#and its like.. idk a year or so after everything

[bucketsorbueckers]

Trouble - Chapter 1

Age gap Paige X Azzi

Warnings: Language

Word count: 6.3K

a/n: someone dropped this idea in my inbox. i became obsessed. stayed up way too late and woke up way too early to write this bc i actually can't stop thinking about it. IDK how often this will be updated bc i clearly didn't write ahead but yeah. anyways anon, whoever you are, i love you sm thank you for this

also pls let me know if you like this one i know its diffff

Summary:

Paige Bueckers has spent five years as the WNBA’s golden girl—stoic, unstoppable, and famously unbothered.

But she’s also never met Azzi Fudd.

Until the Lynx trade up to draft her.

Azzi’s twenty-three. Number one pick. Gorgeous. Talented. And, not that long ago, was reposting thirst edits of Paige Bueckers like it was her part-time job.

Now they’re teammates. Sharing a locker room. And, if Azzi has her way, a slow-burn love story in the making.

Paige isn’t interested. Azzi isn’t subtle.

And neither of them is remotely prepared.

Azzi POV| 5:07 PM | Night before the draft

Azzi was halfway through her post-shower routine at the hotel, hair wrapped in a towel, legs still damp, wearing the old Chicago Sky t-shirt she’d thrifted freshman year—ripped at the hem and barely hanging on—when her phone rang.

On the screen: Marcus.

Her agent. Her very recently seen agent. They’d met earlier that day to go over everything—schedule, logistics, media. The plan.

Azzi was going number one. That wasn’t new. Wasn’t surprising.

Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year her senior season. Best guard in the class. She’d been headlining mock drafts since before she could legally vote.

Chicago had the pick. Chicago needed a star. She already had the jersey, practically.

So, there was no reason for Marcus to be calling. 

She answered the call with the kind of slow, suspicious grace typically reserved for the moment everything goes wrong.

“Hello?”

“You sitting down?” he asked, and her stomach dropped before he even said the rest.

She sat. Not because he told her to. Because her knees went loose all at once, and the edge of the bed caught her before the floor did.

“There was a trade,” he said. “It’s still you at number one. But it’s not Chicago anymore.”

She blinked. He waited.

She blinked again. “Then who—”

“Minnesota.”

Silence.

“Minnesota?” she repeated, like maybe that was a city she’d never heard of. “As in—”

“Yup,” Marcus said. “Lynx traded up. Desperate move. One of their guards tore her ACL in practice yesterday. Front office went all in. It’s a good opportunity, Azzi.”

But Azzi wasn’t listening. Because her brain had stopped at Minnesota and detoured immediately to Paige Bueckers.

“No. No, wait. Like… Paige Bueckers Minnesota?”

There was a pause. Then: “Well, I believe their facilities are technically in Minneapolis,” Marcus said, flat. “But yes. Pretty much the same thing.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She was too busy recalibrating the trajectory of her entire adult life.

Paige Bueckers. Paige fucking Bueckers. The woman who made midrange fadeaways look like foreplay.  Who never smiled in post-game interviews and somehow made that hot was going to be her teammate.

Azzi looked down at her shirt. Chicago blue—which now felt traitorous. She pulled it off immediately. Now standing in the mirror in just her bra and underwear, she stared at herself.

Oh god.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be drafted by Chicago, do the polite press thing, and flirt with Paige Bueckers lightly on Instagram after proving herself in the league.

She was not supposed to get launched straight into the orbit of her actual dream girl. This was not a drill. This was not a cool moment. This was Defcon horny.

“I have to go,” she said suddenly.

“Azzi, I think we should—”

She hung up before Marcus could finish. Rushed to her suitcase. Dug beneath the carefully folded outfits. Ripped through socks and slides and backup lashes until she found it.

The hoodie.

Faded gray. Slightly oversized. The same one Paige had been photographed in years ago after some summer league game—hood up, headphones in, looking so good Azzi had nearly choked. 

Azzi had seen the picture on Twitter and ordered the hoodie that day. No hesitation.

She pulled it on now. Like maybe it would protect her from the very obvious, very embarrassing crush she still hadn’t grown out of.

It did not.

If anything, it made things worse. Because now she looked like a girl who knew what she was walking into. And was already in way too deep.

She checked the mirror. Pouted. Tilted her head.

“Shit,” she muttered to her reflection. “You’re absolutely gonna ruin everything.”

Group Chat: baby goats🐐🐐🐐

Azzi:

THEY TRADED THE PICK

I’M GOING TO MINNESOTA

MINNE-FUCKING-SOTA

WHY WOULD GOD DO THIS TO ME

Jana ??? girl congrats???

Caroline: wait like BUECKERS minnesota????

Azzi: SHE’S THERE

SHE’S GONNA SEE ME

SHE’S GONNA KNOW

Caroline:what is she gonna know??

Azzi: THAT I’M DOWN BAD

that i’ve been reposting her since sophomore year

Jana i’m sorry didn’t you tweet “paige bueckers if you’re reading this i’m free on thursday. and also every day for the rest of my life" once

Caroline:

oh you’re cooked

Azzi: she’s gonna think i’m a fan

she’s gonna know i’m a fan

i’m gonna get benched for being horny

Jana: can they even put that in the contract?

Azzi:  they’re gonna invent a new clause for me

—-----------

Azzi woke up the next morning with two purposes:

Look unbelievably good.

Don’t make a complete fool of herself in front of Paige Bueckers.

She had a better chance of walking on water than pulling off both.

Her room was already full of people by the time she brushed her teeth. Makeup team. Hair. Stylist. Publicist. A girl holding a tiny steamer and the biggest coffee Azzi had ever seen.

She let them pull her into the chair while they moved around her in practiced formation. Clipped her hair back. Adjusted the lighting. Began.

“Morning,” her stylist said, already unzipping garment bags like they were revealing state secrets. “We’ve got two looks—one for tehs stage, one for the afterparty. You’re gonna like both, but you’re gonna love one.”

Azzi smiled, soft but sure. “Knew I could trust you.”

She sat still as they worked—moisturizer, concealer, quiet chatter filling the gaps. She knew the drill. Sit. Breathe. Let the professionals do their thing while she tried not to overthink hers.

The carpet dress was black silk, ankle-length, with a halter neckline and a slit that would photograph well but not scream trying too hard. Her makeup stayed close to natural, but her eyes were lined sharp exactly how she liked it. 

She looked at herself in the mirror when they finished. She looked good. And not just ‘for a rookie,’ not just ‘draft night ready.’ She looked like someone who belonged—who had trained her whole life for this and was getting what she deserved. 

Still, she adjusted the strap at her shoulder. Smoothed the fabric at her waist. Picked up her phone like it might ground her.

Jana: You breathe yet?

Azzi: No but at least I’ll look sexy while dying

Jana: Post a thirst trap. Establish dominance.

Azzi: You think I won’t??

She didn’t. She posted a mirror selfie mid-makeup with the caption: draft day bts. She half hoped maybe Paige would see it. But Paige didn’t even follow her so the thought was desperate and mortifying in a way she didn’t want to admit. 

The crowd in the room slowly thinned out until it was just her.

Makeup brushes packed away. Dresses zipped back into garment bags. Someone murmured something about call times and press schedules, but Azzi only half-heard it. She nodded, smiled, stayed seated.

She looked back at the mirror. Tucked a curl behind her ear. Took a breath inhaling the slight taste of hairspray and perfume. 

Tonight was about a lot of things. Her future. Her game. Her name being called first. She knew that. She could feel the weight of it behind her ribs, the stretch of everything about to change.

But still, she couldn’t stop imagining Paige seeing her like this.

Not on TV. Not through a tagged post or a highlight clip. Here. In the same room. Breathing the same air.

She didn’t even know if Paige would be there. Maybe she’d be watching from home. Maybe she wouldn’t be watching at all. Maybe this was Azzi being ridiculous—letting a decade-old crush sneak in the side door of the biggest night of her life.

But the thought lingered.

She grabbed her phone again. 

Azzi: if i trip on stage it’s not nerves it’s gay panic. tell my story right.

She sent the text and immediately threw her phone onto the bed like it was hot. Not because it was dramatic. Okay—maybe a little because it was dramatic.

She stood. Smoothed her dress again, even though it didn’t need it. The fabric was fine. The fit was perfect. It was her hands that needed something to do.

Her heart was doing that weird, too-hard, too-loud thing it did before tip-off. Only this time, there were no sneakers. No court. Just cameras and lights and the unbearable possibility of her dreams coming true in front of the woman of her dreams.

Poetry, or something like that.

She turned to the mirror. Looked at herself for a long second. The girl in the reflection looked ready.  She didn’t feel that way.

“Let’s go,” she said, quietly. To no one.  To herself. To the version of her that still didn’t totally believe this was real.

She adjusted her earrings. Lifted her chin. Took one last breath, like it might hold her together.

And then she stepped out of the room—into the hallway, into the chaos, into the version of her life she hadn’t dared to imagine too clearly. Not out loud.  Not until now.

—--

The moment she stepped onto the orange carpet, everything sharpened.

The lights. The voices. The flashbulbs that went off three at a time. It was like stepping onto another planet—one where the air smelled like hairspray and nerves and the smiles came too fast to be real.

Azzi squared her shoulders, tilted her chin half an inch higher, and kept walking.

She’d been to big events before. Red carpets in college, press days for awards., hell even NYC fashion week. But this was different. This was the night. The one she’d been working toward since she could barely dribble with her left hand.

She moved through the chaos like she’d practiced it—because she had. Step, stop, pose. Give the camera a little shoulder. Smile, but not too big. Enough to say I’m happy to be here, not I can’t feel my face.

“Azzi! Over here!”

She turned toward the voice, one arm resting at her side, the other lightly bent at the elbow. Every pose intentional. Controlled. Like her body wasn’t buzzing with the kind of nervous energy that felt suspiciously like hope.

Hope that maybe Paige was already inside. Hope that maybe she’d notice.

“Who are you wearing tonight?” someone shouted.

Azzi named the designer, barely heard herself say it. She could feel her heart under her collarbone, steady but too loud. A camera shutter clicked. Then another.

“She’s stunning,” someone near the ropes whispered. Azzi didn’t look to see who said it. Didn’t want to ruin it by knowing.

Instead, she kept moving. She made it to the midway point of the carpet before she caught sight of a familiar face.

“Yo,” someone hissed near a row of photographers. “Tell me I’m not sweating through my dress.”

Azzi turned—smiling, grateful—and found Kiara Johnson fanning herself with her hands. Her dress was fire engine red and absolutely unfair.

“You look beautiful,” Azzi said smiling. 

Kiara rolled her eyes. “Thanks. You look unbothered. Hate that for me.”

Azzi laughed, and for a moment, the cameras blurred out. The nerves, too.

Behind her, Simone was already deep into an interview, talking with her hands like the cameras might miss her otherwise. Somewhere to the left, Delaney was yanking at the top of her strapless dress like it might betray her at any second.

They were all here—lined up, glossed up, trying to look chill while buzzing out of their skin. No one said it, but everyone was thinking it: getting drafted was one thing. Making a roster? Whole different story. And the lights were hot. The makeup was sweating. The stakes were higher than any of them wanted to admit.

Azzi took a breath. Smiled. Tried to look like she belonged.

“See you on the other side,” Kiara said, brushing past her with a wink, already headed toward the interview line.

The moment slipped by, and Azzi moved with it—fielding a few more questions, posing for photos, laughing at something one of her old teammates said. She nodded, waved, kept walking.

But finally, she made it through. The final stretch of the carpet calmer. Fewer cameras. Less shouting. Just the hum of anticipation and the low thrum of music from inside the venue.

Azzi slowed her pace. Let the moment sit.

People always said draft night moved fast—that it blurred. She didn’t feel that. If anything, everything felt too sharp. The air too cool on her shoulders. The lights too bright. Her skin too tight across her ribs.

She’d done this before. Interviews. Spotlights. Moments where people clapped just because she walked into a room. But this time was different. This time, it felt like something was about to begin, and she didn’t know who she’d be on the other side of it.

She reached the end of the carpet and stepped out of frame.  But then she paused.

She glanced back—over her shoulder, slow and searching. Just in case. Just in case maybe Paige was there. Standing off to the side. Looking at her like…

She didn’t even know. She just wanted to know. But there was no one.

Just a few photographers packing up. A tech guy adjusting a boom mic. The kind of silence that hums when it’s supposed to be loud.

Azzi lingered for half a second too long. Then turned back. And stepped into her future. 

Paige’s POV 

Paige dropped onto the couch and handed Courtney a beer.

“Thanks,” Courtney said, cracking it open with the corner of her hoodie sleeve like they weren’t sitting ten feet from the kitchen.

