rosie

childe and zhongli are too different. they both like you - they both know the other likes you - they just can't figure it out. childe confesses first, of course. immediately, actually. repeatedly. zhongli never says it out loud, but everyone knows with the way he watches you, the way he softens when you enter the room.

it quickly becomes a game of one upping the other with increasingly outrageous gifts and actions.

it's starts simple - childe buys you flowers one evening, and the next day zhongli sends you a larger bouquet. and then all of the sudden you have a pure-bread horse, a summer home in natlan, and a million mora.

childe starts constantly trying to drag you on adventures, holding your hand tight as he practically sprints through the city to get to the outskirts - away from anywhere zhongli might find you.

in contrast, zhongli takes you out to tea or spends hours in the library reading either to or with you. he likes when you read the same book, with you hooking your chin over his shoulder to see the page - unfortunately, childe almost always finds you two when you're alone.

he'll walk into the room all casual - "hey, [name], you busy -" and then pause when he sees zhongli with an audible, "oh. it's you .." of course, he'd never miss the chance to sneer at zhongli over your shoulder as he guides you away.

in private, childe often challenges zhongli to a duel for you affection, to which zhongli vehemently denies.

"you know, [name]," childe says one day, walking you down the street with one reluctant zhongli on your other side, "if we went out, we'd probably be unstoppable. a sort of power couple. world-domination, and all of that."

he pauses to point at zhongli, "what would you even do with this old guy? read a dictionary and quiz each other about it? talk about boring .."

"the choice is, of course, yours." zhongli pipes up, his voice smooth as fine wine.

"coward." childe grits out.

"dolt." zhongli returns easily.

if you choose to go out with childe, he'll brag about it for the rest of his life. zhongli and childe remain friends, but the poor old dragon won't go a day without hearing about your relationship.

"yeah, we're doing pretty great. thinking about getting married, actually, can you believe it?" he says, casually sifting through a shop's ring collection.

if you'd rather go out with zhongli, he's not quite as much of a poor winner. childe may complain about it for months, but zhongli is polite enough to not rub anything in his face. instead, he may ask childe for advice where he feels inexperienced.

"what do you think? would they prefer red or white roses?"

diluc & kaeya

two brothers who already fight about everything. and now, they have another thing to fight over - you! congratulations, you've made their rivalry ten times worse.

the moment kaeya realizes diluc, of all people, has a thing for you, he makes it his own personal source of entertainment. kaeya's new goal is to flirt with you the most when diluc is in the room.

he'll give you his best lines and suggestive looks - "you look positively ravishing tonight, [name]." "do you want to dance, [name]?" "should we go somewhere a little more .. private, [name]?"

only when he leaves does diluc finally come over, "he's used that line before," he tells you, handing you a glass of your favorite drink, "twice. maybe three times."

kaeya keeps track of your interactions with diluc, especially if diluc is getting flustered with you. he'll come up to you later, all smug, like "you should have seen his face. almost passed out, huh?"

it gets a little more complicated, though, when kaeya realizes you're actually someone he likes, and not just another way to irritate his brother.

kaeya starts constantly trying to get you alone. diluc starts constantly interrupting with several mundane tasks he 'needs help' with.

they are definitely the type two glare at each other when you turn your back, and then go back to smiling innocently when you look at them.

if you need help carrying something, they're both on it right away. kaeya can carry it. diluc can carry it. kaeya can carry you. diluc might 'carry' kaeya into the nearest horse trough.

"allow me, i insist." kaeya says, reaching for your bag.

"don't you have something to do for the knights? you are the calvary captain, or have you forgotten?" diluc retorts, smacking kaeya's hand away.

"oh, please, what calvary? they'll be fine without me while i help our dear friend. here, darling -"

"get lost."

"ouch, so cold."

you slip away while they start another catfight.

if you choose to go out with kaeya, neither he nor diluc will forget. diluc will keep giving you free drinks, but he charges kaeya extra when you're out together.

"if you need to get away from him .." diluc mumbles one evening, nodding to kaeya, "just let me know."

"excuse me, what are you saying to my partner -"

if you decide to date diluc, kaeya will back off - stop flirting -, but he teases you and diluc mercilessly. to the point where you both make it a point to avoid being alone with him.

"having fun with him, hm?" kaeya always says, "i always thought he was rather boring, growing up, but maybe that's just me. oh, well, let bygones be bygones, i suppose!"

alhaitham and kaveh.

you've turned their shared apartment into a war zone - to say the least. they already argued before, but once they met you, no dinner table has known peace. and the worst part is - they don't even realize they're arguing over you. not at first, at least.

you start to find them in the hall, near shouting at one another. and once they notice you, they both pause -

"oh. hello."

"good afternoon."

- before going right back to their screaming match.

they invite you over for dinner some nights, and it quickly becomes a competition. kaveh is cleaning, alhaitham is cooking, they're talking over each other at the table, at some point kaveh storms out, and you just sit there trying not to make things worse.

"how dramatic." alhaitham drawls, watching kaveh go before returning his attention to you, "have you finished the novel i lent you?"

kaveh, of course, falls first and falls harder. he starts buying you little gifts and sketching doodles of you next to his architecture work. he glows when you compliment him and sulks when you acknowledge alhaitham.

alhaitham himself is more subtle when he realizes. he wishes he didn't care, but he absolutely does. he definitely memorizes every little detail about you. if you mention wanting a book, it'll somehow appear in your apartment a few days later. if you're struggling with something, he'll provide a solution before you're done complaining.

the problem is that kaveh is trying very hard. alhaitham is not. kaveh will spend three days planning the perfect outing for you and him, and meanwhile, alhaitham will have won you over with a simple "i'm going to the market. you can come if you would like."

this is exceedingly frustrating for kaveh.

most days involve you spending your morning and afternoon with kaveh - he shows you his favorite sights in the city and buys (haggles) all the best food for you. and then, come evening, you sit with alhaitham and pour over your studies. he won't hover, but he'll point out any mistakes you make and offer to finish things for you if you grow weary.

they won't confess. not because they're nervous (well, partially), mostly because they both refuse to lose to the other. kaveh is planning the perfect setting. alhaitham is waiting for the most logical moment.

"[name]," kaveh pipes up over dinner one day, "are you free tomorrow? there's this new restaurant opening, and -"

"they're busy. we're studying." alhaitham interrupts cooly.

"they are?" kaveh asks.

"i am?" you ask, at the same time.

"life can't just be about studying!" kaveh slams his hands down on the table, making the silverware jump, "you need to see and experience things!"

"is that why you're failing your classes?"

if you want to date kaveh, he starts acting like he's just singlehandedly won the archon war. he brings it up in every argument like it's his secret weapon.

"well. [name] likes me, so .." he trails off, shrugging in that 'what can you do?' kinda way.

"remarkable." alhaitham scoffs, rolling his eyes, "is that your personality now?"

if you choose alhaitham, you doom all of kaveh's friends - they have to listen to his sulking for hours.

imagine this ; you kiss alhaitham hello, kaveh sees, sulks and walks out of the room, and you don't see him for the next 6 hours because he's telling everyone who will listen (which is close to nobody) about this 'horrible betrayal' and his 'fatal heartache'.

itto & wanderer.

oh, hello big and little. loud and quiet. nice and mean.

itto falls for you first. well, by first, i mean immediately. like, you smile at him and he's a goner. head over heels, that guy.

scaramouche doesn't fall for you - or doesn't realize he likes you - for a long time. and even then, it's not like he'll ever admit it. he'll just .. start forcibly pushing any other suitors away from you to keep you for himself. healthy coping mechanism.

itto will announce his crush to the entire nation - "oh, yeah, me and [name] go way back!" (you met three weeks ago) "we're practically inseparable!"

scaramouche would rather die. but it irritates him anyway, how itto acts like he has a claim on you. he doesn't understand what you see in itto - why you keep him around. he watched you laugh at one of itto's jokes and nearly went into psychosis because it didn't even make sense! it barely had a beginning, much less an end.

scaramouche knows he likes you. itto knows he likes you. scaramouche knows itto likes you. itto does NOT know scaramouche likes you.

itto genuinely likes scaramouche and thinks they're good pals - he doesn't think someone like scaramouche could ever be a threat. i mean, come on, he practically towers over the little guy!

so, itto's always trying to drag you and scaramouche out on adventures. it only works because all scaramouche wants to do is follow you around, and unfortunately, all itto wants to do is lead you around. they orbit you, to say the least.

"look at us!" itto exclaims, an arm slung around your shoulders and the other hand playfully jabbing at scaramouche's arm, "a couple of friends!"

"no." scaramouche says, slinking to your other side to try and drag you away.

"best friends!"

"no."

"family!"

"no!"

you might assume that scaramouche would verbally abuse itto. and, you're right. but itto is like a rubber ball. nothing sticks.

"stop bothering them." he tries one day, grasping your wrist to take you somewhere else. somewhere far away from itto, "you're like a fly."

"aw! thanks, buddy!"

"that wasn't a compliment."

that's not to say they don't both want to keep you for themselves.

like, itto might frown one day while walking with you and say, "that wanderer fella is kinda cold, huh? maybe we should just do something alone, today. just you and me, yeah?"

meanwhile, scaramouche will find you and say, "he's a loudmouthed dunce. you can do better."

if you choose to date itto, he is instantly the happiest man alive. it's always "my partner said -" this and "my partner thinks -" that.

scaramouche starts disappearing whenever itto enters a room, but he still lingers around you when you're alone. he doesn't badmouth itto as much anymore, but he won't ever stop shooting him dirty looks.

if you'd rather date scaramouche, he is so smug about it. not openly - that would require admitting he cares - but internally, he preens whenever you hold his hand or kiss his cheek in public, especially if itto is there to see it.

speaking of itto - he really, really tries to be supportive. he would never jeopardize your happiness. but he doesn't really get it, "him? you're dating him? isn't he kind of mean? not that i don't support you! of course i do!"

gambit ; strip poker ..

"you sure you're up for this one, chere? pretty intense game .." remy sorts a deck of cards in his hands, nimble fingers moving faster than your eyes can track. he doesn't watch the cards so much as he watches you. his eyes are doing that thing. the thing where he looks you up and down nice and slow. the thing that feels more than friendly.

but no, remy and you were just friends.

friends played strip poker together, right?

right?

"it's not my first time playing." you reply, the lie slipping past your lips easily.

"is that right? you some kind of daredevil, then?" he leans back to crank up the stereo before you can respond.

a slow, jazzy tune fills the room, honeyed saxophone floating gently through your ears. your foot taps idly to the beat as remy passes you a few cards and flips three face up onto the table.

you look at your hand. a two and three of hearts. on the table is a king of spades, eight of diamonds, and queen of clubs. you try not to wince.

you're pretty sure remy is cheating by the time you get to the third round. you've already kicked off your boots - he let you pick the first item, and you couldn't muster the courage to say anything more than shoes and socks - and your jacket. the top you're wearing feels too small and too thin. the room feels too hot.

remy has relaxed into his seat, having helped himself to a few shots of whiskey. he's leaning over the table, cards held idly in one hand and the other elbow propped onto the table so he can rest his head on his knuckles. you know he's cheating because he hasn't looked at his cards a single time. even in that half-there, drunken state, remy only has eyes for you.

"aw, too bad." he says, placing down another winning hand.

that jerk.

"you're cheating," you accuse, hitting your cards off the tabletop in an exasperated fit.

"mmhmmm.." remy hums, blinking slowly at you, "you can lose the shirt."

"seriously?"

"thought you played this game before."

"thought you had manners."

remy laughs, his voice easing into a sultry drawl, "take off your shirt, [name]."

you try not to shiver. you avoid his gaze, staring instead at a spot on the wall as you lift the hem of your shirt. you tug your top over your head, letting it fall to the floor beside your chair. even though you're not looking at him, you know remy is drinking you in.

"it's not fair that i have to sit here, half naked, while you're fully clothed!" you finally snap, daring to glance at him.

he has the audacity to smile at you, all innocent, "you're right. should i start with my pants, or would you rather -"

"okay, stop. i get it."

"you're beautiful."

the sincerity in which he says it gives you pause, and you finally meet his eyes, holding your breath. remy's sitting up now, not entirely sober but much more serious.

