#which like my academics are actually good now but they’re not to the kick ass levels I’m used to yet so that’ll come | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gukyi · 4 years

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the love project | jjk

summary: from running to mcdonald’s at 3am after a halloween party where the two of you dressed up as the teletubbies to timing how long it takes for him to drink a cup of monster mixed with mountain dew and iced coffee and then do fifty push-ups, you’re used to your best friend jungkook asking you to do all sorts of crazy things. but, of all the shit the two of you do, letting him follow you around for a week with a camera and take candid photos of you for a photography assignment might just be the craziest of them all.

{college!au, friends to lovers!au}

pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader genre: fluff, comedy word count: 12k warnings: college antics, hopeless pining, slow burn a/n: me: this fic will be 10k max! also me: actually nevermind on par for the course of this blog, i hope you enjoy this fic! it was so much fun to write and it definitely got me back into the ~writing mood~. more fics coming soon!

These days, the weeks pass you by like trains on a platform. They whiz past you, the only discernible features being the beginning and the end of them, with the middle nothing but a blur.

At least, that’s how it feels when you’re in college, and the days bleed into weeks bleed into months, and suddenly you’re one year closer to graduating, one year closer to figuring out what next to do with your life, even if you’re still missing that one general education requirement you forgot to take in your first year so now you’re trying to cram it into your schedule at the last minute.

Okay, you’ll admit it. Introduction to Astronomy is kicking your ass. That’s what you get for putting it off until junior year, when you’re supposed to have reached the point in your History major career where you don’t have to look at numbers anymore and the idea of doing basic math is absolutely unfathomable. History majors don’t do math. They just don’t. It vanished from your academic arsenal long before now, alongside your ability to interpret word problems and understand science textbooks.

Perhaps in another universe, you would have actually retained those skills past high school, but that universe is not this one, and so your problem sets can solve themselves or not be solved at all.

Your best friend would have to disagree.

“It’s not even calculus!” Jungkook exclaims over a mouthful of a Starbucks tomato and pesto panini, pointing to your laptop in exasperation, as if the answer has been staring you in the face for the past fifteen minutes. “It’s just algebra! All you’re doing is plugging the numbers into the formula and finding the missing variable!”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff, furiously erasing at the notebook in front of you as you get yet another incorrect answer. Who knew math could be so difficult? Oh, that’s right. You did. “You took that advanced differential equations class for fun last year. It’s not even required for your major. You’re just a masochist.”

“Says the person who convinced their advisor to let them take seven classes because they, and I quote, ‘all seemed so interesting’ and you ‘didn’t want to miss out.’” Jungkook rebukes pointedly. “Because your life would be so terrible if you didn’t take Economic History of Pre-Industrialized Europe.”

He’s got you there. Seven classes is a lot. In your defense, Economic History of Pre-Industrialized Europe was very interesting and you got a 4.0 that semester. So who is he to judge? Jungkook’s favorite pastime is pretending that taking three different computer science classes in a single semester isn’t going to single-handedly kill him.

Jungkook watches you struggle for a few moments more before he sighs, like he can’t take looking at someone so mathematically incompetent any longer. He stuffs the remaining third of his Starbucks panini into his mouth all at once like the ravenous beast he is before he reaches over the tiny table you’re sat at to look at your problem set himself. He turns your laptop towards him and grabs hold of your notebook, furrowing his eyebrows as he enters Work Jungkook Mode.

Work Jungkook Mode is the mode of him you see most often during finals week or the rare occasions where you meet up to actually try and get work done. Work Jungkook has tunnel vision for whatever assignment is currently in front of him, which he will do either in one sitting or die trying. Work Jungkook lets his coffee get cold and forgets to answer your text messages, even when you’re sat right across from him and you know that he can see the notification on his laptop. Work Jungkook refuses to turn in anything that he hasn’t devoted his entire being to, even if it’s something as simple as a discussion board post. Some of his other friends say that when Jungkook is in Work Jungkook Mode, they won’t even try to contact him, lest their messages get lost in the flurry of his coding assignments.

But you are not “some of his other friends.” You are his best friend. So rules do not apply to you. And Jungkook has long accepted that fact.

“Hey, don’t mess up my work—” You exclaim defensively, grabby hands reaching over the table to retrieve your notebook. “Wait, how did you do that?”

Jungkook scribbles something down in nearly-illegible font, determined to solve the problem in front of him. He thinks for a few more seconds before eventually jotting down an answer, circling it with his pencil. Holding the notebook out so both of you can see, he scoots his chair over to your side of the table, your shoulders pressed together in this tiny corner of the Starbucks, right by the bathroom, and explains, step by step, what he did.

He does that for the following two problems in your set, walking you through the kind of math he was doing in freshman year of high school like it’s nothing, answering all of your stupid questions and giving you tips on how to finesse the system by taking as many shortcuts as possible. Teaching you things you never learned, or possibly had just forgotten. Things that a professor would think is idiotic to re-teach to a junior in university. Things that Jungkook wants you to know because he just wants you to have a little more faith in yourself.

“Does that help?” He asks when he’s finished, still doubting his fantastic teaching abilities despite the fact that he just taught you more in the last thirty minutes than your professor has managed in a month and a half.

“It actually does,” you tell him, pleasantly surprised. Looking back down at your notebook, what was once a shapeless blur of numbers, letters, and formulas is suddenly a clear and organized outline of each and every step to follow. “I didn’t know it was that easy.”

“Anything can be easy if you just commit yourself to learning how to do it,” Jungkook says, one of those random sentences that are too wise for a college student surviving off of RedBull and Starbucks food, the ones that always make you think Jungkook is secretly an immortal sage with life experiences far beyond your own. “Except coding. Which is hard no matter how good you are at it.”

“Aw, you can do it,” you rally, reaching up to pinch his chin in between your fingers and squeeze it tight. “It’s also too late to change your major now, so you’re stuck.”

“Wow, thanks for the encouragement,” Jungkook chides, hand coming up to rub at where you held his jaw, rolling his eyes. “You should let me help you with your Astronomy work more often. Gives me a break from Python.”

“I would have made you help me whether you liked it or not,” you tell him pointedly, because he is your best friend and he doesn’t get out of things as easily as he thinks he can. “But thanks. I’ll definitely take you up on that.”

“Of course,” Jungkook says with a good-natured grin, always so selfless and kind and giving. He practically signed himself up for a semester’s worth of TA-ing for Introduction to Astronomy despite the constant mountain of work he has himself. Just because it’s you.

“My very own personal genius,” you muse, wrapping your hands around his arm and snuggling into his body, a whisper of a language only the two of you share. It’s something the two of you have long gotten used to, pressing your fingers all over each other’s bodies like it’s second nature. One of the things that makes you feel so certain about having Jungkook in your life. About wanting him to stay with you for the rest of time. “I’m never letting you go.”

Jungkook smiles, a warm hand coming to rest atop of your own. He breathes, in and out, chest rising beneath your touch. “Like I’d ever let you,” he says.

There is no question about it. Jungkook is one hundred percent, absolutely, undoubtedly, positively, indisputably smarter than you are. It’s something that the two of you used to jokingly fight about (because Jungkook claims that he’s a bad essay writer, even though he’s not), but at this point it’s cemented in stone—he’s a damn genius. A genius who is inexplicably good at everything. A double threat. Triple, if you count the fact that he’s built beyond belief and could probably chuck you into next week if you really, really ticked him off.

The truth is that, ninety percent of the time it is you who is going to Jungkook for help. Whether it be an assignment you need assistance on (namely Astronomy, because Jungkook probably couldn’t help you on your Mesopotamian artifact and primary source analyses despite his best intentions), a date that was a lot worse than you were hoping it would be, or even just the right coffee to order from that expensive place on the corner. Jungkook knows how to fix everything.

So when Jungkook slides into the seat across from you in the food court after his Mastering Photography class with that I’m in trouble look on his face, you know something is horribly wrong.

“Are you alright?” You ask, concerned as you watch him devour the sushi takeout in front of him, stuffing the spicy tuna rolls into his mouth like they’re Skittles. His camera hangs haphazardly out of his open backpack, like he barely had enough time to stuff it into the pocket while he was making his way here. There’s a worried expression written all over his face as he fumbles with the chopsticks in his hand, losing his grip on them every ten seconds.

It’s not until Jungkook has finished the container of spicy tuna rolls in front of them that he finally seems to work up the courage to answer you.

“My Photography class is gonna be the death of me,” Jungkook exclaims, exasperated.

“I thought you liked it,” you comment unhelpfully. Jungkook had been so excited to be enrolled in it, because you needed a recommendation from a different professor and you had to submit a portfolio in order to join the class, making it one of those exclusive (and thus, much better) courses. Not to mention the fact that Jungkook is basically already a professional photographer if his Instagram is anything to go by. He’s going to walk out of university with a Photography minor whether he realizes it or not.

“I do,” Jungkook insists, even if right now it sounds like the two of you both need convincing of that fact. “But this project is ridiculous. I don’t even know how my professor expects us to have the time to finish it.”

“What do you have to do?”

Jungkook sighs. Just thinking about it seems to stress him out. “I mean, it’s only really a week long. So I guess it’s not too bad. But we’re supposed to compile a portfolio of the same subject, taken over the course of the week, with them in all sorts of different poses and lighting and locations, to express a personal theme.”

You scrunch your nose up in confusion. “I might be wrong, but isn’t that what photography… is?” You ask cluelessly.

“Yes,” Jungkook argues, “but also no. Photography is taking pictures of things just for the hell of it. Not because they necessarily speak to a part of your soul. You just like the look of it. You want to capture the scene. That’s it.”

“Oh,” You say dumbly.

“And our subject can be whoever or whatever we want, but he recommended choosing a person because taking pictures of our water bottles in different places is boring,” Jungkook huffs, though his professor does have a point there. Modern history wasn’t made out of photographs of store windows and miscellaneous items. It was made out of people, out of events in their lives that shaped the rest of the world, out of personal experiences that changed their point of view. “But I don’t even know anybody who would be willing to let me photograph them for a whole week! I’d basically have to follow them around like paparazzi!”

“I’ll do it,” you suggest casually, because it seems like the most obvious choice to you. There’s no one Jungkook spends as much time with as you.

Jungkook’s eyes pop out of his head. “What?”

“I’m serious,” you insist. “Think about it. You need a subject for your project that you can photograph in a wide variety of places and over the course of a week. Who else do you spend that much time with, other than me?”

“Well..” Jungkook begins, trying to fight your reasons with his own. “Would you even be comfortable with something like that? I mean, I’m literally going to constantly be taking photos of you.”

“Like we don’t already do that on our phones,” you tease, having amassed quite the album of terrible Jungkook pictures over the years.

“A camera is different from a phone,” Jungkook protests weakly.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’m just saying. It won’t bother me,” you say with a shrug. Why is Jungkook being so… weird about your suggestion? You thought he would be jumping at the offer, especially considering it means he won’t have to go out of his way to find and photograph someone else for this assignment. But he’s being rather hesitant. You watch as he glares down at his empty sushi takeout box, eyebrows furrowed in that thick, nervous way. “But you don’t have to,” you backtrack. “It was just a suggestion.”

He breathes in and breathes out, expression solid. Even from here you can see the cogs whirring in his brain, placing each and every potential result into a pro and con list inside his mind, trying to work out whether the benefits will be greater than the cost.

Quite frankly, you don’t know what all the holdup is about.

“You’re… sure about this?” He asks, looking up at you, determined to ensure your comfort. As if that’s even an issue. “You’re cool with being photographed and everything?”

“Only because it’s you,” you tease lightheartedly, expecting some sort of equally cheesy response. Instead, it makes Jungkook do something weird. He freezes in place, darting his eyes away from your gaze for a split second, collecting thoughts you can’t see. “Yeah,” you say loudly, trying to bring him back. “I’m fine with it.”

He inhales, exhales, closes his eyes, and opens them. “Okay then. I guess it’s settled. You’ll be my subject,” he declares, an almost unnoticeable wobble to his voice. It’s probably nothing, so you don’t think too hard about it.

“Can you at least pretend to be a little more excited about this?” You ask, jabbing him in the chest with a wooden chopstick. “It’s the first time we’ve ever gotten to be part of a project together!”

“Yay,” Jungkook says, lifeless.

“How about a photo to commemorate it?” You suggest, reaching over to pull the camera out of his backpack, pushing it into his hands. “This can be the start of your portfolio.”

“Fine,” he eventually caves, bringing it up to his eye as he turns it on, twisting the lens to perfect the focus. Even caught off guard like this, he looks like a professional, like someone who was born to be behind the camera. He’s a computer science major but you know that photography will always be something special to him.

You strike a dramatic pose, holding your chopsticks out, one in each hand, with a wide, excited smile on your face. “How do I look?” You ask, scrunching your eyes together.

Jungkook’s finger hovers over the silver button. “Perfect,” he tells you, voice soft and honest.

Click.

“So, how many photos are you supposed to take for this portfolio?” You ask as you flop around on Jungkook’s bed, pretending that the open tab on your laptop with your fifty-page reading doesn’t exist. You don’t even know why professors assign readings that long. Do they really expect you to read all of it?

From across his room, you can make out the top of Jungkook’s fluffy brown hair over his sleek gaming chair, one of the ones that look like high-tech airplane seats. “I don’t know,” he says. “He said at least twenty. And no more than fifty. Which really makes me wonder if someone once submitted like, one hundred photos for this project that he had to grade them on. But yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” you say. When you’re around a cute animal, you can easily take twenty photographs. Granted, they aren’t exactly award-worthy photographs, but it’s not a physically demanding task.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says. “Hypothetically you could finish it in a day. But it looks really obvious.”

“Well, how many do you have now?”

It’s been a day and a half since Jungkook agreed to let you be his so-called muse, but already you’ve lost track of how many photos he’s taken of you. He loves his camera, you know that, but you didn’t realize exactly how much he loves his camera. And with you as the sole subject for his project, he’s practically letting it hang from his neck all day long, just waiting for the right time to snap a photo of you standing in line at the food court, frowning at your textbook, or waiting to meet up with him. Every time he sees you he snaps a picture, even if the lighting’s bad, even if you haven’t had your morning coffee yet, even if it’s midnight and you look like a zombie. In his mind, there are no bad pictures. Just memories.

You wonder what the hell he sees in you.

“A lot,” Jungkook answers unhelpfully, making no effort to elaborate on that statement.

“Have you counted?” You ask, getting off of his bed to join him at his desk.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to realize what you’re doing until you’re standing right next to him, placing a hand over his shoulders as you lean down next to him. He fumbles around for a second, the mouse slipping through his grip, and you catch a glimpse of one of the photos he’s taken of you, a sliver of your pursed lips, the wrinkles between your eyebrows.

It’s from the library yesterday. You didn’t even know Jungkook had taken a picture of you there. You had a stupid reading to complete last night, one that made no sense and was terribly-written, and you spent an hour just trying to figure out what the damn argument was, and Jungkook captured it. You were there for an hour and Jungkook was there too, watching you like it was nothing, waiting for the perfect moment. He was there, sitting across from you, camera at the ready. You didn’t even hear it click.

He closes it before you get a closer look at the photo, frantically hitting the little red dot at the top corner of the window before you have a chance to ask why.

“What, I’m not allowed to see?” You chide, a little bit hurt but more confused than anything else. Why is Jungkook being so secretive?

“No,” Jungkook spits quickly. making you raise an eyebrow in alarm. “I mean, it’s a surprise. You get to see when it’s finished. I still have to… uh, edit. And stuff.”

“Edit? You think I’m that ugly?” You tease, knowing that he probably means color correction but enjoying the way that he gets all flustered when he hears your voice.

Jungkook’s eyes widen at that, like he just realized he made a wrong turn and is desperately backtracking. “What, no! I don’t—I don’t think you’re ugly.”

You laugh, letting the sound of your voice ease the tension in his shoulders, reveling in the way his big doe eyes seem to soften when he realizes you were just teasing. He looks like a kid caught stealing a candy bar from a gas station, looks like one of those boyfriends in the viral videos where the girl reveals that she got him a present or something instead, all nervous and full of explanations.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” you assure him, rubbing up and down his arm to soothe him, calm his heart down. “You don’t have to show me. I’m just excited. No one’s ever taken photos of me like this before.”

“I would,” Jungkook speaks up softly. “If you asked. I would.”

“I know,” You say. You’re not sure if there’s a thing in this world Jungkook wouldn’t do for you, and you, him. If he asked, you would pluck the stars from the sky for him. Bring him back a piece of the moon. Stop time. Anything. Everything. Just for him. “I know.”

“What are you doing?” Jungkook asks, changing the topic as he whirls around in his gaming chair.

“Just another reading, like always,” you dismiss, because you’re positive the last thing Jungkook wants to hear about right now is your primary source reading on irrigation techniques in agrarian Europe. You don’t even want to hear about it. “But I could use some help on Astronomy.”

Without another word, Jungkook gets up from his desk and the two of you head over to his bed, where an untouched problem set waits on your computer. He grabs a notebook from his backpack along the way before sitting down next to you on the edge of his bed, bodies pressed together. Slowly, he begins to coach you through each problem, step by step, drawing pictures and diagrams if he has to, until you finish all ten problems.

The truth is, you didn’t really need help with this unit. Astronomy’s gotten a lot easier now that Jungkook has taught you the strategies to tackle it. But Jungkook sometimes feels like a ghost when he works, especially when he’s sitting at his desk, quiet and focused and almost invisible. And call you clingy, but you like it when you can look up and see his face instead of the back of a chair, a little tuft of wavy brown hair. You like it when he’s right beside you, in a place where you know you won’t lose him, where you can hold on if things get rough. Where you can see his stupid brown eyes and his goofy smile and know that he’ll always be there for you.

When he’s finished, Jungkook doesn’t get back up to sit at his desk. He flops down on his back, staring up at the white ceiling of his room, eyes tracing the cracks. You join him, side by side, pretending that there’s something there. Looking up at the sky would be nicer, but it doesn’t really matter, so long as you’re with him.

“I didn’t know you took so many photos,” you say.

“I never want to miss anything.”

“You should give me more warnings, next time. I feel like I look so ugly in some of them.”

“No, you don’t. Don’t say stuff like that.”

“You don’t think I’m ugly?” You ask him, for real this time. It’s not that you think he’s going to say that he does, it’s that you want to know what he really thinks. How he really sees you. You turn your head to him, back pressed against his comforter, barely a foot apart. And he turns back to you, and he’s right there, right there in front of you, big brown eyes wide and blinking. He’s right there, how could you miss him?

“No,” Jungkook says, honest and true. He looks at you, looks right at you, right into you, and he muses to himself, chuckling. “Why would I ever think that?”

At the end of the day, you can’t really be bothered to put on real pants in anticipation of Jungkook’s trigger-happy camera-taking tendencies. He’s seen you spill a boiling hot bowl of tomato soup all over yourself in the dining hall. He’s seen you at four in the morning in the library the night before finals begin, eyebags down to your knees and mismatched shoes on your feet. He’s seen you in the middle of a frat house, sweat dripping down your forehead and smelling of nothing but straight alcohol. Getting dressed up just for him would be antithetical to the very foundation of your friendship.

You have, however, become keenly more cognizant in the last few days of when Jungkook is about to take a photo of you. Mostly because you glance up at your surroundings every three seconds to make sure you aren’t getting sniped from across the food court. Nobody else needs to see a picture of you picking up three pieces of sushi with your chopsticks and stuffing them all into your mouth at once. And, from what you can tell, you’ve been pretty successful, which either means you’ve gotten better at telling when Jungkook might be taking a photo of you, or Jungkook’s gotten better at hiding it.

Either way, he’s got a lot more pictures of you reflexively flashing a peace-sign in his direction when you hear the telltale sound of his camera lens focusing, so you’re not really sure what that means for the fate of his portfolio.

Besides your newfound hyper-awareness of the sound of a camera lens adjusting, the strangest part of you and Jungkook’s little project is how quickly the rest of your friends adjusted to this brand new dynamic.

This is not to say this assignment is the weirdest thing you and Jungkook have done together, because there was once one week where you and Jungkook challenged each other to only eat bananas for every meal to see if anything would happen to either of you. Nothing did, but after that week you swore off bananas for the rest of your life and have had little appetite for them since.

It’s more that your other friends have just accepted the fact that ridiculous, extravagant shenanigans are a necessary part of you and Jungkook’s relationship and have simply chosen not to question them anymore. At least, most of them have.

“So, how’s you and Jungkook’s little photography fling going?” Maisie asks, and even through the phone you can hear the way she’s wiggling her eyebrows.

“It’s not a fling, and it’s fine,” you hiss back, trying to keep your voice down as you pack up your belongings, phone pressed between your ear and your shoulder. “Stop speaking so loudly, everyone else in the library can probably hear you.”

“Good, because they’ve all probably noticed the way Jungkook’s been following you around like an unrestrained fanboy for the past four days taking pictures of you,” Maisie says pointedly, voice so sharp it causes you to look around at the other tables to make sure no one’s listening in.

You frown, hoping your deadpan expression is audible through the phone. “It’s not like that and you know it.”

“Don’t you think it’s even a little strange that you’ve given Jungkook full permission to take photos of you like you’re a model and he’s some sort of weird, professional paparazzi?” You can practically see Maisie’s face in front of you, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows as she makes her point.

“No, it’s what we agreed on,” you remind her for the umpteenth time. There’s nothing weird about this. You’re helping him with a project, what more could it be? “Jungkook needed someone to take pictures of for his photography project and I thought it would be a good idea if I was that someone.”

“Hmm… wonder why…” Maisie trails off, deliberately vague and suggestive all at once.

“You’ve been going on about this ever since Jungkook and I met, Maise,” you say with a roll of your eyes, tossing your backpack over your shoulder. “You know that Jungkook and I are just friends. Like we have always been.”

“Friends that take candid photos of each other under the guise of a project,” Maisie adds, and you can see the air quotes around the word “project” right in front of you.

“Friends that help each other out because that’s what friends do,” you correct. “You’re just going to have to accept the fact that Jungkook and I are always going to be just friends and nothing more. No matter how much money you’ve bet on us getting together.”

Maisie gasps. “I have not bet money on such a thing! This is slander!”

“Don’t think I don’t see you and Jimin’s damn Venmo history.” You pull up to the front desk of the library to check out a primary source book needed for one of your classes. It’s the first edition, and it’s battered beyond belief, but it’s better than paying for it. “Just this, thanks.”

“The only way you could convince me that you and Jungkook are just friends is if you go on a date or something,” Maisie comments snidely. “I don’t think I’ve seen either of you romantically interested in someone else the entire time you’ve known each other. Isn’t that proof enough?”

“You want me to go on a date with someone?” You demand, determined to get Maisie to hop off your ass about this.

You and Jungkook are just friends. If swiping right with someone on Tinder and getting dinner and a movie with them is what will convince Maisie of that, then that is what you will do. It’s not as if being friends with Jungkook is mutually exclusive with you going out with other people. Should be easy, right?

The boy behind the counter tells you your book is due back at the end of the semester, and you nod your thanks before heading out of the library.

“Fine, I’ll go on a date with someone. If it’ll get you to stop trying to convince me that Jungkook and I are gonna get married and have babies,” you declare, pushing your body against the door handles as you leave, five minutes to spare before your next class begins.

“You guys would have really cute babies, I’m just saying,” Maisie points out like it’s nothing.

You roll your eyes, taking the phone away from your ear as your finger hovers over the red button. “See you, Maise.”

You’re barely three steps out of the library, still rolling your eyes at the Call Ended screen on your phone when a voice catches your attention.

“Y/N!”

You turn your head just in time to see Jungkook’s devilish grin disappear behind his camera, and you don’t even have time to blink before he begins snapping away, finger mashing the silver button at the top as your expression morphs from surprise to defeat, unable to counter his sniping abilities with a signature peace sign. Even from twenty feet away, you can hear Jungkook laughing as you take the opportunity to pose for a few moments, like you really are a model and he really is your personal photographer. The sound of his giggles fills the air, music to your ears, lingering between you like dandelion wisps, blown by the wind.

Another voice breaks you from your trance.

“And here we have our resident celebrity and her paparazzi,” Jimin says, motioning to the two of you as he speaks to an enormous tour group of potential applicants and their parents. Caught in front of them, the heat suddenly rushes to your cheeks as you instinctively cover your face, embarrassed to have been pointed out by Jimin, whose amicable, lovable personality is both a blessing and a curse when it comes to his part-time job as a tour guide.

The worst part is how some of the parents and students seem to believe him for a second, that you really are famous and that Jungkook really is your photographer, looking at the two of you inquisitively as you shrink beneath their gazes.

“I’m kidding,” Jimin quickly continues as Jungkook joins you where you stand, laughing at the way you look like a deer caught in headlights. “They’re just some friends of mine who we happened to catch outside the library, which is our next stop. But don’t they look so cute together?”

“Are you guys dating?” One of the students pipes up, asking what no one else dared to.

Your eyes widen at the notion, wondering if you and Jungkook really are cursed to always be mistaken for a couple when you two have never been, and most likely will never be one. Shaking your head, you force out a laugh, “No, we’re just friends.” Beside you, Jungkook is noticeably silent. You suppose he’s gotten just as sick of explaining as you.

“Bummer, right?” Jimin asks his group, earning a couple of disappointed nods from innocent high-schoolers that still believe in love. “But I’m working on that, so don’t worry. Anyway, this library will be your main destination for studying, book-reading, and everything in between, and is conveniently located two minutes away from the freshman dorms…”

The conversation finally drawn away from you and Jungkook, you let out a breath you hadn’t even realized you had been holding in. “Weird, right? Even high-schoolers think we’re together.”

Jungkook doesn’t meet your eyes, fiddling with the settings on his camera just to keep his hands busy. The quiet makes you wonder what is going on up inside his head, makes you wonder what it is he’s thinking about, what it is you’re not seeing. Lately, it’s felt like there’s something on Jungkook’s mind you wish he felt comfortable telling you.

“Hey, you alright?” You ask, giving him a little nudge with your side. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” Jungkook says, voice soft, barely audible. It doesn’t make you feel any better. “No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Don’t you have class soon?”

“Oh, shit, you’re right, fuck,” you say, checking your phone only to find you have barely a minute to get to your next class. Guess you’ll be using one of your allotted absences today. “Thanks for reminding me. Dinner tonight?”

“I’ll text you,” Jungkook promises, and you nod your agreement as you dash off, determined to turn a five-minute walk into a one-minute one with the power of exercise. As you leave, you watch as Jungkook flounders outside the library, staring down at his camera and scrolling through his photos, and you still find yourself feeling like you’re missing something. What is Jungkook not telling you?

What do you not know?

By the time you reach your class, two minutes late and completely out of breath, tardiness is the last thing on your mind.

This project was just meant to be a friend helping out a friend. So why does it feel like you and Jungkook are losing each other?

Using Tinder is easy. Dangerously so.

You’re no expert in app design, but its simplified “yes or no” mechanic has you swiping through people like it’s an extreme sport, barely giving some of them a second glance if their Tinder profile description doesn’t make you laugh within the first sentence.

Tinder was, admittedly, not your first choice of potential date-finding methods. Call you old-fashioned, but whatever happened to asking someone in person if they wanted to get a meal with you? To showing up at their doorstep with a rose bouquet and a toothy white grin? Perhaps all of those old-timey movies you and Jungkook always watched have given you unrealistic expectations. But can you blame them?

Even if Tinder wasn’t your first choice, it was certainly the fastest. It takes a second to look at someone’s designated Tinder thumbnail, two to read their description, and three to decide if they’re worth a swipe right. Compare that to actively meeting up with someone, getting their contact information, and then continuing to dance around each other until you finally decide to get dinner together. That’s the sort of thing that could take weeks. Maybe months. And in some cases, years.

Besides, it’s not like you had very many options at your disposal. You don’t trust Maisie to set you up with someone because she’ll probably just choose one of the many boys from her management class and call it a day. Asking someone yourself is absolutely out of the question. And, for some strange, unknown reason, the idea of getting Jungkook to hook you up with one of his friends just doesn’t sit right with you.

So, Tinder it is. And as it turns out, chivalry isn’t dead. It’s just archaic.

An hour into your mindless swiping, you get a message notification. Two hours after that, you’ve got plans with a nice senior boy whom you’ve never met.

And for the first time in a very long time, there’s something to mark on your calendar for Saturday night.

The little blue block on your Google Calendar tab stares back at you from where your open laptop sits on your desk, the red line that signifies your current time slowly inching towards it as you fumble around in front of your mirror, more dressed up than you have been in weeks. Maisie was right. It’s been so long since you’ve gone out with someone that you’ve completely forgotten what the dress code is for something like this. A dress? Heels? Makeup?

You don’t want to overshoot it, but part of you thinks you will anyway. What if he’s wearing a hoodie and sweats while you look like you’re about to attend the goddamn Academy Awards? Maybe the eyeshadow was a little too much.

You don’t want to overshoot it, but part of you thinks it’s inevitable that you do. The door to your apartment swings open, and you can hear heavy footsteps making their way to your bedroom, that easy gait of his familiar as always.

“Hey, do you think we can just get some take-out and watch a stupid old noir movie, or something? I’ve had a day,” he shouts out, the sigh audible in his voice.

You don’t want to overshoot it, but part of you thinks you definitely have when you turn around to see Jungkook standing right outside your bedroom in the floppiest sweater you’ve ever seen and jeans with holes in the knees, mouth agape as he stares straight at you. It’s impossible not to notice the way his eyes are blown wide at the sight of you, at the way they rake up and down your figure, like he can’t even believe what he’s seeing. It’s impossible not to notice how he seems to flounder at the sight of you.

The only thing that breaks the both of you out of your stupors, frozen in place like two criminals caught red-handed, is the sound of his hulking black backpack thudding to the floor.

“Whoa.”

“Do you think it’s too much?” You ask, voice wobbly. God, why are you so nervous? It’s just Jungkook.

“Too much for what?” Jungkook blinks, deliberate and slow, as if he’s determined to make sure his eyes aren’t deceiving him. “Where are you going?”

