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wishmemel · 1 year ago

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so high school, ft. fushiguro megumi

synopsis: you’ve known megumi, nobara, and yuuji since freshman year of high school, but it's only recently that you and megumi have started realizing that your feelings might run deeper than friendship (that is, if either of you have the courage to make the first move...) tags: megumi x f! reader, non-curse au, this might be from megumi's pov idk, friends to lovers, all fluff, all characters are about 17, reader is an older sibling, megumi being his usual reserved self, reader is more bubbly, definitely self-indulgent (reader is a sanrio lover), probably ooc but this is just for fun, no beta reader so let me know if there’s any errors cw: i don't think there are any? please let me know if you spot anything, i'll add it! wc. 5.9k posted: 22/10/23 a/n: i've been working on this fic forever and i didn't think i was going to post it at first tbh... most of my fics stay in the drafts but i spent a little more than 2 weeks on this so i thought why not. also, yes, i know you can't legally drive a car in japan at 17, but we will ignore that for the sake of the fic!

Megumi chewed his lower lip, feeling the weight of the necklace stored in the lower pocket of his black backpack.

He and Yuuji had stopped by a comic book store before school started at the latter’s insistence—Megumi had already stopped by yesterday and picked up the copy he’d wanted in secret, stashed underneath his pillow—so he’d split from Yuuji and made his way to the Hello Kitty Shibuya store a few feet down. He didn’t want his friend to see the romance mangas that he was interested in, and he’d already spent most of his allowance on the two copies he’d bought yesterday. He didn’t want to be tempted any more.

Stepping into the store, dressed in all black, heavy eye bags present, his hair unkempt and spiky, he must have frightened the employees, but they’d done their best to greet him with a cheery smile and welcomed him inside. Megumi had pulled down his snapback and wandered around, wondering what he was doing flipping through a rack of cinnamoroll earrings.

By the time he was at the front counter, ears red, using the last of his allowance to buy a pink heart-shaped necklace of My Melody, he was convinced that he was insane. It was the last one on the shelf and it was… expensive, to say the least. He almost put it back on the shelf after seeing the price, but he hesitated, your sweet smile flashing in his mind. To see you rave and gush about him buying this necklace for you, which was supposedly out of stock everywhere online… Well, he really wanted to see your smile.

The employees at the register giggled over his flushed expression and prodded him about who he was buying it for, when he would give it to you, if you were already his girlfriend or if you were just a friend. They wrapped it in a pink box with a white satin ribbon and he left the store with the tiny amount of dignity he had remaining, his ears brick red from dodging all their suggestive questions.

He hardly remembers stuffing the box deep in his backpack, underneath a spare sweater he keeps in his bag, and rushing over to the manga store with his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly waiting for Yuuji outside as if he’d never left.

They’d walked to school together, chattering away: well, it was mostly just Yuuji talking. Megumi listened, but that was the way he preferred it.

He couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever been labelled talkative. Even as a child, Gojo, his guardian, had complained about Megumi’s blunt and silent nature. Yuuji didn’t mind the silence—it just meant that he had a chance to talk. Nobara despised it—she was always rolling her eyes or pressing him about one thing or the other. When it came to you, you liked the comfortable silence. You didn’t feel the need to fill it with conversation, and even when you did, it was because you wanted to, not because of some awkwardness that you felt between the two of you.

The two boys met up with you and Nobara, both of you bleary-eyed and early at school for once.

The two of you had this awful habit of staying up late and talking on the phone to get your homework done and then waking up hours after school had started, practically missing your first period classes.

Megumi and Yuuji used to wait outside the gate for you two in the beginning, but now they knew you too well and usually headed inside, talking at Megumi’s locker. On the off chance that one of you arrived on time, you knew exactly where to find them.

“Where were you two?” you asked, tilting your head to the side with a confused scrunch of your brows. “We looked for you at your locker, but you weren’t there. Nobara and I actually got to school on time! Aren’t you proud?”

Despite your weariness, your makeup was always done to perfection, uniform ironed and straightened, hair silky and shining underneath the scorching sun, so Megumi always thought you looked good.

It was just recently that you had started looking beautiful instead of nice and seemed more funny than even his best friend, Yuuji.

“Megumi and I ran to the comic book store,” Yuuji said, eyes lighting up with excitement. “I got the one-hundred-fifteenth edition of Human Earthworm. Basically, in this edition, Worm Man falls in love with this woman, but there’s a catch! She’s also half-worm, but she’s a worm from the top half of her body and the bottom half—“

“Itadori,” Nobara barks. “It’s too early in the morning for your SuperWorm stories.”

Nobara glares at him, looking like she hadn’t even had time to do her makeup.

Yuuji peers at her. “You look kind of… sick.”

Nobara’s eyes flare with uncontrolled rage and she leaps on Yuuji’s back, wrapping her legs around his waist as she pulls at his pink hair. “Do you want me to kill you?”

Megumi sighs while Yuuji laughs and dodges Nobara’s advances. You just giggle, your arm brushing against Megumi’s, though he wonders if he’s the only one who notices the warmth of your skin on his.

The bell rings, startling them, and Nobara slowly unlatches herself from Yuuji. You bound over to her and fix her hair and she allows you patiently.

“Good?” she asks, checking her phone’s reflection.

“Good?” Yuuji mocks, patting down his own hair.

“You both look hot,” you affirm, giggling at Nobara’s murderous look. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and check your phone. Your expression brightens as you glance over at Megumi. “Megs and I have Chem together first. We have a lab today, remember?”

He doesn’t return your smile, mostly because he’s starstruck at the sight, but nods slowly to let you know he’s heard.

Nobara groans. “Yuuji and I have Gym first,” she gripes.

You snort, flicking her cheek. “I don’t want to know why you would ever decide to take that class.”

“It’s not bad or hard,” she defends, but then she puts her fist up and grits her teeth. “But there’s this really stupid teacher who always picks on me for being a woman. He thinks I’m slower ‘cause I have a vagina and that makes me want to pull out his hair.”

“And he hates me because he always says I’m cheating during our run,” Yuuji complains. “It’s not my fault I’ve trained a lot!”

You laugh again before bouncing over to Megumi and wrapping a hand around his bicep. “Let’s go,” you insist. “We have to get the seat at the back before Miwa gets there again! Last time, she took my spot and she knows it’s my spot. I always sit there!”

You drag him with you, calling your goodbyes to a stunned Yuuji and Nobara, the two aware of how much Megumi hates physical touch. They wait, watching for their friend to remove your hand, but he never does. The two exchange nervous looks as they follow you through the front doors.

You’re sitting on a large boulder, your back to him, as you listen to Yuuji and Nobara’s insistent speech. He can almost imagine your confused look: your eyebrows scrunched, lips pouty.

