooking for you, one of his many acts of service. you also love his cooking, he could be a chef as a side job. you told miguel once that he should have his own cooking show. he laughed and said that you should be the one with a cooking show, he adores your cooking. maybe a couple cooking show.

you rest on the couch watching a movie while miguel cleans up the kitchen. the man won’t let you touch or lift anything, just like throughout your entire pregnancy but is even more insistent about it since you could pop at any moment. in the beginning you were against it but not so much anymore considering your basketball sized tummy. besides, you get to watch your boyfriend maneuver around. admiring those bulging muscles ripple as he moves. biceps, shoulders, back, thighs. all so scrumptious.

once the dishes were washed and stored away, miguel makes a quick visit to the bathroom but not before leaving a kiss on your forehead then finally making his way over there. after doing his business and while washing his hands, he feels his phone vibrating in his back pocket. quickly drying his hands with a towel, miguel reached behind with a hand, grabs his phone and sees who’s calling.

‘IRONHEAD’

flash is calling him and that’s not a good sign. there are only two reason why he would call him: either for a mission or get-together with the team. miguel really hopes it is the second option even though he isn’t in the mood to go out, not with you about to give birth soon and he told the guys that.

exhaling deeply, miguel presses the green button and brings up the phone to his ear. it was a very long, hectic conversation. frustrated groans, mumbling, and swear words thrown around. it was so long that you eventually got worried since he has never taken that long in the bathroom. miguel knew you would eventually make your way over here. finally, he hangs up and heads back to the living room with not so good news hanging heavily on his shoulders.

you’re about to get up until miguel enters the room. the relief smile on your face falters when you notice his anxious expression. thick brows furrowed and eyes filled with apprehension.

“what’s wrong?” now your brows furrowed.

another long, deep breath of anxiety escapes his lips. “we need to talk about something…”

suddenly, your heart starts beating fast with anxiety. oh that isn’t good and honestly you’re scared. the moment miguel sits down next to you, the tension settles in. thick, heavy, and unsettling. both of you are nervous wrecks but miguel is more anxious since he’s about to tell you the worse news imaginable. he can already envision the tears of anger and frustration that will soon come in a few seconds.

“flash called me…” miguel starts off, his hand seeking yours and gently holds it. god, he feels like dying of anxiety. too afraid to speak the truth but mainly your reaction and where this conversation goes. “there’s a mission that i can’t back out.”

your brows furrowed a bit more. a mission, okay. the man is in the military, it’s bound for missions to come up. however, they can vary and the apprehension on miguel’s face say this isn’t an ordinary mission.

a shaky breath escapes his lips as miguel prepares to spill the unfortunate news of all.

“it’s in south america and… i don’t know long it’s gonna take and i have to fly out tomorrow.”

you feel your heart drop so suddenly. a plague of anxiety invades your veins completely, coursing through your body so viciously.

“t-tomorrow? what do you mean tomorrow?” you panic. “you can’t leave, not right now.”

“i know, baby, i know.” miguel squeezed your hand reassuringly, his heart breaking at your panic state. “i don’t want to leave either but i can’t back out on this, i have no choice—”

“you do have a choice!” you stand up abruptly, as much as you can due to your heavy tummy. “you don’t have to leave, miguel! you can’t leave!”

his heart continues breaking. “mi reina, siéntate por favor.” miguel tries to reach out for your hand to calm you down but you back away from his attempt.

“no, miguel! you can’t leave! she’s almost here and you’re leaving?! i need you here! she needs you here!”

he knew it would reach to this breaking point. you panicking, crying, and begging to him to stay. each cry is a stab to his heart. miguel hates seeing you cry, especially when he is the reason for it.

miguel stands up, a remorseful look in his eyes. desperate to reach out and pull you back into his arms. “mi reina, i know. i want nothing more than to stay here with you and be here for you and our daughter. i don’t wanna leave you two, it’s the last thing i want and i fucking hate leaving you. i told flash no many times, that i refuse to go. he understood, he and the guys don’t want to do this either but command left us with no choice and said the mission won’t be successful without me.”

all you do is keep shaking your head no, refusing to believe this is happening. the love of your life, the father of your child is leaving you for god knows how long before the birth of your daughter. suddenly, it feels like your world is crumbling. everything is crashing down like a paper plane. one minute you were enjoying fresh fruit and sunbathing while discussing possible baby names, then your boyfriend has to leave you and your baby for a mission in another fucking country for an unknown amount of time. how the fuck did things change so drastically?

“no, you can’t.” you keep shaking your head in denial as tears spill uncontrollably. “you can’t leave. she’s almost here, miguel. she’s almost here and i can’t do this alone, please don’t do this.”

miguel’s heart continues breaking immensely at the sight of your tears. it triggers his own tears to fall. “lo siento, mi reina. lo siento mucho.” he attempts to reach out for your hand and you don’t fight back, bringing you closer to him into his hold.

“miguel, por favor.” you look up at him with pleading, glossy eyes. “please don’t leave me… not again…”

fuck, that shatters his heart completely.

he left you once, broke your heart, broke your trust, and he forever hated himself for that. now miguel has to do the one thing he swore to leave do again, only this time he had no choice. now he hates being in the military. he has to leave you and it fucking hurts, especially to leave you when your baby will arrive soon. miguel doesn’t want to miss the birth of his daughter. he needs to be there for her, for you.

why did it have to be now?

at this moment, he hated being in the military.

“lo siento mucho, mi reina.” his calloused hands gently cup your face and wipe your never-ending tears. “i don’t wanna leave you and our baby. not again, mi reina. i’m so so sorry…”

your apartment is filled with the sounds of your sobs. both of you are crying at this moment. you completely break down and miguel doesn’t hesitate to pull you to his chest and embrace you tightly, feeling your trembling figure in his arms. afraid to let you go, doesn’t ever want to let you go.

the rest of the night was a sobbing catastrophe. the four walls of your apartment concealed with your heartbroken sobs and pleads.

what if he doesn’t come back?

what if he’s killed in combat?

what if, instead of celebrating the birth of your daughter, you are mourning the death of your boyfriend?

the excitement of becoming a family now ruined.

the day you and miguel have been dreading has come. the day he leaves for south america. since you’ve been crying all night, you feel utterly exhausted besides feeling depressed. you sat there in bed all miserable watching miguel pack up and get ready for his departure. every time your eyes meet, miguel had a guilty, remorseful expression. it pained him to see how miserable you looked. those tearful eyes silently begging him to stay, stop packing, dive back into bed with you, and stay with you forever. miguel hated this just as much as you do.

despite how much he hates to leave you, there is only one person miguel trusts to take care of you while he’s gone. he contacted his mother and ask her to stay here with you until he returns. the woman did not hesitate to agree and make her way over. you didn’t bother to argue, too busy being miserable. but truth be told, you actually don’t mind conchata staying here and helping out. you would love to spend more time with her, you know she’d do anything for you and the baby. she’s pretty much your mother-in-law. you agree with the plan. however, you still wish for miguel to stay.

through teary tears, you watch miguel return from the bathroom clad in all black attire. even feeling miserable, he still manages to take your breath away. he approaches the nightstand, opens the drawer, and takes out his pistol that he keeps here ever since he’s been staying at your place. protection purposes of course. miguel won’t take any risks, especially when it comes you and the baby. no harm has come yet the man is accustomed to securing and protecting. after checking the clip of ammo and putting the safety on, miguel shoves the pistol in the back of his pants and covers it with his shirt. his eyes meet yours once again but this time you look away, concealing the tears already spilling. his heart aches every time, so much guilt plaguing his body.

eventually, conchata arrives to see the heartbreaking sight in front of her. her son prepared to leave for another dangerous mission and her future daughter-in-law silently crying. you and miguel are in the living room by the time she gets there. she greets her eldest with a hug and kiss before approaching you.

