#but i feel weird without a buffer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pearlescynt · 6 days ago

Text

I'm Not Glass

{ Pairing } - non-idol!Hyunjin x afab!reader

{ Genre } - forced proximity?, smut, pwp, acquaintance to lovers, developing situationship

{ Synopsis } - A vacation with your group of close knit friends? What could be better! Well, you were close with all but one person. He's an acquaintance, even after five years. A lot of things can change on vacation though... All you need is a tiny room, a bean bag, an olive branch.

(Or; the one where Hyunjin is too awkward to make any kind of move, and when you finally realize he may reciprocate your horny, lustful feelings... you make the move for both of you, or at least a comment to get things going...)

{ WC } - 5.2k

{ Warnings & Tags } - 18+ MDNI, forced proximity, smut, pwp (plot? what plot? Porn without plot!), shy Hyune, making out, dry humping, oral (f. receiving), slight nipple play, hair pulling, fingers in mouth, seriously he's fucking your mouth with his fingers, drool, spit as lube, praise kink, manhandling (as best he can in a tiny room on top of a giant bean bag), Hyune is sensitive, he is also worshipping you, unprotected sex (piv; do as I say, not as I write & pee after sex!), overstimulation, teasing, cream pie, sweating, slight aftercare, overuse of religious puns, a forgotten about game of super smash bros, everyone was basically waiting for you two to fuck but neither of you knew that, smug comments from Seungmin, not so sly comments from Jisung

{ Disclaimer } - This work is in no way associated or depicting the actual life of the members of SKZ. It is a fictional piece of work, and I do not own Stray Kids. All works of fiction are loosely inspired by SKZ, and in no way am I saying it is true to their character.

{ A/N } - Hello, I come with crumbs after... 9 months of inactivity from me... I sincerely apologize. I've made enough sad, emotional and apologetic posts though, so onto the story!

I almost renamed this fic to (I'll be honest, I'm tempted to rename it after the fact still): 'Bean Bag Shennanigans' or 'Bean Bag Mishaps' OR 'Bean Bag Escapades'. Then when I came up with the puns, it was going to be 'Blessed Bean Bag' or 'The Sanctified Bean Bag'. Can you count how many times I said "bean bag" in this fic? I think I've typed and read it so much, it doesn't feel like an actual word or piece of furniture anymore lmao.

I hope you enjoy 🩷

"Did you wanna play something? We could go check out the game room. Felix said there was a switch down there." You drawl in Hyunjins direction.

You’re laying flat on your back on a couch, staring at the ceiling. It was relaxing at first, but now you're quickly getting bored.

"Sure, it seems like everyone else is already preoccupied." He shrugs, and pops a halved strawberry in his mouth from the bowl he’d been eating. He gets up from the table where he was sketching, abandoning his work temporarily.

You’re on holiday with your friends for the week, and currently inside the ‘bnb’ you've rented together. The place was huge, with almost too many amenities.

There’s an indoor pool, a hot tub, karaoke, and a pool table. There’s lots of activities scheduled, places to visit, and sightseeing for everyone to do. But it was still nice to be able to have things to wind down with when you were inside. So everyone had dispersed not long after arriving, choosing to explore the surroundings and settle in.

Out of all your friends in this group, Hyunjin is the one you have the most... distance with. It has to be some sort of weird cosmic joke that you’ve been left alone with him right now. In the 5 years your little friend group existed, someone always usually stuck around to act as some sort of buffer between you two. Intentionally or unintentionally, you didn’t know. It’s not that you two hate each other, you just have never clicked with each other, not like you did with the others. You simply existed within the friend group together.

It seems now is an opportunity to get to know each other more in depth.

You both go down stairs, walking across the finished basement, passing Chan and Changbin. They’re at the pool table, both too consumed by the game to truly acknowledge you two. You keep walking through the room, ignoring the thuds above you. It’s the stomping footsteps and tumbling of your friends, play fighting and shouting. Hearing them brings a smile to your face.

Yes, you were all still stuck in childish ways in your mid to late twenties, but adulting is hard. Everyone deserves some fun, and a break once in a while.

They would even pull you into their shenanigans, often pretending to wrestle with you. Tumbling around on the ground, until one of them conceded from you tickling them nonstop.

Finishing your trek across the bottom floor of the rented house, you both stood in front of a door with a multicolored LED sign on it. It reads 'arcade'. You're unsure of what to expect, but Hyunjin opens the door, and you’re both met with... a tiny room?

If it weren't for the mounted tv, the shelf next to it that holds a switch, controllers, a box of tissues, and a few games. You'd think it was a large closet... Actually, taking another look around, that's probably exactly what it is... with a giant bean bag taking up the whole floor.

Seriously, you've never seen a bean bag that big. On top of it are a few throw pillows and a blanket.

"Well. This is certainly cozy." He says.

And you don’t know his tone well enough to know if he’s being sarcastic or snarky. So you huff out a laugh in response.

Grabbing the controllers, you sit on one side of the bean bag, leaving enough room for him to sit next to you. When he sits though, you both immediately slide into the middle of it, pressed up against each other. The two of you start chuckling awkwardly, and try to maneuver yourselves on to your own respective sides, but nothing works. You both just end up falling back into the middle every time.

Eventually you give up, no longer wanting to struggle and adjust, and instead just relax.

"I mean I can play like this." You shrug.

It truly didn't bother you.

"Mmkay." He hums, sinking into the bean bag further with his side flush to yours.

You scroll through the games on the switch, deciding on Super Smash Bros, but it needs to be updated. So you click on 'update', and sit up to dock it. Now you just need to wait for it to be finished.

You lay on your back again, submerging further into the bean bag, and Hyunjin, and pull your phone out.

Nothing else is planned for today, except cooking dinner when it’s time. Like you said, everyone wanted the chance to settle in before the real vacation started. So you’re in no rush to do anything, or go anywhere, but still. You’re getting more and more bored by the second, and Hyunjin is never much of a talker around you.

After scrolling in silence, you glance up at the screen. The game was only 24% done downloading, and you sighed.

“NO FAIR!” You hear Changbin yelling, with loud footsteps up the stairs.

You also hear Chans giggles as he follows after him with much softer steps.

Well. Now you’re really alone down here with him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you look and see Hyunjin scrolling on his own phone. Surprisingly it's a comfortable silence, and you feel the awkward fog disperse while being alone in this tiny space. In your perspective anyways.

That is, until you notice that he starts fidgeting. His hips and shoulders are wiggling, trying to get comfortable. And his fingers have a death grip on his phone, and he’s double tapping a bit too harshly as he likes video after video, seemingly without even watching the whole thing. He goes to adjust himself again, lifting his thigh a bit before bringing it back down, accidentally squeezing the soft skin of your outer thigh under his own.

"Ah, sorry!" He says as a blush forms on his cheeks, and he instinctively goes to rub your pinched skin.

But then he seems to realize what he did by trying to comfort you, and retracts his hand like he’s been burned.

"It's fine." You laugh.

His shy demeanor is astonishing, especially when you’ve seen him act quite the opposite in the past with your other friends.

You're both adjusting again, trying to fit comfortably on the damned bean bag. It results in you both laying down on your sides, your back to his chest. He's unsure what to do with his arms. One is holding his phone above your head and resting on the bean bag, the other is twitching and hovering above you. He seems to want to rest it on your waist, but is unsure.

“You can hold me, you know, I don’t mind. We all cuddle anyways, it’s nothing new. It will probably be more comfortable anyways.” You mutter.

Which is true. You all are a cuddly and touchy friend group. Snuggle piles happen quite frequently, much to certain people’s dismay, especially on movie nights. Yet somehow, every time they happen, you and Hyunjin always end up the farthest apart from each other.

That doesn’t matter now though, you’re trying to reassure him and extend an olive branch. There’s no reason the two of you can’t be just as close as you are to everyone else.

“Oh, uh, okay. Thanks.” He manages to stutter out.

It’s cute, he’s always been a bit timid in his interactions with you. Not that there were ever too many. Regardless, he lets his arm fall over you, let’s his fingers dangle in that area below your navel, but above your pant line. Then he’s back to scrolling on his phone, still above your head.

You scoot back a bit, just trying to get more comfortable, but he stiffens. He’s immediately trying to back up, and ends up dropping his phone with a quiet thud, as it slips to the floor between the bean bag and the wall. His hand comes to your hip, squeezing surprisingly tight so he can hold you in place.

He seemingly wants to avoid his pelvis pressing into you.

“S-sorry! I’m sorry.” He spits out, his grip relaxing on your hip, but not moving so he could keep you still, “I didn’t mean to– well I didn’t want you to– just, I’m sorry.”

It's amusing really, ending up in this situation and position, with someone who is essentially an acquaintance. The two of you never hung out one on one, and only ever saw each other in group settings. Even taking all of that into consideration, this doesn't feel unnatural to you. And you won’t lie, your mind has wandered to impure thoughts about him before.

And there’s no way you’re connecting the puzzle pieces wrong. The way he’s always acted around you, the distance you both kept from each other, it’s got to be mutual.

So you figure, now’s as good a time as any to make a move…

A smirk spreads across your lips and despite his hand desperately trying to hold you still, you move backwards, snuggling closer to him. "Wanna know a secret?"

You can feel him filling out in his pants, he’s half hard already from barely anything. That gives you all the conviction you need to hopefully initiate something fun.

"Ah, sure?" His voice is shaky, adorable.

"I'm not made of glass, you can touch me. I won't break, promise. Plus," You say in a soft and low voice, "Maybe I like it a little rough."

He looks at you for a second, registering your words, and then slowly nods. Hopefully it clicked for him too.

You're sure it did, because his lips bloomed into a smile, and his eyes lidded. Then with all the sudden confidence in the world, he tugs at you rolling you over. Both of you face to face, as you dipped further into each other. He's staring into your eyes, and then he places a hand on your arm, tracing it up to your shoulder.

"So... you're okay with being touched? Anywhere?" His voice is silky smooth now, and alluring. Not to mention his eyes are sharp with a lustful resolve.

Whatever game you started playing, he clearly just took over.

You go to speak, but he brings his hand to caress your jaw, and holds eye contact with you. Gently, he grips your chin, slowly pulling you towards his face, his eyes darting to your lips. You close your eyes in anticipation, and instead feel his breath fanning your lips. His lips are ghosting over yours. He's waiting for you to make a move.

As confident as this man just was, he's still having you make the first move.

You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain, so what the hell.

Your lips brush against his, and he's kissing you back fervently. He's tender, but desperate. Deepening the kiss by slipping his tongue between your lips. The taste of him is immediately intoxicating. Mint and... strawberries?

You never thought an odder pairing tasted better.

Where he was once too nervous to even accidentally touch you, he had all the intent to make you feel on fire now.

Your bodies pressed together felt so warm. One hand clutching a fistful of his shirt, and the other wrapped around him. His hand slides down your back, resting on your butt and kneading it. Both of your legs are a tangled mess, intertwined in a way that he was able to perch his thigh between yours. He presses his thigh up, and you catch his bottom lip between your teeth, earning a groan.

Something kept changing in him, or maybe it just kept revealing the true version of him, and you weren't prepared when he slipped his other arm underneath you, grabbed you and twisted, hauling your body on top of his. You were straddling him. His hands resting on your thighs, rubbing his thumbs in little circles. Looking down on him, you see the desire in his eyes, and you can only hope he sees the same in yours.

He no longer seems to be shy as he sits up a bit. It seems like he's admiring you, looking your body up and down. You watch as his eyes trail down to your lips, to your neck, to your heaving chest, and then lower... Where your body sat atop his, heat meeting heat. Then he's holding eye contact again as he grabs your hips, rolling you into his hardened length. Your head was clouded with lust and nothing else. He was letting you know exactly what he wanted. So when you started to move your hips of your own volition, his jaw dropped, his eyes fluttered closed, as his breath hitched.

This man is gratifyingly sensitive.

He wasn't gentle this time when he kissed you again. He sat up fully, wrapping his hand around the back of your neck. His tongue explored yours, kissing him felt like experiencing the hunger of a starved man. You were more than happy to feed him. He devoured you, and you savored each flick of his tongue. He cards his hand up into your hair from the base of your neck, and a shiver goes down your spine. His touch feels magnified. When he gripped a fistful of hair tightly, you moaned into his mouth.

He tugged you away from his lips by your hair, craning your head back and exposing your throat to him. And you're stuck, staring up at the ceiling and breathing heavily. You want to pout in protest, but when he starts peppering kisses on your neck, you sigh and close your eyes. His lips were so plush and warm as he pressed them against your skin.

He's loosening his grip on your hair, and dragging his hand down your neck. You jolted a bit at him groping your chest. His palm is warm against you, and he gives a little squeeze before massaging your tit. When his teeth nip your collar bone, you're whining and biting your lip. He soothes it with his tongue, and goosebumps bloom across your body. His kisses trail down further until they can't, and he's lifting your hoodie off roughly. Irritated at the boundary between you and him. You feel so overwhelmed with want, that it aches.

You started moving your hips, trying to relieve the throbbing between your thighs. He stops to look at you reverently, his eyes lost in your expression as you attempt to pleasure yourself. You take the opportunity of him being distracted to push him down onto his back, and he grunts as he lands. It gives you a better position to roll your hips against his bulge again, sending tingles throughout your body. His hands find your hips again, and he starts rocking you faster, and rougher against his cock. His own hips meeting yours in sync.

You hear the switch remotes fall off the bean bag, lodging themselves against the door, but you choose to ignore it.

Even through layers of clothing, the sensation feels completely electric, and you sit straight up to catch your breath. But he never stops moving your hips, and you have to bite your lip to silence a moan. He had found a better angle to rub himself on your clit, and you felt the pleasure building slowly. How in the hell does this man get you close without even undressing you?

Sure you've done this before, particularly in the early days of your sexual exploration. Usually in a rushed and fumbled manner, young adults trying to figure out what feels good for them and whatnot. But this man makes dry humping feel like a whole new experience.

He looks completely disheveled underneath you, as he starts to rub and flick your exposed nipples. His eyes boring into yours again is overwhelming, almost unbearable. But you never want him to look away. You were so overheated with anticipation, that his fingers felt so cold against you now. But his lips were still so hot, as you bent down to kiss him again. It was all tongue, and spit, and incredibly messy. That's when he snapped, fully and finally, letting go completely.

He lets out the smallest growl as he flips you yet again, pinning you on your back, both your wrists being held by only one of his hands.

"You said maybe you like playing rough?" He smirks down at you, fingers tracing up your ribs.

"Love it, actually." You answer breathlessly.

He nuzzles into your neck and turns to whisper in your ear, "Good girl."

You're melting at his words, head clouding up with compliance as soon as you hear his praise. Up until now the entire ordeal was nearly silent aside from panting, moaning and groaning. If he keeps talking to you like that, your head is going to be floating away from you.

He's too busy slipping his fingers underneath the waistband of your shorts to notice. He sits up on his knees, and has your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one smooth motion. You, however, were kicking them off desperately.

He proceeds to spread your thighs, gazing at your center through those foxy eyes, "Look at this pretty, wet cunt." He mumbles.

You try not to clench your thighs, as he's holding them open still. But he feels your muscles tense. He leans closer, eyes still glued to wear you can feel slick leaking out, and licks his lips. His eyes shoot back up to you, and he tilts his head with a smile.

"Is it for me, angel?"

You whimper at the puff of warm air against you, before letting out a pathetically strangled, "hnng..." in an attempt to say yes.

He's massaging and kneading your thighs up and down. His hand draws closer to where you're craving his touch.

"We’re moving awfully fast, love. I need your consent if you want me to make you feel good. Yes or no?"

"Yes, please, I can't tak-" You're pleading without hesitation.

Before you could even finish your sentence, his tongue is licking a long strip from your opening to your clit. And you let out a pornographic moan.

He peeks up, wetness shining on his chin already, "Now, now. We wouldn't want anyone to find us in this compromising position, would we?"