The three of you haven’t spotted him yet, nonchalantly strolling towards you, hands tucked in his pocket, but even at this distance he can hear what the pair are telling you.

“You cannot touch Megumi,” Nobara insists. “He hates being touched.”

“The last time I tried to hug him, he squeezed my wrist so hard I thought it’d break,” Yuuji points out, cradling his arm. “He hates physical touch.”

Megumi sighs and rolls his eyes.

Just when he’d started getting close to someone, his cursed friends had to interfere. Even if their intentions are in the right place, can’t they mind their own business? He isn’t exactly the people-pleasing type: if he’s letting you touch him, it’s on purpose.

Both Nobara and Yuuji share exactly one brain cell, he thinks.

“Oh… really?” Is he imagining the hint of disappointment in your tone? “Ah, I didn’t know. Okay… I’ll try to keep my distance from now on. Thanks for telling me.”

“What are you three talking about?” he asks, stopping at your back.

You still as his leg brushes against your back. You tilt your head back, meeting his eyes with a tentative smile. He’s awestruck all over again, like every time you flash him that smile.

“You,” Nobara answers truthfully, taking his attention off of you.

Yuuji elbows her and laughs awkwardly. “She’s kidding. W-we were talking about Human Earthworm 5! Yeah, Human Earthworm. Obviously. I told them we should go see the fifth—“

You roll your eyes, watching him take a large step over the boulder to stand next to Yuuji. “I don’t know why they’re lying. We were just talking about where to go for lunch. Yesterday, Nobara and I got to pick and we went out for sushi, remember? We thought you guys might have a preference today.”

“That’s what we were talking about,” Yuuji affirms quickly with a painfully bright smile. Megumi isn’t so awestruck at the sight.

There’s a collective moment of silence; they’re all holding their breath, waiting for his answer.

He looks at you. You give him an innocent smile, blinking, and he finds it slightly frightening how easily you can lie to his face like that.

“Okay.” Megumi shrugs, accepting your words. “I’m in the mood for tteokbokki,” he says, despite his lack of allowance, if only to change the topic. He remembers Yuuji salivating over the thought of the street food yesterday in Math class, even after lunch.

“There’s a place near here that has corn dogs and tteokbokki,” Nobara mentions, checking the Maps app on her phone. “It’s a five minute walk.”

“I want tteokbokki with a boiled egg,” Yuuji announces eagerly.

“Tteokbokki is best with egg,” Nobara agrees. “Wanna share?”

“I want the whole egg,” Yuuji warns.

“You can spare me half,” she insists. “I want it too!”

“If we want to go, then we should go now,” you interrupt. “We only have thirty minutes left.”

Both Nobara and Yuuji start bickering over their order and you take that chance to sneak a quick glance at your phone, frowning at the recurring texts you’ve been receiving.

Megumi looks to you, eyes catching onto the worried crease between your eyebrows. You put away your phone at his watchful gaze.

“Sorry,” you say, feigning a smile. “Let’s go.”

He nods, wondering if he should ask you why you had that concerned look in your eyes. But Megumi isn’t good at words; he always stumbles and trips over them and can never quite get his thoughts out properly, unlike you. He’s always admired the eloquent and seemingly veritable way you speak, even when you lie. You’re always able to put on a mask.

He’s not so good with words, so in a rare display of bravery, he resorts to offering you his hand, as if extending his heart to you. His ears turn red as he looks away from you, realizing that Yuuji and Nobara have stopped arguing long enough to watch.

You blink uncertainly, then beam up at him and take his hand.

Your hand is warm in his and much much softer than the callouses that roughen his. Often, you offer him hand lotion in Chemistry and he hasn’t the heart to refuse you. You squeeze a dollop of the rose-scented cream in his hand before doing the same on your own. He gets the pleasure of watching you beam as the two of you rub the lotion into your palms. As a result of your generosity, his hands have been feeling softer than usual.

You thank him for the gesture and he just shrugs, bumping shoulders with you as you enter the address into your Maps app, trying to avoid the awkward atmosphere in the air.

“We can get two eggs,” Nobara attempts, to break the tension.

Yuuji agrees immediately with no argument.

The jewelry box feels especially heavy in Megumi’s bag.

When the three of you reach the restaurant, Yuuji and Nobara immediately fight over who’s paying for the extra eggs. Nobara insists that it should be Yuuji who pays because he should be the one paying penance, while Yuuji wants to split the cost in half. The two of them bicker a little more, embarrassing you and Megumi in front of the cashier before they place their order, and then continue to do so while taking a seat at a table for four.

You just sigh and muster your brightest smile to make up your friends. Megumi hovers closely behind you as you place your order, feeling slightly protective of you in front of the handsome male noting your order.

The man is tall, maybe taller than Megumi himself, and he has this air of easiness that Megumi instantly dislikes. What, with his eager grins and frequent winks sent your way, it’s clear that he just can’t—won’t—take a hint. His name tag reads Haru, which has many many meanings, but the one Megumi decides on is sun. He’s overwhelmingly sunny, much like Yuuji. But while Yuuji’s is a natural sunniness, a disposition that comes easily to him, Haru has this overbearing nature, like when he leans over the register to take your cash and purposely lets your fingers brush his. He has these charming chocolate-coloured curls and he keeps brushing them out of his big, dark eyes. Even through his instant dislike, Megumi can’t help comparing himself to the man.

He keeps wondering: Is this your type? Would you be interested in someone like this, so sunny and bright, almost as much as you are?

“A mozzarella corn dog with cinnamon sugar and the small tteokbokki, no egg,” you’re confirming, cutting through the jealous haze that is his thoughts. You glance back at him, finally taking his attention off of Haru. “Want anything?”

“Naah, I ate earlier,” he says with a shake of his head, sidling closer so that your back brushes against his chest. You startle slightly, but don’t move away. Haru’s smile falters a little. Megumi wants to stick his tongue out at him petulantly like a little kid who’s just won a game of rock, paper, scissors.

Somehow, Megumi can tell you see through his lie, likely because you’ve been with him for almost the entire day, but you don’t argue and he quickly pulls out his phone and distracts himself with the Weather app so that you won’t suspect him further.

A forecast of rain, he notices, startling.

He usually stores an umbrella or two in his bag because he knows you never bring one—it doesn’t rain as often as you’d like, but even when it does, you enjoy the water soaking you to the bone. Megumi usually watches you, Nobara, and Yuuji splash in puddles, his black umbrella already opened up to keep him dry. When the three of you get tired or cold, you can count on him to lend you one, and you often plaster yourself to his side, getting his clothes wet as your teeth chatter underneath the umbrella.

His fond expression breaks when you nudge his shoulder and the two of you make your way to the table where your friends are already seated, Nobara sitting cross-legged on the seat to face Yuuji, hands waving about animatedly.

