mitskicain
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PASSED MY EXAMS WAR IS OVERRRRRR (until next year)
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COLLEGE STUFF!!!!!! Thatâs exciting!!! So lovely to hear youâre making friends aaaaaa đ„°đ„°đ„°
Iâve been stuck in studying hell đđđ but just four more days and then itâs over and Iâll have summer break
aria my lovely how have you been
HELLOOO MY DEAREST LIA đ„čđ«¶đ«¶ !! IM SO SORRY I JUST MANAGED TO REPLY THIS,, I'VE BEEN SO BUSY WITH COLLEGE LIFE AND STUFF YK đ„čđđđ BUT SO FAR, IT'S MANAGEABLE AS WELL !! MANAGED TO MAKE SOME FRIENDS HERE AND THERE, IT MAKES ME HAPPY đ©·đ©·đ©· !!
how about you love ? how have you been doing lately ?? đ„čđ«¶đ«¶
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you and shoko live in each otherâs clothes.
whateverâs soft, clean-ish, or already in armâs reach gets worn. thatâs how you end up on the couch in her old college tee (holes under the armpits, stains of mysterious origin) and a pair of boyshorts that might be yours, but honestly? juryâs out.
sheâs digging through the fridge, pillow lines across her cheek, your striped pajama pants on backwards, and a hair clip holding back her bangs in a lopsided claw.
âweâre out of milk,â she announces, matter-of-factly, shutting the door with her hip while she stacks old tupperwares like jenga on the kitchen counter.
âmmm,â you hum from the couch, âthat sucks.â
âyou drank the rest, didnât you?â
you scrunch your brows at her, feigning offense. ânow why would you assume that?â
she rolls her eyes, not buying. âthere was a thimble left. youâre the only one in this house whoâll drink half a sip and put it back like you did everyone a favor.â
you shrug, and it looks sort of wonky from the horizontal angle. âyou could go get some.â
she crosses her arms. âyou could go get some.â
you lift your head, make a face. âiâm not wearing a bra.â
âso put one on?â
âbras are a scam invented by the patriarchy and society to suppress joy, you know this.â
âand yet,â she says, leaning down, arms braced on the back of the couch, to press a kiss to your forehead, âtheyâre a prerequisite for family mart. plus, iâll get you those animal crackers you like if you come with.â
you blink up at her. âthe frosted ones?â
âmhm.â
âwith the little sprinkles?â
âyes, baby.â
you hesitate, then groan. âiâd have to change.â
âyouâd have to put on clothes, yeah.â
you reach a hand out from under the blanket and blindly grapple for her wrist, tugging hard. she lets you pull her down beside you with an thump, and you both groan like retirees. she steals your pillow. you steal the warm part of the throw blanket.
âiâm not going,â you murmur into her neck, slipping your eyes shut while you breathe her in. âsorry, guess youâll just have to brave the yogurt aisle alone.â
she looks at you. then her cold hands slide under the shirt, as though confirming something. as if she doesnât already know.
âoh my god,â she breathes. âyouâre actually bare-ass on my couch right now.â
âour couch.â
you grunt. she leans in again, presses a kiss just under your jawâthen another, a wetter one on your neck. her fingers trace back down the back of your leg like she might not be planning to leave after all.
âyouâre not going to the store, are you.â
#shoko called me baby I can die happy#no clothes on around shoko#free the nipple#or whatever that movement says#everyone get naked NOW#shoko x reader#shoko ieiri#jjk shoko
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situationship so bad I wrote a fic abt it
check it out here
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navi | m.list
. âș . ⊠almost, again â gojo satoru x reader



© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.
synopsis: relapsing into someone you should have survived by now
includes: emotional manipulation, mentions of low self worth/self-blame, mentions of sexual content
word count: 1.4k
· · âââââââ ·{ âá°.á}· âââââââ · ·
The first click of the receiver swept through you like an earthquake does to the ground. The click, static, and the sound of his breath on the other side of the phone brings back memories freshly buried.
âHello?â You say, and it sounds a lot like a loaded question. What you really mean is: do you remember me? Do you remember what we had?
âHi,â he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Something in your chest blooms, just like it always did back then.
This is important to note: this is not the first time this has happened. You are not lovers reuniting after the war. There is nothing heroic or romantic about this story. You had met, fell in love, broken up, and fallen apartâand now you spend each odd month crawling back to each other, unsure of what else to do. Rhythm more like ritual than romance.
