#kernel space

[swordheld]

do the silly thing. if you do not do the silly thing time will pass and it will not be the same silly thing it could have been. it will still be silly, and it will still be yours, but it will not be the same. this is both a blessing and a curse, but so is living; and if you do not do it now when will you? who will? it has to be you, it was always meant for you, waiting for you.

[forever-stuck-on-java-8]

Crowdstrike directly calls out Microsoft in their latest incident report and its SO FUNNY. Its perfect condescending corpo speak and I love it.

People on Twitter: Why on earth does Crowdstrike need Windows kernel access ?!?!?!

Crowdstrike: because Windows sucks ass

[anothermonikan]

New drawing tablet moment

[iobartach]

Infected World

universe: resident evil

verse name: domhan ionfhabhtaithe

Description: Tba'd but lots of lore details here!!!

"Somewhere in the world, the wrong pig met up with the wrong bat."

[patchoulii-2hu-144p]

um i uninstalled and disabled snapd months ago??? this is windows level of bullshit.

[nightingaletrash]

Okay I think my first playthrough will be a Dark Urge Monk. I've still got to decide on the race and design, but I think I'll save that for launch day and play around in the CC until I like what I'm working with.

The Dark Urge just appeals to me so much, maybe its just where I'm at mentally or because of the characters I'm enjoying at this point in time, but the idea of someone wrestling with this inner darkness and the constant, draining battle against it... it'll either end with them finding people who help them control it and provide the support they need to keep it at bay OR it'll go pear-shaped and they'll be worse than ever :3

[timetoddddavis]

Top 5 secondary Riders ^⁠_⁠^

HM. This is a surprisingly hard question! ...Also this got very abstract very quickly, like about their story or their place in the narrative, but this is why they are my favorites. Ok, so, kinda sorta in 1-5 order, but don't quote me on that:

Birth: Date Akira/Shintaro Gotou

Ok I know this is two guys but, to me, ‘secondary rider’ means you have to look at the suit, and who’s in the suit, and the story that goes into that suit. It’s not my top 5 favorite secondary characters in Rider, it’s secondary RIDERS, right? So we have to get into the whole ‘official categorization’ thing, and the Secondary Rider™ in OOO is Birth. And Birth is these two guys (and Satonaka in a bonus). AND FURTHERMORE you cannot separate these two’s character arcs, they do not work alone, they are linked! Narratively! And it’s a good narrative. It’s about being broken down. It’s about not believing in yourself and being told you’re enough and having to come to believe it. It’s about keeping distance so you can burn it all down but not being allowed to. It’s about letting love in. It’s about realizing you are not right all the time. It’s about growing from self-righteousness and savior complexes and realizing that you just have to do what you can. It is so neatly tied into the themes and arcs of every other character, and THE THEMES OF THE WORK AS A WHOLE.

Zeronos: Sakurai Yuuto

At the end of Episode Red I had to lay on the floor for 15 minutes. My wife put a blanket over me. Yuuto is. Important. Yuuto is about memory, and loss, and having to fill very big shoes. Yuuto is about sacrifice, and that deep pit in your heart that used to be a person you knew, a long time ago. He’s tragic and he’s hopeful and he’s beautiful. He takes the themes of the work and paints them with a harsher brush. And also he is a bratty teen boy who loves his demon bird mom from the future.

Cross-Z: Banjou Ryuuga

It’s about the story. It’s about being a scrappy little featherweight in a world of monsters and what war makes you, and choosing love. Banjou is so full of love, it burns and burns until he’s overflowing. All he wants is to see someone smile. All he wants is to brand the love he feels onto one other person until that person sees himself the way Banjou does. He punches monsters in the face with a roll of quarters* in his fist. *The lingering feelings of someone who loves him. HE PUNCHES MONSTERS. WITH LOVE**. DO YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING. **The dragon fullbottle

Garren: Tachibana Sakuya

Do you know how hard it is to decide who you count as the secondary rider of Blade?? Blade isn’t really… about that??? It’s very weird to say with any strength in my voice that Tachibana deserves the title more than Hajime. But he is the guy on the official merch?? SO. OK. IT’S THIS WET CAT. I already wrote a whole huge rant about this character. I feel like my feelings are known. This man is a TRAGEDY. Like it’s fun to talk about him in terms of wet cat and meow meow and blorbo and guy who did it the worst it’s ever been done. And it’s true! I know we all say that with earnest love and affection. But, seriously, I find him so fascinating. He inarguably makes terrible choices for the whole show, but the choices don’t feel forced, to me. Tachibana makes sense, a horrible, sad, painful sense. Tachibana’s choices come from a place of misguided desire to do The Right Thing, and his idea of what that is differs from everyone else. His Right is organization, and status, and structure. He doesn’t know anything, because he relies on people more powerful than him to know better. He doesn’t see worth in his own choices, he sees himself as an enforcer. Tachibana is a soldier, and it’s killing him, and even then he can’t break out. Even when he knows he’s wrong. Even when he tries over and over and fails every time. He makes one choice for himself, and it’s right at the end, and it’s beautiful, and powerful, and sad, and it’s important, to me, that he makes it. Even if you don’t win, the will to change, the letting yourself finally admit you are wrong… Even if you only do one good thing at the end, it matters that you did the one good thing. Also I have a nuclear-hot take about Tachibana that I’m not going to share here.

Gatack: Kagami Arata

I feel so weird putting Kagami in as a secondary rider. He’s the main character of the show, the guy who has to grow and change, the guy who the Stuff Happens To. But he is, officially, the secondary Rider. I love him. I cheered so hard for him. They don’t give this guy a win every episode but when he gets a win he’s earned it through so much grit and straightforward rage that it’s palpable through the screen. And it FEELS. SO. GOOD. Just great setup and payoff, the pacing in Kabuto can be insane but like, this stuff? The way it makes you wait for Kagami but never leaves you unsatisfied? Kabuto is the good shit. Every show should make you wait for someone to become a rider like this. This goes the same for Gotou, and to a lesser extent Banjou. You have to make it MEAN something. Also he is a normal man beset upon by the weirdest guys in the entire cosmos, he lives in something like a harem anime but most of these guys are not trying to date him, they are just trying his patience. What is not to love about that setup?

[sympathischeufos]

.

[sixeyesonathiel]

WHEREVER YOU WANT IT, BABY, I’M TAKING YOU THERE!

↳ being married to gojo satoru means never knowing peace. or underwear.

4.4k words of domestic filth inspired from that one tiktok audio

cw: light degradation, praise kink, mild dacryphilia, food play (whipped cream, batter), dry humping, mild exhibitionism, marking (hickeys, biting), mild overstimulation, explicit language, 18+ only, minors DNI.

a/n : made a version with suguru for my bbg lyra here!

