#y2k devices

[nickellysblog]

Nickelly Garbaje devices 2021,2022,2023

#

[natsumipocket]

KYOCERA A1403K

[dammit-theclown]

my walkmans,,, walkmen? + other tech

who up walking they men

[thisischeri]

instagram: cheri.png

[do-you-have-a-flag]

old mp3 player propaganda for you:

predates planned obsolescence that pushes you to upgrade to the exact same product every year

saves you phone battery by being a dedicated seperate device

no streaming reception issues no buffering

easily portable

full control of order or shuffle

NO ADS

actually pocket sized yes even for annoyingly small designed pockets on women's trousers

conscious music curation, even if you are discovering new music elsewhere you have to decide if you like it enough to keep it in regular listening

more tactile than touch screen smart devices so you can use the controls without looking

actual radio inbuilt no subscription needed

audio jack for headphones or speaker means no faffing around with adaptors or bluetooth charging or connecting to the wrong device or losing connection

no notifications

surprisingly durable

many mp3 players are still multimedia devices with voice record and text or video viewing functions

yes you still might use your phone for the internet or games but also consider no external access to the device without physically plugging it into a computer as a security function

small device kind of cute kind of fun to look at and hold in ur hands like a small creature kind of fun to decorate and accessorise with

my one specifically i was able to download the software from the brand's website because they still have the software and manuals available for discontinued tech and it works no problem, even the battery life still seems fine which i can not say for ANY of the phones i got in the last decade

[mothlingmeg]

i want this psp

[pezboisworld]

Ice Spice fits her so well!!!!

[mariraven]

[b4y2k]

Teenage Engineering TP-7 Field Recorder (audio device)

[happyendingsong]

ryanair kill yourself also i found that shirt from a post i rbd earlier should i get it

credit for 2nd pic

[xaviergalatis]

[crtter]

You could make a captcha out of this. Prove you’re not a robot by picking the actual baby picture out of all the photos of this particularly babyfaced individual who’s actually old enough to have been worried the Y2K bug was going to break their Nintendo 64 during the turn of the millennium.

Speaking of, today I was l randomly talking about hair with the girl who works here helping us with the animals and I mentioned that I had curly hair as a baby, then it went straight when I turned six or so, only to become curly again when I hit puberty and she was like “Oh, you must have looked so different with straight hair! Do you have any pictures of you back then?” and I was like “Yeah! I got some on my phone, actually!”

Then she proceeded to watch me type “child” the little search box of the photos app just for it to pull up recent selfies of myself. Turns out my phone’s algorithm has been tagging every single picture of me as “child”. I’m the fucking 32 year old minor from that meme.

[screwitbaby]

naive

hamzahthefantastic x reader (fic)

day 4/7

[part 5]

summary: part 4 of my short story naive! the four of you go to the club and while the couple are still fighting, you and hamzah act on your feelings a lil more. but it can only go so well for so long…

contains: SFW content, some kissing and touchy touchy ;)

w/c: 2.5k-ish

a/n: i couldn’t let you guys go into the new year without updating this story. im the worst but tysm for the support yall are so sweet i could cry xxxx enjoy!!!<3 read the a/n at the end if u care to know more

~

The couple's bad mood was not simply slept off and it's ruining your vibe.

You and Mandy are getting ready in their en suite bathroom while Hamzah and Martin speak in hushed tones in the bedroom. The bathroom door is open, and every so often you look at the space over your shoulder in the mirror and make eye contact with Martin from the bed. He looks away immediately, not at all subtle. It's like a game at this point, seeing how many times you can catch him in the act.

"Is he gonna do this all night," you mumble, applying your mascara after yet another match of eye-tag.

"We could just close the door," Mandy offers. She pays no mind to the childish behavior behind you, straightening her hair without sparing him a single glance.

"You're so right," you say and get up to shut it yourself.

Once your makeup is pretty much done, you decide to start getting dressed. You turn the music on her speaker up and give yourself a once-over in the mirror, holding different outfits beside your body to see what you want to wear for the night.

"I don't know what to wear. Wanna match?" you ask, placing your chin on top of her head to stop her movements. She nearly clamps your neck with the straightener. "Hey!"

"Sure," she laughs. "Grab my suitcase, please."

You put your clothes back down and step out of the bathroom to bring her suitcase in. You shimmy it out of its place by the TV stand, not missing the way the boys go completely silent until you're gone.

"Top zipper, the satin blue dress," Mandy instructs.

You hand it to her and sit by your own bag of clothes to rummage through it. You find a top and skirt set in a similar baby blue color then hold it up for her to see.

"Yes, no, yes?"

"Yes, definitely."

You apply your lip combo and take a few silly photos in the mirror with Mandy, your made up faces clashing with your baggy tees. One of the better photos are posted on your Instagram story for fun. When you finally get changed—you guys had a dance break to some y2k club classics—you put your heels on and realize you need a little pregame.

When you walk into the bedroom this time, the boys are leaned against the headboard and on their phones, mindlessly scrolling. You go by Martin's side of the bed and poke him repeatedly until he looks up.