This is your fourth coming backâfive months after the two of you had officially ended things, a month and a half since your last attempt. The wound has never been allowed to heal, the both of you pick and pick again. Itâs still fresh, throbbing, bleeding, like it has nothing better to do. Maybe there isnât.
But you try again. You try again because youâre too stupid to realize that things wonât change, they never do. And he tries again because he doesnât yet know how to make sense of a life without you. Still, thatâs not enough to save either of you. The two of you donât learnâand when something doesnât grow, it rots. The moment the phone call starts, you can already hear the ticking of the countdown timer, you can already picture the way this ends. Just like last time: no fighting, no screaming, just stillness. Just silent resignation. Itâs always him that gives up before you.
But before all the bad, things would be wonderful.
For seven days, heâd call you things nobody else was allowed to call you. Baby, honey, my pretty girlâlike he used to. In return youâd call him: love, my love, my life. Youâd spend every waking hour on the phone with him, talking about your days, your plans, where it hurt and where you were sore. Youâd talk about why things ended the last time and how the both of you were sorry you ran away the way you did, but only one of you will mean it. Youâll fall asleep with the phone pressed to your ear, trying to hear his voice a little clearer, and wake up late for class. You will send dirty pictures to each other and he will send voice notes for you to listen to when the night gets dark. In the voice notes, he never says anything vulgar. Heâll moan and pant but his voice will break at the mention of your name. He will tell you youâre beautiful over and over again until you almost believe it.
When you signed on to love him, which never really stoppedâeven after the breakupâyou promised a lot of things. You promised to be understanding, forgiving, patient. You promised to care about the big things and the little things. Especially the little things. He was the kind of person to call you around mealtimes to ask what you were eating, and then, for a picture of it.
âSoba noodles? That sounds so good,â heâd said once over the phone.
âTheyâre amazing,â youâd say, âcome over here and taste them yourself.â
âAlready on my way.â
He showed you things. Stupid things. Paper cranes and doodles he made while bored out of his mind. Cute things. Dogs and cats and bunnies he saw. A cloud that reminded him of you. Things only you and him would understand. Perfect quenelles. The shade of blue his eyes were. The way blood splatters on a sidewalk and doesnât wash off easy.
Thatâs what I love you was like to him. It slips out your mouth when youâre exhausted and you donât catch it until you hear his breath catch in his throat on the other side of the phone.
âIâm sorry,â you tell him, âI didnât mean to say that. I-â
âI love you too,â he cuts you off, âI love you too.â
And thatâs when you know the damage becomes irreparable.
After every jarring confession, the countdown timer looms further. Closer. Persistent and without mercy. The morning after will be met with jarring silence. The texts become more scarce. The check-ins less and less. Try and fight it, time and time again, and youâll find you canât. Youâre just as powerless as you were the first time it happened. No amount of trying to be good and perfect can fix this. Nothing and no one can stop him from leaving.
Every time, itâs the same thing that heâll tell you.
âIt got too real and I got afraid,â heâd say. âIâm sorry.â
You were tired of hearing sorry. He said sorry like he said Hail Marys during the rosaryâtoo much. How many more sorries until you can build a church out of your forgiveness? Sorry, sorry, sorry. Heâd been sorry all his life. It seems like heâll be sorry all his life. Always apologizing, never actually getting better. If he tried and failed, itâd hurt less, but he didnât even try, he never does. Where he finds heâs in danger of not being enough, he packs up his bags and leaves. You wanted to believe it was because of his upbringing. Itâs what gifted people do, you excuse. You want so badly to believe that he did what he did because of some internalized trauma, not because he didnât care about you.
When time came again for things to wrap up, you left with whatever dignity you had left. Repeating: loving someone is never a waste, over and over to yourself. No fighting. The two of you never fought over anything. It made leaving all the more easy; nothing to fight for is a good reason to leave. Keep telling yourself that to make yourself feel better. Joke with friends that heâs got major daddy issues and other things to work out. None of that will mask the hurt of knowing you werenât good enough to make him stay. None of that will subdue the sting of having been left over and over again. Someone always has to leave first, Richard Siken had said, and that was his part that he played brilliantly well.
So before he leaves, that in between lull when you know things are going to start snowballing downhill, you start packing your things. Hell, you know better than to unpack now. You leave your luggage by your bed, unopened, because you know the stay is temporary. You know, everytime, itâs not meant to last. You savor each good morning, each I love you, every Iâm not over you, even if itâs not sincere. Not because it was necessarily good, but because it was rare. Sometimes things acquire value just because theyâre rare. Youâd take anything of his if it had his scent, reminding you that there was once a time when you were good enough, that you were worth staying forâworth coming back to.