“oh mija…” she gently pulls you into a tight, comforting embrace which you accept immediately and softly sob into her shoulder.

miguel observed solemnly, heartbroken for you and dreading his departure. he really doesn’t want to go, not to leave you crying and begging for him. he didn’t want this yet he was left with no choice. the ringing from his phone snaps him out of those depressing thoughts. a text message from flash saying he and the guys are here waiting in the car outside.

it’s time to leave, unfortunately.

breaking your embrace, conchata gives your arms a comforting rub with a soft reassuring smile before walking over to say goodbye to her son. miguel embraces his mother, exhaling deeply.

“té amo mucho, mijo. lo prometo. cuídate mucho, mijo, por favor.” she glances up at him. “make sure to come back to your family.”

you and your daughter. his beautiful family.

miguel silently promises to not allow his mother to lose another son, to not leave you a widow and single mother, to not leave his daughter without a father.

he will come back, he’ll make sure of it.

“lo prometo, mamá. té amo.” he plants a kiss on her scalp and embraces her one last time before he moves on to you, conchata stepping aside and turning around to give you both privacy.

instinctively, your head starts shaking as tears swell in your eyes for the nth time. “please don’t go…” you grip onto his shirt as if you’re terrified to let him go.

his heart continues to shatter. “lo siento, mi reina.” miguel’s strong arms wrap around you and hold you close to him, as much as your swollen belly allows you which is lightly pressed against his abs. “i promise to come back to you and our baby. i swear it, mi amor. i will come back to you both.”

his sincere words make you break down uncontrollably. you know miguel will do everything he can to come back home to you and the baby. you know he doesn’t want to leave as much as you do. you sob into his chest as his arms tighten around you, holding your trembling form. one last hug before he disappears for who knows how long. one last time to be with each other before parting ways.

miguel leans down, you reach up and capture each other’s lips for one final kiss. a kiss that you wish it could last forever. calloused hands gingerly cup your face. you grip onto his wrists tightly, afraid to let him go. savoring this one final kiss, savoring the taste of each other before drifting away. miguel gives you one last kiss then kneels in front of your swollen tummy and adorns it with loving kisses. your fingers gently brush through those soft brown curls one last time.

“i promise to come back to you, mi princesa.” he whispers against your belly, earning a faint kick which makes you both smile sadly. rising to his full height towering you, he cups your cheek. “i’ll come back to you, mi reina. té quiero tanto.”

“té quiero.” you desperately reach out to tug on his dog tags and bring him down for another final kiss which is sadly interrupted by miguel’s phone ringing, making him groan in frustration.

miguel whispers you a final ‘i love you’ before parting ways and grabbing his black duffle bag from the kitchen counter. you start sobbing more as you watch him preparing to leave. conchata turns around and approached you with open arms. sighing heavily, miguel turns around to look at you both one last time with a remorseful expression before opening the door and walking out, closing it behind him. you broke down once again as you watch the love of your life leave for the second time. conchata brings you into her arms and embraces you deeply as you sob. the four walls of your little apartment conceal the heartbroken sound of your sobs and wails.

your life is changed once again by a unfortunate incident. however, this time hurt much more.

that same guilty, agitated expression never faltered as miguel geared up and sit in his seat of the helicopter. his clothes covered with tactical gear. bulletproof vest, tactical helmet with night vision goggles attached, another pair of goggles that are ballistic meant for eye protection, his pistol as a secondary weapon stored the holster strapped on his right thigh, and additional equipment. a rifle in his hands while waiting for takeoff.

the rest of the squad are strapped in. flash next to miguel, ben and kaine seated across from them. as the engine starts, flash notices miguel’s somber expression which causes him to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. miguel flinched at the contact but immediately recognizes his teammate.

“you’ll make it back to her, both of them.” the blonde gives his teammate’s shoulder a light pat.

miguel sighs heavily, lowering his head with a head shake. “i feel fucking terrible leaving her. leaving at the worst fucking time imaginable.”

the blonde frowns remorsefully. “i know man, i gave command shit but of course they don’t give a fuck. lets just hope this shit isn’t a long one and you’ll be back in time before your kid comes.”

the brunette simply nods. miguel really hopes he’ll be back in time before the baby is born so he can be there for you when the day comes. sitting by your side, holding your hand in his as you welcome your daughter into the world. a dream he wants to come true. he’ll do anything to make it come true.

“appreciate it, ironhead.”

flash pats his shoulder a once again. “always, man.”

the helicopter finally takes off and the men’s journey to south america begins. throughout the flight, miguel only thinks about you. never once you left his mind. he knows you’re struggling with his departure but his mother is there to care for you. he knows you’re safe and being taken care of. but the guilt still lingers in his heart. he would rather be at home with you than stuck on this damn helicopter. however, miguel will do whatever he can to come home to you.

he won’t disappear forever this time.

𝓣𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓. ♡ @reverieblondie @nina-from-317 @kavimoo @aly29a2001 @lazyjellyfish300 @tojishugetiddies @aphinthestars @novelaaaaaaaa @imamexican @obessgurlll @deputy-videogamer @lovehadlovelost @agoddoesnotplead @saintdiior @whoopwhoppghost @tomalymme @skadiloki @asterrrrose @glossygreene @youcantseem3 @resident-clown @kutsipie @zuevcs @totorotales-08 @meowgirl1 @sukunash0e @sirendyes @leahnicole1219 @lisa-takeshi @yehet-moi-ohorat @slowlyshycomputer @wasitforrevenge @webshoootrz @f1-hoff @chaeriescola @espressopatronum454 @trocaderoisyummy @totallygyomeiswife @mcmiracles @celestialgarden23 @tatatida @whdhjfjvjvjfjdhsj @nocturne-light @xenop0p @juneonhoth @ghostsdoll @marshmallowsforever @ibelyss @imissubaee @demonic-bird @fandomtrash5092 ( if you’re not tagged, age/age-range is require since this fic is 18+, context for reasons why )

© teenidlegirl. don’t steal, plagiarize, or translate my work. ♡

[loveesiren]

Hi lovely. Hope youre having a great weekend. I had short question. I love your writing and was wondering if you do requests? If so could I ask for one where y/n meets GD's cats for the first time. Theyre both nervous but it goes great.

If not, sorry for asking

Have a great rest of your weekend<3

Ｚｏａ'ｓ Ｆａｖｏｒｉｔｅ

a/n: Oh my sweet angel, if only you knew the creativity this request sparked for me!! I even had to add some SMAU to it! Thank you so much for sending me the cutest request! I hope I did it justice!

Also, I just got a new phone and all my fake social apps got deleted so sorry if they're wack lol

synopsis: Jiyong finally decides that the girl he's been dating should meet his precious babies, and he's blown away by the result.

warnings: FLUFFFF, alochol, language, very light mention of sex, still SFW

wc: 3.2k+

Soft music filled the car as you tapped your fingers against the steering wheel, your stomach twisting with nerves. The GPS on your phone read you were five minutes away, and suddenly, the reality of where you were going sank in deeper.

You and Jiyong had been officially together for two months, though the pull between you had been there long before. Late-night texts that stretched until morning, goofy pictures exchanged on Snapchat, secret moments stolen at his shows. But privacy mattered—to both of you. Being in the public eye made everything more complicated, so you took your time, let things unfold naturally. And you liked it that way.

But tonight was different. Tonight, he had invited you to his home.

It was a big step, one that spoke volumes. Jiyong was careful about his personal space, rarely letting people in. More often than not, he preferred to meet somewhere neutral or come over to your place instead. His past had taught him to be guarded, to protect the things he held closest. That included his home. That included his cats.

Princess Zoa and Iye weren’t just pets to him; they were family. And the fact that he was willing to introduce you to them—on their turf—meant more than words could.

You exhaled sharply as you pulled up to his building, quickly sending him a text to let him know you’d arrived. Within moments, your phone buzzed, and you saw his response:

Come up. Already called it in. Park next to me.