“You know, you were checking that guy out for an awfully long time,” you tease with a cheeky smile.

Megumi’s mind doesn’t put two and two together. In fact, he feels like it might be short-circuiting. “What?”

None of what you’re saying makes sense to him—isn’t it so obvious that he’s interested in you?

“You know, Megs, if you’re gay, you just have to tell me,” you say solemnly, trying not to let your face crack. “I’m sure Nobara and Yuuji will also support you. Nobara likes girls, and, besides, that’s what friends are for. We’re here for you, even if you’re into the douchey cashier.”

“You thought he was douchey?” he blurts, the only thing that his brain seems to process.

“So, you are gay!” you exclaim, slapping your receipt onto the table where Nobara and Yuuji are sitting. They jump at the thump sound the receipt makes on the table, their conversation interrupted.

“Fushigoru’s gay?” Nobara asks skeptically with a raised brow as she turns around to face the two of you. An amused smile plays on her mouth. “I knew it. I called it first!”

“I said it first!” Yuuji protests. “Remember when he punched Kai in the face and I said that he did it because he thought his was was just too pretty to—“

“I’m not gay,” Megumi snaps, cheeks on fire. “And I don’t like Kai!”

You stifle a giggle, sliding your receipt in Nobara’s direction. “I got a corndog and tteokbokki. We can share.”

Nobara scans the receipt with a raised brow, letting Yuuji read off her shoulder. “Another phone number?” she teases slyly.

“What?” you and Megumi blurt at the same time.

Megumi snatches the receipt from her freshly-manicured nails and his eyes widen in horror at the series of numbers that are, indeed, printed at the bottom in black pen next to a winky emoji. Beside him, you cringe and Megumi crushes it up in his palm and shoves it into his pocket.

He raises a brow, sliding into the booth, and asks, “Did you want that?”

You shake your head almost immediately and follow after him, sitting across from Nobara. She taps the side of your sneaker with her own and you look her way long enough to see a mischievous glint enter her eyes.

“You’ve just been collecting phone numbers left and right, haven’t you?” Nobara sings, wiggling her brows at you to break the silence. “Quite the player, aren’t you?”

“This is the first number I’ve gotten all year,” you protest, cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “You know that—you guys are always with me!”

“What about the guy at the vending machine yesterday?” Yuuji asks.

“Kai?” you ask in disbelief. “He’s not—We aren’t—”

Megumi blurts, “Kai asked you out yesterday?”

You groan aloud, burying your face in your hands. “No, he didn’t! He just expressed his interest. I told him I didn’t like him and we left it at that.”

And here Megumi was thinking that the guy had learned his lesson—It was true that Megumi had punched him in the face, but not for the reasons that Yuuji predicted. If Yuuji had truly heard what Kai had said about you, he wouldn’t be nearly as lax with his teasing remarks. And, fine, it was true—Kai did have somewhat of a pretty face and Megumi did have this tiny inkling that Kai had feelings for you, but he’d done his best to ignore that small, jealous whisper and tuck it aside. He never imagined that Kai would act on his feelings.

Maybe Megumi hadn’t punched him hard enough.

Megumi removes his snapback and places it on the table, rubbing the material between his fingertips to soothe the burning in his chest.

Yuuji raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile playing on his mouth. He looks like he’s about to make another unnecessary comment, but he’s interrupted by Haru, the cashier, serving them their lunch on a long, silver tray.

You make eye contact with him and suddenly regret your decision to sit on the outside of the booth when he smiles at you for long moments while serving, explaining each and every dish with precise detail to you and only you. He flatly ignores your friends and keeps his eyes locked onto you, even while serving—you’re half afraid he might drop something that way. On the positive side, he knows exactly what he’s talking about—each dish, each flavour, each part is explained down to a T.

You know more about canned Coca-Cola now than you ever have in your entire life. Who knew that the drink used to contain cocaine before 1929? Not you. But you’re thinking you could use some right now to get out of this awkward situation.

On the negative side—Yuuji is stifling his laugh, Nobara looks like she might explode any moment now, and Megumi… Megumi is glaring daggers at the man who ignores the icy look and continues his long-winded speech.

You break eye contact and try not to roll your eyes as you lock gazes with Yuuji across the table. He gives you a knowing look, pressing his trembling lips together to hold in the laughter that dances in his eyes.

He seems to be saying this is all your fault.

You just sigh, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll pay for your eggs," is what you mouth back at him.

Yuuji’s smile widens and he makes out, “Deal!”, right back at you.

Haru has only just moved on to explaining how tteokbokki is made in their kitchen when Megumi tucks his black snapback onto your head, bringing it down to cover your view. He opens his mouth to argue but is interrupted by Nobara who snaps, “I think we know what we ordered. And Chef doesn’t seem like it’s part of your job description.”

The silence that befalls the restaurant makes your face burn hot with embarrassment. You sigh and cover your face with your hands, wishing a hole would appear in the floor so you could crawl into it, roll around, and just die.

Megumi is not sure whether to feel grateful to Nobara for speaking up or annoyed because he was going to say something first.

Haru mumbles, “It’s not. I’m a server.”

“I think we can handle it from here,” Yuuji coughs awkwardly.

“Thank you,” you mutter under your breath, nudging Megumi with your knee.

“Thanks,” Megumi repeats tersely, unpleasantly reminded of the existence of social etiquette.

“Men take a hint,” Nobara mutters, glaring at Haru’s retreating back. “Level: impossible.”

You snort under a breath and point a set of packaged chopsticks at her. “And you made fun of me for rejecting Kai. He also wouldn’t take a hint and was incredibly insistent—I mean, what kind of guy waits outside of class for you every. single. day. after you reject him?”

Nobara slides her tteokbokki in her direction, seeing as how all of the dishes are placed in a spot advantageous to you. You give both her and Yuuji a pair of chopsticks, then push Megumi’s smaller tteokbokki dish towards him.

“Megumi and I wait outside your classes for you,” Yuuji points out, breaking apart his chopsticks with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

Indeed, Megumi is frozen, awaiting your response with bated breath.

Do you find him creepy or weird when he waits for you? He’d always thought you might appreciate having someone to walk to your classes and chatter with, especially when Nobara isn’t around. He hadn’t considered the fact that you might think of him as a creep…

“You and Megumi don’t count,” you insist, glancing at him with your brows furrowed. “We’re friends. It’s different. Kai would bring me a different flavoured chocolate each day and deliberately hand it out in front of a group of guys that are known to gossip. He’d make these stupid comments, put his hand on my shoulder, and act like we were dating.”

You unwrap a set of chopsticks, snap them in half and offer them to Megumi who takes them with a troubled look.