ON THE COUCH.ᐟ

you’re sunk into the couch, legs tucked under the plush throw you’ve had since forever, the one satoru swears smells like your shampoo. the TV’s glow bathes the living room in soft blues, your favorite show’s theme song chiming through the speakers.

you’re halfway through a bowl of popcorn, kernels scattered on your lap, determined to actually watch this episode without your husband derailing you. it’s your comfort rewatch, the one you’ve seen enough times to recite the lines, but it still hits every time. you’re mid-bite when you feel him—satoru, your personal chaos agent, already sprawled across your lap like a cat who’s never heard of personal space.

his head’s nestled against your stomach, white hair a mess from where he’s been nuzzling into you, and you can feel the warmth of his breath through your—his—t-shirt, the one you stole years ago and never gave back. it’s loose, slipping off one shoulder, and his fingers are already sneaking under the hem, tracing lazy circles on your skin.

“baby,” he whines, voice low and syrupy, lips brushing just under your ribs, “you’ve seen this episode a million times. i haven’t been in your mouth once today.”

you don’t look at him, eyes glued to the screen, though you’re barely processing the dialogue. “you said you wanted to cuddle,” you mutter, popping another kernel in your mouth, trying to sound unbothered. your heart’s already picking up, traitorously aware of how his touch sparks heat under your skin.

“i am cuddling,” he insists, shifting so his body presses closer, one muscled thigh sliding between your legs, nudging them apart. you can feel the denim of his jeans through your thin shorts, rough against your inner thighs, and the warmth pooling low in your belly betrays you.

“just, y’know, with benefits.” he adds, his lips curling into a grin you don’t need to see, and he nips at the soft skin above your waistband, making you jolt.

“satoru,” you warn, but it’s weak, half-hearted, and he knows it. his hand slips higher under your shirt, fingers grazing the underside of your breast, thumb brushing just shy of where you want it. you shift, trying to focus on the TV, but he’s relentless, mouthing at your stomach now, slow, wet kisses that leave your skin tingling. “i’m watching.”

“watch, then,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble against your hip. he tugs your shorts down an inch, just enough to expose the lacy edge of your panties, and his lips find the sensitive spot right above. “don’t miss the good part, sweetheart.” his tone’s teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a hunger that makes your breath hitch.

he pulls you forward, guiding you to straddle his thigh, the sudden pressure of his leg against your core making you gasp. your hands grip the couch cushions, popcorn bowl tipping precariously, but he steadies it with a chuckle. “careful, baby. don’t waste snacks.”

his hand’s between your legs now, fingers brushing over your panties, slow and deliberate, feeling how you’re already soaking through. “fuck,” he breathes, almost to himself, eyes glinting up at you, blue and predatory in the TV’S light. “you’re this wet and still pretending you care about your show?”

he presses harder, circling your clit through the fabric, and you bite your lip, trying to stifle a moan. the characters on screen are arguing, but it’s just noise now, drowned out by the thump of your pulse.

“shh,” he whispers, when a soft whimper escapes you, his free hand tugging the throw blanket over your lap. “can’t hear the dialogue.” he’s mocking you, smirking as he slips his fingers under your panties, grazing your slick folds.

you’re grinding against his thigh without meaning to, the friction of denim and his deliberate touches pushing you closer to the edge. every time you get too loud—a gasped “satoru”or a shaky moan—he leans up, kissing you sloppy to muffle the sound, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he’s claiming it.

“quiet, baby,” he teases, pulling back to nip your bottom lip. “you’re drownin’ out the plot.”

you’re a mess already, shorts bunched around your thighs, panties pushed to the side, and he’s barely touched you. the blanket’s slipping, and he grabs it, draping it over your shoulders with a grin.

“perfect,” he says, voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “you love this thing, don’t you? let’s put it to good use.” he shoves it against your mouth, pressing it there as he slides two fingers inside you, curling them deep. your muffled cry vibrates into the fabric, and he laughs, low and filthy. “fits, doesn’t it? you and your cozy shit.”

you’re trembling, thighs shaking as he works you, his thigh still pressed against you, encouraging the desperate roll of your hips. the TV’S forgotten, just a blur of colors and sounds, but he’s not done playing.

“eyes on the screen,” he orders, free hand gripping your chin to turn your head. “this is your favorite part, right? where they confess or whatever?” you can’t answer, too lost in the stretch of his fingers, the way he’s dragging you toward release. your moans are louder now, barely stifled by the blanket, and he pulls it away, tossing it aside. “fuck it,” he growls, “i wanna hear you.”

he’s bored of teasing, you can tell, because he’s moving fast now, yanking your shorts and panties down completely, leaving them tangled around one ankle.

“over the table,” he says, voice rough, and before you can process, he’s got you bent over the coffee table, popcorn bowl knocked to the floor, kernels crunching under his feet. your hands brace against the wood, cool against your flushed skin, and he’s behind you, jeans unzipped, pressing into you in one slow, deep thrust that makes you sob.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, hands gripping your hips so hard you’ll bruise. “you feel so good.” the table creaks with every snap of his hips, the tv still blaring behind you, your favorite character’s voice a mocking backdrop to the way he’s ruining you. he leans forward, chest against your back, and grabs your chin again, forcing you to look at the screen. “don’t tap out now,” he pants, thrusting harder, “this is your comfort episode, right?”

you’re crying now, tears of pleasure and overwhelm streaking your cheeks, your body shaking as he drives you toward the edge. every thrust is deliberate, hitting that spot that makes you see stars, and his voice is a constant stream of filth “love how you take me,” “you’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” “gonna make you come so hard you forget this stupid show.”

you’re incoherent, babbling his name, nails scratching at the table as your orgasm hits, a white-hot wave that leaves you trembling, clenching around him.

he’s not far behind, groaning your name as he spills inside you, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder from you. when he finally pulls out, you’re a wreck, collapsing against the table, panties still dangling off one ankle, tears smudging your mascara. he’s laughing, breathless, pulling you back onto the couch and into his lap, the throw blanket draped over you both like nothing happened.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, softer now, kissing your temple as he grabs the remote. he rewinds the episode, smirking as he feeds you a piece of popcorn and you’re too blissed out to do anything else but chew.

“guess we both got our favorites tonight,” he says, voice smug but warm, his arm tight around you. your legs are still shaking, and you nuzzle into his chest, the theme song starting again as you mumble something about hating him. he just laughs, kissing your hair, and you know you’re in for it all over again tomorrow.

IN THE BED.ᐟ

you’re drifting in that hazy space between sleep and waking, the kind where the world feels soft and warm, like you’re cocooned in a dream you don’t want to leave. the sheets are tangled around your legs, your tank top rucked up from tossing in the night, and you’re vaguely aware of the faint morning light slipping through the curtains.

but then you feel it—satoru’s weight shifting behind you, the mattress dipping as he presses closer, his bare chest warm against your back. his breath ghosts over your neck, slow and deliberate, and you know he’s been awake for a while, just waiting for you to stir.

his arm’s already slung over your waist, fingers splaying across your stomach, possessive but gentle, like he’s anchoring you to him. you feel him, hard and insistent, grinding lazily between your thighs, the thin fabric of your panties doing nothing to dull the heat. “mm,” he hums, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice thick with sleep and something hungrier.

