#but social cues are different and some change over time which is INCREDIBLY confusing | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soulmate-game · 3 years

Text

part 2 (of that new bio!dad fic)

Dick whipped his head over to Bruce, who could feel the heavy gazes of all his children as if they were physical. If they had had heat vision like Clark, he would have already been reduced to a puddle of mush. Bruce shifted, the only sign of his discomfort, but he recognized that the middle of a gala was no place for this discussion. There were too many busybodies trying to listen in for the latest gossip. So he plastered on a smile that he couldn’t quite feel, and held a hand out to Marinette. He was careful to keep a good distance though, and left the choice for contant purely up to her.

The young woman looked down at his hand, then back to his face. Damian had been shocked silent by what she had to say, and perhaps even more by the all too telling way that Bruce hadn’t so much as implied that she was lying, and the look he was giving her was making her a little uncomfortable. Yes, she hadn’t planned on interacting with her father more than just the years-overdue confrontation she had just done, at least not while at the gala… but her plans always left room for improvisation. She could make this work.

With a soft sigh, Marinette extended her own hand— half the size of Bruce’s, he noted almost immediately with a rush of illogical fondness— and grasped his lightly. She couldn’t help but notice the way his impossibly blue eyes brightened, no different than her own when she was particularly happy, or the way his mouth twitched with a barely suppressed beam. Instead, he controlled himself enough so that the only smile he gave would look professional and entirely in character to the nosy socialites still spying on them, and led them out onto the dance floor.

What everyone else saw was the unfairly charming Bruce Wayne giving his young guest of honor a simple dance. Just a basic swirl around the floor that every other social elite had learned when they were five. Clearly he was taking it easy on the self-made girl, who probably didn’t have experience with such dances. Humoring the accomplished young woman with his approval for a moment before he would slink back to his family or patrol the crowds and make the necessary greetings and meaningless chatter.

What his family saw was Bruce taking time to slow his steps, not for Marinette to keep up but rather to prolong the event. What they saw was the grace in Marinette’s steps as she never once faltered, and that Bruce was careful to take his cues from her instead of the other way around. He only led the dance in technicality, Marinette had all the real control.

What they saw was a father’s first dance with his daughter.

“Eighteen,” Dick whispered, eyebrows drawn low. “She said she’s almost eighteen.”

“Well, that lines up doesn’t it?” Jason asked gruffly, his own gaze never leaving the dancing duo. “We were planning on doubling up your big thirtieth birthday party as your eighteenth adoption anniversary,” he reminded his brother, who just made a slightly distressed noise in the back of his throat. Whether it was at the reinforcement of his adoption coming only months after Marinette being put up for adoption, or the fact that he was turning thirty, nobody could really tell.

“Hurt,” Cassandra spoke up from behind them, looking incredibly concerned as she watched the dance. “Uncertain.”

Stephany rolled her eyes, fidgeting from her quickly building energy. Anger was making her restless. “Of course she’s hurt. Bruce replaced her, with a boy he knew virtually nothing about, not even that long after she was born. How do you think that made her feel, when she found out?” Stephany let out a little growl, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing server and downing it in one gulp. She ignored Dick protesting that she wasn’t of age yet, which made her wrinkle her nose. “Only one more year, Dickhead. Get over it, I need the buzz.”

“Well,” Barbara sighed and maneuvered her wheelchair around the group so that everyone could see her. “Nothing we can do right now but be supportive and watch Bruce like a hawk so he doesn’t make this worse,” she stated easily, not looking even the least bit ruffled by the news despite the disturbed glitter in her eyes.

“... Guys,” Tim spoke up, not looking at any of them. “Who wants to volunteer for Damian duty?” At first glance, it might seem like Tim was thinking about his own first disastrous meeting with the younger boy. Once everyone paid attention though, they could see that the truth was that Damian had snuck away and Tim was pointedly looking at a slightly hidden-away staircase to the second floor.

“Shit,” Dick muttered, but before he could say another word Jason shoved him back and started towards the stairs.

“No, not this time Dicky. I’ll talk to the brat.”

Back on the dancefloor, Bruce and Marinette broke away without any fanfare at the end of the song. If Bruce tried to hold her eyes for a moment too long, nobody noticed besides his observant children, and two of Marinette’s protective friends.

Then, just to make sure that nobody caught on with the help of hindsight, Bruce said something vaguely polite and praising, which Marinette accepted with flawless, distant poise. And they went back to their own groups, Bruce quickly noting that two of his sons were missing. He raised an eyebrow, about to ask why when a presence behind him caught his attention. Unlike Marinette and Chloe, this newcomer was not at all trying to hide their approach or be sneaky about it, even though Bruce couldn’t hear any footsteps that were close enough to belong to the mysterious entity. Closing his mouth, Bruce turned around only to be greeted by yet another vaguely familiar face. Bright green eyes bore into his, unreadable.

“Mister Wayne,” the newcomer greeted, voice warm but stiff. If the Waynes hadn’t all had years of recognizing when a person was only pretending to be cordial, they never would have suspected that the boy was anything but pure-heartedly happy to be there. But they did have that experience, and thus they instantly honed in on the very well-hidden fact that he had a bone to pick with them. Or, more probably, with Bruce.

He cut an impressive figure, for all that he was lithe muscle instead of bulk. Hair that was lighter than Chloe’s, less like cloth-of-gold and more like sunlight glinting off of wheatfields. It somehow hung in gravity-defying tufts, yet perfectly arranged to evoke a calming aesthetic. Like the fluff of a long-haired cat, almost, and it looked just as fluffy and hypnotizing. It contrasted with his emerald eyes, impossibly vibrant in their gleam. And the suit he wore was decidedly top-notch, much like the other two they had met from his class. He was daring, in a dark silver suit that slightly shifted in the light, green accents that matched his eyes standing out strikingly against the collars and trim, and coiling in tantalizing swirls at the cuffs. The lining of the suit jacket was done in a dark green that could almost pass for black in the right lighting, adding a layer of both drama and mystery as it peeked out at the back of his collar, the insides of his sleeves if he moved just the right way, at the bottom hem of the jacket when he turned or bent just so. And with his notoriety in the modeling world? He always knew exactly how to move or place himself to get the reactions he wanted. And he was clearly showing off the craftsmanship of his suit just then as he faked adjusting his cufflinks and lifted his head just the right amount to both look challenging and let the dark green on the back of his collar flash in the light in such a way that Bruce and those nearest him wouldn’t be able to miss the brief reveal of color.

“Adrien Agreste,” Bruce greeted back, eyebrows pulling down in slight confusion. Normally the topic of clothing was far from his genuine interest, but in this particular case it was an intriguing, and possibly even concerning, observation. So he said next; “That suit is not of your father’s usual style of design.”

Adrien scoffed, straightening out his suit’s jacket and making the obsidian buttons glint. “Of course not. I’ve started my rebellious phase— or, well, I finally started being blatant enough about it that my father noticed anyway,” the way his lips curled was decidedly not very attractive, but painted a vivid picture of a son who despised the way he was treated. Adrien quickly wiped the distasteful expression away and replaced it with a camera-ready smile. “I’m wearing one of Marinette’s designs, much to his chagrin. She insisted on making this for me as soon as she heard that my father was planning on sending me in a white suit.”

Bruce quickly caught on, and sighed. How long would the gala go on for, again? He didn’t remember what time it was anymore. “Your friend Chloe already got a pretty clear warning in. I suppose you know as well?”

Adrien’s grin darkened with mischief, and he nodded all too happily. “Of course! Marinette told me almost as soon as she found out, a few years ago. You see, we had to put down a very solid rule about secrets between the two of us. She has a bad habit of trying to shoulder the entire world’s problems and not tell anyone about it, if you don’t pay close enough attention,” his voice was deceptively light but his eyes were hard, warning. “And let’s just say, I have a lot of experience with bad father figures. I can recognize them a mile away by now. The signs of neglect, of apathy,” his eyes suddenly lightened when he saw how Bruce’s throat visibly caught, how the man didn’t seem to realize he had stopped breathing. Maybe he was being a little to mean, Adrien thought. So he let the dark slip out of his eyes, and his smile turned more genuine. “You don’t have those signs. You looked at Marinette like you were both the happiest and most miserable man in the world at the same time. But you can’t change what you did to her, Mister Wayne. If you want some advice from Marinette’s oldest friend?” Adrien held out a closed fist.

Bruce took a second to realize what was happening, too busy trying to recover from his situational whiplash and wave of relief. Once he caught back up to the present, however, he held out his open palm and let Adrien drop something into his hand.

To his shock, it was a pen, engraved with the name he recognized as Marinette’s biological mother. He also recognized it as a popular model of pen-knife. He raised his eyes to Adrien, who winked.

“Marinette doesn’t know I had this made. And she has a lot of tricks that might surprise you, but what she wants more than anything is stability. If you try to give her that, show that you care and you want her safe— and then prove that you’re gonna stay— then maybe you can repair the damage you’ve done. It won’t be easy though, Mari is the single most stubborn person I’ve ever met. And I grew up with Chloe.”

Bruce closed his hand around the pen, swallowing a lump in his throat. He couldn’t quite figure out why, but Adrien’s faith in him and his help… somehow felt significant. He nodded to the young model.

“Not to worry, I have experience with stubborn,” he glanced back at his other kids with a small smirk. None of them were the least bit repentant. “And I do want to stay. Thank you for the advice.”

Adrien shrugged. “Don’t thank me. If you hurt her again, you’ll never see my revenge coming. It can be rather… catastrophic,” with that ominous threat, Adrien bowed dramatically and turned to leave and do some rounds charming the elites. Bruce tucked the pen in one of his hidden pockets, but stayed silent after that. He had a lot to mull over.

—*—*—*—*—*

Damian leaned on the railing of the balcony, looking out over the gardens behind the gala’s venue. He was glaring at nothing, and his hands trembled from where they gripped the rail. It was five minutes, a little longer than he had expected but not that odd considering everyone’s distraction over Marinette, before he heard the glass doors behind him creak open.

“Yo,” Jason greeted, knowing it was better not to catch the boy off guard. None of them were good with surprises anymore, for good reason. It was always best to announce their presence before they made someone react violently on accident. Damian’s shoulders relaxed a little— not a lot, but enough for Jason to notice. The older man sighed, walking up and leaning on the rail next to his little brother. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

“That could have been me,” he almost instantly blurted. It was still hard talking about his feelings, but certain things were easier with Todd. This was, apparently, one of them. “If Mother hadn’t kept me a secret.”

“I don’t think so,” Jason disagreed, shrugging. “There are several big differences here. For one, Marinette was born three years before you were. By the time you were born, he already had Dick and he would have only been a year, max, away from taking me in. Which means he already had built up his problem with taking in kids, and nothing would have gotten him to give up a chance at raising you. With or without Batman getting in the way.”

“But then why—” Damian growled. “Why did he give her up?”

“Because he’s an idiot,” Jason remarked bluntly. “You know how he is. He didn’t have a kid at the time. Hell, Bruce would have only been twenty-two back then. He only adopted Dick on impulse because Dick reminded him of himself, but before all of that shit? He probably made a million excuses about not being able to raise a baby and be Batman at the same time. About his life being too dangerous for a kid. Which, yes it is, but that clearly didn’t stop him later.”

“She’s older,” Damian muttered, this time softer.

“Yup.”

“Her mother wasn’t an assassin, probably. She designs. I hate to admit it, and you are never to repeat it to anybody, but her work that we’ve seen so far is impressive. She can clearly charm even the most stuck-up of gotham’s upper crust.”

“Yeah,” Jason agreed neutrally, his eyes never leaving Damian.

“Father won’t need me. He already doesn’t have much patience—” Damian was cut off by a flick to the nose. “Hey!”

“Not my fault you’re being stupid,” Jason defended himself. “Look, B’s actually been real patient with you these past few years. I mean, when was the last time he yelled at you? Or told you that stupid ‘justice not vengeance’ line?”

Damian opened his mouth, then closed it. After another moment, he replied; “Almost two years.”

Jason nodded. “It might take him way too long, but he can still learn new tricks. Especially after that mess with Heretic, he’s been trying really hard to be better to you. He still screws up, because I think we all know by now that he’s a bigger mess than any of the rest of us and that’s an accomplishment, but he’s trying. He doesn’t keep you around because he needs you. He’s got plenty of us around if all he wanted was soldiers— though none of us would stick around if we thought that’s all he wanted.”

Damian flexed his jaw. He was still the most violent of the kids, besides Jason. He saw Bruce rubbing his forehead or pinching his nose far too often at some of his decisions or comments. He was stubborn, impatient, reckless.

But hadn’t Bruce himself told him on several occasions that he wasn’t trying to make him a perfect soldier? Hadn’t Bruce himself said that he just wanted Damian to grow into himself?

It was just really hard to swat away those stupid voices in Damian’s head. Voices of the past, mostly, old dialogue he had never actually forgotten. That he merely pretended had never affected him. The “you’re too violent”s, the “that’s not how we behave, Damian”s. All the old lectures, the old fights. They echoed like stupid little gremlins of doubt.

“...Marinette has his eyes.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over something like that,” Jason’s voice was soft, but gruff at the same time as he cuffed Damian over the head. “You didn’t choose to be born, idiot. And despite being a little demon, none of us would reverse it, You’ve saved all our skins at least once. And besides,” he nudged Damian a little with a grin. “You’re not half bad, nowadays.”

Damian chuckled. “That makes one of us.”

“Hey!”

@peterxwade24 @mizzy-pop @maskedpainter @ladybug-182 @khneltea @itsmeevie01 @fusser90 @woe-is-me0 @lolieg @moonlightstar64 @jayjayspixiepop

#maribat #platonic jasonette #platonic daminette #platonic brucinette #ml x dc #mlb x dc #dc x mlb #dc x miraculous #maribat fic

582 notes · View notes

alixofagnia · 4 years

Text

OpheThorn III: Back to Rambling

The Memory of Babel…Wow.

If nothing else, this book GOES. We’re dropped onto Babel just as lost, bewildered, and determined as Ophelia to get to the bottom of this ark. Boy, was it worth the wait! Babel is exquisitely written and, incredible as it sounds, even more treacherous than the Pole. The backbone Ophelia shows in this book is awesome! I love that she’s taken the measure of her worth—all the things she’s been through and survived in the previous novels—and come out resilient As Fuck. This book is definitely a penultimate novel. Dazzling as it is, much of it feels like groundwork being laid for the finale.

OpheThorn is less nuanced and ambiguous in Babel. While I feel there’s less to analyze, I do really love this pairing and I like writing about their dynamic. So, I’m just going to put my thoughts down and see what comes up!

[There will be spoilers]

[All fanart images credited to @patricialyfoung]

Intro

One of the things that drew me into The Mirror Visitor series is the relationship between Ophelia and Thorn. Theirs is not a traditional love story at all; in fact, it avoids clichés and instead plays about with two romantic tropes: enemies to lovers and marriage of convenience. The series spins these tropes anew by offering subtle signs of attraction (discussed here) and giving both characters antisocial tendencies, as well as—in Thorn’s case—possible ASD traits (discussed here).

When we left these two in Clairdelune, Thorn had just put his feelings on the table. Before she could give her response, however, they were separated under upsetting, even traumatic circumstances. Years later, we meet Ophelia again…

Ophelia

…and, oh dear, she is in a sorry state indeed. We find her disastrously operating a waffle stand during a kooky Animist festival for, of all things, clocks. Just what the girl pining for Thorn needs, right? All is not well with Ophelia. As Aunt Rosaline points out,

“No, you’re not fine. You don’t go out anymore, you eat any old thing, you sleep at any old time. You haven’t even been back to the museum.” [19]

Although her mother, sister, and to an extent Aunt Rosaline all believe Ophelia is wasting away, shutting herself in her room, she’s actually been quite busy. She’s been studying and developing working hypotheses about God and the Other: where they are, there she’ll find Thorn. She’s convinced of it. Working from obscure clues dropped in Clairdelune, Ophelia settles on Babel as the ark most likely to yield some answers, and when the chance to travel there appears, she wastes no time at all.

She. Is. Going.

Thorn

In Babel, Thorn has made a name for himself as Sir Henry, rising to become a Lord of LUX, the gatekeepers of Babel who serve a similar function to that of the Doyennes on Anima. He is commanding, magnetic, and aloof as ever. It is unsurprising to find that he has been playing close to the fire again. But the stress and tension of his investigative life on Babel is certainly heightened in a way that it wasn’t at the Pole.

We also learn that his nickname in Babel is the Automaton due to his unceasing energy. Thorn, thus, has dealt with the separation by predictably burying himself in work.

The Reunion

To Ophelia’s disappointment, the reunion with Thorn does not go quite as she had envisioned, and that’s because she hadn’t really envisioned past the goal of finding him [203]. Ophelia is very much a character who takes things one at a time as she’s confronted by them. When Thorn seems less than pleased to see her, she must consider all these Troublesome Feelings and why his underwhelming reaction upsets her.

The thing is Ophelia is waiting for Thorn to take the lead. But he already did, and she didn’t follow—at least, not in a way that he could understand. As previously discussed, Thorn does not function well with non-verbal cues. He needs to be explicitly told how someone else feels, or how he is making someone else feel, in order to know when to adjust his behavior. That can be quite flustering, especially for someone like Ophelia who struggles to vocalize her feelings exactly as they are.

“Is that it?” Ophelia murmured. “You have nothing more to say to me?”

“I have, actually,” Thorn muttered, not stopping all his connecting. […] “And you?” he finally asked, in turn. “You have nothing more to say to me?” [263]

She doesn’t. Thorn coldly dismisses her and continues to keep her at arm’s length, especially when he gives her a second chance to confess her feelings and she still refuses to take it.

Ophelia has social anxiety. She’s not exactly shy, she just gets tongue-tied and befuddled sometimes. It’s part of her make-up, but it doesn’t just happen around Thorn—there are plenty of instances where she has trouble expressing herself to those she cares about, such as Ambrose and Blaise in this novel, or Fox in Clairdelune. She even struggles to express basic gratitude toward Aunt Rosaline in Promise. Unlike them, Thorn challenges her to uncomfortable levels. Her feelings for him are complex and utterly foreign; she has no idea what to do about them.

Unfortunately, Thorn is fresh out of fucks to give over her see-saw act. He’s well-past this stage of confusion and cowardice she’s experiencing because he’s been in love with Ophelia since Promise (“I’m starting to get used to you”) and dealt with the ramifications of that in Clairdelune (“I don’t give a damn whether people find me suspect, as long as I am not so in your eyes.”).

Thorn does nothing half-heartedly. In no uncertain terms, he left her with the bluntest of blunt confessions (“By the way, I love you.”), which was a milestone in his emotional growth. It is clear that he does not love frivolously or casually in the way of his foil, Archibald, so for him, nothing has changed in three years. Likely, he thinks this should be obvious to Ophelia, and it probably should be at this point. He’s done all he can, after all, what more can she want? From his perspective, it’s Ophelia’s turn to make a move, not his.

Ophelia, though, functions differently. She has always needed verbal reinforcement and reassurance. That need has been heightened by their long separation. Essentially, they’re out of touch with one another and, in Ophelia’s case, she’s completely out of touch with herself, which is why when prompted by Thorn she doesn’t provide an answer, even though there could be only one reason for her going to Babel. Things finally come to a head when Thorn loses all patience and replaces her as his assistant. Ophelia is pissed.

“You weren’t available. Waiting for you would have slowed me down in my research.”

“Slowed you down? For your information, I was also doing research of my own. It might interest you to learn…”

“Of your own, that’s precisely the problem,” he interrupted her. “I advised you never to leave your division, and you were supposed to warn me if you discovered anything new. Nothing has changed, you still always make your decisions alone.”

“I wanted to help you,” Ophelia hissed, through gritted teeth.

“I don’t want any of your finer feelings. I need efficiency. If you don’t mind, I now have a flight to take.”

Ophelia’s blood ignited in her every vein. “You’re an egoist.” She had wanted to anger Thorn, and she knew, by the way he had frozen on the spot, that she had succeeded. All the shadows of the night suddenly seemed to have been drawn to the center of his face. He threw Ophelia a look so hard, she reeled from its impact.

“I am demanding, a killjoy, obsessive, antisocial, and crippled,” he intoned, in a forbidding voice. “You can put all the defects in the world on me, but I will not permit you to call me an egoist. If you prefer to do things your way, go ahead, but don’t waste my time anymore. Our collaboration is over.” [305]

OMG, this is harsh. But it’s the kick in the ass Ophelia needs. Since taking up a secret identity as Eulalia and aspiring to become a Forerunner (essentially a scholar and a scribe), she’s already been confronted by the fact that she’s not as good a researcher as she’s prided herself on. Now, she’s being confronted by the suggestion that she’s not a very good partner, either. It leaves her feeling “drier than dust.” [321]

I think it’s interesting how Thorn’s dialogue here has a double meaning. He’s talking about their partnership as an investigative team, of course. But it just as easily applies to their personal relationship. He can’t keep waiting around for Ophelia to make up her mind. He’s got a God to hunt down, an Other to face. Having to wonder about where he stands with Ophelia is getting to be too much. By once again haranguing off on her own, Ophelia has made it plain to him that she prefers to do things without him. In his eyes, she’s pushing him away.

Eventually, she is able to see this perspective and she is ashamed to realize how badly she’s held Thorn to a double standard. He gave of himself through words and gestures as far as he was able, while she gave him nothing in return. Finally, FINALLY, Ophelia fully expresses her love for Thorn and, as he once did, asks him to forgive her shortcomings. It’s a very sweet scene, I must say.

Now, to go back for a moment, what’s really gutting about Ophelia calling Thorn an egoist is this:

“God said he would keep his eyes on you,” he muttered, in a choked voice. “Right in front of me. I make a lamentable husband, but I permit no one, particularly him, to persecute my wife. It’s impossible for me to tear you away from God, but I can tear him away from you. If a book exists that contains God’s secret, and allows his invulnerability to be punctured, I will find it.” [392]

For context, Ophelia had admonished Thorn for his dogged pursuit of this quest, expressing outrage that he should be doing this for a world that’s done nothing for him. At one time, yes, Thorn may have been acting in the interest of the world. Then, he met Ophelia (who is too curious for her own good) and he met God. God threatened her, and Thorn is not a man who could allow such a thing to go unpunished, no matter the consequence. Ever since they met—through every consideration, every move in this impossible investigation and despite each rejection from her—he’s been acting out of love for Ophelia.

