𝐧𝐢𝐚 (نيا) · eighteen · black · she / her · the dream satoru keeps replaying ‹𝟹
—he says her name like he’s still caught between sleep and sunrise—voice low, soft, impossibly fond. she lingers in his thoughts long after morning, sugar-sweet like perfume on the air. and one thing that’s certain is,
she’s the love that follows him into daylight—the 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 he never lets go of.
—𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋. . .ᐟ
rem archive | do not wake the dream | in my R.E.M.
hi girlies, i’ll try to keep this short? and sweet, but i wanted to be honest with you all.
i will not be active for a couple of months due to work overload, exam stress, social life, family issues and just life piling up. when i first started this blog, it was supposed to an outlet for me to have fun, to find a small community where i relate to people who just get it and it truly has been that. but lately, it’s started to feel more like an obligation, and that was never what i wanted it to become.
please know this isn’t me saying i regret starting this blog—i could nevveer. this space, and the people here, mean more to me than i can properly put into words. i just don’t have the energy or time right now to keep it alive the way it deserves, and i don’t want to force something that once felt so natural.
honestly, i did think about deactivating, but that felt too harsh, so i may archive it and either start fresh or revamp it since it feels a little cluttered to me. this will probably be around august (results day), once i’m finally done with exams and everything else i need to get through. i will keep writing. all the overdue fics will be released—either here or on a new account because i've gatekeeped them for too long..
i love you all so much. every moot, every interaction, every bit of support—you’ve meant more to me than i can properly put into words. i’m tearing up writing this omfg, the thought of being away from you guys hurts more than i thought it would. thank you for being here, for understanding, and for making this space feel like home. i’ll miss you more than you know. i'll see u later.
RULES: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous and tag as many people as you have WIPs. People send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then you post a snippet or tell them something about it.
ty for the tag @aburningconstellation i appreciate it <33
Mags my sweet summer flower......my wips........... don't have names................................... usually........................................ they're just there with the pairing and the outline/draft hanging............ with their buddies 🥺
but I have a snippet that fishlovers may like!!
@crescent-canine @nevergreen24 @lunarscosmos @twitone @clownerylynn @willowedlovetrees let's see how a few moots treat their wips! probably better than me.
soooo rn i’m just working on finishing all my requests (i’m SO close to being done yippee), and then i have to tackle my Valentine’s Day event. that’ll keep me busy for a bit. but my actual wips list is as follows:
choso’s human education series part three
tear you apart (choso x reader multi chapter fic; looking to get chapter one of this out in march) here’s a little sneak peek at that fic
i know the end (suguru x reader multi chapter fic)
starf*cker (satoru x reader multi chapter fic)
i have an idea for choso’s human education series, but the rest of my wips are all outlined by chapter already. i just have to. y’know. write them. i just hope my semester isn’t too chaotic that it derails my plans, but there will be more info about the longer series coming sooonnn
no pressure tags: @getopied @stellarixe @suguruss1ut @sinsandgloss @sixxels
nopeee, i have an account but i don’t post my fics on there. i’m too scared im gonna get hit by the curse like this year is tewww important for me to be playing around
that would give me an eargasm no joke. i would keep u in a butterfly bed and stroke ur wings to soothe u to sleep, trust u will get five star treatment from urs truly
niaaa please don't forget about the boxer gojo x ballerina reader :((( im genuinely a fan of your work and that fic is a gem!!!