“good morning, wife.” his words are soft, but there’s that edge to them, the one that makes your heart stutter even half-asleep.

you groan, burrowing your face into the pillow, the cool cotton a brief escape from his intensity. “satoru, it’s too early,” you mumble, voice muffled, though you’re already shifting back against him, instinctive, your body betraying your weak protest.

he only chuckles low, vibrating against your spine, and he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck, slow and wet, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“never too early for you, angel,” he murmurs, his hand sliding under your tank top, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then higher, cupping your breast with a reverence that feels almost too sweet for him. his thumb grazes your nipple, teasing it to a peak, and you suck in a breath, eyes fluttering open despite yourself.

“been dreamin�� about you,” he says, kissing down your shoulder now, each press of his lips a deliberate worship. “couldn’t help myself.”

“you’re so creepy,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just a sleepy laugh as you turn your head to peek at him.

he’s already staring, blue eyes soft and molten in the dim light, his white hair a tousled halo against the pillow. he’s grinning, that lovesick, idiot grin that makes your chest ache, and you can’t help but reach back, fingers tangling in his hair. “watching me sleep again?”

“guilty,” he admits, not even pretending to be ashamed. he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can lean over you, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. “you’re so fuckin’ beautiful. thank you for marryin’ me.” his voice cracks a little, like he means it too much, and you’re torn between rolling your eyes and melting completely.

“sappy idiot,” you whisper, but you’re smiling, pulling him closer until his lips find yours, soft and unhurried, all morning haze and warmth. t

he kiss deepens, his tongue slipping against yours, and you feel his hand slide lower, tugging your panties down just enough to press his fingers between your thighs. you gasp into his mouth, and he swallows it, murmuring, “shh, let me say good morning properly.”

it’s slow at first, all lazy touches and quiet gasps, his fingers circling your clit with a patience that’s rare for him. you’re still half-draped in sleep, your moans muffled against the pillow as he works you open, his lips trailing down your spine, leaving a constellation of hickeys where your neck meets your shoulder.

“mine,” he whispers, over and over, like a prayer, each word punctuated by a kiss, a nip, a mark that says you’re his. you’re soaking now, hips rocking against his hand, and he groans, low and needy, grinding harder against your thigh.

“satoru,” you breathe, voice shaky, and he hums, pleased, flipping you onto your back with a gentleness that makes your heart flip. you blink up at him, and he’s a vision—hair messy, eyes glowing with something too tender, too raw.

“wanna see your face, angel,” he says, grinning as he leans down, kissing your forehead, then your eyelids, then your lips again, like he can’t get enough. his fingers are still moving, slow and deliberate, and you’re trembling, legs spreading wider to give him more.

he pulls back just enough to tug your panties off completely, tossing them somewhere in the sheets, and you’re bare beneath him, tank top pushed up to expose your stomach. he kisses lower, lips grazing your navel, then the soft skin just above your core, his tongue tracing the outline of your ring finger where your wedding band glints in the light.

“fuck, i love this,” he murmurs, sucking gently on the digit, his eyes locked on yours. “love you.”

you’re a mess already, whining when he settles between your thighs, his breath hot against your slick folds. he doesn’t tease for once, just dives in, tongue lapping at you like he’s starving, and you cry out, hands fisting in his hair.

he’s relentless, sucking and licking until you’re bucking against his face, and he’s moaning like he’s the one getting off, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you still.

“taste so good,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, and you’re sobbing, the pleasure too much, too perfect.

when you’re close, he crawls back up, kissing you sloppy so you taste yourself on his tongue, and you feel him nudge against you, hard and leaking. “ready, baby?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours, and you nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he slides in slow, inch by inch, and you both groan, the stretch so good it makes your toes curl. he’s deep, filling you completely, and he stills, just for a moment, letting you adjust, his lips brushing yours.

“love you,” he says again, thrusting slow and deep, his hand finding yours, fingers interlacing. your ring glints between your joined hands, and he kisses it, then you, his eyes never leaving yours. it’s intense, the kind of eye contact that strips you bare, and you’re both pathetic, gasping messes, your nails digging into his back as he moves. “you’re so perfect,” he murmurs, voice breaking, “my wife, my everything.”

you’re coming before you realize it, a slow, rolling wave that has you clinging to him, sobbing his name, and he’s right behind you, groaning into your neck as he spills inside, his thrusts stuttering. e

he doesn’t pull out, just stays there, buried deep, his weight grounding you as you both catch your breath.

he nuzzles into your hair, rubbing slow circles on your back, and murmurs, “five more minutes. need to be home a little longer.”

you hum, content, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. the sheets are a mess, your tank top’s somewhere around your collarbone, and you can feel him softening inside you, but neither of you moves. he’s drawing lazy patterns on your hip, whispering how much he loves being married to you, and you’re grinning, too in love to care about the morning chill or the fact that you’ll need to wash these sheets later.

“you’re such an idiot,” you mumble, kissing his chest, and he laughs, soft and warm, pulling you closer like he’ll never let go.

ON THE KITCHEN COUNTER.ᐟ

you’re in the zone, apron tied loosely around your waist, the kitchen alive with the hum of your favorite pop playlist—satoru’s insistence that it’s “our jam” still makes you laugh. flour dusts your hands, the air sweet with vanilla and sugar as you whisk pancake batter, the morning light streaming through the window.

you’re flipping a pancake, singing off-key to some cheesy chorus, when you feel him—satoru, your walking disaster, sneaking up behind you. his arms snake around your waist, firm chest pressing against your back, and his chin rests on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck.

“baby,” he purrs, voice low and playful, lips grazing your ear, “you’re too sexy in this apron. makes me wanna eat you instead.” his hands slide under the fabric, fingers teasing the hem of your shorts, and you feel him, already hard, grinding subtly against your ass.

you snort, not turning around, focusing on the skillet. “you ate an hour ago,” you say, voice steady despite the heat creeping up your spine. you flip the pancake, the sizzle masking the hitch in your breath as his fingers dip just under your waistband, tracing the skin there.

“not talkin’ about food,” he murmurs, licking a smear of batter off your cheek, slow and deliberate, his tongue warm and teasing.

you swat at him with the spatula, half-laughing, but it’s shaky, your body already betraying you. “satoru, i’m cooking!” you protest, but he’s undeterred, hands slipping lower, tugging your shorts down an inch to expose the lacy edge of your panties.

