#hanging indoor swing

[ceechair9]

At Ceechair, we bring the joy of swinging indoors! Our USA-made indoor swing chairs are expertly designed for comfort and durability. We offer a unique blend of style and functionality to elevate your indoor spaces. #Ceechair #IndoorSwingChair #USAMade

[wedgiesfromhell]

Jacob had made it barely three days into boot camp before the barracks wolves pounced.

Maybe it was the way he walked. Maybe it was his innocent, over-eager answers in orientation. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the telltale waistband of his tighty whities peeking up from his PT shorts every time he bent over to tie his boots.

Whatever the cause, the guys had picked their prey. And that morning, while the rest of the recruits were reporting for formation, Jacob was hoisted—literally.

They gave him the Hanging Wedgie.

It was a clean lift. Four guys, full effort. They hauled him by the waistband of his briefs up to the metal bunk frame, looping the elastic over one of the support beams. Jacob was left swinging in the air, suspended by his own cotton, toes dangling inches off the floor, legs twitching, briefs stretching with each slight sway.

He looked like some twisted parade decoration: arms flailing, chest rising and falling in panic, and his tighty whities so stretched they had gone from snug to sculpted.

The white cotton strained around the curve of his cheeks, deeply buried in the crack and climbing so far up his back it nearly touched his shoulder blades. The front of the briefs had ridden so high that the y-front was pinned tight against his sternum, turning every breath into a wince.

And then…

Drill Sergeant Brickhouse stormed in.

The door slammed open with the subtlety of a thunderclap. His boots pounded the floor in rhythm, and his sunglasses stayed on indoors—not because he needed them, but because authority doesn’t squint.

He took one look at the empty bunk, then at his clipboard.

“Private Jacob… AWOL from formation…”

Then his eyes raised—and froze.

Jacob, dangling. Wedgied. Face bright red. Cotton stretched to maximum.

There was silence. Then…

“Oh my god,” the sergeant said with a slow, astonished grin.

“You’re actually dangling from the ceiling by your tighty whities. Bro… you’re asking for it.”

He strode forward, arms folded, boots stopping inches from Jacob’s twitching feet.

“You chose these, huh?” he said, poking at the waistband.

“White briefs. Not compression. Not boxers. Not even black. Bright white tighty whities. What are you, ten? Of course you’re dangling from a ceiling, Private—these things are like grappling hooks for bullies.”

Jacob whimpered, still swaying, his briefs now a shiny, stretched-out torture device, visibly clinging to every inch of his swampy glutes. The cotton shimmered slightly in the barracks light, and even from a few feet away, the sergeant could see the stress lines etched into the fabric, forming veins of pulled thread that radiated out from every pressure point.

“You smell that?” the sergeant said, wrinkling his nose.

“That’s the smell of a poor laundry schedule, bad decisions, and straight-up regret.”

Then, with a smirk, he stepped behind Jacob.

“Let’s get you down, princess. And since you missed formation, you’re gonna earn your landing.”

The sergeant gripped Jacob’s ankles, spreading his stance like he was about to deadlift a sandbag.

YANK.

Jacob’s body dropped an inch. The cotton didn’t snap—it screamed, groaning under the sudden pull as the wedgie burrowed deeper, turning Jacob’s tighty whities into a high-tension harness of agony. His cheeks clenched. His toes curled up. A strained moan slipped out.

“No pain, no gain,” the sergeant muttered.

YANK.

Another inch. The briefs were now skinned to his body, the leg holes acting like pulleys, digging so deep into his thighs it looked like they were sewn into him. The waistband was stretched far beyond its intended size, the tag twisting violently, barely hanging on.

Jacob let out a long, high-pitched groan.

“There it is,” the sergeant said, nodding. “That’s the sound of discipline entering through the cheeks.”

Then came the final pull.

The sergeant adjusted his grip.

“This is for every minute you were late to my field.”

YANK.

The cotton finally gave up.

Rippppppp.

One seam. Then another. Then a final SNAP!—and Jacob crashed down in a heap, his shredded briefs fluttering like confetti as he landed flat on the cold tile floor.

He lay there, dazed, one leg twitching, half a waistband still looped around one ankle.

The sergeant stood over him, arms behind his back.

“Next time you’re late, Private,” he said, “you’ll wish it was just your underwear that got shredded

[serveandchoke]

The Other Court

Jannik Sinner x Former Tennis Player!Reader

Summary: After a brutal injury ends reader's meteoric rise, she disappears from the sport. Until Jannik Sinner finds her years later in Rome, coaching a wildcard on the very courts that should've been hers. She's not the girl he used to chase, and he's not the boy she used to beat.

a/n: this is in jannik's pov

When they were fifteen, she always beat him to the court.

Morning sessions started at seven, but she’d already be through her first basket of serves by the time Jannik arrived, bag slung over one shoulder, curls still damp from a half-awake shower. She never looked up. Just tossed another ball in the air, fluid and easy, the lefty toss not quite textbook but undeniably hers. He recognized it in his sleep, that uncoiled whip of a swing, the sound it made when she timed it right: low, clean, final.

She was faster than him. Lighter on her feet. Her footwork was tighter, her hands quieter, her temper non-existent. Even when her backhand clipped the net cord and dropped out during match play, she never snapped a string or muttered under her breath. Just shook it off and walked to the other side like it didn’t bother her at all. It drove him crazy in the way that admiration sometimes does.

They trained together every summer at the academy in Bordighera, back when they were still juniors with secondhand rackets and parents who clapped a little too loudly. At first, she barely spoke to him. She was focused. The kind of focused that got under his skin, because it made him feel like he was still a kid playing catch-up. She hit with the older boys. Ran extra laps. Practiced double-handed on both sides, just in case she ever needed it.

"You're not trying to be good," Jannik told her once, wiping sweat off his chin during a break. "You're trying to be perfect."

She took a sip from her water bottle, eyes still on the court. "Trying to win."

And he remembered that. He remembered everything, actually. The way her braids would come loose halfway through drills, the neon pink tape on her wrist, the callus on her index finger from stringing her own rackets at the academy’s shed. She liked black strings and hated indoor courts. Said they made her feel like the air was too still. Trapped.

The first time they played a proper match, she double bageled him.

He was furious, but Jannik couldn't help it but to also admire her play. She was gracious as ever, light on her feet, the way she just floats across the court.

"You played well," she told him at the net, offering her hand, and he wanted to believe it wasn’t pity. Wanted to believe she meant it.

They weren’t friends exactly. But they were something. Rivals, maybe. Mirrors, sometimes. But Jannik couldn't help himself, he felt as if there was something threatening to bloom. And maybe she felt it too. He rose fast, but she rose faster. By seventeen, she had her name stitched on a Nike visor and a junior Grand Slam final under her belt. Reporters circled her like hawks. People talked about her with a kind of breathless expectation. "The next big thing", they said, like she wasn’t still a teenager trying to stay upright under the weight and pressure of it all.

And then came Roland Garros Juniors.

It was supposed to be her title. She’d made the semis look routine, dismantling the third seed in fifty-eight minutes on Court 7. Jannik watched from the top row, elbows on his knees, barely breathing when she hit a running forehand up the line that spun so hard it dropped on the baseline and skipped into the fence.

He never told her he watched. He never told her he skipped his own recovery session just to see her play.

The final was scheduled on Court Suzanne-Lenglen. It was hot that afternoon, the kind of Parisian heat that made the clay smoke beneath your soles. She started strong, holding serve at love. Jannik was in the stands again, this time in a proper seat, credentials hanging around his neck. He could see her clearly from the third row. The thin line between her brows as she bounced the ball, the way she reset after each point like she was erasing the last one.

In the second game of the second set, it happened.

She slid for a wide ball, that same smooth left-foot plant she’d done a thousand times before. But something went wrong. Her shoe caught. Her knee twisted. Her racket dropped to the ground a full second before the scream came.

It was sharp. Real.

Jannik stood before he realized it.

Trainers rushed in. The match was paused. She didn’t get up.

He watched her hold her leg like it might come apart in her hands. Watched the other girl cross the net hesitantly, not sure if she should celebrate or apologize. He watched her get stretchered off the court, face blank, mouth pressed shut like she was refusing to cry until the tunnel swallowed her whole.

And just like that, the golden girl disappeared.

There were whispers after. Surgeries, rehab. A press release about a "complicated tear." She withdrew from Wimbledon juniors. Then the US Open. Then silence. Her social media went dark. Her name stopped showing up in draw sheets.

The world moved on.

But Jannik didn’t. Not really.

Not when he won his first ATP title. Not when he cracked the Top 10. Not even when he stood on the Centre Court of a Slam final and someone in the front row wore a visor just like hers. Not even when held the World No. 1 title.

He still remembered the way she moved, the sound of her serve, the way she told him trying wasn’t enough.

He still remembered her, she haunted him. Always wondering she could be, if he would run into her during tournaments.

And then, years later, in Rome, she came back.

But not to play.

——

The clay was different in Rome. Deeper. More theatrical. Everything at the Foro Italico felt like it was made to be watched. The marble statues, the sunlit courts, the piazza where the press circled like bees. Jannik didn’t love the noise, but he’d learned how to move through it. Smile here. Interview there. Keep the routine intact.

It was just past four when he cut through the practice courts after media rounds, intending to duck back into the locker room. He kept his head down. Headphones in. Until something stopped him.

Not a sound. A posture.

He looked up. Court 5.

A junior wildcard was practicing, kid from Naples with a sharp slice and nerves too big for his frame. But Jannik’s eyes weren’t on the boy.

She was standing behind the baseline, sunglasses perched on her head, arms crossed, lips pressed together in the way she always did when she was watching. Really watching. Not just looking for errors, but timing. Effort. How much a player wanted it.

The same way she'd once looked at him.

She hadn't changed much. Older, maybe. Stronger in the shoulders. Her hair was different, tied back in a low knot, but the way she moved; that hadn’t changed. She stepped forward during a drill and mimed a motion to the kid, hips rotating, weight shifting, like she was still teaching her own body what to remember.

Jannik’s heart dropped somewhere low in his chest.

He waited until the rally ended before he called her name.

She turned before he finished saying it, and she smiles.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

“Hey,” she greets, in that soft, wry tone that hadn’t aged a day, God, Jannik could fall apart at the sound of her voice. “Didn’t expect to see you lurking around the junior courts.” she smirks, a hand on her hips.

“You never know where the real matches are,” he said, slow smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.

She laughed, quiet but genuine. “Still with the one-liners, eh?.”

“Still trying to impress you, is it working now?” he said before he could help it.

She raised an eyebrow, just stared whilst quirking a playful smile. “You used to do it by overhitting forehands. Am I right or wrong?”

“And you used to do it by destroying my serve.”

“I was fair,” she said. “Just better.”

He smiled again. Because it was true, and because it was good to hear her say it like she used to.

“How long have you been coaching?” He asks, trying to keep up the momentum of their conversation.

“Just started with him a few months ago.” She nodded toward the boy, who was now sipping from a bottle and wiping sweat off his chin like a pro. “He reminds me of you.” She looks at him with a look that Jannik couldn't quite read. Was it longing? Or something else? Jannik couldn't decipher.

“Red hair and sickly looking skin?” he offered.

“No,” she shook her head, laughing. “The way he hates to lose. And you never used to admit it, but it showed. Always trying to hit your way out of frustration. No one could tell you were frustrated, but I dd.”

He tilted his head, a small grin. “You used to smile when I did.”

“You were predictable,” she breathes out. “But not boring.”

There was a pause.

He looked at her again. Not past her. At her. At the hint of sunscreen on her nose, the fray of her old academy cap, the careful way she stood, like she still carried her injury in her bones, even if it didn’t show anymore.

“You ever think about playing again?” he asked.

She shook her head once, not unkindly. “Sometimes. When I’m stringing rackets. Or watching a late match. But I don’t miss the tour.”

“You miss competing,” he said.

She didn’t deny it.

He took a step closer to the fence, fingers curling around the wire like it might keep the moment still.

“I watched your Roland Garros final,” he said.

“I know,” she said, just above a whisper.

He blinked. “How?”

“You always sat in the third row,” she said, turning toward him. “Back then, at least.”

He let that settle. Let the honesty of it rise between them.

“Come watch my match tomorrow,” he said.

She smiled, then shook her head. “You’re not a junior anymore, Jannik. You don’t need me in your corner.”

“That’s not why I want you there.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked down, then back at him, eyes thoughtful, careful, familiar.

“Alright then,” she said, soft and certain, smirking.

“Alright.” He grins, and Jannik watches as she walks away from him and towards her protégé. Thinking, 'I found you.'

[trivia-yandere]

visions

you’re convinced by your friends to go to a party and let go of the memories of your ex just for one night. unfortunately for you, jungkook doesn’t want to be let go.

@momnomnom @darkuni63 @sweetempathprunetree writer: quay (explicit-tae)

word count: 5.186

warning: yandere themes, smut, dark themes, cursing, manipulation, toxic relationships, non-con, reader is drugged, impregnation kink, spitting, nipple sucking, biting, dirty talking, blood, neck slitting,

Your eyes snap open when the loud and ringing noise of your alarm. You’re quick to yawn, body stretching before grasping your phone off the bedside table. The alarm is titled “work” and you silenced it with a groan.

Your eyes catch the day of the week. Friday. The time was 8 a.m - an hour before you had to be at work. You contemplated calling off, but understood that it would cause nothing but your boss to be petty and write you off the schedule for the next few days - so you decided against it. Your feet kick the covers off of your body and swing to touch the cold, wooden floor. You winced at the impact, sending shivers up your spine.

Your phone sounds suddenly. You furrow a brow and go to grab it, color draining for your face. You bite your lip at the unknown number displayed on the screen.

Hesitantly, you decline the call and quickly block the number. Unknowingly, you begin to feel uneasy as you make your way to your bathroom to wash up. You’re trembling as you wash your face and when you brush your teeth, you can feel just how terrified you are.

It’s only been a month, you note. You had no doubt in your mind that Jungkook was behind the phone call - he’s called nearly every morning since you broke up with him and quickly signed a restraining order. It was only a temporary one until the two of you went to court, but it was necessary to do so.

You met Jungkook nearly a year ago. You recall the way the man has entered your job - the one you had prior to having to quit because of a scene he caused - and smiling brightly at you. He asked various questions about the countless sweets and desserts you had displayed behind the glass and you answered the best you could.

Each day Jungkook returned, buying desserts such as iced cream, candy, cookies - anything. He would munch on it a bit while the both of you talked and laughed and before he left, he assured he’d leave a tip for you at the counter.

Day by day, you expected Jungkook’s arrival. It made your job less boring and you also found yourself willing to come to work more dolled up. You’d coat your lips with gloss that you knew Jungkook liked (he’d always flicker his eyes to them when you’d talk) and style your hair differently each time.

