#Blue Pen Method

[effectivethings]

Transforming Reading into Wisdom: A Guide to Effective Book Engagement

Table of contentsIntroductionBuy a BestsellerRead the Table of ContentsActually Read the BookDevelop a Habit of ReadingLet��s Use a Blue PenPlace Books Around the HouseConclusion Estimated reading time: 5 minutes Introduction Do you like books? I read a lot of books and I’m trying to improve my reading skills. It’s because of the advice my Korean language teacher gave me in high school. She…

[coffee-and-geto]

BETWEEN FORMULAS, FLOWERS AND FEELINGS - SATORU GOJO

You are the imbalance in Satoru’s logical and rational reasoning.

pairing: nerd! gojo x student council president! reader

summary: being the student council president isn’t the easiest job in the world. It’s not like gojo — with his trademark glasses, his awkward smile hiding the most dangerous brain. because for him, he can resolve every problem, right? there is no formula that can escape his smart mind. not even you. so when he accepts to tutor you, could he really be sure feelings won’t become a new variable?

warnings: +18 MDNI, nsfw, smut, virgin! gojo, first time, oral (m! receiving), pinning, college AU, shojo vibes, quantum physics subject, slight angst, fluff, idiots in love, insecure! gojo, nerd gojo with glasses is hot, art by @/3-aem.

wc: 9,922

Ever since he was little, Satoru Gojo seemed to have been blessed with knowledge.

His very first Christmas toy — when he was finally old enough to have one — was a huge playset containing chemical transformation recipes to prepare by himself, using a handful of formulas and calculations.

When he turned ten, his parents gifted him a kit that allowed him to build his own electric train circuit, which he had to assemble using physics methods so that real electricity could power his trains — and sometimes even his cars.

By the time he reached middle school, scientific subjects like physics and chemistry became his second mother. Nothing escaped him. Formulas, molecular mechanisms, and chemical transformations held no secrets. This passion for complex methods shaped his logic.

For every problem, Satoru always found a solution. To him, the world was nothing but a set of solvable scientific probabilities, where nothing could slip through his grasp.

But growing up with barely controllable hormones… poor Satoru had experienced firsthand just how bitter that could taste, even at university.

The first time he asked a girl from his middle school to go out with him in his third year, Satoru never would have thought she’d laugh right in his face before calling him a useless nerd.

He didn’t let anything show. And yet, it was from that very day that Satoru’s glasses, his passion for science, and his own self-confidence betrayed him.

He decided to give up on feelings — classifying them as a deceitful, unscientific belief with a complete lack of logic, something better suited for grotesque purposes like the movies or romantic TV series that entertained uncultured people.

Satoru didn’t need emotions when logic always prevailed, never once disappointing him.

But upon entering university, he could never understand why — despite his silence and absolute discretion, buried in his studies — his cerulean blue eyes always seemed to find their way back to you.

You were the student council president of the school. Known for your upright mind, flawless organization, and a sense of justice so firm it sometimes bordered on harshness.

You had no time for anyone. You spent your days planning university events without wasting a single second — a notebook always pressed against your chest, and occasionally, a pair of glasses perched on your nose during intense activities like studying for exams or arranging event halls, which were regularly occupied by you and your staff.

What intrigued Satoru the most about you was your logic.

You planned everything, organized everything, all while maintaining grades nearly as excellent as his. You never wasted time hanging around with those ridiculous girls who would likely reject him if he ever dared to speak to them, and he had already admire witnessed you standing up for people like him — those trapped in their introversion and buried in their books — refusing to tolerate the injustice caused by the school’s most popular students.

A deep respect radiated from you.

Something Satoru refused to admit. Even though he knew you could short-circuit his brain in an instant.

Like that time when you had asked him for a pen at the library during your study session because he wasn’t far from your table. His face had turned crimson, and he could have sworn smoke was coming out of his ears. His mouth — so used to speaking with precision and efficiency — completely failed him in front of you.

The words got stuck in his throat, and the few sounds that miraculously managed to escape were nothing but incomprehensible stutters, earning him a confused frown from you.

In the end, he gave up on any attempt at conversation and simply handed you the best pen in his pencil case — his favorite. And he had almost silently prayed in his head that you would forget to return it so that you would keep it with you.

And he hated that.

This power you had over him — the way you made him nervous, shy, and desperate for you.

Just like in middle school.

Something he had sworn to leave behind.

~~~~

“NO, NO, AND NO!”

The event hall falls into a deathly silence as you shout your words with such force and vehemence that your fists crush the few sheets of paper still clutched between your tense fingers.

No one dares to move anymore — a part of the staff is busy moving boxes of decorations, two others are handing you papers to sign, some are hovering around you with questions, and others are amusing themselves by climbing ladders to place Christmas decorations — as if your scream alone has just pierced through the entire university.

With your jaw clenched, a vein pulsing at your temple, your cheeks flushed with anger, and your throat slightly irritated, you struggle to breathe as all attention shifts onto you.

“I said I haven’t decided on the organization of the Spring Formal yet, that nothing is supposed to be taken out, signed, or even requested until I’ve given the order, so what the fuck are you all doing here?!” you exclaim.

You push past the students in your way and snap your fingers at the two idiots fooling around with the decorations.

“You two — you’re fired.”

Then, you turn to the rest of the group handling the boxes. “If you don’t want to be fired too, hurry up and put that away!” Next, to the members waiting for you to sign papers. “Out!”

As the room empties in silence, filled with sulky and terrified faces at the thought of dealing with you, you take a deep breath before crouching down to the floor, burying your face between your knees, your arms trembling.

There isn’t much time left.

Director Yaga has given you a deadline to organize the Spring Formal, leaving you in charge of the theme, the venue, and the entertainment.

But, for the first time in your role, you are literally overwhelmed.

For the first time as well, no inspiration comes to you. The stress of classes, exams happening at the same time as the event date, your poor grades lately, and the pressure your team keeps adding on top of all that—at some point, you were bound to explode.

With all of this piling up, how are you supposed to manage?

That’s exactly what you asked yourself during your class that very afternoon, staring at your 40/100 in quantum physics.

With your heart sinking into your stomach, you hastily shove the paper into your bag, not caring in the slightest if it gets crumpled.

No one must see that the student council president allows herself to yell at her team while having such catastrophic grades. But your overloaded schedule no longer allows you to focus on your studies alone — how can you concentrate and stay organized when all you want to do is throw yourself out the window?

~~~~

“You need to register to require a tutor.”

“But I don’t need one.”

The male student raises an eyebrow. “So what are you doing here?”

You scoff. How dare he talk to you like that?

You’re in the library, one of the most soothing and stressful places in the world. You’ve had to find a way to get your grades up while you sort out your problem with Spring Formal, but in the meantime, you need to find a student who can tutor you without anyone knowing.

So what better way to find out than from the librarian’s assistant — who is also one of the Tutoring Center’s organizers?

“I need to know who’s the top student in quantum physics here,” you insist with a firmer tone.

Forgetting you’re at the entrance to the library, you purse your lips, a little embarrassed.

“We don’t have ‘top students’, prez,” he replies with a bitter smile — ah, so he knows who you are.

“So how do you help the students?” you ask with almost indignation.

He shrugs. “If you need help—”

“I do not,” you cut him off coldly, cheeks on fire as you adjust your bag over your shoulder. You sigh in annoyance at the student’s lack of efficiency.

“Then, how can I help you?” He gives you the most impertinent smile in the world, as if he’s just waiting for you to get the hell out.

You tuck a stray lock of your hair back behind your ear before rolling your eyes. “I need to talk to a top student in quantum physics, that’s all.”

The student looks at his fingernails as if they're the most important thing in the world and mimes huffing. “We don’t have any.” He looks up at you. “If you’re looking for one, there’s a nerd who’s the best in his class.”

Curiosity pricks the back of your neck, causing you to sit up straight. “Who?”

“Gojo, I think,” he said, frowning as if to remember his name. “Sato-thing, if I remember. Anyway, a nerd. You should know him, I guess.”

You shake your head, eyes almost squinting as you seek the memory of a Gojo name. But nothing comes to mind. So you shrug.

“What does he look like?”

“Albino. Blue eyes, nerd glasses, always dressed in a sweatshirt or shirt and he always has a book under his arm.”

“All right, thanks.”

Then you hurry out of the library and its oppressive walls, leaving the assistant to sigh with relief — as much as you do.

~~~~

“So, you are… Gojo Sato-thing?”

He has a little disappointed smile. “Satoru Gojo, prez.” With a nervous gesture, he places the strap of his shoulder bag back on his shoulder and adjusts his glasses, which slide down his nose.

You stare at him motionless for a few seconds, speechless at the all-too-perfect likeness of the Tutoring Center manager’s description. He’s got a book under his arm, a Digimon t-shirt over a dark blue plaid shirt and an innocent look on his face — he really wasn’t wrong.

You blink. “Um… yeah. Whatever.”

You check that no one in the corridor of the quantum physics wing has left any students lying around who might surprise you with him, then let out an exhausted exhale.

Faced with his 6'3, you owe it to yourself to raise your eyes and chin a little higher.

“I need your help. You're the best physics student in the class, right?”

He turns the toe of his shoe as a tic on the floor and nods imperceptibly.

“Perfect. I’ve got a little problem right now and—”

“Do you need me to do an assignment for you?” he says almost as if trying to divine your thoughts — is that hope you see in his eyes?

“No.” You knit your brows. “I’m having a problem with my grades and I’m swamped with my event responsibilities and I'm starting to get grades...” You chew the inside of your cheek to hide your pride before muttering, “...pretty bad. And I don’t feel like being given help publicly.”

In his confused expression, you add, “Otherwise it would be a real shame...”

From his height, Satoru’s shyness almost flies away in a gust. He’s got you there at last. In front of him. Talking about something. Like a dream come true — a reality where he no longer knows what his name is but whatever.

He even perceives a blushing creeping up your cheeks as you drift your gaze a little lower to your own shoes and your lips crumple into an adorably embarrassed and frustrated little pout.

Then of course he’ll help you.

He would give you more if he could, and he promises to himself he’ll do it.

“So you need me as your secret tutor?” he clarifies so softly.

You look up at him, clearing your throat. “Basically… yeah.”

“Fine. I can do that.” A small smile spreads across his pink lips and he digs his hands into his jeans, which are a little baggy for him.

You flicker your eyes, confusion animating your features. “Is that all?”

“Do you need anything else?” And you’d have sworn you saw hope still shining in his ocean-blue irises.

“What? No,” you retort incredulously. “But don’t you need something in return? Like, money or something?”

“...No,” he exhales, reducing his smile — though it still lingers. “I don’t mind helping you. Just give me your free hours so we can set a date. If that’s okay with you, of course,” he hastens to add, as if afraid of upsetting you.

Your lips part slightly. “O-Okay,” you finally say. “I’d like to do this as soon as possible.”

“How about today?” Satoru suggests, with a little more enthusiasm than he had anticipated himself. “Or even now, if you want.”

“Now?”

“Yeah,” he says with a happy nod.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit too earl—”

Barely ten minutes later, you find yourself sitting next to him once again in the library, which, for once, is not too crowded, pretending to have a casual conversation while, in reality, he is analyzing your failed test papers with an expert eye.

One elbow resting on the polished wooden table, one hand holding one of your sheets between his fingers, and the other with his index and thumb supporting his chin, Satoru lets his gaze travel line by line over your flawless handwriting—so much so that he forgets he’s supposed to be concentrating on helping you.

And not on the pretty way you write the letter ‘S,’ wondering how close he’d be to a cardiac arrest if he ever saw his name written by your hand.

When he finally manages to analyze the mistakes on your paper, Satoru straightens slightly in his seat, adjusting the collar of his unbuttoned shirt that suddenly seems to be strangling him with an invisible noose, despite his neck remaining completely free. His heart pounds at the speed of light — almost literally.

Calculations and formulas have always been child’s play for Satoru; his brain has always been wired for logic, rationality, and the addictive thrill of adrenaline coursing through his veins when he makes a new discovery, a new analysis that falls perfectly into place — like completing a puzzle and watching it come to life, or like a house of cards standing strong until the slightest imbalance brings it all crashing down.

You are the imbalance in Satoru’s logical and rational reasoning.

For Satoru, love is not a science. It’s just hormones that one must learn to control and not be fooled by.

And yet, even though he has devoted his body and soul to science, his heart will never cease to be yours — under your implacable and irrevocable hold.

Even with all the scientific weapons in the world, he will always be powerless before you.

With a flutter of snowy lashes, he returns to reality, setting his gaze on yours; persistent, waiting for him to say something, to give some kind of critique.

His mouth goes dry, heat rushes to his cheeks as he clears his throat, embarrassed.

“Well, uh... I guess we can start revisiting the notion of The Uncertainty Principle, if that’s okay with you.” He gives you a quick glance so unconfident that you restrain yourself from doing what you're thinking of: ripping off his adorable cheeks — adorable? Since when do you find nerds adorable?

“Okay,” you say, pulling a draft sheet closer.

As you move your chair closer to his to concentrate better thanks to the proximity, the effect is quite the opposite on poor Satoru. He nearly loses all composure when his trembling fingers close around his pencil.

“W-Well… Um, do you want me to give you a quick lesson on this again? You didn’t seem to grasp much of the concept.”

“If you can use simple words…” you mumble without much hope.

He swallows hard before explaining, “A rule in quantum physics says: you can’t know both the exact position and momentum of a particle at the same time. The more you know about one, the less you know about the other. Got it?”

You squint, uncertain, as you rest your chin in the hollow of your palm. “Mh-hmm…”

“So,” he draws two Delta symbols, each followed by an x and a p, then an equal sign, “this one represents the uncertainty in position while the other represents the uncertainty in momentum.” He leans slightly forward to clearly define the terms for you before breaking down the formula, trying not to sweat under the ghost of your breath caressing his hand because of how close you are.

“Okay. I don’t think I quite got all that.”

“It’s okay,” Satoru replies with a slight smile as he adjusts his glasses on his nose before returning to the sheet. “You confused uncertainty with actual errors in measurement, and you tried to calculate exact values for both position & momentum, which isn’t possible.” He draws an example of throwing a ball vs. tracking an electron. “You can’t pin down a quantum particle perfectly — it’s like me trying to figure out what you’re thinking all the time. Impossible, right?”

“...Right.”

“You don’t understand anything, right?” he sighs, a slight frown curling his lips.

“Honestly? Not a word,” you chuckle, a soft, honest melody that caresses his ears.

“Let’s make it more real for you, prez, then,” he snorts too, wiping away a big smile that deepens his dimples. “Imagine you’re running around campus planning this big Spring Formal thing. If I try to track exactly where you are at one moment, I have no clue where you’ll be the next second. But if I focus on how fast you’re moving between meetings, I can guess you’ll end up in the library… but I won’t know the exact second you get there. That’s basically the Uncertainty Principle — can’t have both at the same time.”

“Ohhhh, okay!” you say, a light illuminating your face. But a second later, your features drop. “But, wait… that doesn’t make sense. If we have better tools, we can just measure both, right?”

He chuckles softly. “Nope. Even if we had the best measuring tools in the universe, the universe itself won’t let us know both at the same time. It’s not a technology problem — it’s just how nature works.”

You groan, frustrated, and slump over your notes. “Physics is pain.”

He shakes his head, a lighter smile blooming on his lips. “You’ll get it, I promise. You just need time… and a good tutor.”

“You?” You snicker, but not meanly — just teasing him in this mood that feels so comfortable with him, something you never thought you’d experience. “You’re losing me more than I was before.”

You both sigh after a while, and he gives you a practice exercise, which you rush to complete so he can correct it.

For the first time in maybe weeks, or even months, you haven’t felt this light. Quantum physics has always been a difficult challenge to overcome, despite your habit of planning everything to avoid stress. But sometimes, doing everything alone has led you to not ask for help when you needed it the most.

So when someone reached out and showed you how relieving some of that weight could feel, the sensation sparked a desire in you — one that didn’t want this to end.

But you’re afraid it will make you dependent.

So it’s best not to get too attached, right?

~~~~

The following week, even though your understanding of quantum physics has somewhat improved, your stress refuses to do anything but skyrocket toward a full-blown anxiety attack.

Principal Yaga summoned you to his office because some students — the two you expelled last week — went to complain about your nervous and excessive behavior, claiming it warranted psychological support.

Outraged, you defended yourself by pointing out the inefficiency of your team, who fail to meet your needs without considering the mental load that comes with your responsibility as the student council president. And yet, that wasn’t enough to calm Yaga, who dismissed you with a stern reminder that if you don’t finalize the Spring Formal preparations soon, he won’t hesitate to replace you with a more competent organizer.

The mere thought — no, the haunting fear—of being replaced like a cheap supermarket doll plagues your nights with nightmares.

So, the obvious anxiety growing inside you bleeds into the most crucial moments — the moments when you’re supposed to stay focused instead of silently wallowing in your situation.

“Need help, prez?”

Ripped from your daze, you lift your gaze to the voice beside you, only now realizing that he’s been sitting next to you since the start of the lecture — completely unnoticed, completely ignored.

It’s Satoru, his laptop open in front of him, a small, friendly smile turned toward you—and only you. That tiny detail sends a strange, foreign wave through your stomach — not unpleasant, though.

“Oh, you’re here,” you mumble, turning your attention back to the professor.

“Since the very start, yes,” he replies, his voice softer now, tinged with a faint hint of disappointment as he twirls his pencil between his long, nimble fingers.

A silence settles between you, neither of you seeming inclined to break it.

In the lecture hall, only the sound of keyboards clicking and the amplified voice of the professor fill the large room. You try your best to follow along, scribbling notes as diligently as you can, but at this point, it feels like trying to form words by randomly pressing keys — you understand nothing.

“Need help?”

You slowly lift your head toward the familiar voice.

“You can explain it to me later, you know?” you mutter, careful not to let anyone else overhear your conversation — it could cost you.

“And we could save time by explaining it now.” His tone is soft, rational, kind, altruistic — every synonym that embodies maturity and gentle responsibility.

He’s made of sugar. Just for you.

You sigh, finally giving in with a nod, as Satoru flips his laptop into tablet mode to explain the purpose of the chapter — the name of which you’ve only just learned, despite an hour and a half of lecture on Wave-Particle Duality.

“So,” he says, writing the formula on his tablet with a stylus. “The general concept is quite easy. Quantum objects — like electrons — can act as both particles and waves, okay?”

You nod, leaning in closer to his shoulder to observe the definitions of the formula’s terms — a faint scent brushes against your senses. Clean laundry and a subtle drop of cologne. The scent imprints itself in your lungs pleasantly enough that you have to mentally slap yourself to keep from getting distracted from Satoru’s explanations.

He glances at you with those sharp blue eyes and raises an eyebrow. “You know what wavelength means?”

“It’s just for light, right?”

He snorts quietly. “Particles.”

“Oh.”

He holds back another laugh and continues his explanations.

Several minutes later, you find your eyes glued — no, entranced — by Satoru, this nerd with glasses that hide a brain far too brilliant for you. Maybe even for the entire university.

You notice it in everything he does — setting aside his physical appearance, which you’re starting to find cuter and cuter without even realizing it — every cell of his body breathes science, logic, the thirst for discovery. His brain analyzes every possibility, his fingers manipulate rationality, and his glasses help him weigh the pros and cons. His long, straight nose gives him an infallible instinct, a sixth sense that never fails, and his smile — his pretty, thin, pink lips—illuminate hypotheses with a dangerously innocent charm.

But he himself doesn’t even realize it.

“See? It’s like… imagine if you could be both a super serious president and a total mess at physics at the same time. Oh wait — that’s already happening,” he teases, a playful, cute smile blooming on his lips as he glances at you with sparkles in his eyes.

Oh, that damn smile.

And without meaning to, you join in his laughter, covering your mouth with your palm so as not to be heard as, for the first time in weeks, a weight is lifted from your shoulders. The little analogy that might have irritated you a few days ago seems silly to you. Why do it when he’s here?

