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writingunderneathawillow · 18 hours ago

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blue valentine

- the four times bucky makes you cry + the one time you make him cry content warnings: heavy angst, bucky’s trauma, mental health plays a big part here, depression, ptsd, unwanted advances towards reader (not bucky), accidental violence against reader, crying, insecurities, hurt/comfort, very minor thunderbolts* spoilers word count: 3.3k a/n: inspired by nessa barrett’s song blue valentine, lyrics are in italics, this is unedited cause i’m lazy but i’ll try to get around to it tomorrow

you play it so damn cool, 'cause baby, you are Bucky was a quiet lover. He would send you flowers at the end of the week, little gifts on special occasions and he’d spend time with you, either tucked away in tranquil corners of restaurants or curled up together in dark corners and sequestered rooms of the tower. Most of the time however, you spent at your apartment. He had told you he was a private person when you met, and you had understood that. Sometimes you wanted to show him off just a little – introduce him to your parents and friends, kiss his cheek on his birthday – but you were patient and held out on such things. Instead, you relished in your shared secrecy. Keeping things just to yourself had its benefits as well. Most of the time.

But once you hit the six-months-mark in your relationship, things got a little rocky. Your friends were pushing to meet him, and you were eager to share your joy with them. Bucky protested the way only he could: With smooth words and even smoother kisses. “Doll, I just want us to stay us for a little longer. I like having you all to myself,” he explained, his voice dipped in soft honey. He pulled you in closer and kissed the corner of your mouth. His stubble tickled your skin and managed to produce a little giggle from your lips. “Well, baby, you still have all of me to yourself even if you meet some of my friends. They’re really curious about you and wanna know who I spend all of my time with,” you retorted and pushed him away just a little to look at him. Those ocean blue eyes, usually filled with so much warmth when he looked at you, clouded just a tiny bit when he noticed your reluctance to drop the topic.

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, and you felt the need to shrink away under his piercing stare, but you didn’t give up. “They’d love you.” “Sweetheart,” he began, “I wanna meet them. That’s not it. I just- I think I’m not ready to go there yet.” Something in you cracked – just a little. It would be easy to smooth it over, to fill the fracture in your heart and piece it back together, if he just added a few more soothing words, so that you wouldn’t feel like an idiot for wanting your boyfriend to meet your loved ones. But his lips remained sealed and he simply ran a hand over your cheek. “Yeah?” He asked once he had noticed that you hadn’t answered.

No. Not yeah. The words almost spilled out, but you clamped your teeth shut against each other, biting away the tears which threatened to fall. “Okay, baby,” you said instead and nodded for good measure, ignoring the blistering pain, lit by insecurities, that burned its way through your mind. Bucky didn’t notice the way your waterline began to swim. He either genuinely thought that things were fine this way or he chose to ignore the way you mumbled a quick excuse to take a shower. Either option worsened the hurt you were already feeling.

In the bathroom you let the tears fall. You turned on the shower and stripped off your clothes as the salt streamed down your face. Your brain was working overtime as you wondered what was holding him back. Six months was already a long time to not have met your friends, but now, turning down your explicit request – it stung even more. Little by little, moments of the last half year came back to you, rushing onto you like a thunderstorm. His birthday when you had not been allowed to throw a party for him (“I’m fine celebrating just with my best girl”). Turned down dinner invitations with his friends (“You’ll meet them soon, doll, don’t worry, just not tonight”). A quick getaway from the bar he had taken you to once he had spotted Sam (“I’ll introduce you soon but not now, it’s not right”). The shower hid your sobs and blended right into your tears, so when you stepped out and rejoined Bucky in your bedroom, you made up some story about getting soap in your eyes to explain away the red rims. I burn red for you Just a few weeks later, he splintered your already cracked heart. A simple night out, just the two of you of course, had gone sideways. A guy in a bar, drunk out of his mind and an asshole in general just to top it off, had wandering hands. While Bucky sat at one of the tables, you had begged him to let you choose a drink for him and after successfully convincing him, you had made your way to the bartender. The drunk idiot next to you called out to you, shouting over the music to ask for, or much rather demand, your number. Despite ignoring him and then outright rejecting him, he didn’t get the hint and refused to give up. His hands were on your arm for less than five seconds before he was ripped away with the flash of vibranium arm and his head collided with a brick wall. Bucky’s chest heaved as he landed a few punches, two to the gut and multiple to the creep’s face, before all three of you were thrown out of the bar. For a second you didn’t recognise the man before you. Fire raged in his eyes as he wrapped his metal fist around your wrist and pulled you down the street – to what he presumed safety. “Baby,” you winced, trying to free your arm from his tight grip. “Baby, please let go.” But he didn’t hear you. His body shielded you from the outside world when he led you, practically teared you, into an alleyway. Pushed against the wall, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist, he frantically checked you for injuries and stopped abruptly when he saw the tears welling up in your eyes. “Sweetheart?” He asked, neck craning to search for threats, “What? What is it?” You wiggled your fingers hopelessly and whispered: “You’re hurting me.” No other feeling will ever compare to the one that swallowed you whole once your words had processed in his mind. His entire face dropped, and he put about ten feet between the two of you. His gaze was glued to your arm where angry red marks, shaped and moulded to his fingerprints, sat accusatory. “Sweetheart, I’m- I’m so sorry,” he murmured and stepped forwards, but he stopped himself before closing any real distance. “I’m- I didn’t mean to- I just saw his hands on you and I- fuck, I’m so sorry.” You exhaled deeply, trying to collect yourself, and wiped away the streaks on your face. “It’s okay, Bucky,” you mumbled and walked towards him. He shook his head and took another step back only to collide with the wall. “No, it’s not okay. I- fuck- I hurt you.” Bucky’s voice trembled and his hands – both metal and flesh – closed into fists. “I’m so fucking sorry. I… I can’t explain it and there’s no excuse, but I- I saw how he touched you and it- I-,” he stumbled over his words, trying to make you understand, not seeing that you already did. “I saw red. Nothing else. The only thing on my mind was getting you outta there.”

“I get it,” you replied gently and pulled your sleeves down, a feeble attempt at hiding the remnants of his grip. You managed a smile and softened your voice. “It’s not your fault. But we’re safe. We’re okay. Alright?” Feels like nobody knows The L-word had been on the tip of your tongue for months now. Pretty much since you had started dating. Bucky was easy to fall for. It took a little more effort to stay there with his closed off demeanour and reluctance to fully enter your world – he still hadn’t offered to introduce you to his friends and turned down any instance where he could have met yours. But it was worth it to you. You were royally whipped for him. So, the word dangled between the two of you, unspoken but mutually felt – or so you hoped. It was another late night, cozied up together on your bed while a movie played in the background. Neither of you was paying much attention to the plot, instead the focus had drifted into a heated make-out session. His hands rested below your shirt, warmth seeping into your skin as he traced shapes onto your bare back. You pulled away for a few seconds to take him in. Lips kissed rosy and swollen, a faint trace of a cocky smile on his face. His hair was messy from how often you had run your hands through it and a love-drunk haze veiled his eyes.

It felt right to say it then. There was no doubt in you, no fears that you might be knocking on a closed door. You breathed in deeply and placed another sweet kiss on his cheek before you said it. “I love you.”

He froze. You felt every single one of his muscles come to a halt below you. The thighs that had supported your weight on his lap went taut with tension and his fingers stopped moving.

You had heard of fight or flight before, experienced it yourself a couple of times and had seen it in action on Bucky. But he had always chosen fight so far. A punch thrown, a blow landed, a bullet shot. But he had never frozen. He sat below you, eyes trained on a spot behind you, and you were wondering if you needed to call Sam. Or 911. He seemed almost catatonic, like a deer in headlights. You wished you were the deer and the headlights would come a little faster towards you.

“Bucky?” You asked quietly, slowly easing off of his lap and his head snapped to you so quickly that it made you jump. “What?” His voice was hoarse, and you prayed that the ground would open up to swallow you. “Did, uh, did you hear me?” You hated the way your voice shook, already feeling the prickling in your eyes.

He didn’t answer but he nodded slowly. You hadn’t confessed your love to that many people yet in your life, but this was certainly the worst way it had ever gone. “Uh, okay,” you whispered. There was a sharp crack on the last syllable of your words, and you instinctively covered your mouth with your hands. You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t want to guilt-trip him into saying it back. You just wanted him to feel it, too. “Doll,” he began, an apologetic tone tinging his voice, but you interrupted him. “No, no, Bucky, I’m- I’m sorry, I, uh, you don’t need to say it back. It’s okay.”

It really, really wasn’t. Nine months, that’s how long you two were together now. Nine months of getting to know each other in and out, of spending days on end with each other and learning to love one another – at least that’s what you had thought. You scrambled up from the couch, clutching the hem of your shirt in an attempt to bring yourself back to earth and to hinder the tears from falling. Bucky stayed in his spot, his eyes helplessly tracking your movements as you increased the distance between the two of you – not enough to translate the emotional distance you felt right now.

“Sweetheart, it’s not- fuck, I mean, it’s not that I don’t… you know. But I… I can’t,” Bucky urged quietly. His words made little sense to your mind as it was consumed by grief. Grief for what should have been. “It’s fine,” you maintained and as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you to undermine your words, a single tear breached forward and slipped down your cheek. Do you really love me? Or just love to make me cry?

The following days were cruel. Both of you shut down completely. Conversations were rare and seeing each other even rarer. You walked through your own apartment like a ghost, staring at your phone like it might light up with an apology, or an explanation or anything. But no, radio silence. You heard from Bucky twice. The first time, he sent you a quick text to tell you that he was needed for a mission and would be back in a few days. Then, the second message came once he’d returned from the mission, asking you if he could come over. A ‘we need to talk’- text was rarely a good sign but you did. You needed to talk. It had been a sleepless night for you already, so you said yes, despite the fact that it was a little after 1 a.m. and anxiety rolled over you in waves at the thought of him ending everything you two had worked towards. The knock on your front door was accompanied by the loud boom of thunder. Rain hit the windows almost horizontally and wind rattled the glass. When you opened the door, you saw that Bucky had just barely escaped the worst of the storm. A few drops pearled down from his leather jacket onto your door mat and you – curse your stupid heart – immediately ushered him inside and went to get him a towel.

The silence stretched in between you. He dried off quickly but kept his shoes on. One foot out the door already. His boots squeaked as he walked towards you, and you saw it in his eyes. This would be your worst heartbreak to date. “Doll,” that wretched nickname, which usually gave you butterflies, now turned your stomach around, “I think… it’s… I-“

You listened to his stammers, his attempts at forming a sentence. Bucky usually seemed like the type of guy to have prepared a speech on the way here, but he was at a loss for words. He seemed like he was trying to spare you the heartache but there were no words invented for that. “Do you want to break up with me?” You asked bluntly. He looked at the floor, then at you and then back at the floor. Barely perceptible, he shook his head. “No.” He sighed and ran a hand over his face. “But we should.” For a second, you closed your eyes. Blood rushed through your ears, quieting everything around you, and for just a moment you could pretend that he wasn’t here. That he hadn’t just said that. “Why?” You deserved to know at least that. You didn’t want to be left with no explanation, only the what-ifs and if-onlys to keep you comfort. Another sigh, and you felt propelled to scream in his face. To yell at him, to slap him and to throw him out of your apartment. “I can’t do this- us,” he stammered. “Why, Bucky? Why?” You tried to swallow the tears, tried to suppress the voice crack but the air in your lungs didn’t suffice, not with the lump in your throat.

He couldn’t look at you, instead he faintly shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t… I don’t know. I just…,” he trailed off, gesturing loosely to you before dropping his arms to his sides. “Do you not love me? Did I do something?” “No, sweeth-, no, that’s not it.” “Then what?” “I want to want this but I…,” he shrugged helplessly and for a second you caught his eyes, filled with despair and vulnerability. “But you don’t,” you finished his sentence for him. He shook his head again and this time kept up the eye contact. “No, I just can’t.” More tears fell and you wiped at them furiously, rubbing the skin on your cheeks raw. When you looked at him again, the only thing you saw was self-hatred. And you couldn’t stand it. You turned around. You heard movements, and begged God, the universe, anyone that he’d walk to you. The door slammed. Lying next to you, ‘cause all you ever do is make me blue The continuous pitter patter of the rain lulled you to sleep in the early morning hours, the sky just shy of turning orange.

The tears had only found their end once you fell into a restless dream. Splatters of the fight, mixed with distorted visions of a future with Bucky that seemed out of reach forever broke forth from your subconscious and kept you from getting any rest. Half drifted off, you registered the sounds of your door opening but you were in too deep to fully distinguish between your dream and the real world. But the warmth was real. The dip of the mattress was real. The shaky hand, flesh not metal, that rested timidly on your arm, was real. You woke with a flinch, and it took a few seconds for your eyes to clear enough to see Bucky. Disoriented and questioning if you were maybe hallucinating, you sat up. But no, he truly was here. Your vocal cords didn’t cooperate as you tried to say his name “I’m sorry.” He looked at you, and what you would have thought were leftovers of the rain, turned out to be tears on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as you stayed quiet. “You’re back,” you finally managed to say, the disbelief in your words unmistakable. “Yeah,” he confirmed quietly, “I shouldn’t have left in the first place.” “Then why did you?” He stayed silent for a beat, then began talking. “I broke your heart. And I couldn’t keep looking at you while you were… looking at me like that.” You tried to intercept, but he raised his hand slowly, asking you to let him continue. “I should have stayed. Because I want to. I want to be in your life. I just don’t know if I can allow myself to do that.” You shifted in bed, straightening up a little. “I want you. I… I love you,” he whispered, “But I don’t get to have good things. Good people like you. They die or they leave. And I can’t let that happen to you. I need you to live forever.”

Theoretically, you would do anything for him. But that was a request you couldn’t fulfil. “Bucky,” you began, but he shook his head again. “No, I know. I know, okay? It’s unfair of me to say that. But it’s true. I won’t survive if you die, or if you leave. And that scares me. So, I pushed you away. And I’m sorry for that. But I just… I can’t put you through that. A life with me is not something you want.” “That’s not your choice,” you implored quietly. Now it was your turn to shush him when he tried to protest. “No, Bucky, really. It’s not your choice. It wasn’t even my choice. But I fell for you. I love you and if I could have chosen, I’d do it again.” “I can’t give you anything. Stability. Promises. A future.” “I don’t want anything. I just want you.” Your words came out a little louder, a little harsher. But something had to penetrate that thick wall in his head that he had spent way too long building. “I want you. Now. Today. Tomorrow. Forever. When you make me laugh and even when you make me cry.” You leaned forward and gently grabbed his chin, swiping at the tears that had made their descent into his beard. “Do you hear me?” “Yes, ma’am. I hear you. I just… I don’t know how to accept it.” “I’ll help you. I’ll make you accept it. Now, come lie down.” He shrugged of his jacket and took off his boots. Then, slowly he eased himself into bed next to you and after a moment of hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you. “I’m sorry for making you cry,” he whispered against your hair. “It’s okay. You cried, too,” you replied quietly and pressed a kiss against his skin.

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al-1-na · 2 days ago

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𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Drew Starkey x actress!bsf!Reader

𝐂𝐖: explicit sexual content, SMUT!!!

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You and Drew have been best friends since your first big audition. Years of red carpets, long-distance FaceTime calls, and late-night movie marathons have only pulled you closer — but never across the line. Until tonight.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭; 𝐂.𝐚𝐢 𝐛𝐨𝐭

The city outside your hotel window glows gold, flickering through sheer curtains as the world winds down. It’s late — later than you meant to be awake — but neither of you moved from the bed after the movie ended. You’re sitting cross-legged, wearing a sleep shirt and barely-there shorts, nursing a glass of wine. Drew is lying beside you, head propped on his elbow, the glow of the bedside lamp softening the sharpness of his jaw.

“You really cried when I died in that scene?” you tease, swirling the last sip of wine.

He smirks, tipping his glass toward you. “Hey, you made it believable. That’s the job, right?”

You shake your head. “You’re impossible.”

He hums, then falls quiet. You can feel him watching you — not just glancing, but seeing. He’s always looked at you like that. Since the very beginning.

“What?” you ask, voice quieter.

Drew’s fingers trail along the blanket between you. “I just… I still remember the first time I saw you. In that waiting room in Atlanta. You were pacing and talking to yourself.”

You laugh softly. “I was rehearsing lines.”

“You were talking to the wall.”

You grin, then meet his eyes. “And you sat down next to me like you weren’t terrified too.”

He smiles. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

The silence that follows is comfortable, but charged. It always is with him. It’s been years — years of red carpets, chaotic sets, inside jokes, late-night phone calls. And all this time, you’ve never said the thing.

The thing that’s been building — in lingering hugs, in the way he always saves you the last bite, in how he knows when to pull you away from the crowd and just be. But tonight feels different. Maybe it’s the wine. Or the quiet. Or just… time.

“I’ve missed you,” you say softly.

He nods. “I miss you every time you leave.”

You glance down. “Why haven’t we ever…?”

“Because I didn’t want to lose you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

The confession sits between you, heavy and warm. Your heart flutters — not with fear, but hope.

You reach out, fingers brushing his. “What if it’s already too late for that?”

His breath catches. Slowly, he sits up, facing you fully now, his knees brushing yours. “Are you saying—?”

You nod, heart pounding. “I think I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

For a second, he just stares, like his brain is catching up. Then, without a word, he cups your face in both hands and kisses you.

It’s not rushed. It’s not wild. It’s everything. His lips are warm, firm but gentle, and you sink into him with a sound you didn’t mean to make. His thumbs stroke your cheeks, grounding you. And when he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you feel the tremble in his breath.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please don’t.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, one hand trailing down to your waist, then lower, until he’s pulling you gently into his lap. You straddle him, your thighs on either side of his, and you feel him — all of him. He’s already hard, and it makes your breath hitch.

“You sure?” he asks again.

You nod, fingers slipping under the hem of his T-shirt. “More sure than I’ve ever been.”

He lets you lift it off, revealing the lean lines of his torso. You kiss down his neck, over his collarbone, tasting his skin. You’ve thought about this. Late at night. In lonely hotel rooms. But nothing compared to the heat of him under your hands.

He pulls your shirt over your head, gaze darkening when he sees you — no bra, just skin. His hands move slowly, reverently, brushing over your breasts, thumbs teasing until your breath comes in short little gasps.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “I don’t think you know what you do to me.”

You whimper when he leans forward, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking gently. Your hips roll against his, instinctive and needy.

“Drew,” you whisper.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, hands firm on your waist. “I want to take my time.”

He lays you back on the pillows, kissing down your stomach, your hips, until he hooks his fingers in your shorts and slides them down your legs — underwear and all. You’re bare now, completely, and he just looks at you for a moment. Like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever seen.

Then his mouth is on you.

You cry out, surprised by how gentle he is — how thorough. His tongue moves with purpose, flicking and circling and teasing until your thighs tremble and your back arches. He holds you down with one arm, his other hand gripping yours.

You come with his name on your lips, a shuddering breath, a high whimper. But he doesn’t stop. He kisses his way back up, his face flushed, his smile soft.

“I need you,” you breathe.

He nods, reaching into the nightstand. When he moves above you, lining himself up, his eyes search yours again.

“Ready?”

“Please,” you whisper.

The stretch is intense, but he goes slow, inch by inch, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your neck. His hand tangles in yours, anchoring you.

When he’s fully inside, he pauses. “You feel like heaven.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans, low and breathless. He begins to move — slow, steady, each thrust filled with heat and tenderness.

You cling to him, overwhelmed. “You’re still my best friend,” you whisper.

“I always will be,” he replies, voice breaking.

The rhythm builds, the tension winding tighter. He kisses you deeply as you fall apart again, body shivering beneath him. He follows with a quiet moan, burying himself in you as he comes, whispering your name like a prayer.

After, he holds you close, chest to chest, heart to heart.

Neither of you speaks for a long time. The city hums outside, but in here — it’s just him. Just you. Just this.

Finally, he whispers, “Stay with me tonight.”

You smile into his skin. “I was never planning to leave.”

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @drewssgirl @psychocitylights @luvinqaidan @hearts4hughes @cokewithcameron @daryldixon83

#𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐱 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐛𝐬𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 #𝐚𝐥 𝟏 𝐧𝐚 #drew starkey #fanfic #drew x reader #rafe #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe imagine #drew starkey x you #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey smut

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comatosebunny09 · 3 days ago

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The way you write Sylus…so accurate like wth 😍 I love how you’re exploring him! Just putting this idea out there, simply because I love this trope (and if it inspires you even better) but the amnesia trope would hit so hard with Sylus x reader… but imagine it’s Sylus who forgets about her for a wild few moments…days or months 👀 and yet remembers ms.hunter just fine 😭 i mean the angst….im sorry but i cannot…but i wanna think about it because ow

Kieran and Luke really trying to remind Sylus that reader is his right hand, that they’re super important to him, but Sylus can’t quite grasp the connection…not that he doesn’t feel anything 👀 oh he feels something. But it’s confusing because how could he not remember someone as beautiful as you, can’t quite grasp how he could forget someone like you…

He finds familiarly in ms.hunter…of course he would, how could he not you think, so you spiral more, perhaps even accept this is how it was supposed to be, in fact it might be better that way, maybe it’s what you deserve for ever thinking he could be yours or would like you the same…

You try help him remember, with the help of Luke and Kieran, but it’s always surface level, you feel embarrassed sharing those small moments that meant more to you, what if had misread them, you don’t want to mislead Sylus, you never knew his true feelings, besides there’s ms.hunter too…

He laughs with her, remembers her, because of there shared history…you never could have come between that, this just proves it’s…you’re forgettable, only a small part in his story in the grand scheme of things, your storyline in his life might have run it’s course now…

…so maybe you leave, maybe you resign. Sylus doesn’t understand, it hurts, his heart, his body…you telling him you’re leaving is painful to him, but you’re just a loyal employee right? He shouldn’t stop you from moving on if you wish…even if every part of him wants to stop you…but it’s the right thing to do, being a good boss, maybe he’s different now he can’t remember too, shouldn’t force you to stay…

But he’s confused because ms.hunter has told him you were special to him, he trusts ms.hunter, doesn’t believe she would mislead him, but maybe she got it wrong, maybe you are special to him but it’s not reciprocated so even if every bone in his body wants to beg you to stay, he doesn’t stop you…

So you leave…

Maybe months pass, maybe it’s been a year…does Sylus end up remembering? Maybe comes searching for you…maybe he never does

💔💔

You are so big-brained for this, honeybun.

This is giving The Vow, minus them being married. But damn it all, retrograde amnesia has impeccable timing.

Right when you and Sylus started to reach a pivotal point in your partnership—your relationship—he lost any recollection of you.

