#collage au

♡ DIGITAL HEARTS ♡

Nerdjo x fem!reader >>mean popular girl!reader is secretly an obsessive cozy gamer. nerd!gojo is weird, blunt, chronically online, and unfortunately exactly her type behind a screen.

setting: college au, no curses au, popular girl! reader, mean girl!reader, nerd!gojo, online friendship, slow burn-ish, flirting, eventual mature themes, author tries writing mean girl!reader but kinda fails, emotional constipation, toxic family mentions, no smut, author goes crash out

Word Count: 5.8k

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Gojo Art by @albdgreen on insta, Images used from digimon, heavy inspiration and images used from stardew valley, collage made by @vogujojo

Chapter one: GAME START?

By the time your bedroom door clicks shut, the version of you that belongs to campus starts coming off piece by piece.

The earrings go first, dropped into the little ceramic dish by your mirror with a soft clink. Then the rings one after another, leaving faint little marks around your fingers. After that comes the blazer Reina insisted you wear over your skirt because, according to her, it made you look "expensive but approachable," which was probably the most Reina way of saying she had approved your outfit before you even asked.

Your phone buzzes on the bed while you're removing your makeup.

mika: are we still going to that party friday?

reina: depends who's there

mika: depends if that guy from media studies is there

reina: you mean the one with the bad haircut?

mika: tragically hot

reina: seek help

You watch the messages pop up in the group chat and don't answer. Usually, you'd send something mean enough to make Mika scream and Reina respond with a tiny "don't be mean," even though Reina was always meaner when it counted. Tonight though, your attention keeps slipping toward your desk, where your laptop is already open and waiting.

Moonvale Crossing glows softly from the screen.

The loading menu washes your room in blue light, all floating islands, silver trees, and tiny animated stars drifting around the title. It is a ridiculous game, honestly. Cozy enough to look harmless, but addictive in the way harmless things always become once they give you daily tasks, a little house to decorate, and a mining system that rewards actual obsession.

Mika and Reina probably think you're doing skincare, texting someone, or watching some messy dating show in bed. They do not know that the first thing you do after washing off your mascara is log into a multiplayer farming-survival game where you own a moon cottage, grow glowberries, and have spent three real-life hours arranging pixel lanterns along a digital riverbank.

They are not going to know either.

Not now, not ever.

You settle into your chair, pull on your headset, and enter the public server.

Your avatar spawns inside a house, standing between a bookshelf and a kitchen. Outside, the lunar farm glows under a pale artificial night. Tiny star-moths drift around the garden beds, crystal goats sleep in their enclosure, and the meteor bell near the town square is silent.

everything looks peaceful. Then a notification flashes across the top of your screen.

>>A rare meteor shower has been spotted near the Hollow Crater. Moonsteel fragments may appear for the next 20 minutes<<

You sit up straighter before you even realize you've moved.

Moonsteel, finally!

You've been trying to craft the Crescent Glass Greenhouse for a week, and the game has been acting like giving you three pieces of moonsteel would collapse the entire server economy. The greenhouse isn't even necessary. It won't unlock some secret questline or make your farm stronger in any meaningful way.

It’s just pretty.

And you want it.

You open your inventory, grab your upgraded pickaxe, eat a stamina tart, and teleport to the Hollow Crater before anyone else can get there.

The game drops you near a field of black stone and glowing purple cracks, the sky above streaked with slow-falling stars. A few little crater sprites bounce around the edges, harmless until you mine too close to their nests. You ignore them and sprint toward the impact site, already scanning the terrain for the silver-blue glow.

There, half-buried in the crater floor, is a huge chunk of meteor rock, steaming faintly as tiny sparks drift off its surface.

Your fingers move fast over the keyboard.

Then another avatar runs onto your screen from the opposite side.

He has white hair, a purple jacket, and a little floating pet bobbing beside him like some accessory. His username appears above his head.

DigivolveThis

For maybe two seconds, neither of you moves. Then he takes one step toward the meteor.

Absolutely not.

You swing your pickaxe first. The meteor makes a satisfying crack sound, and a chat bubble pops up above his avatar almost immediately.

DigivolveThis: wow

DigivolveThis: okay

DigivolveThis: theft

You keep mining.

CerryHex: public spawn

DigivolveThis: i was here first mentally

CerryHex: tragic that the game doesn't reward delusion

DigivolveThis: it rewards speed and route planning

CerryHex: apparently not yours

His avatar circles the meteor like he's trying to find the best angle, which is insane because it is a game rock, not a real excavation site. You keep mining from your side, watching the health bar go down with every hit.

DigivolveThis: your positioning is bad

CerryHex: your username is a cry for help

DigivolveThis: your username is misspelled

CerryHex: it's stylized

DigivolveThis: sure

CerryHex: mine faster or cry quieter

For a moment, he doesn't move. Then his avatar steps in and starts mining too.

You hate that he has an upgraded pickaxe. You hate even more that he clearly knows what he's doing. Most random players are either too slow, too confused, or too busy jumping around to farm rare materials efficiently. This one moves like someone who has studied spawn patterns and probably has strong opinions about them.

The meteor's health drops fast. You're already calculating how the drops might split when three crater sprites wake up from the nest behind him and bounce toward both of you with angry little squeaks.

CerryHex: mobs

DigivolveThis: i see them

CerryHex: then do something

DigivolveThis: i'm mining

CerryHex: multitask

DigivolveThis: hostile work environment

One sprite launches itself at you. You dodge, switch from pickaxe to moonblade, and hit it mid-bounce. Another goes for him, and he moves at the last second with clean, annoying timing before striking it with a staff that sends out a purple spark.

The third sprite heads for the meteor, and both of you turn on it immediately. It dies in two hits.

DigivolveThis: acceptable combat response

CerryHex: don't compliment me like a loading screen tip

DigivolveThis: it wasn't a compliment

CerryHex: good because it was ugly

The meteor cracks again. This time, it breaks.

Moonsteel fragments scatter across the crater floor, and you lunge for the nearest pile at the exact same time he does. The game gives you four fragments, two starstones, and one meteor seed.

Not enough for the greenhouse.

You glare at the screen like that might intimidate the loot table into apologizing.

CerryHex: how many did you get

DigivolveThis: define how honest you want me to be

CerryHex: if you got more than me i hope your crops wither

DigivolveThis: six

CerryHex: die

DigivolveThis: you asked

CerryHex: i regret promoting honesty

His avatar stands there with the little pet floating beside him while the meteor shower continues overhead. More fragments might spawn nearby, but the main rock is gone.

You should leave. You got something out of it, and staying near this guy will probably only make you mad.

Instead, you open the chat again.

CerryHex: are you using a meteor tracker

DigivolveThis: obviously

CerryHex: share

DigivolveThis: no

CerryHex: ugly behavior

DigivolveThis: says the person who tried to solo a public meteor

CerryHex: i didn't try

CerryHex: i almost succeeded

DigivolveThis: almost is where people live when they don't understand spawn cycles

You stare at the message.

Then despite yourself you laugh laud enough that the sound feels strange in your quiet room. This person is irritating, definitely, but at least he is not boring.

Your phone buzzes again.

mika: helloooo

mika: party friday yes or no

reina: she's ignoring us

mika: rude

reina: probably doing a face mask

mika: without us? fake

You glance at the messages, then turn your phone face-down.

On screen, DigivolveThis has started moving toward the north side of the crater.

You follow without thinking.

CerryHex: where are you going

DigivolveThis: second impact zone

CerryHex: there's another one?

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: and you were just going to leave?

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: you're literally evil

DigivolveThis: efficient

He stops walking, and for one second his avatar just stands there under the falling stars.

Then another message appears.

DigivolveThis: keep up then

You smile before you can stop yourself.