“I think we’ll have to do a raincheck for the noir movie and takeout,” you say sheepishly, pursing your lips together in fright as you force out a small, tense smile. “I’m… going out. With someone.”

“Like,” Jungkook begins, and even from here you can hear the way he stops himself, hear him breathe out every word, thick on his tongue. “On a date?”

“Yeah.”

It’s a one-syllable word and yet it takes nearly all of your willpower just to say it. Just to confirm what Jungkook’s already thinking. Just to tell him, your best friend, your ride or die, your number one, that you’re going out on a date.

“Oh.” Jungkook’s voice is lifeless. “Do I know them?”

“No, uh, it’s just some guy I met on Tinder. I don’t know, I just wanted to see what all the hype was about, I guess. And I haven’t really been on a date in a while, so I figured I might just take up the opportunity, so we’re probably just going to go out to a restaurant and maybe go to a club afterwards if we’re still in the mood, and—” You cut yourself off, so nervous that you’ve resorted to your terrible habit of rambling to try and ease the tension. “Why? Do you think it’s too much?”

“You use Tinder?” Jungkook asks instead. It sounds like he’s shocked to hear this.

“Yeah…” you trail off. “Why?”

Jungkook freezes at the question, but it’s not because it seems like he doesn’t have an answer. It’s because it seems like he does. Only it’s an answer he doesn’t want to share.

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he eventually settles on, shaking his head. “You, uh, you look good.”

“You think? I feel like it’s a lot. I don’t know how to dress appropriately for stuff like this anymore,” you ask, palms sweaty as you furiously straighten out the skirt of your dress. “Should I change into pants, or anything?”

“No, no, I think that’s fine,” Jungkook says with an honest smile. “You look nice like this.”

“It’s probably been like, a year since you last saw me in a dress,” you comment mindlessly, turning back to face the mirror as you fiddle with your makeup, finger wiping away a bit of smudged lipstick or a stray bit of mascara. “I miss my sweats. Hey, whoa, wait, what are you doing—?”

You whip around to find Jungkook slowly fishing out the camera from his backpack, hand gripping it tightly as he brandishes it in front of you.

“I, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe take a photo of you,” Jungkook says, a small, little grin decorating his features. “Since you’re all dressed up.”

“Seriously?” You ask in disbelief.

Jungkook nods, holding the camera out in front of him. “Just one.”

He looks so small, standing across your bedroom. He looks so small and delicate and intimate, body curled in on itself ever so slightly as he looks at you, the yellow glow of your ceiling light reflected in his hazelnut eyes, drowning beneath his clothes. He looks like he has never seen a moment more perfect, never seen an opportunity as clear, looks like he thinks that if he blinks he’ll miss it.

Looks as if a photo will be the only way to remember it.

And you nod. Because he is your best friend, and who are you to deny him of something so simple? Of a press of a button? It doesn’t feel like a project anymore. It just feels like a memory.

Jungkook brings the camera to his eye, and you smile at him, soft and gentle and warm. He grins back, focusing the camera lens before snapping away.

You wonder what he sees.

(You wonder if it’s as beautiful as what you see.)

“Have fun tonight, okay?” Jungkook asks of you as your Google Calendar notification sounds, letting you know you have approximately two minutes before he’s supposed to pick you up outside your apartment.

You nod. “I will. And if I don’t, then I’ll come over afterwards. And we can watch that stupid noir film.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Jungkook says with a roll of his eyes, a shrug of his shoulders.

“But I want to. So I will. Okay? I’ll text you,” you promise. “Don’t think I’ll forget about you.”

Jungkook smiles at your little tease, at the way you cup the side of his jaw with your hand as you head towards your front door.

“Wait, Y/N,” Jungkook sputters out, running after you. He reaches you right as you get to the door, hand grasping the doorknob. You turn to look at him, blinking. “I hope tonight is everything you dreamed of.”

There is something so distinctly sad in his voice. It makes you wonder who has broken his heart. Makes you wonder what you can do to fix it.

“Even if it’s not,” you say to him, taking his hand in your own and squeezing it tight, reminding him that, no matter what, you’re still here. “I know you’ll always be there to take care of me afterwards.”

Your phone buzzes with a message from your date, and you scurry out the door.

For some reason, there’s a part of you that wishes you never even left.

The date is okay. Not bad, but nothing to write home about. By the time you finished eating, it was obvious neither of you had any interest in continuing the night elsewhere, whether it be a club or a karaoke bar. He pays for your meal despite your insistence that you can handle the check perfectly fine on your own, thanks you for a nice night, and drops you right back at your apartment. And so goes your one and only Tinder experience, blowing away like a leaf in the wind.

You look down at your phone. It isn’t even nine o’clock yet.

[November 7th, 8:48PM]

You: you still game for that movie?

[November 7th, 8:50PM]

Jungkook: you finished your date already?

You: is that a yes or a no

Jungkook: my door is always open, you know that

You: you’re gonna get robbed one day and it’s gonna be by me You: i’m coming over

The walk from your apartment to Jungkook’s is six minutes and thirty seconds on a good day, and seven minutes and fifteen seconds on a bad day, which is usually dependent on if the traffic light over the main road has decided to be extra slow or not. You could walk the damn route in your sleep if you really wanted, having done it so many times in the last year and a half, ever since he moved out of on-campus housing and into his own place.

Tonight, it takes you nearly eight minutes to get to his apartment, but you mostly chalk that up to the heels you’re wearing. If you cared any less about your dignity, you’d probably take them off and walk barefoot like a defeated heroine in a romance movie, shoes dangling from your fingers as they hang low by your side.

But you aren’t defeated. You didn’t have the world’s most spectacular date, but the night isn’t over just yet.

Jungkook’s waiting at his front door by the time you arrive.

“Eight minutes, huh? You’re getting old,” he asks snidely, looking down at the invisible watch on his wrist.

“Your counting is just off,” you retort easily, falling into that same friendly rhythm, that familiar little beat that the two of you share. You push past him and into his apartment, instantly feeling more at home, shoulders sinking and heartbeat soothing as you soak in the scent of his room, of his home, of him.

“How’d it go?” Jungkook asks, eyes hopeful as they watch you tug off your heels. They were hardly three inches tall and yet you still want nothing to do with them.

You shrug. “Eh. It was okay.”

“Just okay?” Jungkook asks, sounding seriously upset for you. Upset that you didn’t have a good night even after you promised him that you would. Upset that it didn’t turn out to be everything you wanted.

“I don’t know,” you admit, looking over at him, dejected. “It just—I just had this feeling that it wasn’t going to work out.”

Jungkook scowls to himself, eyebrows furrowing like he’s trying to figure out what exactly you mean by that. And the truth is, you’re not sure either. The date was fine, and he was nice, but even when you first met it felt like you weren’t going to get what you wanted from him. Like you were just going on the date to go on the date. Like you already knew that it would mean nothing.

Jungkook was going to be waiting for you at the end of the night whether it went amazingly well or terribly bad. And knowing that, strangely enough, almost made you want the date to be horrible. Like it would make seeing Jungkook afterwards that much sweeter.

“Oh,” Jungkook says lamely. “Well, I’m sorry. It seemed like you were really looking forward to it.”

“It’s alright,” you assure him. “Can we just watch this movie now and make fun of how sexist it is? Please?”

To that, Jungkook easily agrees. As he’s queueing up the movie, you raid his closet for a hoodie and sweatpants, desperate to strip yourself of your dress and tights and cozy up in clothes that are much more appropriate for your comfort level. At this point in your friendship, Jungkook doesn’t even question it when he sees you march into his room, fishing through his closet and drawers for your favorite matching set of his, this grey pair that he’s worn so much it still smells like him even after it’s come right out of the wash.

He only stares back in awe when he sees you emerge from his bedroom wearing them.

“Ready?” You ask, breaking him from his resolve.

Jungkook blinks wildly from where he’s seated on his dinky old couch, as if to clear his vision. “What? Oh, yeah, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Then hurry it up, Mister,” you demand, sitting down next to him and curling into his body. It’s instinctual, at this point, wanting to be close to him. To feel the warmth of his body radiate upon your own. To feel his chest beneath the palm of your hands, his arm wrapped around your side. “All good?” You ask, looking up at him.

Jungkook looks down at you, and you swear, you’ve never seen him more at home. “Always, when I’m with you.”

The movie is predictably good and predictably sexist, but your favorite part by far is when Jungkook reaches around on the coffee table in front of you for his camera, holding it up to his eye and snatching a picture of the television, the film grainy like an old polaroid, faded like an antique photograph. He clicks away at the scene in front of him before turning on you, the lens so close to your face you’re almost certain all he’ll manage to capture is your nose. You laugh, pushing yourself away from him as he snaps, and snaps, and snaps, image after image after image, until his camera battery has died and there’s no more room left on his card.

“Guess I’ll have to charge this thing, then,” Jungkook sighs as he declares his camera dead, screen black.

“You aren’t going to include any of those, are you?” You ask, an eyebrow raised.

Jungkook shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Don’t you have enough?” You deadpan, thinking back to the hundreds of photos Jungkook must have taken of you over the past week, and even more that you don’t know about. There’s certainly no shortage of them in his current camera inventory. That’s for sure.

“Never,” Jungkook says wickedly. He stretches out an open arm, and you don’t have to think twice about falling into it, letting him wrap you up in his hold, curling into his body.

The black television screen crackles before you, DVD player waiting for Jungkook to turn it off. There’s no need for either of you to look up at each other. Not when you’re strung together like this. Not when you already know exactly where he is.

“It’s due on Monday, right?” You inquire softly, fatigue slowly overtaking you.

“Yeah. I’m almost finished, just have to do some curating and editing.”

“I want to see it.”

“What? My project?”

“What else?”

“It’s just a project, it’s not that exciting.”

You pull away from him at that, looking up at him with furrowed brows and scrunched-up nose. “What do you mean ‘it’s not that exciting’? It’s your photography project. You’ve spent a whole week working on it.”

“Yeah, but it’s just you, you know?” Jungkook objects. “Like, you know what you look like. It’s just going to be a bunch of photos of you, like I said it’d be.”

“That’s exactly why I want to see it,” you say like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You took pictures of me for a whole week. Don’t you want to share them with me?”

“If you really want some of the photos, I’ll send you some, but you don’t need to see the whole portfolio, you know? It’s just for my professor,” Jungkook says stiffly, surprisingly resistant. What’s the big deal? It’s not like there will suddenly be new information about you that you didn’t know before. You want to see what Jungkook has been working tirelessly on this entire week. Where’s the harm in that?

“Why are you getting so hung up on this? It’s just photos,” you say with a frown.

“Why are you getting so hung up on this?” Jungkook challenges back.

You sigh, sinking back into him, defeated. Even a little disagreement like that is enough to knock the wind out of the both of you, so you decide not to push it much further.

“Do you promise to show me eventually?” You ask, hopeful.

Jungkook pauses for a moment, and you almost expect him to say no, considering how protective of his work he’s being. “One day,” he declares. “One day, I will.”

And that’s good enough for you.

You lose track of how much time passes after that, feeling your eyelids getting heavy as the warmth of his body envelopes you, drowsiness settling in. There’s just something about this moment, right here, right now, that makes you want to fall asleep.

You’re on the verge of slumber when Jungkook’s voice breaks through.

“Why didn’t you think your date would work out?”

“I don’t know,” you respond sleepily, barely even opening your eyes. “It just felt wrong.”

“How do you know what feels right?”

Good question. Perhaps if you had the energy, you’d answer it. But right now, all you can think about is how cozy you feel in Jungkook’s hoodie and sweatpants, how the scent of him surrounds you, that indescribable, boyish aroma that can’t be replicated. Right now, all you can think about is how easily your body molds into his, like two pieces of a puzzle meant to fit together. Right now, all you can think about is him.

The worst part about each and every week is when it ends. Because the end of one week signifies the beginning of the next, and when you’re in university, the beginning of the next week means a whole new batch of assignments that you have to complete and a whole new batch of due dates to meet.

So, yeah. The weeks have been blurring together for you lately. But what else could you expect?

Sunday evening, as per usual, finds you right back where you always are: Jungkook’s apartment.

The two of you have been regularly getting together on Sundays to study, ever since you both realized you work significantly harder when motivated by the other, determined to finish all of your work on time so you can spend the rest of the night fooling around by mixing Monster with as many unhealthy drinks that you can possibly think of. And it’s been working out well for the both of you so far. Jungkook powers through his coding assignments and you whiz through your readings, intent on keeping up to date with your tasks so they don’t all come crashing down on you at the end of the semester.

Studying with Jungkook has always been easy, largely due to the fact that it’s the one allotted time during your friendship where the both of you deem it best to not speak to each other for the sake of your work. The moment one of you opens your mouth it’s over, so you sit on opposite ends of the room and pretend that the other person isn’t even there.

Jungkook told you earlier today that he had already finished his photography portfolio, so there would unfortunately be no sneaky glances over his shoulder to see if you can catch a glimpse of one of the pictures. Which is fine by you, you’re just a little embarrassed that Jungkook had told you this outright. Not that you were planning to do exactly that, but you were planning to do exactly that.

Part of you. more than anything, wants to know why Jungkook won’t just show you himself. Why he’s being so secretive, so protective of his photography project when you both know already exactly what’s in it. For God’s sake, he just spent the entire week taking photos of you non-stop. It’s like not as if any part of this is a mystery to either of you. What more could he have done?

Whatever. You aren’t going to force it if he doesn’t want you to. You suppose that maybe one day, far into the future, he’ll finally decide that the time is right.

“I’m so fucking tired,” Jungkook declares lifelessly as he gets up from where he’s sitting on your bed, dead inside. “I need a break.”

“Are you going to the kitchen? Can you make me some tea, please?” You ask him, looking up from the laptop on your desk.

Jungkook nods wordlessly before disappearing out of the room.

You and Jungkook’s best study practice to maximize productivity is the taking of each other’s cell phones so that the other cannot be tempted to look at it. It’s worked plenty of times before and will probably work plenty of times again, because as they say, out of sight, out of mind.

Unfortunately, it’s hard to pretend that your phone is out of sight when it’s been buzzing on your bedside table for the past five minutes, and your fingers have been itching to get over there and answer your damn notifications. So, while Jungkook is out of the room, you decide to cheat a little by dashing over there just to see what the heck is going on in the rest of the world.

As it turns out, nothing much. Just Maisie texting you as she binges yet another television show, giving spoiler-free updates anytime anything remotely dramatic happens. You have a couple of new emails as well.

The thing that actually catches your attention the most, is Jungkook’s laptop screen.

There’s just a Word document open on it, but a Word document is a far cry from his usual coding program or Photoshop. Because you can’t help yourself, you peer over to see what he’s written.

What did you learn about yourself through this assignment? How do you think you’ve changed?

Hard to say that I have. I don’t think I learned something about myself so much as I confirmed what I already knew, cementing it as a real thought in my brain, rather than just a daydream. Nothing changed in the way that my best friend and I interacted, and I can almost confirm that nothing changed in the way that she feels about me, just as nothing changed in the way I feel about her. I guess you could say I learned that I don’t think anything could ever change the way I feel about her.

What?

Do you think you’ll ever look back on this project, whether it be as a reference or a memory?

Yes. Not as a reference but to remind myself of this very moment in my life—a single week over the course of my life that I felt was worth saving. I imagine that there will come a time, far in the future, where my best friend and I have separated a little bit, found our own lives and created our own families with our own people. And when that happens, I will look back on this project to remind myself of who we used to be. How we used to feel about each other. Maybe, by that point in time, it won’t hurt as much as it does now.

This feels personal. Maybe you should stop reading. But there’s just one more question left on the page…

This assignment forced you to create an entire portfolio, from scratch, using a subject you would have to regularly schedule time with. It was demanding. But, that said, would you ever do this again?

Yes. If it meant getting to spend more time with her, take more photos of her, see her smile once more, I would do it a thousand times over.

“Y/N?”

You hadn’t even heard the kettle whistling.

“Jungkook,” you say, breathless, caught red-handed.

“What are you doing?” He asks, placing your steaming cup of tea down on the desk as he stares back at you in horror, in surprise, in worry, in something. Something that gives you this imminent sense of impending doom.

“Uh—”

“Were you reading my computer screen?”

It’s not like you could say you were doing anything else.

“I couldn’t help myself, I came over here to check my phone since it’s been buzzing like crazy and your computer was right there and I just…” you sputter out, thoughts swirling inside your head.

(I will look back on this project to remind myself of who we used to be. How we used to feel about each other. Maybe, by that point in time, it won’t hurt as much as it does now.

If it meant getting to see her smile once more, I would do it a thousand times over.

I guess you could say I learned that I don’t think anything could ever change the way I feel about her.)

“What do you mean, how you feel about me?” You ask, because you can’t help yourself. Because the sound of his voices echoes in your head like the beat of a drum, over and over and over. Because you’re staring back at him and even if he just caught you snooping through his computer you can never be worried when it comes to him. Because everything he has ever done puts you at ease.

“Y/N, that is private, why would you read something like that?” He asks, each word a sucker punch into your heart.

“Because I just had to know, okay?” You shout back. “I had to know what you were hiding from me.”

“So you decided to snoop through my computer to see if you could figure it out yourself?” He demands, storming over to you.

“So you are hiding something?”

“That’s not the point, the point is that—”

“What are you not telling me, Jungkook?” You cry out, watching as he approaches you, dark eyes piercing your gaze. “Why won’t you show me your goddamn portfolio? If there’s really nothing to be afraid of, why are you keeping it from me? I’m your best friend, I’m the fucking subject of your project? Don’t I deserve to see it? Why won’t you show me?”

“Because then you’d know!” Jungkook shouts back, leaving deafening silence in his wake. You look up at him, blinking. In front of you, Jungkook is out of breath, chest heaving.

He looks so strained. So tired. Like he’s been carrying around this secret for months now, maybe even years, and this is the final straw. This is what has sent the both of you crashing down upon each other. This stupid fucking project. You’ve known Jungkook ever since the beginning of your freshman year, and never before have you seen him so hopeless.

“Jungkook—?”

“You’d know, goddamnit,” Jungkook says, hand coming up to rub at his forehead, dragging down his cheek. “And I wasn’t sure if I was ready for that.”

“Know what? What would I know?”

Jungkook closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Opens them again. “That I’m in love with you.”

The words drift in between the two of you, hovering in the air like feathers. You see them, clear as day, in front of you, hear them echoing in your head, over and over and over again. Feel the way your blood is pumping, the way your heart is beating.

“You’re in love with me?” You ask him.

“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” Jungkook admits. “Or at all, really. But I have been, for a while now.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was afraid that I’d lose you.”

You chuckle, a small, little thing from the back of your throat. “You must have known I’d never let that happen, hmm?”

Jungkook smiles softly. “I was scared. Can you blame me? You’re my best friend.”

“And you are mine,” you remind him.

“It’s just—” Jungkook begins, like the gates of a dam are opening up. “We’d known each other for so long, and we have such a good thing going as is, always texting and calling and hanging out together, studying together on Sunday nights and seeing each other during the week, and I didn’t want to ruin anything. And then my professor assigned this project, and the only person I could think of to take photos was you, but I didn’t want to ask that of you in case you thought it was weird, but you suggested it anyway so I said yes, but I knew. I knew then that the moment I took one goddamn photo of you it would be obvious, and that if you ever saw you would just know. Stuff like that is easy to pick up in pictures, because a camera is like, tunnel vision for whatever it is you want to focus on most, and that’s you, that’s always been you, so I—”

“Jungkook,” you interrupt, reaching out to him, pressing a soft hand to his cheek. “Just, shut up, okay?”

And then you cup his head in both of your hands, and press a kiss to his lips. A small one, if nothing else, but a kiss nonetheless. You press your lips against his own and immediately you feel the sparks rush through you, this flash of heat that settles into something softer, something sweeter. It ignites and soothes you all at once, like a stray lightning bolt out on the open ocean. Like a single clap of thunder and the pitter patter of rain.

You press a kiss to his lips and when you pull away, Jungkook’s eyes are closed, lips parted ever so slightly. And for a moment there, you almost think you did the wrong thing.

But barely a second more passes before he’s scooping you up in his arms and pulling you in close to him, his lips finding yours like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. He holds you tight, hands pressed against the small of your back as he kisses you, warm and fiery and full, as if he can’t get enough, as if this is his only chance. You gasp into it before relaxing in his hold, cold hands on his warm cheeks, body melting at the feeling of him, of him all over you, of his hands and his mouth and his chest, this perfect, solid figure.

He kisses you and it sends heat shooting through your body, filling you up from the inside out, like your heart has burst and filled your bloodstream with fire, with sparks of warmth that tingle all over. He kisses you, and everywhere his hands press is another sizzle to your skin, an electric shock that makes you giggle into his mouth.

He kisses you and it feels like a storm has settled, feels like gentle rain after a hurricane, feels like waves crashing against the shore. He kisses you and it is the only thing you can think about.

By the time you part once more, you don’t think you’ve ever seen Jungkook so blissed out.

“See?” You point out softly. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

Jungkook looks positively dazed. “I think I need to lie down.”

“Ooh, was I that good?” You tease.

“I’m dreaming.” He shakes his head. “I’m definitely fucking dreaming.”

Jungkook sinks onto your bed, hitting the mattress with a thud. He stares mindlessly in front of him, like his brain needs time to process.

You smile to yourself. He can have all the time in the world.

“Is this real?” He mumbles when you sit down next to him, press another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Are you real?”

“Just like you,” you promise him. “I didn’t know this is what we had been missing, all this time.”

“It wasn’t missing,” Jungkook assures you. “It was just hidden.”

“I love you,” you whisper, watching him swallow the words like a glass of wine. “I think I always have. You just needed to say it first.”

“Oblivious as always.” Jungkook grins, smiling against your lips. “But I’m glad. If this is what it would take, then I’m glad.”

“You wouldn’t change anything?” You ask him, eyes wide and curious.

It’s hard to know how long you and Jungkook have been secretly pining over each other. Hard to know how long Jungkook has known that he’s loved you, how long it’s been since you started to feel the same, even if subconsciously. It’s hard to know how long you would have kept going if not for this project. It might have been months. Years. Years that Jungkook was willing to spend holding back, if only it meant keeping you by his side.

“No,” Jungkook says like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “I have you now. Why would I?”

What did you learn about yourself through this assignment? How do you think you’ve changed?

Previously, I had responded to this question by saying that I hadn’t learned anything, and felt that nothing changed in my life. Then, some things happened. And after those things, I learned that I am the luckiest man alive. To know my best friend is one thing. To love her is a privilege. To have her love me back is nothing less than a miracle.

Do you think you’ll ever look back on this project, whether it be as a reference or a memory?

Yes. Every day for the rest of my life. I don’t think I’ve ever been as thankful to receive a homework assignment as I am, right now. I owe everything to this project. It is the reason I have her.

This assignment forced you to create an entire portfolio, from scratch, using a subject you would have to regularly schedule time with. It was demanding. But, that said, would you ever do this again?

Yes. I want to take photos of her for the rest of my life. I want to save every memory we ever share together. So that far into the future, we can look back on them together and say, “Remember that?”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

#jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts fluff #bts angst #bts scenario #jungkook scenario #bts imagine #jungkook imagine #bts au #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #bts x reader #w: the love project #yes i am finishing this at 6am on the day its meant to be posted... MIND UR OWN BUSINESS

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homoose · 4 years

Text

Weird is Good

Summary: A story about two people tryna make it through the age of COVID-19 in a country where people are fucking dumb lmao. My hc is that Spencer would be like wtf at all these science-denying anti-maskers. Also, two teachers just tryna make it through quarantine and remote teaching in a one bedroom apartment (this is taking place during a mandatory leave/lecture cycle).

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: fluff

Warnings/Includes: no warnings. reader is both a kindergarten teacher and a bruh girl with a pirate’s mouth. lots of Spencer x factz.

Word count: 3.1k

———

“We’re home for the next two weeks. ”

Spencer looked up from his desk to see Y/N kicking off her shoes, dropping her bag, and walking directly to the sink. “Starting when?”

“We get to go in on Monday to say goodbye to the kids and get any materials we might need. Then we’re home for two weeks. They’re calling it an early, extended spring break.” Y/N began her hand washing routine. As a kindergarten teacher, she’d always been a strict hand-washer. In the time of COVID, she had only become more zealous. She looked at Spencer. “Have you heard anything?”

“Since we’re so close to the end of the semester, the department head thinks they’ll try to finish out the year as normal.” He set down his pen. “I honestly don’t know. It will all depend on whether people follow the CDC guidelines. The spread of any virus is deducible mathematically, and SARS-COV2 is no different. Based on the outbreak in Italy prior to their lockdown, we can accurately describe its reproductive number, or Rt, to between 2.43 – 3.10.”

Y/N shut off the water and dried her hands on a paper towel. “In layman's terms, Dr. Reid.”

“The Rt tells how many people are infected by the contagious host,” he explained. “In the case of this strain, each infected person is infecting between two and three others. For comparison, the standard seasonal flu has an average Rt between 1.4 and 1.7.”

“So in other words, fucking yikes,” Y/N groaned. She moved to perch on the edge of Spencer’s desk.

“Indeed,” Spencer agreed. “We know how fast the flu can travel through an office or a classroom, so imagine if it was two times as transmissible. But it's also really important to understand that this number changes depending on the mitigations in place. Even prior to full lockdown, mask wearing and social distancing was somewhat common in Italy, so it’s likely the uncontrolled Rt is higher.”

“Jesus Christ.” Y/N scrubbed a hand over her face. “We’ll probably never go back.”

Spencer rubbed his hand up from her ankle to the inside of her knee. “The good news is there’s nothing special about this virus compared to others in terms of how it spreads— it’s just aerosols. So if everyone wears their mask, we’ll be able to keep the spread low.”

⧭⧭⧭

“It’s safe to say that everyone did not wear their fucking masks,” Y/N snapped. She watched from the couch as Mayor Bowser delivered the news that DC Public Schools would remain closed for the remainder of the year. “This is crazy. I mean, I knew it was coming because people in this country are absolute buffoons.” She looked at Spencer, fingers pressed to her temple. “But holy shit, are we ever going to be able to go outside again?”

“With schools and universities closed, people working remotely, and lockdown orders in place, the Rt in the US could stay low. But masks have to be worn at all times, and social distancing has to be strictly followed.” Spencer pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I just— I can’t believe people are refusing to wear masks. The empirical, peer-reviewed data clearly shows—”

“This is ‘Murica, boy.” Y/N mocked. “Ain’t no tyrannical government gonna tell me what to do!” She rolled her eyes. “Trust me, your choice to abstain from social media is paying dividends to your sanity right now.”

Spencer looked truly dumbfounded, setting his newspaper down in his lap. “But that’s just it. It’s not just in social media circles.” He gestured to the article in front of him. “This economist just argued for ‘reopening’ the economy using the justification of herd immunity. Herd immunity can be a plausible option for less lethal diseases. But this virus is not like varicella—the chickenpox,” he clarified at Y/N’s raised eyebrow. He waved his hands around in exasperation. “Putting aside the fact that one facet of herd immunity is vaccinating as many people as possible, its success completely hinges on the Rt of a disease. If you model a population based on an Rt of 2.5, herd immunity wouldn’t be achieved until approximately sixty percent of the population has been infected. Consider that the US population is currently 328 million, and sixty percent of that is 196.8 million. The current mortality rate for SARS-COV2 is 3.06 percent. 196,800,000 multiplied by 0.0306 is 6,022,080. Over six million people would die. It's simple mathematics.”

Y/N let out an exasperated breath. “It used to be that simple math and facts were enough. Now you’ve got basement scientists who think they know better than actual, literal scientists who’ve spent their entire lives studying these things.” She ran a hand over her face and gestured at the news conference still playing. “How long do you think it’ll be before we’re both trying to teach from this tiny ass living room?”

⧭⧭⧭

“Goooooooood morning, kindergarten! It’s Friday, and no Friday is a bad Friday!” Spencer smiled. As he poured his first cup of coffee, he hummed along with Y/N and 23 six-year-olds as they sang their morning song. Observing fourteen days of remote kindergarten from across the living room had given Spencer a new appreciation for elementary school teachers, particularly Y/N. She sang, danced, conducted science experiments, held puppet shows, read stories, led art projects, and fielded questions for four hours a day— three hours less than when they were in the school building. He was exhausted by proxy.

But he was also grateful for the opportunity to watch Y/N in her element. Even though they were at home, she still got dressed every day in bright, patterned sweaters and dresses— her Ms. Frizzle attire, she’d told him once. She was able to channel her personality into a kid-friendly version that her students clearly adored, never afraid to be silly or strange to get their attention and keep them engaged during the long days. He worked from home whenever possible, strangely happy to have the background noise of kindergarten over his quiet university office.

...

“Okay, but where do I put the biiiiiiiiiiiig number?” Y/N made a wide gesture with her arms. “Ariah, where should I put it? In the big box, yes! But oh no, my small number needs a friend. My three is soooooo lonely!” Y/N drew her mouth into a pout. “DJ, how can I help my three not be so sad? You’re absolutely right, let’s put that two right next to him in our number bond.”

…

“I’ve been waitin’ for a girl to mute,” Y/N sang into the gold karaoke mic. “I said, muuuuuuuuuute, I’m blinded by loud sounds. No, I can’t hear the friend who’s tryin’ to talk.”

…

“Oh boy. Kev, honey, we can— we can see you. Kevin, Kevin, Kevin. We can see all of you. I can’t turn your camera off, buddy. You gotta— there we go.”

…

“Mute please, I need— I need everybody to mute, please. Oh my goodness where is that music coming from?” Y/N frantically searched for her index card with the picture of the mute icon, as the sounds of a highly inappropriate song blared through the computer speaker. “I know it’s so loud, guys. Why is my mute power gone?! This is why we need to make sure we keep our mute button on, kindergarten.”