The bell rings, announcing the end of class, and the hubbub of the students urges you to put your things away as much as possible before the teacher gives you more homework than you already have just to understand the lecture.

With your bag slung over your shoulder, you make your way towards the exit, at the end of the herd of students who have made you lose sight of Satoru. A little disappointment contracts your heart, but after all, why should he be waiting for you? There was no need. You’re not friends. Just two students who are nice to each other (well, mostly Satoru).

So as you walk out of the lecture hall, you almost come face to face with a 6’3. Your nose collides painfully with a hard, bumpy surface — wait, of abs?

Impossible.

A hand much larger than yours wraps around your elbow to steady you and meets your eyes down on your wincing face.

“Oops, sorry,” Satoru apologizes as his smile evaporates. “Are you okay? I just wanted to wait for you.”

Was it abs?

“No worries, I'm fine,” you assure with a smile as self-conscious as it is forced, one hand rubbing your sore nose. “That's sweet.” Then you look away to calm the blush that spreads like a puddle from your neck to your scalp and pray it's unseen.

“You sure?” he insists with a concerned frown.

“...Sure.”

Once your face has cooled, your eyes stare at the spot on his torso where your nose collided. That flat spot under the shirt that appears a little less to you now, seen up close. It's as if with every swell of his breath, you can see the beginnings of an abdominal bulge, but you shake your head to get this far-fetched idea out of your head.

Letting your hand fall back, you offer him a more confident smile and lead the way. “Shall we?”

With a slower nod, he follows you.

To bridge the silence between the two of you in the deserted corridors, you nudge him in the ribs and say, “You know, I still don’t get how you find physics fun.”

He feigns pain and smirks — does he only smile when he’s with you?

“I don’t find it fun, strictly speaking, but really very interesting. At least, enough to make me face my major.” He pauses to give you a teasing look. “And I still don’t get how you survive on four hours of sleep.”

“I am a vampire,” you grin stupidly, “I love working at night. I feel productive.”

“I see that. Your bags speak for you,” he chortles.

“For real?” you mouth, running your fingers over your dark circles as if to check his words when it makes more sense to look in the mirror rather than feel you up.

“Just joking,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze on the floor a second before looking up back at you. “But you seem very stressed lately, am I wrong?”

You don’t answer right away, reluctant to tell him about your doubts and what’s been bothering you for weeks. But you can. This is just two friends from the same quantum physics class strolling around campus at the end of a long day, isn’t it?

But maybe not close enough for him to be really interested in you? Maybe he’s just asking questions out of politeness and not out of any real concern for you. After all, you’re not really close.

“It's alright, just uni and student council stuff, as always,” you murmur with averted eyes. “We also need to plan our next tutoring session.”

“Yeah...” Satoru shoves his hands in his pockets and lets silence fill the gap between the two of you before resuming. “Maybe we could do it somewhere else this time, couldn’t we?” he offers without much hope in his voice.

You knit your brows. “What?”

“I mean... do you—uh, never mind.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Huh?”

He seems to chicken out and look away but you catch it before he could hide it — the tips of his ears are red.

“Nothing. Just... you’re really into this whole Spring Formal thing, huh?” he mumbles.

“Of course. I have a lot of work to do on it. But what were you asking me?” you insist with a softer tone and your hand wrapping around his arm — remarkably built, you note internally.

He finally twists his neck toward you to face you, lips pursed into a conflicted pout.

“You’re going to refuse.”

“You didn’t even try to ask,” you almost in a mid gasp and chuckle.

He runs a hand through his tousled snowy hair, then slips it around the back of his neck, rubbing it like a nervous tic. “I see that you’re stressed — even if you deny it. So would you accept to... maybe do work on our tutoring lessons in a better place?” He panics slightly under your unfathomable gaze, just waiting for the next part of his words. “I mean... I know a place where it could be less stressful and more relaxing because you deserve it... But of course,” he adds hastily, “it doesn’t commit you to anything and you don’t have to accept and we can totally carry on doing it at the library because really it’s just a stupid idea and I should just keep my mouth shut—”

“Satoru.”

His heart stops beating and he thinks his brain has short-circuited as he realizes it’s the first time you've said his first name in that tone.

Softly, reassuringly, and with obvious joy.

“Of course I’d like to work with you somewhere else. It means a lot to me that you thought of me like that,” you say softly as you stop in front of some stairs so you can look him straight in the eye. “I can give you my phone number and you’ll just have to send me the address, how’s that?”

Okay. His brain really has just short-circuited.

He doesn’t even remember how he managed to hand you his phone and record your number, wish you a good evening and return to his dormitory after being subjected to your beaming smile — of a particular radiance he’s never seen before on your face in all the time, however long, he’s spent gazing at you wherever you are — radiant even.

Lying on his bed, he stares at the ceiling. The silent night allows his thoughts to grow louder, as if several were trying to express themselves at once.

However, one image takes root in his eyelids when he closes them before sleeping.

You.

~~~~

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Do you really need to make this even more embarrassing?”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair.”

His features sag, and he lets out a tiny sigh. “Just please, accept it. I made it for you.”

At your feet lies a picnic blanket with red and white checkered patterns. On top of it are homemade sandwiches, cans of fruit juice, berries, cakes, and even a tub of ice cream resting inside a mini cooler. Satoru has even arranged the space to avoid a chaotic mess while working and has brought ultra-comfortable cushions to make the tutoring session as pleasant as possible.

He can’t do this.

Not with you, who arrived at the quiet, sparsely crowded city park, right under the most magnificent Japanese cherry blossom tree.

The cool breeze blows gently around you both, sweeping away a few strands of your hair that you’re forced to tuck behind your ears.

“Sit your ass down,” Satoru mumbles, looking away to hide an obvious embarrassment, though his hand pats the empty space he left just for you.

So, reluctantly, you sit cross-legged, grabbing a random sandwich — just so he won’t sulk — and try not to cry because it’s so ridiculously delicious. The berries couldn’t be fresher or juicier than any you’ve ever tasted, and not to mention the cakes he brought. The majority of the food is sweet — his sweet tooth showing up a little too obviously.

“Hope it tastes good,” he adds, his lips forming a slight pout.

“Never ate something that good,” you respond, mouth full of food. “You’re an angel.”

The word makes him freeze for a solid thirty seconds before he shakes his head and lets his gaze drift away — always avoiding — toward the nearby lake.

The ground is sprinkled with pale pink petals, blending into the vibrant green grass of this March afternoon. A few birds chirp in the distance, hardly anyone comes near your secluded spot, and the peaceful silence reigning over the park creates the perfect environment for getting work done.

Swallowing his own mochi, Satoru watches you take out your notes on the latest physics chapter, and instead of sitting across from you, he allows himself to settle beside you this time — without you pulling away.

He was hesitant from the start and may never be able to stop feeling nervous around you. No matter how often he’s around you or how much more familiar he grows with your presence, he can’t control those sudden spikes of nervousness that hit when he’s already comfortable — only for one small action or movement to give his poor little heart a crisis.

You hand him the exercises you worked on last night, and while he reviews them, you take out your planner and notepad — the ones you carry everywhere (even to bed and the bathroom)—to go over the organization of the upcoming Spring Formal.

An event that’s happening soon. An event with absolutely nothing planned yet.

You quietly jot down notes on possible themes, but after another glance at the endless, sprawling branches of the massive cherry tree, you sigh and toss your notepad aside onto the picnic blanket. No ideas in sight. You have no choice but to admit your incompetence. Your failure is inevitable.

“Here.” Satoru hands you back your corrected exercises, and you quickly scan through them.

Since the beginning of your sessions with him, you have to admit — you’ve improved.

This time, there are fewer scribbles and corrections from Satoru. Your formulas and applications are more precise, clearer, and better developed. All thanks to your hard work and Satoru’s expert guidance — the science genius himself.

There are still some non-negligible mistakes to fix, but at least the encouraging smile from your tutor warms your chest, silently telling you that you’re on the right track.

“This is really not bad,” he murmurs softly near your shoulder. “You’re seriously improving.”

“Thanks to my good tutor,” you reply, nudging him playfully with your elbow.

“What flattery. I don’t deserve this much.” Yet his so-called humility is betrayed by the deep red blush dusting his ears.

“Quite the opposite. I wish I could pay you back somehow.”

“You don’t need to. I told you it was my pleasure to help you.”

“And I feel bad about it,” you confess in a whisper.

“Don’t,” he insists — and dares to wrap his slightly trembling, warm hand over yours on the blanket.

Your heart flutters, like a butterfly trying to take flight, only to be tossed around by the wind.

“Thank you,” you whisper, with more honesty than you’ve ever given anyone.

“For being a good friend? Don’t worry, I’m glad to have you as well, honestly,” he murmurs back, punctuating his words with a light squeeze of your hand.

“And I—” he clears his throat, “...really appreciate you.”

Friends. Appreciate you.

“I appreciate you too. Really. I’m sorry if I mess up every move you try with me to help me,” you add with an apologetic smile. “Stress always ruins my life.”

“I told you that you couldn't deny it.” He raises his eyebrows and lift up an uncertain arm — seeing you not reacting has reassured him enough to pluck up the courage to pass it around you to console you. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

You let yourself go against him, burying half your face against him. “I’m in deep shit about organizing the Spring Formal. I haven’t prepared anything, I have no idea, and yet I’ve got plenty to do. Mr. Yaga warned me that he might replace me if I went on like this, and I feel like everything’s going to shit,” you say in a breath, a tiny barrier of vulnerability cracking.

His arm tightens in an attempt at comfort. He nods slowly, inhaling long breaths of fresh air before making a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Where’s your notepad?”

You hand it to him without protest, and he immediately grabs it and flips through it. Then, when he finds a blank page, he grabs a pen lying near the two of you and jots down a few sentences, the words of which you can only read when he hands you the notebook.

“An alignment of the planets?” You raise a curious, surprised eyebrow.

He nods with his chin and sketches a smile.

“It only happens in spring, practically. And there will be one before long.” He squeezes his arm around you again and chuckles. “A theme about planets might be nice, don’t you think?”

Lips parted, you gaze into the azure sky. Himself a little disarmed by your lack of reaction, he frowns without giving up his smile and softly pronounces your first name.

With zero control over your movements, there’s nothing to stop your lips from pressing tenderly against Satoru’s smooth, soft cheek — a firm but gentle kiss leaving an invisible, indelible trace on his radiant skin as you pull away to look into his eyes again.

“You're an angel,” you repeat a second time.

Well, the second time too, when Satoru’s heart, no longer knowing how to beat, simply stops beating.

~~~~

“Move them a little more to the right— Yes, that’s perfect.”

Your trusty notepad clutched against your chest, you admire the preparations unfolding in the venue for the upcoming Spring Formal, where the theme of planetary alignment is set to make this year’s university event truly unforgettable.

Finally, you’re no longer spending your time yelling at your team and barking orders fueled by the vibrant sparks of your stress. Instead, you’re giving clear instructions, each one accompanied by an encouraging smile for everyone.

“Maybe we could add midnight blue velvet curtains,” Satoru suggests, leaning over your shoulder, his chest brushing pleasantly against your back as he glances at the list of missing decoration orders. “We could stick fake stars on them, and it’ll draw more attention to the planets. What do you think?”

“I like the idea,” you giggle, despite the way your insides somersault when his warm breath grazes your ear, sending waves of goosebumps down your skin. You jot down a few notes as Satoru leans in even closer, gently resting his chin on your shoulder. “Not surprising, coming from the quantum physics genius of the entire university.”

Even though there’s nothing official between you — not if you ignore the feelings and trust that make Satoru more confident and relaxed in your presence — nor any concrete relationship, the warm intimacy settling between you two is anything but uncomfortable.

It’s like a mutual friendship, fully acknowledged by both of you, yet intertwined with threads of love left unspoken — often betrayed by moments of closeness like this one.

“You’re gonna make me blush again,” he admits with a light laugh, soft and delicate as a cherry blossom petal.

“Oh yeah?” You turn your head toward his — just enough for your faces to be so close that the tips of your noses brush. “Why?”

He sighs, fluttering his eyes closed for a brief moment before opening them again. “You know why…”

“I’m clueless when it comes to guessing thoughts, my hot nerd tutor,” you coo, a little grin spreading across your lips — those same lips he wanted to kiss until he couldn’t breathe anymore for the rest of his life.

“Maybe I could show you, then.” And gently, he places his hands around your waist, an easy, soothing smile on his face. “Is that okay if I do that?” After your nod, his smile grows even wider. “Also, could we do our next session at my place? I can’t stay at the library today because my mom is waiting for a package while she’s at work, so she asked me to take care of it.”

“Of course.” You take note of his suggestion while the rest of your team rushes to decorate the room and move boxes — some opened, some not. Then, you turn back to him, feeling the slight tremor of his hands against your body, the way the blood rushes alarmingly fast to his face, and how his eyes avoid yours.

“Blushing?” you giggle.

“You’re not embarrassed? I mean— It’s my place, not my dorm or the library, you know,” he mumbles.

You graze a kiss on his soft cheek and grin. “You’re freaking cute.”

“I’m not joking,” he whines lowly, a small, worried furrow forming between his brows.

“As am I.” You give his arm a little squeeze. “Everything’s gonna be alright. I don’t mind having you all alone in your house, though.”

And you burst into laughter when he chokes on his own saliva at your words — having never seen someone turn so red before.

~~~~

“I knew you liked physics, but not that much.”

Before coming to set foot in Satoru’s room for the first time, you expected to be dealing with a simple, uncluttered, organized room, and above all far more filled with bookcases overflowing with books rather than...

...the opposite.

Stepping into Satoru’s room feels like entering a nerdy galaxy of controlled chaos. His desk is cluttered with thick physics textbooks, some stacked neatly, others left open mid-read, pages filled with complex equations you can’t even begin to understand. Among them, a few manga volumes peek out, half-hidden like a guilty pleasure. Above, a whiteboard covered in messy formulas and doodles dominates the wall, the marker strokes chaotic but somehow full of purpose. His ceiling is scattered with glow-in-the-dark stars, forming actual constellations if you look closely, and a floating moon lamp sat on his nightstand, casting a soft glow over his unmade bed.

Everywhere you turn, there is something to mess with — a plasma ball that lit up at your touch, a Newton’s Cradle clicking rhythmically on his desk, even a weird futuristic clock displaying time in some incomprehensible format. His monitors hum with life, one running a sci-fi screensaver while another had what looks like a physics simulation he’d probably forgotten about. 

And yet, despite the overwhelming nerd energy, it was… comfortable. Lived-in. A place where ideas sparked and theories came to life — exactly what you could imagine his space would be if you’d thought things through a bit more.

“Wow,” you murmur, entranced. “It’s… just beautiful. Like a museum.”

“Heh? You’re flattering me really too much,” he chuckles nervously, scratching his neck where his undercut is. “But I’m glad if you like it. I want you to feel home,” he adds softly.

“Home?” You turn to him with a slightly embarrassed and moved smile. “You’re my home, actually.”

Nothing you say makes sense. Your racing heart lets your mouth babble nonsense and scare Satoru away. You’re far too embarrassing—

“I feel the same for you.”

Like a needle piercing a balloon, your vital organ explodes in your chest.

The next second, your brain regains control and orders your legs to move towards him, until your torsos brush against each other and your breaths mingle, giving birth to a gentle flame that burns only to be consumed.

Satoru whispers your name. “Can I try something?” he mouths.

You nod imperceptibly, your gaze lost in his ocean eyes.

Tenderly and with the most delicate gentleness, he cups your cheeks, tilting your head so that your face faces directly forehead to his. So close, you have a detailed view of the number of his light eyelashes, the different shades of blue mingling in his irises, the pleasant warmth of his tepid breath against you.

Then, his lips brush yours first, as if testing your reaction. But when your fingers latch onto his light-brown V-neck sweater, he feels the pressure rise in his blood and slowly, but suddenly, crushes his lips against yours.

It’s not rushed — just a soft press of lips, tentative, almost careful. As if he's afraid of breaking something fragile. So to encourage him, you sigh softly in contentment, then tilt your head the slightest bit to fit better, closer... Your hands remain gently clasped to his sweater.

He seems to get your message, because the next thing you know, he’s relaxing, moving more slowly and comfortably against yours. The world outside that moment doesn’t exist. Just him, just this — his lips, softer than you expected, the careful way he kisses you, as if he is memorizing every second of it. Time stretches thin, and even when you finally pull apart, neither of you move far.

Slowly, you open your eyes, only to find him already looking at you. His gaze is different now — quieter, warmer, like he is seeing you in a way he never had before.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is soft, not awkward, filled with a kind of understanding that doesn’t need words. And then, just barely above a whisper, Satoru exhales a quiet, shaky laugh.

“Oh.”

Just that — like he hasn’t expected this, like he’s still processing the fact that it happened at all. And maybe it’s the way he looks at you, stunned and a little breathless, or maybe it’s just the warmth still lingering between you, but you find yourself smiling, a tiny, barely-there curve of your lips.

“Yeah,” you murmur back, voice quieter and warmer than you intended.

Neither of you moved away. Not yet.

You lower your head, a hot flush creeping up your cheeks and neck, and that's when you also understand where his “oh” is coming from.

Oh.

While he turns away to hide his face in his hands and prays to be buried in a grave on the spot, you burst out laughing — a frank, non-judgmental laugh. Simply savoring this pleasant moment with him (albeit with one small problem).

“Just with a kiss? Satoru, I swear you’re the cutest!” you continue to laugh, half-folding with your arms hugging your belly.

“It’s not f-funny!” And the poor guy doesn’t even dare turn around as he adjusts his pants, which is where his “problem” lies.

Smiling, you move closer to him, your lips still prickling from the perfect kiss. One of your hands slips to his shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he mumbles, hiding his face again from your sight.

“It is,” you insist, wrapping your hand around his wrist to look at him. “I’m not judging you, I swear. It’s not like you can control that, is it?”

“I know, but— It’s so embarrassing. I feel like a poor virgin nerd that — well, It’s not like I am not but—”

You freeze, slowly losing your smile. “Wait… you’re a virgin?”

He nods, a little shameful pout creasing his lips.

“I—” you trail off. Taking a short breath, you lower yourself a little more to look at him as he covers his crotch with one hand. “I can help you with that, you know.”

His eyes widen, heart hammering in his rib cage. “W-What?”

An umpteenth laugh shakes your chest. “I mean, yeah. I don’t mind and I like you.” Then an idea pops into your head, like a lamp regaining its light. “Like, it would make up for the effort you put into helping me get good grades. What do you think?”

He straightens abruptly and gently but firmly pushes your hand away by the wrist. A serious look despite his embrace adds.

“No way. I already told you I don’t want anything in return.”

“But it’s just to please you,” you insist, flickering your eyes. “Don’t you want to know how it feels?” You take a few steps forward until you can wrap your arms around his perfect torso — the ideal balance of slim and muscular.

Your chin rests on his breastbone, a little imploring pout on your lips.

“C’mon, just an oral, I promise. I want to return the favor.”

He swallows hard, lips parted as if the words are stuck somewhere between embarrassment and want. His gaze flickers between your face and the floor, a mix of reluctance and curiosity in his eyes.

“But I—” His voice cracks slightly, a nervous laugh escaping him. “I don’t know what I’m doing…”

You smile, a quiet, knowing smile, and slide your fingers slowly down his arm, your touch lingering on his skin. “It’s okay,” you say, your breath barely above a whisper. “I’ll guide you.”

You can see him shiver at the words, his chest rising and falling rapidly. You take your time, moving in closer, making sure to leave no space between you. Your lips brush against his jaw, a delicate kiss that makes his entire body stiffen for a split second. He doesn’t pull away, though, and that’s enough to encourage you to go further.

“Just relax,” you tease, pulling back slightly to look up at him. “I promise I’m not going to bite.”

“I know, I just need to sit a bit,” he whispers, a wave of uncertainty in his eyes.

You pull away from him, feeling the palpable tension between the two of you. “Of course.” You take his hand in yours and guide him onto his bed. When he sits down on the mattress, you find yourself kneeling between his legs.

As your hands busily unzip his straight gray twill pants, you maintain eye contact. “Tell me if it’s too much or if you wanna stop, okay love?”

Love.

He nods gently, his elbows pressed into the softness of the mattress to get a view of your movements without him lying down completely. Lips trembling, Satoru feels obliged to bite them to calm himself as the heat almost suffocates him while all he has left is his boxer shorts hiding his growing erection under the thin fabric.

You can feel the air thickening between you, charged with the kind of quiet intensity that makes your pulse race. Your fingertips wrap around the waistband of his boxers and tug them down gently, letting the fabric rub against his length while he’s hissing.

“Sweetheart—”

“Relax, I’m just getting started,” you chuckle fondly.

When the underwear is pulled down, his erection springs free, slamming on his half-covered abdomen. The poor little thing, left alone, twitches painfully — dragging sounds like cute and innocent whimpers from Satoru — like it’s begging for your touch for a decade.

You curl your lips together, genuinely stunned by his size. 7 inches isn’t nothing.

“So you’re packing this from the start?”

“I— No…” He sighs, clenching his jaw as his eyes flutter closed. “Please, it’s already embarrassing.”

“But why? You’re beautiful, Satoru. And I’m not talking about your dick,” you snort. Your gentle, affectionate tone makes Satoru forget how to breathe and open his eyes again. “You’re beautiful on the inside too.”

“You’re only flattering—”

“I am not,” you state firmly, getting up from your knees to straddle his hips and cup his cheeks until they puff like mochi’s and he’s pouting.

Fucking adorable.

“Have you ever been into a relationship?” you whisper after pecking a kiss on the corner of his lips.

He shakes his head, stuttering a no.

“So  can I call you mine? Because I’d be yours if I could,” you mutter next to his jaw where you peck another kiss that makes him shiver and grip your hips with his hands.

He opens his mouth to say something and hesitates. “A-Are you sure?” he asks, eyes filled with doubt. ‘I’m a nerd and—”

“And my type is nerd guys,” you cut him off before pulling him into a passionate kiss. He gasps, tightening his grip on your as his lips gently taste your and steal his breath away. “I love you, Satoru.”

“Love you more. Since the first time I laid my eyes on you,” he murmurs back between kisses, eyelids shut.

You slightly pull away, a smile springing to your lips. “Pinning on me for so long? Aw, sorry to have been blind for this long too, then.”

He resists the urge to take you in his arms and lets you back down onto your knees, this time with his oversensitive cock throbbing in your hands as you begin to stroke it up and down, base to tip with all the slowness you can manage so as not to make him cum too quickly.

Satoru’s hips jerk up instantly, his chest rising and lowering because of his stuttering breath.

“Your hands feel so good and soft,” he whispers, sliding his big hands up to your shoulders, which he gently massages to relax you too. What a gentleman. “So much better than mine…”

“Yeah? You like it?” Eager to please him for his first time, you place a kiss on his angry red tip, licking a little strop with the tip of your own tongue.

“Hgn— easy,” he pants, hands shaking slightly as they interrupt their massages on your shoulders when yours lead them on your head, tangled with your locks. “What are you—”

“You can use my hair, if you want.” And you punctuate your words by taking his length back between your hands and kiss the fat head. It twitches in response, stealing little giggles from your sweet lips. Beads of precum leak along his length, helping you to wet him enough to stroke him faster as you part your lips and slide them down the length of him.

Satoru’s breath hitches when you take him, sucking in slow, deep strokes as your hand grips the base of him. You pull back slightly, your lips sliding back up, and you hear him groan, a sound that makes you ache. You repeat the motion, taking him deeper, sucking harder as you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, feeling him twitch in your mouth before you pull back again.

“Feel good?” you ask sweetly.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes out — even whimpering in neediness, “thank you so much…” His hands tighten in your hair, pulling you even closer, but it’s not enough.

You don’t stop. Instead, you take him deeper, your lips tightening around him as you move faster, the sound of your mouth on his cock filling the room, drowning out everything else. Satoru’s breath grows shallow, irregular, his body starting to tense, his legs flexing as he tries to hold back.

But you can feel it. The way he is so close, the way his body is winding tighter with every flick of your tongue. His fingers pulled at your hair, unsure to guide you just how he wants because what you were doing is already something he’ll owe you all his entire life — he is desperate, needing his release.

“F-Fuck,” he stutters, fingers digging in your scalp deliciously for you pleasure. “I love you, but please, g’nna—”

“—cum? Yeah, do it, love,” you purr affectionately as you teasingly suck his sensitive tip until he’s whining and fighting for his hips to not thrust up and hurt you.

He is there — at the edge — his cock twitching in your mouth, and you know he can’t hold on much longer. With one last deep, slow pull, he cums, his hips jerking as he releases into your mouth with a long, desperate groan. You swallow every drop, sucking him clean, your hands gently massaging his thighs as he slowly comes down from the high.

Satoru’s breath is ragged, his body shuddering as he slowly opens his eyes. He looks at you like you’re some sort of angel from heaven, and you smile, wiping the corner of your mouth before standing up.

“Feel better?” you ask teasingly, your voice light despite the heat still pooling in your stomach.

He sighs deeply, rubbing his eyes before carefully sitting up and hugs you in a tight embrace. He blows kisses all over your face, murmuring thank yous and how much he loves you and you find yourself in awe.

“You’re welcome, it’s the least that I can do for you, after all.” You press a big, firm, and sincere kiss on his cheek, and cannot stop smiling.

