#still can BARELY GET THROUGH A CONVERSATION

[dykespirk]

I think both tos and aos Jim survived Tarsus. but I think tos Jim was older (15-17) and aos Jim was younger (10-12).

I think tos Jim became the de facto leader of children survivors (as we see with Kevin Riley and Thomas), because of his age. That Jim carries the survivor’s guilt of not being able to save more kids—of watching the youngest ones die (ostensibly) in his care. his coping mechanism is thus leadership—usurping and clinging to positions of authority in an effort to save others; he craves authority, wants and needs to embody it to turn it into something that would’ve saved the others, would’ve saved him. Starfleet becomes his white whale. he needs the myth of Starfleet—an intergalactic emblem of peace, carving through deep space purely to discover (and defend). he embraces starfleet’s militarism because it echoes his understanding of power (some evils need to be defeated; innocents need to be protected). Jim also loves to defend—to entrench and hold boundaries (with the Klingons, the Romulans, with any hostile life). deep space is at the same time mystical—where birth and rebirth are always possible, where miracles happen every day—and orderly, where regulations and boundaries are clearly defined. Jim finds solace and role stability in this space, defending others, acting as a father figure, and indulging in hyper-independence & isolation.

that’s how we get tos Jim, who’s desperate for connection & intimacy, but ultimately clings to his leadership role like it can sustain him—like it’s all that can sustain him. (love, you’re better off without it, and I’m better off without mine. this ship, I give, she takes…I’m the captain…I’ve lost the enterprise, I’m losing command…nothing is more important than my ship) the guardian role is essential to his self-image.

conversely, aos Jim was the child. he was the scared, too-skinny kid who had the rug ripped from under him. aos Jim is born into a world where fatherhood/authority is already dead; George Kirk’s absence is a gaping hole in his life. Starfleet’s idealism makes martyrs, but it also cannibalizes its men to sustain its ideals. George’s replacement, Frank, neglects if not abuses him. that Jim witnesses the complete breakdown of authority. he watches Starfleet come with too little, too late. he sees the older kids die. he watches his only solace from Frank’s terror, his fresh start, become a waking nightmare.

that Jim learns that no one is coming.

his coping mechanisms are withdrawal from the system entirely; to bare his teeth at it, to claw at it, to draw blood. scare them before they can scare you. act bigger than you are. appearances are everything. to distrust authority entirely. give up on Starfleet, because Starfleet is an empty vaccum that will take and take, ineffectual at its core and hypocritical at best.

instead of being defined by his attraction to space, aos Jim is defined by his inability to stay still; his distaste for Earth, for Iowa, for groundedness. for him, staying in Riverside is a kind of self-harm, one he doesn’t understand how to escape and ultimately believes he deserves.

this Jim is lonely not because he uses distance as a defense, but because he’s so distrustful of others, he genuinely can’t imagine an open hand. (enlist?)

that’s how we get the Jim that ultimately cares way more about his crew than his ship; who latches onto Bones like a leech and craves Spock; who wants connection with far less shame has absolutely no expectation of receiving it. this is the Jim that blares sabotage while charging into battle, says fuck you to the admiralty, and would rather die saving lives than live with taking them—that’s what I was raised on.

there’s also the fact that tos Jim is a Jewish man written in an era of liberal internationalist optimism underscored by the early Cold War and the shadows of the Shoah whereas aos Jim is the flashy product of peak commercialized Hollywood in a post-9/11, post George-Bush America. anyways.

[sguidwards-bestfriend]

Im imagining Tim going up to Danny early in the morning as they walk to breakfast. Danny isn't entirely awake and he plans to ask everyone not to touch him today.

Before he can, he hears a voice say, "Happy birthday bud".

Tim touches his hair just barely, the second his fingertips touch a single strand, he goes stiff, his arms pulling in and his breath getting stuck in his throat. He drops and can't hear anything.

Tim, to his knowledge, appears in a basement. The corners of the room seem fuzzy, even when he looks right at them. The whole room seems to tilt towards a hole in the wall.

He's seen enough cults and magic deficient cookoos to know it's an attempt at a non magical portal.

Suddenly 3 people appear in the middle of a conversation, three teens, probably 8th or 9th graders.

A goth girl, white, dyed hair, big boots.

A kid in a beret, black, nails cut short, holding a highly modified pda.

And Danny, he looks less tired, no bags under his eyes, his hair is freshly washed, he's wearing a black and white jump suit.

The soles of the shoes he's wearing are thick, probably rubber. It makes him walk clunky, like they were bought for him to grow into.

He can't make out what they are talking about. The Goth girl sticks a logo onto Danny and smiles.

They seem to egg him on to do... something with the portal, based on where they are looking.

Danny turns and steps towards it, his foot steps echoing loudly in the metal room. Tim gets closer aswell. As he does, he sees how the inside of the portal has wires thrown everywhere.

As he turns, he notices some things wrong with the basement. Open tube's of green goop, no place to wash hands or clean out any eyes, there is no safety equipment in this room, and the entrance is just a stair we'll up, so the likely hood that it's all in the entrance is nearly null.

There are weapons strewn across the table. They don't seem to even have a safety. Much less have said safety on.

Then Tim feels a horrible shock run through him, he feels his body tighten and spasm uncontrollably. There is an echo of people screming.

He's screaming.

So much screaming his throat feels ripped apart.

The pain is unbearable. He can feel each of his nerves firing off all at once.

Cold

Heat

Cold

Burning

Cold

So cold

Finally his muscles release and he drops to the ground.

The room is glowing a sickly green when he sits up. Disoriented, he turns to where the glow is coming from.

His portal theory is correct, he watches as a smoking hand comes out. The rest of the body comes stumbling after.

A white haired boy looking down, with his other hand over his heart, steps forward from the portal, another jumpsuit, this one it's colors inverted to what Danny was wearing.

Danny was in there. Is this?

The white haired boy looks up, lacking the blue Tim has known for a few months now.

Danny looks up.

His skin smokes and his eyes swirl with the green that Tim has only seen in Jason's eyes.

Tim tries to stand, to get between this infected Danny and the other two kids.

Danny walks right through him. His footsteps make no sound as he falls into the kids arms. They're screaming his name.

He's not breathing. They check his pulse, and he sees the beret kid start to cry.

The goth girl looks like she's about to start screaming for help when Danny glows white.

The light blinds him in an instant and when he's blinking the spots out of his eyes he sees Danny in their arms, hair once again dark, and still like a corpse.

Then the scene repeats.

He's on the other side of the room, they start to talk.

This time he sees the clock, way to high to be easy to see.

2pm sharp.

Not in school, so it might be the weekend. But wouldn't Danny's parents hear? Wouldn't anyone notice the definite electrical surge a portal like this opening would cause?

Summer break then, possibly. Less people, parents out running errands or at their job. A summer storm in another town could cause a surge as well.

The basement might be there work place, or it's a hobby, based on how unsafe the lab seems.

Tim knows he doesn't know much about Danny's previous life. Why he came to the Wayne's, why he screams at night, why he seems to act odd around Jason.

He feels wrong seeing this without Danny's permission, but untill he gets out of this loop he can't do anything about that.

This time he simply watches.

Watches as Danny steps into the hole that houses the portal.

Watches as Danny trips and tries to grab hold of the wall.

Watches as the whir of the internal system starts and the green engulfs Danny.

The pain hits him again and he can't think.

Cold, hot, too cold, too hot, freezing, frozen, going to die.

He drops and this time he sees Danny's silhouette floating amongst the green.

He watches as the hands finds it's way to the edge.and pulls him out.

Sees as Danny steps out but doesn't touch the ground.

He floats, not the way Kon does, with confidence and strength. He floats like he hates it, like he's struggling to keep his feet on the ground.

Tim watches the girl, she grimaces when she looks down to the logo she'd stuck to his chest. The black sticker inverted to white, clearly readable.

She feels guilty.

The boy is crying horribly, gripping Danny and trying to check every pulse point to see I anything changes.

When the white light hits, he knows to keep his eyes closed for the spike.

As he opens the he sees, this time, what he missed the first. He's breathing again. It's shallow and stilted but he IS breathing.

Again the scene starts over.

Transference

Dpxdc prompt #39

Deaths don't relive their deaths on their death anniversary.

No that would be too easy.

Instead, anyone who touches a ghost on their death day relives that ghost's death. Over and over again until the day passes.

Danny knows this of course, how could he possibly forget. Jazz tried to shake him awake on his very first anniversary. She went into a state of shock, not moving until the clock passed midnight at which point she started crying and hugging Danny like he'd dissappear the moment she let go.

It wasn't something he particularly wanted to happen again.

Ever.

Only problem is he forgot to inform his new family of this development and a quick head ruffle by an older brother quickly turns into a nightmare.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

Sugar, Baby

Chapter Three: Unraveling

Bruce Wayne x Sugar Baby! Reader

| Part 1 | | Part 2 |

I pinky promise there will be smut in the next part🤞 I just felt like making this one a bit of a slow burn

Taglist: @shadowqueen1322 @secretsideofbree @lillyrob

It started with nights at the manor.

At first, it was just a casual thing—Bruce would send a car, and you’d spend an evening talking over expensive whiskey, letting the world outside the Wayne estate fade into irrelevance. You still worked at the bar, still went to class, but somehow, Bruce had become a fixture in your life.

And it wasn’t just the money.

Yes, he still tipped you ridiculous amounts when he showed up at the bar. Yes, the black card he’d given you sat in your wallet, burning a hole you had yet to fill. But more than that, he was there.

The texts started coming more frequently.

B: You still alive?

You: Barely. My professor is trying to kill me with this assignment.

B: Send me the prompt. I’ll have my team handle it.

You: Absolutely not.

B: I don’t like seeing you stressed.

You: And I don’t like billionaire academic fraud.

B: Fair point.

He called, too—not often, but enough that you found yourself waiting for the sound of his voice on the other end of the line.

The nights at the manor got longer.

At first, it was just drinks and conversation, but then there were the quiet dinners Alfred started preparing for two instead of one. The slow walks through the grand halls of the estate, the firelit nights spent sprawled on the couch in the library, his arm slung lazily over the backrest behind you.

And then, of course, there were the kisses.

God, the kisses.

They started slow, teasing, an extension of whatever sharp-witted conversation you’d been having before he inevitably leaned in. Bruce kissed with purpose, with intent, with the kind of control that made you dizzy.

But that’s all it was.

Kissing.

He never pushed, never let things go further than you could handle, and part of you wondered if he knew.

If he had already pieced together that you had never done this before.

Not this—not just the kisses, but the way he made you feel.

Because it wasn’t just physical.

Bruce knew you.

He listened when you ranted about your classes, when you muttered about your deadlines, when you offhandedly mentioned your favorite books or movies. He remembered, too—casually dropping facts about your life into conversation, surprising you with small gestures that proved he had been paying attention.

“Tell me something real,” you murmured one night, curled up next to him on the oversized couch in his study.

Bruce glanced down at you, brow raising slightly. “Something real?”

You nodded. “Something not in the tabloids.”

He was silent for a moment, fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles against your knee.

“I never sleep for more than three hours at a time,” he admitted finally. “It’s been that way since I was a kid.”

You frowned, shifting to get a better look at him. “Why?”

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through his expression. “You know why.”

You did.

Gotham knew the story of Thomas and Martha Wayne—the billionaire philanthropists gunned down in an alley, the grieving son left behind.

“I dream about them,” Bruce continued, voice quieter now. “Not always in the way you’d think. Sometimes it’s just… glimpses. My mother’s perfume. My father’s laugh. I wake up before I can hold onto any of it.”

Your chest tightened.

You reached for his hand without thinking, threading your fingers through his. Bruce blinked, as if surprised, before his grip tightened around yours.

He didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, rubbing a slow, deliberate pattern over your knuckles. “I just—”

“I’m glad you told me,” you interrupted softly.

He exhaled, eyes flickering toward your lips.

That night, the kisses were softer.

Not urgent. Not desperate. Just there.

Something real.

—

It was a few weeks later when you finally asked.

You were sitting in Bruce’s bedroom—an indulgently large space that still somehow felt distinctly him. There was a fireplace crackling in the corner, the low golden light casting shadows across the room.

Bruce was on the bed beside you, leaning against the headboard, sleeves rolled up as he scrolled through something on his phone. You had a book open in your lap, though you weren’t really reading it.

Instead, you were watching him.

“Bruce.”

He glanced up at the sound of your voice. “Mm?”

You hesitated. “Are you… waiting for something?”

He set his phone down, eyes scanning your face. “What do you mean?”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the book. “I mean, we’ve been… this for a while now.”

Bruce’s lips twitched. “This?”

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he admitted.

You exhaled. “So, are you waiting? For me?”

His expression shifted, something fond passing through his features.

“Yes,” he said simply.

Your stomach flipped. “Why?”

Bruce sat up, moving closer. One of his hands found your knee, fingers brushing against the fabric of your leggings.

“Because I know you,” he said, voice low. “I know you wouldn’t be here if this wasn’t real for you.”

You swallowed hard. “And?”

His thumb traced slow circles against your leg.

“And I want to take my time with you.”

You felt yourself flush, warmth spreading through your body at the implication.

Bruce smirked slightly, tilting your chin up with the crook of his finger.

“You deserve more than rushed decisions,” he murmured. “I don’t need more. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

You inhaled sharply. “I—”

His lips brushed against yours, soft and coaxing.

“Don’t overthink it,” he whispered against your mouth.

And for once, you didn’t.

—

It didn’t happen that night.

Or the next.

Or the one after that.

But somehow, the waiting didn’t feel like waiting.

Masterlist

[chrissv4mp]

♱ STUDY SESH

billie shouldn't feel this way. not about you, and especially not about your fingers that were currently gripping the pencil in your hand as you wrote down notes for an upcoming math test. it was a casual motion, and it wasn't supposed to be arousing at all.

but, in billie's twisted mind, the gentle grip you had made her stomach flip in every different direction.

and you were quick to catch on. it was obvious with the way her eyes stayed glued onto your lengthy fingers whenever you turned to tell her you were ready to move on, and the second that you told her to stop so you could write, her eyes would already be locked onto your hands.

so now, here you were: your knees digging into the hardwood floor, one hand holding billie's thigh open while the other held her waist as you leaned closer and closer to her warm, sopping cunt.

it was torture the way you teased her, your fingers dancing along the skin of her inner thigh only to pull away and pout at her mockingly. she was on the verge of tears.

"jus' one? i'll—please, i'll..." billie's voice trails off, cutting off into a whine when you drag your fingers along her inner thigh.

her eyes never leave you, glasses crooked on the bridge of her nose as she sniffles. she tries to blink back the tears brimming in her eyes, but it's no use because as soon as she gains the smallest amount of control of herself, your fingers are running through her puffy folds, slick with her sticky arousal.

