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yooglefics · 4 months

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The casual type: 01 . The blind date

Pairing: Min Yoongi x fem!reader Wordcount: 2,888 words Genre ( for the whole series ): AU. College!verse. Strangers to friends with benefits to ?????. Eventual smut. Hurt / comfort at times. And fuff for cute friends. Summary: Hobi and his girlfriend set you up with a friend of hers to help with whatever happened months back. However no one really expected things to end the way they did.

Warnings ( for this chapter ): Setting things up for plot purposes. Gridding? Mentions of a boner. Making out. Author's note: So, I wanted to write some friends with benefits thing, plus a bunch of art kids… and this came out ┐( • ֊ • )┌ . I should note here I took the creative liberty to play around with their ages so everyone is in college at the same time, and if you haven't, you can check the presentation post and learn a little bit more about them. Now let's start, hope you like it! If you do you can reblog, like, comment, send an ask, follow and what not. Thank you for reading <3

The place is quieter than the last time you were here, you realize, is earlier in the day and the semester just started after all, meaning students are still moving in from their home cities. And although you want to be mad at him, you can't really blame Hoseok's choice of place for a date, instead, you're already thinking of ways to be able to escape the awkwardness of it all.

Of course, he and Mai don't have to worry about that. Is not their first date and considering they're both dance students it actually makes sense for them to be in a club on a friday night. Is their element, unlike yours, who hasn't left their room for the last couple of weeks if it's not to go art-supply shopping and will spend even weekends far away from a place like this.

But you couldn't say no. Not to Hobi. Not after he held you tight that night and didn't pray for an explanation.

He had come up with his own conclusions, though, and that's how you ended here. On a double date with Mai and her friend who you don't even know, so... Yay! Blind date added to the mix of reasons why you already want the night to end.

"You made it!" Mai greats when the both of you get closer to the bar, standing up to hug you first and then her boyfriend. "We ordered something while waiting."

Your friend nods at the explanation, "What do you want?" He asks in your direction and you settle for a fruity cocktail to not look too out of place with everyone else drinking. Mai insists on going with Hobi and he insists you stay, so, a bit awkwardly, you take the stool besides your date.

"Yoongi, by the way." The guy simply introduces himself before taking a sip of his drink.

"Y/n" short, overthinking if bowing is too formal until you decide is too long of a pause and it would only make it more awkward. In the end, a soft smile is your decision.

"They look cute together," you say looking at your friends, trying to break the silence that has fallen between.

"Listen," Yoongi begins, and your head turns to him, "I'm only here because she asked, so if you're expecting something like that, let's just leave."

"Like that?" Brows slightly closer, "a cute relationship?"

"A relationship in general. I don't do those."

"Oh..."

And before you can say anything else, Hobi is placing a glass in front of you, smiling reassuringly. "You'd be okay if I go dance now?"

A pause and then a nod is the answer. Not having any intentions of spoiling their night.

"Don't worry. Yoongi," Mai turns to him, a serious expression on her soft features, "you better take care of her, alright?"

He salutes, earning a smile from the couple and they walk to the dance floor hand in hand. You watch them make some silly moves at first and giggle, but it doesn't take long before they start to follow the beat and match it with their movements.

"I don't want a relationship either," you clarify, tone assertive, still looking at the couple with a smile.

He laughs, "I'm sorry, but that's hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Look at me and tell me you didn't just imagine yourself with someone on that dance floor."

You turn to him, brown eyes inspecting yours, "Well, yes. But that doesn't mean I want it to happen with someone I'm in a relationship with."

Again, he laughs. Clearly not believing you.

"What? People do casual things all the time," you defend, straightening your back and looking away.

"You do 'casual things'?" His eyebrows raise, "all the time?"

"Shut up, you don't know me."

"That's a no," no need to look at him to know there's a smirk playing on his lips.

"Who are you? Some kind of hook up police or something?" You want to take it back as soon as it leaves your mouth, cringing.

"Are you gonna show me your license?" but he is faster.

"Okay, that was more lame than what I said," you laugh. Maybe he is not as grumpy as he seems. And maybe, just maybe, you would be able to enjoy the night after all.

If he doesn't want a relationship either, then you don't have to deal with rejecting him or being forced to accept a second date just because you're too kind to say no. That's good.

"Yoongi, hey!" A guy calls out and for a split second your date's expression changes to a surprise one before a polite smile takes place on his face. "Oh, hi. Sorry for interrupting, haven't seen him in months."

"Is alright," you play along even when not understanding.

"I guess he has been busy with yo—"

"Jay," Yoongi's tone is serious, like the one he used to say he doesn't do relationships. However, before he can continue or you are able to clarify that you two just meet, Jay is calling someone over.

"Look who I found, love. Yoongi!"

A redhead girl repeats Yoongi's early expression and you wonder two things about Jay. One: if he always has that effect on people. And two: if he is even more clueless than you in this whole situation, since his smile never falls.

"Hi," the redhead says and Yoongi greets back just as plain.

Are you really imagining the awkwardness? Perhaps you were wrong and in the end you should put one of your plans to avoid it into place?

A few seconds of thinking go by, no one says anything and you could swear the tension is filling the air around your new group.

"Oh, that's the song!" Fake excitement in your voice tricks everyone into looking at you. "I promise, remember? If it comes on, we'll dance."

Yoongi looks confused for a second, but it doesn't take him long to finally understand, "right, the song. Sorry guys, been waiting all night."

Jay dismisses him smiling with a pat on the back, saying something about not breaking promises and Yoongi takes your hand.

Looking around, you try to find your friends, hoping to copy Mai's moves and keep up with the plan even when you're a self proclaimed not dancer. But they aren't in sight and even if you can't really prove it since your back is facing them, you feel like Jay's and the girl's eyes are on you.

Ugh. Why did you use this plan?

Why was this something you even thought about?

When Yoongi stops and positions himself in front of you, you get closer, sliding an arm on top of his shoulders pretending you're positioning yourself to dance, copying the random couple beside you.

"I don't know what I'm doing," you confess in a whisper.

"What do you mean?” He looks for your eyes, hair strain coming out of place when his head lowers a little, "you want to go back and sit down?"

"No, then they would know I lied," you're still trying to figure out why in the first place and don't need the embarrassment too, "but I don't know how to dance."

He chuckles, "here, I'll help." And holds your hips softly, moving them to the beat of the song, matching your movements with his own. "Relax. Don't think too much about it."

"If I don't, how do I know how to move?" It doesn't make sense and is a bit frustrating, honestly.

"Is not a dance competition, or the grant ball, princess. Just do what feels right."

He catches you looking at your feet and brings you closer, eliminating the gap between your bodies completely. "Don't do that," one of his hands travels to the small of your back, keeping you in place.

"Sorry," you say against his neck. Not intentionally, but because of your height difference, there's no other option. In an effort to not be so dependent on him, both your arms move around his neck and you try to move your hips in a way that in the end doesn't match his movements completely, causing you to bum into his front. He makes a sound that you assume is a complaint at your skills and another apology rolls through your lips.

"Turn around," Yoongi commands, applying pressure to one side of your hip.

You comply, confused even when you feel his hands on your waist. "Well, I'm going to assume you been fucked before, miss casual all the time," with his chest against your back, you can feel his laugh. "Open your legs a little," one of his feets kicks gently between yours, fixing your stand. "You want to lead or should I?"

"...You." Is the safest, you decide. Your turn to assume he surpasses your experience at that too.

“Some describe dancing like a good fuck," he explains, hands softly making their way a bit lower to your hips, "because you have to learn your partner. Find a rhythm together." His movements start slow, moving your body with his from side to side, with small circles of the hips.

Your hands fall on top of his, not knowing what else to do with them. They're soft, which for some reason is unexpected.

"I have dancer friends and they never described it like that..."

"Not to you, probably," he laughs and when you stop the movements to throw an angry look his way — because you're pretty sure that's some kind of insult,— he chuckles, before continuing the swaying of your hips. "Calm down, princess. I meant, they probably just weren't teaching you this kind of dance."

And that makes sense. You can't imagine dancing with your friends like this. You can barely believe you're doing it with a stranger.

Your shyness must have shown, because his next question is why did you even choose this song.

"I was trying to help and get you away from whatever that was," you lift your head, eyes away from your feet and the color lights projecting on the floor, and sure enough, behind red bangs, the girl is looking in your direction.

Your hips halt.

Yoongi catches up a bit too late, bumping his pelvis into you.

"What ar—"

"She is looking." Cutting him off, you want to hide as if you were the one caught doing something she wasn't supposed to. So, you try to turn around on his arms but his hold is firm.

A new song starts, the rhythm not much different.

"Help me with another song?"

You try again, this time using your hands on top of his to soften the grip. He gives in. And after a look at his face, you nod.

You can decide if it's sadness or anger that you see, not knowing him well enough to tell — or at all, to be honest — but either way, there's a part of you that can relate. One for each emotion.

Throwing your hair back, letting all black strands fall over your back, your arms go back over his shoulders, this time your chest flush against him a little more than last.

Yoongi says thanks and you kiss his cheek as his hands hold you again. His movements are more determined and even his fingers form dents over the fabric of your dress.

Assuming his demeanor changed only for the specific viewer doesn't sound too crazy, and you want to confirm the theory by looking at his face, see if he is looking behind you at her. Your eyes travel against the direction the few sweat drops over his skin go, and when they reach Yoongi's, he is looking back at you.

Your body stops.

"Fuck" he whispers when the front of his pelvis bumps yours. "You really need to stop doing that."

"Sorry. Told you I can't dance."

He chuckles.

Your bottom lip forms a small pout. "Don't be mean. I'm trying to help you, remember?" And you initiate the movements again, starting to get the hang of it. Kind of.

"You're not much help right now if you keep making me dry hump into you," this time he is the one stopping, making it so you bump into his front and you can feel the outline of his growing erection.

"Yoo—"

"Exactly," he says so matter of fact, "you're the mean one."

Lowering your head, you try to not think too much about it. It doesn't make you want to run away or kick him, but you also don't want to make him feel like kicking you away. You keep repeating to yourself that is normal with this type of dance, that there's probably more than one hard on at the club right now and how you're probably not the only one who is getting we—

Damn it. Just stop thinking about it.

Yoongi stops your body from moving, and when you realize he has been calling your name, you're even more embarrassed by your thoughts.

"I'm sorry. That was too much, I shouldn't have. We can go sit now." His eyes are looking straight at you, letting you know he's being sincere.

"I need some air."

Without even bothering to wait for a confirmation that he is following or not, you make your way to the side door of the club. The autumn breeze hits your skin as soon as you step into the alley, instantly calming your hormones down.

Hands cover your face in shame after reclining on the wall. Can you stop acting like it was the first time you felt a penies? Because even if it hasn't happened in a while, it doesn't mean the score goes back to zero.

"Should I bring Hoseok?" Yoongi asks a few steps in front of you and you jump a little, shaking your head after.

"I'm good. You can go back in."

"I'm not leaving you alone here. Do you want him or Mai to kill me?"

A small chuckle leaves your throat and one from him follows it.

"And you think he wouldn't kill you for—" stop. You can't think about it.

"For dancing like that with you? Probably. But he also set this date up, so..." Out of the corner of your eye you can see him shrug, "can't complain unless you hate me now."

"I don't hate you."

"Is okay if you do."

"It… it just surprised me."

"In a bad or good way?"

"A good one." You answer directly in a strain of honesty.

"So you're not really the casual type, uh?" He teases after a couple seconds of silence.

"Maybe I just don't like doing casual in the middle of the club," you defend.

"I don't know, you were the one that kept humping into me."

Your mouth opens and closes, finally looking at him and his stupid lips pull up in a smirk. You want to erase it so bad.

"Shut up."

"Make me."

And you do.

Skipping forward, right hand flying to the back of his neck to pull him in and you're able to touch his lips with yours.

He is quick to react. Kissing you back, his hands on either side of your waist pulling your body into his. But you're trying to prove a point, to defend yourself. So, you pull away slightly, making sure your lips are just about to touch.

He pulls in.

Allowing just a peck, you move.

You kind of regret not using your cherry lip gloss, because you know for sure that knowing you're so close for him to smell it but not taste it, would be the biggest tease.

You let him lean in again, not moving this time and he sighs. You smile against his lips just before his tongue asks for permission to enter your mouth. Again, you regret your simple choice of a simple red lip tint, but remind yourself that this date wasn't supposed to go like this. That Yoongi doesn't seem like the guy he was supposed to be, not what he was advertised by your friends.

Fighting back control, your left arm joins the other around his neck, moving your lips expertly and feeling his chest rise and fall quickly against yours. Is pretty much the position you were in on the dance floor minus the grinding.

Casual in the middle of the club is not your thing. Casual in general is actually not something you have experience with. But kissing? You've mastered it thanks to your past relationships and the avoidance of jumping into someone's bed right from the start.

A moan vibrates through your lips against Yoongi's, and even if it's part of the routine, you must admit is pretty real. A soft groan is his answer and the cue for your heels to touch the floor again. His hold tightens in reaction, making your dress rise up and covering a couple inches less of your thighs. Suddenly you're aware of the wind again as a breeze runs up your legs, towards the center of your panties.

Your breath caughts on your throat and Yoongi swallows any sounds before pulling away.

"Fuck," he breaths heavily, "we've to stop."

"Why? Are you not really the casual type?" You tease, stealing his line.

The left corner of his mouth lifts, before falling again in a millisecond. "Not with you."

Should I’ve added “cliffhanger” to the warnings? haha i swear is gonna be okayyyy ♡ Tag list: @n33mesis , @mggv97 , @wobblewobble822 , @bbou-doir , @m00njinnie , @nariee02 , @sexytholland . hope you guys like this one <3

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gardenofnoah · 4 months

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note: for my dearly beloved @bunnions now that it’s been read and we are Emotionally Processing. Bunny I LOVE you and I am so grateful that you wanted to read more of my silly little words. <3

wc: 8.2k tags: Bakugou x Bunny (bakubun supremacy), childhood friends to strangers to lovers, SOME angst (happy ending), minor injury (is just a little scrape on the playground, it’s okay), light smut, redemption/making amends

-Today-

Bakugou Katuski was born to fight. Blessed with his mother’s quick tongue and quicker anger, it was never in his nature to shy away from what writhed, violent and hard, inside of him–to brandish it like a weapon, no matter the target. As an adult, Katuski finds he’s turned the weapon on himself and it’s different. This fight is one that does not seem to have an end, and while it’s not in his nature to quit–he’s sure as hell thought about it.

On the precipice of 30, just about everything is a fight if he’s honest with himself. But with that also comes some pride–he is a kicked dog reformed, and he hasn’t lost yet. That’s what he tells himself every morning, when the sunlight cuts through the window and pulls him from somewhere else–somewhere softer and a little kinder. When he opens his eyes despite the sting, it is another reminder of his own grit–of the ways he has fought to win another groggy morning.

There is a mechanical efficiency to this ritual that he’s gotten down to a science by now–the way he pulls himself from his sheets, the four minute shower that tells his brain it’s time to wake up, the coffee that he’s never liked (but now it’s either a bitter taste in his mouth or a splitting headache–the former feels like the easier route, and he feels he’s owed at least one of those), the 10 minutes of stretching before the 30 minute jog through familiar neighborhoods. Sometimes he’ll stall and make it an hour, doubling back to over the same sidewalks with a new perspective. Or at least he tries to–to him, it’s the same damn street any way you look at it.

