#you can just feel it in the bones of the series

[emriiis]

ok so i'm going feral rn over kdh AND IM TAKING YOU ALL WITH ME

so hear me out: saja boys/reader where the reader is rumi's twin sister, but like more demon in her ig?? so she can hear gwi-ma (don't come at me for spelling i cant write for shit 😭) so celine like has her locked away from the world, but gwi-ma tells the boys to find her so she can help the demons against huntr/x but they like find out she's their mate or smth??

ilysm!! 🫶🏼

New Series Sneak Peak

A/N: thank you so much for sending your idea, it really got my brain going 😭🩷 I felt so inspired that I ended up writing something right away, so here's a little sneak peek of it. Hope you enjoy!

Saja Boys x Rumi's twin sister! Reader

Jinu walked alone, his breath misting in the cold night air, each step echoing against the empty street. His heart still raced from the confrontation with Huntrix, a cold dread settling in his bones. 

Rumi was half demon.

And worse—she was a hunter.

The air split open without sound, reality bending like molten glass. Heat surged behind him, and in the next blink, Jinu was no longer in the city—but underground. The earth trembled beneath his feet, and the walls of black stone glowed faintly with veins of magma. At the heart of it all roared a massive inferno—no shape, no face, just a swirling mass of fire with a voice that burned into his bones.

Gwi-ma.

His presence wasn’t seen—it was felt. A scorching pressure that weighed on the soul. The flames pulsed once, and the voice came like a low rumble from the pit of the earth itself.

“One of the Hunters bears my mark, but I have no control over her.”

“But the other one…” Gwi-ma’s grin was felt more than seen. “I can reach her… through the mind. She’s the hunters sister.”

Jinu stiffened.

A sudden gust of heat lashed across Jinu’s skin, searing without burning.

“She hears me. She feels me. My voice lingers in her mind. She may be caged now, but if she stands with us…” The fire rose higher, devouring the shadows. “Humans will fall more easily when she is by my side. By yours.”

The Saja Boys split off, each one trailing different paths through the shadows of the city. Jinu and Abby, however, had managed to track her down first.

The air inside the cathedral was thick with old magic and something else—something alive.

Jinu’s boots echoed across the cracked stone as he moved, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Abby was just behind him, shoulders tense, chest rising with every breath like he was holding something back. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The pull in their blood was enough.

And then they saw her.

She lay behind the enchanted glass like a vision wrapped in moonlight—fragile, glowing, otherworldly. Her body rested atop stone etched with containment runes, but her presence outshone the gloom. Hair cascaded around her like rivers of silk, floating slightly as if the air itself bowed to her. Faint markings glimmered across her skin, like constellations kissed into flesh. Even in her weakness, she looked untouchable.

Divine.

A goddess fallen from the stars.

Mate.

Jinu’s steps slowed. His breath caught. “It’s her,” he whispered, voice breaking as his demon mark began to glow, searing bright under his collarbone.

Abby’s eyes widened. His mark lit up a moment later, rising like fire under his skin. The energy between them shifted, pulsing, drawing them closer like gravity.

Her body stirred.

She gasped softly—just a breath—but they felt it like a scream. Her fingers moved weakly, reaching for her chest where her own mark flickered beneath the skin. Her lips parted in silent confusion, as if she didn’t understand what was happening… 

“She feels us,” Abby whispered, stepping closer to the barrier, his voice low and reverent. “She’s our mate.”

Jinu placed a hand gently on the glass, voice trembling with quiet urgency. “Hey… we’re here. We found you.”

Her gaze lifted slowly. Glassy eyes met his. She blinked, dazed—too weak to speak. But her chest rose sharply, her body trembling as the pull deepened. Her soul had recognized them. Her body trembled with the effort to rise, but her limbs gave out. She winced, her breath catching as her strength faltered.

Jinu leaned closer, his voice steadier now, like a promise wrapping around her. “Don’t move. Don’t push yourself. We’re going to get you out.”

“You’re safe now,” Abby added, his expression tender, gaze unwavering. “We swear it. No one’s going to hurt you again.”

“We’ll come back for you,” Jinu said gently. “We’ll tear this place down if we have to. Just hold on a little longer.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, as if she finally allowed herself to breathe.

To believe them.

To rest.

[understeeringirl]

We'll fake it your way

summary: a photo, a headline, and a quiet unraveling. three days after canada, the internet gets too loud, so you and lando set the rules. warnings: fake dating trope, social media mentions, hurt/comfort, soft emotional flashbacks, banter, protective!lando pairing: lando norris x fem!reader word count: 1.8k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five

______________________________________________________________

It starts three days after Canada.

Lando texts you twice. Calls once. Leaves a voice note that you never open. You’re not ignoring him on purpose. You’re just tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes, either. The kind that sits in your bones, that makes your phone feel heavy in your hand. You tell yourself you’ll answer tomorrow. Then tomorrow becomes the day after. Then the day after that.

And then you’re trending. Not because of something you did. Because someone posted a blurry photo of you leaving a casting call in Monaco, and the internet decided it was open season.

"She's not even pretty." "Is this the girl who's always clinging to Lando?" "Why is she even famous?"

It spirals fast. You scroll too long. You know better. But it’s like picking at a scab—you can’t stop even when it hurts. Someone finds a race weekend clip of you standing next to Lando in the McLaren hospitality and overlays it with a Taylor Swift song about begging to be chosen. It gets over 200k likes. You close your phone. Your stomach sinks.

That night, you call him.

He answers on the second ring. “Took you long enough,” he jokes, voice warm. “Missed me?”

You smile faintly. “Hey.”

A beat of silence. Then: “You okay?”

You shift, staring out your window. “We should do it. The fake dating thing. For real.”

There’s a pause. You expect hesitation. You get none.

“Alright,” he says easily. “Let’s do it.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he repeats. “Wanna come over?”

______________________________________________________________

His apartment in Monaco is clean in a way that screams he hasn’t been home in weeks. There’s a suitcase half-unpacked by the door. Trophies on shelves you’re not sure he dusts. A hoodie of yours in the living room chair you forgot you left.

You sit cross-legged on the couch. He brings you a cup of tea like it’s muscle memory. “So,” you say, sitting across from him. “We need to set rules.”

Lando leans back, eyeing you. “Yeah?”

“You’re way too chill about this,” you say. “Which is why I need rules. Because I know you.”

He grins. “That’s fair.”

You sip your tea. “If we’re going to pull this off without losing our minds, or our friendship, we need boundaries.”

“Lay them on me.”

You sit up straighter. “Okay. What are we even trying to do with this?”

He shrugs. “Make the internet shut up. Protect you. Maybe help me get through a few interviews without dodging relationship questions.”

“So it’s part public perception, part mutual survival.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And you get full creative control over what we post. I’m not touching captions.”

“You mean no more cryptic one-liners?”

He smirks. “I’m evolving.”

He pulls out his phone and opens the Notes app. "Okay," he says, thumbs poised. "Terms and conditions. Let’s make it official."

You raise an eyebrow. "You’re writing it down?"

"We need receipts in case you sue me for emotional damage," he deadpans.

You laugh. It’s the first time tonight it doesn’t feel forced.

He starts typing.

Fake Dating Agreement:

Rule #1: No kissing unless it’s for PR. Rule #2: Weekly Instagram activity required. Stories count. Rule #3: No getting jealous. Of anything. Ever. Rule #4: Either one of us can end it. No questions asked.

He grins. “Also, I reserve the right to flirt in public. For realism.”

You roll your eyes. “Only if I can call you embarrassing nicknames in interviews.”

“Deal,” he says. “I’ve always wanted to be someone’s pumpkin.”

You groan. He’s insufferable. You try not to look at his mouth when he does.

“Anything else?” he asks. You hesitate. Then say, “Let’s just not make it harder than it needs to be.”

His face shifts, just for a second. Something flickers behind his eyes. But he nods.

“Deal.”

He reaches out his hand like this is a contract and you’re business partners. You shake on it.

______________________________________________________________

Later, after you leave, you sit on the steps outside your flat and remember a race from years ago. You were thirteen. He had just won some junior karting final, still bouncing on his heels from the adrenaline.

A local reporter asked if you were his girlfriend. You’d laughed too hard. Said “God, no.” Loud enough for him to hear.

He’d looked over, confused but not offended. “You wish,” he teased. You rolled your eyes and tossed a water bottle at him.

But it stuck with you. Not the reporter. Not the question. Just the way you couldn’t stop wondering what he would’ve said if you hadn’t spoken first.

______________________________________________________________

Lando posts something the next day.

It’s a carousel on Instagram: his post-race weekend photo dump. Slide one is him in the garage. Slide two is his engineer mid-yell. Slide three is you, barely in frame, headset on, laughing at something he said.

Caption: she makes the headphones look better

Your heart catches. Because you weren’t expecting it. Because you didn’t know he was looking.

You repost it to your story with no caption. The internet notices.

And just like that, you’re not the girl in the background anymore. You’re the girl on his feed.

Two hours later, you get an email from McLaren’s media team. It's short and vague—more curious than directive.

Subject: Content Coordination & Public Messaging From: McLaren Media To: Lando Norris, Y/N

Hello team,

Noticing the spike in engagement following yesterday’s post — exciting stuff! Let us know if you need support managing DMs or fan messaging. We’re prepping light briefing notes in case media picks up on this before Austria.

No pressure, just flagging we may want to prep some soft-launch language for Lando’s press day.

Best, Holly // McLaren Communications

You stare at the screen for a long moment.

“They think it’s real,” you say aloud.

You forward it to Lando with no message.

He replies two minutes later:

"Ignore it unless you want to do something. They don’t need to know anything. This is for us."

You wish you believed him. But when you open Instagram again, your face is everywhere. And you’re not sure who the hell you are in any of the photos.

______________________________________________________________

Like some nights, you can’t sleep.

You spend too long rereading the comments under his post. You shouldn’t, but it’s hard not to. Most of them are supportive. Some are suspicious. A few sting.

It’s past 1 a.m. when you text him.

you up?

He replies instantly:

always. what’s up?

can’t sleep. it’s too quiet.

wanna call?

You hesitate. Then:

yeah.

He calls right away. You don’t even say hi—just listen to his breathing for a second.

“You okay?” he asks.

You roll onto your back, eyes on the ceiling. “Not really.”

There’s a pause. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I dunno. It’s just… weird.”

“Weird how?”

You exhale. “All of it. Us. This. The fake dating thing. People looking at us like we’re—” You stop.

“Like we’re not just us?” he finishes.

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a second. Then, gently: “We’ve always been us. Doesn’t matter what anyone else sees.”

You let that sit between you. Because it’s true. Because that’s what this whole thing is supposed to be about—protecting that. Holding onto the only thing that’s ever really made sense.

“I’m glad it’s you,” you say softly.

You hear the smile in his voice when he replies. “Me too.”

There's a pause, then he says, “So what kept you up? Modeling drama? Existential dread? TikTok holes?”

You snort. “A bit of everything. Also I accidentally found a conspiracy thread about us being childhood enemies turned lovers.”

He laughs, a real one this time. “Wait—enemies? That’s slander. I shared my juice boxes with you.”

“You stole my fries for two years straight.”

“Out of love,” he says smugly.

You smile despite yourself. “How was media day?”

“Long. Boring. Someone asked me if I was in love. I think I said something about tire degradation.”

“Poetic,” you reply.

He hums. “You?”

“Shot a campaign. The stylist gave me a beret and said I looked like a depressed French poet.”

“Hot.”

“Shut up.”

He yawns, soft and sleepy. “I like this.”

“What?”

“This. You calling. Talking like we used to. Makes the rest of it feel less weird.”

You nod. “Yeah. Same.”

There's a pause, then he says: “You wanna do the first official post tomorrow?”

You chew your lip. “Yeah. Might as well. Let’s go big or go home.”

He hums again. “We fake it so well, people are gonna think we’ve been in love since we were ten.”

You don’t respond right away. Then you say, “Wouldn’t be the worst story.”

And he doesn’t answer, but you both fall into a silence that feels… comfortable. Familiar. Like slipping into a well-worn hoodie.

He clears his throat first. “So, if we’re doing this whole thing properly—what’s our story?”

“Our story?”

“Yeah. You know. How we 'fell in love.'”

You groan. “God, we’re gonna have to come up with an origin story.”

“Dramatic meet-cute? Shared trauma? Accidental hand brush that changed everything?”

You laugh. “It started when you made me eat a worm because you said it was a friendship ritual.”

“Character building,” he says. “Look at you now. Resilient. Gorgeous. Immunized.”

You roll your eyes. “I think we should just keep it vague. Let them guess.”

“Bold. Mysterious.” He pauses. “And then I get to say, ‘I’d rather keep that between us’ in interviews and look all coy.”

“That’s the dream,” you say dryly. “Just don’t oversell it.”

“No promises.”

A beat.

Then you say, “Hey, thanks for not making this weird.”

He chuckles. “You’re welcome for being incredibly cool and chill and fake-dateable.”

“Pumpkin.”

He groans. “I regret everything.”

______________________________________________________________

A few days later, your first public moment happens without planning.

It’s a sunny Thursday in Monaco, and you’re both on a coffee run. Paparazzi don’t usually wait outside the café on the corner, but someone spots him. Then someone spots you. Then someone yells his name.

He grabs your hand like it’s second nature. You blink down at it, then up at him. He just grins. Keeps walking.

You think it’ll be a passing thing—maybe a blurry photo, a headline buried under the next scandal. But by the time you’re home, it’s already on TikTok.

“Lando Norris soft-launching his girlfriend??” “He’s holding her hand like it’s his job.” “No one act surprised when they drop matching tattoos.”

You drop your forehead against the counter. Regret sighs out of you.

Lando, meanwhile, looks extremely pleased with himself. “Told you I’m good at this.”

“You’re going to ruin your own PR reputation.”

“Please,” he says, tossing you a bottle of water. “They love a little mystery. And now you’re not just a model. You’re my model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

He taps a finger against his temple. “Strategic. There's a difference.”

You hate that he’s kind of right.

That night, you fall asleep with your phone buzzing under your pillow and his contact pinned at the top of your messages.

You dream about the karting track. About when it was just you and him, and the noise of the world hadn’t found its way in yet.

______________________________________________________________

hey!! here's part one of my first series, hope you like it! if i'm being honest it feels a little messy, so please tell me if it's bad 😭😭 i'll probably upload part two today or tomorrow, hehe

see you next lap ;), -N 🏁

[lolobeey]

No Assembly Required (1) - Game On

Dusting off the cobwebs and launching a brand-new blog for writing and my long-time Bucky Barnes obsession—because apparently, he still owns my brain. I’ve been devouring @dreamwritesimagines incredible DECLASSIFIED series (go read it right now), and the inspo hit hard enough to pull me out of my years-long drought. Let’s see where this goes.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Female!Reader

Series Summary: After his communications director quits in a blaze of frustration, guarded congressional candidate Bucky Barnes finds an unexpected ally in her replacement—an unorthodox but disarmingly sharp advisor who might just be the perfect fit for both his campaign and his heart.

Warnings: strong language, slow burn, politics, fluff, flirting through political strategy, reader has a nickname

Word Count: 8k

“James, you simply must attend the gala tonight.”

“Nope,” Bucky replies simply, eyes still fixed on the fresh polling numbers his assistant just dropped like a live grenade on his desk.

“You canceled the last one,” spits Kassandra Birch, his Communications Director. A sharp-tongued operator in a blazer that costs more than most people’s rent. One eyebrow arched and battle-ready. “The Stonewell Group was nice enough to reschedule, and I don't have to remind you that we need their money.”

“We don’t,” Bucky sighs, finally looking up at her piercing gaze. “And my intention was for it to stay canceled, Kassandra. I told you that. Didn’t I tell her that, Zach?”

Zach Greenfield—his Campaign Manager and human stress ball, stares out the window, looking like he’s three decisions away from a career change involving bees and total off-grid living. He lets out a long, haunted sigh.

“He told ya, Kass.”

“Give me one good reason.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “Them being in bed with the NRA isn’t enough?”

“You love guns! You’re the goddamn Winter Soldier!" she shrieks, hands flying.

Silence. Bucky stares at her like she’s just suggested he endorse arson as a climate policy.