"i .. uh .. i don't go 'round playing this game with just anybody, you know?" he adds, swallowing thickly as he eyes you again. and again. and again.

you know what he's saying. you don't know if you believe it.

"that's why you're cheating? is this some kind of fantasy of yours?" you ask, trying for some bite.

he bites his bottom lip to hold back a grin, "hah." you watch, entranced, as he runs his tongue over his teeth, "sorta. but it ends a little different."

"what? i guess you want me to ask -"

"you see, chere, dis is the part where i kiss you, and you either punch me silly, or ..."

trailing off, remy is suddenly halfway across the table, a hand snaking around your neck to pull you in.

he tastes like whiskey. you think about punching him, pulling away and pretending this never happened. pretending he was still just a friend. but then he slides his tongue into your mouth and you can't think of anything other than him. his smell. his taste. his touch ..

it's safe to say you forgot about poker. and remy has never just been friendly.

johnny storm ; in the rain ..

"what? i don't understand why you're running away!" johnny scrambles after you, his shirt soaking through and sticking to him all over. he's uncomfortable. he hates being wet, but he doesn't slow down, staying right on your heels as you storm off.

"i'm not running!" you shout back.

it's true, you aren't running. but you are aggressively walking. and you're fast when you want to be.

you can't explain it. you don't want to explain it. seeing him kiss that other girl just irked you in all the wrong ways. you still have goosebumps, the bad kind, from just thinking about it. his hands on her waist, his lips on hers.. it made you want to scream. it makes you want to scream.

how do you explain that? how do you say 'oh yeah, johnny, i'm fine. i just want to rip out my hair when i see you with another girl, that's all' without sounding out of your damn mind?

"[name]! - [name] - stop! wait up, okay? let's talk about this!" he bolts out in front of you, sending you skidding to a stop.

your only inches away from him, having barely missed ramming straight into his chest. that same chest she was all over - ugh! what is wrong with you?

you stare furiously at the ground, and he ducks his head to meet your eyes. his blonde hair is sticking to his face and he's not wearing shoes, having run out after you on a whim, but his hands are still warm when they grasp your wrist.

his voice is gentle when he says, "[name]. what are you doing? don't run away from me.." he mumbles, eyebrows knitting together.

you can't bear to see him looking like a whimpering puppy, so you force your gaze onto a building over his shoulder, "is she your girlfriend?" you say the words through grit teeth, your hand flexing against his grip.

he lets you go, recoiling. for a second, johnny just looks at you, like all the cogs in his head have finally clicked into place, "that's what this is about? you're .. jealous?"

"no! yes! i don't know! is she your girlfriend?"

"no! i just kissed her to make you notice!"

".. what?!"

he winces, bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck. he has the decency to at least look chagrined as he takes in your newly irritated expression, "look .. i didn't mean to .. i just wanted to make you jealous, alright? i guess i got what i wanted, but -"

"i'm not jealous!''

"okay, you're not jealous," he holds his hands up, "but you did storm out. heh. storm. get it? okay - sorry - don't hit me -" he grabs your hands again, mostly to keep you from beating his sorry ass to a pulp, "so it did bother you, yeah? that i kissed her?"

"obviously, you dimwit!"

"yeah, dimwit. i know." he squeezes your hands, finally moving closer, and closer, until his chest brushes yours. he tilts his head at you, "i'm sorry. i didn't want to hurt you," he pauses, letting go of your hand to instead brush his knuckles over your cheek, "i like you. but you wouldn't look at me. so .."

"so you went off with a another girl?" you snap.

he grimaces, "it was one kiss. i can give you a lot more. i want to give you a lot more .." he trails off, eyes darkening for a moment as he bites his lip.

"you - hey, you can't just .. we're not done talking -"

he swallows your protests with a kiss, his hands sliding around your waist and tugging you closer. the rain soaks through you, and though it should have chilled you, you've never felt hotter.

peter parker and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad first date

he hadn't called it a date, when he first asked you out. he had meant to, but when he finally got the courage to talk to you, what came out was -

"let's go out! as friends, i mean! totally friendly, just friends. two friends, hanging out. alone. haha .."

and somehow, that wasn't enough to scare you off.

what should have scared you off, though, was the partially dead flowers and muddied outfit he showed up in. you considered yourself lucky no one else was home when peter knocked at your door, because they would have refused to let you out and probably called the police on the squatter trying to seduce their kid.

peter's hair had been soaked, he had a splotch of dirt on his cheek (which he wiped away furiously once you pointed it out), his pants were ripped at the knee, and his sneakers were tearing at the seams.

for some reason, you found it endearing.

"hey! hi! oh - um." he shoved the flowers toward you after you opened the door - a bouquet of partially crushed and dirtied lilies - "these are for you. in a friendly way - stop saying that, peter .." he trailed off, slowly glancing down at himself, "right! oh! so. i fell. right into a puddle, actually. a muddy puddle. mud puddle."

you gave him a pitying, if a little amused, smile, "do you want to come inside? i think i have something that'll fit you .."

peter lingered awkwardly in your doorway until you were able to put the dying flowers in a vase and wrangle up a clean pair of pants and a hoodie for him to wear. he blushed pink to the tips of his ears on the way to the bathroom.

the clothes were a little small on him, and he was more than a little bashful about it all, but you made it work.

you thought that was it. but then came the actual date (not date? friendly hang out? it was unclear).

peter insisted he make it a surprise. but the arcade was closed, the funfair rides made him sick, and the food truck made you sick. he apologized profusely through the whole thing, muttering to himself on occasion.

he was silent as he walked you home. silent and embarrassed and beating himself up.

"peter?" you asked, stopping in front of your door, "you okay?"

he scuffed the toe of his shoe against the concrete, running a hand through his brown hair, ".. i'm really sorry, [name], i -"

"come on, it's not your fault the arcade was under maintenance."

"but -"

"or that you get sick on rides."

"still -"

"or that i'm allergic to pineapple."

"yeah, i know. but, look, i had this whole thing planned, alright! i was going to win you a prize, and then we'd go on the ferris wheel, and i could finally confess how much i liked you -" he stops himself, clamping his mouth shut with owlish eyes.

"you .. like me?" you echo. you're more startled by the fact that he actually said it - peter had never been subtle, "i thought this was just a friendly hangout? for friends?"

he lets out a rueful chuckle, nodding his head like he's accepting defeat, "guess i made a pretty big fool out of myself, huh?"

you step closer to him, ignoring the way he stiffens, "i think it was really sweet. and, peter? i like you, too."

with that, you leaned up and kissed him. for a moment, he was frozen, and you thought you made a mistake. but then, his hands come up to frame your face gently, and his lips moved against yours. it felt like fireworks burst all around you two.

you felt peter's shoulders relax under your hands, and he pulled back just to pepper kisses all over your face, leaving you to duck and run for cover, laughter fading into your house as peter gives chase.

wolverine ; only one bed

"you have got to be shitting me," you hear logan's disappointment before you see it. he's already shouldered through the door and paused just past the threshold.

the motel is sketchy enough that you don't really want to linger in the halls, so you nudge him forward and shut the door behind you, before turning to see what has him stomping around like an angry bull.

oh.

one bed. one very small, very cramped bed for the two of you.

okay, you could handle this. not like he's your lifelong crush or anything. you're too old for crushes, anyway. just two adults and a twin bed.

"i'll sleep in the bathtub." logan says before you can get a word out.

you step past him to peek into the bathroom, "yeah, there's no bathtub, just the shower." you point out, eyeing a spider as it crawls into a crack in the wall.

"i'll sleep on the floor."

"it's hardwood." you protest, frowning.

"what d'ya want to do then, share?"

"yes."

he pauses from where he's rummaging through his bag and turns over his shoulder to give you a perplexed look, "really? i'm a big guy, sweetheart. might not be a lot of room left for you."

"i'm a kicker."

"swell."

with that settled, you place your bag on what you are claiming as your side of the bed, sifting through it to pull out a phone charger and a few other things you place on the nightstand. logan marches past you to the bathroom, and you hear the sound of water rushing as he turns the shower on.

you take a tentative glance over your shoulder to find the door had been left open a crack, probably to let the steam out. you can just barely see logan pull his shirt off, and, consequently, get an eyeful of his back. his muscles contract when he moves, and you stare, transfixed by his scars and finely textured skin. the way his bicep swells when he reaches up to comb a hand through his hair.

you look away before he takes his pants off.

you're curled up, half asleep on a small sliver of the bed when logan comes out. donning only a pair of sweatpants and no shirt, he casts you a lingering glance as he pads past you to slide under the covers. you force your eyes shut for a moment as you take in the warmth of his body next to yours.

you feel him shift a little, grunting as he settles onto his back, and you match his position. with the bed so small, you have no choice but to lay with your shoulders touching. it feels like his bare skin is burning you. you swallow.

"do you always sleep shirtless?" you ask, trying not to sound too discombobulated.

you catch him raises an eyebrow, "it's hot." he responds with an unbothered shrug.

you turn onto your side, facing him, and rest your head on your forearm. he does the same. if you moved just a little bit closer, you're pretty sure your noses would touch.

"i saw you." logan murmurs the words quietly, laced with a little bit of smugness.

your eyebrows shoot up - shit - "what? what do you mean?"

"you were watching me change." he lays the words out cleanly, all too aware of how it makes your face heat up.

"come on, no i wasn't," you try weakly.

"there's a mirror in the bathroom."

you wince, caught. "alright, sorry, i just .."

"'s alright," he gives you a grin, one of those feral, wolfish smiles he only gives every once in a while, "i liked it. didn't leave the door open for no reason, y'know?"

oh.

oh.

"so, you .." you pause. did you dare say it? yeah. with the way he's looking at you, you'd probably say anything to keep him talking, "you wanted me to .. watch you change?"

he smiles again, canines flashing, "sure. i got a better idea, though - why dont'cha come on over here and get a feel, instead?"

logan takes one of your hands, tugging it up to slide over his chest as he closes the distance. you don't protest when his lips meet yours, melting into it.

you run your hands up and down his chest and abs, falling back against the mattress as he rolls on top of you.

sleep is the last thing on your mind, especially with him touching you like that.

sunday's kisses are the very definition of reverent. to him, you are something to be worshipped in the same light of a god, something to be treasured and cared for and loved.

when he's in a hurry, he'll settle for kissing your hand or your forehead, mumbling brief words of love and praise before he goes.

however, when he has the time to touch you properly, his lips trail up your wrist, lingering on your shoulder and neck, before they find your mouth. there, he takes his time, hands coming up to cradle your face as he presses closer.

"you look wonderful, today," he murmurs against your lips, "even more so than usual. i find it hard to stay away. indulge me a moment longer."

you're more than a distraction to him - you're a constant temptation. his eyes wander to you whenever they can, and, if you're gone, his thoughts stay occupied with visions of you, your laugh, your body, your face ..

he may get carried away, controlled as he is, as his kisses grow deeper and longer. if you pull away, he'll blush, feathers flickering bashfully, "forgive me," he mumbles gently, "i seem to have forgotten myself."

each time you kiss, when you part for air, he studies you carefully for your reaction, "was that acceptable?" he always asks, even though you've kissed a hundred times before.

if you compliment him too much, or teasingly touch his arm or his feathers, he may stop you with a quick peck to the lips, soft, fleeting, to distract you from the pink on his ears, "that is enough teasing." he murmurs afterward.

if you fall asleep near him, he can't resist pressing a soft kiss to your forehead or cheek as he tucks you in with a whispered "sweet dreams, beloved."

kissing aventurine is, of course, a gamble every time. some days, you might get sweet, soft aventurine who takes his time with you, other days, you'll get handsy, fervent aventurine, who tugs you with him as he stumbles towards a private room.

