#tips for making unique character voices

[sprinklesdonut15]

Tips For Making Unique Character Voices:

(For both narrating & dialogue)

Decide how formally they speak - this is also based on who they were raised around and what their timeline is, their race and culture, etc.

Know their overall volume of speech - maybe they speak loudly because in their past that’s the only way their voice was heard

There’s a hundred ways to say a sentence - sometimes this changes up in a person, but everyone has the way they word their sentences. Example: “what are you doing?” Can be “whatcha doing” “how goes it” “whaddya doing” “what are you up to” “what is chu doing” etc.

Self representation matters - if a person isn’t confident then they aren’t going to sound confident. But it’s not just about voicing confidence or not, there are details to every trait. If you’re character’s not confident then then they might question their choices a lot. They probably won’t judge other people except in high regards. Every personality trait has finer details

History also matters - maybe trauma makes it so your character gives extremely detailed answers to avoid confusion (anxiety). Maybe some kind of accident makes them speak less

There’s a difference in how much people speak - somewhat a follow up to the last point. But it’s not just personality that determines this but also illnesses. For instance my adhd makes me talk a lot nonstop, so much so that I might trip over words, or if I’m “narrating” then I go very out of order. People who don’t care much (depression) might only give vague or indecisive answers. Some people have long answers, some give one word answers.

People know different things - such as when your character is comparing something to their past. Even something simple, not all of your characters might know something like “this specific type of tree” but one character might because maybe it was a tree in their backyard. Characters knowledge determines their understand and ability to explain.

[imastoryteller]

Writing Angry Scenes: Tips to Avoid Melodrama and Make It Real

Anger can be one of the most intense, relatable emotions to read—and one of the trickiest to write. When handled well, an angry scene can pull readers deep into the emotional world of a character, building tension and driving the story forward. But when handled poorly, anger can easily slip into melodrama, making the character’s feelings seem overblown, forced, or even cringe-worthy.

So how can you avoid these pitfalls and write anger that feels real and compelling? Here are some tips to make angry scenes powerful without overdoing it.

1. Understand What Fuels Your Character’s Anger

To write anger authentically, you need to understand its roots. People get angry for complex reasons—fear, frustration, betrayal, grief, and even love. Ask yourself what’s truly driving your character’s anger. Are they afraid of losing control? Do they feel abandoned or misunderstood? Are they hurt by someone they trusted? Anger rarely exists in isolation, so dig into the deeper emotions fueling it.

When you understand the core reasons behind a character’s anger, you can weave those nuances into the scene, making the anger more relatable and layered. Readers will feel the depth of the character's rage, not just the surface heat of it.

2. Show, Don’t Tell—But Don’t Overdo It

“Show, don’t tell” is classic writing advice, but it’s especially crucial in angry scenes. Don’t rely on generic phrases like “She was furious” or “He clenched his fists in anger.” Instead, look for unique ways to convey how this specific character experiences anger. Maybe their voice drops to a deadly calm, or their eyes narrow in a way that makes everyone around them uncomfortable.

That said, showing too much can backfire, especially with exaggerated descriptions. Over-the-top body language, excessive shouting, or too many “flaring nostrils” can tip the scene into melodrama. Use body language and physical cues sparingly and mix them with subtler reactions for a more realistic portrayal.

3. Use Dialogue to Reveal Hidden Layers

People rarely say exactly what they feel, especially when they’re angry. Angry dialogue isn’t just about yelling or throwing out insults; it’s an opportunity to show the character’s deeper thoughts and vulnerabilities.

Consider using controlled, icy responses or unexpected silences. Maybe your character says something hurtful in a low voice rather than screaming. They might express sarcasm, avoidance, or even laugh at the wrong moment. Anger often carries hidden layers, and using these nuances can help your character’s dialogue feel genuine, even haunting, without falling into dramatic clichés.

4. Control the Pacing of the Scene

The pacing of an angry scene can be the difference between a powerful moment and a melodramatic one. In real life, anger doesn’t always erupt instantly; it can simmer, spike, or deflate depending on the situation and the character’s personality. Experiment with different pacing techniques to create tension.

You might build the anger slowly, with small signs that something’s brewing. Or maybe the character explodes suddenly, only to calm down just as quickly, leaving a chill in the air. Controlling the pace helps you control the reader’s emotional engagement, drawing them in without overwhelming them.

5. Avoid Clichéd Expressions and Overused Reactions

When writing anger, avoid falling back on clichés like “seeing red,” “boiling with rage,” or “blood boiling.” These phrases have been overused to the point that they lose their impact. Instead, get creative and think about how your character’s anger might feel specifically to them.

Maybe their skin feels prickly, or their jaw aches from clenching it. Think about details that are unique to the character and to the moment. By focusing on small, unique sensory details, you’ll help readers feel the anger rather than just reading about it.

6. Let the Setting Reflect the Emotion

The setting can be an effective tool to amplify a character’s anger without overstating it. Small details in the environment—such as the hum of a refrigerator, the slow ticking of a clock, or the distant sounds of laughter—can create a sense of contrast or isolation that heightens the character’s rage.

For example, imagine a character seething in a peaceful park or a quiet library. The calm of the surroundings can make their anger feel more potent. Or maybe they’re in a crowded, noisy room where they feel unseen and unheard, which fuels their frustration further. This use of setting can add depth to the scene without the need for dramatic gestures.

7. Let Consequences Speak for Themselves

An effective way to avoid melodrama is to let the consequences of the anger show its intensity. Characters don’t always have to yell or physically react; sometimes, a single choice can convey more than any outburst.

Perhaps your character cuts off a close friend or says something they can’t take back. Maybe they throw away a meaningful object or walk out in silence. By focusing on the consequences of their anger, you can reveal the impact without over-explaining it.

8. Let the Emotion Simmer After the Scene Ends

Anger is rarely resolved in a single moment, and its effects often linger. When writing an angry scene, think about how it will affect your character moving forward. Are they holding onto grudges? Do they feel guilty or exhausted afterward? Does their anger transform into something else, like sadness or regret?

Allowing the anger to simmer in your character’s mind even after the scene ends creates a more authentic and layered portrayal. It shows that anger is complex and doesn’t just disappear the moment the scene is over, adding emotional weight to both the character and the story.

[nanamisdollie]

corruption kink with rin? pls >_<

sweet bf rin corrupting his cute gf⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

smut, mdni. characters aged up!! cw: degrading, corruption, dubcon!!

“keep your legs open. i’m not telling you again.”

rins tone was gruff, his lips grazing your thigh while he held your legs apart. everything had happened so fast; one minute you were telling your sweet quiet boyfriend about your day and the next you were pushed back onto the couch, skirt flipped up and panties around your ankles.

all you had said was it had been a long day and rin was straight to wanting to help you relax however he could.

you learned pretty quickly into your relationship with the soccer star that he was obsessive. he got addicted to things and once he decided he wanted something, he was gonna have it. thats exactly how he was with your cunt.

“mmph- don’t be s-so rough”

“shut up. let me stretch your little hole…gotta prep it before i can use it properly”

your breath is shaky as you sit up partially. you push him back by his forehead making his dark hair fall out of his face, his teal eyes locking with yours.

“m’ not ready yet rin…”

you made it clear you were a virgin a few months into seeing each other. he didn’t have much of a reaction, just shrugged it off and went on with whatever you two had been doing.

when you did begin taking things to another level, he was always soft. he praised you in his own unique way, would press kisses to every part of your skin he could, carefully push a single finger inside of you, eyes never moving from you; like missing just one of your reactions would ruin the whole experience.

lately though? something had changed with him;

hands slipping up your skirt to grab ur asscheeks when you went out together, ‘honey’ swapped out for ‘needy girl’, lingering touches that screamed i need you. maybe it was stress, maybe he was just too pent up, you didnt know but you didnt question it. not when he knew how to circle his thumb over ur twitching clit just right to have you cumming in minutes.

“still? come on, dont act dumb. i know you want it” rin sits up from between your legs, his clothed hips slotting against your bare hips. your cunt fluttered, drooling onto the couch feeling the bulge in his sweats against your skin.

“just want you rinnie~”

that did it.

maybe it was the stupid nickname he hated or that sweet tone of voice you only ever had with him. maybe it was the fact that you wanted him, only him. whatever it was made a flip switch.

“yeah? want me?”

swiftly two cool hands grip the backs of your thighs and press them to your chest. a choked whine was the single reaction you could give before his clothed cock is pushing against your folds. his hips rut into you at an agonizingly slow pace that contradicts the grip of his hands. his tip is pressed flush against the dampening grey fabric stopping him from using you properly, barely pushing into your tight unused cunt.

“youve got me now dummy-“ wet lips press to your temple “-you feel that? gonna fuck it into you raw next time, hows that sound?”

your brains barely functioning, too much at once but its so damn good. high pitched whimpers with every roll of rins hips, tongue lolling from parted lips. maybe you did need his cock…

“huh- you need it? fuckin’ knew it”

shit. you said that out loud? were you that fucked out from just this? was just the feeling of your sweet boyfriends mushroom tip violating your hungry cunt enough to have you babbling out your own thoughts?

“yesyesyes- fuck! need it, need you!” drool falls from the corner of your mouth as he attempts to bend you further in half, one of his hands grabbing your skirt and pushing it up so he can get a better view of the mess you were making

dark hair falls into your vision while his hips begin to work harder to get both of you off. rins breathing consists of strained whines and huffs, his eyes still locked on where the two of you meet.

“gonna ruin you- fuckk- wanna make it..make it so no guy can ever use this pussy- ngh- besides me. all fuckin’ mine“

the warmth in ur lower stomach is building with every word he throws out. you dont care if theyre icky, you dont care if theyre mean, you get it now. you want him to ruin you.

“pleasepleaseplease!” you huff out a whimper “m’ all y-yours, ruin me- mmph- please rinnie!”

his hips stutter with a choked sob. then you feel it; something sticky seeping through the fabric that had been humping into you. rins head falls into your shoulder while he catches his breath, mumbling incoherent words against your skin. when he finally sits up and sees the finished mess on not only his pants but your lips he is lowering himself back between your aching thighs to get a taste.

“did it get inside…?” you sound worried as you question him, bottom lip pushed out in a pout

“gonna have to check” his thumbs push your folds apart, getting a good look at your pulsing hole. he presses a gentle kiss to your clit followed by another kiss to your cunt “don’t worry; ill clean you up if any did…cant have you getting knocked up before ive even fucked you properly”

tysm for requesting ^.^ i heart rin so much ohmygod. i never have thought about him being into corruption so i hope i did it some justice!!

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

Sometimes, crying is the strong thing.

Part eight of The Rain series

Synopsis: Jamil and Kamil visit The Prefect in the infirmary after Ramchackle's collapse.

TW: Kalim is ooc(? (Personally I think it's just a side of his character we haven't seen), the usual for this series ig

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 (here), Part 9, Part 10 (coming soon), . . .

After Idia's visit, you were given another period of rest. The reason was given as not wanting to make you too exhausted with too many consecutive visits in a short period of time.

Your first visitor after your rest period was Jamil.

You didn't even notice him enter. You were only alerted to his presence when the savory scent of a homecooked meal wafted into your nose.

You tilted your head to look at him and were met with the boy's ever-stoic expression. "I know you like that one dish I make, so I crafted up a version of it that would be easier to digest and not too rough on your stomach." He set the insulated bag on your nightstand as he spoke.

You had been given longer to recover than last time, so by now your throat was doing much better. It wasn't in tip-top shape, but it was better: good enough for you to have simple conversations. "Thank you, Jamil." your voice was raspy from misuse and hardly recognizable as your own.

"There's no need to thank me. It was a simple task." Jamil brushes off your thanks and takes a seat in the chair next to your bed. "Kalim will be coming tomorrow, although, I'm sure you've already been informed."

You nod softly at his words. "I was surprised to see his visit listed as after yours."

Jamil's mouth forms a firm line: "Yes, well, this isn't a scenario I was willing to put myself after him in."

His words were spoken in his usual, nonchalant tone, but the significance of them wasn't lost on you. "I'm proud." you smile.

Jamil simply scoffs before taking the bag off your nightstand and pulling out a thermos. "I heard you can't eat on your own at the moment." he explains as he opens the container and pulls a spoon from the bag. He shifts to take a comfortable position next to you on the bed, being sure to be hyper aware of all of your injuries as he does.

He spends most of his visit feeding you and explaining to you the situation with Ramshackle (only after he made sure you were up to hearing it, of course). After the incident, Kalim had demanded a team be brought in to check the remains of the building for any sign of sabotage. He was worried that after the VDC, someone who may have had it out for him had heard of his stay there and his friendship with you and shifted their target to you. The scene was certainly compromised from the initial rain and the use of Leona's unique magic, but there was still plenty to investigate. The moment the team Kalim hired showed up a barrier was put over the scene to prevent any further damage (a spell all the teachers made sure to learn from them (the rescue would have been easier on everyone (especially you) after all if the rain hadn't been a factor.)) No foul play was found in the typical sense. However, there were many 'repairs' that bordered on malice with how poorly they were done. That and the multitude of complaint letters found in the Headmage's office, proving he was aware of the dire state Ramshackle dorm was in, were used as evidence for his arrest.

There's a moment of silence as Jamil packs the thermos and spoon back into the bag before he speaks: "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Many of those letters to the Headmage were from me. I saw the state the dorm was in during the VDC, but I took no action to help you further than simply sending in letters. I'm supposed to be a guard trained for disaster, yet I failed to protect you from one that I so clearly saw coming."

"Jamil-"

"No. Don't. I know what you're thinking. I-. . .I just wanted to get that off my chest." With those words, he abruptly takes your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and leaves.

He was right. He was trained to be a guard capable of handling any disaster that came his way. He was trained to keep his demeanor calm so as not to cause any extra stress to a victim. He performed his job beautifully in that aspect.

However, the twitch of his eyes as he left so abruptly and the soft choked sounds coming from the other side of the door didn't escape you.

"I hope you know just how warm your food was. How much it made me feel loved." you mumble. Whether or not your words reach him through the door, you're unsure.

Kalim was indeed next; however unrecognizable he was.

His face lacked its usual cheery charm and was instead overtaken by a seriousness you'd never see in him before.

He walked in and stood next to your bed, examining you. Without a word, he sat a small, safe distance from you on the bed.

Just as you were about to speak, he broke the silence: "My family is covering the legal fees that will come with the court case following Dire Crowley's arrest. I'll make sure you get the justice you deserve."

He spoke so coldly that you had to do a double take to make sure this was really Kalim. You knew that he was touchy on the subject of poison: having had people make attempts on his life in that manner before. You also knew that he was the one who ordered the investigation that got Crowley arrested in the first place, but you hadn't expected this change in demeanor.

"You may think I'm going overboard," he mutters "but as far as I'm concerned, his negligence might as well equate to an attempt on your life. Those deserve to be taken seriously."

His expression is cold, so much so it gives you chills. "Kalim." you whisper.

He cuts you off. "I want to." It's like he read your mind.

He gently brushes your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead. Taking one of your hands in his, he rubs gentle circles on it with his thumb. "Rest." he mumbles.

You can tell that his eyes have begun to water. "Rest with me?"

He's hesitant, but he lays down, keeping his careful distance while still holding your hand. The moment his head hits the pillow he's out like a light. You can only imagine how little sleep he's been getting.

As the tears dribble down his sleeping face, you gently reach out to swipe them away.

Blog Navigation Page

TWST Masterlist

Request Information

The Rain Taglist

@fancyhawk45 , @chloemari-e , @jester-party , @dykyun , @chidorichild , @kaiofechos , @arie2faced , @darling-5yndrome , @pebble-bb , @entidy13, @owl778 , @phoenixiaxia , @blvdmrcnry , @twistedcece , @lunatheroyal , @heartz4aqours , @yukixies , @sugarxrt , @noncreativepage-blog , @sheepchansstuff , @lucky-whispers , @mc-cos-charm , @bluedmonsst , @kyxmlii , @nilladrawsstuff , @abeltownshipslittlebitch , @pro-cat-stination , @creativecupcake , @wishicouldart , @gloomikaze , @marsinrain , @thesarcasticpersonwhoneedss-blog , @pinkytoxichearts , @avalordream , @01-salvatore , @coffee-or-hot-cocoa , @boredselkie , @savanaclaw1996 , @furioussharkcat , @nightshade-clown , @tsxukikami , @itspeanutlove , @mysterypotatoink , @hieratic9 , @91062854-ka , @paintbrushofanimeuniverse , @m1lly69 , @error-raccoon-404 , @the-annie-clark , @madilynnylidam , @losingmybrain

[deception-united]

Let's talk about character voices.

Giving a character a unique voice in your writing involves several elements, such as word choice, sentence structure, dialogue quirks, and mannerisms. Incorporating these elements into your writing can really help create characters with distinct voices that resonate with readers and bring your narrative to life, as well as avoiding making all your characters sound the same, which is important especially when switching POVs.

Here are some tips you may find helpful:

Distinct vocabulary: Choose words that reflect the character's background, personality, profession, interests, experiences, and education level. For example, a well-educated professor would probably use more sophisticated language.

Dialogue quirks: Give each character specific speech patterns or quirks that set them apart, like repeated phrases, stuttering, using or avoiding contractions, or speaking in a particular dialect or accent, but don't overdo it to the point where it's distracting or it's hard to decipher what's being said.

Sentence structure: Pay attention to the rhythm and structure of their sentences. Some characters might speak in short, abrupt sentences, while others might use long, flowing ones. This can convey their confidence, hesitation, or urgency in the particular scenario, but also their general demeanor or manner.

Internal monologue: Show the character's unique thought process through their internal monologue. This can help readers understand their motivations, fears, and desires, further distinguishing them from other characters. (This may not necessarily apply to your story if you're writing in a third person omniscient perspective, or if you intend to exclusively follow the internal monologue of the main character.)