"We need you to love guns and people owning guns. It bridges the gap and we need the older male vote."

“We all know that he loves gun reform, Kass. And for good reason,” Zach cuts in. “I’m with him. I told you not to schedule it, but you never listen.”

Bucky eyes his ally for a beat. The ever good-intentioned Zach. The same Zach who roped him into this mess in the first place.

Because when the grandson of one of your old buddies from Brooklyn tracks you down with a full campaign strategy and eyes full of fire, you listen. And Bucky listened so hard he’s now two months into this damn campaign and trapped in a perpetual argument loop with a woman they swore was “the best in the biz.”

He doesn’t even have to look at Kassandra to feel the heat radiating off her face.

“Why am I even here if he won’t listen to me?” she snips.

“Yes, why is she here?” Bucky says without missing a beat, tone bone-dry.

“Because I’m the best,” Kassie fires back before Zach can open his mouth. “You don’t have a chance in hell of winning without me. No one else would take on a… project this big. Right, Zach?”

Zach looks anywhere but at her, like he’s scanning the office for sharp objects to impale himself with.

Bucky clears his throat. “I thought there was another name in the mix, no?”

“Excuse me?” Kassie spins toward him, voice like a whipcrack.

“Well…” Zach starts, visibly lamenting this turn in conversation.

“Who? Morris? He couldn’t get a Senator’s kid into a high school mock trial. Jackie? That woman thinks hashtags are policy.”

“Kassie, we hired you,” Zach offers, like a man clinging to a buoy.

“Oh, I remember,” chirps Bucky’s assistant, Mia, from her desk right beyond his office door, immune to the bickering at this point. “The Shakespeare lady, right?”

“Her? Please. She’s only ever been a deputy,” Kassandra flares.

“A damn good one,” Zach mutters.

"Not to mention she's been out of politics for years. Couldn't hack it from what I heard."

“Wait—what do you mean, Shakespeare lady?” Bucky interjects, now intrigued.

“She did work with that program upstate, uh, Shakespeare in the... in the Courts!” Mia explains, spinning slightly in her chair. “They rehabilitate juvenile offenders by having them put on Shakespeare plays. She did a fundraiser called Doing Bard Time. It raked in cash. The program had barely any funding, and now Netflix is even doing a doc on them.”

There’s a pause.

Kassie glares like she’s seconds from launching a binder.

“Sure,” she says finally, voice tight. “Go ahead and get her instead. Maybe Hamlet can help you poll better with suburban moms.”

Zach barks out a sharp, surprised laugh. “Now, now, Kass. We all know Bucky does not have any issues with that demo.”

“Fuck you, Zach. “I can't believe I let you drag me into this sham,” she snaps, shooting him a glare hot enough to blister paint before turning her fire on Bucky. "I'm done. Have fun tanking this campaign, James. Although I’m sure it won’t even crack the top ten on the list of things you’ve fucked up in your life.”

And with that, the monumentally exhausting Kassandra struts out the door, heels cracking against the tile like gunshots.

Bucky exhales, long and ragged, and swivels his chair to face Zach.

“Thank god," Bucky sighs. "I'm just happy I didn’t have to fire her. Honestly, that worked out better than I expected.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Told you on her first day it wouldn’t work out,” Bucky groans and he stands, stretching his limbs to release tension.

“Yeah, well, she came with built-in funding,” Zach mutters, rubbing his temples. “Sue me.”

“Blood money,” Bucky retorts dryly. “So what do we do now? Are we sunk?”

"You'd like that wouldn't you?"

Bucky smiles wryly. "This other option... You think she'd be a good fit?"

“Maybe.” Zach lets out a short chuckle like he's in on some joke. “I had a feeling today was when Kass would finally implode, so I called her this morning. She’s…cautiously open to it.”

“What?” Bucky squints at him.

“You’re meeting her tomorrow at seven am,” Zach says, sliding a Post-it across the desk with an address scrawled in his hasty chicken-scratch. “Dress casual.”

Bucky picks up the note and frowns. “This is over an hour outside the city, Zach.”

“So take the bike.”

“You always tell me never to take the bike.”

Zach shakes his head, almost smiling. “No, Kassandra told you never to use the bike.”

------

If people thought New York City was beautiful in the fall, they’d never taken a sunrise ride up the Hudson Valley.

The train wouldn’t have done it justice anyway, Bucky thinks, the wind clawing through his hair as he leans into the throttle. The bike hums beneath him, engine steady, slicing through the morning chill like a scalpel. Rust-colored leaves explode behind him in his wake. Gold, ochre, blood-orange, kicked up along I-9 like confetti for a parade no one asked for.

The city fades fast out here. Skyscrapers give way to red barns, strip malls replaced by rolling hills and bare-branched trees reaching for the sky. The only signs of life are the occasional pickup truck rumbling past, and clusters of cows staring blankly like they know something you don’t.

When he finally pulls off the main road, it’s not at some discreet campaign hideaway or upstate office park. It’s a field. A big, sprawling, muddy field scattered with the bones of houses in various states of being born. The air smells like wet lumber, diesel, and cold earth.

Contractors in neon vests and hard hats move in a blur. Hoisting beams, pouring cement, barking directions. Some of them are kids, teens, maybe, clutching hammers like they’re still figuring out which end does what. There’s a low thrum of classic rock playing from a speaker tied to a tree.

A large sign stands crooked at the entrance, scrawled with the Habitat for Humanity logo in blue. Below it, someone’s clearly had fun with a marker:

WE OUTSIDE (BUILDING HOMES)

Touch grass. Hold a hammer.

Bucky slows the bike to a crawl, gravel crunching under the tires, and kills the engine. Silence falls around him for a beat, like even the field is surprised he showed up.

“You here for the build?” a voice calls out.

Bucky looks up to find a man, brawny, mid-40s, wearing a hard hat and the kind of flannel shirt that earns its keep, approaching him with the casual swagger of someone who’s spent his entire life outdoors. He gives Bucky’s outfit a once-over and smirks.

Slacks. Button-down. Leather jacket. Clean boots. Not a speck of sawdust or sweat in sight.

When Zach had said “casual,” Bucky had assumed that meant no sport coat. Not this.

Bucky just gives your name in response, trying not to sound defensive.

The man raises his eyebrows. “Ah, that makes sense.” He turns and shouts across the site. “Hey, Maybee! This one’s late. Where you want him?”

Bucky spots a hard hat rise in the distance like a prairie dog popping up from a hole. A second later, someone steps away from a whirring power saw, brushing sawdust off a pair of well-worn overalls as they jog toward him.

She pulls off her protective goggles, tucks them into a side pocket, and wipes a line of sweat from her brow with the back of her glove.

“Mr. Barnes,” she says as she approaches, voice clear, steady, and completely unfazed by his presence. “Appreciate you helping out today.”

Then her eyes flick to his outfit. The slacks, the polished boots, the button-down trying very hard to blend under a leather jacket.

She smirks. “Ah. And it seems our friend Zach left out a crucial detail, I see.”

Bucky straightens, adjusting slightly on instinct. “Pleasure,” he says, offering his hand, adding your name with the kind of formal respect that gets used in campaign headquarters.

Instead of shaking it, she slaps a hammer from her toolbelt into his open palm with a satisfying clack.

“Oh, no one’s called me that. Like, ever.” She grins. “Maybee’s fine.”

Bucky blinks, looking down at the hammer, then back up at her. There’s no trace of hesitation, no sycophantic awe, no political agenda radiating off her. Just sawdust, sweat, and a confidence you can’t fake.

And just like that, he’s paying more attention than he meant to.

She turns on her heel with purpose, already headed toward the skeletal frame of a house rising at the edge of the property, two-by-fours sticking out like ribs, a ladder leaned precariously against what will eventually be a second story.

“You can help me put up some studs while we talk,” she calls over her shoulder, stooping to grab a hard hat from the grass. Without breaking stride, she tosses it behind her.

Bucky catches it one-handed, no effort.

“I don’t need one,” he says, matter-of-fact, already shrugging off his jacket and starting to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

“Yeah, I get that you’ve got the whole chemically induced super strength and all,” she replies, glancing back. “But humor me, please.”

He eyes the hard hat with the disdain of someone handed a party hat at a funeral… but slides it on anyway, tucking his hair underneath it with visible reluctance.

She chuckles. “Oh yeah. You’re gonna fit right in.”

They reach the frame, where someone’s already propped up a stack of studs and tools. Bucky starts surveying the layout, muscle memory from a dozen covert ops and safehouse repairs kicking in as he assesses weight distribution and balance points like it’s second nature.

“I can look for another shirt for you…” she says, eyeing his arms as he pulls a stud into place.

“I don’t really sweat.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” She lifts a brow. “I’m worried your shirt's gonna file a worker’s comp claim.”

Bucky glances down, sees the threads straining just a little too hard over his biceps. He huffs a short laugh, but doesn’t comment.

She hands him a nail gun. “Try not to break this one. We only have three, and the other two are already being abused by high schoolers with too much caffeine in their system.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

“You better,” she says, pointing at him. “You break it, you help me teach poetry to teens next Saturday as punishment.”

That gets him to crack a smile, a small one, barely there, but he hides it as he lifts the nail gun and lines it up with the beam.

She moves around to the other side of him, squaring a vertical stud with practiced ease and bracing it with her boot while holding it steady.

“So,” she says, glancing up at him as he pulls the trigger, the gun letting out a sharp clack-clack as the nails punch through the wood. “I only have one question.”

“That's it?” he replies, raising a skeptical brow as he moves to the next stud.

“Yeah. Why?”

He gives her a look, equal parts confusion and curiosity.

“Why are you running?”

He clears his throat. The campaign-approved talking points start rolling automatically in his head like a teleprompter:

“Well, I believe I can be a voice for the constituents of Brooklyn by—”

“Oh God.” She grimaces mid-hammer swing. “Not the PR drivel. Please. Spare me. I’ve read campaign emails written by interns with more soul than those. I want the real reason.”

Bucky blinks. She straightens the beam again, waiting, hammer paused in midair.

“I mean it,” she adds. “I’m honestly intrigued why you’d want to even enter this circus. Most people do it for power. You? You don’t even seem to like people, from what I've seen. I assume it'd be torture for you.”

He lets out a quiet breath and finally lowers the nail gun to his side. His fingers flex around the handle like he’s gripping more than just the tool.

“Zach talked me into it,” he says.

She barks out a laugh and drives a nail into the wood with one clean hit.

“Okay, a little less honest than that,” she says, smirking. “You don’t seem like someone who does something just because a stranger asks you to. And I need to know there’s a real pulse under all that stoic hero guilt.”

Bucky moves to the next beam. As he lifts it into place, his shoulders shift, and something in his posture softens.

“Issac,” he says. “Zach’s grandfather. Grew up around the block from me. We got shipped off together. He made it home safe.”

She pauses to hold the beam still for him as he lines it up.

“Zach grew up hearing stories of the man I used to be before...” He fires a nail. “He’s always seen me as some kind of hero. He didn't look at me like... y'know."

Another nail. His voice drops a little.

“Look, I did those things. All the pardons and therapists in the world can tell me they made me into it, that it wasn’t really me. But it was me. And what better way to even try to make up for it than the black hole of public service? If I can actually help one person. Just one. Then maybe…”

He trails off.

She doesn’t fill the silence right away. She just reaches for another stud and starts aligning it with his, working in quiet sync.

“So… it is torture in a way. Penance,” she says eventually, not unkindly. “Interesting.”

“How'd I do?”

“Better than ninety percent of the politicians I’ve met," she replies, hammering in a nail with two sharp whacks.

She wipes her forehead again with the back of her wrist and tosses him a faint smile.

“And not a load of bullshit. Thank you.”

She studies him for a moment. Really studies him. Not the way reporters do, looking for a quote or an angle. Not the way donors do, weighing how much clout he has left. No, this is something quieter. Her gaze drifts over his face, slow and thoughtful, like she’s trying to figure out what kind of person he is just by looking.

Bucky clears his throat, suddenly hyperaware of how close they’re standing and how much sawdust is in his hair.

“So…” he says, nodding toward the half-built structure. “What’s this whole thing for? Raising money?”

She shakes her head, grabbing another stud and sliding it into place between the frame.

“Oh no. This isn’t about funds,” she says, dusting off her gloves. “Habitat does this every year with Long Island City High. Gives the kids real trade experience, and gives the crew some much-needed extra hands.”

She gives a half-shrug, modest but proud. “It’s been running since I was there.”

Bucky raises a brow. “Queens girl?”

She grins, planting a hand on her hip. “Born and bred.”

He smiles before he can stop himself. “That fits.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Let me guess. Tough. Fast talker. Has opinions about pizza.”

“Damn right I do,” she shoots back, pointing at him with the hammer like it’s a weapon. “Don’t even say Domino’s in my presence.”

He holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He's not even sure what she's referring to, but knows better.

A kid runs by them with a crooked wheelbarrow and nearly takes out the corner of the frame. She casually sticks her foot out to stop it, not missing a beat.

“You’ve got a good thing going here,” Bucky says after a moment, quieter now. “These kids… they look like they’re proud to be doing this.”

She glances over her shoulder at the chaos, kids hammering too hard, laughing, yelling, one blasting music from a phone tucked into a tool belt, and smiles with a kind of fondness that makes Bucky’s chest ache a little.

“Yeah,” she says. “They are.”

They fall into silence as they continue to work seamlessly alongside one another.

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky says, voice low, a little hesitant.

“Shoot.”

“Where’d ‘Maybee’ come from?”

She laughs, the sound bubbling up just as her hammer hits the nail with a satisfying crack.

“My parents couldn’t settle on a name for almost a month after I was born. Everyone kept throwing out suggestions. ‘Maybe Sarah?’ ‘Maybe Joan?’ ‘Maybe Danielle?’ It turned into this running joke. So I was literally ‘baby maybe’ for weeks.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “Eventually they picked a name, but by then Maybee had already stuck.”

Bucky watches her, amused. “You can call me Bucky," he blurts out.

She glances at him with a sly grin. “Mr. Barnes not doing it for ya?”

He smirks. “Only when I’m trying to sound like I know what I’m doing.”

They’ve finished the studs around the first floor, the frame now standing solid under the bright mid-morning sun. The air smells like sawdust and effort, and Bucky’s forearms are speckled with dirt he hasn’t bothered to brush off.

She sets the hammer down with a satisfied sigh, strips off her gloves, and turns toward him.

“Well, I’ve taken up enough of your morning, Mr. Barnes," she smiles. "Thanks for the help, truly”

This time, she offers her hand. Bucky takes it, his grip warm and steady—lingering just a beat longer than necessary.

He opens his mouth to ask about the job, though for a second, he’s nearly forgotten that’s why he made this trip, but she cuts in again.

“What are you doing at seven tonight?”

Bucky hesitates before instinctively reaching for his phone, thumb hovering over his calendar app, the one Mia updates with military precision and slightly threatening emojis.

“Uh…”

“Let me rephrase,” she cuts in, already laughing as she unzips a side pocket of her tool belt. “If you want me to come onto this campaign, we start tonight.”

She pulls out two slightly crumpled stubs of paper and presses them into his hands.

He looks down.

“Mets tickets?” he says, eyebrows rising.

“City Field. 7:10 first pitch.”

“The Mets?” he repeats like he’s trying to be sure this isn’t code for a fundraising dinner in disguise.

She nods with mock solemnity. “The team of the people.”

“And you don’t think that’ll isolate any Yankees fans?” he can't help but jest.

She smirks, wiping a smudge of dirt from her cheek. “Nah. They have their championships to keep them warm. Trust me."

Bucky finds that he might already. He glances down at the tickets again, trying not to overthink the logistics. Two seats. No press. No donors.

“So… me and you? Tonight at the game?”

There’s a beat where she just grins at him.

“For you and Zach,” she says, slapping her gloves against her thigh. “You’re two months into this mess so... he’s probably one headline away from a full-blown aneurysm. You both need a night off.”

She winks, quick, effortless, teasing, and starts walking away, calling over her shoulder, “You can thank me at the office on Monday.”

Bucky watches her head off to help a gaggle of kids close to splitting a beam, the tickets still in his hand, the sun shining behind the frame of a house they built together.