also, love uuu 🫶🫶🫶
i’m NOOTTT I SWEAR. wait i’m a freaking liar omds.. anyway anyway, thank u for being here and loving my work, means the world to me, love u 🥹 this is so cute i might just push the schedule to tmrw instead of saturday …
GURL PLSSSSSSS make pt 2 to little feline omg I loved that fic sb 💔 unless u alr did it but my dumbass couldn’t find it 🥀 but if not and ur planning to make one pls make sure gojo keeps his word to what he would do to us 🥺🥺🥺🫰
all jokes aside ur writing is fire muah 💋 💗💗
girl iddfkkk, that hasn’t been on my mind recently but i think i might make a part two. maybe. it depends on how i’m feeling tbh 😥 i’ll lowk consider it but don’t come fo me when i don’t !! and thank u girlie !🫶🏿🫶🏿🫶🏿
i absolutely loved bruised knuckles!!! so excited for the next chapter
i swr i’m not forgetting about them two and thank uu!! u guys won’t let me be free unless i released bruised knuckles and pointe shoes, i’ll finish the chapter when i’m free so probs saturday evening .. eesh
Nia, I love you, I literally love you. I really can't stop reading your fics; they're so perfectly written in every sense of the word. I love each and every one of them. I remember the first one I read was "Opposites Attract," and from that moment on, I was literally obsessed with your writing style and your stories. I love you so much, and please don't explode or stop writing. (I'm still crying over Love Is The Most Twisted Curse Of Theme All)
i’m cheesing… thank you 🥹 this is so incredibly sweet, i’m honestly a little overwhelmed in the best way. knowing opposites attract was your first and that you’ve stuck with my writing since then makes me feel so lucky. and i love that one hands downn, it makes me so warm and then i get so confused bc III wrote it ?? like it came from my mind ?? anyway anyway
i’m really grateful you connect with my stories the way you do—that kind of love and care from a reader is EVERYTHING to me. and dw, i’m not exploding or stopping anytime soon (i’m scarily active) i’ll keep writing as long as i can until i get bored—which is never. i love you more, no one can compete with how much love i can give and frick i love u sm
for someone who's supposed to be the strongest sorcerer alive, who carries himself with confidence and grace in battle, who can move with deadly precision when he wants to—his default state is a disaster. he slouches like his spine has given up on life. drapes himself across furniture like he's actively trying to develop chronic back problems.
you're sitting on the couch scrolling on your phone mindlessly when you hear it—the telltale sound of satoru settling into his desk chair across the room. you don't even have to look to know his posture is already terrible. it's like a sixth sense you've developed after months of dating him.
sure enough, when you glance over the top of your phone, he's curved over his laptop like a question mark, his spine forming a shape that would make chiropractors sob. his neck is craned forward at an angle that looks actively painful, shoulders rolled in so far they're practically meeting in the middle of his chest, his whole upper body hunched over the glowing screen. he looks like he's trying to merge with his keyboard, to become one with the technology.
you set down your phone down with a sigh, the case creating a small thudding sound. "satoru."
"mmm?" he doesn't look up, still focused on whatever he's doing, fingers flying across the keyboard. he's completely oblivious to the fact that he looks like he's trying to fold himself in half, like his body has forgotten it's supposed to have bones and structure.
you get up, your footsteps silent on the hardwood floor as you cross the room. without warning, without giving him a chance to correct himself first, you slap your hand firmly against his upper back.
the sound echoes in the quiet room—a sharp crack of palm against the expensive fabric of his shirt.
"ow!" he jolts upright immediately, spine straightening on reflex like someone's yanked a string attached to the top of his head. his hand flies back to rub the spot you hit, his fingers pressing against the area even through his shirt. "what was that for?"
his voice is pitched with genuine surprise, and when he twists in his chair to look at you, his blue eyes are wide and affronted. his hair is slightly mussed from the sudden movement, falling into his face in that effortlessly attractive way that would be annoying if it wasn't so completely him.
"your posture is terrible. you're going to permanently damage your spine." you cross your arms over your chest, giving him your best stern look—the one you've perfected over months of this exact scenario. the one that never actually works but you do it anyway. "what if you get a hunchback that stays forever? stop doing that."
he turns in his chair to face you fully, and despite having just been corrected, there's a bright grin spreading across his face—that stupid, charming grin that means he's about to be difficult. his eyes are practically sparkling with mischief, crinkling at the corners in the way that usually means trouble.