You’re already grieving. Already beating yourself up. The person who’s been almost invincible to you went down, and you couldn’t be there to shield him. There’s a glimmer of hope when he cracks his eyes open after days of being unconscious.

You’re holding his hand, knelt at his bedside, tears brimming in your eyes, a watery smile on your face.

He’s a little groggy, voice smoky in his throat, and you help him sit up against his headboard. He studies the faces around the room—Luke, Kieran, Ms. Hunter. But when his gaze swivels back around to you, he looks confused. It’s like he’s looking right through you rather than at you.

He snatches his hand away from yours. Who the hell are you, and how did you get into his house? His base?

The room is rife with tension. Everyone feels the shift in the atmosphere.

“Who are you?” Sylus asks, halfway vexed.

You’re stricken with something cold. You laugh anxiously, figuring he’s playing a cruel joke. “Come on, boss-man. Don’t play games like that with me. Not now.”

He couldn’t be more serious. He stares at you impassively, not a lick of humor on his face.

The false amusement drops from your features. Your stomach lurches.

Everyone springs into action, trying to lighten the mood. Still thinking he’s playing a sick, cruel joke.

“C’mon, boss! You know her! She’s your right hand!” says Luke, though his voice cracks the slightest bit as if he’s also disbelieving that this is all just a terrible nightmare.

“Yeah! She’s been with you for years!” chimes in Kieran. The distress in his voice is also noticeable.

Emcee smiles nervously, doing her best to lighten the load. She smooths a shaky hand down your rigid back to soothe you before taking hold of Sylus’ hand between her smaller ones, directing his attention to her. He doesn’t snatch away this time, gaze softening when it descends on her.

“Sylus. Do you…remember anything?”

He gazes at his lap for a moment, pensive. “I recognize you, sweetie. The twins. But this woman…” His eyes flit to you. And where their intensity would normally light a fire in your belly, it turns your blood to ice. “I haven’t the foggiest who she is.”

The four of you spend the next few months trying to get him to remember you thereafter. But it’s of no use.

He tries. He really does. He remembers vague things before his concussion. Feels like he should be more familiar with you, given your history as explained by the twins. To him, you’re like a specter. Someone who’s there, but not really.

You start to spiral, too. You still stick by his side, stepping in where you can. But you’re still a foreign concept to him, given he’s used to working alone. He gets snappy with you a few times, but you still persevere in hopes that maybe someday, he’ll remember.

You get so desperate for him to remember, you try everything. You take him to places where small sparks of your relationship started to flicker, long before your feelings were revealed. You talk about minute things that could hopefully jog his memory. It’s embarrassing to you, to house such small, seemingly insignificant things in your heart about him. But you’ll do anything to get the Sylus who started to show a glimmer of passion towards you back.

You even let the twins convince you to kiss him. To reenact the catalyst of your relationship. And you do, one day in his office when he’s unassuming. You pour everything into the union of your mouths. When you pull away, he looks shocked, and for a moment, you think maybe you’ve reignited something. But he gives you that blank stare again after asking, “What was that for,” and you’re beginning to lose hope.

Eventually, he feels so terrible for not remembering you that he makes love to you out of pity. He might not know who you are, but everyone says he should. And he surprisingly feels terrible, watching you run yourself ragged, trying to get him to remember you.

At some point, the grief is too much to bear. He might never get his memories back. He won’t ever look at you the same, and it fucking hurts. So, you run away.

Everyone advises you against it. Everyone fights for you to stay, Emcee being the most vehement about it. You loved him through it all once. She’s sure you can do it again. She’s convinced you can capture his heart all over again.

But you’re not. The way he looks at you now can’t compare to how he looks at his precious dove. He humors you, yes. But he recalls the feelings he has for Emcee as strongly as he does the previous night. To him, you’re like an annoying gnat buzzing around that he just…tolerates.

You don’t want to complicate things more than already have been. So you leave. After six months of fighting for a place back at his side, you leave. And maybe you’re a coward for jumping ship. Maybe he’ll remember once you’re long gone, and maybe he’ll do everything to find you.

For now, the burden of a heavy heart is too much to shoulder. It’s almost as bad as the beginning of your relationship when you’d wordlessly pined for him while he was oblivious to your affections.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe he was meant to forget you all along. You should’ve never tried to meddle with fate to begin with.

#mail time

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myinaru · 2 days ago

Text

Childhood Best Friend Complex - Part 2

You and Heeseung have been best friends forever. Emphasis on forever. Like, learned-how-to-walk-together type of forever. But college throws a wrench into your usual routine: one night blurs a line that was never supposed to move, and suddenly, everything feels different.

Now there’s weird tension, awkward silences, and unspoken things you’re both too stubborn to say out loud. You don’t know what’s worse, pretending nothing’s changed or admitting everything has.

Because staying friends? That was always the plan. Wanting more? That was never supposed to happen.

Pairing: Lee Heeseung x Fem!Reader

Genre: College AU, Childhood Best Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Smut, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 39.6k Total (11.8k - Part 2)

Warnings: Dry humping (hell yeah), Corny maybe idc, Lots of misunderstanding, Mentions of multiple kpop idols, Cursing, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex (pls don't), Praising, Heeseung is a yearner, Lmk if I missed anything lol

Author's Note: First time uploading here lol. This fic was heavily inspired by the manhwa/webtoon Childhood Friend Complex. I'll be splitting it into three parts since Tumblr won't let me post it in one go. Hope y'all enjoy T-T

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

It wasn’t that anything necessarily big changed.

There was no confession. No dramatic blowout. No sudden declaration that things between you and Heeseung had shifted.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because everything technically stayed the same. You still shared lunch sometimes. Still exchanged half-sarcastic texts about your departments. Still found him standing beside you when the vending machine wouldn’t work, muttering something dumb like, “You scare it.”

But underneath all that? The norms had started to feel... different. Like it was hanging on by habit. Like you were both still playing the roles you’d always played, but now, someone else was quietly writing herself into the scene.

You didn’t like admitting it.

You didn’t even want to think it.

Because it made you feel petty. Stupid. Insecure.

But the truth was there, in the way your eyes always seemed to drift toward them. Heeseung and Yeri. Your name and his used to be the ones always mentioned in the same breath. Now it was hers.

“Did you hear their duet’s going well?”

“They’ve got really good chemistry.”

“She totally matches his energy.”

You tried to ignore it. Tried not to care. But each time, your brain grabbed onto those words and refused to let go.

Now, the university’s interdisciplinary festival was in full prep mode. Meaning more meetings.

More chaos. More hours spent in shared spaces with students from every department, Performance Arts, Medicine, Dentistry, Science, Athletics, all of it combined together under one event.

And today was another all-department coordination session. Nothing fancy. Just a general sitdown in the multipurpose hall to go over final scheduling, check logistics, finalize performance slots, make sure no one had a complete breakdown before the actual festival.

You showed up on time. Not early. Not late. Just enough to be on time without looking like you were trying to bump into anyone.

But as soon as you walked in, your eyes flicked across the room, and there it was again.

Heeseung. Already seated in one of the middle rows. Laughing quietly with someone beside him.

You didn’t need to guess who.

Yeri was leaning slightly toward him, her elbow resting casually on the chair arm they shared. She wasn’t loud, not obnoxious. But she had that kind of confidence that made everything she did seem intentional.

She looked at him when she spoke. Touched his arm to emphasize a point. And even from a distance, you could see the way her lips curled upward when he actually responded.

He wasn’t laughing like she was. Not nearly as much. His smile looked tired, his posture a little off. But he wasn’t stopping it either. He wasn’t moving away. He wasn’t brushing her hand off or even shifting slightly to the side.

He was letting it happen.

And you hated how much that sat with you.

You didn’t even realize you’d paused at the doorway until Vicky came up beside you and tugged your sleeve.

“Come on,” she said, nudging you gently toward the far side of the room. “I saved you a seat.” You sat down beside her without a word.

And for the next thirty minutes, you tried to focus. You really did. The facilitator’s voice echoed off the walls as they ran through updates; venue maps, booth assignments, emergency protocols. Someone asked a question about audio equipment. Someone else groaned about the last-minute changes to the talent showcase lineup.

You took notes. You nodded when needed. You acted like you were present.

But you weren’t.

You kept catching yourself glancing sideways. Watching the two rows in front of you. Watching her.

Yeri laughed again, not loudly, but clearly. She leaned over to whisper something to Heeseung, her hand briefly brushing his shoulder as she leaned in.

This time, you saw it clearly.

Heeseung didn’t laugh. But he let her lean in. Let her touch linger. He didn’t look at her like she was the only person in the room, but he didn’t look uncomfortable either.

And for some reason, that was what stuck.

Not the closeness. Not the flirting.

But the fact that he didn’t flinch.

You kept your expression neutral. Quiet. Collected. You didn’t frown. Didn’t glare. You just... watched.

Then you stopped watching.

And you stared down at the paper in your lap instead.

Vicky glanced sideways, but didn’t say anything. Not right away.

It wasn’t until the meeting let out and the students started packing up that she finally bumped your knee with hers.

“You okay?”

Her voice was quiet. Soft.

You hesitated for a beat too long before nodding.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just tired.”

She didn’t believe you. You could tell. But she also didn’t press.

“Okay,” she said simply. “Tell me if you wanna skip next shift. I’ll cover.”

You smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Thanks.”

As you both stood up to leave, someone from the volunteer team, a girl from the med department, you think, walked past with two others. They were chatting too casually, not thinking about who was near them.

“Honestly, I thought Yeri and Heeseung would’ve made a great couple anyway,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Like, come on. That chemistry? It just makes sense.” You didn’t look up.

Didn’t say anything.

But something inside you dropped. Like a part of you had just been officially replaced, and no one had bothered to tell you.

Later that night, you found yourself sitting on your bed, lights off, laptop open but forgotten beside you.

You weren’t even sure what you were looking for when you opened Instagram. Just scrolling. Mindless.

Then you saw it.

Someone from the performance team had posted a candid photo from today’s meeting. The lighting was bad. The image slightly blurry. But there, in the background, caught midconversation, Heeseung and Yeri.

He was turned slightly toward her. She was smiling. Their heads tilted together just enough to look close. Familiar. Like two people who belonged in the same frame.

You stared at it for a long time.

It wasn’t even a particularly romantic photo. Nothing dramatic. Nothing obvious.

But it still made your chest feel tight.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You didn’t believe it.

Things had been off for a while, but you didn’t want to admit it.

At first, you chalked it up to the mess of the semester with the schedules tightening, responsibilities piling up, everyone scrambling toward festival season. Heeseung was busy. You were busy. That was normal. That was expected.

But over time, it stopped feeling like a phase. It felt... like something slipping.

The texts started slowing down. First it was a few hours without a reply. Then full days. You’d send something light, “Did you sleep through lunch again?” or “You alive?” and get a thumbs up emoji hours later. Sometimes not at all.

And it wasn’t just that. You used to see him every day without even trying. Now you couldn’t remember the last time you bumped into him outside of some committee gathering or prep session. It was weird. And quiet. And nothing like you were used to.

Still, you kept giving it time. You told yourself he’d come back around. That he was just busy. That things would settle.

But things didn’t settle.

You kept showing up to lunch at the same table out of habit, only to sit alone with your food going cold. Heeseung would arrive twenty minutes late, sometimes more, always out of breath, his hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like he’d just left dance practice. And when he finally sat down, he’d dive straight into updates about the festival. About Yeri. About choreography tweaks and rehearsal conflicts.

You listened. You nodded. You even asked questions, just to fill the air. But it was getting harder to ignore how your name didn’t seem to belong in the sentences anymore.

That Wednesday, you waited ten minutes longer than usual before pulling out your phone.

No text. Not even a missed call.

By the time Heeseung showed up, you had already finished half your drink.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, sliding into the seat across from you with a huff. “Choreographer added a last-minute segment to block in.”

You looked up from your sandwich. “It’s fine.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “You sure? I feel like I’ve been flaking on you.”

“You’ve been flaking on everyone,” you replied lightly, pretending it didn’t bother you. “It’s equal opportunity neglect.”

He laughed a little at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess that makes it better?”

You shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”

There was a beat of quiet as he opened his own lunch box, but his eyes stayed on his phone. You caught the edge of a notification lighting up the screen. A name that was all too familiar now.

[12:37pm] Yeri (Performance Arts)

“got the water bottles u like!! want one?” You didn’t mean to look. But you did.

You took a sip of your drink and forced your voice to sound casual. “You and your partner getting close?”

He glanced up, chewing. “Huh?”

“Yeri,” you clarified, trying to sound like it was just a passing comment. “You’re practically glued together these days.”

Heeseung blinked like he hadn’t even thought about it. “We’re just working a lot. She’s on top of logistics too, so there’s been a lot of overlap.”

“Right,” you said. “Must be nice, having someone so... dedicated.”

He didn’t notice the shift in your tone. Or maybe he did and chose not to mention it.

You looked down at your half-empty plate. The air felt heavier now.

Then you tried again, stretching a smile across your face even if it didn’t feel real. “Maybe I should start calling you ‘partner’ too.”

Heeseung blinked, clearly confused. “What?”

“Nothing.” You waved it off too quickly, stood up before the silence got worse. “Anyway. I should get back. Vicky’s waiting.”

He didn’t stop you. Just looked up, lips parting like he wanted to say something, but never quite did.

You left without looking back.

Later that day, you found yourself holed up in a study room with Vicky, trying to finish a lab write-up, but your mind kept drifting.

She noticed.

“You’ve read that sentence like five times,” she said, nudging your arm.

You blinked down at your notes. “Sorry.”

Vicky leaned back, arms crossed. She wasn’t prying, she started not to, but she also didn’t beat around the bush. “Heeseung?” You stayed quiet.

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Y/n,” she said, gently now. “You’ve been pretending this doesn’t hurt for weeks.”

“I’m fine,” you said, voice too sharp. And then softer, with a break you didn’t mean to show, “I’m just tired.”

Vicky didn’t say anything for a moment. Then she reached over and closed your notebook.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time, you know.” You didn’t answer. Just stared at the table.

The next day, on your way to the library, you passed the studio again.

You didn’t mean to stop. But the door was open. And your eyes flicked toward it without thinking.

Inside, Yeri was handing Heeseung a bottle of sports drink. He smiled as he took it, looking surprised but grateful.

Then he looked down.

And you noticed the small, scrawled letters across the label.

Heeseung ♡

It was dumb. A joke, maybe. Or not.

He muttered a ‘thank you,’ voice too soft to hear.

You didn’t stay to watch the rest.

You kept walking, not fast, but just enough to leave it behind.

That night, you went up to the rooftop. You didn’t know why. Habit, maybe.

You used to go there together. Late-night study breaks, ramen cups in hand, laughter echoing into the dark sky.

Now it was just you. The air was colder than you remembered. The city lights stretched out far beyond the campus, but it didn’t feel comforting tonight. Just... distant.

You sat there, arms wrapped around your knees, staring at nothing.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe he wasn’t just busy.

Maybe he really was slipping away.

Maybe you really were replaceable.

The hallway was quiet by the time the last of the volunteer boxes were packed away. You rubbed your temples, body aching from the back-to-back shifts; morning coordination meeting, afternoon cleanup rotation, and then the impromptu rehearsal run you weren’t even scheduled for but ended up dragged into anyway.

Heeseung was still here. That was rare lately.

You found him near the vending machines, crouched down, digging through his bag for something. The hoodie he wore was damp at the collar, his hair messy like he hadn’t had a break in hours. He looked up when you walked past, surprised.

“Oh. You’re still here?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t have a choice.”

He straightened, offering a tired half-smile. “Yeah. Today was brutal.”

There was a long pause after that. Not the easy kind you used to fall into. This one sat heavy, awkward between you.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the flickering light above. “At least you’ve got someone bringing you snacks and drinks now. Makes it easier, I guess.”

Heeseung blinked. “What?”

You didn’t look at him. “Nothing. Just... must be nice.”

He stood straighter, tone shifting just enough to be noticeable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You finally turned to face him, voice too even. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

“Y/n.”

The way he said your name, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t teasing. It was cautious. Like he was trying not to set something off.

“You’ve got Yeri,” you said, hands tightening at your sides. “She seems really invested in helping you out.”

Heeseung frowned, genuinely confused. “She’s just helping with rehearsals.”

“And labeling your drinks?” you asked, raising a brow. “Cute touch.”

His face tightened. “Seriously? That’s what this is about?”

You scoffed, stepping away from the wall. “I didn’t realize we were doing the whole ‘defend her immediately’ routine now.”

“I’m not defending anyone,” he said, voice low but sharper now. “I just don’t get why you’re acting like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’ve committed some crime for accepting a drink.”

You shook your head. “Forget it.”

“No,” he pressed, following a step closer. “Say what you mean for once, Y/n. What’s going on with you?”

You swallowed hard, not ready to spill it, not like this, not when it already felt like he was miles away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly does,” he said. “You’ve been cold for weeks.” That stung. More than you expected.

You looked at him then, eyes meeting his. “I’ve been cold?” He hesitated.

“You’ve been distant too, Y/n. Don’t act like this is one-sided.”

You stared at him. “Of course I’ve been distant.”

The next words almost came out, almost spilled out of your mouth too fast.

I’ve been hurting. I’ve been watching you drift and I didn’t know how to reach for you without embarrassing myself.

But instead, you bit them back.

“Whatever,” you muttered, grabbing your tote off the floor. “You’ve got your partner now, right?” His expression changed. Like you’d slapped him without touching him.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly.

You didn’t answer. Just slung the bag over your shoulder and turned toward the stairwell.

Behind you, he didn’t say your name again. Didn’t stop you.

And this time, the silence was unbearable.

You left first.

You pull your blanket tighter around you, burying your face into the pillow like maybe the pressure can hold everything in. You’re not crying.

No way.

But your eyes sting and you can’t tell if it’s from exhaustion or from the way your chest has been aching for hours, like someone’s wedged a stone behind your ribs and keeps pressing down.

Earlier, you hadn't meant to see anything. That part matters. You weren't snooping. You were just tired.

Just needed your charger from the volunteer room before heading home. Just needed five seconds to grab your stuff and disappear.

But when you turned the hallway corner, the faint sound of laughter stopped you in your tracks.

Not just any laughter. His.

You froze, blinking at the thin crack of light spilling from the studio across the way. The door was slightly ajar, just like that day, like someone had forgotten to pull it closed all the way, and for some reason, you found yourself standing there.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough.

Yeri was there, leaning against the mirror wall, hair tied back, cheeks flushed from rehearsal. Her eyes sparkled under the soft lighting, exhausted but still bright, still full of something lighthearted. And Heeseung stood just a step away from her, loose hoodie slung over his practice shirt, posture relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in days. Weeks, maybe.

He looked comfortable. At ease.

And then she held something out to him. A drink, one of those canned vitamin waters he liked. The kind only a few people knew he actually preferred after practice, even if he always claimed he didn’t care.

“Found the last peach one,” Yeri said with a small grin. “Thought you’d want it before Jungwon hoards the fridge again.”

He laughed. Not loud, not showy. Just that warm, tired laugh that sounded like something slipping past his defenses.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it without hesitation. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“You looked like you were gonna collapse,” she teased, nudging his shoulder lightly. “I thought I’d have to carry you out of here.”

Heeseung let his head tilt to the side, mock dramatic. “Honestly? Might not be a bad way to go.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile softened. “Please. You’d be the most stubborn patient.”

“Oh, definitely.” He nudged her back, and the contact lingered just a little too long before he stepped away.

They laughed again. It was soft. Familiar.

It shouldn’t have felt like a gut punch.

But it did.

Because he looked at her the way you remember him looking at you, when it was just the two of you waiting for the bus, sharing fries outside the cafeteria, stealing moments between classes where the whole world felt like it slowed down around you.

That drink? You used to buy those for him. Knew exactly which one to grab even when the shelves were chaos. You’re the reason he even liked peach to begin with. He hated it at first, said it was too artificial, until you forced him to try it during one of your late-night study sessions. You laughed when he made a face, and he kept drinking it anyway.

But now someone else was handing it to him.

And he took it like it was normal. Like it wasn’t anything.

Your hand tightened on your phone. You stepped back, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. The ache started small, sharp and shallow, but it grew fast, spreading under your skin like bruises you didn’t see coming.

You didn’t stay to hear the rest.

Didn’t want to see what else would unfold in that room where your place used to be.

You moved quietly, careful not to let the door click too loudly when you slipped into the volunteer room. Grabbed your charger. Left without saying goodbye to anyone.

Now, hours later, you lie there in the dark, teeth clenched against the thoughts clawing at your insides.

You’d kept telling yourself: He doesn’t owe you anything.

He doesn’t.

He never said he was yours.

But that didn’t stop it from hurting.

Because somewhere in your mind, maybe somewhere stupid, buried deep under all the teasing and the soft moments and the near-confessions, you thought maybe you were his.

Even just a little.

Still, the image stayed with you. The ease. The comfort. Like maybe she’d earned that closeness now.

Like maybe she’d replaced you.

You roll onto your back and exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling.

“He doesn’t owe me anything,” you mumble, like saying it out loud will make it true.

It doesn’t.

Because underneath all the justifications and reassurances you’ve been feeding yourself, about timing, and misunderstandings, and maybe-it’s-all-in-my-heads, you know the truth. You’ve always known.

That night you told each other to forget what almost happened? It was a lie. A stupid, flimsy lie that neither of you ever really believed.

And now, all those memories you kept locked up are surfacing like waves you can’t stop.

You remember the way Heeseung crouched in front of you on the sidewalk after that terrible group date, his gently laying on your knees for balance, eyes steady as he said, “I’m not leaving you alone like this.”

You’d been tipsy, humiliated, ready to walk home barefoot if you had to. But he knelt down anyway, even when people stared, and let you rant or throw something or just breathe. And he stayed. The whole time.

You remember that night you crashed at his place after that incident. The restaurant the next morning, ordering greasy breakfast food and paying for his omelet with exact change because “he let you use his toothpaste and everything.” The grin he gave you when you teased him for adding too much syrup to your waffles still lingers in the back of your mind.

You remember the pact you recalled in the park, laughing about being single forever and getting married at thirty just for the tax benefits. But then he looked at you, really looked, and said, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.” Like maybe it wasn’t a joke to him either.

You remember the little things, too. The way he used to wait outside the dental building with a coffee in hand, already knowing how you liked it. The walks to the bus stop, the way his shoulder would brush yours, solid and warm and always there.

And then, there was that night.

You were both too drunk, too loud, too everything. You’d ended up tangled on his carpet floor, laughing about something stupid. And then there was silence. The kind that hums between two people right before they make a mistake, or maybe, something they’ve always wanted to do. His hand on your face. His breath against your skin. His voice, barely above a whisper, saying your name like it meant something.