He tucks the stubs into his jacket pocket and heads back toward his bike, wondering how it feels like he's the one who just got recruited. With a hammer, a hard hat, and a baseball game.

And why it kind of worked.

------

Bucky leans back in the stadium seat, arms folded across his chest, eyes half-focused on the field. Zach sits next to him, already halfway through a hot dog and yelling at the Mets like he’s been personally hired to manage them through brute volume alone.

“She grilled me,” Bucky says after a moment, his tone somewhere between begrudging and impressed.

Zach doesn’t look away from the field. “Of course she did. That’s her version of saying hello.”

“She made me build a wall. With actual wood.”

Zach finally glances over. “You’ve built safehouses in enemy territory. You’re not above a two-by-four.”

“She gave me a hammer instead of a handshake.”

“That means she likes you.”

Bucky snorts, half a laugh. “It's like she was checking me for structural damage.”

“That’s foreplay for her.”

There’s a beat as the crowd cheers a base hit. Bucky watches it absently, then mutters, “She’s different.”

Zach just grins. “I told you. Best decision you didn’t make yourself.”

A pause.

“Glad we’re here?” Zach asks between bites.

Bucky shrugs. “Sure. Nice not to be wearing a mic.”

“Or a tie,” Zach points out, nodding at Bucky’s t-shirt and bomber jacket. “You look like a person again.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says flatly. “That’s what every political candidate wants to hear.”

Suddenly, a hand slips over the back of his head, and a baseball cap lands squarely on his hair.

Bucky jolts, shoulders tensing, instinct kicking in fast. His hand twitches toward a concealed knife he isn't carrying, body bracing for a fight.

He stops himself, exhaling slow.

Reaching up, he pulls the hat off and turns it over in his hands.

A Mets cap.

He blinks.

“Easy, soldier,” Maybee says from behind him, slipping into the row like she’s been there all along. “Just figured you’d need one of these before someone outs you as a casual fan.”

Zach glances over, unfazed. “You’re lucky he didn’t snap your wrist on reflex.”

“Please,” Maybee says, popping a peanut into her mouth. “If I’d seen it coming, I probably would’ve flinched and hit myself with my own fist first.”

Bucky finally lets out a laugh and pulls the cap back onto his head.

She’s in jeans and a team hoodie, no press badge, no entourage. Just a bag of peanuts in one hand and the smug grin of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing.

“I thought this was just a boys’ night,” Bucky says, adjusting the hat.

“Oh, it is,” she replies a little too slyly. “I’m simply here to cheer my team on.”

Zach groans knowingly. “Oh no. What did you do?”

"Nothin' much." Maybee jerks her thumb toward the jumbotron, where a clip is already playing: Bucky and Zach in their seats, the Mets cap now firmly on Bucky’s head.

A banner slides across the bottom. “WINTER SOLDIER, LIFELONG METS FAN?”

Bucky blinks. “How the hell—”

“I know a guy in AV,” she says with a casual shrug, popping a peanut into her mouth. “No press. No headlines. Just a little push. People are already posting it. ‘Brooklyn boy roots for Queens team.’ Very bipartisan of you.”

He glances at the screen again.

“I like the Dodgers,” he mutters.

Maybee tilts her head. “You know they moved to L.A., like… sixty-six years ago, right?”

“They were Brooklyn’s team.”

“Yeah, and Brooklyn’s still working through the abandonment issues,” she quips.

Bucky lets out a soft laugh. “I was holding out hope they’d come back.”

“That’s deeply tragic.”

“Story of my life," he huffs, staring at her, baffled and a little impressed.

“So you got us tickets just to stage a viral moment?” Zach chimes in.

“I invited you to a baseball game,” she says, unbothered. “Bucky's the one who brought the face and the tragic backstory.”

Zach laughs. “I missed you, Maybs.”

“How do you two know each other, again?” Bucky can’t help but ask, glancing between them.

Maybee leans forward, resting her chin on her arms over the back of his seat. “College. We volunteered on a campaign together in 2008. Zach treated every phone call like it was life or death.”

“I was passionate,” Zach says, deadpan.

“He was a stress rash in khakis,” Maybee replies with a smirk. "A full-on campaign robot when I met him. I had to teach him how to make eye contact without looking like he was apologizing for existing.”

“Best thing I ever learned,” Zach admits.

“I was skeptical at first,” she adds. “Then I watched him keep his cool when a lobbyist spilled coffee on his entire field plan. Figured he might be worth keeping around.”

“She once rewrote a press release I spent three days on, in twenty minutes, while eating a bagel. And it was better.”

Bucky cracks a smile, shaking his head. “You’re a little terrifying.”

“Thank you,” she says sweetly.

They fall into a comfortable rhythm as the game plays on. Maybee stealing Zach’s popcorn, Bucky muttering commentary under his breath, the crowd roaring as the Mets hit a double.

Eventually, at the top of the ninth, she leans in again, her voice low.

“Look, the campaign? It’s a mess. I’m not gonna pretend it’s not. But people don’t want perfection. They want honesty. Real. You don’t have to be shiny. You just have to be you.”

“And you think a ballgame does that?” Bucky asks, still watching the field.

“No,” she says. “But it’s a start. You seem relaxed. You smiled without looking like there was a gun to your head. Someone’s already tweeting about how you fist-bumped a teenager in the snack line.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I have witnesses.”

Bucky shakes his head with a quiet chuckle, then glances back at her. “So why’d you agree to this job? With me?”

Maybee doesn’t answer right away. She watches a foul ball sail over third base, then shrugs.

“Honestly? I stopped doing campaigns a while ago. Last guy I worked for called himself a ‘man of the people’ while accepting checks from a defense contractor. I told him to eat his own talking points. Haven’t done one of these since. But Zach said you were… different.”

Bucky blinks, caught off guard by the softness of it.

“Different how?”

She tosses him another peanut. “Haven’t figured that out yet. But I’m here, aren’t I?”

He turns to look at her. “You’re good at this.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

Another crack of the bat. The crowd leaps to its feet.

Maybee just grins. “Play your cards right and by next week, you’ll be America’s favorite tragic ex-assassin turned wholesome Mets fan. And we'll take it from there.”

------

It's Monday morning and the campaign office is too quiet.

That’s the first thing Bucky notices as he walks in, nursing a fresh coffee and an even fresher sense of dread. It’s early. Earlier than usual. But he wanted to be there before Maybee arrived for her first day.

He fails.

“Morning,” Maybee calls from the center of the room, already halfway through unpacking a tote bag filled with color-coded folders, three different highlighters, and what looks suspiciously like a travel-sized whiteboard.

No heels, no power suit. Instead, she's in a loose blazer over a soft tee, sleeves pushed to the elbows, her whole look built for motion, not intimidation. Relaxed but still sharp. The kind of confidence that doesn’t need starch to be taken seriously.

“Mia, that latte’s yours.”

Bucky stops in the doorway.

“You didn’t bring me one?” he jokes, raising his coffee with mock offense.

She glances at him over her shoulder. "Didn’t know your order. You look like a black coffee and suppressed emotions kind of guy."

Zach walks past with a croissant in his mouth and two legal pads under his arm. "She’s not wrong."

“Team meeting in five,” he announces. “Bring caffeine and your last known will to live. We’re starting over.”

The conference room fills up quickly. The energy is cautious but alert. Everyone’s been bracing for another Kassandra—someone who weaponizes their business card.

Instead, they get Maybee.

She walks to the head of the table and sets her folders down with a soft thud. Three others follow her in and begin distributing notepads and color-coded documents.

“Hi all, I’m Maybee. I’ll be taking over communications. I know Kassandra’s departure was sudden and, based on the energy in this room, traumatic. But we’re not here to relive that. We’re here to rebuild. And I don’t work alone.”

She gestures behind her. “This is Sean Navarro, press coordinator and former union liaison. If he looks tired, it’s because he’s been on the phone since 6am. He’s the one you want in a media firestorm.”

Sean offers a two-fingered salute, already scanning the room for the nearest outlet.

“Lily Tran, digital strategy. She’s been trending three different candidates in the last year without once setting foot in a TV studio. If you see her making memes, let her cook.”

Lily throws a peace sign and sits cross-legged in a swivel chair, opening a laptop covered in political stickers and cryptic jokes.

“And Jonah Fields, speechwriter. He’s quiet, cardiganed, and once wrote a housing policy that made a sitting senator cry. If you hand him a draft, he will return it better.”

Jonah nods politely, already jotting notes with a mechanical pencil.

Maybee smiles. “They’re here because they believe in this campaign. Or at least in dragging it out of the swamp it’s been stuck in.”

“Before we begin,” she continues, clicking open a dry-erase marker with a flourish—only for the cap to fly off and land directly in Zach’s coffee.

“Apologies. That felt personal.”

Zach sighs and retrieves the cap.

She makes her way to the whiteboard and in bold black letters, writes:

THE HONEST STRATEGY

“Kassandra’s approach,” she begins, “was to take a man with a complicated past, strip him of personality, and repurpose him into a slick-talking meat suit in a blazer. What we in the business call ‘the standard tragedy-polish package.’”

She underlines it once. Hard.

“I’ve read the decks. I’ve seen the speeches. What you have right now is a candidate who looks like he’s trapped in someone else’s idea of electability.”

Zach winces. A few staffers murmur in agreement.

“She wanted to control the narrative by flattening it. Make James Barnes a blank canvas.”

She turns to the team. “That ends today.”

Returning to the white board, she scrawls:

WE TELL THE FUCKING TRUTH.

“Here’s what we’re going to do: we’re going to make people give a damn. That means no more forced soundbites. No more suits that make him look like a hedge fund villain. No more photo ops where he shakes hands with people who want his autograph, not his policy.”

Someone pipes up, cautiously. “So… what do we do?”

Maybee grins. “We show the truth. We show the guy who fist-bumps teenagers and hates being called a hero. Who still roots for a team that abandoned his city because loyalty means something to him.”

She looks directly at Bucky. Doesn’t say anything. Just a quiet nod.

He doesn’t flinch, but it hits something in him anyway.

“James Barnes is not just another guy in a suit. He’s a vet. He’s a Brooklyn native. He’s someone who’s been through hell and decided to come back anyway. So here’s the new plan: no more pretending. No more political theater. We show the public who he actually is.”

The room is quiet.

“And what about the... y'know... baggage?” someone pipes up.

“Good,” Maybee says, without missing a beat. “We own it. That’s what makes him different. People are tired of polish. They want someone who’s fucked up and knows it.”

Zach finally speaks. “In summary, no more Kassandra-style media training, everyone.”

“God, no,” Maybee replies. “Let’s aim for human, not hologram.”

She turns to Bucky. “You good with that?”

He doesn’t answer for a beat. But he meets her eyes.

"You really think people want the truth? They want the guy from the headlines. The war stories." He turns his gaze to his hands in his lap. "Not what's underneath."

“Then let’s give them both. Start slow. The rest will follow.”

He meets her gaze.

And then nods.

She nods back, then looks around the room. "We’re going ahead with the town hall tomorrow night as planned. No delays, no hiding. This is our shot to reset the tone, and we’re going to do it on our terms."

The team straightens in their seats. Mia grabs her pen. Sean’s already typing something into Slack. Lily leans over to Jonah and whispers, “We’re gonna need new merch.”

“Alright,” Maybee says, grabbing a fresh marker. “Let’s get to work.”

------

The office has thinned out, but it’s not empty. A few staffers linger in corners, typing furiously or arguing softly over spreadsheets. Overhead lights have been dimmed in half the bullpen, and the smell of reheated takeout hangs in the air.

Bucky and Maybee are holed up in his office, the door propped open, a half-drunk coffee growing colder by the minute. Zach had ducked out an hour ago for his kid’s school concert—something about a recorder solo and mandatory applause—but swore he’d be back before midnight.

Bucky sits across from Maybee as she flips through a draft of his old talking points with the face of someone grading an essay written by a robot.

“Okay,” she says, scribbling something on the margins. “You don’t talk like this.”

“It’s supposed to sound—”

“Professional?” she cuts in. “Sure. But you also sound like you hate every word. Let’s try sounding like a person.”

She picks up the draft and starts reading aloud: “My fellow New Yorkers, it is my intention to approach this campaign with integrity, compassion, and transparency.” She stops. “You hear that? That’s nothing. That’s the equivalent of background music in a CVS.”

“It’s supposed to protect me. You think I want to relive my not-so-greatest hits at a community center Q&A?”

“No. But I think if you don’t, someone else will. And they’ll get it wrong.”

Bucky lets his head fall back against his chair with a groan of frustration.

Maybee caps her pen and stands. “Alright. This isn’t working. We need a change of scenery.”

He lifts his head. “Like… outside?”

“Like your apartment.”

He stares at her. “What?”

“I need to see how you live. If I’m writing for you, I need to know what you’re like when you’re not drowning in paperwork and PR emails.”

“I feel like this is crossing a line.”

“Then I will respectfully cross it with takeout,” she says, already slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Call it candidate research. Or a mild invasion of privacy. I'll update Zach on the way."

—

Bucky opens the door with his shoulder, arms full of files and the last remnants of a half-eaten sandwich. Maybee steps in after him, tossing her bag onto the entry table and immediately scanning the place like she’s gathering intel.

His apartment is quiet—modest but lived-in. A few plants near the window that Zach definitely waters. Books stacked in uneven towers. The Mets cap hanging on a coat rack. No art, but a black-and-white photo of Brooklyn from the 40s sits framed near the kitchen.

Maybee circles once. “You know, I imagined something more… bunker-y.”

“I take offense to that,” Bucky mutters, kicking off his shoes.

“No, it’s nice. Quiet. Sparse in that tragic kind of way. Very guy who keeps his trauma in his sock drawer.”

She moves toward the shelves, tilting her head at the mix of world history and cookbooks. Just as she reaches for a volume labeled The Greatest Songs of the Last 50 Years, a low thud lands near her feet.

A large white cat has appeared, staring up at her with narrowed blue eyes.

“Jesus—” Maybee jumps back. “You didn’t say you had a cat.”

“I don’t. She has me,” Bucky replies, dropping his files on the coffee table. “That’s Alpine. She hates people.”

“Aw, she takes after you.”

Alpine trots forward and immediately headbutts Maybee’s shin.

“Well, clearly she has taste,” she says, crouching down. “Hey, sweetie.”

Alpine lets her scratch behind her ear, then flops dramatically on her side like she’s the only person who’s ever understood her.

“I don’t believe this,” Bucky says.

“Me neither. I’m a dog person. But I’d die for this cat now.”

Bucky watches as Alpine purrs under her touch. “She’s never done that. Not once.”

“Maybe she thinks I’m a fellow stray.”

That gets a laugh out of him—soft, surprised. Maybee glances up and catches it.

“Alright,��� she says, standing. “Let’s get to work before I adopt your cat and leave with all your secrets.”

They settle in on the floor near his coffee table. Maybee spreads out her legal pad, uncaps a pen, and starts reading through old messaging drafts like she’s grading someone else’s homework. Bucky leans against the couch, flipping through sticky-noted index cards.

About a half hour later Zach walks in carrying a tote bag and a file folder, pausing just inside the doorway like he’s walked into the wrong sitcom.

The coffee table is covered in draft note cards, old bullet points, and two containers of takeout—half-eaten dumplings and something that claimed to be lo mein but is mostly disappointment. Maybee paces aimlessly, muttering to herself. Bucky sits in an armchair, rubbing his temples methodically.

“Oh good,” he says. “You’ve completely abandoned the concept of boundaries.”

“Relax,” Maybee replies, flipping a card over. “We’re working. No candles, no jazz music.”

“I brought the updated event schedule. And beer. I figured if we were breaking into each other’s homes now, alcohol was the least I could offer." Zach vanishes into the kitchen.

"Also, in case you’re wondering? My kid’s concert was seventy-five minutes of unmedicated recorder solos. I deserve combat pay.” He calls out.

“We rewrote half the town hall talking points,” she shouts back.

“He let you rewrite them?”

“More like she bullied me into it.”

“With results,” Maybee says around a mouthful of dumpling.

Zach glances between them and raises an eyebrow. Bucky ignores it, focusing on the index card in his hand like it’s suddenly very interesting.