“Stop it,” you argue, nudging his leg with yours. “I already told you: I’m uncomfortable when Kai does it. You guys are my friends—it’s not any different than when Nobara waits for me.”

“Preach,” Nobara says solemnly, shoving another rice cake in her mouth. Yuuji startles and protests at the fact that he’s been too busy conversing with you to even have a bite, but Nobara just sticks her tongue out at him petulantly.

So now he’s being compared to Nobara, Megumi sulks. He’s not sure which is worse—being likened to a creep or to Nobara.

You nudge him with your elbow this time, shooting him an effortless smile. “Come on, cut out the whole protective older brother thing. I can see it in your face. Nothing happened, Megs.”

Megumi starts, then just nods, though he hadn’t been thinking of Haru. Unfortunately, your words do nothing to ease his mind.

Now you’re referring to him as your older brother… He can’t say he’s not used to it, but… he doesn’t want to be your older brother, nor does he want to act like one.

Nobara smirks. “Yeah, Megs, listen to your—”

He kicks her shin from across the table and her eyes blow wide. “Hey! You didn’t do anything when…” Nobara’s train of thought is cut off when Yuuji elbows her. She settles for glaring at Megumi with a look that says I’ll get you back.

Megumi looks indifferent to her nonverbal threat as he takes the first bite from his meal. Seeing him eat spurs you into action and you open up the container with your mozzarella corn dog.

He knows you see Nobara as a fun, sister-like figure: someone you can laugh with, go shopping with, and call whenever you need advice, gossip, or a pick-me-up. With Nobara, your time flies by in seconds, the two of you always busy giggling and laughing on FaceTime.

You see Yuuji as a younger brother: someone to indulge and take care of, especially because Megumi doesn’t humour him and Nobara bickers with him day and night, much like a sibling would. You ruffle his hair when you’re pleased with him, making him beam, and you graciously tag along to the movie theater with him when a new Human Earthworm movie is released, since he and Nobara staunchly refuse whenever Yuuji pleads.

So, maybe Megumi’s role has been predetermined from the start. He’s always been overprotective of his friends and he nags like a mother hen, especially when it comes to you. Whenever you text him that you’re going out, accompanied with a few pictures, asking him what to wear, he always makes sure that you have your location on, your ringer on, that you aren’t on silent mode, or you haven’t muted his texts. He makes sure he knows exactly where you’re going, when you’ll be back; he makes sure his phone is always nearby so he never misses a text from you, in the rare case that you might message him to pick you up. After all, he is your group’s designated driver. He figures you might need him once in a while.

He chews his rice cakes slowly, trying to ignore the burn in his chest. He glances over at you, busy in conversation. The three of you are used to his frequent silence; you don’t take it as odd anymore, nor do you press for him to join the conversation. You all know he’ll speak up when he wants to.

Is he overbearing?

Actually… he’s not unlike you, in that sense.

You’re the first to remind Yuuji, as always, that he’s left his phone in Megumi’s car, or his books in the classroom, or that his hoodie is in his locker, as always, but you’d picked it up for him because you knew he’d forget. Before he can even tell you that he’s lost his pencil for the third time this week, you’re pressing one into his hands with a skeptical eyebrow raise that asks, anything else? He’s like a little puppy that you look after when no one else will.

With Nobara, he’s seen you often calling her when she’s alone in a taxi and she texts you that the driver is being weird. You stay on call with her, purposely raising your voice loud enough for the driver to hear you ask repeatedly, “Where are you? When are you getting here? We’re all waiting for you.” You always wait on her text that tells you she’s reached home safe before your shoulders loosen and you feel some of the tension leave you.

Before Megumi goes out, you’re over at his house, fussing over his clothes (the same ones he wore a day ago), his hair (that never seems to settle, no matter how much gel or hairspray you use), his face. You pinch his cheeks, tell him to go wash his face again because he still looks half-asleep, toss him a rose-scented lotion tube, straight from your bag, and insist that he keep it. You completely baby him.

And when the four of you go out for lunch, more often than not, it’s you who orders for the rest of them, Megumi tagging along sometimes, if only to insist on paying. You half-listen to their conversation, half-wonder when the food will arrive. And when it finally does, you’re the first to urge them to start: handing them their utensils, breaking apart their chopsticks, and reminding them to eat well.

You’re used to looking after others and putting their needs before your own, as the eldest daughter of your family. Megumi is overprotective as well, but he’s also hyper-independent, used to caring for himself without anyone else. Around you, he always finds his demeanor molding, softening—he acts more spoiled, more sulky, almost as if he’s trying to catch your attention, to make you fuss over him. And you do. You always indulge him, though he’s sure you can see right through his act.

You’re laughing at something Yuuji says when you notice him looking at you, as if he’s seeing you in a new light. You hold your corn dog up to him, a sweet smile on your face.

Megumi blinks, ears reddening, as he shakes his head. “N-no, I wasn’t—“

“Have some. It’s good,” you insist, and he can’t refuse you.

So he leans forward in his seat, his thigh brushing against yours—he shouldn’t feel so flustered by that action, right? But you’re still wearing his snapback on your head and it looks ridiculous on you, oversized and just barely hanging onto your head.

Sharing clothes or accessories isn’t new between the two of you either, nor are brief touches like his leg against yours. For some reason, he’s starting to feel hyper-aware of his every movement around you in a way that he doesn’t feel around Nobara, or even Yuuji.

Often, when the four of you have sleepovers or movie nights, typically held at Megumi’s house (he’s always playing host, but he’s grateful that you help out by always arriving an hour earlier with bags of snacks. Gojo adores you for that reason alone), you don’t shy away from physical touch. You’ve fallen asleep on his arm more times than he can count, laid your legs in Yuuji’s lap while the four of you argue over which movie to watch, and squeezed Nobara’s hand throughout countless horror movies.

And yet… Your thighs brushing through your jeans as he leans close is somehow the most intimate feeling he’s had since his kindergarten crush had hugged him tight on the playground in front of his friends.

You hold your corn dog up to his mouth and he takes a bite, relishing in the stretch of mozzarella as you pull the snack away from him with a laugh. He keeps his eyes locked on your lit smile, unaware of Yuuji and Nobara’s troubled gaze trained on him.

You’re like the sun; wherever you go, you shine so bright, making him want to reflect you: he can’t help smiling back.

Sharing food has never been a big deal between the four of you—well, three of you. Before you had found them and became involved in their little friend group, Megumi used to firmly refuse to drink from the same bottle as Nobara or eat from the same spoon as Yuuji, on account of “hygiene”, he claimed. Then you’d stumbled and tripped right into their world and the easy way you’d steal Yuuji’s gatorade from right under his nose and take a sip or share a bite of the cake pop you’d brought for lunch with Nobara had been enough to make him loosen up too, just enough. Eventually, he’d forgotten about that little rule, all because of you, with no shortage of teasing from Yuuji and Nobara.