The second impact zone is farther out, past the crater bridge and through a patch of silver mushrooms that drain stamina if you step on them. He knows exactly how to avoid them. You hate that this is useful. You hate even more that he slows down once when you get stuck behind a cluster of crater sprites.

The second meteor is smaller and guarded by more sprites and one lunar mole that keeps burrowing under the ground and popping up at the worst possible moments.

Somehow you end up fighting together in the loose and chaotic way the game allows. Not back to back, obviously. Pixel avatars don't have that kind of drama unless someone mods it in. He mines while you clear mobs, then you mine while he covers, and the rhythm works so well that it becomes annoying. At one point, a sprite jumps at your avatar while your health is low, and he hits it before it lands.

By the time the second meteor breaks, you have enough moonsteel for the greenhouse.

Barely.

He gets the rare drop this time: a Celestial Core, glowing gold in the pickup notification. You see it appear in the chat log and immediately feel betrayed by the universe.

CerryHex: no

DigivolveThis: yes

CerryHex: i did most of the work

DigivolveThis: bold lie

CerryHex: give it to me

DigivolveThis: no

CerryHex: i need it aesthetically

DigivolveThis: that is not a need

CerryHex: spoken like someone with an ugly base

DigivolveThis: my base is functional

CerryHex: that's what ugly people say about ugly bases

There's a pause. Then he sends a trade request.

You blink at the screen. The trade window opens and he places the Celestial Core in his slot.

For a few seconds you only stare at it, suspicious enough to feel like the game should let you squint.

CerryHex: what do you want

DigivolveThis: greenhouse access

CerryHex: excuse me

DigivolveThis: you're crafting the Crescent Glass Greenhouse

CerryHex: how do you know that

DigivolveThis: you were hoarding moonsteel and complained aesthetically

CerryHex: creepy

DigivolveThis: observant

CerryHex: annoying

DigivolveThis: also true

You should decline.

You don't.

CerryHex: fine

CerryHex: but if you put one ugly machine in my greenhouse i'm banning you

DigivolveThis: your design priorities are hostile to progress

CerryHex: your progress is hostile to eyesight

You accept the trade.

The Celestial Core drops into your inventory, glowing like a tiny captured sun. His avatar jumps once, and it looks accidental, which somehow makes it funnier.

DigivolveThis: server?

CerryHex: you're inviting yourself now?

DigivolveThis: i paid rent in celestial core

CerryHex: one-time visitor pass

DigivolveThis: exploitative landlord

CerryHex: thank you

You invite him.

Five minutes later he appears at the edge of your farm.

Your farm is not the biggest on the server but it is yours, and it looks fucking good. The paths curve around the glowberry beds in neat little arcs. The lanterns are placed by color and height. The river has moon lilies along the bank. Your house has a dark roof, violet windows, and a little reading nook visible through the front glass.

You spent hours making it look effortless.

He pauses at the automated sprinklers hidden behind flower boxes. Then at the storage shed tucked behind the trees. Then at the decorative crystal columns you placed to block monster spawns without ruining the view.

For some reason you actually wait for his opinion, which is stupid. He is a random online guy with an stupid username and suspiciously efficient meteor routes. His opinion does not matter.

DigivolveThis: huh

CerryHex: eloquent

DigivolveThis: it's not as useless as it looks

CerryHex: wow

CerryHex: frame that review

DigivolveThis: the hidden sprinklers are good

CerryHex: they're also cute

DigivolveThis: tragic priority but acceptable execution

You lean back in your chair, smiling like an idiot.

Then you catch your reflection in the dark part of the laptop screen and immediately stop.

You are not smiling over a stranger calling your sprinkler placement acceptable. That is not a thing you are doing.

The greenhouse takes most of your remaining resources to craft. When you place it, the whole structure builds itself in a soft animation of silver beams and crescent-shaped glass panels.

For a moment, both avatars stand in front of it.

It is really pretty actually.Worth the grind, unfortunately.

CerryHex: okay maybe i'm a genius

DigivolveThis: architecturally dramatic

CerryHex: say thank you for being allowed here

DigivolveThis: thank you for the greenhouse i partially funded

CerryHex: disgusting phrasing

DigivolveThis: accurate phrasing

Your phone lights up again.

This time, Mika is calling.

You let it ring twice, panic flickering through your chest even though she cannot see your screen. You mute your laptop automatically as if that would somehow hide the evidence from a phone call.

Then you decline.

A message follows almost instantly.

mika: RUDE

mika: are you with someone 👀

reina: she would've told us

mika: unless it's embarrassing

reina: then definitely

You stare at the messages a little too long.

On screen, DigivolveThis moves toward your newly built greenhouse and opens the door.

CerryHex: don't touch anything

DigivolveThis: i'm looking

CerryHex: you better be

DigivolveThis: with scientific curiosity

You type before you can overthink it.

CerryHex: i have to go soon

DigivolveThis: tragedy

CerryHex: try to sound less devastated

DigivolveThis: i'm in mourning

CerryHex: obviously

DigivolveThis: same time tomorrow?

CerryHex: for moonsteel?

DigivolveThis: for preventing you from wasting rare materials

CerryHex: i hate you

DigivolveThis: same time tomorrow then

You sit there for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

CerryHex: maybe

You log off before he can type anything back. Your room feels too quiet afterward.

You take off your headset, check your phone, and finally reply to the group chat.

you: friday depends who's going

mika: THERE SHE IS

reina: face mask done?

you: obviously

mika: liar you ignored my call

you: i was busy

mika: with what

you: becoming hotter

reina: acceptable excuse

You drop your phone onto your bed and look back at your laptop, where the Moonvale Crossing menu still glows softly.

A stranger named DigivolveThis now has access to your farm. That should bother you.

It kind of does.

Just not enough to cancel tomorrow.

The next morning, you walk into campus like you did not stay up until nearly two farming moonsteel with some random gamer whose entire personality seems to be efficiency, sarcasm, and being weirdly good at not dying.

No one would know.

That is the whole point.

Your hair is done, your outfit is clean and intentional, your lip gloss is exactly the shade Mika once called "aesthetic hoe" and your expression is the kind that makes people in crowded hallways move aside before they even realize they are doing it.

Reina is waiting outside the literature building when you get there, leaning against the wall with two coffees in hand. "You look like shit," she says as you reach her.

You take the coffee from her. "Good morning to you too."

"I said it with love."

"You said it with judgment, bitch."

Reina hums, eyes moving over your face in that quick, irritating way of hers. She always notices too much. A smudge in your eyeliner, a tired blink, the way you hold your coffee like it's the only thing keeping you upright. "Late night?"

"Not really."

"That means yes."

"That means shut up."

She smiles like she expected that and turns toward the entrance with you. The two of you barely make it three steps before Mika appears from behind one of the pillars, sunglasses in her hair, tote bag sliding off her shoulder, looking pretty in the very specific way someone can look pretty after definitely losing a fight with her alarm clock.

"Don't start without me," Mika says, squeezing herself between you and Reina like there was an assigned spot waiting for her. "Are we gossiping or being academic? Because I only have energy for one."

Reina gives her a look. "You never have energy for being academic."

"I have academic energy."

"You called symbolism 'author Easter eggs' last week."

"And everyone knew what I meant."

You take a sip of your coffee, trying not to smile into the lid. "Sadly, she's right."

Mika points at you immediately. "See? This is why you're my favorite."

"I'm not defending you. I'm saying you're understandable in the worst way."

"That still counts."

Reina mutters something under her breath about being surrounded by idiots, but she's smiling when she says it, so Mika lets it go. The three of you head inside together, falling into step without thinking about it. Mika starts complaining about the seminar before you've even reached the stairs, Reina corrects her on something from the reading, and you let their voices fill the space around you while you focus on drinking enough coffee to feel like a person again.

