I Knew What I Was Going To See, But I Still Gasped When I Saw It.

𝐰𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐫𝐝 | 𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐡 (𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬) 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: at ralph’s birthday party, you feel the need to apologize for what you’ve done.ralph, meanwhile, has a question to ask you. 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: ralph (timewasters, 2017) x fem!reader 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: none! cuteness with ralph, maybe kissing? if that’s a warning? 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is so short i’m sorry but it’s fine (also the surname penbury is courtesy of @mypoisonedvine hehe thanks jd <3)

“Don’t you think you’re a little mean to Ralph sometimes?” you asked, looking down into your glass of champagne. The party was raging all around you, the jazz quartet having moved into some slower songs after the fun of their first song, and Victoria had dragged you to sit and gossip about the “drippy” musician that she planned on asking to dance. 

Of course, this wasn’t the first time you had ever posed the question to Victoria. You had known Lady Victoria Penbury since you were in nappies together, and you had known Lord Ralph for just as long— Ralph had a habit of trailing after his twin like a lost puppy, and, while Victoria had always treated her brother as a brother, teasing him and all, since moving into adulthood, her teasing had become more than that. 

“What do you mean?” Victoria asked, her pencil-thin eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “He’s Ralph.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you said. “You talk over him all the time, you dismiss him constantly; he doesn’t deserve that.” 

“And since when do you care?” Victoria asked. “You’ve done it too.” 

“I used to,” you corrected her. “And I feel bad about it. But he’s your brother, you should treat him better.” 

“Why do you suddenly care about how I talk to Ralph?” Victoria asked.

“Because it’s his birthday too,” you said, gesturing across the room to him. “And he’s sitting all alone over there.” 

“If you’re so concerned about him, you go over to him,” Victoria told you, lifting her nose up. “Go apologize for the way we’ve treated him.” 

“I was never as bad as you,” you said, gritting your teeth. “At least I act like I actually care about Ralph.” 

With that, you got up from the table, gathering your purse in your hand, and you scowled once more at Victoria before taking yourself across the room to where Ralph sat all alone, nursing a glass of champagne. He looked pitiful, although Ralph often looked pitiful, his big eyes wet and owlish and his shoulders slunk in on himself. You knew that Ralph had the capacity to be lively, and seeing him look so forlorn only tugged on your heartstrings. 

“Hi,” you said gently, and he looked at you with his doe eyes. God, he really was gorgeous, especially in the multicolored suit jacket that he wore. His hair was slicked back, small fashionable waves sculpted, and you watched his entire demeanor change at the sight of you. 

Ralph straightened up, a smile breaking on his face, and he cheered your name. “How are you?” he asked, and he gestured at the empty chair next to him for you to sit. The beads on your dress lightly clacked as you sat, and Ralph looked like he couldn’t wipe the grin off of his face. 

“I’m fine,” you mumbled. “How are you, though, Ralph? You look… Sad.” 

Ralph shrugged. “I’m merely gathering energy,” he told you. “For the next dance! Would you dance with me?” 

“Of course I will,” you told him, but you struggled to swallow. “Ralph, I wanted to come here to say, um… I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Ralph asked, his eyebrows furrowing, much like his sister; for twins, they didn’t look anything alike, but often they had the exact same expressions and mannerisms. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“But I have, though,” you protested. “I’m so… I’ve been so mean to you. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.” 

“You haven’t been mean,” Ralph said. He played with his tie, his fingers lightly stroking the silken fabric, and you sighed heavily. He was anxious and uncomfortable, you could tell, and you reached out and took his hand. 

“Yes, I have,” you told him. “I-I’m rude to you all the time, I never listen to you, I feel proper terrible about the way I’ve treated you these past few years. And here we are, your birthday party, and you’re all alone. If I’ve done anything to hurt you, please, let me apologize.” 

Ralph was quiet, his chest heaving as he sighed, and he mumbled, “You’ve done nothing bad to me. Victoria is your friend, and I, her little brother. If anything, treating your friend’s little brother like dirt is common, and you’ve not nearly gotten there yet.” 

“Ralph, you realize how bad that is, right?” you told him, holding his hand tightly. “I’m sorry for treating you that way. I-I feel awful.” 

Ralph was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking, and he took his bottom lip between his teeth.  “Dance with me now,” he said simply. 

“Dance with you?” you repeated. “Why?” 

“Because I want to dance, there’s a good song playing, and I have nobody to dance with,” Ralph told you. Then, grinning, he added, “You promised me. And it’ll help me accept your apology quicker.” 

“Oh, so you’re manipulating me?” you asked with a light laugh, and Ralph nodded quickly. 

“It’s what I do best,” Ralph told you, and you were glad to see his smile back. Ralph was a typically happy guy, always giddy and smiling, and you loved to see it. Truthfully, if you could find it in yourself to admit it, you loved to see Ralph. 

He was such great fun, always chattering away or playing his ukulele, and, over the years, you had grown a fondness for the slightly younger Penbury sibling. He was a handsome man, those big eyes and pink lips and sweet smile, and his chirpy happiness was intoxicating; that is, when Victoria wasn’t dissing him. There might have been a time when you would have said that you had a crush on Ralph, but, now, as adults, you had locked those feelings away. 

Ralph stood from his chair, his hand still in yours, and he pulled you to the middle of the dance floor, his shoes making an odd tapping noise as he walked. “Are you…” you started with a giggle, and Ralph’s smile grew. “Are you wearing tap shoes?” 

“Yes!” Ralph exclaimed. “Aren’t they wizard?” His face fell for a moment, almost as if he expected you to interrupt him or shout his name to get him to quiet down, and your heart hurt. 

“They are wizard,” you told him. “Exceptionally wizard, Ralph.” 

“A-And my hair?” Ralph asked next, his hand drifting up to lightly touch the finger waves in his hair. 

“Handsome, as always,” you said, and that cute smile spread across his lips again. One of his hands came down then to touch your waist, the other capturing your free hand, and you laughed at the tap-tap-tap of his shoes as he stepped to dance with you. 

“You look beautiful,” Ralph told you, and, when you looked up at his face, you were mesmerized by those eyes of his. If you were just a little drunk, you might have even tried to kiss him. You felt the pull in your belly, but your confidence is what you lacked. You didn’t care what Victoria thought, or any of your other socialite friends— you were terrified of Ralph. Sweet Ralph scared the hell out of you. If you kissed him and he rejected you, you had no idea what you would do with yourself. 

“Thank you,” you told him anyway, and you clenched your back teeth to keep in any confessions of admiration. 

Ralph, it seemed, had other ideas. A moment passed, those big eyes fixed on your face, and he whispered, “Please don’t hate me.” 

“Why would I—“ you started, but Ralph leaned forward before you could finish your question, and he pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was objectively simple, nothing more than his mouth meeting yours, but fireworks exploded in your chest all the same. Ralph was kissing you, and you loved it. 

The kiss broke, and you couldn’t control the warm flush that invaded your cheeks. Ralph gave you a shy smile, and he said, “Do you hate me?” 

“I could never,” you told him, and your hand lifted from his and fell to the back of his neck, and you kissed him again. You could almost feel Victoria’s beady eyes lock on you as you kissed Ralph, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything; only Ralph. 

Ralph said your name against your mouth, and you pulled away from him with hopeful eyes. “I…” he started. “I wanted to… I have a question for you.” 

“Anything, Ralph,” you told him, your eyes softening at him. “What is it?”

“I’ve wanted to ask you for years,” Ralph confessed, and your fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck. He smiled at your simple affections, and he cleared his throat, like he was nervous. “But do you… I…” 

“”Ralph?” you asked gently, cradling Ralph’s cheek in your hand. He nuzzled his face into your hand for a moment, his eyes closed as he breathed, and he finally opened his eyes and looked down at you. 

“Marry me.” 

“Ralph,” you gasped, and your heart sank into your stomach. “Oh, darling, I can’t do that.” 

“Why not?” Ralph asked. “We’ve known each other our whole lives, and I love you, and I know that you love me too. You don’t have to tell me, because I know.” 

You liked how Ralph just seemed to know, that you didn’t need to tell him anything. Despite him knowing, though, you needed to tell him. “I do love you,” you confessed. “I think I always have. But we can’t just get married, darling, there are things we need to do first.”

“Like what?” Ralph asked quickly. “I’ll do them. Anything to be yours.” 

You took a deep breath, and you mumbled, “At least take me on a date first before you marry me.” 

