YALL KNOW THAT ONE RACE TO THE EDGE EDIT WITH THE BEAUTIFUL CREATURES SONG??? LIKE AND IT HAS THE PARTS

𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐲? 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫. • 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐣𝐢 × 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

contains: mention of sucky parents, shoji's horrible village, scars, CUTENESS, FLUFF, shoji being a cutie patootie, mwah mwah kissy kissy

ENJOY!

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

The rain poured down onto the pavement as I trudged across the grounds. I had forgotten my umbrella once again, and I hadn't expected it to start storming just as I was heading home. Well, as much as a home it could be. 

I had no money for the bus or train, my phone was dead, and even if I could call my parents I knew they wouldn't come to pick me up. They had never cared much for me, even once I got accepted into UA, they gave me the cold shoulder.

The sound of feet slapping against the wet pavement pulled me out of my pity party. I glanced up to be met with black eyes. Shoji. He held out an umbrella, covering my trembling form, "want me to walk you home?" His deep voice startled me, my eyes widening slightly. "Oh no, you don't have to..." He shook his head, his gaze searching for mine, "I don't mind."

Turning to the side, I averted his gaze, "my house is pretty far, I don't want to make you walk so far." I stepped closer, "again, I really don't mind. I could use the walk anyway." His eyes were piercing, and I looked away quickly, nodding slowly. "Alright..." The silence was thick and tense, one of his arms holding the umbrella over me, the other two resting idly at his side. His firm but gentle voice dragging me out of my thoughts, "Are you... scared of me?" his voice trembled ever so slightly. My head snapped up, "scared? Of you? Why would I be scared?" He shook his head, "Sorry that was stupid... it's just, you always act so nervous, I was worried it was because of me."

My cheeks darkened as I realized what he was talking about. I had had a crush on Shoji ever since I met him. His strong form, and gentle words always managed to put me at ease. "I could never be scared of you, Shoji." His gentle gaze met mine, and I swear I could see hints of red peaking out from his mask. He cleared his throat, looking back down to the pavement. "I'm glad." 

It was silent again, save for the splash of our feet hitting the ground, and the thoughts racing in my head. Why would he ever think I was scared of him? Who could ever be scared of such a gentle person like Shoji? These questions tore against my mind, and before I could stop myself, my lips were moving. "Why would you think I'd be scared of you?" He stopped dead in his tracks, and I turned to face him, my hands fiddling nervously in front of me. His dark eyes met mine slowly, before swerving away.

"Most people are. Or disgusted." His voice was low, wavering, and my hand involuntarily reached up to grab at one of his free hands. Our fingers laced together, his eyes meeting mine once again, an unsureness I had never seen before settled in his dark gaze. "I could never be disgusted by you, Shoji," I spoke quietly, tentatively. "Mezo. Please." I smiled gently at his words, "Mezo." I tried the name out, it sounded foreign yet somehow... right, on my tongue. "Thank you..." He spoke lowly, almost nervously.

My eyebrows scrunched in concern as he didn't meet my eyes. Something was still wrong, and I was unsure what to do. "What's wrong?" He shook his head, "nothing." "I know you're lying, Mezo." I could feel him shiver slightly, and whether that was due to the cold or my words, I would never know. I looked up at the sky, the rain still poured down, and we were still quite far from my home. I looked back to him, his face hung low, his silver hair sweeping over his eyes, the pale blue mask covering his other features. I had never asked why he wore the mask, but suddenly, I had the strong urge to know what lay beneath it.

I stepped closer, his form looming over mine, my free hand moving from my side to his face. I gently trailed my fingers over the edge of his mask, his face jerking up to see me better. "Why do you wear this mask?" I questioned, my voice holding only curiosity. His eyes held a slight fear, so I retracted my hand. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—" "No, please, it's... I... don't mind." His voice quivered, and held an emotion I couldn't quite place. Longing? I didn't know.

I rested my hand on his shoulder, waiting patiently for his answer. "It's... it doesn't really matter..." I shook my head, "please, I want to know." His gaze uncertain, his shoulders tense. He sighed, "my village... doesn't exactly like heteromorphs. You don't need to hear my sob story but... people were afraid of my face, so I covered it. Hoping people would be less afraid of me if I wasn't so scary looking." His hand that was interlaced with mine trembled slightly, I rubbed my thumb soothingly against the back of his. "You're not scary," he chuckled humorlessly, "You wouldn't say that if you knew what I looked like." I took a breath, "then show me."