Literature seminar is already half-full when you enter. Suguru Geto sits near the middle with one book open in front of him and one earbud in, his dark hair tied back loosely. He looks up when your group passes, his eyes moving from Reina to Mika, then to you with that calm, unreadable look of his.

You know Suguru in the way people know each other when they share a major, half the same seminars, and too many mutual acquaintances. He is popular, Football captain, literature major, pretty in a way that makes people embarrass themselves, and somehow still the type to actually do the reading.

Mika once called him "hot in a tragic poem way."

Reina had said, "Unfortunately, yes."

You had pretended not to agree.

"Morning," Suguru says.

"Is it?" Mika asks, dropping into the row behind him.

Suguru smiles faintly. "Apparently."

You sit two seats away from him because sitting right beside him would feel too friendly and you are not in the mood to donate warmth for free.

Reina takes the chair beside you. Mika leans over the back of yours and immediately starts whispering about the guy in the front row who brought three highlighters and a tote bag with a quote from a dead Russian author on it.

"Do you think he knows women are real?" Mika whispers.

You glance over. "His tote bag knows. He doesn't."

Reina presses her lips together, trying not to laugh.

The lecture starts, and for the next hour, you are exactly who you are supposed to be.

Sharp, prepared enough, pretty enough. Bored in the right places and engaged in the ones that make you look clever. When the professor asks about narrative voice, you answer smoothly, and Reina nudges your shoe under the desk like silent approval. When Mika tries to online shop during a discussion about unreliable narrators, you lower your voice and tell her that if she buys that skirt, you'll pretend you don't know her. "You already pretend that," she whispers.

"Only when you deserve it."

"So daily?"

"Hourly."

By the time class ends, you have almost forgotten about Moonvale Crossing.

You are slipping your notebook into your bag when your phone lights up on the desk. It is not the group chat this time, or a campus notification, or some useless email you will pretend to read later.

It is the Moonvale Crossing mobile app.

You only have it because the game sends server pings through it when someone messages you, and last night, in a moment of absolute stupidity, you turned them on.

DigivolveThis: walked past your greenhouse again

DigivolveThis: it's pretty, but the layout is doing violence to efficiency

DigivolveThis: confusing experience. emotionally and structurally

You stare at the messages for a second too long.

A smile tries to happen.

You stop it before it can fully reach your face, but not fast enough.

Mika, who had been shoving her laptop into her bag with zero care for its survival, pauses beside you. Her eyes flick from your mouth to your phone, then back again. "Why did you just make that face?"

You lock your phone and slide it off the desk. "What face?"

"That one."

"I didn't make a face."

"You looked pleased. It was disturbing."

Reina glances over while zipping up her bag, calm in that annoying way that always makes her seem like she knows more than she does. "Who texted you?"

"No one."

Mika's eyebrows lift. "No one made you smile?"

"I didn't smile."

"You almost did, which is honestly worse. Very off-brand."

You shove your phone into your bag and give her a look. "Can you not hover? You're dressed like you slept in a dryer."

Mika looks offended for half a second before smoothing a hand over her hair. "Okay, first of all, this is intentional."

Reina gives her a quick once-over. "It isn't."

"Whose side are you on?"

"The side with eyes," Reina says, then looks back at you, her mouth curving just slightly. "But she's right. You were being weird."

"I got a notification. People get those."

"People don't usually hide them like they owe money," Mika says, leaning closer like proximity will magically give her answers.

„You guys are just so bored and brain dead that you imagine stuff“

Mika grabs her tote and follows immediately. "I'm not bored. I'm invested."

"In what?"

"In whatever made you look less dead for two seconds."

Reina falls into step beside you, coffee in hand, eyes forward but clearly still listening. "It's probably nothing."

"Thank you," you say.

Then she adds, "But she's acting like it's something."

You turn your head slowly and look at her.

Reina only smiles into her cup.

Mika points between you two as the three of you move toward the door. "See? Even Reina thinks you're lying, and she lies recreationally."

"I do not," Reina says.

"You once told a guy you were allergic to his cologne so he'd leave."

"That was community service."

You adjust your bag on your shoulder, keeping your face bored because that is safer than letting either of them see anything else. "Are we done?"

Mika hums, still looking way too pleased with herself. "For now."

"Great."

"But just so you know," she adds, stepping around someone's chair as you leave the row, "whatever this is, your face is not helping your case."

The hallway outside the seminar room is crowded, everyone spilling out at once with books, laptops, coffees, and the particular post-class energy of people pretending they understood more than they did. Suguru steps out behind you, sliding his book into his bag, when someone near the staircase calls his name.

"Suguru."

The voice is male, light, a little too loud for the hallway, and somehow already irritated by something.

Suguru looks up, and his expression changes just enough to suggest familiarity "There you are" he says.

You glance over because Reina does first, and Mika follows anything Reina notices like it is a campus sport.

A guy is standing near the staircase with a backpack hanging off one shoulder, a strawberry milk carton in one hand, and the kind of posture that says he has been waiting for exactly three minutes and considered that a personal betrayal.

He has white hair, black rectangular glasses, a NASA shirt, black jeans, and a tiny Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack. He is tall in a slightly unfair way, built more solidly than the rest of him suggests, and he looks like he either lost a fight with the wind or never agreed to participate in hair maintenance as a concept.

Mika leans closer to you. "Who is that?"

„How should i know?" the irritation in your voice still precent from the earlier conversation.

You have seen him before, maybe. Around campus. In the library once, possibly. He has the unmistakable energy of someone who belongs to the science building, the kind of guy people mention in passing because he got a perfect score in something horrible or corrected a professor and somehow didn't get smited on the spot.

But this is the first time you really look.

And he is weird.

Not ugly, which would be simpler. The outfit is weird. The milk is weird. The keychain is weird. Even the way he squints at the literature hallway, like the building has personally wronged him, is weird.

He looks directly at Suguru,"There you are. I swear this building has no signs anywhere."

Suguru adjusts the strap of his bag. "It's one hallway."

"It's a hallway with doors that all look the same."

"That means you got lost."

"I took the wrong turn once."

"You texted me three times."

Satoru takes a sip from the carton, completely unbothered. "Because your directions were bad."

Mika snorts under her breath.

The white-haired guy looks at her. He does not say anything to her, just glances once and then looks back at Suguru like he has already moved on.

Suguru looks between him and your little group. "Satoru, this is—"

Satoru cuts him off by pointing his strawberry milk carton toward the stairs. "Can we do introductions later? Shoko said if we're late again, she's starting lunch without us."

"She always starts lunch without us," Suguru says, but he is already shifting his bag higher on his shoulder.

"Yeah, but this time she said she'd eat my dessert too."

Suguru pauses for a second, then sighs. "Fine. That actually sounds like her."

Satoru gives him a pleased look then steps aside for Suguru to lead the way. "Thank you. Finally, someone understands urgency."

"You're friends with Suguru?" Reina asks, still looking at Satoru like the answer might be embarrassing for everyone involved.

Suguru opens his mouth, but Satoru gets there first.

"Don't say it like he lost a bet."

Mika lets out a small laugh, surprised more than amused, while Reina's smile sharpens.

"I didn't," Reina says sweetly.

"You kind of did," Satoru says, taking a sip from his strawberry milk like this conversation is already wasting to much energy. "It had that tone. The one people use when they find something in the back of their fridge."

Suguru sighs under his breath, but he looks more used to it than actually annoyed. "This is Satoru."

Satoru lifts the milk carton in a lazy half-greeting. "Hi."

Mika looks him up and down, less subtle than Reina and clearly not trying very hard to be. Her eyes catch on the keychain, then the shirt, then the milk. "Wow. That's... a lot going on."

Satoru glances down at himself, then back at her. "And yet I managed to leave the house without asking."

Reina's brows lift.

You almost laugh.

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek and look away before it shows, because Mika is still staring at him like she cannot decide if he is funny or if he should be studied in a controlled environment.

