He Likes This Anime, Honestly Glazes It Even If It Becomes A Powerpoint Presentation. I Was Like, What?

MKM

eeeeeeeeeEEEEEEE, it's dark, incredibly so. i'm the only one awake here. i'm already sleep deprived. but nooooooo, my brain and eyes can't seem to shut off. i have grad practice later, at 6am. but what am i doing? scrolling here at 12am. maybe, just MAYBE, a little more screentime doesn't hurt?

does it?

anyways, punpun is so incredibly real. literally me.

Oyasumi, Punpun

فَإِذَا بَلَغْنَ أَجَلَهُنَّ فَأَمْسِكُوهُنَّ بِمَعْرُوفٍ أَوْ فَارِقُوهُنَّ بِمَعْرُوفٍۢ وَأَشْهِدُوا۟ ذَوَىْ عَدْلٍۢ مِّنكُمْ وَأَقِيمُوا۟ ٱلشَّهَـٰدَةَ لِلَّهِ ۚ ذَٰلِكُمْ يُوعَظُ بِهِۦ مَن كَانَ يُؤْمِنُ بِٱللَّهِ وَٱلْيَوْمِ ٱلْـَٔاخِرِ ۚ وَمَن يَتَّقِ ٱللَّهَ يَجْعَل لَّهُۥ مَخْرَجًۭا ٢

وَيَرْزُقْهُ مِنْ حَيْثُ لَا يَحْتَسِبُ ۚ وَمَن يَتَوَكَّلْ عَلَى ٱللَّهِ فَهُوَ حَسْبُهُۥٓ ۚ إِنَّ ٱللَّهَ بَـٰلِغُ أَمْرِهِۦ ۚ قَدْ جَعَلَ ٱللَّهُ لِكُلِّ شَىْءٍۢ قَدْرًۭا ٣

"And whoever fears Allah - He will make for him a way out, And will provide for him from where he does not expect. And whoever relies upon Allah - then He is sufficient for him." Surah 65:2-3

I think it's important when sitting with our hardships that we remember that Allah has made something difficult for a reason. Maybe you have a problem with falling into things that are haram, or perhaps you find yourself struggling with school or work. This dunya is a gift, but it is also a test. While life is difficult, and things can seem hard at times, it's important to lean back and rely on Allah for guidance and humility, and take joy in the things around you. The trials that you face are meant to give you reward, and are placed in your path as a way to shape your future and help guide you towards something greater than what you could ever imagine. Do not feel turned down by any hardship you face, as Allah is waiting for you to ask for help, so that He may be given permission to guide you.

タケウチ　リョースケ on X: "九龍ジェネリックロマンス https://t.co/iPrIJhxqcg" / X

NEOBEAST LINGGGGGG WAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭

02; the withering

Pairing: Yandere!Botanist x Reader Description: You thought you were just pulling away, reclaiming your space—but to Elijah, your silence was a symptom, your distance a sickness. And now, as the world withers around you, he offers the only cure: himself. Warning/s: Yandere | Emotional Abuse | Psychological Manipulation | Gaslighting | Isolation | Implied Stalking | Codependency | Unhealthy Relationship | Coercion Note/s: Enjoy reading! Let me know what you think about this one. Oh. Also, I'll be posting the next chapters of sanctum on my ko-fi in advance while updating the holy week special on a daily basis.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

The first time you meet Elijah, your hands are buried in dirt and your hair sticks to your forehead under the heat of an early summer sun. The community garden is smaller than you imagined—two raised beds, a few vertical trellises, and a compost bin that smells like fermented greens. You’re there because you wanted something wholesome. Something grounding. Something real.

He doesn’t say much at first.

You glance over, catching him crouched by the snap peas, methodically checking their growth. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing pale forearms speckled with soil. A pair of glasses slide down the bridge of his nose, and his hair is slightly too long, curling at the nape. You can’t help staring when he gently touches one of the vines, his thumb brushing along its fragile tendrils like he’s afraid to bruise it.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and smooth, like soil soaked in rain.

“You’re digging too shallow. The roots will struggle.”

You blink, startled. “Oh. Sorry—I haven’t really done this before.”

He tilts his head, eyes soft but scrutinizing. “No need to apologize. You’re just new.”

He shifts closer and takes the trowel from your hand, demonstrating the motion with slow, deliberate precision. “Think of the plant like a child. It won’t thrive unless it feels safe. You have to give it enough depth to breathe, but not so deep that it drowns.”