"oh my god," billie whines, voice barely a whisper as her pussy clenches around nothing, back arching away from the couch cushions, "ohmygodohmygod."

you don't pay her any mind, simply smiling and dragging your fingers through her sensitive folds once again. you give her a few more strokes before you hear her frustrated whine.

"ma—mama, i—i can't," she cries softly, face red and tears beginning to run down her cheeks, "n'more teasin'. please."

her hands stay at her sides, pushing at the pillows just to pull them back so hard that her knuckles bleed white. she didn't wanna mess up your pretty hair, even if you were starting to get her all worked up and frustrated.

when you finally look up into her eyes with hooded ones, her lips part even wider, and before she can stop it, she feels the knot in her stomach snap.

you gasp softly, eyes widening in the slightest as you watch billie's cum leak from her pretty cunt and onto your fingers, dripping down her folds and soaking the couch cushions. you couldn't even imagine the conversation she'd need to have with her parents later.

"i—oh my god, what—i..." you don't reply, staying silent despite the sticky feeling between your own thighs growing wetter and wetter the more you look at your tutor—and nerdy best friend.

she looks like a beautiful mess. her hair was a mess from all the squirming, her glasses even more crooked than before, and her face stained with tear streaks. you couldn't even be mad at her.

"i didn't even get to touch you properly, bil." you coo, frowning up at her as you retract your hand from between her trembling legs, "you're just that sensitive, huh?"

billie doesn't know what to say, her lips opening and closing like she has something to say but she doesn't know how to say it. she feels her heart skip a beat whenever you bring your fingers up to your mouth and slowly push them past your plump, pink lips.

the action is so dirty, something she'd never seen before, but she wanted to see it a million times more. the way you thrust your fingers in and out of your mouth, it makes her heart race and her pussy wet. even more than before.

"still wanna feel you 'round my fingers." you murmur against your digits, pulling them out from between your lips with a 'pop'. the confused look on the poor girls' face is enough to make you laugh.

"isn't that what you wanted in the first place, hon?"

billie's heart feels like it stops whenever your palm lands against her cunt in a sharp, harsh slap. it's enough to make fresh tears swell in her eyes, but it's also enough to make the knot in her stomach tighten again.

"don't start cryin' again," you coo, but really, her mewls and weak whimpers are music to your ears.

"'m'sorry." billie cries, shaking her head, "jus'—please, don't—no more." she begs, but the desperation still swirling in her eyes tells you otherwise.

so, you finally push one of your digits into billie's tight hole, and by the quiet squeak that you hear from the nerdy girl, you know she's already feeling full.

guess you needed to stretch her out.

LETTERS. this is all i can give you guys right now 😓 i've been super unmotivated this past month, and it might be due to some things in my personal life or simply just because i really don't feel like writing recently. but i promise i'll be back on my grind & will start to dig into my drafts sometime. seasonal depression is really hitting hard, so i'm sorry i haven't been very active :( i love you all soso much!!! 🤍

TAGS. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @vyntagess @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @stonerfromlesbos @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @karaeilishh @mybluebossanova @sturnsmia @moralesluvr @justtr @greenbttrflyy @bilslovebot @natbelovasblog @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @fawninlove @meliciousmel13

[heavyhitterheaux]

Wifey’s reaction to the pro bowl content? 👀👀

This is a little sneak peak into her and Taylor Rooks Podcast The Woman Cave

You and Taylor were sitting across from one another filming yet another episode for the podcast you both share when the conversation started going into the direction of the pro bowl and she quickly asked you about your husband.

“I see your other half actually went to the pro bowl this year? And participated!?” Taylor said as if she was surprised.

Because she low key knew how he was.

“Yes, he actually went but it did take a lot of convincing. He changed his mind about fifty times. After the season ends, that man stays up under me. Not that I mind, but I'm convinced if he could find a way to actually attach himself to me or crawl into my skin, he would.” You told her as you laughed when you thought about how Joe barely let you do anything by yourself when you both were home.

“And apparently doesn't like mascots?”

With this came the most intense eye roll followed by you shaking your head.

“He is literally such a diva and so dramatic. And he is definitely going to get me for saying that, but Wifey Shiesty said what she said. When I heard his mic’d up clip saying that he tells the Bengals mascot to get away from him, I lost it.”

“That actually doesn't surprise me. But it seemed like he didn't get a lot of time for his portion in the skills part on Thursday.”

“That's why I should have done the trivia because I knew every single answer and he would have won. No shade to Jared obviously. But Ja'Marr always would laugh at me and say that I know his playbook better than he did as well as players stats across every team in the NFL and I still do.”

“Which a lot of people tend to be surprised by.”

“I think that people don't realize that more women actually watch football than men do and we actually know what we're talking about. Some of them are intimidated because we end up knowing more than they do.” You told her and she quickly nodded as she agreed with you.

“Did his answer change once he knew your twin was going?”

You couldn't help but to roll your eyes and smirk.

“Of course it did. Those two together usually send my stress levels through the roof. But they look out for one another and have done that since they were both at LSU and I know it's going to always be that way. I'm definitely grateful for that.”

As soon as the last word left your mouth, you let out a yelp from being startled by Joe's arms wrapping around you, picking you up and him sitting down where you were while placing you onto his lap. His hands protectively went over your baby bump and leaned over to kiss your cheek.

“Hello to you too, husband. Aren't you supposed to be with my twin and Justin!? See what I mean Tay?” You said as Taylor was laughing at the two of you.

“I heard you were talking about me so I figured that I should come pay a visit.” Joe told the both of you as Taylor smiled at him.

“Well, while I have you here….” She started to say as Joe nodded.

“You're my favorite interviewer besides this one right here so go for it.”

“How would you describe your feelings about this season overall?”

“Hmm, speaking from an individual standpoint, I'm happy with the numbers that I put up this year coming back from an injury. Overall, it's disappointing that we didn't make the playoffs but just have to do certain things to keep certain people and I know the front office will make that happen so we can all continue to play together.”

“Yes, put the pressure on them. Now, I remember when you signed your record breaking contract. Are you willing to negotiate in order to keep certain people in Cincinnati?”

“Absolutely without a doubt. Might have to pick up a part time job to make up the difference because my wife is expensive though. You two hiring?”

“Just for THAT comment, absolutely NOT. Your resume is going in the trash. And it's called The Woman Cave, not The Woman Cave plus Joe Burrow.” You told him as you pouted and crossed your arms across your chest.

“And you call me the dramatic one?” Joe asked and you tried to scoot away from him, but failed miserably.

“Ever since I met the two of you, I knew that you were made for each other. Now let me ask you this, NFL Honors?”

“I know I'm not winning MVP…”

“But he's definitely MVP in my eyes.”

Joe had a small smile on his face before continuing.

“But I'll still go and show my face. Always love going down there. It's like a family reunion with my LSU family and with my wife's family.”

“And who are you predicting will win the big game on Sunday?”

“I hope they both lose. But if I HAD to pick, definitely going with Jalen.”

“NOT you saying you hope they both lose. Babe, it doesn't work like that.” You told him as he shrugged.

“I'm using one of your lines, I said what I said.”

“You've definitely been around me too long.”

[gojougf]

love me not .ೃ࿔ gojo satoru

synopsis ╰┈➤ pining over your best-friend's brother for as long as you can remember actually did work out in your favour!

wc: 6.1k

warnings: shameless smut bc i was deprived of having the best friend's older brother experience, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, fingering, mentions of getting pregnant, mentions of food, fem reader, angst if you squint really really really hard.

a/n: this is a remake of a geto fic i wrote last year on ao3 when i was missing tumblr bc i had to visit my home country, and tumblr is actually banned there.. so in the offchance you did read my fic on ao3 (it has like 1k hits so you probably haven't) this is the same author lol! my writing lowkey sucked back then. english is also not my first language so I apologise if there are any grammatical errors or mistakes. not proofread so if it does say suguru's name or describes his attributes instead of satoru it is not my fault ok ( ´ ω ` )

You rolled over, stomach aching with hunger, as you listened to the slow, steady breathing of your best friend. The dim glow of the clock read 3:25 AM. With a sigh, you stared at the dark ceiling, unable to ignore the gnawing emptiness in your stomach any longer.

It was your sleepover with Ami, but an ill-timed nap during dinner had left you feeling both restless and starving. Giving in, you quietly tiptoed out of the room and made your way to the kitchen, hoping there were some leftovers from the meal you and Ami had prepared earlier.

Switching on your phone’s flashlight, you barely stifled a scream when a dark figure loomed in the kitchen. Your heart slammed against your ribs as the figure turned, moonlight catching sharp eyes—ones that, even through your panic, you recognized instantly.

"Y/N? What’re you doing here?"

The deep, sleep-roughened voice of Gojo Satoru, Ami’s older brother, filled the silence. He spoke through a mouthful of Oreos, crumbs clinging to his lips. You exhaled shakily, quickly turning off your flashlight.

"I—uh, I was hungry and couldn’t sleep," you admitted, staring at anything but him. "Thought I’d grab some of the leftovers."

Your heart still pounded in your chest, but now for an entirely different reason.

You had known Gojo Satoru for as long as you could remember. Through every phase, every milestone, every moment of your friendship with Ami—he had always been there. Not always present, but there. Three years older, confident, effortlessly cool. While Ami was open and fiery, Gojo was just as lively—charming, talkative, always the center of attention. He had a way of making people feel at ease, flashing his easygoing grin and slipping effortlessly into conversation. But with you, it was different. With you, he was distant. Playfully dismissive at best, indifferent at worst, like you were the only person in the world he had no interest in figuring out.

And yet, despite his distant nature, one undeniable truth remained: you had been hopelessly in love with him for years.

Only two people in the world knew this—Ami and your diary.

You still remember the first time you saw him. Fourteen-year-old you had been completely mesmerized by the sight of Ami’s older brother—the ivory, icy hair, so similar to his sisters (you’d always called them Elsa’s siblings) the shirts he’d wear that did little to hide the toned body he had began building once he started hitting the gym, biceps filling the sleeves, and the way the muffled sound of his electric guitar filtered through the walls when you and Ami were in her room. You had been too shy to even approach him, content to admire him from afar, heart pounding at every accidental brush of his arm when he passed by.

Your infatuation had been so painfully obvious that Ami had once turned to you, deadpan, and asked, "Do you like my brother?"

You stammered, cheeks burning, only for her to roll her eyes and say, "I don’t care, do whatever you want."

But wanting had never been enough.

Over the years, you had tried—desperately—to get his attention. Push-up bras you had no business wearing at sixteen. Cherry-flavored lip gloss, tiny shorts, stolen tank tops from your older sister. Cute bikinis on beach trips with Ami, hoping his gaze would linger just a second too long. But he never looked. Never really looked. To him, you were just his little sister’s friend.

Seventeen-year-old you had given up entirely.

Especially when you saw the other girls.

The ones he did look at. The ones he brought home late at night, holding them close as they giggled against his shoulder, their hands roaming across his tall, lean frame. The ones who disappeared into his room, only for you to hear muffled noises through the walls no matter how hard you tried to ignore them.

"Give up already," Ami had told you bluntly one night, rolling her eyes. "My brother’s a whore."

Now, at twenty, with college life keeping you busy, Gojo Satoru has become little more than a distant, bittersweet memory. You had forced yourself to move on, burying that old crush deep in the past where it belonged.

But then, summer came.

And Satoru was back.

Home for a few weeks, lounging around the house like he owned the place. Teasing Ami relentlessly, getting on her nerves while you stood awkwardly by, watching the two siblings bicker. Occasionally, he would drag you into the conversation—just to fluster you, just to see you squirm.

At most, your only real interactions with him had been when he gave you and Ami a ride to school in his car or when he felt like helping with your math homework. Even then, it was never just help. It was teasing Ami for her awful math skills, then turning to you with a smug grin and exaggerated praise, just to make her mad.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

It had to mean nothing.

And yet, as you stood there in the dimly lit kitchen, watching him casually eat Oreos under the moonlight, you couldn’t ignore the way your pulse quickened.

Like that fourteen-year-old girl was still somewhere inside you, heart still foolishly hoping.

You stood there awkwardly, stomach no longer the only thing in knots. This was the first time you’d ever been alone with Gojo Satoru, and suddenly, you had no idea what to do with yourself.

"You want some Oreos?"

He pushed the half-empty packet toward you from across the counter, chewing lazily on one himself. "Oh—uh, thanks." You took one, feeling a little ridiculous as you nibbled at the edge. Turning away, you busied yourself with the microwave, searching for the tacos you and Ami had left behind earlier. From the corner of your eye, you noticed the way Satoru raised an eyebrow. You weren’t exactly being subtle about your discomfort.

"Are you scared of me or something?" His voice was teasing, but there was curiosity behind it. "You never talk to me." You turned, startled by his bluntness. "I’m not scared of you," you said quickly. "I just… don’t really know what to talk to you about." He let out a low, breathy laugh at that, and warmth spread through your body at the sound. God, why did he have to sound like that?

"Oh, really?" he mused. "I’ve known you for years, and this is the first time we’ve actually had a conversation without Ami around." You didn’t have a response for that, so you focused on the tacos instead, pulling them from the microwave and settling onto a chair near the countertop.

Satoru snickered, shaking his head as he turned to the fridge. He rummaged through it with his broad back to you, the muscles of his shoulders shifting beneath his tank top. Your gaze drifted downward, trailing from the taper of his waist to the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His icy hair was gleaming under the dim light of the fridge, looking pristine even at such an absurd hour in the night. With a small flustered twinge in your chest you noticed how he had an undercut now— why’d he look more.. delectable than usual? Were you ovulating?

He turned back around, holding a container of leftover cake. You quickly looked away, flustered. "You like strawberry cake, don’t you?" He cut two slices, sliding one toward you. You blinked in surprise. "How do you know that?"

He smirked at your expression. "Ami mentioned it once. When she threw you that surprise party for your 16th birthday." Your breath caught. That was nearly four years ago. You hadn’t even thought he knew about that party, let alone remembered such a small detail about you.

Heart fluttering, you took a bite of the cake, trying to push down the giddy feeling creeping up your spine. Slowly, the tension between you began to ease. Satoru was surprisingly easy to talk to—charming, even. He started sharing embarrassing stories about Ami, making you laugh so hard you had to cover your mouth to muffle the sound. You learned that he wasn’t as distant as you had always thought—if anything, he was naturally outgoing, effortlessly getting along with everyone. Everyone except you, or so it had always seemed. But now, as the conversation flowed and you found unexpected common ground, you realized he wasn’t avoiding you—he just never had a reason to talk to you. Until now. You also learned that he had a lot more in common with you than you expected. He was into photography, filmmaking, and music composition, even studying music at university.

What started as a midnight snack turned into hours of conversation. Before you knew it, the sky was shifting from black to a soft, early-morning blue. 

"Never knew you were this cool, Y/N." 