…

“No sweetie, it’s not time to log off yet. I’m sorry, I know it’s such a long day. We have about an hour left. Do you guys wanna do a countdown? It’s the fin-al count-down! Do-do doo dooooo. Do-do-d-do-dooo…”

…

“Annnnnd, I should see all my friends on mute. William, hang on just a second. All my friends need to look at my picture, it’s an oval with a line through it… Okay, William, what did you bring to show us?” Y/N leaned toward the computer screen. “Grandma Kathy? O-oh, she’s— she’s in the—“ Y/N’s eyes widened. “Is that— is that an urn? Oh wow. Um, well, wow. It’s beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing that with us, William. Grandma Kathy, may she rest in peace.”

⧭⧭⧭

A week into Y/N teaching kindergarten from their living room, the university had announced its transition to online coursework for the remainder of the academic year. Spencer had to host his first zoom lecture, and he was absolutely dreading it.

“Spence, it’s going to be fine. It’s not like you’ve never been on a video conference,” Y/N assured him. She sat cross-legged on the couch, waiting for him to let her in to his practice zoom.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t running those meetings. I just showed up.” He squinted at the computer screen. “Are you in?”

Y/N barely resisted the urge to make a joke, knowing that Spencer probably wouldn’t appreciate the innuendo. “No, you have to admit me.”

“What do you mean? How do I do that?”

“There should be a box with a button that says admit.”

Spencer gestured at the computer. “Well there’s a bunch of boxes— which one should I be looking at?”

Y/N sighed and got up from the couch. “IQ of 187 and can’t find the box.”

Spencer dragged a hand through his hair. “I know I shouldn’t find this so difficult. I’m sorry you have to waste your time on this.”

“Hey, it was a joke.” Y/N grabbed his hand from where he was frustratedly pulling on his frazzled curls. “I’m sorry. That was mean and you’re already stressed enough.” She used her free hand to smooth his hair back into place. She scrunched her nose. “I love you and your limited technology skills. And honestly it’s kind of nice to have one thing I can actually teach you about.” She squeezed his hand, leaning over him to peer at his computer screen. “All right, let’s find that elusive admit button.”

When the day of his lecture rolled around, Spencer thanked all the atoms in the observable universe that Y/N had a break during his class. Within the first ten minutes, he’d managed to accidentally kick himself out of his own meeting and then somehow lose track of the screenshare button.

“No one can see me and I don’t know what happened to the screenshare option. It was there and now it’s just… gone,” he told Y/N.

She leaned over his desk, eyes tracking over the screen and mouse clicking around the desktop. “How in the world did you manage to block your camera?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t even touch it!” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t understand how it’s even possible to be this bad at this.”

Y/N bumped his knee with her own, pulling up his camera settings and preferences. “Relax. You can’t be good at everything. It’s a refreshing reminder that you’re a mere mortal like the rest of us.” With a few rapid clicks, Y/N unblocked his camera and located the screenshare bar. “There. Crisis averted. I’m just going to share your whole screen in case you want to toggle between application windows. So just be aware that they’ll be able to see everything. And then you just click here when you’re ready to stop sharing.”

When Y/N turned her head toward him to check that he understood, Spencer grabbed the side of her face and caught her lips in a kiss. Y/N smiled against his mouth, heart speeding up as he traced the seam of her mouth with his tongue.

“Um, Dr. Reid? Your um— your camera’s working now.”

Spencer nearly fell out of his chair, his cheeks about the color of the Leave Meeting icon. Y/N dropped her head, debating whether she wanted to laugh or let the earth open up and swallow her whole. She ultimately decided to compose herself, stepping back and giving a little wave to the sea of tiny, grinning zoom faces before slinking out of frame, miming sorry to one very mortified professor.

⧭⧭⧭

“Would you want to be our mystery reader next week?” Y/N asked, bookmarking the page of her novel and reclining back in bed. “You just have to pick a story to read. Oh, and think of four clues about your identity to give the kiddos.”

Spencer raised his eyebrow, continuing to read. “Any story?”

Y/N laughed. “Well they’re six, so maybe hold off on the Chaucer and Bradbury for now. A picture book would be preferable.”

“Did you know that the first picture book, Orbis Sensualium Pictus, or Visible World in Pictures, was published in 1658?” He looked up from his own book. “Czech educator John Amos Comenius wanted to create a book that would be accessible to children of all levels of ability. The educational theories he explored are actually still in practice in the field of early childhood education.” He turned toward her from his spot under the covers. “For example, when you have your students make a hissing sound and slither their arms when they produce the sound represented by the letter s? Comenius included an alphabet chart with various animal and human sounds representing each letter. He wanted to demonstrate that the incorporation of multiple senses could help increase learning.”

“I guess you don’t fix what isn’t broken,” Y/N mused. “300 years later, and we’re still using the same methods.”

“362, actually,” Spencer corrected.

She gave him a look. “Maybe we can save the Comenius for another time.”

“The genre of children’s literature encompasses some of the most profound and philosophical story telling of all time.” Spencer returned his attention to his reading.

“...So is that a yes?”

Spencer smiled. “I’ve got a book in mind.”

“And clues,” Y/N reminded him, snuggling down under the covers and reopening her book. “We need some fun clues, mystery reader.”

…

“Kindergarten, we have a very special mystery reader this week. Oh man, are you ready for the first clue? The mystery reader loves jell-o! Raise your little hand if you love jell-o, too. Okay, kindergarten, I see you! Lots of jell-o lovers in the house.”

…

“Okay, clue number two! Our mystery reader works as a community helper— remember we learned about all different kinds of community helpers; firefighters, nurses, police officers. But if the mystery reader could be anything, they’d want to be a cowboy! How cool is that?”

...

“Clue number three for our mystery reader!” Y/N sucked in a gasp. “You guys. The mystery reader can do magic. Oh my goodness, I am so excited for Friday,” she sing-songed. “Will they show us a trick? Hmmm, I don’t know. Maybe if you ask nicely.”

…

“Okay, my friends, the last clue. The mystery reader loves reading. They read every day, and they’ve been reading since 1983! Yes, that was a very long time ago.”

⧭⧭⧭

“Okay, any last guesses about who our mystery reader might be?” Y/N questioned.

“I think it’s your dad,” a little voice called out.

Spencer made a choking noise from where he sat, slightly off camera. Y/N laughed. “The mystery reader is decidedly not my dad, Keyshon. Remember I showed you guys the picture of him— my dad’s a farmer, so he’s kind of already a cowboy.” She clapped her hands together. “Okay, without further ado, drumroll please... Our mystery reader is…” Y/N pushed her desk chair out of frame to allow Spencer to roll in, holding her hands out. “Spencer!”

He gave a little wave, smoothing his hair, suddenly painfully self-aware and nervous about the opinions of two dozen six-year-olds. “Hi guys.”

“You’re the boy on Ms. Y/L/N’s phone.”

“Your hair is so fluffy!”

“Do you have a cowboy hat?”

“I like your sweater.”

“Can you really do magic?”

“What’s your favorite jell-o?”

“Whoa, okay, let’s remember our mute button,” Y/N, holding up her index card. “I promise you’ll get to ask Spencer all your questions after he reads the story.”

Spencer smiled at the excited faces beaming through the screen. “Yes, I’m on Ms. Y/L/N’s phone; I don’t own a cowboy hat, yet; yes, I really can do magic; and the red jell-o is my favorite.”

Y/N watched with interest as Spencer pulled out his book. He’d been secretive about his choice, so she was as curious as her students.

“This is one of my favorite stories. It’s written by Munro Leaf, and illustrated by Robert Lawson. It’s The Story of Ferdinand.” Spencer held the cover up to the camera. “Ferdinand is the bull here on the cover. This story was written in 1935, which was a long time ago! Okay are you ready?” Spencer looked out on a sea of thumbs up, turning the page to the beginning of the story. “Once upon a time in Spain, there was a bull, and his name was Ferdinand.”

Y/N smiled as she listened to Spencer read each page, recounting the story of the peaceful bull. He was an excellent storyteller, changing the inflection and expression of his voice to match each sentence. He held each page up for just the right amount of time, panning it so her students could see each detail of the black and white pictures. He added his own wonderings and exclamations here and there, and her students were decidedly enthralled. Her heart ached at how comfortable he was, how natural this was for him. She rested her chin in her hand, trying to keep her mind in the present— ignoring the persistent little mental image of Spencer as a dad.

“So they had to take Ferdinand home. And for all I know, he is sitting there still, under his favorite cork tree, smelling the flowers just quietly. He is very happy… And that’s The Story of Ferdinand.” Spencer closed the book with a soft smile. “I love this story. Ferdinand is a very special bull. What do you think makes him so special?”

“Ferdinand didn’t fight,” a little voice piped up.

“Yes!” Spencer agreed. “He practiced pacifism in the face of the persistent, ingrained militarism of his country’s culture.”

Y/N placed a hand on Spencer’s knee and gave a quick squeeze. “Right, Ferdinand chose not to fight, even though everybody else he knew wanted to.” Y/N winked at him before turning back to the screen full of kids. “All his friends thought he was kind of weird, but he just really wanted to hang out in the shade and smell the flowers, huh? Sounds pretty good to me.”

“He wasn’t bothered that the other bulls thought he was strange for wanting to be peaceful,” Spencer added. “Sometimes being different can be a good thing. The Story of Ferdinand reminds me that it’s okay to be yourself, even if other people think you’re weird.” His eyes met Y/N’s. “Because there will always be people who love and appreciate you for who you are.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #criminals minds self insert #dr spencer reid #professor spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds #homoose writes

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missinghan · 3 years

Text

falling for the first time ⤖ bang chan

❖ genre : hogwarts au; fluff

❖ word count : 2,1k.

❖ warning : explicit language

❖ summary : your plan of putting all effort into avoiding bang chan as much as possible has been going smoothly for almost seven years until he asks you for a dance at the Yule Ball. or alternatively, your families hate each other but wait...has he always had those golden flecks in his eyes?

❖ author’s note : here’s the song they’re dancing to 🖤

one.

The once cold ballroom has waited for eons it seems, for a real heart to beat a new rhythm into the matter that made it.

Meanwhile, you too have been waiting (for two-ish hours) in the corner with your cup of root beer abandoned at a table for your dance partner. You’re currently half-clutching your dress and half-panicking because Chan wouldn’t miss an event as extravagant as the Yule Ball. He’s not the type to be sour over little things either just because he didn’t win the Triwizard Tournament. Or perhaps someone else just happened to ask him?

A blood-curdling shriek bursts your eardrums.

Jeongin gives you a nudge with his elbow from behind. “Grilled scream-cheese?” he asks with a mouthful of gluten and carbs, a plate of a sandwich with a (literally) screaming slice of cheese slapped in the middle.

“No, my appetite is ruined,” you say, pushing it away slightly and heaving an audible sigh.

The Ravenclaw boy makes an alarming noise—something similar to ‘uh-oh’ and swallows the big bite from before as fast as he can. “Where’s Chan?”

You only shrug, “Don’t know. Don’t care.” If only you could do that with the train of thoughts that have been going in and out of your ears for the past a hundred and twenty minutes.

“Y/N, you look troubled,” he purses his lips, frowning at you.

“I’m not,” you voice in denial, trying your best not to come off as snappy. No, you will not give up your facade that easily. You won’t leave Chan’s ego nor Jeongin to rest without a fight by saying that you actually want to dance with the heathen!

“Yeah right, let me-“

“Don’t. What if he’s already asked someone else?” You momentarily shudder at how sad you sound. The root beer shouldn’t have hit you this hard. “I mean look at him, he’s Bang Chan. I’m pretty sure those girls from Beauxbatons have been eyeing him up and down since the Tournament.”

Jeongin lets out a huff of laughter in disbelief. “Are you even hearing yourself right now?”

“One of you guys could have asked me. Or I should have paid Jisung to be my partner yesterday. I just, I don’t know, what am I saying? I’m confused.”

Your friend is officially done with your bullshit so he decides for himself that he will now set down his food to make your first and last Yule Ball arguably unforgettable. “Honestly? I can lie and say I would dance with you if you weren’t so full of pride. But truth is, none of us asked you to dance because we all know how badly Chan wants this opportunity. Wake the fuck up! He’s been planning this since forever. I’ll go look for him, wait here,” he points a finger at you before running off, leaving your heartbeat pause awkwardly like a broken record.

The ballroom feels significantly colder now.

“Miss Y/N?”

Ah, perfect timing. What’s another way to phrase ‘being an absolute idiot at a ball’? Oh right, it’s ‘talking to your professor five minutes before the first dance while your friends are socializing left and right’.

“Yes, Headmistress McGonagall?”

Your professor peers around when she realizes that you’re all alone. “Are you and Mister Bang ready?”

“R-ready?” Suddenly, you feel out of place.

“Well, of course. It’s only traditional that the three champions start the first dance!”

“Oh.”

two.

Only the celestial bodies above can know how melancholy you are. But you’re met with a sky without stars tonight.

With your head on your elbows, lips pressed into a straight line, your gaze falls from the endless canvas of darkness to the hustle and bustle of students leaving the Great Hall to head back to their designated dormitories. A sigh. You definitely don’t need to know what they’re going to do for the after-party. Ryujin used to show you an article on this peculiar machine called ‘a laptop’ that the more you sigh, the faster you age. If Chan keeps doing shit like this to you, you’re gonna be all old and wrinkly by the time he comes here.

If he is going to show up at all that is.

The moment you peel your eyes away from the overcrowded main gate, a broad figure is shuffling himself through his drunk Quidditch teammates, sloppy couples, and burnt out professors. He dashes through the empty hallways to reach the spiral staircase, skipping three steps at a time, risking the chances of falling on his face just to get to you.

Pulling himself to a halt at the last step, Chan sees you all curled up against the balcony railings and feels a pang of guilt wash over his innards like a wave. You’re pulling your legs toward your chest, defeated eyes gazing into the space ahead while your hair falls to your face messily. Like you’ve gone through the depths of the Fourth Dimension, struggling through dark matters and a rite of divinity at the end of the line. All for him.

You’re beautiful.

And the amount of affection that’s piling upon his rib cage? Astronomical.

Your gaze is averted away; even with a slight scowl, sloppy clothes and messed up hair, you still flare radiance. He thinks that if a meteor shower is happening right now, you can still outshine it. “You came,” you mention.

For once, Chan finds himself at a loss for words. “Y-Yeah,” he manages to swallow. Yeah? What the fuck, Chan? Is that all you’ve got to say?

“I-I’m sorry, Y/N. Yeji accidentally mistook one of Minho’s potions for her allergy medicine so I gotta take care of that before coming,” he scratches his forearm awkwardly, head hung low with guilt. “I didn’t know it would take that long…”

“Oh.” Wow, jealous stinks. This isn’t pre-school, you’d better snap out of it. “Let’s head back. I wanna check on her before passing out.”

“She’s fine now, sleeps like death. Chaeryeong is there too, you know, just in case.” Chan feels perplexed as he tries to coax anything but the ‘head back’ option from you.

You tilt your head. “And...?”

“I’m afraid you owe me something?” A slow smile begins to outstretch upon his facial muscles, deepening the dimples on either side of his cheeks that you adore the most. “A dance, I believe,” he makes a thinking face while striding toward you.

Coldly, you stand up to dust your dress. “I don’t want to.” You’re not having it, he can tell. But does Bang Chan ever give up?

“A bet is a bet, Y/N.”

Chan’s hand fishes inside the pocket of his trench coat to take out his wand. His hand delicately gives it a swift flick; once, and twice followed by a low mumble from his lips. Immediately, light pulses from the tip of the wand before shooting upward, disintegrating into a million bits as though a starry night is embracing the both of you. He does the same action again to cast a different spell. Music laces through every fiber of air without effort, like honey being poured into your ears.

“It’s just one bet,” he pouts with a hand fully extended toward you.

You should have realized how good Chan looks tonight. A black dress shirt that’s buttoned below appropriate, matching trench coat, silver accessories lining his fingers and ears with naturally tousled hair from running here. He looks so gorgeous that it almost suffocates you, that it almost makes you want to hiss ‘fucking unfair’ out loud.

Enchanted by his poise and grace, your body reacts without the consent of your mind. You seize up when you unknowingly place your hand on top of his, the touch sending electricity down your spine. A simple response has become all too complicated for your brain to process.

You grow breathless the moment he grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him. “Yeah, a bet so you’ll leave me alone,” you remark sarcastically to ease your nerves.

“Look, it’s not my fault that the Goblet of Fire chose me to participate in the Tournament,” Chan chuckles lowly, eyes crinkling into crescent moon shapes while he sways you to the soft melody. Dots of light continue to float around weightlessly, reflecting the golden flecks in his eyes. He’s ethereal in the worst way—the way that isn’t healthy for your heart.

But you soon slap on another scowl when you realize he just reminded you of why you’re even here in the first place. If only you weren’t so salty about Slytherin winning your team over at the final Quidditch match before the holiday occurs. Let’s just say you weren’t exactly in the best mind state after getting your ass kicked in your favorite sport.

And Chan wasted no time to slip in between the line of comical humor and your ultimate torment. Which results in—if you get to attend the Triwizard Tournament, he will leave you alone for the rest of your life; but if he is the chosen one, he gets a dance with you at the Yule Ball.

It’s really not all that bad if you think twice about it. Dancing with Bang Chan, the Slytherin’s Quidditch team captain, the student with perfect academics and conduct for six years straight, and now one of the Triwizard Tournament champions this year.

Music threads through the atmosphere and lifts away gravity. You can’t count how many times you have stepped on his toes due to nervousness because you’re too much of a coward to look him in the eye. But he’s the only thing you can seem to focus on right now.

“Besides, don’t you think this is a good opportunity to get rid of the tension between us?” Chan asks honestly, and this causes you to perk up.

“What?”

Lights are twinkling with every step as Chan spins you around gently, your dress billowing out prettily as your heels click against the cold concrete. After that, he swiftly pulls you back into his arms and you exhale in relief like you were meant to be there all this time.

“Don’t act dumb, you’re terrible at it. I know the only reason why you’ve been avoiding me since first year was because of our families’ stupid grudge. ”

Your eyes are cast downward, sadness glinting in your round pupils. “Either way, my parents wouldn’t like to see me talking to you. And look at what we’re doing. It’s going to be catastrophic if they find out.”

“Well, they can’t just magically appear now, can they?” Chan leans a little closer to lock his eyes with yours.

And you break it seconds later because you’re an absolute coward for a Gryffindor. “We’re attending a magic school. Anything is possible.”

“Did they even tell you what the actual problem was in the first place?” he huffs out in faint annoyance.

You shake your head. “I don’t think they’d even remember.”

“Then would you stop giving me that look as if I just shooed your owl way every time I said ‘hi’ on my way to class? Have you ever thought about my feelings? About us being civil for once? Like friends? Or even more so?”

“I-“

“We’re not our parents, Y/N.”

Your heart becomes all erratic at his words. It’s nothing like those fully-fledged, tear-jerking nor cheesyass confessions that you’ve gawked at one too many times, but it makes your heart flutter and stirs up those cliché butterflies inside your stomach. This can’t be compared to the Yule Ball—it’s even better than that. Because it feels as though you and Chan are the only presences that graze the surface of this land. There’s no one to judge, no fingers to point, no gossip spreading like wildfire.

It’s perfect. Almost.

“Us...it’s not- it can’t happen. It’s not supposed to happen. It’s not possible, Chan.”

Wordlessly, he stops, moves both of your hands to his shoulders, and wraps his arms around your torso. The sound of your heartbeat against his is so in sync they just drown out the music completely. Time is frozen in place, leaving you to hang on the edge with him, hanging onto this single moment as thin as the red string of fate. You’re waiting for him to do something, say something.

Just then, Chan cracks a wry smile and pulls you closer by the nape of your neck, resting his forehead comfortably on yours. “We’re attending a magic school. Anything is possible.”

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citadelspires · 3 years

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P1 - Given how great you're track record's been for doing hypothetical interactions of Amphibia kids with the Duck kids and Owl House kids, let's try doing the Duck kids meeting the Owl House kids and who they'd like the best. I'll exclude Violet for this for the sake of evenening things out 5 to 5. I'd assume Luz would get along best with Dewey (both jump into adventure), King with Louie (could see em teaming up for a scheme), Willow with Huey (eh, more leftover interaction but can work)

Screenshot of second half of the ask provided. Text: P2 Gus with Webby (would totally ask each other lots of questions about their species), and Amity with Lena (both got abusive figures they stood up to and would totally talk about their crushes on Luz and Webby LOL). Would love to see you take on Duck kids and Owl House kids interactions.

First of all I’m very pleased to hear you find my track record on these posts good, they’ve been really fun to write and it makes me really happy people like them! Second I am so sorry it’s taken so long to get to this ask, it’s a really in depth one and it took a long time to write, I hope you’ll find it was worth the wait!

Aight! Oh and one last thing real quick before I get into it. I hope you wouldn’t mind me adding Violet back in, partially due to the fact I love her, but mostly because there’s actually another owl house character I think works significantly better with Louie than anyone else and I really want the chance to talk about that. Saving that one for last hehe. This’ll be another long one, writing below the cut.

Luz and Webby So I do like a lot of the possible interactions brought up by your suggested grouping but my mind went in a few different directions. I’ll start with Luz, who would fit in best with another excitable adventuring partner, as pointed out, but I think the best fit for her in that regard would actually be Webby. While Dewey would no doubt get along great with Luz, there’s a special element to the potential relationship between Luz and Webby that really elevates the potential of their friendship to another level, that being: they both want to eat a hamburger.

An aspect of Webby I wish the later seasons of the show got into a little more, but is definitely something I would consider a core part of her character, is the fact that she got held up in the mansion her whole childhood, with no opportunities to interact with the world around her, have all the adventures she wanted, and most importantly to just be seen as the kid she wanted to be. And while Luz was technically able to go out into the world, the place she found wasn’t one that was willing to see her, or give her any of the chances she longed for. Both Webby and Luz fully understand that feeling of being trapped in your own life, of finally getting the chance to break out and just doing your best to make the most of it. I think there’s a lot the two could gain from spending some time together.

(Also, to borrow the bit about gushing about their crushes but from the other end, these two would totally get sidetracked talking about their respective crushes and also trying to play wingman for each other. It’s a massive comic disaster in both cases, but somehow both Lena and Amity manage to find it endearing).

Amity and Violet Okay wait lemme explain. While the two of them don’t have a whole lot in common at first glance, I think they would genuinely get along extremely well. While a lot of Amity’s focus on school came at the force of her parents, you cannot honestly expect me to believe that girl isn’t a studious nerd on her own anyway. Heck even outside the realm of studies she throws her full dedication into literally every single thing she does. Remind you of anyone? Beyond just being extremely intelligent Violet is clever and ready for anything. She takes everything in stride and always has a plan, she can go from “we were sleeping over and you said everybody get on the plane, so we got on the plane” to “I brought an axe” in a minute flat.

I like to think the two of them would have a mutual respect for each other based on their respective intellects upon first meeting, but as they become closer friends they find they can move from more serious respect to a casual enjoyment of each other. I would go as far as to say that both of these characters really value dependability in a friend, and that they each provide a lot of that. To wrap back around to the stuff about intelligence I think Violet could provide a lot of insight to Amity as far as showing her that pursuing studies and academic heights of her own volition can be something that she can just do because she wants to, and that’s no excuse for unhealthy parental relationships. Getting along so well with someone like Violet only to see that her parents are actually really loving and supportive, that would be really eye-opening for Amity I think. For Violet’s part she could get a lot of help from Amity as far as her pursuit of the secrets of magic goes. I suspect Amity would be much more interested in the study of her magic than Violet would be able to get Lena to tolerate lol.

Bonus Round: Amity would absolutely be a senior junior woodchuck and she would love it you cannot convince me otherwise. She starts quoting the JWGB around the owl house kids and they all look at her like she’s crazy.

Lena and Willow I feel like this one might seem a little out there at first but trust me on this one. Initially Lena doesn’t think too much of Willow, being as close as she is to Webby she knows liking flowers and cute things doesn’t mean Willow is automatically to be taken lightly but she feels like she’s got a good read on her that she generally prefers to avoid trouble and turns down opportunities for violence, which isn’t really Lena’s deal. Over time Lena figures she was right about her first impressions as Willow doesn’t seem to take many opportunities to expose some hidden power, even when Lena knows the people around her kinda deserve it.

She learns to adjust her opinion when she finally does get the chance to see Willow in action and realizes that girl is more powerful than any of the other kids she’s met in the boiling aisles bar none(yes this is my genuine opinion of willow if you don’t think she could kick your ass you’re wrong). It’s at that moment where she starts to pay more attention to Willow and notices a lot more of the strength she puts into all the little things, how much she cares for everyone and everything, and it does a great deal to show Lena that maybe having super strong magic powers isn’t mutually exclusive with being kind and gentle. And maybe gentle isn’t her thing but still, it’s nice to know.

For Willow’s part she’s just happy to make more friends. Especially if the opportunity arises, as I like to think it would, when they’re close enough friends, that Lena would start to hint around asking questions about how Willow remains so casual and nice with the ability to do so much damage, and Willow takes the chance to help Lena figure out her magic a bit more, and learn how to better appreciate it as an aspect of herself she doesn’t have to be scared of. (I mean come on Lena never really learned how to do any of it except barely kind of from Magica of all people she could really use something like that).

Huey and Gus Now there are some certain things about Gus that would drive Huey absolutely nuts. His lack of primary and reliable sources for any of his information being a big one, but at the end of the day I think he’d enjoy Gus’ desire to learn in the first place. Gus would probably be a little dubious about Huey’s “sources” and “citations” but if it helped him get more info on the human realm he’d certainly go for it in the end. In that way the two balance each other out pretty well. Gus is studious and intelligent but he’s a little off the wall, he’s got a big creative streak, and he’s really excitable. Huey is really really good at facts and analysis but he lacks the strength in imagination that Gus has. Huey is able to take all the grandiose concepts Gus is able to think up and help make them actually happen. Gus has that specific brand of an adventurers soul matched up with the fact he’s not actually the type to get into danger and fights, meaning he’s able to drag Huey out of his comfort zone a little and help him reach new heights with his mind that his struggles with creativity prevent him from reaching, while managing to not make him feel like he’s actually in danger. I actually believe the two of them together could get some really incredible stuff done.

What I’m saying is that with Huey’s help Gus could absolutely complete his tunnels under Hexside.

Dewey and King Now this, this is the pair who would go incredibly well together, at the detriment of literally everyone around them. If there is one person King “I Will Rule Everything” Clawthorne should not be exposed to its Dewey Duck. Within minutes of meeting each other the two of them would immediately have so many bad ideas. Between Dewey’s insistence on being the best and most daring adventurer while putting his name on everything and going down in history & King’s trying to rule everything and everyone, the attempts to raise the stakes would be constant and the two would spend literal hours endlessly trying to one-up each other. All in one day they search for legendary treasure, discover an entirely new civilization, try to take over said civilization, create a new species just to name it after themselves, and build statues of themselves in the middle of Bonesbourough. And that’s all before lunch.

Louie Here it is. The one I waited till the very end for out of sheer excitement. I even kept the second name out of the heading thing. That’s how secretive I’m trying to be about this. See, there’s one character in the owl house that works so well with Louie it’s practically canon. Their interactions have so much potential, they each bring so much to the table, I just couldn’t Not talk about it. And yeah, I know this ask was specifically asking about the owl house and ducktales kids, but I just couldn’t resist talking about the relationship between Louie and Eda.

A con artist from another world who was so successful she became nationally famous? There’s no way Louie would pass up an opportunity like that. For his part I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already managed to set up another underworld identity in the boiling aisles, or at the very least that Eda could totally have been to the ducktales realm and heard of his one there.

Either way I’m convinced the two of them would start planning a heist as soon as they figure out who each other are. Eda is a little prideful and wants to show this kid he can’t out-con her, but Louie knows what he’s doing just as much. Honestly with the two of them combined Eda wouldn’t have to worry about losing her stand for a long time. Over the course of their planning and seeing Louie in action Eda begrudgingly gains some respect for the kid, and while Louie was definitely just using her as a learning/profit opportunity at first, he’s pretty susceptible to getting attached.

For Louie, it’s the fact that she actually respects him for being good at what he does. Even back with his family who all love and care about him and all that he still feels like most of them don’t really get what he does or see what’s special about him, so having someone who made a whole life of it be even a little proud of him feels really nice.

And of course, at the end of their heist when they finally have the money in hand, and Eda just casually hands over his half, he stares at her like she’s crazy.

“You’re just.. Giving it to me?!”

“Well, yeah. That was the deal wasn’t it kid? I mean if you really want I definitely have a few ideas for it.”

“No! Uh, no, thanks, I’ll keep it. It’s just that you really remind me of someone, I guess I was expecting something else.”

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reytaliation · 3 years

Text

「 waste of a lovely night. — bakugou katsuki 」

‣ genre — fluff, hogwarts au

‣ w.c — 1,5k

‣ warning — explicit language

‣ synopsis — katsuki hates you for the long time feud between your families. he hates you more now that you didn’t dance with him at the yule ball.

‣ note — this piece has been modified from one of my writings on my main blog; if you find it familiar, this is probably why.

only the celestial bodies above can know how melancholy katsuki is. but he’s met with a sky without stars tonight.

with his head on his elbows, lips pressed into a straight, his gaze falls from the endless canvas of darkness to the hustle and bustle of students leaving the great hall to head back to their designated dormitories. an irritated sigh. he definitely doesn’t need to know what they’re going to do for the after-party. denki used to show him an article on this peculiar machine called ‘a laptop’ that the more you sigh, the faster you age. if you keep doing shit like this to him, he’s gonna be all old and wrinkly by the time you come here.

if you��re going to show up at all that is.

the moment he peels his eyes away from the overcrowded main gate, a figure is shuffling themselves through their drunk quidditch teammates, sloppy couples, and burnt out professors. they dash through the empty hallways to reach the spiral staircase, skipping three steps at a time, risking the chances of falling on their face just to get to him.

pulling yourself to a halt at the last step, you see katsuki all curled up against the balcony railings and feel a pang of guilt wash over his innards like a wave. he’s pulling your legs toward his chest, defeated eyes gazing into the space ahead while his hair falls to his face messily. like he’s gone through the depths of the fourth dimension, struggling through dark matters and a rite of divinity at the end of the line. all for you.

he’s beautiful.

and the amount of affection that’s piling upon your rib cage? astronomical.

his gaze is averted away; even with a slight scowl, sloppy clothes and messed up hair, katsuki still flares radiance. you think that if a meteor shower is happening right now, he can still outshine it. “you fucking came,” he mentions coldly.

shit. he’s a lot less scary when he’s shouting and cursing at me.

for once, you find yourself at a loss for words. “y-yeah,” you manage to swallow. yeah? what the fuck, y/n? is that all you’ve got to say?