“I’ll do it,” Ralph told you. “What else?” 

“Ralph, darling, it’s just not how things are done,” you uttered. Despite everything, you stayed in his arms, and you leaned forward and touched your cheek to his chest. You could feel his heartbeat under his jacket, quick like a rabbit’s, and you added, “I need a ring, and we’re not even courting. I adore the thought, I do, but we can’t just get married.” 

“Says who?” Ralph asked. “I’ve loved you since we were little. And, knowing how you feel, it only makes me more anxious to start my life with you.” 

“You have a life—” you started, but Ralph cut you off. 

“Do I?” Ralph asked. “Trailing after my sister is not a life. My life means nothing without you, my love. You bring me meaning and happiness.” 

“You do the same for me,” you said softly, and you looked up at his face. “I… Alright, Ralph. I’ll tell you what: I’ll marry you tomorrow if you want, but you have to tell Victoria.” 

Ralph pouted, and it made you smile. “Must I?” he asked, like the tortured little brother that he was. 

“It’s like you said,” you told him. “If you’ve known me your whole life, so has your sister. Tell her that you intend to marry me tomorrow.” 

Ralph looked over his shoulder to Victoria, who was, as you had suspected, staring right at you. “One more kiss before the dragon breathes fire and slays me?” he mumbled as he turned back to you, and you giggled. 

“Of course, my darling,” you whispered, and Ralph leaned down to kiss you one more time.  

okay but the ask about giving ralph kissies 🥺 do you think maybe we can get a little blurb of that please? like the cupping his cheeks and admiring him before actually kissing him?

ugh YES ralph deserves ALL the kissies

"Ralphie," you cooed, moving on the couch to get at your husband. He sat on the floor, leaned up against the couch as he strummed at his ukulele, and he instantly stopped what he was doing and looked at you with those beautiful dark eyes he had.

"Yes, my love?" he asked, and you bit the tip of your tongue as you reached over to him and captured his cheeks between your palms.

"You're so pretty," you told him, and you felt his cheeks warm under your hands as a flush invaded his skin. It turned the tips of his ears pink and, even though his shirt collar was high, you knew his neck was turning pink as well. "My pretty boy... Give me a kiss, darling."

Ralph immediately clambered up to reach your lips, and he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. He was smiling, and he hummed happily once the kiss broke. "Thank you," he said, and you jokingly frowned when he tried to pull away.

"I'm not done with you," you chuckled, and Ralph grinned, his smile nearly touching his ears. You kissed him again, soft on his twitching lips, then you went to his cheeks, settling smooches on the apples and his little dimple. Ralph was practically vibrating with joy, sitting on the floor as you showered him in kisses, and you gave a quick "Oops!" when you saw that your lipstick had left marks everywhere you had kissed him, his cheeks and nose and forehead. "I'm sorry, darling."

"Don't be sorry," Ralph said, and his fingers rose to touch at his cheek, some of your pink lipstick transferring onto his fingertips. "I'm leaving them, I'll carry your love around with me all day."

"You're too cute," you told him, and you placed one more big kiss on his lips.

cw: crack, fluff, insecure bakugou. izuku and shoto have unnamed female partners.

“Are you good?”

Izuku doesn’t hear him the first time, and Katsuki makes a grunt of frustration before raising his voice again to repeat the question.

“What the hell is going on with you, Deku?”

Izuku startles slightly at the question as he zips his duffel bag closed then turns to his friend/coworker. His left arm is still bent with his hand rubbing his flank, just as he has periodically for the past hour. 

“Yeah?”

“Why are you acting like you have the spine of an eighty-year-old?” Katsuki inquires, closing his own locker. Izuku gives him a look of confusion initially, then his eyebrows raise as he connects the dots.

“Oh, yeah my back hurts a bit. The couch we have isn’t that comfortable.”

“Couch?”

Shoto looks up, still hunched over tying his shoelaces, also curious. Izuku notices his sudden interest and laughs, scratching the back of his head.

“Well, uh… ___ had a dream that I was cheating and-”

Bakugou grimaces and cuts in. “So you slept on the couch?”

Izuku’s embarrassed laughter worsens. “Well it’s easier to just do that than to explain to her that she doesn’t have premonition…”

Katsuki sighs and rolls his eyes, not intending to inquire further about his friend’s girlfriend’s insane behavior, but Shoto suddenly snorts as he stands up. Surprised, the other two glance at him. 

“And why are you laughing?” Katsuki is the first to ask. 

Shoto slings his far-too-expensive gym bag over his shoulder, smiling. 

“Because for once I actually get this sentiment.”

Katsuki raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean you get it?”

As Shoto leads the way out of the agency locker room, Shoto explains that the last time he slept on the couch had a similar tone - 

“Apparently there’s a wrong way to answer ‘would you love me if i were a worm’?”

Izuku frowns.

“Yeah, you should have dodged that..”

“I mean, she did curl up next to me afterwards to sleep so it was okay… eventually… after a lot of tears.”

Shoto and Izuku laugh while Katsuki follows along, suddenly realizing he’s the only one who might be left out of the experience of having an insane partner. The elevator down to the garage opens, and the three step out with Katsuki still lost in thought. 

“Wait, they both act like this?” he asks. 

Izuku and Shoto exchange a look then shrug.

“I guess love makes you a little ridiculous,” Izuku offers. Shoto grins in agreement and suddenly Katsuki has the sudden feeling that he’s losing.

—

When Katsuki shows up to your apartment an hour, you can practically feel the tension in the air, emanating from the deep frown on his face.

You raise an eyebrow at him as he makes eye contact with you, wondering what the problem is this time. It’s not that he’s never been prickly coming home, but usually he softens when you greet him; this time however, you welcome him home and he gives you a less than enthusiastic response before dropping off his keys on the counter and running to the bathroom.

You give him 2 minutes to do his business and flush, then when he comes out decide to deal with his pouting gently.

“What’s the problem, baby?” There’s a tiny bit of playfulness in the way you reach for his cheeks and pat them, and he leans into your touch, even if he’s grumpy. Placing his hands on yours, he asks, completely seriously, 

“Don’t you have something silly to ask me?”

Your hands drop from his face slowly and you tilt your head to the side, slow-blinking. 

“What?”

He takes your hands and replaces them back on his cheeks, an action that almost brings you to laughter but you opt instead to remain serious.

“Don’t you wanna ask me if I’d marry you in every lifetime or something?”

You watch him stunned then laugh.

“What is this about?” 

He pouts.

“Do you even get jealous over me?”

The two of you watch each other in silence as you take this in, and then you burst into laughter for real, unable to hold it in.

“Katsuki-” you start between giggles, “- what’s this about?”

“You’re not crazy enough about me,” he finally admits, then his hands lower for his arms to wrap around your waist, pressing you flush to him.

You give him a sly look.

“So you’re giving me permission to be crazy?” you ask. A finger is pressed to his chest and you draw circles on it. As you look up at him furtively, your teeth now biting your lower lip in mischief, he wonders if he’s making a mistake. 

And yet he takes your fingers in his hands and kisses them.

“Yes.”

You giggle and pull back, putting your hands on your hips.

“Have you considered that you might be the crazy one?” you tease.

And that goes over fine at the moment when he hugs you and kisses you and decides to move on to dinner, but it’s an idea that suddenly plagues him in the middle of the night. 

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it…

He turns over to you in bed and nudges you. Your eyes creak open and he looks positively distressed, as he asks:

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?”

messy stuff

Source? I decided it was true

You: “Tomura, I really like you… more than just colleagues. I feel so close to you and if you feel the same, I’d really like to be more than friends.“

Tomura: “What do you mean?… Aren’t we already dating?”

You: “Huh?”

Tomura: “Last month you let me hold your hand even though I could have hurt you.”

You: “You were dangling over a cliff and I pulled you back up.“

Tomura: “We kissed.”

You: “I gave you CPR.”

Tomura: “And it was great.”

I love the idea of Eddie having an especially grueling day at work his friend (they have mutual feelings but nothing has been said) offers to give him a massage. Eddie is genuinely grateful but also vv flustered by the end!!

listen. LISTEN. i know this got out of hand. i know i said these were going to stay short n sweet. i know what i said and promised. but. listen. you can't hand me a prompt that is just so delicious, with so much potential to sprinkle in a light dusting of angst, and to give me the chance to garnish with a beautiful open ending full of promise, and not expect a monster of a product to come from it. you just can't. i'm sorry. i hope you enjoy this, regardless. even if it's not quite bite-sized.

warnings: seemingly unrequited love that turns into clearly idiots in love. eddie gets shirtless. that's all.

wc: 4.4k+ yikes

It had started off as an innocent, well-intentioned offer. You swear it did. 

