#library project collab | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ceeaann · 4 months ago

Text

Guess your stuck with me..

Pairing - Troublemaker!Jinx x Academic Achiever!Reader Summary - You’re an academic achiever—sharp, disciplined, and determined to stay on top. Jinx is a reckless, unpredictable troublemaker who barely shows up to class. When the professor pairs you together for a presentation, it feels like a nightmare. She doesn’t help, doesn’t care, and somehow always gets under your skin. But between late nights, frayed nerves, and unexpected moments, you start realizing—maybe she’s not just a distraction after all. Content - 11.5k words, collab with @kkoga !! Slow-burn, Enemies-to-Lovers, Academic rivalry, forced partnership, bickering, tension, Academic stress, burnout, mild angst, brief crying scene, Jinx being an absolute menace, mutual pining, and one very unexpected but very needed kiss. Ends on a happy note!

Your name carried weight on campus.

Not in the way a socialite’s name did, or a legacy student’s, or even a student-athlete’s. No, your reputation was built on something far more lethal—academic dominance.

Summa cum laude in the making.

Top of every class.

Winner of multiple national competitions.

Professors used your essays as the example.

People didn’t just respect you. They feared you

You had single-handedly torpedoed GPAs when professors started grading on a curve. People scrambled to be in your group for projects, knowing you’d carry them to an A (you didn’t let them, obviously). You didn’t have time for slackers, and you especially didn’t have time for people who thought coasting through college was an option.

Which was why, when your professor announced the groups for your upcoming project, you expected to be placed with someone competent.

The sound of shuffling papers and quiet murmurs filled the lecture hall as your Professor adjusted his glasses, scanning the list in his hands with a practiced, impartial expression. You sat near the front, back straight, pen poised, waiting for the inevitable announcement of the semester’s biggest source of misery—group projects.

Your fingers tapped against your notebook as names were read, barely listening—until you heard yours.

And then—

"Jinx."

Your entire body tensed.

No. No, no, no. There had to be some mistake.

Slowly, you turned your head. Across the room, feet propped up on the chair in front of her, sat Jinx—headphones around her neck, chewing on a pen cap like it owed her money. She didn’t even look up, just gave an exaggerated yawn and cracked her knuckles.

The girl who skipped half her classes. The girl who turned in blank assignments. The girl who, last semester, set a toaster on fire in the dorm kitchen and called it "a science experiment."

You clenched your jaw.

"Groups will work together on a thirty-minute presentation due at the end of the month," he continued, oblivious to your silent suffering. "This will be worth 30% of your final grade. I expect collaboration."

Jinx glanced at you lazily, then grinned. "Guess you're stuck with me,nerd."

You exhaled sharply, gripping your pen tight enough to snap.

This was going to be a disaster.

You considered your options.

Beg the professor for a group change. (Humiliating, undignified.)

Carry the entire project yourself. (Tiring, inevitable.)

Force Jinx to be useful. (Impossible.)

Yeah. You were screwed.

As class ended, you gathered your things with the speed and precision of someone preparing for battle. You weren’t going to let Jinx coast through this and leech off your grade. No, you were going to establish rules, schedules, expectations—

A crumpled piece of paper hit your shoulder.

You turned, already seething.

Jinx stood a few feet away, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "Hey, partner," she drawled. "Wanna do all the work for me, or should I pretend to help?"

Your eye twitched.

"Neither." You leveled her with a cold stare. "We’re meeting in the library tomorrow. Be there at noon."

Jinx mock-gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Noon? That’s, like, peak nap time."

You did not have the patience for this.

"Show up," you snapped, "or I will make sure the professor knows exactly how much effort you’re putting in."

Jinx smirked, tilting her head. "Oh, scary. What are you gonna do, write a strongly worded email?" You gritted your teeth. "Yes. And CC the entire department." Jinx let out a bark of laughter. "Damn, you really are serious about this nerd stuff, huh?"

"It's called having standards."

Jinx leaned in, eyes glinting with amusement. "It's called being a control freak." Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag. This was going to be a long, long project.

The next day, you arrived at the library at exactly noon. Jinx did not.

At 12:15, you tapped your pen against your notebook.

At 12:30, you checked your watch.

At 12:45, you debated homicide.

Then, at 12:57, Jinx finally strolled in, looking like she just rolled out of bed—because she probably had. She plopped into the chair across from you, legs kicked up on the table. "Chill, bookworm, I’m here."

You inhaled sharply through your nose. "You’re fifty-seven minutes late."

"Only 'cause I got distracted," she said, waving a hand. "Saw this really cool bird outside. Had blue feathers. Kinda reminded me of—oh wait, no, that was just a plastic bag."

You just stared at her.

Jinx grinned. "So, what’s the plan, boss?"

Oh, you were going to lose your mind.

You took a slow, measured breath. It didn’t help.

"The plan," you said through clenched teeth, "was to start working an hour ago."

Jinx shrugged. "Yeah, well, time’s fake. Anyway, what’s the topic again?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "You don’t even know the topic?"

She stretched her arms behind her head. "Look, I was too busy living in the moment to check the syllabus. Enlighten me, O Wise One."

You resisted the urge to throw your notebook at her.

"We're analyzing historical revolutions and their economic impact," you said, voice dangerously tight. "Which means research. Structure. Actual effort."

Jinx gave you a slow, amused look. "God, you sound fun at parties."

"I am fun at parties," you snapped. "Academic parties. Where people actually care about learning instead of setting things on fire."

"One time," Jinx muttered, rolling her eyes. "That toaster thing was one time." You ignored her. "We need to divide the work. Since you refuse to function like a normal student, I'll handle the primary research and outline the key points."

Jinx propped her chin on her hand. "Sweet. What do I do?"

"You," you said, narrowing your eyes, "are going to actually contribute." Jinx let out a low whistle. "Wow, setting high expectations for me. Dangerous move, nerd."

You exhaled sharply, flipping open your laptop. "You can start by reading the sources I compiled. Then we’ll discuss how to divide the sections for the presentation." Jinx yawned, cracking her neck. "Sounds so exciting." "It's more exciting than failing," you shot back. Jinx smirked. "You really think I care about failing?"

You studied her. She said it like a joke, but there was something about the way she said it—offhand, too casual, like she had already accepted it as inevitable.

You pushed the thought aside. You weren’t here to psychoanalyze her. You were here to make sure she didn’t singlehandedly tank your grade.

"Just read," you said, turning your laptop toward her. Jinx sighed dramatically but took the laptop. "Fine, fine, don’t get your nerd glasses in a twist." You did, in fact, wear glasses sometimes, but that was beside the point.

For the next ten minutes, there was silence. You focused on your own research, occasionally side-eyeing Jinx, fully expecting her to start doodling in the margins or spinning in her chair instead of reading.

But she wasn’t.

She was staring at the screen, brows furrowed, actually reading.

You blinked.

Huh.

Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be a complete disaster.

Then Jinx leaned back, stretching with a loud groan. "Alright, I read, like, five paragraphs. Can I go now?"

Never mind. It was going to be a complete disaster.

"Five paragraphs?" you repeated, deadpan. "That's the best you can do?" Jinx shrugged. "Technically, I read six. But that last one was boring as hell, so I stopped paying attention halfway through." You inhaled sharply. "You—" No. You weren’t going to waste your breath. "You know what? Fine. Since reading is so difficult for you, let's try something simpler. Just tell me what you learned." Jinx hummed, tapping a finger against her chin. "Alright, so—uh—something about, like… taxes? And people being mad about… bread?"

You just stared at her.

Jinx beamed. "Nailed it, didn’t I?" You resisted the urge to slam your head against the table. "The French Revolution," you said slowly, "was not just about bread."

"Are you sure?" Jinx leaned back in her chair, balancing on two legs. "I mean, ‘Let them eat cake’ is, like, the only thing people remember from it."

"Oh my God, you are so—" You cut yourself off, pressing your fingers against your temples. "We are so behind schedule because of you."

Jinx smirked. "Correction: you are behind schedule. I never had one to begin with." You shot her a glare that could have burned a hole through solid steel. "This is worth thirty percent of our grade. Thirty. Percent. That is literally the difference between passing and failing. Do you even care about that?" Jinx didn’t answer right away. For a second—just a second—something flickered in her eyes. But then she shrugged, that same careless grin creeping back onto her face. "Eh. I like to keep things exciting."

"Failing is not exciting!"

"That’s what you think," Jinx said, crossing her arms behind her head. "But I think it’s kinda fun watching you freak out."

You wanted to strangle her.

No. You wanted to graduate, which meant getting through this project without committing a felony. You took a deep breath. "Fine," you said through gritted teeth. "If you're going to be useless, then at least sit there and let me work in peace." Jinx gasped dramatically. "Useless? Ouch, nerd, right in the heart."

"You don’t have a heart."

Jinx clutched her chest like she’d been mortally wounded. "Wow, just gutting me today, huh?"

"Just sit there quietly," you muttered, turning back to your notes.

Surprisingly, Jinx did. For a whole five minutes. Then she started messing with your pens. Then your notebook. Then your hair. You slapped her hand away. "What are you doing?" "You're so tense," Jinx said, chin propped on one hand, watching you like she was studying a particularly interesting lab rat. "Like, seriously, do you ever relax?"

"Not when I have leeches for group members." Jinx laughed. "Come on, don’t you ever just… do something fun?" "This is fun," you snapped. Jinx’s grin widened. "Oh, you are tragic." You scowled. "Just—shut up and let me work." Jinx leaned in, smirking. "Make me."

Your brain short-circuited for a second.

The way she said it—low, teasing—was infuriating. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, but you refused to let her win.

You exhaled sharply. "You're insufferable."

Jinx winked. "And yet, you're stuck with me."

You were going to lose your mind before this project was over.

You had never dreaded a conversation more.

The next morning, you sat in the professor’s office, hands neatly folded in your lap, trying to compose yourself. The office smelled of old books and ink, a familiar scent that usually brought you comfort. But today, it did nothing to ease the tension knotted in your shoulders. Your professor peered at you over his spectacles, waiting expectantly.

You took a breath. "I need a new partner."

He hummed, flipping through a stack of papers. "Let me guess. Jinx?"

You stiffened. "...Yes."

Your professor sighed, setting his pen down. "I assume she hasn’t contributed anything."

"Nothing," you confirmed, frustration creeping into your voice. "She barely even acknowledges the project exists. I don’t even know if she understands the topic, let alone if she’s capable of actually helping."

"She is," he said simply.

You frowned. "What?"

Your professor leaned back in his chair. "Jinx is… difficult. But not incapable. She has a sharp mind—when she applies it."

You weren’t sure if you believed that. "Then why hasn’t she applied it to this?" He offered a knowing smile. "Perhaps that’s a question you should ask her." You exhaled sharply. "Professor, I don’t have time for games. I have competitions, exams, and an academic reputation to uphold. If I fail this project because of her—"

"You won’t fail," he assured you. "But you won’t be getting a new partner, either."

You stared at him. "You can’t be serious."

"Entirely," he said. "Consider it a different kind of learning experience."

You clenched your jaw. "What am I supposed to learn from a partner who doesn’t do anything?"

He smiled faintly. "Maybe that’s up to you to figure out." You swallowed the sharp response on your tongue. This was going nowhere. So, you left his office feeling just as frustrated as when you arrived.

And now, you had no choice but to track down Jinx yourself.

The campus café was as loud and crowded as ever. You navigated through groups of students, scanning the area for your headache of a partner.

It wasn’t hard to spot her.

Jinx was sprawled out at one of the outdoor tables, legs kicked up onto a chair, idly flipping a coin between her fingers. Her blue hair was a tangled mess, and her jacket looked like she hadn’t washed it in a week. A coffee cup sat beside her—mostly empty, aside from the mountain of sugar packets she had clearly torn open and dumped inside.

You took a steadying breath and approached.

She noticed you immediately.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, catching the coin mid-air with a smirk. "If it isn’t Miss Perfect. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

You pulled out the chair across from her, ignoring her tone. "We need to talk."

Jinx whistled lowly. "Damn. Straight to business? No hello, no wow, Jinx, you look amazing today?"

You folded your arms. "We have a deadline coming up. You haven’t done anything."

Jinx leaned back, grinning. "Guilty as charged." You clenched your jaw. "Do you even care about this project?" Jinx hummed, tapping a finger against the table. "Depends." You narrowed your eyes. "On what?" She shrugged, still grinning like this was all a joke. "What’s in it for me?"

You inhaled slowly, resisting the urge to strangle her. "A passing grade." Jinx snickered. "Boooring." Your patience was hanging by a thread. "I don’t have time for this. Either do your part, or—" "Or what?" Jinx interrupted, tilting her head. "You gonna write a strongly worded letter to the professor?"

You exhaled sharply, forcing down your irritation. "I already spoke to him." Jinx raised a brow. "And?"

"He refused to reassign me."

Jinx barked out a laugh. "Damn. Sucks to be you, huh?" You ignored her, leaning forward. "Why are you even here if you’re not going to contribute?"

For a brief second, something flickered in her expression.

But then, just as quickly, she smirked again. "Dunno. Maybe I like pissing you off." Your eye twitched. "You—" "Relax, teach," she drawled, standing up and stretching. "You’ll get your little project done. Eventually."

Your blood boiled. "That’s not good enough." Jinx winked. "Too bad." And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving you seething.

You hated her. You hated how she got under your skin. And most of all…

You hated that she wasn’t stupid.

She was hiding something. And you were going to figure out what.

You were going to lose your mind.

After your conversation with Jinx, you had done what any rational, academically responsible person would do: you finished the entire outline yourself.

By the time the sun had set, you were sitting in your dorm, surrounded by neatly labeled notes, highlighted textbooks, and a fully structured presentation plan. All of it—every argument, every example, every supporting point—meticulously crafted.

And Jinx?

She hadn’t even glanced at it. You stared at your phone, rereading the text you had sent her:

You: I finished the outline. Read it before tomorrow’s meeting.

She had seen it. Read the message hours ago. No response. No acknowledgment.

Typical.

You clenched your jaw, dropping your phone onto your desk. If she wasn’t going to put in the effort, then you’d just carry this project alone.

You had done harder things before. The next morning, you walked into the library study room ten minutes early, ready to work. Jinx walked in twenty minutes late, looking like she had just rolled out of bed.

"Morning, sunshine," she drawled, flopping into the chair across from you. You didn’t even look up. "You’re late." Jinx yawned, stretching. "Yeah, yeah. Time’s just a concept, anyway." You clenched your pen. "Did you read the outline?" Jinx smirked. "What do you think?"

Your eye twitched.

"Of course you didn’t," you muttered, shoving the paper toward her. "Read it. Now." Jinx leaned forward, elbows on the table, scanning the pages with mild interest. She tilted her head, flipping through the structured sections you had painstakingly organized.

"Huh," she mused, tapping the paper. "This is… a lot."

"It’s called being prepared," you snapped.

"It’s called being a control freak," she shot back, grinning.

Your patience was wearing thin. "Jinx, we are running out of time. This project isn’t going to do itself—" "Relax," she said, waving a hand. "You already did all the work, anyway."

That—

That set something off in you.

"You think this is funny?" you snapped, slamming your pen down. "This isn’t a joke. I don’t have the luxury of slacking off like you do." Jinx raised a brow, amusement flickering into something else. "You don’t know a damn thing about me, sweetheart."

"I know you don’t take this seriously," you shot back. "You show up late, you ignore my messages, and you haven’t contributed a single thing. And now you want me to just—just carry you through this?"

Jinx was silent for a beat.

Then, she grinned.

"You’re kinda hot when you’re mad, y’know that?"

Your brain short-circuited.

"Wh—" You gaped at her. "What is wrong with you?!"

Jinx cackled. "So many things, babe." You inhaled sharply, forcing down the irritation boiling under your skin. This was getting nowhere. "Look," you said through clenched teeth. "I need to know if you’re actually going to help with this. Yes or no."

Jinx hummed, rocking back in her chair. "Mmm… Maybe.*"

You were going to scream.

"Jinx—"

"Fine, fine," she interrupted, holding up her hands. "I’ll actually do something."

"Swear it."

She smirked. "Cross my heart."

You weren’t sure if you believed her.

But for now, you had no other choice.

You were going to lose your mind.

No, seriously.

After that infuriating conversation with Jinx, you had spent another hour trying to get her to focus, but she had dodged every attempt. She either deflected with some dumb joke, changed the subject, or—worse—just stared at you like she was enjoying your suffering.

And now?

Now, she was lying across the table, tossing a crumpled piece of paper in the air and catching it while you tried—tried—to work.

"Are you actually going to do anything?" you snapped, not even looking up. "I’m thinking," Jinx drawled.

"Thinking about what?"

"Life. The universe. Why you look cute when you're mad."

You gripped your pen so hard you swore it was going to snap.

"Jinx—"

"Okay, okay," she groaned, finally sitting up. "What do you want me to do?"

You stared at her.

"You’re actually asking?"

"Yeah, yeah, don’t make it a big deal." She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hand. "Gimme an easy one."

Your eyes narrowed. "You want an easy task?" "Duh."

You handed her the worst possible section—the dense, boring, data-heavy research portion. Jinx took one look at the paper and whistled. "Damn, this looks awful."

"That’s why you’re doing it." "You’re actually evil."

"And you’re actually going to help, right?"

Jinx clicked her tongue, spinning the paper between her fingers. "Yeah, yeah," she muttered, flipping through it lazily. "But this is gonna take a while."

"Then get started."

She groaned, but to your utter shock, she actually grabbed a pen and started reading.

For the first time all week, Jinx was working.

You didn’t trust it.

One Hour Later

You were deep in your notes, rewriting a key point, when you heard the sound of soft snoring.

You froze.

Slowly, you looked up.

Jinx was asleep.

ASLEEP.

Face down, arms crossed under her head, completely knocked out on top of the papers she was supposed to be reading.

You stared at her, completely, utterly done. "Are you—" You cut yourself off, pressing your fingers against your temple. "Jinx."