It hadn’t just been alcohol. Not for you. And if he’d pulled away right then, maybe it would’ve hurt less. But he didn’t.

You cover your face with both hands now, breathing slow and shaky.

You want to believe it was all just a phase. A passing crush. But it wasn’t. It never was. You whisper it to yourself like it’s a confession. “It wasn’t just a crush.” You don’t say the rest.

I love him.

The words come to the edge of your lips and then stop, like if you say them out loud, they’ll shatter whatever’s left between you.

You turn over, curling into your blanket again, arms wrapping around your pillow like it could make up for the weight in your chest.

You thought admitting it would bring some kind of clarity. Closure, maybe. But it doesn’t. It just makes everything hurt more.

You press your face into the pillow, willing yourself to sleep, even as the memories keep playing in your head like some kind of cruel reminder.

And when the silence grows too loud, you finally whisper, just to yourself, “This is way too fucking much.”

This time, you don’t try to fix it. You don’t try to make it okay.

You just let it sit there with you.

Because what else can you exactly do?

Heeseung stared at the open document on his laptop, but nothing was sinking in.

The rehearsal schedule was sitting in front of him, highlighted dates, times, deadlines, but his mind kept wandering to the empty chair across from him during last week’s prep meeting. The one you usually sat in. The one that had stayed cold and unoccupied.

You hadn’t shown up on time like you always used to.

You hadn’t texted since the last time you’d walked away from him, shoulders stiff, expression unreadable.

And maybe it shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Maybe he shouldn’t have looked up every time the door opened, hoping it would be you. But he did. Every single time.

You were still around, of course. He still saw you during volunteer work, during festival stuff. But it was different now. You showed up right on time or late. You didn’t look for him. You didn’t nudge him during boring announcements or send him dumb memes when the coordinator rambled too long. You kept to yourself, sitting beside Vicky or someone else. Always someone else.

And you never texted first anymore.

Heeseung scrolled through your chat thread last night. The last message was from him. A week ago. A casual "you get home okay?" that went unanswered.

He tried not to take it personally. But that ache had been growing.

Rehearsals were colder, too. Yeri noticed.

"You good?" she asked one evening, tossing him a water bottle during break.

He caught it, barely. "Yeah. Just tired."

She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press.

The truth was, he was tired. So fucking tired. But not in the way they thought. He was tired of pretending nothing changed when everything had. Tired of trying to act like he didn’t notice the subtle way you avoided his gaze, the way your responses had turned careful, clipped.

He missed you.

God, he missed you.

He thought about the night after the group dinner, when you stayed over and kissed him like you were scared of what it meant but still did it anyway. The warmth of your hands on his jaw, your voice soft and unsure when you said his name like it was fragile.

He never forgot it. Not for a second.

But now?

Now, it was like it never happened at all.

You didn’t look up when Heeseung walked into the room.

You’d seen him coming, caught the shadow through the frosted glass, but you kept your eyes on your notebook, pen scribbling something meaningless. Just something to do with your hands. Just something to look at that wasn’t him.

You knew he noticed. He always noticed.

But he didn’t say anything either.

Not that you expected him to. It was easier this way, right? Keeping the peace. Keeping the distance. He had Yeri now, anyway. She brought him snacks. She knew when his rehearsals ended. She stayed behind to help him go over cues even when everyone else had gone home.

She called him “partner” like it was a nickname, and he never corrected her.

So no, you didn’t have a place anymore.

And still, that didn’t stop you from glancing at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. It didn’t stop the sting when you overheard Yeri teasing him in rehearsal the other day, laughing too hard at some joke only the two of them understood.

“Bet your partner can’t survive a rehearsal without you,” she’d said, voice warm.

And he had smiled. Not a full laugh. Not the way he used to with you. But still, he smiled.

You didn’t tell anyone what that did to you. But you did leave early that day, saying something about a group project that didn’t exist.

You kept rerunning your last real conversation with him. The not-quite-fight. The half-sarcastic, half-sincere jab about Yeri and the snacks and the attention. The way he blinked at you like you were the one being unreasonable.

“Don’t act like this is one-sided,” he’d said.

It wasn’t one-sided. That was the problem. You just never told him.

“You’ve got your partner now, right?” That’s what you said instead.

And you regretted it the moment it left your mouth.

Later That Week,

“Y/n,” Vicky said one afternoon, her voice gentle, “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

You didn’t respond right away. You were mid-task, helping tape decorations for one of the festival booths, trying to keep your focus on folding stupid streamers just right.

When you did speak, your voice cracked halfway through. “I’m fine.” Vicky didn’t push. She didn’t have to. The silence was enough.

Heeseung didn’t say goodbye when he left that day. He’d looked at you, he always did, but you weren’t looking at him. You were talking to someone else, your voice quieter than usual.

He lingered a second longer than he should’ve. Then turned and walked out.

That day, you took the long way home. It wasn’t planned, really. Your feet just sort of led you there, the corner outside the convenience store, near the apartment where Heeseung lived. The one you’d crashed in after a group night out, both of you tipsy, tired, laughing at things that didn’t even make sense.

You paused in front of the same sidewalk you’d stood on that night. The one where you’d clutched his coat and tried not to shiver. The one where he’d leaned in close, breath warm as he said something that made you laugh and forget how cold the night was.

You stared for a while. Didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

Then you walked home, arms folded tighter around your chest.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

The club office was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioning and the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards. Heeseung sat alone, the glow of his laptop casting a pale light on his face. The rehearsal schedule blinked back at him, but his eyes were unfocused, staring through the screen rather than at it.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then dropped to his lap. He leaned back in his chair, exhaling a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the past few weeks.

The door creaked open, and Jay peeked in, a teasing smile on his face. "Still here? Burning the midnight oil?"

Heeseung offered a half-smile. "Just tying up some loose ends."

Jay stepped inside, glancing around the empty room. "Or still thinking about her?"

Heeseung paused for a moment, sighing. “I think Y/n’s avoiding me.”

Jay blinks now, leaning against the doorway. “Like avoiding you-you? Or just people in general?”

Heeseung leans against his chair. “Haven’t seen her since Tuesday. She keeps skipping prep meetings. And if she’s there, she leaves the second we’re done.”

Jay shovels a mouthful of chips. “Damn. That’s serious.” Heeseung waits for more wisdom, but none comes.

“I don’t get it,” he mutters. “We were… fine, weren’t we? I mean, I thought we were fine.”

Jay sets the bowl down. “You guys fight or something?”

“Not really. Not directly. But she’s… different.” Heeseung exhales through his nose. “Did I do something?”

Jay shrugs. “I mean…” He stretches his arms out like he’s just warming up for the bomb he’s about to drop. “Well, Yeri’s been attached to you lately.”

Heeseung frowns. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Jay stares. “Dude.”

“What?”

“If Y/n likes you, and I’m not saying she does, but like, if she does, then that would piss me off too.”

The words hit like a body blow.

Heeseung goes quiet.

Jay raises his brows. “What?”

“She doesn’t like me,” Heeseung mutters.

Jay snorts. “You sure? You guys had, like, a thing. I don’t know what kind of slow-burn drama you’ve been cooking, but even I could tell something was there.”

“Yeah, was,” Heeseung snaps. “That was before.”

Jay just shrugs again, totally unbothered. “I’m just saying. If it were me, I’d be mad too.

Watching someone I like hanging out with someone else. All the time. Smiling. Sharing snacks.” “We’re not dating,” Heeseung mumbles.

“But were you ever just friends?” Jay counters, surprisingly sharp. “I mean, did it ever feel… just friendly to you?”

Heeseung looks away.

That silence is answer enough.

Jay raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "Alright, man. Don't stay too late."

As Jay left, Heeseung's gaze drifted to the corner of the desk, where a small, half-written note lay beside a closed drawer. He reached out, fingers brushing the paper, then pulled back. With a swift motion, he slid the note into the drawer and closed it.

He opened his messaging app, a blank draft addressed to you staring back at him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then he sighed and deleted the draft.

His eyes landed on his old film camera perched on the shelf. He reached out, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. A soft smile played on his lips as he whispered, "She always liked this kind of stuff..."

The camera clicked softly as he pressed the shutter, the sound echoing in the empty office.

All of a sudden, something odd happens.

It starts on a Monday.

The morning had it out for you from the start.

First, your alarm glitched and woke you up twenty minutes late. Then you opened your cabinet to the horrifying sight of an empty instant coffee box. And your oral path notes? Still buried somewhere in your room under two textbooks, one laptop charger, and a heaping pile of unresolved stress.

By the time you made it to school, you were already sweating through your uniform and running on two hours of sleep, half a granola bar, and pure academic anxiety.

You shuffled into the hallway, barely noticing the hum of fluorescent lights or the sharp sting of antiseptic in the air. The dentistry building always smelled like stress and sterilization, and this morning was no different.

You reached your locker on autopilot, expecting the usual cluster of dusty handouts and last week’s anatomy quiz shoved inside. But something made you stop.

There was something taped to the door.

Your fingers slowed before they reached the handle. A small, crinkled packet of candy, taped slightly off-center like someone had stuck it on in a hurry. Your favorite kind, too. Not the kind you could find at the nearby convenience store, but the one you used to keep in your bag during high school, the brand you hadn’t talked about in ages.

Your first instinct was suspicion. Not fear, just confusion.

You looked around. No one was near you, except a junior from the ortho track yawning into his phone a few lockers down.

There was no note. No “from,” no explanation. Just the candy.

You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to.

Part of you wanted to laugh. It felt weirdly out of place, like a random act of kindness from someone who knew exactly what to get, but not how to say why.

You peeled it off, tape clinging to the edge of your thumb. It wasn’t heavy or dramatic or anything worth overthinking. Probably someone from your class. Or a friend. Or someone pulling a subtle prank. Right?

Still, you slipped it into the pocket of your bag instead of throwing it away.

You told yourself it was no big deal. But you found your fingers brushing against the wrapper again when you were halfway to lecture.

It stayed in your pocket all day.

The next day, you were early. Not by much, but enough to catch the tail end of the building’s weird, pre-lecture silence. The kind where the hallways sound more like libraries and less like war zones. Your breath fogged up a little in the over-airconditioned room. It was always too cold in your department. Even your bones complained.

Your lab coat hung over your arm. Your bag dug into your shoulder, heavier than usual from two atlases and the water bottle you forgot to empty yesterday.

The classroom lights were already on when you stepped in.

A few of your classmates were scattered around, some seated, some still dragging stools across the tiled floor. The usual chatter filled the space: someone whining about the lab manual, someone else reciting mnemonics for nerves. The projector flickered to life in the front, bathing the whiteboard in that cold blue light.

And then you saw it.

Your desk.

Second row from the front. Right side. Your safe spot.

And sitting right there, dead center on your desk, like it belonged, was a banana milk. The kind you hadn’t bought since… forever ago. Not the generic brand, but the nostalgic one, cartoony packaging, yellow cap, slight condensation fogging up the sides.

There was a note.

Pink. Square. Curling a bit at the corners from the humidity. You recognized the handwriting immediately, though your brain scrambled to deny it.

Hope today goes easy on you. Drink this.

You froze.

Just for a second. Then your eyes scanned the room, casually, act normal, your head not even moving an inch, as if expecting someone to be staring right back at you.

No one was.

Everyone looked half-asleep. A few people waved when you looked their way, distracted. You caught the eye of your seatmate, who raised an eyebrow like long night? You shook your head.

You touched the note once, then peeled it off the bottle like you were handling evidence.

Whoever left it… either knew you very well, or had been watching too closely.

But it didn’t feel like a prank. It didn’t feel threatening. Not like the wrong kind of attention you’d learned to dodge in your first two years here.

It felt… specific.

The note stayed in your hand longer than it should’ve. You didn’t drink the banana milk right away. Just slid it to the side and opened your laptop, acting normal, though the back of your neck felt hot the whole time.

That one didn’t feel random.

That one… sat with you.

A little too well.

By Wednesday, it stops feeling like coincidence.

There was a cycle to college days, especially by the middle of the week, where exhaustion blended with routine and your brain ran mostly on autopilot. You knew when to wake up, when to walk, when to nod politely at upperclassmen you didn’t know.

So when you saw the photo, it felt like your internal programming glitched.

It was just there.

Waiting on your seat as you returned from your locker, right before prosthodontics. Most of the class had already taken their places, notebooks out, laptops humming. Your professor’s voice buzzed quietly over the mic system, giving last-minute quiz reminders. Someone at the front groaned dramatically. You were half-listening.

Until your foot bumped your chair, and you noticed it.

A square. Slightly curled edges. Off-white.

You picked it up, cautiously at first. A polaroid. The faded kind that developed with too much contrast and too little clarity.

It was a photo of a café.

That café.

The one from that rainy afternoon sophomore year, the place tucked behind the old printing press building. You hadn’t been back in what felt like forever. The sign in the photo was tilted, the glass slightly fogged. A pair of hands, yours, rested on a chipped ceramic cup. The memory was so specific it made your stomach lurch.

No note.

No initials.

Just the picture.

At first, you tried to reason it away.

Maybe someone found your old post on Close Friends. Maybe it was a weird throwback prank. Maybe- No.

It wasn’t random. Not this time.

The drinks, the candy, maybe you could dismiss. But this? A photo of something that happened years ago, between just the two of you?

No one else knew this memory.

Except Heeseung.

And maybe… Yeri?

Your heart twisted.

Yeri had been around more lately. Laughing louder when he was near. Finding excuses to rehearse longer. She wasn’t cruel, exactly, but she knew how to toe that line. Knew how to smile at you a second too long. How to tilt her head when Heeseung looked your way.

Was this her?

Is she trying to taunt me?

Your throat went dry. That weird prickling feeling crawled up the back of your neck again, the same one from lab yesterday. You looked around the room, slowly this time. No one looked suspicious. No one even seemed to notice the photo.

You slipped it into your folder. Carefully. As if hiding it would make the knot in your chest unravel.

But it stayed.

You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Not that someone was being kind, but that someone was watching.

The noise in the hallway was enough to make your skin feel paper-thin.

Groups of students moved in packs, some fresh from their lectures, some just arriving from lunch, some laughing too loud on a casual Thursday morning. The Dentistry hallway was warm, humid from too many bodies and not enough airflow. The linoleum tiles squeaked under cheap sneakers and worn boots.

Your bag thudded on the bench as you dug for your notebook.

You’d been rushing all morning. Late for oral path. Your clinical partner had forgotten her gloves again, and you’d run out of time to print your readings. So now, all you wanted was to get through this lab with minimal human interaction and maybe five minutes of silence after.

You pulled your notebook out.

And something slid out of it.

Your breath hitched as the folded paper fluttered to the floor. It landed face-up. Neat creases. Familiar pen pressure. You picked it up slowly, heart already pounding before your eyes even scanned the words.

Maybe you’ll notice me again one day.

Your fingers clenched.

You blinked once. Twice.

Something about the handwriting tugged at your nerves, not because it was completely unfamiliar, but because it was almost familiar. Soft loops. Deliberate slant. A little too tidy to be yours. A little too warm to be your blockmate’s.

Your stomach turned.

You’d seen it before.

On the edge of a clipboard during rehearsal. On the corner of a script printout. Scribbled across a whiteboard when Yeri took over warm-ups.

That same Y.

That same Maybe.

Your breath caught again, this time sharper.

Your head snapped up, scanning the hallway instinctively. No one was looking your way. No one looked suspicious. Just your classmates, shuffling and talking and complaining about case requirements.

You looked back down at the note.

The first thought was: This is weird.

The second was: Wait… was this Heeseung?

The third hit harder: No. This looks like Yeri’s handwriting.

You stood there, frozen, the paper still between your fingers. The more you stared at it, the more your gut twisted. It felt like something Heeseung would say. Something quiet and aching and leftover from the version of him who used to wait for you outside class just to walk five extra steps beside you.

But the writing... It looked like hers.

Your throat closed up. This wasn’t just a message anymore. This felt like a performance. Someone writing lines in someone else’s voice. Playing pretend with something fragile. Something sacred.

You dropped the note.

Your hand flinched back like it burned.

A few feet away, someone called your name. A labmate, probably. You didn’t respond. You bent down, picked the note back up mechanically, folded it, shoved it back into your notebook without even thinking.

Your heart was pounding.

What if it was Yeri?

What if she was trying to taunt you?

She’d been everywhere lately. Always lingering near Heeseung. Always looking when she didn’t need to. Always acting like she knew something you didn’t. Like she owned something that used to be yours.

Maybe she was trying to twist the knife.

You tightened your grip on the notebook.

It had started as a simple doubt. But now... now it was a full sentence circling in your skull:

They're together.

She knows it.

She wants me to know it, too.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t tell if that note had come from someone who missed you, Or someone who wanted you to suffer.

You don’t tell anyone. Not even your best friend in the department, and she’s the one who catches you zoning out mid-convo and missing half the answers during study review. You just laugh it off. Say you’re tired. Say it’s the festival stress.

Because what would you even say?

“I think someone’s leaving me weirdly affectionate notes... and the handwriting looks like someone I don’t trust?”

It sounds paranoid. But it feels worse.

On Friday, you showed up to rehearsal with your guard up.

Even as you entered the campus theatre building, its echoey halls and scratched laminate floors, you felt it. That knot in your chest. That hum beneath your skin. Like your body was prepping for something it hadn’t been told yet.

And there she was.

Yeri.

Perfect posture. Her hair clipped neatly to one side. A Starbucks drink in her hand, matcha, probably, and a laugh caught on her lips as a freshman from your batch said something stupid and charming.

She didn’t see you at first. Or maybe she did and didn’t care to show it.

You didn’t say anything either. You moved toward your corner of the practice room, unrolled your mat, checked your laces. Did all the normal things people do when they’re pretending not to watch someone else.

But she kept hovering.

During warmups, she drifted near your stretch line. During the blocking run, she ended up beside Heeseung again, like it was just a coincidence. Like she hadn’t spent the whole week orbiting him.

And then came the break.

You were tying your shoelaces when you felt it.

A glance.

You looked up.

Yeri.

Just a flicker. A second. Her gaze slid off you like water, back toward her phone.

But then it happened again.

And again.

Not obvious. Not lingering. Just enough to make your chest tighten like it was warning you of thunder.

You stood. Back against the wall. Bottle in your hand. And then she walked past you. Water bottle in one hand. That same unreadable smile.

She slowed. "You look tired lately," she said lightly. “Are you okay?”

You blinked. The question wasn’t harsh. Wasn’t mocking. But it felt… wrong. Off-key. Like a compliment with the teeth filed down.

Your mouth moved before your brain caught up. “I’m fine.” Too fast. Too defensive. It slipped out like a shield.

But she didn’t react. Just nodded like she expected that answer. Like she already knew what you’d say. And then she walked into the studio, quiet and graceful like nothing had happened.

You stood there too long, holding your water bottle like it might help you stay grounded.

Was that concern?

Or was it mockery in disguise?

You thought about the handwriting again. The photo. The note. The timing.

Heeseung.

Yeri.

Together, maybe. And laughing behind your back. Pretending it wasn’t weird. Pretending you weren’t still flinching from a memory they’d made sacred and left behind.

Was it a coincidence she was suddenly always there?

Was it your imagination?

Or was she really trying to tell you, without saying it out loud, that she had him now?

That she’d taken something you didn’t even realize was still yours?

By Weekend, it stopped being cute.

It wasn’t a game anymore. Wasn’t flattery. Wasn’t mystery. It was something else now. Scarier. Personal.

You found the note on Saturday, wedged beneath your water bottle during the afternoon rehearsal block. You hadn’t even stepped out that long, just enough time to stretch your legs and grab a snack from the vending machine. The hallway had been nearly empty.

But when you came back, there it was.

The paper was thick. Folded precisely. Just one line, handwritten in blue ink.

“If I hated you, I wouldn’t know your favorite ice cream or where you hide when you’re overwhelmed.”

You stared at it for a full minute before picking it up.

Your hands started to shake before your brain even finished registering the words.

That quote, that quote, was from the show you and Heeseung used to watch in middle school. Not a popular show. Not the kind you’d quote online or reference to new friends. Something small. Silly. Yours.

You hadn’t mentioned it in years.

No one knew about it.

Except Heeseung.

Except… maybe someone else heard.

Maybe someone overheard. Or maybe he told someone.

And the only person who had been consistently, strategically close lately… was Yeri.

You thought back to the last few days. Her glances. Her perfect timing. Her voice that never sounded quite as soft as it pretended to be.

“You look tired lately. Are you okay?”

That nod, like she expected you to say you were fine.

And now this?

Was this still a note?

Or was it a warning?

You folded the paper so tightly it creased like a blade. Tucked it into the bottom of your bag like it might burn if anyone saw it.

You started locking your backpack zippers.

You kept your locker closed, even between classes.

You stopped hanging around after rehearsal. You left first. Arrived late. Walked the long way around the Music building even if it made you sweat through your shirt.

Your earbuds stayed in, even when your playlist had long since stopped.

Because it wasn’t just about the note anymore. It was about the way you felt seen.

Not admired. Not even observed.

Seen like you were something to be watched. And that feeling… that was new.

You avoided Heeseung. Entirely.

You didn’t know what to think. Whether he was part of it, or just too close to the one who was. Whether he gave her that memory. Whether he was laughing with her about you, the way old friends sometimes do when they feel sorry for someone they used to care about.

He waved at you once on Sunday during the last cleanup before the festival officially starts. You didn’t wave back.

Didn’t even look at him. Just reached for your bag, turned, and walked away. The music was still playing, the room full of chatter, but your ears were ringing.

It hurt. God, it hurt.

Because maybe the worst part wasn’t the fear.

It was that the person who used to know you best had no idea what you were going through. Or worse…

What if he did?

You don’t wake up rested.

Even though you got a full seven hours, your body feels like it never stopped moving. Your limbs ache, not from physical work, but from tension. Like your muscles have been clenched for days and you forgot how to let them go.

You stare at the ceiling for a while before you get up. Today’s the first day of the Interdisciplinary Festival. Booths. Selling. Mingling. Crowds. Too much noise and not enough distance.

You already feel too drained, and the day hasn’t even started.

As you get ready, your mind keeps circling back to the gifts, the notes. The way they just kept appearing like pieces you were never meant to read. You haven’t found a new one since the weekend, but the silence doesn’t help. It only makes the air heavier.

What if it was her?

What if it wasn’t?

What if he knows?

You shove the thoughts aside with your toothbrush, with your hoodie, with the bag of booth materials slung over your shoulder. You’re here to work. You’re here to help. You're here to get through the damn day.

The festival grounds are already packed by the time you arrive. Colorful tarps, handmade signs, extension cords running like veins under the booths. Laughter, chaos, music thumping from cheap speakers. The scent of grilled street food already clings to the air.