He drinks from the same glass as you when you’re over at his house, and when you find yourself parched at school, he’s the first to offer to run to the convenience store and back in time for your first period class, Chemistry, which you share with him. The two of you often pass the drink back and forth in class and he tosses it out afterwards when you walk out together, complaining about the homework or the in-class lesson.

Although, he wonders absentmindedly, if you’re eating from the same spoon as him or sipping from the same can from him, can that be counted as… an indirect kiss?

His eyes are inexplicably drawn to your glossy lips as you beam at him and put together a string of words that flies right over his head. What if he leaned forward, just a little? The sparkles on your lips are illuminated by the warm lighting of the restaurant and he finds himself musing about the flavour of your gloss.

Cherry, perhaps? He’d like cherry. Or even strawberry might be nice, sweet and sugary, he thinks. Anything would do, if it was you.

You call his name again, snapping him out of his daze, and he stammers, “W-what?”

You giggle, tucking his snapback onto his head and covering his face. Why doesn’t he have a voice recording of that precious laugh of yours? “Idiot. I was asking if it was good!”

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, it’s great,” he mumbles dazedly with no idea of what you’re talking about as he adjusts his hat.

He blinks, trying to clear the fog in his head as you wait expectantly, ignoring Yuuji and Nobara’s snickers in the background.

“I-it was really good. The corn dog, I mean,” he clarifies, gaze dipping to your lips again. “I liked it. But… Lunch is on me next time.”

You snort, looking satisfied with his answer. “Lunch is always on you. Pigs won’t start flying if you let me pay for your meal once.”

Megumi has what you call textbook manners when it comes to things like this; he’s overly stiff, overly formal. He can’t remember the last time he’d let any of you pay for him without returning the favour. It’s more than just a matter of his pride and ego (though that certainly plays a hand.) It’s the fact that he can’t fathom depending on any of you like that. He can’t accept this level of warmth or care without his mind whispering that it’s only a matter of time before you’ll all leave, just like his father, just like his mother.

He exhales deeply and pops open the can of Coca-Cola that you bought him. The bubbles hiss and fizzle before settling down. As soon as they do, he slides the can towards you with a jerk of his head: an order to take the first sip.

You give him an indulgent smile and follow his instructions, leaving behind a mauve stain on the can. Then, you push the can towards him with the same head jerk motion that he gave you. He resists the temptation of giving in to your antics and smiling as a result.

You’re messing with his head, he groans silently. He’s never going to be the same after this. More than that, he thinks, glancing towards Nobara and Yuuji who observe him with matching knowing looks, the two of them are never going to let him live this down.

Maybe you don't know it yet, but Megumi is yours.

comments and reblogs are appreciated!

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lordadmiralfarsight · 1 year ago

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Revolution fetishism is a horrible political view, especially in this context

Okay, rant incoming, partially related to recent events, but also to earlier thinking on my part.

There are, on the Left, a fair few people that romanticize or outright fetishize the concept of Revolution, of violent popular uprising to wrest power out of the hands of a corrupt elite and give it to the people. Very romantic, very righteous (self-righteous pretty often), very good and nice and sexy. And by the grace of revolutionary fervor and ideological purity, everything will be better after.

Except no.

See, a lot of this romanticization of Revolution comes, to my knowledge, from my own country of France. We have romanticized our Revolution a fair bit, and honestly, looking at the first part, fair. A serious go at giving women rights, a no-cause divorce, abolition of slavery, privileges thrown out, equality between people proclaimed loud, enfranchisement given to minorities ... in 1789. A LOT of good and progress, especially for the time.

But then it got fucky, VERY fucky. The Reign of Terror, under the caring leadership of Maximilien Robespierre, was a fucking nightmare on Earth, caracterized by mass executions on political basis, and by this I mean anyone that opposed Robespierre got beheaded. Political plurality? You mean anti-revolutionary sentiment ! Unacceptable, kill everyone.

A rumor of the time said the Place de Grève was covered in a layer of blood that was ankle deep. Is that an exageration ? Yes, certainly. But the fact it got to that point should tell you something about how intense the murdering was. And that was just one square in Paris, there was the rest of the country to consider too.

But surely, after Robespierre fell victim to his own system and was executed, something better emerged, right?

No. Sweet mother of fuck, NO.

What followed was roughly 70 years of political instability and violence, warfare and civil war, several dictatorships, including attempts to restore absolute monarchy, that undid most of the good brought by the first part of the Revolution. And finally, France stumbled onto political stability in 1870 when the temporary 3rd Republic, that was supposed to wait until the presumptive heir to the throne (who wanted an absolute monarchy) croacked did what temporary things do best and became the permanent system (until its fall).

This was not thanks to the Revolution. It was pure randomness.

Did the French Revolution bring good things? Yes, it did. In its first part. The second part brought chaos and misery for multiple decades. And it took a lot of work and efforts to bring back what the Revolution, the peaceful part, had brought in.

And far too many people on the Left fetishize and romanticize the whole thing, as if we couldn't have had the first part without the second, as if the progress and hope and betterment somehow needed the chaos and murder that came after.

Yes, there would have been a period of conflict, European monarchies would not have accepted quietly a realm the size of France doing away with monarchs. But did we REALLY need the political purges ? Did we REALLY need the paranoia ? Did we REALLY need the massacres ?

But you will find people that answer yes, and say the spilled blood somehow made it pure, or good. And those same people are looking at what Hamas is doing and are cheering. These people don't celebrate the first part, the progress and hope. They claim to be, but they aren't. They celebrate the Terror. They yearn for the unjust "popular tribunal" AKA mob "justice". They dream of executing political opponents or anyone they think is "bad" on light or even absent charges.

And That's why they cheer for Hamas rockets and massacres. That's why they sing when Israeli children are murdered. That's why they attack Jews that don't live in Israel. Because they hope to vicariously live this period of unchecked violence.

Know who was celebrating the RIGHT part of the Revolution ? The Israeli working with Gazan to build understanding. The Gazan protesting against Hamas. The Israeli Arabs risking their lives to save the lives of fellow Israeli and of foreigners, regardless of skin or creed. The Gazan trying to improve things in their homes against the wishes and efforts of Hamas.

Know who IS celebrating the RIGHY part of the Revolution ? The Israeli protesting the way the IDF is bombing Gaza. The people decrying the hypocrisy of blood-thirsty leftists. The people calling for Peace and working to make the political change to allow it.

But the Robespierres of the time, drunk on their own self-assurance, condemn and insult them, claiming that blood must be spilt. But it doesn't have to be. The French Revolution started relatively bloodlessly. It didn't need some great orgy of violence. Oh it wasn't clean, but it was far cleaner than the armchair Robespierres would like it to be. Because it didn't need to be.