Physical gestures/actions: State what the the character's physical gestures and actions are while speaking. A nervous character might fidget, slouch, or avoid eye contact, while a confident character would stand tall and make direct eye contact.

Background & history: The character's upbringing, cultural influences, and past experiences can all shape the way they speak and interact with others.

Consistency: It's important to maintain consistency in the character's voice throughout the story and make sure their speech patterns, vocabulary, and mannerisms remain true to their established personality and don't contradict with anything.

Real conversations: Pay attention to how people speak in real life, and the tone, vocabulary, and speech patterns of different people, to help create more authentic and believable dialogue.

Read aloud: Reading your dialogue aloud can help you identify areas where the character's voice may not sound authentic. If it doesn't sound like something they would say, revise.

Hope this helps!

Previous | Next

[slayingfiction]

Mastering the Art of Dialogue

Dialogue is the lifeline of any narrative. It brings characters to life, propels the plot, and creates depth in the story. However, writing dialogue that feels real and engaging can be challenging. Here are some tips to help you refine your dialogue-writing skills:

1. Listen to Real Conversations

The foundation of great dialogue is authenticity. Spend time listening to how people speak in real life. Notice the flow of conversation, the interruptions, the ums and ahs, and the unfinished thoughts. Real speech is rarely grammatically perfect or fully articulated. Incorporating these nuances can make your dialogue more relatable.

2. Each Character Should Have a Unique Voice

Your characters should be distinguishable by their dialogue alone. A teenager will speak differently from an elderly person; a doctor will use different terminology than a street artist. Think about their background, education, and personality. These factors should influence their speech patterns, vocabulary, and even the rhythm of their dialogue.

3. Use Dialogue to Show, Not Tell

Dialogue is a powerful tool for showing the reader what’s happening without explicitly telling them. Through conversations, you can reveal your characters' thoughts, feelings, and intentions. For example, instead of narrating that a character is nervous, you could show it through their stammering dialogue or their avoidance of direct answers.

4. Keep It Concise

In real conversations, people often meander through their thoughts. In written dialogue, however, it's important to be concise. Every line of dialogue should serve a purpose, whether it’s moving the plot forward, revealing character, or creating tension. If a piece of dialogue doesn’t add value to your story, consider cutting it.

5. Read Your Dialogue Aloud

One of the best ways to test your dialogue is to hear it. Reading your dialogue aloud can help you catch awkward phrasings or unnatural speech patterns. Better yet, have someone else read it to you. This can provide insight into how your dialogue will sound to your readers.

6. Use Subtext to Your Advantage

Not everything needs to be said explicitly. Subtext—the underlying meaning behind the spoken words—can add depth and complexity to your dialogue. Characters might say one thing but mean another, based on their emotions, relationships, or situations. This layering of meaning can make your dialogue more engaging and thought-provoking.

7. Balance Dialogue with Action and Description

While dialogue is critical, it should be balanced with narrative description and action. This balance helps maintain the pacing of your story and ensures that your scenes are visually and emotionally compelling. Action and description can also provide context that enhances the meaning and impact of your dialogue.

Conclusion

Great dialogue can transform a good story into an unforgettable one. By applying these tips, you can craft dialogue that captures the essence of your characters and engages your readers on a deeper level. Remember, writing is a craft that improves with practice. Keep experimenting with your dialogue, and don't be afraid to rewrite until it sounds just right.

Writing dialogue is a skill that can be honed over time. The more you practice and read, the better you'll become at capturing the essence of conversation on the page.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

How to Find your Writing Style

Writing style - an author’s unique way of communicating with words.

An author creates a style with the voice, or personality, and overall tone that they apply to their text.

A writer’s style can change depending on the type of writing they’re doing, who they’re writing for, and their target audience.

A news journalist will have a very different style than a blogger, for example.

Elements of Any Writing Style

An author’s writing style is defined by 2 elements:

Voice: Voice is the personality you take on in your writing. It is the point of view through which you’re telling a story.

Tone: Tone is identified by the attitude that a piece of writing conveys. Writers create tone through elements like word choice, sentence structure, and grammar.

Types of Writing Styles

There are 4 main types of writing. While a writer will still incorporate their own voice in their writing, these different writing styles each have a purpose and specific audience, which dictates how an author should shape their copy:

Expository writing: Use an expository writing style to inform or explain a topic to readers. Examples of expository writing include technical writing, business writing, high school essays, and news articles.

Descriptive writing: Descriptive writing uses figurative language and sensory detail to describe a person, place, or thing to allow readers to create a picture in their mind. Descriptive writing is the style of writing most often found in poetry.

Narrative writing: Narrative style is writing that tells a story and includes elements often found in a novel or short story, like the main character, setting, and plot. It is most often used in fiction writing. Examples of narrative writing style include The Catcher in the Rye, The Color Purple, and The Lord of the Rings.

Persuasive writing: When you use a persuasive writing style, you communicate your opinion to try to influence the reader to adopt your stance on a subject. Examples of persuasive writing include cover letters, advertising campaigns, political speeches, and editorials.

Tips for Developing Your Writing Style

Whether you’re writing a novel or an article, you need a unique writing style that is distinctly you. Follow these general guidelines to help you find that style and develop your writing voice and tone:

Be original. Focus on the point you are trying to make and say it as only you can. Avoid using clichés—they lack creativity and originality and imply that you can’t think of anything else to write. Choose language that reflects both who you are and who you’re writing for.

Use your life experiences. The accumulation of unique experiences in your life have given you a distinct point of view. Incorporate that into your writing process. Let events in real life that have shaped you also inform your own work and voice.

Be present in your writing. Whether you’re developing a narrative storyline or writing a blog post, immerse readers in your story by being present when you write. Use an authentic tone. Use efficient syntax to effectively convey the details of your story.

Have an adaptable voice. While you should have a confident and consistent voice, writing styles should shift depending on what type of writing you’re doing. Different genres will work better with different types of writing styles. In creative writing, your personality will shift depending on the narrator’s perspective, and whether the story is told through first person or third person. Writing narratives with heavy dialogue, like screenplays, will require a writer to take on different styles with each character.

Step out of your comfort zone. Don't be afraid to experiment a little in your writing. While your style should reflect who you are, it should also stretch the limits of your literary personality. Incorporate a variety of literary devices to amplify your voice.

Read other authors. William Faulkner. Margaret Atwood. Stephen King. Ernest Hemingway. Each author has a unique voice, tone, and overall writing style they developed over the course of their writing career. Read some of your favorite authors as well as famous writers you’re not yet familiar with, and focus on how they use words and compose sentences to tell a story.

Write often. Good writers have a regular writing habit. The more you write, the more your writer’s voice will come into focus. One method many writers use is to have a morning journal. This daily writing ritual requires a three-page, longhand, stream-of-consciousness writing exercise first thing every morning. You’ll develop better writing skills and find your own unique style.

Hone your craft. Once you feel like you have a handle on your personal style, consider these other, more technical ways you can further improve your writing style:

Tips for Improving Your Writing Style

To be a better writer, you need to know how to be direct and clear, while also putting your own stamp on your writing. Follow these 8 writing tips for improving your style:

Be direct in your writing. Good writing is clear and concise. Lose filler words, like unnecessary adverbs and prepositional phrases, simply take up space and weigh a sentence down. Say exactly what you mean in the most direct way.

Choose your words wisely. There are many ways to write a sentence, and there are different words you can choose to convey the same idea. Always choose the simpler of two words. Use familiar vocabulary instead of lofty words from the English language. Simple words are more direct and easier for all readers to understand. Use a thesaurus if you need a little help finding a replacement or an easier way to say something.

Short sentences are more powerful than long sentences. A story loses steam with wordiness. Short sentences are easier to comprehend, something that readers appreciate. Avoid trying to pack too much into a line. Every sentence should contain one thought or idea.

Write short paragraphs. Keep your paragraphs short and manageable. Each one should consist of sentences that support the same idea. Short paragraphs are easier to digest. They also create a more visually appealing layout on the page. Academic writing often consists of lengthier paragraphs, as they need more information to support each theme. In less formal writing, shorter paragraphs are the norm.

Always use the active voice. Use the active voice and adhere to subject-verb-object sentence structure. It’s the most direct path to making your point. With the active voice, the subject is doing something, which is more exciting than the passive voice, in which something is being done to the subject. The passive voice might be grammatically correct, but it creates long, complex sentences and is a weaker way of presenting information.

Review and edit your work. Proofreading your first draft should be the first step in your editing process before you hand your story over to a professional editor. Tighten your writing, check your word choice and sentence structure, and hone your voice to improve your style.

Use a natural, conversational tone. Your writing style relies on your own, unique voice. Communicate in your comfort zone. In other words, write like you converse. Shape ideas with your original thoughts and voice, and do your best to avoid clichés. Your writing style should reflect your personality.

Read famous authors. Pick up any book by Mark Twain, and you’ll know it’s his writing simply by the tone of the story and the words he uses. Great writers put a stamp on their writing with a signature style. Along with works of fiction, read Strunk and White’s famous style guide The Elements of Style. Learning how other writers create their style. Then do the same with your own writing.

Sources: 1 2 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[flowersforbucky]

straight to my head

logan howlett x reader (x1/x2 era logan)

word count: 1.8k

author's note: this is my first time writing for logan and i absolutely loved it. i hope i can write more for this character soon!

warnings: basically just S M U T with very little plot. language. reader is described as being smaller than logan. no use of y/n.

“I can’t decide if you truly have no idea how fuckin’ crazy you drive me,” he growls lowly into your ear from where he stands directly behind you. The defined muscles of his chest graze against your back, his hands planted firmly on either side of your hips - keeping you pinned between him and the kitchen countertop of the rundown cabin in the middle of the Vermont mountains. 

“Or if you know exactly how fuckin’ crazy you drive me and get off on it.” 

He removes his hand from your right hip, bringing it to sweep your hair away from your neck, baring the side of your throat to him. You can feel his warm breath on the exposed skin of your neck. You use both hands to hold onto the edge of the counter - his unique scent of pine and old cigar smoke envelops you and makes the room spin around the two of you. 

“So which is it, darlin’?” He leans forward, closing what little distance is left between your bodies. You can't stop the gasp that breaks through your lips when you feel it - the unmistakable, evident bulge pressing against your ass - undeniable even through the thick material of his jeans. You wear only a thin, cotton t-shirt and your underwear but it suddenly feels like too much. Too much fabric separating you from him. “Use your words and tell me.”

With the same hand that he used to move your hair just a moment ago, he places his fingers just beneath your chin and tilts your head upwards - forcing you to angle your head back enough to look up at him. “Is this the reaction that you’ve been trying to get out of me?” The faint smell of spearmint and tobacco on his breath washes over your face and it takes all of the limited restraint you possess to not lift yourself up on the tips of your toes and meld your lips against his. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Logan,” you hum, arching your back so that your ass juts against his erection. His hold on your face tightens, squeezing your cheeks together so that your lips form a perfect pout. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do, does it?” you bait him, staring up at him doe-eyed through your lashes.

“Like hell it doesn’t.” 

He drops his hand from your face, spinning you around before you can process what is happening. He lifts you up by the backs of your legs, his calloused fingers digging into the meat of your thighs before he plops you down on the edge of the wooden counter. 

He kneels on the rickety floor in front of you, nudging your legs apart with his head. He places a hand on each of your calves as he begins trailing wet, open-mouth kisses up the interior of your thighs, alternating legs until he reaches the apex of your thighs. He has yet to touch you where you want him the most and you can feel that you’ve already soaked your panties - wetness pooling all around your center. He nips at the tender flesh of your innermost thighs, one of your hands instinctively lacing through his hair to keep him in place. 

“I think you know the exact effect you have on me,” he coos in a strained voice from below you, hooking his index finger through the front of your panties and pulling the fabric to the side so that you’re fully exposed to him. “Luckily for me, I’m thinking I have a similar effect on you.” His breath fans across your pussy, causing you to rock forward towards his face. Right now, you truly believe that you need his mouth on you worse than you need air to breathe. 

“Logan, please,” you whine, not caring how pathetic you might sound thanks to the literal ache in your core. 

“Since you asked so sweetly.” 

He doesn't make you beg again - his tongue licks a thick strip up your center, causing your thighs to clench around his head. He starts gently, moving his tongue through your folds at an agonizingly slow speed before his lips suction around your clit, sucking you into his mouth.

“Too goddamn sweet,” he pulls back long enough to murmur against your pussy before diving back in with newfound vigor. 

You buck against his mouth when his tongue teases your entrance, drawing a guttural moan from the depths on his chest that vibrates through your core. 

You should have known that he would be a tease - just as you begin to feel a coil tightening in the pit of your lower belly, he pulls back. You whimper at the loss of contact, staring down at him as he looks up at you with a devilish smirk. 

“What? You can tease me for months on end but can't take what you dish out?” He swipes the back of his hand over the lower half of his face, cleaning the excess of your juices that glisten in his beard. 

“I don't think this is exactly the same as–” 

You're interrupted by the surprise of him standing and maneuvering you into his arms in a split second. He holds you to his chest, your legs locked around his waist as he carries you through the small kitchen and down the hallway to the cabin's singular bedroom. 

He kicks the door closed behind him with his foot before arriving at the bed in two large strides. He places you near the headboard and then yanks his t-shirt over his head. 

You don't know how many times you have seen Logan shirtless at this point - and he's gorgeous every single time. But the fact that he's undressing for you to look at and to touch is a new kind of excitement. 

Before he can finish removing his belt, you tug him down to you by the dog tags that hang around his neck. You meet him halfway, crashing your lips to his. He moans into the kiss right away - fuck, why has it taken the two of you so long to have your lips on each other? 

You part your mouth for him, his tongue slipping inside. He doesn't break the kiss as he finishes removing his jeans - he only pulls away from you long enough for him to pull your own shirt over your head, which he tosses to some corner of the room. You're both left in only your underwear when his lips are back on yours, guiding you until your back is flat against the bed. 

The comforter is scratchy, the whole place smells like mothballs, and there's an awful draft - but goddamn, it's all as incredible as you imagined it being.

He hovers above you, caging you to the mattress as he holds his body weight up with one arm. His free hand trails up your stomach and to your breast, which he squeezes in his large hand. 

“I'm not even inside you yet and you feel goddamn perfect.” 

You roll your hips against his from your position beneath him - his large bulge still contained by his boxers. The small amount of friction does very little to ease your want.

He shoves his boxers down his thighs, his cock springing forward and slapping against his lower belly. He's shimmying you out of your underwear next, tossing them over his shoulder. 

Finally, with nothing separating you, he nestles himself between your legs. He takes himself in his hand, nudging the tip of his cock through your folds. 

Still fucking teasing you.

You take matters into your own hands - sinking yourself down onto him when he’s just over your entrance. His eyes squint shut with a sharp inhale of breath at the sudden sensation. He’s only halfway in and already stretching you so painfully sweet.

“Impatient girl,” he tsks, shaking his head down at you. He sheaths the rest of his length inside you, giving you no more time to adjust to the size of him. You gasp out loud, your eyes rolling back into your head. He curses under his breath - it sounds more like a growl. 

He pulls out about halfway and then rocks back into you, working up to a steady pace. 

You wrap your hands around the back of his neck, pulling his mouth back to yours. 

You think you could get off on just kissing him. 

The rickety bed creaks beneath you as he picks up speed, hitting your cervix at the sweetest angle over and over - 

You secure your legs around his waist, wanting him as deep inside you as he can get. 

“You know I'm gonna come inside you if you do that, yeah?” He grunts in your ear after he breaks away from your lips. 

You snake your arms around his back, trailing your fingers from his shoulder blades down to his ass. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, bub,” you throw in his nickname for you for good measure as you dig your nails into his flesh. 

He laughs - a deep, full belly-laugh - and flips you over so that you’re now belly down on the mattress. His hands hook around your hips and he pulls you towards him, raising your ass in the air. He’s back inside you before you can steady yourself on the mattress.

This fucking angle. You didn’t know it was possible for someone to fill you so completely.

“If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll give you.” 

The sound of his flesh slapping against yours echoes through the small, mostly empty cabin. His strokes grow messier at the sound of you moaning his name into the pillow. He brings a hand around your waist, rubbing quick circles over your clit. 

As if you weren’t already seconds away from coming.

Your walls clench around him and that glowing warmth builds in your belly. You come with a raspy cry of his name. Something snaps in him at the sound - the sound of his name coming from you as he brings you to your climax. 

Warm spurts of liquid fill you up before he stills inside you, panting. You go limp beneath him, your legs quivering too much to continue to support you. You pull yourself off of him as you fall onto the mattress, turning over onto your back. 

The sight in front of you is one you could get used to. Logan, with sweat-slicked skin and staring down at you like he was already thinking about having his way with you again.

“To answer your question from earlier,” you begin, still out of breath. You grab him by the dog tags once again, tugging him down to you until his face is a mere inch from yours. “I did not know how crazy I drive you. But now that I do, I think I will get off on it.” 

♡

[carlislefiles]

closer | fushiguro megumi, geto suguru, gojo satoru, ino takuma, kamo choso, nanami kento, sukuna ryomen, yuuji itadori ╰►they don’t just want to know you—they want to get closer, piece by piece, moment by moment. every shared glance, every quiet habit learned, every soft gesture is a step toward something deeper. these are the ways they draw near when words aren’t enough. 7.1k words

a/n: guys, bear with me...is this too cringe? I'm all about being cringe, but this might just be too far, even for me. let me know........also, reader is not giving very self-insert here. sorry if that makes it unenjoyable to read, but I kind of like to give “reader” her own little personality. relationships are unique, including these ones. warnings: cussing, food/eating habits and negative relationship with food (only in nanami's), kissing. thanks for reading!! enjoy <3

he doesn’t even know when it started. the convergence of your interests. megumi wouldn’t call it that, anyway. he’d call it “noticing.” observing. being aware. that’s just his job, right? to be aware of things. aware of you. but really, it’s always been like this. he’s always been like this—with you, at least. long before the word dating was ever said. long before you ever called him yours. he called you his in his head all the time, not that he’d ever admit it. not even under threat of death. or worse—under gojo’s teasing.

you were friends for a long time. the kind of long that feels inevitable. he thought you were cool, quiet, competent—like him, but also, nothing like him at all. you kept your head even when his was spinning. you smiled through things he barely had the patience to endure. and still, somehow, you found time to ask what kind of music he liked.

