#it's just bad. like it's a bad movie. it's bad writing

[cumironi]

I’VE GOT YOU, BABY jjk men

feat. gojo geto nanami toji sukuna shiu higuruma

sum. they thought it would be a normal night. playful bickering, eat dinner together, maybe makeout session while you two are giggling like a lovesick fool. but heart cancer? stage 3? yeah, not on their bingo cards.

warning. non-sorcerer jjk men! 23 you & 31 them, established relationships, heart cancer, death mentioned, bit angst to comfort, fluff, and not very heart warming.

GOJO SATORU

he was supposed to be in meeting.

supposed to be.

but instead he was dramatically sprawled on the couch in your apartment, shirt half-buttoned, socks mismatched, one leg hanging off the edge like he was modeling for an early 2000s teen magazine. blue eyes flicked up from your coffee table, where your textbooks were open and your laptop screen glowed with your thesis draft. he had the attention span of a goldfish, and you were used to it by now. what you weren’t used to was the man pausing mid-ramble about how coffee shops should have loyalty programs that give hugs instead of free drinks, the moment you slid the envelope across the table toward him.

“what’s this? did you finally write me a love letter?” he grinned, picking it up and waving it. “wait—let me guess, you’ve confessed your undying love for my devastatingly good looks and impeccable fashion sense. i knew the mismatched socks would win you over.”

you smirked, resting your chin in your hand. “close,” you said. “just my medical results. fun lil update from my body.”

he blinked. the paper unfolded in his hands, and for once, he was quiet. his eyes moved faster than usual. you could feel the shift in the air. from playful to something dense. cold. heavy.

he read the words again.

“stage 3, heart cancer… twenty-four percent chance to live…”

“i know, right? guess my cells just got bored of behaving,” you laughed. it was too loud. too sudden. too wrong. “could be 24% chance or survival. maybe 50%. depending on how charming i am in the oncology department.”

you force a shaky laugh. “guess i must’ve loved you too much. my heart couldn’t take it.”

for a beat, there’s nothing. nothing.

it’s a joke. a bad one. a last-ditch attempt to soften the punch. your eyes betray you anyway — tears sparkle at the corners like broken glass, and the tremble in your fingers doesn’t go unnoticed.

“shut up,” he whispered. not in his usual joking way. his voice cracked at the edge, like he’d bitten into something sour and was trying not to spit it out.

you shrugged, crossing your legs like you were just talking about the weather. “i’m still hot though, right? at least if i kick the bucket, i’m going down with great cheekbones.”

“no. nope. return to sender. i don’t accept this bullshit,” he murmurs, voice cracking through the sarcasm. “you don’t get to pull the tragic heroine card on me. that’s my thing.”

you try to laugh. “so dramatic…”

“i’m the drama. not you. you’re the soft, pretty, sunshine type who cries during dog movies and hogs the bed. you’re not allowed to die. i won’t allow it. i’ll— i’ll—”

“you’ll what, kiss it better?” you tease.

“why the fuck would you joke about this?” his voice rose. panic behind the volume. the paper in his hand crumpled a little.

“because if i don’t, i’ll start crying,” you replied, softer now. looking at him with tired eyes. “and i really, really don’t wanna cry in front of you. you’d never let me live it down.”

“you idiot,” he breathed out, standing up so fast the coffee table shook. his hands were trembling. he paced once. twice. then suddenly dropped to his knees in front of you like gravity had yanked him down.

“you’re not going to die,” he said. like a promise. like a threat to the universe. “i’ll fight death himself. with my sunglasses. and sarcasm. and maybe a bazooka.”

you blinked. “you don’t know that.”

he grabbed your hands, clutching them so tightly you could feel how cold his were. “you think you can drop something like this on me and then just—laugh about it? you think that’s fair? i love you, you dumbass.”

you looked down at him. this ridiculous, beautiful man kneeling like you’d just proposed marriage instead of dropped a medical bombshell.

you sniff, smile crookedly. “i love you too.”

he grins, forehead pressed to yours. “good. you’ll fit right in with the chaos i’ve got planned for your recovery. step one: we replace your heart with mine. step two: we break into a hospital and demand glitter IVs. step three: we live. got it? we’re gonna fight this. i don’t care if i have to bribe, blackmail, or bend space-time — you’re staying with me. you’re not allowed to leave.”

you choke out a laugh against his shoulder. “that’s a pretty bold threat to make to the universe.”

“you think i won’t square up with the universe?” he pulls back, eyes shining with something wild and terrified and real. “i’ll fight fate with one hand and spoon-feed you pudding with the other.”

you look at him, tears falling freely now, and he smiles — a little broken, a little soft.

“besides,” he adds, voice trembling as he kisses the corner of your mouth, “you still owe me like, twenty dates. and my hoodies back.”

he stared at you.

you smiled. a little cracked. a little crooked. “worth it.”

“i swear to god,” he growled, burying his face in your lap. “if you die, i’m haunting your ghost just to yell at you.”

you ran your fingers through his hair. soft. familiar. he was shaking. he didn’t want you to see. “you’re not going to die,” he whispered again, like if he repeated it enough times, it would rewrite your diagnosis.

“but if i do,” you said gently, voice steady for both of you, “please keep wearing mismatched socks for me. preferably ugly ones. the uglier, the better.”

he lifted his head and kissed your knuckles. then your palm. then your wrist. like he could map your pulse, hold onto it, anchor it. i’m gonna annoy every doctor on this planet if that’s what it takes,” he muttered. “i’m gonna sit in every waiting room and argue with every nurse and—”

“you’re already annoying,” you smiled, brushing tears off his cheek. “just keep being you, toru. okay?”

he choked out a laugh. a real one. raw and messy and breaking. “yeah,” he said, pulling you into his arms. “okay. but just so you know—if you think i’m gonna let you go without a fight, you’re really underestimating how stubborn i am.”

and you believed him.

because it was satoru gojo.

and he was chaos and comfort and love in human form.

GETO SUGURU

you didn’t expect him to come over tonight.

he had been buried in work lately—endless stacks of logistics and community events and trying to solve the world’s problems like he didn’t already carry the weight of it on his shoulders. so when he texted you “omw. bring that pouty face I like,” you assumed he was just being his usual flirty self. nothing serious.

you didn’t expect to be sitting on your bedroom floor in an oversized hoodie with a manila envelope on your lap, legs tucked beneath you, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you heard the familiar knock-knock-knock. two beats, then one. his rhythm.

he walked in with a drink carrier balanced in one hand and a bouquet of flowers that looked like they were arranged by a man who walked into the shop and said “whatever she’ll like, just make it look expensive.” his eyes lit up the second they saw you, and he gave you that half-lidded smile that made it look like he knew every secret about you.

“what’s with the envelope, babe?” he asked as he kicked his shoes off and slid beside you on the floor. “you trying to sue me for being too good-looking? because guilty as charged.”

you snorted. “nah, i’d win that case against gojo way faster.”

“mm, true.” he nudged your knee with his. “what is it then?”

you clear your throat and drop the letter dramatically on the floor next to him like it’s a bomb. “got a broken heart. me. officially. medically. romantically tragic.”

geto raises a brow, gaze drifting from the letter to you. “did i forget an anniversary again? that sounds serious.”

giving him a lazy smile. “worse. i’m in a love triangle with death and a statistics chart.”

you handed it over. said nothing after.

he cocked an eyebrow but took it. slid the letter out like he was opening one of your essays. started reading.

his smile dropped.

his breath caught.

and for once—suguru geto didn’t say anything.

he finished the page. eyes moving over the last line again. and again. his fingers curled around the edge of the letter so tightly it crinkled.

you felt like vomiting.

“stage 3, heart cancer,” you said lightly. like it was the weather. like you’d just found out the vending machine was out of your favorite chips. “only twenty-five percent chance of making it. which is still, like, a quarter! that’s one out of four. i’ve played worse odds at those arcade claw machines. like flipping a coin with feelings.”

“don’t—” his voice was hoarse. “don’t joke about this.”

“why not?” you forced a grin. “i thought you liked my dark humor.”

he turned to you so fast, your smile faltered.

“i do,” he said, barely a whisper. “but not when it’s hiding how scared you are.”

and that was the worst part. the way he saw through you. you looked away. bit your tongue. tried to force another joke but your throat closed up and it never made it out. “you should be crying,” he said softly. “you should be screaming. you should be throwing things or cursing god or making me carry you everywhere like a princess.”

“yeah well,” you mumbled. “you’ve always liked me better when i’m quiet.”

“don’t say that.” his hand cupped your cheek, turning your face toward him. “don’t ever say that.”

you blinked. his thumb wiped away something you didn’t realize had fallen.

“baby—”

“i’m going to be here for all of it,” he said firmly. his voice steady, even if his hands trembled. “chemo. surgeries. crying fits. mood swings. i’ll buy you every stupid snack craving you have, i’ll hold your hair back if you puke, i’ll even let satoru come over if you’re bored enough to tolerate him.”

“wow,” you said, voice thick. “must really love me if you’re willing to suffer through that.”

he laughed, but it cracked halfway through. he leaned in and kissed your forehead. your nose. your cheeks. slow. deliberate. like he was memorizing your face before the world dared to change it.

“you’re the love of my life,” he murmured against your skin. “and i don’t care what percentage the doctors give. you’re not leaving me.”

you tried to joke again. to keep it light. but when he pulled you into his arms and held you like you were made of glass and might disappear if he didn’t hold tight enough—

you broke.

and he just let you.

silent. steady. his hand rubbing circles into your back. his voice a whisper. “i’ve got you, baby. every step. every breath. we’re fighting this. together.”

NANAMI KENTO

he was never one for surprises.

nanami lived his life in clean lines and structured time—an adult in every sense of the word. the kind of man who folded his clothes before bed, who ironed your uniforms when you were too tired, who always had a clock running in his head. you were chaos in comparison. soft blankets thrown over chairs, tea mugs with lipstick smudges left by your bedside, textbooks covered in doodles. yet somehow, you and him had always fit together like an odd, unlikely pair.

tonight, he showed up exactly at 7:00 p.m.

punctual, like always.

“i brought you dinner,” he said, holding up two paper bags. “i made sure it’s from that place you like with the spicy tofu you claim doesn’t make you cry but always does.”

you smiled, opening the door wider for him. “ah, you remembered. see? you do love me.”

he gave you a flat look, setting the bags on your kitchen counter. “i tell you every day. if you need evidence beyond that, i can start writing it down in your planner.”

“ooh, planner declarations of love? sounds sexy.”

he gave a soft, almost-smile. you could tell he’d had a long day. the way he rolled his sleeves up, undid the top two buttons of his shirt, and sighed like he was finally somewhere safe. you wanted so badly to keep it peaceful. to let him enjoy one evening without—

but the envelope sat on the kitchen table. taunting you.

“ken,” you said softly, “before we eat… can you read something?”

his brow furrowed. “is this another one of your thesis drafts? i told you i am not proofreading any more literary analyses about how tragic men are secretly hot—”

“it’s not,” you said, quieter this time.

he walked over. saw the envelope. took it wordlessly.

you watched him read. nanami read carefully—line by line. never skimmed. never rushed. so it took longer. you could hear the second his breath changed. shallow. barely audible. then it stopped altogether.

he didn’t speak. didn’t ask questions. he simply folded the letter back up and set it down with precision. like it was something sacred. dangerous.

“why didn’t you call me when you got this?” he asked, voice low. serious. his control was razor sharp, but you could hear the grief pressing against his throat.

“i… didn’t want you to leave work in the middle of a meeting,” you muttered. “and i didn’t wanna cry about it either. figured i’d tell you in person. like a grown-up.”

“stage 3, heart cancer is not something you break like a casual news update,” he snapped—then immediately closed his eyes, sighing. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

“it’s okay,” you said, wrapping your arms around yourself. “i figured you’d be mad.”

“i’m not mad,” he said, walking around the table toward you. “i’m terrified.”

“it’s still there,” you whispered. “it’s just… fuzzy now. like a dream i can’t quite remember when i wake up.”

you looked up at him. that composed, unshakable man. and for the first time in a long time, nanami looked lost. “you’re young,” he said, almost to himself. “you’re in college. you have plans. you talk about the future like it’s something guaranteed.”