It was draft night. The kind of thing you watched because you had to, not because you wanted to.

Paige had made it through exactly half a press request before deciding she didn’t want to be there in person. She hadn’t said why. Just texted her agent staying home. thanks though.

But she knew she needed to watch. So, here she was. 

Tori had torn her ACL three days ago—awkward landing in a non-contact drill. She’d crumpled before she even hit the paint. Paige had watched it happen. Hadn’t said much.

Now, the front office had scrambled, like they always did. Moves made over phones and closed doors, things shuffled before most people knew there was a gap.

Enter Azzi Fudd.

Number one pick. Two-time national champion. National Player of the Year. Flashy handle. Clean jumper.

Apparently league-ready, though Paige found all rookies questionable on principle. Even the good ones. Especially the ones who came in shiny and hyped and smiling too much.

She took another sip. Let the beer go warm in her mouth before swallowing. Tapped her fingers once against the bottle in her hand. And then Azzi Fudd appeared on the screen.

“Didn’t she cross up that French guard at Worlds?” Courtney asked, squinting toward the TV.

“Probably,” Paige said.

Azzi stepped onto the orange carpet in a black silk dress.

Sleek. Minimal. The kind of dress that clung just enough and moved when she walked. High neckline. Open back. Legs for days. Not showy, but precise. Every detail meant to look like it hadn’t been thought about at all—which meant it had been thought about a lot.

She posed like she’d done it before. Hand at her waist. Chin tilted just slightly. Confident. Camera-ready.

The kind of look that worked hard to seem effortless. And mostly got away with it.

Paige watched her for a second longer than she meant to. Not because she cared. She didn’t.

She just hadn’t expected her to walk like that. Like she owned the carpet. Like she knew how she looked. Like she knew people were watching and wasn’t interested in pretending otherwise.

She wasn't sure why she was surprised.

Azzi was good-looking. Everyone could probably admit that. But the confidence -

“She’s good-looking,” Courtney said, casually. Like she was reading Paige’s mind and calling her out on it before Paige could pretend otherwise.

Paige didn’t flinch. “She looks like a kid.”

Too fast. Too automatic.

Courtney turned her head. Just slightly. “That is not a kid.”

Paige brought the bottle to her lips. Didn’t drink. Her eyes drifted back to the screen, where Azzi was still smiling like the world had already said yes. And the thing was—no. She didn’t look like a kid.

Not in that dress. Not with that walk. Not with the way she tilted her chin at the camera like she already knew every eye was on her. 

She looked like someone who knew exactly what she was doing. And was probably used to getting away with it.

Trouble. 

But Paige didn’t say that. Didn’t even think it, not officially.

“She’s confident,” Courtney added.

“She’s twenty-three,” Paige said. “They’re all confident.”

It wasn’t a slight. It was just math.

Her phone buzzed, screen lighting up beside her. She glanced at it. Her agent.

Need to post a ‘welcome to Minnesota’ tonight, P. It’s a good look.

Paige rolled her eyes. Clicked the screen off without replying. She wasn’t in the mood to perform a warm reception.

She set the phone facedown on the coffee table. Picked her beer back up. The draft coverage rolled on in the background—names, stats, dresses, practiced smiles.

She didn’t watch. She already knew what she needed to know. The Lynx had a new rookie. And Paige had a season to win.

The volume was still muted when they called Azzi’s name. But the words still crossed the screen: 

“First overall pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…the Minnesota Lynx select Azzi Fudd.”

Courtney leaned forward. “There it is.”

Paige didn’t move. Just watched as the camera panned to Azzi—already on her feet, hugging the people at her table. Composed. Moving slow. Like she’d been waiting for this moment her entire life and had no plans to let anyone else touch it.

She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it. Dress sleek, smile soft but deliberate. No stumble. No nerves showing.

“Clean,” Courtney murmured. “I’ll give her that.”

Paige made a quiet sound in her throat. Not agreement. Not disagreement either.

Azzi reached the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey with the right amount of polish. Flashes went off around her. People cheered.

Paige took another sip of her beer.

“She’s gonna be on your left,” Courtney said.

Paige shrugged. “If she earns it.”

On screen, Azzi waved at the crowd. Her smile cracked a little wider, just for a second. Genuine. Then the screen faded to black.

Paige shifted on the couch. Let the silence settle for a second. Ran through her mental list of shit she needed to get done.

And then the music kicked back in—cinematic, dramatic, over the top. The draft coverage returned with one of those slow-motion montages ESPN couldn’t resist. Azzi crossing someone up at Worlds. Azzi pulling up from the logo with zero hesitation. Azzi grinning, scissors in hand, cutting the net.

“Azzi, huge congrats. First overall—how does it feel, and what are you most looking forward to as a member of the Lynx?”

Azzi smiled. “I mean… everything, really. It’s a great team, great coaching staff. I’ve grown up watching this league, so to be part of it—especially with this franchise—feels surreal. I’m ready to learn, to work—just excited to be part of the culture.”

“She’s media trained to hell,” Courtney muttered from the far end of the couch, one leg tucked under her.

Paige didn’t respond.

Azzi was answering all the usual questions—grateful, humbled, excited to learn. She hit every note perfectly. Not too eager. Not too rehearsed. Just enough to come off smooth. And then the reporter smiled, a little too wide. A little too pointed.

“You’ll be joining a team with some serious veteran talent. I’ve gotta ask—are you excited to play with someone like Paige Bueckers?”

Paige blinked.

Courtney groaned. “Here we fucking go.”

Azzi hesitated. Barely. But enough to see it. The pause. The shift in her shoulders, like she was resetting.

She smiled again, quick and reflexive. “Yeah, of course. I mean—she’s Paige Bueckers.”

Paige closed her eyes for a second. Inhaled. Forced herself not to look over at Courtney, who she knew—without question—was sitting there with that annoying-ass grin, just waiting. Exhaled. Opened her eyes. Azzi was no longer on the screen.

Slowly, she turned her head.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Courtney held it together for maybe half a second. Then lost it—low and sharp and immediate.

“She said it like one of your fan girls.”

“She said it like someone answering a forced question on live TV.”

Courtney raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, a forced question that made her whole spine go stiff.”

Paige didn’t bite. Just kept her eyes on the screen, now back to showing some other prospect hugging their family.

Courtney leaned back, grinning. “I’m just saying—if she goes all shy and stuttery every time you walk in the room? I’m not gonna survive.”

“She’ll be fine.”

Courtney snorted. “You sure? 'Cause right now she’s out here sounding like she still got your jersey saved in her closet.”

Paige stared ahead, expression flat. “You done?”

“For now.”

Paige sighed. “She’s a kid, Court. It’s draft night. She was nervous.”

“Nervous about playing with the Paige Bueckers,” Courtney squealed, lifting her hands like she was presenting a prize on a game show.

Paige clenched her jaw, “Why the fuck did I invite you over again?”

Courtney shrugged. “Because I’m one of the few people who still put up with your ass.”

Paige scoffed. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Courtney said, cracking open another drink. “But I’m right.”

Paige didn’t argue.

—----------

Later that night, after the noise had faded and the apartment had gone still, Paige crawled into bed and stared at the text from her agent. She didn’t roll her eyes, but the instinct was there.

She knew she should do it. She’d known since before the draft even started. Since the trade went through. Since someone in PR mentioned “messaging alignment” and how nice it would be if she tapped in as a vet.

A simple post. A “Welcome to Minnesota.” A teammate move. The kind of thing that looked good. That people noticed.

She remembered her own draft night. The nerves that crept in after the cameras cut. The way everything felt bigger than she was, even if she didn’t show it.

And she remembered what it meant—seeing a name she recognized in her notifications. A vet she respected saying something as small as can’t wait to hoop.

She hadn’t known, at the time, if she belonged yet. If she’d be accepted. That one message hadn’t fixed it, but it had helped.

Paige sighed, unlocked her phone, and started typing.

She didn’t follow Azzi yet. She hadn’t thought about it. Not really her thing to follow people before they showed up. Rookies came and went. Most of them weren’t worth tracking until they were in the gym.

But Azzi was going to be her teammate. Number one picks don't go anywhere.

And so, Paige typed “azzi” into the search bar. First result. Blue check. Profile picture of her in a UCLA uniform. 

She tapped follow. Found a photo of her holding the jersey on stage. Shared it to her story. 

Typed:

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work. Tagged her. Posted it.

Then she locked her phone, flipped it face down on the nightstand, and turned out the light.

Azzi’s POV

The afterparty was loud, gold-lit, and dripping in free liquor. Azzi was still wearing her heels—even though she swore she wouldn’t be that girl—but the champagne buzz made it easier to lie to her calves.

She was mid-laugh when Caroline grabbed her by the wrist, yanked her away from the circle of girls around the DJ booth, and shoved her phone into Azzi’s face like it was breaking news.

“AZZI.”

Azzi turned, grinning. “Jesus. What?”

Caroline didn’t speak. Just shoved her phone forward again like it was a bomb. “Look.”

Azzi squinted. Read what was on the screen. Blinked once. And then fully screamed.

Because there it was. Paige Bueckers’ Instagram story. 

Welcome to Minnesota. Let’s work, @/azzifudd. Tagged. Plain as day.

Azzi clapped a hand over her mouth. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no.”

“Yes, bitch!”

Azzi grabbed Caroline’s phone like it might vanish. Stared at the story. The caption. Her name. Her face. Paige fucking Bueckers had posted her.

“Did she follow me?” Azzi asked, voice already an octave too high.

“Yes.”

“She tagged me?”

“YES.”

Azzi shrieked again. Someone turned and looked. She didn’t care. She was pacing in tiny drunk circles, heels clacking against marble, one hand still holding her drink like a lifeline, the other pressed flat to her chest.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she said.

Caroline looked delighted. “No, you’re gonna cry. Then you’re gonna DM her. And then you’re gonna marry her.”

Azzi stopped mid-circle. “Do I DM her?”

Caroline blinked, like she couldn't believe Azzi took that seriously. “Are you insane?”

“Yes?”

Azzi fumbled for her own phone. Opened Instagram. Her hands were sweaty. Her brain was screaming. But there it was. Paige Bueckers. Blue check. Following you.

She screamed. Again.

Caroline absolutely cackled. “You’re gonna combust,” she wheezed, clutching her stomach.

Azzi didn’t answer. Just leaned back against the wall, head tipped toward the ceiling like if she moved even a little, the alcohol and adrenaline sloshing around inside her might actually spill out.

“She posted me,” she whispered.

“Yup.”

“She knows I exist.”

“She definitely does.”

Azzi dropped her phone. Caroline caught it mid-air.

“I peaked,” Azzi said, eyes glassy. “It’s all downhill from here.”

Caroline laughed so hard she snorted. “This is the gayest moment of your life.”

“So far,” Azzi shot back, managing a wink.

Caroline cracked up again, and Azzi just sat there—grinning like a dumbass and letting herself have it. The moment. The buzz. The quiet shock of it actually happening.

And yeah, sure—maybe the woman she’d been casually obsessed with since she was eighteen had just acknowledged her existence...publicly. And maybe her brain had short-circuited a little. But this wasn’t just about Paige.

This was hers.

Her name. Her number. Her jersey. The dream she’d chased across a thousand late nights and long practices, now finally unfolding—loud and real and hers.

—-

Her and Caroline ended up in bed together.

Not like that. Just sideways across the hotel mattress, still in their dresses, makeup smudged, Azzi’s heels abandoned somewhere under the desk. The lights were off, save for the glow of Caroline’s phone screen and the pale halo of the city bleeding through the window. Azzi was lying dramatically on her back, one arm flung over her face.

“She posted me,” she whispered for the third time that hour.

“Yes, Azzi.” Caroline’s voice was dry. “She posted you. We know. We have analyzed every font, every pixel, every breath of it.”

Azzi lifted her phone off her stomach and tilted it toward her face again. Paige’s story was still up. Still tagged. Still maddeningly casual.

“Do you think she picked that picture on purpose?” she asked.

“I think the options were limited.”

“But it's a good photo.”

Caroline rolled onto her side. “You looked hot. She noticed. Congrats.”

Azzi groaned, half-smiling. “She didn’t notice.”

“She did.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.”

They were quiet for a second. Just the sound of distant traffic, the soft hum of the hotel AC, and the fizz of Azzi’s brain trying not to read too much into something that probably wasn’t anything.

Probably.

“I should repost it,” Azzi said finally.

“Yes,” Caroline said, without hesitation.

Azzi stared at her screen.

“What do I say?”

“Don’t overthink it.”

“I am overthinking it.”

“I know.”