Reina, unfortunately, is quicker to decide.

"You're kind of rude," she says, soft enough that it could pass as casual to someone who doesn't know her.

Satoru looks at her properly then, eyes moving over her face for half a second before he answers. "You opened with judgment. I'm just matching the room."

Mika's mouth parts a little, offended on Reina's behalf and entertained despite herself. Suguru makes a low sound, almost a warning.

"Satoru."

"What?" Satoru says, turning toward him with the kind of innocence that is clearly fake. "Am I wrong?"

Reina lets out a quiet laugh, but there is nothing warm in it. "You always talk like this to people you just met?"

"Only when they start shit first."

For a second, even Mika shuts up. Then she huffs out a laugh and adjusts the strap of her bag. "Okay. Weird little guy has teeth."

Satoru gives her a flat look. "Tall little guy. Accuracy matters."

You hate that it almost gets you again.

The laugh sits right there in your throat, stupid and inconvenient, because he is strange and badly dressed and holding strawberry milk like a twelve-year-old, but he answers fast. Faster than most people do when Reina and Mika start circling.

Reina tilts her head, still smiling like she has never been insulted in her life. "Suguru, where did you even find him?"

"Physics building," Suguru says dryly.

"That explains so much," Mika mutters.

Satoru's gaze slides to her. "And yet you still look confused."

Mika's eyes widen. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Suguru puts a hand briefly over his face. "Can we not do this in the hallway?"

"I'm being extremely polite," Satoru says.

"No, you're not."

"I haven't called anyone stupid yet."

Reina's smile turns colder. "Should we clap?"

"If you need the encouragement, sure."

You have to look down at your coffee.

Because fuck, that was funny.

And that annoys you, because he is exactly the type of guy you would normally write off in three seconds. This guy is clearly just another weird STEM boy with no filter.

But people do not usually talk back to Reina like that.

Suguru says his name again in the way someone does when they know the damage is already done but still feels responsible for trying. "Satoru."

Satoru looks at him. "What? I was answering questions."

"You were making it worse."

"They asked bad questions.“ he say while his eyes wonder towards you now.

You are used to being looked at. You know the difference between admiration, interest, jealousy, judgment, and all the little versions in between. His look is none of the fun ones. It is quick, assessing, and unimpressed in a way that makes your spine straighten before you decide to do it.

He sees the outfit. The coffee. Reina and Mika. The gloss on your mouth. The way the hallway shifts around your group without anyone saying it out loud. Whatever conclusion he reaches, you can tell it is not flattering.

So you give him one right back.

Weird.

Definitely weird.

Probably thinks owning a NASA shirt counts as foreplay for the universe.

You let your eyes drop to the little Digimon keychain clipped to his backpack, then lift them back to his face with the kind of smile Reina usually called bitchy.

"Cute keychain," you say.

Mika makes a tiny sound beside you, barely held back, because she knows that tone. Reina's mouth twitches too, not enough to count as a smile, but enough to make it clear she caught exactly what you were doing.

Suguru glances at you, then at Satoru, like he is already tired on everyone's behalf.

Satoru looks down at the keychain. For a second, you expect something. A defensive little laugh, maybe. Some awkward attempt to explain it away. At the very least, a flicker of embarrassment.

Instead, he just lifts it slightly with two fingers, like he is showing off proof of purchase.

"Thanks," he says. "It's my favorite."

The answer is so plain that it throws you off more than a reaction would have. He does not shrink from it. Does not pretend it is ironic. Does not give you anything useful to work with.

Somehow, that is worse.

Mika tilts her head, eyes narrowing at the little figure. "Is that from one of those kid shows?"

"Digimon," Satoru says, without missing a beat.

Mika nods slowly, lips pursing like she is trying very hard to be polite and wants everyone to know she is trying. "Right. That makes sense."

"It does," he says, looking at her. "That's usually what happens when people recognize things."

Reina lets out the softest breath of a laugh, more entertained by the audacity than by him. Mika blinks, clearly unsure if she has just been insulted.

You press your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

Do not laugh.

Absolutely do not laugh.

Satoru adjusts the strap of his backpack and turns slightly toward Suguru, already done with the conversation in a way that is somehow ruder than if he had actually said something mean. "We're leaving."

Suguru gives him a look. "Subtle."

"I'm being efficient." He starts walking, then stops after two steps and looks back at Suguru with visible irritation. "Wrong direction. You lead."

Mika laughs before she can stop herself.

This time, you do too, quietly, because the timing is too stupid not to.

Satoru looks at you when he hears it.

For a second, your smile is still there.

Then you remember yourself and let it fade.

His gaze lingers for a second, its the type of gaze were you already know they have decided not to spend energy on you.

Then he turns away.

Suguru passes by your group with a small nod. "See you on Friday."

Then he follows Satoru down the hall.

Mika watches them go before leaning close to you. "That guy is so fucking strange."

Reina hums. "Painfully."

You glance after them once.

Satoru is walking beside Suguru now, talking with one hand while still holding the strawberry milk in the other. Suguru looks amused. Satoru looks irritated. The Digimon keychain bounces against his bag with every step.

"Yeah," you say.

Definitely weird.

explicit # smut # mdni

while of course I love dom sukuna, I just can’t shake the fact that he’s definitely a secret service dom.

over time, as your relationship builds and continues, you’ve come to realize, more than before, that ryomen sukuna is an absolute slut.

he’s had a few hookups and past relationships, but they’ve always just wanted it rough and then that’s that. he’s never been able to be of proper service, until you.

after one amazingly steamy make out session, without missing a beat, he drops to his knees and just goes to town. I’m talking higuruma level of eating — because we all know that man is an eater.

oh, he’s using his FACE. he’s in it to win it. mouth and tongue just making out with your clit before entering your sopping wet pussy, getting so hard that he can almost cum from just palming himself over his pants.

he is in no need of air. locking himself down onto you when you try to scramble away from how savage he is with it; sucking on your poor swollen clit, inhaling your scent — because YES sukuna is very much a scent guy —, laughing onto your pussy while looking up at your head thrown back before muffling himself back in it, wrapping your legs around his neck to lock him in place.

and when it’s too much, after cumming so many times on his face, he pulls off, not bothering to clean his cheeks or mouth, and just starts stroking his dick over your clit. pumping his load onto you, smearing it all over with his fingers, but then going back down for a little treat !

a/n # new tag for sukuna works yay

you fall for a fic before you ever meet the boy who writes it. getting paired with him for a project was just bad luck. realizing he’s been writing you into it might be worse.

part 2

contents: college!mike wheeler x reader, reader is lowkey weird and avoidant(same twin🚬🫩), mike is creepy, possibly ooc please see the vision tho, FLUFF, yearning from both sides but they’re both creepy idiots, mike is obsessed with dnd and you, SLOWBURN, eventual kissing, a couple that writes fics together stay together, not proofread, i wrote this all day in one sitting please be patient with me i just wanna make the mikelings happy,

you dragged the last box into your dorm room, dropped it without bothering to unpack, and just... sat there for a minute. the room was bare and echoey in that new-space way, mattress in the corner, desk pushed against the window, a stack of half-opened boxes looking at you. exhaustion settled into your bones.

you didn't have the energy to do anything productive. textbooks, syllabi, schedules, planners. all of it could wait until tomorrow. right now you just wanted something familiar. something that felt like you.

your laptop was still sitting on top of the one box you'd actually opened. you powered it on, fingers already typing before your brain caught up: ao3.com. your bookmarks loaded. Player's Manual - ch. 8 — ThePaladin20.

you clicked in. the update was short and simple:

hey all - sorry this update took so long. college hit harder than expected, but i'm back and really excited for this next chapter. thank you for sticking with me.

you read the note twice. no emojis, no over-the-top flair, just honest words. and for some reason that made it feel... real. like this person wasn't just some username, but someone with a life that got messy and complicated in the exact same ways yours did.