~~~~

The main room is bathed in a deep blue, soft, ambient light, the atmosphere almost otherworldly. Stars shimmer faintly on the walls, and delicate, hanging lanterns cast a stunning cold glow, like constellations scattered across the ceiling. The whole room seems alive, breathing with energy, as guests drift through the space, their laughter and chatter blending into a gentle hum.

At the center of the hall are huge telescopes, available for anyone curious enough to observe tonight’s planet alignment. The most important event of the Spring Formal.

Around the perimeter, tables are set with shimmering candles, their flames flickering softly, casting shadows on the faces of the students who’ve come to admire the setup. The smell of roses and lavender lingers in the air, mixing with the faint scent of freshly baked treats at the snack table. It feels like a dream — a celebration of the night sky brought to life.

Satoru stands beside you, his hand lightly brushing against yours as you both take in the beauty of the room. His smile is small but warm, his gaze drifting from the decorations to the crowd. There’s an unspoken pride in the way he looks at you, knowing you had a hand in making all of this happen, bringing the theme of the planets to life with such care.

“This is... perfect,” he says, voice soft but full of admiration. His words are simple, but they carry weight. You feel a soft warmth settle in your chest at the sincerity in his tone.

A small smile blooms on your lips. “Yeah…” you agree, turning to face him fully, now a grin spreading across your face. “It really turned out great. Thanks to you.”

His cheeks tint pink at the praise, and he shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but the pride in his eyes is unmistakable.

“You really made this all come together,” he says, voice full of admiration. “It’s amazing.”

For a moment, you simply smile at each other, a comfortable silence settling between you. The warmth of his gaze makes your heart flutter in your chest.

“Want to dance?” you ask, already knowing his answer, but wanting to ask all the same.

He hesitates for a moment, that same shy, unsure side of him creeping back, but the smile on his lips says everything.

“Yeah,” he says, his hand finding yours once again, this time with more confidence. “I’d love to.”

As you both step onto the dance floor, the lights change again, and for a moment, the two of you are surrounded by the glow of the stars and lanterns, your bodies moving to the soft music that fills the room. It’s not a fast, frantic dance — just slow and gentle, like you’re in your own little world. You feel the gentle sway of the music, and the weight of everything around you fades, leaving just the two of you in perfect harmony.

Maybe it’s the magic of the planets aligning, or maybe it’s just him — but either way, you think, you wouldn’t mind orbiting around Gojo Satoru a little longer.

a/n: there we go! I AM DRAINED BC OF SCHOOL AND COURSES GUIDANCE BC LAW IS SO HARDDDD!! hum hum, beside that, i hope you guys had a nice week and that you are all taking care of your little faces (if not i'm gonna do it for you). writing this felt like... refreshing? i mean, nerdjo is the little mochi i'm eating when i go to the supermarket lol. and gosh, he's so cute that i'm going crazy haha.

reblogs, comments, and likes are very appreciated as always <3

also, this is how i pictured this cutie pie:

tags: @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422 @drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wisheclairr @sanemistar @monokaix

[cosmos-kitty]

Do you have any tips for painting with gouache? like how do you get it to stay a nice solid color over a large swath of paper? and how do you blend it so seamlessly?

Of course, here's a few pointers off the top of my head:

1. I've used gouache for this in the past so it's possible, but the flat backdrop on my latest WIP is actually acrylic! A nifty thing I've found about putting a layer of acrylic down, is that it creates a barrier once dried and essentially makes the paper waterproof. This means you can work in gouache on top without it mixing with the background, and you can wet a section and completely wipe it clean with a cloth/tissue and it won't disturb the acrylic layer underneath. It also makes the paper more resilient, and you don't get as much pilling/tearing from the moisture

To get an even wash it's mostly getting the right consistency, I add just a little water - enough that the paint is less "tacky" as you drag your brush along paper, but not so much that it's runny or translucent. It takes a couple of attempts sometimes!

2. Also for the current WIP that I posted earlier, like the vast majority of my traditional pieces, keep in mind that it's mixed media. So I assume you're referring to the blue-green gradient on the bird and wondering how I got the gouache to blend like that - it's actually colouring pencils! I'll often switch between dry and wet media, even layer them back and forth, whatever makes the most sense to get the effect I want 😁

3. On that note, when you're working with paint, or any medium really, I can't recommend enough having a "test" sheet that you do both before and during a traditional piece. It allows you try out different medium combos, see what shade your gouache will dry into, and catch any issues before it ends up on your artwork. I often see artists being encouraged to just Bob Ross their way through a piece, the idea being that you'll just have happy little accidents that you'll naturally work into the piece - maybe, but you'll also possibly irreversibly wreck your hard work and have to start again. I don't know, I'm just a methodical person I guess, but seeing someone just directly apply something to the page when they're not sure what it's going to do makes me wince - no two art supplies are the same! All of those paints and pens have different chemical makeups, there's an unlimited number of ways what you're using could interact, good or bad.

Since it's already there, I usually reuse one of the leftover failsons from the process of making the wash background, then test everything on top of that. That way you can see exactly what shade the paint will dry on top of whatever colour the background is:

Doesn't need to look good, nobody sees it (usually) and you can also test the thickness of your brushstrokes while you're at it.

Anyway, I hope this helps!

[evercelle]

Hello! If you don't mind me asking, how do you achieve/keep the vibrancy of colors in your illustrations?

I've been studying your art a lot and your colors always stand out to me because blending and painting digitally tends to result in muddier colors (normally in trad painting yellow & blue would result in green but due to how art programs work, blending yellow & blue would just result in a more desaturated version of one of the colors overlaying on top of the other) so I was wondering if you have any tips or advice on how to avoid that :0

Hope you have a great day!

i tend to use one inking brush (ciro pen) for sketch/ink/paint, so i usually just flat color and then draw in shades at lighter opacity, then color pick where it overlaps with the base shade, paint over again, rinse repeat... like using a blending brush with more steps i guess lol

some art programs (csp and i think kritia, maybe??) have improved color mixing! i haven't messed with any options myself but i just tried mixing yellow + blue and it caught the green tones pretty well, both with the method i described + using the default oil paint brush. todays sample picture features loml venti:

i think i tend to use pretty desaturated colors as a whole with not a lot of varience throughout an entire piece, then i'll add something neon/saturated later as an accent, so i think that might help control the "muddy" feeling as well

time lapse from step 3 -> painting! idk if this is super helpful but i'm not sure how else to demonstrate my process short of streaming lol

i think it'd probably be helpful to study color theory too, because the way your eye perceives vibrancy of colors is greatly affected by the saturation and value of the adjacent colors you use...!!

[almostwisegalaxy]

You Stay, Therefore You Love Me

DARK Yeon Sieun x fem!reader

Not to be romanticized. To flee.Besides, take some note of it. This is how many of you foolishly manipulate. ಠ⁠,⁠_⁠｣⁠ಠ

..................................................................................

Yeon Si-eun knew from day one that she was there.

He didn't need a name. She was just a blurry outline in the periphery of his thoughts, a face glimpsed through the trembling reflection of a school bus, an indistinct voice in a memory Su-ho never knew how to tell, except with a laugh. "Y/N? She's nice. A good friend of mine" Nothing more. She was barely a note in too dense a score.

And yet, when the coma fell like a lid on Su-ho—thick silence, tubes, lights too white—Si-eun found that laugh again. He turned it over and over. And deep within that laugh, there was a crack. A confession.

She was there that day. She could have intervened. But she was afraid.

That's how obsession is born: not from hatred, not even from grief. But from an inexplicable absence, an anomaly in the equation.

Y/N.

Eunjang High School was a closed world, an open-air lock-up, filled with boys fighting to exist. Si-eun no longer spoke there. He didn't need to exist here other than as a silhouette. His reputation floated alone, detached from his body. They said he'd broken throats with ballpoint pens. That his gaze could freeze your marrow. That Su-ho had fallen protecting him. All true. And insufficient.

He spent his days locked in the study hall, his face bowed over textbooks he already knew by heart. He needed distance, not to calm down, but to plan.

And it was in that silence that he found her. Not Y/N herself—she was never at Eunjang—but her trajectory.

He traced it like a physics problem: coordinates of her school, probable travel times, days off, dead hours. She was at an all-girls school thirty-seven minutes away by train, Line 2 then 7. She walked alone, always on the left side of the street, with a blue bag she held like a shield.

The first time he followed her, he felt nothing.

The second time, he heard her laugh. He noted it in his memory.

The third time, she turned, as if she'd sensed him.

And he smiled.

Si-eun was a monster, but a patient monster. He knew that direct attention, too soon, would make her flee. So he crossed paths with her, accidentally. Twice. Three times. One day, he helped her pick up papers that had fallen from her bag, with that empty smile that didn't reach his eyes.

She thanked him. He didn't ask her name.

A week later, he was there again, at the same street corner, at the same time.

"Chance again?" she murmured.

"Or an identical routine." He replied, tucking an invisible strand of hair behind her ear, without touching her.

She knew nothing about him. And that was perfect.

Si-eun was no longer the boy who analyzed equations to escape pain. He had become one who read gestures, silences, averted glances. He studied Y/N with the precision of a biologist facing a cell he wanted to contaminate.

He wanted her to get attached to him. But not quickly. Not brutally.

No, he wanted her to choose him. Willingly. Blindly.

And for that, he offered her cracks.

Not his own, no. Invented cracks, placed like shards of glass on the ground. Doubts, half-smiles, silences held longer than necessary. He spoke little. Just enough for her to think she saw something deep within.

"You're always alone."

He replied, "That's not true. I'm often with you, now."

She smiled. She sometimes blushed, but didn't flee. It wasn't a gentle shyness; it was a feverish restraint, as if she knew something was wrong but couldn't prove what.

That was the sensation he wanted from her. A confused alert.

He noted everything. Every reaction. Every tremor. When he crossed his arms while talking, she did the same within seconds. He had read these methods in applied psychology manuals. He had tested their limits on Eunjang students. It worked.

Y/N was becoming receptive. Slowly. But clearly.

And with each progression, he returned home in the evening and looked at himself in the mirror.

He felt nothing.

No joy. No triumph.

Only a continuous tension, like a string about to snap. Because she smiled, sometimes, just like Su-ho had smiled. And that made him sick.

Si-eun didn't want her to love him for who he was. He wanted her to fall in love with the image he controlled. An image he could shatter later. He built his revenge like a chess game, piece by piece.

He had learned her tastes. He had read the books she borrowed from the library but returned without annotations. He had noted the rhythm of her steps, the days she lingered in the park near the subway, the moments when she finally relaxed her shoulders.

And one day, he offered her coffee.

She accepted. It was the first time they sat face to face.

He didn't look at her.

He stared at the table.

She said, "You don't want to know my name?"

He slowly raised his eyes.

"No. I want you to tell me when you're sure I deserve it."

She didn't answer. But that night, he received a message: Y/N.

And something, in his chest, tightened.

The days went on. And Y/N began to wait for him.

She didn't show it. But he knew. She walked more slowly toward the subway. She sat on that bench a little longer. She touched his sleeves when she laughed.

And Si-eun, more and more, found himself watching her even when he didn't need to. Even when his calculations were finished. Even when he should have cut it off, closed it down, backed away.

But he no longer wanted to.

He thought about her constantly. About her silences. About her contained fear. About that tension she carried like a scar.

He didn't yet realize that this obsession was changing him. That he was no longer in control of everything. That revenge, having taken on flesh, was merging with something else. Not love. No. But a sick possessiveness, a fierce need to have her all to himself.

Y/N was becoming his inner theater.

And he was setting the stage.

---

Y/N should never have stayed after the second glance.

And yet, there she was, a few steps from him, hesitant, straight as an arrow ready to snap. The kind of presence that floats, not because it wants to be seen, but because it doesn't know how to disappear.

Yeon Si-eun stared at her.

Not obviously. Not like a boy looks at a girl. Like a chess player observes the piece he's about to sacrifice to clear the way for his king.

He approached.

"Your shoelace."

She looked down. It was true.

And before she could protest, he crouched down and retied it, slowly. With almost affectionate precision. He didn't look up. He said nothing else.

That was the first time she froze. And that he felt the discreet echo of a crack.

He didn't rush her. He strove to be the opposite of what he was at Eunjang: "gentle, stable, almost clumsy." He opened doors, waited for her to sit before him, always stepping back in narrow corridors. He offered her his umbrella without ever waiting for her to accept.

He made real gestures. Tangible. Irreproachable.

She, shy, avoided his eyes. But she eventually reached out when he offered her a chocolate. She murmured "thank you," then said nothing more.

She thought it was kindness.

She didn't know he had been watching her for weeks, that he had studied her silences like others read musical scores.

He had never seen her cry. And that annoyed him.

Not because he was looking for tears, no. But because he wanted to see her falter, even a little. He wanted her face to crack. For something to give way. He wanted her human, vulnerable, open. Accessible to his pincers.

He wanted to see what he felt when he saw her crying. BECAUSE OF HIM.

Y/N never spoke for long. But she looked at him.

And Yeon Si-eun knew how to decode that gaze. She didn't yet understand what he wanted. She hesitated, she was wary. But she looked.

That was already a crack.

***

He learned her schedule, of course. He knew it better than she did. On days she had literature class, she left earlier. When she had sports, she complained about her back—he had heard her on the phone once. He started waiting for her just after those classes, with a hot drink in his hand.

He didn't hand it to her right away.

He simply said, "I think you had sports today, right? You're walking a bit hunched."

She raised an eyebrow. Wary.

Then he added, casually, "I grabbed two drinks, I don't know why. If you don't want it, I'll drink both."

And she took it. Every time.

***

One day, he intervened.

A boy bumped into her on the school bus. Not violently, not maliciously. But enough for her to lower her eyes, step back, grit her teeth.

Yeon Si-eun, standing a little further away, approached. With calm steps. Slow. He slipped his arm between her and the boy. Without a word.

He stood there, like a wall. She looked at him. He didn't turn his head towards her.

He said nothing. Not that day.

But he knew the poison had just entered her heart. Silent protection is a debt anxious minds never forget.

***

One evening, he approached her on the subway.

"You're trembling."

She started. It was true. It was cold.

He took off his coat and placed it on her shoulders. She protested. He looked at her with that disarming calm.