24 hours after your last âare you okay?â goes unanswered, life resumes as if the two of you never happened. Writings in the sand. He goes to work and posts about the report heâs working on. You wake up from dreams of him calling you to apologize, then get on with the rest of your day. You cry in the shower and linger by the frozen food section of the supermarket until the memory of him is hazy. If youâd ever meant anything to him, he buries it well. There is no guilt, no remorse, no sadness that shows through him. You are the body he dumped in the forest to rot. You are the grave he doesnât visit. He will be cold, and you will act like youâre above feeling sorry for yourself, but youâre not.
The thing about having someone know the deepest, most intimate parts of you, is that they know exactly where to twist the knife.
But if he called again, youâd answer. If he says: âIâm sorry it took me this long, letâs make this rightâ, youâd believe him, because thatâs what you do best. Because thatâs all there is to do, really. Until you grow a backbone and some self respect, you forgive, and ache, and hurtâover and over again. And when the calls become scarce, when he declines your calls saying heâs tired, or busy, or sickâwhen he stops answering your answers and runs away again, slipping through your fingers like sand, youâll curse and think: almost, again.
· · âââââââ ·{ âá°.á}· âââââââ · ·
authorâs note: call me america and my last relationship 9/11 the way iâm never forgetting about it and itâs left a lasting (damaging) impact on my psyche resulting in paranoia and increased defensive methods. i guess whatever doesnât kill you comes back six months later to finish the job.
#mitskicain#jjk#jjk x reader#jujutsu kaisen#jjk gojo#gojo satoru#satoru gojo x reader#satoru gojo#jjk satoru#jujutsu satoru#gojo x reader#jujutsu gojo#gojo x you#gojo x y/n#mitskicainâs works#Spotify
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just saw ur cooking mama setup its so adorbs love it
LIAAAAA!! well guess what i love u ^^
#HI IYAAAA#itâs okay even I didnât know I was gonna come back#how are you#how have u been#I wrote a choso fic and I kept thinking of you while writing it#hehe<3#iyaâs here!! đ·
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navi | m.list
. âș . ⊠poster girl â choso x reader



© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.
synopsis: itâs just you, him, and a couch thatâs about to see more action than the gig ever will
content warnings: suggestive content, no sex (yet), partial nudity, voyueristic undertones, implied erotic photography
word count: 2.5k
· · âââââââ ·{ âá°.á}· âââââââ · ·
You came to practice dressed for the heatâand maybe Choso too. The shirt youâd thrown on was an old tee youâd hacked into something riskier: sleeves chopped off, neckline wide and loose enough that it slouched off one shoulder if you moved just right. The front dipped low, a soft promise of cleavage everytime you bent over to adjust an amp or coil or mic cable. I love drummers pasted in big bright letters across the front. You told yourself it was practicalâit was hot in the garage, after allâbut the truth was you liked the way Chosoâs eyes sometimes lingered when he thought you werenât looking.
And tonight, they definitely lingered.
âWeâve got a game to catch,â your bassist calls out, eyes flicking from your face to your chest with an unsubtle grin. âYou two behave now.â
The others laughed, footsteps fading up the old basement stairs. Then it was quietâjust you, the leftover hum of the amp still cooling down, and Choso, standing a few feet away. Good things happen when two bandmates get left unsupervised. Good because now you can actually talk, and ask questions. Questions like: how long have you played the drums? What are you doing after tomorrowâs show? And, do you want to come over and make me scream so hard my neighbors file another noise complaint?
Instead you shifted your weight, tugged the hem of your already-low shirt a little lowerâbecause if you couldnât say it out loud, you could at least make him look.
âThanks for missing the game and helping me clean up. Means a lot.â
Chosoâs arms flex as he puts away the boxes of cables and wiring, lifting them as if they were nothing. You wondered if he could do that with you too; sling you over his shoulder and carry you up to his room. He could show you his record collection, or how to cut skulls out of old t-shirts and stretch them out. Maybe after the arts and crafts, he could stretch you out too.
âItâs no problem,â his voice snaps you out of your daydream. Itâs gruff, and feigns nonchalance, but you see the way his eyes linger on you for a beat too long. âWanted to make sure everythingâs in order. I donât trust the guys to check.â
You chuckle, and for a second, he flashes you a soft smile before returning his attention to the checklist on his phone. You step toward him, place your hands on the rim of the cardboard and lean forward.