His eyes widened, "w—what?" "Show me, Mezo, I want to know what you look like. Then I can determine how scary you really are." I grinned slowly, he shook his head, "no—no I don't want to lose you—" I laughed at the thought, "Lose me? That will never happen. I swear by it. Even if I'm frightened, I won't leave you, ever." His gaze was wide, unbelieving, hopeful. He looked away. "Are... are you sure?" I nodded.

His hand dropped from mine. He wordlessly reached his hand up, hesitating over his mask, before hooking his finger in and pulling it down. My jaw fell as a small gasp escaped my lips. Scary? He was beautiful. His lips were long and thin, scars trailed over just about every inch of skin I could see. Once again I wondered how anyone could be scared of him, and for the first time I wondered, 'What happened to him?' He looked at me nervously, his hand fiddling with the fabric of his mask. I was snapped out of my daze as he opened his mouth to speak, scarred skin pulling at his lips, and revealing his perfectly white teeth, "Y/N...?" He had never said my name before. He had never spoken to me with his actual mouth. I felt a sudden surge of affection for him, my heart twisting painfully. 

Suddenly I was moving, wrapping my arms around his neck and crashing my lips into his. He startled, dropping the umbrella, causing the rain to hit me once again, drenching our bodies. I pulled away, "I'm sorry—I—I shouldn't ha—" He cut me off, his lips crashing against mine once again. All of his 6 limbs wrapped around my smaller form, his main two coming up to my neck, holding me gently to his face as his lips moved against mine. Another pair wrapped around my back, hands caressing and tugging, at my hair, on my back; the last pair fit snug around my waist, his thumbs gently brushing against the skin of my stomach that had been revealed.

It was overwhelming, yet oh so wonderfully him. I melted into his touch, my fingers entangled in his hair, running across the scars on his neck and his face. He hummed against my lips, his touch gentle and yet bruising at the same time. I tilted my head to the side slightly, his lips moved feverishly against mine, the kiss deep and warm. We pulled away from each other slowly, gasping for air. I rested my head against his chest, his strong arms pulling me flush against him.

I was suddenly aware of the rain pouring down, my hair and clothes soaked through. "My apartment is right around the corner, stay with me? At least until the rain stops." I nodded, grinning up at him. His face turned red as he pulled a hand from where it rested on my neck to cover my head from the rain. I ran my hand through his soaked hair, and our lips met again. Slow and gentle, nothing like the first one which was hot and quick. I smiled against his lips, pulling away slightly. "You could never be scary, Mezo. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

1.4k words

i am a FIRM mezo shoji lover, he has my heart forever and always. he doesn't get enough love (cept for you blair-vvitch, ily) so I HAD to write something for him. everytime I see his little face I get horrible cuteness aggression so I attempted to showcase that in this. hope you liked it heehee

Cute Aggression

Mezo Shoji x Reader

(mild suggestive content; utterly vile fluff)

Something about his face just drives you wild. Always has.

Even the first time, when you were at your place, and Shoji sat you down because he had something serious to discuss. You'd been going out for a while, and dating exclusively for several months. A part of you was terrified that 'something serious' meant something bad. But when he expressed a desire to show you his face, that anxiety turned to relief, then excitement. It was hard to hide your giddiness, but you wanted to show that you were taking this seriously.

Shoji could tell, he could always tell. Your boyfriend seemed to have a gift for reading people, or maybe just you. It made it all the more nerve wracking, knowing that your excitement would sour into shock or pity or disgust. But it seemed too far to go back now.

When he pulled down his mask, he was quiet, giving you a moment to process, maybe ask questions. He was ready to answer the usual 'what happened' or something about his natural features.

What Shoji wasn't prepared for, was your elated look, and you slowly reaching out your hands while asking, "is this okay?" You waited until he nodded his consent before cupping his face, gently and intently looking at his features.

"Mezo." You had straddled his lap, now staring him dead in the eyes. He swallowed. "You are really, REALLY fuckin' cute."