As Thorn said, he is not an egoist.

The Blind Spot

After their “egoist” argument, Ophelia feels instant regret and tries to stop Thorn from walking away. She doesn’t succeed, however, because she is struck by his claws. At first, she believes he may have done this on purpose, the thought of which really scares her because it indicates that Thorn is absolutely done with her.

Later, after she finally makes her confession, we all learn that, in fact, Thorn has lost a bit of control over his family power. He has no idea that he used his claws on Ophelia. I’m a little bit unsure what caused this vulnerability—I don’t really follow the given reason, so I’m wondering if Thorn doesn’t quite know himself why this has come to be.

My theory is more euphemistic. Ophelia had reached out to touch his turned back and the gesture badly startled him. He overreacts then overcorrects, and they both take a memorable tumble. Thorn explains:

“Never again accost me from behind my back or from any of my blind spots. Don’t do any movement that I can’t see coming in advance, or then warn me out loud.” [389]

He further explains that he can retain control as long as his claws don’t perceive her as a threat and asks her not to be absent-minded with him. I think it’s entirely plausible that his control over his Dragon power has weakened due to his deep emotion regarding Ophelia. I also feel that this speaks closely to their recent conflict as well as Thorn’s coding as autistic. It’s like Thorn is saying, “No more hide and seek. No more games. Tell me straight, or not at all.”

Ophelia knows how deep his passions run. She once held his dice and thought she might die under the weight and intensity of his emotions. Perhaps it is her Animism that has wrought this change in him. Perhaps it is simply her existence. Either way, she can no longer afford to be careless when it comes to Thorn’s feelings. In the final chapter, Ophelia and Thorn have a true heart to heart, reaffirming their partnership. But Thorn has something to add.

“No half-measures,” he interrupted her. “I’m not and do not wish to be your friend.” [445]

What he leaves unspoken is that he wants to be her husband, in every version of the role: Partner. Protector. Lover. Now that Ophelia has given him an answer, Thorn is comfortable leading them forward and it is the role of lover that he specifically has in mind. Considering this is probably the first time he’s ever propositioned a woman for sex, he is understandably quite awkward. Ophelia quickly realizes that she’s added to his inner turmoil by repressing her own sexuality around him and inadvertently making him feel less than attractive. She also understands that she, too, wants to be his wife in every version of that role: Partner. Protector. Lover. What follows is a really beautiful expression of honest acceptance and true value.

Desire

My dudes, our girl is constantly at risk of exploding (or maybe imploding?) with desire in this book. It’s consuming her, emptying her, and driving every atom of her being. Look at this!

Ophelia had received no news from Thorn after his escape. Not a single telegram, not a single letter. She could keep telling herself that he couldn’t run the risk of making contact, that he was a man wanted by the law, perhaps by God himself, but it was eating her up inside. [22]

Whenever she crossed a man who was a bit taller than average, she couldn’t stop herself from looking back as she passed, with a frantic pounding in her chest. [83]

Ophelia would have recognized his voice out of a thousand. The resonance of a double bass, solemn and sullen, that echoed through her inner emptiness, shook her to the core, welled up to her throat, choked her. [240]

She waited until her heartbeat, taxed by the run, had returned to normal. But it didn’t happen. Her entire flesh seemed to be pulsating to a single chaotic rhythm. This evening, she would see Thorn again. [249]

She wanted to be with Thorn right there, right now. She’d wanted that every second of every minute of every hour, for almost three years. [249]

Although she knew the temperature of this place was strictly maintained at minus eight degrees, Ophelia felt as if it were fifteen degrees warmer. Never in her life had she cared about appearances, and yet she ran a nervous hand through her hair to tidy it up. [253]

She suddenly realized that there wasn’t much she would have refused him, had he but asked. [278]

Instead, he disinfected his hands for a second time, as if they really were repulsive. They weren’t in Ophelia’s eyes. From a distance, she took in the network of veins under the skin, the long, curved fingers, the bone that rose up on each wrist, and suddenly, she felt something like pain in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t the slightest idea what was happening to her, but looking at those hands made her want to scream. [283]

She felt it again, even more violently, this urgent call from deep inside her. [446]

Ophelia is so horny and I’m so here for it!

Closing Thoughts

Do I think Ophelia’s internal conflict over Thorn is drawn out? Yes.

Do I think it’s contrived? No.

I think it falls in line with Ophelia’s characterization and I think Thorn’s frosty reaction to her presence in Babel falls in line with his characterization. These characters aren’t perfect: Ophelia is quirky and endearing, but that doesn’t make her immune to cowardice; Thorn is highly skilled and competent but is deficient socially and sometimes emotionally. I can’t emphasize enough how well Christelle Dabos knows her characters and allows them to be who they are rather than force them to make weird changes to fill plot holes.

We can’t forget, either, the fact that they have been completely cut off from one another for years. Yes, we might think in that time Ophelia could have done more to sort out her feelings. But as we’ve seen, she just doesn’t focus on more than what she can handle at a time. She always thinks in terms of breaking a problem down into steps. The first step was following up on those clues from Claridelune. The second step was finding Thorn. The last step was dealing with herself.

Their relationship here, which has progressed in a way that felt natural and believable, is the most straightforward it has ever been. That made writing about them this time around kind of hard, actually, because it’s all plainly there in the text. For me, I think the notable takeaway is being able to mark just how far these two characters have come in their individual and mutual journeys. Now and together, they can tackle the gargantuan, perilous task ahead. It might all end on a bittersweet note. But for this couple…that seems about right, and I can’t wait to read the conclusion.

Thank you so much for reading these long posts and leaving such kind feedback! I’m glad that you, too, enjoy Ophelia, Thorn, and this magical series.

#ophethorn #the mirror visitor #La Passe-Miroir #the memory of babel #la memoire de babel #christelle dabos #long book report #slow burn romance

279 notes · View notes

shinsouskitten · 4 years

Note

Hola mis amiga (I’m a French student what am I doing) I saw that your ass class requests were non existant so I’m here with a request. Can u do karma and Nagisa with a blind s/o who’s a pro assassin at 15 (is that how old they are??) and also v smart and they were sent by the government to 3-e to help with the Assassination? Bonus points if they’re low key a reaper level assassin like they have a good chance of winning if they went against the reaper 1 on 1. It’s chill if u don’t get to this 💖

Yo! I am no language student cause I can’t even english correctly half the time

Also this is what happens when I finally get requests for a character I love… I go a little ott

Warnings: reference to violence and assassination (uhh… yk, it’s called assassination classroom for a reason), Karma

---

Important info:

💬 To have the reader be a pro assassin at 15, my friend (@grapefantaenby the beautiful Sammy whom I love dearly but is also a bitch sometimes) and I decided it might be a good idea for them to be basically the next gen Irina - not as a femme fatale, but just the next gen of pro trained assassins

💬 So for this request I am writing the reader as if they were chosen to be trained (possibly by Irina herself) and sent to e-class after Irina’s original attempt failed. Only Irina and Karasuma knows the reader is an assassin

💬 If you wish to read it from another perspective that’s fine too, but that was the idea I was writing from, so I hope that’s okay

---

Karma Akabane:

🔫😈 When he first meets you Karma barely bats an eye. You’re just another kid stuck in e-class for some reason or another. Midterms are coming up, he has a weird yellow octopus to kill, a new student doesn’t really matter to him

🔫😈 It’s only when you all get your tests results that he first notices you. You didn’t take the tests with them, instead in a lone room with braille substituted for the usual test papers, and a scribe to write down your answers, but it was the results that Karma noticed. You scored as high as him, though perhaps in different areas. None of your scores were below 95%, but you weren’t nearly as showy as he was. If he hadn’t heard Korosensei praising you he wouldn’t have even realized

🔫😈 You didn’t travel on the school trip with them, which kind of disappointed Karma (not that he’d admit it). He wanted to find out more about you, but even so, he wasn’t too bothered. He’s Karma after all

🔫😈 As mean as it sounds, he highly doubts your ability to be an assassin - at least, when he first meets you. Sight is one of the most important senses, and if you’re trying to kill an inhuman yellow… thing, you’re going to need everything you have

🔫😈 The first occasion is in science class, where you trip seemingly on nothing while making your way to your desk. Karma moves to catch you, surprising himself for a moment, but Korosensei is there first. The second he offers a tentacle to help you up, it explodes. Your hand had been covered in antisensei pellets you’d powdered so that they were invisible if someone wasn’t paying enough attention. In his surprise he doesn’t move fast enough as you fling your other arm out, catching the edge of another tentacle and slicing through it halfway. You’re unable to make another attack, as this time Korosensei moves too far away, but for a moment the whole class is silent

🔫😈 You’d gotten further than anyone, destroyed 1 (and a half) tentacles and no one had even suspected it was an attempt. Korosensei is surprised, while Irina watches her protege from the sidelines, secretly incredibly proud of your attempt

🔫😈 And Karma… Karma doesn’t know what to think. Your first trick was similar to his original attempt on Korosensei; a hand covered in antisensei material and a seemingly innocent gesture of assistance/goodwill. Did you know he’d attempted something similar? Of course not. You weren’t even there when he arrived, and besides, it’s not like you could’ve seen what he did (okay is this mean I have rlly bad social cues)

🔫😈 He doesn’t know what to think. Had he really doubted you that much?

🔫😈 With AIFA’s introduction some of the attention is steered away from you, which Karma takes as an opportunity to steal you away for a moment. It’s during gym class, he slips away easily, leading you by the elbow until you’re out of sight of the others (sneaky boi)

🔫😈 He asks question after question, at one point even joking that the two of you together would be an unstoppable force. Of course, he doesn’t mean dating, but it slowly starts to become less and less of a joke the more time you spend together. Plotting assassination slowly turns into study dates, then just regular dates

🔫😈 It’s only when some jerkwads from another class try picking on you that you and Karma are forced to decide; is it something more? I say that, because when he sees this amateur bullying attempt, he quickly slides up next to you, curling an arm around your waist and warning the kids to stay away from his s/o. It leads to one of the worst questions a person can hear… “what are we?”

🔫😈 It all works out happily though, and when he finds out about your profession he’s only intrigued (I was gonna say he’d kill to be a pro assassin then I realized the irony of my sentence)

🔫😈 He was right, the two of you do make a great team, and although you’re unable to kill Korosensei, you’re grateful for him allowing you to meet the one and only Karma Akabane

---

Nagisa Shiota:

🐍🔪 Nagisa notices you almost instantly, a complete reversal of Karma’s first reaction. He’s attentive, and so he realises there’s something different about you (not the blind things tho, I mean the assassin thing), even if he can’t quite put his finger on it

🐍🔪 He’s amazed when you score as high as Karma in the midterms, but doesn’t bring it up to you immediately. He doesn’t want you to feel singled out, so instead he waits until the day is over. It’s the first time he gets to talk to you, and even though the conversation flows smoothly, there’s still something in the back of his mind that he can’t quite place

🐍🔪 Much like Karma he’s disappointed that you don’t join them for the school trip, but he can’t really blame you. You’ve only just joined e-class, you likely don’t feel comfortable trusting them to lead you around an unfamiliar city

🐍🔪 When he returns, Nagisa can tell you’re planning something, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it is. Eventually your plan reveals itself to him. You’d changed your walking stick, something no one else had really noticed. It was the same colour, in fact it was almost exactly the same, save for the slight sheen of plastic

🐍🔪 It happens the next day, just before the bell rings when you’re sitting on the steps to your class building. You frown as your hands trace across the floor, unable to reach the stick a few feet from you. Korosensei sees, and ever the helpful teacher, speeds over to hand it to you, not realising until it’s too late the new material covering the surface. And just like that two tentacles are destroyed. You attempt to finish the job with a knife, jumping towards where you heard Korosensei’s surprised gasp, but he dodges quickly

🐍🔪 You smile, murmerming out loud that it was a good plan. Korosensei agrees, after the initial shock wears off, but notes that you should’ve made your final attack just slightly quicker. If he hadn’t recovered so fast, you likely would've had him

🐍🔪 Against his better judgement, Nagisa decides to ask you where you learnt to do that. You brush him off easily at first, but it quickly becomes clear he doesn’t believe you, so eventually you give in and tell him the truth

🐍🔪 He’s surprised, but also, he’s not. Okay that sounds confusing. He could tell something was different about you, the way you act seemed too mature for a 15 year old at the bottom of the school. But at the same time he almost expected it. I mean, you had no disciplinaries and your grades were superb. Why else would you be in e-class? Karasuma, Irina, you, AIFA, all of you were there for another reason. It wasn’t to teach, or to learn, it was to kill

🐍🔪 There’s a lot of things that draw Nagisa to you, and it’s only a matter of time before he realises he’s big fat crushing on you. Karma noticed Nagia’s crush before the boy did himself, and you can imagine the teasing that took place

🐍🔪 I was gonna say you couldn’t see him to think he’s a girl which gave you bonus points but I feel like it might be in bad taste

🐍🔪 He studies you almost obsessively, attempting to learn some of your professional tricks as a way to boost e-class’s assassination attempts. It’s not creepy, he’s just genuinely amazed by your abilities, and well… you

🐍🔪 No matter what you do Nagisa is always in awe of it (simp), and your relationship (hard as it is to get Nagisa to finally admit to you) is a good one

#assassination classroom #assclass #karma akabane #karma akabane x reader #karma akabane headcanons #nagisa shiota #nagisa shiota x reader #nagisa shiota headcanons #assassination classroom x reader #assclass x reader #assassination classroom headcanons #assclass headcanons

326 notes · View notes

im-the-punk-who · 4 years

Note

Can I ask your opinion on Woodes Rogers?

Oh boy. Oh boy, howdy. I mean you can.

So, uhhhh the first time I was really thinking about Woodes Rogers as a character besides just being a little bitch boy was after I read Sage Street’s meta where he talks about the ways in which Rogers mirrors James in the early seasons/pre-series. And that’s pretty much how I see him.

(On a side note, while I don’t agree with everything he has to say, I highly highly recommend Sage’s meta because it brings up some really interesting parallels and scenic cues, and particularly the meta on the S3 finale just....makes me scream a lot. Some of the painting stuff can get a bit reachy because as someone who works in theatre and has friends in film, some of the parallels is likely more ‘the set designers thought this would be cool’ than a directorial choice but like, it’s still awesome to see.)

But back to Rogers. So, personally, I think he’s a little bitch boy, but that has more to do with the fact that the show sets him up as the upholder of civilization and oppression, in direct opposition to Flint - who seeks freedom and an end to persecution based on society’s morals and whom I personally vibe much more with. Character wise I actually think Rogers is pretty interesting in that, like all the Black Sails villains, he is a complex character. He is sometimes humorous, sometimes charming, and sometimes straight up unwilling to listen to anyone’s voice but his own - hello, Eleanor! (And, yeah, I’m aware that’s how a lot of people describe Flint. It’s purposeful.) While I don’t like him, I appreciate that about him.

He has a backstory that makes it clear what his motivations are and how he reacts when faced with adversity - he hates chaos and wants order and is willing to compromise his own civility if he thinks it will bring an end to those things. In my personal opinion the reason he wants so badly to bring Nassau back in line could be that he thinks it will help him get over the loss of his brother - who died in a random act of chaos and cowardly violence. (And whose name was Thomas....) Like Flint, he is fighting in the memory of someone he idolized.

The show underlines the similarity between them when Rogers says “All I have done here is finish what you began. I am now what you were then. And without you there would be no me.”

Here, he is setting himself up as the continuation of James McGraw. Which is super hella rad, since we know that Flint views himself as at least partially a wholly separate persona from James McGraw. And that we’re led to believe that ‘James’ died or was buried when Thomas was taken. While I don’t think Rogers knows the full story I think it’s likely he has a pretty good picture. I’ll direct you to this post where I bring up the fact it’s likely he and Peter were working together on the pardons(and also because I assume Eleanor told him about James being McGraw as she found out during the Charlestown plotline).

Also:

“Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.”

“If you insist on making me your villain, I will play the part.”

Rogers!! Stop!! Get your own lines!!

I know a lot of people like to compare him to Thomas, and while I think we were meant to see the parallels(hi, they’re both put in green!), I disagree he is meant to mirror what Thomas would have been. In fact, if anything, he is Thomas’ foil, even as he mirrors James.

Flint even points out this difference:

“No one is being hanged. No one’s even being tried. Just as you wanted. Just as Thomas Hamilton wanted. So what is it that you’re fighting for that I’m not already offering?”

“Thomas Hamilton fought to introduce the pardons to make a point. To seek to change England.”

Aside from the classic “I want my Thomas back you sonofabitch.” vibe of Flint’s full answer, this is the difference between Rogers and Thomas. While it would ultimately have the same effect as Rogers’ actions - to bring Nassau back to heel - I think it’s important to recognize the intentionality of both characters as it illustrates not just who Rogers is, but also Thomas.

The reason Thomas wanted to offer the pardons was to make a point that pirates are still men deserving of forgiveness. To “offer forgiveness to any man who would seek it.” He is not coming from a point of control, but of freedom. To offer to these men a way forward.

Rogers is offering the pardons as a way to bring Nassau and the pirates back into civilization but we never actually hear him offer a suggestion of what they’re to do afterwards. And indeed, with how he runs Nassau when he has it, it seems he’s much more concerned with keeping control than in offering any meaningful change to the people he governs.

Rogers is, in essence, exactly what James was talking about all those years ago when he said “Put a man on an island, give him power over other men and it won’t be long before he realizes the limits of that power is nowhere to be seen. And no man given that kind of influence will remain honest for very long.”

This is underlined in so many ways, from his scene with Berringer about ‘dark men’ to where he wants to accept the pearls he knows are from the Spanish gold, to when he straight up threatens Madi with the death of someone close to her in order to try and force her into surrender.

So, I think he’s a really cool character in that he underlines things about so many of the other characters.

However, Rogers is also a little bitch boy and I hate him because he’s is both a little confused and does not have the spirit. :)

He is everything Thomas and James were fighting against instilling in Nassau - the very thing Thomas realized isn’t the way a good leader should act. Rogers falls very much under that Hobbesian view of The Social Contract - that a monarch or person in power has absolute sovereignty without needing to give value to individuals needs or wants(literally every interaction he has with Max, hi!), whereas Thomas falls much more in line with John Locke, who says that in supporting the needs of the individual, we support the state by default.

(And I can and will go on another whole tangent about this view of Locke vs Hobbes and how it’s a theme throughout the whole show, I can, I will, please don’t let me.)

Rogers is a fantastic villain for S3 and S4 because he illustrates all the ways that civilization puts down revolution and keeps people in line - right up to how his actions ultimately cause Silver to betray the cause and sell out his own friends for a personal safety that is only marginally implied - and still leaves those on the outskirts oppressed!

Wow! Black Sails! Stop!!

And even though he as a character was eventually defeated, Rogers’ motives and ideas were actually instilled by the very rebel leaders who fought against him! It’s his treaty Rackham and Silver get the maroons to sign! It’s his version of civilization that is imposed on Nassau and the Maroon island even as he himself is ‘defeated’.

And isn’t that a kicker?

That Rackham in particular thinks he’s victorious because they’ve defeated the bad guy, but then he goes ahead and uses his plans, proving that it wasn’t the revolution or freedom or Charles’ idea of living free he was supporting at all but his own personal narrative of victory! What a sellout! What a direct parallel to how even progressive-seeming leaders will almost always sell out the ideals of their constituents for their own benefit! Boy, howdy!!

And I know fandom likes to throw him under the bus as all that is wrong with civilization - call him a little bitch boy and cheer his defeat. I know that he and Alfred Hamilton(and Peter, to an extent) get to be the villains in the narrative so our ‘heroes’ Silver and Rackham and even Flint can be put in opposition to them but like - that’s not the point. That’s not the point, that’s not the point, that’s not the point!

The point is that these men were tools of the empire - tools that were incredibly effective! They succeeded! Rogers succeeded in bringing civilization to Nassau. And in doing so he forced the pirates to choose between their own loyalties - he divided the camps until victory seemed hopeless and that is exactly how history generally works in terms of continued oppression.

Hell, that’s exactly how current political events are happening right now. It’s a tried and true method of oppressive governments to pin things on one particular person (Woodes, or, y’know, Trump?) and say ‘if you defeat this person, your revolution has been successful’ while silently just going ahead with the plans of those people’s ideals anyway. It’s not the people who are the villains. It’s the ideals they perpetuate.

All this is to say that I don’t feel particular malice towards Rogers other than that I feel towards all the characters who ultimately uphold oppression because I think Rogers is another great commentary by Black Sails on how we get so distracted fighting for what feels good that we can ultimately end up becoming exactly what we thought we were fighting against.

(”A man casts his vote for the same reason he does anything in this life. Because it feels good.”)

And finally, he’s definitely a little bitch boy for how he treats my girls Eleanor and Madi (and Max) and I would absolutely cross the street to punch him for that alone. :)

#someone: asks a question they think might get a two or three paragraph answer #milo: writes an entire fucking essay oh my god please shut up #black sails #woodes rogers #black sails discourse #long post #honestly god this is so long i have so many more thoughts too like #could write literal essays on how black sails illustrates #EXACTLY how revolutions fail #and why power is so easily shifted towards oppressors #how all the characters(YES EVEN JAMES) demonstrate this #GODODDDDDDDDDDD STOP #many thoughts head full #and this isnt even BRINGING UP his interpersonal misogyny and bullshit with eleanor lmaooo #Anonymous

97 notes · View notes

min-youngis · 4 years

Text

Electric Hearts

gif not mine (but i have it saved on my phone and i watch it everyday over breakfast)

~ Pairing : Nakamoto Yuta x Reader (Rival Bands AU, Bassist x Vocalist)

~ Genre : Fluff, Humour, Kinda Maybe Not Really Angst

~ Summary : In the span of four years, you go from acquainting with Yuta to hating Yuta and then finally dating Yuta, all against the backdrop of a summer band competition.

