#fourth post

+ HEADPHONES WARNING! 🎧

18+ ! Sim Jaehyun audio (moaning & wet noises & cumming)

SIM JAEHYUN SMUT AUDIO!! 🎧

Note: Jake got horny after dance practice and got home and went in his room to jerk off.

ENJOY WINNING PEOPLE WHO VOTED JAKE!!!

Proof:

pool party

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ SYNOPSIS :: kirishima invites you to his pool party where he plans on confessing his feelings towards you

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ TAGS :: (highschooler!)kirishima x f!reader ᯓ fluff ᯓ f!reader and kaminari “flirt” ᯓ f!reader calls kirishima “‘ri” ᯓ kaminari calls f!reader “princess” ᯓ jealousy ᯓ small language ᯓ exposed bulge ᯓ sensual tension ᯓ wc: 4.2k ᯓ proofread! ᯓ story ᯓ

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ AUTHOR’S NOTE :: e/c = eye color ★ i/n = initial name ★ this might be the worst story i’ve ever wrote like i had insane writer’s block and i just wanted this to end, i started writing this december 23rd and i just finished today (january 30th)

the last bell of the day had just rung in your ears, waking you up from your groggy slumber. you lifted your head off the desk to see mina standing over you. she laughed as she snatched the paper that was stuck on your cheek and turned in the work for you. 

“why’s the princess so sleepy today?” another voice arose from behind you. it was no other than kaminari to say something as corny as that.

The kind that left sand under his nails and sleep clinging to the corners of his eyes no matter how many showers he took or how many nights of sleep he got in a proper bed.

All he wanted was a pint, really.

Something strong, a quiet corner, and the illusion of something normal.

The open-mic said otherwise, with a crowd of battle jackets and Mohawks packed shoulder to shoulder.

But there wasn't another pub for another fifteen minute walk so—

How bad could it be?

Then you were on stage.

You looked like trouble—

The kind that didn't apologize for it.

The lights caught your wild hair, tangled and untamed, a storm haloed by stage glow—

You were something that didn't belong in any uniform or under anyone's thumb.

Then you started, and the crowd roared.

And God help him, but you were good.

Not the polished kind of good, no. You were the kind of good that bleeds through your fingers and snarls from your throat.

The crowd, though small, was alive. Boots tapping, headings nodding, and some shouting along the words like battle cries.

The lyrics were angry and startling in truth-

It made even Price, in all his exhausted stubbornness, listen.

A few songs passed. People got rowdy.

Some bloke in the front of the crowd had started mouthing off something crude, some drunk with too much pint and not enough manners-

Some red faced numpty who thought that "punk show" meant "free pass to act like a twat."

You told him to sod off.

The bloke didn't like that—

There was a fight—

Price's body moved before his brain decided.

By the time he pushed through the crowd, the bloke had reached the edge of the stage. You'd already hopped down, guitar forgotten, jaw tight and eyes like a storm.

A friend of yours grabbed your arm, hissing something in your ear trying to calm you.

But you weren't listening. The bloke reached out again, grabbing your sleeve.

Price placed a hand on the bloke's shoulder deescalating his anger immediately—

But you were still keyed up—

Even as your friend looped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you back-

You resisted, twisting in her grip as Price stepped a bit too close—

And your elbow came flying back.

It wasn't even intentional. It was a reflex, a flinch, a twist to get free.

But it landed hard-

The sharp edge of your elbow caught him square in the cheekbone.

"Christ—!" Price staggered back, hand flying to his face.

By the time his head stopped pounding and his vision cleared—

You were gone.

———————————————————————————

"Cap'n wot the hell happened ta yer face?"

Gaz leaned over, "Looks like somebody took a swing at you, sir."

Price didn't look up from his report, "Punk show."

Soap's eyebrows raised with an almost manic smile, "Ye went t' a punk show?"

"Wonder wot clocked him, yeah? Or who?" Gaz added, too calm.