“you really mean that?” your voice cracked.

his jaw clenched. he pulled you into his chest, his hands pressing against your back, like he could physically hold you together. you could feel how hard he was trying not to fall apart. “then i’ll remember it for you,” he said quietly. “your future. your dreams. if you forget them… i’ll carry them until you can take them back.”

“of course,” he said, resting his chin on your head. “you’re the love of my life. i didn’t choose you for convenience. i chose you because i wanted every part of your life—good and bad. if this is what we’re facing now… then we face it. together.”

you buried your face in his chest, inhaling that familiar scent of bergamot and black tea. the comfort of his heartbeat. the way he was always so steady, even when the world wasn’t.

“but just so we’re clear,” he said, pulling back slightly to look at you, “you’re not going to die. not anytime soon. not before i make you my wife.”

you blinked. “wait—what?”

“i’m not proposing,” he said flatly. “not while you’re crying. but you should know… that’s where this was always headed.”

your tears doubled. “ken—”

“shh,” he kissed your temple. “we’ll talk about it after dinner. and after you stop pretending tofu doesn’t make you sob like a child.”

you laughed. you couldn’t help it.

and for the first time since getting the diagnosis, you let yourself feel safe.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

toji was already lounging on your couch when you got home.

shirt half unbuttoned, legs spread like he owned the place—which, okay, he kind of did at this point, considering how often he crashed here. one arm slung over the back of the couch, the other nursing a can of beer he probably picked up on the way over. he didn’t look up when you walked in, just tilted his head slightly and smirked like he could smell the anxiety radiating off you.

“you look like shit,” he said casually, eyes still on the muted TV.

“thanks, baby,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door. “your romantic side is really showing today.”

“you want romance, go read a damn poem.” he finally looked at you. eyes narrowing. “you okay?”

you shrugged and walked into the kitchen, not answering. you knew that tone in his voice. low. suspicious. the kind he only used when he felt something off and didn’t like it one bit.

you took your time. poured a glass of water. leaned against the counter. stared at the envelope in your hand like it might explode if you set it down.

“toji,” you called.

“hm?”

“can you come here?”

he groaned dramatically but stood, beer in hand, and sauntered into the kitchen. he leaned against the counter across from you, expression unreadable. he scanned your face like he was piecing something together.

you handed him the envelope without a word.

he took it. read it.

you watched every flicker of emotion pass through his face. confusion. stillness. a furrowed brow. the tightening of his jaw. and then—rage. not loud. not messy. quiet. slow-burning. the kind that sat in his chest like a bomb with no timer.

he didn’t say anything at first.

just set the envelope down and looked at you. dead in the eye.

“how long have you known?”

“just a few days.”

“and you didn’t tell me?” his voice was low. flat.

you sighed. “i didn’t want to see your face like this.”

“like what?”

“like the world ended.”

he stepped closer. his voice dropped even lower.

“you think i give a fuck about the world?” he said slowly. “i care about you. you think you can just carry this shit alone and joke your way through it? you think that’s cute?”

“i didn’t want you to panic,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze. “i didn’t want to cry. or make it real. if i said it out loud—”

“then i’ll say it for you,” he interrupted. “you have heart cancer. stage 3. twenty-four percent odds. and guess what?”

you finally looked at him.

“we’re beating the shit outta those odds.”

you blinked. “what?”

he crossed the distance between you and pulled you into him. his grip wasn’t gentle—it was grounding. like he needed to feel your heartbeat against his chest to believe you were still here.

“you’re not dying on me,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? i’ve lost enough people. you’re not going to be one of them. i’ll chain you to the damn bed if i have to. feed you. fight the doctors. i don’t care.”

“toji—”

“nah, shut up. you’re not allowed to talk until you admit i’m right and that i’m hotter than your oncologist.”

you choked out a laugh. “okay. you’re right. you’re hotter than any man with a medical license.”

“damn straight,” he muttered, lips brushing your forehead. “we’re getting through this. and i don’t care if you lose your hair or your strength or your mind a little bit along the way. you’ll still be mine. all of you.”

you didn’t say anything. didn’t need to. you just stood there with his arms around you, the only place that felt like home when everything else felt like hell.

he kissed the side of your head and sighed. “fuck. now i gotta start acting like a responsible adult.”

“guess you better start taking your vitamins, old man.”

“if i die before you, i’m haunting your ass. every time you try to pee, i’ll slam a cabinet door.”

you burst out laughing. crying. something in between. he held you tighter.

“that’s better,” he muttered. “cry in my arms like a normal person, not in the shower like a movie heroine.”

and just like that, you knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

you found him in the bedroom, stretched across your bed like a damn king—which, technically, he insisted he was. shirtless, as usual. arms behind his head, eyes closed, expression too calm for a man with a bloodstained past and a mouth as foul as his reputation. the room smelled faintly like sandalwood and your shampoo, which he secretly used but would never admit to.

you stood in the doorway with the envelope clenched in your hand.

“oi, sukuna.”

his eyes cracked open, one brow lazily lifting. “what, brat? come to beg for kisses or annoy me until i carry you to class again?”

you forced a grin, walking in slowly. “tempting, but no. i’ve got something for you.”

“better be food or something perverted.”

you sat beside him, the envelope now shaking a little in your fingers. you hated how that tremor betrayed you. sukuna didn’t miss it. his eyes shifted to your hand, narrowing.

“what the hell is that?”

“diagnosis,” you said simply, tossing it onto his chest.

he caught it midair, scoffing. “what, did they finally diagnose you with being insufferable?”

“close. heart cancer. stage three. they gave me a twenty-four percent chance of living.” you tried to say it lightly. like it was a weather report. “cloudy with a chance of death, haha.”

sukuna didn’t laugh.

his eyes scanned the page. slower than usual. and his silence—it wasn’t dramatic, it was dangerous. the air felt like it thickened. you could almost hear his jaw clench.

“tch,” he scoffed. “twenty-four percent? what a bunch of weaklings. you don’t need their odds. you’ve got me.”

you blinked at him. “...you?”

“yeah. i’m keeping you alive. i’m not letting you leave me over some pathetic little tumor.”

you tried to keep the smile on your face, tried to keep the mood light like you always did. “damn. here i was thinking i’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

he sat up then—so suddenly the bed shifted with the force. his hand gripped your chin, tilting your face toward him, his expression unreadable but his eyes blazing.

“don’t you dare joke about dying,” he growled. “not to me. not when you know what it would do to me.“

you tried to look away, but his fingers held you still. “sukuna…”

“do you know what i’ve done to people who’ve left me?” he whispered, and for once his voice wasn’t teasing—it was trembling.

“terrible things,” you murmured. “you’ve told me.”

“and yet, you’re the only one i’ve ever let touch me without blood on your hands,” he hissed. “the only one i’d share my bed with. laugh with. let sleep on my chest like some damn lovesick fool.”

you bit your lip. your bravado cracked. “...i’m scared.”

and that was all it took for him to pull you into his lap, arms winding around you with the kind of desperation he rarely ever let surface.

“good,” he muttered into your shoulder. “you should be. but not because of death. because if you think i’ll let you go through this alone, you clearly don’t know who the hell you’re dating.”

you buried your face into his neck, breathing in his warmth, his scent, the familiar thrum of something ancient and furious living in his chest.

“you’ll lose your hair?” he murmured. “i don’t care. you’ll puke every day? i’ll hold the damn bucket. cry at three a.m.? i’ll cuss out the moon for looking at you wrong.”

you choked out a laugh. “the moon, huh?”

“fucking moon thinks it’s allowed to shine on you while you’re in pain? not on my watch.”

he leaned back slightly, cupping your cheek now with uncharacteristic softness. “you don’t need to act strong for me, you little brat. cry. scream. sleep for days. whatever you need. i’ll be here.”

“...even when i look like a zombie?”

“you already look half-dead when you wake up. won’t be much of a change.”

you smacked his chest. he grinned.

and then he pressed his forehead against yours, a rare show of intimacy, his voice dropping so low you barely caught it:

“you’re mine. and i don’t give a fuck if it takes all my strength, my fury, my everything. you will survive this. not because the doctors said so. but because i won’t let you die.”

and for once, even with your heart breaking and your future uncertain, you believed him.

because when a monster like sukuna swore something, the universe listened.

SHIU KONG

the sun was already setting by the time you made it to his office.

you found him exactly how you expected: sleeves rolled up, shirt slightly wrinkled, tie loosened like he’d been too busy all day to care about appearances. he was hunched over his desk, fingers typing something sharp, probably threatening someone with policy violations and scary legal jargon. a half-empty glass of whiskey sat beside his monitor, untouched for hours. the room smelled like cologne and stress.

you stood in the doorway, clutching the envelope.

“shiu.”

his eyes didn’t lift right away—just one flick of them toward you, annoyed, until he saw your face. that was all it took.

he straightened. “what happened?”

“nothing,” you said too quickly. “or, i mean... something. yeah. i brought you something.”

you walked in, trying to act normal. like this wasn’t going to detonate his whole night. you placed the envelope on top of a stack of case files like it was a stupid postcard or a coupon for pizza.

he picked it up, his frown deepening with every line he read.

“you’re joking,” he said flatly.

“i wish.”

he looked at you. hard. no emotion at first—just that sharp, calculating gaze that made grown men fold. but you knew him too well. you saw the cracks right away: his fingers tightening around the paper. the twitch in his jaw. the breath he held too long before letting it out.

“stage three?” he said. “twenty-four percent survival?”

you leaned against the wall, arms crossed, trying to keep it light.

“well, if i was a stock, you probably wouldn't invest in me, huh?”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped.

you blinked.

“jesus, shiu, calm down—”

“no. i’m not calming down. you walk into my office with this,” he shook the letter, “and joke about it? you think this is funny? you think i can just read this and go back to work?”

you stayed quiet.

he stood up, pacing now. one hand dragging through his hair, the other still holding the paper like it was covered in blood. his voice dropped low. rough.

“why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“i didn’t want to ruin your week.”

he turned slowly. "you think any of this matters if you’re not in it?"

that one hit harder than you expected. your throat tightened.

he sighed harshly and stepped toward you, eyes dark, voice steadier now but no less intense. “look at me.”

you did.

he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was trying to memorize every inch.

"you don’t get to carry this alone,” he said. “not with me around. not for a second."

you bit your lip. “i didn’t want you to treat me like i was dying.”

“i’m not treating you like you’re dying. i’m treating you like you’re mine. and you are. and i don’t care how brutal this fight gets, how many appointments we sit through, how sick you get, how tired—i’m staying.”

you exhaled shakily, and his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you against him like he could keep the sickness away just by holding you tighter.

“you’re not allowed to go before me,” he murmured into your hair. “i’m the old one here, remember?”

you smiled weakly. “so what, you’re giving me permission to outlive you?”

“i’m giving you orders. and you always listen to your boss.”

“you’re not my boss, shiu.”

“wanna bet?”

you leaned your head against his chest, finally letting your tears soak into his shirt. his arms stayed locked around you like a shield.

“i’m scared,” you whispered.

he kissed your temple, voice rough and sure.

“then be scared. just don’t be alone.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

he always stayed up too late when he was working. piles of case files, half-drunk cups of green tea gone cold, classical music humming low in the background like it could drown out the weight of the world. the desk lamp lit his tired eyes in soft gold, his brows furrowed in that focused way you knew meant he hadn’t even noticed the time—or eaten.

you hovered at the doorway for a second, gripping the envelope. stage 3. 24%. ugly numbers typed in a clinical font that suddenly felt louder than the damn music.

“hiromi.”

he glanced up, his features instantly softening the second he saw you. “you’re still up. what’s wrong?”

you tried to smirk. “well. i’m about to ruin your night. so buckle in, counselor.”

he frowned and pushed his chair back, straightening. “what happened?”

you crossed the room, placed the envelope down in front of him like you were handing in an assignment. “that’s my diagnosis.”

he didn’t move for a few seconds. just stared at it. like touching it would confirm the dread blooming in his chest. but he opened it, scanned the words, and then—

his shoulders stiffened. just slightly. like a man being sentenced.

