ā ššššššš šššššš. . .Ā āi love you terribly and i donāt know what to do with my hands.ā + āhold me, just hold me.ā + āi donāt know how.ā
šš°šŖšŗ š¶šµ šøš¼š¬š¼š¬!
do not spam like. have age visible. read my carrd.
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got no shame (i love the way youāre screaming my name)
summary: Terushima x Reader. got shame? terushima doesnāt.
word count: 1.6k
cw: terushimaās a slut (who is domesticated unknowingly by reader), bad group project etiquette, general unwiseness.
a/n: this⦠wasnāt supposed to be this long. essentially nothing happens. itās completely sfw even though i call terushima a slut. sorry
"Hi," you say brightly, setting your laptop down on the desk next to your assigned project partner. "I was thinking we could set upā"
"Yeah, hang on," heāTerushima, according to the instructor's sign-up sheetāinterrupts you. "Hey. Hey. Can I get your number?"
You open your mouth before you realize he's talking to the girl behind you, who agrees as easily as he'd asked. They chat a little while longer, taking their sweet-ass time before he turns back to you and she to her partner.
"So I was thinking we could set up a shared document and do this all online," he says, unapologetic, a lazy grin playing on his mouth. You decide then and there that you hate Terushima Yuuji with everything you have in you.
Miraculously, you survive the group project (with the aid of remote work, aggressively polite wording, and a lot of pep talks from your friends). He should be thankful he survived, you think darkly, casting a glare at him as he chatters to a group of friends across the room. He doesn't know how many times you got through class by imagining wrapping your hands around his neck and justā
Anyway.
You're half-convinced the universe sent him to fuel you with inner rage, because even though you no longer have to work together, he just seems like he's cropping up... everywhere.
He's in the grocery, flirting with the attendant as he struggles with the self-checkout machine. He's in your favorite coffee shop, hanging over the bar while the barista makes your drink. He's even at the parties you go to, his loud laugh penetrating your buzz until you can't think of anything else by the end of the night.
You toy with the idea of accusing him of stalking you, except he'd made it abundantly clear upon your first meeting that he had no clue that you existed on the same earthly plane as him. Plus, at this point, you're slightly worried that it's the other way around.
(You try not to think about the time you'd been lying alone in bed, a little bit wine drunk from a self-care night, legs freshly lotioned, face freshly masked, and one of his social media accounts had happened to pop up on your screen. And your finger had happened to bump the screen and hit follow. And before you could process your actions enough to undo your mistake, a little notification had rung out in the horrified silence: @teru-yuuji followed you back!)
(You had rolled over and screamed into your pillow. You still do the same whenever you think about it too long.)
Anyway, he likes all your updates now, which is terribly annoying because it's not even an acknowledgement of your existence, probably, he probably swipes through everyone's profiles and sends little hearts flying haphazardly because he doesn't care about anyone, or anything. And maybe you can recognize that you're projecting a little bit, obsessing a little bit, but you're pretty sure that you're also starting to experience the same sort of revenge glow-up associated with terrible break-ups without any of the emotional pain, so who cares?
It's not like he knows you're even alive.
"I'm going to die out here," you say out loud, to no one, "and nobody will know."
Your car, steamingāsmoking really, but you're trying to be positiveābeside you on the side of the road, makes a strange noise in sympathy, and you jump.
In a sorely needed attempt to touch grass, you had ventured by yourself to one of your favorite hiking trails, a secluded spot you and your old car had journeyed to hundreds of times. Its small frame was perfect for the winding, mountainous roads; its engine, apparently, not so much.
Luckily, you still have one bar of cell service, except most people you know don't have a car, your best friend is at work, and when you try to call your father, he doesn't pick up and instead texts you: we went to lunch at this tiny restaurant! This is followed by several images that won't load but that are most likely of his food.
"Useless," you say, "I hate men." Just as a white, tricked-out, and worst of all, familiar car turns the corner, all of its windows down to enjoy the fresh air. You stare at its driver as he passes at about ten kilometers per hour, your eyes wide and despondent, his curious and probably devoid of actual human consciousness.
You momentarily contemplate running the opposite direction into the forest versus asking Terushima for help. As is his way, he interrupts.
"Is your car supposed to be doing that?"