Alpine peeks out from her perch near Maybee, just enough to glare at Zach, before retreating down the hall.

“I don’t know what’s weirder,” Zach says. “That Bucky’s letting you rewrite his speeches or that the weird snow cat likes anyone but him.”

“The cat knows what’s up,” Maybee says, tossing Bucky a half-smile.

Bucky shakes his head and picks up a note card, handing it to Zach.

“You really think this’ll work?” he asks.

She tilts her head thoughtfully. "I’m thinking we’ve got two options tomorrow. Go up there and give people the version of you that’s been manufactured over the last two months… or tell the truth.”

“And what if the truth doesn’t play well in headlines?”

She pauses in her pacing, studies him like she’s weighing how much truth he’s willing to hear.

“Then maybe the problem isn’t the headlines.”

There’s a long beat. Bucky watches her with something unreadable in his expression—half skepticism, half reluctant admiration.

“Come here,” she says, flopping down and patting the back of the couch.

“What for?”

“Speech therapy.”

“I swear to God—”

“Just do what she says,” Zach interjects.

He does, mostly out of curiosity. She hands him a blank index card.

“What is this?”

“It’s your answer for when someone inventively asks the 'why are you running' question.”

He flips it over. Blank. “Real funny.”

“I’m serious. You know the story. You’ve told it before, even if you’ve tried to bury the parts that don’t look nice in a press packet. I want you to tell it again. Not to a crowd. Not to a camera. Just to us.”

He leans back, arms folded, the blank card untouched in his hand. His voice is low but steady.

“I didn’t get into this thinking I could fix everything. I’m not that naive. But I’ve seen what happens when the system breaks people. When it chews them up and spits them out. I’ve been that person. Hell, I am that person.”

Maybee doesn’t interrupt.

“I know what it feels like to be a number in a file. A threat assessment. A problem to be contained. There are a lot of people out there who feel the same—like the system was built without them in mind. Or worse, built against them.”

He takes a breath, eyes flicking to her for the briefest moment.

“If I can take everything I’ve done, everything I’ve lived through, and use it to make that system even a little more human? That matters to me. I don’t need to be forgiven. I just want to be useful. And not because someone pointed me at a target this time. But because I chose it. Because it's mine.”

Maybee watches him for a moment. Something in her expression softens—not pity, not awe, just a quiet kind of recognition.

“If you say that,” she says finally, voice gentler now. “Really say it—out loud, in front of people? They’ll show up. Maybe not all at once. But they’ll come.”

She smiles faintly, sets her legal pad down.

“Let's keep going.”

The room lingers in that silence as they work through the night. The dumplings are cold. Alpine has passed out on a windowsill. Zach has long since migrated to the couch and is snoring softly beneath a campaign spreadsheet he gave up trying to explain.

Maybee glances at the time. Nearly two in the morning.

“All right, time to call it,” she murmurs from where she’s now stretched out on the floor, surrounded by loose note cards and cold dumplings. “The super soldier needs his beauty rest for tomorrow.”

Bucky scoffs. “You’re assuming I sleep.”

“Okay, well, I need beauty rest. And your cat has judged me thoroughly and found me worthy, so I’d like to leave on a high note.”

She stands, brushing crumbs off her slacks, and shrugs into her coat. Bucky moves to walk her to the door out of habit—an old instinct, maybe, or just the quiet pull of wanting to extend the moment a little longer.

At the door, she glances back toward the living room. Zach is snoring softly from the couch, arms crossed over a campaign folder that’s half-fallen onto the floor.

“We should let him sleep. I think that concert rewired his nervous system.”

Bucky nods. “He’s earned it.”

Maybee lingers, fingers curled around the doorknob.

“One last thing,” she says, quieter now. “When you’re up there tomorrow and you feel like running? Don’t look at the cameras.”

She pauses, eyes catching his.

“Look for me.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tenses and softens all at once gives him away.

"Not Zach, he'll have enough anxiety radiating off of him to power half the city."

Then she slips out, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Bucky standing there, blank index card still in hand, Alpine asleep in the window, and something warm settling heavy in his chest.

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

Good Omens Fanfic Recs - part 2# June 2025 🥳🩷

Multichapterfics

98] Under my skin (E) by @ilikeblue

Aziraphale runs a publishing company with his half brother Gabriel - apart from that, there is nothing they have in common. He is bone-achingly lonely, with Anathema being his only friend. When she slips him the number of an escort, he is just being polite by taking it - right? But after another horrible birthday he decides to take the plunge. 🌶️💓 Art by @zamolodchikohyeah

A nice and kind of pretty woman style fic, low on angst and high on feelings! My 3 story of this author and I decided to simply read all and everything they ever wrote in the GO-universe!

99] Deluded (M) by @di-42

Aaaaahwww, you gonna love this one! Human Au, in which Aziraphale only does relationships, while Crowley only does ONS. They are both not very successful with their ways, which might be the reason why Maggie sets them up for a blind date. Which Crowley only accepts to be polite, never ever would he be thinking about changing his mind. ... Really, Crowley? 😉

I read this story on a sunny afternoon on my balcony and my neighbours must have thought me crazy, because I had to laugh so much. The banter is hilarious! 😂

I am ever so glad to know @di-42 personally and am honoured to be her sometimes-beta. 🤓 She also shares a LOT of fanfic recs, practically all of the time, so please go find her on tumblr and follow her!

100] On a dark and stormy night (E) by @tawnyontumblr

Human Au, in which Viscount Eastgate lives alone in the crumbling family estate, writing novels with (at that times) embarrassingly explicit scenes. On a dark and stormy night, Miss Antonia Crowley seeks refuge in his house. They don't seem to like each other ... 😉

101] Not a mounted dildo but a fucking machine (E) by @naromoreau and @summerofspock

Human AU. Beeing roommates since Uni, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves stuck inside during lockdown. While Crowley experiences withdrawal-symptoms from not beeing able to have sex, Aziraphale - being a virgin - is getting itchy, because his online-date seems set on "physical experiences" soon. Them both being straight, there seems no harm in some ... let´s call it "teaching lessons" - can there? 🤦‍♀️😁🌶️🌶️🌶️

My Goodness, who would have thought they could even be more ignorant about what´s going on! Hot Hot Hot!

102] This is not my beautiful house (T) by @the-written-wyrm

Crawly wakes up in a place he doesn´t know - a rectangle filled with lots of other rectangels. His hair is cut short, he is wearing ridiculous clothes and there is an angel calling him Crowley. What the heck is going on? 🤓

I really liked this story - what would happen, if Crowley didn´t know Aziraphale - would they fall in love again? Spoiler-alert: of course. Crowley discovering the modern world is hilarious!

103] 24 hours (I've waited my whole life) (E) by @createserenity

Human Au. When there's a knock on Aziraphale s door the morning of his 40th birthday, he is grumbling. But opening the door there is not the expected food delivery, but a handsome stranger waiting to entertain him for 24 hours. Turns out, it's Anathema's gift to Aziraphale.😎

Well, another story with one of them being a sex worker - seems I have a type! 😅

Oneshots

104] Sugar we're going down (E) by @depraveddame

Crowley is sick of shaving and goes to a queer friendly studio to try out sugaring. The technician with the blond halo seems to be helping the process as much as the pain. Crowley is in for so much more than he expected ... 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Mind the tags!

Series: Allure

105] The Allure of Correction (E) by @ajconstantine

Human AU: Crowley is the butler to Viscount Fell and wants to please. One might he accidentally drops a glas of wine - this behaviour needs to be corrected. 👋 A short little Oneshot to start of their voyage.

106] The Allure of Desire (E) by @ajconstantine

The story continues: it´s been a whole year, since they first crossed the invisible line. They both cherish each other dearly, but Crowley is very aware of his position in life. He will never be anything more than a butler, a person of no rank. So when Aziraphale wants to make them an "us", Crowley can´t see a way. 💔 They will find their happy end of course! Both stories can be read as stand-alone, the series is not marked as finished.

Hope you enjoy the list, pls share the love with kudos, comments and shares! 🤗

Follow along for short summaries and recs on the books i read🩷 The numbers are for funsies - i want to count my reads throughout 2025.

I only read finished stories and one-shots. You will find no WIPs in here. Also you will only find happy or at least hopeful endings here - i couldn´t handle anything else.

Also i try to find every author here on tumblr to link-to, but some times i am out of luck. If you happen to know them, please tell them, write to me in the comments or DM me and i will update the post!

Ratings in ()

Fanfiction is my happyplace 🩷

PS: if you´re interested in GO-recs, here is the overview of all of my recs so far!

[honey-on-your-tongue]

Too Deep

Javier Peña x f!reader

Part five

Series masterlist

Blog masterlist

Carrillo was dead. Your boss, Messina, delivered the news to you right after stopping by to inform Javier of the same. You suspect she didn’t mean to, but she mentions Javier seemingly feels it’s his fault. You don’t comment anything to her; last thing you need is her suspecting something is going on between you and Javi. Most of the men who work there seem to dislike you enough, you don’t want to give them another reason to talk.

You hadn’t known Carrillo that long or that well. You knew he was a decent man, kind, he had a loving family and he’d been safe in Spain. His death was a bucket of ice water on you, a shock you hadn’t expected. Too many lives had already been lost in the drug war, but Carrillo’s somehow felt more prominent. He’d always seemed like a tough, unreachable man, like maybe he’d be safe from Escobar. Evidently, that was not the case, and the thought rattled you to your bones. No one was safe, the reality of that settled down over you, threatened to control your mind.

But something else was nagging at you for attention.

Javi. Had Javi really said that to Messina? Surely he wasn’t blaming himself? Escobar had killed him. Just because Javi got the fake tip-off doesn’t mean it was his fault.

Javier had known Carrillo much longer than you, was much closer than him. You’re sure he’s hurt, mourning, but blaming himself? You can’t let him carry that guilt, it’s not something he needs to burden himself with.

You find Javi sitting at a desk, drink already set in front of him, cigarette burning in the ashtray. He’s got his head in his hand, and you can see the tense slope of his shoulders, like they’re carrying the weight of the world.

“Javi?” you say quietly, stepping closer to him.

He looks up at you, eyes glossy. “Hey, angel,” he greets gently, but his voice lacks any sentiment. It’s numb, cold, detached. It kills you to hear him like this.

You walk to him, come to a stop in front of where he sits. “How you holding up?” you ask gently.

He sighs thickly and drinks his whiskey. You just nod in understanding. You sit on the edge of the desk. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“Why does everyone keep insisting on that?” he snaps, fingers tightening around the glass. “I got the tip, I got played. If I hadn’t believed that fucking lie—”

“Javi, we all fell for it,” you say quietly, your heart racing at his outburst but also breaking at the pain in his voice. “It’s not on you. It’s on Escobar. This was his play, he fucked us over.”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t change a fucking thing,” he mumbles, and then continues drinking.

“Funeral’s tomorrow,” you say quietly. “If you feel that guilty, you could go and apologize to Carrillo, see if it makes you feel better.”

He clenches his jaw, you can see the muscles working. There’s a long moment of silence before he says, “I don’t do funerals.”

You blink. “Javi. Javi, you have to go. It’s Carrillo.”

He shakes his head, adamant. “I don’t do funerals.”

You sit there, staring at him, equal parts shocked and confused. You sense his hurt, and it’s breaking your heart.

Javier glances at you and meets your gaze. He sees it in your eyes, this look that’s part surprise and part realization, and he feels you’re finally starting to see him for who he really is. You’re seeing he’s selfish, he’s cold, he’s mean, he’s an ass. You’re seeing him for what he is, you’re finally coming to your senses about him.

That breaks him, makes him want to change his act to get you to look at him differently, but he doesn’t. You had to realize sooner or later. He couldn’t keep lying to you, hiding from you, pretending—maybe even hoping—to be a better man than he really is.

You’re seeing him now, and it hurts him because he knows you’re not going to stay. He doesn’t blame you, he wouldn’t want to stay either. If he ran into someone like him, he’d want to run the other way too.

You should’ve never gotten involved with her. This is what you get. Heartbreak. You hurt her, she hurts you. You knew this was coming from the first day and you didn’t care. Now you have to suck it up.

He’s expecting you to walk away, to get off that desk disappointed, likely disgusted at him too, and walk away.

But you never do. Your hand covers his as it rests on the desk, and Javier feels the familiar shiver of your touch.

He glances up at you and sees that your expression has softened. Gone is that look of surprise and confusion. It’s replaced with a look of understanding, like you’re seeing through him, like you understand him.

You hop off the desk and hug him, holding his head against your stomach. And he isn’t sure if it’s the situation, the excessive drinks, or the fact that you stayed. You’re seeing who he is and you’re staying. And it breaks him down.

The tears come unbidden, unwanted, uninvited. But once they start, they can’t stop. He cries silently into your shirt, shoulders shaking, his breathing uneven and ragged.

You hold him, one of your hands on his head and one on his shoulder, holding him close and tight. You feel like an anchor amidst the whirlwind of guilt and fear and anger that threatens to drown him. But you just hold him and let him cry. For the first time in too long, Javier feels he doesn’t have to stay strong, doesn’t have to keep the facade. With you, he’s safe.

You don’t deserve her. You’re burdening her.

He ignores those thoughts, those insecurities, as he wraps his arm around your waist and clings to you like a lifeline.

“Why don’t you want to go to the funeral, Javi?” you ask gently, and Javier feels sixteen again, his mom just passed, the visuals of white flowers and black clothing swarming his mind, and his stomach sinks. He can’t, he can’t go. He can’t do that to himself. He can’t, can’t, can’t.

He can’t because every time he thinks of funerals, he thinks of his mom and he misses her.

Every time he thinks of funerals, he imagines it’s going to be his.

Every time he imagines it’s his, he’s afraid no one will show up for him, no one will miss him, no one will have loved him.

He just shakes his head and buries his face deeper into your stomach, still crying.

“Javi, baby,” you say gently, and something about it disarms Javier. All the walls he’s so carefully built around himself crumble down, brick by brick, until his mouth is moving without his mind’s permission.

“My mamá died when I was sixteen,” he mumbles into your stomach, the words quiet, a secret meant only for you. You hold him and listen. “She’d been sick, we knew there was nothing to do about it. But when the time finally came, no amount of expecting it could’ve prepared me for the loss.”

Tears are rolling down his handsome face as he looks up at you, his puppy eyes are full of a sorrow too deep to comfort, too deep to heal, too deep to drown out.

“Funerals are supposed to take place for people to say goodbye, to bury the person and help the brain process the loss. But it made it worse for me.” His voice is quiet. The strong man you’ve known is gone, replaced by a man that sounds small right now, like the tiniest of touches, if not carefully calculated to be perfectly gentle, will break him. “All I saw were people in black with white flowers, people crying, and it makes death so much worse. Death breaks everyone, it destroys everything, it’s an end with no preparation. There’s no saying goodbye, there’s no last words. One minute the person is there and the next they’re just not. And no amount of flowers or black suits is going to bring anyone back.” He holds your gaze, that broken expression still on his face, and his lower lip trembles as he sobs, “I can’t do funerals.”

You hug him close and let him cry. There’s nothing to be said. No amount of words is going to help his pain or stay the tears. He just needs to let it all out. So you hold him, you hug him as long as he needs to be held and hugged. You lean down, kiss the top of his head, your hand caressing the back of his neck.

He’s so broken, so hurt. He sobs against you like his heart is crumbling in him, like there’s no avail to the pain, like he’ll always be in this perpetual exhaustion of carrying too much.

You don’t really know what to say, you don’t know what to do. So you just whisper, “I’ve got you, Javi. I’ve got you.”

Something about those words pulls at Javi’s heartstrings. No one’s ever just sat there and accepted him with the ease you have. They usually confront him, tell him off in an attempt to change him, or they leave, disappointed. But you…You hold him, let him cry, assure him you’re there.

He doesn’t want to name the feeling that spreads from his chest to the rest of his body, filling his veins, taking over his every thought until there’s nothing in his mind but you.

You, you, you.

The tears stop gradually, the burden on his shoulders easing until he feels like he can breathe again.

“Let’s go home,” you say. “I’ll drive.”