He let out the breath he didn't know he was holding. You weren't hiding your giddiness now, and he wasn't sure how to react to this unabashed fawning. His already serious blush darkened as you asked, "can I kiss you? Here, on this mouth?"

The two of you had made out some, but always using a mouth on one of his dupli arms. He nodded, looking unintentionally coy as he closed his eyes. "You may."

You gently swept his bangs aside, still cupping his cheek with your other hand. Your thumb brushed over a pair of scars crossing his lips, but you weren't planning to ask about them now. If he offered the information, you'd take it, but there was no need to push. For now, you just wanted to love on his face, as much as he'd let you.

His lips had an intriguing shape in the front, tempting you to kiss there. As your lips softly molded to his, you felt him go tense, quivering a little. So you moved your hands to his chest, gently rubbing along the clavicle out to his shoulders, then back to center. "Relax baby~" you whispered against his perfect lips, and he obeyed instantly.

When you finally leaned back, Shoji looked happy, dazed, and positively love-drunk from the tender kiss. Then he said something that surprised you. "That was, uhm, my first kiss." He rubbed his neck with a nervous little laugh.

You took a moment to process, then gasped. "Ohmygosh why didn't you tell me, I could've lit candles or something, made it more romantic!"

Before you could stress too much, six muscular arms found their way around your torso, pulling you flush against him. "It was perfect."

~~~~~

"Mezo?"

"Hm?"

"You'd dated other people before me, right? So, why hadn't you ever...yanno? Before." It had been weeks since your boyfriend had first shown you his face, and you'd been wondering how you were his first real kiss.

"Kissed?" You nodded. He sighed. "I didn't show many potential romantic partners my face. As for the ones I did show, they weren't particularly enthusiastic about getting up close and personal."

You narrowed your eyes. "...just so you know, if you ever point out one of your exes to me in public, I will kick their ass."

"Noted. But please don't."

"Fine. Their loss anyway." You cuddled into his side, one hand reaching up to trace the scar tissue on the back of his neck.

Now it was Shoji's turn to blurt out something that had been lingering in the back of his mind. Ever since he told you about his scars, you seemed a little fixated on them. "So, these...they don't bother you?"

"Mixed feelings, I suppose. It makes me sad and pissed off that anyone would've hurt you like that. But at the same time, objectively, they give you kind of a rugged look? And knowing how you got them, it makes me feel kinda guilty that I think they're hot?"

Shoji turned his head to give you an amused, questioning look. "Hot?"

"Yeah, you're stupidly hot. Not just the face, the whole situation. But the scars, they make me just, wanna..."

You trailed off, getting up on your knees so you could reach Shoji's face while he sat. His fists balled up in the couch cushions as your lips softly caressed the scars running perpendicular to his mouth. You kissed along each one, going bottom to top, before moving to the corner of his mouth. Following the massive scar around his neck, you kissed as far as you could reach from your position, then gave it a small lick. He jumped and you giggled, nibbling around the raised flesh as he shivered.

Soon he was leaning into the couch, head thrown back, mouth open and panting while you kissed and adored and worshipped every inch of scarring around his neck and face. He hardly even moved as you switched sides, determined not to half ass your task.

At long last, you stopped, and Shoji started to compose himself and sit up. That's when you rested your chin on his shoulder, giving him doe eyes as you asked, "got any other scars that need tending?"

He stared at you for a moment. Then he started to remove his shirt.

~~~~~

Waking up to the sight of Shoji's face was divine, you thought to yourself. He lay on his back beside you, but his head was turned to the side. So when you woke up, you were met with his peaceful visage.

You sighed, softly stroking his sleep-mussed hair. You watched his pretty silver eyelashes twitch against his cheeks as he dreamed. He was smiling softly, evidently enjoying pleasant dreams.