"No..." You whine, bucking your hips towards his face, uncaring of how desperate you might look.

He just chuckles darkly, "Good, then keep quiet or I'll make you quiet. You'd look so adorable with your panties stuffed in your mouth."

Fuck, you had no idea he was like this. You thought he was the adorable one, all timid and cute and shy. Clearly he’d been hiding this other side of himself from you. All this time, you could have been experiencing this with Hyunjin. You curse yourself for not trying to break whatever resolve he was clearly holding back from you, earlier.

You clamp a hand over your mouth as he goes back to pleasuring you. His tongue is focused on your clit, teasing you with kitten licks. You need more, and try to roll your hips against his mouth. But he grunted softly while holding one of your hips down.

He’s swirling circles over your clit now, and brings two fingers to your entrance. He slips them in harshly, giving you no time to adjust, and you’re thankful for how wet he had gotten you first. You feel the tears welling up in your eyes.

"You're doing so well," He whispers against your cunt.

It feels so good, even better when he curls them and starts pumping into you quickly. Reaching that gummy spot inside you repeatedly.

It was nearly impossible to stay quiet, but you managed by panting through it.

Saliva starts collecting in your mouth from it, drool slipping out of your mouth.

You’re so close, you can’t help it when a quiet and whiny "Fuck..." Flies out of your mouth. You knew quickly though, that was the wrong move.

His fingers slow down to a lazy rhythm, still working into you but not enough to push you over the edge. He lifts his head to look at you. A smug smile plastered to his face, "Angeeeeel" He sings quietly, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever heard.

You hope he never stops calling you angel.

"Didn't I say to be quiet?" He asks as he removes his fingers from your pussy.

"I-I'm sorry, it just... you're so... God, it was so good." You're struggling to find your words, chest heaving, and walls clenching, searching to be filled again.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk." He vocalizes and climbs up to face you, "I know a way to keep you quiet."

His fingers are prodding against your lips, and you open them automatically. He's shoving them deep, sliding against your tongue. Your lips close around them, and your tongue starts laving at them. You can taste yourself, and feel his fingers caressing your tongue. It’s like he’s teasing you, showing you what you could be feeling a little lower, if only you could be a little quieter. All it's doing is winding you up even more.

He's watching you in awe, his lips parted, eyes glued to your mouth engulfing his fingers. He pulls them out slightly and pushes them back in repeatedly, and you start drooling even more. Spit is gathering at the corner of your mouth and sliding out, his eyes tracking the glistening path it's leaving.

"When we're not in this cramped closet, I'm going to fuck your face like this."

You gurgled a bit at that, and that was enough to push him even further. You didn’t think he was holding anything more back, but you were wrong.

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, and kneels, pulling his pants and boxers down enough to free his cock. It springs up, bouncing off his stomach. He spreads the mixture of your wetness and saliva from his fingers onto his cock, and lets out a soft moan. Giving himself a few pumps, he lines himself up with your entrance, still on his knees.

He was looking down at you, seemingly admiring how fucked out you looked before his cock even entered you. You’re looking up at him expectantly.

Without warning he thrusts into you, this time pausing for a second. You moan again and that's when he lays on top of you, kissing you. You taste yourself once more, just on his tongue this time. Nearly all your senses are overwhelmed, and you feel your mind slipping into the abyss.

He whispers against your lips, "You need something in your mouth constantly, don't you, love?"

You whimper softly, and that triggers him to start moving, barely any build up to him snapping his hips against yours. His fingers slip back into your mouth, and his head drops to your shoulder, nosing against it and humming. He was whispering sweet praises into the crook of your neck, you were barely registering it.

“You feel so good, love.”

“I’ve imagined a lot, but I never imagined you’d get this wet for me.”

“You sound so pretty trying to hold back for me.”

”Taste divine, too.”

”Such a good angel.”

You weren't going to last long, you felt about three seconds away from cumming.

What you did register very clearly, was him letting out the softest whimper directly in your ear, and nipping your earlobe afterwards. Then you were falling apart. Pleasure crashing over you, and body jerking against his. He was kissing your neck now, but his pace never faltered. Instead of helping you ride it out by slowing down, he kept pushing you higher. Your thighs were shaking, it felt like this orgasm would never end.

It was hard to find the words you wanted to say in your hazy mind, but you found one,"S-sensitive." You whispered.

At that he did slow down a bit, and faced you again. Pressing more soft kisses to your jaw, cheeks, and lips. And you could breathe again.

"But angeeel," He sing-songed again, "Hyunie made you feel so good, don't you want me to cum too?"

You blinked up at him through teary eyes, trying to see him clearly as he was still slowly fucking you. It was still sensitive, and sore in the best way.

"Answer me love."

Your response was on instinct at this point.

"Yes sir."

And his eyes darkened, his grip on your thighs tightened and he pushed your knees further into your chest.

"Good girl." He praised you again, and you whimpered.

He gave no mercy though, skin slapping against skin as his hips jerked roughly into you. This time it was him clamping a hand against your mouth, he knew immediately you wouldn’t be able to stay quiet.

Your walls clenched around him, and you were in shock at the fact it felt like you were about to cum again so quickly. He grunted softly, eyes squeezing shut, and hips faltering.

"My angel feels so. fucking. perfect." He whispered, and punctuated it with one last pump into you.

His jaw dropped, and he was holding back strangled noises as he emptied his load inside you.

You were squirming, you’re so close, just a little more and you could–

But your thoughts were blown away when he brought his fingers to your clit, and started rubbing in quick circles. Your breath stuttered, and he still held his palm over your mouth. You were grateful, because you were cumming again in seconds, a long and muffled whine breaking through.

He didn’t keep going this time, he tapered his motions off, and as soon as he retracted his hand you were gulping for air.

“Fuck.” You panted.

He chuckled lowly, wiping the sweat from his brow with his inner wrist, and pushing his hair back off his face. Those piercing eyes were watching you still, as you heaved for oxygen.

“Holy fuck.” You murmured again.

“I wouldn’t say I’m all that Holy honestly, you’re the angel.” He smirked.

“No, but that was still a spiritual experience.” You laughed breathlessly, trying not to let the pet name fluster you further.

“Mmm… transcendent even.” He hummed.

Then he pulled out of you, and you hissed at the loss and the sting.

“Stay still, I’ll clean you up.”

You listened, letting the bean bag engulf you further as he moved towards the shelves. It’s a good thing this blanket was here. You weren’t sure how you’d be able to clean a bean bag.

He wiped you down as best as he could with the conveniently placed tissues, and then wiped himself before tucking himself back into his pants, and then the used tissues in his pocket.

He slid your bottoms and shorts back on, and tugged your hoodie over your head, before collapsing next to you with a huff. No hesitation in pulling you close to him this time.

You both lay there, eyes closed, listening to nothing but each other's breathing for a few moments. Then he breaks the blissful silence.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to keep going without talking to you about it first.” He muttered, giving you a squeeze.

“Overstimulation is 100% my thing, I’m not mad about it.” You mumble and peek an eye open to look at him.

He’s gorgeous, face still glistening in sweat, down to his neck, and hair stuck to his forehead. You sit up to reach for the tissues, wiping his face and neck down and attempting to pat his hair dry. You push it out of his face again, and look into his eyes.

“If I’m mad about anything, it’s the fact we could’ve been doing that for years.” You smirked.

He’s grinning now, and putting a hand around the back of your neck while you play with his hair.

“Well, we-”

But he’s cut off, because you both hear somebody outside of the door. You both scramble to sit up straight and apart from each other. You stuff the tissues you were holding into your hoodie pocket. Just in time for the door to swing open.

There stands a curious looking Seungmin, eyeing you both and then the surroundings of the tiny room.

"What were YOU guys doing?" He says with a sly smirk.

Jisung’s head pops into view and he's squinting at the two of you suspiciously.

You didn’t even hear anyone come down the stairs, then again that wasn’t a priority when you were too busy getting your guts rearranged sporadically. Just how much did these two hear?

"Oh, we were just playing a video game." You wave your hand at the tv, hoping to come off nonchalant.

"You were playing a game. Really?" Seungmin asks dryly.

“Must have been some game.” You hear Jisung chime in.

"Yeah," Hyunjin chuckles, "why, what's up?”

"Oh nothing, it's just funny how you can play a game with the controllers wedged underneath this bean bag here.” He says pulling them out and tossing them towards you and Hyunjin. “And the game is still on the start screen." Seungmin shrugged.

Hyunjin just smirked, and combed his hair back with his hand. You, however, feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you stare at the screen.

"Anyways." Jisung says, "We've decided we're going to play a drinking game! Come with us!" He says bouncing up and down on his heels and dashing towards the stairs.

Seungmin looks you both up and down, before he hums and walks away. As they ascend the stairs, you hear Jisung not so quietly whispering.

“You think one of them finally made a move?”

Then you hear a smack, and Jisung shouting about violence not being his love language.

You let yourself exhale finally with a shaky breath, and look over to Hyunjin. He’s smiling entirely too brightly for just having almost been caught in a compromising position.

So you smack him halfheartedly in the shoulder.

“Now what was that for?” He says, his smile seemingly not going anywhere.

“Next time, we need a locked door, and preferably not a bean bag.”

“Oh, next time?” He raises an eyebrow, and you want nothing more than to wipe that smirk off his face.

But if you do that, you know it will escalate. And you two still need a proper conversation about whatever just happened, because you definitely want it to happen again. Plus you don’t think you can handle anymore beanbag shenanigans.

“Shut up.” You say instead, with a smile to match his own, “I need a shower before I play, good luck enduring the masses about what just happened.”

“Masses? More religious puns?” He jokes.

And it feels a little strange now, having a complete 180 and being able to converse lightly and joke with him. When not even two hours ago, you struggled with awkward silences. Then again, he was inside of you not even ten minutes ago.

Yeah, a shower, the drinking game, a proper conversation, and hopefully more fucking.

“What can I say, I feel blessed.”

“I feel sinful, in the best way though.” He continues.

“I will deliver your penance later, first, I shower.” You joke and finally get off the bean bag and out of the tiny room.

He follows behind you, as you both walk towards the stairs. But before you can get up the first step, he bends down to whisper in your ear.

“I'll be waiting for you, I am but a devoted worshipper.”

Holy fuck, this man is going to ruin you.

Taglist:

@eczlipse @sailor--sun @maisyyyyyy @jupire @prettiichocolateprincess

@meowmeowminnie @joyofbebbanburg @adieu-lisette @sleeping-beau-tay @staytinyluv

@lookitsjess @majorlymismanaged @kpopsstuffs @helloimacalumgirl @bbokarimenu

@bubblepop-stay @mauvemelon @ohhlittlegirl @ang4lheart @spnwinchestersd

@adieu-lisette @loud-minhoe @juwire @anylady-fics @antisocialties

@nebugalaxy @wowitsafemale @fox-in-y @irrevocable-exposure

I genuinely hope you enjoyed reading this, as much as I enjoyed writing it, let me know if you did! And I hope I receive a warm welcome back to the world of writing ♡

As always, please let me know if you'd like to join the taglist. And if you do, pretty please interact with my fics besides liking (ie; replying/commenting/reblogging). Although I will always appreciate liking as well! Feedback is always cherished! ♡

But again, please be gentle in your criticism! I am but a sensitive soul.

547 notes · View notes

wordsofwhimsy · 23 days ago

Text

ᗷEᗩᑕᕼ ᗪᗩY ᗷᒪᑌEᔕ

Pairing: Main!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: It’s suggested that Mark’s got a boner at the end but that’s it lmao, also you kinda start to touch yourself but it’s literally only a sentence or two

Tags: Fluff, romcom, hero-friend-Mark coming to the rescue, slow burn, makeout sesh later on, Mark’s a dork who doesn’t know how to express his feelings (as usual)

Word Count: 5,314

Synopsis: A nice solo day at the beach turns sour when some creep of a man starts trying to follow you home. You manage to lose him but are now stranded on the other side of town. And the only person who’s available to come save you is the guy who does that for a living. Who would’ve figured?

a/n: this turned out sooo much longer than i intended lmao it do be like that sometimes tho

The sun is still warm on your skin as you leave the beach, flip-flops smacking softly against the pavement. Your hair’s damp with saltwater, strands still sticking to your forehead. Your tote bag—sandy, half-zipped, overflowing with a towel, a half-read book, and an empty soda can—swings against your hip as you head for the bus stop on the corner.

You’re smiling to yourself, pleasantly buzzed from sun and sea, when a voice behind you cuts rudely through the calm.

"Hey there, pretty thing. Where you headed?"

You don’t flinch, but your steps slow.

He’s maybe mid-thirties, wearing a faded tank top and gas station sunglasses. Too confident. Too close. He grins like you’re already in on some joke you never agreed to.

"Just headed home," you say, even and polite, eyes fixed straight ahead.

He steps closer. "This stop? What a coincidence, that’s where I’m going too."

Sure it is.

You shift your tote to the other shoulder, as if to put some kind of buffer between you. By some miracle the bus starts pulling into view.

He keeps talking—something about how wild it is that you’re both here, what are the odds, ha ha—but you’re already tuning him out. The second the doors hiss open, you climb on, flash your card, and slip into a window seat midway down.

He follows.

You feel him settle in a row behind you. Not next to you, but near. Close enough to talk. Close enough to make it weird.

Nope.

Just before the doors close, you stand up, walk past him without a word, and step right back off.

The bus pulls away with him on it, and you don’t bother to look back until you’re safely half a block down. When you do, he’s craning his neck to look through the window.

You don’t wave. You don’t smirk. You just turn the corner and duck behind a tree, pulling out your phone with fingers still trembling from the slow burn of adrenaline.

You scroll through your contacts.

First you try your roommate. Straight to voicemail.

Then your cousin. She picks up, but she’s out of town. You tell her it’s fine. Just a weird thing with a guy. No big deal.

You try your best friend. No answer.

With a frustrated sigh, you switch to your banking app. There’s a buffering wheel for a second, then your checking account balance loads: $4.82.

You feel a vein pulse in your head. Refresh the screen.

Still $4.82.

You let out a quiet, humorless laugh. Looks like Uber wasn’t an option.

You close the app and rest your forehead against the tree trunk for a second, just… reevaluating your life choices.

Figures.

You go back to your contacts, scanning names. You scroll past his name once. Twice. Hover over it. Keep going.

You feel dumb. Guilty. Mark’s probably in the middle of saving a school bus full of kids or punching a kaiju or talking to that mysterious government shadow figure about interplanetary security… something serious. And you’re over here like, "Heeelp, I had to miss the bus."

Still.

You flick back to his name.

Mark 🚀

Your thumbs fly before you can overthink it:

You: hey, any chance ur free? got myself in a v dumb situation lol You: not an emergency, just mildly stranded and a lil freaked out 😅

You lock your phone. Wait.

Not even a minute passes before it buzzes.

Mark 🚀: where are you?

You smile.

He always answers.

You: Beachside Blvd near the old surf shop

You hesitate for half a second, then snap a picture of the little corner where you’re hiding—tree trunk, sand-crusted sidewalk, the closed-down surf rental shack in the background with its sun-bleached paint peeling in soft curls.

You add a caption: don’t judge me for this hiding spot. i panicked.

Then hit send.

Almost immediately you get a reply.

Mark 🚀: lol. on my way. five minutes tops.

You exhale, tension releasing in slow waves like the tide.

And yeah. Maybe your face is hot. Maybe your heart’s still thudding a little too hard in your chest. But it’s already starting to settle.

Mark’s coming.

You straighten up, brushing the bark dust off your thighs and stepping out into the fading sunlight. The sea breeze is gentler now, cooler, and you roll up your sleeves a bit higher on your white button-down—still damp from the beach, clinging a little in places. Your bikini’s peeking out underneath, lilac and tied at the sides. Not exactly full coverage. But hey, you weren’t planning to be stranded on the sidewalk when you put it on.