He lets you. He lets you take him out of the office, to his car, and you drive back to the apartment complex. Both of you remain silent the entire way, even the radio has been turned down, as the streetlights dance across the windshield.

Tomorrow morning, there’s going to be a picture of Carrillo in the front page of every newspaper in Colombia. His death is going to be written everywhere, the gruesome details spilled for the world to see, and Escobar is going to gain another gram of infamy, of feared respect. At this point, that would amount to another drop of water in the ocean, Javier knows.

They pushed too hard—he pushed too hard, and someone else paid the price.

He can’t help but think if I hadn’t.

If I hadn’t believed the tip…

If I hadn’t listened to Messina about not getting involved with the Search Bloc…

If I hadn’t let Carrillo and his men fight my battles for me..

Javier is numb, lost in his thoughts as he climbs out of the car once you park it. He’s mechanically making his way to his apartment until you grab his hand.

It’s like life is breathed back into him.

He glances at you, meets your gentle gaze, and he sees a light in the dark cloud that’s been following him.

He knows what’s happening, he knows what he’s feeling. He’d never name it, never accept it because he knows how that ends: with you left at an altar and Javier looking to go to another country to avoid the aftermath of the chain reaction he unleashed.

But he doesn’t think about that. He pushes away the knowledge of where love has led him before, and instead he tugs you with him into his apartment.

He walks past the couch, past the kitchen counters, past every place he’d fucked you on before just to avoid leading you to his bed. But now, only one place seems appropriate.

His bedroom is neat, bed perfectly made, curtains still open from this morning when he’d left.

He doesn’t care. Let the whole world see that Javier Peña is falling in love.

He kisses you gently, his hands cupping your face as he holds you close. You kiss him back, those sweet lips moving against his, your breathing starting to grow heavy.

One of his hands wanders down the front of your blouse, undoing buttons as it goes, until he can push the material off your shoulders. He kisses his way down your jaw, to your neck, as he unclasps your bra and lets it fall away.

A million thoughts run through his mind.

You’re becoming everything to me.

You understand me, you see me, and you stay.

I want to be better for you.

I like you, I need you, I—

No. No, not yet. He can’t think that yet, let alone say it. It’s too soon, it’s much too soon. He can’t possibly feel that only from a few months of being with you. And not even being with you, you aren’t dating. You’re just hooking up. Every day. Sometimes multiple times a day. But no, that’s not enough, not the issue.

Men like him don’t get to love women like you.

He undresses you slowly, carefully, as if he’s afraid you’ll break. He lays you down on the bed with a care he’s never showed you before, and he can tell you feel this time is different from all the other times.

How or why, he doesn’t want to admit. But it’s different and you both sense it.

He undresses himself almost absentmindedly. All he can think about is you. You under him, in his bed, skin on skin, mouth to mouth. All he wants right now is to feel you, to know you’re there with him, to remind himself that, even if only for now, he’s got you. And that’s enough.

Tonight is tender. It’s a far cry from the hard backshots or crazy positions he usually resorts to. There’s no filthy words spilled into your ear, no biting or scratching or grunting or screaming. There’s no spanking, no choking, no bruised skin or sore limbs.

He thrusts into you slow, deep, his forehead against yours. Your eyes are shut, your heavy breathing mingling with his panting, the occasional whimper slipping past your lips.

He watches your face, admires your expression, commits it to memory. Not to jerk off to later, not to imagine once you realize you’re too good for him and leave and he has to resort back to his hookers; he memorizes the way you look because he knows what he’s feeling, because if he ever doubts it, he’ll just have to pull this memory to the front of his mind and he’ll be reminded that there’s no mistaking what he’s feeling, what’s going on in his heart.

He memorizes it so that he can understand how, why, what, who has made him fall too deep. He was jogging down a slippery slope and he’s at the bottom, there’s no way back. He’s in the trenches again, and this is a war he’ll have to live through, there’s no getting out of this one.

There’s no running to another agency, no moving countries, no hiding. Even if things don’t work out between the two of you, you’ll have to work alongside one another. And Javier is going to have to tolerate it, even if it breaks him apart.

He hadn’t considered this was a possibility, it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

Javier Peña, notorious womanizer, one-night stander, the guy who hangs out with hookers, shot right through the heart by the sweetest, smartest, most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

There’s no running now. He either lives this through or dies fighting it.

Love isn’t something he can just shake off.

He kisses your lips softly, gently, slowly. Then he kisses your jaw, your neck, your shoulder.

He can imagine more nights like this with you.

He imagines the mornings after.

He imagines going back home to Laredo with you at his side.

He can see you in a white dress.

He can see you with a little one in your arms.

He sees you going gray, getting wrinkles, sitting by him in a rocking chair on the front porch of the family ranch.

He sees grandchildren on your knees, family reunions where you retell your stories of these trying times.

He sees you in his life, for the rest of his days.

Your orgasm hits you hard, your pretty body shaking as you gasp and whine, back arching. It takes him nothing to follow after you, spilling into the condom, his body shuddering.

After, you both lie on his bed in a mess of sweaty bodies and tangled sheets, his arm over your waist as he spoons you.

And he knows what this was, he knows what just happened. For the first time, Javi didn’t fuck you. It wasn’t just mindless sex. It was love.

And Javier is in over his head.

Dividers by @cafekitsune

---

wtf it's literally been a year since I've updated, and I'm sososo sorry. I really am. I have a million chapters in my drafts for this fic, but none felt right. Finally wrote one that did 💛

---

Taglist

@maiyart @cheesepannini @picketniffler @woofgocows @madzzz0797 

*if you wanna be added to this taglist, lmk 💛

[bookwyrminspiration]

it DOES matter and DON'T you DARE take the easy way out you MOTHERFU—

[theriverbeyond]

i feel like in the cosplay community everyone is always working on a New Project. but idk. i like my cosplays. i don't have any desire to dress up as anyone but the characters I already have cosplays for. what if i don't have a new project. what if i don't want one.

[bonefall]

post/734733274896809984/do-you-ever-worry-your-own-writing-might-come-off that makes sense. i was asking because i'm afraid of accidentally writing misogyny myself and i kind of admire what you do

Hmm... I wish I had better advice to give you on this front, but honestly, the only thing I can tell you is to consider the perspective of your female characters.

Women are people. They have thoughts and feelings of their own, so like... just let them have their own arcs. A lot of the worst misogyny in WC comes from the way that the writers just don't care about their girls (or, in the case of tall shadow, actually get undermined and forced to rewrite entire chapters), so they're not curious about their lives, or WHY they feel the way they do or what they want, or any direction for their character arcs.

Turtle Tail as an example. She'll often just end up feeling whatever Gray Wing's plot demands. She's gotta leave when Storm dumps him to make him feel lonely. She shows up again to love him in the next book. Lets her best friend Bumble get dragged back to Tom the Wifebeater, but is sad enough about her death to be "unreasonably angry" with Clear Sky, and then calms down and accept Gray Wing is right all along.

And then she dies, so he can have his very own fridge wife.

In this way, Turtle Tail's just being used to tell Gray Wing's story. They're not interested in why she would turn on Bumble, or god forbid any lingering negative feelings for how she didn't help her, or even resentment towards Clear Sky for killing her or Gray Wing for jumping to his defense. She isn't really going through her own character arc.

She does have personality traits of her own, don't misunderstand my criticism, but as a character she revolves around Gray Wing.

So, zoom out every now and then, and just ask yourself; "Whose story is being told by what I wrote? Do my female characters have goals, wants, and agency, or are they just supporting men? How do their choices impact the narrative?"

But that's already kinda assuming that you already have characters like Turtle Tail who DO have personalities and potential of their own. Here's some super simple and practical advice that helped me;

Tally the genders in your cast. How many are boys, how many are girls, how many are others?

And take stock of how many of those characters are just in the supporting cast, and compare that to the amount you have in the main cast.

If you have a significant imbalance, ESPECIALLY in the main cast, fire the Woman Beam.

It's a really simple trick to just write a male character, and then change its gender while keeping it the same. I promise women are really not fundamentally different from men lmao. You can consider how your in-universe gender roles affect them later, if you'd like, but when you're just starting to wean yourself off a "boy bias" this trick works like a charm.

Also you're not allowed to change the body type of any girl you Woman Beam because I said so. PLEASE allow your girls to have muscles, or be fat, or be old, or have lots of scars. Do NOT do what a cowardly Triple A studio does, where the women all have the same cute or sexy face and curvy body while they're standing next to dwarves, robots, and a gorilla.

Or this shit,

If you do this I will GET you. If you're ever possessed by the dark urge, you will see my face appear in the clouds like Mufasa himself to guide you away from the path of evil.

Anyway, you get better at just making characters girls to begin with as time goes on and you practice it. It's really not as big of a deal as your brain might think it is.

Take a legitimate interest in female characters and try not to disproportionately hit them with parental/romance plots as opposed to the male cast, and you'll be fine. Don't think of them as "SPECIAL WOMEN CHARACTERS" just make a character and then let her be a girl, occasionally checking your tally and doing some critical thinking about their use in the story.

(Also remember I'm not a professional or anything, I'm just trying to give advice)

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

bnha is so overhated bro boooo

[july-19th-club]

one thing that is so genius on a craft level with the broken earth books is that the derogatory for 'orogene' is - That Way - on 100% purpose. you're supposed to feel like it's not a word to say out loud, it's supposed to be uncomfortably similar to words you've already heard and know as cruel slurs in the real world. it's a direct fucking parallel designed to deliberately give the reader that crawling feeling and it works so well i dont even feel right typing it up for a post

[quietlyblooms-gone]

gimme a minute to cook over this bnha verse and then i'll get cracking on some starters B))

[oveliagirlhaditright]

-randomly sees a screenshot of jamie and lily from the city of bones movie, where they seem to embody jace and clary, and am once again sad that we didn't get a city of ashes movie-

[depresseddepot]

the hollow places by t kingfisher was fucking terrifying

[scientia-rex]

A lot of younger people have no idea what aging actually looks and feels like, and the reasons behind it. That ignorance is so dangerous. If you don’t want to “be old,” you aren’t talking about a number of years. I have patients in their late 80s who could still handily beat me in a race—one couple still runs marathons together, in their late 80s—and I lost someone who was in her early 60s to COPD last year. What you want is not youth, it is health.

If you want to still be able to enjoy doing things in your 60s and 70s and 80s and even 90s, what you want to do, right now, is quit smoking, get some activity on a regular basis (a couple of walks a week is WAY better for you than nothing; increasing from 1 hour a day of cardio to 1.5 will buy you very little), and eat some plants. That’s it. No magic to it. No secret weird tricks. Don’t poison yourself, move around so your body doesn’t forget how, and eat plants.

If you have trouble moving around now because of mobility limitations, bad news: you still need to move around, not because it’s immoral not to, but because that’s still the best advice we have. I highly recommend looking up the Sit and Be Fit series; it is freely available and has exercises that can be done in a chair, which are suitable for people with limited mobility or poor balance. POTS sufferers, I’m looking at you.

If you have trouble eating plants because of dietary issues (they cause gas, etc.) or just because they’re bitter (super taster with texture issues here!), bad news. You still want to find a way to get some plants into your body on a regular basis. I know. It sucks. The only way I can do it is restaurants—they can make salads taste like food. I can also tolerate some bagged salads. On bad weeks, the OCD with contamination focus gets so bad I just can’t. However, canned beans always seem “safe,” and they taste a bit like candy, so they’re a good fallback.

If you smoke and you have tried quitting a million times and you’re just not ready to, bad news. You still need to quit. Your body needs you to try and keep trying. Your brain needs it, too. Damaging small blood vessels racks up cumulative damage over time that your body can start trying to reverse as soon as you quit. I know it’s insanely, absurdly addictive. You still need to.

You cannot rules lawyer your way past your body’s basic needs. It needs food, sleep, activity, and the absence of poison. Those are both small things and big asks. You cannot sustain a routine based on punishment, so don’t punish your body. Find ways to include these things that are enjoyable and rewarding instead. Experiment. There is no reason not to experiment—you don’t have to know instantly what’s going to work for you and what won’t, you just need to be willing to try things and make changes when things aren’t working for you.

You will still age. Your body will stop making collagen and elastin. Tissues you can see and tissues you can’t see will both sag. Cushioning tissues under your skin will get thinner. You’ll bruise more easily. Skin will tear more easily. Accumulated sun damage will start to show more and more. Joints will begin to show arthritis. Tendons and ligaments will get weaker and get injured more easily, as will muscles. Bones will lose mass and get easier to break. You’ll get tired more easily.

But you know what makes the difference between being dead, or as good as, in your 60s vs your 90s? Activity, plants, and quitting smoking. And don’t do meth. Saw a 58-year-old guy this week who is going to have a heart attack if he doesn’t quit whatever stimulant he’s on. I pretended to believe it was just the cigarettes, and maybe it is, but meth and cocaine will kill you quicker. Stop poisoning yourself.

Baby steps; take it one step at a time; you don’t need to have everything figured out right now. But you do need to be working on figuring things out.

[swytdoll]

𝐁𝐔𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆!𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒 [art: @hunnismokah :)]

𝒮𝒴𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮: toji’s bulking and you’re ovulating! how can you keep your hands to yourself when all you want to do is touch? 𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝐸𝒩𝒯 𝒲𝒜𝑅𝒩𝐼𝒩𝒢: any color can read<3 size difference (toji has a monster cock ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა), blowjob, female oral, choking, pussy slapping, unprotected sex, cream-pie, explicit language, mirror sex, 69, toji fucks you in a headlock ݁𖥔 ݁˖

BULKING!TOJI who always seems to be wearing the sluttiest clothing. muscle tees that grip his meaty arms enticingly, showing off every curve and bulge of his well-defined biceps. his sweats always seem to hang too low on his hips, revealing a dark happy trail that leads down to his waistband. the fabric clinging to his thick thighs.

BULKING!TOJI who religiously carries a protein shaker with him, even on date nights, because he's serious about his bulking diet. he’s got a variety of protein powders, from chocolate to vanilla, and he loves mixing them with different fruits and oats to keep things interesting.

BULKING!TOJI who loves trying out new high-calorie recipes and often ropes you into cooking massive meals with him. you two have fun experimenting in the kitchen, making everything from giant stacks of protein pancakes to hearty chicken and rice dishes, always ensuring they meet his caloric needs. he’s genuinely grateful. often, hugging you from behind while you cook, placing the sloppiest kisses behind your ears, his tattooed arms coiled around your frame. his gratitude is evident in the way he nuzzles into your neck, whispering sweet nothings about how much he appreciates your efforts. “i love you, y’know that. . .right?”

BULKING!TOJI who’s noticeably chubbier, you like it. really like it, often burying yourself into his pudgy side with a satisfied sigh. “i could die like this.”

BULKING!TOJI who despite his intense workouts, always makes time to cuddle and watch movies, using you as his favorite "recovery" time. he loves resting his head on your lap while you binge-watch your favorite series, feeling your fingers run through his hair as he relaxes. “i hate this scene.”

BULKING!TOJI who gets annoyed and sleeps on the couch when you won’t stop playing with his tits. “you’re so damn annoying.”

BULKING!TOJI who you make sure has a secret stash of snacks in his gym bag for when he needs extra calories on the go. protein bars, nuts, and dried fruits are his go-to, and he always has a little something to munch on between sets or during quick breaks.

have a good workout<3 - signed your amazing beautiful girlfriend

BULKING!TOJI who becomes an expert at meal prepping, and his mini fridge is always stocked with containers of chicken, rice, and veggies. each container meticulously measured to ensure he gets the right amount of protein, carbs, and fats, and he takes pride in his perfectly organized fridge.

BULKING!TOJI who likes wearing your crop tops, flexing in front of the mirror. “take it off! you’re stretching my shit toji.” “no.”

BULKING!TOJI who can’t resist squeezing your face in his bicep, laughing as your chubby cheeks push together. “haha!”

BULKING!TOJI who just throws you over his shoulder during arguments. “i’ll put you down when you’re done being a brat.”

BULKINGTOJI! who thinks it’s dumb as you tie a pink ribbon around his wrist, demanding he stay still. he thinks it’s even dumber when you record it, the video boasting one-million likes on tiktok. “they loveeeeee you!”

