#Small Office Phone Systems

[ipcommunications]

What Is More Beneficial – On-Premises VoIP Or Hosted VoIP?

All the strategies related to maximising the investment in business communication will be successful only when you decide whether to manage your own VoIP system or allow a host to do this on your behalf. Businesses across the globe have realised the advantages of VoIP technology and VoIP phone handsets. Now there is chaos among enterprises to switch to this technology, and more than 35% of businesses across the globe have already adopted it. The question is whether to host and manage your VoIP system on your own or rely upon a hosted VoIP, where a service provider does everything for you.

On Premises Voip Vs Hosted Voip – What Is The Difference?

Both options will allow you to take advantage of the benefits of the VoIP phone systems. To get the most out of it, you will have to decide whether to self-host or enjoy the services of the hosted VoIP technology.

What Is A Premise-Based Voip?

In this arrangement, the whole system will be present at your office, like the equipment and the software needed to run the system will be there at your office. You will be responsible for its maintenance, security, upgrading and upkeep. This is easy if you have a well-established IT infrastructure and a dedicated team to manage the entire business communication scenario at your office.

What Is Hosted Voip Technology?

A service provider will be hired and responsible for meeting all your VoIP-related requirements in this arrangement. This system is also called the cloud and is managed with the help of virtual servers that these hosting companies have.

What Are The Pros Of Premise-Based Voip Technology?

•          No risk of price hikes from the service provider

•          Complete control over your VoIP system and VoIP phone handsets

•          Customisation of the system’s features is completely in your hands

•          No additional cost of scalability

Cons of On-Premises Voip System

•          Higher installation and set-up cost

•          Long-term commitment to maintenance and security is required

•          You will need a dedicated staff for constant service, maintenance and support

•          Extensive investment and resources for proper management

Advantages of Hosted Voip Systems

•          No stress related to maintenance, management and security

•          Incredibly low set-up cost

•          Fast implementation

•          Easily scalable depending on your needs

•          You can focus on your business and revenue generation

Disadvantages of Hosted Voip Technology

•          The system control is in the hands of the service provider

•          There is a vendor locking period

•          Network connection fluctuation will be experienced

Whether To Choose Hosted Or On-Premises Voip?

The answer to this question depends entirely on your organisation’s current capability, resources and funds. You can review your current circumstances and goals, and since every business is unique, it is ideal that the solutions tailored to fit your specific needs are selected.

[euthymiya]

part two

Starting an internship at the company Satoru’s father owns but you don’t know who he is just yet.

He’s annoying. He always comes back from lunch late, lets his phone ring at his desk (that’s conveniently placed next to yours) past the three ring policy, writes emails with silly and immature sign-offs, cracks jokes during meetings, and somehow, despite always finishing his paperwork late, he never manages to lose his damn job.

You try to mind your own business. But you can’t help but feel him slowly grate at your nerves as he acts so unprofessional and for some weird reason, not one person seems to care.

He seems pretty intrigued with you, too, if matters couldn’t get worse.

“Hey,” he grins. You try to ignore the tilt of his lips in amusement as you just barely fight off rolling your eyes.

“Can I help you with something?” You sigh, “I’m currently in the middle of something that requires my full attention, but maybe we could—”

“You really love your office jargon,” he hums, cutting you off with a wider grin, “so dedicated.”

“Oh, my apologies,” you smile tightly. He seems to straighten a little, some sick, twisted form of excitement rushing through his system at the way he seems to get under your skin. “Allow me to use simpler language for you to understand: go away, I’m busy.”

Someone has to stand up to this prick, you think. He puts in half the effort, and somehow, you’re pretty sure your boss has a soft spot for him. You don’t understand it, and quite frankly, you’ll be damned if a lazy, lackluster man snags a promotion before your hardworking self.

“Oh wow,” he snorts, “breaking your strictly professional streak, are you? You must be really occupied. I guess I’ll borrow your stapler later.”

Gritting your teeth, you give him yet another tight lipped smile before grabbing the stapler off your desk and handing it to him. (A small part of you resists the urge to throw it square at his face. Maybe the image of him on the floor with a bloodied nose would make your day a little easier, but then you’re sure you’d be jobless).

“Here you go,” you say with as much kindness as you can muster. (It’s not a lot). “Please do bring it back when you’re done. Some of us actually complete paper work, so the stapler is a necessity.”

“Oh yeah?” He tilts his head, eyes sparkling with mischief, “don’t worry, I won’t hold your stapler hostage for too long. I wouldn’t want to disrupt the flow of your productivity.”

You watch with wary eyes as he walks back to his desk, stapling some small, tiny note of sorts before walking right back, handing the paper and the stapler to you.

“What’s this?” You raise a brow.

“Some paper work for you to fill out,” he grins, the vagueness of his answer making a vein all but pop in your forehead.

Before you even have a chance to tell him that you most certainly will not be entertaining whatever silly prank he’s playing, he walks right off, sagging into his chair as he does an obnoxious little spin and goes back to typing at his computer. Probably yet another email with a ridiculous ending, you think to yourself.

Against your better judgement, you stare at the note, eyeing the small flap he’s stapled over an index card. You lift it up, quickly scanning over his scribbled writing.

Want to grab coffee during lunch? Check your answer:

▢ yes! ▢ absolutely! ▢ most definitely!

Your eye twitches.

Grabbing a pen, you quickly add a box underneath his (very confident) options, checking it off and writing in neat, pristine handwriting:

▣ not a chance!

You stand, walking over to his desk and ignoring his perked up, excited little smile as you drop the note back on the table and head back to your own desk. A tiny wave of satisfaction weaves through your body when you notice him read over your response and deflate, a small pout forming over his lips.

Regretfully, a small part of you can’t help but acknowledge that he’s actually…kind of cute when his lips are curled like that. But a larger part of you shakes that thought away and cringes internally. It’s a shame his personality ruins the genetic blessings he seems to have been bestowed with.

And you think that’s the end of it—but of course, with someone like Satoru in the office, there’s never the end of anything.

