#quade intro

[ceruleanmusings]

Big Time Audition - Masons

while going through these ep rewrites i couldn't figure out how i wanted to include "big time audition" since the masons don't meet the guys until a few episodes later and this finally hit me! and it also has finally spurred me to re-write the fic depicting them first meeting the guys because, well, frankly I can do it so much better now and make sure each girl's personality stands out a bit more. but, in the meantime, you can see what they were like before the guys changed their lives. (again this is less a rewrite and more a long scene addition but, hey, semantics.)

@witchofinterest @raging-violets @partiallypearl @myloveforhergoeson

------

The ping of an email sliding into her inbox set Jazz scrambling off her bed. Finally! Setting aside the half-assembled skateboard deck, trucks, and screws she'd been tinkering with, she landed on the hardwood floor with a heavy thud and grabbed her laptop off her desk. The slam of her fingers on the spacebar cut off the quick lick of a guitar solo slicing through the air. High-stepping over Mel's assorted Nikes scattered on the ground, she approached the pocket door in the nearby wall of her room. Extending her foot, she planted it on the door and slid it open.

It smacked against the interior wall with a heavy thud, revealing Sammi perched on the side of her bed, body curled over her legs where she applied nail-polish to her big toe while bending her head to hold her cell phone in place.

"Jazz!" she shrieked, unfurling from her position. Irritation weighed down her brows as she gazed down at the black line dragging across her toenails. "Do you see what you did! Now i have to start all over!"

"No one's gonna be lookin' at your toes, Sam," Jazz said with a roll of her eyes. "And if they're really getting that close, they have bigger problems."

"You're gonna have big problems! It's taken me two hours to get this design right!" Huffing, Sammi reached over to yank sheets of tissues out a nearby box. "God! if i can't fix this you owe me a new outfit."

"How?"

Sammi uttered a world-weary sigh and spoke slowly. "This design goes with a specific outfit. I can't wear the outfit without the polish and i can't wear the polish without the outfit. It doesn't make sense."

"You don't make sense," Jazz grumbled, resting her laptop on her hip. "Who cares if your toes and your eyebrows match?"

"Just because you dress like Tony Hawk threw up on you doesn't mean everyone wants to walk around looking like a grease stain. Some of us take pride in how we look." Sammi patted her large cloud of curly hair to emphasize her point.

"Yeah, yeah, hope when you swallow that pride you don't choke on it. Blue's not your color—literally." Jazz laughed and danced out of the way of Sammi throwing her large, fluffy pillow at her. "Quit with the dramatics! Look, Aunt Kelly sent us another round of audition videos! From Minnesota this time! —I know." Sammi held the same confused expression on her face Jazz was sure she'd made only a few seconds prior.

Why Aunt Kelly and Uncle Gustavo's last star search stop was in Minnesota of all places, she didn't know. Especially in the middle of winter. Uncle Gustavo didn't do well with the cold. Or people. Or cold people. So this was Hell and Hell freezing over for him at the exact same time. He was not going to be in a good mood.

"Hurry up! I want to see if these people are terrible too."

"Relax, no one can be as bad as Opera Guy," Sammi said with a scoff. "For one, he chose a terrible song for his range. Two, I could have done it better. And three, his shirt was untucked, his tie was too short, and he thought square toed shoes fit this century. He should have called me for help. He would've looked at least half-way presentable, which is the best he could have pulled off."

"Isn't most criticism supposed to come with a compliment somewhere."

"Sure," Sammi said with a shrug. "He'd never be able to afford me."

"Don't break your arm congratulating yourself," Jazz said. "Just hurry up!" Her feet slapped against the ground as she ran out of their connecting rooms, Sammi's phone conversation fading behind her as she jumped down the stairs, slamming to a stop on both landings. Navigating around the corner, she burst through the kitchen and went straight for the connected living room.

A stack of neatly folded blankets sat on the nearby ottoman, the creases so sharp it could cut glass. Just the way their dad liked it. A tray filled with a half empty glass of orange juice, toast two bites away from being finished, a mug with a dredge of dark coffee remaining, scattered silverware, and a balled up napkin balanced on a haphazard scattering of cycling and running magazines on the nearby coffee table.

And Mickey moved about straightening it all: adjusting the dented pillow left on the recliner, tucking the transfer board between the chair and end table, moving the lone navy blue slipper—left foot—to sit just beneath the coffee table, pulled the extended foot rest back in, and rolled up the long cord of the nearby vacuum around her arm.

"Hey." Jazz waved her arm, her voice and movement breaking Mickey out of her productive haze. She paused in the cord rolling, eyebrows lifting in a silent question. Or at least Jazz guessed from her head being pointed in her direction; her long locs hid most of her face. "We got more audition videos from Aunt Kelly. The last stop in Minnesota." Mickey's eyes slowly moved from the tray to the blankets to the recliner and back to the tray. "I'll get Mel so you can finish up," Jazz continued, "But Mick, seriously, Dad's not gonna care if it's not all spic and span by the time they get back."

Her mouth twisted to the side and she was quiet as she placed the wrapped cord around the back of the vacuum. Stepping on the petal that unlocked it, she turned to maneuver it out of the room, stopping only to say, "It matters to me" before passing.

Jazz stepped aside. Mickey preferred to keep everything in the right place to make his life easier. Jazz very much preferred that their dad was still around to have a life.

She made a beeline for the garage, a wall of sound knocking into her once she popped the seal on the door leading off the kitchen. Their dad had made it soundproof the day Mel got her first drum-set for Christmas on year. He re-enforced it every couple of years, for their' mom's sake since she worked most nights he said.

Mel's arms were almost a blur with how fast she hit the drums and symbols in succession. Her shoulders rose and dropped and her body moved along to a groove Jazz couldn't hear, half from the steady drumbeats and half from the large headphones Mel wore over her ears. With a grin, Jazz tiptoed forward until she stood behind Mel, able to see the lines of bright purple weaving into her long, dark braids. It was a recent changeover from her usual cornrows. It made playing goalie in soccer easier without having to fuss about her hair. As captain of the team, she didn't let anything get in her way. Literally.

"Yo!" Jazz snickered when Mel jumped at Jazz's shout after yanking a headphone off her ear. The drumbeat finished off-time due to Mel's flailing. Yanking the other headphone off, Jazz jerked her head backward when Mel whipped around with one drumstick pointed right at her nose. "Easy Jack Sparrow, you'll put an eye out."

"You're mixing up your movies," Mel pointed out, curling in the drumstick to spin it around her fingers. Her chest heaved and Jazz didn't need to check her pulse to know it was high. She swore Mel used drumming as an excuse for exercise as well to keep her skills up. As she liked to point out, you can't have an out-of-shape drummer and Mel needed to work twice as hard to get even some semblance of recognition for her contributions to their school's jam band or percussion section.

"Speaking of movies, we have a new installment of America's Funniest Audition Fails!" Jazz wiggled her laptop around as if displaying a prize on a game show. "Come on!" She started bouncing on her toes. "I want to know if they all sing with those accents."

Mel hummed. "That's assuming they're all able to keep time." That was a sticking point for her from the auditions in Salt Lake City, Philadelphia, and Houston. Most of the auditions, really. That even the well-prepared singers couldn't seem to stay on time with the music they chose. They either rushed or dragged, or worse, changed the arrangement to something so flashy it didn't showcase their voice but rather pointed out the sharp strains, the flat hits, or displayed their flaws rather than their strengths. She went on a rant about each location's auditions for days. (Though that could also be leftover disappointment at not being allowed to audition in D.C., even though they weren't accepting drummers.)

"Well, here's the good part! You can take all the videos of the bad ones, explain why they're so bad, and throw in some of your drum reels and send that to Uncle Gustavo!" Jazz said with a sparkle in her eye, a finger pointed upwards in the air. "All Mom and Dad said was it wasn't a good idea to audition. They never said you couldn't show them your reels by accidentally sending them a link in an email you never meant to send."

Chuckling, Mel grabbed a gray towel with faded Gatorade logos on them and wiped sweat off her brow. "Remind me to hire you as my lawyer."

"Why? They can't get mad at you for that."

"No, but they'll be impressed with how much you can twist their words to fit your needs before they ground you for a month."

Shifting her finger from vertical to horizontal, Jazz wiggled her finger between herself and Mel. "You mean ground us."

Mel laughed and shook her head; her braids swayed as she swung one leg over her stool. "No, I mean you. I'm an innocent bystander."

"Annnd that's exactly where you'll stay if you don't take this chance," Jazz said. Mel's smile immediately dropped to a frown and she scratched at her hairline. "It's an opportunity of a lifetime. You want it bad, so you keep saying, but you're going to let something as small as an email stand in your way? What's that phrase?" She tapped her chin. "Ask for forgiveness rather than permission?"

"Will that still hold up when I shove this down your throat?" Mel asked, waving her drumstick at her.

Jazz grinned, pushing it away. "You know I'm right!"

"No, you're annoying."

"Same thing!"

Laughing, Jazz ran out of the garage, making it to the living room in time for Mel to jump onto her back and the two to slam down to the couch. Jazz managed to move her computer out of the way in time, twisting herself to take the blow of the soft landing. Sammi and Mickey trailed in a few moments later, squeezing themselves onto the couch in their usual order: Sammi on one end, then Mel, Jazz, and Mickey on the other end. Stretching her legs onto the coffee table, crossing the angle with the thin metallic red band over the other, Jazz balanced her laptop on her lap and pressed play on the video.

They laughed, cringed, groaned, and booed through the clipped together reel of auditions. Some people were flat, some were sharp, some didn't even sing, instead choosing to do an interpretive dance about acid rain and a mime act. Unsurprisingly, Gustavo whisked them off the stage fast yelling about how a mime can't have seriously tried to audition for a singing competition. (Plus, he found mimes creepy.)

One girl stood out, someone named Jenny Tinkler, simply because her audition started with her taking in a deep breath and then the shot cut to a firefighter using a fire extinguisher on curtain, some tiles hanging from the ceiling, the recording tilted, a few holes in the wall of the stage, and Jenny running around with security guards chasing after her all the while screaming "But I'm gonna be the next Gwen Stefani!" Kelly could be see in the background, wiping leftover extinguisher

"Whoa," they girls uttered in unison.

"She should come with a warning label," Mel said.

"So should her outfit," Sammi said. "Bows that big only belong on big presents."

"The dog was cute though," Jazz said. They all voiced their agreement as she fast forwarded through the next clips. It was a blur of color, of scuffles, of someone jumping off the stage, of—

"Wait! Go back!" Mel jabbed at a button on the keyboard, sending the reel backward.

"Hey!"

"Just—look!"

She hit another button and the video started playing again. A boy walked on stage wearing audition number 810, wearing a gray sweater and brown pants. He introduced himself as Logan and, instead of singing, started beatboxing.

"Not bad," Mel said after an approving hum.

Gustavo didn't agree by yelling Logan off the stage like everyone else. Mickey made a noise of sympathy at the zoom-in on Logan's shellshocked expression and robotic walk out of the room.

811 was next, a boy in a blue hoodie named Carlos who swung the microphone around until he farted into it, causing Jazz and Mel to crack up and Sammi to utter a sound of disgust.

James was 812, a tall boy with a confident stride and his chin held high. He took his time before he started, looking at his feet, taking a breath, and positioning the swoop in his hair.

"People say I'm the life of the party... 'cause I tell a joke or two..."

"Wow." Sitting next to her, Jazz caught Mickey's soft uttering of awe. And, out the corner of her eye, she watched Mickey sit up straighter and lean closer to the screen.

"Sam?" Jazz appealed.

Sammi nodded once. "He's good," she stated, running a ring along a chain around her neck. And she'd know, she was born with near perfect pitch. Which she loved to remind them about any chance she got. Which Jazz understood, despite how annoying it could get. Any way for them to be different.

"So Minnesota does have some talent," Mel remarked.

Not that Uncle Gustavo agreed with them. Before their very eyes, he started shouting about how the James guy had no talent (Mickry gasped at that) and how he was wasting his time. Then all hell broke loose when some blond guy sporting some impressive eyebrows came into the shot, yelling about Uncle Gustavo not having any talent and then singing about how he was a "giant turd" which started a brawl with security guards.

"Whoa! And I thought people from Minnesota were supposed to be nice!" Jazz said between her laughter which started up again when an older black woman started beating up the security guards with her cane.

"Uncle Gustavo kind of deserved it," Mel said. Sammi nodded in agreement.

"Let's see it again!" Jazz went backward on the clip only to jerk out of the way when Mickey's arm extended past her face, her cell phone in hand. "What the-?" her cry was cut short at the snort she emitted when spotting the deep disapproving frown on Mickey's face. "Oh, this'll be good."

With a sigh and half smile, Mel took thr phone out of Mickey's hand and held it up to her ear. Jazz leaned closer to listen, the buzz on the other end trilling three times until it was picked up.

"Hey Mel," Aunt Kelly greeted her warmly. "Hey girls. What's up?"

"Mickey's mad at you," Mel singsonged.

"How? What did I do?"

"We saw the auditions. Mickey's mad you didn't pick-"

"The hot guy," Jazz cut in.

"The hot guy," Mel repeated, "812."

"That was Gustavo, not me. You know I don't have much of a say."

"Then how do you call yourself a talent scout?"

They didn't need to see her face to know she rolled her eyes. "Look, Gustavo's looking for a certain thing and he didn't have it. So Mickey can be mad at him."

"She is. You should see her face."

"Send it to me. I'll show him."

Snickering, Mel took out her phone to snap a pic of Mickey's still present frown, now with her arms crossed, and quickly sent it over. "For what it's worth, if he went this far and still didn't find someone, that guy may be his best shot."

"Try telling him that."

"We will! We can spam him!"

"Jazz."

"I said spam him. We won't do anything else. This time. We got grounded hard for signing him up for that toupee of the month thing."

"You. You got grounded," Sammi, Mel, and Mickey said in unison.

"Anyway, he seems to have his mind set. I'll try talking to him. He might not want him after being escourted out by security."

"Or, maybe that's the fire he's looking for!" Jazz said. "Just think about it! He'd have a built-in bad boy type!"

"We'll see. I talk to you girls later. I think he's about to yell at the bellhop. I love you. And stay out of trouble."

"We always do," they chorused before saying goodbye and hanging up.

Jazz drummed her fingers on her laptop, a slow smile pushing onto her face.

"Oh no," Sammi groaned at the sight of it.

Mel sighed. "You gonna order something?"

Jazz nodded.

"You gonna send it to Uncle Gustavo?"

Jazz nodded again.

"Are you gonna send a mime to glare at him?"

"Nah," Jazz said, shaking her head. "I could send Mickey to do that for free." She laughed, leaning out of the way of Mickey's attempts to hit her with a pillow.

"Well whatever it is, I'm not going down for it this time," Mel declared. "...Let's go to the library and use their computers. At least that way the IP can't get directly traced back to us."

"Good idea!"

All at once, the girls lept off the couch and raced each other for the front door.

[yungfenn]

YUNG FENN • 20 yo

gov’t hating quad amputee artist ♿️

i rant about the daily ableism and occasionally yap about the wonderful world of professional wrestling

IM NOT AN OBJECT IM A PERSON YOU WEIRD ASSES YOU AINT FINDING “CONTENT” HERE 🫃

[marybelley]

❝ Introduction ❞

Hello everyone, my name is Mary, and this is my aesthetics blog which will be primary for just day-to-day events which includes rollerskating, journaling & art, dates with my boyfriend, ACPC and fortnite!!

I am open to any mutuals! And I’ve already posted my ACPC camper card so friend me!!

My blog is meant to be viewed on light mode 😖

ฅ^._.^ฅ My other social medias include:

Instagram: Maryberrybelle

Pinterest: Maryberrybelle

Spotify: MaryBelle

Her are some photos and videos that represent me and my interests!!

[luvmahae]

where you are ‣ lee haechan smau

summary: what the absolute fuck is up baby! fall semester marks the peak of greek life at ncu. the campus quad is filled with tents representing various fraternities and sororities with their letters proudly presented in front of each booth, all eager to recruit new members. as students return to campus, they are met with a flood of fliers and invitations to parties, mixers, and rush events. while you were walking through the crowd of eager freshmen to join these organizations, you bumped into someone very unexpected...

what do you do when you bump into the guy you hooked up with after a music festival during summer break? instead of the royal blue basketball jersey you first met him in, it was replaced by a varsity jacket with the letters reading "ΝΧΘ".

