Could You Write Some More Touchstarved Eddie I Am Literally A Puddle 🥺

Wanna Be My Cliché?

➺ Pairing: Ethan Landry x fem! reader

➺ Warnings: fluff and fluff, Ethan beign adorable and that's it.

➺ Word count: 993.

➺ Authors note: So this is my first post btw English is not my mother tongue, so I'm sorry if there are some mistakes. And I just did it cause the lovely @cerealzzz request this to me, hope you like it sweetheart.

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To say Ethan was nervous was an understatement, he swore he almost fainted when asked you out and hearing you say an excited "yes" made his stomach flutter with butterflies. His plan was simple: a night date having dinner at your favorite restaurante and after, walk you home with all his confession speech memorized in his head.

Ethan spent a lot of time trying the best outfits he had with the help of a also excited Chad with eyes full of pride who kept saying something like 'my shy boy had grown so much'. The curly boy checked himself in the mirror one last time before leave the dorm to get at your apartment and when he finally arrived all the butterflies starting to fly again with the thought of seeing you.

Ethan sent a message saying that he was in the lobby of the building waiting for you and when his eyes landed on your figure coming down the stairs the boy swallowed hard, how could someone be so beautiful? He didn't know where to keep his eyes as he wanted to record that scene in his mind in smallest details, your beauty was breathtaking to his eyes and he still didn't understand how such a perfect girl had agreed to go out with him.

"Do you like what you see?" the joking question made Ethan's cheeks flush and your smile made him even more delighted - if that was even possible.

"You look beautiful"  Ethan murmured embarrassed, but the sparkle in his eyes reflected the purest sincerity and adoration, to him you were a work of art that could never be replicated, because you were unique.

The way to the restaurant was smooth, Ethan managed to calm his heartbeats and tried to talk to you without blushing every five minutes or stuttering. The meeting place was a simple but nice restaurant that you used to go with your friend group and for the first time it was just the two of you at the dinner table. It took a few minutes for Ethan to relax in his chair, but when the agitation left his body completely he found himself talking excitedly with you, and it was remarkable how all the boy's attention was on you, even if you were just telling him a silly story from your childhood, he listened to everything with a smile on his face. 

After dinner Ethan insisted on paying for everything even though you had complained that you two could split the bill. As you left the restaurant the cold wind hit your bodies and without think twice the curly removed his coat when he noticed how shrunk you were hugging yourself to kept you warm. The brunette boy put the coat over your shoulders leaning down to adjust his large coat making sure you were protected and felt his legs weaken when he noticed your closeness, the way you had a smile adorning your beautiful lips and your bright eyes stared at him with the same adoration he had for you, there he found himself clinging to the hope that maybe you would reciprocate his feelings.

"Can we take a walk in the park?" your soft voice questioned him and he nodded immediately, he would agree to anything you wanted to do if it made a smile appear on your face.

Ethan was surprised by the softness of your hand that subtly held his hand intertwining your fingers as you pulled him to go to the park near the restaurant, you swore you heard the boy's breath hitch, but you just suppressed a litlle laughed finding him adorable. What Ethan didn't know was that you had fallen in love with the silly, clumsy and adorable boy who always blushed when he looked at you.

The park was empty due to the nighttime and also the cloudy weather didn't help matters, everyone was already waiting for the rain, but you were too distracted on your walk enjoying the view of the illuminated garden and the music playing somewhere nearby. When the first drops started to fall Ethan got despaired, the world was not cooperating with your first date, but he couldn't hold his smile when he saw you laughing feeling the rain getting you all wet.

"We should go, I don't want you to get a cold" The concern was evident in Ethan's voice and that only made your heart warm even though the freezing drops were slowly soaking you both.

"I have a better idea" With that simple sentence you approached the curly one with a tender smile, your arms rest around his neck bringing him closer and Ethan felt his heart leap.

Your fingers caressed the boy's damp curls, Ethan's hands found their way around your waist holding you close as if you were going to disappear in the next instant and when you leaned in against him leaving your lips just inches away he was sure the world had stopped.

"I've always wanted to live the cliché of being kissed in the rain so wanna be my cliché, Ethan?"

