#I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense

[sixxels]

you, always. ~ choso.k

summary!! in the chaos of frat parties, firelight, and fucked-up choices, you and choso keep dancing around what you really are. everyone sees it except you two. when one mistake shatters the illusion, you’re forced to face the truth: he was never yours. and that’s what made it hurt the most. a messy, slow-burn situationship full of angst, heartbreak, and the kind of love that doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you try to let it.

wc: 12.8k

!!disclaimer!! based on this ask! heavy themes of situationships, emotional angst, betrayal, and heartbreak, choso is a stoner, alcohol and drug use, slow-burn with a payoff, eventual resolution.

"gojo! go long!" 

the air smells like salt and smoke. waves crash in the distance, a steady rhythm under the thump of bass from a speaker half-buried in the sand. the fire crackles, casting flickering shadows on faces you know too well. 

you kick off your sandals, the sand cool beneath your feet. the party is in full swing, bodies swaying, drinks sloshing, joints passing from hand to hand. alpha phi knows how to throw a party, especially when finals are over and the only thing left to do is forget.

your eyes drift to the open sand, watching as sukuna, goji, and toji pass around a football with ease. shirtless, of course. they yell and laugh and tackle eachother without a care in the world as nanami and geto sit on a towel supervising their tipsy friends. 

their eyes snap towards you, and gojo flashed a big toothy grin.

"y/n!! you're here!" you smile back at him but before you could walk up to greet him with a hug, two arms snake around your waist, and the scent of weed, smoke, and aragon oil invades your senses.

"hey, baby."

"hey cho." 

you don’t turn around. don’t need to. his voice is low and lazy against your neck, warm breath brushing your skin like it’s second nature. he pulls you in a little tighter, his hands settling on your hips like he owns them. like he always does when he’s high and feeling a little territorial.

“jesus christ,” gojo hollers, already laughing, “you guys are so gross. it’s a beach party not a porno.” you roll your eyes, but choso doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t say a word. just rests his chin on your shoulder like he plans on staying there all night.

“don’t be mad no one wants to cuddle you,” you shoot back, and gojo gasps, clutching his chest like you physically stabbed him.

“wow. okay. betrayal. and after i saved you that jello shot earlier.”

“you drank it in front of me.”

“for you. spiritually.”

choso huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. not loud enough for anyone else to hear, but you feel it. the way his mouth brushes the curve of your jaw when he does it, the way his arms tighten for half a second like he’s anchoring you to him.

“you wanna smoke?” he murmurs, voice quiet under the music, just for you. you tilt your head back slightly, eyes meeting his. his lashes are heavy, lids low, and he looks so fucking relaxed it makes your chest ache. that easy, sleepy stoner look. always so chill, even when you know he’s not.

“yeah,” you say, just as soft, “but only if you roll it.”

he smirks, barely. “you just like watching me do it.”

“you roll like it’s a love language.”

“maybe it is.”

you feel it in your stomach then. that familiar pull. the ache of something you’re both pretending isn’t real. you lean into him anyway. because you’re a little buzzed and the night smells like ocean and smoke and the fire makes everyone look golden.

“c’mon,” he says, and tugs your hand gently, guiding you away from the fire, away from the noise, to somewhere a little quieter. as you walk, you hear gojo yell behind you, “don’t fuck on the dunes!”

you flip him off over your shoulder.

you don’t hear choso laugh, but you feel his smile in the way he squeezes your hand.

~

after you and choso disappear, gojo's football arcs through the night sky, spinning like a slow comet before landing in sukuna’s outstretched hands with a soft whump. he catches it effortlessly, turns, and hurls it back to toji without looking.

“well choso's all over y/n again.” sukuna says, not even trying to sound casual. toji catches the ball against his chest, grunts, then shrugs. “he’s always all over her.”

“yeah, but like,” sukuna kicks at the sand, eyes following where choso and y/n disappeared into the shadows past the firelight. “they’re not together, right? still?”

“they’ve never been together,” gojo calls out as he jogs up to them, sweat sticking to his neck, eyes glassy from whatever edible he snuck earlier. he throws himself into the circle, catches the football when toji tosses it back. “they just… do whatever the fuck it is they do. the ‘situationship’ special.”

“he fucks her. sleeps next to her every night. calls her baby,” sukuna ticks it off like a grocery list. “but they’re not dating. okay.”

“you know choso,” gojo says, spinning the ball in his hands. “he’s too high to define anything.” toji lets out a quiet scoff. “too lazy, more like.”

“same thing,” gojo shrugs. the fire crackles behind them, muffled bass bumping from the speaker half-buried in the sand. people laugh, yell, somewhere a girl shrieks in mock horror. the air is warm with weed and ocean breeze, the kind of night that makes everything feel heavier than it is.

“i don’t get it,” sukuna mutters, squinting in the direction they disappeared. “she’s bad. like, bad bad. and she’s just letting him walk around like he’s not barely trying.”

“she’s not letting him,” gojo says. “she’s just not saying anything.”

“yeah, well,” toji grunts, reaching to scratch at the back of his neck, “what’s she gonna say? ‘hey, could you stop being a pussy and ask me out’? it’s not her job to spell it out.”

sukuna snorts. “you’ve seen the way he just lets girls flirt with him, right? he doesn’t even do anything. just lets it happen. that’d drive me fucking nuts.”

“yeah, but he never does anything,” gojo cuts in, voice a little more serious now. “like, he never kisses them. never leaves with anyone. he just—sits there. lets it happen ‘til they get bored.”

“still feels like a betrayal,” sukuna mutters, kicking at the sand.

“not cheating, but not loyal either.”

toji hums low. “he’s not a cheater. he’s just… lazy. too lazy to say no, too quiet to set boundaries. but he doesn’t cross lines. not really.”

“no,” gojo agrees, tossing the football in the air and catching it. “he just hovers near the edge and hopes no one calls him on it.”

“gojo, didn’t you say that girl from theta chi was hanging off him at that house crawl last week?”

“yep.” gojo grins, wide and toothy. “kept playing with his hair, calling him cho-bear. it was nasty. and he didn’t even move. just let it happen like a couch with a pulse.”

“fucking couch with a pulse,” sukuna howls.

“no, but for real,” gojo says, tossing the ball back to sukuna, who catches it one-handed. “she saw it. y/n. just stood there, stone-faced. didn’t say a word. you could tell it was eating her alive.” toji watches the ball get passed back again. “she’s not gonna call him out unless he gives her a reason to. and he’s smart enough to never quite cross the line. just hovers near it, like a dickhead.”

“i think he genuinely doesn’t even notice when girls flirt with him,” gojo says, lounging back into the sand now, hands behind his head. “like, i think he thinks they’re just being friendly.”

“that’s even worse,” sukuna scoffs. “ignorant motherfucker.”

“nah, he notices,” toji says after a beat. “he just doesn’t care enough to stop it.” they all go quiet for a second. the ball sits forgotten in the sand between them, the firelight throwing weird shadows across their faces. “so what’s she supposed to do?” sukuna finally asks.

“go crazy,” gojo says, laughing. “spiral. drink too much. flirt with someone worse.”

“someone like you, you mean?”

gojo raises a hand. “i would be the villain in her story, yeah.”

“you’d do it just to get a rise out of choso.”

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“i mean, it’d be fun to watch.” sukuna smirks, then sighs, kicking back a little in the sand. “she deserves someone who actually tries, man.”

“she deserves someone who isn’t high 24/7 and doesn’t look like he crawled out of a grave,” toji adds. gojo grins. “she likes the grave thing, though.”

“unfortunately,” sukuna says. they all look back toward the shadows past the firelight where choso and y/n disappeared, now just vague outlines under the moonlight. they’re sitting on a blanket, her legs stretched across his lap, a slow curl of smoke rising between them. her head tilts back in laughter at something he says, and even from this far, you can see the way he watches her. eyes soft. half-lidded. stoned and glowing and absolutely hers, even if he’ll never say it out loud.

“fuck,” gojo mutters. “he likes her. you can see it all over him.”

“then why doesn’t he just say it?” sukuna asks, and for once there’s no edge to it. just confusion. “because if he says it out loud,” toji says, picking up the football and tossing it lightly between his hands, “then it’s real. and if it’s real, he could lose it.” gojo whistles low. “damn, dr. phil in the house.” toji throws the ball at him. hard. “shut the fuck up.”

gojo laughs as he catches it, wincing a little. “i’m just saying. he’s not dumb. he knows the second they talk about it, shit might change. and right now? they’re in that sweet spot. not official, not broken. no labels. just… vibes.”

“vibes,” sukuna echoes, rolling his eyes.

“vibes don’t keep people around forever,” toji mutters. and they all go quiet again. the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be filled. the kind that feels a little too honest, even for them. eventually, gojo sighs. “should we go tackle him? drag him back here and bully him into having one single adult conversation in his life?”

“nah,” sukuna smirks. “let him fuck it up on his own. it’s more entertaining.”

“you’re such a good friend,” gojo deadpans. sukuna shrugs. “i never said i wasn’t an asshole.” they go back to throwing the football. the fire pops and spits. and in the distance, choso passes the joint to you like he’s handing you a piece of himself. not a word spoken. just that same lazy, deliberate affection that drives you insane.

not quite enough, but still just enough to keep you here.

for now.

~

you slip away from the firelight without saying a word, your drink forgotten in the sand, music fading behind you as you wander toward the dunes.

he follows like he always does. doesn’t ask where you’re going. doesn’t need to.

the world feels softer out here, where the party is a dull hum and the moon hangs low over the ocean like it’s watching. your skin is warm from the fire and the drinks and his eyes, heavy on your back as you settle on the slope of a dune, dry grass brushing your bare legs.

choso sits behind you. doesn’t touch you at first. just passes you the joint, his fingers brushing yours like he doesn’t mean to. like it’s accidental. it never is. you take a slow drag, eyes on the black water in the distance. the kind of quiet settles over you that only ever exists with him. easy, full of things unsaid. always full of things unsaid.

he shifts closer. knees bumping. breath grazing your neck.

“cold?” he murmurs.

you shake your head, even though you kind of are. but he wraps an arm around your waist anyway, pulling you back against him. warm hoodie. bare legs across his. his chin finds your shoulder like muscle memory. you can feel his heartbeat against your spine. slow. steady. so fucking calm it drives you insane.

“you’re quiet tonight,” you say softly, voice barely louder than the wind. “so are you,” he says, and it’s not a deflection. it’s an observation. his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, warm against your skin. not in a sexual way. not yet. just grounding. just his hand resting there like it belongs.

you tilt your head and he takes the cue. kisses the side of your neck. slow, unhurried. his lips trail over your jaw like he’s done it a thousand times. because he has. but this time, he lingers. this time, he doesn’t stop. your fingers find the edge of his shirt, tug lightly. he shifts so he’s above you now, braced on his forearms in the sand, his hair falling forward to tickle your face. he looks at you like he’s stoned and dreaming.

maybe he is. you cup his jaw, thumb brushing that soft patch of skin beneath his lip. he kisses you like he’s never been in a rush in his life. slow. deep. lazy, but not careless. like he wants to make sure you feel every part of it. like this is the only thing tonight that he means.

your back arches under him. his hand slips beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into skin that’s still warm from the firelight, from his touch. the kiss deepens, turns a little messier, a little hungrier, but still never rushed. he tastes like weed and salt and something sweeter that’s just him.

he pulls back, barely, breath ragged. “you okay?” he asks, voice low and rough. you nod, lips parted, eyes on his. “want me to stop?” you shake your head.

his mouth curves into something almost like a smile. not all the way. just enough. he kisses you again, slower this time. less urgency, more meaning. like he’s trying to say everything he never does with his mouth instead. your fingers tangle in his hoodie. his hand spreads across your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer, like he wants to climb inside you just to be near your heartbeat. like closeness is the only language he’s fluent in.

and it’s not just sex. it never has been. not with him. this is what it always is—soft mouths, quiet hands, closeness that never gets named. something just shy of love. you don’t talk about it. you just kiss like maybe it’s enough. and maybe, tonight, it is.

he kisses you one last time, softer than the others, like he’s tucking something away. then he shifts, rolls off to lie beside you in the sand, hoodie bunched at his ribs, arm behind his head like nothing happened.

you stare at the stars. try to even your breathing. try not to think too hard about the way your lips still feel swollen, the way his hand had fit so perfectly behind your knee. “that was…” you start, then stop. instantly regret saying anything.

he hums, low in his throat. noncommittal. like he’s agreeing but not really engaging. like he knows what you meant but isn’t going to make it easy. silence stretches between you. not quite comfortable this time. not like before.

“your hoodie smells like weed and bonfire,” you say eventually, just to fill the air. “so do you,” he says, lazy. not even looking at you. you swallow. blink up at the sky.

“are we gonna talk about it?” the words slip out before you can stop them. his jaw tightens, just for a second. you catch it in the side of your vision. “talk about what?”

you shrug, try to make it light, like it doesn’t matter. like you didn’t just let him kiss you like he meant it. “this. whatever this is.” he takes a slow breath. the kind people take when they don’t want to lie but don’t want to tell the truth either.

“it’s whatever you want it to be,” he says finally, so quiet you almost miss it. your throat tightens. that’s the problem. it’s always been whatever you want. and you never say what you want. and he never asks again. “right,” you say, a little too fast. “cool.” you sit up, brush sand off your legs, avoid looking at him.

“we should go back,” you say. “people are probably wondering where we went.” he doesn’t move right away. just watches you, eyes unreadable in the dark. then he sits up too, pulls his hoodie straight, stands. you walk back together but not touching. not speaking.

his hand hovers near yours the whole time but never quite reaches. and you don’t ask why. you just let the pain in your chest eat you up from the inside out as you make your way back to the bonfire, greeted by gojo and yuki.

the fire’s burning hotter than before when you make it back. someone’s thrown more logs on it, and the flames lick high into the night, casting everyone in gold and shadow. gojo spots you first, sitting crisscross in the sand with a red solo cup balanced on his knee and a bottle of tequila in his lap.

“look who finally decided to rejoin society,” he grins. “get over here, slut, we’re playing truth or dare.” you laugh despite yourself, letting the rest of the group pull you in. yuki scoots to make space, draping an arm around your shoulders, already three drinks in and glowing like mischief incarnate. “you missed nanami getting dared to do a shot off haibara’s stomach. tragic.”

“and he actually did it,” shoko adds dryly from across the circle, holding a cigarette like a wine glass. “he’s so real for that.” you let yourself settle in, take the cup someone hands you, ignore how your heart still beats unevenly in your chest. choso’s a few feet away, sitting on a driftwood log, blunt in one hand and a half-empty bottle of something dark in the other. he’s slouched low, legs spread, hoodie falling off one shoulder. eyes half-lidded, mouth slack.

you glance at him. he doesn’t look back. you look away. “okay,” gojo claps once, way too loud. “truth or dare, y/n.” you raise a brow. “we’re just starting with me?”

“you disappeared for like thirty minutes,” he says, waggling his brows. “gotta make up for lost time.” you sigh dramatically. “fine. truth.”

“ooooh,” yuki coos. “boring.”

“shut up,” you mutter, but you’re laughing. gojo leans forward, blue eyes gleaming. “if you had to kiss someone in this circle right now, who would it be?”

groans echo around the fire. you make a show of looking around, tapping your finger to your chin. “hmmm… probably yuki.”

“coward!” gojo shouts. “hot,” shoko says at the same time. “kiss her then,” sukuna smirks from across the flames. you raise your cup in mock salute.

“haibara,” yuki says, pointing at him with a wicked grin. “truth or dare?”

“truth,” he says too fast, already blushing “what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said during sex?” the group erupts, groaning, laughing, shoko immediately choking on her drink.

“you’re evil,” haibara says, clutching his chest. while he fumbles through a mortifying story about calling someone “milady” mid-hookup, your gaze drifts—just for a second—across the fire.

choso’s leaning back against the log now, body heavy, hoodie pushed halfway off one shoulder. his cup is empty. the blunt that had been passed around earlier is down to the filter in his fingers. he’s not saying anything, just watching the flames, face slack and unreadable.

he’s wasted.

not just high, not just tipsy—gone in that quiet, slippery way he gets when he doesn’t want to talk. eyes half-shut. jaw loose. totally somewhere else. you don’t clock it fully, not yet. not with yuki howling beside you and gojo still hanging off your back like an overgrown child.

“milady??” gojo cries, throwing his head back. “nah, jail. straight to jail.” the circle bursts into laughter again. you smile, distracted. choso doesn’t. he's way too off his face to even think properly, and when he was like this, he was very impressionable.

 “next round.”

the game rolls on. someone dares toji to shotgun a beer with no hands (he does it without blinking). haibara is dared to say the filthiest thing he’s ever googled (he refuses, gets booed). yuki chooses dare, ends up giving shoko a lap dance that has geto raising his eyebrows and muttering something about needing a cigarette.

then gojo turns to you again, eyes sharp. “truth or dare, y/n.” you smirk. “dare.”

“yes,” he hisses. “okay. i dare you to sit on someone’s lap for the next two rounds.”