"haechan?"

pairing: fratboy!haechan x fem!reader

genre: smau, non-idol au, college au, fluff, nsfw/suggestive (mdni!) comedy, humor, slight slowburn, strangers to lovers, rave bae core? (am i in love with you or is it just the drugs?)

warnings: mentions of alcohol/substance usage (marijuana, mdma/ecstasy, lsd, cocaine), profanity, jokes about sex and death thrown around, both groups are out of pocket and tmi doesn't exist apparently... no ones safe! the boys gc is kinda questionable (this is where i say men deserve no rights!), haechan x reader met at an edm festival (the term rave bae will be said here and there. rave bae is someone you meet unexpectedly while raving, kinda like your temporary s/o for the duration of the rave or festival... smth like that!) disclaimer notice: these portrayals are fictional and are not intended to encourage or glamorize substance use.

playlist: where you are - john summit | club classics - charli xcx | intimidated - kaytranada, h.e.r. | high and i like it - it's murph, evalyn | what a life - john summit, stevie appleton | saving up - dom dolla | talk talk - charli xcx, troye sivan | mr useless - shygirl, sg lewis, club shy | atmosphere - fisher, kita alexander | thinking about you - calvin harris, ayah marar | gas pedal remix - john summit, subtronics, tape b, sage the gemini

notes: omg!!! my first post ever... honestly i've been debating to do this for a long time... now here i am :D ngl i lowkey based this off a personal experience (i am a changed woman now okay... spare me! 😭) my first lil fic dedicated to haechan!!! the playlist is highly edm biased with a sprinkle of brat. i just think it fits the vibe so well hehe. open to feedback and enjoy!!! ♡

status: ongoing!

taglist: closed!

profiles: live laugh love y/n (1), john summit fanboys (2)

intro: so.... edc next year?

one: comedown

two: wtf is college

three: boutta fuckin jump (written)

four: y/n’s eras tour

five: is my brain braining?

six: heyyyyyy 👀

seven: i know what u are…

eight: tequila ftw (written)

nine: ot3 timeout

ten: i want u 😩

eleven: drunk olympics

twelve: stuDYING

thirteen: agram 🙏😭

fourteen: gn haechan (written)

fifteen: team y/n

sixteen: options

seventeen: u did ur big one 😞

eighteen: h for harry styles

nineteen: kms postponed! (written)

twenty: haechan x y/n crumbs

twenty-one: how tf we feelin (written)

twenty-two: use protection 😏

twenty-three: missed connection

twenty-four: shhhh 🤫

twenty-five: enemies to lovers trope

twenty-six: #fomo

twenty-seven: are u in love

twenty-eight:

twenty-nine:

thirty:

[cavernsofdarkness]

Final core member!

Because I'm a mess and start 5000 new things before making headway on one—

Have some new faces. Who knows when I'll get around to actually making their content.

[ghostedgwen]

all by design | p.parker [part one]

notes : I am back to writing for peter parker of course because before anyone else - this blog was created originally for him, my originally muse - that somehow fits well into this fic lol - reqs are open <3

warnings : college au - no superpowers, no spider-man, dorky peter parker who's an introvert, reader is a mastermind pulling strings, cute working on project stuff - photography shit I pretend I know things about

You only signed up for photography to dodge a boring science class, but somehow ended up choosing Peter Parker as your muse — soft-spoken, brilliant, and criminally overlooked. He’s awkward, you’re accidentally obvious, and a late-night project might just turn into something a little more.

I laid the groundwork and then, just like clockwork, the dominoes cascaded in a line. . .

Peter Parker always sits in the third row.

Same grey hoodie. Same battered notebook, filled with stickers - so very random. Same cheap black coffee in a reusable Stark Expo travel mug that he never seems to finish.

You notice, of course. You notice everything about him - in a maybe not-so creepy way.

It’s hard not to, when you’ve been quietly, shamelessly harboring a thing - not a crush, you insist, because that feels juvenile - for him since week three of Intro to Photography.

Not that he talks much. He’s the type to melt into the corners of the classroom, to let others raise their hands and perform their answers like auditions. But he listens, scribbles tiny notes in that notebook of his, mouth quirking when something makes him laugh - a soft, rare thing that you’ve started cataloguing like your own private gallery.

Photography, for the record, wasn’t supposed to be your thing. You picked it to duck out of another semester of mandatory econ electives - something about composition sounded better than graphs. But then Peter Parker sat three rows ahead of you, quietly fascinating, and just like that: you had a muse.

Not that he knows. Of course he doesn’t. You’ve only submitted one piece with him in frame - his silhouette against a window, mid-laugh - and titled it “Unnoticed Light.” Langley gave it an A. Said it felt honest. You couldn’t exactly say "thanks, I’m secretly in love with the boy who never finishes his coffee.”

Most people overlook him - they don’t see past the hoodie, the fading bruise on his jaw from god-knows-what, or the way he keeps his head down when he walks. But you do. You see how he flinches at loud noises, how his fingers twitch like they’re always itching to fix something.

You see the careful, considerate way he offers to carry the overhead projector without being asked. You see how he lingers by the windows for better light when photographing portraits - how the shots he turns in are always somehow achingly human.

You wonder if anyone’s ever looked at him that way. You doubt it.

You do, though. From behind your camera lens. From across the quad. From the third seat to the left, where you’ve started sitting every Tuesday morning. Two rows back. Just close enough to hear when he mutters his answers under his breath.

You’ve spoken to him exactly three times. Once during critique week (“I liked your framing”), once at the vending machines (“They’re out of pretzels, by the way”), and once when your professor handed back graded papers and he’d gotten a B. You saw the way his shoulders slumped and told him, softly, “She grades hard. That’s basically an A in Langley-speak.”

He looked at you like he hadn’t expected kindness.

You remember that look too well. It's the reason you’re about to make this project pairing very conveniently work in your favour.

But that comes later.

For now, Peter Parker’s in the third row again, fiddling with the strap of his camera bag like it’s a nervous tic, and you’re trying very hard not to smile at nothing.

You overhear Langley mention the project pairings two weeks before she announces them.

She’s in the hallway, talking to one of the TAs - something about how she “might just let them pick their own partners this time. Less hassle.”

You’re not proud of what happens next. Scratch that - you’re exactly proud of what happens next. Because it’s not cheating if you’re just. . . influencing the environment. Like the weather. Or the Wi-Fi. Or even better - fate.

It starts with small things. Like moving your seat up one row so you’re just behind Peter now - not that anyone noticed as the seats in class were never fully occupied.

Laughing just a little louder at his dry jokes when the professor asks for class discussion.

The first time it happens, you’re not even subtle. Langley makes some sarcastic comment about how half the class probably doesn’t know what ISO stands for, and Peter mutters under his breath, “In Spite Of everything, I’m still here.”

You snort before you can stop yourself.

He glances back, startled, and you catch the flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t expected anyone to hear. You almost neglect to note how perfectly matching his hair and eyes were, a rich shade of brown - might be worth something later.

“You get this stuff?” you ask him after class, tapping your camera. “Because I’m faking it at an award-winning level.”

Peter shrugs, bashful - hiding his surprise at your approach. “I mean, mostly I just mess around until it looks right. Which. . . I think is technically a method?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing, too,” you grin. “We’re either geniuses or complete frauds.”

He laughs - a low, surprised sound - and runs a hand through his curls like he’s trying to hide behind them. “Honestly? I’ll take either.”

You start leaving class at the same time he does. Linger a beat longer by the vending machines. Let your shoulder brush his once in a while when you lean over to look at a picture he’s editing on his laptop.

And okay - maybe you start timing your exits so you’re walking next to him through the quad. And maybe you offer him a gummy worm from the bag in your pocket one afternoon, and he acts like you handed him a priceless family heirloom.

“Wait - are these sour?” he says reverently.

“The best kind.” you give him a toothy grin.

He grins. “Okay, you’re officially the coolest person in this class. Sorry, Langley.”

When Langley finally announces partner selection, she lets people volunteer first.

Which is when you strike.

You wait exactly four beats after Peter glances around the room, clearly hesitant to make the first move.

You raise your hand, smile easy, and say, “Can I work with Peter?”

Langley nods, scribbles your names down. Peter looks up, slightly surprised, but doesn’t question it.

“Uh - yeah, cool,” he says, blinking behind his glasses. “That works. Definitely works.”

There’s a faint flush on his cheeks. You don’t know if it’s from attention or from you - you enjoy it anyways.

You don’t ask.

You just tuck the moment away like a lucky penny, warm in your pocket, and look forward to what comes next.

“So,” you say, casual as you can manage. “I was thinking. For the project. I want to photograph you.”

Peter blinks. Stares. “Me?”

You nod. “Yeah. You’d be perfect.”

He fumbles with the zipper on his backpack like it just forgot how to function. “Uh - I mean, I thought we were supposed to do something, like, theme-based?”

You lean back on your hands, legs folded on the library carpet, and look up at him with a little grin. “Exactly. And I think you’d be perfect for the concept I’m going for. It’s about presence. Softness. The way someone’s energy fills a space. I want to capture someone who doesn’t realize they’re being seen. Someone. . . quietly magnetic.”

Peter swallows.

“Magnetic?” he echoes, a little too cutely for your poor heart.

You nod again, and oh, you’re really laying it on now, aren’t you?

“Yeah,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You have that face people want to look at. Even if they don’t realize it right away.”

Peter’s mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he just sort of… makes a noise. Halfway between a breath and a squeak.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing. It’s not mean-spirited - you’re just so fond. It’s hard not to let it show.

“And your eyes are insane,” you add, like you’re checking off a list. “They catch light like no one else’s in this class. You’ve got that kind of timeless thing going on - a little bit James Dean, a little bit boy-next-door.”

Peter is frozen. Absolutely shellshocked. Like he cannot compute being complimented this much in one sitting.

“. . .You’ve definitely thought about this,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse.

You shrug, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat. “Maybe. A little.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Peter scratches the back of his neck, and for a terrifying second, you wonder if you’ve ruined everything - if you came on too strong, if the room has tilted a little too far in the direction of intentional.

But then he smiles.

It’s a tiny thing. Just the curve of his lips, shy and secret and so unbearably sweet - so Peter.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “If you’re sure you want to. I mean, I’m not very - photogenic. Or model-y. Or whatever.”

“You’re perfect,” you say before you can stop yourself - nevermind the fact you're still yet to confess the submission you previously made of him.

Peter flushes deeper. Looks at his hands. Smiles harder.

You pretend not to notice - you could almost get a degree for that.

You give him directions to your place later that night.

It’s a short walk from campus - tucked above a trendy cafe and across from a laundromat that always smells like jasmine detergent and cheap cologne.

Your aunt signed the lease for you before you even applied to uni, saying, “Every artist needs a sanctuary.” The space is way too nice for a student. Hardwood floors, big windows, blackout curtains, high ceilings with exposed beams. A dream for any art student, really.

Peter looks around when he arrives, clearly trying not to be impressed.

“This is yours?” he asks, dropping his camera bag by the door.

You nod. “Technically it’s my aunt’s. She travels a lot. But yeah. Mine for now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You live here alone?”

“Yep.”

“That’s. . .” He spins in a slow circle, taking in the space. “Kind of incredible.”

You flash him a grin. “You’re welcome any time.”

He snorts. “My roommate would kill me if I tried to turn our dorm into a studio. He thinks personal space is sacred. Meanwhile, he clips his toenails without a care for where they end up.”

You laugh, motioning for him to sit. “Okay, yeah. You’re banned from trying this in your own place.”

He sits down on the little velvet couch, awkwardly tucks one leg under the other, and glances around like he’s waiting to be told what to do.

You set up the lighting as naturally as you can, trying not to show how giddy you are about this. About him, here, in your space, letting you see him like this.

When you look through the viewfinder and frame the shot - Peter in profile, warm lamplight brushing his cheekbones, sleeves pushed up to his forearms - you think, Yeah. This was always going to happen.

Even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Okay,” you murmur, adjusting the tripod slightly. “Just relax. Don’t think about the camera. Think about. . . like, what you’d do if you were alone. Not sad alone. Normal alone. Like. . . chilling.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “That’s incredibly specific and somehow still not helpful.”

You snort. “You’re doing fine. Just - don’t pose. Or, like . . . do. But make it look like you’re not posing.”

Peter gives you a look. “So. Be naturally unnatural.”

“Exactly.”

He huffs a laugh and leans back against the couch again, arms loosely crossed, head tilted like he’s considering something far off in the distance. It’s candid. Or close enough. His expression softens when he exhales, and you click the shutter without thinking.

“Better?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you.

You glance down at the preview on your camera screen and nod slowly. “That’s a good one. You’ve got a very - contemplative face.”

Peter mock-gasps. “So I do have a face worth photographing?”

“Oh my god, I’ve been saying that for weeks.” you say feigning shock.

He grins, and you snap another shot.

Then he shifts slightly, arms raised to run a hand through his hair - and the motion hikes his pullover up just a little, revealing a sliver of lean stomach, the faint outline of muscle.

You blink.

And, well.

You’re only human.

“Okay, wait,” you say, squinting as you lower the camera. “Why are you, like. . . secretly ripped under there?”

Peter freezes. “What?”

You gesture to him, accusatory. “You look like you code for twelve hours a day and live off granola bars and Red Bull, and then - bam! Surprise abs?”

He splutters, desperate to deny your words. “They’re not - abs. It’s just lighting.”

You tilt your head, smug to have caught him in such a predicament. “Is it?”

He covers his face with his hands. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

You laugh, unapologetic. “I absolutely can. I’m the artist. I get to be pretentious and weirdly flirty. It’s in the rules.”

Peter peeks at you through his fingers, blushing like crazy. “Okay. But for the record, I am not ripped. I’m. . . jacketed.”

You blink. “What?”

He drops his hands, now grinning. “Like. . .I’m not shredded. I’m cozy. Secretly jacket.”

You laugh so loud it echoes a little off the brick wall.

“God, you’re stupid,” you say fondly - his nose crinkles at that.

“Thank you,” he replies, mock-solemn.

You take three more photos while he’s still laughing.

After that, it’s easy.

You trade the high-watt lights for the soft glow of a desk lamp. The vibe settles - less photoshoot, more afterglow. You both move through the space without talking, cleaning up wires and lenses, folding backdrops, checking batteries. It’s comfortable. Not quite domestic, but something adjacent to it. Something you don’t have a name for yet.

Peter hands you a lens cap without being asked. You unplug the extension cord and wrap it neatly over your arm. Somewhere outside, a car honks, and someone yells about fries.

You stretch your arms over your head, then glance at him over your shoulder.

“Wanna go get burgers?”

He pauses, halfway through packing his camera, and looks at you like you just offered him front-row tickets to a space launch.

“Like. . . now?”

You shrug. “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

He considers you for a beat too long. Then smiles. It’s a little crooked. A little shy. Unreasonably cute.

“Burgers sound perfect.”

It’s nearing 12:30 by the time you stumble into the diner - one of those charming, grease-stained spots that’s open 24/7 and never quite empty. The fluorescent sign outside flickers with effort, casting pink and blue across the sidewalk like a hazy, nostalgic film scene.

Peter holds the door for you, his camera bag slung over one shoulder, and the warm smell of frying oil and vanilla milkshake syrup hits instantly.

You both slide into a booth, you facing the window, Peter across from you, cheeks still pink from the cold night air.

The waitress doesn’t bother with a menu.

“Two burgers, two fries, two chocolate shakes?” she asks with a raised brow, pen poised.

Peter blinks. “Wait, how did you - ”

“You two look like the type,” she says flatly, then walks off without another word.

You grin, biting back a laughter in the case she takes it the wrong way. “She gets it.”

Peter gives you a mock-scandalized look. “Do we have a type?”

You lean back, stretching lazily in your seat. “Apparently we do. Chocolate-shake-at-midnight type.”

He smiles at that. “Not the worst reputation to have.”

By the time the food comes, you’ve already kicked your shoes off under the booth and Peter’s talking with his hands like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. The diner’s mostly empty except for a guy asleep by the jukebox and a girl aggressively typing on her laptop in the corner.

The conversation shifts easily once you start asking questions. Like you’re in your own little bubble.

“What made you pick computer science?” you ask, tearing a fry in half, dipping it in your milkshake and eating it. He watched you in mild amusement.

Peter shrugs, sipping from the milkshake. “I’ve always liked puzzles. Logic. Building stuff from scratch. It’s. . . satisfying, I guess.”

You nod. “You seem like someone who enjoys solving things.”

He blushes a little, then grins. “Okay, my turn. Why photography? You’re too cool to be doing this just for credits.”

You laugh, throwing a half fry at him which he barely dodged with a chuckle. “Flatterer.”

Peter raises his milkshake in a silent toast.

You consider your answer. “Honestly? I started it because it got me out of a required science elective. But then it kind of… stuck. I don’t know. Something about freezing a moment - turning it into a story. I liked the control of it. The quiet.”

He looks at you like he understands. Like he really gets it - he studies you for a moment.

“That makes sense,” he says. “You take it seriously. You see stuff other people don’t.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He glances down at his fries, then up at you again, his voice quieter now. “Like me.”

You go still for a second.

But you’re not ready to crack open that door yet, so instead you lean in with a crooked smile and deflect like a pro.

“Back to the game, Parker. Favorite color?”

He laughs and says, “Blue. Like - not sky blue. Like hoodie blue.”

You blink, surprised. “That’s specific.”

He shrugs. “I know what I like.”

You twirl a fry between your fingers. “Okay. Favorite movie?”

Peter looks thoughtful. “I’m gonna say The Iron Giant. It makes me cry every single time and I’m not even sorry.”

Your heart clenches a little. Of course it does, it is so like him - ever the softboy.

You smile. “That’s a solid answer. Top tier sad-boy comfort flick.”

He grins. “Alright, your turn. Most irrational fear?”

You pause dramatically. “Birds.”

Peter blinks. “What?”

“They’re twitchy. Beady-eyed. I don’t trust a creature that can fly and still chooses to steal fries off the sidewalk.”

He’s laughing before you finish the sentence, full-body and warm. You sip your milkshake just to hide how proud you are of that laugh.

The questions keep coming, softer now, more personal.