"Give it back to me tomorrow."

She couldn't say anything more.

The next day, she came at the same time, to the same place, the coat folded against her. He took it back with a slight nod.

"Thanks for holding onto it for me."

She smiled. Small. But sincere.

***

One evening, he followed her further. Not home—he had already done that. No, he followed her when she got lost.

She had stopped in an alley, to cry. Maybe a call, bad news. He didn't hear. But he saw her.

And instead of joining her immediately, he remained hidden. He wanted to see how she cried when she thought she was alone.

He only stepped forward when she tried to wipe her tears with her sleeve.

"Are you lost?" His voice was worried, soft. Too soft for what he was thinking.

She jumped. He offered her a tissue.

She backed away, like a frightened animal. He backed away too, mirroring her, giving her space.

"You can cry in front of me. It's not a weakness."

She said nothing. She just took the tissue.

He waited for her to calm down. Then he walked her back, without speaking. They walked side by side, not touching.

When she got on the bus, she left her hand on the window a little longer than usual.

***

He was attentive without invading, protective without suffocating. That was his method. He created a stable presence, a rare warmth, attention no one else offered her. Not even her friends. Not even the teachers. He asked her simple questions: "Did you sleep well?", "Do you have a headache today?", "Do you prefer silence or music?"

And most importantly, he listened to her.

He barely spoke about himself. He became a mirror, a refuge.

She had never known this kind of boy.

And that was exactly the goal.

***

One day, she cried again.

Not because of him. Not yet.

Someone had humiliated her at school. He had seen her run out.

He didn't follow her immediately. He gave her three minutes.

Then he arrived, gently. He sat near her, without looking at her.

And he simply said: "Do you want me to listen? Or should I stay silent?"

She didn't answer. But she didn't leave. She laid her head on his knees.

And he ran his hand through her hair, slowly. Like a brother. Like a lover. Like a monster.

That evening, Si-eun looked at his hands.

They had trembled.

Not from anger. Not from sorrow. From pure excitement.

She's getting attached, he thought. Her defenses are lowering. This is the right pace.

But deep inside him, something—a hoarse murmur, a child's voice buried under stone—said: And you? What are you becoming?

He brushed the thought aside.

***

The next day, he ignored her.

Completely.

She looked around, at their tacit meeting spot. He wasn't there.

This hot-and-cold game, he mastered it. It was a cognitive strategy: emotional disorientation, attention dependency, withdrawal effect.

The day after, she sent him a message:

Are you okay?

He replied three hours later:

I'm just a bit elsewhere. Are you okay?

She took a long time to reply.

Then:

Yes, I think so.

And he knew. She was waiting for him. She was thinking of him.

It wasn't love.

It was perfect control. It was retribution.

She could have prevented the nightmare.

She didn't.

So she was going to love her own tormentor. She was going to love him to death. Or almost.

---

Y/N would never have imagined that perfidy would present itself to her with such a calm, clear gaze. Yeon Si-eun's eyes screamed neither hatred nor violence. They were steady, almost gentle, a clear, unfathomable black. It was precisely this contrast that chilled the blood: this total absence of turmoil, this glacial peace in his gaze as he laid his destructive intentions upon her.

His pupils didn't tremble. They seemed to calculate, dissect, measure the effect of every word, every silence. He didn't look at Y/N as an enemy, nor even as a target—he looked at her as a truth he had already accepted, an inevitable consequence of a plan he had to accomplish to no longer be alone. Alone in his suffering.

And yet, that evening, as she timidly placed her hand on the bench where they had first met, she didn't yet know that she was already locked in. Locked into something that wasn't a relationship. More like a net. A trap. A descent.

Yeon Si-eun observed. Always.

And that day, he knew. She had fallen.

He saw it in the way she lowered her eyes when he arrived. In that tiny flutter of eyelids when he brushed her arm. In the silence, especially. The silence that weighed like a confession.

She was his.

Not because of an oath. But because he had become the oxygen in a world too narrow. The only fixed point in her chaos. He had replaced fear with another fear. A softer, more perverse fear: the fear of losing him.

And he found himself smiling. Not with relief. Not with pride.

But with a glacial pleasure. An inhuman pleasure.

It was no longer a strategy. It was an impulse.

Yeon Si-eun had always been a stranger to his own emotions. But at that moment, when he saw her flinch as he raised his voice a little for the first time, he felt something sharp. Something unhealthy.

He liked it.

He liked seeing her uncertain, broken into tiny fragments, trying to understand what she had done wrong. And most of all, he adored it: she always thought the problem came from her.

So he accused without accusing.

"It's crazy how you always manage to disappoint me when I finally expect something from you."

She looked up. Struck, without understanding.

He sighed, softly, as if he were tired of her.

"I thought you were listening to me. But oh well. Maybe I idealized."

He turned on his heels.

And she remained, alone. Full of that toxic doubt.

***

One day, she told him about her failed presentation. She was nervous. He listened, then simply said:

"Maybe you should have asked me for help. But oh well. I guess you're used to doing things alone. Even if it doesn't work."

No reproach. No anger. Just a blade, slid without pressure, but with a surgeon's precision.

She fell silent. She even nodded.

***

But after every cruel word came the sweetness.

The late message: "Sorry. I was at my wit's end. You calm me, you know. Don't change."

The next day, a chocolate. A book. A song he said reminded him of her.

She didn't understand. She thought she had to do better.

And Si-eun watched her sink. Slowly.

Yeon Si-eun no longer just felt control. He felt gratification.

She became malleable. And he tested her limits like an artisan tests the resistance of a rare metal. He pushed her just enough for her to bend. But never to the point of breaking her. Not yet.

He knew that if she left too soon, the game would be over. He wanted her to stay. For her to get lost.

She was becoming dependent.

And he, coldly, methodically, plotted her fall.

He chose his words methodically. Always on the edge.

"You always have this habit of messing everything up, don't you?"

"You're tiring, sometimes. You don't know when to shut up at the right time."

"You always want reassurance. It's exhausting."

But after: "I'm sorry. It's me. You're not responsible. I'm the one spiraling."

And she stayed. Every time. Because he knew when to cry, when to tremble, when to let her hold him so she would feel useful.

Si-eun wove around her a cocoon of guilt and attachment.

***

One day, he kissed her.

Brutally.

Not in violence. In precision. He leaned in, slowly, brushed her lips, then took them as if he were drowning. His hand against her nape, his fingers in her hair. A long, slow, deep kiss. Too tender for what he truly felt.

She responded. Barely. But enough for him to know.

When he pulled away, he looked at her with an almost amused expression. He said:

"You kiss like a girl who hopes to be loved. It's cute."

She blushed, hurt.

He added, looking away:

"I had a strange feeling. Like you were making up for being absent when someone was counting on you. But oh well. You can't always run away."

He didn't mention Su-ho. He didn't need to. She understood.

Her face crumbled. She turned, wanting to leave.

He let her.

That evening, he sent: "I regret it. I said whatever. Stay. I need you."

And that was the only truth. He needed her. He mustn't be the only one suffering.

She came back.

He asked her loaded questions:

"Do you trust me?"

"Do you think I'm a good person?"

She answered yes.

And he smiled.

"You say that because you want to believe it. Not because it's true."

She remained silent.

He knew that with each retort, he was digging a little deeper. Into the flesh. Into the heart.

And sometimes, when she cried too loudly, he would place his hands on her cheeks, and murmur:

"Stop it. You cry too much. It's suffocating."

But right after:

"I'm sorry. I'm broken, Y/N. I'm broken and I don't want to break you too. But you stay. Thank you. Thank you for being here."

And she cried harder.

And he closed his eyes. Because with every tear, he felt something more than human.

And then... He had an erection.

A pure, morbid pleasure. It was dirty and totally twisted.

Perhaps he was broken for good. But finally, he was no longer suffering alone.

Yeon Si-eun was becoming his own poison. He fed on her suffering but also plunged into a spiral where he no longer recognized his own pain.

He dreamed of Su-ho. Of his gaze. Of that fall. Of that moment frozen in blood. And Y/N, always there. Motionless. Too late.

He wasn't punishing her for what she had done.

He was punishing her for what she hadn't done.

And the more she loved him, the more he hated her.

And the more he hated her, the more he kept her.

Like a wild animal guards a still-living prey. To prolong the pleasure.

But in his alone moments, Yeon Si-eun watched his hands tremble, still.

He wondered if he was still human.

And he answered himself that yes.

Because he was suffering.

And only someone who suffers can inflict suffering with such care.

It wasn't love. It was possession.

And she was almost his.

---

Y/N took three days to reply to him.

Three days without a message, without a reaction, without even a "seen." Three days of unusual silence, but not hostile. A silence of self-preservation. She told herself that maybe... if she cut back a little, she could breathe. Think. She didn't want to hurt him—that was the irony. Even in distancing herself, she wanted to spare his pain.

But Yeon Si-eun was not one to be left gently.

So, he created a story.

Not a complete story—just a crack. Enough chaos for Y/N to return on her own.

It happened one Thursday afternoon in the Eunjang High School courtyard. The boy's name was Min-jae. A student with no history, known for his calm demeanor, decent grades, his lack of trouble-making.

When Si-eun hit him, Min-jae didn't even understand why.

Others tried to intervene, but Si-eun was screaming. Incoherent insults, mixed with pleas. At one point, he collapsed to the ground, holding his bruised face, murmuring a name.

Y/N.

It wasn't Si-eun who contacted Y/N first. It was a girl from her high school, a classmate who had received the video. A confused scene, filmed on the fly: shouts, a fight, a black eye. And at the center, Yeon Si-eun, almost unrecognizable. You could hear him gasping. Accompanied by the message: "I think he snapped because of you."

Then came the voice note.

He had never sent one before. And that's what made her open it, despite her fear.

[voice note - 1m43s]

First, a hoarse breath could be heard. Then sobs. Then his voice, almost childlike, delirious:

— "I... damn it... I'm sorry... Y/N... I... I failed..."

Distorted sobs. Nonsensical words. He mutters, almost moans:

— "It's my fault. I wanted to... I lost... I lost you, didn't I? Is that it? You don't want me anymore?..."

> "I'm sorry, Y/N... I'm sorry. It's not your fault, it's me. I'm the problem, it's me, it's me, it's me... You shouldn't have left. I'm... I can't breathe without you anymore. You were there. You were there, damn it. And now I'm nothing."

> (He coughs, he cries. She doesn't really know)

> "You wanted us to take some distance? I tried. I held on. But now I'm empty. I'm empty and I hurt all over. Tell me you still love me, Y/N. Say it. Goddamn it, say it."

The end blurs. Just panicked breathing. And a hiccup: "Stay."

Y/N didn't think twice.

She took a bus across town to Eunjang, without warning. He had sat in the shadow of a pillar in the gym, pressing an ice pack to his eye, deliberately positioned incorrectly. So she could see the extent of the bruise, so it would still bleed a little. Dramatic effect mattered.

Y/N, instinctively, knelt beside him. He looked at her like a lost child.

— "I was afraid you'd leave... I thought I'd lost you..."

He placed his hand against his chest, hard, as if to stop his heart from beating.

— "I hurt, Y/N. So much. And I don't know if you're still there for me..."

He felt it.

She wavered.

[Yeon Si-eun's POV]

One more word. One more tremor.

He feels her fragile. Damp. Malleable.

He feels her coming back to him for good.

He cries. Real tears, or almost.

And between two spasms that he deliberately accentuates, he murmurs:

> "Tell me I'm not alone in this relationship. Tell me. Reassure me. Prove it."

He holds her by the wrists. His fingers slide. She wants to comfort him. She no longer knows how.

He adds:

> "You left, Y/N. You left. And I stayed here wondering if you already had someone else. Someone from your school. Someone who looks at you better than me."

She shakes her head. She stammers: "No... no... never..."

> "Then say it. Tell me you're mine. Completely. That you think of me when you fall asleep."

He hugs her tightly. Too tightly.

Ohhh, sweetheart... it's almost too easy.

Then he kisses her.

Not tenderly. Not brutally either. It's a poisoned kiss. His mouth is bruised, split on the lower lip. Y/N tastes the metallic tang of blood, but doesn't pull back. Not immediately.

He clings to her. Embraces her with too much force. His hands close around her hips, her nape, her waist. He presses her against him like a castaway clinging to a wooden plank.

She tries to push him away. He resists.

> "Do you want me to calm down?"

His voice is hoarse, muffled, almost extinguished against her mouth.

> "Then tell me I'm your only one. Tell me you live for me. That you need me. That without me, you'll collapse."

[Si-eun's inner voice]

She's going to break.

One more word.

Look at her. She thinks she can leave. She hasn't even started trying.

His hand slid against her nape, forcing her to stay very close.

— "Say it, Y/N. I'm not asking you. I'm begging you. I don't want to become what I was before you. You don't want that? Huh?"

Inner voice (Si-eun):

Am I dreaming, or is she hesitating?

— "If you don't say anything, I'll know. I'll know I invented everything. That you were never there."

She's going to break. She HAS to break.

Y/N says something. She breathes out, with all the sincerity she can muster in the embrace:

> "I... love you, Si-eun. But... I'm scared. I'm scared of what you're doing. Of what you're becoming..."

He freezes. Just for a moment. Then he pulls back slightly. Looks at her.

His eyes gleam with a troubled light.

> "You love me?"

He laughs. Short, dry.

> "You love me but you run from me. You love me but you let me destroy myself."

He grips her face, gently. Too gently for it to be tender. A control, not a caress.

> "Love, Y/N, isn't an option. It's not a game of distance. If you love me, you stay. You get involved. You suffer with me. Otherwise, you're lying."

The sun sets. Eunjang's hallways are almost empty. He lay down on the concrete, pulled her against him. She didn't dare resist. Her head on his chest, he stroked her hair.

— You're not leaving me, are you?

She shook her head.

— You're not going to betray me, are you?

Silence.

— Because I couldn't survive if you did that.

Another silence.

And this time, he cried for real. Not from pain. But from triumph.

Inner voice (Si-eun):

She's fallen.

I can breathe again.

But not for too long. She'll have to say it again. And again. Until she has nothing left but that.

Her love for me is all that holds her up now.

And that... that's almost eternity.

---

From that day on, Yeon Si-eun had changed.

No more raised voices. No more sharp silences. He spoke softly, always gently, as if every word risked hurting her. As if he was learning to touch her without damaging her.

In the morning, he waited for her in front of the high school gate, his cheeks flushed with cold or impatience, she never knew. He straightened up as soon as he saw her, slipped his hands into his pockets, nervous, and handed her a small object, always different: a star-shaped eraser, a dried flower stuck in a book page, a photo of them printed on glossy paper—"It's stupid, but I wanted to give it to you."

He never said "I love you" directly. He said it differently. He said it by opening his umbrella awkwardly so that she would be better covered. He said it by blowing on her fingers when she was cold, or by tying her shoelaces when they came undone. He said it by watching her out of the corner of his eye, unable to look away for too long.

When she laughed, he blushed. Really. A real red, that rose to his ears. He tried to act proud, to shrug as if it was nothing. But sometimes, she caught him staring at the ground, smiling to himself, clinging to the strap of his bag as if that simple burst of happiness could make him tremble.

He seemed so lost in his feelings.

Si-eun, with his false airs of a solid boy, melted at her slightest gentleness.

One day, she had sneezed while they were walking. He had stopped dead, had rummaged frantically in his bag to hand her a tissue. He had even tried to wrap her in a scarf that he had bought just for her, without saying so. And when she had thanked him, he had murmured, almost ashamed:

— "I don't want you to get sick. I couldn't bear not having you… even for just one day."

Another day, she had fallen asleep on his shoulder in an empty bus. He hadn't moved. Not once. Even when his arm had become completely numb.

When she had woken up, confused, he had simply breathed:

— "Did you have a dream?"

— "I think so."

— "I hope I was in it…"

She had laughed softly, and he had bitten his lip, unable to look her in the face for a few seconds. He had blushed, again.

He had this rare modesty, this way of showing himself without exposing himself. He sometimes trembled when she placed her hand on his. He clung to her as if she were the only certainty in his life. He said that she smelled "like summer even in winter," and that her silences frightened him less than all the words in the world.

When they made love, it was gentle. More tender than physical. He took his time, looked at her for a long time, stopped to ask her useless but urgent questions:

— "Do you want me to kiss you there?"

— "Do you love me a little, there, now? Just a little?"

He caressed her with open palms, as if he was afraid of pressing too hard. He buried his face in her neck afterward, stayed close to her like a child after a nightmare. Sometimes, he cried. Not loudly. Just discreet tears, which he wiped away quickly, almost ashamed. But she knew it. She felt his body tremble against hers.

— "I've never had this before you. Never had someone who stays." The one who remained you let die

He kissed her shoulders. Her neck. Her fingers. He laughed when she had hiccups, told her absurd stories to make her fall asleep. He pretended to know how to cook and failed everything, but served his charred dishes with a clumsy pride.

— "I'm trying. For you. I'm trying to be a good person."

She believed him. Every gesture, every look, seemed woven with a timid sincerity. He was too fragile to lie, wasn't he?

Once, he wrote on her hand, with a pen:

“stay.”

He said nothing while doing it. He simply took her palm and traced the letters, one by one, with care.

When she looked up at him, he murmured, tears in his eyes:

— "I'm so afraid you'll leave."

And he hugged her tightly. For a long time. Long enough for her to think he would always protect her. Long enough for her to forget the cold. The world. The rest.

That day, she told herself that she had never been loved so much. She thought she was rebuilding him. She thought he was laying down his weapons. She thought she was the bandage, the light, the outstretched hand.

She thought.

How stupid she is

***

— "I have to tell you something… but I'm afraid you'll hate me after."

He murmured it one evening, his eyes on the ceiling, his face half in shadow.

Y/N had turned her head abruptly, her heart clenching. She thought of a revelation of past love, a crime, a confession.

He said nothing else. Just that. He let the silence do its work. And she, she clung to that sentence as if it were a burning wire. All night, she woke up in fits and starts, her gaze wild towards her phone. Something serious. Something hidden.

He didn't reply. And the next day, he only told her:

— "Get ready. We're going out."

***

They walked under the trees, in an old neighborhood with peaceful alleys. He held her hand, intertwined his fingers with a touching clumsiness. At each red light, he placed his lips on her temple. He stopped in small shops, showed her unimportant objects—a broken figurine, a rusty pendant—as if he wanted to share everything with her.

He smiled too much. Apologized too much. Bumped into her on purpose to laugh. A thick, almost sticky tenderness.

Y/N was happy. Confused, but happy. He told her:

— "Did you change something about your voice? It's softer than usual…"

She blushed.

He seemed nervous, like a teenager on a first date. She thought of a declaration. A tearful request.

But as they approached the city center, she felt something change. A pressure in her hand. A tension in his jaws. He no longer needed to play: she was already following him.

And then she saw the hospital. He said nothing. He gently pulled her towards the entrance.

Doubt, first, then certainty.

***

Room 317

The corridors were cold. The floor shone. Footsteps echoed far away. A disinfectant smell, too strong.

Y/N, already, was no longer breathing normally. She trembled.

Si-eun hadn't released her hand. He held her like a handcuffed person.

They passed two doors, then a third. He stopped in front of a room. No name, just a number. He opened without knocking.

Inside, time had frozen.

Su-ho.

The boy she knew, the one she had laughed with, who had protected her one day in that same boxing club.

On a white bed, machines in a row, tubes, muffled alarms. His body kept alive by an impersonal science.

Y/N felt her throat close.

A clenching in her legs.

A pressure in her temples, unbearable.

She didn't dare breathe.

She knew.

She understood what Si-eun had just done.

She didn't cry. Not yet. Her body was defending itself. The shock was too immense. Everything was emptying within her.

And he… he was smiling.

He made her sit down, by force, on the chair near the bed.

He circled her like a quiet predator.

— "You recognize him, huh?"

She didn't answer.