She didn’t move. "Jinx." Nothing.

You took a deep breath.

Then you reached over and flicked her forehead. Jinx jerked awake with a yelp. "Ow—what the hell?!"

"You fell asleep," you said flatly. Jinx blinked at you, dazed, then slowly sat up, rubbing her forehead. "Uh. Yeah. Guess I did." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "You are impossible." Jinx snickered. "And yet, here I am, still your partner."

You were going to lose it.

"Go get some coffee," you muttered. "And actually finish reading that before the meeting tomorrow." Jinx stretched, standing up with a yawn. "Yeah, yeah. You want anything?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Coffee. Or, like, one of those nerd drinks you like." Your brain stalled. "You don’t even help, and now you’re offering me coffee?"

"Gotta keep my partner alive somehow," Jinx said, flashing you a grin.

You didn’t answer.

Because if you did, you weren’t sure if you’d start yelling at her again or—

…Something else.

"Just go," you muttered. Jinx snickered. "Later, nerd."

And just like that, she walked off, leaving you staring after her, completely bewildered.

You were still thinking about it.

Not the project. Not the research. Not even the looming deadline.

No, you were thinking about her.

More specifically, about how Jinx—your infuriating, lazy, reckless excuse of a project partner—had casually asked if you wanted coffee.

Like it was normal. Like it was just something she did.

And worse?

You had actually hesitated.

Because for one brief, insane second, your brain had latched onto the idea of Jinx showing up with your coffee order, sliding it across the table, like it was a habit.

You shook your head aggressively. No. No, absolutely not.

Jinx was unreliable, frustrating, and a walking disaster.

And yet—

You caught yourself glancing at the door every time someone walked past the study room.

Waiting.

Thirty Minutes Later Jinx never came back.

You should’ve expected it. Should’ve known she was just messing with you.

But still—

You hated the way annoyance curled in your chest as you packed up your notes.

It was fine. You didn’t need her help. You never did.

The Next Morning

By the time you arrived at the library study room, you were fully prepared to go another round with Jinx about her lack of effort.

What you weren’t prepared for was finding her already there.

Sitting at the table. Waiting.

And beside her?

A coffee cup.

You froze.

Jinx noticed immediately, her grin slow and smug. "Morning, sunshine."

You blinked. "You’re… early."

"Shocking, huh?" She nudged the extra cup toward you. "Told you I’d keep my partner alive."

You hesitated.

This—this had to be a joke. Some weird, elaborate attempt to mess with you.

But when you didn’t move, Jinx rolled her eyes. "Relax, nerd. I didn’t poison it."

You narrowed your eyes. "How do you even know what I drink?"

Jinx stretched lazily. "C’mon, you think I don’t pay attention? You always get the same thing."

…What?

Your brain halted.

She—she had noticed?

Before you could even begin to process that, Jinx leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like she had won something.

"Admit it," she teased. "You totally thought I ditched again."

You didn’t answer.

Which was an answer in itself.

Jinx laughed. "Damn, you really have no faith in me, huh?"

"Gee, I wonder why," you muttered.

She just smirked. "Well, guess I gotta surprise you more often, huh?"

You hated that your heart did something weird at that.

You quickly grabbed the coffee, ignoring everything else. "Just don’t screw up your part of the project."

Jinx saluted. "Yes, ma’am."

You didn’t trust her.

But for the first time, you wanted to.

Jinx didn’t immediately start slacking off.

Which, honestly, was the biggest surprise of your day.

For the next hour, she actually read through the research, tapping her pen against the table, occasionally writing things down. You caught her twirling a knife between her fingers at one point, but at least she wasn’t using it to carve something into the desk—so, progress.

You weren’t convinced she was actually absorbing any information, though.

"Jinx."

"Mm?"

"What did you just read?"

She didn’t even look up from her notebook. "Dunno. Some words." You exhaled slowly. "You’re impossible." "You say that like it’s a bad thing," she teased. You rubbed your temples. "Just—focus."

Jinx sighed dramatically but flipped back a page in her notes and started reading again. This time, out loud.

"‘According to the research conducted on—’blah blah blah, too many big words, you get the point."

"That was three seconds of effort."

"It’s called efficiency."

You gave her a look.

"Fine, fine," she muttered, waving a hand. "I’ll read like a normal person."

You weren’t sure if she actually would, but for the next few minutes, she didn’t say anything.

And then—

"Hey, brainiac."

You sighed. "What?"

"You ever get tired of being a know-it-all?"

You paused.

Your immediate response was no, obviously not—but something about the way Jinx said it made you stop.

You glanced at her.

She wasn’t grinning. She wasn’t teasing.

She was just watching you.

And that was—unnerving.

You shrugged. "It’s not about knowing everything. It’s about working for it."

Jinx hummed, spinning her pen between her fingers. "That why you do all that competition stuff?"

"I enjoy it." "Yeah, but why?"

That threw you off.

You had never really questioned it before. "I don’t know," you admitted. "I just like pushing myself. Seeing how far I can go."

Jinx smirked. "Bet you win a lot, huh?" "Most of the time." "Damn. No wonder you’re like this." "Like what?"

"A terrifyingly dedicated nerd."

You rolled your eyes. "At least I’m competent." "Hey," Jinx huffed, dramatically placing a hand on her chest. "I’m plenty competent. Just… in other ways."

"Name one."

"I could steal your wallet right now."

You automatically checked your pocket. Jinx cackled. "See? Competence.*"

You glared. "That’s not competence. That’s crime."

"Tomato, tomahto."

You were going to lose your mind.

You sat stiffly in a quiet corner of the library, laptop open, notes organized in neat stacks. Every slide for your presentation was half-done, waiting for input that had yet to come. Across from you, Jinx had her feet kicked up on the chair beside her, her own completely untouched notebook acting as a makeshift sketchpad.

She was drawing. Again.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. "Jinx." No response.

You narrowed your eyes. "Jinx, can you—" "Sshhhh," she interrupted, making vague scribbling motions. "Gimme a sec. I’m in the zone."

"You’ve been 'in the zone' for the past two hours." "And?"

"And you haven’t contributed anything." Your patience was wearing thin. "At all." Jinx finally glanced up, grinning. "I contribute moral support."

You clenched your jaw. "That’s not how group projects work." "Maybe if you stopped acting like a stressed-out librarian, you’d be more fun to work with."

You inhaled sharply, gripping your pen tighter. "Maybe if you actually did something, I wouldn’t be stressed." Jinx hummed, spinning her pen between her fingers. "Sounds like a you problem, nerd."

You gritted your teeth. Unbelievable.

She wasn’t even trying.

It wasn’t just her usual brand of chaos—this was deliberate. Like she wanted to see how long she could get away with doing nothing before you snapped.

And the worst part?

She was enjoying this.

You rubbed your temple. "This is a major part of our grade, Jinx."

"Mhm." "It requires actual work." "Mmm." "I swear to god—"

"Relax, nerd." Jinx stretched, grinning. "You’re smart. You got this." "We got this," you corrected, your patience hanging on by a thread. "This isn’t just my responsibility."

Jinx’s smirk flickered just slightly.

It was quick—barely noticeable. But something in her expression shifted. Then, just as fast, she was back to her usual carefree self.

"Alright, alright." She sat up, cracking her knuckles. "Lemme see the damage."

You turned your laptop around, half-expecting her to fake interest before finding another excuse to be useless. But to your surprise—

Jinx actually looked.

She tilted her head, scanning the slides, lips pursed in thought. Then—"Wow. You really did all of it, huh?"

You crossed your arms. "What did you expect?"

"I dunno. Maybe a little procrastination? A tiny bit of slacking off? You’re kinda making me look bad here, nerd." "You’re making yourself look bad."

"Damn. Brutal."

"This actually looks kinda good." "Of course it does," you replied, adjusting the margins. "I made it."*

Jinx snorted. "Cocky." You ignored her, your fingers flying across the keys—

Until Jinx stole your pen.

You paused mid-sentence.

"Jinx."

"Mmm?"

You turned, only to see her twirling it lazily between her fingers, completely and utterly unbothered.

You exhaled sharply. "Can you not?

"Can I not what?" she asked, still flipping the pen with obnoxious precision.

"Be distracting."

"I’m not distracting," she said, tapping the pen lightly against your wrist.

You snatched it back. Jinx grinned. "Ooh, feisty."

You rolled your eyes, turning back to your laptop. Then, just as you started typing again—

You felt it.

Something soft. Light. Tracing over your forearm.

At first, you thought you imagined it.

But then—

The sensation deepened. Your fingers froze.

Jinx was drawing on you.

Not your hand—your arm. Slow, lazy strokes of ink curling over your skin. You stared at your laptop screen, motionless. For a second, you considered ripping your arm away.

But you didn’t.

Not because you didn’t want to.

But because your entire brain short-circuited trying to process why the hell she was doing it in the first place. You twitched slightly. "What the hell are you doing?"

Jinx didn’t stop. Didn’t even look up.

"Dunno yet," she murmured, her tone completely casual. You blinked.

What.

She kept going. Her brows furrowed slightly, her tongue peeking out in concentration.

She wasn’t doodling mindlessly. She was focused.

Like she actually cared about whatever the hell she was drawing on you.

"Jinx—" "Shh."

Shh?

Oh, hell no.

Your frustration spiked, but so did something else—something you didn’t want to name. "You can’t just—" "Almost done."

Your jaw clenched. You didn’t know if you were more annoyed at her nerve or at the fact that your stupid, traitorous body hadn’t moved yet.

Jinx finally leaned back slightly, inspecting her work.

A series of spirals, tiny stars, and something that vaguely resembled a bomb trailed across your arm, ink sinking into your skin.

Jinx grinned, satisfied.

"There. Now you’re way more interesting."

You inhaled slowly, deeply.

"Jinx, I swear to god—"

"Relax, Brainiac."* She stretched, tilting her head. "You looked like you were about to become one with the laptop screen. Figured I’d make sure you were still alive."

Your eye twitched. "By drawing all over my arm?"

"Mhm."

You scowled. "You’re impossible."

Jinx smirked. "And yet, you haven’t wiped it off."

Your breath hitched.

You looked at your arm.

At the ink.

Your pulse betrayed you.

And the worst part?

Jinx knew it.

Her smirk widened.

And you realized—

You had just lost something.

A battle. A moment. A tiny, imperceptible shift in whatever the hell was happening between you two.

And you didn’t know how to take it back.

The walk to your dorm felt longer than usual.

Maybe it was the weight of your bag, or maybe it was the weight of everything else.

Jinx.

Your arm still felt warm where she had touched it.

You hated that you noticed.

You hated that the feeling wasn’t going away.

The entire night replayed in your head—how she had leaned close, how she had grabbed your wrist, how her fingers had lazily traced ink over your skin, how you had let her.

You should have pulled away sooner. You should have said something.

You should have—

Your footsteps slowed.

You lifted your arm hesitantly, rolling up your sleeve.

The ink was still there.

Messy little doodles, half-formed shapes, some random scribbled stars. She had even drawn a tiny bomb with a smiley face.

You swallowed.

It wasn’t that deep. It wasn’t anything.

It was just Jinx being Jinx.

And yet, your fingers hovered over the marks, barely touching them, like you were scared they’d smudge.

You exhaled sharply, pulling your sleeve back down.

This was not what you should be thinking about.

You had a competition in a few days. You had an unfinished presentation. You had actual priorities.

Jinx wasn’t one of them.

So why was she the only thing in your head?

You reached your front door, hesitating before pushing it open.

The house was quiet. Dimly lit. The kind of silence that should’ve been calming, but instead felt suffocating.

You went straight to your desk, flipping open your laptop.

Distractions. You needed distractions.

You pulled up your notes, reread your speech, forced yourself to focus.

But as the cursor blinked on the screen, so did the thoughts.

Jinx’s voice.

Jinx’s laughter.

Jinx’s stupid, lazy smirk when she had said—

"You trust me?"

You clenched your jaw.

That was the worst part.

Because you did.

And you didn’t know how to stop.

You barely got any sleep.

It wasn’t like you weren’t trying—you had shut your laptop, turned off the lights, buried yourself under the covers, but your mind refused to shut up.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jinx.

Not just from last night, but from every moment leading up to it.

The way she stretched lazily in her seat during class, always looking half-bored, half-ready to cause problems.

The way she smirked every time she knew she was getting under your skin.

The way she had looked at you last night—not mocking, not teasing, just looking.

It was pissing you off.

You groaned, rolling onto your side, gripping your blanket like it owed you something.

You had bigger things to worry about.

Your competition was in a few days. You should be locked in, reviewing your notes, making sure every word of your speech was airtight.

Instead, you were lying here, restless, with Jinx’s stupid doodles still on your arm.

You were so gone.

The realization made something burn in your chest, something uncomfortable and stubborn and so, so frustrating.

You needed a reset.

you snapped into work mode.

Your entire morning routine was strictly regimented—wake up, shower, ignore the way the ink from last night smudged faintly against your skin, grab coffee, and sit down to actually focus.

You pulled up your notes, exhaling sharply.

Competition first. Presentation second. Everything else? Irrelevant.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to dive in—

Knock, knock.

You froze.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

For a brief, horrifying moment, you thought—

No. No way.

Jinx wouldn’t just show up unannounced. That was insane.

But then again—it was Jinx.

You hesitated before standing, your pulse way too fast for something this small.

The second you opened the door—

It wasn’t Jinx.

It was just one of your classmates, reminding you that the professor wanted a status update on the project today.

Your stomach twisted.

Right.

The project. Jinx. Everything you had very intentionally pushed aside.

You forced a nod, closing the door, but the damage was done.

Your focus was wrecked.

And you still had no idea how to fix it.

You weren’t expecting to see Jinx today.

And yet, the moment she strolled into the classroom, she made a beeline for your table—not hesitating, not looking around, just slumping into the seat right beside you like she’d been sitting there all semester.

Jinx barely even showed up to class. And when she did, she never sat with you.

The shift was so jarring that for a second, you actually paused, hand hovering over your notes as you stared at her in disbelief.

Jinx noticed. And smirked. Her lips curled into something lazy, too knowing.

"You look tired, nerd."

You ignored her, dropping your bag onto the table and pulling out your laptop and notebook.

Jinx leaned closer, resting her chin on her palm. "Bad dreams? Or were you just up all night thinking about me?"

You didn’t even hesitate—"I was up all night fixing this project, since someone refuses to do their part."

Jinx let out a low whistle. "Damn. You sound stressed. Want me to draw you a little relaxation doodle?"

You exhaled sharply, rolling up your sleeves—only to freeze when you caught the faintest traces of ink still smudged on your skin.

Jinx saw it too.

Her smirk widened.

"Still wearing my masterpiece, huh?"

Your jaw clenched. "It wouldn’t wash off."

Jinx hummed, looking entirely too pleased.

“Whatever you say.”

You ignored her, turning back to your work.

This was fine. You weren’t going to let her distract you. Not today.

Your competition was coming up, the presentation still wasn’t done, and you had absolutely no time to deal with whatever game Jinx was playing.

You started typing, drowning her out.

Or at least, you tried.

Because not even a minute later—

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

You blinked.

Jinx had stolen your pen.

And she was drawing all over your notes.

Your perfect, well-organized notes.

"What the hell are you doing?" you snapped, trying to grab the notebook back.

Jinx dodged effortlessly, looking entirely too amused as she continued scribbling. "You looked tense, nerd. Thought I’d help."

"By defacing my work?"

"By improving it," she corrected. "Look, I even gave you a cool lil' skull doodle. Very fitting."

You gritted your teeth, trying not to let her get a reaction out of you. She wanted you to snap. That was what she always did—poked and prodded until you finally gave in.

You weren’t playing along.

Instead, you yanked the notebook away, holding it at a distance as you examined the damage.

And—god.

She had covered the margins with tiny, chaotic doodles. Skulls, bombs, what looked like an awful caricature of your professor, and—was that supposed to be you?!

You shot her a look. "Why am I holding a calculator like it’s a sword?" Jinx grinned. "Because you’re a nerd, obviously." Before you could fire back, a sharp voice cut through the air—

"If you two are done disrupting the class, perhaps you’d like to return to the actual lesson?"

You stiffened as your professor fixed the two of you with a pointed stare.

Jinx, as always, looked completely unfazed.

She leaned back in her chair, flashing an easy grin. "Oh, don’t mind us, Prof. We’re just bonding."

You wanted to sink into the floor.

With a murderous glare, you shoved your notebook into your bag and turned back to your screen, utterly determined to ignore her for the rest of the class. Jinx just hummed under her breath, tapping her fingers against the desk.

You could feel her watching you.

And somewhere, deep down, you knew—

This wasn’t just distracting you.

It was messing with you.

And worse?

You let it.

The second class ended, you bolted out the door. Your face was still hot with embarrassment, and no matter how hard you tried to block it out, the professor’s voice echoed in your head—

"if you two are done disrupting the class, perhaps you’d like to return to the actual lesson?"

You wanted to die.

That was the first time you had ever gotten called out like that. Ever. You prided yourself on being a model student. Always prepared, always focused, always at the top of your class. Professors never had a reason to reprimand you.

Until today.

Because of Jinx.

You exhaled sharply, walking faster.

But, of course—

"Yo, nerd! Wait up!"

Jinx was following you.

You didn’t bother slowing down. "Go away."

She easily caught up, falling into step beside you. "Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. That was, like, a bonding moment!"

You shot her a glare. "That was humiliating."

Jinx snickered.

You clenched your jaw, fingers tightening around your notebook. "That was my first time getting scolded by a professor, and it was because of you."

Jinx grinned. "Welcome to the dark side, Miss Perfect."

You stopped walking.

She took two more steps before realizing you weren’t beside her anymore, then turned with a raised brow.

You crossed your arms. "I’m being serious."

"So am I," she said, rocking back on her heels. "It’s about time you got a little dirt on your spotless record. Live a little."

You scoffed. "How is getting scolded in front of the whole class ‘living’?"