Azzi hovered over the repost button for a full minute. Then tapped it. Drafted three different captions. Deleted all of them. Groaned into the pillow. Caroline waited, patient like the best friends always are when you’re being slightly insane but they loved you anyway. 

Finally, Azzi typed:

Let’s. Then added a basketball emoji. A wolf. A white heart. Paused. And hit post.

The story blinked up on her screen. Her name and Paige’s, together. Not side by side, exactly, but close enough. She exhaled, dropping the phone on the mattress between them.

Caroline nudged her knee. “Proud of you.”

Azzi smiled. Soft. Sleepy. “She’s probably not even thinking about it.”

Caroline shrugged. “Maybe not.”

They let the silence settle again. The good kind. The kind that means everything is still, and sweet, and safe.  Eventually, Caroline fell asleep. Azzi didn’t. Not right away.

Instead, she lay there blinking up at the ceiling, heart still doing that stupid flutter thing every time she thought Paige knows who I am.

Her phone kept buzzing. Someone replied to her story with fire emojis. Another repost. Another tag. Her mentions were chaos, but she didn’t check them.

Instead, she opened her own profile. Scrolled. Paused on a selfie with a suggestive caption from last summer. Deleted.

Another one—captioned something like wife me—gone.

A photo in Paige’s college jersey, posted years ago with an “accidental” crop that still showed the number? Archive.

She kept going. Just in case. Not because she cared what Paige thought. She didn’t. Not really.

She just wanted to seem…cool. Chill. Like she hadn’t been watching Paige play since she was young and realized just how good Paige was. Like she hadn’t watched her interview clips on YouTube, or bought that hoodie the second Paige wore it in a tunnel fit.

Azzi groaned quietly into her pillow. This was so dumb. She was a professional now. A grown-ass adult. Still, she archived one more post, just to be safe.

Then finally, she turned off her screen, slid the phone under her pillow, and rolled onto her side. Caroline was snoring softly behind her.

Paige Bueckers had tagged her. And now, they were teammates.

God help her.

—---

Training camp came quicker than she was prepared for.

One minute, she was still drunk off adrenaline and nice champagne, doing half-coherent interviews in a silk dress. The next, she was alone in her car with her duffel bag in the passenger seat and her knees shaking like it was the first day of high school.

The Lynx practice facility rose ahead, sleek and intimidating, like it was designed specifically to make rookies question their entire life.

Azzi stared out the window. Tried to breathe like a normal person.

She could do this. She had done this—first days, new teams, pressure so thick it pressed against her chest like a physical weight. She knew how to show up. Knew how to play.

Still, her legs wobbled when she stepped out. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was Paige Bueckers.

(Probably Paige Bueckers.)

She pulled her hoodie tighter around her neck, shifted her bag over her shoulder, and walked toward the doors like they weren’t the gateway to her actual childhood dream.

The glass reflected her face back at her—tired eyes, lips pressed into something that was almost a smile. She squared her shoulders.

This was fine. She was fine. Totally, absolutely, one-hundred-percent fine.

She stepped inside.

The air was cool and smelled like disinfectant and money—cleaner than any gym she’d ever trained in. The kind of place built for greatness. The kind of place that didn’t just expect banners and trophies but demanded them.

Azzi paused just past the entrance, eyes catching on the wall to her right. Photos stretched down the hallway—players frozen mid-crossover, mid-celebration, mid-legacy. Maya Moore. Seimone Augustus. Napheesa Collier.

And then...

Paige Bueckers.

Azzi’s eyes caught on that one. Briefly. Too briefly. She looked away fast enough to give herself whiplash, like if she didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t register.

It was a good photo though. Intense. A little smug. Paige had her hands on her hips, chin tipped like she already knew she’d won — because she probably had. That kind of quiet confidence you couldn’t teach, just had to be born with.

And yeah. Maybe Azzi had once saved that exact photo to her phone. For, you know. Motivation. But she had deleted it last week like any normal person would. 

Azzi adjusted the strap on her duffel and kept walking. Kept ignoring the creeping thoughts threatening to topple her. 

She didn’t need to stare at a wall of greatness and spiral about where she fit in. Or worse: imagine what her photo would look like up there one day.

What if I never make it?

Nope. Not today.

Today, she had one job: walk in like she belonged. Even if her stomach was flipping and her palms were clammy and her brain was already shouting don’t say anything weird to Paige Bueckers.

One step at a time, she forced herself to think.

She pushed open the locker room door and stepped in, trying to look chill. She wasn’t.

The place was already alive. Bass pulsing through the speakers, someone laughing from the far corner, the sharp rip of a duffel unzipping. It smelled like eucalyptus and someone’s overpriced lotion, warm and floral and a little too strong.

Heads turned.

“Look who finally showed up,” Bridget said, lounging in a sports bra and sweats, socked feet kicked up. “Miss Number One.”

A few others laughed, and Courtney gave her a nod from across the room. “Go ‘head and find a seat, rookie.”

Azzi smiled because what else could she do? She gave a small wave, muttered, “Nice to meet y’all,” and found the open locker with her name on it. 

A few players came over to introduce themselves. A little side hug from Alanna. Another grin from Courtney as she passed with a protein shake in one hand and her phone in the other.

“Welcome to the league,” she said, tossing it over her shoulder like it wasn’t the coolest thing anyone had ever said to her.

Azzi smiled again, this time a little tighter. She was trying not to scan the room too obviously, but the longer she stood there, the more obvious it felt.

No Paige.

The absence settled over her like static. Not loud, but present.

She didn’t say anything. Just peeled off her hoodie, folding it with too much care—like it was the most important thing she'd do all day. She stuffed it into her duffel and wiped her palms on her leggings, fingers twitching.

Eyes darted around again.

Still no Paige.

“You good?” Alanna asked, passing by again.

“Yeah,” Azzi said quickly. “Just… taking it in.”

“I get it,” She said with a small smile. “But you got drafted for a reason. So, remember that.”

Azzi nodded and tried to keep breathing.

She reached for the hem of her shirt and yanked it up, halfway over her head, arms caught for a second, shoulder twisting awkwardly.

Of course, that’s when the door swung open behind her. Because timing was a cruel, heartless bitch.

She stilled. The fabric still clinging to one arm.

And then, the room shifted in that subtle, almost imperceptible way that happens when someone important walks in. Energy coiling. Conversations dipping.

She yanked the shirt off with a violent twist, hair static-y and sticking to her face, and turned around and almost died.

Paige Bueckers. In the flesh. Black hoodie. Basketball shorts. Tall. Blonde. Looking like a deleted scene from a Nike commercial. Like she hadn’t just walked into Azzi’s most persistent daydream.

Azzi stood there, caught mid-breath, shirt clutched in her hands like she was preparing to wave it as a white flag.

Paige’s eyes flicked to her. Not in a weird way. Just in a normal, I-am-acknowledging-you-as-a-human-being way.

And then she nodded.

Just a nod. A small, neutral nod. Like good morning, or I see you exist, or I didn’t just walk in on you shirtless, don't make it a thing.

Azzi nodded back. A simple gesture. Easy. Universal.

Except—no. Not the way she did it.  Too fast. Too eager. Like a bobblehead with something to prove.

Cool, she thought. Real chill. Definitely nailed the nod. But then came the panic spiral.

Was it too sharp? Too aggressive? Had she nodded up or down? Was it more of a chin lift? What if Paige thought she was challenging her? What if it looked like a salute? Oh god—what if it looked like a bow?

She didn’t dare glance back to check.

Instead, she turned to her locker, opened it with forced purpose, and stared into the abyss of the empty space like it held the meaning of life.

She could feel Paige’s presence behind her. That quiet, steady energy. The kind that didn’t need to fill space because it already owned it.

Azzi, meanwhile, was contemplating the physics of spontaneous combustion.

She took out her water bottle. Put it back. Took it out again. Her hand was shaking slightly, which was fun and normal. And then, because apparently her body was still committed to ruining her life, she nodded again.

At no one. To herself. As if to say: Yes. Good. Great. You are the nodding champ!

She blinked at the wood shelf in front of her and whispered under her breath, “Kill me.”

Then she slapped the locker shut and sat down like everything was fine.

(It wasn't.)

Paige’s POV

Paige pushed open the locker room door, hoodie sleeves shoved up, headphones still around her neck. Familiar voices bounced around the space—Courtney arguing with Bridget about something dumb, someone laughing near the back. Normal. Comfortable.

She stepped inside.

Azzi Fudd was halfway out of her shirt, arms stuck, shoulder twisted awkwardly like her body had forgotten the mechanics of sleeves. Paige barely registered it, just enough to slow her pace, glance once.

Azzi finally yanked the shirt off. Hair clinging to her face, cheeks already pink. She turned around like she’d been summoned. And froze.

They made direct eye contact. Azzi’s eyes blowing wide. Paige blinked, looked around the room for a beat, wondering if she’d missed something—spilled drink, surprise visitor, fire alarm. But no. Just Azzi. Still staring. Still mid-panic.

So Paige nodded. Simple. Casual. Nothing loaded. Just Hey.

Azzi nodded back. If you could call it that. It was more like a full-body twitch. Quick. Panicked. Slight unhinged. And maybe even painful.

Paige arched a brow before continuing to walk. But from the corner of her eye, she saw it: Azzi staring into her locker like it was a portal to another dimension. Pulling out a water bottle. Putting it back. Pulling it out again.

Then, unbelievably, nodding. Again. At no one.

Beside her, Courtney let out a low snort, knocking their shoulders together on instinct. Paige didn’t look over. Just rolled her eyes, pulled her headphones off, tucked them into her locker.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. But in her head, one word rang clear and smug:

Trouble.

[nana-gumi]

multo g. satoru

pairings: gojo satoru x fem! reader

cw: heavy angst, good ending ig, arranged marriage, breaking up, betrayal, reader is a zenin, emotional trauma, physical abuse, manipulation, gaslighting, depictions of violence, bruising, and physical injuries.

a/n: HI GUYS LET ME JUST LEAVE THIS ONE HERE. my sister borrowed my laptop (i'm praying she doesn't see this tumblr acc ToT) and the gojo fic series drafts was there, that's why i still couldn't finish it. i'ma leave this one shot for now.. HAPPY READING MWEHEHE AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 800 FOLLOWERS OMG ILY'ALL!! maybe part 2 also? idk

you were a zenin, raised to obey, sent to spy on gojo satoru — but somewhere along the way, you made the one mistake your clan never prepared you for: you fell in love. and when he found out your intentions, he didn’t just walk away — he broke, and so did you. years passed. silence stretched. and now, fate ties you together again in an arranged marriage meant to bind broken clans. but how do you stand beside the man you love, knowing he might still hate you for the way you betrayed him?

the dress fits perfectly.

it's heavy with lace and tradition, stitched together by hands that never asked her what she wanted.

outside, the sky is blindingly blue. too bright. too loud. too cheerful for a day like this.

he stands at the altar like he’s waiting for execution. his posture is straight, chin high, eyes empty behind those white lashes. he doesn’t look at her. not once.

she walks toward him slowly, her hands cold despite the heat under the fabric. the veil blurs her vision, but it doesn’t matter. she could walk this path blindfolded. she’s been walking toward this moment ever since she let him go all those years ago.

they exchange vows, hollow words carved into centuries of clan expectations. peace, alliance, legacy — all signed in blood and silence.

he slides the ring on her finger without meeting her gaze. her hands tremble.

she wants to say something. anything. but her lips stay closed. she doesn’t deserve the chance to speak.

“you may now kiss the bride,” someone says.

he leans in and he kissed her like she’s a stranger. like he’s doing a job. like she isn’t the girl he once held in his arms under the stars, whispering promises he swore he’d never break.

her eyes burn, but she doesn’t cry. not here. not now. not when the war is already over and she’s the only casualty left standing.

when the kiss ends, he pulls away like it cost him something. maybe it did.

the crowd claps. the clans nod in approval.

the world keeps turning.

and she stands beside him, the wife of a man who no longer loves her.

you weren’t supposed to be here.

no cursed energy. no technique. no power. just a name — zenin — and the weight it carried like a curse of its own. they didn’t ask if you wanted this. they never ask.

“you’ll watch him." "you’ll report everything,” they said.

you were sixteen, terrified, and smart enough not to ask what they really meant.

the car that dropped you off at jujutsu high didn’t wait. the gates loomed tall, too tall, like they were made to keep people like you out. you stepped in anyway.

you felt like a fraud, walking among sorcerers.

you couldn’t even see curses without a tool in your hand.

but you knew how to lie. how to bow. how to hide.

you were good at being invisible.

until him.

