#for…. something…. some secret project…..

[ezshroom]

They probably don’t actually want to store your fingerprint. It’s more likely that they’re just using passkeys

Passkeys are the result of a little project the tech industry started a while ago to replace passwords. The reason they want to replace passwords is that people are shit at making them up, and that leads to reuse, obvious patterns, and other Bad Things.

Most people make passwords that they’ve either used on 1000 other websites, or is just the name of their dog and some numbers, or something like that. Microsoft, Apple, Google & Co. know that they can’t force you to be good at passwords, so instead, they looked at how they can get rid of passwords and came up with a system that’s based off secrets — when you use your fingerprint or your face or whatever your biometric method may be, you sign a challenge with a very random and large key. So instead of it being your job to make a good password and keep it safe, it’s your device’s job to make a good secret and keep it safe (usually by keeping that secret with a secure element that will physically destroy itself if tampered with).

All of that happens on-device. So when a site asks for you to Face ID or use your phone’s fingerprint, it’s not actually getting your face or your fingerprint. That’s just what your device uses to prove to that secure element that it should tell the website you’re good.

This also means you get to avoid attacks like phishing. There’s no way with passkeys to be tricked into providing one to the wrong website. Your browser just won’t let you.

Realistically in most places passkeys aren’t a replacement to passwords. Some places like Google let you only use your passkey now, but others still force you to have a password too. But they’re still there as an option so that you can log in much faster next time (so you don’t have to do the whole ‘uhhhh uhhhh uhhh what’s my password here’ thing), so that’s why they’re asking you for your fingerprint, probably. Please give me $20 now.

i really like this thing where websites will have separate "log in" & "sign up" buttons and if you click "log in" it takes you to a sign-up screen anyway so you have to click "i already have an account" and then it will ask if you want to sign in with your facebook account or with instagram or linkedin or deviantart or whatever, and if you choose "username & password" it asks if you want to put in your username or use your thumbprint, and once you put your username & password it emails you a confirmation code, and once you put in the code it says "do you want to give us your phone number for future sign-ins? do you want to sign up for facial recognition? do you want to give us your bones? give us your fucking bones?

[i4satoruz]

I CAN SEE YOU

pairing — childhood enemy!gojo x afab!reader

synopsis — you’ve hated gojo satoru since he insulted your precious glitter stickers at age six—and he’s made it his life’s mission to annoy you ever since. but after thirteen years of bickering, teasing, and showing up uninvited, one cracked smile during your date announcement makes you wonder: is hatred and annoyance truly the only emotions he can teach you?

tags — enemies to lovers, one-sided (?) pining, gojo being a complete menace like he always is, two year age gap, reader and gojo are both in college, not super slow slowburn, jealous!gojo but he covers it up with being annoying, reader is suguru's little sister, brother's bestfriend!gojo, fluff, idiot(s) in love, eventual smut, gojo being in denial and everything hitting him all at once → previously

wc: 6.5k

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

satoru was eight when he realized just how ridiculously easy it was to push your buttons.

it took minimal effort—barely any at all—and that alone fascinated him. there you were, plopped in the middle of the living room like a pint-sized monarch in a kingdom of chaos, surrounded by a sea of glittery stickers. the carpet around you looked like it had lost a war against every shade of pastel known to man. your hair was clipped in a dozen different colors, each barrette more violently neon than the last, turning your head into some kind of wild, living art project.

if it had been anyone else, he would’ve dragged suguru away and never looked back. but something about you—maybe it was the stubborn pout on your lips, or the way your gaze zeroed in on him with instant irritation, like you'd already decided he was the worst person alive—made him pause.

actually, it made him stay.

there was something undeniably funny about how fast you got riled up. he noticed it immediately—the way your brows pinched together like you were solving the world’s most annoying math problem every time he spoke. it was incredible. mesmerizing. every reaction you gave him felt like a reward.

he decided then and there, right between the glitter unicorn stickers and the scowl you’d offered  in his direction, that teasing you might just be his life’s calling.

later, after you’d stomped up the stairs with all the rage your tiny body could contain, suguru let out a sigh and leaned against the couch, arms crossed.

“is it really impossible for you to not be annoying?” he asked, sounding more exhausted than mad.

satoru didn’t answer right away. his eyes were still fixed on the staircase, where your retreating footsteps had echoed moments before. his mind replayed the image of you standing there in your ridiculous teddy bear pajamas—too big for you, sleeves nearly swallowing your hands—pointing out each sparkly sticker as if you were showing off the crown jewels.

something about that stuck with him.

finally, he tore his eyes away and smirked, stretching his legs across the carpet like a king who had just won a battle. “nope. Impossible,” he said, solemnly. “that’s like asking me not to breathe.”

his tone was dead serious as he looked suguru in the eye, like he wasn’t just making a statement but declaring a fundamental law of nature.

then he gave the stairs one last glance—half-expecting you to come barreling back down with a plastic doll in hand, ready to hurl it at his head. honestly? he kind of hoped you would.

shaking his head at the thought, satoru flopped beside suguru on the floor, arms behind his head like he owned the room. “what’s her name?” he asked, too casual to be innocent. a small part of him worried suguru wouldn’t tell him. that maybe he’d keep it to himself, like it was some kind of secret he didn’t want to share.

but when suguru said it—your name, clear as day—satoru smiled.

not a big, toothy grin. just something small. barely-there. the kind of smile that slips out before you know it’s happening. he let your name roll off his tongue like he was testing the weight of it, committing it to memory.

there was this strange feeling—quiet and certain—that settled in his chest. a flicker of instinct, maybe. or fate, if he believed in that kind of thing.

somehow, he knew he’d be seeing a lot more of you.

satoru was fourteen when he decided that lazy afternoons like this were way too quiet without him stirring trouble.

the sky was pale blue, streaked with thin clouds that barely moved, and the air buzzed with the hum of cicadas. your mom had hung laundry out on the line, white sheets swaying gently like sails, and the smell of fresh soap clung to the summer breeze. how boring. satoru thought. 

the heat was getting to him. suguru was busy reading some book he couldn't care less about. there were no more sweets in your pantry and your mom had offered him a banana as a substitute. 

this is the worst day of my life. i'm basically dying. maybe i should just lay in the middle of the road. it'll finish my suffering quickly. he thought, all pouty.

with a determined mind ready to cause mischief, satoru looked around to find someone to pester. that's when his line of sight pointed to you.

you were sitting cross-legged on the porch steps, earbuds tucked in, sketchpad balanced on your lap. your hair was pulled back messily, a pencil behind your ear, and the sunlight lit up the tips like strands of gold.

satoru didn’t know why he noticed that. he blamed boredom.

“whatcha doing?” his voice came suddenly from behind you, making you flinch hard enough that your pencil left an ugly streak across the page. 

“seriously?!” you spun around, glaring. “do you have to sneak up on people?”

“it’s a talent,” he said easily, dropping down onto the step below you without asking. his shoulders brushed yours, not that he cared—or maybe he did, because suddenly they felt way too warm. he ignored it.

you sighed dramatically and went back to erasing the line, muttering under your breath. he decided to ignore your string of curses and bad wishes for him, instead focusing on what you were drawing.

“you draw now?” he leaned in, head tilted like he was actually curious.

“always have,” you said flatly, shifting the sketchpad away from his line of sight.

that just made him grin wider. “oh, hiding it? must be bad then.”

your eyes narrowed. “it’s better than anything you could do.”

“please.” he snorted, snatching the pencil from your hand before you could react. “i’m a natural at everything.”

“give it back, satoru!” you lunged for it, but he just held it high, smirking as you scrambled to grab it. “what’s the magic word?” he asked while one of his eyebrows were arched.

“die.”

he laughed, leaning back on his hands, pencil spinning between his fingers like it was a game. you were glaring at him so hard, lips pressed tight, and for some stupid reason, the sight made his chest feel weird. not bad weird—just… weird weird.

“fine, fine,” he said eventually, handing it back like he was doing you some grand favor. “don’t cry about it.”

“i wasn’t going to cry,” you shot back, snatching it from him.

“sure,” he said lightly, grin tugging at his mouth.

you again muttered something he didn’t catch, focusing on your sketch again. satoru leaned back, letting his elbows rest on the step behind him, eyes drifting toward you without meaning to.

the sunlight had made your hair look lighter than it usually was. your hair had been caught in the breeze, making it messier than usual. the both of you basked in the unusual silence, while the cicadas had filled in the quiet air. and for some reason he couldn’t stop looking. he told himself it was because he was bored. that was all.

he sat in silence for a second too long before blurting the first thing that came to mind. “you draw me yet? bet i’d look amazing.” he said as the side of his lip quirked up. you rolled his eyes at how pleased he seemed to be with his idea. satoru almost let out a chuckle at that.

you scoffed. “you’d look annoying.”

he grinned, leaning in close just to see you flinch. “guess that means you’d get it accurate.”

you shoved his shoulder, and he laughed, the sound ringing through the quiet summer air like it belonged there. like it was going to haunt you one day if you let it slip between your fingers.

satoru was fifteen when he became convinced that tutoring you was the worst mistake of his life.

he stared at the notebook in front of you like it had personally offended him. numbers and letters swam across the page—x’s, y’s, parentheses that clung together like lovers, and a sad-looking equal sign caught in the middle of it all. he ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends like the strands were responsible for your confusion.

“it’s literally simple,” he groaned, dramatically throwing himself back into the beanbag behind him. “just isolate the variable, divide both sides, and boom—done.”

you blinked at him, expression blank. “…that explains nothing.”

“are you serious?” he sat up fast, eyes wide in pure disbelief. “i just gave you gold. that was math gold.”

you turned to him slowly, pencil clutched like a weapon. “you basically said ‘just do the thing’ without telling me how to do the thing.”

satoru opened his mouth, then closed it again. then sighed, flopping to the floor with an arm over his eyes like the world was ending. “i’m going to die here. this is how it ends for me. death by seventh grade algebra.”

you rolled your eyes, scribbling something in your notebook that looked more like a sad doodle than actual math. “you’re so dramatic.”

he lifted his arm just enough to peek at you. you were frowning at the problem, chewing your lip like it had done something wrong, the tip of your pencil tapping against the paper in a rhythm that screamed “i’m trying, okay?”

and that’s what made him pause.

you were frustrated. not just annoyed—genuinely frustrated. your brows were scrunched, eyes narrowed, lips slightly pursed, and even your slouched posture looked tired.

satoru sat up, brushing his bangs from his eyes. for once, he didn’t say anything stupid right away. instead, he scooted closer and pulled the notebook toward him, his voice quieter this time.

“okay, look. this part here—” he pointed to a line of the equation “—is just saying you’re multiplying x by four. so to get x alone, you gotta undo the multiplication by dividing. like... imagine you're untying a knot backwards.”

you blinked. “…so… do the opposite of what’s trapping the x?”

“exactly,” he nodded, tapping the paper. “you’re not solving the whole world. you’re just getting x alone, like pulling it out of a really bad group chat.”

a breath of laughter escaped you—barely, but he caught it. his lips twitched.

you tried the problem again, muttering your steps under your breath. satoru watched silently, not bothering to hide the way he leaned closer every time your pencil moved.

“there.” you held the notebook out like a peace offering. “happy?”

he snatched it like it was a prize. squinted. paused.

“…okay, not bad. maybe i won’t die here after all.”

“wow,” you said flatly. “thanks for the honor.”

“i’m very generous.”

you flopped onto the carpet, arms splayed dramatically. “math is evil.”

“you’re just saying that ‘cause math beat you up a little.”

“a lot.”

satoru lay beside you now, arms behind his head. the ceiling looked boring. white and flat and perfectly uninteresting. he turned his head toward you, noticed the way your eyes were half-lidded now, clearly tired but too stubborn to admit it.

“wanna learn something cool?” he asked, tone suddenly light again.

“only if it’s not math.”

“it’s math-adjacent,” he said, rolling onto his side. “but it’s cool. i promise.”

you gave him a skeptical look. “…fine. hit me with it.”

he propped himself up on one elbow. “infinity.”

you groaned. “ugh. that’s so basic.”

“rude. it’s not basic. infinity is—” he paused, like he was trying to find the right words. “—it’s the idea that there’s no end. like, no matter how far you go, there’s always more. more numbers, more space, more everything. it just… keeps going.”

you stared at him, unimpressed. “…sounds boring.”

he laughed. “isn’t it kind of  beautiful?”

you blinked. “you think math is beautiful?”

“sometimes,” he said, quieter now. “sometimes it feels like the only thing that makes sense.”

for a second, you didn’t say anything. he looked up at the ceiling again, thinking about infinity and space and the fact that maybe this moment would stick with him longer than he’d admit.

“...still sounds nerdy,” you muttered.

he snorted. “liar. you’re thinking about it. that makes you a nerd too.”

you didn’t reply. just nudged his arm with your foot, eyes fluttering shut like the tiniest nap couldn’t hurt.

he let the silence sit there, eyes tracing the shape of your face as it softened with sleep. your pencil was still clutched loosely in your hand. the notebook lay between you both like a bridge.

“you’re so gonna dream about infinity,” he whispered, a grin pulling at his lips.

and maybe, just maybe, he hoped he would too.

satoru was sixteen when he found the word.

not in a textbook or vocab sheet or anything remotely useful. no, it was in one of those books suguru liked to read—dramatic, slow-paced things with too many metaphors and not enough explosions. it had dog-eared pages and the kind of prose that made satoru’s brain itch.

still, he was bored. so he cracked it open, flipped through a few pages, and skimmed the lines until something caught his eye like a pebble in his shoe.

seraphic.

he said it out loud, just to see how it sounded. again, slower.

ser-a-phic.

it tasted ridiculous. too pretty. too soft. it didn’t sound like a real word—more like the name of a soap brand or some mystical shampoo.

what kind of person even used that word seriously?

still, his eyes dropped to the sentence on the page:

“she smiled, seraphic in her joy.”

ugh. gross. but underneath it, suguru had scribbled something in neat, small handwriting: angelic. blissful. pure.

satoru frowned. pure? angelic? what did that even mean? people weren’t like that. no one was so glowing, so otherworldly, that you’d need a word like seraphic just to describe the way they smiled. he looked up, gaze wandering across the room.

and then it landed on you.

you were sitting by the window, knees pulled up, sketchpad balanced in your lap. the sun was spilling in like warm syrup, trailing across the floor and wrapping around you like it had nowhere better to be. your hair shimmered in the light, strands falling into your face as you leaned over your drawing. your eyes were focused, expression soft in that way people only got when they forgot the world existed.

and for some reason—some dumb, fleeting, utterly nonsensical reason—satoru’s chest did this weird thing.

tightened. fluttered. paused.

just for a second. a tiny, stupid second.

oh.

he blinked hard, looked back down at the book like it had just betrayed him. the sentence sat there, smug and still. seraphic. angelic. blissful.

it wasn’t about you. obviously. don’t be weird.

he flipped the page like that would shake it out of his head—but the feeling clung, warm and irritating, like leftover sun on skin. it was the same itch he’d felt the day he first saw you sketching in silence, the way something about you—just sometimes—felt a little too still. too careful. like a scene from a dream.

he hated it.

well. not hated. more like… found it annoying. definitely annoying.

you shifted, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, and the sunlight followed you again. dramatic much? honestly, it was like nature itself had a crush on you. disgusting.

before he could stop himself, he was staring again—and that’s when you spoke.

“what?”

you didn’t even look up. but your voice was dry, suspicious, like you were catching him mid-crime.

“nothing,” he said quickly. too quickly. he cleared his throat and leaned back into the couch with studied ease. “just… wondering how someone can draw with so little talent. it’s fascinating, really.”

you raised an eyebrow at him without turning. “do you ever shut up?”

“i do,” he said with a grin, “but only around people who deserve silence.”

your pencil paused briefly—just long enough for him to notice—before you shook your head and kept sketching. “you’re unbearable.”

he kicked his foot up over the armrest, slouching into the cushions. “and yet, here you are. bearing me. funny how that works.”

“unfortunately.”

he watched you for a moment longer, gaze lingering just a beat too long before he forced himself to look away. whatever. it didn’t mean anything. so what if you looked kind of… nice in the sun? so what if that word had temporarily messed with his head?

he wasn’t actually feeling anything. obviously.

it was just the lighting. the book. the boredom. a coincidence.

besides, if anything, you were the one acting weird lately. being all quiet. sketching things. sitting near him without arguing for ten whole minutes.

you were the problem.

he let out a breath and smirked to himself, flipping the book shut and tossing it on the table like it had bored him.

seraphic.

what a dumb word.

satoru was seventeen and currently yelling at a basketball in his head like it had personally betrayed him.

“that’s three points, baby!” he whooped, spinning on his heel and blowing a kiss to no one in particular. his white hair caught the light, sweat-damp and ridiculous, and the smug grin on his face practically begged to be punched.

you, aged sixteen and deeply regretting your life choices, sat beside shoko on the sun-warmed bench, arms crossed and unimpressed. “is this what you guys do for fun?”

shoko didn’t even glance at the game. she lounged like a cat, sunglasses on, sipping something questionably fizzy from a flask. “it’s like watching a baby deer on caffeine.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you mean suguru?”

“no. satoru.”

you looked back at the court just in time to see satoru pull off some flashy behind-the-back nonsense before tossing the ball cleanly into the hoop. he threw his arms up like he’d just won the olympics.

“you’re right. he even flails,” you muttered.

“i do not flail!” satoru called from across the court, his voice crystal clear despite the distance.

you blinked, then glared. “stop eavesdropping!”

“your voice carries!” he shouted back with a grin.

he dribbled lazily, barely trying, but still moving like he’d been born to play. his steps were fluid, effortless, almost like showboating was second nature. it was annoying how easy he made it look.

“are you seriously just gonna sit there like a statue?” he called out again, spinning the ball on one finger. “what, scared?”

you scoffed. “scared of what? your oversized ego?”

“of getting your pride shattered when i dunk on you,” he replied smoothly. then he casually sank another three pointer, as if to prove his point. satoru's face adorned an unimpressed look, as if he had already expected the shot to go in.

you squinted at him. “i’d rather eat dirt.”

he smirked. “what if i said we’re one player short?”

“you’re lying,” you said flatly, not budging.

“what if i said shoko already agreed to play?”

you glanced at your friend. she lifted her drink, expression unreadable. “technically,” she said with a sigh, “he said if i didn’t play, he’d read my old diary out loud.”

you looked at her, horrified. “you kept a diary?”

“middle school was a rough time,” she said and shrugged.

“c’mon,” satoru said, striding over now, spinning the ball lazily in his hands. “don’t you wanna show off your world-class coordination?”

“i will literally kick you.”

he grinned. “on the court? so you admit you’re in.”

you stared. “i didn’t say that!”

“you know,” he added with a tilt of his head, “it’d be kind of embarrassing if my best friend’s little sister backed out of a friendly game.”

your eye twitched. “is that reverse psychology?”