"theeeeen i'll be your hunchback of notre dame!!"
the enthusiasm in his voice is almost aggressive, like he's been waiting for this exact moment, this exact opportunity to make this exact reference.
"that's not—that's not something to aspire to—"
"i'll ring bells for you!" he's fully committed to this bit, standing up from his chair with theatrical flair. he hunches over dramatically, curving his spine into an exaggerated arch, one eye squinted shut, one shoulder hiked up higher than the other. he starts shuffling around like quasimodo, his movements jerky and awkward, hands curled into claws. "i'll sing! i'll be tragically devoted! you'll be my esmeralda!"
"'why was i not made of stone like thee?'" he quotes dramatically, his voice dropping as he reaches for you with gnarled hands, fingers crooked like claws. "see? it's romantic. very tragic and romantic. you'll love me anyway because of my inner beauty!"
"oh my god, stop." you say but you're fighting a smile because he's so stupid, doing imaginary bell-ringing motions now that are way too enthusiastic, his arms swinging in wide arcs.
"'why was i not made of stone like thee?'" he quotes dramatically, still hunched over, reaching for you with gnarled hands like he's in a stage production. "see? it's romantic. very tragic and romantic."
"it's tragic that you think this is helping your case." you push him back toward his chair with both hands planted firmly on his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the thin fabric, the steady beat of his heart under your palms. "sit down properly. shoulders back."
"yes ma'am." he sits, making a show of straightening his spine with exaggerated precision, rolling his shoulders back like a soldier at attention, chest puffing out slightly. he lifts his chin, straightens his neck, plants his feet flat on the floor. the whole performance is clearly mocking you, but atleast his posture is temporarily correct. "better?"
he looks up at you with those impossibly blue eyes, blinking innocently like he's a student waiting for teacher approval.
"much better. now stay like that."
"you got it, baby." he gives you a thumbs up, the gesture crisp and precise, before turning back to his laptop with perfect posture that you know—you absolutely know—won't last.
you return to the couch, your footsteps quiet, satisfied for now. you pick up your phone again, settling back into the cushions, finding the app you were on before.
it lasts approximately. . . four minutes.
you check. you actually check the time on your phone because you've started keeping track of these things, this pattern you've noticed. four minutes and thirty-seven seconds, to be exact.
when you glance over again, he's already slouching. that same terrible curve to his spine has returned like it never left, his neck craned forward, shoulders rolled in. it's like watching a time-lapse of a building collapsing in slow motion, his body gradually sinking back into its natural disaster state.
you get up again, your phone falling forgotten onto the couch cushions.
the slap to his back is harder this time, your palm connecting with more force, the sound sharper and louder.
"ow! again?!" as he's straightening up, twisting in his chair to grin at you over his shoulder with zero remorse, zero shame, his eyes bright with barely suppressed laughter. "you're very aggressive about this. it's kind of hot."
"it's going to be less hot when you have chronic pain and can't stand up straight." you press your palm between his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles there beneath your hand—the tension of someone who spends way too much time in terrible positions. "you're going to thank me when you're fifty and don't have back problems."
"i'm going to thank you now." he catches your hand before you can pull away, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with gentle security. his touch is warm, his grip firm but not tight, and he brings your hand around to press a kiss to your palm with dramatic sincerity. "my beautiful, violent girlfriend who cares about my spinal health. very sexy. very touching. the dream woman, really."
"i'm serious, satoru. this is bad for you."
"i know, i know." he pulls you around to sit on his lap without warning, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease, guiding you down. his arms wrap around you securely, holding you against his chest like it's the most natural thing in the world. "but slouching is comfortable. and i've been doing it for years. pretty sure my spine has accepted its fate. we've come to an understanding, my spine and i. we've negotiated terms."
"your spine is twenty-eight years old. it hasn't accepted anything. you're just lazy." you poke his chest accusingly, your finger pressing into firm muscle. "sit up straight."
"i am sitting up straight."
"you're curved like a shrimp."