Of course, his building had top-tier security. Nothing less was expected.

You found his spot and eased your car into place beside his, gripping your bag as you took a couple of steadying breaths. Just as you turned to get out—

"Ahh!" You yelped, heart slamming against your ribs.

Jiyong stood outside your window, a smug grin on his face, clearly proud of himself for making you jump.

"You’re a dick!" you huffed as he opened the door for you, still chuckling.

“Mmm, sorry,” he murmured, clearly not sorry at all. His hands found your waist, pulling you in effortlessly as he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “Missed you.”

Your fingers curled into his hoodie as you smiled. “Missed you too, JiJi. I’m really excited you invited me over.”

He hesitated for a second, then let out a breath, his lips quirking up in a nervous smile. “I just... trust you.” His voice was quieter now, more serious. “I want to share this part of me with you.”

That made your heart do an embarrassing little flip. You bit your lip, trying—and failing—to suppress a grin. You were head over heels for this man.

"Come on," he said, grabbing your bag from the car before lacing his fingers through yours. "Let's go."

Inside the elevator, he swiped a key card, granting access to the penthouse suite. A comfortable silence settled between you as the numbers climbed, Jiyong absentmindedly toying with the ends of one of your long braids.

When the doors finally slid open, he led you down the hall to his front door. He hesitated, scratching the back of his head.

"Uhh… it’s been a while since I’ve had someone… new over,” he admitted.

You squeezed his hand gently. “As long as you want me here, Ji, that’s all that matters.”

“I do!” he said quickly. Then, after a beat, “Zoa and Iye might be a little nervous, though…”

You chuckled. “That’s okay. I promise to be on my best behavior.”

A soft pink dusted his cheeks as he bit his lip. God, he was adorable.

“Okay,” he breathed, then unlocked the door, pulling you inside.

Your eyes widened as you took in your surroundings. You had seen glimpses of his place through Snapchats before, but nothing prepared you for seeing it in person. It was an effortless blend of artistic chaos and meticulous minimalism—every piece carefully curated, every detail intentional. The sleek furniture, the carefully arranged artwork, the shelves lined with vinyls and rare collectibles. It was stunning.

“Damn,” you muttered, turning in slow circles. “You really put my place to shame.”

Jiyong laughed as he placed your bag on the couch. “I like your place,” he said. “It’s homey.”

"Ji, I had no idea you were this clean and organized.” You teased.

"I’m not," he admitted with a smirk. "The cleaners came this morning. Gabriella has been cleaning up my messes for years. Bless her heart.”

You shook your head, grinning as he sauntered toward you, fingers grazing your exposed hip, playing with the waistband of your pajama pants.

“Can I get you a drink?” he murmured, his smirk deepening.

"Please," you teased, matching his energy.

He led you toward the kitchen, rambling about drinks and dinner. But before he could finish his sentence, a soft brush of fur against your leg made you pause.

“Hi, Princess Zoa!” you cooed, crouching down as the elegant gray cat moved gracefully around you, rubbing her face against your outstretched hand.

Jiyong blinked. “No way. She was hiding before you got here…”

You beamed, gently scratching behind her ears. “She’s so sweet! I love her already.”

And just like that, the tension in Jiyong’s shoulders eased. His lips curled into something soft, something real.

Yeah. This was a big step. And it felt right.

Jiyong handed you a drink—a simple vodka soda, but he knew it was your favorite. That small detail alone made your chest tighten in the best way. You took slow sips as you followed him through his home, the quiet intimacy of the moment settling over you like a warm blanket.

He showed you everything. His personal recording studio, where half-finished lyrics and melodies lived. The spare bedrooms, each one somehow still curated with his impeccable taste. The breathtaking view from the balcony, where the city stretched out endlessly beneath you, glittering like a dream. And finally—his bedroom.

This was your favorite.

His presence was everywhere in this space, woven into every little detail. The artwork, a mix of chaotic genius and sentimental treasures. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, half-folded laundry on the bed—tangible proof that he lived here, existed here. His knick-knacks, collected from different parts of his life, told a story only he could tell. It was personal. It was beautiful.

Something on his bedside table caught your eye, drawing you closer. A photo. A small, colorful rock. You picked them up, curiosity humming in your chest.

“What’s this?” you asked, turning the photo over in your hands.

Jiyong chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s, uh… a picture Daesung took of us. From that beach party a few months back.”

The moment flooded back instantly. That warm summer night, the waves crashing in the distance, music thrumming through the air. You and Jiyong, tipsy and tangled in laughter, dancing with the kind of reckless abandon only a new connection could bring. You’d forgotten Daesung had been running around with a camera, documenting the night in blurry snapshots of joy.

A soft smile tugged at your lips as your thumb brushed over the image. That night was when it had really started for you—the way Jiyong had held you close, how he never stopped making you laugh, how gentle he was even in the midst of chaos.

You glanced at the small rock in your other hand. “And this?”

Jiyong grinned, taking it from you, rolling it between his fingers like it was something precious. Because it was, to him. “This, my dear, is the first gift you ever gave me.”

You blinked. “It is?”

“Mmhmm.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “Remember that time you called me drunk, asking if I could pick you up? You got in my car, all excited because you found a rock that ‘matched my hair.’” He mimicked your voice playfully. “You put it on my dashboard, declared it a masterpiece, and passed out before I even made it to your street.”

Your face heated. “Oh my god.” You covered your face with your hands, groaning. “Jiyong… you kept my drunk gift?”

“Of course.” His voice softened. “I have it in my pocket at every show. It’s my good luck charm.”

Your heart swelled, emotions tangling in your throat as you looked up at him. “You really are the kindest man I’ve ever met, you know that?”

He smiled, that soft, intimate kind of smile that made your stomach flip. “Can’t help it with you…”

His lips met yours, slow and sure, his hands finding your waist and pushing you toward the bed. Your back hit the mattress as his lips traced along your jaw, down the curve of your neck, making warmth pool in your stomach. You tangled your fingers in his hoodie, pulling him closer—

A sharp bap landed right on Jiyong’s head.

“Ow, Zoa!” he yelped, rubbing the spot where his beloved cat had just smacked him.

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth as Zoa hopped onto your lap, settling comfortably. 

“Oh, you think this is funny?” Jiyong shot you a mock glare, eyes twinkling with amusement. He sat up as Zoa curled into a loaf on your stomach, kneading at your shirt like she had claimed you for herself. “Did my cat just cockblock me?”

“Shhh, don’t say those words in front of the baby!” you scolded, scratching behind Zoa’s ears.

Jiyong scoffed. “Wow. Okay. I’ll just fuck off then.” He stood dramatically, shaking his head as he made his way to the kitchen.

You couldn’t stop laughing as you carefully moved Zoa to the side, hopping off the bed to chase after him, the cat trotting behind you.

“Hmmm, later, Oppa,” you hummed, wrapping your arms around him from behind. “Let’s watch our show.”

He sighed dramatically but smiled as he turned in your arms, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Fine.”

The two of you curled up on the couch, a thick blanket draped over your legs as Breaking Bad flickered onto the screen. Jiyong’s hand rested on your thigh under the blanket, absentmindedly tracing patterns against your skin.

Zoa stretched out across your lap, already fast asleep, and moments later, a soft meow announced the arrival of another visitor.

“Iye!” Jiyong grinned, patting his lap. The sleek gray cat hesitated before slowly making her way over, her small paws pressing into his legs as she perched there, still wary of you.

She craned her neck, sniffing at your arm cautiously before pulling back.

“Hi, Iye,” you murmured, keeping your voice gentle. You let her come to you, holding out your hand for her to investigate. She gave a single curious sniff before rubbing her face against your fingers—just once—then retreating back to Jiyong’s lap.

“At least you still love me, huh?” he cooed, scratching under her chin.