Nothing more needed to be said, his whole confession speech had been forgotten the moment your lips collided, Ethan could be inexperienced, but he kissed you so calmly enjoying every second, his lips moved slowly and his kiss overflowed the feelings he had hidden for long months, his hands caressed the small of your back with fondness. Your lips seemed like they were meant to be together, but the need for air made you apart from each other and Ethan smiled when he felt you give him a few more sweet pecks before pulling away.

"If you still had any doubt before, just to clarify I wanna be your cliché"

You smiled before pulling him into another kiss, it didn't matter if the world was falling apart in a rainstorm, at that moment all that mattered to Ethan was having you in his arms.

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Thanks for reading, bye bye💗

Dano!Riddler: G spot? Oh you mean gamestop hah yeah I know where that is

Eddie Munson x Henderson Sister!Reader

Warnings: Hint of sexual content. Minors DNI

Eddie cleared his throat and looked away. His cheeks flushed.  

“You okay?” Y/N asked. 

His grip tightened on the bathroom counter he leaned against. “A pretty girl is kneeling between my legs with my jeans around my ankles. I’m peachy.” He shrugged with an awkward grin. 

Afficher davantage

Request: Edward comes home from work to find his goofy little Reader playing around and wearing his Riddler outfit. They're pretending to be him, acting out a "murder" scene where he kills a "corrupt official" (in reality, they're just hitting a teddy bear with the carpet tool).

Incredible embarrassment ensues when they hear Eddie giggling behind them.

a corrupted toy

pairing — dano!edward nashton/reader

warnings — teddy bear violence

a/n — all i could picture while writing this was eddie’s beautiful smile. had me blushin’ n’ gigglinnnn’ ｡•́‿•̀｡ hope you enjoy anon!! (next request will be posted tonight!)

“..And so I said, yknow, you can’t say that to me and—and then..”

A small stuffed toy sat on the couch, positioned to look directly at the bright screen. It’s beady eyes had a glare as it sat so very still. The animal was extremely focused on the reality show built on wealth and fame. It was loved by many.

But the TV was only background noise for what was to come.

“..Ohhh my goshh! That is so terrible..”

From behind the couch stood a figure in green. You had every piece of the Riddler’s outfit on—all except his clear-framed glasses. Those were with Edward, who had gone on a small shopping trip for you. You handed him a short list and gave him a loving kiss on the cheek. He couldn’t have left the apartment any quicker.

It’d been sometime since. You had to go get dressed—properly, cling wrap and triple layered. If you were going to experiment and get the perfect feel of what being the Riddler was like, you had to go all out. You found it more difficult than it seemed, which dwindled the time you had before Edward would return home.

But you couldn’t think about all that now, not with the corrupt teddy bear sitting on your couch. The sight of it made you take a deep breath. It sat there, watching the most obnoxious and meaningless show to ever air. Who paid the bills? You and your Eddie.

Breathing getting heavier with each inhale, you went for the attack.

With a shriek, you grabbed the teddy bears head and flung it to the side. The toy landed snout first, arms and legs spread. As if it’d move and fight back, you quickly slid onto your knees and crawled over. A carpet tucker was in your palm, tightly held so it wouldn’t ever leave your grasp.

“…Ha-haaaa, I would’ve done the same thing. No—I swear!”

The teddy bear was struck with the tool, over and over and over. It was old and the thread was weak, so there wasn’t much surprise when stuffing came flying out. A mess of poly-fil began to surround you.

All you could hear was the ripping and your own breathing. Moving was a hassle and tremendously sweaty. It fueled your anger as you tore the teddy bear to shreds.

“..Has anyone seen her? We’ve been waiting for sooo long, ohmygoshh..”

A snicker comes from afar before it developed into giggles. You could almost hear it over your grunts and the tucker hitting the floor..

Edward’s sweet giggles.

You whip around, startled from the sudden noise. The carpet tucker drops with a clank.

Edward stands at the entrance of the hallway, back towards the end. He held a couple of plastic bags in one hand.

Despite his adoring smile, you were floored with embarrassment.

“What are you doing?” he continues to giggle, eyes fixed on the scene before him.

You were at a loss. You couldn’t move, you refused to even glance away. Every part of you was clammy and warm. Suddenly the uncomfortableness of being in the Riddler’s position hit you.

“I..” your mouth was dry. How could you answer him without sounding like a fool? Even with that thought, you said what immediately came to mind, “..I was tucking in the carpet.”