“heart cancer,” he murmured, voice almost too calm. “stage three. twenty-four percent survival rate.”

“yeah,” you said with a dry chuckle. “bit dramatic, right? could’ve given me a 30% for optimism.”

his eyes snapped up to yours, unreadable.

“you’re making jokes?”

“if i don’t, i’ll cry. and i figured one of us should hold it together.”

his jaw tensed, and he stood slowly, walking around the desk with a kind of methodical grace that always made your heart skip. he stopped in front of you, one hand resting on your cheek like he was scared you’d vanish.

“you’ve known… how long?”

“got the results a few days ago.”

“and you didn’t tell me?”

you looked down. “i didn’t want to be the reason you stopped working. you’ve got enough to deal with. i didn’t want to be another case file on your desk.”

he flinched like you slapped him.

“you’re not a case file,” he said firmly. “you’re not just another name. you’re—” his voice broke, just a little. “you’re everything.”

you couldn’t hold it anymore. your voice cracked. “i’m scared.”

his arms were around you instantly, firm and grounding. his hand cupped the back of your head, pressing you into his chest like you belonged there and only there.

“then be scared,” he whispered into your hair. “and i’ll be scared with you. but don’t think for a second i’ll let you go through this alone.”

you held onto his blazer, gripping the fabric like it could anchor you. “i don’t want you to see me fall apart.”

“i’ve seen people fall apart,” he said. “i know what that looks like. this isn’t that. this is you being brave. this is you still showing up, still standing, even when you're hurting.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glassy. “what if i die?”

his hand slid to your cheek, thumb brushing a tear away. “then i’ll have spent every last day making sure you knew you were loved. and if you live—and you will, because you’re stronger than any verdict—they’ll write books about how you told death to wait.”

you laughed through the tears. “that’s a little dramatic, even for a lawyer.”

he smiled, just barely. “i learned from the best.”

and then he kissed you—soft, reverent, like a man clinging to hope.

“we’ll fight this,” he whispered. “and i’ll be with you every step of the way. suits and all.”

i made this after re-watch now is good and just can’t help myself. i know, i know it was basic, classic drama, the girl is sick, has cancer, everyone wrote about it, i know. but i enjoy writing this so much, i may or may not make a mini series about them, do you guys will enjoy it if i make this longer? please let me know! 🫣

[l-starsz]

a/n: finally got around to this😛 i hope this is good, i got a bit carried away writing this.. also it won’t let me tag so i left the @ in🥲 (also last request done!!! still not taking any rn though since i still have loads added to my list of things i need to write and post😋)

billie knew how to get a girl. and it showed. she knew the right things to say and when to say them. although she hadn’t been with many girls, she knew the right way to get a girl without making her uncomfortable. and that’s what she did to me.

i’d had men approach me in the past who definitely didn’t know how to properly make a girl feel right, let alone treat one right. but there was something about billie. probably because she was a girl herself, but i could tell that i wouldn’t regret getting her number. she was sweet, and caring, and she knew that. she knew that she could probably get any girl she wanted with just a few simple words.

from that night forward, billie and i talked a lot, and ended up being friends. but there was always something more there. i fell for her the night i saw her, but i didn’t want her to know that. there were obviously feeling on her part too, though.

like the time i told her i’d never actually had an orgasm when someone touched me. i’d been fucked before, but not well. the people i’d been with just waited until they came, and didn’t bother about me. and billie took it upon herself to advise me i guess? well it was more like an offer to help me out. i laughed it off, i thought she was joking, but then she added onto her words.

“baby, when you need the job done, you can call me.” it was a whisper, but loud enough for me to hear.

my cheeks turned pink and i attempted to change the conversation, but her words lingered in the back of my mind. since i didn’t know she liked me back, i was trying so hard to forget about her. i tried talking to people, but they weren’t like her. i even tried to push her away, but it didn’t work. we had plans, and i could barely cope without her.

the day came, i was seeing her for the first time in a while. i’d missed her. and i felt so bad for pushing her away. i was just finishing getting ready when i heard her car revving outside. i knew the sound of her car. i knew it was her. i was going to her house just to hang out for a while, but she insisted on picking me up.

i ran downstairs and after locking my door, i hopped into her car with a smile on my face.

“hi bil!!” i smiled, hugging her tight, and as best i could sitting down, before buckling my seatbelt.

“hey angel! i’ve missed you.” she pouted and pulled off the curb.

“i missed you so much more.” i giggled, leaning back slightly in my seat.

we spoke for a few minutes before i mentioned something.

“it’s so difficult finding good people around here. i swear things will be going well then all of a sudden they’re either a horrible person, or they can’t be bothered to make me finish.” i rolled my eyes and crossed my arms.

“well you know that if you’ve never had the one, you can call me, baby.” she smirked, one hand on the wheel and the other on the gear shifter.

of course, my cheeks turned pink again, just like the last time she said something like this. the day went smooth after that, we watched movies, had dinner together, and when it was getting a little late, she drove me home again. i told her i’d get a taxi, but she wouldn’t accept that, she wanted to drive me home.

when i’d got into the house, i immediately showered, trying to clear my mind. i needed her so bad. i couldn’t get her to leave my mind. when i finished my shower, i did some self care, and immediately got into bed. my favourite tv show was calling to me when i turned my tv on, but even with it playing i couldn’t get her words to leave my mind.

when it reached 1am and her words still hadn’t left me, i knew to the only option was to call her. i was soaked just thinking about her, i was desperate. i’d pushed my feelings away for way too long and i couldn’t help myself any longer.

i unlocked my phone and found her contact, clicking on the ‘call’ button with shaky movements. she answered in the first ring, her voice keeping the usual soft edge to it. the one that she only used when she was talking to me. i could hear the smile on her face as she spoke.

“hey pretty, everything okay? i only dropped you home a couple hours ago.”

“i.. billie.” i breathed out. i didn’t even know how to word what i needed.

“tell me, love. what’s the matter?” she sounded more concerned now because of my lack of words.

“i.. need you.” i admitted quietly, closing my eyes, worried for her response.

i knew she wouldn’t react badly, she told me to call her, but i was just nervous to admit it.

“i’m on my way.” i heard her smirk.

“hurry. please.” i groaned, laying my head back and listening to her moving around her room.

i heard her grab her keys, put her shoes on, lock her door, the slam of her car door. the whole time she was driving to my house, we stayed on call making small conversation. it felt like forever before i heard her car pulling into my driveway. i didn’t even need to unlock the door for her, she already had a key.

once i heard her walk into my house, i ended the call and waited for her to come to my room.

the second she was in my room, her lips found mine. her hands were all over me, finding the waistband of my shorts almost immediately.

“bil.. i haven’t-“

“shh, it’s okay i’ve got you. no need to tell me, just let me take care of you.” she cut me off.

i nodded and allowed her hand to slip lower, under my shorts and into my underwear. her fingers slid through my soaked folds, my wetness getting on her knuckles just from brushing against my underwear. the tips of her fingers pushed inside me, causing me to let out a breathy moan.

her thumb was resting over my clit, and when her fingers pushed completely inside me, her thumb applied more pressure.

“please billie! please touch me more.” i pouted and scraped my nails along the sheets.

“no need to hurry, baby. let me make you feel good, take my time, yeah?”

i whined in response. as long as she was here i was happy, so i nodded, but my back still arched up, longing for more. her fingers weren’t too quick, nor too slow. they were perfect.

she knew what i needed. like she’d had my body memorised for years. as if this wasn’t the first time she’d ever touched me this way. i could feel my walls clench perfectly around her fingers, my juices getting all over them.

she found the perfect spot soon enough, making me cry out her name, practically begging for her. that was when her thumb moved away. her fingers kept working inside me, but her tongue replaced her thumb. this was going way better than i could’ve imagined, and i thought that my constant daydreaming about her was perfect.

she flicked, sucked, and carefully bit on my clit, giving me as much pleasure as she could without overwhelming me. that was what got me close. ready to cum.

“that’s it, pretty girl. let go for me.”

she moved away from my pussy, just for a moment to speak, before going right back at it. when my walls were basically crushing her fingers, she worked faster to make me finish. and it worked. i was sent straight over the edge, moaning out her name loud. i tried to stay quiet, considering the time, but she was just too good. too perfect.

“there you go. so perfect for me. took my fingers so good.” she spoke against my lips, carefully pulling her fingers out at the same time, using her words as a distraction.

we got cleaned up after a few minutes of laying in each others arms, and when we were curled up together under my blankets, freshly showered. and i was falling asleep, i heard her speak.

“i get the job done, hm baby?”

“definitely. thank you billie.” i mumbled, before falling asleep with my face pressed against her chest.

[traincat]

I know there's like 0 possibly of marvel ever letting Peter Parker officially be queer, but what about Johnny? Do you think it's possible that he could be confirmed as bi/pan at some point?

Johnny Storm exists in the weirdest canon sexuality grey area known to mankind. Is he constantly referred to as gay? Yeah. Is there evidence that several high profile Marvel creators think he's queer? Yes. Marjorie Liu confirmed that the intent in her run in Dark Wolverine was that there was a sexual relationship between him and Akihiro. Kurt Busiek retweeted an article I wrote that explicitly discussed the homosexual subtext of Johnny's character. Dan Slott reportedly wanted to write Johnny and Wyatt in a romantic relationship, which is believable if you look at the beginning of his run, but was told no. (Slott's written gay relationships before in Amazing Spider-Man, so I wouldn't find this so surprising.) And John Byrne wrote this:

(FF #251) John Byrne I desperately want to study you in a lab.

But is Johnny canonically anything but 100% straight? No, not officially. Marvel, the conglomerate, officially views Johnny as heterosexual, and if the Dan Slott thing is true even recently blocked an attempt at having Johnny come out. If this is true, it's most likely because of the new movie, because let's be honest, corporate Marvel does not care about Johnny Storm on the same level it cares about Spider-Man or the Punisher or Iron Man.

Because let's be honest. This goes deep. And it's been going on a long time. The above John Byrne panel is not the only example. There is a long-running thread of homophobic comments targeting Johnny running through 616 canon.

(Hulk vs Thing: Hard Knocks #3) "Light in the loafers" is slang for a gay man, for anyone who doesn't know.

(Dark Reign: Zodiac #2. I don't recommend reading this, by the way, not even if you're going deep down the Johnny Sexuality Well, but for the record Johnny, despite not being canonically gay, literally gets gaybashed in this comic.)

(FF #151) Does it get more blatant than a character named "Mahkizmo" referring to Johnny as "an effeminate"? Someone get me Gerry Conway on the phone, I need to know what he was thinking when he wrote this. (I know what Gerry Conway was thinking because Gerry Conway is a very good and very intentional writer.)

Then there's Ben's repeated teasing about Johnny's "crush" on Spider-Man, referring to them as "love boids" and so on. This is friendlier than the above comments, but then, if we assume Johnny is queer, Ben would know about it. He certainly knew what was going on with Johnny and Akihiro.

(Daken: Dark Wolverine #4) "Got what he came for, right?" Real double entendre here, since "what he came for" is both a weapon from Reed and, clearly, sex with Johnny.

The posing here is not subtle, even before you factor in that Marjorie Liu, who co-wrote this series along with Daniel Way, confirmed on social media that the relationship was meant to be read as sexual. (So you can probably add Way to the list of writers who think Johnny is queer, too.)

In fact, I'd say that Liu and Way depict the whole family as knowing about Johnny's sexuality and about the relationship.

(Daken: Dark Wolverine #4)

So if Johnny is in the closet, the way this issue frames it, he's only in the closet to the public. He's not in the closet to his family.

(Deadline #1) "All right, Storm, who were you with last night: Britney? Christina? Eminem?" in reference to Johnny getting caught "with a bottle in one hand and a blonde in another." So he's not doing a great job on that front, either.

Then there's Johnny's tendency, despite the perception of him as a womanizer, to look incredibly uncomfortable when he's kissed by a woman -- even a woman he purportedly has romantic interests in. Take, for example, the following panels:

(FF #562) He certainly is just standing there while Psionics, his one-time bad girl fling, kisses him and invites him to come see her again. Which he doesn't do, by the way. The next time he sees Psionics, she'll kill his close family friend Alyssa Moy right in front of him. Great!