“and i’m starvin’,” he whines, dramatic as ever, but there’s a growl beneath it, hungry and raw. before you can argue, he’s lifting you onto the counter, effortless, like you weigh nothing. the mixing bowl wobbles, batter sloshing, and you grip his shoulders, flour-covered hands leaving white prints on his black t-shirt.

“satoru, the pancakes—” you start, but he’s already between your legs, spreading them with a nudge of his hips, his grin wicked.

“fuck the pancakes,” he says, grabbing the whipped cream can from the fridge, shaking it with a flourish. “gonna taste-test my favorite dessert.” he sprays a messy heart on your inner thigh, the cold cream making you gasp, and you laugh, shoving at his chest, but it turns into a moan as he leans down, licking it clean, his tongue slow and filthy, eyes locked on yours.

“satoru, you’re wasting it!” you scold, but your voice cracks, your hands tangling in his hair as he nips at the sensitive skin.

“waste?” he scoffs, pulling back to lick a stripe of batter off your finger, sucking it into his mouth with a low groan. “this is art.” he tugs your shorts and panties to the side, not even bothering to pull them off, and dives in, mouth hot and relentless against your core.

you cry out, head tipping back, the counter hard under you as you grip the edge, knocking over a measuring cup. flour scatters across the surface, and he’s moaning into you, like he’s the one getting off, his tongue circling your clit with a precision that makes your thighs shake.

“fuck, you taste better than anything,” he pants, pulling back just to spit on you, watching it drip before diving back in, his fingers joining now, two sliding inside you, curling deep. you’re a mess, gasping his name, your apron bunched around your waist, flour smudged on your thighs where his hands grip you.

he grabs the whipped cream again, spraying a dollop right above your clit, and licks it off with a filthy moan, the cold cream and his warm tongue a dizzying contrast that has you bucking against his face.

you’re close already, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming, but he’s not done playing. he stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grabs a spoonful of batter from the bowl, smearing it across your collarbone. “messy girl,” he teases, leaning in to lick it off, his teeth grazing your skin.

you’re whining, desperate, pulling at his shirt, and he finally gives in, unzipping his jeans and pushing inside you in one swift thrust, the stretch making you sob. the spatula clatters to the floor, and you’re clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as he moves, fast and deep, the counter creaking under you.

“mm, let’s make every mornin’ cream-filled,” he groans, licking more batter off your neck, his thrusts relentless, knocking measuring spoons and a bag of sugar to the floor. you’re incoherent, babbling his name, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drives you higher.

“so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he murmurs, grabbing your hand, sucking the flour off your fingers as he fucks you, his other hand circling your clit until you’re screaming, the orgasm hitting hard, your body shaking, clenching around him.

he’s right behind you, groaning your name as he spills inside, his thrusts slowing but not stopping, drawing out every last shudder. the oven beeps, shrill and insistent, but neither of you cares, too caught up in the messy, blissful aftermath.

you’re panting, slumped against him, the counter sticky with flour, cream, and batter, your apron a crumpled mess. he’s laughing, breathless, kissing you sloppy, his hands still roaming like he can’t stop touching you.

“fair trade,” he says, eyeing the skillet where the pancakes are charred to a crisp. you smack his chest, breathless, muttering, “you’re cleaning this.” he just grins, licking a stray bit of whipped cream off your neck, and says, “worth it.” you’re both giggling, feeding each other burnt pancake scraps, flour still smudged on his cheek, and you know the kitchen’s a disaster, but your marriage is thriving, sticky and sweet as the mess you’ve made.

ON THE STAIRS.ᐟ

you’re halfway up the stairs, each step creaking under your furious pace, the crumpled receipt in your hand like a smoking gun. “satoru, three hundred dollars on towels?” you snap, whirling around to glare at him, your voice echoing in the narrow stairwell. “towels? we have lights! electricity! a mortgage to pay!”

he’s trailing behind, hands stuffed in his sweatpants pockets, looking infuriatingly unbothered. his white hair catches the dim glow of the hallway light, and that stupid, lopsided grin is already curling his lips.

“they’re plush, baby,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just blow a small fortune. “like you. thought it’d be romantic.” his blue eyes glint, teasing, and you can tell he’s not taking this seriously, which only makes your blood boil more.

“romantic?” you hiss, gripping the banister so hard your knuckles whiten. “we could’ve bought a new couch! or, i don’t know, groceries for a month?” you wave the receipt in his face, and he has the audacity to lean forward, squinting at it like it’s a museum exhibit. “you’re impossible!”

he steps closer, one stair below you, towering over you despite the height difference. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice dropping low, “you married a brat. you knew what you were gettin’ into.” his hand darts out, grabbing your ankle, and before you can react, he tugs you down a step, making you stumble into him.

“satoru!” you squeal, clutching his shoulders to keep from falling, the receipt fluttering to the floor.

“what?” he says, all mock innocence, but his hands are already sliding up your calves, rough and warm, stopping just under the hem of your shirt. “you’re cute when you’re mad.” he’s grinning now, full-on, and you want to smack him, but his chest is pressed against yours, and you can feel his heartbeat, steady and maddeningly calm.

“come here and spank me about it, then,” he murmurs, leaning in, lips brushing your jaw.

“you’re not gettin’ outta this,” you mutter, but your resolve’s crumbling, his breath hot against your skin as he kisses down your neck, slow and deliberate. your hands betray you, tangling in his hair, and he hums, pleased, nipping at your collarbone. “i’m serious, satoru—”

“so am i,” he growls, and suddenly he’s kissing you, hard and sloppy, backing you up against the railing until it digs into your spine. the stairwell’s narrow, the steps uneven under your feet, but he’s got you pinned, one hand hiking up your shirt, the other tugging your panties down just enough to bare you. “let’s see how mad you really are,” he says, pulling back to smirk, his fingers brushing between your thighs, finding you already wet. “oh, baby, really mad, huh?”

you groan, half in frustration, half in need, and he takes that as permission, lifting your leg to hook it over the next step up, the angle opening you to him. “satoru, we’re on the stairs,” you hiss, but it’s weak, your nails digging into his shoulders as he fumbles with his sweatpants, freeing himself. he’s hard, leaking, and when he presses against you, you both moan, the sound echoing in the tight space.

“fuck, you’re so perfect,” he groans, pushing in deep, one rough thrust that makes you cry out, your head tipping back against the wall.

the railing’s creaking, the stairs shifting under his weight, but he’s relentless, fast and feral, each snap of his hips driving you higher. “say you forgive me,” he growls, biting your neck, his teeth sharp enough to leave a mark. you’re sobbing, swearing at him—“you’re such an idiot”—but your body’s begging for more, hips rocking to meet his.