Iye kept sneaking glances at you as the show played, inching ever so slightly closer with each passing minute.

Jiyong leaned against your shoulder, exhaling a long drag from his vape as he glanced toward the window. The sun was beginning to dip below the skyline, painting the city in soft gold.

“You hungry, babe? I can start dinner.”

You stretched, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Mmm. What’re we having?”

“Lobster,” he said casually.

Your head snapped toward him. “Lobster?” You scoffed. “Jiyong, how fancy. I should’ve worn a cocktail dress.”

“As much as I’d love that, Jagi,” he mused, standing up, “nothing beats sitting on my couch in pajamas with my gorgeous girlfriend, eating lobster with no judgment. We can be as messy as we want.”

You leaned against the couch, watching him with a warmth spreading through your chest.

“God, I love you…” you murmured, without thinking.

Jiyong froze mid-step, turning sharply to face you, his expression unreadable.

“What did you just say?”

Your eyes widened. “Shit, I mean—” You stammered, face heating. “Ah, fuck.”

“No, no, don’t take it back.” He crossed the room in seconds, dropping onto the couch beside you. His hands cupped your face, his eyes searching yours. “Say it again.”

Your heart pounded. “I said… I love you.”

His lips crashed against yours, deep and urgent, a raw kind of emotion surging between you. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you, too.”

You let out a breathy laugh, shy but filled with absolute joy.

Jiyong grinned, standing abruptly. “Okay, I’m gonna go make you the best dinner ever. Because I fucking love you and you fucking deserve it.”

You laughed as he dashed toward the kitchen, grabbing your phone with trembling fingers to text your friends.

Laughter echoed through the kitchen as you and Jiyong moved in perfect sync, playfully bumping into each other while prepping dinner. The rich aroma of butter and garlic filled the air, mingling with the sharp scent of freshly squeezed lemon. His two cats sat perched on the counter, their sharp eyes tracking every movement, their tails flicking lazily as if silently judging your cooking skills.

“Babe, they’re totally waiting for us to drop something,” you giggled, nudging Jiyong as he reached for another ingredient.

“They’re opportunists,” he scoffed, turning to Zoa. “Aren’t you, Princess? You’re not slick.”

The gray cat blinked at him, unimpressed, before returning to watching your every move.

The two of you tossed back shots between chopping, stirring, and sneaking bites of food. Each time the tequila burned your throat, Jiyong was there with a teasing smirk, leaning in to steal a quick, lingering kiss that tasted of citrus and salt. You felt light, the alcohol buzzing in your veins, but it wasn’t just that—it was him. This moment. This feeling of being completely and utterly alive.

“Voila!” Jiyong announced dramatically, placing the finished dish on the counter with a flourish. His grin was downright giddy, like a little kid proud of his creation.

You clapped your hands together, eyes lighting up as you took in the masterpiece before you. “Holy shit, babe. This looks amazing.”

Jiyong preened under your praise, already reaching for a piece of lobster and popping it into his mouth.

“Should we sit at the table?” you asked, glancing toward the neatly set dining area.

“Fuck no,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Couch. Show. Now.”

You giggled, warmth blooming in your chest. You had finally found someone who matched your energy—who understood the joy of ignoring formalities in favor of what truly mattered.

Plates in hand, you both made your way back to the couch, curling up under the softest blanket as Breaking Bad resumed on the screen. Every so often, Jiyong would feed you a bite, and you'd do the same for him, laughing when he dramatically moaned about how good it was. The alcohol settled over you like a warm embrace, your limbs heavy, your mind blissfully light.

At the edge of the couch, Zoa and Iye sat patiently, their eyes fixed on the two of you, hoping for a dropped morsel.

“Sorry, ladies,” you teased, waving a lobster claw in front of them. “This one’s all ours.”

Jiyong chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer. His body was warm against yours, his scent a mixture of cologne, blueberry vape juice, and something inherently him. You rested your head against his shoulder, feeling completely and utterly at home.

It hit you then—how much you loved him. How he wasn’t just your boyfriend. He was your best friend. The person you could be unapologetically yourself around. No pretense, no walls. Just laughter, love, and this perfect, ordinary, extraordinary moment.

By the time dinner was finished, the two of you had knocked back a few more shots, and your bodies had melted further into the cushions. The warmth of the alcohol, the lull of the TV, and Jiyong’s steady breathing made your eyelids heavy. Even the cats had settled into slumber, Zoa curled up at your feet while Iye stretched out on the back of the couch.

Jiyong shifted beside you, his lips grazing your temple as he whispered, “Can we finish the show in my room?”

You hummed in agreement, unable to form words in your sleepy haze.

With an exaggerated groan, Jiyong forced himself up, stumbling slightly before pulling you to your feet. The two of you giggled as you made your way to the bedroom, tripping over each other’s steps, hands wandering, lips meeting between bursts of laughter.

As soon as you passed the threshold of the bedroom door, it was a tangle of limbs, clothing being shed in lazy, drunken movements, laughter giving way to slow, heated kisses.

Jiyong took his time with you, his hands mapping the curves of your body like he was committing you to memory. Every touch was reverent, every kiss deep and lingering. The world outside ceased to exist—the only thing that mattered was this, the warmth of his skin against yours, the way your bodies fit together like a puzzle that had finally found its missing piece.

There were moments of whispered confessions between soft moans, giggles breaking the tension as you both found yourselves too tipsy to be completely coordinated. But none of it mattered. All that mattered was that he was here, with you, holding you like you were the best thing he had ever known.

Because to him, you are.

Afterward, tangled in the sheets, Jiyong pulled you close, his arms securing you against him as he pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder. You sighed in contentment, nuzzling deeper into his embrace.

“G’night, JiJi,” you murmured sleepily.

He hummed against your skin, his lips still brushing over you. “Night, baby girl.”

Within moments, sleep claimed you both.

-

Jiyong was the first to wake.

A groggy groan left his lips as he scrubbed a hand over his face, his body still heavy with sleep. The golden morning light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows over the room.

When he turned over, his breath caught.

You were still fast asleep, your hair spilling across the white sheets, your lips slightly parted as the softest snores escaped.

Nestled under your arm, Zoa was curled into the smallest ball, her tiny frame rising and falling with each peaceful breath.

Jiyong felt his heart clench.

He had never been a morning person, but waking up to this? To you? He could get used to that.

A quiet meow pulled his attention, and he shifted his gaze to Iye, who sat perched on the pillow beside your head. The slender cat stretched lazily, then turned to look at him.

Jiyong raised an eyebrow. “Well?” he whispered, as if Iye would actually respond.

The cat let out a soft chirp, then glanced at you.

And then, in the smallest of gestures, she leaned forward and rubbed her face against your cheek before settling back down.

Jiyong blinked.

That was it. That was the moment.

He grinned, shaking his head in disbelief as he ran a hand through his messy hair. Iye, his most reserved, most particular baby, had just given you her silent approval.

He exhaled a quiet laugh, his gaze drifting back to you.

The love that swelled in his chest was almost too much.

He reached over, brushing a few strands of hair from your face, his fingertips barely grazing your skin.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.

And in that moment, with the sun painting you in gold, his cats nestled around you, and his heart feeling fuller than it ever had—Jiyong knew.

He had found his forever.

© loveesiren 2025 - do not copy, translate, transfer, or repost my work without my permission. if you find my work on sites other than through links i've provided, please notify me.

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[softidiotsposts]

Anyone Can Cook

as the wise tale of ratatouille states "anyone can cook... but only the fearless can be great"

{Hello! Second fic, this time pure fluff for recovery! Warnings: kitchens being messy, mentions of bland food, cooking, mentions of the french and reader is french, picky eaters, incorrect cooking terms (probs) // word count: 2.2k}

masterlist

Leah always mentioned Ratatouille around you, like a little disease that you could never shake. The little blue rat named, Remy, had become a staple in your household- even earning you a nickname based on the rat. She thought herself funny, with you being French and all- even a native Parisian, which apparently made it even more of a gag. One that you didn't enjoy very much.