"Bet it was a right proper punk." Soap teased, but at Price's grunt had him giddily elbowing Gaz and continuing, "Aye, so it was! What's the name? When's the wedding?"

Price sighed. "Keep it up, Sergeant, and Ill show you what a proper right hook looks like."

Ghost spoke. "You least deserve it?"

Price huffed, "Didn't even see it coming."

And worse? He didn't even catch your name.

Y/n: “Im trying to get your attention”

Sukuna: “You don’t need my attention THAT much.”

Y/n: *Pokes sukuna even more*

A more recent development came to mind for a post. Something I thought would have happened long ago.

Rosco is a cat dad now. 5 days ago I was taking stock of our limited fishing supplies, for me to have heard Rosco trying to sneak up on me. Now it could have been anyone else, but I don’t know who else wreaks of booze and cinnamon. Generally Rosco is quite skilled in the art of stealth, but today, he was off his “A game”, which could have meant a number of things, but I could tell he was excited, especially with the lack of thumping steps that come with the use of crutches or a cast.

“Abs?”

“Yeah?” I said while looking down at my clipboard.

“I’ve got a surpriiisse!”

“Okay, what is it?”

“You have to look to see Abs.”

A sigh left me at that moment. I reluctantly looked up to be face to face with a belly of white fur—wait fur? I looked further up to meet the odd eyes of a cat, looking at me with either interest, or past me towards the wall of fish shaped lures. I was betting on the latter, because the cat repeatedly licked its mouth, drooling over the ocean-life-shaped pieces of metal, rubber and plastic to my side.

"Rosco, before I ask why the fuck you have a cat, I need you to explain to me how this is a good idea, preferably before it escapes your skull.”

“Mean, but first!” He stepped back a bit, held the orange feline further up in the air, Lion King style, then said “I dub this magnificent creature, Sir Marmalade!”, with a slightly booming voice to add to the dramatic flare he was somehow pulling off.

“Why? ‘Cause he was eating a jar of marmalade out back in the dumpster?”

Rosco frowned in response, he lowered the cat down to chest level, before squinting his eyes. An unmistakable not hint but dead giveaway of suspicion in his narrowed gaze , “You're a mind reader, aren’t you? Come on now, read my thoughts backwards from bat shit crazy to certifiably office bitch normal.”

The cat was dirty, his fur matted and unkempt by its probable rough outdoor life. The real indication of his name choice were the chunks of semi-tranparent orange jam that clung loosely to the cat’s face.

“Sure.”

He smiled widely, showing off his pristine teeth that should have rotted away by now from all the substance use. “HA! Now oh great ginger one, enlighten me and my companion with more of your prophecies.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” he said, smiling stupidly wide, while he held the cat in one arm and used his shirt to try to wipe off the bits of marmalade from it’s face. I was a little amazed how fast he’d noticed the mess, but couldn’t understand the clear correlation between my “prediction” and said mess.

Marmalade was surprisingly calm during the entire interaction, which I found odd for a dumpster cat, being that most animals around here don’t react so kindly towards human interaction. Specifically the raccoons, possums, lynxes, bears, wolves, badgers, foxes, any sort of deer which includes the moose for those of you who were not already burdened with this rather specific piece of fucking wildlife knowledge. Then a plethora of other predatory animals, some birds, a good portion of the insect population, and, well, you get the point. They're especially erratic at night, but then again, what living creature wants to be fucked with by some two legged fucker in the middle of the night? Rosco, at that moment, was scratching Marmalade’s chin, having forgotten about our current conversation just as swiftly as he started it.

“Rosco?”

“Hm? Oh yeah, well, I was taking out the trash, and I heard some rustling in the dumpster, so I thought Duke and his posse got into em. I was prepared to have a great battle, Isabella in hand, ready to strike at whatever gray fur ball may come my way! But instead, I found this tangerine in there, eating a jar of marmalade.”

Duke was just a large, well, smart as fuck raccoon that seemed to rule over all the other raccoons. He has the intelligence on par with the average IQ test, and compared to the rest of his herd, he looks as if someone accidentally fed him steroids at birth. Not exactly muscular or fat, but he was definitely way larger than any raccoon I’ve seen.