— "It's crazy, he still has the same smile. Well… he had it. Until the day you decided not to pick up your fucking phone."

She wanted to get up. He pushed her back into the chair, violently.

— "No. You stay. You look. You take responsibility."

His voice was broken, sharp.

— "You were there. You saw him. You knew. And you were afraid? Poor darling… Y/N was afraid."

He spat that name like a poison.

— "He's been like this since that day. Since the day you decided your silence was worth more than his life."

He speaks softly, but each word lacerates her.

— "You watched him get destroyed. You hid behind your fragile little body and your fear of intervening."

— "He's here because you preferred to close your eyes."

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

— "You think I could love someone like you?"

She staggered, her lips trembling.

— "You want to know why I kissed you? Why I told you that you were everything to me? Because I wanted you to cling on. I wanted you to love yourself a little… before I broke you."

He laughs. Dry, nervous. Like a knife against glass.

— "It's crazy how people who lack love swallow anything… even shit if it's covered in pretty packaging."

And he laughed. Like the creep he is.

Y/N cowered. Her back against the backrest. Her breathing cut off.

— "You feel dirty? No? Not yet? Wait."

He took a bracelet out of his pocket. A worn, braided cord bracelet.

— "It was his. Keep it. You'll have to live with that."

He forced it onto her wrist. Y/N didn't have the strength to protest.

Her heart was beating too fast. She heard each beep of the monitor like a slap. Each artificial breath like proof.

Shame, finally, burst forth. But she didn't cry. She collapsed in silence. A blocked sob. A panic without screams.

Her skin seemed to want to flee her body. She was hot. She was cold. Her vision blurred.

— "Tell me again that you love me. Come on. Say it now."

She shook her head.

— "Too late, huh? Now you see. Now you KNOW."

— "Look at yourself. That's what you are. A coward. A selfish person. And you dare to love?"

He leans over the bracelet, then over her. Coldly:

— "Don't forget what I showed you today. You are not forgiven. You are not lovable. You are guilty. And it's me who holds you, Y/N. It's me you should fear. Because I can do this a thousand times. A thousand days. A thousand nights."

In Si-eun's mind

He watches her dissolve.

He feels an acidic satisfaction. A black victory.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't rejoice. He anchors his pain in hers.

That was the goal. For her to bear his grief. For her to breathe it, to swallow it. Until she suffocates.

She has fallen.

And he, finally, can breathe.

But not for too long.

Because she will have to come back to it. Again. Again.

Until her love is nothing more than a remnant of guilt. Until she offers herself to him no longer by choice… but by debt.

.................................................................................

Sieun New headcanon here

@mariii-0001 @mizxuqii @iiwsmr @emswirls

[starsinthesky5]

in honors of horny hour😛

songbird in lingerie.

What's Joe's favorite color on her? How often does she wear them? Does she have special ones associated with special occasions? does he keep them on or take them off? does he pick them for her? does she wear them around the house “just because” or “because its too hot”? to torture Joe. like I could go on 😩

a/n: ovulation has a STRONG hold on me right now

warnings: NSFW, smut

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

oh we’re so back for horny hour and joe is suffering (loving every minute of it) because her in lingerie? it ruins him. tears him down to his most primal form.

what’s joe’s favorite color on her?

red, no hesitation. not a soft red, not “valentine’s day cute” red. no, joe loves dark, drop-to-your-knees red. the kind that borders on wine, a little dangerous. it makes her look like a sin he’s dying to commit. she wore it once early on—a barely-there lace number with matching garters—and joe went absolutely silent. all that came out of his mouth was a breathless “fuck,” and then he was on her. didn’t even make it to the bed. had her pressed against the wall, forehead resting on hers like he needed to pray before he touched her. red became his downfall. red means you’re mine tonight. red means he’s not letting her walk the next morning.

how often does she wear them?

not all the time—that’s the beauty of it. she’s strategic. methodical. she knows the power she holds and doesn’t abuse it, which makes it so much worse for joe when she does wear them. sometimes it’s for a reason—a big time game, his birthday, a comeback after an injury—but sometimes? it’s a tuesday night. she’ll come out from their shared closet after a shower in full silk and lace and he’s blinking at her like she just put the final nail in his coffin. she’ll say “what?” like she’s innocent. meanwhile, he’s already palming himself through his sweats.

special sets for special occasions?

oh absolutely. she has a few he knows mean something big. like the custom bengals orange and black lace one she wore after the win against the broncos—he nearly passed out. the white lace robe set she surprised him with on their first v-day, complete with a tiny gold charm of his number dangling from her bra? joe swears that one rewired his brain chemistry.

he keeps one photo of her tucked behind his phone case—a worn little polaroid of her in that set. the one that makes his mouth go dry and his brain go stupid. she’s standing in front of the mirror when he took it, head turned to look over her shoulder at him, lip caught between her teeth, hair a little messy like she’d just finished getting ready—and somehow, still, her eyes are soft. like she’s his, fully. like she wants him looking.

he took the photo half as a joke at first, all breathless and flushed from how good she looked, teasing her like, “i need proof in case i black out from how hot you are,” and then it wasn’t a joke. he slipped it into the back of his phone case that night, right behind an old movie stub from their 5th date (they did a double feature day with barbie and oppenheimer) she wrote “best night ever <3” on in blue pen. he says it’s for emergencies only, but he peeks at it more than he’d ever admit—when he’s traveling, when he misses her, when practice has him in a...mood, when he’s laying in bed alone and needs to feel close to her. sometimes he just stares at it. thumb brushing over the edge, lips twitching in a soft smile. she has no idea it’s still there. but he’d never take it out. not ever.

there’s a navy blue corset with sheer embroidered cups she saves for when he’s been away for a while—lets him slowly unlace it while she kisses down his jaw, and joe has said (direct quote): “i’d go celibate for three weeks again just to see you in this,” she also has a black satin baby doll type nightgown he calls “the end of me.” it’s floor-length, slitted up the thigh, and floats when she walks. he once stood still for a full sixty seconds just watching her cross the room in it.

does he keep them on or take them off?

depends. if he’s needy? they’re pushed to the side. panties barely tugged down, bra cups slipped just enough so the lace frames her tits while she bounces in his lap. he likes seeing it on her. seeing her all dressed up for him, knowing no one else gets to witness it. he’ll groan into her neck, panting something like “keep it on. fuck, baby, you look so good like this,”. but if he’s in his teasing mood—slow joe, smug joe? he’s taking his time peeling it off. inch by inch. dragging his calloused fingers along straps, unhooking things with his teeth, eyes never leaving hers. “wanted to unwrap you like this all day,” he’ll murmur while kissing every newly revealed inch of skin.

does he pick them for her?

sometimes. and it kills him. she’ll let him pick when he’s been especially good or if he’s feeling possessive—“show me what you want me in tonight, baby,” and he’ll pull out the tiny drawer where she keeps the good stuff, fingers already twitching. he picks deliberately—the ones with the most ties and hooks and sheer panels because he knows it’ll make her feel sexy and drive him out of his mind. he’s usually hard before she even puts it on. sits on the edge of the bed, head tipped back, jaw clenched, watching her like it’s a private show.

does she wear them around the house “just because”?

god yes. this is joe’s personal hell. she’ll be in the kitchen making breakfast in a matching dusty rose set with a floor-length silk robe and fluffy slippers like it’s nothing. robe tied just loose enough that he gets glimpses when she reaches for a mug. sometimes she’s in a white set so sheer he thinks it’s a dream. she’ll bend over to grab something and joe’s choking on his water like a teenage boy. “it’s hot today,” she’ll say, acting casual. meanwhile, joe’s silently begging god for strength. he tries to play it cool—sits on the couch, scrolls his phone—but five minutes later he’s yanking her down into his lap, fingers under her straps, growling against her collarbone. “you knew what you were doing. don’t play dumb now.”.

and the best part? she knows. songbird knows the effect she has. knows the way joe gets glassy-eyed and touchy and rough around the edges when she’s all dressed up in soft, delicate things. she’s weaponized lingerie. and joe? joe’s more than happy to be her helpless, aching, utterly obsessed victim. every single time.

how is the sex when she's in lingerie? same as her without it or is it different?

oh, it’s different. so different. when she’s in lingerie, the entire dynamic shifts. joe isn’t just having sex with his girl—he’s unraveling, starving, trying to worship something that feels too good to be real. lingerie turns joe into a man possessed. when she’s not wearing lingerie, the sex is soft and real and needy in a different way. she’s in his hoodie, fresh-faced, straddling him on the couch after a long day, kissing him like she missed him even if they’ve been together all day. it’s comforting, a little messy, full of “baby, I love you”s and “can’t get enough of you” whispered in between kisses and moans. he’ll eat her out lazily with his head between her thighs, one hand on her belly, the other holding her leg open while she tugs at his hair. it’s warm. familiar. the kind of sex that feels like home.

but when she’s in lingerie? no. no. it’s game over. it’s a performance, and joe shows up to play. his whole demeanor changes the second he sees her. breath catches. eyes darken. he’ll sit up straighter, jaw tense, his entire body wired with tension because how the fuck is he supposed to handle this? joe can barely think straight. it’s the kind of sex where he grabs her thighs and carries her to the bed. the kind where he mutters “you dressed up for me?” against her neck before biting just enough to make her shiver. and then? oh, then he takes his time.

he doesn't just rip the lingerie off—not at first. no, he plays with it. fingers grazing over the lace, lips dragging along every strap, watching her squirm because she knows he’s taking mental pictures. he’ll kiss over her hips, mouth her inner thighs, bite softly at the waistband of her panties without taking them off. he’s obsessed with the contrast—her in silk and lace, him on his knees, looking up at her like she’s a goddamn angel in disguise.

“stay just like that,” he’ll whisper when she tries to move. “i wanna take you apart like this,”. he likes fucking her through it. bra pushed up or down, garters still on, panties moved to the side because he wants her to feel how ruined she’s getting without letting her forget what she wore for him. he’ll growl things like, “this set’s gonna be ruined by the time i’m done with you,” or “you knew i wasn’t gonna be able to control myself,”.

it’s filthier. rougher. slower at first, but then he can’t help it—he gets so turned on by the sight of her in something he loves that he ends up fucking her harder. it’s intense. desperate. the kind of sex that leaves faint handprints and bite marks and lingerie tangled in the sheets by the time they’re finished.

and afterward? she’s still in the scraps of whatever piece she had on, chest rising and falling, lips swollen, and joe’s rubbing circles into her hips with the softest voice like, “you wanna keep that on for round two, or should i pick you something new?”.

he’s obsessed, and she knows it. lingerie sex isn’t just sex—it’s a whole damn experience. a power play. an art form. and joe is ruined by it, every time.

[whatiswrongwithpeople]

Shattered Silence

Jayce Talis x reader

Warnings: none, no spoilers for s2 , not connected to any canon plot

Prompt: An enemies to lovers story; “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Notes: I KNOW some people are absolutely hating this man now but I had this sitting in my notes app and just need to set it free. I hope there aren’t any mistakes , but once again it’s been written in my notes app-

Part 2

Jayce Talis was no stranger to the silence of late nights in the lab. The rhythmic hum of Hextech crystals, the faint flicker of blue light against metal, and the steady scratch of pen against paper were his constant companions. Tonight, like so many nights before, he found himself hunched over blueprints, mind locked in the methodical process of refining designs. It was easier to work late when there were no interruptions, no voices cutting through the quiet—especially not yours.

Jayce had never met someone more infuriating than you.

You were brilliant, there was no question about that. Your intellect had earned you a coveted place alongside him on one of Piltover’s most ambitious projects. But from the moment you two had started working together, it had been like throwing oil onto a flame. You clashed on nearly everything. You were methodical, calculated—always challenging his more instinctive, risk-taking approaches.

“I don’t see why you can’t grasp that stabilizing the core will reduce its volatility,” you had said during one of your many arguments.

“And I don’t see why you insist on slowing down innovation for the sake of caution!” Jayce had shot back.

The entire lab had been forced to endure your bickering. And it wasn’t just the disagreements over schematics that drove the wedge deeper. It was the way you two refused to back down, constantly pushing and challenging each other.

Jayce had always prided himself on being the best. He’d been driven by that mindset ever since he was a child, determined to prove himself worthy of his place in Piltover’s elite society. But you? You were a different kind of competitor. You weren’t driven by arrogance, as he had first assumed, but by a fierce need to prove yourself. You didn’t have his connections, didn’t have the same privileges. You’d clawed your way up through sheer talent and hard work, and you weren’t about to let anyone—even Jayce Talis—make you feel like you didn’t belong.

That realization had hit Jayce like a punch to the gut one night, weeks ago, after one particularly nasty fight.

** flashback a few weeks ago**

“I swear, if you could just stop bulldozing over my ideas for one second, you’d realize we’re trying to solve the same problem!” you snapped, slamming your notebook down on the lab bench. The room was empty save for the two of you, the other engineers having wisely fled after the first thirty minutes of bickering.

Jayce glared at you, jaw tight. “I’m not bulldozing—”

“Don’t.” Your voice was sharp, a warning edge in your tone. “Don’t stand there and pretend like you’re not dismissing everything I say just because you think you know better.”

Jayce’s fists clenched at his sides. It wasn’t that he didn’t respect you; he did. But you constantly pushed him in ways that no one else did, constantly questioned him, and it made his blood boil. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this. Not by someone like you.

“Maybe if you’d explain your ideas instead of acting like you’re the only person in the room with a brain—” he bit out, stepping closer to you, his frustration bleeding into every word.

You met his gaze without flinching, that fire in your eyes blazing hotter than ever. “Maybe if you weren’t so full of yourself, you’d actually hear what I’m saying!”

Jayce had taken a breath to fire back another retort, but then he’d seen something flicker in your expression. For just a moment, the anger cracked, and there was something else underneath. Hurt, maybe. Vulnerability. It was fleeting, but it was there.

He didn’t say anything, and you had turned away, picking up your notebook with a quiet sigh. “Forget it,” you muttered, heading for the door. “I’ll just rework the damn equations on my own.”

Jayce had watched you go, something unfamiliar twisting in his chest. He’d thought about going after you, maybe saying something—anything—to defuse the tension. But his pride had held him back, and instead, he had let you leave.

That had been the first time Jayce had realized that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t angry with you because you were wrong. Maybe he was angry because you were right, and he hated that someone could challenge him the way you did.

From then on, the tension between you two had only grown. Arguments became sharper, filled with undercurrents neither of you acknowledged. He could see the way others noticed it, the way their eyes darted between you and him whenever a heated discussion threatened to boil over. They weren’t just seeing two colleagues who couldn’t get along. They were seeing the thin line between rivalry and something else.

But that something else was dangerous. It was a fire neither of you were ready to touch.

**end of flashback**

Tonight, Jayce had resigned himself to another long night in the lab, the familiar hum of Hextech energy his only company. That was, until the door burst open with a force that made him jump.

His irritation was immediate. Of course, it would be you, barging in without a second thought. “If you’re here to argue about the core stabilizer again, I’m not in the mood,” Jayce muttered, not even looking up as he continued scribbling on his blueprints.

But then there was silence. No sharp retort. No biting comment.

Frowning, Jayce glanced up—and almost immediately his stomach dropped.

You stood frozen in the doorway, but you weren’t your usual fiery self. Your hair was disheveled, the neat, professional attire you always wore was wrinkled and disordered, as if you had thrown it on in a rush or hadn’t cared enough to fix it and your face... your face was pale, eyes wide and rimmed with unshed tears. Something had happened.

“I... I didn’t know where else to go,” you whispered, your voice cracking in a way so unfamiliar to Jayce’s ears that it almost made him flinch.

“What—” Jayce’s brain stuttered, not understanding, confusion and concern flooding his senses all at once. He had never seen you like this—vulnerable, shaken. You were always the one with sharp retorts, the one who could throw him off balance with a single glance. And now? Now you were standing in front of him, broken, and he didn’t know what to do. But when he turned fully to face you and noticed the sheer panic in your expression, all of his irritation, all of the snide comments he had prepared, dissolved instantly. “What happened?”

In a heartbeat, he was across the room, standing in front of you, his hands hovering just above your arms as if unsure whether to touch you, whether you’d let him.

“They—” you started, then choked on the words, your chest heaving with shallow breaths, hands trembling at your sides. “Someone broke into my apartment. I—I don’t know what they were after. They tore everything apart, Jayce. All of it. All my work... it’s gone.”

Hearing the sheer devastation in your voice, Jayce felt a surge of protectiveness swell inside him, his heart pounding as he imagined the scene. The thought of someone invading your space, of you coming home to find it destroyed... it made his blood boil.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked urgently, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

You shook your head quickly, wrapping your arms around yourself, as if trying to hold yourself together. “No, I—I wasn’t there when it happened. But... everything was trashed. My work, my research, everything. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t go back.”

Jayce felt a knot tighten in his chest. You—this person who was always so strong, always so put-together—looked like you were on the verge of breaking. And the fact that you had come to him, him , in this moment of vulnerability left him stunned.

Without thinking, he reached out, pulling you into his arms in a motion that was both instinctive and desperate. You stiffened at first, as if the idea of seeking comfort from him was the last thing you’d ever considered. But something inside you broke the moment his arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sag against him, your hands clinging desperately to the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Jayce tightened his hold, one hand resting on the back of your head as he cradled you against his chest, the other pressing firmly against the small of your back. He rested his chin atop your head, murmuring soft reassurances into your hair. “I’m here. We’ll figure this out.”

Jayce could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface as he thought about what had happened to you. His hand that rested on your back clenched into a fist as he imagined someone rifling through your things, invading your space, and leaving you terrified. Jayce’s anger surged, hot and violent, but he forced it down, knowing that what you needed right now wasn’t fury.

It was comfort.

You sniffled against him, your breath hitching as you tried to calm yourself, and his fist slowly unclenched, his fingers gently tracing soothing circles on your back. He hadn’t realized until now how familiar you felt in his arms, how right it felt to hold you.

For all the biting words and harsh glances the two of you usually shared, this moment was startlingly soft, intimate in a way that left him feeling raw.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You didn’t say anything, but you leaned into him more, your face pressed against his chest, your body shaking as you let out a soft sob. The sound of it cracked something inside Jayce, and he found himself holding you even tighter, as if trying to shield you from everything that had happened.

When you finally pulled back slightly, you looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, and Jayce’s heart ached at the sight of your tear-streaked face.

“Why did you come here?” he asked softly. It wasn’t accusatory—it was genuine curiosity. After all the arguments, the tension, he hadn’t expected you to seek him out in a moment like this. You let out a small, humorless laugh, your voice still trembling. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I guess... I guess because I knew you’d be here. And... you’re the only one who understands.”

Jayce’s breath caught in his throat. You were right. Despite all the arguments, all the bickering, you and Jayce did understand each other. You were alike in so many ways—both of you driven, both of you fighting to prove something, both of you carrying more weight on your shoulders than you let anyone see.

“I’m glad you came,” he said softly, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.

A few hours later the lab was quieter, save for the steady scratching of Jayce's pen as he continued to make adjustments to the prototype in front of him. The tension that had once filled the room seemed to have settled, softened by the rawness of the earlier moments. You sat on the edge of his desk, your legs swinging slightly as you watched him work, the weight of what had happened still heavy on your shoulders.

Jayce had been focused, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled out a few final equations. But every so often, his eyes would flicker up to you, checking if you were still there, still okay. The silence between you was no longer strained or uncomfortable; it felt like an unspoken understanding that neither of you was ready to address fully yet. It was comfortable... for now.

Still, Jayce couldn’t ignore the way you were sitting there, curled inward as if the weight of the night hadn't lifted. The quiet vulnerability that had cracked through your usual armor made something stir in him. And as much as he tried to focus on his work, he couldn't shake the need to do something more for you.