“yo,” a voice — too loud, too bright — cut through the courtyard like sunlight after a storm.

you turned, and there he was. gojo satoru.

snow-white hair that didn’t obey gravity, dark glasses across his eyes, hands in his pockets like he owned the world. and maybe he did. you’d heard the stories. the six eyes. the limitless. the prodigy.

you expected him to be cold. arrogant. untouchable. you weren’t prepared for the grin.

“you new?” he asked, tilting his head.

you nodded. “yeah.”

“cool. i’m satoru. gojo satoru. remember it — what’s your name?”

you gave only your first. no clan, no past. he didn’t question it. just threw an arm around your shoulder like you were old friends.

“c’mon. you look lost. i’ll show you around.”

and just like that, the boy you were supposed to spy on pulled you into his orbit.

you knew better than to get close.

you knew better than to care.

but your heart — stupid, rebellious thing — beat a little faster anyway.

that night, when you wrote your first report to the zenin clan, your hands shook.

you stared at the paper for a long time before hiding it inside the cabinet.

it was just the start.

—

you thought it would be easy to keep your distance.

you thought wrong.

gojo satoru made it impossible.

he found you in the mornings before class. dragged you into his friend group like it was nothing. introduced you to suguru, shoko, and the quiet stillness that lived between their chaos.

“we’re the best there is,” he said, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he always did. “you’re lucky we’re letting you sit with us.” he joked.

you rolled your eyes. “what makes you think i want to?”

“you laughed at my joke earlier. it’s too late. you’re already attached.”

you hadn’t laughed. not really. but he made it hard not to smile.

you started walking beside him more than anyone else. not because you meant to, but because he always found you — after lectures, during training, when the halls were too quiet and your thoughts were too loud.

he always found you.

once, during a sparring exercise, you took a hit you shouldn’t have. your weapon clattered to the floor. the curse lunged for you, and before you could blink, it was gone.

he stood between you and the wreckage, his infinity humming like static.

“you okay?” he asked, still facing forward.

you nodded, but your knees betrayed you. he caught you before you hit the ground.

you were never meant to be on the front lines. born without cursed energy and with a body too fragile for combat, you were trained out of obligation, not talent.

the zenin clan tried to mold you into something useful, but even their harshest instructors couldn’t change what you were—delicate.

during missions, you were always accompanied by a classmate, not for teamwork, but to make sure you made it back alive. and maybe that was what hurt most—you felt like you didn’t belong. not with the strong. not even with the weak. just somewhere in between, constantly trying and always failing.

but then there was gojo satoru.

you didn’t understand him. he mocked the weak. he laughed at failure. he was arrogant, untouchable. and yet, he was kind to you. always. he never once made you feel small—not the way the others did. sometimes, you wondered if it was pity. if he looked at you and saw something pitiful enough to spare. but then he’d sit next to you at lunch. walk beside you on campus. talk to you like you mattered.

and for the first time in your life, you felt like maybe you did.

later that day, you sat beside him under a tree near the old school wall. shoko gave you something bitter for the pain. suguru offered you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

gojo handed you a popsicle. “blue raspberry,” he said. “the best one.”

“i didn’t ask for it,” you murmured.

he shrugged. “you didn’t have to.”

you watched him from the corner of your eye as he leaned back in the grass, eyeglass pushed up so you could see his eyes. too blue. too bright.

“you’ve got good instincts,” he said. “but you hesitate.”

you looked away. “i’m not like you.”

“good. the world doesn’t need more me.”

but maybe it did.

when you reported to the zenin clan that night, your words were short.

you didn’t know how to explain it. how his kindness made the guilt worse.

because you weren’t just watching him anymore.

you were watching yourself fall.

and you didn’t mean for it to happen. but it happened anyway.

it started in the quiet places — rooftops at dusk, abandoned hallways between classes, the way his fingers would graze yours just long enough to make you forget why you were even here.

the reports got shorter. colder.

you stopped describing his power.

you started describing his laugh.

and they noticed.

"don’t forget your purpose," the letter said. "you are not his equal." "you are not his friend." "you are not in love."

but you were.

and gojo satoru was catching on.

—

“you always look like you're hiding something,” he said one night, the two of you sitting shoulder to shoulder on the roof above the dorms.

the air smelled like rain. the city below flickered like a dying star.

you didn’t look at him. “maybe i am.”

he leaned closer, voice softer. “you don’t trust me?”

you did. more than anyone. and that terrified you.

“you ever think about running away?” you asked, instead of answering. “just… leaving everything behind.”

he was quiet for a second. then, “every day.”

you turned to him. he was already watching you.

there was something fragile in the air. something breaking.

“what’s stopping you?” you asked.

“you,” he said.

you blinked and as if he realized what he said..

“i mean,” he added quickly, trying to laugh, “you and suguru and shoko. and this dumb school. and nanami's frown. and haibara's smile. and the way you—”

he cut himself off.

“the way i what?” you asked. oblivious.

he swallowed before relaxing his tense body.

“the way you make it all feel like it matters.” he mumbled, voice soft that it almost hurt you.

silence.

he looked like he was going to say something else, but didn’t. instead, he moved — slow, hesitant, like someone unused to asking for what they want.

his hand found yours.

his fingers were warm, careful. you didn’t pull away.

“you scare me,” he said.

you laughed, too soft. “you’re the strongest sorcerer in the world. what could i possibly do to scare you?”

“you make me want things i shouldn’t want.”

you knew he meant it. you knew this was the line — the edge of something you couldn’t come back from.

“me too,” you whispered.

and then he kissed you. just once. soft, trembling, the kind of kiss that tasted like youth and bad decisions.

you kissed him back anyway.

that night, your report was a blank page.

you stared at it for hours.

then burned it.

—

you started to forget what you were.

not completely. never completely. the guilt stayed. it curled beneath your ribs, whispering reminders.

but it got quieter when he was near.

you shared everything now. snacks between missions. rooftops at midnight. secrets. kisses.

you started waking up to the sound of his knocking.

“get up, i brought breakfast,” he’d say, even though it was just vending machine coffee and a half-eaten pastry.

“we’re late,” you’d mumble, and he’d grin like that made him proud.

he was unbearable. smug. loud.

he made you feel safe.

suguru noticed first.

“so… you and satoru?” he asked one afternoon, leaning against the wall while you bandaged your arm.

you looked up. “what about us?”

he raised an eyebrow. “i’m not judging. just wondering if you know what you’re getting into.” suguru said, as if he knew you were hiding something.

you did. and that was the problem.

“he’s not what people think he is,” you said quietly.

“i know,” suguru replied. “but you’re not what he thinks you are either, are you?” he said with doubt.

your hands stilled. you didn’t answer.

—

those days passed like dreams. warm and unreal.

shoko fell asleep in the library again. haibara talked too much in the mornings. nanami scowled when satoru put his feet on the table. suguru rolled his eyes at every joke and laughed at them anyway.

you started to believe this could last.

gojo touched you like you were real. like you weren’t the weapon your clan forged from silence. like you weren’t a lie.

when he kissed you, it felt like hope.

when he held your hand, it felt like home.

one night, while the others were gone, he pulled you into his arms and said, “i love you, you know.”

you froze. he waited.

you buried your face in his chest and whispered, “i know.”

because you did.

you just didn’t know how to say i love you too without it tasting like betrayal.

but you loved him. more than you feared the consequences, and in some twisted way, that was worse.

—

you knew something was wrong before anyone said it.

suguru started missing meals. missions. he spoke less, and when he did, it was sharp — tired in a way that didn’t come from the body. his eyes never stopped moving. like he was searching for something none of you could give him.

satoru didn’t notice at first. or maybe he did, but didn’t want to admit it. you watched him try. asking suguru to hang out, dragging him into conversations, making jokes he didn’t laugh at anymore.

it wasn’t working.

then one day, suguru was just… gone.

no explanation. no goodbye. no body.

satoru came back from a mission alone. jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

you were the first one to find him.

“don’t,” he said, before you could open your mouth.

you stood there, helpless. he looked up at you — and god, you wished he hadn’t — because those blue eyes were empty. completely, terrifyingly empty.

“he’s not dead,” satoru said.

“then where is he?”

“gone.”

you reached for him, but he stepped back. “don’t.” his voice cracked.

so you didn’t touch him. you didn’t speak. you just stood there, watching the boy you loved unravel.

you wanted to tell him that you were still here. that you weren’t going anywhere. but even that was a lie, wasn’t it?

because the next letter came that night.

a new mission. from the clan.

you are to locate suguru geto. you are to assist him. you are to ensure his survival at any cost. we don’t care how.

and at the bottom, in neat, merciless writing:

if you don’t, we’ll make sure gojo doesn’t survive his grief either.

you couldn’t breathe.

you couldn’t scream.

you couldn’t sleep beside satoru that night without thinking of the knife your clan had placed in your hands.

so you stayed up, watching his chest rise and fall.

he looked peaceful in sleep — younger. like the boy you met on the first day. the one who grinned too wide and called you lucky to know him.

you didn’t kiss him goodbye.

you left before the sun came up.

—

you thought you could keep the truth buried.

that you could pretend it wasn’t tearing you apart. but it wasn’t long before satoru noticed.

the way you flinched when he reached for your hand. the way you stopped laughing at his jokes. the way your eyes darkened behind every smile.

“hey,” he said one night, voice quiet, the kind that always meant he was worried. “what’s wrong?”

you swallowed, heart pounding.

“nothing,” you lied.

he didn’t believe you. never did.

“you’re pulling away,” he said. "is someone hurting you?”

you wanted to scream that it was your clan. that they had you by the throat. that you were trying to save both of them — him and suguru — and losing yourself in the process. but words caught in your throat.

he reached for you again. this time, you didn’t pull away.

“i’m scared,” you whispered.

“of what?”

“losing you. losing myself.”

he pulled you close.

“we’ll find a way,” he said. “together.”

but you weren’t sure if you could believe him anymore.

because every night, you were slipping further away, helping suguru from the shadows, watching the man you loved crumble without knowing it was your hands breaking him.

and every day, satoru’s trust chipped a little more.

and soon, there’d be nothing left to hold onto.

—

he found the letter. the one you thought was hidden forever.

satoru’s eyes burned as he unfolded the cold words from your clan.

you are to assist suguru geto. you are to ensure his survival at any cost.

his gaze locked on you, wild with fury and pain.

“why didn’t you tell me?” his voice cracked, trembling. “why lie to me all this time?”

you opened your mouth to speak.

“i was trying to protect you. please, just listen—” he laughed— sharp and bitter. "satoru—"

"oh my god. you were leaking everything to suguru? is it true?" he asked and the only thing you could do was to look down on the ground as your hand started trembling. "answer me!" he yelled, loud enough to make the walls ring. but no words still came out.

“i was trying to protect you.." you mumbled, or maybe you were telling that to yourself.

he let out a laugh, but there was no joy in it.

it was sharp, hollow, and it cut straight through you.

“protect me?” he repeated, voice rising with disbelief. your lips parted, but no sound came out. “you were betraying the school,” he said, venom lacing each word. “you were betraying me.."

“satoru, please—"

“don’t.” his voice cracked like thunder. “don’t say my name like that. not when it’s coming from your mouth.”

your heart pounded in your ears. then—

his expression shifted. darker. colder.

and in that moment, it felt like the whole world shattered between you.

“was any of it real? were your feelings, your promises —all lies?” he asked, he wanted to know at least that some of it was real. and it was. everything was.

but your silence crushed the space between you.

he stared at you for a long, unbearable moment — eyes that once looked at you like you hung the stars now filled with a storm you couldn’t calm.

his voice came low. final.

“i don’t want to see you again.” your breath caught. “leave jujutsu.” he didn’t shout this time — he didn’t have to. “before i tell everyone you betrayed us.”

your throat burned.

he stepped back like you were something dirty, something unforgivable. eyes like ice as his hands clenched at his sides.

the bracelet — your bracelet — still on his wrist, the one you handmade for him in your second year. he looked at it, slowly, deliberately.

and with a flick of cursed energy, it cracked in two. the threads snapped. beads scattered like broken promises, hitting the floor one by one.

“i just…” he paused — bitter. broken. “i just wished i never met you.”

he turned his back to you, walking away as your vision blurred with unshed tears. your knees gave in before the door even closed behind him, leaving you alone in the ruins of a love you thought was real.

you didn’t chase him. you didn’t explain.

you left jujutsu that day, carrying the weight of his hatred like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

and deep inside, you wondered if maybe he was right.

maybe it had all been a lie.

years have passed.

you’ve grown into someone unrecognizable — a shadow of your former self.

no longer the girl who laughed on rooftops with satoru.

no longer the girl who believed in love.

you left jujutsu behind, but never left the pain.

it followed you like a ghost.

meanwhile, satoru changed, too. the boy who once smiled easily now hides behind sarcasm and walls.

his trust shattered beyond repair.

and yet — fate, or perhaps the merciless clans— have arranged your marriage.

a contract to bind your clans in uneasy peace.

you’re thrown back together after all these years.

but the air between you is thick with resentment, regret, and unspoken words.

he looks at you like you’re a stranger, or worse, an enemy.

you see the loathing in his eyes, but you hide your own pain beneath a mask. neither of you knows how to begin again.

the room was colder than you remembered.

you stood just inside the door, the silence thick and suffocating.

he sat across from you, calm but distant — the same familiar posture, but everything about him was different. hardened.

his blindfold hid the storm behind his eyes.