"slow down?" he might mock you on those .. excitable days, lips moving from yours to trail down your jaw as his hands press into your sides just enough to tickle, "whyever would i do that?"

he likes to kiss you in places he shouldn't - the more inopportune, the better. hallways, doorways, right before you walk into a crowded room, he might lean in close like he's going to whisper something important, only to press a dizzying kiss to your lips instead.

if you glare at him, he'll just laugh, pulling back to straighten his jacket, "relax," he hums lightly, "consider it good luck."

if he's feeling particularly smug, he'll make you chase the kiss - getting close enough that your eyes flutter only to pull back at the last second. he likes when you huff in annoyance, "impatient, aren't we?" he'll shut up if you pull him in by the collar, melting into the kiss with a surprised, but pleased, noise.

he's the type of person to kiss you mid argument. aventurine hates losing any verbal disagreement, so the second you start to get the upper hand, he'll kiss you to shut you up. he's shameless. you might shove him away, accuse him of cheating, and he only laughs, "mm? you were saying?" he muses - he knows you've already forgotten.

but, every once in a while, you might get lucky enough to catch a glimpse of aventurine that no one else gets to see. on those tired, private nights he might press his forehead against yours, grounding himself, before brushing his lips over yours with a soft exhale.

things are quieter then, simpler. he doesn't tease then, just brushes his thumb over the inside of your wrist as he kisses you again, this time lingering as he murmurs, "don't look so surprised. i can be nice sometimes."

blade doesn't kiss you often. it's not because he doesn't want to, it's because when he does, he finds it .. difficult to stop.

most of the time, he can settle for standing near you, maybe keeping his shoulder pressed to yours as he watches you with an unreadable expression.

when he does pull you in, however, his grip is firm, urgent, like a man who has been holding back for too long.

blade does not believe in quick pecks. when he kisses you, he's committed. it always lingers. one hand firm around the back of your neck, the other heavy at your waist. he doesn't pull away until he has to breathe, and even then, he doesn't go far, just enough to look at you, dark eyes studying your face.

if you tease him, make some comment about him going soft, he might get more intense - not cruel, but rough. he takes your chin between his fingers, murmurs "careful", low enough to make chills run down your spine, and then kisses you until your teasing fades into quiet breaths.

blade's not used to real, gentle affection. whenever you touch him, he assumes there's something you want. you place a hand on his shoulder or run it up his arm, and he raises an eyebrow, "what? do you need something?" he asks. you tell him all you want is a kiss and he scoffs, "you're incorrigible." he mutters, meeting you halfway regardless.

he's not gentle with most people. but, with you, he tries. when he touches your face or your side, he does his best to be light, careful. he won't admit it, but he fears he will hurt you one day and you'll turn away from him for good.

blade is the type of guy to kiss when he's angry. he might be jealous, overwhelmed, or just stewing in his emotions when he gets a hold of you, and then, it spills over. he grabs your wrist and kisses you, hard, like he's trying to pour all of his frustration out - that is to say, it's messy. when he finally stops, he's breathing hard, but the sweltering storm inside of him has quieted. ".. sorry." he mumbles in a quiet, almost ashamed voice.

jing yuan kisses with lazy restraint, like he's entirely in control and he knows it. he's not the type to rush, even when you lean in first. he might pause before you, tilting his head with a sly smile, before finally closing the distance.

he likes to be comfortable. most of the time, he's half reclined with you against his side, one of his hands rests at your waist while the other tilts your head this way and that.

he's always smiling against your lips, especially if you're easily flustered - it amuses him.

if he doesn't have hours to spend pressed against you, he'll kiss your forehead gently, a hand smoothing down your hair, "later," he murmurs it like an oath, pulling back with a wink.

he might chase your lips if you pull away first, a disapproving huff escaping him as his eyes open, "leaving already?" he drawls, stealing one last kiss before letting you go with a sigh.

if you're excitable or try to rush him, he'd chuckle against your mouth, slowing you down with a hand on your jaw, "easy now," he murmurs quietly. jing yuan prefers to savor things - and you're no exception to that.

if you're shorter than him, he gets a smug sense of satisfaction watching you struggle to reach his lips. he might stand up straighter, just to tease you for a moment, before giving in and bending down to kiss you. he can't help it, he thinks you're absolutely adorable.

you can complain, accuse him of teasing you, and he'd just give you an innocent smile, "teasing?" he echoes, tutting like that just won't do, "and here i thought i was being generous."

his favorite thing is to hold you in his lap while he kisses you - mostly because it means he can trap you there and take his sweet time.

jing yuan tends to linger close when you two part for air. noses brushing, his long hair tickling your neck as he hovers above you, breath warm when he mumbles something teasing. he's in no hurry to move away.

boothill, on the other hand, loves quick, playful pecks. but .. they tend to turn into something more. he'll pull back after one like that was enough, before muttering something like "ah, hell," under his breath and diving back in for more.

he kisses like he's showing off. if you get flustered, you'll fuel his ego for the next week and he may never let you live it down, "a little kiss gotcha all worked up, huh? a tough thing like you?" he'd tease, pinching your cheek.

he definitely talks before kissing, and he doesn't make himself obvious. he might beckon you closer all innocent - "c'mere a sec," and, by the time you realize what he's meant, he's already pulling you in with a grin and capturing your lips.

he wants to see your pretty face properly when he kisses you, so he always pushes back your hat or brushes your hair behind your ear, admiring you with half lidded eyes.

jing yuan smiles gently against your lips - boothill, on the other hand, is full on grinning, laughing, talking, all the things that make it increasingly difficult to kiss him. if you scold him for it, he just tilts his head at you, "aw, what? you gettin' impatient, now?"

he likes when you get a little rough, maybe pulling him down by the collar, "demanding." he'd quip against your mouth, all warm breath and crooked smiles.

he does that cliche guy thing where he corners you before he kisses you, pressing one hand against the wall by your head to box you in, "goin' somewhere?" he might ask as he grins down at you.

boothill gets exceedingly clumsy when he gets caught up in a kiss. his hat slides off his head and he doesn't notice, you two stumble into a dresser and he just laughs, you trip and fall backwards onto a bed and he's climbing on top of you like it was all part of his plan.

he has his moments, though. moments where he leans down to kiss your temple, where he lets you lean against him, where he peppers kisses across your face when you cry. moments that prove he's got some semblance of softness left in him, even if it's just for you.

how did you end up here again? you swore on your life not to touch that bottle, but here you were, hands deftly flicking the long emptied glass, and watching as it spun round and round.

you can feel people lean in to watch, can see the anticipation in everyone's eyes. who will it be?

the bottle lands, you raise your eyes, and he's already looking back at you.

varka

you're not sure how your upperclassman got roped into this game in the first place. or how he got into the party. varka tended to show up when he pleased, and didn't bother coughing up an invitation. that did not, however, deter him from looking happy as ever when the bottle spun his way.

he stood, stretching his arms above his head - the muscles in his chest and abdomen flexing in a very distracting manner - before lowering them to offer you a hand.

"shall we?" he says, crooking an expectant eyebrow, "it'd be impolite to keep the crowd waiting."

he pulls you to your feet with ease, then lets go of your hand, striding ahead of you with all the confidence of a man who has done this before.

the closet door clicks shut behind you. the whispers of other partygoers fade to a barely audible murmur.

the closet is significantly smaller than you anticipated. varka is significantly larger. he crowds you against the wall without even trying, hands resting idly at his sides.

he's quiet for a moment, before, "you look nervous." he says. his tone is gentle, but the smile on his face tells you he's teasing.

you mumble something dismissive in response, eyes darting away from him. you try to focus on something other than his proximity. or his smell. or, god, his shoulders ..

but it's hard when he braces a hand next to your head, not necessarily to trap (though it feels like it), but to give him a better angle. you feel his fingers tilt your face up, "c'mon, seven minutes is a long time to sit in silence."

when you don't respond, he retracts, "hey - we don't have to do anything, it's just a stupid game -"

you cut him off, a hand on his wrist, his fingertips still resting on your face. no way in hell were you going to let this chance slip away. "varka," you say, then trail off, unable to find the words.

luckily, that's all he needs, as he presses forward again with renewed confidence, "y'know, i've been looking for an excuse to do this." he says, leaning forward just enough for you to feel his breath, "you gonna keep me waiting?"

you make a frustrated noise, and pull him into a kiss by the collar. varka goes without complaint, letting out a startled laugh against your lips. his hands snake around your waist to tug you closer, fingers sliding under your shirt just enough to make you twitch. he steadies you like that, anchored against him rather than pinned, and keeps it slow, giving you time to breathe.

someone bangs on the door, shouting about time, varka groans as he pulls back, face flushed pink.

"round two later, yeah?" he says, pressing one last kiss to the corner of your mouth before the door opens and light spills in again.

venti

venti, ever theatrical, acts incredibly surprised when the bottle lands on him. "i had a feeling today was going to be a good day," he says, all cheek as he offers you a little bow and pulls you up with a hand - too eager.

he practically drags you into the dark closet, swinging the door shut with a cheerful hum. he is immediately too close. you can smell the wine on his lips, can see the flush of alcohol on his cheeks. he's inebriated, but the way he looks at you seems all-too-clear.

"tell me -" he begins, leaning in just a little closer, toeing the line between friendly and intimate, "do you know just what this game entails?"

it's a murmured couple of words, spoken that way to make you blush. and, damn, if it didn't work. he pulls back after that, giving you an innocent smile, "relax, i'm teasing, we can just talk, if you'd like. i have this great story about an apple farmer and a -"

he pauses for a second, grin flickering for a moment as he takes you in.

"- and a very distracting friend of theirs." he clears his throat, jumping back to a performative tone, "truly riveting. very romantic."

venti lets out a half-laugh, something nervous and breathy and excited all at once. he tilts his head a little, braids swaying slightly. "although," his voice takes on a sing-song tone, "we are on borrowed time. no time like the present, hm? we could make this a little more memorable."

his finger hooks into the sleeve of your shirt, tugging just enough for you to notice, he watches your reaction very closely, "just one kiss. or - i can behave. whatever you want." he adds, smiling gently.

you swallow, when did it get so hot in here? and when did venti get so .. suave? "just one kiss?" you echo, stumbling closer when venti tugs again.

"well, i'm a man of my word, of course!" he grins against your lips as he presses closer.

venti keeps his promise, he brushes his mouth against yours softly, briefly. it's light, curious, like he's testing something out. he smells like dandelions and tastes like alcohol - the combination making you a little woozy.

when he pulls back, a hand having snaked up to cup your face, he grins dreamily, his ears red as the apples he eats. his forehead bumps yours, "i'm very glad that bottle landed on me." he muses, pressing one last lingering kiss to your cheek before the door swings open.

venti saunters out of the closet ahead of you. he glances over his shoulder once, shooting you a wink that promises more to come later.

wriothesley

how were you supposed to survive seven minutes with this man? alone, in a dark closet, with a number of people listening?

when the bottle had landed on him, wriothesley, in all his unbothered glory, had simply quirked a brow and shrugged, like it was all part of his plan. "rules are rules, right?" he said, standing with an easy grace.

there was a faint murmur in the room, half teasing jeers, half nervous laughter, but he ignored it, rolling his shoulders like he was prepping for a boxing match rather than a party game.

when you take his hand to let him pull you up, it's warm, grounding. he's not excitable like venti - he doesn't crowd you as soon as the closet door shuts. instead, he leans back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, watching you in the dim lighting.

"relax," he murmurs if you look nervous, "i'm not going to make this uncomfortable."

the way he says it isn't teasing or smug, it's factual. a simple truth, a promise. the room feels warmer now, you swallow thickly, eyeing the way his hair falls around his face, the way he kicks one leg up against the wall.

"although," he adds after a second longer, voice taking on a different tone, one you can't quite pinpoint, "i don't mind that it's you."

he pushes off the wall then, taking a small step closer, just enough for you to notice. you can smell something like leather and tea on him. his shoulder brushes yours as he tilts his head down to look at you.