You tried not to visibly preen at his words, fighting to keep your composure. "So you didn’t think I was cool before?" you teased. He rolled his eyes dramatically. "C’mon, you know what I mean." Then, more casually, he added, "You should hang out with me sometime. I could show you some of my short films, if you’re interested." Your heart skipped a beat, and before you could stop yourself, you nodded—a little too eagerly.

He chuckled, eyes crinkling. But then, for the first time that night, his gaze flickered—down. Just briefly. You caught the way his eyes lingered at the neckline of your flimsy sleep shirt before snapping back up to meet yours.

A shiver ran down your spine.

But before you could overthink it, Satoru stretched, gave you a lazy grin, and bid you goodnight before heading back upstairs. When you finally slipped back into bed next to Ami, she was still sound asleep, completely unaware of your absence. You buried your face in the pillow, heart pounding.

You had definitely caught him looking.

And just like that, your years-old crush was back in full force.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

A few days later, you were back at Ami’s house, waiting for her to return from running errands. You plopped onto the couch, scrolling through your phone absentmindedly, when footsteps coming down the stairs caught your attention. You looked up.

Satoru.

His white hair was falling into his eyes, loose strands framing his sharp features, and the compression shirt he wore clung to his torso in a way that wasn’t helping your thoughts at all. 

"Oh, hey," he greeted, blinking at you in mild surprise. "You waiting on Ami?"

"Yeah, she said she’s gonna be late, though. Not sure how long."

"Damn." He stretched lazily. "I was about to head to the gym, but they’re closed today." You nodded, pretending to focus on your phone again, even though all you could think about now was him at the gym. Then, his voice broke through your thoughts.

"You wanna come up to my room?" Your head snapped up. He was watching you, eyes unreadable, a small smirk playing on his lips. Your stomach flipped. Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head at his suggestion, your face turning toward him with a slight pink dusting your cheeks.

“What? Go to your room?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, a smirk twitching at his lips. “Yeah, you said you’d be interested in seeing some of my short films for my college projects. Want me to show you some? Seeing as we both have nothing else to do.” There was a certain teasing lilt to his voice, his sharp eyes taking in your flustered state with amusement.

“Oh.”

Realization struck, and you cursed yourself internally for how obviously thrown off you sounded. Really, it wasn’t your fault—you were a newly minted adult, and your hormones were practically waging war against your common sense. Still, you nodded, standing up alongside him, hyper aware of just how much taller he was. That ever-present smirk never left his face as he led you to his room, clearly entertained by your reaction.

The moment you stepped inside, you realized this was the only space in Ami’s house you hadn’t properly explored. You’d caught glimpses before—grabbing a charger or returning something Ami had borrowed—but never had you taken the time to actually look around. It was surprisingly neat, with the exception of his desk, which was cluttered with scattered papers and notebooks. A few posters lined the walls, his bed was made, and the entire space carried the familiar scent of his cologne.

“You can sit if you’d like. It’ll take me a second to find the files,” he said, gesturing to the bed as he made his way to the desk.

You hesitated before sitting down, instantly taking in just how much stronger the scent of his cologne was here. His bed, his pillows—everything was drenched in it. You briefly considered asking him what brand he used before dismissing the thought as too weird.

As Satoru rummaged through his laptop, you let your eyes drift to his back. The black compression shirt he wore hugged his broad shoulders, the fabric straining slightly each time he moved. You wonder what it would feel like putting your ankles on them while he– stop! Your gaze traveled lower, to his tapered waist, the way his sweatpants hung low on his hips—

You shook your head quickly, mentally chastising yourself for where your thoughts were heading. You crossed your legs in an attempt to ground yourself, tugging at the hem of your skirt in the process. As if sensing your discomfort, Satoru glanced back at you before giving you a small, teasing smile.

“M’not gonna bite, you know. You can sit comfortably,” he muttered, his attention half on the laptop.

“I-I know,” you mumbled, shifting slightly.

With that same lazy smirk, he returned his focus to the screen, fingers moving effortlessly across the keyboard. You watched them for a second too long—his hands were large, his nails neatly trimmed, his fingers long and dexterous. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to focus on the files he was pulling up rather than imagining sucking on his fingers.

“Aha,” he mumbles. “Found it.”

He clicks on a small folder icon, opening a three-minute video that plays like a cinematic trailer. You watch, both curious and impressed, as the screen fills with warm, golden hues—the entire short film has an almost Sufjan Stevens-esque aesthetic, shot on a beach at sunset. A man with dark long hair with striking amethyst eyes and a stunning woman with short, rust coloured hair (you ignore the tiny pang of jealousy at the fact that she got to work with Satoru) move through the scenes, their story unfolding in quiet gestures and lingering glances.

“The theme was ‘how love is shown through actions rather than words,’” he explains casually, glancing at you.

You look at him, thoroughly impressed. Even in such a short film, the theme is so carefully and beautifully portrayed through small, thoughtful details. You’d always assumed Satoru would lean toward thriller, or perhaps comedy, something packed with action. But this—this careful, deliberate depiction of love through unspoken moments—only deepens your admiration for him.

“I can tell,” you breathe out, taking in the last frames of the trailer. “It’s really beautifully made.”

A small, pleased smile tugs at his lips as he closes his laptop.

“The actors are beautiful, too. It adds to the mood of the film,” you add softly, glancing at him.

Satoru laughs—a smooth, melodic sound that makes your stomach flip.

“Those are two of my best friends. Suguru and Shoko,” he says. “Getting Shoko to agree was the hard part—she’s not into guys, but I knew her face had the exact look I wanted for this. She didn’t mind pretending to be with Suguru, but I did have to bribe her with a pack of cigarettes to make up for it.” He grins, amused at the memory.

You laugh too, feeling a strange sense of relief at his words. So Shoko wasn’t even into Satoru. Not that it should matter, but—well. She was gorgeous. You could admit that much. If you weren’t completely, hopelessly in love with Satoru, you might have tried hitting her up yourself.

He leans back against his pillow, elbow propped up to hold his head, watching you with lidded eyes and a lazy smile. You curse yourself for turning pink under his gaze. Shifting slightly, you fold your legs underneath you, adjusting your skirt as it rides up just a little. His eyes flicker downward, tracking the movement, before darting back up to your face.

You suddenly feel the weight of the atmosphere, hyper aware of the way his presence fills the room. Your gaze flits away, scanning the walls, the desk—anywhere but him.

“Um, I think I should go. Ami’s probably almost h—”

Your words cut off as Satoru’s large, warm hand closes gently around your wrist.

His lips curve into something unreadable, his dark eyes holding yours. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low, “I know about your little crush on me.”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t know whether to go pale or burn up entirely, but it feels like something in between.

“Wh—what?” You barely manage to force out the word. “Who said that? I don’t have a crush on you.”

He gives you a knowing look, rolling his eyes playfully. “C’mon, you think I wouldn’t notice?” He shifts slightly closer, and the warmth of his cologne—sandalwood and something rich you can’t name—fills your senses. “It’s so obvious. How did you think I wouldn’t know?”

Your breath catches as he reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with an easy familiarity. You blink at the gesture, suddenly feeling absurdly close to tears.

He notices. His expression softens as he wipes at the corner of your eye with his thumb.

“Why’re you crying, pretty?” He murmurs.

“I—I don’t know,” you stammer. “I thought—I thought you’d find me weird. Or childish. For having a crush on you.” You fidget with your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “I’m sorry if you’re uncomfortable, just—just please don’t make fun of me or anything.”

His thumb lingers against your cheek. “I never said I didn’t enjoy your attention.”

Your breath stills.

“I think you’re pretty cute too,” he admits, voice dropping lower. “I’ve thought that for a while now.” His fingers trail to tuck your hair gently behind your ear. “I’ve always been… a little older than you. Always thought you were attractive as hell, but I didn’t want to freak you out about the age thing. Not until I saw one of Ami’s chats with you.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, and you fight the instinct to take it in your mouth.

You shake yourself. Your brain can’t keep up with your body right now.

You look up at him, dazed, hanging onto his every word.

“Always suspected you had a little crush on me,” he muses. “You think I didn’t notice the tiny little tops you wore? How you’d lean in extra close, tits practically brushing against my arm, when asking me for help with math—math you already knew, by the way.” His eyes gleam as he watches you squirm. “Or how you’d reapply that pink lip gloss every time I looked at you?”

Your heart is pounding so loudly you think he might hear it.

He tilts his head slightly, watching you with that slow, amused smirk.

“My suspicions were kinda confirmed when I saw you texting Ami about how sexy you thought I was,” he murmurs, his voice like silk.

Your brain is screaming.

And yet, you don’t move away.

You hide your face behind your hands in embarrassment, unable to believe he was telling you all this, too ashamed to look at him. His words ignited desire in you. He had noticed all your futile attempts to seduce him and despite the teasing words, you were getting wetter by the second.

He tutted softly, his eyes flicking to your face with a look that almost seemed amused. Gently, he reached for your hands, pulling them away from your face. His large hand easily enclosed both of your wrists, holding them firmly but not painfully, as he pinned them softly to your lap.

His gaze remained on you, studying your flushed expression with a small, knowing smile.

“You know what I wanted to do then?” He says, his voice low and teasing, as he leans a little closer, his eyes locked onto yours. The playful gleam in his eyes lingers as he watches you, a small, teasing smile tugging at his lips, his tone laced with lust.

“What?” You ask with a faint voice as he leans into you, his mouth beside your ear, his breath warm against your skin. The proximity makes your heart race, and you can feel your breath catch in your throat as his presence fills the space around you.

“Wanted to fuck you so badly. I’ve jerked off so many times thinking about you.” He groans as he pulls back, his oceanic eyes now clouded by desire and lust as he boldly makes eye contact with you, squeezing both your hands in his large grip.

You instinctively reach up to wet your lips, no longer unfamiliar with the warmth of embarrassment after his bold words. Then, surprising even yourself, you do something you never imagined—your heart racing as you rise onto your knees, tilt your head, and press your lips gently against his.

He responds immediately, his hand freeing your wrists as it goes to grip the back of your neck, and the other spayed on your lower back. He kisses you passionately, the kiss itself a clash of teeth and tongue. You moan as his tongue enters your mouth, swirling around yours and completely dominating your mouth as you gladly let him. You feel dizzy when experiencing a kiss like this, pulling back from air, your lips coated in a mixture of both your saliva.

He has a crazed look in his eyes, as he leans in to softly bite your bottom lip, maintaining eye contact with you as he tugs on it slightly, letting it go with a pop. You’re breathing heavily, not only because of the kiss but because of how heavily you’re attracted to him.

Without warning he pushes himself against the headboard of the bed, spreading his legs slightly and pulling you on his lap. You let out a small whimper at the way he manhandles you, arching your back and pressing your chest towards his as you both start kissing again. He kisses you like you’re his last meal, his tongue playfully chasing yours as he sucks on it, making you buck your hips against his.

He lets out a low groan at that, and you swear that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard in your life. Eager to hear it again, you grind your crotch onto his again, feeling the hardening imprint of his cock through his sweatpants. He grabs you in place by placing his large hands on your waist, bringing his hips up to rut his cock against your crotch again. At this point your panties are completely soaked. you were already wet just from his confession about you, his smooth voice being able to turn you on embarrassingly quick. They feel uncomfortably wet and you look down, seeing a wet patch forming on his sweatpants.

He humps into you harder, as you try your best to rub down on him, your clit being stimulated by the feeling of his hardened length rubbing against you even through the layers of clothing. Satoru stops his ministrations for a second, looking at you, realising how small you are even while sitting in his lap. his hands travel up your thighs as he lifts your skirt, taking in your absolutely soaked pussy. You bite your lip in both frustration and lust, wanting him to touch you rather than just stare.

“Fuck baby, you’re so eager, huh” he mumbles, distracted by how he can see the shape of your pussy through your panties. You moan, a little embarrassed, pushing your hips up, to signal him to touch you. Teasingly, he runs a long finger through your slit over your soaked panties. You swear you almost cum at his touch, as your body suddenly jolts, your hands grab at his shoulders. He chuckles a little, as he slips his hand in your underwear, his fingers teasingly sliding up and down your labia, gathering your slick. he uses that slick and prods at your puffy clit, causing you to let out a whimper, your hands grabbing tightly at his shoulders as you bury your face in the crook of his neck.

“So shy.. fuck I wanna see if you can come on my fingers alone. Y’r so wet, You like it messy?” He breathes out his words, his voice like honey, his fingers setting a brutal pace against your clit as you succumb to the pleasure, not even getting embarrassed at the fact that you’re basically riding his hand. with no warning his middle finger slides into you gently, as you gasp at the intrusion. However your clit is never left neglected, as his thumb immediately goes back to rubbing and flicking it, making you bite and kiss his neck in order to somehow relieve yourself of the torturous pleasure you’re experiencing.

“F-fuck,” you mutter, leaning back to look at Satoru in the eyes, biting your lip. “I think- I think ‘m close Satoru.” You close your eyes as he watches your face intently, his gaze boring into you as you twist your face into one of pleasure. Suddenly you feel a coil in your stomach snap as you feel yourself release all over his fingers, your breaths coming out fast and shaky. with one last flick to your clit, he grins smugly.

Clumsily, you climb off his lap, kneeling off the bed, hands reaching the waistband of his sweatpants. his brow furrows as he tsks cutely. “Let me take care of you baby, don’t you wanna feel good?” He asks as you shake your head, still flushed from your orgasm.

“No. wanna make you feel good too Satoru.” You say, as he throws his head back in a groan, getting painfully hard at just your words. “Fuck. okay. you’ve done this before?” He asks, as you nod your head. “Once, but I.. I don't know if I'm good at it.. I mean he came.. so..” You admit, looking at him, playing with the drawstring of his sweatpants.

“Shit, you have such a pretty mouth, I'm sure it’ll be good. I’ll teach you, baby” he says, caressing your face, setting his legs at the edge of the bed, as you get down on the floor between his spread legs, looking up at him.

You quickly discard your shirt, leaving you in your bra. Ironically, you chose to wear a lace one today as all your other ones were in the wash. Satoru smirks at your cute, lacy pink bra, snapping the strap against your skin as he looks down at you, analysing both your face and your supple tits. You nimbly take off his pants, gulping at the tent in his boxers. Timidly you run a hand over his clothed cock, and you see a wet spot starting to form. He gasps at the feeling of your hand caressing him, and you pull down his boxers with a gasp.

It's big. it’s really big, is all you’re thinking. It slaps against his stomach, tall and proud, the tip a flushed pink colour, already starting to dribble pre-cum. His base is trimmed, and you almost salivate when you see how it connects to his happy trail, the tantalising white trail peeking out at the end of his compression shirt. You have no idea how you’re gonna fit it inside of your mouth.