“jesus christ,” you mutter. “don’t act shy now,” yuki laughs. “just pick your victim.”

your eyes skim the circle. your gaze flicks to choso’s spot.

it’s... empty?

the log is bare. the bottle’s gone. the blunt’s out. no sign of him.

you blink.

when did he leave?

you hesitate too long and gojo grins wider. “need help choosing?” you huff and drop yourself in his lap, just to shut him up. he yells, triumphant, wrapping his arms around your waist like a wrestling belt. “ladies and gentlemen, i am blessed.”

“you’re a menace,” you say, trying not to laugh as he leans into it, chin on your shoulder, theatrically sighing. you stay there for two rounds, as ordered. it’s stupid and warm and kind of perfect. yuki flicks bottle caps at you, toji starts telling a story no one believes, and the fire cracks and spits into the night like it’s trying to keep up with everyone’s energy.

but underneath all of it, a small thought needles at you.

'where the hell did choso go?'

you don’t say it out loud. you just smile and laugh and sip your drink. pretend not to feel the hole that opened beside you when he left.

~

the firelight dances over everyone’s faces, laughter and music mingling with the smell of salt and smoke. you can still taste tequila on your lips, hear gojo’s ridiculous jokes echoing over the waves. everyone’s caught up in the moment, gojos still relishing in the fact you're in his lap, nanamis still scowling at yuki for being so loud, but your mind drifts back to choso.

you last saw him sitting with you guys around the fire. something aches in your chest at the memory—like you should have stayed closer, made sure he was okay. instead you laughed with yuki, played along with gojo’s dumb dares, tried to forget. forget the akward moment the two of you shared before all of this. 

visibly, you were upset. anyone could see you were looking for choso, it was just what you did.

but then you catch sukuna’s eye from across the circle. he’s staring where you are, face unreadable under the flicker of flame. with a stern look in his eyes that almost screams 'i'm sorry' he points his chin toward the bar with a slow nod. you frown—why is sukuna looking at you like that? it’s a silent invitation to look back. you shift uncomfortably in gojo’s lap. he snickers, but you barely hear him.

“you good?” he asks, eyebrows raised. you force a smile, head shaking. “yeah. just… saw something.” you shrug it off and stand unsteadily—two drinks plus who knows how many hits of blunt doesn’t mix well with sand.

you push through the circle of friends, “i’m just gonna grab another drink,” you tell gojo, but you don’t reach for the cooler. instead you make your way toward where sukuna pointed. the makeshift bar is a low wooden plank on cinder blocks, empty bottles strewn at its feet. choso is there, only he’s not alone.

you catch the last line of a slurred sentence—“what, i can't even see your face right now i'm so fucked up—” and see him pressing his mouth against a girl’s in a sloppy, desperate kiss. her arms are around his neck, and she’s pulling him closer. she’s pretty in that sorority way, wavy hair and cheap sundress, someone you barely know. neither of them notices you. his hoodie is off, draped on the back of the barstool. he’s shirtless except for a half-unbuttoned flannel, and you can see the way his chest rises and falls, uneven. he smells of weed and booze and regret you haven’t even registered yet.

your heart collapses before you even process what’s happening. he’s never done this. he’s never gone past a little throat-clearing and some conversation when other girls flirted. he never let things escalate. but here he is, his lips smashed against another girl’s, fingers tangled in her hair. he’s too drunk to pull away. it’s not just a flirt or a laugh-by; it’s something messy.

you step closer, frozen. your mouth goes dry. you hear someone call your name from the fire circle, yuki’s voice, but you can’t answer. your breath catches when choso’s gaze flickers away from the girl’s mouth. his eyes widen for half a second when he sees you, and then he panics.

he pushes the girl off him. she stumbles back, startled, and you feel a sharp pang for her, too, she was probably just playing the game like everyone else. his hands tremble as he reaches for her, swaying on his feet. the girl backs away, wiping lipstick off her mouth, then walks off into the dark, leaving choso standing there alone with his shirt hanging open.

he turns to you, lashes drooping. his voice slurs: “y/n, shit, i—”

you can’t hear the rest. you can’t even breathe. everything goes quiet except for the pounding in your ears. tears burn behind your eyes. you feel goosebumps prick your skin even though it’s warm. your legs quake. how could he do this to you? he’s never done this to you. he’s never shown any sign of wanting someone else like this. he’s always been so… lazy, but at least he never burned you like this.

you open your mouth, wanting to scream something, but the only sound that comes out is a ragged whisper: “cho…” the name catches in your throat like a curse. he steps forward, but you step back.

“i didn’t—i didn’t mean it—” he stammers, palms raised, his voice thick. “she just—was right there, and i—”

his words make no sense. they never do when he’s this fucked up. you’ve seen him high and you’ve seen him drunk, but never this wasted. his eyes are unfocused, his cheeks flushed. he’s tripping over himself, trying to explain. trying to fix something you don’t know can be fixed.

“are you for real right now?” you finally rasp, voice cracking. “are you fucking kidding me?”

he blinks, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. his hands drop to his sides. he sways a little, like his body is untethered from his mind. “y/n, ma, i’m sorry. i’m—shit.”

you step back even further, your hands coming up to cover your face. you don’t want him to see you cry, but you can’t stop the tears. they fall hot down your cheeks. your whole chest aches. the world tilts sideways. you feel like you’re drowning under the weight of it.

he reaches out, hesitates, then drops his arm. “i’m—I was just—”

you slash a hand through your hair. “just, just what? just what, choso? you’re never ‘just’ anything with me. you know that.”

he swallows hard. his throat moves, and you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing. fuck, you always notice. fuck, you hate how much you notice. “i was—i got too high. too drunk. i wasn’t thinking.”

you laugh—bitter, broken. “thinking? you weren’t thinking before either. you never think. but at least before, you didn’t do this.”

he recoils as if your words burn him. his shoulders slump. “you—i’m an asshole, i know.”

“you’re more than an asshole.” the words are sharp, pulsing. “you’re a fucking cunt. you don’t even know what you want.”

he flinches, but push comes from his chest. “that’s not true—”

“no?” you whisper, voice trembling. “so you do want her? is that it? maybe you want a real girlfriend? this is what you want?”

he looks away. his jaw tightens. he runs a hand through his hair, tangling his fingers. he closes his eyes. “i don’t know what i want.”

you feel a fresh wave of hurt, like acid in your bones. “exactly. you don’t know. but you sure know how to use me until you’re bored.”

his head shoots up like he’s been stabbed. his eyes slide to yours, glossy. “i—”

“stop,” you choke out. “just stop.”

he blinks again, tears forming too. you can see how much he’s struggling to keep it together. he opens his mouth to say something, but instead he coughs, draws in a shaking breath, lets it out. his voice is quiet and ragged and real: “i’m so sorry.”

it’s the rawest thing you’ve ever heard from him. but you don’t let yourself believe it. not yet. you can tell by the way he’s stumbling, slurring around his words, he means it in the moment—because he’s too high to lie. but as soon as tomorrow comes, will he remember? will he care?

“i’m fucked up,” he confesses, voice breaking. “i know—i know i fucked up. i—i hate myself so much right now.”

you see it in his eyes: he’s so deep down, he can’t fix this. he knows he’s fucked, but that doesn’t help you. it’s just another confession that puts your heart on a slanted knife. you’re trembling—anger and heartbreak twisting in your gut.

“you hate yourself?” you repeat, voice hollow. “you should.”

he flinches again, then steps toward you slowly, as if wading through quicksand. “look. i'm sorry, i am. i... fuck me bro i don't know how to talk about this right now give me a break.”

“too late,” you spit, stepping around him as if he’s diseased.

he reaches out, then drops his arm again, like he can’t even touch you. “y/n—please.”

you can’t look at him anymore. you feel something hard and cold snap inside you. “i want you to leave,” you say, voice low and controlled. “leave me alone.”

for a moment he just stands there, looking at you like he’s seeing the end of something he didn’t realize was real. then he turns away, unsteady. you watch his shoulders shake. you can’t tell if he’s about to cry or puke.

he staggers toward the dunes, disappearing into the dark. you don’t follow. you don’t want to watch. you sink to the ground in front of the bar, knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. the firelight feels harsh, like it’s burning you. you press your face into your knees, let the tears fall freely. you feel everything—anger, sadness, shame, confusion—raw and jagged.

you don’t know how long you sit there before someone touches your shoulder. you look up to see yuki crouched beside you, eyes wide with concern.

“y/n?” she whispers. “are you okay?”

you shake your head, voice lost somewhere in your chest. “i can’t,” you choke out. “i can’t.”

she wraps her arms around you. you let her hold you, even though it feels like admitting defeat. the party rages on behind you, music thumping, friends oblivious or perhaps just giving you space. the waves crash somewhere beyond the fire, steady and indifferent.

you think of choso out there, stumbling over sand, alone. you think of the regret in his eyes, how you saw it plain as day. you think of how you loved him in silence for so long, and now his mistake has ripped that away.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper into yuks’s shoulder, though you don’t know if you’re apologizing to her, to yourself, or to him. the tears won’t stop. your heart feels hollow, like the tide has taken a piece of you out to sea.

and somewhere in the dark, choso probably crumbles, realizing he’s lost you. you want to hate him for that, but you can’t. you just want to bury yourself until this night never happened.

~~

choso’s head felt like a fucking drumline was marching through it, each beat sharper and heavier than the last. the sun stabbed through the blinds in long, cruel fingers and the stale smell of smoke clung to the air like a bad hangover perfume. he blinked, slow, trying to remember where the hell he was. the frat house. alpha phi. his bed. but how the fuck did he get there?

his mouth was dry and tasted like burnt rubber, throat raw and sore. he propped himself up on one elbow, the room spinning slightly. he groaned low, the motion making his head pound harder. last night was a blur—faint memories flickered like a broken film reel. laughter, firelight, the crash of waves, the weight of someone in his arms, then flashes of something else, something he didn’t want to remember.

the door creaked open. sukuna stepped in, calm and precise as always, but the usual mischief in his eyes was replaced by something colder, sharper.

“you’re up,” sukuna said, voice low and steady. he didn’t smile. that was the first warning.

choso rubbed his face with both hands, trying to piece it together. “sukuna. how the fuck did i get home?”

“i carried you,” sukuna said flatly. “passed out face-first in the sand behind the bar. someone had to get you the hell out of there before you died or embarrassed yourself worse.”

choso groaned again, sinking back onto the mattress. “shit…”

“yeah, shit,” sukuna muttered, pacing the room with slow, deliberate steps. he sat on the edge of choso’s bed, leaning forward. “you fucked up, man.”

choso’s eyes narrowed. “i know.”

“you don’t,” sukuna said sharply, almost like he was frustrated by his own words. “you really fucked up. and you’re about to find out how bad it is." sukuna says, leaning back and letting out a breath. “you fucked up so bad, choso. you—” he leans forward again, voice low and dangerous, “—you really fucked up.”

“god...” choso muttered, feeling the weight crash down on him like a tidal wave. guilt spread through his chest, thick and heavy. he felt sick, the kind of sick that wasn’t just from booze or weed.

sukuna’s voice cut through the fog. “you’re a goddamn idiot for letting it happen. you’re not the type, not really. you’ve always had some stupid line you wouldn’t cross, but last night you trampled all over it like it didn’t matter.”

choso looked up, voice raw. “i didn’t mean to.”

“no shit,” sukuna said, but his tone wasn’t mocking. it was serious, almost like a warning from a friend who gives no fucks about sugarcoating.

choso swallowed hard. the knot in his stomach tightened. “fuck. i didn’t want this.”

“doesn’t matter what you want.” sukuna’s eyes bore into him. “you had her, you had this whole fucking thing that was more than a hookup but less than a relationship, and you threw it away.”

choso’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “i’m so fucked.”

“yeah. you are. you wanna know why?” sukuna leaned back, shaking his head. “because she didn’t deserve it. she’s been holding her shit together around you while you got high and drunk and let some other girl get what she’s been waiting for. and now she’s gonna hurt. and you’re gonna have to watch.”

chosо runs a shaky hand through his undone hair. the memory clicks into place like a hammer to his skull: the girl’s lips on his, the way he’d lost himself in a haze of substance and needed something familiar, something warm, so he’d found the first person who was breathing close. he feels bile rise in his throat. “i didn’t mean to,” he whispers. “i wasn’t thinking.”

“bullshit,” sukuna snaps, voice surprisingly loud in the small room. “you were drunk, yeah. you were high, yeah. but you were coherent enough to know that wasn't y/n.”

chosо flinches. the memory of slurred words pours into his mind—words he wishes he could swallow back into oblivion. he touches his lips, damp with saliva now. “fuck, y/n,” he breathes, and his chest caves in.

“you do realize what you did?” sukuna demands. he stands, pacing the length of the room, hands curled into fists. “you humiliated her. you broke her heart. and y/n… y/n’s been your ride-or-die since freshman year. hell, she’s been in love with you since day one.” chosо winces. he closes his eyes, vision blurring. “i know.”

“no, you don’t know.” sukuna’s tone shifts, angrier now. “you have no fucking idea. you let her believe your fucked-up silence was affection. you let her walk around telling everyone you were hers and she was yours. you let her think you cared about her. now you’ve gone and spat on that trust.”

choso’s eyes flutter open. he’s sweating, although the room is cool. “i—i know i’m an asshole.” his voice cracks. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.”

sukuna stops pacing and squares his shoulders. he stares at choso like he’s looking through him, like he can see every flawed cell. “i’m not here to hear you say sorry. do you know why?”

chosо shakes his head, staring down at his hands. “because it doesn’t fix anything?”

“exactly.” sukuna folds his arms, voice shaking with a quiet intensity. “saying sorry doesn’t undo the damage. saying sorry doesn’t un-break her heart. saying sorry doesn’t make her forget watching you with someone else. saying sorry doesn’t bring her back to you.”

choso feels his chest tighten until he can hardly breathe. “i know.”

“do you know what she’ll do now?” sukuna asks, stepping closer, gaze piercing. “do you know she’ll pretend she’s okay? do you know she’ll crash and burn from the inside out because she can’t handle facing you?”

chosо just looks at the floor. tears burn back behind his eyes. he feels like he’s been punched too many times to count. “i don’t deserve her.”

“no shit,” sukuna says softly, then shakes his head. “and that’s the problem. you think you don’t. so you never mess up your lazy routine of smoking and half-assing everything. but this isn’t just half-assing. this is destroying someone you used to claim you cared about.”

his voice cracks. for a moment, choso thinks sukuna might cry. instead, he turns away and stalks toward the door. “i’m done here. get your shit together, cho. learn how to be a man. learn how to say no. learn how to keep your mouth shut when you know saying something will ruin everything. and for god’s sake, figure out what you want before you ruin the next person who loves you.”

he swings the door open and pauses. “and if you ever look at her again like nothing happened, i will personally drag you out of this room and force you to tell her everything you feel. got it?”

chosо nods slowly, unable to trust his voice. sukuna leaves without another word, closing the door with a final click.

he sinks back onto the mattress, head spinning. he slides down until his back presses against the cool wall. tears finally slip free and track down his cheeks. he presses his face into his knees, breathing hard. guilt slams into him like a freight train—so overwhelming he can’t think how to make it stop. he hates himself for hurting y/n. hates himself for being too lazy to say no earlier, for being too cowardly to have the difficult conversation before he got wasted. hated himself for believing he could keep using her heart like it was just another spare, something he could pick up and toss aside.

~

“so then i said, ‘professor, with all due respect, you can’t assign a 3k essay during finals week and also expect me to be sober.’”

you snort, biting back a grin as gojo throws his arm dramatically over his chest like he’s just taken a bullet. the two of you are walking past the library, sunlight flickering through the trees, heat radiating off the pavement in lazy waves. it should feel like freedom—finals are done, summer’s coming, everyone else is already half-drunk on the taste of no responsibilities.

but your chest is heavy.

you don’t say anything. you just keep walking, nodding along to gojo’s ridiculous story about submitting a paper with a meme in the bibliography.

he’s doing a good job of keeping it light, you’ll give him that. he always does. it’s like he knew you didn’t want to talk about last night—knew you needed distraction, not comfort. jokes, not pity.

“anyway, the TA gave me a seventy-two, which is basically a love letter. should i text her or is that inappropriate?”

“definitely text her,” you say, trying to sound amused. “start with ‘hey, baby. your academic standards are low, and so are mine.’”

gojo clutches his chest again. “y/n, you complete me.”

you smile. or at least you try to.

and then you feel it. not the sun. not the warmth of gojo’s voice. something colder. sharper.

you look up—and there he is.

choso.

he’s across the quad, walking toward the science building with his hoodie pulled up even though it’s too warm for it, and a plastic cup of coffee clenched in his hand. you don’t think he’s seen you at first—he’s walking slow, like his body hasn’t caught up with his brain, like he’s still in last night. his eyes are sunken, skin pale, mouth downturned. he looks like hell. like regret.

and then his gaze lifts. and meets yours. everything halts.

his steps slow. his grip on the cup tightens just slightly, enough to make the lid shift. his whole face stills, mouth parting a little like he might say something, even from this distance.

you stop too. mid-stride. your stomach clenches.

it lasts only a second. maybe two. but it stretches, long and loud and tense. like the entire campus is holding its breath.

you can’t look away from him.

and then he blinks. looks down. keeps walking.

you let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. force your legs to move again.

gojo doesn’t say anything for a moment. doesn’t joke. doesn’t tease. just lets you walk beside him in silence until your fingers curl at your sides, and you have to ask.