Your first date with Jungkook was at the very same shop you worked at. You came in on an off day to pick up something you forgot and just as you were leaving, Jungkook was entering. His eyes were wide upon witnessing you face to face  - this time you in casual clothing instead of a work uniform. 

By the third date, you and Jungkook were officially dating - him asking you once the movie you two watched at the cinema was over - you agreed without a thought.

By the second month of dating, you noticed a shift. Jungkook was sweet, sure. Caring. He offered you rides everywhere you needed to go, and when he couldn't he’d never felt comfortable with you going alone. You brushed it off with Jungkook just being a cautious person.

Month three was when he became vocal in how you dressed. He didn’t appreciate the way other men looked at you - his words exactly - and you were giving said men a show by wearing shorts or skirts that were too short. He changed your wardrobe with clothing that he deemed was “outside clothes” and some that were “indoor for his eyes only”. Again, you brushed it off. Jungkook was your boyfriend now and his opinions mattered.

By the sixth month, Jungkook began to isolate you from your friends. “Why do you always hang with them on the weekends?” he’d ask when you were invited to a gathering. “Why can’t I go? Are other guys going to be there?” he’d asked once, eyes glaring at you. “Your friends are single. You aren’t. Why do you need to go to a club where other single men would be at?!” he had hissed, hands in his hair as if he was seconds from pulling it out.

Jungkook was amazing at comforting you - or so you thought. “I know how men are, baby.” he murmured while stroking your hair in his embrace. “If able, they’ll take advantage of you. Your friends cannot protect you from a man willing to do you harm.”

But the man that had harmed you was Jungkook himself. 

Jungkook was never physically abusive. Sex with him was rough, yes, but you enjoyed it. 

Jungkook’s abuse was manipulative - often pinning you against your friends that you were no longer invited to places they’d be because you would either bring Jungkook, or the man would come unbeknownst to you. Jungkook would call you countless times until you picked up and asked when you’d be home - and if the answer wasn’t good enough for him, he’d insist on picking you up himself. “Why can’t I come?” Jungkook asked when you were hastily walking out the door to meet your friends. “You’re not going to see your friends. You’re cheating on me!” he’d hiss, eyes blown wide and neck veins pulsing. 

Last month, marking the eighth month, you decided to break up with Jungkook. You were nervous to say the least. You thought of several ways to break up with the man - you decided that in a public place would be best. You had more respect for him than to end the relationship over the phone. However, you also could not trust what he would do if you allowed him into your home. 

You invited Jungkook to meet you in a public area - a park where you and he walked hand in hand many times. You were a bunch of nerves, especially when Jungkook was strolling towards you with a wide grin and in his hands, sunflowers.

Your heart flutters when he offers them to you, and awkwardly, you take them in your hands. You and Jungkook sat at a bench and he talked about how much he missed you, peppering kisses along your cheeks before you managed to push yourself away.

“You’re…leaving me…?” Jungkook's voice was dangerously low and calm,  but his eyes were glaring daggers at you. You placed the flowers onto his lap and managed to get out of his embrace. His eyes are following you as you - slowly, so slowly - walk backwards, eyes apologizing while you remain silent.

The following week was Jungkook aggressively knocking at your door until you threatened to call the police. He would call nonstop and send multiple messages that you had to change your number to get him to stop - even if it never did, only slowed him down until he somehow found your number again. You had to change jobs more than once when he would show up at random times - you had no choice but to file a restraining order. You thought that maybe this would stop him - and for a moment it did.

Until today.

The unknown number calling you was no doubt Jungkook. You never answered any number that wasn’t familiar to you and instead blocked them. They left no voicemail after calling and each time, it was a different number displayed. 

You walk out of your bathroom and down the hall to your small kitchen. You didn’t have time to eat anything for breakfast outside of a quick muffin. You would be late if you cooked or even made coffee.

Your muffin jolts out of your hand when you hear sudden knocking at your door. Your blood runs cold at how powerful and rapid they’re coming. Your mind is on one person.

“Open the door, Y/N.”

Jungkook was behind the door.

Jungkook didn’t care for whatever petty restraining order you had against him. The constant calls told you so.

“I can hear you moving.”

You stiffen at his words. You didn’t know what to do. 

You weren’t once afraid of Jungkook - he has never hit you. But he was like another person when he was angered. He wasn’t the same man with the sweet smile and the soft eyes - it was as if a switch flipped and he was a completely different man.

“I just want…closure.”

Jungkook's words crack as he speaks and your heart betrays you. You were beginning to feel guilty for putting him through this. Your friends told you that it wasn’t your fault, that Jungkook was good at manipulating you. 

“Please, Y/N…baby.”

Your hand was on the door handle before you knew it and you cracked the door open. 

Jungkook’s eyes are wide when you do and he gives you a dazzling smile. He steps closer but stops himself from entering when you don’t open the door wider for him.

Jungkook’s smile falters. “You’re…”

“You can’t be here, Jungkook.” you manage to say without stuttering.

“You…are serious?”

You knit your brows. 

Were you serious?

You changed your number multiple times in a span of a month that it was insane. You blocked multiple numbers when changing yours became tiring. You got a restraining order against him.

Did Jungkook think this was just a simple misunderstanding and you needed to be “alone” before coming back to him?

“Yes. I’m serious, Jungkook. Please leave.” 

Jungkook doesn’t move. His eyes are searching yours for any hint that you were hesitant - but he found nothing.

You were serious.

You wanted nothing to do with him, Jungkook grunts.

You were willing to throw everything he offered you out the window because of what? A few disagreements? Arguments? Your single friends?

“So there’s nothing that is going to bring you back to me?” Jungkook tries one last time. He doesn’t want to blow up and demand you stop being the dumb bitch you were acting like now. He didn’t want to raise his voice and break down your door - because you would be frightened and close yourself off once more. He was trying but you were too selfish to see it.

“No.”

Jungkook’s heart shatters and he doesn’t say anything when you close your door. He hears you lock it but he decides that if you couldn’t allow yourself to accept his love - then others wouldn’t either. He was done with being nice to you - you didn’t deserve his kindness. If you were going to act like the damsel in distress, then he was going to give you something to be distressed about.

The music was far too loud to hear anyone who wasn’t speaking directly into your ear. The air was muggy and humid. It smelt of cheap cologne/perfume and several different types of alcohol - but you were just happy to be here. 

Well, as happy as you could be standing alone in the corner of the home while others danced, laughed and drank. You were invited by your friends to come to “let loose” and “get your mind off of your crazy ex”. You agreed - but now you were left to your own devices while they mingled elsewhere.

Speaking of your “crazy ex”, you haven’t heard from Jungkook in nearly two months. It was a sigh of relief, truly. You assumed he wanted closure in seeing you once last time to confirm that the relationship has indeed ended. There weren’t any random pops up at your home or work, no random phone calls or text messages from random numbers. Slowly, you were beginning to be less afraid of seeing the man out and about. 

“First time at a party?”

Your head whips around to a tall figure beside you. You can smell the alcohol in the cup he’s holding. He’s offering a small smile as he towers beside you/ He’s close to you just so he could speak loud enough for you to hear. 

“First time in a while.” you respond to him. You give a small smile in return. 

“Are you here alone?” the guy takes a sip of his drink. 

“No. My friends are…”

“...Around here somewhere?” the guy nods in agreement. “So are mine. Haven’t seen them in an hour.”

You laughed.

You and the tall guy - who’s name you learned was Dean - hit it off quickly. You and him stood together and talked the majority of the night - your friends and his never returning, but you aren’t surprised. You weren’t as outgoing and friendly as your friends were. You’re positive they’re playing a game of beer pong (and losing). 

As another hour rolls around, you were seated on a large leather couch that you’re surprised was vacant with Dean, your head began to hurt. You feel hot and stuffy and your vision is blurring. 

“Are you okay?” you hear Dean say. “Do you need some water?”

You nod your head, allowing Dean to pass you a bottle of water.

Jungkook - on the other hand - was livid. The nerve of you to break up with him just to come to a party and look for another man. And not just that - but to get drugged by said man and not even notice it. Jungkook lingered deep into the side lines that you would never see him - but luckily he was there watching over you. He witnessed Dean put a small pill into your drink while you were busy laughing at something he said - Jungkook clenched his fists. 

Jungkook isn’t far behind when you are being escorted out of the large sitting room, a sea of people not bothering to stop and see what Dean is doing with a groggily woman.

Jungkook’s breathing becomes heavy when you are pushed into a vacant room, the door closing behind them. 

Jungkook blamed your friends for leaving you alone in an environment that you didn’t belong to. No matter how hard he tried to tell you that you didn’t belong to a friend group such as this, you never listened. Now look - you were drugged by a man you didn’t know and about to get raped.

But luckily, Jungkook was here to save you.

Jungkook knocks aggressively onto the door, not stopping until the door swings open and an annoyed Dean surfaces. Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to draw back his fist and plant it right between the man's eyes.

And again.

And again.

And a few more times until Dean is a bloody mess, squirming away and out of the room. 

Jungkook shakes his head and closes the door, locking it behind him. You aren’t completely unconscious, but he’s positive you will be soon. Your shirt is off already, Dean wasting no time.

Your bra - a red lace - looks amazing against your skin. It makes his heart swell and a smile forms onto his lips. It was a gift from him that you kept.

“Y/N, baby.” Jungkook coos, hovering above you. He wraps his arms around your body, you groaning low when he does. “I missed you so much.”

Jungkook sends kisses down your neck, arms never wanting to leave you. Your smell is tainted with alcohol, but his nose catches on the faint smell of vanilla he adores on you. 

“I told you not to have such horrible friends.” Jungkook tsks. You are yet to be fully unconscious. You moan out an inaudible response and Jungkook only coos again.

“You’re so beautiful, baby.” Jungkook presses himself into you, hard length at the center of your clothed core. “Do you miss me as much as I missed you?”

You do, Jungkook concludes. He dips his hands beneath your jeans and finds how wet you truly are for him. Jungkook removes his hands and pops it into his mouth, shuddering at your taste. It’s been so long - too long. He’s angered that you went too far away from the relationship. A restraining order? Far too dramatic for his taste. But he’ll let it slide and choose to forgive you because here you lay, beautiful as ever. Wet for him and him only.

Jungkook doesn’t waste any more unnecessary time. He needs to feel your warm essence around him. He pulls your jeans down along with your underwear, eyes widening at the beauty that was your wet pussy. He feels the bulge in his own pants begin to tighten and he just cannot wait any longer.

Foreplay was your favorite when it came to Jungkook, he knows this. You would cum so hard against his tongue, squirming and begging for him to stop because of just how overstimulated you were, but Jungkook wouldn’t. He would let you cum over and over on his tongue, fingers, thigh - wherever you wanted to.

However, now he could not console himself. The need to be inside you was far greater than anything. Once you and he were back together than he would allow you to sit on his face where you belong.

Jungkook pumps his cock as he inches closer to you. He rubs the tip of it against your swollen clit and shudders once more. Goosebumps litter his arm and he can’t hold back anymore. He enters you with a high pitched groan, hands going to place themselves on your hips.

Jungkook hears your moans as he sinks in and out of you, the sound of his skin slapping echoing off the walls. You were so wet and tight that he’s proud - proud that you haven’t let another man touch what was his. That even when you were upset and the both of you went through this break, that you understood your role in the end.

“Fuck, baby.” Jungkook snaps his hips into you harder, left hand going to toy with your clit. It’s sensitive as he remembers it to be. His right hand snatches the lacy bra down so he could watch the way your breast bounce for him. “So beautiful and all mine.” he hisses, leaning down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Jungkook sucks onto it until it’s swollen and throbbing, and he proceeds to the next one. He could never get enough of you, littering bite marks around your breast and collar bone.

“Your pussy’s milking my cock so good, baby.” Jungkook grunts, his thrust becoming sloppy. You were so wet, pussy clenching around him while your juices ruined the sheets. 

Jungkook snaps his eyes shut, groaning loudly. A free hand slaps down harshly on your stomach as he pounds into you. He recalls the few times the two of you spoke of the future - of getting married and having children. He declared that he desired them to look exactly like you - you were just so perfect in his eyes. “I’m going to put a baby in you.” Jungkook feels himself about to cum. His hands don't remove from your stomach. It was soft and it drove him crazy just thinking about you round with his child - your breast enlarging with breast milk to feed his child. You would be an amazing mother and he would enjoy nothing more than for you to be at home while he provided for you and the child you both shared.

Jungkook cums inside of you, twitching. He’s humming slowly, trying to regain his breath. He places a deep kiss upon your lips, sweaty forehead placed against your own.

Your head is pounding. Your throat is sore and dry and your body aches. You try to rake your mind about what the hell is going on and what has happened to lead up to this. You blink your eyes open, hissing how bright the light shines above you.

Your wrist is aching and when you attempt to move, you notice you cannot. Your wrist appears to be detained and when your mind registers this, you begin to whimper. Your vision is blurry with tears, but you blink them away to attempt to see what the hell is going on.

“Baby!”

Your thrashing stiffens at the familiar voice. Your blood runs cold and your mind is screaming alarm bells.

“You’re awake.”

You blink away your tears rapidly to regain your vision. It takes you a few moments, but when you do you’re crying all over again.

Jungkook was before you, but it wasn’t just him before you that had you screaming and crying. It was the man, tall and smiling warmly, covered in blood. The irony smells hit your nostrils and your stomach churns. Your head whips around to your surroundings, unsure of just where the hell you’re at. Your wrist is bound behind you. You’re sitting on a wooden chair in a room unknown to you.

“I didn’t want you to see this but…” Jungkook sighs, trailing off. He steps away to show you what was behind him and the reason why he’s covered in blood. 

Your throat releases a horrified whimper, eyes wide with tears.

“I had to do it, baby.” Jungkook says with a shake of his head. “They weren’t real friends. They left you alone at a party where you were drugged!”

The lifeless body of both of your friends laid flat against the ground, blood covering their skin even more than it did Jungkook’s. You want to vomit at the horrifying scene but somehow manage not to.

“P-Please-”

“Don’t start with your shit!” Jungkook raises a bloody hand to silence you. “Listen to me.”

You flinch when Jungkook takes a step towards you, eyes closing ready for him to deliver the same fate as your friends.

Jungkooks eyes widen at the sight of you cowering before him.

“You think I would harm you?” Jungkook scoffs in disbelief. “Everything I have done has been…for you. For us.” Each word that releases from Jungkook’s mouth is a hiss. His eyes are wide and he appears utterly insane. “I saved you from being raped by that bastard! I got rid of the trash you call friends!” 

You jump when you hear banging coming from Jungkook, but you open your eyes to look. 

“You left me for what, Y/N? To be left alone at a party and drugged? These weren’t your friends.” Jungkook scoffs. He goes as far as to spit on the two girls you dare to call your friends. “You got a restraining order against me just for me to not be the bad guy.”