"a very handsome shrimp." he adjusts slightly, straightening his back with visible effort, pulling you closer so you're pressed more firmly against his chest. you can feel the shift in his posture, the way his spine aligns, the way his breathing changes when he's actually sitting correctly. "there. happy now? satisfied with my vertebrae arrangement?"
"thrilled." you narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, turning your head to catch his gaze. his face is close enough that you can see the individual shades of blue in his eyes, can count his ridiculously long white lashes. "don't slouch the second i get up."
"wouldn't dream of it." but there's something in his voice, something in the way his lips are twitching, that tells you he absolutely would dream of it. that he's probably already planning it.
he absolutely does dream of it. in fact, you're starting to suspect he does it on purpose now. the pattern is too consistent, too deliberate. he straightens when you correct him, maintains it just long enough for you to relax and return to your book, then immediately melts back into his natural disaster state. it's like clockwork. like he's testing you. like this is a game he's playing that you didn't know had rules.
the next day proves your theory.
you're in the kitchen making tea, the sweet smell filling the apartment as the kettle gurgles and hisses. morning light streams through the windows, golden and warm. you're waiting for the kettle to finish when you see him—sprawled on the couch in a position that looks physically impossible.
he's half-sliding off the cushions, defying gravity in a way that should require special effects. his neck is bent at an angle that can not be comfortable, pressed against the arm of the couch. his spine is twisted like a pretzel someone gave up on halfway through folding, his body contorted in a way that makes you wince just looking at it. one leg is draped over the back of the couch, the other stretched out across the cushions. one arm dangles toward the floor, his phone held loosely in his hand.
you don't even say anything this time. don't give him the warning, the chance to correct himself first. just walk over, your bare feet silent on the floor, coffee forgotten, and slap his back.
"ow! i wasn't even doing anything!"
"your posture is doing something. something terrible. something that should be illegal in at least seventeen countries." you grab his shirt and physically pull him upright, hauling him into a sitting position with more force than strictly necessary. his body resists for a moment, like it's forgotten how to sit properly, before he cooperates. "sit like a human being."
"this is how humans sit. m' sitting exactly like a human. a comfortable human who's embracing his natural form." he blinks up at you, his hair completely mussed, sticking up in several directions. there's a crease on his cheek from the couch fabric, and he looks rumpled and completely unrepentant.
"humans with functioning spines sit with their backs against the backrest. like this." you demonstrate, sitting properly on the couch, spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded in your lap like you're posing for a portrait.
he mimics your position with exaggerated precision, moving with theatrical slowness. spine straight as a ruler, shoulders pulled back so far they're almost touching. hands folded in his lap like a school child waiting for the teacher to call on them. his expression is mockingly serious, lips pressed together, eyes wide and innocent. "like this? am i doing it right, teacher? should i raise my hand before speaking? should i ask permission to use the restroom?"
"don't be a brat."
"too late. already a brat. born this way. it's genetic. in my dna. my ancestors were all brats." he maintains the position, looking immensely proud of himself like he's accomplished something remarkable, like he deserves a medal for sitting correctly. "look at me. perfect posture. you should take a picture. document this rare occurrence for posterity. frame it. show our grandchildren."
"it would be less rare if you actually tried—"
the moment you turn away to grab your tea from the kitchen counter, you hear it—the soft sound of fabric shifting, the couch cushions compressing differently, the telltale signs of his posture collapsing.
when you look back over your shoulder, mug halfway to your lips, he's already sliding down into a slouch, his spine curving, his body sinking into the cushions. he's grinning at you with obvious delight in being caught, his eyes sparkling with mischief like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"satoru gojo, i swear to god—"
"what? i'm comfortable! this is my natural state!" a giggle escapes from him, the sound bright and unrestrained, clearly enjoying your frustration way too much. "you can't fight nature, baby. i'm a natural sloucher. it's genetic. in my dna. my ancestors were all slouchers. there's probably a slouching gene. scientists are studying it."