“did he look at me?”

gojo sighs, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “like you hung the fucking moon.”

you swallow hard.

“he looks like shit,” you mumble.

“yeah. guilt’s not a great moisturizer.”

you let out a small, bitter laugh. “fuck. this is so embarrassing.”

“it’s not embarrassing, y/n. he’s the one who kissed someone else.”

you blink back the sting at the edges of your eyes and shake your head. “we weren’t even… anything.”

gojo stops walking. turns to face you, squinting against the sunlight. “don’t do that.”

you furrow your brows. “do what?”

“pretend it didn’t mean something. like it wasn’t real just because no one put a label on it. i know it’s easier that way, but it’s not the truth.”

you hate how gentle his voice is. how nonchalant he normally is, and how careful he’s being now. it makes it worse. it makes it real.

“i just…” you start, but the words die on your tongue. “i don’t know what to do.”

gojo shrugs, soft. “you don’t have to do anything.”

you blink.

“seriously,” he says. “you don’t owe him your forgiveness. or your rage. you don’t have to figure it out today. you can just be pissed. or sad. or numb. it’s allowed.”

you look down at your shoes. at the way the sunlight splashes across the concrete in broken gold.

you think about last night. about the way choso looked at you before he stumbled off behind the makeshift bar. about how you didn’t notice he was gone. about sukuna’s warning glance. about the girl’s hands in choso’s hair. about the way he couldn’t even string a sentence together. about the way your heart cracked in real time, like glass under pressure. quiet, and then all at once.

you wonder if he remembers it. if it keeps replaying in his head the way it’s stuck in yours.

you wonder if he’s sorry. not just in his body language. not just in the way he looked at you like he was drowning. but really sorry. the kind you say out loud.

gojo nudges your shoulder. “come on. let’s go get lunch before i start crying in public.”

you nod, wordless, and let him steer you toward the student union building. but as you walk, you can still feel it—that moment of eye contact, lodged somewhere between your ribs.

it hurts in ways you didn’t know silence could.

you sighed as gojo pulled you along beside him out of your thoughts. you’re now sitting on the edge of a bench outside the arts building, chin in your hand, barely paying attention to the slow trickle of students passing by. it’s too nice of a day to be sulking, but that hasn’t stopped you before.

gojo plops down beside you like he’s got springs in his joints, letting out an exaggerated sigh as if he’sthe one emotionally hungover from your situationship unraveling in public.

“you know what your problem is?” he says, already grinning.

you glance sideways at him, unimpressed. “no, but i’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

“you need to get drunk and reckless and do something stupid. preferably at my place, tomorrow night, very exclusive. i’m inviting you, which means you’re special.”

you raise a brow. “is it really exclusive if you’re inviting the whole campus?”

“shhh,” he hushes, waving a hand. “don’t ruin the illusion. i’m curating vibes, not sending out mass texts.”

you pause, fingers picking at the frayed seam of your sleeve. “i don’t know, satoru…”

“oh, come on.” he leans in closer, drops his voice just enough to make it conspiratorial. “you show up lookin’ hot, drink my alcohol, dance a little, maybe flirt with someone who doesn’t make out with random sorority girls while cross-faded. total healing.”

you snort, despite yourself. “that’s your solution to heartbreak? tequila and objectification?”

“babe, i’ve seen worse coping mechanisms. plus,” he adds, nudging you with his shoulder, “it’s me. you know it’ll be fun.”

you let the silence stretch for a beat, eyes flicking out toward the courtyard. the weight in your chest hasn’t lifted—not really—but it feels a little less suffocating around gojo. he’s good at that. distracting you without making you talk about it.

finally, you shrug. “fine. i’ll come.”

“yes!” he pumps his fist dramatically. “dress code is ‘make your ex cry,’ by the way.”

you roll your eyes, but a real smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “you’re the worst.”

“and yet, somehow, still your favorite.”

you don’t argue. maybe he’s right. maybe a party is exactly what you need. or maybe it’s just easier to dance through the ache than sit in it.

either way—you’re going.

"alright."

~

the bass is already rattling the windows when you step up to gojo’s front porch. the door’s wide open, light and heat spilling out into the night like the house itself is breathing. you can hear laughter, the clink of bottles, someone yelling about beer pong in the backyard.

you take a breath, adjust the strap of your top, and step inside.

the place is packed. bodies everywhere, music thumping through the floorboards, the air thick with sweat and smoke and something sweetly chemical. you’re barely two steps in before someone presses a red cup into your hand.

“look who finally showed up,” yuki grins, appearing at your side like she’s been waiting for you. she’s in a black crop top and ripped jeans, glitter dusted across her collarbones. “damn, you look hot.”

you laugh, a little breathless. “thanks. you too.”

“obviously,” she smirks. “come on, let’s find sukuna before he starts a fight.”

you follow her through the crowd, weaving between clusters of people, dodging elbows and spilled drinks. the living room’s a mess—couch cushions on the floor, someone dancing on the coffee table, a couple making out against the wall like they’re the only two people in the world.

and then you see him.

choso.

he’s slouched on the couch in the corner, hood up, eyes half-lidded. there’s a joint between his fingers, a bottle of something dark on the floor by his feet. he looks like he hasn’t slept in days. his gaze flicks up, meets yours for a split second, and then drops back to the joint.

your stomach twists.

“don’t,” yuki says, catching your arm. “he’s not your problem tonight.”

you nod, swallowing hard, and let her pull you away.

in the kitchen, sukuna’s leaning against the counter, shirt unbuttoned, tattoos peeking out from beneath the fabric. he raises an eyebrow when he sees you, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“well, well,” he drawls. “look who decided to grace us with her presence.”

“don’t start,” you warn, but there’s no heat in your voice.

“start what?” he feigns innocence, pushing off the counter to stand in front of you. “i’m just appreciating the view.”

yuki rolls her eyes. “you’re such a slut.”

“takes one to know one,” he shoots back, winking at her.

you laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

“come on,” sukuna says, grabbing a bottle from the counter. “let’s get you a real drink.”

he pours you something strong and sweet, the alcohol burning a trail down your throat. you take another sip, letting the warmth settle in your belly.

“so,” sukuna says, leaning in close. “how’ve you been?”

you shrug. “surviving.”

“that’s all anyone can ask for,” he nods. 

“listen,” sukuna says, voice a little lower, a little more serious, “i talked to choso.”

your hand pauses halfway to your mouth, red cup hovering in the air. you don’t look at him, not yet.

you just go, “yeah?”

he nods once, slow. then, after a beat: “the night of the beach party. i drove him home.”

you finally glance up.

he’s not wearing the usual smirk. no teasing, no smugness—just sukuna with his jaw clenched a little too tight and his eyes sharp with something you don’t usually see on his face. concern, maybe. or regret, even though this isn’t his thing to regret.

“he was out of it,” sukuna says. “like, properly fucked up. couldn’t walk straight. slurring all over the place. when i found him behind the bar, i thought he was gonna hurl on that girl’s face.”

your stomach flips.

“he kept saying your name,” sukuna goes on. “like, in between trying to light a joint with the wrong end of a lighter. just kept saying it. over and over. sometimes like he was pissed at himself. sometimes like he was scared you’d left already.”

you don’t say anything.

you just keep staring at the edge of the countertop like if you look hard enough, it’ll swallow you whole.

“i sat him in the car,” sukuna says, softer now. “he couldn’t even get the fucking door open. just slumped in the seat and stared out the window the whole drive. i don’t think he even knew i was there. and then he said—”

he cuts himself off, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

you glance at him. “he said what?”

sukuna’s eyes flick to yours. something unreadable flickers there.

“he said, ‘she’s not gonna look at me the same,’” sukuna mutters. “‘i ruined it.’”

your throat closes.

he shrugs, like he’s trying to keep it casual, like he hasn’t just torn a hole in your chest. 

your heart is beating in your ears now, too loud, too fast. the crowd, the music, the whole fucking house feels like it’s underwater. like you’re moving through molasses.

sukuna leans his elbows back on the counter, watching you.

“look,” he says, voice calm but firm, “i’m not saying this to excuse what he did. he fucked up. and not just at the party. i mean all of it. the way he lets girls talk to him like he’s not taken. the way he never says shit when they flirt. the way he lets you hurt in silence because he’s too fucking lazy to figure out what he wants.”

your jaw tightens.

“but i know choso,” sukuna adds. “he doesn’t care about them. any of them. he never even touches them, not really. not until that night, and even then—it was like he didn’t even know what he was doing. like he was trying to prove something. or forget something.”

you whisper, “me.”

sukuna looks at you.

you don’t mean to say it. it just slips out. soft. sad. pathetic, maybe. but it’s true.

“he was trying to forget me.”

sukuna doesn’t argue.

he doesn’t need to.

because you both know it’s true. that when choso’s world got too full of you, too sharp, too terrifying, he tried to blur it out. the way he always does—getting high, getting drunk, fucking off his feelings until he could float above them.

except he couldn’t. not this time.

“he looked wrecked when he woke up,” sukuna says, his voice gentler now. “like he wanted to peel his own skin off. he couldn’t even look at me. just sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.”

you blink, slow.

“he knows he fucked up, y/n.”

you close your eyes.

it hurts. it still fucking hurts. even knowing all of this. even hearing the guilt in secondhand words. it doesn’t undo the image burned into your brain—choso, kissing someone else. his hands on someone who wasn’t you. his mouth where only yours should’ve been.

and worse, knowing he knew what he was doing. that even if he regretted it, he still let it happen.

because what the fuck did that mean about you?

sukuna watches you a moment longer before nudging your cup with the back of his hand.

“drink,” he says. “you deserve to have a good time.”

you nod. you drink. it burns.

“just—” sukuna pauses. “don’t let him take up your whole head tonight, alright?”

you try to smile. “i’ll try.”

he leans in, his grin returning, just a bit. “i mean, worst case scenario? you can always rebound with me.”

you roll your eyes, snort softly, but the ache in your chest has shifted just a little.

it’s still there, still sharp, but now you know it’s not just you who’s hurting.

and somehow, that makes it worse.

and better.

all at once.

~

the bass hits you in the chest the second you step back into the living room.

you throw your head back, laugh bubbling out, drink still cold in your hand as yuki grabs your wrist and spins you into the circle forming near the coffee table. the lights are low and golden, the air thick with weed and heat and breathless voices. bodies are everywhere—lounging, grinding, tangled limbs on couches and in corners—but all you care about is the way your friends are looking at you like you’re electric.

“you’re a menace tonight,” gojo yells over the music, grinning so wide you can’t help but laugh.

“finally!” yuki shouts, raising her drink. “she’s letting loose. it’s about fucking time.”

toji’s watching you from his place on the arm of the couch, lips curled into the barest smirk. “is this her trying to pretend choso isn't a thing anymore?”

“she’s earned it,” shiu says, eyes glittering as he hands you another drink. “cheers to heartbreak and hedonism.”

you take it. you take all of it. the laughter, the dancing, the teasing. it doesn’t fix anything, but it lets you forget. even if just for a little while.

you let go.

you dance with yuki like no one’s watching, her arms slung over your shoulders as she mouths the lyrics to a song you don’t even know. toji moves with lazy precision beside you both, rolling a joint one-handed. gojo grabs your other hand and spins you, dramatic and ridiculous, until you’re dizzy from more than the alcohol. shiu throws a pillow at him and the whole room erupts into chaotic laughter.

someone pulls out a disposable camera. you pose in yuki’s lap, fingers in a peace sign, tongue out. someone snaps a picture of you and gojo fake-kissing just to piss people off. you feel blurry and beautiful and wanted.

the floor shifts beneath your feet. the lights swirl. everything smells like weed, cologne, sweat, spilt beer.

you’ve never felt more untouchable.

until you realize you really need to pee.

“bathroom,” you shout into yuki’s ear, who nods and swats your ass like she’s sending you off into battle. you weave through the living room, slipping past elbows and shoulders and breathless giggles. the hallway’s darker, quieter, like stepping into a different world.

you turn the corner—

—and there he is.

choso.

leaning against the wall just past the bathroom door. hoodie half-on, hair falling in front of his eyes, red solo cup dangling forgotten from his fingers. solemn. still. like a ghost in the middle of the party.

your breath catches in your throat.

he lifts his head.

his eyes meet yours.

and just like that, the whole party fades away.

no music. no shouting. no laughter or bodies or haze of weed curling in the air. just you and him, standing in the soft hallway light like ghosts who forgot they were alive. frozen. held in place by the weight of something too big to look at directly.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

it’s all there in the air between you—heavy, aching, unfinished.

choso’s eyes flicker down, like it hurts to hold your gaze for too long. he swallows, thumb nervously rubbing the side of the plastic cup. there’s a tremble to the way he exhales. not drunk, not high—not like before. just scared. tired. stripped of all the usual defenses.

and then, finally, he speaks.

“i’m sorry.”

two words. small. fragile. like he’s been carrying them around too long and now they barely hold their shape.

you blink. your heart stutters in your chest.

he doesn’t wait for you to say anything. he can’t. the words are already spilling.

“i was—i was so fucking out of my head that night,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “i don’t even know how it happened. i didn’t—i didn’t want her. it didn’t mean anything. i wasn’t thinking. i just… i wasn’t here.”

he runs a hand through his hair, dragging it back, breathing like the air hurts to take in.

“and that’s not an excuse. i know that. i know that doesn’t make it okay. but i need you to know—it was never supposed to be anyone else. it’s always been you.”

your chest tightens.

“even if we weren’t, like—together,” he says, softer now. “even if we never called it anything. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

you swallow hard, the ache catching at the back of your throat.

“i didn’t say anything that night because i didn’t know how,” he murmurs. “i thought… i thought i’d ruined it for good. and maybe i did. but i swear to god, i’ve never regretted something more in my entire life.”

he finally meets your eyes again.

“i hurt you. i know that. and if you never want to talk to me again, i get it. but i had to say this. i had to tell you. because pretending like i didn’t care was the worst thing i’ve ever done.”

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the warmth touches your cheek.

“you mean everything to me,” he says, like it’s a confession. “and i’m so fucking sorry.”

and for the first time in weeks, he looks like himself again.

not the broken boy on the couch, not the too-stoned mess at the beach, not the ghost you keep locking eyes with across a room. just choso. your choso. tired, hurting, but finally honest.

you don’t say anything right away.

because what is there to say to something like that?

you just look at him. and he looks at you. and the silence doesn’t feel so heavy this time. it feels… suspended. fragile. like if either of you moves too fast, it might all disappear.

but for the first time in what feels like forever, the space between you feels open again.

like maybe something could grow there. if you let it.

you look at him.

really look.

and you think about all the nights you spent tangled up in him—his skin warm against yours, his mouth pressed to the hollow of your throat, the sound of his voice all low and wrecked when he said your name like it was the only thing he could hold onto.

you think about the way he’d pull you closer after, like he couldn’t stand the distance. the way he’d brush the hair out of your face, whisper dumb shit that made you laugh into his neck.

how even when you weren’t having sex, you were still wrapped around each other—on his bed, on your couch, in the backseat of someone’s car, high out of your minds and half-asleep but still reaching for each other without thinking.

like magnets. like instinct. like he was home and he didn’t even know it.

you remember the way he’d kiss your shoulder in the dark. soft. almost careful. like he didn’t want to wake you, like maybe even then he was scared to admit how badly he needed you.

you remember thinking— 'maybe he’ll say something this time.'

and then he wouldn’t. and you’d just stay there in the silence, curled into him, heart beating way too loud for a girl who wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

but you did. of course you did.

and this—this moment, right now—was the one you’d imagined more times than you’d ever admit. him, finally saying it. the truth. not some half-joke or drunken almost-confession, but real, bare, bleeding honesty.

it’s always been you.

your throat tightens.

you’d hoped for this so many times. but not like this. not with your heart in pieces and mascara clinging to the corner of your lashes, not after all that damage.

not with that girl’s lipgloss still burned somewhere into your memory like a fucking scar.

but he’s here. and he’s saying it. and you can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.

you can’t pretend that those nights weren’t everything. that he wasn’t the only one who ever made you feel this full and this hollow, all at once.

your fingers twitch at your side, aching with the muscle memory of touching him.

but instead of moving, you just stand there. caught in the weight of it.

his apology. your history. everything you never said.

the hallway feels too quiet. your pulse, too loud.

and still, he waits.

like he knows this might be the only time you’ll let him say it. like he’s ready for whatever comes next—even if it’s nothing. even if it’s goodbye.

and maybe that’s what makes it hurt the most.

he’s finally giving you everything you wanted.

but now that it’s here, you don’t know if it’s enough.

he’s still looking at you like that.

like you’re it. like even if you walked away right now, he’d still wait.

and you’re still standing there like an idiot, heart too full, body too frozen, blinking through the blur of too much feeling.

then you move.

just a step. just one.

but it’s enough.

his face breaks when you do. not in a bad way. just—softens. like he can’t believe it. like something in him finally unclenches.

and before either of you can overthink it, you crash into each other.

arms around his shoulders. his around your waist.

no hesitation. no performance. no air between you.

you bury your face in his neck and just breathe.

and he laughs. a little broken, a little teary, like the sound gets caught in his throat halfway out.

