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sukuna begrudgingly buys you something you like

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Fanfiction is so silly. I am playing with my dolls and people are coming over to watch. Some of them even clap and give me compliments. And when I'm done playing, I can go and watch other people play with their dolls.

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Like Water for Chocolate, Days of Being Wild, Les Félins

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"all you need is love" wrong. scallions as well

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then i did hiromi higuruma and got shadowbanned on tiktok for it!

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Sir, that’s my emotional support unrealistic romantic delusion

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anyway can we talk about andy samberg's reaction to portrait of a lady on fire

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hakk barista - i soooo enjoy the cozy corner you've created for what seems like a niche that i'm in the trenches for, thank you for your service. is there any potential for a spiced matcha moment w a hint of actual spice (a shot of ginger herbal infusion) featuring THEE lookism man of all time, jake kim?? (esp. in light of *that* chapp 553??) say he lets you know he's off to busan to play hero/be confrontational in his romantic big deal way and the farewell is bittersweet?? maybe feat. the famed gloves?? TYSMMMMMM!

[23:51] — “STICK AROUND” || JAKE KIM X READER

form: 🍵 spiced matcha (Timestamp) featuring: jake kim from lookism w.c 1456 words warning (s): a drop of ginger infusion 🫚 (suggestive), grammar errors, other than that a/n. barista's notes: “Hai hai, helloww dear customers! How have you been? I hope the days have been treating you kindly ꒰⁠⑅⁠ᵕ⁠♡ᵕ⁠꒱⁠˖ﾉpardon the slower service lately—seems midterms have taken quite the toll on your local barista (laughs nervously). Still, I’m back behind the counter today, ready to serve up a special brew: a warm cup of ginger-spiced matcha—sweet and creamy, with an earthy kick of heat. A little bittersweet. A little nostalgic. Just right for nights filled with quiet compassion and soft longing. Thank you for placing your order. And as always, I hope you enjoy every sip. ♡”

It starts with the gloves.

Weathered leather, the kind that feels older than time and memory—creased at the knuckles, stained with the weight of stories never spoken aloud. Jake stands by the windowsill, half-lit by the soft glow of the fading evening, fingers threading through the fingerless relics of his father like he’s piecing together a history he never asked to inherit.

They look absurdly out of place in the amber hush of your apartment. Ghosts of a past that don’t belong here—not in the tender softness of flannel sheets and mismatched mugs, not in the gentle domestic stillness that the two of you had carved out like a sanctuary.

But they sit in his hands anyway. Those same hands that once held you like you were made of porcelain—and something more sacred. Something breakable in a way that terrified him more than street fights or scars ever could.

You lean against the doorframe, mug cupped between your palms, letting the steam curl under your chin as you watch him. The fading light slants through the blinds and draws long lines along his shoulders, tracing every inch of the tension he wears like a second skin.

“You’re doing it again,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t look up. “Doing what?”

“Looking like the city’s sins are yours to clean.”

That gets a smile. Crooked. Tired. Yours.

He finally turns to you, glove halfway on, that classic green jacket slung over one arm like a weight he’s been carrying too long. His eyes meet yours—steady, sharp, and somehow both distant and close all at once.

“It’s Busan this time,” he says, the words falling like a quiet declaration, as if that’s all the explanation you’ll ever need. And perhaps it is.

Busan. The city where fists speak louder than words, where heroes bleed for causes long forgotten by everyone but themselves. A place that hums with raw edges and whispered dangers.

You nod slowly, the bitter tang of your coffee fading in comparison to the sharp ache blooming behind your tongue—a mix of worry, pride, and something that tastes dangerously like hope.

“. . . When are you leaving?”

“Soon. The guys are setting things up, but I need to be the one there. Can’t ask them to face this kind of mess without me. Not this time.”

Of course. Not this time.

They always feel different, these departures—each one a small fracture in the fragile calm you share—until they all blur together like a road stretching endlessly behind a rearview mirror, fading but never quite gone.

He crosses the room slowly. Not hesitantly—no, Jake Kim has never been hesitant a day in his life—but carefully, like he’s navigating the quiet fragile peace tucked inside the four walls of the apartment you share. The kind of peace that’s built from small, unnoticed moments—the warmth of laundry fresh from the dryer, the tangle of your shared playlists humming softly in the background, the creak in the floorboard near the hallway that only you both know how to step around without breaking the spell.

You set your mug down, finally freeing your hands. When his fingers skim your waist, you don’t pull away. You let them, feeling the steady weight of him grounding you in this moment.

When he buries his face into the crook of your neck, the silence between you thickens, carrying every unspoken thing you both understand but won’t say aloud.

He whispers,

“I’ll come back to you. Always.”

You let your hand trail up his back, gliding over the soft fabric of his shirt, brushing against the stiff weight of everything he’s carrying—the fights, the scars, the endless obligations.

“You better. I didn’t shave my legs for nothing.”