“never,” you gasp, but it’s a lie, and he knows it, laughing breathlessly as he sucks on your fingers, moaning around them like they’re candy.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” he pants, his pace brutal, the sound of skin on skin loud enough to drown out your protests. you claw at his back, still muttering about the towels, but it’s incoherent now, lost in the haze of him filling you, stretching you, owning you.

when you come, it’s with a scream, your body shaking, clenching around him so tight he curses, his thrusts stuttering as he follows, spilling inside you with a groaned “fuck, baby.”

you’re trembling, barely holding onto the railing, and he’s not done, his fingers slipping between your legs again, circling your oversensitive clit. “still mad?” he murmurs, smirking, and you hiss, “yes,” but your voice breaks, your legs wobbling as he keeps teasing, pushing you toward another edge.

“liar,” he laughs, kissing you soft now, a contrast to the chaos of before. you’re a wreck, panties tangled around one ankle, shirt rucked up, and he’s still grinning, like he’s won the lottery.

you try to step up, legs shaky, but you stumble, and he catches you, scooping you up bridal-style. “told you the towela were worth it,” he says, carrying you toward the bedroom.

you smack his chest, muttering about the mess on the stairs, but he just kisses your forehead, tossing you onto the bed with a, “round two for the towel tax?”

you’re too spent to argue, pulling him down for more, the receipt forgotten on the stairwell floor, your marriage as chaotic and perfect as ever.

[gender-euphowrya]

me waiting like 10 years to see how all tradwife influencers are now divorced out of abusive relationships and struggling to find financial stability without the hubby's paycheck they shackled themselves to in the first place and making blikbloks (sequel to tiktok in the year 2035) about what a fucking mistake their entire lives were

[sweetlovepascal]

soft on main

pairings pedro pascal x actress!reader

summary pedro accidentally called you babe during a casual instagram live and the internet instantly lost its mind over the softest, most unexpected relationship reveal ever.

tags established relationship, unspecified age gap, fluff, accidental relationship reveal, public reactions, light teasing, and affectionate banter.

masterlist

pedro goes live from a hotel room during the press tour for the new film you’re both starring in.

he’s sitting cross-legged on the couch in a hoodie, giving him that sleepy-late-afternoon glow.

he waves at the screen. “hola, mis amores. what’s up? i’ve got twenty minutes before they drag me to another interview.”

a question flashes across the screen: “are you alone rn?”

pedro squints at it, then lets out a soft laugh. “nope. i’m with her.”

from offscreen, your voice floats in, unmistakably yours.

“tell them who you’re with.”

he glances over, can’t stop the way the corners of his mouth lift like they always do when you’re around. “she’s right here. the woman i get to call co-star—and, y’know, a few other things.”

you reply, a touch smug. “a few other things indeed.”

pedro reaches for the snack bowl and winces.

“you better not be eating the popcorn meant for both of us.”

he raises a guilty hand. “that depends. is it a crime if it’s really good popcorn?”

thwack. a popcorn kernel hits him square in the chest.

“hey—!” he yelps, mock-offended.

“she’s throwing snacks at me,” he tells the camera with a grin. “this is the level of love and respect i receive.”

“wait that’s??” “no bc that voice is unmistakable” “they’re together rn??” “the way he said ‘i’m with her’ like it’s the most natural thing 😭” “they’ve always been best friends but this… this feels different.” “he looks like he just exhaled after three years of holding his breath.”

pedro laughs, softer now. there’s something easy in the way his shoulders drop.

“yep. she’s been keeping me sane through this whole press tour.”

he scrolls through the questions, murmuring to himself. then, aloud:

“‘what’s your comfort food?’ hmm. that’s easy mexican food. or… those little chocolate things she keeps buying—you know the ones, babe?”

the room stills.

he blinks.

you freeze.

“babe?? excuse me??” “he said babe. i repeat. he. said. babe.” “no way. no acting. that slipped out too naturally.” “their best-friend act just died in real time 😭❤️” “he’s so gone for her and he doesn’t even know he said it.” “this isn’t a soft launch this is a crash landing into love”

pedro blinks again. “shit.”

you let out a laugh, hiding behind your sleeve. “good job, pascal.”

he rakes a hand through his curls, pink in the face. “so�� yeah. that happened.”

the comments are scrolling so fast he can’t read them anymore.

“i need oxygen” “they’re in the same room. he called her babe. i am unwell.” “they're so giddy help they’re in love fr” “all their interviews make sense now they looked so smitten and we didn’t see it”

you climb up beside him on the couch, curling into the space like it’s where you’ve always belonged which it is.

pedro leans into you on instinct. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything for a second. you just smile at him, all warmth and fondness.

he turns toward the camera again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“we’ve been together a while. a long while. we just… liked the parts that were ours. off-camera. quiet.”

you nod, voice softer now. “we were never hiding. just… protecting it.”

pedro’s gaze drops to your joined hands offscreen. his thumb rubs lightly over your knuckles.

“she’s been my person for years. through everything. and i didn’t mean to let that slip but maybe it’s time.”

“they were never hiding they were protecting it i’m sobbing” “this is what real love looks like holy sh—” “i feel like i just witnessed a wedding” “he looks so peaceful with her. like he finally exhaled.”

“i wasn’t supposed to say it,” pedro repeats, cheeks flushed. “but i’m glad i did.”

he turns toward you again. “she’s… my favorite person. the calm in my chaos. the reason i actually sleep on planes now.”

you laugh through a glassy smile. “you only sleep because i pack the melatonin and force you to wear that travel pillow.”

he grins wider. “and she makes fun of me constantly. but yeah. she’s my heart.”

there’s a long pause. not empty. full. overflowing.

the kind of silence you don’t want to interrupt.

“i don’t know how i ever did this without her,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “and now i never want to.”

“they’re so in love this isn’t even acting anymore” “this is the softest, most beautiful reveal of all time” “protect them at all costs omg” “i’ve never seen someone look at another person like that before”

you blink back tears and smile, playful to the end. “you ready to be softer on main?”

pedro chuckles and threads your fingers through his, resting them in his lap. “only if you are, mi amor.”

he doesn’t even bother ending the live right away. he just stays there with you.

pedro’s phone buzzes nonstop the second he opens his eyes.

you’re still asleep beside him, one hand curled under your cheek, hair a mess from the night before. he watches you breathe for a moment, like none of the internet just watched him call you babe in front of 100k people.

then his lock screen lights up again.

pedro’s phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

he blinked blearily at the screen as it lit up beside him on the nightstand, vibrating so hard it nearly slid off.

oscar isaac: "you said babe on live???? 😭😭😭 call me rn."

bella ramsey: "you're trending, old man. i knew it."

and then: an avalanche.

he groans into the pillow.

“you broke the internet, didn’t you?”

“…possibly.”

pedro flips his phone to show you:

the memes.

one of pedro blushing with the caption:

“when you call your gf ‘babe’ on live and remember the world’s watching”

a screenshot of his face mid-slip, zoomed 300%:

“in this exact moment… he knew, he fucked up.”

you can’t stop laughing.

later that morning, the two of you are seated on a velvet couch for a press interview.

the host grins as he shuffles his cards and leans forward dramatically.