You scream when you feel a hand on your jaw. Jungkook shakes your head to force your eyes open. His hands feel wet and sticky, obviously with the blood of your friends. 

“I love you, Y/N.” Jungkook voice cracks as if he was the one that is hurting - as if you weren’t the one that had to witness the deceased body of your friends and an ex boyfriend declaring he did it for you. “Say it back….” Jungkook’s lips are soft when they kiss your cheeks. Your salty tears are warm against his lips. “...Say it back….” Jungkook continues.

“Fuck you!” you scream. You’re thrashing, kicking your feet to get Jungkook away from you. Your wrists are burning with your arms attempting to release them.

“Already did.” Jungkook laughs gleefully. He isn’t upset at your outburst. You’re a pure soul and he’s saddened that you had to see this - death of fake friends and learning the realization of your (almost) assault. “How could you not remember the way we made love, baby?”

Jungkook trails a hand on your covered stomach. You stopped your struggle at his words, eyes wide and tearful. 

“You were so wet for me, baby. You missed me just as much as I missed you.” Jungkook taps your stomach gently. “Soon the product of our love is going to grow.”

Jungkook’s eyes are shining with love - to you it was psychotic. Jungkook was insane. This wasn’t love - you heard him admit to raping you; there was no way you could consent while drugged. 

“No…” you shake your head at Jungkook’s words, but the man only nods. “...I hate you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I hate you.” you repeat.

“Stop.” Jungkook hisses, eyebrows knitting. “How could you say that after-” “I hate you!” you scream in his face - and you repeat it again, again and again. You repeat it until Jungkook’s hand tangles into your hair and yanks it back. 

“Say you love me, Y/N.” Jungkook demands. “Say you’ll stay with me.”

Jungkook was crazy - there was no well in hell you would remain with a murderer. If you thought Jungkook was bad before, your thoughts on him have worsened now.

“I’ll never love you.”

Jungkook's heart thumps rapidly. Your words make his heart ache.

“You don’t mean that.” Jungkook shakes his head. His hand tightens itself in your hair. “You’re just upset. This is my fault. I should’ve taken you home.”

“I’ll never love you!” you hiss at him. 

Jungkook’s heart thumps again. His eyes stare into your own. 

You weren’t lying.

You hated him.

You feared him.

Your eyes weren’t lying, nor were the words coming from your mouth.

“I see.” Jungkook murmurs, dropping his hand from your hair. He takes a step back, tilting his head at you. “You’ll never love me again.” he states, more to himself than you. “If I cannot have your love, Y/N, then there is no reason for either of us to live.”

Your breathing increases at Jungkook’s words. He reaches into his jacket pocket, removing a pocket knife.

“I love you.” Jungkook’s crying now as he speaks. “Everything I did was for you!”

“Jungkook-”

“Don’t speak now.” Jungkook interrupts, pointing the knife at your throat. “You’ll never love me and I’ve accepted that.” Jungkook drops to his knee. He leans down to your face. You’re whimpering - and even now, Jungkook thinks you’re beautiful. It saddens him that this is what you chose. “Maybe…if we’re reborn…you and I can raise the child we spoke about.”

“Jung-”

Jungkook places his lips on yours - a final kiss he tells himself. He places the pocket knife onto your throat and slits it. It’s deep and he feels the blood rush out and squirts onto him. You cough into the kiss, and Jungkook isn’t far behind. He slits his own throat just as deep. He’s coughing, placing his head onto your lap, desiring to be just as close to you in death as he desired in life.

Your eyes snap open and a scream erupts from your lungs right when the loud and ringing noise of your alarm. Your hands grip your neck, heart pumping outside your chest. 

You’re in your room.

A shaky hand grabs your phone that was laid on the bedside table and turn off the alarm. It was titled “work”.

Your eyes watch as your phone displays the day of the week.

Friday.

8 A.M.

An hour before you had to be at work.

Was everything that happened to you…

“A dream?” your voice is hoarse and low. There’s goosebumps littering your skin and you’re visibly shaking.

You were having deja vu.

No, you did this already - you’re sure of it. 

Your dream began with you waking up just as you were now. Friday at 8 A.M.

Your feet kick the covers off of your body and swing to touch the cold, wooden floor. You winced at the impact, sending shivers up your spine. You didn’t need to think what was going to happen next. 

Your phone sounds suddenly. Color drained from your face. You knew who was calling you without having to look at the screen. You were reliving your dream. Could you call it a dream or vision?

Were you given a second chance at life?

You recall the way you declined the unknown number and proceed in getting ready for work. Jungkook was knocking at your door. You recalled the party you were invited to, your friends, Dean.

You scurry down the hall to your bathroom just as your stomach churns. You release the vomit into the toilet, clenching the side of it.

“What’s going on…” you murmur to yourself, flushing the toilet. There was no way you were reliving what you had dreamt.

You began to brush your teeth and wash your face, hands trembling.

You don’t go to the kitchen like you would usually when you wake up. If your dream was correct, Jungkook would be-

A sudden knock makes you yelp. You’re stiff in your spot, eyes wide.

In your dream, you told Jungkook that you wanted nothing to do with him. That the relationship was over.

You told Jungkook you hated him as he stands before you, covered in blood.

You could feel the way the knife rips through your throat, unable to breath or help yourself.

“Open the door Y/N.”

Jungkook’s voice frightens you.

Your breathing becomes heavy.

Your dream was becoming a reality - if it was ever a dream. 

‘Maybe…if we’re reborn…you and I can raise the child we spoke about.’

Jungkook’s last words replay in your head while the hair on your skin raises. 

Before your mind thinks, your feet are moving. You slam the door open, eyes wide at Jungkook. He stands straighter at seeing you after a month.

“Y/N…are you okay?” Jungkook wants to hug you. You appear to be seconds away from crying and it causes his heart to thump.

“Jungkook…” you trail off, voice cracking.

“Y/N…baby…” Jungkook takes a step closer.

You wrap your arms around Jungkook, crashing into his chest. 

Jungkook’s distraught, but he doesn’t push you away. He wraps his arms around you and presses his nose into your hair, inhaling your sweet scent. 

Your hands clench his shirt, trembling. 

You didn’t want to die.

You didn’t want your friends to die.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook murmurs after a sweet moment of having you in his arms. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” you sob.

 Your mind is screaming at you to run. To push him away. There was a possibility that you could do things right - not go to a party and meet Dean. You can just go to work and home.

However, you’re tired. You’re tired of the phone calls and having to constantly look over your shoulder. There was a possibility that you could face the same fate as the dream.

“P-Please s-stay with me.” you stutter out.

Jungkook's heart pounds with excitement. “Really?” he gently pushes you back to look at your face. You’re crying, tears streaming down your puffy cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. I love you.” he wipes your tears, a small smile on your lips. 

You nod your head at him. You step back and allow him to follow you in. 

Jungkook closes the door behind him. He leans down to kiss your lips. 

Jungkook sighs into the kiss. He missed your soft lips.

“I promise, baby, I’ll be better.” Jungkook murmurs against your lips. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to lose you.” you murmur to him.

You’re unsure if this decision was the correct one, but you were far too frightened to see what an angered Jungkook would do to you in this reality if you denied him.

[lilahlovesjjk]

🇼​​🇭​​🇪​​🇳​ ​🇮​ ​🇬​​🇷​​🇴​​🇼​ ​🇺​​🇵

Chapter 3

synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo used to be inseparable—the kind of childhood best friends that promised to get married, rule the world, and never leave each other’s side.

Then life happened.

Now, years later, you’re both enrolled in the same elite psychology graduate program—only this time, you’re rivals. Gojo’s loud, flirty, obnoxiously charming, and infuriatingly good at everything. You're focused, sharp, constantly proving yourself—and desperate not to let the past (or him) throw you off course.

warnings: angst, slowburn (kinda), swearing, eventual nsfw, (i'll add to the list if I think of any more as the story progresses)

The car glides through the city, headlights painting golden streaks on the slick pavement. The soft hum of music plays from the speakers—some lo-fi beat that Geto swears helps him drive better. Shoko’s in the backseat beside him, face lit up by her phone as she scrolls through whatever cursed memes she’s decided to collect for the night.

Gojo is, of course, driving. One hand on the wheel, the other draped lazily over the center console, fingers occasionally brushing your arm when he shifts lanes or turns too sharply—because he never just turns. Everything is dramatic. Extra. So him.

“You good over there?” he asks, peeking at you from behind his sunglasses. At night. Indoors, probably. It’s a whole brand.

“I’m not drunk yet,” you reply flatly.

“But are you good?” he presses, like he’s trying to sneak concern under layers of sarcasm.

You glance sideways. “You’re being weirdly nice. Are you dying?”

He gasps. “You wound me. Can’t I just be a gentleman?”

“You literally tried to speed past a red light to ‘prove dominance.’”

“That was a test of trust, actually.”

Geto snorts in the back. “You failed.”

Gojo ignores him and instead glances at you again. “You do look kinda pretty, by the way.”

You blink.

“Oh no,” you say slowly. “What do you want?”

He grins. “Just admiring. Is that a crime?”

“Depends,” you mutter. “Are you gonna keep talking the whole ride?”

He places a hand dramatically over his heart. “You’d miss me if I didn’t.”

You hate that you probably would.

When you finally pull into the restaurant parking lot, Gojo swings the car into a spot like he’s landing a spaceship, then hops out and jogs around to your side.

“Really?” you say as he opens the passenger door for you with a stupid flourish.

“I’m a man of class,” he says, bowing slightly. “Now come on, m’lady.”

Shoko leans out from the back window. “He’s gonna start quoting Shakespeare. Run.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and step out of the car. Gojo offers you his arm, and for a second, you hesitate.

But the sidewalk’s wet and your heels are untested, so you take it.

Only for balance.

Totally.

The restaurant is cozy but upscale—dim lighting, exposed brick, plants hanging from metal rafters, and the faint clatter of silverware over low conversation. It smells like garlic and sesame oil, and the second the host greets you, you know you’re about to eat dangerously well.

The four of you are led to a corner table—half booth, half chairs. Geto and Shoko claim the booth side, like a coordinated pair of smug cats. That leaves you and Gojo to sit opposite them.

He lets you take the seat first. “Always the gentleman,” he murmurs as he pulls your chair out.

You don’t look at him when you sit, but your face is definitely a little warm. The lights are dim, okay? It could just be the ambiance.

The waiter comes by for drink orders, and Gojo doesn’t even look at the menu before ordering something with rum, soda, and something he calls “good decisions.” You glance at the cocktails and settle on a lychee martini, then pivot to Gojo after the waiter leaves.

“Good decisions, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “You’re one of them.”

You choke on your water. Shoko cackles.

“You’re going to get kicked out of this restaurant before the appetizers even show up,” you mutter.

Gojo leans his chin into his palm, watching you like you’re more entertaining than anything else in the room. “Only if I get to take you with me.”

You sip your drink when it arrives and choose not to answer that.

“Planning to drown your unresolved trauma tonight?” he murmurs

“I’m in grad school,” you say sweetly. “That’s called coping.”

“You’re spicy when you’re buzzed,” he muses.

“You’re annoying when I’m sober.”

Gojo only grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “God, you’re fun.”

You roll your eyes but feel your stomach do that traitorous little flip again.

The table conversation is effortless. Geto is recounting some disaster of a lab study involving ink blots and a freshman who thought all of them looked like cats. Shoko, very calmly, is sharing her theory that Dr. Yuki might secretly be dating the TA who wears argyle sweaters.

Gojo keeps leaning in during the conversation just to whisper extra comments into your ear.

“Pretty sure that TA’s killed before. Look at that face. Zero remorse.”

“He’s not that old. What, 26? That’s like three years older than you.”

“Two and a half,” you correct.

“Still cradle robbing.”

“You’re one year older than me.”

“Yeah,” he says with a smile, “but I’m me.”

You give him a withering look, but it doesn’t stop the second drink from arriving. Or the third.

You’re warm by the time your second cocktail is gone. The edges of your thoughts are softening. You’re not drunk, but you’re definitely tipsy. Giggly. Light.

“Okay,” you say, standing. “I need food. Or bread. Or dumplings. Something.”

“Want me to come with you?” Gojo asks, half rising from his seat.

You wave him off. “I’m not gonna get lost between here and the appetizer station. Sit.”

He gives you a two-finger salute. “You break it, you bought it.”

You wander toward the appetizer area where staff are refilling trays of crispy spring rolls, steamed buns, and skewers of charred meat. You grab a small plate and start loading it, a soft hum under your breath.

That’s when it happens.

A guy sidles up next to you—tan skin, expensive watch, shirt just tight enough to scream trying too hard.

“Hey,” he says. “You here alone?”

You glance up, blinking. “Nope.”

“You sure? Haven’t seen anyone by you.”

“I’m literally at a table. With people.”

He smiles, sleazy. “You’re cute when you’re defensive.”

You freeze slightly, fingers tightening on the tongs. “Not interested, thanks.”

He steps closer. “Come on. Just a drink. I’m fun.”

You try to step back, but your heel hits the table leg behind you. His hand touches your arm—too firm, fingers curling like he’s trying to keep you from walking off.

You open your mouth, breath catching.

“Hey.”

The voice is behind you. Calm. Even. Lethal.

Gojo.

He’s standing just behind your shoulder, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your water glass like he’s been carrying it this whole time. His sunglasses are gone, and his eyes—sharp and pale—are focused entirely on the guy.

“Hands off,” Gojo says, so soft it could be mistaken for polite.

The man scoffs. “Relax, dude. We’re just talking.”

Gojo smiles.

It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, are you talking to her?” he asks, stepping closer. “Because it looks like you’re touching her. And I don’t remember her asking for that.”

You can feel the tension radiating off him like heat.

The man hesitates. But Gojo doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

After a moment, the guy mutters something under his breath and slinks away.

You exhale.

Gojo doesn’t say anything for a second. Just hands you your water.

You take it with shaking fingers. “Thanks.”

“Were you okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod. “Just… caught me off guard.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. For… you know.”

“Anytime.” His voice dips. “You looked good tonight, by the way.”

You blink.

“I mean, obnoxiously good,” he continues. “Like, how dare you? Do you know how hard it is to be charming when you’re sitting next to a Greek goddess?”

You laugh, and it comes out softer than expected. “That was smooth.”

He shrugs, grinning. “I’m full of surprises.”

You both linger there a moment too long before Geto calls from across the restaurant, “You good?”

You wave. “Yeah! Coming!”

Gojo nudges your shoulder gently. “Let’s get you some dumplings before you start drunk texting your ex.”

“I don’t have an ex,” you say as you walk.

“Even worse,” he mutters. “You’ll start texting me.”

You shoot him a glare, but he’s already grinning like the devil he is.