When Eddie had called you right after pulling a double at the garage, begging to come over and simply relax at your apartment, you’d set up to allow him to do just that. You’d cleaned up a little bit, lit a candle that normally gave you a headache if it burned too long but that Eddie loved, prepped a selection of movies for him to choose from, pulled out the menu for your favorite take-out – you’d gone the whole nine yards for your best friend. 

Someone might even point out it wasn’t just best friend behavior at this point. Steve and Robin alike had certainly called out your behavior at times, coining it as “girlfriend behavior on a best friend salary”.

You didn’t care. You were well aware of what you were doing, and you didn’t care. 

You’d spend the rest of your life on the best friend salary, as the two dinguses had so lovingly called it, for the look of sheer peace on Eddie’s face right now. 

He’s leaning back on the opposite end of your couch from you, knees spread and chin facing the ceiling as he sighs in bliss. Take-out containers are scattered about the coffee table, and his movie of choice of Return of the Jedi is about halfway over on your TV. 

You both had already chosen a second movie – The Lost Boys. The plans for the night were set in stone.

You tuck both knees up beneath your chin, side-glancing your best friend for a second and ignoring the flutter of your chest as you watch him sink deeper into the cushions, “We can talk about it, y’know.” 

“Hm?” 

“Your day,” you adjust a bit, turning your body to face him fully, “If you wanna talk about it, I’m all ears. We’ve already seen enough Jabba the Hutt to last a lifetime.”

That earns a smile from him, slowly crackling over his cheeks as he rolls his head towards you, “I dunno. Is there such thing as enough Jabba the Hutt?” 

You toss a piece of your sour watermelon candy at him, and despite it landing on his shirt, he still grabs it to pop it into his mouth. 

You try not to think too hard about how that shirt had been sitting in your drawers, clean and neatly folded, occupying space as if that might be normal. As if everyone has some of their best friend’s clothes at their apartment that they can change into after a long day at work. 

As if everyone has occasionally used said shirt as pajamas on nights they particularly miss the scent of their best friend’s cologne.

“Shut up,” you finally snicker, dropping your knees from your chin, sitting criss-cross now, “We don’t have to talk about your day if you don’t feel like it. By all means, if you wanna keep drooling over an alien slug, be my guest-”

At your teasing, Eddie moves quickly to grab one of your ankles, pulling your feet towards his lap before you can register what he’s doing. You gasp a little, and it’s definitely not because of the feeling of his warm palms wrapped around your bare skin. Totally not at the rush of warmth that travels up your body, head to toe, when you feel his rings pressing into you so eagerly. 

Absolutely not. You gasp, because anybody would gasp in this scenario. Because you’re just best friends. And best friends do stuff like that. 

“I am not drooling over a slug,” he chastises, grinning recklessly as he wiggles his fingers menacingly, mere inches from the bottom of your foot, “Take it back, or pay the price, baby.” 

Has he ever called you baby before? 

Certainly not, if your roaring heart has anything to say about it. 

“Don’t you dare,” you squeal – genuinely squeal – as you try and tug your legs out of his grasp. It’s a useless effort; he’s too strong, even after his long day, and your body isn’t even sure if it approves of taking his hands off of you. “Edward Munson, I swear to God-” 

It’s a mess of flailing limbs, painful laughter, and high-pitched screams from there. Squeaks from your own mouth, and a few from Eddie, mocking you all in good fun as he continues to persist for you to take it back. For just a moment, it feels like this is the normal – you’re living in a space where Eddie comes home from every day, grueling or effortless, to you. Where the two of you always end up on the couch together, bodies touching in any way they can. Where there’s always background noise on the TV as his focus is solely on you, smiling foolishly at his antics that were really just a simple effort to hear your laughter. Where your laughter is the only thing he really wants to hear at the end of the night, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. 

A world where he tells you as much. 

A world where after this, he’s reaching the knob of your shared bedroom door rather than the front door of your lonesome apartment. 

A world where you aren’t existing on a best friend salary.

“Had enough yet, sweetheart?” he quips, just as breathless as you are from the struggle. This time, the nickname he uses is normal. It took you off guard during the first few months of friendship, but now? Your weary heart could handle it, cherish it even, and not let your stupid little crush get in the way of appreciating it. “All you have to say are the magic words.” 

“Are the magic words, you’re a dickhead?”

“Hm,” he pretends to ponder thoughtfully for just a second before shaking his hand, “‘Fraid not. Try again?” 

Instead of verbally replying, you give him a gentle kick in the stomach. Not the magic words he had in mind, but they sure do the trick. 

He lets out a soft oomph, one arm cradling his midsection as though you actually hurt him. You take it as your cue to remove your legs – his dramatics quickly come to a halt to prevent just that.

It’s probably meant to be subtle, the way both his arms fall down over your calves and keep your feet in his lap, but it has the capability to implode your entire world. 

“I can’t believe you’re being mean to me after the day I’ve had,” he whines, and all you can focus on is the way his thumb is rhythmically stroking the ball of your ankle now, “Me, your best friend, has had the most awful day and you-”

“Now you wanna talk about it?” you laugh a little, rolling your eyes at him.

“Absolutely.” 

“After you’ve just tortured me?” 

“Well, yeah. When else would I talk about it?” 

“I’m rescinding my offer to listen,” you continue to joke, making one more good faith offer to slip your legs from his lap. And, once more, he won’t allow it. 

He whines out a long, drawn out no, starting to lay his entire body across your legs this time. More direct, more to the point. Subtleties have been forgotten, you suppose. 

You don’t know if it’s more for you, or for him. You just know you like it. You like existing within a sneak preview of a girlfriend salary.

“You never answered me, drama queen,” you murmur as the joking lean across your legs becomes a bit more heavy, and Eddie is more genuinely collapsing his figure into your lap. He doesn’t even have to ask, or gesture – your fingers find home within his hair, and you can feel his hum of content against your thigh as you scratch along his scalp, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

All joking pretenses slip away from him as he mumbles out a muffled, “Not really.”

And you can work with that. You swear, you can. 

If you’d been so ready to lend a listening ear, then you can offer him this peace and quiet. A simple head massage as he leans into you, cheeks pressed to the top of your thigh as you think he returns to watching Return of the Jedi. 

His eyes might be closed, if his heavy breaths are anything to go off of. You’re just not sure. 

You just keep up your massage, sluggish strokes, clement scratches, deep breaths to match his own- 

And then, an idea hits you.

“Eds,” you whisper, your hand in his hair traveling to his shoulders, shaking him a bit, “Eddie.”

Only a grunt in response.

“Eddie, seriously, get up,” you stress, overeager, “I have an idea.”

“The apartment better be on fire,” he grumbles as he finally raises his head, face imprinted with the lines of your shorts in rolling hills of soft indents. 

Definitely was sleeping. Definitely wasn’t watching Star Wars. 

But even with his shoulders wrapped with dreary slumber, you’re still excited about your idea, motioning him to sit up fully. You let him take his time, of course, only after he swats your hands away sluggishly a few times. 

Once his back is straight, you lift one finger in the air, and draw a circle – motioning for him to turn his back to you without saying a word. 

His eyes narrow to slits at you, “Are you about to pull a prank on me? Because-”

“I’m not,” you assure him, reaching for his shoulders, nearly turning him yourself, “Scout’s honor.” 

He listens to you. Despite it all, despite his seeming mistrust, he turns his back to you. More specifically, he turns his shoulders to you. 

He’s still mumbling on about how you better not make his day worse, getting a little bit snappier when you gather his hair up to lay out of your way and claiming his scalp was extra sensitive today.

You pay his attitude no mind. He’s just grumpy. It doesn’t particularly phase you after years of close friendship.

“Listen, I know you like braiding my hair, but-” he continues with his protests as you grin behind him, shaking your head as you settle yourself closer to him. Knees bumping his hips, back straight for the time being. “I’d rather just nap right now. And I was really comfy, and really getting my rocks off to that damn alien slug-” 

All his words cut off when you finally put your plan into action. Your palms fall atop his shoulders, fingers curling around the tense skin, and he’s melting before you’ve even begun. 

“I- Oh,” he jumps a little at the first squeeze, but quickly returns to being pliant in your hold, “Oh… That’s…. That’s nice.” 