Edward snorts and takes a step forward. He reaches over to set the bags on the couch before cutting the distance between you. Before another thought could cross your mind, Edward was getting on his knees to meet your level. Your eyes were blown wide but he felt invisible under your gaze.

Carefully, Edward reached to take his mask. Your eyes followed his hands yet you didn’t fight him off. Fingers hooked to the straps, Edward pulled off the green mask to reveal your overheated, damp face. You tilt your head down instantly, knowing you looked ridiculous.

Edward suppressed a lovesick grin at your shyness. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, he was too bewitched.

“You’re gorgeous,” he sighs tenderly, mask forgotten on the ground. Edward ducks, hopeful he can get a good look at you with the positions you’re both in. You saw a hint of a smile on him.

“You make it all look so, so good..”

“Oh, Eddie..”

“Oh, angeleyes,” Edward’s infectious giggle returns, making the corners of your mouth tug, “..what did he do?”

You take a glance up at Edward. A wave of confusion tickled you, until you remembered the mess underneath you.

“Oh, uh…the usual. Corruption, greed. Maybe with a side of pride.”

Edward’s eyes flicker over to the TV, and you felt embarrassment crawl back into your core.

Your head turns towards the TV, “..He enjoyed The Kardashians a little too much.”

“What a menace.”

You can’t help but weakly laugh at Edward’s comment. He was charming, especially when he played the part with you.

Edward took your chin in one hand and leaned in for a kiss. He made a pleasant noise against your lips, making it transparent over how much he loved the contact. All you could do was melt.

When he pulled back, Edward extended his arm to get the cling wrap off of your head. He was gentle, not wanting to make the process uncomfortable in anyway. Once it was off, he set it to the side.

“Do you have the duct tape?” he asks in all seriousness. You nod, a little lost. You dig into his parka and pull out the roll of duct tape.

Edward hums as he picked at the tape and stretched out a long piece.

“We’ll start with the eyes.”

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 — 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐘

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: Never would you have thought that you’d be running for your life from the one person you trusted the most, but neither did you think that he would let you go. (From this headcannon from ☁️ nonnie)

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): SPOILERS, mentions of blood, dying, pregnancy, angsty, fluffy, lots of profanity

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 7,338

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Ethan Landry x fem!Reader    

𝐀/𝐍: Hope you enjoy it! Happy reading lovies <3 I hope you like it cloud nonnie!!!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Afficher davantage

Kiss It Better

A/N- I've seen so many people talking about a Gareth fic where the reader helps him after Jason beats him up but I haven't seen any being posted! I guess I'm glad to be the first

Summary- Gareths neighbor comes over to see him with blood on his face and a nearly broken hand and decides to help fix him up

Genre- Fluff

Warnings- Mentions of blood

Tag List- @imagine-all-the-imagines @ahzysauce

As you were finishing this week’s homework at your desk in your bedroom, you heard a loud crash that seemed to come from just outside.

Being neighbors with Gareth, you knew that him and the other members of his band would get loud, but it was nothing like what you just heard. As you kept listening out your window you could hear yelling, from Gareth and another guy, you weren’t quite sure who, but you could definitely recognize the voice.

You heard speeding tires a few moments later and looked out your window, seeing Jeff and Grant helping Gareth up, his drum set almost destroyed behind him.

The two of you wouldn’t consider yourselves close by any means but growing up across the street from each other gave the two of you a pretty strange relationship. You would call him a friend, but the only time you spend together was at block parties or hanging out when your parents had dinner but really nothing more than that. Still, you cared for him.

He seemed a bit intimidating at first, but in reality, he was just quiet and shy. You knew how sweet he could he just from watching him play with his sisters and he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

You quickly slipped your shoes on and made your way downstairs, just wanting to make sure he was ok. It was out of the ordinary for you to just go up and talk to him out of the blue but whatever happened you could definitely tell he was hurt.

“Hey,” you said as you made your way up his driveway, “are you ok?”

He shook his head, looking at the hand that was just covering his nose, seeing the fresh blood coating his fingertips,

“Jason…”

“Oh shit…” You took a few steps forward and looked at his cheek, a large cut and his nose had a small trickle of blood flowing from it, his face was swollen too, “do you need any help?”