A guy walking his dog glances over, eyebrows briefly lifting before he looks away. You offer him a breezy, nonchalant smile.

“Don’t mind me,” you call out. “Just waiting on a friend.”

He nods slowly, clearly unconvinced, and keeps walking.

You check your phone. Two minutes.

You shift your weight to one foot, trying not to look too awkward. The heat from earlier was starting to fade off your skin, leaving a faint chill in the breeze. You hug your arms around yourself, half for warmth, half just to feel less exposed.

Then you hear it.

The soft whoosh of air pressure, the subtle thud of sneakers against pavement.

You glance behind you, and there he is.

Mark Grayson, a little windblown, a little flushed from the speed of getting here, standing there in all his superhero glory—minus the suit. Just joggers and a blue t-shirt, but still very much Invincible.

Relief crashes over you.

“God, thank you,” you exhale, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him. “I owe you big time.”

You feel him tense a little, and for a second, your heart drops.

Oh no. Is he annoyed? Did you really just pull him away from something important for... this?

You let your arms fall away from him, brows drawing together. “Hey, I’m sorry—this was so dumb, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not dumb,” he cuts in, quick and quiet. “Seriously. I’m glad you called me.”

His voice is warm, but his eyes are still everywhere but on you—off to the side, up at the sky, back toward the sidewalk.

And that’s when it clicks.

He’s avoiding looking at you.

Like, really avoiding.

You glance down and—yep. Cover up still unbuttoned. Still damp. Still clinging in places you’d really prefer it not be clinging. Your bikini bottoms peek out like they’re trying to steal the show, and your chest is just… there.

And now you’re the one going pink.

You don’t say anything. Just quietly start buttoning up the top, fingers fumbling a little as your eyes do a full tour of the sidewalk, the streetlamp, a very interesting patch of grass—anything that isn’t Mark.

Because okay. Maybe standing here like this wasn’t your finest moment.

He clears his throat and takes a step closer, flashing that crooked, boyish grin—the one that always seems to surface when he’s nervous and trying to look unaffected. "Okay," he says, a little too upbeat, rubbing the back of his neck, "guess I’m your ride today. You’ll have to remind me how to get to your place—I always mess up that last turn near the park."

He’s absolutely trying to play it cool.

And absolutely failing.

Not that you’re much better, your stare drifting up toward the rooftops as you squint like there’s something up there you just gotta see. "So... how exactly are we doing this?"

Mark glances down at you, then off to the side, then very obviously not at your bare legs or the way your damp shirt is hugging places that have him struggling to maintain eye contact. "I mean, I usually just—" he makes a vague scooping gesture. "—pick people up and go."

"Bridal style?" you deadpan.

He hesitates. "I mean, yeah. It’s kind of the classic."

You shift your weight to one leg, then the other. "Okay, I guess… Let's see it."

Mark nods, like he’s steeling himself for battle, then steps forward and slides one arm behind your back, the other under your knees. In one smooth motion, you’re weightless in his arms.

And also very much pressed into his chest.

His forearm is sturdy beneath your bare thighs, one of his fingers accidentally grazing the string of your bikini bottom. You shift slightly, trying to adjust how you're being held without actually... touching him more. Your knee bumps his hip. Your hand slides awkwardly off his shoulder and straight into the space between your bodies that really feels like a dead zone.

"Okay, is it just me," you mutter, your face all but buried in the valley of his chest, "or is this weirdly... a lot?"

Mark tilts his head, accidentally brushing his jaw against the top of your head. "I mean—no, it’s not just you. Definitely not just you."

There’s a beat as you both try to recalibrate.

He shifts his grip again. One of his hands ends up cradling the underside of your thigh in a way that feels far too close to romantic territory.

"Alright—abort. Abort mission," you say quickly, arms flailing a little as you try to push off him.

"Copy that," Mark replies, instantly lowering you to the ground with a delicacy that said he really was trying to be respectful.

He exhales, hands on his hips, staring into the middle distance. "Okay. Plan B."

"Which is?"

He perks up, like he just solved world peace. "Fireman carry. That’s how professionals do it, right? First responders and stuff. Feels efficient."

And yeah—you nod, starting to agree. "Honestly, yeah. That makes sense. Sturdy. Tactical."

You forget, for a crucial second, that a fireman carry involves being slung.

He moves without hesitation, grabbing your legs and hoisting you up onto his shoulder like he’s carrying a sandbag in a training montage.

Your stomach lurches.

"Mark—MARK—"

Too late.

Your thighs smack against his chest, your hips curve over his collarbone, and your entire lower half is just... present. Right in his face. Right there.

His movement stutters. One hand instinctively locks onto the back of your bare thigh—just to steady you, logically—but you feel his entire soul leave his body.

He wheezes. "Okay. Okay, nope. Bad idea. I can’t—this is not—"

"PUT ME DOWN," you screech, hair dangling in your mouth, boobs threatening to stage a full escape from your top.

He drops to his knee quick, letting you awkwardly slide down off his shoulder under your own power.

The moment your feet hit the ground, you turn away from him without a word, yanking your shirt forward and subtly readjusting where your boobs have clearly gone rogue.

Mark won’t even look at you. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something that sounds like “that was a lot of ass.”

You clear your throat. "Okay, okay. What about... shoulders? Like when dads carry their kids at Disney?"

Mark looks at you like you’ve lost your mind. "You want to sit on my shoulders?"

You shrug. "Seems high up. Good visibility. Hands-free."

His brow twitches, and maybe there’s something itching at his lips too. "You do realize where your thighs will be."

"Yes, Mark. I'm not an idiot."

"Okay, just making sure, because—"

"Do it before I change my mind."

He crouches slightly and you climb on, settling your legs over his shoulders like you’re eight years old and waiting for the fireworks to start.

And that’s when you both realize: this might be the worst one yet.

Your thighs are clamped around the sides of his face. Your swimsuit bottoms are pressed to the back of his neck.

Mark’s hands hover just above your knees like he’s afraid to even think about where to hold.

"So this is a no?" you say weakly.

His voice is strangled. "Yeah. Gonna go ahead and call this a hard no."

He ducks, and you slide off him in a clumsy, tangled dismount, nearly tripping over your own feet as you land.

You both stand there, flushed and winded, like you just lost a round on a game show.

Finally, you sigh. "Just... gimme your back."

He doesn’t argue, turning around and kneeling slightly. You hop on, arms around his neck, legs around his waist. The regret is instantaneous.

Your chest squishes against his shoulder blades. Your entire front half is molded to his back. Your bikini bottoms felt like they were holding on for dear life—barely doing their only job.

You try not to breathe too deeply. Or move. Or exist.

"You good?" he asks, voice tight.

"I’ve never been less good."

He shifts slightly. Your boobs shift with him.

You groan. "Oh my god. This is still bad."

Then it hits you—a bright, stupid little lightbulb moment. "Wait," you say, sitting up straighter on his back. "What if I sit on your arm instead? Like a throne."

Mark turns just enough to give you a side-eye so dry it could start a brush fire. "You want to perch on my arm. Like royalty."

"Yes! Like a princess on a parade float," you say, already sliding down and gesturing enthusiastically. "You’re strong, right? Just hold me like—like I’m light and majestic."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then, sighing like this is somehow the least weird idea you’ve had all day, he crouches and offers his arm.

You climb on carefully, settling along his bicep like it's a bench seat, one arm lazily looped around the back of his neck while your legs dangle off the front side. You wiggle into position until your balance feels right, then look at him expectantly.

Mark adjusts his hold—carefully, deliberately—his free hand braced under your knees like he’s steadying a priceless antique. "Good?"

You grin, already settling in like you really are royalty. "Honestly? This might be my best idea yet. I should travel like this more often."

Mark adjusts his grip with visible reluctance, his brow furrowing slightly. "Why do I feel like I’m being... used?" He muttered. Still, his arm stayed steady as he rose into the air.

The ground drops away, the wind picks up, and you lift one arm in a full pageant wave. "People of Earth! I bring good vibes and sunburns!"

"Please stop," Mark groans, voice tight. "Someone might actually see us."

"Let them! Let them witness my reign!"

"I'm serious," he says, suppressing a laugh with something heavy in his voice. "If anyone sees me flying around like this without the suit... it's kind of a problem. Secret identity and all."

You sigh with dramatic flair and lean sideways, resting your cheek against the top of his head like it’s the armrest of a throne. "Alright, alright," you murmur, voice muffled against his hair. "I’ll behave. Keep it lowkey for your secret superhero lifestyle." Your fingers flutter lazily in a final regal wave. "But just so you know, you’re absolutely wasting a peak aesthetic moment."

He doesn’t respond this time—just exhales through his nose and banks slightly west.

The flight is… longer than expected.

Turns out, giving aerial directions is kind of a nightmare. Everything looks different from up here. Your usual landmarks—corner stores, that one pizza place with the terrifying mascot, your neighbor’s weirdly aggressive lawn gnome—either vanish from view or blur together like a watercolor painting.

"Wait—go back. That might’ve been it," you call, pointing down at a clump of rooftops that look vaguely familiar.

Mark slows, glancing down. "That’s a hardware store."

You squint. "Oh. Right. Never mind."

He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw tics slightly as he adjusts altitude again. The sun’s lower now, bleeding soft gold and pink across the sky. Your hair is whipped every which way by the wind.

"Okay, that’s definitely the park," you announce suddenly. "We’re close. Like, actually close."

"That’s what you said twenty minutes ago."

"Yeah, well, it felt true then."

By the time your house finally comes into view—weathered siding, cracked sidewalk, and all—the sun is just starting to dip below the rooftops. Mark begins his descent, slow and controlled.

You say nothing. But you do raise your hand in one final, dramatic wave to absolutely no one.

Mark sets you down with all the care you’ve come to know and expect from him. You wobble slightly, windblown and flushed, and smooth your hair out of your face with a laugh.

"Really," you say, more sincere now, "thank you. For coming to get me. And for not judging how stupid this all was."

He shrugs, smiling softly. "Didn’t seem stupid. You needed help."

There’s a pause. Then he glances over, just a hint if curiosity in his eyes. "Wait—you never told me what the dumb situation was. Don’t you normally take the bus around?"

You blink. "Oh. Right. Yeah, uh... just some creep. Guy at the stop wouldn’t back off. He said he was getting on the bus too, so I got off last minute. Didn’t want him following me."

Mark straightens a little. The easy look on his face vanishes.

"Was he touching you? Harassing you?"

"No, nothing like that," you say quickly, waving a hand. "Just... too much. Gave me a weird vibe."

Mark’s jaw tenses. He looks over his shoulder like he’s hoping the guy is still lurking somewhere within fighting distance.

You nudge his arm gently. "Hey. It’s fine. I got out of there, called my personal airlift, and survived to tell the tale."

He doesn’t quite relax, but he nods. "Still. Next time someone gives you a weird vibe, call me earlier."

You grin. "What, so you can launch them into low orbit?"

"Only if they deserve it," he says, and it’s barely a joke.

You just roll your eyes, and there’s a moment of quiet after that. You shift your weight a little and glance at him sideways, a smirk tugging at your mouth.

"I’d say goodbye with a hug," you murmur, brushing a wind-whipped strand of hair behind your ear, "but I feel like we already pushed the limits of physical contact today."

Mark lets out a breath that’s a half laugh as he scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah, we might’ve hit the quota."

You flash him a peace sign instead, two fingers wiggling with lazy flair. "Night, Grayson."

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Yeah, goodnight. Get inside safe."

You turn and head up the porch steps, the boards creaking softly under your feet. And even though your back’s to him now, you swear you can still feel him watching.

—

Later that night, long after the sun’s gone down and the neighborhood’s turned quiet, you lie awake in bed staring at the ceiling fan spinning shadows across your walls.

You’d changed into pajamas hours ago. Washed off the salt. Pulled your hair up. Brushed your teeth. Did all the things that were supposed to settle your body down into rest.

And yet.

You couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Not Mark-the-friend. Not Mark, the guy you send dumb memes to or banter with about pizza toppings.

No, this was Mark’s body.

His arms. His shoulders. The impossible way he held you like you weighed nothing. How your thighs had wrapped around his waist like it was muscle memory you didn’t know you had.

You’d never really thought about him like that before. Not seriously. Not in a way that stuck around longer than a fleeting joke.

But now? Now you couldn’t stop replaying how warm his body was. How big his hands were when he adjusted his grip. The unintentional intimacy of it all.

In the moment it just felt awkward, but now looking back on it? It felt electric.

Your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts almost without thought. Just enough to feel the edge of sensation, the tension that’s been building in your stomach all evening. Your breath stutters. One gentle graze turns into another, your eyes fluttering almost shut, lips parting—

"M—Ma—aark?!"

It starts low, breathy, nearly reverent—but the moment your half-lidded eyes catch the silhouette outside your window, the tone snaps mid-name into something much higher and far less composed.

You jolt upright with a gasp, yanking your hand free and throwing the blanket over your lap like it’s a crime scene.

There he is.

Hovering.

Mark.

In daylight, you might’ve brushed it off as a joke, but at this hour, with the moon casting soft light over his hair and the way his eyes blink in surprise—it feels way too intimate.

He raises a hand and knocks lightly against the glass like maybe he really didn’t just witness the most unhinged thing imaginable.

You’re pretty sure your soul has left your body.

You scramble out of bed, nearly tripping over the blanket, heart hammering as you fumble to unlock the window. Every molecule of your being is praying he didn’t hear anything. Didn’t see anything. You plaster on what you hope is a casual, non-horny smile as you shove the pane open.

"Hey," you whisper, breathless. "Uh. What are you doing here?"

Mark floats in a little closer, still hovering just outside the sill, arms crossed, looking vaguely sheepish. "I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about earlier. About you."

Your eyes went dry. That was... not the answer you were expecting.

He keeps going. "I don’t know, I just... didn’t like the idea of you almost having to walk home alone. That creep could’ve followed you, and the fact that you didn’t even feel comfortable calling me right away? I don’t like that."

Your throat tightens a little, but you try to keep the mood light. "Well, next time I’ll just hit up my personal superhero hotline immediately."

He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s something more serious under it. "I mean it. I’ve been thinking—and maybe it would just... make more sense if I was around more. For safety. Like, logistics."

"Logistics," you repeat, raising a brow.

"Yeah," he says, floundering now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Like, if we were together—not just like that, I mean, not just for that—but like, technically, it would be easier to make sure you’re okay. And it’d be easier for you to call me. And I wouldn’t have to hover outside your window at midnight like a weirdo."

You stare at him.

He stares at you.

"…Are you… proposing we date for security reasons?"

His throat bobs. "...Yes?"

Your lips twitch.

"That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

"I just mean—it’s not like it has to be a big thing. I already worry about you. You already call me for weird stuff. And if we were—y'know, together—it wouldn’t be weird for me to show up when you need me. It’d be normal. Expected. Practical."

You sigh, dragging your hands down your face. "Get in here before one of my neighbors calls the cops."

He climbs in through the window with the kind of silent grace that somehow makes it worse—like he does this all the time, like being in your bedroom in the middle of the night isn’t absolutely deranged. You close the window behind him, lock it, then turn around to find him standing awkwardly in the middle of your room, hands in the pockets of his joggers.

You cross your arms, still half-reeling. "Okay. Back up. Explain to me again how dating me is supposed to be a logical safety plan."

He doesn’t flinch, which is honestly impressive. "Because it is logical," he says. "If we were together, I wouldn’t have to wait for you to ask me for help. I’d just know to be there. I already worry about you. This just... cuts out the weird in-between."

You stare. "You’re talking about eliminating emotional bureaucracy."

Mark hesitates. "...Yeah?"

You groan and throw yourself backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling with what felt like dead eyes. "Wow. Incredible. I can really only get a guy to ask me out if it doubles as a protective services contract."

Mark looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t say anything.