You watch as an email pops up on your screen, opening it only to stare blankly at his name and roll your eyes at the subject line:

────────────────────────

Follow-Up on Submitted Paperwork

Greetings office neighbor,

Thank you for submitting the paperwork. Unfortunately, I couldn’t help but notice that it does not fully align with the outlined guidelines. Could you please provide clarification or revise the submission accordingly?

Thanks a million,

Gojo Satoru :)

────────────────────────

And there he goes again with those obnoxious sign-offs, you think bitterly. Instantly, you’re clicking away at your keyboard as you type back an agitated response. Of course, you really shouldn’t entertain his ridiculous schemes, but something about him gets under your skin enough that you simply can’t help yourself.

You huff in approval at your response as you read it over before hitting send.

Instantly, as if he was waiting, you see his hand reach for his mouse and click on his screen to open your email as his eyes scan over your reply:

────────────────────────

Thank you for reaching out,

Unfortunately, I was unable to fully adhere to the outlined guidelines, as they are not viable in this situation. To address this, I adjusted the submission to align more effectively with a more practical outcome.

Hope that helps!

Your office neighbor :)

────────────────────────

Just when you think he’s given up, he rolls his chair over to your desk, causing a couple of annoyed heads to tilt up and glare at him for the noise before turning their attention back to their work. You pinch your nose as his chair rolls to a stop in front of your desk.

“Yes?” You grit through your teeth.

“Hey, office neighbor,” he hums, “just wanted to clarify your most recent email with you. I’m a bit confused.”

“Which part confused you?” You bat your lashes in faux charm, sarcastically smiling at him as he hums, grabbing a piece of candy from your little bowl of sweets at your desk and helping himself.

Your eye twitches a little at the gesture. Those are for you to enjoy throughout a miserable work day.

“Um…” he trails off as he pretends to think, “I’d say all of it.”

“I see,” you nod slowly, fighting every bone in your body not to snap at him with a colorful choice of words. “Essentially, the options in your original document did not highlight a plausible set of deliverables, so I corrected them for you with a more realistic one. Make sense?”

“Not really,” he sighs dramatically, pretending to scratch his head in confusion. You want nothing more than to grab those snowy locks and slam his face into your paper shredder. “Could you go over it one more time? I’m still lost.”

You’re just about to lose your patience with him when suddenly, the entire office seems to collectively take in a sharp breath, everyone scrambling to look as productive as possible while a tall, older looking man with suspiciously familiar white hair and blue eyes walks through the office. Something in your brain sets off alarm bells, but you can’t quite completely piece it together what it is about him seems so….recognizable.

“Who’s that?” You frown, scrunching your nose in confusion as everyone straightens up.

“That would be the final boss,” he snorts. You roll your eyes at his word choice before blinking and straightening up yourself.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, voice a panicked whisper as you ask, “you mean the owner of this company?”

“Yeah,” he drawls, raising a brow at you in amusement. “Never seen him before?”

“No,” you hiss, “I’m just the intern! Now go back to your desk before he thinks we’re goofing off, I’d like to keep my job, please.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he hums.

You send him a nasty glare, just about at your wits end as you whisper-yell, “I am going to throw my stapler right at your—”

“Satoru, I need you in my office,” comes a stern, deep voice, interrupting you as you quickly shut your mouth.

“You got it, old man,” he salutes in mock seriousness. Suddenly, your spine goes rigid and your eyes widen. The man walks off with a firm nod as Satoru stands, giving you an innocent smile.

Suddenly, it dawns on you just why he looked so strikingly familiar.

“Did you just call him old man?” You blink, mouth agape.

“Yup,” he winks, walking backwards as his eyes stay trained on you while he heads for the elevator. “I’ll put in a good word for you when he’s in a better mood at home tonight. I think we can discuss the specifics over coffee during our lunch hour, yeah?”

[jamiefartt]

richmond's receptionist

part 2.

pairings: jamie tartt x reader, basically all of richmond is mentioned tho

summary: where you're the receptionist at richmond fc and you slowly but surely form a close bond with star striker jamie tartt

words: 6864

warnings: none just swearing and a little bit of rude jamie

—

day in and day out you watch the people of richmond fc enter and exit the home of their beloved football team. you spend your days behind the blue reception desk doing admin; sending emails, taking calls, and making sure everything is running smoothly. you've been the receptionist at Richmond for a little over three months, and you had no complaints so far. your favourite part of the day was watching Rebecca arrive to work. you always hear her heels before you see her, then she struts past your desk with a swift 'good morning' every day. not one day has gone by where she hasn't greeted you that way, and the acknowledgment lightens your mood each time.

as you're checking the company emails one morning, you hear Rebecca's footsteps approaching. you look up to smile at her, expecting the usual greeting, but instead she goes off-script.

"ah, good morning y/n. i'm not sure if you've seen the email but we are implementing a new daily register system. every morning, when our staff and players arrive, they must tick the box next to their name and note what time they arrive at. for visitors, they will have to sign their name on the bottom." you nod along attentively to her new instructions.

"okay, great! so, in the evenings, should everyone just do the same thing; tick the box, add the time?"

"you catch on fast. see, this is why I knew we needed a better receptionist," she smiles at you genuinely, adjusting her handbag on her arm before turning to walk to her office. "oh, and everyone should have received the email so I hope that saves you wasting time to explain this to everybody."

thanking her with a kind smile, you bid your goodbyes. you open your personal staff email, only to find an email from Higgins including a pdf of the sign in sheet. you take it upon yourself to print a week's worth, attaching them to a clipboard and placing it on top of the tall desk. you smile to yourself, looking forward to getting to know everyone's names and have more opportunities for small talk in the mornings.

the clock is nearing 8:30am, and you're already deep in your inbox forwarding and responding to emails. you've only had to explain the new system to a handful of staff, including Laughing Liam who, naturally, laughed at it. the players should be arriving soon, so you take the time to straighten your blouse and sit up straight in your chair. presumably, these men don't check their emails first thing in the morning, so you're expecting to have to repeat yourself a lot this morning.

"good morning y/n!" Colin chirps. he's the first of the team to arrive, as per usual.