He does all of these things with a commitment he’d expected to earn back by now–like there would be some karmic gift to taking care of himself that would magically fix him. And truthfully he has benefitted from consistency, but there is still an empty space somewhere inside him. To be meticulous in planning his days has not fulfilled him the way he wanted it to–he makes his breakfast and he pushes his body to its limit and he calls his mother as often as he can manage and he still thinks of you.

Katsuki has stability, and that is a new and welcome thing. Hard won and much deserved, he’s worked for it– and the people around him evidently agree, if Kirishima’s heavy arm around his shoulders and weepy compliments of how far he’s come anytime they’re out for drinks is an indication of that. Katsuki can see it, too–the fact that he only thinks about knocking Eijiro out a little bit when the big moron is yowling in his ear like that is progress in and of itself. That Katuski now has a whole horde of friends that regularly and willingly gather around with and for him is more than he ever imagined he’d have, and he’s grateful for it.

It was effort, of course–the years it took for him to make those long-overdue amends weigh heavily on him still, and it took even longer for that burden to feel anything but crushing. To let anyone near his underbelly was uncomfortable at best, but to be alone was worse, and Katsuki has never been a quitter. Except for when it comes to you.

Katsuki can’t admit to himself that he has given up, but he also can’t get himself to do anything about this silence that trails after him like a ghost. It’s infuriating because it’s just you, and he knows that that's exactly the reason he’s stuck in this constant game of will-he-or-won’t-he with himself, though he already knows the outcome. It’s just not one he can accept, so he tortures himself instead– he sees the concern on his friends’ faces over the way he tears himself apart and takes it as a personal failing, because it’s just you, and all he has to do is tell you he’s sorry.

Except he can’t do that. Because if he told you he was sorry, he’d have to tell you why–and then he’d have to tell you everything. Katsuki has never been a liar and knows that it might be the truth of it all that still holds him together (if there was ever a lamer excuse for holding out for something as silly as hope like this, he’s not aware of it). But his fingers bled with all of that stitching himself back together. It feels counterintuitive at best to unravel himself all over again for you.

You’d been the needle, and the thread. Another truth he could never bear to tell you.

-Six-

Katsuki doesn’t know what to do when he finds you curled in on yourself inside the fluorescent orange tunnel. The echoes of palms and knees moving through the plastic above his head reverberate through his body, but he can’t focus on any of it–his eyes are glued instead to the injury you’re crouched over–a scraped elbow, red and angry.

“Bunny?”

You sniff, and it raises goosebumps on his arms. “Pushed m–me.”

Your voice is tinny and distorted inside the tunnel. He’s suddenly filled with more anger than his six year old brain can wrap itself around. He puffs up his cheeks and turns from you, stomping his way out of the plastic that he’s not even tall enough to touch the top of.

He finds them easily enough–two of them, older than him by at least three years, targeting some other poor little kid. They’re circled around him like sharks. Katsuki only sees the shorter one step forward–arms extended, grinning as if his cruelty is a game–and then he blinks, and everything is different.

He blinks, and their target is gone–the two older ones are at his feet, the taller one barely holding back tears as he crouches over a bloody knee.

“Katsuki Bakugou–what the hell are you doing?”

He’s already fighting his mother before she has a full grip on his elbow, dragging him off the playground. He’s not listening–he just wants to go see if you’re okay.

“Oi–stop, you can’t just throw people down like that–”

“They pushed her!”

It’s nearly a screech and the first words he’s said since he parted from you. Startled, his mother lets him go–he doesn’t spare her a second glance, off like a shot toward your tunnel. He feels the heat of the sun-baked plastic, too hot on his palms, but it barely registers as he crawls in next to you.

“S’okay,” he says quietly, trying to coax you out of the pretzel you've contorted yourself into. He reaches the pocket of his superhero shorts and fishes out a singular bandaid, crinkled up and a little dirty and too small for the wound on your arm. He waits for you to peer up at him before he unwraps it, and presses it to your scrape. You wince.

“I’ll fix it,” he says, tongue poking out of the gap between his teeth as he smooths the bandage over your skin, “s’okay.”

-Today-

Katsuki isn’t necessarily a glutton for punishment–it just feels like the most effective form of conditioning.

His lungs burn–breath hitching with every stride he takes down the sidewalk. He pushes himself to go a little longer, to run a little faster, and the exhilaration that comes with the way his body listens to him thrills him enough to keep him moving.

Later his joints will be sore–when he stays at the gym far too long and strains himself to fatigue, his body will revolt in the ways that are familiar to him. A natural consequence to crossing a boundary. But for now it’ll hold out–it’ll hold up to the beating he forces it to take, all for his own improvement. For something else, too.

Physical strength is something he understands. He gets back what he puts into it–he lifts a heavy thing to lift something heavier. He feels the feverish drum of his heart as he pushes himself through another mile and knows that he will be stronger for it. There is the promise of longevity there–a clear reason to continue to work hard.

Emotional stuff is not in Katuski’s wheelhouse. He runs through every action he’s ever taken ad nauseam and nothing changes–he still feels as stagnant and frustrated as he ever did, and he’s no closer to reaching out to you than he was years ago. He can tell himself to just do it but there is no amount of repetition or discipline that will train his brain into allowing himself to pick up the phone and dial the number he still knows by heart. He doesn’t know what else to do, and he hates that, so he defaults to what he knows–to push his body further, with the hope that his brain may one day follow suit.

On autopilot, he rounds the corner across from the bodega with the Spanish rice that Sero won’t stop talking about, and nearly takes an elderly woman off her feet. He skids to a stop, out of breath as he asks nearly a hundred times if she’s alright.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says with a chuckle, swatting him playfully with a gloved hand, “You just gave an old girl a fright, is all.”

“Y’sure?” he says, pointedly eyeing the cane that shakes under her fingers.

She tuts, rolling her eyes like he’s being ridiculous. “Yes, yes. Don’t let me keep you!”

Katuski nods, helping her back inside the shop she’d been walking toward. He knows her, he realizes. Not in any significant way, but he's certain he's blown past her cotton white mass of hair on his jogs down the sidewalk. “Sorry about that, granny.”

She waves him off and this time he lets her, thinking a little too hard about how easy it might be to take him off his feet when he reaches that age. He picks up the jog at an albeit slower pace. He gets a good five strides ahead before he’s stopped again in his tracks.

This time, by you.

He feels like he’s seeing a ghost, and probably looks like it too, stopped in the middle of the sidewalk like this. There’s no force on earth that could get him to move–not away from you, and certainly not toward you.

So he’s stuck where he is, watching you cross the street–the damn sun personified, smiling to every stranger that breezes past you–with a heavy moving box in your arms. Hair tied back at the nape of your neck, there’s nothing obstructing his view from the way each grin stretches into your cheeks and suddenly he feels a little sick. You pass in front of him, carrying too much and unaware of his lingering, 20 feet to your right. Then you’re inside and out of his view.

Someone brushes past him, startling the breath back into his lungs. It’s a gasping thing, and he can only focus on the expansion of his lungs in his chest to get him back on this plane of existence. He feels outside of himself–like seeing you has drop kicked him out of his body. He has no control of his feet that carry him toward the building you slipped into, despite all the screaming his mind subjects him to. There’s a war inside him and yet, he walks the half step to the door and pushes it open.

“Welcome in–oh.”

And then you’re looking at him with eyes that haven’t changed and he feels very sick–so much so that he can’t say anything. He just stands there, sweating and out of breath and damn terrified of the other half of his heart, staring back at him for the first time in years.

“Katsuki?”

And god, does he wish he’d turned around when he had the chance, because how unfair it is to have to hear you say his name like that. To see you look at him with only mild confusion and none of the disdain that he would’ve expected. Elbows propped on the counter in front of you, you show none of the tension he so palpably feels in every muscle of his body.

He swallows around the lump in his throat, and it’s painful. It’s all he can do to move his mouth around the words.

“Hey, Bunny.”

You give him the same splitting grin that you always did and it nearly knocks him on his ass. “What are you doing here?”

That’s a great question–he’s not looked around until now, and he has no idea where he is. There are framed art prints all over the dark walls, and dried flowers take up the spaces between them. There are some books, some knick knack looking things–his brain can’t process any of it.

“Uh–” trying to get his bearings, trying to come up with an answer that’s not I followed you in here after watching you on the street–

“You want a tour?” you ask him with a knowing smile, and he can only nod. You round the counter and then you’re next to him, and he feels your proximity like you hold a match to his skin. He has to fight to focus on your words–he wishes he would’ve clicked on any one of those “train your brain with this one trick” ads as he hears every third word and fights to connect the dots. Gallery, book vendors, display window. Something about a delivery schedule.

“These are all by a local artist,” you say, gesturing to a fourth of the wall in front of you, “I try to cycle them out as much as I can.”

He clings on to the last bit. “This is your place?”

Your eyes shift back to him, and you smile. It’s one of pride. “It is.”

He puts a pin in that–wholly interested in whatever could’ve led you here, but the latter part of that is a blinking neon sign in his brain.

“That mean you live around here?” He hates himself for sounding so hopeful–because what right does he have to that?

“Yeah, actually, I live down on our old street.” You say it like it doesn’t tilt his whole world on its axis. Like he can picture anything but running down a snow covered, lamp lit side street with your gloved hand in his. “You know that building next to the Thai place?”

He nods, and it’s all he can do. Of course he does. He remembers the old woman that lived in the first floor apartment–she’d yell down the street at the two of you to take some of the cookies she’d made to your mothers. He wonders if you keep plants in that front window, too.

You hum, choosing to move on–turning on your heel and pointing out the built-in shelves that curve over the arch of the front door.

He has the sudden and overwhelming urge to get the hell out of here.

“I, uh–” he says, clearing his throat a little too loud, “got something to do.”

“Oh,” you say, your smile faltering only a little. He wants to punch himself square in the face. “Of course. It was nice to see you, Katsuki.”

The nod is terse and automatic–all his brain power dedicated to timing his steps so that he doesn’t sprint out of your shop.

He walks–straight past the gym, where he meant to go–and doesn’t stop until his feet carry him through the threshold of his apartment. He ends up flat on his back in his tiny living room, staring at the ceiling and thinking of the way your canine tooth still pokes at your bottom lip the way it did when you were smaller and learning to ride a bike. He drags a hand down his face–some vain attempt of scrubbing the memory from his brain.

If nothing else, he knows what parts of the city to avoid now.

-Thirteen-

Katsuki feels weird. It’s not a new feeling–but it’s wholly unwelcome and an inconvenience at best. His body feels weird, too–he finds hair in places it wasn’t before and his voice does that god awful thing that embarrasses the hell out of him and he’s also been…having dreams.

You tend to be the star of them–which isn’t atypical, but usually in his dreams, he’s building a snow fort with you or reliving that time you accidentally swallowed a bug when you were 5. But now, his dreams make him acutely and uncomfortably aware of the changes in your body–the way your hips curve where they hadn’t before, the new swell of your chest, the way you smell a little different than you did before, how you’re often a full body, deep shade of red around him now–

He wakes up sticky and embarrassed more often than not.

It makes him want to avoid you–really, he'd do anything to stop the dreams and the feeling under his skin when you’re too close to him (or not close enough)–but he can’t. Not fully, anyway. He’s drawn to you like a magnet. He feels frustrated, and the only way he knows how to cope with that frustration right now is to get angry about it.

He takes out his anger on the younger and weaker–by now he’s forgotten the way those boys looked when they pushed you down at the park. The meaner he gets, the more revered he is by his peers, and that feels good. He doesn’t remember the way your tears beaded fat and fell down your cheeks in the way that the targets of his bullying shed them now. He slams a locker that someone has just opened and earns hoots and hollers from the boys around him, and to Katsuki, any praise is good praise.

He starts picking fights with his mother and antagonizing his teachers. He spends most afternoons in the principal’s office and he gets tired of the disapproval–of the disappointment that so palpably radiates from everyone around him. He does things he wouldn’t have considered before–skipping class and staying out past curfew (even if it’s just to loiter on the sidewalk of the next block over). He feeds off the energy of the group around him–someone makes a poor decision, and the rest follow. It feels good, to not feel any sense of inhibition. Everything else is fucked up and weird, but this is what he can control.

His one hang up is you.

Other students begin to avoid him in the halls-especially when he is flanked by one or two others. It feeds into his own sense of superiority–makes him puff out his chest and carry his head high on his shoulders. So high that he walks right past you.

“Hey!”

Your shout startles him out of his bravado. He turns and instantly deflates–one of his friends leers above you, holding your bookbag above your head, out of your reach.

He’s immediately filled with an anger that feels so familiar but he can’t place it. His vision dulls around the peripheral–focused in on you and the furrow of your eyebrows. Feeling, for the first time in a long while, some sense of injustice for what is happening around him.

Before he knows it, his fist connects with the soft remnant of baby fat that still exists under his friend’s ribcage. He drops, and so does your bookbag–Katsuki reaches over his writhing body to grab it and hand it back to you. He looks at you then–and is startled by what he sees on your face.

It’s a mix of shock and fear, and something else. Something like sadness, or what he'd later come to know as grief.

“Thanks, Katsuki.”

You sound quieter than he’s used to, and you don’t look at him when you take your bag from him. You sling it over your shoulder and turn on your heel, not bothering to say goodbye to him. He watches you go.

“Dude,” a cough from below him, “what the fuck–”

Katsuki looks down at the huddle of limbs below him with all of the disdain that he can muster. “Leave her alone,” he says. He walks away too, leaving his friend behind—not for the last time.

-Today-

Despite all of Katsuki’s attempts to avoid you, he sees you everywhere.

Except he can’t even really call them attempts. He supposes it’d be the opposite, because now he’s picked a new jogging route–which happens to be down the street you both grew up on. The one you’ve now made a home on.

He’s also managed to time it at exactly the time you head out to go to work. He nearly comes out of his skin the first time you call out to him. Like he wasn't expecting you to.

“Good morning,” you beam at him, having caught him right as he passed you on the sidewalk. He feels like you’ve trapped him there–which is odd, because he could just turn and continue his jog.

He doesn’t care to think too hard about why can’t physically get himself to do that.

“You want to come up?” you ask him, completely unaware of the agony inside him right now, “I just put on coffee–”

“No.” It’s gruff and too quick, and he sees you startle a bit. “I–uh. Have some shit to do this morning.”

You relax–and appear to be fighting off something like a grin, something a little too knowing for his comfort.

“Next time, then,” you tell him, pulling the door to your building shut behind you. “Have a good day, Katsuki.”

Next time comes very soon.

He did it to himself, really–there could only be so many times he meets you at your stoop at the exact moment you open the door before it stops being excused as a coincidence.

It's embarrassing at the very least and borderline obsessive behavior at its worst, but you don't bring it up–he's grateful for that, but also a little skeptical. You just invite him in again, and this time, he follows you through the door.

He's not sure what he was expecting. Really, it was silly to think that you'd have decorated your space according to your taste when you were seventeen, but he's surprised to find little bits of the person he knew you to be back then, scattered around your apartment. There's no mistaking the way your style has grown with you, though. It shouldn't be shocking to him that your home looks like a fully fleshed out, adult space, but it does. Weird.

"Offer's still there for coffee, if you want any."

You're watching him survey the place, hip leaned up against the entryway to the kitchen. The morning sun streams in through a window behind you, backlighting you in a warm glow.

Right. Why would it not?

Katsuki pulls himself together to nod at you, all the rigidity he'd tried to rid himself of still fully there. You smile and turn on your heel like you hadn't noticed.