(FF #259) Literally running away from Sharon Selleck. Now, we can say that he just wasn't attracted to her, which is true -- he was very ardently pursuing her roommate, Julie DeAngelo. Except.

(FF #263) That's certainly some kind of posture when she kisses him, and of course as soon as she kisses him, he's "over her."

There's more examples of this, too, where Johnny has a pre-existing connection with a woman only for him to completely freeze up or lean away from her when he's kissed, with no follow through on his part. (This is part of the reason I personally headcanon him as gay and not bi, but that's besides the point.) And it's a totally separate issue from the other longrunning thread of him being kissed as a form of assault. Which also happens. Like a lot. "Johnny Storm" and "consent issues" are basically synonymous at this point, which again is really interesting if we're looking at this from the perspective of Johnny and sexuality, since most of these incidents involve women as the perpetrators.

(Most. Not all. Dark Reign: Zodiac definitely implies some things, and I think it's interesting that Akihiro initiates his connection to the Fantastic Four by shooting Johnny through the thigh with an arrow.)

I've mentioned this before, but again, for a character who has the reputation that Johnny has developed, both in and out of universe, it is deeply bizarre that he does not have sex scenes. He doesn't have them. Peter Parker has sex scenes. Kinky sex scenes! There is zero doubt in my mind that that Peter Parker is attracted to women. I can't even show you Johnny Storm having vanilla missionary honeymoon lovemaking that fades to black. Whenever they want to show you he's had sex, it is always in the aftermath, and he is rarely having a great time about it. What's up with that, Marvel! I know, but do you!

Then there's Unstable Molecules: Fantastic Four, which exists in a metatextual area -- it's a fictionalized account of the "real people" who inspired the Fantastic Four, the story of four people rapidly barreling towards a disastrous dinner party that would be witnessed by two comic book creators. And it's Johnny is definitely queer.

(Unstable Molecules #3) "Johnny, it is the fiery night, and you are a holy flaming flower." The extras for Unstable Molecules even include a love poem written by the beatnik who calls him "a holy flaming flower" that is definitely supposed to be about Johnny.

So that's the grey area. You have all of this content that either implies or occasionally outright states that Johnny is not straight. But according to Marvel, the actual publisher and company, Johnny is straight. Personally, I don't like saying things are canon if they aren't explicitly 100% confirmed canon, but the wealth of evidence here is so substantial that I make an exception. It's just a matter of when Marvel the actual company is going to admit it.

(Fantastic Four: Marvel Snapshots #1)

[cascodedtech]

Here are the things I love most about Psych:

There is a general lack of sexism and misogyny amongst the characters. The women are portrayed as competent as the men and as accomplished as the men. They show platonic male/female friendships and relationships without trying to force something romantic between characters.

There is a general lack of homophobia. Shawn doesn't get offended when people think he and Gus are together. Shawn and Gus are portrayed perfectly in the sense that there is no toxic masculinity. They are open with their love and friendship and don't "no homo" it.

They don't push the marriage or baby rhetoric. Shawn and Juliet having an open conversation about deciding not to want children and just have dogs, and not feeling pressure to be married until the 1st movie is so refreshing, and even then, they didn't make it a big deal. The women in Psych are written for more than being love interests.

They don't downplay Shawn's trauma around his childhood, especially as it contrasts with Gus's more stable home life. Shawn and Henry's relationship feels (to me) like the epitome of "I can understand how and why you did what you did, but that doesn't mean I have to forgive you for it." Likewise, they don't minimize the trauma Juliet had over Ying. They never tell her to "get over it" or try and tell her it wasn't that bad.

They show that what makes a villain isn't black and white. The villains are complicated, like Yang and Desperaux. They're not all bad, but they're also not all good.

All of the storylines with animals are just *chefs kiss.*

The writing is so good. It's comedic but has feelings. It is a safe space. All of the characters grow throughout the course of the show. They don't just stay stagnant.

Anyway. I love it.

[hisui555]

If it makes no sense within the story's own rules and breaks its own tone/setting without any justifications (a sad scene that has no business to be there just for empty shock value for example - let's take the infamous Titanic scene where Jack had no business dying since there was enough space for both him and Rose to use that plank, so drama for nothing and Rose looks like an idiot), then it's a bad story, or at least a shaky one.

For example, it's like Lucky Luke suddenly popped up aliens in the western setting. Astérix did it (the album Astérix and the Falling Sky), when up to there everything was grounded in an Antique Gaul/Roman Empire setting with some modern jokes adapted for it and this is a huge part of the humor, and it's universally regarded as the worst Astérix album ever, because it broke tone, setting and consistency and brought nothing better.

Gintama however sets a very wacky tone and setting from the get-go, constantly parodies stuff and can turn any weird shenanigans into a very gut-wrenching scene, playing with the whiplash. The series breaks its own tone frequently internally but stays consistent overall : we know it's a rollercoaster of laughs, epicness and tears because the series itself regularly plays with it - stuff sometimes makes NO sense, but that's the whole point.

Plot holes and narrative ass pulls can fuck up a story and the willing suspension of disbelief real bad, but there's a reason Rule of Funny, Rule of Cool, and Rule of Drama exist and can be good patch-ups if done well : the Looney Tunes are all about this, and they lampshade it constantly. Buster Keaton's and Chaplin's movies wouldn't be what they are if they had to make sense in a sense of "realistic" or "grounded" - the plot is a perfect excuse for extreme stunts and we're all here for it.

Kill La Kill took a concept sounding extremely silly and nonsensical (clothing gives power and now there's a whole society built around it) and ran with it cackling manically while hopped on anime coolness steroids. And it worked.

It doesn't have to make sense, but it has to follow its own rules, of if breaking them, look very intentional even if "half-assed", because Rule of Cool/Drama/Funny will carry it anyway.

Writing stories is playing illusionist anyway : you're 'selling' something that simply isn't there, but both your audience and yourself agree to play along and do as if it were - we're already half-assing ourselves : we're willing to believe into something we know doesn't exist, but need overall consistency to keep us believing in it.

It's a show of "good faith" from both sides, but it needs to be kept compelling with those Rules of Whatever to let that good faith going. Sense can take a backseat when emotions do the chewing process. The risk being, well, that emotions are subjective and each person processes them differently with different intensity - but fully assuming what you're doing will let the audience know it's intentional, and they will think up a "reason" for themselves to justify whatever's going on, regardless of "sense" because sometimes "nonsense" IS the justification (think Dream Logic or Alice in Wonderland : madness IS the point of it).

Bottom line : wholeass your story full time, even the half-assed "it makes no sense" parts - go the full hog and it'll have higher chances of working !

filmmakers and audiences and critics alike all need to start suspending their disbelief again

[sweetdispatch]

could i request a auston matthews story something cute or funny whatever you feel like writing 😓🤗

Beach date - A. Matthews

masterlist pairing: Auston Matthews x fem!reader summary: It was a lazy day but Auston decided to take you out spontaneously warning: none note: let me know if it's alright love❤️

It’s been a boring day for you and Auston. You’ve been sitting the whole day at home just enjoying ourselves. There was warm weather outside but you’ve been laying too cosy on the couch. You two had been watching another movie and just hugging until you heard Auston.

“Let’s do something spontaneous” Auston said and you looked at him.

“Like what? It’s 9PM” You told him, confused. 

“I don’t know” Auston was thinking for a minute until he came up with an idea. “Let’s have a picnic on the beach” 

“Baby I’m not dressed up and I don’t even wear any makeup. Please let’s stay at home and do something tomorrow” You tried to plead with him. 

“You’re beautiful without makeup. If you think that I care about what you’re wearing that means I’m doing a bad job. Now go grab a blanket. Meet me in the car” Auston told you and you stood up. “Kiss?” He asked you and you kissed his lips. 

You couldn’t believe in this. You always loved Auston’ spontaneous side but this was new. You two never went out that late, only if it was planned earlier. You grabbed the warm blanket and took two hoodies from the closet in case it gets chilly later. You went to the garage and saw him standing next to the passenger door. 

“M’lady” Auston opened the door for you and you giggled. He took the blanket and hoodies from your hands and threw them into the back. 

You connected your phone with the radio and played a playlist that you made when you started dating. It wasn’t anything new for both of you to have a car ride and you wanted to have all your favorite songs in one place. You put the music on and laid your head against the window. You were watching his hand on the wheel when the other was lying comfortably on your thigh. 

Auston wanted to make it special for you. That was his ultimate goal to make you feel appreciated. That’s why he drove to the store and told you to stay in the car. He went and picked out your favorite snacks and drinks. He knew you like the back of his hand and he knew exactly what to grab. He also noticed that your eyes were getting heavy during the ride and took your favorite energy drink. 

After 20 minutes, Auston returned and handed you the drink. The bag with all the things he bought, he put in the back next to the blanket and hoodies. He sat down on the seat and drove you to another place. He was aware that you were craving something warm and decided to make another stop. This time at the McDonalds drive thru. 

Auston didn’t even have to ask you what you wanted. He knew your order. You heard him saying the order and you smiled. You always appreciated that he was paying attention and knew you so well. When he was waiting in the line to get the food, you kissed him and thanked him. 

When you finally had the food, Auston drove to the beach. It was a quiet evening and not many people were there. He parked the car and when you stepped out from the car, the breeze hit you. You pulled one of his hoodies that you brought on yourself and took the food. He grabbed the bag and blanket and he held your hand. 

Quickly, you two found a perfect spot and Auston laid down the blanket. You sat down and took out the food from the bag. He sat next to you and both of you started eating. Not many words were said, you were just enjoying this evening and each other's company. When you finished, you laid down on the blanket and started looking into the sky. 

Auston brought you into his arms and you were laying on the beach. Both of you were watching the stars and from time to time, he placed a kiss on the top of your head. It was a lovely evening and you were happy to be there with him. You still couldn’t understand how you got so lucky to be with him. 

“Thank you” You said softly. 

“For what?” Auston asked you.

“For being with me. For loving me. For taking me here. I’m just thankful to have you” You told him and closed your eyes.

“I should be the one to say thank you. Every single day when I’m waking up next to you and I’m thankful for being your boyfriend” Auston told you quietly and you could feel the tears growing in your eyes. 

“I love you so much” You kissed his lips. 

“I love you too” Auston kissed you again. 

For another hour, you’ve been laying on the beach having a conversation from time to time. You could feel your eyelids giving up and Auston noticed this too. He placed a kiss on your head and lifted you up and took you to the car. You giggled at this act. When you were sitting on the passenger seat, he went to clean up the spot and returned to the car. 

Auston started driving back to the house and you fell asleep. When he parked the car, he looked at you and saw how cute you were looking buried in his hoodie snoring lightly. It broke his heart that he needed to take you to the bedroom because he knew that it’s very easy to wake you up. Thankfully for him, you woke up by yourself and went upstairs. 

Auston followed you into the house and decided to clean the car tomorrow. He saw you in the bedroom changing up into his shirt which was your pyjama and smiled. You laid in the bed and waited for him. He stripped from his clothes and laid next to you and pulled you into a hug. Just like that both of you fell asleep after this little date.

[nikixkoo]

𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 4.2k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], unprotected sex, make out, kind of public display, jungkook’s a bit (a lot) possessive, and lots of teasing.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 this is my first time writing, but i hope u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed doing it. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind if something isn’t right written! lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

She’s everything he hates to love. He’s everything she pretends not to need.

summary: In the world of wealth, secrets, and perfectly polished lies, you walk through the marble halls of the most prestigious university in the country like you own the place — because you practically do. Heiress of an empire. Flawless reputation. Everyone wants you. Everyone fears you.

Except him.

The only one who’s never looked at you like you were fragile. The only one who sees through the diamonds, the designer, the perfectly curated mask. Your favorite person, your first secret, and your biggest weakness.

You push his buttons. He tests your limits. You make him jealous on purpose. He pulls you into his bed like it’s nothing.

It’s not official. It’s not healthy.