âAnything I can help with?â You ask, voice dangerously sweet.
His face flickered, with what exactly, you werenât sure. Lust? Want? Disgust? God, donât let it be disgust. Youâd quit the band if he told you to fuck off.
âActually, there is something,â he says, eyes actually meeting yours. âI was thinking of re-doing our poster.â
You let out a half-laugh, thinking he was messing with you, but when you realized he wasnât, you stopped. You knit your eyebrows together, confused.
âWhatâs wrong with the current one?â
He looks at you like youâre stupid.
âJust look,â he pulls up the image on his phone and shows it to you. Itâs a visual messâcolors and graphics placed haphazardly, like an afterthought, and letters of varying fonts and sizes fighting for space.
âYuji designed that,â you shoot back, evading blame.
He laughs, âthatâs even more of a reason to re-do the whole thing.â
Your laughs fill the garage, bouncing off its walls, and back towards you, and you want to play the sound over and over again. Even his laughter had a certain rhythm to it, almost like the way he played the drumsâsharp and fast. Maybe he was just naturally gifted the way some musical prodigies are. You imagined him as a baby, banging out tunes on his toy xylophone long before he could talk.
âOkay drum genius,â you quip, nudging closer. âWhat do you have in mind for the do-over?â
Choso tucks his phone into his back pocket, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. He scratches the side of his neck, as if debating whether to say whatâs on his mind.
âI was thinking..â He trails off, turning around to pull a camera from his bag. âWould you mind?â
You let out a single, confused laughâa quick ha you canât hold back. You glance behind, half-expecting to see someone else, then point at your chest..
âMe?â
He rolls his eyes but a smile tugs at his lips. âWho else?â
The way he looks at you in that moment very well nearly brings you to your kneesâall soft eyes and a grin that could make a nun sin. Angelic. Heaven sent. God.
Youâre grinning like an idiot when his gaze dipsâfrom your lips, down to the neckline of your shirt, then back up to meet your gaze. He catches the smooth ball of his piercing between his teeth, and you want so badly to find out how itâd feel pressed to your own. Camera still in hand, he nods towards the gear stacked behind you.
You take a seat on the floor and lean against the amp. The carpetâs scratchy, dust and stray guitar picks buried in its fibersâyou try not to think about it as you look into the camera lens.
Red light first. Then a soft click followed by a bright flash. He lowers the camera, checks the screen, then looks at you as if heâs about to laugh.
âWhat?â you ask, half-worried, half-defensive.
He lifts a brow and turns the camera around. âYou look scared.â
You scoff, crossing your arms tight around your chest. âAm not.â
âJust surprised,â he says, taking aim. âPretty girl like you shouldnât be so camera shy.â
You blink. You grasp for something to sayâan insult, a smart comeback, anythingânothing.
âCat got your tongue?â He teases, capturing your wide-eyed expression with a soft whir of the shutter. He tilts his head, a lazy grin curling at his mouth âItâs alright. Just sit there and look pretty for me, okay doll?â
Doll. God. The way he says it makes something warm pool low in your belly. Youâd sit there and let him shoot a whole roll if he asked.
You shift, trying to ignore the way doll echoes over and over in your head. He lowers the camera again, eyes skimming over you in a way that makes your skin feel too tight.
âMove your arms,â he says, gentle but firm, nodding his head at how youâve got them crossed. âRelax.â
You uncross them slowly, allowing your hands to rest on your thighs. He hums in approval, stepping closer. The lens clicks again.
You do as youâre told, eyes flickering from the camera to him. He takes another shot. The soft click, whirrs, fills the silence between you, punctuated by your breathing. He takes a few more shots, the flash flickering against the garage walls, then lowers the camera, chewing on the ball of his piercing like heâs turning something over in his head.
âGet up,â he says, voice still soft but now edged with something that makes your stomach flip. He quickly sets the camera down and reaches for your hands.
You let him pull you upâhis palms rough and warm around your wrists. He steps back and looks at you, head tilting as he sizes you up like youâre a new instrument heâs learning how to play.
âTurn around,â he murmurs.
You raise a brow. âTurn around?â
He smirks. âYeah. Trust me.â
So you doâyou turn your back to him, the garage feeling suddenly too warm, too small. You feel his hands brush against your hips, positioning you in front of the equipment.
âHands here,â he says, guiding them to rest flat against the top of the speaker. The surface is cool under your fingers. You can feel the faint rumble of leftover bass vibrators from earlier, or maybe thatâs just your heartbeat. Same thing.