“i-i’m sorry, katsuki. shoto accidentally mistook one of momo’s potions for his allergy medicine so i had to take care of that before coming,” you scratch your forearm awkwardly, head hung low with guilt. “i didn’t know it would take that long…”

katsuki pushes himself up, eyes rolling to the moon. “you were too busy taking care of icy hot that you forgot about your dance partner? the champions of the tournament were supposed to be there for the first dance, you dumbass.”

wow, jealousy stinks, he chuckles internally. how old is he? three?

“oh don’t even pretend that you wanted to be there for the first dance,” you huff in disbelief.

he tilts his head, smirking. “and you couldn’t find yourself a proper partner.”

“i did, and i’m afraid he owes me something.” a slow smile begins to outstretch upon your facial muscles. “a dance, i believe,” you make a thinking face while striding toward him.

coldly, katsuki yanks his tie loose. “i fucking beg to differ.” he’s not having it, you can tell. but will you ever give up?

“a bet is a bet, katsuki.”

your hand fishes inside the pocket of your trench coat to take out your wand. your hand delicately gives it a swift flick; once, and twice followed by a low mumble from your lips. immediately, light pulses from the tip of the wand before shooting upward, disintegrating into a million bits as though a starry night is embracing the both of you. you repeat the same action again to cast a different spell. music laces through every fiber of air without effort, like honey being poured into your ears.

“it’s just one bet,” you pout with a hand fully extended toward him.

you should have realized how good katsuki looks tonight. a black dress shirt that’s buttoned below appropriate, matching trench coat, silver accessories lining his fingers and ears with naturally tousled hair. he looks so gorgeous that it almost suffocates you, that it almost makes you want to hiss ‘fucking unfair’ out loud.

enchanted by his poise and grace, your body reacts without the consent of your mind. you seize up when you unknowingly place your hand on top of his, the touch sending electricity down his spine. a simple response has become all too complicated for his brain to process.

you grow breathless the moment he grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him. “let’s get this shit over with, i’m tired,” katsuki remarks sarcastically to ease his nerves.

“look, it’s not my fault that the goblet of fire chose me to participate in the tournament,” you chuckle lowly, eyes crinkling into crescent moon shapes while he sways you to the soft melody. dots of light continue to float around weightlessly, reflecting the golden flecks in his eyes. he’s ethereal in the worst way—the way that isn’t healthy for your heart.

katsuki soon slaps on another scowl when he realizes you just reminded him of why he’s even here in the first place. if only he weren’t so salty about slytherin winning his team over at the final quidditch match before the holiday occurs. let’s just say he wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind after getting his ass kicked in his favorite sport.

and you wasted no time to slip in between the line of comical humor and his ultimate torment. which results in—if katsuki gets to attend the triwizard tournament , you will leave him alone for the rest of his life; but if you are the chosen one, you get a dance with him at the yule ball.

it’s really not all that bad if you think twice about it. dancing with bakugou katsuki, the gryffindor’s quidditch team captain, the student with perfect academics and (almost perfect) conduct for six years straight.

music threads through the atmosphere and lifts away gravity. you can’t count how many times you have stepped on his toes due to nervousness because you’re too much of a coward to look him in the eye. but he’s the only thing you can seem to focus on right now.

“also, don’t you think this is a good opportunity to get rid of the tension between us?” you ask honestly, and this causes him to perk up.

“what the fuck are you going on about?”

lights are twinkling with every step as katsuki spins you around gently, your dress billowing out prettily as your heels click against the cold concrete. after that, he swiftly pulls you back into his arms and you exhale in relief like you were meant to be there all this time.

“don’t play dumb, you’re terrible at it. i know the only reason why you’ve been avoiding me since first year was because of our families’ stupid grudge. ”

his eyes are cast downward for a moment, his tone grows serious. “either way, my old geezers wouldn’t like to see me talking to you. and look at what we’re doing. we’re both fucked if they found out.”

“well, they can’t just magically appear now, can they?” you lean a little closer to lock your eyes with his.

and katsuki breaks it seconds later. “we’re attending a magic school for fuck’s sake. anything is possible.”

“did they even tell you what the actual problem was in the first place?” you huff out in faint annoyance.

he snorts audibly. “let me humor you. i don’t think they’d even remember.”

“then would you stop giving me that look as if i just shooed your owl way every time i said ‘hi’ on my way to class? have you ever thought about my feelings? about us being civil for once? like friends? or even more so?”

“fucking hell-“

his heart becomes all erratic at your words. it’s nothing like those fully-fledged, tear-jerking nor cheesyass confessions that he’s gawked at one too many times, but it makes his heart flutter and stirs up those cliché butterflies inside his stomach. this can’t be compared to the yule ball—it’s even better than that. because it feels as though you and him are the only presences that graze the surface of this land. there’s no one to judge, no fingers to point, no gossip spreading like wildfire.

it’s perfect. almost.

“whatever you’re planning for us, it’s not gonna fucking happen. it’s not supposed to happen. it’s not possible, y/n.”

wordlessly, you stop, move both of his hands to your torso, and wrap your arms around his neck. the sound of your heartbeat against his is so in sync they just drown out the music completely. time is frozen in place, leaving him to hang on the edge with you, hanging onto this single moment as thin as the red string of fate. he’s waiting for you to do something, say something.

just then, you crack a wry smile and pull him closer by the nape of his neck, resting your forehead comfortably on his.

“we’re attending a magic school. anything is possible.”

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki imagine #bakugou katsuki #katsuki headcanons #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou

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itsclydebitches · 3 years

Text

YYH Recaps: Episode 4 “Requirements for Lovers”

Hello, everyone! It's been quite a while, huh? Ah, the endless cycle of wanting to write and yet, astoundingly, not writing. I know it well.

Good ol' writer's block has skedaddled for a time though, so let's make good use of that and dive into Episode Four: "Requirements for Lovers."

Ohhh, YYH getting spicy with its titles 😏

Actually wait, I shouldn't be making dumb jokes just yet. First I want to acknowledge a slight change to future recaps: YYH, RWBY, and anything else I might try my hand at. Namely, a lack of pictures moving forward. A few weeks ago — months? I honestly can't keep track — tumblr implemented a new limitation where no post can have more than ten images in it. It's a move that, while I'm sure has its justifications, makes sharing analyses of visually-based media all the more difficult. I'll be doing my best moving forward to describe scenes as needed, as well as combining connected images together to stretch out my limit, but I'm not going to pretend that it'll be the same as getting the visual play-by-play we’re used to.

Tumblr certainly is a website, huh?

Anyway, we open on Yusuke once again lamenting the difficulty of hatching a spirit beast that doesn't immediately devour him from the head down. On the one hand this is an admittedly easy way to reset the story over the course of this arc — the storytelling equivalent of waking your character up each morning — yet I cannot deny that if I were undergoing a resurrection test, it would consume my every thought too. Can't really blame Yusuke for endlessly bringing the conflict up when the conflict is this deadly.

Well, deadly for a ghost, anyway.

Specifically, he's worried about how embarrassing it would be to get eaten by something that came out of an egg this tiny. I'm torn between reminding a fictional character that things grow — a pissed off chicken could kick my ass and it started out in an egg too — and just shaking my head over the absurdity of worrying about embarrassment when, you know, you would cease to exist. It's not even a matter of, "What if I die and then I'm embarrassed about it in the afterlife :( " Yusuke is already IN the afterlife. He's got nowhere to go but oblivion!

Luckily, Botan takes a more practical approach to these worries, pointing out that he'll be just fine provided he does some good deeds. Yusuke starts a rant about how do-gooders are only ever out for themselves.

Yusuke, you dumb-dumb, you're a do-gooder now. What was all that help for Kuwabara, hmm? As said, these early episodes exist in a semi-reset loop, where Yusuke needs to stew in his main character flaws for a while before any real growth starts to stick. Those flaws being, primarily, "I'm a pessimist" and "also I hate myself."

Case in point, Botan accuses him of always seeing the glass as half empty. Which, while true enough (outside of his confidence in fighting, anyway), by now we've got a pretty good sense of where Yusuke developed this attitude. He affirms this by talking about how Koenma's got him by the balls, "just another idiot abusing his power!" With an alcoholic mother and those teachers from last episode, it's no wonder Yusuke thinks this way. Mr. Takenaka's interest and Keiko's care aren't enough to combat the rest of Yusuke's experience, not when Takenaka is an outlier and Keiko is Yusuke's peer. Her desire to keep him on the right track reads only as an inevitability at best (the downside of having a perfect childhood friend), or a legitimate annoyance at worst. Or, as we'll continue to see in this episode, a way for them to flirt.

Is it any wonder Yusuke would sneer at Koenma's offer then, expecting the worst? The fact that Yusuke is still undergoing the challenge at all, no matter what he says, speaks volumes to me.

However, Botan is less than comfortable with his criticisms. She panics a bit at Yusuke insulting the (junior) ruler of the underworld so blithely. That, and the fact that he's carelessly tossing his egg around.

(Yes we’re using precious picture space for memes are you SURPRISED?)

Anyway, Botan isn't just concerned for the sake of concern. She cautions Yusuke against speaking too freely because there may be investigators checking in on his progress. No sooner does he ask what those investigators look like than one appears.

Thunder! Lighting! An energy so intense that Yusuke is briefly blinded! It is, as he says, quite the entrance. What kind of being could possibly be at the heart of such an astounding show?

Why, this teeny-tiny cutie, of course.

Remember, few appearances in YYH coincide with the character's true self. Would you ever assume this is the all-powerful investigator who holds Yusuke's future in her hands? Of course not. That's the point.

The investigator introduces herself as Sayaka and immediately demonstrates that she has no more patience for Yusuke's attitude than Botan does. "These damn kids," he mutters and my brain briefly blue screens because Yusuke. You're fourteen.

Plus, Sayaka and Botan clearly have some sort of eternal youth situation going on, so there's that too.

Sayaka is, in a word, fantastic. She pulls no punches with Yusuke, teleporting away from him with what can only be described as a shit-eating smile, all while refusing to tell him what exactly she's investigating. “I’m sorry, but that’s a secret!” However, Keiko is clearly at the forefront of her interest. She refers to her as Yusuke's "girlfriend."

Botan is more than happy to point Keiko out — because of course they're still following her around! — and pulls a Et tu, Brute? on Yususke, leading Sayaka right to her. Like most of the Underworld, Sayaka is rather shocked that the pretty, popular, scholarly girl is supposedly into the delinquent. It's the power of childhood friendship, you fools! Specifically, Sayaka references the "positive markings" that Keiko has accumulated, but the audience already knows by now that such markings are suspect at best. Yusuke himself is proof of that. So if his terrible marks don't preclude him from being a young kid's savior, should we really view Keiko's as proof of superiority?

I mean, Keiko is fantastic, but that's not really the point here.

Starting her own investigation into Yusuke's life, Sayaka begins with one hell of a bombshell: "There's no point in doing [the resurrection] if the people closest to you don't care." WOW. Not only is that a harsh assessment, it's one I don't think I can personally get behind. The offer to restore Yusuke to life is built on the acknowledgment that their system is flawed (even if there's no work to change or dismantle that system): they thought he was worthless, his sacrificial death seems to have proven them wrong, and now they want further evidence, in the form of this trial, that Yusuke is a good person at heart. The whole point of this challenge is to give him a second chance, with testimonies like Mr. Takenaka's emphasizing that Yusuke has always been capable of more, so long as he applies himself. This, as we'll see throughout the series, applies to relationships too. The Yusuke with one friend he play-fights with, a distant mother, and a school worth of kids who are terrified of his very name is not the future Yusuke they expect him to become, so... why base his resurrection on what he's already (not) accomplished? Granted, the show is very unclear about what, if anything, Sayaka will do if she decides that Yusuke doesn't have a life worth going back to (even if I have my own theory discussed at the end), but the fact that this is suddenly a factor at all seems grossly unfair, not entirely unlike Kuwabara's rigged promise. We as the audience know that people love Yusuke. Yusuke himself is beginning to acknowledge that. But if this fourteen year old delinquent truly had no one that wanted him back from the dead... isn't that all the more reason to allow a resurrection and give him the chance to build a life where he would be missed?

This stupid shonen got me thinking too much istg.

Yusuke, ever the self-deprecating pessimist, bypasses all of the above thoughts and jumps straight to, "It's clear if [Keiko] had any sense she'd want me gone." I'd find that attitude incredibly sad if I wasn't distracted by how cute Botan and Sayaka are, sitting on the oar together. The spirit girls who fly together, thrive together!

Botan starts teasing Yusuke about having a crush, which just feeds his temper and Sayaka's confusion. Deciding that she needs to gather more info, they follow along for an average day of school because these earlier episodes are, apparently, ghost-stalk Keiko hours.

We see her reading aloud in class from Heart of Darkness (not the easiest book for some middle schoolers), scoring a point during volleyball practice, refusing to let one girl cheat off her homework, but happily helping another who runs up with a question. So she's pretty, athletic, and academically successful, the trifecta for any good love interest. Sayaka is impressed not just with her "nearly perfect" scores, but also the maturity that Keiko demonstrates, such as maintaining her morals about cheating while remaining compassionate.

Actually, I really love the contrast this provides for us, the viewer. Meaning, Keiko is shown to be at her least mature when in Yusuke's presence. Not that her responses aren't justified, but watching her dramatically snatch gum from his mouth, slap him across the face, or pull crazed expressions as she yells at him is a far cry from this calm, poised, soft-spoken Keiko. It's a way to visually show us that she's comfortable in his presence, despite the suspect humor attached. Not that the Keiko we see at school is faking or anything — she is legitimately that kind and articulate — but we see that being with Yusuke allows her to relax in a way she doesn't with others. School!Keiko is, as Sayaka says, pretty much perfect, 24/7. Yusuke's Keiko is a little rougher around the edges, in a way that implies a multifaceted personality shining through.

However, the only conclusion our trio draws is that, given Keiko's accomplishments, any attraction must be one-sided.

Poor Yusuke lol.

In a plot move that is so ridiculously contrived, just as Yusuke is grappling with the accusation that Keiko couldn't possibly like him back, a "handsome boy" arrives to ask Keiko out. He says that he couldn't bear it when she stopped reading Heart of Darkness because he's fallen in love with her voice. "Will you be my girlfriend?"

Please excuse me while I lose my shit over how ridiculous this is. I legitimately straight up cackled when I watched this scene.

Luckily for Mr. Absurd, Keiko takes him seriously — and lets him down easy. She says she can't be his girlfriend and when he presses the "Why?", asking if she already likes someone else, Keiko confirms that she does. This is done through a shot of her feet. Not a POV shot given the angle, but close enough that it feels like we're stepping into Keiko's shoes (haha), shyly staring down at the floor in embarrassment and regret.

Rejection complete? The guy screams.

I mean he screams.

I mean this nobody we're never gonna see again unhinges his jaw and lets out an unholy shriek the likes of which makes me shriek in utter GLEE.

It's insane. It's wonderful. I'm going to use one of my coveted image spots to show you his face:

Look at that and tell me this show isn't amazing.

Okay, I'm focusing again. As Keiko runs off Botan and Sayaka start dragging Yusuke, teasing him about how Keiko chose him over that "charming handsome boy."

...Please scroll up and look at that image again. I find YYH's definition of "charming" and "handsome" to be hilariously wrong.

Yusuke, as per usual, throws himself into damage control, claiming that Keiko didn't say who she liked, so really it could be anyone. They're not buying it. “'I like Keiko' is written all over your face!” Botan crows. Meanwhile, Sayaka is scribbling in her little investigator's journal that feelings on both side are severely misunderstood. "Suggest serious counseling."

Fantastic idea, Sayaka. I'd personally suggest counseling for the whole dying/best friend getting resurrected thing... but relationship woes work too!

We cut to later when school is out and Keiko has gone over to Yusuke's. To say that Atsuko has done a poor job of keeping the house clean lately would be a serious understatement.

Keiko points out the old food and broken glass specifically, cluing us in that this isn't just a messy environment, but a dangerous one as well. This is proven when she accidentally knocks a stack of books over and a used bowl falls onto Yusuke's face. What's interesting is that Keiko says that things are "back to normal" now, though I'm not sure if that's in reference to the state of the house, or just the note Atsuko left behind, asking Keiko to take care of Yusuke while she's out. I'm inclined towards thinking it's just the note, partly because of Keiko's shock when she first arrives, because the house wasn't shown to be in this state prior to Yusuke's death (first image above), and because the note is accompanied by a great voiceover that makes Atsuko sound quite sloshed when she left. That's what's normal, the drinking and carefree attitude, not the state of her home. If we buy that reading, it allows for another fantastic look into Atsuko's mental state. If she's already an alcoholic, the trauma of her son's death and the following revelation that he's coming back might make her struggle in other ways. Like finding cleaning to be an impossible task.

She's depressed. It doesn't excuse the state she's left Yusuke in and, as previously acknowledged, YYH is definitely not a show interested in this nuance, but I still find it fun to take what little we've gotten and run with it.

However, Keiko is firmly on team "WTF Atsuko." She hurries to make sure Yusuke wasn't hurt by the falling bowl, bemoans him being "covered in garbage," and says that leaving him in this state should be considered a felony. Knowing it's far beyond her power to fix Atsuko's failings, Keiko swears to come here after school every day until Yusuke regains his body. It's as she's cleaning him of the dust that's gathered that Keiko becomes entranced with Yusuke’s features. Particularly his lips. The soft lighting returns, their theme song swells, and Keiko gets thiiiis close to kissing Yusuke for the first time.

Which is a little weird, right? I mean, we know why Yusuke is freaking out. Beyond the embarrassment of a middle schooler receiving his first kiss while two ghost girls eagerly watch on, he's made a hobby of denouncing his interest in Keiko to anyone who will listen. But for the average viewer — for Keiko herself — don't we care the he's, you know, dead? Or if not technically dead, very unconscious? Don't get me wrong, I fully understand the appeal of this situation in a generalized, cultural sense (with the side disclaimer that I'm reading a Japanese product through an American lens). Sleeping Beauty exists for a reason and there's definitely an element of that here: a gender-reversed setup where Keiko’s kills may break the "curse" of Yusuke's untimely death. Even his in-between state of being mirrors the "death like sleep" of the fairy tale. But when you strip away those Disney-esque thoughts, we're left with a girl about to kiss an unresponsive body, not as a common gesture of care (the parent who kisses their child while they sleep), but as a first time, romantic milestone.

It's a little weird lol.

But embrace the romance! As well as its inevitable interruption. Just as Keiko is about to land a peck, the neighborhood watch committee announces a heat and fire warning, startling Keiko out of her thoughts about Yusuke's "beautiful face." (There's another gender reversal for ya.) She gasps at her almost-action, conveniently remembers that her mom wanted her to do some shopping, and hightails it out of there before embarrassment can really kill them both.

So she runs off for food... in a sweater? The outfit is cute and all, but I wonder what the animators were thinking, putting Keiko in a puffy pullover during an episode all about a heat wave.

It's about at this point that the plot goes from cute romance to absolutely buck wild. The fires the neighborhood watch committee mentioned are not, in fact, due to the overwhelming heat, but an arsonist that's going around tossing molotov cocktails through open windows. Why is he doing such a thing? I don't know. Arsonists be doing arson, I guess. The important bit is that Yusuke's place is his next target, considering that Atsuko forgot to lock the windows when she went out. Within seconds all that garbage is set ablaze, quite obviously putting Yusuke's resurrection chances at an all time low.

"Wake up, stupid!" he shouts at his unconscious body. Mood, Yusuke. That's me every morning.

So this is a full scale emergency now and everyone is scrambling trying to think of something to do. Yusuke comes up with the idea to possess himself like he did Kuwabara — nice attempt at a loophole there — but since it would technically count as his resurrection, no dice. Botan decides to go get Kuwabara himself, even though he's too far away to do anything. It's still worth a shot. Sayaka, meanwhile, watches all this unfold with a somewhat clinical detachment. She's not quite indifferent and she's definitely not cruel... she’s just not as emotionally invested in this as the other two. Which not only re-emphasizes her purpose here, as an observer judging Yusuke, but also highlights the bond Botan is forming with him. As mentioned before in regards to her hanging out with Yusuke rather than ferrying souls, Botan is well past someone assisting Yusuke simply because it's a part of her job. He's her friend.

We get some shots of the growing fire which includes a hazy texture to the animation I quite like and then we cut to Keiko several blocks away, shopping bag in hand. Word of the new fire spreads, with one bystander mentioning that it's the twelfth today.

"This is eerie.”

“Yeah, I can’t help feeling we’re under attack.”

That's because you are! Someone stop that man!

Sadly, I don't think the arsonist is mentioned again, let alone captured. We'll just have to relegate that to my incredibly niche fic wishlist.

Keiko also overhears that the latest fire is on fourth avenue, which of course is where Yusuke lives. Recognizing that he might be in trouble, she takes off at a run.

Meanwhile, Botan finds Kuwabara practicing his kicks against a Yusuke dummy. Amazing resemblance, right?

Watching for the purpose of recapping, I'm picking up on a lot of details in the animation I quite enjoy. I don't think anyone would claim that YYH, at this point in time, has the most impressive or flashy animation (the fight scenes later are another matter entirely), but there's a clear love for the product that shines through. The scared expression on Kuwabara's dummy. His unexpectedly dainty kick, complete with pointed toes. Botan's more translucent coloring to emphasize her supernatural status compared to Kuwabara. There are a lot of nice touches despite the overall simplicity.

Plus, you can't forget the lovely irony of Kuwabara fighting a defenseless "Yusuke" while the real guy actually lies defenseless amidst a fire. We already know that despite his tough talk, Kuwabara would be horrified to learn that his friend rival had died (again) in such a manner.

Capitalizing on that transparency, Botan runs a hand through Kuwabara's back to catch his attention. He gets his "tickle feeling" and instinctively looks around towards Yusuke's house, seeing the smoke. "Something tells me I should go that way." Gotta love a guy who drops everything to chase a vague, supernaturally induced hunch.

As Kuwabara leaves we cut back to Keiko arriving at the house, staring in horror at the blaze. We get an audio flashback to her talk with Yusuke where she promised to take care of his body until he got back. So she tries to run in, only for a couple of the onlookers to snag her, quite correctly keeping her from undergoing a suicide mission. We learn later that Keiko absolutely would have died without Yusuke's sacrifice, so her "You cowards!" is born more of emotion than justified accusations. It's not cowardly to look at the raging inferno in a small apartment and realize that recklessly running in will only result in two dead teens, not one.

I mean, the flames are already right there, licking the door. Even if Keiko somehow managed to avoid burns, the smoke alone would do her in. Still, Keiko tries to mitigate the damage by dumping a bucket of water over her head. As a kid I remember thinking this was the smartest thing ever. Utterly inspired. Keep that in the back of your mind, kid Clyde, for future reference. As an adult... I have no idea whether this would actually help or not lol. Any firefighters doubling as YYH fans?

Recklessness and iffy precautions aside, I can't express how much I appreciate the story giving Keiko things to do. Yusuke recognizes that she's the only one with the maturity and open-mindedness to believe in his resurrection. She's the one picking up Atsuko's slack regarding his day-to-day needs. She never hesitates for a moment, heroically throwing herself into this blaze for Yusuke's benefit. Yeah, a lot of that still falls into the emotional/domestic sphere — what we expect of the love interest in a 90s anime — but too often action stories don't have a clue what to do with their non-action characters, not even when it comes to just supporting the fighters. They're simply... there. Keiko, however, isn't window dressing. Whether it's helping Botan survive an upcoming, supernatural plague, or cheering the team on at the Dark Tournament, Keiko is an important part of the story, despite lacking the fighting prowess of the rest of the cast.

Just as important, this episode establishes a core equality between her and Yusuke. We just watched Keiko reject a (presumably) accomplished guy for him, telling the audience that these surface differences — academics, power levels, popularity, looks — don't matter to them. Yusuke is not Keiko's lesser just because he doesn't have the same scores in Sayaka's book and Keiko won't become Yusuke's lesser just because she doesn't have spiritual power like he does. The only important thing here is that they love each other and they're both willing to sacrifice everything for the other. In the span of about ten minutes, Keiko nearly gives up her life for Yusuke and, in turn, Yusuke gives up his resurrection for her. The level of care they show towards one another is balanced, despite those differences.

They’re a good ship, y'all. Even if this recapping's got me noticing Yusuke/Kuwabara potential lol.

To get back to the plot, a drenched Keiko charges into the fire, yelling Yusuke's name for the drama of it because we all know he can't respond. Despite the audience (hopefully) recognizing Keiko and Yusuke's equality, that memo hasn't reached Yusuke yet. "You're a lot more important to this world than I am!" he yells, hammering home that despite everything — knowing he instinctively saved a child, watching his loved ones grieve for him, helping Kuwabara just because he can — Yusuke still, deep down, believes that he doesn't deserve to come back; that he doesn't measure up to those around him. The self-sacrificial nature this insecurity produces shocks Sayaka. She points out that if Keiko doesn't save his body, he's not coming back. "What's the point of being alive if Keiko has to get killed for it?"

Keiko means more to Yusuke than the rest of his living existence. Jot that down in your notebook, Sayaka!

Kuwabara arrives and runs into one of his friends who informs him that Keiko just went inside. “Yusuke’s girl? The one we saved from those thugs?”

BOY does that tell us a lot about their rivalry! I mean yeah, we've already established several times over that Kuwabara — just like Yusuke himself — is not the cruel street thug he'd like to present himself as. If these characters actually wanted to hurt each other outside of a martial arts challenge, don't you think Kuwabara would capitalize on the "Yusuke's girl" bit? Everyone seems to know that they have feelings for each other, but Kuwabara never once wields that as ammunition against Yusuke. There are no taunts about him not being good enough. Or rather, I should clarify there are no serious taunts — Kuwabara is well known for his teasing. There's also no attempt to steal Keiko out from under him, the common treatment of the love interest as a "prize" that many stories fall into. Indeed, later this episode YYH will deconstruct this a bit. Yusuke sees Kuwabara grab Keiko's hand and yells that he better not be getting "fresh" with her. But it's purely Yusuke's worries shining through. The audience gets a crystal clear picture of the situation and knows, categorically, that Kuwabara has only the most innocent of intentions in holding Keiko's hand.

(Well, running from the police isn't innocent, but...)

I keep getting sidetracked. Plot! Keiko makes it to Yusuke's room and finds that he is already on fire. She then proceeds to try and put it out by patting it with her hands. I take back what I said about Keiko's smarts in this scene. Now we know where that supposed recklessness comes from though. Apparently they're both immune to fire! Nothing to worry about here, folks.

JK she's actually in danger, despite the animation choices. By this point everyone, including Keiko, realizes that there's no way out: the fire has blocked the door. Sayaka then reveals that there is one way to save her. If Yusuke throws his egg into the fire, the energy of the spirit beast will release and guide her to safety. The catch? Hatch the egg early and it won't complete its intended function of guiding him back to his body. This beast is gonna guide one person and that is it.

Cue Yusuke's near immediate decision to sacrifice his life for Keiko's. Granted, it's not precisely one life for another. Yusuke's resurrection was always contingent upon the beast not devouring him whole — something Koenma claims would have happened at the end of the episode — meaning that it's not technically a fair trade. Yusuke might have sacrificed Keiko's life for his own... only to fail to get that life back anyway. (There's a tragedy for ya.) To say nothing of how Yusuke is currently dead and has been for at least a couple of days, whereas Keiko very much is not. There's some sort of philosophical discussion there about potential being pit against current reality.

BUT that's not the point! The emotional point is that he sacrificed his life for hers — the potential of his resurrection, the potential of that life he might have led — all technicalities aside. And I, for one, think that's very neat of him.

A blue light shines as the egg's energy is released, providing a lovely contrast to the fire surrounding them. A path forms to the door and Keiko, recognizing Yusuke's presence, follows it. "We'll make it, Yusuke," Keiko says, which is one hell of a sucker-punch now that we know she's just carrying a corpse. Unbeknownst to Keiko, Yusuke is very much not making it. That's the only reason why she is.

Kuwabara appears to help them the rest of the way which is also a pretty awesome thing considering that, from everyone else's perspective, the fire is still raging and blocking the door. Despite his spiritual awareness, Kuwabara gives no indication that he noticed this strange light, or Yusuke's hand in the rescue. Which basically means he lunged into a bunch of deadly fire for Keiko and doesn't question how in the world he isn't burned.

Keiko's hands are fine, Kuwabara's whole body is fine... fire immunity must run in the friend group!

Yusuke has another rare moment of vulnerability — "They're both okay" — and I cackle happily at the "both" because see. You love Kuwabara too, Yusuke! All this bluster about hating him and finding him annoying. The second he rushed into that fire you were crawling up the walls.

Except then that happiness gives way to something that sounds a little more shocked. Devastated. "Well, I sure am... relieved..." Kudos to Cook's voice acting. You can hear the exact moment Yusuke realizes what he's done. Not that he regrets it, but the consequences are finally sinking in. He's relieved that they're safe, yes, but now he's never going to be able to rejoin them.