you opened the chapter and started reading. by the time you looked up again the sun was dipping low in the sky, turning the walls this soft orange glow. you'd followed this fic for months. not because it was perfect, but because it felt addictive. the attention to little things, the way the narrator paid obsessive care to gestures and micro-movements, the tension you could almost feel in the spaces between sentences... it all just... connected with you.

you closed your eyes for a second, letting your breath settle. you weren't some dramatic, overwrought fan making silly jokes in the comments. you were just someone who had found something that resonated. something that made the noise in your head quiet down for a bit.

after a moment, you opened the laptop again and typed your comment quietly, honestly. just your thoughts on how the chapter made you feel. you hit post. then shut the laptop and stared out the window, thinking about dinner, class schedules, and how exhausted you still were.

you didn't know who ThePaladin20 was. but you liked the idea of someone out there, probably sipping a shitty dorm coffee somewhere, trying to squeeze time for writing around everything else life threw at them.

the next morning, you barely had time to grab breakfast before heading to your first class. you were early, notebook ready, trying to wake up enough to pay attention. the lecture hall was half-full, quiet except for shuffling backpacks and the hum of laptops.

then he walked in.

dark hair a little messy, backpack slung over one shoulder, hands adjusting straps almost subconsciously, scanning the room like he was trying to figure out where to sit. new. definitely new. and somehow, even though you'd never met him, something about him made your chest squeeze.

he chose a seat a few rows ahead of you. you tried to focus on the professor, but your eyes kept drifting. there was a naturalness to him, a quiet confidence that wasn't loud or showy. the kind of thing you noticed even if you didn't want to.

he typed lightly on his laptop, fingers moving like he was almost unsure of himself, and your heart fluttered for reasons you didn't understand. he glanced up, just once, catching your eye. you froze, and he looked away, faintly embarrassed.

what you didn't know: he stayed up late last night, typing furiously on the fic you've been reading and obsessing over for months. the idea that someone like you, someone who loved it that much, could be sitting just a few rows behind him, completely unaware, made him want to hide under his desk.

you don’t think about him again right away.

not because he didn’t leave an impression. he did. but the first week of classes hits like a wave and you’re too busy trying not to drown in it to focus on one person you made accidental eye contact with.

your schedule settles into something almost manageable. morning lectures, a long gap in the afternoon where you pretend you’ll be productive and usually aren’t, then readings that stretch later than you expect. your dorm room starts to feel less like an empty box and more like a place you exist in. not exactly home, but something close enough. you think at least.

you keep reading the fic.

it becomes a habit faster than you want to admit. late at night, usually. sometimes in that awkward gap between classes when you don’t feel like talking to anyone. you reread sections you’ve already gone through, noticing things you missed the first time. the way the narrator lingers on hands, on pauses in conversation, on the space between what’s said and what isn’t.

the way the author is able to say so much without needing words, is something you’re both impressed and jealous over.

by the end of the week, your professor makes an announcement.

it’s casual, like it doesn’t matter. like it won’t rearrange the way the next month of your life looks.

“you’ll be working in pairs for the next unit,” they say, already pulling something up on their laptop. “reading partners. discussion, peer review, all of that. i’ll assign them.”

there’s a collective shift in the room. people glancing at friends, already whispering, already hoping.

you sit still.

you don’t really know anyone yet. not enough to hope for anything specific.

names start getting called.

you half-listen at first, until you hear your own.

your last name, followed by a pause.

then ..wheeler?

you don’t react immediately. it takes a second to register, to connect it to the person.

a few rows ahead, he straightens slightly, like he’s just as caught off guard. he turns, scanning the room again, slower this time.

your eyes meet.

this time you don’t freeze.

you just lift your hand a little, a small, awkward acknowledgment.

he nods once, almost relieved, and gathers his things as the professor continues talking.

you meet him after class because you have to. the room is still loud, just people filing out, the low noise of conversations, backpacks being adjusted, chairs scraping.

he hesitates for a second like he’s deciding whether to approach you or not.

then he does.

“hey,” he says, stopping a comfortable distance away. “um. reading partners.”

his voice is quieter than you expected, soft but deep. you weren’t sure what you were expecting.

“yeah,” you say. “i heard.”

he smiles a little at that, like he’s not sure if you’re joking.

“i’m mike,” he adds, shifting the strap of his backpack higher on his shoulder.

“i know,” you say before you can stop yourself.

he blinks.

you feel your face warm.

“i mean,” you correct quickly, “i heard your name. just now.”

“right. yeah.” he lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and embarrassment. “that makes more sense.”

there’s a pause.. you don’t know who to blame for it. did he make it awkward or did you?

“do you want to, uh,” he gestures vaguely toward the hallway, “figure out when to meet? for the reading stuff.”

“sure.”

you walk out together.

you end up sitting on a bench outside the building because neither of you suggests anywhere else.

it’s quieter there. a few people pass by, but most are heading to their next class. the air still has that early semester feel, not quite settled.

you compare schedules.

he pulls out a notebook instead of using his phone. it’s worn at the edges, pages filled in uneven handwriting. you notice it without meaning to.

“i’m free tuesdays after two,” he says, flipping a page back. “and thursdays, same time.”

“tuesday works,” you say. “i have a gap then.”

he nods, writing it down even though it’s probably unnecessary.

“library?” he asks.

“yeah. that’s fine.”

another small pause.

“have you read ahead at all?” he asks.

“a little,” you say. “not all of it.”

“same.” he glances up at you briefly, then back down. “it’s… a lot.”

“yeah.”

there’s a shared understanding in that. relief, maybe, that the other person isn’t miles ahead.

“we’ll figure it out,” you add.

he nods again, a little more certain this time.

“yeah. we will.”

that night, you open your laptop without thinking.

ao3 loads from memory.

you click into your bookmarks, into the fic, into the most recent chapter even though you’ve already read it twice.

there’s a new notification. your chest tightens a little before you even process why.

it’s a reply.

from the author.

you click it.

it’s not long.

just a few lines.

but it’s thoughtful. specific. they mention something you said about the pacing, about the way a scene felt like it was holding its breath. they say they were worried it came off as too slow.

you read it twice. then a third time.

it feels strange, in a way you can’t quite explain. like the distance between reader and writer just shrank a little.

like there’s an actual person on the other side of the screen, thinking about what you said.

you start typing a response, then stop.

delete it.

start again.

keep it simple. why are you so nervous about this?

you hit post, close the laptop, and lie back on your mattress, staring at the ceiling. releasing a breath you’ve been holding onto for who knows how long know.

the library is colder than you expect.

you get there first. not intentionally, just habit. you pick a table near the back, close enough to an outlet that you don’t have to worry about your laptop dying halfway through.

you open the reading.

you don’t actually read it.

you skim the same paragraph three times without processing any of it.

you’re more aware of the fact that you’re about to spend a couple hours sitting across from someone you don’t know, trying to have something resembling an intelligent conversation. mike seems like a nice guy, but you also get the impression that he might be way more judgmental than he seems.

“hey.”

you look up.

mike’s standing there, slightly out of breath like he walked faster than he meant to.

“hey,” you say.

he sets his bag down across from you, pulling out his notebook and a copy of the text. his movements are a little rushed at first, then slow down once he’s seated.

“s-sorry,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t sure if you’d be here already.”

“oh. uh, i just got here,” you lie.

he nods, like that makes him feel better.

for a minute, you both pretend to focus on the reading.

pages turn. pens move. no one speaks.

it’s not as awkward as you thought it would be. just quiet.

after a while, he taps his pen lightly against the margin of the page.

“this part,” he says, glancing up at you, “do you… get what they’re trying to say here?”

you lean forward slightly, following where he’s pointing.

you read the paragraph again, slower this time.