"hey Colin! I thought I heard tires screech outside." you joke. "I'm not sure if you saw the email-"

"stop right there. i saw the email this morning." cutting you off, he picks up a Richmond pen before sliding the clipboard towards him and signing in. you chuckle to yourself and wave him goodbye.

soon after, the rest of the Richmond players flood into the building. some are in pairs, others in groups, and they even form a small queue as they wait their turn to sign in. Dani's excited by the new organisation plan, Roy grunts but still cracks a small smile, and Ted holds up the line talking to you whilst Beard signs both of them in. the only person to arrive alone, and last, is Jamie Tartt. he rolls right past you, not once looking up from his phone. you quickly call after him: "Uhm, Jamie!" you've never spoken to him, nevertheless called him by his first name.

his head lifts at the unexpected sound of your voice, and he looks around trying to find the source.

"sorry, Mr. Tartt. I didn't mean to shout... or call you Jamie," your voice goes quiet as he turns around to look at you, eyebrows raised in confusion. "what?" he replies, slowly walking towards the desk.

"basically, there's a bit of a new system here now. every morning and every evening you'll have to check in and out on this sheet. just tick the box next to your name and then add the time you arrive and leave." you explain with a smile, holding his questioning gaze the entire time.

"right, right, okay... what if, instead of me wasting me time clocking in and out, you just do it for me. you see me arrive, you sign me in. you see me leave, you sign me out. simple as." he states, and he sends you a quick wink before spinning around and heading straight for the locker room.

your mouth snaps open and shut a few times, surprised at his refusal to cooperate. you knew he had been a pain, despite his talent, but ever since he returned from manchester city he'd dropped his act a little. still, all you could do was watch his back, his bright orange jacket disappearing around the corner.

—

the sign-in system is easily integrated into richmond fc's daily routine, everyone dedicating those few minutes every day to tick the box and smile at you. some even taking the time to have a chat with you and soon enough, you know everyone's names.

while your typing up an email to Keeley about a new sponsor, someone walks up to your desk and drums his hands atop it. your eyes snap up and a smile takes over your face at the sight of Ted.

"hi Coach, how are you doing?"

"I'm doing great, y/n, thanks for asking! I would ask how you're doing but I'm here about someone else..." Ted's gaze narrows and your smile shrinks slightly.

"what's up?" you turn your chair to face him to show your full attention is on him.

"my pal Higgins has informed me that one of my players hasn't been signing in with you every day."

"yeah..." you trail off, "Jamie hasn't really been making the effort. I'm sorry if I should have been doing it for him I just wasn't sure if that would be... against safety regulations... or something?"

Ted raises his eyebrows at you, stuffing his hands in his pockets, "did he ask you to sign him in and out every day?"

"yes, he did. he said I should just watch out for him coming and going then write down the time."

"oh okay, I see. I will talk to him at lunch. Don't you worry, y/n."

as he walks away, you sigh in relief, worried you were getting in trouble for Jamie's slacking. you turn back to your computer, cracking your knuckles before getting back to your work.

later that day, as you log out of your computer and start packing up your stuff, the team pours out of the locker room. some sign themselves out, some sign themselves and their mates out. you make sure to keep your eyes peeled for anyone trying to avoid the responsibility, but the only person who strides past the group with no remorse is, once again, Jamie Tartt. your eyes meet Ted's who is looking at you with an apologetic look. you shrug in response, brushing it off. Jamie is his own person, you're not in charge of him.

the next morning, the day starts as usual; Rebecca is the first to arrive, followed by some members of staff, before the coaching team and players pour in from the car park. despite people greeting you and talking, you only half-respond. you're too busy looking over everyone's heads trying to spot the stubborn player you just haven't been able to crack.

"I've spoken to that prick. he can't keep fucking you over. let me know if he causes any problems." Roy grumbles, interrupting your focus.

"cheers, Roy," you smile at him warmly, wondering if his words will have had any effect on Jamie.

when the clock strikes 9, you sink back into your chair. the last of the staff have arrived for their day, and training is about to start – but still, no Jamie Tartt.

you grab the clip board and flick through the pages, making sure you didn't miss him signing in. still, on every page, the boxes next to his name are left blank. you sigh, shaking your head, unsure of how to tell Rebecca you got through to everyone expect for one measly player.

"y/n?"

"that's me," you say, before looking up from the list of names.

there's two coffee cups in front of you, both with the name Jamie scribbled on the sides in black marker. you lift your gaze, and funnily enough, Jamie is stood in front of you.

"listen yeah, I jus' wanted to say sorry for not doin' the whole... sign-in sheet shit. Roy had a proper go at me yesterday, so... I brought you coffee. hope this makes up for it." he can barely meet your eyes as he speaks, but ends his apology with a small smile.

"oh, wow, thank you. that's very kind, Jamie." you genuinely smile at him, hoping his might lift even a little bit more. instead, his eyes soften.

"I just got you a latte. I hope that's okay, I weren't sure what you liked and didn't have time to ask Keeley so,"

"that's perfect, Jamie, thank you so much. you really didn't have to do this."

"yes, I did, I think. it's not fair for you to be worrying about your job because of me."

thanking him again, you take one of the takeaway cups, taking a small sip of the warm coffee. Jamie nods at you as if to say goodbye, and you return the nod with a cheeky wink. you can't be sure, but you think you see Jamie's smile finally reach his eyes as he turns around.

the following morning, as you're talking to Isaac about becoming the new team captain, you're interrupted by none other than Jamie. your face lightens up at the sight of him, and you laugh as he pushes Isaac with his shoulder, making him leave the front desk.

"what's this for?" you ask as he sets another coffee cup down in front of you.

"I dunno... I was already getting meself coffee, so I thought I might as well get you another latte."

"you don't have to do that, Jamie. but if it means you come to the desk to sign in then I won't complain."

you can't seem to take your eyes off his hands as he picks up the pen Isaac had just used. his fingers seem to move slowly over the page, smoothing over everyone's names until he reached his. you admire the rings on his fingers, taking a special interest in the gold signet on his pinky as it supports the pen gliding along the form.

"do you like it?"

you blink a few times before snapping out of your daydream, looking up to see Jamie smirking down at you.

"hm?" you ask, gulping down the embarrassment of being caught in your daze.

"do you like my ring?"

"what? your pinky ring? uhm, sure, yeah. it's nice..."