"Do you happen to have the penjamin on you?"

"That depends," he says, putting his hand in his pocket. "What's the magic word?"

You roll your eyes. "Please?"

He pulls the little device out of his pocket and presents it to you in his palm. When you go to grab it, he makes a fist and holds it above his head.

"Please who?"

"I'm not calling you Daddy," you scoff, prying his fingers open and snatching the pen from his grasp. He barely puts up a fight. "That's Hamzah's job."

At the mention of his name, Hamzah looks up and seems like he's about to say something to retaliate but freezes. His gaze drags down your figure and you blush.

"Maybe it's not his job," Martin says smugly, "since you made him speechless."

Hamzah snaps out of it and elbows his friend in the side.

“It would be your girlfriend's job if you weren't being petty right now."

You wince at the sullen expression that washes over Martin's face.

"Right."

All you can do is watch as he clambers off the bed and walks out of the room. You lean against the wall and slide the balcony door open with a sigh.

"He can't seriously be that mad," Hamzah says. "I was kidding."

"He can dish it, but he can't take it," you say, too used to his behavior. "And he's extra sensitive right now, so."

"Well, they better not ruin our night with that stuff." Hamzah crosses his arms.

"I won't let them."

"Yeah?" Hamzah snorts. "What're you gonna do about it?"

"Um." You take a hit and blow the smoke outside. "I'll think of something if I need to step in."

Hamzah laughs at your empty threat and you smile. You take another hit before offering the dab pen to him.

"I have a feeling I should be sober for tonight."

"Boring," you sing out. "It'll be fine. C'mon, feel my peer pressure."

You wiggle your fingers at him and he shakes his head, laughing lightly. When he silently puts his hand out a few seconds later, you cheer. The room fills with the loud music from Mandy's speaker as he takes his first hit.

"So," you begin, already feeling slightly heady. "What were you guys whispering about earlier?"

"I shouldn't say."

"Really?"

He nods. "It was partly about their fight. Partly the trip. And you."

"Me?" You point at yourself with raised eyebrows.

"Yeah." He shrugs. "I can't divulge the details."

"That's bullshit."

"I never ask what you guys say about me."

"Hey—I don't—what?" you stutter, unable to come up with a defense.

"C'mon," he says, tilting his head. "I'm not that oblivious."

Your eyes narrow. You've never once considered that this cupid thing Martin was pulling on you could have gone both ways. You don't know if you're relieved for him stepping in to push his friend closer to you, or annoyed that he's even meddling in this whole thing. It makes you wonder if Martin knows what happened by the time he and Mandy returned to the beach last night.

"Speaking of details." You clear your throat. "Do you even know what club we're going to?"

Your attempt at changing the topic is weak, but as per usual, Hamzah rolls with it to save you any embarrassment.

"No clue. Martin keeps his trip itinerary locked in his notes."

The conversation devolves into a bunch of what if's about the night and jokes that are only funny because you guys are high. When Mandy finally comes to join and sees the state of you two, you offer her a hit.

"What? No drinks?" She frowns.

"Hotel alcohol is like twenty bucks a pop! This is the next best thing."

"Ugh, fine. Give it."

With the three of you thoroughly blitzed, you collect Martin from the living room couch and make your way out of the hotel. He doesn't speak for a majority of the walk, and you think that's the longest you've ever heard him be quiet in a group setting.

Despite it being nearly 10 P.M., the air is pretty humid and forgiving on your exposed skin. The other thing about it being so late already, is that the club is absolutely chock-full of people when you enter. The dance floor of strangers are nearly toe to toe in proximity, and you wrap your arm with Mandy's to avoid getting separated in the crowd. The boys immediately beeline to the bar for drinks, but you don't let that stop your journey. You maneuver your way to the front of the stage and only let go of each other once you've found a bit of space to dance in.

The DJ nods at the two of you and you turn to raise your eyebrows suggestively at Mandy, who pushes your shoulder and continues dancing. You get lost in the beat, swaying and bouncing with the vibrations traveling through your limbs. The strobe lights illuminate your sweaty skin and you swear the energy in the room has you feeling higher. You begin grinding on each other and throw your heads back to laugh, trying to catch your breaths in between a multitude of bodies.

"Hey!" Mandy places her arms around your shoulders to catch your attention and you take it as a sign to grind on her. "I'm going to grab drinks.”

"No!" You turn and put your hands over hers. "Don't go!"

"I'll be right back!" She grins and squeezes you before letting go to disappear into the crowd.

Alone, you turn back to the stage and throw your hands in the air. You close your eyes for a moment, the pounding beats making a home in your brain. You're sure your ears will be ringing when you leave.

You wonder if Martin's drunk himself into a coma yet and knowing him, you know how easy that could be. You only hope this outing tonight doesn't make him do anything he regrets. Then you remember he’s a twenty-five year old man and you’re worrying about him while you’re supposed to be having fun. So, you shut your brain off and let the beat carry you.