As Yusuke has an(other) existential crisis, Kuwabara peels back the blanket Keiko had wrapped Yusuke in, revealing his face. “What are you doing with Yusuke’s body?! Are you some type of sick grave robber?” he shouts. God I love when a story actually keeps track of who knows what. Kuwabara, for all his recent involvement in the plot, doesn't actually know what's going on. From his perspective Yusuke died, he made a scene at the wake, he saved "his girl" from a bunch of thugs, lost a huge chunk of time only to wake up with her randomly hugging him (then slapping him), participated in a bet with his awful teacher and had a couple weird, Yusuke related dreams while studying, and has felt the presence of ghosts perhaps a little more frequently than usual. Now he's trying to help save Keiko from a fire only for her to reveal she risked her own life for Yusuke's body. Of course he's freaking out! What's she doing with that?

What's utterly fantastic though is that Kuwabara takes all of five seconds to process this and then enters immediate Ride or Die mode for Keiko. She's been hoarding Yusuke's body for undetermined reasons? Well, who is he to judge? The important thing here is that people are arrested for keeping bodies, so they've gotta skedaddle before the firefighters show up.

Hence, hand-holding and avoiding arrest.

As Yusuke starts threatening Kuwabara not to get "fresh" with her, Botan sadly reminds him that he no longer has a say in who Keiko does or does not fall in love with. The switch in tone is jarring. Whereas before Botan would have teased him mercilessly for the crush, now she knows that nothing can come of that — and it would be cruel not to remind Yusuke of that too.

"Oh no. I didn't think..." Yusuke whispers, further establishing that he knew the risks of using his egg, but hadn't allowed them to sink in yet. Now they have.

He gives a fake little laugh with, "Just when it was getting good" and I cry at the development in the span of just four episodes. Despite what I said at the beginning about the show resetting each week, there has been a lot of change thus far. Yusuke wants to live now! He wants to be there for Keiko! He looks down on his tiny family and screams at the unfairness of it all! They're talking about how they can't wait for him to come back and now that's never gonna happen!!

It hurts, friends. It hurts a whole lot.

During this conversation between Keiko, Atsuko, and Kuwabara, we see that a couple of hours have passed (it's nighttime now, the fire is out) and Atsuko is apologizing for putting them all in danger like that. And by that I mean yes, she does technically apologize with an "I'm sorry" and everything, but it's also a one sentence apology pit against... well, near death for the three people standing (and sitting) before her. Atsuko seems just as concerned by Keiko losing her hair as she does Keiko nearly burning to death and she kneels by Yusuke's wheelchair, baby-talking to him about how he forgives her, right? I love Atsuko, she's great, but objectively speaking she is not a good mother. Not right now, anyway.

Oh yeah, and just to reiterate that: Keiko's hands are fine after patting down Yusuke's on-fire body, but her hair, which I'm pretty sure never catches, has to be cut short. Ah, anime logic. Funny thing is, YYH isn't the only story to take the love interest and give her a cool, short cut thanks to a traumatic event. Anyone read Ranma 1/2?

During this conversation we also learn that, sometime between the fire and now, Keiko filled Kuwabara in on everything that's happening with Yusuke. Makes sense. He kneels beside the wheelchair, joining the others in telling Yusuke that they'll wait patiently for his return. Yusuke, above them, continues yelling about how they're waiting on a dead man.

“It can’t be helped. He made this decision on his own."

Except it can, in fact, be helped!

Just as all hope is truly lost, Koenma appears and announces that Yusuke will be returned to life. Why? Because sacrificing his egg for Keiko is a better indicator of his worth than the egg itself could have been. Despite feeding on his negative outlook and heading towards biting Yusuke's head off — something the animation backs up by showing us teeth during the fire

— Yusuke's act demonstrates a tendency towards being a "decent human being" that is "so rare." Wow. That's depressing. Still, yay that Yusuke has those qualities! And this, to my mind, helps explain Sayaka's presence. Koenma recognized that judging Yusuke couldn't be left to the egg alone and indeed, Sayaka took note of his worth before he ever threw the egg into the fire. First it was questioning why someone as amazing as Keiko would go for him, then it was solidified through the shock of Yusuke announcing that coming back to life was meaningless if she wasn't in it. Even if Keiko had somehow, miraculously escaped the fire before Yusuke's sacrifice, I bet Sayaka's report would have tipped him in resurrection's favor anyway.

Everyone is, of course, overjoyed and my heart swells at the intense gratitude Yusuke displays. My favorite part though is when Koenma cryptically says that “Your added experience with death could make you very useful" (a nod towards future events that goes right over Yusuke's head) and his response to this is a yelled, "YOU THINK I'M USEFUL?" This poor kid. The God of everything ever is chucking out revelations left and right, about resurrections and spirit beasts, but the only thing that really penetrates is the realization that someone thinks he's useful. Talk about relatable.

You know, I've been thinking about why this moment works so well. I mean, there are a lot of other stories where undermining the consequences our hero faces — either with humor, or by erasing them completely — can feel like the audience was cheated. I think YYH dodged that with a couple of crucial factors. First, Yusuke's consequence isn't something new that he's now avoided, it's just a permanent extension of something he was already dealing with. We did get to watch him inhabit the space between life and death, grappling with whether he'd ever be able to return. The story didn't deny us that growth, it just confirmed something we all instinctively knew: this tale won't end here with Yusuke permanently going to some afterlife. Second, the Deus ex Machina fix doesn't happen too soon. Yeah, it's only a couple of minutes in a single episode, but we (and Yusuke) still get to sit with that outcome for a while, soaking it in before its removal. Finally, there's no doubt that Yusuke earned this reprieve. Koenma's timing might be sudden and (if you're not genre savvy) unexpected, but looking back at the series as a whole thus far, we're able to agree absolutely that Yusuke deserves this. Far from feeling like we were cheated, this solution invites just as much celebration as we're seeing on screen, for the simple reason that we can buy into Koenma's reasoning. We know now that Yusuke is a good person. We saw him selflessly sacrifice his future for Keiko. We agree that he deserves a second chance.

Thus, the episode ends with Yusuke flying up to fill the screen in his joy, a far better, final shot than Harry Potter and The Prison of Azkaban managed 😰

And that's it for Episode 4, folks! See you later for Episode 5 💕

#YYH #Yu Yu Hakusho #YYH Recaps #mymetas

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hermannsthumb · 3 years

Note

If you’re still doing summer prompts, could you do graduation for newmann?

15. Graduation

from (the very old) summer prompts meme here

enjoy some awkward pre-canon jaeger academy ~ROOMMATES~!! also I am pretty sure this message/prompt is from at least a year ago (if not TWO) but it was only today that I really thought about what I wanted to write for it and wrote in like a FRENZY. content warning for alcohol (no like intoxication tho)

--------

It was hardly to be expected that Newton would be mature over the whole thing, but Hermann finds himself in a perpetual state of agitation the final weeks of their enrollment at the Jaeger Academy anyway. Newton was very young, Hermann knows, when he graduated from university (at least he was young the first time he graduated), and he can only assume the man took it rather hard that he didn’t get to have the proper send-off he thought he deserved—all-night parties with kegerators and beer pong, one-dollar shots at dive bars, trips to the seaside with classmates. One wasn’t likely to invite someone who’d barely breached his teens and still had braces to those sorts of things, after all. It’s the only reason Hermann can think of as to why Newton has spent the month—the whole month—popping open champagne at all hours and organizing spin-the-bottle in the base rec room and generally being a great bloody nuisance to everyone they have the misfortune of sharing their graduating class with. Over-compensation is what it is.

Having Newton as his bunkmate adds a special level of unbearableness to it all. At least—and Hermann does thank the stars above for this—tomorrow marks the end of a very miserable month. A very miserable two years.

“Everyone is going to be there,” Newton says. He’s wearing an oversized pair of neon sunglasses over his regular glasses, for some reason, those abhorrently dated kind with the slatted lenses, and dangling from his left hand are two bottles of pink champagne. A bag of plastic cups dangles in the other. “Everyone. Not even just the k-scientists—the techs, the ranger trainees, the—”

“That all sounds very thrilling,” Hermann says, hefting a stack of button-ups into a cardboard box he’s labeled Clothing – Gottlieb. “You’re aware, I assume, that we’re meant to be moving out tomorrow, and you’ve not touched anything on your side of the room?”

“Dude, I have sooo much time,” Newton says. Hermann realizes now the seal on one of the champagne bottles is broken—which might explain some of Newton’s suspiciously carefree mood. “Besides, I barely even have that much shit here.”

This is patently untrue. Newton’s clothing is overflowing from his dresser; manga and monster action figures and vinyl records clutter up every inch of its top surface; there’s laundry under his bed, on his bed, his guitar picks on Hermann’s bedside table, dirty mugs on his own, half-finished reports and articles scattered over his desk… “Fine,” Hermann says. “But I haven’t finished, at any rate, so I won’t be joining you.”

Newton flops down next to him on his bed; the stopper on the opened champagne bottle wobbles dangerously, and Hermann moves quickly to push it in more firmly so he doesn’t have to add a load of bed linens to his To-Do list. “I think you need to unwind, roomie,” Newton says, grinning up at him. Both pairs of his glasses have slipped off his nose and onto Hermann’s bedspread. “We’ll have all day tomorrow after the dumb ceremony to pack, and you haven’t taken a break in, like, seven years. You’ve earned one.”

Hermann doesn’t want to take a break, or at least not in the way Newton is suggesting. Hermann wants to finish packing up his half of the room, then his designated workspace in the large k-science laboratory, and then take a shower to wash himself of the experience of being Newton Geiszler’s roommate and labmate for two years too many. Noticing his reticence, Newton adds, pleadingly, “Come for one hour? Just to do two shots with me? One shot?” He blinks, half-blind without his glasses, as if trying to discern whether or not Hermann looks likely to give in. “No shots? C’mon, Hermann, you owe me.”

“Owe you?” Hermann says, frowning.

Newton nudges him with the stack of plastic cups. “Y’know—for the sake of your ol’ penpal,” he says.

The reference to their letter-writing days jars Hermann, and despite his best efforts not to show it to Newton, his hand trembles as he deposits an unopened pack of white socks into his laundry box. He thinks it may be the first time either of them have brought it up in the entirety of their time at the Academy. It’s certainly the first time either of them have admitted to even the slightest notion of a shared history since—a week into their first year here, at an ice-breaking event for their kaiju-science peers—Newton had rolled his eyes exaggeratedly when someone attempted to introduce him to Hermann and said “Yeah, Dr. Gottlieb and I go wayyyy back.” Hermann did not admit so at the time, but the use of the honorific in place of his first name had been unexpectedly wounding—ridiculous of him, considering he made a point of referring to Newton in precisely the same way. Perhaps that little slip of the tongue had been why they were assigned as roommates scarcely a week later. An assumed friendship.

Hermann picks up Newton’s thick eyeglasses and carefully slips them back onto Newton’s upside-down face. Newton wrinkles his nose when Hermann’s thumb accidentally brushes against its tip. “I just don’t like parties very much, Newton,” he says. He’s not sure when Dr. Geiszler became Newton to him, or rather, became Newton to him again.

“Then we can do something together here,” Newton says.

He sits up and pushes the sealed champagne bottle at Hermann’s chest. “This is for you, anyway. Graduation present. Bury the hatchet, you know—odds are pretty fucking high we’re never gonna see each other again, so there’s no use hating each other forever.”

In spite of his better judgement, Hermann takes the champagne bottle. One drink won’t hurt him. And anyway, it might be a little relaxing—so long as it’s one drink only, because he still has an entire two years’ worth of research to pack away in his laboratory desk. “Do you know where you’re being assigned already, then?” he says. He was under the impression they wouldn’t find out until after the ceremony tomorrow—bit last minute, he supposes, but it’s not as if they’re making their own travel arrangements, and nearly all of their colleagues have already brought their families along with them to the Academy base.

“Nah,” Newton says, “but I wrote down a lot on my request form.” He motions for Hermann to hand him back the bottle, and he begins unscrewing the wire holding down the cork. “Tokyo—Peru—" He moves the bottle away from the bed as he pops it open with a grunt of effort, and a small bit of foam spills to the cement floor. Hermann grits his teeth and tries not to worry about cleaning it up later. “—Los Angeles. I worked on one of my PhDs in California, you know, a few weeks one July. Sea sponges. I learned how to scuba dive, I loved it—I think that’s one of the first things I’m gonna do if—once this is all over.”

He looks strangely maudlin as Hermann pours himself some champagne into one of the plastic cups and suffers through a sip. Too sweet. Hermann’s never liked sweet wines—bloody awful hangovers the next day, if one isn’t careful.

“Their entire ecosystem would be destroyed now, I guess,” Newton says. “Kaiju blue poisoning.”

“Whose?” Hermann says.

“The sea sponges’,” Newton says.

Hermann sips more of the champagne so he won’t have to respond. “I requested Anchorage,” he offers. Among plenty others, but he knows Newton will get a kick out of ribbing him for the dreary Alaskan climate. It seems to work—Newton lights up at once with a loud snort.

“Of course you did, ya weirdo,” he says. “Have fun freezing your ass off.” He takes a sip right from his bottle, then holds it out to Hermann. “Well, Hermann—you were an annoying lab partner, an even more annoying roommate, but a decent penpal, and I’m—well, I’m not gonna miss you, but I guess I can’t say I hate everything about you. Good luck with the jaegers. Good luck to whoever gets stuck with you next, actually, yikes, don’t envy them! Here’s to never seeing each other again.”

Hermann rolls his eyes, but knocks his plastic cup against Newton’s bottle. “Best of luck to you, as well,” he says. “And here’s to—well, surviving.”

“That’s cheerful,” Newton says.

They drink to their toast. Down the hall, someone puts on loud music to a chorus of equally loud cheers. Hermann reckons that’ll be Newton’s party. “You ought to head over there,” he says, turning briefly to glance at their door, which Newton has left cracked open. “Otherwise, they’ll miss—”

Newton kisses him.

Hermann doesn’t necessarily kiss back, but he doesn’t push Newton away, either. He’s more bewildered than anything. He might’ve expected this sort of thing to happen years ago—years, and years ago, before that dreadful first meeting in some dingy little Berlin coffee shop, back when a new letter from Dr. Geiszler slipped through his mail slot could make his heart thud like nothing else—but they’ve hardly been anything to each other but colleagues these past two years. Not even quite colleagues—that implies a civility they don’t possess. Professional academic rivals. He was under the impression that the man hated him, that the data when they underwent standard tests for drift compatibility was merely a fluke.

His empty cup falls from his hand and clatters to the floor. Newton slides a hand up Hermann’s jaw and keeps kissing him; he makes a small, needy noise into Hermann’s mouth.

“Newton,” Hermann finally mumbles. “What are you doing?”

Newton pulls back. A brilliant red flush is creeping steadily across his face, and he opens and closes his mouth a few times before anything comes out. “Oh, shit,” he says. “I didn’t mean—”

He stumbles to his feet. “Shit, dude, I’m sorry, I like—”

“Newton?” Hermann repeats. He feels about as dazed as Newton looks; he’s not quite sure what he’s meant to say. His lips are tingling from the kiss. “I—?”

“I’m gonna go to the party,” Newton stammers. “Sorry, dude, I—misread signals? I guess? Um—” He steps on Hermann’s forgotten cup and skids slightly, catching and righting himself on one of Hermann’s bed posts. The movement knocks Hermann’s cane (hooked there) to the floor, and Newton must bend down twice before he succeeds in picking it up. “Just—um—okay, bye.”

Hermann stares at the door for a long time after Newton leaves. Tomorrow marks the end of their two years cohabitating and working together—as Newton said, odds are high their paths will never cross again. Hermann had been counting down the days to their graduation in a little calendar he keeps pinned neatly to his wall, daydreaming endlessly of the first thing he would do once he was free from the suffocating cloud of Newton Geiszler’s presence—daydreaming of the like-minded non-Geiszlerian colleagues he would meet at his Shatterdome assignment, of a neat and orderly laboratory devoid of kaiju residue over every communal surface, of his own living quarters. He should be excited. He should be ecstatic.

Hermann touches his mouth and feels nothing but strange sort of hollowness in his chest—a black hole enveloping all else.

---

He doesn’t see Newton until their graduation ceremony the next day, an affair made all the more awkward by the seating chart’s alphabetical arrangement ensuring Drs. Geiszler and Gottlieb will be knocking elbows for the full two hours. Newton is late by nearly twenty minutes, and rushes in with badly unkempt hair and a backwards tie: Hermann has a feeling he’d been lurking outside their quarters and waiting for Hermann to leave before he dared dart in to get himself ready. He wonders where Newton spent the night. He wonders why he even cares. Likely passed out on the rec room floor after the party, judging from the confetti stuck to his left cheek—or perhaps he’d finally made a move on the fellow kaiju-biologist Hermann recalls him extolling the physicality of on more than one occasion, and spent the night with him—or perhaps he did neither, and merely wandered the base for hours, sleep evading him as it’d so entirely evaded Hermann. They don’t acknowledge each other for the whole of the ceremony.

Hermann is summoned to the office of the jaeger science program head (a severe woman with short hair) later that evening, shortly after he finishes taping up his very last box of papers in the vacant laboratory. He’s handed a small manila folder containing the details of his Shatterdome assignment: Hong Kong, as it turns out. One of his requests. “Since you and Dr. Newton Geiszler have displayed a strong work ethic when partnered together,” the woman begins, “as well as a very high level of drift compatibility—”

Hermann’s eyes snap up from his folder to her face.

“—we’ll be assigning him to Hong Kong’s kaiju science division along with you, under the assumption that together you will only continue to produce positive results.”

“Pardon?” Hermann says, weakly.

Newton has finished boxing up a majority of his belongings when Hermann drags himself through the door to their quarters an hour later. He glances at Hermann briefly, embarrassedly, and says, in a small voice, “Hey, Hermann.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

He walks over and sits down heavily atop the pile of sheets on his stripped bed. Something pokes at his thigh, and he sets aside his cane to fumble through the sheet bundle to discover what: Newton’s forgotten neon shuttered shades. The sight of them sends his stomach twisting up in knots. “Oh, hey,” Newton says, as he wraps a Godzilla action figure with bubble wrap. He nods at the manila envelope clenched between Hermann’s fingers. “Where are they shipping you off to? I’m going to Hong Kong—should be cool. I’ve never been before.” He places the little Godzilla in a carboard box. Newt - Junk! the side says in purple Sharpie. “My flight leaves tomorrow afternoon—you’re right, I definitely should’ve started packing earlier, I have no idea how I’m gonna get this all done by then.”

Hermann stares at Newton in poorly-concealed amazement as he continues to ramble on about how to pack up his instruments and whether or not they’ll let him bring his first-ever kaiju sample with him (he’s attached to it, even though he knows it’s technically the academy’s property, but maybe he can find a way to smuggle it out in his checked bags or something). Does he not know? Did they not tell him? How could they let this fall on Hermann? “Newton,” he says, slowly. “I’ve been assigned to Hong Kong, too.”

Newton freezes. “No fucking way,” he says.

#newmann #maria's fanfiction tag #Anonymous

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everybodyscupoftea · 4 years

Text

chemistry

isaac lahey x reader

isaac needs help in chemistry and you need help in english - the beginning

this is for isaac anon and the few people that wanted this. i’m just dabbling here, so let me know if you guys want more! (i did quite a bit of Research for this and i have ideas)

also let me know, i left it vague, but if i expand i’m probably going to add in scott, stiles, allison, and lydia. would you guys like to keep it supernatural or do full au where they’re just normal college students?

You noticed the boy in your Intro to Academic Writing course, but you didn’t really focus on him, mostly due to freshman year stress, until he sat down next to you in General Chemistry. Stepping into the classroom you’d felt at ease, science was your jam, but the really cute boy put you back on edge. You felt hyperaware of him, his scent, kind of cinnamon-y, fall-esque.

He tapped his fingers on his notebook, and you couldn’t help but notice he wrote in green pen. You glanced every so often to see him doodling in the corner of the page instead of taking notes on the intro lesson on the scientific method that your professor was doing.

The boy rested his chin on his hand and his fingers went from tapping on the notebook to his jaw and you shook your head, trying to focus back on the professor who was talking about your lab groups.

“The people at your table are in your group. Lab is on Wednesday nights, I won’t be the instructor, you’ll have a TA, but you can email me or come to my office hours if you have any questions about what’s going on. I’ll see you all on Thursday.”

You started to pack your stuff and the boy turned to you with a crooked grin, “I’m Isaac.”

Shaking his hand, you introduced yourself and he stood, waiting for you to finish packing your stuff. You zipped your booksack, “You’re in my English class, right?” you asked, faking as if you didn’t notice him as soon as you stepped into the door.

He nodded, “Yeah, with Dr. Terranova.”

“He seems,” you trailed off, looking for the right word, “interesting.”

Isaac grinned, “You mean overwhelmingly picky for an English 101 professor?”

“That’s a great way to put it,” you told him, laughing.

The two of you walked out the door and down the hall together. Isaac shifted his booksack on his shoulders a little and asked, “Do you have any more classes today?”

“Calculus,” you told him and he grimaced.

“Fuck that.”

“You?”

He nodded, “Spanish.”

Unfortunately for you, the buildings were on opposite ends of campus, so you paused just outside the door to the chemistry building. Isaac paused too and smiled, “See you tomorrow night?”

“See you tomorrow, Isaac.”

Your lab group was made up of two boys and two girls. Isaac, Andrew, Abigail, and you. Out of the group, you were the only STEM major, and the only one who actually liked chemistry. Isaac patted your shoulder, “Well, that officially makes you team captain then.”

“Thank god,” Abigail added, “I’m an advertising major, my brain noped out of the sciences years ago.”

The other guy, Andrew, said, “I took Chem 2 in high school and didn’t pass the AP exam, chemistry and I have beef.”

You snorted and said, “Cool, well, I’ll try and lead us to the promised land.” They seemed to like that.

Your group was really smart, everyone was picking up the labs really easily and you were thrilled, especially when the teacher stood in front of the class after the first test review. She clapped her hands once, “Okay, the lab group with the highest combined test average gets five bonus points added to their test scores. This is me trying to get you guys familiar with study groups, especially if you’re going to be in STEM, which I know some of you are. Study groups got me through school.”

Unfortunately, everyone in your lab group already had stuff going on, so you couldn’t study with them. Fortunately, the test was on intro stuff like the scientific method, conversions, and balancing equations, and your group hadn’t had any issues in any of the lab work, so you weren’t worried.

But when you got the test back, you realized, maybe you should’ve been. Isaac got his handed back first and actually laughed when he looked at the grade. Before you could ask, the professor set yours down on the desk and you started flipping through it, frowning at the little points you’d had taken off for careless mistakes.

“Fuck,” you muttered, “should’ve gotten at least a 97.”

“Wow, can’t believe you fucked it up for the whole group,” Isaac sarcastically responded, nudging you with his elbow, before sliding his test on top of yours. He nudged you again, “As you can see, I’m carrying the team,” and he motioned toward the D written in bright red at the top of his paper.

Your mouth dropped open and you picked the test up, flipping through to see what he’d missed. Eyebrows furrowed, you looked over at him, “You should tell her you accidentally skipped the back page.”

“Oh, it wasn’t an accident, I just didn’t know how to do it.”

“Well,” you stuttered, “it was the same stuff we did in the last lab activity.”

Isaac nodded, “Yes it is, and I didn’t understand it then either.”

“I thought,” you paused, mind racing, “I thought we all did?”

He grinned at you, “Some of us aren’t science brains, my friend.”

“What are you?” you asked as the class started to pack up.

With a soft smile, he threw his booksack over his shoulder, “I’m a literature major.”

You didn’t mean to think about it as much as you did, but when 2 a.m. rolled around and you were at your most impulsive you couldn’t stop yourself from sending out a text.

Hey, do you maybe want to meet up and study sometime?

After hitting send you could’ve slammed your head into a wall. You locked your phone and put your head in your hands, “God damnit.” And then your phone dinged.

I’d love that, love to have a STEM genius in my corner.

Your cheeks heated as you read it and your mind raced with your heart. It was beating harder and part of you couldn’t even believe he’d said yes. Taking a breath to steady yourself, you responded.

Idk about genius but I’m not half bad at chem

He responded, even faster than the first time and you grinned, unable to stop it from overtaking your face.

I may not know much about the scientific method or whatever, but all evidence suggests otherwise, genius

The next test wasn’t for a few weeks, but Isaac wanted to start studying earlier. He suggested meeting at a coffee shop called The Beanery. Coffee shops weren’t really your jam, you liked the silence of the fourth floor of the library. Go early, get a table, put in head phones, and go to work. But, you were open to try Isaac’s suggestion.

It was brightly lit when you walked in, and he was already there, at a table in the corner, laptop out. Books were spread across the tabletop, and he already had two empty mugs on the table in front of him, leg bouncing as he aimlessly chewed on a pen.

Shaking yourself out of staring, you walked to the counter to order. Isaac smiled up at you when you made it to the table with your coffee.

“Welcome,” he told you, moving some of his books out of the way. Sitting up straighter, Isaac glanced around, “What do you think about this place?”

“It’s nice, definitely a change of pace from my norm.”

“Where’s that then?”

“Library, fourth floor.”

“Quiet up there, huh?”

“Yeah, but I listen to some music for background.”

“I like coffee shops,” Isaac said, closing his laptop, “the vibes are nice and my clothes always smell like coffee afterward which is a fun bonus.”

At his comment, you looked down at his clothes. You were a little surprised to see that he was dressed just like during the week: jeans, a nicer t-shirt, and a cardigan. You’d wondered, deep down, if he dressed nicer for class, but it didn’t seem the case. Isaac cleared his throat and your eyes snapped to his face, ears burning when you saw him staring at you in amusement.

Coughing quietly, you reached for your booksack, “So, chemistry. Do you understand what we’ve been going over?”

“I know they’re called Bohr models but I don’t know anything else about them.”

“Right, so,” you paused a minute, trying to figure out where to start, “it’s a way to draw an atom and it’s kind of like a planet.”

Isaac leaned forward through your explanation, resting most of his weight on his elbows, and tapped the green pen against his lower lip. Every so often he’d ask a question, shift a little and write something down in his notebook by whatever he’d scribbled in class. His questions were shockingly insightful, and you eagerly answered them all.

By the time you’d gotten through the basics of thermodynamics, he’d added a whole page of notes, and you could tell he was starting to lose interest. Shutting your notebook, you told him, earnestly, “I hope this helped a little.”

“I promise,” he looked you straight in the eye, “it makes sense. This all looked like a foreign language before we met up.”

“Good,” you nodded, “this is my jam.”

“Keep on spreading it,” he joked and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Well,” you admitted, “you may not be good at chem but you’d kick my ass into next week in English.”

“How’s your paper going?” Isaac asked, leaning back and crossing his arms, looking genuinely interested.

“It’s…going.”

He snorted, “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“Yeah neither does my thesis.”

“Do you have your laptop?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me have a look,” he suggested.

Pulling up the word doc, you passed your laptop over, staring down at your hands, twiddling your thumbs, a little nervously, as he read through your rough draft.

“What did Dr. Terranova have to say in your conference?” he asked, pushing your laptop away.

You sighed, “He was less than complimentary.”

Isaac laughed, “It’s not that bad, but it could use some polishing. I can help of course.”

Relief washed over you and you felt a weight off your shoulders, “That would be incredible actually.”

“There, now we’re even. You tutor me in chemistry and I’ll make sure you pass English, starting with this rough, and emphasis on rough, draft.”

Reaching across the table, you shoved at his hand, “Be gentle.”

“I’m going to get another chai,” he said, standing to stretch a bit, “and you pick out what sentence exactly you think is your thesis. We’ll start there.”

Biting your lip to conceal a grin, you nodded, waking your laptop back up.

#isaac lahey #isaac lahey x reader #isaac lahey fanfiction #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #college isaac

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margridarnauds · 3 years

Note

Do you have any idea where a normie such as myself could find a digitized collection of John Carey's articles on Irish mythology and religion? Most of his work seems to be spread across half a dozen academic journals that almost never have digital editions.

Ah, you’ve stumbled across the real Celtic Studies Mood: Trying to get ahold of All the John Carey articles while trying to get them from across the various and assorted journals they’re stuffed away in. Congratulations, you’re now an honorary member of the field.

No, but, dead serious, this is something that affects us all, I feel your pain-- While I was writing my MA, I believe I ended up citing...somewhere around seven John Carey articles--and, unfortunately, as someone who would probably actually subscribe to a John Carey article subscription system (like Netflix, but for academic articles written by one scholar)...it doesn’t exist. This field is TERRIBLE when it comes to digitizing things, which is why Covid kicked our asses so hard. Academic group chats these days...well, they were ALWAYS a solid 70% or so people asking whether anyone had a PDF, but it’s gotten so much worse. My solution to it had been “Enroll in a MA program on the other side of the world”, but that’s. Not feasible. For almost anyone. Least of all now.

That being said....you can probably ask any Celticists here and I’m fairly certain they’d help you with any specific articles. I don’t think anyone has EVERY John Carey article ever written (I don’t think even John Carey has every John Carey article ever written!), but we can do our best! Some Celticists can be...well, snappish snobs who’ve forgotten what it was like to get into the field for the first time, but, in general, the group here on Tumblr is fairly solid as far as NOT doing that. (Look, I had my trial by fire years ago, I’m not inflicting that on anyone else. You’re not going to get your head bitten off for asking me a question.) Also, for religion in particular, I HIGHLY recommend A Single Ray of the Sun, which I own, because it includes a lot of his thoughts on the relationship between pre-Christian material and Christian material and is, overall, a damn good read while being fairly affordable.

#celtic studies #irish mythology #Anonymous

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daily-dose-of-imagines · 4 years

Text

Uɳσ! ɯ/ Hαιƙყυυ!! {Kαɾαʂυɳσ}

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

I thought this would such a funny and cute concept to do, though I don’t know if anybody else has done this! I do know there is fanart of it though, but I actually got inspiration from when Admin Ko and I drunkenly played Uno! one night. It was a disaster lolol!

I hope you like this!