Without saying a word, Jayce rose from his chair, his footsteps soft as he approached you. His mind raced—he wanted to offer more than just reassurances, wanted to do something that would make you feel *better*, something that would let you know that you weren’t alone in this. But what could he do?

Without overthinking it, he took off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

The gesture was simple, but it felt significant. The warmth of the fabric enveloped you, and for a moment, you were taken aback. Your eyes lifted to meet his, surprise flickering across your face.

“It’s cold in here,” Jayce said, his voice softer than you had heard it all night. There was no bravado, no teasing edge like before—only sincerity. “You should stay warm.”

You didn’t know how to respond to the unexpected kindness, especially from someone who had always been so frustratingly distant. You had been expecting everything but this. His jacket was heavy, comforting, and as you tugged it around your shoulders, you found yourself grateful, even though you didn’t quite understand why.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. There was something different in your tone now, a softness, something you hadn’t let him see before. You had always been so sharp, so quick to hide any hint of vulnerability. But in this moment, with his jacket around you and his unexpected kindness lingering between you, it felt harder to keep up that armor.

Jayce watched you closely, his eyes softening as you adjusted the jacket. "I mean it," he said gently. "You don’t have to go through this alone. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

You nodded, pulling the jacket tighter around you. It wasn’t just the warmth of the fabric that calmed you—it was the understanding in his voice, the quiet way he was trying to reassure you without making you feel like a burden. The connection between you, so fraught with tension and arguments, felt... different now. Maybe it was because of everything that had happened, or maybe it was because you could finally see a side of Jayce that hadn’t been so guarded.

For the first time, there was no bickering, no cutting remarks, just the two of you in the quiet of the lab, an unspoken understanding hanging in the air.

You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t come here,” you admitted, your voice quiet but steady. Jayce gave a small, knowing smile, his hands slipping into his pockets as he took a step back. “I’m glad you feel safe enough to trust me with this.” he said , voice sincere.

You swallowed, nodding slowly. You didn’t know where things would go from here, whether the fragile peace between you would last. But for now, in this moment, it was enough.

[socialobligation]

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now—plural—and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around—not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it—sincerely—if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine—annoying, but fine—if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes—and this is particularly evil—his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting—it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do—which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around—no one’s within earshot— and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then—like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension—your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really—not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself—again—that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy—clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look—the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you—awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs—really laughs—when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class—just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder—wildly, stupidly —what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then—“you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave —but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation—like he’s not ready to go yet—he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning—same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free.—you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs—quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid—a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class—and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice—not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk—the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then—quietly—he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates—then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.

[fishnapple]

Use your 3rd house & Mercury for manifestation

Finding your own manifestation method that gives consistent results, at a consistent frequency is peak life magic for me.

My manifestation method is called "Written coloured words on calendar". I have a theory that since Mercury is associated with The Magician in Tarot, it has something to do with manifesting, especially by using verbal or written words. Mercury will help manifesting the themes of the house that it rules. While the energy of the planet that rules your 3rd house will be the tool to communicate and express your messages.

Do give it a try and tell me if it's effective for you too. If you have your own manifestation method, feel free to spread the magic.

1. What you need

Coloured pens (the colour of the ink of the pen or the lead if you are using pencils, not the colour of the case)

A calendar that has space to write on (other things like a piece of paper or notebook don't work)

Basic astrology knowledge & your chart: you should know what planet rules your 3rd house and what house does Mercury rule in your chart

2. How I do it

The colour: Choose the pen with the colour that matches the colour associated with the planet that rules your 3rd house.

The phrase: I write "I want/need change" with that coloured pen around the space of the present day on the calendar. The phrase should be short, with a broad meaning, conveys the matters related to the house that Mercury rules in your chart. Don't be too specific like I want a red dress or I want 100$, start with general terms like asking for changes, surprises, chances, opportunities, helps, guidance.

Timing: the manifestation will happen within the next week, without fail, this is how it worked for me, the speed might depend on the planet that rules your 3rd house.

Example of how it works: I have Mercury rules my 3rd house & 6th house so it can be straightforward, whenever I wrote "I want change" with green (colour of Mercury) pen on the calendar, within the next week, a new business partnership/offer & more works (3rd & 6th house matters) appeared, I met someone new who would have Gemini or Virgo or both placements in their chart, who I would do business with, work with, travel with or became my friend (3rd & 6th house matters).

*Notes:

So you won't be able to manifest other things related to different houses & planets other than 3rd house and Mercury? → Most likely, I've tried with different houses & planets but it usually had short-term effect or no observable effect, while 3rd house and Mercury gave more long-term effects.

Each manifestation works only once, if you want it to happen again, you will need to write again.

3. Colours associated with each planet & their effect

Here is the list of effects I have observed through the years practising this. It can change depending on your chart though, try to experiment with each one yourself.

Yellow - Sun: Joyful events

Grey - Moon: No observable effect

Green - Mercury: Business, friendships, partnerships (strongest manifestation power, at least for me)

Pink - Venus: Interactions, pleasant exchanges

Red - Mars, Black - Pluto: Immediate unpleasant effects like traffic problems, meeting people in bad moods, troubles with machines, things become more hectic

Navy - Saturn, Blue - Uranus, Teal - Neptune : No observable effect

Purple - Neptune/Jupiter : Increase or decrease of interactions with people, can give rise to popularity but can also slow down your progress (I haven't really figured out this one yet)

Orange - Jupiter: Chances to expand your perspective, be more brave, test your resolution and faith. Some events can be negative at first but will turn out alright, after that you will learn some valuable lessons.

About me | Masterpost

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing 1890s Day Dress in Doll Scale

I went slightly overboard with this second historical doll project. Here's my first one. The style is from around 1897 and more of a middle class style. As with my first doll outfit, I tried to stick to historical methods as much as possible, but the scale forced me to do some deviations. I hand-sew everything though sewing machine was already widely used, because in this scale it's easier to control the stitch, there's not that much to sew anyway and also I just really like hand-sewing. Here's all the items I made. As said, I went a little overboard. One thing that's missing is the corset cover, but the layers of fabric were creating enough bulk on the waist as is so I decided to not make one.

This time I decided to try repainting the face. I don't have any doll customization materials, so I used acrylics. After couple of attempts I got decent results. Acrylics can't make as smooth and delicate finish as pastels, pencils and gouache, which can be used on vinyl with basing sprays, and I'm not experienced with painting small details on 3D objects, so it's a bit smudged at points, especially with the other eye. I aimed for 1890s very neutral make up and the type of expression that was popular in fashion plates and other illustrations.

Undergarments

Combinations and stockings

The combinations are split crotch as they were in the period. They are from thin cotton voile I have a lot of and is very appropriate. I didn't have really tiny enough lace for this, so it's kinda bulky, but I think it's okay enough. The stockings are cotton knit, which fits well. The garters are not actually necessary for this doll since her legs are rubbery.

Corset

I made the corset from a firm-ish linen and satin rayon pretending to be silk as the fashion fabric. The stitching of the boning channels is not super neat, this fabric is very unforgiving, I didn't have exactly matching thread and the scale made it very difficult. I of course didn't have tiny busk, so I used small hooks, sewed thread loops for them and used narrow metal wire for the edges. I think it looks surprisingly right on the outside. I used the same wire as the boning to reinforce the lacing on the back. I didn't actually use boning elsewhere but the tightly packed linen edges in the boning channels kinda work like lighter boning. I think it keeps the shape pretty ways even with just that. I stitched cotton tape inside to shape the corset further. I also didn't have tiny metal eyelets so I hand-sewed the lacing holes.

Bustle pad

The bustle pad is from linen and stuffed with tiny cabbage.

Petticoat

The petticoat is from the same cotton as the combinations.

Outer wear

Skirt

The fabric is cotton half-panama. It's pretty thin, but firm. I would have liked to use a woven wool, but I didn't have any that's thin enough to work in this scale. I think this cotton looks close enough in this scale to a wool with a tight weave, so I'm imagining it's that. My problem was that the cotton was white, but I wanted light brown. I wasn't going to buy any fabric for this, so I did the reasonable thing and dyed it with red onion peals (I've been doing natural dye experiments so this worked well for me).

Shirtwaist

The shirtwaist is from the same cotton as the undergarments. Yes, I dyed it too. I didn't have thin enough cotton in a color that would fit with the skirt and the purple bow, so I dyed it light blue with fabric color. Since I already went the trouble of dyeing I decided I might as well make a small flower print to it since that was popular in the era. I didn't want it to jump out too much but the lighting makes it even less visible. I made it with a white fabric pen. The collar and cuffs are reinforced with linen. I also sewed small stick-like beads to the cuffs on both sides, so one acts as a button (I sewed a buttonhole too) and the other makes it look like they are cufflinks. The bow is from the same fabric as the corset and the belt is sewn from the same cotton as the shirtwaist. The buckle is from a barbie belt.

Waistcoat

The waistcoat is from the same fabric as the skirt, thought the lapels and the back are from another satin rayon. I tailored the front panels and the lapels by stitching the linen interlining with tailor's stitches (I don't remember if that's the correct word in English) into shape. There is some wonkiness on one side of the hemline for some reason.

Boots

I made the slightly insane decision to make the shoes fully from leather, like they would have been in the period. I had an old broken leather wallet I had saved in case I needed some leather scarps. It has fairly thin leather, so it was workable here. It's light brown though, so I used black shoe polish to darken it. I wanted black or very dark brown shoes. I stacked the heels from glue and leather pieces and carved them into the right shape and sewed the shoe itself to leather shaped as the sole and glued it to the heeled and shaped sole. After I had shaped the shoes and the heels as much as I could I painted the heels black.

[dearlenore]

BAMBI. / S.REID / SUMMARY - Spencer meets a young criminal law student

PAIRING: allison!grey x spencer reid / w/c: 2.0K / fluff

a/n: I wanna make this a series so bad, also credit to @cheriesbucky for inspiring me to share my oc!!<3 not proofread I fear…

The moment Spencer Reid stepped onto the Princeton campus, a familiar chill ran through him—not from the weather, though early April still bit through his coat—but from memory. These kinds of places never changed. The stone buildings. The tightly-trimmed lawns. The buzz of students too smart for their own good and not nearly as smart as they’d one day believe.

He wasn’t sure why he said yes when Rossi asked him to come along. It wasn’t like his presence was necessary—David Rossi could give a criminology seminar in his sleep, probably had before. But when the invitation came from the university, and Rossi offered a guest seat beside him on the panel, Spencer heard himself agree before he could figure out why.

Maybe it was nostalgia. Or maybe it was the ache—something deep and slow that settled in his chest more often these days, like a ghost of something he couldn’t name.

The lecture hall was warm, filled with the scent of dusty books, coffee cups, and a kind of hunger that only academic places carried. Spencer followed Rossi inside and took the side seat near the stage, where he could fade into the background. His eyes flicked around, scanning students who leaned over notebooks and laptops, whispering to one another in anticipation. Most didn’t recognize him. A few stared a moment too long, perhaps uncertain where they’d seen his face before.

Then he saw her.

Front row, dead center. Small. Maybe five-foot-five. Pale blue cardigan slipping off one shoulder, an open notebook resting delicately on her lap, even though she hadn’t written a single word yet. She was staring at Rossi like he was reading a poem. Not with infatuation—no—but fascination. Her eyes were wide, lit from inside with something he couldn’t place.

Curiosity. Eagerness. Maybe both.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and bit her pen in thought. The motion was small, almost automatic. And yet, it stuck in Spencer’s mind longer than it should have.

He forced himself to look away.

Rossi launched into his introduction, commanding the room with the ease of a seasoned profiler. “Who here knows the difference between an M.O. and a signature?” he asked.

A few hands shot up, and then—hers.

Spencer watched her from the corner of his vision. Noticed the way she hesitated for a second before raising her hand all the way, like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to speak.

“You,” Rossi called.

Her voice was soft. Musical. “M.O. is the method an offender uses to commit the crime—practical things. Signature is the psychological need they fulfill through specific acts. It’s not necessary to commit the crime, but it satisfies something deeper.”

Rossi nodded, clearly (at least mildly) impressed. “Textbook answer.”

Spencer found himself leaning forward.

Later, after the seminar ended and students began packing up their bags, she lingered. Most of the audience swarmed Rossi, shoving copies of his books at him for autographs or asking questions they could’ve Googled. But she stood a few feet away, notebook in hand, staring at the crowd intensely, as if deep in thought.

He should’ve left it alone.

But something about her kept pulling at him—an invisible string he couldn’t stop tugging.

“You asked a question earlier,” he said, calling out to her with his hands tucked into his coat pockets. “About signature behavior.”

She blinked up at him, startled at first, then visibly relaxing. “I did.” Her eyes flicked across his face. “You’re Dr. Reid, right?”

He nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’ve read a few of your papers,” she admitted, cheeks flushing pink as she smiled. “Especially the one on spatial-temporal patterning and ritualistic homicides. It’s… a little terrifying….But brilliant of course! Really brilliant!”

The panicked praise made something flutter in his chest, a reaction he didn’t quite expect. “Thank you. Most people don’t make it past the abstract.”

“I liked your footnotes,” she said, laughing a bit. “They read like side conversations. Almost like you’re thinking out loud.”

He smiled back before he realized he was doing it. “That’s… probably because I was.”

She laughed again—a small, bright sound that curled around his ribs and stayed there, placing itself as if he’d been missing it all along.

“I’m Allison,” she said.

“Allison,” he repeated. Her name fit her. Gentle. Old-fashioned in a soft way. “Are you majoring in criminology?”

“Psych and criminal justice,” she said. “Double major. I want to work with children who’ve experienced trauma. Maybe help them testify in court…. Or maybe just help them survive it. I’m only human.”

That stopped him for a moment.

So young. She couldn’t have been older than twenty-three or twenty-four. And yet, her voice didn’t waver when she said it. She meant every word. She’d sounded like him at that age.

“That’s… admirable,” he said, quieter now. “And difficult.”

“I know.” She laughed awkwardly again. “But I’ve seen what happens when no one helps them.” Allison flashed a small awkward tight lipped smile.

Spencer studied her. She didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t ask.

“I’m surprised you’re not one of Rossi’s groupies,” he offered lightly.

She shook her head. “He’s brilliant, but a little… intimidating. You’re a lot less scary and official looking… plus you’re not selling yourself so I just assumed I could relate to you more than him.”

Spencer laughed. “You’d be surprised. I’m just bad at it.”

She tilted her head. “I think that’s why I like your writing. You don’t try to convince anyone—you just share what you know. Like a polite invitation into your brain.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

There was a pause—brief, but thick. Students filtered out around them, filing toward the doors, laughing and shouting about midterms. But Spencer stood still. And so did she.

“I’m headed to the arts building,” she said, finally breaking the quiet. “They’re holding a mini recital in the quad. I’m playing violin with some of the kids from the local elementary school. It’s kind of chaotic, but… cute.”

He almost said goodbye.

Almost.

But instead—“Do you mind if I come?”

She blinked. “You want to?”

“I like violin.”

That made her smile again. Something sparkled in her eyes. “Sure. But only if you’re okay with tambourines and maracas interrupting every other note.”

“I’ve worked crime scenes next to train tracks and screaming neighbors,” he said. “I think I’ll manage.”

After Spencer had excused himself, they walked side by side through campus. The wind tugged at her cardigan again, and she didn’t bother fixing it. Her hair blew into her face, and when she laughed, it was as if the whole quad leaned in to listen.

They didn’t talk much as they walked across the quad.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt easy—like they’d done this before in some other life. Spencer glanced at her from time to time, watching how she tucked loose hair behind her ears, how her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her violin case. She was nervous, maybe. But not because of him.

“Do you perform often?” he asked, his voice breaking the hush of spring wind.

“Only for things like this,” she replied. “The kids are part of a music therapy program downtown. Some are neurodivergent, some have anxiety, and a few are dealing with grief. Music helps….Even if it’s messy and loud.” Allison chuckled to herself, a small smile playing at her lips.

Spencer nodded. “There’s research to support that. Auditory rhythm can activate the limbic system and regulate emotional response.”

She glanced up at him, smiling. “You’d love our practice room. Pure chaos.” Allison made a cut air motion. “But their smiles make it worth it.”

When they reached the grass clearing near the art building, there were folding chairs set up in uneven rows, half-filled with local parents and students bundled against the breeze. Children buzzed around like bumblebees, laughing and crashing tambourines together, each sound a wild burst of joy.

Spencer hesitated at the edge of the group. His coat felt too formal, his shoes too polished. He never quite knew how to be casual, especially around people who moved so easily through the world.

“Want to sit?” she asked, gesturing toward an empty bench near the front.

“I’ll watch from here,” he said. “Better view.”

Allison gave him a quick smile, then moved to join the kids. One little boy immediately wrapped his arms around her waist, and she bent to hug him, laughing softly as he clung. Another girl handed her a bright red plastic maraca.

“She’s gonna play the pretty song again,” the girl told her.

“Only if you help me with rhythm,” Allison replied, crouching down to their level.

Spencer watched, unable to look away.

The violin came out of its case like something sacred. She tuned it quickly—gently—before resting it on her shoulder. The first note drifted out into the air like breath, soft and golden. Not perfect, not polished. But real.

The children chimed in soon after, their percussion wild and unsynchronized, but she never corrected them. She let them play. She let them be. And somehow, the mismatched rhythm and sharp off-beat clapping wove itself into something whole. Something alive.

Spencer sat still, arms folded, heart unexpectedly full.

She was luminous like this—wrapped in music, surrounded by joy, completely unaware of how radiant she looked. Not in an untouchable way, but in a quiet, reverent one. Like she was full of light and trying desperately not to spill it.

After a few songs—mostly lullabies and one wobbly rendition of You Are My Sunshine—the concert ended. The crowd clapped. The kids laughed. And Allison bowed deeply with exaggerated flair that made all the children giggle.

Spencer stood when she approached, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright from the cold.

“I warned you it’d be chaotic,” she said.

“It was,” he agreed. “But it was… good. Really good.”

She beamed at him, tucking the violin back in its case. “They’ve been practicing for weeks. I’m glad they didn’t freeze up.”

“You’re really good with them,” he said, watching the last few kids run back toward their parents.

“I just try to listen.” She shrugged. “Most of them don’t get that very often.”

They fell quiet again, the kind of silence that meant more than words. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting golden light across the quad. Allison stood there with her case at her side, the wind catching the edge of her cardigan again.

Spencer wanted to tell her she reminded him of spring. The kind of person who made things grow. But it felt too much, too soon, and he didn’t know how to say it without sounding foolish.

Instead, he asked, “Would you want to get coffee sometime?”

She blinked, looking surprised—but not displeased.

“With you?”

“With…me I’d hope,” he confirmed, nerves curling around his ribs. “If you want.”

Her smile was soft and slow. “I’d like that.”

They exchanged numbers awkwardly—Allison fumbling with her phone, Spencer typing with the kind of caution he usually reserved for crime scene reports. Then she glanced at the time and winced.

“I promised I’d help clean up the art room,” she said. “But… thank you. For coming.” She made an awkward gesture before hitting her fist into her palm and swaying nervously.

“I’m glad I did,” he said truthfully.

And he meant it.

Because even as he walked away—coat buttoned against the evening chill, the sounds of laughter still echoing behind him—Spencer knew something had shifted. Maybe it was the way she played. Maybe the way she listened.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the way he felt a little warmer now.

Like she’d lit something in him he didn’t know was still capable of catching fire.

[wistericaine]

first impressions | theodore nott

serial killer!theo x writer!reader | fluff but in a dark way | wc: 874

summary: writer!reader and serial killer!theo's first date

tw: mentions/references to death, murder as dirty talk

“Sorry that I’m late.”

You looked up to the sound of a rich, Italian accent speaking to you—eyes getting a glimpse of a man you could only imagine in your dreams. The first thing you had noticed was his chestnut brown hair. It was slightly puffed and wavy, resting on his head much like a bird’s nest might. Blue eyes that could pierce like Posiden’s waves were the next thing you noticed, along with a chiseled face and a smile you were sure was blinding.