You gingerly grab it, your mouth reaching out to kitten lick the tip. Slowly you take the tip in your mouth, suckling on it, as you start to make your way down. He starts moaning when you pay attention to the tip, and you bob your head up and down his shaft, feeling a small sense of success when you hear him downright whimper, and you feel slick slide out of you again. You eagerly bob your head up and down, not being able to take all of him in because he’s so big, spit is coating your chin and dripping on his dick, your hands pumping the remaining part of the shaft that won’t fit in your mouth. You’re gagging and he’s grabbing your hair to roughly lift it up and then thrusting his cock back in your mouth, and you let out a moan, pressing your thighs together at the rough way that he handles you.

“Fu-fuck, you’re taking it so well. Shit- ah!” He moans out louder and you look up at him with teary eyes, hollowing your cheeks. A few more thrusts and suddenly he pulls you off, his face flushed.

You whine, wanting him to cum in your mouth. He coos up at your needy reaction, pulling you onto his lap, his face flushed and red. “You’re on birth control right?” He pants recalling when he had overheard you telling Ami that you’d need to leave their house soon to stop by the store to get some birth control before they closed. You nod and he gives you a happy grin, his canines peeking through. 

“Need to cum inside of you.” He whispers in your ear and you nod eagerly, wiping off the spit on your chin with the back of your hand.

His hands travel up your skirt and pull your basically ruined panties off as you sign a breath of relief, the cold air hitting your pussy. You’re left in a bra and a skirt and you quickly unclasp your bra and Satoru pushes off your skirt. You’re left completely naked and Satoru still has his shirt on.

“Hey, take your shirt off too!” You whine and he laughs, pulling off his shirt in one swift go and kicking his sweats and boxers that were both pooling at his ankles. Immediately your hands run down the hard planes of chest, feeling his rippling muscles, your hands scratching at his abs. He shudders at that as he buries his face in your tits, licking and kissing them in a way which has you arching them in his face.

He sets you down on the bed as he grabs his stiff cock, running it up and down your pussy. It touches your clit, which is still sensitive after your previous orgasm, and you let out a little whimper.

“Satoru, stop staring at it like that..” You mumble shyly, as Satoru’s eyes are completely focused on how your pussy is clenching, wanting nothing more than his teasing cock inside.

“Your pussy? S’not my fault it’s so fuckin pretty. Wanna taste it next time.” He mumbles and you flush at his crude words, moaning and bucking your hips as he prods his dick at your entrance.

You close your legs at the intrusion as he slips the tip inside, hissing at the slight burn as he stretches you out. He pries apart your knees with his huge hands, spreading out your pussy to him and you grab the sheets, writhing. He enters you slowly, pulsing inside of you, and suddenly the pain melts into pleasure.

“You can-you can put it fully in now.” You signal and he immediately fills you up, staying still so you can get used to the size. “M-move. Fuck. Please, Satoru, move!” You whimper and he starts thrusting into you, at a deep yet slow pace that has you seeing stars. He kisses you, swallowing your moans as he peppers his kisses down to your neck, sucking and kissing, which you’re sure is gonna leave marks but you’re feeling too good to care at the moment.

Satoru starts whimpering, relishing each time he slides into your warm, gummy walls. “You’re so tight, your pussy is literally suckin’ me in. Shit you’re so gorgeous” he breathes out, watching down at where your bodies are meeting, getting turned on by the lewd slapping sounds filling his room. Your eyes roll back in response, you’re too fucked out to respond. He grabs your legs and pushes them to your chest as you squeal, his cock now drilling into you at a deeper angle. He keeps hitting the right spot each time and you swear that with a few more thrusts you’ll cum again.

“Ah, I'm so close. You sure I can cum inside this tight little hole?” he says, looking you in the eye, as you nod eagerly. “Please, please cum in me. I need it inside of me!” You start incessantly babbling as he chuckles. Thoughts of him fucking a baby into you take over you and you wonder what it would feel like having him cum in you without any birth control.

He grabs your tits, squeezing them harshly, rolling your nipples in your hands, fucking into you at an almost animalistic pace as he is trying to reach his high. You feel that familiar bond in your stomach, as its warmth is threatening to spread all over your body.

“Sa– Satoru!! I’m gonna cum, I’m-“ You start writhing as he moves his hands to hold your hips down, his thrusts becoming sloppier. He reaches down to kiss you messily, biting your bottom lip as you moan into his mouth.

He suddenly stills, filling you to the hilt, breathing heavily as you feel him release hot spurts of cum in you. The thick ropes of his seed paint your walls, suddenly fucking into you harder, even though he’s sensitive after his orgasm, a hand reaching down to play with your clit to help you cum too.

You feel the bond snap as you cum all over his cock, arching your back and grabbing the sheets, your breaths coming out in pants as you lock eyes with Satoru. His hair is falling onto his slightly sweaty forehead, and he’s breathing heavily, as he pulls out. A mixture of both your fluids come out, and he quickly goes to the bathroom and grabs a small cloth, wiping you down and cleaning you.

“You okay? Need me to run a bath?” he asks, concern lacing his voice. You shake your head tiredly, lifting your arms toward him.

“Can you hold me?” Your heart pounds as you meet his gaze, and he smiles down at you—soft, reassuring.

“Of course I can, baby,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against him. Your head nestles into the crook of his neck as his fingers stroke through your hair, his warmth melting away the last traces of exhaustion. He tugs the blankets over both of you, his steady breathing lulling you into a peaceful haze.

Within minutes, sleep claims you both, wrapped in each other’s embrace—completely unaware of the door creaking open downstairs.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

You creep down the stairs quietly, Satoru’s hand warm in yours. The morning light filters through the windows, casting a soft glow over the living room. After last night, you had called your parents, telling them you were staying over at Ami’s—though you left out a few details.

Both of you are still giggling when Ami suddenly pops out of the kitchen, wielding a spatula like a weapon.

“You guys need to be more quiet. Pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard you,” she grumbles, smacking Satoru’s shoulder with the spatula.

“Ow—why are you hitting me? She was the one making all the noise,” he teases, nudging you with a smirk.

You groan, burying your face in your free hand as Ami winces.

“I did not need to know that. At all.” She glares at him before her eyes narrow suspiciously. “So… are you two, like, dating now or something?”

You tense, looking away but still holding Satoru’s hand. Truthfully, you have no idea where you stand with him.

“If she’d let me, sure,” he says softly, a faint pink dusting his cheeks.

You whip your head around so fast you almost give yourself whiplash.

Ami rolls her eyes. “Whatever. If you hurt her, I’ll kill you myself.” With that, she turns and disappears back into the kitchen.

Satoru chuckles, leading you toward his car to drop you back home. As he unlocks the door, he looks at you, a playful glint in his eye.

“So… what do you say? Wanna go on a date with me?”

hiiii writing is so fun omg i have so many ideas and so much freetime i think i'm gonna write about nerdjo next :3

[arabella0001]

Choso and how he doesn’t understand romance, but loves you like it’s all he knows, as your man

Choso, who has a hard time expressing his emotions but, when he finally does, his words are bare and unfiltered "I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you."

Choso who never fidgets, never stirs without reason, except when you’re near. Fingers tightening around fabric, gaze flickering toward you before settling elsewhere. A silent battle between restraint and instinct.

Choso, who once rushed to your side after hearing your heartbeat spike in fear, his curse instincts overriding everything else. “You were scared,” he says when he finds you, his expression serious. “I won’t let anyone or anything hurt you.”

Choso who, one time, overheard some guys at a market talking about "smooth pickup lines" and decided to try one. You nearly choked on your drink when, with complete seriousness, he looked at you and said, "Are you a curse? Because you’ve… attached yourself to my soul." He’s so bad at it, but he really tried.

Choso who doesn’t do small talk. If he asks how you’re doing, he means it. If he touches you, even in the smallest way, it’s intentional. No wasted words, no wasted actions—just quiet devotion disguised as indifference.

Choso who is so still, so composed, until you’re involved. You trip, and before you even register what’s happening, he’s already caught you, hands firm around your waist.

Choso, who isn’t one for crowds but will endure them if it means being by your side. His eyes constantly find you in the chaos, his hands almost always on yours, to remind you you’re never alone.

Choso who also listen your heart just because. When you ask why, he just murmurs, “It’s calming. It reminds me you’re alive.”

Choso who also was panicked when your heartbeat was erratic, rushing to find you only to discover you’d been laughing too hard at something silly. He scolded you softly, his cheeks flushed with relief. “Don’t scare me like that,”

Choso who, despite his intimidating presence, is an absolute mess when you flirt with him. You call him pretty and he nearly drops whatever he’s holding. You trace a finger down his arm and he stops breathing for a second.

Choso who can take a hit without flinching, who has stood through battles drenched in blood—yet when you lean in close to fix his collar, his breath stutters. He stiffens like you just hit him with a surprise attack, ears burning as he mutters, “Thank you, Y/N”

Choso who gets flustered in the most cute ways. You brush a loose strand of hair from his face, and his entire body tenses, ears faintly pink. Later that night, he clumsily tucks your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering for a fraction too long. An unspoken attempt at returning the gesture.

Choso who lets you play with his hair, sitting still as your fingers work through it, but the moment you lean down and whisper, “You look good like this,” his face is unreadable, but the deep red on his ears tells you everything.

Choso who is terrifyingly strong but once let you paint his nails because you said it would look cool. He didn’t judge, didn’t complain, just sat there, watching you with an unreadable expression. Later, he asked you to do it everytime you have time.

Choso who struggles with social small talk but absolutely thrives in weird, deep conversations. You joke, "Would you still like me if I was a worm?" and instead of laughing, he frowns, considering it seriously. After a long pause, he nods. "I’d keep you safe."

Choso who doesn’t understand sarcasm at all. You jokingly say, "Wow, thanks for holding the door, real gentleman." He immediately backtracks, opens the door, and stands there stiffly, waiting. When you laugh, he frowns. "You were being serious, right?"

Choso who listens, even when you don’t think he is. You casually mention craving something, and the next day, it’s in your hands. You sigh about being tired, and suddenly, he’s adjusting a pillow behind your back. He won’t say he listens. He proves it instead.

more choso content here

[the-offside-rule]

Out of Her Depth - Chapter 3: The Superbowl Party

Out of Her Depth: The Masterlist

Saoirse wasn’t sure how she ended up at a Super Bowl party in Cinccinati when she could’ve been at home in Monaco, enjoying a quiet evening with her sim rig before having to go to London for the car launches, but Daniella had insisted, and when Daniella insisted, it was nearly impossible to say no.

Now she stood in the middle of a crowded penthouse, surrounded by NFL players, influencers, and celebrities, feeling completely out of place. Saoirse adjusted the jacket she wore over her black top and crossed her arms, sticking close to Daniella like a lifeline. She watched the TV screen, but the chaos of American football made no sense to her. The constant stopping and starting, the endless rules, what was the point?

"You look miserable." Daniella teased, sipping her drink. "Am I that obvious?" Saoirse muttered. "Painfully." Daniella laughed, nudging her. "Come on. Loosen up! It’s a party." Saoirse sighed. "I am trying, but I can't. I hate America." Ja'Marr came over, pecking Daniella's cheek. "What'd I miss?" He asked, hangin is arm around Daneilla's shoulders. "I wanna introduce her to some of your teammates. Expand her social circle."

"Sounds good to me. Maybe try-"

"No need." Saoirse shook her head before she could even finish. "I'm all good." Ja’Marr Chase, Daniella’s boyfriend and one of the biggest names in the NFL liked Saoirse. He liked how quick she was with her words. He also knew someone else who was smart with their words, and in the same position as Saoirse at that moment; so very single, and practically impossible to get out of their house. "C’mon, O’Reilly. Plenty of people to talk to. It’s time to socialize for once."

Saoirse narrowed her eyes at him. "I socialize." She quipped. "When’s the last time you left your apartment in Monaco?" He asked. She opened her mouth, then hesitated. She wouldn’t leave the place if she could help it and everyone that knew her knew it. "Exactly." He grinned, taking a swig of his drink. Daniella smirked. “He’s got a point, you know. Just pick anyone and try talk to them."

Saoirse rolled her eyes, taking a sip of her drink. "Fine. If I have to make conversation—where’s the really good-looking one?" Ja’Marr raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"Haven't a clue." She said, shrugging. "All I know is he's always on my for you page and hes an American Footballer that plays for your team." A voice behind her cut in smoothly.

"You can just call it football, you know. Since you’re in the States."

Saoirse turned, heart skipping a beat. Joe Burrow stood there, casually leaning against the bar with a beer in hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. For the first time that night, Saoirse had no words. Joe tilted his head. "You good?" She blinked, gathering herself. "Might beed to lay off the bacardi but I should be alright." She replied, her stunned face still not changing, apart from a pink blush colouring her cheeks. He chuckled, extending a hand. "Joe."

"Saoirse." She shook it, feeling the warmth of his grip before pulling away quickly. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Daniella grinning like a Cheshire cat, while Ja’Marr watched with amusement.

The game continued, though Saoirse barely followed. By the time the first quarter ended, she looked up at the screen, frowning. "So, does this mean Kendrick Lamar is performing now?" Joe laughed, shaking his head. "Not yet. That’s halftime." Saoirse's eyebrows knotted. "So what's this then?"

Joe smirked. "You really don’t get football, huh?"

"Not American football, no." He shifted closer, nodding toward the screen. "Alright, I got you. I’ll explain." He said, his hand resting on the counter behind Saoirse. Saoirse arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms and looking up at the blonde. "Wish you all the best."

For the next twenty minutes, Joe patiently walked her through the rules. Saoirse compared everything to rugby, making the sport sound far more brutal than Joe intended. But she listened, her haz eyes flickering with curiosity, and for the first time all night, she felt engaged.

Daniella leaned against Ja’Marr, watching the scene unfold with pure satisfaction. "She’s actually talking to him." Ja’Marr smirked. "And he’s actually talking back." It had been a long time since Joe had taken an interest in anyone. But watching him now, laughing with the sharp-tongued Irish driver, Ja’Marr had a feeling that might be about to change.

The game carried on in the background, but Saoirse and Joe were lost in their own conversation, quick-witted and fast-paced, neither of them missing a beat. "Okay, real question-" Saoirse said suddenly, tilting her head at him. "Do you genuinely think that bleached buzzcut was a good idea?" Joe groaned, running a hand through his current, much better-looking haircut. "I knew this was coming."

"Well?" She pressed, smirking. "You know, for someone that doesnt watch football, you know a lot about certain players." He grinned. "Or just you. Now, answer the question." He sighed. "Alright, listen—I had just broken up with my girlfriend around that time, and I needed a change. It was an impulsive decision." Saoirse rolled her eyes. "Ah, the classic post-breakup hair transformation. Should’ve just gotten bangs." Joe laughed. "Yeah, that definitely would’ve gone well for me."

"Like the bleached buzzcut did?"

"Hey, it's my turn." He said, leaning forward, thinking for a moment before deciding to keep the conversation on a similar theme to what it was at. "Would you ever dye your hair a different colour?"

“I already do.”