He nodded as his friends let go of his arms. He tried to balance himself as his friends started picking up the different parts if his drum kit off the garage floor to put it back together,

“You guys clean that up, (y/n) would you help me inside?”

You nodded and grabbed his arm, slowly leading him inside.

Though you’d been over a handful of times, you’d never seen it empty. Every time you were over in the past it was either decorated for whatever holiday party your parents had dragged you to or filled with adults, but every time you and Gareth always found a way to spend time together. You’d go up to his room and watch whatever movies he rented for the week or listen to music and talk. One night a few months ago, the two of you were able to sneak off into the garage away from the parents and share a joint, talking about how strange it was to grow up across the street from each other your whole lives and yet you only ever hung out when your parents got together.

You’d wished that your next hang out was under different circumstances, though it was strange to be left all alone with him without having to worry about your parents finding you.

You had to admit, living across the street from Gareth definitely had its perks. You got to see his band during their rehearsals, you watched him play in the front yard with his sisters, and you had to admit he looked pretty cute when he was mowing the lawn shirtless in the summertime. And he could say the same about you. He got to see you in your driveway when your mom insisted on taking pictures on the first day of school every year, he was able to see your reaction when you got your first car, and he loved the view from his bedroom into your backyard, especially when you were lounging around in a skimpy bathing suit.

Most of the time he had to fight with himself over whether or not he should sneak a picture on his polaroid to keep all for himself.

He did feel a bit strange to be left all alone in his house with you, but now all he was focused on was making sure his blood didn’t drip onto the carpet.

You led him into an upstairs bathroom and sat him on the edge of the tub as you searched through the medicine cabinet and vanity drawers, looking for something to try and clean him up.

“Where do you guys keep your band aids?” You said, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and a few cotton pads from under the sink.

Gareth pointed to the medicine cabinet, and you were able to find them, along with a bottle of Tylenol.

You set everything onto the counter and took one of the washcloths next to the sink, soaking it with cold water and handing it to Gareth to clean himself up. He winced as he pressed the cold fabric to his face, his hand red and bruised, struggling a bit to keep the cloth stable as he pressed it to his face.

“Here,” You sat in front of him and took the cloth from his hand, gently pressing it to the side of his face to try and let the cold ease the pain as it soaked up the bit of blood still trailing from his lip, “better?”

He nodded, and you gave him a shy smile as you sat there cleaning him up. The small spot of blood was able to be cleaned up pretty easily, thankfully it was nothing too severe, but the cut on his lip and the bruise on his cheek were another story. His hand would definitely need some ice too, especially with the condition it was in.

You removed the cloth from his face and set it onto the counter, grabbing the bottle of antiseptic and a few cotton pads. You soaked the pads and set the bottle back onto the counter,

“This is gonna sting a little bit, ok?”

He took a deep breath and groaned as you pressed it gently to his lip, dabbing at it just a bit to clean it.

“It’s not so bad,” He said, trying to ease the tension as the two of you were so close together, “hurts a lot less than a punch.”

You softly giggled at how he managed to still make you laugh while he was so hurt. It was cute that he was trying to mask his pain, but you knew that he was hurting much more than he led on.

“Alright, I think the bleeding stopped, but you definitely need some ice on that hand.” You took his injured hand carefully into yours to look at it. It was red, bruised, and you could tell he was going to be in pain for the next couple of days, “I think you’ll live though.”

“Oh, thank god,” He said as the two of you stood up, his hand still in yours, “I was worried we’d have to amputate.”

You giggled again as you gently let go of his hand, putting away the cotton pads and antiseptic before pulling out a Band-Aid to put against his lip,

“Well, if you think it’s that bad, I can always just use a knife from the kitchen and save you some money.”

He tried to smile but winced from the cut on his lip. You opened the band aid and gently put it over the cut, your fingertips gently brushing over his lips, and you could see the faintest pink over his cheeks.

“There. How do you feel?”

“A little better… Still hurts but I think if I put some ice on it for a bit, I’ll be alright.”

The two of you exited the bathroom and made your way back downstairs into the kitchen.

“You sit, I’ll get you some ice.”

You rummaged through his freezer as he took a seat at the kitchen table. He looked at his hand and winced again as he tried to move his fingers, but you quickly stopped it as you sat next to him, two ice packs in your hand,

“Here, this one goes on your hand,” You said, placing one of the ice packs on top of his hand on the table, “and this one goes…” you said as you gently placed the other onto his cheek, “there.”