But it’s yours.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•

The sun hits the field like a spotlight, casting golden light over expensive turf and even more expensive egos. Cleats scrape, whistles blow, and the boys of Rutherford’s lacrosse team move like they’re auditioning for the front page of some legacy magazine. At the center of it all, Jeon Jungkook.

Fast, lethal, and disgustingly good at everything. He runs drills like a general, yelling commands, barking orders — and still managing to look like a god dipped in sweat.

The kind of boy that makes good grades and bad decisions.

Today’s practice? Open to the public.

Translation? It’s a flex. A show. A power move.

And of course, you’re there.

You’re always there. Not for the game. Not for the sport.

But for him.

You sit front row, sunglasses on, designer outfit hugging you like sin, legs crossed like a weapon.

You know he can see you.

You know he wants to look.

And he doesn’t, not once, until he scores the final shot, whips his helmet off, sweat in his hair, and finally lets his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t look away when he meets your eyes.

He drags that gaze down your legs, up your figure, and settles on your mouth — like he’s remembering the last time he had you underneath him, begging. The way you moaned his name with your lip gloss smudged and your voice wrecked.

The crowd starts to thin after the final whistle, mostly girls pretending not to stare, and boys pretending not to envy.

You stay seated.

Because you know he’ll come to you.

And he does.

The crowd is gone, and Jungkook walks out of the changing rooms like he’s got the whole world in his back pocket.

Still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, gym bag slung low over his shoulder. He’s in his uniform pants, but the top is gone, replaced by a thin black t-shirt that clings to his chest in all the ways that make you want to bite something.

He sees you. Of course he does.

And he doesn’t look away this time.

He slows as he reaches you, shadow falling over your seat. You’re still sitting like the spoiled goddess you are — legs crossed, lip gloss fresh, phone in hand like you weren’t just watching him like a movie you’ve seen a hundred times and still crave.

You don’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

Jungkook snorts. “Didn’t know I had a timer.”

“You always do.” You finally glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You just pretend you don’t hear it ticking.”

There’s a pause. A beat of quiet so thick it feels heavy. His eyes roam your face like he’s searching for something, maybe your limit, maybe your weakness. But the truth is, you both know the answer already.

“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Only when I know you’ll push back.”

The tension coils in the air, charged and dangerous.

“You wore that outfit for me?”

“You scored that goal for me?”

Touché.

He steps closer. Just a little. Close enough that your knees could brush if you shifted, but you don’t. Neither of you moves. You’re locked in that perfect space where tension thrives, just shy of something unforgivable.

“People are starting to talk,” he says quietly.

You hum. “They’ve always talked. They just don’t know what to say now.”

His gaze drops to your lips again. “They think you’re mine.”

You arch a brow. “Aren’t I?”

A beat passes.

He doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s your favorite thing about him, that he never says the things he feels. Not out loud. He says them in stares. In clenched fists. In the way he only kisses you when no one’s watching.

You stand, finally. And the shift is magnetic.

Now you’re the one in his space.

You fix the collar of his shirt like it bothers you. Like touching him doesn’t set fire to your veins.

“Walk me to my car?” you ask sweetly, even though it’s not really a question.

He doesn’t respond. Just steps aside and lets you lead the way, like always.

You don’t talk.

Not until you’re leaning against the door, and he’s standing too close, eyes flickering from your lips to your neck to the space between you that’s already melting.

“You’re exhausting,” he mutters.

“And yet,” you smile, “you keep coming back.”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, mouth ghosting over your ear.

“I should let someone else deal with your attitude.”

You grin, unbothered. “You won’t.”

Tic tac, tic tac. He doesn’t answer.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your lips move at the same pace as his, the tip of your tongue touching the piercing of his lower lip every time it enters his mouth, causing chills to run through your body.

It doesn’t last long.

It never does when it’s this heated.

He pulls away like he hates himself for it, and you fix your lipstick like nothing happened.

His breath is still warm on your lips, and his hand is still wrapped around your waist like he forgot how to let go. His gaze is locked on you — dark, unreadable, burning.

You smirk, like none of it fazes you. Like your knees didn’t almost give out thirty seconds ago.

“Missed me?” you murmur.

Jungkook exhales a sharp breath. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “And you like it.”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, just a second, his eyes flicker like he might kiss you again.

But instead, he drops his hand from your waist and takes a single step back. Like space is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

“This game you play,” he goes on, voice low and dangerous. “Showing up, looking like that. Acting like I’m just some guy you can tease whenever you’re bored.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he cuts you off. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You cross your arms, chin raised. “And what if I do?”

He laughs under his breath, bitter. “Then you’re more cruel than I thought.”

You take a step toward him. “And you’re more obsessed than you pretend to be.”

That gets him.

He looks at you like he wants to say something, something real. Something that would make this whole fake, undefined thing very real, very fast. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear.

“I could ruin every guy who looks at you the wrong way,” he whispers. “And the worst part? You’d love it.”

You swallow hard.

He’s right.

You would.

But you can’t let him have the last word, not tonight.

So you turn your head slowly, lips ghosting over his, your voice just as quiet, “You won’t do it, though. Because you don’t want people to know you care.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t.”

You smile. “Then why haven’t you left?”

A beat.

He doesn’t answer.

He just watches you walk around the car, heels clicking like a countdown. Before you slide into the driver’s seat, you glance at him one last time.

“See you around.” You echo sweetly.

Then you shut the door and drive off, leaving him standing there — alone, silent, and very, very messed up.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•

Your dorm is a war zone.

Shoes tossed across the floor. Perfume clouds lingering in the air. The faint bass of the party already vibrating through the walls from four floors down. And in the middle of the mess, you.

Dressed in baby pink, your favorite color. Tight, tiny, and just shy of dangerous.

Glossy lips. Winged liner. Hair perfectly undone.

You look like heartbreak with a trust fund.

“I swear to God,” Val says, flopping onto your bed, “if Jungkook shows up with that skank again—”

“Valeria,” Mar warns from the bathroom, “we’re not calling her that.”

You grab your earrings, smirking. “We are if she shows up in that tacky rhinestone top again.”

Val snorts. “Queen behavior.”

Mar pops her head out, mascara wand in hand. “Are you even gonna talk to him tonight?”

You pause.

“No.”

The silence is loud.

Val lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are exhausting. Just admit you’re in love, make out against the nearest wall, and let the rest of us live.”

You grab your purse, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” Mar mutters. “With benefits and unresolved trauma.”

You flip them both off with a perfectly manicured hand and head for the door.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•

The party is already on fire by the time you step in.

Music pulsing. Air thick with perfume, sweat, and secrets. Someone’s spilled tequila on the marble floor. There’s a fight brewing in the kitchen. And all of it fades the moment you see him.

Jungkook.

Center of the room like he owns it.

Black tee hugging his body like sin. Tattooed hand lazily holding a drink. And a girl, that girl, clinging to him like she’s got the right.

She laughs too loudly. Leans in too close.

Touches his chest like she’s not two seconds away from being buried alive.

You freeze. Smile cracking.

Valeria steps beside you, looking bored. “Oh. He brought that one.”

Mar sips her drink. “Didn’t she throw up at the Halloween party?”

You glare. “Why the fuck is she touching him?”

Val raises a brow. “Better question, why do you care?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy watching.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s pretending he hasn’t.

Because that’s what he does, right?

Pushes. Pulls.

Drives you crazy, then reels you back in.

You down half your drink in one go.

You don’t storm off. That’s for girls who lose.

You walk.

Chin high. Back straight. Smile razor-sharp.

He wants to play games? You wrote the damn rulebook.

And right on cue, there he is — Kim Jisung, legacy boy, wine-stained lips, and a crush on you so big he’d probably kill Jungkook for just breathing near you. You find him by the bar, bored and beautiful.

“Dance with me,” you purr into his ear.

He doesn’t hesitate.

You don’t look back, but you know Jungkook’s watching.

And that’s the point.

The music gets louder. Lights blur.

Jisung’s hand slides a little too low. His breath is a little too close.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not the one you’re thinking about.

Not the one you want.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•

He finds you in the hallway, half-drunk on power and tequila.

“You think he can touch you like I do?” Jungkook’s voice is low, dark, dangerous. “You think he knows what you like?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to play the victim, princess. Not after the way you looked at me all night. Like you wanted me to lose it.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Did you?”

He’s in front of you in a second. Hand against the wall next to your head. His scent all over you, soap, sweat and sin. His eyes drop to your lips.

“You don’t want him,” he says.

You hum. “Maybe I do.”

He grits his teeth. “Liar.”

“You’re not my boyfriend, Jungkook.”

His smile is slow. Infuriating. “No. But I’m the one who fucks you so good you forget your name.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it, how your fingers twitch, how your lips part.

And he leans in even closer, brushing his mouth over yours but not kissing you.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “Push that bratty attitude right out of you.”

You clench your jaw. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because you want me to,” he says, cruel and sweet. “And I like watching you beg.”

His body cages yours, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“You’re playing with fire,” you murmur, tilting your head, lashes fluttering like you’re not completely wrecked by the way he’s looking at you.

Jungkook’s breath is heavy. Controlled. But you know him. You know what’s under all that control. And it’s dangerous.

“You think you’re the only one who knows how to play?” His voice is low, lethal. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?”

“Maybe I wanted you to see.” You smirk, brushing your fingers over his chest. “Maybe I wanted you pissed off.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Congratulations, princess,” he growls. “You got what you wanted.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Tension so sharp it could slice you both open.

His hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying across silk and skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet, no, he’s crueler than that.

“I should leave you standing here,” he whispers. “Let you think about what you’ve done.”

Your breath catches, again.

“But I won’t.”

Because the thing is, Jungkook doesn’t do restraint where you’re concerned.

Not when you look at him like that.

Not when your lips are swollen from teasing, from smirking, from wanting.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand on your throat — not tight, just there. A warning.

“You want me angry?” he murmurs. “Then take it. Feel it.”

And finally, finally, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth, heat, and too many nights pretending you’re just friends.

You tug at his shirt. The hallway is too public. Too risky. Too perfect.

But just as it starts to blur, right when you think he’s going to lose it completely, he pulls away.

“I hope he saw that.”

And then he walks off.

Leaving you against the wall. Pissed, panting, and ruined.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•

2:37 AM. You slam the door shut behind you.

Not loud enough to wake your roommates. Just loud enough to feel it. To feel something.

Your heels hit the floor first, followed by your jacket, then your body — flat onto the designer duvet you bought out of boredom last fall.

Everything feels too much.

Your skin still burns where he touched you.

Your lips still tingle like they’re waiting for more.

And your heart?

That traitorous thing is pounding like it doesn’t know the difference between lust and loathing anymore.

You press your fingers to your mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed you.

No, he devoured you.

Like you were his punishment and his reward all at once.

And the worst part?

You let him.

You loved it.

You told yourself you had the upper hand. That he’d be the one crawling back.

But now you’re the one lying on your bed, thinking about his hands, his voice, the way he said:

“I hope he saw that.”

God. He’s so annoying. So cocky. So hot when he’s mad.

You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.

You shouldn’t have gone with that guy.

You shouldn’t have cared about Jungkook being with that girl.

But you did.

You do.

And now you’re here, lying in your palace of silk and envy, trying to convince yourself this isn’t getting out of hand.

You’re not in love.

You’re just obsessed.

Right?

Right?

Your phone buzzes from the floor where you carelessly tossed it earlier.

You ignore it for a second, maybe out of pride. Maybe because you already know who it is.

But when it buzzes again, you glance over.

koo ♡ [2:47 AM]:

still thinking about me?

You blink.

Another message lands before you even finish rolling your eyes.

koo ♡ [2:48 AM]:

didn’t know you were into public displays. should’ve kissed you harder.

And then, as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your chest:

koo ♡ [2:49 AM]:

sweet dreams, princess.

You stare at the screen. Heart hammering. Skin flushed.

Pillow no longer enough to hide your grin, or your frustration.

God, you hate him.

You want him.

You hate that you want him.

You type something. Delete it. Type again.

You [2:52 AM]:

u’re so full of yourself.

His reply is instant.

koo ♡ [2:53 AM]:

🤥 you weren’t complaining when i had you against the wall.