When Mandy's back, she has two drinks in hand and Hamzah in tow. She hands you a cocktail and you graciously sip from your first alcoholic drink of the night.

"Where's Martin?" you ask.

"Bar!" she shouts over the music.

You shake your head. "Make up and make out already!"

She jabs your side and you giggle, swatting her hand away. Hamzah's doing something reminiscent of a frat flick, looking slightly out of it. You assume he's already done some shots and is way more intoxicated. So, being an empath, you finish your drink to get closer to his level. When you're done, you hand the empty cup to Mandy and wink at her. Your hand envelops Hamzah's and you pull him deeper in the crowd so you can dance together.

"I don't—I can't dance," he complains, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"C'mon, it's easy!"

You begin by swaying your hips, raising his hand in yours to guide him into a rhythm. He tries to follow along, shuffling around like a newborn deer. It's a funny sight, but you don't want him to stop if you tease him, so you bite back your amused smile. He slowly gets less self-conscious and continues on in his own way with the flow of the music, even twirling you around once or twice, laughing all the way as you narrowly avoid knocking into people. His eyes never leave you, like he's constantly thinking of his next move to impress you.

After letting him freestyle some more, you pull him close and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He falters at the change in pace and his hands fall at your hips. Your hands rest at the nape of his neck and he shivers at the way your fingertips grace his skin. The rapid strobe lights nearly blind you, but you hold eye contact.

"Was that so bad?" you ask, tilting your head to the side.

"Yes," he says sarcastically. "I hate dancing."

"But I like your dancing."

You sway with him, careful not to step on his toes in your heels. Close up, you can nearly feel his breath on your face. You take a moment to admire his eyelashes and the way his eyes are slightly bloodshot, willing him to break the eye contact. He leans in closer.

"I like your dancing more."

You can't help but grin. His expression mimics yours.

"Yeah, well," you start, bringing your thumb up to trace the side of his jaw, "I like you."

He ducks down and captures your lips in a kiss. It takes you by surprise. You hadn't spoken a word about your kiss since last night, and you were beginning to think you made a mistake by acting on your impulses. Evidently, he doesn't seem to mind it as much as you'd worried.

The tip of his nose presses against your cheek as he shifts his head to deepen the kiss. Though the room is warm, this makes you hotter than any amount of dancing could've done. His palms squeeze your hips and your fingers rise to play with his curls. They're soft to the touch, just as you suspected. You tug lightly as the kiss gets more insatiable.

"Ouch," he mumbles against your lips, barely loud enough to hear. You snicker and tug it again, making him pull away. "I said ouch."

"I know," you laugh out. "Sorry."

"That funny?" he questions. You nod, grinning at his playful irritation. "See how you like it."

His hand trails up your back until his fingers are at your scalp and he gently pulls on your roots. Your head moves back with his action and your lips part, exhaling a shaky breath. His eyes widen. He does it again. You reach up to kiss him again.

It's hotter this time, in both senses of the word. Your skin goes alight with a blaze even the coldest shower couldn't reduce. You drape your wrists over his shoulders, your beaded bracelet pressing into him the same way his is imprinting into the sliver of bare skin below your top.

Realizing you’re standing in place in the midst of a lively dance floor, you break from the kiss and turn so your back is against his front. You pull his arms around your shoulders and sway, deliberately pressing yourself against him. You enjoy hearing the way his breath hitches next to your ear, always needing to find a new way to tease him. You know if you could have it your way without seeming too desperate too soon, you’d be doing more than just dancing.

“I like you, too,” he says, clutching you closer to him. “I forgot to say.”

You turn your head and nearly kiss his cheek because of how cute he is. “Thanks for clearing that up.”

“And I really like your dancing.”

His suggestive words spur you into grinding on him more, anything to get a reaction out of him, and it works every time. The two of you keep going this way until your thighs are burning and you’re out of breath. If it weren’t for the visual reminder, you would’ve forgotten that you came here with other people.

A couple feet away, you spot two familiar heads weeding through the crowd and slowly drawing nearer. You step away from Hamzah, who looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face. Before you can explain yourself, you come face-to-face with Mandy. Martin stops a bit away.

“Can we leave?” she rushes out.

Her mascara is running and her nose is red. Martin looks disgruntled, his eyes never staying in one place as he scans through the crowd. You grab her hand and nod. The four of you spot the nearest exit and leave promptly.

“What happened?” you ask once you’re out in the open. “Are you okay?”

“Can I stay in your room tonight?” Her eyes stay on the ground.

Your heart drops. “Of course.”

The walk back to the hotel is uneasy and fast-paced. The boys walk behind the two of you and you can hear Martin’s one word answers to everything Hamzah says to him. Your heels click and clack, barely providing a distraction from the hundreds of questions swarming your mind.