>Admin 𝕋

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆　　｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

𝐻𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓉𝒶 𝒮𝒽𝑜𝓎𝑜

Hinata would be the player that would be so lost

Tsuki would’ve told him how to play and he would still have no idea what the fuck he was doing

Would put down the wrong color or number and get obliterated by everyone he is playing with

After awhile, he would think he figured it out, but nah everyone plays him like a fool, and gets him to lose in the first round

he’ll want to cry, because he’s so competitive and all he wanted to do was win

at least he would want to win against kageyama

and when he doesn’t he would literally will want to play round after round until he wins

but once again

he just doesn’t get it

and it’s not even a hard game, like what the hell, man

but he gets anxious and he can’t think

He will literally spike the wrong card into the pile

everyone laughs, Kageyama would smack him upside the head and say something along the lines of “ARE YOU PAYING ATTENTION, IS YOUR HEAD SCREWED ON RIGHT LIKE OH MY GOD, HOW DOES ONE EVEN--”

They will start to fight, jumbling all the cards into disarray

and that is when the game is over, and Hinata never played Uno again

It gave him nigthmares lololol

BUT BUT BUT

Hinata would be forced to play another round with everyone on another day they all hangout

And this time, he wins

he actually, and he didn’t even try, no thought process, no strategies, he just went with the flow and actually won

Kageyama would be pissed, Yachi would be proud, Tsukki would be irked and Tadashi would be clapping slowly, all of them surprised that the orange ball of dumbass actually won.

Needless to say, Uno is now Hinata’s favorite game, and he will flaunt his win to everyone who asks

𝘒𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘺𝘢𝘮𝘢 𝘛𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘰

Okay, so Kageyama would be just like Hinata, but he is better at hiding it

He also has more tact, and can figure out how the game works

But he has the worst of luck when it comes to which cards he gets

and it frustrates him to no end

Because he literally, he has to

continously

pick

cards

to get

THE RIGHT ONE

and he gets so pissed, veins are popping out of his head, the blood going up to his face. Tsuki thinks it’s the most hilarious shit, Hinata thinks he is going to shit himself.

He just wants to win, for god’s sake, but the fucking cards are giving him a run for his money, and they’re being fucking stupid, and not giving him what he wants

He has like half of the freaking deck in his hands!!

And he wants to, you know, not have that!!

and when he finally has a plan to get rid of his cards, Tsukishima smirks condescendingly and nukes him, making Kageyama get more cards from the pile with hIS STUPID REVERSE CARD PLUS FOUR BULLSHIT.

So he comes up with a plan, he’ll just discreetly put two cards down when it was his turn.

For a time, he wouldn’t get caught, but then

then Tsuki sees him, and calls him out on it. “Huh, never knew the king of the court would cheat like that.”

“I’m not cheating--”

“And here I thought you were the fair and square type of guy.”

Hinata would pipe in saying “oh my god, Kageyama, your cheating, how could you??”

“IT’S JUST A STUPID GAME--”

“THEN WHY ARE YOU CHEATING--”

the game would devolve into a game of tag, or Kageyama chasing Hinata around the room while Hinata yells about how Kageyama has anger management issues and should get therapy

after that, Kageyama will have yet to win a game while everybody else does

He would throw the cards on the ground and curse the world for only letting him be good at volleyball

“Yeah, you should really stick to volleyball, you’re obviously bad at everything else”

“TSUKISHIMA, I’M GOING TO BURY YOU IN MY BACKYARD WITH THESE CARDS--”

He’ll get over it

maybe.

𝕋𝕤𝕦𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕞𝕒 𝕂𝕖𝕚

Ah, tsukishima, this guy would be the worst to play games with

Especially card games

He wouldn’t necessarily want to play a kid’s game, but Yamaguchi convinces him to play, just one game

He can’t really say no to Yama like that, so he agrees, one game

But he’d get oddly into it, man, it won’t show on his face, but he will be the type of guy to want to win, especially against someone like fucking Kageyama

He’d want to peg him down a level, get him off his royal high horse

he’d be the prick that would taunt anybody and everybody, telling them what they should and shouldn’t do

“I don’t know Hinata, that doesn’t seem like the right choice there”

“What, but you don’t know what I’m going to put down???”

“It’s all over your face.”

“Shit, really--”

He’ll uno reverse psychology on these bitches, make them quiver in their metaphorical boots.

And he’ll love how they just don’t know what to put down now, don’t know what is the best play or not,

Kageyama looks pissed

Hinata looks like his brain is steaming

Yachi looks like she’s about to cry

And Yamaguchi is just smiling, happy that Tsuki is having a good time

Yeah, having a good time being a freaking sadist in a freaking kid’s game

Lo and behold, Tsuki wins the round that he agreed to play, and when he puts that last card down, he pulls a smug expression, adjusting his glasses

“Well then, losers, I best be on my way now.”

And just as he is getting up to grab is things, Kageyama will throw a fit and try to fight Tsuki, but Hinata holds him back like a boss

Or like this has happened way too many times

Needless to say, they would never want to play with Tsuki again

Never again

ＹａｍａｇｕｃｈｉＴａｄａｓｈｉ

Bro, Yama will just want to have a good time man

He’d be the one to suggest playing Uno, thinking it would be a good experience

and a great bonding game for the first years

but boy was he wrong

literal chaos all around him

And all he wanted to do was have a nice fun time, getting to know his teammates

but no

NOOOO

THEY JUST HAD TO BE EXTRA ABOUT IT

Tsuki just had to be an ass

Kageyama just had to be competitive

and hinata just had to be a little on the stupid side (we love him for it, no hate to hinata)

it was a mixing pot of anarchy and yamaguchi will just sit there and just watch as the fire grows in front of him

When it is his turn he will just quietly and gently put his card in

and then go back to watching as the three main characters of his life just go into a rampage, and just metaphorically compare dick sizes, in a game of fucking uno

Like damn

this is definitely not what he wanted

He’ll try to get them to calm down, but all three of them would turn around and tell him to either join them or zip it, to which he would sigh and make some popcorn

Cause this was gonna take awhile

Yama would probably look over to Yachi, who looks like she wants to go home, and yeah he couldn’t blame her, and he gives her an apologetic look and shrug

In the end, he unfortunately wouldn’t win, but he is grateful that it all ended

And he goes home

And burns his uno cards

ʏᴀᴄʜɪ ʜɪᴛᴏᴋᴀ

Yo, Yachi????? She’d be the underdog of the group

She would literally use the chaos that is testosterone to her advantage

She would be like a ninja

And she would be so lucky, to have all the good cards that would put the other guys to fucking shame

But she would still be anxious only because the shouting will sometimes escalate and she would lose her train of thought

But that’s okay!

She still wins literally every round she’s in!

And everybody hates her for it!

Death glares from Tsuki

Murderous intent from Kageyama

and just weeping eyes from Hinata, but he’s still mad at her, because he still hasn’t won and yet she did

Yamaguchi would be the only one that is happy for her, and she feels a connection with him on that

Yachi would feel bad, but at the same time

Yes!

She won!

And with these guys, that are so good at things likes sports and academics(only tsuki here, and sometimes Yamaguchi)???

It’s a huge win for her!

The next time they play, she would use the same strategy, and will again win everytime

Until eventually, they all kick her out of the game, thinking she is cheating

She gives them her best puppy dog eyes, and tell him she wasn’t cheating (she never really was), and they’ll give in

They let her play again

Until she wins

and that is the final straw for them, their egos bruised and their pride gone

They leave, the cards abandoned, and go wallow in the courtyard

“Uh, guys? Who’s gonna clean this up?”

76 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.”

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il-papa-patata · 4 years

Text

Not So Scary Mary

You wake up from a nightmare in Mary’s apartment. He’s unexpectedly helpful as you try to fall back asleep.

Mary Goore/gender neutral reader, nightmares, Freshly Washed Mary

T for language

You bolt awake.

The dream tumbles after you, the heat of it dissipating but lingering in the clamminess of your skin, the way your heart pounds. You search for anything – details about the dream, anything to grasp onto, to laugh at – you always laugh at your nightmares after they happen, or at least try to – but this one just lingers, vibrant red and sicking to your skin like sand in all the wrong places.

It's not your bed, and not your apartment, so when you spring awake, you can't reach to the same places you do normally, can't reach beside your bed for the old dog plush you got for your sixth birthday, with its flopsy ears worn down over the years and the nose almost gone. You can't take one of the old-man hard candies from your nightstand and suck it against your teeth until you feel its warm flavor all the way down your throat, some sort of normalcy in the face of terror.

You can, in this place, reach for Mary Goore.

Who is already awake.

He's already half-up, blearily wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. You feel bad – the man barely sleeps as it is, and yet here you are waking him up with something like this-

You forget how pretty he is with all the makeup wiped off.

He looks up at you, hazel eyes almost silver in the darkness, face thin and sharp, lips full and parted. Despite your rude awakening, his expression's clear, face neutral and maybe even a little concerned.

“S-sorry,” you stutter, the heat of the dream clinging to you like spiderwebs, “Just a nightmare-”

“Hey,” he says, resting his long hand on your shoulder, “S'okay. You want some water?”

“Y-yeah.”

He dips over to his side of the bed and hands you a still mostly-full water bottle, crinkled along its edges. He pulls his knees up as you drink, resting his head on one, just watching you drink down some of the cool water. The night's chilled it a bit, and it eases some of the nightmare heat inside you.

You cap it again when you feel you've had enough and try to hand it back, but he just shakes his head, holding up a hand. You put it back on your side.

“You wanna talk about it?” he offers, reaching out and smoothing a hand over your lower back.

You do.

You do- but...

But what would there be to say? You can't even remember the dream – you could talk about how you sometimes just have these nightmares but it strikes you that Mary might think you're being a little bitch about it-

On the other hand, Mary is surprisingly good about this kind of thing. He always has been.

“I just... have nightmares. Sometimes.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, still stroking your lower back, “Anything about?”

“N...no. I don't think so, anyway. It's just... red when I wake up.”

“Red?”

“The color of your eyelids when it's sunny out.”

“Hm,” he hums, reaching his arm around your waist and leaning his head against you. His hair is clean – you washed it yourself – and it's fluffy where it brushes against you, all soft and wiry. “S' a tough one. Are you scared after 'em?”

You swallow.

You don't want to tell him that his mattress is the only thing that feels safe right now, that you had shivered putting down the water bottle, like it was a raft in a great tumultuous sea, as though his hastily thrown-on sheets were going to keep you safe. That even the moonlight outside twists into something horrid, the lamp you've tripped on six hundred times, the display from the old cassette-clock he convinces you still works becoming something else entirely. You don't want to tell him how long it takes you to feel normal back home, how his apartment – no matter how familiar by daylight – is scaring you.

He doesn't say anything when you fall silent. Instead, he just wraps his arms around you and pulls you back down into the sheets, guiding your head down against his chest, your nose against his ribs and your browbone against his collarbone.

“Shh,” he hushes, so softly, “It's okay.”

“Mare-”

“Shh. I've got you. It's okay. Nothing's gonna get you while I'm here.”

...Oh.

How long have you been wanting to hear that?

To not only be soothed but protected. You don't doubt for a second if anything actually tried to hurt you that Mary would launch at it, ready to fight it off or even kill it.

You sag into his hold, worming your arms around his slim waist, pressing your face more fully into his chest. He's warm, and unexpectedly soft despite how bony he is, and he hushes you quietly, stroking your nape slowly.

“You're...” you mumble, “Surprisingly good at this.”

“Eh, yknow.”

“No, really- you're... good at calming people down. And- you're nice.”

Mary laughs. “Well, my reputation gets outta hand sometimes. People don't believe I can be this feral and nasty and still be nice.”

You try to look up at him, face clean, hair fluffy. You knew he was sweet – you wouldn't be dating him or cuddled into his chest in his apartment if you thought otherwise, but-

No. You see it, here in the dark. The warmth of Mary. The little patient smile.

“You like being nice?”

Mary purses his lips, looking up at the window. “Well, who doesn't?”

“A lot of people think you don't.”

“Do you think that?” he asks, burying his fingers in your hair.

“No,” you say, “You love being nice. But-”

“But...”

“...oh. No, I get it now. The feralness is the niceness. It's-”

The desire to protect, to include, to be warm and to laugh – the violence and the trashiness and all that was that. A reflection, a complement to the kindness and the warmth and his barking laughter.

Mary smiles. His eyes glimmer slightly.

“Hmm,” he hums.

You tuck your head into his chest again, suddenly way too shy at that warm expression. It was usually a smile he smiled at you when he thought you weren't looking, but you'd never caught the full brunt of it, not from two inches away, and not with his arms around you and his legs tangled with yours.

“But yeah, I think you'll be okay.” He murmurs. “I had a lot of nightmares at one point too.”

He pulls you a bit closer, cocooning you against him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm. Got out of a shitty life, but all of it chased me. Drank a lot to try and keep all of it away but it didn't really work. Anything I didn't deal with during the day, I dealt with at night.”

You breathe for a moment. You never know whether to ask more or not, when he talks about times before anyone here knew him, before he popped into the city covered in blood and screaming.

You choose to say nothing this time. If he tells you, he'll tell you.

“They'll fade. I make a mean cup of chamomile, though, if you can't get back to sleep.”

“Chamomile? You?”

“Yeh.”

He doesn't elaborate further, although you want to press it a bit.

But you figure you're wired as it is, and the proof's in the... tea, so you nod.

He helps you up, slowly – reaches over the side of his bed for a discarded hoodie which he drapes around your shoulders. It sits a little weird there, but it's comfortable, a nice protection against the chill of the night.

The two of you move into the kitchen, past his second-ish-hand couch. He has a stool obviously pilfered from some bar against his counter, and he perches you there as he goes puttering about.

You breathe deeply.

His house- well, his apartment- smells like him. Something old, something like dark hair warmed by the sun, the smell of smoke, this faint peppery thing. You never thought you'd get used to it – at its worst it's boldly organic, almost gross – but like this, settling around you and into your clothing and skin, it's pleasant.

Mary sets the kettle going – you didn't expect him to have one, and it's tiny, but it's enough for two cups of tea. He pulls down two mugs – one that looks like it's real china, a delicate porcelain thing, and the other a sturdy, obviously corporate mug for a bank.

You aren't sure which confuses you more.

“You worked in a bank?”

“Mhm,” he hums, spooning a bit of honey into it, “Kept the building running.”

“Don't you have an arrest record?”

“Didn't then. Helped pay for my first move.”

“Huh.”

He takes down a canister – it's beautiful, covered in intricate, sparkling cloth, a little thing. He pulls off the lid, and a second lid, and smells the contents. “Still fresh.”

He puts the leaves into two small steepers – both shaped like flowers – and covers them over with the freshly boiled water.

He leans back against the counter, humming quietly. You can't pick out the tune, but it's something kind of familiar. Most people knew his growl, but he had a perfectly nice voice when he sang.

He comes over to you, taking your hands in his and swaying your hands back and forth, humming softly. It's kind of weird – like he's playing with a puppet or trying to get you to dance – but you laugh anyway, bouncing your hands along with whatever he's singing, placid-faced and jaunty in his little galley kitchen.

“You're cute,” you tell him, and he sticks out his chin, frowning deeply while still playing with your hands.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

“Imma kick your ass.”

“Try me,” you grin up at him, “You're the one singing love songs and dancing with me in your kitchen.”

He flushes, pouting slightly. “Whatever. Can't even hold my sweetheart's hands without someone accusing me of being cute?”

“You really calling me your sweetheart and trying to convince me you're not cute?”

“Shush.”

“Really though,” you say when he lets your hands go, settling your feet up on one of the bars on the stool, “You're such a contradiction sometimes.”

“Con-tro-dik-tee-on? Whazzat?”

“Don't play dumb,” you smirk, “You aren't stupid no matter how much you pretend. You read those academic texts like they're gonna disappear every time your friends bring them over.”

He purses his lips. “Hey, I'm a high-school dropout, you can't be mean to me.”

“What was the title of the last one? A Critique of Foucauldian Governmentality?”

“I'm frankly surprised you remembered that, but yes, and it was a very good article I will have you know.”

“You seemed super into it.”

“I am a slut for Foucault, so.”

You giggle.

He hands you the bank mug, scooping out the steeper with his fingers. He takes up the fine porcelain cup, and even though it's a bit of a contrast – its delicate, blush-pink glaze and gilt handle matching the still-slight flush on his cheeks and the warmth of his eyes in the quiet light of the kitchen – it's not a mismatch. Mary was like that, you think, just a collection of things that didn't seem to go together but felt natural when they were united.

You bump your ankle against his knee, and he shuffles over to you, standing in between your knees. You sip the tea as he does, commenting, “But I like it.”

“Like what?”

“That you're contradictory. Sweet and violent. Depraved but also-” you reach up with your free hand to stroke his jaw, chuckling when he sags into the touch like an eager street cat, “Surprisingly innocent.”

“You want me to show you that depravity?” he growls, grinning and fixing you with a stare that turns your guts to mush.

“Another time, maybe.”

The stare breaks and his expression melts into a little smile. “Aw, okay.”

“I mean, not that I don't want to fuck in your kitchen at 2:54am, and I don't think you're working tomorrow, but...” You shift, sipping more of the tea, “Still feeling kind of fragile.”

“S'okay, you don't gotta qualify why you're not up for it. All I need's the 'no'.”

He dips his head and rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and continuing to hum, the pretty, petal-like cup held close in his hands. You think you might want to lean up, to kiss his plush lips, but you don't. It's too late, and the chamomile is working, and your shoulders are slumping. You'd probably fall asleep kissing him.

Maybe another time for that, though. That sounds really nice.

He notices. Of course he does. And without complaint, he sets your cups on the counter and picks you up, cradling you against his shoulder. You feel like a kid again, passed out in the car, the same comfort of being brought inside and tucked in.

He sets you down again on the mattress, huffing a breath when he loses his grip on you. He gently pries the covers out from under you, settling them over your shoulders, batting away your hands when you try to help.

He climbs under the covers too, tugging his pillow closer and shimmying up alongside you, tucking his ankle against yours. You're drifting now, the chamomile and the quiet of his apartment and that familiar scent of him all lulling you back to sleep, but you still feel it when he gently kisses your forehead, smooths his fingers along your scalp, and murmurs, “No more bad dreams, now.”

#mary goore #repugnant #patata fic #not so scary mary C:

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princeescaluswords · 4 years

Text

White Man’s Burden

Here’s a little statement to get the fandom’s blood pumping.

Fandom’s insistence that Stiles Stilinski and/or the Hales had the right to control Scott McCall was and is a function of white supremacy. The obsession with Stiles’s intelligence, his academic standing, and his supposed infallibility along with the supposed inherent superiority of the Hales due to their ‘embracing the wolf’ and status as ‘born wolves’ is another manifestation of the same cultural phenomenon as racialist colonialism.

(Caveat: I cannot take credit for introducing colonialism into a discussion of Teen Wolf. It was invoked by others long before I started watching the show. They can’t legitimately complain now.)

Fandom’s beliefs echo Rudyard Kipling’s poem of the same name as this article, which encouraged the United States to take imperial, colonial control of the Philippines during the Philippine-American War of 1899-1902. Kipling’s argument was that as the more advanced civilization, the U.S. had a moral obligation to control brutish uncivilized non-white races, describing them as, quote “Your new-caught, sullen peoples, half devil and half child.”

Isn’t it eerie how that line echoes the way fandom sees Scott? How many times has fandom described him as whining and stubborn, traits we associate with sullenness? How many times have they pointed out that Scott’s moral principles and optimism reveal his naivete and lack of sophistication, much like a child? How many times have his acts, such as when Scott suggested that the Argents may have had a reason for the Hale fire or when Scott was forced to make Derek bite Gerard, been taken as signs of his utter depravity? (During the same period when Peter was on a murderous rampage -- which they gleefully justify! -- or Derek was trying to execute innocents on the strength of hearth wisdom.)

The process works like this:

If Stiles was a genius (which he wasn’t), if he was an academic rival to Lydia (which he was never shown to be), and if he was, as they like to say, always right (which he definitely was not. To list all the times he had been fundamentally, critically wrong would require far too much space), then it only stands to reason that he should have been in charge, doesn’t it? It should have been him calling the shots during all the seasons, not dumbo Scott! In fact, how many times has fandom written that it is Stiles’s burden to protect dumb werewolves, especially his best friend! (You can barely read fan fiction without tripping over this conceit.)

It doesn’t matter to them that in the first three seasons, Stiles had minimal stake in the outcome. It was Scott’s life and freedom that were repeatedly on the line: throwing off Peter’s yoke in Season 1, surviving the Hale-Argent War in Season 2, evading Deucalion’s snare in Season 3A, etc. Hilariously, they resent the idea that people would ever value Scott at all -- their preference would be that Stiles was the target of villainous manipulation. After all, he’s the real genius/threat/value.

How do I know that this is keyed to race? The answer is, unfortunately, simplicity itself: Mason Hewitt. We actually know his GPA (Corey says: “I didn’t know it could go that high.”), and we see him solve puzzles (finding the Nemeton, why Kira can’t read the book, the Dread Doctors using frequency, the way to predict Ghost Rider assaults). He is obviously highly intelligent and, similar to Stiles, the human best friend of Liam.

But there is no gifset, there is no fan fiction, there is no meta which argues that Mason should have called the shots for Liam or that he should have been the leader of the sub-pack that forms in Season 5. There’s no argument that Liam’s obsession with Hayden rendered him unfit for temporary alpha or that Liam was whining when he complains about his lack of control (instead, it is all blamed on Scott’s lack of training.)

The same process applies to the Hales. We see Peter’s and Derek’s failures on the screen. We see Peter get his ass kicked by a bunch of teenagers. We see Derek’s bad decisions condemn children to death. Yet, somehow, the fact that Peter and Derek have embraced the wolf (which apparently means trying to kill their enemies and getting their asses kicked for it) and the fact that they’re born wolves means they should have the right to command. You can’t open AO3 without finding a story where the idea that Scott is wrong not to submit to them.

You know who doesn’t have the right to command that same brown boy? An actual druid-emissary with actual magical powers. (Deaton’s guidance is sinster! He’s up to something, they know it!) Embracing the wolf, a virtue, means being willing to kill, unlike one of the world’s oldest living werewolves, who has embraced pacifism and retreat! Or if it comes to respect, how about a 900-year-old eight-tailed Celestial Kitsune who urges the protagonist to make a noble sacrifice and kill his best friend for the good of others. Or is it only 22-year-old born wolves who are allowed to demand the sacrifice of innocents for the greater good?

Yet, you would be pressed to find any fan-created product proposing that Scott should submit to Deaton’s guidance, Satomi’s philosophy, or Noshiko’s pre-eminence. But you can certainly find stories where a 16-year-old beta werewolf with I.E.D. has the right to throw off the yoke of his ignorant Latino alpha.

You don’t have to take my word for it. Simply explore the fandom content out there. Look how many times it’s implied that Scott is foolish or dangerous for not submitting to Stiles or the Hales. Look at how many stories where the Hales and Stiles ***force*** Scott to submit and then say ‘Scott is so much happier now that he was part of a real pack’ with the man who betrayed him repeatedly and the man who mentally violated him repeatedly. Find out how often Scott’s expression of independence is taken as willful selfishness, his victories transferred to Stiles, his virtues diminished? Pay attention to the word choice -- it is always for Scott’s, for everyone’s, own good. A White Man’s Burden indeed.

#teen wolf fandom problems #fandom racism #mason hewitt #scott mccall #scott mccall defense squad

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simple-heroics · 4 years

Text

Snowy Nights in Tokyo

Part 1 of the “Let Me Take Care of You” mini-series Fuyumi Todoroki X fem!Reader (alternating between she/her and they/them pronouns) Word count: 11,919 someone stop me

Not to get too gay on main but @floof-reppu opened my eyes with their Fuyumi fic. Which inspired some assertive!Fuyumi. Everyone say thank you to her for helping me the NSFW scene. It’s my first one and tbh I still have a lot to learn in writing smut but here it is.

Me being me, I’ve also gone overboard and now have to make a mini-series for Fuyumi. I don’t even care that I won’t get a lot of notes for this. It just...feels like I need to write it, you know?

Anyway, this is dedicated to all the eldest daughters in the world who have had to take care of everybody but themselves.

Content warning: Hyper vigilance, alcohol, references to drunk adults, references to high stress work environments, mild Quirk play (not previously negotiated), brief orgasm denial, possible naked book clubs, and VERY consensual sex between two sober adults. Emotional, intense topics brought up before, during, and after sex. It gets heavy, y’all. And a little awkward because surprise, surprise. Sex with a virtual stranger isn’t always all that sexy.

“To y/l/n - for kicking ass and finally taking a night off!” Your friend toasts you. Similar cheers echo her as shot glasses clink together.

Rolling your eyes, you throw your head back and take your shot. You are well-acquainted with burns but the shochu is an unfamiliar one in the back of your throat, making you cough. Your old schoolmates laugh, jokingly asking you when you last actually drank. A second later, you remember to laugh with them. The sound scratches itself out of your throat, hoarse from the recent burn of liquor.

It feels...off.

Even if you weren’t on shift, even if you were having fun with friends and tossing back a couple of well-deserved drinks, you couldn’t help being hyper aware of everyone in the room: The group of salary men, somber when they first arrived, now laughing hysterically. Some girls’ night out, tipsy women giggling over cocktails. Random tourists in the back going nuts over sake bombs. You watch it all on the mirrored wall behind your friends.

Eventually, your eyes wander to your unsmiling reflection next to your friends and realize… You look older than them. Your friends glow with this vibrancy, this carelessness, that made them feel younger to you. You listen to them talk - about classes, about apartment hunting in Tokyo and midnight convenience store runs, about dating. A whole different life than the one you live now. You’re the same age as them, have known some since high school, but you somehow feel ten years older. A part of you always feared your friend group growing apart as you all got older. But you never expected you would be the one to age so quickly ahead of them. There is too much weighing on your mind, too much you’d seen.

You close your eyes and the images are vivid on the back of your eyelids. The memories sweep over you, drowning out the surrounding laughter and clinking drinks. Phantosmia clogs your senses like smoke. The taste of ash soots the back of your tongue.

“Seriously, though. It’s been forever!” one of them exclaims.

You jerk back to the present, blinking.

“Does your new boss own you or something?”

You stiffen.

Another friend nudges her, shooting her a reproachful look.

“I actually don’t see him that often,” you say, tone sharp. You don’t want to kill the mood, not when it’s been so long since you’d seen any of them, so you try to lighten it. “He’s busier than I am.”

There are few people you respect as much as your boss. It’s a privilege to work under someone with so much experience and skill. You worked your ass off for years before you became qualified to even apply, and that was only the beginning. If you couldn’t keep up with the team, you weren’t needed. Too many lives at stake. The only person held to higher standards were the ones your boss set for himself.

“Right, right,” says the friend who made the sarcastic joke. “And we’re grateful to him, really. But...”

“But we really do miss seeing you, y/l/n,” another chimes in, sincere.

Your best friend intervenes. “Besides, he’s not all bad if he let you and that cute coworker of yours off for the night. Speaking of…”

Knowing what they’re getting at, you check your phone. “She says she got caught up in...something.”

“Really? Even the salary men over there are taking a break.”

Your table looks over to see the middle-aged men, completely sloshed, start their own improv karaoke. Your friends immediately crack up and imitate the off-key singing.

While you laugh with them, a part of you itches. You think of your coworker and the ongoing case. It feels strange, almost wrong, to be joking with your old schoolmates and making fun of drunk salary men while they were risking their lives.

Maybe you are becoming something of a workaholic, you privately admit. But it’s good work, important work. You help so many people everyday. You love your job.

But what’s the point of if you don’t have someone of your own to protect? a voice whispers, the same quiet voice that speaks up when you leave the bunks for your own lonely apartment.

Now’s a good time for another drink.

Ignoring the teasing requests for another round from your friends (“C’mon, y/n, we know you’re getting paid more~!”), you slide through the small crowds until you find an open space at the bar. The bartender’s swamped with orders piling in from a sprawl of college boys. Some sports team, you think as you subconsciously size them up, too rowdy to be an academic club. Harmless but stupid.

Still, you watch them from the corner of your eye.

“Could I get the matcha highball, please?”

Her voice should have been too soft to hear in the loud bar but somehow it rings out clear as a bell. Everything slows down. Your eyes widen, snapping to look at her.

At about average height, she stands out among the bar patrons in her modest white blazer and high-waisted jeans. Her soft-looking hair is white like the snow outside, vermillion streaks ribboned throughout the light strands. She shifts from foot to foot, full hips swaying with the motion.

You stare.

“Oops~”

You snatch the college boy’s wrist before he could “spill” his drink after he purposely bumbled over. The boy (really, he could only be a year or two younger than you) jolts, gawking at you.

With a stony expression, you look him dead in the eye. “Careful.”

“Oh!” The woman startles at the sudden commotion. She turns and you still.

Her face is cuter than you’d imagined it: a pert nose, soft jawline, and pretty pink lips that look like they’re made for things like smiling and laughter and other nice, soft things. Large, bright eyes like a winter sky framed by glossy eyelashes blink at you behind glasses.

The entire world around you just...freezes. The only conscious thought you can think is her, her, her, her. The inner mantra matches the tempo of your heartbeat.

“Uuh...hey?” the college boy speaks up. You realize that you haven’t let go of his wrist - oblivious to his attempts at pulling away from her vice grip. And that you’ve forgotten to breathe.

Feeling your face turn warmer than usual, you swiftly look away from her. It’s pure autopilot that allows you to say, “Be a little more careful. We don’t want any ‘accidents’.”

Driving your point home, you squeeze just a little - a silent show of your strength - before abruptly letting go. He stumbles back slightly, nearly bumping into another person, and stutters, “Y-yeah, whatever. Sorry.”

Partially to avoid contact with pretty turquoise eyes and also to drive the intimidation home, you stare after him stoically until he disappears.

“Thank you.”

You take an extra second to breathe, willing the concerning heat in your face - and the rest of your body - to lower before you face her.

Then she smiles at you.

The heat returns tenfold. Damn.

Light-headed, you quickly realize she isn’t merely cute. This stranger was so stunning that she knocked the air out of your lungs with just a look.