You continue your massage, gently squeezing, thumbs and fingers digging into any knots you find to work them away as you jeer, “Is it now?”

He nods, the smallest of movements as to not interrupt your work, “It is. ‘S real nice.” 

His head rolls with each pinch of your fingers, posture loosening as he leans back into your touch further. 

You take it a step further, biting back nerves when you slip your hands beneath the collar of his old t-shirt. You feel the shiver begin before it races down his spine at the press of your skin directly on his now. 

Your warm hands work dutifully, determined to bring as much relaxation to your best friend as possible. Definitely not enjoying yourself a bit too much at his smooth skin under your palms. Definitely not enjoying yourself just as much as he is. Certainly not. 

The shirt constricts you, though. Prevents your hands from traveling fully over sore spots you can feel the edges of. Catching your wrists, limiting the full potential of your movements. 

You’re glad he can’t see you as you suddenly request, “Take your shirt off.” 

“Hm?” he can’t form a proper word at first, not startled but simply sunken too deep in his relaxation, “What was that?” 

“I need your shirt off, Munson.” 

You try to sound brave, nonchalant, as you repeat yourself. You don’t want him to hear the fluttering of your heart – you don’t want him to hear the shake of your hands as you remove them from him.

You only want him to hear the totally reasonable request from a friend, who is simply trying to offer the best massage possible to their best friend who’s had a bad day. 

“Oh?” he looks over his shoulder, and you can see the edges of his raised brows through messy bangs, “Damn, sweetheart. If you wanted me naked, you just had to ask.” 

Can ribs break from a heart beating too fast? Is that even possible? 

“I did ask,” your voice is flat as a trade off to avoid any quivering to filtrate it, lips pressing tightly together as you swallow your heart, “So get to it.”

He leans forward, putting a bit of distance between you two before he reaches back to grab the center of his shirt. The fabric comes off with a flourish, and all you’re left face to face with is the bare expanse of his back.

You silently beg him not to look back over his shoulder, if only for just a second. 

You’ve seen Eddie shirtless plenty of times. At pool parties with the entire group, on rare lake days that always ended sun drunk and giddy, that one time he’d answered his door right after a quick shower and you’d seen a lot more than you’d bargained for. He was your friend. After a while, it would have been weirder to not have seen Eddie shirtless at least once. 

Something about this time feels different. 

He has freckles – not nearly as much as Steve or Robin, but they still exist. Small markings across skin glowing warmly in the dim light of your living room lamp, spattered without rhyme or reason. One on the back of his left shoulder, another slightly off-centered at the base of his neck. He has a light scar towards the bottom of his right shoulder blade – a memory from his childhood he told you once when you’d first seen it at the lake. Everyone else was out splashing about the ten-degrees-too-cool water, and he’d joined your side on the shore. Laid on his stomach as you laid on your back, offering you conversation in the form of stories about every blemish across his skin. The intentional tattoos, the unintentional scars. Everything. 

Even that day doesn’t quite compare to the intimacy of him being here now, being shirtless in your apartment, just the two of you. 

Maybe there was something extra in your coffee this morning, making you feel so delusional. 

“I don’t have any lotion or oils,” you finally clear your throat, trying to joke about as the two of you had been before, “But that doesn’t matter. You ready for the best damn massage of your life, Munson?” 

“Yes, please,” he groans, and something deep in your stomach clenches at the sound, “Want me to lay down or something?” 

Your brain short-circuits for a second, because you know where that leads. 

If he lays down, there’s only one way to continue to comfortably give him the massage. If he lays down, you’re about to bite off more than you could chew on a best friend salary. 

“Sure,” you choke out, damning yourself in the process. 

It’s all robotic mechanics as you two shift to assume the position; you stand up, and he sprawls out. And you swear, in the process, you catch a smothering of pink slow creeping across his chest and neck. 

“Can I…” you start to question, finally growing a bit shy as you stare down at the dip of his lower back. Two dimples on either side of his spine, looking so inviting and yet daunting. 

He finishes the sentence for you, saving you the embarrassment, “Sit on me? Yeah, go for it, babe.” 

There it is again. An unfamiliar nickname that falls so effortlessly off the lips for him. Another pet name to send you into a tailspin as your breath catches and your heart races, as though needing to catch up after the fleeting endearment.

“Thanks,” you whisper out. 

You’re starting to regret all your choices, but it’s too late to back down now. You just want to help him relax – that’s all this is. 

Stop making this more than it is. 

You’re exceptionally careful as you crawl over Eddie, placing a knee on either side of him, hovering for just a second as you take deep breaths to hype yourself up to do the inevitable. 

He twists a bit, startling you enough for you to balance yourself with a palm on each shoulder blade, “C’mon now, you’re not going to crush me. You should know this by now,” his eyes glitter, and you know he’s referring to that time you two made a bet he couldn’t carry you bridal style while drunk. He could, “Sit your pretty ass down and get to work, Masseuse.” 

You weren’t imagining the pink across his chest and neck. It’s climbed up now, tendrils tickling his cheeks. The bridge of his nose nearly looks sunburnt from this angle. 

It’s a good look on him. 

“Masseuse?” you snort as you shove him to be fully laying down once more, needing to get his eyes off of you for just a second, “That’s an awfully big word. You been reading without me or something? Becoming a secret genius?” 

Fall back into the normal flow of things. Try not to think about the heat of him between your legs as you sit half your weight down. 

“That is not a big word,” he chides. 

“Spell it, then.” 

“I-” he cuts off as your hands smooth back over his skin, no more restrictions. 

He never finishes his sentence, never complies with your request. All that falls from his lips are soft sighs as you begin the massage again. 

There’s an occasional twitch below his muscles as you knead away, slowly but surely becoming more comfortable with it all. Becoming more mesmerized as you can now see his skin moving with you, occasionally letting up when you skirt past freckles and scars alike, fingertips merely tracing them as he shivers under your delicate touch. 

You do exactly as you set out to do – you relax him. And then some.

You’ve never really gotten into the art of massages, something about it always feeling a bit too intimate. You’d never consider yourself a professional at it by any means – if anything, you’ve been on the receiving end rather than the giving end more often than not. And even those occurrences were rare. 

But when it came to Eddie, it seemingly came naturally. 

Not all of your movements are conventional. You pass back and forth between the usual squeezes of skin you’ve witnessed on TV and from others, and gentle tracing of your fingertips. Drawing shapes, painting pictures that vanish without ever having existed in the first place. Words, sentences, secret messages for just you two. 

When you trace out the endearment of idiot, Eddie seems to catch on, lazy grin peeking up past his curtain of hair covering the cheek almost facing you. 

In another place, where you make that coveted girlfriend salary, you’d trace out three little words on the tip of your tongue. 

You almost do it, too. It’s when you trace out idiot, in fact. You start, entirely subconsciously, with the i. A long pause, a space between words. 

And then you trace an l. One long line down the center of his spine. 

Your finger is already rotating for the o, ready to trace it in the center as the other two letters had been, a signalling it wasn’t a part of that last simple line. 

And then you divert. And you rush to finish out with the i, the o, the t. He laughs a little, the rush of air felt below you as he lets it out soundlessly, and you catch sight of his smile.

A seeming endearment to Eddie, a hidden scolding for yourself. 

Maybe one day you can find the nerve to properly trace it out – or better yet, say it. Speak your truth outloud and handle whatever consequences come from it. Because you do – you really, really do mean it – and those feelings for Eddie can’t seem to change. Something carved into your very soul, unchanging as the years pass. If anything, the carving only digs deeper into you with each month you spend with him. 

One day. But not today, not when Eddie’s had a bad day. It should be a good day when you say it, lessening the blow of rejection, hopefully. 

You almost lose your balance a few times. Each time having to adjust your position of sitting on him, shifting his hips right along with yours. And each time, you notice the catch in his sighs. The way they almost transform into moans, tense noises that seemingly tear from his throat, only dampened by poor attempts to conceal them. Even the back of his neck has grown flushed now, the tips of his ears vibrant when you see them poke through his hair. 

Sometimes, you lose your balance from his shifting, even. 

The air is sticky with tension as you finally finish up. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been an hour – you weren’t keeping score, more focused on continuing on until Eddie’s entire body has gone boneless beneath you. 

Pretty, and pink, and pliant. Entirely slackened beneath your touches. 