“Okay, that still doesn’t explain why you have the cat.”

“Well, I thought he could be the store mascot; imagine the rise in customers once they know this wondrous beast is here for head pats and belly rubs.”

Marmalade meowed happily.

“That’s right, Sir Marmalade! You deserve all the pats.”

“Rosco, you know we can’t have a wild animal roaming the store, not after last time.”

“Don’t need to remind me, but Marmalade isn’t wild, look at em! Does he look like a wild animal to you?” He held the cat right in my face. Marmalade tried to bite my nose, but ended up licking my face while his heterochromic eyes made contact with mine. Already trying to win favor with me, and somewhat succeeding, though the smell of recently expired marmalade hit me like a citrus scented brick. It was a step below Rosco’s breath after a night of drinking or when he doesn’t take a shower for some time, but it’s not like that’s a low bar.

“Doesn’t exactly change my mind, even then, that’s not my decision. I doubt the owners will accept even having a well-trained goldfish, especially a cat, of all things, as a permanent fixture.”

“Come on Abs, we both know you have some pull with em. I promise if you at least ask, I’ll watch after him, potty train him, potty train myself, feed him on time, groom him, drive him to all his appointments, and all that kafoui.”

“No.”

Rosco said, “Come on Abigail. Pretty please? With an orange slice on top?” while he held Marmalade right next to his face, trying to give puppy dogs eyes? Is it the same use of the term for a cat? I guess when you think about it, it’s technically not, and would be kitty cat eyes? Yeah, kitty cat eyes. Rosco and Marmalade tried to give me twin kitty cat eyes, and only one was working. I don’t think a grown man with 5 o’clock shadow and scars is capable of reaching the level of cuteness that is required to make kitty cat eyes function in the slightest. He was trying though, to the point I could see veins start to pop up on his face. He wasn’t breathing; Rosco’s face turned a bright red and he was visibly shaking. He went at it for a few minutes. Most people, from my understanding, can hold their breath for a maximum of a minute, maybe a minute and a half. So the fact that Rosco could hold his breath this long was quite impressive.

He and I didn’t waver in our stances on the decision. I stood there with my arms crossed, waiting for him to either faint from the lack of oxygen or give up. Well, it's Rosco, so of course he wasn't going to give up. I thought about it for a moment, was I really going to let another human being suffocate under their own stupidity? It’s not like it’d be the first time I’d let a person follow the discount sponge they call a brain, but I didn’t know most of them beyond basic greetings and whatever they thought was okay to tell a store employee, which unsurprisingly was a lot.

I sighed, took a deep breath, and before he passed out, I said “Okay… fine, I’ll ask the owners. But no promises. Now take a fucking breath before you drop dead. I don’t want to drag your sorry ass back to the closet.”

Rosco, in immediate response, took the deepest of breaths that I’ve ever seen, the noise similar to what I believe a monotone balloon sounds like if it were to try to suck the air back into itself after its end was untied.

“You won’t regret it, Abs! Now come on Marmalade, tis the time to find you a nice box.”

Marmalade yawned as Rosco held him close, running off towards his janitor’s closet.

You’d think that’d be the end of it, and I thought so too, but whatever god was active that day heard Rosco’s wishes. I called the owners right after to simply get it over with. One thing to note, I’ve never met the owners face to face, but there have been plenty of phone calls and messages. You’d think them to be hermits, but simply put, they're always busy. They own multiple businesses across the state, so most can understand if they don’t have the time to meet one of their managers. You probably find it odd that I’ve worked here for years without ever meeting them, but it’s nothing to throw a fit over. Sure, I’ve been curious, though that’d be all.

When I called one of the two owners, an older woman’s voice came through after the third ring.

“Hello? Abigail? Something happen? Did the tall man come by?”

“Hello, and no Mrs. Riley. Also who–?”