Strangers to Enemies to Lovers

~ Word Count : many (14,327)

~ Warnings : alcohol consumption, mentions of drug use, swearing, very slow burn, me waxing lyrical for too many paras about how much i love and miss being on stage

~ A/N : it is HERE and it is GLORIOUS and it makes me want to PERFORM give me a MIC PLEASE anyway yeah yuta hot g-idle hot everybody is hot basically. stream electric hearts by wayv.

i’d love to hear feedback! spread the love!

masterlist in my description.

~~~

Year 1, Eleventh Grade

The flyer lands square on your nose, momentarily blinding you before you primly pluck it off, turning it around so you can read the contents while flipping off Kun, who leans on the grill next to the school wall that’s identically holding you up.

‘Annual Summer Bash - Battle of the Bands 2018’ the brochure reads in bold, red font, followed by registration and contact details. Not that you require them.

“Why do we need this?” you ask, confused. “We've been going and winning every year since middle school, I’m pretty sure I have the organiser's number memorised.”

The drummer fixes you with a dark look. “We might not win this time,” he says, cryptically.

Disbelieving, you scoff, “Oh, come off it. Who’s gonna beat us, Verve?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Sure, and Ten's gonna get a sport’s scholarship,” you reply, sarcasm dripping from your voice, very obviously referring to your keyboardist and his inability to kick a ball.

Kun sniffs in disapproval. “I wouldn’t be so confident, if I were you. They’ve got a new bassist, some kid who’s just moved here.”

“It’s going to take a fat lot more than a new bassist to fix that mess.”

You get a glare in response and roll your eyes, conceding, “Okay, fine. They aren’t that bad. But still, we don’t know how good the new person even is. What happened to Johnny anyway? Too cool for us little people, now that he’s gone to college?”

“Johnny’s judging this year.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. Kun's displeasure is evident in his pursed lips and stern eyes.

Dramatically, unnecessarily so, he continues, accurately taking your silence for incredulity. “We've got all the odds stacked against us. If we want to win, we need to practice harder than ever before.”

“What do you mean, if we want to win. Of course we want to win,” you reply in a disgusted tone, looking him up and down in judgement.

It’s his turn to roll his eyes now. “Yes, yes, we want to win. But we still need to practice more if Johnny’s judging. Verve's been coming in second only by a couple of points for the last two years, they’re getting better,” he insistently says.

Pushing yourself off of the wall, you straighten up on noticing a black car moving on the road, slowing down as it nears the school entrance next to which the two of you are poised. You pick your bag off the floor and sling it over your shoulder.

“We'll be fine, we have four months left. We’ve done incredible on less,” you say, slowly backing away from Kun, as you speak in a reassuring voice.

Blatantly disregarding what you just said, he digs his phone out of his pocket while muttering distractedly, “We should have a band meeting today. I’ll tell the others.”

Cheerily, you shrug at him. “Can’t,” you declare, as the car pulls up next to curb right in front of you.

Eyebrows scrunched, he looks up, as he asks, “Why not?”

“Got a hot date.”

The window of the driver’s seat rolls down and your girlfriend sticks her head out.

“All right, Kun?” Soyeon asks with a genial smile, as you give him a wave and a slightly apologetic ‘Meet tomorrow!’ strolling over to the other side of the car.

“Can’t complain,” he replies to her greeting with a shrug, while simultaneously throwing you a dirty look. “College going fine?”

You open the passenger seat door and enter, shifting your backpack to your lap, as she says with a grin, “Ah, spring break. Can’t complain.”

And with one last ‘Tomorrow, I promise!’ at a disgruntled Kun, you and Soyeon drive off.

You aren’t as worried as he is. The competition has always gone your band's way. You’re damned if you're going to let some new bassist come out of nowhere and change that.

________________________

Three weeks later, you and Ten are setting up in his garage where the band always practice, now knowing the routine like the back of your hand.

After forming in middle school as a group of kids who just wanted to make some music together and shockingly winning the annual city-wide band competition, the group has stayed tight-knit, despite Lisa and Hendery (electric and bass respectively) moving to a different high school. You perform at charity events during the academic year and win the Summer Bash every summer without fail. You work like a well-oiled machine, easily picking up cues on stage and figuring out last minute set lists, and even with how everybody roams in different social circles now, the group chat never stays silent for long.

Meeting up for an arbitrary practice session every month is a given, but the time you guys spend preparing for the competition every year is easily your favourite.

Hendery announces his presence in the make-shift jam room with a loud ‘What’s up, fuckers,’ before the usual hugs all around (“Hendery, you stink,” courtesy Ten, followed by a genuinely touched, “Thanks, dude!” from the man himself, who has a look of abject glee on his face at the comment).

He settles next to the keyboard, plugging in the amp and tuning his bass, as you and Ten arrange the drum kit.

“Where’s Kun?” Hendery asks, lazily fiddling with his G string.

“Talking to the organisers. He’s been obsessed with trying to find out more about Verve’s new bassist. Calls him, and I quote, the one thing that could stand between us and eternal glory.”

Hendery gives Ten an offended look. “What’s he going and asking the organisers for? He can just ask us, can’t he? Yuta's joined Bayshore High after all.”

“Yuta?” you ask quizzically.

At the same time, Kun emerges at the garage entrance, mouth agape. “He what?”

Hendery's face immediately splits into his signature grin at the drummer's appearance, getting up and placing his guitar on the side so he can give him a hug.

“Never mind that,” Kun snaps, quite hurtfully in your opinion. Hendery’s being nothing but nice. And also high, if his slightly dopey eyes are anything to go by.

“Why didn’t you tell me he’s in Bayshore?” he demands from an admirably quickly recovered Hendery, who’s now wrapped his arms around Kun's waist, despite the latter's greatest protests.

Stoned Hendery is physical Hendery.

At that moment, Lisa totters into the garage from the door at the back that leads into the house, guitar bag strapped to her back, lugging her amp in with both hands, cheerily calling out, “Why are we talking about Bayshore, what happened?”

You rush over, helping her carry the amp to the other end of the garage as you return her grateful smile with an amused one of your own.

“Kun wants to know about Yuta,” Hendery says, voice slightly muffled by the drummer's old-man jumper, ass cocked out at an angle so his head is at chest level.

Kun gives an exasperated groan, prying your bassist off while whining, “Why are you guys talking like he’s your best friend or something?”

“He sits next to us during lunch!” Lisa explains cheerily, as she connects her guitar to the amp.

“He’s got the best goods, dude,” Hendery enthusiastically says.

Kun rolls his eyes. He looks like he’s aged twenty years in the last ten minutes. You make eye contact with Ten and have to look away so the two of you don’t burst into giggles.

“I really don’t care about where he sits or the quality of his weed, I just want to know if he can play,” he says, making his way to the drum kit at the back.

Both Lisa and Hendery look at each other contemplatively.

“We haven’t heard him play,” she thinks out loud. “Yeah, can’t say I’ve even seen him around with a guitar,” he nods in agreement.

Kun takes his seat, now looking a little calmer after getting in position. “Well, try finding out,” he says, tugging his sticks out of the backpack near his stool.

You walk towards the mic stand in the centre, Lisa on one side and Hendery on the other, Ten on the far right corner and Kun directly behind the lot of you.

After a bit of shuffling around, everybody gets ready, and as Kun counts down and the bass line begins, you let yourself slip. Yuka, or whatever his name is, won’t know what hits him.

________________________

The heat doesn’t let up, even after sun down, humidity lingering thick in the air, but it’s the last thing on your mind. You let your sneakers repeatedly scuff against the skirting in the large waiting room, as the rest of your band moves around you, pacing and tuning and flipping drum sticks. There are multiple groups littered around the hall like yours, everybody in various degrees of nervousness, heavy in anticipation. A couple of other regulars come over, wishing you luck and getting the same in return, but a usually polite Kun seems weirdy distracted, as he stands on his tip toes and appears to be looking for somebody.

His eyebrows scrunch up in apparent dissatisfaction, and he comes back down mumbling, “They still have only three people, where's Yuta?”

Despite their greatest efforts, Lisa and Hendery weren’t able to get any concrete information on Verve's new bassist, and it’s been driving Kun insane. You know that once he gets behind his drum kit on stage in front of the crowd, he’ll be unstoppable and completely in the zone, but until then, the lot of you put up with his grumbling and head shaking, knowing that if he doesn’t have something to obsess over, he'll most likely spontaneously combust.

You fiddle with the rings on your fingers, body already in overdrive, the taste of the stage so very close, and as you catch a glimpse of the PAR lights switching on amidst deafening cheers from the growing audience, your heart swoops up, threatening to burst if you don’t get in front of the mic soon.

Conversation slows to a hush as three people enter the room, looking very important with their name tags, and everybody’s head swivels to land on them.

You can tell that Johnny enjoys all the attention, as he gives a charming grin before saying “Hey, guys! Just thought we'd wish you luck before you went on stage. Keep it fair and remember to have fun! It isn’t a competition, it’s a concert.” He ends to the sounds of appreciative chuckles from some of the newbies, but majority of the seniors, including your band, look at him with deeply mistrusting gazes. Ten leans towards you and bitterly mutters, “Smarmy git. Like he didn’t try tripping Hendery last year before we went on stage.”

Johnny appears to be unfazed, directing a quick wink at his old, grinning (still three member) band, as the other judges, a high school music teacher and an ex drummer of a one-hit wonder group, give their own ‘Best of luck!’s.

Before you know it, you can hear the MC on stage welcoming everybody, and that spring in your stomach compresses more and more, almost painfully so, just waiting to be out there, under the lights, in front of the audience, surrounded by your band with the mic in your hand.

Rosewater (stylised as Rosewater! by your resident future arts major, Ten) is the second last group in the line-up, right before Verve closes out the show, and you have no doubt that you lost that last spot all because of Johnny. The infamous Yuta hasn’t made an appearance yet and distantly, you wonder how the rest of his band is holding up so well, looking as if the man's just going to appear out of thin air, with barely five minutes left for the competition to begin.

The bands that go on before you don’t pose much of a threat. Some of them are new, most you’ve competed against before, but either way, you aren’t worried. When you walk up the steps to the stage to sounds of thunderous applause after the MC announces, “Now it’s time for our four time champion, Rosewater!” you can feel your blood pounding in your ears, the coil in your abdomen now wound excruciatingly tight.

And finally, as Kun's counting down, the keyboard starts, there’s a mic in front of you and hundreds of wide, excited eyes staring at the stage, you feel that coil abruptly unwind rapidly until it completely disappears. You wrap your fingers around the stand, shooting a confident wink at a grinning Soyeon in the first row, and as you open your mouth to sing, you know you’re home.

In what feels like the blink of an eye, you’re all off stage, adrenaline coursing through you and sweat making your clothes stick to your frame. The applause and cheering continues till you’re backstage, bottle of water in hand, and the grin you’re already sporting grows even wider, satisfied and elated with another good performance. You’ve got it in the bag, you’re sure, and if Kun's bouncing and smug smile is any indication, he agrees, all concerns about Verve out of the window.

After returning all your in-ear mics in the waiting room, the lot of you move backstage, crowding in the wings as you watch the last band set up. You can’t see the bassist from this angle, but when Jaehyun (vocals and keyboard) announces him as their newest member before starting, the crowd screams and you’re sure you hear an only half-joking voice from the audience shout, “Marry me, Yuta!”

You roll your eyes in exasperation, meeting Lisa’s amused gaze. ‘Pretty boy,’ she mouths at you with a blinding grin, still high off of the performance.

Kun seems to share your sentiment, his expression half gleeful and half relieved at your combined assumption that this Yuta is nothing more than a prop. They needed a bassist so the got the best-looking one they could find.

But the moment the music starts, your jaw drops. They’ve opted for a very Arctic Monkeys-esque, bass prominent beginning, and the skill with which the strings are being plucked makes you want to drown in the beautifully deep sound.

Not just a pretty boy apparently.

You want to be annoyed, you really do, but it’s difficult not to resist the pull of the music. It’s like they’re a completely different band, with Taeyong drumming harder than you ever remember him doing and Lucas shredding on the guitar.

You’ve long held the belief that your instrumentalists are the best in the competition, all these years giving you no reason to suspect the contrary, but this? This whole new band can give them a run for their money, you grudgingly admit, head helplessly bobbing to the beat.

Kun's face runs through shock, displeasure and reluctant admiration just in the span of the four bar intro. Around you, Ten, Lisa and Hendery seem to be having the time of their lives, apparently having given up on feeling attacked by the universe for this unexpected turn of events. The drummer shoots you a betrayed look, but all you can do is give him a soothing pat on his shoulder as your body begins to move as well.

For a split second in the middle of the show, you catch a glimpse of the elusive Yuta for the first time, face gleaming with sweat, dazzling grin on his face as he looks down at his guitar, plucking the strings effortlessly almost, body swaying and head bobbing.

You feel a grudging respect for him, as you observe him look up at the crowd, stage persona oozing charisma as he shoots a wink at some poor soul in the audience, cheers instantly growing that much louder.

As their performance progresses, the cockiness you felt at the end of your own slowly begins to morph into subtle worry as you consider the unthinkable occurring.

Losing.

And twenty minutes later, when all the bands are huddled on stage, waiting for the winners to be announced, you’re forced to seriously think about it happening. Kun nearly crushes your hand in a death grip, as Hendery worriedly chews at his long thumb nail on your other side.

The MC announces last to first, until there are just you and Verve left, vying for the top position. You’re certain you’ll never be able to feel your fingers again, but the pain seems oddly distant, all of your attention focused on the man standing in front of the two bands, everybody on stage facing the crowd.

As he’s waiting for the applause for third place to die down, you chance a glance at the other band standing next to you. Yuta looks infuriatingly calm, smug even, and your fledgling dislike intensifies.

“And now it’s time for first place-"

Please, please, I’ll go to the temple everyday for a week, I promise.

“In a surprise turn of events-"

I’m sorry for not believing in you earlier and for writing my English essay on atheism. I’ll make it up to you, please.

“For the first time in four years-"

Fuck off.

The cheers are deafening, and you’d almost forgotten how awful it felt to lose. It comes rushing at you, this out of body feeling, as the crowd doesn’t even wait for the band name to be announced. The rolling trophy that has ‘Rosewater!’ written on it four consecutive times, now with a new, shiny addition at the bottom, reading ‘Verve', is handed to the winners. You try not to let the dejection show, politely clapping and bowing, just like the rest of your band as the MC announces, “Congratulations to Rosewater on placing second!”

You walk off stage with a bitter taste in your mouth as you see Johnny hooting loudly and the band taking turns holding the trophy. As much as you want to believe that they won simply because an ex-member was judging, deep down, you know that they were much, much better than they used to be.

________________________

Every year, after the competition comes the real Summer Bash-a party organised for all participants and judges at a nearby party hall. It’s always super crowded, given that no less than twelve bands at the very least sign up every time, with three or four judges and multiple organisers scattered across the room.

You’ve always enjoyed the party, loving the attention as Rosewater totes the trophy around, greedily accepting congratulations and trying not to gloat at the other bands. Partway through the night, the person in charge of making sure no minors go to the bar always mysteriously disappears, so everybody has free rein with the alcohol, and it’s where you met Soyeon last year, after her band finished third before disbanding.

But the party feels like nothing short of hell right now, as you stand slouched against the wall in the corner with Kun, Lisa and Ten. Hendery entered the crowd a while back, leaving you to stare in astonishment and betrayal at the gap between writhing bodies that he had disappeared through. However, you know that in a room full of high school and college kids, most of them his regulars, he'll make one hell of a killing with his...products, and who are you to begrudge a good business plan?

The four of you plaster on fake smiles whenever somebody comes over to talk, but most of the time is spent glaring daggers at Verve preening in the centre of the dancefloor, trophy being tossed high in the air as they lap up the attention. They’ve always been decently popular in the party scene, on accunt of the fact that they all look like they’ve been carved from marble, but with Yuta, it’s like their popularity's skyrocketed. You don’t remember ever having those many people around you whenever Rosewater won.

Entering your line of vision, Soyeon comes fighting through a gap, holding two drinks high up in the air. She hands one over to you, coming to stand right in front of your frame. You take a sip of the Cranberry juice vodka mix and give her a grateful smile, before getting up on your toes so you can continue glaring at Yuta over her shoulder, as he begins a handstand to the sound of loud cheers from the surrounding crowd.

Your girlfriend huffs in amusement. “They can’t see you, there’s really no point.”

Mouth set in a grim line and arms crossed, Kun replies, “It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Ten, go dance so they stop getting attention.”

But Ten's too far sunken in despair to listen to Lisa, settling for a sad, soft hum before he pushes himself off the wall. “This party stinks. I’m going home.”

Kun’s pleas to get him to stay because ‘they haven’t felt all of our wrath yet' falls on deaf ears, as Ten just gives a tiny, subdued wave before walking towards the exit.

With a decisive nod, Soyeon says, “I agree with Ten. You guys are ruining it for yourselves. Stop moping and have some fun, will you? You can win next year.”

She doesn’t get anything in response except some grunts, and with a roll of her eyes, she grabs one of your hands in hers before tugging you off the wall. “C'mon, Y/N. I go back to college in a week, I wanna hang out.”

Powerless to resist, you throw an apologetic look at Kun and Lisa, before allowing Soyeon to drag you away in the same direction that Ten had left, along the wall of the room towards the door on the opposite end of the hall.

Her grip is tight around your hand, as you two skirt along the edge of the crowd, making sure your drinks don’t spill. You look up from the floor your eyes have been glued to for a second, just to see how much farther before you can get some fresh air without worrying about stepping on somebody’s foot, and you catch the eye of none other than Yuta. Like he was waiting for this, as if in slow motion, gaze locked intently and unwaveringly on yours, he brings the trophy up to his face and presses his lips to the plaque.

White, hot rage pulses through you and for a second, you seriously consider letting go of Soyeon's hand, storming over to him, and smacking the cocky smirk right off of his damn face. But you see your girlfriend mouth, “Not worth it,” and you allow yourself to be dragged away, silently fuming.

That night before you fall asleep, you vow that next year, Yuta will regret waltzing into your competition and acting like he’s all that.

________________________

Year 2, Twelfth Grade

Sticking your hand out, you tug at Ten’s arm the moment he rounds the corner you’ve been waiting at for the last ten minutes or so. With a surprised yelp, he ends up next to you, as you immediately let go of him and adjust your scarf that had gotten displaced. The frigid January air makes you rub your gloved palms together as Ten gives you an affronted look, massaging the inside of his elbow where you had pulled.

“What was that for?” he asks, in a wounded manner.

Wordlessly, with a follow me motion, you turn around, bag swinging behind you as you begin a rapid, determined march, face set, weaving in between the stream of students about to leave at the end of a long school day.

Next to you, you can practically feel Ten's eyes roll as he easily keeps up with you, strolling next to your deliberate, serious walk.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

Again, you don’t give him a response, speeding up as you near your destination. He huffs in annoyance.

Drawing up to a closed classroom, you shoo Ten until you’re both crowded against the door, ears pressed to the wood.

He looks at you quizzically, eyebrows scrunched. “Why are you acting weird?”

You shush him as you closely pay attention to what’s going on inside the room, ignoring the weird looks that are being thrown at the two of you from students around.

Muffled, through the door, you can make out the teacher explaining homework, and you manage to jump out of the way just in time, dragging a thoroughly confused Ten along with you, right before the door is pulled in, and the teacher walks out.

“Y/N, this is getting really annoying,” he whines, exasperated, as you grab his elbow and walk into the classroom full of students who are packing up, moving in until you’re directly in front of Kun's bench. His head snaps up to you, his conversation with Sicheng next to him coming to a dead halt as he processes your resolute expression and Ten's half-irritated, half-bemused one.

Once you make sure that you’ve got his attention, you swiftly turn around and stride towards the door. Proving that he’s your favourite member, he simply sighs a little in defeat, before you hear him bid Sicheng goodbye and clap Ten on the shoulder in solidarity.

You hear both their footsteps behind you as you lead them out to the car park. Their loud whispering isn’t exactly subtle.

“Is she fine?”

“I'm not sure, she pretty much just kidnapped me from the corridor a while back.”

“Yikes. Finally hit breaking point, do you think?”

“Fairly certain, yeah. Or maybe this is another one of her weird post-breakup rituals.”

“Oh no, I don’t think I could handle another evening of sitting curb side and screaming at all the black cars we see.”

“Can we just tell her that Soyeon got a new car? Maybe then she’ll let up.”

“Ahem,” you interrupt them, spinning around on your heel once you’ve reached Kun's shiny, grey sedan.

They immediately shut up, waiting for you to explain with expectant looks, not even having the decency to look properly ashamed.

After fixing them with a dark glare, you continue. “We need to go to Bayshore,” you say without preamble.

Kun looks at you like you’ve grown another head. Ten just looks bored.

“Why?” the latter asks.

“And why in my car?” Kun adds.

With a deep sigh, you firmly explicate. “We need to practice. And your car is the only one that can fit all of us.”

“Practice for what?”

“What do you mean all?”

The two of them look at you suspiciously.

“For the Summer Bash, obviously. And I mean the three of us and Lisa and Hendery.

To your great annoyance, the reply you get is Ten lifting his hand to rest the back of it on your forehead. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Kun looks at you, equally worried. “The last time Hendery sat in my car, it took a week for the smell of weed to disappear.”

Now thoroughly irritated, you impatiently swat Ten's hovering hand away from your face. “Look, I know it’s a little sooner than we usually start-"

“Y/N, it’s January. I doubt the organisers have even starting planning it.”

With a glare towards Ten at the interruption, you continue, “-but we have to win.”

It’s like Kun's spirit from last year has taken over you. You’ve spent the last month carefully planning multiple possible set list options, highlighting each member’s strengths and figuring out songs that will capitalise on the same. You’ve got a road map ready and a practice schedule drawn up.

Kun and Ten have rather resigned looks on their faces. Which is fine by you, really. As long as they’ve stopped outright protesting.