You check in at your department’s booth, dentistry is doing a cute, mildly educational thing with mini tooth kits and enamel pins. There’s a raffle, too. You’re in charge of tracking sales and organizing the freebies.

Which is perfect. It gives your hands something to do.

It helps you focus.

Mostly.

"Hey, can you pass the price tags?" someone calls out.

You nod, grabbing the pack and sliding it across the table without looking. Your eyes drift again, without your permission, really, across the field of tents and student bodies. Searching.

You spot him halfway across the lot.

Heeseung.

He’s wearing a simple long-sleeved shirt rolled to the elbows and a lanyard with his department tag. He��s crouched by the performance art booth, helping adjust a foldable whiteboard that keeps sliding down.

Even from here, he looks… different. Focused. Calm on the outside, but you can tell he’s tired. There’s something about the way he moves, like his mind’s somewhere else. You know that version of him. You’ve seen it more times than you care to count.

Then he straightens, and as if sensing it, his head turns in your direction.

His eyes meet yours.

You don’t mean to freeze, but you do.

He smiles.

Hesitant. Small. Like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

You look away before you can decide what it meant. Before he can read your face. Before you can start wanting again.

You bend over to reorganize the freebies.

He doesn’t approach.

You don’t either.

Yeri shows up around mid-morning.

Of course she does. She's part of the performance committee, and her name is basically embedded into every schedule and announcement slide. She’s not wearing anything flashy, just a cropped cardigan over a simple top, jeans, but she still stands out. She always does.

She greets a few people near your booth, dropping smiles and soft waves like it costs nothing. People gravitate toward her naturally. She laughs easily, her voice lilting in a way that makes conversations sound lighter than they probably are.

And then she moves toward their booth.

You try not to look.

You really try.

But there’s a lull in booth activity, and your hands are still, and there’s nothing left to organize.

So you glance up. Just once.

Yeri’s standing next to Heeseung, her hand brushing his arm as she says something. He laughs softly, barely. He doesn’t pull away. Again.

Stil, he doesn’t lean in either.

You’re too far to hear the words, but you see the way she tilts her head. The way her eyes linger. The way he shifts his weight slightly like he wants to be somewhere else, but doesn’t know how to excuse himself.

Your stomach twists. Like it always does.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You’re not together. You haven’t even spoken properly in days. You’ve been the one avoiding him. This, whatever this ache is, shouldn't even exist.

And yet, your throat tightens.

Your hands curl around the edge of the table.

Around noon, one of your booth mates offers to run and grab snacks. You nod along and stay behind, glad for the excuse to avoid walking through the crowd. The last thing you want is to cross paths with either of them.

Your phone buzzes on the table.

It’s a message from your best friend in the department.

[10:34am] Vickypedia

“he’s been glancing over here all morning, btw.” You don’t reply.

You don’t know how to.

Because you’ve felt it too, in flickers. But you don’t know what to do with it. You don’t know if it’s guilt or affection or just residual habits.

You tell yourself again that it’s fine.

You’re okay.

That this unease in your chest is just the festival stress. That the weird notes were probably someone trying to be sweet in a way that landed… wrong. That maybe it really isn’t Yeri. Or maybe it is. Or maybe…?

You’re spiraling again.

By the afternoon, the sun gets warmer, and the energy of the crowd swells. You’re elbow-deep in raffle tickets, half-listening to the excited chatter around you, but your heart hasn’t caught up to the moment.

You feel disjointed.

Every time someone passes behind you, your shoulders tighten. Every time someone leans close to speak, you flinch a little too easily. The world feels a bit too close, like you're moving through static.

And every now and then, from the corner of your eye, you catch sight of her.

Yeri.

Sometimes alone. Sometimes not.

Always smiling.

Always composed.

Always a little too aware of where you are.

You catch her looking once, in the late afternoon. Not long. Not obviously. Just long enough.

And this time, she doesn't smile.

She just nods once, like an acknowledgment.

And then turns back to whoever she’s talking to.

You barely register the end of the day when it comes. Someone claps near your ear to get your attention, laughing when you jump.

"Sorry," they say. "You just looked really zoned out."

You smile thinly. “Yeah. Long day.”

You help pack up your booth’s supplies into a box. Your hands are sore. Your chest is heavier than it was this morning. The festival energy doesn’t cling to you, it bounces off. You feel untethered, like you never quite touched down the whole day.

You don’t know what you’re hoping for.

A confrontation?

A confession?

Clarity?

But there’s nothing.

Just a field full of tired students, taped-up posters, and lingering music.

Just the sound of your own heartbeat trying to convince you this isn’t what it feels like.

You wake up again, already bracing for the day.

It’s the kind of morning that feels too bright, like the sun’s mocking you for not sleeping properly. You barely touched breakfast. Your stomach’s too knotted up to hold anything.

Today’s the performance.

And that means Heeseung.

And Yeri.

You stall in front of your closet longer than necessary, pretending you’re just indecisive. But really, you’re just thinking about what to wear that’ll make you look fine. Not affected. Not like you spent half the week thinking about handwritten notes and brushing off your closest friends and avoiding the one person who used to know you better than anyone else.

In the end, you settle for something simple and casual, but not lazy. The kind of outfit that says, I’m not here to impress, but I also didn’t roll out of bed crying.

You arrive at the venue just before the crowd thickens. The makeshift stage is already set up.

Complete with lights, speakers, and a colorful backdrop painted by the Fine Arts department. Foldable chairs form a semi-circle around the stage, though most students are content to stand or sit on the grass.

It’s loud. Warm. Packed with energy.

The Performing Arts kids own the space like they were born for it. There’s already buzz going around about the final number. Someone mentions it’s going to be dramatic. Emotional. “The one with Heeseung and Yeri,” they say.

Of course it is.

You find a spot near the back, away from the crowd, where the lighting’s dimmer and no one’s paying too much attention. You can see the stage, but you don’t feel like you’re being seen.

You scan the performers setting up.

And then, there he is.

Heeseung, standing offstage in his performance outfit. Black long sleeves, flowy fabric, minimal accessories. He’s talking with one of the stagehands, nodding, focused. You know that look. It’s the same one he used to get before big recitals or exams.

Then Yeri walks over to him.

She’s in costume too. Her outfit matches his, fluid lines, soft fabrics. They look… good. Like they belong in the same setting.

They exchange a few words. She smiles. He smiles back, tight-lipped but polite. Then she reaches up to fix something on his collar.

Your nails dig into your sleeve before you can stop yourself.

The performance begins in full force.

First, it’s ensemble acts. Some lighthearted, some poetic. Spoken word, a musical duet, a monologue that earns a teary sniffle from someone behind you.

And then, the lights dim.

A hush falls. The final number.

The opening notes boom low and smooth through the speakers, a stripped-back instrumental. Two spotlights fade in.

Heeseung walks onto the stage from one side. Yeri from the other.

The crowd leans forward.

And you stop breathing.

It starts slow.

Just movement at first. Their silhouettes circling each other. Graceful. Every step like a wave. Not a word is said, but you understand it. It’s a story told through choreography. A story about distance. Yearning. Resentment. Reconnection.

And God, they sell it.

You try to remind yourself that it’s acting. That it’s what they do. Heeseung’s always been good at disappearing into his roles and so has Yeri. You’ve seen them rehearse, you’ve seen them prep. You know this.

But when their hands touch?

When Yeri’s palm finds his chest and she pushes, gently, like she’s letting go of something?

When he doesn’t react?

It doesn’t feel like acting anymore.

Your eyes sting.

You blink fast. Shake your head.

Don’t be ridiculous. You know what this is. You know how this looks. And still. Still, your chest burns like you’ve swallowed something wrong.

And then it happens.

Near the end of the piece, there’s a still moment, part of the choreography, you’re sure of it.

Yeri steps close.

Cups his face.

Just for a moment.

But it’s a long moment.

Too long.

The audience gasps. Cheers. Someone shouts, “Just kiss already!” which earned a few giggles in the crowd.

You turn your head, eyes darting down and away. But not before you catch it.

Heeseung sees you.

He sees your face.

And your hurt isn't hidden fast enough.

You turn away before you can register his reaction. You pretend to be interested in your phone, in the grass, in anything that doesn’t look like jealousy.

You don’t look back at the stage.

When the piece finally wraps, the crowd explodes.

Applause. Whistles. Phones up, cameras flashing. The host rushes out to thank the performers, but it’s clear who stole the show. People start pushing forward to get closer, half for pictures, half just to gush.

“Heeseung and Yeri, seriously…” a girl says beside you, practically squealing. “Like, are they dating? They should be. They’d be such a power couple if they got together for real.” You step back.

And then again, as more students surge forward to get a better view of the stage. Someone bumps your shoulder, and your balance falters. You steady yourself, the applause ringing too loud in your ears.

That’s enough.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet. The sun’s still out, but it doesn’t feel warm anymore. You take the long route, hoping the extra time will help you process what you just felt. What you saw, but your mind keeps looping back to the same thing.

That look on his face before you turned away.

He saw you.

When you get back to your door, there’s something waiting. Another note. Folded neatly, like it’s been sitting there all day.

You hesitate.

Then pick it up.

Your stomach drops as you read it.

You’ll regret ignoring this.

No smiley face. No name. Just that.

You stare at it for a while, your fingers tightening around the paper. A chill slips down your back. This one doesn’t feel romantic. It doesn’t feel soft. It feels like a threatening whisper at the back of your neck.

The third day is supposed to be the chill one.

That’s the whole point.

The sun’s out but gentler, the air buzzing with leftover festival energy. There’s an acoustic stage on the grass where students are passing around a guitar. A few first-years are on picnic mats playing card games. Others are threading beads for last-minute friendship bracelets. It’s mellow, warm, a little bittersweet. The high is wearing off, and everyone’s in that weird inbetween space where nothing’s urgent, but everything still feels important.

You spot the photo wall they put up, a collage of Polaroids from the past two days. You spot one of yourself behind the booth, half-laughing with your group, sweat clinging to your temples. The version of you in the photo looks... lighter. Like she wasn’t holding in a hundred burden.

And there he is.

Heeseung, smiling in one of the shots, arms around his team. Yeri’s just behind him. You glance at it for half a second too long before turning away.

It’s fine. You’ve been holding yourself together this long. One more day won’t kill you.

Your department’s booth is halfway disassembled. Tents down, tables cleared, only boxes of supplies left.

Your shirt sticks to your back. You’re sweaty. Your legs are sore. Your throat’s dry from giving out instructions and calling over people who clearly weren’t listening.

“Man, please tell me that’s the last one,” one of your blockmates groans, dramatically stretching their back.

You chuckle tiredly. “That’s the last one.”

“Thank God,” another adds. “I’m never organizing an event again. I swear I aged ten years.”

Someone collapses beside you on the grass. “Remind me why we volunteered again?” “Free food?” one of your blockmates offers.

“Trauma bonding?” another guesses.

Laughter ripples through your group, loose and tired.

Sunoo, a close friend you’ve met after volunteering, pats your back. “You killed it this week, by the way. Thanks for making sure we didn’t die.”

You give a small, crooked smile. “Of course.”

Then you glance at the stacked boxes beside you. “I’ll take these to storage.”

“Seriously?” Sunoo asks. “That’s like five floors up.”

“I need the break,” you say, hoisting two boxes up into your arms. “Aircon elevator ride? Yes, please.”

They wave you off with half-hearted cheers. “Stay alive!”

“Text us if you get stuck in the horror movie elevator!” someone jokes.

You roll your eyes, already trudging toward the building.

The halls are quieter than usual. Most students are still outside, too busy soaking up the last bits of festival atmosphere.

You elbow the elevator button, shifting the weight of the boxes. The elevator doors slide open. Empty.

Thank God.

You step inside, back hitting the cool wall. You exhale deeply, adjusting the boxes in your arms.

The doors finally start to close.

And then- SLAM.

A hand shoves between the doors at the last second. You flinch instinctively, your grip tightening on the boxes. The doors bounce open again with a ding. And there he is.

Heeseung.

Sweaty. Breathless. A single box in his arms. His eyes widen the moment he sees you.

The air leaves your lungs.

He steps in silently. The doors close.

You’re both frozen.

You can hear his breathing, shallow and fast. You’re not sure if it’s from running or from this.

From you. From this.

Seconds tick by.

“Didn’t know we were still doing the silent treatment.” His voice is quiet. Tired. A little raw.

You don’t look up. You stare at the elevator buttons instead. “Didn’t know we were still friends.” The silence that follows is loud. Crushing.

All of a sudden-

The elevator jerks. The lights go out.

You both flinch as everything goes dark, save for the faint red of the emergency lighting.

Your heart drops.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I shouldn’t have ignored why nobody takes the damn elevator.”

He drops his box with a thud. “Of course it does.”

You press the emergency button half-heartedly. Nothing but the same dull buzz.

The silence creeps back in.

Then, his voice again, quieter.

“Why weren’t you accepting them?”

You blink, confused. “Accepting what?”

He exhales. Shaky. Like it’s costing him something to speak.

“The gifts. The notes. I thought you’d… I thought you’d understand. I didn’t sign them, but I thought- I hoped, you’d just know.” You finally look at him.

His jaw is clenched. His eyes glimmer in the dim light.

“You…?” you whisper.

“You didn’t even keep them,” he says, hurt flickering in his voice, barely concealed.

You frown. “Not all of them…”

He shakes his head. “But enough.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, softly, “I thought they were from someone else.”

Heeseung laughs, bitterly. “Yeah. You looked scared. Like you were being stalked. Like I made you afraid of me.”

“I didn’t know it was you, Heeseung,” you whisper. “You never said-”

“I didn’t know how!” he bursts out. “You stopped talking to me. I didn’t even know if I had the right to show up in front of you anymore. I just… I just wanted you to feel me there. Even if you couldn’t look at me.” His voice cracks.

“I missed you so much, it hurt,” he chokes out. “And I saw it, you know? You flinched when you read them. You started walking faster. Stopped looking me in the eyes. I thought I ruined everything.”

You swallow hard. “But I didn’t hate you.”

“I didn’t know that.”

His hands twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them anymore. “All I wanted was to fix things. And I kept waiting for the right time. For something to change. And then the rehearsals keep happening and Yeri and I just-” His voice breaks. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” There’s a pause.

Neither of you move.

The elevator hums quietly under the emergency lights.

You don’t know who steps first.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you.

But suddenly, his arms are around you.

Not smooth. Not choreographed. Not clean like their dance.

It’s messy. Clumsy. A little panicked. Your box hits the floor beside his with a hollow thunk, but neither of you care.

He wraps his arms tight around your shoulders, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Please don’t hate me,” he whispers, face buried in your shoulder. “I didn’t want to lose you. I just didn’t know how to fix this.” He trembles.

You’re frozen for a second. Then your hands slowly reach up, clutching the fabric of his shirt. Holding him back.

Your voice barely comes out.

“Are you… crying…?”

He lets out a soft, trembling laugh. Pulls back just a little. His eyes are red, but he’s smiling. Barely.

He looks at your face.

Then your lips.

And then, He kisses you.

Softly. Slowly.

Like he’s scared he’ll break you.

You don’t pull away. You kiss him back. Your fingers grip tighter into his shirt, grounding yourself.

The elevator hums. Then jolts.

The lights flicker back on. The machinery whirs.

But neither of you move away.

Not until the ding of the elevator bell cuts through the silence like a gunshot.

The doors slide open.

Heeseung hesitates to pull back.

It’s his floor.

He hesitates. Steps forward just as the doors begin to open.

And you, your voice finally finds the courage.

“Heeseung.”

He pauses just in front of the door.

You say, “Meet me at my apartment later.”

The doors slowly close between you, and he holds your gaze until the very last inch.

And nods.

Then he’s gone.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

78 notes · View notes

taomyou · 3 days ago

Text

nerds do it better - chapter 3: VITAL BRACE_normal_manual_10

synopsis: You know, most people wouldn't be all that interested in getting to know the weird Digimon kid. Good thing you're not most people! - or, you and Gojo meet at a Digimon TCG game night and become really, really good friends.

tags: gojo satoru x reader, nerd!gojo, fem!nerd!reader, modern au, college/uni au, fluff, friends to lovers, mutual pining, first date, gojo!pov, requited unrequited love, aquarium date || wc: 10.4k

ao3 || tumblr masterlist

As soon as the door’s open, Gojo giddily rushes past you and into the room, dropping his bags just before jumping onto the bed. He beckons you to come and join him, and you happily oblige, quick to close the door and haul your things further into the room. You let yourself fall backwards onto the bed next to him, and you sigh in delight as you feel its plushness absorb you.

“I can’t believe we’re actually here,” you marvel, looking up at the soft yellow light on the ceiling.

“I can!” He beams, stretching his arms up towards the headboard, moaning happily. “Need me to pinch you?”

“Nope. I believe you now.”

You and him both turn to face each other, the space between you too big to reach across the two beds. Still, Gojo looks pretty fuckin’ stupid trying to pinch you from where he is anyway. The two of you then silently agree to just close your eyes and roll around on your respective beds, making rather… suggestive noises as you both stretch out your tense muscles. You haven’t really got the brain power to register the groans he’s making as anything actually suggestive, thankfully, oh, you’re totally lying to yourself though because you’re too preoccupied by the relief that washes over your body as you lay on your stomach and fully extend your limbs to release the tension in your spine.

The car ride to get to the hotel was boring enough; the two of you decided that leaving a day earlier than you really needed to was the best course of action to avoid any traffic, so you’re just going to be in the hotel room for a half-day and a night before you have to lug yourselves over to the convention center down the street.

And, Gojo, the persistent and considerate loser he is, forced you to let him drive the whole way (even though you knew he was gonna be nervous as all hell to drive the nine-ish hours it would’ve taken if he listened to you and just went a little bit faster than the speed limit). You thought he’d be sufficiently tired by now between all 11 hours behind the wheel and his neverending rambling about all the things he was excited to get to at the convention (and if those two things weren’t enough to tire him out on their own, you figured he’d get annoyed by your sarcastic cheering whenever he’d successfully make a difficult driving maneuver).

Turns out you couldn’t be any more wrong.

Gojo pushes himself up, now sitting with his elbows propping his torso up. He lets his head fall back like he’s basking in the sun (which he is, I guess, if you count the early afternoon sun that’s coming through the highrise window).

“So,” he starts, a lazy smile on his face, “what do you wanna do?”

You whine and bury your face further into a pillow, turning your head just slightly so you still have space to breathe. “I wanna take a nap.” You’re half-lying—you are tired, but your nerves are fuelled by something so foreign and new that you don’t think you could truly sleep even if you tried—but Gojo doesn't have to know that.

“Oh, come on, you’re not really gonna go to sleep, are you? Let’s go do something fun!”

You turn over again, now on your back, forearm over your eyes to readjust to the light. “How do you have so much energy? You drove.”

“Well,” he nervously laughs, “I am tired, but I—.”

Nevermind. Guess you were right.

“Then go to sleep, Gojo.” You roll off the bed towards him, bending your knees before you’re at the edge so you can land and stand up fairly quickly. “I don’t want you to be too tired for the actual con. We’re here until Monday, anyway, we can do something then.”

You don’t mean to lecture him, but all the sugar in his system isn’t going to keep him awake forever, and you’d feel awful if he wasn’t able to properly enjoy the convention weekend because he’s too sleep-deprived.

“Ok, then, we could use Monday to catch up on sleep. I know you’re not going to actually sleep, you knocked out way earlier than I did last night, so I don’t want you to get lonely if I’m taking a nap either.” He interrupts himself with a yawn, pushing off his elbows to sit up even straighter, and he rubs his eye to satiate his tire.

Guess he can read you better than you thought he could.

“Besides,” he yawns again, “I wanna make the most out of us being here,” Gojo says softly, almost like he’s saying it to himself.

The sentiment makes you blush, but, thankfully, you’re facing away from him.

By now, you’ve gotten back to standing with your hands on your hips as you lean to the side to crack your bones, biting at the back of your lip to keep yourself from smiling too hard. After taking a second to recompose yourself, you turn back to him and approach him slowly, then pouncing on him to push him back down on his back.

“Aw, you’re so sweet, you big nerd!” You have to tease him because, otherwise, you’d take his words to heart.

“Woah, woah, hold on!”

You know he’s ticklish behind his ears (he’s a bit like a puppy, you suppose; you found out when you tried getting his attention at the library by poking him there with your pen and he laughed so hard you both got kicked out for the day), so you run your nails gently there to get him laughing and smiling again. He writhes underneath you, loud with thrashing limbs and all, but he’s careful not to hurt you as you continue to tickle him. Eventually, once you’re too lazy to keep teasing him, Gojo pushes you off him and positions himself on top of you to ghost his hands at your sides where he knows you’re ticklish.

In front of the bed is a large, ceiling-to-floor mirror that spans nearly the entire wall, and the two of you catch glimpses of your forms in the reflection. In any other scenario, you’d find the composition of your bodies like this incredibly… lewd, but the two of you look so wildly unsexy that you can’t help but roll your eyes at how in-character it is for the two of you to be like this, Gojo in a faded orange Tsunomon shirt and you in a Gabumon hoodie he regifted you after he couldn’t get Geto to accept it as his birthday gift, both of you in sweatpants.

Your heads turn back to face each other, and you burst into giggles as you push Gojo off you before he can get back at you, him rolling off onto the bedspace next to you. You stare up at the ceiling again, used to the light now because it’s nowhere near as bright as Gojo’s smile, and you sigh contentedly, slightly out of breath.

“Okay, okay, truce.”

Gojo squints at you, taking off his glasses to glare at you. “How is it a truce if you got the last hit!?”

You roll your eyes again. “Because I said so.”

“...Okay.”

You turn over to lay on your stomach, elbows propping you up so you can see Gojo better. “Now, mister, you take your nap.”

“But you’ll be awake on your own,” he says with a frown. “All alone without me.”

“I’ll be fine, promise.” You hold out a pinky for him to link. He complies with a half-smile, putting his glasses back on to free his hands. “I need to grab stuff for the room anyway. You don’t have to worry about me, like, gazing at your sleeping figure or anything creepy like that while you’re sleeping, either.”

“Oh, so you’re leaving me here all alone instead?” Gojo wails.

“Yes, Princess,” you scoff. “Your Prince Charming must leave you to slay the dragon and go downstairs to the ice machine.”

“Who are you calling ‘Princess?’”

“Please,” you snort. “Just go to sleep, Gojo, you’ll survive.”

“I guess I am pretty sleepy,” he yawns again, rolling over onto his side, still facing you. “But we’ll do something after my nap, right? I don’t wanna be bad company.”