Joe blinked. "Wait, what?" She grinned. "I’m actually a brunette. But I’ve been getting highlights since I was like fourteen, and over time, it just sort of… stayed. Now it looks natural." Joe pointed at her. "So you also dye your hair. You can’t judge me for dying my hair last year." Saoirse smirked. "I did not judge you for dying it."

"Then what did you judge?" She leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. "The style." Joe let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Ja'Marr is right. You are ruthless." She shrugged. "And yet, you’re still here talking to me." He grinned. "Guess I like a challenge."

The game was nearing its end, but Saoirse barely noticed. She and Joe hadn’t stopped talking since the halftime show ended—except for the few times a touchdown or a big play pulled their attention to the screen. Even then, their conversation picked up right where it left off, flowing as easily as if they’d known each other for years.

Saoirse leaned back against the bar, her empty drink in her hand, a lazy smile on her lips. "I have to admit, I actually enjoyed watching this." Joe smirked, tilting his head at her. "We didn’t exactly watch the game." She chuckled. "True." They exchanged a glance, both knowing that, despite being at a Super Bowl party, the game had become secondary.

Joe took a sip of his beer before asking, "So, how often do you come to the States?" Saoirse shrugged. "Other than races or promotional events? Never." Joe tsked, shaking his head. "Yeah, see, we can’t have that." She arched a brow. "What are you on about?" Instead of answering right away, Joe held out his hand. "Pass me your eyeliner." Saoirse blinked. "My what?"

"Your eyeliner." He nodded toward her winged liner. "You’ve got to have one in that tiny purse of yours."

"In my bag."

"Huh?"

"In Ireland, we call it-"

"Saoirse. Eyeliner if you have it, please."

Still skeptical, she reached into her bag and handed it to him. "If this is some weird American thing, I fear I might get the ick." Joe grinned as he gently took her hand, his touch firm but easy. With careful precision, he uncapped the eyeliner and, in bold, neat numbers, wrote his phone number across the back of her hand. Saoirse glanced at it, then up at him, unimpressed but intrigued. "This is your grand plan?"

"What? They do it in the movies." He said, handing her the eyeliner back. "You could’ve just asked me for my phone." She said. "If you don't text me tomorrow, I can just tell myself the number rubbed off when you were sleeping and you can't. If I put it into your phone, I'd have no excuse. But this-" He tapped her hand. "This is now your excuse to come back to the U.S. sooner and more often." She rolled her eyes, though a small smile played on her lips. "You’re awfully confident." Joe shrugged. "Confidence never hurt anyone."

Saoirse huffed a laugh, shaking her head. "Except maybe in racing." Joe leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to be playful. "Luckily I'm an American football player." Saoirae gasped. "Oh my god you said it." Saoirse met his gaze, holding it for just a second longer than necessary before looking away, a rare warmth creeping onto her face.

Daniella, watching from across the room, nudged Ja’Marr. "Told you." She whispered. Ja’Marr sighed and reached into his pocket, taking out a ten dollar bill. "What's it feel like always being right?"

"Pretty good, babe. Pretty good."

[valkyriexo]

When You Start Getting Distant Because You’re in a Relationship | Hyung Line

ᑉ³pairing; Friend! OT8 x Reader

ᑉ³genre; Headcannon, angst

ᑉ³warnings; none I think!

ᑉ³authors note; I hope you enjoy <3

╰┈➤ Chan

Tries to be the mature one, but it kills him inside. He tells himself that as long as you’re happy, he should be happy too…but it doesn’t stop the ache in his chest every time you pull away.

Overthinks everything. Did he say something wrong? Did he do something to make you uncomfortable? He replays every conversation in his head, searching for a reason why you’re slipping away.

Still checks up on you, even when you don’t respond right away. Sends casual “Hope you’re doing okay” texts or reminds you to eat and rest..because no matter how much it hurts, he can’t stop caring about you.

Pretends to be fine around the others, but they can tell. He still smiles, still jokes around, but his energy is off. The sparkle in his eyes when he talks about you? Gone.

Tries to convince himself that he’s just your friend…but jealousy betrays him. Seeing you with someone else makes his stomach twist in ways he hates. He laughs it off, but deep down, he’s unraveling.

"Right. I get it." His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, something almost bitter. You’ve known him long enough to recognize when he’s holding back.

"You’re happy with them, huh?" He lets out a dry chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "That’s good. That’s… that’s what I wanted for you."

You open your mouth to respond, but he exhales sharply, shaking his head.

"No, actually….screw that." He suddenly looks at you, and for the first time, you see it. The frustration. The heartbreak. The feelings he’s been shoving down for who knows how long.

"I hate this," he admits, voice quieter now. "I hate watching you slip away because of some guy...do you even realize how much I care about you?"

He lets out a soft, bitter laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I thought we had something. And maybe that was just me being stupid, maybe I was reading too much into things—but I…" He stops himself, lips pressing into a thin line.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"I was supposed to be the one making you smile like that."

╰┈➤ Minho

Acts like he doesn’t care…but he definitely cares. At first, he just observes, waiting to see if you’ll come back on your own. But when you keep pulling away, he starts getting annoyed.

Gets passive-aggressive. His usual teasing turns sharper. If you cancel plans, he just shrugs and says, “Figured you’d be too busy anyway.”

Refuses to ask what’s wrong. He’s stubborn. If you want to push him away, fine. He won’t beg for your attention—but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

His eyes always give him away. Even when he plays it cool, you can see the way his gaze lingers, the way his expression darkens whenever your S/O is mentioned.

Starts distancing himself before you can fully leave him behind. If you don’t need him anymore, then maybe it’s easier if he’s the one to walk away first.

Finally snaps when he catches you avoiding him. If you won’t give him an explanation, he’ll demand one.

"So, am I just not important to you anymore?" The words hit you like a slap, and when you turn to face him, he is standing there,arms crossed, face blank, but eyes burning.

"Because that’s what it feels like," he continues, voice quieter but laced with frustration. "One second, we’re fine. And then suddenly, you’re too busy, too distant....too… gone."

You stammer, trying to explain, but he lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah, whatever. You’ve got someone better now, right?"

His tone is mocking, but there’s a crack in it...just enough to betray him. Just enough to show that this isn’t just annoyance.

It’s hurt.

He turns to leave, but then

He stops. His fists clench at his sides. He doesn’t face you when he speaks next, voice barely above a whisper.

"I liked you first."

Your breath catches.

"You know that, right?" he finally looks at you, expression unreadable but eyes raw with emotion. "I’ve liked you for so long, but I waited. I waited because I thought… I thought maybe you’d see me, too."

A pause. A breath. Then—

"And now, I have to sit here and watch someone else have you?"

His voice is tight, controlled, but the pain is there. He takes a step back, shaking his head, his usual confidence gone.

"Forget it."

╰┈➤ Changbin

At first, he doesn’t take it seriously. He jokes around, playfully whining about how you’re ditching him for your “new best friend.” But when he realizes it’s not a phase, his smile starts feeling forced.

Keeps trying to reach out. Sends you funny memes, random gym updates, or voice notes just to see if you’ll respond like you used to. When you don’t? Yeah, it stings.

Overcompensates by acting louder and happier around others. He hates feeling like the sad, jealous guy, so he pretends it doesn’t bother him. But his jokes get a little sharper, his laughs a little less genuine.

Starts working out even more. If he can’t control the way you’re slipping away, at least he can control something. He pushes himself harder at the gym, but no amount of training can distract him from missing you.

Gets mad at himself for feeling jealous. He tells himself he should just be happy for you...but the thought of someone else being the reason for your smile makes his stomach churn.

"Are you serious right now?"

His voice is sharp, frustrated.

"I get it, okay? You have someone new in your life. That’s great. But does that mean I just—what? Stop existing?"

You open your mouth to explain, but he doesn’t let you.

"Do you know how stupid I’ve felt? Sitting here, waiting for you to text back, waiting for you to just—acknowledge me?" He lets out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. "I’ve never had to fight this hard just to talk to you." He sighs.

"And I hate that I’m jealous." The words come out softer, but they hit harder. His jaw clenches, and for once, Changbin looks uncertain.

"I hate that I care this much. That every time you talk about them, I feel like I’m losing you a little more." He swallows hard, eyes meeting to yours.

"I wanted to be the one you looked at like that." He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

"Forget it. Just… just tell me one thing.." his voice wavers, but he keeps going, "Did I ever even have a chance?"

╰┈➤ Hyunjin

At first, he pretends it doesn’t bother him. He convinces himself you’re just busy and that things will go back to normal soon. But as days turn into weeks, the distance between you feels crushing.

Becomes unusually quiet around you. He still smiles, still laughs, but there’s a hesitation now. A pause before he speaks, like he’s choosing his words carefully...afraid of saying something he can’t take back.

Starts expressing his emotions through art instead. If you won’t talk to him, his sketchbook becomes his outlet. Page after page filled with drawings of you, his way of holding on when he feels like he’s losing you.

Acts like he’s fine, but his eyes give him away. Whenever you mention your S/O, his eyes tell you everything you need to know....sadness, frustration, something he doesn’t want you to see.

Becomes distant, too—but not because he wants to. If you don’t need him anymore, maybe it’s better if he stops clinging. But every time he tries to walk away, he finds himself waiting. Hoping.

"Just tell me what I did wrong."

His voice is quiet but firm, and when you finally look at him, Hyunjin’s expression is unreadable...except for his eyes. His eyes are full of everything.

"Because I don’t get it," he continues, laughing bitterly. "We were fine, and then suddenly, you’re too busy, like I don’t even exist to you anymore."

You shift uncomfortably, but he steps closer, shaking his head.

"You don’t even look at me the same."

His voice wavers, and for the first time, you see it..The vulnerability, the pain he’s been trying so hard to hide.

"I should be happy for you," he admits, exhaling shakily. "I tried to be happy for you." He lets out a dry chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "But every time I see you with them, I just—"

He stops himself, his lips pressing into a thin line. His fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets out a slow breath, taking a step back.

"I guess that was never an option, was it?"

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[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER ONE

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), friends who refuse to mind their business, late-night facetime calls, secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash

playlist: spotify

“Okay, let’s go over this one more time—”

A chorus of groans erupted around you, loud and exaggerated. Se-Mi flopped dramatically onto the couch, Ji-Yeong threw her head back like you had just sentenced her to death, and No-Eul simply sighed as she scrolled through her phone.

“I mean it,” you said, crossing your arms as you stood in the middle of the hotel suite. “This is a BuzzFeed interview. They’re going to ask easy, fun questions, but you guys still need to sound like you have at least half a brain between the four of you.”

Sae-Byeok, sitting on the arm of the couch, smirked. “That’s a lot to ask.”

You shot her a look, and she just raised her hands in surrender.

“This is why you’re our manager and not our PR rep,” Ji-Yeong said, grinning. “You actually care if we sound stupid.”

“Yes, and I’d like to keep my job,” you shot back. “So please, for the love of everything holy, just try not to say anything that’ll get us trending for the wrong reasons.”

Se-Mi, still sprawled on the couch, waved a hand lazily. “Relax, sweetheart. We’ll be fine. It’s just BuzzFeed.”

“Yeah,” Ji-Yeong chimed in, “worst case scenario, we end up in some ‘Dumbest Celebrity Interview Moments’ compilation on YouTube. Free promo.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I hate all of you.”

No-Eul, ever the voice of reason, finally spoke up. “They’ll behave,” she said, barely looking up from her phone. “Mostly.”

“That’s not reassuring,” you muttered.

Sae-Byeok, watching you with an amused expression, nudged your side with her foot. “You worry too much.”

“Because one of us has to,” you shot back.

She smirked. “And that’s why you’re our favorite.”

Before you could process that (did Sae-Byeok just call you their favorite?), a knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Their stylist popped her head in, clipboard in hand.

“Alright, you guys,” she said. “Time to get dressed. Interview’s in an hour.”

Se-Mi groaned as she sat up. “Ugh, do we have to?”

“Yes,” you, No-Eul, and the stylist all said at the same time.

Ji-Yeong snickered. “Alright, alright, let’s go.”

As they shuffled off to get ready, Sae-Byeok lingered for a second, watching you.

“You’re really stressed about this, huh?” she asked, tilting her head.

You exhaled. “I just want this to go well. You guys are blowing up, and interviews like this can really shape how people see you.”

She was quiet for a moment, then—

“…We’ll be fine.”

You looked up at her.

There was something steady in the way she said it, something that made you believe her.

You sighed, shaking your head. “You better be.”

She smirked and, with that, disappeared into the dressing room.

And you? You just prayed they wouldn’t give you a heart attack on live camera.

You stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as the girls got settled in the bright, modern-looking BuzzFeed studio. Cameras were being adjusted, mic packs were clipped onto their outfits, and a giant board with pre-written search questions was placed in front of them.

Ji-Yeong, of course, was already messing with it. “Ooooh, the mystery,” she teased, wiggling her fingers dramatically over the top of the board.

Se-Mi grinned, leaning forward. “I love these types of interviews. People Google the weirdest shit.”

No-Eul sighed, adjusting her mic. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Sae-Byeok, as usual, looked completely unbothered, sitting back in her chair with her arms crossed, waiting for things to start.

The interviewer, a cheerful BuzzFeed staff member, smiled at them from across the table. “Alright! Welcome, HOT DIVISION!”

A chorus of greetings followed, with Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi being the loudest while No-Eul and Sae-Byeok gave more subdued nods.

“We’re going to be doing the ‘Most Searched Questions’,” the interviewer explained, patting the board. “Each of these has a commonly searched question about you guys, and you’ll take turns peeling them off and answering.”

Ji-Yeong rubbed her hands together. “Let’s go.”

You prayed they wouldn’t say anything that would give your PR team a migraine.

Ji-Yeong, naturally, was the first to go. She dramatically peeled off the first strip of paper, reading it aloud.

“‘Is Kim Ji-Yeong… actually as chaotic as people say?’”

She gasped, clutching her chest. “I am offended by this question.”

Se-Mi snorted. “You shouldn’t be. It’s true.”

Ji-Yeong turned to the camera, dead serious. “I am a delight to be around.”

No-Eul, without looking up, muttered, “That’s a lie.”

Sae-Byeok just smirked, shaking her head.

Ji-Yeong sighed dramatically. “Fine. Yes. I am chaotic. But would you all love me if I wasn’t?”

Se-Mi threw an arm around her. “Exactly. Chaos is in our brand.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose from the sidelines.

Sae-Byeok lazily reached forward, peeling off the next strip. She read it, then raised an eyebrow.

“‘Is Kang Sae-Byeok single?’”

Ji-Yeong and Se-Mi exploded into laughter.

“OH, THIS IS GOOD,” Se-Mi cackled, slapping the table.

Sae-Byeok just sighed, giving the camera a blank look. “Yes.”

Ji-Yeong leaned forward, wiggling her eyebrows. “And are you—”

“No.”