"Because now you’ve got a funny story to tell."

"That wasn’t funny."

"It was from my perspective," she said, smirking. "You should’ve seen your face, nerd."

You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temple. "I don’t have time for this."

"You sure about that?" Jinx’s head tilted. "Because if I were you, I’d be real worried about that little presentation we have to do. And your big scary competition coming up. And your totally not at all distracting duo partner."

Your eye twitched.

She was pushing you.

And what made it worse—she was right.

You were running out of time. You had a million things to do, and instead of being productive, you were standing in the middle of the hallway, arguing with Jinx.

She must have sensed your spiraling thoughts because she gave you a lazy salute and started walking backwards.

"Anyway," she said, hands in her pockets, "I’ll leave you to it. Try not to stress yourself to death, yeah?"

And with that, she turned on her heel and strolled away.

Like she hadn’t just wrecked your entire focus.

You exhaled sharply.

You had work to do.

But as much as you wanted to bury yourself in productivity, your thoughts kept drifting—

To Jinx.

To what she said.

To the fact that, somehow, some way, she had managed to mess up your entire day—

And you weren’t sure why you didn’t hate it more.

By the time you got back to your dorm, your head was killing you.

You dropped your bag by your desk and powered on your laptop.

The slides were still a mess.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. This is fine. You could finish it yourself. You just had to—

Your phone buzzed.

Incoming Video Call: Jinx

You stared at the screen.

You had never gotten a call from her before. She barely even texted.

Your first instinct was to ignore it.

But then you exhaled and swiped to accept.

Jinx’s grinning face filled the screen. “Hey, nerd.”

You blinked. “...Why are you calling me?”

She snorted. “Uh, because we have a presentation? Ring any bells?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You suddenly care about the project?”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, I’ve been a terrible partner—blah blah blah—but I figured I’d help. Y’know, out of the kindness of my heart.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smirked. “Or maybe I just wanna mess with you more.”

You groaned. “That sounds more accurate.”

Jinx grinned. “C’mon, send me the slides.”

You hesitated. Was she actually going to do anything?

Still, you sent her the link.

A few seconds later, she shared her screen, revealing your unfinished slides.

“So,” she said, scrolling through them, “what’s left?”

You leaned back in your chair. “Everything, basically.”

Jinx let out a low whistle. “Damn. You really were doing all the work, huh?”

You shot her a look. “What did you think I was doing?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. I thought you were just... like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know,” she waved a hand, “a tryhard.”

Your eye twitched. “I am not a tryhard.”

“You kinda are.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Can we just—work?”

Jinx laughed. “Alright, alright, keep your nerd rage in check.”

She actually started helping.

Kind of.

She made the font colors bright neon just to mess with you. She changed one of the slide titles to “Boring Smart People Stuff” before you immediately changed it back.

And at one point, she doodled on one of the slides.

“Jinx,” you said, staring at the little shark cartoon in the corner of your PowerPoint. “What is this.”

“A masterpiece,” she said proudly.

You dragged a hand over your face. “We can’t have that in the final version.”

“Why not? It adds character.”

“It adds stupidity.”

“Same thing.”

You let out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re impossible.”

Jinx just smirked. “And yet, here we are.”

You rolled your eyes—but for the first time all day, your shoulders didn’t feel so heavy.

You still had a ton of work to do. You still had a competition to stress over.

But at least, for tonight, you weren’t dealing with it alone.

The library was quiet—at least, it was supposed to be.

You were seated at a table near the back, books spread out around you, your laptop open, and your notebook already filled with messy notes.

You rubbed your temples, trying to push past the ache behind your eyes.

"Just keep going," you told yourself. "Fix the speech, finalize the slides, run through it one more time—"

Across from you, Jinx slouched in her seat, legs kicked up onto another chair.

She had shown up late, wearing her usual smug expression, and hadn’t done a single productive thing in the past hour.

Right now?

She was spinning a pencil between her fingers like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

You exhaled slowly, trying to keep your irritation in check.

“Are you gonna help at all?” you finally asked.

No reply.

You inhaled slowly, willing yourself not to snap.

“Okay,” you said, voice tight. “We need to finalize the script.”

Jinx slumped further into her seat. “Pshh, what script?”

You gave her a look. “The one we’ll be graded on?”

Jinx smirked. “Oh, that script.”

You clenched your jaw.

She was not helping.

You turned your laptop toward her, pointing at the half-written speech.

“Here,” you said. “You can write your part.”

Jinx blinked at the screen, then at you.

“…Or,” she drawled, stretching her arms over her head, “you can write my part, and I can sit here looking pretty.”

You snapped your laptop shut.

"Jinx."

You had zero patience left.

“Look,” you said, barely keeping your voice steady. “I don’t care what you do with your life, but I do care about my grades, and I am not about to let you drag them down.”

Jinx just grinned. “So serious. You should, y’know, relax. Live a little.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Relax? Relax?” You gestured to the chaos of papers around you. “I don’t have time to relax! I have this script, these slides, my competition, and somehow I also have to make sure this entire presentation doesn’t go down in flames because you refuse to take anything seriously!”

Jinx didn’t say anything for a second.

Then, she shrugged. “Sounds like a you problem.”

You stared at her.

Absolutely seething.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Don’t scream. Don’t kill her. Don’t lose it.

Your body was too exhausted to keep this up. Your brain was fried from juggling so much at once.

You could feel your vision swimming just from the sheer amount of stress pressing down on you.

You dropped your head onto the table, exhaling sharply.

You turned back to your laptop, forcing yourself to focus.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

You barely noticed the way your head started dipping.

Or how your blinking got slower.

Or how your grip on your pen loosened.

And then—

Darkness.

—

A hand tapped your forehead.

“Yo.”

You jerked awake.

Your vision was blurry, your brain foggy.

You blinked, trying to process where you were.

The library. Your notes. Your laptop screen, now dimmed from inactivity.

And across from you—

Jinx, watching you with an amused expression.

“Did you just pass out?” she asked, tilting her head.

Your heart dropped.

You never fell asleep while studying.

You had too much to do.

You shot up, suddenly panicked. “How long—”

“Relax, nerd.” Jinx stretched her arms over her head. “Like, fifteen minutes. You were out cold. Thought you died for a sec.”

You scowled, rubbing your face. “I don’t have time for this.”

Jinx snorted. “Yeah, no kidding. You looked like you were about to implode before you knocked out.”

You ignored her, reaching for your notebook. You still had so much to finish—

But the moment you lifted your pen, your hand trembled.

You froze.

Jinx noticed immediately.

She rested her chin on her palm, watching you with something that looked too close to concern.

"You good?" she asked.

You curled your fingers, trying to steady your hand. "I’m fine."

Jinx raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, sure. Because ‘fine’ people totally pass out on their homework."

You exhaled sharply, not in the mood for this. "Jinx, I don’t have time for your jokes right now."

She didn’t fire back with another sarcastic comment. Instead, she leaned forward, drumming her fingers on the table. "D’you even eat today?"

You didn’t answer.

Jinx let out a low whistle. "Oof. That’s a no." She nudged your notebook away from you. "Alright, that settles it. You’re taking a break."

You grabbed it back immediately. "I’m not—"

"Yeah, yeah, you’re ‘fine.’" Jinx rolled her eyes. "Come on, nerd. You literally collapsed. You really think you’re gonna get anything done like this?"

You hated that she had a point.

Your mind was sluggish, your limbs heavy. Every word on the page blurred together no matter how hard you tried to focus.

Still, you shook your head. "I have to finish this. I can’t just—"

Jinx groaned dramatically before snatching your pen right out of your hand.

"Jinx!"

"Nope." She twirled the pen between her fingers, looking entirely unbothered. "You wanna work? Cool. But you’re not doing it alone."

You narrowed your eyes. "Since when do you care about this presentation?"

Jinx smirked. "Since you looked two seconds away from dying on my watch."

That shut you up.

Jinx exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Look, I know I’ve been… kinda useless."

You gave her a look.

She huffed. "Okay, very useless. But whatever, I’ll help now."

You were too exhausted to question it. You sighed, leaning back in your chair. "Fine. If you’re serious, you can help finalize the script."

Jinx grinned. "See? Was that so hard?"

You shot her a glare. "One condition."

Jinx wiggled her eyebrows. "Lemme guess. No doodling in the margins?"

"No distractions. We get this done, we run through it, and we’re done. Got it?"

Jinx held a hand to her chest. "Cross my heart, nerd. No distractions."

That promise lasted all of ten minutes.

You were halfway through editing the speech when Jinx started humming.

You ignored it.

Then she started tapping the table.

Still, you ignored it.

Then—

"Psst."

You clenched your jaw. "What?"

Jinx grinned. "You ever hear about that one guy who worked himself to death in a library?"

You gave her a blank stare. "…What?"

"Yeah, wild, right? Poor guy just—bam. Dropped dead on his notes." She tapped your forehead. "Sounds familiar?"

You swatted her hand away. "Jinx, if you don’t—"

Your vision swayed.

It hit you out of nowhere—your head feeling too light, your body too heavy.

You barely registered Jinx moving before your world tilted.

And suddenly—

You weren’t in your chair anymore.

You were in Jinx’s arms.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Jinx had caught you. One hand steady on your back, the other gripping your wrist. Her expression wasn’t playful anymore.

"Whoa—hey—" She adjusted her hold on you, voice alarmingly serious. "You okay?"

You tried to move, but your body refused to cooperate. Your pulse hammered against your ribs.

Jinx let out a slow exhale. "Alright, that’s it. You’re done for today."

"Wait, I—"

Jinx picked you up.

Not entirely, but enough to get you upright and way too close to her.

"Jinx," you hissed, mortified.

"Shh," she muttered. "You’re supposed to be unconscious. Stop ruining the moment."

You smacked her arm.

She laughed, but there was still something soft in her gaze—something you couldn’t place.

Then—

Her eyes flickered to your lips.

Your breath caught.

For a moment, you thought she might actually do it.

But then Jinx pulled back, smirk returning.

"Not yet, nerd," she teased. "You’ll have to fall for me a little harder first."

Your face burned.

And Jinx?

She just grinned.

The tension between you and Jinx hung in the air like a weight neither of you were willing to acknowledge.

You swallowed hard, still hyper-aware of how close she had been just seconds ago—how easy it would have been for her to close that last bit of distance.

Your heart was still racing.

Jinx, of course, looked entirely unbothered.

She stretched her arms over her head, grinning like she hadn’t just said something that made your brain short-circuit. "Alright, nerd. Since you’re obviously about to keel over, I’ll be nice and walk you back."

You blinked. "What? No, you don’t have to—"

Jinx leaned in, balancing her weight on her elbows. "Ohhh, I know I don’t have to. But I want to."

You scowled. "I can walk myself, thanks."

"Yeah? You sure about that?" She tilted her head. "Because, uh, you literally just collapsed."

You opened your mouth to argue, but the second you stood up, your legs wobbled.

Jinx’s arm shot out immediately, steadying you with an almost instinctual ease.

"Yeah, nope. You’re coming with me." She didn’t give you a chance to protest—just grabbed your stuff in one hand and your wrist in the other, dragging you toward the door.

You groaned, stumbling along beside her. "Jinx—"

"Shh." She threw an arm around your shoulders, steering you with way too much amusement. "Don’t fight it, nerd. Just let it happen."

You sighed. There was no winning with her.

—

By the time you made it to your dorm, you were exhausted.

Jinx dumped your bag onto your desk before flopping onto your bed like she lived there.

You glared at her. "You can leave now."

Jinx put her hands behind her head, smirking. "Aw, but we were just getting cozy."

You groaned, running a hand down your face. "Jinx, I need to sleep."

"Then sleep," she said easily.

You narrowed your eyes. "You’re still here."

Jinx grinned, completely unfazed. "You want me to tuck you in?"

"Out."

She laughed but finally stood, stretching. "Alright, alright. I’m going."

She made it halfway to the door before pausing.

When she turned back, her expression had shifted—still teasing, but softer. "...Don’t overdo it, okay?" Her voice was quieter, less playful. "Like, seriously."

You hesitated, caught off guard by the sincerity.

Before you could respond, Jinx winked. "G’night, nerd." And just like that—she was gone.

Leaving you alone with your thoughts.

And your racing heartbeat.

You barely got any sleep. No matter how much you willed yourself to shut your eyes and ignore everything that happened today, your brain refused to listen. Your body felt exhausted, but your mind was wide awake.

You tossed and turned in bed, replaying every little thing over and over again.

Jinx sitting next to you. Jinx refusing to help. Jinx looking at you like she could see straight through you. Jinx walking you back. Jinx tucking your hair behind your ear—

You groaned, shoving a pillow over your face.

This was stupid.

Jinx was stupid.

You were so tired, and you still had a million things to do.

Your competition was tomorrow. You sat up, running a hand down your face. There was no use in lying here, wide awake. With a frustrated sigh, you grabbed your notes from your desk and settled back under the covers.

Might as well study.

You flipped through the pages, scanning over highlighted sentences and messy annotations. But no matter how hard you tried to absorb the information, your mind kept drifting. Every time you read a sentence, it slipped through your brain like sand through your fingers.

Because all you could think about was Jinx.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to push past it.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Still, your mind betrayed you.

The way she grinned like she had the world in her hands. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t paying attention. The way her fingers lingered on your wrist when she caught you before you fell.

You slammed your notebook shut.

This was ridiculous.

You refused to let her be the reason you lost focus.

Your hands curled into fists.

There was no way in hell you were going to let Jinx distract you.

You woke up with a pounding headache. The kind that made you instantly regret staying up as late as you did. Your notes were still spread across your bed, some of them half-crumpled under your arm.

Your eyes burned, your body felt heavy, and your brain was foggy as hell.

And yet—

You had no time to rest.

The competition was today. You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing the exhaustion from your face. You needed to review everything, memorize key points, and make sure you were fully prepared before you walked into that room.

Because if you weren’t?

You would lose.

And losing wasn’t an option.

You shoved down the nausea curling in your stomach and reached for your notes again.

Even if your hands were trembling.

Even if your chest was tight.Even if the words on the page blurred from lack of sleep.

You weren’t going to let that stop you.

You were going to push through it.

Even if it killed you.

—

The campus was already buzzing by the time you made it to the competition hall.

Students from different universities were scattered around, some reviewing their notes, others talking strategy. You spotted a few familiar faces—people you had competed against before.

But your focus was locked on one thing.

Winning.

“Damn. You look like hell.”

You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Jinx.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Not now.”

Jinx grinned, falling into step beside you. “Big day, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t waste time thinking about anything other than this competition.

Jinx, of course, didn’t seem to care.

She nudged your side. “Bet you’re gonna kill it.” Something about the way she said it made your breath catch.

Not in a cocky, teasing way.

Not in a “Let’s see if you screw this up” way.

But in a genuine, I-believe-in-you kind of way.

Your chest tightened.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat.

You couldn’t let yourself get distracted.

Not now.

Not when everything was on the line.

Bright lights. Rows of chairs. Judges seated at a long panel in the front. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself.

This wasn’t your first competition, but something about today felt… different.

Like the pressure was heavier.

Like every second counted.

You moved toward the waiting area, clutching your notes like a lifeline.

Jinx, for some reason, was still following you.

“You got this,” she said casually, hands stuffed in her pockets. You shot her a look. “Why are you even here?”Jinx smirked. “Moral support.” You scoffed. “Since when do you care about this stuff?” Jinx tilted her head, pretending to think. “Dunno. Since now?”

You rolled your eyes, turning your focus back to your notes.

But you couldn’t focus.

Not really.

Not when Jinx was still there.

Not when the weight of her gaze lingered. Not when you could still feel the faint warmth from where she had nudged you earlier. You shook your head, pushing those thoughts away. The competition was starting.

It was time to win.

Two hours later.

Your hands were clenched into fists.

Your jaw was locked.

Your heart was still racing.

You stared at the scoreboard, eyes fixed on the number next to your name.

Second place.

Your breath hitched.

Your stomach twisted.

You lost.

After all that work.

After all those sleepless nights.

After pushing yourself to the breaking point.

It wasn’t enough.

The judges were already moving on, announcing the first-place winner.

The crowd clapped.

You barely heard it. It was like your entire body had gone numb. Like something inside you had just… collapsed. The moment you stepped off the stage, Jinx was there.

“Hey.”

You didn’t answer.

Jinx frowned, stepping in front of you. “Yo. Nerd. Earth to you?”

You still didn’t respond.

Jinx’s smirk faltered.

“…You okay?”

That was the breaking point.

Your vision blurred.

Your breath caught.

And before you could stop it—

Tears welled up in your eyes.

Jinx’s expression changed immediately.

“Whoa—hey—”

You turned away quickly, trying to hide it but Jinx had already seen. You needed to get out of there. You turned abruptly, pushing through the crowd, ignoring Jinx’s voice calling after you.

Your breath was uneven.

Your heartbeat was too loud.

Everything felt too much.

Second place.

You lost.

And the worst part?

You knew exactly why.

You’d been distracted.

By her.

By the way she got under your skin. By the way her eyes lingered too long. By the way she smiled at you like she knew every single thought in your head. You let her mess with your focus.

And now, you had nothing to show for it.

Your feet carried you blindly through the venue’s halls, pushing through a back door that led to the empty lot outside. Cool air hit your skin.

You exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to your face.

Get a grip.

Before you could even try, the door slammed open behind you. You flinched, spinning around—

And there she was.

Jinx.

Breathless from running. Frowning.

"You seriously just ran off?" she said, exasperated. "What the hell, dude?"

You turned away. “Go away, Jinx.”

"Nope." You heard her footsteps. Getting closer.

"Look, I get it," she said. "Losing sucks. It feels like—"

"You don’t get it," you snapped, voice tight.

Jinx shut up. You swallowed hard, blinking back the tears threatening to spill again.

"I worked for this," you whispered. "I gave up everything for this. And I still—"

Your voice cracked. Jinx shifted.

You could feel her watching you.