"it's not genetic. you're just being difficult." you set down your coffee with more force than necessary and slap his back again, harder this time, and he yelps dramatically.
"abuse! i'm being abused in my own home! someone call someone! i don't know who, but call them! the slouching police! the posture patrol!" he clutches his chest, looking at you with wounded eyes that are completely ruined by the grin he can't suppress.
"you're being corrected. there's a difference." you physically adjust him, both hands on his shoulders now, pushing them back with firm pressure. you can feel the resistance in his muscles, the way his body wants to curve forward. you press between his shoulder blades, using your palm to straighten his spine like you're trying to manually reset him to factory settings. "there. that's proper posture. doesn't it feel better?"
"feels unnatural. foreign. like i'm wearing someone else's spine. like i stole a spine from someone with good posture habits and it's rejecting me." he shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders trying to roll forward against your hands. "my body is confused. it doesn't recognize this position. it thinks we're in danger."
"oh my god." you can't help but roll your eyes at him but he looks at you with those wide blue eyes, maintaining perfect posture under your hands but acting like it's torture. his expression is so earnest, so genuinely distressed about sitting correctly, that it's almost convincing.
"can i slouch if i promise to do it elegantly? with style and grace?"
"no."
"what if i only slouch a little bit? like a modest slouch. a tasteful slouch. a slouch that implies good breeding and proper upbringing."
"no."
"what if—"
you kiss him to shut him up, leaning down to press your lips against his, and his posture immediately deteriorates as he melts into it. his spine curves as he reaches for you, shoulders rolling forward as his arms come up to pull you closer. he slouches back into the couch cushions with you, dragging you down with him like gravity has suddenly increased tenfold. his hands slide into your hair, cupping the back of your head, and he kisses you like this is what he's been waiting for all morning.
"see?" you say against his lips when you pull back slightly, breathless. "you can't even maintain it for thirty seconds."
"i got distracted. you're very distracting." his hands slide down to your waist, settling there with clear intent to keep you in place, his fingers spreading across your lower back. "hard to focus on posture when you're kissing me. my brain can only process one thing at a time and you're much more interesting than my spine. much more important. infinitely more compelling."
"that's not an excuse—"
"it's a very good excuse, actually. medical condition. girlfriend-induced posture collapse. very serious. probably fatal. should probably study it more. conduct extensive research." he grins against your neck, his lips brushing your skin as he speaks, and you can feel the curve of his smile. "lots of kissing involved. very thorough investigation required."
you pull back to look at him properly, and he's smiling like an idiot, spine curved dramatically, shoulders rolled so far forward they're almost to his ears, the absolute picture of terrible posture and zero remorse. and despite your frustration, despite knowing this is a losing battle you'll fight, you can't help but smile.
"you're never going to fix this, are you?"
"probably not." he pulls you closer, shameless in his confession, his arms wrapping around you more securely. "but you're going to keep trying anyway, aren't you? because you love me. because you care. because somewhere deep down, you find this endearing."
"someone has to care about your spine since you clearly don't."
"and i appreciate that. i do. very touching. very romantic, baby." he nuzzles into your neck, his terrible posture somehow making him the perfect height for it, his face fitting perfectly into the curve of your shoulder. "but also, i slouch because it annoys you. and you're cute when you're annoyed. you get this little wrinkle—" he reaches up to touch between your eyebrows, his fingertip gentle. "right here. and your mouth does this thing. and your voice gets all stern and concerned. it's adorable."
you pull back to stare at him, comprehension finally clicking in like jigsaws falling into place. "you're doing this on purpose?"
"not entirely. like maybe seventy percent on purpose." his grin is completely unrepentant, proud even, like he's just revealed a master plan. "the other thirty percent is genuine spine weakness and years of terrible habits that are probably irreversible at this point. but mostly—yeah. mostly i like watching you get all stern and worried about my health. it's adorable. you care so much. it's very sweet. very touching. makes me feel loved."
"i'm actually going to kill you."