Alone for the moment, he keeps looking. It feels a little invasive, but he can't stop. He needs to know about you, about the ways that you changed without him. He finds himself searching for the songs you like, the movies you watch, the hobbies you have. Who were you this whole time?

He walks slowly past a small, wooden shelf holding novels he's never heard of. The top cover is nondescript and gives him no hints as to what it could be about, but the spine is so worn that he knows you've read it more than once. He logs the title for...later. He's not actually sure why he's so fixated on it, but it freaks him out. He moves on.

There are frames all over the walls–art and dried flowers and a napkin with a note on it and in the middle of it all, a picture from a time he remembers. You and your kid sister in your matching pink overalls that used to embarrass you, but mostly because people mistook you for the younger sibling in them the most. Your face is painted like a tiger, and your front tooth is missing. He remembers this exact day, actually, because he's next to you in this picture.

"She never wants to match with me anymore."

He nearly jumps out of his skin. You pay him no mind, smiling softly at the picture. He tries to recover. "How is she–I, uh–"

"Doing? The same. Quiet still. My favorite person in the world."

He feels it in his chest and knows that it's true. He finds himself grateful that you've been loved this whole time. He also finds himself a little too aware of his own loneliness in a way that makes him want to leave. But you stand in his way now, coffee held out to him in your hands. He takes it and feels intensely grateful your fingers don't brush.

"You run every morning?"

The coffee burns his tongue and he fights the flinch, covering it with an affirming grunt.

"That's admirable. I think I'd have a hard time with a routine like that."

You don't mean anything by it. You couldn't mean anything by it, and yet he is reminded of the reason he has this routine. He is reminded of the person he was without this routine. And he needs to go right now.

He makes another excuse of having something he needs to do, and he doesn't look at your face when he leaves.

-Today-

You find yourself back in the old neighborhood bar on a Friday night, with none other than Kirishima Eijiro.

Eijiro has always been kind. When you ran into him on the sidewalk (literally, the wall of a man that he is), it was an easy yes when he'd asked you to catch up. You're not at all surprised to hear about his marriage, nor his baby on the way. It's fitting, you think. He'll be a great father, a great husband.

He asks about you, and you tell him about the gift shop. You tell him about moving away and it not feeling right–about the way it felt to be away from your sister. You tell him about your writing, and about the way your life is quiet and beautiful and your own.

There's just one thing that's bothering you.

“Tell me something,” you whisper lowly to the redhead, who leans in to listen. “What on earth is wrong with Katsuki?”

There’s a flash of something across his face, and then he’s back to feigning nonchalance. “Ah, I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

You level him with a look. “Eijiro.”

He sighs, sitting back in his seat. “Alright, alright. I do know what you’re talking about, but it’s not my business to tell.”

You cross your arms across your chest, eyebrow raised. He only laughs.

“Jeez, you’re scary. All I can say is he feels guilty about how he left things between you.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack, lady. He’s been holding onto it for a while.”

“Why?”

He only shrugs, taking another sip from the drink in front of him. You think it might be yours, but you don’t have it in you to tell him–whatever gets you an answer. “He’s worked really hard. I’m proud of him. He just,” he gestures into the empty space with the glass like it holds the words he’s looking for, “didn’t know how to reach out, I think.”

“That’s stupid.”

The redhead laughs, warm and open like he always was. It feels nostalgic, in a way. You’d never had much opportunity to spend time with Eijiro, and you feel a little sad about that. He’s good. You were glad that, in the time you’d been absent from his life, Katsuki had been able to find a friend like him.

“As tough as he seems, I think it tears him up to know that someone he cares about is upset with him.”

You gape at him. “He thinks I’m mad at him?”

Eijiro grins at you over the rim of the glass. With the most emphasized discretion and a wink, he slides his phone to you, screen-side up. Katsuki's contact. “Yep. He’s a baby.”

-Seventeen-

At seventeen, Katsuki understands what it means to regret something for the first time. You sit in front of him in tears, and he feels that regret so deeply that he thinks he might be sick.

“You’re so mean, Katsuki.”

Your voice is so uncharacteristically quiet he almost has to strain to hear it. You don’t look at him–and he panics, because he’s never known you to be near him and not looking at him.

“You’re a crybaby,” he says, and he means it lightly–he expects you to laugh, and to make a jab at him back–but the crease between your eyebrows gets deeper and your chin wobbles and suddenly the walls are closing in around him.

“Bunny, I–”

“I have to go.” And then you’re gone.

Your footsteps ricochet off the walls and inside his head until his teeth ache with it. He doesn’t understand what the hell just happened–or why he can’t ever seem to stop his mouth from running out in front of him, just out of his reach.

There’s nothing else to do but go home. For the first time since he’d learned to drive, his passenger seat sits empty.

“Morning!”

You sound chipper when you sit down next to him, which confuses the hell out of him until he looks up at you and sees the way your smile is brief, and strained at best.

The shame crawls up his throat and clamps down on any attempt at reciprocation. It’s all he can do to force out a grunt of acknowledgement. You don’t say anything else.

Class ends, and he doesn’t wait for you. He is up and out of the room before you even stand from your seat.

There is something very cowardly that lives in Katsuki. He hadn’t known about it until now–and now he feels settled into it. Like it’s known him all his life.

He’s ignoring you. That’s what it is, no matter how many other ways his mind tries to spin it. It’s been 3 months since he made you cry and now it feels too late–like any attempt at speaking to you would just be inappropriate–so he doesn’t. He knows he’s a coward and he can see that it hurts you. Your texts start dwindling–where you used to chat with him throughout the day (often to his chagrin), your name comes across his phone once every few weeks, and then not at all. He reads every message, and he replies to none.

But then he gets busy–preparation for graduation and moving out and on and making something of himself–and a year passes. You still say hello to him when you see him. You’re still kind to him, which that in itself he cannot understand. There’s an obvious rift, though. You don’t seek him out anymore. And he can’t blame you.

He knows you’re alright, though, if your social media posts are anything to go by. You’ve made other friends, and every picture of the corners of your mouth drawn back in that familiar grin feels like a wound. He feels guilty about that, too–about the ways in which he grieves a spot in your life that he is no longer entitled to.

-Today-

He doesn’t touch a single step on the way up to your place–he’s not even sure he’s opened the door so much as kicked the fucking thing down just to get to you. You in danger–you hurt and needing him and–

Standing there. Whole and unharmed, fingers stained red only with the strawberry you have halfway to your mouth. Hip propped against the counter, you look relaxed–certainly not in any peril–

His exhale is sharp–forced, as the relief bleeds into irritation. “What the fuck, Bunny–”

“No, you, what the fuck,” you say, hands on your hips. His eyes have no choice but to follow them, and he realizes you have his sweatpants on. “What is wrong with you?”

They’d be floods on him now, but they fit you in a way that would make him believe they were yours if he didn’t know any better. Worn in, like you’d been wearing them this whole time. A relic from some sport he played way back when–where you wearing them felt inconsequential then, it feels monumental now, after how he treated you. He can’t wrap his mind around the way there could still be any possibility of a space carved out for himself in your life.

“Why did y’act like you were fuckin’ dying’?”

“Would you have come otherwise?”

That gives him pause–because he’s not sure what answer you’re looking for. “I–”

“You,” you cut him off with a step closer to him–he takes one back, toward the still open door. “Have been avoiding me. What did I do?”

“It’s not–you didn’t do anything–”

“So what is it?”

It’s quiet, then–and somehow the weight of his absence is more crushing than it’s ever been. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly–trying to slow the locomotive beat of his heart.

“M’sorry,” he mutters, looking down at a spot on the floor. He hates himself for not being able to look at you. He hates that after all of these years, this is the extent of his bravery.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Was shitty to you,” he drags a hand down his face and forces himself to look at you. Forces himself to keep your eyes for at least three seconds before the panic rears up and he has to look away again. “When we were kids.”

But now he’s frustrated–because that can’t be all he has to offer you. Years, and sorry I was an asshole is all he has to say? At this point in his life, after all of the work he has put in, it feels unacceptable to him.

He just can’t think of another thing to say.

But you’re patient. You always have been. You tilt your head and wait.

“I was…mean to you,” he hears your words to him so clearly he has to remind himself that you hadn’t just said them to him, standing here in front of him. “And then I left.”

“You did,” you murmur gently, but there’s no detectable bitterness in your tone. You look at him with all of the fondness you always did.

“Wasn’t right,” he gruffs, throat feeling tight, “‘n I should’ve apologized and then it was too late. And now…”

You hum, an almost sympathetic thing. You take a step closer to him, and he has to fight to stay where he is. A large part of him wants to bolt out the door–another smaller and seemingly insane part wants to be closer to you.

“I missed you, you know.”

His eyes snap to yours then–searching for the punchline. Waiting for you to tell him that you were only fucking with him. It doesn’t come. You seem to hear the question he can’t get himself to ask.

“I was never upset with you, Kat. I only ever missed you.”

“But I–” he can’t think of one good reason to try to argue with you right now, and yet he can’t stop his mouth from moving. “You cried–”

And that makes you laugh. “Katsuki, I was sixteen. Someone could have breathed the wrong way and I’d cry.”

He can’t get his brain to catch up. You take another step toward him–he feels your proximity buzz on his skin.

“I knew you,” you murmur, and it feels like a secret he does not deserve to hear, “and you’re different now. But I’d like to think I know you still.”

He feels your fingers wrap around the wrist that’s glued to his side. He eyes you, not completely confident that he’s not hallucinating right now. He lets the tension bleed from that particular spot of his body–lets you thread your fingers through his. It feels like you’ve set him on fire and he’s acutely aware in this moment that he will never let you go. Not ever again.

“I’m still here,” you tell him, speaking directly to his heart now. You take one more step and wrap your arms around his middle, ear to his heart. If he was anywhere close to his right mind, he’d be embarrassed by how it races in his chest. “I still need you like I did then.”

You’ve rendered him speechless and immobile. It’s another several, long seconds before you break the silence.

“Okay Kat this is going to be really embarrassing if you don’t hug me back–”

“Sorry,” he murmurs, thawed. He wraps both arms around your shoulders, a cage around your head that holds you to him. “Sorry.”

You laugh a little, muffled by his sweatshirt, and he feels warm. It’s quiet then, but not in a way that’s oppressive–not in a way that pins him to the floor or to his grief.

“Stay here tonight,” you tell him–you don’t ask.

He wants to say no–he has no change of clothes and he has his routine that keeps him afloat and he’s not sure what’ll happen if he strays from that–but to be with you like this feels good. It would be stupid to stave that off for even one more night.

Now that he's comfortable enough to really look, there are pieces of you around your apartment that he never thought he’d see again.

In the throw pillows you’ve picked, the way you arrange things (and not just the pictures and frames but other things that he didn't see before, ornate and odd and out of place if anywhere but here. He thinks they're weird and just like you to have) on your walls. He’s no idea when he got so damn sentimental, but he can’t help it (and would rather die than ask you about any of it, so he observes quietly when you’re not looking).

You ask him if he's hungry, and for the first time in a while, he's not nauseous around you and finds that he could eat. No sooner than you start cooking does he bat you away and take over completely. You put up what he knows is a weak attempt at a fight before you take a seat next to him on the counter to watch. It’s all he can do to pay attention to the downswing of his knife on the cutting board, rather than the way his sweatpants hug your hips from this angle.

God, is he fucking thirteen again?

He feels it–knows he’s red in the face the entire time you’re next to him. You seem oblivious–chatting with him about the shop and the book you’re reading and your sister, and everything else he’s missed in the last however long. It sobers him a bit–because there is so much that he has missed.

“Hey,” you swing your leg out to poke him in the gut with your toes. “I’m right here.”

He catches you by the foot and holds you there–fights to keep himself from brushing over the instep of it with his thumb. “Keep y'r gross feet to yourself.”

You hum. “You gonna let go of my gross foot then?”

He releases you immediately, red and grumbling about you being a damn brat when you chuckle. He busies himself with finishing dinner, pointedly choosing not to look at you to protect his own sanity.

He supposes it makes sense–he’d cut off his feelings for you years ago like he’d bent a hose in half. To be around you again has loosened his grip on the thing–and here they are again, flooding his system with far more pressure than before. It’s a heavy thing, the weight of his love and the burden of what he’d done. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t upset with him–he feels the need to atone all the same.

Over dinner, he feels bold enough to let you in, at least a little bit. He keeps his eyes on his plate as he details chronologically–graduating, the loneliness, the need to be connected and to make amends. In not so many words, he tells you about his regret. He wants to tell you of his deepest one–walking away from you–but he stops just short of it.

You’re thoughtful beside him, chewing on each piece of the puzzle as he shares it. After a moment, he starts to sweat.

“Never knew you could be so quiet.”

You huff, mouth pulling up at the corners. “And I never knew you could talk so much.”

Before he can get embarrassed, you reach for him again–fingers wrapping around his forearm. “You’re different now.”

It’s the second time you’ve said it and the wave of insecurity threatens to displace his dinner. The word comes out before he can stop it. “Bad?”

You shake your head, smile growing wider. “No. Not bad.”

He supposes he can live with that. You keep your grip on him, literal and otherwise.

“Don’t remember you bein’ so touchy.” It’s half-hearted at best–he curses himself for looking a gift horse in the mouth, but the confusion somehow beats out the unfettered need to have your attention on him.

He turns his arm over, palm up, and you smooth your thumb over the tendon in his wrist. You smile again, but it’s subdued this time. It doesn’t quite meet your eyes in the way he knows you meant it to. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“M’ sorry, Bunny.”

You shake your head, eyes trained on each freckle on his arm as you smooth over it with your thumb. “You were a child. There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

He huffs, grabbing a hold of your hand. “Yeah, well, ’m a grown ass man now and I’m still sorry.”

You snort, weaving your fingers together again. Your smile comes easier.

“I love you,” you murmur, eyes never leaving where you are linked with him.

The silence turns deafening. Katsuki is certain he’s just had a fucking stroke.

“I–you–”

“Oh my god,” you breathe, looking mortified as you snatch your hand away from him–

He snatches it back just as quickly. “Fuckin’–hold on–”

You look like you’re ready to chew his arm off to get out of his grasp–and it makes him laugh. Really laugh, deep in his chest–you look at him like he’s lost his mind.

“I’ve been–fuckin’,” he says, still giggly, still giddy if he could ever be that, “dreamin’ of hearing you say that for nearly two damn decades and that’s how you do it?”

He’s still laughing as he watches the gears turn in your head–you relax a little in your seat and he releases you, only when he’s sure you won’t dart off. You suck in a breath, long and controlled.

“Oh,” you exhale, and he watches it click for you. “You–oh.”

He feels bolder than he ever has–every nerve ending in his body on fire and needing you. He's up and next to you before he knows it, and you look up at him with eyes that look right through him. For the first time, he hopes you see it all. He wants you to see everything.

Whatever you see has you up out of your seat, your hands reaching for him and settling on his chest like you'd known the feeling of him beneath your palms all of your life. You tilt your chin, and he follows you down.

Katsuki's got the whole world in his hands; he chooses to handle it–you–with fragility that he wasn’t sure he was capable of until now. He rushes nothing–the soft give of your hips under his hands is nearly dizzying and he can’t stop himself from pulling you closer, if you ever could be. You don’t seem to mind–reaching and grabbing and needing him like you are. To know that the unbridled want he feels is mutual burns him from the inside out–but it’s more than that, and he can feel it down to his bones–he loves you. So deeply and for so long that he hardly knows what to do with himself now that he has you in his lap. He only knows, as innately as breathing or the blood flowing through his veins, to pull you closer–fingertips touching at your spine and pulling you closer still, expanding with your ribcage at every breath that grows deeper against his lips.