“you’re late,” he said, voice flat.

you swallowed.

“i had things to settle.”

he didn’t respond. just stared, the weight of years pressing down.

you tried to speak — to explain, to apologize — but the words wouldn’t come.

instead, you studied him.nthe way his jaw clenched. the slight twitch in his fingers. you saw the bitterness there. the cold walls he’d built.

“why did you come back?” he finally asked. “after everything.” you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“because we have no choice.” he nodded, like he already knew.

“i don’t want this,” he said. “this marriage. this arrangement. i don’t want to pretend i ever trusted you.”

you wanted to tell him it was the same for you. that you didn't want the marriage either, or maybe because it's just what he wanted. and that you still felt the ache from the day he walked away.

but the words caught. instead, you just nodded.

“so what now?” he asked.

you looked down, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“i don't know."

and for the first time in years, you both sat in the same room — two broken pieces forced to fit together again.

—

the house felt strange — too quiet, too empty, and yet filled with memories you both tried to forget. living together wasn’t easy.

every room held echoes of the past. every corner reminded you of better days, and bitter ends.

you tried to keep your distance. he kept his guard up, eyes sharp and wary. meals were silent, conversations clipped.

he didn’t ask about your life. you didn’t ask about his.

but sometimes, when the night stretched too long, you caught glimpses. a flicker of something behind his blindfold — pain, regret, maybe even a shadow of the boy you once knew.

and sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, your eyes met. just for a moment. before the walls went back up.

you wondered if you could survive this. living with the man who still loathed you. the man you still love.

but for now, you both kept pretending. because neither of you were ready to face the truth.

—

you found him on the balcony, bathed in the pale glow of the city lights, arms folded over the railing like he’d been standing there for hours.

his blindfold was still on, but you could feel the weight of his stare when you stepped closer.

he didn’t turn. didn’t speak. you stood beside him anyway.

for a long while, neither of you said a thing. the silence was louder than any argument you’d ever had.

“i’m sorry,” you said quietly. not rehearsed. not dramatic. it was a sudden urge to tell him that, so you continued. “i’m sorry for everything. for lying. for hiding things. for not telling you when i should’ve.”

he didn’t move. he didn’t even flinch.

“i never wanted to hurt you,” you whispered. “i never stopped—”

“stop,” he cut in sharply. his voice was ice. “i don't want to hear it."

you froze, throat tight. he finally turned toward you.

“i can’t tell what’s real when it comes to you anymore,” he said. “maybe you loved me. maybe you didn’t. i don’t know. and that kills me.” his jaw clenched. “you kept secrets that destroyed everything we had. how am i supposed to look at you and not see all of that?”

you looked down at your hands, shaking slightly.

“i didn’t know how to fix it.”

“you can’t fix it,” he said. “you made a choice. and so did i.”

you nodded. once. not because you accepted it — but because you knew. he couldn’t forgive you. not now. maybe not ever.

so you turned and left him there, alone with the city lights and the silence,

while your apology sank into the night like a stone in deep water.

—

the days bled together. he avoided you without ever really avoiding you.

you were two strangers in a shared house — moving past each other like ghosts.

sometimes you’d catch the scent of his cologne in the hallway and it would paralyze you.

shoko noticed first. she invited herself over one evening, arms crossed, lips tight, eyes sharp as ever.

“you two look miserable,” she said. no sugarcoating. just brutal honesty.

“it’s fine,” satoru muttered, not looking up from his tea.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. your throat felt thick again.

“if this is how you’re going to live,” shoko said quietly, “you’ll end up destroying each other all over again.”

the silence after she was gone felt different.

that night, you sat across from him at the dinner table, barely touching your food.

—

he came home late. blood on his uniform. his blindfold missing — eyes dim, not glowing like they used to.

“satoru?” you stood from the couch, instinctive worry lacing your voice. he didn’t answer.

he walked past you, like you weren’t even there. but you saw the way his hands trembled.

“you’re hurt,” you said softly, stepping closer. “let me help—”

“don’t—” he said, pulling away from you and you froze. “don’t act like you care.” he turned then, eyes sharp, like broken glass.

his face twisted — exhaustion, grief, rage.

“you don’t get to act like that,” he said, stepping toward you. “not after everything you did.”

“i never wanted to—”

“you think any of this matters now?” he snapped. his voice rising. shaking.

“i hate this marriage. i fucking hate this house. i hate waking up every day knowing you’re here.” you flinched. it was as if his voice alone had wounded you. and he kept going.

“i hate looking at you and remembering how fucking stupid i was to believe any of it was real.”

you couldn’t breathe. he was shaking, fists clenched at his sides. and for once, he wasn’t trying to hold back.

“i should’ve never let you back into my life. i should’ve never loved you.”

those last words— they were the final crack in something you didn’t know was still standing.

you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry. you just looked at him, eyes hollow. something in you quietly snapped.

“i'm sorry..” you said, not even looking at him because of shame.

and that's it. just a simple sorry, and he didn’t expect it.

you turned around and walked away. and it was that silence that haunted him the most.

—

you didn’t cry after that night. not when he said he hated you. there were no tears left to shed.

not when he told you he regretted ever loving you. you just… left the room.

you didn’t rest. instead, you went to the one place you never wanted to return to.

the zenin estate.

you stood before them with a calm voice and a broken heart, asking for only one thing: a divorce.

they scoffed. laughed. like your pain was amusing.

but they didn’t say yes. instead, they gave you a challenge.

“you have to earn it. beat the cursed spirit in the basement.”

they told you it was a grade 3. maybe stronger.

you had no cursed energy. it had been 10 years since you fought curses, and you didn't know if you still could.

but you still said yes.

because if it would make satoru free— if it would make him stop looking at you like you ruined his life,

you’d fight it. you’d let it kill you, if that’s what it took.

the first few days were hell.

you came back home every night limping, blood soaking through your sleeves. your hands trembled just trying to unlock the door.

satoru never noticed — he was never there.

you’d hear the door open some nights. footsteps in the hall. the fridge closing. then silence. he never even checked the bedroom.

and still, you kept going. day after day. cut after cut. bruise after bruise. weeks passed, and one day, finally— you killed it.

you collapsed beside its twitching body, chest heaving.

but then — like some twisted video game — another one appeared. a grade 2 rose from its remains.

you didn’t scream. you just smiled, bitter and tired.

“heh, knew it,” you whispered before blacking out.

—

you woke up in your old room, limbs aching like they’d been torn apart.

maki was there, sitting at your bedside, arms crossed, jaw tight with worry.

“auntie,” she said quietly. “what the hell are you doing here?”

you blinked slowly. “training.” you shrugged as you sit up from the bed.

“training?” she echoed, disbelieving.

“you were beat to a pulp in the basement. i had to drag you up myself. does gojo-sensei even know you’re doing this?”

“yeah,” you whispered.

she narrowed her eyes. “why here? why not ask him to train you?”

“he’s busy.” your voice cracked. “don’t worry about me, maki.” she frowned, but didn’t push.

“i came to grab a few things. they didn’t even let me in. you sure you’re okay?” you nodded.

and after she left, you laid there for hours — body aching, soul aching worse.

but the next morning, you went back. because there was still the grade 2. maybe more. and if pain was the price of setting him free, you’d keep paying it. even if it killed you.

—

days passed again. then weeks.

your body was failing. you barely ate. barely slept. your muscles trembled just walking down the hall.

and one morning — after a brutal fight the night before — your body gave out. you didn’t make it to your bed. you passed out curled on the couch, sun bleeding through the curtains, casting gold over your bruised skin.

that was when he came home. he stepped into the living room quietly, looking for something — maybe a mission scroll, maybe a file.

he froze when he saw you. asleep. curled in on yourself like something small and breakable while the sunlight pooled around you.

he stared at you for a moment, and when he realized he was, he scoffed under his breath. “must be nice,” he muttered. “sleeping all day."

he didn’t know. he didn’t see the blood seeping from under your sleeve. he didn’t notice the healing welts down your back. he didn’t hear your shallow, pained breathing.

he doesn’t need to know.

—

maki hadn’t meant to return.

she just… couldn’t shake the feeling. something wasn’t right. you were hiding something, and it didn’t sit right with her so she went back to the zenin estate.

and what she found there… froze her in place.

you were stumbling out of the basement, limbs trembling, dried blood staining your clothes.

your eyes were unfocused, lips cracked. you looked like a walking corpse.

“auntie—?!” you didn’t even hear her. you collapsed forward, knees buckling.

maki caught you before your head hit the stone floor.

“shit—ijichi!” she barked into her phone, struggling to keep your body steady. “i need help. now.”

within the hour, you were back at the gojo estate.

shoko arrived immediately. her eyes hardened the second she saw you laid out on the couch, barely breathing.

maki paced behind her, arms crossed tight, panic masked behind frustration.

“i don’t know,” she muttered when shoko asked. “she said she was training. but why there? in the basement? in our old home? that's where they literally tortured us.” shoko didn’t respond right away.

her hands hovered over your ribs. she had to be careful. you had no cursed energy to stabilize you, and that made everything ten times harder for shoko.

“as far as i know,” maki continued, “she’s been there for over a month.”

shoko exhaled slowly, disbelief creasing her features.

“she’s human. how the hell did she survive that long?” maki didn’t answer. her chest ached.

you were the reason she ever left the zenin clan. you were the one who whispered late at night that there was a world beyond this, that people at jujutsu high would treat her like a person. you were the one who gave her the courage to fight back.

you gave her freedom. and now you were lying here, broken and battered, as if you'd never had a choice in your own. she bit her lip.

“i’m telling sensei.” but before she could move— your hand, heavy and shaking, reached out and grabbed her wrist.

strong. too strong, for someone so wounded.

“don’t…” you rasped, voice thick with pain. your eyes were barely open, but tears had begun slipping from the corners.

“(name)?” shoko crouched closer, voice gentle. “does everything hurt? tell me where—”

“don’t tell him…” your voice cracked.

“please…” then your grip loosened. your hand fell back against the sheets, and your eyes fluttered shut once again.

shoko’s brows furrowed while maki stood frozen, throat tight with something she didn’t want to name.

“…why not?” maki whispered. but you didn’t answer.

and deep down, you didn’t want him to know. because you were scared. scared of what he’d say. of what he’d do. what if it rejoiced him? what if it relieved him — knowing you wanted a divorce too?

you knew what you had with him had been broken for a long time now. you knew he didn’t love you anymore. but if he found out… and he was relieved… it would destroy you.

that’s why you were doing this quietly. because if he saw—if he really saw—how much you still loved him, how far you were willing to break yourself just to set him free… you were terrified he might hate you even more for it.

—

the house was quiet when he returned. it had been quiet for weeks. months, even.

he didn’t think much of it anymore. didn’t expect greetings or warm dinners or questions like how was your mission, satoru? — because that version of you didn’t exist anymore. not since everything between you shattered.

he exhaled long through his nose as he dropped his blindfold on the counter, rubbing the bridge of his nose. he was tired. his hands ached. his cursed energy buzzed too loud in his ears.

he made his way to the bedroom. and there you were. sleeping. again.

your back was facing him, shoulders drawn tight, legs curled in. you looked small. fragile. like a single breath might unravel you.

he clicked his tongue.

“of course,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his snow-white hair. “must be nice to sleep all day.”

he approached without thinking. quiet steps. muscle memory. his hand reached out — he wasn’t even sure why — and settled gently on your shoulder.

but the second his palm touched you, something in him froze. the way your body tensed. the way your skin felt… hot and strained. he pulled his hand back like he’d been burned.