"see? adorable. threatening murder because you care. because you love me." he catches your hand before you can slap his back again, his fingers wrapping around your wrist with gentle firmness. he brings your hand to his lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles one by one, his eyes never leaving yours. "my sexy, crazy girlfriend who attacks me for my own good. who hits me because she loves me. who cares about my spine more than i ever will."
"i don't attack you—"
"you slapped me four times today. and it's only noon. that's a rate of one slap every three hours. very consistent. very dedicated."
"because you keep slouching!"
"and you keep caring. it's a whole cycle. very romantic. very us. a beautiful dance we do." he fully slouches across the couch, draped across the couch with you on top of him, his body curved and comfortable and completely wrong. he looks entirely too pleased with himself, like this is exactly where he wants to be. "face it, baby. you're stuck with me and my terrible posture. might as well accept it. make peace with it. maybe light some candles for my spine's funeral because it died years ago."
"i'm going to buy you a back brace."
"kinky."
"satoru!"
"what? you're the one who brought up restraints. you're the one who wants to strap me into supportive devices." his grin is wicked, his eyes bright with mischief. "i'm just following your lead, sweet girl. very open-minded of me, really. very progressive."
you slap his chest this time, your palm connecting with firm muscle, and he just laughs. the sound rumbles through both of you, deep and genuine, vibrating in his chest under your hand. his arms tighten around your waist like he's afraid you'll escape, like he needs to keep you exactly where you are.
"okay, okay. i'll try. i'll make a genuine effort to improve my posture." he straightens slightly, just enough to prove he can when he wants to, his spine aligning properly for a brief moment. "starting tomorrow. tonight i'm embracing my hunchback destiny. becoming one with the slouch. achieving slouch enlightenment."
"that's not what was supposed to happen?? you're impossible."
"i'm in love." he presses a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there, warm and soft. despite his terrible posture, despite the fact that he's definitely doing this partially to annoy you, his voice goes soft, genuine in a way that makes your chest tight.
"with a girl who hits me when i slouch because she doesn't want me to have back problems in twenty years. who cares about my spine more than i do. who puts up with me being annoying on purpose and still hasn't murdered me yet. who loves me enough to worry about my future joint health."
your chest feels warm despite your exasperation, affection blooming despite your frustration. "you're really doing this on purpose?"
"not all the time. sometimes i genuinely forget. sometimes my spine just naturally collapses because it's given up on life." he adjusts you on his lap, his posture somehow getting even worse, sinking lower into the couch until he's practically horizontal. "but sometimes—yeah. sometimes i slouch just to see how long it takes you to notice. current record is forty-seven seconds. personal best. very proud of that one."
"you're keeping track?"
"i'm thorough. dedicated to my craft of being annoying." he's clearly proud of this, his voice taking on that quality it gets when he's pleased with himself. "and my craft is annoying you in small, affectionate ways that prove you care about me. it's very scientific. very well-researched. i have data. i could make charts."
"i could just stop correcting you."
"you won't." he sounds absolutely certain, like it's a fundamental law of the universe, like it's as inevitable as gravity. his voice is confident, knowing. "because you love me. and because somewhere deep down, past all the concern and the threats and the violence, you find my terrible posture endearing. admit it."
"i don't find it endearing. i find it medically concerning and potentially hazardous to your long-term health."
"same thing." he straightens up without prompting, pulling you properly into his lap with his spine actually aligned correctly for once. you can feel the difference immediately—the way his shoulders sit where they're supposed to, the way this position actually supports your weight better. "there. better? happy? should i hold this for five minutes like last time? time me. make it official."
"very happy." you settle against his chest properly, and in this position, with his posture actually correct, you can hear his heartbeat clearly. it's steady and strong, slightly elevated from the kissing, from having you in his lap. "see? doesn't this feel better?"
"feels different." his chin rests on top of your head, fitting there perfectly, his arms secure around you. you can feel him breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against your back. "but i'll admit it's not terrible. my back muscles are screaming in confusion but in like a good way. like they're remembering they have a purpose. that they're supposed to do something other than facilitate slouching."