You didn't get it- the film, while good in a general sense and clearly a children's film- had no idea of what a professional kitchen actually looks like and you liked to point out the serious misconceptions to Leah every time she forced you to watch it.

"Seriously, Lee- I have had enough of this film!"

You grumble when Leah once again picks Ratatouille to watch on your weekly movie night- this makes it twice in a row that she's picked this. Making you absolutely devastated that watching Notting Hill was being put on hold, once again.

You wonder whether revoking her TV rights on film night would fix the problem but then remember that Leah could do absolutely anything and you'd probably let her do it anyway. Even if it's a chef rat based torture.

Still, it's actually getting to the point that you remember practically every single line of the film and the plot never surprises you. Not when Leah insists on watching it all the time.

You don't even think she actually enjoys the film enough to watch it all the time either so it must only be to see your reaction.

"But it's so good- really lets me get the idea of what you do at work," Leah giggles and presses start and the obnoxious "French" sounding music starts to play.

You groan, "This is not what I do."

"Yeah, yeah, Remy- You do some cooking with fancy things, I know."

"Actually, I-"

You're about to correct Leah with the most attitude you ever have when she presses her lips against yours and you melt like butter in a pan. She knows that you can never resist her when she has her soft lips against yours and it works without fail each time- even when you're terribly angry.

Leah smirks and wraps an arm around your shoulders. In turn you sigh, knowing that there is no winning when Leah has her mind set on something or whenever she uses her ultimate weapon.

It's around half way through the film, when the famous line is said that you come upon the genius idea. Taking Leah through cooking something that cannot be made via a machine- a cooking lesson with the most inept chef you've met.

The words anyone can cook are true... to a certain extent- It comes down to personal opinion mostly, what does one truly classify as cooking? In theory, if making toast with butter was considered cooking then Leah was the expert but when it came to the taste department- that is where your girlfriend falters.

Before Leah, when you still lived in France, you swore up and down you could never date anyone with the taste buds of a five year old- saying that it was the ultimate deal breaker. Now here you are, dating a famous Arsenal footballer that has the diet of a primary schooler.

At first, it had come as a shock- you went to a restaurant on your first date (not your ideal place for a date but Leah insisted) and she ordered the plainest thing on the menu. You were in such shock that you double checked the menu to see if you weren't misreading because who orders chicken nuggets at a Michelin star restaurant? And why did they even serve such a dish?

It also happened to be the moment that you fell head over heels for Leah, so you learned to get over the food very quickly.

Yet, this was a moment to teach Leah a lesson in taking you seriously... or maybe at least putting a stop to rewatching Ratatouille every single week.

So you take a week to prepare everything perfectly, you plan out what you're going to teach Leah to cook, even survey your kitchen staff before opening with a little questionnaire.

Then you make sure that all knives are sharpened, pots and pans are present- even though you're the only one who uses them- and that all other additional equipment is on hand if needed.

After all the prep work, you go out to the market early on Friday morning to buy a whole chicken since Leah is most likely to actually eat it after it's cooked- you're against wasting food in any circumstance. Then circle around to the other side for fresh vegetables. Once you have acquired all that is needed, you return home perfectly on time.

It leaves you enough time to get your chef coat that you wear when working and find the spare one you had borrowed for Leah, then set out all the ingredients on the marble countertops. It looks absolutely perfect and tickles that ocd part of you brilliantly.

In hindsight, you should have given Leah a slight pre-warning as to what the two of you were doing today but the expression on her face when she walks in is priceless- so priceless, you wish you had recorded it, so you can show it to all her teammates and your co-workers.

“What’s all this?” Leah says, clearly confused as she drops her training bag by the discarded sneakers. 

You fan your hands out, presenting all the different things across the countertops with a large grin- just as large as Leah’s everytime she picks Ratatouille over any other mildly interesting film. 

“This, my love, is your cooking crash course with the best chef in London.” 

It’s true, the London’s society of restaurateurs had voted you best chef for the third year in a row and you couldn’t be happier to flex it in Leah’s face. It’s your personal victory and you like to compare it to her Euro win with England- just to watch her turn a little red as she fiercely defends it to be harder. 

You'd normally agree but maybe she won’t be so quick to correct you next time though because as soon as she’s in the white coat with you (and after you had taken a photo of her that will be posted on instagram later.) the two of you are off, cooking what you think is going to be the driest chicken ever. 

“No- not like that!” 

You’re quick to correct her, it’s automatic and you feel as though it’s a little harsh but this is payback for making you suffer through a cartoon rat cooking. 

You place a hand on top of hers and you swear she blushes just a bit but you ignore it, instead guiding her hand to correctly dismantle the chicken into its individual parts. After helping her with one side, you watch as she tries to complete the other- and to her credit, it is not a total disaster. The cuts are a little jagged and some of the chicken looks more like it’s been massacred rather than taken apart but albeit still looks edible. 

Then she looks up at you with proud eyes and you forget about everything for a moment- all the mental gymnastics- and focus on her sweet smile that warms your heart. You come a little closer and give her a kiss on the cheek, careful not to touch her since you've just been cutting chicken.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart."

Maybe it's an exaggeration but the blush appears on Leah's cheeks after it is completely worth a white lie.

"Thanks, Remy, I have the best teacher," Leah wiggles her brows at you suggestively and you roll your eyes in return.

"Well, I do have three Michelin stars to my name," You grin and Leah smiles back at you.

Then you add, "It's like having three of those golden ball thingys that you all pine after."

Leah's face drops a bit, "You mean a ballon d'or?"

Your face lights up and you nod rapidly, "Yes, exactly!"

Leah pulls a face and furrows her brows, "Okay, baby... maybe we should focus on the cooking?"

You nod and turn your attention towards the dismantled chicken in front of the two of you- You resist the urge to cringe and put all the different parts into a bowl that you then place into the fridge.

"Let's wash hands before the next part."

The two of you take turns washing your hands, Leah flicking water at you playfully when it's her turn and you frowning when she does so.

"Take this seriously, Lee- In my kitchen-"

"Our kitchen-" She corrects you.

You raise your brows in question, "Who uses it the most?"

Leah suddenly fiddles with her coat and looks anywhere but you, you scoff but a smile finds it way to your face anyway- then you wrap an arm around her waist.

"Whatever, just focus- as if it were a match!"

Leah chuckles but steps up to the cutting board where various different vegetables are laid out with one of your personal knives that you bring to work besides it.

"So what now?" Leah asks, evident confusion in her voice.

"I want you to cut the peppers julienne and the carrots paysanne."

Leah looks at you with the most confused expression you've seen to date when the French leaves your mouth and all you can do is sigh.

"Peppers thin like matchsticks and the carrots into circles, please."

"Now that, I can understand," She laughs and begins to chop the peppers, first gutting them and throwing the seeds in the bin beside her then slicing them into strips.

You're leaning your head on her shoulder and your arms are wrapped loosely around her waist as you watch what she is doing- Leah's fingers are wrapped around the wooden handle and she guides the blade down each pepper part with some kind of precision.

You smile and encourage her by giving a light squeeze that you feel she leans into-

"Focus, that knife can cut your finger off."

You hear Leah scoff, "Maybe you shouldn't distract me then?"

You don't say anything nor do you move your arms away from her waist instead focus on the way she's slicing the various peppers- somehow, Leah begins to stray from the very thin slices into thick chucks without even acknowledging it.

You smile, "Stop for a second, Lee."

Leah pauses instantly and turns her head to look at you from where you stand behind her, she raises a brow in question and you grin in return. Then pick up a slice of pepper, holding it up for the two of you to inspect.

"Too thick, darling."

You press yourself closer to her back, forcing her to face the board again- this time you place your hands on top of hers, they are slightly warmer than yours and the heat immediately spreads, then begin to slice as you had instructed.