“sorry…” you stirred, voice hoarse and quiet.

you turned your face further into the pillow, already slipping back into unconsciousness. satoru narrowed his eyes. something was wrong.

he leaned over you, squinting in the soft light — and that’s when he saw it. the bruise. dark and ugly, blooming across your jaw like rot.

his breath caught in his throat.

without thinking, his hands moved carefully. he turned you slowly, peeling your shoulder toward him. your body twitched in protest. a small sound slipped from your lips — pained. like breathing hurt.

his fingers lifted the edge of your shirt. what he found underneath made his chest tighten.

bruises. purple, black, angry. scattered across your sides. your ribs. your back. your skin was mottled with pain.

he pulled the blanket further down — and stopped breathing altogether.

you looked destroyed.

and the worst part was — you didn’t even stir. you were too far gone to feel his touch.

satoru stood there, unmoving. the room suddenly felt too quiet. too still. like it was holding its breath with him.

his mind screamed with a thousand questions.

what happened to you? who did this? why didn’t you say anything?

and the ugliest thought of all:

why didn’t i notice?

his throat tightened, guilt crawling up like a noose. he took a slow step back. his fingers twitched. his cursed energy coiled under his skin like fire, begging for something — someone — to destroy.

“just what the hell are you doing…?” he whispered, almost to himself, like the words alone could ground him.

he looked down at you — broken, bruised, and still reaching for him in your dreams.

and for the first time in months, satoru didn’t feel angry. he felt scared.

—

gojo was on the verge of exploding.

his footsteps echoed hard across the jujutsu high grounds, cursed energy simmering beneath his skin like a storm about to rupture. someone knew something. shoko, the higher-ups—hell, anyone. and he was going to find out.

he’d barely stepped past the school gates when a voice stopped him cold.

“gojo-sensei.” he turned, caught off guard. he hadn't noticed her there. maki stood at the entrance, arms crossed, posture rigid, face unreadable — but her eyes betrayed her.

there was something raw there. something trembling under the surface.

“what’s wrong?” gojo asked, instinctively guarded.

maki hesitated, then stepped forward. “i need to tell you something.”

gojo didn’t expect that. not from her. not like this.

“she’s been going back to the zenin estate,” maki said quietly. “she’s been training. every day. for weeks.”

gojo’s brows furrowed. “training?” he echoed. “why the hell would she—”

“i don’t know,” maki cut in. “she wouldn’t tell me the reason. she just said not to tell you. but i couldn’t keep it anymore.” gojo stared at her, stunned.

and maki took this a chance to continue as her voice softened — not with pity, but with pain.

“she’s the parent who stepped up for me. when no one else did. when my own family threw me away.” she swallowed. “we’re the same. no cursed energy. no future. at least, that’s what they made us believe. but she… she was the reason i even dared to dream beyond that.”

she looked down, fists tightening.

“i don’t want her to suffer anymore. not like this.” gojo stayed silent. his hands trembled in anger.

maki looked up again, gaze steady.

“she’s the reason i’m here, sensei. she’s the reason i ever believed this place could be something better.” her voice dropped, almost a whisper. “and when i came to jujutsu high, the first person she told me to look for was you.”

that did it. his heart cracked open.

“whatever is happening to her.." maki said. “please.. help her.”

—

the house was quieter than usual. like even the air had learned to tread carefully between the ghosts of words left unspoken.

you stirred after nearly two days of unconsciousness, body aching, but somehow lighter. shoko's treatment had soothed the worst of it, but not the root. the soreness was bone-deep, and the emotional bruises—those stayed longer.

you found yourself in the kitchen, trembling hands stirring a spoon in a mug of hot tea, the steam fogging up your vision. maybe it was the tea. or maybe it was the way everything hurt just a little less today. like your body finally realized it didn’t want to give up.

then—

“maki told me.” his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

your hand froze mid-stir. the spoon clinked against porcelain once, twice, then fell still. he didn't even show hesitation and said it right away.

“she told you what?” you asked, not turning around.

“you’ve been going back to the zenin estate.” his voice wasn’t angry. not quite. not yet. “what are you training for?”

you turned slowly and sat down, grasping the mug like it was the only solid thing keeping you tethered to the moment.

“nothing,” you said. “i just want to be strong.” but that was a lie, and you both knew it.

“you’re lying.”

you let out a breath, long and tired, massaging your temples like the pressure there might stop the world from spinning.

“why do you care?” you said softly. the words held no venom—only sorrow. “i’m doing this for you.”

there it was. the confession.

your voice wavered, but you kept going. “just do your thing, and this will be over soon.”

“why are you like this?” he asked, frustration bleeding into his voice. you looked up at him now, something in your eyes breaking open.

“like what, satoru? isn’t this what you wanted?” your voice cracked. “i’m doing you a favor already.”

his lips parted to speak, but no words came. the silence stretched before he found them.

“by what? by letting yourself get beat up?” your fingers tightened around your mug.

“it doesn’t matter,” you whispered. “it will end soon.” you didn't want to say it, but you had to.

“what will end soon?”

you looked up, and that was the first time he saw the tears.

“this marriage, satoru.”

suddenly, the world stopped moving.

“what?..” he breathed. you swallowed the lump in your throat.

“i had to,” you said. “i don’t have a choice, do i?”

his voice was quieter now. more strained.

“you could just file for divorce. why would you let them go this far?”

you shook your head, gaze falling to the tea you no longer wanted.

“i just hoped it was that easy.” your voice was thick with tears. “just do me a favor…” you whispered, “please, don’t show up. not until i figure everything out.”

he stayed true to your words. he didn’t show up. at least, not to you.

but he was there. always. slipping through shadows you no longer had the strength to notice. he watched every time you limped out of the zenin estate, drenched in sweat and pain, bones barely holding you up.

he watched and he waited. and it was eating him alive.

he told himself he was doing what you asked—giving you space. giving you time. but every time he saw another bruise on your face, another limp in your step, another piece of you stripped away—he realized this wasn’t space.

it was cowardice.

so one night, he snapped.

in a flash of cursed light and boiling fury, he cornered one of your clan members—young, trembling, nothing but a messenger boy for the elders.

satoru’s hand wrapped around the kid’s throat before he even realized he’d been moved.

“what is she doing there?”

the boy’s eyes widened in terror. “w-what—”

“what is she doing there?” satoru repeated, voice so cold it froze the air. “in the basement. why is she coming back bloody every night?”

the boy shook in his grasp. “i-it’s not my fault! it was a challenge from the clan head!”

satoru’s eyes sharpened. “what challenge?”

“you— you didn’t know?” the boy stammered, blinking in disbelief. “but… she told us you did—she said you wanted this!” his blood turned to ice.

“what challenge,” satoru said again, each word slower, heavier, more dangerous than the last.

the boy whimpered under the weight of his cursed energy, knees buckling.

“i-it’s— they said if she could beat the curse in the basement… with only a cursed tool— they’d let her file for divorce. she begged for it. said she wanted to free you!” the words struck him like a curse of their own.

“what?"

“she doesn’t have cursed energy… that’s why they’re doing it. they know she can’t win. they know it’ll kill her. they’re never going to give her that divorce. curse will continue to come at her.”

satoru’s hand slowly dropped from the boy’s throat. he couldn’t breathe.

you were doing this… for him?

fighting curses with no cursed energy. with a body already half-ruined. enduring the cruelty of the clan that despised you. dragging yourself down into that basement night after night just to give him a way out?

and you never told him. never once begged him to understand.

because in your mind, this was how you showed you loved him. by letting him go.

gojo satoru didn’t say another word and vanished.

—

the room was quiet when he came in.

you were sleeping again, just like all the other nights—collapsed from exhaustion, curled in on yourself like sleep was something that had to be earned.

satoru stood at the doorway, staring.

the guilt was unbearable now. it sat in his chest like a curse, hollowing him out from the inside.

he moved forward slowly, until his shadow reached across your bed.

your body tensed instantly. eyes flying open. breath catching. instinct bracing you for pain.

and somehow, just the sight of him made the storm inside you quiet.

your breathing slowed. your hands stopped trembling. it was as if everything in you finally understood.

you were safe now. safe, because even after everything—he still comes home.

but it was a fragile kind of comfort. because deep down, you knew—

it was only a matter of time before it ended. and maybe that was the saddest part of all. he was still coming home, but not for long.

“oh… it’s just you…” you mumbled, voice raspy, dragging yourself upright despite the ache. and when you finally managed to sit up, your eyes met his, confused, tired—

“what are you doing h—” but the words never came.

because the look on his face stopped you cold. and because he was already there, wrapping his arms around you like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers. pulling you against his chest like it was the only thing that could steady him.

“fuck…” he breathed, broken, and your heart dropped.

“satoru?” you asked, weak and confused, barely able to hold your head up.

and then— you felt it.

warm and wet on your shoulder. his tears.

you moved instinctively, reaching up to his chest, but your limbs felt was too numb. you couldn’t fight the hold he had on you. not that you wanted to.

“please,” he whispered, voice trembling. “please, stop this.”

your eyes widened. something sharp twisted behind your ribs.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, but your lips were already quivering—

your voice barely holding together, your breath catching because you already knew the answer before your mind could bear to hear it.

“i’m sorry,” he choked out, voice breaking. “i’m sorry for treating you that way. i was angry… i thought you chose to betray me. but i didn’t stop to think—I didn’t really see you. you were only doing what they told you to, weren’t you? you… you just wanted suguru back too, didn’t you?"

his words trembled under the weight of regret, heavy with the kind of sorrow that came far too late.

and there, your heart cracked clean down the middle.

tears welled up and spilled before you could stop them, soaking into his shirt as you nodded quickly, a soft, broken hum escaping your lips.

your voice came out a whisper, raw and broken. “i'm sorry.. i didn’t want to help them. but i was weak, satoru. and they used me against you. i was scared. i didn’t know what else to do.” your fingers fisted in his shirt, small and desperate. “i’m sorry… i know it’s too late now, but i really did love—”

he pulled back just enough to hold your face in his hands. his thumbs brushed at your tears, but they kept coming quietly.

“i know,” he breathed, voice barely holding together. “i know, honey.”

his hands trembled as they cradled your face, thumbs brushing away the tears that wouldn't stop coming—yours and his. and for the first time in years, there was no anger in his eyes. just grief. just guilt. just the overwhelming ache of knowing he’d almost lost you completely without ever hearing the truth.

“i’m sorry for pushing you away. i thought… i thought if i let myself love again, it would break me. that i’d lose everything. again. i didn’t mean to hurt you. i just didn’t know how else to protect myself.”

you let out a trembling sigh, the kind that comes from something long buried rising to the surface.

“i know the kind of man you are, satoru,” you whispered. “and that’s why i love you.”

he stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

and then, finally—

“i love you too,” he whispered. “so much that it hurts.”

you laughed through your tears—a small, breathless sound. cracked and beautiful.

“do you forgive me now?” you asked, leaning into his touch.

his hand ghosted over your cheek like you were something sacred.

“you did nothing wrong,” he murmured. “there’s nothing to forgive.”

he pressed a kiss to your forehead. it lingered—like a promise. like a beginning.

“let’s fix everything tomorrow,” he said quietly, gently lowering you back to the mattress. “but for now… let’s rest.”

you nodded, body giving in, sinking into him like you had nowhere else left to go.

and for the first time in weeks—

you both slept. not as strangers, not as ghosts of what you once were, but as two broken hearts still brave enough to try again.

[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

was thinking about this at work, as I tend to do lmao, I wonder, in your Venus Vampire Trap AU, when it really hits Ford, that Stan died.

I imagine it only really hits him once he stops, maybe after Stan passes out once he finishes eating the vampires and everything dies down.

like staring in the middle distance and thinking about how Stan's mistake may have cost Ford his dream school, but Ford's mistake cost Stan his life

(there has to be a way to fix this. he has to fix this, he has to)

idk I've just been thinking about how hard it would hit Ford that, to some degree, Stan died

(hope this makes sense lol, also I saw the Horse!Stan AU and died laughing 😂)

Yeah its hard to process when your trying to make sure your vamp bro doesn't go on a blood thirsty rampage, but now that he knows Stan's fine he's got less over all stress, and more time to Think :)

Couse, like, Stan's particular strain of vampirism makes him look very, very alive, but he's not :) He doesn't need to eat, doesn't need to breath, doesn't need the sun, if he's full his heart won't beat his lure beat (why get more food just to waste it after all). Thats a full corpse snoozing away, covered and full of blood. Stan died four months ago and got right back up without realizing his state of being had changed. Ford's four months older than his brother ever got to be, and every second and every hour that time grows and grows. His twin brother is dead and walking and its all his fault. Could have died a year ago in that no name town in Wyoming and it still would have been his fault. Every jump and every 'mugger' that Stan had to survive is all because of Ford, and now because of his mistakes his brother might never truly live again.

Glad you like the Horse Stan au! I love him so much, just thinking about his crack tragedy life makes me smile :)

[candybarz]

hihihihi do u think you could write about nerd!armin and reader being academic rivals and armins a big meanie because he gets a higher score on the final than reader does >:) (nsfw teehee)

SURE THING!! ty for requesting!! i did some changes cause i didnt know how to go about it so i hope thats okay!! A/N: i used college nerdmin (https://ca.pinterest.com/pin/52354414414324585/) this took so longg, its kinda good, idk it feels rushed i hope yall enjoyy (i proofread it but there might be a few mistakes!!)