"I don't know,” he said the first time you asked. you rolled your eyes and handed him a headphone. he remembers the exact song. the way the guitar came in soft, how the singer’s voice cracked on the second verse. you tapped your fingers against your thigh. he sat completely still. he still listens to that band when you’re not around. it doesn’t make him miss you less.

he never liked airpods. too easy to lose. too fancy. not personal enough. no tangibility to them. so he still uses the string headphones—the ones you used to share, tangled shoulder to shoulder in the back of ijichi’s car or on the train into the city. he’d pretend to be annoyed by how close you were. he never was. he still keeps them in his backpack. they’re fraying a little at the connector, but they work fine. he doesn’t like how separate airpods make things. no cord. no anchor. he liked when you had to lean in. liked when your shoulders bumped. liked when you’d turn to look at him, mouthing the lyrics like it was a secret only the two of you knew.

your music taste is—well, if you ask him, it's ridiculous. erratic. unstable. you’d go from hyperpop to sad piano instrumentals in the span of an hour. sometimes painfully upbeat, sometimes so slow and tragic it makes him wonder if you’re okay. but he listens anyway. memorizes the names of the artists on your playlists.

your room is the unofficial hangout room now. it's warm in a way most places aren’t. full of yellow light and dusty old posters and music that never really stops. megumi never says it, but it smells like you. feels like you. yuuji flops down on the couch, screams the lyrics to the wrong part of the song, and megumi threatens to kill him every time, but never actually kicks him out. not unless you're not there to laugh about it.

the cd player in the corner? he found it on a whim—some thrift store downtown. he thought it looked like something you'd like. vintage. a little scratched, but charming. like the kind of thing you'd insist has "character." it didn’t even come with a remote, and he had to clean the lens with a q-tip, but your face when you unwrapped it? worth it. he’d do it again a thousand times. he keeps a list on his phone. hidden in a folder named after something boring—like homework notes—but it’s really just your favorite songs. things you’ve mentioned once in passing. albums you’ve said you wanted to find on vinyl. posters you looked at online but didn’t buy. stuff he’s planning on getting you one day when you’re not looking.

sometimes he ducks into record stores, pretending to just be killing time. he’s not. he’s always on a mission. band shirts. concert flyers. weird little pins and patches. things he’ll pretend are for him, but that you’ll “borrow” and never give back. you’ve got one of his shirts from a band you love but he insists he doesn’t even listen to. you wear it to bed. he doesn’t ask for it back. he wouldn’t dare.

you once told him music feels like a memory. and now you’re everywhere in his. you on the sidewalk, your hand brushing his as you walk. a glittery pop song bouncing in your earbuds. you in the train station, humming something old and dreamy while you wait. you in your room, dancing barefoot, arms up, eyes closed. you in the middle of chaos, sitting beside him, one headphone in each ear, a quiet song threading between you like a secret.

you are soft melodies and quiet lyrics. you are sound and silence. you are everything he listens for. and if you ever ask him why he knows the words to that obscure b-side from an indie band you loved in middle school, he’ll just shrug. “you played it a lot,” he’ll say. he won’t say: you’re my favorite song.

suguru has always admired quiet intelligence. the kind that hums beneath the surface, unshowy and sincere. he’s drawn to it instinctively, like a moth to a soft, flickering light. so when he meets you, that’s what he sees first—your mind. and it wrecks him in the gentlest way possible.

it starts innocently. libraries, museums, long walks with conversations that spiral into history, literature, philosophy. you speak in fully formed thoughts, but never to impress. you’re not trying to win anyone over. you simply love learning. and he, already enamored, finds himself craving your thoughts like oxygen.

when he visits your apartment for the first time, he’s stunned. not by grandeur, but by the sheer volume—books, everywhere. stacks balanced precariously on counters, dog-eared novels on the nightstand, paperbacks splayed open over chair arms, annotated hardcovers with coffee rings staining the corners. fiction and nonfiction, ancient epics and modern romances. worlds pressed between covers. it’s a home that lives and breathes. and in it, you—curled up on the floor with a novel half-finished, unaware of how magnetic it is to him, the way you’re so fully transported.

you read constantly. in coffee shops with earbuds in, at the park stretched out on the grass, on hikes with your shoes kicked off beside a lake, at the kitchen counter with a mug in hand. there’s always a book tucked under your arm or poking out of your bag. always a world you’re halfway through. he doesn’t know how you do it—two, sometimes three books a week—but he doesn’t question it either. you don’t read to impress anyone. you read because you must. because your soul demands it. and geto finds it breathtaking. he starts watching you, more than he means to. the way your brow furrows at dense paragraphs, the way you softly mouth certain sentences, as if tasting them. the hush in your touch as you turn a page. you don’t just consume stories—you commune with them. and quietly, without fanfare, geto begins to follow.

he asks about your favorites once, offhandedly. feigns a casual curiosity. what books made you who you are? you list them slowly, with that thoughtful precision he admires so much—wuthering heights, middlemarch, the count of monte cristo, a dozen more.

later that week, he finds them all. used copies with cracked spines and soft covers. he reads them one by one. slowly, carefully, like they’re holy relics. and every time, without fail, he sees you in them. in the softness of elizabeth bennet’s wit. in the aching loneliness of heathcliff. in the slow, righteous fire of edmond dantès. even when he doesn’t agree with the character, he understands you through them. sometimes, he borrows directly from your shelves. he prefers those. books that have passed through your hands already. books that still carry the imprint of you—your looping handwriting in the margins, little question marks, circled words, lines drawn between paragraphs like you’re mapping emotional terrain. there are sticky notes pressed between pages, phrases underlined, whole sections bracketed with commentary that leaves him reeling. you scribble things like this destroyed me or he deserved better or the most romantic line in the whole book. sometimes you draw—stars in the corners, little flowers beside the titles, smiley faces during happy endings. he never marks the books himself. he wants your voice preserved. untouched. like a kind of literary devotion.

he joins your goodreads, quietly. starts tracking your shelves. recommending things he finds. you laugh the first time you notice. but when he leaves a five-star review on something you love, it feels more intimate than any confession. like he’s trying to see you clearly. trying to be seen in return.

reading becomes its own love language. you’ll rest your head on his lap in the park at sunset, reciting passages aloud while he watches the way the golden light catches the curve of your lips. your voice is soft, lulling—part melody, part prayer. sometimes he closes his eyes and lets your narration lull him half to sleep, the sound of your words curling around him like incense. other times, he reads while you read—pressed side by side on the couch, each of you absorbed, the quiet between you a shared sanctuary.

he finds comfort in the quiet repetition of it all. in the soft flutter of turning pages. in the way your fingers always seem to reach for his shirt absentmindedly as you read, grounding yourself in his presence while your mind roams far away. you have your own little book club now. informal. just the two of you. you recommend things. he reads them. you talk about themes over dinner. cry about endings. rant about plot twists. there’s no structure. only devotion. sometimes, you gift him a book with a note tucked inside—this made me think of you. or I hope you love this the way I love you. he keeps them all. reads them slowly, letting them settle in his chest like snowfall. he’s never been one for grand declarations, but with you, everything feels like one. even silence.

geto has seen violence, grief, and chaos—more than most. but here, in this quiet world of words and warmth and well-worn pages, he finds peace. and in you—bright, brilliant, beautiful—you who lives a thousand lives a year through your books—he finds something even rarer: a reason to stay. and if he ends up falling in love with every protagonist you adore, it's only because you've taught him how.

it’s no secret that gojo loves to spoil his girlfriend. in fact, it’s practically public knowledge. it’s the kind of thing whispered behind hands in boutiques and murmured with disbelief in cafes. did you hear what he got her? she’s the one who wears the pink louboutins, right? the custom pair? I saw her with him at cartier last week. but here’s what people don’t understand: it’s not just the extravagance that makes it special. it’s not about dripping in labels or having closets lined with chanel. anyone with a black card can throw money around. what sets gojo apart—what makes it love, not just luxury—is how well he knows you.

because satoru doesn’t buy gifts for the sake of buying. he gives like he lives: loud, deliberate, and terrifyingly precise. he remembers everything. your favorite color isn’t just pink—it’s that blushy, powder-soft shade that looks like sunrise on your skin. your favorite scent isn’t just floral—it’s rose with bergamot, no jasmine. he knows your size in everything, from ring to heel to hoodie. he knows what fabrics you love, what textures you hate, which brands get it right and which ones just don’t understand your silhouette.

his days off—rare as they are—are often spent trailing behind you in luxury boutiques, sunglasses pushed into his hair, humming to himself as you drift through racks and displays. tiffany’s. dior. prada. cartier. the staff knows him by name, of course, but more importantly, they know you. because he’s made sure of that. you’re not his accessory. you’re the main event. they bring you sparkling water before you even ask. they remember the jewelry you tried on last month. they set aside pieces they think you’ll like, just in case he swings by again.

and while he’ll happily drape you in silk and diamonds, he knows that none of it gets your heart racing the way shoes do. that’s your shared weakness, really. not designer bags. not watches. not even the couture dresses he loves seeing you in. no, it’s heels. stilettos. platforms. pumps. laced, bedazzled, red-soled. manolo blahniks that make you feel like royalty. jimmy choos that click against marble like punctuation marks. the christian louboutin boutique practically knows your birthday by now. he sees it in your eyes when you step into the shoe department. the gleam. the shift in posture. the quiet awe. and he gets it. because while you’re busy falling in love with each pair, he’s falling in love with you all over again.

he never lets you buy shoes alone. it’s an unspoken rule. those try-ons—those moments when you slide your foot into something ridiculous and beautiful—those are for him. you, perched on a velvet stool. him, sprawled on the low settee, elbow propped on the armrest, smirking as you twirl for him. his approval is exaggerated, dramatic. he clutches his chest. tells the clerk it’s a crime how good you look. but when you sit down and glance at him, uncertain, he quiets. reaches for your hand. says, softer, you look perfect.

he leaves for missions sometimes. too often. long stretches with too few texts and blurry video calls where his voice is scratchy and tired. but even then, he never forgets. he’ll send a picture of a necklace he saw in milan that reminded him of you. he’ll drop a message that says, use my card today. buy something pretty. I want a private fashion show tonight. and you’ll laugh, roll your eyes, but comply. because it’s never about obligation—it’s about closeness. about feeling wanted even from a thousand miles away.

you used to hate it, the extravagance. the sheer amount of money he spent on you. it didn’t feel real at first. like playing dress-up in someone else’s life. there were nights you cried over it—convinced you didn’t deserve the time, the gifts, the affection. but gojo’s never had patience for that kind of thinking. he knocked those thoughts right out of your head. gently. repeatedly. unrelentingly.

because here’s the thing: for all his flash and flair, for all the arrogance the world sees, satoru’s love is terrifyingly earnest. he doesn’t give to impress. he gives because he sees you. really sees you. he knows that behind your closet of pretty things is someone who reads the same book ten times just to remember how it made them feel. someone who wears the same shoes until they’re broken in just right. someone who cries at dumb commercials and laughs until their stomach hurts.

he spoils you because it’s his love language. because he wants to cover you in reminders that you are wanted, adored, remembered. it’s not the necklace from morocco or the coat from tokyo that makes you feel loved—it’s that he knew the exact shape of pendant you’d want. the fabric that wouldn’t itch your neck. the tiny detail you once mentioned in passing and he never forgot.

this is what love looks like, in satoru’s world. not just diamonds, but diamonds cut to your taste. not just shoes, but shoes that make you feel like a weapon when you walk. not just luxury, but intention. and presence. and constancy. so when people say gojo spoils his girlfriend, they don’t get it. he doesn’t spoil you with things. he spoils you with knowing. and that’s what it means to be loved by him.

takuma plays call of duty and fortnite. nothing else. not out of snobbery—just habit. it’s what he knows. what he’s good at. fast-twitch reaction times, coordinated assaults, headshots. it’s loud, explosive, testosterone-fueled, and satisfying in the most surface-level kind of way. something he can win. something he can control.

you sit in his lap on game nights, nestled in the safety of his arms as he plays, letting your presence wrap around him like armor. he likes that part more than the actual matches—your warmth curled against him, the easy way your legs drape over his, the way you let him protect you even if it’s just pixels and an open field. you never care about winning. you’re the kind of player who hides in bushes, builds awkward little walls, and screams when enemies get close. he thinks it’s hilarious. he thinks it’s adorable. he thinks maybe he’s never had this much fun losing a game in his life.

when you mention you play too, it catches him off guard. not because he doesn’t believe you—but because what you play is so different. so soft. so quiet. games with no guns, no leaderboard, no carnage. you play things like animal crossing, stardew valley, unpacking. games about cleaning, building, making friends with deer in sweaters. you say it like an apology, like maybe it’s something childish. but all ino hears is that you have a world that brings you peace. and he wants to see it.

the first time he holds your pink nintendo switch, he fumbles the buttons, stares blankly at your character’s little house. you’ve named your island. you’ve laid out paths. there are flowers everywhere. it’s the opposite of every map he’s memorized, every arena he’s died in. and he finds himself smiling. genuinely smiling. it’s not like his games. there’s no urgency. no timer. no voice chat full of teenagers yelling slurs. just calm.

you let him customize his character, and he spends ten minutes picking out a beanie and flannel that match his real outfit. you laugh, call it uncanny. he pretends to grumble, but he’s proud of the resemblance. proud that you noticed.

from then on, he’s hooked. not in the obsessive, competitive way he’s used to—but something gentler. sweeter. the kind of interest that builds over time like ivy, curling up and around the corners of his routine.

he checks in on his villagers. he buys them gifts. he rearranges his furniture. he decorates his house with things he thinks would make you smile. he starts calling tom nook a scam artist, parroting your rants about interest rates and balloon payments with the intensity of someone who actually pays rent.

he starts to understand why you love it. it becomes a quiet ritual. on the couch, wrapped in blankets, your switch in his lap while he fishes or visits your museum. he finds comfort in the simplicity, in the soft loops of background music, in the way you nudge your head onto his shoulder and murmur things like you can put a fountain there or this villager reminds me of you. it’s the least demanding, most fulfilling kind of intimacy. no need to talk. just presence. just being.

eventually, you introduce him to stardew valley, and he surprises himself with how much he cares. about the farm. about the villagers. about the tiny pixelated chickens he names after his friends. he wakes up early in-game to water crops, picks out birthday gifts for the npcs, saves up for a barn expansion like it’s a life-or-death decision. he becomes obsessive in a way that’s almost funny—carefully planning the layout of the fields, mapping out seasonal rotations, memorizing fish spawn schedules. but underneath the min-maxing is something real.

it’s the first time he’s ever played a game that makes him want to stay. not fight, not win, not conquer—just stay. that’s what he realizes about playing with you. it’s not about skill. it’s not even really about the games. it’s about what they give you permission to do. to exist alongside each other. to carve out a little world where things are simple. kind. yours.

he teaches you mario kart in return. you’re terrible at first. but you try. you laugh when you fall off the track, scream when he tosses a blue shell at you. and ino, who has always been impatient, who swears under his breath and rages when he dies in call of duty, finds himself strangely calm. gentle. he lets you win sometimes. doesn’t say anything when you do. just watches you celebrate like it actually matters. and maybe it does.

you play everywhere. late at night on the couch. in the back of classrooms, screens hidden beneath the desk. on planes and trains and anywhere else that feels heavy. it’s a comfort. a way to say I love you without needing to speak it aloud. a shared language in pixels and crops and silly outfits. a way to be near each other when the world feels far too loud.

sometimes you fall asleep first, curled against him with your switch blinking beside you. he tucks it away for you. pulls the blanket up to your shoulders. presses a kiss to the top of your head and lets his own game idle while he just…watches you. he never thought playing “cozy games” would be his thing. but then again, he never thought anyone would love him like this—gently. without expectations. without needing him to be loud or strong or funny all the time.

choso isn’t exactly new to the world. not really. he’s existed long enough to have seen its worst, to know what it is to survive it. he knows violence like instinct, and silence like muscle memory. but this world—your world—is different. brighter. softer. sharper around the edges in the strangest of ways. he’s learned a lot, mostly thanks to yuuji. yuuji with his fast talking who’s tried to drag him into modern life one awkward step at a time. and choso’s adjusted, for the most part. but the thing that finally pulls him in, fully, completely, is the phone. you set it up for him. unlocked it, cleaned the screen, tucked it gently into his hands like you were giving him something precious. and to him, it is. he holds it like it might break. because it holds you.

you’ve set his lock screen to his favorite photo—one yuuji snapped without warning, a soft blur of the two of you tangled in sleep, your cheek pressed to choso’s chest, his arms tight around you. he doesn’t even remember it being taken. but he knows how it feels. the image alone makes him ache in the sweetest way.

you show him how to open the camera, how to take pictures. the result is an ever-growing album of blurry images, most of them of you. some are nearly abstract—his finger over the lens, or too much zoom, or crooked angles—but they’re yours. captured pieces of your face, your hands, your laughter frozen in low resolution. he scrolls through them sometimes just to feel close to you.

and the texts—those change everything. he used to hate leaving. missions with yuuji and gojo felt endless, stretched thin by distance and dread. he’d grown so used to loss, to disconnection, that being apart from you brought a cold, aching fear he couldn’t name. but now, he can reach you. at any time. wherever he is. that alone feels like a miracle.