The rest of the vegetables go smoothly and you let them rest to the side before taking the chicken out of the fridge again-

"We are going to bake the legs, use the bones to make a sauce with the peppers and boil the carrots."

You explain, pointing to all the different elements as you do so and all Leah does is nod before stepping closer to you so she can wrap her arms around your neck.

"Yes, chef Remy," Leah chuckles when you scoff.

She gives you a quick kiss that you so desperately want to deepen but she pulls away before you can. Instead, she turns to the board and looks at you with the same focus you see on the pitch.

"Alright, let's start."

The rest of the evening goes... as well as you'd imagine- the kitchen is thankfully still standing, but in a state of utter disarray. The sauce that Leah made under your guidance had boiled over after she turned the temperature up, so that it would "cook faster". You didn't even get the chance to explain that it doesn't work like that, when a blob of sauce landed on the floor.

So there was a large spillage of sauce all over the stove and countertop but that was the least of your worries since the fire alarm had rang... once... twice... and a third time when the chicken was in the oven. Turns out that Leah cannot preheat an oven to the correct temperature either- so that chicken wasn't even dry, as you'd predicted, it was just simply not even there anymore.

All the meat had burned into crispy back sludge and the bones smelt disgusting- so disgusting that Leah had to stand on the balcony as you threw it out. Stating that she would throw up if she had to do it. 

It turns out that nothing was safe from Leah's horrid cooking skill since the carrots suffered a death by over boiling- turning into mush rather than keeping their shape after the plunge in the steaming hot water of the pot.

In the end, Leah and you end up on the plush sofa with white styrofoam take out boxes in front of you and the normally tidy kitchen left in a rather untidy state, much to your dismay- but none of you had the energy to clean on an empty stomach.

You're shoveling food into your mouth when Leah picks up the remote and you dread what's coming. You see disney being opened and the pit in your stomach turns into sickness-

"So... Ratatouille?" Leah giggles and presses play, you music ringing out of the speakers. 

"Darling- No, please!"

[ourdawnishotterthanourday]

Fool In Love — Jeon Wonwoo

✧ Love is a foolish thing ✧

Plot: Picture this… you find out exactly why your boyfriend has been so distant lately.

🎥 Starring: fem!reader x boyfriend!Jeon Wonwoo 🎥 Genre: big time angst 🎥 Word count: 1k 🎥 Warnings: swearing, cheating 🎥 Notes: more angst! sorry but not sorry hehe 🙃 🎥 Shout out: as always, thanks to my lemon drop @nothoughtsjustfic for helping and keeping me sane 💜

♡ REBLOGGING AND/OR FEEDBACK WOULD BE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED — DON'T BE A STRANGER PLS ♡

Set The Scene Masterlist —  Masterlist

“Do you still love me?”

You watched as your boyfriend tore his eyes away from his phone, his face scrunching up in confusion.

“What? Of course I do. Why would you even ask me that?”

“I don’t know. You’ve just been so distant lately, always too busy to spend time with me or too tired to be intimate.” You threw up your hands. “Hell, we haven’t gone on a date in what feels like forever. It just made me start to question everything.”

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses, putting his phone away before making his way over to where you were seated on the couch. 

“You have nothing to worry about, baby. I love you and I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he assured you, wrapping a comforting arm around your frame. 

You nodded hesitantly, still not entirely convinced by his words. While you deeply loved your boyfriend of five years, you couldn’t deny that there was a disconnect between the two of you. Whereas just a year ago Wonwoo would have jumped at the opportunity to spend every waking moment with you, he barely looked at you nowadays. 

No more daily compliments, no more occasional presents, and certainly no more spontaneous dates.

You didn’t quite know what had caused it but you missed what you once had. More importantly, you missed the old Wonwoo. 

“How about we go somewhere for dinner tonight, just you and me? Like old times?” Wonwoo proposed, offering you a smile as he squeezed your arm. 

“I’d love that.” You smiled, a spark of hope settling in your stomach at the thought of rekindling your relationship. 

“Got any places in mind?”

“You remember that Italian place I’ve been wanting to go to?” Your eyes lit up in excitement. 

Wonwoo instantly dropped his smile at your suggestion, his eyes growing wide.

“No, not that one.”

You frowned, not understanding his sudden shift. “Why? We both love Italian food and I’ve heard great things about this place.”

“I’ve heard the food and staff are shit so I’m not willing to risk it, baby. Let’s just pick one we both love, hmm?”

“Wonwoo.”

“Y/N.”

You sighed in defeat. “You’re really not going to give in, are you?”

“Correct. Choose any other place.” He kissed your cheek. 

“Fine, I’ll find us another restaurant. But you’re paying.”

—

You’d been so excited for your upcoming date, carefully planning out your outfit and makeup, making sure to pick some of Wonwoo’s favorites in the hopes of ending the night with some long-awaited intimacy.

But all your hopes came crashing down when the two of you had sat down at the fancy restaurant. 

Wonwoo was distracted throughout the entirety of the dinner, practically glued to his phone which seemed to go off every few minutes. Bad thoughts were floating through your mind as you watched him try to contain his smile every time he glanced at the device, not for a second believing his excuse of being so excited to spend quality time with the love of his life. But you also didn’t want to assume the worst because it was Wonwoo after all, the man who’d promised with his entire heart that he’d never ever hurt you like that. 

And you wanted to believe that, you really needed to believe that. 

But as the days passed, the distance between you never lessened, only seeming to become bigger and bigger until you felt like you could no longer be comfortable in your skin around your boyfriend. 

That’s why you eventually sought out one of your dearest friends on one of those nights where Wonwoo had to work over hours at the office. You were planning to share your thoughts about your relationship with her over dinner, needing to have someone to confirm that you were not actually going crazy. You knew she would understand, having had her fair share of relationship struggles herself.

“You’re telling me he didn’t want to go here? For real?” Nayoung asked in disbelief as the two of you entered the high-class Italian restaurant, several staff members approaching you to take your coats and name of the reservation. 

“Don’t get me started. Something about bad service and food,” you mumbled softly so the staff wouldn’t overhear. 

Nayoung snorted as you began to follow the hostess through the restaurant. “Now that is some bullshit if I ever heard some. I’ve heard nothing but praise. It has one Michelin star for god’s sake.”

“He wouldn’t budge. I wasn’t going to push it. Anyway, I’m glad to experience it with someone who can appreciate it.” You put a smile on your face as you both sat down at your assigned table. 

“Of course, you know I’m never one to turn down a fancy d— oh fuck no.” 

Nayoung didn’t finish her sentence, her eyes focused on something behind you. It couldn’t be anything good judging by the displeased expression on her face. 

“What are you looking at?”

“No, wait!” She tried to reach for you but you’d already turned around, your eyes falling on a couple, the man having just leaned in to kiss the woman on the lips. 

Wait.

“Y/N.”

You couldn’t even hear her since your heart was beating all the way in your ears, drowning out everything around you as you watched the man pull away with a lovestruck look on his face. 

It was the look he used to give you. 

As if sensing someone was looking at him, he slowly turned his head, freezing on the spot as his dark brown orbs connected with yours.

He obviously didn’t expect to be caught here of all places. 

You didn’t waste time making a beeline for the exit, ignoring the desperate pleas coming out of his mouth as you tried to keep it together for just a bit longer. 

Everything suddenly made sense. 

The distance, the phone, the restaurant. 

You should have trusted your gut.

But you chose to believe him like the fool in love you were. 

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[theprplcooki]

Hey, the first rejection didn't sting so bad. I had only applied to the national academy as a joke. However there was one line that did seem rather odd: "I regret to inform you that in accordance with the new law: we can only admit human students to the academy"

I disregarded the statement because I was always told the nature of my magic had a more ancient flavour to it, so I assumed that I had somehow been misread by whatever magical instrument was used to verify my race. I simply wrote an appeal letter and sent it off before the deadline.