After a moment, she spoke—quieter. "…So what now?" You exhaled shakily. "I don’t know."

Silence.

Then— "Hey," Jinx said.

You barely turned your head—

And then she was kissing you.

Your breath hitched.

It was fast, reckless—just like her.

But then she lingered—long enough for you to feel the warmth of it. The way she wasn’t just teasing, wasn’t just messing with you.

She meant it.

And for some reason, instead of pushing her away— You kissed her back. You pulled away, breathless.

Silence.

Jinx blinked at you, processing what just happened. Then—

“…Huh.”

Your brain short-circuited. That was it? That was her reaction? After everything—the running, the frustration, the crying—she just goes ‘huh’?

You didn’t even know what to say. Your lips still tingled from the kiss, but your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

Jinx scratched her cheek. “Sooo… that happened.” You opened your mouth—closed it—then opened it again.

“What—what does that even mean?” you sputtered.

Jinx grinned, but there was something nervous about it. Like even she didn’t know what to do next.

“I mean, I don’t see you running away,” she pointed out. You should have. You should be freaking out, demanding answers, maybe even yelling at her—

But you weren’t.

You were just…standing there. Awkward. Speechless. Overwhelmed. Your thoughts were all over the place, but one thing was clear— You didn’t regret it.

Jinx rocked back on her heels, stuffing her hands into her pockets. "Sooo… you wanna pretend that didn't happen or...?" You exhaled sharply. “I don’t— I don’t know.”

Jinx shrugged, but you caught the way her fingers twitched. “Well, that’s not a ‘no.’” Your face felt hot. “You’re insufferable.” “You’re obsessed with me.”

You glared. “I—what?!” Jinx snickered, bumping your shoulder with hers. “Relax, nerd. No pressure or anything.”

But she wouldn’t meet your eyes.

And maybe that meant something.

Maybe this whole thing meant something.

And maybe—just maybe—neither of you were ready to admit it yet.

The awkward tension lingered for days.

Neither of you talked about the kiss.

Not in the library. Not in class. Not anywhere.

It was like an unspoken truce—act normal, pretend everything was fine, move on like nothing happened. Except. You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

And neither could Jinx. You caught her staring when she thought you weren’t looking. You noticed how she’d hover closer, how her usual teasing had lost some of its bite—how sometimes, it almost felt soft. And maybe you weren’t any better.

Because every time she laughed, every time she leaned in just a little too close, your heart betrayed you.

And then—

The presentation day came.

You nailed it.

The professor nodded approvingly. Your classmates clapped.

And Jinx?

She smirked, nudging you with her elbow. “Told you we’d crush it.” You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile. After everything—the stress, the frustration, the late nights—you had made it through.

Together.

—

Later that evening, you found yourself standing outside, the cool night air brushing against your skin.

Jinx was next to you, arms crossed, gaze flickering toward you every few seconds.

“So,” she said, kicking at the ground. “We did it.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Silence. Then—

“Hey, nerd.”

You turned, only to find Jinx watching you, her usual bravado replaced with something… almost nervous.

She rubbed the back of her neck.

“I don’t wanna pretend that didn’t happen,” she admitted, voice quieter than usual.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Jinx sighed, like she was bracing herself.

“I like you.”

Three words. Simple. Direct.

Terrifying.

Your breath caught in your throat. And for the first time since that night—since the kiss—you let yourself feel it.

The warmth. The butterflies. The way she had always been there, pushing you, frustrating you, seeing you. You exhaled, a slow smile forming.

“…Took you long enough.”

Jinx blinked. Then— She grinned.

“Pshh. Please. I had you wrapped around my finger from day one.” You scoffed, shoving her shoulder, but before you could pull away—

She grabbed your wrist.

Pulled you closer.

And this time, when she kissed you—

There was nothing uncertain about it.

The moment word got out, the entire school lost it.

Jinx—the chaotic, unpredictable, barely-attends-class menace—and you—the academic weapon, professor’s favorite, most likely to succeed? Nobody saw it coming.

“Are you serious? Her?”

“What do you even talk about?”

“Oh my God, are you in love with her chaos?”

“We thought you hated her.”

"We literally watched you lose your mind because of her."

“Jinx has a girlfriend?”

“No, you don’t get it—she has her.”

The rumors spread like wildfire.

Some people were convinced it was a prank. Others thought it was some twisted case of academic sabotage. But then—

People started seeing you together.

The way Jinx would drape herself over your shoulders, stealing your pens just to hear you sigh in exasperation.

The way you rolled your eyes at her antics but never actually pushed her away. The way she’d lean down to whisper something in your ear, making you smile without even realizing it.

And suddenly, it made too much sense.

You sat on the grass, books open in front of you. Jinx laid beside you, arms stretched over her head, watching the clouds.

“You’re supposed to be helping,” you reminded her. She hummed. “I’m helping in spirit.”

You shot her a look. “That means nothing.”

Jinx grinned, reaching over to tug at your sleeve. “C’mon, nerd. You’ve been working too hard. Take a break.”

You sighed but let her pull you down until you were both lying side by side, staring at the sky.

For a moment, there was silence. Just the breeze, the faint sound of distant laughter, and the warmth of Jinx’s hand casually brushing against yours.

Then—

“…You know they’re all still freaking out about us, right?” You let out a small laugh. “Let them.” Jinx turned to face you, her usual teasing replaced by something softer.

She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re really stuck with me now, nerd.”

You smiled.

As the sun started to set, casting warm hues over the campus, you turned your head slightly to look at Jinx. She was still staring at the sky, hands folded behind her head, her usual carefree grin softened into something almost unreadable.

It was peaceful—too peaceful.

“Y’know,” she murmured, “if you’d told me a few months ago that I’d end up with you—” she gestured vaguely at you, “—Miss Perfectionist, Miss Always-Has-Her-Life-Together—I’d have laughed in your face.”

You rolled your eyes. “Wow. Romantic.” Jinx smirked. “I’m serious.” She exhaled, tapping her fingers against her stomach. “Never thought I’d get this kinda thing. Someone who actually… sticks around.”

There was something uncharacteristically raw in her voice. It made your chest tighten. You nudged her side. “I’m not going anywhere.” Jinx turned her head, blue eyes locking onto yours, searching.

“…Promise?” You didn’t hesitate. “Promise.” She stared at you for a moment longer—then suddenly pulled her hoodie over her face. “Ugh. That was so corny.” You laughed, shoving her lightly. “You started it.” Jinx peeked out, grinning. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me, nerd.” You hummed, staring back up at the sky.

For the first time in a while, you weren’t worrying about grades. Or competitions. Or the weight of expectations pressing down on you.

For once— You just let yourself be happy.

A/N - this is my 3rd repost because for some reason my post wont appear on the tags ;-; i hope u enjoy this very yummy fic (i had a lot of fun writing this you dont understand.)

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #lesbian #jinx x reader #jinx x you #jinx x y/n #wlw #arcane headcanon #arcane imagines #arcane x you #jinx arcane

589 notes · View notes

reds-references · 1 month ago

Text

We have a new collab! The full set is now up on my Patreon!

I am happy to announce I am one of the reference models used in @matthughesart latest tarot deck! These are a few of the images I created for his project!

You can find his Kickstarter here! @matthughesart

#my references #myreferences #lgbtq #drawredinyourstyle #art reference #classical art #photography #classical paintings

262 notes · View notes

aureatchi · 1 year ago

Text

ᝰ𓂃⊹ ִֶָ SHE PAINTED THE HIGH RENAISSANCE ONTO HER BLANK CANVAS. . .ft. fyodor dostoevsky & dazai osamu

৻ꪆ RIASSUNTO. fata viam invenient...you attend a ball, fated to stumble upon two demons in disguise. you don't know whether it is for better or worse that you somehow already know them, all masqueraded as angels, regardless of how laughably far off that would be.

◞ OR ROME WAS TRULY THE PROMISED LAND, and you sought the art of chaos, rivalry, and seduction.

SERIES MASTERLIST. → ii. | PLAYLIST ♫. | wc. 9.6k+

৻ꪆ a/n. it’s FINALLY HERE !! get ready because there’s A LOT. i’ve poured sm heart into this so i hope you enjoy it as much as i do :) THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who was patient + reached out telling me how excited they are for this. this series is also my entry for @kentopedia’s love through the ages historical!au collab. thank u sm for putting this together <3

৻ꪆ info. fem!reader. renaissance!au. drama & romance. cursing. some suggestive parts. love triangle. arranged engagement. slowburn. lowk touch-starved. a lot of story buildup/complex character. suicide attempt from dazai. historical inaccuracies. bad poetry. religious imagery/symbolism.

— THE MONA LISA WASN’T REAL. And Vincenzo Peruggia was not, in fact, the person who stole the piece, contributing to the boom of its fame to the general public, but was planned in a way to frame him so that the origins of the painting would be a secret gossip only a group of the most successful artists knew about.

The gendarmes were close. They were correct in assuming that another artist could’ve stolen the painting during the investigation. But they never suspected it could be the person the portrait was painted of herself—no, obviously not Francesco del Giocondo’s wife—but the original face who remained under the cover-up.

An artist’s face, who later went under the alias of “Raphael” to conceal her contentious image and entanglements from the public eye—you.

The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin amidst the summer air. The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders, and an unknown heart who vowed to drown you…

“My, miss, you’re already stirring up tons of drama, and you’ve only been here three days!”

The past couple of months had felt like a dream. It almost seemed like yesterday when you packed your things into suitcases and moved to one of the most famous centers of the art world, Florence.

Yet now, you entered through the gates of the ‘eternal city’ itself—Rome, a great privilege granted to you by the Pope himself. You almost cried when you received his invitation, commissioning you to paint the frescos in his private library. Of course, there were some strings pulled, like the person who recommended you…

“It’s all thanks to you, Ranpo,” you giggled mischievously. As the lead architect of the Vatican (but before that, your friend), he had told the Pope, “...she might as well become the best painter in all history. She may not be well known here in Rome, but say her name in Florence, and you’ll awaken the whole city. You’ll realize you’ve found a diamond among all the rubble. Trust me on this one; I’m never wrong.”

“It was nothing,” Ranpo replied with a smug smile. “His Holiness, Fukuzawa never doubts my word.” He tapped his head with his forefinger and winked. “Not only does he recognize my talent in the arts, he also acknowledges my outstanding intellect! I’d be a detective in another life.”

You chuckled before he continued. “The rest is all on you, princess. Again, you’re progressing quickly-” he pulled out a letter to summarize out loud.

“-His Holiness was so impressed that he’s giving you the rest of the rooms to paint,” Ranpo said while you stared at him with widened eyes. “He…fired everyone else who was working on them. On top of that, he invites you to a ball happening in a couple of days to make an announcement on new projects. Other than you, he’s invited only the most influential artisans to attend alongside the aristocrats.”

“No way!” You grabbed Ranpo’s hands in excitement.

“Yes, way.” He let you spin him around on the pavement in eagerness, your long dress following along. “Though, I feel like you’re going to have to explain to him how you painted the library’s frescos so quickly.”

Your turbulence of elation calmed. “Hm, you’re right.

“I hope the question slips his mind.”

You hadn’t actually told Ranpo, but it always seemed like he would figure out everything about you anyway. There was one reason why you had become so famous in Florence. You created masterpieces in what felt like seconds—it was almost like you were granted the touch of creation itself. No one had ever seen you paint, so the mystery of how you were able to produce your portraits in mere weeks—sometimes days remained a mystery to the entire world, no matter how fast science progressed.

You called it an ability. To be able to visualize—a mental image in your head you wanted to come to life in the form of a still painting on a canvas was what you did. You conjured the concept yourself, freezing daydream into textile.

You weren’t sure why you possessed something supernatural, or perhaps there were other artists you didn’t know who could also do the same thing, but firstly, you kept it a secret—it seemed almost inhuman to hold such a power. Yet secondly, it was even more the reason to follow in your father’s footsteps.

He, too, was a painter in the courts of Urbino and would’ve liked to become a famous artist as well. Now, that dream lived on through you—you had studied and trained under his teachers and other artists until you mastered their techniques from the foundations to geometry. Your father was no longer alive, but you were sure he’d be proud of you for getting this far.

“Oh, one more thing,” Ranpo said.

“The two angels of art are going to be there.” The brunette closed his eyes and rested his arms behind his head as if he already knew the shocked expression awaiting your face. “Your inspirations. Osamu Dazai of Milan and your fiancé, Fyodor Dostoevsky of Florence.”

“Pardon me, Fyodor?”

…

A long time ago, your uncle—your now legal guardian—arranged your marriage to Fyodor Dostoevsky. However, the same would’ve happened even if your father had been in charge due to his family’s good societal position.

It was just meant to be, you guessed.

Coincidentally, Fyodor had also taken an interest in art the few times you two saw each other when you were younger, and you eventually saw him go on to become the most talented sculptor in Florence.

However, your path of similarities ran cold after that. You hadn’t seen him in years, and you weren’t even close. You were obligated to write to each other once a month, but each message almost seemed like business transactions rather than love letters. Fyodor was too aloof a person despite being well-educated and polite—though he checked off every other box (and you were sure any other woman would want him), you realized you would never be able to connect with him. He was just not interested.

You couldn’t do anything to change the engagement, but as long as there was no set wedding date to look (dread) forward to, you were content with life for now.

You didn’t necessarily like Fyodor, nor did you go to Rome to finally pursue him, but you admired him from a different standpoint.

He and Osamu Dazai were truly angels of art; even gods, if the Church was not one’s forte. Everyone across the country knew their names—patrons and civilians alike worshipped them at the feet. Even the powerful Medici family, sought by every artist to be commissioned, held close ties with both.

Clientages saved their money to have the two paint for them, upcoming artists aspired and envied their success, ladies came with their names rolling off their tongues to the horror of their husbands’ faces—they were rumored to be devilishly handsome, too. Self-portraits of the prodigies were yet to be made, but you didn’t doubt it one bit. If Dazai was anything like Fyodor, he had to be fanciable too.

They had the world and heavens as masterpieces in their hands; one could say their names traveled as far as the badlands. You arrived in Florence right after they departed for Rome, and you studied the creations left behind to figure out how they made crowds swoon and create such huge impressions on people.

And you found their pieces were indeed the pinnacle of the renascene summer. You silently made them your mentors, incorporating what was successful for them into your own works.

…

“And you’ll be there, right, Ranpo?”

“Of course, so don’t you worry your pretty head about a thing,” he tapped his head with a smile. “Though, I have some work to finish first, so I’ll leave thee to explore Rome.”

“Don’t take the wrong wagon this time,” you giggled. Ranpo was late to meet you on your first day because he kept taking the wrong passenger coach to get to you. For some reason, he was knowledgeable at everything but navigating transportation.

“I’m taking a horse this time,” Ranpo replied.

“Even worse! You better not fall off!”

There was a tailor you had been recommended to by your aunt before you departed. You decided to head to his shop first to find a dress to wear for the evening.

“Good day, my lady,” the couturier said with a kind smile. “I have multiple options of gowns for you tonight. Please do take your time selecting.”

“Gramercy,” you replied with a smile in turn. Your measurements had been sent to him a few weeks ago, so that you wouldn’t have to wait for your garments to be made.

He brought out at least four cioppas. You didn’t even care to figure out how many in total because among all the regal reds, greens, and royal blues stood out a silk, off-white dress with gold accents. Your eyes were immediately drawn in, though you couldn’t put your finger on why. It wasn’t the most showy in the bunch, but that didn’t matter to you. It was like a rare gem among common stones—though you would need a good eye to really appreciate its uniqueness.

You ran your fingertips across the fabric, closely observing its craftsmanship. You became fascinated with the opulent designs on the flowy skirt and the long sleeves. You guessed that if you didn’t take it, you’d instead dream of it for the rest of your days in regret and freeze it in one of your paintings for eternity.

“I think I’ll try this one first.”

Your first choice proved worthwhile when you tried on the gown in the separate dressing room. You exchanged the simple front-laced bodice and plain cotton attire for the new, elegant piece sewn just for you. The fabric hugged and complimented your curves in all the right places, creating the most flattering look as you turned in front of the mirror.

You imagined yourself with your hair styled and matching jewelry to accompany it—you felt like a princess. Perhaps this confidence was the only thing that would help you get through the ball this evening and perhaps your entire time here. You hadn’t been around so much aristocracy in years—though you grew up privileged, you preferred to live humbly and simply focus on your hobby (and you spared your change on those in need). You were lovely yourself, no doubt, and maybe that’s why you charmed many people of different social classes as you grew more popular.

You studied yourself through the mirror again, and it was like the polarity of your dresses reflected the fate of this new chapter of life set against the one you left behind.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and an unknown heart that vowed to drown you…you suddenly felt cold. You rushed to get out of the room.

“It’s perfect on you,” the tailor said, unable to disguise his awe when you asked him for his opinion and to ensure all the sizing was correct. You nodded in curiosity when he asked, “Now, would you like to know the inspiration behind the dress?” You always looked forward to seeing how your tailors incorporated your personality and family style into their design.

“It’s a play on a singular topic,” he said.

“Angels. A dual purpose signifying both the type of art you create and how you give off an entrancing allure—they will be curious about your enigmatic yet enchanting importance. That will be your statement tonight among the darker colors.”

The earlier thought of comparing your two inspirations to angels came to mind. You decided right then—you found no need to try on any of the others.

“I’ll have this one sent for me tonight,” you said. “Thank you again.”

Rome was alive and busy with action at every corner you turned. You strolled down the streets with no set destination, admiring the liveliness of the city. There were markets and shops everywhere and merchants with all sorts of foreign goods.

You discovered a ruella at the corner of one street, and the door was widely opened. You peered in to see a group of women inside, probably discussing various intellectual topics.

You decided to go inside and socialize, having nothing better to do. As you stepped into the salon, they all turned to greet you.

“Good day, miss,” a few of them said.

“Oh, aren’t you the Florentine artist?” one of them asked. She moved to the side so you’d have a spot to sit.