It takes more to encourage yourself to climb off of him than it did to climb on originally. Your body protests entirely, knees not caring for the ache forming, inner thighs happy to be bracketing his hips. But you do it. Because you’re just a friend, a best friend, helping your friend relax. 

You stand, towering over him, looking down to find him hiding his face just a bit. “Well?” 

“Well, what?” his voice is entirely muffled by his mouthful of couch cushion, and you furrow your brows. 

“How was it?” 

He lifts his face strategically. He probably hopes you don’t notice, but you do, “Oh! Oh, it was, uh- It was fucking great, sweetheart. I… I swear, your hands are fucking magic.” 

Why is he tripping over his words like that? 

He can’t even look you in the eyes, line of sight darting anywhere but you.

Why is he flushed, head to toe? 

“Yeah?” you cross your arms, and subtly lean to block the TV now displaying credits that Eddie found terribly interesting, “Would you consider it the best massage you’ve ever had?” 

He nods, and you catch the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows before squeaking out, “Oh, yeah! The absolute best I’ve ever had,” his eyes widen at his words, as if he’s made a terrible choice that you’re unaware of, “I mean, you know, I just- you should really consider becoming an actual masseuse.”

That’s when it hits you; Eddie is absolutely refusing to sit up. To remove his hips from your couch. 

He’s blushing, and he’s stuttering, and he’s definitely hiding something. 

There’s a twist in your gut that you can’t reveal. A satisfaction you know better than to celebrate right now. 

Instead, you decide to play with him just a little bit more. 

“Good,” you nod, stepping towards the end of the couch you’d originally occupied. Where Eddie’s knees are stiff against. “Maybe I will consider a career change. But for now – move, Munson. I’m just exhausted.” 

“What?” he looks at you, frightened, only moving his neck to keep his hips flush and hidden away. 

“Get your legs out of my seat,” you laugh a little, leveling him with a daring stare. 

You know what he’s hiding. You’re a bit proud of it, too. 

“Oh, yeah,” he says slowly, and you can see him going over his options in his head. A million excuses he’s probably conjuring, a hundred different escape plans he’s grasping at. “Yeah, of course.” 

And, just as you’d suspected, he doesn’t go with a single one to save his dignity. 

He moves quickly. Tucking his legs up and twisting himself into an upright position in the blink of an eye, and immediately grabbing one of your throw pillows that two of you had tossed off into the floor amidst the original movie night plans. 

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. But not fast enough for you to not catch sight of the tent in his pants. 

You don’t let your eyes linger too long. Swallow down any drooling threatening to begin. Tamper down any desire flaring in your chest and between your hips. 

Best friend salary, you remind yourself even as you grin a tad bit too salaciously for your current cover. Best friend salary, not girlfriend salary. 

You plop down on the seat still warm from Eddie’s legs, sinking back in self-satisfaction. Maybe you had been wrong. Maybe it doesn’t have to be another time, or place, or Universe to get what you want. Maybe all your delusion, that wild imagination of yours, wasn’t so misplaced after all. 

Best friend salary, your mind whispers. For now.

Eddie makes himself comfortable right along with you, still seeming in a much better condition than when he’d first arrived, even if his cheeks had bloomed into a rose garden. He presses that throw pillow of yours protectively over his crotch, and once more focuses on the screen in front of you two. 

“Say, Eddie,” you drawl, almost radiant with your grin. A fire now lit inside both of you. “Think you could be a doll and pop in the next movie for me?” 

It’s a little evil, you’ll admit. But he kind of deserves it for underpaying you over the years, when it’s so clear you’re due for a promotion. Sometime soon, you hope. 

Both your heads turn to each other at the same time, wildly different speeds. Eddie’s neck snaps in disbelief, while you take your time to make eye contact.

All it takes is one knowing look exchanged, and the illusion fumbles on its stilts. 

“I…” his embarrassment, all that flush, slowly morphs as he catches the truth behind your intentions. The hand pressing down on the throw pillow alleviates just a bit, stiff shoulders relaxing as they should have been after your massage as he reflects back just as evil of a glint in his eyes as you had, “Sure thing, baby.”

It’s probably going to be a long night. Surely, the promotion of best friend to girlfriend is going to involve some paperwork. Or an interview, to prove your capability and experience first hand, of course.

But, well, he never did put his shirt back on, did he?

Show Me

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Best Friend!Eddie Munson is more experienced than you and you ask him to help you out. 

Word Count: 6.8k

Note: in this fic you and Eddie are both 18 and Eddie hasn’t failed (yet? Maybe in this au he won’t? I want that boy to be happy).

Dedicated to @millenialcatlady and @theoncrayjoy ♥️

Also, as of when I post this at 6pm PT on 7/1 I have yet to watch the final two episodes of the season which have dropped so PLEASE DO NOT SPOIL FOR 24 HOURS AT LEAST LOL. 

Warnings: NSFW, drug use, fingering, dirty talk, self-doubt and a lil teenage awkwardness (both are 18 though), PIV sex

~*~

“You ever touch yourself?”

“Excuse the fuck out of me?” Your response comes out as an incredulous chuckle.

You’re sitting on the bed of your best friend Eddie Munson, hand frozen outstretched to take the blunt he was offering you. You look down at the girly magazine in your lap, the one you had just been lazily criticizing him about. A centerfold gazes back up at you teasingly, her abnormally round breasts jutting out without shame as her back arches up from a tacky cheetah skin rug.

“Touch yourself. Do you?” Eddie waves the smoking blunt in your face till you pluck it from his hand. You busy yourself taking a long drag - longer than usual - to buy yourself time. As you hold the smoke in your lungs, Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. “Easy there, tiger.”

You exhale harshly with a cough, immediately feeling your head begin to rush.

Afficher davantage

OMG you should do a gareth x reader and like you join the hellfire club and he has crush on you and he ends up telling you and you like him back!

Idk why it took me so long to write this. Characterizing Gareth should not have been as difficult as it was lmao. But y'know what it took to finish this? Sitting upside down. In a chair.

Like, y'know in big hero 6 when Tadashi holds Hiro upside down or whatever to get him to think and it worked? Yeah. That was me.

But I hope you enjoy this, it definitely got away from me lol. It wasn't supposed to be this long and the ending was definitely a little rushed. But whatever.

(Also, somewhere in an alternate universe, Gareth does turn out to be an axe murderer)

---

Word count: 5.8k

Pairing: Gareth Emerson x Reader

Warnings: underage drinking, swearing, mentioned drug use

Request Here

---

Eddie strutted down the hall with you at his side, excitement putting an extra bounce in his steps. He looked like a child, the pins on his jacket rattling.

You smiled faintly. A few weeks ago he asked you to play D&D with him. The two of you had gotten together to get high once or twice, you bought all your shit from him. And you mentioned how you used to play back in middle school.

That spurred the conversation of the Hellfire Club, which you'd heard a lot about. Mostly bad things if you were being honest, but hey. That was highschool.

It took him a while to convince you to join his club, and then bring you up to speed on all the rules and remind you how to play.

But now here you were, joining your first campaign with the Hellfire Club. You were pretty excited, you couldn't lie.

Not like you'd tell Eddie that. He'd be even more bouncy than he was right now.

Eddie kicked the door to their 'club room' with a loud crash, "hey nerds!" He called with an obnoxious grin.

You followed him into the room, which used to be the old theatre, but considering a new and bigger theater had just been built, this one was given to Eddie's club. It was really the only room they could spare.

Plus, it was pretty on brand; playing a fantasy game where drama had taken place.

They were backstage and all the lights seemed to be on. They were very colorful too, lighting the room up beautifully. There was also discarded sets and other junk pushed towards the walls and out of the way.

You went to look at the table where the other members sat, leaving the throne at the head of the table empty. You guessed that was Eddie's seat. His place at the table was already all set up, there were even candles lit on either side.

The rest of the table was occupied by the club members. A handful of them were underclassmen. You could tell by their baby faces. "Henderson! Drumroll!" He pointed to the table as he got closer.

A boy with brown curls obediently began to drum his fingers against the table, muttering, "why doesn't the drummer do the drumroll?"

"Shut it," Eddie said, pointing at him again. He got close enough to step right up onto the table. And then he bowed low, hand extended to where you stood with an amused smile.

"Please welcome the newest member of Hellfire! Y/N L/N!" He cheered as he rose back up, to which received several greetings ranging in enthusiasm.

Eddie grinned and hopped down from the table. He stepped forward and walked behind you, guiding you forward. "Curly is Dustin Henderson," he said, pointing him out once again. "His friends, Michael Wheeler, and Lucas Sinclair," he said, pointing to each of them.