Theodore Nott. Your date.

“You’re fine.” you smiled brightly at him. “I only got here early to work on some writing anyways.”

That wasn’t necessarily a lie, but it also wasn’t necessarily true. You had found your body riled up with nerves just at the thought of going on a date—let alone with Theodore Nott—which led you to coming earlier than needed. He was a bit of a fantasy for most of the girls who knew him, whispers in Hogwarts hallways about how much one would give to be with him.

The mounting anxiety inside of you only seemed to grow more and more as he observed you.

“You have nice script.” he murmured as he sat down across from you. “And pen.” 

You smiled brightly at that as you handed him your pen. “A fountain pen I got at the one shop in Hogsmeade. The tourist attraction shop?” you explained to him. “The pens are absolutely beautiful.”

He took the pen and examined the tip for just a moment, humming and putting it back down on the table. “It works well.”

“Thank you.” you smiled at him. 

“What are you writing about?” he asked you curiously. 

You smiled brightly as you held your notebook up. It was your prized possession, the beauty that you carried around with you wherever you went. Anything from a full book to a poem about a singular leaf went into it, the spine cracking from the contents inside.

“It’s a thriller kind of thing. Four detectives teaming up to catch a killer.” you explained to him. “The killer has these delusion issues, I would say, that he uses to justify his killings.”

Theodore nodded attentively. “How does he kill people?”

“Uh, well—“ you said, hoping what you were about to say didn’t throw him off. “I guess it depends on the chapter. He tortures them in different ways, the only true connection is the religious elements in each crime. I was thinking of researching pigs as a disposal method though, since he grew up on a farm.”

“That could be the way to your first victim.” he said with a shrug.

You blinked at him. Once, twice in confusion, before shaking your head with furrowed eyebrows. “What?”

“Well, pigs eat everything but teeth.” Theo said to you, looking over the menu like he wasn’t talking about body disposal methods. “And since they don’t, forensics can get a dental record. If there’s a pattern in his victims, that would help confirm the pool.” 

“Oh.” you said breathlessly. 

Never had you thought you would be charmed by a man talking about body disposal methods, yet here you sat. You supposed that was the charm of Theodore Nott.

“What are you gonna get?” he asked you curiously.

You looked down at the menu for a moment before picking the first image that you saw. A regular plate of spaghetti and meat sauce, though you planned to get extra meat sauce just in case it was dry.

The two of you chatted aimlessly after that. Smaller topics, like weather and memories from school. While you conversed about the different classes you had taken, he talked about the parties his friends had pulled. About the way he missed Quidditch and getting drunk without a care in the world.

Though, to no one’s surprise, the topic quickly drifted back to your book.

“How would you kill someone?” he asked you.

You hummed, a bite of spaghetti in your mouth as you thought about it. “I donMt really like cleaning up stuff, so maybe just a shot of air between their toes.” you said to him. “It would cause a heart attack.”

There was a small smile on his face. One that you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been staring at him attentively. “What?”

“I think I’m in love with you.” he said smoothly.

You blinked again before laughing this time. “Seriously? All because of my modus operandi?”

He shrugged simply, cutting through his steak like butter. “What can I say?” he said, winking at you before taking a bite. “I’m a man of simple desires.”

“That desire being women who kill.” you deadpanned. “What do you even do now to want that? For work?”

He shrugged again, this time a bit less enthusiastic. “I work in a butchery.”

“A butchery?” you laughed again.

He nodded and took another bite of his steak. “The meat’s fun to cut when it’s frozen.”

You found yourself rolling your eyes at him for what felt like the millionth time that night, though there was a smile that rose to your face just as quick. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you love it.” he winked again.

And by God and everything holy, you did.

hello everyone, i hope you guys enjoyed! i wanted to write about serial killer!theo and writer!reader's first meeting, bc i know for a fact that those two match each others freak. i also wanted to put a quick reminder that if you want anything specific about these two (or any of my other aus) you can always send in requests! thanks so much for reading!

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© wistericaine 2025. do not copy, translate or claim any of my works as your own. reblogs + comments are so very appreciated!

[neechees]

Historical Indigenous Women & Figures [6]:

Queen Nanny: the leader of the 18th century Maroon community in Jamaica, she led multiple battles in guerrilla war against the British, which included freeing slaves, and raiding plantations, and then later founding the community Nanny Town. There are multiple accounts of Queen Nanny's origins, one claiming that she was of the Akan people from Ghana and escaped slavery before starting rebellions, and others that she was a free person and moved to the Blue Mountains with a community of Taino. Regardless, Queen Nanny solidified her influence among the Indigenous People of Jamaica, and is featured on a Jamaican bank note. Karimeh Abboud: Born in Bethlehem, Palestine, Karimeh Abboud became interested in photography in 1913 after recieving a camera for her 17th birthday from her Father. Her prestige in professional photography rapidly grew and became high demand, being described as one of the "first female photographers of the Arab World", and in 1924 she described herself as "the only National Photographer". Georgia Harris: Born to a family of traditional Catawba potters, Harris took up pottery herself, and is credited with preserving traditional Catawba pottery methods due to refusing to use more tourist friendly forms in her work, despite the traditional method being much more labour intensive. Harris spent the rest of her life preserving and passing on the traditional ways of pottery, and was a recipient of a 1997 National Heritage Fellowship awarded by the National Endowment for the Arts, which is the highest honor in the folk and traditional arts in the United States. Nozugum: known as a folk hero of the Uyghur people, Nozugum was a historical figure in 19th century Kashgar, who joined an uprising and killed her captor before running away. While she was eventually killed after escaping, her story remains a treasured one amongst the Uyghur. Pampenum: a Sachem of the Wangunk people in what is now called Pennsylvania, Pampenum gained ownership of her mother's land, who had previously intended to sell it to settlers. Not sharing the same plans as her mother, Pampenum attempted to keep these lands in Native control by using the colonial court system to her advantage, including forbidding her descendants from selling the land, and naming the wife of the Mohegan sachem Mahomet I as her heir. Despite that these lands were later sold, Pampenum's efforts did not go unnoticed. Christine Quintasket: also known as "Humishima", "Mourning Dove", Quintasket was a Sylix author who is credited as being one of the first female Native American authors to write a novel featuring a female protagonist. She used her Sylix name, Humishima, as a pen name, and was inspired to become an author after reading a racist portrayal of Native Americans, & wished to refute this derogatory portrayal. Later in life, she also became active in politics, and helped her tribe to gain money that was owed them. Rita Pitka Blumenstein: an Alaskan Yup'ik woman who's healing career started at four years old, as she was trained in traditional healing by her grandmother, and then later she became the first certified traditional doctor in Alaska and worked for the Alaska Native Tribal Health Consortium. She later passed on her knowledge to her own daughters. February 17th is known as Rita Pitka Blumenstein day in Alaska, and in 2009 she was one of 50 women inducted into the inaugural class of the Alaska Women's Hall of Fame Olivia Ward Bush-Banks: a mixed race woman of African American and Montaukett heritage, Banks was a well known author who was a regular contributor to the the first magazine that covered Black American culture, and wrote a column for a New York publication. She wrote of both Native American, and Black American topics and issues, and helped sculptor Richmond Barthé and writer Langston Hughes get their starts during the Harlem Renaissance. She is also credited with preserving Montaukett language and folklore due to her writing in her early career.

part [1], [2], [3], [4], [5] Transphobes & any other bigots need not reblog and are not welcome on my posts.

[mediumgayitalian]

its wiiiiiiiip wednesday my little dandelions

HI all. it has been some days since ive posted. ive been feeling weird but im better now mostly. anyway.

it is time at the moment to choose one of five (+1, got more requests than usual this week and i am benevolent) wips for me to update tomorrow. will i 100% listen to democracy? we shall see. is there i chance i leave it to the last minute and get too tired to write anything but a 100 ways? you betcha. but regardless: the poll will immediately succeed this message. then, i will link previous iterations of each wip AND a small snippet of what i currently have for the update. i will work on and post this TOMORROW. read snippets before u vote. mwah. love u.

naomi fic: art more art 1 2 3

The baby does not scream. He does not cry. He does not even blink, for a moment, for a heart-stopping minute; he does not even move.

This is what the nurses tell her, anyway.

Naomi does not know. Naomi was unconscious, and damn near died on the table; her little parasite wormed his way out of her limp as a rag doll and the doctor had sworn he was dead, but he was only resting, taking a breath, a minute, to situate himself. To feel the cold air of the new world before committing to existing inside of it. Cautious, her little parasite. Wary. Already heeding her warnings.

All Naomi knows is that he is small, when she holds him. He fits in her one hand. There is still blood and fluid caked everywhere but his little face, where the nurses wiped him clean, and his nose, even this early, is dotted with freckles, spreading across his cheeks. He opens his tiny little eyes and they are blue --

-- celestial blue --

-- sky blue --

-- and Naomi gasps, struck breathless. He is silent. He is open. He is trusting, tiny and helpless, but quiet in her arms, against her chest.

"You and me," she whispers, tucking her baby son against her chest, against her slowly beating heart, "you and me, sheer fuckin' Will."

divorce fic: 1

Will huddles in the fork of his favorite tree, Cass nearby, gathering herbs, and taps his pen on his notebook. On a page near the end, in careful, neat writing, are names, scrawled up and down the page, crushed into the margins. It reads:

Top choyses: - Bekendorf (nice) - Clarees (proteks me maybe) - Carter (plays soker with me) - Silena (pretty) - Annabeth (frend) - NOT ellis (anoying)

Among others. Will works the end of his pen in his mouth as he squints at the list, considering. He tries to remember some of the summer-only campers, but he can't keep them straight as well since he hasn't seen them in almost a year.

"Cass," he calls, waiting for the sound of a snapped root and her followed yes, firefly? "Which summer campers are the least annoying? Nobody like Michael."

She ponders that question for a good moment. Will watches several different expressions morph across her face.

"...Well," she says, biting her lip to hide her smile, "it might help if I knew what you'd been scribbling away at for the last hour."

pomegranate au: 1 2 (*snippet once again subject to change; i have like 3000 words written that i am not vibing with so i might need to restart)

In his dream, they are in Ephyra. Will stoops low over a flowering bush in a meadow between two orchards, and Nico stands, hair curling in the misting humidity, watching him.

He looks good in red.

There are bangles of gold on his wrists and ankles, like there usually are. His fingers glint gold off the sun. Wine-dark begonias make home again in his hair, twisted among the strands, and black leather sandals adorn his feet. Nico tilts his head, noting them; the thin bands that wrap up his calves and the new soles sitting stiffly under his feet. He shifts, bending low towards the flowers, and Nico imagines he can hear them creak, creasing under the changing weight.

He steps, once, towards him.

He does not move.

He calls out, or tries to. His voice travels out of his mouth and wraps around the rain, disappearing into the low-hanging clouds; he huffs, and drops to the ground, crossing his feet under his thighs and resting damp palms on his knees.

Rain drips, stinging, into his eyes.

He watches Will for a long time. Or, it feels like he does, in his dream; Will flits, humming, from plant to plant, gathering stems and flowers in the apron of his robe, stretching ever few moments as the bend pulls the muscles on his back. When he has gathered enough, and his apron is overflowing, he stands, sighing, and walks up the hill to where Nico is sitting.

Will does not look at him. He looks through him, where he sits, he moves in his eyes in the direction where Nico is watching him but no recognition lights up his features, no part of his irises trace the shape Nico takes up. He only walks, as if there is no one, and sits an arm's length to Nico's right.

Nico reaches out. There is stone, between them, invisible, or at least it feels like there is.

scientific method fic: prologue 1

———

Step Two: Research

———

Will wakes up and beelines for the Hermes cabin, long before they are anything close to getting up for the day, and climbs through the window. He paid Connor seven dollars for a map of their booby traps yesterday, so he manages alright, only setting off the one pie plate full of whipped cream that Connor neglected to tell him about, but jokes on him 'cause Will tripped trying to get over the window sill and landed on his face before the pie plate could nail him on the nose.

He steps around the mess, creeps to the bunk on the lateral side of the cabin, nestled right in front of the opening of the secret tunnels Will isn't supposed to know about, and crawls very, very carefully on top, balancing on his knees. It's a strain, but it's no worse than the climbing wall. He breathes carefully and shallowly, hovering over the sleeping body, waiting for the sun to cheerfully inch all the way above the horizon, and for the rays to turn mussed auburn curls gold, for the light to fan over dark eyelashes. There is squirming, and then a sleepy yawn, and then, from across the cabin, a what the -- followed by harsh shushing. Will manages to bite back a grin.

And then there is the slow blink of brown eyes.

"Hi," Will says.

Cecil screams at the top of his lungs.

"There is something -- fucking wrong with you!" he shouts, kicking Will off his bed, and then cusses him out in so many different languages that Will loses the ability to actually inhale, dying in a little ball on the floor.

"Your -- your face," he wheezes, having no energy to dodge the kick Cecil aims for his ribs. "Oh my gods, your soul left your body --"

"I hate you."

"Oh my gods --"

"Genuinely. Die."

"Gods," Will says, wiping a tear from his eye. A quick glance around the cabin shows several of the other Hermes kids in a similar state. Connor seems to have actually blacked out. Julia reaches over and high-fives him. Will smacks her hand with verve, cementing his role as Cecil's replacement. Currently he is winning their eternal prank war 2,701 - 2,699, which has to sting.

"It doesn't sting. Just know that when I get you, there will be no mercy involved."

"Yeah, yeah." Will snorts, crawling up onto his best friend's bunk and making himself comfortable. He watches as Cecil tries to get dressed in the clutter that is his cabin in the early mornings and offers unhelpful commentary -- "You are colorblind, please stop trying to tell me what socks pair best with this shirt." -- until he sighs and stops fighting the smile pulling across his face. "You love me."

"Whatever." Will pouts. Cecil sighs. "Yes, I love you, you rat bastard."

"Excellent. Hey, subject change -- have you ever died before?"

road trip au: 1 2 3 4

It is not quite dark, when they cross the Tennessee border, but the sign is squarely behind them and deep, dark orange, glinting blindingly off the blue road sides. Regardless, Will doesn't falter; he does not slow down and squint at every exit sign or murmur to himself as he counts the miles. This is unusual, because Nico has seen him squint to verify the street signs on the road he lives on.

Nico watches him, quietly.

Will pretends he doesn't.

They are in and out of Chattanooga. The mountains, too, are only flashes -- beautiful, staggering flashes, but Will winds through them with ease, and does not pause. Nico notes the bored holes every few feet and traces the jagged cliff faces with his eyes, memorizing the way the setting sun turns the stone to ruby.

He flinches every time there is a sharp turn, or a hole in the road. Every twitch of Will's shoulders has him gripping onto the holy shit handle, and if Will so much as removes one hand to scratch his nose Nico stops breathing. They are never doing this again.

But it is nice, this one time. To watch the world whir by outside the rolled-down windows.

pillow princess: 1 2

He wakes up before noon, as instructed. Today there is no struggle. He does not bother to pray for the strength to keep his eyes open. In fact he almost leaps out of bed, and would have outright sprinted to the Apollo cabin was there not a piece of paper balanced on his nose.

He sits upright and collects it off his lap, where it falls, inspecting it closely. It is heavy paper. Cardstock, ivory. Folded crisply once, like a place card at a banquet table. The writing is elegant cursive and shiny gold, which is murder on his dyslexic eyes, and takes him a good twenty minutes to puzzle through.

To His Highness Niccolo di Angelo, son of Hades, Prince of Hell, it reads, in confirmation of your appointment at the Chelsea Hotel, Penthouse Suite. On this day, June 5th, no later than 2 post meridiem.

And then, in messier, penciled handwriting, under elegant swirling decorations:

do NOT shadow traval!!! xoxo Will <3

Nico traces his finger over the misspelled 'a', grinning.

"Alright, you little weirdo," he mumbles, heading to his closet. He digs around until he finds the deep, wine-red shirt that always makes Will twitch. "Let's see what this is all about."

[brattysx]

#O2 — “Some Monsters Don’t Hide in The Dark”

Han Su Gang x reader | Brave Citizen Universe | +18 mdni!

Tags: psychological thriller, dark themes, obsession, toxic dynamics, slow burn, fear, emotional manipulation, stalking, unsettling tension…

O1 — O2

It was never just words.

What Han Su Gang had done to me for years wasn’t some fleeting kind of cruelty, the kind masked by sarcasm or hidden beneath silent disdain. It wasn’t just bullying. It was something else — something calculated. It was a method. An art form, almost. A deliberate, structured way of destroying someone from the inside out until even the broken pieces were ashamed to exist.

That morning, the sky was too clear. That kind of dishonest blue — clean, soft, almost comforting. The kind of sky that lies. The kind of sky that, if someone passing by happened to glance up at it, would make them think everything was fine. Peaceful. Normal.

But it wasn’t.

Inside the classroom, the heat clung to every surface like a second skin. The air conditioner had broken again — for the third time that week. Everyone was complaining, fanning themselves, peeling off their jackets, trying to breathe through the discomfort.

Everyone but him.

Han Su Gang sat beside me as if he were made of another temperature entirely. As if heat didn’t touch him. His shirt collar was slightly open, his sleeves casually rolled up to the elbows, and his legs stretched carelessly out from under his desk like the rules of posture, of space, didn’t apply to him.

He looked like he owned the room.

And in a way, he did.

When the teacher turned to face the board, I heard it — the sharp, unmistakable sound of crumpled paper behind me. A soft crackle that shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. To me, it was a trigger. A warning. My whole body went still.

A second later, something hit the back of my neck.

Cold. Damp. Immediate.

Laughter followed. The worst kind. Stifled, guilty laughter — masked behind fake coughs, disguised by palms covering mouths. It wasn’t loud, but it cut through everything. I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to.

It was always him.

“I’m testing your sensitivity,” he whispered, leaning just close enough for his breath to brush my skin. “Still seems to work.”

The paper landed on the floor beside my chair. A used napkin.

Disgusting.

And humiliating.

My fingers trembled as I reached for my pen again. I took a deep breath. Tried to focus on the whiteboard in front of me. But all I could see were shadows. His presence stretched in every direction, wrapping around me, smothering.

The rest of the day dragged on in that same blur — numb, heavy, exhausting.

But that day, something changed. He decided to push further. To cross one more line.

During break, I headed toward the water fountain in the far corner of the school courtyard — the part near the back wall where no one really went. It was quiet there. Overgrown. Forgotten. It was one of the few places I could go to breathe without being watched.

Or so I thought.

I leaned over, letting the cold water trail down my chin, eyes closed for just a moment — just long enough to let my guard slip.

Then I felt it.

A hand. Pressing against my back.

And then, impact.

My body slammed forward. Metal met bone as my hip collided with the edge of the fountain. My thigh scraped hard against the concrete below.

I twisted back instinctively.

I already knew.

Han Su Gang stood a few steps away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Not even a flicker of guilt. Not anger. Not pleasure. Just that blank stare — like he had shoved me out of boredom. Like I was nothing more than a pawn that had served its purpose.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said, voice flat. Almost polite.

“You’re sick.”

The words came out before I could stop them. Pain flared in my leg and hip, but the heat in my chest burned hotter — anger eclipsing fear, if only for a second.

And then I regretted it.

He took a step forward. Then another.

Not fast. Not threatening in the way people expect danger to be. Just steady. Just inevitable.

Each footfall felt heavier than the last, like the ground was folding beneath his weight. He stopped when there was only a breath of space between us.

His eyes didn’t stay still. They scanned me — from my face, to my shoulder, to my hand clutching the edge of the fountain. Then back up. Methodical. Exact. As if he were cataloging me. Deciding which part to break next.

“Say it again,” he said, softly.

I didn’t.