Siblings? No - just you. Just Peter.

Favorite smell? His is old books. Yours is rain on pavement.

Do you believe in soulmates?

You both pause on that one.

Peter looks at you, eyes darker in the dim light, fingers stilling around his straw - chocolate milkshake all drained from the 50s diner style cup.

“I think. . .I used to,” he says. “Then I stopped. Then I started again. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

You hum. “That’s fair. I think I believe in . . .finding someone who feels like home. Even if it’s not fate. Even if it’s a choice.”

He nods, like that sits right with him. “That’s a good answer.”

You smile. “I’ve got a lot of those.”

“I know.”

And he says it so soft, so genuine, that you forget how to chew for a second.

It’s past 2AM when you finally wander back out into the night, bellies full, fingertips salty, the streetlights casting halos around you.

“Thanks for tonight,” Peter says, voice warm.

You bump your shoulder against his. “Anytime.”

And you mean it.

You’re not in love. Not yet. But something about tonight feels like the first chapter of something that might be worth writing down.

to be continued. . .

part two | masterlist

[buckys-forgotten-plum]

A Lesson in Love

(This is very much a working title)

College!AU

Smarty Pants!Bucky Barnes x Cheerleader!Reader

Synopsis: Being a newly metamorphosed social butterfly certainly has its perks: an amazing friend group, a position on the cheer squad you’ve dreamed about for years, and the ability to make connections everywhere you go. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make you any better at Linear Algebra, enter Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Cursing, awkward reader, flirty Steve Rogers, that’s it i think :)

A/N: Boy howdy has it been a long time since I’ve posted on this hell-site. I only hope that it’s not shit (it’s probably shit)

—---------------

“Let’s run through the routine one more time guys!” Your voice travels throughout the gym as you direct your teammates to their original starting position. 

“Umed, you’re doing great but I just wanna see a little more stability when you’re holding Yelena up! Yelena, I saw you falter a little at the end there, try and stay strong please!” Your co-captain, Raj, enthusiastically instructs from beside you. 

As the team resets into their original postions, you hear a bumble of agreements and acknowledgments, making you smile. Becoming the co-captain of your university’s cheer team while only being a sophomore was no small feat and you were absolutely ecstatic to get the call 4 weeks ago congratulating your achievement. 

You remember sitting with Yelena in the quad, under a large willow tree, when you picked up the phone, it took everything in you not to squeal with excitement. Though you and your best friend definitely had a mini celebration after you hung up and spared no shame when you both began to scream and shout your elation. 

“Oh, holy shit Rabbit you did it!” The blonde woman had tightly gathered you into her arms and spun you around, a wild grin adorning her face. 

You hug her back just as tightly, “I can’t believe it! I for sure thought Hasan was gonna get it! I mean, his form was impeccable, and did you see that round-off back handspring that he did? Jesus I almost swooned!” 

Yelena laughs heartily before agreeing, “It takes more than just pretty tricks to be a captain though Rabbit, you didn’t get a full ride for nothin’. C’mon, I’m buying us lunch to celebrate,”

After a couple of weeks of barely believing you were able to make the cut as co-captain, you honed your excitement into determination. You began to focus on perfecting the routine you and Raj had planned for the first football game of the year. At this point, it was only a week away and your confidence in the team soared. They all worked so incredibly hard, and by watching how well they were performing today, you had all the faith in the world in them. After the team had run through it a couple more times, Raj had decided to call it for today seeing as you and a few others had an evening lecture to get to. 

Once you had taken one of the fastest showers in your life and changed into a fresh set of clothes, the process of haphazardly shoving your things into your bag and calculating how fast you’d have to run to make it to your class on time began. The gym you practiced in was damn near close to being on the other side of campus from the building your 5 pm Computational Physics lecture was held in and you’d be in deep shit for showing up late. You were already having a rough time in that class and you knew missing even a few minutes of the lecture intro would put you even further behind. 

“You better hop to it little rabbit or you’ll be laaate~,” Yelena sings as she walks past you, already on her way out.

“I know, I know, I know!” You hastily shove the rest of your belongings into your bag before giving yourself a quick pat down to ensure nothing was missed

Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you give a quick goodbye to the rest of the women in the locker room before bolting out. The sun was still shining brightly and there was a late afternoon breeze that cooling as you ran across campus. If you asked any of your friends, they’d laugh and admit that this has become a normal Tuesday and Thursday night for you. None of them would bat an eye whenever they would see your blurred figure and hear a breathless greeting as you sprinted past them. They fully supported your wild determination to overachieve in school while also continuing your advancements in the sport that allowed you to attend such a prestigious institution. 

Your lungs burn as you run up to the large brick building that held the lecture hall, giving a kind hello to a couple of people you knew from your previous class that day. The inconsistent squeak of your sneakers on the linoleum floor can be heard echoing throughout the arched hallway as you try and manage a professional-looking speedwalk. A large sigh of relief is released when you see the double doors to the lecture hall are still open, meaning the class hasn’t started yet. Your pace and breath both slow as you enter the quiet space. As soon as you cross the threshold to the large room, there's a quiet call of your name that catches your attention. You grin and turn to your right to see a group of fellow students all giving you hushed greetings and a few congratulations on getting here in time. 

“You made it in time, Honey Bee! M’ proud of you,” Steve, the blond-haired, blue-eyed captain of the football team, greets you from his aisle seat and holds his hand out as he gives you a wide smile. 

“Hi Stevie,” You smile and take his hand, allowing him to tug you closer, “I sprinted all the way here, you’d think I’d be used to the cardio by now but it still kills me,” 

Steve lets out a light chuckle, “if you want I can start trainin’ with you in the mornings. Or tutor you in time management,” 

You jokingly roll your eyes at his comment and give his hand a light squeeze, “My time management skills are primo, Champ. That’s why I’m here on time, thank you very much,”  

He snorts loudly before nodding his head, “yeah okay Honey Bee, if you say so. Unfortunately, even though you’re ‘on time,’ the whole hall is filled except for a seat up front,”

“That’s okay! You know I like making new friends,” You go to pull your hand from his and find your seat but are stopped by another quick tug.

“Hey, you still wanna go to the cafe with all of us after class? I’ll get ya some lemon pound cake for your troubles,”

You pretend to think about the proposition before giving your answer, “I guess if there's gonna be lemon pound cake involved, I could make an appearance,” 

Steve gives you a dazzling smile, his bright blue eyes developing crows feet as he looks up at you from his seat, “Awesome, I’ll see you after class then, honey,” 

Before you pull away, Steve brings your hand up and turns it, giving the inside of your wrist a soft kiss, “Egh Steve, you’re so sappy sometimes,” You mumble and pull your hand away and silently will the heat rising in your neck and cheeks to go away. 

“Only for you Honey Bee!” You hear the smugness in his voice as you turn to walk down the stairs that separate each side of the large auditorium. 

Steve was right when he said there was only one seat left and you feel a small pang of nerves in your chest as you realize you’d be sitting next to someone you hadn’t had the chance to talk to yet. You pride yourself on your social skills, seeing as though in high school and all the years before, you had been a shy, nervous wreck in front of anyone you didn’t know. None of your recent friends knew how closed off you had been since they had only seen you in your ‘flourishing social butterfly’ phase. 

As you approach the last available seat in the lecture hall you take a deep breath, preparing yourself for the stress of class as well as the prospect of any awkward conversations. When you arrive at your destination, a small furrow knits your brows together as you stare down at the chair. 

“Um, excuse me, is it alright if I sit here? There aren’t any other seats left,” Your voice is hushed as you try and get the attention of the person who has their bag sitting in the theater seat. 

He doesn’t seem to hear you, too caught up with the conversation he was having with his friend in the next seat over. The only reaction you get is a disinterested glance from the woman your target was talking to. Your nose scrunches up in displeasure as you first glare at the person who had clearly ignored you, then at the brunette who’s completely unaware of your presence.

You clear your throat a bit and try again, “Excuse me? Sir?” 

The brunette jumps a bit in his seat and you’re quickly met with startlingly blue eyes that are filled with confusion, “Uh, yeah?”

Your lips pull into a soft smile and you glance back down at the chair before focusing back up on the man, “Is it okay if I sit here? There don’t seem to be any free seats left in the hall,” 

The man’s eyes widen and he does a quick glance between you and his bag before yanking it out of the seat and plopping it in between his legs, “I am so sorry, of course you can! I-I didn’t realize anyone else would be coming,”

A light laugh of surprise bursts from your lips at his apologetic reaction, “It’s okay, it’s my fault for getting here so late anyways,” you give him a kind smile before sitting down and taking your laptop out and setting it on the small fold out table.

You lean back down to search your bag for your charger and a few other things. As you're searching through your bag, you hear a quiet chuckle beside you and you can’t help but turn your head back up to look at your neighbor. He notices your confused look and motions towards your laptop that was covered in various stickers. 

“I really like that one,” there’s a wide smile on his face as he points to a sticker depicting a frog inside of a heart that said ‘commit crimes’ in cute bubble letters. 

A grin makes it’s way onto your face and you nod your head in agreement, “it’s one of my favorites too! I really like this one as well,” you point to another sticker that shows a little mushroom person riding atop a black cat. 

Before the brunette can respond, your professor finally begins to start class, startling the both of you into silence as you ready yourself for any note-taking that needs to be done. As the professor started going over this week's subject matter, which happened to be matric eigenvalue problems, your palms already began to sweat in nervousness. You took your hands from atop the keyboard of your laptop and placed them down onto your thighs, lightly balling them in and out of fists to ease your stress. You had been introduced to matrices in your last semester, but to add a new formula to the mix made you nervous enough to forget any prior knowledge you had stored away. 

Throughout the lecture you had to continuously remind yourself that lots of people are probably having issues with the current topic. However, that voice of reassurance had gotten quieter and quieter as you noticed everyone around you quickly typing or scribbling down notes without hesitation. No one had asked a question and with a quick glance at your laptops clock, you find there to be only 10 minutes left of class. You nervously shift around in your seat and focus on typing down the finishing notes when you feel a pair of eyes set on you. 

You nervously glance up and to the side to catch a fleeting glimpse of your neighbor quickly averting his eyes. The heat that flares up in your neck and cheeks is almost unbearable as you realize he knows that you’re struggling, can physically feel how lost and confused you are with the subject. You immediately become tense and your hands once again leave their place on your keyboard before falling back down into your lap, wiping the sweat from your palms onto your thighs before tightly clenching them into fists. The stress of the class mixed with the embarrassment of how obvious your lack of understanding has made your brain shut down, and only after noticing everyone around you packing up their things did you realize you had completely checked out for the last few minutes of class. 

“Aw shoot,” you mumble quietly while softly closing your laptop. The faint beginnings of a conversation come from beside you, but you’re too busy trying not to break down to make sense of any of it. Little crescent moons were being left in the palms of your hands from how hard your nails were digging into them, your mouth was beginning to taste like iron from how hard you were biting the inside of your cheek, and the sting of tears were present in your waterline. 

As you leaned down to shove your laptop and notebook into your bag, you made sure to take a deep breath because you would be damned if you ended up crying like a baby in front of fellow classmates. Especially ones you just met. It didn’t help too much, but after blinking rapidly for a moment you were certain no tears would fall until you were successfully inside your dorm room. Steve would understand and would make up an excuse for your absence at the cafe.

“Hey,” A voice speaks from above and you jump in surprise before sitting back up straight to find your seat neighbour with a soft smile on his face.

“Hello,” you mumble quietly before glancing down at your lap then back up to him, “I’m so sorry-I’m probably in your way aren’t I?” 

His eyes widen and he quickly puts his hand up to halt you in your movements of gathering your things, “No actually I um-I wanted to actually ask you if maybe we could compare notes for this lecture? I feel like I might have missed some stuff and it seemed like you got everything down. I’ve been kinda struggling with this unit so it’d help a lot,” 

You stared at him for a moment, blinking blankly at him almost in disbelief… Was he really asking you of all people for notes?

You fumble with your words for a moment before answering, “Well I’m not-um I actually might not be the best person to ask for notes,” the sheepish admittance does well to bring a new wave of heat crawling up to the tips of your ears and you try not to cringe in embarrassment, “I’m only averaging a 74% in this class right now,” 

The man tilts his head and gives another soft smile in your direction, “Well I’m averaging a 68 so ya still got me beat,” 

The quiet chuckle he lets out makes your lips tug up into your own smile and let out a quick laugh yourself. You quickly turn your head to the back of the lecture hall and see Steve and a few of your friends gathered around the entrance, discussing something unknown while patiently waiting for you.

“Alright that’s a fair point,” you giggle and take your phone out, “If you wanna, I can give you my phone number and email so we can exchange everything we have? I can’t really promise anything groundbreaking but maybe it’ll help?” 

He grins widely and pulls his own phone out of its hiding place, unlocking it and tapping to his contact list, “Yeah that’d be really nice…I’m James by the way,” 

You mentally scold yourself for not asking the man’s name earlier before revealing your own to him. 

“Nice to meet you,” James' voice is gentle and endearing as he holds his phone out to you in a silent request for your contact info. 

You quickly input your number and send yourself an emoji to ensure it was correct, “I um-I have plans to go to a coffee shop with my friends right now, but I promise I’ll send you all the notes I have as soon as I get the chance if you just wanna text me your email address? Maybe we could share a google document and work off of each other? Really whatever works best for you is fine with me!” 

You bite the inside of your lip to stop yourself from word-vomiting anymore and wonder how, after so many years, you are this awkward with someone. It’s been ages since you’ve been this socially inept with a stranger and you wrack your brain for a reason. 

James bends down and grabs his backpack before standing up to his full and very intimidating height. You haphazardly gather your own items and fumble out into the aisle to let James out. 

“No rush! I’m just appreciative of any help I can get really,” he admits, raising his right hand and running it through the dark brunette tresses of his hair. 

“No yeah I totally get that! And I’m actually gonna ask my friend for some help tonight so I’ll even have some extra tips ready!” Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you do another glance back to see Steve giving you the look and you figure you shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer, “okay, sorry I have to go now, but it was really nice to meet you James! And thanks for liking my stickers,” 

Why you brought up the stickers, you’ll never know, but you can fight with yourself about that later. 

James lets out a boisterous laugh before answering, “It was my pleasure, Sugar. I’ll be sure to message you later,” 

You were thankful that James had turned around to talk to his friend as it made it easier for you to hide the shock on your face from the sweet pet name he threw out. Putting your hands up to quell the heat that had risen to your cheeks, you make your way to Steve. 

“You make a new friend?” He asks with a knowing smile. 

“Yeah! He said he needed help with this class so I told him we would exchange notes when I got home. Oh also can you go through the entire lecture with me?” 

Steve stared down at your shorter frame, letting out an amused snort and shaking his head in disbelief, “You’re going to exchange notes with a dude when you don’t even know what went on in the lecture today?” 

“umm…yes, yes I’m going to be doing exactly that unless you be a sweet little lamb and go over the notes with me so i can fix any mistakes!” You respond sweetly and grab onto Steve's hand to pull him closer to the doors, “pretty, pretty, pretty please?” 

He rolled his eyes and pulled his hand from your grasp before wrapping his arm around your shoulder, effectively pulling you into his side, “yeah yeah, ya know I might have to start charging you Honey Bee,” He leads you out of the building and you both begin making your way to the coffee shop on campus. 

[sunshineyuyu]

gravitational attraction (k. ys)

★ summary: you’re taking intro to physics late as an upperclassman, but thankfully there’s another student in the same predicament–kang yeosang. the two of you end up as lab partners, and as the semester goes on, you become friends and maybe something more. ★ pairing: yeosang x gn!reader ★ genre: college, fluff ★ word count: 3.4k ★ tags/warnings:  college soccer player!yeosang, no y/n, physics lab partners to lovers, intentionally lowercase, platonic (or is it?) bed sharing/cuddling, this is all fluff :3 ★ notes: i know yeosang is actually really smart he'd probably be helping ME with physics in reality ! as always, beta'd by @starhwas-bunny ♡ ★ masterlist | read on ao3

you meet him during your first physics lab.

you’re a junior sitting in a class of mostly freshmen, all buzzing with that excited hum of making it through their first syllabus week. while you click your pen aimlessly, you think about the several ways you could’ve avoided taking introductory physics this semester: you could’ve manned the fuck up and gotten it out of the way freshman year, but you’d been scared off after doing poorly in high school; you could’ve taken it sophomore year, but that you would’ve had to take physics and linear algebra in the same semester; you could’ve switched your major entirely!

but unfortunately, you’re not sitting in the quad with your friends, leisurely throwing a frisbee while nursing a cold beer. instead you’re sat at a lab station, waiting for the teaching assistant to give instructions, and cursing yourself for arbitrarily choosing 2:30-5:30 on fridays as your designated weekly lab time.

you glance around, noticing how the other lab stations are filled with at least 2 people already, most of them chatting quietly. it’s not that you mind working alone―in fact you usually prefer it―but you’re shit at physics and you’re hoping for a budding astrophysicist to choose you as their lab partner.

instead, right at the moment that the TA clears his throat to introduce himself, the door into the lab creaks open and a chocolate-haired boy steps inside, calmly but a little breathlessly. he pinpoints the only seat still available (the one next to yours) and makes his way over. he moves with a kind of shamelessness that tells you he’s definitely not a freshman.

he’s lowkey jacked, you notice as he sits down beside you. his shoulders are solid and prominent, and you can see his biceps flex as he grabs a pencil out of his backpack. his hair falls over his forehead and just barely into his eyes, but he runs a hand through it to sift it out of the way. he’s attractive, your brain supplies uselessly.

right next to physics in your mental shelf of things you’re bad at is talking to pretty boys.

and oh, he is very pretty.

over the next hour, you learn that although your lab partner is quite beautiful, he’s also quite dumb. as nervous as you’d been about physics lab, this first one is simple enough, and you end up having to coach the boy sitting next to you through basic kinematics.