You’re a little embarrassed at how seriously he takes it, but something about the way he talks—the reverence, the quiet care—it draws you in.

Over the next few weeks, he keeps his distance. But he always watches. Always helps when you’re struggling. The first time he smiles at something you say, you feel like you’ve coaxed a sunflower to bloom in winter.

“Elijah’s like a Victorian ghost,” your friend Lila jokes one evening when you meet for coffee. “Are you sure he’s real?”

“He’s… interesting,” you admit. “I think he just takes time to warm up.”

Nathan, your other friend, raises a brow. “He’s hot in that tortured poet way. Just don’t let him convince you that sadness is sexy.”

“He’s not sad,” you say, a little more defensively than intended. “He’s thoughtful. He talks about plants like they’re people.”

Lila sips her drink. “Okay, but does he talk to people like they’re plants?”

You laugh with them then. But a part of you remembers the way he’d touched your wrist last weekend, gently turning your hand over to examine a burn you hadn’t even realized you’d gotten from the kettle.

“You need tending,” he’d murmured. “You bloom better under the right care.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

Your visits to the garden become regular. Every Saturday morning, sometimes Sunday afternoons. Elijah’s always there before you, already working. You bring him iced tea once. He accepts it with a quiet nod, then takes exactly one sip before going back to trimming a stubborn vine.

It’s not romantic. Not yet. But there’s a rhythm to it. You talk about your week. He listens without judgment. Sometimes he says strange things—asks you what kind of soil you think your heart would grow best in. Wonders aloud if your sadness feels more like drought or frost.

But he’s never cruel. Never impatient.

Until you stop showing up.

It isn’t intentional. Work gets busy. You’re offered a freelance project and you start seeing someone new—briefly. Elijah texts you once: Missed you today. Then again, two days later: The lilies drooped without you.

You don’t respond.

Lila invites you to a birthday dinner, and Nathan brings his newest situationship. You sip wine and listen to them complain about dating apps and flaky coworkers and overpriced rent.

“So, have you seen your ghost gardener lately?” Nathan teases. “Or did he finally return to the soil?”

You hesitate, twirling your glass. “He texted a couple times, but I’ve been swamped.”

Lila leans in. “You ghosted him, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t mean to.” You laugh. “I just got caught up in things.”

“You should probably clear the air,” she says. “Guys like that? The quiet ones? They internalize everything. He’ll think it’s his fault.”

You glance down at your phone. No new messages.

Later that night, as you unlock your apartment door, you pause.

There’s a package on your welcome mat. Wrapped in plain brown paper and twine. Inside: your basil plant. The one Elijah helped you grow. Its leaves are shriveled. The soil is cracked and dry.

There’s no note. Just the plant. Dead.

You bring it inside anyway. You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But the next morning, your heater breaks.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

It starts slow.

Lila stops responding to your texts. Nathan leaves your messages on read. You think they’re just busy—until your name is quietly removed from the group chat. Your landlord claims your rent was late, even though you paid early. Your emails to HR vanish into the void. Your favorite café closes down without notice.

You tell yourself it’s all coincidence.

But when you return to the garden one cold, gray Sunday, Elijah is there—waiting.

“You look paler,” he says, setting down a watering can. “Thinner.”

“I’ve been stressed.”

He nods, like that explains everything. “I noticed the apartment building next to yours has mold in the foundation. Black mold. Very dangerous.”

You freeze. “How do you know that?”

“I keep up with things.”

He hands you a cup of tea—your favorite blend. You take it without thinking, hands trembling slightly.

“I didn’t mean to ghost you,” you say. “I just needed space.”

He watches you over the rim of his glasses. “Space is a myth. Even the stars are drawn to gravity.”

“Elijah—”

He touches your wrist. Not forcefully. Just enough to stop your words.

“I let you go,” he murmurs. “I let you wilt.”

“You’re not responsible for me.”

He tilts his head. “Then why are you here?”

You don’t have an answer.

You sip the tea. It’s warm. Soothing.

But the aftertaste is bitter.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

You start seeing him more.

Because when he’s around, things work. Your electricity stays on. Your fridge hums. The walls don’t creak at night. The outside world feels far away—muted, distant. You stop trying to reach Lila. Your calls never connect.

One night, Elijah brings soup. You haven’t eaten all day.

He sets the bowl on the counter, then steps closer. “You look tired.”

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

He frowns, brushing a thumb beneath your eye. “Insomnia is a symptom. Lack of care. Dehydration. Depletion.”

“Of what?”

He doesn’t answer.

He just hands you the spoon.