When you leaned in, carefully attempting to deliver a small kiss without waking him, he mumbled something in his sleep. Mostly incoherent, but you were pretty sure you caught a little "love you" in there. You smiled, cuddled into his side, and rejoined him in peaceful slumber.

~~~~~

There was no point to this collection of drabbles, other than to say Shoji deserves nice things and also look at that face LOOK AT THAT CUTE FUCKIN FACE:

hiccstrid redraw :)

tysm for 200 followers!!

i love my little loser who ends up becoming the most powerful hero in their world

bro can we talk about all the absolutely CRAZY shit that happens in dob and rtte??? like hiccup getting struck by fucking lightning??? snotlout getting struck like 50 billion times??? hiccup getting kidnapped, absolutely beat up by all the villains, almost drowning, astrid going blind, ALSO almost drowning- I could go ON-

and yet its all made light-hearted, turned into a joke or just not taken at its severity cuz its a show for like 8 year olds

like what the FUCK do you MEAN astrid almost DIES FROM POISION and its NEVER MENTIONED AGAIN?!?!?!

percabeth as a cute little domestic couple but percy steals annabeth's hoodies, and hides in her arms while watching a scary movie

THE SHIT (GOLD) YOU FIND IN THE OCEAN (YOUTUBE COMMENT’S SECTION)

love in the margins | t. iida

a short, slow-burn library romance, ft. one blueberry muffin, exactly zero jokes, and a boy who takes flashcards way too seriously. (4597 words)

you meet tenya iida under circumstances that can only be described as tragically collegiate: a peer-led study group in the furthest, quietest corner of the campus library, surrounded by half-dead fluorescent bulbs and the palpable despair of students on the brink of burnout.

it's the third week of the semester, and you're already floundering.

you hadn't intended to be. in theory, you were going to stay on top of things—read the chapters early, color-code your notes, maybe even start a study group of your own. but somewhere between sleep deprivation, an avalanche of discussion posts, and the mysterious black hole that is the university's online portal, you fell behind. hard.

introduction to public policy has been your academic nemesis from the start. the textbook reads like legal jargon swallowed a thesaurus. the professor talks in dense, circular metaphors. every quiz is a minefield of trick questions and ambiguous phrasing. you are, in every sense of the word, academically drowning.

so when a brightly colored flyer promising a "collaborative review session" caught your eye on the bulletin board outside the lecture hall, you didn't think twice. you showed up. desperate. caffeinated. terminally underprepared.

and now you regret everything.

the room smells like dry-erase markers and nervous sweat. a whiteboard at the front is covered in illegible graphs. someone has already spilled a latte on the floor. the guy leading the group talks fast and loud, his explanations full of buzzwords and gestures but lacking anything remotely useful. you suspect he's just regurgitating the study guide at a slightly faster pace.

the other students seem to agree.

one by one, they start to trickle out. a girl leaves with the excuse of "office hours." a guy mutters something about dinner. another just quietly packs up and disappears, not even bothering with a pretense.

by the end of the hour, only two people remain: you, clinging to a futile hope of salvaging your gpa... and him.

he sits across from you with the kind of posture that makes your back ache just looking at him. tall, composed, and absurdly polished—like someone who writes essays three days early and carries a spare pen in case someone forgets theirs. his navy-blue sweater is wrinkle-free. his glasses catch the dim library light. his notes are not just color-coded—they're thematically organized, annotated with footnotes and marginalia in tiny, immaculate handwriting.

he hasn't spoken once. he hasn't needed to.

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

"you're still here?" you ask, more surprise than judgment.

the boy looks up, blinking as if surfacing from a well of deep concentration. he adjusts his glasses with a practiced motion.

"yes," he says, voice clipped and oddly formal. "you are as well."

you arch an eyebrow. "no offense, but... are you actually getting something out of this?"

his expression doesn't change, but he tilts his head slightly—almost like he's assessing you.

"of course," he replies. "engaging in structured group review enhances cognitive retention and contextual understanding. it's an effective method for consolidating knowledge prior to a high-stakes assessment."

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

you snort—audibly. it escapes before you can stop it. and to your surprise, a faint smile flickers across his mouth.

"i'm tenya iida," he says, extending a hand across the table with the kind of precision reserved for formal introductions at university mixers.

you stare at his hand for a moment, then take it. his grip is warm. steady. confident in a way that makes you sit up a little straighter.

"y/n," you say.

his smile grows just slightly. "it's a pleasure to meet you, y/n."

he releases your hand and immediately pulls out a second set of flashcards from his folder. of course he has a second set.

"would you like to quiz each other?" he asks, dead serious. "alternating questions could be a mutually beneficial method of review."

you stare at him.

he stares back.