“thanks,” he says, scratching the side of his neck with the back of his pen. “i missed a couple lectures.”

“it’s the first week,” you say. “you’re already skipping classes?”

“the season just started and my sleep schedule is still a little wack,” he winces. you don’t blame him though―lecture for this class is at 8 am.

“season?” you say.

“soccer,” he says.

“oh,” you say. “that’s why you’re so…” you break off before you accidentally tell him that he’s jacked to his face.

he just hums in response.

thankfully, the two of you manage to finish the lab in less than two hours, and you note with a decent amount of satisfaction that there’s at least five other groups still working. you scribble your name at the top of your lab report, before trading to fill in your name on his sheet.

you glance over at his name.

kang yeosang, it reads. his handwriting is neat and thin.

“uh, so see you next week?” he says, as you exit the classroom together.

“yeah,” you say.

⋆⋆⋆

it takes fifteen minutes for the two of you to find the study room, which cuts into the two hours you’d reserved the room for. you’ve worked up a sweat while frantically walking around the third floor of the library, from both embarrassment and the presence of yeosang, who hovers over your shoulder as you lead him on a wild goose chase. you finally unlock the room and walk inside, only to be met with a whiteboard covered in phallic drawings and a questionable stain on the chair you happen to choose.

while you wrinkle your nose at the stain and tug on the hem of your shorts so that you can avoid any direct skin contact with it, yeosang settles into his chair and begins taking out his laptop and notebook. 

“how many problems did you get done?” you ask, mirroring his actions with your own things.

“bold of you to assume i started,” he says without a note of shame. he lays out his notebook and pen and calculator and looks up at you expectantly.

“yeo-sang,” you say. “it’s due tomorrow!”

“tomorrow at 11:59 pm,” he says. “that means i have all of tonight and all of tomorrow.” he pauses while you finish pulling up the assignment on your browser. “and i have you to help me.” he smiles at you smugly.

“bold of you to assume i’ll help you,” you retort.

he pouts, which creates an interesting contrast against his strong, muscly college-athlete figure.

“at least try every problem before i give you the answer,” you mumble, because you could never refuse kang yeosang. you cross your arms across your chest, but yeosang is smiling again. “you know if you don’t actually do the homework you’re not going to do well on the exams.”

yeosang hums in response, and you sigh.

over the next half hour, you walk him through the first few problems that you’d managed to finish relatively easily. he honestly picks up material faster than you give him credit for, and he’s never shy to ask even the dumbest questions. as you draw out a free body diagram to explain a question on potential vs. kinetic energy, a shiver runs through your spine. while the blasting ac had been welcome at first, you’ve always been sensitive to the cold, and your body is starting to reject the cool breeze. you can feel goosebumps on your arms, and your legs shake slightly.

of course yeosang notices.

“are you cold?” he asks.

“it’s one of my things,” you say, teeth chattering and waving a hand to brush his concern away. “i’m always cold and i cry at everything.”

“i’ve never seen you cry,” he says.

“hmm,” you say. “i cried during the midterm.”

he narrows his eyes. “you got an 84.”

“i thought i failed!” you say. “anyway.” you turn back to the diagram, adding extra arrows and labels. “so do you see how the potential energy becomes―”

“here.” yeosang shoves something at you, navy blue and soft. you blink at it until he unfurls it for you. it’s a hoodie. an official university athletics branded hoodie. 

“i’m fine!” you say, and with the rush of heat in your face from kang yeosang offering you a jacket, you honestly don’t feel the chill anymore.

“it probably smells kinda bad but―here, take it. you’re shivering.” a light pink dusts his cheeks, and he avoids your gaze. to save him the embarrassment, you take the hoodie from him. you stare at it in your hands, before finally pulling it over your head.

it’s so soft and warm, and you almost immediately feel your body temperature evening out. 

“thanks,” you say softly, burrowing into the neck of the hoodie. it does smell a little interesting―cologne and aftershave trying their hardest to mask the smell of sweat. but you don’t mind, because it smells like yeosang.

“not a big deal,” he mutters.

the two of you keep working on the homework for the next hour, and you manage to finish 13 out of the 15 questions. the last two are the hardest and longest, and it’s already nearing the end of your reservation for the study room.

yeosang yawns and rubs the heel of his palm into his eye.

“i can ask ryujin for help,” you say, knowing that yeosang’s strict athlete’s schedule means he should already be in bed by now. “and we can work on the last two problems tomorrow?”

“sounds good,” yeosang says. “i’m so tired.”

you pack up in silence. the two of you manage to find the elevators without much hassle, and the ride is likewise quiet, punctuated by yeosang’s occasional yawns. you stare at your hazy reflections in the elevator doors, eyes running over how his hoodie sits on your figure. you hate how much you like it.

you return the key for the study room to the front desk, and you walk out of the library together.

“i’m heading this way,” you say, gesturing in the opposite direction of the parking lot. “gotta meet up with ryujin to get that help.”

“thanks, again,” yeosang says. “i owe you.”

“good night, yeosang,” you say.

“see you tomorrow!” he calls, yawning again and turning to trudge away to his car.

he doesn’t ask for the hoodie back, and you nestle into it even thought it’s warm outside.

later, while you brush your teeth, sleeplily getting ready for bed, you catch a glimpse of white text in the mirror and you contort yourself to read the back of the hoodie. in thick square text is his last name kang and his number 8. you flush, realizing that you’re not only wearing his hoodie, you’re wearing his name and number.

⋆⋆⋆

you brush pale green crumbs off of your practice exam, scowling at yeosang seated next to you, munching contently on a stick of matcha pocky.

“stop making such a mess!” you complain, sending your shoulder into his to give you some space while you read over the last free response question.

“i don’t get this at all,” he says, peering at the question too. “i’m totally gonna fail this midterm.” he groans and drapes himself over the back of his chair, letting his head hang back dramatically in despair.

“with that attitude, yeah,” you say. you rummage with the foil packet of pocky, finding it disappointingly empty. “did you seriously finish all of the pocky? that was my last bag!”

his head swings back up to give you a sheepish grin.

“you owe me,” you mutter, reaching over the desk to swipe his still unfinished bottle of calpico. he doesn’t fight you, but watches quietly as you unscrew the cap and take a deep drink of the thing.

“there,” you say. “we’re even. actually―” 

you tilt your head back and raise the calpico to your lips, draining the bottle.

“there,” you say, slamming the now empty bottle onto your notebook with a satisfying plastic crunch. “now we’re even.”

“you didn’t waterfall,” yeosang chooses to comment. you whip around to stare at him.

“so what? do you have cooties?”

he hums instead and tugs the practice exam out from under your hand.

“so you’re totally gonna have to walk me through this whole problem.”

the sun sets, and the natural light seeping in from your large windows fades from white to orange to red to nothing. in the thirty minutes since the room has plunged into semi-darkness, neither of you have gotten up to turn on your ceiling light. instead the two of you sit crouched over your desk, illuminated by your desk light and the rotating rainbow colors from the LED lights that wrap around your walls.

“i’m going to fall asleep,” yeosang finally announces, throwing down his pen and collapsing over the desk, eyes shutting and forehead thumping against the wood.

“we still have three practice problems!” you say, nudging at his shoulder. it’s surprisingly taut under your finger, and you flush thinking about the amount of muscle packed into his body.

“i’m too tired,” he whines, muffled.

you consider his statement.

“why don’t you take a power nap?” you suggest. “chaeyoung does it all the time. she takes, like, fifteen minute power naps and feels loads better and just keeps studying.”

yeosang perches his chin on the desktop, peering at you through half-lidded eyes.

“how does that even work?” he says. “i don’t think fifteen minutes is enough.”

you shrug.

“she sent me an article once.” you begin pushing him towards your bed. “i think there’s science behind it. just―nap. i’ll finish the problem we’re on and then we can switch for the next one.”

it’s a testament to his fatigue that you’re able to maneuver him out of his chair and onto the bed behind you. you think vaguely of a different context for you to be pushing him onto your bed, but you dismiss those thoughts quickly. your biggest concern right now is making it through this practice exam, especially when one of your friends had mentioned how much the professors like to reuse old exam questions. and you aren’t going to do it alone. after you’d helped yeosang through the last five homework assignements, he’d promised that he’d work through the practice exams with you, and you aren’t about to let him flake on you when it’s only 11:30 pm.

“fifteen minutes,” you say, setting the timer on your phone and showing it to him.

he’s already made himself at home on your bed, wrapping himself in your soft blanket and grabbing your favorite cat plush to sandwich between his arms.

“don’t squeeze her like that,” you complain.

“shhh,” he says. “don’t make me waste my fifteen minutes.”

you huff, but you drop it, heading back to your desk to decipher the question you’d left half-finished. 

five minutes later, yeosang’s soft snores are the soundtrack to your struggles through the next problem. you’re tempted to check the answer key, but after preaching to yeosang the consequences of just looking up answers without doing the work, you’re caught in your own high standards.

eventually, your phone chimes to indicate that fifteen minutes are up. you swivel around in your chair, intent on tormenting yeosang but you find him still sound asleep, snuggled deeper into your bed. he’s tucked your plushie under his chin, his grip looser around the stuffed animal’s round body. vaguely, you think you might be a little jealous of that inanimate object.

you’re so fucked, you think numbly, evaluating the situation.

you have a midterm in two days, and a slumbering hot athlete in your bed.

why on earth did you think convincing yeosang to take a nap in your bed would be a good idea?

you shut off the alarm when it becomes clear that nothing will rouse yeosang from his slumber. you figure he needs his sleep, and you’ll wake him up when you finish the practice exam.

an hour later, yeosang’s still sound asleep and at the rate your yawns keep increasing in frequency and length, you’re heading in the same direction.

you’ve managed to finish two out of the last three questions, but the final problem is so convoluted and scary that you betray your own principles to just copy off of the answer key. 

you clean up your desk and shut off the desk light, shuffling towards your bed. you poke and prod and whine at yeosang to wake him up.

“yeosang,” you say, focusing your attacks on his shoulders. it’s the one area of his body you allow yourself to touch. anywhere lower and you think that you’ll be picturing exactly what is beneath your hand, and anywhere near his face will make you want to kiss him stupid.

“yeosang. yeosang. yeosang,” you chant. “wake. up. stupid.”

he finally stirs, shifting onto his back and exposing a small circle of darkened fabric on the pillow case where his mouth had been seconds before.

“you drooled on my pillow!” you shriek.

“shhh,” he mumbles. “i’m sleeping.” his voice is deeper, shrouded in sleep, and oh, it sends a tingle down your spine.

“no!” you say. “you’re leaving. go home. i finished the practice exam so i’ll just go over it with you tomorrow. you owe me big time.”

“but it’s so comfy,” he says, his eyes still shut and voice still husky. “my bed isn’t this nice.”

“it’s memory foam,” you mutter.

“mmm,” he says, and then suddenly you feel a hand, a large and warm hand wrapping around your waist and tugging you down. you tumble onto yeosang, face positively on fire as your hands go out to catch yourself and oh―

your cheek is pressed up against his chest―his very firm chest―and your hands are grazing the sides of his equally firm abdomen.

“hm this is nice,” he says, the arm around your waist tightening. you feel his chin brush against the crown of your head. 

“go home, yeosang,” you say, but without any of the conviction you’d had before. you’re cuddled up against your insanely attractive crush, and even you understand the need to take advantage of situations handed to you on a platter.

“nah,” he says. “too tired to move.”

you laugh quietly into his body.

“at least let me get under the covers.”

⋆⋆⋆

he confesses under the illumination of the numerous string lights strung along the porch of your favorite burger joint. it’s a chilly december night, and yet you’d been craving a birthday cake milkshake, and like always, yeosang had obliged.

“you know i like you, right?” he says, licking at the bit of pink shake dripping over the edge of his cup.

you freeze, quite literally, since you have always been sensitive to the cold. the milkshake hits your head in a splitting brain freeze, just as a particularly strong breeze ruffles through your hair.

“huh?” you manage.

“i like you,” yeosang continues, casually. he’s taken off the plastic cover of his shake and he’s digging at the shake with a spoon. “i feel like i’ve been pretty obvious about it, but i figured it was about time i confess for real.” he takes a spoonful of his strawberry shake into his mouth, savors it and then swallows. “especially since you’re going home soon so i won’t be able to see you in person for, like, a month.”

he hums around another spoonful of milkshake, while you nearly drop yours in surprise. your mind moves in fast forward until suddenly it cuts to complete emptiness. you stare at yeosang, mouth agape and head absolutely empty, no thoughts.

“what?” you shriek.

this causes an actual reaction in him. he jumps a little and turns to you, eyes slightly wider and spoon hanging out of his mouth.

“you like me?” you say, voice shrill.

“yeah,” he says, a little incredulously. “i thought you knew?”

“i- you- you thought i knew?” you say.

“it was obvious?” yeosang says.

“how was it obvious?” you ask.

“i dunno,” he says. “like i gave you my hoodie. isn’t that a thing boyfriends do? and i tease you all the time? and i slept over. we cuddled.”

“that- it- it wasn’t- it was purely platonic!” you hiss, ripping off your thick scarf so the cold can combat the warmth spreading from your cheeks to your forehead.

“oh,” he says. “so does that mean you don’t like me back?” he peers at you, almost void of emotion, still sucking on that stupid spoon.

“what makes you think that?” you say, breathless now.

“you said the cuddling was platonic,” he says.

“that’s- that’s because i didn’t know how you felt,” you say.

“and now you do,” he says.

“and now i do,” you parrot.

“and?” he prods.

“and―” you gulp. “―and i like you, too.”

“hmm,” he hums. “good.” he’s smiling now, this stupid shit-eating grin that you’ve only ever seen a handful of times. yeosang’s not one for big expressions, but this―

this is how you know he’s not joking with you.

“good?” you repeat faintly.

“yeah,” he says, setting down his milkshake and spoon onto the table. “so, can i be your boyfriend?”

“boyfriend?” you say.

“i thought i was the dumb one in this relationship,” he says.

“relationship?”

“seriously?” he sighs. “alright, how about this.”

he surges forward then, hands cupping your jaw. his lips slot over yours and suddenly you’re kissing kang yeosang. closed mouth, but substantial, and oh his lips are so soft.

yeosang pulls back, but his hands stay on your face, thumbs rubbing circles into your cold and slightly numb cheeks.

“oh,” you say.

“yeah,” he laughs. “you get it now?”

“yeah,” you say. “yeah―you can be my boyfriend.”

[the-winter-spider]

Invisible | Part 11

Pairings: Bucky x Reader (eventually lololol)

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: Angst, stupid people, dramaaaaa

A/N: I aint ready for peace yet 😇🫶🏻

Masterpost

NYU 4th Year

The late afternoon sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon as you exited your lecture hall, your bag slung over your shoulder and your mind already racing with thoughts of your looming paper. The quad was buzzing with students heading off to their weekend plans, and you were lost in your thoughts when you spotted Natasha leaning casually against a lamppost, her red hair catching the golden light.

“There she is,” Nat called, waving you over with a grin. “What took you so long? I’ve been standing here for ages.”

“Class ran late,” you said, rolling your eyes as you walked up to her. “Professor decided to drop a surprise reading quiz on us.”

Natasha scoffed, falling into step beside you. “Reading quizzes on a Friday should be illegal. Anyway, there’s a party tonight at Walker’s place. You coming?”

You hesitated, already feeling the weight of your weekend workload. “I don’t know, Nat. I’ve got that big paper due next week, and I’m kind of behind. I was planning to get a head start tonight.”

Natasha groaned, clasping her hands together in an exaggerated plea. “Come on, please? Wanda already bailed on me, and I really want to see this guy who’s going to be there. I can’t get stuck with the boys by myself—they’ll ruin my whole vibe.”

You sighed, torn between responsibility and the infectious energy of your best friend. “Fine,” you said reluctantly. “But I’m starting my introduction before we leave. No arguments.”

“Scout’s honor,” Natasha said, raising three fingers in a mock salute.

You gave her a pointed look. “You weren’t even a Girl Scout.”

She grinned, undeterred. “True, but I can feel it. In another life, I was definitely a spy.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you parted ways. “Yeah, sure, Nat.”

By the time you got back to your dorm, Natasha was already busy texting, her phone lighting up with each rapid-fire message. You could tell by the sly smile on her face that she was talking to her crush. The thing about Natasha was that she always knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. She was a spitfire, sharp-tongued and unapologetically confident, but underneath all that fire, she was a hopeless romantic. Most guys your age weren’t ready for someone like her, but that never stopped her from trying.

You sat at your desk and opened your laptop, determined to at least get your introduction done before the night derailed into party chaos. The words flowed easily, and by the time you finished your intro and even managed to start your first paragraph, you felt a small sense of accomplishment.