I got recognized, you thought, and you couldn’t hide your smile.

“My husband was there awhile back,” she continued as you sat beside her. “He couldn’t stop talking about how enamored he was with your style and was sure you’d make it here next. Looks like he was correct!”

“I’m very flattered,” you responded, a warm tint in your cheeks.

“Did you recently arrive?” she asked. “I hope your journey here went smoothly.”

“Yes, it went alright!” you said. “The weather wasn’t too bad, and I enjoyed the views on the way. I even passed by some lakes…”

You felt it again. A shiver ran down your spine. The crashing of ice-cold water on your skin that stood perpendicular to summer’s balmy weather. The intense feeling to stay alive—to save yourself and the soul you did not know…

Your journey had gone smoothly up until you passed by one of the lakes near Rome. It had been a peaceful day, and your coach driver suggested that you look outside. You lifted the curtain and were received with one of nature’s blessings—verdant grass and plants that thrived around clear blue waters.

You could’ve painted it if you remembered the sight. You truly could have if the memory of the scene wasn’t tainted by what you saw seconds after.

“Hey, is that a person?” you asked your driver, squinting your eyes—unblemished, untouched picture shattering in your head. The land on one side of the lake was vastly elevated, creating a cliff on that end, and a figure stood in the distance.

A moment passed.

“…Yes, my lady.”

Your eyes weren’t betraying you—there was a man dangerously close to the cliff’s ledge, and you weren’t born yesterday to not know what he was thinking of doing.

“Stop the wagon,” you said, a slip of panic in your tone. Your driver looked back at you hesitantly, but you ordered once again.

“Please stop the wagon. Don’t come after me. And don’t tell anyone about this.”

The horses carrying you came to a halt, and you rushed out of the chaise. You weren’t sure what had gotten into you at that moment—there was a random person you happened to catch making more than a terrible decision, why get involved—but you couldn’t stop now as it was like your legs were carrying you themselves. You immediately took off east towards the cliff. It would take you a few minutes until you got to the man.

What would you even tell him? Would you try to talk him out of it? Gaslight him into stepping away from the edge? Offer to paint him a custom piece for free?—“Oh, I’m actually a famous artist in the country, I can paint you whatever you wish. But I can’t really do that if you kill yourself.” You dashed past grass and rocks as you hurried up the hill.

You would definitely have to change once you got back—the bottom of your dress was already soiled, and you were sweating.

Splash!

Your face was struck in complete horror at the loud sound. You peered over the edge to see huge ripples cascading across the surface of the lake.

Oh shit!

You ran back down and then towards the shore. You thanked God that you weren’t using any heavy layers under your dress that day and prayed you weren’t going to end up killing yourself as well. You knew how to swim, but the man was far from the bank.

Am I really going to do this?

This might’ve been the most spontaneous thing I’ve done. And the worst.

You liked to think that if you saved him, you would be rewarded in some other way. A good Samaritan—you thought. It had to be worth it. You couldn’t die before your new life even began.

You submerged yourself into what felt like frozen water, your clothing suddenly feeling uncomfortable around you. Still, you wasted no time swimming toward the man who jumped in.

He was already sinking—of course, this lake has to be deep. You immediately grabbed onto his waist when you got to him, but not before you took a good look at his face. He was probably of the working class because he only wore a simple white shirt. You also noticed he was covered by an absurd amount of bandages. Soft waves of brunette hair framed the man’s profile, and he looked far more content and at peace than he should’ve been. In any other situation, you would’ve thought he was taking a pleasant nap by the way his eyes were closed, and his lips were slightly parted.

You’d never seen anyone so pretty underwater. If you hadn’t seen him as a human above land, you would’ve thought he was a mermaid or some other foreign creature.

Your thoughts and observations were interrupted when you realized you couldn’t hold your breath any longer. Trying not to panic anymore, you first tried to drag the two of you up above the water, but you weren’t strong enough to battle the weight of it against the two of you.

You would have to swim to shore and didn’t know if you had enough air to return.

Well, I need to make it work anyway, you thought. You wouldn’t let this mysterious guy you didn’t know cut off everything you wanted to pursue.

You took ahold of one of the man’s loose arms and, with determination, tried to propel yourself the way you came from, kicking your legs through the water. You were more than correct in assuming it would be complicated—the energy in your body drained quickly.

You were only halfway from where you started when you accidentally choked. But that caused you to completely seize up—water poured into your lungs like open floodgates, and you were unable to breathe. You tried to push yourself up to get air, but you were already too weak to carry even yourself.

The weight of your aspirations on your shoulders and trying to save an unknown heart that had led to you drown—you wondered if he was still alive. He would have to be resuscitated at this point, and you realized, you too. If anyone came in time to save you, that was. You shouldn’t have had ordered your driver to not follow after you. Or rushed into the lake unprepared.

Or involve yourself with this man. It was his decision to jump off the cliff…and now you had tied his own weight onto your life. Maybe it was all too heavy to carr—

“I’m happy to hear,” the woman replied, oblivious to and interrupting the encounter you were replaying in your head. “I wish you the most success here.”

“Thank you,” you replied. “You are very kind.”

“I am a bit nervous,” you whispered. “I’ll be meeting His Holiness for the first time and other artists. Do I even compare to them?”

It was evening now. You had spent the last couple of hours preparing for the ball after exploring town—you had on the classy cream-colored dress you selected earlier from the tailor, accompanied by a couple of necklaces. Your hair was put up in a complex style and fastened by a few pieces of jewelry.

Your mind utterly conflicted with your appearance, though. Your thoughts were in chaotic peril—you tried to hide the fact that you had been pacing around your room in anxiousness right up until Ranpo picked you up.

“Thou art second to none, miss,” Ranpo replied with a wink and a tight squeeze of your hand. It had only half the same effect as his bear hugs the viridescent-eyed would give you when you weren’t in public, but it was enough. “There’s no reason to be nervous. You fascinated him long ago—you might’ve even been his favorite if I wasn’t here!”

“Maybe so.” You giggled at his lighthearted smugness. “Well then, let’s get going.”

Ranpo nodded and led you through the large doors of the ballroom. Immediately, you were greeted with the celestial light from the chandeliers contrasting the dark evening sky outside.

Your eyes drifted in awe among the artigiani and aristocratici of Rome. It was almost chimerical—you hardly remembered you were still holding Ranpo’s hand. The scene looked like it came straight out of a painting.

“Appealing so far?” Ranpo asked, guiding you down the stairwell. “Can it stand against the Florentine carnivals?”

You slowly nodded, still focused on the liveliness surrounding you. “It feels divine.” It was more prestigious than any event you’d been to so far—most likely because this was held in one of the Pope’s courts itself.

“You haven’t even experienced it yet,” Ranpo laughed before leading you into the waltzing crowd. “Shall we dance?”

You and Ranpo followed the movements of the other couples. When you were sure of the pattern of the steps, your eyes wandered again to admire the setting. Everyone was dressed to the nines—although, as your tailor said, they all wore darker colors. You pretended to not notice the looks you received from strangers—however, they were not insulting. They were out of captivation and marvel.

Multiple pieces of artwork were hung around the hall, too, and you wondered if the chosen artists who created them were here now. You considered if they knew of your name too, just as you recognized theirs.

However, your heart almost stopped when you were reminded of a completely different topic. Ranpo noticed a moment of shock flash through your eyes but did not proceed to question you. (Thankfully, he knew when you would prefer him not to be nosy.)

You saw the back of a man’s head dressed in pure white—his brunette hair in slightly messy, soft waves.

There is no way.

However, you could not confirm your suspicions because he approached a lady in a beautiful, deep red gown to ask for a dance. His face and figure became completely hidden as he waltzed with her at the opposite side of the room.

“See someone you know?” you heard Ranpo ask.

Of course he didn’t need to be nosy, because he figured out everything about you anyway.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” you responded quietly, still trying to get a glimpse of him, but before you could say anything more, a guard standing next to the entrance silenced the entire crowd.

“Enter, His Holiness, Fukuzawa!”

You immediately turned around, and once more was someone dressed in white—the Pope, Yukichi Fukuzawa. You glanced at Ranpo, who gave you a nod of reassurance before politely applauding with everyone else.

“Thank you for attending this event today,” Fukuzawa started. “Our city has made much progress due to the collaboration and contribution of our artists, so I would like to take tonight to celebrate all of them. Ultimately, I want to reveal the next upcoming project.”

After a few more words, everyone applauded again, and the party resumed activity. You and Ranpo moved away from the dance, him deciding it was finally time to do the thing you were dreading.

“Look over there.” Ranpo urged his head towards two men in conversation standing a few feet away.

If the ballroom really represented the heavens, surely these two were the angels. Even without Ranpo telling you, you knew them to be Osamu Dazai and Fyodor Dostoevsky, standing side by side, white suits further proving their empyreal position.

But your eyes widened, and if you hadn’t been careful, your jaw would’ve dropped, too. Obviously, you recognized Fyodor—tall, jet-black hair—handsome and intimidating as ever, but you didn’t dwell on him for too long. Your eyes quickly scanned the room in search of a woman from earlier with dark curls, dressed in deep red, and when you found her, she was no longer dancing with the brunette dressed in white.

You looked back at the man beside Fyodor.

It’s him.

And as if hell—fate, whatever wanted to taunt you further, Osamu Dazai noticed you and Ranpo first, pausing his share of thoughts with the ravenette. You locked eyes with him, and you immediately became embarrassed.

What the hell? First, one of them is my fiancé, whom I don’t even say a word to, and then the second is…him?

Perhaps we shall meet again, were the brunette’s words to you by that lake. You truly didn’t believe him then, but it wasn’t the first time you choked on your assumptions.

In a split second, you pulled Ranpo out of sight. “Ranpo,” you pleaded. “I can’t meet them now!” Your fingers hastily ran through your hair, making sure everything was in place. “I’m not even sure what to say-”

“You’ll have to rip off the bandage sooner or later,” he said, tugging on you. “And I say the sooner, the better! I’ll introduce you to them!” You felt even more displaced at the fact that he offered to introduce you to your own fiancé. However, before you could even object (or say, “Ranpo, somehow I already fucking know both of them!”), he dragged you back—toward the two painters.

“Good evening, my lords,” Ranpo said as you approached them.

You didn’t miss how Dazai’s face lit up in a curt smile. Meanwhile, Fyodor had on a neutral expression—probably the only appearance you ever saw him wear.

“Good evening, Edogawa, the darling of His Holiness,” Fyodor said, the slightest spite in his tone. He did not glance at you at all.

“Still as cold-hearted as ever, Il Divino-Painter,” Ranpo replied with a chuckle, but it was apparent that he did not like the man.

“I am a sculptor,” Fyodor corrected, a bogus smile still plastered on his face.

“Don’t mind him,” Dazai said, patting your friend’s shoulder. “He’s just jealous you’re in charge of planning out the entire Vatican palace. And also at the fact His Holiness had to force him into a suit!” When Fyodor gave him a look, Dazai turned to you.

He had eyes of the sunset, paving the way of something between hell and earth—though in a perfect world, it should’ve been the other way around because he looked as if he had just come down from heaven. You felt your cheeks warm and an uncertain feeling in your stomach.

“Good evening, my lady,” Dazai said, knocking you out of your reverie. You blushed again as he knelt to take your hand and kiss it, bowing before you—the single minute felt longer than nox itself.

Was this the same man you met at the lake a few days ago?

He was the artist you admired all along?

“Apologies for not greeting you first,” he continued as he stood up. “I did see you earlier. How could anyone not notice the angel of Florence who creates masterpieces in days, especially when she looks like one tonight?” You became even more flustered by his sweet words.

He was familiar with my name all along.

“Ah, so you already recognize her?” Ranpo asked.

“Of course I do!” You suddenly tensed—half expecting him to reveal your previous encounter with him that you did not want anyone else to know. (If Ranpo knew, you hoped he would keep his mouth shut for your sake.) It would cause too much trouble if someone decided to spread it, and even worse if your uncle found out. He was very strict on image.

But to your relief, he did not.

“I am very fond of your style, my lady,” Dazai said, resting his hand under his chin. “Madonna del Granduca,” one of your paintings. “You capture human sentiment and emotion so well, even in the most simplistic pieces.”

Finally, you were able to respond to one of his compliments without becoming a mess. “Thank you.”

“...And sfumato, your technique,” Fyodor added. “Perhaps you like her style so much because she takes it from you.”

It was only now Fyodor finally acknowledged you.

He may just be the son of Nyx. His intentions were tucked away behind amethyst eyes, slumbering in the peaceful twilight he allowed mercy to while all else was caught up in chaotic darkness. Maybe no one else noticed that—if anyone did, Fyodor would not be as beloved as he was now—but you did. You saw through the three strands of malice that laced his following words.

“Good evening,” he said softly. He kneeled in front of you with your hand, tormenting you with eye contact.

“It’s an honor to see you again, miss. Though I must ask, was Florence not enough?

“Is grasping originality so tough?

“Are you here to copy more artistic concepts to boost your own depictions of seraph?”

He delivered a deadly kiss to your hand before you could respond, and before he could see the puzzlement on your face.

“Excuse me?”

But you did not falter before him as he stood back up. He did not intimidate you.

“I’m flattered.”

For once, the slightest sign of curiosity seeped onto Fyodor’s face.

You gave him a poisonous smile of your own.

“Sfumato—the blending of colors to create smooth transitions between them,” you explained, giving a nod toward Dazai. “I’m honored that you immersed yourself so much with my painting that you could observe such a detail.”

Ranpo pretended to look around the hall as if he wasn’t paying attention to what was happening, while Dazai couldn’t keep a snort from escaping his throat.

You kept your eyes fixed on your fiancé’s violet gaze, trying to figure out whether or not you’d be dead after the night was over. Actually—he seemed like the type that could seduce someone into death. Stygian black hair framed against his pallid complexion—ethereal, no doubt, yet you would not be surprised if he turned out to be the Grim Reaper’s right-hand man. (And you were supposed to marry him!)

“I’m here because His Holiness summoned me to paint the frescos in his house. I feel that if he sensed plagiarism in my work, he would’ve not trusted me with this project.

“What about you, my lord?”

There was a pause; he was thinking.

“I am simply searching for something important,” he replied. “An inspiration, if you want to call it. I need it to complete a piece I have been working on.”

“And you’re sure you can find it here?”

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

The foreign word rolled off of his tongue like honey. He dressed his voice to sound like a lullaby, and you remembered why you thought of him as an angel before he decided to insult you.

What a juxtaposition.

“What did you say?”

“Did you not hear me?”

He wasn’t going to tell you what he said, nor what he meant in entirety. “Nevermind. I did. Good luck trying to find it.”

…

“May I have this next dance, my lady?”

The charming brunette extended his left hand out to you. You had become irritated with Fyodor after his apparent distaste for you—So this is how you treat me after years of not seeing each other? You thought you could at least try becoming acquainted with him to make your inevitable fate a bit easier for both of you, but it seemed like that wasn’t happening anytime soon. You left the conversation at the nearest opportunity and moved to the other side of the room, unaware that your other dilemma was following you.

“Lord Dazai?”

You noticed something new about him as he stood in front of you. Those sunset orbs also harbored a concept as far as the sun. There was something distant in them that felt like half of his mind was immersed somewhere else. You wondered where.

“I don’t like Dostoevsky at all either,” Dazai chuckled. “Even though tonight’s given me another rival on my list, I like you way more.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” you scoffed. “You’re going to hate me when I take all your customers.”

“I don’t think I could ever hate you, bella.” You frowned at his attempt to flirt. “And besides, many of them are very loyal to me.”

You hesitantly took Dazai’s hand as he led you to the floor, joining the circle of couples who had already lined up to dance the almaine.

“I’m still annoyed with you,” you said quietly as the two of you lightly skipped across the floor on your toes, never breaking eye contact with his tawny eyes. That same look was there—it was like he was thinking of everything and nothing all at once. “I’m only agreeing to this so I could boost my status. You just caught me off guard back there. That’s why I acted nice.”

He dramatically pretended he was offended.

“Why, tesora?” Dazai took both of your hands. You circled around each other gracefully before reversing to step in the other direction. “I saved you! If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be dancing here tonight and finally knowing the name of the poor soul who jumped into the lake!”

“If it weren’t for you, I also wouldn’t have nearly drowned, idiota,” you glared.

“Keyword: nearly!”

You continued sulking at him while the dance went on, ignoring the rest of his defensive sentences and the friendly endearments he added to the end of them.

“Ow!”

Dazai had stepped on your foot during another turn.

“What was that for?” you asked, silently observing how he made sure he did not catch your dress along too, so it would not ruin.

“Hm? What do you mean?” Dazai spun you again; this time, he stepped on your other foot.

“Lor- Dazai!” You disliked how much fun he was having with this. Now, he wore a mischievous gleam in his eyes that coupled an unmistakable, playful grin.

He spun you one last time, and this time, you purposely stepped on his foot.

“Hey—why did you do that!?” he pouted.

“Thou did it first,” you replied dryly. “You’re a bad dancer, my lord. You can’t even keep up with the slow ballroom almain.”

He smirked as the number concluded, and then he brought you to the center of the floor.

You looked around to see at least half of the couples moving off, either to watch or go elsewhere.

“Let’s see if you can keep up with this one,” he chuckled lowly.

“What dance is this?” you asked.

“A galliard. The La Volta.”

Your lips slightly parted to say something, but you didn’t know what.

It made sense now why so many chose not to participate in this one. The La Volta was a bit obscene—first, the women were lifted up in springs and jumps, even though that was usually improper. It was also very fast—it would require skill to do it comfortably, especially with the long, heavy gowns you wore.

Finally, it required close contact between the couples, which was…scandalous. Like a forbidden fruit.

You had never danced it before. Nor had you planned to. You were engaged, after all.

I bet noone in this room, but Fyodor himself and Ranpo even know we’re to marry, though, you thought to yourself, even though you shouldn’t even be considering excuses. …And he probably couldn’t even care less.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Dazai said, a bit more seriously, leaving it up to your decision, but his eyes alleged something else. Like he was pleading to let you indulge.