something about him—the earnestness, the posture, the complete and utter lack of sarcasm—disarms you. it's like he's the living embodiment of academic sincerity. you're not sure whether to laugh or agree.

you do both.

"...sure."

you don't know it yet, but that's the beginning.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

it's not personal. it's just that study groups are the social equivalent of jury duty—temporary, miserable, and best forgotten. you assume tenya iida is one of those hyper-dedicated overachievers who only exist within the academic ecosystem. he probably recedes into a cloud of flashcards and moral fiber as soon as the library closes.

you are, however, proven categorically wrong the following wednesday at exactly 8:03 a.m.

you enter the campus café half-awake, mildly hostile, and fully dependent on the idea of caffeine as a substitute for sleep. the plan is simple: grab something with enough espresso to make your eye twitch, stare blankly at your phone for fifteen minutes, and pretend the crushing weight of institutional learning isn't slowly hollowing you out from the inside.

but fate—or perhaps syllabus-based divine intervention—has other plans.

because when you step inside, there he is.

same posture. same glasses. same stupidly crisp button-down like it didn't just come out of someone's laundry but graduated magna cum laude from it. he's seated at a table by the window, surrounded by highlighters arranged like soldiers, reading the textbook that has been your personal tormentor since week one.

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

you hesitate, caught in that weird space where it's too late to pretend you didn't see him, but also too awkward to walk past without acknowledging him.

before you can make a decision, he looks up—and smiles.

not just a polite, "ah yes, i recognize you" smile.

a real smile. brief, but sincere. like he's actually glad you're here.

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

"didn't expect to see you here," you say as you slide into the seat across from him, instantly aware of how tired you look in comparison to his perfectly combed hair and terrifying punctuality.

"i study here most mornings," he replies. "the ambient noise level is consistent, and the natural lighting is optimal for focus."

you blink. "that is... alarmingly specific."

he inclines his head. "i find that consistency breeds productivity."

you want to tease him, but the truth is, it's kind of admirable. alarming. but admirable.

he gestures to the pastry between you.

"would you like half?" he asks. "it's fresh. and i believe we have, at this point, established a cordial enough rapport to justify the sharing of breakfast items."

you stare at him.

"do you always offer muffins to people you've only studied with once?"

he doesn't even flinch. "only when they look tired enough to deserve one."

your mouth twitches.

"you've been saving that line, haven't you."

he looks mildly offended. "no. though i could annotate it in my planner if you'd like."

you laugh—genuinely this time—and accept the muffin. it's warm, sweet, and annoyingly perfect. just like him.

you don't pull out your flashcards. not immediately. you sit there in companionable silence, splitting the muffin and sipping your drinks like it's something you've always done. like this is normal.

you tell yourself this isn't a date. obviously.

it's too early in the day for romance. you're both clutching textbooks like weapons. he hasn't even made a single joke. (you're not sure he knows how.)

and yet—

when he leans in to show you a section he highlighted—carefully annotated with footnotes and marginal notes that are somehow neater than your typed essays—your shoulders brush. you don't pull away.

he doesn't, either.

later, you realize that you don't even remember what chapter you reviewed.

but you remember the sound of his voice as he quietly explained it. the way he passed you the last bite of muffin without saying anything. the way his fingers curled ever so slightly when he set his pen down between you.

you remember thinking, with a strange flutter in your chest: this could be something.

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

you repeat it like a mantra as you meet him at the library every tuesday and thursday without fail, settling into your now-permanent seats by the windows like assigned partners in some ongoing group project that no one else remembers being assigned to. his bag always lands on the table first, followed by a reusable water bottle the size of your emotional baggage. he brings extra highlighters now — plural — and starts leaving a green one near your elbow like he’s not even thinking about it.

you, in turn, stop pretending to study anywhere else.

because the truth is, you don’t concentrate better when he’s around — not even a little. he’s distracting in the worst possible way: tall and tidy and terminally composed, with a voice like a podcast host and a smile that you pretend not to notice every time he glances over at you with something like pride in his eyes.

and the worst part?

it’s working.

your grades are going up. you understand policy terminology now. you caught yourself referencing a case study unprompted in another class, and the look your professor gave you made it feel like you’d just been knighted.

you’d thank him for it — sincerely — if he didn’t look so smug every time you nailed a quiz.

“you’ve clearly been applying yourself,” he says one evening, looking over your annotated notes like they’re some kind of sacred text.

“i’ve been applying your study methods,” you reply, then instantly regret it, because the smile he gives you in return is devastating.