But then the second letter came, from the school that was actually my first option. Stating the same thing. Now, I might not be the brightest flame on the altar but I could tell something was up. Nevertheless, I sent the appeal letter and went on with my day helpig my father tend to the plants. But as the days pass, the amount of rejection letters on the kitchen table began to stack. All with the same damning line: "We can only admit human students".

This was getting riduculous and this whole time my father was rather ambivalent and just gave a soft "Hmmm" whenever I brought this up to him. And I used the one thing ot get my father to sit down and talk; food.

With a steaming bowl of his favourite stew, I had him at the kitchen table in no time. What he didn't know, was that I also managed to find a recipe that was mild truth-serum, and acted more like a relaxer and made people a bit more talkative. With how strong the stew's flavours were, the bitterness of the potion were hidden. I had my chance. 'So father, doesn't seem weird that all these magic schools are rejecting me on the basis that I'm not human?"

"No, not really. To be honest, I didn't think you would ever need to know. And then that royal prick had to go and declare new law" I paused. So there was something to hide from me. Choosing my next word s carefully as not to break whatever trance my father seemed to be in, I asked him "What, exactly, did I have no need to ever need?" "That you're not human"

"Yes, dad. I gathered as much. But what is "not human" about me."

"Well, I don't exactly know. Your mother was very pretty though"

Not this again I thought. My father was known to gush over my mother at great lengths whenever I prompted him to tell me about her. He always described her as elegant as ever, a goddes on earth, with the most beautiul eyes - the colour of the golden sun. My mother, according to him, was so beautiful that flowers bloomed at her feet, and the sun seemed to alwasy be glowing right behind her. But hearing my father talked about her under the effects of the potion hit me, hard. Was he not embelishing before this? Did literal flowers bloom at her feet?

Then a thought, a thought so absurd and improbable struck me.

"Dad, was mom a god?"

He looked at me with the face of pure absurdity, the face you give a person who doesn't know that fireballe needs sulphur. I sighed a breath " Oh thank the blessed mother. For a moment ther I thought"--

"Yes she was."

"WHAT"

As an aspiring student of magic, you are trying to get into a magic school, but so far every school has rejected you, claiming that they only accept human students. Time to finally ask your father who your mother really was.

[evilminji]

Had another Si-Oc thought >.>

My standard "you know what Would Be Cool?" Musings...

Getting reborn, as you do, ending up Force Sensitive, as can only be the case. Because really... how ELSE would you soul end up there? CHANCE? Force ghosts are a PROVEN thing! We KNOW that the Force sometimes just... deals in souls.

Ffs, it MADE A BABY.

Yes, there was Sith interference there. But that doesn't chance the fact that it went? "Eh, good enough. I'll take the chance and run with it. Thanks~☆ Mine Now~~☆ Bye~~~☆" And Chosen One'd that baby. Because ultimately? Before the plans of gods and men? The Force Laughs.

So like? Yeah. If there WAS to be a Reincarnator?

Probably the Force.

Congrats on the new, third (or second, depends on your species. Might be another number entirely, honestly. But we are averaging here so MOVE ON), Parent! They are very, very happy to see you! Love you as only a Primordial, Extradimensional, Timeless, Formless, All Pervasive, Orange-Blue Morality havin', Not-A-God Super-God CAN. Their Benevolence? Could be called another God's cruelty.

They don't MEAN too. They are just.... really, really Big. Infinite. Not organic or mortal. It's like trying to comprehend the limitations of an ant, living on a planet, circling a sun, in a GALAXY the size of a DUST MOTE. The fact that the Force can even come CLOSE? Is literally miraculous.

But of course... OC? Not the Chosen One. The favorite, special, "I have Important Things For You" child. Which.... turns out to actually? Be kinda great. The realize that quickly. Which of course, is followed by the logical follow up.

Anikin? Fuckin SCREWED. Because he IS the Favorite Child.

Oh... oh No. Oh Fuck, that is a CHILD.

How easy it is, to cast blame, to judge, when you can't FEEL the Force in your EVERYTHING. All the time. Every moment of every day. Beautiful but cacophonous, like a symphony of screaming. Like staring at the sun and never going blind. It still hurts. But it's so... so bright. So Beautiful.

Connection. To the universe itself. Soul deep and transcendent. You can feel that the universe loves you. That there is good in people. That Life itself is worth protecting. But at the same time? It is... it is so much.

Because you can FEEL the ugly too.

The greed. The hate. The suffering. Lights snuffed out, in dark places of despair. Selfish actions and deep cruelties, like barbed wire against the soul. Thorns that hook and drag. And... and you're supposed to use your words. Just... just ASK them to stop? And, What? Hope that they WILL?

It HURTS!

But pain only begets more pain. Cruelty, more cruelties still. And only the Sith, believe they can use FORCE, in any sense of the word, to change a persons nature. The Jedi build. Grow. They work together, with those who are willing, towards something better. Defend, those who can not protect themselves.

Balance and growth. Not fire and chains.

And Oc is pretty sure Anikin will agree. No one should ever be in chains. Dead maybe. Or in jail. But never, ever, in chains. (And no one ever said they were pacifists. Just not war mongers. Sometimes the only answer IS to kill your opponent. To respect their choice, but honor your commitments. Protect those you swore to protect.)

Of course... OC? Going through Jedi training. It's Pre-Anikin days. Both she and Obi-Wan are fuckin Smol. She's not even in his Creche clan. She's over here in the "wanders off, lost in their own thoughts" Chill AF Creche Clan. Not Mr. "May you Live In Interesting Times And Have Padawans JUST LIKE YOOOOOOOU" and Co., over in the... "Energetic" Creche Clan.

None of HER Creche-mates BIT people, Obi-Wan.

WE keep our fuckin teeth to ourselves, Kenobi!

So, obviously, THEY don't have a lifetime ban on the "look, don't touch" fragile plants meditation garden. Very Rich in the Force. Good for focusing. Peaceful, really. And Oc? Has the time and space? To Consider™ things. Experiment. Ponder Fandom theories. Long "lost" Cannon techniques. Maybe have one-sided chats with the Force.

.....finally get CURIOUS™.

And wonder... if? Since, you know, through the Force, she can encourage and discourage plants to grow? And somewhat control animals. Why not... micro-organisms? Say, Midi-chlorians? Force healing is all ready a thing! So the Force all ready CAN interact with the body. Effect it. Change it. What is this, but more?

Really, all she'd have to do is find them, within herself, right? They're already a part of her! Yet... not. Do they consider themselves a part of her? Or is it symbiosis? Yeah, everyone says it can't be done. Perhaps shouldn't be done. But, frankly? They said the same about a LOT of Force techniques over the years. Big leaps in progress scare the SHIT out of folks. Cause if you miss? A LOT of people can die gorey.

So she sits. Mediates. Looks. Smaller... and smaller.... and smaller....

Until she finds whispers. Humming. Chatter.

As though each and every blood cell in her body had a teeny, tiny, whispery little voice. All chattering together, talking and arguing and discussing. One great hive of progress and industry. Complaining about a lack of potassium... huh. She goes and gets some fruit. Eats it. Then settles back into meditation.

They are JOYOUS! Potassium! Yaaaaay! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

Well... what'd ya know... huh. Hello there? She tries. Only to get a whispery and very alarmed ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! BODY CAN TALKヽ(°〇°)ﾉ ‽‽‽ Y-Yeah... she can. (How are they doing that?) The conversation? Only gets more surreal from there. Filled with... a surprising number of kaomojis.

But! She DOES figure out? How to increase her Midi-chlorians count. (By asking. Supplying needed resources for the expansion.) And WITH it? He awareness blooms.