"you know how this game goes," he continues, "people expect something."

his hand comes up then, finally brushing your jaw, applying just enough pressure to make you look up at him, "but i'm not interested in doing anything you don't want."

his thumb lingers. he's waiting, you realize, for your response.

if you tease him? if you step closer, hold his hand to your face, his eyebrows lift, a faint smile quirking at his lips. "oh?" he cocks his head to the side, "careful. don't want to start anything we can't finish in seven minutes."

he uses his hand on your jaw to guide you closer, then, his forehead brushes yours briefly - to test - before he kisses you. he's slow, methodical, his other hand resting at your waist.

it deepens. like he forgot about the timer, the door, the party entirely. one hand tangles in your hair, the other sliding to rest at the small of your back when -

a harsh knock on the door accompanied by someone yelling "time's up!"

wriothesley pulls back, panting softly. he steps away from you, his fingers brushing yours ever-so-slightly. "that was nice." he mutters, like he's forgotten himself - forgotten his cool demeanor.

as the door opens, he leans in just enough to murmur something low in your ear. something about a promise of 'next time'.

kaeya

he, of course, doesn't even flinch when the bottle lands on him. "oh my, what a fortunate turn of events," he says smoothly, the words tumbling out like they're practiced.

you follow after him with a nervous glance at the others in the room, each one whispering something into another's ear, the rumors about you and kaeya spreading before the door even shuts.

kaeya watches you shut the door before speaking, "seven minutes. a rather generous amount of time. i can think of many, many things two people could get done in that kind of time frame."

if you're nervous, maybe you're blushing or stumbling over words, he lets out a scoff, something between fond and exasperated, "oh, relax. i'm not desperate. i won't force you into anything. if you want to stand in silence for seven minutes, then so be it."

he means it, you realize. which somehow makes it worse. you fight between wanting to keep a safe distance and wanting to get much, much closer.

but, if you step closer, reach for his hand or his arm, he pauses. he raises an eyebrow, amused, playful, but not entirely sure of himself anymore, ".. ah."

a gloved hand catches your wrist, not letting you step back, but not pulling you in either, "so that's not it, is it?"

his hand slips lower, fingers brushing yours, smirk slowly falling back into place as he watches you try to gather your courage. cute, cute, cute, he thinks to himself.

"is there, perhaps, something you want to ask me?"

he gives you an innocent look, the implication clear. he wants you to say it.

you mutter a few choice words under your breath, heat rushing to your face, before, "kiss me, kaeya."

kaeya blinks, he wasn't expecting you to come out and say it so readily, but he recovers fast; "oh, well, if you insist."

it doesn't take much more convincing before kaeya is on you, hands resting at your hips to guide you closer, mouth moving against yours with practiced ease.

your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, he hums against your mouth - a low, pleased sound.

when the timer runs out and the door bursts open, he steps back smoothly. his smirk remains, but the way he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear is different now. softer.

"until next time." he murmurs, voice thick with promise.

diluc

much unlike his brother, diluc does flinch when the bottle lands on him. his shoulders stiffen. he blinks slowly like this is somehow a betrayal and it's entirely your fault.

there is a heavy beat of silence.

then someone - probably kaeya - snickers - "rules are rules, diluc. get in there."

you expect him to argue, to brush the game off as juvenile. instead, he exhales slowly, like he's forcing himself to relax, "very well." his voice is purposefully flat, but you catch the tension underneath.

he barely looks at you, just a brief glance in your direction before he clears his throat and gestures toward the closet.

ever the gentleman, diluc holds the door open for you. and, ever the gentleman, diluc plants himself as far away as physically possible once the door shuts.

his posture is straight, his eyes flit about the dark room, trying to find something to focus on, before they hesitantly settle on you. "you, er, you needn't feel pressured. we can wait it out."

it's not at all surprising. of course he'd give you an out - in fact, you assume it's as much of an out for him as it is for you.

but the thing is -

he hasn't stopped looking at you. he may think he's subtle, but when it's just the two of you, it's easy to catch the way his eyes dart to your lips and then back up, the way he shifts his weight awkwardly like he's restraining himself.

you tilt your head. he notices. you take a step closer. he definitely notices, "is that really what you want to do?" you ask, voice carefully even, as to not scare him away.

".. [name]. what are you doing?" he asks, arms slowly uncrossing as your fingers find the front of his coat.

his breath hitches when he realizes. he looks at your hand, then slowly lifts his eyes back to you, his own fingers twitching like they're unsure where to go.

"are you certain?" he murmurs, voice rougher now, "i am not fond of games."

you let out a gentle laugh, nodding your head, "diluc. just kiss me."

he doesn't surge forward like kaeya or varka. instead, diluc swallows, blinking slowly.

when his hands find your waist, it's a light, barely there touch. he pulls you just a little closer, more determined now, like once he starts, he's not stopping.

his kiss is intense. controlled heat and restraint, the kind that comes from holding back far too long. you feel his thumb press into your side, rumpling your shirt as he angles his head.

when a knock echoes through the closet, diluc all but stumbles back. his breath is heavier, his eyes darkened. the door opens in front of you. and diluc, briefly, gently, smooths down your shirt again, something like a smile pulling at his lips, "apologies." he mumbles.

the way his fingers linger against your waist suggests he is not sorry at all.

kurt wagner is a geniune pleasure to be around, and even more so to be in a relationship with. he's kindhearted, faithful, and observant. in short, the boy is the picture perfect boyfriend. i'd let him date my daughter.

our favorite blue boy would call you names like "liebling", "mein schatz", or "mein engel". he'd bamf into your personal space after a long day, collapse against your shoulder, and mumble ; "i missed you dearly, liebling," into the fabric of your shirt.

he worries that his appearance - his not-quite-human hands and blue skin - will deter you someday. when he touches you, it's light, gentle, like you are glass about to break, and he's ready to pull away at a moment's notice, if you are ever uncomfortable.

if you ask, he'd happily share parts of his faith with you. he would teach you to properly light incense, tell you biblical stories, pray for you. he never presses or pushes, simply shares. late night talks about theology turn into confessions about identity and worship, he's a very good listener.

he likes to lay in bed with you, a book in one hand and his other combing through your hair. his chest is a soft pillow beneath your head, the sound of turning pages is a metronome that lures you to sleep hours before he shuts his eyes. he doesn't mind that you always drift off - kurt's just happy to be included!

if you're a mutant or x-man, he'd be glad to train and spar with you - mostly just to teleport behind you and wrap his arms around your waist. he'd never admit it, but he relishes the way you blush and squirm. if you glare at him, he'd just smile innocently, "schatz, you cannot stay angry when i am this charming."

when you're upset, he goes out of the way to make you smile or laugh again - theatrical voices, exaggerated bows, over-the-top declarations of love, anything to see your lips curve upwards.

his tail wraps around your wrist sometimes on instinct, when you're walking together, or asleep, a simple pressure to reassure you that he's there.

kurt believes you are the only proof he needs that god loves him.

if gambit is your boyfriend, you are cher now. there's no debate about it. that's about the only thing he'll call you - maybe 'mon amour' if he's feeling particularly romantic.

uses his sticky fingers to take things from you, just to tease. he'll swipe a ring from your finger or your wallet from your back pocket without you noticing and hold it just out of reach if you try to get it back. he grins when you lean in close and make a grab at your items.

he physically cannot keep his hands to himself. he's always putting an arm around you, threading your hands together, hooking a finger in your belt loop to pull you close and kiss you deeply ... it's kind of hard to get away from him.

if you nudge him away, he'd raise his hands in surrender, lips swollen from kissing, "alright, alright, i see how it is." and backs off. for now.

teaches you card games (along with how to cheat). if you ask nicely, he might show you how to throw them, too. standing behind you, hands guiding yours. very illegal, very sexy.

sleeping next to you is one of the few times he actually lets his guard down. he slings an arm over your waist, buries his face in your shoulder or chest, and sleeps like the dead til late in the morning. it's a good sign, it means he trusts you entirely.

deeply protective. keeps a hand on your lower back in thick crowds, watches for pickpockets, and always positions himself a little closer to danger. he won't risk you.

opens up about his past to you, and doesn't beat around the bush about it. "i wasn't a good person, cher. still ain't. don't feel like you gotta hang around a thief like me."

you assure him that you don't care, that he is a good person, and you swear you see a visible weight lift from his shoulders.

remy doesn't open up easily, but sharing his guilt with you, hearing your reassurances, it makes him look at you like you hung the stars - like you're an anchor in a storm.

oh, johnny storm, professional playboy, inexperienced partner.

he's used to flings, to pretty girls or guys that he shares a drink or a dance with and then forgets about. but then you come along and all of the sudden he's thrown into something he doesn't want to lose in a few hours.

don't get me wrong. he's still a menace, a flirt, and a kid at heart. he's always showing off, lighting candles or cigarettes with unnecessary flames licking up his arm to impress you - "relax, babe, i got this."

but there are the moments, the things you notice. his shaking hands, the way he cups your face, the way he looks at you - eyes so full of adoration - those are the things that convince you he sees you as more than a fun night.

he gets jealous easily. so easily. and he's not subtle about it. he's petty. if someone gets too close or too forward with you, he'd waltz up beside you and tug you into his side, a forced smile on his face, "hi -" he says to the offender, gesturing pointedly to himself, - "boyfriend." he'd turn to you then, "hey, BABE. remember when you promised to get dinner? let's go."

you never promised anything like that, but he tugs you away anyways, glancing over his shoulder to give that guy a 'i'm watching you' glare.

calls you "babe" or "hot stuff" and means it.

he likes to pick you up. bridal style, over his shoulder, spinning in his arms. he'll trap you in place so he can pepper kisses over your face, relishing in the way you laugh.

he gets competitive over literally anything and everything. video games, cooking, who can kiss longer. unfortunately, he's not the type to let you win. he is, however, the type to pout and whine when you beat him anyways.

johnny sees himself as the weakest link in the fantastic four. the youngest, the most reckless, the problem, so to say. tell him you're proud of him, or that you see how hard he tries, and he melts instantly, all goo-goo eyes and dreamy smiles, "aw, geez, babe - i mean. i know. of course i know that. i'm awesome."

he's hyper, he's active and touchy and reckless and on fire most of the time, but he lets himself cool off around you.

wolverine is prime grumpy x sunshine material. he's the grump. obviously. he pretends not to like your affection, or to be annoyed at any enthusiasm, but he grumbles when you pull away and sighs when things are too quiet.

logan is careful around you. he heals. you don't. he doesn't so much as think about drawing his claws around you. if you get a paper cut, he's hovering, muttering something about 'infections' as he hands you a band aid.

he smells like leather and cedar. you steal his jackets - they're huge on you - and he pretends not to care. he likes when you sit on the hood of a car as he fixes it. what can he say? it's a nice view.

he's kind of feral. he loves when you scratch his scalp or run your fingers through his hair (not that he'd ever admit that). when you're alone, he'll lay his head in your lap with a tired groan, peeking one judgmental eye open until you card your fingers through his tangled locks.

typa guy to bite. do with that what you will.

he's a glorified blanket when he's asleep. he rolls over, resting his entire weight on your body, and doesn't move again til morning.

very domestic boyfriend. he'll wake up before you and slip out of bed to make breakfast. he fixes things around your place before you can get around to it - you'll wake up one day and have a working sink again.

he'd call you "my girl" or "my guy" and then move on with his day.

if someone's getting too close, he shoves at their shoulder so they stumble away from you, "find someone else to bother, bub." he grunts, slinging an arm around your shoulder.

he'd take a bullet or a knife for you, grumbling about how, "next time, you should duck," when you fuss over him. kiss his scars and he'll malfunction.

logan might act like he doesn't do relationships, but he's pretty damn devoted to you.

loki is dramatic, obsessive, eccentric. but, despite all that, he's completely and utterly entranced by you.

pet names are excessive. "my darling", "my heart", "mortal", "dearest", whatever he can think of to fluster you.

he uses his magic to conjure illusions for you. green flowers appear in your hand, his outfit changes to something you offhandedly mentioned you like seeing on men, his words are emphasized by a gust of wind that came out of nowhere.

he also brings you artifacts as gifts - though they may be cursed. "it's enchanted," he says as he presses a glowing stone into your hand. he'll remove it from the premises before it erupts, no need to worry.

jealous in a 'i'm disgusted by any man that isn't me' type of way. "enjoyed his company, did you?" he'll ask, "what horrid taste you have."

he's touchy. but not in that johnny storm, golden retriever way, in a more elegant way. a hand on your waist or at the small of your back, his finger tilting your chin up so you'll look at him, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes by.

definitely recites poetry to you, bowing before you and extending his hand to offer a rose. please play along with his theatrics, he thinks himself very alluring. you'll hurt his feelings if you tell him the truth.