You let out a strangled laugh, biting your lip so hard it stings.

He’s cocky. He’s smug. He’s impossible.

And he wins.

Because now you’re wide awake, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together, and you know—

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•·················•

Saturday nights used to be chaos.

Drinks. Laughter. Parties you’d barely remember and dresses you’d only wear once.

But tonight?

Silence.

Your friends are out with their boyfriends — tragic, really. You stayed behind under the guise of needing rest, but mostly because you couldn’t stand the thought of pretending to care about some mediocre couple’s anniversary dinner.

Now it’s just you.

Satin robe. Hair up. Music low.

A glass of red wine you’re not even sipping anymore.

You’re sprawled across your bed, legs bare, mind racing with thoughts you shouldn’t have… of him.

Then—

Three soft knocks.

Your stomach flips.

You don’t need to check. You know it’s him.

Of course it’s him.

You open the door, and there he is — Jeon Jungkook, dressed like a sin you’d commit twice, hoodie half-zipped, jaw sharp enough to hurt, that same smug glint in his eyes like he already knows you’ll let him in.

You lean against the frame. “Didn’t know we had plans tonight.”

He shrugs, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Maybe I was busy.” You close the door behind him.

He turns to face you, eyes raking over your robe, your bare legs, the curve of your smirk.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to tease you or ruin you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Figured you might need company.”

“You figured wrong.”

He smirks. “That so? You always answer the door in lingerie when you’re not interested?”

You don’t respond.

You just turn and walk back to your bed, knowing he’s watching your every move.

He follows, he always does. The tension stretches, electric and maddening.

“You look comfortable,” he says, eyes still glued to your legs.

You tilt your head. “You look needy.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning back like he owns the room. “I am.”

You hate how that makes your heart race.

Hate how your thighs clench.

Hate how this game always ends the same.

But you love it, too.

The way he looks at you like he’s starving.

The way he speaks like he’s daring you to lose control first.

“You should leave,” you whisper.

He leans forward slowly, voice like smoke. “You should make me.”

His voice is low, cocky, soaked in heat. You should slam the door in his face. You should tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs press together. And you don’t move.

Jungkook steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly how this ends. His eyes drop to your robe — the slip of skin peeking out, the hint of lace beneath. You don’t bother hiding it. You know what he came for.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You say nothing.

You just tug at the tie of your robe, slow and calculated, and let it fall open an inch — enough to show the soft dip of your waist, the lace of your panties, the fact that there’s not a bra in sight.

His jaw flexes.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Then he’s on you.

The kiss is instant — hot and brutal, mouths colliding like magnets. His hands grab your waist, your ass, your everything, like he doesn’t know where to start. You let the robe slide off your shoulders, pooling onto the floor in a puddle of satin and sin.

He groans against your lips, breaking the kiss just to stare.

“Turn around,” he says, voice wrecked already.

You smirk, walking slowly to the bed, hips swaying, his eyes glued to every step.

You don’t even hear him undress, just the soft shuffle of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor, the low curse under his breath when you bend over the edge of the bed.

He’s behind you a second later.

You feel him — warm, solid, hard. His hands smooth over your hips, your thighs, spreading you open with a possessive grip.

“You like teasing me, huh?” he mutters, his voice thick, lips brushing your ear. “Walking around like that. Knowing I’d show up.”

You grind back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. “You always show up.”

His laugh is low, dark. “Because I know what this pussy tastes like.”

Then he drops to his knees.

You feel his mouth first — warm, wet, and filthy — dragging his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasp, thighs trembling, fingers clenching the sheets.

He moans like he’s savoring every drop of you, his tongue lapping and sucking until you’re squirming, until your knees feel weak and your back arches without permission.

And then his fingers — two, thick and perfect, sliding inside you with ease. Curling just right. Pushing every button you forgot existed.

“Fuck, Jungkook…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs into your cunt. “Say my name.”

You do. Over and over.

Your moans fill the room, echoing off the walls like a song he knows by heart. You grind into his face, desperate, needy, shameless.

But he pulls back before you can finish.

You whimper, lifting your head to look back at him.

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes dark with something dangerous. “You’re gonna take me so fucking well, baby.”

He strokes himself once, then twice — thick, hard, dripping — before grabbing your hips and lining up behind you.

“A spoiled little brat like you?” he groans, pushing inside, inch by inch. “You were made to be ruined.”

And god, he does.

He sinks in slow, deliberate — like he wants you to feel every inch of him stretching you open. And you do. Every fucking inch. Your hands grip the sheets, head falling forward as your mouth drops open in a soundless gasp.

“God, Jungkook…”

He groans, hips flush against your ass now, buried to the hilt. His hands grip your waist like he owns it — like he owns you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, dragging out slowly just to slam back in, making your legs jolt. “Missed this pussy.”

You can barely breathe.

He fucks you like he’s angry. Like you owe him. Like every roll of his hips is payback for every smirk, every tease, every time you walked past him like you didn’t need him.

Your body shakes with every thrust, skin clapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene sounds of sex and low curses.

“You wanna act like you don’t care?” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like I don’t fuck you better than anyone ever could?”

You cry out when he hits that spot — the one he always finds, like your body was made for him.

“You gonna walk away from me again?” he growls, voice wrecked, fucking into you harder now, unforgiving. “Let some other guy touch what’s mine?”

“N-no, fuck—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. You just shake your head, moaning, melting, unraveling under every filthy word, every punishing thrust.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, low in your ear now, his chest slick against your back. “Say it.”

You choke on a moan. “I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—”

He groans like he’s losing control, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, pulling your back to his chest. The angle makes you whimper, makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding deeper, slower. “That’s how you beg without saying a word.”

You’re close.

So fucking close you’re shaking, nails clawing at the sheets, your body clenching around him so tight he swears under his breath.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough, hand tightening on your throat just enough. “Be a good fucking girl and cum.”

And you do.

It hits you like a wave — loud and violent and blinding. Your legs tremble, your whole body shaking as the orgasm rips through you, soaking his cock, your moans turning shameless and broken.

“Fuck,” he grunts, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Take it—”

He throbs inside you, spilling deep, pulling your body back against his as he groans your name into your skin. His thrusts slow, messy, drawn-out until he’s spent and breathless.

Silence follows.

Just the sound of your panting, your bodies tangled, your skin flushed and marked.

And then his lips brush your shoulder.

“Still think I should’ve left?”

You laugh weakly, voice ruined. “Shut up.”

He pulls out slowly, and you wince, sensitive. You collapse on the bed, and he follows, arm thrown lazily over your waist, breathing steadying.

And in the quiet, with your body still buzzing and his cum dripping between your thighs, you hate how safe it feels.

How much you want him to stay.

How much he already knows he will.

Part 2? Probably yes.

[baocean]

piss off your parents

chapter twenty three - somethin’ stupid

at first, when you thought he wanted to drive you somewhere. you hesitated. but once you looked, actually looked, you realized the twinkie was the date.

the side door creaked open, revealing the blankets and pillows scattered across the floor in that messy, endearing way only jj could manage. warm fairy lights looped lazily through the ceiling. a bowl of popcorn sat between a pile of candy bags, like he’d cleaned out an entire gas station just for you.

“what is this?” you asked, taking a few steps closer to get a better view.

you looked at him, and couldn’t help but let the butterflies and warmth rise to your face, breaking out in a smile.

“welcome to the twinkie cinema, where you can watch any movie you want as long as it isn’t the notebook.” jj grins, then waves his arm to usher you inside, throwing himself in and closing the door behind you.

you remembered that time he told you sarah made all their friends sit down and watch the notebook. jj said he’d been traumatized from it, couldn’t stop crying for an hour.

“do you like it?” he asked. he met your eyes for a second, before turning behind him and grabbing a bag of sour patch kids, tearing the bag open.

“love it.” you couldn’t even try to hide the swoon, you were pretty sure it was painted all over your face.

you'd only been watching to all the boys i've loved before for maybe, maybe twenty minutes when jj cut in.

"we should take tips from this, you know, to make our relationship more convincing."

you turned to him, shaking your head as you smiled. "you think so?"

"i mean, the back pocket thing is genius. and i can start writing you little notes. they might be really hard to read 'cause i got shit handwriting, but i'll do it."

"no, we need something that's just for us." you let out a breathy laugh, then shifted to get more comfortable. both of you picked up on the inch closer you were.

us. us. the word made jj's vision go blurry. he wanted to laugh at himself on how easily he got worked up when you did the simpliest things, of what had become of jj maybank, pogue, bad news, playboy.

your smile lingered, soft and easy. you glanced back at him, brows raised when you saw the look on his face. “you okay? you’re doing that thing again.”

jj blinked. “what thing?”

you shrugged, "that spaced out look, like you're not all here."

he let out a soft laugh. but it was shaky, strained "yea, something like that."

because what was he supposed to say? that the twinkle lights hitting your shoulders made him want to forget his name? that your laugh had lodged itself somewhere permanent in his chest? that every single thing you did, every look, every word, made him want things he had no business wanting?

fake. that’s what this was supposed to be. there was nothing fake about this. nothing fake about the way you were looking at him right now, letting all your thoughts cloud in your eyes.

“seriously,” you add, your hand coming to his bare arm and rub it reassuringly, “is something on your mind or—”

he couldnt do it anymore, couldn't hold back and tell himself not to do something stupid. partically, because he couldnt find a reason to not do what he was about to do, even if there were hundreds.

he leaned in, surrendering, letting it finally take over. no more thinking. no more hesitation. just you.

the first press to your lips was soft at first, testing.

you froze for a heartbeat, like the world had stilled. and then you kissed him back, one hand coming up to the side of his neck and braiding itself into his hair.

jj had kissed before, hell, jj had done much more than kiss before. but this one burned. it was warm and a little shaky, full of all the things you weren’t saying.

it was stupid. and risky. and he already knew it was going to wreck him, but he didn’t stop.

he kissed you like he’d been waiting all summer, all year, forever. he pulled you into him like it was life or death.

each moment was sweet and unhurried, filled with giggles that lingered between your lips. smiles that whispered against each other, thumbs brushing softly across cheeks and necks and collarbones.

when he finally pulled away from you, you sighed. "was that to make our story more convincing?"

he smiled, "nah, that was for me." then dipped back down to you.

liked by 500 people!

ynstjohn: date night!

sarahcam: sobbing

sarahcam: did u force him to watch the notebook? 😏

↳ jjmaybank: it’s banned in yn and i’s household

jjmaybank: i’m still not over u eating all the red sour patch kids 😐

↳ ynstjohn: but you like the blue ones!

↳ jjmaybank: i like u more

johnbroutledge: i’m stealing this idea

kelcee: 🥲🥲

cleoanderson: OMFG?

kiaracarrera: how did jj come up with this 💀

↳ jjmaybank: i’m a romantic now get used to it

her phone

his phone

masterlist | next chapter

taglist - @dr3amgrlll / @murdockcastleslut /  @jjmaybankmylovee / @smokahontas-113 /  @abslvrs13 / @enchantedstarfish / @reeseswirl / @lmaowhatt / @moonywhisp3rs / @dylsdaily /  @idli-dosa / @bloodofadoll / @cokewithcameron / @mariamadison6-blog / @rrosiitas / @always-reading / @sunflouer04 / @bambigirl10 / @mirellef2001 / @wasiasproject /  @bee-43 / @kissesandmartinis / @gublerstylesobrien1238 / @isinpfortvdmen / @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account / @mjwashere / @sideboobrry11 / @ameliacione13 / @wrtzia / @sanriobuny / @dramagodesss / @luvrclub / @yesshewrites1 / @ayy1234567 / @doesnt-care / @rainingcecilias 

[azonewithu]

Whats getting better this world?? Fuck shatter i aant what yourenon. A lil but of casual delusion does a mond good i guess. I dont like delusion unless im joking which is mostly. Butvwhen i get serious im smarter thsn anyone its proven. This fuckn witld is fuuuuucccckkkkeeeeddddd Resses Witherspoon. I think you know that too. I greatly fear for your region. I dont wanna say why its bad enough im sayn this shit to you. Im almost certsin thst region isnt thete within ten years. Msybe cause i just write thstbit coukd be thstvResses meybe nit. Maybe uts just gonna hspoen shd i jnow this sonehow like i know a lot of other thongs before thry hsppen. Ya know anything about physics??? Yiu went yo harvard in a movie naybe you nnow more than uou think. Why dhould we just continue on like this why? If this place ois evil like im certsin it is. God firsnt want tobwatch whst gapoens with the human race snymore. Abd if thats the case. Earth is already history. Im slmost certain something horrible hapoens in your region i saw a news fladh and dverykne was sad. Mist of the stars we fo love die. Gonfien with the ship. I dont blane yhem in a way resse. Hiw csn we move everyone. No its a quick event no ones ready fir. Thetes no escsoe like in a movie with earth wushes like that. You cant move anywhere like a movud you wont moce ar slk ir be sbke to get up even.. everything just fslls on yop of you. Thetes no point telling snykne this Reese no one ever tsjes my warnings that seriously. Good i dont like mpstbof them anyway and personally i eont miss snybof them like everyone else. But life goes on tol it diesnt then thats it.