The headache is... awful. The little guys(genderless) are WAY to enthusiastic. Working way too fast. If she didn't check the next morning? They might have continued to increase, indefinitely, until her veins were SOLID midi-chlorian. They just want to HELP, you see. And if you want More? Then surely FAR TOO MUCH is better, right?

(She may have fucked up. Oh god. Ow. Fuck. OW.)

Eventually she figure it out. Only gives her healer in training Creche mate a... few near heart attacks. He'll TOTALLY forgive her! (He will not. What the FUCK OC. Experimental medical procedures?! On YOURSELF!? You're not even HEALER TRACK!!!)

So NOW? She can reliably do it to OTHERS.

Need a bit more Midi-chlorians? Nearly Jedi quality but juuuuust under that cut off? She can fix that. Come. Be a jedi. Everyone should be a jedi. In FACT~! Whoops! Oh hey. Looks like all these Midi-chlorian counters are fuckin broken! (They look perfect fi-)(Broken! :] Do Not question me) So when you find that Orohan Child in desperate need of love and care? Just bring um on back!

They're TOTALLY Force sensitive. You can just tell. It's the vibes. Look at their lil face. Vibes, man. Just hand um here. For... reasons. You go get the paperwork. A working tester. And~? Oh would you look at THAT! Perfectly within acceptance range! Neat. Called it again, didn't you, Master Koon? You really do have an eye for these things. Anyway~ off to get this little one settled~~☆ *adoring cooing noises at the baby*

Weird, huh, how there suddenly just... SO MANY random orphan babies that are force sensitive? How 'bout that >.> strangest thing.

Of course, it's a god damned open secret. Everyone KNOWS. How could they not? But? Like with most things? If they don't Officially Know™? They don't have to stop it. And it DOES help both the Force AND those kids. Can be reversed if they don't like it, later. (They asked. All hypothetical of course.) So OC is basically Temple bound, so she can receive any new kiddos. To... you know... Check Their Health, on the way to ACTUAL healers.

But she's ALSO waiting. And as her skill increases? She can FEEL midi-chlorians, easier and easier. Until it gets to the point? Where if she's bored and zoning out? Not even ture meditation anymore? She accidentally tunes into Midi-chlorian Live~☆ the talk show. (What's the latest gossip from bodies nearest to her? Oh? Your second spleen is acting funny? Better remember to tell him to get that chec-)

Palpatine can't hide SHIT. It's literally in his blood.

And MAD at him.

This is NOT what they're FOR. He's taking TERRIBLE care of his body! Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOOOOOOU! You want power? Choke on it, you-!!!!!

Holy shit. So THATS what Sith Midi-chlorians feel like. Oh my god. They... they are SO MAD. Like tiny wasps. That have been violently shaken in a jar. She's never used the word "seething" in reference to someone before... but like...? If they COULD stab him? Man would be a thick paste at this point.

She's not sure what facial expression she makes. But it sure is obvious. As is the blatant, horrified staring. And refusal to get near him. HE doesn't notice, being to busy with the powerful. But the Jedi sure as fuck do. Because THEY sent her? Out with a Shadow. You know... just in case.

Cause she literally can not be replaced.

She not High Ranked... she's just priceless. Equal sort of significance, but in a very quiet, Soft Power sort of way. She is, after all, single handedly? Reversing centuries of slow population decline. Her entire Line promises to be the next Yoda's line. Priceless and with far reaching significance. So obviously, they're making sure that shit stays locked down.

No one is to so much as BREATHE about this.

Not until her great-great-GREAT Grand Padawan has passed their Knight Trials so HELP US. We LEARN from our mistakes! Need we bring out the records? Times we got cocky? Sith and political fuckery!? No. Oc stays INVISIBLE. There is no war in Ba Sing Se! Move along!

So like? Why is Miss Midi-chlorian Sensor and Future of the Jedi... making that face? She's literally NEVER made that face. What sort of monster do you have to BE? Huh? Shadow asks, casual as fuck, like he's not a plotting plotter who's planing terrible things, what's up?

She tells him. Palpatine has RANCID vibes. His midi-chlorians fucking DISPISE him. She's literally never seen that before. In anyone. Didn't even know that was an option. They would gleefully kill him if they could.

.....senator Palpatine is Force Sensitive?

Yes.

.......Interesting™(Ominous Intent)

Says local Shadow, who is perhaps putting together some dots. May not be getting the correct picture. But is getting the Vibe. And boy howdy, he does NOT like the vibe. Has got himself some questions. Cause Mr "uwu I'm harmless" lil mask? Only holds up? If you're willing to believe him.

Shadows don't buy that shit. Shadows? Need receipts. Full character statements and an audit on the fucking hospital you were BORN AT. Every credit you picked up off the side walk, why, and where you spent it.

Give them your Secrets. Or they'll keep digging until they find them.

uwu Their ASS. Gonna tear this bitch APART.

......huh. So THIS is why you guys keep accidentally getting married to Mandalorians on missions. (We agreed not to mention that.) (Fucker, I agreed to nothing. Shouldn't have eaten my special Me Day pudding if you didn't want me to gossip.) Man, her friends are... a trip. Uh... have fun? Happy hunting? I guess? *feral Jedi noises*

She? Continues to wait. Palpatine? Begins to have a VERY bad time. (Ha! Get fucked!)

Unfortunately, it's not fast enough to stop his dumbass plans. He just gets desperate. Figures more power is the answer. Because of course he does. So here comes the "oh nooooo~ my planets under attack~ better manipulate a child and make me president of the galaxy!" Plan. Fucker. Bastard.

She can't stop that.

But what she CAN do? Is be there. Waiting. For HIM.

Her little brother. Her son. Her center of the universe. The most important man to ever live... and also? A scared little boy. Far, far from home. The only other person who understands just how BIG the Force is. How much it weighs. How even as it crushs you... you can't bear to put it down. Not even for a moment. Because it loves you. And it hurts, that it does.

And... oh. Oh.

He is so very small.

Dirty, tired, in lovingly mended clothes that are barely beyond scrap. With bright, bright eyes like hope and starlight. He sings inside. Like freedom. Like hope. Daring to ask "why CAN'T you be kinder?", "why CAN'T we be free?". A storm of change. Bright and beautiful.

A child. Great and small, all at once.

Oc can't help but smile. Because, oh. Oh how long, she has waited to meet him, Anikin Skywalker. Welcome. Are you hungry? Cold? Let's get cleaned up. See the healers first. The council can wait.

Chips are removed and food is shared. Warm clothes, soft and new. And she can not help but smile, smile, smile. Even as her face begins to hurt. For years she has gathered. Planned. Studied and trained. As though some part of her knew. As though all for this moment. Taking one of those small hands in hers. Looking right in his eyes.

"It's going to be okay."

Because it IS. Because regardless of what they decide? OC will be with him. Regardless, she's going to go and make sure his mother is free. Not bought, not sold. Free. She has friends who can help. Will learn how to remove the chip herself if she must.

And? He IS going to be a Jedi. Even if he never become a Coruscant Jedi. Even if he decides he doesn't agree with how they do things or they decide the disagree with how HE does things. The Jedi have changed before, they will change again. Living things are meant to grow. Meant to change. And people can be both wrong and right at the same time. It's messy.

But what's important? Is Anikin is not alone anymore. And Oc is gonna help teach him. And someday? HE'S gonna break chains. So many chains. Gonna help people heal. If he wants to. (He does) But for right now? A quick talk with some old people. Maybe a nap. And we either get settled or arrange a trip back to Tatooine. To pick up your mom. In the meantime! You can figure out what classes she might wanna take. Where seems like a good place to settle. *chatting as they walk off, hand in hand*

Just? Sometimes a Padawan-ship is you, your Teacher, your OTHER Teacher, and her body guards that teach you Cool Knife Tricks and how to gamble, behind Obi-Wan's back! :D

@legitimatesatanspawn @mayfay @leftnotright @babbling-babull @hdgnj @spidori @the-witchhunter @lolottes