like i said, he's dramatic. he takes every small thing from you as a sign that he's failed and you've fallen out of love. you sigh quietly? he's at your side with a frown in a second, "do you tire of me already, mortal?"

he thinks you're extraordinary. not because you're powerful or strong, though you very well may be, but because you chose to stay with him.

loki is intense, sometimes too intense. but his love for you isn't malicious, it isn't lust or control or anything of the sort. it's love in a "i would choose you in every timeline" kind of way. love that transcends mortality and godhood. though that love is only a small part of your mortal life, it lasts an eternity for him.

peter parker is already anxious. you make it so much worse! but in the best way possible. you make his hands sweat and his mind race and his words slip up. he sometimes forgets you're dating and he's allowed to touch you and kiss you and talk to you.

tries to flirt. trips over his words. "you look pretty today. not that you don't always look pretty - you're always pretty i just .. never mind."

when he remembers he's already you're boyfriend, he still acts like he needs explicit permission. he'll tap your pinky with his when he wants to hold hands, pause inches away from you when he wants to kiss, and slowly, so slowly wrap his arms around you at night, giving you ample time to pull away.

protective in a nervous way. "hey, are you safe?" "text me when you get home - actually call me. actually facetime me." "i can walk you home - if you want, i mean."

type of guy to stick a love letter to your window with a web or sneak into your dorm in the middle of the night to bring you flowers. he tugs his mask off with a grin, "i know, i know, i'll be quick." he whispers, shoving the flowers into your hands, kissing your cheek, and swinging back into the city.

the spider-man kiss happens a lot. he really likes it.

he says 'i love you' first and it's probably on accident. after, he's all, "i just - i mean - i wanted to tell you - you don't have to say it back! unless you want to -"

please cut him off. he won't stop talking unless you do.

nerds out to you about science or movies or video games. he wants you to watch all of his favorites - but he'll talk during them, "did you know that guy is in dune? yeah, and he's also in ..."

he likes when you compliment him. it makes him preen and puff out his chest like a proud bird. tell him "you're really strong." and he'll say, "really? you think so? i mean - yeah, yeah, uh, spiders and their proportional strength and all of that."

falls asleep ALL THE TIME when you two are together. partly because he barely sleeps at home, but mostly because you're just so warm and so easy to lean against and you smell so good .. yeah, poor guy is out like a light.

aunt may approves of you.

peter is the type of boyfriend to kiss you like you'll slip away, to grasp your hands like it's the greatest honor. he's so very proud to have won you over.

dan heng

aventurine

blade

dr. ratio

boothill

denji doesn't know what it means to feel real, genuine love. he thinks you're crazy hot, obviously, but he's initially confused or at the least suspicious of the affection you show him - it's like he's waiting for you to drop the ball and try to snag the chainsaw's heart.

when the sting never comes, when you never betray him, never make a grab for anything other than his hand, he relaxes. having denji's heart means having a constant shadow. he's clingy.

has zero experience and no idea what he's doing. everything he knows about relationships comes from the manga he reads - it leaves much to be desired. he wraps an arm around your shoulder too tight, suffocates you in his warmth when you hug, sleeps stuck to your side with no hope for escape.

denji is clumsy but sincere. his hands are sweaty when he holds yours, he'll bump your forehead instead of kissing you, mumble awkward comments like "you smell good." or "you're cute."

his kisses are sloppy. teeth bumping, hands wandering, he gets caught up in grinning and laughing and then laughs harder when you pull away and act annoyed.

loudly jealous. you can see it, hear it, from a mile away. talk to some other guy and he's all huffing and puffing and "why don't you just date him if he's such hot shit!" give him some time, he's working on it.

movie and video game nights are a must. except, he falls asleep during every movie and breaks the controller when he loses. you can't really complain, though, not when it means having him doze against your shoulder.

he thinks he's the shit, the best boyfriend ever. he'll drape his jacket over your shoulders when it rains, walking with his hands behind his head and saying, "yeah, i know, i'm a gentleman," with a nonchalant shrug (he's eyeing your reaction too carefully for someone so 'confident').

tries to play it cool when he gets flustered. he’ll tinge pink to his nose if you mess with his hair or lean into him and try to save face by saying things like, “come on .. you’re makin’ me feel all weird inside.”

he's broke, so dates are far from fancy. you two find a hole-in-the-wall ramen joint, take a walk down the neon streets of tokyo, or lay on the dewy grass in a park. he tries to pay for your meals, but you're faster (he didn't have the money, anyway).

makes you have sleepovers with him in aki's apartment (much to aki's dismay). drags you onto the futon with him and passes out the second he's got you in his arms, "you're the best thing i got," he mumbles in his sleep, curling around you.

trusts you to fight for yourself, but won't think twice if it looks like you need help. he'd swing in, snag you out of the way of a blow with carefully human arms despite his chainsaw head, "i gotcha." he mumbles, "still with me?"

sometimes he just stares at you with this big, dopey grin, all pointed teeth and shining eyes, like wow, i can't believe somebody likes me.

aki is not one to beat around the bush. he's long since been aware of his .. condition, his fate, it's only fair that you know, too.

he takes you to a rooftop, sits next to you with his loose hair blowing in the wind, "to tell you the truth," he says, "i don't have a lot of time left." he turns to face you then, eyes half lidded, expression simply, but so deeply, sad, "but, whatever i do have, i'd like to spend it with you."

it hangs over you two every day. every touch, every kiss, every shared night, there's the weight of what's unavoidable following you. it's heavy, but it's worth it.

if you ever argue, ever yell at him, he goes quiet, forcefully calming himself down before saying something like, "i don't want to fight with you," so gently it almost hurts.

protective in a 'i have to stop you before you can even start' way. he's always nagging with things like, "don't leave your socks on the floor," or, "don't touch that," or "drink some water." it's his way of saying he cares about you.

you start to adopt his morning routine. you two wake up together, do skincare, make coffee - he's memorized how you like it, then sit on the patio while he smokes a cigarette and you watch the sunrise. your little bubble of peace is precious to him (until it is inevitably broken by power and denji).

lowkey judges your skincare routine. "is that hand soap?" he asks the first time you slide in next to him to wash your face, "that's abysmal. you need to correct that." he buys you new products that same day.

malewife patient zero. he cooks the best meals, folds your laundry perfectly, and keeps the plants alive (plus denji and power!). he likes when you hug him from behind while he cooks, even if he acts like it's bothersome. think 1950's housewife but a man and also hot.

big routine guy over here. he lives for that sense of normalcy. every night, he reads in bed while you scroll on your phone. he'll casually adjust himself if you flop onto his chest, and shut off the lamp he was using to read the second you fall asleep.

gets twitchy if he hears you've been hurt. he insists on being the one to see you first, to patch up your wounds. "be more careful," he whispers, hand clutching yours tightly, "please. i can't lose anyone else."

aki will never stop worrying. but you're the one person who can make his shoulders relax, his voice soften. some nights, when you're half asleep, you catch him just looking at you. like you hung the moon. "i can't believe this is real." he murmurs lowly, brushing hair back from your face before laying beside you.

angel doesn't have a lot to live for. he wanted the quiet life. the country mouse. he said it himself, he'd rather die than keep working.

that was, until you came along. until you kept sitting beside him despite the danger, until you become someone he thinks about when he's looking for a reason to get up in the morning, until you became the one he looks for first when he enters a room.

he acts detached at first, "don't touch me," he'd warn, "you'll drain your lifespan." but then he becomes the one that lingers, the one that leans closer when he knows now more than ever that he shouldn't.

doesn't help with chores, or work, or anything, really, he just sits nearby, "you know, human," he says, head casually tilted to the side as he watches you with lazy curiosity, "you make living a lot less awful."

chronic napper. anywhere and everywhere. slumped against a wall, standing up, your lap, he'll take whatever perch he can find. you've become his preferred pillow.

if you fall asleep beside him, he stares at you, tracing your face with his eyes because he can't touch you. sometimes he hums, old hymns, soft lullabies, something to fill the silence and bring you sweet dreams.

touch is complicated. he wears gloves so he can hold your hand, but even then, he's cautious. you'd be lying if you said you weren't cautious, too. even though you want, more than anything, to caress his face, to feel his lips without a barrier between, each time, one of you pulls away. he can't do that to you. and you can't brave the consequences.

if you try, if you reach for him, he recoils, stepping back, "stop. it's not worth it." he says every time, though his eyes harbor such intense longing; it looks like tears will spill over any second.

never says 'i love you'. it's too much, too serious. if he admits it, he worries he'll lose you the next second, he'll get to close. you, instead, get a feather trapped in the pocket of your coat, a gloved hand closing over yours, his quiet voice when he says "you keep me tethered." but not 'i love you', never 'i love you'.

angel's wings get in the way of literally everything. it's like he doesn't have control over them. "oops." he mumbles when they flap against your side. "my bad," is all you get when they knock your work from the table.

talks about death like he's talking about the weather - calm, detached - it's never been anything but inevitable to him, a simple countdown. but, he turns to you mid-sentence, catches your expression, and falters, "ah, well," he shrugs, eyes moving skyward, "now that i have you, i'll at least die happy."

if you get hurt, it shakes him. he hovers nearby, never too close but not far, either. "don't touch me," he says, "but stay alive."

you kissed once. only for a second, maybe two. a fleeting, too short press of his lips to yours. he pulled away like he'd been burned, wings fluttering and twitching as he averts his head, "that can't ever happen again."

kishibe didn't mean to fall for you. he was never supposed to fall for anyone. but he kept showing up where you were anyway, cigarette in his mouth, smirk on his lips, pretending it's nothing but coincidence.

never officially calls himself you're boyfriend or says you're 'dating'. "we're just .. spending time together." he says, but his hand brushes the small of your back and his lips press against your temple that same day.

dates are far from normal. he takes you devil hunting with him, teaches you to throw a knife or shoot a gun. you ask if it counts as a date and he shrugs, "why not? you're here, i'm here. what else do ya want, huh?"

used to only refer to you by your name, but one night, while drunk, he calls you 'sweetheart' and you never hear your name from his lips ever again.

old fashioned in the way that he offers you an arm while you walk down the streets, compliments you - "wow, look at you, sweetheart" - when he sees you, holds the door for you. he'll wave you off dismissively if you try to thank him for anything.

he says 'i love you' in the most unceremonious way possible. like, a slip of the tongue after he says goodnight followed by a "don't make me repeat myself," before he promptly walks off with a heart that's beating just a little bit too fast.

sometimes he's a little too reckless. he'll come home bloody, still half-grinning, "you should see the other guy," he winces as he speaks, collapsing against the couch. if you patch him up, he watches you, something unreadable in his eyes, "you've got good bedside manner, doc," he chuckles roughly and takes a long swig from his canister.

kishibe is used to violence. you bring a warmth he thought was long off the table for him. he grumbles when you kiss his scars or clean his wounds, but he secretly loves it.

won't let you drink from his flask or smoke one of his cigarettes, he nudges you aside with ease, holding the canister above your head where you're hopeless to reach for it, "nope," he smirks, playfully stern, "don't need you gettin' hooked on this shit, too."

the kids - being power and denji - treat you like you're their parents. they tease kishibe about you til he's angry enough to hit them across the head and send them both running, "damn kids," he'll grunt, adjusting his coat, "thought i taught 'em when to quit."

dreams about settling down with you. marrying you, starting a family. he'd never thought himself a father before meeting you, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't considering it now.

he doesn't really get your apparent infatuation with him. on late nights, he'll lean against the balcony railing, turning to you with a thoughtful expression, "you really want to waste your time with an old man like me?" he asks. assure him that you do, and he's laughing - a gruff, breathy sound - "well," he says, "you better not kick the bucket before i do. deal?"

childe; patching up each others wounds.

whether it's a sparring match you took too far, or childe limping in after a reckless fight, or you with as little as a nick on your arm, you sit on the floor by the fireplace, the contents of a first aid kit haphazardly strewn about, and get to work.

when childe patches up your wounds, his hands move with uncharacteristic delicacy, his touch light as a feather so as to not cause you any more pain.

"you're supposed to dodge, sweetheart. here i thought i was the careless one," he quips lightly, before bending down to press a kiss above your wrapped wound and silently promising to protect you.

he jokes and teases, but the way his fingers clench the bottle of antiseptic too tightly and the way he gnaws at his bottom lip betray his worry.