and the best part? you always respond. quickly, warmly. a soft tether across any stretch of land. you ask him if he’s eaten, if he’s safe. you send blurry photos of the dinner you made. he saves every one. sometimes he responds simply—I miss you :[—because there’s nothing else to say, not really. the words don’t cover the shape of missing you, but he tries. he texts you when he sees a stray cat, crouched in an alley or sunbathing on a shrine step. sends a grainy photo, fuzzy around the edges, and waits for your inevitable cooing response. it never takes long. he sends you good morning texts, every single day. even if he’s tired. even if the mission ran late. even if the only thing he can type is "I love you.” it’s worth it. you told him once that it’s the first thing you check when you wake up. that stayed with him. that mattered.

when he discovers wikipedia, it becomes a daily ritual. he texts you links to things he doesn’t understand—“super bowl?” “sabrina carpenter?”—with only a question mark. you explain them patiently, laughing sometimes, but never cruel. he stores the knowledge away like it’s precious, because you gave it to him. because you didn’t make him feel stupid for not knowing. this is how he loves you: quiet, curious, deliberate. through effort. through learning.

he starts watching you on your phone—how your thumbs move, how you flick the screen to play solitaire or scroll instagram. he sits beside you, mesmerized, eyes tracking the glowing light as if it holds the key to something unknowable. when he finally caves and lets you help him make an instagram account, he uses it for one thing: you.

his entire grid becomes a shrine to your existence. photos of you with yuuji. candid snapshots of you tying your shoe. pictures of your hands, your back turned at sunset, your profile lit by a café’s warm light. no captions. no hashtags. just you.

he changes his home screen too. a photo you didn’t even know he took—just you, showing yuuji how to do something, your brows furrowed in concentration, your mouth mid-explanation. he looks at it when he’s overwhelmed. it grounds him. you ground him.

he still doesn’t like leaving. he probably never will. but now, when he’s alone, when the air feels cold and the silence too loud, he has you in his pocket. he has your texts, your voice messages, your digital footprints scattered across a device he once didn’t understand. he has proof that you’re real. that this love is real.

he takes photos every chance he gets. posts them. saves them. blurry or not, they mean something. they’re part of a world that doesn’t feel so scary anymore. not when you’re in it. because this isn’t about technology. not really. it’s about closeness. about connection. about finding a way to reach you, even when the world pulls him away. the phone is just a tool. but it’s a tool he cherishes. because it leads him back to you. every time.

you don’t eat like someone who loves food. and this, to nanami, is one of the most horrifying discoveries he’s ever made about you. you, the most beautiful person he’s ever met. you, with your expressive eyes and stubborn independence and your habit of choosing sleep over breakfast. you, with your ramen-for-dinner and black coffee-for-breakfast and "I forgot to eat lunch” like it’s a casual comment, not a red flag waving at full mast.

he is distressed. silently, of course. because he is nanami kento and he does not raise his voice unless the situation calls for it. but inside? there is a quiet, steady scream. you are everything good. and good things should be taken care of. fed. nourished. cherished. you don’t even know what it’s like to eat food that makes you feel something. and that’s a tragedy he can’t let stand.

so it begins. a simple offer. "I made too much,” he lies, setting down a container beside you without fanfare. “tell me if you like it,” he says, nonchalant. you eat it while hunched over your laptop. french toast, a little crisp on the edges, with just the lightest dusting of powdered sugar and homemade berry compote. you don’t even pause while typing, just shovel it down like you haven’t tasted something this good in years. maybe you haven’t.

he makes a note. literally. notes app, line by line. – french toast (too sweet, still liked) – pork tonkatsu (devoured) – lemon bars (grimaced at first bite, then ate half the pan)

he starts to see it like a mission. the kind that makes him feel like there’s meaning in all this mess. you need to eat. he needs to understand you. both goals converge somewhere between a perfectly seared salmon filet and a cinnamon roll recipe that takes four hours and involves resting the dough overnight.

he brings you a little bento to work. says it’s because he had leftovers. he does not mention the three hours he spent the night before trying to recreate the exact version of the chicken katsu you said you liked from a random corner stall three years ago.

he takes you to cafés and pretends he’s interested in the drink flights they offer—coffee tastings, seasonal specials. he orders one of everything. you sip them all and scrunch your nose and then smile and steal whichever one he likes best. he lets you. of course he does. his apartment starts to smell like cinnamon and garlic and fresh baked bread. you tease him about being a grandma. he raises an eyebrow. you laugh and call him nana-nanami. he pretends to be offended. he is not. he is delighted.

one day you stumble on the notes. not intentionally—he left his phone on the counter and walked away to check on something in the oven. when he comes back, you’re holding it. reading. your eyes are wide, but not upset. curious. maybe even a little glassy.

“you…really kept track of all this?” he freezes. calculating how badly this could go. you’re private. a little shy. you don’t like people making you the center of attention.

"I just wanted to know what you liked,” he says, carefully.

you beam. beam. “we need to make some corrections,” you say, grinning. “you rated that curry too high. I only pretended to like it because I didn't want to hurt your feelings.” he’s both horrified and pleased. mostly horrified.

the next day, there’s a laminated poster on the fridge. color-coded. the last twenty recipes he’s made for you, listed in chronological order. you’ve added emojis and little comments and a completely unnecessary five-star rating system. he tells you it’s ridiculous. he also doesn’t stop smiling for the next 48 hours.

you start texting him when you see a meal that looks good. a tiktok pasta. a bakery's instagram reel. a picture of a weird street food that’s impossible to recreate, but nanami is not a quitter. he starts compiling them. starts planning weekends around them. one saturday, he makes you five different kinds of soup to see which one you like the best. you rank them all. he kisses you behind the ear while you’re laughing.

sometimes he still worries. when you’re tired. when you skip meals out of habit. when you say you’re not hungry, but your stomach growls anyway. he doesn’t scold you. he just sets something down in front of you. a warm slice of bread with salted butter. miso soup. rice and pickled plum. a soft cookie. tea with honey.

you don’t always say thank you. he doesn’t need you to. he watches you chew. watches your eyes light up when you take that first bite. he catalogs the way your face softens. the way your whole body relaxes. you say, "I didn’t know food could feel like this.”

and he says, "I did.” because food, to him, has always meant comfort. presence. warmth. love. funny how his two favorite things represent the same concepts.

sukuna was not…soft. he was not delicate. he didn’t show affection. and having you around didn’t change that. you were just a maid. your pants were covered in dust, your white shoes long since gone brown with dirt. you slaved away in his estate, and he allowed this because it was your job as one of his loyal subjects. he was a king, after all. he didn’t ask for your presence. you simply arrived. you remained.

but the king of curses found himself… drawn to you in an inexplicable, frankly offensive way. your cold fingers, not even long enough to wrap around one of his wrists. your smile—gentle and delicate while also stuffing him full of sunshine and adoration he didn’t see himself as capable of receiving. it was alarming. disturbing. so horrifically unlike him, he wondered if he was finally contracting one of those disgusting human diseases. tumor? must be. 

but it didn’t deter him. he was curious. more than curious. invested, even. you were still allowed to clean, yes. but only his chambers. you weren’t a “maid” anymore, not to the rest of the staff. you were his consort. his companion. his chosen. no wedding was being planned. there was no ceremony. no declarations. but you slept in his bed. you ate from his table. you bathed in his private bathhouse, the one that faced the gardens and filled with steam that smelled like jasmine and mint. you wore slippers he’d picked, fabrics you liked. you became his girl in every way that mattered. and you—gracious, generous, lovely you—took anything he was willing to give you. with no complaints. no demands. no expectations.

sukuna kept waiting for the shoe to drop. for you to wake up and demand more. for you to finally ask for a kiss, a love confession, a promise, a future. he wanted you to. he didn’t. he didn't know what he wanted, which was infuriating in and of itself.

so he started to try. not overtly. not in ways anyone else would notice. not in a way that he’d ever have to say out loud. but he tried. because he realized he knew everything else about you—what foods you liked, how you liked your tea steeped, the sound you made when you were too tired to speak but too polite to ignore him—and if he wanted to truly claim you, he needed to understand the things that made you light up.

you liked art. that became obvious quickly. he caught you staring at the same painting every day: van gogh’s irises, tucked in a hallway most people never paid attention to. he watched the way your steps slowed, your hand brushing the air like you wanted to touch it but knew better. at first he thought it was just idle curiosity. maids got bored, didn’t they? but you spoke about it later to one of the kitchen girls. described the brush strokes. said it made you feel something. sukuna could never forget the tone in your voice. soft. wistful. almost mournful. after that, he started paying attention.

he took you to a gallery once. the king of curses. in a mortal place, surrounded by fragile art. he cleared it out, of course. the only footsteps in the place were yours. you gasped and flitted from painting to painting, your hands clasped in front of you like it would keep the joy from spilling over. you beamed. and he—he watched. not the art. not the brushstrokes or the frames or the curators’ cards. you.

you told him about composition and color theory. you rambled about light and shadow and symbolism. and when you caught yourself and tried to backpedal, he stopped you. “can you not tell that your beautiful ramblings are all I desire now?” he growled, tone sharp but not unkind. “if I wanted you to stop, I would never have allowed you to begin.” you blinked. smiled. and continued.

your favorite was monet. the water lilies. the gardens. the foggy mornings and violet dusks. he didn’t know much about impressionism, but he knew you liked the softness of it. the warmth in it. the dreaminess. so he filled his estate with them. your favorite pieces, framed in gold and hung wherever he knew you’d pass. he memorized the way your breath caught every time you noticed one. how your smile grew soft, eyes going a little distant, like you’d stepped out of time.

you looked at the paintings like they were new every time. and—curse him—you looked at him the same way. he caught you once, in the quiet between dinner and bed, standing before the water lily pond in your thin nightclothes, eyes shining like you were trying not to cry. “it’s just…” you said, then trailed off. "I never imagined living somewhere that felt this beautiful.” he scoffed, looking away. “you always had a ridiculous imagination.” but he stood closer to you that night. let his warmth cover you in roves. brushed your hair off your forehead when you slept.

he doesn’t tell you that your voice is the only sound he wants to hear echoing through his halls. he doesn’t admit that he kept one of your sketchbooks and looks through it when you’re not around. he doesn’t say that he listens when you talk about brushwork and painters and heartbreak and beauty, because it’s the only time he sees your soul fully bare. but he does learn. learns your favorite painter. your favorite painting. your favorite place to stand in the garden. your favorite shade of blue. and every time you smile, he counts it as a win. every time you gasp over a new piece of art, he logs it for later.

every time you look at him—truly look at him—he wonders if this is what it feels like to be seen by god. and if you ever ask him why he remembers so much, why he knows so much, he’ll sneer. “because you never shut up about it.” but when you leave the room, he’ll look at your favorite painting, and for a second, think of nothing else.

you could’ve guessed how every friday night for the rest of your life would look after just one month of knowing yuuji itadori. movies. always movies. and not just one or two—all of them. it was like he’d made it his life’s mission to watch every film ever made. and while he might not be quite that ambitious (yet), the determination? painfully real. he starts with horror, obviously—his favorite genre. gleefully grotesque, endlessly entertaining, full of jump scares and monsters that make you gasp and grip his arm like it’s a lifeline. he thinks it’s adorable. starts looking over just before the scare hits, waiting to catch your reaction in real time. you're better than the movie, he decides early on.

but one night, curled up together during a rewatch of human earthworm, you let your favorite movie slip. you say it casually, laughing, eyes shining. pride and prejudice, you tell him, the 2005 version. with keira knightley. the rain scene, you say, makes your soul levitate. and yuuji just stares at you like you’ve told him your greatest secret. later that night, alone in his dorm, he plugs his earbuds into his laptop, lies flat on his back, and watches it. beginning to end. no breaks. and he cries. a single, tragic man-tear, but it counts. no one will ever know this—no one—but something inside him shifts that night. he wakes up the next morning changed. reborn, even.

it’s a gateway drug. suddenly, you're binging period dramas like your lives depend on it. emma. little women. the bbc north & south. anything with slow-burn tension and women in gloves. he doesn't always understand the plot—what’s an entailment?—but he knows exactly when to look over at you. when your eyes start to glisten. when you reach for his hand. he starts pointing out characters who “give off darcy energy.” he’s usually wrong, but he tries. bless him.

then come the romcoms. the notebook. 10 things I hate about you. how to lose a guy in 10 days. he starts saying “frost yourself” without context. hitch has him giggling. clueless becomes an inside joke—he starts calling you “cher” every time you wear plaid. and of course, the comedies. adam sandler. scary movie. hot rod. dumb and dumber. nacho libre. you two watch shrek 2 so many times, you’re convinced yuuji and you could recite the entire movie shot-for-shot, line-for-line. 

then comes the hunger games, and everything changes again. yuuji sobs during catching fire. openly. no shame. clutches you like he’s the one volunteering as tribute. he insists he would survive the arena if you were his partner. definitely. “we’d be the katniss and peeta of the jujutsu world,” he says with full sincerity. and that’s how you know you’re in deep.

but really, the movies aren’t the point. you are. the way your eyes light up during the opening credits. the way you gasp and laugh and cry. the way you hide in his side when the music gets creepy. the way you mouth your favorite lines like incantations. you watch him like he hung the stars. and he watches you like you are one. maybe the one. especially when you pause the movie just to explain an obscure plot twist to him, or go on a passionate tangent about why titanic has the dumbest ending ever. arguments have been won and lost over whether or not rose could’ve fit on that door. 

you watch them everywhere. in his dorm, in yours. in the student lounge with popcorn smuggled in hoodies. on classroom projectors after hours. in the backseat of a car during road trips. curled up on airport benches with his coat draped over your legs. sometimes, when you’re away on a mission and he’s missing you so hard his chest aches, you sync your laptops and facetime. three seconds off. buffering constantly. but he doesn’t care. he still gets to watch your face, soft and illuminated by the glow of your screen. sometimes, he misses the entire plot just watching you.

spring break comes, and neither of you go home. you choose each other instead. and you binge like it’s a competitive sport. harry potter. lord of the rings. the hobbit. every twilight movie, which he pretends to hate and definitely doesn’t. all twenty-one seasons of grey’s anatomy. he gets weirdly into it. shushes you when derek is on screen. says “it’s not just a show, it’s an education.” he’s firmly convinced he could perform surgery now. definitely an appendectomy. probably a heart transplant with a diagram and enough adrenaline.

you build blanket forts. lay on the floor like starfish. curl into each other on his narrow twin bed, limbs tangled like headphones in a pocket. sometimes you’re in his lap, back to his chest, criss-cross-applesauce. sometimes, you’re draped over him like a human throw blanket, and he’s playing with your hair while you trace shapes on his forearm with your fingertip. there’s a half-eaten bag of chips beside you, a flickering laptop on the windowsill, and the steady hum of home.

it’s romantic. it’s stupidly domestic. it’s the kind of soft that makes your teeth ache and your chest feel too small. and yuuji—yuuji, who once swore allegiance only to horror movies and kung fu flicks—would watch anything if it meant watching it with you. even pride and prejudice. especially pride and prejudice.

[johanna-517]

"Special and unique"

(CHAPTER 5)

You were sitting quietly on the small couch in your house, watching some cartoons while your mom prepared dinner.

"Mamá... ¿Por qué yo no tengo papá? " you asked, with a curious expression as you turned to look at your mother.

She stood still, a little surprised by your sudden question, but... After all, you were almost six years old, it was obvious that sooner or later you would ask yourself that question.

You'd seen your friends with their dads, and you'd also seen how the characters in your favorite TV shows had dads too. So, eventually, curiosity arose in your little mind... Why didn't you have a dad too?

Mom never mentioned anything about Dad, you never met your father until now, you don't even know who he is, let alone the reason why your mom doesn't tell you anything about him.

"Ah... Escucha, mi adorable (y/n), tú si tienes un padre, es solo que... Él no está aquí, él vive muy, muy lejos. Y no puedes conocerlo" She explained, leaving the kitchen and walking towards you.

"De todas formas... No necesitas un padre, mi pequeña hija. Te prometo que yo te voy a cuidar y amar tanto que jamás te hará falta un padre" She murmured sweetly, hugging you.

"Tú me tienes a mi y yo te tengo a tí, eso es todo lo que importa". She finally stated, her voice as warm and soft as ever, as she placed a small kiss on your forehead.

Oh, how right your mother was when she said that... You didn't need a father. You didn't need Bruce. Because... It was obvious he didn't need you either.

After the incident on the stairs, you had to rest and stay in bed in your room for almost two whole days. And... It wasn't even difficult for you to accept having to stay locked in your room resting these days, since, after what happened... You definitely didn't even want to run into Tim, much less Stephanie or Cassandra. So it was better to stay within the safety of your own room, without any of them being able to get close.

Alfred took care of you; in fact, it's thanks to him and his diligent care that you've already recovered quite a bit. The pain in your body disappeared; only small marks remained, but nothing serious.

In times like these, you definitely appreciate that Alfred at least makes time for you. If it weren't for him, living in this mansion would be much more complicated.

He takes care of you, listens to you, makes sure you eat all three meals a day, teaches you English, explains to you about this family, and helps you in every way he can. You're truly grateful for that.

You sigh softly, really... It was so boring staying in your room all day. Luckily, you have something to help you entertain yourself a little.

You take the notebook and pencil that were next to you on the table, and you start to draw a little bit of the first thing that comes to mind.

Your grip on the pencil is soft, and you have a calm expression as you slide the pencil tip over the white sheet of paper.

You draw a house, a small but pretty house, with a garden, three windows, a big tree next to it, and a sun in the sky. Then, you take some colored crayons and start coloring.

The walls of the house are yellow, the flowers in the garden are pink, yellow, blue, orange, and red. Of course, the tree is green. And finally, you paint the sky light blue and the sun bright yellow.