You move to the passenger seat and look at Kun with a pointed expression, waiting for him to unlock the car.

“We aren’t getting out of this, are we?”

“Nope,” you cheerily reply, popping the p.

With a long suffering sigh, he moves to the driver’s seat as Ten groans in reluctant acceptance, walking towards the back.

An hour later sees the three of you along with Lisa and Hendery sitting at a corner table in a small, aesthetic coffee shop near Bayshore High, one of those places that has low rise furniture and bean bags and naked, hanging bulbs with edgy posters on the open brick wall.

The other two didn’t put up too much of a fight, being relatively less high-strung. Lisa just gave some weird mixture of an eye roll and a smirk and Hendery outright snorted, but after some strategic glaring on your part, they fell in line quick enough.

There are steaming cups on coffee on the table in front of you, but they lie forgotten in favour of the A3 sized sheet you had stolen from the school art room last month. At the top, you’ve written ‘Summer Bash 2019 - Rosewater! Road Map to Victory'. The rest of the sheet is filled with sub headings and bullet points, all colour coded and properly indented.

Lisa and Ten ooh and aah over the chart, as you smugly take in what you’re sure is your greatest artistic work, but all Kun says is, “Okay, but how come the chemistry notes you lent me look like a four year old wrote them with their non-dominant hand using a leaky ink pen?”

You refuse to deign to reply, pretending to have not heard him as Hendery snorts on your other side.

“This chart is our holy Bible for the next four months,” you say, once everybody’s settled down.

“Aren’t you Hindu?”

Once again, you give no verbal reply to Kun’s nonsense, simply whacking the back of his head and ignoring his whines of protest.

“As I was saying, this is our plan. Clearly, today is meeting one-,“ you indicate the first bullet point, “-and meeting two is this weekend. By the end of this month, we should have a set list.”

Lisa asks in awe, as she pores over the sheet, “How much time did you spend on this?”

Images of you staying up nearly every night with sketch pens spread around you, and working on it under the bench in classes, not to mention in lunch as your friends laughing and chattering rush into your mind. With a self-deprecating wave of your hand, you reply nonchalantly, “Don’t worry about it.”

Ten looks like he’s about to say something when you hear a high, drawling voice from behind you. “Oh, look! It’s Rosewater.”

Somehow, despite the fact that you’ve never actually heard him speak, you know who it is. He sounds exactly like the voice that screams in your head every time you punch your pillow picturing it’s his face.

Lisa and Hendery look happy enough, waving up at him as Yuta rounds the table to stand on the side, but Ten and Kun have identical uncertain expressions on their faces.

And you? All you feel is a flash of annoyance that you immediately tamp down. No need for him to know how riled you are.

In as dignified a manner as you can, you begin to fold the sheet in front of you before Yuta can notice it, but you’re too slow. He crouches down, sarcastic smirk giving way to a genuinely amused grin, as he quickly places his palm flat on the surface of the paper before you can gather it.

His face is inches from yours as he bends over the sheet. “And what’s this? Road map to victory? Surely you aren’t starting practice so soon?”

Kun tries, and fails, to sound threatening as he replies, “So what if we are?”

Yuta’s grin, if possible, only grows wider. You feel yourself frozen on the spot, unable to look away as you watch his head slowly swivel until his eyes meet yours directly.

“It means you feel threatened. Do I threaten you, Y/N? Is that why you’ve made this middle school art project?”

Your throat goes dry at his low voice that’s directed straight at you. With great effort, you let out a scoff that sounds fake even to your ears. Forcing yourself not to look away from him, you bite out with as much venom as you can muster, “You wish, Yuka.”

His smile, much to your chagrin, doesn’t dampen as he lifts his hand off of the sheet and lets you wrench the sheet away.

Infuriatingly blasé, he rises from his squat. Looking down at the table, he says, cocking his head to a side, “Actually, I’m glad you guys are starting so early. It should put us on an equal footing, yeah?”

And with one last condescending wave, he turns around and struts back to whichever shit hole he crawled out of.

You let out a breath you were unaware you were holding and jump in alarm as you hear a growl next to you.

Kun looks murderous, eyes boring holes into the door through which Yuta just disappeared.

“We’re gonna win the fuck out of this bitch.”

________________________

You’d think you’d be used to the pre-performance combination of anxiety and excitement after so many years of being on stage, but it hits you as hard as ever, festering deep in your bones as you aimlessly fidget around the tiny 24×24 tile that you’re stood on in the corner of the waiting room, careful not to step outside the box.

The sound of participants around you is nothing more than background noise to the stark, white emptiness that’s currently occupying all the space in your head. Lisa's plucking at her strings, the sound muted because her guitar isn’t connected to an amp, and Kun's hitting a nervous, complicated beat with his sticks on the wall. Ten and Hendery are engaged in a highly mindless game of chopsticks to pass the time.

It’s like you have this little vacuum of quiet surrounding you. You can feel the anticipation rolling off of your band in waves. You’ve always been well prepared, but this year, you feel confident enough to take on any professional music group in a one-on-one battle.

After that first meeting, everything went according to plan. There were no more run-ins with Yuta (as a band that is, because Lisa still has two classes with him and he’s one of Hendery's favourite crack buddies), and you’re glad that the rest of Verve all go to a different school because if they came anywhere near yours, you’re sure your and Kun’s blood pressures would’ve hit astronomical levels.

The judges this year are all new, people you’ve never met before with no known connections to any of the participating bands, and this information only serves to boost your confidence.

You hear a hiss next to you, and you zone back in to catch Kun whispering, “They’re here.”

Your gaze goes up until it catches first Jaehyun’s nod, then Taeyong's mock salute and moving to Lucas’s tiny wave before finally settling on the devil incarnate. He stands there, guitar strap around his neck, his eyes swimming with obnoxious mirth, lips upturned in a cocky smirk. You determinedly refuse to look away, but a traitorous voice in your head suggests that maybe the reason you aren’t breaking contact is because you can’t.

You might hate his guts, but there’s no denying his attractiveness. And especially right now, with his ripped, black, skinny jeans and his loose, off-white Ramones t-shirt, he looks like the epitome of edgy punk bassist in his partly silver-dyed hair. There are chains hanging from his neck, and his veined forearms lead to long fingers that are lazily resting on the guitar neck.

He makes no gesture, cold smirk telling all. You return it with a sneer of your own. You’ll leave the gloating for once you’ve won in the next two hours or so.

Rosewater is last in the line up this year, right after Verve, and you hear their performance from the waiting room that’s now empty except for your band. With a jolt of glee, you notice that they have pretty much the same vibe as the previous year going.

Lisa scoffs, apparently thinking the same thing that you are. “How very one-trick pony of them.”

Kun warningly replies, “Let’s not get too cocky.” But if the blaze of confidence in his eyes and the determined set of his shoulders is anything to go by, he’s having a hard time not feeling like you’ve got this in the bag too.

And finally, the last four months of ardent practice come to a glorious zenith as you perform the best, most exciting show of your Summer Bash career, deafening cheers emanating from the crowd as the lot of you play like a single unit. The ending chord, the last drum roll, the final head bang, all give way to spectacular applause and hooting, and you lap it all up, head spinning from the adrenaline rush and the high you always get from standing on stage.

You stand there panting, feeling on top of the world as the rest of your band gathers around you for the signature Rosewater ending bow, and as you’re surveying the crowd with a wide smile that feels like it’s been permanently etched onto your face, you catch sight of Verve near the back of the audience.

Your grin only grows wider as you catch Yuta’s sour look, resembling a spoiled child whose demands haven’t been met, and as you come up from your bow, you drop a deliberate, obnoxious wink in his direction, ensuring that he knows it’s directed at him.

Twenty minutes later, you’re all stood on stage again, Verve standing next to you, waiting for the MC to announce first place. It’s a twisted sense of deja vu, when you’re so sure of a different outcome after experiencing the exact same situation in the past. You know you’ve won before they even announce it. So does the crowd. And so does Yuta, if his narrow eyes and disgruntled expression are anything to go by.

He drops a venomous sneer as Ten and Lisa accept the rolling trophy, but nothing can dampen your spirits in this one moment, your gaze stuck in satisfied awe at the Rosewater! on the plaque and that feeling of elation settling deep in your bones, expanding so large that you just might burst from the perfection of it all.

________________________

This is the life, you think, as Kun passes the trophy over to you. You’re not one for crowds usually, but when you’re surrounded by people cheering your band name with said band equally excited next to you, in the middle of the flashing lights and the trashy dance music with a glass of green apple vodka in your hand, you think you don’t mind it every once in a while.

Go one year without winning, and suddenly you’re thirsting for this fan adoration like a singer parched.

You triumphantly thrust the trophy up in the air single handed and soak in the renewed loud shrieks, feeling powerful and satiated.

You’re brought out of your reverie by Lisa ducking her head to come to your ear level as she whispers, “Washroom,” and ten minutes later sees you standing outside the lady’s toilet in the quiet, empty corridor, waiting for Lisa to finish up. It was difficult to extricate yourselves from the insistent crowd, but now that you’re here, back leaning on the wall, directly facing the gender neutral toilet that’s in between the lady’s and gent's ones, the silence is a welcome reprieve.

You can still faintly hear the bass thumping through the wall as you indifferently count the number of tiny cracks on the tile you’re stood on, head bowed, enjoying the empty silence and wondering if you should just call it a night and go home.

Hearing a door open in front of you, you’re about to suggest as much, but you stop short as you lift your head and see not Lisa, but Yuta.

The door to the men’s room swings shut behind him as he stands frozen as well, caught as unawares as you are.

You shut your mouth abruptly as Yuta opens his to say something, but he shuts his mouth too, and now the two of you are left gawking at each other stupidly in the middle of a party hall corridor.

Why it’s so awkward, you don’t know. You’ve just beaten him. Wasn’t that the goal for the last four months?

Distantly, you wonder what’s taking Lisa so long.

Before you can make an excuse to escape into the washroom, you hear him mutter something under his breath. If he weren’t looking straight at you, you’d have thought he was talking to himself.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Congratulations,” comes the sullen reply, and you’re so thrown by it that it takes you moment to reply with an unsure ‘Thanks.’

He doesn’t stop there, though. “You guys were incredible.”

His body language is incredibly uncharacteristic, as he fidgets and his dark brown eyes hold none of the usual coldness. There’s no cocky smirk, no challenging stance. It’s almost like he’s being...genuine.

Huh. Who would’ve thought?

You recover yourself, your gaze drawn to the multiple tiny studs he’s wearing on both his ears that you had never really noticed before. “Thank you,” you stiffly repeat, a little distracted by the new discovery.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. He just giving you a short nod before he turns and walks back towards the party, leaving you to stare at his back, shocked as you catch sight of a hint of black ink peeking out of the sleeve of the t-shirt on his right tricep, clearly visible from this angle.

You have no time to dwell on it as Lisa steps out into the corridor in that moment, drying her palms on her dark blue jeans. “Ready to go back?” she asks, linking your arm with hers as she begins to trace the path that Yuta just took.

Gently disentangling your limb, you slow down to a stop. “Actually, I think I’ll head home,” you say, not meeting her eyes.

She frowns, halting as well. “Okay,” she starts unsurely. “Are you alright? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, yeah, just...it’s been a long day. I think I just need some quiet. I have to finish packing for college anyway.”

Her expression morphs into one of pity and comfort from her previous suspiciously concerned one. Quietly, in a pacifying voice, she says, “It must have been painful to see Soyeon in there, huh? Do you want me to drop you home?”

Glad to have this excuse handed to you on a plate (Truth be told, you never even noticed that your ex had come for the Bash this year, leave alone attended the party. Somehow, nobody seems to believe that you aren’t cut up or brooding about the breakup that happened six months ago, how many ever times you tell them that it just wasn’t working and you both had mutually decided to part ways.), you try to muster as sad a look as possible while replying, “No, no, it’s alright, you go have fun. I’ll book a cab.”

That night, as you lay in bed, sleep eludes you. You’re still elated from the win, body slightly buzzing from the remnants of stage adrenaline and the single glass of alcohol you had consumed. But something else nags at you, something that you’d been avoiding throughout the cab ride and the whole time you changed into your pyjamas. Or rather, somebody.

In the dark, with cool air entering your room from the open crack in the window making your body pleasantly shiver under the blankets, it’s harder to ignore the memory of Yuta's hard, true gaze boring into yours as he congratulates and praises you with no underlying motive. You can’t forget the way his lips curve when they aren’t stuck in that stupid sneer, and your mind seems hell-bent on remembering the images of the silver hoop glinting on his upper ear lobe and the dark, fresh tattoo on his arm. The room suddenly doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

The vicious punches you deliver to your pillow that night in frustration are less with the assumption of the fluffy cotton being Yuta’s face, and more along the lines of your own thoughts, trying to drive them out. Unconvincingly, you chalk it up to tiredness and slight tipsiness, before falling into a restless sleep.

________________________

Year 3, Freshman Year

“Can you hear me?”

“I swear to God, Kun, if you ask us if we can hear you one more fucking time, we'll kick you out and have this meeting ourselves. We’ve been able to hear you and your cereal chewing for the last five minutes, get on with it.”

Kun swallows a mouthful of said cereal with a reproachful look on his face before softly sulking, “I was just checking.”

Before Ten can blow up again, Hendery pacifies soothingly, “Yes, Kun, we can hear you. Go ahead, what’s the plan?”

You tilt your laptop screen up so you can see everybody’s faces better, eagerly waiting for Kun to start as you take a bite of the granola bar in your hand.

“I don’t have a plan.”

Well, that was anticlimactic.

Lisa chuckles before she says, “Okay, funny. I have dance practice in twenty minutes, though, so why don’t you tell us the real plan.”

Kun just shrugs. “I’m serious, I don’t have a plan.”

Ten moves his head closer to the laptop screen so you’re given a lovely close up of his nose. Suspiciously, he asks, “What do you mean, you don’t have a plan?”

“I mean I don’t have a plan. I don’t see how we can possibly practice over a video call. The lag is horrible and Y/N’s frozen half the time.”

Hendery mildly says, “That’s just her resting face.”

Flipping him off, accurate as he is, you swallow your granola before you ask, “Lisa and Ten, you guys are sure you won’t be able to make it home for spring break?”

They both shake their heads.

It’s that time of the year again, mid-February, Summer Bash practice time, but there’s a new challenge to work around. The fact that you’re all miles away from each other in different colleges, and you haven’t been able to have a single jam session in the last seven months because everybody’s schedule never seems to line up. It went without saying that Rosewater would participate this year, but none of you had anticipated how difficult it would be to coordinate practices.

Kun continues. “The only option we have is those two weeks between the beginning of summer vacation and the actual competition. It isn’t much, but it’ll have to do.”

Hendery mumbles something and you think it’s just his mic acting up again, but on prompting, his grainy voice comes a little stronger but still sheepish. “One week.”

You stop mid-chew. Kun and Lisa stare at him with wide eyes, and Ten’s eyebrows are furrowed.

“What was that?” you ask. Your mouth is still full, but your message gets across clear enough.

He gives a little sigh. “I need to stay back in college for an extra week to discuss my internship, I won’t be back home until the 17th.”

Kun sinks back in his chair in disbelief as Lisa lets her forehead fall on the table with a dull thunk.

“We’re so fucked,” Ten whispers.

But a thought occurs to you and urgently, you ask, “But what about Verve? Does anybody know if they’ve been practicing?”

Moodily, Kun replies, “They were all home for Christmas, they must have practiced. And I met Taeyong at the dinner hall a couple of weeks back, he said he’s, and I quote, super excited to get with the guys and jam during spring break.”

All hope extinguished, you glumly fold your empty granola bar wrapper.

“At least with Kun and Taeyong in the same college, we have a little bit of inside information,” Lisa says, but her voice carries none of her usual cheerful optimism.

For a moment, it seems like the remaining ten minutes of the call are going to go in a similar vein, morose grumbling as you all let yourself wallow in self-pity and annoyance about things out of your control, but you’re brought out of your depressed rumination by Ten, who utters in the same tone of voice, “Y/N should just drive down to the UC's and get more information from Yuta. Or break his hand so he can’t play.”

Immediately, your fingers still on the wrapper you were fidgeting with. The others take it as the joke it was meant to be and pay no mind, except for an approving grunt from Kun, but your head goes into overdrive.

You haven’t met Yuta since that night, but you find yourself thinking about him more than you’d like. You’re not obsessed or anything, but your brain occasionally startles you with images of him guitaring whenever you listen to certain songs and you catch yourself thinking about how well he’d play the bassline. Or when you see somebody walking around with a tattoo you’re curious about and realise with a bolt of shock that you want to know what Yuta’s means. Or when you got your upper lobes pierced and you were fiercely, vividly reminded of his.

It’s manageable most of the time. You’re constantly remembering little things about your friends, and he’s just a really great bassist that happened to make an impression on you. But sometimes, it’s harder to make these excuses, like when you’re drunk at a party and making out with the person who sits next to you in calculus and you find yourself vaguely wondering what making out with Yuta would be like. Or when you hear your roommate talking to her boyfriend who goes to the same college as Yuta does, and you desperately, greedily want to know if they’ve met each other, just for some information, some semblance of a personal contact, however convoluted.

But also, you’re great at avoidance and compartmentalisation, so you manage to it just be like that sometimes your way through these more dangerous thoughts.

The call goes on, gloom and acceptance settling heavy in all your bones, until Lisa has to leave for her practice, and your roommate comes back and nags at you to turn off your laptop because the screen is too bright.

When you all left for different colleges, it seemed to go without saying that you’d participate in every Bash that you possibly could. Now, you’re left wondering if that was a conversation that Rosewater should have had.

________________________

In the last seven years of your life, you’re fairly sure that this is the most embarrassed you’ve ever felt. The night breeze ruffles your dyed hair as you lean on the open balcony railing. From somewhere in the building, you can still faintly hear the sounds of the after party raging.

The rest of Rosewater has left and you’re not sure what you’re still doing here. By all means, you should be sleeping in bed, or completing your summer classes, or pretty much doing anything else but this. But an hour after the most disastrous performance of your band’s career, you’re six feet under your thoughts and feelings on an empty balcony, wondering how you hadn't seen this coming.

The beer can that you had snuck out of the party remains three quarters full and abandoned, precariously perched on the railing next to your elbow. It’s an oddly cool and windy night for the peak of summer, but you relish the feeling on your super heated skin, still slightly flushed in mortification.

Memories of a broken high hat, an excessively distorted electric solo on a malfunctioning amp, and a fucking voice crack play on loop in your brain and there’s nothing you can do to stop them. Unseeing, you face the city in front of you, unable to forget the shocked but polite applause Rosewater had received at the end of the performance, the dismissive, pursed lips of the judges and the sound of the MC announcing, “And in sixth place, we have last year’s champions, Rosewater!”

Seven bands had participated.

You hear the door creak open behind you and you whip around, already formulating an excuse about why you’re two floors up from the party and standing alone on a dark balcony, but coherent thought stops when you see who it is.

Yuta had done his whole I'm better than you act before the concert, making your blood boil despite the fact that you were sure they were going to beat you. A week of practice is not nearly enough. But once you had finished performing as the last band to go up on stage, all you got was a blank, confused stare which had morphed into pity as your eyes met his across the stage as you all waited for the results. And that’s just the icing on the cake, isn’t it? Being pitied by your fucking nemesis slash the person you sometimes think about kissing but only out of curiosity.

You didn’t watch their performance, too embarrassed to stay after your show, but it’s a small blessing that Verve placed second and not first. Not heartening enough to pull you out of your funk, but better than the scenario where they win.

You’re too tired and depressed to start a verbal sparring match and you tell him as much, letting out a little sigh at the end as you turn around to face the railing once again, expecting him to leave.

“Who said I came to fight?”

You hear him walk further into the balcony, leaning next to you, elbow nearly brushing against yours, as you force yourself to seem nonchalant and ask with a cocked eyebrow. “Did you not?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up the beer can and giving you a questioning look. You wave your hand in permission and he lifts it to his lips, taking a large gulp. With difficulty, you tear your eyes away from his exposed neck, tilted upwards.

“Okay, maybe I did come to gloat.”

“Go ahead, then. Tell me about how much we sucked.” At this point, you’ve beaten yourself up enough that you’re sure nothing he says will seriously affect you.

“It wasn’t that awful.”

You fix him with a steely glare, snatching the can from his grip.

He gives up the act as he drops his shoulders and nods, amending, “Okay, fine, it was pretty pathetic. I honestly thought you guys would come last.”

It feels calming somehow, to hear those words. Everybody’s been tiptoeing around you since the competition, refusing to say the truth, and it feels right and solid to listen to a no-nonsense statement like that.

You hum in acquiescence as you have a sip of the bitter beer, wordlessly passing it to him when you finish. And so it goes, the two of you taking turns quietly drinking until the can is empty, after which he drops it into the tiny dustbin in the corner.

You’re not sure how you feel so calm, especially after noticing his very evident tattoo in his short sleeved t-shirt, something written in Japanese, and the fact that he’s got a new helix piercing, but you’ve hit a state of being where your head just keeps repeating, ‘How can things possibly get worse after a shit day like this one?’, so you’re feeling simultaneously reckless and exhausted.

He comes back and stands next to you, resuming his previous position. On impulse, you ask, “So what did you come here for, if not to gloat and drawl and strut your second place about?”

He snorts at your wording and splutters indignantly, “I don’t strut.”

“Oh, you most certainly do. Like you own the bloody place.”

With narrowed eyes, he demands, “Well, what about you, then?”

“What about me?” you coolly ask.

“Not exactly angelic, are you? With all your cocky winking and smirking. Makes me want to tear my fucking hair out.”

You feel a perverse sense of glee, that you manage to get a reaction this intense, and with a smile of benevolent cheer, you shortly nod your head in thanks in his direction.