And that's my point, really. The people fantasizing about and fetishizing the Revolution always dream of torrents of blood washing away the injustices, of seas of corpses forming a fertile ground upon which progress can grow. But that horseshit. All you get with that is, like the Place de Grève, a sinister place that stinks of rot and death, and flocks of scavengers gorging on your crimes.

All you get is a chance for a Napoleon to arrive. Or Stalin's USSR that so casually carried on with the crimes of the Tsars. Or Polpot who murdered 25% of his population.

If you look at the French Revolution, the right lesson to learn is that you need to know when to stop, and that's before you get to indiscriminate killing. Because once you get to that point ... people that thrive in those settings get in power and perpetuate them.

And to apply that to the situation in I/P ... knowing when to stop means realizing that Israeli are still humans, that Gazan are still humans, that their lives have worth and should be protected, that supporting child killings when it's done by "brown people" is not anymore alright than supporting child killings when done by the IDF. And you people should very well consider the possibility that people inside the IDF are doing all they can to reduce Bibi's ability to order war crimes.

And you should recognize that there are efforts on the part of the IDF, sometimes token efforts, sometimes more than just that, to limit the number of dead civilians. Point me to a case where Hamas did the same. Point me to a case where they tried to get Israeli civilians out of the way instead of targeting them.

Hamas is not a Revolution you want to succeed. It's not about being free. It's about killing. This isn't a "glorious revolutionary action", it's a prelude to the wholesale slaughter and ethnic massacre they dream of. It's a tiny window into their ideal, blood soaked world.

Violent revolution should be a last resort, when there is no other option available, when the system is so utterly broken and shattered that nothing can move, and it should be stopped as soon as the system is unfucked enough to negociate. The I/P situation is not at that stage. Look at how much efforts the fascists of both sides have to invest in maintaining this. Look at how much time and money and efforts they have to invest to keep each other in place. And despite this, people of both sides reach for peace, argue and protest for it, even at the risk of their very lives (especially true in Gaza).

And if you refuse to consider all this, if you insist on following Robespierre, remember this : La Veuve came for him too, in the end.

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sarshles-cheescake-li · 3 months ago

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I wonder if Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi's rule around past and future was about protecting the timeline and the future, or about protecting Cheng Xiaoshi?

After all, on a universal, metaphysical scale of things, physics shouldn't care about whether a change to its pathway is observable to humans or not. It shouldn't care whether someone changes the timeline enough to have noticeable changes on the human level, or just on the micro level -- one second late here, a few centimetres too far here.

Besides, I would presume that for the sake of the universe's peace of mind, it wouldn't give people reality-breaking powers for the fun of it.

But what we do know is that changing the past drains you. It tires you out, wrings the smile from your face and the crinkle from your eyes. After all, if someone got murdered, to you, it's a tragedy. If someone got murdered because of something you did or didn't do, then to you, it's sin. And if they weren't supposed to die in the first place, but you went back and changed something, and now they are? That's practically your crime, isn't it (to clarify, this is a literary hyperbole)?

But you can't just not change the past. Because if someone gets hurt and you could've saved them, then that's no different, really, from dooming them yourself. Does inaction not carry the same consequences as action? Does the crime of omission not weigh on the scale just as heavily as the crime of commission?

Cheng Xiaoshi learns. Cheng Xiaoshi cares, about everyone and everything, deeply. Whether it be because he dives in and inherits their emotions, or because he is too full of love for every single living thing, Cheng Xiaoshi is the type of person to see everyone whom he can reach as his responsibility. But that is a horrible, horrible mindset for a time-traveler, isn't it?

So -- imagine. Lu Guang, in the first few loops, without his rules, changing the past with his partner, watching Cheng Xiaoshi fall apart again and again, drowned by his own perceived sins. And we don't know who Lu Guang was, at this point. Was he perhaps more stilted, less able to be Cheng Xiaoshi's psychologist, as director Li once joked? What would've happened to a Cheng Xiaoshi who carried more burdens and whose Lu Guang was not yet practiced at bringing him back up from his lowest points?

So Lu Guang learns. The first rule is a time limit, and the second rule of obedience. Maybe this was their own rule to begin with, to make sure Cheng Xiaoshi remained within Lu Guang's reach. Maybe it was made later, so that Lu Guang could guide Cheng Xiaoshi and shoulder more responsibility. If he could make himself the gunman and Cheng Xiaoshi the gun, maybe the latter would not feel so guilty over whom gets caught in the crossfire.

Maybe later he learns that that doesn't work, that Cheng Xiaoshi still feels deeply guilty about the people hurt by the new histories they create. So then the third rule: Past or future, leave them be. I had always found it strange why this rule included the future, in addition to the past. If it's about timeline stability, wouldn't it just be about the past?

But maybe it's for Cheng Xiaoshi's sake. If Cheng Xiaoshi thinks that he isn't allowed to change the past for some higher, nobler reason, if it's Lu Guang making him follow the rules and not he himself, then the choice is out of his hands. It's not that he's "leaving someone to die." It's the timeline which demands they must die. He cannot change it, so he will not. And if it's for that same higher, nobler reason that he cannot try to track the changes that he created, then that choice is out of his hands, too. Then it's about him "not wanting to know what happens" it's that he "shouldn't know what happens."

Cheng Xiaoshi, left to its own devices, flies too high and burns himself out, trying to care for too many people too deeply, all at once. But what if Lu Guang chains him to the ground? Here are the rules, Cheng Xiaoshi. You must stay for only twelve hours (So I will know where you are and you will not lose yourself living infinitely in the past). You must listen to me (so you can punch me and blame me if things go wrong instead of yourself). You cannot change the past (So please don't try to, because once you do, it will suffocate you) and you cannot ask about the future (you don't need to know what your actions have wrought). And Cheng Xiaoshi remains, unburnt, unscathed. If anyone asks him why he won't fly higher, it's a simple answer -- Lu Guang asked me not to.

Lastly, this one is purely speculation, and I don't think it's true, but -- do we actually get confirmation, at any point in the story, that Cheng Xiaoshi can't dive into photos that he's already dove into? Did he ever actually try and have it fail, or did Lu Guang simply tell him that?

Maybe there is no diving limit. Maybe Cheng Xiaoshi can dive into the same photo as many times as he wants. But then why would Lu Guang tell he couldn't?

It's simple.

You must not get caught up trying to change a past that doesn't want to be changed.

After all, Lu Guang knows very well what happens if you do, doesn't he?