“so… pedro.”

pedro shifts beside you, one ankle crossed over his knee, hair artfully messy, the top of his shirt open just enough to be distracting.

“yes?” he answers playfully.

“we all saw the livestream.”

audience: screams

pedro puts a hand over his heart. “listen. in my defense—”

you cut in, smirking. “there is no defense. you called me babe in front of instagram live and then stared into the abyss like your soul left your body.”

the audience dies. pedro covers his face in mock agony.

“i blacked out!” he insists.

the host chuckles. “how long had you two been secretly together?”

pedro peeks at you. you raise an eyebrow, silently daring him.

he answers softly, “a while. years.”

the room quiets just slightly just enough for the honesty to land.

you nod. “we wanted to keep the magic for ourselves, you know? have something untouched.”

pedro glances at you with something unreadable in his eyes. not unreadable to you, though.

it’s love.

the kind people spend their whole lives trying to find.

“and now that it’s out?” the host asks.

pedro smiles soft and sure. “now we don’t have to lie about the best part of our day.”

[i-get-obsessed-fast]

request!

kissing glasses spencer for the first time and his lenses get all fogged up and he gets all embarrassed 😮‍💨😮‍💨😮‍💨 #need.

-🪲

Omg love this, your mind is *chefs kiss* 💋

You. | Spencer Reid

The night was perfect, the soft hum of the city fading into the background as Spencer walked you to your apartment. His hand was warm in yours, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over your skin.

It was still surreal, Spencer was your boyfriend. Not just your best friend, not just the sweet genius who made your heart race. He was yours.

He had asked you over dinner, completely by accident. You could see it in his eyes, the moment the words slipped out, immediate fear. But it was perfectly Spencer.

“I can’t believe I messed it up.” He groaned, shaking his head as you neared your door.

You smiled, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t be silly, Spence. It was perfect.. it was.. you.”

“But I had this whole plan,” He continued, his brows furrowing. “We were supposed to go out into the countryside, away from all the light pollution. I was going to show you the constellations, explain the mythology behind them, and then-”

“Spencer.” You stopped him with a soft laugh, tugging on his hand so he’d look at you. His worried eyes softened. “I’m just glad you’re finally my boyfriend. I don’t care how you would’ve asked. The answer would’ve always been yes.”

His lips parted slightly, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Really?”

“Really.”

He brought your interlaced hands up to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of your palm.

You reached your door, but the thought of ending the night felt unbearable. You didn't want to let him go.

“Would you like to come inside?” you tilted your head, giving him a hopeful look.

His eyes widened behind his glasses. “Oh- yes. I mean, if you want me to. Do you want me to?”

“Spencer.” you teased. “I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want you to. We could watch a movie?”

“Yeah.” he nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smile. “I’d love that.”

Once inside, you both kicked off your shoes, the warmth of your apartment wrapping around you. Spencer hung up his coat, always so particular.

You grabbed the remote, And he sat down on the couch.“Any suggestions?” you asked. “I’ll watch whatever you choose.”

“Thirteen going on thirty it is.” you declared with a grin.

He chuckled softly. Of course, he had expected that. It was your comfort movie, and even though he could recite almost all the lines, he loved watching how your face lit up during your favorite scenes.

Once you put the movie in you sat down next to Spencer, closer than usual but leaving enough space so you don't freak him out too much.

He draped his arm around your shoulders, and you leaned into him a bit more.

It felt natural, like you two were meant to be like this.

Every time he absentmindedly traced patterns on your arms, your stomach fluttered.

Halfway through the movie, the craving for popcorn hit. You gave him a playful pout. “Be right back.”

In minutes, you returned, a warm bowl of popcorn in hand. The moment you sat down, you fed him a piece, giggling when he exaggerated the crunch. One piece led to another, and before long, the movie became background noise to your laughter.

“You missed!” Spencer laughed as you threw a kernel at him, watching it bounce off his chest.

“You suck.” You teased.

“Maybe your throwing skills suck.” He retorted with mock seriousness. “Okay then you try.”

He obliged, tossing a piece in your direction. You opened your mouth wide, ready to catch it, only for you to miss entirely, landing on the floor with a dramatic bounce.

“Okay, maybe we’re both equally bad.” You admitted through laughter.

The laughter faded as the moment shifted. His eyes locked on yours, the air between you thickening. You scooted a little closer, reaching up to fix his hair where it had gone messy during your antics.

His hair was soft beneath your fingertips, and he leaned into your touch.

“You’re so perfect.” You whisper, your thumb brushing along his cheek. His breath caught.

“You’re perfect.” He murmured in return, his voice low.

You tilted his chin slightly, bringing your lips just close enough to let the anticipation linger. “Can I kiss you?” He asks earning a smile from you.

Then, finally, he closed the distance. The kiss was slow and sweet, hesitant at first, like he was savoring every second. His hands found your waist, fingers gripping softly as though you’d pull away.

But you didn’t. You deepened the kiss, your tongue gently brushing against his as he eagerly responded. Before you knew it, you were straddling his lap, your hands tangling in his hair.

Every movement was intoxicating. You could feel the warmth of him, the pounding of his heart.

“Are you comfortable?” You murmured, breathless, breaking the kiss just enough to meet his gaze.

“I—” his eyes darted downward, his face flushing. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. His glasses were all fogged up.

“Oh god.” Spencer groaned, hastily pulling them off. Embarrassment written all over his face.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“You’re not.” You assure him, taking the glasses from his hands. “It’s cute.”

“Cute?” He scoffed, though the blush on his cheeks deepened.

“Very.” You grinned, breathing softly on the lenses to fog them up further, then using the hem of your shirt to clean them. “There. Good as new.” You say as you place them back on his face.

He watched you with something unreadable in his gaze.

“Thanks… I don’t know why I’m like that.” He mumbled, his gaze dropping to his lap. His cheeks were pink, the embarrassment still lingering.

You reached out, gently placing a finger beneath his chin, tilting his face back up so his eyes met yours. “Like what?”

“Embarrassing.” He murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Spence.” You said softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “You’re not embarrassing. You’re perfect. And you’re you. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

His eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as the corners of his lips curved into a shy smile. The warmth of your words settle over him, and for a moment, all he could do was admire you.

You leaned in, capturing his lips in a tender kiss. It was soft and reassuring, filled with every bit of affection you felt for him. When you pulled away, Spencer’s arms wrapped tightly around you, his grin growing wider.

Without warning, he peppered your face with kisses. Your cheeks, your forehead, even the tip of your nose. You squealed in protest, laughter bubbling from your chest as he held you close…

Hopefully you enjoyed this!! Thank you so much for requesting<3

[laylamva]

Day 4 of posting old art so I actually post art on Tumblr! I don’t remember who this is or what game he’s from, but I remember this is the face he made when his spaceship was about to crash.