The og Diva 💜

[raikan624]

Relationship HCs<3

Pairings: Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, Tony Stark x Reader

Summary: dating headcannons w/ them<3

Warnings / contains: Pure fluff, maybe ooc, written in 2nd PoV (you/your) (!!), Reader is called 'sweetheart' (Steve) and 'doll' (Bucky),Reader is implied to be shorter than Bucky in one little imagine, but it isn't explicitly stated- he js rests his chin on your head.

A/n: First time writing for my fav sillies! Also this isn't proofread and they may be ooc I also haven't seen TFATWS, so idk anything about Bucky's development in that movie!!!!! (CW!era Bucky mostly) Not as good as I hoped it would be, but I hope you still enjoy it!!

Steve Rogers

Def wakes you up after his morning run (if you sleep in a little) with a sweet kiss to your cheek or temple and your drink of choice in hand.

"Good morning, sweetheart," the familiar voice roused you from your slumber, a lingering, sweet kiss pressed to your temple. You crack your eyes open to see Steve at your side, your favorite cup in his hand. His other hand caressed your cheek, "You sleep good?"

Slow-dancing to old 40's songs on his gramophone(!!)

Reassuring touches like a hand on your waist or his fingers brushing againsg yours

Loves cooking with you! Especially if you cook with music playing cuz it just sets a vibe

Likes to reminisce about the 40's with you :)

If you like to create stuff (write, draw(any mediums of art), sew, etc. (Anything creative)) he would love to see what you made (he treasures just about everything you make)

When he's on missions, he'll text you when he can either before or after the mission/fight(s)

"Hey, sweetheart"

"Hope you have a good sleep. I'll be home to you soon"

smthn like that

Tony Stark

will buy you anything you want; doesn't matter the price nor if you feel bad. He will do it either way :)

makes stuff for you - anything.

Your computer keeps crashing when you try to play a game or wokr on something? He's making you a new one, no questions asked

He's the definition of the situation of you walking into the kitchen in the morning to see him shirtless and in sweatpants.

Rubbing your eyes sleepily, you dragged your feet downstairs and into the kitchen. There was a soft humming and some music playing as you saw Tony. He was shirtless and wore a pair of sweatpants, leaning against the counter and making a coffee. He turned his head at the sound of your footsteps after a moment, and gave a smile at the sight of you. "Good morning,"

King of drama (obviously)

Loves to present you to the world - sassy comments and loud displays of affection

loves to wrap his arms around your waist from behind when you're alone

definitely protective of you (sometimes a bit too much)

Bucky Barnes

He's scared he'll hurt you on accident

not as much as when you first started dating, but still has a little fear of it in the back of his mind

tends to be quieter with his affections

doesn't do anything grand in public

maybe a hand hold or his hand on the small of your back

definitely protective

he doesn't want to lose you

he'll catalogue everything; every exit, every suspicious looking person, every drunk person, every possible danger, etc.

he stays close to you in public

he whispers soft affirmations to you at night

sleeps on the side closest to the bedroom door so he can protect you if anything happened

he reverently runs his hands along his sides

(he's amazed that he can call you his<3)

Because of his nightmares and stuff, he'd wake up early and just look at you as you sleep

Not in a creepy way, though

he just wants to imprint every detail of yorh face into his memory

Loves to admire the glow of the sun on your face as the sun rises

"Good morning, doll," Bucky murmurs as you slowly wake up, shifting closer to him in your bed. His hand went to your waist and he simply held you, his chin resting on top of your head. You let out a lazy hum as you snuggle into his body heat, content to stay like this with him for a while longer.

[lesbianrobin]

observations from grading hundreds of american college students' discussion posts and essays about film

before i get into this i want to be SO clear that this is not meant to be a "kids these days" thing, but more a commentary on the contemporary media landscape and the impacts of new media on young people's consumption habits. i think that young people's expectations of film are primarily a reflection of how they've been taught to watch and process film.

also, i teach intro, so these are not necessarily film or even humanities majors. many of my students are in computer science, engineering, etc. okay yay let's go <3

most american college students have quite literally Never seen a single movie that was not in english, and are very resistant to reading subtitles.

i've had multiple students comment that non-english language films which require them to read subtitles force them to actually look at the screen, which makes them notice more details in the film. they are not accustomed to actually Watching films, and doing so is novel to them. they're used to just turning things on in the background before doing other tasks/scrolling on their phones.

students frequently comment upon whether or not a film was able to hold their attention, and many consider it a failing of the film itself if not. many students also lose interest when they are confused or uncertain about what is happening in a movie, rather than becoming more invested or intrigued.

some do note that they have short attention spans, and will clearly state that they do not watch or enjoy many movies because of this.

things which students see as inherently boring include black and white films, silent films, non-English-language films, and films more than twenty years old. many students were shocked when they enjoyed a film within any of the aforementioned categories.

a lot of students will see all of the pieces of the puzzle, but struggle to put them together. for example: they will note that a detective character seems to care more about pinning a crime on somebody than they care about actually solving it, that the detective is bad at their job, that the detective brutalizes suspects, but they will not quite reach the conclusion that the film is doing these things intentionally. rather than concluding that the film is criticizing the police, they will be upset that the character is so awful.

one student insisted that mad max: fury road is a deeply misogynistic film because the women were treated as objects and wore skimpy clothes. the fact that the entire plot of the film is about said women asserting their personhood and overthrowing the patriarchal order to establish a more egalitarian and empathetic matriarchy was not relevant to her; what mattered was how they looked, and no amount of explanation could change her mind. i don't really have a clear theory of what was going on here, but i wanted to share it because it feels. poignant. in a way i cannot articulate.

many students see "old" films as inherently worse than contemporary films. they will often say things like, "the movie was really good for something from the fifties."

a lot of people have never heard of alfred hitchcock. i don't rly have a take on this it just stunned me.

and this last one isn't necessarily film-specific, but i do think it's relevant to discussing media literacy and the quality of k-12 + STEM-focused university education: so many students do not know how to format a paper, and do not know how/do not think to look up a style guide or even consult the syllabus or assignment sheet.

students often add additional spaces between paragraphs, and/or use 1.15 pt. spacing rather than double spacing their papers. they'll use calibri or arial rather than times new roman, in 11 pt. font rather than 12. they'll write out their thesis separately from their paragraphs, or not write in paragraphs at all, instead writing something that looks closer to stream-of-consciousness bullet-point notes.

it seems to me that many students somehow make it through high school and into university without ever learning how to write a paper. what really concerns me however is the fact that this information is extremely available to them; in the class syllabus, on their assignment sheet, even if you just google how to write a paper. i'm no expert in education and i don't want to be alarmist, but i do think that there is a concerning lack of curiosity and care in many students, primarily those studying in STEM fields. part of this is just the fact that many of my students are used to writing lab reports and this is a different sort of writing, but the lack of flexibility and ability to engage with other subjects is very sad to me.

plenty of my students are curious and read the syllabus and pay attention to the films and know how to write! but the number of those who struggle to formulate a coherent paragraph, let alone paper, who cannot identify basic themes, indicates to me that young people are seriously suffering from shortened attention spans, the lack of popular non-english language film and television in american culture, and the proliferation of "second-screen" streaming content designed to be "viewed" by audiences who are not paying attention.

i don't have a remedy for this. i don't totally know why i'm typing this all out, except that my tenure as a teaching assistant is coming to an end and i felt an irrepressible urge to reflect upon the experience. idk i suppose i hope this will be interesting to somebody. if you made it this far, thank you and i hope you're well <3

[mircsy]

This.

We, artists, interact with each other on a daily basis, either in text or call (or both). It genuinely disgusts me to see how disrespectful and immature some people allow themselves to act online, to act with my friends.

I understand when someone doesn’t like a design, ship, art style or interpretation etc. Like, my gosh, I really wish I could erase my memory of the jetpack-windbag from the official “600 Strike” animation, or Odysseus’ red eyes in the song “Odysseus”, those visuals are JORGE’s ideas and NOT the artist’s who he commissioned, or that Jorge decided to add the mention of SA in “Hold Them Down”, while it was not in the original source, or the way he portays Calypso. (Yet people complain when artists don’t stay “canon”) Yes, Jorge took plenty of artistic liberties while writing this musical. And that is completely OK. Do I go around talk shit about him, spread dreadful misinformation about him, label him as a bad person because I don’t specifically like these changes? No. I still appreciate the hard work he put into the songs, the music, the thoughts behind them, and I accept the way he sees the songs, or I come up with sensible and respectful arguments/constructive critisism why I don’t like something. Or simply accept that it’s not my cup of tea and don’t interact with it to get rid of content I dislike.

Not like those who talk hateful about artists who make their own interpretation of the songs, or when they create something original they get told to go back and work on EPIC content. Or like those who are hateful towards Stories from Styx, because they had expected a second EPIC, while Casper emphasized SEVERAL TIMES that it will NOT be like Jorge’s creation. SfS is a completely different genre, which requires different type of voices, different instruments, different techniques of singing, plus it is the first musical our dear friend Casper ever wrote. And did he use the same artists who Jorge used? Yes, BECAUSE we are NOT “EPIC artists” who are Jorge’s property, we are all individuals who can join and leave, and create in any fandom/topic we want. It’s as if these people had said “How dare Robert Downey Jr. play Sherlock Holmes in the movies, he is a Marvel actor”. But I, and many other artists, have talked about this already enough. And guess what? Even though I loved working with Jorge, I enjoyed working with Casper more. Wild? Not really.

Casper showed he cares about the artists he commissioned. He made us a place where we can interact and help each other too, which made work so much less stressful. He cares so much he is even trying to help us dissolve this hate that reaches some of us, artists. Ryan’s advice about the algorythm and “block the hateful people and move on” is good. Correct, that really is how the algorythm works. But it misses the whole point why we reached out in the first place.

He can talk about community management, but it is not the SfS fandom that is full of immature and toxic people, who I question if they have ever been in fandoms. It is the EPIC fandom. And just like any other fandoms, it will have dark sides, people in the fandom WILL USE dark topics to create fan made content. And for many people it is a coping mechanism. (See sharpwolf ship. Those people who write about this toxic relationship, while themselves are victims, it’s like vent art for them. Helps them understand their own emotions. And also, not every Telemachus x Antinous work is connected to EPIC, keep that in mind. Greek mythology exists outside EPIC)

It just seems that a large part of the EPIC fandom loves the musical. But not the artists, writers, other creators who technically made it popular, those who technically carry the musical on their backs to the top with their fan (or even official) work… And those who could change that, those whose words would be listened to (not just heard), they step back and watch.

But that’s okay. Block those who hate and move on. Right?

Now here’s a fact. If the self entitled kids who spread hate don’t get regulated by someone who they most likely would actually listen to (*glances at the creator of EPIC*), artist will take the advice and will move on. Completely. Because of these people we started loosing enthusiasm over creating EPIC content.

hi guys! just letting you know in response to being notified about an uptick of hate and negativity in the epic fandom (mostly on tiktok) , Ryan Donaldson, the main business strategist of the EPIC team, has issued a statement essentially saying its the creator's fault that they experience so much hate because they drive the algorithm to give them more hate comments by responding to it.