“No problem,” you croak.

The bartender saves your life. “Matcha highball!”

You have exactly 5 seconds to breathe and get your shit together while she gets her drink. You flounder for something, anything, to say. You could bench press the bar counter itself but you can’t talk to a random (beautiful, alluring, breath-taking) woman at said bar counter. But would that be weird? Would that make you no better than the creep deliberately spilling drinks on people?

Drink in hand, she turns back around and smiles again. It’s just as debilitating the second time around. Your knees weaken. “Thanks again.”

“You come here often?” you blurt out. And promptly wanted to blast yourself.

You expect her to lift a dainty eyebrow and walk away, pretending your existence never happened, but instead she honestly answers your terrible cliche. “No, not really. I’m...usually at home around this time. But some work friends told me I couldn’t skip out on happy hour again.”

Given her the simple sincerity of her answer and the way she completely missed the near “spill”, you deduce that she doesn’t come to bars often or at least doesn’t have much experience with the nightlife. You almost want to ask what a (beautiful, damn near ethereal) girl like her is doing in a place like this but thankfully quash the impulse.

“Me, too,” you say quickly, straight-faced. “Except they’re not so much work friends. More like actual friends. Not that friends from work can’t be actual friends but they’re my friends outside of work. Except I haven’t seen them in a while. Because I work. A lot. Not that I’m a workaholic or anything. It’s just an intense job. But I’m not intense. Well, kinda. Some people say I can be. Only because it’s important - the job, not me. Um. Not in like a self-deprecating way but like in a self-important way - which I’m not. Or I try not to be. I just care about people which is kinda a requirement for my job. Mostly. Or at least it should be. Some people, you know? And I’ll just stop talking now.”

It’s a wonder steam doesn’t hiss out of your ears with how hot your still stoic face is. You almost wish a villain would tear through the bar and knock you against the wall right. Now. Damn it, y/n.

Yet miracle of miracles, her polite smile slowly widens into an amused one - and one of those genuinely nice ones, without so much as a trace of mockery. “It’s like that with my job, too.”

How is she still here after that? And was she really...making conversation?

You swallow and try not to seem overeager when you ask, “What do you do?”

Her face lights up. “I’m a teacher.”

You can’t help the rare, almost timid smile that wobbles onto your lips. A teacher. Of course the angelic-looking woman is also a sweetheart with a sweet job. God, that sounds so precious. “Yeah? What grade?”

“Third.” Thinking about her class, her smile broadens. Your first impression was dead on: her face was made for smiles.

“Third grade…” you repeat. Not just a teacher, an elementary school teacher. No wonder she seems so - wholesome? Patient? Kind? You damn near melt at the mental image of her working with little kids.

She tilts her head, bangs moving with the cute motion. You try not to get distracted. “What about you?”

“I - “ You hesitate. It always feels weird when you tell people your vocation, almost like you were bragging. Besides that, another part of you - the increasingly paranoid, always on guard part - is cautious. “I’m a civil servant. Public safety.”

She makes a small noise of interest. “That does sound intense.”

“It has its days. But your job is probably a lot harder.”

Something in her eyes flashes. “You think so?”

“Mm.” You nod. “Teachers have to take on a lot, right? You’re not just teaching kids - as if that’s not a big enough responsibility, teaching the next generation. You’re also their counselors, social workers, referees, lawyers, motivational coaches. Sometimes even surrogate parents.”

Her expression softens into something more thoughtful. “Yeah… Yeah, sometimes.”

Whereas before you were hyper aware of everything, now your entire attention is narrowed in on her. It’s the first time in a long time you weren’t subconsciously counting every head in the room or checking for emergency exits. And she’s quiet, considering you. The two of you spend an unusually long time analyzing each other.

She licks her lips. You try to keep eye contact but can’t help yourself, gaze flickering at the deft movement.

“My name’s Todoroki. Todoroki Fuyumi.”

You briefly linger on her familiar but common family name before zeroing in on her given name, Fuyumi. Fuyumi. As in winter beauty. You inwardly applaud whoever chose her name; they had the right idea.

You bow politely. “Nice to meet you, Todoroki-sensei.”

She laughs a little, cheeks flushing pretty and pink. Her returning bow is shorter, a little awkward with a drink in her hand. “Please, you don’t have to call me sensei. I’m off the clock.”

“What should I call you then?”

“How about…” She seems to internally debate this. “Fuyumi? We’re about the same age and besides, hardly anybody calls me Todoroki outside of work.”

“Fuyumi-san…” Your lips naturally curl upward while saying her name.

Her eyes flicker away and back, catching your own. “And yours…?”

“Y/l/n y/n. But y/n is fine,” you say, an almost lie. No one but your closest and dearest call you by your given name. But you can make an exception for this stranger at the bar, for Fuyumi. A small, greedy part of you simply wants to hear your given name in her voice, see how those pretty lips move around it. And besides...

Something tells you it won’t be long before you can count her in the small, tight-knit circle anyway.

“Nice to meet you as well. Please take care of me.”

“Of course.” You pause, realizing what you just said. “Uh…

Her rosy cheeks brighten but she’s still smiling, still looking at you with those bright eyes. “Can I get you a drink, y/n-san?”

Yeah, your name definitely sounds good - really good - coming from her. Almost as good as her own name feels on your tongue.

“I’d love that, Fuyumi-san.”

Another kneecap-shattering smile is sent your way.

Cool it down, y/n. Cool it. Down. You tug on your collar to alleviate the growing heat under it.

❈────────•✦•❅•✦•───────❈

Despite their earlier hassling over you not spending enough with them, your friends are more than okay with you (temporarily, you insisted, lying to them and yourself) ditching them to talk to someone new. They seem almost more excited than you are -- “almost” being the operative word. You feel like you’d been hit by someone’s electric Quirk, and the feeling persists the longer you talk to Fuyumi.

You find a little two-seat table near one of the windows of the bar. It offers you both an open view of Tokyo, bright and alive in the dark winter night, where flurries of snow roll through the neon-lit streets. A nice sight, you’re sure, but you’re all but ignorant to it in front of Fuyumi who sits across from you. White blazer draped over the back of her chair, she wears a form-fitting black turtleneck. A simple gold band glints on her wrist as she fiddles with her glass, tracing the rim with an elegant finger. You notice that despite having gotten her drink sooner, the ice cubes remain perfectly intact while your own drink is now a watered down version of your original order.

Not that either of you are really drinking, consumed in conversation - in learning each other.

You learn that Fuyumi is 22 years old. Less than a year ago, she completed her bachelor’s in elementary education at Showa Women’s University. This is her first year teaching, and she loves it. She adores her class. You listen attentively as she talks with her hands and a brilliant smile, describing one shy student’s increasing confidence and another’s improved reading score. You learn that your earlier deduction was correct: she isn’t much of a nightlife person, preferring smaller get-togethers and home-cooked meals. You learn that she loves the weather outside, attention sometimes drifting to the falling snow outside. You learn that she loves to read but is weak to the same soap operas you are. You learn that she’s kind and smart and passionate.

And that if you look directly at her for too long, you forget how to breathe.

Your conversation delves deeper. You both talk about your work, how a passion for helping people brought you to your chosen professions and how it's that very passion that sustains you through the hard parts. You talk about the constant paperwork, tracking every incident and expense and flickering concern, in order to protect the people you look after and yourselves. Fuyumi quietly expresses her frustrations with the Ministry of Education, the intense focus on academics and Quirk development, and how she can already see the pressure on her young (too young) students. Expression grave, you tell her about the moral concerns in your job, how people - people who have it hard, people who are just having a bad day - are practically dehumanized for their mistakes and how your colleagues treat even milder, non-violent cases like they’re scum of the earth.

You and Fuyumi both lament over the bureaucracies that get in the way of actually doing your jobs. You talk about what it’s like to be in that weird “in-between” age, feeling too old around people your own age who don’t have the responsibilities which your jobs demand yet so young - naive - next to most of your colleagues. Compassion fatigue is common in both your fields, you find. It’s just as fulfilling as it is utterly exhausting, taking care of people. You talk about how tiring it is to work for the public, how underappreciated you sometimes feel, how helpless some cases are.

“And then after all that, coming home at the end of the day can just be so…” Fuyumi cuts herself off, covering her mouth.

“Draining,” you finish, solemn.

She slowly lowers her hand, turquoise eyes wide and serious behind her glasses. “...yeah.”

You tap the edge of your cocktail glass, contemplative. You hesitate before saying, “Sometimes it’s hard seeing people I really care about…after taking care of people all day. I know my loved ones need me, too, and I want to be there for them. But sometimes it’s too much on top of everything else. Somedays...I feel too tired to care and caring’s the whole reason I even got into this job.”

You didn’t realize how true this was until you said it. It’s an ugly truth, hideous as it lingers in the air, but the truth nonetheless. You wonder if this is the real reason you don’t go out with your friends anymore, why you rarely saw your family as of late.

You also wonder about the intent look Fuyumi wore. Intelligent blue eyes meet yours behind rectangular frames and you can’t bring yourself to look away. You don’t know how long you two stared at each other, only that you’d stopped breathing entirely.

Pop!

“Aaaayyy!”

You shoot up and whip around, physically blocking Fuyumi - an automatic shield. Your hand goes to your waist and of course - of course you aren’t wearing your tactical belt. You’re off duty.

You start to activate your Quirk, let it hum unseen but ready under your hot skin. Off duty but still - .

But still, it was just the crazy salary men anyway. All drunk off their asses. One of them bought champagne, hence the pop. The man must be in his forties yet there he is, drinking straight from the bottle. The college athletes nearby start to chant and soon the rest of the bar is joining in. Somewhere, you hear your friends (the hooligans) cheering among them.

A gentle hand touches your arm, cool fingertips pressing against your wrist. Her touch sends off an immediate spark at first contact.

Electric Quirk?

Turning around, Fuyumi’s face is gentle but her eyes burn with an unexplained fervency. It kindles something in your stomach, makes you swallow.

“Let’s go outside for a bit. Get you some fresh air.”

❈────────•✦•❅•✦•───────❈

With the din of the bar behind you, you exhale and watch your breath condensate in the cold night air. It’s quieter here. Only a few other bar patrons mill about, one smoking several feet away and others waiting for a rideshare. The warmth from nearly activating your Quirk slowly seeps out enough to bring you back to a safer, more civilian-appropriate temperature but it’s still enough to keep you warm in your simple leather jacket.

You glance at Fuyumi. The falling snowflakes surround her like a vision, bright against the dark of turtleneck but blending in with her hair. “Aren’t you cold?”

She smiles, pushing her glasses up. “I’m fine.”

“Quirk thing?” you guess wryly, curious but also avoiding directly asking about her Quirk. It’s fine as a kid but as people get older, outright asking people about their Quirks is something of a social taboo. It would be more polite to ask what her bank statement said.

“Something like that. What about you? Are you cold or is it a ‘Quirk thing’?” When she speaks, you notice that her breath doesn’t come out in a misty cloud. Trained to automatically identify hints of what a person’s Quirk could be, you pick this out. Ice Quirk then, maybe snow? It suits the winter beauty.

The corner of your mouth twitches. You tuck your hands in your jacket pockets and lean against the building behind you. “Something like that.”

You both stand in companionable silence. It’s easier to breathe outside with the city lights to distract you, though you sneak occasional glances at the way the blue and red neon lights reflect off Fuyumi’s snowy hair. The red streaks glow burgundy under the lighting.

“About what you said earlier…”

You say nothing now, simply pressing your lips together and staring obstinately at a distant flashing billboard: First a soda commercial, then some car insurance ad. You glance away when you see an ad for Burning Coffee and the familiar face with it.

“I get it.”

Schooling your expression into a neutral one, you look at her from the corner of your eyes.

Fuyumi tucks a stark white strand behind her ear. You try not to get distracted by the way she bites her lip. “Even before I started this job, I…I have two younger brothers. I love them a lot but it's - I…. I’ve had to take care of them for a long time now.”

You mull over this for a moment. “Because someone had to, huh?”

“Someone has to.”

You nod slowly. “Caring for other people is why humans are here but it’s hard. There are limits.”

“Yeah, there are...” That intense light in her eyes appears again. “But someone has to care, even when it’s hard. Someone has to bring people together.”

What about your parents? You want to ask, want to know who left her alone with such a heavy responsibility when she was so young. Something dark simmers in your stomach at the thought of a small Fuyumi burdened with the care of two little brothers while a child herself. But you bite your tongue.

Instead: “Who takes care of you?”

She blinks. “Huh?”

“Who takes care of Todoroki Fuyumi?”

“Who… I - “ Her face is pink from the cold, you vaguely notice. Which is odd, if your hunch about her Quirk is right. “I... My brother does. The older one, Natsuo. He…”

You realize too late that you’re raising your eyebrows, high and skeptical in your otherwise neutral countenance.

“People care,” she finishes lamely. At your unimpressed stare, she turns her head away. The gesture is as bashful as it is stubborn.

“...there’s a difference between caring for someone and taking care of them,” you say softly.

Lifting her face, Fuyumi meets your gaze. You step closer without breaking eye contact. Her lips part, and you’re undeniably staring now - more than staring. You’re leaning closer, into her space, and she tilts her head back.

“Te ni shitai hikari ga aru kiiiimiii wa ima yorube mo naku hitori de kiro niiii tatsu~”

You both jerk away.

“Sorry,” Fuyumi mutters, covering her mouth. You catch a pink flush before she turns her head away.

Clearing your throat, you fumble for your cell. “No, my bad. Uuuh, hold on. Lemme just turn it off.”

Even saying that, you habitually check the caller ID and immediately turn serious. You look at her apologetically. “It’s work.”

Still pink-faced and cute, Fuyumi waves a hand. “It’s fine!”

“One sec…” Praying it’s not an emergency but prepared nonetheless, you answer brusquely, “Talk to me.”

“Woah, there, y/l/n. No need to sound so serious. You’re off the clock, remember?”

“Are you?” you retort.

“Yeah, just got off and on my way. Your friends still there or you guys get bored waiting for me? ‘Cause I also know this one place in Shinjuku with some cute girls who maaay bat for our team if yanno what I - “

You nearly choke on your own spit. “Uuh, no. No, that’s not necessary.”

“Y/l/n, you need to get laid. Like, I’m pretty sure boss man gets more than you and - “

“Hey!” You cover the receiver, as though fearful Fuyumi would hear about your sad (lack of a) sex life. Also you never want to hear anyone talk about your boss like that. It’s worse than if someone were to bring up your father in that way. You shudder at the thought. “I do not want to think about that. Do not put those images in my head!”

Your coworker cackles. “Then get out and get some! Pretty sure with the overtime you pull, you got some cobwebs down there.”

“I will report you to HR,” you warn, too low for Fuyumi to hear.

“See? This is why he hired you. He needed a bigger wet blanket than him in the office to make him look chill in comparison.”

Ha. Your boss. Chill. Even you can privately admit that’s a good one.

“Then he owes me a raise,” you grumble. After some thought, you also add, “...besides, Shinjuku isn’t necessary.”

“Wait. You met somebody?!”

Hyper aware of a pair of pretty blues on you, you choose your words carefully. “We just received word from Team Lambda that things were...unexpectedly successful.”

“SHIT IS SHE WITH YOU NOW! Why are you still talking to me?!”

“Do you still require back up at the agreed location?”

“Pffft. Y/l/n, you dork. Nah, I’m good. I’ll swing by for a drink and say hi to your cute friend but you do who you gotta do.”

You clear your throat. “I’ll do my best.”

“Damn right you will. With how diligent you are, you’re bound to be a good lay.”

“I do have HR’s number saved on my phone,” you deadpan.

“Of course you do, you stick-in-the-mud. Now get off the phone and talk to your girl!”

Even when she abruptly hangs up on you, you can’t help the sudden grin while you silence your cell. Your girl.

That has a nice ring to it.

But you’re getting ahead of yourself.

“Is everything okay?” Fuyumi asks, tipping her head. She looks at you with such concern your heart flutters. “You sounded real serious.”

Your voice comes out half-strangled and high-pitched. “Fine. Ahem. Everything’s fine. My coworker was just checking in. We were supposed to meet up and, uh…”

“Oh.” Fuyumi lowers her eyes. She adjusts her purse over a dainty shoulder. “My coworkers are probably waiting for me, too. We should…”

No!

“Something came up,” you say quickly.

She pauses mid-step.

“Do you want another drink?”

“I think I’ve had enough to drink,” she admits.

“Oh…” You visibly deflate despite your attempts at keeping up a nonchalant demeanor. “I...I understand.”

“...didn’t you come here with your friends?”

“I met someone,” you say bluntly. You pin her with a look, one that sears through Fuyumi and says ‘you’. “They’ll understand.”

That pretty blush returns tenfold, rising in her cheeks and spreading all the way down her neck. You want nothing more than to discover where else it goes. “Oh.”

You tuck your hands in your pocket to hide how they shake, try to relax your body but even you can feel the intensity in your own gaze. “And your coworkers?”

“They’ll understand, too…” She fiddles with her purse’s strap, shifts her weight from foot to foot. Again, her hips sway with the motion and you start to wonder if there’s anything Fuyumi could do that wouldn’t attract you. “But I still think I’m ready to leave this bar.”

“Just this bar?” You peer at her from under your eyelashes.

If just looking at her wrecks your breathing, the way she bites her bottom lip will be your absolute end. “Just this bar,” she confirms quietly.

“Hm.” You step forward, edging closer but just shy of her personal space - maintaining a respectful distance but near enough to feel the energy passing between you two, the intense and immediate chemistry. It’s strange and unfamiliar and gravitational.

Fuyumi stands completely still but she’s tighter, tenser, with a white-knuckled grip on her bag and fair skin brightening to new shades of red. There’s a light in her eyes that keeps drawing you in, like a moth to a blue flame. They dart heatedly between your own darkening gaze and your mouth.

“Do you have plans for the rest of your night, Fuyumi-san?” Maybe at least a dinner, you hope, somewhere warm and cozy and private. Something you think she would like.

She shakes her head, blushing yet unhesitant.

You swear you can feel your own heartbeat in your throat. “Any younger brothers to take care of tonight?”

After some deliberation, she says, “They’re 19 and 15. I think they’ll survive one night without me.”

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly.

“Yeah,” she says, just as quiet, and she just...looks at you. Really looks at you.

Then she steps closer and suddenly she’s right in front of you. A cloud of vanilla-and-jasmine fragrance surrounds you. You do nothing, say nothing, simply let her come to you. You watch her with a deliberately calm mien. Fuyumi lifts up a delicate hand and brushes through your hair. A whirl of snowflakes scatters around you.

She sees you shiver and whispers, “You’re going to catch a cold out here.”

Her hand lingers in your hair. The touch is light but it’s like being connected to a live wire. A second more passes. Then her hand flutters back to her side.

“Then I guess we should find some place warmer.”

“Y/n-san…”

“Let me…” Let me call you a rideshare. Let me walk you home. Let me take you home. Please. Just let me stay with you a little longer. You swallow all those other words, better words, and come out with, “Let me take care of you.”

Those impossible blue eyes widen. “What?”

Face much warmer than you’re used to off-duty and braver in ways you’ve never had to be before, you ask her softly, near pleading, “Can I take care of you tonight, Fuyumi-san?”

Fuyumi’s lips part. Then slowly, shyly, they curl into that heartbreakingly beautiful smile. “Okay.”

❈────────•✦•❅•✦•───────❈

You nearly trip over a chair on your way over to your friends’ table.

“Aaww, did you strike out?” your best friend teases you.

You let out a shaky laugh, pushing your hair back. “Actually, I came to say bye real quick.”

This earns you a chorus of jeers and whistles around the table.

“That’s my teammate!” a familiar voice crows behind you. You catch tendrils of green flames from the corner of your eye before you see her.

“Kamiji!”

Kamiji moves easily between the tables, as graceful as a cat and grinning like one, too. “What are you still doing here?” she teases while pulling you into a side hug. “Didn’t I tell you to clean out some cobwebs?”

You add a little heat to your embrace - enough that would have made anyone else flinch away but with Kamiji, with anyone in the Flaming Sidekicks, it’s more like a playful punch. “I’m calling HR on Monday.”

“They’ll be the only ones you’ll be calling if you don’t catch up with your girl,” Kamiji retorts, nudging you away with a discreet flicker of flame at the tip of her finger.

Your girl.

“Look at that grin! Just an hour ago, she was moping over her shots,” a friend teases.

“I can count all the times she’s smiled at work on one hand and still have fingers left over,” Kamiji says, joining the min roast session. Her eyes gleam. “Introduce me to her later, yeah?”

“We’ll see,” you say non-committedly.

“Pfff - get outta here. Some people need a drink.”

“I gotcha,” your best friend volunteers. You notice them already making eyes at Kamiji and silently congratulate yourself on introducing them.

“I’ll see you guys later,” you say with a quick wave.

“How much later?” a friend snarks.

“Have fun!” another offers, waggling their eyebrows.

“Be safe,” one teases, a joke coming from a civilian.

“For real,” Kamiji adds. From her, regardless of her playful demeanor, it’s definitely not a joke. “Call me tomorrow morning. Or afternoon. Whenever you wake up.”

“Sure.”

It’s a good night, you think as you wander back to the entrance to meet Fuyumi. You have a feeling it’s about to get better.

So caught up in her, you miss your best friend and Kamiji lingering on their way to the bar. Both are curious to see who could possibly catch their overly serious workaholic of a friend’s attention. They exchange sneaky grins, instant co-conspirators, as they shadow you.

“Y/l/n’s usually the first to pick up when we’re being watched on stakeouts,” Kamiji confides in your friend. “Either she’s had too much to drink or this girl is something.”

They snort. “A couple of us literally walked by their table five times and she didn’t so much as glance our way. You literally came by the one time this entire evening where she’s taken her eyes off her.”

Kamiji’s sharp canines glint in her grin. “Oh, really~?”

She peers over at the door to take a look at your mystery girl and...stops. Her grin drops like a stone.

“Oh, shit.”

Your friend quirks a brow. “What?”

“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit,” Kamii mutters. “Y/L/N! HEY, Y/L/N!”

The bar’s noise drowns her out.

“Fuck.” Kamiji whips out her cell and dials your number. When she goes straight to voicemail, she tries again. And again. She sends you a barrage of texts.

“What’s wrong?” your friend asks. “Do you know her?”

There’s no humor in Kamiji’s caustic laugh. “Pretty much everybody at the agency knows her - except our newbie apparently.”

“At the agency? Is she a villain?”

“Worse.”

❈────────•✦•❅•✦•───────❈

On the way to your apartment, you check and double check if this is what Fuyumi wants. She laughs a little as she reassures you. You insist that she texts someone, anyone, and give her your address ahead of time. You even ask her to sing the English alphabet backwards to make sure it’s not alcohol’s decision rather than her own certain and sober one. Between your protectiveness against...well, in this case, yourself and her laughter, you two trade giddy glances and secret smiles throughout the entire drive.

You’ve never seen anyone who looks so...pretty in the city lights. You’d long lost any awe over Tokyo’s shining lights but find yourself gaining a new appreciation for them. They look good on her, reflecting off her hair and fair skin and glasses. It’s like Fuyumi is made of light and glass and something so bright that comes from within you can’t even fully fathom it.

And holy hell, she agreed to come to your apartment. Is this actually happening?

Your fingers tap a nervous rhythm in the middle seat. Suddenly, a cold hand slips over them - halting them. You jump, glancing over. She smiles and squeezes your hand, reassuring you even with that blush and her own fidgeting.

You’re the one who's supposed to be taken care of right now, you think.

But now you’re so focused on leveling your breathing you can’t risk looking at her. You do, however, lace your fingers through hers.

And it just fits.

When you arrive at your place and slide out of the car, you’re the one to reattach your hands while you jostle for key with your other hand. You’re suddenly entirely too grateful to have a first floor apartment.

Reality socks you in the stomach when you’re inside. With Fuyumi.

It’s strange...seeing her in your apartment. You can’t remember the last time you had anyone else in your home, hardly in it yourself between patrols and paperwork and stakeouts. But having Fuyumi here? With you? Barely visible in the dim light of your entryway, hair bright like a halo and face barely visible?

It’s like a dream.

But it’s not. Your heart wouldn’t be hammering like this if this were a dream.

Fuyumi still hasn’t let go of your hand. If anything, the situation seems to dawn on her, too, going by how she clutches it. You both stand together in the dimly lit genkan, quiet, a little awkward. But the small space between you is purely electric.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” Fuyumi admits quietly.

“Me, neither…”

“Work?” she guesses.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “You?”

“School. Then work.”

You force a smile through your nerves. “And taking care of other people?”

Her words are hushed. “Yeah… That, too.”

“Guess we both missed out on the crazy party phase other people our age got,” you say dryly.

That earns you a soft laugh. “I guess so. Never looked all that great anyway.”

You snort. “Yeah, I’m not too upset that I missed out on all my friends’ college hangovers. But when was the last time you got to just...let go? Not care what anyone thinks or says?”

You yourself could at least count some fond high school memories.

Fuyumi, however…

She says nothing, bangs covering her eyes.

Tonight, you decide. Tonight is her night.

And suddenly, something clicks into place. You’re not nervous anymore.

“In that case...” Hands still connected, you step out of the genkan. “I think it’s about time someone took care of you.”

Her eyebrows furrow in concern. “What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“But… Aren’t you tired from caring so much?”

I don’t think I could ever get tired of caring for you.

Gently, you bring your intertwined hands to your mouth and smooth light, unhurried kisses over her fingers. Your lips trail along her knuckles until they press against her wrist and linger there over her pulse. You look at her through hooded eyes. Her breath catches.

Then you drop your hands.

“Trust me,” you say, your voice low in your own ears. “This is as much for me as it is for you. But only if you want it.”

There’s an unspoken question there.

Fuyumi meets your gaze directly, heat rising in her eyes, almost like blue fire in how they scorch you with a single look. You start to rethink your original guess about her Quirk.

“I want it.”

You. I want you.

Sucking in a long, slow breath, you smile at her. “...then come get it, Fuyumi-san.”

She stumbles forward, as though in a trance. Shaky hands land on your strong shoulders, seeking stability, and she steps into you. Your chests brush against each other, and you’re submerged in her creamy vanilla and jasmine perfume. That gravitational pull tugs at you but you stop yourself just shy of her lips.

Hers. This is her night, her decision.

Her cool breath fans across your lips. Starlit eyes peer into your darkening ones.

You wait.

“May I?” The words vibrate against your mouth.

Your heart melts.

“Of course.”

Fuyumi closes that last centimeter of distance and presses her trembling lip to yours. She tilts her head, mindful of her glasses. The kiss is slow and careful, closed mouth, testing the boundaries. Even with your verbal consent, it asks, Is this okay? You follow her lead, tenderly coaxing her lips along your own. Warm and welcoming and reassuring her yes, yes, yes. This is okay. This is perfectly okay.

I want you, too.

Her hands tighten on your shoulders. Yours slide into her feather-soft hair. You tug out the ponytail holder and delve your fingers in the tresses. You pull away, separating you with a soft pop, and watch the silky strands float to her shoulders.

Breathing hard, Fuyumi is still clutching your shoulders. Her face is flushed, roses blooming in her cheeks, and her pupils are blown wide.

“Whoever named you had the right idea,” you mutter, completely dazed.

You don’t get a chance to recover.

Fuyumi surges forward, grabbing your face, and pulls you to her. You slant your head just in time to meet her kiss, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips are soft, soft yet pleasantly chilled. And they move fervently along yours. Currents spark from her to you, tingling down your spine and electrifying your senses. You meet her passion with your own, shaky and reverent hands moving up to grip her blazer.

Without breaking the kiss, she steps out of the genkan and strides forward - backing you into your own apartment. Her hands slide from your cheeks and into your hair, tugging. You gasp, startled, and Fuyumi’s tongue is like ice in the warm cavern in your mouth. You groan. She uses her grip on your hair to angle you just so, completely taking over the kiss, and you let her. You want her to.

You move your hands up her back, into her hair - earning you another tug in reprimand - and down again until they find her full hips. You squeeze, enjoying the plush give under your fingers. Fuyumi hums, low and appreciative. You smooth your hands over her curves, slipping your thumbs under the shirt and rubbing circles against her hip bones.

Fuyumi breaks the kiss just long enough to slide off her blazer, lets it fall to the floor with a muffled foomp and your leather jacket joins it soon after. Then she’s on you again, looping her arms around your shoulders. Pressing close, closer, her full breasts soft against yours. Her lofty exhale condensates in your warm apartment, chilling your lips. Your eyes flutter.

Gripping her hips, you kiss her - kiss her like you wanted to from the moment she first smiled at you. You kiss her like you want to consume her. And Fuyumi meets you, passion for passion, ice for fire.

You slide your hands further up her turtleneck and skim along cool, soft skin with heated palms. Fuyumi arches, making soft appreciative noises that falter into disappointment when you remove your hands. Next you wind your arms around to fully embrace her, crushing her to you. Fuyumi moans.

You pull back enough to land several pecks on her smiling lips, making her giggle, and then shower the rest of her face in kisses. Your eager mouth finds her swan-like neck and becomes more sensual, mouthing along the arch. Kissing and sucking and just breathing her in. Fuyumi leans her head back to accept your affections in full.

“You’re so warm,” she sighs happily.

Your brain dies and comes back to life. And then you promptly realize the full implication of her words.

Panting, you pull away. You’re still foggy and lost and looking at Fuyumi, Fuyumi with that glazed over expression and slightly parted lips, certainly does help. But you have to check yourself - make sure you’re still in control.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Just wanted to look at you,” you say. Not a complete, as your gaze sears up and down her body.

“Don’t just look then.” Fuyumi tugs you forward by your shirt. You lean back at the last moment and grin at the frustrated sound she makes in the back of her throat.

“Y/n-san…”

You kiss her, a quick peck, and dart away before she has the chance to deepen it.

Her nose scrunches up. You kiss that, too. She chases after your lips but you dodge, her lips landing on your cheek instead. You snicker.