"good save, love. it's me granddad's. he gave it me when I first went to play for Man City."

"it's beautiful..." you say, smiling before looking down at the ring again. you notice how delicately his hands move as he puts the pen down. you didn't expect such a machismo to have such nice hands but you can tell Jamie takes good care of himself.

he smiles, huffing out a small chuckle at your admiration. "see ya later, y/n." "

"bye, Jamie." you smile, taking the clipboard from him. you glance down at his name, spotting a small heart drawn beside it. it's uneven and a bit jagged, but the doodle still tugs at your heart strings.

from then on, every single morning, you are greeted by a latte and a chat from Jamie. every day, he lingers more and more as you talk to each other, and you always end up drinking half of your coffees before he pulls himself away from your desk. in the evenings, he's always one of the first to sign out. instead of saying goodbye, he simply winks at you. you hate to admit it but you start memorising what times Jamie arrives and leaves. as much as you love talking to him, and especially him winking at you every time he leaves, you love waiting for him. you love the nerves that build in your stomach as you watch the clock, and by the time he finally reaches you, you're already slightly blushing. when he turns to leave your desk, your eyes follow his figure and you let the blush take over your cheeks completely.

—

"hey, y/n, have you got a minute?" Isaac walks up to your desk.

"Isaac! of course!" you chirp, taking the last sip of your latte. Isaac reads the name written across the cup and raises his eyebrows knowingly.

"ah, speak of the devil,"

"what?" you turn the cup around, running your thumb across Jamie's name, "oh, yeah,"

"about Jamie... I really hate to involve you in actual football shit but he's been slacking a bit in training."

"oh, okay, would you like me to pass on the message to Rebecca?"

"no, no, it's just... he's been showing up late to training and then leaves early. during trainings, he's always... agreeing?" you raise your eyebrows at Isaac's words, "he never puts up a fight anymore, and we kind of need that Jamie Tartt for our big game this Saturday."

"I'm sorry, Isaac, but I'm not really sure what I can do about this. I really would love to help but there's not much I can do."

"I really hate to ask this from you, but," he takes a deep breath, a small smile appearing on his face, "I need you to piss him off a bit this week."

you laugh out loud, attempting to brush off his obvious joke by turning back to your computer.

"I'm not joking." his smile drops instantly, and your laugh falters before your face goes serious. "he likes you, so if you start acting cold towards him, it would really throw him off." Isaac's smile returns, and you giggle at his idea. trying not to read into his phrasing too much, you take a deep breath and nod.

"got it, Captain." you salute towards him. his eyebrows furrow as he curtly nods at you before turning around and jogging away.

what does he mean with Jamie liking you? a blush creeps up your face at the thought of him mentioning your name every time he's late, making up some excuse about the sign in taking too long. you start to brainstorm how you're going to turn the cold shoulder to Jamie this afternoon, feeling ever so slightly bad but trusting Isaac's judgement at the same time.

sure enough, Jamie is the first person out of training. you look up at him, and he smiles at you from the end of the hallway before jogging towards you.

"hi, y/n," his fingers drum on the desk, clearly excited to see you.

"if you'd just like to sign out for me there please, Jamie." you speak up, not looking up from your screen.

Jamie's immediately taken aback by your tone and from the corner of your eye you can see him pull his head back in confusion.

he chuckles awkwardly, attempting to diffuse the situation, "uhm, okay... what's the time, y/n?"

you don't respond, instead you point up at the clock on the wall behind you.

Jamie scoffs, quickly scribbling down the time and dropping the pen with a little bit of force. you don't react, as much as you wish you could just look up and meet his eyes.

"okay, bye then." he sighs deeply then heads towards the car park. as you see Isaac approach your desk, the rest of the team in tow, you hear an engine roar off into the distance.

"sounds like you've already pissed him off," Isaac says, "how did you manage that?"

"I just didn't look at him." you shrug nonchalantly.

"mhm, yeah he hates that. good job, bruv." he holds out his fist for you to bump. your knuckles meet his as you wink at him.

—

"hi, y/n, you alright, yeah?"

you hear Jamie place down a coffee cup. he whistles a little tune trying to get your attention, but when you still don't look up at him, he just picks up the pen and quickly signs in.

"listen, I'm not sure if you're just busy or what, but we play the Spurs tomorrow and I'd really like to see you there."

before you can even look up at him, Jamie turns around and leaves. you wait until he's a few feet away before looking up to take your coffee. you stare at his back, sighing to yourself. you understand the Captain's orders but it doesn't feel right ignoring Jamie. you would never tell him but your little routine has become your favourite part of your day at Richmond. you watch as his pinky signet ring catches the bright lights of the hallway and you take the opportunity to rake your eyes over Jamie's figure. his grey skinny jeans hug his legs perfectly, and his black jacket accentuates his broad shoulders. you lift your gaze to see his hair is gelled back neatly. you continue to stare at him, and as he's just about to turn the corner, he turns his head to take one last look at you. your eyes just about meet before you quickly snap your head down, pretending you weren't looking at him.

"y/n! I heard you fixed Jamie!" Keeley squeals as her and Roy walk up to the desk.

"I know, I hate it!" you reply, slumping your shoulders.

"don't worry, y/n. he'll be back to normal after tomorrow's game." Roy helps.

"sure but I don't want him to hate me."

"trust me; he doesn't fucking hate you." he adds, raising an eyebrow.

Keeley nods, "it's true. he's got a soft spot for you."

"he still invited me to the game." you shrug, hopeful that means he doesn't hate you.

"ah! brilliant! I'll talk to Rebecca, I'm gonna get you a seat with us. that way, you can watch the match without him even knowing you're there!" Keeley bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet.

"doesn't that defeat the point of me being there?"

"no babe, it's all about the teasing. he's gonna be fuming when he thinks you're not there, and then after the game you can surprise him! it'll work wonders, I swear."

you give her a questioning look, turning to Roy for a second opinion. he stays completely silent, simply giving you a single nod.

"if you think it'll work, let's do it." you hesitate slightly, but ultimately agree. you won't mind teasing Jamie a little bit. it's all he ever does.

your eyes drift to the picture of him plastered on the wall beside you. the cocky smirk on his face taunts you as you consider just texting him an apology.