You sit up halfway, shooting him a look. "We literally couldn’t even hug goodbye earlier without it being a thing. And now you think we should just be together? For efficiency? Like we’re a fuckin’ Excel spreadsheet or something?"

"Okay, no, not like a spreadsheet. And in my defense that hug got complicated really fast."

You level him with a flat, skeptical expression. "Complicated?"

He looks everywhere but at you again. "You were in a bikini. And a wet shirt. And you smelled good. And you looked—like—soft. I didn’t want to be weird."

You scoff, bringing one arm over your chest subconsciously. “Right. Because hugging your friend goodbye would’ve been weird—but showing up at her window at midnight to pitch a bodyguard boyfriend arrangement? Totally normal.”

Mark doesn’t even try to deny it. He shrugs helplessly, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Okay… maybe not totally normal. But at least it got me in the door.”

You give him a look, half-exasperated and half-amused. “That’s the bar now?”

He lets out a soft laugh, then finally moves to join you on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under his weight as you move to sit up beside him at the edge, his knee bumping gently against yours. The room feels smaller now, quieter.

You glance sideways, noticing how his hands rest on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly like he wants to reach for something but doesn’t know what.

Neither of you speaks right away.

After some time, you hear him say softly, “I wanted to hug you.” Something flutters in your stomach. He keeps his eyes ahead, voice low. “I didn’t want to leave like that. But you were the one who said we ‘already pushed the limits of physical contact’.”

You feel your ears warm. “Yeah, well. I was trying to keep it together. Not...” You trail off, not wanting to finish where that thought was going.

That makes him look at you, and suddenly the space between you feels thinner than air.

His voice is soft. Careful. “Do I get another chance?”

Your lips part, trembling, but no sound leaves your throat. Instead you just nod.

And then you’re leaning into him, and he’s leaning into you, and it’s not even a decision so much as a reaction. Like this was something the two of you were always going to do.

His lips brush yours. Soft. Testing. Then it deepens.

His hand slides up to the back of your neck, holding you steady as he tilts his head, kissing you fuller. His tongue slips past your lips, teasing and deliberate, coaxing you into something hot and slow. His tongue explores your mouth with languid, fluid strokes—a slick, pink muscle dragging against yours, tasting you like he’s been thinking about this for a while. He doesn’t rush. He lingers, savoring the way you open up for him, the way your breath catches when he slides his tongue along the roof of your mouth.

His other hand settles at your waist, fingers spreading possessively. He pulls you closer, his palm sliding beneath your shirt just enough to brush over your skin. You can feel the way his chest rises and falls against yours, how his lips part and seal over and over again, mapping every curve of your mouth.

He nudges you gently, repositioning his legs and shifting you with him until you’re straddling his thighs. One arm slides fully around your waist, hugging you closer into the warmth of him, while the hand at your neck loosens just enough to drift up into your hair. He kisses you deeper, tongue curling just a little more greedily now, like he can’t get enough of the way you taste.

Your fingers flex against his chest, bracing yourself. The heat between you builds fast—sharp, undeniable. He groans into your mouth, a sound low and unfiltered that sends heat straight into your lower belly.

You’re the one who finally breaks the kiss, gasping a little as you pull back—because if you didn’t, you’re pretty sure he’d never stop. Mark chases you instinctively, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw. He noses at your neck, presses a kiss just beneath your ear.

“This is not why I came here,” he murmurs against you, breath hot and trembling.

You laugh softly, breathless and flushed. “Yeah, sure. Midnight pop-ins are just your love language now, huh?”

He lifts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded but earnest. “I mean it. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what could’ve happened. About how weird you felt calling me. I hated that.”

You brushed your nose against his. “And kissing me senseless was the solution?”

He grins, and before he can answer, you pull him back in.

Your mouths crash together again, hotter now—messier. His hands are everywhere: one in your hair, one gripping your hip, sliding under your shirt for the second time like he needs to feel every inch of you. You roll your hips without thinking, and he groans once more into your mouth, the sound vibrating down your spine.

Then he pulls back, panting slightly. “Wait… what were you doing when I showed up, anyway?”

You freeze.

Your eyes dart away. “Nothing.”

His brow lifts. “Nothing?”

You chew your lip. “Just… thinking about stuff.”

He leans in, a little smirk playing at his lips. “Stuff like… me?”

Suddenly you’re jolting upright like you’ve been electrocuted. "Okay! Wow! Y’know what? It is definitely way too late for you to be in a girl’s bedroom. Like, aggressively past curfew. So! I think it’s time you go, Mr. Grayson. Please and thank you."

“What—?”

You stand up, gesturing toward the window with mock formality. “Thank you for your service, please fly responsibly. Goodnight.”

Mark just blinks at you, still sitting. You raise a brow. "Uh. That's your cue, flight boy."

He shifts, clears his throat—but makes no move to stand.

You squint. "Why aren't you getting up?"

He grimaces slightly, suddenly very interested in a speck of dust on your floor. "I'm working on it."

One of your brows quirk as your line-of-sight drops.

Oh.

Your eyes go wide.

“Oh my God—” You whip around sharply on the balls of your feet. “Never mind! Take your time! Or don’t! I-I don’t even know!”

Behind you, Mark clears his throat, shifting like he's just settling in more comfortably. "I just—uh—need a second to make sure your mattress isn’t… you know. Lopsided or anything. Structural integrity check. Nothing weird."

You nod rapidly, still facing away. "Right. Mattress stability is important."

You march over to the window and start fiddling with the lock like it suddenly needs adjusting. You give it two twists, then a shake, then check it again just to be safe.

Across the room, Mark continues to sit very still, facing the opposite wall like it's a meditation exercise. Neither of you speak.

The silence stretches.

This is fine. Totally normal.

Just a standard, extremely platonic, post-makeout building inspection.

No one's aroused. No one's flustered. No one is internally screaming into the void.

You clear your throat.

Mark clears his throat.

Another ten seconds pass.

"...Think it's safe for me to stand yet?" he mutters.

You nearly jump out of your skin. "Only if you're done verifying the mattress's—structural reliability."

"Almost there."

You nod like that makes perfect sense.

Absolutely perfect.

You both sit in silence for another thirty seconds.

You are never going to survive this night.

#invincible #invincible fanfic #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #invincible x reader #mark grayson fanfic #mark grayson x you #mark grayson x y/n #fem reader

492 notes · View notes

slut-for-slutty-fictional-men · 2 months ago

Text

More Than a Plus One

Pairing: Harry Lewis x Reader

Warnings: Fake dating, jealousy, sexual tension, wedding night mischief, possessiveness, slightly rough moments, language.

Summary: You beg Harry to pretend to be your boyfriend at your ex’s wedding. What starts as a harmless charade soon turns into something much more real.

Word count: 1600

Masterlist

You had spent the past hour pacing your room, phone clutched tightly in your hand, your thoughts a tangled mess. The idea had been bouncing around in your mind all afternoon, and now, with your ex’s wedding rapidly approaching, you couldn’t ignore it any longer.

You weren’t going alone. That was non-negotiable. You needed a buffer, someone to make the night bearable, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to pretend — just for the night.

A text to Harry seemed like the only solution.

“Hey, I need your help. I know this is weird, but I need you to come with me to a wedding. My ex’s wedding. Please.”

You stared at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before you hit send. It was a request you never thought you’d make, but there was no way you were going without backup. You just didn’t know if Harry would agree.

The response came quickly, almost instantly. “A wedding? Is this a ‘pretend to be your boyfriend’ situation? Because I’m down for that.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Of course, Harry would be down for it. He never backed down from a challenge. You were just hoping it didn’t turn into something you couldn’t control.

“Exactly. I need you to be my boyfriend for the night. Just for appearances, okay?”

There was a pause. Just a few seconds. And then he replied, his words light, but with a playful undertone you could almost hear through the screen. “I can definitely play the part. When and where?”

Your heart skipped a beat. That was too easy. Too good to be true.

“Tonight. I’ll pick you up at 6.”

“Perfect. I’ll be ready.”

And just like that, you had a date. Well, kind of. You were both pretending, but the way your pulse quickened at the thought of being with him tonight? It was anything but pretend.

Later that evening, you stood in front of the mirror in your childhood home, feeling slightly ridiculous in your formal dress. It wasn’t even the dress itself that made you feel out of place. It was the entire situation — you’d never needed a fake boyfriend before. But here you were, playing this role to perfection.

The doorbell rang, and your heart skipped. You opened the door to find Harry standing there, dressed to the nines in a sharp black tuxedo. His smile was crooked, his eyes bright with mischief, and the sight of him made your breath catch.

“Well, well,” he said with a low whistle, looking you over. “You clean up nice.” He winked, his voice teasing but warm.

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep it together. “Don’t get any ideas. This is just for show.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “Of course. Just for show.” He stepped closer, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. “But I can’t help it if you look too good for me to keep my hands to myself.”

You felt your heart race at his words. God, he was good at this. Maybe too good.

You gave him a playful shove. “Come on, we don’t have time for this.”

Harry chuckled, his hand brushing yours as he followed you inside. “Right. Let’s get this charade over with then.”

But even as you said the words, the truth was that this wasn’t just some charade. Not for either of you. Something was simmering beneath the surface — a spark of attraction neither of you had fully acknowledged. Not yet.

And tonight, you were both going to pretend that it didn’t exist

The ceremony is everything you expected—beautiful, elegant, nauseating. You stand with Harry near the back row of the outdoor garden setup, sun blazing through the trees, the officiant’s voice floating over the hush of seated guests.

Harry leans down, lips ghosting your ear. “Think he’s gonna cry?”

You shoot him a look. “Probably. He always did like theatrics.”

His fingers brush the small of your back, subtle. “He’s already looking over here.”

You glance across the aisle and catch your ex—James—in a tailored navy suit, standing stiffly at the altar. His jaw clenches when he sees Harry’s arm resting behind you.

You smile sweetly. Hook your hand around Harry’s forearm like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this isn’t the most absurd lie you’ve ever told.

Fake boyfriend. At your ex’s wedding.

What could possibly go wrong?

After the ceremony, guests filter into the reception hall—floor-to-ceiling windows, golden string lights, flower arrangements that probably cost more than your rent.

Harry holds your hand like it’s second nature, guiding you through the crowd, always a half-step behind you, always watching.

He’s too good at this.

When you finally reach your assigned table, James is already seated—next to his new wife, of course—but his eyes flick up immediately, narrowing on Harry’s fingers loosely threaded with yours.

“Didn’t know you were bringing someone,” he says, smiling tight.

You return the smile, sharper. “Oh, I thought you saw us during the vows. You kept looking.”

Harry lets out a quiet laugh.

James’ wife, to her credit, seems oblivious. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she says, offering Harry a polite hand. “You two have been together long?”

“About a year,” Harry says smoothly. “Right, babe?”

Your stomach flips at the pet name. You nod. “Time flies.”

James shifts uncomfortably. “That’s funny. Because last I checked—”

“I didn’t realize you were still checking,” you cut in, voice calm. “Seems a little… weird, considering you’re the one who left.”

The air at the table shifts.

Harry squeezes your thigh beneath the linen-draped table. A small reminder. I’ve got you.

The dinner is a slow-burn nightmare—cutlery clinking, James watching Harry like a hawk, your skin prickling every time Harry rests his hand just a little too high on your leg.

When the dancing starts, Harry offers his hand. “Care to put on a show?”

You hesitate. Glance toward the bar.

“I need a drink first.”

You’re halfway through your second glass of champagne when James corners you near the photo booth.

“Really?” he says, eyes scanning the dance floor. “Harry Lewis?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s your point?”

“He’s a bloody YouTuber. This feels desperate, even for you.”

You laugh, cold and hollow. “Desperate? You invited me to your wedding. That’s desperate.”

His smile drops.

“You’re still bitter.”

“No,” you say, voice quiet. “I was bitter for a long time. But now? I’m just done.”

“Are you actually with him?” he asks. “Because I saw the way you looked at me when I walked in.”

You step closer, breath barely brushing his cheek. “You saw what you wanted to see. But trust me—he is the only one I’m looking at now.”

You turn—and nearly crash into Harry.

He’s already got his jacket off, sleeves rolled, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looks every bit the devil-may-care heartthrob he plays online—and yet, right now, there’s nothing playful in his eyes.

“Everything alright?” he asks, gaze flicking between you and James.

“Peachy,” you murmur.

James scoffs and walks off.

Harry watches him go, jaw tight. “He always that charming?”

You force a smile. “Want to dance?”

He offers his hand. “You read my mind.”

The music pulses low, romantic, just slow enough to make it dangerous. You’re on the edge of the dance floor, wrapped in Harry’s arms, your cheek against his chest.

“Thanks,” you say softly. “For coming. For pretending.”

He leans down, voice brushing your ear. “You really think I have to pretend?”

Your breath catches.

“You’re a good liar,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands on your waist tighten.

“I’m not lying,” he says. “Not about any of this.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off with a kiss—soft at first, then deeper, more desperate, like he’s been waiting all night to stop pretending.

Somewhere behind you, someone whistles. You pull back, flustered.

Harry just grins. “We should stop pretending.”

Your laugh is breathless. “Yeah. We should.”

The wedding winds down. You and Harry sneak away before the sparkler send-off.

Back in the hotel suite, it’s quiet—just the buzz of the city outside and the pounding of your heart.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at your heels on the floor.

“Hey,” Harry says, crouching in front of you. “You okay?”

You nod. “He tried to say you weren’t real. That I wasn’t over him.”

Harry tilts his head. “And are you?”

You meet his gaze. “I was never the one who needed to be over someone.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then he leans in. Kisses you again—hungrier, messier this time. Like he’s spent all night holding back and finally, finally, he’s allowed to want.

You melt into him. His hands push the straps of your dress down your shoulders. Your fingers tangle in his hair.

Everything tastes like champagne and heat.

He lays you back on the bed, whispering your name like a promise, like something sacred.

And this time, there’s no pretending.

Just you, him, and everything you never thought you’d get to feel again.

287 notes · View notes

evilwetbread · 3 months ago

Text

so i've got a LOT of thoughts about ENA: Dream BBQ, and I mean a lot. Most of them right now pertain to ENA and her two sides, cause I've noticed a lot of interesting things about them. :) wordwall incoming

SPOILERS FOR DREAM BBQ OF COURSE!!!

Starting with Salesperson, I thought it was an intriguing detail how a lot of the characters she interacts with comment on her weird way of saying things. A lot of these comments suggest that ENA is just spouting word salad with no real meaning, some even going as far as to suggest that ENA can’t actually comprehend her own objectives. Salesperson (imo) DOES seem to have a lack of true direction, and an inability to fully comprehend reality- she has a vague way of describing her objectives, frequently uses idioms that make zero sense, and has a general lack of visible emotion beyond advertising and polite/transactional small talk. She takes jobs and missions without questioning their merit. It’s like she has never experienced the world any other way. Meanie, on the other hand, seems to be the opposite. While she really does live up to her name, a lot of her anger seems to root from genuine stress. She’s far more aware.

There were several points in the game where she looked to me like she was at the very end of her rope- and a lot of the moments where things got weird or unnerving seemed to involve her (the weird cuts/flashbacks?? to the Bullet Rain from the trailer during her interaction with that shop machine, the whole post-death segment where we play as a hungover human version of ena who seems to be meanie-dominant, and i mean I can't go w/o mentioning the whole Purge Event). She says things so bluntly not because she's a "meanie" archetype, but because she is genuinely frustrated with both her own job, and how this world seems to mock her constantly. She acts, and reacts, far more lucidly than her counterpart. (Not entirely lucid of course, but she hates all the bullshitting that the entities around her tend to do and tolerates it far less) My assumption about this version of ENA and her two parts before the game released was always that they would function a lot like the original ENA did, with two over exaggerated emotions constantly butting heads. But this dynamic really took me by surprise!! It's like Meanie is ENA's raw thoughts and feelings, and Salesperson is this filtering agent that jumbles things up and mellows her out. Salesperson reminds me a lot of how our own brains process things in dreams most of the time, where we accept utterly ridiculous things as par-for-the-course(we did see a lot of this with Happy ENA in s1 too) and I think there's a LOT more to ENA than meets the eye in that regard. There's a lot more emphasis on Meanie’s feelings and emotional instability than there ever is on Salesperson's. She knows more than she lets on.