“kind of,” you say. “i think it’s more about the implication than what’s actually written.”

he watches you as you speak, focused in a way that makes you more aware of your own words.

“like, it’s not direct,” you add. “but it’s… like, there. if that makes sense.”

“y-yeah,” he says after a second. “no, that makes sense.”

he writes something down quickly.

you notice the way he phrases it. not copying what you said exactly, but translating it into something more structured, more precise.

you’re starting to realize how serious he’s taking this.

the conversation gets easier after that.

he asks questions that don’t feel performative. when he disagrees, he does it carefully, like he’s not trying to win anything. just understand.

you find yourself talking more than you expected to.

at one point, you lose your train of thought halfway through a sentence. he waits.

he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t try to fill the silence. just watches, patient.

you pick it back up again, finishing the idea in a different way.

he nods, like it still made sense.

it’s small. but it stays with you. appreciating how kind he’s been with you.

you take a break halfway through.

not planned. it just happens when both of you stop at the same time, realizing you’ve been sitting there for over an hour.

“i’m gonna get coffee,” he says, standing. “do you want anything?”

you hesitate.

“uh, no, it’s fine.”

he lingers for half a second, like he’s deciding whether to insist.

then he nods. “okay. i’ll be right back.”

you watch him walk away, then immediately look back down at your laptop like you weren’t.

your brain feels quieter than it has all day.

you don’t question it too much.

later that evening, across campus, in a different building, mike is sitting at his desk with his laptop open.

he’s not writing. not yet. he’s rereading a comment.

yours. again.

he doesn’t usually do that.

he tells himself it’s because you pointed out something specific. something useful.

that’s all.

he opens the document anyway.

the cursor blinks at the end of a sentence he’s been stuck on for two days.

he stares at it for a long time.

then, slowly, he starts typing.

not rushing this time, just letting the words settle the way they want to.

for the first time since classes started, it feels a little easier.

it doesn’t happen all at once.

there isn’t a moment you can point to and say that’s when it changed, that’s when he stopped being just the guy you were paired with for class and started being… something else.

it’s smaller than that.

it’s tuesdays that stretch longer than they need to, where you both say you’re going to leave after finishing one more section and then don’t. it’s thursdays where you don’t even pretend to focus right away, just sit down and start talking like you’re picking up something mid-conversation.

at some point, you stop bringing your full bag to the library. just your laptop, your notebook, one pen. like you already know you’re not going to get through everything anyway.

he does the same.

“okay, no, read that out loud,” you say, pushing the book toward him slightly.

mike glances at the paragraph, already shaking his head. “it’s not gonna make more sense if i say it out loud.”

“just do it.”

he exhales through his nose, but he does it anyway, reading the sentence in a low, even voice that stumbles just slightly at the end. something about it sounds makes your skip a beat. why is your heart skipping a beat??

when he finishes, there’s a pause.

“yeah,” you say. “that’s worse.”

he huffs, leaning back in his chair. “i told you.”

“no, but like..” you reach over, tapping the page again. “what the hell is that. what does that even mean.”

he leans forward again, closer this time, his shoulder almost brushing the edge of the table between you.

“i.. think it’s trying to sound more complicated than it actually is,” he says, squinting a little at the text. “like if you strip it down, it’s just saying the character feels out of place.”

“then why not just say that.”

“because then it wouldn’t sound academic,” he says, dry.

you smile, just a little.

“oh, god forbid.”

he glances at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up before he looks back down again.

“right.”

he picks up his pen, fidgeting with it.

“i mean,” he adds after a second, “it’s kind of like when something’s obvious, but you don’t want it to be. so you keep… dressing it up until it feels like something else.”

you tilt your head, watching him now instead of the page.

“that’s not what the sentence says.”

“i know,” he says. “i’m just saying that might be what they meant.”

“or you’re just projecting.”

he lets out a small laugh, shaking his head.

“yeah. probably.”

but he still writes it down.

the first time you see him outside of your scheduled meetings, it barely registers as anything important.

you’re sitting on the low stone wall outside one of the buildings, your laptop balanced on your knees, not really doing the reading you told yourself you’d do. people pass by in loose clusters, voices overlapping, footsteps uneven on the ground.

you’re halfway through scrolling when you hear your name. a familiar voice close enough that you look up immediately.

mike’s standing a few feet away, one hand hooked into the strap of his backpack like he’d just stopped mid-step.

“h-hey,” he says, like he wasn’t sure if you’d actually hear him.

“hey.”

he nods toward your laptop. “are you working, or just pretending to.”

you glance down at the screen, then back at him.

“i think we both know the answer to that.”

he huffs a quiet laugh and shifts his weight.

“can i sit?”

you move your bag without thinking, making space.

“yeah. obviously.”

he sits down beside you, an awkward

closeness, your shoulder would bump his if either of you leaned the wrong way.

for a minute, neither of you says anything.

he looks out across the quad, watching people pass like he’s not really focusing on any of them.

“i tried to do the reading earlier,” he says after a while.

“and?”

“i opened it.”

you nod, serious. “that’s a strong start.”

“yeah, i got through like… two pages.”

“honestly, that’s more than i did.”

he glances at you. “you didn’t even open it, did you.”

you close your laptop slowly.

“that’s not the point.”

he smiles, just a little.

it’s small, but it stays.

it becomes a thing after that.

not planned, not spoken about, just something that happens enough times that it stops feeling like coincidence.

you run into each other between classes. outside buildings. once in the dining hall line, where neither of you says anything at first, just kind of ends up standing next to each other like it was always the plan.

he starts sitting next to you in lectures without asking.

you start saving him a seat without thinking about it.

somewhere in the middle of all that, you stop calling it “meeting for class.”

you’re just… meeting.

“so you actually like this stuff?” he asks one afternoon, tapping your book with the back of his pen.

you shrug, leaning back in your chair.

“some of it. not this.”

“yeah, this is bad.”

“it’s not even bad in an interesting way,” you say. “it’s just… kinda there.”

“oh. that’s worse,” he says.

“exactly.”

there’s a stop, then he adds, a little quieter, “i think i just like figuring out what something’s trying to do, even if it doesn’t fully work.”

you glance at him.

“that sounds exhausting.”

he smiles faintly, looking down at his notes.

“it is, sometimes.”

“then why do it.”

he shrugs, not looking up.

“i don’t know. it just feels… worth it, i guess. when it does work.”

you don’t respond right away.

it’s later than usual when you finally head back to your dorm that night.
you drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and sit on your bed without turning the lights on.

you think about mike.

the way he looked at you when he spoke. the way his raven curls caught in the sunlight coming through the windows. how he’d smile at you while teasing, his teeth almost perfect, except for that slight crookedness in the front. something that makes your chest tighten.

…wait. what the fuck are you doing?

you squeeze your eyes shut and force yourself to sleep, not ready to question why your mind is wandering somewhere it shouldn’t.

the next time you see him, it’s like nothing changed.

he sits down next to you, drops his bag, runs a hand through his hair like he always does.

“i didn’t do the reading,” he says.

you nod. “me neither.”

“okay, good.”

you open your notebook anyway.

paper rustles. his does too.

for a while, it’s just the sound of pages turning, pens clicking, the low hum of the room around you.

you don’t write anything.

you can feel him there, trying not to peak a view at how intense he’s staring at a piece of paper. you’re failing miserably.

three minutes pass.

maybe less.

“hey,” you say.

it comes out quieter than you meant.

he looks over. “uh, yeah?”

his knee is angled toward yours under the table. you don’t think he realizes.

you almost drop it.

your fingers press harder into the edge of the notebook instead.
“can.. i ask you something?”

“yeah, totally.”

he doesn’t look away this time.

it makes it worse.

“you said you write, right.”

“yeah.”

“like… fiction.”

a beat.

he nods, slower now. his eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to read ahead.
“uh-..yeah.”

you glance down, tracing the corner of the page with your thumb. it’s already bent.