Later, when you try to call Nathan, your phone screen glitches. The number says disconnected.

You turn to Elijah, who’s watching from the doorway, calm and unreadable.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” you whisper.

He steps forward, places his palm over your chest like he’s testing the pulse of a root system. “You’re not dying. You’re just malnourished.”

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“No,” he says, with that same quiet reverence from the garden. “You’re just being… repotted.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The worst part isn’t that he keeps you.

It’s that you let him.

Because when he holds you, you’re warm. When he murmurs to you in the dark, you forget what loneliness feels like. He tells you that you’re doing better. That you’re stabilizing. That your eyes are brighter now, and your spirit more rooted.

He brings you a mirror one morning, tilts it toward you.

“See?” he says softly. “No more drooping. No more decay.”

You stare at your reflection. Skin paler than you remember. Cheeks hollow. Lips dry. But your eyes—yes. They shine. Not with life, but with devotion.

He touches your chin. “You needed pruning. That’s all. Just a little guidance.”

“I… don’t remember who I was before.”

“You were starving,” he says. “And no one noticed but me.”

You start to cry.

He pulls you into his arms.

“There, there,” he whispers. “Don’t cry. You’ll waste water.”

You clutch him tightly, because you’re afraid.

Afraid that without his hands, you’ll collapse.

Afraid that he’s right.

That all along, you were just a flower planted in the wrong garden.

And now… you’re home.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

← Previous | Next →

i have daddy issues and my face immediately scrunches into disgust like... bleurgh?

when reading smut and y/n says “daddy”

sanctum | chapter one

Pairing: Yandere Preacher x Reader Description: You came because Mia said it would help—just a quiet retreat, a place to clear your head. But from the moment you stepped through the gate, you felt it: the way Father Caelestis looked at you, not like a stranger, but like someone he'd been waiting for… someone he'd already claimed long before you ever arrived. Warning/s: Yandere | Religious themes | Cult-ish | Brainwashing | Manipulation Note/s: Enjoy the first part of the series. Let me know what you think about it. Also, commissions are open. Links are below. :) Also, tags will be added tomorrow. I'm too sleepy to add them tonight.

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar | Dark Roast 50% Off

Chapter One | The Pilgrim’s Arrival “You did not wander here. You were called.”

The journey to Eden’s Refuge starts before the road, before the iron gates and the immaculate gardens. It starts in the cramped, dimly-lit living room of your sister’s apartment. The curtains are drawn, letting only thin slivers of daylight cut through the suffocating air between you.

“You can’t keep living like this,” she says, her voice sharp but threaded with concern. “You’re drowning, and you don’t even see it.”

You cross your arms, the defensive posture a reflex against her words. “I’m fine, Mia,” you snap. “I’m dealing with it.”

Her laugh is short, bitter. “Dealing with it? You call this dealing? Skipping work half the time, avoiding my calls, shutting everyone out?” She leans forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze burning into yours. “You need help.”

You stand, the motion sudden and jerky, as though you can outrun the weight of the conversation. “I don’t need anything,” you say, pacing to the small window. Outside, the city hums with life—cars honking, people shouting, the world moving on without you.

“You’re not listening,” Mia says, her voice softening now, the sharp edge dulled by something warmer. She stands too, coming to your side. Her hand rests lightly on your shoulder, and you almost flinch. “This isn’t your fault, okay? The world… it’s not kind. It’s broken. And it breaks people like us.”

You glance at her, suspicious. “What are you trying to say?”

She takes a deep breath, her hand dropping to her side. “There’s a place,” she begins, carefully. “A retreat. Eden’s Refuge. It’s for people like you. People who need to get away, to heal.”

You shake your head. “I don’t need a retreat.”

“You don’t even know what you need,” Mia counters. “And they can help you figure it out. I’ve been there, and it…” She falters for a moment, her eyes flickering with something you can’t place. “It saved me.”

You stare at her, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread. “You?” you ask, incredulous. “Since when do you need saving?”

She looks away, her jaw tightening. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d react like this. But yes, me. I was lost too, and Father Caelestis—he showed me the way back. He can do the same for you.”

“This is insane,” you say, shaking your head. “You’re talking about some… some cult leader.”

Her expression hardens, the warmth draining from her eyes. “It’s not a cult,” she says, her voice clipped. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“And you do?” you snap, voice sharp with disbelief. “God, Mia, listen to yourself.”