~

a/n: ooo we’re getting angsty. im so sorry this took so long and if u feel that it wasn’t worth the wait, the truth is ive been so sick recently like never before in my life and i haven’t felt a lick of motivation to write. ive had to rewrite these chapters so many times that its actually affecting me mentally because i wanna make u guys happy while actually enjoying writing. i promise u won’t have to wait this long ever again, but doing this story is making me realize i prefer writing short form stuff way more than stories like this because it’s simply less stress and fits my writing style more. thanks again for all the support and kind words, u guys have really warmed my heart and i hope u know that even tho this is fanfiction and it may seem silly, it’s really a labor of love and im so grateful that u actually like what i put out there. im so so so touched and i rlly love u guys, even if i don’t know u. parasocial virtual hugs to u all xoxoxo tysm. <3

[monarchberrysblog]

📄 — xx.emo_boy.exe (early y2k au)

now presenting…

⛓️🩷 kinktober | week three → dry humping and mutual masturbation

🖤 emo boy! miguel o’hara x pastel! reader 🖤

🎮 summary: “it may not look like he gets bitches, but honey, that dick was eleven inches.”

🎮 content warning: peeking under the skirt, voyeurism, public sex, mutual masturbation (kinda), dry humping, and switch behavior in both parties (more submissive behavior from Miguel.)

🎮 word count: +1.5k words (something smol)

🎮 author’s notes: I originally posted this last Wednesday, but I didn’t feel satisfied with the story's ending and layout. Take this as an unofficial sorry. And if the ending feels weird, I apologize in advance as well 😖

📀 not proofread 📀

Dedicated to @opaloharas and @miguelhugger2099, to my cuties. Thank you for the inspo and y'all deserve some mandarinas 🍊

Regulars. The best or the worst damn thing to exist on the planet.

But for Miguel? Seeing you as a regular in Spencers' always caused a flutter in his stomach. You were a pretty little thing that starkly contrasted in the dim store. The white ribbons in your hair and the pink and purple pastels made you glow. But the kicker?

The thigh highs you always wore.

The nylon material screamed to be ripped and accessible from your plush thighs. Every time you bent over to pick out a shirt or weekly browsing of piercings, he could have sworn that he heard the souls of your thigh highs wanting to be free, but they never ripped.

They either were little bows or fishnets. But your favorites? They were black thigh-highs with big satin bows, matching with your shorts or black skirts. The nylon thigh-high made you look soft, so soft to sleep on, to bite, and to squeeze.

But the little mini-skirts only fed his perverted ego—the tiny bit of fabric barely covered your rear, which caused you to flash anyone who happened to be within your radius accidentally. It has happened so often that he practically memorized your underwear drawer and how much you frequent his job just to look for clothes or piercings.

Being the bigger man, he asks you out. (In which you accept happily after he said he would help you take a couple of pictures for your MySpace.)

“Could you move to the right?” He mumbles, trying his best to not eye you with how you leaned on the marble headstone. “Should I arch my back?” You quip. Your fingertips graze the cold stone while you pose.

“Nah.” He dismisses, fighting back a blush on his cheeks and hoping the autumn air did him justice to blow the warmth off his cheeks. The digital camera's flash lit up the radius momentarily before the small digital device beeped an obnoxious tone.

“Damn, out of storage.” He huffs and turns the camera downwards, away from you. “Here, let me delete some old pictures.” You jumped off the marble, patting the cold stone and whispering a thank you.

You place a crystal at the foot of the grave and make your way over to Miguel.

He hands you the digital camera before looking around the flat land that is only filled with marble stone or flowers.

“Are we even supposed to be here?” He bites the question, seeing an old couple leave the graveyard, holding onto each other while shuffling away. “Yeah, graveyards used to be known as hangout spots.” You reply and push down on the tiny buttons on the digital device.

“I don't mean to sound like a pussy or whatever, but this place rubs me the wrong way.”

“Don’t worry. They mean no harm. Just respect them and don't step on their graves. I think we got enough pictures…”

He dismisses your statement with a grunt and haphazardly moves his feets towards you instead. He didn't need a heavy stomach after this.

There was no way that this was the cutesy, pastel girl at his job two days ago looking for cat plushies…

“I know it's early to call it a day, but,” You raise your brow and exhale a shaky sigh. “Wanna hang out a little while longer?” You exhaled a nervous chuckle as you fidget with the hem of your skirt, nearly ripping off the lacy frills.

His heart leaped into the back of his throat—the urge to scream a loud yell that was enough to wake up those asleep in the afterlife. “Yeah, sure. It's no big deal.” He answers with a light dismissal and shrugs.

The dried grass's vibrant orange and red leaves provided a stunning contrast to the color of your hair. The soft earth underneath cushioned you as you lay back, and a giggle escaped your lips. Slowly, he crawled over to you, and with the utmost tenderness, he planted a soft butterfly kiss on your cupid’s bow.

The soft gesture contrasted the careless nature he bumbled about. “This is new.” You quip, reaching up to comb a loose strand of hair away from his face.

As you lean in for the next kiss, the playful smirk on your lips fades away as a surge of sweet warmth envelops you, stealing your focus and drawing you into the moment. Tilting your head slightly, you tenderly press your lips against Miguel, savoring the gentle and innocent connection.