and that would be fine — annoying, but fine — if it weren’t for the fact that he’s started sitting closer.

not drastically. not inappropriately. just... close.

close enough that when you both lean in to look at something on the same page, your shoulders brush. your knees knock. his hand lingers near yours when he passes you a pen, and he doesn’t move away quickly. sometimes — and this is particularly evil — his thigh rests against yours under the table for minutes at a time, and you’re too proud (and too panicked) to say anything.

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

but something is happening. you just don’t know what to call it.

one thursday afternoon, the sky is gray and heavy with the threat of rain. the windows in the library fog up slightly, making the whole room feel smaller, softer, somehow more intimate. your shoes are damp. your brain is fried. you’re barely holding onto your focus.

but he’s already there, sitting at your usual table with a mug from the downstairs café and a folder labeled “legislation review: week 5.” there’s a muffin. of course there’s a muffin.

he looks up as you approach. smiles. “you’re early.”

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

he hesitates, like he’s genuinely considering it. “it means i enjoy this.”

your heart does something stupid.

you take your seat before your face can give you away.

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

you’re trying to focus. really, you are. but his leg is pressed against yours and you swear it’s getting closer every time he shifts. it’s not even the contact itself that’s distracting — it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to notice. like it’s just normal. like this is how he always studies with people.

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

“y/n?” he says, and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

“hm?”

“i asked if you’d like to walk through the case brief again. you seem... distant.”

you clear your throat and try not to sound like someone whose brain has just been wiped by a thigh. “yeah, no, i’m fine. just tired.”

he nods solemnly. “understandable. your coursework has been particularly intensive.”

he says it like he knows your schedule better than you do — which he might. you’ve seen his planner. you’re pretty sure he’s memorized the entire academic calendar, national holidays included.

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

“okay,” you say. “i need to ask you something.”

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

you glance around — no one’s within earshot — and lean in slightly.

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

“no. i mean yes, but no.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you. “this. the muffins. the flashcards. the... sitting so close i can smell your laundry detergent.”

he goes still.

“i’m just trying to understand if we’re, like...” you hesitate. “is this just a really intense academic friendship or are we... flirting?”

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

then, carefully: “i hadn’t realized my proximity was making you uncomfortable.”

“it’s not!” you say, too quickly. “it’s just... confusing.”

“confusing how?”

you fidget with the cap of your pen. “because we do things that feel... date-adjacent. and i don’t know if that’s just how you are with people or if i’m—” you stop yourself before you can say not imagining it.

his brows draw together, faintly perplexed. “i apologize. i didn’t mean to cause confusion.”

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

his ears go pink. just slightly. “i wouldn’t define it as flirting. but i do enjoy spending time with you.”

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

he hesitates. then, quieter: “it’s not.”

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

and then — like the universe can’t stand unresolved tension — your knees bump again.

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

not even in your head, really — not technically. because you’re not dating. you haven’t kissed. there’s been no confession. there’s been no moment of clarity where either of you has stood dramatically in the rain and said i think about you all the time, which, honestly, is a bit disappointing.

but you still change your outfit three times before meeting him for coffee on saturday.

you still hesitate in front of the mirror, adjusting your sleeves and second-guessing your hair, muttering get a grip under your breath like it’s a prayer.

you still pause at the door to the café, one hand on the handle, and remind yourself — again — that this isn’t a date.

you’re just meeting up. casually. like friends.

friends who sometimes sit with their knees touching under library tables. friends who share muffins and steal glances and somehow always find reasons to linger a little too long in doorways.

friends who, if they weren’t so emotionally constipated, might’ve figured this out already.

but you push the door open anyway, and the little bell overhead chimes bright and familiar.

he’s already there.

of course he is.

tenya iida is punctual to the point of pathology. if you told him to meet you in the afterlife at 3:00 p.m. sharp, he’d be there early, holding a clipboard and a fully prepared powerpoint.

he’s sitting near the window, back straight, hands folded politely in his lap. his hair is a little messy from the wind outside. his sweater is navy — clean, simple, a little oversized in a way that makes you stare longer than you should.