"good morning! whatever you said to Jamie really worked, y/n. he never passes to me anymore!" a chipper Sam says to you as he signs himself in.

"is that a really a good thing?"

"it is for now. but please, after tomorrow, bring him back to normal. he's almost my friend and I want to keep it that way." he gives you a sad smile before bidding you goodbye.

throughout the day, you take calls and file more admin work. you talk to Higgins, Ted, and Keeley, filling them in on the plan for the Tottenham match tomorrow. it's a struggle to sit at your desk with Jamie constantly filling up his bottle from the water fountain in front of you. there's plenty of others for him to use, but he's clearly making the extra effort to see you in the hopes you'll talk to him. much to your dismay, you continue to ignore him. it's only been two days that you've been ignoring Jamie, but it's still hard avoiding the one thing that makes your day just that little bit better.

all packed up to go home, you wait for the last sign outs of the day. Rebecca's heels descend the stairs, and once again you hear her before you see her.

"y/n, I'm so sorry to keep you waiting."

"no worries. that's my job," you smile at her, moving to exit your desk. you step down from the raised platform, about to shrug your jacket on.

"ah- ah- ah, I'm afraid I'm not the last to go home." Rebecca interrupts your movement, pointing a finger down the hallway.

"oh, uh, who's left?" you ask her, already taking your jacket off again.

"I think there's someone in the gym. oh, and there's a package for you in the coach's office. don't forget to pick that up before you leave."

you shake your head, confused; "uhm, okay then. I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Welton." you smile at her politely, giving her a small nod.

"Rebecca." she assures you with a small which mirrors yours. as she turns to leave, you hold back a sigh and place your jacket and bag atop the desk. you iron down your shirt and fix the pleats on your trousers before venturing down the hallway.

you can hear small puffs and the whirring of a treadmill as you get closer to the coach's office. choosing to cut through the locker room, you look at the large empty space. you look over each name on the far side, reading them out loud quietly to yourself. moving towards Sam's locker, you smile at the photo of the Nigerian national team he keeps on his shelf. turning around, you read the names on the other side of the room. eyes landing on the locker at the end of the row, you finally let out the sigh you were holding in. "Tartt" you say out loud to yourself. butterflies fill your stomach before a nervous twist takes over. "he likes you" Isaac's words replay in your head. "he's got a soft spot for you" you remember what Keeley said. you ponder on their words, wondering why you of all people were Isaac's choice. Surely Roy could've talked some sense into him, or Ted if he got angry?

you shake the thoughts from your head, quickly looking away from Jamie's locker just in case your clouded mind takes charge again. looking through the window into the office, you see a white parcel on Beard's desk. there's a bright yellow sticky note on top of it:

'For y/n. You'll need this tomorrow! - Coaches'

you smile softly before pulling off the sticky note and picking up the package. the sound of the treadmill is louder now that you're right next to the gym, and the huffing and puffing increases too. loud beeps sound out and suddenly the footsteps on the treadmill seem to be going impossibly fast. pushing your curiosity aside, you cut the corner of the white bag, ripping it open. inside it is a neatly folded jersey – a Richmond jersey. you pick it up by the shoulders, holding it up in front of you. when you turn it around, you let a laugh escape your lips, hoping the treadmill covers the sound. it reads the same as Jamie's locker: Tartt 9.

shaking your head in disbelief, you fold it up neatly and place it back in its package. you hug it tight to your chest as you move quietly towards the window into the gym. you peer in, and to your surprise, you see Jamie almost destroying the treadmill with how fast he's going. his feet barely seem to hit the rubber, running like he is being chased by something twice his size. your smile falls and your brows crease together. he seems pissed, even though you can't see his face, his ferocious speed tells you enough. you turn back around, grabbing the post-it notes from Ted's desk and writing something down. you end your note with a small heart, hoping the coach sees it before the match.

—

"come on Richmond!"

the ear deafening crowds cheer and chant for Richmond FC as they file into the stadium. you're sitting in the owner's suite behind Rebecca and Keeley, with Higgins next to you.

"did you get my package?" Keeley asks, teethy smile across her face.

"I knew it was you! you cheeky little shit!" you laughed loudly, clapping her hands into yours. you take your jacket off, turn around and bring your arms up, pointing two thumbs at the back of your shirt.

"ah, young love..." Higgins sighs.

immediately turning back around, you scoff at him; "pfft, we're not in love! in fact, I'm not even sure we're friends right now."

"don't worry about it, y/n. I promise." Rebecca assuredly says to you, before turning to watch the match begin.

the whistle is about to blow, so you quickly try to find Jamie on the pitch. your eyes scan over the group, and you soon spot him in the middle of the pitch jumping up and down. he spits on the ground and claps his hands together, clearly riled up and ready to lead Richmond to a win.

the crowd roars as the whistle blows, and Jamie initiates kick off. you didn't think you would ever see him run as fast as he was on the treadmill yesterday, but somehow he is beating his own personal record. in the blink of an eye, he runs from one end of the pitch to the other. by some miracle, he seems to always have the ball in possession. after passing it back and forth, any time he's anywhere near the goal, the ball is at his feet.

in the 40th minute of the game, Jamie is crashing through Tottenham players, bumping shoulders with every single one as he makes his way towards their goal. you can see his cheeks puffing air in and out of his lungs rapidly, and after finding himself completely unobstructed, he kicks the ball with so much force that his mouth opens and you can almost hear his shout.

everything seems to go in slow motion. you hold your breath and raise your hands to cover your mouth. the ball flies through the air, magically curving towards the goal. the keeper jumps, hands in the air, and his finger tips merely brush the ball. but he's unable to push it hard enough, the ball crashing straight into the middle of the net.

the stadium erupts in cheers and roars, and you jump into the air with a loud scream. you hug Higgins in excitement and shake Keeley's shoulders before high-fiving Rebecca. you watch the team celebrate by running up to Jamie, who is stood completely still in the spot from where he scored. you can see his chest heaving, catching his breath as his teammates hug him and clap his back. but he doesn't seem to celebrate with them, instead you watch as he looks up and into the crowd without even a smile on his face. your expression falls, feeling your colleagues' eyes on you. Keeley grabs your hand, snapping your attention from the pitch to her; "go." she says, squeezing your hand. you purse your lips and nod at her, squeezing back, before pushing past Higgins and running inside.