“Katsuki,” and you whisper it but you may as well have shouted for the way it lights up every synapse in his brain, “want more of you–”

“Let me feel ya a little longer,” he presses a kiss to your jaw and he feels like he’s pleading. He’s not too proud to do it. “Just a little longer, yeah?”

You blink, processing what he’s asked, and a small, sweet smile splits your face as you lean your forehead to his temple, nodding softly. And god, does it feel like a prize, like a gift he’s surely never deserved but you are so good and you care little for how deserving he might be. He’s never known anything like you–never knew he could have something like this. Your body bows toward his like gravity or the universe or a god called you to do it, and there’s no force on earth or otherwise that could keep him from meeting you halfway.

His fingers follow the spaces between your ribs and trail up to the hollow of your throat–he feels the rapid flutter of your heart through the thin skin and the knowledge that you are as affected as he is proves to be too much for his own heart–

“Katsuki–”

You’re pleading now, and when he meets your hooded gaze he understands. His hands fall to your hips again, and press down gently–he can look nowhere but your face that goes slack as you shudder through the pleasure that he feels lick up his spine. He’s as intentional and methodical as he’s ever been, and he knows that if he’d ever been born for anything, it has to be this–to use his body for this–for you–

“Oh,” your arms loop around his neck and pull him back to you, and he chases the soft press of your lips to his–the feeling of your sweet sounds that fill his mouth, “it’s so good. You feel so good.”

Your praise gnaws at the edges of his skull and makes everything fuzzy. He’s mindless as he holds you there–rutting against you slowly, just as animal as anything but only with the goal of keeping you in his arms, kissing him like you are. Every plush glide of your mouth against his pulls him deeper into this thing–

He nearly comes out of his skin when your hand covers where he is hard and aching and squeezes. “I want to feel you,” you say, and he comes back to himself, if only a little bit, to pull your hand into his and bring it to his lips.

“Later”, he murmurs against your wrist, letting his words smear across your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. He presses a kiss to the inside of your elbow and raises it over his head to join the other. “Need you t’feel good.”

It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said and the weight of it presses you back into your sheets, open and looking up at him like an angel. He knows to treat you gentler still–he resists the urge to bite down–to consume, to bring you into him–and replaces it with the press of his mouth to your jawline, and the wet drag of his tongue across the skin of your stomach.

“So beautiful,” he breathes against your skin, warm and soft between your hip bones, “Y’re so fucking beautiful–”

He knows he’s never tasted a thing like you when you flood his tongue, and that he will never again–knows that he’ll never hear anything like the cry you let out as you let him have this part of you. The way you say his name, the way you don't seem to know whether to pull him in or push him away–now that he has you, he knows he can never go without.

He loves you. He loves you.

You slip over that edge with the ease of water from a glass and he nearly follows you. He presses his temple into the soft give of your thigh and feels delighted at the feeling of the flutter of your heartbeat. He'd stay there forever if he could, but your grip on his hair pulls him back up to you, and he can't stop the laugh that leaves him.

You kiss him and the arousal knocks around his stomach so hard it makes him dizzy. He pulls away just to ground himself–he leans his temple to yours and relishes in the feeling of your fingertips up his arms, over his shoulders, into his hair.

"Katsuki," you whisper, pulling him closer. He knows it could never be closer enough.

"'m here, Bunny," he kisses every inch of skin he can reach, "I'm here."

#coms <3 #I would say coms are open but this took literal months so like. proceed at your own risk #bakugou katsuki #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou fic #mha fic #bnha fic #bakugou fluff #bakugou hurt comfort #BAKUBUN <3

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hythlodaes · 14 days

Text

and then came june

emile/leofard 9.2k words [read on ao3] explicit summary: modern AU. when leofard becomes friends with benefits with his university's star quarterback, he never expects to fall for him. (also ty @scionshtola for letting me borrow cori!! ♥)

Chapter One- Spring

Leofard has every reason to feel alone in this world.

He doesn't remember his parents, doesn't know what happened to them, only that he was left to grow up by himself. He used to wonder about his relatives—when other children would talk about grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, and he'd think, Where are mine? Why couldn't they take care of me?

He's long grown out of those thoughts.

At nineteen, he loses the one person that he could call family. Not related by blood, Raimille still loves him as a son, still leaves him everything she has with only one request: that he graduates college. At nineteen, he moves across the country with the car he loves with all his heart, speakers blasting Nirvana the whole way. Years in foster care have taught him never to feel sorry for himself, only to chase the freedom that he finds out here. After watching Raimille waste away with sickness, he chooses life.

And he never feels alone. He meets Stacia at orientation, and she instantly becomes the sister he always wished he had. Over the years he meets friends in classes, at parties, at work, and it becomes a new kind of family—silly, loud, and his.

Then, early spring of his junior year, he meets Emile.

—

It starts with a half joke between Leofard and Stacia at two in the morning, curled up on the couch of their apartment and barely awake after marathoning their favorite movies all day. We should throw a party, Leofard murmurs into the tv flashed dark, and Stacia—his usual voice of reason—doesn't say no.

Their apartment ends up cramped with dozens of college students the next weekend, loud and messy and the kind of thing that makes Leofard laugh until his stomach hurts. He shines under the extra attention, his body warm from alcohol, and it’s the kind of happiness that feels just real enough.

He runs into Stacia as the front door opens again. A bunch of tall, bulky guys spill through, and Leofard may not follow their school's football team the way Stacia does, but she's dragged him to enough games that he recognizes a few of them.

She always says she comes from a football family, and well, that includes Leofard now too.

"God, they're huge," he comments, and he's about to turn his attention away when his gaze catches the last of them ducking under the door. He’s a little taller than the rest, and dark brown hair falls to his chin but he tucks it behind his ear, big eyes searching the room before someone claps him on the shoulder.

The guy smiles, eyes curving into half moons, and Leofard feels the corners of his lips threaten to raise.

Stacia shakes her head. "Leo, I swear if you try to sleep with anyone on the football team..."

"Who said anything about that?" he asks, but this time he lets his mouth pull into a grin. "I'm just appreciating the view."

The night drags on, the music blurs from one song into the next. Leofard feels only slightly hazy—that sluggish kind of drunk that makes the room spin a little slower. He gives into it, hearing his own laughter as a loud and distant sound in his ears.

He finds himself in the kitchen again, a full drink in his hand. Utata sits on the counter, singing along to the music at the top of her lungs, and Leofard keeps his focus on her for a moment too long. In hindsight, it's funny that he doesn't see it coming, but Leofard turns away, knocking into the person behind him, and the entirety of his drink spills onto their shirt on impact.

He has to tilt his head back to meet wide brown eyes, shock evident in the gaze that looks down at him. Leofard recognizes him from when he came in, but he's even cuter up close, where he can make out the freckles on his cheeks, the pout of his lips as he glances down at his shirt.

"Shit, sorry," Leofard says, wincing at the red splotch that trails from collar to hem.

"It's okay," the guy says quickly. His voice is softer than Leofard expected and a little hard to hear over the music. He looks up over Leofard's head and into the kitchen. "I'll just rinse this off."

Leofard almost laughs until he realizes he wasn’t joking.

"Hate to say it, but that's not coming out, baby," he yells over the music. "Come on, I'll get you a new one."

"You'll—" he starts, but Leofard claps him on the back as he walks past him. He leaves no room for argument, and the guy follows him to his room. The door shuts behind them, quieting the party to a dull roar in the background. It grounds Leofard for a moment, steadies him against the blurriness of the alcohol in his system as he goes to his bureau.

“You called me baby,” the guy says, and when Leofard glances over his shoulder, he’s looking around the room, pausing at his desk to pick up one of Leofard's records. He meets his gaze. “This is your apartment.”

“Right on both counts," he answers, and the guy smiles at him. There’s a warmth in Leofard’s chest that has nothing to do with being drunk. "What's your name?"

"Emile." "I'm Leofard."

"I know," he says, and clears his throat. "I've heard about you."

Leofard’s hands still. "Really?"

"Well...I've heard about your car."

"Even better," he says, letting his lips split into a crooked grin. He turns his attention back to the bureau. "Given the obvious, I'm not sure if I have anything that'll fit you."

"You really don't have to, I'm sure this will wash out."

"As much as I enjoy the mental image, do you really want to walk around in a wet shirt the rest of the night?" he challenges, just as he finds an old band tee that's always been way too big for him. When he turns around, he has to smile at the pout on Emile's lips. It doesn't last long, but he continues to stare at Leofard for a moment before his shoulders slump in defeat.

Then he takes his ruined shirt off.

Leofard has to bite down on his tongue—he should look away. He doesn't. His eyes roam along the thick muscle of Emile's chest and up to the line of his broad shoulders, back down the bulk of his arms. Lifting his gaze, he meets Emile's, who watches him watch, something not quite discernable in his eyes before he smiles shyly—it's the tilt of his chin, the curve of his lips...

"Baby, you're something else," Leofard breathes out, and hands him the clean shirt.

Emile rolls his eyes before he puts it on. It stretches around him—where it hangs loose on Leofard, it clings to Emile, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Thank you.”

"Don't mention it," he says, and he shifts his weight between his feet, unwilling to let the moment go. "So what’s this you heard about my car?”

“Oh,” he says. “Some of the guys were talking about it on the way over—said you could hear it halfway across campus.”

Leofard raises his brows, grinning helplessly. “It’s not that loud. Shit, I thought it would be something good.”

"Like what?"

"Like what? I've worked on that car for the last six years of my life, it's perfect. A thing of beauty."

Emile laughs, watching him for a moment longer before he asks, "Will you show it to me?”

That single question sets his mind racing. For a moment, he can see it so clearly: Emile's long legs in the passenger seat, Leofard's hand on his thigh. He'd roll the windows down, stealing glances at his loose hair blowing in the wind while the Shins play over the speakers.

He thinks he’d show Emile anything, if he asked.

"Play your cards right," he says. "I'll even take you for a ride."

Emile laughs again, something closer to a giggle. He must be just as drunk, but he's so cute in Leofard's shirt, his big eyes bright with amusement. “You're flirting with me.”

“Well, you’re the one wearing my shirt.”

“You spilled your drink on mine!”

Leofard grins. “And I almost wish I did it on purpose.”

A blush colors Emile’s cheeks as he turns his head away. “I wouldn’t say no,” he murmurs, and when he looks back, he doesn’t hide the way his eyes cast down Leofard’s body and back up to meet his gaze. He clears his throat. “You know—to a ride.”

Leofard swallows hard. Everything in him says to move closer, to reach out, to touch him, but he holds himself back. “Come on, let's get another drink.”

The sound of the party passes over them as Emile follows him out of his room. They walk down the hall together, but as soon as Leofard makes it to the kitchen, someone wraps an arm around his neck and yells into his ear. Leofard makes out half of the words, but as he looks behind him, it seems that Emile is similarly lost in the crowd.

The stab of disappointment lasts longer than he expects it to.

The night grows weary, the music still plays. Leofard is definitely drunk but it only makes him tired. There are a few times throughout the night when Emile catches his eye across the room, and a small smile crosses his lips. It feels like something secret exists between them—something merely waiting for the right moment.

They collide again.

This time it’s Emile’s hand on his shoulder, holding himself steady as his body sways closer, as he leans down. Distance is a second thought when he fixes those brown eyes on Leofard, lips curving up at the edges in a shy smile.

“I thought you were going to show me your car," he says, his soft voice loud over the music, but all Leofard can focus on is the strength of his grip on his shoulder, and as he blinks at him through the blurry lights of the living room, the only thought on his mind is touch him.

This time he doesn't hold back.

He reaches out to wrap his arm around Emile's waist, hand grazing along his own shirt clinging to his body. He bites down on a grin at the way Emile shifts into his touch, the way his eyes widen when Leofard inches his fingertips beneath the hem, teasing at his warm skin. With their faces this close, Leofard just has to tilt his chin towards him to be heard, keeping his voice deep, quiet. “All you have to do is ask, baby.”

“Please?” Emile murmurs against his ear, and Leofard closes his eyes for a moment. That single word sets the room spinning, keeping in time with the way his heart pounds in his chest. He turns his head towards him, noses brushing for a moment, breath ghosting against each other's lips, and he swallows hard as he pulls away.

“Come on.” Fresh air sounds like a good idea.

He turns his gaze to the door, and Emile is a step behind him as they head outside. There's a few people smoking on the front steps, but in the fuzzy dark they hardly pay Emile and Leofard any mind as they slip around the corner. The streetlights barely reach them here, washing the yard in gray light while everything sits muted and quiet. Only the distant sound of music from the house can be heard, a beat that sinks under the surface of the night.

It's cold, but Emile's body is warm as he crowds him against the side of the house, the excuse of seeing his car all but forgotten. Leofard touches the hem of his shirt again as Emile's head bends towards his, and there's a certain sway to them both, something hazy but desperate, lingering at the boundary line between them.

Leofard crosses first, reaching up to wrap his arms around Emile's shoulders and pull him down into his space, where he meets his mouth with his own. Emile tastes like sugary punch, and he kisses him softly until he parts his lips. Leofard gasps against him, tangling his fingers in his hair as he deepens the kiss, a sound caught in the back of his throat as Emile's hands skim down his back and pull his body against his.

It's the right kind of messy—lacking just enough control to satisfy that desire in his chest. It says I need you without holding back, and Leofard hates how much he wants that from a stranger familiar enough to give it to him.

He pushes further, hands seeking the touch of his skin beneath his shirt, and he moans when Emile slots his thigh between his, as a rhythm begins to build, heavy breaths warming the air between them, and—

"Hey, Emile, are you out here?" comes a voice from the dark.

They break apart. Leofard doesn't recognize whoever calls out towards them, but he keeps his eyes closed as he catches his breath. Emile’s touch shifts to his waist as he leans back in, his voice just above a whisper. "That's my ride home."

Leofard cracks his eyes open. "You're kidding."

“I wish I was.”

He has the thought to offer to take Emile back himself, but he's too drunk to drive. His next thought is to offer to let him stay the night, but he dismisses it the second it comes to mind. The thought of Emile taking his hands off of him is unbearable in this state, but he can't think of another way out.

“Okay, Cinderella,” he relents, and he can see the stretch of Emile’s smile even in the dark. "This was fun."

"It was," he agrees, and for a moment Leofard thinks he's going to kiss him again, but he just shakes his head. "Goodnight."

Leofard watches him walk back towards the lights of the driveway, where the silhouettes of his friends wait for him. Leofard just stares, his head in a daze as he blinks into the night. Emile opens the door to the passenger side of an old jeep, throwing one last look over his shoulder before he gets in.

Headlights pass over the yard and then disappear down the street. Leofard tilts his head back against the house, willing his body to calm down before he goes back inside, where the party slows to a stop. Stacia raises a brow when they meet in the kitchen, but he merely shrugs a shoulder at her despite the disappointment in his chest.

When he finally makes it back to his room, he has to laugh at Emile's stained shirt left on his bed. Cinderella indeed. He tosses it into his closet and crawls under the blankets. The room still spins even when he closes his eyes, but he thinks about the warmth of Emile’s body along his, the press of his lips, and what could’ve happened if they had a little more time.

He lets his hand drift down his stomach—an echo of Emile's touch—but almost isn’t quite enough.