WARNINGS: Mean!Nerdmin x Reader, calculus mentioned. ,Backshots(F!receiving), Oral sex (F!+M!receiving), Rough sex (?), Fingering (F!receiving), Name calling (stupid/dumb whore,slut etc), ussage of y/n and female anatomy.

You were always the smartest in your classes, top of the year if you will. Basically any class you took was not a challenge to you, from first to the seventh you were the smartest. were.

Then came along that bastard who one-upped you, that dumb ass bob to the stupid ass nerdy clothes he wore, that otaku shirt wearing smartass. Armin Arlert. The moment he showed up everything went to shit, every test you did ended up having the same.exact.grade. At graduation you both got the same awards, ending up in an academic tie at graduation. It did not change in college. You both ended up taking the same course, some-fucking-how. It was constantly in a tie for a whole year, it was irratating.

---

You recently had done exams, everyonee eagerly waiting for their answers. Hell, they were probably waiting to see what you and armin got as this exam basically kicked everyones ass. The room was dead silent, whispers of people saying they were for sure going to fail or others saying they didn't even wanna look.

The teacher nodded dismissing the class. you instantly whipped out your phone to check your grade, scrolling down to each class to see the grades. Every grade had A or A+.

Calculus: C-

Your heart sunk to your ass, that had to be the lowest grade you have ever gotten in your 20 years of living. You walked up to your professor, grade propped up and ready 'cause this had to be a mistake, right?

WRONG.

Mr.Ackerman looked you dead in your face sipping on his tea, your grade wasn't a mistake. Apparently it was 5 questions you got wrong, all of them were the ones you did a million times.

During your free period you sat under the shade, still staring at the grade. Sasha looked at you with a look of worry, you barely finished your food. "Girl, you've been staring at that grade for like 4 minutes now! Whats up??" Sasha asked leaning in to see your face, you looked up on instinct shutting off your phone and shrugged acting chill.

"I just really thought I was going to do better than that, I studied all night for that? But it's whatever." You explained and letting sasha continue her story about how some frat house was throwing a huge bash for the end of exams. What you said wasn't a lie, but there was more to it and it was the fact you did not want to feel like you lost to Armin of all people.

"So will you go?" Your bestfriends voice cut into your mind, you sat and thought about it, maybe this party could help take your mind off it. You letting out a long dramatic sigh before smiling at sasha, you nodded your head and she squealed 'thank you' hugging you. Later on in the day she sent you the address and to be honest you were a little excited. -- The lighting of the place changed colors repeatedly and the smell of marijuana mixed into the smell of alcohol and perfumes. It was a bit hot inside. You sat by the punch area awkwardly drinking water, you had a brownie 30 minutes ago and the effects hit you like a brick. While it didn't comepletely fuck you up, you were just a little bit calmer, guess this was a smaller dosage then the regular.

You stared at the people coming and going, until someone came beside you. Turning, you look up to see who it was. Armin fucking Arlert. He had that dumb smirk on, you had to squint at him to see it. He had his regular glasses on, his hair was in his usual style, maybe he missed a barbers appointment because his under cut grew out. His shirt, radiohead merch paired with some long jorts, to be honest he looked hot, maybe Eren finally put him on? who cares, you still didnt want to see him. "How'd you do? Like on the exam." He asked with fake

You stared at the people coming and going, until someone came beside you. Turning, you look up to see who it was. Armin fucking Arlert. He had that dumb smirk on, you had to squint at him to see it. He had his regular glasses on, his hair was in his usual style, maybe he missed a barbers appointment because his under cut grew out. His shirt, radiohead merch paired with some long jorts, to be honest he looked hot, maybe Eren finally put him on? who cares, you still didnt want to see him. "How'd you do? Like on the exam." He asked with fake innocence, you knew that he already knew somehow, he always does. You glared up at him with annoyance on your face, you muttered the grade under your breath not even wanting to say it out loud. This bastard leaned in like he didn't hear you over the music, the same smirk turned into a shit-eating grin as if he couldnt contain his joy.

"C-minus." Was all you said before he let out a mocking laugh, like you were the clown of the damn year. Armin stared at you with smugness all over his face and disgust like you were contagious and the stupid was gonna rub off on him. "Are you a blockhead? That test was so easy even the meat heads got higher than that." He sneered behind his cup of juice, you rolled your eyes at his statement. "Can you tutor me?" You bit your pride and asked the impossible and some how he took this as a sign to continue.

"You know this was what we've been studying this whole time? He even gave people sheet that can help with the process. Did you not pick one up? Typical, you don't know how to study at all huh? Just as dumb as always, but I guess-" He said before looking at you, you stared at him with a confused face, you didn't even say a word and he's talking like that? Fucking asshole.

You could swear you saw him mutter something. Shoving him aside you left the party. -- It's been a week since you and Armin's last encounter, you ended up getting a text from Sasha saying Armin will tutor you as an apology for what he did, part of you was still pissed but you weren't a hateful person, just competitive.

You had been going to armins house every three days to be tutored, some days he was difficult and others he was nice, there was no in between but lately he was too nice. He would give you food during breaks and complimenting your outfits, it was weird to say the least. You headed off to Armins house, it was a bit too hit today so you decided to wear a white spaghetti strap top and some distressed jean shorts with the frayed hems.

--

Today was not the day for you or armin, you were both irritated for some reason and everytime you answered a question wrong, you got a scoff. Or asked a "stupid" question, you got a stupid look while he fanned himself.

"Just do the equation and stop doing it your way! Do it the way you're supposed to, it is not that HARD! Dumbass!." Armin whined as he dropped his fan in frustration. You scoffed getting up and leaving the room calling him a fucking nerd, you needed some form of relaxation or you were going to lose your mind. You got a glass of water and started to chug it, this heatwave better die down by the last hour. Suddenly, Armin came up from behind and yanked the glass out of your hand throwing it into the sink. "What is your problem?" You asked annoyed, He was way too close for your liking.

"You're my fucking problem everything you do pisses me the fuck off and messes with me. I take time out of my day to tutor your ass and this is how you repay me, with that fuckass attitude?" He spat with a glare in his eye, your brows knitted together at his words, before you could say anything he continued. "You better fix that attitude, or else." Armin threatened and you looked him up and down. "Or what?" You snapped back, walking back to the room scoffing.

SMUT INCOMING!!

You didn't have this in mind, if you told you in the past this is what it has come to, she wouldn't believe you. Armin had his lips on your neck, sucking and kissing at the senitive skin while leaving a nasty mark.

His hand snaked around you, your shorts unbuttoned while his hand teased your clit behind the underwear making your breath heavy. He listed off your shirt in one go, removing his hand from your clit, making you whine. You turned around taking his off which caused you to get a good look at his torso, he was kind of fit which you didnt expect from him, his shirts weren't doing him justice.

You felt him shove you roughly back onto the bed, before you could do anything he latched himself back onto your neck before slowly moving down to your chest, basically almost tearing off your bra. "Fuck.." you whispered as he kissed your breast lovingly, sucking on them at some point but then he bit one causing you to whine again. He kissed down to your stomach, making your spine shiver as he went right above the pelvis. He tugged your shorts off, throwing them somewhere else. You clamped you legs shut but armin forced them apart, spreading them widely. "Keep your legs open slut." He whispered leaning down and giving you the warning in your ear, you did as he said opening them.

He went down until he was facing your clothed pussy, he kissed your clit through the panties, sending a shiver up your spine as you moaned. "A-Armin!" You held his hair as he sucked on it through the cloth, dampening your pink panties and mixing his saliva with your slick. He tore them off soon after which made the cool air hit your pussy. Armin kissed your clit a bit before eating you out. You tried to close your legs but armin was faster, he pushed them open and farther than before.

His tongue moving in ways you didn't expect, his nose rubbing against your clit as he ate you out. "S-Shit.." You whimpered at the feeling, you suddenly felt two finger inserted inside you while he moved his mouth to your clit. Armins fingers moved faster while curling slightly upwards, he could feel his dick getting hard with the way your pussy clenched his fingers, you could feeling yourself getting closer as your whimpers turned into begging real quick."Please...faster...Armin, im gonna-!" You felt his fingers leave from your pussy and his mouth detaching as well.

"Brats don't get to cum fast, think about that next time dumb whore." Armin said at your whining, your slick coating his chin. You felt him reach over you for his dresser where he pulled out a condom box that read large, surely it was just for show...right? He stood taking his jogging pants off, showing his black boxers, once he took those off you felt your eyes bulge out of your head. That had to be the prettiest dick you've ever seen, it was like everything was perfect for him from his grades to his face to his dick. It had a pretty color to it, the tip was a darker shade of pink. Precum oozed out of the slit whilst he put on the condom, groaning lowly once he touched it, his dick was maybe 7-8 inches, 9 if you really thought about it, the girth wasnt extremely thick but not so slim either.

He slid back onto the bed, rubbing his dick near your entrance, you moaned when you felt it rub your clit. You whined as he teased you, staring up in frustation. "You want my cock?" He asked soothingly, and you nodded like a dumbass. "Beg for it, whore." He smirked, You looked at him with a deadpanned look but it was too late now. "Please fuck me Armin, Please." You begged squirming around, he grabbed you and flipped you over and raised your ass in the air while pushing your back down. In one swift move he pushed his dick in you causing you to moan louder than you should've, At first he was going slowly, very slowly. trying to get you used to his length. "Faster...please..." You begged trying to move back into him but he didn't change his pace. He rubbed you clit while he teased you with his pace, you whimpered every time it grazed your good spot and armin noticed this.

He slammed his hips harshly into yours with no warning. "Fuck!" You squealed as his pace quickened, every plop of your skin connecting to his was another moan from you, you try to slow him down with your hand by putting it on his abdomen. He quickly got irratated and pinned it to your back and pushing you into the mattress that was covered by some shark sheets, you would've teased him for it if you saw it sooner but you were too busy with his brutal thrust. "You dont cum until i say so, stupid whore."

Armin smacked your ass and fondled it, he's always liked staring at your ass the moment you both got into college and you gained confidence, the way it moves is enchanting. You moaned with a high pitch tone as his tip bullied your spot, he let go of your arm and grabbed your hair, letting out quiet curses under his breath as he felt you getting close. Your screams got louder, he sucked on the sensitive spot of your neck while playing with your clit. "Armin! I'm gonna-" "You wanna cum? Are you gonna stop being a fucking bitch and listen to me? You gonna apologize?" Armin said lowly into your ear, his breath shaky from the work he was putting in.

"Yes! Yes, i'll stop-Fuck! Being a bitch and Mgnh listen to you! Im sorryyy!" You cried out tying to contain your moaning while being edged. He kissed the back of your neck and let your body down before whispering that you can cum. You reached your climax, eyes rolling to the back of your head and mouth hanging open while armin kissed your shoulder, thrusting as you came.

He pulled out and was confused when you turned and grabbed his dick yourself, you peel the condom of and threw it somewhere. You lick the precum off the tip before kissing it. "Fuck.." Armin let out a whimper and bit his lip, You licked his dick from the base of the bottom of his dick to the tip and felt his dick pulse. Armin stared down at you as you put the tip in your mouth, sucking his dick slowly. After a bit you sped up the pace and sucked him off faster. "Holy shit...Y/n....good girl." He breathed out grabbing your hair and forcing it up and down, You gagged as he did so.

Your hands scatched at his thigh and pelvis area, he hissed as you scratched and fucked your throat so he could cum quicker, tears fell down your face as you gagged at every thrust. "Ngh fuck! Y/n..!" Armin came into your mouth, shooting hot loads into your mouth while moving your head up and down. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, straight at the phone he had in his hand, You didn't care at this point. Armin watched (and recorded) you swallowing and sticking your tongue out to show him you swallowed it. he stopped the video as he muttered something about "you're so fucking hot..", he leaned down and kissed you with tongue, you kissed him back as you laid in bed with him.

"Is there any other class you need help with?"

This fucking nerd.

--

Credits to me!!

[strangesuki]

agree to disagree?

