#twenty five twenty one layout

[leitorespacks]

⛤ : / ›› like or reblog if you save/use. *ૢ 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 bawkugos ◡̈    

[ourjisoo2]

✦ Choi Hyunwook ꒰ Ator ꒱ lockscreens !

𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔, 𝐼𝑓 𝑢 𝑠𝑎𝑣𝑒, 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒

[ylwesn]

☆ choi hyun wook moodboard !

like/reblog if you save/use !

[vantemoncherie]

－ kdrama icons!!

THANKS FOR 200 FOLLOWERS!! <3 <3

[lovuyo]

you're on my mind

all the time

like / reblog if used !!

[shariasweet]

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

p.sunghoon x f. reader

𝓦c ::: -1k 𐙚𝓢harinote ::: I let my hg proofread this so if it’s shitty, blame her (not really I love her) anyways boom! double post (it’s 11:50) 𐙚 warnin𝓰.ᐟ ::: hate sex (?) • unprotected sex (wrap it urp) • they do it in the kitchen • handyman hoon • uhm idk what else please lmk what i missed

It's unbearably hot. summer's the worst season to live somewhere like—well... here.

sure, the rent's cheap. it's spacious enough for you and maybe a even roommate. the layouts damn near perfect. the location is good too. It’s tucked away inside of a family neighborhood.

safe. very... homey.

none of that meant anything right now though. warm sunlight poured in through your windows. the sticky humidity crept in at every seal… every crack and crevice in your home was just yet another way for the summer heat to break in…

and it is certainly no help at all that the AC is, ironically, cold out.

usually, that wouldn’t be a problem.

not a big one at least—not for any normal tenant, with a normal landlord. but nothing about your situation is normal.

your landlord’s a prick. he’s a huge pain in the ass… a cheap, condescending, meticulous pain in your hardly tolerant ass.

“hello?” you pressed the phone up against your ear, already annoyed before he could even pick up. “if it isn’t miss y/n,” his arrogant drawl came through the phone thick. “I thought you were done calling me.” you rolled your eyes.

“I was, mr. park… but my AC’s out. It’s completely busted and the forecast says it’s 102°.” you grimaced—somehow, saying it aloud made it all the more worse.

heat pricked your skin.

sweat was already starting to drip down your neck. “oh really?” there it was again… that condensation you wished he’d take and shove 12 inches up his—

“yes, really.” you snapped, mocking his arrogant tone. “well what do you suppose I should do about that, miss y/n?”

“come and fix it.” your gritted your teeth. wasn’t that obvious? “send someone to come and fix it, I don’t know. it’s your building, mr. park. I’m sure the other fifty angry, sweaty tenants would appreciate your hard work and effort.”

“I’m sure you all would.” he groaned. “look , I’ll send someone to fix your unit. but seriously, some of us are on vacation. don’t call me again.”

“trust me, you huffed, “I won’t.”

it took half an hour—only thirty minutes that felt like an eternity for him to arrive.

in those long, sticky minutes, you’d stripped out of at least two layers of clothes: your hoodie came off in the first five minutes, discarded carelessly as you sprawled out on the couch, trying to let the heat rise.

then your sweatpants—you’d ditched them in favor of something more breathable. a pair of worn-in little shorts that clung to you sweat-flushed skin.

by minute twenty-five, your bra had joined the pile of disregarded clothes. your armpits were sticky, your tank top clung to your chest, and honestly? if it would’ve taken a minute longer, you might’ve gone fully naked, just waiting.

luckily, before you could peel the thin cotton material over your head—there were three hard knocks at the door (which you ran to answer, almost giddily)

“my dad sent me,” the man announced flatly. he shoved past the doorway without waiting for an invitation in. before you could even open your mouth to speak, he was inside.

you blinked.

“well, welcome in,” you muttered sarcastically beneath your breath, letting the door slam shut behind you as you watched him walk over to the AC. “so,” you asked, arms crossed, rocking back on your heels, “what’s wrong with it?”

he turned. sharp jaw, dark lashes, a faint sheen of sweat already building across his collarbones.

he was annoyingly attractive. “it’s your AC. shouldn’t you know?” suddenly, you could see the resemblance. sure, this guy was wayyy hotter than his dad could ever be—but that attitude? It was unmistakably mr. park.

you scoffed. “i’m not the one here to fix it.” you trailed. “sunghoon,” he added. you raised a brow. “my name,” he clarified, before crouching in front of the unit and yanking off the front panel.

you rolled your eyes, arms still crossed against your chest as you spun on your heel. “whatever. just fix my unit, sunghoon.” his name rolls off your tongue effortlessly as you toe off.

you don’t wander off too far, just go hover in the kitchen pretending to scroll on your phone, stealing glances at sunghoon when you think he won’t notice.

he’s knelt in front of the unit with his tools scattered on the floor beside him. his sleeveless shirt rides up just enough to expose the small of his back every time he shifts or reaches for something else—sunghoon’s arms flex, veins stark against his cool skin as he tightens a screw or grunts under his breath, leaning in to get a better view.

it’s almost too much… the heat, the tension, him. you press your thighs together feeling arousal pool into your underwear.

the air doesn’t get any cooler and neither does your skin. heat creeps up your neck, flushed, you know he can see you too—he hasn’t said a word in five minutes… even his soft grunts are quieter, his eyes keep drifting:

to your chest, your thighs, the way your tank top turns almost transparent dipping into the valley of your breasts. the two of you take turns playing eye tag.

you watch as a bead of sweat rolls down his neck and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt. god, he may be a pain in the ass (from what you’ve seen so far)… but he’s admittedly, ridiculously attractive… making your core absolutely ache.

“you always stare like that?” his voice cuts clean through your thoughts. sunghoon’s voice is seemingly unbothered—but there’s a detectable edge, a slight rasp. he doesn’t even look up front the unit, still working as you straighten up.

was your staring so obvious? “excuse me?” he finally lifts his head, eyes looking you up and down whilst he runs a hand through his dark hair. “you’ve got a staring problem.”

“maybe if you didn’t make so much noise,” you bite back, refusing to look flustered in front of him. “you’re over there grunting like you’re fighting for your life.”

he smirks. “I’m focused.” standing, he wipes his hands on the hem of his shirt, lifting it just enough to give you a full view of his lower abdomen—glazed in sweat and flush, happy-trail taunting you as it disappears beneath his wasitband. “if you’ve got something to say,” he murmurs, stepping closer, walking towards the kitchen. “say it.”

you don’t. not at first… why would you? you don’t owe him.

his chest nearly brushes yours as he steps closer. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, his breath fans your lips.

his eyes flicker down—your nipples are hard beneath the thin fabric, they’re obvious. he noticed them peaking through as soon as he entered your home, that and the way your thighs flexed every time you once-overed him.

he doesn’t even try to hide the way he looks at you. your mouth gapes open then closes before opening again.

“i said,” he repeats, voice lower now, almost amused—he’s even closer, your chests flat against the other. any space closed. “say it.”

you push him. not too hard, your palms against his chest but he catches your wrists, pressing you back into the island.

“is this what you wanted?” he coos, nose brushing yours. “dressed like that? acting like a brat the second i walked in?” your breath catches in your throat. “‘being all mean when i came all… the way down…” he trails, hands finding your waist. “here,” your thighs clench. “just to fix your AC?”

“fuck you,” you hiss. “yeah?” his knee slots between your legs. “i bet you want to.” you don’t even realize you’re nodding with swollen lips until he moves, hands on your hips and his mouth crashing into yours.

his lips are warm, a little chapped. he moves aggressively—like he’s been waiting to do this since the second he stepped through the door, like he’s trying to eat you whole.

every snippy comment, every ‘dismissive’ glare you threw his way only made him want you more.

you gasp when his tongue darts out and slips past your lips. he swallows the sound of your little whines, continuing to kiss you just the same with his knee bumping against your clit through your shorts.

“‘so fucking bratty,” he breaths between kisses, hand holding your jaw firmly as he picks you up. “‘mouthy little thing.” your fingers dig into his shirt. “fuck… y’know… i hate guys like you.”

he huffs out a laugh. “yeah? ‘doesn’t seem that way, does it?” he places you down against the counter. “‘keep saying that, see what it gets you.”