Because up close, his scent — sweat from the sun, dust from the courtyard, something human and wrong — clung to the air around us. I felt it more than smelled it. I felt it like a prison.

The prison was him.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he smiled. That same twisted, arrogant smile.

And spit on the ground next to my leg.

“Watch your mouth,” he muttered, before turning and walking away.

I stood frozen, the burn in my chest crawling up to my throat. The need to cry rose fast and brutal — like acid. But I swallowed it. Swallowed everything.

I wouldn’t cry in front of him.

He didn’t deserve to see that.

But he knew.

He always knew.

That inside, I was already breaking.

When I returned to class, no one said anything. A few glanced my way, then quickly looked away. Some giggled quietly. Others pretended they hadn’t seen.

And his friends — his loyal audience — stayed close. Laughing when expected. Sitting in all the right places. Blocking out any potential help with their presence alone. They were his barrier.

No one ever called me the victim.

To them, I was just the weird girl who had some “issue” with Han Su Gang.

That’s what they whispered. “The dramatic one.” “The one who doesn’t like him.” As if I were the problem. As if the fact that I saw him for what he truly was — a predator — made me dangerous.

Even the teachers saw.

And still, they did nothing.

That afternoon, in science class, he didn’t speak. Didn’t look at me.

He just reached across the table, picked up my pen, and scribbled something at the bottom of my page.

No request. No glance. Just ink on paper.

When I finally looked down, I saw the words:

You’re not getting out.

Four words.

But within them, there was an entire sentence. A verdict. A cage. A life.

And somehow, I already knew —

he meant every one of them.

⸻

At the end of class, when the final bell rang, I stayed seated a little longer than I needed to. I made a show of packing my things slowly, adjusting the position of my notebook, closing my pencil case carefully, as if I were trying to keep everything perfectly in place. But it was a lie — a quiet, desperate performance. I was only waiting for him to leave first. Just this once. Just give me a few seconds to breathe.

But it didn’t work.

When I finally stood, he was still there. Not walking out the door like the others, not even pretending to be in a rush. He was standing beside my desk — unmoved, unbothered — with his bag slung over one shoulder and his eyes fixed directly on mine. That expression of his, impossible to read, settled like ice against my spine. There was no surprise in his face. No curiosity. It was as if he had been waiting. As if he knew what I was trying to do — and had made sure I couldn’t.

“Aren’t you going to say goodbye?” he asked, his voice soft, casual, disturbingly natural. The kind of tone someone might use with a girlfriend, a classmate, a friend. But not me. Not like this.

I didn’t answer. I walked past him as quickly as I could, willing my shoulders to shrink, to disappear. I wanted him to forget I existed — just for one minute.

But he didn’t let it go.

“Tomorrow is your birthday.”

I stopped in my tracks.

The words were like a blade: short, sudden, and surgically placed. There was no emotion behind them — just knowledge. Cold, undeniable, weaponized knowledge.

I turned around slowly, something tightening in my chest. He was still looking at me, still holding that unreadable calm. There was no anger in his voice. No warmth, either. Only that lethal stillness — like he could destroy you without even raising his voice.

“How do you know that?”

He shrugged, like it was nothing. Like this kind of violation was a natural part of how things were.

“I know everything.”

The sentence didn’t hang in the air — it settled, like poison. Heavy and invisible. He didn’t explain himself. Didn’t offer a story about overhearing someone mention it, or seeing it on some class record. No lie to soften the truth. Just a declaration — absolute and final.

“October third. Thursday. You’ll be seventeen. You hate whipped cream on cake. You prefer dark chocolate. You’ve worn the same brand of sneakers for three years. Your blood type is O-negative. You’re allergic to shellfish. You wore glasses between the ages of nine and eleven. Your uniform number is nineteen. You’ve written three essays about the concept of freedom since you transferred here.”

Each word struck with precise force. Not because of volume, but because of what they revealed. The detail. The impossibility of it all.

It wasn’t possible.

He spoke as though he had read a journal I never kept, listened to conversations I never had. As if he had been there beside me through every second of my life. Watching. Recording. Memorizing.

And maybe, in some terrible way, he had.

My throat closed up. I felt my stomach twist slowly, the nausea creeping in like smoke.

“You’re sick,” I muttered.

He smiled — that smile he always wore when I tried to wound him with words. That same infuriating, controlled curve of the lips. Not because he didn’t feel the insult, but because it confirmed something he wanted: that I still felt something.

“No. I just care more than you’d like me to.”

I didn’t reply. I just left.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat on my bed, knees hugged tightly to my chest, my back pressed against the wall. The blanket wrapped around my shoulders like armor, even though I knew it wouldn’t protect me. The room was quiet — too quiet. Every sound stood out: the ticking of the clock, the whisper of wind outside the window, the occasional bark of a dog in the distance.

And running beneath all of it was his voice. Echoing. Repeating.

“I know everything.”

I started to wonder how much he truly knew. How deep it went. How far.

Did he know I sometimes locked myself in the school bathroom just to cry, just to feel alone where no one could watch?

Did he know I’d already tried to leave?

Because I had.

Two weeks earlier, I went to the school office. Alone. My heart was a fist in my throat. I sat across from the director, my hands cold and folded on my lap, and I asked — quietly, but firmly — for a transfer.

“Why?” he asked, though the tension in his face said he already knew.

“I’m not adjusting,” I said. “I need to go. This place… it’s not good for me.”

He stared for a moment. He didn’t ask for details. Didn’t press. He just nodded and told me he’d review the request and let me know.

I left with something small inside me — not quite hope, but close.

The next day, Han Su Gang walked into class late. Everyone noticed. It was rare for him to be late. He didn’t seem worried. He looked at me — only me — then walked straight to the teacher, whispered something I couldn’t hear, and left the room again.

That afternoon, I was called back to the office.

The director’s demeanor had changed. He wasn’t pretending anymore. His tone was clipped. Detached.

“Your request for transfer has been denied,” he said.

I blinked.

“But… why?”

He looked away, pressed his lips together, and answered almost under his breath.

“It’s better this way.”

And I knew.

He knew. He always knew.

Han Su Gang had known from the beginning. And through silence, through backdoors and influence and fear, he had made sure I stayed exactly where he wanted me.

After school, I saw him again — leaning against the far wall behind the building, scrolling through his phone like he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn’t look like he was waiting. But the second he saw me, he slipped his phone into his pocket and walked toward me.

“You tried to run, didn’t you?”

I froze. My face flushed hot. My hands trembled.

“One day,” I said, my voice barely steady, “I’ll leave. And you won’t know where I went.”

He kept walking. Slowly. Like he was moving to a rhythm no one else could hear. A dance of control. Of inevitability.

“I always know where you are,” he said. “And even if you disappear, I’ll find your path. Because your path always leads back to me.”

His words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. They were something worse — true.

And the worst part? Some small part of me believed him.

He wasn’t just dangerous. He wasn’t just obsessive.

He was the only person who had ever really seen me — every crack, every shadow, every quiet part of who I was.

And he was the only one who made it his mission to destroy it all — piece by careful piece.

⸻

After that moment, everything around me seemed to slow down — not in a gentle way, but in the suffocating stillness of dread, like the air itself had thickened into something I had to wade through just to move. School stopped feeling like a place. It became a corridor with no end, a series of echoing footsteps I couldn’t escape, a daily ritual of endurance. The classrooms turned into whitewashed boxes, sterile and airless, and every face — teacher, student, staff — blurred into anonymous, indifferent shapes. No one spoke to me. No one looked at me for longer than a blink. It was as if my mere presence had become radioactive, and getting too close risked exposure.

I was a virus. And he was the threat that kept everyone away.

Each time I entered the classroom, I felt him before I saw him. His presence came first — a pressure, an energy, a static field that made my skin tighten. It was in the air, like heat before a storm. My body braced for it without thinking, recognizing the subtle warning signs: a shift in the atmosphere, the change in background noise, the prickling sensation along my spine. He didn’t have to speak. He didn’t have to move. Just existing near me was enough.

And he knew. He knew how it made me nauseous. He knew how my hands turned clammy, how my heart pounded when I heard his name whispered down a hallway. He knew I felt his eyes on me before I even entered a room — and he enjoyed it.

But then… something surfaced.

A memory.

Not loud, not clear. Just a faint, flickering echo of something I’d buried because it seemed meaningless at the time. But now, it was different. It clawed its way back into my mind like a ghost, demanding to be seen. I couldn’t sleep. Sometime after midnight, I climbed out of bed, careful not to make a sound. I went to the old wooden wardrobe in the corner of my room — the one with chipped paint and hinges that squeaked when they moved too fast.

I reached into the back, beneath a stack of neatly folded clothes, and pulled out a box. A battered shoebox, taped at the corners, its cardboard worn soft from age. I didn’t even remember the last time I had touched it.

Inside were remnants. Leftovers from a life I rarely acknowledged. A crumpled piece of paper covered in childish doodles. A plastic keychain with my mother’s name written in shaky pen. And then, at the very bottom — the doll.

She was still there.

Wrapped in a gray scrap of fabric, her yarn hair tangled, one of her button eyes hanging by a thread. Her dress, once white with tiny blue flowers, had yellowed with time, but remained intact. I had received that doll on my fifteenth birthday. And I had never known who gave it to me.

That morning, she had appeared on the kitchen table, resting inside a small box with a simple bow. My aunt barely glanced at it.

“Some neighbor must’ve dropped it off,” she said. “Or someone from school. Weird.”

She hadn’t touched the gift. She hadn’t cared. But I had kept it. Because it was the only one. The only birthday present I’d ever received. No one had ever written me a letter. No one had ever handed me a flower or left me a note scribbled in secret. That doll was the only thing that had ever arrived for me.

And now, three years later, it burned in my hands.

Because I remembered the words.

“Tomorrow is your birthday.”

That voice. That certainty.

And suddenly, I knew. It wasn’t a neighbor. It wasn’t someone from school. It had been him.

Han Su Gang.

I dropped the doll onto the bed like it had scorched my skin. My stomach turned, but not with fear. It was something else. Something sicker. A disgust laced with a shameful curiosity. A twisting realization that even then — even then — he had already been watching. Already keeping track. Already deciding who I was.

Why would he do it?

Why go so far to know me, only to hurt me?

Why observe every part of my life if all he wanted was to own it, to crush it?

Why stop anyone else from getting close, if he was the one doing the damage?

Why… keep me from drowning, only to ensure I stayed under?

I didn’t have answers. Only more questions. And each one made my head spin harder.

Because this was the truth:

Han Su Gang knew more about me than anyone else in the world.

He knew what I liked, what I hated, what I dreamed about, what I feared. He knew my habits, my weaknesses, my footsteps. He knew the clothes I wore. The books I chose. The way I wrote the letter e in cursive.

And he used all of it — every detail — not to protect, but to control. To dismantle.

The next morning, I walked into class with my skin pale and my stomach heavy. The doll was in my bag. I didn’t know why I’d brought it. Maybe I needed to feel it again. Maybe I needed proof that this was real.

He was already there.

Of course he was.

He looked at me. Smiled. Said nothing.

But I knew. I knew he knew. And he knew that I knew. And the silence that hung in the space between us was more suffocating than any word could ever be.

At lunch, he sat across from me without asking. Without hesitation. Just slid into the seat like it had always been his. He leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“How’s the doll?”

The spoon fell from my hand. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. Just breath. Just panic.

“You…” I tried to speak.

He leaned back, arms folded, watching me like he was measuring how far the knife had gone in.

“I figured you’d have realized by now,” he said.

“Why?” I whispered.

He stared for a long time, like he was deciding just how much I deserved to know.

Then his voice dropped to a murmur — smooth, soft, horrifying.

“I don’t let anyone have you. Not even the loneliness.”

I froze.

“Not even the loneliness?”

“Not her. Not freedom. Not anyone. You’re mine. You always have been.”

⸻

My hands were cold. The cafeteria still surrounded me — the metal tables, the flickering white lights above, the steady murmur of voices that didn’t belong to me — but I wasn’t really there anymore. My body remained seated in front of him, but my mind had shut down. It was as if some part of me, maybe the last piece of my sanity, had retreated into a dark corner, hiding, waiting for the storm to pass. But even that, he took from me. He took everything. The sounds around me faded into a distant hum, as though the world itself had pulled away and left only him — and my involuntary submission to his presence.

“And the doll…” he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “…wasn’t just a gift.” Leaning against the table, one elbow bent, he brought his face closer to mine. His eyes locked with mine like invisible blades, cutting from within without leaving a trace. “That doll was you. Small, fragile, quiet. Just the way I wanted. The way I still want. The way you’ll always be.” I squeezed my eyes shut tightly, but it didn’t stop his words from crawling into me. He never touched me. He didn’t need to. Every syllable he uttered felt like an invisible hand wrapped around my throat, pinning my arms down, pressing my consciousness to the floor. I felt his control not through touch, but in the air — as if every molecule of my being had to pass through his gaze to exist.

“Do you think you’re real?” he asked, and for a moment, the world came to a halt. “Do you think you exist outside my vision? That if I stopped looking, you would keep being?” The question hit harder than any threat. It was absurd, sick — and yet it struck something raw inside me. Because, in some awful way, he was right. He shaped the space around me. His eyes followed me when I walked, when I wrote, even when I thought. He was the filter. The lens. The frame that gave my presence its form. “I’ve been looking at you since before you looked at yourself. Since before you knew what fear was. I’m the reason behind your silences. Your stutters. The way you walk. The way you dress. The way you write.” I couldn’t breathe.

“Stop…” I murmured, my voice weak, trembling, barely audible.

“You exist because I allowed you to exist. And if one day I decide you shouldn’t, you won’t.”

I stood up violently. The chair screeched across the floor with a sharp, dry sound that shattered the bubble of silence around our table. A few heads turned. Some people glanced our way for a moment. But no one moved. No one came closer. Because it was him. Because no one ever stepped between Han Su Gang and whatever he decided to claim. I crossed the cafeteria with my stomach in knots, tears brimming in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not there. Not in front of him. I ran to the bathroom, locked myself in the last stall, and collapsed onto the cold floor, my back pressed against the wall, breathing unevenly like my body was trying to escape itself. I still had my backpack. The doll was still with me. And without understanding why, I pulled it out and placed it on my lap, as if I needed to see it to believe it was real.

My fingers trembled. That little fabric figure, stitched with such strange care and tucked away for three years without reason, was a replica of me. It was the mold. The symbol. The sign. He didn’t just watch me — he constructed me.

And I hated myself for still holding it gently. For not throwing it away. For not tearing it to shreds. For being unable to fling it far from me, like it had rooted itself into my skin. Because, despite everything, a part of me still wanted to understand. A weak part, a stupid, confused part — but alive. I wanted to know why he did it. Why he hated me so much, yet knew every detail about me. Why he watched me so precisely while claiming to want to erase me. Why he kept other boys away from me, even though he was the one hurting me the most. Why, even as the weight that pulled me under, he never let me drown completely. It was as if he wanted me to survive just so I could keep existing inside the prison he had designed for me.

That night, when I returned home, I placed the doll on my bed and stared at it for over an hour. I didn’t cry. I didn’t speak. I just looked. And for the first time, I started to fear myself. Because deep within me, hidden and silent but present, there was a part that could no longer separate pain from presence. A part that was growing used to it. Used to him. To this cage disguised as routine. To this corrupted bond that, through repetition, had begun to feel familiar. It had started to feel like mine.

And that was more dangerous than any direct violence. More lethal than any spoken word. Because fear can be fought. Anger can be turned into fire. But what I felt was something worse. It was a diluted identity — the slow, quiet erosion of whoever I had been before him. I wasn’t even sure if I had ever been whole. Maybe I had always been the doll. Maybe he never needed to break me. He only had to convince me that I was never whole to begin with.

And little by little, he was succeeding.

a/n: you really liked it, i was really hoping that when you read it, you would! even though it’s dark, some people don’t consider it that way, but i’m telling you, this shit is truly a dark fanfic! i hope u scared 😱😉🥊

[aventurineswife]

Took You Long Enough

Summary: As a Hollow Raider specializing in retrieving lost heirlooms, you’ve spent countless commissions working with Phaethon for support. While Belle, your main point of contact, has always been professional and focused, you've found comfort in talking to her—even if the conversations felt one-sided. One day, out of the blue, she invites you to meet in person, sparking a new dynamic between you. Over time, feelings develop, but it takes a sneaky intervention from Wise to finally bring everything to light.

Tags: Belle x Reader, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Wise Being a Menace, Found Family, Light Angst, Fluff & Humor, Confessions.

Warnings: Mild language, Implied Hollow-related danger, Light emotional tension, Might be ooc.

Requested by: @sessylu

The Hollows were treacherous, shifting mazes of danger and opportunity. You knew them well. As a Hollow Raider specializing in locating and returning lost heirlooms, you had spent years navigating the eerie, unpredictable landscapes. But even the best needed backup, which is why you had hired Phaethon. Or more accurately, you hired them to have someone to talk to.

Through countless commissions, Belle had been your main point of contact. She was energetic, witty, and sharp, often guiding you through perilous situations with her expertise. The only issue? Your conversations had always been one-sided.

Belle, focused on the job, rarely responded in a personal capacity, though you could tell she was listening. She picked up on your habits, your little quirks, and your interests, even if she never outwardly acknowledged them. You often found yourself talking more than necessary, if only to fill the void of silence. It was odd, forming a connection with someone who never truly spoke back outside of tactical necessity. But somehow, it felt comforting.

Then one day, a message arrived. At first, you assumed it was a payment issue. Maybe you had forgotten to finalize a transaction. But when you opened it, the words surprised you:

"Meet me at Random Play. Let’s talk. – Belle"

Curious, you took her up on the offer.

The old video store had a nostalgic charm, a strange juxtaposition against the high-tech world outside. Rows of physical media lined the shelves, and a faint hum of an old neon sign flickered in the corner.

Belle stood behind the counter, spinning a pen between her fingers. She looked up as you entered, her eyes sharp yet unreadable.

"Took you long enough," she teased, leaning forward. "Guess all that time listening to yourself talk made you think too much."

You blinked, taken aback. This was new.

"So… you do listen."

She smirked. "Of course I do. It’s just hard to chat when you’re dodging Hollow attacks. Figured it was time to hear your side of things without a Bangboo filter."

The conversation flowed naturally from there. Belle was just as quick-witted in person as she was over comms. She knew things about you that you had mentioned in passing—your favorite songs, your love for old films, the little details that you hadn’t expected her to retain.

Days turned into weeks, and what started as curiosity became something more. You found yourself drawn to her, and, bit by bit, she let you in.

Then came the commission where everything changed.

Belle was sick, and Wise took over her duties. He was methodical, precise, and efficient—exactly as you expected. But as the mission progressed, Wise started dropping comments. Small nudges, tiny hints.

"You ever thought about what you’d say to Belle if you actually had the time?" he asked as you secured an old pendant in your pack.

You frowned. "I mean… I talk to her all the time."

"Yeah, but you don’t talk to her. Not properly."

Something about his tone set off alarms. Wise was usually reserved, but he was too engaged, like he had an ulterior motive.

Then, mid-conversation, a new voice cut in over the comms. "You know, if you wanted to ask me something, you could’ve just done it yourself."

Your blood ran cold. That wasn’t Wise. That was Belle.

Realization hit as Wise chuckled. "Oops. Guess the cat’s out of the bag."

Belle had been listening in. No, she had been there the whole time.

"Wise," you growled. "You set this up."

"I set you both up. You two would’ve danced around this forever. You’re welcome."

Belle sighed. "You know, for a genius, you have the subtlety of a brick."

Your face burned as Belle’s voice softened. "So… what was it you wanted to ask me?"

You swallowed hard. There was no more hiding now.

"Guess I’d say… I’d like to spend more time with you. Outside of all this. Just us."

Silence stretched for a moment before Belle chuckled, her voice warm. "Took you long enough."

Maybe Wise wasn’t so bad after all.