He chuckles and just like that, the two of you settle into silence again, with you feeling lighter than you did a couple of minutes back.

You’re looking out onto the city and the lights twinkling in the dark, when you notice shifting in your periphery and see that Yuta's turned around now, back to the railing as he leans languidly on it, elbows resting over the edge. His gaze is fixed on yours and when you meet his eyes, he doesn’t look away, expression serious.

Unable to break eye contact, you stare, transfixed, as he starts, “I've been thinking-"

“Yuta! There you are!”

Both of your gazes dart to the doorway comically fast to see Lucas barely holding himself up, eyes slightly red, obviously drunk.

Rushing to him before he can fall, Yuta grabs his arm, tugging it over his shoulder, propping the man up.

Lucas seems to catch sight of you for the first time and he exclaims, slurring, “Y/N!”

You lift your hand in an amused wave, mind still slightly reeling from Yuta’s proximity.

“You guys were shit!” he continues in the same, excited voice, and the tiredness hits you like a truck all over again. You instantly want nothing more than to go to bed.

“Thanks,” you reply dryly, as Yuta apologetically winces.

He shrugs in helplessness, as Lucas continues to ramble about ‘that note you didn’t hit, dude, I was so ready to get hyped', before he hoists his arm up higher on his shoulder.

Clapping a hand over Lucas’s mouth, effectively reducing the volume of his drunken mumbles, he unsurely says, “I should, uh, probably get him home.”

Suddenly feeling stiff again, you nod in agreement. “Yeah, probably.”

“So I’ll see you around?”

“Sure, cool.”

And just like that, he’s hobbling away with Lucas hanging onto him, leaving you wondering exactly what the fuck just happened.

________________________

Year 4, Sophomore Year

Your vast prior experience and success in the competition will be a valuable asset and we would love to have you on the judging panel this year. Please let us know if you will be available and willing for the same on or before the 23rd of January via return email.

You read and reread the last few sentences on the screen in front of you, not quite registering them. Taking off your glasses, you wipe them with the bottom of your t-shirt and put them back on, squinting at the email. Like a cruel joke, your phone is lying face up next to your laptop, the Rosewater group open with a message from Hendery that’s been read by everybody but without a single reply.

Are we doing it this year?

23rd of January. That gives you roughly two weeks to figure out what you’re going to do.

Your phone vibrates and you look away from the blinking cursor on the white reply screen on your laptop to see that Ten's responded.

Do we really want to?

Lisa starts typing, then stops. It’s radio silence from Kun's end too, but you can see that he’s online and reading the messages.

You picture them in their dorms and apartments, sitting like you on their messy beds, phone in their hand as they anxiously look at the screen, waiting for somebody else to say what they’re too scared to type.

You wonder if any of them got an invite to judge the competition as well, but it’s incredibly rare that more than one person from a band is on the panel. The last time it happened was when Rosewater was in eighth grade and two members from SHINee were judging. But you know that no band since, including yours, has reached their level of talent and expertise.

The tea begins to bubble on the stove and you lift the laptop off of your lap and place it on the bed, moving to the kitchenette in your tiny, rented, one bedroom apartment, phone in hand.

Setting it down on the counter, you pour your tea into a cup through a strainer, trying to think of something to say, something that might make the decision easier.

Two-fifths of the band wasn’t in town during Christmas, the other three won’t be able to make it in spring break, and the memory of last year’s disaster still plagues you.

You take a sip, thumb undecidedly hovering over the keypad for a few minutes, before you lock your phone, unable to come up with anything concrete.

The opportunity to judge the bands is an incredible honour, and one you’ve wanted for a long time. Of course, nothing compares to being on stage, but the thought of getting the validation, the respect and the chance to watch bands like yours perform and decide which one is the best gives you a rush of simultaneous pride, power and gratification.

And with things apparently going the same way, you’d rather not have a repeat of last year’s fiasco.

Mind made up, you place your empty cup in the sink and move to the bed, taking a picture of the email from the organisers and sending it to the still-silent Rosewater group. Then, in true Y/N, Empress of Avoidance fashion, you switch off your phone completely before anybody can reply.

You stare at your laptop screen and it stares right back at you, as if it’s goading you to do something reckless like reply in the affirmative immediately like you so, so dearly want to. But your members' betrayed faces swim to the forefront of your mind and you shut it before you can give in to the urge.

At the top of your laptop, next to the tiny GitHub sticker in the corner, you’ve stuck a post it note with your to-do list.

Unbidden, as they seem to do so often these days, your eyes run through the first five academic items before settling on the last one.

stop thinking about him

There’s no question as to whom it’s referring to. Unlike the other points on the list that all have messy, satisfied pen scratches over them signifying that they’re complete, this last one has half-hearted, incomplete lines drawn partway through the sentence before they stop abruptly.

You had made that list four months ago before starting to stick the subsequent notes on your mini-fridge instead, but you can’t peel it off of your laptop until you tick off, or rather scratch off, every point.

The remainder of the holidays post the competition the previous year was agonising enough, knowing that that catastrophic show wasn’t going to leave you alone anytime soon, but the days seemed to get more stressful as you had to combat all those new, uncomfortable thoughts about him, which suddenly grew so much more intense after that night you two had spent on the balcony.

All at once, you were seeing him in every book you read, hearing him in every bass line you heard. Heck, you almost got a heart attack when you saw that somebody in your coding summer course had a name that started with ‘Y'. He wouldn’t leave you alone, ending up at the airport the same time as you for his flight back to college. You had ducked behind a large group of tourists to avoid him, but the deafeningly loud thumping of your heart and the whoosh of your blood pounding in your ears made you feel so exposed. His black jeans and large, comfortable sweater paired with dark, full-rim glasses that you had never seen him wear before, with his jaw length, then bright red, hair tied in a small, messy ponytail, strands falling out in the front, had made you want to fling everything down on the floor like a petulant child and whine at the universe for making things so difficult for you.

You had hoped that things would be easier once you got busy with college, but despite the immense workload that you miraculously were on top of, he still managed to sneak into your thoughts, making you jump and scurry away every time you caught sight of the mural near your apartment that had a bunch of instruments painted on it, eyes automatically drawn to the bass. Or when you and your friend went to get your first tattoo, it was all you could do to not let out a startled yelp as you were going through the designs in the book, catching sight of the very same Japanese characters that wouldn’t leave your head.

Adding that last point to the list was a necessity.

Absently, you wonder if anybody from Verve has got the invite to judge, and then with a heady thrill that leaves you positively reeling, you’re hit with the possibility of being able to sit right in front of the stage, with a perfect view and an even more perfect excuse to watch Yuta play, openly observing, greedily drinking in the way he works his instrument and the audience, under the equally intoxicating guise of judging and scoring him.

Feeling like the villain in your own story, you selfishly hope that the rest of Rosewater won’t want to play this year.

________________________

“Alright, Y/N?”

“Peachy,” you reply with a thumbs-up as you tug the lanyard over your neck. Soyeon gives you a cheery grin in answer to your own unasked enquiry in return.

When you had entered the venue, later than you usually do since you don’t have to go through sound check or finding out the performing order, you didn’t expect to see her standing near the judge’s table, next to the same high school teacher who had been on the panel three years prior (a Mr. Smith, you have been informed). But it didn’t throw you too much. In fact, it’s a bit calming, having somebody you know so well next to you, even if it’s someone with whom conversation has been restricted to ‘Happy birthday!’ for the last two years.

Especially after Hendery had insisted on going on about how intimidating all the other judges were going to be on the way over, nonchalantly taking his hands off the vehicle periodically while driving to wave them around in exaggeration, making you jerk sideways to catch the steering wheel while screaming bloody murder so you didn’t end up in a ditch before reaching the ripe, old age of 22.

The rest of Rosewater were all very excited on hearing about your judging invite, partly because they knew how much you wanted it, but mostly because it provided the band with a convenient excuse that they really, really needed to not participate without bringing up the trauma of the previous year.

You catch sight of them idly loafing around in the audience enclosure to your right, waiting for the competition to start. You don’t know what’s weirder, the fact that you aren’t with them, or the fact that none of you are in the waiting room for the first time in seven years.

The organiser who had handed you the ID cards that had your names and JUDGE written on them asks, “You guys wanna talk to the participants? They go on in roughly twenty minutes, might be a good idea to ease their nerves a bit.”

Oh no.

Ever since Kun had mentioned that Verve would, in fact, be participating this year, this was the moment you’d been simultaneously dreading and eagerly anticipating. But not so soon.

Unable to come up with a convincing excuse about why this is a very, very bad idea, you mutely nod along with the other two judges and follow the woman who leads all of you backstage to the waiting room that you know like the back of your hand.

You have to stop yourself from feverishly scanning the room for a sight of him, eager to see what colour his hair is now, whether he’s got any new piercings or tattoos in the last year, if he’s looking at you with the same, soft, genuine expression that you last saw him sporting on that balcony.

Morphing your features into an encouraging smile as Soyeon gives a tiny, heartening speech next to you, you let your eyes rove over the participants, nodding in cheerful acknowledgement at the ones you’ve competed against before but really on the lookout for just one, specific band.

You spot Jaehyun first. He gives you a wave and you return it, stomach tightening uncomfortably in a guilty sort of glee now that you know that any second, you’re going to be seeing Yuta for the first time in a year in person and not in your memories or imagination. Taeyong does his signature salute and you incline your head cordially to him and Lucas before your eyes land on him.

They’re standing at the corner, and through a tiny gap in between the crowded bodies, you ravenously scan him, toe to head. From his black sneakers to his tight, dark washed jeans with holes at the knees giving you a peek into his skin that feels gloriously forbidden, up to his plain, black t-shirt, short sleeves folded up even further so the ink is visible. Eagerly, unable to stop your eyes from roaming, you look at his ears, noticing with a jolt that there are new snug studs on both sides, before you stop short at his chin length, lavender ombre platinum blond hair.

Your gaze slides down to his face and your stomach gives an annoying swoop when you see him boring holes into your eyes. He looks cocky, smug at having caught you very obviously eye-fucking him, but there’s also something else in his expression, a twinkle that’s kind and amused.

You hear a polite cough next to you and you’re drawn out of your staring competition feeling like you’ve been pulled out of a lake after nearly drowning. Soyeon and Mr. Smith look at you expectantly. The organiser gently prompts, “And most of you probably know her, but for those who don’t, this is Y/N from Rosewater. Her band's participated in and won the Summer Bash multiple times.”

She trails off, looking at you anticipatorily. You suddenly become very aware of the rest of the room staring at you with wide eyes, obviously waiting for you to do something.

Shaking your head slightly, you softly clear your throat before saying in as ebullient a voice as you can muster when it feels like you haven’t had a sip of water in days, “Good luck, guys! Have fun on stage. May the best band win!”

No namby-pamby, wishy-washy ‘It isn’t a competition, it’s a concert!' nonsense from you.

Cheers and applause follow and you all turn around to leave. You catch Yuta’s eye and see that he’s looking at you with an entertained grin, obviously pleased at having distracted you to such an extent, and you actively have to fight the blush that’s threatening to take over your face, a dry voice in your head cursing at you for acting like a dithering fool.

You’re all guided to the table in front of the main stage that has three clipboards with sheets containing the list of the participating bands, along with pens on the side. With a little wave at the growing, eager crowd and a special grin towards the rest of Rosewater who are all gathered near the front and giving you excited cheers, you take your seat in between the other two judges as indicated by the organiser.

You force your heart to calm down, the sight of your band aiding in the process as you read the names on the list in front of you that ends with 13.Verve.

As the PAR lights are flicked on and the audience becomes louder, Soyeon ducks her head towards you and asks with an insufferable, knowing grin, “What was that about?”

Playing dumb, refusing to look at her lest she can tell from your eyes that your heart’s just picked up pace again, you reply, “What was what about?”

“I might not have seen you in person for two years, but I remember what you look like when you’re trying to hold in a blush.”

You’ve never really regretted your relationship with Soyeon, but you’re mighty close to doing it now.

Sniffing, you say, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She chuckles amusedly. Good to know she’s entertained. “It's the Verve bassist, isn’t it? You definitely have a type.”

Kicking her under the table only begets more laughter, but you hate how called out you feel by that statement. So what if Soyeon's a bassist as well?

Further conversation is halted as the MC announces the beginning of the competition, and the next hour you spend jotting down marks and sometimes, random doodles when a particularly boring band comes along, guiltily grinning when Mr. Smith notices and gives you a scandalised glare.

It truly is something else, watching from the frontlines as other groups perform on stage, and you wonder exactly how the judges sit here, with screeching crowds right behind them and bright lights hitting from the front. However, you’re quite enjoying the experience of watching and deliberating scores, not really keeping track of which number is on stage, and you’re thrown for a loop when the MC announces, “And now, it’s time for our last band of the night, Verve!”

You resolutely look forward, practically feeling the cheeky grin that Soyeon throws at you, even though you would very much like to return it with a bonk over her head. But your gaze is trained on the amp that’s there near the front of the stage, too scared to look up.

You know that the moment you see Yuta in all his glory on stage, you might as well rip up the post it into a hundred pieces because you’re never going to be able to scratch out that last item.

But the pull is too great, the bass too deep for you to not look, and despite your greatest misgivings, you shift your eyes up just when Taeyong hits the snare with an almighty rim shot and the scoop lights suddenly turn on with the beat, illuminating the members on stage in a frenetic glow.

It’s like it’s all happening in slow motion. You can’t remember why you didn’t want to see a sight this wonderful, with all the members very clearly feeling themselves on stage. It’s quite easy to see their appeal when you aren’t competing against them, you realise. You can barely bear to tear your eyes away from Taeyong having the time of his life behind the drum kit but with bated breath, you move to look at Yuta, and suddenly you feel like oxygen is in very short supply at the moment.

No smugness, no kindness, just pure, unadulterated joy radiates from his very being, beautiful, wide smile that you’ve never had the absolute honour of seeing before etched on his face and head bobbing blithely, as he switches between looking down at his guitar and straight up at the audience. You’re hit by a rush of regret as you wonder just why you never bothered to watch their shows like this, as a part of the crowd, and not just through tiny peeks from backstage or refusing to look at all from the waiting room.

You’ll freely admit to yourself, that in this one moment, you don’t want to look away. And then, like a flash, he looks straight at you, buoyant smile still plastered on his face, before giving you a slow and quite deliberate wink, right in the middle of a solo.

If you were expecting to feel angry, going by past experiences with his winks, you’re in for a mighty surprise. Breathlessly, you remember a voice screaming, “Marry me, Yuta!” and you think that maybe that audience member from four years ago had the right idea.

It feels like it’s over before it ever began as they walk off stage to raucous applause, with you, Soyeon and Mr. Smith giving standing ovations. In the middle of it all, Soyeon ducks towards you once again to be heard and says while clapping, “Good choice.”

You can’t even be mad at her. Your heart feels like it’s being held together by that last, deep note and it comes as no surprise that on the sheet in front of you, the maximum score is in the column next to 13.Verve.

Ten minutes later sees the three of you on stage next to the MC, Soyeon holding the trophy that’s waiting to be handed over to the winner that’s yet to be announced. Not that it’s a surprise to anybody. You feel a strong sense of pride as you see Rosewater! written on the plaque multiple times, and suddenly feeling very grateful for your band, you look out into the crowd, giving a wide grin to Lisa, Kun, Ten and Hendery who are all beaming back at you, clearly similarly effected by the last performance.

One by one, the groups exit the stage to polite applause, until you hear the MC announcing, “And for the second time, our first place champions are Verve!”

You definitely aren’t expecting it when Soyeon shoves the trophy into your hands with a shit-eating grin, but in front of the hooting audience and the quickly advancing winners, you have no choice but to accept it before turning to Yuta who’s still sweaty from the performance, your fingers tightly clasped around the neck to prevent them from shaking.

His hands brush against yours as he’s accepting the trophy, and there’s a flash of a grin from him that’s dangerously toeing the line between gratitude and flirtation. Feeling light-headed at the contact and the half-smirk, you give a flustered bow before stepping back and allowing the other judges to congratulate the band, hoping nobody around you or from the audience can hear your heart veritably whomping in your chest.

________________________

“Didn’t expect you to be the running away type.”

The high drawl comes from directly behind you, right as you’re climbing into the back seat of the cab, and you freeze on spot, one leg inside the vehicle and one leg out.

Flashback to twenty minutes ago, after you had scurried off stage with your face burning, refusing to make any more contact with Yuta. Soyeon had not been able to stop giggling, even when the two of you were politely bidding Mr. Smith goodbye. You tried to no avail to stop blushing, but the more Soyeon poked and teased you, the redder you became until you felt like your entire body was on fire.

You had severely regretted the decision to walk with her to the car park and see her off, because she had spent the entire time asking you when you were going ask him out, under the guise of ‘We should totally catch up, it’s been so long.’

As you had watched her drive away, you felt entirely different kind of butterflies in your stomach, ones born from anxiety and worry about actually dating somebody you like, and pleading a headache to a fairly disappointed Rosewater, you had booked a cab home to avoid going to the after party and possibly coming face to face with Yuta.

Obviously, your master plan hadn’t worked.

Cut to the present, and you know there’s no escape, now that he’s seen you trying to leave. Exhaling deeply, you slowly turn around to watch him standing about twelve feet away, looking at you with his head cocked to the side, challenging look in his eyes and a single brow lifted in gentle surprise.

He’s slightly panting, like he ran from the party to find you, and you refuse to let the tiny balloon of hope in your chest grow any larger, popping it immediately as you reply, “I’m not running away from anything.”

He scoffs, clearly disbelieving, and takes a few steps closer, obviously intent on discussing this, until he’s around nine feet away.

“Are you going to pretend you don’t feel anything?”

It gives you a shock, hearing the words you’ve spent so long trying to deny to yourself, and you immediately lash out, irritation coursing through you, with the full objective of putting him on the spot like he’s just done to you.

“I’m not pretending anything,” you spit out. “Just because your big, fat ego can’t bear the thought of somebody not liking you-"

“I like you, though.”

“-doesn’t mean the world has to revolve around-what now?”

He looks at you, any and all traces of smugness removed from his face. He’s wearing the same expression that he had that night on the balcony, when he was about to say something before being interrupted by Lucas, and it’s open and frank, no deceit or cunning in sight.

You’re left gaping at him, trying to remember what words are, attempting to get your brain to catch up with your rapidly beating heart as he slowly steps closer and closer until there are roughly five tiny feet between your bodies.

“I like you,” he repeats simply, although there’s a trace of something like nervousness in his voice now. “And if I’m not mistaken, you like me too. But if I am, say the word and I’ll leave right now and let you get home to nurse that fake headache of yours.”

Fucking Kun.

You’re saved the bother of answering him immediately by the Uber driver who rolls down his window and gruffly shouts, “I've got another ride, do you think you could speed it up, maybe? Or can I cancel your booking?”

You jump in alarm, having completely forgotten about the cab waiting for you. You look at Yuta, feeling like your heart has crawled up to your throat as you scan his face for some sign of amusement, for a signal that this is all one big joke. But then you remember the winking and the flirting and the sharing of a beer can on a dark, abandoned balcony after he had comforted you when he didn’t really have to, and you find nothing but genuineness in his candid gaze.

He waits patiently for you to make a decision, although you notice him subtly shifting his weight from foot to foot, probably toning down his fidgeting so as to not startle you too much.

Without allowing yourself to think too much about it, you turn around to the driver and say, “You can cancel the booking. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

He gives you a dirty look as you shut the still open back door, grumbling to himself, but you can’t pay attention to it, too distracted by the wide grin that’s slowly spreading over Yuta’s face.

He takes another step closer, and now the two of you are barely three feet apart. This close, you can see the tiny dimple on his right cheek, the sparkle in his eyes and the white, gleaming rows of teeth, his smile making you feel like you’re drowning but in the good way. You can count the number of earrings he’s wearing on each ear (four), and you feel an intense desire to reach out and tuck the wispy, escaped strands of his chin-length hair back into the small ponytail.

“So I wasn’t mistaken, then?” he asks, confirming what the both of you know, but what you’ve been too wimpy to say out loud.

“No, you weren’t,” you softly reply, unable to stop the embarrassment from your previous outburst from consuming you.

Taking a deep breath, you’re the one who steps forward this time. He startles but stays his ground, probably surprised that you’ve taken the initiative.

You have to tilt your head up to look at his face now and you do, as his neck bends down as well so he can make eye contact.

Shakily, you lift a slightly trembling hand, overly aware of his calm but pleased gaze, and gently tuck his soft hair behind his left ear, fingers grazing his helix stud in the process.

It’s like that one touch released a tightly wound spring in both of you, and suddenly, you’re both rushing forward, lips meeting in a firm kiss as his hands come up to cradle your face and yours loosely wind around his waist, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his body through his t-shirt.

You feel him grin against your lips and you can’t stop yourself from doing the same, feeling like an anchor that’s been tugging at your body has finally been pulled up.