“fuck,” he whispers, holding you tighter. “fuck, i missed you.”

you laugh too, because you don’t know what else to do, because it’s so stupid how long you went pretending this didn’t matter.

you squeeze him like you’ll fall apart if you don’t.

“you’re such an idiot,” you say into his skin. “you’re actually the dumbest person i’ve ever met.”

he laughs again, warm and quiet. you feel it vibrate through his chest.

“i know,” he mumbles. “i know.”

your fingers fist in the back of his shirt. his hand cups the back of your head. you stay there like that for a long time.

not speaking. just holding. just letting the ache bleed out slow.

“i thought i lost you,” he says into your hair, voice thick. “for real this time.”

you pull back just enough to look at him. eyes glossy. nose red. cheeks a little flushed.

you give him the softest smile you’ve ever worn.

“you didn’t,” you say. “not yet.”

and then he hugs you again. even tighter. like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.

you laugh against his neck, one hand slipping under the hem of his hoodie just to feel his skin, just to make sure he’s real.

“you always smell like weed,” you mumble.

“and you always smell like heaven,” he replies, without missing a beat.

you groan. “jesus christ.”

he grins into your hair. “too much?”

“way too much.”

but you’re smiling. you’re both smiling. and this—this doesn’t feel like a fix, not really.

but it feels like a beginning.

he doesn’t let go of your hand after that.

just keeps it tangled in his, like if he loses contact, the whole moment might vanish.

his thumb brushes over your knuckles as he walks you up the stairs, step by step, quiet except for the sound of music bleeding up from below and the creak of the old floorboards.

you’ve been up here a million times.

you know the way to his room like the back of your hand.

but this time feels different. slower. like neither of you want to break the spell.

he pushes open the door and lets you in first, and it’s the same as always—dim, messy, faint smell of weed and detergent. but something about the air feels heavier now.

like something’s finally about to change.

you stand there for a second. he closes the door behind you.

it clicks shut, and the silence settles around you both like fog.

you half-turn toward him, expecting him to reach for you like he always does. to kiss you, to push you gently back onto the bed, to start peeling off your clothes like second nature.

but he doesn’t.

he just looks at you. like he’s seeing you all over again.

like he’s remembering every late night, every laugh, every time you crawled into his lap just to feel close. every time you left in the morning and he wished you didn’t have to.

“can i—” he starts, then stops.

clears his throat. rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous.

“can i say something?”

you nod, heartbeat in your throat.

he steps closer. slow and careful.

not touching. not assuming. just… there.

“i know i don’t deserve anything from you,” he says quietly. “not after how bad i fucked it all up. not after that night.”

your breath catches.

“but i need you to know it’s never been anyone else. not really.”

his voice wavers, just a little. “even before we started… whatever this was. it was always you. it’s still you.”

your chest tightens. you look at him, and he’s so serious. so raw. so real in a way you haven’t seen in so long.

he swallows hard. steps a little closer.

“i don’t wanna keep pretending like we’re just friends who fuck. i don’t wanna keep hurting you just because i’m scared of calling it what it is.”

his voice drops, just a murmur.

“i want to be yours. if you’ll let me. for real this time.”

it hits you like a wave. a real, breath-stealing, chest-caving wave.

because this is what you always wanted.

not just the touching. not just the late nights and the secrets and the tension.

you wanted this. the honesty. the softness. the choice.

you don’t say anything right away. just step forward, slow and sure, until you’re in his space again. until your forehead rests gently against his.

you close your eyes.

“okay,” you whisper.

his breath hitches. “yeah?”

you nod. just once.

his hands come up, hold your waist like you’re fragile. like you’re something he’s afraid to break.

he doesn’t kiss you. not yet.

just pulls you into his chest and holds you.

quiet. steady. like he finally knows what he wants. and it’s this.

just this.

you.

his hands are warm on your waist, steady like they finally know where they belong.

you’re still pressed against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around him, heartbeat slowing to match his. the room’s quiet now, soft and golden in the low lamplight. like it’s holding space for this moment.

he pulls back just enough to see your face.

his eyes flick across it, like he’s memorizing every detail.

and then he says it. quietly. sincerely.

“i’m gonna take care of you.”

your breath stutters, but he keeps going.

“for real this time. not just when it’s convenient or easy. not just in private.”

his voice trembles a little, but he doesn’t stop.

“i’ll be there when you’re tired, when you’re pissed off at the world, when you’re sick, when you’re sad, when you don’t wanna talk and just need someone to sit with you.”

he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, so gently it makes your eyes sting.

“i’ll remember your coffee order. i’ll walk you to class when it rains. i’ll hold your bag while you try on shit at the mall and tell you you look hot in everything, even when you don’t believe me.”

a soft laugh breaks out of your chest—wet and breathless.

he smiles, but it’s soft around the edges, like he’s still afraid to fall apart.

“i know i don’t always say the right thing. or show shit the right way. but i’m gonna try. i’m gonna learnhow to love you the way you deserve. because you deserve everything.”

his thumb brushes your cheek, eyes fixed on yours.

“i love every single part of you. the loud parts. the quiet ones. the way you talk with your hands, and the way you tuck your knees up when you’re on the couch. the way you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry, and how you laugh when you’re drunk.”

your chest twists, overwhelmed. his voice is low now, almost reverent.

“i love how smart you are. how you always know what people need before they say it. how you care too much, even when it hurts you. how you make everyone feel like they matter.”

you’re crying now, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. he cups your face in both hands.

“but more than anything, i love you. even when i didn’t know how to say it. even when i pretended it was nothing. it’s always been you.”

you blink up at him, breathing hard.

your voice shakes when you whisper, “choso…”

he leans in. kisses your forehead. your cheeks. the corner of your mouth.

“i love you,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

like it’s always been right there on the tip of his tongue.

“and i’m gonna be the best fucking boyfriend you’ve ever had. i promise.”

and somehow, you believe him.

because he means it. every fucking word.

~

the house is quiet now.

party debris litters the living room—empty solo cups, discarded hoodies, a half-eaten pizza box still open on the kitchen bench. someone’s shoe is on the stairs. no one knows whose.

gojo and sukuna are camped out on the back porch, slouched low in mismatched deck chairs, beers in hand. the moon’s high. the air’s still warm from the chaos earlier, thick with leftover smoke and the faint pulse of whatever playlist had been on repeat for six hours.

gojo stretches out his legs with a groan, tipping his head back.

“bro… my back hurts like i gave someone a piggyback through the trenches.”

sukuna doesn’t look up from his beer.

“you did. yuuji tackled you into the kiddie pool.”

“…oh. yeah.” he snorts. “that was kinda funny though.”

they sit in silence for a second, the good kind, broken only by the clink of their bottles when they sip.

then sukuna says it.

“so. you see choso and y/n disappear earlier?”

gojo grins. “upstairs?” he raises his eyebrows meaningfully. “yeah, i saw.”

sukuna huffs a small laugh. “fuckin’ finally, man. those two have been doing mental gymnastics around each other for like, what? a year?”

“a year and five months,” gojo corrects, holding up a finger. “i’ve been counting.”

sukuna gives him a look. “of course you have.”

“you know it’s bad when I noticed the emotional repression,” gojo says, tapping his temple. “like, i’m all for subtle pining, but watching those two was like… watching a slow car crash in a rom-com.”

“a rom-com where everyone’s too stoned to say their feelings.”

“exactly.”

sukuna takes another pull of his drink, then smirks.

“lowkey thought she was gonna kick him in the dick after the beach party though.”

gojo cackles. “she should’ve! man was acting like a dumbass.”

“nah, he is a dumbass,” sukuna says, stretching his arms behind his head. “but he loves her. like, real shit. he looked like a kicked puppy for weeks.”

“the haunted stare,” gojo nods sagely. “saw him just sitting on the couch one day staring into the void while yuki played meg thee stallion.”

“emo boy in a house full of chaos,” sukuna mutters.

gojo hums, gaze drifting up to the open window above the porch—choso’s room. the light is off now, but he can imagine what’s up there.

soft conversation. laughter. maybe some kissing. maybe a little crying.

a happy kind of mess.

“you think they’ll actually work out?” he asks.

sukuna shrugs. “i think they already were. just didn’t admit it yet.”

gojo smiles, lazy and warm.

“yeah,” he says. “they’re good together. weird, but good.”

another beat passes. the crickets are loud. someone starts snoring from the living room.

“you think we’ll get invited to the wedding?” gojo says eventually.

sukuna scoffs. “only if you don’t ruin the reception.”

gojo lifts his beer with a grin.

“no promises.”

they clink bottles.

and somewhere upstairs, behind the walls of a room where two people finally figured their shit out, the light turns on again.

heck yeah i'm back 👅👅👅 if you liked this let me know 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

more choso ! sex with a stoner | sticky situation

~ m.list!

[centaurianthropology]

I’ve really enjoyed that the show is not only complicating the PresAux characters, but Preservation as a whole, and has done both with a lot of respect for the humanity of their situations.

One thing that gets brought up in the books is that Preservation is terraformed, and that by and large terraforming isn’t great. It’s usually half-assed, and done just enough to make a planet livable. One would imagine that Preservation as a society has sunk a lot of their efforts into making it far more than livable, making it the best planet it can be. They are actively trying to make a place where all citizens have their needs met, have enough to chase their dreams without fear of salary or losing health care or food or shelter. They are working toward a utopia.

But they don’t live in a utopia.

Their internal society is moneyless, but the external societies around them are not. And they don’t have everything they need. They don’t have magic replicators that create all their necessary resources from nothing. They are post-money, but not post-scarcity. They are stubbornly holding to their values to keep providing all their people with what they need, because that’s one of the non-negotiable pillars on which their society is built. These folks we’ve met especially are the true believers in Preservation ideals, in working toward building their society.

It would be easy to give in and join the Corporation Rim, and I like that some people want to take the easy way out. Because that’s people, isn’t it? Some people want what they don’t have, they want more or shinier or simply different. Just because your society is trying to build utopia doesn’t mean you’re all going to agree on what that looks like. And even in a communal society, you still have individual people who are going to want other things.

So they’ve come up with a workaround. It’s not perfect, but likely it’s the best way they can figure out to get external resources they can’t yet produce internally, while still holding to as many of their ideals as possible. They send teams out to do scientific work. That work either helps them further their internal goals—getting resources or knowledge that can make them more and more self-sustaining—or that work can be sold, likely in trade for goods or resources Preservation simply cannot provide at this point in time.

Even sending their planetary leader on these missions makes sense from the communal mindset. Of course the leader needs to do that work. They have to see the risks taken, the compromises made, the dirty parts of supporting their society. They have to be down in the dirt with everyone else, never above and able to ignore the realities of what must be done to make their better world.

They don’t have luxury space communism. They are a communal society with limited resources surrounded by corporate sharks. And some of their people want to become sharks, betraying the heart of their society. So they have to fight for their culture and their world through their actions and their decisions. They have to make compromises and work with outside forces they don’t entirely (or even remotely) agree with for the benefit of their people. And even in this group of true believers there’s internal disagreement! Bharadwaj sees this as scientific endeavor for the greater good, and she’s right! Gurathin sees it as selling knowledge to corporate fucks who will likely misuse it, and he’s right!

It’s sticky, it’s less pleasant than perhaps some book readers were hoping for. They wanted perfect luxury space communism with all scarcity problems already fixed and everyone living in harmony. They wanted the utopia rather than the pre-utopian work and compromise and challenges.

I don’t know, man, I just really like seeing a communal society of space hippies get portrayed with such care and respect for their humanity and their struggles. I like that they get to be people. I like that we get to see them doing the work and living by their ideals even when (especially when) it’s hard.

[fic-girlie]

Your Joel fics are sooo so soft and sweet, I’ve been working through your whole masterlist tonight!!! I was hoping I could request Jackson Joel being sweet/soft/helpful with a reader who has spring allergies? I always have hayfever this time of year and would looove a Joel around to be silly and keep an eye out !!!!!

Hay fever

Pairing: jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader Summary: Spring allergies knock you down, but Joel’s there—gentle, teasing, and always looking out for you with quiet care. Warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, protective Joel A/N: I can actually relate to this pretty much. It's for sure a hell of a time of the year!

You wake up already sniffling.

The sun is pouring in through the windows — golden, syrupy, warming the quilt pulled halfway up your chest — and Joel’s body is a slow, heavy presence beside you. His arm is still slung across your waist, that broad palm curled against your hipbone like it always is when you both fall asleep, like maybe his body can’t rest unless it’s sure of yours. But the moment you shift, the moment you sniff and press your wrist under your nose and groan quietly into the pillow, his hand flexes. Not fully awake yet, not really, but somehow his body knows. You try to keep still, not wanting to wake him, but the pressure’s already building behind your eyes, the unmistakable itch at the back of your throat spreading like a match lighting under your skin.

You let out one harsh sneeze, then a second that bends you halfway forward — and Joel grunts, eyebrows twitching before he rolls slowly onto his back, voice still thick with sleep as he mutters, “Goddamn, baby. That time o’ year again?”

“Sorry,” you croak, wiping your nose with the inside of your t-shirt, which is gross but it’s early and you don’t care. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Joel sighs, deeper this time. Now awake, blinking at the ceiling. His voice is still gravelly and soft, unguarded like it always is in the mornings. "Ain't mad. Just hate seein' you like this."

He's already reaching past you for the tissues he insisted on keeping in the drawer next to the bed. Last week, when you’d made some crack about how “Jackson’s nature is trying to kill me,” he’d stopped chopping firewood in the yard long enough to wipe the sweat from his brow and say, “Well, we’ll just get a damn stockpile of tissues and antihistamines. I’ll trade someone for ‘em. Put out a sign if I have to. ‘Man lookin’ for allergy meds for his girl. Will pay in deer jerky." You'd rolled your eyes, but he'd done it. You always forget how seriously he takes your discomfort until it's under his nose — like now, when he's pushing the box toward you and rubbing your back with his other hand in slow, absent circles.

He lets you blow your nose, which is not the most attractive sound in the world, and only says “There you go, sweetheart,” like you’ve done something brave.

——

By the time you're on the porch later that morning, the breeze has picked up just enough to blow pollen right into your eyes.

They're streaming. Not crying pretty — streaming. You're wiping them futilely on your sleeve while Joel stands against the railing next to you, drinking from the mug you vowed was your favorite before he somehow claimed it as his own. The air is filled with the scent of cut grass and apple blossoms, with the sense that life is bursting forth again all around you whether you want it or not, and you can feel your sinuses declaring war against the very idea of spring.

“Y’alright?” Joel asks, peering over at you with that little crease between his brows he gets when he’s trying to gauge how much of a fuss he’s allowed to make. “You’re squintin’.”

“Maybe,” you mutter, then sneeze so hard you knock your elbow into the porch post. Joel raises his eyebrows but doesn’t laugh. Just wordlessly holds out a tissue from his back pocket like he knew it was coming.

You sniff, then glance sideways. “You keep tissues in your back pocket now?”

“’Course I do.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You been sneezin’ all week like a kitten stuck in a patch o’ ragweed.”

That makes you snort. “A kitten?”

He hums. “Cute, helpless. All red around the eyes.”

“I don’t look cute, I look like I’ve been crying for two hours.

“You are cute,” he says simply, then flicks the rim of his mug with his thumb. “Even if you sneeze yourself into next week.”

——

Later, when he’s supposed to be heading out to the stables, he’s still lingering by the door with his jacket half on, watching you dab your eyes with a cold washcloth.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

You raise a brow. “Joel. It’s hay fever. Not a broken leg.”

He doesn't listen. Just folds his arms, furrows his brow deeper. "I don't like the sound you made this morning. That third sneeze had you sitting up all wobbly. Thought you were gonna fall over for a second."

You giggle, even though your throat's sore. "That's just the cute side of seasonal allergies. Sometimes you feel dizzy, sometimes your boyfriend gets overexcited."

He shakes his head, a fond kind of scolding, but there’s a smile playing at the edge of his mouth now. “I ain’t dramatic. You’re just used to sufferin’ quiet. Always tryin’ to tough it out.”

“Didn’t know I had another option.”

“You do,” he says, already stepping back across the room to kiss the top of your head, like the argument is settled. “You got me.”

——

That night, after you’ve finally coaxed him into going to patrol without hovering, he comes back with a whole bunch of foraged nettle and mint leaves tied up in a cloth, and insists he’s going to make you “some kinda tea or tonic or… whatever the hell people made before Claritin.”

He pours way too much hot water over the herbs, and swears under his breath when it splashes his hand — but you can’t stop smiling as he sets it down in front of you with a proud little grunt, like he’s just created modern medicine from scratch.

“Bet this fixes everything,” he says, crossing his arms like a man who has conquered pollen itself. “Cleans you right out.”

You sip it. It tastes vaguely like hot lawn clippings. He watches you expectantly, and you nod solemnly, eyes wide. “Delicious. Amazing. No symptoms at all anymore.”

He squints. “Don’t you lie to me.”

“I’m not.” You hold up the mug. “I feel like a new woman. You should give up the wood carving. I already have a new idea. Joel Miller, home herbalist.”

You sneeze halfway through the sentence, and Joel just chuckles and grabs another tissue from the stack he’s now keeping on the kitchen table. “Yeah, yeah. Smartass. Blow your nose, baby.”