—

It doesn’t stay on his mind for long.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t keep an eye out for Emile on campus—he’d be hard to miss, anyway—but a week goes by, then another, and Leofard lets go of the idea of running into him again. He never mentions it to Stacia, who would only make fun of him for it anyway, he merely chalks it up as a missed opportunity, something that wasn't meant to be.

Where he's content to let it stay, until a few weeks later.

Utata invites him and Stacia over on a Friday night. She says she's throwing a small party, but they all know better. She's one of his only friends that lives with her family off campus, which means whenever her parents are out of town, they have the whole house to themselves.

Leofard walks over with Stacia—they meant to show up early but they're both perpetually late, and the party is in full swing by the time they get there. Cars line the street and the yard, and inside the lights are low, skimming over the crowd in a blue haze. It smells like smoke and like someone spilled punch, which makes him think of a stained shirt, and—

"I'm going to grab a drink," he yells over the music, and Stacia nods at him before she disappears into the packed living room.

He navigates through the crowded hall, and it’s funny how everyone feels a little familiar at this point, strangers faces that he can pick out from classes over the years, from this same party he's been to time and again. It's always the same and yet they keep doing this, keep repeating it because it's the smallest break from the stress of school, from the stress of figuring out what they're supposed to be doing with their lives.

At the end of the hall, he runs into Cori.

They’re bent down in front of Utata’s dog—Pickles, a fluffy collie that's currently nuzzling his face into her lap as they scratch behind his ear. Leofard’s used to seeing them at school, their similar majors all but guaranteeing shared classes over the years, but they've become something like friends at this point.

Mostly they share the same love of cars, which—and he would never admit this to anyone, not even Stacia—Cori is far more knowledgeable of.

"Hey," he says, and a wave of hair cascades over their shoulder when they glance up at him.

“Hi,” they return. "No one was paying attention to Pickles."

“It's a good thing you're here, then," he says. "I was just going to grab a drink, do you want any—“

His voice cuts off as he glances into the kitchen, where his gaze lands on the one person he thought he'd never see again. Big brown eyes curve into half moons as he smiles, loose hair curves around his chin as he talks, the light of the kitchen makes his skin golden.

Emile is here.

“Leo?” It’s Cori who says it, and Leofard barely registers his own name.

"Sorry, I—" he starts, but then Emile looks over, brows lifting when he notices Leofard. A small smile crosses his lips, but someone grabs him by the arm, pulling him out of the kitchen. He lifts his drink towards Leofard for a moment and then he's gone again.

"Someone you know?" Cori asks.

"Yeah," he answers, and he clears his throat, forcing himself to look away. "I'll catch up with him later."

He tells himself that he'll let it happen naturally, that if they run into each other again then he'll talk to him, but it's just a few minutes later that he finds himself fumbling over an excuse to Cori before heading in the same direction that Emile left in.

The music has definitely gotten louder, and the sound of laughter and conversation has risen to match it. The living room is a mess of people dancing and silver balloons that get thrown into the air, skimming along hands raised from the crowd. Emile shouldn't be hard to find, but Leofard doesn't see him anywhere. Maybe he left already—

"Looking for someone?" Emile asks, and Leofard turns towards the sound of his voice. There's something so bright about his brown eyes as he grins. "Hi, Leofard."

"Hi," he returns, and he catches himself smiling back. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

"Me neither. I owe you a shirt."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "Looked better on you, anyway."

Emile glances away for a moment before huffing out a laugh. "You're so..."

"What—charming?" he suggests.

"Something like that."

"Come on, let's dance."

He immediately shakes his head. "Oh, I'm not much of a dancer."

"No one's judging, baby," he says. "Besides, everyone's too drunk to care."

"Are you?"

Leofard didn't even stop for a drink. "Not yet."

"Me neither," he says. "I have a meeting with my coach first thing in the morning, I shouldn't even be here."

"Miss me that much?"

Emile laughs. "Yes Leo, I've actually spent all this time looking for you."

"Well here I am," he returns. "May as well make the most of it."

Leofard watches him press his lips together, the way his gaze shifts over him as he considers it. His shoulders lower the slightest bit and Leofard smiles, knowing his answer already.

"Fine," Emile says. "One song."

"Before you turn into a pumpkin, yes I remember," he says, and he takes him by the hand into the crowd.

He was right, hardly anyone even looks over at them as they begin to move to the music. The beat is fast and heavy, pulsing through him as he keeps his eyes locked on Emile. They move closer and closer and impossibly closer, and Emile puts his hands on Leofard, long fingers pressing into his waist.

More.

Leofard raises a brow before he turns in his embrace, moving back until he fits against Emile’s chest. Emile’s hands skim down to rest low on his belly, and Leofard covers them with his own as he rolls his hips against him.

Blue dimmed lights, the kiss of balloons against the ceiling, he blinks in and out of a dream. There’s something possessive about Emile’s touch, and Leofard lets his head fall back against his shoulder as the music beats through him. Are both of their hearts pounding? Emile’s head lowers to his neck, and he can feel the warmth of his breath as his lips ghost against his skin—

The song ends.

For a moment, neither of them move.

"You know," Leofard says, turning to face him. "We have unfinished business, Cinderella."

"What do you mean?" he asks, but his hands are still on Leofard, and they inch the slightest bit lower.

"I mean," Leofard starts. "I never showed you my car."

Amusement makes a home in Emile's gaze. “I don’t think that’s what we were doing.”

“No? Maybe we’ll have to try again.”

Emile glances at his lips for a long moment before meeting his eyes again. The next song starts but they don't move, still standing too close, faces angled just right—all it would take is the slightest effort to kiss.

It's been weeks, but it's the same feeling crawling up Leofard's chest.

"Come on," he murmurs. The music drowns out his voice but Emile's hand finds his as he leads them through the crowd. Going outside didn't work for them last time, and he knows Utata would kill him if he took Emile to her room. Still, they go upstairs where the house is emptier, the music is still loud but the sound of voices dims to the background.

They slip into the bathroom.

Silver blue light streams in through the window, echoing across the tiled wall. The silhouette of Emile steps ahead of him, and they stay in the dark, bodies moving closer. Emile is so big and solid and yet he yields to Leofard, lets him crowd him against the sink. It's quiet enough that Leofard can hear the hitch in his breath, the small sound in the back of his throat when Leofard puts his hands on him.

In the dark, their lips meet.

It's better than his drunken memory, sharper without the haze of alcohol blurring the lines between them. His heart races as they rush into it, his own desperation climbing as they continue what was cut short. He kisses Emile's jaw, lips brushing along warm skin as he works down to his neck, and he has to hold back a grin as Emile's hands bunch at his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Isn't this," Emile breathes out, "a bit of a risk?"

"Maybe," Leofard returns, but he lets his hand skim down to Emile's jeans, tugging at the waistband. "I can stop if you want, baby."

Emile pushes his hips into his touch. “Keep going.”

Leofard bites down on another grin before he presses his mouth to his shoulder, hand reaching lower to undo the button of his jeans. Heat surges through him at the sound of Emile's shaky breath, at the crack of his voice loosening into a moan as Leofard finally touches him.

It’s like the rest of the room disappears. Leofard pulls back enough to watch his face, to see his brows push together, his lips part, the way his eyes shut as his head tips back. He does not hide his pleasure, and in the ghost of the moonlight, Leofard is transfixed.

"Wait," Emile murmurs, and Leofard looks up in question when he puts a hand on his wrist to stop him. "I want to—with you."

Leofard is about to ask what he means when he reaches over to tug at Leofard's jeans, a small smile on his lips as he looks up to meet his gaze. His hair is a mess, lips still parted, his big eyes wide as he watches him—Leofard doesn't stand a chance.

He's already close, and he groans openly as Emile takes them both in hand. Somehow they find each other's lips again, and they kiss as their hips work together, the sound of the party all but gone as they pant into each other’s mouths. For a moment, all that matters is the rush of warmth through his body, building with each stroke until his breath catches in his throat.

They’re still kissing when they come.

Leofard tilts his head back, eyes squeezed shut until the feeling begins to fade. The world comes back to him in pieces: the distant sound of music playing, Emile's hand steady on his hip, the room shifting into focus when he opens his eyes again.

He catches Emile's gaze, and they both laugh.

"Utata would actually kill me if she knew."

Emile shakes his head. "I won’t say a word."

And then it's just the two of them in a dark bathroom. They clean up, taking turns washing their hands and fixing their hair and clothes. Leofard almost wants to put the lights on just to see the flush of Emile's skin, but once they're both ready, they slip back into the empty hallway, where a rare question leaves Leofard's mouth: “What if I asked for your number?”

Emile blinks at him for a moment. “Oh, I don't really date. It's kind of hard with my schedule, and I don't want to commit to anything if I'm not sure about it—not that I don't like you! I just don't know if it would be a good idea, or if I'm even in a place to figure that out..."

His voice trails off and his brows push together as he watches Leofard for a reaction.

Leofard laughs.

"Relax baby, I'm not exactly boyfriend material either," he says. "I just wanted to hook up again."

"Oh," Emile says, and he begins to laugh as well. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he returns. "We can leave it like this, too."

Emile bites his lip. "No—no, I'd like to see you again."

"Yeah?" He fishes his phone from his pocket and opens his list of contacts before handing it over. He watches the way the light flashes against Emile's face as he enters his number. It makes his freckles stand out, and it's hard not to stare at the way they cross over his nose. He clears his throat. “I don’t date either, you know.”

“Okay,” Emile says, and he lets their hands brush when he gives him his phone back. “So no expectations?”

“No expectations," he confirms. "We can just be friends."

Emile smiles. “Just friends.”

—

If Leofard knew, in that moment, that Emile was in love with someone else, he probably still would've gone for it.

If he knew how easily his own heart could break, how this conversation would be the one he'd come to regret—

Well.

Maybe that would've made him pause.

—

He sleeps in too late the night day, the sun bright behind his blinds and warming him even as cool air seeps in through the cracked open window. His blanket is in his fist, curled up beneath his chin as he takes in a deep breath and stretches his body out for a moment before relaxing back into his pillow.

He gives himself a few more minutes; it’s been a while since he's felt this good.

It's noon by the time he gets up, and he shuffles into the kitchen with his blanket still wrapped around him. Stacia's at the table with a steaming cup of coffee and an open book, but she stares blankly at the space in front of her. It takes a moment for her to look up at him, and the looming afternoon light only highlights the dark circles under her eyes.

“You good?” he asks.

“Hungover,” she returns. “You?”

He bites his lip for a moment as he recalls last night, the phantom memory of Emile's hands on him, the new phone number in his contact list. “Just tired.”

It’s a testament to her hangover that she doesn’t notice the tone of his voice—light and entirely too pleased with himself—but he leaves her to her coffee while he makes breakfast. Though he is prone to burning most of the food he cooks, he is more than capable of eggs and toast, and he pours himself a cup of coffee to sip at while he works.

Sometimes it's like this: bare feet on the cool kitchen tiles, warm sunlight on his skin, the smell of coffee in the air—moments of the smallest, most simple happiness can happen so unexpectedly.

When he sits back down, he takes a breath and asks, “What do you know about Emile?”

Stacia's head pops up from her book. “Jenidaut?”

“Maybe?” he says, lifting a shoulder. He doesn’t have a clue what his last name is. Through a mouthful of toast, he says, “He’s on the football team.”

“Yeah,” she answers. “He’s the best quarterback this school has ever seen. He’s a sophomore and there were already rumors of a Heisman this season.”

Leofard just blinks at her.

“You've seen him play. Do you remember that playoff game last year?" she tries. "They put him in at the last second and he caught the game winning pass—I lost my voice from screaming."

See, he remembers actually going to the games, but as far as what happens during them? “I thought Emile was the quarterback...”

“Well not at first, but Varlineau injured his shoulder and Emile took his place,” she says. “You really weren’t paying attention, were you?”

“I pay attention,” he argues, but quickly relents at the look she gives him. “Just not that much.”

She shakes her head. “Why are you even asking about him?”

Hands on his body, head tipped back with a groan, the heat of his skin—Leofard clears his throat. "I might've hooked up with him last night."

"What," she exclaims, and he has to laugh at the way she sits up, eyes wide, her hangover all but forgotten. "The hell, Leo, why wouldn't you start with that? Tell me everything!"

It starts in their own apartment, it starts with a stained shirt, it starts with kisses that lead nowhere in the dark. It leads to last night, to their dance, familiar enough with each other to push them over the edge. He brushes up against the details, skims past them, but he fails to hide his smile at the memory of the two of them slipping away from the rest of the party.

He can tell that she notices, but all she says is, “So, what—are you going to call him?”

“Probably,” he says, lifting a shoulder. The truth is, he can’t imagine passing up another opportunity to see him, but he just smiles before he takes another sip of coffee—

“We’ll see what happens.”

—

He gives it a couple days.

It crosses his mind while he partakes in his favorite activity—laying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, music playing too loud while he ignores his homework. He can't seem to focus, mind spinning between thoughts but unable to land on one, and he turns his attention to his phone laying at the other end of his bed.

Emile would make a better distraction.

Still, he stares for a long moment without moving, and the second he wonders if he's nervous, he gets up and makes himself call.

It rings a few times before the soft sound of Emile's voice comes through. "Hello?"

Leofard smiles. "What's this I hear about you being a hotshot quarterback?"

There’s a beat of silence, and then: “Leofard?”

"Who else?"

He hears him laugh. "And you call me a hotshot."

"Am I wrong?" he says. "My roommate was just talking about some play you did last season, thought I'd see if it’s true."

“Yes, it's true,” he says. "Is that the only reason you called?"

"No," he returns, biting down on another smile. "Let's go for a drive, I'll pick you up."

"In the infamous car that I still have yet to see?"

"The one and only."

"Alright," he says. "Give me a half hour."

He tells him where his dorm is, and Leofard gives himself approximately twenty minutes to look nice before he has to leave. One glance in the mirror, he ruffles up his curls and takes off his old sweatshirt and replaces it with his favorite beat up denim jacket.

Stacia is in the living room when he comes out of his room, and she takes one look at him and raises a brow. "Off on a date?"

"It's not a date," he says, grabbing his keys.

"Off to get laid?"

This time he laughs. "I'll catch you later."

"Be safe, have fun!" she calls out after him.

Early evening means the campus is quiet. Leofard lived in the dorms his freshman year before moving in with Stacia, so he's familiar with them. He navigates across campus to Emile's building, biting down on a grin at the sight of him waiting on the front steps.

Emile looks unfairly good, simply in a sweatshirt and jeans, hair falling loose from his ponytail. He looks up and waves.

Leofard is in trouble.

"Hey, gorgeous," he says as he gets in the car.

“Hi,” Emile says, smiling in that shy way. His attention turns to the dashboard. "So this is it."

"This is it," he says. "What do you think?"

"It's nice."

His voice tips up at the end, almost like a question, and Leofard can't help but laugh. “You sure about that?”

“I don’t know anything about cars,” he admits. “But it's pretty."

"I've always been obsessed," Leofard says as he pulls out of the parking lot. "I got my first job just so I could buy it."

He worked every day after school. Raimille wanted to pay for it for him but he wouldn't let her, convinced he needed to prove that he could do it himself. Part of him regrets it, if only for how much time he unknowingly lost with her.

"I like that,” Emile murmurs, the sound of a smile in his voice as they take to the tree lined streets, headlights coasting over gravel. "You know, I never actually learned how to drive."

“Shit, baby, I’ll teach you,” he returns. "Why not?"