Pulling away, with no real bite in his voice, he softly teases, “For somebody who looks so cool on stage, you sure are a worry wart, huh?”

“Shut up,” you petulantly whine, blush having returned in full force as he chuckles, amused at your reaction. You’d be more annoyed, but from this angle, you can see the flush on his neck and it eases you, knowing that he’s just as effected as you are.

From somewhere nearby, you can hear the beginnings of the party, bass boosted music reaching your earshot, and with a light grin, Yuta takes your hand in his, cocking his head towards the sound.

“Want to go listen to people talk about how great your performance was?”

Entangling your willing fingers in his, with a cheeky smirk that really shouldn’t be that attractive, he replies, “Always.”

89 notes · View notes

autisticsidesau · 4 years

Note

could you tell us a little bit more about virgil and remy? btw i love this au! it makes me so happy and i have to stop reading to happy stim all the time! love you ~🌼

So this story takes place a few days- a week after Virgil and dee make up

And plans have been made for the three of them to hang out at a nearby cafe so Remy can ask questions in a familiar environment

But also so Dee and Virgil can leave if need be

Remy arrives early and is p much just vibing at a table in a louder area of the cafe for the background noise as he scrolls through any app

Eventually Virgil and Dee show up and they both flinch as they enter the cafe. Virgil’s hands go right to their ears as they begins to hum and rock in place and Dee digs through a backpack to hand Virgil their headphones

Virgil puts on their headphones and the twins make their way towards Remy and Dee asks if they can move to a quieter spot?

Remy gives them a look of confusion before nodding and they all move to a small table at the back of the cafe

When they sit Virgill starts rocking again and tapping on the table

And so the questions begin

Remy: Sorry if this is kind of rude but why did you want to move?

Dee: Ok so one of the things with autism is that a lot of noise or one particular sensory experience like light or texture can be overwhelming.

Remy nods and Dee pulls out a infinity cube and starts stimming with it

Dee also pulls out a tangle and hands it to Virgil who gives him a small hum in response

Remy: “What’re those?”

Dee: “Their stim toys.”

Remy: “And that is?”

Dee: “Okay. So stimming is- fuck uh how to describe stimming? It’s participating in enjoyable sensory experiences? I guess? But- okay- so everyone stims, but for autistic people we stim a lot more and we use it a lot to ground ourselves, express emotion, communicate, and just because.”

Virgil: “stim is what i think is called a misnomer, meaning it stands for self stimulatory behavior. Tapping your foot or listening to songs on repeat are both stims. Everyone does them. Autistic and neurodivergent people tend to do them more than others.”

Remy: “Okay that’s another question I had. So like- I looked up a few things about autism and stuff said to say ‘people with autism’ and not ‘autistic people’ because it’s dehumanizing or something? But you’re obviously not doing that.”

Dee: “Yeah no. Most autitsic people prefer just saying they're autistic. Person first language is usually something allistics- not autistic people insist on using even though autistic people have continuously said autistic is fine.”

Virgil: “Some autistic people do prefer person first language. Respect what they want to use.”

Remy: “Ok this is a more personal question, um Virgil doesn’t go to our school? Why is that? Also are you high functioning or low func-”

Dee: I’m gonna stop you there-”

Virgil: “Fuck functioning labels.”

Dee: “Yeah. Functioning labels aren’t good.”

Remy: “Why? It seems like they would be useful in helping people with- autistic people?”

Dee: “The problem with functioning labels is that people who get labeled ‘high-functioning’ end up with not enough support and dismissed as well as bullied for being weird but not weird enough, and the people who get labeled ‘low-functioning’ often get coddled and their personal autonomy taken away from them.”

Virgil: “Autism is a spectrum, people need support in all different ways, and adding functioning labels takes away from the depth of the sutistic experience. It’s a way for allistic people to neatly categorize us that ends up ultimately hurting autistic people instead of helping.”

Dee pulls Virgil’s tablet out and looks something up before showing it to Remy

Remy: “It looks like color wheel”

Dee: “that’s what the autism spectrum actually looks like. It’s not linear like most people believe we all struggle and thrive in different things. For example, I have better motor skill than Virgil but Virgil has better tone control than I do.”

Remy: “What does that mean?”

Virgil: “It means I need help to tie my shoes and write my name but Dee can do those things just fine. Dee often tends to have a ‘sarcastic’ tone so people will perceive him as rude whereas I’m better at noticing and controlling my tone of voice.”

Remy: “so circling back to my earlier question, why doesn’t Virgil go to the same school Dee and I go to?”

Virgil and Dee looked at each other awkwardly and Virgil cleared their throat before Virgil answered

Virgil: “um, ok so I tend to need more support than Dee and I find the slowed down curriculum is a lot more suited to my needs? My moms are very supportive of me and I don’t mind it too much. The classes are smaller and teachers tend to be very understanding if I need to leave or have a panic attack or meltdown in class.”

Remy: “what’s a meltdown? Is that like those episodes where shitty parents post their kids tantrum on the internet?”

Dee: “Yeah pretty much-”

Virgil: “But they’re not tantrums. That’s a bad way to describe what a meltdown is. Kids throw tantrums to get what they want when upset. Meltdowns are different.”

Dee: “Yeah meltdowns are pretty much when sensory stimulation becomes too much to handle and an autistic person… uh what's a good way to describe it? I mean- we meltdown. It’s a lot and everything’s pressing in and you can’t handle it anymore. Oftentimes autistic people will do things to try and help their situation that a lot of neurotypical people often don’t understand, like rocking or screaming.”

Virgil: “And they’re usually pretty draining too, I’ll be knocked out for a day and half after a bad one.”

Dee: “Yeah they suck ass”

Remy: “I think that’s all I wanted to ask for now but is there anything important I should know to support you guys?”

Virgil: “Sure, I think we should mention that we both have certain senses that are the most overwhelming to each of us. Mine are sound and smell, Dee’s are light and texture. If we get overwhelmed we both have plans to help us, if someone who knows the plan is there, then just let them help us. If not, we might be able to direct you through what to do that and we both have sheets and communication cards saying what to do that we can give you. Uh we both have routines? and if those routines get disrupted that can lead to really bad meltdowns. There are times when we can’t talk because we’re overwhelmed which is what we saw when you met me and when we walked in. Also sometimes a lot of sensory experience can be exhausting, we both get tired from social interaction which is why we don’t respond to texts as fast I forgot to mention because of autism we aren’t great with social cues and if we cut you off just let us know but also Did we mention special Interests?”

Remy: “uhhhh… I don’t think so?”

Virgil: “Ok Dee do you want to take over for a minute?”

Dee: “you sure? you seemed to enjoy infodumping?”

Remy: “what is infodumping?”

Virgil: “well yeah, but it took a lot out of me and I didn’t realize and I think I’m going nonverbal.”

Dee: “Ok. Would you like your tablet?”

Virgil: “mhm”

Dee quickly grabs Virgil’s tablet from their jack skellington backpack while Virgil begins to bite on their wrist

Remy: “are they supposed to be biting on their wrist? Is that another autism thing?”

Dee: “Hm? What? Oh, no they’re not thanks for pointing that out.”

Dee goes digging back into virgil’s backpack and grabs what looks like a retainer case and hands it to Virgil

Virgil opens it eagerly to reveal a bat pendant and they promptly put it in their mouth and chew on it like the first time Remy met Virgil.

Dee: “That was a self injurious stim, I have my own and they’re not fun, those kinds of stims are the ones it's recommended that get intervention to prevent someone from hurting themselves.”

Remy: “Like you did just now by giving them that pendant thing?”

Dee: “Yep that’s a silicone bat pendant that they use to stim instead of biting their wrist.”

Remy: “Ok so going back to what Virgil said, What’s infodumping and special interests?”

Dee: “A special interest is something autistic people get incredibly fixated on. Autistic people get attached to the source material and it consumes a large amount of our thoughts. It’s something you love and want to talk about all the time, your brain fixates on it and doesn’t let go. Some autistic people use special interests to relate to the world or interact with people around them. They can also be difficult at times when you have other things to do but can’t focus on anything besides special interests. You can have more than one and they can change over time. One of mine is philosophy, Virgil has a fashion Special Interest.”

Dee: “Infodumping is pretty much like it sounds like a dump of information. It’s a term for neurodivergent people sharing an excessive amount of information on a subject. A lot of times you feel a need to do it and don’t necessarily realize you are doing it. It’s important for us to fully share, because we’re trying to share information with you. Infodumping about Special Interests is really common.”

Remy: “alright I think I got it.”

Remy and Dee sit and chat for a while and Virgil starts falling asleep from people exhaustion and so Dee has to call their moms to come pick them both up but they both get to say goodbye to Remy and all in all it’s a very fun afternoon

30 notes · View notes

circular-time · 4 years

Text

I still want to know what happened to the Fourth Doctor's human social skills. I think that's about when the "cue cards" problem began.

The First Doctor was "a citizen of the universe, and a gentleman to boot." He might have been crotchety at times, but he understood human communication and emotions quite well. "Have you no emotions, sir?" He was loving to his granddaughter and adopted granddaughters, and comforted them when things were scary. Once he got over mistrusting Barbara and Ian, he interacted with them like a normal human being (In fact, he called himself one.) Offering his arm to Barbara, teasing Ian, and so on.

The Second Doctor knew perfectly well when he was being weird. But he was also loving and avuncular in a very human way. He was patient with Jamie, understanding his confusion and explaining things to him in ways he could understand. He was so sweet to Victoria, talking to her about her grief for her father, and how he missed his own family. He was so human.

Mind you, the first two Doctors weren't yet aliens in canon. It was only midway through the Second Doctor's run that scripts started to drop hints that he might not be simply from another time when humans had settled other worlds, but from another species. I suppose it's only natural for the Doctor to act human before the writers knew anything different.

But the Second Doctor's final episode changed everything about the show: suddenly he was an alien being stuck on Earth. You might think that the writers would play with this new toy box by upping the "alien behavior" quotient. And they did a little bit with his playful jokes about Thraskins and eyebrow language and Venusian Aikido. But he still acted incredibly human. He wanted a car. He enjoyed disguising himself as humans�� and did an authentic impression of a delivery man. He argued with politicians and military leaders in their own terms, understanding them perectly well even when he was rude. "You, sir, are a nitwit!" And while he could have outbursts of temper, he was so loving to Jo in a very hands-on, human way. Remember the Daisiest Daisy speech when he was comforting her fears?

But the Fourth Doctor was a self-proclaimed "being who walked in eternity". We didn't realize it at the time, but that was a fundamental shift as great as stranding the Doctor on Earth and making him join a human military institution. He was alien in a way the previous Doctors were not. "You are a beautiful woman, probably." That wasn't quite a human thing to say. Although he still had fairly good manners when he chose to put them on.

The Fifth Doctor recovered his gentleman's manners like the First, at least when he wasn't being bitingly snarky. However, he wasn't as able to comfort his companions or connect with them as well as his first three incarnations. Six, same problem with more abrasive manners. Seven seems to have been a throwback to Two, but his fatherly relationship with Ace was tempered by an odd power dynamic: he could manipulate her in an almost inhuman way when he needed to. Eight was sweet, but he started as an alien puppy who didn't always know how to navigate a human world.

Compared to the classic Doctors, I still find it strange how much 11, 12, and now 13 have forgotten how to interact with humans. They've spent centuries on Earth by now. They've had dozens of human friends, some of them very close. They've comforted humans' fears, confronted their prejudices and ignorance, argued with them, loved them, played with them, become frustrated with them, mentored and parented them, seen them grow up and grow old. They've butted heads with world leaders and alleyway thugs, military tinpots and protective parents, teenagers and toddlers, uneducated Scotsmen and scientific geniuses. They've interacted with Neanderthals and some of the last humans in the universe. They've bluffed their way into all kinds of human institutions and societies.

Why have they forgotten how to comfort their friends? Act normal when meeting someone's family? Offer condolences when someone has died, which has certainly been happening since the very beginning of their travels?

With Twelve I felt like he'd come to the end of his regeneration cycle and some of his old social skills had burned out or not been transferred when he regenerated, but the "needs cue cards" problem started before 12. I'm disconcerted whenever the Doctor fails a social check which early incarnations would've handled well, before they had as much experience with humans as they do now.

I miss the Daisiest Daisy moments that meant to much to me as a kid, so that I forgot about the Third Doctor being rude because moments like that were so loving, so understanding.

The love is still there, but it's more… abstract. The Doctor doesn't know how to communicate it to friends like they used to. And they have a much harder time navigating human interactions, even with psychic paper to smooth the way.

Maybe there just isn't that much room in any brain for that many lifetimes, and memories become distant and distilled down into facts and knowledge rather than lived experiences as they get overlaid by the memories of more recent lifetimes.

There are headcanon ways to explain this, but I wish new Who would address the fact that as the Doctor gets older, they lose social skills and experience they used to have.

35 notes · View notes

putschki1969 · 4 years

Text

H-el-ical// Music Explanation

Notes: These short comments from the pamphlet provide a lovely insight so I thought I would translate them for you. Please enjoy!

pulsation

Hikaru comment

The song conveys a strong sense of sprinting forward and since I knew that it would be my first song, I wanted to make it feel like a powerful beginning. At first I was really worried because I had no idea what I was doing but then I realised that if I kept worrying I wouldn’t be able to come up with anything good. That’s why I focused on my feelings at that time and the way I had been dealing with music so far. I just put all of that into words. For me as Hikaru// this song is about finding the strength to get up again when you are down, how to move on when you are depressed. It’s not something that simply passes by, from my experience so far it’s a conscious decision, “all right! I will try again and persevere!” It’s that kind of feeling I wanted to put in my lyrics. “Let’s live in a way that makes it possible to come to terms with the meaning of life!” That was going through my mind while writing the lyrics, I felt very much alive during that time. Perhaps I have already conveyed these feelings little by little to all my fans who have continuously supported me but when I actually put them into words I think it became a very strong message.

Gushimiyagi comment

Of course I had known of Hikaru//-san's previous activities for many years so initially I felt a bit lost when trying to write a song which would suit Hikaru//-san's vocals. I wanted to do my best, after all I had to create a song that would perfectly fit the image of Hikaru//-san. I think I was quite reckless when I made it. The first time we met, I brought a short demo tape with me and told her, "this is more or less the direction I wanna take and we will expand it from there...” The song gradually took shape. It was supposed to have an image of “presenting/announcing H-el-ical// for the very first time”, so I was very adamant about having a lively chorus and a sense of moving fast. I tried to make it sound catchy and impressive. Back then Hikaru-san didn’t really tell me what she thought of the song so I would really like to ask her now *laughs*.

Avaricia

Hikaru comment

Transitioning from “pulsation” to “Avaricia” I really wanted to have something different. I didn’t want to stick to just one genre, I wanted to sing songs with many different elements so when I first heard the song I immediately thought, “ohh, I like this!” In the case of "pulsation", I think it is a rather straight-foward song since I am expressing my life experiences and thoughts but when it comes to this song, it is very vague, indirect and between the lines, it can have various meanings depending on the listener. "Is it meant this way or that way? This kind of interpretation doesn’t apply to me but it might apply to someone else." So depending on the audience, the song can come across as very sexy or you can interpret it as having a strong message. I also used this song to play a little with words. When I started writing the lyrics I wrote the following line for the first verse, “ひと時だけのアイズ/hito toki dake no aizu”. アイズ written in katakana was supposed to have a double meaning, it could have been understood as “eyes” or “cue/signal”. But since we also had English translations for all H-el-ical// songs I eventually settled on “eyes” to make the translation less confusing.

Gushimiyagi comment

I made this song at the same time as the first song but since that one had a rather normal beat and a sense of sprinting I wanted a big change for the next song. I composed this with a quintuple/triple measure. Its tricky acoustic sound makes it sorta feel like jazz but I guess it ended up being more along the lines of folktronica. The song has both a digital as well as an analog feel to it. I pretty much created this song to be the exact opposite of “pulsation”. When I gave the song to Hikaru//-san I feared it would be hard to find lyrics that suited the beat but to my surprise she really enjoyed playing with the words. Her lyrics combined with the melody really add to the atmosphere, they left a lasting impression on me.

Splendore

Hikaru comment

The first thing that came to mind when I listend to the song was “fantasy”. That’s why I added some fantasy elements to my lyrics. For a period of time, I was working part-time at a nursery school for some social studying. The children I worked with were honestly a ray of sunshine, they were shining so brightly and they all lived in the here and now. When we grow up we always worry and think ahead, our dreams and hopes become goals that start to feel real. So for a moment, let’s not do that, let’s just live life and enjoy ourselves in the present! I wrote the lyrics with this sort of fantasy element in mind, “I want to fearlessly grab the sparkles in front of me and hold onto them forever.” That’s the image I wanted to convey. Also, this song was written during an extensive back and forth between Gushimiyagi-san and myself.

Gushimiyagi comment

When I started on this, I simply wanted to try composing a song with a four-on-the-floor rhythm but apparently I am not the kind of person that can write bright and lively music like that so instead of sounding like an exciting piece of electronic dance music the song turned out to have a rather quiet and calm passion *laughs*. I was imagining a night and the starry sky. It's dark but there is some sparkling, like seeing Peter Pan flying across the sky. When I read Hikaru//-san’s finished lyrics it all made sense to me, the way she created a sort of fantasy. The song does express all of that so she really managed to put everything perfectly into words with her lyrics.

Amanhecer

Hikaru comment

When I first received the demo tape for this song, I couldn’t help but think of “water” or the “waterside”. It has a slightly gloomy vibe. It left a strong impression on me so I wanted to write lyrics that did proper justice to the melody, I wanted listeners to get a real feeling for the sceneries and sensations of it. The song is pretty quiet but I felt like adding a certain youthful charm. Not a mature one nor a child-like one, I thought a lot about it but an adult view wouldn’t have fit the song so I settled for a feeling that’s slightly adolescent *laughs*. I created a bittersweet love story. In this kind of song the vocals stand out a lot so I sang it with a breathy voice and only let my voice become louder and stronger when I wanted to emphasise a certain word or line. I had to adjust a lot while recording the song.

Gushimiyagi comment

Here I wanted to create a song that started with vocals. The first thing you hear is a breath, I wanted everyone to be able to enter Hikaru//-san's world from the very first second. I wanted people to immediately be smitten by Hikaru//-san’s voice. Just like "Splendore" this was originally meant to have a “night” theme but I eventually changed it to a dawn-like atmosphere. The acoustic guitar and drums feel a lot more understated compared to the previous three songs. The rhythm is very simple and clear. Usually during the recording you do a lot of takes in order to pick the best one but each and every one of Hikaru//-san’s takes was amazing, just the expression was slightly different. Each take had top-notch quality, it was refreshing but also difficult to choose one.

yolcu

Hikaru comment

When it was time to make this song we were just starting to think about doing a live. So I asked for a track that would pump up the crowd during a live performance. This song has an exotic feeling so I wrote the lyrics while thinking of the Middle East. There is a bit of mystery, it feels like you are running through the streets of Aladdin’s town, making it past the crowds and eventually arriving at a plaza with a big fountain. I had these sceneries in mind so I put them into words. It was a lot of fun to write this song. However ... while it was fun to write lyrics for this sort of tempo, it is incredibly hard to remember my lines *laughs*.

Gushimiyagi comment

The theme of the song was to create an exotic vibe. “What ideas should I apply to make it sound exotic?” This is what I kept asking myself when I wrote the song. I ended up with EDM which in this case stands for exotic dance music *laughs*. By the way, I made this with a lot of vigor so the tuning was quite special, while writing I had no idea what chords I was using *laughs*. The title of this song is Turkish, I think the title should always be chosen by the person who is writing the lyrics. All H-el-ical// song titles, including the title "yolcu", were chosen by Hikaru//-san.

Existence

Hikaru comment

The line "do you remember~" is repeated multiple times on purpose. When you keep saying the same words over and over again, they aren’t easily forgotten, instead they get imprinted in your memory. By repeating lines, I wanted to create impactful lyrics. Also, this was the first time I wrote proper English lyrics. When you have a song where the same melody gets repeated you need something that draws attention. I guess I could have written something in Japanese but I wanted the song to have a different feel. It's not uncommon for Western music to have repeated lyrics. So I wanted to try something like that for this song. The H-el-ical// project is produced by Japanese people of course but I want everyone overseas to listen to my music as well. I want to create music that can be loved and accepted by all kinds of people. I would be very much interested in continuing to take on such challenges.

Gushimiyagi comment

This is a nice guitar rock piece. I wanted to create something that would sound like a Foo Fighters song. When I sent the first demo to Hikaru//-san, I added a short note saying that this was like an American rock song. Hikaru//-san wrote a big portion of the song in English and the title is also in English.

Fili

Hikaru comment

I wanted to add an element that I had never used before, I wanted it to have a Northern European vibe with a somewhat grassy feeling. However, when I first expressed that wish to Gushimiyagi-san, he looked at me quite puzzled, “what do you mean exactly?” I tried to answer him as best as possible *laughs* “I guess something with an earthy atmosphere. Something that makes me think of grass-covered plains...” When I got the song I thought a lot about it, I kept replaying it in my mind and came up with a few lyrics so I could try singing it. I started wondering whether it really had an earthy atmosphere. Eventually I realised that this song is not so much about the earth itself, it is about history. The history of each individual but also the course of history regarding our entire earth. "I'm alive right now because of the eternal flow of time." It’s this kind of image I had in mind when I wrote the lyrics. By the way, the title of this song means "poet" in Gaelic.