BULKING!TOJI who’s entire hand covers your face. jeez, your poor cunt, he thinks.

BULKING!TOJI who can’t help but admire the way your swollen sticky lips suckle at his thick cock, pulling him back in greedily. usually, it’d take some time for him to ease into your tiny hole. but, you were ovulating today and after seeing your boyfriend walking around shirtless with nothing but boxers on, you practically jumped his bones.

BULKING!TOJI who presses all his weight onto you as he fucks your soppy pussy, the pressure in your back dull as he prods into that sweet spot from behind. pale veiny hands pull your cheeks apart, spreading you, revealing your puckering hole. a glob of warm spit followed by his thumb lubricating your asshole has you arching your back in anticipation. “papaaaa,” glossy eyes squeeze shut as he gently sinks his thumb into your asshole, pelvis relentlessly slapping into your sore ass. the sight has his dick twitching, “humph, look so pretty with both holes filled.”

BULKING!TOJI who doesn’t care that you’re overstimulated, rocking his dick into your tight velvety walls at a mean pace. you don’t know how many orgasms the man has yanked from you. “i know baby, doing so good. takin’ all of me like a big girl, fuckkkk.” glazed eyes watching the way you glisten on him as he folds you against the wooden headboard, your legs flush to your chest. “tojiiii,” you whine, he could get drunk off the way you whimper his name. “am i deep baby?” he groans, thick cream building on his base. “mhm!”

BULKING!TOJI who has you in the nastiest headlock, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other forcing you to look into the mirror. you’re a mess, disheveled hair, tear-stained cheeks, swollen lips. the man’s so fucking huge he covers your entire body. “unt, unt. eyes open beautiful.” he sends a particularly deep thrust that has you shivering. slick, slick, slick, a repetitive noise that has him grunting deeply into your ear.

BULKING!TOJI who eats your pussy while you suck his dick. it’s a struggle taking him, drool seeping down your chin as you slurp at the veiny masterpiece. it’s also a struggle to concentrate as he eats you out like a starved man, spitting, slapping, fingering. god, you’re gonna cum again. “cummin!”

BULKING!TOJI who watches as his cum trickles out of your pulsing hole, pushing it back inside with a frown. “stay.”

[nanamiskentos]

SHE TOLD YOU THAT SHE CELIBATE, SHE TOLD ME I COULD NAIL HER SH*T — gojo satoru minors dni

PART I. of the new years letters, a series of fics dedicated to some of my lovely mutuals! 🎁

prologue. → you wish gojo satoru would stop trying to ask you out. not that you don't like him, but dating the one guy that you're smacked silly about would mean that he could break your heart and leave you in ruins. so it's best to keep some distance right?

pairing. gojo satoru x afab!reader

warnings+. college au, reader wears a skirt, reader is choso's twin and yuuji's older sister, but no appearance detailed. kissing, making out, óral (f) receiving, general bitchiness and fuckups 😚 ensemble cast of poor bystanders (geto, shoko, sukuna, yuki etc)

word count. 10k! song inspiration. gang baby — nle choppa

a/n. it's because of that one edit by satorupedia that's going around rn. yall know which one 😭 art by touno_stupa on twt!

dedication. yayyy decided to start my little gift series for new years with this fic inspired and dedicated to @fushitoru who was one of the first blogs i followed on here before i was super familiar with jujutsu kaisen. aashi writes thee most wonderful gojo fics that are so well characterised and heart-stoppingly adorable and HAWT. 😁 🤭 and i easily associate her with physics/college au gojo now, ever since her spiderman gojo fic that lives in my head!!!!

gojo in this fic:

ACT I. don't puck around and find out!

"i ran into gojo today," choso says, his voice as unbothered and monotone as ever, scraping the gravel lazily with the heel of his scuffed combat boots, "or he ran into me."

"gojo satoru?"

"how many gojos do we know?" your twin brother huffs, giving you a dry side-eye. but before you can retort something equally acrid, he's yanking at the sleeve of your sweatshirt, halting you midstep, "wait. car."

you blink out of your tired daze just in time to see a battered camry putter past, its engine groaning like it's on its last legs. just how you feel after a long day of seminars and lectures. the car rattles down the street with the grace of a tin can tied to a string.

"thanks," you mutter, half-heartedly as you shift your laptop case from one tired arm to the other, "could have been the end of my genius academic career."

"would have been a short one either way," choso quietly quips, earning himself a sharp elbow to the ribs.

"so?" you press on.

"so, what?"

"what did gojo say?"

"ohhh," choso drawls, in that irritating way of his that indicates he has no idea how to deliver good gossip, news or any form of tea, "he asked if i wanted to play hockey for his team tomorrow. they're down a player ever since kento went on exchange."

"hockey?" your eyebrow arches, and skepticism curls your lips for choso is hardly known for his athleticism. you mean, you're sure he has the physical ability in him somewhere but you (and the rest of the world) are yet to see it, "are you gonna join the team, then?"

not that you care about gojo's stupid, state-tournament winning team. of course not. you're just curious. and curiosity is harmless.

it has nothing to do with the fact that you woke up last night wanting to jump gojo satoru's bones. just like you did the night before, and before. and the week before that. yeah, suffice to say that this has been going on for a while.

"nah," choso says, shaking dull, greasy strands of dark hair out of his eyes, "got placements tomorrow."

right. placements. choso's all about pathology and lab medicine and test tubes, while you get queasy at the mere mention of haemoglobin. and it unsettles you mildly at how your twin brother's eyes light up at the mere mention of a blood test.

"and?" you prod when he starts to drift off again, his attention wandering like it always does.

choso is often like a calm river. slow, broad and lazy.

this time, you pull at his one of his headphone cords to reel him back, "did gojo say anything else?"

choso gives you that dull look, quiet but loaded. like he's already solved a puzzle that you didn't know you were trying to hide. it just makes your stomach twist, "why do you care what gojo satoru says?"

"i don't," you snap, far too fast, like your tongue is racing your brain to a crash site. the lie sits heavy in your throat, thick and obvious.

choso's pale and dry lips twitch, and you wondered what happened to the lip balm you threw into his christmas stocking last year, "should i have told him you could sub in for his team instead?"

"no-one likes a smartass, cho," you grumble, speeding up your steps as your twin leisurely rummages through his fraying backpack for his house keys. you roll your eyes and push ahead, jamming your own keys into the lock before you die of boredom waiting for him to dig through the trash heap that lies at the bottom of his bag, "anyway, i was just asking. you brought gojo up."

choso trails behind you, his tone infuriatingly casual, "you always get weird when someone mentions him. i thought you guys were friends."

"we are friends. and i don't get weird."

"you get so weird. even yuki said so."

"i love yuki, i do. but she has no idea what she's talking about —"

the door swings open, cutting off your false deflection. standing there is yuuji, with half a sandwich dangling from his mouth like he's some kind of feral creature. there's a smear of mayonnaise clinging to his cheek as he yanks a red, track hoodie over his tank top.

"mmph! hey, you guys!" he muffles through a mouthful of bread, waving at you with the enthusiasm that only a teenage boy could muster after inhaling half the fridge.

"where are you off to?" you peer at your younger brother, your eyes zeroing in on his mutilated sandwich. a sandwich that you're certain you made for yourself this morning, leaving it for a study session upon your return.

"track practice," yuuji says, swallowing the last bite whole, "then dinner with fushiguro and kugisaki." he's already halfway down the driveway, sneakers untied and laces flopping on the pavement behind him.

choso narrows his eyes, "got money? or a water bottle? a hat? did you wear sunscreen?"

"i'm good!" yuuji calls back without breaking stride, waving a quick hand at the two of you.

"why don't you hold his hand and walk him to school, mother?"

"shut up," choso grumbles as he brushes past you into the house, throwing you an exaggerated scowl of wounded, elder-brother pride over his shoulder, "why don't you hold gojo's hand to hockey practice?"

your bookbag swings through the air, connecting to the back of choso's oversized head and a loud thud follows.

ACT II. long overdue and lacking a spine

you had been in this library for hours, eyes blurring as the words in your textbook stubbornly refused to make sense. it was all a gross blur of terms and diagrams, and your $8.00 coffee had gone lukewarm an hour ago.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that was the plan, no distractions.

your phone, however, had other ideas as it sat innocently next to your stack of notes. you tapped the screen quickly under the guise of a 'quick break' but before long, you were deep into instagram stories. someone's dog, a flyer for a rave that you definitely weren't going to, and then, of course, him.

gojo satoru. on someone's reposted story with a classic, grainy photo of one of the campus's most darling boys. long arm draped casually over some girl. both of them lit in the neon glow of what looked like a party bus. he wasn't even looking at the camera, just flashing that effortless grin that you had seen your entire life growing up. and the girl was gorgeous, obviously. not that you cared about that.

but speak of the devil and he hath appear. a long shadow fell over the table, and you felt the chill in your bones, trying not to shift in your seat.

"go away, gojo," you muttered, not even deigning to look up.

"how'd you know it was me?" his voice is teasing, all light and airy as he's pulling out the chair next to you.

"what can i say? lucky guess," you reply dryly, keeping your eyes glued to the suspiciously-stained textbook. worried that you'll look up and your iron resolve will disappear from one glance at big, blue eyes.

but out of the corner of his eye, you try not to twitch at the sight of the soft, pale blue hoodie that swallows his broad frame whole. thick, white strands of hair that fall gently over his face. and that cloying scent of mint and something faintly sweet that leaves your ears hot and your heart sitting in your throat.

study, pass, graduate. get a good gpa. that's what you tell yourself in a now failing mantra.

"are you following me today?" you ask, flipping a page with exaggerated nonchalance, like you're not about to tear up pathetically from a stupid crush.

"caught me," gojo says, the grin audible even in his voice, "i just couldn't resist finding you. is that what you want me to say?"

you finally look up, swallowing at unfairly fine features, "saw you were at some party yesterday. i didn't think you'd be on campus today."

gojo just laughs, the sound soft and infuriating, "keeping tabs on me now?" and he's rifling through his bag for something, "or you don't think the library's a good look for me? i'm broadening my horizons. testing the waters."

you narrow your eyes, willing the heat rising in your face to stay put and not crawl into your voice, "i think you're testing my patience. i have a test tomorrow, so if you're here to waste my time..."

"maybe i just wanted to hang out with my friend," gojo says, tearing open a kitkat wrapper in an obnoxious way that echoes through the silent hall, and the crinkle of plastic grates against your nerves, "we haven't seen each other in ages."

"don't you have a lot of other people to hang out with nowadays?" you're mentally beating yourself with a bat at your question, wincing at how it sounds like you keep count of who he hangs out with, and you're pathetically down bad for him. like a 90s singer begging on his knees for a kiss.

"i mean, i could hang out with them," gojo says, breaking his kitkat horizontally like a monster, "but they're not you."

his sunglasses are gone, revealing eyes so blue they look otherworldly, and he's throwing you that smiling, lopsided grin that makes your heart run around a room and bang into the walls. but no. you were not going to let gojo satoru get to you. he probably made every girl feel like this, like they were the centre of his fast-paced universe. until the next shiny thing came along.

besides, gojo satoru dated models. or stunning cheerleaders. the kind of people who looked good under strobe lights, and in the glow of his party bus digital camera pics.

and hey, it's not like you were self-depreciating or awfully insecure. you liked who you were and you would never change it for anyone. quiet and ambitious. reserved, but down for some fun. you'd like to think you were the type of person who saw the world in a beautiful, cinematic light. but it was maddening how gojo satoru seemed to bring out the most juvenile issues in you that had your stomach turning itself into ugly knots.

"gojo," you try to sound as nonchalant as possible, "are you even here to study?"

as in why are you really here? please ask me out.

gojo looks unbothered, unshaken, "coffee. cake. maybe even some flirting, if you're up to it."

the universe hates you. it has a way of delivering what you want right into your hands, when...you don't exactly want it.

you blink at the white-haired man, disbelief bubbling under your skin, "you're not serious."

"why wouldn't i be?"

"c'mon, satoru. everyone knows you're not the actual dating type. you ever been in a relationship that wasn't pr and lasted for more than two weeks?"

absolutely bonkers at how your heart and your tongue are not on the same wavelength at all. it's like your mouth missed the memo and is just firing bullets that have gojo's grin faltering a bit, as a flicker of heated annoyance flashes in his eyes. even hurt, but it's gone too quickly for you to read into it.

"didn't realise that you thought i was that much of a joke," and you're not fond of how gojo's voice is quieter now, and a pretty sneer is dancing across his lips. you're biting your lip before you lose your stupid, petty resolve to not get involved with someone who could truly break your heart.

"if you didn't make everything a joke, it wouldn't be," you snap at him, and you're not even sure what you're angry at. there's no reason to be annoyed, or frustrated or even hurt and snippy with a friend who came and sat with you to catch up.

but you don't want to untangle whatever you're projecting onto gojo satoru, so you let bitter words spill over, "some of us don't have time for your games, gojo. we have real lives to deal with."

gojo's expression shifts completely, and that playful spark in his eyes is replaced with something colder as he stands up and shoves his hands into his pockets, "right." and his tone is clipped, pissed, "got it. no time for games."

you watch as gojo walks away, already tapping away on his phone, but his footsteps are quieter than you expect. part of you wants to call after him, to take back the teeth and claws that painted your words.

but instead, you just look away from him and grimace. you must have pulled an awful, twisted face — for the man sitting across from you leans in and asks if you need to take an aspirin, or if you're low on fibre.

ACT III. between the covers

the bookstore smells faintly of old paper and new ink. a sharp contrast to the chill lingering outside, so the warmth hits you like a welcome blanket. the air buzzes with the muted chatter of customers, and the occasional beep of a cash register.

you're winding your way through the aisles, set on two missions. find that jacket-cover book that you had been wanting for weeks, and to hunt down the manga that yuuji had begged you to pick up for him.

you dart past a couple lingering in front of a 'booktube' bestseller display, narrowing avoiding a child wielding a stuffed dragon that you can only assume is smaug the magnificent from the hobbit. straight into the quieter section of the store, tucked in the back and smack-bang right into —

thud!

your shoulder collides hard with someone else, sending you stumbling back a step.

"fuck's sake. watch it," the person snaps, his tone sharp.

"maybe you should —" you start to retort, before the words die and patter out on your tongue as your mouth goes dry.

gojo satoru, ladies and gentlemen.

he's scowling at you, with sunglasses pushed up onto his head that expose those ridiculously pale eyelashes under the glow of the overhead lights. he's layered on a crisp varsity jacket, over a thick hoodie, all shades of soft blue and grey. and he looks irritated, with thick brows furrowed at you. but you don't miss the faint surprise that flutters across his face when he takes you in.

"seriously?" gojo murmurs, though more to himself, and his voice still holds an edge that has you wilting, "out of all the aisles in this store..."

you blink, caught somewhere between an apology that dances on the edge of your lips, and a bewildered laugh at how the divine powers deliver the worst luck on you. instead, you shove your hands deep into the pockets of your aviator jacket, "sorry. didn't see you."

gojo's shoulders relax, but just barely. as though he's still caught in the heavy fog of tension from your last words to him. but to your mild credit, he doesn't quite look ready to storm out either. progress?

"so. what are you doing here?" you ask, trying to break the ice and pretend that you're not doing internal pirouettes.

"just had to pick up a textbook," gojo mutters, holding up a thin and over-priced looking book on something like...quantum mechanics, "exams are coming up. gotta keep the top spot, you know."

you blink, "you're actually studying?"

gojo raises his eyebrow, lips twitching into the faintest smile, "what? you think i roll into my classes and ace everything through sheer willpower? or i spend all day being a joke and annoying everyone, right?"

you sigh, feeling the frosty, ice-gaze settle once more over you, paralysing you from head to toe, "look, gojo. i don't know what came over me that day," and now you're being sincere, looking away from his narrowed stare, "it's like some crazy, evil monster came over me and it possessed me. i think i incarnated some demon king in me and i said all that mean shit."

he shifts slightly beside you, and you don't miss at how gojo's lower lip juts out at your apology, or how close he is to you right now. "and i was jus' being stupid. swear i don't think you're a joke." you try to pick up some random book, pretending you're very busy as you speak.

but it's very hard to look genuine when you've just picked up a glossy copy of 'stand and deliver: a hard look at fixing male erection problems.'

it earns you a small laugh, light and quick, that has you almost falling to your knees, and you can hear choso's voice in your head. muttering out a dulcet 'i told you so. you want him so bad.' but it's worth it as gojo leans against the nearest shelf, the annoyance from earlier starting to ebb.

and for a moment, gojo studies you and his expression is unreadable. for your part, you're pretending to read the back cover of 'stand and deliver' and some blurb about how this award-winning author managed to help her husband 'get it up' after twenty years of marriage.

but the tension in his posture dissolves, relaxing further and gojo hums, "noted." that's all he says, and an awkward silence hovers. it hovers so uncomfortably, leaving you floundering for a new topic until gojo's voice breaks the silence.