Anything snarky, sassy, or otherwise bitchy you could have answered with dies on your tongue in the face of total, completely confident cluelessness.
"No?" You say, feeling almost as though you're witnessing this absurd interaction from above. "Obviously not?"
"Right," he nods, sliding awful, trendy sunglasses off his face and tucking them up into some compartment before putting his car in park and then exiting. As he advances, you note distantly that his eyes are really, really pretty. "Can I help you out? I am a man, though, just a warning."
He heard you. Great.
"I didn't notice," you say, staring firmly at his middle torso area, which is covered by a shirt which he has cut the arms off of. There are... shoulders, and arms, toned, tan arms showing. And he must have just gotten back from a hike of his own, because the material seems slightly damp with sweat, and it's sticking to what appear to be abs, and you suddenly feel like your car: overheated and broken down. "I guess I can forgive you for that. Just this once. If there's anything you can actually do about," you wave a hand at your car, which has thankfully stopped smoking, "that."
"I can give you a ride," he says, and doesn't seem to realize how completely his tone changes as he does, how his words suddenly sound layered and intimate and... You need to get a grip.
āI have a friend on the way,ā you say. You donāt. But heās still technically a strange man and you know better than to seem completely abandoned.
āOh? Good,ā he says, and you think thatās the end of it. Heāll leave you to your beforested demise. āCan I check the hood real quick, though?ā
āDo what you want.ā He waits for you to pop the hoodāyou had earlier, but fuck if you knew what you were looking at.
"Thanks, babe," he says, and you hate him all over again. Then he opens your hood, muscled arms stretching up as he latches the strut in place, bent at the waist ever so slightly, and you're sort of collapsing into a very emotionally confused puddle on the side of the road. "Aw, I think your fan is fucked. I have a buddy I can call, he can tow the car if you want? Heās a mechanic but he can take it to your usual person if you have one.ā
"That would be really nice," you blink at him, feeling your mouth stretch into a smile without your permission. "Do you think we could call him now? I don't want to leave my car without being sure someone's coming for it."
"Sure," he nods enthusiastically. "Gimme a sec."
What follows is a bizarre five minutes where Terushima paces in front of where you've seated yourself cross-legged on the road, occasionally casting you furtive glances and muttering things like "Yeah, from the... Yeah, that one. Please, bro, I'll owe you... I'll get you Miwa's number. I promise. When have I ever... Okay, fair, but c'mon. Thank you. I'll give you our first-born."
You tune him out after that, fully baffled.
"Okay!" He finally turns to you, beaming a sunny smile you've never seen on him at you. "He's coming. I sent you his website and shit, so you know heās real."
āHeās not," you say, holding out a hand so he can help you up. He does, and you immediately regret this decision, because he's standing so close, and his hand is really big in yours, and you're pretty sure you're flirting with him. "Youāre crazy."
"Youāre funny," he says, and laughs, clear and ringing. Heās flirting with you, but you canāt tell if thatās just his natural dialect or if heāsā "So your boyfriendās coming to pick you up? Why didnāt he come with you?"
"I donāt need a chaperone," the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, which is becoming a worrying pattern. "And I donāt have oneāa boyfriend, anyway. I was on the phone with my dad when you showed up, you know, āI hate menā. Or trying. He's too excited about grand opening discounted fried fish."
"Fried fish is important," he says solemnly, eyes literally twinkling, what the fuck. You didnāt think that was real. "I understand."
āSee,ā you roll your eyes, āThis is why I hate men.ā Heās looking at you with a soft gaze that makes you aware of your whole body, down to your toes, and itās starting to make you flustered. āI, um, I actually donāt have a ride coming.ā
āThen whyād youāā he starts.
āI thought you might murder me,ā you shrug. āAnd then I panicked. You donāt seem like a murderer, and weāve had classes together, so⦠Iām sorry about that.ā
āSo,ā he looks hopeful, in a way you donāt understand. āYou still need a way back?ā
āI do,ā you nod, ābut seriously, if itās an inconvenience at all, I really donāt want toāā
āPlease,ā he says. āIāve been trying to get on your good side for a while. Let me take you home.ā
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Speaking of books it's been a while since I've seen one of these posts going around & I'm curious so everyone could you tell me what you are reading rn in the tags please
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