"you did good out there," he says, quieter then, as he pulls away - though not without a final once-over to ensure there's no other wounds - "i'm proud of you."

childe loves to have you fuss over him, so he's more than willing to strip his shirt off and let you hover over his wounds until you're satisfied. he'll strip off other things, too, if you ask.

"babe, trust me, i'm fine," he reassures, biting back a wince as disinfectant bubbles over blood, "never been better, actually."

"childe, you're bleeding everywhere."

he just laughs boyishly, watching you with that familiar gleam in his eyes. he memorizes the way you frown, the crease in your eyebrow, the concern in your face. it's both a tug at his heartstrings and a boost to his ego.

"geez, if you wanted to get your hands on me, you coulda just asked," he starts - you cut him off by pouring more antiseptic, and he chokes out a wheezy gasp (that dissolves into a breathless chuckle) "okay, you made your point."

later, he sits there, shirtless with bandages wrapped around his ribs, and holds you to his side, your head on his shoulder as you sleep, the worried crease on your forehead finally smoothing out. "you're too much," he mumbles quietly, his head falling atop yours, "i don't deserve you."

scaramouche; too-late-at-night tea

he drinks his bitter, in the dead of the night when memories and dreams alike plague him. he thinks he's slick, slipping out of your arms and onto the cold floor without disturbing you. he doesn't notice how you peek an eye open, just as he, slowly, as quietly as possible, shuts the bedroom door and pads to the kitchen.

he'll sit on the edge of the porch or the balcony, mug warm against his inhuman hands, and stare off at nothing. the drink is too sour, his mind swirls like the tea he stirs, he's not even conscious enough to hear you coming out after him.

he flinches when you sit next to him, the glaze in his eyes disappearing when he turns to face you. he's quiet for a moment, taking in your disheveled appearance, the mug you poured steaming in your hands, "it's bitter," he finally says, "you won't like it."

you shrug in response, he huffs out a breath, irritation masking relief, "go back to sleep. i'm coming."

when you refuse to leave - not without him, at least - he just turns away again, staring into his cup like it holds all the answers.

when you take a tentative sip from your mug, and nearly choke because, god, it's bitter, he finally smiles, a barely there upturn of his lips, "i told you. you hate it."

"i hate that you drink it. alone, out here, without telling me." you mutter back. it's meant to be lighthearted, but his reluctant amusement drops as fast as it came, a scowl coming in as replacement. he doesn't respond.

if you reach out - take his hand - he freezes, his hand twitches where it rests under yours. the way he intertwines your fingers is light for someone so proud, so prickly. it's a hesitant touch, like he doesn't want to puncture you with his own wounds, doesn't want to taint you with his bitterness.

you don't make him talk, and that's enough for him. he squeezes your hand, the gesture conveying all the words he can't get out. you two stay like, shoulders pressed together, til the sun peeks out from behind the mountains.

he doesn't stop rising at ungodly hours, but he does pour an extra cup from then on, leaves it sitting on the counter for when you eventually chase him down. whether he's found the couch or the next town over, you slide into your place next to him, and he lets you.

alhaitham; reading together

alhaitham's favorite place is his nook by the window, where he can sneak from his duties and get comfortable with a good book. by extension, it's your favorite spot, too.

he doesn't look up when you settle next to him, just shifts to make room, to accommodate your weight against his side. "come to disturb me?" he asks, smiling at your offended huffing.

he turns the pages slower when you're there, breathes quieter. he'll read a passage aloud if you ask - because he knows you like the sound of his voice - or turn back to the start if you lose the plot.

you're not sure if its the warmth of his shoulder under your head or the quiet drawl of his voice that lulls you to sleep, but you more often than not end up drooling on his shoulder. he shifts when you slump against him, marking his page and setting his book aside. he sits perfectly still so you won't wake up.

one evening, you catch him reading a novel you recommended - one he previously dismissed as 'nonsensical romance drivel'. he slams the book shut too quickly when you approach, and clears his throat as a barely-there blush rises to his cheeks. "the .. syntax is sufficiently structured." he rises and places the book in your hands like he's just finished a review.

you two pass books back and forth, each marking passages you think the other would like. by the time you finish a book, it's covered in your messy highlights and doodles and alhaitham's organized annotations and notes.

you read fiction; he prefers philosophy. but, he more often than not settles for your choices - for an "expansion of knowledge" of course - and will resign himself to listening to your excited ramblings about the plot and characters.

you two argue about who was in the right or who was the better person; its more of a game to him. he enjoys the back-and-forth - the way you lean towards him from across the table, eyes flashing with fire as you make your point. (he might let you win if you shrivel at his intellectual retorts).

some mornings, alhaitham reads while he waits for you to wake up. when you do, and crawl under the book to fit yourself in his arms, he just raises an amused eyebrow, "ah. my moment of solitude is over already?" he wastes no time in slinging an arm around your waist, one hand combing through your hair while the other flips to the next page.

xiao; stargazing

he sits atop wangshu inn, knees drawn to his chest, head craned to the sky, eyes half closed in what looks like relaxation, though the tension in his shoulders serves as a reminder of his constant vigilance.

he never asks you to join him - because of course he doesn't - but he also never protests when you do. he glances sidelong at you as you sit next to him, legs dangling over the edge, and simply shifts to make room. his silence isn't cold, it's an invitation.

you tell him about the stars: their names, the myths people make up about them, the tie to star signs and behavior, all the things he never bothered learning about before you. "i don't understand," he says, staring at orion in the distance with narrowed eyes, "how does a star dictate my personality?" he'll frown if you laugh at him, grumbling about 'humans' and their 'ridiculous jargon'.

don't even get him started on shooting stars, "a wish?" he echoes, like its a blasphemous thing, "absurd." - don't worry, his wish already came true.

you sometimes bring snacks, a thermos full of warm tea, or a blanket. he never touches anything you bring unless you nudge it towards him. split your food and he'll press the bigger half into your hands, give him the thermos and he takes the smallest of sips, drape the blanket over both your shoulders and he shifts so you can have more.

some nights, you catch him watching you instead of the stars. he looks away fast, ears crimson, and clears his throat. you never call him out on it.

when he touches you - its hesitant. maybe a slight brush of shoulders, or his pinky hooking around yours. he holds his breath, like he's waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to leave him. when you don't, he finally allows himself the simple pleasure of looking at you, like you're something precious.

if you rest your head on his shoulder, he'll go still, careful not to disturb you. "i will try the .. wishing." he mumbles after a long moment of silence, his cheek just barely grazing the top of your head, "if that is what makes you happy."

flins; doing each others hair

deft hands comb through your hair as he stands behind you, gently lifting and twirling the locks into an intricate braid. his gaze is sharp with concentration, flicking up to meet yours in the mirror briefly before dropping back to the task at hand.

ever the gentleman, his hands hardly stray other than the slightest brush over your neck - its unintentional, but he lingers for a moment (long enough for you to start blushing).

when he ties off your hair, he always double-checks to ensure it isn't too tight "comfortable?" he asks, when you nod, he hums, "wonderful."

when he's done, flins steps back to admire his handiwork, he can't help but marvel at you, "forgive me for being so bold," he says, hands landing on your shoulders, "but you are beautiful."

when he comes home late, his faintly flickering lantern casting a glow over his tired face, he hands you a brush and nods to the living room, "would you?" is all he has to say.

flins' hair is silky. easy to comb your fingers through, easier to braid and style as you wish. he doesn't protest, he'll sit on the floor against the couch and let you do as you please. he stays still, eyes half lidded, quiet save for contented hums that escape him ever so often.

you can feel the way he relaxes, the way his leans his head into your touch - subtle, but there. it's almost unnerving, to see a man so often composed finally let go for a moment, let his eyes close so someone else can handle the details.

as purple strands thread through your fingers, he tilts his head ever so slightly to meet your gaze, "whatever will you do with me this time?" he asks, that smile - the one reserved just for you - on his face.

"make you look beautiful, as always." you reply with a playful smirk.

"of course. i do appreciate your endless creativity."

he somehow pulls off whatever style you conjure up - a bun, a ponytail, braids, it all looks good on him. tell him as much and he'll smile gently and shake his head, "you flatter me, my dear. i'm afraid i look rather .. silly." he just doesn't get how pretty he is.

he'll take your hand and kiss the pulse of your wrist after, looking at you through his eyelashes, "thank you for indulging me. my burden is not so heavy when you are with me." damn, casanova, all you did was brush his hair.

varka; drinking together

not at a bar or out on the town, but in the comfort of your own home. varka pops open a couple bottles, hands you one and settles across from you on the carpeted floor - a set of cards and too many snacks between you.

"i'll have you know -" he starts, wagging a finger at you, "- my tolerance is unmatched. don't feel bad if you pass out first."

and, 30 minutes and half a bottle later, he's pink-cheeked and slurring his words, eyes blurred with the pleasant glaze of alcohol. he loses every match of cards you play - even before he's drunk, but just insists he's going easy on you - "yeah, i know, i'm the perfect gentleman."

"you can't play that card," you say, watching him throw down a joker.

"huh?" varka chuckles, staring at you with a half-lidded gaze, "ah, well - someone is distracting me."

he finishes his bottle and snatches yours seconds after, going on about you 'hogging' or something. "this is like a kiss, if you think about it," he winks at you as he takes a swig. and then he places another joker.

you give up on card games after that - both of you too intoxicated to think straight enough for it, anyway. varka tugs you into his side with a heavy arm around your shoulder and recounts tales from his expeditions as knight of boreas.

"and then -" he hiccups, head now a hefty weight atop yours, "then i asked the guy - 'who d'ya think you are?' and he said .." he trails off, his hand slips to your waist absently, "well, i forgot what he said. but it was somethin' sarcastic. then i beat the guy up, naturally."

"you're not a very good storyteller," you mumble into his shoulder, voice muffled by his shirt.

he barks out a laugh, shoulders shaking beneath you, eyes crinkling at the corner. he angles his body, brings up his free hand to pinch your cheek, "you love me and you love my stories. i'm the storytelling master." he says it with all the confidence of a man one-too-many beers deep.

when you, inevitably, fall asleep slumped against him, he shifts, pulling you sideways onto his lap, your weight against his chest, and presses his face into your hair, "sleep tight, sweetheart," he mumbles. and moments after, he passes out, too.

gojo

geto

nanami

sukuna

toji

choso

yuji

megumi

yuta

ino

childe

scaramouche

wriothesley

heizou

itto

alhaitham

venti

"just do it, [name]!" someone jeers from across the room. you reach for the bottle, locking eyes with him as you spin it. you can't tell if you actually want it to be him or not. your cheeks flush at the thought.

time seems to slow as the glass whirls around. once, twice, three times, before it stops. when you look up, he's already staring back at you. people hoot and holler around you, but the noise is drowned out when he offers you his hand.

childe

he grins wolfishly, eyes glimmering mischievously, "guess we're up, huh?" his hand closes around yours and he pulls you to your feet. you try to roll your eyes, but you're distracted by your pounding heart.

you're grumbling as he drags you across the room, and he's laughing (because of course he is), that carefree, boyish sound that always seems to get under your skin.

the closet door shuts behind you, shrouding both of you in darkness and silence - save for the muffled laughter from the living room. he's close, but not crowding, you can feel him shift as he leans back against the wall, eyes flicking up and down your frame. "so," he starts, "seven minutes. whatever will we do, with so much time? are you going to confess your undying love for me or should i start?"

"can you just stop?" you glare at him.

he waves a dismissive hand, "well, what should we do then? want to talk about the weather?"

you know where he's trying to go, what he's trying to insinuate, but you don't buy into it. you snap something about him making it weird, and he just shakes his head with a fond huff, "weird? me? i'm a perfect gentleman."

"yeah, right."

he smiles, takes a step closer, you can hardly see him in the dim lighting, but you can hear the way his voice drops, "relax. i'm not going to do anything. not unless you want me to."

you don't respond. a beat passes. he shrugs, dropping to the floor with casual grace and crossing his legs, "alright, truce. let's just talk, then."

you sit. you're closer than expected. you try to ignore the way his hand brushes yours and the fact that, this close, you can see the faint freckles on his face, the way his eyes drift across the room in contemplation.