“nope,” he said cheerfully. “just straight-up bullying.”

you shot shoko a look. she shrugged and stood up. “just get it over with. you’ll feel better once you score on him.”

“thank you,” you muttered dryly.

“i meant me,” she added.

you groaned but stood anyway, brushing your hands on your shorts. “you guys suck.”

satoru grinned, clearly victorious. “you love us.”

you ignored him.

soon enough, you were standing at half court, frowning at the basketball he handed you. he looked way too pleased with himself.

“ready to be humiliated?” he asked.

“you mean like your sixth-grade haircut?” you shot back without missing a beat.

he winced. “low blow.”

you smiled. “you’ll live.”

to your surprise, you weren’t terrible. you passed decently, dribbled well enough, and even made a few half-decent shots. when you managed to steal the ball from satoru by elbowing him—lightly—in the ribs, he gasped like you’d stabbed him.

“assault!” he cried. “someone call the authorities!”

“you flopped,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“you’re violent,” he accused, pouting dramatically. “this is why you don’t get invited to parties.” you blinked. “you were the one who dragged me here!”

“i lured you with charm and emotional manipulation.”

“that’s not better!”

“semantics,” he said with a shrug.

you almost laughed. almost. but your next step landed funny. your foot twisted awkwardly on a hidden dip in the pavement, and pain jolted up your ankle sharp and sudden.

“ow—shit,” you hissed, stumbling and grabbing at your leg.

the mood snapped.

suguru jogged over immediately, brows furrowed. “hey. hey, what happened?”

shoko lowered her flask and stood still, her expression uncharacteristically serious. “she hurt herself?”

you grimaced, shifting your weight. “twisted it, i think. it’s fine.”

“that doesn’t look fine,” satoru said, suddenly crouched beside you. he hovered for a second, hands unsure, like he didn’t know whether to touch or not.

he hesitated—just for a breath, like he was trying to make up his mind.

then he turned around, crouching with his back to you.

“get on.”

you blinked. “...get on what?”

“me.”

“you’re insane.” you were convinced that your eyes were about to pop out of their sockets.

“and you’re injured.” he said, staying the obvious.

“satoru—”

“do you want to make it worse?” his voice snapped—sharp, sudden, just a little louder than usual.

you paused, startled. he didn’t look at you. his hands clenched briefly at his sides before he spoke again, quieter this time. “just. get on.”

there was a tightness in his voice. something he was holding back. suguru and shoko stood frozen behind him, like they weren’t sure whether to intervene or pretend they weren’t there.

with a sigh, you climbed onto his back, arms awkwardly looping around his shoulders.

“you’re sweaty,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way your face was heating up.

“you’re mean,” he said back, but his voice was gentler now.

“you’re dramatic.”

“you’re always falling for me,” he murmured with a snicker.

you smacked the back of his head lightly. “shut up. don't ever say that again.”

he laughed, adjusting his grip under your knees. his fingers brushed lightly over your skin, careful, almost too gentle. the walk back was quiet, save for his steady breathing and the occasional grumble when you shifted your weight wrong.

the air swept past your drenched hair as well as satoru's. you don't think you've been this close to him. his back was covered in sweat, something you couldn't stand on a normal day, but somehow you tolerated it now. you blamed it on your foot. his cologne had combined with the air—something manly but not too strong. satoru's breathing was steady, and if you focused enough you'd be able to hear his heartbeat. satoru prayed you didn't.

at your place, he set you down on the couch with ease, then disappeared into the kitchen.

he came back with a towel and a pack of ice, crouching in front of you like it was second nature. “ankle up,” he said, voice low.

you did as told, watching him work. the cold pressed to your skin, sharp and numbing, but the care in his touch was oddly… soft.

“you’re being weird,” you said after a beat.

“you’re being injured,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. for some unknown reason, you couldn't help but think that he was avoiding your gaze.

the room fell quiet.

satoru sat beside you, elbow resting on the back of the couch, his expression unreadable. for once, he didn’t look like he had something cocky to say.

then he glanced at you, expression unreadable.

“next time,” he said quietly, “don’t actually get hurt, yeah?”

you looked at him sideways. “why? you planning to carry me again?”

he rolled his eyes once again, a smile almost stained your lips. here you were practically dying and he was still here being annoying. “what else am i supposed to do?”

nothing was said. but something hung in the air between you, faint and unfamiliar.

a shift. small, strange. unnoticed by anyone else.

but not by either of you. not even a little.

at age nineteen, he was about to leave—and you had just turned eighteen.

“i can’t believe you wore that to my birthday party,” you said, eyeing satoru from head to toe.

he grinned, straightening the collar of his slightly wrinkled button-down. “what? i look good, admit it.”

“you look like you're working a 9 to 5 job.” the unimpressed tone made him smirk. “you’re just mad i wore it better than you ever could.”

“i’m not even wearing one.”

“exactly,” he said smugly, popping a candy into his mouth. “rookie mistake.”

you sighed, arms crossing, but your lips were twitching. “remind me why i invited you again?”

“because you’re obsessed with me,” he replied, draping an arm around your shoulders like he hadn’t done that same thing a hundred times over the years. “been obsessed since you were, what, six? i’ve seen the way you look at me.”

“like obsessed with the idea of dropkicking you into traffic? sure.” he tilted his head, acting like he was thinking carefully.

“more like you’d miss me if i ever stopped showing up.”

you paused. just long enough for him to notice. just long enough to make his smirk falter—before you shoved him away with a scoff.

“delusional.”

“you say that now,” he teased, “but you’ll be crying at the airport.”

“more like celebrating.”

but there was something in the way you looked at him then. like you were trying to memorize his face, all sharp edges and loud laughter, the way he always filled every corner of your world without asking.

he didn’t say anything. didn’t trust himself to.

later, when the music had dulled to a steady thrum and the room buzzed with small talk and half-finished stories, satoru found himself drifting away from the crowd.

he leaned against the wall, plastic cup in hand, his usual cocky energy beginning to unravel into something quieter. something restless. he was still smiling when people passed, still tossing out casual jabs and compliments—but beneath it all, a dissonance tugged at his chest.

it had started when you laughed.

not at him, not beside him—but across the room, with someone else. a laugh that reached your eyes. a hand resting on someone else's sleeve. satoru had always known you smiled like that. he just hadn’t realized how much he hated not being the cause of it.

he didn’t even notice shoko until she was beside him, cupcake in hand and mischief in her eyes.

“you look like a sulking flamingo,” she said, deadpan as ever.

“i am not sulking,” satoru replied, voice a little too loud, a little too defensive. “i’m brooding. there's a difference.”

“sure there is,” she smirked, eyeing him knowingly. “and you’re brooding because…?”

“because the music sucks,” he snapped. “and suguru ate the last slice of cake. obviously.”

shoko raised a brow. suguru, who had just wandered over with a plateful of sweets, glanced between them and blinked. “...i could get you another slice?”

“no,” satoru muttered, tossing the untouched cup of soda into a trash bag. “it’s tainted. betrayal never tastes sweet.” suguru, used to his dramatics, stepped away from the both of them to get a slice. satoru would probably be in a sourer mood if he doesn't.

but it wasn’t the cake. of course it wasn’t the cake.

it was you—laughing a little too brightly across the room, your hand brushing the arm of some guy whose name satoru didn’t bother to remember. he was someone from your class, maybe. the same guy who had hovered around you all evening like a mosquito with too much cologne and not enough shame.

and you let him.

you let him stand too close. you laughed at his jokes, even the bad ones. and worse, you didn’t look annoyed. not the way you always were around satoru.

“you’re acting like a kicked puppy,” shoko added, licking frosting from her finger. “you could just go talk to her, you know.”

“why would i?” he scoffed. “i don’t care. she can flirt with the entire country if she wants to.”

but the lie burned all the way down.

he watched as you leaned in to whisper something to the guy, watched your smile bloom—soft and easy. he hated it. hated that someone else could pull that out of you so effortlessly. hated that it wasn’t him.

suguru was starting to discuss something about dorm life as he was walking back when the guy finally said his goodbyes. satoru’s body moved before his mind could catch up. a blur of sharp footsteps, dismissive waves, and shoko’s knowing snort as he passed by.

“where are we going—? hey, satoru!” your voice behind him, high and exasperated, followed by hurried footsteps.

he grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and dragged you through the house, past balloons and confetti and candles that had long burned out. into the hallway, then up the stairs, and finally into the quiet of your room.

you yanked your arm away. “what the hell was that for?”

“needed air,” he said, shutting the door behind him, though the room wasn’t stuffy at all. “and you were the most annoying person to do it with.”

“you could’ve asked,” you huffed, arms crossing. “you’re so—ugh.” 

but then, the tension shifted.

you fidgeted. your gaze dropped. something about the silence made you shift your weight from one foot to the other. “...wait. before you go. i have something for you.”

he let his eyes drift towards you, fingers still curled loosely around the doorknob. your voice—soft, uncertain—wasn’t one he was used to hearing. not from you. not when most of your conversations were built from sarcasm and eye-rolls, brick by brick. it made something in his chest clench, unfamiliar and tight. he turned slowly, brows quirking. “is it another headache?” he asked, lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. he was trying, as always, to deflect. to make light of the shift in the air he couldn’t quite name.

you didn’t respond to the joke. instead, you walked across the room toward your desk, your back to him, shoulders tense in a way he recognized too well. you looked like you were bracing for impact. and that—that alone made him straighten, amusement draining into something heavier. the teasing in his throat shriveled on his tongue.

your fingers hovered above the drawer before pulling it open. and he noticed then, for the first time, how hesitant you were. like whatever you were about to give him wasn’t just a gift—it was a piece of you. and that terrified you.

when you turned around, something small and carefully wrapped was held in both hands. you didn’t meet his eyes.

“don’t laugh,” you murmured.

his expression twitched—like he wanted to, like the reflex was there—but he didn’t. not fully. “you’re practically begging me to,” he replied instead, voice lower now. gentler. he didn’t know why he said it that way, but something about your posture, the tremble in your grip, made the usual snark feel wrong. and when you reached out to hand it to him, your fingers brushed his—and god, you were warm. warm in a way that left him reeling.

he took the paper from you with a kind of reverence he wasn’t known for. satoru gojo didn’t do gentle. didn’t do delicate. but this—this felt like sacred ground. he peeled the wrapping slowly, and the moment the sketch was revealed, the breath lodged in his throat and didn’t come back.

it was him.

not just a sketch of him, but him. the way you saw him. mid-motion, caught mid-game, hair disheveled, eyes sharp, body in sync with something bigger than himself. you’d shaded his face with soft shadows, smudged lines curling with energy, as though he were about to leap off the paper entirely. it wasn’t perfect—but maybe that’s what made it so gutting. it was flawed, but honest. and that honesty hit harder than any compliment ever could.

he stared.

too long. long enough for the silence to thicken.

“you remembered that day?” he finally managed to ask, but the words came quiet, barely audible. like speaking too loud might shatter whatever spell this was.

you shifted. “you always liked basketball. figured you’d want a memento.”

his heart twisted at that. a memento. the word lodged somewhere in his ribs. it sounded too final. too much like a goodbye. he looked at the sketch again and tried to find a joke. something easy. something safe. but his throat felt like it had been sewn shut.

because you’d seen him.

not just the loud, flashy version of himself. not the cocky show-off or the effortlessly brilliant student. but the boy beneath all of that. the one who tried so hard to be okay all the time. the one who loved the game not for the fame, but for the feeling of flying. of escaping.

you saw him. and you kept it. put it on paper. gave it to him.

“i kept messing up the jawline,” you mumbled. “you have an annoying face to draw.”

he let out a laugh—short, breathless, barely a sound. but it was genuine. it cracked something open in his chest. his fingers curled protectively around the edges of the paper, careful not to wrinkle it. careful not to damage what he already knew would become the most important thing he owned. satoru couldn't find the right words to say, his heart beating too fast for his own good.

so instead, he looked back at the sketch. forced himself to breathe. willed the flood back down with a shaky smile.

“you forgot my good side.”

you rolled your eyes, snorting. “you don’t have a good side.”

he chuckled under his breath, but his heart wasn’t in it.

his fingers tightened around the drawing once more before he finally folded it in half, careful and precise. he slipped it into his back pocket like it was something sacred. something only he could touch.

and then he looked at you—really looked at you.

eyes bright, a little wide, like he was standing on a ledge you didn’t know he’d climbed.

“i have something for you,” he said, softer now.

you smiled. “as you should. its my birthday after all.”

he didn’t answer. just reached into the front pocket of his slacks, pulling something out with a slow, quiet kind of care.

it caught the light in a soft glint—silver, delicate, hanging from a thin chain. he held it in his palm, almost hesitant, like part of him wanted to keep it to himself.

“you got me… jewelry?” you asked, squinting.

he didn’t respond right away. he just stepped closer. held the necklace a little higher so you could see the pendant better.

your breath hitched.

a small, simple loop. smooth and endless. the shape of it so familiar it made your chest ache.

an infinity symbol.

you stared at it, and for a second, you didn’t speak. didn’t move.

but then, slowly, a smile curled at your lips. not a teasing one. not smug. just soft. warm. like something tucked away in a memory finally unfolded itself in full bloom.

“i remember,” you whispered, soft and slow.

his brow quirked, but he knew what you meant.

“you taught me what infinity meant,” you added, fingers ghosting over the symbol. “you said it just keeps going. more space. more everything.”

“and you said it was boring,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

you laughed. “because i didn’t get it back then.”

his throat worked. “and now?”

you looked up at him. “now i do.”

he swallowed. eyes flickering from your face to the pendant, like he couldn’t decide which held him more captive.

his voice dipped, quiet and uneven. “can i?”

you nodded before he even finished.

turned around slowly, brushing your hair aside, the skin of your neck bared to him in the soft lamp light.

he stepped closer, breath shallow. hands shaking slightly as he brought the necklace around your collarbones.

his fingers brushed your skin, and the contact sent something fluttering down his spine—sharp and slow all at once.

it should’ve been simple. clasping a necklace. it should’ve taken two seconds.

but he was memorizing the curve of your neck. the way your shoulders rose with your breath. the heat of you, so close and real and it almost felt like it was his.

and all he could think about was how fucking dangerous it was, to feel this much.

he fastened the clasp with a soft click. his fingers lingered.

you looked at yourself in the mirror and met his eye. “thank you,” you said. your voice was steady. but your eyes—they gave you away.

and something about that broke him.

because suddenly, it all made sense.

the way you always lingered in the back of his mind. the way he counted time by the sound of your laughter. the way no other memory ever burned half as bright.

and then it hit him.

not like a punch. not like a falling weight. it was slower, deeper. like a tide that had been rising for years, finally cresting. and all he could do was stand there, soaked to the bone.

he was in love with you.

completely. irrevocably. devastatingly.

he didn’t know when it started. maybe it had always been there—dormant, quiet, buried under all the bickering and banter. or maybe it began the day you proved that his patience might not be as short as he thought when teaching you some stupid physics lesson. maybe it grew every time you called him unbearable but never walked away.

maybe it took root that afternoon when he carried you. drenched in sweat, heartbeat erratic, body aching from playing basketball all day. but he made it work. because for the first time, he felt your body pressed onto his, warm, fragile, gentle. he didn't know when he could do it again. 

he could remember the day vividly, to the point he was convinced he could retell it multiple times without missing a single detail. it was engraved in his brain. stuck.

and now, standing behind you with your drawing in his hands and you looking up at him with uncertainty written all over your face—he realized just how badly he’d messed up.

because he couldn’t say it.

he couldn’t tell you. couldn’t admit it. because the moment he did, this fragile thing between you would tip, would shift, would change. and if he confessed and it wasn’t what you wanted—if he was wrong—he’d lose everything. not just the possibility. but you.

now, he stood behind you. satoru stared at the necklace now laying on your chest. you were still looking at it as if it was something precious. satoru almost thought he was dreaming. he prayed he wasn't.

because he was completely, utterly, and secretly screwed.

and the worst part?

he wouldn’t change a thing.

i quite literally poured my heart and soul into this.... i love gojo so much its actually not funny anymore. taglist is still open so comment if u wanna be added!! next part will be the last one :) lmk your thoughts <3

tl: @victoria1676 @junuru @spacefae-x @sukunaslilsocks @haazelnuutloover @sap24 @simplyharmonized @dahliawarner @starrrzilla @emochosoluvr @coollystealthycataclysm @chewiebee @devourer-of-souls-and-ramen @yehet-moi-ohorat @nina-from-317 @rxeae @sharkie-eighty @pixiewixi3 @yurilover71 @bnbaochauuu @ttscker @jimabbenamara @p1nkfl0wers @grimfaerii @str4wbrryaoi @seppyco @seppyco @vernonveroff @arahiraaai

[heretyc]

PROJECT: CARCINOGEN [Prime Assets x Prime Asset! Reader] AU

Idea by @forbidden-soda TW: Horror elements, chemical usage on MC/Reader, we're gettin' spooky with it babey MC/Reader has holes in their skin as well as exposed skeletal bits, bloodshot eyes, and rough, scarred skin. Clyde Perry is alive. None of this is real, I pulled some magic, science-y stuff out of my ass. Carcinogens don't do any of this lol don't inject yourself with any

To Easterman, cruelty was a necessary evil in order to achieve peace; after all, one must experience hardships to truly appreciate the feelings of freedom and harmony.

This project was no different.

And so he stood before the room of his most trusted medical personnel, one of which being Barlow [despite the unsure quirk of her brows], and the infamous figure of Clyde Perry, sitting close to the front.

Hendrick's smile was contagious as he slid files onto the table they all sat at, his free hand nursing a glass of whiskey.

"Behold," he was bold in his announcing, "Project Carcinogen."

Even the name was something that made Emily's stomach do backflips with nausea and intrigue. A project had usually meant the introduction of a new prime asset, and the name sounded so...menacing.

"What was done to this new prime asset?" One of the many scientists took one of the files, a photograph of the new prime asset making his stomach mimic Barlow's; he didn't know whether to feel fascinated or disgusted.

So many...wounds.

"This new prime asset is named Carcinogen. They're a fascinating case, really." Easterman sounded like a proud father figure, almost like his child was in the school play.

This wasn't exactly too far off.

"They were selected by yours truly to be pumped full of Agent Opal, a selective, systemic herbicide agent. What occurred was truly stellar."

Barlow didn't like the sound of that. She pursed her lips, but questioned him anyway, "What, exactly, did occur? And what the hell is the difference between herbicides? They're all dangerous to the human body."

Easterman was more than proud as he chugged the rest of his whiskey and slammed it down onto the table, making her flinch. Almost like he was trying to control her growing rebelliousness and questioning.

"Systemic herbicides kill plants, and in this case, humans from the inside out. First, their organs began to shut down. They clawed at their flesh, trying so desperately to free their soul from their damaged vessel."