he sees you and stands immediately, which is both adorable and completely unnecessary.

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

he doesn’t reply, but the smile he gives you is soft around the edges.

you order something with too much caffeine and not enough nutritional value. he offers to pay, like he always does. you decline, like you always do. it’s a silent tradition now, a ritual of stubbornness. he lets it go with a quiet nod, but not without giving you that look — the one that says i was raised right and this physically pains me.

you find a booth in the corner, a little more secluded than the rest. the sun spills in through the window in soft golden streaks, and for a moment, it feels like you’re somewhere outside of time.

“i’ve never seen you wear that color,” he says as you sit down.

you glance at your shirt. “yeah? too much?”

he shakes his head immediately. “no. it suits you.”

your mouth goes a little dry.

you recover quickly, leaning back and sipping your drink like it doesn’t mean anything. like the warmth crawling up your neck is from the coffee and not the compliment.

“so,” you say, clearing your throat. “what’s on the agenda for today? rigorous academic analysis? philosophical debates about economic ethics? impromptu pop quizzes?”

he tilts his head. “i thought we might take the day off.”

you blink. “from... studying?”

“from everything.” he shrugs, a little sheepishly. “i realized we’ve never spent time together without a textbook between us.”

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

he hesitates. just barely. “yes. like friends.”

the words hang in the air between you — awkward, uncertain, but not unkind.

you nod, slowly. “okay. yeah. we can do that.”

and you do.

you talk. not about school, not about deadlines or group projects or the upcoming midterm. you talk about dumb childhood stories and weird food preferences and the fact that he once tried to start a recycling initiative in his middle school and was very upset when no one followed the sorting chart correctly.

you tell him about your obsession with terrible reality TV. he listens with the seriousness of a man taking notes for a thesis.

he tells you about his older brother, and how much he looks up to him. you tell him about the stray cat that used to follow you home in high school, even though you never fed it.

he laughs — really laughs — when you tell him about the time you broke your nose in gym class trying to dodge a volleyball and ran straight into a bleacher.

“i’m sorry,” he says between gasps. “i don’t mean to laugh at your pain.”

“no, you do,” you say, grinning. “and it’s okay. i would too.”

at one point, your knees bump under the table again. this time, neither of you pulls away.

it’s later than you mean it to be when you finally leave the café. the sun is dipping low, the sky tinged with lavender and orange. the street is quiet, and the wind bites just enough to make you zip your jacket up.

you walk together. not toward the library, not toward another class — just aimlessly. like people who have nowhere else to be.

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

you’re not talking. not really. the silence between you is comfortable now, lived-in. every so often your hands brush, and you wonder — wildly, stupidly — what would happen if you just reached out.

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

“this was nice,” you say, when you finally reach the crosswalk where you’ll part ways.

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“we should do it again,” you say. casually. like it doesn’t mean anything.

but he looks at you like it does.

“i’d like that,” he says. and then — “you’re very easy to be around.”

your breath catches.

you want to say something. you’re easy to be around too. i think about you when we’re not together. i don’t know if i’m imagining this but i hope i’m not.

instead, you say, “you’re weirdly charming, you know that?”

he blinks. “i— thank you?”

you grin. “it’s a compliment. mostly.”

he laughs. soft. pleased. “i’ll take it.”

he takes a small step back, like he’s about to leave — but then pauses.

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

“if this had been a date...” he clears his throat. “would that have been... agreeable to you?”

you stare at him.

then, slowly — carefully — you nod.

“yeah,” you say. “i think it would’ve been.”

he smiles. it’s small. tentative. but it lights up his whole face.

“then maybe next time, we won’t pretend.”

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

he nods once. then, with a strange, lingering sort of hesitation — like he’s not ready to go yet — he turns to leave.

you watch him go.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel... hopeful.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

when he texts you the next morning — same time tuesday? not for studying this time. if you're free. — you stare at it for a good ten minutes before responding. not because you’re unsure of your answer (you’re not), but because the implication hits like a freight train.

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

this time, he’s calling it what it is.

you don’t overthink your reply (for once). you just type yeah. i’m free and throw your phone face-down before your heart can beat out of your chest.

and when tuesday rolls around, you are twenty minutes early.

you tell yourself it’s because the weather’s nice and the walk was shorter than usual and you didn’t want to cut it close. but the truth is, you’ve been ready since noon.