He laughs, low and warm, a sound that vibrates against your skin like a secret only the two of you share. It’s the kind of laugh that holds both relief and a trace of melancholy, a reminder that even in the hardest goodbyes, there’s comfort here—in this touch, this promise, this quiet tether between two souls bracing for the storm.

He breathes you in. Holds you like a lifeline.

But when you pull back to meet his gaze, it’s there—the tremble. That faint glimmer in your eyes he wishes he could erase, like a fragile crack in the armor he thought was unbreakable.

It’s not fear. You’re too strong for that.

It’s something quieter. The fear behind the strength. The knowledge that every goodbye carves a little deeper than the last, even when you try not to show it.

“Do you ever think,” you murmur, thumb brushing his cheekbone with a tenderness that belies the weight of your words, “that maybe you’re becoming too good at this? Leaving?”

He falters—a second too long.

And that’s all the answer you need.

His voice is low when he replies, rough like worn leather and quiet like a secret kept too long.

“Sometimes I wonder... if this is what he felt. My father. Wearing these gloves. Leaving my mom. Telling her he’ll come back. Knowing damn well he didn’t know if he could.”

You trace the seam of leather slowly, fingers moving over the weathered surface as if trying to stitch together something lost.

 “You’re not him.”

“Aren’t I?”

Your eyes lock, and there it is again—that strange intimacy that lives in the spaces between words. A conversation folded in layers, heavy with everything unsaid but understood. Two people who’ve slept with ghosts in their beds, who carry their scars like quiet promises, and somehow still find the strength to make room for each other.

"You're not him," you repeat. Firmer this time, like a quiet vow.

"Because he never had me."

He chuckles, lips brushing yours—a sound low and warm, sparking a slow burn between you.

"Damn right."

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, hungry yet tender—like he’s trying to memorize every curve, every taste, like home might slip away at dawn.

Your hands cradle his jaw, firm but gentle, while his thumb traces the delicate hollow of your throat, grounding himself to you—afraid that without this anchor, he might unravel into the storm he’s chasing.

The weight of his body pins you gently against the kitchen counter, just enough to remind you of every late night tangled in his arms—sheets thrown aside, breaths caught and shared like stolen secrets.

His hand slides up under your shirt, reverent and teasing, igniting sparks on your skin.

But then he stops.

Leans his forehead against yours, breath uneven.

 "Not now," he murmurs. "If I stay any longer, I won’t go."

You smile—soft, teasing, with a flicker of mischief that hides the ache beneath.

"Well then, maybe I’m exactly the reason you should leave—before you forget how good it feels to come back."

Jake’s lips curl into a slow, cheeky grin, eyes sparkling with teasing warmth, “Guess I’ll have to make sure you stick around long enough to remind me then.”

Final, but not farewell.

At the door, gloves slid on, he pauses, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on him. He doesn’t meet your eyes.

"One day," he says quietly, voice rough with everything he’s held back, "We’ll talk about this. really talk. About…what it means to love someone like me."

You meet the silence with steady calm. "One day."

He breathes out a small, almost wistful laugh.

"Till then…"

You finish it for him. "Till then, we trust."

The door clicks shut softly behind him.

And the quiet that follows isn’t empty—it’s holding its breath, waiting for him to return. Waiting for you both to come home again.

You don’t cry. Not this time. Instead, you settle back onto the couch—the one you both found buried in someone else’s forgotten life on a secondhand site. Curl your legs beneath you, quiet, and your eyes drift to the faint dent he’s left in the cushion beside yours. It’s warm still, like a secret imprint of him, and your hand lingers there, tracing the shape of absence as if it could fill the space.

Because it does—every inch of it is him, even when he’s gone.

As night folds itself over the city, swallowing the last of the kitchen’s tired light, the hum outside becomes a lullaby. Alone with the quiet, you find a smile creeping up—soft, steady. Hopeful.

Jake Kim is a thousand things, wild and reckless and bold.

But a liar? Never.

He’ll come back. He always does.

And when he does, you’ll be here. Mug warm in your hands, love steady in your spine—waiting. 

Because love—real love—is patient. It fights. It breathes. It endures.

And you, you are ready to hold it all.

And in this quiet place you've made with him, it holds on just a little longer.

© written by hakkuto ⚘ 17th of May ⚘ 2025. do not copy, rewrite, or repost on other platforms.

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- David Duchovny

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kind of weird how parts of your soul are left in various locations without any warning… like yes i’m always at the top of that hill, sitting at the bus stop, in the cool light of the Japanese restaurant, standing at the pier etc etc

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Embroidered shirt by Tomoko Ogawa Made using freehand sewing 

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please, give it back

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Jason and Stephanie Wayne for a Magazine about Gotham's darlings

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Sorry for the cropping I just gave up LOL but here have some toji folks

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Balloon Dog anatomical model, designed by Jason Freeny, produced by Famemaster Toys

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what if