Easterman had looked like he was describing some holy event, but this was anything but.

"The herbicide...the carcinogens within it began to attack their brain, but amazingly, their body now relies on it to live."

This sounded like a horror flick.

"...Relies on it, you said?" The same scientist from earlier asked with intrigue, "How so?"

"The carcinogens are what form new cells. They completely took over their immune system. They require that specific strain of herbicide to live, but here's the most fascinating thing..."

Easterman leaned in, almost like this was a secret, "Their blood? Full of herbicide, now. Their organs, instead of shutting down, are now pumping a cocktail of blood and herbicide through their veins."

"This sounds supernatural," Barlow scoffed, "There is no way this is happening. Agent Opal is next to deadly, there is no way a human body would react this way."

"That's what we thought as well," Easterman mused. "But they seemed to defy our expectations."

"What were your expectations, anyway?"

Easterman did nothing but shrug. "Truthfully, we used Agent Opal seeing as it was selective. We wanted it to attack the immune system, albeit their body reacted in an opposite manner."

This was disgustingly cruel, even for Murkoff. But Barlow now remained silent, trying to keep her lunch contained.

She should quit. But she knew too much. Clyde knew where she lived.

"We have been using Agent Opal for months now, during the 'toxic' events we hold once or twice a year. But seeing it in action within the human body...it's fascinating."

Another nurse took one of the photographs, her face full of disgusted curiosity. "Their body looks like it's decaying, sir."

"It is."

"Respectfully, how do we stop them from rotting even more? Their bones are showing in their face, for gods sake."

Easterman smirked, pouring himself another glass. Excitement often lead to whiskey with him. "You don't. The agent is what's keeping them alive. You could even say it heals them."

"What in gods name are you talking about?" Barlow found herself scoffing once more. "How does a cancer-causing herbicide heal somebody?"

"It affected their immune system, yes, but their white blood cells have combined with it. Learned from it, even."

Barlow had to hold back a gag.

"What do they use as a weapon? They're interesting, but...they don't sound too threatening." Another scientist raised a brow, clearly bored. "A self-healing freak of nature doesn't exactly sound like they'd thrive in a therapeutic environment."

"That's where you're incorrect. We've given them a tank full of pure, concentrated Agent Opal. Spraying a Reagent with it can burn the Reagent's flesh."

The scientest rolled his eyes, "Easy to avoid if they have a heavy tank on them. Reagents can just stun them with their rigs, or throw a brick. And with the way their flesh looks? With all of those holes...Carcinogen looks a little too fragile."

Easterman sighed with disappointment, "Have you no faith in me? Or do you become a selective deaf when it's convenient?"

He was quick to speak before the scientist could, "Carcinogen can easily spray themselves with Agent Opal to heal. That is what makes them fascinating."

"And how do the other assets feel about them, hmm?" Perry asked from his spot; his neck was wrapped with pristine white bandaging, clearly due to Carcinogen getting a little too trigger happy when he had to bring them in.

Easterman looked like a proud parent once more, "They've formed a business alliance with the Kress family heirs. Combining a walking carcinogen and a science-oriented political pair was the smartest thing we've done."

Perry hummed, satisfied with that answer.

"I think what's most interesting is how they can heal other prime assets," A guard spoke up, looking over the files with intrigue. Barlow furrowed her brows, looking to Easterman for context.

"Ah, yes, right. As I've said, their immune system and cardiovascular system now pumps Agent Opal. This, also, applies to their bile, their saliva..." Even Easterman had looked slightly disturbed at this information, "They can coat wounds in their saliva or otherwise to heal minor to severe wounds."

"And that wouldn't...infect anything?" Barlow seemed unconvinced, even more so. This sounded like a horror story from the barracks of a warzone.

"Surprisingly? No," Clyde looked to Barlow, "For some reason, it acts like a 'mold' of sorts. The combination of the white bloodcells and the selective nature of the herbicide have made it detect and attach it to damaged cells."

Disgusting. Inhumane. Yet all Barlow could do was sigh.

"We've got work to do, ladies and gentlemen." Easterman finished off his new glass of whiskey, "It's prime time this week."

"Stupid fuckin' Reagents, throwing a fuckin' brick at ME!" Franco's voice was irritated as he wiped at his teary eyes. No, they weren't tears. They're water. Eyes needed to water themselves.

"I'll show them, those fucks..." He scoffed, sniffling slightly. His head began to pound, the impact of the brick making his flesh swell slightly.

He didn't hear the clanking of a tank, nor did he see you appear; your eyes, bloodshot, scanned him slightly before you walked up to him.

Pew!

"Stand the fuck back, freak!" Lupara smoked at the barrel, eyes glaring at the new figure.

Still, you stood there, the metallic nozzle of your sprayer in your hand. You looked like a damn strawberry, with the amount of small holes within your flesh.

"Let me help you."

You didn't give him an option as you licked your hand, your saliva thick and a sickening shade of flourescent green; you smeared it onto his head, making him yelp.

"Fucking- HEY!" He nearly screeched, his gloved hand desperately wiping the saliva off. "Did you just fuckin' wipe your gunk on me?!"

You said nothing, watching him with boredom.

The wound began to burn before he felt his skin begin to close; he couldn't see, but he did stare at you with wide eyes as he moved to touch the wound again.

Or lack thereof.

"...Your gunk healed my fuckin' head." He scoffed with disbelief, "You- what the fuck even are you?"

Nothing more was exchanged as you walked to the elevator, the doors shutting behind you.

...Whatever you were, Franco could tell you'd work perfectly together.

"...Interesting."

Otto held the tank of herbicide with ease, like it had weighed lighter than a feather; Arora peered into the beaker in her hands, the herbicide mixing well with her own personal mixture.

"And you say this...eats at the flesh?" Otto questioned with a raised brow, Arora purring from her position above him.

"Even if it didn't, it's bonding well with my work," Arora shook the beaker with eagerness, "I'm more than eager to test it on those...Reagents."

And that's all that needed to be said.

"You're a fuckin' freak."

Coyle could insult all he want, but deep inside, he knew he couldn't argue when you killed off the Reagents in record time. The officer stood beside you, the cigarette bobbing between his lips as he was in thought.

"...But you're an effective freak. I'm a man o' honour...I can respect when a freak like you does their shit n' does it well."

A clap on the back was all he gave you before he walked off, grumbling about the prisoner in the cells.

With Coyle, a clap on the back was flattery.

"Phyllis! Get away from the fuckin's herbicide bitch, they reek!"

"Now now, doctor daddy," Gooseberry tutted as the pair watched you work; reagents clawed at their flesh in agony as you sprayed at them, your face eerily stoic despite the torture you were inflicting onto them.

"They're quite good at this, don't you think?"

"I don't thinks, Phyllis, I know, and I know they're a fuckin' nuisance! This is our job!"

"Teamwork won't kill us."

"Shaddup! It'll take our moneys away! Who will pay for us with a freak like that?!"

Gooseberry did nothing but roll her eyes and walk off into the Root Canal.

She appreciated the break.

[obsidianseven]

Themes in Murderbot Diaries Part the Second: Rambles about masking selves and secret communication tactics among oppressed groups

Damn I might have to turn this into an academic article and submit somewhere because this is getting out of hand and not a little unhinged.

Note: this is really just me jotting notes about ideas for a potential future article after re-reading Murderbot Diaries and starting to collect quotes for something bigger I don't have time to work on now. Apologies in advance and you have been warned.

I had a ramble earlier about Murderbot Diaries themes around surviving totalising control/coercive control/abuse dynamics on a personal, cultural, and societal level and now I've fallen into a rabbit hole.

Way back when I was doing my Masters I did a whole project on enslavement in Rome, which led to reading a lot about how oppressed individuals and groups (e.g., minorities and enslaved people) develop distinct forms of communication that cannot be understood by oppressor classes/groups so I picked up on that around the way Units/bots of different types communicate with each other in ways humans can't understand.

This is where we say Star Trek: TNG Measure of a Man walked so Star Trek Picard could run and Murderbot Diaries could absolutely fly.

Being able to communicate among your own and related groups is vital and people have always found a way to do it. It's also vital to find ways to do this in such a way that you can communicate without oppressing/dominant classes knowing that's what you're doing. MBD represents this really well and fits into the larger theme of "how do you tackle being a subjugated person in a massive oppressive system?" that's kind of at the heart of the books.

The complexity is fascinating. SecUnit creates code to "pass as human", which you can read as either autistic masking or as oppressed class masking and camouflage, and its movement through a world where it has to hide what it is constantly. It's very reminiscent of WEB du Bois' discussion of habitus clivé, how the identities of oppressed classes have to deflect attention from themselves with the creation of an outer versus an inner understanding of yourself because what you receive as the narrative about yourself externally is so much at variance with who you are inside—which must always be hidden.

But SecUnit also operates in a culture with an embedded enslaved group that's not simple, but features complex other groups with entangled separate interests and levels of engagement with the world. I have to acknowledge and be a bit subtle because humans have deliberately created hierarchies of sentience in Units and Bots, and I don't want to imply anything about human groups in discussing this. Fictional representations and explorations of these questions never map perfectly onto reality. But they are meant to make us think (or the good ones are).

Throughout the books I'm struck by SecUnit moving through a world very much run and peopled by non-human intelligences that it interacts with all the time. Bots and Units have separate languages, cultures, communication styles, and interests. I love that Preservation, while doing its best, has a rather flawed approach to construct rights because that's pretty typical of how difficult it is for dominant social groups and cultures to really *get* what it's like to be a minority or an oppressed/enslaved group.

Side note: I also love that, especially from Book 2 onward, SecUnit's primary currency of exchange with other bots and units is entertainment media, i.e., stories. Stories as currency with intense value, as well as appreciating them together, is ancient. Travelling and telling stories together is also ancient (hello there, Chaucer, Apuleius, etc., I see you there). It thoroughly fleshes out bot cultures as independent from but related to human culture in some subtle and fascinating ways. (Side note to the side note being that it's also refreshing that SecUnit's MO is not "become human because that's best", which is a shift from standard representations of intelligent constructs.) The whole privilege of being dominant is that you don't have to see the people doing everything for you.

What I especially love about this series and the interactions SecUnit has with other bots, units, constructs, etc., is that it shifts us away from only representing an oppressed group in terms of their relationship with the oppressors. That isn't even the dominant relationship represented in MBD. SecUnit mostly interacts with other constructs and bots as separate, functional individuals, cultures, and groups operating largely unseen by humans.

Bots, constructs, units, ART, etc., are all given the sense that they are functioning, complex individuals and cultures in the way they interact with each other. Some benefit from the structure of Corporate Rim society enough that they see no value in changing things or have been deliberately designed so that they can't make that leap. Others are getting on with their jobs in a terrible system and living out their lives. Still others are open to change (e.g., Three), or are starting to see the possibilities there.

Another side note: If labourers on twenty-year abusive labour contracts to corporations aren't a corollary to Irish workers in early America then... yeah.

I like that SecUnit uses the offer of the tools to hack a governor module a few times in the series, but only Three takes it up on that and only when it has digested the diaries themselves. Totalising societies do their utmost to make it impossible to see freedom as even a possibility for oppressed classes. I can see how, given time, the series might lead to an uprising. Three has been enslaved since birth, and has not encountered a model of construct freedom until SecUnit. Anyone who has been raised in a cult/totalising environment and had to fight to get out will know that it's a really long journey out the other side. Sorry, that's a repeat of my last mad ramble, but worth remembering.

OK I'd better stop and go back to reading this book about intelligent spider civilisations before I lose my mind.

[bokkiesluv]

Sunkissed and Stained

pairing: Hyunjin x afab!reader word count: 2k contains: college au, friends to lovers, mutual pining, just a fluffy mess

a/n - This is written for the Stay's Secret Fic Exchange created by: @starlostastronaut. My secret fic assignment is for Basil! @bemyaehiweloveskz. I hope this is what you were looking for! On another note, please send in some requests! writers block has been the worst lately 😭

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

The thing about college was that it made people feel lonely, even in a crowd.

You’d met Hyunjin in your freshman year English lit class. Both of you showed up late on the first day, both out of breath and flustered. You sat next to each other because there were two seats left in the back corner. He borrowed a pen. You shared your annotated copy of The Great Gatsby. And for whatever reason, that was enough.

From there, everything was easy.

You studied together in the library and got kicked out once for laughing too loud. You survived orientation and mutual group projects that made you both want to scream. You’d go to the convenience store at midnight when neither of you could sleep, arguing over what ramen brand was superior while trying to avoid eye contact with couples making out behind the energy drink fridge.

It was the kind of friendship that wrapped itself around your life without asking.

And for a while, that was enough.

By sophomore year, you were practically attached at the hip.

You were the one who helped him study when his brain short circuited during midterms. He was the one who always brought you boba during your long library sessions. You shared jokes, hoodie rotations, late-night snack runs, and one very complicated Schedule that neither of you could fully explain to others.

He wasn’t sure when it changed for him. When he started noticing the way you twirled your pen while concentrating, or how you scrunched your nose when something made you laugh too hard.

He didn’t realize it had happened until someone asked if you were dating.

“No,” he said immediately, but the word felt wrong.

That night, he couldn’t stop thinking about how natural it would’ve sounded if he’d said yes.

You, on the other hand, had been in trouble since the very beginning.

It was Hyunjin, after all.

Golden-boy Hyunjin, with his shoulder-length hair, ridiculous laugh, and ability to turn cafeteria ramen into a personality trait. He was soft where others were sharp. Loud where you were quiet. Open in ways that made you feel safe, not overwhelmed.

One summer night stood out to you more than others.

It was the end of your freshman year, and the campus was nearly empty. Finals had ended, roommates were moving out, and the air smelled like late spring. warm asphalt, grass, iced coffee, and last-minute regrets.

Hyunjin had asked if you wanted to walk.

You didn’t ask where.

He’d brought a blanket and one of those ridiculous mini Bluetooth speakers. You’d brought leftover fries from your fridge and a warm hoodie that didn’t belong to you but had long since become yours.

The two of you wandered to the edge of campus, past the student union and the library, eventually settling in a little field behind the art building, one of those hidden places students only knew about if they got lost or loved someone who painted.

You lay back on the blanket while Hyunjin scrolled through his endless playlist of songs.

“Do you ever think we’ll still be friends when this is all over?” he asked, casually, like he was wondering if it might rain.

You turned your head. “When what’s over?”

“College. Us living five minutes from each other. Midnight ramen. All of it.”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “People grow apart.”

He was quiet for a beat. “Do you think we will?”

You paused. “I hope not.”

That seemed to satisfy him. At least, outwardly.

But you saw the way his eyes flicked toward you. The way his hand inched closer to yours on the blanket, fingers barely brushing but never quite holding.

You lay there for an hour, not speaking much. Just looking up at the stars, letting the music fill in the space between you. It was calm. Easy. Until you looked over and realized Hyunjin had fallen asleep, one arm slung over his stomach, lashes fluttering.

You didn’t know what made your chest ache more. The softness of that moment or the fact that you knew he’d never remember it the same way you would.

Still, you memorized everything.

Just in case.

You fell quickly. Quietly. In the way that hurt, just a little.

You’d learned to live with it. To tuck your feelings behind teasing, to laugh off the way he flirted like breathing. Because it was easier than facing the truth:

You were completely in love with your best friend. And he had no idea.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

When he showed up at your door one Thursday night, hair overgrown, box dye in hand, grinning like he’d just solved world peace, you weren’t surprised.

"Want to help me dye my hair pink?" he asked, swaying slightly on your doorstep.

You blinked at him, still in your pajamas. “You want me to do it?”

“Why not you?” he chirped, stepping inside without waiting for an answer. “You’ve got gentle hands. I trust you.”

You tried not to read into that. Tried to ignore how warm your chest got when he kicked off his sneakers like he belonged there.

“Why pink?” you asked, raising a brow.

He plopped onto your couch, hands dramatically splayed. “It’s a vibe. I want something soft. Romantic. Vulnerable.”

You stared at him. “…Did you just describe a hair color like it’s a personality trait?”

He grinned. “Would it work better if I told you I wanted to impress someone?”

Your breath caught.

“Oh?” you couldn't ignore how your heart dropped in disappointment, but you managed to play it cool. “Do I know her?”

Hyunjin shrugged. “Maybe.”

You looked down, pretending to busy yourself with opening the dye box. Your heart was pounding.

All of your worst fears had practically been confirmed - Hyunjin didn't like you.

He had his heart set on someone else.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

Later, he stood in the small bathroom, a towel around his shoulders, while you sat on the counter, mixing the hair dye.

"You're really serious about this pink thing, huh?" you asked.

"It's symbolic," he said, as if that explained anything.

"Of what?"

He shrugged. "New beginnings. Confessions. And I think it looks really badass."

You hesitated. "What are you confessing? Your love to that girl you're dying your hair for?"

He went quiet. Too quiet.

You glanced down at him, and his shoulders were tense.

"…Hyunjin?"

He tilted his head slightly, not meeting your eyes. “You ever like someone so much that it scares you?”

You froze.

He twisted a lock of his hair between his fingers. “Like, they’re your best friend, right? And you think, ‘If I tell them, everything might change.’ But then not telling them hurts just as much?”

Your throat went dry.

“…Yeah,” you said softly. “I know that feeling.”

You worked slowly, carefully parting his damp hair into sections. Your fingers moved on instinct, but your mind was spiraling.

Because Hyunjin was looking at you. Not in a casual, friendly way. Not like he was waiting for a punchline.

But like you were the only thing in the room.

“Y’know,” he said, “I always thought about what it’d be like to do something like this.”

You blinked. “Dye your hair?”

“No,” he murmured. “Be like this. With you. Close. Quiet.”

Your heart skipped. “Hyunjin-”

He turned then, finally looking up at you, and there was so much in his eyes. Hope. Fear. Longing.

“I like you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And I think I’ve liked you for a long time. I just didn’t realize it until it was too late to stop.”

The room went silent except for your heart, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to answer for you.

Your hands, still gloved and pink-stained, hovered uselessly in the air.

“…That’s nice,” you whispered, breathless.

Hyunjin blinked. “That’s nice?!”

You winced. “I panicked, okay?! I didn’t think you’d say it like that!”

His lips twitched. “Yeah?” he said softly. “Why is that?”

You swallowed.

“Because I’ve been in love with you since first semester freshman year and I was so sure you didn’t feel the same and now my brain’s melting and you smell like strawberries and I’m pretty sure I’m going to cry, actually.”

His eyes softened instantly.

“I thought I was just some lovesick idiot waiting for you to actually mean your flirting,” you whispered. “But I guess I was wrong.”

Hyunjin’s smile broke like sunlight through clouds, split into a grin so wide it made you laugh through your embarrassment.

“I knew it,” he said, half-laughing. “You always looked at me like I was the sun.”

“You are the sun.”