as you rush through the VIP bar, you hear the half-time whistle. you head down the stairs and out the back of the stadium. you curse yourself for wearing your boots as you try to run to the main building. running doesn't seem to be your best bet, so you settle on a speed walk as you get closer and closer to the door. finally, you push open the door, passing by the reception desk you would normally sit at.

you continue your journey down the hallway and then turn right, heading straight for the locker room. you can hear the team from far away, cheering in celebration. as you turn the corner, you see all of them fall into the locker room in a line. they're so excited they don't notice you leaning against the wall watching them. the only person who isn't too busy celebrating, though, is Jamie Tartt, who is trailing behind the team like a sad puppy. his hands are wrapped in his shirt, and he's looking at his feet which he's scoffing across the floor. clearing your throat, you hope it catches his attention, his mind clearly elsewhere.

his head snaps up and looks in your direction. stopping dead in his tracks, he drops his hands from his shirt and fixes his headband. quickly glancing into the changing room, he goes unnoticed by the team as he dips his head and does a few long strides towards you.

"Jamie, I-"

"are you alright? like really alright? did I do somethin'?

"Jamie," you sigh deeply, not knowing how to explain Isaac's orders. "I'm sorry for ignoring you the past few days. it wasn't my idea, I promise."

"your idea? what're you talkin' about?" Jamie crosses his arms and shakes his head, a lock of hair moving forward into his eye.

you reach a hand up, gently moving the strand out of his vision. you watch as his eyes soften, dropping to the floor before they meet your gaze again. a sad crease appears between his eyebrows when you bring your hand down to your side again.

after taking a deep breath, you begin to explain; "Isaac said you were playing too friendly during training, slacking a little bit – and yeah, turning up late and then leaving early. he wanted you to be ready for today's match, y'know. so he asked me to rile you up a little bit, just so they could have the old Jamie Tartt back."

Jamie pouts, brows furrowed in confusion, as he blinks at you a few times. avoiding your eyes, he starts slowly nodding, tongue poking his cheek as he thinks to himself. after a few long seconds, the corner of his mouth lifts as he huffs a sarcastic laugh. you look up at him with wide eyes, hoping you haven't upset him. licking his lips, Jamie's smile widens as his laugh grows. you crack a small smile at him and try to find his gaze again, moving a step closer to him. placing a hand on his strong bicep, you try to get him to look at you. instead, he shrugs you off, leaning down and digging a finger into his sock. you stare, confused, waiting for his next move.

"so- if Isaac told you to ignore me a bit... what the fuck is this?" he unfolds a pink post-it note holding it up to you before reading it out loud; "dear Tartt, I don't even like lattes". Jamie raises his eyebrows at you while you stifle a laugh. "what makes this worse is the stupid fucking heart at the bottom of the page!"

"I was just trying to piss you off! Isaac told me!"

Jamie finally lets out a loud laugh, and you do the same, dropping your head into your hands in embarrassment. you don't have the gall to look up at him, suddenly so ashamed of the stupid gag you pulled. you feel warm hands wrap around your wrists, and you lift your head to look at Jamie as he pulls your hands away from your face.

"darlin' I hope you know the only reason I've been late to training is because I can't stop talking to you. and I leave early just so I can see you before the rest of the lads hound ya..."

you blush – hard – and you stare into Jamie's dark blue eyes. his hands slide from your wrists to your hands, softly holding your fingers in his. you sneak a glance at your touch, and when you look back up Jamie's even closer to you. as he towers over you, you can't help but look down at his lips before meeting his eyes again.

"now, don't lie to me... do you really not like lattes?"

"I love lattes." you whisper, smiling sweetly up at him as he shakes his head with a chuckle.

"can I take you out tonight? I wanna celebrate our win since you're the reason for it."

you scoff and shake your head: "Jamie, it's half-time."

"I can give you a lift home after, yeah?" he ignores your obvious statement.

"what if you lose?" you tease.

now it's Jamie's turn to scoff at you, squeezing your hands slightly as he says: "as long as you're in the crowd I'm sure that's not gonna happen."

"Jamie! we need you, buddy!" Ted interrupts the moment, sticking his head out of the door of the locker room to beckon him in.

"see you later, Jamie." you pull your hands from his, although against your will, as if you had it your way you would kiss him right then and there. he doesn't move as you turn around, about to turn the corner into the hallway before you feel a hand grab yours again. Jamie pulls your hand, making you spin around to face him again. as he tugs your hand, he wraps his other arm around your shoulders in a hug. your face presses into his hard chest as he holds you close for a moment. you let out a deep breath as you enjoy the heat radiating off his body.

as he moves back to let go of you, he leans down so his lips brush your ear before whispering: "nice shirt, by the way. my name suits ya."

your breath hitches at his flirtatious tone and a blush already starts creeping up your neck. he pulls back and flicks his eyes up and down your body. as he turns around to join his team, he winks at you, and even though he winks at you every day, this one hits you a lot harder.

as you watch Jamie retreat to the locker room, you lock eyes with Ted at its door. you try to fight the shy smile growing on your face, but fail miserably as a blush takes over your face. Ted lifts his hand to his forehead and salutes at you. you mirror him, bringing two fingers up to your head and saluting him back.

you walk back to the stadium fanning your face with your hands, desperately trying to cool yourself down. after sighing in relief, you laugh to yourself thinking about how your time at Richmond has changed over the past few weeks – and it was all due to Jamie Tartt.

when you return to your seat, Keeley squeals at you, making Rebecca jump. you shuffle past Higgins and sit back in your seat, touching up your hair and taking a deep breath.