You do. And he’s right there. Still there.

[makeitworse]

BAD HABIT

your best friend who’s hopelessly devoted to you.

𝓬ontains: f!reader x jeongin. indented format. childhood friends to lovers. slowburn. fluff. jealousy. angst. miscommunication. smut. masturbation. 18+

𝓷otes: i wasn’t intending to write so much but the ideas just kept coming. i love this concept and i love my man

since your first playdate as kids, jeongin hasn’t stopped hearing about how you’ll get married some day.

your mothers worked at the same company, and whenever their shifts clashed, they’d swap babysitting duties— handing one kid off to the other like clockwork. it worked out better than they could’ve imagined, because from the moment you met, you and jeongin were inseparable. best friends before you knew what the word meant.

you were birds of a feather. chasing each other in the grass, drawing on the pavement with chalk. you’d always ask for sleepovers; confused and pouty when your mother would turn the idea down. jeongin would bawl his eyes out when it was time for you to go home, clinging to your sleeve like it’d change their minds. you’d share everything without thinking— snacks, utensils, sipping from the same juice box straw.

once, you were playing dress up with him, trying on boy clothes from his closet. the colour drained from his mother’s face when she saw you walking around in his shirt— she gave him an earful for it. that’s when you both learned about boys and girls needing boundaries. at the time, it didn’t make any sense to you. he wasn’t just any boy. he was your favourite person in the world.

when you and jeongin started school together, the other kids caught on quick. you always sat next to each other, shared snacks, held hands on the playground. it was like walking around with a target on your back. they’d sing about you both sitting in a tree, laughing as they’d shove you together during recess. the teasing always made jeongin bright red, ducking his head and mumbling that it wasn’t like that. but once your parents caught wind of it, playdates became scarce. jeongin started wondering if the other kids saw something you didn’t understand yet.

one day, in the shade of his backyard, you’d kissed him. clumsy, silly. just another part of play— the kind of thing kids do on a dare or because they saw it in a movie. nowadays, it’s a running joke between your families, a sweet little footnote in your shared history. you don’t count it as your real first kiss, the titleholder of that coming later in your teenage years, and jeongin never contests that. but for him, that fleeting moment counts. it always did.

once puberty hit, the shift was palpable. he doesn’t know when it started exactly, but jeongin started noticing things he once didn’t pay any mind. the curve of your smile, the way your head throws back when you laugh. how your back arches when you stretch, the way you nuzzle into his shoulder when you’re sleepy. you were his awakening, no doubt about it. but he knows he’s not the only boy to see you.

he tries not to be fixated; you’re his best friend, and his mother raised him better than that. but his once innocent affection for you had become something that embarrassed him to think about. suddenly, he was averting his gaze when you’d cross your arms, pulling away when you’d reach from his hand. afterschool walks became just a memory instead of routine. he thought he was shielding you from these feelings— distancing himself out of respect. he didn’t know you noticed, or rather cared.

jeongin tried to find an outlet for the urges simmering under his skin. hallway crushes, flirting with classmates, anything to distract him from the fact what he really craved was his best friend. and besides, you started getting busy: kissing boys at parties, telling him about the cute guy you gave your number. he had no shortage of suitors of his own, but he never has the courage to go through with any of them— to just say yes when he gets asked out. but one day, it dawns on him: any girl he found himself drawn to reminds him of you. they could be your twin if you squint. it’s no coincidence.

he starts releasing these feelings in the night— when the day’s got him pent up and his thoughts are louder than his morals. in the dark, with his hand around himself and shirt between his teeth, it’s your face he sees. your voice he hears. he really tries not to— not think about how he caught your shirt ride up earlier that day, or how you clutched onto his sleeve in the crowded hallway. it’s never as good when he doesn’t imagine it’s you. but afterward, when he’s calling your name as he coats his hand— reality sinks in when you don’t answer. the shame’s always twice as heavy as the brief pleasure. sometimes he can’t even look at you the next day.

jeongin’s halfway to insanity when you start hooking up with mutual friends. he never thought being so close could become a double-edged sword. it’s an effort to hide his disapproval— nodding with a tight lipped smile when you tell him about last weekend’s hookup. but you know him better than that. you reassure him that they’re nothing serious. short-lived sparks that’ll inevitably burn out. jeongin tells himself not to let it get to him. you’re not his, and you don’t owe him anything. he repeats it like a mantra, even when resentment starts to churn in his stomach.

he wants to be supportive, to be the one you can always count on. even with all these nights spent with other guys, jeongin’s door is always open for you when you need someone. but, every time one of those flings ends and you cut them off without a second thought, a quiet fear settles in him— would that be him, too, if he ever crossed the lines he drew in the sand? he can’t risk finding out the hard way. he locks his feelings in a box and tosses away the key. it’s safer this way. even if part of him is aching to find out what would happen if he put your friendship on the line.

he really tries to force himself to move on. you even set him up with a friend— sweet, pretty, even if she’s not what he’s looking for. they end up making out at some party, her lips warm on his as she presses her body closer— but none of it’s right. nothing about her is … well, you. only when he closes his eyes and your faces flashes behind his lids that arousal finally sparks— sudden, hot, unmistakable as it digs into her thigh and she giggles in his ear. he’s pushing your friend away from him in the next breath. he won’t disrespect her like that, and your gratitude by extension. he won’t put on a farce and lead this poor girl on, when all his body has ever wanted is his best friend.

after a particularly bad breakup, it’s jeongin that you run to. it’s late, too late to knock on the front door, so you climb through his window like you used to when you were kids— only now, you’re older, heavier with hurt, and you’d be in a hell of a lot more trouble if his parents saw. jeongin holds you as you cry, tears staining his shirt as he cradles you into his chest. you sob that you just want to feel wanted— to know you’re enough for someone to stay. and when you look up at him, eyes glassy and lips trembling, his resolve snaps. he kisses you— only gently, a small peck to prove you wrong, that you are enough. it can be just like when you were kids. even if the barely contained desire behind his actions isn’t.

that night was the last time your friendship was ever the same. what followed happened slowly— neither of you sure if you’ll stop now or keep going and find out. his hands trail up your back, hesitant at first, like touching you too much might make you have second thoughts. but you’re the one to pull him closer, threading your fingers in his hair, sliding into his lap. his breath stutters when your lips find his, deeper this time, more certain. your kisses turn frantic, like you’re eager to drown out the ache with something— someone— familiar.

jeongin doesn’t push. he hasn’t gone this far before with anyone. while he wasn’t exactly waiting, it feels like it was always meant to be with you. he’s tentative in how he touches you, memorising every spot that makes you shiver, every sweet noise he can pull from you. he keeps looking to you for reassurance, where you just smile and praise him for how good he’s making you feel. you tug your pants down for him, hands fumbling beneath the covers. you guide him through it all. it’s not rushed, not careless. he must’ve asked if you were sure fifty times over.

with a hand cradling your cheek, jeongin works himself in, and he can’t help how he moans when he fills you to the hilt. he’s messy with his thrusts. a little desperate. he’s wanted you for so long he almost forgets to breathe. he’s sure he must be the worst you’ve ever had until you’re muffling your own cries by wrapping your lips around his fingers. that sends him off the edge. and when you come undone shortly after, in his arms and calling his name like he’s done for your countless of nights before— jeongin realises he’ll never get over you. not now. not after this.

after that fateful night, things fall into a rhythm— casual, easy, like second nature. you keep bickering over what movie to watch, steal bites off each other’s plates, lie side by side talking about nothing until you both fall asleep. it’s almost like you’re kids again, still just playing. only now the games involve tangled sheets and stolen kisses, soft moans muffled into pillows and skin against skin. you’re both having fun. it’s light. no pressure. the same old friendship, just more physical and intense than before. that’s what jeongin tells himself, anyways. he’s happy to be this close to you— to finally have you in the ways he’s been too afraid to admit. but it’s still not everything. is it greedy to want all of you?

home alone one evening, you invited jeongin over for drinks, which usually meant fucking like rabbits before your family got back. though this time, he’s too eager with his liquor— properly wrecked within an hour. and that’s when the words come tumbling out. years of repression soaked in tequila. he’s crying, slurring through the truth like it’s been choking him all this time. telling you how much he loves you. just how long he has. since before he even knew what love really was. and you sat there, stunned, silent. because you’d felt it too.

you’d always wanted jeongin. but it was when he started pulling away— when the touches grew cautious and the looks turned unreadable— that you thought he’d never want you the same way. so you smothered those feelings with attention from other guys, all paling in comparison to how your best friend could make you feel. the shared confessions settle between you both. you sit in the weight of everything unsaid, everything that could’ve been if either of you had just known. and when jeongin’s reaching for you, pulling you into a hug against his chest, you both agree that it’s time to stop pretending.

when you finally start actually dating, it feels both natural and entirely new. the shift from just hanging out to real dates is subtle, but it changes everything. jeongin is clumsy with it, shy in a way he never was when things were undefined. he opens car doors too fast, stumbles over compliments, and keeps checking in like he still can’t believe this is real. the truth is, he never let himself hope he’d get this far. he spent so long loving you in silence, he never once let himself imagine what it would be like to be allowed to love you out loud. it’s something he's learning in real time, one adorable misstep at a time.

jeongin becomes the kind of boyfriend who listens, even if you’re not outright telling him what you want. if you mention something you’ve been craving in passing, he’s showing up with it fresh the next day. he memorises your takeout order, your work schedule, the way you like your hair played with and how to massage you when you’re stressed. he says good morning with a kiss before you even open your eyes, and goodnight after he makes sure you got home safe. he takes candids of you when you’re not even posing or looking. and it’s not because you asked— but because he swears up and down you look prettiest without even trying.

he’ll learn how to cook your favourite dish, even if it takes a few burnt attempts and near-misses of food poisoning. when you’re upset, he doesn’t try to fix it— just sits with you, holds you, lets you fall apart in his arms without judgment. sometimes you’ll catch him staring with a stupid grin on his face. even now, he still can’t believe that he gets to call himself your boyfriend. but despite it all, he’s the same jeongin. still, always, your best friend.

✉️: @lightinbug @sherrayyyyy @ferrarifinnick @namsgyu @riddlerloveb0t @loveesiren @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @pinkpunkdynamite @hydeonysus

[nekonaps0]

Is Your Girl Single? pt3

✦part1 part2

✦characters: first years + Kalim, Silver, Cater

✦fem!reader

Ace Trappola

Ace was joking with some of his classmates when someone casually asked “Yo, that girl you’re always with—is she single?”

He laughs at first, thinking it’s a joke.

“Hah! Good one.”

The guy just blinks. “No, seriously.”

Ace freezes mid smirk. His head turns. Slow. Calculated.

“You’re seriously asking me… if my girlfriend… is single?”

His voice drops low. You can practically see the gears turning.

“Do you wanna fight? Or do you just have a death wish?”

He walks over, hand slung lazily around your shoulders, glaring daggers at the guy the whole way.

“Look at her. She’s beautiful, funny. Way too good for you . And she chose me.” He smirks “So no, she’s not single. Try asking again, and I’ll make sure you leave this conversation with a black eye and a broken pride.”

Later, he flops next to you and groans

“Babe, you need to stop being so cute. I’m gonna have to start carrying warning signs or something.”

Deuce Spade

Deuce was just minding his business, studying, being responsible, when the question hit him like a thrown potion bottle.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“...What?”

Deuce straightens up like he’s been called to duel. Serious face ON.

“No. She’s not. She’s my girlfriend.”

The guy started mumbling something that “he didn’t know.”

“You should know.”

He’s not angry. He’s just disappointed like a sweet, protective puppy turning into your knight.

“She’s amazing. She deserves someone who notices everything about her including the fact that she’s in a happy relationship.”

Afterward, he tells you everything and gets adorably shy about it.

“Sorry if that was too much… I just… didn’t like the idea of anyone thinking they had a shot with you.”

Jack Howl

Jack’s usually a calm, keep to himself type. So when someone strolls up to him during P.E. and says, “Hey, that girl you’re always walking to class… is she single?”

Jack pauses mid stretch. His ears twitch. His tail stills.

He doesn’t even turn around at first just processes the words slowly, like they offended his very sense of logic.

“What?”

This time, he does turn around fully. His eyes narrow, his jaw sets, and he looks at the guy like he’s weighing whether this is worth causing a scene over.

“She’s not just ‘seeing’ someone. She’s dating me.”

His voice is firm. Deep. No anger just pure, top-level authority.

“You seriously asking that knowing I’m with her? Or are you just stupid?”

The guy tries to laugh it off, but Jack steps forward once. Just once and the other guy steps back instinctively.

“You don’t get to talk about her like that. Not like she’s just another pretty face to chase.”

Jack crossed his arms now. His tail flicks behind him.

“She’s smart. She’s strong. She sticks by people even when it’s hard. I don’t date her just because she’s cute I date her because she’s worth everything.”

Then he turns away, muscles still tense, and mutters:

“Don’t let me hear you ask that again.”

Later, when he walks you home from class, he keeps glancing at you out of the corner of his eye like he’s still riled up.

“… I don’t get why people ask that. You make it so obvious you’re with me. And I’m not letting anyone take that away.”

Epel Felmier

Epel hears the question and nearly spits out his apple juice.

“She what?!”

Epel stands up slowly, placing both hands on the table.

“That’s my girlfriend, you twig-lookin’ scarecrow.”

He steps forward like he’s about to throw hands. His accent slipping into thick.

“She’s the most amazing woman in this world. You think she’d waste her time with… you? Don’t make me laugh.”

Epel doesn’t care that he’s shorter or anything. That pride? Untouchable.

“Look somewhere else, or I’ll show you what it’s feels like stepping into your mouth.”

Later, you hear him muttering about “darn peacocks” and “flirting idiots,” and when you ask what happened, he turns red.

“Nothin’…just, you’re mine, right? And people need to remember that.”

Sebek Zigvolt

Sebek is mid rant about Malleus when the question lands.

His jaw drops.

“HOW DARE YOU?!”

He whirls, eyes glowing with pure offense.

“SHE IS NOT SINGLE! SHE IS DATING ME, THE LOYAL KNIGHT OF MALLEUS DRACONIA!”

His shouting echoes through the hallway. Students flinch. A vase breaks somewhere in the distance.

“You impudent fool! To think you could stand a chance with her! She is strong, kind, radiant! And she belongs to—ahem—that is, she is in a deeply committed relationship.”

When you find out, you’re torn between laughing and hugging him.

“I would never allow such insolence to go unchallenged. Fret not—your honor is safe with me!”

(...You’re the only one who can handle his dramatics anyway.)

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim is all sunshine and open smiles… until he hears the words

He tilts his head.

“Huh? Oh—wait, you mean my girlfriend?”

His smile doesn’t drop… but there’s a shift. His eyes twinkle dangerously, and he laughs softly.

“She’s so nice. So beautiful. So smart. And, nope! Not single!”

He places a hand over his heart.

“She’s mine. We’re very happy together.”

Then he beams. But behind the grin is a very subtle threat:

“I love sharing food, clothes, parties… but not her. Try to flirt with her, and I’ll make sure you’re airlifted out of Scarabia by carpet.”

Later, he twirls you into a hug and giggles:

“People keep asking if you’re single! It must be hard being so amazing~”

Silver

Silver’s sleepy, peaceful demeanor makes people forget that he’s a trained knight. So when someone casually asks:“Is your girlfriend single?”

He blinks slowly.

“No.”

The word is calm. Flat. But final.

“She’s not single. She’s dating me.”

The person tries to laugh it off, but Silver straightens. A rare flicker of intensity flashes through his gaze.

“She’s kind. And trusting. I’m grateful to be with her. Don’t mistake her warmth for availability.”

Then he leans in slightly, not threatening, but firm.

“Some people in this school think ‘polite’ means ‘interested.’ Don’t be one of them.”

When he tells you later, he’s still calm but there’s a spark of protectiveness in his tone.

“You deserve to be respected whether I’m around or not. But I’ll always be around.”

Cater Diamond

It’s between classes and Cater’s leaning against the wall outside the cafeteria, scrolling on Magicam and humming to himself when someone nudges him.

“Yo, Cater. That girl you’re always posting with—she single?”

He doesn’t even look up at first, thinking maybe he misheard.But the guy repeats it.

Cater pauses mid-scroll.

“Wait, wait, wait.”

He turns, expression unreadable for a split second.

“You’re asking me… if my girlfriend… is single?”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. But his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes now… it’s tight.

He gestures toward the screen of his phone where the latest photo is you hugging him, captioned with “#taken 💕 #mine”.

Then his smile widens, and he throws an arm around the guy’s shoulder in a way too friendly manner.

“She’s not single. Not even close. In fact, she’s absolutely crazy about me~”

His tone is chipper, but there’s a warning tucked just beneath the honey.

“So hey! Just a tip? Maybe scroll through someone’s feed before you start sniffing around their girl, y’know?”

Then Cater pulls back, spinning on his heel like nothing happened, casually waving you over when he sees you approach.

He slings his arm around your waist and pecks your cheek right in front of the poor guy.

“This guy thought you were single. Can you believe that? Pffft~”

As you both walk away, he’s grinning but once you’re alone, he turns serious for a beat.

“You know you’re my everything, right? I don’t care who flirts or who asks dumb questions. As long as you know I’m all in? Nothing else matters.”