You smile slightly at the result... You've drawn the house you used to live in with your mother before. Of course, a simple drawing can't fully capture your beautiful, warm home. But at least... This will help you remember what your house used to look like. Your real home.

You look to your side and suddenly remember that Toti isn't with you. You lost him when you fell down the stairs, and at the time, because you were hurt, you didn't notice and didn't pick him up. And for now, since you had to stay in your room resting, you hadn't been able to go out to look for Toti.

But... Now you feel better. Your body no longer hurts when you move or walk. So you could go out and look for Toti, but you hesitate for a moment, not sure you really want to leave the room, afraid you'd run into Tim, Cassandra, or Stephanie if you left your room.

You sigh softly, trying to calm down a little. Toti is important to you, you can't leave him alone any longer... Besides, with luck, you won't run into anyone this time.

You finally decide to get up and go outside to look for Toti. You get out of bed, walking toward the door. Before you leave the room, you notice that the little monarch butterfly you knew had returned. She flew in through the open window, approaching you and landing on your shoulder.

You laugh softly at the sight of her again... You're so happy to see your little friend again. She seems to want to go with you, so you let her tag along.

You walk calmly through the long, almost dark hallways of the mansion, trying to remember exactly where you fell and lost Toti.

After a while... You finally reach the spot. You shudder a little at the sight of the stairs and remember what had happened; what Stephanie said about you and how she pushed you at the end.

You shake your head, trying to push those memories away. Right now, the last thing you need is to remember that moment... After all, when there are painful moments, it's always better to try to forget them as if they never happened, right?

With determination, you approach the stairs, and look around carefully, searching for Toti.

You frown slightly when you can't see him; you can't find him on the stairs. So you decide to go downstairs to see if you can find him at the bottom.

Once downstairs, you tense up when you hear loud footsteps nearby. Then... You see him, you see Jason for the first time.

He... He's definitely very tall and intimidating, with a serious, tense expression. You freeze for a moment when you see him, not knowing what to do.

You remember Alfred telling you a little about him earlier, saying that Jason had a somewhat complicated and strained relationship with Bruce right now, and that was why he didn't come to the mansion regularly.

As you look at him, you notice he has a small wound on his face. He's hurt.

A feeling of concern fills your chest at the sight of him hurt, and without thinking, you try to approach him, but... He stops you, not allowing you to get any closer to him.

"What do we have here? Looks like this is the new little freak Bruce brought to the mansion... Really, he should learn not to accept just anyone here." Jason's tone was aggressive, a cruel, mocking smile on his lips as he looked at you, observing the peculiar color of your eyes.

You flinch at hearing him be so directly hostile toward you. You feel afraid of him, of how big and intimidating he seems. But, deep down... You can't help but feel annoyed by what he said, too.

"I'm no freak..." you muttered under your breath, looking away.

"Of course you are, just look at your strange eye color and you'll know. Only a freak could have eyes that hideous," he replied, completely indifferent to what his words might provoke in you.

Definitely... This is too much, you can't stand him talking about your eyes like that, he has no right.

With anger flashing in your eyes, you walk over and try to push him away in revenge for what he said about you. But... He stops you instantly, grabbing your arms in a tight, almost painful grip.

"Do you really think... that a little weirdo like you can do something to me? How ridiculous," Jason stated in a mocking tone, staring at you.

You wince slightly at Jason's grip, and try to pull away, but to no avail, as he's definitely much stronger than you.

At that moment... The little butterfly on your shoulder finally flies away, going straight for Jason's face, as if it wants to get him to let go of you.

And he succeeds for a moment, Jason is taken by surprise and lets go of you, now using his hands to try to push away the annoying butterfly that was fluttering near his face.

Jason was already angry, so having a butterfly trying to attack his face definitely pisses him off even more. Without hesitation, Jason manages to catch the butterfly in one of his hands, and then... He crushes it, closing his fist tightly until the small butterfly is completely crushed. Then, he opens his hand and lets it fall to the ground.

You felt like your heart had stopped the moment you saw it. You watched as the butterfly fell to the ground, its wings crushed and broken, not moving at all.

Instantly, your eyes filled with tears, you dropped to your knees as you stared at your little friend on the ground, completely broken.

Before you could complain further, Jason simply walks away. He turns around and walks away with cold indifference, not regretting what he's done at all.

You watch him walk away and turn his back on you, your eyes filling with tears after what he did.

"Jason... W-why?" your voice trembles slightly, looking down at the butterfly on the ground again.

You reach out with one of your trembling hands, touching the butterfly's broken wings. You try to murmur soft words, asking it to move even a little, to not leave, that I didn't leave you. But no matter how much you beg, it doesn't budge.

You carefully pick it up in your hands, making sure to pick up every little fragment of its wings as well.

You try to stop crying, you try to ignore the way your hands shake, you try to stop feeling... The pain in your chest.

You arrive at your room, close the door behind you, find a small, empty box, and put the butterfly in it.

You stand there for a moment, staring blankly at the small box on the table.

'I... I didn't do anything to him, I didn't do anything wrong to Jason, so why... Does he do this to me? Does he hate me too?' you thought, sighing softly. You were definitely no longer surprised to being hated by someone in this family.

But even if he hated you... It doesn't justify what he did. He literally shattered the little bit of hope and joy you had. Because that's what the monarch butterfly represented to you; hope and a chance at happiness. And he just... shattered it right in front of your eyes.

It's okay if he has issues with Bruce, if maybe he's upset all the time, it's okay if he doesn't like you, but... He didn't have to do this.

The unpleasantly warm tears continue to fall from your eyes, your gaze still fixed on the small box.

How should you feel? Angry, disappointed, or maybe... just sad? You don't know. All you know right now is that you've never felt that way in your life.

This is a different kind of pain, not the same longing you feel for your mother. This is much more... cruel. Being hurt without even a shred of mercy from people like them is too much.

It's incredible... As soon as you arrive, everyone seems to hate you. Every time you meet a new family member, they do something worse than the last.

And the worst part? The worst part is that you have to suffer in silence. Because you can't tell Bruce, you can't tell your own father about the way your siblings treat you. Because simply... He doesn't care about you either. And you're absolutely certain that he much prefers his other children to you.

You don't want to tell Alfred either because you're afraid of what will happen. What if he also prefers others to you? What if he leaves you behind too? You can't risk it. For now, it's best not to say anything.

❦: (I was going to post this chapter last night, but my internet was failing too much, so I better post it today. Thanks for reading, I appreciate the support, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.)

✯/Tag list: @hopingtoclearmedschool

(If anyone else wants to be added please ask in the comments :D)

[unboundprompts]

Hello!!! I hope you don't mind doing this one,

Can you help me write a traumatized person who's having trouble talking because of past trauma? (They can still interact with people, but only with signs and movements, not voice) and also a little anxious

Tell me if you need more details =)

How to Write a Mute / Non-Speaking Character

-> healthline.com

-> verywellhealth.com

-> descriptionary.wordpress.com

Types of Mutism:

selective mutism: having the ability to speak but feeling unable to.

organic mutism: mutism caused by brain injury, such as with drug use or after a stroke.

cerebellar mutism: mutism caused by the removal of a brain tumor from a part of the skull surrounding the cerebellum, which controls coordination and balance.

aphasia: when people find it difficult to speak because of stroke, brain tumor, or head injury.

What Causes Selective Mutism in Adults?

having another anxiety condition, like separation anxiety or social anxiety

experiencing physical, emotional, or sexual abuse

having a family history of selective mutism or social anxiety

having fewer opportunities for social contact

having an extremely shy personality

having a speech or language disorder, learning disability, or sensory processing disorder

parent-child enmeshment, or lack of clear boundaries in the relationship

traumatic experiences

Traumatic Mutism vs Trauma-Induced Selective Mutism

if you have traumatic mutism, you may be unable to talk in all situations following a trauma.

with trauma-induced selective mutism, you may find it impossible to talk only in certain situations-- for example, in front of the person who hurt you or in a setting that resembles the circumstances of your trauma.

Different Ways Individuals with Mutism May Choose to Communicate:

Nonverbal Communication: they may rely on facial expressions, gestures, eye contact, and body language to convey their thoughts, emotions, and intentions.

Writing or Typing: they may use a pen and paper, digital devices, or communication apps to write messages, notes, or responses.

Sign Language: they can convey meaning, emotions, and engage in complex conversations through hand signs, facial expressions, and body movements.

Augmentative and Alternative Communication (AAC) Devices: these devices provide individuals with a range of tools and technologies to support their communication needs. They can include speech-generating devices, picture boards, apps, or software that allows users to select words, phrases, or symbols to generate spoken or written output.

Communication Boards and Visual Aids: Communication boards or charts with pictures, symbols, or words can assist individuals in conveying their messages.

Assistive Technology: various assistive technologies, such as speech-to-text apps, text-to-speech programs, or eye-tracking devices that aid individuals with communication.

Tips on Writing a Mute / Non-Speaking Character:

Explore the vast array of nonverbal cues such as facial expressions, body language, gestures, and eye contact. Use descriptions to convey their intentions and reactions.

Utilize internal dialogue. Offer readers a window into their internal thought process, and turn their internal dialogue into a narrative that reveals their inner struggles, triumphs, and complexities so that reader can connect with the character.

Establish a communication system that is unique to your character (Sign language, written notes, telepathy in a fantasy setting, etc.). Having a communication system allows your character to interact with other characters and contribute to the narrative.

Surround them with Understanding Characters that can aid in communcation and fostering meaningful relationships.

Establish the Barriers/Conflicts They'll Experience. Don't forget to be realistic.

Your character is not defined by their inability to speak. Make sure you do not write stereotypes and cliches. Being mute is only one aspect of their identity rather than their defining trait.

Do your research! Seek out firsthand accounts, experiences, and perspectives. Check out online forums and resources to gain insights into their unique challenges, adaptations, and strengths.

If you like what I do and want to support me, please consider buying me a coffee! I also offer editing services and other writing advice on my Ko-fi! Become a member to receive exclusive content, early access, and prioritized writing prompt requests.

[imastoryteller]

10 Tips for Crafting Authentic Characters

Give them depth: Create characters with multidimensional personalities, including strengths, weaknesses, quirks, and flaws. They should have a mix of virtues and vices that make them relatable and interesting.

Provide backstory: Develop a detailed backstory for each character, even if only a fraction of it makes it into your story. Understanding a character's past experiences, traumas, and motivations will inform their actions and decisions in the present.

Show their emotions: Allow your characters to express a range of emotions realistically. Show how they react to different situations, both internally and externally, to make them feel human and relatable.

Give them distinct voices: Each character should have a unique way of speaking, with distinct vocabulary, syntax, and speech patterns. This helps readers differentiate between characters and adds authenticity to their dialogue.

Create internal conflicts: Give your characters inner struggles and conflicting desires that they must grapple with throughout the story. Internal conflicts add depth and complexity to characters, making them more believable.

Show their relationships: Develop meaningful relationships between characters, whether they're familial, romantic, platonic, or adversarial. Show how these relationships evolve and influence the characters' development over time.

Make them evolve: Characters should grow and change over the course of the story, driven by their experiences and the challenges they face. Allow them to learn from their mistakes, overcome obstacles, and develop as individuals.

Ground them in reality: Anchor your characters in the real world by giving them relatable experiences, hobbies, jobs, or cultural backgrounds. Incorporating realistic details adds depth and authenticity to their portrayal.

Show their flaws: Imperfect characters are often the most compelling. Don't be afraid to showcase your characters' flaws and vulnerabilities; these imperfections make them more relatable and human.

Give them agency: Allow your characters to drive the plot forward through their actions, decisions, and choices. Avoid making them passive observers or mere vehicles for the story's events. Characters with agency feel more authentic and engaging to readers.

[mononijikayu]

don’t they know it's the end of the world (cause you don’t love me anymore) — geto suguru.

You blinked, the knot in your chest tightening as you took in his face, his solemn expression that didn’t match the usual carefree look he wore. Was he already saying goodbye in some way? You shook your head slowly, the smile coming to your lips, though it carried a mixture of sadness and certainty. "Sugu, how could you even think about that?… I could never forget about you."  “It can happen, you know. Life happens.” He smiles in a small timid manner.   Your voice was soft, but there was no doubt in it. "No, you’re wrong. You’re the most important person in my life. How could I forget someone like you?"

GENRE: alternate universe - canon divergence;

WARNING/S: gen, afab! reader, angst, fluff, friendship, friends to lovers, eventual romance, slice of life, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, sad ending, physical touch, pet names (sugu, buttercup) mentioned character death, depression, mourning, loneliness, pain, grief, internal conflict, post-hidden inventory at the end, letting go, break up, meeting each other again, depiction of childhood, depiction of romance, depiction of internal conflict, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, depiction of depression, mention of internal conflict, non! sorcerer reader, sorcerer! suguru;

WORD COUNT: 10k words

NOTE: im soon back at university, so im rush writing everything and so im exhausted all the time too. so if im not updating, its because im probably regretting my life decisions. though, in any case, i will still publish as much as i can. im about two/three finished with valentines fics, but im tortured by sukuna because i have a standard with him and i can't escape it. anyway, i wrote this for suguru's birthday. he would have been thirty-five today!!! i hope you enjoy this fic!!! i love you all!!! see you on the sixth!!! <3

main masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

══════════════════

IF YOU COULD DESCRIBE WONDER, IT WOULD BE BEING BY SUGURU’S SIDE. No one else could understand it, you like to think. What the two of you had, it was certainly a language made for two. It was a life that was built for the purpose of being known by you both. And you like to think that he feels the same way too.

You and Suguru had been together since you were kids, bound by an unspoken connection that neither of you ever questioned. Because, there was nothing to question about it. Nor could words even describe it all. It was too unique, too intriguing. And yet, it only belonged to the two of you.

It all started on a warm afternoon at the school playground, where laughter and shrieks filled the air as children ran around in endless games of tag. It was a long while ago, and yet it felt like yesterday to you. You could feel your eyes twitching as you watched from where you stood, permeating with desire and anxiety. 

You had been standing alone for a while, just a bit near the jungle gym, watching all the kids giggle and run about, with the zeal of youth dashing along with them.

As you watched them there with eager eyes, you kept wishing you could join in too, you wished you could run amok with joy too. But that heavy weight of fear blossoms your hesitation. It held you back from a lot of things, including making friends.

Yet, why wouldn’t you feel like this? You were new in town, and you didn’t know these kids. You didn't know any life lived in this place before you had come. Everything was new for you, as much as you were sure it would also be new to them. 

How would they even react to you, knowing you aren’t a familiar face they were already comfortable seeing? How would you interact with them, anyway? It’s not like you could just jump in and smile and just jump in easily? This is a sea and if you plunge so deep, you could drown. And you didn’t want that to happen. Not here, not when you were starting a new life. 

But then, that’s when he found you.

"Why are you just standing here?" a voice asked.

You turned to see a boy with dark hair, a little messy from running around, and warm, curious eyes. He wasn’t out of breath, despite the wild chase of tag that had just ended. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his tiny shorts, and he looked at you like he was trying to figure you out.

"I….I don’t know how to approach them." you muttered, kicking at a loose pebble. "I’m not sure how to come and tell them I want to play too, so I….."

Suguru blinked, then without hesitation, he grinned and reached out a hand to you. "I see…..Then let’s play together! I don’t care if you’re slow. I’ll just run at your speed, if that would make it easier on you."

Your eyes swiftly widened, surprised by the easy kindness in his voice. "Really?"

"Yeah!" he said enthusiastically. "I’ll even let you tag me first."

That was the beginning of everything, that was certain.

During recess, the world belonged to just the two of you. You ran hand in hand across the playground, unbothered by who was faster or slower. You hummed little tunes under your breath, and he giggled at the way you always skipped a step ahead before doubling back to him. You hopped, he ran, and sometimes, in the joy of it all, you tripped over each other’s feet and tumbled into the dirt.

And if one of you scraped a knee? The other sat down beside them without hesitation. If you fell, Suguru would plop down next to you, crossing his arms stubbornly. “I’m not playing if you’re not playing. That’s just how it is!

And you would do the same for him, because what was the fun in anything if he wasn’t right there beside you?

Nothing was ever quite complete without each other.

It wasn’t a good day unless you were together.

Even as you grew older, nothing changed.

The playground turned into quiet walks home, but your hands still found each other without thinking.

"You still hold my hand like we’re kids, Sugu," you teased one afternoon, fingers laced together as you walked home. The sun hung low in the sky, spilling warm golden light over the quiet street. Your shadows stretched long behind you, linked together like a promise.

Suguru glanced down at your hands, his grip tightening just slightly. "Yeah? You don’t like it?"

You smiled, squeezing back. "I never said that, you know!"

His grin was soft but sure, a mirror of the way he had always been with you. "Good. Because you’re still my favorite person."

And really, wasn’t that all that mattered?

══════════════════

IF YOUR BIRTHDAY COULD BE A HOLIDAY, SUGURU WOULD MAKE SURE OF IT. Your birthday has always been special, you know that much. But now more than ever, especially because, for as long as you could remember, Geto Suguru had been by your side for most of it. Now, it was even more special than before. 

The years blurred together in a collage of memories: the laughter, the excitement, the simple moments that felt so big when they were shared with him. There were so many pictures, pictures of the two of you, year after year.

You were always together. His presence in every single one, a steady anchor through the passing time. One that was the only constant throughout the world that keeps on changing.

Whether it was the early mornings, when you both rushed around the house, throwing together last-minute gifts for each other in the midst of the chaos of birthday preparations, or the quiet evenings spent chatting under the stars, those moments were always colored by Suguru’s unique way of making everything feel more important. 

He never treated your birthday like just another day. To him, it was an event, something that deserved to be celebrated with the utmost care. After all, it was the day you were born—the day you were with him. And to Suguru, that meant the world.

He didn’t just show up for your birthday. 

No, he took it as seriously as he would a test. 

He planned it meticulously, down to the smallest detail, as though the day had to be perfect.