The forbidden fruit and its serpent. Why was this man always tempting you to things that could sabotage your name? It was as if his heart vowed to drown you to doom…

“No, I’ll do it,” you decided.

…yet you had let him, again and again. The descendants of Eve never learned.

“They call you the Renaissance Man, my lord? I’ll steal your title when I show everyone I can do more than paint…and outdo you in dance.”

“Dance is a form of art, too, y’know,” Dazai smiled before he parted from you. “How about instead, you think of it like we’re creating our own special piece together.”

“Competition,” you disagreed in one word, curtsying before him as the drums cued.

“Collaboration,” he bowed.

You two rose, and a new tension was ignited in the room. Your eyes locked with his again, but this time more determined—more passionate, as you gracefully swept to the left while the brunette the opposite way. You continued that movement while also gravitating closer.

Closer, until he was finally able to lay hands on your waist.

“Look up, miss,” Dazai softly reminded you. “Too flustered that you’ve forgotten etiquette?”

You didn’t even realize your eyes chased down to where he was holding you—no man had touched anywhere near your corset before. You felt nervous; it was supposed to be so wrong, so why did his hold feel so right? As if his fingers were always supposed to be wrapped around you, the final touches to a masterpiece of intimacy.

You were falling for it—the serpent’s art of seduction. This wasn’t supposed to be a collaboration.

“What happened to your confidence?” Dazai teased, whispering in your ear; you felt his breath tickling your skin.

Your eyes drifted back to his in embarrassment, but you couldn’t give your rival the entertainment of winning against you in something you proposed. Fighting against your nerves, you wrapped one of your arms around Dazai’s broad shoulder.

“Shut up.”

He lifted you by the hips to aid as you lept and turned around him, his left thigh pushing you upward, and that same nervous excitement returned to your stomach. It was as if pools conjoining both everything and oblivion at once lay physically on you. His gaze resembled hands—he caressed your shoulders; he traced your face like he wanted to paint every angle of you.

He was gentle with his actual hold on you, too; Dazai carried you as delicately as the brush strokes he made on canvas. He carefully set you down with ease after every jump while still treating you like a porcelain doll, and there you made the mistake of wandering your eyes down to his lips, lightly parted—you realized this was the second closest time this man had come near enough to kiss you.

His body was so warm, he could pull you flush against him if he wanted to. His breath was minty, the coolness of his mouth addicting, and if Eden smelled heavenly too, he had truly just slithered down, carrying the sweet, earthly scent along with him. All your senses were overloaded by the man standing before you like alcohol; you wondered if you’d even end up home by the end of the night.

“You’re enjoying this way more than to simply boost thy status.”

In that moment, you snapped out of your haze of dopamine, and the music faded into a new routine. You also realized that an entire audience had been watching you. That was not ideal.

You scooted back right after Dazai released his hold on you, looking down in coyness. “Maybe I’m just a good actor.”

“You’re a terrible one,” he chuckled, following you out of the crowd. “You can’t even look at me to sell your lie!”

You glared at the brunette once more. “I don’t have to look at you to tell you the truth.”

“So cold-hearted,” he sighed. “Even after a dance to loosen you up. Guess I need to work harder to ask you out.”

“For what, a double suicide?” You once again recalled some other things he had said during your weird, fated meet at the lake.

“Exactly! You remember!”

“Well, sorry, that’s not happening,” you responded. “Go find some other lady to ask. I’m sure you do this all the time anyway.”

Because how did he touch you so perfectly? How did he dim out every other person in the room to make it seem like it was just you two?

He paused. “No, I don’t. You’re the first person I danced this galliard with. You realize we were even in skill, right?”

“Didn’t seem like it. And I don’t understand why you chose me.”

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence,” Dazai said. “You did save me in a way. Sure, we’re rivals. But one day, I’ll paint you myself.

“You’re too beautiful to not.”

…

“I hope you all have had a lovely night,” Fukuzawa spoke over the room. “To conclude the gathering, I would like to announce what the Vatican’s next project will be.”

Artists all around you waited in anticipation, for good reason. You and Dazai looked at each other too. You’d already experienced it for yourself—a commission from the Pope himself guaranteed immediate, enormous success (and money; your job from him was your biggest pay so far). Whatever he proposed required another artist, and it could be anyone in the room.

“The Sistine Chapel,” Fukuzawa said. “The large crack that has formed along the ceiling is to be repaired in the upcoming year.”

There were a few chatters after that. The chapel was insanely impressive—the interior of the large building was covered in stunning frescos by some of the great artists who had come before you. Even though the Pope hadn’t even said what the job was to be, anyone working on things concerning it would have to be just as good as its predecessors.

“Along with reparations, its panels shall be painted.”

There were a few gasps from the patrons. Was that even possible? How could someone even paint the ceiling without it being taken off of the roof? And it was so large, too, like a mega-sized canvas.

It was unheard of.

“I have already selected the person I would like to work on this,” Fukuzawa continued. There was silence again.

“It’s probably Dostoevsky,” Dazai said to you.

Fyodor? “Why do you think so?” you asked.

“He completely stole the spotlight with that statue of David he finished this year,” he dryly chuckled. “Well deserved, I’m afraid. You saw it too when you were in Florence, did you?”

“Yeah,” you replied. You had to acknowledge how impressive it was for yourself. It was like the man turned hard stone into pliable clay.

“But that’s sculpting, not painting.”

“Oh? Do you think you’d be a better candidate?”

He was smiling again. “No, I never said that,” you scoffed. “I was going to say maybe you’d have a chance-”

“Fyodor Dostoevsky,” Fukuzawa said.

Oh.

You paused, scanning the room to see where he was.

He was on the other side, intently making his way to the Pope.

“I request you to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

Fyodor stood in front of him and then bowed.

“...I offer my sincerest gramercy for this opportunity, Your Holiness,” the artist said.

There was a pause.

“…I would like to discuss the rest of what this entails in private.”

Your brows furrowed. That was almost a bit…rude. Sure, he hadn’t declined the offer, but for whatever reason, he also didn’t accept it.

“Very well,” Fukuzawa replied without a change in his tone. “I adjourn this party. Bonam noctem.”

There was a final applause for him and the city’s next project, and then everyone began filing out.

However, you and Dazai stayed in place until Ranpo suddenly tugged on your arm.

“There you are! Let’s go!”

“W-Where?” you asked as he started to drag you away.

“Goodnight!” you heard Dazai say before disappearing into the crowd. His small smile remained in your memory, and a part of you wished you could give him a proper goodbye.

“To eavesdrop, duh,” Ranpo replied as he sifted you through everyone moving the opposite way. “Don’t you also want to hear what Fyodor has to say?”

“I don’t understand why he didn’t just accept the proposal,” you said. “Anyone else would do it in a heartbeat!” You were sort of jealous; that job was given to someone so ungrateful! If you were the one who recieved it, you would’ve put your entire effort into transforming the ceilings right away.

“I don’t know how he’s so beloved,” Ranpo continued. “Not even His Holiness likes him that much; he just doesn’t show bias when choosing people to paint his architecture. Did you know Fyodor was supposed to produce his tomb?”

“What happened with that? I thought it was being worked on by a few other artists.”

“He kept clashing with His Holiness about it,” he said. “Until the plans got so messed up, Fyodor called it a ‘tragedy’ and left Rome for a while. Quite literally abandoned it.”

What an asshole! Especially in front of His Holiness!

“I don’t like him at all,” Ranpo squeezed your arm. It had become quite apparent to you that Ranpo admired Fukuzawa—not just because he was his so-called favorite or because he was the Pope, but something else. You had seen them together during the party earlier, and you were reminded of father and son. “He has a nasty ego, and I can’t figure out his intentions. I feel off every time I meet with him.”

“Intentions? For what?”

“Don’t be stupid, miss,” Ranpo said. “He told you himself, he’s here for something. It’s just so annoying! He hides it all behind those stupid, purple eyes…”

You approached the entrance to a hallway at the very back of the room, and you heard two familiar voices outside.

“...I carve marble, not paint.”

“You discredit your skill with a brush too much.”

“Your Holiness, we had very different views during the last commission you gave me,” you overheard Fyodor say. “I simply don’t want to cause another commotion with this.”

You only peeked through the large doorway to hear more clearly, but Ranpo continued walking right in as if they wouldn’t notice.

“R-Ranpo!” you whispered harshly.

Immediately, Fukuzawa and Fyodor looked at you both, and you scrambled behind Ranpo.

“I’m so sorry, Your Holiness,” you replied, accidentally locking eyes with Fyodor, who looked at you unfazed as if he had already noticed you two a mile away. You couldn’t even think of an excuse to explain what you were doing there, but then Fukuzawa resumed the conversation without a care.

“I see then,” he replied and then gave it some thought. “I felt you were the only one who was fit for the matter, but perhaps I could just hand it to-”

Fukuzawa looked at you, and Fyodor looked at him before looking at you.

“Ah, what I said was just a concern,” Fyodor interrupted to your dismay. “I’ll accept your commission on one condition.”

The three of you waited.

“On the contract, it shall be stated that noone shall view the inside of the Chapel until it is completed,” Fyodor stated. “Including yourself, Your Highness.”

He thought for another moment.

“Very well, Fyodor. It will be arranged.”

What a rat!

It had been a few weeks since that eventful ball. You had started work on painting the rooms in the Pope’s chambers—there were sketches of concepts scattered all over your desk. Coupled with your thoughts—thoughts reliving all the situations you were thrown into that night.

You hadn’t seen the two angels since then. Well…would you even call them that anymore?

Knock, knock, knock!

“Hey! Let me in!” You heard Ranpo’s voice from outside your house. You were still half-asleep, trying to make breakfast, but you immediately rushed to open the door.

“Ranpo!” You were startled. “What are you doing here so early?”

“Stop complaining. You’re going to love this.”

He stuck his hand into his pocket and then revealed a set of shiny keys.

“Sitting in my palm are the keys to the Sistine Chapel.”

“No way.” It was like the sight fully awakened you, like caffeine. “Ranpo…how?!”

“Hmph!” He shook his head. “You underestimate me so much when you quite literally depend on me!” When you laughed, he continued. “Lord Fyodor’s on a business trip until next week. Do with that info as you wish.”

“You’re a genius,” you replied with a mischievous grin as he threw you the keys.

“Of course I am! I despise him, but I’m too lazy to mess with him right now, so I’ll just leave it up to you. After all, he didn’t want to do it initially because he thought you set it up.”

“By me?” you asked, shocked. “He hates painting so much that he thought I had a hand in it? Imagine giving away the Sistine Chapel.”

He was really something else. Was dead set on declining the offer right until His Holiness debated giving it to me…

…

Ranpo sat at the dining table eating the remaining tarts left over while you finished washing the dishes in the kitchen after your meal. Your move had gone smoothly, and you were pleased with the home you created for yourself—the windows in front of the sink were opened, letting air and the sounds of nature in as you looked outside.

“His Holiness instructed me to paint over the previous works in the Palace when I first walked inside because he deemed what I could produce more important than what was already up there,” you told him with your own dash of pride. You couldn’t contain the bright smile that flashed on your face.

“Just as I suspected,” he replied, pleased.

“...But social-wise, I think I dug a hole for myself.”

“Definitely!” Ranpo said with no hesitation, popping another dessert into his mouth. He already knew what you were going to talk about. You gave him a look before sighing, realizing that he probably was right.

“A few days ago, I overheard people in the salons saying that…I have a special thing going on with Lord Dazai. It’s not true! I don’t know why he was being so friendly with me!”

You hadn’t even seen him after that night. Maybe you were a little disappointed, but you should’ve seen that coming anyway. He was known as a charmer, but he hadn’t committed to anyone. And regardless, you were to marry Fyodor one day.

Ugh, Fyodor.

“And you were friendly to him in return,” Ranpo replied. “You could’ve shrugged him off like normal rivals do. But it looked like you were completely enraptured with him.”

Enraptured?! He was completely enraptured with me! However, you couldn’t describe to Ranpo how exactly he was—how the brunette’s eyes pleaded with yours to follow him into the eventide, how he made you feel like the only person that existed in the large crowd of people…maybe Ranpo would have his point proven.

“Well, other than that, I’ve got thee settled in Rome well enough. I’ll be here for the rest of the unwise decisions you’re going to make, but from here on out is on you, princess.”

“Thanks, Ranpo,” you sarcastically replied. “Seriously? Unwise decisions? Rome is just different from everywhere I’ve been to before. I’m learning.”

“Exactly, there are arts of everything,” he said. “Thou better grasp them quick or fall behind.”

Dance.

Deceit.

Dreams.

Only a few you had discovered so far.

“You fascinate me, angel of Florence. You did save me in a way.”

You couldn’t even grasp,

Dazai.

You didn’t know how long you were out. All sense of time was lost when you gained consciousness again, and you realized you had been washed up on land.

Did God stay true to your pleas? Did an angel really come down to rescue you?

That was certainly what it seemed like in the first few seconds because you were blinded by light when you opened your eyes. You heard insects buzzing off in the distance and maybe even a bird chirping as you lay on lush grass. Perhaps you were in heaven instead, and this was your first taste of peaceful paradise.

But all was ruined when your eyes finally focused, and a face obstructed your view. (Why was he always ruining your flawless moments?) He hovered on top of you, and the first thing you became aware of was that his mouth was dangerously close to yours.

You immediately coughed—out of both shock and the need to. Lake water gushed out of your mouth, causing you to sit up without warning. The brunette was flung off of you, landing harshly on his bottom.

“Ow!”

You paid no mind to him as you coughed again. And again.

When all the water was finally out of your lungs, you looked at him in utter confusion.

“Why the puzzled look?” he asked as if he wasn’t the one who was drowning and you weren’t the one saving him (and less importantly, it hadn’t looked like he was about to kiss you).

Now he sat beside you, almost perfectly fine if it weren’t for his clothes that were soaked.

“But…you—we were drowning?” You turned to see if anyone else was in the distance because who was it that saved both of you?

“Yeah, I was drowning,” the man replied, and you now noticed the honey color of his eyes that had been shielded behind closed eyelids and pretty eyelashes earlier. “And this time, it almost worked! Until you decided to rescue me!”

“Um, what?” You asked sharply, even more bewildered at the way he tried to make your efforts sound negative.

“At first, I thought maybe thou were a lovely lady who wanted to commit double suicide with me! But I realized that wasn’t the case when you started fighting to get some air…”

“Are you crazy?” you asked, not caring whether you were speaking impolitely or not. “Double suicide? Why else would I dive into a cold lake to join a stranger? And you were aware of what was happening all along?”

“Maybe! Women have done a lot to try to get close to me.” You didn’t believe him. “And, well, yeah! Obviously, I couldn’t continue because of two things. The first was you because I couldn’t let an innocent involved be harmed along with me! I had to save you, of course.”

You became even more irritated. “You wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t pretend you were drowning! I had to use all my strength to rescue you, y’know! I could’ve died as well!”

“But you didn’t!” the brunette replied. “There was no way I was going to let someone so beautiful drown.”

You scowled at him before you stood up. “You’re ridiculous. What’s your second reason?”

“Drowning in a lake ended up becoming uncomfortable.” You wanted to punch him in the face—uncomfortable was an obvious understatement. “I didn’t like the feeling of suffocation that set in, so I just decided to give up.”

“It didn’t even look like you had any air left in you,” you muttered, facing your back towards him, remembering his placid expression earlier. “How were you conscious if you weren’t even holding your breath?”

“Party trick,” he responded, and when you dared to glance back, he wore a smug grin.

“Oh…are you leaving me then?” he asked as you started walking away, saying no more.

“Why wouldn’t I?” you scoffed, not stopping. “I’m completely soaked, and I don’t know about you, but I have important things to get to.”

You heard a chuckle from him. “Is that so?” he asked. His voice was getting farther, meaning he was no longer following you. “Where are you headed?”

“Rome.”

“I live there. Perhaps we shall meet again. And then, I could ask you—properly—if you would like to commit a double suicide with me.”

“I doubt it,” you replied, assured you were never going to see this man whose face looked kissed by Aphrodite herself again. Perhaps you would’ve found him handsome if he was in a less disheveled state.

As if you did not already.

“Why do you seem so sure? Anything can happen.” He chuckled once again.

Well, I am a painter, and you don’t look like someone who would even have an eye for art, is what you wanted to say. But you didn’t want to open more doors to curiosity and stay there even longer.

“Maybe you’re right,” you stopped. “Okay, then.

“If you think you’re going to see me again, can you promise to not kill yourself until then? Until I agree to you?”

You figured you would just give him some hope so that your efforts to save him would not be in vain. If he would actually keep your word, anyway.

When you turned around, the brunette was still standing on the shore, and he had a smile on his face.

He really did carry the setting sun in his gaze. It was still midday, but the man’s soul seemed to prefer the softer shades of light that appeared just before the cool shades of night.

And you felt his eyes tenderly cupping your face, even though you were feet away from each other. You weren’t sure if you were so lost that you were imagining things—but he looked at you as if he’d known you a hundred lifetimes, longing to touch your soul once again.

“I pinkie promise,” he said.

You thought that finally ended the conversation, but he asked one more thing.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Do you really need it?” It was unlikely, but you didn’t know if he would recognize your name. You didn’t want to risk anyone knowing about this encounter.

“I saved you,” he said. “I almost thought you were done for. You still weren’t breathing when I performed chest compressions, so I had to—”

“Okay, stop right there!” you interrupted, becoming flustered. You didn’t need to hear the rest. You imagined the stranger’s mouth on yours—trying to give you oxygen, of course, but his mouth on yours regardless.

You told him your name. “Don’t bother with yours. I’ll figure it out if we run into each other again.”

His grin was smug. “Fare thee well, mia belladonna.

“Until we meet again.”