You smiled and waved to the three younger boys. They looked like babies, they were so young. You wanted to squeeze their cheeks.

"That's Jeff. And finally, there's Gareth. He's a pain, ignore him more than you ignore the others," he instructed you very seriously.

Your eyes lingered on Gareth. He had the fluffiest hair you'd ever seen and you could imagine how soft it would feel beneath your fingers. He wore the same shirt as the others, white and black with the Hellfire logo. He also layered on a red and black flannel with the sleeves cut off.

Gareth fixed his annoyed look on Eddie. "And why should they ignore me?" He asked, his voice higher than you thought but beautiful to listen to.

"Because you're a pain," Eddie repeated with a 'duh' tone. But unfortunately for him, the only free spot they had was beside Gareth. He glared at Gareth like it was his fault once he realized.

You clapped Eddie on the shoulder with a laugh,"I deal with you everyday. I'm sure I can handle Gareth," you assured with a grin, going and sitting next to Gareth.

Eddie smiled before he understood, and when he did his expression grew annoyed. "Ha ha, very funny," he droned, sitting on his throne. "Now everybody shut up and let's get started!"

---

As soon as the session was over, Dustin cornered you while you waited for Eddie to pack up. He eagerly chatting your ear off about just about everything. You found it endearing how enthusiastic he was. His friend Mike, looked apologetic though as he awkwardly stood at his side.

"So how do you know Eddie?" Dustin asked, adjusting his cap. "Are you guys friends?"

"Oh, he's my de…uh, detention partner," you quickly altered your sentence. Maybe it wasn't the best idea to tell the kid Eddie was your dealer. Plus it wasn't like you were lying, Eddie had been your detention partner a couple of times.

"Really?" Dustin asked, ignoring Mike's urging warning that they were going to be late. "How long have you been playing D&D?"

"Since eighth grade," you answered honestly. "Gave me something to do after school."

"Why did you just now join Hellfire?" Mike finally gave in and asked a question. You knew he was curious too, after all you were a new face.

"Because I was too busy before," you shrugged, glancing to see if Eddie had packed up all his things yet. You looked back at the boys. "And I never had a ride."

"Do you need a ride?" Gareth asked, swinging his bag over his shoulder and stopping next to you. The way he looked you up and down wasn't as subtle as he thought it was.

"Nah, Eddie—"

"Gareth, you take 'em home," Eddie cut you off. "I forgot, I have to take Henderson and Wheeler. Their ride is busy so of course, the burden falls to me," he said with a shake of his head.

Dustin swung his head around to stare at Eddie. "What!?" He yelped. "What happened to Steve? Why didn't you say anything sooner!" He shouted, storming over to Eddie.

Gareth tilted his head towards the door and you nodded, walking out of the theater with him. It was silent for a few moments before you broke it.

"So you're a drummer?" You asked.

Gareth looked over at you and nodded, "yeah, for our band. Eddie tell you?"

You shook your head. "You're in a band? Eddie's in a band and he didn't tell me? That ass," you scoffed.

"I'm surprised you've gone this long without knowing," Gareth replied earnestly. "He's your dealer, right? I think he's mentioned you a few times."

"Didn't want to say it in front of the kids," you nodded, "but yeah. That's how I originally met him."

"So you've been 'round his? I know you've seen his guitar," Gareth held the door open for you. "He uses it for gigs only. It's his prized possession."

You suddenly remembered the name of the band. Eddie invited you out one day but you'd been too busy to attend. Now you had a reason to attend one of their shows. "Corroded Coffin, right?" You asked with a proud grin at remembering.

Gareth smiled at you. And wow was his smile beautiful. He nodded. "So ya do know our band," he mused. "Yes, I'm our drummer."

"Well considering that Dustin kid was asked to drumroll and not you, I'm gonna assume you're not—"

"Hey," Gareth said, affronted, turning to point a finger at you, "I'll let you walk home," he threatened.

"I didn't say it," you held your hands up in surrender. "I said nothing. What you use to fill in the blanks is entirely your—"

"Oh shut up," Gareth elbowed you in the side.

You jumped away from him with a scowl on your face, rubbing your injured side. "I'm not feelin' the love here, Gareth," you huffed. "I think I will walk home," you said, making a 90° turn and walking off.

"Hey!" Gareth shouted, grabbing your arm before you could get too far and pulled you back against his side. He casually tossed an arm around your side to prevent a repeat. "Eddie would murder me with my own sticks if I let you walk home."

"Maybe then you’ll learn some manners,” came your snarky reply but you let him guide you. You tried to ignore how his touch made you feel.

“Look who's talking,” Gareth replied, unfortunately releasing you. He walked around to the driver's seat and unlocked the doors.

You grinned and got in the car. “So, besides playing D&D and playing the drums, what do you do?” You asked, a pathetic attempt to keep the conversation going as you clicked your seatbelt on.

Gareth ignored his own seatbelt and put his arm behind your seat as he twisted to look behind him as he reversed out of his parking spot. “Really?” He asked, making eye contact briefly. “Small talk?”

Warmth coursed through your body as you rolled your eyes, trying to pretend like the small action didn't fluster you. You were rapidly developing a crush on him. You were unable to decide if it was surface level attraction or if it'd maybe have a chance to develop into something real. “Are you really judging me, drummer boy?” You mocked.

“Oh wonderful, I haven’t ever been called that before,” he said flatly, turning and removing his hand from behind your seat. “Ask me something worthwhile.”

You took a moment to think about an ‘interesting’ question. “Okay, what’s the weirdest thing you have been called?” You asked.

Gareth paused to actually think about it. "Freak," he answered honestly. "That's what just about most of the school calls me. Us. Hellfire," he clarified.

You had to admit, you felt your heart squeeze at the sympathy you felt for him. You despised the words especially when it was used so maliciously. You pursed your lips, "that was supposed to be a light hearted question, sorry."

Gareth only laughed. "Hey, well, you asked," he replied, tapping the steering wheel. "Better get used to it. I did. Easier that way."

"No thanks," you shook your head for emphasis. "The second anyone calls me that, they're getting my fist."

"That's fair," Gareth conceded. "Hey, where am I going anyways?" He asked with a frown, slowing slightly to give you time to answer..

"Oh you missed the turn about a mile ago," you confessed, looking up at him. "But I figured it was too late to tell you."

Gareth was silent for a few seconds before he exploded. "What!?" He loudly demanded. "I am never driving you anywhere ever again!" He exclaimed. "Why didn't you say anything!"

"Sorry!" You shouted back. "I'm sorry! I just…I don't know, don't yell!"

"You're yelling too!" Gareth screeched, making a wild U-turn. You heard several things rattle and roll in his car.

"Hey—hey! Cool it with the crazy driving!" You continued to shout, holding onto what you dubbed the 'oh shit' handle on the roof. He was worse than Eddie, which was saying a lot.

"Just tell me where I'm going!" Gareth turned to look at you, a crazy grin on his face as he continued to shout.

You realized he wasn't upset, but rather having fun. You grinned. "Just drive!" You managed between laughter. "You don't have anywhere to be, do you?"

Gareth shook his head no and joined in your laughter. "I like you!" He shouted.

"Then why are you yelling!?"

Gareth's smile never died as he repeated, in a much more respectable volume, "I like you."

You grinned, "thank you," you responded. "You're not so bad, for a drummer," you added belatedly.

Gareth's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in very obvious, and deep offense. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

Gareth scowled, "you got a problem with drummers?"

"Well, the last drummer I dated was crazy. I find the guitarist to be much more sane—"

"Uh, in what world is the guitarist more sane than the drummer!?" Gareth wildly demanded. "No way is Eddie more sane than I am!"

"Hey I'm just telling you my past experiences!" You defended, "I didn't say I like Eddie more than you—well, actually—"

"I'm giving you a ride home." Gareth sounded deeply offended again as he turned to stare at you.

"Eddie gives me drugs."

"That you buy. I'm doing this for free and in my own time."

You paused. You didn't have a response for that because he did have a point. "Fine," you conceded. "Fine, fine. Sorry for insulting you, drummer boy."

Gareth's victorious grin twisted into a scowl. "Can't you come up with a different nickname?"

"No."

Gareth sighed as he took a right turn. "I need a nickname for you now. It's only fair," he stated.

"No," you turned down, you knew this could only end in an embarrassing or terrible nickname. You had a reputation to maintain, you couldn't let him give you a nickname that would likely stick and catch on.