It's also really interesting to me that no one ever takes mercy or pity on her- even allegedly all-powerful entities like Theodora(the Lonely Door's Genie) treat her like she's the bottom of the barrel. Is being ENA just a curse? An entity made to labor perpetually, and bear the burden of other people’s mistakes, unable to permanently die and unable to actually succeed without sacrificing herself over and over in the process? Are the two emotional states a buffer to prevent her from truly understanding the reality of her situation???

I have a lot of questions, and something tells me that once the full story is concluded, very few of them will be answered lol. Wouldn’t have it any other way though. This game was worth the wait

#ena #ena dream bbq #dream bbq spoilers #ena dream bbq spoilers #cannot stop thinking about this game send help

256 notes · View notes

zeroseuniverse · 3 months ago

Note

Just saw your skz “how they’d react if their idol crush walked past them” and was wondering if you could do one for bnd or p1h..?

BOYNEXTDOOR when their idol crush walks by at an Awards show

Taglist: @zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120

Sungho

Stares without realizing it. Sungho’s naturally observant, so he just… watches them, completely forgetting he has to blink. His expression is a mix of awe and disbelief, but when they walk by and glance his way, he suddenly becomes hyper-aware of his existence. He’ll subtly nudge Leehan or Woonhak, whispering, "Did you see that? I swear they looked at me."

Riwoo

Plays it smooth, but internally combusts. He’d keep a cool expression—maybe even glance at them with a casual smirk. But inside? Absolute chaos. As soon as they’re out of sight, he’d walk over to the nearest wall and dramatically lean against it like he just got hit by Cupid. When the members ask if he’s okay, he’d just sigh and say, "I’ll never be the same."

Jaehyun

Plays it way too cool, but his ears betray him. He’s the type to lean back casually, pretending he doesn’t notice, but his ears turn bright red. He sneaks a glance or two, trying to look unfazed. If they make eye contact, he’ll give a small, confident nod, but the second they’re out of sight, he exhales dramatically and mutters, "Did that just happen?" while his members absolutely clown him.

Taesan

Awkward but endearing. This man would short-circuit. He’s totally the type to overthink every micro-movement—Should I look? No, too obvious. But if I don’t look, will they think I’m ignoring them? He ends up accidentally locking eyes with them for a second too long and immediately looks away, face turning pink. The members would be like, "Bro, you’re acting weird." And he just mumbles, "I need water. Now."

Leehan

The smooth one—until he’s not. He’d try to act all charming, probably offering a friendly smile or even throwing in a little wave if they’re close enough. But the second they’re out of sight, he’d let out a deep breath and cover his face, muttering, "Why did I wave like that? What am I, a mascot?" while his members cackle at him.

Woonhak

Literal deer in headlights. Woonhak would freeze the moment they passed by. He’s usually pretty bold, but this time? His brain buffers. His eyes go wide, and he completely forgets how to breathe. After they’re gone, he’d grab Riwoo’s arm and be like, "Hyung… I can’t feel my legs." And the members would tease him endlessly for it.

269 notes · View notes

devilish-cherry · 3 months ago

Text

ᨳ♡₊➳ jujutsu kaisen x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack with plot

"You hate your job. The pay is bad, your manager is worse, and customers are somehow both entitled and clueless. Just as you finish contemplating whether unpaid breaks are a human rights violation, weird new people keep showing up to the café. They all seem to know each other. Sometimes they talk in cryptic phrases. What the hell is this domain and why do they want to expand it? One time, a man with stitches on his forehead walked in, made prolonged eye contact with you, and then left without ordering anything. You’re pretty sure he was a serial killer. Another time, the one with white hair and sunglasses indoors mentioned a "higher mission", and you’re 90% sure this is how cult documentaries start. One of your regulars only speaks in weird food-related phrases. You assume he has some kind of medical condition, but no one explains anything to you. But you are not about to ask questions, because ignorance is bliss and also job security. And unfortunately, they are all weird and they seem very interested in coming back."

꒰ masterlist ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 7 ꒱ ₊⊹. ꒰ chapter 9 ꒱

ᨳ♡₊➳ or read on archive of our own!

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: hihi!! i would’ve updated sooner, but unfortunately, my body decided to nerf me with a sickness debuff. tragic. 😔 BUT!!! i had so much fun writing this chapter. like, full-on giggling to myself like a mad scientist. i really hope you guys enjoy it!! (or at the very least find it as funny as my fever-ridden brain did)

The day starts like any other. Which is to say, badly.

Greg the Manager, who has been conveniently absent all morning, suddenly materializes with the urgency of a man who just remembered his parole officer exists. He’s slightly out of breath, like he sprinted exactly halfway here and then gave up. His tie is loose, his shirt is untucked, and his eyes have the glazed-over look of someone who is about to make their incompetence your problem.

“Oh, by the way, a news crew is coming in five minutes.”

You pause mid-coffee pour. The statement is so absurd, so wildly out of pocket, that your brain flatlines for a solid three seconds. “A what.”

Greg, already retreating like the rat he is, waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, some feel-good story about supporting small businesses or whatever. They called a few weeks ago? Thought it’d be good PR. Forgot to tell you. Anyway, good luck!”

You stare at him, waiting for some kind of elaboration. An explanation. An apology. A joke. Anything.

“And you’re telling me this now?”

Greg shrugs, the human embodiment of the ‘Not My Problem’ energy. “I forgot.”

“Greg.”

“Gotta go, bro.” And like that, he vanishes, as if he were never there to begin with.

You stand there, emotionally buffering. You stare at the empty space where he once stood, trying to come to terms with the fact that a news crew is about to descend upon your personal hellscape with exactly zero warning. You look down at your apron, which has a very concerning stain on it (origin unknown), and realize your only hope is radical acceptance.

There’s no time to panic. You take a deep breath, straighten your apron, and slap on your best retail smile—the one that says I hate my job but I need to pay rent!

The café door swings open, and in comes the news crew with the confidence of people who have never suffered a single day in food service. The camera crew bustles in, setting up tripods, adjusting microphones, and looking around like they’re trying to absorb the rich ambiance of your workplace. Which, to be clear, smells like burnt espresso and quiet desperation.

The reporter, a professionally dressed woman with overly bright eyes and the enthusiasm of someone who has never once been berated by a middle-aged woman demanding to know why oat milk costs extra, beams at you. "We’re so excited to feature your charming little café!"

The words I would rather die are on the tip of your tongue, but you figure that’s not what she wants to hear. Instead, you nod politely. “We are also excited.”

She turns toward a customer near the window—Muffin Guy, your most mysterious regular. He sits in his usual spot, staring unblinkingly at the muffin before him, as if waiting for it to reveal a prophecy.

The reporter, undeterred by the strange aura surrounding him, approaches. “We love to highlight loyal customers!” she chirps. “Sir, could you tell us what you love most about this café?”

Silence.

The camera zooms in.

Muffin Guy does not blink.

He does not move.

He does not acknowledge the camera, the reporter, or the fundamental concept of human interaction.

The silence stretches.

The tension is suffocating. The reporter’s smile wavers. A single bead of sweat rolls down the intern’s forehead. Someone in the back coughs.

The reporter, clearly regretting all of her life choices, tries again. “Sir?”

Still nothing.

The camera stays on him for a full twenty seconds.

It is unbearable.

You mentally check out just as the reporter shifts focus to you, her expression slightly cracked but still hopeful. “So, tell us about this lovely café.”

You recite your dead-inside script: “We serve coffee. Sometimes people drink it.”

There is a beat of silence.

The reporter’s enthusiasm dims like a cheap LED bulb. “Wonderful.”

The reporter, visibly eager to move on from whatever existential nightmare Muffin Guy just put her through, scans the café for her next victim. You can see the calculations happening in real time behind her eyes: Okay, that guy and the barista were a bust, but surely the next person will be normal.

Unfortunately, she picks Choso.

Choso, who has been standing near the counter watching you with his usual unblinking intensity, straightens up as she approaches. You can tell he's eager to be of assistance, but his posture is too stiff, his expression too serious, and he moves with the slow, deliberate energy of a cryptid trying to blend into human society.

“How about you?” The reporter smiles, extending the mic. “What’s your name?”

Choso stares at her for a beat too long, like he’s mentally reviewing whether or not he should tell her. Finally, he leans toward the microphone. “Hello,” he says in his usual dead-serious monotone. “I am Choso."

The way he delivers it makes it sound like a warning. Like he's introducing himself as an omen of death.

The reporter, momentarily thrown off by his delivery, laughs nervously. “Oh! And what do you like about this café?”

Choso considers this. Too long.

Like, way too long.

The camera guy shifts. The boom mic sags. The intern wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.

Finally, Choso nods to himself, having seemingly reached a conclusion of great personal significance. A normal person would say something safe like the coffee or the atmosphere or that it’s not a Denny’s. But Choso is not normal. “The barista.”

The camera zooms in on your horrified expression.

The world stops. The temperature drops. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

The reporter blinks. Once. Twice. Three times, like she’s trying to reboot her system. Her professional instincts desperately try to steer this awkward trainwreck back onto the tracks. “And what about the drinks?”

Choso nods, like this is an acceptable question. “The lattes bring me peace.”

The reporter hesitates. “They… bring you peace?”

“Yes.” Choso stares directly into the camera, like he’s about to issue a public service announcement. His expression is completely unreadable. “I have known suffering. But the lattes are satisfactory.”

There is an audible silence. The kind that only happens when everyone in the room is simultaneously thinking Oh, this man has killed someone before. It’s like everyone suddenly realizes they are part of something far bigger than themselves. Something unknowable. Something profoundly unsettling. Somewhere in the background, Yuji is shaking his head like a man watching a car crash in slow motion.

There is no appropriate response to this, and yet the reporter is contractually obligated to continue this interview. “...Right. And, uh, what do you do?”

Choso doesn't hesitate. “I protect my brother.” he answers with a hint of pride.

“Oh!” The reporter latches onto this like a drowning woman grasping for a life preserver. “That’s… nice?”

Choso tilts his head, as if considering the very concept of “nice.” Then, as if suddenly struck by divine realization, he adds, “I would also protect the barista. If required.”

You nearly choke on your own spit.

The reporter, alarmed, shifts slightly away from him. “...Required from what?”

Choso does not blink. “Threats.”

“What… kind of threats?”

Choso narrows his eyes. “Unclear. But I remain vigilant.”

The weight of that statement sinks into the room. The energy shifts. The café suddenly feels smaller.

Then, with no warning, Choso reaches into his coat.

The reporter flinches. The intern drops his clipboard. The cameraman tenses, like he’s about to record a live crime.

Yuji, who knows exactly where this is going, starts waving his arms in the background like a man desperately trying to stop a rogue missile launch.

Choso pulls out… a single hard-boiled egg.

The collective exhale from the crew is audible.

Solemnly, as if this is the most important action he will ever take, Choso extends the egg to you.

“Eat.”

You stare at the egg, then at him, then at the egg again.

You clear your throat. “I, uh... Thanks, Choso.”

Choso nods once, as if you’ve just agreed to some kind of unspoken contract.

The reporter looks at the camera like she is moments from calling the police.

While the reporter is still trying to process the whole mildly threatening egg presentation situation, Gojo—human calamity, agent of chaos, destroyer of peace—has decided that his one and only mission is to singlehandedly ruin every single camera shot.

The moment the cameraman turns around, Gojo materializes behind the reporter, flashing a double peace sign like he’s about to drop the hottest mixtape of the century. His grin is blinding. His sunglasses somehow catch every possible light source.

The cameraman pivots, adjusting the shot.

Somehow, impossibly, Gojo is already there.

This time, he’s leaning against the counter, holding a latte he definitely did not pay for, sipping obnoxiously with exaggerated flair. He winks at the camera like he’s in an over-the-top commercial for overpriced cologne. If he had a fan blowing his hair back in slow motion, it would be perfect.

“Sir, please move,” the cameraman pratically begs.

Gojo, unfazed, turns his full attention to the lens.

“HELLOOOOO~,” Gojo sings, waving both hands like a game show host who has just revealed a brand-new car. “I’M THE FACE OF THIS ESTABLISHMENT!”

This is objectively false.

Before you can attempt damage control, Gojo launches himself next to you like a man with zero impulse control and a PhD in being a public nuisance. He throws an arm around your shoulders, his sunglasses catching the light dramatically, making it impossible to tell if he’s about to endorse your café or announce the second coming of Christ.

“This barista?” he announces dramatically, pointing at you with a flourish like he’s about to knight you on national television. “The best. The backbone of this place.”

Yuji, in the background, is visibly panicking. “Gojo-sensei, please. No.”

Gojo completely ignores him. Instead, he strikes a different pose, basking in the camera’s attention like it physically sustains him.

“I come here every single day,” he declares with the confidence of a man who lies recreationally.

You narrow your eyes. “You show up, like, once a week at best.”

Gojo ignores you, too.

The reporter, attempting to maintain some semblance of control, nods hesitantly. “Oh! So you’re a regular—”

“You know why?” Gojo interrupts and then pauses, letting the tension build as if he’s delivering the monologue of a lifetime. “The experience. The drama. The coffee that, against all odds, continues to exist despite this machine’s cursed energy.”

He gestures vaguely to the espresso machine.

As if in response, the espresso machine lets out a deep, unsettling groan that seems to reverberate through the walls.

The reporter looks horrified. “Cursed—what?”

“Nothing!” Yuji yelps, visibly panicked, as he attempts to grab Gojo. “He’s joking! Joking! Ha ha ha!”

Gojo, still completely ignoring Yuji, gestures dramatically to the café at large.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, effortlessly resisting Yuji’s efforts, “the vibes? Unmatched.” He motions toward Muffin Guy, who is still staring directly into the camera like an urban legend caught on night vision footage. “Where else do you find a guy like that?”

The cameraman—who is either an artist or a man in the process of losing his grip on reality—zooms in on Muffin Guy.

It is haunting.

Yuji tries to grab him once more. Gojo dodges effortlessly, throwing up finger guns at the camera.

“Hashtag Support Local Businesses!”

You consider whether it's legally permissible to quit mid-shift.

The reporter, who looks like she has aged twenty years in the past five minutes and like she's beginning to suspect that this café is actually some kind of underground social experiment, attempts to regain control.

Before she can salvage any part of this nightmare of an interview, the door opens.

The camera instinctively pans toward the entrance. The crew is expecting another customer, maybe, finally, someone normal.

They are wrong.

Toji walks in, moving with the kind of dangerous ease that suggests he’s about five seconds away from committing a felony or taking a nap—whichever comes first.

Toji, who was very much not expecting cameras, tilts his head slightly, his eyes flicking to the reporter, then the crew, then to you.

You lock eyes with him.

You watch, helpless, as he slowly takes in the situation.

Then, with the kind of ease that only comes from years of very questionable decision-making, he smirks.

“Damn. This place got cameras now? What is this, evidence?”

Behind him, Shiu walks in, immediately lights a cigarette inside the café like a man who has never respected a single law in his life, then realizes—far too late—that there are cameras everywhere.

Slowly, with the calculated movement of a man processing a series of very poor life choices, he lowers the cigarette, muttering under his breath, “Oh, shit.”

The reporter goes still.

You can see the realization dawn on her face—the slow, sinking horror that she has just stumbled into something she was never supposed to witness. The reporter looks at you, eyes wide with concern.

You meet her gaze, deadpan.

You just nod.