"what would you do if this wasn't a game?" he asks after a moment, he's uncharacteristically quiet. you glance at his face to see his smile drop, something more serious taking its place.

"what? what do you mean?"

"if i kissed you," he clarifies, shrugging, "not because of a dare. because i want to."

you don't know if its the proximity, the heat in the room, or his words, but your heart is suddenly beating a lot faster. you don't get a chance to respond.

he's already leaning closer. and closer. and closer. until his lips just barely graze yours - a fleeting touch. he doesn't reach for you, giving you room to pull back. you don't.

someone knocks on the door just as your eyes flutter shut - "hey, times up, lovebirds!" you hastily move away, head averted.

when you dare to glance at him, he blinks, then plasters on a grin and stands like nothing happened. he dusts himself off and clears his throat, offering you a hand, "saved by the bell, huh?" he says. his voice is strained.

later that night, you keep locking eyes with childe from across the room. you don't dare to linger, diverting your focus elsewhere - but he does. you don't see the way he swallows nervously, or the way his face flushes, or the way he keeps replaying your kiss over and over in his head.

scaramouche

he didn't even want to play. he was sitting as far as possible, tucked into a corner with a bored expression. the bottle just happened to land in that off position, pointed directly at him. he freezes, then clicks his tongue, "i'm not even playing."

the protest from other partygoers is instant - "you have to!" "it landed on you!" "scaredy-cat!" you stay silent, watching for his reaction.

he mutters something about 'idiotic party games' and stalks off toward the closet, barely even sparing you a glance. you have to scramble after him to make it in before he slams the door shut. he keeps his back pressed to the wall to put as much distance between you to as possible.

he won't meet your eyes, "well?" he says, voice sharp to cover his nerves, "go ahead. say whatever stupid thing people say in these games."

your lips twitch into a half-smile, "this isn't exactly a game for talking." you reply, eyeing the way he visibly bristles at the words.

the silence that follows after is heavy. he keeps his arms crossed and expression tight like he's physically rejecting the game. you shift awkwardly on your feet. the seconds tick by slowly.

when it becomes too agonizing to just stand there, you take a careful step closer, "you don't have to look so miserable," you point out, trying to catch his eye, "it's just seven minutes. you're acting like something's going to pounce on you."

he scoffs, "maybe i'd prefer that over this stupid -"

you take another step closer, close enough to feel his breath. he falters mid-sentence, arms falling to his side.

".. game." he finishes quietly.

you raise an eyebrow, "you think it's just a game?"

he narrows his eyes, "i think you're annoying."

"then why are you looking at me like that?"

for once, scaramouche doesn't have a response. you watch the way he swallows. he takes a half-step closer, his head tilting to the side, eyes flicking down to your mouth before back up to meet your gaze.

"i hate this game," his voice is a breath above a whisper, "i hate pretending."

you blink, frowning, "pretending?"

"pretending i don't want to kiss you."

it's your turn to falter. he doesn't elaborate, just inches closer, head angling slightly and eyes falling half-lidded. he's a second away from kissing you when -

knock, knock. "times up!"

he jerks back when the door creaks open, scowling and stuffing his hands into his pockets like nothing happened. "finally," he says flatly, brushing past you. his shoulder bumps yours in a way that isn't entirely accidental.

when you glance up at him, he has a tiny smirk on his face, a look that says 'i'm not done with you yet.' he lingers for a moment, then walks ahead of you, settling back into his corner with reddened ears.

itto

he grins ear-to-ear when the bottle lands on him - like he's won the lottery. the room erupts into laughter and cheers, but his expression falters when he realizes it's you he's supposed to go with. his cheeks go pink, "oh - uh - no big deal, though, right? just a game! right?"

he follows you into the closet, ducking his head because he's too tall and bumping into a shelf the second the door shuts. he lets out a nervous laugh, "real, um, real cozy, huh?"

he tries to give you space, but ends up crowding you against the wall anyway, one elbow braced by your head. he freezes at the proximity, eyes locked on you, "sorry!" he blurts out. he wants to scramble away, but he just shifts weakly, hands twitching near your head.

"itto. relax. it's no big deal." you try to calm him down, ignoring the fact that he's way too close.

"of course it's not! i don't need to relax - maybe you should relax. i mean! no, no, wait -" he stops himself before he can continue. it's dark in the closet, but you just know his face is crimson, "so, um." he continues, "what are we supposed to do for seven minutes?"

"usually people kiss."

"KISS?" he almost chokes, scrambling backward and nearly crashing into everything - the wall, the shelf, you - "who said that's part of the rules?"

"everyone knows that's the point."

his response comes out awkward and too loud, "haha! yeah, of course i knew that. i mean, not that i mind - you probably would, though .. unless, of course, uh -"

you wince at the volume of his voice, everyone outside can probably hear what he's saying, you take a step closer to shut him up. he freezes like a deer in headlights. "relax," you whisper, "you're acting like i'm dangerous."

he swallows hard, "you kinda are right now."

he's still smiling, but it's softer now, more unsure, "you're, um, really close." he murmurs.

"should i back up?"

"no!" he shakes his head automatically, "i mean - yes. i mean - whatever you want is fine!"

you laugh. it seems to ease some of the tension out of him. he's still blushing, still towering over you, but his grin is gentler now. "you know. if i did, hypothetically, kiss you right now, it wouldn't just be 'cause of the game."

you open your mouth to respond and -

"TIMES UP!"

he jumps like he's been electrocuted, head nearly hitting the ceiling. you grip his arm just hard enough to make him hold still, and lean up on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

itto laughs dreamily, his eyes half lidded when they meet yours as you pull back. his smile is shy and crooked, "heh. maybe next time we can do this - you know - just the two of us? if you want to, that is?"

xiao

when the bottle lands on him, he stiffens. it's not enough to be obvious, but you catch the flicker of panic in his eyes. "this is .. unnecessary." he mumbles, like that will get him out of it.

it doesn't. the group cheers, the door opens, and before he can get away, someone gently pushes the two of you into the closet. "good luck!" they call out, slamming the door shut.

inside, it's almost too quiet. xiao stares at the floor, standing in the farthest corner with his arms crossed. you have to explain to him what the game entails - when you do, he narrows his eyes, "we're supposed to do what?" he retorts.

"you're supposed to kiss. that's why its called seven minutes in heaven." you explain, "but, its not obligatory. we don't have to do anything if you don't want to."

he slowly uncrosses his arms. you count ten seconds that pass as he ponders your words, before he finally exhales sharply and mutters "stupid," under his breath.

you shrug, not exactly surprised by his reluctant behavior, "alright," you say, shifting away to give him space, "we can just talk, then. what was it you were saying earlier -"

his hand wraps around your wrist. you pause mid sentence, mouth closing. his hands twitch where they grip your arm, his eyes wide like he's surprised by what he's doing, "wait." he says, voice laced with subtle desperation.

you blink, pulse resounding in your ears, and slowly lift your eyes to meet his, "xiao?"

"kiss me." he whispers in a quiet, strained voice - almost like a plea. his heartbeat accelerates, his hand now tentatively reaching for your cheek.

he pauses, hand hovering in the air, and pulls back before he can touch you, "if you want to, that is. i mean, nevermind - forget it." he backpedals so fast you can hardly wrap your head around it.

you huff fondly, and he flinches slightly when you ease against his chest, angling your head to reach him. "alright," you mumble, leaning up to press your lips to his.

his hands hover near you for a moment, before cautiously resting on your back - like he shouldn't dare touch you, shouldn't taint you with his stained hands, but he can't help himself. he's awkward and by no means experienced, his body is stiff against yours, and he all but winces when you touch him, unused to the gentle way your hands graze his cheeks.

when you pull back for air, his hands move to your face to keep you close, "again," he breathes out, "kiss me one more time."

he says it like this is his only chance, like this game gives him a reason to have you by his side, and he'd be a fool not to take it. knuckles rap against the door the second he relaxes into the kiss, and you two part with equally widened eyes as someone shouts for you to come out.

"that - i -" xiao tries to say something, but his voice is lost as the door creaks open. he puts a respectful distance between you two, and, just like that, the warmth and intimacy shatters as the light spills in.

you try to give him a reassuring smile, but he won't look at you as he walks out of the room. in fact, he doesn't dare glance at you for the rest of the night - and then he avoids you for the next week. every time he so much as sees someone with the same hair color as you, he's reminded of the way your skin felt under his palm, the way your lips felt against his.

kazuha

he doesn't even look flustered when the bottle lands on him. he just smiles softly, eyes flitting over your face - lingering on the way you blush - and offers you his hand. his fingers close around yours and he gently tugs you to your feet and towards the closet. people laugh and cheer around you.

the door shuts. you know everyone outside is waiting for embarrassment or chaos, you can hardly look him in the eye.

"my," he muses, "they are quite determined." you can feel him glance over at you, you duck your head to avoid his gaze.

"that's a nice way to say they shoved us in here."

"perhaps," he admits, "though, i can't find it in myself to complain," kazuha eyes your expression, then steps backward, giving you enough room to breath, "you don't need to worry," he says, voice lowered to a whisper, "if you'd like, we can simply talk. i'd never force your hand."

you muster the courage to look at him. you take in his hair, flowing over his shoulders, and his eyes, a deep red in the dim lighting, and you realize you really do want to kiss him. how could you not, when he looks like that? "what?" you say with whatever shred of confidence you have left, "no kiss?"

at that, he smiles, an amused glint in his eyes, and tilts his head away, feigning indifference, "ah. if the winds guide me to it, then perhaps.."

he's thankful the room is dark enough to hide the tinge of pink dusting his cheeks. kazuha doesn't go straight for your lips, he tilts your chin, hand brushing hair behind your ear. the space between you shrinks as he steps closer, "if at any moment you feel uncomfortable, please say so." he's treating it like a diplomatic meeting rather than a kiss.

he pauses, just long enough for you to pull back if you want to (which, of course, you don't), and then he leans in to close the gap. the kiss is soft, lingering, like he's taking the time to memorize you. one hand cradles your face like your something sacred, the other wrapping around yours to intertwine your fingers.

it's over too soon. someone knocks, loudly, you two part. the door opens, light floods in, someone wolf-whistles, others cheer.

you jump back, flustered beyond belief.

kazuha doesn't even seem phased. he steps back with elegance, cheeks faintly flushed but gaze unwavering, "a shame," he hums airily, "that wasn't nearly long enough."

childe

scaramouche

xiao

itto

alhaitham

wriothesley

thoma

pls ignore the typo its supposed to be 'you can't just drop that on me' (⸝⸝⸝O﹏ O⸝⸝⸝)

keigo is warm. he's all honeyed laughter and gentle smiles around you. he clings to you like you're the only thing keeping him afloat.

on nights where his burdens grow too heavy, he'll come home late, slip his shoes and jacket off, and collapse against you on the coach. he likes to rest his head on your shoulder and have your fingers in his hair.

he's never had someone like you before. someone he can just be near. he's able to let his shining smile slip into something more human. somehow, though, when he musters the energy to speak those nights, 'i love you' turns into a slurred 'thanks, babe.' he's cowardly like that.

massive tease - "oh, so you like that?" "uh huh." "is that right?" - but turns into a blushing mess if you flirt back. if you call him 'pretty boy' or mimic one of his lines, he'll go all red and try to laugh it off, but he's hiding a grin under his hand.

when keigo kisses you, he can’t stop smiling. he’s laughing and grinning against yours lips and he just laughs harder when you get mad at him. he’ll kiss you properly - when he’s done snickering.

caters to your preferences. you don't want your relationship public? that's alright, he's settle for stolen kisses and subtle touches. ready to tell the media? no worries, he's right there with you every step of the way.

hates when people crowd you. he already doesn't like fans touching him to begin with, it's when they start pestering you that it really becomes an issue.