"choso's doing good, yeah? i heard he got a girlfriend."

you smile, "yeah. yuki, she's like really cool. i don't know how he did it."

gojo snickers, "i asked if he wanted to play hockey and i think he's been avoiding me all week."

you try to pretend its not because of how you re-enacted your little spat with gojo, demonstrating the entire thing for your twin brother. who had just called you stupid afterwards. among other not-so-flattering terms, with little consideration for your crushing, beating heart.

"you going to suguru's party next weekend?"

ah, now that's a curveball.

because, again, you are your own brand of cool. or so you'd like to think, so this isn't really a matter of pitying comparison. but geto suguru is like on another level of effortlessly vogue. at least in your eyes. you know that he's gojo's best friend and he delivered a (controversial) and killer project on gene editing last semester. you know that geto's involved with gig photography as a hobby, and thus, has personal access to some of the coolest bands in the city.

and you also know that he occasionally waves a hand to you, but it's not like you actually know the man. it's just mutual association.

"i wasn't planning on it," you hesitate, for you really had been planning to cram through a mid-term session, "but someone asked me to go as their date."

gojo's smile evaporates, "who?"

"naoya zenin," you say cautiously, watching as gojo's face twists. like he's resisting the urge to gag and tear his hair out.

"naoya? he's like a walking billboard for being an entitled cunt," gojo groans, running a hand through glossy hair that has you trailing your gaze over slender, sculpted hands.

you narrow your eyes, "he seemed...okay. smart, i think."

"oh, he's smart. i'm not questioning that," gojo crabs, "he's so arrogant though. i grew up seeing that guy everywhere. our families were like, half friends."

you cross your arms, suddenly defensive, "are you warning me? or just mad that he asked me out?"

gojo seems to flounder for half a second, quick enough that you could miss it and he could deny it, "jealous of naoya? please," and he scoffs as he leans back against the shelf, "i have taste. unlike some people."

"you can't be the one giving me a lecture on dating etiquette. i mean, how many dates do you have lined up for geto's party? two, three?"

gojo gives you a sly grin, "more than that, hah. gotta keep my options open."

"tacky," you wrinkle your nose, trying to pretend that you don't feel like you just guzzled a gallon of curdled milk, "and classless."

"yes," gojo sighs sadly, "and endlessly charming. it's so hard being me," shooting you back a quizzical look as he pulls up to the register, paying for his textbook.

as he paid, you linger near the shelves, pretending to browse while stealing glances at gojo satoru. there was something different about him today, something quieter that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

and on gojo's way out, he pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at you. his expression is still entirely unreadable, his gaze lingering for just a second longer than usual. and then he was gone.

ACT IV. blush confidential

there's a soft hum of pop music wafting from someone's phone, blending in with the rustle of fabric and the hiss of a straightener. your bedroom is a whirlwind of motion and chaos, with clothes thrown over chairs, and pre-game drinks piled up over your vanity.

"i can't believe you're not coming with us," you gripe to yuki, watching as she lounged up on your bed, denim crinkling as she shifted to adjust herself.

"tch, you know i love a good party," yuki grins with sparkling ideas, "but choso and i have a date tonight. he's been texting me about it all day."

you snicke at the thought of your hapless twin, "yeah. he was practically glued to your dm's. ran into the kitchen table twice this morning."

shoko snorts from her spot at the vanity, from where she's running a brush through cropped, chestnut hair, "choso nervous? i need to see that," she catches your eye in the mirror, "do you still have that lip gloss?"

"on it," you're digging into the vast depths of your purse, grazing your wallet and a hal-featen granola bar. stubbing your finger on an opened gel pen, before clutching a small shiny tube that you toss to shoko.

"so," shoko smacks her lips, "how's it going with naoya?"

you blink, pausing in the middle of capping all your drying pens, "what do you mean how's it going? nothing's going."

your friend swivels on her stool, raising a thin eyebrow, "he's your date at this party, right? and why him, of all people?"

"seriously. that guy's got a reputation. and not a good kind, for a very good reason," utahime chimes in from her corner, where she's yanking on a ribbon woven through her hair.

you shrug, suddenly feeling defensive under their collective scrutiny, "hey. he asked, i said yes. it's not that deep."

shoko exchanges a pointed glance with utahime, and both of them looking equally skeptical in a way that has you flushing.

"he's just annoying, you know," shoko points out, "he thinks he's better than everyone else, and half the time? it's just hot air."

"and the other half?"

"still hot air," shoko flatlines, "you can do better."

"anyone's better than gojo," utahime mutters, "you don't want to be stuck with him."

yuki's snickering, and you're doing your utter best to pretend that the mention of gojo satoru doesn't have you crawling up and down the walls like a termite on crack.

"speaking of gojo," yuki drawls, running a comb through a golden sheaf of thick hair, "is he going with anyone to this party?"

you freeze for half a second, before busying yourself with some new body mist that you picked up from a sale, all vanilla and coconut and macademia, "i ran into gojo the other day," and you keep your tone as neutral as possible, "and he said he had a few dates."

"ugh," shoko groans, wrinkling her nose, "of course he does," and utahime mutters an affirmative, exasperated sigh, echoed only by yuki, who pauses mid-brush to look at you sympathetically.

"what?" you snap, defensive, "why are you all looking at me like that?"

shoko tucks a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "well, i mean. you like gojo, right? like really like him?"

"huh?" the question catches you so off guard that you're left sputtering, as the perfume leaves a sharp and awful taste on your tongue, accidentally leaving a fresh spritz into your mouth, and not the curve of your neck.

"oh, blech. absolutely not," you say vehemently, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, "i don't like him like that. not that i think he's awful or anything —"

utahime crosses her arms, white sleeves brushing against each other, "he is awful."

"yes, thank you for that, utahime. but he's just not my type," you finish firmly, "he's loud. he's disruptive. he can't take anything seriously. i can't date that."

yuki gives you a long and knowing look, "oh, he likes you," she says lightly, as though she's telling you a casual piece of news, and not something that has you biting your tongue till iron spills, "he's been crushing on you for so long."

you feel your stomach twist uncomfortable, like little, evil goblins are dancing in your gut, "that's ridiculous," you mutter, fiddling with the clasp of your purse, "if he liked me, he would ask me out properly. and not date half the student population."

"he probably thinks it's fair, because you keep turning him down," shoko says matter-of-factly, standing up to grab her bag.

"i just don't think he's good for you. or anyone," utahime mutters, earning a pinch from you.

ACT V. stereo love

normally, gojo thrived at these parties. suguru was always able to pull a crowd that straddled the line between chic and cool, with just enough alcohol to keep things interesting. the thrum of the bass-heavy music should have been the perfect escape after a gruelling day spent staring at equations, leaving him half-convinced that his course coordinator was plotting against him and wanted him dead.

but now gojo satoru was just jittery, restless. and he hated that.

so for now, he leaned against the kitchen counter with a full cup in hand, watching people spill out of the living room and into the backyard. it seemed that other students had been aching for a party, something to take them off mid-terms and yet here he was, scowling like a storm cloud. he took another swig of his drink, ignoring how his own stomach was doing unexplained cartwheels.

"you good?"

suguru's low voice cuts through the noise, startling gojo enough that he has to tighten his fingers around his cup so sticky beer doesn't spill over pristine tiles.

gojo waves his closest friend and confidante off, "i'm fine. obviously."

suguru's frown deepens, though it's obscured by his loose, choppy dark hair. and there's skepticism painted all over his face, "you're never this quiet at any party. i thought that by now, i would have had to convince you not to jump off the roof."

"you think too little of me."

"you think too much of yourself," suguru drawls, but he's leaning against the counter beside gojo, as leather and cool metal rustle against each other, "so where's your date? or dates, i should say?"

gojo freezes, his cup halfway to his lip, "come again? what are you talkin' about?"

suguru arches a thin brow, "it's practically all over campus, man. apparently, you had several dates with lovely, young ladies lined up tonight. and i tried to defend your fragile honour, said it was too ambitious even for you. but..."

this revelation hits gojo like a punchline that he wasn't in on, and then it clicks for him. oh, he had started that rumour a few days ago. in the bookstore, to you. his brain replays the scene like a cruel, little highlight reel: the way your expression had wavered minutely, just for a moment, when he had straight up lied and claimed that he had a few dates.

truth be told, gojo had only said it to make you jealous, to see if he could ruffle you and play your game even better.

but now the joke was so clearly on him.

because gojo satoru had no dates. and you? you were here with someone who wasn't him.

suguru's following his gaze across the room, and gojo doesn't even bother to hide his petulant interest. he can see you standing near the back walls, laughing at something that naoya zenin, mayor of all things putrid, had said. naoya, with his stupid green roots and louis vuitton jacket, standing just a little bit too close to you for gojo's liking.

but before he can stew in it any linger, suguru's reaching out and pinching his ear. hard.

"ow! fuck was that for?" gojo's yelping, jerking away from his clearly evil, traitrous best friend.

"that," suguru says evenly, "was for looking like a lovesick idiot. pull yourself together, man."

"i'm not lovesick," gojo weakly protests, rubbing his bruised, throbbing ear and moving further away from suguru geto.

"you're not exactly screaming cool and collected," suguru dryly comments, "sulking like a sore loser while your crush laughs at another guy's jokes."

gojo feels his face heat up, just a little bit, because he knows that suguru's hitting close to home, "i don't sulk and do all that whiny shit. second of all, it's not my fault she went with zenin of all people. it's up to her if she wants to be stuck with someone who talks about his family's real estate portfolio as foreplay."

suguru snorts, and it's clear that he's not playing the role of sympathetic best man for life, "you know what's more obnoxious? watching you fuck around like this. you need to figure out how to ask her properly."

"i did all that!" gojo shoots back, throwing his arms up so his drink dances over the edge of the cup, "she said no. each time. you know what they call a guy who can't take a hint? she thinks i'm a loser!"

"and are you?"

gojo narrows his eyes, "am i what?"

"a loser."

"is it easier for me if i just say yes?" gojo half-heartedly gripes, "is that what you want me to say?"

"or," suguru says calmly, "you're a guy who hasn't proven he's worth saying yes to."

gojo groans, tipping his head back so he can block out the vision of his irritatingly wise best friend, "you sound like my grandmother."

"that's not even an insult. your grandmother is on some metal shit," suguru counters, unbothered, "and you sound like a twelve-year old. you can't flirt and sleaze your way through this. if you want her to take you seriously, i don't know how else to say this, you have to stop being...you."

"excuse me?"

"no. stop, don't make that face," suguru scowls, "you know what i mean. stop being a stupid flirt, and be a genuinely better person. otherwise, you're just spinning and burning out your wheels."

"did you pick up a self help book?"

suguru elbows him, sneering, "i'm trying to help you. if you don't want my help, i'm telling her you have an std."

"maybe you should just do that. end my misery," gojo downs the rest of his drink in one go, the burn of cheap beer doing nothing to ease the olympics in his alimentary canal. what's worse is that suguru is right, the bastard always is.

suguru claps him on the shoulder, "relax, satoru. you've got charm in spades. just use it...wisely."

"yeah, yeah. thanks, man," gojo mutters, brushing him off as suguru wanders away, probably to mediate some dumb argument between that big oaf, toji fushiguro and the even bigger oaf, ryomen sukuna. honestly, why were they even invited?

but gojo stays where he is, eyes flicking back to you. away from the distracting curve of your thighs in that skirt, and rather on how interested you look in naoya's stupid, animated gestures. and you look so at ease, but there's something hot and sharp twisting inside his gut.

suguru's soft, measured voice echoes in his head, "prove yourself as a person first."

oh, yeah. gojo could do that. he would absolutely do that. for you, he'd do just about anything, short of donating his vital organs (but he would definitely be considering it). but how hard could it be to be better? more mature? more grounded?

gojo satoru can handle all that. all he had to do was be a dignified, charming man. you know, someone who puts his best foot forward into the world. someone that you might actually consider taking seriously. someone calm and respectful.

if you were happy with naoya zenin, then who was he to interfere? who was he to ruin that for you? even if the guy looked like wile e. coyote when he smiled. even if naoya zenin was the most smug bastard to walk the earth.

gojo scowled at nothing in particular. but the point was that it wasn't his place to meddle. not if it meant risking your happiness. all he could do was be the best version of himself. polite, kind and above reproach. a good and respectful friend.

ACT VI. a shot of love, on the rocks.

"please, i want you so fuckin' bad."

gojo satoru is on his knees. at a party, in the middle of the living room. for you.

you feel like your mind isn't able to process all this fast enough, like your brain is on some pause. the music is still thumping in your head, but not as fast as your poor cardiac muscles as you're rendered frozen from pathetic, piercing blue eyes blinking up at you.

"please," gojo satoru repeats, and his voice vaguely warbles out like he's kinda lost his marbles and —

let's rewind.

five minutes ago, you had been standing with naoya zenin. and despite your initial reservations, you had been entertained. he's sorta witty, and definitely loaded with snarky remarks that cut through the noise of the party. it's hard not to laugh at his biting commentary, although half the time he's skewering people for fun, and the other half? just out of pure spite.

his golden eyes gleam with that edge, the kind of sharpness that makes you think of a hyena circling around its next meal. naoya is definitely full of himself, but it doesn't help that he's also ridiculously good-looking. and he knows how stunning he is, but its bothering him that you're not showering him in enough compliments for it.

still, he's here with you. he's your date. and you're doing your best to remind yourself of that. naoya is the only option you have at the moment, and he's definitely offering you more attention than anyone else tonight.

from across the room, utahime gives you an exaggerated, pained thumbs-up — while shoko shrugs in her usual blithe manner, but she gestures for you to smile more. you plaster on a wider grin, a little too obvious but naoya doesn't seem to notice.

"you know, if you're getting bored of all this, we could always find another room," naoya's low hiss slices right through the bass-thrum of the pulsing room, "do a little more than just talk."

for a moment, it's easy to imagine slipping away with him. but the sharpness in his killer-smile makes something in you bristle, like he's already envisioned you saying 'oh yes, naoya! please take me to bed!' and you shake your head, and give him an amused look.

"maybe later," you say lightly, "not now."

naoya zenin doesn't seem quite offended, but his smile grows wider as he stands up straight again, from where he had curved his tall frame into you, "i'm a patient man. fine by me, 'm gonna get some more drinks."

and you watch as his golden head of hair disappears into the crowd, leaving you all alone while the music blares around you, like a suffocating fog. you rub your temples, wondering if you should just go after naoya and tell him to go to town, something for the night's enjoyment. but before you can go any further, you hear a shout cut through the noise.

"hey!"

you whip around, blinking in surprise at gojo satoru.

but also not quite the gojo that you're used to. the one that you grew up with, and held hands with in kindergarten, one who smiled easy and laughed too loud. it seems he's ditched the oversized hoodies and varsity jackets tonight, opting for a black tee that fits him a little too well and dark cargo pants that only highlight...

you're getting distracted. but it's hard to remain focused, when he's walking towards with you. seemingly determined, as his white hair falls forward over thunderstorm-eyes. for a moment, you're not sure if you’re hearing him over the pounding music, or if it's just your own pulse making everything seem louder.

"i hate that you're here with naoya," gojo says suddenly, and his voice is low and serious, something that you've never really heard from him before.

your brow furrows, "what?"