His gentle hands glided along the curves of your body, reveling in the warmth and tenderness as your skin resisted the chill of the cemetery.

His hand hovers the swell of your breasts, itching to ravish your warmth and softness. “You can touch me.” You look up at him through your faux lashes. His fingers were taut like a cadaver. He wanted to touch and ravish you like a seafood boil on a summer day. The goose pimples on his skin trembled and seeped into his core like poison coursing through his veins. “Right.” He exhaled and moved his cramped fingers to squeeze your breast gently.

Warm and soft. He did another squeeze as if he was confirming what he felt was genuine and it wasn't one of his perverted dreams from the night before.

“Your face… are you okay?” Your question plagues the silence. “Yeah, of course. You’re just… soft.”

“Can I take this off?” His eyes gesture at the pastel-pink sweater—his fingers toy with the zipper pull.

You nod adamantly as you squirm closer to him and pull yourself closer. His fingers tremble, but he manages to pull the zipper down. The sight of your simple tank top and hardened nipples peeking through the cotton top.

“Are you sure?” He swallows, ready to back down from the close proximity. “Yeah, go ahead.” You whisper and gently guide his hands back to your figure.

His crimson pools leaked into your honey ones, the contrasting colors mellowing out to one another into one. His mouth latches onto your clothed nipple, gently licking and sucking. His sharpened canine grazed the sensitive skin, earning a shudder from you.

He pulled away, leaving a wet patch against the cotton tank top. The dark color of your areola peeked through, pleading for more attention.

A soft growl escaped before he gently pins you down on the soft patch of grass. Your hand wanders down, snaking into his dark denim. The clothes bulge against your fingertips ignites a fire deep in your core.

A soft groan escapes him. You had him wrapped around your pretty little fingers. Quite literally. He jerks his hips towards your palm, seeking friction to relieve the aching, numbing pain in his lower stomach. “Wait, hold on…” You squirm about and pull your hand away.

Your hands move quickly, removing his chunky belts and disregarding the faux leather. You yank down his jeans to free him from the restraints of his jeans. He softly groans when your fingers gently probe at his tip. The taut, moist skin seeks attention, twitching for contact. Then, your warming palm firmly grasped him and gently began to move up and down his length. It felt as if his body took a screenshot. The sensation ached slowly as his body trembled for a release.

His pleads were soft, afraid of his voice being heard from unseen presence at the flat lands around them. He adjusts himself, and moves his hand down south. The wet slit against his fingertips enables him to gently rub the pads of his fingers at the thin, wet slit on the cloth. His fingers gently pull at the gusset, and finally, his fingers probe at your clit, rubbing the nerves in tight, slow circles. The slow build up caused you to squirm about, ready to coat his fingers.

Soft pants filled the cemetery while your fingers produced more squelching noises from each other’s bodies. “Give me a moment…” You pant, letting go of him and moving your clothed cunt toward the tightening friction of his jeans.

The moist, soft sensation against the bulge softened into him. He melted and adjusted the two of you, gently settling you down onto his hardening arousal. He gently moves his hips, seeking relieving friction to his aching cock. If he could, he could almost imagine the sticky coating of your juices seeping out of your panties and coating his cock. The imagery plagued his mind like a vice as he continued with the gentle motions against your clothed pussy.

The temptation to just slide in…

The sticky fluid snaps him back to reality, effectively staining your already-soaked lacy panties and his boxers. His eyes dart away quickly, and he sits back, getting off of you. The milky fluid contrasted the dark panties, evidence that he left his heavy load on you.

He pulls you close, his exhale trembling into an uneasy vibrato. When he feels your skin tight and cold to the touch, the warmth of his palms rubs against it, creating more goosebumps in their wake.

tag list:

@hyjionie @zaunsin @kavimoo @keiva1000

[y2kplaysthetics]

Found some of my old y2k era devices.

I liked orange things because of my hometown NHL team

Both of them still work

[daisynik7]

This is for your y2k!

“Photograph” by Ed Sheeran for Toji Fushiguro - angst

We keep this love in a photograph, we made these memories for ourselves.

Read Part Two - Make You Feel My Love

Pairing: Toji x f!reader

Word Count: ~3.1k

cw: implied family abuse, angst, some fluff, modern day-au, no curses au, a kiss, time skip

Summary: Toji Zenin is scary; he’s the most intimidating boy in your class. When you’re paired with him for a group project, you’re nervous that he’s as bad as he seems. However, you learn that behind that hard exterior is a person yearning just to be normal. 

Author’s Note: The first story for the y2k karaoke party! Inspired by “Photograph” by Ed Sheeran. Thank you @gojoshooter for submitting this song/request! I hope you like this one! Divider created by @/cafekitsune.