“I hate guys like you—I hate you.” you frown, your lips inches apart.

just like that, his hands are everywhere—creeping beneath your tank top, pawing at your waist, brushing over the curves of your ass. he continues his assault, trailing kisses from your bruised lips down your jaw and neck.

"’no bra, huh?" he murmurs against your collarbone, hands groping at your chest. his tongue swipes at the sweat gathered there. "’figures."

“shut up,” you breathe, but your voice is barely there. It’s lost somewhere between your frustration and desperation to feel him. he pulls your top up, exposing your chest fully, and groans at the sight.

“fuck… just look at you.” he ducks his head, lips wrapping around your nipple, sucking harshly. greedy. “been thinking about this since you opened the door.” you tug at his shirt, eager to feel his skin against yours. sunghoon’s surprisingly complient, he pulls away just long enough to rip his shirt off and toss it aside.

and then he’s back, grinding against you, diving into your chest. his lips are all over your chest, biting, kissing and mouthing at your flesh like he’s got something to prove. your fingers find the waistband of his pants, sneaking into the waist and tugging. “take them off.” you pant, head tilted back as pleasure and heat consume you.

“someone’s eager.”

“someone’s dripping,” you correct. “and you’re wasting time.”

that gets him.

he shoves his pants down, briefs going along with them—and to no one’s surprise he’s hard, tip already fat and leaking, flushed against his stomach. your shorts are next. he hoists you up, tugging them down with one hand as he cups your cunt with the other, groaning at how soaked you are.

“jesus,” he swears, running a finger through your glistening folds. “you were like this the whole time?” you glare at him through your lashes. “and what about it?” embarrassment nips at you only slightly, you’re burning up.

he doesn’t answer to your snarky remark… just lines himself up, presses in slowly—so thick and hot you feel the stretch immediately. your hands claw at the edge of the counter beneath you, sunghoon’s girth sending sparks up your spine. “fuck,” you gasp, “sunghoon—”

“say that again.” he’s obsessed with the way you say his name. you once firm tone suddenly soft.

“sunghoon!” he slams in the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt before you can speak. you cry out—legs trembling, nails digging into his broad shoulders. “say it,” he repeats, not giving you time to adjust, fucking into you hard enough to make the cabinets shake.

“s-sunghoon,” you whimper, again and again, chanting his name like a prayer. his hips snap into you at a restless pace, he bullies his cock deeper and deeper between your silken walls with every cry. “oh my god—”

“you’re not so mouthy now, are you?” he pants, holding your hips tighter, pounding into you relentlessly, you feel every thrust, drag, pull of his cock. “can feel how fucking tight you are. ‘squeezing me so good.” he whispers against your neck, leaving little marks and bites.

the slap of skin on skin fills the kitchen, along with your broken moans and his rough grunts. It’s obscene. his thumb finds your clit—rubbing fast circles. you jerk, legs clamping around his waist. “‘gonna come for me?” he growls, fucking into you harder. “all over my cock like a good girl?”

you don’t even get to answer. you clench around him, clamp around him as you hold on tighter—hanging on for dear life.

your stomach coils and snaps tight, eyes rolling back as you fall apart… nails dragging down his back as your orgasm hits. his own follows soon after, thrusts growing sloppy, desperate, until he spills inside you with a low, wrecked moan. hips twitching against yours as he attempts to ride it out—movements stuttering as he comes to a halt.

for a moment, all you can hear is the tick of the kitchen clock and the sound of your heavy breathing. then—his forehead presses to yours. “so,” he mutters, voice rough. “still hate me?”

you blink up at him. smirk. “depends. you fix my AC, pretty boy?”

[kxsagi]

LMAO I JUST VISITED NEW YORK AND HAD THE TIME OF MY LIFE BUT THERE WAS A BIG FUCKING RAT THAT SCARED TS OUT OF ME💔 Was wondering how it would be for the bllck boys and reader if they visited new york for the first time as it ain't for the weak

“𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐲𝐨𝐫𝐤, 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟”

a/n: never went to nyc before, but i’ve seen enough vlogs to know what it’s like

still wanna go there and live my city girl life though ���� (even if i'll always prefer tokyo)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, kaiser michael

isagi yoichi

you land in JFK and isagi’s like a golden retriever let off a leash. “it’s just like the movies,” he says, eyes sparkling. he takes photos of the skyline, the pigeons, the trash can. 

within ten minutes he gets his foot trapped in a subway turnstile because he didn’t swipe fast enough. 

“baby… baby, i’m stuck.” 

you’re already dead laughing as new yorkers trample past you like war just broke out. 

isagi tries to thank someone who held a door open and gets hit with a “fuck off” so hard he physically recoils. 

“why is everyone yelling? did i offend them?” 

he says sorry when someone steps on his foot. 

he wants to be brave, he really does. but then the rat shows up. 

not just a rat. a large, wet, half-eaten pizza-dragging city gremlin who stops, looks at isagi, and hisses. 

isagi SCREAMS. like full chest, jumps into your arms, screaming. 

“BABY. TAKE THE PICTURE. TAKE THE PICTURE OF THE RAT SO WE NEVER COME BACK.” 

but then you get him a halal chicken over rice platter and he eats it like it’s his first meal after battle. 

“okay, maybe new york isn’t so bad.” 

(he posts a story of the skyline with 🗽💙 and everyone thinks he’s thriving. no one knows he almost cried on the Q train.) 

itoshi rin

lands, looks around, and immediately mutters “overrated.” 

the cab driver says “welcome to new york” and rin gives him a blank stare like he said a slur. 

you take him to times square and he just stands there, unblinking, like a soldier during war. 

“is this supposed to be… fun?” 

a man in a spider-man suit tries to hug you and rin blocks it with his body. 

“don’t touch her.” 

you thought he'd hate rats, but when one scurries across the sidewalk, he doesn’t flinch. he stares it down. 

you swear you saw the rat flinch first. 

refuses to use google maps. walks in the wrong direction for twenty minutes, then blames the city’s layout. 

eats a dollar slice of pizza and goes “i could make this better.” 

does not say thank you to anyone. does not hold doors. does not care. 

but he’ll still hand you his jacket when the wind picks up and wipe sauce off your cheek with his thumb. 

“i don’t like it here. but i like you. so i’ll deal with it.” 

itoshi sae

lands in private terminal. 

no, really. this man takes a private jet to la guardia. 

wears sunglasses at night. asks the bellhop if they have imported water. 

glares at you when you suggest the subway. “you think i’m touching something that 400 people sweat on daily?” 

takes a black car everywhere. scoffs at traffic like it’s beneath him. 

you drag him into a bodega and he looks personally insulted by the smell of bacon egg and cheese. 

“this sandwich looks like a violation of health codes.” 

then he takes one bite. then another. then eats the whole thing and throws a $100 bill at the cashier. 

gets chased by a man selling knockoff watches. “SIR, GUCCI! GUCCI FOR CHEAP!” 

“do i look like i wear fake gucci?” 

a pigeon tries to land near him in central park and he deadass glares at it for a solid minute. 

later, you find him quietly photographing you by the skyline while you laugh. he looks at it like it’s art. 

“maybe it’s not the worst place. with the right view.” 

bachira meguru

he treats new york like a playground. swings on subway poles like they’re monkey bars. 

high-fives a man dressed as batman. compliments a breakdancer. raps with a guy in union square. 

sees a rat. CHARGES AFTER IT. 

“THAT’S MASTER SPLINTER!” 

you have to tackle him before he follows the rat down the tracks. 

eats everything. pretzel? yep. hot dog? two. mystery meat skewer from a cart with questionable hygiene? still yes. 

buys you both matching “I ❤️ NY” shirts and takes selfies with a selfie stick. 

when someone catcalls you, bachira turns, smiles, and yells, “THANKS BRO SHE’S MINE THOUGH!!” 

gets invited to a random rooftop party. takes you. ends up freestyling with a DJ named slicebread. 

“i think i’m gonna be mayor.” 

wakes up the next day spooning a traffic cone. doesn’t question it. 

nagi seishiro

jetlag hits. he sleeps through the flight, customs, and taxi ride. 

you’re literally carrying him into the hotel. 

looks around the city once and goes “too many steps.” 

gets stopped by a tourist asking for directions and says “no english.” 

he can speak it. he just doesn’t want to talk. 

eats a street dog and stains his hoodie. doesn’t notice. 

tries to sit on a sculpture in central park and gets yelled at by a cop. 