#link click #sgdlr #shiguang daili ren #link click spoilers #link click theory #long post #lu guang #cheng xiaoshi #I don't usually post without sitting on the draft for a few days first #but I was washing dishes and this idea struck me like a metal pole #So if it's very disorganized #that's why #Also how do I use this website. I feel like I'm breaking five thousand tumblr rules every time I post

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averyshittyseal · 1 year ago

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Some Sketches of my favourite dorks

(And my inconsistency in drawing Harry)

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flipperbrain-awakes · 8 months ago

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My poor distraught vampire

#his pain and rage is ugh #mitchell #aidan turner #lyndsey marshal #being human uk #this show bums me out #why do I watch it?#i love his sneery face #that's why

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evilfloralfoolery · 2 months ago

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First Contact

Told ya I was gonna jump into the snzy romantic shit. Indigo's attempts to resist any sort of attraction to Grimm are failing spectacularly. Grimm is aware of this. Grimm is a bastard.

If you wanna know more about what's going on with them, I wrote a summary HERE.

*Note: You will find content warnings in my tags, if there are any. If you have concerns, be sure to look before you read.*

_______________________________________

Get to know him before you make your decision.

Reginald’s words ring in his ears as Indigo resists the urge to retreat back to his own room in the Victorian estate.

But he has given his word to his superior and that is a thing that must be honored. And if he is being honest with himself, watching Grimm explain the process of cleaning his gun is actually quite interesting, given the fact that Indigo has never used that particular weapon.

Not to mention that the man does, admittedly, look quite fetching in his gray cable knit sweater.

“You gotta get all of the shit out of here,” Grimm says as he finagles a dry brush. “Chamber to muzzle.” He points to a small, sooty pile accumulating on the paper towel. “See that? It's all gotta go.”

The man is methodical in a way that even Indigo can admire. He sprays a bit solution onto a small patch of fabric and swabs the inside of the barrel by pulling it through repeatedly and switches to a clean one to finish the job.

“I hadn’t any idea there were so many components to a gun,” Indigo says.

“Yeah, there’s more to it than people think.” Grim began cleaning some other mechanism, wiping down every crevice.

He’s just finished the last piece when that familiar unsteady haziness clouds his expression, an action Indigo has come to know all too well.

Grimm winces, bracing his body against the counter one hand and a staggering heave of breath.

“Uh-SSCHuh!” He hisses between clenched teeth, his breath quickening to a sharp, almost gasping pace, if only for a moment. “Goddamn. . .”

Before he can stop himself, Indigo lays a hand on Grimm's uninjured shoulder. “That sounds as if it pains you.”

“Hmm, it does.” Grimm shudders against another ragged inhalation, choosing instead to cross his good arm over the still healing one, as if to hold it in place. “UhhSSSCHiiu!”

“Gods, bless you!” Indigo says. “Sit, before you give yourself an aneurysm.”

Grimm smirks, a trickle of sweat ebbing from his temple. “Or before I give you one.”

Indigo huffs. “Hardly.”

But he helps guide the other man to the nearest chair just the same.

As Grimm sinks into the weathered cushion, Indigo offers the other man a handkerchief.

“Thanks,” Grimm says with a grunt of discomfort. He pauses before using the thing, eyes lighting upon the embroidery near the corner. “You have your initials on all ‘em, Indy?”

“Of course I do.” Indigo glances at the cocky behemoth over the rims of his glasses. “And do not call me ‘Indy’.”

A low rumble attempting to call itself a chuckle emanates from somewhere within Grimm's chest. “Okay.” He wipes his nose with a smirk. “Indy.”

Moments pass and Indigo can feel the studious gaze of the other man upon him, watching. Cataloging his every breath. Analyzing him into the ground.

Indigo's irritation mounts. “Why in the name of the gods are you assessing me in this way?”

“Because it bothers the shit out of you that I've got your number,” Grimm says.

Indigo shoots him a glare that would make a paper man crumble, but Grimm is no wisp of a person. The man is a fortress of steel.

“It is your very presence that irritates me,” Indigo retorts.

“And yet, here you are, watching me swab out my barrel.”

Was that some manner of crude innuendo? Difficult to tell with this man, as were most things.

Indigo turns on his heel and forces himself to walk into the kitchen rather than stalk away in a fury.

Much to his utter annoyance (and with a bit of dismay), Grimm “forgets” the handkerchief resting beside him and chooses instead to press curled fingers beneath his nose, wincing against a powerful “-UHCHISSSHCHuu!”

And Grimm follows him. Of course he does.

“What is it that you want from me?” Indigo's voice is a low hiss of sound, his eyes flashing brilliant blue but for a moment before he cinches his tight control back into place.

“Want?” Grimm arches an eyebrow. “You’re so fucking hot and cold, you’d make a goddamn hurricane confused.”

He invades Indigo's space without physically inserting himself. Simply standing there is enough.

“I see you watching me.” Grimm levels his stare at Indigo with a slight dip of his head, much in the way a wolf considers its prey. “Especially when I do that.”

“You see no such thing.” Indigo runs a hand through his hair, the soft layers tangling against his fingers.

“You don't think so, huh. Hmn.” Grimm scratches at his stubble in that irritating, know-it-all fashion of his and Indigo doesn't even try to disguise his annoyance.

The sweater-clad behemoth shucks one arm out of the corded cable knit and, having mastered the art of doing so with his injury, pulls the entire garment over his head.

“Hot in here.”

Indeed.

But Grimm does not fare well in a colder environment, a fact which Indigo knows on an inherent level. Despite his denial of the accusation, Grimm is correct.

Indigo has been watching. Observing. Even indulging in enraptured listening between the paper thin walls.

And it doesn't take long for the chilly air to incite a very specific type of riot within the absurd bastard.

Grimm’s expression collapses into helpless vulnerability, one hand poised in wavering expectation.

“Hhhuh. . . hh-uhhh. . .! UHCHISSH!”

The sneeze is a full body affair, from the hitching stall of breath to the shudder that begins at his shoulders and ricochets down his spine.

“UHSSCHuu!”

More volume than the first, but still that same surprisingly soft manner of desperation, that utter surrender of himself to it.

“Bless y–” Indigo starts to say, but Grimm holds up a hand in a halting gesture, his breath caught in a hitching battle between relief and torture.

Indigo doesn't even catch himself leaning towards the other man until he is forced to right himself with a calculated step forward.

The desperation in Grimm's expression morphs into a sly smile of triumph. “Gotcha.”

“Bloody hell!” Indigo snaps, fully prepared to storm off in the other direction.

Or at least he would, were it not for Grimm's hand clamped over his wrist in a grip that will not be broken.

He does not struggle and Grimm does nothing further to inhibit his departure.

“Unhand me.” Indigo's voice is cold steel on black ice. “Now, Grimm.”

“You can break my grip easy.” Grimm tilts his head. “So do it.”

Indigo stands rigid, strands of his silvery hair sticking to his temples, but he makes no move to do so.