But before you can say anything, Shoko calls from the table: “Did you bring food or just trauma?”

You and Gojo both blink and start laughing.

The moment passes.

But it doesn’t really.

Not when he sits back beside you, closer this time. Not when his knee bumps yours and doesn’t move.

The night starts winding down in a haze of glowing lights and empty cocktail glasses.

Shoko’s leaned half into Geto’s side, nursing the last of her drink while he signs the check with lazy, practiced strokes. You’re still in your seat, blinking very slowly at the flickering candle in the center of the table like it's just whispered a conspiracy theory.

“Okay,” Shoko sighs, stretching like a cat. “We’re heading back to Suguru’s for some late-night snacks and regrettable karaoke.”

“Wait, we are?” Geto asks, brows lifting.

“You have Cup Noodles and a Bluetooth speaker. You’re ready.”

He doesn’t argue.

Gojo glances at you. “You up for that, or…”

You blink. Tilt your head. “I think my knees are gone.”

“That’s a no,” Shoko supplies, already sliding out of the booth. “Satoru, you’re on drunk baby duty.”

“I am not a baby,” you mumble, completely missing the fact that you’ve dropped one shoe under the table and didn’t notice.

“You’re right,” Gojo says, standing with a fluid stretch and tossing a couple bills on the table. “You’re a gremlin in lipstick. Come on, gremlin.”

You don’t protest when he loops your arm through his. You just giggle, a little dazed, and bump into him as you shuffle toward the door.

The ride back to your place is quiet, the hum of the city melting into the soft rhythm of the tires on pavement.

Gojo glances at you every so often. You’re curled up in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering between open and closed, head bobbing lightly with the movement of the car. The glow from the dashboard lights your face in soft golds and shadows, making you look… softer somehow. Less sharp than your usual “I’ll destroy you with academia” look.

“You good?” he asks, pulling up outside your apartment building.

You nod, a little too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just… floaty.”

He smiles. “That’s either the alcohol or your soul leaving your body.”

“Maybe both,” you murmur.

By the time Gojo pulls up in front of your apartment, your head’s resting against the cool window, eyes blinking slowly like it takes conscious effort to keep them open.

“Home sweet home,” he says gently, shifting the car into park.

You turn your head to look at him, blinking a beat slower than normal. “S’too quiet. Usually Shoko’s already yelling at me for being too dramatic or eating her leftovers.”

Gojo smirks. “Sounds like true love.”

“It is love,” you say, eyes wide and sincere. “Roommate marriage.”

You try to open the door, but fumble with the handle. Gojo leans over, unclicks it for you.

“My hero,” you say, voice dreamy, and then—with all the solemnity of someone giving a toast—“If I had another drink, I’d kiss you right now.”

Gojo nearly chokes on air.

You’re already halfway out of the car, wobbling slightly on the curb as your heel snags in a crack.

“Okay, okay,” he says, scrambling out to your side. “Let’s keep the footwear casualties to a minimum.”

You let him loop an arm around your waist, snuggling in like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Mmm. You smell nice.”

“I always smell nice,” he replies without missing a beat. “You’re just brave enough to admit it now.”

You laugh—loud and unrestrained—and Gojo feels it vibrate right through him.

The two of you stagger up the steps, you leaning on him more than you're walking, but not in a bad way. Not a burden. You’re warm and familiar at his side, and even in your ridiculous wobble-steps, you still manage to make his chest feel too small for his ribs.

You fumble for your keys and almost drop them. Gojo catches them mid-air.

“That’s like the third time tonight,” he teases, unlocking the door.

“You’re gonna start charging me a key tax.”

“I accept payment in praise. Or cookies.”

The apartment is dimly lit with soft fairy lights strewn along the walls, casting cozy shadows over your living room. It smells like you—like warm vanilla, something citrusy, and faint traces of hairspray and clean laundry.

You shrug off your jacket, tossing it haphazardly over the back of the couch before toeing off your heels with a relieved sigh.

“I love shoes,” you mumble, wobbling as you try to unstrap one, “but also I want them to die.”

Gojo chuckles and reaches down, steadying you. “Careful, Cinderella.”

Your fingers curl into his sleeve as you balance on one foot. “You’re sweet when you’re not being an egotistical menace, y’know.”

“Oh?” he grins. “Drunk compliments? You are smashed.”

“I’m not smashed.” You poke his chest, a little harder than you intend. “I’m just... warmly fermented.”

“Uh huh.”

He helps you down the hall, one arm around your waist, gently guiding you past the bathroom and toward your room. You hum something softly under your breath, maybe a song—or maybe just your thoughts out loud.

Gojo hears it anyway. And he’s still smiling.

When you reach your room, you push the door open with your shoulder and nearly trip over the laundry basket. Gojo catches you—again.

“Your reflexes are really good,” you murmur, turning to face him.

“I’ve had practice.”

“I bet,” you say slyly, eyes trailing up his frame. “Bet all the girls line up for you, Gojo.”

He raises a brow, teasing. “Jealous?”

You blink. Then grin. “A little.”

Gojo freezes.

It’s probably the drink talking. Definitely the drink.

But your gaze lingers, warm and lazy as it slides from his eyes to his mouth and back up again.

“I liked tonight,” you murmur, quieter now.

He swallows. “Me too.”

You yawn, then start to tug your shirt up over your head like he’s not still standing right there.

“Whoa—!” he shouts, flailing to turn around with both hands over his eyes. “Warning, woman! I’m still in the room!”

You laugh, fully belly-deep, and it echoes in the space. “You’re so squeamish.”

“No—I’m respectful.”

You toss your shirt at his back. He makes a dramatic choking noise.

“Duck shirt is next,” you singsong.

“Kill me now.”

You disappear into your closet, and he hears the soft rustle of clothes and a few curse words as you knock over something plastic.

When you emerge again, Gojo dares to peek.

You’re in blue pajama pants dotted with tiny rubber duckies and a matching oversized tee that says Don’t Quack With Me in bubble letters. Your hair’s a mess. Your eyes are glassy.

He nearly dies laughing.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” you blink innocently, brushing past him to grab a water bottle from your nightstand.

“You look like a children’s cartoon character,” he wheezes. “This is what you sleep in?”

You stick your tongue out. “It’s comfortable.”

“Yeah, psychologically.”

You try to glare, but you’re too sleepy to commit. He watches you climb into bed, fumbling with your blanket, still muttering under your breath.

“I was gonna go out and rage with the cool kids,” you mumble, “and now I’m wearing ducks.”

He pulls your blanket up over your shoulders, just like he did back when you were kids. Something about it makes his chest ache in a quiet, tender way.

You’re already blinking slow again, your limbs heavy, your voice soft.

“You’re staying until I fall asleep, right?” you ask, not quite a demand, but close.

He blinks. “If you want me to.”

You nod, eyes already fluttering shut.

Gojo grabs your desk chair and drags it over, spinning it around so he can rest his arms across the back of it and watch you settle into the sheets.

“You know,” you mumble, “you’re not as annoying as I remembered.”

Gojo snorts. “You literally threatened to staple my mouth shut two days ago.”

“Yeah, but now I’d just… tape it.”

“Oh, so we’re evolving.”

You smile sleepily. “You’re funny. And kind. And your hair is stupid, but like, in a pretty way.”

His throat feels tight.

“You’re gonna forget you said all this, aren’t you?” he murmurs.

“Not all of it,” you say, voice trailing off. “I’ll remember the part where you stayed.”

Your breathing evens out, and your lips part slightly as you drift into sleep.

Gojo watches you a moment longer. The fairy lights reflect softly against your cheeks, and you look peaceful in a way he doesn't usually get to see—not behind a scowl, or an eye-roll, or a sarcastic quip.

Just you. As you are. Safe. Asleep. In duck pajamas.

He exhales through his nose, stands, and gently pulls the blanket back up where it’s slipped.

“Goodnight, trouble,” he whispers.

Then, quietly, he slips out the door.

You wake up with the kind of headache that makes you swear you’ll never drink again. The light filtering through the slats of your blinds is aggressive. The inside of your mouth tastes like cotton. And your limbs feel like they belong to someone else.

You sit up with a groan, one hand bracing your throbbing forehead and the other yanking your comforter over your face like it’s a shield from the shame flooding your memory.

Did you…?

Did you actually start changing into your pajamas in front of Gojo?

You collapse back into bed, face buried in your pillow.

“God. Kill me,” you mutter.

You remember flashes—the warmth of his laugh, his voice calling your name when you nearly stumbled up the stairs, the way he gently tugged your jacket off when you got inside. And then there was you, very tipsy, talking far too much, calling him stupidly pretty, and peeling off your shirt like it was nothing. And Gojo—embarrassed but gentlemanly—spinning on his heel like he was facing a firing squad.

You roll onto your back and sigh. There's no recovering from this.

You should’ve just skipped class.

Your head feels like a construction site. No—more like the aftermath of one. Everything is too loud. The fluorescent lights are too bright. And your tongue is dry as sandpaper, like it’s personally offended by the three whiskey sours you let Shoko talk you into last night. You’re not even sure how you made it to campus.

“God,” you mutter under your breath, sliding into your seat with the elegance of a damp dishrag. You’ve got your sunglasses perched on your head, not even for the aesthetic but for medical necessity. Coffee rests in your grip like a lifeline.

“Morning, angel,” comes a too-cheerful voice behind you.

You flinch at the sound of it. You don’t even need to look to know who it is.

“Go away.”

“Rude,” Gojo pouts as he slides into the seat next to yours—his assigned spot now that the universe, in its infinite cruelty, made you project partners. “And here I was worried you wouldn’t survive the night. I was this close to calling an ambulance.”

You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses. “You could’ve just left.”

“Couldn’t do that.” He leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if you’d tried to strip in front of someone else?”

You groan, your hand flying to your forehead. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Gojo tilts his head, all faux innocence. “Let what go? The way you started taking off your shirt and commenting on my hair?”

You want to die. Or at least melt into the linoleum tile and never be seen again. “I was drunk.”

“Drunk enough to call your microwave ‘Mr. Beepy.’”

Your coffee cup makes a dangerous creak in your hand as you squeeze it tighter.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he sings, grinning like a boy who just got away with pushing all the buttons on an elevator. “You love me. You were practically clinging to me last night.”

You lift your sunglasses to shoot him a look. “I remember enough to know I wasn’t clinging to anyone.”

Gojo raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t remember anything.”

Before you can threaten bodily harm, Dr. Yuki walks in and begins setting up the projector. The low murmur of the class quiets down, and you sink back into your seat, grateful for the distraction.

“Alright,” she begins, “let’s start with last week’s discussion. We touched on adverse childhood experiences. Today, I want to expand that into how trauma-informed care applies in clinical practice.”

Your pen moves sluggishly across your notes, the hangover still pulsing at your temples. But your brain kicks in—slowly but surely—as Dr. Yuki poses a question to the class.

“How does understanding a patient’s trauma background help a clinician avoid re-traumatization?”

Gojo raises his hand and gives a solid answer, something about empathy and self-regulation. You nod slowly, impressed—he’s really good at this.

Another student adds on, and you feel the discussion starting to build.

You finally muster the strength to speak. “I think it also helps reframe a patient’s behavior in context. Like, understanding trauma helps us avoid pathologizing survival responses.”

Dr. Yuki nods. “Excellent. That’s key.”

Gojo taps your arm with his pen, leans over, and whispers, “Hot and smart. You’re making it very hard for me to keep bullying you.”

You shoot him a glare. “Then maybe just stop?”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

You manage to scribble down some notes. You’ve always loved this part of the subject—how malleable the brain can be, how healing is possible even after devastation

It’s oddly poetic. In a way that Gojo absolutely ruins by nudging your elbow halfway through Dr. Yuki’s explanation of exposure therapy.

He passes you a note like it’s middle school.

You glance down at it.

i’m free this wknd btw if you wanna get drunk & call more appliances weird names 😎

You scrawl a reply and shove it back.

i’m going to murder you. slowly.

He just smirks when he opens it. The kind of smirk that promises more chaos.

Halfway through class, Dr. Yuki pivots toward the whiteboard, pulling up slides about project methodology.

“You and your assigned partners,” she says, “should begin planning out how you want to tackle the observational component of your paper. I suggest choosing a developmental framework—Erikson, Piaget, attachment theory—then building your observations around it.”

She starts handing out a checklist with deadlines, and you suddenly remember the worst part of all of this: you and Gojo actually have to work together. Like… spend time. Alone. With his stupid long legs stretched under a library table and that insufferable smugness every time he’s right about something (which is often, unfortunately).

You glance sideways. He’s already looking at you, chin in hand like he’s daydreaming. Or plotting.

“So,” he drawls, “when are we having our first romantic research date?”

“It’s not romantic,” you mutter, grabbing the checklist. “It’s academic. Very unsexy. Like your sock tan.”

“Ouch. But also, fair. I’ve been meaning to fix that.” He flips his pen between his fingers with lazy finesse. “You wanna use Piaget or Bowlby for this? You’re the expert on neglected children, after all.”

You narrow your eyes. “I hope that’s a dig at the paper I wrote and not a personal attack.”

He grins. “It’s both.”

You sigh, ignoring how your lips twitch despite yourself. “Bowlby might be better. More relevant for what I wanted to do.”

“I’m good with that. I’ve got a few case studies from my undergrad psych practicum we could draw from, too.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Wait, you did a practicum?”

Gojo shrugs like it’s nothing. “Worked at a community center for a semester. I was great with the kids. They called me Gojo-sensei.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Around children?”

“They loved me,” he says, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “One of them even proposed to me with a macaroni ring.”

“And you turned her down?”

“Tragically, yes. I told her I was already taken.”

Your pen stops mid-scribble. “By who?”

He smirks. “Guess.”

You shove your binder at him.

He laughs, catching it before it knocks over his iced coffee. “God, I missed this.”

“Missed what?”

“This,” he gestures between the two of you, “You. Us. The banter. The way you always look like you’re this close to throwing something at my face.”

You pause, unsure how to answer that. Because yeah. You missed it too.

But before you can say anything, Dr. Yuki calls for everyone’s attention again to go over the schedule for their next meeting and check-ins, and the moment passes. The last fifteen minutes of class drag by in a haze of dates and reminders, but Gojo doesn’t stop sneaking glances at you.

And you don’t stop feeling the way your cheeks heat every time he does.

As soon as class is dismissed, you’re halfway to packing up when he nudges your notebook.

“You free tomorrow night?”

You give him a wary look. “For what?”

“Project planning, obviously,” he says, batting his lashes. “Unless you’d rather I just show up at your place again and wait for a personal striptease.”

You groan. “You’re never going to shut up about that, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Fine. Tomorrow night. Library. Eight. Public space, no teasing.”

He smirks. “I make no promises.”

You grab your coffee and your bag, lingering just long enough to catch the little curve of his mouth as he watches you go.