You meet Toji in high school, when you’re paired up randomly for a project during your last semester of senior year. He’s a transfer student, having just joined a month ago, introducing himself briefly with a scowl on his face, uninterested in anything. Aside from his obvious stature, the evident scar running across his mouth stands out. Most of your peers avoid him, intimidated by his overwhelming presence. He’s bigger than everyone else, both in height and muscle; he looks like someone you don’t want to mess with. Even teachers do their best to evade him, leaving him to his own devices in the back corner of the classroom. At least he isn’t disruptive; most of the time, he keeps to himself. 

Of course, in a school as small as yours, gossip spreads like wildfire. They say he comes from a prominent family, the “Zenin’s”. You’ve never heard of them; apparently, they are notoriously elitist and filthy rich. So, it surprises you that a son of the Zenin clan would attend a public school like yours rather than a private institution. Maybe he’s different. 

Everyone dreads group projects, let alone randomly assigned group projects. Everyone is on pins and needles, waiting to hear who their partner is. When your name follows his, your heart sinks into your belly. Sighs of relief wash over the rest of your classmates, thankful that they aren’t you. Taking a deep breath, you get up from your seat, slowly walking towards him. When you’re by his desk, he doesn’t look up. You clear your throat to say, “Hello. I guess we’re partners for this project.”

He scoffs, twirling a pen between his fingers, brows furrowed, irritated already. “Great,” he mutters, sarcastically. 

Okay, maybe he’s not different.

~~~

Your teacher calls this project “A Week in the Life”. Basically, you’re tasked to capture your partner’s daily routines throughout the week in the form of photographs. Each student is given a disposable camera, loaded and ready to use. Once developed, you’re supposed to put them together into a collage, decorating it however you desire. A short essay is also required, describing what you will learn about the other person after spending this time with them. You have an entire month to complete everything. Weekdays are repetitive, considering most of the day you’re in school; it’s the afternoons, nights, and weekends that set each person apart from the other.  

“I’m not inviting you into my house,” Toji says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“But that’s part of the project. I’m supposed to see what you do on a daily basis.” You resist the urge to sound equally as annoyed, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot.

He glares at you, hunched over his desk. “I avoid going home as much as possible. That’s what I usually do.”

You swallow hard, unsure how to respond. Eventually, you murmur, “Well then, you can do me first. We’ll just figure yours out later.”

He shrugs, unenthused. “Whatever.”

You pull your phone out of your pocket, sliding it towards him. “Let’s exchange numbers so we can coordinate our schedules. We can start next week.” He doesn’t argue, pushing his cell to you to do the same. 

As planned, the following Monday, Toji begins taking random photos of you during the school day. It starts off in class when he captures you working at your desk. Other students are doing the same, so it isn’t as awkward as you expect it to be. Still, it feels odd being watched by Toji through the lens of the camera.

At lunchtime, he sits with you and your friends in the cafeteria, his big body smushed next to yours as you munch on your meal. You notice that he hasn’t brought anything to eat except for a protein bar and sports drink. Not thinking anything of it, you split your egg salad sandwich into two triangles, handing him one. He glances at it, then at you, confused. “What?”

“Eat it.”

He makes a face, taking it reluctantly, having the audacity to sniff it before taking a bite. When he doesn’t say anything, expression relaxing, you smile to yourself, satisfied. It’s gone two bites later, and from your peripheral, you see him lick the excess off his thumb. Mouth still full, he mumbles a brisk, “Thanks,” snapping his drink open to take a swig. 

After school, you attend a book club meeting that’s hosted every Monday by your friend. Toji snaps a photo of you and your group posing with your book for this month. Before you leave for dinner, a few of the girls whisper to you about how hot he is, how lucky you are to be paired up with such a hunk. How scary he comes off with his scowls and glares. They’re so loud, you’re certain he can hear, but he doesn’t mention anything about it. That is, until you’re alone with him, walking home together. 

“So, do you think I’m scary?” He has his hands in his pockets, looking down at the ground where he walks besides you. 

The question catches you off guard. “Huh?”

“Do you think I’m scary?” he repeats, looking at you now, smirking. 

You grin. “Maybe a little bit at first. Not so much anymore.”

“What changed?”

“I saw you inhale that sandwich. The tough guy act disappeared in that moment.”

“Hey, that thing was tiny. I could have swallowed it in one bite,” he chuckles, kicking a pebble on the ground. “And I’m not putting on a tough guy act. This is just who I am.”

You giggle softly, smiling at him. “Well, I’m looking forward to getting to know you better, Zenin.”

“Toji. Call me Toji.” 

~~~

Dinner with your parents goes by smoothly. You’ve prepared them for this special visitor, urging them to be on their best behavior and not judge a book by his cover. Naturally, your mother is startled when his big frame enters through the doorway, but when he bows to her, introducing himself respectfully, she eases up. After a quick tour of your house, Toji snaps shots of you helping your parents in the kitchen. With the whole spread laid out on the table, he takes another photo before you all gather around to eat. 