“Uh huh. That's what I thought.” Grimm releases him, but maintains his position.

Sniffling wetly. Doing nothing about it.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Indigo says. Out loud.

Gods be da—

Grimm's hand lingers atop his own, the deliberate brush of calloused fingers sending a jolt of heat through Indigo's body.

“Haven't heard you swear.” His voice drops into an even lower register. “That's fucking sexy.”

And that does it. Indigo closes the distance between them, sinking a hand into that silky black hair, fisting it between his fingers.

“And what of you, hmm? Watching me. Listening to my every move through these paper-mâché walls. Do you not think I see what is transpiring here? Do y–”

Grimm crushes him against his chest with his good arm. “Shut up, Indy.”

The kiss is a sensual affair, not the fervent tangling of tongues one might expect for first contact, but rather a controlled possession.

Indigo may have very well faltered in his ability to stand, had Grimm's massive arm not been holding him aloft.

He walks Indigo back until his shoulders connect with the wall near the kitchen door, pressing him against it, the roughness of his palm cradling one side of Indigo’s face.

The thin material of Grimm's jogging pants leaves little to the imagination as he shifts his body against Indigo's much leaner frame.

The hand travels down his cheek, over his chest, and rests upon his belt buckle.

He should stop this. He must stop this.

But he doesn't.

Grimm's tactical fingers make short work of both the buckle and the button on his pants. They toy with the waistband of his boxers, slide over the bare skin, and slip into forbidden space.

Indigo gasps. Shivers against Grimm's body, and fails to suppress the moan that escapes him.

“Mmm, Indy.” Grimm's rumbling bass against his ear. “You're so fucking hot.” The hand grips him with a stroking squeeze.

Indigo tries to respond, tries to do anything other than shudder with a stammering breath, but this stupidly alluring brute of a man holds his every weakness prisoner.

Quite literally.

“Gr-Grimm. . . I'm. . .I’m. . .”

Teeth nip at his ear. “Yeah?” A thick, congested sniffle. “You're what?”

Indigo clutches handfuls of Grimm's absurdly tight tank top and all but convulses in his grip, shuddering and crying out, despite his efforts to contain it.

“Yeah.” Grimm kisses his parted lips, swallows his unstable, shallow breaths. “That's nice. Heh.”

“You've ruined my attire,” Indigo says with false indignation.

“Don't care as long as I ruined you.”

Well, he had certainly done that, much to Indigo's chagrin. Or was that amusement? All manner of lines were suddenly quite blurred.

Grimm kisses the side of his mouth before moving to the sink to wash his hands, or rather his hand, and freezes mid-rinse.

“. . .uhhh! UHCHISSHu!” He sneezes against an arched shoulder, a most ineffective method of cover, but excruciatingly appealing just the same.

“Sorry,” he says with sharp hiss of breath. “Didn't do it on purpose.”

“I know.” Indigo buttons his pants, leaves his shirt untucked. He crosses the distance that separates them with slightly unsteady steps. “And bless you.”

“Thanks.” Grimm wipes his hand on the kitchen towel. “Hope I don't get you sick or some shit.”

“Nonsense.” Indigo rests a hand upon his back, away from his still healing injury. “Your shirt. . . “

“Soaked in sweat?” Grimm sniffles with a sharp, liquid sound. “Yeah. Just walking fucks me up sometimes.”

“You are still healing,” Indigo, aka Captain Obvious, says.

Good grief.

“Yeah. I'm – huh. . .!” Grimm snatches the towel from the counter and buries his nose in it. “--uhhSSSCH! UhSCHHHt!” He glances at Indigo with bleary, unfocused eyes. “Fuuuuck me, I'm done with this shit.”

Indigo, meanwhile, is just plain done.

“Bless you, Grimm,” Indigo says, but the words are so full of such purring appreciation that he briefly considers taking a dagger to his treacherous tongue.

The other man smiles in that cocky, unnecessarily attractive way of his and sniffles. “That do it for you, Indy?”

Honestly. . .

Indigo huffs. Tosses both hands in the air in what is most certainly a comical gesture of frustration.

“Yes, for gods’ sakes, yes! Yes, you positively infuriating bastard!” Indigo rakes a hand through his disheveled hair, further displacing the long layers into wild disarray. “Yes, that ‘does it for me.’ You do it for me! And I despise that fact with every fiber of my. . .”

Indigo's tirade trails into abrupt silence, as if shocked into awareness by his own absurdly impassioned outburst.

Grimm blinks. Tosses the towel who knows where. “Well, shit. I'm hard as fuck now.”

Indigo doesn't just laugh. He cackles in an almost hysterical manner.

This infuriating, absurdly attractive, incessantly obnoxious–

“Hey.” Grimm slides his fingers through the belt loops of Indigo’s pants. “Whatever you’re thinkin’, shut it up.”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what I might be thinking.” Indigo doesn’t realize he’s backed himself into the connected corners of the counter space until there is no room left for escape.

Grimm nuzzles his ear, his breath a hot, lurid counterpart to the rumble of that impossibly deep voice. “Mmm, I might have an idea.”

The other man is kissing him again, the slow, passionate exploration of his mouth like something romantic and lurid at once.

Beneath the touch of Grimm’s hands, Indigo trembles. “Grimm, I . . . do not know if I am ready for . . . “

More kissing. More bending him to Grimm’s will by simple touch alone.

“You know what you need?”

Well, he could certainly think of a few things, all of them quite heated.

Grimm pulls back to a respectful distance, one hand lingering on Indigo’s pale cheek. “Let’s do the dinner thing. I’ll put on a decent shirt, call up Rex and make some kind of deal with him to drive us somewhere.” He smiles in that cocky, sensual way of his. “How about it?”

Indigo blinks. “Are you . . . asking to court me?”

The back of Grimm’s hand brushes the line of his jaw. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Grimm shrugs his good shoulder. “Whatever gets you off.”

“Well, I—” Indigo stops himself from automatic, practiced refusal and inhales with a steadying breath. “Alright. But please, allow me to make the travel arrangements for the evening.”

Great gods.

“So it is, then. Six p.m.” Indigo says. He taps the tip of Grimm’s nose with one finger. “Do not make me wait.”

“Fucking bossy.” Grimm kisses the side of his mouth and gives his backside a playful swat. “Now, get out. I gotta finish with this gun before I can polish my damn self.”

In spite of himself, Indigo chuckles.

Well, then. A most unexpected turn of events.

#EFF writes #Grimm and Indigo #There's a little 18+ touchy feely here #Just an FYI #Grimm is SUCH a bastard wtf #I would have eaten his face off 200 times by now #Why isn't he wearing his sling? Because he's a fucker #That's why #And he doesn't mean “gotcha” like “haha"#He means it like “I caught you”

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