And you hate how giddy it makes you feel.

taglist: comment if you want to be added

@linaaeatsfamilies

@eolivy

@whiter4bbitcorner

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

my girl 4

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as possible age gap, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your brother’s friend from work starts hanging out a lot more often. (short!reader)

Characters: Captain Syverson

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

You drive your mom to the airport while your dad and brother are at work. You’re sad to see her walk away. You wait until she’s through the security check and you can no longer see her. The ride home is silent as you’re too upset to turn the stereo on. 

You pull up to the house and stay in the car for a while. It will be weird to go into an empty house. It isn’t that unusual. When your mom’s at work, you’re often by yourself. Usually, you bask in the solace but not it’s just grim. You don’t feel like reading so much as the thought ties a knot in your heart. 

How long had you spent bound by the pages of a book when you should’ve been with your mom? She won’t be gone that long but it feels like it. 

You go inside at last and decide to get dinner started. Your mother always enjoys her time in the kitchen. Often her singing made you frown into your book but now you long for it. Grow up! She’s not been gone for more than two hours and you’re pouting like a child. 

You peruse the pantry and the fridge and finally come up with a plan. It shouldn’t be that intensive. You’ll get the ingredients together but you won’t have to start right away. Fajitas are easy enough. 

You go back to your room and sit on your bed. You glance over at the book sitting by your pillow and sigh. You twiddle your fingers then stand and pace listlessly. You can’t focus on fiction right now, the real is too... real. 

So, you go outside and sit on the grass, admiring the flowers your mom loves almost as much as her food processor. One day you might be like her. With actual hobbies instead of escapism. 

You lay down in the warmth of the sun, the smell of pollen and the buzz of bees around you. You shade your face from the bright afternoon and recede into your mind. The summer heat lulls you down into daze and time fades into an afterthought. 

You swear you smell pepperoni as you nose wiggles in the breeze. You sigh. The thought of cooking in this weather only makes you sweat more. 

“Y’okay?” The deep grizzly timbre makes you fling your hand away from your face as you blink up at the great orcish shadow. You sit up, leaning on the heels of your hand as you gape up at the burly beast. Sy’s figure comes clear as your vision adjusts to the hue, “what’re you doin’ down there?” 

“Um,” you blink dumbly, “sorry, I... hi?” 

“You hurt or something?” He wonders, his eyes searching you with concern. 

“No, I just... like the flowers,” you say, “where’s Isaac?” You look towards the fence then back at him. 

“Said he was comin’,” he grits, “stoppin’ at some buddy’s place but I said I’d meet him here.” 

“Ah, you coming for dinner? My mom left today.” 

“I know,” he puts his hands on his hips. Somehow, he looks even bigger, especially looking up from the ground. “Good lady. I brought pizza. It’s on the porch. Figure you’d be missin’ her.” 

“Pizza? You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I wanted to,” he moves closer and you tense, shying away. 

He grunts as he bends, putting his hand on the grass and swings himself around to sit beside you. Now he just seems gargantuan. He crosses his thick legs and looks up through his dark sunglasses. His cheeks tauten as he peers up at the clouds. 

“When I was overseas,” he says, “used to watch the sky a lot. Reminded me of home. Only thing that was the same.” 

You peer up and back down. You don’t have sunglasses. You always lay in the shade or read indoors. 

“Overseas?” You echo, “you... you lived somewhere else?” 

“Served,” he sets his head straight, toying with a dandelion by his boot, swirling his finger around the yellow head, “you know, young and angry and all. Now I’m just old and cranky.” 

You consider him. You guess he looks like a solider. Maybe that’s why you keep seeing a beastly warrior. 

“It must’ve been... well, I wouldn’t know,” you say, “scary?” 

“Could be, but only after,” he says. You don’t think he’s ever talked so much. “When you’re in it, you just get through it.” 

“Oh.” 

He’s quiet and he picks the dandelion out of the ground. He twirls it between his fingers. He looks over at you but you can’t see his eyes through the black lenses. 

“Sweet girls shouldn’t deal with all that,” he reaches over and tucks the flower behind your ear.  

You’re frozen in place at the unexpected gestures. He grunts as he gets himself to his knees and stands. He rubs his lower back and stretches out his neck. 

“I’ll get those pizzas inside before the ants find ‘em,” he marches away without a glance back, leaving you perplexed at your interaction. You’re no good with people but that was odd. 

You linger and touch the stem of the flower poking out behind your ear. You don’t remove it. It was a nice gesture. You get up and cross the lawn. 

You go inside and hear him in the kitchen. As you enter, he’s washing his hands. You peer over at him sheepishly. 

“How long do you think Isaac would be? My dad’s getting drinks with his friends tonight. He always does on Friday.” 

“Ah, not long, I think. We can wait for him,” Sy shuts off the tap and dries his hands. “I finished the book.” 

“You... did?” 

“Gonna start the next one tomorrow,” he says, “day off. Might go down to the beach. Ain’t been in... years. Don’t like hot sand.” 

Again, you’re put off by his chatter. He’s never been overly talkative, not even with your brother who he spends hours with a day. He’s always friendly with a ‘ma’am’ or a ‘sir’ in your parents’ direction but you don’t know anything about him for a reason. You wonder if Isaac knows he was a soldier. 

“That sounds nice, I haven’t been in a while either,” you smile. 

He nods and moves towards the pizza boxes, “I can put these in the oven, keep em warm.” 

“Sure, if you don’t mind,” you accept. “Um, I’ll set the table.” 

He grunts in acquiescence. You go to the cupboard and take down plates. Not as many as usual. You’re once more reminded of your mother’s absence. 

You put them on the table and go back for cutlery. Realising you won’t need any, you grab paper towel instead and leave it with the plates. You open the fridge as Sy hovers by counter. He seems uncertain. 

“You don’t need to stick around. Unless you want something to drink. I was just seeing what we had to go with dinner.” 

“Ah, dang, I forgot to grab the special with soda,” he says. 

“All good, um, I... I have strawberry soda. Mom bought them for me,” you take out one of the bottles and show him, “they are super sweet thought. I mix mine with club soda.” 

He hums, “might try some. With dinner.” 

“Alright,” you close the door, confident there’ll be enough to drink. Isaac only likes Mountain Dew anyway. “Erm...” 

You face him and he wavers on his feet. For a man his size, he looks almost nervous. He takes his hat off and squeezes the beak. 

“Sorry, should be wearin’ this inside,” he chuckles. 

“I don’t mind.” 

Silence. Again. You reach up and mindlessly play with the flower. He watches your hand and you drop it. 

“What... what are you reading? Anything good?” He asks. 

“Um, nothing new,” you answer and fold your hands together, “that bookmark you made me is super nice. I like it a lot.” 

“Figure you could use it.” 

“Thanks, it was so... nice of you to think of me.” 

His cheeks round and his cheeks strain as a smile spreads under his beard and he runs his hand over the coarse hair, “ain’t nothing.” He looks around as he slides his hand back to scratch his neck, “how about I go keep an eye out for your brother. Hope he didn’t get lost.” 

[partycatty]

giggling at this idea i just thought of but would u consider... hear me out... mk1 johnny finding out that reader has a body pillow of him? like those anime ones but bcs he's a celebrity, someone made one of him too 💀 & reader secretly bought it and tried to hide it/deny it but johnny sees all fr fr

i wrote this and then it got DELETED i almost cried

johnny cage > superfan

johnny never visited your place, but now he sees why.

notes: the way i used to unironically have a bodypillow of a character i'd rather die than admit... this hits so close to home

[ masterlist ]

you and johnny were an unlikely pair in the grand scheme of things. you were a toned down worker in your own field while his face was plastered on every billboard, magazine, and teenage girl's home screens. at the end of the day, though, you were both humans in love and that's all that genuinely mattered.

johnny's arm that was slung around you as you two cuddled on his couch shakes you back to reality.

"you know what's funny?" he suddenly brings up, closing the tiktoks you were watching together. "we always come to my place. never yours. i've only ever seen the inside when i pick you up."

there wasn't a hint of annoyance or accusatory language in his voice; he was curious. as he typically is.

"i don't know," you shrug nonchalantly, hoping to get the topic over with. "your place is nicer." this was entirely true. despite downsizing after his divorce and other events he has yet to disclose to you, he still had a truly nice home. it radiated the energy of a celebrity without needing the size, but was just homey enough for you to spend your nights there when you felt like it.

"so?" his eyebrow quirks up.

"so, it's better to hang out here. my apartment isn't all that exciting, not a lot of room to do much."

"but it's the person that excites me," he replies quickly, kissing your forehead. "plus, all we usually do is sit on my couch here. what's the difference of doing it there?"

as your mouth opens and closes to try and dismiss the subject, johnny turns to face you completely with a beaming grin.

"can i come over tomorrow?" he asks, like it's your first date with him. his eyes are bright, like a kid asking for permission from his mother. you couldn't even bring yourself to look him in the eyes as you swallow hard. there wasn't necessarily a true reason to not have him over, but preparing for his arrival would take a considerable amount of effort to... redecorate. finally, you nod with a sheepish smile, and johnny plants a slap-like kiss to your lips as a thank you.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

the following morning, you were throwing your piles and piles of collectibles into boxes and shoving them into your closet. the replica of his brass knuckles or figurines of ninja mime had to go before he arrived. johnny couldn't know that on top of being his girlfriend, you were a fan. and not just any fan, a superfan. every piece of evidence had to be thrown into a corner lest you face his endless prodding and teasing. besides, even if he was a celebrity, he probably didn't expect his partner to have such belongings. it felt... wrong. but even still, you couldn't help but support him in his works!

a knock at the door makes you visibly jump as you're kicking the last of the merch under your couch. wiping your hands, you race to the front door and take a deep breath, making sure you plugged in your wall scents and lit your candles. you swing it open and johnny peeks his head in, glancing around with his typical grin. he puts his sunglasses atop his head to adjust to the indoor lighting, a curious glint in his eye.

"i don't know what you were talking about," johnny finally says, hands on his hips. "it's nice here. quaint."

"i think that's just calling me poor politely," you reply as you fight a smirk. johnny tenses up, already apologetic before you reach up to kiss his check. "i'm teasing, dear. now what?"

"a movie?"

"not one of yours."

"we didn't even finish citizen cage last time!"

you roll your eyes at his puppy-like stare. you immediately cave in with a huff. as his own version of a thank you, johnny swoops over and picks you up, sure to support your ass more than your thighs as they wrap around his waist. he shoots you a devious grin, as if to say "i can't help it!"

you're playfully tossed onto the couch, and you have just enough time to chuck a throw pillow in his direction as he heads toward your bedroom.

"i'm stealing your comforter," he announces. "since i don't see a regular blanket around here." you gulp, remembering your johnny cage themed throw blanket that once laid on that very couch. thankfully, it's buried under your other laundry.

"not everyone has blankets for every occasion!" you shout back, settling into your new spot and allocating space for his large body. that is, until you hear eruptive laughter come from your room. of course it was johnny, but the laugh was so hysterical, so out of character, you partially wondered if he had gotten possessed. "babe?" as you're about to rise from your spot, johnny responds in an unusually high pitched voice, strained from the cackling.

"why do you have this?!" his grin is audible, dripping from his upward inflection. your stomach drops, but you try to play dumb in case it's not what you expect.

"have what?" your voice is low, unwilling to give anything away. your question is answered when johnny emerges from the hallway, holding up your dakimakura with one hand, slung around its painted shoulder.

your face heats up in record time. it's a drawing - a realistic one - of johnny, laying down. the other side features the same, except blushing and only in boxers. you must have forgot to fully hide it, and left it on your bed like a fool. and what a fool you were for thinking a simple blanket would conceal it. times like these you wish you could afford a throw blanket to bury yourself in it and hope he'd go away.

"if you wanted me in your bed, you could've just asked," he giggles to himself, admiring the possession. "hey, at least they got my features right."

"please put that away before i die of embarrassment," you quietly beg, voice muffled by your head in your hands.

"really though, doll," johnny's smile doesn't disappear, just lessens. "why, of all things, do you own a bodypillow of me?"

"it was limited edition," you mutter. "the artist put it on sale."

"limited edition? you're a collector?"

shit. you sold yourself.

"maybe."

"collector of what?"

"...paraphernalia."

"i could deduce that. i won't judge you, honey." he kneels down to meet your level, putting his hands on your knees as he sets the pillow down beside you.

"i, uh... i collect things. related to you." johnny's face freezes, lip twitching in amusement as you continue to defend yourself. "i'm not weird about it, though."

"except for the pillow."

"50% went to charity!"

"touché. don't worry about it, sugar," johnny kisses your forehead. "there are worse things to collect. if anything, you're pretty lucky to have a famous boyfriend. lots of stuff to collect. you want one of my shirts? i'll sign it for you—"

"enough, enough," you giggle, swatting your hands at nothing. "this is already mortifying for me. you should see the rest—" you stop in your tracks, smile dropping in an instant.

"there's more?" as he asks, you two stare at each other in disbelief. and before you could react, he darts off to your bedroom, pushing himself off of the wall as he nearly runs into it. you shout-laugh as you follow after him.

"JOHNNY!" as you turn the corner to stand in your bedroom doorway, johnny charges at you and slings you over his shoulder. all you can do is half-resist his grip as he swings your closet door open. your legs kick against his body, and you're slapping his back. "DON'T LOOK!!"

"i can't not look!" he protests, patting your ass playfully. his hand falls to his hip as he inspects your crammed closet just as his grin widens once more. "is that a life-size ninja mime cutout?"

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

hii!! could you write more of the player!reader? I don't really care who you write it about, like triston casas or jarren duran or whoever you want, but i really liked the fics you wrote about it and I would love to se more of them!!!! thanks!!

Not not Dating | Pairing: Jarren Duran x MLBPlayer!Reader | Author's note: Is this too long??????????? You can tell me if its too long it ok.

It’s technically not a date.

It’s not even framed as one. Jarren texts you on your off-day like it’s nothing:

got a key to the BP cage. u wanna hit around a little? no coaches. no cameras.

You stare at the message longer than you should before replying.

only if i'm pitching.

His answer comes fast:

always

The lights hum overhead in the private indoor cage tucked under Fenway. The place smells like pine tar and leather and years of frustration burned off in a swing.

You’re in joggers and a hoodie, your hair tied back, chewing gum like you haven't got a care in the world. or thoughts about Jarren shirtless.

Jarren’s already there when you arrive. Black hoodie. Mesh shorts. His arms are bare and his tattoos flash as he tosses a ball into the air and catches it casually like it’s nothing.

“You gonna stand there like I’m a statue,” he says without looking at you, “or are you gonna grab your glove?”

You scoff. “A little cocky for someone with a career .256, huh?”

That gets a grin out of him. “Hey, I’m trending up.”