"he asked me on a date!" you finally exclaim to Keeley and Rebecca, and the two respond with even louder squeals, which you join in on. your celebration is interrupted by the ref blowing his whistle, and you all focus on the game again.

the guys walk onto the pitch in single file, Isaac leading them out. their faces are stone cold, clearly ready to destroy their opponents. you stand up from your seat, eager to see Jamie after your encounter in the hallway. you finally spot him, and you can see him bouncing on his feet as approaches the pitch. once he's at the halfway line, and all the other players are finding their spot, you see him turn towards your side of the stadium. he looks up at the suite you're sitting in, and you quickly put your hands in the air, hoping he'll spot you. you assume he sees you, as he brings both hands to his lips and blows you a smooth kiss, before patting the Richmond badge on his chest and sticking his tongue out. you cackle at his antics, loving his dramatic entree. you quickly blow a kiss back and wave, praying they win this match so messing him around wasn't just for nothing.

you've never been more nervous watching a Richmond game. you've gone to a number of them since beginning your job as receptionist, but you've never been so enthralled by the sport itself – well, the players... one of the players.

Jamie sprints across the pitch, back and forth and back and forth, the ball at his feet. you, Keeley, and Rebecca scream and shout as you watch Richmond score three more goals. Colin scores with an impressive header, Dani bicycle kicks the ball straight into the net, and of course Jamie punts the ball past half the other players and the keeper, securing the last point for Richmond.

after the match, you find your way back to Richmond's headquarters, pushing open the same door you entered through earlier. this time, Keeley and Rebecca are walking in tow. you all stop at the reception desk, chatting about the game and your weekend plans.

"so how did he ask you out?" Rebecca lowers her voice, just in case Jamie turns the corner. you laugh nervously, shaking your head and waving your hands dismissively.

"no, no, no, he didn't ask me out. he asked me on a date. there's a difference."

"but he's so obviously into you! what's stopping you from just grabbing him by the hair and shagging him!" Keeley exclaims, a lot less subtle than Rebecca's careful tone. you sputter and laugh, Rebecca doing the same, both of you shocked at how direct Keeley spoke about you and Jamie.

"shut up you two! I'll let you know how it goes tonight, you go celebrate!"

Rebecca and Keeley hug you goodbye before walking down the hall. you turn around and giggle to yourself, blushing from Keeley's comment. lifting your head, your eyes fall on Jamie's wall sticker again. just thinking about how close he was to you earlier makes your heart race, your head dizzying at the memory of lips brushing your ear. fixing your hair, you move around the desk and sit in your usual chair. you try to calm your breathing and bring your heart rate down, not wanting to look like a yearning, blushing mess.

after managing to pull yourself together, your heart beat pounds against your chest again when you see the Richmond team crowd into the hallway. Isaac cheers when he sees you at your desk, and Colin, who is on his back, joins in.

"well done, boys!" you call to them while you wave at everyone passing you by.

"bye, y/n! see you on Monday!" Sam says to you with a big smile. you wave him goodbye and sigh happily, genuinely excited for the team.

their cheering goes quiet the further away they get from the door, and you wonder where Jamie is. you check your phone for any text messages, but there's nothing from Jamie. there is one from Keeley, however; 'don't forget to use protection!'

you scoff at her suggestive words, texting back a thumbs up with a kissy face. placing your phone down on your desk you look up, only to see Jamie sauntering towards you.

"hi, y/n," he says as he gets closer to the desk.

"hi, Jamie,"

"how ya been?"

"just fine, what about you, Jamie?"

"yeah, good, yeah... happy about our win."

"I can imagine. you were a proper superstar on that pitch."

wide smiles grow on both of your faces as you continue the small talk; "thanks, love. what can I say? Roy says I've got a right foot kissed by God, so ya'know this is just a regular day for me."

you chuckle at his feigned cockiness, standing up from your chair and leaning over your desk. "don't you want to go celebrate that win with your teammates, Jamie Tartt?"

"nah, that's alright, thanks. I've got other plans."

"oh yeah?" you tease.

"yeah, I've got dinner plans with a really pretty girl,"

you nod along with your eyebrows raised, smiling playfully at Jamie. his hair is still damp from the shower, but he's kept his same hairband look from on the pitch. he's wearing a bright orange t-shirt under a dark green jacket, an unexpectedly nice look on him.

"who's this girl then?"

"ah you'd love her; she's friendly, funny, gorgeous. she doesn't like lattes, though. and she pretended to ignore me but is still wearin' my name on her back."

you laugh, breaking character. you smile at him, raking your eyes up and down his body shamelessly. his eyes widen as you do so, surprised by how forward you're being. you bite your lip at him before saying: "you gonna treat her right, Tartt?"

he teases you back, matching your flirtatious tone. licking his lips, he lets his eyes drop to your lips: "if she'll let me."

———

just something from my mind hope u like it !

[roturo]

CRY FOR ME -dick grayson x f!reader

① NEW REQUEST FROM ANONYMOUS!: sex pollen, old lovers meet again.

→ summary: He loves you, he really does, but he left you. Months wondering why he did that had you crying for him, never ending the never-ending cycle of the abandoned by Dick Grayson wasn't in your to-do list. It's time to hit him with a smile, rather than a goodbye that would leave him wondering.

→ warnings: SMUT, angst, sex pollen, mating press, breeding kink, marking, fingering & oral (f receiving), mutlipes orgasms, overstimulation, mention of weight loss (but it's never specified how much or the weight of the reader exactly, neither a body type), hero into villain!reader, med student!reader, mentions of kory and dick being together but never in a relationship, reader is friends with harley quinn, reader was part of the og titans.

A/N: I'm really proud of this one, might even do pt2 if it gets support. -Words: 3.4k

TUMBLR IS BASED ON A REBLOG SYSTEM. PLEASE REBLOG MY WORK. THANK YOU. ENJOY. SMUT BELOW THE CUT.

¨And you know what I hate most of all that shit he put me through?, He-¨

¨Can you please stop talking about Dick Y/N? It's been MONTHS, damn it! almost a year! You're driving me nuts! I'm not even Dick's ex, or friend and I already hate him as much as you do. So let's move on.¨

¨You don't understand, I was a good girlfriend! Shit! I even became a hero for him! Now look where we are.¨

Harley laughs at your remark of how the tables have turned.

Both of you were sitting at the top of a building eating some ice-cream, which Harley insisted on steal from a random kid on the street, after robbing some random store she liked a collar from, you were now looking at how police officers where trying to look for a culpable of this crime.