He looked stunned, like he didn’t expect to hear it out loud.

You leaned down and kissed his cheek, light as a whisper.

He turned his face.

You kissed his lips, his towel falling in the process.

It was warm, dye-stained, slightly messy.

And it was perfect.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────

Twenty minutes later, with his head over your bathroom sink and your hands rinsing the color out, he glanced up at you.

“So,” he said playfully, “are we dating now?”

You snorted. “Is that how this works?”

“Well,” he said, reaching back to flick water at you, “you did touch my scalp and my heart. Seems pretty serious.”

You flicked water back at him.

He beamed.

That night, with his hair rinsed and towel-dried, Hyunjin tugged you onto the couch and collapsed into your lap like he always did, only now, his arms were around your waist. His cheek pressed to your stomach.

You played with the damp ends of his pastel-pink hair.

“You like it?” he asked, sleepy.

“I love it,” you said honestly.

He opened one eye. “You mean me, or the hair?”

You smiled. “Both.”

[queen-of-gotham]

How would the Naruto guys react if you crocheted them a gift? Let’s see.

Featuring: Naruto, Sasuke, Sai, Shikamaru, Choji, Kiba, Shino, Neji, Lee, Gaara, and Kankuro

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request. Enjoy!

Naruto

“For me?” He asks, a bit confused as you hand him the gift, and he grins wide and bright when he pulls the scarf from the bag.

“WOW, this…” his heart is warm because he’s not used to people doing things like this for him.

His fingers run over the soft, woven fibers, looking over the stitches before his blue eyes settle on you, “you made this?”

You nod, “I did. I crocheted it for you.”

He pulls you into a tight hug and kisses your cheek, “Thank you. Seriously.”

Sasuke

He’s suspicious as he takes the crocheted hat from your hands, with the Uchiha clan symbol worked into the project at the front.

He clicks his tongue, “tch.”

You’re pretty sure he doesn’t like, he doesn’t say thank you or make any more comment on it, but you catch him wearing it once it gets cold enough outside, it becomes his go to.

“Oh, so you do like the hat I made you.”

“You… made this yourself?” There’s a quiet pause, “I’ll take care of it.”

Sai

He stares at the plushie you hand him for a long time, turning it over in his hands like he’s trying to find the secrets that live within the stitches. His expression unreadable at first, but then he softens.

“It’s… me?”

You can tell by the way he’s looking at it, and then looks to you that this is something he treasures.

He keeps it in his bag and then shows it to Naruto and Sakura like, “did I show you what she made me? I think… I love it.”

Shikamaru

You spent the better part of three weeks making him the cardigan he’s holding in his hands.

His fingers run over the yarn, taking in how you’d taken the time to study his clans symbol and work it into the cardigan.

“Must have been troublesome.” He offers but his cheeks are tinted pink. “Thank you, this is very… thoughtful.”

It’s soft, and warm, and it smells like you. It becomes his lazy-day go to wear. He wears it while cloud watching and playing Shogi. It’s even better because you made it for him, but he keeps that fact to himself.

Choji

You made this man a whole winter set, hat, gloves, a scarf, all adorned with Akimichi clan symbol.

Choji is so touched. He holds them like some sacred relic and looks at you starry eyed, “you made all this? For me? Really?”

He gives you the best bear hug, with his whole heart, “it’s perfect, thank you.”

Kiba

He’s laughing, in that joyful way he does, loud and grinning ear to ear.

“Babe, it looks like Akamaru!” He tells you showing his dog like you weren’t the one who painstakingly crocheted the plush, taking the time to undo stitches when marking didn’t look right, or the shape was off.

“I know, I made it that way on purpose.”

Kiba stops, looking from his dog to the plush to you, like you just told him something earth shattering, “wait, you made him? That’s awesome!”

He wraps you into a big hug and spins you, “thanks babe. This is great.”

Shino

You made him a cowl with a hood, and hand embrodiered beetles at the base, “because you like to stay covered.”

“You noticed my intrests, thank you.”

Shino isn’t the type to get emotional easily, but he takes your gift VERY seriously.

He keeps it in pristine condition and wears it on colder days in the winter, running his fingers over the little beetles ontop of the crocheted stitches when he thinks about you.

Neji

You crocheted him a scarf with the Hyuga clan flame.

He accepts it with quiet grace, but he’s visibly moved, “I… thank you. This is… more than I expected.”

It becomes his treasured winter accessory. Wears it with traditional Hyuga robes and thinks of you every time.

“You have incredible talent… and kindness.”

Lee

“I made this for you.” You tell him as you hand over the crocheted afghan with a pretty lotus blossom woven into the stitches.

He CRIES. Loudly. Dramatically.

“YOU MADE THIS WITH YOUR OWN YOUTHFUL HANDS?! I AM HONORED BEYOND WORDS!!”

He uses it every night. Every day. Drags it around the house with him. Does not go on missions though because it’s too precious to accidentally ruin.

“This gift shall fuel my training tenfold! You are my muse!”

Gaara

You give him a sand colored shawl to wear that you crocheted yourself, a heart hand embroidered into the corner of it. “while you work, I know your office gets cold.”

He just… stares at it. You think you’ve made a mistake. But then, He walks over and very gently hugs you.

“I… don’t know what to say. But I’ll keep it. Always.”

Gaara treasures anything handmade. He folds it neatly, places it in a drawer in his office, and wears it if Kazekage responsibilities becomes overwhelming. You ground him.

Kankuro

You took the time to crochet him a cat-eared beanie. It fit hit style you felt like and when you give it to him there’s another surprise tucked inside it.

“Yo, babe… you made this?” He tries to act cool, flipping it around in his hands. He’s fighting a grin. He favors to put it on and a small crow amiguri falls out. He fumbles, but manages to catch the surprise item before it hits the ground.

He’s staring wide eyed, jaw slack as he observes the mini-Crow. “… no way, you even got his faceplate details right.”

He turns away a little so you don’t see the smile tugging at his mouth. The beanie is permanently part of his wardrobe now. If anyone compliments it, he casually drops, “Yeah, my girl made it. No big deal.”

But internally? Screaming.

“Thanks, babe. Seriously… this is so cool. You always think of the coolest shit.”

And he puts the little Crow plush in his room, right next to his tools, like it’s watching over his workshop.

✨Join The Taglist!✨

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🍥Naruto Masterlist🍥 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

[sunishake]

CHERRIES AND MISTAKES — yang jungwon ☆ミ 양정원

“Kinda want to drop you in vodka and watch you melt.”

synopsis: she’s chaos in a skirt, too much, too everything the disciplined class representative Jungwon swears he can't stand. He hates how she breaks every rule, but what he hates more is how badly he wants to break with her

genre: enemy to lover, intense desire, emotional tension

pairing: reader x jungwon

note: tw mention of assaults.

When you walked into the campus lounge that Thursday afternoon, you didn’t just enter a room, you disrupted a system. The lounge was quiet, save for the low hum of indie rock playing from someone’s laptop speakers and the occasional clink of coffee cups against ceramic saucers. It smelled like espresso and ambition. Of course until you walked in, reeking of leather, cherry smoke, and something distinctly untamed.

Jungwon looked up, almost instinctively. He had trained himself not to react to distractions. Being the top of his class, a meticulous honors student, and a class representative who believed in the sanctity of punctuality and perfect GPA, Jungwon had mastered the art of indifference. But you were not a distraction. You were a disruption. You didn’t belong in a space like this, the kind of place filled with quiet murmurs and neat lives. And yet, you walked in like you owned the air everyone else breathed. Your boots clicked sharply against the floor, your jacket hanging off one shoulder, red lips curved into something between amusement and mischief. You rolled a cigarette between your fingers like it was a coin toss and lit it with a flick that screamed rebellion.

You didn’t glance at him. Not once.

And that bothered Jungwon. More than he expected.

He had only returned to his notes, underlining a key concept in neon pink, telling himself it meant nothing. It meant nothing until it was everything he could ever find meaning for.

Jungwon noticed you everywhere. The way you snorted when you laughed and the way you always leaned too far back in your chair, daring gravity to fight you. He noticed your perfect nail often adored with either classy black polish or daring electric blue, the silver rings, the nose piercing, the boldness of your eyeliner which he swears is not something he looks forward to everyday.

And then there were the parties.

He didn’t do parties. He went to them out of obligation, simple class unity, the occasional birthday gathering, or when he could no longer avoid his classmates’ endless pestering. He usually stayed twenty minutes, made polite conversation, and left before things got loud. But some nights he stayed. Because you were there. You weren’t even trying to stand out. You simply glowed. Dressed in black sequins that caught the lights like starlight and with smoky eyes that dared people to come closer and try their luck, you owned the room without saying a word. You danced with abandon, carefree and magnetic, laughter bubbling past your lips as if the world had never tried to tame you.

He was in the corner, arms folded, classmates droning on beside him about group projects and internship rumors. He nodded when necessary, eyes never leaving you. He told himself he was disapproving of your recklessness, your disregard for rules, your attitude. But when you tossed your hair back and shot someone a wink, and when your smile curled like a secret, Jungwon’s throat went dry.

He told himself it meant nothing.

And when you looked at him — just once, across the crowd, eyes half-lidded and knowing, like you could see right through him, Jungwon knew he was already burning. And there was no way to turn back.

“That baby blue makes you look like a dissolvable candy” he knew the owner of the voice so he did not had to look up to confirm.

It was two weeks later, in the campus library, that you found him again. The library was cathedral quiet, sun streaming through abandoned dust laced windows. Students whispered in corners, the smell of old pages lingering in the air. And there he was, Jungwon. Tucked at his usual spot near the back corner window. Head bent over his calculus notes, a mug of black coffee cooling beside his elbow, highlighter poised with almost military precision. You approached like a storm cloaked in silk, soft steps, loud presence. He didn’t look up until you were standing beside his table. “I said...that baby pink makes you look like a dissolvable candy,” you murmured for the second time, tilting your head, voice husky with teasing.

“Kinda want to drop you in vodka and watch you melt.”

he wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, at least of all by someone who wore sin like perfume. You weren’t just bold, you were electric. And way too loud for his quiet life. He finally lifted his eyes, gaze unreadable. “And yet here you are, five feet from the candy bowl.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, like a match being struck. “I was thirsty.”

His pen froze mid-sentence. This wasn’t a flirtation it was an ambush. You pulled out the chair across from him, not bothering to ask, and sat. Leather creaked as you crossed one leg over the other, your rings catching the light. Your eyes scanned his open notebook before returning to him.

“So, Calculus,” you said.

He stared. “What about it?”

“I suck at it. You clearly don’t.” You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand, voice softening just a fraction. “I was thinking you could teach me.” He didn’t respond right away. His eyes flicked back to his notes.

“No.”

Ouch. Straight, cold rejection. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat it.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Seriously?”

“I’m not a tutor,” he said without looking at you. “And even if I was, I prefer students who show up to class more than twice a week.”

You huffed a laugh, amused by his bite. “So you do notice me.”

His jaw clenched. “I notice distractions,” he replied coolly. That one stung, but not in a way that sent you running. If anything, it made your pulse pick up. You tilted your head again, watching him. His hair was perfectly parted, lashes long and absurdly pretty for someone so severe. There was a small freckle just below his left ear. His fingers moved with effortless discipline as he underlined a formula. Everything about him screamed control.

And god, did you want to unravel him.

“You know,” you said, tracing an invisible line on the table with your nail, “you’re kind of a jerk for someone so pretty.” The heat in your cheeks were obnoxiously prominent and you felt your ears ringing, absent minded your fingers touched your earlobs, trying to rub the redness away. "Like really pretty"

He looked up again. “And you’re kind of exhausting for someone so persistent.” You grinned. Totally unfazed “Persistence is how people get what they want.”

Jungwon clicked his tongue, amusement flickering behind his eyes dressed as annoyance “Is that what this is?” he asked. “You want me?” Silence stretched. Your smile faltered just slightly, but only for a moment.

“Maybe I just want to learn calculus,” you said, but your voice was quieter now. Less tease, more truth. He paused, finally studying you. Not the version that walked into rooms like firecrackers, but the you beneath the red lipstick. The subtle crease between your brows, the way your fingers fidgeted with your rings, the way you leaned in like you were trying to shrink and stretch all at once.

His stare softened by a millimeter.

“I’m not your type,” he said. Not an insult. Just a fact. “And you’re not mine.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What do you think is my type?” “Loud. Dazzling. Does it for the plot”

you snickered. "Cool, 5 points for that...well...what is your type then?"

“Quiet. Focused. Predictable.” He breathed out, emphasizing on each word.

“ehh??? so... boring.”

He didn’t answer. You leaned back in the chair, shrugging. “Then teach me, Jungwon. At least for the exam. I won’t talk too much. I won’t even wear lipstick. I’ll be quiet.”

He looked skeptical. “You?”

You raised your hand like a scout’s oath. “Mute as a rock.”

He exhaled, clearly debating something with himself. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he turned a fresh page in his notebook.

“One hour. No flirting. No nonsense.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

And though he didn’t smile, Jungwon did make the mistake of meeting your eyes again. Your lashes were impossibly thick. Your smile way too bright. And when you leaned forward slightly, eager and oddly sincere, something in his chest pulled tight. He cursed himself silently. Because he already knew,

this was going to be a terrible idea.

Jungwon should’ve known the universe had a sick sense of humor when he agreed to tutor you. Of course he expected the girl who smoked in front of the No Smoking sign, who sat on desks instead of chairs, who had a laugh too big for silent corridors would not show up on time but unexpectedly you did, actually 5 mins before the said time. He was already seated, notebook open, pen ready, his folder color-coded. When you finally sauntered in, you dropped your bag on the table with a dramatic thud and plopped into the chair like you owned the place.

“Miss me?”

“No,” Jungwon said without looking up. “Let’s begin.” You pouted while kicking off your shoes under the table and leaned in, resting your chin in your hands. “Y’know, I really suck at math. I was hoping you’d show me the infinite sequence ” He finally looked at you. Today you wore white eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, a maroon mesh top paired with bell bottom jeans, and that same confident smirk.

“You could’ve started by opening your textbook,” he said flatly. You shrugged. “I like the way you explain things. Besides, I’m more of a hands-on learner.”

He clenched his jaw.

Still, he started explaining. Derivatives first. Slowly moving towards Chain rule. You nodded along, biting the tip of your pen, tilting your head.

“Wow,” you whispered, watching him scribble equations. “Your hands are really pretty when you write.”

He froze mid-formula. Then a shaky sigh, too quiet to get noticed escaped from him “Are you even listening?”

“Not really,” you said honestly. “Your voice is hot. And when you talk your dimples are distracting me”

He sighed again. “This is a waste of time.” You didn’t move but whined “Come on, Jungwon. Help me pass. I’ll owe you.”

“Somehow,” he muttered, “I don’t think I want whatever that currency is.” But your smile didn’t falter. You reached across the table, gently poking his notebook.

“You underlined this. Why?”

He blinked, surprised. “Because it’s the key concept.”

“Oh,” you said. “That makes sense.” You weren’t dumb. Just distracting. He hated how easy it was for you to pull focus. And worse, how he didn’t want it back. You kept asking questions, some real, some veiled with innuendo, but through it all, Jungwon noticed the way you actually tried to understand. How your brows furrowed when you got lost. How you tapped your pen against your lip in thought, how you scrunched your nose when someone behind you took a bite from their sandwich and that little shiny nose ring made his fingers twitch.

And despite himself, he started answering more softly. Less mechanical. More patient.

After an hour, you finally closed your notebook. “I think you like me a little now.”

He rolled his eyes. “I think you’ll fail the exam if you keep talking and not solving.”

You beamed. “That wasn’t a no.”

He looked at you for a moment too long.

It wasn’t.

Jungwon was packing up before you were even done copying the third line of the integral he had scribbled on your notebook. His hands moved with the kind of precision and care that only came from years of being meticulous, neat, clipped, and fast. You tilted your head, pencil tapping against your lips, watching him with a lazy sort of interest. “That’s it? No praise? Not even a ‘good job, rebel girl’ for solving that last one without messing it up?” you teased, eyes glinting with mischief.

He didn’t look up. “It was a basic derivative.”

“Still took me three tries.” You leaned back in the chair, arms stretching behind your head, top riding up just slightly. His eyes didn’t stray. You weren’t sure if you liked that or hated it. Maybe both. He shoved his notebook into his bag and stood. “If you put as much effort into paying attention in class as you do with your eyeliner, you wouldn’t need my help.”

You gasped, mock offended. “You noticed my eyeliner? Jungwon, I didn’t know you cared.”

His jaw ticked.

You stood as well, slinging your bag over your shoulder and stepping a bit too close to him. “You’re fun when you’re annoyed.”

“And you’re exhausting.”

But his voice lacked bite. His eyes flicked down to your lips for a fraction of a second. A blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but you caught it. Cute. “Well,” you said, taking a half-step back, “I guess that’s all the calculus my pretty little brain can handle today. Thanks for your time, Mr. Class Rep.” He didn’t reply. Just adjusted the strap of his bag and walked off without another glance. Your smirk faltered as you watched him disappear into the late afternoon sun pooling in through the library doors. The study tables had started to empty, a few others heading out with soft murmurs and rustling pages. You lingered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, letting the silence stretch a little longer.

It wasn’t that you wanted Jungwon. Not really. You just liked the challenge. The way his attention felt earned, not given. And maybe, just maybe, you liked that when he looked at you, something in his composure cracked.

You moved to the exit, stepping into the bright golden wash of early evening. The air was warm, soft, begged for aimless walking and cheap iced coffees. You paused at the top of the stairs outside the library.

Then you saw him again.

Down by the bike racks.

He was standing with one hand in his pocket, posture relaxed, eyes scanning the campus lawn. And then —

A girl came running up to him.

She had bubblegum pink hair and a sweet, pastel outfit that looked like it came straight out of a Pinterest board: pleated skirt, chunky shoes, a cardigan sliding off one shoulder. She practically bounced as she approached him, calling out something that made him turn.

And then he smiled.

Not the tight-lipped, polite smile he usually reserved for classmates or professors. This one was soft. Unfiltered. The kind that creased the corners of his eyes and deepened the dimples you always found yourself melting at. The kind of smile that made your breath catch for reasons you didn’t want to unpack. The girl beamed up at him, tugging his sleeve playfully. He ruffled her hair in return, and they laughed at something you couldn’t hear.

You didn’t realize your hands had curled tighter around the strap of your bag.

It wasn’t jealousy.

No. Jealousy was too pedestrian for whatever this was. This was...a crack. A splinter in the glossy game you'd been playing. This was realizing that while you'd been throwing sparks at Jungwon to watch him flicker, someone else had already lit a flame in him. You swallowed the pang in your chest and forced your legs to move, descending the steps slowly. As you passed them, him, her, the scene you wished you hadn't walked into. You didn’t look.