He steps back and grabs the camera again. âPerfect. Hold that.â
The lens clicks. You hear him suck in a quiet breath, like heâs trying not to lose it.
âLook over your shoulder,â he says. His voice is lower nowâalmost rough.
You glance back at him, and the look on his faceâlike heâs seeing you in a way no one ever hasânearly makes you forget how to stand.
âGood,â he murmurs. He moves closer, one hand bracing the amp beside yours as he leans in to adjust the hem of your shirt, tugging it just enough to expose a sliver of skin above your jeans. His knuckles brush against your waist, slow, deliberate.
Another click. Another flash.
âGood girl,â he says, almost under his breath. âStay just like that for me, doll. Perfect.â
The shutter clicks. Your skin tingles everywhere he touches you. You hold the pose for him, feeling the brush of air each time he shifts to find a new angle. He keeps adjusting youâa hand on your hip, a brush of his knuckles against your ribs as he pulls on your shirt again. Each touch feels heavier than the last.
Then he lowers the camera and steps in, close enough that can see the tiny smudge of eyeliner under his eyes, the faint sheen of sweat at his temple. He flicks his gaze to the old couch in the corner; half buried in cables and battered gig bags.
âCome here,â he says, his voice dipping lower. He slips in hand around your wrist like itâs nothing, and tugs you towards the couch.
âLie back for me,â he says, gesturing to the faded couch cushions. âLean on your elbows.â
You shoot him a look. Trying for a teasing laugh, but it comes out breathless. âThis still for the poster?â
His grin flashes, wicked and soft all at once.
You do as he saysâlowering yourself onto the couch, propping yourself up on your elbows. The angle makes your shirt ride up, your legs part slightly where your jeans stretch. He watches every shift like itâs something sacred.
He climbs up next. One knee on the cushions between yours, one braced by your hip. The camera hangs heavy from his neck, dangling close enough you could tug him down by it if you wanted to.
He lifts it, one hand steadying the lens, the other braced on the back of the couch by your shoulder. The closeness makes your breath catchâthe way his knee brushes your thigh, the soft rasp of his jeans against yours.
âHold still,â he murmurs, but his eyes arenât on the viewfinderâtheyâre on your mouth.
Youâre putty underneath him. Mouth slightly parted, breathing shallow and quick. Your expression gives up what your words donât sayâI want you; plain and simple. The strap of your top slides off one shoulder, you donât bother pulling it back up.
âHeyâhold thatââ Choso mutters, stepping closer. He lifts the camera again and aims it down at you like heâs framing something just for him.
You laughâlow and breathy. âWhat? This?â
You tuck your chin down, eyes flicking up at him through your lashesâand something about that look, sharp and lazy all at once, makes his throat go dry.
âYes,â he says. âGod, yes.â
His voice is rough. He hovers over you so close you can smell the cologne under the sweat. He lifts the cameraâclickâlowers itâclickâgets closer until itâs just your eyes filling the frame.
You let your head fall back over the armrest, exposing your neck, your mouth falling open just a little. Your breath hitchesâthe way you expose your throat like that. Bare. You knew exactly what you were doing.
âYou like that, huh?â You tease, voice husky now. Your free hand slides over your stomach, thumb hooking the hem of your shirt.
He swallows. His knee shifts closer, bracing himself over your thigh. The lens clicks.
Choso lowers the camera halfway, lips parted like heâs got something he shouldnât say. He huffs a breath, shakes his head, grinning crooked. âYouâre gonna pack the whole gig tomorrow.â
You toss your hair, grinning wide, feeling the buzz of it in your chest. âGood. Maybe theyâll finally notice the drummer.â
He laughs, eyes catching yours for a beat too long. âYou donât know what youâre doing to me.â
âSure I do.â Your lips curl, lazy and wicked. âThese for the poster too?â
âYeah. Poster.â His voice cracks into a laugh. He doesnât moveâjust keeps snapping, angle after angle, the flash popping like fireworks. The cameraâs lens clicks and whirrs, but half the time, youâre sure heâs not even looking through it anymore. You shift under him, arching your back to make the top ride up higher.
The other strap slip completely, falling down your arm. You donât fix it. You look straight into the lens, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, a sheen of sweat on your collarbone. He shifts his weight, knee pressing deeper between your thighs, The shutter clicks again, but slower nowâlike heâs dragging this out just to watch you squirm.