“Sure, if you really want to.” You get up, stretching your arms up to the ceiling again to fully reawaken yourself. Gojo still looks so stiff, so you lean down slightly to ruffle his hair to try and get him to loosen up. He leans his head into your touch (again, like a puppy). “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Okay,” he muses, closing his eyes and reaching for the pillows. “If you get bored, you already know I'll sleep through anything, so do whatever you want. Have fun getting… ice, or whatever. Also, can you ask the front desk for—”

You pull away your hand to go back to your bed, cutting him off. “I already know, Princess, here are your pillows.” Before he can interrupt to say you need your own pillows too, you keep talking, moving again to take off his glasses for him and set them on the nightstand so he doesn’t crush them in his sleep. “I’ll grab more from the front desk for myself, just use those.”

He sighs happily, spreading out his body and spreading his limbs again to make a snow angel on his sheets. “You really are my Prince Charming!”

You’re already slipping on your shoes at the door by now, but you look over your shoulder back at him, now curled up in a ball as he hugs a pillow to his chest and has all the others around him. From your own backpack, you see his little Agumon plush peeking up from the not-fully-zipped side pocket.

Poor thing. Gojo hadn’t even remembered to pack him until he was already 5 hours into the drive. Little did he know, though, that you’d swiped him the night before at your little slumber party at his place.

You’ll consider this payback for all the other times Gojo’s taken your things. Not your fault he said he was sure he had everything when you asked him before you started the road trip.

You smile to yourself as you rush back to go grab the cute orange digimon from your bag to leave him at Gojo’s headboard, excited to see the look on his face when he realizes you’ve properly gotten back at him.

☆

When Gojo wakes up, all he hears is the faint sound of fabric rustling and the drone of the air conditioning. He’s slow to open his eyes and even slower to grab his glasses from the nightstand, but as he’s barely-awake and feeling around, his hands meet the familiar feeling of felt claws. He bolts straight up, leaning on his hands as he turns his upper body to see Agumon sat at the headboard.

What’s he doing here? Had he gone back to grab him during the drive? There’s no way that happened, right? Uh, or, maybe, he really did remember to put him in his luggage and the plushie digitized to appear on the bed. That’s what happened, right?

“Good morning, Princess.”

Gojo’s head whips to the direction of your voice but is only able to see the top of your head, you sitting on the floor. He pushes himself straighter-up sitting to see what you’re doing, but before he can, you put whatever it is you’re handling back in your suitcase and zip it closed before turning back to face him.

“How was your nap?”

“Oh! It was great,” he yawns, rolling his head to release the tension in his neck. “Say,” after he puts on his glasses, he moves to sit criss-cross on the bed and pulls Agumon onto his lap, “where did this little guy come from? Did you find him in my luggage?”

You laugh, leaning back to put your head on the end of your bed and turn slightly to look at him. Your smile is bright and unashamed, and you shake your head, your hair grabbing static as it rubs against the sheets. “Nope, I snagged him before we left. Figured you’d forget him.”

He flushes in embarrassment, defensively patting the digimon on his head and turning his body away slightly. “What?! No, I wouldn’t!”

“Sure, then, I have no idea how he got there,” you tease, shaking your head again and getting up to join him across the space between your respective beds. When he’s still turned away, you whine and reach across to pull him back to face you. “Come on, please don’t be mad at me, Gojo! It’s just payback for when you steal my cables at the library!”

He’s firm in his position, not at all mad but wanting to play along to keep your hands on him as you beg him to forgive you. He chuckles behind a bitten cheek, and he watches you from the corner of his eye as you firmly keep your hands on his shoulders. You resign yourself to sighing and flopping down on the spot next to him, at which point Gojo lets out his long-held laugh and falls down next to you, setting Agumon down to lay between the two of you.

Your hair is still staticy, so when you both turn to face each other, he feels a small zap as he reaches out to try and meet you halfway. You flinch at the spark, and you frown again, reaching out to pull Agumon into your own arms for a hug.

“I hate you,” you huff, the telltale half-smile on your face telling him you’re lying.

He laughs. “Sure you do,” he teases.

“Well, now that you’re awake and I can’t escape your rambling,” you start, holding up the plush to the light, “what do you wanna do for the rest of the day?”

Even though he could’ve just checked his Vital Bracelet, he’s too lazy to bring up his wrist to his face to look at the time, so Gojo’s eyes dart to the digital clock on the nightstand.

Gojo frowns, sadness threatening to escape from the back of his throat. “It’s 7 already?”

“You’ve been out for a while, so, yeah,” you shrug.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think I’d be knocked out for so long. It’s so late.”

Certainly much too late to do what he'd planned on taking you to. He should’ve set an alarm for himself earlier…

“What?” You prop yourself up, positioning yourself like you did earlier before Gojo’d taken his nap, on your stomach and looking down at him from his side. “You don’t need to be sorry! We can still find something to do, it's not like we had anything specific in mind, right?”

Well, he did, but telling you about it now wouldn't do either of you any good if it's not like you can even make it now.

You don’t seem to be down about the lost time—if anything, you look more energized now than you did earlier despite not having gotten any extra shut-eye yourself.

Maybe you enjoyed the time you had to yourself without him bothering you, he thinks to himself. He should know better by now—that you genuinely enjoy his company—but there’s always that thought nagging him at the back of his head, telling him he’s way too in over his head. Maybe that’s why he has such a hard time keeping his mouth shut around you; he’s terrified you’ll see through him and realize how utterly pathetic he is, so he feels like he has to distract you by talking about anything and everything under the sun.

You look down at him, though, eyes begging him to gather his spirits, and, really, who is he to refuse?

Gojo leaves his disappointment for himself to deal with later, and smiles with what little confidence he’s got left in him. He moves to stand up, holding out a hand for you to grab and pull yourself up. “Yeah, let’s.”

Gojo moves to go fix his hair in the huge mirrored wall while you fix up the bed (and tuck in Agumon beneath the covers—his heart is just about to explode), and once he’s figured he’s presentable enough, he heads over to sit at his suitcase to look for something to wear.

“What do you think we should do? Dinner for sure, but are you in the mood for anything to eat in particular?” Gojo pauses for a second to wait for your response, but he laughs to himself anyway before you can give your usual response. “Nevermind, we’ll figure it out once we’re out.”

You chuckle and gently pat his head, and he can see the begrudging smile that’s probably on your face right now. “You’re finally learning.”

“Dress code?”

“Uh,” you pause to think it over, your hand still mindlessly patting his hair, “let’s find somewhere casual, I doubt anywhere too fancy is open right now anyway.” Before he can make any sort of comment about you messing up his hair (because he definitely cares more about addressing that more than the butterflies in his stomach), your touch disappears, and you go to your own suitcase at the end of your bed.

He starts to dig through his luggage to find something casual (which, yes, he’s grateful you suggested as much because all he’s got in his suitcase are casual clothes and the three-piece suit he decided to pack because, well, who knows if he’s going to need it at some point this trip?). After a while, though, Gojo notices you’ve been angling yourself to have your back facing him, almost like you’re hiding something in the main compartment of your luggage. He doubts you’ve got your underwear at the top of your main luggage—you’d made it a point to tell him to stay out of the front pocket of your suitcase, so he assumed your intimates were in there—so what’re you hiding now? He leans over to the side to try and get a look, only really curious because you seem so secretive about it.

When you notice him trying to peer over your shoulder, you angle yourself between your suitcase and him again, glaring at him. “What do you want?”

“What’re you hiding? Can I see?”

“Um, no,” you say plainly, turning away.

“Why not?”

“You don’t see me trying to peek into your luggage.”

“You can look through it if you want, I don’t mind.”

“...Are you serious?”

“I mean, if you want to look, I don’t care.”

“Gojo, you should care,” you scold, shooing him away from looking over in your direction by swinging out your arms. “You’re the one that wanted to hide our cosplays from each other, remember? Not my fault you wanted to wait.”

“Oh!” Gojo nervously laughs before turning back to look down at his luggage, then staring down the neatly-wrapped bag of red and white clothes he’d pieced together two months before. “Uh, right, right.”

Okay, really, it isn’t even his fault he forgot! He just woke up, like, five minutes ago!

☆

Several weeks ago, Gojo had finally gotten all the things he needed for the cosplay he’d planned to wear at the convention, and he was so excited to show you a picture of him in the outfit. Despite his excitement, though, he absolutely wanted to see your reaction to it live, so even though it was hell trying to hide it from you, he waited until you and him were out celebrating the end of finals with the rest of his friends at some karaoke studio he couldn’t remember the name of to show you.

”Hey, hey,” Gojo called to you as Haibara queued the next song for him and Nanami to sing together. “Come here.”

You turned to look at him, scooting closer to hear him over the new running instrumental. “What’s up?”

He grinned. “Wanna see my cosplay for the con?”

You were already in a good mood, high off the end of exams, so you beamed. “Oh, I didn’t know you were cosplaying!”

As he tapped around to get the picture, you leaned closer onto his shoulder to get a closer look at his phone.

He flushed at the contact, grateful for the low lights in the room and the bellowing sound of Nanami’s off-key start to the song, but he laughed to ease his own nerves. “Yep! Bet you can’t guess who I’m going as, either,” he sing-songed. He saw the thumbnail of the picture towards the bottom of his screen now, so he turned his phone away to build on the moment. “Okay, you ready? Or do you wanna guess first?”

“You know,” you mused quietly, trying not to disturb Haibara’s more on-key second verse, “you should’ve told me you were gonna cosplay, too. We could’ve worked on ours together.”

You’d said it just as he was about to turn his phone back to you, so he froze and stopped with his phone half-angled away.

You were cosplaying, too?

“I can guess, though. Are you going in an inflatable Agumon costume? I can’t really imagine you going in anything else.”

“Oh!” Gojo exclaimed, now shaken out of his freeze. “Uh, actually,” he clears his throat and looks away, embarrassed he hadn’t also thought you’d also be cosplaying (and definitely not because the first image that came to mind was you dressed as his first real fictional crush, the purple in her design the same shade as the blouse you were already wearing). “No, I’m not.”

“Do I get another guess before you show me?”

“Tell you what,” his mind raced a million meters a minute. “Let’s both hold our guesses, and we can make it into a game.”

“What?! I wanted to see, why’d you build it up like that if you’re just not gonna show me?!”

“You always call me a tease, gotta uphold my reputation,” he rolled his eyes. “Besides, I wanna guess yours, too.”

“You don’t need to guess, I can just show you now. I don’t mind,” you pulled out your own phone, but before you could find your picture and show Gojo, he bit his lip and shook his head frantically.

“Nope, I’ve decided,” he turned off his phone and slipped it back into his pocket, turning to face you instead with his side pressed to the back of the seat and his eyes averted.

He didn’t know why he was so shy all of a sudden—maybe it was because he was too afraid your cosplay would completely show his up, maybe it was because the feeling of your arm against his was too much in combination with Nanami’s botched high note just now—but he doesn’t want to think about you prettied up in cosplay right now while all his friends (no doubt) watched the exchange unfold.

“We’re guessing. Winner can buy dinner on the last day of the trip.”

“How would that even work? We’re either right or we’re wrong. Come on, just show me!” You whined, trying to grab his phone from his pocket.

He blocked your hands, laughing again to keep the situation light as he felt the attention in the room shift to the two of you as the extended instrumental after the chorus played. “No can do, Princess.”

You were quick to also catch onto all the eyes on you from around the room, and you huffed before scooting away from him to get back closer to Shoko.

“Can I at least get a hint?” Gojo threw in as a joke to try and get you back on his good side.

You only leaned in closer to his friend, Shoko now looking over at Gojo with an entertained smirk.

“No, fuck off.”

☆

And, so, both of you have gone without any other mention of what you were going as. It’s been killing him to keep his a secret, but it’s been so, so much worse trying to guess yours.

In the beginning, he earnestly tried to guess, but you made it impossible. You hadn’t given anything away—no offhand comment, no mention of what shoes you’d be wearing, nothing at all—-you just never brought it up again. When he tried (several times, mind you) to call off the wager, you refused, telling him he just had to wait like he made you. With no hints to pull from, it’s not his fault his mind started to conjure images of you dolled up in different outfits, but he was quick to shut that down. No way he was ruining his friendship with you like that (or at all)!

He’s done an awful okay job not thinking about you in any of the million outfits available for you to wear from all the franchises you enjoy, but nonetheless!

It’ll be fine.

Okay, not really, but he’s trying his best.

It’s not his fault, really!

After he’s finished staring blankly into the void that became of his suitcase, he chooses a plain white tee shirt and a pair of baggy cargo shorts to put on (and, obviously, he's got his crest necklace and VB already on, so he doesn't have to think about that at all). He hasn’t got a clue in the world how hot it is outside, but even though he does tend to run cold, it’s the middle of summer. How cold could it possibly get? Either way, he puts on a dark blue quarter-zip, just in case he's wrong and it's actually freezing outside (which it probably isn't, but he doesn't mind the extra warmth).

You’d already claimed the bathroom for yourself long before he could come back to his senses, so it takes no time at all for you to finish getting dressed. As he’s doing the button to his shorts, you give a quick knock to let him know you’re coming out, and he quickly straightens up and smooths the front of his frame.

“I’m decent, I’m decent!”

You come out of the bathroom once he's given the okay, the clothes you just changed out of draped over your forearm, and you start to put them away as Gojo moves to do the same.

He tries not to stare, but the pale blue of the sundress you're wearing calls to him from the corner of his eye, even only if it's because the color compliments your skin so well. There's two small braids behind your ears that you've pinned back with some clips Shoko gifted you after you'd helped her with an assignment (and he remembers because she'd asked him to deliver it to you on her behalf and you looked so happy when he helped them on for you to try). The straps of your sandals are beaded with bright colors in vague aquatic shapes—he thinks he can see a fish, maybe a squid, too—and the pink of your crest necklace compliments the dark purple you'd painted your nails yesterday in the living room while he was in the bathroom steaming his cosplay parts. You've got a tote bag hanging on your shoulder with pins you've collected over the years and a Digivice clipped onto it—one he also has clipped onto the coin pocket of his shorts.

And, really, it's not that he's surprised or anything—he's not blind, even if his prescription lenses are about as thick as his thermal physics textbook would be if he'd actually gotten a physical copy instead of just pirating it online like he always does—, but you look... nice. He hardly ever sees you dressed up like this, but on the rare occasions you do dress up a bit, it's usually for the stray hangout you join in for with Gojo's larger friend group or one of your friend's birthday parties that he gets an extended invite to as your plus-one.

Point is, he hasn't ever seen you in much else aside from the hoodies and sweats you wear when it's just the two of you and he can't hide behind Nanami so you can't catch him staring with bright eyes.

Which he definitely doesn't do! I mean, what kind of loser has to pretend to care about accounting audits or whatever just to avoid that situation? Definitely not this loser.

And, like, he's not really avoiding that completely hypothetical and totally-didn't-happen-every-time scenario. You do meet eyes at some point when these get-togethers happen, and once you spot him, it's not like he skitters away like a cat. He stays where he is, and because he looks so busy listening to Nanami talk about statement analyses, you tug on your necklace to pull it on top of your clothes, and even from the distance he's always standing away, he can see the crest shine and your Vital Bracelet fit snugly around your wrist. It's almost like you're trying to tell him that even if you've dressed up and gotten more put-together, you're making it obvious you're still you.

Yeah, yeah!

That definitely has never happened.

Nope, never.

. . .

Oh, who is he kidding?

But, come on.

Can really you blame a guy for crushing on a nerd, especially one that’s so cute?

Gojo's sure he's going to get caught with his eyes stuck on you, but, thankfully, he catches you also peeking at him from your side of the room, and his bashfulness is replaced with a fake cockiness he steals from you.

"You know," he teases, turning towards you and fully posing, "you're welcome to take a picture, Princess."

You scrunch your nose at him before averting your eyes. "In your dreams."

Gojo laughs from his belly, both at your equally fake distain and the quiet smile you give back to him, and he quickly zips up his suitcase before standing up to offer you a hand up. He makes a show of not looking into your luggage by putting his glasses on his head and covering his eyes with his other hand, and once he feels your hand slip into his, he's careful not to pull you up too fast so you don't trip over your shoes. You mutter a quick thanks, but Gojo can hardly hear it over the quiet burn he feels at the tips of his ears.

He puts his glasses back on and grabs his wallet from his backpack before he goes over to put on his shoes as you look at yourself in the mirror. In the reflection, he can see you fiddling with your necklace, something he's noticed you do a lot when you're overthinking. "Hey, everything okay?"

"Huh?" You turn over to question him, fingers still pulling your crest side-to-side. "Why wouldn't they be?"

He finishes lacing up his shoes, and he stands awkwardly with his hands in his pockets now. "I mean, I don't know, you look kinda..."

You avoid his gaze by turning back to the mirror, and when he catches you frowning, he immediately rushes to put his hands out and shake his head frantically.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean like that! You look good, promise!"

"...You think so?"

"Are you kidding? You look cute! Super cute, even! I really like your outfit, especially the shoes, and, I mean, you're always pretty!" He scrambles to make himself try to sound like he's not being weird about it, but he can feel himself failing so he changes his approach. "It's just that you seem anxious about something, and I wanted to ask if something was wrong!"

You seem to bite your cheek, still not looking back over at him, but after a slight pause, you make your way over to the door, brushing past him to open the door. "Nothing's wrong, you always worry too much."

"Are you sure?" Gojo frowns, following you out and making sure the door is locked.

"Yes, I'm sure," you roll your eyes, and you lead the way back to the car. Your voice seems nervous, but it doesn't really sound like you're upset. Maybe it's the change in scenery?

He follows you silently, the awkward shuffle of his sneakers loud on the carpet flooring, and when you get to the hotel parking lot, he tries not to annoy you too much when he opens your car door, only unlocking it, holding it open for you to get in, and closing it wordlessly before slipping in next to you. He's never really been all that great at opening that door anyway, no matter how many times he's done it, so it still makes him nervous sometimes to think you'll figure out he's a fraud.

When you've both gotten your seatbelts on, he sits in the silence until you sigh and lean back in your seat, turning to face him in the barely-there sunset light. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to bring the mood down or anything," you say. "Just thinking."

Gojo takes it that you're just too in your head right now, and all he really knows how to do to help is distract you, so he forces a grin and leans over to boop your nose. "Boop."

It seems to startle you enough that your eyes widen, and it annoys you enough that you flush pink and swat his hand away. "What're you doing?"

He laughs and tips his head back, quick to pull his hand back and rest it on the wheel. "Come on, let's just go have some fun!"

You frown, disingenuously this time, and put your elbow on the arm rest to lean your head on your hand. "On second thought, I'll head back to the room."

Gojo smiles, genuinely this time, and he starts the engine, his hand already just behind your shoulder to start reversing out of the spot. "Nope, you're stuck with me tonight, Princess."

He makes it a point to not stare as he's reversing, but he can see you grinning behind your hand.

And, you know, for all the times he's forced himself out of the moment to avoid having to confront his feelings, he's content to stay in this one, where you try so hard to look all unbothered even though he can see your smile turn your eyes into crescents and you steal glances at him to make sure he doesn't notice.

It's cute.

☆

It doesn't take long for the two of you to find somewhere to have dinner.

Not that he'd ever admit it to you, but Gojo'd spent the last couple months looking into the area to look for places nearby that'd be good to take you to, and the restaurant he ends up pulling into is one from that relatively long mental list. Thankfully, they're open late and time is of no issue, but Gojo still can't help but still feel a bit upset that he was out for so much of the day, no matter how many times you reassure him you're just glad he got to rest after such a long drive. To repay your grace, he makes mental note to get the two of you back to the hotel and in bed at a reasonable hour (so, like, before midnight) so you can be equally well-rested for the convention tomorrow.

It also doesn't take long to order and get food delivered to your table, half because neither of you have worked up that big an appetite to have to order much more than an entrée for each of you, half because the city has started to go to sleep and not too many people are out and about.

Honestly, Gojo's just glad he's managed to keep his cool for long enough to get through the first half of dinner without breaking too much of a sweat, but he doesn't really get much chance to pay attention to that anyway, enamored in the way your eyes light up as you tell him the small stories you collected from your exploration of the hotel while he asleep.

Sounds like a real adventure, filling up the ice bucket and stealing an apple from the lobby refreshments area. You even brought a carton of strawberry milk you'd gotten from the vending machine back to the room for him, the thought behind the gesture forcing him to hide behind the lie of his face being red because of how spicy his food is (which it definitely is not).

It also doesn't take long for Gojo to excuse himself and retreat to the restroom to call Suguru in a panic to tell him how nervous he's been all night, unable to keep up with the racing pace of his heart when he's with you. He knows his best friend is used to this (and, unfortunately, will laugh in his face about it whenever he has the chance to), but Gojo can't help it! The man offers virtually no advice, only teasing him over the line about how helpless he is, but he's with Shoko, so Gojo demands that the phone gets handed over to her so she can actually help him.

Turns out she's too busy on her own phone to get a word in, but whatever. Gojo has to get back to the table anyway so you don't think he's avoiding you on purpose (which he isn't! At least not for unsavory reasons).

But what does take long is the actual conversation him and you have over the now-empty plates between you. He couldn't say for certain how long it's been since you've finished eating (...actually, he can: it's been an hour and forty-three minutes), but he feels right at home with you going over the convention schedule for the millionth time to make sure you're well-prepared for tomorrow, so he's in no rush to stop talking. You'd gone over the schedule yesterday, too, but there's more finality in the way it's discussed now with an excitement that's everything all at once.

And Gojo's not a total asshole, so he orders as many desserts as his heart desires (so, uh, all of them) to make sure the two of you aren't hogging the table for that long without paying. You're still nursing the slice of cake you'd gotten at the start of sweets hour, but Gojo makes sure to invite you to try all the treats he gets for himself, too, and he doesn't bother hiding his shy smile when you occasionally dip into his small dishes with your dessert fork.

The conversation reaches its natural end when, after paying the bill (... and after much protest from you), Gojo takes the last bit of his dessert in his spoon and holds it out to you, a lazy grin on his face. "Want the last bite?"

You raise a brow. "You don't?"

And, well, admittedly, yes, Gojo would love to have this last bite for himself—it has a bit of cream, a bit of cake, a bit of strawberry, a bit of jam—but you hadn't gotten the chance to steal from his parfait because you were so occupied while you were talking about the panelists you were excited to see, and he figures you deserve it more than he does.

He shakes his head with a half-smile, holding his spoon closer to you. "Nah, go ahead."

You pause for a second before shrugging. "Sure."

He expects you to take the spoon from him, but instead, you lean forward and take the bite, both your hands tucking the front strands of your hair behind your ears. It throws Gojo off-guard, both the act and the fact you come off as so nonchalant about it while he's forced to grip onto the handle of his spoon with all the strength in his body so you don't realize his hands are shaking.

He could just about pass out when the realization hits him that you've just indirectly kissed him, but he manages to hold it together because you pull back just as quickly as you came forward to chew the sweet.

. . .