"alright, alright, everyone," he'll hold out a hand, gesturing for the crowd to file out, "let's let them breathe, yeah?"

he likes to bother you with stray feathers. he'll have one tickle your cheek, poke at your side, or tangle in your hair just to see you react. he's sure to smooth out your hair himself if you get annoyed, "sorry, sorry," he laughs quietly, "it's just too easy."

on nights when it's just the two of you, he'll fly you up to a rooftop with the a sprawling view of the city. he sits by you on the ledge, legs dangling off, and intertwines your fingers. if you're tired, he'll always offer up his shoulder for you to sleep on.

he prefers to give you cheek or forehead kisses. something he can do quickly before leaving in the morning or without the media noticing. when its you initiating, he likes when you kiss his jaw. chaste or not.

smothers you with his wings at night. he cocoons you in them, pulling you in until you're close to his chest. doesn't let go until morning (or until you kick him away).

would fly into up to your window in the evening and pester you - throwing rocks, tapping the glass, spelling words on the foggy pane, gesturing wildly to the takeout he brought you - until you give in and let him inside.

"hi, there, sunshine. miss me?"

you got the dabi to date you? congratulations, it's not an easy task.

you fell first, he fell way harder. he swears he's not the relationship type, you're simply an exception. an exception he reserves time for, an exception he smiles, really smiles, around, the only one he lets touch his burns.

he doesn't do dates, not planned ones at least. he'll text you at one in the morning with 'you busy?' and then show up fifteen minutes later and climb through your window. you two end up in back alleys, talking until the sun rises.

he sleeps better when you're beside him. he's not clingy - he doesn't particularly like being touched, especially when he's asleep - but he's present. his hand might find yours under the blanket, wrapping around your wrist to keep you in place til morning.

surprisingly awkward with affection - it's just so real with you. its not like the casual touches he's used to. he doesn't want to mess this up, he doesn't want to mess you up. he reaches for you when you're alone, and then pulls back with clenched fists, cursing himself for being stupid (or maybe just soft).

dabi kisses you like he has all the time in the world. his mouth moves lazily against yours, hands idly sliding from your waist to your neck to your face. he never rushes, he wants to savor it, savor you.

you can curb his bad habits. if toga tells him to stop smoking? he brushes her off without a second thought. when you ask him not to? he sets down his cigarette with a long-winded sigh, but he doesn't pick up another pack for a month, then two, then three. "i just don't want the smell clinging to you," he lies, "don't read into it."

he acts like he's the bad guy in your story - "don't get too close. wouldn't want you to burn, would we?" - but every time he pushes you away, his eyes linger from across the room afterward, something almost like regret stirring deep within his chest.

teases you, but in his own dry way. he might call you "sweetheart" or say "see something you like?" when he catches you staring. his tone is full of sarcasm, but his eyes are softer than they should be when they land on you.

appears next to you all the time. walking down the street? dabi's there, hands shoved in pockets as he falls into step beside you. working? dabi shows up incognito and bothers you until you make him leave. at home? he's there, too. when did he get inside your apartment?

weirdly protective/defensive over you and your honor. if you look particularly dejected or upset, he slides in next to you with "jesus, who pissed you off?" if you tell him someone's actually messing with you, he shoots you a sidelong look, that dangerous glint in his eyes, "i'll kill him, if you want."

he says it wholeheartedly - like he can and will, if you ask him to. tell him to dial it back and he stalks away with an unbothered shrug (he chews them out the next day so they don't bother you again).

shigaraki is, for one, socially inept. he doesn't know what he feels for you, much less how to address it. the closest thing you might get to a confession is "you're annoying. stay a little longer."

his room is your room now. he drags you in there to play games with him or, if you'd rather, just watch him play. he mutters commentary the whole time - "watch this combo." - and likes when you lean against him.

speaking of video games, his love language is co-op. he's always handing you a controller when you sit beside him, or hooking his chin over your shoulder so he can give you advice, or going easy on you when you play against each other so he can see you smile.

touch is complicated for him. he wants to hold your hand, or caress your face, but he has to be careful about which fingers make contact. he starts wearing gloves all the time; he won't risk turning you to dust, too.

shigaraki prefers quick pecks or messy make outs. no in between. its either barely a second of contact or half an hour of you two haphazardly tangled up on the couch.

consequently, he won't initiate physical touch as often as you do, but that's not to say he doesn't like it. he'll fall asleep against your shoulder, hands purposefully placed far from your body, mumbling incoherently as he dreams. he twitches unconsciously if you touch his hair. once he gets used to being touched, he's clingy.

he memorizes everything about you. your sleeping schedule, your favorite foods, how you react when he gets close. he doesn't even realize he's watching you until you point it out. "what?" he turns his head away quickly, "i was just looking."

gives you random things he finds. like old keychains, a comic issue you've been looking for, a broken trinket he glued back together. he doesn't hand them to you directly, but you know whose leaving things around your room when you're not there.

has never once in his life gone to sleep at a normal time. you go to sleep, often alone, and wake up in the middle of the night to find him against the headboard, scrolling forums on his phone. if you make him go to bed, he'll grumble something about you being 'bossy' and curl up beside you.

he knows exactly what he is. shigaraki doesn't believe he deserves you, much less your unconditional love. "you shouldn't waste your time on me." he mumbles, eyes fixed on the ground. he'd thank you, for staying, if the words would stop bubbling up in his throat.

when you first start dating bakugo, he awkward and loud (go figure), insisting he doesn't do 'boyfriend stuff'. a month later, he's cooking you three meals a day and telling you to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

i can't imagine him dating someone that doubts their own abilities or is weak-willed. he needs someone that can keep up, support him while remaining confident in themselves. it's when you refuse to give up that you catch his attention.

(affectionately) throws stuff at you. water bottles, snacks, a blanket, he warns you with a "hey," and nothing else. you learn to catch without looking up and he pats himself on the back for improving your reflexes.

bakugo doesn’t kiss you very often, but when he does, it’s deeper than expected. he’s not here to play. he angles his head, one hand on the small of your back and the other at the back of your head, and steals your breath with minimum effort…

dates are simple, but intentional. he prefers to show his love through quality time - late night takeout, studying together, sparring matches that end in fits of laughter and kisses. it's nothing grand, but it's softer than any fancy dinner or expensive gift could ever be.

he thinks texting is a waste of time and energy so he calls you whenever he needs you. even if its just for a second, enough for you to pick up, for him to tell you "don't forget to meet me later", and hang up. if he ever does text, its in all caps.

not big on pda. he might tolerate you holding his hand or hugging him in public, but he gets all annoyed and flustered about it. in private? he's all over you. he likes to lean against your back while you scroll on your phone, forehead on your shoulder, letting out little sighs he'll deny forever.

lowkey a tsundere. he's all "tch, whatever," when you say something sweet, but his ears are red and he has to turn his head away to hide it. "blushing? don't be ridiculous, idiot."

trusts you enough to not be possessive. bakugo's not going to date someone if he's worried about another man. if you're his partner, you've earned his trust. the only time he steps in is if someone talks down to you. when that happens, he's already halfway across the room ready to throw hands.

secretly your biggest cheerleader. compliments from him are rare but genuine. "you did good," after a fight or "you're getting stronger. about time," when you beat him during training.

likewise, he adores when you compliment him. he'll smirk and brush it off like it's nothing when you call him smart, strong, handsome, but he'll be thinking about it for the rest of the day, almost giddy.

"yeah, i know i'm great. you just now realizing that?"

please, don't make tamaki any more flustered than he already is. he says "did i make that weird?" or "did i make you uncomfortable?" every time he says something remotely romantic or so much as brushes his fingers against yours. you have to constantly remind him you want to be with him, you chose him, and each time he goes pink all over.

his kisses are as hesitant as you’d expect. shaking hands rest on either side of your face while he lightly, so lightly, presses his lips to yours. stammers awkwardly afterward and chides himself for being a fool.

he tries to be thoughtful with his words - "you look .. um. you look - nevermind." but he chickens out every time, hiding in the hood of his jacket.

touch makes him short circuit. literally. if you reach for his hand or lean on his shoulder, he freezes like a deer in headlights. he'll get used to it. eventually. once he does, he links his finger with yours like you’re sacred or wraps an arm around you lightly, scared to even apply an ounce of pressure.

he prefers less obvious pda. he'll hook his pinkie with yours or nudge your shoulder when you're out. he'd malfunction completely if the media got ahold of you two.

compliments kill him. especially when you tell him he looks good or is handsome. he hides his face in his hands and mumbles something unintelligible, occasionally glancing at you through his fingers.

his love language is words of affirmation or reassurance. "i'm proud of you," or "thank you. for staying with me." he says it quietly, much like a secret, but it still hits straight to the chest.

he doesn't like big crowds, so dates are quiet. if he got to pick, he'd choose to stay in with you each time, watching a movie or snuggling up with snacks. but, he wants to make you happy, so he'll hype himself up for small coffee shops, late-night walks, and aquariums.

his jealously feeds his self-doubt. he doesn't get angry when he sees you talk to someone else, he gets reclusive. he's constantly wondering if someone else would be better for you, if you want someone else. you have to pull him back and remind him you love him - he'll thank you, albeit sheepishly, for it later.

you're his courage. you motivate him to go out more, to talk to his friends, to talk to you. you make him want to get better. he looks to you for praise when he has a full conversation with a news reporter, tells you about all the people he talked to when you curl up together at night. he's grateful to have someone there to push him.

he likes to leave you little notes around your dorm or wherever he knows you'll find them. things like "you did amazing today!" or "coffee later?" that always make you smile.

childe

god he's so annoying even over text.

constantly pestering you with 'thinking about me?' or 'miss me?' texts.

abuses the ;) face.

always screaming in caps lock.

gets so offended if you don't respond within a reasonable amount of time - he'll chase you down in real life and ask why you ignored him.

examples include ...

scaramouche

will very rarely send a text longer than 5 words

one of you threatens a breakup every day (lovingly)

someone is grumpy, he's always so angry.

tries to be sweet and considerate and then gets mad at himself for being sweet and considerate.

does not use emojis or emoticons, he says he too 'mature' for that

examples include (he gets 4 because he's special! (or maybe because i accidentally made an extra)) ...

venti

scara's opposite, emoji/emoticon lover he would die for those little guys.

very chronically online.

drunk texts are constant, but they're usually pretty sweet, so you don't mind.

guilt trips you when you don't respond - "my muse is ignoring me 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺"

texts either in the dead of the night or at the crack of dawn, no in between - that is his sacred phone time.

often gets distracted mid text and leaves (he apologizes later)

'this reminded me of you' and 'this is so us' warrior, even if the picture doesn't make any sense.

falls for any and every prank you try to pull on him.

examples include ...

xiao

does not know how a phone works. he only started using his when you gave him your number.

chronically offline.

can hardly access the emoji keyboard, much less use one. would probably pass out if you said the word 'emoticon' in front of him.

gets really flustered if you flirt over text and ghosts you for like 20 minutes so he can compose himself.

might send you songs that remind him of you.

give him a moment he's figuring it out.

you're not sure how he survived the digital world before you came along?

tries to use proper punctuation like zhongli, but then he starts getting flustered, and then he starts typing too fast, and is that an emoji?

examples include ...

kazuha

probably the sweetest, most romantic one here, even if his words sometimes confuse you, he never fails to make you blush.

always writing and sending you poetry. its mostly small haikus about your presence or how much he misses you (he keeps a whole journal filled with lines and lines of poetry about you).

he doesn't really understand your pictures or emojis, but he appreciates the enthusiasm.

sort of just goes along with whatever you send him.

he goes off grid often while traveling, but he never ghosts you - he always lets you know before the signal goes out.

examples include ...

genshin

⇝ headcanons/minifics

genshin men as your bf

genshin men + sharing a bed

genshin men w/ a fatui harbinger reader

genshin men + modern au

genshin men + jealousy

genshin men + 7 minutes in heaven

7 minutes in heaven pt. 2

domestic moments w/ genshin men

genshin men + fighting over you

⇝ smau/chatfic

how genshin men would text

misc. texts w/ genshin men

telling genshin men you're fake dating

mha

⇝ headcanons

mha characters as your bf

jjk

⇝ smau/chatfic

texting jjk men 'come over' w/o context

csm

⇝ headcanons/minifics

csm boys as your bf

hsr

⇝ headcanons/minifics

hsr men + kissing

⇝ smau/chatfic

misc texts w/ hsr bf

marvel

⇝ headcanons/minifics

marvel characters as your bf