Choso lowers his camera for half a second, his eyes tracing over your face. Your lips, the sliver of skin where your shirtâs ridden up. He bites the ball of his piercing, his thumb brushing the curve of your waist. Your eyes lock, and your grin turns slow, feline.
âLast one,â he murmurs. His mouth twitches into something thatâs almost a smirkâbut thereâs heat behind it, dark and sweet. âHold it. This oneâs for me.â
The words sink into you like a match to dry paperâa sudden heat, a rush that makes you feel reckless. For him. Not the band, not the posterâhim.
âOh?â You say, your voice soft, teasing. âFor you, huh?â
His hand flexes on the couch near your head. âYeah. Justâhold that pose for me, doll.â
You tilt your head, your grin curling to match his. You feel the thrum of your pulse everywhereâyour chest, your throat, between your thighs where his knee brushes so close.
âOkay,â you say sweetly. âOne for you.â
And thenâbefore you can talk yourself out of it, you slip your fingers under the hem of your shirt. The fabric brushes over your stomach, your ribsâand then higher, until it clears your chest completely. No braâjust skin, flushed and soft under the garage air.
You feel the chill hit you firstâthen the heat of his stare, dragging over you like a touch. You swear you hear him suck in a breath, low and sharp, the lens lowering a fraction.
âFuck,â he murmurs, more to himself than to you. When he lifts the cameraâhis eyes aren't behind it anymore. Theyâre on you, hungry and half-lidded, mouth parted like heâs seconds from forgetting the camera exists at all.
The shutter clicksâjust once. Then his free hand slides up your ribs, warm skin to skin.
âPerfect,â he says again, voice wrecked with want. âFucking perfect.â
· · âââââââ ·{ âá°.á}· âââââââ · ·
authorâs note: hello lovelies itâs been a while :) professional and personal life has been a bit of a mess + very packed as you mightâve noticed in #mitskicain confessionals đż this is my little procrastination project before a huge exam iâve got coming up in a week hehehehe itâs also self indulgent because i too, want to fuck the drummer đ©ââ€ïžâđâđ©đ©ââ€ïžâđâđ©đ©ââ€ïžâđâđ© shoutout to him for being hot!!! until the next drop!! MUAH MUAH đđ
#mitskicain#choso kamo#jjk choso#jujutsu kaisen choso#jjk x reader#jjk#jjk fanfic#choso x reader#choso x you#choso x y/n#choso smut#jjk smut#Spotify
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2 weeks before the biggest exam of the year and life suddenly turns vivid and is bursting at the seams but I have to lock myself in my room to study
med school sucks
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one of the few good things after my ex stumbling back into my life is that I always end up writing so much more with them around soooooo if I drop a fic or two or a short ramble donât be surprised, you have them to thank
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iâm disgusted at the things iâve done in order to feel loved
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mothercain released nettles.. I will be uncontactable for the next few days while I curl up sobbing in my bed
#mitskicain#bts w mitskicain#mitskicain loves Ethel Cain#like seriously#what do you think inspired my username
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when people ask me if I want to date I always say no but when Iâm listening to music, I imagine scenarios where Iâm with a loved one. when Iâm alone in my room, I think of all the adventures I could go on with my partner. when I go to sleep at night, I dream of a love so tender and genuine I melt like water in their hands.
but if you asked me: why arenât you dating? donât you want to be with someone?
Iâd tell you: no, I canât imagine myself in anything like that.
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baby brother fell asleep on my bed after a bad day and wow I still call him my baby brother even though heâs 18 and much taller and stronger than me. he will leave for college in 3 months and we will be 10,000 miles apart. when he moves out, it will be the last time both of us live under the same roof. everything will change in three months. but right now heâs fast asleep in my bed after chatting with me about his day while I do my work, and Iâm going to tuck him in and make sure he knows his older sister will always be there for him.
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reread my works and realized Iâm good at describing the yearning and wanting, but the endings are always rushed and choppyâprobably has to do with my ample experience in the first, and lack thereof in the latter
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GIRLLLL I MISSED U OMGG HOW HAVE U BEENN ??? đđđ«¶đ«¶đđđđ
HI ARIAAA HOW HAVE YOU BEEN AAAA ITS BEEN TOO LONG đđđ IM SORRY FOR MY DISAPPEARANCE (it will likely happen again)
Med + law school + work combo got to me augh,,, but itâs all good now!!! Omg we need to catch upppp đđđđ
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iâm going to kill you with knives
you loveeee meeeee :3
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