“Nevermind that, Hon, what do ya need?” Something new to throw into the ever-expanding cardboard box titled “Questions” whether this particular addition will ever be addressed, acknowledged, or simply left to yellow and decay alongside the rest of the pile of remains, as always, is to be seen.

“Well, Rosco found a cat…”

“A cat? Like a cat cat? This ain’t some code phrasin right?”

“No? Should it be?.”

“Course not. What bout it then, if it’s causin a stir, just throw it outside. Let nature take its gain.”

“Not that, Rosco wants to keep it as the store’s mascot.”

There was silence for a moment, I almost thought she was chuckling to herself before I heard her say in a stern voice, “Don’t expect me or Mr. Riley to support the idea with merchandise and signs, but as long as he keeps the little thang close by, and no complaints or issues gone ringin at our door, it's fine by me. But it better get its shots and there better not be hair on our goods. Make sure it’s on uh tight leash.”

“Well that's what I was… wait, you're allowing Rosco, I mean Rosco to keep a cat… in the store?”

“If it means he won’t go off and do dumbshit. If bad ideas were gold, he’d own the damn country. Lord have mercy on us all if he did. Just make sure he gets the message, we both know the boy has more static in the brain than a broken radio. Think it’s healthy for em to have something to look after when he’s off the clock. God only knows what he does during his free time, and he ain’t all too proud of it.”

If there was a competition for insults, I’d think Mrs. Riley would win gold, even when she’s not trying half the time.

“And Mr. Riley?”

“What about em?”

“Is he gonna be, you know..fine with Rosco–”

“Hon, you don’t be worrien what he thinks. If your sweatin like butter over it, he’ll be fine, and if he ain’t, well, we both know who’s gonna be winnin that argument.”

I don’t know what’s scarier, the things I've seen at this store that on many occasions defy the laws of reality and/or all common sense this past half decade. Things that continue to be a stain upon my immutable memory, that I am very aware if I were a “normal person”, would go catatonic or at the very least need decades of therapy to get over, or Mrs. Riley’s sheer confidence.

“Now, is that all?”

“No, actually, I wanted to ask about the last report I sent in.”

“No.”

“Wait, w—- ”

“Abigail, don’t be arguin now, I don’t have the time to keep on talkin, just don’t be goin near them doors, or any door in fact that spontaneously starts existin. I don’t feel like that needs to be explained, especially towards you of all people.” She interrupted me with a surprisingly grave voice. Then she hung up; I haven’t known Mrs. Riley to ever hang up a phone call without a formal goodbye. This is a woman who took basic manners seriously, to such an extent that she started entire arguments with me in my earlier years of employment over not saying goodbye or farewell at the end of every phone call.

Messages, on the other hand, were the apparent exception in the rules of etiquette. I could further elaborate on the exemption that is text messages, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you why in the first place. The owners are what I call a renowned enigma. Sure, many folks know the Rileys’, but I haven’t met a soul who has physically crossed paths with them. Even Marco, my senior in age and fellow employee of the store, had never met them, or at least, has never brought up meeting them. I should really ask him one of these days, though I doubt he’d give me a straight answer.

I told Rosco of the owner’s decision right after, and he was ecstatic. He’d already started to groom Marmalade in the short period of time that I had been gone. His fur looked straightened and what dirt I had previously seen on his body had been brushed off. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Marmalade was recently bathed, but I did know better. I knew that cat had been roaming this town full of reprobates for what scholars would depict as “A fucking eternity best measured in feline longevity.”

I watched Rosco make a kissy face as he spoke in a baby voice towards Marmalade, holding the cat up close. It still perplexed me how Marmalade was so calm, like he had no boundaries, just a simple faded line that he forgot he’d drawn with chalk. Rosco always had this sort of gravitas towards animals and people. I’ve seen this certain charismatic capability of his in effect a handful of times, mostly with other human beings.