Gushimiyagi comment

This song sounds a bit Celtic doesn’t it? Hikaru//-san experienced many different world views as part of Kalafina, there were quite a lot of exotic and oriental elements in their music. For the H-el-ical// project I did my own interpretation of that by trying to find the best way to convey this image as a solo artist. It is quite celtic but not too ballad-y. I am once again using a triple measure and even though it technically qualifies as a ballad, the drums, percussion and timps are heavily accentuated. Hikaru//-san’s previous activities very much align with my own vision and world-views. It’s not about holding on tight to that old image but there is certainly no need to throw it away completely. I'm sure fans will treasure it as something that has become part of Hikaru//’s image.

Tsumugu

Hikaru comment

The title for my concert is also "Weaving/Spinning ~TSUMUGU~" so I decided I wanted to create a song that I could sing at the end of the live. That's the reason why we tried to make a very simple song. All the thoughts and feelings I experience when I get to meet the fans, when I get to communicate with them... Having that in mind I wrote the lyrics. This interview is being done before my concert so I haven’t had the chance to be on stage as H-el-ical// yet but when I wrote the lyrics I tried to imagine what the live performance would be like. I also wanted to remove any sort of extra filter when I wrote them. Typically when you are talking with someone, you want to look your best, maybe even show off a little but in this case I didn’t want to think or worry about any of that. I really expose all of myself in these lyrics so the song is quite embarrassing for me *laughs*.

Gushimiyagi comment

This was always intended to be the final song of the live so I made it with that in mind. “What would be a suitable climax for the concert?” I kept asking myself this question while composing the song. I consulted with Hikaru//-san so she could share her personal opinions and views regarding the previous seven songs as well as the upcoming live. When I made the song I thought, “yes, I think this track will be appropriate for the occasion”. It was quite easy to write it since I had a clear vision.

#kalafina #hikaru #helical #hikaru//#helical//#h-el-ical//#my translations #my translation #long text post

49 notes · View notes

pangtasias-atelier · 4 years

Text

A Little Bit of Selfishness

Edit: Added a couple more lines and changed the title. Formerly titled: Siegfried (Santa)

This was also in the works for about 8 days. I wanted to get it out before 2020 as like a final story for the year, but decided against it since I just had no motivation.

However, as a result of this getting pushed back , the theming doesn't really apply anymore.

So this instead became a story that I really wanted to be proud of to start the new year! And it shows with it being 4.2k words and being proofread (only once but still lol)

Only real gripe is feeling like I didn't have enough WG description? Though at this point I've just been failing in that area no matter how hard I try I feel.

Really wanted to emulate the silliness yet seriousness of Fate and I don't think it was a terrible result; hopefully it doesn't feels too FGO specific, which I know a lot of my followers don't know anything about. But eh, Siegfried deserves the love, so I'm glad I got this fic out.

Anyways, rambling over, happy new year and thanks for sticking with me for so long! And for new followers, thanks for joining!

P.S. I really hate this title lol

______________

"Master…." Struggling with his hat, the fabric dangles uncomfortably on his horns before he gives up. Sighing, Siegfried glances down at his new attire offered to him by Gudao. His hat falls down to the floor. A large warm red coat and matching red pants, they both are finished with white fabric; his coat also has white running down the middle. A black belt contrasting the bright outfit, it matches with his black boots. The outfit specifically tailored to him, the back is cut out for his tail and wings along with his curse. His muscular fit figure is for once hidden by the loose clothing; his defined pecs and abs are also no longer on display with his closed coat.

"I am not fit for the title of Santa," Siegfried picks up his santa hat off of the floor, fussing with it once more. Placing it back on his head, he yanks it down; it tears against his horns. The hat sits safely on his head with it skewered.

Now fussing with his outfit, Siegfried picking at it, he makes a face as he struggles with that too, rearranging it to no avail.

"Perhaps you should ask another servant to be this year's Santa," Eyes widening, Siegfried blushes and averts his gaze as Gudao grabs his hands.

"You're perfect as Santa!" Gudao proclaims, smiling down at Siegfried. "And this year…" Spinning, Gudao jumps and spreads his feet, arms on his hips. "I'll be your reindeer!" He shouts with a grin on his face, fanfare emanating from some unknown location announces his role. His costume the bare minimum, it's comprised solely of an antler headband. His outfit is instead the opposite of holiday cheer unlike Siegfried, Gudao wearing the magus uniform.

"The other Santas will be upset, won't they?" Siegfried asks, a slight frown adorning his face as he continues his fussing, his costume wrinkling.

Gudao waves his hand dismissively, snorting. "Nah, it'll all be fine I'm sure!" Siegfried doesn't have the heart to turn his master around, Altria Alter, Jeanne Alter Lily, Attilla, Quetzalcoatl, and Nightingale all standing outside Gudao’s open door. Their hands gripping the doorway, Siegfried purposely avoids eye contact with them,

"Will I be delivering presents?" Siegfried stiffens as all five Santas glare at him.

"You don't have to. You already did basically that all your life. You're Santa just for fun," Gudao's answer appeasing to the murderous Santas, they silently slink away, their master none the wiser. "This is a time for you to relax,"

"Thank you, master," Siegfried smiles up at him. "But why must I wear this outfit?"

"Cause you'd make a great santa, I just know it. Siegfried the Santa, or Santafried. Or even Sanfried for short!" Gudao exclaims, stars in his eyes. Siegfried hears fanfare and lighting coming from behind himself, the music pathetically quiet before it sadly dies out. "You're nearly perfect for Santa!"

Siegfried catches the pivotal conditional word in the sentence. "Nearly?"

"And that's my cue, your reliable exposition giver and plot coupon! Ta-dah," Merlin popping up in a puff of white smoke, Gudao coughs as it fills up the room, fanning the air in front of his face with his hand.

"Did you like my big entrance, master?" Merlin smirking, his Cheshire grin grows further as Gudao glares at him. "Anyways, while master may believe you contain the important components that comprise Santa, you are missing one key component," Pausing, Merlin laughs at Siegfried's confused expression. Siegfried glances back between Merlin and Gudao "For you see, what is Santa if not round?" Crickets suddenly chirping, neither of them respond to his question.

"Santa is fat. Dense people like you aren't great for feeding off of," Glumly clutching his staff to himself, Merlin brushes it off. "That's why master here offered to let me feed off of him! And it was either you or me and well, survival of the fittest and whatnot," Merlin casts a spell at Siegfried. Siegfried feels the effects instantly.

Balance offkey, the spell taking a hold on him, Siegfried questions Merlin. “All the other santas are as skinny as their regular forms. And their outfits don’t even look like-”

Merlins tsks, shaking his head. He pulls out a graph from nowhere. “This is the demographic, as you can see,” Merlin points with his staff. “The current demographic is mostly straight men and considering how they are-”

“No need for the social commentary here!” Gudao shoves Merlin, tearing the graph apart. “Especially not from you, sexual harasser,”

"Well, time for my grand exit for an amazing grand-," His obnoxious comment interrupted by his own screaming, Merlin falls to the floor as Fou comes barreling through the door and kicks him down. Clawing at the floor, Merlin shouts for his master as Fou drags him away.

"Fou fou!" Fou growls, Merlin's coat in between his teeth.

Gudao closing his door, him and Siegfried are now the only ones in his room, both in the privacy of it.

Siegfried's stomach gurgles. Uncomfortably warm despite his cold reptilian self, he continues clutching his stomach. Huffing, he reaches to his face, his hand coming back sweaty. Disoriented, his bleary eyes barely make out Gudao standing in front of him. A guiding hand offered, Siegfried hesitates. Taking a step by himself, he stumbles over his own tail. Gudao catches him by the arms. Accepting his master's help, Siegfried clutches onto him.

"Sorry, master," Huffing, Siegfried trudges his way to Gudao’s bed.

"Umm, this was all my plan? You shouldn't feel sorry about this," Gudao averts his gaze.

"I forgot," Siegfried blandly replies. He sighs as Gudao helps him sit on the bed. "I blamed it on Merlin; everyone seems to find him a nuisance," His forehead incredibly warm, the sensation feels foreign.

"Yeah," Gudao agrees. "But he's great in combat, so-"

"Unlike myself," Siegfried holds back a grunt as the extreme warmth in his body spreads. He clutches his stomach, the soft fabric warping under his grip.

"You're always on the team though!" Gudao shouts as he grabs Siegfried's shoulder. "Sure you're on the back row, but not just any servant can claim to be in every battle. And yeah, you may struggle out there, but it's okay," Gudao pauses before grabbing Siegfried's hand instead, clutching it.

Siegfried shakes his head. He glances at Gudao, seeing two of him. "It's not okay, I-"

"You can be even better than just another fighter on the battlefield. This is actually a promotion! You get to be my personal pillow!" Prideful, Gudao smirks down at him, brimming with joy. "A job only you can fulfill!" Reaching for Siegfried's head, he fumbles with the hat before removing it. He gives Siegfried's head a pat.

Merlin's spell seems to react to the statement, the beginning stage complete. Siegfried furls and unfurls his wings, desperate to release some energy with the magic building up inside of him.

Outfit once roomy, the extra fabric slowly becomes necessary as Siegfried begins to bloat. Unable to do much at all if even anything, Siegfried remains seated. Soft plush clothes a strange sensation on his body, the feeling grows stranger as Siegfried feels his body push and pull in all directions.

Stomach bubbling, he feels his once flat abs accumulate a bit of pudge. The sensation foreign, he pushes down on it as his stomach continues its growth. The mass expanding, it knocks at the edge of his coat, his outfit tight on him now. Pants end up filled with Siegfried's thighs, the pudgy cellulite spreading across the bed as his ass straigns the back. Brand new moobs, Siegfried grabs them, holding back a moan from the tender new flesh. Gudao’s hands on his body, Siegfried turns towards him, his face flushed.

Mind barely able to form words, it races as it tries to figure out what to say, a different feeling of warmth bathing his heart from the touch. Shutting his eyes tight, Siegfried keeps quiet as he feels the growth continuing, Gudao leaving two satisfied pats on his belly.

Lightly tanned skin pokes out as it pushes his coat. Clutching his once loose belt, Siegfried is unable to get it off as his body continues to expand and throw him off. The belt tightens its hold on Siegfried, his billowing fat warping around it. Hands on his stomach again, Siegfried opens his eyes. At his current size, he can barely see Gudao over the load of lard making up his stomach. Only the top of Gudao’s head is visible. His master undoing the belt, Siegfried's gut lurches forward with the dam now broken. The mass nearly hits Gudao in the face, narrowly missing him. Gudao ignores it, instead hugging Siegfried's stomach, rubbing the sides of it as Siegfried's growing stomach pushes him away. His coat unbearably tight, the ripped opening isn't the only damage it suffers. The small sleeves constrict his girthy wings for arms; the fabric tears at his armpits, little holes soon plugged up with the swelling of his fat. Siegfried's growing rolls push his arms further up and up at an angle.

Stomach growing, it makes the perfect shelf for Siegfried's moobs. A once defined broad chest residing there, it was kicked out by the new inhabitants, two large swollen saggy moobs replacing it. His coat not strong enough to contain such girth, Siegfried pulls at the edges in vain. His large chest exposed, his light blue markings are warped and stretched as it travels from his stomach to his neck.

His neck now blubbery, the ring of fat constricts his movement as his stomach constricts his vision of his legs. His tree trunk legs slightly get covered by Siegfried's roll riddled expanse of a stomach. The uncovered portion squeezes out from underneath his gut, fat sagging and squishing against each other. His ass sits behind him, the mounds rising like fresh dough as his pants continue to keep them contained despite a tear running straight down the middle. The elastic band of his pants have their own limit, the material constricting and squeezing his fat. No belt or button to aid in its chokehold on his waist, Siegfried merely holds back his groans from the discomfort.

Huffing, Siegfried lets out strained breaths as the weight of his own body rests on him. Small gasps escape his lips as his master pokes and prods his body, lingering touches left all over his body. He blushes from said contact.

"Merlin outdid himself…," Gudao mumbles, his face agape with a blush on his cheeks. He grabs Siegfried's fat addled cheeks, pushing and pulling them, fascinated as Siegfried reacts, Siegfried blushing himself, his eyes are half closed. Gudao’s hands on his arms, Siegfried goes to stand up. Instead he ends up with a hand against his chest. Confused, Siegfried understands once his master helps him move back, his back against the wall.

Siegfried's stomach growls. Gudao stands in response, smiling.

"I'll go-" His eyes widen. Rubbing his eyes for good measure, his eyes remain wide as Siegfried groans and clutches whatever part of his body his arms can reach at this point. "M-more?"

Siegfried can't help but share his master's sentiment, Merlin's spell ridiculous in its effect. A pile of fat surely can't be what anyone would wish for. His breasts growing and taking up his vision even further, Siegfried sighs as he catches a glimpse of his master. Gudao’s shock and concern is gone; he instead clasps his hands, swinging on the balls of his feet.

Siegfried's already large heavy body grows in its immensity. Each limb and part of himself feeling so heavy and obstructed. Shifting in his spot, standing up a dangerous prospect, the bedsprings creak under him as his thighs spread like batter.

His master's bed only meant for a single person, Siegfried's body begins to overtake the mattress, his body wider than it with his fat sagging off.

Feeling so puffed and stretched out, Siegfried shakes his head as he feels the spell leaving him. Disorientation gone with it as well, he takes in the gargantuan immensity of his form.

Unable to see them but clearly able to feel the way they sag and pull down with gravity's help, Siegfried can sense the size of his jowls. Each one rotund. His neck now containing rolls lining the entirety of it, they squish into one another as Siegfried attempts to look down.

Only getting a view of his breasts and stomach, Siegfried grimaces. The once defined blue markings on his chest appear distorted, warped from his fat. Clothes meant to properly fit in the spirits of the holiday instead were torn, each piece just resting on Siegfried's new corpulent body with his outfit in complete tatters. Well defined chest and abs now seem to have never been a feature on Siegfried, or even appearing in the same room as him. Moobs wider than watermelons, the massive knockers dig into his recliner sized stomach, his stomach even rivaling a loveseat. His stomach's crevices and rolls rise and fall with each breath Siegfried takes, his stomach folds shifting and slapping each other. His stomach covering everything in its wake, his lower half unable to be seen but clearly able to be felt, he can only sense their width by the way they also fall off the edge of the bed and how the rolls of his stomach shift and fold around his immense thighs. Shelf of an ass behind him, Siegfried can feel the way they compress against the headboard, fat rearranging itself to occupy the large space it needs. His back rolls do the same, Siegfried at least grateful for the cool touch to contrast the utter warmth that fills his body.

"I have some clothes for you!" Gudao unfolds the fabric, the sheer length and width of it making him spread his arms to their widest span. Siegfried's mouth open, Gudao answers his oncoming question. "Da Vinci made these! She said they were super high-tech since they can't tear, not even your curse will tear it," He parades around the shirt, holding it higher and peeking his head out from the side. "It was only 30 saint quartz, too! It was a steal," Gudao’s smile brightens, eyes closed from the sheer joy.

Siegfried keeps his comment of Da Vinci stealing from his master to himself. Especially considering how much his master values the precious saint quartz, a single missing saint quartz the start of a crazy search led by his master. A Witch Hunt had been Siegfried's first name for it before his master asked him to never utter such words once he returned from Salem, but the meaning was the same.

Still, his master effectively proudly claiming 30 saint quartz was nothing for him is a bit heartwarming despite making Merlin curse him. Several grails offered to Siegfried and numerous other items, perhaps he had been blind to his master's favoritism towards him, Siegfried finds himself feeling.

"Merlin can always change you back," As if hearing his name, the scumbag known as Merlin walks through Gudao’s door. His cape torn and ripped from Fou's vicious attack, his body is littered with scratch marks.

"Cath Palug was no match for me," Merlin proudly exclaims with a smirk. Sniffing, he perks up. "Looks like it worked! Now that I don't have to carry Siegfried on the battlefield with Hero Creation EX, my job is easier and now I get some wonderful emotions from you two," Merlin licks his lips while he rubs his hands. "Guess this is going to turn into a poly-" Merlin lets out a small oof as he bumps into Gudao’s outstretched hand. "Ah come on, I'm sure this is exactly what you wanted to happen," Merlin lets out an exaggerated pout, his body hunched over. "I'm always out on the frontline, you know how exhausting that is on me? I may be a mighty Grand Caster, but I can only do so much when I have deadweight who can barely do damage. Siegfried doesn't even have any team skills, so he's useless outside of lancer nodes!"

"Merlin...," Gudao clenches his fists, back stiff as he stares at Merlin. Merlin turns his back, hiding his smirk.

"And he's bond 10, you don't even need to use him anymore," Merlin fakes a heavy sigh. "Well, he's no Fionn that's for sure. Poor generation stats, weird deck combination, I mean, 2 quick, 2 arts, and 1 buster? I can only do so much. At least dragons are kind of common," Merlin taps his chin thoughtfully, humming as he thinks.

Sensing the room again, Merlin feels the boiling emotional presence from his master's and Siegfried's anger cooling down, the lightly stinging sensation of annoyance budding instead. Smirking, Merlin pats his stomach.

"Well, I've had a decent meal from that rush. It’ll take a boatload of food for Siegfried to get a decent meal. That’s more effort than me making him decent, I’m no miracle worker after all,” Merlin the miracle worker skips away as he hums; Merlin ends up stopped by Gudao holding his arm. Gudao glaring at him, Merlin beams, more emotions for the road a treat. "So you do want me to join. I'd be-" Gudao dragging him out of the room, his words when he opens the door makes him freeze.

"Fou! I found Merlin!" The sound of scampering paws fills Chaldea's Halls.

"Well, I guess that's my cue!" Saluting, Merlin breaks into a dead sprint.

“Fou Kyu!” Fou right behind Merlin, he chases after him.

Gudao sighs as he closes his door, wiping his hands. "Merlin's taken care of. But he can't change you back right now. Once the New Year comes around, I'll make him do it!" Bustling around Siegfried, he grabs the cloche on his nightstand, Siegfried not noticing it.

"It's small but hopefully it'll keep you satisfied for now," Gudao smiles as he unveils the food. "I know servants don't technically have to eat, but I did some research on Germanic food from around the time of your legend so I made krapfen but today's version of it," Bringing the plate to Siegfried's face, he places it on his moobs. The dish only comprised up of three fried pastries, Siegfried doesn't have the heart to tell him that he doesn't recognize them. But his confusion gives him away.

"Ah, I figured that it'd be unusual considering the origins of Nibelungenlied contains some historical basis way before the medieval times but I based my research on that time period…," Gudao speaks to himself, not giving Siegfried a chance to speak up. "But I hope you like it?"

The treat shoved into his mouth, Siegfried chews at it, the powdered sugar dusting his lips. The fried confectionery sweet, the tart jam in the center balances it out, the food surprisingly delicious.

"It's delicious, master," Eyes widening, Siegfried winces as he realizes he spoke with some food still in his mouth, chunks of the jam getting caught in his sharp teeth.

"I'm glad!" Gudao getting closer, Siegfried's malleable fat bends from the contact. Allowed to nibble at the second one, the contrast of sweet and tart lasts longer on his tongue, the scrumptious food rather addicting. "Last one," Gudao plucking it off the plate, Siegfried’s open maw ends up crammed with the last one, all of it entering his mouth at once.

Cheeks full, he can barely close his mouth to chew, the effort far more than expected. Crumbs falling down to his moobs, the crevices catch them, a light sprinkle adorning them. Throat dry, swallowing each morsel is harder than the last, Siegfried feeling each piece slowly descending down.

Once he finishes the last bit, he lets out a sigh, one not too far off from contentment.

The praise and affection apparently not enough, Gudao pats Siegfried's hair, placing the plate back on the nightstand.

"That's just the appetizer! Let's get you prim and proper to go to the dining hall!" Gudao standing up, Siegfried's eyes widen.

"Master, wouldn't you rather enjoy spending this evening together?" Keeping his eyes on his master, Siegfried mentally commands his face to not blush, unable to deal with other servants reacting to his size. If Astolfo saw him like this… He refuses to consider their actions in such a scenario.

"Fine," Gudao crosses his arms over his chest. "Merlin can change you back tomorrow," He huffs. "So I'll make sure to enjoy today, Emiya should be on cooking duty. Wait here," Gudao excitable as ever, he rushes out of the room.

Siegfried now alone, he straigns to lift his hand on the headboard. His arms difficult to bend with fat built up around his joints, moving them is a chore. Getting leverage, he slowly twists his body, bed creaking. Standing up, his body feels so different with nothing to support his astonishing weight.

Gut sagging down, his arms are unable to fully hold it all. Lifting it up, the weight of it is more than his sword, Balmung deceptively heavy. Letting it go, the pull of it nearly topples him, Siegfried flapping his wings to not fall over. His expansive gut jiggles. Sighing, he waddles to his master's desk, his new change of clothing left there. Thighs chafing, each heavy step causes his rolls to jiggle. His undefined ass wobbles back and forth, the massive rectangular masses jutting and sagging far out. His tail drags on the floor, the appendage having grown in width as well. A wide berth needed, Siegfried bumps into the desk, his stomach bouncing back and jiggling. Grabbing the pair of clothes, they seem to activate, the clothes floating and wrapping itself around him.

Taking the form of a simple t-shirt and shorts, they cling to his fatty form. Perfectly sized, they simultaneously show nothing yet cover nothing, the fabric caught in each roll of his. The shorts outline his new fat pad, the bulging mass feeling strange.

Glancing at the chair, Siegfried reconsiders sitting down, his ass wider than the chair.

The door opening, Siegfried turns around, thighs widely waddling to pull off such a maneuver.

"Emiya kicked me out," Gudao pouting, he pads his way to Siegfried. Letting himself fall onto Siegfried, his head uses Siegfried's moobs as a cushion as he hugs Siegfried's stomach. "Said I'd use up all of Chaldea's rations with my ideas," His voice is muffled as he speaks into Siegfried's fat.

Siegfried blushing, three times wider than Gudao, he clears his throat. "Master...," Siegfried trails off. Pensive, Siegfried lets his thoughts trail off, finding the new sensation somewhat enjoyable, especially with his master's enjoyment contagious, the act of traveling through numerous singularities not insignificant to their bond.

“Would being moderately selfish be so wrong with an entire life as a human spent fulfilling others' demands?” Siegfried finds himself thinking.

"Perhaps I can stay like this for a couple of days?" Siegfried lets out, pressing his tongue to his teeth to calm his nerves. Gudao removes himself from Siegfried. "Only a couple days," Siegfried clarifies. Though Gudao’s radiant expression remains plastered on his face.

"Of course, whatever you want!" Gudao grabbing him by the hand, his hand ends up wrapped around Siegfried's pudgy bear claw of a hand.

Siegfried hesitates, eyes shifting. "Perhaps some more krapfen, master?"

"Got it! Krapfen coming right up," Siegfried smiles, Gudao’s difficulty in pronouncing the word despite enunciating and slowing down endearing to him. "They're easy and don't require much ingredients, but if Emiya tries to kick me out, I'll just use a command seal," Grinning, Gudao salutes Siegfried before rushing off to complete his mission.