…

“You can find anything in the promised land, solnyshka.”

ur man of choice (or both if u’d like) dances with u during the ball if u rb; reblogs are incredibly cherished; they are what support me the most. <3

WE DID ITT !! i hope this was decent, tbh i’m rly nervous HAHA ᡣ𐭩 dazai rly got most of the love here, but i promise there’s waay more to come.

+ check THIS FOR EXTRA INFO/LORE, it’s cool ;) comment on the masterlist to be added to the tagslist !! & ilu if you made it this far, thank you so so much for reading ᰔ

TERMS & DEFINITIONS:

CIOPPA - outermost layer of a dress

RUELLA - salons/social gatherings

ALMAINE - slow court dance; GALLIARD - fast court dance (in the renaissance)

TRANSLATIONS: (not all bcz they wanna be mysterious)

gramercy - “thank you”

artigiani; aristocratici - artisans; aristocrats (italian)

bonam noctem - “good night” (latin)

530 notes · View notes

kaiyunsim · 12 days ago

Text

⇢ ˗ˏˋ stream starting… soon..? ˎˊ˗ - a han taesan smau .ᐟ

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။ chapter 0:00 - profiles - taesan is emo

: ̗̀➛ synopsis : your vod gets taken down for using chill background music. whatever, no big deal. until you realize the guy who struck it is weirdly passive aggressive on twitter. now your fans are shipping it, his fans are analyzing your every move, and the line between real and streamer things is getting a little blurry.

taesan : releases music in the comfort of his studio, which serves as his home because he sleeps there five nights a week. he is a hidden gamer who does softer music (despite appearing emo) and even did some ost for some games he plays.

riwoo : loves loves loves pastries. he started recording his visits to bakeries for a project but not vlogs his bakery visits because other people like it as well. now he started a series of rating all the bakeries he visits.

jaehyun : basically his alter ego where he uploads chill, 'study with me' content where he goes to different cafes and libraries. even through all the studying he still finds a way to do bad on his exams.

leehan : literally just livestreams his fish and somehow he's popular??? very oddball behavior. his fish are cute tho, and he sees them like his kids.

woonhak : upcoming streamer. one of the most down to earth people and is the closest with his fanbase. is a big big fan of y/n and hopes to collab with them someday.

a/n : i was going to post the first chapter today as well but i'm planning on posting a fic this week instead. look out for it !

prev | masterlist | next

: ̗̀➛ perm taglist : @s0shroe @the0p @mon2sunjinsuver @solkver @lov3lyaaru @tanghuyuj

: ̗̀➛ taglist : open | comment or ask to be added !

@ykvdani @yoonzns @heeknow @sourappls @gunatth @prodkwh @randomheyl @sobbin-4-soobin @kaixlix @crazykimkeverose @gnusihcom @raccooniniii @kazukazukiiii @bambisnc @amarecerasus @woonbabie @janjoonty @jungwonbropls @ranjupotato @astrae4 @dazzlingjaeyun @tsanho @starfallia @univfactbji @8makes1atom @renisprobablyonthetoilet @ellezra @ddaya304 @woonhakntaesansgf @imma-jiki @corydooras @enzstr @jjennuine @rllymark @tae2an @haruharua @jisungnewhottie @bammthebandit

#taesan smau #han taesan smau #boynextdoor smau #taesan x reader #han taesan x reader #han dongmin x reader #boynextdoor x reader #kpop smau #smau #kpop fluff #taesan fluff #boynextdoor fluff #taesan #han taesan #han dongmin #boynextdoor taesan #bnd taesan #kaiyunsim #stream starting… soon..?

86 notes · View notes

yuta-nakamots · 3 days ago

Text

Quiet Down - N.Jaemin

Pairing - University!Jaemin x University!Female Reader

Genre - Fluff, Action/Thriller

Warnings - paranoia, stalking, gaslighting, invasion of privacy, romantic obsession, borderline Stockholm syndrome

Summary - You live alone, finding comfort in your Thursday night rituals, until you notice a mysterious figure watching you from across the street. As you confide in your classmate Jaemin, strange occurrences begin, and soon you realize an unsettling truth.

Word Count - 6.8k

Author’s Note - This fic is dark. Not quite dead dove do not eat but it definitely is not for the faint of heart. The dove is there and I’m not sure it’s alive. That’s the best way I can put it.

Taglist - @cinneorolls @dinonuguaegi @tinyzen @fancypeacepersona (join my taglist!)

Written for the What Lurks In The Dark Collab originally hosted by @127-mile. Part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection.

Now playing: Quiet Down - NCT Dream, Psycho - Red Velvet

Your apartment was small, tucked five floors above a convenience store that stayed open later than most places downtown. You liked it for the quiet, something rare in a city that only ever paused, never truly slept. You’re a psychology major, halfway through your degree, yet you were still unsure if choosing this path was more for your curiosity or your craving for control. You used to say you picked it because you wanted to help people understand themselves. But really, you think it’s because you’ve always wanted to know why people do the things they do, why silence sometimes says more than words, why people break patterns for no reason, or why your hands sometimes shake when there’s nothing to be afraid of.

Your days were predictable. Lecture in the morning, campus café for a few hours where you liked watching people come and go, then lab or library sessions depending on the day, and the occasional group project that you mostly carried on your own.

But Thursdays were yours. It was the one night of the week you didn’t stay out late or wander the city. After your evening class, you went straight home. You had a routine of making a cup of tea, turning on the little lamp in your living room, and sitting by the window. You’d always rest your head against the cool glass of the window and just look. You’d watch the world go still, one light dimming at a time.

When you shared this routine of yours during class, your classmates joked about it, calling it your ‘Thursday night therapy,’ but you didn’t argue. Because if anything, it grounded you and kept you from spiraling when your own thoughts got too loud. It was easier to be alone when the city was quiet, easier to breathe when the world outside your window wasn’t watching you back.

Or so you thought until that fateful Thursday night.

On this particular Thursday, your tea had gone cold beside you, your notebook lay open on your lap, the page half-filled with notes from that week’s case study. The steam from your tea had long since faded, and the glass of your window was clear and cold beneath your cheek.

That’s when you saw them. A figure, still and silent, standing in the window of an apartment across the street from you, a few floors up. Their apartment lights were off behind them, just faint enough to let their silhouette bleed through. At first, you thought it was your reflection, until they moved. A slow, deliberate tilt of the head.

You blinked, sat up straighter. Your eyes adjusted, searching for features, some sign of life or movement that made sense, but they didn’t move again. They just stood there, watching you.

You stayed frozen for a long moment, unsure if you should do something, like hide or maybe even wave at them, or if you should do anything at all. Then a car passed below, headlights flashing between buildings, and the figure vanished. Gone like a mirage.

You laughed to yourself nervously. Maybe it was a trick of the light, a shadow of someone stepping in and out of view without realizing it. You didn’t think much of it as you drew the curtains and went to bed, but you didn’t sleep well that night.

You didn’t tell anyone about the incident right away. It felt…silly. Unprovable. Like one of those half-dreams you can’t quite explain when you wake up, but it leaves you unsettled anyway. You tried to write it off as your imagination, a late-night hallucination brought on by exhaustion and too many articles on observer bias.

By Monday, the memory had softened around the edges, dulled by routine and caffeine. You told yourself it had been nothing. Still, your gaze lingered longer than usual at the windows. Reflections made you jump. You started sitting with your back to the wall in cafés again, an old habit from childhood that you didn’t talk much about.

Then, during your Tuesday afternoon seminar on abnormal psychology, someone brought up delusions of persecution. It led to a tangent about paranoia in urban environments, how easily it is to think we’re being watched when we’re actually just alone. You don’t know what compelled you to say it. Maybe it was the way the conversation hovered between real and ridiculous, or maybe it was the sleep deprivation talking.

You spoke before thinking. “Last week, I thought someone was watching me from the building across mine. Just standing there…in the dark. Didn’t move, didn’t do anything.”

A few people laughed, as expected. Someone quipped, “maybe your brain is just projecting loneliness.”

You shrugged, already regretting saying anything, and tried to disappear behind your laptop on the table until another classmate spoke. “That’s how it starts,” Jaemin said from across the room, flipping his pen between his fingers. His tone was light, unreadable. “You notice something once, brush it off. Then it becomes a pattern, impossible to ignore.” Your head lifted, eyes meeting his for the first time that day. Jaemin had always been the type to sit near the edge of the room. He was sharp but soft-spoken and strangely observant. He smiled at you, just barely. “Maybe they were waiting for you to notice.” You blinked, unsure how to respond.

The professor moved the discussion along, but Jaemin’s words lingered. You kept thinking about them on the walk home. By Wednesday, your rational mind had almost convinced you it had been nothing. Maybe the person living in that apartment had dropped something and was bending to pick it up. You tried to recall exactly when they vanished, if it had really been after the car headlights or if you just looked away too long. You even looked across the street once or twice before bed. Nothing.

Still, you kept the curtains shut at night. Then Thursday approached again.

The closer it crept, the more your stomach tightened. The evening class dragged slower than usual, and when you packed your bag at the end of it, your fingers fumbled with the zipper. Outside, the sky was already deepening into indigo. You walked home faster than usual, breath fogging in the cold, your thoughts louder than the city around you.

When you got home, you made your tea, just like usual, turned on your lamp, and sat by the window, staring. You stared long this time, watching for movement, shadows, anything.

For a while, there was nothing but the hum of the street below and the soft tapping of your fingertips against your mug. Your breath left a thin fog on the window, and you wiped it away absentmindedly with your hand. Then you saw them. Same window, same silhouette, still and sharp against the dim interior behind them.

You froze. Only this time, they moved. Slowly. Deliberately. The figure raised a hand with one finger lifted. A single, pointed gesture. They wagged it once, twice. Not quickly, not comically. It was slow, like a scolding parent catching a child’s lie. It felt like a warning or a threat.

Your blood chilled. You didn’t wave, you didn’t even blink. You couldn’t.

The longer you looked, the less human they seemed. There was something unnatural about the stillness in their limbs, the way their face, if they even had one, never caught the light. Then, like before, a car passed and they were gone.

You yanked the curtains closed so fast that your tea sloshed out of its cup slightly. That night, you barely slept. You left your lamp on, the soft amber light casting long shadows across your floor. You thought about texting someone, your roommate from last year, perhaps, or maybe the classmate you sometimes got coffee with after lectures.

But what would you even say? “Someone keeps staring at me on Thursday nights.” It sounded laughable. Urban legend tier.

You could already hear their reply. “It’s probably just a weird neighbor.” So you told no one.

During class the following day, Jaemin’s words lingered in your mind again. You didn’t talk to him, but you caught him looking at you during class on Friday, just once, the short moment was enough to make your pulse jump. He wasn’t just looking, he was staring. You gave him a shy smile, trying to acknowledge him, but he didn’t smile back.

By the following Thursday, you had developed some sick kind of ritual. You tried not to look, you told yourself not to look. But your body moved on instinct as it made your tea, turned on your lamp, and sat by the window, waiting.

There they were again at exactly 10:43pm. Same place, same pose. But something was different this time. Their hand hovered in the air this time, already raised before you even settled in, like they’d been waiting for you as if they knew you would come. This time, they didn’t wag their finger. They pointed. Directly at you.

You stumbled back from the window, knocking over the cold tea beside you. The mug rolled under the table, unnoticed. You kept your distance from the window, crouched by the wall and peeking through the narrow slit where your curtain didn’t fully cover it. Your pulse hummed in your ears, loud enough to drown out the soft whir of traffic. When you caught a glimpse of the opposite window, they had already vanished.

You stayed on the floor for a long time. That night, you dreamed of shadows behind glass. When you woke up, you realized the curtain was open again. You were sure you had shut it before going to sleep.

The following week, you didn’t sit at the window. You stayed at your desk, earbuds in, trying to drown out the world with lo-fi beats and caffeine jitters. You kept the curtain shut tight and the chair angled away from the glass. But your reflection on the screen kept pulling your eye. The way the shadows shifted behind you, the way the window seemed too bright in your periphery, like something was there.

10:43pm. Something compelled you to look.

You stood slowly, fingers twitching at your sides. And like clockwork, there they were. But closer this time. Not in the window, no. They were still in the building across from you, but not a few floors above you anymore. Lower. Directly across from your window. Still staring, still motionless.

You shut the curtain again and backed away from the window like it might shatter if you looked too hard. It took ten minutes before you could even breathe properly.

You started keeping a log after that. Week 2, finger wag. Week 3, pointing. Week 4, closer. Always at 10:43pm. Always on Thursdays. Never any other day.

You watched the other windows in the building throughout the week. Nobody stood there at night, no silhouettes, no signs of life in that unit. You started to wonder if anyone actually lived there at all. You debated bringing it up again in class. But who would believe you now?

Except maybe Jaemin would. And the worst part was, you were starting to think he already did.

You didn’t mean to talk to Jaemin about it again, not really. But after Thursday night, after the figure appeared closer, lower, watching you, your hands trembled too much to write anything in your journal. You couldn’t focus on Friday's lecture, you couldn’t eat. You kept checking over your shoulder, catching yourself scanning faces in the hallway. When Jaemin slid into the seat next to yours in the campus café and asked if you’d slept at all last night, something cracked open.

You gave a dry laugh. “No, not really.”

“Is that person still watching you?”

You froze. He didn’t ask what you meant. Just said that as if it were obvious.

“I didn’t say–”

“You don’t have to.” He stirred his drink. “I’ve seen how you flinch on Thursdays.”

You stared at him, unsure of whether to laugh or leave. “Is it that obvious?”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Not to most people. But I notice things.” He tapped the side of his head on his temple. “Occupational hazard.” You didn’t respond, just watched ice shift in your drink, suddenly unsure if you even wanted it now. “You said it used to bring you peace,” Jaemin said after a while, voice quieter now, coaxing. “The window, I mean.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Before, it did.”

“Before you were being watched,” he said, too easily.”

You hesitated. “...Right.”

A silence settled, one of those stretches that felt intentional, like it wasn’t waiting to be filled, just stretched tighter and tighter until someone finally snapped it. Then Jaemin leaned in a little, just enough for his tone to shift. “Maybe you liked it.”

“What?”

“Being watched.” He said it like he was discussing a theory aloud in class. “Not at first. But then…maybe it made you feel important. Like someone saw you when no one else did, even if it scared you.”

You let out a nervous laugh. “Okay, now you’re definitely overanalyzing.”

“Am I?” His eyes glittered, amused. “You kept looking. Even after the first time. Even after they pointed. You looked.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t enjoying it. I was–I don’t know. Compelled. It’s like a reflex now.”

“Reflexes come from somewhere,” he stated simply. “Learned behavior. Conditioning.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “...Are you diagnosing me?”

“No,” he said with that same half-smile. “Just curious.”

That was how it started, with Jaemin asking questions about your schedule, your sleep, and your apartment’s layout. Always gentle, always just enough to sound like concern. But sometimes his phrasing was strange.

“How far is your bed from the window?” “Do you ever try leaving the curtain open on purpose?”

And he kept showing up. First, at the library when you were trying to study, then at the convenience store near your apartment when you swore he lived in the other direction. On Tuesday evening, he offered to walk you back after class “just in case.” On Wednesday, he texted you for the first time. You didn’t remember giving him your number. Still, you replied. Because he listened. Because when you said you were scared, he didn’t laugh. Because something in you, some tired, paranoid, lonely part of you, started to wonder if he really did understand something you didn’t. But by the time Thursday came again, his words echoed a little differently in your ears.

“Maybe you liked it.” “You kept looking.”

You didn’t sit at the window that night. You lay on your bed with the covers pulled up to your chin, eyes glued to the crack beneath the curtain, where the glow from the streetlights made the fabric shimmer like it was breathing. You told yourself you wouldn’t look, that you were done playing along.

But at 10:43pm, your body moved before your mind could stop it. You stood, crossed the room, and peeled back the curtain an inch, just enough to see the building across the street.

There they were. Head tilted, arms limp at their sides. You couldn’t see their face, but you could feel their presence. Heavy. Intent. Waiting.

You dropped the curtain and backed away. Your palms were sweating. You slept with the light on that night, door locked, phone in your hand.

When you told Jaemin about it the next day at the café, he didn’t flinch, just frowned slightly and leaned forward. “That’s interesting.”

“Interesting?” you echoed, sharper than intended.

Jaemin noticed and softened. “Sorry. I just mean it’s a pattern. Patterns can be tracked. Maybe even predicted.”

You looked down at your cup. He said it like he wanted to help, like he could. So when the first photo showed up, folded in half and slid under your apartment door while you were in the shower, you called him.

It was a picture of you from behind, standing by your window. Your hands were mid-motion, caught stirring tea. You had no idea when it was taken, but you remembered the sweater you were wearing. It was from last week. The night you said you wouldn’t look and did anyway.

Jaemin met you outside your building twenty minutes later. You didn’t even ask for him to come over. He studied the photo under the yellow glare of the streetlamp. “This angle…” he murmured. It’s not from across the alley. It’s from this building.”

You felt your stomach turn. “That’s not possible. I would have seen someone.”

“Not if they were careful.” He folded the photo back up with deliberate precision. “You should report this.”

“To who?” Your voice cracked. “Campus security won’t care. The police won’t take me seriously.”

He didn’t argue, just looked at you for a long moment. “Do you want me to stay over tonight? Just in case?”

You hesitated. But then you nodded because you were tired and scared, and he was the only one who hadn’t told you that you were imagining things. He slept on the floor next to your bed, an extra blanket and pillow set aside for him. You don’t remember hearing him leave, but he wasn’t there when you woke in the morning.

The next incident was quieter. You came home from class one evening and found a copy of The Woman In The Window on your kitchen counter. You stared at it for a full minute before touching it. It hadn’t been there that morning, you were sure. You hadn’t bought it, hadn’t mentioned it to anyone except once during a psych lecture, when the professor brought up unreliable narrators, and you mumbled something about voyeurism stories.

Your hand hovered over the book like it might burn you. It was a paperback, worn along the spine, corners softened. A used copy. The kind someone lends you after reading it themselves, the kind someone chooses for you. There was no note, no receipt, just the book. You didn’t touch it again that night.