"You're a nerd but that just…doesn't fit," Gareth murmured to himself, staring out at the road.

You were concerned about the spaced out look on his face and thought maybe it wasn't a smart idea to let him drive you around.

"...I'll think of it," he finally shrugged. "But you need a new name other than drummer boy," he said, pointing a finger at you.

"Thumper," you replied.

"Will you be the Bunny to my Thumper?" Gareth wasted no time in asking.

You paused. "You've seen Bambi?" You asked in surprise. He didn't seem the type to sit through that kind of movie.

"I have a younger sister," Gareth offered in explanation, glancing over at you, "we've seen it a million times. Even my older sister's made me watch it."

You wanted to tease him, but you thought it was so sweet he watched it with her so many times. You smiled instead, "that's cute."

"Don't tease me," Gareth warned seriously.

"I'm not," you said quickly, "swear on my life. I'm not teasing you. I think it's cute that you watch movies with them."

Gareth tapped the steering wheel again to an imaginary beat and nodded, accepting that answer. "Do you need to be home soon?"

"I don't have a curfew," you answered, which…wasn't completely honest but he didn't need to know that. You wanted to spend more time with him though, he was interesting. And cute.

"Good. I was gonna take a ride out to the drive-in. I hope you like horror," he looked over at you again.

"The drive-in is in the next city," you stated the obvious.

"Yep," Gareth agreed.

"Okay," you said. This would be fun. You hoped. You had just met him, but he didn't strike you as an axe murderer or something.

---

Gareth was in fact, not an axe murderer. The two of you went to the drive in together and saw a horror movie that you honestly lost the plot of, too distracted by him.

He was very engrossed by the movie. He laughed at parts he definitely shouldn't have, popcorn in hand. He made snide little comments about the actors or the movie in general.

His commentary made you crack up and you couldn't focus with him murmuring some smartass comment in your ear every few minutes.

You wouldn't have changed a thing about the night.

Well. You'd change one thing.

Gareth walked you up to your door with the excuse of, "you never know where a murderer might be lurking."

You doubted they'd lurk in the few feet from the street to your door, but you decided to humor him.

So you walked with him, arms brushing together with every step. Neither of you made an attempt to stop the contact. Neither of you attempted more contact

When you arrived at your door, he stopped you from opening it with a hand on your arm. "Hey," he began, shifting his weight and dropping his hand.

You turned to him, the faint light of your neighbor's porch light illuminated his face enough for you to see his shifting gaze. "Hi," you warmly replied, smiling at him.

"Hi," he laughed, looking away. He cleared his throat and tucked his hands into his jean pockets. He rocked forward on his toes as he spoke. "You should come to our show."

You were nodding before you even comprehended the suggestion. But once you did, you smiled. "You want me to come to your show?"

Gareth looked away again and shrugged, "yeah. Thought you'd like it. I'll prove I am a good drummer despite what some people think," he pointedly said.

Your smile grew. "I'll be there," you promised. You found yourself wishing for a kiss. Hell, even a brush of his lips against your cheek would sate you. But of course, nothing happened.

Gareth took a step back and nodded at you. "Night, bunny," he said, turning around and heading back to his car.

"Night, thumper," you murmured, your voice lost to the night. You stared at his back for a second longer before finally turning and heading inside.

---

You informed Eddie of your plans and Gareth's invitation and he would not leave you alone. You regretted telling him.

"Wait, wait. I explicitly told you to stay away from Gareth and you went on a date with him!?" He screeched, his voice disappearing into the forest surrounding you two. Thankfully, you decided to have this conversation outside of school.

"It wasn't a date," you denied, waving a hand. You sat up on the picnic table and stared down at where he was sitting on the bench. "It was just a movie."

"No, it was a movie at the drive-in," Eddie replied, putting more emphasis on the words like a weirdo. "You know what happens at drive-ins? Sex!" He shouted. Like a weirdo.

You grimaced, "what? No, stop. I didn't sleep with your best friend. Calm down," you huffed. "Jeez, Eddie. It was just a movie."

"Oh really? How do I know you didn't have sex in the backseat?" Eddie pressed.

You rolled your eyes. "You're disgusting," you stated.

"That's hateful," Eddie replied. "How come you never come to my shows when I invite you? Why is Gareth so special?" He complained.

He was right to complain. He invited you to his shows a couple of times, but you'd always declined. Either you were too busy or you weren't particularly interested.

That had been before you met the cute drummer.

"He's not special. I'm just not busy this week," you lied. "If you would have asked me, I would have said yes." You probably wouldn't have. No offense to Eddie.

"Mhm," Eddie hummed, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Fine. I'll believe you," he said. "I'll give you a ride. I guess."

You grinned.

---

Eddie picked you up as promised. Once you were inside, he left you at the bar as he went to go set up.

Fuck did he undersell his band. There were already people gathering and more coming inside as time passed. You were impressed.

And by the time their set started, a crowd had gathered around the stage, dancing to the music and hyping up the band with their support.

You didn't join the crowd and instead stayed at the bar and watched. You had a good view of the whole band from where you were. And by that, you meant you had a good view of Gareth.

And sure, Eddie was absolutely killing it on stage, his voice was perfect for his songs and his playing was unparalleled. But your eyes were glued to Gareth, who was enthusiastically slamming his sticks against the drum kit. Head bopping to his own music with an infectious smile.

You got into the music quickly, but your eyes never strayed from Gareth for too long. He was too captivating to look away from.

But when the show ended and the band packed their things up, you finally turned away from the stage.

"How'd you like the show?"

You looked over and nearly fell out of your chair. "King Steve?" You couldn’t stop the old title from tumbling from your lips, you were that surprised at seeing him. "Holy shit! What are you—this doesn't seem like your type of scene." Granted, you didn’t know much about Steve Harrington nowadays. You hadn't seen him in two years.

Steve awkwardly laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not," he agreed, "Eddie invited me." He shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Ah," you said slowly, nodding in understanding. "Eddie invited you."

Steve rolled his eyes, "it's not like that."

"Sure," you answered. "But it's fine if it is," you offered. "Gareth invited me."

"Steve," Gareth said, startling you as he materialized behind you. "Eddie didn't say he invited you." He gave him little more than a glance though before looking at you. "Hi."

You smiled, "hi," you responded. "You were amazing."

Gareth grinned, obviously pleased by the compliment. He ruffled the hair behind his ears, "thanks," he said. “So? I’m a good drummer, right?”

You playfully tilted your head as if pretending to think about it. He shoved you over and you shook with laughter, “yes, yes. You’re a good drummer. Best I’ve heard, but don’t let it go to your head,” you complimented with sincerity.

Gareth turned away with a bashful smile playing at his lips. “No promises,” he murmured, “I wasn’t uh, I wasn’t sure if you were gonna show,” he continued, drumming his fingers against the bartop.

“Ouch,” you deadpanned, holding your chest, “so little confidence, Emerson.”

“Oh, it’s Emerson now?” Gareth scoffed, arching a brow. “And I was just about to offer you a ride home.”

"Oh no, whatever shall I do?" You dramatically asked, "thank god Eddie is my actual ride."

"Is that a no?" Gareth asked impatiently.

"Let me buy you a drink," you offered instead of answering. "You really were amazing tonight."

"I gotta drive," Gareth pointed out.

"You won't get drunk off one drink, will you?" You asked, before shrugging. "If you want….you could come over. Have a drink or—or something. I dunno," you said, sounding way less confident than you would have preferred.

Gareth was silent, deliberating the idea as his eyes scanned the bar, eventually he nodded. "Okay," he agreed, "are you providing dinner as well or are you just trying to get me drunk?" He asked with a teasing smirk.

"Depends if you get us there in one piece," you replied, tucking your hands into your pockets and following him as he walked outside.

"All this slander on my driving from the person who can't drive," Gareth deadpanned, giving you an amused look. "Would you like to drive?"

"I would, actually," you answered, much to his surprise. "I can drive, y'know. I just don't have a car. Or a license," you shrugged, Eddie let you drive his van once or twice. In addition to stealing your parents cars, that's how you learned.

Gareth tossed his keys at you without saying anything and you barely caught them before they smacked into your face. You had half a mind to chuck them at his face.

You decided against it though, and followed him out to his car. You climbed into the driver's seat with a grin. "If I crash, it's not my fault," you stated, sticking the keys in the ignition.

"What happened to knowing how to drive?" Gareth asked, clicking his seatbelt on with a skeptical look.