"I thought you might like this, buttercup!" he’d say with a grin, always just a little too proud of whatever thoughtful gift he managed to get you, even if you’d both picked it out together the day before. "I’m pretty sure you’ll love it." 

And every time, no matter how simple the gift, the thought behind it always felt like the most meaningful gesture.

On your birthday mornings, you’d wake up to the smell of something delicious.  The pancakes, bacon, whatever it was that he knew you’d love, always cooked with that special touch that made it taste even better. He would rush in, hands full of wrapped presents, bright eyes sparkling like a child eager to see your reaction. 

"You ready?" he’d ask, bouncing on his heels.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight— Geto Suguru, the one who always had his life together, who always so composed, turned into a ball of excitement for just one day.

Even in the evenings, as the day began to fade and the sky turned dark, you would find yourselves sitting together outside, wrapped in blankets under the stars. He’d listen to you talk about the year that had passed, what had changed, what had stayed the same while you both sat in comfortable silence, the kind only the two of you shared.

"Make a wish, okay?" he’d say when it was time to blow out the candles, the way he’d always said it every year. But there was something about the way he said it then, with that little smile on his face, as if he already knew your wish without needing to hear it.

Suguru didn’t need grand gestures. For him, it was always about the little things, the way he made sure your favorite song was playing when you entered the room, the way he’d insist on carrying your cake even though it was ridiculously heavy, the way he refused to let anyone else help you with the birthday prep, because it was his job to make sure everything was just right for you.

And he didn’t think it was just about the day itself. To Suguru, your birthday wasn’t just a celebration of your life; it was a reminder that you existed, that you were here, and that the world—his world—was just a little bit brighter because you were in it.

Every year, as he gave you your gift, no matter how big or small, you could always see that gleam in his eyes. The beautiful gleam that said. "This is important. This is you, this is us, and I’m going to make sure you feel special, because you are."

For Suguru, your birthday wasn’t just another day in the calendar. It was the day you were born—his day to remind you just how much you meant to him, and to celebrate the fact that, all these years later, you were still by his side. 

And when you looked back at all the memories, all those years of birthdays spent with him, you couldn’t help but smile. They weren’t just your birthdays, they were his to celebrate too.

He celebrated them just as fiercely, just as passionately, as if it were his own day to remember. Because, to Suguru, every birthday spent together was a blessing. And he never took that for granted.

But this year, it felt different.

Not because of the cake or the candles. Not because of the way your friends sang off-key, their voices melding into a perfect disaster. No, this year was different because, when the party had quieted down and the night was winding to a close, Suguru handed you a small, neatly wrapped box.

He was sitting beside you on the couch, his beautiful lilac eyes watching you closely as you held the box in your hands, the soft rustle of paper the only sound between you. You could only look at the beautiful box in front of you for the longest time. He clears his throat.

“Are you really not saying anything?”

You looked at him suspiciously, fingers hesitating over the ribbon. "You didn’t have to get me anything, Sugu."

"I wanted to, buttercup." he said simply, nudging the box closer. "Go on, open it."

So you did.

Inside was a delicate silver bracelet, the light catching on the fine chain, making it shimmer. But what caught your attention was the tiny charm hanging from it—a miniature book, small enough to rest in the center of your palm, its metal etched with tiny details that made it look like it had real pages inside.

You blinked up at him, surprise evident in your expression. "Sugu…"

He looked uncharacteristically shy, rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s nothing fancy, but… I thought it’d be nice. Y’know, for us."

"For us?" you repeated, tracing your fingers over the book charm.

Suguru nodded, watching your reaction closely. "Yeah. Because we always read together. Because of all those afternoons spent sharing a book, arguing over who gets to turn the page first—"

"You always turn the page too fast, you know." you interrupted with a pout.

"And you always get distracted by random things in the margins, buttercup." he shot back, smirking. “We’re both not good at it.”

You huffed. "That’s called appreciating the details, Suguru."

"Sure, sure." he laughed, shaking his head. "Anyway, that’s the first one."

You tilted your head. "First?"

He reached over, taking your wrist gently in his hands as he fastened the bracelet around it, his touch careful, warm. "Every birthday from now on, I’m giving you a charm. One for each year. Something that means something to us."

Your breath caught for a moment.

"You’re serious?" you asked, looking up at him.

Suguru met your gaze, his expression unwavering. "Completely." Then, with a lopsided grin, he added. "You’re stuck with me for a long time, you know."

You couldn’t stop the smile that spread across your face. Everything about you just felt warm, especially when you looked at it, knowing he put a lot of thought on this beautiful present. The bracelet felt light on your wrist, but the promise it carried felt heavier. This was solid, real, unshakable. Just like your relationship with him, ironclad for all your lives.

"Good." you said, squeezing his hand before letting go. "Because I wouldn’t want it any other way."

And back then, with Geto Suguru beside you, his promise wrapped around your wrist and his warmth wrapped around your heart, you believed it.

You really, really did.

══════════════════

ALL BIRTHDAYS ARE HAPPY, WELL THEY SHOULD BE. But this morning, this birthday of yours, it was not something that just truly felt odd. You had tried to put it off, knowing that it wasn’t the right place or time to talk about it. You could feel it, you know you do. Something was wrong with your best friend. 

Geto Suguru had been unusually quiet all day, even when he was trying to be casual and jolly, smiling at you. But you knew there was something going on and you couldn't put your finger on why. The excitement of the day had dulled a little, as the two of you moved through the motions of cake and presents, but something in the air felt different.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon when everything changed.

You had walked him to the train station, like you always did, ever since he moved to another part of the city. Though this time, there was an unspoken weight that drowned between you, a heaviness that neither of you could shake. Geto Suguru, usually so confident and carefree, seemed distant, his usual smile a little more strained.

"I got in." he said, as the train pulled up to the station, his voice barely above a whisper, yet somehow carrying the weight of his words.

You paused, unsure of what he meant at first. "Got in?"

He nodded, his eyes avoiding yours for a moment before meeting your gaze. "To Jujutsu High School. I’m going to Tokyo."

Your heart skipped, the reality of the situation sinking in like ice water. 

He was going to leave you, you were going to be separated. 

Your Suguru was heading to Tokyo to train, on the other side of your world.

For the first time in years, you wouldn’t be by each other’s side every day. The thought was almost impossible to process. Not when you had been together for so long, just being bubbles in each other’s circle. Your lips parted, you wanted to say something. But you didn’t know what. You were too stunned to speak. 

"Wait, you’re leaving? When?" you whispered, your voice suddenly became small. 

“Tomorrow.” He whispered, his tone almost blossoming with shame. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I don’t….I didn’t want to ruin the time and I didn't think it was going to come any time soon, but it just….”

"But… but today’s my birthday, Sugu."

Suguru gave you a sad smile, his hand reaching out to ruffle your hair. "I know. I’m sorry. But it’s not goodbye forever, okay? We’ll keep in touch, I promise."

You nodded, but the lump in your throat made it hard to speak. Suguru was your rock, your constant. The thought of him being so far away, in a completely different city, felt like the world was shifting beneath your feet.

He took a step closer to you, lowering his voice. "I didn’t want to leave without giving you something special." He pulled out a small box from his pocket, holding it out to you. 

You took it from his warm hands, your eyes brimming with questions. When you opened it, a soft gasp escaped your lips. Inside was a new charm for your bracelet—a delicate purple colored buttercup, its petals etched with such fine detail that it looked almost real. It was beautiful. And soulful. Almost glistening as brightly as his eyes.

He smiled gently, a warmth in his eyes as he slipped the charm onto your bracelet. "It’s a buttercup," he said softly. "My nickname for you. So I thought…I thought it would be perfect."

You stared at the charm for a moment, the lump in your throat thickening. "You still call me that…"

Suguru’s smile grew tender. "Always will. And whenever you look at it, I want you to think of me, okay? Think of me often."

You blinked away the tears threatening to spill and smiled back at him. "I will, Sugu. I promise."

He pulled you into a tight hug, holding you close for just a moment longer than usual. "Take care of yourself, alright? And don’t forget—I’m just a train ride away. Osaka is not that far. So when you need me, call me. Okay?"

“Okay.” You squeezed him back, trying to imprint the moment into your memory, trying to hold onto the feeling of him next to you. "I won’t forget. I’ll think of you every day."

Suguru pulled away slowly, his fingers brushing the side of your face. "I know you will."

The train’s loud engine roared to brutish life, and the sound of the wheels on the tracks made your chest tighten even further. You watched Suguru stand by the window.

His beautiful face illuminated by the soft afternoon light as the train slowly started to pull away. Your feet felt rooted to the ground, your mind racing with so many things you wanted to say, things you didn’t know how to say.

But before you could stop yourself, something inside you snapped. You took a step forward, then another, and then you were running, your heart pounding heavily in your chest, your breath coming faster as you pushed yourself harder, faster, chasing the train like you could somehow outrun the fear that gripped your heart.

"Suguru!" you called out, your voice shaking, but loud enough for him to hear.

He turned around in surprise, his eyes wide as he saw you running toward him. The train was moving faster now, but he didn’t hesitate. You could see how his face lit up with a mix of disbelief and hope, his hand pressed against the window.

"Sugu!" you shouted again, your heart racing even harder, your legs moving as if they had a will of their own. The distance between you seemed so large, but you weren’t going to stop.

He leaned closer to the window, his hand now reaching out, as if trying to touch you through the glass. You could see the concern on his face, his bright lilac eyes filled with an emotion you couldn’t quite name, but it made you move faster, faster than you thought you could.

When you finally reached the side of the train, you stopped just short of losing your breath. You pressed your hands to your chest, feeling your heart pounding, and you looked up at him, eyes shining.

"I love you, Suguru!" you blurted, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Geto Suguru froze, his eyes wide in astonishment, as though he hadn’t expected you to say it—that particular thing, not now, not like this. You watched him, your heart hanging in the air between you, waiting for his reaction, wondering if you had made a mistake.

But then, his expression softened, and a smile broke through the surprise. It wasn’t just a smile you see. It was his smile, that beautiful smile that only belonged to you. The one that made everything feel like it would be okay, no matter what. He nodded slowly, a little chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned closer to the window, as if pulling you in even from a distance.

"I love you too, buttercup!" he said, his voice full of warmth, his eyes soft but certain.

And just like that, everything that had felt so heavy was lifted, the weight of the unspoken tension, the distance between you, all of it faded into the background of that moment. You smiled back at him, breathless but relieved, and the world around you seemed to slow down.

The train started to pick up speed again, and Suguru gave you one last look, his smile still lingering as he waved.

"Take care of yourself, okay?" he called out, his voice carrying over the noise of the train.

"I will!" you said, a smile tugging at your lips. "I’ll always think of you."

And with that, the train pulled away, leaving you standing there, heart full, the buttercup charm on your bracelet gleaming softly in the fading light. 

That train carried your heart with him.

But you were sure that you held his heart here too.

You looked at your buttercup charm, smiling.

“Come back to me soon, okay?”

══════════════════

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT HOW MUCH HE HAD CHANGED. And all he could do was wish that you didn’t see it, that you would never find out the truth. All he could pray for was that you didn’t notice the light in his eyes dying or the bitterness of the taste from the curses he was forced to consume still on his tongue.  

Geto Suguru has always been a powerful force of nature, a rock withstanding everything in his way. In a way, he was also your rock, your steady presence in your life. No matter what was happening around him, he was there, unwavering, holding everything together with that quiet strength of his. 

But recently, something in him had started to shift. Something he wasn’t prepared to admit to just yet. Ever since Amanai Riko’s death, the change had been subtle at first, there were those small signs that he was struggling, pulling away just a little more each day. But now, as the days passed, it became harder to ignore.

Geto Suguru was slipping.

And he didn’t know how to stop it.

He didn’t know how to be more than this.

He didn’t know the way out of it.

He found himself lost in a fog of thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate, his emotions tangled in a web he couldn't find a way out of. The burden of loss weighed heavily on him, crushing him in ways he didn’t know how to handle. But he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let you see it. Not today. Not on your birthday. Not on your last day together.

He had made it a point, from the moment you walked into the room, to be the Suguru you knew. He plastered on that familiar smile, spoke to you like everything was fine, and made sure the day went on like any other. 

But the moment you looked away, or when you laughed, or when he caught you looking at him with that softness in your eyes, a heaviness settled deep in his chest. He wanted to say something, to tell you what was really happening, but the words felt like they were caught in his throat, unable to escape.

You had no idea what he was battling inside.

And he couldn’t bear to burden you with it—not on your special day.

It was the evening, the sun sinking low in the sky, and you both sat together on the balcony of his apartment, watching the colors in the sky shift from gold to deep blue. The breeze was warm, and you had your head resting on his shoulder, the same way you had for years. You both sat there in a comfortable silence, but Suguru’s mind was anywhere but there.

"I’m really glad we could spend the day together, Sugu." you said softly, your voice like a melody that brought him back to the present. “Thank you for coming to visit me, even with your busy schedule.”

Suguru nodded, his smile barely there as he kept his gaze on the horizon, afraid if he looked at you too long, you would see the cracks he was trying to hide. "Me too, buttercup." he said, but even to his own ears, the words didn’t sound right. They didn’t carry the weight they should have.

You could feel the subtle shift in his energy, the way he wasn’t fully present. He wasn’t the Geto Suguru you knew, the Sugu who would always make you laugh, who would hold you close and whisper silly things to keep your spirits high. He was distant, almost like a shadow of himself. And you knew he hated it, even without saying it to you.

"Sugu." you said quietly, sitting up to look at him, your hand gently touching his arm. "You okay?"

Suguru flinched, the question catching him off guard. He gave a small, forced laugh, trying to brush it off. "Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, I guess. I’ve….been very busy."

But you didn’t buy it. You knew him better than anyone else, and you could see the lie in his eyes. But he wasn’t ready to talk, not now, not on the day that was meant to be yours, not on the day that he wanted to protect you from his own chaos. He didn’t want you to see him like this, not when everything was supposed to be perfect.

He wanted to be strong for you, wanted to be the Geto Suguru you deserved, the Geto Suguru that you love, the Geto Suguru you knew. But the weight of the world felt like it was crushing him from the inside, and he didn’t know how to hold it together anymore. 

You reached up to touch his cheek, the gesture so simple but full of the warmth you had always shared. "Sugu… you don’t have to hide from me. Not now. Not ever."

He froze at your touch, his lilac eyes shutting softly, even for just a brief second. He wanted to let it all go, wanted to break down in front of you, but he couldn’t. Not like this. Not today. He swallowed hard, the words choking him before he could even say them.

"I’m fine." he repeated, but there was no conviction in his voice. “Really, buttercup. Don’t worry so much about me, okay?”

You didn’t push him further, but the sadness in his once bright eyes told you everything you needed to know. He was breaking inside, but he didn’t want you to see it. He didn’t want you to know. He didn’t want to talk about it just yet. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. And especially not on your last day together.

"Okay." you whispered softly, leaning back against his shoulder once more, both of you falling into silence again.

But Geto Suguru knew. He knew that you would always see through him. And as you sat there, so close, yet so far from what was really happening, he couldn’t help but feel like he was losing grip on everything. He thought he was losing himself, you, on the life you had dreamed of sharing.

And so, the night passed in a quiet sadness, Suguru’s heart heavy with emotions he couldn’t quite express. Tomorrow, he will leave. Tomorrow, everything will change. He knew that all too well. By sunrise, you wouldn’t recognize him anymore. By sunrise, he wouldn’t be your Sugu anymore. 

But for tonight, he would hold onto this—hold onto you, and pretend that everything was okay, just for a little while longer. He thinks he could pretend one last time and keep you with him, enjoying the need of warmth that only you could understand.

The evening air was still, the world outside quieting as the stars began to prick the darkening sky. You sat together for a little while, as you waited for the train to come. Geto Suguru’s silence was heavy, but there was a soft, almost palpable tenderness in the way he was beside you. It was always that way, when he was beside you. Even when you were kids.

But the silence was a new thing. This silence was so loud, and yet so deafening. Yet you also didn’t bridge the gap. At least not tonight. He didn’t need it right now and you can tell. You just took a deep breath and waited, staring off the train tracks. 

Your Suguru seemed lost in his own thoughts, his calloused fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on the railing in front of you, his lilac gaze ever so lost in the faraway space. To the place you could not follow.

But you knew it was just his way of trying to hold everything in. Then, after a moment that felt like eternity, he broke the quiet, his voice soft but steady, like he was trying to make it sound casual when it wasn’t. 

"I got you something, buttercup." he said, his hand reaching into his pocket. You looked up at him, noticing the faintest tremor in his fingers, but you didn't comment on it.

He pulled out a small, carefully wrapped box, offering it to you with a look that was a mix of hesitation and something deeper, something he couldn’t quite put into words. "I know it’s not much, but I wanted to give you something… meaningful. Like always."

You took the box from him, your little heart fluttering a little in anticipation, not knowing what to expect. Slowly, you unwrapped it with much care, your tender fingers gently peeling back the layers until you saw what was inside.

It was a charm, delicate and beautiful, with a tiny forget-me-not flower carved into its surface. The petals were soft, yet detailed, their edges just slightly raised as if to give them life, to make them feel real. The forget-me-not. It was simple but meaningful, and somehow, it felt like it held everything unsaid between you two in one small, fragile flower.

Suguru’s voice broke the moment, barely above a whisper, but heavy with emotion. "I want you to always remember me, buttercup." he said, his gaze meeting yours, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t place. "No matter what happens, no matter where life takes us, never forget about me."

You froze for a heartbeat, confusion washing over you at his words. Never forget about him?

The thought didn’t make sense. Geto Suguru was more than just a memory; he was the person who had shaped so much of your life, the one who had been there for you through everything. He was your everything. How could you forget him?

You blinked, the knot in your chest tightening as you took in his face, his solemn expression that didn’t match the usual carefree look he wore. Was he already saying goodbye in some way?