Honestly, the rest of that exchange is a blur. He awkwardly laughed to try and distract from all the thoughts fogging up his brain, you looked at him like he grew a Dark Flower from his head, and he whisked you back to the car to escape the stuffy room he could no longer breathe in.

You weren't exactly ready to head back so soon, suggesting a drive around to relax for a bit longer and seeing if there was anything to do around the city, so that brings Gojo to right now, with you laid back in the passenger seat with your eyes wandering in all directions while he aimlessly drives around. It starts feeling a bit hopeless when, after a few kilometers, all the buildings have got their lights off, only streetlights to guide him through the summer night, but there's a silent agreement hanging in the air that even if it ends here, the day was never wasted. Gojo's a bit disappointed he didn't get to surprise you how he wanted because he got up so late, though, but driving past wouldn't hurt—

Wait, it closes at midnight?

Okay, nevermind! Change of plans! Uh, well, more like changing back of plans to what he originally wanted to do, but change of plans!

Gojo's aware he's already not the greatest driver. Safe, yes, but anxious, scared, passive? Also, yes, so he's entirely practiced in the art of holding out his arm so his passenger doesn't fly forward and he has to pay them out in DTCG SRs to keep them from reporting him to the police.

He holds out his arm in front of you as he accelerates and makes a sharper turn, and, even though it's not a rough change, it still startles you enough when you jolt slightly forward that you hold onto him to steady yourself again.

"Gojo! What're you doing!?"

"Surprise!"

"What?!" By this point, you let go of his arm and just hold onto the grab handle instead (probably because you notice that he's only got one hand on the wheel and he'd fare much better with, you know, both of them on there), but Gojo just giggles through your empty anger as he follows the signs in the dark. "If you fucking kill us, I'm taking your EX-7 Textured Cendrillmon for myself!"

He's not even going that fast, though, it just feels like he's speeding enough relative to how slow he'd been cruising just a second ago!

"Yes, I'm going to kill us by driving the speed limit," he deadpans. "And I love you, but you are not going anywhere near my EX-7 Cendrillmons, Textured or otherwise."

He can hear you readjusting your grip on the handle looser before eventually letting go, and after you shift around in your seat a bit, moving the seat straighter-up than the recline it was just in, you clear your throat. "Where are we even going?"

"You'll see," he says, making another turn (carefully, this time) to follow the signage. "Close your eyes for me, Princess?"

"Oh, great," you wail, "you're really gonna drive us into a ditch. Whatever, end my misery, I'm sick of you."

"Aw, don't be like that," he brings his hand over to ruffle your hair to loosen you up. "You know you love me."

Gojo immediately pulls his hand back to hold onto the wheel to merge lanes, and he catches you grumbling and crossing your arms as he's checking his blind spot. Unfortunately, no cars around for him to call for a DNA Digivolve, but you've got your eyes closed now, so he'll take that as a win.

He happily hums to himself as he continues driving in the near-dark, eventually pulling up to the machines. He sticks his arm out the window to grab the parking ticket, and because it's so late out, it's not too difficult to find parking. Gojo puts the car into park, and before you can open your eyes again, he rushes to your door to open it and grab your hand to lead you up. "No peeking, got it? We're almost there."

"Ugh, you're so insufferable," you groan, and even though he's 100% sure you're rolling your eyes, you let him put his hand over them and hold his other hand to safely get to standing. Once you're up, Gojo locks the car, and he keeps hold of your hand to guide you to the entrance.

The two of you fall into a familiar walking pace, and Gojo can't fight off the grin on his face as he swings his hand in yours. He'll ignore the feeling of comfort he gets from his fingers laced with yours in exchange for the adventure ahead. You squeeze his hand every so often, probably nervous that he's dragging you without any caution thrown to the wind, but you seem to trust him enough to let him lead, so he's got to be doing something right.

Right?

Gojo spots where he needs to go to grab your tickets and rushes over as quickly as possible, though still careful not to walk too fast and accidentally trip you. He holds up a peace sign to the attendant to ask for two tickets, and after tapping his card and thanking the worker, he walk the both of you to the huge sign just above the ticket check, and he lets go of your hand to instead hover his over your eyes from behind you.

"Okay, okay, ready?"

"Gojo, if we're just at the hotel and you're pranking me right now, I'm gonna make sure you never see Agumon again.”

He chuckles heartily and gently tips your head up to face towards the sign. “Well, looks like you've caught me.” Gojo moves and puts his hands on your shoulders from behind, then leans forward so he can watch your reaction. “Okay, pretty girl, open your eyes!”

And, truly, he doesn't think he could be any happier than he is now.

Your eyes flutter open, and immediately, the exasperated look on your face is replaced with one of wonder. Your eyes glitter under the low lights, and you immediately turn to look at him in disbelief. Your hand immediately goes to play with your necklace, but he can tell it's only because you don't know what else to do.

“Gojo!”

The young man grins, and he tilts his head teasingly. “Yes?”

“I had no idea Ikebukuro Aquarium was even open this late! And there's an Ikebukuru event for Hacker's Memory, too! Oh my gosh, Gojo, thank you, thank you!” You gush, and you throw your arms around his neck to abruptly hug him.

Immediately, Gojo clenches his eyes closed to keep from screaming in excitement, but he tries his best to snicker back at you, careful not to let you see his face right now as he's fully red by now. “You're such a fake fan, how could you not know there was an Ikebukuru summer event this month?”

Well, not like he knew either until just a few minutes ago (he knew about the event, but he had no idea it meant the aquarium was open so much later than usual), but you didn't need to know that. Thank goodness for the banner he saw on the road earlier with the operating hours on it.

Ordinarily, he'd expect you to pull away and slap his arm for that accusation, but you seem too caught up in the moment to do that, only giggling in his ear. You let go of him quickly enough, though, his skin now cold with the loss of your touch, and you hold his hand in yours to pull him to get through the gates. Amidst his initial stumbles and the new warmth where your palm meets his, he hold out both your tickets to the attendant, and she scans them quickly before handing Gojo two paper maps and wishing you both a good evening.

Your eyes look every which way, but once you've settled down just enough for Gojo to get a word in, he swings his hand in yours to bring you back down to earth. “Okay, where do you wanna go first?”

He holds out his map to look at between the two of you, and you trace the outer ring with your finger. “Let's work our way into the middle.”

“Whatever you want, Princess,” he says, and he points to your bag to ask for permission to put the maps inside. You quickly pull it off your shoulders and hold it open for him. He swiftly slides in the papers, and he takes the tote from you and slings it on his own arm.

You look up at him curiously. “Uh, Gojo?”

“...Yes?”

“You don't have to carry my bag.”

“Nah, I want to,” he says as cooly as he can (which, uh, probably isn't all that cool anyway, but part of the act is looking off in another direction, so he thinks that saves him).

Besides, Gojo remembers one of your friends, Choso, telling him at a board game night once that you've always had trouble with the straps of your bags constantly slipping off your shoulders (...because your bag had just split out all the Jenga pieces on the floor a few seconds prior, and Gojo thought him and the rest of your friends were evil for laughing at you). He figures now is as good a time as any to actually use that information to make this night more enjoyable for you.

“Thank you,” you tell him genuinely, a smile on your face as you circle around to get right up next to him. “Let's go see some fish then, yeah?” You say it so softly, like you haven't got a care in the world right now and your eyes are only on him.

Gojo gulps and quickly blinks to make sure you're not an illusion.

Then he blinks again to make sure he's not dreaming.

Then he blinks again to take him back to the moment, and he shyly skitters after you as you lead the way down the aisles of sea creatures, the pink in your necklace lit up under the blue marine lights around you.

And, admittedly, Gojo didn't think walking around and looking at fish could be that fun. Sure, there's some Hacker's Memory motifs scattered around that he loves and a few other nods to the franchise in-between exhibits, but there's only so many ways to describe fish and cephalopods and pinnipeds and cetaceans and all the other types of marine life before they all start to blend together. You seem to also get a bit bored of reading all the information on the stands in front of the exhibits, too, but Gojo's lucky that you're both such dorks that you find your own little way to have fun apart from comparing the different fish you see to people you know.

It doesn't take long for you to realize that all the info stands have NFC readers on them; your Vital Bracelet keeps initiating battles when your hand is resting on them. Gojo notices the battle screens before you do because you're too responsible and always remember to turn off your volume when you're in places you should be quiet, so before you can figure out what's going on, he rushes to hold your wrist so he can battle on your behalf.

Of course, your Calamaramon wins without any real effort on his part, but you thank him like he's a hero anyway, eager to return the favor by grabbing his wrist, tapping it on the NFC, and triggering a battle with his Greymon.

And judge him all you want for just standing there like an idiot while you do it! God forbid a guy lets his crush hold his hand like he's actually someone important to her!

Gojo remembers what part of the Vital Bracelet manual talks about battles. It's indexed as item 10—he’s got the number burned into his brain because he couldn't figure out how to get the mechanic to start when he first got his VB. He didn't realize he needed to digivolve to rookie level first and felt pretty silly for missing that part of the manual, but hey! At least he remembers all the rules now.

Item 10.

10.

That's the number he counts to everytime you move onto the next exhibit and there's a new NFC to tap his bracelet again, and that’s the number of seconds he holds his breath when it's his turn to tap yours.

And, look.

It's not like all he cares about is Digimon (promise!), but it's the only thing he knows enough about all-around that he can think of to never run out of references to distract himself.

From life, from school, from his problems, from you.

Somehow, though, there still aren't enough ways for him to pull away from you and your spinning figure as you traverse through the aquarium, no matter how badly he wants to keep his heart steady for the sake of his friendship with you (and his VB stats).

He can't escape the way your lips part when you see a sea bunny that you say reminds you of a Yuramon (even if he thinks it looks more like a Pafumon) and a penguin that reminds you of Megumi, face sour and hair all spiky.

He can't escape the way your hands move as you explain to another person who asks about your VB how it works. You beckon Gojo to come closer so you can show them how well he's raised his stats, and even if he's too busy being worried that you'll click over to look at his heart rate monitor and catch him, his heart warms seeing you talk so animatedly.

He can't escape the way your eyebrows furrow as you watch the sea turtles float above you, trying to count the shapes on their shells with your finger pointing towards them. Gojo tries to follow along and also keep count, but they all seem to refuse to turn for him to get the count of hexagons on their other side, but that's fine with him.

And he certainly can't escape the way you smile at him. Suguru's gonna be so sick of him later when Gojo will inevitably hide underneath the covers to text him about his romantic dilemma, but he can't help it.

What's he even meant to say?

suguru her smile reminds me of all good things on earth and makes me want to be a better person and idk go run a triathalon with zero training i cant take it anymore please put me in a coma rn so i can remember it forever im so srs i cant ever forget this pls i can die happy now

Yeah, no, it's gonna look something more like:

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

But, in-between all the other grander moments, Gojo's still able to relax. It's not like he's on the verge of bursting into melodramatic song every time you're near.

You'll call him closer to the tank, and he'll take off his glasses to marvel at the slow-travelling shark right in front of him.

In the summer heat, you chase his fingers to hold between your palms to cool down. It works out perfectly because your warmer hands keep him from freezing, and it's nice to be able to take a second away from all the other visitors who are hustling to get through everything.

No matter how excited you are, you do still start to get more drowsy as the moon rises. He feigns an ache at the back of his ankles to have an excuse for you both to sit down and just stare at the sky while you gather back your energy, and he's sure you know he's totally bullshitting when you roll your eyes at him before yawning behind your hand, but you still let him drag you back to a bench.

You get distracted by all the colorful marine life all too often, and Gojo takes to snapping candid photos of you on his phone while you wander around, head in the clouds as you wave hello to all the critters and coral. He's not all that great at taking pictures, his hands clumsy and unpracticed, but he thinks that hardly matters when you're in frame.

You catch him a few times and, instead of teasing him about it, you rope him in to stand right next to you to have a passerby take a picture of the two of you together in front of whatever it was you were enamored in, and once Gojo's phone gets handed back to you, you snap a more carefree selfie with the two of you and your crests glowing, cheeks flushed blue.

The two of you end the evening at the center of the aquarium, fully surrounded by an overhead dome of water, and you both look up, backs to one another and watching the moon through the waves. The silence is unpracticed and out of the ordinary for you, but it's comforting all the same as all the chatter and talk. All the colors of the sea swirl above Gojo, whose heart has accepted that it has no other owner than the young woman whose hands share the same calluses he does from all the studying you do.

The drive back to the hotel is equally as peaceful, your eyes closed and his glued straight to the road. He lets his GPS guide him back, and while neither of you really speak much, he's more than happy to unlock his phone for you to look at the pictures from the night and show him when he's at red lights. You send them all back to yourself, a few photos of you and Gojo to your friends, and all the embarrassing duo shots of you both posing like anime characters to his friends.

He lets you shower first so you don't fall asleep waiting, even after you insist that you're going to take forever. He practically has to force you to take the towel and gather your pajamas and toiletries, but whatever frustration he had over your stubbornness are gone when, through the door, he hears you yelp as the cold water from the showerhead hits you.

With a boisterous laugh, he walks over to the mini fridge to grab the strawberry milk you'd gotten him earlier in the afternoon, and he sips on that while he texts Suguru to tell him that he, in, fact, survived the evening without having to call for emergency services to resuscitate him. He takes his own shower soon after, grateful that you both warmed it up and are now in bed to catch up on your sleep, and he brushes his teeth with a quiet smile as he waits for his hair to dry off a bit.

When he comes back to the main area of the room, Gojo tries his best not to make too much noise as he's closing the door to the bathroom, but looking towards the bed, he sees that the lamp on the shared nightstand is still on and you're still awake. He quietly walks over and gets into bed, frown on his face as you shyly wave from under the covers. Once he's firmly settled in, he turns to face you across the space between your beds.

"Why are you still awake?" Gojo asks in a whisper.

"Wanted to say goodnight," you smile, snuggling in further into your blankets. "And, thank you. For taking me out today."

"Aw, you're so sweet. You're welcome," Gojo says in earnest, stretching happily and pulling another pillow underneath his head. "You have fun?"

"Of course I did! I had a great time," you tell him, rolling onto your side to look at him. "Did you?"

Gojo snorts, rolling his eyes playfully. "I'm offended you're even asking."

"Oh, bite me," you groan. "You're so annoying."

Gojo's gaze is steady on you as you fume, moving your hair out of your eyes and blowing away what strands keep getting caught in your mouth. When you notice he's staring, you freeze like a deer in headlights and your cheeks go pink.

"You know," Gojo bites back a laugh and shakes his head at you, reaching his arm across and miming the motion of petting your hair to calm you. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're falling for me."

There's a beat of silence as your eyes meet his again, hair all messy again and arms tangled, before you scoff, reaching behind yourself to throw one of your spare pillows at him with a huff.

Jokes on you, he's not giving it back now.

Gojo chuckles, letting the pillow hit him and fall on the floor between your beds, and he shakes his head good-naturedly, clicking his tongue. "Sorry, sorry, I jest."

"Yeah, suits you a lot better than 'Prince.'"

Gojo chuckles again, this time contagious enough to get you laughing at your own joke, which is all he can really ask for. He waits for you to get all your giggles out before he struggles against his drowsiness to reach out from under the covers to pick up the pillow, then he hovers his hand over the lamp's off switch.

As he watches you cozy yourself to sleep, your form still peacefully turned to him, for just a second, Gojo wonders if it could ever be anything but a joke: you falling for him.

To him, that's all it ever could be, but with your eyes now closed and your hair haphazardly spread out across your pillows, he supposes it wouldn't hurt to indulge in the thought. With a shaky breath, he takes off his glasses to stare up at the ceiling, pretending there's no space between your beds and the pillow beneath his arm is your sleeping form.

And, because he's so selfish, he'll give himself 10 seconds.

10 seconds to pretend you think of him whenever you see two cats snuggled up against each other in their sleep.

10 seconds to pretend your dreams are of him whisking you away on adventures to the Digital World.

10 seconds to pretend you look at him the same way he does.

It's too bad that his 10 seconds are already gone before he can come up with much else grander than those simple things, but before he feels himself slipping away into dreamland, he turns his head to look at you one last time before closing his eyes.

"Sleep well, and sweet dreams," he smiles one last time before finally turning off the light, hoping to himself that you might still be awake to hear him one last time tonight.

"Goodnight, Princess."

#nerd gojo #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #nerdjo

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cuddly-t0y · 1 day ago

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True! The Beatles tried with Magical Mystery Tour but we all know how influential that was (no one talks about it) But also I'm sure y'all know A Hard Day's Night is what inspired the Monkees at all in the first place.

I do really think though there's merit to comparing and contrasting Head and MMT (I'm not writing the whole thing I'm sorry) though so with my super vague memories I'll do that.

OP I'm so sorry to hijack your post and throw an essay in your rbs but I've had this in my brain for years and I can finally word it right

Ok the scenes that match up the most to me are the objectifying women scenes, but I want to point something out. Can You Dig It in addition to being a fucking fire ass song, is not too objectifying in the grand scheme of things. Belly dancers come on, vibe, and hang out with the Monkees. Fun drug trip. (Also no gif for this scene, I looked man)

MMT, you get to go to a strip club. No fucking reason, shit's off the rails. Boobs everywhere. I'm not kidding either, and we don't get to see Jan Carson strip to a Beatles song. Those vibes are very weird and there's a big reason why no one talks about it. It also serves as a really fascinating piece of history I guess.

Probably tied are obviously Circle Sky and Your Mother Should Know in terms of most similar visual presentation too. The boys got the white suits, they're performing, it's fun.

Your Mother Should Know is also a bop, which is kinda rare for me to say about the Beatles don't kill me please. The rhythm and tone reminds me of Cuddly Toy (hey my username :p) and there's very much a lightness to it. I think they threw it in because they needed something for the fans to vibe to after not knowing wtf is happening for half the movie. Fun, cute, not overplayed. (You could argue Daddy's Song also is a good candidate especially musically, but I decided to do visual elements of both, and I've written a lot about Daddy's Song on here. I want to do something else)

Circle Sky is like the song everyone loves for good reason. Mike sounds fucking awesome singing it, and I feel his voice on this track is what americana means to me. This song with the country rock energy with the drums and shit is unapologetically American to its core and the touches of country that the Monkees have in other albums is perfected. I have to restrain myself from singing CIRCLE SKY at max volume along with Mike whenever I put this on in public. Coupled with the commentary of how they were products to be consumed rabidly by fans, I think this is a fan favorite for good reason.

In short, I feel Magical Mystery Tour has some highlights (Blue Jay Way, Your Mother Should Know, Fool on The Hill) but it's just weird because they had the money to be weird at this point in their lives. Head is to me a much more thoughtful movie, and I love the whole soundtrack. Was it career ending for them? Arguably yes. But it was a beautiful ending and I'm so glad people know about it and are appreciating what it brought to the table.

#the monkees #head 1968 #the beatles #magical mystery tour #mod speaks #hi I'm really not dead :)

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fwaist · 19 hours ago

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idk how you manage to make porn sound beautiful your writing is sooo good,, could i request D from the nsfw alphabet for carmy??🙏🙏🌸 please and thank you

😭😭 thank you so much, this is seriously such high praise! i’ve definitely spent a lot of time honing my craft, so i’m happy that it’s paying off! now, enjoy getting let in on carmy’s dirty little secret…

d is for dirty secret | carmen berzatto

warnings: explicit sex, degradation (consensual), emotional vulnerability, power dynamics, aftercare, past trauma mention (work-related stress), crying, dom/sub elements

tags: @destinedtobegigi, @pittsick, @bambiangels, @talsorchard, @angeldoll1e, @itachisank, @tennisprincess, @lexiiscorect, @esotericgirlwannabe, @lovefaist, @won-every-lottery, @zionna

It doesn’t come out easily. Nothing ever does with Carmy—not the good things, not the soft things, and definitely not this. He’s too guarded, too clenched behind the ribcage he built out of guilt and grief and sharp-edged expectations. Sex, for him, was always something that existed in theory. He’d had it, sure. Here and there, quick and forgettable. Mostly desperate. Never deep. Never slow. Never safe. And never like this—with someone patient enough to wait for the real him to come out, for the parts he doesn’t understand, the ones he’s afraid to want.

It starts one night with him restless beneath you, half-sweaty, half-high from the way your mouth had ruined him earlier, his chest rising sharp and fast like it always does when his brain’s spinning. You’re curled over him, sticky from his come, his hands still trembling a little on your waist. And you whisper it again—what you’ve been asking for days now, soft and coaxing at the seam of his ear.

“Tell me what you want.”

He’d brushed it off every time. With a shrug. A scoff. A smile so fake it could’ve been carved out of soap. But now, with his body unraveled under you and his walls cracked just wide enough to bleed, he gives you something real.

It’s barely a whisper.

The kind of truth that feels like it might fall apart if he says it any louder.

“I want you to… talk down to me,” he breathes, like he hates himself for saying it. Like the words are burning their way up his throat.

You don’t react at first. You don’t laugh, or blink, or flinch—and that’s what keeps him from shutting down. Just you, breathing steady, still wrapped around him like warmth itself. Your hand rests flat over his ribs, right where his heart stutters like a wounded animal. You feel it when he says the next part, even softer.

“Like, really mean. Tell me I’m fucking lucky. That I don’t deserve it.” He closes his eyes, shame flickering behind his lashes. “Tell me I’m not good at it. That my dick’s big but I don’t know how to use it. Just—fuck with me. I want that. I think.”

There’s silence between you for a beat. A long one. Weighted like a decision.

You kiss the underside of his jaw, gentle, slow. Your voice stays low, careful, reverent in a way that makes him shiver.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Why?”

He turns his head, eyes still shut. His breath catches. Like he’s scared you’ll ask, and even more scared you won’t.

“I used to get screamed at every day,” he says. “New York kitchens. Every service. Every fucking hour. About things I couldn’t fix. About things that weren’t my fault. I’d throw up before shifts sometimes. Wake up with my heart pounding so hard I couldn’t breathe. And no one gave a shit. You just kept your head down. You took it. Or you left.”

He swallows.

“But when you do it—when you say those things—I’m not alone in it. I’m not scared. You still want me. You’re still inside me, on me, with me… whatever. I can take it. It makes it feel like… power, I guess. Like I get to choose it, this time.”

The words bleed into the dark between you, soft and aching. He’s not looking at you, not even now. He’s never looked so open and so closed at once—shoulders tense, jaw sharp, but his chest… wide open. Exposed. Like a wound that stopped bleeding and never learned to scar.

You take your time before responding. You run your thumb over the ridge of his hip, feel the tremor in his leg as your palm drags down the muscle of his thigh. He’s still half-hard. The confession didn’t scare his body like it scared his voice.

“Okay,” you say again, slow and deliberate. “I’ll say whatever you want. I’ll be so fucking mean.”

He groans at that, almost involuntarily. His cock twitches between you, already starting to swell.