"I was just busy with football, I guess," he says. "And my friends were always willing to drive me."

"So football is your thing."

There's a long pause, but then, "Yeah, I guess."

Leofard's brows dip down. "Not your thing?"

"I don't know," Emile answers, and there's a slight laugh in his voice. "I don't love it anymore. Not the way I used to, at least."

"Stacia says you're the best quarterback this school has seen."

"Stacia?"

"My roommate," he says. "Which is an understatement—she's more like an annoying sister. And my best friend. She's the biggest fan in the world, drags me to your games sometimes."

"You've seen me play?"

"Don't get too excited—it's kind of like you and my car," he explains. "I don't know anything about it, but it's pretty to look at."

Emile laughs. "You're such a flirt."

"And you've got a nice ass," he returns. "Are we just stating the obvious?"

"Leo."

"Yes?"

In his peripheral, Emile shakes his head. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," he answers. The evening begins to settle into night, deep hues of the sky bleed into the orange sunset peering through the spaces between trees. Leofard smiles to himself. "Don't you ever just want to get out for the sake of getting out?"

"That's usually when I go for a run."

He glances over at Emile, getting the feeling that there's far more to him, but he won't ask. "Then let's see where it takes us."

It takes them across town for ice cream, which takes them to an empty park. It's too cold to get out, so they sit in the parking lot, music playing softly while they talk. He learns that Emile's from Maine, that his eyes light up when he talks about his sisters, and that he's a music major. He brushes it off when Leofard asks, but he sounds more excited about playing guitar than he does about football.

He learns that Emile is a good listener, even if the spoon at his lips is distracting, and Leofard ends up talking the night away. Everything from school to work to his car. He doesn't mention Raimille, doesn't mention family at all, because he never wants his loss to define him.

And then it's sugar sweet kisses in the dark, Leofard fumbling over the console to settle in his lap. It's cramped against the roof of the car, but nothing else matters when Emile's lips are on his, when his hands roam up his thighs as his heart picks up a beat, breath growing heavy as their kisses deepen.

Emile reaches up to tangle his fingers through his curls, pulling him that much closer, and Leofard rolls his hips against his, grinning when he moans into his mouth. At twenty two, he feels like a teenager getting off in his car again, something secretive and exciting about it. Emile kisses his neck and he can't help but let his head fall back, giving into it as it overwhelms him.

He stays in Emile's lap afterwards, head on his shoulder, face tucked into his neck. Neither of them say anything for a moment, but Emile's hands linger on his back, smoothing over him in an absent rhythm. It doesn't last long, but it's nice.

When Leofard pulls away, they smile at each other as he reaches up to pat Emile's hair down, and they clean up the best they can before he scrambles back into the driver's seat.

He turns the music up as they drive back to campus, the windows cracked and leaking in cool air. Each time he looks over at Emile, he's staring out the window, and Leofard can't tell if he's okay or not, but maybe he just doesn't know how to accept something peaceful.

He pulls up to Emile's dorm, but Emile stays a little longer, looking over at him with a soft expression.

"You should call me again."

Leofard grins. "You can count on it, baby."

—

It begins in a bathroom of a crowded party, and what starts as intermittent, becomes frequent.

They learn each other's schedules, and between classes and Emile's workouts and Leofard's job, they find time during the week to hang out. Since Emile lives in a dorm, they always meet at Leofard's apartment—Leofard either picks him up, or Emile will walk over—and in the privacy of his room, he finds out just how much better it can get.

That first shirtless glimpse of Emile the night they met couldn't have prepared him for the sight of him stretched out naked in his bed. Leofard can hardly look away, can never keep his hands to himself, always tracing his fingertips along warm skin. They learn the ways their bodies fit together, how to say more and now through touch, through breathless gasps, through the way their eyes meet, tangled up and not letting go until they're whispering jokes and giggling into the small space between them.

Whenever they finish, Emile doesn't leave right away. He never stays the night, but they always end up talking for hours, about school and friends and life, video games and tv shows, or stories about Leofard's job at the pizza shop down the road. One time they watched a marathon of Saved by the Bell while they ate leftovers from the fridge, and Leofard ended up driving him back to his dorm at three in the morning, Elliott Smith playing softly to fill the tired quiet between them: I’d say you make a perfect angel in the snow.

Leofard has had friends with benefits before, but this is the first time it feels like they're actually friends.

It's nothing more, despite what Stacia says. She's only run into Emile a few times in the apartment, but she always raises a brow with a smirk, always teases Leofard the next day about his boyfriend coming over.

Leofard just laughs it off.

He's too young to be tied down, too selfish to be good at a relationship. The thought of trying to make this romantic sounds exhausting, like a performance neither of them know the steps to. What exists between them is the easiest thing in the world—he couldn’t be happier with this arrangement.

No expectations, they’d said, and it was a good idea.

It begins to change with this:

Early May means finals, and with one year left of school, one year left of his promise to Raimille, Leofard needs to make sure he passes these classes. The only one that gives him trouble is his English paper—he's never been good at planning or gathering sources, and he keeps putting it off until he has ten pages due the following day, and maybe two done, at most.

It becomes a marathon to finish on time, surrounded by stacks of books and a perpetually full cup of coffee at his side, but he gets frustrated with himself again and again as he loses focus. He stares at his laptop for so long that his vision feels a little blurry, so when his phone rings, he accepts the distraction for what it is.

"Hello?"

"Hey," says Emile on the other end of the line, voice soft.

Leofard bites his lip as he stares at the ceiling. "What's up?"

Emile is quiet for a moment, and then: "I was wondering if you're free tonight."

Leofard spares a glance at his laptop. "Shit, I wish I was, but I’m going to be stuck working on this paper all night."

"That’s okay," Emile says, and there's something distant and strange about his voice, but Leofard can't tell whether or not he sounds disappointed. "I don’t want to—we don’t have to have sex.”

Leofard frowns at the ceiling. They've never hung out for any other reason. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just…” he trails off again. “Sorry, I’ve been having a really hard day, and I don't want to be alone. My friends ask too many questions and I—I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So I’m an option because I don’t care?” he jokes.

“God, no, that sounds terrible,” he says quickly. “You’re just…easy to be around, Leo.”

Leofard’s left with the sound of his heart beating in his chest. For a moment, his thoughts blur together and it feels like he only hears himself say, “Come over."

Emile lets out a soft breath. "I promise I won't distract you."

Something in Leofard's stomach twists uncomfortably, and he wants to tell him that that doesn't really matter. What comes out instead is, "Do you want me to come get you?"

"No, I'll be okay," he says, and pauses. "Thank you."

Leofard has a hard time focusing on his paper after that, unsure of why it bothers him so much. He gets a single sentence done by the time there's a knock on the door, and Leofard gets up to answer it before he can think better of his appearance.

He regrets it when the door opens and Emile’s expression shifts into a grin. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Leofard scrunches his nose as he looks down at his outfit—an old baggy t-shirt and sweatpants. “Sorry I didn’t get dressed up for you, baby.”

“No, I like this,” he says as he steps inside. “You look comfy.”

It's difficult not to be affected by those brown eyes steady and warm on him, the softness of his smile. “Don’t get any ideas, I will indulge them.”

Emile laughs. “I’ll be good. Look, I brought my books so I can study too.”

He holds up his bag. Leofard shakes his head. “Do you ever get tired of being so cute?”

He lets him inside, and he ignores Stacia’s grin as she glances up at them from the couch. Emile stops to greet her while Leofard goes to his room, where his laptop is still open, books spread out everywhere. He cleans off a space for Emile on the bed, who merely raises a brow before settling in beside him.

It feels oddly intimate. They work separately but they're merely inches apart, brushing elbows and passing books and stray comments. Leofard wasn't sure he'd get anything done with Emile here, but he finds it easier to focus with someone beside him.

For the most part, Emile seems fine. Leofard finds his thoughts drifting towards what could've happened today that he's having such a hard time, but he can't ask—Emile specifically came to him because he won't ask. Still, it doesn't stop him from worrying. They know each other but they don't, their intimacy is limited to the physical, and that's all they wanted, right?

He doesn't know why he can't stop thinking about it.

It becomes more obvious as the night goes on. Emile doesn't move for several minutes at a time. Leofard gets through half a page of his paper without Emile turning a single page of his book, and when he looks over, Emile’s gaze is fixed blankly at the space in front of him, worrying at his lip with his free hand. It takes too long for him to notice Leofard watching, but he offers him a closed lip smile when he does. Leofard smiles back.

With two pages to go, it creeps past midnight. Leofard is ready to throw his laptop out the window when Emile's book slips from his hands onto the bed. He looks over to the dull light of the lamp casting shadows over his face pressed into his pillow, eyes closed and chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm as he sleeps.

Leofard stares for far too long.

He half asses one more page, makes the margins and the spaces between lines bigger so that it goes onto another, and closes his laptop. Emile shifts but he doesn't wake up, and Leofard debates for a moment what to do. To wake him and send him home seems cruel, especially if he's having a bad day. To let him stay here feels...too close.

Carefully, he gets up to brush his teeth, but by the time he gets back he still hasn't decided. He stands in the doorway of his own room, watching the late night shadows cast over the shape of Emile in his bed, and something tugs in his chest. He closes the door with a soft click and crawls back in beside him, pulling the blanket over them both.

This time Emile stirs, eyes blinking open slowly. "Leo?"

"Hey," he says, his voice whisper soft. "You fell asleep."

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

"Just stay—it's too late to walk back and I'm too tired to drive."

He doesn't think that either of these things are true.

Emile is quiet for a moment, but then, "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he murmurs, voice drifting off. He reaches over to turn off the light. "Of course, baby."

He can't remember the last time he shared a bed with anyone—maybe not since his second foster home, when the other kids would come to his room at night and he'd tell them stories until they fell asleep. He takes a deep breath at the memory, and watches the ceiling until his eyes grow used to the dark. Judging from the sound of Emile's breathing, he falls back asleep quickly, and Leofard lets his head turn towards him, foolishly wondering what it would be like to reach out and touch him.

He closes his eyes and waits for all of it to pass.

—

The sun spills into the room through Leofard’s cheap blinds, paled light that still stirs him awake. There’s a weight around him, something solid that seeps warmth into his body, and his brows furrow for a moment before it comes back to him.

Right. Emile stayed the night.

Leofard knows their size difference well, but for the first time he lets himself catalog it—the way Emile’s broad chest spans past his shoulders, his heavy arm curled around his waist, and his cheek pressed to the top of his head. Each point of contact says you’re safe, and to Leofard’s surprise, he doesn’t mind.

He’s never needed anyone. He’s never wanted anyone like this, but he isn’t awake enough to overthink it as he lets himself inch further back into Emile’s space, sliding his arm along his to cradle it against his chest.

Blinking through the dust dazed light, he breathes in time with him—something steady to pull him back under as his eyes fall closed.

Distance will be easier in the morning.

—

Except—then he's alone.

He wakes faster this time, but the only evidence that Emile was here at all is the rumpled blanket beside him. Something in his chest pulls at the sight, but he refuses to call it disappointment. Leofard wouldn't have woken him to say goodbye either, if their roles were reversed.

Putting on his glasses, he glances at the clock to see that he still has a couple hours to submit his paper, and he chooses to ignore his laptop in favor of coffee.

He stretches out his back as he gets up, but there's a crick in his neck from spending all day working on his paper yesterday. It's forgotten the moment he opens his door and hears the sound of voices trailing from the kitchen. He frowns to himself, but when he turns the corner, Emile and Stacia sit at the table eating breakfast, so deep in conversation that neither of them notice him.

"I trust you saved me some coffee?" he asks, interrupting. They both look up, and there's a sly smile on Stacia's face and an earnest one on Emile's. He doesn't know how to process the way it makes him feel.

"Sorry, you're on your own," Stacia says.

Emile laughs. "There's some left."

Leofard still just blinks at both of them before he goes to pour himself a cup of coffee, his brain struggling to catch up with the situation, and for once in his life he's quiet as he listens to them talk about football. Stacia's voice is bright and more excited than he remembers it ever being, and Emile indulges her, going back over specific plays and explaining the story behind them.

“That pass from Estinien,” she says, and apparently it’s all she needs to say. Leofard watches the twitch of Emile’s mouth, the way he looks down at the table as he runs a hand through his hair.

“It was his idea,” he says quietly. The memory seems to come to him, and he smiles a little to himself before he looks back at Stacia. “We used to practice those kinds of throws together all the time—it only worked because no one was expecting it.”

But before Stacia can say anything, he continues, "I should probably go, though. I have a final at noon."

"I'll drive you back," Leofard offers before he can think about it.

Emile glances at him, his expression soft. "Thank you. I'll go grab my books."

Leofard just nods as he gets up and leaves the kitchen. He wants to ignore the look on Stacia's face but it's impossible with the way her lips curve into a smug grin.

"Your boyfriend stayed the night,” she says the moment he’s out of earshot.

"Stacia," he returns, not quite a warning but more of you know it's not like that. "He fell asleep, I wasn't about to kick him out."

"Of course not." She takes a sip of her coffee, and just when he thinks she's going to let it go, she says, “I’m assuming you were the little spoon.”

“Stacia.”

She laughs, but then her voice turns a shade softer. "He's a sweet guy."

"He is," Leofard lets himself admit, and he stares in the direction that Emile left, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to tell her we didn’t have sex last night.

Because there's a limit to their relationship. There is a defined boundary, and last night doesn't fit within that. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. A moment later, Emile bounds back into the kitchen, bag slung over his shoulder and surely way too energetic for this early in the morning. Leofard just smiles. "Ready?"

The drive back to his dorm takes only a few minutes, but Leofard can't help but sneak little peaks at him along the way. The windows are down because they’re always down, and Emile’s hair blows with the wind while music plays softly, morning light along his profile. Leofard tries not to think about his body curled around his, different from the way they usually touch, and ignores the thoughts that creep into the back of his mind.

He parks outside Emile's dorm, and Emile turns towards him.

"Thank you," he says, his voice so earnest that, for a moment, Leofard can't return his gaze.

"Of course," he returns, and he thinks too hard about what to say next, settling on, "Did it help?"

"It did," he says with a nod, and he leans in close, sliding a hand along Leofard's jaw as he pulls him in for a soft kiss. Leofard gasps against his mouth but leans into it, letting his lips part against his and lingering for too long.

“As a promise for next time,” Emile murmurs against his mouth.

“Next time,” Leofard echoes, opening his eyes as he pulls away. “Let’s celebrate when finals are over.”

Emile smiles. "Good luck!"

He gets out, and Leofard is left to watch him go. Something stirs within him, a feeling that is both unfamiliar and unwelcome, and as the door to the dorms closes behind Emile, Leofard stares for a long moment before he looks back at the road.

Under his breath he mutters, “What the hell...”

He goes for a drive.

#oc: emile jenidaut #leofard myste #emile/leofard #modern au #screaming forever !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!#i've been thinking about this AU for a long time now #and it's been so long since i've posted anything #but this project means a lot to me and i have so many plans for them i'm just sdjfsdf yelling #and this might not be a good time to post but i need to finish packing o7 #my writing

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harlowsbby · 1 year

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Routines 💘

“Baby, come on baby I’m tired and I just wanna sleep already.” Jack pouted while you dragged him into the hotel bathroom.

The thing with you was you didn’t care what city or country you were in you were going to make sure you had a night time routine. With running around with Jack all day you needed a few minutes to just take care of yourself.

Jack on the other hand didn’t care for it all he needed was a quick shower and he was good but tonight you were forcing him to do your routine.