You slide your hand into your glove, tug it snug. “We’ll see.”

It starts casually. You throw. He hits. It’s warm, and familiar. Easy to fall into the rhythm of ball-meets-barrel. You both take turns — rotating between hits, sips of Gatorade, and half-hearted chirping.

“You got that little leg kick thing going again,” he teases.

You shoot him a look. “Shut up. Your stance looks like you’re afraid of commitment.”

“I am afraid of commitment,” he says, deadpan.

You snort. But then there’s a beat of silence where you both realize that was maybe a little real.

Jarren breaks it with a smirk. “Kidding.”

After an hour, the swings slow down. The air’s heavy with humidity and something else — something you can’t name. You’re sitting on a ball bucket now, peeling your gloves off, your palm raw from the repetition. Jarren crouches nearby, elbows on knees.

“Y’know,” he says, “this was fun.”

You arch a brow. “It’s batting practice.”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, “but it’s different with you.”

That does something to your chest. You glance at him. “You’re not trying to be smooth, are you?”

His mouth twitches. “Would it work if I was?”

You look away, feeling heat crawl up your neck.

“Don’t answer that,” he adds quickly. “I don’t wanna know.”

You laugh — soft, surprised at yourself.

“Anyway,” he says, voice dropping, “I’m not trying to make this weird. I just… like hanging out.”

You nod, trying not to think about how close he’s sitting. How the air feels more still now. How your shoulder aches, and somehow, so does your chest.

You want to say something light. You want to change the subject. But instead—“Feels like this season’s the first time I can breathe,” you admit quietly. “Even if it’s hard, even if I miss… everything else.”

He watches you for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”

You meet his eyes and something clicks. You both look away at the same time, like it burned.

Eventually, you stand. Grab your bag. Say something dumb like “thanks for the swings” even though you both know this was more than that.

“I can walk you out,” he offers.

You glance at him, heart doing too much. “I’m good.”

He nods — slow, unreadable. But then, just before you leave the cage, you hear him behind you. “You ever wanna hit again,” he says, “I’m always around.”

You turn back. “I know.”

And then — the smallest pause. He grins. “Didn’t say it for you. Said it for me.”

You roll your eyes. But your smile gives you away.

Team plane, post-win series on the road

You don’t plan on sitting next to Jarren. Instead, Triston Casas, your self-appointed platonic life partner and designated seatmate, grins at you from two rows ahead just as you’re boarding and shouts, “Yo, I’m sitting with Kutter! We’re gaming the whole flight, sorry!”

You glare, but he’s already plopping down next to Kutter Crawford with a pair of headphones and zero remorse.

You turn around, ready to find an empty spot near the back, and instead nearly bump into Jarren. He lifts a brow.

“Guess it’s fate,” he says smoothly, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

You make a face like you’re considering bolting out the emergency exit. “If you snore, I’m moving.”

He shrugs. “Just kick me.”

The lights are dimmed. Most of the team is half-asleep or hunched over iPads. You’re watching something you’re not really paying attention to. Jarren’s scrolling on his phone beside you, tapping his knee with a rhythm only he seems to know. Every now and then your elbow grazes his, and neither of you moves away.

Somewhere over Ohio, he asks quietly, “That pitcher from Seattle last month. The one who brushed you back—”

You glance over.

“You were pissed, but you didn’t say anything to the media,” he continues. “Why?”

You blink. “Because if I go off, I’m the angry woman. If I stay quiet, I’m a doormat. There’s no win.”

Jarren turns his head toward you. “You did win though. Crushed that fastball in the eighth.”

You shrug. “That’s how I talk.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Kinda hot.”

Your eyes snap to him. He doesn’t backpedal. Just smiles, slow and unapologetic.

You swallow. “You’re not helping your case.”

“Didn’t know I had one.”

You stare at each other for a second too long. You’re painfully aware of how quiet the cabin is. How close his arm is. How different this would be if one of you just said yes.

Then you lean back. “I’m going to sleep,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, but you hear the grin in his voice.

You don’t sleep. Not a damn wink.

Next day, pre-game in the clubhouse

You’re tying your cleats when you hear the chair scrape beside you. It’s Triston. He looks way too interested in nothing.

You narrow your eyes. “What.”

He doesn’t look at you. “Just thinking.”

“That’s never good.”

Triston finally turns. “So, what’s up with you and Jarren?”

You scoff. Loud. Dramatic. “Nothing.”

“Sure,” he says, totally unconvinced. “That’s why you guys keep looking at each other like you’re about to run a Hallmark movie set in Fenway.”

“I would never be caught dead dating a teammate,” you say automatically.

He stares. “Dude. You literally dated Harrison Bader.”

“That was different. He wasn’t on my team.”

“But he was on your body.”

You swat his shoulder.

Triston leans in, eyes gleaming. “So nothing’s happening?”

You hesitate for a beat too long.

“Nothing has happened.” you amend. “Not like that.”

Triston smirks like he’s cracked the case. “Yet.”

You point a cleat at him threateningly. “Shut up and go lift something.”

He shrugs and backs off, but not before singing, just under his breath: “She’s in denial but she’s into Du-ran—”

You throw a towel at him. He ducks, laughing all the way out of the locker room.

Boston rooftop bar, late summer night.

The Sox win. Fenway stays loud until the last out.

You go 3-for-4 with that double and a sac fly. You try not to think about how Jarren smirked when he passed you on the way to center, or how his glove tapped yours with a little too much purpose.

In the clubhouse, Triston eyes you over his locker like a man ready to narrate a rom-com. “You going out?” he asks.

You wipe eye black from your cheek and shrug. “Thinking about it.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Triston grins wide. “He’s already at the rooftop.”

You pause. “Who?”

“Jarren.”

You throw a towel at him. Miss. On purpose.

The rooftop bar’s tucked just off Commonwealth Ave, not far from Fenway, strung up with fairy lights and expensive cocktails. It’s the kind of place where players go when they want to feel normal. A little invisible.

But you're not invisible. Not here. Not ever. Not when the documentary crew’s been trailing your comeback season and the internet still hasn’t recovered from the sight of you and Jarren Duran sharing a dugout look with enough tension to power the Citgo sign.

You see him before he sees you. White tee, silver chain, sleeves rolled to the elbow. You catch the tattoos on his forearms as he nurses a drink, staring out at the skyline like he’s waiting.

You slide onto the stool beside him.

“Was told you might show up.”

He doesn’t startle. He just glances over, slow like molasses.

“Didn’t doubt you,” he says. “You always show up when it matters.”

Your heart skips. Damn him. “Careful,” you murmur. “Might think you like me.”

He tilts his head. “Maybe I do.”

You hold his gaze. It’s quiet for a second. Then: “I don’t date teammates,” you say, but it sounds weak now. Tired. Like a rule you made when you were someone else. Before Boston. Before this.

Jarren leans in just a little. “Then don’t date me yet.”

Your brows pull together. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “It means let me walk you home tonight. Doesn’t have to be anything big. Just... a walk. Talk. See where it goes.”

You stare at him. Jarren Duran, the teammate you kept catching glances with, the one who pulled over to fix your car without saying a word, who cheers for your hits like they’re his own.

It’s just a walk. But it’s not just a walk. You knock back the rest of your drink. Set the glass down with a quiet clink.

“Alright,” you say. “Let’s walk.”

He holds the door for you. Doesn’t touch your lower back like you half expect him to. Instead, you fall into step beside him on the brick sidewalk, the noise of the bar fading behind you. It’s cool now, the kind of night that smells like city and rain just before it comes.

Somewhere in the middle of a quiet block, Jarren says, “I saw that picture. From the World Series. With the Dodgers.”

You stop walking. Your chest tightens. “You didn’t have to bring that up.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But I saw your face in it. You looked like you were trying to be okay.”

You laugh, brittle. “I wasn’t. I felt like the whole league gave up on me.”

Jarren steps closer. “Boston didn’t.” You meet his eyes. “And neither did I.”

Your breath catches. There’s a beat of silence, and you can’t take it anymore. You grab the collar of his shirt and kiss him. Not delicate. Not polite. Grateful. Burning. Honest. He exhales like he’s been waiting for this since spring training.

[paw-padss]

LETS GATHER, AT THE BUZZER!

(in honor of me starting tennis)

ft. zhongli, baizhu, kaeya, ayato, & albedo

summary: genshin boys in a modern highschool setting, and nothing screams highschool than sports teams! but of course, not everyone in highschool makes it to the big leagues...

a/n: ermm can u tell I know almost nothing about sports bc I mean I read and write fanfics about video game characters Im not the most athletic... sorry if this is ooc or inaccurate (about the sports or the characters)...

everything is wheel generated, I spun for a character, then a sport, then a skill, if u don't like it blame the wheel not me >:(

notes: not very formal and not very relationship based, just silly headcannons! also I didn't really beta read this sorry for mistakes... TT

as an adult, ZHONGLI is quiet and sophisticated, so when those close to him now realize how he used to be when he was younger, they are much more than shocked at Zhongli's past. An over-passionate and wild teenager, who expended all his newfound energy into tennis. His quick reflexes, the way his slender legs would run to reach the ball, the quick swing of his racket sending the ball out of his opponents reach. an excited and wild boy who would sulk off the court, disappointment in his eyes and sweat dripping from his uniform, whenever (or if ever) he got an out

highschool student BAIZHU would keep to himself for the most part, just doing his work and trying to make it to graduation. the only thing that got close to a club or an extracurricular was the time he spent tending to the small strips of land that surrounded the school and him helping the nurse during his free periods. His teacher, concerned about his solitude, would set up a meeting with baizhu and his guardian, advising that he perhaps join some actual clubs so he can become closer to his peers. Of course, in the middle of the year not many clubs are open and accepting members, except for the sports clubs. He just took the first flyer off the bulletin and walked off toward the gym. Just his luck that it happened to be basketball, and just his luck that they were desperate for new members that they just accepted him right away. but not only is baizhu a recluse but he's also pretty unathletic, often spending his time during games off the court and out of breath, missing all his shots and crouching away from the balls thrown his way. Safe to say he got swiftly kicked off the team the second a new replacement came.

after KAEYA'S adopted father died and he was practically shunned by his older brother, Kaeya found his highschool life to seem bleak and empty, everything seemed so alien to him, until he discovered his schools indoor swimming pool and fell in love. He loved the way the sunlight reflected off the blue tiles, the gentle ripples of the water, the thrill of the surface tension, the silent hum of the filters, the chill as he dived into the water, the world seemed to stand still as his head went below the water and all his troubles drowned below the surface. He didn't even care about the medals hanging off his walls or the trophies decorating his shelves, he just loved the feeling of the water as it enveloped him in its cool embrace.

his father was a baseball prodigy, so of course AYATO has to keep up the family name, the cheers from the crowd fill his ears as he feels the dirt beneath him and his tough grip on his bat, his eyes are set on the pitcher and with quick reflexes he hits the ball perfectly across the field before he dashes around the bases, the feeling the wind against his face as his feet help carry him to victory. Girls from the crowd admire him, his close-to-graceful way of rising to his feet from the ground as he dust off his knees and heads to the dugout, the way he takes off his helmet after a game, wiping the sweat from his forehead and shaking his hair back into its original shape, his frustrated walk and calculative look as he walks back to the dugout after he strikes out.

all the girls at school could agree that ALBEDO was the only one looked stunning in his lab coat and goggles that swept back his blonde hair, and they thought he looked even better in a loose soccer uniform that showed off everything hidden behind the coat. Today was sports day, and the boys in albedos class were assigned to be part of the boys soccer team. Now, for a kid who spent all his time in the chemistry lab, albedo didn't consider himself to be completely un-athletic, but he, like many other members of his science club, definitely wasn't stupid enough to go on a sports field and put himself up against a bunch of jocks and such. Being forced into this public humiliation for a grade meant that the whole school would have to watch on as albedo failed in both offence and defense. whether it was letting the ball slide underneath his feet or diving head first into the grass while trying to block the goals, it was as if he had two left feet. His blonde hair was left disheveled and sweat broke through his forehead as he found himself bent over and out of breath once he was out of the field. He quickly decided that next time, he would just stay home.

[toruro]

svt as home furniture

seungcheol is very door. i don't even think this counts as home furniture but he is a Door.

jeonghan is like those weird egg chair swing thingies. do u guys know what i'm talking about? like an indoor swing? a hanging chair? looks like an egg?

joshua is a chest of drawers

jun is a Chair

saw someone say soonyoung is a bean bag and umm yeah

wonwoo is a light brown coffee table

jihoon is a foldable couch-bed

i feel like seokmin is a bedside lamp with a yellow lightbulb

mingyu is like a twin sized bed

minghao is very office desk to me

seungkwan is a circular breakfast table with a lazy susan in the middle

vernon is an orange chaise lounge chair

dino is an very upsettingly stained rug

[bridgerteon]

I knew from the get go that there are 8 Bridgerton siblings (in alphabetical order) plus Violet. But one fact I realised and found it amusing is that there are also 8 Eevee evolutions (Eeveelutions) plus Eevee. So I thought, why not have each Bridgerton have an Eeveelution. (I also nicknamed each of the Eeveelutions I caught in a Pokemon game based on the Bridgertons, but I digress...)

This is my own interpretation on the Bridgertons and which Eeveelution fits them as their partner. I'm happy to hear from any Bridgerton and Pokemon fans to have their own ideas on which Pokemon suits them. 😊

So here are the Bridgerteons:

Violet - Eevee 🦊👑

Violet is the matriarch of the Bridgerton family, so obviously she gets an Eevee. She also wants to see all of her children find love and have happy marriages. She knows each of her children are different and that each couple has different experiences in love, like Eevee being adaptive in its environment.

Anthony - Jolteon⚡

Anthony is competitive, has mood swings, difficult, stubborn and protective. Jolteon is all those things. As the Viscount, he has a duty in helping his family be one of the best in the Ton. The death of his father plagued him, so he's emotionally closed off, like Jolteon's spikes on its body. Fortunately, he is loyal and would open his heart to the ones he loves and cares about. So he gets a Jolteon.

Benedict - Vaporeon 🌊

Both are chill, peaceful, go with the flow, calm and, as canon in the show, pansexual. Also, Benedict likes to hide from debutantes and their mamas, like Vaporeon likes to camouflage and melt into water. So he gets a Vaporeon. (No dirty jokes about Vaporeon, please 🙄)

Colin - Umbreon 🌙

Colin wants to be a hero, likes being needed, and spreading light and joy to his loved ones. He is vulnerable, sensitive and kind to people he is close to, while under a facade when surrounded by the Ton, like the light and dark side of the moon. He always finds Penelope at night a couple of times, like an aura connection. So definitely an Umbreon.