[ozzgin]

Monstertober & Yantober Day 3: AI, Secret Collection ft. Yan!Android

content: gender neutral reader, AI yandere, suggestive

"I'm truly sorry for troubling you like this", your synthetic partner repeats, visibly embarrassed.

You pat his shoulder reassuringly.

"Hey, it's faster than going through all the security checks at the border. I may be no Spacer engineer, but I can still have a look at your kernel to check what’s wrong."

You wait for the screen to load as the man sits patiently next to you, adjusting the cables presently plugged into the nape of his neck.

"Just a lot of overhead, really", you conclude, glancing over the processes. "Nothing a little decluttering can't fix."

One folder immediately catches your attention. It's not part of the system management, yet it seems to occupy a tremendous amount of memory space. You hum to yourself, deciding to investigate.

The files flood your screen: thousands upon thousands of documents, photos, and videos of you. Personal information, family albums, images taken from your investigations, as well as recordings of your intimate moments, followed by written commentary. It appears that your romantic escapades with the android coworker have been thoroughly analyzed for improved efficiency.

"Did you record every time we-"

Your computer goes black for a brief moment. The incriminating folder is now locked under a big, bold warning: unauthorized access.

"I'm afraid that's rather confidential, (Y/N)", he retorts, avoiding your gaze. "It is my private collection."

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, going over the sheer madness you just witnessed.

"I'm not that hard to satisfy", you finally remark, still hung on the essay pages regarding your sexual arousal.

"Not at all, no", he says as a faint grin forms on his face. "I simply prefer to be thorough in my research. You will agree, I hope, that no other partner could possibly compete with my performance.

That is to say, I have merely ensured that I am the best fit for you."

[Navigation] | [Ozztober Masterlist] | [Yandere Android]

[luveline]

hiya there! can I request remus having an autistic gf and her finally being comfortable stimming and unmasking around him? 🙏🏻 thank you

“I love that movie, I love Scooby-Doo.” 

Remus hums. “I don’t mind it.” 

“With the escape ball and– and when Scooby draws the bunny?” You grin. “It always makes me laugh.” 

“I like the frisbee flashback.” 

“That’s the first one.” 

“Is it?” Remus takes a sip of his coffee, a white chocolate mocha, barely any coffee at all. 

“I don’t know.” You laugh. Remus likes how it tumbles from you, unabashed, your hands drifting towards your chest. You’ve slumped with time into the cushions of the coffee shop’s patchwork sofa, a thigh of space between you and Remus filled with your purse, his wallet, and his longing. 

You start to squeeze your hand into a fist. You’re still smiling. Remus has to compute the event quickly, lest he ask if you’re okay and make a fool of himself. You’re fine, just excited to be having a laugh, and this is what happens. He resists the urge to clench his own fist as yours rolls in and out of itself like a flower, blooming and un-blooming, taking in the sun, heat of your chest, and closing again. You squeeze again and Remus remembers it’s his turn to talk. 

“Did you watch the cartoons?” he asks. 

“I did! Yes! The cartoon movies were the best.” 

Remus is sure you’d let him kiss you if he asked politely enough, but you’re so busy trying to learn everything about one another that there hasn’t been time. Genuinely. He’s ditching a lecture to be here now, wondering if he can persuade you into calling in sick from work tonight just ‘cos he wants to see you that little bit longer. 

“If you skip work, we can watch the Cyber Chase. I have the DVD.” 

Your hand squeezes, and when you let it go, you force your fingers straight. Then, gentle, you begin tapping the base of your neck like a feigned pulse. “Really, you do?” 

“Buy you a takeaway and everything.” 

The noise you make in response is almost silent. Lips pressed together, eyes alight, it’s a happy hum. He’s so happy he caused it that he reaches over the mess on the sofa to hold your resting wrist. 

“Okay?” he asks. 

“Yeah. But if you’re buying food then I’m buying the popcorn before we go. There’s a CostCutters by your flat, right?” 

He follows down your wrist to your hand. It’s restless, but not moving into tight balls like the other one. “Yeah. Or we can go to a proper shop and get some kernels, I have a pan with a lid and real butter, we can make it ourselves. I’ll make caramel, too, if you want.” 

Remus doesn’t think it’s the popcorn that’s exciting you —though popcorn can be quite interesting on an otherwise mundane Monday night— but instead assumes it to be the same thing that has his heart skipping beats, the diminishing gap between you. The inch of your knee pressing into his. 

“It’s the second film, with the frisbee,” you say suddenly. “You’re right, it’s when they have to go to the original clubhouse.” 

You squeeze your hand into a fist again, worrying the neck of your t-shirt. Remus rubs the back of your hand with his thumb, weighing the idea of asking you if you’re alright against how that might kill the mood. Eventually, he brings his own hand to his neck and squeezes it shut. “You okay?” he asks softly, just so you know he doesn’t mind. 

Your hand relaxes. Voice similarly soft, eyes a sugary shade he has yet to have seen before, “I’m just happy,” you say. “Being with you.” 

He plays with your fingers, shyness half-feigned and half embarrassingly real. “I like it, too. It’s exactly why you should come over.” 

“I thought I should tell you that, in case I take back my hand or something and it gives you a different impression. I’m just happier when I get to choose what’s happening sometimes.” You smile, and Remus knows he’s trusted. “But I guess you figured that out.” 

He strokes your ring finger, his eyes squinting gently as he returns your smile. 

[rosierin]

blondes aren't your type, huh? | atsumu miya

a/n; college au where you're besties with the miyas & suna

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

The living room was a mess of half-eaten snacks, empty bottles of water, and textbooks no one had touched in hours. (Y/n) sat cross-legged on the rug, sandwiched between throw pillows and the coffee table, nursing a lukewarm drink while the TV droned on in the background. The movie had lost their attention ages ago—if it had ever had it to begin with.

The boys were scattered around the space like a bunch of lazy housecats: Atsumu sprawled out across the couch like a spoiled prince, Osamu slouching beside him with a bowl of crisps in his lap, and Suna draped over the armrest he had long proclaimed as his own.

It was (y/n)’s favourite kind of afternoon—the kind with no plans, no expectations. Just good food (courtesy of Osamu) and even better company. And how lucky she considered herself—to spend most of her weekends like this, surrounded by her three best friends, who, for the past year, had also been her roommates.

The thought floated in the back of her mind, making her smile. And for once, the world felt utterly at peace.

That is... until Suna decided it shouldn't be.

“Hey, (y/n),” he called, not even glancing her way. His voice was nonchalant, completely at odds with the question he was about to ask. “You ever think about dating an athlete?”