Se-Mi pouted. “You didn’t even let her finish.”

Sae-Byeok shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

You watched from the sidelines, carefully keeping your expression neutral. (Not that you were thinking about it. Not at all.)

No-Eul peeled her question off, scanning it briefly before exhaling.

“‘Is Kang No-Eul the mom of the group?’”

The response was immediate.

“Yes,” Se-Mi said.

“Absolutely,” Ji-Yeong added.

“The only responsible one,” Sae-Byeok confirmed.

No-Eul, unimpressed, just stared at them. “I hate all of you.”

Ji-Yeong grinned. “See? Mom behavior.”

Fourth Question: "Is Han Se-Mi…?"

Se-Mi eagerly peeled off her question, reading it with interest.

“‘Is Han Se-Mi the flirtiest member?’”

You already knew what was coming.

Se-Mi gasped dramatically, placing a hand over her heart. “Me? A flirt? How dare you.”

Sae-Byeok rolled her eyes. “You literally flirt with the camera.”

Ji-Yeong nodded sagely. “She flirts with air molecules.”

Se-Mi turned to the camera, giving a slow, knowing smirk. “I just like to make people feel special.”

From the side, you muttered under your breath, “Menace.”

Se-Mi heard you and shot a wink in your direction.

Ji-Yeong peeled off the last question, reading it aloud.

“‘Is HOT DIVISION the next big thing in rock?’”

The girls exchanged glances.

Then, Sae-Byeok leaned forward slightly, looking straight into the camera.

“Yes.”

No hesitation. No doubt. Just raw confidence.

Ji-Yeong smirked. “Damn right we are.”

Se-Mi grinned. “Hope you’re all ready.”

No-Eul nodded. “Because we’re not slowing down.”

From the sidelines, you felt something warm bloom in your chest.

They had come a long way. And they were just getting started.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

hey so thinking about stalker!quinn so bare that in mind when you click that handy dandy read more. i rambled hard core but whatever

he sees you in a book store in downtown Vancouver. your hairs just below your shoulders, you have on what looks like a black skirt and a pair of tights with black converse to match and he can’t read whatever’s on your hoodie.

all he can do is stare as your flip book after book, flushing as you read a random page before grabbing the book and holding it close.

he’s following you around the store, just grabbing random books to make himself not look like a weirdo. he needs more. needs to know who you are.

he overhears you ramble your phone number for rewards, replaying it in his head while you finish your transaction. as soon as he steps foot into his apartment, he’s googling.

he’s finding you one way or another. he learns you just graduated from Michigan State (and he cringes a little), and you just moved here for a job at the hospital. you’re 23, almost 24. you’re a pisces he’s learned, you really like music that screams in his year and taylor swift. it doesn’t make sense to him but that’s okay. he can live with it.

he finds out you live in his building. he sees you walking into the mail room and opening up box 117, that’s the floor below his. he’s learned you leave every Monday through friday at 5:30am and get home at 6:30pm. he hasn’t talked to you yet, just left flowers and dinners at your door.

he was getting out of his car when he saw you park yours. perfect, he’s thinking. he makes himself look busy while he waits for you to get to the elevator. making sure no one else is around, he’s walking to your car and sticking an air tag under your car. he’s gotta make sure you’re okay.

that following friday, he sees your at work still and against all better judgment goes down to the front desk and talks his way into getting a spare key to your apartment. he apologizes profusely to the desk, “i’m sorry my girlfriend didn’t leave hers under the mat and i’m supposed to surprise her tonight.” and who’s gonna say no to the beloved teams captain? no one.

that’s how he ended up in your apartment, placing cameras in hidden spots. he needs to learn your daily routine. what makes you tick. what you sound like when you moan.

once he’s found his way to your bedroom, he notices a pile of laundry on the floor. messy, messy girl. his eyes set on a lacy pair of underwear closer to your bed and he’s grabbing them before his brain even has time to stop him.

he made it home just in time. as soon as his doors closing, he gets a notification yours opened.

he’s pulling the cameras to see your pulling your top off and walking towards your room. his hands moving down to his sweats, trying to push them down enough when he hears your voice say his name.

“Quinn. yeah that’s the upstairs guys. no i haven’t talked to him much at all. yes he’s cute. very cute actually. but i don’t stand a chance. his face is fucking on the side of an arena dude, all i need is 10 minutes.” followed by some laughter.

baby, you’re getting more than 10 minutes.

he’s banging on your door before he knows it. as soon as your open the door, robe covering your top half, he’s pushing his way in.

“close the door.” he can see your face flushed and the anxiety all but falling from your eyes.

“you wanted 10 minutes? you can have 10 minutes but as soon as those 10 minutes are up? you’re mine. mine to use, to watch, to brand, to have, to do whatever i want with. isn’t that right? been practically begging me for months now. so why don’t you get on your knees and prove your worth?”

[allertonhoe]

A2 + A5 with rafe please, a bit of angst then fluff at the end !!! also congratulations on 500 !!

thank you!!! hope you enjoy ☺️☺️ really had fun writing this one!!!

prompts: "Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry" + "Well. Yell, scream, say something. Anything"

content warnings: 18+ MDNI, original afab!reader, men being men/being gross about women,

500 follower celebration!

It was humiliating to say the least. You knew that being Rafe Cameron's girlfriend wasn't always the easiest task. There were expectations of you, one of them being that you had to accompany him to fancy Kook soirées. But tonight, you'd gotten pushed too far.

"Come on," he complained, banging against the locked guest room door. "Please just talk to me. I know I fucked up."

It hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, another obligatory appearance among Figure 8's upper echelon since he was now running Cameron Development. Hanging off Rafe's arm with a cordial smile as he faked his way through small talk with important clients and investors.

At one point, the two of you split off from each other. Being wrangled by one of the other trophy girlfriends to gossip over drinks and 'leave the men to their business,' whatever that meant—something you'd learn very soon. Eventually excusing yourself to the bathroom, you became distracted as you strolled past the billiards room and noticed it was buzzing in conversation.

"Is she that good, Cameron?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you only keep a girl like that around for one reason."

Your jaw dropped at the sexist declaration, especially when you knew there was a good chance this person had probably acted the complete opposite less towards you than an hour ago when Rafe was by your side. It's not that you were ignorant to that type of behavior in these settings, you'd just never heard it so explicitly. 

This was part of why you loved Rafe, though. He was headstrong and fiercely protective of the things that were important to him, which included you. He had a reputation for having a dangerously short fuse, a trait you were appreciative of in this moment. But that wasn't the response you heard at all.

"Seriously, dude? You should brag about your girl more. The stories I've heard-"

"Shut up, Topper."

"No, no. I mean it as, like, a good thing. Those two have the freakiest sex. The stories I've heard. Tell them about that thing she can do when she puts her legs over her-"

"Damn, Rafe. And you aren't sharing any of the dirty details with the rest of us? That's cold, man..."

"My girl's just amazing; what can I say?"

"Enjoy that while it lasts. I wish my wife was still eager and willing like that. Didn't talk back yet, just did whatever I told her because she wanted to keep me around. Made sure I was taken care of like your girl still does, if you know what I mean."

The group of businessmen laughed boisterously as they proceeded with their banter, while your supposed knight-in-shining-armour stood along with them. Actually clinking his glass with the man's who made that comment, not even attempting to clear your name.

Your mind raced as you helplessly watched the scene unfold in front of you. Usually the two of you were on the same page, but right now you could barely recognized your boyfriend. Why didn't he confront them at all? Was he embarrassed over you? 

Your clutch fell from your hand, making your presence known as it hit the ground. Not daring to shift your regard back to the room full of local moguls, their conversation stilling there. Rushing to pick it up and return to the group of naive women you were seemingly better off with, but hearing a familiar set of footsteps follow behind you.

At first, Rafe tried explaining himself a few times. So you stubbornly shut him out and did what you apparently did best—blindly follow his lead like a doting puppy. Getting knowing looks from the same snobby men he’d just been chatting with as he quickly decided it was time to make his exit, your rage not going unnoticed.

Your silence prevailed throughout the car ride home despite his continued attempts to apologize, not sparing him a glance as you stormed into the house and up to one of the guest bedrooms. Locking the door behind you as the disparaging remarks swirled through your brain.

"Baby, let me in," he reiterates desperately.

He kept pounding on the door and you kept ignoring him, not in any mood to spend the rest of the evening rehashing your unsettled conflict. Becoming startled when it suddenly stopped after a few minutes, the quiet only worrying you knowing your boyfriend's unpredictable temper.

And then, in his irrational fashion, the thick wood broke off its hinges like it was no big deal. Barreling into the formerly tranquil room, brushing a hand through his hair dramatically as he caught his breath. Feeling a little resentful that he decided to channel his frustration into that outrageous display instead of actually backing you up earlier. 

"Are you fucking serious?" You grill him, not hiding how unimpressed you were.

"What?" He counters, glancing at the wreckage and waving it off. "Don't worry about that."

You just rolled your eyes, diverting your attention from him as resentment crept back up on you. A tear rolling down your cheek as you remembered why you were in here, avoiding him, in the first place. Rafe kneeling down to bring himself to your level, his thumb wiping it off your skin. 

"Please don't cry. I can't stand to see you cry." He whispered hoarsely. "I'm sorry. You know how the guys can be..."

"It's not that, Rafe. You didn't come to my defense at all when they were all objectifying me. I thought I meant more to you than that..." You detail with disappointment. "I'm just... I'm tired. It's been a long night. I'm gonna sleep in here, or one of the rooms that has a door attached."

"No, baby. Let me make it up to you," he contends further.

Not having any more energy to keep scolding him, you slipped under the covers and got as comfortable as you were able to without changing out of your cocktail dress or taking off your makeup. Feeling a dip at the bottom of the mattress, Rafe reaching out and caressing the shape of your silhouette.

"Yell, scream, say something..." he begs weakly, his voice breaking and barely a whisper as he finished his plea. "Anything..."

He crawled across the bed, lying behind you and placing his arms over your torso. Pulling you as close as he was able to with the comforter still separating your bodies. Shutting your eyes momentarily as you basked in the calm you'd been craving all night.

"I'm so sorry, baby... I should've told them to knock it off, but it's complicated with these guys. They're some of my dad's oldest clients. I can't just lose my shit on them, as much as I might want to." He justifies to you. "Please... I'll let you do whatever you want..."

As he waited for your answer, he moved your hair off the back of your neck and started pecking across the flesh. Pressing delicate, wanton kisses before stopping at your shoulder and resting his chin there, leaving one last chaste peck on your cheek. Trying your absolute best not to give in to his persuasive tactics. 

"Whatever I want?" you echo, catching his grin reappear as your discomfort faded.

"Anything," he coos, prompting you to turn over to face him properly.

"You're definitely gonna regret that," you threaten playfully. 

"Yeah?" he mutters, squeezing your waist possessively.

"Mhmm..." You hum, capturing his lips with yours. Rafe tangling his tongue with your own as he took over control and spent the rest of the evening helping you forget about the disastrous gala.

[goldfades]

I think it just makes sense for a little blurb about crash out queen going to the lakers game supporting her hubby

I can def see her going super early to watch him warm up (wearing his new jersey obv) and the cameras follow her the whole time, she talks to jj, LeBron, and the rest of the team bc obv they all love her (LeBron brings up her finals logo 3 ofc) and the whole time luka is playing she’s just smiling so hard and being so supportive (but cursing in Slovenian when luka misses a shot hehe)

anyways ilysm my sweetheart superstar

omg this is such a cute way for the debut!!! here ya go, baby, i hope yall enjoy!!

You get to the arena stupidly early.

Like, beat-the-security-checks, lights-aren’t-even-fully-on-yet early.

But there’s no way in hell you’re missing a second of Luka’s Lakers debut—not the warmups, not the pre-game handshakes, not even the way he walks into this new era of his career.

And judging by the cameras that are already tracking your every move, the rest of the world is just as interested.

It’s been like this all day—your arrival getting broadcasted like you’re the one about to drop a 40-point triple-double. Social media’s having a field day with it. Clips of you stepping into Crypto.com Arena in Luka’s brand-new Lakers jersey (custom-fitted, cropped just enough to sit right on your waist) have already gone viral.

“Crash Out Queen in the building.”

“She’s rocking the 77 like she’s about to check in.”

“Nah, she came earlier than the entire Lakers roster, she is SO real for that.”

And honestly?

They’re right.

You step onto the court before most of the team even arrives, your sneakers squeaking against the polished hardwood. The arena is still quiet—just the faint thump of a ball hitting the floor, the occasional echo of voices carrying from the tunnels.

And in the middle of it, getting shots up like he’s the only person in the world, is Luka.

You slow for a second, watching.

He looks good in purple and gold—still unfamiliar, still something you’ll have to get used to, but good. His movements are sharp, effortless, the kind of locked-in you’ve seen a million times before. But there’s something else tonight, something extra in the way he follows through on his shots, in the way his jaw stays tight even when he swishes three after three.

You know that look.

He’s ready—but he’s antsy.

So, naturally, you fix that.

You walk straight onto the court—ignoring the cameras that immediately start flashing, the Lakers staff who pause mid-conversation, the social media team that’s definitely about to clip this—and step right into Luka’s space.

He barely gets the next shot off before you tug at the bottom of his jersey.

“Damn,” you tease, looking up at him. “They actually got you in Lakers colors. Thought you’d combust before putting that on.”

Luka huffs out a laugh, finally breaking focus. His eyes sweep over you, from the cropped version of his jersey to the smug grin you’re throwing at him.

“You really came this early?”

You scoff. “Don’t act like you don’t love it.”

He smirks, reaching out to hook a finger in your waistband, tugging you just a little closer.

The cameras are eating this up.

Before you can fire back, a familiar voice cuts through.

“Man, she really beat us here?”

You turn just in time to see JJ jogging onto the court, shaking his head in amusement.

You grin. “What can I say? I like to be punctual.”

“Punctual,” JJ repeats, giving Luka a pointed look. “You mean obsessed.”

Luka just shrugs like he doesn’t mind at all, like he’s actually very fine with you showing up before half the damn team.

And speaking of—

“Well, well, well,” a deep voice drawls from the tunnel.

You don’t even have to turn around.

“Here we go,” you mutter under your breath, just as LeBron himself strolls onto the court.

He’s already shaking his head, grinning, like he’s been waiting for this moment. “New York’s finest in the house.”

You cross your arms, smirking. “Gotta check out the new scenery. Make sure my man’s in good hands.”

LeBron laughs. “I know you’re not worried about that.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can respond, he leans in slightly, voice dipping just low enough for the cameras not to catch it.

“So,” he says, a knowing glint in his eyes. “We gonna talk about that finals logo three or what?”

A groan rips out of you before you can stop it. “You too?”

JJ and Luka are already laughing.

LeBron grins. “I mean, I got my fair share of wild shots, but that one?” He shakes his head. “Crazy.”