You smiled as he held the other ice pack to his cheek, his fingers gently brushing over yours as he held it. He smiled, laughing to himself.

“What’s so funny?” You asked him with a shy smile.

“It’s nothing, it sounds kinda weird…”

“It’s fine,” You said with a giggle, “it can’t be that bad.”

“Well, um…” He looked down at the icepack in his hand, trying not to look up at you, “it’s just been a while since you had to help fix me up you know? Got that weird déjà vu feeling of when we were little and fucking around in the street and I fell over on the curb and skinned my knee really bad.”

You giggled as you remembered that day, there was a block party, and all the kids were running in the street trying to pop all the giant bubbles from one of the other neighbors’ bubble machines. You couldn’t have been older than seven, and you and Gareth kept trying to see who could pop the most and while he was chasing after one, he wasn’t looking and tripped over the curb.

“Yeah, we didn’t want your parents to find out and get us in trouble for messing around in the street. I think I used that same bottle of antiseptic stuff; it looked pretty old.”

“I think so, yeah. Its weird, it felt almost the same, except it was my face that got all fucked up and not my knee.”

You smiled and gently bit your lip, looking down at his hand on the table,

“Yeah, and I didn’t try and kiss it all better like our moms did when we got hurt.”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment. It was a bit awkward, and you both could tell you had the same thing on your mind.

“You know…” Gareth looked back up at you, breaking the silence, his cheeks and nose glowing the brightest shade of pink, “it might help a little bit.”

You looked back up at him, though your eyes darted back and forth between his eyes and his lips, and his did the same.

You couldn’t tell who moved first, but the two of you slowly inched closer to one another and before you could even process it, your lips were on his.

It was soft, gentle, and though it only lasted a few moments you could feel a gentle spark between you. You had barely seen each other as you grew older, only spending time together at neighborhood functions, and now you were kissing in his kitchen. Neither of you were sure of what to call this new ‘relationship’ you had, but whatever it was, it was nice.

As your lips parted, you both quickly looked to the garage door as Jeff and Grant made their way into the house,

“Hey man, we got your kit put all back together, I don’t think anything’s broken,” Jeff said as he shut the garage door behind him, looking back at the two of you at the table, your faces bright red and your eyes wide with the adrenaline of almost being caught, “you guys alright?”

“Yeah, you look kinda weird.” Grant said with a laugh.

“Yeah, yeah were totally fine,” You said, trying to ease the tension from you and Gareth, “I was just going.” You stood up from the table and looked back down at Gareth, “I’ll see you around.”

You said with a smile, waving to him and his friends as you quickly left through the garage door.

“(Y/n)!” Gareth called out to you as he followed you out, reaching for your hand, but wincing once again as he forgot all about the pain, he was feeling in it, “You know um… You don’t have to if you don’t want to but, I was just thinking that maybe when my hand isn’t all fucked up, and my face is looking… like this,” he said with a nervous laugh, “maybe you’d want to um… do something?”

You giggled at his nervousness. He seemed so eager to kiss you and yet just asking you out made him so flustered; it was cute to see how nervous you made him even after watching each other grow up right across the street from one another.

You took a step forward and gave him another gentle kiss, catching him by surprise,

“Yeah, I’d love to.” You said with a smile, leaning in just a bit closer to him, whispering, “Tell your friends its rude to stare.” You gave him another gentle wave as you made your way down his driveway and back to yours.

He turned and saw Jeff and Grant standing in the doorway to the garage. Jeff smiled and approached him, wrapping his arm around his shoulder,

“Nice job man! I guess girls are into guys with scars.”

_______________________________________________

If you’d like to read more of my work, make sure to check out my masterlist 🥰

eddie makes ur plushies kiss u all over ur face and makes exaggerated smooching sounds just to hear u giggle <33

please he drags it down to your boobs n then places the plushie aside like "sorry that's actually my job, buddy."

How an Armadillo gathers foliage for its nest.

I'm speechless, the talent is immaculate

love in the margins | t. iida

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

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

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

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

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

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

and now you regret everything.

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

the other students seem to agree.

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

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

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

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

he radiates competence like it's a moral obligation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you blink. "so... yes?"

he doesn't hesitate. "yes."