“didn’t know art had rules.” 

almost dies jaywalking because he’s too busy playing games on his phone to see the taxi speeding toward him. 

you scream, yank him back, and he just goes, “huh. close one.” 

sees the rat. nods at it like “i respect you.” 

buys you a pretzel. says “this city’s kinda nice when i don’t have to walk.” 

mikage reo

most delusional tourist. 

“we’re gonna hit soho, dumbo, greenwich, then rooftop dinner with skyline views!” 

wears designer shoes with zero arch support. regrets it in three blocks. 

every time you turn around he’s buying something off a street vendor. 

“don’t worry, it’s authentic. the guy said it’s real yves saint laurent.” 

(you watched the man peel the YSL sticker off a water bottle ten seconds ago.) 

sees a rat and straight up SCREAMS. jumps into your arms like a victorian maiden. 

“BABE, I SAW ITS TEETH.” 

tries to be romantic on brooklyn bridge, but slips on gum and nearly sprains his ankle. 

insists on carrying you in central park, then gets winded 30 seconds in. 

“this city needs more elevators.” 

still buys a “just married in NYC” shirt for you both even though you’re not married. 

posts a full photo dump. caption: “she’s the skyline to my heart 🗽💜” 

kaiser michael

says “i run this city” the second he gets off the plane. 

aggressively flirts with the TSA agent. gets flagged for a pat-down. still smirking. 

“they can’t resist the charm.” 

rips his shirt off in central park. flexes. takes selfies. 

when someone bumps into you in soho, he dropskick levels of angry. 

“did he just brush your shoulder? are we fighting? i think we’re fighting.” 

beefs with the pigeons. at one point, it’s just him and a pigeon locked in an intense staring contest for 45 seconds. 

when he loses, he says, “next round.” 

tries to climb a street sign. yells “LONG LIVE THE KING OF NEW YORK” before slipping and getting a parking ticket somehow. 

ends the night in a rooftop bar, leaning into your ear like, “this city’s wild. but not as wild as how i feel about you.” 

you roll your eyes. but you’re laughing. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[mrs-delaney]

Then Ask Me Sometime

📩 request: joe and reader are exes who keep hooking up. one night he’s like “i miss knowing how you’re doing” and she’s like “then ask me sometime.” heartbreak! tension! yearning! 🔥💔

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 2.5k words

🥲 this one got me good, not gonna lie. joe really said “i miss knowing how you're doing” and i haven’t known peace since. hope it hits you in the chest too 💌

🪷 read my masterlist here — full of feelings & joe burrow brainrot 💌

🎤 read hide here — music, mistakes, and a quarterback who falls hard 💌

📬 join my tag list — be the first to know when i post 💌

Joe sat on the edge of his bed, phone in his hand, staring at the message he'd sent twenty minutes ago.

You up?

Three dots had appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. Then appeared again. He'd watched that dance play out for five minutes before her response finally came through.

On my way.

No questions. No small talk. Just acknowledgment of what they both knew this was.

He set the phone on the nightstand and ran his hands through his hair, the familiar weight of anticipation and guilt settling in his chest. It had been a long day—meetings with coaches, film review, the kind of grueling preparation that usually left him satisfied. But tonight, sitting alone in the house as evening turned to dark, the accomplishment had felt hollow. The silence had gotten to him first, then the empty kitchen where he'd eaten takeout standing at the counter instead of sitting at the table they'd picked out together.

That's when he'd reached for his phone.

This had become their routine over the past four months—late-night texts that led to her showing up at the house they used to share, the house that was supposed to be theirs but now felt too big and too quiet with just him in it. It started three weeks after the breakup, when she'd texted him about picking up some clothes she'd forgotten. One thing led to another, and suddenly they had this arrangement that neither of them had ever explicitly discussed the rules for.

The living room still had her touch everywhere. The throw pillows she'd insisted on were arranged just so on the couch. The coffee table books about art and photography that she'd collected were still fanned out the way she liked them. He'd told himself he kept them because moving them felt like too much effort, but the truth was simpler and more pathetic: they made the house feel less empty.

The kitchen was worse. She'd organized every cabinet, labeled the spice rack, and insisted on keeping fresh flowers on the counter even though he'd argued it was a waste of money. The flowers were long gone now, but her coffee mug still sat in the cabinet, untouched because he couldn't bring himself to use it. Sometimes he'd catch himself reaching for two plates instead of one before remembering.

They'd bought this place together eight months before everything fell apart. Spent weekends walking through furniture stores, arguing about thread counts and whether they needed a dining room table that seated eight people. She'd won most of those arguments, and now Joe was grateful for it. At least the house had personality, even if it wasn't entirely his.

The worst part was how right she'd been about everything. The couch was comfortable for watching film. The kitchen layout made sense when he was cooking for the team gatherings she'd insisted they host. Even the paint colors she'd chosen—warm grays and soft blues that he'd thought were too feminine—somehow made the house feel like a home instead of just a place to sleep.

Joe stood and walked to the window, looking out at the circular driveway where her car would appear soon. The security lights cast long shadows across the property, and he found himself wondering what she told herself on the drive over. Did she hesitate before texting back? Would she sit in her car for a few minutes before walking to the door, the way she used to near the end, when coming home felt more like walking into a minefield than a sanctuary?

He remembered the last few weeks before the breakup, how every conversation felt like walking through a minefield. His schedule was getting more demanding as the season approached. Her growing frustration with always coming second to football. The way they'd started sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, even when they were technically touching.

The fight that ended it had been about something stupid—him missing dinner with her parents because of a last-minute team meeting. But really, it had been about everything else. About how she felt like she was building a life around someone who wasn't fully present for it. About how he felt like he was failing at everything that mattered off the field.

"I can't do this anymore," she'd said, standing in this same bedroom, her voice quiet but certain. "I can't keep pretending that this is working when we both know it isn't."

He'd wanted to fight for her, to promise he'd do better, but the truth was he didn't know how. Football was everything he'd worked for his entire life, and the demands weren't going to get smaller. She deserved someone who could give her more than the leftover pieces of himself.

So they'd had the breakup conversation like adults. Divided up their things, figured out who would take the house. She'd moved out over a weekend while he was at training camp, leaving behind only the furniture they'd bought together and a note thanking him for everything.

For three weeks, Joe had convinced himself he was fine. The house was quieter, sure, but he could focus better. No more scheduling his life around someone else's needs. No more guilt about missing dinners or working late.

Then she'd texted about the clothes.

She'd shown up on a Tuesday evening, professional and polite, gathering the handful of items she'd forgotten. But when she was done, instead of leaving, she lingered by the door. They'd started talking for the first time since the breakup. And when talking turned into touching, and touching turned into them tangled together on the couch they'd picked out, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"This doesn't change anything," she'd said afterward, already reaching for her clothes.

"I know," he'd replied, even though some part of him had hoped it might.

That was four months ago. Since then, they'd developed this careful dance of late-night texts, brief encounters, no talk of feelings or the future. She seemed to have this whole thing figured out in a way that he didn't. Clean boundaries. No complications. Just two people who were good together in bed and smart enough not to confuse that with anything else.

Except he was starting to confuse it with something else.

He started noticing little things. The way she still kicked her shoes off by the door in the exact same spot, muscle memory from when this was her home, too. How she'd absently reach for the lamp on the bedside table that she'd picked out and placed there. The way she still moved through his kitchen like she knew where everything was, because she did—she'd organized those cabinets herself.

These weren't the observations of someone who was just hooking up with his ex. These were the observations of someone who missed her in ways that had nothing to do with sex.

Joe heard the soft hum of an engine in the driveway and felt his pulse pick up. Fifteen minutes. She'd made good time from wherever she was. He stepped back from the window, not wanting to look too eager.

The front door opened with her key; he'd never asked for it back, and she'd never offered, and he heard her familiar footsteps on the hardwood. She still moved through this house as if she belonged there, and maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe that was why he kept texting her.

"Upstairs," he called out, his voice rougher than he intended.