You take a step back, then jab a finger at her. Accusing, trembling with frustration. “This… this…” you drag your eyes over her with a shake of your head, like you can’t believe what you’re seeing. “…isn’t you.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think,” she snaps, and for the first time, you see a glimmer of something truly unsettling in her gaze.

The conversation ends there, but the seed is planted. Over the next few weeks, Mia doesn’t let up. She calls you daily, her tone oscillating between gentle encouragement and thinly-veiled exasperation. And each time she mentions Eden’s Refuge, the knot in your stomach tightens.

“You need this,” she says over the phone one evening. “I’ve already talked to them. They’re expecting you.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” you protest, but your words feel weak, hollow.

“You don’t have to agree,” Mia replies, her voice calm, almost patronizing. “You’ll thank me later.”

And so, here’s you are, sitting in the passenger seat of her car as it winds its way through the dense forest. The air outside grows heavier with each passing mile, the trees crowding the road like silent sentinels. Mia hums softly to herself, her fingers tapping the steering wheel in time with a tune you can’t place.

“You’ll love it,” she says suddenly, breaking the silence. “The peace, the quiet… it’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”

You don’t respond. Instead, you stare out the window, your reflection fractured by the passing trees.

When the gates of Eden’s Refuge appear, your breath catches in your throat. They rise high, ornate and foreboding, their iron surface gleaming in the waning light.

“We’re here,” Mia announces, her tone light, as though you’ve just arrived at a vacation resort.

The gates creak open, and you feel the weight of your decision—or rather, her decision—settle on your chest.

As soon as you step out of the car, you’re greeted by a woman in white, her smile wide and unwavering. “Welcome, beloved,” she says, her voice soothing and strange all at once.

You glance at Mia, but she’s already moving ahead, her expression serene, as though she belongs here.

The others emerge from the shadows, their movements synchronized, their faces glowing with an unsettling mix of joy and reverence. “You’ve finally come,” one of them whispers, and the words send a chill down your spine.

And then, he appears.

Father Caelestis.

He moves through the crowd with an almost otherworldly grace, his white robe billowing around him. His features are flawless, his eyes piercing, and his smile warm—too warm.

“You were lost,” he says, his voice as soft and heavy as a prayer. “But now you are found.”

You feel his gaze lock onto yours, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you. His presence is magnetic, suffocating.

You want to run, to turn back to Mia and demand she take you home, but she’s standing beside him now, her expression one of pure devotion.

“The world out there is cruel,” he continues, his voice wrapping around you like shroud. “But here, you are safe. Here, you will heal.”

His hand extends toward you, and you hesitate before taking it. His grip is firm, his touch cold, and it sends a shiver through you.

The others nod, their faces glowing with fervor.

“Come,” he says, and before you can protest, Mia is at your side, her hand lightly resting on your arm.

“Trust me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “This is where you belong.”

You let them lead you deeper into the compound, your dread growing with every step. The air smells of flowers and something else, something metallic and faintly acrid.

Your room is pristine, its white walls bare save for a single verse written in looping script: “Be still, and know that you are loved.” The bed is draped in white linens that smell of floral water, the air thick with its cloying sweetness.

That night, you lie awake, the silence pressing against you like a physical force. You can hear the faint hum of chanting in the distance, growing louder with each passing moment.

When you wake, the first thing you notice is the symbol beneath your bed. It’s drawn in ash, its jagged lines forming a shape that makes your stomach churn.

You want to scrub it away, to pretend it isn’t there, but fear holds you back.

At breakfast, Mia sits beside you, her expression calm, her movements deliberate.

“They’ve been waiting for you,” she says, her voice soft but filled with something unsettling. “We’ve all been waiting for you.”

You glanced around the room, your unease growing as you notice the way the others look at you—with reverence… with expectation.

Father Caelestis enters, his presence commanding the room without a word.

“The outside world has left its mark on her,” he says, his eyes scanning the congregation before settling on you. “But she is strong. She is chosen. And together, we will help her shed the weight of those lies.”

Mia nods, her expression one of quiet devotion.

You want to protest, to tell them they’re wrong, but the words catch in your throat.

When he places a hand on your shoulder, his touch light but unyielding, you feel the weight of his control settle over you.

“You’re safe now,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “No more noise. No more confusion. Just peace.”

But his eyes betray him. They’re not soft. They’re not kind. They’re possessive, unyielding, and they tell you one thing:

You are not leaving.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33

← Masterlist | Next →

wahaha, honestly the pandesal could turn sentient, could be the next rimuru.. 😭 the shape honestly reminds me of the slime blob.

Filipino Isekai