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

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

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

"y/n," you say.

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

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

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

you stare at him.

he stares back.

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

you do both.

"...sure."

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

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't plan on seeing him again.

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

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

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

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

because when you step inside, there he is.

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

and next to his coffee?

a single blueberry muffin.

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

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

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

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

he waves you over.

you hate how quickly your legs respond.

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

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

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

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

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

he gestures to the pastry between you.

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

you stare at him.

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

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

your mouth twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and yet—

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

he doesn't, either.

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

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

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

not yet.

but maybe.

⋆˚✿˖°

you tell yourself this is still just about school.

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

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

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

and the worst part?

it’s working.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you’re not flirting. not really.

you’re both too stubborn for that.

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

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

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

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

you blink. “so are you.”

he shrugs. “anticipation is efficient.”

“what does that even mean?”

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

your heart does something stupid.

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

thirty minutes in, your brain stops processing information entirely.

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

(does he?)

(no. he can’t.)

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

“hm?”

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

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

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

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

you try to return to your notes.

you fail.

eventually, you lean back in your chair and exhale.

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

he looks up, immediately attentive. “yes?”

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

“this thing we do.”

he blinks. “studying?”

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

he goes still.

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

he doesn’t speak for a long moment.

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

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

“confusing how?”

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

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

you blink. “so you are flirting?”

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

you squint at him. “that’s not a no.”

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

oh.

you stare at him. he stares back.

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

but this time, he doesn’t shift away.

and neither do you.

⋆˚✿˖°

you don’t call it a date.

not out loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he’s already there.

of course he is.

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

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

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

“you’re early,” he says, voice warm.

“so are you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

your mouth goes a little dry.

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

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

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

you blink. “from... studying?”

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

your heart does something strange.

“you mean like... just hang out?”

“yes.”

“like friends.”

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

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

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

and you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s peaceful.

and weirdly... intimate.

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

but you don’t.

because this isn’t a date.

it’s not.

except maybe... it is.

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

he nods. “i enjoyed it.”

there’s a beat of silence.

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

but he looks at you like it does.

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

your breath catches.

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

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

he blinks. “i—thank you?”

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

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

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

“y/n?”

“yeah?”

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

you stare at him.

then, slowly—carefully—you nod.

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

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

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

you feel like you’re floating.

“deal.”

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

you watch him go.

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

⋆˚✿˖°

you don't know what you're expecting.

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

not for studying.

not as friends.

just you. just him. again.

this time, it’s a little different.

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t want to admit what that means.

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

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

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

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

it’s something else.

something softer.

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

you stare at him for a second too long.

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

“so are you.”

“a rare occurrence.”

“should i be concerned?”

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

you both go quiet.

not awkward quiet. just... full.

full of everything you’re not saying.

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

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

again.

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

like genuinely, honestly laughing.

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

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

it’s dangerous, how much you like it.

how much you like him.

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

but the truth is: you’re in trouble.

deep trouble.

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

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

but because he’s steady.

because he means things.

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

and you’ve never been loved gently before.

not like this.

you walk out together.

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

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

you talk about nothing. and everything.

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

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

“you’re a menace,” he says, laughing.

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

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

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

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

you’re not pretending anymore.

and yet.

you don’t know what to say.

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

he looks at you.

longer than before.

long enough that your heart stumbles.

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

you nod. “of course.”

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

“why me?”

you blink. “what?”

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

you frown. “iida.”

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

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

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

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

his expression shifts.

his jaw tightens. his eyes soften.

he takes a step closer.

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

“you’re not.”

“i don’t want to misread it.”

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

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

you stop breathing.

“may i kiss you?” he asks.

you nod before your brain catches up.

“yeah,” you whisper. “you may.”

and he does.

it’s not rushed.

it’s not fiery or desperate.

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

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

when you part, he leans his forehead against yours.

you’re both quiet for a moment.

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

you smile. “i could tell.”

“was i too obvious?”

“painfully.”

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

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

you nod.

“but i’m willing to take it slow.”

“okay.”

“i’ll be patient.”

“okay.”

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

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

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

“yes,” he says. “i’m asking.”

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

you walk home hand-in-hand.

you don’t have to say anything.

it’s not pretending anymore.

and for once—finally—that feels like enough.