❝i love you; by extension, i hate all other things❞

❝i forgive the world because it has you❞

pairing : euijoo x reader, est. relationship

genre : fluff, comfort, grumpy!reader x sunshine!euijoo but you don't exactly get to see much of his sunshiney side in this so more like subdued sunshine? sunshine but it's a cloudy day kinda vibe? idk what im on about but you get what i mean 😭

prompt (?) : i saw a post the other day about something hozier said in an interview (1st quote from above) and was reminded of another quote (2nd one) that felt like its perfect companion quote and i was like omg someone should write a fic using these two! then i was like wait i can also do that. so here we are. i kinda wanna write an angsty version but maybe some other day

warnings : one instance of bullying mentioned, one cuss word, not proofread

word count : around 800

you had an okay childhood – nice parents, good friends, financially secure environment, fun memories. and so to an outsider, it doesn't make sense why you grow up angry at the world. but those close to you know that it's because you also grew up watching the hypocritical ways of the world that preached kindness on one hand while making the lives of those who chose to walk down that path perpetually miserable. well actually no, scratch that, that makes it sound like you're some sort of good samaritan who is deeply concerned about the well-being of the general public – you're not that philanthropic.

you're really only concerned about one person in particular – byun euijoo. your childhood best friend/love and light of your life. beautiful, soft, kind, and altruistic to a fault. you honestly still can't comprehend how he can wake up everyday and choose to be good despite how brutal the world is to him. all your life, you've grown up seeing him be kind and compassionate to everyone, but most infuriatingly even to people who don't deserve it. and so, because of him, you have a bone to pick with the world and its unfair ways. euijoo does not usually complain and bears it all silently, because he wants to keep the peace, and you hate it. doesn't he have you? all he has to do is tell you, because you would go to war for his peace if that's what it takes.

but that's precisely why he doesn't tell you – because he's afraid you'll get yourself into trouble trying to get even for him. like when you were 5-years-old and you bit a boy's arm because he stole euijoo’s favourite toy and claimed it as his own. or the time in middle school when the class bully tore up his notebooks before the final exams just because he had helped a girl the guy had happened to have a crush on – the next day, you tripped him. he fell and ended up with a bloody mouth and a chipped tooth. or the time in high school when euijoo worked part-time at the local supermarket and the owner fired him without pay after making him work overtime for months and then claiming he had stolen money out of the cash register. there were no cctv cameras so everyone just took his word for it. you threw a rock through the glass front doors.

granted, you are not as…violent as an adult, since that tends to have serious consequences. but by no means are you any less scary.

he doesn't like to complain, but that doesn't mean he's never affected by it – he's only human, after all. there are days when his smile doesn't shine as bright, like today. days when everything feels a little heavier. when you open the door to him tonight, his eyes lack their usual glint, and his smile feels subdued. it's not everyday he lets his weariness show. it's not everyday that he walks over to you like this and wordlessly slumps onto your shoulder, seeking comfort in your arms. he rarely lets you see how draining it is, so when he does, you know it's worse than usual.

blood rushes to your head as you feel a surge of rage, and your hold around him tightens. “what happened? i'm gonna kill the bastards i swear,” you fume.

euijoo lets out a tired chuckle and rubs your back in an attempt to calm you. “i didn't even say anything and you're already plotting murders?”

“fine. i'll do it after you tell me. spill.”

“hmm, let's just stay like this for a while?” he murmurs with a kiss, breathing in your scent and trying to forget about everything else.

you sigh. you suppose vengeance can wait. for now you will be his solace. you comb your fingers through his hair, and he smiles knowing that for tonight you have given in. the weight feels lighter in your embrace.

“do you think i'm a pushover too?” he asks after a while, his voice quiet and muffled.

your fingers in his hair freeze for just a second before continuing. “no. i think you're too nice for this wretched world. it doesn't know a thing about kindness and certainly doesn't deserve yours.”

“you have got to stop making me sound like i'm a saint or something,” he mumbles with a laugh, before settling into silence again. and then, “’s not so bad, you know,”

“what?”

“the world. i like it because it has you. i try to be kind because it has you.”

your eyes sting. “well i hate it for not being nicer to you,”

“debatable. it gave me you.”

“agree to disagree?”

“deal.”

[godofliestreacheryandrebellion]

I had initially thought that Solas' words in that memory had more to do with his nature as a spirit - he spoke in the manner that Cole spoke, kind of cryptic and dancing around the subject. But you raise a good point! I also think it's important to remember that the memories may not be perfect recollections, but rather coloured by time and Solas' emotions.. His memory of killing Flemythal was worded differently to how it happened in reality.

But I think the idea that the elves didn't know they were hurting anything - as you say, a misunderstanding - is perfectly inkeeping with the type of shakespearian shenanigans that the elves/evanuris seemed to have going on.

I think, at least, Solas didn't know that he was hurting anything, at least not overtly. It fits better with his motivations, acting out of necessity rather than desire, and his continued almost delusional belief that Mythal was innocent in everything.

As for the rest of their timeline, there's some odd timings I've found:

Arlathan was founded in 1 FA (-17600 Ancient), but it's not clear whether Solas was "born" before or after that date.

I presumed that he was "born" before it, as the ancient elves seemed to put a lot of weight behind the evanuris being "firstborn" - and he's referred to as being Mythal's second, which makes me think he must have been quite senior to even the ancient elves.

Personally I think he may have been in the second "generation" of elves, since Mythal would likely want to get him on her side (as a confidant, friend, advisor, or all three) early on. But I also think it's likely that Mythal waited until she was in a secure position to invite Solas to cross over - partly to exert power over him, and partly to be able to introduce a clearly hesitant Solas into a stable world (using the mom!mythal theory here, kinda she waited until she was in a good/secure position to have a child).

It seems like the war with the Titans began after 1 FA, as you said they waited until after the elves had built civilisations to attack them outright.

What's more interesting is that the World of Thedas had the elves meeting the dwarves around 3000 FA, which would mean that the elves lived in peace for nearly 3000 years.

Not all too weird by itself, but what were the evanuris doing at that point? Solas implies in Trespasser that they rose to power because of their role in the Titan war, not before it.

What about the Veilguard concept art, that had the dwarves as the inspiration for spirits to become elves?

technically it's only concept art, but the fact that they were considering retconning that information does call its legitimacy into question.

but if they did only meet in the year 3000 FA, then that means the Titan war was raging around that time. If we're being generous to the evanuris, this could be the end of the war. Which brings up the next odd timing -

Humans arrived in Thedas in around 4500 FA, after/around the time the Veil was erected, as they were falsely remembered as being the cause of the elves mortality.

... but that sequence of events made it so that the evanuris were only ruling the elvhen people for a measly 1500 years?

Solas' rebellion also doesn't have a concrete start or end, as far as I'm aware. He could have easily been rebelling for the majority of their rule, rather than a minority of it - making the evanuris kind of pathetic, to fall from grace so quickly.

Ghilan'nain is also an interesting factor, as her correspondance with Solas - specifically his extremely open distaste for the evanuris - infers that she was elevated to godhood during Solas' rebellion, not before. It's possible she wasn't made a god until after mythal's death.

Although, I think Mythal likely died towards the end of the evanuris' rule, as Solas seemed to speed his rebellion along because of her death - the spirits of chaos and destruction were likely after her death, and a warning sign that Solas was either desperate or blinded by vengeance.

idk it's crazy to think that Elvhenan as we think of it (with the Evanuris on the throne) existed for only 1500 years. Tevinter was in it's prime for 1035 ish years (before it converted to Andrastianism), which is easily 2/3rds of the Evanuris' rule.

and what did Elvhenan look like before the Titan war? or did the Titan war start even earlier? did it last longer than the Evanuris' rule? was Solas "born" into the war - did he spend his first 3000 ish years in constant war? did that influence his rebellion at all?

i mean, i know we'll never get answers, but as you said, it's fun to think about.

Arlathan timeline stuff

Mulling over some questions about the timeline of events in ancient Arlathan and how that changes the interpretation of some of Solas' memories.

One question is about the lyrium dagger. When Solas criticizes Elgar'nan for seeking godhood, Elgar'nan refers to him as Mythal's 'annoying lapdog.' Which is quite a strange response if you consider that Solas must have fairly recently crafted the weapon which won the war against the Titans; you'd think that would make Elgar'nan realise that Solas is very valuable and should be placated.

So I wonder if Elgar'nan maybe didn't know that Solas was the one who made the dagger, at that point? After all, we only see Solas making it; there's no indication that he was the one to wield it. And given how ashamed he was about it, I doubt that he would be particularly keen for it to be public knowledge. This whole episode makes much more sense to me if we imagine that Mythal pretended she had made the dagger, or that she didn't tell Elgar'nan at this point who had made it. If so, I'm curious about when Elgar'nan and the others found out (perhaps even not until after they had killed Mythal with it?)

Another question is about the beginning of the Titan war. Mythal's conversation with spirit-Solas is interesting because it seems clear that Solas at least does not know at this point that lyrium is the blood of the Titans: he says 'When you took the glowing stone to build your body, did the earth not shake?' which seems to imply that he thinks it's just a stone and he doesn't understand why this resulted in the earth shaking.

This seems important in terms of the overall moral weight of what the elves/spirits did. If they knew, then they deliberately stole the blood of living creatures and then made them all Tranquil when they tried to defend themselves, so they're indubitably the aggressors. But if they didn't know, then in many ways the whole thing seems more like a tragedy of misunderstanding - the spirits/elves took what they thought was just a stone, and the Titans were afraid and tried to destroy the threat, and the elves had to defend themselves, and the elves and Titans probably had no way of efficiently communicating to get past the original misunderstanding (as Harding puts it in one conversation, they were just too different - in size, language, mode of existence etc) so with horrible inevitability, it was always the case that one group would have to finish by wiping out the other.

This conversation also seems to indicate that the Titans must have taken a significant time to respond; they evidently didn't strike back immediately after the first elves took lyrium, since Mythal seems to have had a body for some time at this point and yet Solas doesn't yet know the origin of the danger. This makes me wonder a lot about the Titans' sense of time: maybe being so big, they also process or experience time on a different scale to the elves? Which of course would contribute to the impossibility of reaching mutual understanding.

Though I also wonder if Mythal knows more than she's letting on at this point, and deliberately isn't telling Solas because she knows he wouldn't consent to make a body out of the blood of another creature. Which, if true, would make this conversation even more upsetting; she's pushing him into doing this knowing full well that it would be morally repugnant to him.

I also have a lot of questions about the timescale on which Solas decided to rebel and the amount of time that passed between the death of Mythal and him making the Veil. I guess we'll never know, but anyway, interesting to think about!

[pomegranateplumes]

The entire comic in one post ⚔️🌌

the post that started it all

[spacedlexi]

"sounds nice... having a partner"

[autisticaradiamegido]

day 169

this is it, the dynamic

[puhpandas]

gregory vanessa and freddy will have content in secret of the mimic no matter how small like to charge reblog to cast

[wantbytaemin]

okay just one more little thing. and then sleepy time

[loadedchekhovsgun]

cwilbur posting idk idk idk people always say i should post on tumblr so here ?!?? you don't get context for these Lol idfk what im doing here i am half asleep

[lesbiancarat]

for anyone wondering, what about Han Sungsoo? 🤔 it seems that he hasn't been the CEO of Pledis since early 2022, the role until now was filled by Lee Dahye, a former VP for Bighit. HSS has still remained in the company but was demoted to an internal director

if you're wondering how you missed this, don't worry, there was never an official announcement! 🙃 carats had to find this out more than a year after the fact by doing some digging

but now Lee Dahye is being replaced by Kim Yeon Soo, who's the original VP of Pledis before they were acquired. He's the one that appeared on SVT Club, and he has historically had a good relationship with Seventeen. the way I always thought of it is Nu'est was HSS's project group, where Kim Yeon Soo oversaw the creation of svt. after the acquisition, he was put in charge of Hybe Labels Japan. it seems now he will remain in that position while also taking over as Pledis CEO

personally, I don't know what to think of this yet. on one hand carats have always had a positive view of Kim Yeon Soo, and he's always seemed to have a close relationship with svt. and I would say I'd rather have him in charge than a hybe plant

but the timing of it is very convenient. this is pure speculation on my part but with Seungkwan's Instagram post recently and all the stuff going on with hybe, it wouldn't surprise me if hybe was bringing in Kim Yeon Soo to try and appease the members (and possibly other Pledis employees). it definitely feels like they're trying to appease /somebody/ with this move, and I can't see it being the fans since most carats didn't know about Lee Dahye being the CEO in the first place. so I can only assume it's people within Pledis they're trying to appease 🤷‍♀️

[skullzy20]

some Duviri lore bits that I've been thinking about a lot recently ever since I had these conversations

[damxnbaird]

how am i meant to be an adult with responsibilities when all i can think about is fiction men having an affair this is homophobia

[pleasedontcareaboutme]

It's missing my father hours rn so imma just dump a bunch of pictures here and cry

( sorry i don't know the source of anything I just had them on my phone)

(also dont read the tags i just need to let it out lol)