“Y/n-san.” There’s a warning in her tone. The sternness in it, the sudden assertiveness, makes you light-headed and eager to obey.

Damn. You make a mental note to explore this later.

“Just wanted to be extra sure this is what you want,” you say breathlessly.

“I told you that I wa - “

You catch her open mouth in yours, kissing her longer, deeper. Your lips smolder against hers. Her responding hum shoots straight to your core.

When you go to move away again, Fuyumi snares your bottom lip between her teeth and pulls you back in. A hand on your waist slips under your shirt, teasing the skin it finds there. She palms the small of your back. Pushes you closer. You squirm at the unexpected cold, inadvertently pushing yourself closer. She uses this to pull you into her, hands skating up your ribs, palms freezing, touch burning. The air grows hot and humid, a perfect clash between your Quirks, and you’re shivering from something far beyond temperature, beyond arousal.

“Oh, god…” you eke out as she sucks on the corner of your jaw. You’re too far gone to process it, lost in a strange space between too much and not enough.

It’s only Fuyumi’s mercy that allows you to catch your breath. She pulls back, leaving our lips kiss-swollen and red and panting. You gawk at her.

Her demure smile isn’t kind; it’s the calm before a storm. “Where’s the bedroom?”

A small, pitiful sound - a whimper - escapes you.

This woman is going to be the death of you.

Wordlessly, you grip her thick thighs and lift her up enough to wrap her legs around your waist. Fuyumi yelps. She winds her arms around your shoulders, beaming down at you. You grin up at her adoringly, even when she laughs at you when you bump into your own furniture in your own damn apartment.

“I can’t remember the last time anyone’s carried me,” she says.

Nudging your door open with your foot, you hum thoughtfully. “I can’t remember the last time I had a pretty girl in my arms.”

Fuyumi hides her burning face in your neck. “...you, too.”

“Mm?”

“You’re pretty, too,” she murmurs, burrowing in your shoulder. She nestles into you endearingly. “Prettier.”

You press a kiss to the side of her head, nuzzling into her hair and breathing in her conditioner. You whisper, “Don’t get in a fight over who’s prettier with me, Fuyumi-san. You’d lose.”

Then you promptly drop her on your bed.

Yelping, Fuyumi bounces on the mattress. She’s still smiling and giggling even when she tries to glare at you. “No, I wouldn’t,” she protests.

Amused, you place one knee on the bed. “Yes. You would.”

“No. I wouldn’t. Have you seen yourself?”

“Occasionally,” you drawl, raising your other knee to fully kneel in front of Fuyumi.

“But you’re so fit and strong and - “ She bites her lip again, face tinted pink. “You’re gorgeous.”

You take your sweet, sweet time looking Fuyumi up and down. Body half sprawled across your bed, her beautiful hair fans out like a halo. The hem of her shirt is partially pushed up, revealing her pale stomach where a diamond navel piercing gleam and the full flare of her waist.

“I don’t compare,” you say simply, bending down to crawl over to her.

Fuyumi rises up on your elbows to meet you halfway. You straddle her hips, having to stretch out your thighs to fully seat yourself over them. Damn. They’re so solid and soft underneath you. You never want to sit anywhere else again.

Fuyumi’s breath hitches, staring up at you as though entranced. Her hands slip over your thighs. “I think you don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I think you,” you carefully slide off her frames, removing the one thing between you and the intensity of her gaze, “need new glasses, Fuyumi-san.”

You fold up her glasses and lean over to put them safely on your side table. The movement moves your hips, unintentionally grinding. The small friction makes you release a stuttery breath.

Hearing it, her own breathing starts to get heavier. Fuyumi tightens her grip on your thighs and pushes back. You groan, long and low in your throat. You start a slow rocking motion, core grinding down. Fuyumi’s hips meet you movement for movement. Her hooded gaze flares.

You place your hands on top of hers, looking down at her with half-lidded eyes. Taking all of her in hungrily. “Fuyumi-san, when you say you haven’t done this before…”

“I mean going home with someone I just met,” she murmurs, caught in the rocking motion. “This isn’t - it won’t be my first time.”

Her earlier ferocity - and the current undulations of her hips under yours - suggested as much, but it’s always good to check.

You brush your fingers over her slim wrists and up her arms and down again. Feather light. Your touch ghosts over her exposed stomach and then up her lower ribs, pressing fully against her velvet skin.

Fuyumi arches her back, eyelashes fluttering. Her lips quiver.

She’s already starting to sweat, slick under your palms. You slide your hands back down and curve over her waist, kneading the bit of fat there. Her fair skin pinkens where you touch her. A small, desperate sound escapes her.

“God, I love the sound of your voice,” you rasp, grinding harder. “From the moment I first I heard it.”

She laughs a little. “I’m surprised you even heard it. The bar was so loud.”

Rather than respond, you scoot down her thighs in order to bend down and nip a hipbone.

“Y/n-san.”

You groan at the sound of your name before trailing your lips from one hip to the other, your tongue briefly circling around her piercing. Throughout your loving ministrations, you push your hands further up her shirt to her heavy breasts and squeeze softly. Fuyumi arches her back, crying out.

Eventually, you push her turtleneck up. Fuyumi sits up and you help pull it over her head. Your mouth dries.

Her beautiful hair is a beautiful mess, red tangled in white. Darkened blue eyes stare at you hazily. You finally learn that her flush extends from her round cheeks to her sternum, rosey and warm in the ivory of her skin. Her simple black bra barely restrains her heaving breasts. She’s all curves and supple skin and vanilla-and-jasmine perfume and -

“How did I get so lucky as to bring you home with me tonight?”

In answer, Fuyumi kisses you. Her insistent lips move from your needy mouth to your neck. You gasp when she finds the sensitive place behind your ear. Her chilled breath makes you tremble.

“How did I get so lucky as to end up in your bed?” she croons. Then she sucks your earlobe into her frigid mouth.

“Ah!”

She wrangles your shirt off and sends her mouth down the valley of your breasts. You wrap your legs around her waist, squeezing her between your thighs and pressing her into your aching core. Your head lolls, hair falling back. Your breathing is heavy under her. Her fingers tangle with the back of your bra and unclip it with ease.

Peppering your shoulders with chilled kisses as she slides the straps over them, Fuyumi tosses your bra over the side of the bed and pulls back to admire. You shiver at the dark, glassy look in her eyes. And then put up absolutely no resistance when she pushes you down on the bed.

Freezing hands caress your breasts, making you hiss and raise your back, as they come in contact with your sultry body.

“Sorry,” Fuyumi says, not sounding the least bit put out. “Quirk thing.”

Your chest heaves. “S’fine. Do whatever. Just - just keep touching me.”

Her eyelids lowered, and that demure smile returns. “That’s not a very polite way to ask for what you want, y/n-san.”

You’re not a proud person, and you know what you want. “Please, Fuyumi-san, please keep touching me - aah!”

Fuyumi leans down to circle a nipple with her ice-like tongue, sucking it in with a lewd suctiony sound. Glacial fingers pinch the other. Her other hand trails down, breezing across your ribs, until they find the hem of your pants and toying with the zipper. You pant, grasping at her shoulders for purchase. Forgoing the zipper entirely, Fuyumi cups you through your jeans - fingers rubbing tantalizing circles against your heat.

“Fuyumi-san!” you whine.

“Such pretty noises…” Fuyumi murmurs against your breast. “And you looked so stoic and serious at the bar. But look at you.”

Fuyumi grinds the heel of her hand into you. You squirm helplessly underneath her wintery body. It feels so good but so intense. You wonder if you’d somehow managed to lure a yuki-onna to your bed.

“You just fall apart at the simplest of touches.” She bends her head over your other breast, biting down gently. She continues to palm at your throbbing core.

You buck your hips, desperate for more friction. “Please…”

Then, in retribution for your earlier teasing, she removes her hand out from between your trembling thighs. You whine. Making direct eye contact with you, Fuyumi pulls back with your nipple still pinched between her teeth. Only after you let loose a satisfactory whimper does she release it. Your other nipple, however, she continues to roll leisurely between her thumb and forefinger.

“Apologies. You seemed to like how assertive I was earlier. Was I mistaken?”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you say weakly, “Didn’t expect this from an elementary school teacher.”

Smiling amusedly, Fuyumi nuzzles into your too-warm cheek. “I can’t be nice, patient sensei all the time.”

“So you like to get back some control in the bedroom,” you say dryly.

Fuyumi’s answer is scraping her teeth down your throat and sucking a mark into your collarbone. Cold hands seize your breasts, squeezing. A knee slips between your thighs to push against you. You cry out.

“Based on that lovely reponse…” Fuyumi croons, running her hands up and down your sides, “and your clear deflection from my original statement, you like to let go of control in the bedroom. It’s a release.”

Somewhere in the haze of your lust, you catch on. You raise an eyebrow.

She sighs. “Let me guess: high stakes civil service job, demanding work environment, lots of pressure, extremely stressful. You have to be in complete control at all times on the job, always alert, and need your phone on even after hours just in case.”

“...maybe.” She has a scarily clear cut understanding of your “civil service job”, even without the full details such as what exactly it is.

She smiles understandingly, though there’s a strange twist to it. “I noticed how..alert you were at the bar. Even though you came with friends. You really don’t let yourself relax, do you?”

You turn your head, averting your eyes.

Gentle fingers pinch your chin and bring them back to meet Fuyumi’s compassionate gaze. “It’s okay, y/n-san,” she soothes. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my place - “

“No, you’re right,” you cut her off, voice hoarse. “I - it’s just I… I love my job.”

“I know,” she murmurs, caressing the side of your face.

Your draw in a breath. “I’m lucky to have it. Especially being a woman. It’s what I’ve wanted since I was a little kid. And it - I get to help so many people. Every day. I feel like I make a real difference, you know? But it’s not easy.”

Fuyumi strokes your hair. “When was the last time you took some time off?”

You scoff, covering your eyes with a forearm. “I just transferred to a new agency a little while ago. I still have a lot to prove.”

This makes Fuyumi frown. “They chose to hire you. You shouldn’t have to prove anything!”

“Fuyumi-san,” you drawl, “you’re taking care of other people again. Didn’t I say it's your turn to be taken care of tonight?”

“Is you taking care of me just ‘helping people’ like you do everyday?” she asks.

“No. Is you asking about my work life and the personal toll it has just another way of asserting control?” you deadpan.

Fuyumi sputters, turning red. “N-no! And how’s wanting to help others ‘control’?”

“‘Help is the sunny side of control,’” you quote, bone dry.

Semi-amused, you watch realization dawn across Fuyumi’s face. “That’s - I never thought about it that way. That’s...quite insightful. Did you come up with that? Or is that from somewhere?”

“Anne Lammottt,” you say dryly. “She wrote this sorta half self-help, half memoir on hope and how to find it when things are at their bleakest. My therapist recommended it. I’ll lend you my copy.”

The bed creaks as Fuyumi sits up, straddling you. Poker faced, you make a herculean effort to keep your gaze directly on her face rather than stray to...well, the gorgeous half-naked body on top of you.

“You have a therapist?”

“High stakes job with heaps of pressure and stress, remember?” you quip. “It would be irresponsible of me not to take care of my mental health. Like skipping a dental cleaning or a vaccination.”

“Yeah…” Again, Fuyumi has that intent, searching look in her eyes. The same one she gave you after admitting how tired you were, how draining caring can be. Without her glasses, it’s only about 100 times more intense.

And there you are, titties out, laid out like a spread eagle underneath Fuyumi like you’re her personal throne. Not a bad position to be in, of course, but a little odd when her face looks like she’s trying to solve the world’s hardest math problem and not contorted in the throes of passion as gifted by yours truly. You wait it out, though. It seems important.

It’s a nice view anyway.

Finally: “You’re really something, y/l/n y/n.”

You smile up at her lazily. “Thanks. You’re something special yourself, Todoroki Fuyumi.”

Fuyumi smiles down at you like a real life Madonna icon. You’re suddenly reminded of your recently developed Fuyumi-related asthma. And how her luscious thighs are actually a little warm after hugging your body for so long.

You drum your fingers against them, enjoying the feel even through her jeans. “Hey, Fuyumi-san?”

“Mm?”

“How did we go from the hottest foreplay of my life to talking about our mutual tendencies for compulsive caretaking?”

Fuyumi slaps her hands over her reddening cheeks and groans. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, y/n-san!”

“It’s cool,” you say, nonchalant. “We can do a naked book club instead, if you like. Anything you wanna recommend?”

“No! No naked book club - well, maybe later. Wait!” She drags her hands down her face and half-heartedly glowers down at you. Somehow, that stern look makes you throb. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little,” you admit. You stroke her thighs soothingly. “But I’m also a little serious. If you’d rather do something else, that’s okay. I think I have some puzzles somewhere.“

Snorting, Fuyumi shakes her head. “I want to keep going. I do, I really do. But if I made it too weird or - “

“Great. I want to, too,” you state bluntly.

“I didn’t make it weird?”

“Sex is weird sometimes. Besides….” You look up at her with heavy-lidded eyes, feeling your desire thrum back to life at her bold reassertion. Your voice turns smokey when you speak next. “I want to make you feel good, Fuyumi-san.”

Fuyumi shudders above you.

Gripping her thighs, you slowly sit up to avoid jostling her from your lap. Warm hands smooth up her thighs, following the curves of her wide hips and her waistline. Fuyumi shivers when you linger on the sides of her plump breasts. You trace her bra’s outer edges up to the elastic straps and unhurriedly lower the right one. You press a kiss to her bared shoulder, as soft as the newly fallen snow outside.

“I want to make you really, really good.”

You feel how the exhale shudders out of her. “Y/n-san…”

“Will you let me? Will you let me make you feel good, Fuyumi-san?”

She laughs softly, hugging your shoulders. “How do you do that? “

“Do what?” you mumble, sucking at a beauty mark you find.

“Just - mmph, right there - just turn the situation around? It was so a-aah! Awkward and now it’s like this again.”

You laugh huskily. “A little trick I learned on the job.”

“Seducing people?”

“Are you seduced?” you purr.

“Y-yes. But seriously...”

“Let’s just say... I learned how to assess a situation and Turn. It. Around. In my favor.” You kiss up her neck with each word, breathing in deeply.

She gently scratches down your back, soft lines that make you shudder. “Mm, you’re a good civil servant.”

This draws a smirk from you. “Thanks. Now...back to my question.”

“Mm?” Fuyumi’s eyes flutter.

You whisper hotly against her ear, “Will you let me make you feel good?”

“Yes, please.”

Grinning, you kiss her ear and set to work.

You unsnap her bra clasp, sliding the silky undergarment off and lazily letting it fall from your hand. Her supple breasts fall free with gentle bounce. Hand on her shoulder, you lightly push her onto her back and Fuyumi goes down willingly. Lips parted, you stare down at her darkly.

Expression hazy, she smiles up at you. “Please take care of me.”

“I’ll try my best,” you promise, voice low and gravelly.

You cup her breasts, relishing the soft weight of them in your hands, and rub slow circles over them. Then you bend down to tongue a slow circle around a dusky nipple before sucking it into your eager mouth. Fuyumi sighs, cupping the back of your neck. You hum, then go to turn your attention to the next. Gently heating your lips, you press gossamer-like kisses all over her flushed chest. From there, you kiss down her sternum and down her chest.

“Y/n-san,” she calls softly as you leave marks along her stomach.

You sink blunt teeth into he left hip and she gasps. Trembling underneath you, Fuyumi grips your hair and moans.

You slip a finger under her jeans, looking to her with lifted eyebrows. At her nod, you unbutton her jeans and - in return for her icy teasing - unzip the fly with your teeth. She gasps. You tug at the loosened denim, to which she lifts her hips, and you slide down her jeans past her hips where you kiss and suck and nip. Then you pull the jeans down her thighs. You swallow at the sight of her pink panties, pupils dilating at the dark stain over her folds.

Still, you take your time - gently pulling her jeans off one creamy leg at a time. You kiss every inch of new skin revealed, reveling in Fuyumi’s increasingly shallow breathing. You watch her chest rise and fall, breasts heaving.

She’s easily the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen in your life.

Not looking away once, you toss the jeans to some far corner and settle between her thighs. You’re not even aware of where you are, so consumed with the sight and smell of her.

“Y-y/n-san,” she calls.

“Shh, darling,” you murmur, landing a kiss on the inside of her knee. You trace your lips down the soft skin of her inner thigh. “I know, I know.”

“Hurry.”

“Almost there. I’m going to take such good care of you, I promise.”

She moans, the precious noise pitching louder when you press your lips to the sweet wetness pooled between her thighs. You flick the full length of your tongue over her. Delicate fingers grip the back of your head, cold and insistent, and you groan. The vibrations send her hips rolling and you follow along with the motions, licking and sucking through her underwear, breathing through your nose, tenderly thumbing circles into her hip bones. Despite the delicious press of her clenching thighs against your ears, you hear her call your name - broken between a plea and a command. And you obey.

Without wasting another moment, you pull away and hook your fingers under the hem of her panties. You slide the garment down her hips, groan at the pearly strands of her essence clinging to her puffy inner lips, and pull it down her lush thighs.

Impatient, Fuyumi sits up enough to shove her panties the rest of the way off. Then her hand returns to the back of your head which she immediately guides to her cunt. You grasp her thighs, spreading them open for better access. You latch onto her hot bundle of nerves and suck into your mouth. Encouraged by her cries, you lave your tongue between her folds while your thumb continues toying with her clit.

Nails scrape against your scalp, sending shocks of pained pleasure through you and inciting another moan. You bury your tongue inside her, reveling in the full taste of her. A mewl rewards your efforts. Chin shiny with her juices, you pull back only to return to her clit. You press a kiss there, two, three, before sucking it back into your hot mouth. Your fingers slide inside her; velvety walls clench around them, pulsing rhythmically as you slide in and out.

Lashes fluttering, you lift your gaze to meet Fuyumi’s piercing blue eyes - bright and demanding above the flush of her cheeks and her neck and her heaving chest. Her grip tightens in your hair. You close eyes, blissed out, and delve your tongue deeper inside her until your nose is pressed against her clit. You delight in the wet friction.

Her legs tremble, one hooked over your shoulder. Her cries rise - higher, higher, pitching into the dark ceiling. The sweetest of noises. You whimper when her thighs clench around you, following the undulations of her hips. Your own squirm against the sheets, arousal pooling in your underwear, as you listen. You feel it before she cries out: hands grasping, thighs shaking, labia twitching, her inner walls clenching around you.

Ecstasy. Pure ecstasy. All because of you.

Fuyumi calls your names.

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes -

Cold.

Cold, cold, cold.

Under Fuyumi’s hands, ice coats your shoulders and spreads down your back. Your hair is stiff and frozen. Where her juices coated your lips and chin, now frozen. Even the tip of your nose has frost.

You blink.

Fuyumi gapes at you, horrified.

“You know...when the weather forecast said snowy night in Tokyo, this isn’t what I expected.”

“I am SO sorry!”

You burst out laughing.

She hides her bright red face in her hands. “I’m sorry, y/n-san! Do you have a hair dryer? Let me -- “

“Nah, I’m okay. See?” You channel your Quirk, focusing on the warmth always present in the center of your chest, and let the heat spread throughout the rest of your body. Steam rises from your skin as the frost melts, not leaving so much as a droplet of moisture behind.

Hands lowered, Fuyumi’s jaw drops. “You...you have a fire Quirk.”

“Opposites really do attract, huh?” Eyes crinkling, you laugh.

It’s the only sound in the bedroom.

“...Fuyumi-san?”

Speechless, Fuyumi stares at you with wide, wide eyes. The climax-induced flush is gone, bleached from her skin. She covers her mouth with a shaky hand.

You immediately recognize that expression. It’s the look a civilian had before they were saved, before help arrived. Fear. Seeing it on her face makes your stomach turn. It reminds you of the time you rescued a child from a burning building after a villain set off an electrical fire - the initial relief on the boy’s face evolving into sheer panic when you activated your own flames to fight the villain off before back-up came. You’d hated yourself for reigniting that fear so soon after the initial trauma.

And now? You’re bewildered and cautious.

“Hey...you alright there?”

“I - yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Fuyumi swiftly looks away, shrinking in on herself. She brings her arms up to her bare chest.

Resisting the urge to frown, you put up an air of calm. You wordlessly lift a sheet and - avoiding sudden movements - wrap it around her shoulders.

She blinks at you.

“A lot of people have had bad experiences with fire,” you say, non-judgemental. You smile softly. “I get it. It can be pretty scary sometimes. But I can guarantee you that I have better control over my Quirk than most people. Haven’t had an accident since I was 10.”

“I’m not - that’s not it, y/n-san.” Even saying that, Fuyumi pulled the sheet tighter around herself.

You lifted and lowered your shoulders in a languid shrug. “It doesn’t matter what it was or wasn’t. And you don’t have to explain it to me, either.”

Her bottom lip trembles. “Y/n-san - “

“Fuyumi-san,” you say, hushed. “It’s okay.”

You won't lie to yourself, though: It hurts. But you recognize a trigger when you see one. If years of general wariness of your flames didn’t teach you that, your training certainly did.

It’s that same training that allows you to smile at her reassuringly. “Hey… Look.”

You hold your hand out, palm side up. Watching her face carefully, searching for even the slightest flinch, you focus the heat under your skin to converge at the center of your palm: A spark, then a shimmer, and a small flame comes to life. No bigger than a birthday candle, it casts a soft light across your face.

Fuyumi’s eyes flicker between your tender expression and the tiny fire. Your own gaze doesn’t waver from her face, even as you slowly twist your hand and will the flame to move sluggishly along your palm, your wrist, over your knuckles, and between your fingers. Fuyumi watches all the while.

You urge the flare to your to the very tip of your index finger and hold it up to your mouth. You purse your lips, not unlike a kiss, and extinguish it with a small puff. You wink at her. “See? Perfect control.”

While she is still hunched under the sheet, it at least earns you a small, wobbly smile.

You hold out your hand, again palm side up. She immediately looks at it, clearly expecting another flame. The corner of your mouth twitches and you wiggle your fingers a little.

It’s a relief when she accepts the silent offer, placing her small hand in yours. Your fingers wrap around hers. Tenderly, carefully, you brush your over her knuckles. Like you’re holding something infinitely precious.

“I was a pretty stupid kid, you know. You would’ve hated having me in your classroom,” you say suddenly, still fixated on your joined hands.

Fuyumi looks almost offended. “No, I wouldn’t!”

It makes you grin a little. “You’re right. You’re an amazing teacher - one of those saintly ones with tons of patience for even the brattiest of kids. I can tell. But trust me, even little me would have given you a run for your money. I was pretty full of myself, just because of an accident of being born with some flashy Quirk. Always showing off and playing around with it.”

At this, your smile fades into a grim line. “But you know what they say about playing with fire. ‘Cept I can’t burn but others sure can. I learned that the hard way...at someone else’s expense.”

“...the accident when you were 10,” Fuyumi recalls, voice faint.

“It was someone I really care about,” you say. Your mouth twists into a self-contemptuous sneer as you shake your head. “I knew how to start fires but hadn’t yet learned how to put them out. So much for the little show off.”

Suddenly, her hand squeezes yours. You blink.

“You were only a child, y/n-san,” she whispers. Her eyebrows scrunch together and without her glasses, there’s nothing between you and those fierce eyes. “It was an accident.”

“Doesn’t matter. Someone else paid for it,” you say, uncompromising. She opens her mouth to protest. You raise her hand to kiss her knuckles which immediately snaps her mouth close. “And I’ve been a whole lot more careful since then. I promised myself that I would use my Quirk to protect people, not hurt them. Especially not someone I care about.”

At that, you press your lips to her slim wrist. You gently suck at the blue-ish veins beneath delicate skin, kissing the heel of her hand and then her own palm and finally the tips of fingers. You look up to see Fuyumi’s cherry red face.

“Are you hungry?”

“W-what?” She sounds half as breathless as you felt most of the evening. Payback, sweetheart.

“I promised to take care of you tonight, remember? So. Are you hungry?”

Fuyumi stares at you, taking in your still half-dressed state and kiss-bruised lips. “What about you? I didn’t...you know.”

You shrug. “It’s fine. Lemme get you a glass of water at least.”

After her near panic attack and the sudden turn in conversation, you figure she might not be in the best headspace to...reciprocate. Besides, nothing dashes the libido quite like your partner almost freaking out at your Quirk.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stretch your arms out, oblivious to Fuyumi’s sharpened stare where your back muscles ripple with the movement. You push your hair back, lightly scratching your head as you lazily search the floor for your shirt.

“Wanna watch a movie or something? I think I have some popcorn. We could - “

Cool hands smooth over your waist, meeting in the middle of your stomach. You feel the swell of her breasts against your too-warm back, tight nipples on your shoulder blades. Chilled lips brush the junction of your neck and shoulder, following the curve of your neck. She catches your earlobe between her teeth and tugs.

Your breath hitches.

Her hands trail up your abdomen, leaving shivers in their wake, before cupping your breasts. You arch your back, consequently pushing yourself further into her. Her thumbs smooth twin circles around your nipples, her natural chill sensitizing them.

“Fuyumi….” Her name is a weak moan from your mouth.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” comes her wintry whisper. “Let me return the favor, okay?”

“A-are you sure? A-ah! Fuyumi!”

“I told you, y/n, I want it. And I’ll take it if I have to.”

There is a higher power and apparently, that higher power fucking loves you.

❈────────•✦•❅•✦•───────❈

It’s habit that wakes you up in the early morning. Drowsily, you blink up at your ceiling and then turn your head on your pillow to find Fuyumi’s face inches from yours. Her cheek is squished against a pillow, snowy strands caught in her mouth.

You stare at her in silent awe.

Eventually, your stomach reminds you of your basic needs and by extension Fuyumi’s eventual needs as well. Breakfast then. You sit up slowly, taking care not to wake her. You swing your legs over the bed and pad your way around fallen clothes. You pick them up, sorting out which were whose. Your cell drops out of your pants.

You remember your promise to Kamiji. Turning on your cell, you grimace at the low power and then pause at the many...many messages on it.

Burnin’ 🔥💪💪: RED ALERT RED ALERT

Burnin’ 🔥💪💪: YO Y/N PICK UP

Burnin’ 🔥💪💪: As GREAT as a time you’re having right now...pick up.

Burnin’ 🔥💪💪: Yl//n.

Burnin’ 🔥💪💪: Y/l/n.

Burnin’ 🔥💪💪: Y/l/n y/n.

Frowning, you press “call” on her contact. A few rings carry on, setting your nerves at ease. You know that if it really was an emergency, she would be awake and pick up immediately.

A groggy voice answers. “Must’ve been a fun night.”

“Kamiji, what’s up?” you murmur.

“Did you take that girl home with you?”

“Uuh…” You glance at Fuyumi’s curled up form. The sheets drape over the curve of her hips and tangle between her legs, leaving her mostly bare. Her arms stretch out above her head, feathery hair a tangled mess, carmine streaks vibrant in the sunrise. A few of your marks stand out, red and violet, on the fair skin of her waist and chest. Perfect matches to the ones all over your chest.

You don’t realize you’re smiling like an idiot until you hear your name repeated, louder and louder. “Y/l/n… Y/L/N! HEY!”

You scowl, soundlessly slipping out of bed and snatching a robe on the way out. You muffle your phone against your collarbone until you’re safely in the kitchen where Kamiji’s yelling won’t wake Fuyumi up.

“Yes, Kamiji, I took her home with me and now I’m going to make her breakfast. There a problem?”

Coffee. You need coffee.

“Well, at least you’re treating her right. Hopefully that’ll work in your favor.”

“What are you talking about?” you grouse, getting your coffee maker ready. You mentally go over what you have in the fridge. Do you have enough to make something? Or should you run to the cafe to grab something? Would you get back before Fuyumi wakes up? Maybe you should wait and see if she’d want to go with you...

A dark laugh from the receiver. “You really have no idea who she is, do you?”

You freeze. Tightening your grip on the phone, you glance warily at your closed bedroom door. “...why, is she a villain?”

“You wish.”

Your brow furrows. “What?”

“You’re completely fireproof, right?”

“Yes,” you say, frowning. “It’s pretty much why Endeavor hired me.”

Kamiji makes a small, aggravated noise. “He hired for more than that, y/l/n. But we’ll get into that later - before our boss gives a whole new meaning to firing you.”

“Fire me? For what?”

“What’s his name, y/l/n? His actual name?”

You really do not like where this conversation was going. “Todoroki Enji?”

“And who did you take home with you last night?”

“...that’s not funny, Kamiji.”

“I’m not joking.”

“It’s a common last name,” you protest, “and they look absolutely nothing alike - “

Except.

Except for the red in her hair.

And the color of her eyes, the curve of her nose, the angle of her eyebrows...

The same family name.

Her reaction to your fire Quirk.

You even met at a bar close to the Endeavor Hero Agency.

“No.”

“Yeeeaaah. You slept with the #2 hero’s only daughter.”

For the first time since you were 10, you lose control of your Quirk - setting your favorite robe aflame.

“SHIT!”

Kamiji’s laughter is barely heard over the smoke alarm. Burnt cotton fills the kitchen air and you tear off the robe to throw it in the sink, immediately turning on the faucet. And then there you are, wearing nothing but a few love bites, as you fight with the smoke alarm to shut it up.

Having taken the batteries out, you snatch up the phone and hiss, “I slept with our boss’s daughter? Our boss boss? Endeavor?”

“You work for my father?”

You swear you feel the blood draining from your face. Slowly, mechanically, you turn around. She stands just outside your room, a vision in white sheets. The girl you met last night, the girl you’re pretty sure you fell a little in love with at first sight. The one you took home with you.

Todoroki Fuyumi.

Endeavor’s only daughter.

The higher power fucking hates you.

❈────────•✦•❅•✦•───────❈

Note: When Fuyumi says “Please take care of me” during introductions with reader, it’s actually an English translation of “Yoroshiku onegaishimasu” which is more of a concept than a direct translation. Cool explanation here for my fellow language nerds.

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