Much like earlier in the day, Toji scarfs his meal, mumbling out compliments to the chef. Your parents are thrilled, dropping more servings onto his plate, watching with pride as their cooking is devoured. You can’t help wanting to capture this memory, so you retrieve your own disposable camera from your backpack, taking his picture. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

The two of you eat ice cream sandwiches in your backyard while your parents wash the dishes. The sun is setting, beautiful golden streaks shining from the horizon. Your classmate takes a candid of you sitting on the patio chair, staring at the last moments of daylight. “Do your parents cook like that every day?” he asks, finishing off the last of his dessert.

“Nah, they just wanted to impress you.”

“Well, I am thoroughly impressed. That was the best meal I’ve had in a long time.”

After just one day with him, you feel comfortable enough to ask, hoping that it isn’t crossing the line. “Do you dislike eating at home?”

He doesn’t respond right away, thinking of his answer carefully. “Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

He smirks, running his thumb along the scar on his lips. “Dinners at my house don’t always end in dessert, if you know what I mean.” 

Your jaw drops, unable to contain your reaction. “You’re saying…”

He leans back into his seat. “Yup. Got a knife thrown at me.”

“What?!” 

Laughing, he nods. “After that, I didn’t like having dinners there.”

You’re tempted to ask for the whole story, but you know it’s pushing it. Instead, you offer, “Well, you’re always welcome here.”

It’s a simple comment. To you, it’s nothing. Maybe it’s because you’re used to offering kindness to others; it’s what you were raised to do. It’s what the people around you do. It’s common. Second-nature, really. 

But as Toji stares at you, wearing an expression you’ve never seen before, one of genuine gratefulness, you realize that to him, it’s not nothing. It’s special. 

Throughout the remainder of the week, Toji spends practically his whole day with you, morning, noon, and night. During this time, you learn that his family is wealthy, though he chose to attend this school on his own will, just to spite them. He considers himself an outcast, the black sheep of the Zenin clan, so much so that he even refuses to associate himself with the family name. And while he’s sure he’s better off away from the snooty rich kids of the school he would have attended, his intimidating appearance and less-than-friendly attitude has made him an outcast amongst your peers. You feel guilty being part of the problem, judging him before getting to know him. He’s actually easy to talk to. It helps that he’s an open book about his personal life. 

Saturday, you plan to go to the aquarium with your family, inviting him to tag along for the project (and for fun). Toji is at your doorstep right on time, dressed in a tight black tee shirt and grey sweatpants, accentuating his chiseled figure. There’s no denying it; he’s very attractive. You’d be lying to yourself if you said it hasn’t crossed your mind. But Toji doesn’t need people to be attracted to him; he needs a friend. And that’s what you’ll be to him. 

It’s a fun day, observing all the fish and aquatic creatures swimming in their tanks. He takes pictures whenever it’s appropriate, covering the flash with his finger as to not disturb any of the animals inside. You eat lunch together in the cafeteria, Toji offering to pay for it as thanks for all the kindness he was shown this week. Near closing time, you take one last stroll through the jellyfish section, marveling at the wonderfully bizarre invertebrates floating in the water. 

“I’ve never been to an aquarium before,” he admits, quietly admiring them beside you. His eyes twinkle with the glow of the iridescent jellyfish swimming in front of him.  

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

You nudge him playfully. “So, what do you think?”

He smiles, rubbing the spot on his arm that you touched. “Better than I expected.”

~~~

The following week is his turn. The closest you get to his mansion of a home is on the outside, not even through the gates. 

“This is for your own good,” he warns, throwing a twig aggressively between the spaces of the iron bars. 

You snap a quick photo with your disposable, not questioning it. When you’re finished, he smirks. “So, ready for some real fun?”

Toji spends his days after school at various locations. Basically everywhere except his own home. The public library, the gym, arcades, shopping malls, cafés, you name it. He’ll eat dinner at whatever restaurant his stomach fancies at the moment: Ramen, Takoyaki, steak, even instant ramen, depending on his mood. And while his life seems fun from the outside, like a kid in a candy store, it’s lonely. Except for when he’s with you.

Saturday is different from the other days. On the weekends, he goes to the beach, bag packed with his favorite books and snacks, ready to relax on the sand with the waves crashing against the shore. He sets up a large umbrella to cover both of you as you settle into the big blanket laid flat. He passes you one of his books, a volume of his favorite manga. The two of you read in a comfortable silence, sharing a bag of chips, fingers brushing against each other’s whenever you reach at the same time. 

Out of the blue, he comments, “This is nice. It’s normal.”

Laughing, you reply, “What do you mean?”

He sets his book down, looking at you. “Nothing about my family is normal. It’s just nice to feel like a human instead of a failure.”

Your eyes widen, uncertain how to respond. Before you can say anything, he murmurs, “Sorry. I didn’t meant to kill the mood.”

You close the manga, smiling gently at him. “Don’t be. I can’t imagine what it’s like. My life is very normal.”

“That’s what I like about you, though.”

Heat rushes into your cheeks at his statement, and maybe it’s your imagination, but you see him blush. You’ve taken enough pictures to complete your project, but there’s still a bit of film left. “Let’s take a picture together,” you suggest, holding the camera in your hand, trying to lighten the mood.

“Seriously? Why?”

“To celebrate being normal, even if it just for a day.”

He grins, scooting closer to you. “Okay.”

You lean against him, both of you smiling, capturing the moment with the click of your finger. 