By the time the segment actually airs, it is nothing like the wholesome, feel-good small-business feature it was supposed to be. Instead of showcasing a “quirky but struggling café,” the final product is an absolute trainwreck.

The official headline?

"Muffin Man, Mystery Egg, and Wanted Criminal? Local Café More Concerning Than Quirky."

It gets worse.

The tone of the segment suggests the café is possibly haunted, a front for illegal activity, and a gathering spot for deeply concerning individuals. It does not encourage people to visit. It warns them. Every shot looks like it was pulled from an unreleased horror documentary about places you should not go. The ominous background music—something that belongs in a Dateline special—only adds to the effect.

The highlights include:

The news crew inexplicably leaving in the full, unbroken 15 seconds of Muffin Guy staring directly into the camera like he’s either a demon or an AI-generated horror experiment. No words. No movement. Just him, staring—waiting—as if challenging the audience to comprehend his existence. The way they edit it makes it look like he’s part of some psychological horror movie, a lost soul trapped between dimensions.

Choso’s interview, which, thanks to the dramatic lighting and his very serious tone, is framed like a true crime documentary. They use dramatic zoom-ins on his expression, emphasizing the fact that he looks way too intense for a man talking about coffee. The way he deadpans “I have known suffering. But the lattes are satisfactory.” is played over eerie background music, making it sound like he's fought in at least three wars, suffered great personal loss, and only finds solace in lattes. The words "Remains Vigilant Against Threats.” slide across the screen in bold letters.

Gojo and Yuji wrestling in the background while Gojo dramatically yells, “They can’t prove I don’t work here!” The footage is grainy, shaky, and the captions just read: [Incoherent yelling] as Yuji desperately tries to prevent Gojo from launching himself directly into the camera.

Toji, smirking at the camera, casually implying he is a wanted fugitive. The producers slow down his words for dramatic effect: “Damn. This place got cameras now? What is this, evidence?” followed by a zoom-in of his grin and the words: "??? Unknown Criminal Activity ???"

The espresso machine, actively rattling and smoking in the background of multiple shots. At one point, the camera catches it letting out a deep, unsettling groan, and they overlay dramatic violin music as the reporter visibly recoils. The segment's b-roll footage of the café includes multiple instances of the espresso machine shaking, glitching out, and occasionally making a noise that sounds vaguely like a demonic whisper. The captions simply read: [UNSETTLING METALLIC GROAN]

Greg the Manager, with the most suspicious phrasing humanly possible, stating, “We’re totallyyy not violating health codes!” The phrasing alone guarantees that everyone now believes the café is absolutely violating health codes. The camera cuts immediately after, giving it the same energy as a villain’s last known sighting before fleeing the country.

There is a random, blurry, and heavily pixelated, freeze-frame of Greg at the end of the segment, edited in black and white, with the words: “DOES THIS MAN KNOW WHAT HE’S DOING?”

The answer is no.

And finally, the closing words from the reporter, who stares deadpan into the camera, fully drained of life and hope, and states with exhausted finality:

“I am never going back there.”

The screen cuts to black.

A single ominous boom sound plays.

Gojo, watching the segment from his phone at full volume in the café, nods to himself, clearly proud of his work. “We did great!”

Yuji is actively attempting to dig a hole and bury himself in it.

Choso, on the other hand, looks genuinely pleased. He gives a slow, approving nod. “I have promoted the barista’s establishment.”

You stare at him. “That was not promotion, that was a federal warning.”

Gojo waves a dismissive hand. “Details, details.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. You’re already preparing for the worst when you walk into work the next morning.

You expect Greg the Manager to be pacing anxiously, waiting for someone from the health department to shut the place down.

You expect fewer customers because, surely, surely, no sane human being would willingly come to a place that was just portrayed as a front for criminal activity, a ghost-infested hellhole, and a potential cult meeting ground all in one.

You do not expect to see a line out the door.

You stop in your tracks, processing the sight of dozens of people wrapped around the block, all eagerly waiting to enter the chaos.

The café is more popular than ever. People aren’t scared. They’re curious.

Inside, Greg—who has learned absolutely nothing—is practically buzzing with excitement.

“Dude, FREE PUBLICITY!” he cheers, spinning in circles like a man who thinks chaos is good for business. "We need to, like, start making merch!"

You stare at him. Then at the never-ending line of morbidly curious customers.

Then at the espresso machine, which lets out a low, menacing growl.

Then at Muffin Guy, who is—as always—unmoving.

Then at Choso, who is standing in his usual spot by the counter, nodding approvingly, like he has manifested this outcome through sheer force of will.

Slowly, you reach into your pocket, pull out your phone, and start updating your resume.

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: fun fact: this chapter is based on my real-life nightmare scenario. i have never been a barista, but i have worked in an animal shelter (as a manager, no less—why did they trust me with that? unclear.), and i still have war flashbacks to the absolute menaces that walked through those doors. (there was a time when a man i instantly recognized from a local true crime documentary tried to adopt a dog from us?? he was found innocent because of very questionable reasons so needless to say i was terrified the whole time lmfao)

one day, the higher-ups told me the news was coming to interview us, and i lived in pure fear from that moment on. i spent days spiraling, imagining the absolute worst possible situations. (what if i tripped over a dog? what if i accidentally said something insane on live tv? what if i just. forgot how to speak?) i had actual nightmares about it. thankfully, they never came while i worked there, but the fear? the dread? permanently ingrained in my soul. so naturally, i had to make the barista suffer through it. :)

also!! just a heads-up—i wrote another side story for a choso x reader request set in the minimum wage, maximum suffering universe! not canon to the main fic, just a fun little “what if” scenario, feel free to check it out! as always, thank you so much for reading and your feedback!! reading your reactions makes my day, and i’m so grateful for everyone enjoying this little unhinged fic. hope you all enjoyed the chaos of this chapter!!

₊⊹. tag list: @alpha-mommy69 @luluminati @amortsukii-writes @inthedarkshadows000 @isomehowexist @not-aya @emochosoluvr @lov3vivian @literallyushiwaka @kodditty @arrozyfrijoles23

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #choso x reader #gojo x reader #nanami x reader #geto x reader #toji x reader #higuruma x reader #naoya x reader #shiu x reader #mahito x reader #shoko x reader #jjk crack #jjk x gender neutral reader #k #jjk x y/n #jjk x you

176 notes · View notes

chigiriizz · 22 days ago

Text

BOYFRIEND! YOICHI ISAGI HEADCANONS

At first, he’s super shy and awkward about being someone’s boyfriend. He’s used to analyzing plays, not romance.

"D-Do you like... want to hold hands? Or... is that too fast?"

He overthinks everything — not because he’s unsure of you, but because he wants to get it right.

"Okay, if we meet at 5:00 and the train takes 18 minutes and it’s a 4-minute walk to the café, that gives us a 2-minute buffer. Perfect."

You get texts like:

“Good luck on your test today!! I believe in you”

“You didn’t eat yet, right? I left a sandwich in your bag.”

“Can’t stop thinking about your smile today. It kinda powered me through practice.”

He’s your #1 hype man. If you’re feeling down? He drops everything to support you — even if it’s over something small.

“You got through today. That’s more than enough. I’m proud of you.”

Protective in a quiet way. Not possessive, but aware. He’ll step a little closer when someone’s being weird, glance at you with silent concern, and walk you home even if it’s raining and he’s exhausted.

He likes hugging you from behind while resting his chin on your shoulder, especially when he's tired after practice.

Kisses with Isagi are soft and gentle. He always pauses first — like he’s memorizing your face — then kisses you like it’s the first time, every time.

When you wear his hoodie or jersey, he literally freezes. His brain just blue screens.

"...You're...really cute. Like, unfairly cute. I need a moment."

Cuddles? He’s a golden retriever. Clingy in the softest way. He loops an arm around you and buries his face in your neck like it’s the most natural thing.

He absolutely adores when you cheer for him at games. He scans the crowd to find you, and once he does? Tunnel vision. All he can think is:

"I want to score for them."

Training dates. He’ll try to show you how to shoot goals — then laugh when you kick the ball into a bush.

“That was... impressive in a different way.”

When he wins, he does the heart hands at you from across the field (blushing the whole time).

If he ever loses or has a bad day? He’ll call you and just quietly ask, “…Can I come over?” He doesn’t even need to talk — he just needs you.

Movie nights mean leaning into your side, popcorn on your lap, and him gasping at the plot twists.

“Wait — HE was the villain??”

He’s a sucker for compliments. If you call him “cool” or “handsome,” he turns bright red and tries to brush it off… but you know he replays it in his head all day.

Anniversaries? He plans thoughtful little surprises — like printing out a photo of your first date and writing “Thanks for changing my life” on the back.

If you’re sick, he shows up with medicine, soup, and a full PowerPoint of how he’ll take care of you.

He saves every note, photo, and drawing you give him — even silly ones. They’re all in a box under his bed, labeled with your name.

One time, you wore his team hoodie to school and someone commented on it. He just looked smug and said:

“Yeah. They’re mine.”

When he’s traveling for matches, he texts nonstop. You get airport photos, sleepy hotel selfies, and messages like:

“I wish you were here. The bed’s cold without you.”

He believes in you more than you believe in yourself sometimes.

“Even if you don’t feel strong right now… you are. I’ve seen it.”

You’re the one person he lets his guard down around — no strategies, no ego, just Yoichi.

At the end of the day, you’re his dream. Blue Lock or not, he knows the greatest goal he’s scored… is you.

#bllk x reader #bllk isagi #bllk #blue lock x reader #isagi yoichi #blue lock isagi #headcanon #isagi x reader #isagi x you #s/o #boyfriend headcanons

121 notes · View notes

aryaryxoxo · 2 days ago

Note

I want Soshiro to kiss me hard that I'll melt in his touch. 👉🏻👈🏻

— 🥪

Soshiro Hoshina who always needs to be in control. Doesn’t matter if it’s a mission, a conversation, or what seat he picks at a meeting—he’s not the type to wing anything.

Soshiro “Don’t get attached” Hoshina who is literally so touch-starved it’s embarrassing. He acts like he's fine but flinches when someone pats his back, then thinks about it for hours. HOURS. (I WILL DIE ON A HILL FOR THIS)

Soshiro Hoshina who absolutely did not mean to find the new tech analyst cute. Like—why did you have to look that focused while frowning at your screen? Why did you laugh at one of his dry-ass jokes like it was actually funny?

And why did his eyes immediately flick to your lips when you did?

Soshiro Hoshina who suddenly keeps showing up in the tech room. Weird how his swords are taking way more damage lately. So strange. Definitely not intentional. Nope.

Soshiro Hoshina who tries to play it cool, casually throwing in a “Wanna grab food after this?” like it’s no big deal—definitely not a date unless you say yes. Then it's 100% a date.

Soshiro Hoshina who’s completely thrown off when you kiss him first. He just freezes like—wait, what just happened? Did that actually happen?

And then—

Soshiro Hoshina who does not lose control.

Except—maybe—he kind of does the second you kiss him first.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. His eyes wide, brain buffering. You pulled him in like it was nothing—you. Cute little analyst, always tapping away at your screen, always making him feel a little too warm in the chest. You kissed him.

And then?

Yeah. No more thinking.

Because Soshiro Hoshina, the calm, no-nonsense vice captain, kisses you back like he’s been waiting for this for way too long. Like he’s starving and just got a taste of something he didn’t realize he needed this badly.

One hand cups the side of your face, firm but careful. The kind of grip that says, “Don’t go anywhere.” The other slides to your waist, fingers pressing just a little too tight—like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real. That this is happening.

Your lips move against his and god, he melts. Literally. The man who gives out orders without blinking suddenly has a thumb brushing your cheek, his body leaning into yours, breath hitching when you grab the front of his jacket and tug him closer.

You swear you hear the tiniest sound—something between a sigh and a low groan—when your hand slides up his chest and rests against his neck. Like touch short-circuits something in him. Like no one’s touched him there in a long time.

And that’s when it shifts. From "surprised kiss" to “I will absolutely ruin you with how much I want this” kiss.

His lips part slightly, pulling you in deeper. Slow but intense. Like he wants to memorize the way you taste. Like he’s pouring every second he held back into this moment. Like control doesn’t matter anymore—only you do.

And when you finally break apart?

He stays close. Forehead resting against yours, breathing hard, thumb still stroking your cheek like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.

“…That was unexpected,” he murmurs. Voice low. Breathless. Still staring at your lips.

And yet—he’s already leaning in again.

Ary’s note—I SAW YOU REQUEST ABOUT VIGILANTE READER BUT I CAN’T ANSWER OR REPLY TO IT HUHU

#ary asks #me want soshiro to kiss me 🥹#soshiro hoshina x reader #soshiro hoshina #GIVE ME SOSHIRO👹👹#hoshina soshiro x reader #soshiro x reader #kn8 soshiro hoshina #kn8 soshiro x reader

67 notes · View notes

psshaw · 3 months ago

Text

OKAY SO I have a lot of swirling thoughts and factors on this, and also a head cold, but here's my best shot.

If you make someone you’re attracted to, you get to look at them all the time. We all deserve such a gift.

Several layers of distance! I can explore weird, rough, and vulnerable subjects without people assuming they’re meant to represent me. They're a safe buffer for when I don't want to talk about myself or what I want. Plus, I much prefer thinking about their problems. They’re like a little hotel room I get to trash and leave someone else with the bill!

When I see a girl I think is cool, I want to be like her. When I make cool girls I have to be careful because I might make her a cooler girl than me. She might bite my style! Or worse, I'd have to bite hers. Boys are for writing, girls are for dressup games, haha.

I like to keep fiction and reality separate. The project of myself is separate from the project of forcing everyone to look at my little pet-baby-dolls, and I see no reason to mix the two types of expression.

In that vein, I really don't like playing as myself! I made "me" in BG3 once, and while I loved making my character and looking at her makes me all gender-euphoric, I hated asking myself "what would I do". That's not a fun fantasy! (Also most video game girl clothes suck, as we know.)

Internalized misogyny of some kind— for a long time, women in art or ads would register to me more as mannequins, tokens, or even voids. The bland, surface-level femininity being sold was like white noise, nothing to do with me. (A stark contrast to the real women in my life, some of whom I’ve always admired and wanted to be like. All of my distaste for girlhood came from the marketing and being assigned products!) I think I got the idea that if she was designed by somebody, then she wasn’t going to reflect what I wanted. Granted, I feel this way about a lot of stuff. But when people talk about misogyny in fandom, I feel like I know exactly what they mean.

Being a dude sucks in an interesting way, haha. They slot much easier into the “I genuinely thought this would go well for me” or fall-from-grace narrative. I also like subverting expectations, so it's fun to give them unexpected sensitivity or emotional cleverness. And frankly, it's just less loaded to do violence to them.

When I’m fascinated by someone, I try to get really, really in their head. I’m talking “getting a weird rush from imagining them filling out forms” levels of granularity. With dudes, there’s a lot more to explore because their experiences are stereotypically different from mine— I like to joke that it’s like teratophilia. (Nevermind the uh, sharp teeth and etc they all seem to get.)

At this point I’m just spoiled. Every time I draw a dude, it’s halfway to drawing two dudes making out.

#that's a lot my bad. but yeah it's complicated #and very very individual! almost like there's a whole world inside each person or something

109 notes · View notes

amazinglyashy · 8 months ago

Text

If He Hurts You During a Spar - Xavier

It takes him a second to process just what happened, but as soon as the wheel stops buffering he's sheathing his sword and scooping you into a hug as he checks meticulously for damage across your body.

He'll tenderly brush your hair out of your face with his fingers as he studies any marks he may have left against the soft skin, before remembering exactly what just happened. Pulling away, he knows being near you or touching you without your blatant consent after hurting you would be disrespectful at the very best, and downright selfish and self-serving at worst.

He's apologizing ridiculously formal, with his head bowed down low. It feels weird and foreign compared to how close the two of you have gotten, and how relaxed he's become around you. Still, it takes a lot of convincing and assuring him that you don't want an apology (at least, not of this caliber-) and that you're going to be fine.