You point a warning finger at him. “I swear, if you bring that up in a press conference—”

He holds his hands up, all innocence. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. Big time players make big time shots.”

You narrow your eyes. “I will start slandering your free throw percentage.”

LeBron loses it.

JJ has to walk away to keep from doubling over.

And Luka?

Luka’s just watching you—like he’s seeing all of this, the way you move so easily through his world, the way you fit into it like you’ve always been here, the way his teammates are your teammates—and like it’s doing something to him.

Like it’s settling something in him.

Like maybe, just maybe, all of this change doesn’t feel so scary when you’re here.

And yeah, the cameras are catching every second of it.

--

From the moment the game tips off, you are in your element.

Sitting courtside, front and center in your custom Luka Dončić Lakers jersey—the one that’s cropped just right, snug at the waist, with your own number stitched in tiny embroidery on the sleeve—you are a menace.

And not the quiet kind.

Luka’s locked in from the start, but so are you.

Every shot he takes? You’re on your feet before the ball even swishes through the net. Every time he gets downhill, carving through defenders like they’re nothing, you’re clapping, nodding, talking your talk because of course he’s doing this—of course he’s out here dominating in his Lakers debut like he was built for this.

And when he hits his first step-back three in that gold and purple uniform?

Oh, it’s over.

You’re out of your seat, yelling “That’s my man!” so damn loud that even the bench turns to look at you. The cameras catch everything—you pointing at Luka like you just hit the shot, like you knew it was cash the second he released it.

JJ is dying on the bench.

LeBron, walking back up the court, is shaking his head and laughing because he knew exactly what kind of energy you were bringing tonight.

And Luka?

Luka hears all of it.

His grin is instant, dimples deep, and he can’t help himself—he looks right at you as he backpedals on defense, giving you that smug, knowing look.

Like he loves this.

Like he loves you.

The whole game, you’re in it.

Every whistle, every foul—especially when Luka gets knocked around a little too hard—you’re making your feelings very clear.

At one point, he takes some contact on a drive, hits the floor hard, and you’re already up before the whistle even blows.

“Where’s the call?!” You throw your hands up, eyes locked on the ref like you might actually fight him.

And listen—some people might call it over the top, but you don’t care.

Not when Luka’s out there, playing his ass off.

Not when this is his first game in a new jersey, in a city that’s expecting everything from him.

And when the game gets tight in the fourth quarter, when every possession starts mattering a little more, you’re right there, standing, clapping, yelling encouragement between plays, telling Luka to take over—and he does.

Of course he does.

He lives for this.

And when that final buzzer sounds?

The Lakers win.

Luka’s brilliant—because of course he is.

And you?

You’re beaming.

You’re still clapping when Luka makes his way over, chest heaving from the last few minutes of high-intensity play, sweat dripping, eyes locked on you like you’re the only person in the arena.

Before you can say anything, he reaches out, grabs your face—big hands cradling your jaw—and kisses you, hard.

The crowd goes nuts.

The cameras catch every second.

And you?

You just smile against his lips, because yeah, this is the perfect way to end his first night in LA.

--

Hand-in-hand, you and Luka make your way through the tunnels, still riding that post-win high.

Everywhere you go, people are dapping him up, clapping him on the back, congratulating him. The energy is electric, and you can feel it in him—the way his fingers squeeze yours a little tighter, the way his whole body is buzzing with adrenaline.

He looks so damn good like this—sweaty, still in his game gear, the jersey a little untucked, his chain glinting under the bright hallway lights.

“You killed it tonight,” you say, bumping into his side as you walk.

He smirks, glancing down at you. “You think?”

You scoff. “Please. Like I wasn’t screaming about it all game.”

Luka grins, shaking his head. “You were crazy.”

“You love it.”

He doesn’t even try to deny it.

As you step outside, the LA night air hits you, warm and thick with energy, fans still gathered outside, cameras flashing.

Luka tugs you in, arm wrapping around your shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before muttering, just for you—

“Best part of tonight was having you there.”

And damn, if that doesn’t make your whole heart melt.

You get to the arena stupidly early.

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Thirty Three)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful and all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Thirty Three: Cillian and Y/N prepare to tell his sons and ex-wife about their pregnancy. It both goes better and worse than Y/N had anticipated. [Angst/Anxiety]

@borntodiemp3 @strangeions @watermeezer @meadowshelby @lavender-haze-01 @cherry-cilly @dragonsneversharetheirtreasure @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme

NOT PROOFREAD - APOLOGIES FOR THE TYPOS

--------

“Cill?” You yell, crouched before the washing machine as it gushes water around your bare feet. “Cill! Fucking help me!” You call out louder, craning your neck around the laundry room door frame. You spot him walking towards you, finally, and feel a little bad as you realise he must have been upstairs. “Love, help…” you moan comically. “There's water pissing out of the door, and I can't get it open.” 

“Ah, jays…” Cillian stops at the door, grimacing as his socked feet splash into the warm soapy water, and he looks at you with a horrified expression. “What am I, a plumber?” He tuts. “Was there something stuck in the door?” 

“I don't know,” you groan as you attempt once again to pull the door open. Sighing, you look back up at him again. “I think it's fucked. What do we do?” 

He smirks, “Call someone who knows what to do.” He shrugs. “I'll get on Google, see if I can find someone local. Leave it for now, I'll get some towels down and we'll just see if anyone can sort it “ he leans in the door as he pulls off his wet socks and then throws them into the laundry box. “Hold on til I get the towels.” He turns and disappears, and you hear him jog up the stairs as you slowly rise up off your toes to stand straight. 

You step over the door, and shake the drips off your foot before you place it down in the kitchen, then repeat the same with the other foot. You're still wet, obviously, but at least the floor is drier in the kitchen. You turn your head over your shoulder as Cillian returns with his arms loaded with bath towels. He isn't strategic at all as he drops the entire pile down before the washing machine and nods, proud of his work. “At least you could have laid them out better, you knob.” You shake your head, but the grin he gives you makes you laugh. “Your navy jumper is in there,” you tell him. “It's going to end up ruined.” 

“Ah, it'll get sorted,” he says, calm about the entire disaster. He turns to you and pulls you in against him, arms wrapped around your back. He rests his cheek on your head and grumbles softly. Of course this had to happen today, with Yvonne and the boys due in a couple of hours and your anxiety already over the hilt. “Relax,” he whispers, as if sensing your internal discord. “It's just water. It's a lot of water, but it's just water.” 

“At least I know what face you'll pull if my waters break on your feet.” You tease, and he laughs cheerfully at the joke. 

He shifts his arms and cups both hands around your face. Holding you tightly, he kisses the tip of your nose and then your lips softly. “It's just fucking water.” He says, raising his eyebrows and looking squarely into your eyes. He kisses you again, and you wrap your arms around his back, kneading your hands against the material of his black zip-through hoodie. You apply pressure to the kiss, and love that he gives it back immediately. But as much as this immediately sparks pleasurable throbbing between your legs, you can't bring yourself to insist on shagging on the counter tops with the impending arrivals of his ex wife and sons. 

You pull your face back and smirk at the groan he gives. “We're supposed to be making dinner for everyone.” 

“Just a quickie…” he raises his eyebrows. 

You shake your head. “Later.”

He scoffs, “I don't think I'll get the horn for a month after this conversation.” He sighs and runs his hands up and down your sides. 

“Do we know if Aran said anything after we talked before?” You ask, nervous for the answer. 

Cillian shook his head, “Ah no, I'm sure I'd have had calls and texts if that happened.” He raises his eyebrows. “I'm just getting second thoughts about doing this here. Not the boys, like, but Yvonne. She's bound to be…reactive.” He says diplomatically. 

“The boys will react too,” you say softly. “We have to let them.” 

He scoffs a little, “Why?” Then laughs. You sympathise - you're so anxious you're sure you're vibrating - but you know it has to happen. He kisses you softly again then taps his hands against you before he lets his arms drop down. “Let me try and get someone for this fucking washer, and we'll sort the dinner.” 

You pull open the front door and try your best not to look like you've just retched yourself inside out over the kitchen sink. “Hi guys,” you push a smile quickly into your cheeks. “Come in, come in.” You step back, “It's freezing.” Malachy steps through with a cheerful hello, followed by Aran, with Yvonne smiling politely behind him. “Cill's in the kitchen, finishing off dinner.” You say as you close the door, then gesture with your left hand as they all strip off their coats. “Here,” you hold out your hand to Yvonne for her coat. “I'll pop it under the stairs.” 

“Thanks,” Yvonne gives another polite smile. 

“Kitchen, yeah?” Malachy asks, walking on. 

“Yeah, go ahead.” You call back as you hang Yvonne's coat up. When you turn around, the three of them are already gone. You catch up behind them to choruses of hellos and small greetings. You linger awkwardly beside the kettle as the boys and Yvonne take stools at the island. There's an atmosphere of unease, of course, but Cillian split immediately into comfortable chat with the boys, and surprisingly with Yvonne too. 

“I was half expecting Adam,” Cillian says, his back to them as he pokes at the saucepan on the cooker before he turns back to face them. “He'd have been welcome.” He says. You wonder how true that is. 

“He had to work over in Drogheda so he won't be back until tomorrow.” Yvonne explains. “So you're back now indefinitely?” She asks him. 

“Til I've the next job,” he nods with a smile. “I've a few obligations here in the new year anyway, so I don't think I'll be going too far.” He looks at you briefly and you smile. Both Yvonne and Aran, in their seats, have their backs to you. You know it is purely down to seating, but your anxiety has a field day over that being intentional. “And you've a week left at school now before Christmas?” He asks Aran. 

Aran nods his head. “Then exams out my ears.”

“And you're finished already?” He grins at Malachy. 

“Yeah - picking up more hours at work, seeing Aoife. I'm keeping busy.” He smirks and Cillian laughs. 

“Drink, anyone?” You offer, and you wonder why your voice has come out sounding so strangled. 

Yvonne turns on the stool, “Tea would be good. Green tea if you have it?* 

Your stomach drops and you can see Cillian both want to laugh and stifle cringe. You can't even bear the smell of it in the house right now. “Oh, sorry, Cill had the last teabag this morning.” You lie as coolly as you can. “We have peppermint, or camomile.” You offer. “Or just straight tea.” You smile nervously. 

“Camomile is great, thanks.” Yvonne smiles politely once again. She's trying, you notice, to not make this unusual visit awkward. You need to try to - at least until the news is broken. 

“Yeah, no problem. Boys?” You call out, turning to flip the switch on the kettle. “Those waters and all are in the fridge, or there's a couple of beers. Or Coke.” You reel off. 

“Dad?” Malachy jumps down from his stool, “We getting you so pissed you can't take your…slippers off, or so that you sleep on them?” He teases as he opens the fridge door. 

“We are in your arse!” Cillian laughs, his back once again turned to them as he tends to the last few parts of dinner. 

It's clear Yvonne doesn't get the joke, despite everyone else laughing, when you hand her her mug of tea. You feel for her a little - you're fairly sure she has plenty of inside jokes with the boys and Cillian that she could share and leave you on the outside. But you don't say anything to include her. You take a seat at the end of the island, planting yourself essentially between Yvonne and Malachy, but you can see clearly where Cillian is moving around and that line of sight makes you feel a little calmer. The room falls quiet, but for Cillian's tipping about, and you look around you nervously. The silence is worse than the awkward chatter, and you're desperate for Cillian to say something. 

“What's your first exam, Aran?” You ask suddenly, and you feel ridiculously embarrassed when you find yourself almost shouting the question. 

But Aran looks up and shrugs, “Erm…I have a list. I don't remember.”

You nod your head and stare up at Cillian's back, begging him to turn around and speak. “Nervous about them?” You ask, looking back at the young man. 

He shrugs again, “Dunno.” there's an edge to his tone that you're sure you're picking up on, but you blame your anxiety for feeling it. But when Cillian turns around, his face is a little stern, and you feel a little validated for your feelings. 

“Aran,” Cillian says quietly and walks towards the island. “Dinner’s done, why don't you go into the dining room?” He nods ahead of him. Yvonne and the boys stand in almost perfect unison, and you smile gently at Malachy as he passes behind you, tapping his hand on your shoulder as he goes. 

You look at Cillian and while you know you can't be too vocal, you make a face that you hope he understands: I'm absolutely shitting myself and this feels awful. His eyes are soft as he sighs and walks towards you. He wraps his arms around you as you get off the stool and sighs heavily. “He still hates me,” you whisper. 

“He doesn't.” Cillian says quietly. “He's probably just picking up that there's something going on. And knowing Aran he's probably fucking worked it out.” He releases you and kisses your forehead gently. “C'mon, let's plate up. You alright?” 

You nod, “Yeah - so far it doesn't smell bad.” You laugh lightly. 

“G'on,” he jerks his head, “Grab out the plates there and we'll face the music.” 

The lightness of the meal surprises you, as Aran and Malachy tease their Dad, and Yvonne actually seems interested about your work. You realise you've never had any conversation beyond polite chatter before, and you feel a rush of conflict over what you know you have coming for her and the boys. You don't want to hurt them, of course you don't, but you're having a baby and you want to be happy with Cillian - and for that to happen, they need to know and they need to accept it. Only when everyone had laid down their cutlery did you and Cillian exchange knowing looks. You raise your eyebrows, and he gives a tiny, brief nod. 

“Right,” he says, and clears his throat. “I know the three of youse probably thought it was off, getting youse all in for dinner.” 

“Just assumed one of you is dying,” Malachy jokes, and you can't help smirking as he throws back his head - just like his Dad - and giggles loudly. 

“Malachy, stop…” Yvonne tuts and shakes her head. 

“I'm only messing,” he rolls his eyes, and you can see he's relieved to see you still smiling at his joke. Cillian, though, looks a little more pressured. 

“Thanks for that, Mal.” Cillian says, but he does look amused I'm his torture. “No, neither of us is dying that we know of.” 

“Dad…?” Aran raises his eyebrows, and you can see he's wondering if you're sharing the secrets he'd discovered as he sits across from you. 

“Eh,” Cillian begins to stammer over his words. “Y/N and me talked to the two of you there a few weeks back and, eh, we cleared up some concerns or-or…misconstrued information. Yeah?” 

Malachy looks at you, then at his Dad. “You're having a fucking kid?” He fixes his eyes on Cillian and you're not sure what his expression means. 

Yvonne, on the other hand, is instantly readable. She looks shocked, as she looks at you and Cillian in turn, and you want the ground to open up and suck you in. “What?” Yvonne's eyebrows shoot quickly up her forehead. 

Cillian sighs and he runs his tongue across his lips nervously. “Yeah,” he nods slowly. “Yeah, Y/N is pregnant.” He sighs again. “When we told you that wasn't the case, we were not lying. It's only early, and there's a scan booked there for January, but there were some pictures and an article and…I wanted it to come from us.” 

“So you're telling us because someone else was going to?” Aran said, his eyes fixed firmly on his father.