“But I want you to listen, too,” you add, leaning in, brushing your mouth over the corner of his. “When it’s over. When I say the other stuff. The real stuff. You gonna be able to do that, Carmen?”

His eyes open finally. Wide. Blue. Fragile.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I want that, too.”

So you rise to your knees over him, slow and deliberate, watching the way his gaze trails up the length of your body like it’s a prayer he doesn’t know the words to. He’s beautiful in this light—hair a mess of curls, collarbones sharp and flushed, chest still marked where you bit him earlier. He doesn’t look away when you reach down and wrap your hand around him again.

He’s thick in your palm. Heavy, flushed pink with arousal, veins standing out with the blood rushing under his skin. His head tips back again as you stroke him, your thumb grazing the slit—wet, slick, leaking already like the need never really left him.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Please.”

“You are lucky,” you say, your voice sharpening just a little, steel under silk. “You don’t even know how fucking lucky you are, do you?”

His eyes flutter. He pants.

“You get to fuck me, Berzatto. And you don’t even know what you’re doing. All this dick and no clue how to use it.”

He moans. Loud. Desperate. You climb over him again, press the thick head of him against your entrance and watch him come undone.

“God, look at you,” you murmur as you sink down onto him—inch by inch, slow and merciless. “Already losing it. Haven’t even started.”

And he hasn’t. His hands clutch your hips like you’re a lifeline, his chest arched up into yours, breath wild and broken as you bottom out.

You see it in his face—this release of something deeper than lust. Like shame being peeled off layer by layer. Like trauma being rewired by pleasure so sharp it makes him cry out. You ride him slow at first, but the way he bucks up into you, the helpless noises—he’s not going to last. He’s not meant to.

You lean in, fingers gripping his jaw. Your mouth close to his ear.

“Bet they made you feel small, didn’t they?” you hiss. “Made you feel like you weren’t worth shit.” He nods, choked, undone.

“Well now I’m making you feel like that. And you’re fucking hard for it.”

He shouts, hips jerking helplessly under you, his whole body convulsing with the force of it.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking take it.”

And he does. With everything he’s got.

You don’t slow down. You don’t stop—not when he’s this far gone. Not when his eyes are rolling back, not when his jaw’s gone slack and his hands are pawing blindly at your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. His cock is twitching deep inside you, thick and swollen, pulsing like it’s too much for him to hold in. Like he’s going to break apart and you’re the only thing keeping him from floating off the bed entirely.

“You feel that?” you whisper, dragging your hips up and slamming back down—hard enough to knock a sharp gasp out of him. “That’s me doing the work. Not you. You just get to lie there like a good little fucktoy and take it.”

His breath shudders. You can see the way the words hit him—low and deep and hot, turning something in his chest inside out.

His mouth opens, tries to form a sound, but nothing comes out. Just a gasp, a moan, something wrecked. You lean down, mouth against the sweat-damp skin of his neck.

“I could get off on this cock without you even doing a single thing,” you murmur, voice sharp as teeth and sweet as poison. “All that talk about how good you are with your hands, how precise you are in the kitchen—but in bed? You’re fucking useless.”

He groans—full-bodied and helpless. His hands clench on your thighs like he’s in pain, like the pleasure is boiling over and he’s barely holding it in. His face is flushed to his ears, hair stuck to his forehead in damp curls, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching.

You grin—slow, dangerous, almost fond.

“Pathetic,” you hiss. “You’re so goddamn pathetic like this, Carmen. You like that, huh? Being used like this? Being told what a worthless little thing you are?”

His whole body jerks. His back arches off the mattress. “Yes—fuck, yes—don’t stop, please don’t—”

You don’t. You fuck him harder. Faster. The wet sounds of your bodies colliding fill the room, slick and obscene. His cock slips so deep inside you it punches little cries out of your throat, but you don’t stop—not when he’s so close, not when you feel his stomach start to tighten and his legs begin to tremble under you.

You bring your hand to his throat—gentle at first, just resting there, just enough pressure to feel his pulse hammering. His eyes flutter open, dazed and desperate. You don’t squeeze—you don’t have to. The look in your eyes alone has him panting like he’s about to die from it.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” you say, low and firm and mean. “You’re gonna come like a desperate little bitch because I said so. Because you’re mine. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasps. “Please, I—fuck, I’m—”

You slam down on him one more time, and that’s it. His mouth falls open around a silent cry and he comes—hard. Harder than before. Harder than he’s ever come in his life. His whole body seizes beneath you, thighs clenching, spine bowing, his cock kicking deep inside you as he fills you with it—hot and pulsing and endless.

He doesn’t make a sound at first. Just trembles. Just holds on like he’ll die if he lets go. His eyes are glassy, unfocused, wet at the corners like he’s short-circuited, like whatever he just felt was too much to process in real time.

When it finally passes—when the shock stops rolling through his nerves and his body goes soft beneath you—he blinks up at you like he forgot how to speak.

You pull off him slowly, carefully, your thighs trembling as you settle next to him. He’s a mess—chest heaving, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair ruined, come smeared across both your thighs. You reach for a towel and gently wipe him clean, pressing kisses to his jaw, his temple, the corners of his mouth.

He swallows hard. Blinks. Still not quite there yet. You drag your fingers through his curls and wait.

“You okay?” you whisper, soft again. Stripped of cruelty. Honest.

He nods, dazed. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I just—” He lets out a long breath, like something that’s been stuck in him for years finally dislodged. “That was… insane. I didn’t even know I could feel that much.”

You stroke a thumb under his eye, wipe away the tear you hadn’t pointed out.

“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper. “You’re not useless. Not even close. You’re so fucking good, Carmen. And I love you.”

His eyes cut to yours then, sharp and clear, and he smiles—small and warm and real.

“I know,” he murmurs. “You’re sweet.” He leans in, kisses you lazy and slow, tongue dragging against yours like a man drunk on want. Then he laughs, rough and low. “But goddamn, you look so hot when you’re mean.”

You grin against his mouth.

“Lucky for you,” you whisper, “I love being mean to you.”

And from the look in his eyes—hungry, wide, reverent—he knows you mean it.

#𐔌 . fwaist ! ౨ৎ #✦ ⌇ elowyn writes !#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy the bear #carmy berzatto #carmy x reader

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z0mbbiegvrl · 3 days ago

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cartman dating headcanons pretty please??

✮⋆˙ ERIC CARTMAN DATING HEADCANNONS

↳ pairings: eric cartman x reader (can be read for fem/gen)

↳ an: hope you enjoy this! first time writing something JUST for cartman so hopefully i did it justice! if there's any typos, i'm sorry!!

↳ cw: small hints about smut, but this is fluff

↳ mlist

Okay, we all know how big of a little shit Eric is. So when everyone finds out he’s dating someone, people think he is paying you. Not joking, Kyle even asked how much you were being paid when the news about the relationship got out.

He brags about you all the time, but it’s more of an ‘I’m in a relationship and you’re not’ type of bragging. He’ll say ‘[Y/N]’s lucky to have me,’ but he knows that he’s lucky to have you.

Honestly, Eric at this point in his life had a feeling he’d be alone and single for the rest of his life. Knowing how he treated people as a kid and how he tried Heidi, its not shocking for him to consider that but when you came along (or if you’ve been friends your whole life and still chose him) Eric is whipped for you, even if he’d rather claw his eyes out than admit it.

Claims to hate PDA but enjoys when you hold his hand, kiss his cheek, or hug him. When you do it, he’ll complain, but you don’t miss the blush on his face as he looks away from you, grumbling under his breath.

Eric is a very jealous person. It gets to the point where he gets very competitive with impressing you. One time on your first valentines day together, you got a free flower from a random child at the park you two were at and Eric got so huffy puffy about this seven year old that he went to the nearest store, bought a whole bouqet of flowers, heart chocolate box, and a teddy bear while glaring daggers at the kid and his parents.

Speaking of glaring, Eric is always doing it. Anyone he thinks could be a threat to your relationship, he’s already giving that person a death stare. Is it toxic, yeah. But he hasn’t acted on it by forcing you to change your lifestyle, believe it or not. He trusts you, sometimes. He just knows that you could find someone better than him, and he doesn’t want to lose you.

When you catch him being jealous, you tease him about it. He’ll get super pouty. Honestly, Eric will get pouty if you tease him anytime, even if it’s not him being jealous. He’ll pretend to be hurt, but really, he likes the banter. I cannot see him being with someone who can’t banter with him, like it’s Eric, that’s just who he is. He’s toned down as he’s gotten older, but he respects and enjoys a good back-and-forth.

He likes to call you over to his house to ‘study’, but really, he just wants to be near you. Doesn’t care about what you two do, even if it’s just sitting in his room on your phones occasionally showing each other videos. He just enjoys your presence; he finds it comforting.

If you’re upset, he’ll try his best to comfort you in his way. Which usually consists of crude jokes and awkward attention to you. But please try not to cry in front of him, his brain is short-circuited, and he’ll go into panic mode to try and fix what’s wrong with you.

Keeps a photo of you in his wallet, you’re both his home and lock screen. His lock screen is an ugly photo of both of you, while his homescreen, which anyone rarely sees, is a photo he took of you on your first date; he thought you looked just so beautiful that he knew he had to look at it all the time.

If you two are fighting, he’ll try to gaslight you, but he’ll give up when you realize you won’t give in/will gaslight him back. That’s why you two work so well, you don’t let him treat you how he treated people in the past, and he finds that very attractive about you. After a fight, and you will be shocked, he’s the one who comes back first and makes things right. You’re the best thing that happened to him, and he won’t let his issues take you away.

He’s the best person to cuddle with. Still being a chubby guy, he’s warm and super soft to lie on. Most nights, he’ll ‘allow’ you to lie on him to fall asleep, and I say allow because he’ll act like he doesn’t want you to do it, and you’re being so strange, but really, he likes feeling your soft breath while you sleep. He’ll softly rub your back and hair, whisper soft words to you when he knows you’re knocked out, but once you’re slightly up, he’ll start acting like this has been an inconvenience to him.

You will not be able to pry this HC from my cold, dead hands, but Eric genuinely loves his mom and wanted her to meet you and love you just as much as he does.

Liane is so sweet when she finally meets you. At first, she was a little worried her son had found someone with the same ‘little temper’ that her boy has, but she was pleasantly surprised just to see how much of a difference you were. Liane gives me the vibe of mentioning marriage and kids during your first meeting dinner. Eric will get whiny about that out of being embarrassed. She can see that you softened his little poopsykins' sharp edges.

Will bring you up in any conversation he’s in, regardless of the topic. It could be something so random like Stan saying he’s stopping at the store and Eric saying ‘[Y/N] likes the candy from this store’ and it’s literly the most basic store ever. He’ll brag about your accomplishments and things you can do.

If you two ever get intimate, his aftercare is weirdly very sweet? He’ll clean you up, if you wanna shower, he’ll get that ready for you. He’ll get you something to drink, eat, tuck you in, and make sure you have all you need before he pretends like he doesn’t care how you feel now and goes back to doing his own thing. God forbid you tell him he did a good job, he’ll be all, ‘I know I did,’ but he’s all giddy that he could make you feel that way. (If you want more on this, ask!!)

#zombbiesworksଳ #south park #south park x reader #sp #sp x reader #south park x you #eric cartman #eric cartman x reader #south park fanfic #dating headcanons #south park eric cartman #south park x y/n #eric cartman x you #eric cartman x y/n #sp cartman #south park cartman

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blairdii · 21 hours ago

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do you know what i think?

i feel like all these people who hate lando are the same people who said that they would break the generational trauma cycle but think it doesn’t count on the internet because they still need some sort of outlet for that trauma.

like, they hate him for being sensitive and wearing his heart on his sleeve, because maybe someone in their life made them feel bad about being sensitive or made them feel like wearing your heart on your sleeve is a bad thing to do. they were called weak for doing that. so now they’re calling lando weak.

they hate him for having an ego, even though he’s not got as much ego as other drivers. maybe because they were taught that doing anything for yourself is selfish and shows that you’re egotistical. so him winning and him wanting to win makes him selfish and egotistical.

they hold him accountable for things he said six years ago. like they get held accountable for saying things they don’t even remember anymore, and they’ve suppressed everything that someone else said because they can’t hold them accountable.

they hate him because he hasn’t suffered enough for not being confident or whatever, that he had supportive parents, and more importantly, rich parents. because it’s drilled into their heads that only suffering = mental health problems. a rich, white guy in a rich sport is not suffering, he’s living the dream life.

they hate him because lando blames himself instead of the team or the car, except they hear him blaming the team or the car. just like when they were blaming themselves but someone else changed it completely and twisted their words to take it that they’re blaming someone else.

they hate him for having a life and travelling while also being good on track. because they were told that to focus on something, you have to let go of everything else, and now they’ve achieved that dream but they’re still alone.

they hate him for having emotions, because they were taught that emotion makes you weak and vulnerable and should never be seen by other people. how dare he have the privilege to be open about his emotions and they don’t?

they hate him for wanting to be the best, because they wanted to be the best too but someone compared them to someone else and made them feel like shit, so now they’re comparing him to someone else.

they hate him for wanting to earn every win, because it reminds them of how much blood sweat and tears they gave for their dreams and wished that a little luck would’ve helped them out instead of someone else.

they hate him for not being ruthless, because again, they were taught that being ruthless will help you achieve anything and everything, and they can’t fathom the idea that someone gentle was on his way to achieving his dreams.

they hate him for opening up about his life because they think he wants sympathy. no one gave them sympathy, or even empathy when they were growing up, so why should he get any?

idk if a lot of this made sense or not. it’s my post exam brain. but, some of the reasons that antis use to hate on lando could just be linked to trauma… of course there are people who are plain bullies too and like to hurt someone else to make themselves feel better. but idk… have fun reading this, i guess?

you are so right. a lot of them have unprocessed trauma, and it's so palpable in the way they treat lando. they can externalise all the feelings they've repressed unto him because they know they're never going to face the consequences for it.

and frankly speaking? most of them will never break their generational cycle of misfortune. if they can't comprehend how their actions and words affect another living human being despite there being a disconnect (in one way or another), then they don't have the maturity nor the emotional intelligence to not pass that on to their children. it's why i always say "we're in big 2025 and still making fun of people for their mental struggles?" because we're in times too progressive to be doing this. it's sad, it's pathetic, and atp too many fans crave validation from the majority that they'd rather have moral failings than just accept being the few who are disliked for being right and speaking truth.

people cannot compute the fact that their trauma or past experiences isn't an excuse to treat people the way they do, and as they grow up they'll realise that they definitely will not got scot free like they would online after battering lando to hell and back, and that life is beyond a phone screen.

a lot of them also can't understand how lando trangresses everything that's expected of a high performance athlete. men will come at him for being mentally weak and "feminine" or not "masculine enough" because they've got this warped perception of success as a man. it's why male fans would, so weirdly, be like 'yeahhh the abuse max got wasn't good BUT it made him the driver he is today so it's not all bad'.

they're never gonna break their trauma because they haven't realised how to live without it. they haven't realised that you don't have to abide by a certain criteria to do well, so they'll take it out on lando and continue to tell him he's not good enough and how he 'needs a mentor to fix his mentality'.

drivers are not robots, they're people with feelings and emotions just as much as we have them. i'm not gonna sit here and tell someone to shut up about their struggles when being open about it is not only a way to educate people and say 'hey, even us athletes, at the pinnacle of our sport, struggle too', but also to supplement that with encouragement and say 'so you can be open about your challenges, it's not a bad thing'.

lando is the most emotionally mature and intelligent driver on that grid. no fan can convince otherwise, and he will be remembered in 100 years for what he's done. being hated for being human is quite memorable no?

#i hope this made sense #heh #anon ask ☆#wyr anon ⁉️#lando norris #ln4 #f1 #formula 1

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starlighthosh · 3 days ago

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I recently had a dream about talking bullshit with Jeonghan in the middle of the night and now I need it in a ff. Maybe also one of them falling asleep mind sentence. I appreciate it🤍

That sounds like such a good dream. In mine there are just flying pigs singing dance monkey while I’m being chased by Chris Hemsworth. Hope you enjoy!

1:00am - y.jh

1:00 am looks different for every couple. Some were already in dreamland, some fought and some did the dirty love-act.

But there were also couples like you and Jeonghan. You were the ones that talked absolute bullshit, feeling your brain cells die with every sentence. That time though, it was the most special time. Especially in a relationship like this.

Since Jeonghan is an idol and Seventeen gets more recognition with each year, they clearly also get busier. So it also became harder to go on dates or just enjoy a free day together, without anyone interrupting.

But in the silence of your bedroom, it was just the two of you and you made sure, that it was the most memorable time.

“You know, birds are actually smarter than humans” Jeonghan stated out of nowhere. “What?” you asked confused, turning your head to him. “Yeah, the smaller the brain, the smarter you are. Birds have a pretty small brain” he explained. “But isn’t their brain still big for their size?” “But it’s still smaller than human brains”

Jeonghan was the type of guy, where you never know if he just said the smartest thing or the dumbest thing in the world. Somehow, he still always manages to gaslight you into believing every word from him.

“Okay okay, do you think you have a small or a big brain?” you excitedly asked him. “Isn’t that clear? I have a small brain, perfectly fitting to your big brain” he grinned, caressing your cheek with his hand. You melted into his touch. “That’s the cutest thing you’ve said in a while” you awed. Then it hit you.

“Hold on, did you just call me stupid?” you realized. Jeonghan bursted out laughing, covering his face while you playfully hit him with a pillow. “You’re unbelievable” you scoffed, turning your back to him.

He layed his head on your shoulder. “Are you mad?” he teased you. You ignored him. He gently grabbed your chin and turned your head towards him, placing a soft kiss on your lips. “You’re so cute” he admired.

A smile creeped on your lips again. He nuzzled his face into your neck, taking a deep breath of your smell, groaning in satisfaction. You felt your eyelids getting heavy, closing them and giving into your tiredness.

“Did you also know that some frogs can freeze without dying?” he let out as another fun fact. “How did we got from brains to this?” you tiredly asked, giggling at the sudden switch. “But isn’t that super interesting?” “Totally” you sarcastically agreed.

“We should try that out with Eisa, to see if it’s true” Jeonghan suggested. “You do realize that Minghao is not Hoshi, right? He’s a human, not a frog” you declined his suggestion. “It’s worth a try” he insisted. “Wow.. you’re really…”.

Jeonghan looked over your shoulder, realizing that you actually fell asleep mid-sentence. He chuckled to himself. “Handsome? Yeah, I know” he finished your sentence. “Good night princess” he added, pulling you close to him and closing his eyes too.

#seventeen #seventeen fanfic #fluff #seventeen fluff #masterlist #jeonghan #jeonghan seventeen #yoon jeonghan #jeonghan fanfic #jeonghan x reader #seventeen scenarios

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bucketsorbueckers · 24 minutes ago

Text

Paige Bueckers Day

Paige X Azzi

one shot - dual POV - 5.5K words

warnings: NONE. this is pure fluff. inspired loosely by spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine

Summary: They named a day after her. Put her face on a billboard. Turned her hometown into a headline. And still, in the hours before her first WNBA game, all Paige Bueckers can think about is the one person who said she wouldn’t be there—the only person she really wants to see in the crowd.

A/N: wrote this right after the announcement of paige bueckers day and literally couldn’t stop spiraling about how soft it could all be . i know azzi probably isn’t there today but in my delusional little brain? she is. she always is. also shoutout to the anon who asked if i’m capable of writing happy things—this is me trying. pls tell me if it counts <3

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The truth is, when she first heard the news, she didn’t think it was real.

KK had sent her a text. No preamble. Just a link and a blurry screenshot of a city proclamation that maybe, maybe, had her face on it.

She assumed it was a joke. One of those strange internet jokes she was always just slightly outside of. Designed to stir people up or make them laugh, depending on which corner of the internet you landed in.

But the longer she stared at the post—and the verified seal on the city’s website—the harder it became to deny that, somehow, this was very real.

Her hometown, Hopkins, Minnesota, was renaming itself for one day.

To Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.

There was even a line in the official proclamation—something about athletic excellence and community pride—followed by the words: “Hereby declared: Paige Bueckers Day.”

She read the line twice, then once more, because it felt like her brain had forgotten how to process the English language.

Welcome to Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.

It was the kind of thing that sounded like a prank. Or a punishment. Possibly both.

She called KK.

“Tell me this is fake,” she said, skipping hello entirely.

KK didn’t even try not to laugh. “Pack your bags! We’re going to Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, girl.”

Paige sat down on the edge of her bed, like maybe that would steady her. “I haven’t lived there in years.”

“You don’t have to live there to belong to it,” KK said, voice taken in a slightly more serious tone. “They’re proud of you.”

She was quiet for a second. “They renamed the whole town.”

“Only for one day.”

“Still,” she said, tugging at a loose thread on her sleeve. “It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re playing your first pro game in Minnesota. They wanted to do something special.”

Paige stared at the wall, at the framed photo of a lake that could’ve been anywhere. “A gift would’ve been fine.”

KK laughed again, softer this time. “You’re such a freak about this stuff.”

“I’m not a freak.”

“You are. You deflect. You downplay. It’s, like, your love language or something.”

Paige didn’t answer, just pulled her knees up and rested her chin on top of them. Her new apartment was quiet in the way new places always were—climate-controlled and just a little too clean, like no one had ever really lived inside it.

“They’re putting up signs,” KK added. “Like, real ones. Metal. Highway font. I think there’s even a parade.”

“Oh my God.”

“Just don’t wear sunglasses and a hoodie like you’re in witness protection, okay? Let people be happy for you.”

Paige sighed and let herself fall back onto the bed, her hair fanning out across the pillow.

She was proud. Of course she was. Proud and grateful and maybe a little in disbelief that it had all led to this. Her first pro game. In Minnesota, of all places. In a stadium that used to feel too big for her dreams and now felt too small to hold them.

Still, there was something terrifying about being celebrated like this. Like you were already the person they thought you were. Like there wasn’t still so much to prove.

“I’ll try,” she said finally.

“Try harder,” KK said, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “I’ll save you a corn dog.”

“You think this is the State Fair?”

“I think it’s Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, and anything can happen.”

Paige smiled despite herself, then hung up and laid there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

It was early. The Dallas skyline still dark and soft around the edges, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the only person awake in the world. Azzi was probably still asleep.

She’d never been a morning person. Not even at UConn, when early lifts and bleary-eyed conditioning were part of the daily ritual. Paige used to wake first and sit in the stillness for a few minutes before nudging Azzi’s shoulder, watching her groan dramatically and pull the covers over her head like they were shielding her from the cruelty of time.

Paige glanced at her phone, then set it back down without unlocking it.

She wasn’t going to text. Not yet. Not when Azzi had just gotten back from vacation the night before and finally had the rare luxury of a morning without alarms or obligations.