The closest thing I can compare this to is Star Wars. Yeah, I know what Star Wars is, fuck off. Anyways, it’s like how Jedi use mind tricks to get people to do what they want them to do. It’s not as simple as a wave of the hand and saying “these aren’t the droids you're looking for.” Sure, it has a higher chance of success against the weak minded, but that’s where the similarities end. Rosco, even for the erratic weirdo that he is, can somehow be the most relatable person in the room.

Let me explain. Rosco can use any topic that comes to his fucked up mind and babble on about it in such an exaggerated and/or meticulous manner, to where at some point, you are magically entranced by whatever he may be spewing. I’ve seen him talk an asshole of a truck driver into breaking the law.

This woodsy fucker by the name of Derrick? David? Maybe it was Daniel, I didn’t get to hear the other half of his first name before he honked his horn so loud, I thought I’d go deaf. He smelled of a mix of wet dog and gasoline, with a beard that screamed, “Woodstock!” Rosco, in response to his “misconduct”, if you’d call berating me for 10 straight minutes over the lack of beef jerky products we had like a bearded banshee to be that. One thing to note about the store, we had 20 different types of beef jerky on the wracks, so he must’ve been either the pickiest truck driver to exist or the gasoline smell had shorted out his brain into the dumbest. The latter wouldn’t have surprised me. Getting back to the point, in response to his misconduct, Rosco cut his booze break short to join him at the checkout to talk about cars, starting to laugh like they were good old friends.

“Hey Big D, I have to ask, what’s the fastest you've gone in that metal baby?” Rosco asked with a full smile, but I could see the mischief in his eyes that he'd typically show before fucking with me.

“Welp, that'd be a good ole question. If you were uh pig I’d say 55, probably 65. But since ya my boy, and this red head over here don be lookin like uh narc, I’ve gotten my diesel Belle hoggin to 81, and not just once.” Red Head.? I'd show him a red head if I knew where Rosco kept his collection of baseball bats and tools.

“Come on Big D, you're telling me you never stomped the gas, see how fast Belle here can go? Come on man, you must'a thought about it.”

The trucker scratched the bird's nest he called a beard in thought before responding with, “Well, ya ain’t wrong.”

“Hey, okay, got a big ole fun idea for ya before you leave then.” I could make out the slightest hint of the shit-eating grin I was so used to seeing alongside those antics.

“Yea? What is it?”

“You know what a Georgia Overdrive is?”

“Course I do! I ain't no Greenhorn,” he said, as if the question offended him as a trucker, “But remind this girl here what it is.” He pointed with a meaty thumb at me, to which I would have scowled and told him to shove his Slim Jim's where the sun don't shine, but for duty’s sake, I kept the customer service friendly smile. Luckily, Rosco kept his attention long enough for me to flip him the bird behind his back to show my displeasure.

“Well, you know the hill heading downward out of town?”

“Yep, so?” He crossed his arms, insisting Rosco gets to the point.

“Put the transmission in neutral just before the dip, gravity carries your baby down the hill. With a rig that big and a dip that steep, you’d easily make it to 90.”

I saw the gears slowly turning in his head at the very thought of this idiotic scheme Rosco had offered him, but I wasn’t going to stop him. Sure I could be a decent person and tell him that this was reckless and why, but I doubt Beardington would listen to a word this 'girl' had to say, so screw him.

“Alrighty then, you got my attention,” Beardington said with a yellow smile. I would watch both of them shuffle out into the parking lot not too long after, with me following suit, just in case property damage or bodily harm to a human being were to occur on the premises. I did my best though to keep my distance for my own safety; I’d rather not accidentally be hit by a 35-ton slab of metal.

Rosco and I would watch the man drive off into the direction out of town, honking his horn with faint enthusiastic laughter and hollering buried under the howl of the engine and the blare of the horn. As soon as the truck was out of sight, Rosco started to laugh maniacally like he’d just committed arson and gotten away with it. And maybe he did. There was a chance his truck did burn, you know. I never did get the specifics.

“Why are you laughing?” I asked in confusion, walking right next to him to see what was going on.