After much convincing, he'll touch you again. Asking 'where does it hurt?' and 'Does it hurt when I do this?'

Once he knows you're only mildly injured, he's taking you home immediately. And he's skipping your level in favor of his own, taking you into his apartment and setting you down so gently among his piles of blankets and plushies.

He flips between being talkative, and quiet. He'll ask you repeatedly about how you're feeling, anything he can do for you, cracking jokes at his own expense, etc. But also supplying the room with a generous amount of silence as he sits in his own guilt.

He'll cuddle with you that night under the guise of trying to help you sleep, if you'll let him. The both of you know it was an accident that's bound to happen with any sort of fighting, practice or otherwise, so there's no hard feelings from you, and there will be a time when his guilt finally disperses. But for now, it's just nice to lie in each others warmth.

#love and deepspace #lads #lds #x reader #xavier x reader #lds xavier #love and deepspace xavier #.writey

301 notes · View notes

stilljuststardust · 2 months ago

Note

PLEASE YAP ABOUT YOUR DRS I LOVE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT, I LOVE LEARNING NEW THINGS BOUT YOU

I've tried to have DR accounts but speaking into the void makes me feel so weird and it's harder to yap that way.

I'm usually very private about my Drs so I'll share stuff people IRL don't know/can't be traced back to me. I don't know if I've even told my friends about this DR yet.

Anyways. Breaking news ig:

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:

My Shifter DR

Sorry yet again if this is how you find out I don't live inside of a black and white surrealist photograph

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:

This is a 2020 shiftok DR.

Playlist

This is basically my buffer reality. A quiet life where I can take a break from more intense realities while also being able to express myself fully. I hate the separation I feel from non shifters and this reality doesn't have that disconnect.

Its basically a better CR but where shifters can live authentically. A version of the web with shifter centric Google, Pinterest, TikTok, youtube, though obviously they aren't named the same as it's the shifter version of each thing.

The community in that reality has all of the late night sleepover energy of old shiftok with none of the misinformation or desperation. Just a real community coming together and gossiping.

There is a version of the internet only available to reality shifters. A secret society far far away from the prying eyes of anti shifters, where you can post without the worry that if anything too cringe will land you in a middle grade YouTubers shitty think piece. Even if the general public had access they wouldn't care because this reality is built for my inner weird kid.

Cringe culture is dead in this reality. Anyone I tell about shifting will be accepting even if they themselves are not a shifter and I will never again pause awkwardly as I decide if it's lying to say I have a boyfriend if that boyfriend is a fictional character. Basically, people mind their fucking business when it comes to shifters instead of shitting themselves everytime they hear about it.

My favorite thing I scripted is being able to download and upload media from your DRs and post it instead of trying to cobble together recreations. There is an application called scriptr that's basically the Holy Grail. Its a mash up of Notion, Pinterest, and the Sims. You can design your bedroom and a real photo of it will pop into existence, create an avatar of your desired self, search for a specific reality or time period and find exclusively accurate results, prompts, etc.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:

My life there

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:

I did script myself younger, but not to the age I was in 2020. Before a bunch of people get mad at me, the age change is incredibly small. I'm only aging back one year, because 18 was traumatic and I didn't get to experience it at all. I think you'll live if I'm the age I was six months ago guys.

It's not an exciting reality and it's not supposed to be, it's a quiet life where I can escape from my twelve other less quiet lives. Yes I also have a waiting room for that but that reality isn't a home, my WR is a silly little place where I watch edits of myself.

I've scripted the reality as this really healing place for me. That feeling you had picking flowers on the side of the field instead of participating with everyone else, how holidays felt when you still believed in magic, how you were before they banned fun and whimsy.

I grew up feeling like there was something wrong with me and all I ever really wanted was to feel like I wasn't weird, so this reality says fuck that shit I'm just gonna be weird.

I've mentioned before that I put subliminals on a playlist as a shortcut for scripting so take a look at the ones I saved for DRs energy: here

This reality is all sitting in silk robes as I live stream with my friends talking about our DRs, long walks in the meadow by my house, buying luxury perfumes, and cooking with my mom. Its all the whimsy and nostalgia and the weird kid tendencies this reality tends to discourage after a certain age. My life there is Wattpad, silly edits, and storytimes.

I spend hours lounging on my canopy bed as I script diabolical shit, and then when I finally go outside and touch grass I lose myself in the wonderful woods behind my house.

If you are reading this I really suggest you have a reality where you can be yourself. Be whatever weird annoying person you've tried to get rid of, because you were only doing what made you happy.

It's just me, my cat, and my 16 hour screentime against the world.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:

#shiftblr #loa tumblr #shifting antis dni #loa blog #reality shifting #shifting community #loassumption #shifting #loablr #loassblog #shifting diary

80 notes · View notes

darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 months ago

Text

Home Grown 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Cole Turner

This AU is called Watcher Anonymous and will include different series for different characters. This is our introduction to Cole and Eartha.

Summary: loneliness can drive one to desperate measures.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Cole is tired. He's never really not. He spends all day on his feet, cleaning up some clog in the drains or fending off the pests in the fields. There's not much going on aside from the constant battle with the earth for his livelihood. His family's too.

Ever since his dad had a stroke, it's been on him to balance it all. His sister if off who knows where with who knows his name and his mom is looking after his dad. So it's all up to him to keep this place going. And it's all on her to keep him going.

The shame used to make him squirm. His skin would burn and his blood would boil. He'd close his laptop and mope, feeling bad for himself, calling himself weak. Then he'd open it back up and keep doing it. His persistence became indifference, Not to her. No, he only ever thinks of her. He just doesn't care if it's wrong because it makes him feel right.

That night, he's addled. His dad isn't doing well, his mom is worried despite efforts to hide that, and he can't get an answer from his sister. She said she'd come see them so he could spend more time working. Not that he really wants to.

He slips his phone into the little plastic pocket to protect it from the water. He balances it on the rack that hangs around the showerhead and he cranks the faucet to a steaming spray. He stands under it as he lets it wash away the tension and waits for the stream to buffer. It's taking a bit today but sometimes it happens. Out here in the farm lands, reception is spotty.

It's not working. He's lathered up by the time the error shows. Disconnected... Strange. Why?

He gives up with a sigh. The one thing he has to look forward to and even that isn't going his way. He'll give Jensen a call when he's done.

He rubs dry his hair as the water drips down his legs onto the mat. He looks down at himself then moves to face his reflection in the mirror. He's not an ugly guy. He's not being a narcissist, he just doesn't think he's that bad. He shouldn't be alone. Still.

He huffs and wraps the towel around his waist. He grabs his phone from the show and closes the curtain. He walks down the hall and locks himself in his room. His bars are full. He shouldn't be having issues with a signal.

He dials out and waits for Jensen to pick up. He does right as Cole expects to go to voicemail. He's whisper.

"Hey, dude," Jensen scuffs around.

"Busy?" Cole asks.

"Eh, sorta, just..." he clears his throat. "All clear now, bud. What's up?"

"Mm, well... you remember... that... feed. So, er, it's not working."

"Hm, and it's just on her laptop?"

"Yeah," Cole sits on the bed and chews his thumb. "All of a sudden."

"Did the error have a code?"

"Uhhh yeah, I think," he recalls the numbers as best he can.

"Device is either off or broken. Could be both. You could give it a few days and see," Jensen suggests.

"Sure, but, er..." A few days is a long time especially when they're so slow. "Yeah, you're right. I'll wait her out."

"Dude, trust me, I get it. Boss went out of town last week and I saw her pack her favourite toy," he purrs grossly. "Anyway, it's about that time for me."

The line clicks. Good. Jake kinda weirds him out sometimes. He drops his phone.

He'll be cool about this. He can handle a few days without watching her. I mean, she's a stranger. They've never even met. She doesn't even know he exists. So he can log off and touch grass, so they say.

The days pass in a torturous slog of dirt, pollen, and lonely nights. Cole is wound tight, ready to snap as he has a thousand things pulling at him at once. His mom wants to hire a nurse, his dad is getting aggressive with everyone, and his sister just convinced his mom to send her money they don't have. Worst of all, he's alone. He's not sleeping because all he does is dream of her.

As he cuts away the rot from the tomato vine, he catches the tip of his glove, just enough to pinch himself good. He curses as a flash of rage swells in him. He whips the clippers into the dirt and snarls. Goddamn it!

He paces back and forth angrily. He rips off the gloves and tucks them into his workbelt. He combs his fingers through his hair and prowls like a wild beast. He can't take it anymore.

He takes his phone out and calls Jensen. It takes two tries but he gets an answer. Not a happy one.

"Dude, I had to leave a meeting--"

"Feed's down," Cole interrupts. "I'm having a real bad day and I need--- I need it."

"Jesus, you sound like it. Hm, okay, you know her email?"

"Uh, sure I do," Cole says.

"Right, you know everything," Jensen laughs. "Come on, guy, let's not pretend here. We're all a bit freaky. So, I'll send you something. Don't click on the link, got me? You take that template and forward it to her. I'll include instructions so you can dupe the sender... she'll think it's some bullshit coupon redemption or whatever. She clicks on it, you got full access again."

"Really? That easy?"

"Well it all depends on her, doesn't it?" He snorts. "Alright, I'll get that too you when I can. Gotta go."

The call ends. Cole leans against the fence and sighs. He better follow through. Better yet, it better work.

#cole turner #dark cole turner #dark!cole turner #cole turner x reader #ghosted #home grown #series #watchers anonymous #drabble

92 notes · View notes

cheollollipop · 1 month ago

Text

what’s your favorite fruit? | mark lee.

genre: fluff.

wc: 2.6k

Day One

The thing is, I don't usually do this.

I have my routine. My table. My people. My corner of the courtyard where the sun hits just right and the breeze feels like free therapy. It's not that I don't like Jeno or Haechan or Jaemin. I do. They're funny and loud and dramatic in ways that never feel mean. It's just that our friendship's always been occasional. Hallway conversations, project pair-ups, chaotic birthday parties where someone ends up duct taped to a chair.

And Mark?

We have chemistry class together. That's it.

We've exchanged a handful of sentences. Polite ones. Careful. Always with this weird, hesitant pause between them, like the words are trying not to bump into each other too hard.

Which is exactly why what I'm about to do is so stupid.

I spot them across the cafeteria, corner table, usual spot, laughter already spilling out from Haechan like he's performing for an imaginary audience. Jaemin's mid-story. Jeno's trying to drink a juice box without using his hands.

Mark's there too, hood up, sleeves covering his hands, head tilted slightly like he's listening but not saying much.

I pause, tray in hand, heart pounding like I'm walking into a final exam naked. And then I walk straight toward them.

"Hey," I say as casually as possible, which is to say not casually at all. "Mind if I join you guys?"

Everything stops.

Haechan's straw makes a horrific slurping noise as he freezes mid sip and Jeno slowly blinks, like his brain is buffering.

Jaemin says, "Huh," very quietly, and then, louder, "Well, well, well."

Mark looks up. And his eyes land on me like he wasn't expecting this in any universe.

I regret everything instantly.

"I just didn't feel like sitting outside today," I add quickly, even though no one asked. "Sun's annoying."

"It's cloudy," Jaemin points out.

"I'm fragile," I shoot back.

That earns a laugh, and Jaemin gestures with a sweeping arm. "Seat's all yours, milady."

"Don't be weird," Jeno says, scooting over anyway.

I slide into the spot between Jeno and Mark, pretending it doesn't feel like the single most significant seating decision of my life.

Mark shifts slightly. Not away. Just... adjusts.

And suddenly we're sitting next to each other. Close enough that I can smell the faint detergent on his hoodie. Close enough to feel how tense he is, even as he stares down at his tray like he would rather be anywhere but here.

"So," Haechan says slowly, leaning in way too dramatically. "What brings you to our humble corner of chaos?"

"I needed a break from my usual group," I lie.

"She means she wanted to sit with her real friends," Jaemin says, beaming. "Welcome home."

I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "You guys do know we're technically friends, right?"

"Barely," Jeno shrugs. "But we're open to change."

There's a beat.

And then, without looking up, Haechan says, "So, just to clarify...this isn't about Mark?"

Mark chokes on his water.

"What?" I ask.

Mark coughs, face turning a very specific shade of red as he wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "What? No. Why would it—no. It's not. Right?"

I panic. "No! I mean...no. Definitely not."

Another beat of silence.

Then Jaemin grins. "Cool cool cool. Just checking."

"Super casual," Jeno adds.

"Extremely normal," Haechan says.

Mark lets out a breath that might actually be a whimper as I focus very hard on my sandwich.

"So," Jeno says, leaning back like he's easing into an interrogation, "what's everyone's favorite... uh... fruit?"

I glance up. "What?"

"Fruit," Jaemin repeats. "Totally normal conversation."

"I swear to God," Haechan mutters under his breath, but he's already grinning.

"I like apples," Jeno says, too quickly. "Crunchy. Consistent. A little nervous sometimes."

"You just described a snack and a person," I say, frowning.

"No, no, he's right," Jaemin chimes in. "Apples are great. Especially when they're, like, sitting at your lunch table unexpectedly."

Mark, is frozen like he thinks if he doesn't move, no one can see him.

"Personally," Haechan says, leaning forward with narrowed eyes, "I like blueberries. Hard to read. Roll away when you try to catch them. Kind of mysterious."

"I—okay," I say slowly. "Are we... still talking about fruit?"

"Are you not?" Jeno asks, deadpan.

Mark has officially stopped breathing.

"Actually," Jaemin adds thoughtfully, "bananas are underrated. They panic in the bowl for a week and then are suddenly perfect for three seconds before everything falls apart."

"That's not a fruit," I say. "That's a breakdown."

"Exactly," Jaemin nods solemnly.

I look between all of them. "What is happening right now."

"Nothing," Jeno says. "Just fruit. We're very healthy."

"So healthy," Jaemin echoes.

"You're all unwell."

"Some might say," Haechan says, with a sly look, "that a new fruit has arrived at the table."

"Oh my God," I mutter. "Stop calling me a fruit."

"We didn't say it was you," Jeno says innocently.

"You literally said 'a fruit arrived at the table.'"

"Maybe we meant a grape," Haechan says.

"She's definitely not a grape," Jaemin says. "She's like... a pomegranate. Cool on the outside, mysterious, and hard to open."

Mark's face is slowly turning the exact color of said pomegranate.

"Okay," I say, holding up a hand. "I need someone to use one-" I hold up a finger, "actual sentence or I'm leaving this table forever."

"Mark," Jeno blurts out. "Likes apples."

Mark makes a noise that can only be described as internal combustion.

"What?" I ask.

"I mean," Jeno recovers, backtracking so fast he might fall over, "I mean he brought an apple. To lunch. Earlier. Like, last week."

"Was it crunchy?" Jaemin adds, nodding way too hard.

"I'm going to peel my skin off," Mark mutters into his water bottle.

We sit in awkward silence and my head feels like it's about to explode from the confusion.

Then I raise a brow. "So Mark likes apples. Got it. Huge revelation."

Mark manages to say something. Sort of. "They're... a safe fruit."

I turn to him.

"That's fair," I say. "Bananas are stressful."

Mark nods like I just agreed to marry him.

Eventually the conversation veers off into Haechan ranking school bathrooms from best to worst and Jaemin trying to get someone to give him their cookie in exchange for "emotional loyalty." But the tension lingers like an unspoken something hovering just under the table.

When the bell rings and we start packing up, Jeno whispers across the table to Haechan, "Mission... moderate success?"

"Yeah," Haechan replies. "Code Fruit initiated. Target is laughing."

"Target is confused," I say as I sling my backpack on.

Mark lingers beside me as we head toward the doors, still quiet, still red-eared. He glances at me once, and I offer a crooked smile.

"So, uh... apples, huh?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "They're simple. And sweet."