Her footsteps paused for just a moment, and he wondered what had caught her attention. Maybe she was checking her phone, or maybe she'd noticed something different about the house. It was a brief pause, the kind that wouldn't mean anything to anyone else, but he found himself cataloging it anyway.

Then her feet were on the stairs, and Joe felt that familiar tightness in his chest that came with wanting something he'd already lost.

* * *

She appeared in the doorway, and Joe's breath caught. Still beautiful. Still looking at him like she was deciding something.

"Hey," she said, leaning against the doorframe.

"Hey."

The silence stretched between them, not awkward exactly, but loaded with the weight of everything they weren't saying. She was wearing an oversized sweater and jeans, nothing special, but Joe found himself looking at her like he was trying to memorize something.

She pushed off from the doorframe and walked toward him, her eyes doing that thing they always did, taking inventory. When her gaze lingered on his shoulders, then dropped to his chest, he saw the moment she registered the difference.

"You've been spending more time in the gym," she said, not quite a question.

Joe shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. "Offseason training's been more intense."

She was close enough now that he could smell her perfume, the same one she'd always worn. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the muscle there, and he felt his breath catch.

"I can tell," she murmured, and there was something in her voice that made his pulse spike.

He caught her hand in his, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You like it?"

Instead of answering, she rose up on her toes and kissed him. Soft at first, testing, then deeper when he responded. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made that quiet sound in the back of her throat that he remembered too well.

They broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads touching.

They moved toward the bed without breaking the kiss, her fingers tracing the new muscle definition she'd noticed.

"Jesus, Joe," she breathed, her hands tracing the new definition in his shoulders, his arms.

He wanted to say something, but she was kissing him again, and then they were falling back onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and familiar desire. Her jeans hit the floor, followed by his pants, and then there was just skin against skin and the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.

Joe took his time, the way he always did with her. His mouth on her neck, her collarbone, mapping territory he knew by heart but somehow felt different now under his hands. She was responsive, arching into his touch, her fingers digging into the muscle of his back in a way that made him groan.

When she rolled him over and straddled him, her hair falling around her face, he found himself staring. She looked down at him with an expression he couldn't quite read, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

"What?" she asked, noticing him staring.

"Nothing," he said, his hands settling on her hips. "Just... you."

Something flickered across her face, too quick for him to catch, before she leaned down to kiss him again. And then they were moving together, finding that rhythm they'd never lost, the connection that had always been easy between them, even when everything else was complicated.

Afterward, they lay without touching, still breathing hard. The silence felt thick, full of things Joe didn't want to think about too hard.

She was the first to move, sitting up and reaching for her clothes, which were scattered across the floor. Joe watched her, noting the careful way she avoided his eyes, the practiced efficiency of someone who'd done this dance before.

"You don't have to rush off," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

She paused, bra halfway on. "Don't I?"

There was a challenge in her voice, and Joe felt something shift in his chest. This was the part where one of them would usually make an excuse, pretending it was simple and meaningless. But tonight felt different. Tonight, the silence felt like it was asking questions he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.

* * *

She was already reaching for her sweater when Joe found himself speaking.

"I miss knowing how your day went."

He hadn't meant to say it out loud. Her hands stilled on the fabric, and for a moment, the only sound was their breathing still evening out.

She turned to look at him, something unreadable flickering across her face. "What?"

Joe sat up against the headboard, suddenly feeling exposed in a way that had nothing to do with being naked. "I said I miss knowing how your day went."

She pulled the sweater over her head, the motion sharp and deliberate. "Why do you care?"

The question stung. He watched her stand and reach for her jeans—the familiar routine of her getting dressed to leave—and felt something crack open in his chest.

"I'm serious." He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by how hard this was to say. "I miss knowing if you had a good day at work, or if that thing with your sister worked out, or whether you're sleeping okay."

"You can't do this," she said, shaking her head as she buttoned her jeans. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because this isn't what this is." She gestured between them, her voice taking on an edge he recognized, the one she got when she was protecting herself. "This is physical. It's simple. It works because we don't do... this."

Joe felt something desperate rise in his chest. "But what if I want to know? What if I want this to be more than just—"

"Then ask me sometime," she cut him off, reaching for her shoes. "Out of this bedroom."

The words landed like a challenge, and Joe felt his mouth open to respond, but she was already moving toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

She paused in the doorway, not turning around. "Home, Joe. I'm going home."

"This used to be your home, too."

The silence that followed was deafening. When she finally turned to look at him, there was something in her expression that made his chest tighten.

"Used to be," she said softly. "See you around, Joe."

And then she was gone, and he was back to being alone in a bed that felt empty without her, the sound of her leaving echoing through the house.

Joe stared at the ceiling, replaying the conversation in his head. The way she'd looked at him when he said he missed knowing about her day. The careful distance she'd put between them with her words. The challenge in her voice: Then ask me sometime out of this bedroom.

The next morning, Joe found himself staring at a blank text message for twenty minutes, typing and deleting words until his thumbs were tired. Finally, he settled on something simple:

How's your day going? Can we meet up soon, not to hook up, but to hang out? It can be in public

He hit send before he could second-guess himself.

Her response came an hour later, and despite everything, Joe found himself smiling as he read it:

Give me a week of consistent communication that's not you trying to hook up with me, and I'll consider it.

Joe read the message three times, something warm and terrifying unfurling in his chest. A week. She was giving him a week to prove he wanted more than just her body in his bed.

He could do a week.

[sonarspace]

RAIN, REGRETS, & REDEMPTION. KENTO NANAMI

SYNOPSIS: promises made in the rain often get washed away, leaving echoes of what might have been CONTENT: angst. nsfw. PAIRING: ex-husband! nanami x reader. WC: 2.7k

☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸

it's been over five months since you filed for divorce from nanami. they say it gets easier with time, but it feels like it just gets harder every day. you miss him so much, it’s like a part of you is just gone.

you still remember that day so clearly—pushing him out the door and yelling “get out!” before collapsing on the floor, tears streaming down your face as it hit you that your marriage was really over.

it’s hard not to feel bitter when you think about how his career seemed to take over your whole life. the rare moments of intimacy—only on birthdays and your anniversary—felt more like a formality than real connection. it’s like your entire relationship was reduced to those fleeting moments, leaving you feeling more alone than ever.

the days after were a blur. you tried to stay busy, but every corner of the apartment was haunted by him. the layout of the living room, your habit of leaving your shoes by the door, his favorite mug next to yours in the cabinet, his second pair of glasses on your bedside table—everything was a painful echo of his absence.

what hurt the most was that he didn’t even fight for you. he didn’t fight for your relationship. it ended so abruptly, like a chapter closing with no chance for a rewrite.

so you did what you could to move on. you packed up everything and decided to move out of the apartment, sending his belongings back through his lawyer since you no longer knew where he lived. yet, selfishly, you kept his sweater. it was the only piece of him you allowed yourself to hold onto.

you decide to spend one last night in the apartment you both once shared, before the divorce would be finalized tomorrow. after tomorrow, you'd be free from everything that connected you to him. the place was empty, with nothing left but your mattress on the floor in the bedroom and the refrigerator in the kitchen.

you pull on his sweater, feeling its familiar warmth, and then catch your reflection in the mirror. you can’t help but think how pathetic it all seems. trying to shake off the feeling, you pour yourself a glass of wine. just as you’re about to head out onto the balcony, the doorbell rings, cutting through the quiet of the empty apartment.

you frown, wondering who could be ringing the doorbell at this late hour. when you open the door, your wine glass nearly slips out of your hand. there he is, standing in front of you—the man who caused you so much pain. whom you still can’t help but long for. his messy blond hair is tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it anxiously. his clothes are crumpled, his shirt hanging out of his pants when it’s usually neatly tucked. he’s breathing heavily, as if he’s just ran up twenty flights of stairs to you.

the sight of him, unexpectedly at your door, floods you with a storm of unresolved feelings, making your heart ache with bittersweet emotion.

“elevator’s out of order, huh?” he says, his voice heavy as he catches his breath. you stare at him, struggling to find your words.

“what are you…” you're about to ask, but he cuts you off.