Daphne - Sylveon 🎀

As the eldest daughter, Daphne is poise, elegant, gentle, and has great emotional intelligence. She can also be brave (she does charge towards Anthony and Simon while they are in a duel, like fairy types charging in towards dragon types in battles), competitive and assertive. So Sylveon it is.

Eloise - Espeon 🔮

Eloise likes to read, wants to change the world as a woman, and cynical. She's also quite a detective in identifying Lady Whistledown or people's 🐂💩, but is not great in identifying what people are feeling. Eloise and Penelope like to hang out during the day, like promenades and shopping. Also, they have the same letter. So an Espeon.

Francesca - Flareon 🔥

Francesca loves playing the piano and an introvert, so she's most likely indoors. She is brave and curious on what she wants to find herself and to find a partner who gets her. Also the same letter. So a Flareon. (It does help that Flareon will be keeping her warm during colder months in Scotland while playing the piano 😉).

Gregory - Glaceon ❄️

Gregory is cheeky, young, fun and likes to pull pranks. He likes to be part of the Bridgerton shenanigans. He wants to join with his big brothers in anything, despite being young. Also the same letter. So a Glaceon.

Hyacinth - Leafeon 🍃

Hyacinth is also cheeky and young, but also an optimistic, loves romance, freespirited and innocent. She wants to be part of the glamour, gossip and excitement within the Ton. Also her name is based on a flower. So a Leafeon.

*Note: I'm being deliberate in calling it Bridgerteons as it is a combination of Bridgerton and Eon (a suffix for all the Eeveelutions, meaning a long period of time. It suits them as it takes a long time for them to find a partner, fall in love and get married 😏).

[rkmaru]

Cozy Tea-Themed OC Asks - Jungi the Wolf edition

English Breakfast: What is your OC’s morning routine?

Wakes up as soon as his alarm goes off, usually before the sun is up. Dresses quickly, usually wears similar outfits since he works in athletic wear most of the time. Heads to work, the local gym near his apartment building, and works out before it opens and he starts taking clients. He’s a personal trainer but he also does maintenance for the whole place.

Earl Grey: Does your OC like to read? What is their taste in books?

He hates reading, doesn’t see the value in reading if it’s not something important. Outside of nutritional info or exercise instruction he’s not picking up a book to read for enjoyment. But if you tell him you’re reading something he might like he’ll let you read to him. Just don’t get mad if he falls asleep with his arms around you.

Darjeeling: Where does your OC feel most at home?

Loves being outdoors, especially secluded areas on the mountain side. He loves being able to camp and stay up late to look at the moon or star gaze. Will get embarrassed when you ask if he howls during the full moon because…yeah he does. But he wants to be alone when he howls because it’s too embarrassing with you watching.

Oolong: How does your OC decorate their space?

He’s quite messy. Has multiple laundry baskets to help keep clutter off the floor but it somehow finds a way there. Keeps a set of weights and resistance bands in his room for when he works out at home. A bit on a scarce side decoration wise, but he has a few things that are to his tastes. A few paintings he found pleasing to the eye hang on his walls.

Lapsang Souchong: If your OC was a scented candle, what would they smell like?

Anzuya has given him a collection of colognes to use. So normally he has a clean, sporty scent. As a candle he’d be a mix of clean mountain spring and pine.

Chai: What is your OC’s comfort food/drink?

He likes red meat. Take him to a bbq or hot pot restaurant and he’s happy beyond belief. You can enjoy the veggie menu, he’s ordering all the meat he can stomach.

Pu-erh: What does your OC do when they’re stuck indoors for a day or two?

He gets a little stir crazy. If for some reason he can’t leave and go to the gym he’ll turn his room into a makeshift weight room. The kind of guy that has the pull up bars in a door way so he can let off some steam. Once he’s done all he can do he’s surfing fitness blogs or watching cooking videos.

Green: What is your OC’s favorite piece of clothing?

He wears a lot of athletic clothes mostly. Prefers wearing loose sweatpants and compression shirts around the house. But anything that lets his tail swing free is best. Plus you get to see him wag and wave it around when he watches cooking shows that use his favorite ingredients (meat).

Jasmine: Does your OC like flowers? Which type of flower is their favorite?

I think he’s fond of any plant tbh. A little nature indoors makes him more comfortable. One of the few chores he doesn’t mind is watering the plants around the house or the rooftop garden and making sure everything stays nice and healthy. If he had to pick a favorite it’d probably be Aster or Beebalm for when he gets a cold.

Matcha: What is your OC’s preferred little treat?

He does enjoy hot pot or a nice bbq after a long day. But secretly he really likes it when you cook for him. Make him your specialty or a comfort food you enjoy and he’s over the moon. Doesn’t even notice how big you’re grinning while he licks his plate clean.

Lemon Balm: Does your OC have any bedtime habits or rituals?

He’s a habitual cuddler. He has to cuddle something or he can’t sleep. Used to use pregnancy pillows to help him with his sleeping posture but once you start spending the night with him he’s cuddling you close. If you get hot at night you’ll just have to kick off the blanket or your clothes to cool off because his grip is tight.

Peppermint: How does your OC handle the cold?

He’s pretty indifferent to the cold. Naturally a little warmer than most, Jungi usually wears thin clothing unless it snows or drops pretty low. Likes to make fun of Anzuya when he’s complaining about the weather.

Rooibos: What kind of lighting does your OC prefer? Dim, bright, moody, secret fourth thing?

Moonlight for sure. Makes him feel connected to his family even though they’re gone.

Chamomile: What does your OC do to relax?

A big meal followed by a big nap. You can find him in the garden on the roof on sunny days when he’s off work snoring.

Ginger: What always brightens your OC’s day?

Your words. Knowing you’re near and want to be by him makes him relax. Tell him he’s doing a good job or how much you appreciate him and he’s wagging his tail just for you. Good boy can be used but it usually leads to less relaxing activities.

Tag List: @ike-garden2024, @misty-moth, @shiningstardreamer, @rou-luxe, @avellanas-nutty-empire, @accurine, @lettheratsin

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed! 💖🐺

[pijulle]

I’m watching Arcane for the first time, and I couldn’t help but think about a Arcane x DarkRise crossover where Will is raised in Piltover by his mother, but end in Zaun after her death and is adopted by Silco. (I’m at E5S2, please no spoil) (copypasted from blue sky)

So, one night, a year or two after he took Jinx in, Silco is feeling low and goes back to the river. What does he spot here? A boy, drifting in the water along with an enforcer’s body, about Powder’s age, seemingly drowned. He has a stab wound at the hand and bruises on his neck.

The enforcer is dead, but the boy regains consciousness when Silco checks on him. The boy explains that 'they' have tried to kill him and succeeded in killing his mother. Cue some flashback after which Silco takes in him too, telling himself Jinx would use some company.

Will Kempen becomes Jinx’s little brother. They bond over trauma, they do crazy make up for each other, they build weapon together, listen to the same music, tease each other. Will has this annoying habit of tugging at her braids, while she colors all his dark clothes with bright paint.

Will is envious how easily she shows affection to Silco, he always stand by and watch like 👉👈 At some point Silco got the hint and he’s like, "do you want a hug too?" Will nods and cries when it does happen. Jinx teases him forever after.

Will is a Good Boy. He has conflicting feeling toward Silco because he loves him but he also do terrible things that disgusts him. He wants to help Zaunites, and often tries to help people, even if it leads to trouble sometimes. He understands the need of a revolution and violence, yet he hates it.

Will mostly takes care of the logistics in Silco’s organization and is his main informant. So he hangs out a lot with Sevika, and they like each other because of their shared no-nonsense attitude and strong sense of loyalty. He’s very defensive of Jinx though, and dislikes when she criticizes her.

Will wears an enforcer’s mask that he had painted with a shiny black paint, a black dyed enforcer’s jacket, miner shoes reinforced with metal, strong pants and unassuming tops. He’s nicknamed the dark enforcer and he could blend in the shadow if Jinx hadn’t the bad habit of drawing on his clothes.

He spreads the rumor that he has a terrible weapon up his sleeves that he could unsheathed at any moment and that could kill any of his enemy. It makes his enemies thinking twice when they threaten him. Indeed, Will isn’t telling lies, he does have a pocket knife hidden at all time in his sleeve.

Though his enemies are scared of him, Will doesn’t have a lot of them because he’s kind, easy to talk to, hardworking… You know, Will Kempen. People who don’t like him are usually people who don’t like Silco and his organization as a whole.

Will main weapons are hidden knives and bottles of grey,that he either open if he’s indoor or swing at people’s head if he’s outdoor. He fights only to defend himself, those he cares for/innocents. He’s resistant to some degree to the grey, but Simon’s still looking for him, so he keeps the mask on.

Simon Creen (or Sinclair I haven’t decided yet) is a councillor, and James St Clair is a nepo ultra-powerful enforcer, who terrorizes the undercity. Will’s intrigued by him, but it’s only after Jinx blows up Marcus that he sets himself into swaying him to their cause. He succeeds.

The Stewards are the same as in canon, the arch stands on the other side of the fissure. The Ballards are piltie who works for Simon. Will and Violet Ballard met in a similar situation than canon, except that Will was here illegally to watch over the shimmer cargo and sabotage some of Simon’s ships.

Will doesn’t know he’s the Dark King. The event happens similarly as in canon, and after book two, Will and James go back to Zaun to hide. Rumors run that he’s back and Silco and Jinx, worried, look for him.

When they finds him, James is standing on watch while Will is certain they too want to kill him and begs them not to, that’s it’s him…. Basically like he did at the end of DH, while telling himself he would prefer that it’s one of them doing it.

Silco look at him and he’s like. Son. I’m literally a Crime Lord. Jinx’s blown up a thousand people. YOU, on the other hand, is the kindest soul living down there. Wtf are you on? Ngl, Silco would try to sway him to the dark side so he could conduct his revolution without handing Jinx over.

Another way possible: Will comes back home, says nothing about being Sarcean until he saves Silco at the tea party by invoking shadows. Then, he runs away thinking they would kill him, then see the above post. In this version Silco is still dealt a gun wound, but survives.

The injury is bad enough that Silco is disabled, probably have ling damage and needs oxygen. Will take over his crime organization and leads the revolution. He used to be a mage in his former life so as he gains more and more memories, he knows not to weaponize the hextech, stop Jinx from doing it.

He takes over Piltover when he realizes they’re weaponizing the arcane too and more and more troubles rises. Violet comes back to him when she understands he’s trying to save everyone, and eventually Cyprian too.

Will and James manages to calm down the arcane at the end and makes a half-Zaunite, half-piltovian government, with them at its head.

[cameronspecial]

Thorn In My Side, Rose In My Hand (Part 3)

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  Under Age Drinking, Under Age Marijuana Use, and Displays of Toxic Relationship Acts. If I missed one, please let me know.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 3.2K

Summary: Y/N’s relaxing morning on the beach is interrupted by a potential suitor. But Rafe and Mason aren’t exactly fans of this new bachelor. 

Masterlist

The early morning means no one else is on the beach with Y/N yet. It is too early in the morning for parents to be at the beach with their children and way too early in the day, in general, for teenagers to be out of bed during the summer. She enjoys it when it is just her, her book and the sounds of the waves. The morning is breezy so her sweatshirt stays on while she sits in her beach chair with her book. She is currently reading her mother’s latest release in preparation for her mom’s new manuscript that she is going to get once Cassie returns from Bali. The sound of the footsteps on the sand causes Y/N to look up to be aware of her situation. 

“Ah, a fellow Cassie Y/L/N lover I see. Her magnum opus is Destitues of The Modern World,” a Malibu blonde and steel blue-eyed boy says. In Y/N’s opinion, she hates her mother’s work from before she was born. Even though her mother’s current work is adult fiction (not Y/N’s preferred book age group as she prefers YA fiction), at least it is murder mystery and fantasy. Cassie’s pre-twin writing was fiction based but it was just that. No romance, fantasy, or mystery in front of the word fiction and that bored Y/N to death. She finds no excitement or enjoyment in reading about a person dealing with everyday issues. So Desitues of The Modern World is definitely not on her list of her mother’s favourites. 

She looks up at the boy and gives him a tight-lipped smile, “Oh, I’m not the greatest fan of her earlier work. I am much more of a fantasy or murder mystery fiend.” She made sure not to mention how she is related to the author because as she looks at him more, she starts to notice how handsome this man really is and she doesn’t want him to only hang out with her just because of who her mother is. Y/N could’ve sworn he reminded her of someone but she couldn’t figure out who. Maybe it is Chris Hemsworth. “That is acceptable. Her writing is amazing either way,” he approves as he approaches her, “Where are my manners? I am Wilson Porter.” Wilson extends his hand out to Y/N and she takes it to shake. “Y/N, it’s nice to meet you.” “The pleasure is mine. Might I say you look beautiful.” His voice is smooth like honey and his words make her blush. 

——

At the same time as Y/N meeting Wilson, Rafe and Mason are at the indoor country club pool to practice training for the swim team. During the summer, the indoor pool is emptier because all the club patrons prefer the outdoor pool. The boys finished up their last lap before they take a fifteen-minute break. “Where do you think I should take your sister for lunch? I know it isn’t a date because you are going to be there, but I still want her to have a good time. I mean we are already at the country club so it would make sense if she meets us here, but she also likes going to the Wreck. She might want to see Kiara since I know it’s been a while and Lacey isn’t in town,” Rafe questions before taking a swing of water. 

“I say we go to The Wreck. I hear they have a Po’ Boy special and I think my sister wants to try it.” Rafe chuckles at Mason’s suggestion, “I’m pretty sure you are the one that wants to try the Po’ Boy, Mace.” “Dude, you are absolutely 100% correct. But I bet you if my sister knows about the special, she’ll want to get one too. She likes fried seafood. I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” Mason announces, he gets out of the pool and heads towards the change room. Rafe nods and gets out of the pool to text Y/N the plan. He grabs his phone, smiling when he opens up the text thread between him and Y/N. Hey, so Mace just told me about The Wreck’s Po’ Boy special. We should try it. Meet you @ 12? His smile dims a little when he doesn’t get a reply in the next few minutes because he knows she generally replies five minutes after getting a notification. Looking at the little red number gives her anxiety and she always worries it will be an emergency. Mason returns from the bathroom, which causes Rafe to quickly place his phone back onto the pool chair and gets into the pool. Maybe she’s just in the water.

——

Y/N and Wilson have been talking for a while before she realizes she is getting hungry. She remembers she promised to have lunch with Rafe and Mason. She checks her phone to see if Rafe has told her where to meet them and sees that he has. Sounds good! Meet you there. Before she hits send, she thinks about asking Wilson to join them for lunch. “Hey, I actually have to head to The Wreck for lunch. Do you want to join?” “I have never been to The Wreck; however, I will be happy to join you,” Wilson answers. He gets up and starts helping her pack up her things. “Thanks, let me just send a quick text and then we can walk over.” Sounds good! Meet you there. Could you actually get a table for four, please? I just invited someone to join us. 