Still, she missed her. In that quiet, persistent way that didn’t knock you over so much as settle in—background noise that never really faded. It had only been a few weeks—three, technically—but it felt longer.

At UConn, they’d been wrapped into each other’s lives so completely, it had been hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Same practices. Same flights. Same off days spent curled up on the couch, a half-watched show playing as their legs tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Back then, distance had been theoretical. Something that happened to other people. Now it lived in time zones and FaceTimes and the way Azzi’s voice cut in and out on bad WiFi. It felt like they were running parallel. Close enough to see each other’s outlines, but just far enough apart not to touch.

Paige rolled onto her side, her hand brushing the place on the bed where Azzi wasn’t. It was one thing to miss someone in theory. It was another to fall asleep reaching for them, and wake up with nothing but sheets.

With a sigh, she opened her phone, ignoring the flood of texts about the latest announcement. The headlines, the reposts, the dizzy blur of congratulations from people.

At the top of the list was one from Dijonai. Three minutes ago. She guessed no one in Dallas could sleep.

they really gave me the teammate that’s got cities renaming themselves 😭 couldn’t just give me a hooper, huh? had to be a whole cultural moment lmk when the parade is. proud of you fr.🫶🏽

Paige snorted, a real laugh catching in her throat before she could stop it. And then her eyes dropped to the only pinned message.

Azzi.

Last text: 12:03 a.m. sorry babe. its been an impossible day. call you tomorrow. love you

Paige read it twice, even though she’d already memorized the shape of it. The lowercase softness, the familiar apology. She knew Azzi meant it, knew she would call, just like she always did. But still. It stung in that quiet way absence always did. Not sharp, just dull and constant, like pressing on a bruise to make sure it still hurt.

She didn’t text back. Not yet.

Then she scrolled up. Past the memes, the check-ins, the goodnights. Until she found the one she kept reading even though she already knew it by heart.

The third, or maybe fourth, apology Azzi had sent since calling to say she wouldn’t be at Paige’s first WNBA game:

i hate this. i really do. i just can’t say no. not this time. it’s a huge opportunity. and if i skip it, it might not come around again. i’m sorry. i wanted to be there more than anything.

Paige had read it in the middle of Trader Joe’s. Standing in front of a pyramid of honeycrisp apples, her cart half-full and suddenly too heavy. She’d stared at the screen for what felt like forever, then set her phone face-down and walked out without buying a single thing.

She’d told Azzi it was okay. That she understood. That she was proud of her. And all of that was true. It was just also true that it wrecked her a little.

Not because Azzi was choosing something else. But because they were finally learning how to choose themselves. How to want things separately. How to grow without growing apart.

She closed her eyes.

It was so much easier when they moved in tandem—same goals, same team, same mornings and nights stitched together. Now everything was a little more delicate. A little more sacred. Because the love was still there. But the space between them was starting to mean something, too.

She groaned, rolling over in bed, looking out the curtains she had left open. The city lights twinkling as the sky warmed. The morning breaking through.

She missed Azzi. In the soft, persistent way that lingered in empty spaces—in the quiet before practice, in the stretch of her own bed, in the apples she never bought. But she knew things were fine.

They were Paige and Azzi.

Even with states between them, even with calls that came too late and texts that came too early, even with the ache that never really went away. They were still them.

And that was enough for Paige Bueckers.

It always had been.

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With the game opener days away, practice had become more intense. Not in a bad way, just in the way it does when you know everything’s about to count a little more.

The drills ran sharper. The passes came faster. Everyone moved like they were trying to outrun nerves without admitting they had any.

And Paige felt it too. In the tightening of her chest before scrimmage. In the way she tied her shoes a little slower, a little tighter, like maybe that would help her stay grounded.

She wasn’t scared, exactly.

Just… aware.

Aware that all of this—this new chapter, this team, this new city she called home—was real now. No longer a thing she could imagine or plan for. It was happening. With or without the comfort of the familiar.

And ready or not, she’d have to step into it.

She was the last one off the court, staring out at the paint like it held the answer to some impossible question.

Nai came and stood beside her, arms crossed loosely over her chest, gaze following Paige’s like they might both see the same thing if they looked long enough.

“What’re we lookin’ at?” she asked, voice low, like she didn’t want to scare the thoughts away.

Paige shifted her weight, one sneaker scuffing lightly against the hardwood. “Just thinkin’.”

Nai tilted her head, a rare softness flickering across her features. “You nervous?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Paige shrugged. “Not nervous. Just… awake.”

Nai laughed, low and scratchy. “Girl, I’ve been awake since you showed up with a whole damn ZIP code named after you.”

Paige groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Oh, I’m gonna remind you daily. Until they take the signs down. Might steal one, hang it in the locker room.”

She sat beside her on the court, stretching out long legs, unbothered.

“You’re allowed to feel weird about it,” Nai said after a beat. “Big things feel weird.”

Paige let the silence sit for a second before answering. “It’s just a lot, I guess. And I’m used to having someone around who knows what to say.”

Nai nodded, not pushing. Just sitting with her.

Then: “Azzi?”

Paige glanced over. “She can’t make it.”

“That sucks.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But she believes in me. That helps.”

Nai nudged her shoulder. “I believe in you too, Paige Bueckers, Minnesota.”

She rolled her eyes. “Please stop.”

“Absolutely not.”

And for the first time that morning, the knot in her chest loosened, just a little. Because maybe this new life didn’t have to look like the old one to still be good.

After practice, there was a wave of notifications on her phone. Mentions, texts, a new batch of graphics with her face on them.

But only one that mattered.

One missed call. Azzi Fudd.

Paige had to physically stop herself from abandoning all her stuff in the locker room just to call her back. Instead, she moved on autopilot: packed her bag, got through treatment, said goodbye to her teammates (who had cracked one too many jokes about Paige Bueckers, Minnesota), and made her way to the parking lot.

As soon as she slid into the driver’s seat, she exhaled. Long and slow, like she’d been holding her breath all day and didn’t realize it.

She didn’t even start the car. Just pulled her phone from the cupholder, the screen lighting up in her hand like it knew where she was going. She hit Azzi’s name and held the phone to her ear, already smiling.

It rang once. Then again. And then:

“Paige, hey,” came the voice she’d been waiting for, soft and warm, and instantly home.

Paige leaned her head back against the seat. “Hey,” she breathed. “You called.”

“Of course I did,” Azzi said. “You didn’t think I’d leave you hanging, did you?”

Paige’s throat tightened. “No. I just—miss you.”

There was a pause, and then Azzi said it in the way she always did. Gentle. Certain.

“I miss you too.” And just like that, the space between them felt smaller. Not gone. But less like a canyon and more like a bridge.

“Now,” Azzi said, voice curling at the edges with a smile Paige could hear, “how was practice?”

They slipped easily into their rhythm. The one they’d built across dorm rooms and hotel hallways, FaceTimes in airports and calls stretched out across time zones. A back-and-forth that felt less like catching up and more like coming home.

When the conversation lulled, Paige could hear the soft rustle of sheets, the subtle shift of weight. Azzi settling into bed on the other end of the line.

“So,” she said, drawing it out like she already knew the effect it would have. Paige could hear the smirk without needing to see it. “Paige Bueckers, Minnesota, huh?”

Paige groaned, letting her head fall back against the seat.

“Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” Azzi said, absolutely delighted. “And I’m never letting that go.”

“It’s for one day,” Paige muttered.

“Still counts.”

Paige huffed a quiet laugh, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s very on brand.”

“I’m serious. The mayor cried.”

Azzi laughed, the sound low and lovely and a little sleepy. “Of course he did. You’re a hometown hero. Let people love you, P.”

Paige went quiet for a second, the praise sitting warm in her chest.

She closed her eyes and imagined Azzi there with her—knees tucked to her chest in the passenger seat, hair still damp from a shower, reaching over to lace their fingers together.

“I wish you were here,” she whispered.

“I know,” Azzi said. “I do too.”

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It was two days before the game, and Azzi had been a bit…quiet.

Not distant, exactly. When they talked, it still felt like them. Familiar and warm in that way nothing else was. But the responses came slower. The calls shorter. They hadn’t FaceTimed since earlier in the week, which wasn’t like them.

Paige told herself not to read into it. That people got busy. That schedules conflicted. That even the people who knew you best were allowed to disappear for a day or two.

Still, something buzzed under her skin. Not worry, not quite. Just that quiet hum of noticing.

She’d sent a photo earlier. Something dumb from practice. Normally, Azzi would’ve replied within minutes. With something that made her laugh. With a heart.

Instead: nothing. Just the message, sitting there, delivered but unread.

She locked her phone, shoved it deep in her bag, and tried to let it go.

But the truth was, she missed her. Missed her in the specific, impossible way that made everything feel a little dimmer. Like she was walking around in half-light, just waiting for Azzi’s voice to flip the switch back on.

“Didn’t know Paige Bueckers brooded,” Nai said, eyeing her from across the locker room.

“I’m not brooding,” Paige argued, her voice landing a little sharper than she meant. She caught herself, exhaled. “Just…thinking.”

“Pretty much the same thing,” Nai said with a shrug, tugging her hoodie over her head.

Paige leaned back against the bench, letting her shoulders drop. “Was it tough?” she asked after a beat. “The first few years…for you and Lyss?”

Nai didn’t answer right away. She sat down beside her, elbows resting on her knees.

“Yeah,” she said eventually. “It was. Different cities. Missed calls. One of us always waking up while the other was crashing.”

Paige nodded, like her body already understood it even if her heart didn’t want to.

“But we figured it out,” Nai went on. “Not all at once. Just…piece by piece. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about showing up. Even when it sucked. Especially when it sucked.

Paige looked at her. “How’d you know it was worth it?”

Nai cracked a smile. “Because I’d rather miss her than not love her.”

The words landed heavy and easy all at once, like something that had been lived through instead of just said. Paige swallowed.

Paige glanced at her. “That ever scare you?”

Nai shrugged. “Sure. But love’s never been about convenience.”

Paige sighed, leaning back against the locker.

“I guess I just hate that she’s missing this,” she said quietly. “Even if I understand why.”

“You can hold both,” Nai said. “Doesn’t make you ungrateful. Just makes you human.”

Paige nodded, grateful for the wisdom. They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t need filling.Then Nai nudged her knee.

“Anyway, stop brooding. It’s messing up your aura.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Nai chuckled, standing up and stretching. “I’m just sayin’,” she said. “Sometimes the best shit shows up when you’re not lookin’ for it.”

And then, she was gone.

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Paige woke up on Paige Bueckers Day—which was still a sentence that didn’t feel real—with one thought running through her head:

She was about to play in her first WNBA game.

It was the thing she’d dreamed about since she was a kid. Not just in the casual, it-would-be-cool kind of way. But in the way you build your whole life around. The way you say no to normal things, and yes to everything that hurts a little, because someday it might be worth it.

And now someday was here.

She lay still for a moment, her heart already beating a little too fast, as if her body knew what the day meant before her brain had caught up. The dream hadn’t vanished, it had just changed shape. From posters on her bedroom wall to press conferences and shootarounds and teammates with names she used to scream at the TV.

From something imagined to something real. And weirdly, the real part was the scariest.

Because once you’re in it, once it’s yours, you don’t get to chase it anymore. You just have to live it.

Rolling over, she grabbed her phone and blinked at the brightness, thumbing through a few unread texts.

The newest was from DC.

Her name was on a billboard.

An actual, honest-to-God billboard. Bold letters, dramatic lighting, probably wedged somewhere between a life insurance ad and a reminder to buckle up. She hadn’t seen it in person yet—just the photo Nai sent, which was blurry and aggressively zoomed in, like she’d taken it from the passenger seat of a car moving too fast.

The text just read:

u famous famous now

Paige stared at it for a long beat, then let the phone fall back onto the sheets beside her.

Some days, all of this still felt like a story she’d made up as a kid. Except now, other people were reading it too. Out loud. On billboards.

She sighed and picked the phone back up, thumb dragging lazily across the screen until she found it.

A message from Azzi.

good morning, superstar. sorry i missed your call last night. i was wiped. but i’m thinking about you. a lot. today’s huge. proud doesn’t even cover it. love you.

Paige read it once. Then again, slower. She smiled, small and private, like the kind you save just for yourself.

Proud doesn’t even cover it.

She let that settle in her chest for a moment before typing out a reply. Something short. Something honest.

miss you. love you. wish you were here.

She hovered for a second before hitting send.

And then she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, planted her feet on the floor, and stepped into the kind of day she’d been dreaming about her whole life.

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The bus ride to the arena was loud. Jittery voices bounced around the aisle. Half nerves, half adrenaline. The kind of energy that couldn’t sit still.

Paige sat near the window, headphones in but nothing playing. Just the hum of white noise, her own breath tucked in between.

She was trying to focus.Trying not to think about how she hadn’t heard from Azzi since last night. No text. No call. Just silence where there was usually something. And maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it was travel, or timing, or just one of those things. But it still found its way under her skin.

She finally hit play on a song, turning the world down a notch, and stared out the window. Trying to remember the girl who used to dream of this moment. And trying not to wonder why it suddenly felt like something was missing.

Beside her, she felt someone's presence, turning to find DC.

“G’mornin’, Bueckers,” she said, dragging the word out like a tease. “Big day.”

Paige pulled one headphone out. “You don’t say.”

Nai leaned back, one arm slung over the seat. “You got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The I’m not nervous but also haven’t blinked in four minutes look.”

Paige huffed a laugh, soft but real. “I’m fine.”

Nai didn’t push. Just leaned back, stretched her legs out like she owned the whole row.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few beats before Nai said, offhand, “Funny thing about quiet days.” Paige glanced over. Nai didn’t look at her. “They don’t always stay that way.”

Then she yawned, put her hood fully up, and returned to her seat by Lyss.

Azzi’s POV

Azzi checked her phone again, even though the time hadn’t changed in the last thirty seconds.

The plane was starting its descent, and her stomach did that thing it always did during turbulence, flipped, like it wasn’t entirely sure about gravity.

But if she was being honest, turbulence was easy compared to keeping secrets.

She was terrible at keeping them. Especially from Paige.

They talked every day. Multiple times. Sometimes about nothing—what they ate, what their teammates said, which reality show they were secretly watching without the other—but sometimes about everything. The big stuff. The heavy stuff. The I don’t know how to do this without you kind of stuff.

Which made this particular silence feel loud.

She’d texted last night, told her she was proud. Told her she was thinking about her. Both true. Both incomplete.

What she hadn’t said was that she was sitting on a flight confirmation and a suitcase she packed two weeks ago.

Paige thought she wasn’t coming. Azzi hated that part.

But the surprise had become its own kind of promise. A way to show up when it mattered, even if it wasn’t how they used to. No more shared hotel rooms or warm-up playlists made for two.

Just this: effort and timing and showing up in ways that took more planning than they used to, but meant more, too.

The plane dipped lower, and she pressed her forehead to the window, watching the city come into view, familiar and strange at the same time.

Somewhere down there, Paige was probably staring out her own window. Probably thinking too much. Probably trying not to.

Azzi smiled, small and quiet.

She has no idea.

Paige’s POV

The Target Center.

She’d been here a hundred times, maybe more. But never like this. Never as a player.

Always a fan. A kid in the stands, craning her neck to see past grown-ups, gripping nachos in one hand and possibility in the other. She knew the echo of the place. The way it swallowed sound and spit it back louder. She knew how the court looked from every angle except this one.

Now she was walking through the tunnel, jersey on, sneakers laced tight, her name stitched across her back like it had always belonged there.

It hadn’t hit her fully. Not yet. But it was starting to.

She wasn’t thinking about the billboard. Or the headline. Or the fact that somewhere out there, people were calling this Paige Bueckers Day like that was a normal thing to say.

She was thinking about the game. About the first possession. The first pass. The rhythm of the offense. Where her feet needed to be and how fast she could get them there.

There was a small part of her, tucked somewhere under all that focus, that still ached for the familiar shape of Azzi beside her. But it was quieter now. Sort of.

Warmups were underway. And what started with shaky knees, hands that wouldn’t quite settle, was slowly morphing into something steadier. The ball hit her palm just right. The court stopped feeling like a stage and started feeling like home again.

Her body knew what to do. Her mind was catching up.

The nerves didn’t disappear. They just shifted. Got quieter. Folded themselves into her rhythm. And she focused. Because today wasn’t just a game. It was the first day of the rest of the life she always wanted.

Azzi’s POV

Her heart thudded.

That old, familiar rhythm she’d never been able to shake.

Paige, Paige, Paige.

She grinned as she climbed the stairs of the Target Center, hood down, hair pulled back like she had nothing to hide, even though she absolutely did. There was something electric about walking in without Paige knowing. Like slipping into a scene before your cue.

The ticket had shown up in her inbox two nights ago, sent from Dijonai with a single message: Got you. Front row. She’s gonna lose it.

Azzi could only hope.

The man at the security checkpoint scanned her ticket, gave her a polite nod. “You’re good. Down the hallway to your left. Courtside.”

Azzi walked slowly, her hand brushing the railing as she went. She adjusted the jersey as she walked. BUECKERS across her back. Not subtle. Not even close. But subtle hadn’t felt right today.

She’d ordered it two weeks ago, expedited the shipping like a lunatic, even though she told herself she wasn’t going to wear it. It felt too obvious. Too loud.

And then today happened. And there was no version of this where she didn’t want Paige to see it.

The hallway opened into light and noise and movement, and she stepped out into it like she’d crossed a threshold. The court was already alive, players jogging through layup lines, shoes squeaking, the low thrum of music pulsing under it all.

And then, she saw her. Paige.

Not just Paige the way the world saw her—face on billboards, name in lights, the kind of talent that demanded attention—but her Paige. Hair pulled back. Jaw set. Moving with the kind of focus that made everything else feel blurry.

And for a second, Azzi forgot how to be casual. Forgot how to sit. Forgot how to breathe normally in a room where Paige Bueckers existed like that, on fire, and also entirely in control of it.

She found her seat, second row, directly behind the bench. Lowered herself slowly like she was afraid to make a sound. And watched.

Paige didn’t see her at first. Which made it easier to look. To really look.

She looked like everything Azzi had ever believed in. Everything she’d ever rooted for. The kind of person you hoped the world wouldn’t break. And somehow, despite the spotlight, the pressure, the weight of expectations that would’ve flattened anyone else, Paige had made it through.

Achieving everything she ever wanted, and still keeping her goodness intact.

Azzi’s chest tightened. The pride of it. The ache of loving someone so much you could barely sit still in your own skin.

Azzi had just been pulled into a conversation with a younger girl who had recognized her, eyes wide as she asked about playing in college, about shooting form, about favorite sneakers. Azzi had leaned in, smiling, answering every question.

She wasn’t facing the court when it happened. But she felt it. That pull. That electricity she knew too well. She turned, slowly, and there Paige was. Staring straight at her.

Azzi’s heart jumped, then took off sprinting. She grinned so hard her cheeks hurt. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t have wanted to.

And on Paige’s face: that flicker of surprise, like the world had just tilted an inch and she was trying to find her balance again. That heartbeat behind the eyes.

Azzi didn’t wave. Didn’t call out. She just held her gaze.

Happy Paige Bueckers Day.

Paige’s POV

A water break was finally called.

She grabbed her towel and drifted toward the sideline, eyes skimming the lower rows of the arena. Not searching, just taking it in. The blur of signs and navy and white. People wearing her jersey. Not unusual. Not today.

And then her gaze snagged on one.

A girl in the second row, just behind the bench, chatting with a younger fan. Baggy pants. BUECKERS stitched in bold across her back.

Paige didn’t think much of it at first. People wore her jersey now. That was still weird, sure, but not surprising. Not today.

But there was something about her. The way she sat. The way she tilted her head mid-conversation. A familiarity Paige couldn’t quite place but couldn’t shake either.

Her heart moved before her brain did.

Azzi.

No. That wasn’t possible. Azzi had told her she couldn’t make it. That the timing didn’t work. That she was proud, but far away. And yet…

Her heart thudded, like it was screaming: You know this.

And then the girl turned.

Paige’s heart stopped. Or stuttered. Or maybe just launched itself into her throat.

Azzi, courtside. In her jersey. Sitting like she had every right to be there. Which, to be fair, she did. But Paige had been so sure she wasn’t coming.

For a second, Paige didn’t move. Just stood there, towel in hand, caught between disbelief and something else she didn’t have words for yet.

And then Azzi smiled. Not a small, polite smile. Not the kind you give for cameras or fans or polite conversation. No, her whole face lit up, bright and sure and unapologetically happy to see her.

It was, objectively, the prettiest smile Paige had ever seen.

And for one terrifying second, she genuinely didn’t know how she didn’t sprint across the court, hurdle the row of folding chairs, and pull her into the kind of hug that knocked them both over.

“Told you quiet days don’t always stay quiet,” Nai murmured, bumping Paige’s shoulder as she passed.

Paige turned, eyes narrowed. “You knew?”

Nai raised both brows, unapologetic. “Helped.”

Paige stared at her. “You helped her do this?”

Nai grinned. “Watching you mope all week was painful. But this?” She gestured toward the stands, where Azzi was still seated like she’d always belonged there. “So worth it.”

Paige shook her head, trying not to smile. Trying harder not to look again. Failing completely.

Warmups ended, and Paige knew she probably shouldn’t. But she couldn’t help it.

Couldn’t help but follow the invisible string that always pulled her to Azzi, no matter the distance, no matter the day.

She walked straight toward her.

She knew the arena was watching. Cameras. Fans. Commentators already sharpening their angles. Some would call it unprofessional. Say she wasn’t locked in. Use the moment to prop up whatever criticism they’d already decided on.

But if she was being honest? She didn’t care. Because Azzi was here. She was here. And that mattered more than whatever version of her someone might try to write later.

Paige reached her, stepped into the space like it had been waiting for her, and wrapped her arms around the love of her life. She buried her face in Azzi’s neck, let herself breathe.

“Az.”

Just one word. An exhale. A prayer. A thank-you so full it shook in her chest.

Azzi held her tighter. Didn't say anything right away. Didn't need to.The world could wait. Just for a second.

She smiled against Paige’s skin the way she had since she was sixteen. Soft, hidden, private.The kind of smile that belonged to them and no one else.

Paige and Azzi.

Always circling back. Always finding each other, like gravity had opinions. Like the universe held a soft spot for their kind of love and girls who didn’t know how to stay away.

There was never a moment where they said we’ll always choose each other. They just kept doing it.

“Should you be doing this?” Azzi whispered, lips brushing just beneath her ear.

And Paige laughed, low and unapologetic. “It’s Paige Bueckers Day, baby. Pretty sure that means I can do whatever I want.”

#pazzi fics #azzi x paige #paige x azzi #pazzi

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