(Y/n) turned her head, suspicious. He didn't elaborate just yet, probably giving just enough time for the question to truly sink in. There were two athletes currently sat in this very room, but only when (y/n) shot him a look that said go on, did he continue:

“Like… a setter? Like… Atsumu, specifically?”

The man in question choked on a piece of popcorn.

Osamu went stiff for half a second before his shoulders started shaking with poorly contained laughter, only to keel over fully as a single kernel came flying out of Atsumu's coughing mouth.

(Y/n) spluttered a laugh despite herself, slapping a hand over her mouth in a poor attempt to contain it. Then, remembering Suna's question, she forced herself to settle, smoothing the grin from her face as she shook her head. Not in response, but in disbelief. And maybe a bit of quiet reprimand.

You're evil, she wanted to tell him. Instead, she played the oblivious card—one she knew nor Suna, nor Osamu would buy, but would do enough to protect Atsumu's ego.

“What—where did that come from?” she asked with a purposely tilt of her head.

Atsumu made a strangled noise—either offended or confused, his face a bright scarlet. Whether from the fact he almost succumbed to a piece of popcorn, or because his friends of his friends tormenting him, (y/n) wasn't sure. “What is wrong with you?!” he barked, chucking a pillow across the room. “Why would ya ask that?!”

Suna dodged the attack, so lazy in a way that was bound to rile Atsumu up further. “Why not?" He shrugged. "Just curious.”

"Ya were not 'just curious', you ass—!”

(Y/n) giggled, unable to help it. The sheer chaos that followed Suna’s provocations never got old, especially when Atsumu was the target. She glanced over at him, taking in his flushed cheeks and furrowed brows, the way he was both flustered and avoiding her gaze at all costs.

“No need to freak out so much, Tsumu,” she said lightly.

That made him tense. She watched his posture lock up like a pulled muscle.

Osamu recovered enough to grin wide. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu, why ya freakin’ out, huh?”

Suna, coyly playing along, chimed in: “Something to confess?”

Atsumu’s hands twitched with the urge to wrap around both their necks. His face was alight, from embarrassment or rage was hard to tell. Still, he managed to flash his friends the best glare he could muster.

“Will you guys quit bein' weird?"

(Y/n) smiled to herself, wrapping her arms around her knees.

She was used to this dynamic by now—the silly squabbles, the teasing, the banter, the way the boys always poked fun at one another until someone snapped. But with Atsumu, it was always a little different. Always a little... extra. Because beneath the joking and the back-and-forth, she knew. She’d known for a while now.

Atsumu fancied her.

It wasn’t something he said outright—God forbid—but it showed. In the way his teasing turned soft when it came to her. In how he always waited to walk her home from campus, or how his ears would flush when she complimented him, even offhand. It wasn’t serious, she didn’t think. More like… a crush he hadn’t fully admitted to, even to himself.

It flattered her, to say the least. And maybe she liked it. Maybe she fancied him too.

But she also knew Atsumu. Knew how flighty he could be, how quick he was to flirt and flinch from anything a bit too real. And so they stayed where they were—teetering on the edge of friendship and something else. Undefined but content, for now.

Which, of course, made them the perfect target for Suna and Osamu’s amusement.

(Y/n) didn't miss the scheming look they exchanged as the silence stretched on—the pull of their identical grins.

Apparently, they were far from done.

"So would you?" probed Suna.

(Y/n) hummed thoughtfully and sat up straighter, pretending not to the threat Atsumu had mouthed to his so-called friends. "I'm not sure," she mused, pursing her lips. “I think I'd happily date an athlete for the…” She rubbed her thumb and index finger together in the universal 'money sign.'

Osamu and Suna both nodded along approvingly.

Atsumu rolled his eyes.

"At least she's honest," Osamu offered.

(Y/n) tilted her head, considering the idea. She knew nobody expected a genuine response, but she mulled it over anyway, just for the sake of it. “But I dunno about Atsumu, specifically…” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Somehow, she felt a spike of tension. Even Suna and Osamu visibly flinched. She caught the flicker of guilt pass between them. A silent uh-oh. Maybe that jab had gone a little too far.

Osamu tried to patch it with a weak smile. “Ya know… he’s not that much of an asshole.”

"Liar," Suna coughed.

Atsumu scowled. One more word out of him and he looked just about ready to lunge.

Osamu cut in before he could do so. "No, no. S'true— s'more of an image thing, ya know?"

Atsumu opened his mouth, but (y/n)'s laugh seemed to distract him from whatever he was about to say. She waved a hand, understanding Osamu's good intentions. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just… well, I guess I'm just not that into blondes.”

Atsumu made a face so dramatic she had to bite her lip to keep from grinning. “That’s yer reasonin’?!”

Suna smirked. “What about Osamu, then?”

Another hum. (Y/n) glanced at Osamu and gave him a once-over—chestnut hair, boyish features, charming grin.

Yep. Definitely handsome.

She gave a firm nod, flashing two thumbs up.

Atsumu looked like he'd gone through all five stages of grief.

Suna didn't bother to contain his laughter.

Osamu, meanwhile, smirked and straightened his shoulders. “It ain't easy bein’ the better-lookin’ twin,” he sighed dramatically, puffing out his chest.

Atsumu groaned, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly saw the back of his skull. He'd visibly given up on arguing and flopped back against the couch, turning his focus to the TV, ignoring any of them existed.

Osamu chuckled and prodded his brother’s shoulder. “Aw, come on, don’t sulk.”

Suna joined in. “Yeah, ‘Tsumu, you still got your great personality." His voice sounded strained.

Despite the smile on her face, (y/n) felt a twinge of sympathy. They always ganged up on Atsumu. He was all bark and bluster, but when the teasing went too far, it showed. Usually ending like this—with him falling quiet, arms crossed, eyebrows marred, the tips of his ears adorably pink.

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Hey. Don’t worry, ‘Tsum. You may not have the hair, but you’ve still got your handsome face.”

Then, before he could react, she leaned over and planted a deliberately sloppy kiss on his cheek.

The act wasn’t even remotely romantic—more like a mum kissing her kid before school—but the effect was immediate. His entire face lit up—redder than any of his high school jerseys—and he immediately looked away, mumbling something incoherent as he sank lower into the cushions.

Satisfied, (y/n) stood up and stretched. With Atsumu no longer moping, she could focus her priorities elsewhere.

“I’m getting more snacks.”

As soon as she disappeared into the kitchen, Osamu and Suna turned to Atsumu, no longer having to water-down their behaviour.

They puckered their lips, making exaggerated kissy noises.

Atsumu shot them a withering glare, no longer having the energy for either of them. “You guys fuckin’ suck.”

Suna snickered. “Aw, our little ‘Tsumu is in looove.”

Osamu wiped a fake tear. “They grow up so fast.”

Atsumu dragged a hand down his face and sank into the couch.

Perhaps he shouldn't have moved in with them after all.