“can i come in?”

you stand there, your feet rooted to the ground. you’ve replayed this moment countless times during your lonely nights, imagining if he’d ever come back, if he’d ask for your forgiveness. now that he's here, the reality of it is almost too surreal.

you’re about to shut the door, the sight of him too much to handle. but he stops it with his foot. “please, baby,” he says softly, and it almost makes you melt. you quickly remind yourself to stay strong. “you don’t get to call me that,” you snap, sounding like a petulant kid even though the endearment tugs at you.

his eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of regret and desperation. “i know you don’t want to see me, but—”

before he can finish, you sigh and step aside. he walks through the door, and the emptiness of the place hits him hard. memories start rushing back—the way you'd run up to him and hug him when he came home from work, the new recipes you’d tried out together in the kitchen, those late nights on the couch where you’d read while he worked on his laptop. his eyes fall on the open bedroom door, spotting the mattress. the nights you spent together, a mess of tangled limbs.

his throat feels tight, and before he knows it, his eyes are filled with tears. you see the look on his face and without thinking, you set the glass down on the kitchen counter and pull him into a hug. he clings to you, holding you like you’re the only thing anchoring him. his knees start to wobble, and he pulls you down with him. you both sink to the wooden floor. his body trembles as he takes in shaky breaths, trying to hold back his sobs.

you press a kiss to his hair like you have countless times before when he sought comfort in your arms. “kento,” you whisper softly, the name feeling heavy on your tongue. “please,” he whispers back, his voice broken and desperate. you know what he's asking for, but it's too late. “you’re too late,” you say, struggling to keep your voice from wavering.

he pulls back from your shoulder. you both gaze into each other's eyes. the unspoken words hang heavy between the two of you. “i’m sorry,” he says in a broken whisper. the words you've been longing to hear for the past five months. the apology should be bringing you some sort of relief, right? but all you feel is guilt. overwhelming guilt which threatens to spill from your eyes. why didn’t you fight harder for both of you? why did you just pin the blame on him and give up after only one attempt?

as if sensing your turmoil, he cups your cheeks and leans his head against yours. “don't even think about blaming yourself,” he murmurs, his voice soft and reassuring. his hands are warm on your cheeks. his warmth seeps into you, pumping your heart. it's too much in the best way. god, you've missed him so much.

“kento,” your voice chokes. he kisses the tears streaming down your cheeks, his lips brushing against your skin with a featherlight touch.

“no more tears,” he says, giving you a sad smile. his thumb gently brushes away the last of your tears. he stands up and offers you his hand. you take your glass of wine as he grabs the bottle and leads you out to the balcony. you both stand under the night sky, covered with heavy clouds with the promise of rain.

you sip your wine silently while he takes a swig directly from the bottle. after a moment, you place your glass on the floor and, without a word, he hands you the bottle. your fingers brush against each other as you pass the bottle back and forth. you somehow find yourselves moving closer.

he turns his head to look at you as your head rests on his shoulder. you’re unsure who makes the first move and you couldn’t care less. your lips brush against each other, both of you hesitant, unsure if you should cross the line or not. you don’t know if it’s the emotions of the night or the alcohol in your system, but before you can think too much about it, you close the gap and press your lips against his.

the bottle slips from his hand and shatters on the floor as he brings his hand up to cup your cheek. his thumb moves under your jaw, tilting it higher to deepen the kiss. he groans into your mouth, and just then, the rain starts. fat, heavy drops fall over both of you as you lose yourself completely in the kiss.

the kiss starts slow and gentle but quickly turns needy and desperate as you both give in to each other. he walks you back into the apartment, blindly shutting the balcony door behind him with the rain muffled outside. he pulls away, breathing heavily, and his hand moves to the hem of your drenched sweater (his). “looks better on you than it did on me,” he smiles tenderly as he notices.

he waits for a moment, his eyes searching yours for permission to remove it. you nod and the sweater is off before you can blink. your pants follow next. you start unbuttoning his shirt as he kisses you again. both of you blindly make your way back to the bedroom. your hands find the waistband of his pants, and as the back of your feet meets the mattress on the floor, you yelp, falling backward and pulling him down with you. the sounds of your chuckles fill the empty apartment.

the room fills with tension as you both quiet down. kento’s finger gently tucks back a strand of hair behind your ear. "i missed hearing that," he murmurs sincerely. before you can respond, he captures your lips. his tongue presses against your lips and you part them, letting him in as the kiss deepens and becomes urgent.

his hands roam over your body with confidence, each caress of his fingers making you gasp against his lips. he cups your breasts, making you arch into him. he pulls back from your lips and trails teasing kisses down your neck and jaw.

he takes a moment to slip off your bra, leaving you just in your panties. seeing the blush spread across your cheeks, he grins. "you're so fucking beautiful," he breathes, his voice hoarse with need.

his hands continue their exploration, setting your skin ablaze. he parts your legs and positions himself between them, his fingers grazing over your thighs, savoring every inch. he takes in a shaky breath as he gazes down at you, reminding him of the first time you were together.

“ken, please,” you whimper, voice trembling with need. he chuckles at your desperation. “patience, my sweet love.” he spreads your legs wider, making you gasp as his tongue presses against your drenched panties. “haven’t even done anything yet, and you’re already so wet?” he asks with a cocky grin.

his eyes flutter closed as the taste of you seeps through the fabric, his nose pressed against you, sending shivers through your body. your hands instinctively find his hair, tugging him closer. his breath is hot, teasing, as his tongue traces the outline of your folds, every lick driving you closer to the edge. unintelligible sounds spill from your lips as your breaths grow heavier.

his fingers slip beneath your panties, grazing where you need him most. he teases you, taking his time, relearning your body, savoring every reaction. when he pushes two fingers inside, he growls low, “so warm, so eager.” your hips buck up, seeking more.

he withdraws his fingers and slides your panties off, his eyes never leaving you as he pumps himself slowly. he watches the way your lips part, how your eyes darken with desire. without breaking his gaze, he slides into you, and you both moan in unison. the stretch is overwhelming, your hands instinctively grip his shoulders as your body arches, shuddering under the intensity.

his lips trail kisses across your collarbones, his breath ragged against your neck. “tell me you missed me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with need and vulnerability.

“i missed you so much,” you breathe out. he groans softly at your confession. his lips crash into yours, a messy attempt to kiss as his movements grow more desperate, deeper.

for a moment, the past five months of pain, regret, and loneliness seem to melt away. it’s just the two of you, tangled up and breathless, your bodies slick with sweat and desire.

outside, the rain pounds against the windows, a loud backdrop to the soft, urgent sounds of your carnal needs. the heavy rain against the windows blends with the symphony of your mingled breaths and whispered names.

your moans grow louder as he picks up the pace, your walls clenching and holding onto him he moves in out of you. your senses blur together, the pressure inside you builds fast. that tight coil in your stomach winding impossibly close to snapping. your muscles tense as you edge towards your release.

your nails dig into his back, your body trembling as you feel yourself teetering on the edge. his grip on you tightens like he’s afraid to let go, afraid of losing this moment—or you—all over again.

“i’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice cracking as he presses his forehead against yours. his thrusts slow but grow deeper, each one filled with a desperation that cuts through the haze of pleasure. “i’m so sorry.”

the words hit you like a wave, and your chest tightens. it’s hard to breathe, your heart torn between the intensity of your orgasm and the pain of remembering everything that brought you here.

but for just this moment, you let yourself drown in both. the pleasure and the ache intertwine, your moans mixed with soft sobs as you finally come undone in his arms.

your body trembles beneath him as you try to catch your breath, still reeling from the intensity of it all. he stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, holding you like he never wants to let go. his fingers trace your cheek, catching a stray tear, and his lips press against your skin—soft, desperate.

“don’t leave me,” he whispers, voice breaking as he buries his face into your shoulder. his chest heaves, and he pulls back to meet your eyes, pleading.

you can barely breathe, the weight of it all crashing over you. he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering, trembling, like he’s holding on for dear life.