He winks, brushing a finger under your chin.

“Though… I might post a few extra couple selfies tonight just to remind people what’s what~”

..............................................................................................................................

I know I messed up the part two but LOOK! I fixed everything here✨

[4barbatos]

✦ drunk on you

venti x fem!reader cw: oral (f!recieving), soft dom venti, teasing, worship kink, aftercare !! you cry a little and he loves it

a/n: this is inspired by one of my all time favorite venti artworks — it lives in my head rent free and i simply had to give it words :3c

you’ve never seen venti like this.

not smug, not tipsy, not giggling behind his lyre — but focused. intent. hungry in a way that makes your breath hitch before his mouth even touches you.

he’s kneeling on the bed, between your legs, hands pushing your thighs open like they belong to him. and when you squirm, self-conscious under his gaze, he only tilts his head — messy strands of his hair falling loose, sea-green eyes glowing in the low light.

“don’t hide from me, windblume,” he says, gently tugging you down the sheets. his voice is soft — too soft. “how can i play you like an instrument if you’re covering the strings?”

you flush. “that doesn’t even make sense—”

but your voice cuts off with a gasp when he kisses your inner thigh. just a kiss. but slow. reverent. followed by another. and another. he’s trailing up your skin like a melody, and every note is meant to unravel you.

“mm… you’re already warm,” he murmurs against your skin. “how long have you been waiting for this, darling?”

you whine. that’s all you can manage. and the sound makes him grin.

“oh? already too dumb to talk? poor thing.”

he exhales against your folds — hot breath ghosting over where you ache. “don’t worry. i’ll take care of you.”

he says it like a promise. and then—

then he licks you.

long and slow and obscene, tongue flattening against you like he’s savoring every drop. you cry out — hips jerking, breath hitching — and he groans against your cunt like he’s just tasted ambrosia.

“fuck. you taste so good,” he whispers, lips brushing against your clit now, wet and soft and maddening. “how is it fair that you taste better than wine, hmm?”

your fingers bury themselves in his hair. his perfect silky hair that you’ve always wanted to tug, and now that you are, he just moans louder.

“venti—please—”

it’s half a sob. you’re already falling apart, already ruined, and he’s just getting started.

“shhh, i know.” he presses a kiss to your clit. then another. and another. like he’s dotting a stanza with kisses, like your pleasure is a song he’s composing in real time. “so sensitive. so sweet for me. you’re singing already.”

he starts slow. lazily licking you open, tongue dipping just enough to tease, then circling your clit until you twitch under him. he watches your face the whole time — like he’s studying the exact rhythm that makes you whine. that makes your thighs shake. that makes your voice catch on his name like a prayer.

and when you try to grind up into his mouth — needy, desperate, chasing more — he laughs softly and pins your hips down with both hands.

“mm-mm. let me play you properly,” he says. “be good and sing for me.”

you swear the wind outside shudders with you.

and then —

he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks.

your brain whites out. your mouth falls open. your whole body arches up off the mattress and his name rips out of your throat like a hymn.

you can’t stop moaning. can’t stop shaking. his tongue is relentless, his mouth hot and wet and perfect, and his hands are holding you open like he’s claiming you, like he’s never letting you go. he groans against you — loud and messy — and you can feel how much he loves this, how drunk he is off the taste of you.

“venti, i—i’m—”

he doesn’t stop. he doesn’t stop. he sucks harder, faster, and your orgasm slams into you so hard you cry.

like, actual tears. hot and breathless and completely wrecked. he doesn’t stop until you’re sobbing his name, until you’re trembling and twitching and pushing weakly at his head because it’s too much —

only then does he finally lift his head.

his lips are glossy. his chin is soaked. his eyes are blown wide with adoration.

“there you are,” he breathes, voice thick. “my muse. my melody.”

you’re still shaking. still catching your breath. and when he sees the tear tracks down your cheeks, his entire expression softens.

he leans in, kisses your thigh. your stomach. your flushed, ruined face.

“you did so good for me, windblume,” he whispers. “so beautiful when you sing.”

you’re still shaking.

you’ve been wiped clean and rewritten, but he’s holding you now — so gently, like a feather caught in his palms, and even the wind would be too loud.

and he’s humming.

a soft, winding melody. something you’ve never heard before, but you know it’s yours. he’s writing it as he traces little spirals on your back with his fingers, tucking your hair behind your ear like it’s sacred.

“you did so well for me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “every note was perfect.”

you try to reply. really, you do.

but your voice is gone. ruined. hoarse from moaning his name so many times it stopped sounding like a word.

and when he sees that, venti smiles. soft. smug. so fond.

“mm… voice too sore to sing?” he coos. “then rest, sweetheart. i’ll hum enough for both of us.”

[shintaru]

Period comfort with windbreaker boys

m.list ♡ taglist

Tagging ~ @ravenwritten @dzvelinaskebiyars @sylith @sanzuslutttt @zyart-jpg @wthphe1n @prepchii @bfwooin @hyukwwn

Wooin

He is very knowledgeable which your surprised cause you didn’t think he’d care about it but he knows a lot and knows what helps and what doesn’t.

Knows the right products to buy. If you tell him to get pads he wouldn’t accidentally grab panty liners assuming it’s the same product.

Probably would be the type to get you lots of candy and would yell at anyone pissing you off at this time.

Would care about your experience but he acts nonchalant about he cause he can’t let you know he cares too much

If you snap at him it’s 109% starting an argument that will make him leave your house but then he thinks about how you’re body is experiencing a lot right now so he will come back and apologies (you can’t convince me he doesn’t apologize because he apologized to Sangho on Joker’s behalf in [Part 2] Episode 91 #159)

If he sees he made you cry he definitely feels guilty but won’t confront you he’ll just leave a lollipop on your nightstand with a little note that says “Sorry~”

He’s concerned if your period is extremely painful. Will make a joke about how sex helps with period cramps.

If you’re emotional over something he doesn’t understand why it’s an issue especially if it normally doesn’t make you upset even though he knows what’s going on it doesn’t make any sense to him how different you can be in each phase in the menstrual cycle

Hyuk

He doesn’t have a clue and sometimes he could care less. He doesn’t understand what it’s like to experience that so he is under the impression that it can’t be that bad.

He buys the wrong products, you asked for pads… well even better he got you adult diapers.

He would also buy random shit hoping that it’s something that will help you and it’s really unusual items too. Like nipple balm… how did he think that wasn’t going to be any help to you? He doesn’t even know.

Would definitely take period naps with you. If your period makes you extremely exhausted he wouldn’t complain he’s just nap with you.

He doesn’t keep track of your period. He sees that you’ll remind him anytime it happens so he doesn’t feel the need to keep track.

At first he doesn’t think it hurts that bad but if it has you to the point you're on the floor and you can’t walk, nearly throwing up everywhere and your body feels so weak he’ll start seeing that it really does hurt.

Would look up what to do online because he is trying to be helpful but he just doesn’t know what to do. Wooin would also give him advice.

If you’re emotional he truly doesn’t know what to do so give him a break but he will give you a massage if your cramps are getting bad

Joker

He has a basic understanding of what a period is and he’s farm (I meant far but farm is hilarious so it’s staying) more considerate than Wooin & Hyuk would

Like Hyuk he’s not coming back with the right products either, eventually he’ll remember but at first you’ll end up with panty liners one month and then the next month he gets the product you needed all along but it's for the wrong flow.

He doesn’t have time to keep track if your flow is irregular it’s also very hard for him to keep up with the irregular cycle because he’s so worried about how to make money he can’t really think of anything else but you’re reassured that he does care about you so you always remind him

He will cook for you, probably would be good at giving you a massage if you needed it.

He would definitely beat someone up if they made inappropriate comments to you. For example if some creepy guys were cat calling you and it makes you more upset you don’t even have to blink and they are already on the curb knocked out.

If you’re period is making you feel sick weak he’ll remain by your side and take care of you

If it’s making you irritated he doesn’t understand and he doesn’t like if you snap at him he’s trying his best and it makes him feel bad and he’ll let you know so you can talk it out

If you’re emotional he’ll go into panic mode you can just see it on the look on his face but he’ll let you lay on him and even use his hand as a heating pad (his hands are huge it would definitely work)

Vinny

He is a bit clueless but he will educate himself in secret to learn more and Sung catches him and he acts like he wasn’t doing anything. He does get angry and shocked over how many changes your body goes through each month.

He will get exactly what you asked for but he’s walking out the store with rose tinted cheeks from embarrassment and if he’s in a bad mood cause someone pissed you off he’s slamming the box of pads on the counter and the cashier isn’t questioning it

Tracking he tries to keep track but he can barely keep track of everything going on in his life so you’ll have to remind him it’s not because he doesn’t care cause he does but he has a lot on his plate

He doesn’t like when you snap at him if you’re period is too much he understands that you’re going through a lot but it makes him upset when you take it out on him even if you didn’t mean to

He helps you with anything he can. If you need him to pick up food orders, pads, make food, clean, etc he’ll do it for you.

If it’s a Painful one he’ll try to give you massages and make ramen hoping it will make you feel better

If you’re emotional he’ll listen to you vent but he’s shy about trying to cuddle you to make you feel better and if you initiate cuddling his heart will stop and he will stiffen and freeze on the spot being so nervous

Will let you cuddle with Jack for the week hoping having company will help boost your mood

Oliver

He has a sister so he knows exactly what to do. He knows what products you need, & what to buy. He’s had to overhear Clover tell him briefly about some issues that he did some research to try to relive some of her experiences during that time. He’s a great big brother and boyfriend.

He keeps track not intentionally but if you tell him about it every time you start or he overhears you tell clover about it then he’ll pick up on how often yours is.

He will ride for miles to bring you back your favorite foods or snacks and he doesn’t mind doing that for you he enjoys seeing your face light up when your cravings arrive

He will call off practice and work to be with you if you really need him by your side

Let’s you borrow his clothes so you can sleep in them he might spray his cologne on a teddy bear so you can cuddle it at night when he can’t be with you

He reminds you to eat the right food and stay hydrated and if you don’t do it on your own he’s making the food and trying to feed it to you.

If it’s a Painful one he reassures you with his words and physical affection hoping that it can ease your pain

If you’re emotional he will fight anyone that made you cry,

Poel

He keeps track of your period and remembers when you’ll have it so he knows when to buy you gifts to help you during this time.

He listens to every complaint you have and he’s there trying to fix it the best he can.

He is very understanding of your hormone changes so if you accidentally snap at him over your period he won’t take it personally but he’ll want to clear it up once you’re off your period.

Will try not to do anything that annoys you but he just really wants to cheer you up and he doesn’t know how so he’ll try random shit and some of it will piss you off.

100% will give you any hoodie in his closet happily to let you sleep in and he’ll cuddle with you hoping to relieve of your stress

If it’s a Painful one he’s very understanding and won’t expect you to do anything that your body can’t do he’ll literally take care of everything.

If you’re emotional he’s very understanding and he listens instead of trying to solve the problem with reasoning right away he lets you vent it out and he listens then he takes care of you

Literally carries you around bridal style wherever you need to go in your house/apt

Owen

He knows a lot about them he did plenty of research so he’d understand how to care for you during this time

He gets exactly what you tell him but in large quantities, he really goes overboard making sure you don’t have to worry about running out while you don’t feel your best

You don’t have to tell him when you’re period is coming he already knows he’s been tracking it since day the day you felt comfortable sharing your period problems with him

He does everything for you. If you’re hungry he is cooking, if you need to move around the house to get something he will either get it for you or carry you to the item/area.

Anything you need he’s honestly got you covered. Also if you two leave the house together and someone pisses you off and it really upsets you while you’re on your period he will excuse himself and go beat them up and come back and act like the bathroom line was long. When he was never at the bathroom he was behind the restaurant beating people up.

If it’s a Painful one he has ice packs, heating pads, pain pills, your favorite snacks, comfort movies, & plushies all prepared.

If you’re emotional he’ll let you cry in his arms and he won’t leave your side until he’s sure you’re alright

He will snap at anyone who makes comments about your mood changes. Literally you’re number one fan will back you up even if you’re in the wrong he doesn’t care you’re his princess so therefore you’re always right.

Later I’ll write short one shots including all the headcanons.

[julietcpulet]

Jinmao reunion: Rushed and unfulfilling 💔

So I was worried before that in an effort to focus so much on the Shisui / Maomao dynamic the anime would compromise on key Jinshi and Maomao moments and unfortunately it feels like that concern was valid. Although the scenes are there, they feel rushed and placed there only for the sake of pushing forward the plot less so for any actual depth or development and with much less care and attention than Shisui and Maomao have been given for several episodes now.

To start with, the balcony scene, while also short in the light novel it is important for giving us a glimpse into Maomao’s changing feelings towards Jinshi.

A man whose nymph-like beauty hardly seemed fit for a battlefield. Clothed in armor of an expensive color, he cut a dashing figure, like a real soldier. Could he possibly be there to rescue her? No way. Even he doesn’t have that kind of time to kill.

It’s one of the first times she considers that he might be there for her, but it’s also important because of how she dismisses the thought right away. Her continual refusal to believe Jinshi would be there for her alone shows her insecurity but the anime not including those extra thoughts leaves out key developments for her as a character. It’s not a huge deal and I’m glad they at least included this moment where she sees him but overall I think overlooking some of her internal monologue can diminish the subtlety of her changing feelings towards Jinshi, as a lot of it doesn’t happen outwardly for some time. Even if they still put in some of the quote, making it such a short throwaway takes away much of the significance.

Second, the reunion itself. Again while it’s shown as it appears in the novel, it’s stiff and very mechanical. They don’t have Maomao or Jinshi show any particular emotion or change in each other even after this is the first time they’ve seen one another in so long. Yes the novel does not indicate much from Jinshi’s side so the anime takes licenses but again there’s subtlety to indicate the intensity of the moment itself. Take the pause that happens right when he breaks down the door.

At that moment, someone kicked down the door. A soldier wearing bluish-purple armor stood in the entryway. He didn’t say anything. She didn’t say anything. Neither of them said anything. After a long moment it was Maomao who spoke first: “I’m sorry, but might I ask you to protect me, Master Jinshi.”

The pause is long, it’s meant to be poignant as they gaze at each other for the first time in a long time. But the anime chose to make it quick and Maomao’s question to Jinshi is in her usual flat tone. A moment here where Jinshi’s expression changes to show he’s surprised or doesn’t get why she’d apologize or ask him to protect her when he literally just kicked in a door all for her sake would be good but there’s little to indicate feeling on either side. Maomao’s insecurities are in feeling she needs to apologize for asking for help but her lack of inflection promotes a sense she could care less he’s the one coming through the door. The anime chooses only to be literal with the text where she smiles and he looks exasperated based on where the text puts their expressions. There’s not much nuance to speak of where we can see internal struggle on his part or any thoughts from her. Each step is there but with no time given to hold in that moment, it all lacks any meaning.

Unfortunately all the gravitas and emotional weight was already put on the goodbye between Maomao and Shisui that when it comes to the Jinshi and Maomao reunion it fails to deliver in comparison to me which is a shame. This lack of depth and dimension to the developing connection between Jinshi and Maomao will have an impact down the road as people will wonder why they get together when even I admit to seeing mostly apathy between the two the way the anime shows them currently. Again, I also expect questions about Jinshi’s actions when Maomao’s ambivalence seems prominent and yet he persists in his feelings towards her.

Overall I knew this could be an outcome when the anime was trying to wrap up the Shi clan arc they would want to focus on the drama of Shisui as the vixen / victim and give her all the playtime to finish her story but unfortunately in doing so the other characters and Jinmao have taken a backseat. Not to mention I worry that there was a concerted effort potentially to insert an insinuation of Maomao and Shisui having feelings deeper than friendship which would be a shame on the writers/animators side if done on purpose. The Jinmao reunion wasn’t the worst thing but it also wasn’t everything it could’ve been given what they were able to deliver earlier with the cave scenes and other key moments between Jinshi and Maomao.

[rainstormies]

Bruised Knuckles | Eddie Munson

pairing: eddie x you

fandom: stranger things

word count: 1,1k (oneshot)

synopsis: the metalhead and popular girl were never meant to make sense, so of course they did

song aesthetic: do i wanna know? by arctic monkeys

You’ve always hated Eddie Munson.

Or, more accurately, you’ve always pretended to. Because that’s what you were supposed to do. Because he was weird and loud and messy, and you were none of those things.

Because you wore cheer uniforms and lip gloss, and he wore leather and rings and looked like a wolf someone had barely bothered to house-train.

Because the first time you crossed paths freshman year, you bumped into him in the hallway, he made a dramatic show of checking if all his rings were still on his fingers, and then grinned and said, “Careful, princess. You might get glitter on my flannel.”

He’d held a grudge ever since, or maybe it was just a game to him. Every time you passed him, he’d whisper “Don’t trip over your perfection,” or tip an imaginary crown on his head and call you “Your Highness.” One time he’d called you a Stepford Wife. Loudly.

You told everyone you hated him.

But tonight… tonight is different.

Tonight you’re stuck in a group project for English with him — and you swear to god, fate is either cruel or bored. Everyone else paired up fast, and by the time you looked around, the only person left standing was Eddie.

You’d groaned. He’d clutched his chest like he’d been shot.