you’re wearing the sweater he said he liked once, months ago, after a study session where he handed you a highlighter and your fingers brushed and you both paused like the world might end. it’s not even your warmest or your nicest sweater. it’s just... the one he looked at a little too long.

you don’t want to admit what that means.

you sit in your usual seat by the window. a small table, worn edges. your coffee in hand. no textbooks. no flashcards. just the sound of the café around you and the low simmer of anticipation in your chest.

he walks in three minutes early, which is basically scandalous by iida standards.

you glance up, and the second your eyes meet, he smiles.

it’s not his usual polite, committee-appropriate smile.

it’s something else.

something softer.

he sits down across from you like he’s been doing it his whole life.

you stare at him for a second too long.

“you’re early,” he says, like it’s a fact worth noting. his voice is gentler than usual.

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

he laughs — quietly, warmly. “i thought you might say that.”

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

you sip your drink and hope your heart doesn’t explode.

twenty minutes in, you realize you’ve forgotten what time it is.

again.

you’re talking about something stupid — a professor you both silently hate but never speak ill of in class — and he’s mimicking their voice in a whisper, hand shielding his mouth, and you’re laughing.

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

like you don’t have a hundred things weighing you down.

he always does that. makes everything feel easier. lighter.

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

you haven’t said it. not out loud. not even to yourself.

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

because tenya iida has the power to wreck you in a way no one else ever has.

not because he’s dramatic. not because he’s charming (though he is, in that annoying, understated, golden-retriever-with-a-perfect-credit-score kind of way).

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

because when he looks at you, it’s like you’re someone worth understanding.

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

neither of you mentions how long you stayed. it’s dark out, but neither of you cares.

you walk close, side by side. your hands brush once, then again. his fingers twitch toward yours, and you pretend not to notice — not because you don’t want it, but because you’re not sure what happens if you reach back.

you talk about nothing. and everything.

he tells you about the time his older brother accidentally dyed his hair blue with a shampoo prank and how no one in their house was allowed to mention it for an entire year.

you tell him about the time you accidentally set off a fire alarm trying to microwave leftover curry in a dorm that very explicitly prohibited strong-smelling food.

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

you bump your shoulder into his. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he glances at you. “i didn’t say that.”

you both stop at the crosswalk — the same one where you stood days ago.

the same one where he asked if this had been a date...

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

you just look at him, the wind brushing through your sleeves, your fingers cold where they’re shoved into your pockets.

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

and then — quietly — he says, “can i ask you something?”

you nod. “of course.”

his voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. careful.

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

“why... this?” he gestures gently between you. “i know i’m not the most exciting person. i’m not particularly funny or... spontaneous.”

you frown. “iida.”

“i’m just trying to understand,” he says. “why you keep showing up.”

you want to say because i like the way you talk when you’re tired, or because your laugh makes me want to listen to every dumb story you’ve ever told.

you want to say because i’ve never felt so calm next to another person in my entire life.

instead, you say, “because when i’m with you, i don’t feel like i have to be anyone else.”

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

“i don’t want to mess this up,” he says.

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

you exhale, a laugh escaping despite yourself. “you’re not.”

his hand lifts, hesitates — then lands gently against your cheek.

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

it’s patient. reverent. like he’s memorizing the feeling. like he’s been waiting for the right moment and this, finally, is it.

his lips press softly against yours, and your hands lift automatically to his jacket, holding on, grounding yourself.

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

then he says, “i’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

he laughs, arms sliding around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“this is still new,” he says. “i know that.”

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

he pauses. “and i’d like to take you to dinner. an actual dinner. with reservations and menus and probably overpriced appetizers.”

you grin. “are you asking me on a real date?”

he lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

“then yes,” you reply. “i’m saying yes.”

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once — finally — that feels like enough.

epic the musical is the definition of theater kid who had a percy jackson hyperfixation when they were 12

gabriel better do my favorite twink (snotlout) justice or I'm sueing