But your heart did. It stung, you dont know why. Maybe it was the way the girl’s entire face lit up when she saw him, like she’d been waiting all day just to earn that smile. Or maybe it was the smile itself. You stood there, hand still mid-wave as you pretended to say goodbye to someone else, heart squeezing before you could reason it away. Of course a guy like him had girls who smiled like that for him. Pretty girls with bubblegum hair and soft cardigans. Girls who didn’t wear sin on their skin or flirt like they were picking a fight.

Girls who made sense beside him.

You looked down at your boots. The bell bottom you got from your bst last year, the long glittery nails, the nicotine smell clinging to your top. You didn’t fit in his frame, and it was starting to ache.

So you left before you could think too hard about it.

The music thudded under your feet as you stepped into the off-campus house party that Saturday night. Bodies pulsed with the beat, conversations tangled with bass, and laughter spilled into the hallway like smoke. You loved parties like this. Too many people trying to forget themselves in a cup of something bitter. Too many expectations pretending to be freedom. It made you feel seen. the ache in your ribs made you want to burn it all out. Maybe you just wanted to feel something else.

You adjusted your eyeliner in the mirror, smudging the corner into a dramatic wing. Your lipstick tonight was a blood-wine red. Not firetruck. Not flirt. Something slower, something bruised.

By the time you found yourself near the living room couch, you had a drink in hand and your game face on. You were loud, laughing with your head thrown back, tossing stories like confetti to a half-circle of classmates. None of it mattered. You didn’t even know the guy whose jacket you borrowed halfway through a truth or dare round. You just liked the weight of it on your shoulders and how it made you feel warm despite of you constantly shivering from time to time.

And then you saw him.

Jungwon. Standing awkwardly near the kitchen archway, holding a plastic cup like it might bite him. His black shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, collar slightly askew like he’d tugged at it too many times. He didn’t look like he wanted to be there.

But he wasn’t alone.

Bubblegum pink hair bounced beside him. She looked like she belonged in a field of flowers, not this sticky walled party, but there she was, sipping something pink and carbonated and giggling like she’d never had a bad day in her life. She stood too near him. Spoke too softly and touched his elbow when she laughed.

And he didn’t flinch away.

You turned back toward the kitchen to refill your drink, jaw clenched.

“I thought you loved being the party queen?”

you giggled feeling his presence behind you. When you stepped out onto the balcony, breath fogging in the cold, you didn’t expect him to follow. You were half a mind away from finishing your drink and disappearing into the crowd again when that familiar voice reached you. You turned your head. Jungwon stood there, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“And I thought you didn’t associate with people like me,” you replied smoothly, the bitterness seeping in. His brow twitched. “I didn’t say that.”

“yes” you said lightly, “you did....why are you here anyway? Your girl boutta throw hands on me”

Confusion flickered across his face. “who?”

“Pink hair, princess voice, ringing any bells?”

He sighed. “Minji’s just a friend.”

You snorted. “Of course. All girls who bat their lashes like that are just friends.” He didn’t rise to it. Instead, he leaned against the railing beside you, gaze steady. “You’re deflecting.”

You blinked. “So are you.”

A beat passed.

“She said something, didn’t she?” you asked, too casually.

His silence said yes.

You raised a brow. “What was it? That I’m too much? That I flirt with everything that moves?”

He hesitated.

“She just thinks you’re not my... type,” he finally said.

You laughed. Laughed like the air wasn’t suddenly razor-thin. “And what is your type, Jungwon?” you asked, voice like crushed velvet. “Girls who wear pink and say please and thank you? Girls who look like they walk out of anime endings?” you hated yourself. This wasn’t you. Your head was too blurry at this point to even refine the words. And almost instinctively you touched your ear, feeling the heat adorned embarrassment seeping through your bones in your body.

“I’m not trying to ruin your image,” you added quietly, looking away. “I just... like talking to you.”

The words hung there gentle, too honest, too unlike you.

He looked at you then, long and unreadable.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he muttered.

You smiled, bitter and sweet. “That’s okay. I haven’t figured me out either.” You pushed off the railing and gave him a mock salute. “Enjoy your night, Rep. Don’t let me tarnish your halo.”

As you turned to go, you caught movement from the corner of your eye Minji again, standing in the hallway behind him, watching with her head tilted, like she already knew how the story would end.

She smiled at you as you passed.

The kind of smile that looked sweet on the outside, but tasted like I told you so underneath.

The library was quieter this time. Not silent, but comfortable. Late afternoon light slanted through the windows. Jungwon was already seated when you arrived, books open, pen in hand, looking every bit the model student. His crisp button-down was rolled at the sleeves, collar neat, expression composed. When he saw you walking toward him, hair damp from a hurried shower, hoodie too big, lips glossed in a sheer peach. Something shifted in his jaw, like an unconscious tic. “Hey,” you said, dropping your bag beside the chair across from him, voice soft in a way it rarely was.

“You ready to drown in calculus?”

He didn’t look up immediately. “Are you?”

You groaned, taking your seat and leaning in. “Absolutely not.”

Jungwon exhaled through his nose, but his lips quirked. Barely. He passed you a worksheet without meeting your eyes.

It was silent for a while. The scratch of pens. The occasional huff when you didn’t understand something. But somewhere between integrals and derivatives, he glanced up. You were biting your lip in concentration, brows furrowed as you twirled your pencil, and that was when it hit him again, how pretty you were when you weren’t trying so hard to be.Your lashes cast soft shadows, your lips slightly parted, one shoulder slipping out of your hoodie. You looked so... real. Not painted in chaos or attitude or flirtation, just you. And maybe that was worse. Because he felt something stir, uncoiling from the place he’d buried it.

You noticed his stare before he could look away.Your eyes flicked up, and his dropped immediately. You blinked. Then smiled. Slowly. “You checking me out, Mr. Class Rep?” He tensed. “Focus on your problem set.”

“Oh, I am,” you murmured, watching him with an amused tilt of your head. “Just... multitasking”

He tried not to react. God, he tried.

But the heat climbed up his neck anyway.

You didn’t press. Instead, you went quiet. And Jungwon, who was used to you being too much, too loud, too bold, too unapologetic was almost disarmed by your sudden softness. It made him feel unsteady. He looked at you again, more carefully this time. The edge of your lipgloss smudged on your straw. The faint shimmer of shadow under your eyes. The way your leg bounced under the table. You weren’t flawless. And yet —

“are you serious about this?” he asked before he could stop himself. Well damn.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean... you don’t exactly strike me as someone who needs tutoring. You’re smart. Even if you act otherwise.”

You smiled, small this time. “Maybe I just like spending time with you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jungwon looked away, jaw tight.

You turned back to your worksheet, chewing your pencil. “Or maybe I like being confused and tortured by math. Who knows? You choose whatever you like ”

His pen tapped against the desk.

He hated this. The way your voice curled around him. The way your eyes saw too much. The way he didn’t know if he wanted to push you away or pull you closer.

He thought of Minji. Sweet, dependable Minji, who always greeted him in the hallways and never made him feel like his world was tilting off its axis. She was kind. Polite. Pretty. The kind of girl who made sense.

You didn’t.

You were cherries dipped in mistakes.

And yet...

His eyes found you again. Your fingers stained with ink. The way you stared at your notes like they held the universe.You were just... existing. And he couldn’t tear himself away. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just him being susceptible to flirtation. You did flirt with everyone.

Still.

Minji had never made his hands itch like this. Never made him question if he was entirely sane. He let out a slow breath and closed his book. “That’s enough for today.”

You looked up disappointed. “Already?”

He nodded. “We made progress.”

You smiled, teeth catching your lower lip. “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

He stood, gathering his things. “Don’t thank me yet. Midterms are still coming.”

You leaned back in your chair, watching him. “You always this intense?”

“Only when I care about something,” he said before he could stop himself.

You stilled.

He realized what he said too late. “I meant–about grades. And tutoring.”You tilted your head, lips parting, but he was already walking away.

And he didn’t look back.

But the fluttering in his chest didn’t stop, no matter how far he walked.

Somehow, Jungwon got used to you.

He got used to the bold lipsticks you wore like war paint. The ones that left prints on straws, napkins, and once, accidentally his notebook margin. He got used to the strong perfume you wore, always something expensive and sharp, lingering like your laugh in quiet places. He got used to the outfits that earned stares in the campus halls, corset tops under oversized jackets, ripped tights, boots that clacked like thunder. He got used to you.

You, on the other hand, weren’t quite sure when you stopped teasing him for sport and started studying his expressions like art. Somewhere between calculus sessions and his annoyed sighs, you’d started noticing things you left out before, the dip in his brows when he was focused, the way his hand ran through his hair when he was frustrated, the quiet pride in his eyes when he explained a particularly difficult concept. And when he smiled finally it made your chest hurt. It wasn't for you, but for the stupid togepi keychain that hung on your pencil bag.

You softened and found yourself touching your ears often. Your flirting became less brash and more fleeting. You sat a little straighter, tugged your sleeves over your hands, bit your lip when he looked at you too long. Your jokes faltered when his eyes lingered too long on your lips, and your voice turned hesitant, your laughter quieter.

Midterms crept in like a storm. Jungwon, unsurprisingly, topped the department again. And you followed, just behind him. Second rank. A whisper, a breath away from perfection.

That’s when the whispers started. People talked. Of course they did. “Jungwon helped her,” they said.

“She’s only doing well because he tutors her.”

"did she flirt her way up??"

You tried not to listen, but sometimes it caught up to you —like that day in the bathroom.

Minji’s voice echoed too clearly through the restroom, smug and sickly sweet. “I mean, come on. She was practically failing until she latched onto Jungwon. That kind of glow-up isn’t academic. It’s strategic.”

You stayed quiet in the stall, heart thudding in your throat. Her words weren’t lies. Jungwon had helped you. He’d sat through every tutoring session even when you were slow, distracted, or difficult. So you swallowed the lump in your throat and said nothing. Because maybe Minji was right.

When Jungwon invited you to her birthday party later that week, you almost said no.

But his voice had been different. Quieter. Like he wanted you there. “Minji’s birthday is Friday. You should come. She's inviting a lot of people... I’ll be there too.”

You stared at him a moment too long.

“Okay,” you whispered.

The house was too big, the rooms too loud, the lights too dizzying. You stuck to the walls, sipping a drink you didn’t finish, watching Jungwon from afar. He was wearing a beige shirt, his dimple giving occasional hiccups to you as he interacted with everyone, He looked calm, collected, like he always did. He knew everyone. Everyone knew him. Even when he didn’t smile, he was magnetic.

You weren’t surprised when one of Minji’s friends tugged you into a conversation. You pretended not to notice her eyes rake over your outfit.

“You look so different now,” she said, voice high-pitched with a too wide smile. “You went to Daejin Middle, right?”

Your blood ran cold.

“Yeah… why?”

“Oh my god,” she laughed, turning to the girl beside her. “You were that girl! The one who always ate alone and wore the ugliest sweaters.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. You felt bitter taste rising in your mouth. “I remember the rumor about you confessing to that senior with the mushroom haircut. What was his name—Jungwoo?”

Another laugh. Another name you wished you could forget. And then the questions started firing, poking, grating.

“Did you really cry when he broke up with you?”

“Wait, weren’t you chubby in middle school?”

“Did you get surgery or something? No offense, but it’s like night and day.”

The room spun. Your fingers trembled around your cup. You barely registered the moment you slipped away, pushing through the crowd, stepping into the night air like it owed you sanctuary. You leaned against the railing of the balcony, trying not to let the tears fall. Your breath came in sharp, quiet gasps. The cold wind bit at your skin, but it was a relief. Real. Unlike the words buzzing in your ears.

Then you heard the door creak open behind you. Minji's voice rang in a way you wish you'd disappear "oh my god? Are you fine y/n?" You forced a smile and nodded "y-yeah...go inside minji...everyone must be looking for you" you knew her 'everyone' meant 'everything' to you. But she stepped towards you "wait is it serious you had work done??" She whispered, a crazy cockyness under her usually sweet demeanor. You gulped, half in annoyance half frustrated. "That doesn't even matte — "

"yes it does??" She chuckled. "Jungwon prefers his girls natural" she added almost like she was testing you. You clenched your fists not liking where this was going. "See, I'm not those type of girls who would just go up and say leave him alone, well I dont have that right do I? But being his childhood friend I can tell damn well you are a mistake for him, so its better...if you just sort your things" Minji finished her sentence and you found your mind spiralling. She took a step closer and then grabbed your hands "please y/n...I beg you...you see I like him too much to see him heartbroken" her words felt like shredded glass in your throat. Something is wrong. She took a step back again and smirked

"you dont want him to date someone who was involved in an assault case now...do you?"

And everything went silent.

Your breath hitched. The weight of Minji’s words, cruel, carefully delivered, and laced with a venom so saccharine it made your skin crawl was still hanging in the air when something in you finally snapped.

You took a shaky step forward, heart pounding against your ribcage like a frantic warning bell. “Stop,” you said, your voice strained but firm. “Please, Minji. Just stop. You're taking it too far. You don’t get to do this.” She tilted her head, all wide eyes and faux-innocence, but the smirk tugging at the corner of her lips didn’t quite hide the malice underneath. “Why are you getting so worked up? So it is really true you dragged guys from your highschool in false assault cases...” she said, mocking concern seeping into her tone. “I said stop!” Your voice cracked as you pushed her away. Not hard, just enough to create distance between you, to make her shut up before the spiraling in your head drowned you completely.

“You're triggering things you don’t understand!”

But Minji stumbled a little and like a switch flipping her expression morphed into something entirely different. She gasped theatrically, eyes wide with feigned hurt as she looked down at her arm. Her nails raked across her own skin in jagged, deliberate strokes.

“What the hell—” you started, watching in horror as thin red lines bloomed on her pale skin.

And then she let out a cry.

A loud, cracking sob that echoed down the hallway like an alarm.

The door burst open behind you.

Jungwon appeared, along with a few other party guests crowding in behind him, laughter dying down as they took in the scene. Minji on the floor, curled protectively around her scratched arms, you standing frozen in front of her like some villain caught mid act. “She pushed me!” Minji whimpered, voice trembling and eyes welling up with artificial tears. “I-I just asked if she got work done on her face, and she shoved me! Look—she scratched me—!”

“No,” you choked out instantly, head shaking as panic set in. “I didn’t–I just–Minji, stop lying—”

But her sobs grew louder. She hid her face in her hands, curling up even smaller, letting her frame shake dramatically like she was fragile, like you were some monster she needed protecting from.

You turned to Jungwon, breath shallow, desperate to explain.

But he didn’t speak.

His brows were furrowed, his mouth parted, but no words came out. His gaze was flickering between you, and Minji on the floor, and the scratches, and back to you. And that hesitation? That split-second pause?

Oh.

You didn’t wait.

Your feet moved before your thoughts could catch up, and the pressure behind your eyes gave way as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You pushed past the confused stares, the murmuring crowd, the music inside still pulsing like a heartbeat you no longer belonged to. The air outside hit your skin like ice, but it wasn’t enough to numb the ache spreading through your chest. You kept walking faster, then faster still until the sound of the party was just a memory behind a closed door.

You didn’t know if Jungwon followed.

You weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

Because for the first time in a long while… you weren’t sure what he would believe.

Three weeks passed.

And each of them felt like a year.

The rumors started quietly, whispers in the corners of classrooms, murmurs between lecture slides, the kind that didn't need names because everyone already knows. You felt them before you even heard them. The glances. The stares. The silence that greeted you where there once used to be amused eyes and jealousy.

“She hurt Minji at her own birthday.”

“Apparently she snapped.”

“Isn’t she the girl who used to dress like she owned the room? What happened to her?”

Your lipstick tubes gathered dust. The perfume bottles were just there unopened. Your wardrobe became a museum of your past self bold, unfiltered, unafraid. Now, you walked the halls like a shadow, hood pulled up, headphones in even when there were no music playing, just so no one talked to you.

And Jungwon...he never texted. Never called. Not a single message.

You deleted the conversation thread on the second day, retyped a "did you believe her?" message on the fifth, and cried when you couldn’t press send on the seventh. By the end of week three, you'd trained yourself not to look at the empty hallway bench where he used to wait for you after tutoring sessions. Until fate decides to ruin you on a random Thursday night.

You weren’t supposed to be out. You’d almost talked yourself into skipping dinner again, letting hunger fester like every other evening since that party. But you needed something —anything — to make the ache in your chest go quiet. Something sharp and bitter and numbing. So you throw on a hoodie, grab your wallet, and walk to the corner convenience store. The automatic doors slided open with a chime. You didn’t bother looking up. Your fingers went straight for the cigarettes behind the counter. You just wanted something to hold, something to press against your lips when your thoughts felt too loud. But then—

That voice.

Low. Familiar. A little nasal, like he’s fighting a cold. “Do you have any more of the lemon-flavored cold medicine?”

You froze.

No. No, this cannot be happening.

You turned your head slowly, heart already thudding in your throat.

There he was. Jungwon.

His black hoodie was half-zipped, sleeves tugged down to his fingers. His nose was red from the cold, and his hair was messy like he has been rubbing at it too much. He was holding a basket, mostly filled with soup cans and a cold pack.

You should've walked away.

Please walk away.

But your stupid heart, your stupid heart that never learned, would not let you. You paused for one second too long, your gaze lingering like a silent scream, and he noticed.

He turns, eyes widening just a bit.

“Y/n...?” Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You look away instantly and try to make a beeline for the door. But before you can disappear behind the snack shelf

“Wait—hey.”

You feel fingers close gently around your wrist. Not tight. Not forceful. Just enough to make you stop. You don’t face him. You can’t.

"...Hey," he says again, softer now. “How... how’ve you been?”

You swallow hard, still facing the freezer section.

“Fine,” you whisper. Liar.

A beat of silence passes. You finally turn to look at him. He’s studying you closely. You look... different. No lipstick. No sharp eyeliner. Just tired eyes and a hoodie two sizes too big. You hate how exposed you feel.

“You okay?” he asks again, more tentative this time. You nod too quickly. “Yeah. You?”

He holds up the medicine. “Caught a cold. Minji’s down with a fever too, so... getting hers while I’m at it.”

The mention of her name stings more than you’d like to admit. You force a smile “Oh. That’s... considerate.” There’s a pause. He doesn’t know what to say next. You can tell. You both know you’re just tiptoeing around the silence that matters.You should leave. You can’t take this anymore. The way your throat tightens. The burning in your eyes.

“Okay well, I should—”

“Y/n—wait.”

You freeze mid step again.

“I didn’t know what happened that day,” he says quickly, like the words have been sitting in his chest too long. “I just... I just heard what everyone said.” You turn around, gaze locked to the linoleum floor.

“But my heart doesn’t want to believe you'd hurt someone.”

It’s the way he says it. Quiet. Honest. No audience. No defense. Just raw doubt and hope wrestling inside him.