"progress."
"don't get used to it. i'll be slouching again in five minutes. maybe three. definitely before the end of this conversation."
"i know." and you do know. know that this is a battle you'll fight every single day for the rest of your relationship, however long that lasts. know that his posture is probably permanent at this point, ingrained after years of terrible habits and willful stubbornness. know that this is just who he is—someone who slouches defiantly and grins when you correct him.
but you also know you'll keep correcting him. keep slapping his back when he curves like a question mark. keep being his personal posture police even though it's clearly a losing battle, even though he's probably never going to change, even though he does it partly on purpose just to see what you'll do.
because that's what you do when you love someone. you care about the small things, the annoying things, the things they do that drive you absolutely crazy but somehow also make you love them more. you worry about them even when they won't worry about themselves. you try to protect them from future problems even when they're perfectly content to ignore those problems entirely.
even if that thing is having the posture of a cooked spaghetti noodle and doing it partly on purpose to annoy you and get your attention.
"hey," he says quietly, still maintaining his proper posture like it's taking active concentration, like it's an effort. "thank you. for caring. even when i'm being difficult about it. especially when i'm being difficult about it."
"you're always difficult about it."
"exactly. which makes your patience very impressive. very loving. borderline saintly, actually. you should be nominated for an award. girlfriend of the year. decade, even." he presses a kiss to the top of your head, his lips warm against your hair.
"i'll try to be better about it. for real this time. maybe sixty percent better instead of the zero percent i've been achieving so far. that's like a d-minus. barely passing but still technically passing."
"sixty percent would be an improvement."
"that's the spirit. low expectations. very healthy for our relationship. very realistic." his arms tighten around you, holding you closer, and when you tilt your head back to look at him, his expression is soft. genuine. open in a way it usually isn't, his eyes warm and fond. "i love you. even when you hit me. especially when you hit me because it means you care. because it means you're thinking about me. because it means you love me enough to worry."
"i love you too. even with your terrible posture. even though you do it on purpose to annoy me."
"my terrible posture that's definitely permanent at this point? that's probably irreversible? that will likely follow me to my grave?"
"that's definitely permanent at this point," you confirm with a sigh of acceptance, of resignation to your fate.
his laugh shakes through both of you, deep and warm and completely genuine. and even though his posture is probably already starting to deteriorate again—you can feel him slowly sinking back into his natural slouch, his spine gradually curving, his shoulders beginning to roll forward—even though you'll definitely be slapping his back at least three more times before the day is over, probably more, you can't bring yourself to care at this point.
this is just how it is. how it'll always be. your routine, your dynamic, your way of loving each other.
you correcting his posture with increasingly firm slaps to his back. him slouching anyway, sometimes on purpose just to see your reaction, just to see how long it takes you to notice, just to provoke that concerned look he apparently finds so endearing.
both of you pretending it's a serious health issue when really it's just another way of saying "i love you." just another part of being together, being in this relationship, being in love with someone who's annoying on purpose and completely unashamed about it.
even if his spine is probably going to look like a question mark by the time he's forty. even if you'll be proven right years down the line when the chronic pain sets in and he wishes he'd listened. even if this is a battle you'll never win, a fight that will continue for as long as you're together.
im saying this once and once only, could u guys please put ur ages in ur bio? i know some of u have made new accounts so i understand forgetting/not knowing to put ur age but i just dont want a 12 year old lurking on my account or a grown man as in pushing 50. idm minors but under 13 is a biigg no.
i can literally see u guys and i’m giving the benefit of the doubt. u guys are naawwwt slick 🌚
i am such a dry texter.. like i swear i’ve replied to a comment and then a couple days later, i haven’t said anything?? i think i’m replying mentally in my head and then forgetting to type it out, i swear i’m not ignoring you on purpose 🙏🏿🙏🏿🙏🏿