"I never said I did it well," you cheekily answered as you pulled out of the parking lot and drove away.

You took a detour and got some food for the two of you (which Gareth was very happy about) before driving home.

You were proud to say you got both of you there in one piece. You didn't run any red lights or stop signs either, which you were very proud of.

Gareth didn't think it was so amusing.

"How is it an accomplishment, Y/N? That's the law," he pointed out, holding the food as he climbed out of his car.

You held the six pack you bought with your trusty fake ID, since you technically had promised him a drink. You tossed his keys over the hood of his car, "this is coming from someone who said, and I quote, speed limits are just suggestions," you snarked.

"Yeah, but I don't make a habit of running red lights," he sniped, catching the keys and pushing them into his pocket.

You pulled your own keys out as you walked up to your front door, correcting over your shoulder, "I don't make a habit of it, it's only happened once or twice. But in my defense, the light turned red right when I got to the intersection so I couldn't stop." You slid your keys in the lock and opened it, stepping to the side to let him in first.

"My parents are out of town, so don't worry," you said when you noticed his hesitation, stepping inside behind him and shutting the door.

"Starting to think you have ulterior motives," he called from where he set the food down on the coffee table. He sat himself down on the floor back against the couch.

"It's nothing like that," you promised. You took two beers out of the black and put the rest in the sink. You joined him on the ground, handing off a beer.

"You sure it's nothing like that?" He asked, eyes searching your face.

You nodded and turned away from his gaze before you could blush or say something stupid. You got up quickly to look for a movie to put on.

And with a smirk, you put Bambi on.

"Seriously?" Gareth deadpanned, staring at the screen as the opening played. "You're so funny, bunny."

"I try," you said with a mocking bow. You straightened up and joined him on the floor once again and began to eat.

Just like at the drive-in, he made snarky, sarcastics comments under his breath and kept a running commentary going. And just like at the drive-in, you didn't mind one bit. You discovered you loved hearing his voice.

"Thumper is so cute," you said with feeling, staring at the screen with a smile. The little bunny just melted your heart, he was adorable. You watched as he tried to get Bambi on the ice.

"Eddie can be Bambi," Gareth said thoughtfully. "He's as clueless as him. Besides Bambi looks almost high in some scenes—"

"Don't say that!" You chided with a laugh, "he doesn't not. He's a baby deer. He's supposed to be clueless. And Eddie isn't as spacey as a baby deer."

"Oh please, I've known him for years," Garqeth dismissed. He pointed at the screen where Bambi was struggling on the ice. "That's exactly what he gets like on skates. Haven't managed to convince him to ice skate though," he said with a dejected sigh.

"I'll skate with you," you volunteered, just to watch him light up. You smiled at how happy it seemed to make him. God he was just precious. Just like Thumper.

Gareth didn't say anything as his eyes returned to the TV screen, but he did settle back into the couch. His arms crossed and he looked pleased.

You took a drink from your half empty bottle. But just as you tipped it back, swallowing a mouthful of the bitter liquid, Gareth decided to speak.

"I like you. A lot. Romantically," he said, turning to look at you.

You choked, immediately setting the glass down on the table, coughing harshly, trying to dispel the liquid you accidentally inhaled. "Jesus Christ," you croaked between coughs.

Gareth reached over to pat and rub your back. "Interesting reaction," he said, his shoulders shaking with ill-concealed amusement.

"Shut up," you scowled, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "You're an ass, Gareth Emerson. I could have died!"

"And that would've been a shame," Gareth said mournfully. "So?" He asked.

"I'm starting to rethink my feelings about you," you said sourly, rubbing your chest.

Gareth shoved you.

"Wha—Gareth! Not helping your case right now," you exclaimed, sitting up from where you dramatically fell over. "You have a crush on me?"

Gareth nodded.

You grinned. "Okay, well, good. Because I have a massive crush on you too," you said happily. "Probably from when I first saw you. Y'know, I think the hair is what sold me. And then your personality. Is that shallo—"

Gareth leaned over to claim your lips with his. You eagerly pressed forward, kissing him back without hesitation.

You groaned into the kiss as he licked into your mouth, lips parting with no resistance. You reached out to touch him, your hand buried in his hair, tugging gently.

Gareth pulled away soon after that, a lazy smile on his face, his cheeks red. "My new favorite hobby might be kissing you now," he breathlessly confessed.

"Yeah," you agreed, feeling drunk off his kiss alone. "Yeah—we should, uh, we should definitely do that again."

Gareth grinned, "take me out to dinner first."

You gestured to the food between the two of you, "excuse me, what would you call this? Technically, if anything, this is our second date," you pointed out.

Gareth seemed to have no wiseass comment for that and he instead kissed you again.

---

Like all good things, the night eventually came to an end. Gareth drove home (you two decided it was fine since he only had a beer) and that was the end of the night.

You went to bed dreaming about him, because that's how hard you'd fallen for him. And now you had him. You were now dating Gareth Emerson and honestly? You could not have been happier.

The next morning, you were woken up by a blaring horn. You very nearly fell out of bed, half asleep as you got up.

You jumped when the horn honked again and you groaned, muttering swears under your breath at being so rudely awoken.

You got to the door and threw it open, still in your pajamas and glared at the car. You realized it was Gareth's. "What the fuck!?"

"Hey, bunny," he called out of his open window with a delighted cackle. "come on, come on. Let's go," he urged, "we have places to be!"

"Why are you so excited to go to school?" You asked, crossing your arms. "I'm not even dressed!"

"Who said anything about school?" Gareth smirked. "Hurry and get dressed. We have places to be," he repeated, enunciating his words with another obnoxious beep of his horn.

"Fine, fine! Stop honking, my neighbors already hate me!" You exclaimed, whirling around and heading back inside. But before you closed the door, Gareth loudly honked one last time.

You rolled your eyes and went to get dressed. A little embarrassed at being seen in your pajamas, but you got over it quickly.

You headed out of your house dressed for whatever it was Gareth was up to. You got in the car, and were greeted with a sweet kiss. And when he pulled away, he was smiling. "You look good," he said and stepped on the gas.

You lurched forward and scrambled to get your seatbelt on. "Where are we going?" You asked, staring at him expectantly.

"Surprise," he replied. After a few moments, he gave in. "We're going on a date. Double date. I told Eddie, sorry," he said, glancing over at you, tapping the steering wheel again.

"No, don't apologize," you said quickly, "it's fine. But uh, last I checked, Eddie was single. Painfully so," he said.

Gareth began to smile, "well it seems like we're not the only one who got serious last night," he said, "Eddie and Steve are a thing. But it's supposed to be a secret."

"How is it a secret if we're going on a date with them?" You couldn't help but ask.

"It's a secret date," he answered. "Eddie was looking for a new spot to deal after he almost got busted, and found a good place for a picnic," he explained.

You wondered just how long the two of them spent on the phone last night. It was an amusing thought to picture them gossiping over the phone.

"Okay," you said, satisfied with the answers you'd gotten and glad to know he hadn't spontaneously decided to murder you with an axe out in the woods.

The drive was mostly quiet, with metal music playing through the speakers.

Eddie and Steve were already there when the two of you arrived. You had to take a little hike through the woods to get to them though, which didn't really help your axe murderer theory.

But you eventually found Eddie and Steve in a small clearing. They were sitting on opposite tree stumps, a large one between them. That's where they had the food set up.

"You're late," Steve called when he laid eyes on you both.

You smirked when you seen him and sent a knowing look between him and Eddie. "What'd I say?" You asked.

"Y/N wasn't even awake when I went to get them," Gareth threw you under the bus, sitting right on the ground and reaching for the food.

"Traitor," you muttered, sitting opposite of him on the ground, internally grimacing about having to get the dirt out of your clothes later. "He was being obnoxious and kept honking!"

"I told you to stay away from him," Eddie said around a mouthful of food. "But does anyone listen? No," he said.

"Nothing new," Steve replied.

Eddie glared.

You reached for your own food with a smile. You could get used to this. This was so much better than being stuck in class all day.

And hey, you even got a very pretty looking rock from Gareth at the end of the date. He had disappeared for about half an hour and returned soaking wet, but with two rocks in his pockets that he waded through a creek for.

He gave you one, and kept the other.

You never got rid of the rock. It stayed with you always, even when others joined your collection. That first rock held so much more significance to you.

Even years later, that rock remained your most prized possession.

I'm speechless, the talent is immaculate

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.