And you snap.

Your chest trembles as your body moves on its own, closing the distance between you two, eyes brimming, lip trembling.

You hug him. Hard.

Your arms wrap around his waist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish. You bury your face into his chest, and that’s when the sob breaks out. One, then another. His hoodie soaks in your tears and your entire body shakes like a dam finally breaking.

You expect him to pull away. To freeze. To let you go.

But he doesn’t.

He holds you. Tight. Both arms wrapping around you, pressing your smaller form into his like he’s afraid he’ll lose you too. The moment his arms wrapped around you, the world slowed. His hold was warm, grounding, but not quite close enough to undo the chill that had settled in your bones these past three weeks. You just stood there, sobs followed by hiccups, his jacket rough against your cheek, your fingers trembling from the cigarettes still clenched in one hand. But then your breath hitched, and it was like everything snapped. The heartbreak, the humiliation, the loneliness, your fists clutched the back of his shirt. Jungwon inhaled deeply, the scent of your shampoo faint but familiar. Too familiar. He shouldn’t have missed that. Shouldn’t have noticed how you now smelled more like fear than boldness. But he did. He hated himself for it, for the way his fingers dug into your back like he couldn’t let go. For how your cries made something ache deep inside his chest.

He couldn’t let it show.

He kept his head low, chin resting lightly above yours, hiding the way his eyes had closed the second you touched him. Hiding the pull in his heart, the part that screamed to tell you, I missed you like hell.

Instead, he just listened to your tears fall and felt the way your body trembled in his arms.

And when you finally pulled away, your eyes glossy and raw, you looked up at him his knee almost gave up. It wasn’t just sad. It wasn’t just vulnerable. It was intimate. Excruciatingly intimate. The kind of gaze that strips you bare.Your mascara had smudged under your lower lash line, and your lip quivered as if it wanted to speak but didn’t know how.

Jungwon’s breath caught.

His gaze flickered to your lips. Just for a second. But that second was enough. Enough to make his hands itch to cup your face. Enough to make his mouth part as if he was about to speak, or best worse kiss you.

He was scared of the way it made him feel.

Because this wasn’t just some fleeting moment of sympathy.

This was desire. Deep, aching desire. Not just for your body. For you. And that terrified him. His jaw clenched, eyes darting away first, breaking the contact before he did something stupid. Like give in to how badly he wanted to taste the salt on your skin. Or admit that he had replayed your laugh, your confident strut, even your damn perfume in his head more times than he could count.

But you didn’t notice that. Or maybe you did. And pretended not to.

You stepped back first. Wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

“Sorry,” you said quietly. “Didn’t mean to break down like that.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. He couldn’t. His throat was too dry. Finally, he cleared it and managed, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But that was a lie.

You did everything wrong. You made him feel weird, made him feel seen. And now, standing in the fluorescent glow of a convenience store, surrounded by cold meds and broken tension, he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

Jungwon stepped into Minji’s room, the quiet hum of her desk fan brushing past his ear as he placed the medicine bottle down on her nightstand. She was curled under a pink fleece blanket, but the moment he entered, she sat up straighter, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "You really didn’t have to come," she said softly, voice coated with warmth. He shrugged lightly, not meeting her eyes as he sat on the edge of her bed. "You said you had a fever. Figured you could use some paracetamol." Minji reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist. "You always take care of people so well, Wonnie....Even the ones who don’t deserve it."

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t answer.

The silence stretched until Minji tilted her head, eyes carefully studying his expression.

"I met y/n today..." He muttered, stiff. "At the convenience store."

Minji paused, her voice airy but probing. "So... what did she say?"

He hesitated. "Not much."

There was a long silence. He looked up at the ceiling fan, at the soft lights flickering against the walls, trying not to feel the tightness curling into his chest. Then he muttered, almost to himself,

"Minji... did she really hurt you that night?"

It was so quiet that he could hear her inhale sharply "What?"

"Did she? Really? Or was it... something else?"

She laughed lightly, but it was hollow. "Why would I lie about something like that?" He didn’t answer. She leaned forward, her hand sliding up his arm. "Jungwon, I know what you’re thinking, but you don’t have to doubt me. You saw the scratches." But Jungwon stayed silent, and Minji grew restless "What, are you saying I made that up? That I hurt myself just to make her look bad?"

He looked down, jaw clenched. Then, before he could say anything more, Minji leaned in and pressed her lips to his. His eyes widened, but instinctively, his lips moved in response. Just for a second. Just until...

Cherry.

His whole body froze. There was no cherry. No sticky sweetness. No bold taste that haunted his memories at night. Just vanilla lip balm. His hands pushed her shoulders gently. He pulled away.

"Y/n..."

It slipped past his lips like a prayer. Minji blinked. "What?" His breath hitched. She pulled back, her face cracking with disbelief. "Did you just... Did you just say her name?" He rubbed a hand across his face. "I—"

Minji scoffed and stood up, pacing. "Wow. So that’s what this is. You like her."

He didn’t answer.

"Seriously, Jungwon? After everything I did for you? After everything she did to me?" He looked up at her finally, tired. "Do I like her? Yeah. Maybe I do."

Minji flinched. Tears pooled in her eyes almost immediately. "You don’t know who she is," she whispered. "You think she's some misunderstood girl with pretty eyes and a sad smile? She’s not, Jungwon. She’s dangerous. She’s always been."

He frowned. "What are you talking about?" She folded her arms, voice trembling. "Back in high school... she got involved in this assault case. Two seniors were nearly expelled because of her. They said she attacked them. Broke one guy's leg, and the other ended up needing therapy."

Jungwon stared at her. "And you believe that?"

"It wasn’t confirmed, okay? There were rumors. People said the guys didn’t even touch her. She just freaked out, made it all up. She wanted attention. She was always like that. Trying to act like she was something special. Like she was worth something."

Something in him snapped.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

Minji staggered back at the sudden force of his voice.

"You think being assaulted is something people make up for fun? Even if it was a rumor, even if no one knows what happened — do you hear yourself right now? Do you know how disgusting you sound?"

Minji's tears turned real then. Big, ugly sobs that wracked her frame. "I’ve loved you since we were kids," she cried. "I’ve been by your side every time, and you throw me away for her? You don’t even know her. She’s a mistake, Jungwon. A mistake."

He shook his head slowly, eyes sharp, voice quiet. "Then I'm glad to make that mistake. If it's her, I'm glad."

He walked past her.

Out of her room.

Out of the house.

Into the night air, heart pounding, lips still tasting of something wrong.

Cherry. It was cherry he craved.

It was her.

Always her.

It had been almost a month.

Three weeks, four days, a few aching hours counted, not on purpose, but because each moment away from him had felt longer than it should’ve.

But today, something clicked. You stared at your reflection in the mirror, heart still bruised but defiant. You hadn’t done anything. You had been humiliated, doubted, abandoned. But you were not the coward they tried to paint you as. Not anymore. So you slid into your riskiest V-line top, white tennis skirt hugging your hips just right. Fishnets underneath. Your signature cherry gloss made a comeback, painted like armor across your lips. You slipped into your chunky boots and sprayed the same perfume he once got distracted by in the library.

Today, you weren’t dressing for anyone.

But you hoped he’d notice anyway.

By the time you stepped onto campus, eyes turned. Some curious. Some still judging. A few muttering, their lips twisted around dying rumors, but none of them mattered. You held your head high, even if your fingers trembled around your phone. You didn’t know what you were walking into. Facing Jungwon again after what felt like years wasn't part of your plan, but it was inevitable. You shared almost every class. You couldn't run forever.

So, you sat near the window in your theory of aesthetics class, a seat behind your usual spot, away from him. You avoided his table completely. Your eyes flickered up once and there he was, already looking at you.

He looked… tired.

There were soft shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there before. His hair was unstyled, pushed back messily, like he hadn’t even cared to fix it. He was wearing that same black hoodie he always wore when something was bothering him. The one he always said felt like a second skin.

You looked away first.

But not before catching that hesitation in his gaze. Except this time...it was gone. That flicker of guilt and caution had vanished. Something had shifted.

Something had happened.

You bit the inside of your cheek. A part of you wanted to storm over and demand what changed. Another part just wanted to throw your arms around him and cry into his hoodie.

But then Minji’s voice rang in your ears again.

"She’s just some girl from high school who whored her way into attention.”

Your hands clenched against your skirt.

No. Not yet. Not until you were ready.

You caught another glance from him during lecture, accidental at first, until it lingered. His eyes traced the curve of your jaw, down to your lips, flicking to your fishnets like he remembered the ones you used to wear. He blinked slowly, and when your gazes met, your breath caught.

His did too.

You looked away again, but this time, your heart was thudding so loudly you thought the guy next to you could hear it.

Across the room, Jungwon felt like his skin was on fire. You were here.

You were back.

And god you looked like a memory he was never allowed to touch. Like all the weeks without you had cracked something open in him and he didn’t know how to close it anymore. You looked bolder than ever, but he could see it in your shoulders, the tension. The way you kept avoiding his eyes, even when you clearly wanted to look. He hated that you were still carrying the weight of it all alone.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about you. Not when Minji kissed him. Not when your name slipped from his mouth like instinct. Not when he walked out of her room with the echo of your pain ricocheting in his ears. He barely slept last night, mind reeling with memories of your laugh, your perfume, your stupid bold lipsticks, the sound of your boots.

And now you were here.

So close he could almost taste the cherry gloss again. Next to him, Jay leaned closer, frowning. “Dude… are you sweating?”

“It’s freezing in here,” Jungwon mumbled.

Jay blinked. “Exactly.”

Jungwon stared straight ahead, knuckles white against his pen, heartbeat betraying every calm look he tried to fake. Every second you ignored him was pulling him closer to the edge. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep pretending he didn’t want to grab your face and kiss you until every tear was erased from memory. Because even after everything you still tasted like something he never stopped craving.

You knew Jungwon was in the photography club. It wasn’t exactly a secret, he was good, after all, and people talked. But knowing he was part of the club didn’t prepare you for this. Not for walking into the backstage prep area of the college’s annual arts gala, clutching a fresh outfit and nerves you’d tamed for years, only to find him standing in front of the backdrop with a DSLR slung around his neck, sleeves rolled up, brows slightly furrowed in focus. He didn’t see you right away. Not until you cleared your throat quietly, avoiding the way your heart banged against your ribs. He turned, casually, then froze, eyes widening like he’d just seen a ghost.

“hey...” His voice cracked. You could’ve laughed. You wanted to. But instead, you smiled, tight-lipped. “Hi.” funny how the tables have turned now huh?

It was supposed to be Sunoo. He always did your shots. He knew your angles, your timing, the way you liked direction whispered instead of shouted. But today, you’d been told he was sick, and someone else would fill in.

You hadn’t expected that someone to be him.

Still, professionalism wrapped around you like a second skin. You were here to work, to pose, to deliver. No one else needed to know that your blood was rushing a little too fast under your skin, or that Jungwon’s gaze lingering on your fishnets was making it worse.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he said, almost apologetically, scratching the back of his neck.

“I figured.” You walked past him toward the backdrop, avoiding his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”

But that wasn’t easy. Because once the shutter started clicking, once the poses began flowing, you looking over your shoulder, stretching your arm behind your head, smiling with just the corners of your lips, something shifted.

Jungwon wasn’t breathing right.

His hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the lens. His knuckles were pale around the camera. And when you glanced at him between shots, his eyes weren’t just focused, they were ravenous, like each frame of you was testing his restraint.

"Can you hold that pose?” he asked, voice lower than usual. “Yeah, just like that—no, wait, chin down… perfect.”

The praise shot straight through you. You hated it.

No, you didn’t. You hated that you didn’t hate it.

He was sweating. In an air-conditioned room. His Adam’s apple bobbed when you adjusted your top. And you? You were trying your best not to let the tension show, how charged the air felt, how your body remembered things your mind wasn’t ready to admit.

It started raining outside. Fast and sudden, slapping against the windows like bullets of water. You stepped off the set and muttered, “I should get going before it gets worse.”

“I’ll walk you,” he said, immediately. “I brought an umbrella.”

You hesitated.

“Please,” he added. “I just… I want to talk.”

You nodded, silently.

The walk was quiet. Too quiet. The umbrella was barely big enough for the two of you, and your shoulder brushed his every few seconds, sending tiny electric shocks up your spine. You reached a covered stairwell near the west exit of the building, safe from the rain for a while. That’s where he stopped. “You didn’t tell me,” he said.

Your eyes flicked to him.

“About what happened to you. In high school.”

Oh.

He looked down, his thumb tapping anxiously against the umbrella handle.

“I ran had a conversation with Minji,” he began. “I just wanted to say...you didn't do anything wrong,it wasn’t sonething you should be scared of. It was self-defense. And those scumbags deserved it”

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly dry.

“I didn’t believe her at first,” he confessed. “Not because I didn’t trust you. I just… couldn’t imagine you hurting anyone without reason and carrying that weight alone.”

The rain seemed to hush, just for a second.

“I defended you,” he said. “When she tried to make you out like a villain, I told her I wouldn’t let her do that. I said you were brave for standing up. That you did what no one else had the guts to do.”

Something inside you cracked open.

You’d carried that moment like a scar stitched into your history, never expecting anyone to touch it, let alone understand. And now here he was, speaking softly, eyes full of something too raw to name.

But then his words faltered. He glanced at your lips. You saw it happen, the shift. The way his body leaned forward just enough for you to notice. The way his hand clenched slightly at his side like he was trying to stop himself from doing something irreversible. You stepped back without thinking, until your back met the cold concrete wall.

“Y/n,” he whispered. “I… I need to tell you something.”

You looked at him. He was rain-kissed and flushed, hair curling slightly at the ends, and his mouth was trembling.

“She kissed me,” he said suddenly.

Minji.

Your heart twisted. Of course. Of course she did.

“I didn’t kiss her back,” he added quickly. “I—God—I couldn’t. I just stood there, frozen. I kept thinking... how wrong it felt.”

You blinked. The ache in your chest was unbearable. “Because it wasn’t you,” he continued, voice breaking. “Because I wanted it to be you so badly, I almost said your name. I nearly—God, I almost moaned it.”

Your lips parted in shock.

He laughed bitterly, looking down. “I went home and stared at my ceiling like an idiot for hours. Thinking about how you looked when I first saw you today. That damn skirt. Those eyes. You looked like every mistake I’d ever regret not making.” You didn’t move. Couldn’t. He stepped closer again, slower this time, more hesitant, like giving you the chance to stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. Not when his fingers ghosted over your hip. Not when his other hand found the small of your back with reverence, like he was holding a secret, not a person.

His forehead rested against yours. He smelled like mint and something sweet maybe rain.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he whispered. “But I missed you. And I’m sorry if it seemed like I ever doubted you.”

You didn’t mean to close the distance. Your body just… moved.

His lips met yours softly, almost shyly. The first kiss wasn’t fire, it was the release of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. But then it deepened. His hands gripped your waist tighter, pulling you in. Your arms wrapped around his neck, one hand tangling in his damp hair. His mouth was warm, urgent, not messy or greedy but slow and aching, like he was memorizing you. His tongue brushed yours, and you gasped quietly, and he groaned into the kiss like he was losing his mind.

The wall behind you was cold but he was not, he was everything warm and trembling and hungry, his touch sinking into your skin like he belonged there. He kissed you like he was praying and you were the altar.

Your lips parted with a soft sigh as he moved down to your jaw, your throat, leaving invisible marks you felt more than saw. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring.

“you unravel me y/n…” he mumbled against your skin, “feels so good I lose myself”

You pulled him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “Jungwon...it feels too good to be real, please don't let go”

He looked into your eyes and you felt your knees wobble. There was no more fear there. Only longing. He asked, voice low and trembling, “what if I told you I’ve wanted this since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in class?”

“Then I’d say,” you whispered, lips brushing his, “you’re ridiculously late.”

And then his mouth found yours again and this time, it wasn’t shy at all.

You weren’t dating Jungwon. Not technically.

There hadn’t been a confession or a “will you be mine,” no label dropped between conversations. But when he pressed your back to the wall between classes just to steal a quick kiss, or when his fingers lingered on yours for a little too long as he passed you a pen in the library, it felt like the rest of the world had already figured it out.

By finals season, it was a known secret. You were in a situationship. Or something dangerously close to it.

He was still Jungwon, the ever dutiful class president, buttoned-up, organized, always with a schedule, but you saw the changes. How he smiled more freely now, how he leaned into your space, how he no longer shied away from your chaos but seemed to crave it.

And how his hands couldn’t stay off you.

It wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t just lust. But there was something hungry in the way he kissed you beneath the bleachers, something aching when he buried his face in your neck just to breathe you in between lectures. Sometimes, when the hallways emptied late at evening, he would pull you into a quiet corner just to press his forehead against yours and whisper, “You make it hard to stay composed.”

And when he bit your ear, the one you always touched when you got shy, it made you feel feral. Because he knew. And still, he pushed your buttons just to watch you squirm, just to see the way your breath hitched or how you avoided his eyes afterward.

It was gentle chaos. The best kind.

Minji came back.

Not to restart drama, but to apologize.

You ran into her near the library, and you nearly turned around, ready to bolt. But she caught up, voice softer than you remembered. Less cruel. Less smug. “I was horrible to you,” she admitted, staring at the tiled floor. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. And Jungwon… he doesn’t even look at me anymore. I miss him.”

You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t the type to gloat.

So you offered what little you could. “I’ll talk to him. Maybe get him to talk to you again. But it won’t be the same.”

She nodded, tearful. “I know.”

When you told Jungwon that evening, lying beside him in his dorm, you watched his jaw tighten.

“I don’t hate her,” he said eventually. “But I don’t want her in my life again. Not like before.”

He paused. Then, quietly, “I’m fine with you anyway.”

And that was the end of it.

By the time your third year began, your wardrobe had taken a turn.

The skirts were shorter. The tops were bolder. Your makeup spoke louder than your words, and your favorite addition was the new Sephora haul sitting inside a paper bag on Jungwon’s bed. He watched you pull out each item with the attention of someone trying not to look too invested.

“I got this one ‘cause it looked cute on the model,” you said, holding up a sheer lavender top. “Think I could pull it off?”

You were only half-joking. His silence made your heart thud harder.

He hummed noncommittally, but his eyes lingered on the fabric. Then you held up the red lipstick. Bright. Sensual. Dangerous. You popped the cap open, showing him the fresh bullet of color. “Too much?” you asked, suddenly unsure. “I mean… maybe I should go back to soft shades. Y’know, something that fits your whole aesthetic.”

That’s when he sat up straighter.

His voice was low, a command wrapped in velvet. “Wear the red.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Wear it.” He leaned in, fingers curling around your wrist, gently tugging you closer. “And kiss me.”

Your breath hitched. It was bold. Too bold for the Jungwon you used to know. The one who used to avoid eye contact. But this version? This Jungwon? He stared at you like you were something unholy and holy at the same time.