“i should’ve fought for us,” he says, voice cracking under the strain. “i messed up, but it’s not too late. i’ll talk to the lawyers tomorrow—i’ll fix everything.”

his words hang heavy in the air as he kisses you again, slow and tender, like he’s sealing a vow. and despite the conflicting emotions inside you, you let yourself lean into it, into him, just for tonight.

when you wake the next morning, the light filtering in through the curtains, you feel his warmth still pressed against you. for a brief moment, you think it’s a dream—one of those bittersweet fantasies you’d had over the last few months.

but then you feel his arms tighten, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. he presses a soft kiss to the back of your neck. “good morning,” his voice gruff.

“i’ll talk to the lawyers today,” he whispers, his voice low and soothing. “i’ll make it right.” you give him a sleepy smile and he chuckles fondly. you hear him moving around quietly—getting dressed, gathering his things. “i’ll be back soon,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “we’ll figure it out.”

the morning is gray, the skies still heavy from last night’s rain. you hear the sound of his car pulling away, hoping when you wake up next, this will all be over. but when you do, it’s not the sound of him coming back that wakes you—it’s the phone ringing.

the roads were slick, the rain turning everything into a slippery danger. they say he didn’t see the other car coming, didn’t have time to react. your heart sinks as you hear the fragments of the message: “accident,” “wet roads,” “collision.”

the phone drops from your trembling hand. the world around you blurs as you fall to the floor.

you rush to the hospital, your mind racing. when you finally get to the icu, you find him there, motionless but breathing. a rush of relief floods through you as you see the steady rise and fall of his chest.

you sit by his side, gripping his hand tightly. the steady beeping of the monitors fills the silence in the room. you don’t know when he’ll wake up, or if he’ll wake up at all. tears slip silently down your cheeks as you whisper, “i’m here, kento. i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸☼︎｡𖦹°‧𓂃 𓈒𓏸

A/N: product of me listening to pink in the night on repeat for the past two days. likes, comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

© SONARSPACE 2024 | DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, OR REPOST MY WORK ON OTHER PLATFORMS!

[nujins]

  [ 𓆩♡𓆪 ] for you... maybe — k.wh smau

[ SYNOPSIS ] ━━ you and woonhak are in different friend groups, different classes, different social bubbles, but always find yourselves in the same place: the student council’s shared committee space. why? because the two of you and your friends somehow all, coincidentally, represent the student body despite all their hidden crazy. woonhak? doesn’t really care. you? cares a bit too much. disaster? abso-fucking-lutely. well your respective friends are very much over it. yeah, they all see what’s going on. all the bickering, the accidental eye contact, the weird tension when you’re both stuck doing posters together at 10pm. so they form an unofficial matchmaking pact. but because both sides can’t really rein in their chaos for shit, the plans are anything but smooth.

[ PAIRING ] ━━ k.woonhak x afab!reader

[ FEATURING ] ━━ boynextdoor members, le sserafim’s eunchae, itzy’s yuna, aespa’s karina, enhypen’s jungwon, riize’s anton, & more to be mentioned.

[ GENRE ] ━━ smau & written, organizational enemies-to-crushes-ish-to-lovers, matchmaking gone wrong, everyone but them sees it, mutual pining, non-idol au, high school au, slow-burn, fluff, crack, angst, and more.

[ WARNING ] ━━ swearing/vulgar language, inconsistent time stamps, possible spelling mistakes for realism, suggestive / sexual content (there’s barely any, just mentions of it), kms/kys and other chronically online jokes, strict parent/s, academic / school organization-related stuff, and more to be mentioned as the story progresses.

[ UPDATES & STATUS ] ━━ currently ongoing & sporadic / weekend updates!

[ RELEASE DATE ] ━━ april twenty-second, 2025.

[ A. NOTE/S ] ━━ yes ik ik i still have another tbz q fanfic ongoing that i haven’t updated in a while,,, i accept the boos and tomatoes… but ANYWAY with that aside, let us take a moment of silence to appreciate the new layout yuuuuup YUP, spent hours on it dare i say i left no crumbs and gulped down the plate ! 😝 also got a new phone and laptop so everybody cheered for the quality photos 🥳 but yes, i recently got SO obsessed with bnd anyway, started fixating on “serenade” (it was on a certified L-O-O-P for a whole day high key obsessed lowkey autistic for that) however,, you have been graced with a sexy ass plot and layout cuz of it so dont PLAY w me 😙 me & jaehyun fight to the death hunger games style for the title of having woonhak as my baby WHEN?? like im so ready no cap deadass,, idc if me and unagi are litrly the same age he is babie !!! n e ways hope u enjoy reading this one! leave a like and comment? maybe??? gg thnx divas!

✧.* TABLE OF CONTENTS! ⁀➷

PROFILES ━━ cedar heights’ student body ❈ y/n’s minions ❈ woony & the wombats ↺ PROLOGUE ━━ the first clash ↺ CHAPTER ONE ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER TWO ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER THREE ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER FOUR ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER FIVE ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER SIX ━━ coming soon... ↺ CHAPTER SEVEN ━━ coming soon... ↺ more to come!

[ TAGLIST ] ━━ (open) @s0shroe @kazukazukiiii @beomev @sfnctzen @tempewra @aeminju @wondoras @mensisim @person-line @g3laatin @jungwonbropls @tkooooop @w3willris3 @woonbabie @prodkwh

[cinder-stella]

𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐞𝐧 𝐀𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐭!

multiverse fluff, slice of life, comedy

<MDNI>toji,satoru,kento,choso,sukuna<MDNI>

Across countless timelines, you utter the same words, “We’re just getting one thing.”

Only one thing at home depot. Seems simple enough, right? Just in and out. No distractions.

In every timeline, the man beside you says, “Yeah, sure. Just one thing.”

That's a lie. They all lie.

──✿──

TOJI

Mission: Find a socket wrench.

You step inside Home Depot with Toji, hoping to buy a basic wrench. But then you blink and he’s gone. No explanation. No warning. Just the faint remnants of cologne that he sprayed on quickly before leaving the house.

You find him twenty minutes later in the Hunting & Outdoor section, crouching like a cryptid—his limbs too long and bulky to squat neatly. His shirt’s askew, hair tousled and he’s holding a roll of duct tape as if it’s speaking directly to him.

“This is the good kind,” he says without looking at you. “Industrial strength. Can restrain a grown man. Even hold a bumper on.”

"...We’re here for a wrench, Toji."

He ignores you and holds up a crowbar, testing the weight in his hand. “This one’s balanced. Nice grip. Could kill a guy.”

“That’s nice, sweetie. Definitely not alarming.”

You trail him as he tosses it into the cart alongside zip ties, work gloves and a beef jerky bag he’s already torn open and started eating. An employee clocks it from the corner of the aisle, starts to say something but then decides he values his life too much.

Toji pauses in front of a grill, stares at it like he’s yearning. “For the kid,” he mutters, tossing it in. “He’s gotta eat.”

You stare at the mountain of vaguely criminal hardware and protein snacks in the cart and run a hand down your face. “We came for a wrench. One.”

Toji shrugs. “And now we have a tactical advantage.”

You should’ve just ordered it online. “Alright, big guy. You’re paying.”

Toji swivels around with an eyebrow raised.

SATORU

Mission: Buy a shower head.

He walks in like he owns the place. As if the automatic doors opened just for him. Tall, smug, sunglasses indoors (as usual), and dressed like he’s on a luxurious trip instead of a store for plumbing fixtures.

“Now, this is a man’s store,” he announces, immediately drawing attention. “I love it.”

You sigh. “Satoru, please. Just one thing. We’re not here to mess around.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course. One thing. I’m laser focused.”

He is not.

Within five minutes, he’s critiquing paint swatches aloud like he’s on Project Runway. “This one says ‘murder in a pastel kitchen.’ This one screams ‘lower tax bracket.’ This one? Oh yeah, this one’s sexy. Like me.”

He strolls through the aisles with cocky grace, picking up tools and using them completely wrong on purpose.

He holds up two caulking guns like they’re pistols. “I could dual wield these,” he muses, making the sound and movements that actual guns make.

“Satoru.” You roll your eyes. “I’m so sorry,” you mutter to a nearby employee who seems just as annoyed.

At one point, he picks up a wood stain sample and says, “This one’s called ‘shit-brown in London.’ This one’s ‘porta potty walnut.’”

Eventually, you don’t know how, but he ends up wearing a tool belt and holding a pack of nails like he just came back from his blue collar job.