Alright you texted Natasha, I’m done for now. Let’s get ready.

Within seconds, your phone buzzed with her reply: Finally!!! Be there in 5.

True to her word, Natasha burst into your room moments later, her arms loaded with a makeup bag and a pair of heels. You both commandeered Wanda’s bed, laying out a mess of possible outfits, debating the merits of each one as you tried to find the perfect look.

You finally settled on a sleek black mini-dress that hugged your figure in all the right places, paired with short heels and of course your signature neckless: your locket. Natasha went for a bold red jumpsuit with a plunging neckline and sky-high heels.

Standing side by side in front of the mirror, Natasha let out a low whistle. “Damn, we’re hot.”

You giggled, adjusting the strap of your dress. “We clean up nice.”

Natasha’s eyes drifted to the delicate gold locket resting against your collarbone, and she smiled. “That locket… you’ve been wearing it forever. I’ve never seen you without it.”

You glanced down, your fingers lightly brushing over the familiar weight of the locket. “Yeah, it’s kind of a family thing, my mom gave it to be before she passed"

Natasha, smiled sadly her curiosity piqued. “You never did tell me what’s inside.”

You held the locket, fidgeting it between your fingers. “On one side, there’s a quote about love that my great-great-great-grandmother supposedly wrote. My grandma told me everyone who’s had this locket would place a photo of the man they loved on the other side—so they’d always be close to their heart."

Natasha’s eyes softened. “Your whole family sounds like a bunch of hopeless romantics.”

You laughed. “Apparently. Guess it runs in the blood.”

Natasha smirked, leaning in. “So… who’s in yours?”

You hesitated, your fingers lingering on the locket before closing it. “No one,” you said, offering a small smile. “I don’t really have anyone to put in there right now.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Mhm, sure. No one at all?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not everyone is as quick to fall head over heels as you, Nat.”

“Hey,” she said, placing a hand over her heart dramatically, “I just know what I want.”

“And what you deserve,” you added with a grin.

Natasha nodded approvingly. “Exactly.”

With that, you both grabbed your bags and made your way out of the dorm, ready to take on the night. Natasha’s phone buzzed again, and she couldn’t hide the excitement on her face as she typed back.

You glanced at her, smiling softly. “Texting your mystery man?”

“Maybe,” she said with a wink. “Tonight’s going to be fun—you’ll see.”

The crisp night air buzzed with the energy of the weekend as you and Natasha made your way down the crowded street, laughter and music spilling out from houses along the way. The distant thump of bass grew louder with every step, and soon you were standing in front of John Walker’s house, its windows glowing and the porch already packed with students.

Natasha looped her arm through yours as you approached the door, her heels clicking against the pavement. “You know,” she said, her voice light but teasing, “I always thought you might have Bucky’s picture in that locket.”

You stumbled slightly, your eyes snapping to hers. “What?”

She smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, don’t act so surprised. You two have been inseparable since kindergarten. Best friends, sure, but there’s always been… something.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she didn’t give you the chance. “I mean, hey, no judgment. I’m just saying I’m a little surprised he’s not in there.”

You were about to respond, to come up with some half-hearted deflection, but before you could, Natasha grinned and yanked you toward the door. “No time for heart-to-hearts now. Let’s find the boys.”

The moment you stepped inside, the heat and noise hit you like a wave. The living room was packed, bodies swaying to the beat of the music as red solo cups were passed around. You caught a glimpse of a makeshift beer pong table in the corner, surrounded by a cheering crowd. The scent of cheap alcohol and sweat mingled in the air, and someone had already spilled something sticky on the floor.

Natasha scanned the room with a practiced eye, her grip still firm on your arm. “There they are,” she said, nodding toward the far side of the room where Steve and Bucky were leaning against a wall, talking. Steve had his usual easy smile, but Bucky’s eyes flicked across the room, as if he was keeping tabs on everything and everyone.

Natasha released your arm and nudged you forward with a sly grin. “Go on. I’ll catch up with you in a minute.” Before you could protest, she disappeared into the crowd, already hunting down her mystery man.

You took a deep breath and weaved your way through the throng of people, your heart picking up speed as you got closer to them. Bucky’s head turned slightly, and when his eyes landed on you, a slow smile spread across his face. He nudged Steve, who looked up and gave you a warm wave.

Here’s a revised version with smoother transitions and more natural dialogue flow:

“Well, well,” Bucky’s voice cut through the noise as you and Natasha finally reached him and Steve. He leaned casually against the wall, a lopsided grin on his face. “Look who decided to show up.”

Steve chuckled, raising his cup in a mock toast. “Didn’t think we’d see you tonight. Thought you had some big paper to write?”

“I did,” you replied, crossing your arms with a smirk. “But Natasha here wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said it was a life-or-death situation.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Natasha, relentless? Shocking.”

“She’s practically a force of nature,” you said, glancing around. “So, drinks?”

Steve drained the last of his beer and set his cup down with a satisfied sigh. “You two go ahead. I’m gonna head over to the keg and see if I can beat my personal record tonight.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Best of luck, Stevie.”

Steve winked as he stepped away. “Now that you’re here, I don’t need it.”

As he disappeared into the crowd, you and Bucky stood there in a comfortable silence for a moment, the bass of the music thumping around you. Then, Bucky gave you one of his signature half-smiles, the kind that always made your heart skip a beat. “Come on,” he said, reaching for your hand and pulling you toward the drink table.

His touch was brief but enough to send a spark up your arm. You followed without protest, a small smile tugging at your lips. When you reached the table, he handed you a drink, his fingers brushing against yours—a fleeting, seemingly innocent moment that left your cheeks warm.

“Thanks,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze as you lifted the cup to your lips.

Bucky leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe. But before you could think of a response, Natasha appeared from behind you, clapping her hands together, cutting through the moment.

“Alright, people,” she announced, her tone playful. “What’s the plan? Beer pong? Dancing? Or do we just stand here and look devastatingly cool?”

Bucky smirked, his eyes still on you. “I think we’ve already nailed the last one.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “How about we find Steve before he gets himself into trouble?”

Bucky raised his cup in agreement. “Solid plan.”

With that, the three of you moved back into the crowd, weaving through the crush of people and the haze of music. Even as the party buzzed around you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of Bucky’s lingering gaze—or the way your locket, pressed against your chest, seemed to grow heavier with every step.

"There he is!" Natasha beamed, stopping "Buck you go watch him, me and my girl are gonna dance for a bit!" Before either of you could respond, Natasha was already pulling you away, you turned around glancing over your shoulder briefly to see Bucky's blue eyes smiling at you as he gave you a single wave.

The music thumped loudly in your ears, the bass vibrating through the floor as you swayed with Natasha in the middle of the crowded living room. The alcohol buzzed warmly in your veins, and for a moment, you let yourself forget about everything—about the paper, about the tension that always seemed to linger whenever Bucky was around.

You and Nat were giggling, holding onto each other as you moved to the beat. It was freeing, exhilarating even, until your gaze drifted across the room and landed on him.

Bucky was leaning casually against the wall, his signature smirk firmly in place as he talked to a blonde. She was laughing at something he said, her hand lightly resting on his arm. They were close—too close. Her hair glinted under the dim party lights, and the way she leaned in, hanging on his every word, made your stomach drop.

Your world stopped for a second. The music faded into the background, replaced by the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You blinked, trying to shake it off, telling yourself it didn’t matter, but the familiar ache settled in your chest anyway.

You tore your eyes away, grabbing your red solo cup and downing the rest of its contents in one go. The burn of the cheap liquor didn’t help, but it gave you something to focus on. You crushed the cup in your hand and let it drop to the floor, the plastic crumpling beneath your heel as you forced yourself to keep dancing.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath, plastering a fake smile on your face.

Natasha laughed beside you, her movements loose and carefree. She slurred slightly, her words barely audible over the music. “Hey! You… you took your necklace off!”

You frowned, reaching up to touch your neck instinctively. “No, I didn’t.”

“Then where is it?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she swayed in place.

Your hand moved frantically over your collarbone, panic setting in as your fingers found only bare skin. Your locket was gone. “Shit,” you whispered, your eyes wide as you started scanning the floor beneath your feet. “Nat, it’s gone!”

Her hands immediately went to your shoulders, steadying you. “Don’t panic,” she said, her voice slurring but her tone trying to stay calm. “It… it can’t be far.”

But it was too late. The panic clawed its way up your throat, and tears prickled at the corners of your eyes. The music was too loud, the crowd too thick. You dropped to your knees, your hands scrambling over the sticky floor as you searched desperately for the locket.

“Excuse me! Sorry!” you mumbled, trying to push past people, but it was no use. The sea of feet around you made it impossible to see anything.

You backed up, bumping into someone behind you. A pair of hands immediately settled on your waist, steadying you. “Hey, you okay?” the guy asked, but you shoved him off without even looking, your vision blurring with tears.

Natasha was back at your side in an instant, her hands on your shoulders again, her mouth moving, but you couldn’t hear her. The world felt like it was spinning too fast, and all you could think about was the locket—your family heirloom. The one your mother had given you before she passed away. The one that had been passed down for generations. And now it was gone, lost in the chaos of some stupid party.

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you stumbled backward, your breathing coming in short, panicked gasps. You didn’t even realize someone was pulling you out of the house until the cool night air hit your skin.

“Hey, hey,” that same guy's voice said, low and urgent. You blinked through the haze of your tears, and your heart twisted painfully when you saw who it was.

Bucky.

He had his hands on your arms, guiding you away from the crowd, his eyes filled with concern. “Come on, you’re okay,” he murmured, leading you to a quieter spot on the porch. “Breathe, alright? Just breathe.”

You tried to speak, but the words got caught in your throat. Your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath, your vision still blurry from the tears.

“Look at me,” Bucky said softly, tilting your chin up so your eyes met his. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His words, his presence, grounded you just enough to pull in a shaky breath. “It’s gone, Buck,” you finally managed, your voice breaking. “The locket… my mom’s locket. It’s gone.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as he glanced back toward the house. “Okay,” he said, his voice calm but determined. “We’re gonna find it.”

You shook your head, fresh tears spilling over. “There’s too many people. It’s probably already stepped on or—or lost for good.”

“Hey,” Bucky said firmly, his hands tightening slightly on your arms. “We’ll find it. I promise.”

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but all you saw was unwavering determination. His eyes softened, and he gently wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“Wait here,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m going back in.”

“No, Buck—”

“I’ll find it,” he interrupted, giving you a small, reassuring smile. “Just stay here.”

Before you could protest, he turned and disappeared back into the house, leaving you alone on the porch, the night air chilling your skin. You sank onto the steps, your hands trembling as you clutched at your knees, praying silently that he was right.

The minutes felt like hours as you sat on the porch, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Every time the door opened, you looked up, hoping to see Bucky stepping out with your locket in hand. But each time, it was just another person stumbling out into the night, oblivious to your panic.

Finally, the door opened again, and Bucky emerged. His expression was serious, his steps purposeful, but his hands were empty.

Your heart sank, the last bit of hope slipping away. He walked over and crouched in front of you, his eyes meeting yours with a steady calm.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice firm but laced with regret. “I checked everywhere I could. Asked everyone. It’s just… not there.”

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening as you tried to process his words. The locket—your mother’s locket—was gone. A family heirloom, passed down through generations, lost in the chaos of a party. You tried to speak, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

“It’s gone,” you finally whispered, the words feeling heavy and final.

Bucky’s hand rested lightly on your knee, grounding you. “I know how much it meant to you,” he said, his voice steady. “And I’m sorry we couldn’t find it tonight. But we’ll figure something out. I’m not giving up.”

You shook your head, blinking back the tears that blurred your vision. “It was the only thing I had left of her,” you said, your voice breaking. “And now it’s just… gone.”

Bucky’s fingers gently squeezed your knee. “I get it,” he said quietly. “It’s not just a thing. It’s her.”

You nodded, wiping at your cheeks, but the tears kept coming. “It feels like I let her down,” you whispered, your hands trembling in your lap. “I should’ve been more careful.”

Bucky shifted, sitting beside you on the step. His shoulder brushed yours, and he looked out at the street, his voice calm and certain. “Hey, your okay, its gonna be okay”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to absorb his words. “How can you say that? Its gone,” .

“I know,” he said, his tone understanding. “But your mom wouldn’t want you to carry that weight. That locket—it was important, sure, but it doesn’t change the connection you had with her. You’ve got all those memories, all those stories. She’s still with you.”

His words settled over you, comforting in a way you hadn’t expected. You leaned into his shoulder, letting out a quiet sigh. “Thanks, Bucky,” you said softly, your voice still thick with emotion. “For always being there.”

His arm came around your shoulders, pulling you closer. “Always,” he said simply.

For a while, you just sat there, the distant hum of the party fading into the background. The ache of losing the locket still lingered, but Bucky’s steady presence eased it, bit by bit. He didn’t try to fix everything, didn’t offer hollow reassurances. He just stayed—solid, dependable, exactly what you needed.

You broke the silence, your voice soft and hesitant. “What about that girl…?”

Bucky didn’t let you finish. “Forget about her,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I have my best girl right here” his eyes met yours, and for a moment, there was something unspoken between you, something heavy and meaningful.

Eventually, you sat up, brushing the last of the tears from your cheeks. You gave him a small, wry smile. “Guess I owe you one,” you said quietly.

Bucky chuckled, the sound low and warm. “You don’t owe me anything,” he replied. Then, with a playful glint in his eye, he added, “Except maybe a rematch at beer pong.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound a little shaky but genuine. “Deal,” you said, the weight on your chest feeling just a little lighter.

Now

Sam takes a deep breath as he reaches the door to your shared apartment, bracing himself. He isn’t entirely sure what he’s walking into, but he knows Bucky isn’t handling things well. He knocks firmly and waits, listening for any movement inside.

After a long pause, the door creaks open. Bucky stands there, looking like absolute hell. His hair’s a mess, his eyes bloodshot, and he’s still in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled and wrinkled.

“Sam?” Bucky’s voice is hoarse, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah, man,” Sam says, leaning against the doorframe. “I came to check on you. Can I come in?”

Bucky steps aside, muttering, “Yeah… sure. Guess you uh probably know everything already.”

Sam walks in, his eyes immediately catching the shattered lamp on the floor, pieces scattered across the living room. “I know her side, but there's two sides to every coin” The air feels heavy, tense. He turns to Bucky, his voice steady. “She’s at Steve and my place. She’s safe if you're wondering.”

Bucky winces, looking away as his shoulders slump. “Good… that’s good.” He lets out a bitter chuckle, running a hand over his face. “Guess you’re here to tell me what a screw-up I am, huh?”

Sam shakes his head, exasperated. “Bucky, I’m not here to kick you when you’re down. I’m here because we’re friends. And friends don’t abandon each other, even when one of them is making dumbass choices.”

Bucky scoffs, dropping onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. “Yeah, well… I deserve it.”

Sam takes the chair across from him, studying Bucky’s hunched figure. “You look like hell, man. Want to tell me what happened, your version?”

Bucky hesitates, his voice low and broken. “I don’t know. She was just standing there, looking at me like… like she was just disgusted at being in my presence ...and it hurt, i said sorry for the bar comment, but then we started to hash things out, I got so damn scared. So I did the only thing I know how to do—I pushed her away. Told her to leave.”

Sam raises an eyebrow, his tone sharp. “So you let her walk out? Alone? At night?”

Bucky’s face twists with guilt, and he nods. “Yeah, I know, i went after her but she was gone, that's no excuse i know, i put her in danger Sam, i can't believe it….And now she probably hates me.” He chuckles bitterly. “Hell, maybe she should, i do.”

“Don’t give me that self-pity crap,” Sam snaps. “She’s hurt, sure. But you know damn well she doesn’t hate you.”

Bucky exhales shakily. “Maybe she should. All I ever do is screw things up. I push her away because… because I’m too scared to admit how I feel. And now? I don’t even know if I can fix it.”

Sam leans forward, his voice firm. “You’ve got two choices, Buck. Sit here and wallow, or get off your ass and do something about it.”

Bucky finally meets his gaze, his voice barely a whisper. “What do I even say?”

Sam nods toward the shattered lamp. “Start by picking up the pieces. Then tell her the truth.”

Bucky swallows hard. “What if… what if it’s too late?”

Sam’s voice softens. “That’s a chance you’ll have to take, you cant just throw away the friendship you two have, i dont even know my friends from kindergarten, i couldnt tell you the slightest thing about em now….but you’ll never know unless you try.”

Bucky hesitates, then leans back, his gaze distant. “I’ve tried, Sam. More times than I can count.”

Sam frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Bucky’s voice grows quieter, tinged with frustration. “I’ve been trying to tell her for years—little things here and there. Dropping hints, pushing the boundaries, trying to get her to see me the way I see her. But every damn time, she pulls back, like she’s scared of what’s on the other side of those walls she’s built.”

Sam watches him, his expression thoughtful. “And you think she doesn’t feel the same?”

Bucky lets out a hollow laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t. But how the hell am I supposed to keep putting myself out there when she won’t meet me halfway? Why does it always have to be me to make the first move? Why can’t she give me a sign? Something, anything that lets me know I’m not imagining this?” Bucky’s voice cracks, and he rakes a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling out. “It’s like every time I try to get closer, she pulls back. And then I’m stuck wondering if I’m just some idiot chasing after something that was never there.”