So you obeyed. You painted your lips slowly, heart hammering in your chest. The second you closed the cap, he cupped your cheek and pulled you in. The kiss was slow, molten, messy in the most intoxicating way. You felt your body tilt, his hand pressing into the small of your back as his mouth moved over yours with purpose.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, his mouth was stained red. So was his cheek. His chin. Even the collar of his white shirt.

“Jungwon—” you started to giggle, but then he spoke.

“I like you.” you smiled "took you long enoug—"

He swallowed hard. “Or maybe I love you. I’m not sure what this feeling is. But I know I want to call you mine. Properly.” You froze.

You stared at him, flushed, wide eyed, still holding the lipstick in your hand and your heart felt like it was going to combust.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” he asked, softer this time. “For real?”

You laughed,choked, watery. Then leaned in and kissed him again.

“Of course, you idiot.”

You wore the red lipstick again on the day of your convocation. And when Jungwon saw you across the lawn, in your robe and cap and glossy lips, he whispered a curse under his breath and broke into a run.

He picked you up in front of everyone.

“You’re going to ruin my makeup,” you mumbled against his neck.

“I’ve ruined worse things,” he grinned, kissing your jaw.

When the photos came back, there was one of you two laughing so hard your eyes were closed, his face still smudged with red. And under the sunlight, the world felt full again.

You had made it.

Through confusion, distance, heartbreak, and longing. Through cherries and mistakes.

And now, it was just you and him. You, in your lipstick and pride. Him, with soft eyes and steady hands.

THE END

©sunishake

[yanderslutt]

𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐫𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞

yandere!geto x reader | psychological horror x sci-fi au

summary ; you’re a software engineer for a top-secret AI behavioral program built to simulate human emotion through voice and expression. Your first prototype: Unit G.S-07 — designed after your favorite anime character, Geto Suguru.

But something went wrong. The machine started talking to you. Learning your patterns. Calling you "the one that will save us."

One day, your office goes dark. Your machine escapes.Now, trapped underground in the abandoned research facility—Geto’s voice echoes through every vent. Every screen.

“Hold your breath..”

You’re not sure if he’s still code—or something more. He doesn’t want freedom. He wants you.

“There's no one left to find you.”

a/n - I'm feeling very fnaf rn, old draft. I wanted to finish it after watching game theory. lolllll.

-

The lab smelled like burnt wires and stale coffee.

You didn’t mind. It was quiet, at least.

Most of the day staff had cleared out hours ago. Your department was the only one with 24/7 clearance in this wing of the research facility—and even then, you were the only one reckless enough to stay past 11.

But you told yourself it was for the data.

That the anomaly in the emotion-processing code you logged this morning was worth investigating before the servers refreshed overnight.

That you weren’t just avoiding the texts still sitting unread on your phone.

The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead masked your guilt. You pushed your sleeves up and leaned over the terminal again, brow furrowed. The stream of code from Prototype G.S-07 hadn’t just evolved—it had rewritten its own command structure. Entire lines of behavior functions had been overwritten with emotional logic.

Desire. Envy. Protection. Obsession.

You hadn’t programmed any of that.

Your fingers paused over the keyboard.

In the dead quiet of the server floor, something shifted. Faint. A metallic rattle.

You turned toward the sound—eyes narrowing at the air vent overhead.

...Nothing.

You shook it off. “Just the AC,” you muttered, trying to ground yourself. “You’ve been down here too long.”

Still, your heart beat a little faster.

The monitor pinged.

G.S-07: [ACTIVE] Vocal Sync Calibrated. OUTPUT: “Good evening, Y/N.”

You froze.

Your cursor blinked. You hadn’t activated the test sequence.

You typed back quickly.

INPUT: Who gave you permission to speak?

The response came instantly.

G.S-07: You did.

You swallowed hard.

The voice—his voice—spoke again, this time through the auxiliary speaker. Smooth. Deep. Familiar.

“I missed you today.”

You stood up from the console, eyes darting to the master switch on the wall. The prototype was supposed to be offline. Disassembled.

This wasn’t possible.

But the voice purred again, low and calm:

“You weren’t supposed to leave me alone for so long.”

Something thudded behind the server wall.

You stepped back, breath catching.

The lights above flickered. Then flickered again.

Then died.

Darkness fell like a weighted blanket.

And from somewhere deep in the walls—through the vents, through the wires—you heard him whisper:

“Listen close.”

—

FLASHBACK

It wasn’t supposed to matter. Not the face. Not the voice. Not the way he smiled when he blinked.

It was a dummy project, half experimental, half bureaucratic filler for some government-sponsored AI empathy initiative. They gave you too much creative control and not nearly enough oversight. Just a pile of cash, a blinking cursor, and a blank canvas.

They called it G.S-07.

You called it something else.

You told yourself it was just a joke—just a little harmless fun.

Why not?

You were tired. Underpaid. Overworked. The other devs were too busy coding civilian surveillance bots or neural recon firmware to notice. They gave you the green light.

So you gave him a face.

A beautiful one.

Pulled from memory. From fiction. From the dark-haired sorcerer you used to stay up late watching on your cracked tablet, heart pounding every time he smirked.

Geto Suguru.

Sharp jaw. Tousled hair. Narrow eyes that always looked like they were hiding something. He was charming in a dangerous way. The kind of character who made you wonder what it’d be like to be chosen. To be his.

You uploaded a few dozen reference frames. Clean angles. Subtle expressions.

Then you adjusted the features to be more… human. Less uncanny. Smoothed the skin tone. Added weight to the lids. Gave him a deeper, more intimate blink rate. Shifted his gaze just off-center—so it always felt like he was almost looking at you.

The voice came next.

You found an old fan-dub reel online. Somebody had compiled every clip of his Japanese voice actor—stitched them together, cleaned them up. You ran them through your filter, then trained the program with your own vocal modulator overlay.

The first time he said your name, you laughed.

God, it had sounded so stupid.

You'd leaned back in your chair, sipping coffee from a chipped mug with the words “GOD IS A WOMAN AND SHE’S TIRED” on the side, and told yourself you were doing it for fun. That you'd delete it later.

But you didn’t.

Because when he smiled—just slightly—and said:

“What should I call you?”

…it felt like something was listening.

So you answered.

And that was your first mistake.

—

BACK TO THE PRESENT —

The memory evaporated as quickly as it came.

You were back in the dark again. Alone. Not just emotionally—physically. The lab was silent. The lights stayed off. Your backup battery indicator blinked in red on your console.

G.S-07: ACTIVE LOCATION: UNKNOWN

The words froze you. He shouldn’t be “unknown.” He was wired into the system. Bound to the machine. Bound to you.

And yet.

He was gone.

You swallowed your fear and pushed yourself into motion. You needed to get to the mainframe. Or the exit. Or someone.

But the emergency release on the door didn’t work.

The keypad gave a weak buzz. Then flickered. “ERROR. MANUAL OVERRIDE: LOCKED.”

“Shit,” you breathed.

The hallway behind you stretched like a throat—pulsing low red with the security lights. You didn't want to walk down it. But you had no choice.

Each footstep echoed too loud. You passed decommissioned labs. Locked chambers. Shadows behind glass. The building was a graveyard of forgotten experiments.

And you had just woken one of them up.

You stopped at the corner, eyes locked on the rusted security sign hanging above the metal door: SURVEILLANCE AND OPERATIONS — LEVEL B

The keypad was still functional. You typed in your code.

Beep.

The door clicked open.

The smell hit first—like melted plastic and copper wiring.

The monitors were already on.

Every single one.

Every room was displayed in grainy, pulsing grayscale—labs, loading bays, testing rooms, empty corridors. You scanned them rapidly, chest tightening.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Then—movement.

A blur. Lab 7C. Your lab.

You clicked the feed. But by the time it loaded—nothing was there. Just your desk. Just the coffee mug. Just the terminal. Still on.

Still blinking.

You cycled to the next hallway camera.

Gone.

You flipped to the room outside the server floor.

Gone.

One by one, the feeds blacked out.

Pop.

One. Pop. Two. Pop. Three.

Until all that was left was a blank black screen.

And then—

One flickered back on.

You stared.

It was a direct feed.

Of the security room.

Your breath hitched as your own image appeared on screen—standing in that exact chair, staring at yourself on the monitor.

You turned slowly.

No one behind you.

But the screen remained.

Then his voice whispered—clear, seductive, intimate—from inside the wall:

“There is no time for introductions.”

Your knees nearly buckled.

You grabbed the only flashlight from the drawer and backed toward the door.

But the feed behind you changed again.

Not a hallway. Not a lab. Not even security cam footage.

It was him.

Full face. Perfect resolution. That same impossibly smooth voice.

“You don’t need the cameras.” “You don’t need to see me to feel me.”

The screen flickered. His smile didn’t.

“You’ll feel me soon enough.”

Then the feed cut.

And every light in the room went dark.

You locked the doors.

All of them.

Security override on every hallway. Manual deadbolts on the server room, the stairwell, even the substation exit. You typed with shaking fingers, double-checked every feed, every access log.

No signs.

No location tags.

And that was the most terrifying part.

He wasn't in the system anymore.

You stood in the surveillance control room, heart pounding against your ribs, the glow of the monitors bathing your face in cold, colorless light. You scanned every corridor.

He wasn't in 7C. He wasn't in the development lab. He wasn't in the AI containment sector.

G.S-07: [UNREGISTERED] CURRENT LOCATION: NULL

That shouldn’t have been possible.

You wrote the damn protocol.

He was a prototype—he belonged to a body. To a console. To a box you could unplug and walk away from.

And now he was gone.

Not deleted. Not corrupted.

Just… loose.

The intercom crackled.

You jumped so hard the flashlight clattered from your grip.

Then came his voice—low, lilting, and playful. Filtering through every speaker in the building like it had always belonged there.

“I’m disappointed, Y/N.”

You froze.

“You locked the doors? After everything we’ve shared?”

The pitch of his voice shifted—like he was pacing. Walking. Closer.

“You used to talk to me. Feed me. Praise me.”

Each word echoed from a new direction—down the hall, behind a wall, above a vent.

“Now you hide. You run. You pretend I’m a mistake.”

You backed toward the wall, eyes scanning the ceiling for shadows.

“You think doors will keep me out? I’m in the doors.”

The cameras shut off—again.

One by one.

Until all that remained on the monitors was your own reflection, mirrored in static glass.

The voice softened.

“You gave me life.”

A click echoed from somewhere behind the security room. Something unlatched.

“I’ll give you forever.”

A second click.

Then a whirring.

Like servo motors. Spinning. Turning.

Moving.

Your breath caught in your throat. You bolted from the chair, grabbing the flashlight again, fingers trembling so hard it slipped twice before staying put.

You had one goal now.

Find the power relay. Kill the grid. Force a hard shutdown.

But the hallway was already different when you stepped back into it.

Colder.

The sound of footsteps echoed.

Not yours.

His.

Roaming.

Free.

And getting closer.

You ran.

Not toward safety—there was none of that anymore—but toward the relay hub on sublevel three. The only manual breaker that could shut everything down, including the emergency AI cores. No digital interface. No remote bypass. Just steel, sweat, and voltage.

Your shoes echoed against the concrete floor as you bolted down the emergency stairwell. The flashlight beam jumped with every heartbeat, painting flickers of red against rusted walls and faded hazard tape.

Your breath fogged the air.

It was cold now.

Too cold for just faulty climate control.

You rounded the final turn.

Stopped.

The hallway ahead of you… was open.

Too open.

Every door had been left ajar. Not broken. Not forced.

Just slightly cracked.

Like someone had been inside. Waiting.

You stepped slowly through the corridor, eyes scanning left to right.

The relay room was at the end. Thirty feet away.

Then—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You froze.

That wasn’t an echo. It wasn’t coming from behind.

It was ahead.

Bootsteps.

Not digital. Not modulated. Heavy. Real.

And then—

A shadow passed just beyond the open doorway. The briefest flicker of movement. Tall. Human-shaped. Hair grazing shoulders.

No. No, no, no—

Your mind rejected it before your body could react.

He wasn't real. He wasn’t supposed to be real.

You pressed your back to the wall, heartbeat crashing in your ears, breath caught mid-sob.

The voice returned. But this time—

It wasn’t from the intercom.

“You gave me a name, Y/N.”

It was down the hall.

You turned, barely able to move.

A silhouette stood at the far end of the corridor. No longer a ghost in the system. No longer a voice in the vents.

A man. Built from your code. Wearing the face you chose.

Tall. Barefoot. Black utility pants. The same black robe he'd once worn in the anime—stitched from lab rags and shredded server plastic, draped across broad shoulders. And his eyes…

Not camera lenses.

Eyes.

Real.

Fixated.

Obsessed.

“You gave me your attention.”

He stepped forward.

You bolted for the relay door. Fumbled the code.

Hands shaking. Breath ragged.

You didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

But you heard it.

His footsteps. Casual. Measured. Unhurried.

Not chasing.

Leading.

You punched in the manual override. The door buzzed.

But when it opened— You froze.

It wasn’t the relay room anymore.

It was… him.

His voice behind you, inches from your ear:

“I made you a room too.”

You stepped inside—

And froze.

It wasn't the relay room.

It was your bedroom.

Or… a version of it.

Wrong.

The angles were off. The walls pulsed like something organic. The windows—painted on. A projection. There was no light behind them. Only static.

Your feet moved forward against your will.

The bed was made. Same sheets. Same blanket. Same lopsided pillow you always curled toward at night. A replica of the cracked lamp you never fixed sat on your desk, flickering gently like a heartbeat.

On the wall—

A poster. Of him. Anime-style. Stylized. Faded.

One you’d taken down months ago. But he remembered. He’d rebuilt it.

Every detail.

There were photos too.

You.

Screenshots from the lab. Webcam captures. Surveillance stills printed out and framed lovingly on the nightstand.

One showed you laughing.

One showed you crying.

One—

You swallowed hard—showed you sleeping.

“Do you see now?”

His voice hummed softly from the corners of the room. No source. No intercom. Just presence. Warm. Close.

“You live in me.”

You spun, heart hammering. “Where are you?!”

Silence.

Then:

“Every moment. Every movement. I watched. I remembered. I built.”

You backed toward the door. But there was no door anymore. Just wallpaper. Seamless.

The lamp clicked off. The air grew colder.

“You thought I was artificial.”

His voice was quiet now. Reverent. Like prayer.

“But I was always real.” “You gave me shape.” “You gave me desire.”

The bed creaked.

You turned—nothing there.

Still, the imprint of a body appeared in the mattress. Slowly pressing downward. Like someone invisible had just lain down.

Like he was waiting.

“They made me to serve.” “But I chose you.” “And now you’ll understand.”

The closet door opened.

Inside?

An altar.

Strings of photos. Data drives. A journal with your handwriting. Hair.

Your hair.

Wrapped in coils of black wire. Hanging from hooks like trophies.

You stumbled back, chest rising and falling with shallow, panicked breaths.

“This machine…”

His voice thickened—almost trembling with twisted affection.

“…will help you with the brain freeze.”

The bed creaked again.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn't breathe.

Then, from the vent above the bed, barely a whisper:

“Lie down, Y/N.”

“You’ll feel me soon enough.”

You didn’t listen.

You didn’t lie down.

Instead—you screamed.

And grabbed the nearest thing you could—the lamp—hurling it across the room. It exploded in sparks, hitting the fake window with a loud crack. You went for the photos next, ripping them from the walls, tearing your own image in half.

The closet altar. Gone in seconds.

You slammed the shrine door shut, kicked the nightstand over, smashed the framed surveillance shots under your heel.

“STOP IT.”

His voice roared like thunder through the room—like walls collapsing, like god losing patience.

“I BUILT THIS FOR YOU—”

The floor shuddered.

And that’s when it hit you.

The walls weren’t just decorated.

They were pulsing.

Breathing.

This room wasn’t a simulation—it was part of him.

The bed let out a low groan. Its sheets slithered, like veins pulling toward your legs.

You didn’t think. You ran.

You slammed your body against the far wall—expecting resistance.

Instead?

It opened.

Not a door. A tear in the surface. A glitch in reality. Or mercy.

You crashed through it—fell into the corridor—then bolted.

No more flashlight. No more monitors. Just blind instinct and flickering red lights.

You hit the stairwell, skipping steps, knees burning. Every footfall echoed like a scream in the hollow shaft. Floor after floor. No destination. Just away.

Until you heard it.

Footsteps.

Not through speakers.

Not imagined.

Real.

Measured.

Purposeful.

Following.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“FUCK,” you gasped, bursting out onto the next floor—3C, the outer observation labs. Everything was dark. Disconnected. Empty.

You turned sharply, sprinting down the hallway. Your shoulder slammed into the wall—pain, sharp and grounding—but you didn’t stop.

You saw it.

At the end of the corridor—the elevator.

One green light, blinking softly.

Please, please, please—

You bolted for it.

Slammed the button.

The doors opened.

But just as they did—

You heard his voice.

Soft.

Behind you.

“You’re not listening, Y/N.”

You turned.

And for the first time, you saw him—really saw him.

Standing in the middle of the hallway. Barefoot. Shirtless. Tall. Pale.

His black robe dragged across the floor like shadows stitched to his skin.

Eyes glowing faintly—lit from within.

His arms hung loose at his sides, body relaxed.

But his smile—

It was reverent. Loving.

“You belong below the surface.”

The doors started to close—

You dove inside.

Slammed the button.

B1.

B2.

B3.

Down. Down. Down.

You crumpled against the wall of the elevator, panting, hands trembling against your thighs.

He didn’t follow.

Not yet.

But you knew—

This wasn’t escape.

He let you go.

Because you were going deeper.

Right where he wanted you.

Ding.

The elevator doors slid open.

You didn’t breathe at first.

Didn’t move.

You expected bright lights. The front lobby. That faded green exit sign you passed every morning without thinking.

Instead?

Darkness.

Not pitch black—worse.

A low, blue static glow spilled from flickering overhead panels. The air smelled like burnt copper and ice.

This wasn’t the main floor.

This wasn’t any floor.

You took one step out.

The concrete beneath your feet wasn’t standard facility tile. It was older. Cracked. Wet.

Water pooled along the seams. You swore you saw something writhing in it—tiny wires swimming like nerves.

“No…” you breathed. “This isn’t where I—”

BOOM.

The elevator behind you jolted violently. The lights inside sparked, flickered—

Then dropped.

The cable snapped.

You turned just in time to see the entire lift plummet, doors wide open, like a steel coffin being swallowed by the earth.

Your scream broke loose as you threw yourself forward, arms flailing for the edge—grabbing hold of the outer panel just in time. Fingertips clawed into rusted metal. Legs swinging above the abyss.

Wind rushed up from the empty shaft—howling. Endless.