“How ya’ like me now?” he smirks and strikes a pose that looks eerily similar to Woody from Toy story.

“Not a lot,” you sigh.

In the end, you, in fact, don’t leave with a showerhead. but instead a novelty “#1 DIY DAD” mug and several useless gadgets.

“We should go to Lowe’s next.”

KENTO

Mission: Replace the leaky faucet.

Nanami enters Home Depot like he’s walking into a board meeting. Button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, clipboard app open on his phone, and that furrow in his eyebrow that meant business.

“This should take no more than twenty minutes,” he says. “I’ve reviewed the layout online, and I know the exact model we need.”

On a completely sexual note, you loved seeing Kento in his sexy manly element. You fight the urge to bite your index finger and giggle like a school girl. “Ay, ay, captain.”

Ten minutes in, it seems like Kento hit a wall at high speed. He stands in the plumbing aisle staring at the different faucet models. The one he came for? Out of stock. The aisle signage? Mislabeled. The finishes? All brushed nickel when he clearly wanted chrome.

“Of course,” he mutters through clenched teeth. ““Every fixture here looks like it belongs in a chain restaurant bathroom from 2006.”

“What’s so wrong with brushed nickel? It’s a softer look,” you try input in a cheery tone.

He deadpans.

When an employee walks by and chirps, “Need help finding something?” Kento just breathes in slowly, as if it’s the poor employee's fault.

Eventually, you find him organizing a shelf that wasn’t crooked until he looked at it. He’s muttering about SKU numbers and poor inventory management like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“Babe. Honey. Sweetheart. We can just call a plumber,” you offer, gently.

He turns to you, jaw tight, voice level. “We are not letting a complete stranger touch our pipes. I’ll fix it myself or die trying.”

It’s kinda sexy…seeing him all worked up. Anyways, in the end you leave with a completely different faucet along with a pack of precision screwdrivers of course. Kento softly massages his temples in the driver’s seat.

You give him a kiss on the cheek. “You did great, champ.”

He doesn’t respond. But he does hold your hand the whole drive home.

CHOSO

Mission: Get one (1) bag of soil.

You tell Choso it’s just a quick stop. Grab soil, maybe a new pot. That’s it.

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Got it.”

Well…Within five minutes of entering the garden section, he’s gone quiet. You briefly look around, thinking he’s wandered off but he was just kneeling by the succulents like they’ve been waiting for him.

He gently strokes a Mexican snowball. “This one’s thirsty,” he murmurs.

“Don’t they…store water?” you whisper.

“Thirsty emotionally.”

You try to stay focused. But every time you turn around, there’s a new plant in the cart. A string of pearls. Then a tiny bonsai. Then a pothos you’re pretty sure was dying until he whispered to it.

He picks up a discounted cactus—on its tag it reads, ‘Final Sale.’

Choso reads it, horrified. “They’re giving him away like he doesn’t matter.”

“He’ll be just fine. They’re very resilient, y'know.”

He stares right through you. Then he gently placed the cactus into the cart.

Somehow, you also now have three ceramic mushrooms, a gnome with moss on his hat, and a biodegradable watering can Choso swore would help the plants to grow.

“I don't think we have space for all this…” you huff.

He looks at you, completely serious. “I’ll make space.”

You did end up getting the soil. But also seven plants, a huge frog statue named Gorb and a bag of organic fertilizer.

At checkout, he pats the cart lovingly. “We’re a family now.”

RYOMEN

Mission: Buy a new toilet seat.

You should’ve gone alone.

You said it three times in the car. “We’re going in, we’re getting the toilet seat you broke, and we’re leaving.”

Ryomen nodded, “Sure, sure.”

Now he’s walking three steps ahead of you, dragging his hand along the displays like he’s inspecting the quality of weapons.

You try to steer him to the plumbing aisle but he keeps veering left. Obviously towards the chainsaws and other dangerous looking machinery.

That’s when it happens.

He makes eye contact with a kid. Maybe seven—rounds the corner with his mom’s cart. Toolbelt on and light-up Spider-Man sneakers.

Ryomen locks eyes with him. The kid looks back, unblinking.

There was mutual, immediate hatred.

You don’t know why and you don't ask. But you feel the air shift, the lights dim and somewhere, a wolf howls.

You whisper, “Please don’t start beef with a literal child.”

They pass each other. Ryomen bumps the cart just slightly.

The kid bumps it back harder.

“Ryomen,” you warn.

“He started it,” he growls back.

Eventually, you drag him to plumbing. He picks the most unnecessary toilet seat imaginable—heated, LED lights, Bluetooth connectivity, massage settings.

“Heated seats,” he says, tossing it in the cart. “I deserve luxury.”

You don’t even bother. You got what you came for.

Later, as you check out, you glance back towards the lumber aisle.

The kid is still there. Just staring.

Ryomen flips him off, ensuring that his mother was right there to see.

“Oh my god.” You grab his arm and quickly head to the front.

So, you did leave with the toilet seat and somehow an additional motion-sensor soap dispenser that Ryomen liked the sound of. Oh yeah, and an unspoken rivalry that will haunt one suburban child for the rest of his life.

Ryomen hums in the passenger seat. “I’ll see him again,” he says.

You don’t ask what that means.

──✿──

Somewhere in the multiverse, five versions of you all sigh at the same time.

You each mutter, with different levels of exhaustion, disbelief, and affection. “Next time…I’m going alone.”

But you surely won’t.

Because chaos aside, you do really love them.

…And to be fair you never really wanted just one thing.

ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

a/n: i rly enjoy this format. also taking a break from smut for a bit. lmk how u guys like it!

[leitorespacks]

⛤ : / ›› like or reblog if you save/use. *ૢ 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬 bawkugos ◡̈  

[prfctplcs]

... INTRODUCING PRO TENNIS PLAYER!READER

PRO TENNIS PLAYER!READER was first introduced to tennis while watching her older siblings play in the park after school. she picked it up from the time she was five, and her parents put her in lessons almost immediately. went pro at fifteen. won her first grand slam title at seventeen, and was a tennis legend by twenty-two after becoming the sixth person in history to achieve a calendar grand slam.

PRO TENNIS PLAYER!READER walks onto every court blasting her music through her headphones, leading to the tradition of her sharing what song she was listening to in post game interviews or on social media. uses every match she plays to wear cute athletic fits. more often than not they feature pretty lace trim, bows, or skirts that flare out as she runs and jumps across the court. sweet to everyone she meets, but will not hesitate to level anyone who attempts to minimize her hard work & accomplishments.

PRO TENNIS PLAYER!READER who is more than content with keeping her and joe's relationship mostly private. she’s well acquainted with scrutiny over social media and how damaging it can be to one person, let alone two together in a relationship. can’t always make it to joe’s games because of the overlap in their seasons, but she does a secret hand signal to the cameras during every match he can’t make to let him know she’s thinking about him always, and he does the same at his games too.

cannot stop thinking about this nerd oml. credit for the layout goes to @rafesangelita !! i’m absolutely obsessed with her !reader posts she makes for rafe cameron & recommend them to anyone interested in him!

[rottenpumpkin13]

zack is dared he cant run a circle around midgar in one day how does it go

*Sephiroth strolls past Angeal's office and sees him in there, kicked back, magazine in hand, lemonade sweating on the desk, not a single damn being given*

Sephiroth: You're disturbingly relaxed. I kind of envy it.

Angeal: Mm. That's 'cause I dared Zack to run the perimeter of Midgar. Kid took the bait, and that bought me eight hours of peace. I've already filed reports, waxed poetic in my journal, and exfoliated.

*Enter Zack, bursting into the office. He's soaked with sweat, wearing an "I <3 Midgar" tourist tee, neon water bottle clipped to his belt, running shoes still squeaking*

Zack: WHOOO! Man, what a run! That was killer cardio!

Angeal: HUH?! You can't possibly be back already! I sent you out twenty minutes ago!

Zack: Oh, so you don't think I'm fast and strong enough to circle the entire city in under half an hour? Sephiroth! Back me up with science!

Sephiroth: Based on Midgar's outer perimeter—approximately 110 kilometers, you would've needed to run at roughly 340 km/h. That’s faster than a standard bullet train and incredibly impressive for your species.

Zack: Ha!