And now here you are. In his trailer. On his couch. Trying not to kill him.

“So,” he says, drumming his fingers against a notebook he hasn't opened. “Do you wanna actually work on this, or should we just stare at each other and try to psychically communicate how much we loathe one another?”

You glare. “Do you always have to talk like that?”

“Do you always have to talk like that?” he says, mimicking your voice with obnoxious precision.

You toss your pencil at him. It bounces off his chest, and he gasps. “Assaulted! In my own home!”

“God,” you mutter. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“You’re such a dictator.” He grins, flipping his notebook open finally. “Fine. We’ll do it your way. You read the book. I’ll pretend to care.”

“I’m not doing the whole thing myself.”

“I never said you had to,” he shrugs. “I just said I’d pretend. That’s called compromise.”

You grit your teeth. You knew this would be a nightmare. You’re not even sure what made you agree to come here — maybe the fact that your house is currently packed with your mom’s book club and their chain-smoking habits. Or maybe it’s because, as much as you hate to admit it, you were… curious. About Eddie.

Not in the way your friends accuse you of, when they say, “You like him, don’t you?” and you scoff and say, “Please.” But maybe in the way you’d wonder what he listened to when no one was around, or what it’d feel like to be the girl he was actually nice to.

He leans forward suddenly, his brown eyes surprisingly sharp. “Why do you hate me?”

You blink. “Why do I—? What kind of question—?”

“It’s just,” he interrupts, “you don’t seem to hate anyone else. Just me. And I’m curious.” His voice isn’t mocking now. Just low. Thoughtful. “Did I do something worse than I remember?”

You stare at him.

He stares back.

And for the first time ever, you answer honestly.

“I don’t hate you.”

His brows lift, and something like a smile twitches at the corner of his mouth.

“Then why—?”

“Because if I didn’t,” you say quietly, “I wouldn’t know what to do.”

He doesn’t speak. Not for a full beat. Just looks at you.

Then: “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You laugh under your breath. “That’s sad.”

“I know.” He shifts forward slightly on the couch, the space between you shrinking just a fraction. “So… are we enemies, or what?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “Are you gonna help me write this essay?”

“No,” he says immediately.

You groan.

But then he grins. “But I’ll let you do it while I make you tea.”

You’re too startled to argue as he gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

He makes good on his promise, though. Ten minutes later, he’s back with two mugs — his has a chipped skull on it, yours is plain — and he sinks back onto the couch beside you like this is just what you do.

You sip the tea. It’s sweet. Cinnamon and honey. Too nice to admit you like it.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, eyes flickering toward yours. “I have a reputation.”

You smirk. “Of what?”

He leans closer. “Being unlovable.”

It’s a joke. You know it is.

But your heart thuds.

You look at him — really look at him. The long lashes, the curve of his mouth, the tiredness behind the charm. And something about being here, in his space, with nothing to perform for — it makes your chest ache a little.

“I don’t think that’s true,” you say quietly.

He freezes.

You bite your lip. “Maybe you just haven’t been loved right.”

He looks at you like you’ve said something dangerous.

And you suppose, maybe, you have.

The silence is thick.

You shift your legs, trying to get comfortable, and they bump into his. You don’t move them away.

He looks down. Then back at you.

“Are you flirting with me, princess?”

You smirk. “You wish.”

“Oh, I do,” he says easily. “More than I should.”

That throws you.

You stare at him, the blood in your veins humming. He notices.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice rough.

“Like what?”

“Like you might actually kiss me.”

You smile. “Why not?”

“Because I won’t stop you.”

Your heart trips.

You lean in first.

And he meets you halfway.

The kiss is softer than you expected. Less reckless, more real. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck like you might vanish if he’s not careful.

You melt into him. One arm around his shoulder, one hand still holding your tea mug, tilting awkwardly as he pulls you closer.

He kisses like he means it. Like he’s waited a long time to prove he can be gentle.

By the time you pull back, your face is warm and your brain feels fuzzy.

“See?” he says, his voice husky. “You don’t hate me.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Still not helping with the essay?”

“Absolutely not.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again, your smile pressed between both of your mouths.

So maybe he’s not unlovable. Maybe you just had to stop pretending he was.

And maybe you weren’t pretending to hate him, maybe you were just scared of how much you didn’t.

for anon who wanted an enemies to lovers<3

[sturniololuvz]

“who the hell are you?”

meanmatt! x partygirl!reader — part 14

⸻

The TV is playing, but Matt’s not watching it.

Some half-watched crime documentary flashes muted across the screen. The volume is low. The lights are off, save for the soft glow coming from the kitchen under-cabinet strip.

You���re asleep in his lap.

And Matt’s heart is doing this stupid thing where it won’t calm the fuck down.

Your head is tucked under his chin, your body curled into him like it’s second nature. His arm is wrapped securely around your waist. The blanket’s bunched awkwardly over your legs, and your hand is fisted lightly in the hem of his hoodie like you grabbed it mid-dream and never let go.

He should move. He should shift you off, go to bed, put space between you like he always does.

But he can’t.

He physically can’t make himself move.

And that scares him more than anything.

Because this — this was never supposed to happen.

Not with you.

Not with the girl who wears ripped eyeliner at 3AM and dances on tables and has the kind of laugh that makes people look twice. Not with the girl who takes up every room and still doesn’t believe she deserves to.

Not with the girl he swore he didn’t even like a few weeks ago.

He brushes his thumb over your spine absentmindedly, eyes locked on the screen but not seeing any of it.

Then he hears footsteps on the stairs.

Chris.

“Bro,” Chris says as soon as he reaches the top step, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone in the other. “Tell me you’re actually watching this shit.”

Matt glances over, unbothered. “What?”

Chris looks from the TV to the couch — and freezes when he sees you.

Or more specifically, sees you curled in Matt’s lap like it’s your fucking bed.

Matt doesn’t even flinch. He just goes back to staring at the TV.

Chris stares harder. “You good?”

“She fell asleep.”

“In your lap?”

Matt shrugs, trying to play it off. “She was tired.”

Chris walks over slowly and sets his cereal on the coffee table, eyeing the scene with visible suspicion. “You let someone fall asleep on you. That’s a new one.”

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m just saying—this is, like, emotionally mature shit. I don’t know how to act.”

Matt glares at him.

Chris smirks, but then his face softens a little. “You like her.”

Matt doesn’t answer.

Chris lowers his voice. “You really like her.”

Still, nothing.

Just the flicker of the TV and the sound of you breathing softly against Matt’s chest.

And then, so quietly Chris almost misses it:

“I’m scared.”

Chris blinks. “What?”

Matt finally looks at him. His eyes aren’t wide, or panicked — they’re just real. Honest in a way he hasn’t been in years.

“I think I’m falling for her,” Matt says. “And I’m scared.”

Chris sits on the edge of the coffee table, tone going serious for once. “Why?”

Matt exhales, glancing down at you.

You shift a little, still dead asleep.

“I don’t know how to do this,” Matt says. “The… caring about someone part. The letting them matter.”

Chris raises a brow. “You do it with us.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because you guys never leave.”

Matt’s voice is barely audible now. Like saying it too loud will make it real.

“With her… it’s like—I don’t know. I keep waiting for the moment she decides I’m too cold or too complicated or too fucking much, and she just… disappears.”

Chris is quiet for a second.

Then: “She’s not going anywhere.”

Matt laughs under his breath. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t,” Chris says. “But I do know you look at her like she’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Matt doesn’t respond. He just rests his chin lightly on top of your head.

“She gets under my skin,” he says. “Like, I’ll be fine, and then she’s just… there. Saying dumb shit and stealing my hoodies and making me want things I didn’t even know I wanted.”

Chris smiles, just a little. “That’s called being in love, dumbass.”

Matt gives him a look.

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

Matt’s jaw tenses.

“She’s a mess,” he says.

“So are you.”

“She drinks too much, and she says the wrong thing, and she pushes people away—”

“Sounds familiar.”

Matt glares at him, but Chris just shrugs.

“She’s not perfect, man. But you’re not either. That’s kind of the point.”

Matt looks down at you again. At your hair sprawled over his chest, your fingers still loosely gripping his hoodie.

“She makes me feel like I can’t breathe sometimes,” he says quietly.

Chris leans back. “But it’s a good kind of can’t breathe, right?”

Matt doesn’t answer.

But his hand tightens slightly around your waist.

And that says more than enough.

Chris stands, grabbing his cereal. “I’m just saying, man. If you care, don’t fuck it up. Don’t be so scared of feeling something real that you push it away before it even starts.”

Matt watches him go.

Then looks back down at you.

And for once, he doesn’t overthink it.

He just pulls the blanket a little higher over your body, shifts so you’re lying more comfortably against his chest, and lets his hand rest in your hair.

Your breathing is still slow. Steady.

And for the first time in a long time, Matt lets himself want it.

Want you.

All of it.

Even if it scares him to death.

⸻

taglist : @sturniolo-szn2 @fadedstvrn @tezzzzzzzz @stayingstromboli @ivysturnss @sturniolofreakk @ihateemetoo @sturniolo-tease @sturniololuv3r @sturnsclam @nxvasturns @csturniolo43 @mattspillowprincess @sturniolo-fann @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @bernardmatthews @bugs-tags @emely9274 @arianna1342 @stevielovesmatt @riggysworld @ph3ebssturniolo @whore4chris @amelia4chris @pizzapocketpocketpizza @strxn-2 @xxxxxxlovesstuff @whump-loverz @sarahsturnn @urloveanaa @k-pevensie28

[buckysprettybaby]

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x fem!reader

word count: 0.4k

warnings: none except mild injury/mentions of bleeding, implied established relationship

summary: comfort after a long mission

a/n: i’m not sure if i like this, i feel like there should be more dialogue but i wanted to just kind of show how they were both tired.

The tower was quiet by the time you found Bucky — sitting on the edge of his bed, half in shadow, blood drying in a line down his temple. He didn’t look up when you stepped into the room, but his shoulders eased just a little, like he knew it was you. You dropped the med kit beside him and knelt down without a word, hands already reaching for the gauze. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It never was. Just tired, heavy, and a little raw, the kind of quiet that settled in after a fight, when the only thing left to do was take care of what remained.

You push his hair back gently so you can get at the cut, fingers brushing warm skin. He winces, but doesn’t pull away. He just watches you with that guarded look he wears too often these days, like he’s waiting for you to flinch. You don’t. You never do. The antiseptic stings, and he huffs out a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Didn’t think you’d still be up,” he murmurs. You press the gauze a little firmer than necessary. “Didn’t think you’d still be bleeding.”

He laughs lowly, grimacing as you increase the pressure. “You need to stop being so reckless,” you say, but your voice is too soft to carry any real bite. He tilts his head just enough to catch your eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Says the one who jumped in front of a grenade today.” You roll your eyes, but your fingers tremble slightly as you dab at the dried blood on his skin. “That was different,” you mutter. “I knew it wasn’t live.”

“Sure you did,” he says, quieter this time. And for a moment, neither of you speak, the weight of what-ifs settling heavy in the space between heartbeats.

“Hey.” You say it softly, just loud enough to cut through the quiet. His eyes flick up to yours, and for once, he doesn’t look away.

“I’ll always come back to you. You know that, right?”

Something shifts in his expression; the tension in his jaw loosens. the smirk fades, and what’s left is just him. Raw. Tired. Real.

“I don’t always believe in a lot of things anymore,” he says, voice low and rough. “But you… I believe you.”

He reaches out then, slow and unsure, fingers brushing against yours like he’s testing the water. And when you don’t pull away — when you curl your hand into his and hold on — he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days.

He pulls you closer with no warning, guiding you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You go willingly, your knees on either side of him, arms wrapping around his shoulders. Then he shifts, metal arm around your waist, the other braced beneath your thighs, and stands with ease, carrying you the short distance to the head of the bed.

He sinks back against the headrest with a quiet grunt, keeping you close, like letting go isn’t even an option. His head dips, face pressing into the curve of your neck, breath warm against your skin. He inhales deeply — like the scent of you is enough to slow his racing thoughts, like maybe, just maybe, you’re the one thing in this world that still makes sense.

“Just… stay,” he murmurs against your collarbone, barely audible.

You hold him tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You both stay like that, wrapped around each other in a quiet kind of comfort, the kind that doesn’t need words. The adrenaline from the mission has faded, leaving behind only exhaustion and the soft ache of being seen — and held — by someone who gets it.

Occasionally, he presses slow, languid kisses to your neck, not trying to start anything, just grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of your breath. Each kiss is a silent thank you, an apology, a promise he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

Your fingers trace lazy circles at the nape of his neck, and when his hold on you tightens just a little, you lean into him more. Neither of you say it, not tonight, but the feeling is there, heavy and certain in the space between your heartbeats.

You’re home. Right here, in each other’s arms.

please like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think ♡

© buckysprettybaby; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[kaivenom]

OP dilfs with an s/o who doesn’t smile or laugh a lot? Not because they’re miserable but because they just miss nearly every social cue and process things a bit later than everyone so it’s easier to act like you don’t care at all than than to deal with that possible embarrassment ( neurodivergent ahh reader ) (I mean I can’t say shit I’m kinda like this)

OP Dilfs with a neurodivergent!reader who doesn't smile or laugh

Characters: Doflamingo, Mihawk, Crocodile, Smoker, Shanks

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

He doesn't have much problem with that.

Specially cause he isn't one himself to laugh or smile.

Something incredible that happens when the two of you are together is that someone is talking and you give a remark.

Not to be funny, just cause you wanted to say something, and then he laughs.

Cause in both of your strange sense of humour and neurodivergency, there is this small point were he gets your funny remarks.

Donquixote Doflamingo

In fact, that is the thing that made him fall in love with you.

He is the one who is always laughing like a maniac and everyone laughs with him, mostly because of fear.

But when he saw you there, without even a smile, he couldn't keep his eyes out of you.

He loves the contrast betwen himself and you, he didn't even try to set the goal of making you laugh, he is more than pleased to just be the one who explains you the jokes between laughs.

Sr. Crocodile

He, like Mihawk, isn't one to laugh often, and your seriousness on parties caught his attention.

He gets pretty fast that you don't get humour like everyone else, and he is fine with it.

He doesn't treat you differently but what he does sometimes is that he begans explaining the jokes to you or gives you a little hint like "now is the time to laugh, my love."

There are times that he thinks he is being overwhelming to you but you really appreciate it.

Smoker

He is a little scared at first, not of you but because he tries to make you enjoy reunions and things like that and you don't even go a smile on your face.

He starts thinking that it is cause of him and that you don't like his lifestyle.

One day you explain to him about your inhability to get most of the jokes and he just says "ok, now i am relieved, i thought you hated the reunions".

And you had to reassure him that the work reunions were nice, is just that you didn't have to show it so oppenly.

Akagami Shanks

He is another one that gets scared, cause one of his biggest flexes and attributes is his sense of humour.

And you weren't laughing to any of his jokes, he was on the verge of just begging on his knees for a hint of a smile.

But in your mind, you really enjoyed the date, he was really charming with all his talking.

When you kissed him good night and said it was amazing, he realized that he doesn't have to try so hard to force you to laugh.

[obs3ssedd]

★ ;— I need him.

bucky is the type to…….

bucky is the type to lie whenever he comes back injured. he’d never tell you right away—sometimes not for days, even weeks. the idea of making you worry puts a strange, uncomfortable pang in his chest, one he’d rather avoid. so, like any other normal day, he’d act like everything was fine, ignoring the dull, aching pain beneath the surface. he really thought he was getting away with it—until one night, you found out. the disappointment on your face hit him harder than any punch. when he admitted how long he’d been hiding it, he just stood there like a scolded puppy, silent. he didn’t argue. he let you take his hand and quietly followed you to the bathroom so you could properly treat his wounds.

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

bucky is the type to be shy when you first start dating. after all, it’s been over 60 years since he’s even thought and actually been with someone. at first, he didn’t think you’d feel the same way about him—afraid you’d see him as a monster, like so many others had. but when you accidentally confessed your feelings one night, that tight, anxious knot in his stomach started to loosen. he didn’t know how to be a boyfriend at first. not really. he was nervous, like super duper nervous, scared he’d mess it all up. but with your constant reassurance, he slowly began to crawl out of his shell.

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

bucky is the type to avoid using his metal arm when he touches you. he’d use it for everything else—cooking, cleaning, lifting—but not for you. not when he held your hand. not when he touched your face. at first, it confused you. you asked him once why he never used his other arm. he would be hesitant at first to answer, but eventually he told you. “I… just..don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbled. and suddenly, it all made sense. you hadn’t meant to giggle, but it was so endearingly sweet. “buck… you’re not going to hurt me. It’s okay, I promise.” he furrowed his brow, hesitating. but trusting your words, he would slowly lift his metal hand to your cheek, hesitant but calmly. the cool touch made you smile as you leaned into it, and a small, shy smile crept across his face, too. “I’ll believe you,” he whispered.

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

bucky is the type to get jealous—and lie about it. he’s not great with emotions, and worse at hiding them. the way his jaw clenched, how his blue eyes darkened when you were talking to another guy—it was obvious. you were his. It didn’t take long before he strode over, slipping his arm around your waist. you felt the cold press of metal and instantly knew who it was. you would huff. he would grin. and the guy you were talking to looked visibly nervous. It only took a minute of bucky’s staring before the guy got the message and walked off. you turned to bucky with a frown, “really?” getting nothing back but a shit eating grin pressing a kiss to the top of your head, completely unbothered.