“It’ll be real quick Jack we just need to do some face care and drink some lemon water and we’ll be all set.” You told him but he wasn’t having it.

“Lemon water? What is lemon water going to do for me babe please enlighten me.” He stated as he sat on the edge of the bath tub watching as you took a few of your skincare products out your travel bag.

“Lemon water actually has a lot of benefits it gives you more hydration, clearer skin and better digestion.” You told him as you stood in front of him and started applying your green tea mask to his face.

“Is that right baby? Who would’ve thought my girl was a dermatologist now.” He joked and smacked your lips. “Stay still I need to apply this before it dries.” You scolded him softly but nonetheless he sat still and rested his hands on your waist and watched how you carefully and steadily applied the mask to his face.

Jack would never admit to but he loved moments like this with you at times he got busy and wasn’t able to give you all of his undivided attention but he had to admit doing this silly little night routine with you had his heart fluttering.

You stood back and smiled in approval at your work Jack stood up to inspect himself in the mirror. “I look like a bird shit on my face babe.” You chuckled at him. “Whatever but you won’t be saying all that when your got that glass skin now will you?”

“Glass skin? Baby can you start speaking English what is glass skin?” You sighed you weren’t sure how you ended up with a man as slow as Jack at times.

“Glass skin like your skin is going to look flawless with no imperfection or anything.” He stood there confused still not fully understanding.

“Let’s just go get some lemon water.” You took his hand and dragged him into the little living room era of the suite.

He looked at the bag of lemons on the table with a confused expression he wasn’t exactly sure how you got those but he knew better than to question it. You poured the two of you glasses of iced cold water before chopping up the lemons and squeezing them in the water.

“Here and make sure you drink it all.” You demanded. “Yes mother.” He stated sarcastically before drinking the water, his tongue immediately flew out his mouth and his face scrunched up.

“This shit is nasty baby I’m not drinking this.”

“Yes you are.” You told him. “No I’m not.” He argued back. “I already did the face mask and drank half of this so I’m good.” You rolled your eyes and finished up your drink.

“Let’s go wash off our mask.” After the two of you washed off your mask you made your way into bed. Jack laid down with your laying on his chest and touching his face.

“See your skin feels so much softer now.”

“So my skin wasn’t softer before?” He asked.

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it Jack I saw you smiling when I was applying your mask.” His cheeks heated up a bit when he realized you caught him.

“It was nice, just don’t tell the guys alright? The last thing I need is for Urban and Sunni to be making jokes about it.”

Jack loved this friends he did but hated how they always called him a simp whenever it came to doing things with you, he knew for a fact you had him wrapped around your finger but he didn’t care because seeing you happy was the only thing that mattered.

“I promise I won’t.” You lied because when he wasn’t looking you snapped a quick picture and sent it to Urban who of course showed Sunni along with everyone else.

“Let’s get some sleep yeah? I’m tired.” He grumbled and turned off the light.

“I love you baby.” He tiredly mumbled and rested his head on-top of your head.

“I love you more Jack.” You stated and pressed a kiss to his bare chest before falling in a deep and peaceful sleep.

(Just something that came into my head 😭💘 I got more stuff coming soon)

#jack harlow #jack harlow concepts #jack harlow imagine #jack harlow x reader #jack harlow x y/n

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thighzp · 19 days

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happy ficlet fridayyy 💪🧑🏻‍⚕️ (ideally taynick for working out & dealer’s choice for therapy but follow your heart)

YAY TAYNICK!! I never get to write taynick!! we always need more taynick. okay let's do it. gonna do firstprince for therapy because obviously we're gonna write henry in therapy.

but first, obviously we're writing taylor at the gym (both under the cut just bc long!)

Popping in his headphones, Taylor selected his carefully curated workout playlist. He took pride in his playlists, cultivating exactly the right vibe for each scenario. Working out, going on a hike, romantic nights at home, chill beats for studying scripts. Fitness had always been important to him, as a firm believer that it was all about how you feel and having a healthy relationship with your body, rather than simply how one looks. It just happened to be an added benefit that he also looked fit as fuck. He knew people ogled him at the gym. He paid them no mind, perfectly content to lock into his music and get in touch with his own mind. As the sweat dripped down his temples and the heavy weights burned his biceps, he often found his mouth lip syncing along with his music. Until all of a sudden he realized he was mouthing words to a song that he knows for a fact he did not put on his playlist. How did that get there? Taylor opened the app and scrolled to the bottom of the playlist to find that was the most recently added song. He hadn't added it, but he knows who had. It was their song. He screenshotted the song playing and opened a text to Nick. Not sure what you're trying to do here, but now I'm horny at the gym The reply was almost immediate: Not sure what you're talking about ;)

~~ now onto Henry in therapy

"Henry, it's wonderful to see you again. Things have been going well, I presume?" The therapist asked through the computer screen. Henry fidgeted in his seat at the kitchen table, "Yeah, yes, for the most part. Which is why I haven't scheduled in quite some time." "Mm," the therapist nodded in understanding. "So what prompted you to schedule this session?" Looking down at his lap where he fidgeted with his hands, he tried to come up with something that didn't sound, well, trite and dramatic. As if reading his mind, the therapist said "You don't even have to have a reason, sometimes we just need to talk, hm?" "Yes, I suppose that's all I really need. Because, you know, my partner, he's lovely. Really the best man I could ever ask for. But he's never dealt with...depression like I have. So it's nice to have someone who understands." The therapist took notes as Henry spoke, likely because this is his first time formally bringing up Alex. "Your partner," the therapist starts. "How's your communication with him when you go into your... how did you used to describe it... dark days?" "That's it, yeah," Henry confirmed. "And, well... you know me... I just go... dark for lack of a better term. But he's taken to knowing immediately what's going on. I'm just afraid one day he'll get tired of the darkness. And the sudden radio silence." He shook his head, admonishing himself for thinking something so silly. "Has he ever indicated that it weighs on him? When you go silent?" The therapist implored. "No, never," Henry continued. "Which is why it's so silly! He gives me my space when I need it, then he'll show up like a goddamn knight in shining armor with food and drinks that he knows won't overwhelm me. He makes me get up and at least brush my teeth, knows when I have it in me to shower vs. when I don't. Lays with me in the silence when everything is just too... too much." "And you're afraid he's doing all of this out of obligation, rather than because he loves you and because he wants to," the therapist finishes his thought. Henry chuckles despite himself, "I know, it sounds really stupid now saying it out loud. I should just be grateful --" "None of that," the therapist interrupts. "We are not talking down on ourselves here. It sounds like Alex is wonderful in your times of need, but lets focus on what tools you need to foster within yourself to get through those times."

ouch I hurt myself on the feels

Ficlet Friday!!!

#ficlet friday #taynick #firstprince

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doppel-dean-er · 1 year

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STRAP IN JEFFANNIE LOVERS, IT'S ABOUT TO GET YUCKY AND YOU'RE IN THE SPLASHZONE

thought I'd give a comprehensive list on why I personally dislike JeffAnnie because I got called idiotic for it and I see that as a top tier compliment. I go more in depth at the end, but if you just want the quick stuff (since I know y'all like the quotes!!) here you go, but please read the rest of it!! this is an open discussion.

also I get pretty gross in my descriptions of Annie, be warned

season 2 episode 1: "since you have clearly failed to grasp the central insipid metaphor of those twilight books you devour, let me explain it to you. men are monsters who crave young flesh, the end."

season 3 episode 1: "we can't keep doing this forever, kiddo." "Can't we?" "no, that's gross. I feel gross."

season 4 episode 3: "I was just daydreaming. I mean, I've married you at least a half a dozen times. and Troy. and Zac Efron. Mostly Zac Efron."

season 3 episode 16: "but, we love Jeff." "no, we don't. we're just in love with the idea of being loved. and if we can teach a guy like Jeff to do it, we'll never be unloved. so we keep running the same scenario over and over hoping for a different result."

season 6 episode 13: "are you okay?" "is this really what you want?" "of course. I mean, I'd be fine with a dog too, but whatever you want." "do you have any idea what I want?" "yes?"

season 2 episode 20: "the general atmosphere of 'would they?' 'might they?'" "Annie, I think you're reading into some things." "oh really?" "oh, give me a break. I mean, you could do the same thing with Pierce and Abed!" "yeah, let's be honest, there's more between you and Annie than between me and Pierce." "Abed, it's called chemistry, I have it with everybody."

season 5 episode 11: "I'm 40."

I'd like to actually argue with a personal opinion based on a fact, and some anecdotal hypotheticals

first of all, I'm 17, a year younger than Annie in season one. I know people who are 19, 20 even. the concept of them or myself dating someone who is (not only fully developed in the brain, but) at least ten years older than ourselves-

-is gross, no? if Annie got held back at all, if she didn't drop out, if she and Jeff met in a different way, same age difference and her still in high school, one might say that is a little uncouth, one might even go so far as to say it's gross.

but, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt; make them closer in age, say Jeff is in his 20s instead of his thirties, say 25 (the lowest we can go for him to still be a lawyer). still, Annie's brain wont fully develop until she is 25, meaning Jeff will already be in his thirties by that point, if he dates her any sooner he will be dating what is medically considered an adolescent (10-24) while himself above 30. "but chrissy, chimbo, my love, you're legally an adult at age 18!" if we start bringing the law into this, the post will double in size, to make it simple, just think for a moment why that makes you legally an adult. why is a legal adult not allowed to drink? why would the United States want people who are not fully developed making decisions, and how does that affect their country? food for thought.

another benefit of the doubt! take age out of the question, just look at them as people and their experiences, not by a number! age ain't nothing number, right? like Aaliyah, right? Yeah, did you know R Kelly, the convicted sex offender, wrote that song? Crazy, right? sorry, off topic. Silly me, silly little baby brain. haha. let's look at their dynamic:

Jeff is a man who values the women he dates - rather, sleeps with - very little. "I'm Jeff Winger, and I would rather look at myself naked than the women I sleep with!" he states, so confident and proud of himself. "I asked this woman out 30 seconds ago to prove a point!" he shouts. "I'll be back with booty!" he sneers. does this seem like the kind of person that would think of women in the long-term? that is Jeff.

Annie on the other hand, as the boy-crazy girlish urchin she is, sees every man that comes her way as Christ incarnate. Annie is obsessive, she enrolled in nearly all of Troy's classes to get some sense that someone, anyone, no matter how bad they treat her, has to rely on her for something she knows. Annie is fresh and inexperienced, she can't say the word 'penis' because it makes her uncomfortable and squirmy. pure, untouched porcelain. so impressionable, don't you think? so untainted, virginal. looking for a father.

describing her like that makes you a bit uncomfortable, doesn't it? feels a little yucky in your tum tum?

that's because if you take away their ages, their experiences speak for themselves. Annie is young, obsessive. Jeff has more experience than her and will discard her quickly in favor of someone younger or better looking. if you're into the 'born sexy yesterday' trope, go ahead. I'm not one to stop you from doing what makes you feel good! We all know what you really want, you don't have to hide it, Humbert- sorry, Jeff. slip of the tongue. scream it loud! scream it on the rooftops, or on the streets: "I want to fuck a teenager!!" see how people look at you!

Oh, they're not smiling, are they? yikes.

i'd just like to leave you with a personal opinion.

is the pairing of Jeff and Annie iffy and pretty gross? yes, scroll up, read this post again if you aren't convinced. at the same time, should it be removed from the show entirely because it's problematic and horrible and everyone who supports JeffAnnie is a meth-addicted pedophile who eats babies and fucks sticky flashlights with the mouthless faces of their classmates taped to the rim? while I would prefer that JeffAnnie didn't happen, yes, I just think those of you who are into this are just uneducated and stubborn. some of you, one of you in particular, i'm sure is a sweaty neckbeard with a fedora and a 4chan tripcode. but not all of you, and for that I have hope.

JeffAnnie is legal, yes. JeffAnnie is by far not the worst, too. and we, as mature half-adults, can admit that. I for one believe that you should be able to ship anything that is both legal and non-blood-related. that's the magic of fandom! enemies to lovers is one of the most popular genres! the toxicity of the relationship is not the problem, it is the predatory nature and unsavory implications that are the problem. I think the relationship as a whole is not something to be looked at with positive emotions, but I also don't believe that this type of screen representation is bad. just because something is put to screen does not mean it is acceptable. I think that's something we all learned in second grade, yes? good. glad we're all on the same page. you're looking wonderful. I hope you have a great day.

also, just to cover all my bases, it's just a matter of preference. it makes a lot of us uncomfortable to see relationships like that, especially those of us who are around Annie's age. like, imagine being her: you're fresh out of rehab and ready to start your life. this guy who is more than ten years older than you, who you think is kind of cute maybe, starts to look at you the same way. imagine having the knowledge that every time he looks at a woman he just sees a pair of tits and a vag on legs. imagine what he sees when he looks at you. imagine that guy having a conversation with your dad, they might even be closer in age than you and him. that's uncomfortable, to me at least.

plus, Britta and Jeff are a better couple.

and if anyone responds with that whole "Dan Harmon DVD season 6" copy paste I hope you all know it makes me kick my feet and giggle. papa needs an ego boost, go ahead *bats eyes* *gets hit by a car*

#community #community nbc #nbc community #jeff winger #annie edison

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curestaarlight · 1 month

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Sure, I'll bite.

What are your headcanons about the Link Click trio's favorite ice cream + hot beverage + cold beverage and why. :)

thank you for the ask!! also i have indeed started reading third time's the charm and !!!! already hitting me in the feels

ok SO I'll go character by character:

qiao ling: for favourite ice cream I'm generally thinking fruity/refreshing flavours, though more specifically (maybe because of one of her official arts i saw recently) strawberry! but she might also be picky with what makes Good strawberry ice cream and plays it safe if she's buying from a new place. probably vanilla, i feel like one can't really go wrong with vanilla.

as for drinks, i like the idea that QL and LG enjoy tea together. QL will shuffle over to the studio after hours and do a face mask and LG will prepare them tea (always non-caffinated, because QL says she's too sensitive to caffeine lately at night), and they'll drink it and enjoy each other's quiet company. LG probably reads while QL does some scrollingon her phone.

finally for cold drinks, we already know that boba runs are a common occurrence at the studio, but i bet QL also really loves trying out novel iced-drinks. I'm thinking caramel iced lattes, strawberry chai iced, green energy smoothie 3000, etc. drinks with really long, convoluted names, that are kind of a fad but that's ok!! let her have fun with her silly little drinks!!!

cheng xiaoshi: i think, contrastingly, CXS is a big fan of the ice cream flavours that can border on sickly sweet, depending on the place. he likes chocolate, and cookie dough, and those ice creams loaded with lots of other sweets inside them. mind you, i don't think he has ice cream like that regularly or he'd definitely get sick of it, but when the opportunity arises trust he'll be asking for all the extras and sprinkles.

for hot drinks—CXS likes coffee! i don't think he Always liked coffee, because it's such an acquired taste especially when you're younger. during uni he probably got into it in the quest to stay up and meet those damn deadlines lol. so he grew used to drinking it from there. he either: takes his coffee black but with quite a bit of sugar (which LG tuts at him for) or he has it milky.

his cold beverage of choice....he kind of gives me standard iced coffee + extra sugar + chews on the leftover ice cubes after lmaoo. he also does indulge QL when she drags him to a pop up shop to get a limited time Novel Iced Beverage.

lu guang: doesn't like ice cream �� if it's really hot he'll have ice lollies/popcicles and if you held him at gunpoint and told him he HAD to choose, he'd choose vanilla. however, he will sometimes have spoonfuls/a bite of CXS's ice cream. Occasionally. more often than he'd willingly admit. CXS always makes fun of him, saying, "you don't even like ice cream, so why are you suddenly so eager to have mine?" (he never stops him though)

hot beverage: i did go over this a little in QL's section hehe, but let me elaborate! i think LG prefers tea, but has a robust beverage routine, in which he'll have black coffee (no sugar. ok sometimes maybe a teaspoon. but only Sometime) with his breakfast. then in the evenings he'll have his tea (sometimes with QL). I like to think though he mostly has green tea, he really likes oulong. CXS pokes fun at how devoted LG is to this routine of his, and in turn LG will lecture him about how having caffeine after a certain hour is bad for him and really, he ought to be drinking more tea for its health benefits, etc, etc

cold beverage: because we know that LG doesn't like overly sweet things, but likes boba, i can't help but to think he enjoys most forms of iced tea. like he'll make himself homemade iced tea during the summer and have it all throughout the day!

ok ok im done now apologies this is so long-winded i am nothing if not overly detailed about my blorbos

#link click #cheng xiaoshi #qiao ling #lu guang #ask #ness lc tag #thank uuu for enabling my yapping<3333 this was very fun to answer!!