Angeal: You're a fraud! Sephiroth, back me up with science!

Sephiroth: Statistically speaking, Zack's calorie burn would exceed 12,000 in twenty minutes. his body would have cannibalized his organs by Sector 5. He'd be finishing the run with his spleen in his pocket. He'd liquefy his own kneecaps and turn his organs into a smoothie by Sector 4. So no. Scientifically, you did not run the entire perimeter of Midgar in twenty minutes.

Angeal: HA!

Zack: No no no, I did it, okay?! I even high-fived a guy selling grilled squid in Sector 8, petted the stray chocobo that lives near Wall Market, and got harassed by a sentient vending machine outside the scrapyard! You can't fake those! Sephiroth, back me up with science!

Sephiroth: Hm. Considering the variable layout of Midgar's sectors, average elevation shifts, and crowd congestion—plus your stride length and resting heart rate—I'd estimate a lap around the perimeter would take a seasoned SOLDIER, at peak conditioning, no less than three and a half hours with zero breaks.

Zack: I had an energy drink before the run.

Sephiroth: Yeah it'd take Zack 20 minutes.

Zack: :)

Angeal: No, this is impossible! You're not backing him up with science, you're just throwing equations around like glitter and hoping we're too dumb to question it. What, did Hojo build you without a sarcasm detector? No wonder you think Zack's superhuman. What does science say about that, huh??

Sephiroth: Science says you're a cunt.

Angeal:

[jennamoran]

Nobilis 3rd Edition PoD release

Hi all!

This has nothing to do with Nobilis 4th edition, which I am still editing.

Instead,

after about ten days of work over the course of the past six months---the remaining time was about one month of sorrowful despair and five months of waiting on proofs---I finally have a PoD version of 3rd edition ready!

To be clear:

This is the 2011 edition. It was written fast on the assumption that my publishing situation would let me release a stream of small, chipper supplements on at worst a seasonal basis, and that did not turn out to be the case. I've relicensed two pieces of art and replaced the rest with my own pieces, and I am not a visual artist. If you compare it to my polished recent works like Glitch and the Far Roofs, and then compare it to PDFs I exported from Word and released for free twenty years ago, you will find its presentation is ... in between.

Thanks to Xavid ( https://xavid.itch.io/ ) for the updated layout! I pulled that out of the previous paragraph to avoid including it in my self-aimed snark above.

[naushtheaspiringauthor]

Crawl home to you- Bob Reynolds x reader

Chapter Six

Chapter five

Summary: Ever since you had met Bob inside the vault, your life had took a drastic turn, one there was no coming back from. Through helping him deal with his struggles, you were able to heal your own scars. However, untold truths, silent battles and reassuring lies start to break apart all you've built together.

Warnings: heartbreak, pure angst

A/N: This chapter is nothing but angst *evil laughter evil laughter evil laughter* no just kidding I cried while writing and editing and proofreading. Anyways, hope you enjoy! And I'd love it if you leave a feedback. And lemme know if you'd like to be tagged in the next chapter.

Tumblr's being wierd for some reason so I can't edit the layout properly apologies for that 😔

Word count: 1,078

The call had come with great urgency. A sudden threat that had come up, a dangerous group of criminals who had taken twenty-one hostages.

So The New Avengers were called to the rescue.

All of you were preparing for the mission, well all except Bob, who was yet to be cleared to go on missions.

The night before you left, you had gone to his door.

Your hand trembled as you raised it to the handle, unable to touch it.

“H-hey Bob” you spoke, your voice ragged, stones scraping on a wall.

“I just wanted to let you know that-” you sighed. “That we’re leaving at dawn”.

You waited

He didn’t respond

“I just-” your voice trembled. “Just take care of yourself please”.

“And I’m sorry, I really am,” you said.

“I promise to explain it all if you’d just- if you’d let me” you closed your eyes briefly.

You waited for an answer, a word, anything, but nothing came from the other side.

So you left before the tears fell.

What you couldn't see was him crouched beside his bed, face buried in his pillow, so the sound of his sobs wouldn’t reach you.

The mission took much longer than Bob had anticipated.

He was all alone in the tower, and it didn’t help at all.

His anxiety grew every second.

And when he saw the team returning after eight days with a group of medics following them, his stomach lurched.

His legs stumbled as he rushed towards the front door.

Yelena was the first one to enter.

She was covered in blood, sweat and dirt, but it was her expression that frightened him.

She was terrified.

“What happened?” he asked her, his breaths coming out in a ragged blur Bucky entering, cradling someone in his arms.

You

Bob couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing.

You were unconscious in Bucky’s arms, covered in cuts and bruises.

And there was a gaping hole at the side of your torso.

His throat began closing up, but he pulled himself together, remaining steady

For you.

Bucky rushed you towards the med bay, a group of medics following him.

They began operating on you as soon as he put you down.

“What happened to her?” he asked Bucky, an unprecedented hint of anger in his tone.

Bucky breathed heavily, “We- we were ambushed” he began.

“There were enhanced at the field” he looked back at you.

“She- she took the worst hit,”

He ran a hand through his hair as he exhaled, “she was protecting me” bucky’s voice trembled as he pressed his fingers to his eyelids briefly.

“She saved me”.

Of course you did.

That was what you did.

You gave your all to save the people you cared for.

Bob knew

You put your life in line, just so they could be better, just so he could be better.

Never thinking twice about the toll it took on you.

When the tower was quiet again, he went to you.

He sucked in all the air his lungs could take and sat down next to you.

You were stable, but you still hadn't woken up.

He lifted up his shaking hand, gently brushing away a strand of hair that fell too close to your eyes.

Something he'd always wanted to do.

“I'm sorry” he whispered, not knowing whether you would hear it or not.

It didn't matter

“I'm so sorry” he repeated.

His breath was fast, shaky. “Please” he pleaded.

“Please don’t leave me” he didn't realise when he started sobbing, or when the tears started falling down.

It didn't matter.

“Please don’t- don’t leave me” he repeated over and over.

He had knelt over your bed, holding your hand as the tears ran down his face, hot and heavy, brimming with agony.

Nothing else mattered in that moment

If you were gone, he couldn’t survive. He could never survive in your absence.

His presence, his life, his entire being, was rendered meaningless without you in it.

“I’m sorry” he whispered. “I’m so sorry” he sobbed.

“Please just- please forgive me please forgive me” his face was stained with tears as he held on to your hand.

Bob didn’t know how long it had been, or what day it was.

Hours had bled into days, into weeks, and yet he refused to move from your side.

No one in the group liked the idea of leaving you alone.

But when they repeatedly offered to stay by your side so he could get some rest, Bob firmly refused each time.

Eventually, they just stopped asking and let him be.

“He’s miserable,” said John one evening, glancing at Bob who had fallen asleep on his chair by your bedside.

“We all are,” Ava said, giving a distant shrug.

“He’s worse because he feels guilty,” Yelena spoke, a small frown appearing on her features.

“Guilty?” asked John. “For what? He wasn’t even there”.

Yelena sighed as she pressed a hand to her forehead, “Before the mission, he was upset with her about something”, she began. “Had just started ignoring her out of the blue”.

“He feels guilty for everything”.

“He loves her,” said a voice behind them.

They turned around to see Bucky with his eyes downcast.

“He loves her and he hates himself for never telling her that,” he sighed, finally saying the words out loud that no one else had.

The grief in the room was a living thing, taking over them all like a massive tide.

“Well he better tell her when she wakes up” Yelena’s voice shook, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

She turned away, frown forming on her face, as she left.

“I’m sorry” Bob sobbed, holding on to your hand. “I’m so sorry” he kept on repeating every single day, but it was never enough.

It would never be, he knew.

No amount of apologies, pleading, no amount of tears could undo the damage he had done.

He knew

His sobs grew louder as he bent down, resting his forehead on your hand. “I was awful, Y/n”.

“I am awful”. His grip on your hand tightened.

“But I'm miserable without you”.

“Just please” he took a trembling breath. ‘Just please come back to me so I can make it up to you”.

His whole body trembled as he sobbed, “I’ll listen, I swear I’ll listen just please…”. His voice was a mere whisper now, “Please just come back to me”.

@uncertified-doc @jkjklopo @uracowboylikemee