“do you… post it anywhere?”

silence.

you look up again.

he’s watching you differently now. something in his expression shifts.. subtle, but there. his brows pull in slightly, a crease forming between them, and there’s a faint flush high on his cheeks.

“s-sometimes,” he says.

your foot shifts against the floor. brushes his for half a second.

neither of you moves it away.

“where,” you ask.

your voice comes out steadier than you feel.

he exhales, glancing off to the side like he needs a second to decide something.
“just online.”

you lean back slightly, just enough to look at him properly.
“mike.”

his mouth twitches, almost a smile, but it doesn’t stick.
“what.”

“that’s not an answer.”

his fingers tap once against his pen. stop.

“i know.”

you hold his gaze.

he breaks first.

there’s a stretch where the room feels too small, like the air’s gone thin.

then..

“ao3.”

shit.

something tightens in your chest, quick and sharp. you don’t let it show.

“okay.”

you look back down at your notebook like that’s all it is.

out of the corner of your eye, you can feel him still looking at you.

waiting.

for what, you’re not sure.

you don’t give him anything.

not yet.

“so.. what do you write?” you ask.

he shifts in his seat. his knee presses a little more firmly against yours before he notices, then stills, like moving it now would make it worse.

“stuff,” he says, too quick. then he winces, dragging a hand through his hair. “that sounds-..i don’t know. it’s not… big or anything.”

“i didn’t ask if it was big.”

“yeah. i know.”

his sleeve brushes your arm when he drops his hand. neither of you pulls away.

another pause.

closer this time.

“what..uh, do you read,” he asks.

too fast.

like he needs the focus off himself.

you could tell him. you think about the fic, the one you’ve reread too many times, the one that feels a little too specific sometimes, like it knows things it shouldn’t.

you swallow.

“same kind of thing,” you say. “just… whatever’s good.”

he nods.

but he’s still watching you.

really watching now.

like he’s trying to match something in his head to what’s right in front of him.

your fingers tighten slightly around your pen.

trying not to think about how awkward and small the room feels, or how warm your face feels.

by the third week, showing up to the library feels less like obligation and more like habit.

you don’t say it out loud, and you wouldn’t call it “comfort” exactly, but there’s a rhythm now. the rhythm is him. it’s the way he drags the chair out, the little cough he tries to suppress when he’s settling in, the way his backpack slides to the floor with a soft thump, and somehow, in that same subtle pattern, it feels like the library itself has shifted to make room for him.

today, he’s late.

you’re halfway through skimming a paragraph you’re not actually reading, just letting your eyes move over the page so your brain can take a break, when the chair across from you scrapes back.

“sorry,” he says, dropping his bag with a little too much force, enough to make the table shake slightly. he’s out of breath, like he ran, though you know he didn’t. he’s late, aware that you’ve noticed.

you glance up, then back down at your notebook. “you’re like, two minutes late.”

“yeah,” he says, a little defensive. “which is why i said sorry.”

“that doesn’t warrant an apology,” you reply, not looking at him. it’s a statement, not a challenge. but you know he’ll catch it anyway.

he exhales and settles into the chair, shoulders lifting in a tiny shrug. “okay, fine. i’m not sorry.”

you finally glance at him, because he’s smiling just a little, not overtly, just the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a way that almost makes you doubt yourself for noticing it.

“sure,” you say, more to yourself than him.

he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t need to. he knows you saw it.

you open the book again. you really try.

a page, maybe two, and your brain wanders. the words blur into shapes. you drop the notebook and sigh.

“this is awful,” you mutter.

mike glances at you without surprise. “yeah?”

“no, like actually awful. it’s trying too hard.”

he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “trying too hard how?”

“you know. all the phrasing. the emphasis. they’re making a thought that’s actually simple sound dramatic, and it’s- ugh, it’s exhausting.”

he hums softly, nodding. “i get that.”

“you do?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “or you just want to sound supportive?”

“i actually do,” he says. “it reads like they’re pretending the character is smarter than they are.”

you snort, and it’s a genuine laugh this time. “thank you, mike. someone has to say it.”

he tilts his head again, tapping his pen against the paper. you notice the rhythm, two quick taps, then a pause. you notice more than you want to admit.

“okay,” he mutters, almost to himself. “maybe they’re just making it harder for themselves.”

“maybe,” you agree, leaning back. “or maybe they just want someone to care about it.”

his eyes flick up at you briefly, then back down at the page.

the small gestures start piling up.

he brings you coffee one day without asking. just sets it on the table, warm cup, steam curling lazily into the cold air. you protest once, “you didn’t have to-“

“i know,” he interrupts, calm and even. “but you drink it.”

you can’t argue with that, so you take it. your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. it shouldn’t matter, but the warmth from the cup lingers in a way that makes the brush of his skin feel heavier.

later, he writes notes in his notebook, and you watch him pause at times, like he’s aware that you’re looking, aware that your attention is fixed on him without your consent. it makes your chest squeeze in a way you can’t quite place.

one evening, it’s late. the campus is quiet.

you’re walking back from the library together, bags slung over your shoulders, arms brushing now and then where the path narrows.

he’s talking, something about class, something you halfmissed, but you’re not really listening.

you’re watching him instead.

the tilt of his head when he laughs. the way his hand moves when he’s trying to explain something. the shape of words as they leave his mouth.

you almost miss it when he stops talking.

“you don’t just… let things go?” he asks.

you look at him. “what?”

“you notice stuff,” he says. “and then you say it. why?”

you frown slightly.
“i don’t know. i guess i just..care?”

he hesitates.

“you care too much sometimes,” he says. “about things that don’t matter.”

you narrow your eyes a little.

he’s not wrong. you just don’t like hearing it from him.

“maybe,” you say.

he watches you for a second longer, then looks down at the pavement again. there’s the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

something in your chest pulls tight.

the quiet stretches.

then, softer,
“you do it too,” you say.

he looks up, quick. “do what?”

“notice things,” you say. “little things.”

your voice is steady. your stomach isn’t. you don’t even know what to call it.

he holds your gaze for a second.

then nods, once.
“yeah. i know.”

after that, neither of you says anything.

your shoulders brush again. neither of you moves away.

you’re suddenly very aware of it, of him, of the space between you, of how little of it there is.

you look out at the empty path ahead, heart beating a little too fast.

he stays close. doesn’t fill the silence.

and somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought starts to form.

you’ve been waiting for this.

for a moment, you let yourself wonder..

if he feels it too.

later that night, you open your laptop almost automatically. ao3. your usual comfort. you scroll into the fic.

the first few paragraphs feel normal. routine. then a line makes you pause.

she taps the pen twice before answering, like that somehow counts as thinking.

your stomach does a little flip.

you’ve done that exact motion before, in the library, in front of mike. just remembering your moments with him makes your heart flutter. when did you turn 12 again?

and then another,

“just say it wrong first. you can fix it after.”

your chest feels warm, pulse quickening.

you’ve said that before, practicing a presentation with him, fumbling through the words, thinking he wasn’t was watching.

and that time in the library, when he leaned over your shoulder, murmuring almost the same thing.

it’s all so familiar. gestures, phrasing, little quirks… the laughs, the pen-taps, the hesitant smiles.

your heart skips a beat.

wait… this can’t be real.

these aren’t coincidences.

did.. he write you in?

you can’t decide if this is creepy, or sweet.

every little tick, every pause, every movement you thought only you noticed is there, in words he typed.

you close the laptop, fingers brushing the edge of the desk, cheeks warm. your brain is buzzing with disbelief and excitement. he’s been paying attention. all of you.

you don’t text him. you don’t comment.

you just sit there, letting your heart slow slightly, and a silly, thrilling thought spins through your mind: he’s been here all along, quietly, unknowingly close, hidden in plain sight.

you didn’t sleep.

not really. you tried. pillow tucked under your chin, blankets tangled, room dark except for the faint glow of your laptop from hours ago. but you kept thinking about it. the fic. every line. every little motion, every sarcastic comment, every tiny tick he’d written in so carefully, like he’d been watching you for months.

you should have been embarrassed. mortified. instead, your chest kept tightening every time you remembered a scene. your fingers itched to scroll through it again.

by morning, you’re exhausted, eyes heavy, and somehow the campus already feels too bright. you trudge to your first class, backpack slipping from your shoulder, coffee lukewarm in your hand.

then you see mike.

you spot him before he sees you, earbuds in, dark curls falling into his eyes, like he always does when he’s trying not to be noticed. your stomach twists, a tight, spinning knot that you can’t just ignore. “mike,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. he lifts his head, one earbud tugged halfway out, stops mid-step. “hey-” he says, slower this time, eyes flicking over you like he’s trying to place what’s off.