Sam leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re scared, she’s scared—it’s a mess, man. But sitting here, letting the fear eat away at you, isn’t gonna solve anything. You want her to meet you halfway? Maybe she’s been waiting for you to show her it’s safe to.”

Bucky shakes his head, his jaw tightening. “I’ve shown her, Sam. Hell, I’ve been there for her through everything. I’ve tried to coax her out of those walls, but every time I think I’m making progress, she shuts me down. And now? Now she’s out there, going on dates with other guys. What am I supposed to think?”

Sam tilts his head, his gaze steady. “You ever think maybe she’s just as scared as you are? That she’s waiting for you to stop hinting and just say it outright?”

Bucky’s fists clench, his frustration boiling over. “Why does it have to be me? Why can’t she take the damn risk for once? I’m not the only one in this.”

Sam exhales, leaning back. “You’re right, it’s a two-way street. But you’ve got to ask yourself—if she’s scared, just like you, who’s gonna be brave enough to break the cycle?”

Bucky stands, pacing the room. His voice drops, low and pained. “What if I put everything out there, and she doesn’t feel the same? I don’t think I could handle that.”

Sam’s gaze follows him, his tone firm but empathetic. “Or what if she’s been feeling the same this whole time, but she’s been too scared to lose you? What if she’s been waiting for you to say what she can’t?”

Bucky stops, his hands on his hips, his head bowed. “I can’t lose her, Sam. Not as a friend, not as… whatever this is. She’s everything. And if I’m wrong—if I tell her how I feel and she walks away—I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Sam stands, crossing the room to face Bucky. “Buck, you’re already losing her by doing nothing. This limbo you’re both stuck in? It’s tearing you apart. You’ve got to take the leap, man. Because if you don’t, you’ll never forgive yourself.”

Bucky swallows hard, his eyes clouded with doubt. “And if I crash and burn?”

Sam gives him a small, encouraging smile. “Then you’ll get back up. And you’ll know you tried. But if you don’t take that chance, you’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

Bucky lets out a shaky breath, his hands still clenched at his sides. “I’ve never been good at this—at saying what I feel. And now, with everything so screwed up…”

“Then stop overthinking it,” Sam says. “Tell her the truth. Not hints, not half-measures. The whole thing.”

Bucky looks at him, his expression caught between fear and hope. “What if she’s already made up her mind? What if she’s moving on?”

Sam shakes his head. “You don’t know that. And you won’t unless you ask. But hiding behind ‘what ifs’ isn’t gonna get you anywhere.”

Bucky stares at the shattered lamp, his mind racing. Finally, he lets out a deep sigh, his shoulders slumping. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I’ll talk to her. But if this blows up in my face, you’re buying me drinks for the next decade.”

Sam smirks, clapping him on the shoulder. “Deal. Now get yourself together, man. You’ve got work to do.”

Bucky nods, though the weight of what lies ahead presses heavily on him. As Sam heads for the door, he glances back. “Just remember, Buck—she’s not the only one with walls. You’ve got a few of your own.”

Wanda clapped her hands together, her tone light. “Okay, enough brooding. How about some brunch? I’m starving.”

Natasha perked up at that, crossing her arms. “I could go for some pancakes. What about the farmers market?”

You sighed, your head falling back against the couch. “I’m down for food, but we can’t go to the farmers market.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her tone edging toward irritation. “Why not?”

“Because we can’t go there without Bucky,” you said simply, your voice flat but firm.

Natasha groaned, throwing her hands up. “God, why does everything have to come back to Bucky? He’s not exactly the Farmers Market King. We can survive one trip without him.”

You sat up, your eyes flashing. “Stop it, Nat. Just stop. Look, we’ve all messed up before. Bucky’s not some random guy who screwed up—he’s Bucky, its him. He’s been there for me through everything. We can’t just hate on him because we got in a fight.”

Natasha scoffed, her voice sharp. “I can hate on him just fine. He’s an asshole, and I’m tired of watching him drag you through this endless cycle of misery.”

Your hands clenched at your sides as you stood up, your voice snapping like a whip. “And I’m tired of you acting like it’s so black and white! He’s not perfect, but none of us are. You think I haven’t made mistakes? You think I haven’t hurt him too?”

Natasha stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “You’re always defending him! No matter what he does, you jump in to shield him, like he’s some wounded puppy. When are you gonna wake up and realize he’s not worth it?”

“He’s not worth it?” you said, your voice trembling with anger. “You don’t get it, Nat. He’s not just some guy who broke my heart. He’s my best friend! You don’t throw someone like that away because they messed up once, or twice, or even a hundred times. He’s Bucky, for god’s sake!”

The room went silent, the weight of your words hanging between you. Natasha stared at you, her jaw tightening before she shook her head, letting out a bitter laugh. “Fine,” she said coldly. “Do whatever you want. But don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart again.”

With that, you turned on your heel and stormed off into Steve’s room. Natasha grabbed her bag as she headed for the door. Before she left, she glanced at Wanda and Steve, her voice sharp. “All I do is try to help, but if she wants to keep sticking up for his dumb ass, that’s on her, leave me out of it next time.”

The door slammed behind her, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

Wanda and Steve exchanged glances, both looking a little shell-shocked. Finally, Wanda sighed, brushing her hair back. “I’ll go after Nat,” she said quietly. She turned to Steve, her brow raised. “You got her?”

Steve nodded, giving Wanda a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’ve got her.”

Once Wanda left, Steve turned to. Steve hesitated for a moment before following. He knocked gently on the door. “Hey… you okay?”

There was no answer at first, just the sound of you pacing. Finally, your voice came through, quieter but still tense. “I’m fine, Steve. Just… need a minute.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe, his voice soft. “Take all the time you need. I’m here, I’ll always be right here…”

[slattlicker]

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * F O R G I V E   M E   N O T ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ a jschlatt x reader exes-to-lovers fic · chapter T W O ✦ if it makes you smile ✦ ↳ 3.4k words · slow build · college/uni au ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

✦ written with a female!reader in mind ✦ (but everyone’s welcome to suffer—i mean enjoy ♡)

you didn’t ask for this. but you didn’t stop it, either. now he’s giving you gifts like it’s a normal thing. and yeah. he brought two forks.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╮ ✧ mentions of past emotional neglect ✧ anxiety around reconnection ✧ implied depressive behavior ✧ college setting / casual profanity ✧ unresolved relationship dynamics ╰˚₊‧͙⁺˚₊‧͙✧　❛ 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃   𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 ❜　✧‧͙˚₊⁺‧͙˚₊╯

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you wake up feeling weird.

not tired, not rested—just… off. like your brain’s still buffering from the night before.

you reach for your phone out of habit.

and there it is.

SCHLATT: morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

you just stare at it for a second. blank screen, black text. no “good girl.” no “sweetheart.” no voice memo at 2 a.m. slurring his regrets. just a quiet little check-in.

you didn’t block him. thought about it, a few times. even hovered over the button once.

but you didn’t.

you don’t text back.

not because you're mad. just because you don't know what to do with a text from your ex after months of not hearing anything from him.

✧

the sky is gray by the time you head out. that wet, chilly kind of morning where your hoodie sleeves feel damp no matter what. the quad’s half-empty. you take the path behind the music building to avoid the frat guys setting up some kind of table out front.

your first class is in a big lecture hall—intro to psych. easy credit, annoying professor, always freezing cold. you sit on the left side, third row from the front, second seat in. you always sit there.

which is why you freeze when you spot something already sitting on your desk.

a drink.

your drink.

exact flavors and toppings. still cold, no condensation yet. it was just dropped off.

your name is scrawled on the lid in sharpie in familiar handwriitng—but not just that. tucked underneath the drink, just barely peeking out, is a crumpled post-it note.

you glance around, like maybe you’re being watched. then slide into your seat and peel it out. it says:

figured this was better than showing up to give it to you. - j

your stomach turns a little. not in a bad way. just… a way. you’re still staring at the note when maya slides in beside you.

she takes one look at the drink, the post-it, your face—and gasps.

“oh my god. that’s from your ex, isn’t it.”

you don’t answer. but the color on your face certainly does. she grabs the cup and spins it in her hands like it might have a secret message written on the bottom.

“okay. no, actually, what the hell is this? when did you guys even start talking again? did he venmo you? is this, like, some kind of ‘drink truce’?”

you sigh, snatch the cup back, and take a sip.

it’s perfect. you hate that it’s perfect. you hate that he remembered.

you sort of wish your taste had changed, just so that you could have thrown or given this cup away. but it's been a miserable morning, and this class isn't going to make it any better...so you bring the cup to your lips again, and try not to think too much about where it came from.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

she didn’t text back.

which—fine. he wasn’t expecting her to, not really.

but that doesn’t stop him from checking his phone every five minutes like an idiot on a leash.

he even rereads the text once, just to make sure it didn’t sound too eager.

morning. don’t forget to eat something. you got class at 10, right?

yeah. no hearts. no weird overcompensating jokes. just enough. hopefully.

he adjusts the strap of his backpack and crosses the quad, head down. it’s cold, but not unbearable. cloudy. the kind of morning where campus smells like mud and energy drinks.

the drink in his hand is starting to sweat, so he wipes it on his sleeve. writes her name on the lid with the sharpie he borrowed from charlie. then he grabs a post-it from his notebook—crumpled from being in his pocket all morning—and writes:

figured this was better than showing up. - j

he doesn’t linger. just drops it off on the desk he knows she always sits in and ghosts out before anyone sees him.

by the time he gets to his own class, he’s wound tight.

he keeps his phone face-down. doesn’t want to see the nothing that’s still waiting there.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

by the time you get to the dining hall, your group already has the usual table: long bench, chipped edges, always kind of sticky. you see maya before anyone else—waving you over like she’s on a game show.

you’re halfway there when you notice something different. there’s a tupperware container sitting on your tray spot. not one of the sad, sweat-covered plastic trays from the line. a real, packed meal.

you pause.

maya grins like she’s about to explode.

“ohhhhhh,” she says, “you’re gonna love this.”

you sit slowly. look down at the container. it’s packed tight: rice, perfectly sliced chicken, sauce you actually like, and a cookie that looks bakery-grade.

everything’s still hot. nothing’s touching. wow.

you look at her. “what is this?”

she’s already pulling out her phone. “your boy dropped it off like five minutes ago. walked right up to us like he wasn’t about to commit an act of emotional terrorism.”

jordan leans in. “he said, and i quote, ‘figured she wouldn’t want to eat whatever crap they're serving today.’ and then disappeared. like. he didn’t even break stride. whoosh, whoosh...a true man on a mission.”

“he sprinted, ” courtney says. “his giant ass shoes squeaking. poor guy was so fucking nervous that we were gonna attack him or some shit.”

you blink at the tupperware like it might explode. you haven’t even opened it yet and you’re already spiraling.

and then you do. and yeah—it’s real. and it smells amazing.

“okay,” maya says, nudging your elbow. “say what you want, but if he ever wants to drop me a lunch like this, i’m available.”

you roll your eyes, but your face is warm and red again.

you take a bite.

it’s perfect. first a perfect drink, then...a perfectly hot, dorm-cooked meal?

you can't help but smile at the taste of the hot rice and fluster at the thought of: what could be next?

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

the classroom is dim. one of the ceiling lights is flickering. the projector screen is stuck on a slide about supply chain logistics—week 4, apparently—and the professor sounds like he’s trying to set a world record for how many times someone can say “optimization” in a sentence.

schlatt is not listening.

he’s sitting near the back, hood up, thumb hovering over his phone. there’s a notebook open in front of him, but he hasn’t written anything down in the last twenty minutes except a small, increasingly dark patch of scribbles in the corner.

he told himself he wouldn’t check again until the class ended.

he’s checked four times in the last six minutes. still nothing.

maybe she hated it. maybe maya made a joke and she got embarrassed and dumped the whole thing in the trash. maybe the cookie got soggy. did he pack it weird? should he have separated the sauce?

the container felt warm when he handed it off. that was a good sign, right?

god, he should’ve left a note. no—wait. no more notes. that's probably why she didn't respond after the drink delivery this morning. he's probably acting too clingy. right?

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. but the damage is already done.

he flips his phone over again, just to check the time—

and her name lights up the screen.

Y/N ♥︎ you can’t bribe me into being your girlfriend again.

he reads it once. then again. and a third time, just to make sure it’s not a hallucination brought on by cafeteria fumes and emotional instability.

his lips twitch—almost a smile, but not quite. he sits up straighter, like that’ll stop his heart from doing the thing it’s doing.

he types back immediately.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

you’re halfway through lunch when your phone buzzes.

SCHLATT: i know wasn’t trying to just wanted to start off your week strong and maybe make you smile then, immediately after: schlatt: not like make you just like if it happened that’d be cool not saying you owe me a smile

a beat later:

SCHLATT: god i’m making this worse huh

you stare at the texts, thumb hovering, brain blank.

across the table, maya sees the look on your face and goes, “oh no. what did he say now.”

you ignore her. she'll make a huge deal about you even entertaining him after all that word vomit. you type slowly.

Y/N: you’re definitely overthinking this

SCHLATT: yeah i do that sometimes this is me being normal btw this is my normal mode

Y/N: terrifying

there’s a pause. then:

SCHLATT: you smiled tho right

you bite your lip. don’t answer right away.

Y/N: yeah whatever …thanks j

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

class ends with zero fanfare. the lights flicker once, the professor mumbles something about next week’s reading, and people start packing up like rats off a sinking ship.

schlatt barely heard any of it.

he’s been on autopilot since her text.

yeah whatever…thanks j

four words. that’s it. and yet somehow it’s enough to knock him on his ass. he can hear her voice, her little chuckle as she said it...

she could’ve left him on read. could’ve said nothing. but she didn’t. she responded. she joked. she used his initial.

he’s been replaying it all afternoon like a dumbass with a crush.

which—okay, yeah. that’s exactly what he is.

a crush on his ex-girlfriend that he's trying his damnedest to win back.

but still.

the second he’s out of class, he heads to the library. he actually wants to get shit done. maybe burn off some of the jittery energy in his chest. maybe just feel like a person with a functioning attention span again.

he takes the stairs up to the third floor, where it’s quiet and nobody breathes too loud. picks a table by the windows. pulls out his laptop and opens his notes.

he’s halfway through rewatching a lecture when he feels someone’s eyes on him.

looks up.

and there she is.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

he looks up before you’re ready.

not in a startled way. just… like he knew you’d be there. like part of him was waiting for you here...even if he knows that you almost never come up to the third floor.

but when he sees you, he smiles. it’s not a big smile. barely noticeable, really. but it’s real. no teasing behind it. no smugness. just soft.

safe.

you freeze for half a second. consider walking right past him, pretending you didn’t see.

but you don’t.

your feet move before your brain can stop them, and the next thing you know, you’re standing at the edge of his table. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either.

you hesitate.

not because you don’t know where to sit—there’s a chair directly across from him. and it’s a big table. too big, honestly.

you hesitate because he looks up and smiles and now your brain is suddenly way too loud with old memories full of mutual laughter.

you clear your throat, shift your weight, point at the chair across from him in the universal student body language of: “is this seat taken?”

he tilts his head, a little confused.

and then your hand kind of flutters. awkward. dumb. you gesture again, smaller this time, like you know what, never mind.

why are you even asking? this is the guy who disappeared on you for months. the guy who left when things got serious. who took your feelings, shoved them in a drawer, and slammed it shut because he didn’t know how to deal.

and now you’re asking for permission to sit with him? seriously?

you almost pivot away—almost leave it there.

but then he shifts in his seat, leans back a little, legs spread wide, and gestures toward the chair with a quiet:

“yeah. of course.”

no hesitation. no edge.

like it never even crossed his mind that he’d say no.

your stomach twists as you sit down.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you sit across from him, and for the first time in weeks, he actually gets through a full page of notes.

not because you’re talking to him. you’re not.

you’re doing the opposite—quiet, efficient, head down, just the gentle sound of typing and paper rustling from your side of the table. and somehow, that helps.

your focus is contagious. he picks up on the rhythm of it—syncs to the pace of your writing, the way you pause to re-read something, the exact second you reach for your water bottle.

it’s grounding. but also?

it’s killing him.

because he keeps catching himself watching you.

not for long—just little flickers. a glance at your hands. the corner of your mouth when you frown at your screen. the way you still bounce your foot when you’re stuck on something.

things he didn’t even know he remembered.

it’s like his brain is taking inventory, stockpiling little reminders of what it was like to have you in his orbit.

and it’s messing him up.

he gets halfway through typing a sentence—then backspaces the whole thing.

focus. he’s supposed to be focusing.

but every few minutes, that thought slips in: she’s here. she’s here. she’s actually here. she asked to sit with me.

and god, he’s trying not to mess it up.

so after a solid block of quiet, after he’s made it through two pages of notes and only spaced out once or twice—he pushes his laptop closed.

just softly. intentionally.

then he tilts his head toward the hallway. raises a brow.

“break?” no words.

just the offer.

and when you nod—he thinks maybe this is the first time all day he’s let himself exhale.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

the walk to the café is short. it always is. but somehow, with schlatt next to you—not touching, not even close enough to brush shoulders—it feels longer. or slower. or maybe that��s just your brain buffering. the two of you step inside. it’s quieter than usual. the late afternoon lull.

he holds the door. you say nothing.

you both drift to the bakery case. you stare at the drink menu. he tilts his head, studying the pastries like they’ve personally wronged him.