"i lied about the dates," he continues, as words just jumble out his candy-pink mouth, "i don't have a bunch of dates. fuck, i don't even have one date. i only want to date you."

you blink, and then you blink once more, because again what?

the sincerity in his voice catches you off guard, and for a moment, you think you might have misheard the man. his blue eyes are wide and earnest, and they're staring right at you.

and before you know, he's on his knees. muscular thighs bending so his knees hit the cool tiles with a heavy thud, hands splayed out for you.

"please," he implores, "you gotta understand. i need you to feel what i feel, because it's not even a passin' thought, i swear. it's not even a stupid crush. this is like —" and he's gesturing wildly with one hand, still kneeling like a knight about to beg for his lady's favour, "this is destiny."

"gojo," you manage, "are you on drugs?"

the white-haired man, bless his sassy heart, rolls his eyes, "no. i'm on beer and vodka. will you please let me finish?"

"yes, but what are you doing?" you hiss, exasperated and sibilant, as more eyes turn to the most ravishing man on campus, who's absolutely off his rocker. and there are phones being pulled out, god help you.

"what am i doing?" gojo smiles, and it's unnervingly wide, "i'm like laying it out all here for you. my love. because that's what you are, to me. like you're everything. and i swear everyone knows this already. should i call you my sun, my moon, my entire universe? it's like time stops when i see you, a-and trust me, i do physics. i know time shit," and he must have caught at how your mouth is flapping open because he suddenly wags a finger, "no! i'm not done. i haven't even told you how the world fades, and all that's left is you glowing. like a star that i can't reach."

he's placing a hand on his broad chest, digging into the tight top clinging to his pectorals, like he's being dramatically wounded, "i have to reach you. i have to be with you."

you're not sure what parts you've processed, or what part of this slow train-wreck has settled in your head, "are you, like, actually begging right now?"

gojo's eyes flash with the intensity of a thousand suns (well, fuck — gojo's awful poeticism is rubbing off on you already). you can hear the low snickers of two men that had been beating the living daylights out of each other half an hour ago, those fuckwits that go by toji and sukuna. you can hear sukuna's deep mutters about how no-one ever would like toji enough to do this for him. and yep, you can hear them scuffle again.

"yes!" gojo booms, and more than a few heads have turned now. you wonder if naoya zenin is watching in the background, and realising that this isn't a battle he wants to pick, "i will kneel for you. like i'd do this shit for eternity, even if my knees hurt so bad right now. but as long as you give me a chance to prove my worth. and my devotion, d-don't forget that! deep as the ocean, endless and vast. and the stars align...oh, how they align for us."

"ah, satoru," you cut in, and you realise that you're now smiling. embarrassment and mild humiliation be damned, there's a quirk tugging at your lips, "you can get up now. this is a bit dramatic."

gojo blinks, not missing a beat, "i'm dramatic because i'm in love, okay? and —" he swivels his head to the crowd, grumbling, "shut up, sukuna! i heard that, i'll beat your wonky ass. you don' know shit about love."

he's turning back to you, all sticky and soothing sugar once more, "where was i? eh, my confession. well, it's all for you. and it's me, givin' you every part of me. beggin' you to see that you're the only one who can break the walls around my heart."

you think that you've completed a full speed-run on every stage of grief that there is to experience, and if the small plink! coming from someone's phone is any indication, gojo's monologue has already made it's way onto someone's private story. and so naturally, everyone will have seen it by tomorrow.

"can you get off your knees? you look ridiculous."

gojo's grin falters for a split second before he straights up, all with a hefty groan as he runs a hand through snowy strands, "ridiculous? i'm being vulnerable as hell, and you think i look stupid?"

"a little," you admit, but you're reaching a hand out to push a strand of thick hair out of his eyes. and it's maddening at how gojo seems to tremble mildly under your touch, at the brush of your fingers against his temple, "kneeling at a frat party is crazy work."

gojo sinks his teeth into a plush lower lip, "that was me trying to show how much i care, and all that sweet shit. you make me lose all my cool, and this isn't even a joke."

"you never had cool, and now you've lost your dignity too," but you're blushing, and it's a giddy feeling at how he's now close enough that you can feel his body heat.

gojo satoru's eyes twinkle, "maybe. but i'd do all that again if it won you over."

"with your future oscar nomination?"

the man shrugs, broad muscles rippling, "he who be a fool for love is far better than he who doth never dare to try at all."

"fair point," you murmur, feeling dizzy in that familiar scent of lemon candies and mint, like the world is swirling around in a heady haze, "do you wanna kiss me to seal the deal?"

"yes please. i think i'm gonna pass out and — mmph!"

you've pulled yourself up, and thrown your arms around his warm neck, drawing gojo into you. crashing your lips into his before either of you can say anything else. it's an urgent, reckless kiss. like a dam has burst and all the pent-up emotions that you've been carrying have finally exploded.

gojo's lips are soft, but demanding, taking more and more air from you. they fit against you with an ease that feels almost too natural. and his broad arms come around your waist with a force that leaves the air punched out of you. he's holding you tightly, as though he's afraid that you'll just disappear if he doesn't keep you close enough.

you can feel the heat of his body against yours, the muscles in his arms that flex as he pulls you in, deepening the kiss. all while his mouth moves against yours with a slow and deliberate intensity, as his tongue parts your lips. all so messy.

when gojo finally pulls away, the last brush of his lips catches your quiet whimper. just as his breath goes ragged, and you're left standing there, dazed, with your forehead resting against his. you can still feel the warmth of his lips on yours, that electricity that's crackling and buzzing through your veins as you giggle.

gojo, however, doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. he tugs your wrist with a sharp, swift motion. but his grip is firm, not harsh as you pulls you away from the living room, "c'mon. let's get outta here."

shoko's eyes are wide, her jaw practically locked in disbelief, "what the hell just happened?"

utahime's lips curl, "someone took gojo's brain out and replaced it with a clone. ah! geto, what did you do?"

suguru has been standing near the kitchen counter, absolutely floored, and he's shaking his head so hard that he feels a headache forming, "hand on my heart, ladies. i told him not to pull any stunts. swear on destiny's child that i didn't tell him to do all that."

ACT VII. i bet we'd have really good bed chem!

gojo satoru has absolutely lost his mind. but you wish that he had lost it a bit earlier, because you're practically pawing at his top now. critically working to make quick work of the tight fabric, letting your fingers run over hard planes of muscles and lower.

right until you're reaching a trail of soft white hairs that disappear into the band of his pants.

"seems like you're just as desparate as me, hah," gojo snickers, and his broad hand is trailing further up your thighs, letting your skirt bunch and crinkle under his ministrations. thick fingers brush over dewy cotton, and you moan.

"s-satoru!"

"you don't even know how long i've w-wanted this," and his hand clenches at the fabric, gripping it so tightly that you fear it may just be on the verge of tearing, but you can only buck your hips into him further.

no longer even mindful of how you must be already dripping onto the palm of his hand, "and i thought you knew. i r-really thought you knew how much i wanted you."

his middle finger is gliding through your damp and searing slit, with clinging strands latching onto his skin as you muffle a whine into his chasing, teasing lips.

it's sending deep, low curls of arousal in thick waves, settling low in your groin and you don't even care what room of the house you're now in, someone's bedroom with a dark, stylish bedspread and vinyls up on the walls.

the force of his large hands drives you down onto the bed, pressing your back onto the soft mattress.

and gojo looks so pleased, at how you're splayed and sprawled out underneath his torso, his hands tugging at your now bare thighs to spread your legs even further. pulling them far enough so they come to rest on either side of his face.

"fuck, she's so pretty. even better than i imagined," and gojo's voice is husky and low, almost strained, "and believe me. imagined her plenty." the sound of drenched cotton being torn rips through the air, slippery and resistant from your arousal.

it's even stubborn as the fabric refuses to budge, until it gives way under the force of gojo's tug, soft and tearing. leaving your pussy open to the cool, cold air. bare for gojo's eyes to rest upon and widen.

his lips brush against your thigh with an uncharacteristic gentleness, one that makes your entrance clench and wink.

but gojo is nothing if not teasing, and he feels light-headed. pressing featherlight kisses to the crevice of your thigh, and then closer to your aching mound. but even he cannot hold off for much longer, and he's pressing a flat, lazy print of his tongue against your cunt.

that first munch sends a burst of tangy sweetness dancing across gojo's tongue, and he thinks he might just bust a load right then and there. the heat of your clenching cunt is almost overwhelming, but hey.

gojo's never been a quitter, and he doesn't care if he creams his pants at this very moment, he needs to hear that sweet whimper of his name from your lips again.

his lips part, blowing a quick breath on your aching clit, right as his fingers begin to press and meld into your syrupy folds. it's got you practically jumping further into him, so wet strands are clinging to the very tip of his nose. and gojo knows that this is heaven. that he's unlocked true paradise.

"satoru, c-can't you...?"

he's too busy running his tongue over your clit, drawing small circles with the very tip of the hot muscle, "can't i what, pretty? don' want me eating you out?"

and you are so adorable, pushing your head up to scowl down at him with furrowed brows, but the flush in your cheeks paints you the most beautiful shade of cherry red. and gojo vows to spend the rest of his life ensuring that this shade never leaves your cheeks.

"can't you get to the eating part? thought that you were gonna — f-fuck! hnngh, 'toru!"

he's pulling your thighs tighter around his head, and he doesn't give a fuck if this is how he goes. suffocated in this tantalising heat, with your fingers lacing themselves into woven patterns in his white hair.

he's lowering his tongue once more into your throbbing pussy, making sure that his pleased vibrations send pleasurable rumbles right through your core.

grinning and slurring his tongue further into you, right as you buck desparate hips over and over. dragging yourself against his chin, so he's sure that the lower half of his face must be glistening with your sweetness.

gojo absolutely thinks he can get used to being like this, at having you angle and force his head further into your cunt. letting you angle and toy at him and use him for your pleasure. he snaps his teeth around glossy strands of arousal, once and then twice, before delving back in.

making sure that his spare hand finds your clit to draw quick flicks and shapes over it, pushing a finger right up against the throbbing hood.

"satoru, ah, satoru! 'toru!" it's all you can even manage right now, just chants and groans of his names, as he's practically sunken your hips into the mattress, while he's on his knees for the second time this night.

"hey, none of that, yeah?" and gojo's gently tugging at your arm. trying to get you to stop muffling your whimpers and cries, because he just needs to hear your adorable sounds. and he needs to hear your bird-like cries when you come undone.

what a joy it is for gojo. to be able to dive between your legs and run his tongue between your folds. he's losing his mind at how your body trembles under his touch, and how he makes the mistake of peering up at you. your lips are parted, open and glossy. and your brows are furrowed, as lashes flutter against your cheek. you have to cum, gojo satoru needs you to cum right now.

and so, he exerts all his effort ten fold into having you finish. it's so sloppy, and so messy. gojo lets his own eyes dip shut, letting himself feel your glossy, glistening cunt pulse around his tongue. and let there be no doubt that gojo satoru is a munch, for he's eating you out in such an ardent manner, and it basically sends you barrelling towards a heart-stopping orgasm, where tears spring to the corners of your eyes.

you needn't have even tried to warn him of your impending climax, for gojo knows in the way that your legs quiver and get sloppier over his face. stars fall over your vision as you heave and toss your head back, muscles rippling as "satoru, satoru!" falls from your lips, long and drawn out as the rest of the world goes dark around you.

you gasp, struggling to inhale as the syrupy air is stolen from your lungs, all while gojo runs his tongue through your folds, head spinning with the dizzying rush of sensation. it's as if you've been swept away, hurtling towards space, weightless and disorientated.

only to crash back into reality as gojo seemingly hasn't stopped letting himself taste all of you, with not a drop of arousal wasted. your back is further pressed into the soft mattress beneath you, and the surge of overstimulated numbness follows, all pleasurable pins and needles and ferocious need.

"look at that, 'm already addicted," gojo coos, almost to himself, scooping a finger through the translucent gloss that leaks from your cunt. bringing it up to his mouth to wrap his tongue around, "think you can handle giving me another one?"

you let out a weak, breathless laugh. your gaze lingering on gojo's face, the soft moonlight that casts an ethereal glow on his features. his chin still faintly gleams, coated in your mirror-sheen and his lips are a plump, rosy red. you part your lips, propping yourself onto your elbows, but before you can form the words, the door slams open with a force that makes your ears rattle.

"i've looked in every fuckin' room in this house, and i swear to everything holy, satoru. if you chose my bedroom, i'm gonna —"

geto suguru's voice cuts off mid-rant, his words dissolving into a strangled, pained gasp as he takes in the sight before him. gojo, kneeling between your legs, wearing a ridiculously pleased grin. just like the cat who got the cream. you let out a squeak, hastily tugging your skirt over you, but it's hard to look innocent when gojo is still unabashedly pawing at your thighs.

geto pales, his jaw going slack, and he looks like he's about to collapse, "god help me. satoru, i'll kill you tomorrow," and then he shoots you both a nasty look, "and you're both paying for new sheets."

"so you and gojo are...dating now?" choso pries, with a tone that is entirely too casual but his eyes are keen. your twin is nursing a cup of coffee while he absolutely demolishes a plate of fried eggs. he had been quiet so far, but it's clear that curiosity gave out and now he's peering at you like a big owl.

you try, or do your very best not to smile too hard. to not look giddy and ridiculously pleased, "yeah, i guess we are," you admit, keeping your voice as level as possible.

choso blinks once, before setting his fork down and shaking his head, "i knew it. it was only a matter of time," he mutters, and without further ado, he resumes shovelling eggs into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

before you can respond, sukuna appears in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame, his tattooed arms crossed and his expression dripping with disdainful amusement, "oh, i was there," he drawls, sharp fangs flashing in a wicked grin, "that loser pulled the dumbest, most dramatic stunt of all time. got on his knees and everything."

choso freezes mid-chew, raising a thick brow as he glances at the older man with mild interest, "wish i'd seen that," he mumbles through a mouthful of toast.

to your utter astonishment, sukuna nods gravely, his face taking on an uncharacteristically serious look, "yeah. i've got a video if you wanna watch."

your jaw drops as you glance between them, "this is officially the first time that i've ever seen you two agree on anything," setting your mug down with a thud, "if i had known that dating gojo would bring about world peace, i would have done it ages ago and —"

yuuji bounds into the kitchen like an overeager puppy, his blush-pink hair still a mess from interrupted sleep. but he's clapping his hands together like he's just won the lottery, "finally! look at that! everyone's getting along for once."

sukuna doesn't even bother to hide his irritation, shooting yuuji a withering glare. but it's hard to take him seriously when his own pink hair rivals yuuji's in sheer disarray, "don't push it," sukuna warns darkly, grabbing a glass of orange juice and downing it in one morose gulp. he slams the empty, cold glass on the counter before stalking off towards the door, "i'm seriously gonna move out at this rate."

"promise?" choso quips, without missing a bit, "wish you'd stop getting our hopes up and actually do it."

yuuji is undeterred, and he elbows you with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, "you have to invite gojo over all the time now. i like him a lot. he's like super cool."

"of course," you grin, sliding a plate towards him as he eagerly digs in.

and your younger brother beams like the sun itself. right as a mocking, high-pitched voice floats from the other room, "and then we're all gonna be lovesick, and skip around town while holding hands!" right before falling back into sukuna's usual gruff tone that echoes through the kitchen, "god, you're all so insufferable."

your phone buzzes on the table, and you glance down. gojo's contact photo lights up the screen. it's a snapshot from a year or two ago, taken the summer that you both graduated high school. he's standing at the edge of the beach, with the sun dipping low enough behind to catch his white hair. turning it into a halo of glowing light. it's a photo that you never had the heart to change.

satoru 🪐

good morning princess!! my one and only!!!! my sugar plum (too much? i can tone it down but you just can't put a lid on love) hope you dreamed of me 🙂‍↔️ so what are you doing today because i've got abt eight possible things we can cover today starting with [read more.]

"ugh, gross."

sukuna's disdainful drawl cuts through behind you, as an icy finger prods at your phone, trying to scroll up and snoop through your messages. you freeze and slam your phone down on the table. whirling around to come face to face with the world's most judgemental gargoyle sneers at you, "i think i'm gonna throw up."

"get a life, holy fuck."