After another minute of ceaseless laughter, Rosco would say, “Well, remember who’s camped out near the road out of town?”

That’s when it hit me: earlier that day, Deputy Dempsey came by, way after her shift should have ended. She spoke about how she was doing a favor for Deputy Heller and that she’d taken up his shift, being that, in his words “Wouldn’t trust it to any other deputy but her,” which I could see put a sort of confidence in her step, knowing the old man saw her as more competent than the rest. I believe he meant several things in that statement, but that’s for another time. The enlarged bags under her eyes, including the sharpened edges of her frown, said it all though: she was not happy taking double shifts, and who would? Most people can stay awake for probably 12, maybe, 14 hours without feeling tired. Police officers like Deputy Dempsey here could stay awake longer for a number of reasons, and that included back to back shifts, though that didn’t mean she had to be happy about it. Luckily, that unhappiness was masked under the strong professional appearance she wore.

To bring up, before Dempsey left, she said she had to monitor the west exit out of town due to recent reckless driving and other reported activities that, to her, could be described as bizarre, but all too common to us. That exit was the one with the steep longish drop.

I, for no reason, started to laugh, then Rosco joined me in my unknown elation like it was a contagious bug. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, though I’d assume it’d stop soon.

During the cackling duet, I realized that he must have heard Dempsey bring up where she'd be till her next check-in, and hatched a plan to get Beardington arrested. Now I know that Rosco can not only be the most relatable person but also the pettiest. It may be rare, but what mentally stable person befriends a stranger to then simply somehow get them to do the dumbest shit possible to where the conclusion is a mugshot and time behind bars.

Interrupting my laughter and thoughts was the end of Rosco’s cackling, soon to be followed by a “That Tool was no true trucker.”

Later that night, Deputy Dempsey had been late for her check-in, looking a bit more tired than before and a tinge more pissed.

“Would have gotten here sooner, but some lunatic was going 95 past the Devil’s Tongue.”

“Yeah? How’d that go.”

“Swell, the culprit almost rammed me with his truck but instead hit a tree. He's lucky to be alive with minor injury. Why are you so curious?” She raised an eyebrow questioningly.

“Curiosity's cheaper than therapy and marginally more productive as an icebreaker.”

She glared at me, then walked over to the coffee machine without another word. I don’t think Deputy Dempsey likes me all that much; quite the strained relationship we have but, aren’t they all like that? I don’t know.

Present day, or at least yesterday, Rosco had actually put in the elbow grease that’s required in taking care of another living thing. Not once have I ever seen Rosco far from Marmalade, and when that did happen, Marmalade was sleeping in a few places he’s designated as his nap spots. Every cat, domesticated or not, swiftly develops a network of preferred perches and resting places.

To list off a few, the belt at checkout lane 1, the top of the hunting and fishing section, specifically the right shelf over the fishing lures, and, of course, Rosco. Whatever black magic that cat is casting is working, because no matter how much Rosco moves around, he just sleeps there, comfortably wrapped around his shoulders like a fucking scarf.

It was easy to say that Rosco had tamed the dumpster cat. He never hissed, he never scratched anyone or anything, and shit outside or in his litter box in the janitor’s closet. I believe Rosco can do a lot of things, even with his outlandish personality, he is a weird jack-of-all-trades. I didn’t expect one of those skills to be animal tamer. Hopefully he doesn’t adopt any more of these so-called pets.

For ju5Agal

Character is Helene, as the white swan in swan lake

I know someone has ALREADY gone into this topic with MUCH more detail here on tumblr (I can’t find the post for some reason 🥲)

but LMK shippers, can we please come up with something more creative for Lego Sun Wukong ships?

Because:

ShadowPeach.

LionPeach .

HeavenlyPeach.

LotusPeach.

PoisonPeach.

PeachBite.

….

Wukong is more than a peach. Why is his ship name with CHANG’E the MOST CREATIVE ONE?!

(CelestialChaos is also more creative than just PEACH in every one of the names for Wukong 😭)