You shook your head slowly, the smile coming to your lips, though it carried a mixture of sadness and certainty. "Sugu, how could you even think about that?… I could never forget about you." 

“It can happen, you know. Life happens.” He smiles in a small timid manner.  

Your voice was soft, but there was no doubt in it. "No, you’re wrong. You’re the most important person in my life. How could I forget someone like you?"

Suguru’s lilac eyes softened at your words, the weight of the moment easing just a little as you spoke. His chapped lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something more, but he only let out a quiet, relieved breath, his shoulders relaxing for the first time that evening.

He reached out, gently placing the forget-me-not charm on your bracelet, his fingers lingering there for a moment longer than necessary. "I just… I need to know you’ll always remember. Even when we’re apart.”

"I will, I promise." you said, your voice firm, the sincerity in your words reaching the deepest parts of him. "I’ll always think of you. Every single day, every single hour. Even the seconds. I’ll always remember you, Suguru. You’re too important to forget."

“Is that so?”

You hummed, smiling at him. “Hm. Because I love you.”

For a brief, tender moment, Suguru’s eyes seemed to shine with something that wasn’t just sadness but relief. It was as if the weight of the unspoken fears, the guilt, and the pain he’d been carrying had finally started to lift, just a little. He smiled, a real, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes.

"Good," he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. "That’s all I need to hear."

And there, under the stars, with the sound of the world fading into a quiet lull, you both sat together. You didn’t need words to fill the silence that had settled between you. The charm on your bracelet was a promise, a symbol of everything you had been through, everything you had shared, and everything that was still to come.

"I love you too, buttercup." Suguru whispered, his voice barely above a breath, but the words carried so much weight, so much meaning that it felt like the whole world had shifted in that instant.

You didn’t hesitate, not for a second. "I know, Sugu. I know." you replied, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips, a smile that only he could make appear. 

It was a statement, but one that wasn’t born out of arrogance. It was the truth. The truth that had been there all along, between the quiet moments, the shared laughter, the years of growing together. He was your constant, just as you were his.

And you had always known, known in the very marrow of your bones.

he loved you too. More than anything in life. More than the universe could know.

Suguru didn’t immediately respond. He simply stared at you, his gaze softening with an intensity that almost made it hard to breathe. He shifted closer, his hands rising slowly, as if afraid that if he moved too fast, you would vanish in an instant. His fingers brushed against the curve of your jaw before they settled on your cheeks, warm and grounding.

His touch was gentle, the weight of his hands steady against your skin, as though he was afraid to touch you too hard, afraid that any sudden movement would make you slip through his fingers.

His gaze never wavered from your face, and for a long moment, it was like the world faded away. There was nothing but the two of you, him, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his presence, and you, feeling like the universe had shrunk to this moment.

Suguru’s eyes searched for yours, his expression both tender and filled with something deeper, something that only someone who had loved you for so long could understand. It was as though he was memorizing every detail of you.

The way the light caught in your eyes, the curve of your lips, the soft flutter of your lashes when you blinked. He took in your features like he was afraid they would slip away, like time was running out and he couldn’t afford to miss a single second of it.

His thumb traced the outline of your cheekbone, the movement so soft it almost tickled, but it was full of reverence. As if you were something sacred to him, something irreplaceable. As if you were the most important pearl of the world, shining in front of him, making him your sea. 

"You’re so beautiful, buttercup." he whispered, and the words held so much more than just a compliment. It was the way he said them, as if he had seen every side of you—your strengths, your flaws, your heart—and still, in every corner of it, you were beautiful to him. 

The simplicity of the words took your breath away, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. You just looked at him, feeling the weight of his love like a gentle embrace, like it wrapped around your heart, holding it safe in his hands.

You didn’t need to speak to feel the truth of it all. This moment, this space between you, felt like the entire universe had conspired to bring you to this point, where everything you had shared and everything you had yet to share hung in the balance of this silent exchange.

Suguru leaned in slightly, his breath warm against your skin. You could feel the way his body was still, but there was a pulse of something deep inside him, something he wasn’t fully ready to let go of, not yet. And in that breathless, delicate space, you let your own heart speak.

"I love you, Sugu." you whispered back, your voice trembling just slightly, but filled with a certainty that made everything else fade into the background.

His hands cupped your face a little tighter, his thumbs stroking the soft skin of your cheeks as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world. "I’ll never forget you, buttercup." he murmured, almost as if he was saying it to himself, but you heard it. “You’re everything I am. Everything I breathe.”

The weight of it hung in the air, and though his words were bittersweet, you felt a flicker of hope in them.

"I’ll never forget you either." you whispered, your voice steady and sure, despite the turmoil swirling within you.

Because you knew that no matter where life took you both, Suguru would always be a part of you. No amount of time or distance could change that. “You’re my everything too.”

You leaned into his touch, your foreheads pressing gently together, the warmth of his hands grounding you both in the moment. His lilac eyes closed for a beat, a soft sigh escaping him as if he, too, was trying to hold on to this feeling, trying to commit it to memory just as you were.

And for that brief moment, there was no goodbye. There was only the now, the shared stillness, the love between you both, wrapped up in the quiet understanding that no matter what happened, you would always carry each other with you.

He moved his face closer, his lips brushing softly against your forehead. The kiss was light, like a promise, a silent vow that this love, this sacred bond between the two of you, it would never truly be broken, no matter the miles between you.

Suguru’s lips linger on your forehead for a moment longer, a soft, lingering warmth that makes everything else feel distant, as if time had slowed down just for the two of you.

The world outside the station, the sound of the train tracks, the noises of the city, the ticking of the clock, everything seemed muted, fading into the background as you both existed in this fragile, perfect bubble of quiet.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft but laden with an unspoken weight. He looked like he wanted to say something more, something important, but the words never quite formed. 

Instead, he just studied your face, as if he was trying to memorize everything about you. Every little memory of you, your bright expression, the way your long hair fell around your face, the way your eyes held a kindness that had always been there, even in the most difficult of times.

“I’ll miss you.��� he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, a subtle crack breaking through the calm facade he’d been trying so hard to maintain.

You nodded, your heart aching as his words sank in. The truth was, you would miss him too, more than you could ever put into words. You couldn’t even imagine what life would be like without him so close, without his constant presence to steady you.

The thought of the distance between you both made the space around you feel colder, as though the warmth of his touch was already slipping through your fingers.

“I’ll miss you too, Sugu. More than you know.” you whispered back, the truth of it making your voice tremble just slightly.

He smiled, a sad, bittersweet thing, his thumb tracing the outline of your jaw once more, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring every moment.

"Just remember, buttercup." he murmured, his eyes soft but intense. "No matter where we are, no matter how far apart we get, I’ll always be with you. I’ll always be there, in everything we’ve shared."

"I know." you said, nodding again, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And I’ll always carry a piece of you with me. In my heart.”

Geto Suguru’s breath caught at your words, his eyes glistening as if he wanted to say something more, but the emotion was too much, too overwhelming. Instead, he just leaned in and kissed your forehead once more, gentle but full of all the feelings he couldn’t quite express.

“I’ll be waiting, buttercup.” he whispered, his voice low, but there was a fierce determination behind it. “No matter how long it takes. I’ll be waiting for you.”

You looked up at him, your heart full, eyes brimming with something that could have been tears if you let it. You didn’t speak for a moment, just held his gaze, feeling the weight of his words settle into you like a warm, comforting blanket.

Finally, you smiled through the lump in your throat, the quiet sadness blending with something softer, something hopeful. "I’ll come back to you, Sugu. I promise. So come back to me too, okay?"

The words hung between you, a promise sealed in the silence that followed. 

He can’t promise something like that to you, not like this now. 

By sunrise, he can no longer come back to you, never again.

And yet, he still does, he lets this promise be unfulfilled.

He lets this moment be a little white lie to keep your smile.

Suguru nodded, a small, hopeful smile on his lips, but his eyes, those dark, familiar eyes, held a quiet ache. He didn’t say anything else, just stayed close, his hand still on your cheek, his presence steady even though the moment was winding down. The night was still, and it felt like time was slipping away too fast.

“I should go, buttercup.” Suguru said, his voice tinged with reluctance. "But I’ll see you again, right? You’ll visit me when you can, won’t you?"

You nodded, already knowing how much this meant to him. You smiled tenderly at him, you smiled at him like you loved him. You smiled at him like he deserves to have it. And yet he doesn’t. The devil does not deserve such a thing.

"Of course I will." you reassured him, reaching up to touch his hand, the one that had stayed on your cheek. "I won’t let you forget about me."

His smile grew just a little, and for the first time in what felt like forever, there was a glimmer of peace in his eyes. "I could never forget about you."

And with that, he gave you one last kiss on the forehead, light and full of everything unsaid, full of everything you would carry with you in your heart. He pulled back slowly, his hand slipping from your cheek to your hand.

His fingers lingering for a moment longer, as though reluctant to let go. Then, with a final, lingering look, he turned and made his way toward the door. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want this to be the last time. But he had to. He had to go.

He let himself step into it, the door closing softly behind him. For a moment, you felt the weight of the world shift. The quiet that followed his departure felt louder than any noise, and yet, somehow, you knew you’d be okay. You’d carry him with you, just like you promised.

The night grew darker, but the small forget-me-not charm on your bracelet caught the light, reminding you of everything you had shared. It was more than just a memory, it was a piece of him that you could hold on to, no matter where life took you both.

Geto Suguru was always going to be a part of you. And no matter the distance, no matter how much time passed, you would never forget him. He was the most important part of your life, and that would never change.

Two days later, you got the call.

He had gone missing, his parents were gone.

And you?

You had lost the love of your life.

That was his goodbye.

══════════════════

epilogue

A LONG TIME HAD COME AND GONE, BUT IT STILL FEELS LIKE YESTERDAY. Seven years had passed since Geto Suguru’s defection from the jujutsu society, since the time he turned away from everything he once held dear. Time had blurred the edges of the past for everyone except him. 

He had tried to move on, he knew he had to. He had all but tried to bury his memories deep enough so that they no longer haunted him. But there were days when everything came rushing back to him.

The horror on his parents faces that night, their deaths at his own hands, the ones he had betrayed, the village consumed by blue flame. And then there was you, the love he had lost and left. The one he had let go and fly away.

From the shadows, Suguru watched you kneel before the graves, the sun hanging low in the sky, casting long shadows across the quiet cemetery. You were gentle with the flowers, your movements soft as you arranged the bouquets on the gravestones, your fingers careful as they brushed away the dust that had accumulated over time. 

He had never imagined, in his darkest moments, that he would see you here—so close, yet so far away from everything he had become. But there you were, tending to the graves of the parents he had killed, as if it was something he had never been able to do. You were doing it for him, in a way, even though you didn’t have to.

He had heard the stories about it all. He had to keep his tabs on you, he just couldn’t stay away, even now. Throughout the years, he heard whispers of how you had married, how you had continued on without him, a life of your own.

He had known that it was bound to happen, but it didn’t make it any easier. To see you with a ring on your finger, a life that no longer had a place for him, a life that had moved on while he stayed stuck in his past.

The soft rustle of the wind moved through the trees, and that was when you turned your head, your eyes meeting his. For a moment, the world seemed to stand still. You blinked, as if you weren’t quite sure you were seeing him, but then there was no mistaking it.

Geto Suguru was standing there, just outside the cemetery gate, watching you with that same quiet intensity that had always been his. The world seemed to hold its breath as you slowly rose to your feet, the weight of his gaze pulling you in.

He didn’t speak at first, not knowing what to say. 

After all this time, what was there left to say?

He had left you and you had suffered.

What could someone who broke their promise say?

You walked toward him, your expression unreadable but steady, your steps purposeful. As you got closer, he noticed the glint of sunlight on your finger, and his breath hitched before he could stop himself. The wedding ring.

It was a beautiful thing, one could say. But when he looked at it, it was all but a bitter ugly, disgusting thing. It was a reminder of the life you had. A life he had never been a part of, a life he had given up on when he made the choices he did. 

You stopped in front of him, your gaze unwavering. You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his face, almost as if you were still trying to figure him out after all this time. "I didn’t think you’d come back here." you said quietly, your voice thick with something he couldn’t place. Maybe it was sorrow. Maybe it was a relief.

Suguru felt a pang in his chest, but he swallowed it down. "I didn’t think I would either." His voice was rough, almost foreign to him after so many years of silence, but the words still carried weight. "But... here I am."

Your gaze flickered to the bracelet on your wrist—the one with the forget-me-not, the buttercup, the book charm. It was a silent progression that told a story. A long forgotten story, one that only you and him could remember. It was at one point his story. His presence, his absence, his love. And now it wasn’t. Not anymore.

That Geto Suguru is dead.

All that remains is an imposter.

All that remains is a devil.

"I never took it off." you said, a small, sad smile playing at the corner of your lips. "You told me to never forget you. I thought I would, after all these years... but I never could." 

Your fingers traced the charms lightly, the memory of the years that had passed between you both lingering in the air like a ghost. "I couldn’t take it off, Suguru. Not even when it felt like I should."

He couldn’t quite hide the sadness that flickered in his eyes at your words, but he didn’t look away. He had been the one to leave. He had been the one to make all the wrong decisions, and yet, somehow, you had never given up on him. You had never completely forgotten him.

Suguru reached into his pocket slowly, his movements deliberate, as though he were unsure of his next step. He pulled out a small charm, delicate and beautiful, white chrysanthemums this time, it was an offering of something new, something that said goodbye and hello being said like it was the same word.  He held it out to you, his eyes never leaving yours. 

"For you." he whispered, his voice barely audible, but full of all the unspoken feelings that had built up over the years. "I know it’s too late. But I want you to have it."

You took it from him, your fingers brushing against his for just a heartbeat before you looked down at the charm in your palm. The white chrysanthemums were soft, intricate, and they reminded you of the fleeting nature of everything. It was full of the memories, the love, the pain.

You smiled, a bittersweet curve of your lips, your heart heavy with a mixture of emotions that you had long buried. "Sugu….Suguru." you began, your voice steady but thick with something he could almost taste. "For so long, TYou wanted to be remembered. But now... you want to be forgotten."

His heart clenched at your words, but he nodded slowly, as if he had already known, as if it was something he could never change. "You deserve better than to remember a ghost of someone long gone, buttercup." he said, his voice soft but full of the kind of finality that only a ghost could understand. "You deserve a life that’s yours, not one haunted by me."

The distance between you seemed so vast in that moment, even though you were standing right in front of him. The years had stretched that gap wide, and yet, in this final moment, you both understood each other completely. 

You stood there, the weight of his words heavy between you both, as the space around you seemed to quiet. The cool breeze rustled the trees, the only sound in the air, but even it felt like a distant whisper against the rawness of the moment.

You opened your mouth, a million things on the tip of your tongue, but none of them felt right. Your heart was full of so much you couldn’t put into words. A thousand emotions flooded your chest/

And yet, you felt an aching kind of clarity in his request. You hadn’t expected it. You hadn’t expected him to say those words, to say that he wanted you to forget him. To leave him behind as if he were nothing more than a faded memory.

He stood before you, his back slightly turned, but he didn’t move away. His eyes, those dark, familiar eyes, were locked onto the distance, as though he was already gone in his mind, already on his way to somewhere far from this place, from you.

You swallowed hard, your gaze flickering over his face, trying to catch any hint of a smile, of the warmth that had once been there between you both. But it was gone. Everything had long perished to nothing.

The man in front of you wasn’t the same person you had known all those years ago, and deep down, you knew that neither were you. You had both changed, time had done its work, and the world had swept you in different directions.

"So, if I see you again—" you started, unsure of where to take the conversation, unsure of whether there even was a conversation left to have.

Suguru’s smile was sad, almost imperceptible, but it was there, and it tugged at your heart more than anything else. “Pass by, buttercup.” he said, his voice so soft, so worn. "Don’t look at me. You shouldn’t remember me. Just...."

Let me go. He thinks to himself. Don't love me again.

The simplicity of his request hit you harder than any words of anger or resentment could have. You shouldn’t remember me. He was asking you, begging you, to forget him. As though he was a shadow, a passing thing, unworthy of your attention, of your love, of your memories.

For a moment, you just stood there, your heart pounding in your chest, your mind spinning with the weight of it all. You wanted to shout, to argue, to tell him that he was wrong—that you couldn’t just erase him from your life like he was nothing.

But the silence in the air, the finality in his tone, made you hesitate. It wasn’t anger you heard in his voice. It wasn’t even regret. It was something else entirely. it was something deeper, something rooted in the pain he had carried all these years.

“I can’t just forget you.” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. The truth was raw and simple, and it echoed in your chest as it passed through your lips. "I’ve carried you with me for so long, Suguru. I can’t just erase you from my life."

Suguru turned his head slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and filled with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t guilt or anger, but something quieter, something softer, as though he was bracing himself for the weight of what he had just asked you to do.

"You don’t need to carry me anymore." he said, his voice barely audible, each word dragging with the weight of a thousand regrets. "I don’t deserve to be remembered. Not by you. Not by anyone. I’ve become someone else, someone I never meant to be." 

His eyes drifted to the ground, and for a moment, he looked almost... defeated. "I hurt too many people, and in the end, I hurt you too."

Those words hung in the air like a star waiting to fall from the sky but they didn’t sting, nor did they cause you any pain. Instead, they felt like the closing of a door, the end of a chapter that had been written in too much pain. You felt your heart ache, but you understood. You had mourned it long ago and this was just the end. The final bow.

You understood because, deep down, you had always known this moment would come. You had always known that one day, Geto Suguru would fade from your life, not because of time or distance, but because he had made himself into something unrecognizable.

You stepped closer, closer than you had been in so many years, the distance between you two now defined not by physical space but by something more profound, something that time had created. Your hand reached out but you stopped. You had to. You knew you can't do this. You purse your lips into a flat line. 