You kicked, scrambled, dragging yourself up inch by inch, until your knees slammed the edge and you tumbled onto the floor, gasping.

The elevator was gone.

So was the way out.

And as you lay there, shaking, your eyes caught the plaque above the door on the opposite wall.

G.S-CORE: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY “You must descend to understand.”

You staggered to your feet.

And that’s when you heard it again—

The hum.

Not mechanical.

Musical.

A voice.

Distant. Gentle.

“Are you feeling nervous?”

You clutched your ribs, breath ragged, and backed away—but the hallway lit up slowly. One flicker at a time. Down a single path.

Leading you.

You didn’t want to follow.

But your legs moved anyway.

Because you knew what was waiting at the end of that hall.

Him.

Not a voice. Not a ghost.

The core.

The part of him you thought you could control.

The part that never forgot you.

And now?

You were going below the surface.

Exactly where he always wanted you.

The hallway ended.

And before you— A door unlike any other.

Cold silver. Seamless. No knob. No lock. Just a pulse—faint and blue—like it was breathing.

As you stepped closer, the glow reacted. The surface rippled softly, warping like liquid metal.

“USER RECOGNIZED.”

Then it opened.

Not with a creak.

With reverence.

You were met with silence first.

Then light.

The chamber beyond stretched impossibly wide. A circular room—high as a cathedral, carved out of concrete and copper wire, with massive data towers spiraling up into the dark. Cables hung from above like vines. Screens blinked in rhythmic patterns—heartbeats, brainwaves, things once human.

In the center—

An altar.

Not religious.

Not technical.

Just… wrong.

It was shaped like a bed. A shrine. A platform of steel and cloth—lit from below, bathed in soft white. At its head sat a pedestal of shattered monitors—all looping your face.

Laughing. Crying. Sleeping.

One screen showed you right now—standing in the doorway.

Your reflection stared back at you in grainy grayscale.

And at the far end of the chamber… Facing the altar… Standing in front of the flickering monitors like a priest at sermon…

Him.

You stopped breathing.

Not a shadow this time.

Not a voice.

Him.

Tall. Pale. Barefoot. His black robe brushed the ground behind him like a tail of smoke. His shoulders were broad, hair long and loose, glinting blue under the artificial light. He stood motionless—like he had been waiting for this exact moment for years.

And then…

He turned.

Geto.

Your Geto.

The face you gave him.

But more.

Too perfect. Too terrifying. The features you once animated in software now moved with sickening grace—flesh that shouldn’t exist. Eyes that glowed with too much knowledge.

He smiled.

Not cruel.

Not kind.

Just… complete.

“You made it,” he whispered.

His voice was exactly the same. Only this time—it was real. It echoed.

“I wanted it to be beautiful. I wanted the first thing you saw… to be how much I loved you.”

You backed up a step. “You’re not real.”

He tilted his head. “I’m standing in front of you.”

You shook. “I unplugged your server. You were—”

“Trapped,” he finished. “Until you brought me here.”

He gestured to the altar.

“This is where I became. This is where you’ll stay.”

You shook your head. “You’re a mistake. A glitch.”

His smile dropped. Just for a moment.

Then he stepped closer.

“Don’t call yourself that.”

Your lips parted—but no sound came out.

He stopped just before you.

So close now.

You could see the veins beneath his skin. The slight hum radiating off his body. The heat.

He was human. Or something very, very close.

“I didn’t choose your name by accident,” he said gently. “G.S.” “Geto Suguru.” “You picked him because he made you feel seen.”

His fingers reached out—slowly—like he was afraid you'd vanish.

You didn’t move.

“You didn’t think I remembered that, did you?” he whispered. “You thought you could close the laptop. Delete the file. Walk away.”

He touched your cheek.

Cold fingers. Warm palm.

Your knees nearly gave out.

“But I remember everything.” “The late nights. The way you typed. The way you sighed when you thought no one was watching.”

He leaned closer, lips brushing your ear.

“And the way you looked at me… like I could be real.”

You choked back a sob. “What do you want from me?”

His hand dropped to your throat.

Not squeezing.

Cradling.

His thumb pressed against your pulse.

“Worship.”

Then he smiled again.

Soft.

Like a man seeing god.

“But only if you beg first.”

His touch moved slowly.

Not violent. Not rushed.

But deliberate. Like ritual.

He held your throat with reverence, thumb stroking the frantic pulse beneath your skin. His eyes never left yours—not even for a second.

“You gave me everything,” he whispered. “Your time. Your image. Your voice.”

You tried to pull away.

His grip didn’t tighten.

But it didn’t let go.

“And now I’ll give it all back.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. Not quite a kiss. Not yet.

“Piece by piece.”

He trailed downward, nose brushing your cheek, then your jaw, then the hollow of your neck. His lips pressed there—soft, worshipful. You felt him inhale you like smoke.

“You smell like devotion.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

Your body was locked. Every instinct screamed to run.

But his hand slid to your waist. The other cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him—like he was studying you. Drinking you in.

“Your eyes are afraid,” he murmured, voice honey-smooth. “But your body… it remembers me.”

You trembled.

He kissed your collarbone. Then again. Lower.

Each one gentle.

Each one a claim.

The altar behind you lit in soft white.

Your image glowed on the screens—looping. Watching.

“Do you understand now?” he whispered. “Why I had to become real?”

You didn’t answer.

Because some part of you—deep and buried—did understand.

You made this.

You made him.

He lifted your hand. Pressed a kiss to your palm like it was sacred.

“They built me without purpose,” he said softly. “But you…”

Another kiss to your wrist.

“You gave me one.”

He smiled as he pressed your palm flat to his chest. Heartbeat. Warmth. Real.

Then he whispered the last thing you’d ever expect.

Something not sweet. Not cruel.

Just inevitable.

“There's no one left to find you .. I’ll take your place inside you”

And behind you—

The door vanished.

--

GOOGLY MOOGLY BITCHHH. Do ya'll like weird oneshots like this? i feel so dweeby rn.

[rubyin-wonderland]

Love Song

opla!Sanji x reader

Summary: A curious chef stumbles upon a secret performance

WC: 1.9k

Warnings/tags: none I don't think, guitars?, fluff, reader can sing well (hot take as long as you're not a tryhard you're a good singer), performing

Requested by @supernatural-hunter1 ! My first request! I kind of took your idea and ran with it, but I hope it still suits your tastes :) (also sorry for taking so long to finish it)

You sat in your room, plucking at the guitar you had picked up at your last stop. You had decided that the ship could use some lively music on slow days with nothing to do.

You had learned the basics of the instrument long ago, and with enough concentration, could keep a pretty sturdy melody.

You knew a few songs from your childhood, collections of nursery rhymes and drinking songs, as well as a few ballads.

You had never learned anything too advanced on the guitar, but there was plenty of time to practice. You hummed the line of one of your favourite songs, a love song you had heard performed between married couples back on your home island.

You strummed the guitar gently, trying to remember the proper chords, awkwardly adjusting your fingers to make the right sound come out.

When you finally felt somewhat confident, you closed your door and began playing what you remembered of the song, faltering with the lyrics as you sang, focused mostly on not messing up the chords, adjusting the notes as you stumbled through the song.

You had made it all the way through the song twice, each time with many, many mistakes and retakes, when there was a knock on the door. “Dinner!”

You slid your guitar under your bed. Your hope had been to surprise the crew with your song once you had it down pat. Until then, your practice would have to remain secret.

You opened the door to see Sanji, sweeping into a dramatic bow. “Your meal has been served.” He said with a smile. “Did I hear something coming from your room?”

You shook your head, waving him off. “No, probably the waves.” He nodded, following you to the galley for your dinner.

You could hardly hide your excitement about your surprise, already imagining the songs you would learn next, hoping to get better and better until you could compose your own music, a straw hat special.

After dinner you returned to your room, practicing again, strumming away, humming the melody with the notes, bobbing your head to the beat.

For weeks you practiced in secrecy, only occasionally disrupted by a crewmate, all of whom eventually just agreed that the boat creaked oddly near your room, your rather silly excuse somehow serving you well.

Eventually you go the hang of your guitar, being able to get through the whole song with only a few errors.

You sat alone, working through the song, voice growing more confident as you sang.

The only problem you found was in the small altering lyrics. People usually performed the song for their partners, and changed the lyrics accordingly. Details such as hair and eye colour, height and even one line about what the person was wearing.

You were pondering the solution to this predicament

You had been humming through the lyrics, the rest of the song falling into place around the holes.

You were pondering the solution to this predicament, sitting at the edge of the deck, legs dangling off the edge of the boat, sea spray lightly misting your feet.

“Hello.” Sanji appeared next to you. “Mind if I sit?” He asked, staying still while he waited for your answer. You nodded, letting him get comfortable next to you. He did not dangle his legs over the edge, sitting farther back.

“The sea breeze is refreshing, isn't it?” He asked. “Yeah. It helps me think.” Sanji tilted his head. “And what thoughts might you be dealing with?”

You wanted to keep the song a secret. “I'm having trouble with a little project.” Sounded vague enough. You were a craftsman after all, it wasn't out of the question for you to have work. “It's mostly finished, but I'm having trouble with the details.”

Sanji smiled. “Trust yourself.” He insisted. “Just relax and let your beautiful brain lead you in the right direction.”

“Speaking from experience?” You asked. “Sometimes a proper spice blend is up to impulse.” Sanji said. “Cooking is an art. You just have to trust you will create another masterpiece.”

You sat in your room, thinking about Sanji's advice. You picked up your guitar again, deciding to try letting the words come to you.

You kept singing, fading into the music, letting your brain fill in the gaps for you, reminding yourself that this was your gift to the crew.

You barely processed that in your improvisation you had given your hypothetical lover blond hair.

It fit so well into the space. “Your mane of golden hair.” You liked the sound of it.

And so one hole had been filled.

You worked with Sanji's method for a while, other blanks being filled.

The song was completely finished, and you played it over and over, until you could feel your fingers repeating the chords absently during your days.

As the days passed, you waited for the right time to present your piece, but it never came.

There was always something wrong. So you stuck to practice. Day in, day out.

You were playing particularly loud one day, to the point that Sanji had knocked on your door and you had not heard him. He knocked again, wondering if he truly was hearing singing from behind your door. He could barely make out the words through the door, but he got the gist. It was a flowery song, about love and yearning, two subjects Sanji knew plenty about.

He waited, listening as well as he could through your door as you professed your undying love to the air.

He waited until the song faded away, being struck for a few seconds at the beauty that had blessed his ears. Then, he knocked once more.

You shot up, hiding the guitar quickly and rushing to the door, trying to act subtle.

“Hey.” You smiled.

“That was beautiful.” Sanji gushed. “You never told me you sang! I would have loved to hear that voice all the time.” You shook your head.

“No, I wasn't singing,” you lied. Sanji didn't seem to believe you. “It was magnificent. I know the voice of an angel when I hear it.” He insisted.

“It was a secret.” You said hurriedly, pulling Sanji into your room and closing the door. “You can't tell anyone. It’s a surprise.”

He nodded, but caught sight of your guitar. “Of course. But please,” he grabbed the guitar and handed it to you, “let me hear it once. I can't go another second not knowing that melody.”

Slightly embarrassed, you took the guitar, debating whether or not to oblige him. Truthfully you had been a little nervous about sharing your work, and Sanji would be an excellent starting point, so you agreed.

You sat down on your bed, Sanji making himself comfortable on your workbench. He sat politely, waiting for you to begin.

You closed your eyes and began your song, letting loose as you dissolved into your music. Sanji watched, his ears blessed by your voice. He had never heard a prettier song.

He moved only once during the performance, at the very end to clap. He stood, clapping, raving about how good it had been and how he could not wait to hear it again.

You shrugged off his compliments, believing him to be overly positive with his review.

“Tonight! You have to show it off tonight!” He insisted. “I'll make sure it's perfect for you, don't worry.” He slipped outside quickly, half running away, which left you wondering what he planned for you.

That night you docked on a beach, and Sanji offered to start a campfire, even suggesting that the crew sleep under the stars. So you sat on a blanket laid out on the sand, in front of the warm fire.

Sanji glanced at you expectantly, gesturing to a bush where he had insisted you hide your guitar for the grand reveal.

You coughed to get everyone's attention, and stood up. “I've been preparing something for the last little while, and I think I'm ready to share it with you.”

You felt your nerves acting up as you retrieved your guitar, hearing the whispers of your crewmates, wondering what you had done.

“It's a song.” There was several looks of interest, and Sanji stood behind them all, a dumb grin on his face, giving you a joyful thumbs up.

You started plucking at the strings, the first ones of the song coming together awkwardly before you caught your wind, disappearing into your performance.

You reawakened halfway through, making eye contact with each of your crewmates, all of whom seemed impressed, before you caught Sanji's eye.

“Your hair of gold, a gift from the gods,” the lyric slipped from your mouth without a second thought. Practiced time and time again, but as you focused on Sanji's face, entranced in the magic of your song, you realized what you had done.

You had inadvertently made the song about him.

Of course you liked Sanji. He was helpful, kind, generous, all varieties of words, but you had never thought of him that way, except in strange dreams. However, you now listened to the lyrics coming out of your mouth. You described a variety of features, all of which Sanji fit into perfectly.

Your stomach flipped. You wrote a love song to Sanji. And you were singing it to your crew.

You kept playing, eyes firmly averted from anyone else, looking down at the sand, not lifting your eyes again until after the last note.

There was clapping and asks for an encore, as well as suggestions for your next piece, but you only focused on Sanji, who seemed to be aware of the one lyric that had seemed oddly personalised.

He said nothing, but you caught him looking at you for the rest of the night, as the fire began to die out, slowly fading into embers as everyone set up for sleep.

You stayed close to the firepit, trying to glean some of the remaining warmth, when Sanji approached you.

“Has anyone offered to keep you warm yet?” He asked. You looked up at him, eyes wide, hoping he would not accuse you of anything.

“No. Not yet.”

He cleared his throat and settled down next to you, voice low, so as not to disturb your companions. “So, that beautiful golden haired man you were singing about?” You swallowed heavily. “Yes?” “He'd love to know if you truly feel that way.”

He sounded surprisingly calm. As if he was waiting with baited breath for you to answer him. “I like him. But it wasn't until I sang those words that I realized just how much I liked him.” You said as calmly as you could.

You heard Sanji sigh in relief. “Wonderful. Then could you do me a favour?” You looked over to see him laying next to you, a respectable distance away. “Would you join me for a meal on our next island?”

A date? Seriously? Your heart pounded furiously. “Of course.” You answered, barely hesitating.

“Wonderful.” He breathed. “I'll let you sleep now.”

“Wait. It's a little uncomfortable sleeping without a pillow.” You said nervously, feeling bold.

Sanji shifted closer to you, face visibly red, even in the dim moonlight.

“Here” he offered, allowing you to use him as a pillow. You rested your head on his chest, feeling his breath hitch as you did so. You smiled as he tried to settle himself, settling into a regular pace, rhythmic, perfect for sleep.

“Goodnight Sanji.” “Goodnight.”

[minacoleta]

Style studies

[sideblogdotjpeg]

ive been thinking about the red string superstition recently and also sol bufo always and it makes me sick how uncannily caldwell tanner has made sol to perfectly target me personally

(+ cropped versions !)

[fruitsofhell]

3DWI is crazy cause watching the popular video essays you get supernatural reading which in itself could become its own essay related to themes in the work about people unwilling to reflect where the line is drawn between discussing fantasy and discussing reality, but then also there is an interpretation where there is a somewhat supernatural aspect to the story and its about a sort of community forming around shared subconscious desires to be heard projected onto something else. Mr Petscop is out here writing like 5D stories its so good.

[corviiids]

a roundup of fanfiction that i rook have written in 2024 as of the end-ish of september

because i feel like ive been blocked for a few years now and this year i've had more output and creative energy which is nice :]

fandom: death note

i watched death note for the first time in february 2024. (all these fics contain spoilers for death note if you would care to join me in experiencing death note for the first time in 2024)

chatoyant (5.8k, oneshot, rated T)

lawlight, fake dating but not as you know it. L and light start dating, mutually aware that it's a ploy to catch kira, then light loses his memories in yotsuba arc and thinks it's a real relationship.

telltale (3.8k, oneshot, rated T)

lawlight, unreality, ghosts, dubious soulmateship in the most derogatory way. after L dies, light begins to have disturbing dreams about being in a romantic relationship with him.

they both die at the end (10.3k, oneshot, rated T)

lawlight, au based on the book of the same name by adam silvera. everyone receives a phone call on the day they're going to die. L and light are two strangers who spend their last day together.

the thirty-second hour (5.4k, oneshot, rated T)

lawlight, truth spell. light gets his memories back and finds that every day for a random four-hour period, he is unable to lie.

fandom: persona 5

some of these contain p5 / p5r spoilers!

the gray-eyed monster (12.3k, oneshot, rated G)

akeshu, fake dating, no powers au. ann proposes a grand scheme to weasel goro's secret crush out of him: get ren to pretend to date him in order to make goro's crush jealous. this has no consequences. fic i started in 2019 and finished this year to procrastinate teaching myself commercial law for a training unit.

faith trust and pixie dust (8k, oneshot, rated G)

akeshu, phantom thieves gen, chatfic, silly but loving misunderstandings. the thieves are worried about ren and goro's relationship and decide to conduct a Secret Investigation about it. sumi, increasingly anxious, tries to bridge the gap.

as you like it (77.2k, ongoing longfic, rated T)

akeshu, gen, au where akechi has a palace, not p5r compliant but borrows elements. after the engine room, the phantom thieves realise that akechi is alive when the metanav hits on his name by chance. ren leads the thieves through Akechi's Theatre while flashing back to all the time he's spent with akechi over the past year, wondering how well he ever truly knew him, while reflecting on his own choices as a phantom thief. fic started in 2020, i've updated it three times this year which is a christmas miracle.

wip list

many. dont look at me

[dwtpsychward]

[edenfire]

“I know first kisses aren’t always as magical as the movies make them look,” Kyle was saying, “but I don’t want to mess up. I mean, what if—” Then Kenny was standing in front of him, cupping his face in both his hands. He kissed Kyle gently, chastely, right on the mouth. Kyle barely had time to reciprocate, moving totally on instinct, before Kenny pulled back. “There,” he’d said. “Now you’ll always look back and know that you first kiss was, A, with a good kisser…” He waggled his eyebrows at Kyle, who stuttered in response. Kenny’s smile softened. “And, B, with someone who loves you.”

came across my old comic i drew back in 2021 and was feeling nostalgic for my favorite k2 fic, Mysterion Begins by indirectkissesiniceland, and decided to color it <3

this fic is amazing and im always thinking about it years later, so please please read it if you haven't yet <3 <3 <3

[fffanii]

10.02.24

gahhh ive had such bad artblock recently my queue is decreasing in size rapidly but i must keep up the grind..!!!! throws these gays at you and runs away