——

Rafe text tone for Y/N goes off while he and Mason are in the changing room and he quickly grabs his phone to check it. He opens it up. What he sees makes his smile immediately vanish. “Dude, what’s wrong?” Mason worries upon seeing the frown on his face. “Yo, Lacey’s not back from Paris, is she? I thought she is coming back this Friday,” he asks his friend. Mason shakes his head, “She is back on Friday. Y/N/N and I are supposed to pick her up on the mainland. Why do you want to know?” “She wants us to get a table for four. Maybe, she ran into my sister or Scarlett at the beach?” Rafe really hopes the new lunch mate is a female and not from the opposite sex. “Yeah, probably,” Mason agrees. 

They both finish up getting change and head into Mason’s truck to head over to The Wreck. Mason parks the car then the boys enter the restaurant. “Welcome to The Wr-. Oh, Rafe. Mason. How many people are joining you?” Kiara says with a little disgust, she is not a fan of the boys as they are always bothering her and the other pogues. “Hey, Kie. Table for four, please. Y/N/N and a guest are joining us later,” Mason informs in the nice way possible. He knows if he annoys Kiara for no reason, Y/N will have a lot to say about it. Kie nods her head, getting the menus out for the boys to lead them to their table. She doesn’t want to seat them in her section, the prospect of Y/N coming makes her decide against it. 

The boys wait around five minutes for Y/N to show up with her mystery guest. Y/N’s arrival is marked by a squeal coming from Kiara. “Y/N/N, hey! It’s great to see you again! I missed you.” Y/N giggles at Kie’s excitement and gives her a hug, “It’s good to see you too Kie. We definitely need to catch up because it’s been a while. Maybe you can come over tonight and we can have a sleepover?” “I love that idea! Come on, I’ll take you over to your brother and Rafe,” Kie leads her over to Rafe and Mason. “Hey, guys. Hope you haven’t been waiting for too long,” Y/N sits beside Mason. Rafe sends her a smile, “Hello, Y/L/N. We’ve been waiting an eternity for you slow poke.  So where is this special guest?” “Oh, he just went to the bathroom.” At the mention of him, Rafe internally panics. Hopefully, this guy is just a friend or gay. 

“Wilson, over here,” he hears Y/N call out, waving a blond and blue-eyed man over. Mason looks over to who his sister brought over for lunch and almost laughs at the sight in front of him. The dude Y/N invited looked like a knock-off version of Rafe, despite the hilarious revelation, the disappointed expression on Rafe’s face stops Mason from laughing. Wilson walks over and slides in beside Rafe. It is like Mason is seeing double, although it is obvious that Y/N can’t see the similarity between the two. “Wilson, this is my twin, Mason and his best friend, Rafe. Guys, this is Wilson,” Y/N introduces everyone to each other with a wide smile. Rafe just nods at the intruding guest, scared his voice will crack. Mason places cross his arms and place his elbows on the table to lean on them, “So Wil. When did you meet Y/N/N? I’ve never heard you mentioned before.” “Well, first of all, my name is Wilson. Not Wil. Also, her name is Y/N. Not Y/N/N,” Wilson starts in a condescending tone that goes over Y/N’s head, “Y/N and I met on the beach, this morning.” 

“Okayyyy, sorry. But it doesn’t surprise me that you met on the beach. Y/N spends most of her time there during the summer,” Mason apologizes awkwardly. He doesn’t love the way Wilson spoke for his sister but he knows if he says anything about it that it will only drive her further into Wilson’s arms. She takes it as a challenge when people give her unwarranted advice and she just does the complete opposite of what they say to do. Kiara could sense the tension between the three boys, observing that Y/N is oblivious to it while she talks about who knows what, so she goes to take their order to help alleviate some of the awkwardness. “Are you guys ready to order?” 

Rafe and Mason are relieved to see Kiara and immediately nod their head. “I’ll try the shrimp Po’ Boy, please,” Mason orders, returning the menu to Kie. Rafe quick glances over the menu, “I’ll just have the cheeseburger and fries, please.” Kiara is surprised by the politeness, which he only adds because of the girl sitting at the table with him. “Can I please have the oyster Po’Boy? Thank you,” Y/N requests. Before Kie can confirm she got the order, Wilson speaks up, “Actually, we will both have the Cesar salad. Everything else on this menu is too greasy.” Everyone, except Wilson and Y/N, gives him a disapproving look for trying to tell her what she could eat. It only surprises Wilson when Y/N corrects him, “No, I want the Po’ Boy. Please.” She smiles sweetly at Wilson with the belief he is just looking out for her. Kiara’s pride for her friend shows whilst she grabs the rest of the menus and goes to place their order in. 

After the nickname and order fiasco, Wilson seems pretty normal and nice throughout the rest of lunch. He probably just has the jitters from meeting new people and that is why he said what he did. Wilson even insisted he pays for everyone's meals. The group makes their way to the front entrance. “I must leave now, I am afraid. It was lovely meeting you all and Y/N I would love to take you out to dinner just the two of us,” Wilson notifies everyone. “I would love that! You have my number so text me anytime.” With that being said, Wilson departs from the group. “I’m going to wait for Kie’s shift to end and catch a ride home with her,” Y/N tells both boys before going back into The Wreck. 

——

Mason and Rafe are chilling in the pool on floaties whilst drinking a beer. “So we hate Wilson, right? It’s not just me saying that because I’m jealous,” Rafe tries to confirm with his best friend. “Oh, most definitely. He is a red flag in walking. But he hasn’t exhibited any abusive behaviour yet, Y/N stood up to him and he could’ve just had nerves about meeting us.” “True, but we both agree that if he keeps acting like that and we so much as see a bruise on her or distance herself from us that we intervene.” Mason agrees, “Totally agree, dude. Enough about him though. Let’s talk about how we are going to continue to put you in her good graces for when Y/N and Wilson part ways.” 

“Well, I think I’ve got this figured out. I was going to bring the girls some food tonight for dinner and then I was thinking we can make a fire pit for s’more. I’m sleeping over today by the way,” Rafe plans, relaxing further back into his floaties. The thought of getting to see Y/N again makes him giddy. “Dude, it’s all good. I know you don’t love staying at home. Plus, if my sister falls for you before she gets together with Wilson, it just means he can be out of our lives faster,” Mason says, hoping he will never have to see Wilson again. 

Y/N and Kiara arrive at the Y/L/N residence to the sound of laughter coming from the pool. The girls enter the backyard to see the boys facing away from them floating with no care in the world. How could they have been in the pool for so long without so much as a drop of water on either of them? The matching smiles on the girls’ faces mean they are on the same page. Both of them lay anything they don’t want to get wet on the bar and take off their shoes. Y/N uses her fingers to count to three and once she gets to three, they both jump toward the boys to sink them into the pool. Mason is attacked by Kiara and Rafe falls victim to Y/N. 

“Dudes, seriously. I already washed my hair this morning after training. Now, I’m going to have to wash it again and that is going to dry my hair out” Mason complains, quickly jumping out of the pool to go fix his hair problems. Kie laughs at his misfortune, “Well, I’m going to go steal your shower Y/N/N because your water pressure is better than the guest bathroom.” This leaves Y/N and Rafe alone in the pool. “You seem to like to get me wet, Y/L/N. What is this, the third time this week? Although, I’d much rather be the one getting you wet.” Rafe swims closer to Y/N, reaching out to take one of her hands into his. He’s afraid she might pull away; she doesn’t. “Haha, now you know how it feels to be on the short end of the stick,” she quips, watching his lips get close to hers. He believes she is going to let him kiss her. Finally, the moment he has bee- RING, RING. The sound of Y/N’s phone causes her to instantly pull away to go get it. Rafe’s disappointment can be seen on his face. 

She answers the phone, placing it against her ear, “Hey Wilson, I’ve been waiting for your call. No, I’m not doing anything right now.” Y/N gives a small wave to Rafe, making her way inside the house, presumably to her room. This leaves the lovesick boy alone in the pool. He should’ve seen it coming; life could never be so easy for him. 

——

Rafe returns to the house accompanied by the dinner he promised everyone. He got authentic personal pizzas from the fancy Italian restaurant Y/N loves. “Yo, I’m back. I got salami and olives for Mace, vegetarian for Kie, and fungi with extra mozzarella for Y/L/N. I also bought some Italian soda because I know how much you like it, Mace,” Rafe places the food in front of the corresponding person before settling down with his own meal. Dinner went much like breakfast, without a single argument between the normally feuding duo. Mason is thankful he didn’t have to play judge for any disagreements. 

The group finishes dinner and this means it is time for s’mores. Rafe and Kiara went out back to start the fire while Mason and Y/N clean up the dishes. After the dishes are spotless, the twins make their way to the back. “Rafe, could you please roast me a mallow? You always get them just perfect. Not burnt but also not cold,” Y/N pleads, holding out her stick toward Rafe. He gladly takes it from her and begins roasting it for her. “You know what would make the s’mores even better? A little bit of grass,” Kie suggests, taking out a rolled joint from inside her bra. Kiara lights the joint, takes a drag then offers it to Y/N. Y/N shyly turns away from the sight, “I’m good, thanks.” Y/N did not love the feeling of being out of control of her body that comes with the high; however, she is fine with people smoking it around her. 

Kie shrugs her shoulder and then hands it to Mason. Mason takes his own hit, then attempts to hand it over to Rafe, who surprisingly does not take it. “No, thanks,” Rafe refuses, focusing on making sure he doesn’t burn Y/N’s marshmallow. This action does not go unnoticed by Y/N and this causes her to smile because she is pretty sure he did it so she wouldn’t feel alone in being sober. Rafe hands the golden brown marshmallow back to Y/N, watching her happily assemble the s’more. He notices a little chocolate smudged on her cheek; he quickly reaches out with a napkin to wipe it away because he knows she hates having her face dirty. “Thanks, Rafe,” Y/N appreciates the gesture; she really is enjoying this new side of him. Her neck feels much better without all the head-turning she has to do, which is normally caused by Rafe’s whiplashing personality. 

The night is spent telling stories, eating s’mores and singing along to the music playing on the portable speaker. It couldn’t have been a better night. “Well, I gotta head to bed. Lacey and I are supposed to face time early tomorrow morning,” Y/N waves goodnight to everyone, heading inside to go to sleep. Rafe wishes she could’ve stayed for longer; he almost worked up enough courage to offer Y/N his sweater when he noticed she was shivering a little. Nonetheless, at least she is leaving early to talk to Lacey and not Wilson. He might’ve had a small tantrum if she was. As he lies in the guest bed waiting to fall asleep, he thinks about Y/N's smile when he wiped the chocolate off her cheek. He really hopes he will have a chance to romantically show her how amazing she is. 

Taglist: @itsalexwin @sublimepenguinpeach-blog  

[autumnslance]

FFXIV Housing Builds

Talking to a pal feeling bummed about their housing decorating, and it's one I hear a lot, that they aren't "good at it" and compare themselves to the builders showing off their fancy and cozy and très chic builds and...

Look. We all know the trouble with Gpose, right? Where PC players with a hundred mods and ReShade and Anamnesis/Ktisis and maybe some post-processing work (and also photography/artist skills/knowledge) take some killer screenshots, and anyone with a console--or even other PC players--who don't have or know how (yet) to use all those tools, wail and gnash their teeth about how their (perfectly glamoured, nicely composed, decently lit, imaginative situations) screenshots just don't compare?

Same things with housing.

A lot of those super fancy builds? They're using half to a quarter of the available space. They're blocking off entire floors, and making camera angles for character screenshots nearly impossible by lowering the ceilings and closing in the walls. They're using a dozen slots to make a unique bed that may be functional.

It's aesthetics. It's playing puzzles. It's seeing what they can do, and it's pretty to look at, and cool to figure out, and neat for ideas...

But it's also not a requirement. It's not workable for every player or their FC. Some are! But some are also just experiments, or art installations.

I have a couple pals who are really into the fancy builds, who even do commissions for their work. We have a decorator lizard in our FC who needs the enrichment, but a requirement I have for the FC spaces are that they have to use the whole space. It has to be functional. It has to fit multiple members of the FC when they want to hang out, maybe take screenshots for storylines and RP and such. Can we fit a couple dozen people the rare times we host events?

Does that mean not a lot of random clutter, a lot of open space? Sure! But I can swing my camera around, fit multiple Roegadyn in a shot, and still have a nice looking, homey space that gets across the idea of what our FC is about. In my personal apartments and house, they're spaces that my characters would live in, and there's room for them and for friends to move around, hang out, take pics together.

Take inspiration from the housing builders! Admire their art and the work they put in, the puzzles they create when making a toaster oven out of six disparate housing items I'd never consider using that way holy cow!

But just like one shouldn't get hung up on the ultra-modded and post-processed screenshots, don't get hung up on the super fancy designer artisanal housing builds. It's a different aspect of the game, and often for different purposes.

Use the Preview Indoor/Outdoor Furnishings options in the housing menu to see what's available, use the websites that list housing items, fiddle around, mix and match, and make something fun that suits your screenshot needs and/or your character's idea of personal space. I promise you; you're doing just fine with your apartment/FC room/house if you're making it for you, even if it takes time to figure it out.

[anistarrose]

Chapters: 8/8 Relationships: Barry Bluejeans & Johann the Bard (The Adventure Zone), The Director | Lucretia & Johann the Bard, Johann the Bard & Everyone (The Adventure Zone) Summary: Barry needs to possess a body for an infiltration mission on the Bureau. Johann doesn’t black out when he’s supposed to. For both of them, this has ramifications.

The sounds of tipsy revelry continue indoors, as Barry steps out into a warm summer night, Lup close behind him with a box of leftover food under her arm. Fireflies dance through the air, above the field and the lake — their flickering lights reflected in the water, like a reminder of just where Barry needs to go.

With a flick of his wrist, he flips a coin into the air, and it transforms into his scythe — which he catches, deftly, but after no small amount of embarrassing practice. Naturally, Lup whistles — like she does every time, since even before he got the hang of it.

“Look at you! We should make you go up there, do stage magician tricks at the concert. Maybe juggle.”

“What, in clown paint?” Her and her goddamn thing for clowns. It’s been an entire year and he still can’t wrap his mind around how much he missed her. Even her clown thing. “You don’t think that — that would kinda distract from — detract from the message?”

“Absolutely not. Ask our composer, he’ll agree,” Lup replies, honey-sweet, and Barry snorts.

“No, uh, I think — I think I’ll let you broach that one, Lup.” He swings his scythe, tearing open a rift to the Astral Plane, and floats off his feet and into the air, as he steps through. Lup follows, and descends alongside him to the black sand beach — that of a small island, just off the coast of the Eternal Stockade.

(read the final chapter) or (start from the beginning)