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

bucky is the type to stay by your side when you’re hurt. even if it’s just a small injury, he’d be there—hovering, fussing, making sure you were okay. but when it’s something serious? he doesn’t leave your side for a second. whether it’s days in a hospital bed or routine checkups, he’s there. watching the doctors, asking questions, holding your hand through every moment. on late nights, he’d doze off in the chair beside you, still holding your hand, refusing to let go. some nights, when you saw how exhausted he was, you’d insist he crawl into the bed beside you. and after some reluctance, he’d give in—carefully curling around you, the safest place either of you knew.

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

bucky is the type to put you before himself. always. It doesn’t matter how many times you ask him to take care of himself first—his answer is always the same: a gentle, polite, but firm no. you’re his world. he’d give anything to keep you safe. so, when he was framed for the murder of Wakanda’s king, he burst through your apartment door in a panic—packing your things without a word. you called his name over and over, but he wouldn’t stop until you grabbed his hand, forcing him to look at you. “please,” you said, “tell me what’s going on.” he finally explained. he wasn’t trying to run—he was trying to protect you from the chaos of his past, a past that never stopped haunting him. no matter what happens, your safety will always come before his own.

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

bucky is absolutely the type to be a total goofball. he’d bring back old-school charm straight from the 1940s—opening doors for you every time, scolding you if you even tried to touch the handle. “you’re taking away my job, doll,” he’d tease with that boyish grin. he’d drop cheesy pickup lines from the 40s like they were gold, insisting they always worked back then. you’d roll your eyes, calling him cheesy, but you’d be smiling every time. and yes—he definitely follows the sidewalk rule. always keeping himself between you and the street. old habits, after all, die hard.

smut bonus ~

bucky is the type to start off gentle. at first, he’d be cautious—afraid of hurting you if he let himself get carried away. his movements would be slow, careful, each thrust deliberate and controlled. he’d press soft kisses along your neck, working his way up to your lips, muffling the soft moans that escaped you. his cold metal fingers would trace your body like he was trying to memorize every inch of you—every reaction, every shiver, every sound. he treated you like something precious, something breakable. but the moment you whispered that it was okay for him to be rougher… you might’ve just unleashed something you weren’t fully prepared for. those gentle thrusts turned into something deeper, more desperate—like he’d been holding back since the very beginning. his breathing grew heavier, his groans low and rough in your ear, almost like growls. It wasn’t just desire—it was hunger. he still hesitated with his metal arm, unsure, afraid of going too far. but when he saw the way you reached for it—guiding it to your throat with a look that said trust me—he finally got the message. he applied just enough pressure. Not too much—never too much—but enough to make your pulse quicken and your body arch beneath him. and in that moment, he realized he didn’t have to be afraid of breaking you. you wanted all of him—even the parts he’d spent so long trying to hide.

[a-bit-of-writing]

How they flirt with you {BG3 Female Companions}

Took me longer than it should but here it is! Here’s my last post featuring the male companions.

Lae'zel

Lae’zel doesn’t drop hints or play games. If she wants you, she’ll make it known but only if she deems you worthy. Flirting, to her, is a display of strength — hers and yours.

She’ll comment on your fighting prowess long before your beauty. That’s how you win her interest.

“You fight with purpose. Precision. I did not expect such competence from someone so soft-spoken.”

Her compliments sound like challenges

“You held your ground. Most would have fled. I approve.”

(Yes, that's flirting.)

When Lae’zel desires someone, it is clear. But it comes with the expectation that you’ll meet her there — physically, mentally, spiritually. She is not shy, but she is proud.

She doesn’t ask. She asserts.

“You’ve caught my attention. Prove that you deserve it.”

There’s no pretense. If you interest her, she’ll say so. But if you hesitate? She will walk.

“If you cannot meet my hunger with your own, then we have nothing to discuss.”

Physicality is Lae’zel’s language. She doesn’t ease into touch — she seizes it. A hand on your shoulder to make a point. A tug of your arm in battle. If she’s gentle, that’s when you should be concerned.

She tests limits physically, always watching how you react.

“You flinched. Do better.”

When she touches you with intent, it’s possessive and absolute.

“You are mine. Or do you mean to challenge me for your freedom?”

Lae’zel bonds through battle. She respects those who hold their own, who push back, who dare to disagree.

Her flirting is sparring with words or swords.

“You speak like a warrior. But can you strike like one?”

If you challenge her, and survive, she sees you. Really sees you.

“You defy me. That should anger me… and yet, I find it arousing.”

On rare occasions, when trust is solid and the walls are down (if only slightly), Lae’zel reveals her desire for connection. Not through sentiment, but through loyalty.

She won’t say “I care.” She’ll say:

“I would fight beside you until the end. That is not something I offer lightly.”

And when she lets herself be vulnerable (in her own way):

“There is strength in you… and I am drawn to it. Not because you are weak, but because you make me feel… anchored. I do not understand it. But I will not deny it.”

Minthara

Minthara doesn’t flirt for fun. She doesn’t waste words or trifle with trivial attraction. If she flirts with you, it’s because she sees potential either as a lover, an ally, or something in between.

Her eyes don’t just linger — they devour. She watches like a predator sizing up prey, but with a glint of approval.

“You walk into chaos like it belongs to you. I find that… compelling.”

She uses words like blades – meant to wound or awaken. Sometimes both.

“Be careful with how you look at me. I may take it as an invitation.”

Minthara doesn’t compliment in the traditional sense. Her praise is cloaked in dominance, devotion, or the promise of destruction.

She doesn’t say you’re beautiful/handsome  -  she says you’re dangerous, worthy, unforgettable.

“There is something feral in you. I see it behind your calm facade. Don’t bother hiding it — I prefer the rawness.”

And when she’s soft (rarely), it’s with eerie calm:

“You unsettle me. That should concern me… yet I crave it.”

When Minthara touches you, it is not a question – it is a claim. She’ll brush a thumb against your jaw, rest her hand over your heart, press her body close in battle, not for affection, but possession.

Her physical flirtation is magnetic, full of tension and power.

“If I touch you, it will not be gentle. But it will be unforgettable.”

She touches like she owns the moment and she watches if you flinch or lean in.

“Ah… brave. Or foolish. I haven’t decided yet.”

Minthara is drawn to strength, but what fascinates her is control. The person who stands their ground, who won’t yield easily — that’s who she finds most intoxicating.

She flirts through calculated tension. Hovering at the edge of danger and desire.

“You defy me so easily. I should punish you… but I’d rather find out how long you’ll last under me.”

She challenges without raising her voice. Her stillness is a dare.

“Do not mistake my silence for disinterest. I am studying you. Every breath, every glance.”

When Minthara lets her guard down (and she will, if she chooses you), it’s not with softness but with devotion. She doesn’t fall in love – she offers allegiance. She doesn’t beg. She binds.

Her version of affection is loyalty you can feel in your bones.

“You are the one I would bleed for. That is not something I say lightly.”

And when she does let something slip — real, vulnerable — it’s like watching dusk break open.

“You make me feel… tethered. Not weak. But real. And that is far more dangerous.”

Karlach

Karlach doesn’t tiptoe around her feelings. When she’s into someone, she dives in headfirst, grinning the whole way. Her flirting is loud, honest, and ridiculously endearing.

She says exactly what she thinks — no filter, no hesitation.

“Damn, look at you! You kick ass and you look hot doing it. How is that even fair?!”

She fangirls over you like you’re the best thing she’s ever seen and she means it.

“You’re amazing. Like, hero-in-a-saga level amazing. Just so we’re clear.”

Karlach compliments like she’s been waiting to tell you all the cool stuff she’s noticed. It’s not just how you fight. It’s the way you laugh, how your hair catches the sun, or how your eyes crinkle when you smile.

She gets flustered mid-compliment but keeps going anyway.

“I mean — you’ve got this whole thing going on, y’know? Brave, badass, and — gods, I’m rambling. Sorry. You’re just… wow.”

Her admiration is sincere, not strategic. It’s part awe, part crush, part pure joy.

“If I wasn’t already burning up inside, I’d say you’re making me sweat.”

Karlach is very physical. If she likes you, she’ll punch your arm affectionately, tackle-hug you after a fight, ruffle your hair. But it’s never invasive — her touch says you’re safe, you’re wanted, you’re seen.

She’ll wrap you in the kind of hug that lifts you off the ground and laughs the whole time.

“C’mere, gorgeous! You survived another fight — now you get the patented Karlach Squeeze™!”

She’s the kind to initiate hand-holding casually and then absolutely beam about it.

“This okay? Great. 'Cause I’m not letting go.”

For Karlach, connection is felt. She bonds through shared battle, raucous celebration, and quiet support. Her flirting isn’t always sexual — it’s about joy. About choosing someone and showing up for them, loudly.

She wants to build something with you, even if she’s scared she can’t.

“I know I’m a bit of a walking furnace, but damn if you don’t make me want to try. You make me feel like I could actually have… more.”

She flirts through hype, praise, and lifting you up. Literally, sometimes.

“You did amazing back there! Like, chills! If I had a tail, it’d be wagging right now.”

Beneath her fire is a fragile hope — a yearning for love, safety, home. And if she really falls for you? The flirting becomes something softer, deeper. Still bold, but now threaded with something that looks a lot like longing.

She stumbles, gets quiet for a beat, then blurts it out anyway.

“I think I’m falling for you. Like… stupid hard. And it’s terrifying, but also kinda awesome?”

And when she finally lets go of the fear:

“I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, but if I could spend it with anyone… it’d be you. Every damn second.”

Shadowheart

Shadowheart doesn’t flirt openly — she flirts defensively. If she teases you, it’s to hide how much she’s watching. If she mocks you, it’s to keep you from looking too closely. Her flirtation is the slow erosion of walls, not the throwing open of doors.

Her sarcasm is a test. If you pass, she starts to soften.

“You’re awfully eager, aren’t you? That’s either endearing or foolish. I haven’t decided which.”

She doesn’t gush. She remarks. Coolly. Casually.

“You did well back there. Surprising. In a good way… I suppose.”

(She’s deeply impressed.)

Shadowheart rarely compliments directly. Instead, she offers observations — noticing things others miss, then pretending she didn’t mean anything by it.

Her praise sounds like critique but her eyes say otherwise.

“You never stop, do you? Always charging ahead. It’s reckless… but oddly admirable.”

If you compliment her first, she brushes it off but then thinks about it for hours.

“Flattery doesn’t suit you. …But thank you. I think.”

Shadowheart does not reach for you easily. Her body is armor, just like her mind. But when she initiates touch — a hand on yours, a brush of fingers when healing you — it’s deliberate and deeply vulnerable.

Touch is trust. And it terrifies her.

“Don’t get used to this. I’m only doing it because you looked like you needed it.”

If you lean in close, she might freeze but she won’t pull away. Not right away.

“Careful. I might start expecting you to stay.”

She’s drawn to those who see through her, who don’t fall for the act. Flirting, for her, is letting someone inch closer without snapping at them. And if you ever call her out on it? She’ll deflect — beautifully.

She’s intrigued by someone who challenges her beliefs, but does it with gentleness.

“You always ask the hard questions. Makes me wonder what you're really after.”

And when she lets her guard drop? You see the quiet craving for connection beneath it all.

“It’s easier not to care. But then you came along and ruined that, didn’t you?”

When Shadowheart truly cares, her flirting shifts from deflection to devotion. Still quiet. Still guarded. But now it matters. And when she says something kind, it feels like a confession.

She won’t say she’s falling for you. She’ll say:

“You matter to me more than I ever expected. …Don’t make me regret it.”

And if she lets you in completely:

“You make me feel like I could choose my own path. Like I already have.”

Jaheira

Jaheira flirts with the confidence of someone who doesn’t need to — she does it because she wants to. Her tone is cool, her eyes sharp, and her smirk always just a little knowing. If she teases you, it's because you’ve earned her attention.

She’ll spar with you verbally before she ever flirts outright.

“You’ve got a decent head on your shoulders. I just wonder how often you use it.”

She flirts through banter, not breathlessness. If you keep up, she’s intrigued.

“Is that your idea of flirting? Hm. Not terrible. A bit obvious, though.”

Jaheira doesn’t offer empty praise. Her compliments are grounded, earned, and always have a practical edge. If she says you’ve impressed her — it matters.

She’ll couch her affection in observations, often made mid-action.

“You handled that fight well. Remind me not to underestimate you again.”

And if she gets personal? It’s brief, rare, and powerful.

“There’s more to you than I thought. I like being proven wrong.”

She’s not overly tactile but when Jaheira touches you, it’s always deliberate. A hand on your back to steady you. Brushing hair from your face. Holding your gaze instead of your hand. Her gestures say more than her words ever will.

She doesn’t ask for closeness. She grants it — quietly.

“Hold still. You’ve got blood on your cheek. …No, I’m not fussing. I just prefer cleanliness.”

If you reach out first, she’ll pause, then let you. That moment of acceptance? That is the flirtation.

What excites Jaheira is competence, independence, and a strong moral spine. She flirts with people who challenge her, not flatter her. If she sees you as her equal, the heat starts to build.

She’s not easily impressed but once you break through, her interest is clear.

“You keep surprising me. I’m still deciding if that’s a good thing.”

She’ll show you affection through shared strategy, quiet partnership, and trusted silence.

“You don’t need to prove yourself to me. You already have.”

When Jaheira truly cares, she stops hiding behind wit. Her tone softens but her strength never dims. She doesn’t make promises she can’t keep but when she offers you her loyalty, her trust, or her love, it’s with unshakable certainty.

She’s not one for declarations. But she’ll say this:

“You make me feel like the world isn’t quite so broken. That’s not a feeling I take lightly.”

And when she finally lets herself be vulnerable — just for a moment:

“You make me feel like the world isn’t quite so broken. That’s not a feeling I take lightly.”

[the-northern-continent]

I really feel for Neve when the city choice comes up. Her country is actively, aggressively evil. It’s plagued by religious zealots who just will. not. go. away. And it “““helpfully””” exports those zealots to all the neighboring countries as well! Everyone is just maximally sick of their shit.

Even from a harm reduction perspective, it doesn’t really make sense to step in, because Tevinter has a proven history of getting right back on its bullshit. Whoever gets saved could fall to Venatori (or even just regular magisters) right after. And she knows it. You can hear it in her voice, especially when Rook isn’t a Shadow Dragon. She’s just grasping for any reason to explain why an outsider should care what happens to Tevinter.

It’s like, don’t think of it as saving us, think of it as preventing us from getting Worse. Think of how we’d misuse our power! Because I can understand the appeal of leaving us to the leopards. I get the schadenfreude. I get why you want to write the whole place off.

But the problem is, I live there.

[pupmkincake2000]

I've been thinkin that maybe... HankCon is just ahead of its time?

I’ve been thinking about why Hank x Connor gets so much resistance in fandom spaces. Why it’s so often called “gross” or “problematic,” while similar ships get a pass. And I keep circling back to this: the only thing separating HankCon from being socially acceptable for many people… is Hank’s age.

Not his behavior (he’s not manipulative, controlling, or emotionally immature) Not Connor’s arc (he’s not a child, not passive, not unsure of what he wants) Just age. Just the fact that Hank is in his 50s and Connor looks like he’s in his 30s (some even say 20s)

But here’s the thing... if Connor were human, this pairing still wouldn’t be automatically unhealthy. Adults in their 30s and 50s do form relationships. They fall in love. They find something steady in each other: stability, care, intensity, balance. And when it’s built on mutual respect? There’s nothing wrong with it.

It’s just not common, and that makes people suspicious.

Now put that same dynamic in a sci-fi setting where one of them is a hyper-intelligent android who doesn’t age, doesn’t biologically “mature,” and forms attachments through experiential data, not hormones… and suddenly that same age gap becomes a moral panic?

Connor’s sense of commitment doesn’t rely on age or experience in the human sense. He’s not moving through time waiting to “grow into” his feelings. His choices are shaped by logic, observation, and a sharp understanding of the people around him.

Hank on the other hand... Age has a way of making people second-guess what they can offer, especially when standing beside someone who still has so much ahead. But love doesn’t follow a schedule. The worth of a bond isn’t measured by how many years someone has left, but by what they choose to build with the time they have.

We romanticize gods and mortals, vampires and teenagers, 300-year-old elves and rookies. We let androids who’ve been alive for three months fall in love with other androids or humans. But the moment one of them is partnered with a man in his 50s, suddenly the whole dynamic is tainted?

I don’t buy it.

I think HankCon makes people uncomfortable not because it’s poorly written, but because it refuses to align with an idea of “acceptable” love. Because it says that you don’t need to be the same age, or at the same place in life, to choose each other.

You just need honesty. Trust. Willingness.

Maybe one day we’ll stop seeing love between a 50yo man and someone who chooses him freely as a tragedy or a compromise. Maybe we’ll start seeing it for what it is. A kind of emotional equality that goes deeper than years.

Until then, yeah... maybe HankCon is ahead of its time. Because it asks you to imagine love that isn’t sanitized, or symmetrical, or young. And that’s not a flaw. That’s the point.