~~~

Toji doesn’t stop eating lunch with you. Even with your photos at the lab, being developed, he remains by your side, eating the extra sandwich you always pack for him now. Occasionally, he’ll stop by for dinner, always welcomed by your parents. On the other days, you accompany him to whatever restaurant he’s craving. 

When the photos are complete, you pick them up together, not wanting to share them yet, hoping to be surprised on the day they’re displayed in the classroom. At home, you compile the pictures into a stylish collage, decorating the borders with fun stickers, smiling as you gaze at each photo of him. One at the arcade, holding a toy guy in his hands with the high score flashing in the background. Another at the gym, where’s he’s kicking a punching bag, making it look far too easy. Finally, there’s the last photo you took at the beach, the two of you posing for the camera. It’s a cute picture, one that shows two people who live very different lives happily enjoying their time together. You tape it right in the middle. 

When everyone’s posters are hung around the classroom, many people flock to Toji’s, desperate for a glimpse in his mysterious life. Many gawk at the mansion behind the gates, unaware of the dark secrets it holds. The girls ogle the gym picture, while the boys admire it, asking for workout tips. Toji looks pleased with how his collage turns out, especially intrigued by the photo in the center. “You included the one of us, huh?” 

“It’s too cute, isn’t it? I had to include it.”

He smiles at you. “I totally agree.”

He walks you home that afternoon, a usual part of his routine now. Curious, you ask, “So, what did you write about me for your essay?”

“I wrote about how nerdy you are, going to class and willingly going to clubs after school. For fun,” he emphasizes, rolling his eyes, teasing you.

You poke his arm playfully. “And…?”

“I said that you and your family are really nice. And that your parents should be chefs,” he adds, grinning.

You laugh, hooking your arm around his. “That’s more like it.” 

Before you know it, you’re at one of the parks he frequents, sitting side-by-side at his favorite bench. “What did you say? About me?” he asks, staring at his hands in his lap. 

Without thinking, you rest your head on his shoulder. “That you’re not actually scary. You’re just you. And who you are is pretty great. Really great, actually.” 

There’s a pause while he processes what you said. Afraid that it’s too far, you attempt to back away from him, but he catches you first, pulling you in for a kiss. It’s hesitant, like he’s unsure if this is okay. And when you place your hand on his chest, feeling his quickening heartbeat race against your fingertips, the kiss deepens, his lips parting open to slide his tongue inside your mouth. Before it gets any further, he pulls off quickly. Electricity hangs in the air, buzzing on your lips, tingling on every inch of your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, throat heavy. “I shouldn’t have done that. I just thought – ”

“You’re right. You shouldn’t have,” he spits out, jaw clenched, avoiding your gaze. It’s a harsh voice you haven’t heard the entire time since the start of your friendship.

“But I thought you liked – ” 

“You’re wrong. I don’t. I – ,” he swallows, struggling to get the words out. “And I never will.” He stands up, turning his back towards you, leaving you alone with tears streaming down your face, embarrassed, confused, and heartbroken. 

It’s the last time you’ll see of him. He doesn’t come back to class after that incident. Rumor has it that he came in early the next morning to gather all his belongings, which wasn’t much to begin with. There’s more gossip about it, of course, ridiculous chatter. Eventually, they fade, and his name is no longer uttered by anyone, including you. Months pass, and gradually, new memories overtake the old ones. Life goes on without him. You don’t notice the center photo of your collage is gone until you collect it at the end of the schoolyear. 

He’ll never tell you that it’s for your own good. That turning his back on you is the best option to keep you safe. No matter how much he opens up to you, his reality is much worse than you can ever know. Hurting you is his way of protecting you. Because loving you is too dangerous, especially for someone like him.  

~~~

Ten years later, you’re an elementary school teacher in your hometown. You planted yourself right where your roots grew. There is nothing but grand memories in this place you’re lucky to call your home. The only exception is the abandoned plot of land where the Zenin mansion was demolished a few years ago without any explanation. You preserve its memory in the form of a tattered photograph, forgotten somewhere in your closet.

Today, there’s a new student transferring into your kindergarten class; an adorable little boy with jet black hair and long eyelashes named Megumi. He reminds you of someone from your past, someone you kept buried in the back of your mind a while ago, for your own sanity.

Little do you know that on the other side of the door, Toji Fushiguro leans against the wall, listening carefully to your familiar voice introducing yourself to his son. He smiles to himself, the month you shared together all those years ago fondly replaying in fast forward in his mind. He’s no longer a Zenin, unleashed from the cruelty of his ancestry, liberated from the life he was cursed with from birth. Free to love who he wants without fearing that their life is in danger by the hands of his wretched family. 

He sticks his hands in his pocket, fingers brushing along the corners of the withered photo of the two of you smiling at the beach. With a deep breath, he grips the handle of the door, finally ready to face you at long last.