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listenheresweaty · 4 months

Text

BURGER VAN BURGER VAN—- Top text, Bottom text. ——— REVIVEBUR X READER - omg guys it’s here can you believe that I took four months to post something I had already written out

——-

Warnings: copious alcohol consumption, mentions of ableist remarks, allusions to underage drinking, jokes about alcoholism by people with drinking problems (addiction is a mental illness guys. Please be respectful about it.) The alcoholism stuff started off as humor based on my own experiences*. I had intended on expanding on it and making it into a larger plot line about recovery/etc but I do not know if I’ll ever continue this work.

*alcohol has played a role in my life but I am not technically an addict. If anything in this fic is offensive, please let me know and I’ll change it/ take it down.

Reader is called “guy” but is otherwise gender neutral.

There are a couple jokes about Beeduo flirting but it is intended humorously, not with any romantic intent.

—————-

It was a blisteringly, stupidly hot day, made only more intolerable by the long expanses of hot sand and lack of vegetation. Although, you supposed it was your fault for deciding to get a job in the Las Nevadas Casino- quite literally smack dab in the middle of a desert. Fortunately, just in the edges of the desert territory, where the sands met fresh green grass, sat a quaint, almost minuscule burger van. It received very few customers, partly due to the uninhabited nature of the area and partly because of the owner’s less than appealing reputation.

You believed that the owner’s— his name was Wilbur-- reputation was mostly undeserved. Sure, he had done some extremely questionable things in his past, and continued to carry himself with a madman’s easy grace and confidence, sending people scurrying out of his way— it was fair to say that most of the people you knew were afraid of Wilbur, despite his lack of physical strength. You, however, could never find him intimidating. He was too much of a loser complete dork.

Wilbur certainly wasn’t imposing as you walked up to him, eyeing his tall form awkwardly making its way through the van that was clearly too small for him.

He looked so silly, leaning over the burgers as they cooked, that it was hard to imagine that this was the same man everyone spoke about with such fear. You had to laugh.

Wilbur stood up straight at the sound, bumping his head against the van’s ceiling and letting out a stream of curses that stopped abruptly when his eyes landed on you.

“Quite the colorful vocabulary you have.” You teased, approaching the vans window with a playful smile. “Perhaps we should wash your mouth out with soap.”

Wilbur stood still for a moment, hand still braced against the van ceiling, before he relaxed and sent you a lopsided smile. “Only if you do it, darling.”

“Oh shut up.” You laughed. “Why in the world would you make the van so small, anyway? It’s not like it benefits your coworker- the kid’s even taller than you are.”

“Never question the logic of a genius.” Wilbur sighed like a cat stretching out in the sun, leaning out of the van with his elbows against the windowsill. “What are you doing all the way out here, anyway? You should be working. Don’t tell me-“ he grinned impossibly wider, leaning even closer, “that you missed me that much?”

You snorted. “Absolutely not. You must be concussed. How hard did you hit your head?”

Wilbur’s bottom lip pulled downwards in an exaggerated pout. “Quite hard, actually. I think I might need to see a doctor.” He sighed, dramatically.

“Awww, poor baby.” You cooed with false sympathy, reaching up above to run your fingers through Wilbur’s brown curls. “Where’d you hit yourself? Here?”

Wilbur was struck dumb, mouth opening and closing without any sound coming out—clearly, he wasn’t used to being flirted with. He regained his composure quickly, leaning into your touch with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Mhmm.” He sighed, keeping up the act. “I’m afraid it’s terminal. They’ll have to pull the plug on me.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m already hallucinating.” Wilbur announced, ever so dramatically. “Oh, [Name], sweetheart, will you cry at my funeral?”

“Of course.” You snickered, trying hard to keep a straight face. “Hallucinating? Really?”

“Hm.” A smirk pulled at Wilbur’s lips. “I’m already seeing angels.”

You rolled your eyes. “Must every sentence you utter twist itself into a pickup line?”

“Only for you.” The corners of Wilbur’s mouth pulled upwards to form an uncharacteristically genuine grin. The smile disappeared as fast as it came, making you wonder if you had only imagined it.

“Why don’t you come inside?” Wilbur offered, leaning back into the van (and nearly hitting his head, once again, against the top of the window frame).

You hesitated.

“I have air conditioning in here.” He added.

“Open the door.” You said immediately, making your way to the back of the van and jiggling the doorknob. You heard Wilbur laugh and cross the threshold quite quickly, almost frantically unlocking the doors in order to grab your hand and hoist you in. You sighed in relief at the feeling of the cool air washing over you, whisking away the sheen of sweat that the heat had formed on your skin.

Wilbur patted the counter next to him and you complied, sitting on the cool marble surface and letting your feet dangle as she observed the world outside the van window. It was a beautiful day outside, all things considered.

Wilbur gestured to the burgers that were still cooking (actually, at this point, you were fairly certain that they were burnt). “Do you mind if I continue churning out my mediocre meat meals?” He asked.

You snorted. “Go ahead.” After a few beats of silence, you spoke again. “You know, your burgers aren’t that bad.”

Wilbur hummed, but maintained focus on the dark slab of burnt meat he was trying to chisel off the grill with a spatula. “Is that so? They sure don’t seem to be bringing in many customers, do they?” He leaned in with a teasing grin. “Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere, darling.”

“It isn’t flattery.” You said. “It’s not your burgers that—“

You cut yourself off abruptly, cursing your mistake.

Wilbur clearly understood what you had been about to say, and raised an eyebrow. The quality of his business wasn’t what customers were avoiding- people avoided him.

“I suppose your right.” He said shrugging. His easygoing and flippant attitude had returned, but there was a more sullen, guarded undertone to his words. You wracked your brain for something to say, but nothing surfaced.

A clinking of glass broke you out of your thoughts. “Want a drink?” Wilbur offered, eager to change the subject.

You nodded absentmindedly. The sun was setting in the horizon, marking the approach of closing hours for most businesses in the area, including the van. Wilbur rummaged through a wooden cabinet before pulling out two expensive-looking bottles and handing one to you. “Help yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Vodka? Where did you get this?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Just a little place I know. Tiny little store far from here.”

“Hm. And this tiny little far-away store sells vodka with the Las Nevadas logo on the cap?”

You heard him curse softly.

“Damn.” Wilbur chuckled. “I forgot to remove those.”

You held out your glass as Wilbur filled it, before leaning back against the wall of the van. Wilbur leaned against the counter next to you.

You swirled your cup around, eyeing the moving liquid before tilting your head back and taking a rather large sip.

“So, what have you been up to?” You asked him. “When you’re not stealing expensive liquor from the casino?”

Wilbur shrugged. “Well.. not much honestly. I’ve just been working here at the van. There’s not much I can do on most days— since my fry guy either forgets to come to work or is out flirting with the rival fry guy across the street. Then, I… ‘visit’ the casino.”

You hummed, draining your glass and gesturing for Wilbur to refill it. Wilbur complied.

“Aren’t you permanently banned from the casino? My boss would kill you if he caught you on the premises.” You continued, only half joking.

Wilbur laughed. “Oh, he could certainly try. But if a few bans can’t stop me, neither can he.”

“Can’t he?”

“Of course not.” Wilbur snickered. “He’s like half my height.”

“He could still snap you like a twig. Hell, I could snap you like a twig.”

Wilbur smiled. “Oh, I know. It’s hot.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s hot? The fact that I can beat you in a fight or that my boss can beat you in a fight?”

Wilbur choked on his drink. “Wh- YOU. Not- I’m not-“

You burst out laughing. “Damn, okay. I didn’t know that’s the kind of relationship you had with him.”

Wilbur spluttered. “N-no—!”

“I guess there’s more to your rivalry than meets the eye.” You sighed, grabbing the vodka bottle to refill your glass yourself since Wilbur was too busy coughing to oblige. “How romantic.”

“NO. I-I meant YOU—- I don’t have the hots for Quackity, for Gods sake. “ Wilbur looked somewhere between abashed and scandalized. “I hate the man!”

You drained your third glass. “Mm-hmm.”

Wilbur huffed. “Well, going back to the topic of whether or not Alex— sorry, ‘your boss’—could beat me up-“

“He could.” You interjected.

Wilbur sighed. “Don’t interrupt me. Anyway, YES he could beat me in a physical confrontation— stop smirking!—but you’re forgetting something important. Our rivalry is based on genius. On cold, calculated planning, ALWAYS staying one step ahead…”

“…and burgers.” You said.

“And burgers.” He agreed, finishing another glass. “Whew, I should quit drinking for today.”

“You should.” You found yourself saying, the vodka having greatly loosened your tongue. “We wouldn’t want one of today’s beautiful minds to go to waste for a pint or two of heavy liquor.”

Wilbur stiffened, turning toward you slightly to look at you with wide eyes. His cheeks looked darker than usual, although that might have been the alcohol he had consumed.

You blinked. “…What?”

Wilbur paused before speaking, raising an eyebrow. “‘Beautiful mind’?” He repeated, trying to portray smugness but the waver in his voice betrayed some other emotion. “Me?”

You nodded, watching a crimson blush that certainly had nothing to do with the alcohol settle on Wilbur’s cheekbones. You continued speaking. “Yeah. I’ve never met someone who views the world like you do, or has the same talent with words as you. You’re like a poet, honestly. .. you’re pretty incredible.”

Wilbur stared at you, caught completely off guard for the first time in his life. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to form coherent words, but failed. Oh, the irony.

It was the last thing he had expected to hear, you realized as you studied his flushed face. After his return, people had been whispering about Wilbur, using several adjectives to describe him-- none of them pleasant. “Insane” and “a ticking time bomb” had been some of the nicer ones. To hear someone compliment the very same thing that everyone had chosen to pick apart and belittle must have moved him greatly.

You wondered how people could be so foolish. Wilbur had done some reprehensible things, and continued to be morally gray at best, but he was still human.

“Broken mind,” they had all said as he walked past, thinking he wouldn’t hear.

“Beautiful mind,” You had told him.

Wilbur looked like he wanted to cry, glancing away from you with a poorly suppressed, wobbly grin.

You wanted to hug him. Perhaps he’d appreciate that, after having been isolated and despised for years.

“I mean that, you know?” You hastily added as Wilbur tried to scoff and brush it off.

His head tilted. “…Of course.”

You actually moved to hug him, startling the both of you. Standing a few inches in front of him, you hesitantly opened your arms, praying to the gods that you hadn’t made anything worse.

He shuddered slightly, nodding, and sank against you, wrapping his arms around your waist and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

The next day, you forced your way through the casino, with sluggish movements and a pounding headache. You must have drunk more than you thought yesterday. Regardless, you took off towards Wilbur’s burger van as soon as you had the chance. This time, there were two tall figures moving about in the van. Wilbur’s fry guy, a shy kid named Ranboo , had finally returned.

Ranboo dipped his head in greeting as you approached. Wilbur remained facing towards the grill, seemingly determined not to burn more meat and unaware of your presence.

“Hello Mx., what would you like to order?” Ranboo asked.

“Hmmm… I’m a bit indecisive today. What do you suggest?” You responded.

At the sound of your voice, Wilbur whipped around, swiveling the upper half of his body toward you and Ranboo.

You met his eyes and smiled, eyes soft.

“Well, our five-spice burger is pretty popular right now. If you, uh, aren’t a fan of spicy foods, then the chicken patty is also a popular option.” Ranboo was saying. You turned your attention back towards him.

“Spicy burger sounds great, thank you.”

“And to drink?”

“Just a water, please.” You didn’t think you could handle alcohol after yesterday. Wow, you were a lightweight.

“Water?” Wilbur asked as Ranboo turned to prepare the ingredients for your burger. “That’s kinda lame.”

“Shush, you.” You retorted. “How are you holding up, anyway?”

Wilbur hesitated, and Nadia saw Ranboo glance at them curiously. He probably didn’t want to discuss his moment of weakness in front of his employee.

“The hangover, I mean.” You added. “With all the alcohol you consumed yesterday, I’m surprised you came to work.”

He relaxed a bit. “Yeah, I’m alright. Doing better than last night at least, but the headache’s a killer.” He frowned in mock offense. “And don’t you twist the story around! You drank almost as much as I did.”

You frowned. “I did not!”

“You did too. Alcoholic.”

“I am not an alcoholic. I’m not the one with three bottles of stolen vodka in a drawer.” You pointed out. Ranboo handed over your burger and water. “(Thank you, Ranboo.)”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Wilbur snorted. “You seem more of a wine person to me. You probably have a stash of Pinot noir under your bed or something.”

“Under my bed? Why the hell would anyone store alcohol under their bed?”

Wilbur shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a wine aunt thing.”

“I give you wine aunt vibes?” You asked. “I don’t even have any nephews or nieces. Or have ever been responsible for any kids.”

“Thank god for that.”

You grinned and halfheartedly slapped his shoulder, ignoring his last statement “Silence, fool.”

Ranboo coughed. “Uhh… if you guys are done flirting… it’s my break now. Can I go across the street?”

Wilbur waved his hand. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” When Ranboo was out of earshot, he turned to Nadia and sighed. “Hypocrite. As if he isn’t heading to do the exact same thing.”

“Kids.” You shrugged, ignoring the part about the two of you flirting.

“He’s seventeen.”

“Still a child. Until he turns eighteen, he’s still a child.”

“Fair enough.” Wilbur stared off towards where Ranboo had run off to before turning back to you hesitantly. “So… since he probably won’t return for the rest of the day, how about you and I go somewhere? Together? You can finish your burger along the way.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Go where?”

“I-I don’t know.” Wilbur’s confidence seemed to falter, his metaphorical mask slipping and revealing the nervousness beneath. “Just… walk? In general? I-I know some nice places— or, well, I know that there are nice places around here-“

“Sounds nice.” You interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. “Should we go now, then?”

Wilbur froze. “Yeah. Now. Now sounds good.”

That’s it I’m done I can’t with this pacing

#sweaty “writes”#c!wilbur x reader #revived wilbur #revivedbur x reader #Sweaty Learn how normal people talk and write passable dialogue challenge: impossible #I communicate through clicks and body language like a cow I do not speak complex sentences #Hopefully the c!wilbur fandom is still alive #I’m on fucking deaths door here

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