You called Jaemin, and he picked up almost instantly. “Did you drop off a book at my place?”

“No, why?”

You stared at the book. “Someone left me one. The one I mentioned in class a few days ago. It’s just here.”

This time, there was a pause. “That’s not normal. Want me to come by?”

You told him no, not because you meant it, but because you were starting to worry about what it meant that you always wanted him to come by.

The third incident broke something in you. You stepped out of the shower one night to find a message written in the fogged mirror, words etched clean through the condensation.

“Why don’t you come over sometime?”

Your towel dropped to the floor, and your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t written it. You knew you hadn’t. The handwriting was unfamiliar, too elegant to be yours, too careful to be casual. You stood there staring at it until the steam faded and the words disappeared with it, like they’d never been there at all.

You called Jaemin. No answer. You called again. Straight to voicemail. You sat on the bathroom floor in your damp towel, knees to your chest, and stared at your phone like it might answer for him. When he called you back an hour later, it was simple. “Sorry, my phone died. Are you okay?”

You didn’t tell him about the mirror. Not yet. But the words stayed with you all night, echoing louder than his concern. And the worst part? A small part of you wanted to ask who had written it. Not because you wanted to know who was watching you…but because you were afraid it wasn’t Jaemin and even more afraid that it was.

That Thursday, you didn’t wait for something to happen. You didn’t want to feel afraid after the fact. You called Jaemin before the sun even set. He didn’t ask any questions, just said, “I’ll be there in fifteen,” and hung up. When he arrived, he brought snacks and a movie. You almost laughed at the absurdity of it, at the way he balanced a bag of chips in one arm and an old DVD copy of Beauty and the Beast in the other, his backpack just about falling off his shoulder.

“You okay with Disney?” he asked.

You raised a brow. “That’s the one you chose?”

“It’s a class. Plus, I thought it might be therapeutic.” His grin was crooked but familiar…safe.

The evening passed quietly. Too quietly. The movie played on his laptop, but neither of you paid much attention. Jaemin sat on the floor, back propped against your bed while you stayed curled up across it, blanket wrapped around your legs. You didn’t say much, just watched shadows slip across your apartment like they had every Thursday.

“I locked the window,” you blurt suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ve been keeping it locked.”

Jaemin nodded without looking at you. “Good.”

“It still doesn’t feel like enough.”

“It’s not,” he murmured. “But I am.”

You paused. “What?”

He turned then, rested his arms on his knees, and his voice came out softer. “I mean, I’m here. You’re not alone.” You nodded slowly, unsure of what to say to that. The words felt like a comfort, but also a promise, and somehow, also a warning.

At some point, you drifted off. You don’t remember when, but something woke you. Not a noise, not a movement, just…wrongness. You sat up. Jaemin’s laptop screen was black, the lights were off, the digital clock on your microwave blinked 3:17am, and Jaemin wasn’t on the floor anymore.

You stood, heart thudding, and made your way toward the bathroom, noticing the window was still locked, curtain drawn. Then a soft sound, barely a shuffle, came from the kitchen. You changed your path and headed to the source of the noise, rounding the corner quietly.

Jaemin stood at the counter, phone in hand, the glow from the screen painting blue light on his face. But it wasn’t the phone that stopped you, it was what lay next to it. The book. Open, dog-eared, and pages spread like it had been studied. You hadn’t touched it, you were sure of it. “Jaemin?”

He startled, just a little, but enough. He flipped the book closed and slid it casually across the counter like it didn’t matter. “You’re up.”

“What are you doing?”

He tilted his head, blinking like you’d asked something strange. “Couldn’t sleep. Though I’d read a little.”

You stared at the book, then at him. “You said you didn’t bring it.”

Jaemin shrugged, calm, casual. “I didn’t. I figured since it was already here…” He trailed off like that was explanation enough, like it made sense.

But it didn’t. Not really. “You said it was weird,” you argued, “that it wasn’t normal.”

“It is weird,” he replied, and now he smiled. “But I’ve been thinking, maybe it’s not about scaring you. Maybe someone just wants your attention.”

“Someone wants my attention?” you echoed.

He nodded. “You said you mentioned the book in class. People pick up on things. You’re interesting when you talk about stuff like that.”

You didn’t remember saying anything interesting, you remembered mumbling, you remembered trying to blend in. “So you think this is…what? A secret admirer?”

“Maybe,” he mused. “It’s better than the alternative, right?”

You didn’t answer. Something in your chest was folding in on itself. Quiet, careful, like paper. Jaemin stepped forward and reached for the book again, thumb brushing the spine like he meant to hand it to you. “Don’t,” you said sharply. He stilled.

The silence stretched between you, a breath too long. Then he dropped his hand, turned his phone face down, and backed away from the counter. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

“I know,” you said dryly. But you didn’t.

You stood there while he walked past you like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just caught him reading that cursed book like it meant something. He paused in the doorway to your bedroom. “You want me to head out?”

You should’ve said yes. But you shook your head because you were tired, because the window was still locked, because the book didn’t move itself, because if it wasn’t him, then someone else had been in your apartment, and because if it was him, you didn’t want to be alone when you figured it out.

You found it wedged behind your nightstand, folded three times. A sticky note, yellowed slightly at the edges, just a doodle. It was a single figure with a messy halo of hair, drawn in blue pen, sitting at a desk.

You knew the posture, it was yours. But the drawing wasn’t new. You recognized the pen–one of your old ones, the kind that dried out at the end of last semester. And it was on the type of sticky note you stopped buying months ago. The drawing had been there a while. Maybe since before Jaemin had ever stayed in your apartment, before you started keeping track of when he came and went.

You wanted to ask, you really did. But how do you ask someone ‘how long have you been watching me’ without already knowing the answer?

You never saw Jaemin smoke. He didn’t even like people who did. He used to complain about it in the campus café, pulling his sleeve over his nose. When you found a worn silver lighter in your bathroom drawer, you knew it wasn’t yours, but it couldn’t possibly be Jaemin’s either.

The lighter wasn’t new, it had scratches. At first, you had panicked, thought maybe someone else had been inside, that it had been dropped or left behind by whoever got in. But then, two days later, you saw it again. In Jaemin’s hand.

He spun it absentmindedly while he walked you home, eyes focused on the pavement ahead. When he noticed you staring, he slipped it into his pocket without a comment.

You never saw him use it, but you started checking the bathroom drawer every day just in case it came back.

Jaemin remembered things you never said out loud. Your favorite poem, not the one you posted about in a class discussion, the one you read once in the library and never checked out, the one you never finished. He quoted a line one night, casually, while you waited for takeout in your bedroom together.

“...I am half agony, half hope.”

You froze, at which Jaemin noticed. He played it off, said it was from a song, or maybe it was a book, perhaps something he just saw online randomly. But you remembered writing it in your notes app two weeks ago after reading it in the library. Private. Unread. You deleted the note the next day.

You told yourself it was a coincidence, that maybe you had indeed said it aloud and just didn’t remember, that Jaemin didn’t mean anything by it. But you stopped using your notes app after that.

You hadn’t meant to find it. You were looking for something else, a charger, or that one missing ring you thought had slipped behind the dresser. But when you tugged the storage bin out from beneath your bed, the lid slid open with too much ease, and what you saw inside wasn’t yours.

It was a small cardboard box, plain and unlabeled. You shouldn’t have opened it, but you did. Inside, you find pieces of yourself. Not literally, not horrifically, just objects, fragments, a collection that shouldn’t exist.

A page torn from your planner, the one you lost at school last year. A printout of a paper you wrote, a draft that was never submitted. A photo from your social media account, printed and trimmed down, face circled in pencil. One of your old keychains, broken at the clasp.

You stared for a long time, fingers hovering, breathing shallow. Then you saw it. A napkin folded neatly, from the campus café, and in the corner, in familiar handwriting, a line.

“You looked so sad that day.”

Your hands started to tremble, not from fear, but from knowing. Because you remembered that day. The rain, the silence, the way you had sat by the window, headphones in, pretending to read. You didn’t remember seeing Jaemin, but he had seen you and he’d kept the napkin you swore fell off the table. You repacked the box, closing it carefully, and tucked it back under the bed, where you weren’t sure if it had always been.

Later, when Jaemin knocked, you let him in. You made tea like nothing had happened. You sat beside him on your bed, watched something forgettable on his laptop, and didn’t flinch when he reached for your hand. He looked at you like he did, with quiet care and longing.

For the first time, you wondered if that was true. Not that he adored you, but that he always had, even before you knew his name.

You were in the library with Jaemin, sitting across from him at a table. You weren’t studying, not really. You couldn’t focus anymore when he was near. And somehow, Jaemin had started showing up every time you tried. Never sudden, never loud, just there, waiting, watching.

He closed his notebook and smiled. “I moved last week,” he said like it was nothing. “Thought I’d get a place closer to the city. It’s quieter away from the clubs, better for studying.” You nodded, distracted by the way his sleeve was pushed up, revealing a thin scar near his wrist you’d never seen before. “You should come by sometime,” he added, a touch softer. “Maybe today? We can study together.”

You should have said no. It was a Thursday. Part of you wanted to retreat to the comfort of your apartment, or what little was left of it. But you didn’t.

The streets twisted the longer you walked, familiar buildings blurring into the unfamiliar, your sense of direction unraveling with each step. You tried not to overthink it, not to count the turns. But your breath caught when Jaemin stopped.

You knew this block. Your building was across the street. The building with your apartment a few floors above the convenience store, the one where your kitchen window looked out over the street. It stood just across the street from the apartment where you swore someone had once stood too long, too still, just watching.

Jaemin didn’t say anything as he held the door open. You followed him up.

At first glance, Jaemin’s apartment was normal, clean, sparse, bookshelves half-filled, desk near the window, muted colors. You noticed how tidy everything was, almost unnaturally so, like no one really lived there.

And then you saw the wall. It wasn’t the first thing you noticed, not until Jaemin stepped into the kitchen and left you standing there, alone. Photos, dozens of them. Tacked in neat rows above his desk, some printed, others polaroids. Your face in profile, your silhouette in your window, you walking, laughing, sitting alone at cafés, the library, the lecture hall. You couldn’t move. You felt him watching you.

“I thought you’d find it sooner,” he said gently. Your heart dropped. Jaemin stepped closer. “The box. You found it, right?” He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t scared. He looked relieved. “I’ve been waiting for you to understand.” Your breath hitched. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he added, his voice almost tender. “But I’ve been near you for so long, before you ever knew my name.”

You still hadn’t said anything. He looked at you like he was afraid you might disappear, like this was the moment he’d worked towards for months, maybe even longer. You didn’t step back. Jaemin smiled. “You’re not afraid of me,” he whispered. “Not really. You’ve always felt it, haven’t you?” He took another step, and still, you didn’t run. “I was wondering how long it would take you to recognize me.” His voice is soft behind you, almost fond. You don’t turn around. “Took you long enough,” he adds with a quiet laugh.

Your eyes stay locked on the wall, on the sketches done in pencil and ink, your side profile from the window, your hand holding a coffee cup, your eyes half-closed on a rainy morning. On the calendar pinned in the corner, every Thursday was circled in red. The day you felt it most, the day he always watched.

“You were always the calm in the chaos,” Jaemin says, stepping closer. “I just wanted to be part of your quiet.” You swallow hard, your mouth too dry to form words. Your feet won’t move. “Remember that Thursday? The first one,” he starts. “You looked at me first, you know.” He’s standing so close now that you can feel the warmth of him behind you. “You were in the café. By the window. Headphones on. You looked sad.” Your breath catches. “I was sitting in the corner, pretending to study.” He leans in slightly, his voice almost reverent. “And then you looked up. Right at me. That was all I needed.”

You finally turn to face him. His expression is open, soft. His eyes were glowing with something too deep to be sane, too patient to be sudden. It’s not lust, not quite love. It’s worship. You’ve never seen someone look at you like this, like you’re a constellation he mapped and followed as if it were the only thing guiding him home.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he repeats, as if he says it enough, it’ll make this okay. “I just…I wanted to get closer. That’s all I ever wanted.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He takes your silence as permission to continue. “I tracked your schedule last semester,” Jaemin admitted, confessional now. “Your classes, your patterns. I made sure we’d overlap. You didn’t notice, but I dropped a different class to join yours. He smiles like it’s romantic, like this is a love story and you’re the final chapter. “I wanted it to feel natural. Me sitting next to you. Helping you with assignments.”

Your skin prickles. “I wasn’t trying to lie,” he says. “I was trying to get it right.” There’s a beat of silence. “I think I did,” he whispers.

You realize suddenly that you’re standing in his space, but more than that, you’re in his control. Your routine, your Thursdays, every small moment, he’s been studying them like scripture. And now you’re here in the apartment across the street. The one with the view of your window, the one you swore was watching you back.

Jaemin reaches for your hand. You flinch. He pauses, hand hovering. Jaemin’s voice drops to a breath. “I thought you wanted to know the truth.” You stare at him, and he stares back at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been living for.

Jaemin doesn’t drop his hand. He lets it hang there between you, waiting. “I thought you felt it too,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Every Thursday. That…pull.”

Your chest tightens. You remember them now, clearer than before. Those Thursdays. When your skin crawled for no reason, when the silence felt too heavy, too still. The walk home that never felt safe, no matter how many times you checked behind you. And yet…there were also Thursdays when you smiled more easily, when your favorite song played on shuffle, when your coffee order was ready before you even arrived. Small comforts you didn’t question. You do now.

“I thought if I got close enough,” he continued, stepping around you slowly, his eyes never leaving your face, “you’d see it too. That we were meant to find each other.”

You follow his movement with your eyes, not your body. Your arms feel too heavy, the air too thin. “You kept leaving your curtains open,” he adds, like an offering. “Sometimes you danced in your kitchen, sometimes you just stood there, staring into the street like you were waiting for something, or someone. I thought–I hoped–it was me.”

A noise escapes your throat, half-breath, half-denial. “Don’t,” you whisper. It’s the first thing you’ve said.

But Jaemin only tilts his head. “Don’t what?” he asks gently. “Don’t say it out loud?” He smiles again. It’s almost boyish, but something inside it is too twisted, too rehearsed. “I tried so hard not to be too much,” he starts, “that’s why I never knocked, never followed too close, I just…stayed nearby. Enough for you to feel safe. You did feel safe, didn’t you?” You stare at him. You think of all the times you convinced yourself the fear was in your head.

Jaemin moves closer again, and this time, you do step back. Just one step, but it’s enough. He stops. There’s a flicker in his expression–hurt, confusion–but he masks it quickly. “I just wanted to see you happy. I like watching you.” His voice drops, softer than ever. “You’re the most beautiful when you think no one’s watching.” You shake your head, but your voice stays stuck in your throat.

Jaemin’s eyes flick toward the calendar. “You know what day it is, right?”

You do. Thursday. Of course it is.

“I was going to wait,” he confesses, “for the right time, but you were already starting to pull away. I saw it. I thought…if I showed you something, maybe it would change things.”

You take in the room again, the photos, the drawings, the scrawled notes. Your name appears again and again on post-its, under photos, next to timestamps, and class codes. Your whole life, laid out in a quiet obsession. And there he is, watching you as if you’re the fragile center of it all.

You take another step away from him. His smile falters. “It doesn’t have to be now,” he says quickly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just—” He breathes in sharply. “I just wanted you to know that someone sees you, all of you. Not just the version you show the world.”

The silence between you stretches thin, buzzing with a tension you can’t name. Every instinct in you screams to leave, to run down the stairs and never look back, but your feet won’t move. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s something else.

Jaemin doesn’t come closer, just watches you, as if knowing any sudden movement would set you off. And somehow that’s worse. The restraint, the knowing, the control he has.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says finally. “I know how this must look.” You almost laugh. The absurdity, the horror of it all. But the sound catches in your throat and stays there.

Jaemin’s voice lowers, just enough to force you to lean in, even if only with your mind. “It’s not a game to me,” he professes. “I didn’t do any of this to hurt you.” His gaze flickers again to the calendar. “But I needed you to see me, like I’ve always seen you.”

You think of those Thursdays, the ones where the shadows were too quiet, and the ones that felt like the world had aligned just slightly in your favor. The contrast is unbearable now, the way dread and comfort lived on the same day. You finally speak, though your voice doesn’t feel like your own. “Why Thursdays?”

Jaemin’s expression softens like you’ve given him something precious. “Because they’re in-between. Note quite the end, not quite the beginning.” He steps to the window, hands loosely in his pockets, his reflection warping in the glass. “Thursdays felt like you. Always waiting, always almost saying something.”

You didn’t respond, you can’t. You’re too busy fighting the part of yourself that’s reaching for reason, for understanding. The part of you that wonders if this would feel less terrifying if you hadn’t already started to like him, before you found out the truth.

He doesn’t turn around. “I won’t ask you to stay,” his voice was quiet. “I just want you to know this is real. For me.” Then, without looking back, “I’ll see you next Thursday.” The words hang in the air like a curse, like a promise.

You stare at his back, at the stillness of his shoulders, the quiet calm that doesn’t match the chaos spinning in your head. You could leave. You should leave. But your body won’t move. The weight of everything keeps you rooted to the floor, your breath shallow, your heart divided.

Outside, the city continues without you. Honking horns, shuffling footsteps, the sounds of life. Inside, it’s just you and him, and the ghosts of every Thursday you ignored.

You don’t know what you’ll do next, but you know one thing for certain. You’ll never feel the same on a Thursday again.

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like 119 - N.Jaemin

#nct #NCT dream #jaemin #na jaemin #NCT x reader #NCT x you #NCT dream x reader #NCT dream x you #Jaemin x reader #Jaemin x you #NCT imagines #NCT scenarios #NCT fanfic #NCT dream imagines #NCT dream scenarios #NCT dream fanfic #Jaemin imagines #Jaemin scenarios #Jaemin fanfic

70 notes · View notes