Nowhere in the video does he say that he doesn't condone this sort of behavior, which is weird considering that he was a large contributor in creating and curating the fandom. He repeatedly pushes the idea of 'banning and moving on,' saying that Stories from Styx experiences more hate because Casper responds to hateful comments and implies that he may have hired "abusive collaborators" (whatever that means). Nowhere in this video does he talk about the role of the audience in defining the behavior of a fandom space. Ryan then plugs epic by talking about how positive everyone involved in the project is . Generally a dogshit response

Ryan is @ tiktokdungeonmaster on well. Tiktok

[sexiestpodcastcharacter]

Sexiest Podcast Character 2024 — Scripted Undefeated Bracket — Round 3

Propaganda

John Doe (Malevolent):

sorry but queer rumbling voice John Doe is too powerful to not vote for here. Also no one in canon will tell him this and he deserves to know.

ok but the way John Doe said labrynthine

If John wins I'll write him kissing Noel

Trans Icon

LISTEN TO HIS VOICE

Threatens to disembowl anyone who hurts the person he loves

Once tried to kill a priest for making goo goo eyes at his man

Was an evil warlord turned soft poetry lover

Can still throw hands when needed

Clever as fuck

Wants to see a movie SO BAD

Memorizes poems just for his wet cat -V protective of his wet cat partner

VOTE JOHN

Crew we can't let trans icon movie lover, most jealous husband in the universe John Doe lose...

If John wins I'll cosplay him again

Vote John!! he's everything. eldritch god, in a codependent relationship with a feral cat of a man, nice voice, he even likes poetry

I've actually nutted to John's voice before. /hj

like this isn't even his full power s2 voice but mannnnn he sounds so hungry and feral for Arthur all the time...

Sydney Sargent (Camp Here & There)

Canon trans man, initials are LITERALLY S.O.S. how cool is that I love him, the only thing holding camp here and there together I swear, yearning, pining, aching, HE JUST WANTS A HUG PLEASE GIVE HIM A HUG

Propaganda for Sydney. I want him. I want him so bad it’s not even funny

Additional propaganda below the cut:

John Doe (Malevolent):

A fragment of the Eldritch Deity that has gained independence, attached to possibly the world's most pathetic man. Also have you heard his voice

his voice is jsut. really good

Sydney Sargent (Camp Here & There)

sydneyyyy october sargent

#VOTE SYDNEYYYYY #hes being consumed by the forest he has a SpIn in mushrooms hes silly [CANON] he roleplays warrior cats with his worms #everyone hates him and wants him dead but god said Faggot! you will live forever (/ref) #he was behind the ketamine needle incident. #he’s goth he likes wearing fluffy dresses he’s canonically trans he’s fat he’s 5’3 he has every disease #hes autistic he wears mushrooms and live insects in his hair #YOUR BODY MY TEMPLE WAS WRITTEN ABOUT HIM. NEED I SAY MORE #HES EVEN GAY #PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU HES SO IMPORTANT TO ME orz #ok thats all thank you and goodnight

#SYDNEY. IT’S SYDNEY. #i haven’t listened to chnt in forever but sydney is very sexy. very much indeed. that says a lot coming from me.

[saintchiron]

i guess i gotta accept things the way they are but it makes me so mad that both mcu and the fans’ energy for thunderbolts are so clearly different than it was for bnw like. their asses clearly do not care about sam wilson at all and don’t even bother to hide it 🤡

marvel didn’t care about writing a story that centered entirely on sam, or just hiring someone that was passionate about the project to fucking write it, they didn’t care about clearing the bad rumors about the movie going around, or promoting it in the a way that’d make people want to see it and that’s okay i guess, their point was to boycott to movie after all. isn’t it why sabra is there in the first place? and if you don’t believe me, try to find one, just one, controversy around thunderbolts (there is none btw). and i’m not even going to talk too much about mcu fans cause there is not a single group of people that irritates me more than mcu fans. bnw comment sections are full of complaints and hatred. and yet, if you take a look on thunderbolts’...

truth is: thunderbolts is a mostly white movie. it has marvel fav whities and this is what both mcu and fans want. this is enough for both groups. if it’s good or not it doesn’t matter. and the so called progressive ppl here are not any different than dudebros when it comes to people of color. ESPECIALLY black people. mcu has been waiting to blame their ‘downfall’ on people of color and you all give them reasons enough to do it.

[lizardsfromspace]

Talking about Chris Columbus made me think about what was probably the most prophetic part of JK Rowling's bad wizard books at the time

If you go back to coverage from the time (which I did verifying the info in the Chris Columbus post, discovering this) you see that she wanted a capital-d Director for it. A visionary auteur worthy of her wizard book for children. She wanted Terry Gilliam; the studio said no. She wanted Guillermo del Toro; he said no. She wanted Steven Spielberg; he said yes, then dropped out due to "creative differences" (he wanted to do it as an animated film, and chose to make A.I. instead). Then with the third movie, they landed one: Y tu mamá también director Alfonso Cuarón. At last, she would get to see what it was like for a visionary creative to tackle her work, as she wanted all along

And when it came out, there was one problem. The reviews were really, really good...and all of them were praising Alfonso Cuarón. They were saying that he had added so much to the wizarding world of JK Rowling (TM). Some were even implying he handled the material better than she did, and a few were saying that outright, because it was true

Suddenly, the prospect of her work being handled by a Visionary Aueteur was less appealing. Cuarón couldn't give less of a shit, he went off to make Children of Men, so strange how basically everyone involved in the bad wizard movies used the money from it as a springboard to kickstart a successful career doing shit they actually care about it except its writer. So two movies later, we meet David Yates, whose filmography looks like this

He does have works other than this - all of it on TV. Miniseries/TV movies and TV episodes. Though his only TV work since Harry Potter was one TV pilot.

Someone who had spent years talking about her hopes that Spielberg or Gilliam or del Toro or M. Night Shyamalan would add their Visionary Touch to her books was now happy having some random TV director handle everything forever. A random TV director who hardly does anything except Harry Potter. Whose career depends on her and her series. Anyway I'm sure she just really liked his miniseries about human trafficking a lot

It reminds me of when the director & writer of the first 50 Shades movie did a lot of editing to remove the unnecessary guff that was only in the book bc it was in the original fanfic - like pointless side characters who were only around bc they were a Twilight character in the original - & make it work better as a film, and then E.L. James fired everyone and had her husband write the sequels so they wouldn't ruin her baby. JK Rowling really wanted the prestige of her movie being made by a Steven Spielberg but didn't realize that a director like that would alter the material for film even when adapting a good book. She just wanted a famous person to enthusiastically co-sign that her book was very good and perfect and required not one change before becoming a classic of cinema. Meanwhile Alice Walker, Michael Crichton, Philip K. Dick and H.G. Wells are all better writers than JK Rowling, and none of them were granted that level of deference

Anyway who could have foreseen that the writer who made sure her film series was made as bland as possible after having one director actually dare to change and adapt her work would one day get so mad at her movie's cast no longer speaking with her she tries to remake the whole series to "replace" them

[tillythemenace]

OMG YES let's PLEASE talk about what a non character Valka became that's honestly depressing....

Not only is she just so absent as a parent, she's legit just a glorified look-out, that's only there to point out the obvious and look pretty as an object to Snotlout's desires (YUCK), "Oh this is bad, oh Hiccup looks sad -Hiccup's girlfriend who has known him better than me his whole life -go talk to him, there's dragon hunters on close by btw, Oh I left and I know what it's like but I will not further elaborate and that will have no impact on you or the plot"

She doesn't do anything meaningful in the third movie that it's almost insulting to the round and complicated character she was in httyd2... We see no meaningful interactions with her with the village, with Gobber- the closest to her husband and the other person that raised Hiccup, knows his upbringings etc and knows him better than her, with HICCUP HIMSELF, with Astrid (that deleted scene about them talking about marriage makes me even more angry because WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT IT) We don't even know how coming back to Berk affected her. What drives me most insane is that her not having anything to do, makes her even more separated from Hiccup and therefor her decision to leave Cloudjumper (the dragon she had NO ISSUE leaving civilization for for 20 years) with no push back whatsoever feels PAINFULLY Out of character, her of ALL PEOPLE should have a say in it....... Her telling Hiccup she tried to run away and it didn't work so he also shouldn't as a throw away line AFTER they already moved to another island (stupid ass decision in the first place) Like couldn't u have that convo BEFORE? and STILL BEING OK with doing it anyways? cause she doesn't KNOW how to support her son.

So yeah that whole "go talk to him" to Astrid infuriates me to no end because that 1: Hiccup's problem WASN'T, in fact, that the was sad he was doing things alone, it was literally EVERYTHING ELSE (and the fact that no one supported him drove me to angry tears tbh cause literally fuck everyone else for that) and 2: Astrid DIDN'T NEED any incentive to talk to him in the first place. She's ASTRID, she was gonna do it anyways, Astrid KNOWS Hiccup better than Valka and she KNOWS how he feels. So Valka telling HER what to do was uncalled for and unnecessary it felt SO HARD like they were trying to make Valka this wise lady that learned her lesson when that's not true. It's been 1 year and we still don't know her position in the village and Hiccup's life. She's literally just There. She has no voice or vote, she's entirely passive. Which is a huge ass disappointment... :/

Like I could talk all day about how angry i am for butchering MANY characters in this movie like Snotlout, the Twins, Yes even Gobber cause I 100000% agree with U OP on that too. Hiccup and even Astrid. But what they did to VALKA? Hiccup's MOTHER, that has a HUGE ASS ROLE in the last movie? A complex character with morally questionable decisions that carried so much WEIGHT and that's why she was interesting? Reduced to NOTHING.

What they did to her was just cynical. It was a brutal character assassination by the writers that didn't know how to write complex women. And that to me is even more sad. I almost forgot she was even in this movie because of how little she contributes other than being just another dragon rider...

“He thinks he has to lead alone… because his father had to”

That scene left me somewhat sour when I first saw it, and it still does. Valka is trying to give Astrid advice as she was the woman married to the Chief. As Chieftess one would assume Valka had responsibilities as well, and her first duty was to her husband.

But like, I don’t think Valka had the right to be coaching Astrid? First of all, the reason Stoick was left alone was because of YOU, Valka. Hiccup has this impression of his father because Valka was never there. Hiccup figures that if his father, who would always be mourning the death of his wife, could do it, so could he. And honestly, I think Hiccup doesn’t like to mess up, not necessarily that he thinks he has to lead alone. He can be in his head sometimes, but we’ve seen him incorporate other’s ideas (in RTTE which was totally not taken into account in THW) and I don’t think Hiccup has ever admitted that he thinks he has to lead alone anyway. So I’m not sure why Valka thinks she’s right. Unless it was said offscreen, but what would that matter if the audience didn’t see it.

The movie lacked any real scenes between Valka and Hiccup imo.

And then Valka suggests Astrid console him, as though Valka knows Hiccup all that well. I know she means well, and had known Hiccup for a year, but I don’t think she had the right to play parent when he’s a grown adult who’s leading the village.

I get Valka is the voice of reason like Stoick was to Hiccup and Astrid (we see that mainly in RTTE between him and Astrid), but personally, she didn’t earn the right to give advice regarding the son she left behind for twenty years.

You wanna play wise parent now? Too late.

Again, I know she means well and is able to recognize her husband’s challenges in her son, but I just think the conversation was unnecessary. Astrid already KNOWS what to do with Hiccup. Astrid’s really the only person that can get Hiccup to spill and he’s always honest with her. Astrid knows how to handle him, and she knows how to communicate. Heck, Astrid knows Hiccup better than Valka does.

I’m sure the writers must’ve realized too late that there weren’t any scenes between Valka and Astrid (which sucks because I feel like Astrid would hold some resentment towards her on Hiccup’s behalf, and that would’ve been an interesting conversation) and they needed to come up with a scene. I don’t see Valka as wise as Stoick was. She’s cool yeah, and this post wasn’t made to bash her, but her character overall was just not handled right from the start.