“so, are you thepaladin20?” you ask, letting the words land without softening them. he freezes entirely, shoulders stiff, like your voice just tripped some wire in his brain. “…what?” he murmurs, uncertain, his gaze darting between your face and the ground. you almost laugh at the thought of how absurd this moment is, almost turn back like it never happened, but you don’t.

“on ao3,” you continue, quieter now, “that’s you, right?” recognition creeps across his features slowly, confusion followed by that flicker of something sharper. “how do you-” he starts, cutting himself off mid-thought. you can see it all in his posture, the subtle tension, the faint, sharp inhale he can’t seem to control. he hadn’t expected this. not from you, not now, not at all.

“…oh,” he breathes, almost too quietly, letting it hang between you. you nod once, a quiet acknowledgment of the impossible. “i’ve been reading it,” you admit. it hits him slower than you want, a delayed reaction that makes his shoulders stiffen further. he looks away, hand brushing back through his hair like he’s trying to figure out which end of this he can grab. “…okay. yeah. that’s-” he huffs, a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “that’s great.”

“it’s good,” you say quickly, wanting to anchor him somewhere stable. “that’s not-”

“i didn’t think you’d see it,” he cuts in, fast, defensive but not angry. his words tumble out too quickly, colliding with his own uncertainty. “i mean, obviously, i didn’t think- i wasn’t trying to make it… weird.” your chest tightens, not with judgment but with that familiar, acute awareness of him.

“it’s not weird,” you murmur, and he glances at you like he doesn’t quite believe it, like he wants to but he’s not sure if he deserves it.

you step a fraction closer, small movement, intentional but almost invisible. “you wrote me into it,” you say, stating the truth without accusation. his jaw tightens. “i didn’t-” he starts, automatically, then falters. “…okay, yeah. i did. but it’s not-”

he stops, and you let the silence fill the space, letting him breathe into it. “not what?” you ask softly. he looks at you then, and for the first time in the day it feels like the guard is gone, even if just a little.

“it’s not supposed to be something you read,” he admits, voice low, hesitant. “why?” you ask, quietly, needing the answer. he hesitates longer than before, like every second is dangerous, then finally lets his gaze meet yours.

“i just needed somewhere to put it,” he says.

your breath catches. “put what?”

“…you.” the word comes out too small for how heavy it is.

everything stills for a moment.

you swallow, trying to process it all. it should feel overwhelming. instead, it feels quiet, careful, like the air itself is holding its breath.

you step closer without meaning to, letting the space shrink just a little. he doesn’t move away. you notice how his lips twitch, like he wants to say something but isn’t sure he should.

“you-i mean, i didn’t know you were reading it,” he says finally, voice low, like he’s testing the words out on the air before giving them to you. “you.. liked it?”

“i loved it,” you whisper, and the sound seems too small, but it lands between you anyway. he swallows, one hand brushing the back of his neck, the other fidgeting with the strap of his bag. every motion feels loud in the quiet, and your stomach twists again.

he laughs softly, awkward and breathy, like he can’t quite believe it either. “i… didn’t think anyone would… i mean, not like that.”

you tilt your head, letting the moment breathe. “like what?”

“like… like you noticing me in it,” he says, voice barely above a murmur. he looks everywhere but at your face, though you can feel his gaze catching yours in little flickers, like it keeps betraying him.

you smile, almost against your will, heart thudding. “it’s there,” you say simply. “every line, every little thing you wrote, it’s… you.”

he swallows again, finally looking straight at you, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “i didn’t mean to… put you in it. i just… i didn’t know how else.”

and suddenly you understand. it’s not showy or dramatic, it’s messy and small, but it’s real. his voice, his hands, the tiny crease between his brows when he’s nervous, it’s all him, just like the fic. and the fic is him, too, but more honest in ways he can’t be aloud.

you reach out, brushing a stray curl from his forehead without thinking. he freezes for a heartbeat, then lets it happen, and your fingers linger just a second too long. “i didn’t mind,” you murmur. “i liked it.”

he exhales sharply, relief and something else tangled in it. he takes a half-step closer, so close you can feel the warmth of his shoulder brushing yours. “you really mean that?” he asks.

“yes,” you say, quietly, heart in your throat.

and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he leans in. not fast, not forceful, just a tilt, a slow press of lips to yours, soft and careful. your chest lifts, stomach twisting, everything inside you humming with that familiar, dizzying shock.

he pulls back just enough to see your face, eyes wide, uncertain, hopeful. “so… this is okay?”

you nod, a grin tugging at your lips, breath shaky. “more than okay.”

the document sat in your inbox like a challenge, like a little invitation you couldn’t refuse. mike’s name flashed in your notifications and your stomach did a weird flip. you opened it.

the fic. the one he’d been working on. the one that mirrored… well, you.

you settled onto your bed, laptop balanced on your knees, and started reading.

he was nervous in the text. every line careful. there were moments you recognized immediately, a sigh, a sarcastic comment, and other little gestures you’d mentioned in passing, not realizing he remembered them.

and then you noticed the tiny mistakes: a missing word here, a tense slip there.

so, naturally, you annotated.

“this line feels off — maybe change the word here?”
“watch the pacing here — he’d pause a beat before answering, not after.”
“also, i know you love adverbs but maybe just… not every sentence?”

and then you added one you couldn’t resist:

“ps. nice touch with the sarcasm. you’re sneaky.”

you hit send, heart racing. not from reading, not from noticing, but because mike would get this. mike would read this. mike.

almost immediately, a reply pinged.

“wow. okay. you’re brutal. thanks. also… the sarcasm note? noted. i hate you.”

you laughed, tapping a finger against your lips. “i call it constructive criticism. you’re welcome.”

you rolled your eyes but smiled, warmth creeping in your chest. you’d never thought a fic would do this, make you blush this hard.

later that night, he posts the fic. you refresh ao3, eyes flicking over the update. chapter uploaded. you start reading. and then you see it:

“thanks to my girlfriend for proofreading! sorry for putting you through that first draft *_* ”

you freeze. cheeks burn. fingers hover over the keyboard. you can’t decide whether to laugh, groan, or send him a million sarcastic emojis.

finally, you type in the comments:

“wow. thanks for the credit, mike. you’re lucky i like you.”

his reply is almost instant:

“i know. lucky me.”

you sink back into your pillows, reading the chapter again, but this time it’s different. the words still hit, still land. but now every little detail, every carefully observed motion, every sarcastic aside feels… meaningful. personal.

Guess who was drawing a collage au comic or Blime until 2:30 am, this CANNOT be healthy.

Anyways i have a headcanon that Lime almost always forgets to button up their shirt, doing that unintentionally. They're just forgetful in general in my perspective of them!!! (⁠´⁠∩⁠｡⁠•⁠ ⁠ᵕ⁠ ⁠•⁠｡⁠∩⁠`⁠)

The background took most of my time(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)(⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)