Yvonne turns to her youngest, “Aran, you can't talk to your Dad like that.” 

“Aran, I'm sorry. We would have been telling youse after the scan, but we didn't want you to get it from somewhere other than us. Other than me.” Cillian defends himself quickly, but you can see he has no comebacks to Aran's quip. “When we talked and I said we weren't expecting a baby, it wasn't a lie. This…it wasn't planned, but it's happening. And I wanted it to be me telling the three of you, not some random internet search throwing it out.” 

“Keeping it?” Aran asks, and you shoot your eyes to Cillian. 

“Of course,” Cillian replies and you can see his eyes silently begging his son not to do this. 

“No choice, or…?” Aran turns down the corners of his mouth. 

“Aran!” Yvonne scolds, but you can see the shock is still there on her face, and there's something else that you're sure is contempt. 

“Aran, please,” Cillian holds out his hand, he's commanding of respect without raising his voice. You're not sure if he'll get said respect, but he's trying. “Didn't we talk about the fact that there has to be a point when I stop making my decisions based on you and Mal alone? Y/N is pregnant and I know it's a shock, it is for us, but it's happening. I want you to be able to talk to me about it, I care about how it affects you, but I need you both to be aware that this is happening regardless. There'll be a baby, and ye pair will need to be prepared for that.” 

You feel panicked and shaken, and you want to run but you know you can't. You realise Malachy has been particularly quiet after being the one to work it all out. “Malachy?” You say gently, “Are you alright?” 

You watch the young man shift in his seat. “I mean, I'm gonna be what? Twenty years older than my little brother or sister? And my Dad's nearly fifty and having another baby.” He sighs and you hear Cillian sigh loudly. “But it's your two’s life, not mine.” You can tell he's conflicted, but you hugely appreciate his words. “I mean, good luck and all I suppose.” Cillian looked at you with such a look of pride that you actually think you love him more, but it's twisted up with his concern over Aran's response, too. 

“We didn't plan this, we'd almost certainly decided it wouldn't happen at all, but it has. We've been coming to terms with it ourselves and we know you have to, too. But like I said, it's happening. We're gonna have a baby, and it's not gonna be an easy change. Not for any of us.” Cillian speaks diplomatically and you hear the fears you know he has, those fears he talked about before. “But we wanted to talk to you ourselves. You too, Yvonne. Like, I owed you all that - it coming from us, and just you, before we told anyone else.” He sits quietly for a moment and you want to hold his hand but you don't move. “Aran, will you talk to me?” He says after a few moments. “I want you to think about it, and like I'll be here if you want to talk about it, but at the same time, pal, it's happening despite what you're feeling. I don't want you feeling badly, not at all, and I don't want youse thinking this is a replacement or a fucking…I don't know, like I'm starting over and forgetting about youse. It's not like that. But this is our family, Y/N and me and this baby, and you're part of it.” 

Aran shrugs his shoulders and you feel bad that all eyes are on the boy. “And say what?” He asks. 

Cillian turns down the corners of his mouth, “Well, how do you feel about it?” 

“That you lied.” Aran says bluntly. “Again.” Your stomach drops. 

“Aran, I…” Cillian falters. 

“Suppose it's a bit better this time, though, isn't it?” Aran continues. “You told before you were found out.” 

Yvonne's face warns you of her impending question before it's uttered. “What is he on about?” Cillian's mouth bobs open, and you can see the sheer panic on his face. Your stomach is turning over and you're sure his is, too. 

“Smoking,” you say, suddenly. “He's been so worried over talking with you, and working, and I've been sick with it all… he's been smoking again. Aran had caught him with a cheeky cigarette on a video call.” You don't know if you'll regret the lie, but you're prepared to accept the consequences. You look across at Aran, and you hate yourself for pulling him into the deception. You know he has harsh feelings towards you anyway, so what's another? But to your relief - though you suspect only for his father - he accepts your silent begging of compliance. 

“Yeah… he knows I wasn't happy about the smoking.” Aran says quietly. 

“Oh, Cillian,” Yvonne rolls her eyes. 

You can't work out Cillian's expression - you're not sure if he feels ‘saved by the bell’, or if he's going to rip you a new one for deflecting and lying. “Yeah, I know,” he says and runs his tongue around his mouth awkwardly. “Look,” he shifts in the chair. “The important thing here is that you two,” he gestures at each of his sons, “know that you can come and talk to me about this. It does matter to me what you're feeling here. But I also need you both to be grown up enough to accept that we're going to be having this wee one and that won't change.” 

“We get it, Dad.” Malachy says quietly. “I'm not gonna throw you a party, but like I said, it's your life not mine.” 

Aran sniffs, “Yeah. Same.” he sighs heavily. 

“Well,” Yvonne clears her throat. “Congratulations then.” She says, matter of fact and clipped. She looks around her awkwardly, and you wonder if the ground opened for you if she might jump in, too. 

“I'm sorry,” Cillian says after it falls silent. You frown - why's he sorry? “I know you're sitting here hurting now, and I'm sorry. But I'm not sorry that this baby is coming. I'm not.” You swallow awkwardly around a painful swelling in your throat. “Y/N and me have been together nearly four years, and we're happy. Sure, if you told me you and Adam were getting married or having a child, I'd be shocked too but like I'd be happy for you. And I know things fell apart, and people were hurt, and the two of ye have been in the middle. I'm sorry for that. But I'm not sorry that we're happy.” 

“I get it, Dad.” Malachy repeats his earlier words, but he sounds softer, sad perhaps, and he nods his head slowly at his Dad. “Congratulations.” 

You can see the flash of emotion across Cillian's face and it makes your eyes water. “Thanks, Malachy.” 

“We really aren't trying to hurt you, Aran.” You say calmly, though your insides are anything but calm. He hates you entirely now, you're sure. 

Aran raises his eyebrows at you and nods his head, “Yeah, maybe not. But…” 

“But you're hurt anyway,” you say and he looks back at you without much reaction. “I know. I'm sorry. We knew when I found out that, after telling you I wasn't pregnant, it was going to look really bad.” 

“It was something she was really worried about, Aran. One of her first fucking concerns was how it'd make you two feel.” Cillian says. “It was for both of us.” 

Aran sighs noisily through his nose and you watch his share a look with his mother. “Okay.” He says, shrugging his shoulders. “So I'm not gonna be the youngest anymore.” 

Cillian laughs, but it's awkward and self conscious. “No,” he sighs, smirking. “I suppose you're not.” 

“God, he's gonna be a middle child.” Malachy groans, comedically, and you're so thankful for this boy it's unreal. Cillian laughs again, and it's forced and just as awkward, but the smile he lands on you after is small but genuine. 

“Does anyone have anything to say?” Cillian asks, looking at everyone in turn.

Yvonne takes a deep breath, “I'm thankful you did it this way. And that you included me in it. Both of you.” Your heart beats wildly. You're not sure if you have just missed the fact that she's a reasonable person all of this time, or if she's just become resigned to the lives you all have now. You'd expected more, something harsher, and it overwhelms you that it doesn't come. “I hope you'll be really happy with the baby.” 

You feel your eyes heating up as tears fill them. “Thank you.” You mumble, and get slowly to your feet. You won't cry here. “I'll, um, I'll start clearing the table…” you say, and grab yours and Cillian's plates as you walk away. You need to breathe, you need to think, and you feel so overwhelmed by the contrast of reception being both worse and better than you'd expected that you have no idea how to process it all. You know Cillian will want to follow, and you want him to, but you also know that right now it isn't about you. 

[bitchinbarzal]

4 Nations | B Faber

summary: you told brock you couldn’t make it to Montreal to see him play for team USA and he was less than impressed

-

You hate fighting with Brock. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it sticks with you like a weight on your chest.

This time, it started with a conversation that should’ve been simple.

“I just don’t think I can swing it” you had told him, regret heavy in your voice “Work is crazy right now, and I can’t just drop everything to go to Montreal”

Brock had nodded, lips pressing together in a way that told you he was disappointed but trying not to push. You thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

Over the next few days, the tension grew. It was in the way he was quieter than usual, how he hesitated before kissing you goodbye, how he’d text you but leave your messages on read more often than not. By the time he left for the 4 Nations tournament, you weren’t really speaking.

And that hurt.

You knew Brock. You knew how much this tournament meant to him. Getting the chance to represent Team USA on a big stage wasn’t something that came around often. And you knew that, deep down, he’d wanted you there.

So when the opportunity arose with your workload shifting, a few deadlines moving you found yourself booking a last-minute flight to Montreal.

The energy in the arena is electric. The roar of the crowd, the sound of skates carving across the ice — it’s all overwhelming in the best way. You’ve watched Brock play countless times before, but this feels different.

You spot him during warmups, his expression focused. He looks good, so at home on the ice, wearing red, white, and blue instead of his usual Wild jersey. But there’s something in his posture that feels a little off.

Like he’s carrying something heavy.

And you know what it is.

You watch as he glances up into the stands for a brief second, scanning the crowd, before shaking his head slightly and refocusing. Like he’d been hoping to see you but already knew you wouldn’t be there.

Your heart clenches.

You wish you could run down there right now, tell him you made it. But you wait, nerves buzzing in your chest as the game begins.

It’s a close one. Brock plays hard, throwing his body into every shift, and you can tell he wants this win.

And he gets it.

When the final buzzer sounds, signaling a USA victory, the crowd erupts. You cheer along with them, watching as the team piles onto the ice, celebrating. Brock is in the middle of it all, grinning as he embraces his teammates, but there’s still that flicker of something missing in his expression.

And you’re about to fix that.

You make your way down toward the tunnel, slipping past clusters of fans. Your heart pounds as the players start filtering out, laughter and conversation echoing through the hallway.

Then Brock appears.

He’s still in his gear, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed. His gaze is downcast as he walks toward the locker room, exhaustion and adrenaline mixing in his expression.

And then he looks up.

He stops dead in his tracks.

For a second, he just stares, like his brain hasn’t caught up with his eyes. Then his brows furrow, like he’s trying to convince himself he’s not seeing things.

You swallow, suddenly nervous. “Surprise”

His lips part slightly, his breath hitching “What—?” He takes a step closer, blinking like he’s trying to make sure you’re real “You said you couldn’t come”

“I know” You shift on your feet “Things changed. I didn’t want to miss this.”

Brock exhales sharply, shaking his head, his expression flickering between disbelief and something softer, something that makes your throat tighten.

“You-” He doesn’t even finish the sentence before he’s closing the distance between you. His arms wrap around you, pulling you in tight, and you barely have time to react before you’re pressed against him, feeling the warmth of his body, the way he exhales shakily against your hair.

“You have no idea how much I wanted you here” he murmurs, voice rough with emotion.

“I know” you whisper back, clutching onto him just as tightly “I’m sorry.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes searching yours “You’re really here?”

You smile, reaching up to brush a damp strand of hair from his forehead “I’m really here”

Brock lets out a breathless laugh, then, unable to help himself, kisses you. It’s not careful or slow—it’s desperate, like he’s been holding it in for days. Like he needs to feel you, to remind himself that this is real.

When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours “I’m really glad you came.”

You smile, your hands still resting on his chest “Me too.”

And just like that, the weight between you disappears.

Because you’re here.

And that’s all that matters.

[princess-of-the-corner]

ML AU - Public Divorce: Lila

Ok, I need to go on with this for a minute cause. This bit was kind of just a joke, but then I thought about it, & now it’s FASCINATING, and-

Like, the joke is just that Chloé’s parents are going through the world’s ugliest divorce, and dragging everyone else with them, including celebs, so by the time Lila turns up, the class is just DONE on celeb gossip. Like. The number of scandals and rumours, and outright BLACKMAIL this class has been witness to is honestly impressive. And these kids are so over it at this point. Chloé most of all, but the whole class is just burnt out on anything relating to high-profile. They regularly see a classmates parents duke it out on Talent Tonight, they want to talk about LITERALLY anything else. So Lila shows up, starts spinning her stories, and gets … . nothing? Polite indifference at best, outright ignored at worst?? What?? At first, she thinks maybe she’s been recycling tales too much, maybe they need to be EVEN MORE IMPRESSIVE, but that has the opposite effect of what she wants, some of her class starts ACTIVELY AVOIDING HER, so nope, stop that! Lila’s just sitting here, stumped, because what the hell? This has NEVER happened, who doesn’t love good old celebrity gossip??

She’s flicking through her phone on a whim, searching for ideas, ANY ideas, (she has literally never needed more than this, she is truly befuddled) when she stumbles across the cute Fox video, and Kim sees it. And calls the class over. And suddenly Lila’s in the middle of the whole group, cooing over adorable animal videos??? What?? But hey! She can work with this! Who wants to see the new baby elephant at the Oregon Zoo?

After that, it becomes a game of trial and error. ANYTHING regarding celebrities or politics is right out, but cute animal videos seems to work! It spirals into video production and quality with Alya, something Lila actually knows a bit about, so that works too! She tries to steer the conversation to actors in movies, but whoops, shutting down again! Until she throws out a frantic production fact about Star Wars (Did you know Palpatine’s chair could only turn at a fixed speed, but it was too fast, so the actor had to use his feet to slow down the chair? So during that scene where Palpatine is confronting Luke, he’s scooting his chair around so it doesn’t fuck up the shot) and suddenly THAT gets everyone interested again! Alright, maybe it’s just CURRENT gossip that’s out? No, no, it’s stuff about people, but production stories are cool??

But it’s not her usual stuff that gets her interest. Someone expresses frustration with a history project about Italy, Lila offhandedly mentions a fact about it, suddenly she’s being begged to help with the project. She gets praised, it’s so cool she knows all this stuff! So ok! Stuff about Italy! She can do that! A random fact about sharks she retained from who knows where generates a discussion that lasts almost two hours, so apparently any facts work! Equally doable! She’s looking up random things, writing down any that snag her interest just so she can pepper them into conversation. Did you know that slugs have teeth with the same composition as diamonds?? How nuts is that!?

And through all of this, some of her actual interests, like history, or masks, makes it in, and people seem to like that just as well (they’re her friends, they enjoy seeing her passionate). Stories about her travels still come up, but they are barely altered or even embellished. She hasn’t spun a proper lie in six months. She’s kind of baffled by how “low effort” this particular group is, unaware that she’s actually spending MORE TIME on shit here, it’s just that she ENJOYS looking up cool facts, or researching history, or talking about how masks get made, or auditioning for the school play. The class gets her mask-carving lessons for her birthday, and Lila almost bursts into tears, cause holy shit, they remembered! (Her mom just got her a gift card).

Running out of steam, but just … I’d call it Lila accidental redemption, except in this, this all happens before she does anything she would need to be redeemed FOR, so.

(Also, ugly divorce is still happening in the background. At one point, André tries to flirt with Lila’s mom. It goes spectacularly badly. Chloé sends the Rossi’s an apology gift basket.)

-

She’s just. So confused