“get whatever,” he says, eyes still on the glass. “it’s on me.”

you roll your eyes. “didn’t you already pay a bit of your debt with that five-star michelin lunch?”

he smirks. “that was just an appetizer.”

you almost smile. you order something caffeinated. he orders something that sounds 100% artificially flavored. and then he points at one of the desserts behind the glass and says, “that too.”

the girl at the counter raises a brow. “want a fork?”

he doesn’t hesitate. “make it two.”

you blink. say nothing.

you end up at a small table near the window. sunlight spills across the surface in those weird golden strips that make everything feel older than it is.

he sets everything down. drinks. napkins. the sad little dessert. and quietly, without looking at you, he places one fork in front of your side. that’s it. no grand gesture. no comment.

like it’s just… assumed.

and somehow, that’s worse.

you sit. pick up the fork.

he digs in. keeps his eyes on the window. “it’s mid,” he says around a bite. “we chose wrong.”

you roll your eyes and stab a corner.

“we? you ordered it,” you say after a bite, dry. “don’t act like it betrayed you.”

schlatt snorts. “looked better in the glass. that’s not my fault.”

“you pointed at it with conviction. then forced me to be in on it too.”

he shrugs. “i have a history of bad decisions.”

you arch an eyebrow.

he catches it. sighs. “yeah, yeah. walked into that one.”

the silence that follows isn’t stiff. it’s tired, but not tense. comfortable, somehow.

✦ SCHLATT’S POV ✦

you keep eating.

he watches the people passing by the café window. pretends not to check your expression when you’re looking down. tells himself not to read into the little things—how you haven’t moved your seat farther away, how you haven’t called this a mistake.

then you speak.

quiet. barely over the hum of the coffee machines.

“thanks. for today.”

he glances over.

you don’t meet his eyes, but your fork pauses halfway to your mouth. like you're not sure if you should’ve said it. like maybe he’ll make it weird.

“yeah,” he says. “anytime.”

he means it.

he didn’t know how today was going to go. hell, he didn’t even know if you’d respond to the first text. he thought he knew you better than anyone, before things blew up. but when it ended, when he left, it was like someone flipped a switch and made him a stranger in his own memories.

that’s what scared him the most. and now?

you’re here. sitting across from him. splitting a dumb little pastry and still catching him off guard with the tiniest thank you.

it’s not everything. but it’s something.

and for once, he’s not spiraling about what this means next. not planning the whole rest of your relationship in his head. not worrying (too much) about your parents hating him or whether he makes enough money or if he’s the guy who can actually give you what you deserve.

he’ll still worry about all that. later. but right now?

one day at a time feels pretty damn good.

✧

they leave the café without saying much.

it’s not awkward.

just… full.

like the air between them is carrying everything they haven’t figured out how to say yet.

he keeps pace with her down the sidewalk, hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, shoulder just a little too close to hers.

every so often, their arms bump. then, when their hands brush, she doesn’t pull away.

and when he shifts his fingers—just barely—she threads hers through his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t breathe for a second. just holds on.

the walk is slow. campus fades into a blur of yellow lamps and sleepy foot traffic. everything’s quieter now. softer. the kind of evening that makes you think maybe life doesn’t have to be so loud all the time.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t want to break whatever this is. whatever they’ve found today.

you squeeze his hand once.

and for a moment, it’s everything.

✦ Y/N’S POV ✦

his hand is warm in yours.

you let him hold it.

because you don’t know the next time you’ll get to.

because today was… good.

and that’s what hurts the most.

it started with a text—simple, easy, like he hadn’t left months of silence between the two of you. then the drink, waiting at your desk like it was never a question. the packed lunch. the smiley texts. and then there was the library. him focused. steady. glancing up at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there. like he didn’t deserve it. like he wanted to deserve it.

and when he tilted his head—silent invite to take a break with him? you went.

the café. the dessert. the two forks.

the way he didn’t push, didn’t demand anything, just… showed up. of course, you can't be won over by materialistic things, but...there was a thoughtfulness behind today that you couldn't shake.

and now here you are, walking back to your dorm, hand in his, in the same rhythm you used to move in before everything went sideways.

it feels like deja vu.

it feels like something you wished for months ago.

it feels like too little, too late.

he used to freeze up at the thought of doing anything like this. used to shut down when you asked for more. and now? now he’s doing it without being asked.

you’d spent months wishing for this version of him.

and now that he’s here…you want to believe this could work. you do.

but you also remember what it felt like to sit in silence, waiting for him to care again. you remember trying to hold things together by yourself, telling your friends everything was fine while checking your phone more times than you’ll admit. you remember how easy it was for him to disappear.

and now?

now he’s here. fully. or at least, showing that he can be.

but you can’t unlive the part where he wasn’t.

so you hold his hand.

a little tighter.

one last time.

and you try to memorize what it feels like.

✧ ⊹ · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ⊹ ✧

╭﹐✦˚₊· 𖤐 * E N D   O F   C H A P T E R   T W O ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ╮ remember how he disappeared for months? yeah. well. hahahahaha ╰﹒♡₊˚๑ *✧﹒✦ ࣪ ˖ ┊

📌 taglist - @f4sh10n-m4v3n

[rylem33]

Finding the Words

Quinn clicked her lighter once, let it burn, then snapped it shut again. She wasn’t smoking, she just liked the sound and to watch the flame flicker.. It helped pass the time and calm her attitude. She hated most things, including being bored. 

Including lame ass frat boys that stepped into her peripheral.

She didn’t look, just said, “No.”

“Hey, at least let me say something first,” came Josh’s upbeat voice.

She sighed and finally looked over. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for idle conversation?”

Josh chuckled, undeterred. “Okay, point taken. Are you in the mood for a bet?”

“That’s worse.”

“One track,” he said, pulling out his phone. “You listen and let me know your honest opinion. I bet you’re going to like it.”

She folded her arms. “Wow, the confidence. What’s the song, some trendy pop nonsense?”

He stood and gave her a smug look. “No, it’s mine.”

That caught her a bit off guard.

“Wait, yours like… you made it?”

“Yep.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun.” She teased. “Is it, like, your soul? Your ‘true expression’? Please tell me there’s a ukulele involved.”

“Just synths. Some vocal distortion. It’s kind of—”

“—‘hard to define,’” she cut in, smirking. “Let me guess—it’s ‘raw,’ ‘authentic,’ and ‘better with headphones’?”

Josh chuckled. “Exactly.”

“And you want me—of all people—to listen to your pet project and not rip it apart?”

He nodded. “If you can.”

She stared at him.

He met her gaze, steady. “I mean, you could just refuse. I won’t tell anyone how you were too scared to listen to my song. Probably.”

She clenched her jaw. “You think I’m afraid of your grade school magnum opus?”

“I think you’re too busy rebelling to know what you actually like anymore. And you’re probably afraid you might like it.”

Quinn clenched her jaw. She was trapped. If she backed out she was weak and scared. If not, she was doing what this lame ass told her.

She yanked the headphones from his hand, already sneering. “Fine. Let’s hear your little passion project. If I die from secondhand cringe, I want you to tell people I went out brave.”

Josh just smiled. “Of course, the bravest of souls.”

She put on the headphones, crossed her arms, and sat down on the curb.

Josh hit play.

· · ·

Three minutes passed and the song ended.

Josh raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

Quinn opened her mouth. Nothing came out at first.

Her brain was… blank. Not just the song—everything. She couldn’t remember a single second of the last few minutes. Nothing.

Shit. She couldn’t say that.

So she shrugged hard and casually tossed him the headphones. “Wow. Okay. Real bold move opening with that many… triangles.”

Josh blinked in confusion. “Triangles?”

“Yeah. You know. That pingy synth sound? It was like… being trapped inside a video game made for virgins.”

Josh chuckled. “Right. Got it. Too many triangles.”

He reached into his backpack and held out a small USB drive. “You should check out my other tracks. That one was just the intro.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Seriously?”

He offered no explanation. Just kept holding it out, smiling.

She took it, fully intending to chuck it in the nearest trash can the second he turned around. Instead, she slid it into her hoodie pocket without thinking. 

Then, as she turned to walk off, she flipped him off over her shoulder. “Enjoy your delusions, Mozart.”

Josh gave a little salute, still grinning.

She stalked across the quad toward her home.

Somewhere unnoticed, in the back of her mind, an odd beat pulsed.

------------------------------------------------

Quinn kicked her door shut with her boot, the deadbolt catching with a satisfying clunk. She tossed her bag onto the floor, ripped off her hoodie, and flopped face-first onto the bed.

It was late. She should’ve gone to sleep. But her thoughts were wired. That loser Josh had actually gotten under her skin. That was the part that pissed her off. Him smirking like he’d won something.

She grunted into the pillow. “Ugh. Nerd.”

She reached for her vape and instead pulled out… the USB.

“Wait. What?”

She sat up, flipping it between her fingers. She threw this. Didn’t she? Right when he handed it to her. She never pocketed it.

At least… she didn’t think she had.

She stared at the little metal thing for another second. Then, with a huff, pushed herself off the bed and shuffled to her laptop.

“Whatever,” she muttered, jamming the drive into the port. “I’ll post this shit all over the socials and roast his ass for messing with me.”

She saw the first file in the folder.

“track01_the_initiation.mp3”

“What kind of lame title is that?” she mumbled. “It’s gonna be some weirdo art-school ambient garbage.”

Still, she clicked.

The music began quietly. Barely audible. A pulse, like a heartbeat beneath water. Then layers. Synths, soft and smooth. A voice curled in the mix.

She leaned forward, trying to understand the voice.

What is it saying?

. . . .

Her eyes blinked open.

She was on the floor. She was on her knees on the floor.

She gasped and jolted upright, scrambling away from the center of the room. Her legs were shaky. Her skin glistened like she’d been sweating.

“What the fuck…”

She looked at the clock.  Time had passed, but she didn’t remember any of it.  Again.

“Goddamn it,” she snapped, kicking the leg of her chair.

She never zoned out like that. Not unless she was blackout drunk. And even then, not like that.

And despite everything her hand was already reaching for her mouse.  

If only I try it one more time, I can hear what it ‘s saying….

---------------------------------------

It’s playing again. I can’t hear the words. There are words, I know there are. But they won’t come into focus.

They’re always just out of reach. My thighs are open.  My hand’s already there.  I don’t remember putting it there. But I can’t take it away. If I can only hear the words. Then I can stop reaching for it.

I’m panting. God, I’m panting. My fingers are soaked. The song keeps looping. I know it’s looping, but it feels different each time. I’m grinding into my own hand.

I’m still chasing the words.  I need to hear them.

My skin tingles with need. What are the words…..where are the words…I need the words…..

I scream when I finish.  My body quakes from the release.

I still want to hear the words.

I’ll do anything….anything… if he’ll just say them to me.

--------------------------------

It’s quiet. Still. My hands are resting on my lap, where they’re supposed to. My legs are aching from being in this position for so long. Despite this, I don’t shift. I don’t fidget. I wait.

Josh moves across the room.

I don’t look until he’s closer. I’ve learned not to anticipate. Anticipating isn’t the same as listening. And listening is… everything.

I lift my eyes to him. That’s allowed. My mouth parts just slightly. My chest tightens.  It’s the stillness right before something beautiful happens.

Please say something.

He doesn’t.

That’s okay. I can wait. I’m good at waiting now. It’s what I was trained to do. I remember that I used to be impatient. Sharp-tongued. Mean, even. It’s funny to think about. That girl… she was exhausting.

Josh takes one more step toward me and I stare up in anticipation.

Please. Please say something.

“Say hello, Quinn.”

Oh—oh god—

“Hi, Josh.” The words float out of my mouth before I know I’ve spoken them.  

He sounds so good. He always sounds good. But when he talks to me? When he tells me what to do? It’s like… like a warm hand inside my chest. Pulling. Pressing. Filling. I feel full. I feel soft. I feel—

“Good girl.”

My thighs squeeze together.

Yesyesyesyes

I nearly gasp but catch it in my throat. I shouldn’t make noise unless he tells me to. I know that. I remember learning that.

When he praises me… it’s like I’m being fed. Like I didn’t know how hungry I was until that moment.

Josh moves behind me. I feel his fingers glide down the curve of my hair and onto my shoulder. I want him to continue. I want to feel his hand upon my breast. Between my legs.

“You used to hate me.”

Did I?

I blink.

I try to remember the hatred, the scoffing, the eye-rolls. But they come like echoes underwater. 

That doesn’t feel real. Not anymore.

He speaks again, slow and patient.

“You used to be angry. Cold. Disrespectful.”

Maybe. I guess. I don’t know anymore. All I know is this.

He leans closer, his voice right beside my ear.

“You used to think you couldn’t be tamed.”

I exhale.

My eyes flutter.

But I was wrong.

I smile.

I won’t speak again.

Not until he tells me to.

[kkurami]

END OF THE WORLD ☆ seijoh SOGGIES

SYNOPSIS. y/n’s high school relationship ends in heartbreak, and it takes her months to move on. now, in her third year of university and completely removed from any ties to her past, she releases a cover to “intro (end of the world) - extended” by ariana grande. however, this cover ends up catching the attention of her 3-year long first boyfriend, who refuses to leave japan until y/n gets back together with him.

HAJIME (@ h.iwaizumi & @ frankoceanfan)

☆ uc san diego sports medicine major

☆ y/n’s ex boyfriend, lowkey (highkey) misses her hella

☆ at the beach 24/7!!!! has one friend from his business class and they hit up la jolla pretty often

☆ likes raving but hates how expensive they r 😣 overrall just living his best life in sd (if u don’t count the days he cries himself to sleep from homesickness. the japanese food in california doesn’t compare to the food his mom makes 💔)

TOORU (@ oikawerzz)

☆ tokyo university business major, lives in a quad dorm with matsukawa and hanamaki. they had another roommate who moved out after a week because oikawa pissed him off

☆ LIVES at gen. he’s there every weekend and trust he’s the one who handles the grill. he just loves kbbq

☆ bumps it to bags by clairo (boy turn that clairo off and get u a beer!!!!)

☆ cried when y/n and iwaizumi broke up, and cried even hard when she started dating sakusa. he does NOT fw sakuy/n but he supports her happiness

TAKAHIRO (@ letshaveakiki)

☆ tokyo university poly sci major

☆ him and mattsun bring cardboard cutouts of oikawa when the volleyball team has a match

☆ forced everyone who lived on his floor freshman year to watch glee

☆ serial labubu collector and always pulls the secret

ISSEI (@ isseideeznuts)

☆ tokyo university mortuary science major

☆ says he hates oikawa but he LOVES having oikawa as a roommate because he’s so organized and clean. hanamaki on the other hand….

☆ chronically online and will tell you about the john pork lore

☆ saw aespa live and never stops watching his concert videos (same)

previous ☆ masterlist ☆ next

authors note. ucsd student iwaizumi hajime who loves going to raves and the beach is so real to me💔💔

taglist. @muhwaa @hoori @nscuit @loveyislost @buckturd @ladycarat @90s-belladonna @iv-vee

[relliwritingbish]

“Rainy Days Music”

Pairing: You x Introverted musician Genre: Slow-burn romance | Self-insert | College au | Fluff + slight angst + spice Content: Intimacy, mild angst, mentions of fame, supportive!reader, shy!boyfriend, emotional vulnerability, soft smut (nothing graphic) Summary: you’re a Fine Arts student. he’s the quiet boy you met in the music club room. You never meant to fall in love. but you did—and the world eventually noticed what you saw in him from the start.

It was a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

The lecture hall buzzes with idle chatter, pencils tapping on desks and sneakers squeaking against the floor. You’ve just wrapped up a critique session for your latest painting—a sweeping canvas full of ochre and maroon swirls that bled into each other like thoughts in a dream. Your professor’s parting words—"Brilliant color theory, as always"—still warm your chest like sunlit tea. Compliments like that mean something coming from her. It feels like validation, like maybe you’re not just floating through this Fine Arts degree hoping for meaning.

Outside, puddles are forming across the brick paths of campus, the sky a silver sheet rippling with drizzle. You tug your hoodie over your head and adjust your sketchpad under one arm, eyes fixed on the music building across the quad. You’ve passed it a thousand times before. Tall windows veiled with dusty blinds, posters for jazz nights and open mic sessions curling at the corners. But today, you push the door open.

It smells like dust and tuning resin. The kind of scent that lingers in old practice rooms and orchestra pits. There’s something intimate about the quiet thrum of a piano echoing faintly through the hallway—soft, unsure, like someone is playing only for themselves.

You follow the sound.

He’s sitting in the corner of a practice room, back turned to the door. Slouched, like he’s trying to disappear into the cracked leather bench, his fingers brush over the piano keys with a hesitant grace. The hoodie he always wears is bunched at the elbows, and from where you stand, he looks like a sketch come to life—smudged, deliberate, quiet.

He doesn’t hear you at first, not until you accidentally nudge the door with your shoulder and it creaks. He turns.

You know his face from a few classes.

Intro to Art History, you think, and maybe a general elective last year. But he never spoke. Always kept his head down, hoodie pulled up, eyes focused somewhere between his notebook and the floor. He had that gentle quiet about him.