I raise an eyebrow, teasing. "You calling me simple?"

His eyes go wide. "No! No, not you. I didn't mean—wait—you're not an apple, you're—uh—"

I laugh. "Relax. I'm a pomegranate, remember?"

He nods, sheepish. "Definitely not a grape."

And for a second, just one second, I think maybe he is talking about me.

Even if he doesn't say it.

Day Three

I sit down before they can say anything.

Jaemin offers me a fry in stunned silence. Haechan sits frozen. Jeno looks vaguely impressed.

Mark stares at his tray, but I catch the smile before he hides it.

"Morning," I say, stealing Jaemin's juice box without asking.

No one questions it.

Day Six

Haechan makes a big deal about assigning everyone a "cafeteria code name."

Jeno is "Backpack Dad."

Jaemin is "Theater Emergency."

Mark is "Quiet Thunder."

And I get "Tiny Tyrant."

"You literally threatened me with a fork yesterday," Haechan says when I protest.

Mark smiles for the entire five-minute argument and doesn't say a word.

Day Nine

Mark brings two granola bars.

He doesn't say it's for me.

But when I open my tray and sigh, "Forgot my snack," he casually slides one over without looking up.

I grin. "Thanks."

He shrugs. "You always forget."

My stomach does something.

Day Twelve

Jeno spills his drink.

Haechan screams.

Jaemin says, "This is a metaphor for my life."

I hand Mark a napkin without looking.

"Thanks," he mutters, but then adds, "You're good at this. Like... us. Sitting here."

"Is that your way of saying I belong?"

He shrugs again. Smiling this time. "Maybe."

Day Seventeen

Jaemin says something stupid. I shoot back without missing a beat. Haechan gasps like I insulted royalty. Jeno gives me a slow clap. Mark nearly chokes on his sandwich.

"You've become one of us," Jeno says dramatically.

"Does that come with benefits?"

"Yes," Haechan replies. "Free trauma and shared fries."

I laugh and realize I haven't looked at my old table in over two weeks.

Day Twenty-One

Mark and I say the same thing at the same time.

Everyone goes silent. Jaemin slaps the table like it's a buzzer. Haechan shouts, "Soulmates!" before Mark nearly tackles him.

I'm bright red. Mark's ears are even worse.

We don't talk the rest of lunch. But when we stand up to leave, his arm brushes mine and he doesn't move away.

Day Twenty-Eight

We're late to lunch, both of us coming from chem.

When we sit down together, already laughing about a lab mix-up, Haechan stops mid sentence and says, "Oh wow. It's real."

"What's real?" I ask.

"Nothing," Jeno says quickly. "Group chat stuff."

Jaemin gives me a knowing look and bumps my shoulder with his.

I think maybe... I'm not the new one anymore.

I'm just one of them.

Day Thirty-Two

"You always steal the corner piece of my sandwich," Mark says, watching me chew like I just committed treason.

"That's because it's the best part."

He narrows his eyes. "I was saving it."

I smirk. "Then save faster."

Jaemin chokes. Jeno stares at Mark like he's watching a wildlife documentary. Haechan makes a "oooOOOOoooo" sound and gets a chip thrown at him.

Mark doesn't say anything else. But he slides his sandwich toward me.

Day Thirty-Five

"Your handwriting is impossible," I tell him, tapping his notebook.

He shrugs. "You figured it out anyway."

"You left out every third vowel."

"You decoded it."

"I'm concerned you think that counts as legible."

"I'm concerned you care enough to read my notes," he says softly, smirking at his tray.

And I shut up. Because... yeah.

Jaemin starts slow clapping. Jeno just whispers, "It's happening," to himself.

Day Thirty-Eight

Mark says I look different today.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Good different."

"Oh. So I looked bad yesterday?"

"I didn't say that—"

"I'm wounded."

"You're twisting my words!"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Haechan mutters.

Mark looks ready to implode.

I try not to smile too wide. I fail.

Day Forty-One

We sit a little too close. Not on purpose. Not... technically.

Our knees bump under the table. Neither of us moves.

When I pass him my cookie without asking, Mark takes it, but says, "I'm starting to feel spoiled."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Jaemin sings.

Mark throws a napkin at him. Jaemin dodges and bows.

"You know this is gonna kill me, right?" Jeno mutters, biting into his sandwich.

"No, no," Haechan says. "This is the slow burn. It's good for character development."

Mark glances at me.

And for the first time...

I don't look away.

Day Forty-Five

"Can you not look at her like that during lunch?" Haechan hisses at Mark while I'm opening my juice box.

"Like what?" Mark says, scandalized.

"You know what."

Jaemin sighs. "It's like watching two shy golden retrievers try to date."

Jeno, deadpan, "Mark's allergic to dogs."

Mark whispers to me, "I'm not allergic to you, though."

I spit juice through my nose.

Chaos erupts.

We do not recover.

Day Fifty-Two

The flirting is real.

The tension is loud.

And at this point, the whole table knows.

It's only a matter of time.

I should've known something was off when no one spoke for the first full minute of lunch.

Not a single chaotic story. No Haechan trying to convince us to join his fake band. No Jaemin retelling a dream with unnecessarily vivid hand motions. Not even Jeno giving his daily weather rant despite us being indoors.

Just silence.

Which is worse.

Much worse.

"Okay," I say slowly, setting my tray down beside Mark, "what's going on?"

Jaemin looks at Haechan.

Haechan looks at Jeno.

Jeno sighs like he's about to deliver a eulogy. "We have something to say."

Mark immediately tenses beside me. His hands retreat into the sleeves of his hoodie like he's trying to hide inside himself.

I freeze. "If this is about the grape juice I spilled last week—"

"It's not," Haechan says. Then adds, "But that was suspiciously timed."

"It was an accident!"

"Sure," Jaemin mutters.

Mark has now stopped blinking.

Jeno claps his hands once. "Okay. Operation Soft Launch has failed. The people demand answers."

"What does that even mean—"

"YN," Jaemin cuts in, eyes wide with concern. "Are you aware that Mark has been staring at you like a Disney prince for the last seven weeks?"

Mark makes a sound like someone just hit him with a dodgeball.

I turn slowly. "What."

"I—" Mark stammers. "No—I haven't been—It's not—They're exaggerating."

"They're not," Haechan says. "And we're tired."

"Of what?" I ask, now fully spiraling.

"The tension," Jeno says, stabbing his salad dramatically. "The longing looks. The sandwich sharing. The cookie exchanges. You guys are basically married in lunch table terms."

"I—"

"And we," Jaemin says, gesturing between the three of them, "as your friends, your people, your ride or die chaos team, are here to say that Mark has something to tell you."

Everyone looks at him.

Mark's ears are the color of emergency sirens.

He clears his throat. Then again. Then a third time like he's buffering.

"Okay," he says quietly, eyes fixed on the table, "uh. So... I like you."

The table goes still.

Mark's hand is gripping the edge of his tray like he's afraid it might levitate.

"I like you," he repeats, louder this time. "Like... like-like. And I've been trying to say it, but I kept…well. Failing."

My brain stops working for a solid three seconds.

"Oh," I say. "Wow."

"Sorry," Mark says quickly. "You don't have to say anything. I just—uh—I wanted you to know. Before Jaemin started handing out flyers or something."

"I did have a flyer draft," Jaemin mutters.

"Mark," I interrupt, turning to him fully. "You... like me?"

He nods, still refusing to look up.

I glance at Jeno, then Haechan, then Jaemin, who gives me a massive do it, coward look.

And I say, "Well. That's good. Because I like-like you too."

Mark stills.

The boys collectively gasp like they just witnessed the moon land on Earth.

"You do?" Mark asks, eyes wide.

"Yeah. I mean, it wasn't the sandwich sharing. But it helped."

He laughs nervously and relieved and still in shock.

"So, um," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Would you maybe want to... go out? With me? Like not just sit at lunch out. Like real out. A date."

I grin. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Mark exhales the biggest breath of his life.

Jaemin throws a fry in the air like a confetti cannon. "YES. THANK YOU."

"We did it," Haechan whispers dramatically.

Jeno fist bumps himself. "God's strongest soldiers."

Mark and I just sit there, trying to pretend we're not smiling like idiots while our friends collectively implode in the background.

And for once, I don't try to deflect with a joke. Because maybe I don't need to.

「 🕷️masterlist🕷️ 」

#mark lee #k films #neocity-net #mark lee fluff #spidermark #nct mark #spider man au #kpop oneshots

49 notes · View notes

devilish-cherry · 3 months ago

Note

i love your MWMS fic, it’s so lighthearted and cute and funny 😭 i saw you wrote a story that isn’t canon to MWMS but still in that setting for Nanami- can we get something for Choso or any other character? I can’t imagine a scenario, though, because the Nanami one just made sense, yk? Him helping the barista out and teaching them things, can’t imagine how the others would be as useful 🤭🤭😭

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ pure crack with fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ set in minimum wage, maximum suffering

Choso takes romantic advice from Yuji.

This is a mistake.

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: first of all, thank you so much!! i’m so happy you’re enjoying mwms—lighthearted chaos is exactly what i was going for, so i’m glad it’s hitting the mark!! and second—YES, i absolutely had to do a mwms side story for choso. it was inevitable. 😈

just like the nanami one, this isn’t canon to the main fic! think of it as a fun little “what if” scenario/alternate timeline. the main story remains completely unchanged. you don’t need to have read mwms to read this! hope you enjoy!! 🖤

It starts with a perfectly normal day at the café.

Which is to say, everything is a mess, you’re severely underpaid, you’re contemplating the legal gray area of unpaid breaks, and you’re internally debating whether you can sue your manager for emotional distress.

Yuji and his quiet, brooding older brother have been sitting at their usual corner table for a while now. Yuji’s been enthusiastically explaining something to Choso for the past ten minutes, and Choso has been nodding along, looking deeply concentrated like he’s trying to solve a math problem with no numbers.

You don’t think much of it. This is normal. Choso always looks like he’s staring into the abyss, and the abyss is just slightly out of focus.

You’re in the middle of making someone’s overly complicated coffee order when you feel a presence. Not the normal kind of “someone’s standing near you” presence. The kind where you just know that when you turn around, it’s going to be weird.

And you are correct.

Choso is standing at the counter. Staring.

Not in his usual “processing the weight of existence” way. No, this is something different. Something focused. Intense. Maybe even… nervous?

Which is terrifying, because what could Choso possibly have to be nervous about? He is a six-foot-tall, pigtailed enigma with the emotional processing skills of a Victorian child who was locked in an attic for too long.

"Hey, Choso," you greet, outwardly polite despite already bracing yourself. "Need something?"

He blinks at you, his expression still unreadable. His gaze pierces through your soul like he’s about to say something deeply profound.

Then, in the most serious voice known to mankind, he speaks:

"Forgive me my weakness, but I don't know why. Without you, it's hard to survive. Because every time we touch, I get this feeling."

Your brain buffers like a 2008 YouTube video on dial-up internet.

"...Excuse me?"

Choso does not elaborate. He just stares. As if those words should have conveyed everything.

Behind him, Yuji is at their table, looking like he’s about two seconds away from exploding with laughter. That’s when it clicks.

This is his fault.

"Is this a bit?" you ask, voice deadpan, still trying to piece together what kind of avant-garde performance art you’re being subjected to.

Choso shakes his head, still dead serious. "No. This is romance."

Oh.

Well, okay.

That was not what you were expecting.

You flick your gaze to Yuji again, who is gesturing wildly behind Choso like an unhelpful stage director, his hands saying Just roll with it!

You sigh. "Alright. Did you… want to order something, or are you just going to serenade me at my place of work?"

"I wish to express my feelings," Choso says, his voice so somber you’d think he was making a funeral announcement.

Then, before you can mentally prepare, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of his sleeve.

"I’d catch a grenade for you… throw my hand on a blade for you… I’d jump in front of a train for you…"

Your lips press into a thin line.

"Choso."

He pauses, tilting his head.

"Yes?"

"You do realize that song is about an extremely toxic and one-sided relationship, right?"

Choso looks down at his paper. His brows furrow.

"...I see."

There is a long, excruciating pause where he seems to be genuinely reevaluating his entire approach. Then, with all the solemnity of a man about to make a life-altering decision, he reaches into his sleeve again and pulls out a second crumpled piece of paper.

Oh no.

"You are… my fire."

"Choso, please."

"The one… desire—"

"No."

But Choso is committed to the bit—or rather, he is tragically serious about whatever this is. His face remains completely neutral as he powers through the lyrics of I Want It That Way with the same energy someone would recite their wedding vows.

You inhale sharply. "I’m begging you to consider alternative methods of communication."

Choso finally stops. He looks at you, then down at his notes. "...I see. You are unimpressed by just words alone."

Oh god. That is not what you meant.

Before you can clarify, before you can so much as process the surreal series of events unfolding before you, Choso does something deeply, deeply horrifying.

He gets down on one knee.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. You feel yourself ascending. Somewhere in the distance, Yuji screeches like a dying seagull.

Choso, with the most intense expression you have ever seen on another human face, grabs your hand. His grip is warm and firm, and suddenly you are hyperaware of how much bigger his hands are than yours. He’s staring at you like a man about to make a life-or-death declaration.

And then—

"Every night in my dreams… I see you, I feel you…"

Oh. Oh no.

"That is how I know you go on—"

"Choso." Your voice comes out strangled.

He does not stop.

"Far across the distance—"

"Choso, please."

He finally pauses, his brow furrowing in slight confusion. "Do these words and actions not move you?"

"I—move me?" You don’t even know how to respond to that. "Choso, what is happening right now?"

Choso stands up again, still holding your hand. You feel like you’re in some kind of fever dream.

"Yuji said music conveys feelings," he explains. "I do not have experience with romance, but I have strong feelings. I wish to express them properly."

Yuji, who is now doubled over in laughter, gives you a shaky thumbs-up.

Your eye twitches. "And he specifically told you to quote love songs at me?"

"Yes." Choso nods gravely. "I also listened to his playlist."

You immediately fix Yuji with the most withering glare you can muster.

Yuji grins sheepishly. "Look, in my defense, I didn’t think he’d take it this literally—"

"You are both on thin ice," you say flatly.

Choso suddenly steps closer, and you find yourself automatically stepping back until your back hits the counter. He looks at you with deep, genuine sincerity.

"I do not fully understand these feelings," he admits, his voice quiet but certain. "But when I see you, I feel warmth. And when I think of you, I feel light. And I wish to be near you, always."

Your brain ceases functioning.

You open your mouth, then close it.

Then you clear your throat, because there is absolutely no reason for your heart to be doing whatever it’s doing right now. Absolutely none.

"...You don’t need song lyrics for that," you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you.

Choso considers this. Then, with alarming decisiveness, he nods and pulls out his phone.

Yuji, recognizing the immediate threat, lunges. "WAIT, NO—"

But it’s too late.

Choso successfully navigates to his playlist. And the instant you hear the first note of Careless Whisper, your instincts take over, and you slap your hand over the speaker like your life depends on it.

"This conversation is over," you declare.

Choso looks at you, then at the phone, then back at you. "...Was this not romantic?"

You sigh deeply. "Choso, I don’t need grand gestures or song lyrics. Just… be yourself, alright?"

For some reason, this makes him freeze. Like you just spoke the most baffling sentence in the universe. "Be… myself?"

"Yeah." You cross your arms, trying to ignore the way your face is heating up. "I like you just fine when you’re not making me feel like I’m in a cursed karaoke session."

Choso processes this for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiles. It’s small, a little shy, but it softens his entire face. It’s… dangerously cute.

"...Understood."

You exhale. Thank god.

Then he reaches for his phone again.

"But I should still play—"

"Choso, I swear to god—"

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #choso kamo #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #choso x reader #jujutsu kaisen crack #jujutsu kaisen fluff #jujutsu kaisen imagines #choso x you #choso x y/n

157 notes · View notes