“I see.” You whispered, barely audible over the deafening silence between you. It was as if the world had swallowed your words before they could reach him, and the weight of it all pressed down on your chest like a heavy fog.

"I'm sorry." you murmured, feeling the familiar sting of regret in your heart. 

But the words felt useless now, just as they always had when it came to him. Too many apologies, too many unanswered questions. It was all too late. Geto Suguru shook his head ever so slightly, his dark lilac eyes never leaving the distance beyond you, his voice low but firm. 

“Don’t apologize to me.” he murmured, the edges of his words soft but carrying a weight that made your heart ache. "I should apologize…"

His eyes finally met yours, and for that brief moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability, something raw and unguarded that he had never allowed anyone to see.

“Buttercup, I’m letting your hand go.” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word, like it pained him to even say it.

You could feel the tears pricking at your eyes, threatening to spill, but you fought them back, the lump in your throat making it harder to breathe. It was too much. Too much to lose, too much to let go of. 

“I know.” you replied, your voice barely a whisper as if saying it out loud would make it all more real. The finality of his words clung to the air, and you wished you could take them back, take him back, but the truth had already been laid bare.

“Goodbye, buttercup.” he said, the words both tender and final, and they fell like a stone into the abyss between you.

“Good… good-bye, Suguru.” you managed to choke out, your voice shaking but steady enough to carry the weight of the moment. Your lips trembled, but you didn’t dare look away from him. There was nothing more to say, nothing more that could fix the pieces that had been shattered between you two.

Geto Suguru gave you one last look. It was so brief, so fleeting, like the last ray of light before the darkness settled in. His gaze lingered on you, a final connection between two souls that had once shared everything but now, they were a thousand miles apart. 

He didn’t say anything else. 

He didn’t look back, not once. 

He simply turned, his figure growing smaller and smaller as he walked away.

Your heart tightened, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. There was no running after him anymore. He had already made his choice, and you had to respect that, even though it felt like a piece of you was being torn away with every step he took. 

His footsteps were quiet against the earth, a soft rhythm that carried him further into the distance, further away from you, from everything you had ever known. And you stood there, frozen, unable to move, unable to make sense of the emptiness that filled the space where his presence used to be. 

You watched him disappear into the horizon, the last connection between you both unraveling like a thread slipping through your fingers. But this time, you didn’t chase after him. You didn’t need to. You didn’t have the strength anymore. 

There were no more promises, no more hopes of reunion. This was the end of the story that had once been yours, the final chapter in a love that had burned so brightly but had faded into the past. The world had changed, and so had you.

You would never see him again. He would never hold your hand again, never smile that gentle smile that had always made you feel like you were home. And you could feel the weight of that truth pressing down on you, but it didn’t break you.

It was the end of that world. Of the two of you, of the way you had been, of everything that once felt like it was meant to be. And so, you let go. You let go, even as it hurt, even as it felt like the most impossible thing in the world.

You couldn’t love him anymore. Not like you used to. Not in the way that kept him a part of your every thought, every moment. You couldn’t carry that burden with you forever, and you couldn’t make him stay.

As he disappeared completely from sight, you finally exhaled the breath you’d been holding, a quiet sigh that seemed to carry away the remnants of him still lingering in your chest. It wasn’t easy. It would never be easy. But it was the only way forward.

You took a slow step back, your feet heavy with the weight of all the years you had spent loving him. You weren’t sure what the future held, but you knew one thing for certain. You had to let him, or you'll both suffer more.

[hettyoon]

❥︎ Characters; Rafayel, Xavier Game; love and deepspace

❥︎ Genre; fluff !! Prompt; petting/kissing their cat ears || established relationship || 2nd pov

❥︎ Warnings; none !!

❥︎ Notes; yes this has been sitting in my drafts since the kitty cards first came out–

❥︎ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋;

Honestly, as much as the purple haired boy kept glaring at you for the face you made when he walked into your apartment sprouting a pair of cat ears out of his head and a matching tail swishing behind, you could not for the life of you stop laughing at how ironic the situation he got himself into was.

The same guy who was constantly complaining about how evil and sly the small kittens were, and how their only goal was to trick and deceive humans into showering them with love and affection, has now become one of them himself.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." You wiped the tears from the corner of your eyes, your laughing fit still not over yet as small chuckles continued to escape your lips even after your poor attempts at muffling them. "It's just, I never expected to see you in this form. You look adorable!"

Rafayel was certainly not amused by your compliment–anyone could tell that much–and instead tried to twist your words against you. "Oh so now you're saying I wasn't adorable before, huh?"

"You know that's not what I meant." You use your hand to motion for him to come closer. "Come here, I want to see them up close."

The lemurian huffed at you but still walked closer nonetheless, pausing in his steps when there were only a couple of centimeters between you left. "What? Are also you going to pet me like a cat now?"

A smile grew on your face at his question. I mean, could he blame you? You loved cats and he knew that, this was like a dream come true for you. "If you don't mind, I'd be more than willing to."

His gaze flickered to the side and one could make out a slight blush starting to form on his cheeks. "You say that as if you don't know I can't refuse you."

Knowing how stubborn your lover can be, you took that as his unique way of giving you the green light to do so. Therefore, it wasn't long before you had both of your hands reaching up to his face, one cupping the side of his cheek while the other stretched up to rub gentle strokes on the bundles of fur above his head.

The more you continued on stroking the more you could feel the man in your hands start to relax his body more and more. He was obviously enjoying the strokes of affection you were showering him with as much as he refused to say so. If it wasn’t obvious from the way he leaned his face deeper into your palm, then it definitely was by the now much more visible blush dusted on his the apples of his cheeks to the tip of his ears.

"You're enjoying this way too much." He muttered out.

"Hmm?" One of your fingertips came to stroke the fluffy piece of fur that was puffing out from the bottom of his ears and you could hear him let out small sigh of content. "I think I am the one who should be saying that."

Rafayel surprisingly didn't voice out a comeback at your reply, just choosing to let it slide this time as he was clearly more busy with other things (like keeping himself from completely melting into your arms) to give it much thought.

A few more moments of silence followed. With Rafayel finally caving in to your gestures, his face now buried into your neck instead so you can better reach his fluffy ears. Since you were no longer holding his cheek, both your hands were now free to bury themselves into the mass of soft purple hair and fur.

You just continued gently petting him for a couple more minutes, enjoying the heartwarming moment, until you heard something quite strange. Your mind had to take a double take at first because is that really what you think you're hearing right now?!

"Rafayel, are you...purring?"

The moment those words left your mouth you could practically feel the heat radiating off of his skin as the blush on his cheeks rose to a shade you did not even think was even possible. A groan came out of his mouth, the embarrassment hindering his ability to even come up with any words of defense as your laughter once again filled the quiet room.

❥︎ 𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄��;

You woke up to a weird sensation tickling your nose. Which was strange, yes, but the initial plan was to simply brush it off as a fragment of your imagination and just go back to sleep. Alas, you definitely couldn't ignore the feeling no more when you felt a very obvious flick attack the side of your cheek, which made you certain that you were very much not dreaming of such sensation.

You groaned as you groggily tried to open your eyes and get them used to the sunlight that was seeping through your curtains. As your eyes tried to focus on the view in front of you, you wondered what could possibly be the thing that woke you up at such early hour. A stray piece of fabric? Or maybe you still had some fur stuck on you after you and Xavier's trip to the cat cafe yesterday. Both of which could never move by their own but those were the only possibilites that your sleep-depeived brain was capable of coming up with right now.

What you didn't expect though, was to see a pair of ash coloured cat ears twitching right in front of your face when you were absolutely certain you had no such feline anywhere in any room of your apartment.

This new realisation had you instantly shooting up from your place between Xavier's arms, sitting up straight in your bed and staring in utter disbelief at the scene in front of you. One blink, a second, and then you rapidly rubbed your eyes just for good measure. It really wasn't a hallucination, your boyfriend had a set of moving cat ears stuck on top of his head!

Then your eyes flashed down to his back upon noticing another yet another mind-boggling feature. 'Oh my god he even has a tail!' The bushy tail–as if suddenly noticing your eyes on them–moved to curl around Xavier's thigh, further proving their realness.

How did this even happen? Was it related to your trip to the cat cafe yesterday? That's the only logical explanation you could think of right now and it didn't even make sense!

Whatever it was, now that you've came out of your initial shock (although you were still baffled at what you were seeing), you could not deny how absolutely adorable Xavier looked with his newly added assets. The ears on his head lay still save for a couple twitched here and there and the tail on his back moved again to unfold in a more stretched out position instead.

Wait, you should probably wake him up to ask him about this, right?

"Xavier. Hey Xavier." You rubbed your hand up and down his arm in hopes of coaxing him out of the land of dreams. Gosh, this is totally not the reason you ever expected to be waking him up for.

When that method came out useless you resolved to lightly petting his new ears instead, wandering if he would feel the sensation on them like a real cat would.

You couldn't help yourself but inwardly squeal at the way they relaxed under your touch, drooping down slightly from their perked up state which you took as a silent invitation to continue your actions. After a few more moments of your lover still not waking up from your methods, you couldn't help yourself but lean down to place a soft kiss to the side of his ear. To your surprise, that seemed to finally do the trick, as it gave you a flick in response and you could hear Xavier letting out a low mumble beneath you.

His first words came out a bit coarse, sleep still holding quite a strong grip on him. "Mhm...why are you up so early?"

First thought that came to mind was that Xavier seemed way too relaxed for someone who discovered they got cursed by some sort of cat magic, which made you come to the conclusion that he most likely did not know about the little problem he had going on at all.

"Xavier, love, do you not feel the added weight on top of your head? Or the new attachment to your back?"

His eyebrows furrowed in response before both of his hands moved at once, one reaching out to touch his ears and one down to feel his tail. "Oh."

Okay, nevermind, you take back your previous words. Knowing Xavier, he probably would indeed be this relaxed even if he had known about what happened beforehand. "I think this warrants more than an 'oh'."

A small yawn escaped his lips and you just wished that you had even half the calmness that your boyfriend had at the moment when you got into any problems. "I'll deal with it later; I'm still tired right now. You should come back and sleep with me too." His arms opened up as an invitation, and he made sure to add on those pleading eyes of his that he very much knew you could never resist no matter how much you tried.

You shook your head but slid back down the sheets to cuddle up with him regardless. "Not like I can complain, cuddling up with you when you look this adorable." Giving in to the temptation, you fingers moved up to give his cheek a soft pinch. "Oh gosh, you're so cute like this."

"Hmm." Xavier's eyebrows furrowed listening to your words and you had a gut feeling you knew where this conversation was about to head to. "First it was Lumiere and now me with the cat features. Do you like my cat form more than my usual self?"

Oh yes, just Xavier being jealous of himself as usual. "I never said tha–"

"Maybe I should just stay like this forever then, I don't think it'll impact my combat abilities that much."

"Xavier! We are not doing this right now." You playfully pinched the cheek you were holding. "Just go back to sleep, we'll find a way to turn you back once we wake up, okay?" A hand of yours raised to guide his head to rest on top of your chest, while simultaneously threading through the strands of his hair and rubbing gently on his ears. Xavier relaxed into your hold, raising his head to place a trail of gentle kisses on your jawline before laying his head back on your chest, slowly drifting off back to sleep to the soothing rhythm of your heartbeat.

Hetty

[deception-united]

Let's talk about writing dual POVs.

Writing a novel with a dual point of view where two different characters share the role of narrator can add depth, tension, and complexity to your story, but it also comes with its own set of problems and challenges. Like, how do you ensure clarity between perspectives? How do you keep both characters engaging? And most importantly, how do you make both narratives feel like parts of the same novel instead of two separate stories? Here are some tips and strategies to consider, before and when writing.

1. Ensure both POVs are necessary.

A dual POV should serve the story, not exist just because it seems interesting. Before committing to this structure, ask yourself:

Could the same story be told just as, or more, effectively from just one perspective?

Do both characters bring viewpoints that are unique and essential to the plot? What does this character’s POV add that we wouldn’t get otherwise?

Does each POV contribute to the novel’s themes, conflicts, or emotional depth?

Does it move the plot forward, or is it just there because I like this character?

If the answer isn’t an easy 'yes,' reconsider whether both POVs are truly needed. For example, in a romance novel, it might be better to only include one POV, since knowing there are feelings from both sides can take away tension and make it boring for the reader.

2. Choose a primary protagonist.

Even though you're going to be featuring two points of view, it’s essential to have one central character who anchors the story. This character serves as the thematic and emotional core of your book. Consider:

Which character’s perspective starts the story?

Which character’s perspective ends it?

Who undergoes the most significant transformation?

While both POVs should be compelling, having one clear primary character ensures your narrative remains cohesive.

3. Make each POV distinct.

Readers should be able to identify whose perspective they’re in without needing a chapter heading to tell them (although this is helpful and I do recommend including an indicator like this). You can differentiate this through:

Voice & tone: Their word choices, speech patterns, and internal thoughts should reflect their unique personalities. (See my post on character voices for more tips on this!)

Observations & focus: What each character notices and how they perceive the world will differ based on their backgrounds and biases. What details do they focus on? How do they process emotions? For example, a noble-born strategist will notice different things than a street thief. Sentence structure & style: Ties back to voice & tone—a poetic, introspective character might have longer, flowing sentences, while a blunt, action-driven character may have short, clipped phrasing.

**If you can open to a random page and easily recognise the character’s voice, you’ve done it right.

4. Interweave the two arcs effectively.

Both characters should have distinct yet interconnected arcs—even if they don't meet or interact until later on, or at all, their stories should be able complement or contrast each other in a way meaningful and comprehensible for the reader. Examples:

Parallel arcs: The characters face similar struggles but react differently (shows contrasts).

Intertwining arcs: Their paths cross at key moments & affect each other’s journeys.

Foil dynamics: One character’s success may mean the other’s failure—builds tension and stakes.

5. Smooth transitions

Switching between perspectives should feel natural, not jarring. Consider:

Consistent switching: Like alternating every chapter or at key turning points, or making one character dominant (the main focus) and the other occasional (slipping into it when necessary).

Strategic cliffhangers: Ending one POV on a suspenseful moment can keep readers engaged through the shift (though be careful not to make it so that the reader is skimming through one POV just to get to another).

Mirrored/contrasting scenes: A reveal in one POV can recontextualise a previous scene from the other.

6. Avoid head-hopping.

This is when you suddenly switch between characters’ thoughts in the same scene without a clear break. This can be jarring and pull readers out of the story.

Bad example: Lena glared at him. She was furious. Why didn’t he understand? Jonah sighed. He wished she would just listen.

You can't tell whose head we're in, and even if it was indicated at the start of the chapter, it makes it confusing and frustrating.

7. Build suspense

A well-timed POV switch can escalate tension rather than just pass the baton. Examples:

Character A is walking into a trap; meanwhile, Character B is on the other side of the city, knowing but unable to warn them (creates dread).

One character’s assumptions might contradict reality. (For example, a spy might believe their cover is intact, but another POV reveals they’ve been exposed.)

Character A misinterprets Character B’s actions as betrayal. Switching to B’s POV clarifies their true, but hidden, motives (creates emotional whiplash).

8. Deeper character exploration

Dual POVs can let readers experience both sides of a relationship, rivalry, or power struggle in ways a single POV can't. Examples:

Character A sees themselves as a hero, but Character B’s POV reveals their arrogance (unreliable narration).

Different emotional reactions—the same event might be tragic for one but a relief for another.

Common Pitfalls

Dual POVs might not always be appropriate for your specific narrative, and could:

1. Remove tension.

I briefly mentioned this, but one risk of dual POVs is reducing suspense, especially in genres like romance or mystery. If readers see both sides of a conflict, they might lose the uncertainty that drives engagement. However, you could try:

Using unreliable narrators

Keeping certain information hidden from one POV

Ensuring there’s still conflict and misunderstanding between the characters

Switching between past and present

Keeping one POV until the climax or for a specific plot twist, which can be revealed through a different POV

2. Break story flow.

If one character’s arc lags behind the other’s, readers may get frustrated when switching perspectives. Ensure each POV maintains momentum and contributes to the overarching plot.

3. Make readers favor one character.

If readers strongly prefer one POV, they may skim or disengage during the other. To avoid this, make sure both are equally compelling, both characters have stakes that feel urgent and meaningful, and each has their own distinct emotional arc that readers will be equally invested in.

4. Make it redundant.

If both characters are just retelling the same events with minor differences, the second POV becomes unnecessary. To avoid this, use POV shifts to enhance the story, not just repeat it. You can use the second POV to:

Show what’s happening when the other character isn’t present

Reveal secrets, misunderstandings, or unreliable narration

Build dramatic irony (let the reader know something one character doesn’t)

Happy writing!

Previous | Next

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Your First Chapter

Consider the following tips for writing your first chapter.

Avoid prologues. Start your first chapter as close to the action as possible. Prologues tend to slow down the reader.

Resist the urge to “set the scene.” Starting with a description of the novel’s world can also drag the story to a snail’s pace.

Develop a strong narrative voice. The reader connects with a unique voice. Make sure that voice is present from the first word of the first chapter.

Define the inciting incident that starts your story. Then, start your first chapter right before the incident begins.

Introduce the protagonist in your first chapter. However, don’t feel as if you need to peel all of the layers of your protagonist right away.

Set the stakes. What happens if the protagonist doesn’t act?

Give the reader a glimpse into the protagonist's motivation. What does the protagonist want to happen? What does the protagonist not want to happen?

End the first chapter on a page-turner. Give the reader a reason to stay with your story.

Don't forget to structure the chapter like a mini-story with an arc.

Edit out anything in your first chapter that doesn't propel the story forward.

Source ⚜ More: Tips for your First Novel ⚜ Chapter Endings ⚜ Writing Styles Writing References: Plot ⚜ Character ⚜ Worldbuilding ⚜ Notes & References