The kind you notice when the world gets too loud.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt—" You apologize quickly, stepping halfway back.

He shrugs, barely a movement. "It's fine."

His voice is deeper than you expected, low and slightly rough, like he doesn’t use it often. It gives you pause. You step fully inside, curiosity outweighing any awkwardness.

"You’re... good," you say. "At the piano, I mean. I didn’t know you played."

He shrugs again, but this time, there’s a twitch of something at the corner of his lips. Maybe amusement. Maybe just surprise.

You introduce yourself anyway.

And he nods, says your name slowly like he’s tasting it. Then he offers his. You tuck it into your memory like a secret sketch.

You start seeing him more often after that. In the practice rooms, in the back corners of the library, and even writing lyrics on the back of a takeout napkin in the campus café. You start sitting next to him, asking questions, slipping compliments into the spaces where his self-doubt lingers.

He’s brilliant, you realize. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

He doesn’t just play music. He writes it.

Full songs with aching lyrics and tender chords that crawl under your skin and stay there. You listen to his demos on borrowed headphones in your dorm room, pencil paused mid-doodle, heart thudding a little too fast.

"You should post these," you say one night, watching him tweak a melody on his laptop in the common room.

He shakes his head. "No one would listen."

"I would," you say. "I do."

It takes weeks, maybe months, of gentle nudging. But eventually, he lets you help. You set up a basic account on a music-sharing platform, upload one song. His favorite. You type the shared it. 

Haunting lyrics. Fragile and beautiful. Give it a listen.

You check the stats every day. He pretends he doesn’t care, but you catch him glancing at the numbers.

It’s slow. Painfully slow. For a long time, there’s barely any movement. But you keep sharing. Keep showing up. Keep reminding him his voice matters.

He starts letting you in. Not just in music, but in life.

You start studying together, dragging your sketchpad to his apartment because his space is quieter than your dorm. He makes you instant ramen while you paint, his playlist humming softly in the background. You fall asleep on his couch one afternoon, only to wake up with a blanket tucked over you and your paintbrushes neatly rinsed.

It’s not a grand confession. Not a cinematic moment of realization.

It’s gradual. Gentle.

It’s staying longer after practice. It’s learning how he likes his coffee. It’s your fingers brushing when you hand him a pen, and neither of you pulling away.

It’s spending the night without meaning to. Waking up in his bed, both fully clothed, his arm around your waist like he doesn’t want to let go.

Then one night, it shifts. One viral song. Then a record company offering him a contract. The number slowly going up. For some reason, it doesn't have much effect on him. All he sees is you

You’re sitting on his bedroom floor, your back against the bed, your knees brushing. He’s talking about a melody that won’t resolve, frustration knotting in his brow. You reach out, smoothing a lock of hair from his eyes.

He goes quiet.

You can hear your own heartbeat.

Then he leans in, slow like a question, and you meet him halfway.

His lips are soft. A little unsure. But when your hand finds the back of his neck, he deepens the kiss like he’s been holding it in for years.

Everything after that is a blur of skin and heat and whispered names. He touches you like he’s memorizing you. Like you’re a song he doesn’t want to end.

You fall asleep with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

It’s not perfect. He’s still quiet. Still unsure of the spotlight. But he’s sure of you.

"Be my manager. My partner. I don’t want to do it without you."

Your heart does this stupid cartwheel thing.

"Okay," you say, kissing his worries away.

The transition from campus life to music industry chaos is anything but smooth.

Your first venue is a converted warehouse with peeling walls and a stage so small it might as well be a soapbox. He’s pacing backstage, fingers twitching like they’re itching for a keyboard. You catch his wrist before he can wear a hole in the floor.

"Breathe," you whisper, squeezing gently. "Just like you did in the practice room. You’re still you."

He nods, silent, but the look in his eyes softens. He always listens when it’s you.

You watch from the wings as he plays. The crowd is small, but they listen. Really listen. Phones in the air, nodding along to words only you used to hear in quiet corners. It’s a beginning.

The following months are a blur of travel, sleepless nights, and takeout containers balanced on hotel desks. You manage his schedule, answer emails, argue with PR teams who want to change his look, his sound, his image. He resists, always looking at you after meetings like he needs you to remind him he’s still real.

You do.

He doesn’t like crowds. He hates the interviews. But he loves the music. And he loves you.

It’s in the way his hand finds yours backstage. In the way his eyes search for you when he finishes a set. In the song he writes after a bad show—one where his mic cut out and the lights glitched, and the label rep almost canceled the tour.

He writes a song called "Steady Hands."

He says it’s about the only thing that kept him grounded when everything was falling apart. He looks at you when he says it. And the world tilts a little.

You wake up tangled in hotel sheets, his head resting on your stomach, his arms wrapped around your waist like you’re something precious. The blinds are half-open, letting in slats of early morning light.

You comb your fingers through his hair. He hums sleepily and presses a kiss to your hipbone.

"We have to be in the lobby in an hour," you murmur.

"Mmm. Five more minutes."

You don’t argue.

The intimacy isn’t always soft. Sometimes, it’s desperate. The kind of hunger born from weeks of silence on airplanes and exhaustion backstage. The kind that has him pressing you against the dressing room wall after a particularly raw show, his breath hot against your neck, your fingers in his hair, tugging like he’s the only real thing you can hold onto.

Sometimes, it’s slow. In his apartment on an off week. Candles burning. Music low. Your sketchbook of half-finished pieces on the bed while he traces every inch of you like a melody.

You don’t need words. You have each other.

He blows up faster than anyone expected.

One song goes viral. Then another. Soon, he’s charting. Millions of followers. Trending hashtags. Fan edits with captions like "he’s the soft boy poet we deserve."

They want to know who his songs are about.

He posts a blurry photo one night.

You two sitting in his bed while he shows you his notebook. Your hand in his. No caption.

The internet erupts.

You trended on Twitter for two days. You get hate. You get love. You get dragged into his spotlight whether you like it or not. But he never flinches. Never hides you.

During interviews, when they ask if he’s single, he just smiles.

"No," he says. "I’m not."

He talks about you like you’re the anchor to every storm.

The night of his biggest concert yet, the venue is packed. He’s pacing again, earbuds in, hoodie zipped to his chin.

You step in front of him. "You okay?"

He pulls you close, forehead resting against yours. "I always am when you’re here."

After the show, he dodges every paparazzi, every backstage guest. Walks right past the flashing lights and autograph lines and finds you in the green room.

"Come on," he says. "I want quiet."

You end up at a quiet bar a few blocks from the venue. It’s almost empty, just the two of you and a bartender who doesn’t recognize him.

He orders two whiskeys. You sit in the booth, legs brushing.

He reaches across the table and threads his fingers through yours.

"Do you ever think about how it started?" he asks. "That rainy day in the practice room."

You smile. "I think about it all the time."

He leans across the table and kisses you.

Soft. Familiar. Like home.

You fall asleep in his hoodie that night, your fingers intertwined on the hotel mattress, the sound of his next song playing quietly through his laptop speakers. It’s unfinished. But you already know it’s about you.

And it always will be.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

since you enjoy shipping based on what you think was intended by the author, what is the thought process behind nepeta x jade? nepeta gets an unfortunate dearth of screentime (at least imo, i really like her so im pretty biased haha) so im curious as to what kind of foreshadowing you think hussie was doing in regards to her and jade (also im just curious about your thoughts on nepeta in general cause i like her and i like your homestuck analysis LOL)

admittedly it gets a little pair the spares-y when you get to those last few pairings

so you can rule out eridan, vriska, tavros, equius, jane, jake, dirk, and roxy because each alpha kid is immediately introduced with their flush soulmate

calliope and karkat seem to be the clear red match there, so those two are out of the equation

sollux and aradia being a red thing is pretty well-established, they're always hanging out together for a reason

and feferi gets her "you love the cuttlefish who are always swimming out from between the cage bars" thing with john, plus his type is a mean girl like vriska but less evil crazy, and feferi's red feelings for sollux are predicated on his heroism, which is something john is constantly called out for. The Ultimate Hetero

and obviously rose/kanaya end game they just need both need moirails badly

so that leaves, missing a red partner:

hal, dave, jade, nepeta, terezi, and gamzee

we can eliminate some configurations pretty easily - hal/dave is obviously out of the running, and so is hal/nepeta because those two are pale

nepeta/gamzee is pretty obviously a no-go (she's never shown interest in him even a little and vice versa), as is terezi/gamzee (her feelings for him have always been black). dave/jade is very "tried that, went badly", so we can eliminate that.

hal/gamzee has zero basis; the only interaction or even pseudo interaction they've ever had is hal laughing at how hosed Dirk is by the clown. I think we can safely call that combination off the table, which uhhh... kind of leaves Dave with the clown?

Which, unfortunately, does work with what we've seen; Dave maintains that Gamzee is the "best troll" and is genuinely delighted by his clown schtick, whether or not it's ironic, and Gamzee himself, while initially pissed at Dave for his crisis of faith, then pivots to say "wait, actually, i'm cool with you, let's rap and make out" and Dave agrees to the rapping. Moreover, Dave realizes he's bi/gay on the meteor, and given he is literally related to Hal, that makes Gamzee the only viable option left. this also makes dave the person with the most rancid quads in all of paradox space (esp. if tavros is in his black, which i'm waffling on), as he also has equius in pale, and i think that is kind of beautiful

but yeah, so, with dave and gamzee out of the dating pool, we have terezi, jade, hal, and nepeta to configure

nepeta/terezi - we know that these two are really good friends, to the point where nepeta is actually the first person terezi tried to recruit for sgrub, and nepeta also lets terezi into eridan's secret wand pile room. however, their relationship has never really swung ROMANTIC, and terezi's intro has her admitting she feels bad for RPing facetiously with nepeta, so there's a layer there of not actually clicking on the deeper, cosmic level we'd expect from a homestuck ship

terezi/jade - these girls never interact and I'm not even sure they have much of an opinion of each other? see the note below on hal/jade as to why these two also wouldn't really work out

hal/jade - given that jade/dave failed due to dave's inability to drop his facetious persona and actually work through his massive neuroses, well... hal is a lot like if dave's facetious persona got dialed up to eleven, with no reduction on neuroses or emotional issues. tbh i don't want to subject jade to this, she deserves better. moreover, hal seems to dislike jake for his goofiness and tendency to lash out when he gets frustrated or overwhelmed, which are traits jade has in spades. let's call this zero chemistry

terezi/hal - terezi actually loved dave FOR his facetiousness, and hal appreciates someone who can return a joke. moreover, hussie points out that terezi swoons over dave the most when his exile is influencing him (said exile being, ahem, AR), making him talk about justice, a mind domain. terezi's flush interest can therefore be said to be a more mind-y dave... which is hal. they both just need moirails to stabilize their personalities SO BADLY though

nepeta/jade - this leaves these two as the very last leftovers, but um, there's evidence here, too. nepeta outright says that jade is her favorite human, and jade picks up a lot of karkat-esque traits, nepeta's big throbbing red crush (including a nearly word for word rehash of "nobody talks to me about romance/science" that john interrupts...) meanwhile, while jade definitely thinks dave is soooo cooooool, it's pretty clear that the traits she idolizes are not the traits she actually wants from a romantic partner - she wants someone who talks their feelings out with her and isn't so damn complicated and messy. it actually seems like nepeta has an aborted version of this very arc; while she has a crush on karkat (who is also a KNIGHT), there's lots of indications that she's completely romanticizing what being a relationship with him would be like, and it would actually be fucking miserable for her if it did manage to happen.

look, all i'm saying is, there's a reason davepeta kissed jade on the lips, and it's not because of davejade

[gerardwayscrustyeyeshadow]

INTRO BLOG !!!!!!!!!!

Hii! Welcome to my badly lit corner of the Internet ridden with posters and unnecessarily eye straining graphics :3 I'm an artist, therian, quadrobist, student, and professional fag from Slovenia! Endless yapping follows <3

EYESTRAIN WARNING!

DNIS: T.R.A.S.H., waycest shippers, jkr supporters and the like

-I'm non binary! I use they/them and you shall refer to me as such :3 I'm demiaroace, otherwise omni! You don't need to know the deets unless we're in a relationship which is. Probably never happening

Music and fav bandz!!

-I am absolutely addicted to music. I mostly listen to emo, scene, hyperpop or punk but I'll vibe to anything! My favorite bands are:

☆MCR

☆Ennaria

○The oozes

☆Doll skin

○Paramore

☆Dazey and the scouts

☆panic! At the disco

○Mommy long legs

☆Destructo disk

○Avril Lavigne

☆fall out boy

○Falling in reverse

☆vocaloid

○orangebandit

☆weezer

○pinkshift

☆escape the fate

○brokencyde

☆alex g

○HATSUNE MIKU RARRARRARARRAA

☆millionaires

○ occasionally 6arelyhuman and the like

☆uhhhhh did I tell you I like mcr yet :3

○picture me broken

-i draw things sometimes

My art is tagged as #my art!! :3 on my blog!!!

(Most) textposts are tagged as #ramblez!!

Asks are tagged #askz !!

What??? #monastery ramblez

And I DO NOT have an evil clone named @crustyeyeshadowsgerardway , so STOP ASSUMING before you do your research.

Married to @i-am-the-trans-agenda (...hi :3 ignore this :3)

-I'm also in an orchestra! I play the clarinet :D

Fandoms!!

-I'm part of multiple fandoms, but I can't get them all off the top of my head, so here's some of them:

-SONICSONICSONICSONIC

-is mcr a fandom?

-cookie run kingdom!!

-epic the musical!!!!!!!!!!!

- The Stanley parable my beloved

-toon x mobster

-casual vocaloid fan

-is the silmarillion fandom dead yet

I'll try to update them as time goes :/ no promises

Some communities and subcultures I'm part of:

-the alphabet people 😱🤧😫😢😲😟😧😰😨

-therian and quadrobist community!! Im a beginner, but tryna get better at it :3 love it anyways :3 my theriotype is a cross fox!

-part of multiple subcultures, but I'm in the scenemo and punk scene the most rn!! Will also listen to scene/hyperpop/grunge/musicals/or anything if I'm in the mood for it :3 I love blasting my ears off

-My favourite animals are corvids, foxes, and rats!

-My hobbies are drawing, going on multiple hour walks to the forest, finding cool/creepy mushrooms, doing quads, making therian gear at home, collecting feathers and bones. I have. A lot. Of bones. Seriously, multiple bags of bones. My mother is concerned but we don't talk about it <3

-I'm also into witchcraft and the spiritual world! I am trying (emphasis on trying) to put together an altar for some gods but I don't have SPACE on my TABLE ANYMORE (I usually don't talk abt religion tho)

My personality type is INFP-T (mediator) :33

ALSO THIS IS ME

(Srry for bad pics and even worse quality lol) you can also search up my fit checks I can't find them

That's it! This turned out to be really long, so sorry about that lol. Thanks for reading, if you did!

BLINKIEZ >w< !!

(CW: EYE STRAIN!!) (Yes again)

[dumpsterdivingpossums]

I made an M.J for Hobie’s universe

here some info on them

Their intersex, they like going by they/them pronouns since it’s more comfortable for them but they definitely do not mind others referring them as something else

Their full name is

Milani jeen wiltz, but either go by Mil jeen or M.J

Their grandparents went to start a better life however after  a few decades after their parents went out to live in Britain due to economic reasons and also spread the word of the black panther party. Mil would be 7 around this time (I did the math, since Hobie is either around 20 or 19 and the date he was arrested in was around 1978 in one of the flashbacks to his intro. We can assume that he was born around near the end of the 50s so I made Mil’s date if birth 1959.)

Mil is of Haitian descent and is fluent in creole so half the time they’ll be speaking in creole

As I mentioned their parents are activists due to them being in the Black panther party, Mil did develop this trait from both of their parents and became involved in activism as well, mostly protest art and civil rights. 

(Originally I was going to make them the prowler for Hobie’s dimension but I decided against it but I will put subtle hint here and there to reference that when I make art of them.)

Around the time Hobie became Spider punk is when they met Hobie. A few months after he killed osborn. They had become a big fan of him after the incident and looked up to him a lot, kinda freaking out Hobie due to the fact he barely became Spiderman.

However they started hanging around eacj other more, going on little platonic graffiti dates. He did eventually reveal his Identity to them and they immediately fell in love with him. And 4 years after they’re still together, and are both still dumbasses 

Fun facts:

 Mil is Polyamorous but like quad dynamics more (ahem *taps on mic* is involved with spider noir and possibly my spider sona as well. Blame Hobie.)

They love making arts and crafts and do love engineering as well. Mostly helping Hobie with his new invention ideas. 

They own a daisy rock heartbreaker guitar in hot red, since the brand came out in 2000 logically this wouldn’t be possible without Hobie’s dimension hopping watch, so due to this Hobie went into one of the peter parker dimensions to get this for them for an anniversary present.

They do not live with Hobie however do live near the docks to be closer to Hobie’s house boat.

They love different genres of musical c and fashion mostly being punk,goth and earthy/bohemian music. 

Main colors of emotions are mostly pink, grey, yellow and purple. Most of these are due to the one around them. Pink and Purple are mainly because of Hobie or Spider noir Peter parker.

Love roller skating around places and even put in wheels in their mary janes

That’s all for now, I’m still deciding some of their personality traits but yeah.

Also baby them.