"Master, don't waste…" Siegfried trails off, Gudao already gone. Sighing, he shakes his head with a small chuckle. Gingerly testing the bed, Siegfried sits back down on the edge. Fat pooling around him, the position offers a different sensation of his immensity. Blushing, he clears his throat.

"Only a couple days," He reminds himself. Yet the warm feeling of being coddled and waited on remains in his heart.

Gudao's coddling on the battlefield merely felt like pity, Siegfried indeed needing support. And despite Gudao’s consoling and praise towards him, he couldn't help but feel as if they were hollow, not deserving of such praise and affection.

And while he had been roped and forced into his current predicament, his master's overt display removes all doubt, his master indeed fond of him.

Siegfried looks to the door, Gudao already back.

"Maybe I can extend staying like this, only a couple more days," Siegfried thinks as his master comes back with more krapfen, the few he asked for instead a dozen and then some. The sweet fresh scent reaches his nostrils, Siegfried refraining himself from licking his lips. A bit offered to him, Siegfried’s new train of thought only strengthens with it.

"I'll make sure you're as comfortable as can be," His master beams down at him.

Siegfried only lazily opens his maw, feeling voracious all of a sudden as he can’t wait to polish off the rest of the plate. Gudao rubbing his stomach, Siegfried looks forward to the rest of his first day out of however many he wishes.

#my writing #fat grand order #fat!siegfried #male weight gain #ssbhm #weight gain story

44 notes · View notes

mcatra · 5 years

Text

Oh my god they were lab partners pt. 2/2

part one

A03 LINK

Highschool AU fic of Hordak and Entrapta becoming lab partners. Hordak may have accidentally fallen in love with her somewhere along the way.

Hordak's never liked anyone before in his entire life. Not even as friends. So whatever this was? Completely out of his depth.

There was no stopping it- these feelings. It was insane how much her name plagued his thoughts in random places at all times of the day. These symptoms formed in unexpected ways, like how he had thought he was having a heart attack, when really all that happened was that Entrapta smiled at him. Or how his face would heat up and his hands would involuntarily go clammy when she would drag him by the hand to go somewhere.

Hordak had even learnt how to braid. He had gotten pretty good at it too, if the complicated french braids and buns Entrapta was sporting before lab now was of any indication.

It didn't matter though, since she obviously didn't feel the same. She's had dozens of friends before, and he was just one of them. But Entrapta was his first friend- but he's already screwed that up. It's taken him this long to find someone that he can actually tolerate the presence of, and it seemed fate was determined to take that away as well.

So he crushes the feelings deep inside, though they threaten to spill out every few minutes when he's with her. He's fine with being friends, really.

The school holidays was starting, which would give him plenty of time to get over his feelings.

This plan is immediately compromised when Entrapta insists on texting him several times a day.

Entrapta:

yakult is the perfect size of drink but it's not fizzy!! (〒﹏〒)

Hordak:

Perhaps you should try packaging your drinks in smaller sized Yakult bottles.

Entrapta:

:00 yea ur right!! I'll ask my butler to do that be righttt baackkk

Hordak:

A butler?

Entrapta:

yep my parents r always busy working!! Soda pop makes the best lunches ヾ(´ ▽ ` )

[image.attachment]

It's a photo of what seems to be her lunch, bite sized cookies, scones, and of course pink fizzy lemonade in a tiny bottle.

Looking at it, he thinks it's only customary to send a photo of his own lunch.

Hordak: [image.attachment]

Entrapta: ???????‽‽ Σ(°△°|||)︴

Entrapta: NOO9OOOOOO what is THAT ??!!!

He's confused by her response. It was all that Prime stacked their food cupboards with, he didn't see anything wrong about his grey ration bars. It wasn't even the brown kind today.

Hordak: That is my lunch.

Entrapta: (ಥ﹏ಥ) I'm so sorry hordak…

pleaseeee let me come over and deliver U some of my food!!!

He wishes she would, but he can't afford letting Prime see her. There's a reason why he's dodged every request from her to come over.

Hordak: Thank you for your consideration, but that won't be necessary. It gives me enough nutrition for the day.

Entrapta: FINEE but when we get back I'm giving you all the food U can eat!!! I'll even make them big!! Just for you!!

Hordak: I look forward to it.

Entrapta: (≧▽≦) ♥️

Did...Did she just send a heart? What did that mean?

He stares at the screen in disbelief. Every time he thinks he's doing well she sends his mind into overdrive.

Scratch that, what was he supposed to send back?

He falters on a response, anxiously trying to decide one before she got suspicious and asked him why he was taking so long. A solid 5 minutes later, he finally settles on one.

Hordak: :]

---

...

[Incoming video call from Entrapta]

He bolts upright in bed, hair in disarray.

The clock reads 1am. What was she doing calling at this hour? He scrambles to lower the volume, unlocking it in the process, and when he does Entrapta's face fills the screen.

She's in her pajamas, her hair tied up haphazardly into a messy bun on the top of her head. It seemed like she had attempted to recreate the neatly tucked bun that Hordak always did for her, but couldn't quite figure it out.

'Hordak! I've just made the most fascinating discovery- oh sorry, were you sleeping?'

'Ah, no. I wasn't.' He fibs, not wanting her to hang up. He didn't want to admit it, but he missed seeing her face. 'Do go on.'

She digs through a stack of letters, and brings it up triumphantly to the screen.

'I've found some scholarship offers buried in my junk mail!' She chirps through the pixelated video feed.

'Got one from California Institute of Technology, Harvard and MIT! They loved my research papers and scientific breakthroughs!'

He blinks in shock. That was huge.

'Congratulations!' He bursts out- those are incredible opportunities. ‘Which one will you be attending?'

'Oh, that's why I called! I needed help deciding. So I was wondering…' She looked oddly nervous, tapping two fingers together. 'Which university would you be going to?'

Hordak hadn't even applied to any university, let alone receiving offers from Ivy League schools. It had been decided since he was a kid that he would be working for Prime's company right after graduation. He hadn't considered any other alternative before.

'I…have not applied to any yet.'

'What?!’ She cries out, appalled. ‘You should definitely apply! You have more knowledge of cosmic forms than I do, Hordak. Plus your grades have improved exponentially this year- I even made a graph!'

Before he can ask why on earth she had made a graph of his grades she brings out a spreadsheet of his progress.

'According to the numbers you can definitely apply to any of the surrounding schools in the area! Oh but how fun would it be if we could go to the same university?!'

'I can't possibly afford the tuition-'

'Bank loans, and you can work part time! You could even apply for financial assistance. Please come.'

Hordak hesitates, looking at the door behind him. Imp was stirring in the room next door. He lowers his voice.

'I.. I...'

He starts and aborts a few sentences. He clenches his scarred arm unconsciously. Of course he wants to. But he had responsibilities that weighed heavily on his shoulders, and circumstances that a carefree sheltered girl couldn't even comprehend. No amount of optimism or daydreaming could fix his grim reality.

'I can't.' Is all he manages to say.

She looks slightly taken aback, and he can see her trying not to look disappointed.

'..That's okay. I understand.'

A horrible sense of guilt spreads in his stomach. Entrapta changes the topic and they don't bring up the subject again.

---

Entrapta has always had trouble making friends. People usually ignored her when she talked about her interests, or were telling her what she did wrong. Usually it was a missed social cue, or she had used words that were too technical for them to understand.

Hordak was different though. He always listened, understood her technical jargon and offered his own knowledge that sometimes even outweighed her own. She had been curious about this elusive person that everyone was afraid of since she had met him behind the bathroom block. He didn’t seem like the vicious animal that the rumours made him out to be. So on a whim, she had volunteered to be his lab partner.

At first she was just ecstatic to find someone who liked the same things she did, but soon it was more than just the shared love for science. Entrapta had thought for years that the only way she could make friends was allowing them to copy and take her work, but Hordak had showed her otherwise. A shared solidarity for two outcasts.

Even though he showed a tough angry exterior to everyone, with her Hordak was surprisingly kind.

He always did little things for her without prompting. Once she had forgotten to bring her jacket when it was cold and he had wordlessly handed his over for her to wear. Or how he noticed when she hadn't slept that night and bought her an iced coffee from the vending machine. He had even poured it into the lid in an effort to make it the way she liked it.

She began to notice things about him as well, like how he got embarrassed easily, or how despite his old demeanor he could be surprisingly childish. His reactions became even more fascinating than her experiments. Entrapta catalogued them in her mind, keeping track of the emotions he would show. He was always so stoic, the primary emotion being anger or quiet indifference. A few smiles here and there, scattered in between.

However when Hordak laughed for the first time ever, she was caught completely off guard.

When his eyes crinkled into little slits, and his laughter exposed his canines, her brain was shaken only leaving one thought.

Beautiful.

Entrapta had found something more valuable than any discovery she's made in her career as a self made scientist. She wanted to discover more about him, however he never talked about himself, which both enthralled and frustrated her to no end. But graduation was coming soon, and the last thing she wanted was for Hordak to not talk to her anymore like Adora and the others.

She had tried to put off the deadline, ignoring the growing stack of offer letters that could whisk her away to anywhere in the world.

Come with me.

I can't.

Why? Had she misread them this whole time? Did he not want to be with her too? But she was wrong with Adora and her friends, and Catra.

Someone told her once how people cannot be quantified, calculated, predicted. Feelings can be there one day and gone the next. She is no stranger to failure. But it doesn't mean she isn't afraid.

-----

School resumes again for their final term, and Hordak is inwardly thrilled to see his friend in person again. Entrapta waves at him from the school gate, before diving headfirst into all the things that happened over the holidays she couldn’t show over text.

They agree to be lab partners again without hesitation, and fall back into their comfortable friendship.

Soon it’s prom season, and the halls are decorated in banners, posters and flyers. People are pairing off left and right, chattering away about how to ask their dates out.

Hordak never attends these sort of events, he always blatantly refuses to go. However during one of their study sessions in the library, Entrapta tries to convince him to come with her.

‘It’s meaningless to go to such an event. Mingling or dancing is not a productive venture.'

'But it could be fun! I’ve been wanting to conduct a social experiment and it’s the perfect place for it.' She protests. 'Also Prom is imperative to the high school experience.'

He waves her away, unconvinced. It's not like he could afford the tickets anyway, and Prime would never let him go.

'I refuse to squander my time on something so pointless. There will be no further discussion on this.'

She pouts, turning back to her notebook. The sulky charade lasts for a record 10 minutes before she caves and starts running her mouth again.

He's still adamantly against it, but that sentiment gets stopped in its tracks when he catches someone approaching Entrapta.

'Hey, Entrapta was it?' The tall blonde says languidly. ‘Can I speak to you for a moment, over there?’

'Oh, sure!' She says, getting up from her chair. 'Can I get you something?'

'Certainly!'

Hordak listens to the conversation happening behind the bookshelf. He doesn't like the look of them, all greasy smiles and cocky demeanor.

'A date to the prom, please.' They smirk, their tall stature allowing them to lean over her.

Hordaks jaw drops, and the feeling of jealousy flares in the pit of his stomach. He fights the urge to throw that cocky bastard across the room. But the knowledge that he has no right to be angry when he had already turned down her offer kept him rooted to the spot.

Thankfully Entrapta doesn’t seem to get it.

'Oh I'm not organising that.’ She says, tapping her chin. ‘I think Frosta and her prom committee are. Or you could ask our school captain Adora and her prefects, they’ll know who to talk to get tickets.'

They look dumbfounded, but hastily amend their wording.

'No, I meant- will you be my date. To the prom.'

'Me?'

At this point there are marks on the wooden bookshelf from Hordak’s nails. The other person looked almost cocky in their confidence, smirking while waiting for a response.

Of course she’d accept, they were just friends after all, and she didn’t owe him anything. However Entrapta cuts through his spiralling thoughts.

‘Thank you. But I won’t be going.’

Hordak looks up in surprise, shocked at her response. So do they, as Entrapta swiftly passes them and lights up when she spots him behind the shelf. ‘Hordak, there you are!’ She chirps brightly. ‘Come on, I wanted to show you progress photos of my new upgrades with Emily.’

He feels awful as she leads them back to their desks, it seems like he was letting down Entrapta a lot these days. First with the university, and now this. However Hordak is determined to make it up to her, racking his brain for ideas until he remembers the bandaids she had given him years ago.

Cupcakes. Despite not having much he managed to scrounge enough coins to buy ingredients.

Half of them end up charred to a crisp but he manages to salvage a few through enough scraping. With the help of Imp, he manages to frost and decorate them purple and blue to cover up the scorch marks.

Hordak thrusts the cupcakes in her face before class, before realising that he hadn't prepared anything to say.

'I, uh, wanted to..here.' He stammers, dropping them into her palm. 'I made them. For you.'

She looks at the cupcakes, stunned. To his complete and utter horror, Entrapta's eyes start to water.

Oh no. Did he mess up? His mind goes into overdrive in panic, and he looks around frantically for a way to calm her down.

'Were they unsatisfactory? I will try again. Please allow me to dispose of those-' He reaches out to take them back but she pulls it away.

'I love them.’

She wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and she's beaming a crooked smile.

He hesitates, unsure what to make of her reaction.

‘E-Entrapta..I, um…’ He begins, remembering the person in the library. He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out two tickets. ‘Do you want to.. Go to the prom. With me. So you can study people, like you said.’

Entrapta gasps, a long and drawn out one that gets higher in pitch.

‘THANK YOU HORDAK!!’ She squeals, and she practically launches herself into his chest, nearly toppling them over. ‘Of COURSE I will!’

He smiles at this, glad that he had been the one to put that grin on her face. Anything was worth making her happy.

-------

It’s a bad night again. He wants nothing more than to stay in bed but he forces himself to get up, if nothing else to get away from Prime. His older brother had found out about the money he had taken to buy the prom tickets and make the cupcakes. This resulted in having the life beaten out of him while Imp watched, cowering behind the door. He gets his phone taken from him, a clear warning not to talk to Entrapta again.

It’s summer, but Hordak opts for a black turtleneck sweater under his uniform and a baggy jacket. He however can’t disguise the bruises on his face, as usually Prime would avoid making markings that would arouse suspicion.

He can hear his classmates whisper amongst themselves, saying that he’s gotten into a fight and beat the rival gangs in the area. Hordak growls at them menacingly, and they scatter. He watches them go, and for the first time in a long time goes to skip class.

It’s nice out, a cool breeze on the rooftop soothes his skin. He gingerly takes his uniform off, wincing as he peels off the slightly blood stained sleeve.

He should be used to it by now. But it doesn’t get any better.

‘You didn’t reply to my texts.’

Hordak nearly jumped out of his skin, whipping around to see Entrapta. She has a delicate frown on her face, and looks at him up and down.

'You shouldn’t be here.’ He says, turning away.

She doesn't look convinced, and starts to walk towards him. ‘Hordak-’

‘I said, GET OUT!’ He shouts, furiously wrapping his uniform back around his shoulders. ‘The prom’s off. Leave.’

Entrapta disregards his outburst, striding forward to confront him. 'I can’t keep ignoring this, Hordak.’ She catches his wrist easily, looking at his wounds.

'You come to school with these new burns, these bruises, and you never TELL me anything.’ She says, pained. 'People say you got them in fights, but I know you. What really happened?’

He stares at her, but she looks determined. Ever the scientist, always looking for answers to things she didn’t understand.

'You really want to know?’ He growls, tearing his arm from her grip. ‘I am an orphan. My brother Prime got full custody since he’s the only one old enough to earn money to support us. I can’t leave, no matter how much he beats me. My younger brother, Imp. He’s only a toddler- if I go, what happens to him? I couldn’t possibly support the both of us.’

She looks shocked, but doesn’t say anything.

‘He’s ordered me not to talk to you. So that’s what I’m going to do. Don’t make it any harder for me.’ He tries to sound angry, but it comes off more like pleading.

‘No.’ She says simply.

He looks at her, incredulous. ‘Did you not hear what I just said-’

‘No, I heard you.’ She replies, bringing out bandages from her backpack like the first time they had met.

‘I’ve got an idea. I’m breaking you out of there.’

‘You’re what?’

----

Lab Partner: Are you ready??

Hordak: This is such a bad idea.

He’s had no idea how he ended up in this situation. As per instruction via Entrapta’s burner phone, he had packed a getaway bag with their documents for him and Imp, and was waiting for several of her tiny bots surveillancing the area to give the all clear.

Entrapta had temporarily disabled the security cams in the entire neighbourhood, and was currently waiting in the getaway car.

Hordak: I can’t believe I’m turning on my brother.

Lab Partner: Its okay, we can work on that crisis later!!

Lab Partner: I've also got your disguise in the car :))) 💃💃

Prime was still out at work, and it should be a few more hours until he came back. Hordak leads Imp by the hand down the driveway and fastens him into the booster seat of the getaway car.

'He is so cuute!' Entrapta coos, poking his baby brother’s cheek. ‘I’m Entrapta. We’re gonna make sure you’re safe, okay?’

Imp nods, somewhat confused. ‘Entrapta.’ He repeats, and she grins.

They peel out of the driveway, and although Entrapta is a terrifying driver they make it safely to her house outside the city.

When they arrive, he is rendered speechless. Was this a castle? A mansion? The guards out front nod at Entrapta and the security gates open, letting them through.

At least he knows Prime couldn’t possibly follow him here, thanks to Entrapta’s parents security team.

Imp has taken to the place, admiring the many robots she had engineered. Her butler offers him some tiny beverages as he waits for Entrapta to finish whatever she was doing upstairs.

After a while she comes down the stairs and he can practically feel himself stop breathing. She’s gorgeous, dressed in a purple velvet suit, tied together with a vest and a bow tie. Her coattails swish as she walks towards Hordak, who had been stunned into silence.

‘I...ah..’ He stutters. ‘What is this for?’

Imp kicks him in the shin.

‘Uh. Y-you look... exemplary. A magnificent choice of attire.’

‘It’s prom today! Did you forget?’ She grins, whisking him from his seat and plonking him in front of the mirror. ‘We bought the tickets, we may as well go!’

‘But Imp-’

‘-Will be safe. There’s no way he’ll find him here. We’ll be in and out, and be back before he’s even left work.’

Entrapta takes out a makeup brush and some black lipstick, and starts applying it onto his face. For some reason he lets her work, he’s never really been able to say no to her. She styles his hair so some falls across his face. ‘Now for the good part!’ She declares, and brings out a long black dress combined with an inner red cape, with slits on the sides. They’re accompanied by tall black heels and a black clutch.

‘I-I don’t know.’ He says. He’s never worn anything that bold or attention grabbing before, usually choosing clothes that would hide his scarring.

‘Just try it on!’

------

They arrive at the prom arm in arm, and people audibly gasp as they walk down the stairs into the hall. The crowd clears from their path as they make their way down the venue, their stares turning into ones of admiration.

The person from the library shoots them an affronted look, much to Hordak’s satisfaction. Perhaps this wasn’t so bad after all.

Entrapta starts grabbing random food off the tables for Hordak to try. As he eats she starts recording Hordak’s different reactions to each new food into her little recorder.

‘It’s absolutely fascinating how social groups function in peculiar ways! For example,’ She commentates, pointing at her old group of friends. ‘Catra asked Scorpia out to make Adora jealous.’

He watches the brunette antagonize her ex friend, and Adora seemed to be taking the bait. Scorpia watches on, looking disgruntled.

‘Seems like it is working.’

‘No mind, Glimmer’s only Adora’s date to make Bow jealous. But according to my observations, that seems to be less successful.’

He nods, seemed like there was a lot going on in Etheria he had never cared to notice before.

Soon they are interrupted by loud commanding voice on the microphone. It’s Frosta, and she’s announcing the first dance. She looks impossibly small up there behind the podium, which happens when you skip a few grades.

‘Let’s go dance!’

‘I don’t know how to-’

Entrapta drags Hordak onto the dance floor before he can object, joining the other couples paired around them. She puts a hand around his waist, and clasps the other in his.

'Also, Hordak! I got you something.' She says, almost shyly, handing him a box. 'Instead of a corsage...'

He peers inside and in the box is a beautiful purple crystal, embedded onto a necklace. It has some sort of foreign script engraved into it.

‘Wait, is this…’

‘Yep! It’s the crystals we grew together at the lab last term!’ She beamed excitedly. ‘Didn’t they grow so beautifully?’

He turns the crystal in his fingers in awe. It’s been months since the incident with the beaker. ‘What does it say?’

‘O-oh. Um….’

She turns slightly red, embarrassed. Hordak is fascinated, he’s never seen her look like that before. He presses again, curious.

Entrapta mumbles something incoherent, blushing up to her hairline. Her grip tightens on the fabric of his dress as she buries her head into his chest.

‘Loved.’

His eyes widen in shock. She finally looks up, eyes burning with sudden conviction. The rest of the prom seems to fade away into the background.

‘I love you, Hordak.’

Now it was his turn to go completely red- she also looks mortified, so now they were just two embarrassed teens in the middle of the dance floor.

‘I-I love you too!’ He bursts out, awkward and fumbling but finally honest.

‘Really?!’ She says, her hair floofing in excitement, like she can’t believe it. ‘You really do?’

‘Of course-’ and before he can explain the months of agony of being unable to fight his feelings she mashes her face against his.

His knees almost buckle out of pure shock, but can feel himself melt into the kiss, her lips are unimaginably soft. He can feel her smile against his own, and she breaks it, giggling. She goes to say something but he's the one to interrupt her this time, kissing her over and over again as she squeals.

He chuckles at her response, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt this happy.

---

It's been a year since, and they find a cozy apartment in between their universities. Entrapta’s studying engineering at MIT while being cross registered at Harvard.

Meanwhile Hordak studies space science at Columbia University, while working part time.

Hordak had collected all of his and Imp’s legal documents, voice recordings and picture evidence of the abuse and emailed them to Entrapta’s lawyers. Since he turned 18 he was able to win the court case against Prime and take Imp in to be under his legal guardianship. Thankfully he also managed to get a restraining order after a few incidents since Prime was outraged at losing his servants.

‘I’m home.’ He says, opening the door to find Entrapta chasing Emily around the apartment, his younger brother perched on top. She picks up Imp from her bot holding him in her arms.

'Welcome back!' She greets him with a kiss. 'Ready to start our new project?'

Hordak smiles, he's been doing that a lot lately. All the suffering he'd been through was all worthwhile if it brought him to this happy little family. He thumbs his little LUVD necklace which he wears every day.

'Always.'

#she-ra #she ra #entrapdak #spop #entrapta #hordak #she-ra and the princesses of power

116 notes · View notes