It's been 11 months and 5 days since Dick broke up with you. You couldn't AND still don't understand why he did it, both of you were fine one day and the next one he decided, 'oh how could I destroy the woman of my dreams heart?, I know how! What if I tell her I don't need her anymore in my life and she's useless! then some months later fuck some fire princess and act like i'm a new person with this new suit and name! oh! also, re-do the titans! when my ex helped me do the og ones, helped when the fell apart but she's useless anyways!'

To say you weren't deep down for him, would be a lie. You don't know how he could keep laughing everyday knowing how his little trauma ass dumped you like trash. Well, if you're being honest he doesn't have a small ass, but that doesn't matter.

¨Aw, I want more ice-cream¨ Coming back to earth after some deep thoughts, Harley grabbed you by the wrists in order to change up and start looking some restaurant for dinner.

After changing clothes and Harley talking about how obsessed she´s with the Joker, you couldn't quite blame her, both of you were finally walking on the street, laughing at some random inside joke both of you had.

¨Huh.¨ Your phone started ringing and you could swear if it wasn't cold enough to freeze you up, the call was. ¨Who is it?¨ Harley asked, sneaking through your shoulder.

¨OH! Donna?, the cute girl you talked about?¨

¨Shhh, let me attend this call... Hello? Donna?¨

¨Y/N, um- hello! How are you? It's been what? one year since we don't talk?¨ ¨I'm... fine. How about you?¨

You were quite confused for this call, on the outside you're calm, but inside, you're freaking out.

¨I'm good, it's nice to hear you're doing fine!¨ ¨Thank you Donna, but I know you just don't call to ask how i'm doing, what's wrong?¨ ¨Oh well, you quite know me well Y/N, i'm sorry it seemed that way, but you're like the only person I know who could help us with some medical issues, you know? So I wanted to ask you if you could come and help us to deal with Conner, and maybe stay some days...? i'll explain you who he is and all of that later.¨ ¨Donna, you know i'm not longer on the me-¨

Harley pinched you in the arm, trying to talk but you were faster. ¨Ow Harley! Stop it!¨ You told your best friend in a whisper so Donna couldn't hear the both of you, also covering the microphone of your phone, for... extra precautions.

¨You don't understand! This is an awesome opportunity! You're going undercover in the titans tower! Imagine how crazy Jack (Jocker) would be! Say yes!¨

Thinking it for a few seconds, she was right, you could get some important information from them, it was indeed, an awesome plan.

¨Who knows, you might also see bird-boy again!¨ She said raising her eyebrows in a teasing way making you roll your eyes.

¨Y/N? Are you still there?¨

¨Yes, when do you need me to be there?¨

¨Erm... now if it's possible¨

You were now unpacking your suitcase, Donna told you to pack for at least a month, isn't that incredible?

You haven't come across any of the other titans, beside, Donna, Dawn, Gar, Rachel, Jason and Rose... Quite interesting team.

You didn't introduced well to the kids since you were in a hurry to enter your temporary room and not ran into someone else...

While you were unpacking your old tools Wayne gave you while you were their medical support 'hero' maybe also because you were a med student, you still helped with fights, bruises and hits.

You found the 'special' bandages you had for Dick, since the 'normal ones weren't soft enough for his bruises' a small smile appeared on your face at those old memories.

Now unpacking your clothes, you found three special lingerie underwear with a note from Harley:

'Just in case you have some fun ;)

xx Harley~'

The note made you roll your eyes but you couldn't deny it brighten your mood, throwing away the not and putting aside the 'Harley present', you continued unpacking your clothes, you brought in a separate case for your suit, just in case.

¨Y/N! Can you come here?¨

¨Coming!¨ maybe you could order the clothes other time.

When you entered the living room, the kids were no longer there, except Jason.

They started explaining you what happened between Deathstroke and what they know about Conner, you were paying attention to know what you're dealing with, you haven't even realize Dick came in sight until Dawn mentioned it.

But Dick didn't came alone, he was next fire princess which you couldn't care less to investigate her name when you found out about Dick meeting her.

¨Oh Dick! We brought Y/N so she could help us with Conner, since we don't have anyone else who knows about this weird medical stuff.¨ They know what happened between you two, and they still decided to ask for your help knowing he's going to be here.

You stood up from the sofa, eyes locking with his, you couldn't longer see the coldness in his eyes, but there wasn't warm either, you couldn't quite decipher what he's feeling.

¨Kory¨ She gave you her hand at which you responded with your name and doing the same. You locked eyes with her for a brief moment, a small smirk appeared in your face but disappeared once the greeting finished.

¨Y/N.¨ You locked eyes with him, a tension only the two of you could feel. You were different, much prettier, you lose some weight too, blame it on the break-up depression, but you were shining.

¨Grayson.¨ Hearing you say his last name instead of his name he could feel a small part of him getting shattered inside him, you changed.

After checking on Conner and taking some notes, it was finally night time, you were eating some cereal, knowing more about Gar and Rachel, Kory, Dawn, Donna and Robin were dressed up with their suits.

¨We have some issues to deal tonight with another troublemaker, nothing serious though, just a one night problem.¨ Dick announced while getting ready to go out.

¨Y/N, you should come! Maybe warm out a little like the old times." Dawn invited you, how nice of her, only if she knew you were also a troublemaker.

¨No thank you, i'm only here for medical support.¨ You gave her a small smile and said your goonights.

Some knocking in your door woke you up, it only passes one hour since you went asleep and they're already annoying you, first day!

¨Y/N? Are you awake?¨ You heard Dawn saying though the door.

¨Mmh¨ You replied.

¨We need you, it's Dick.¨

Even more annoying.

You walked next Dawn through the halls until you finally came into Dick´s room. Inside they were Donna and Kory, clearly concerned about his well being.

His behavior seemed, weird, there wasn’t any bruises or cuts, not even blood. He was just twisting in pain on his bed. You stepped closer to him, and got your hand on top of his forehead at which he only whined, that scared you, since it sounded more like a moan than a whine. He was hot, sweating and moving a lot.

You had your suspicions what this could be, but you needed to confirm it, this can't be real.

¨Can you please... tell me with which villain you fought with?¨

¨Ivy¨ Donna said.

Shit.

¨I need to make a call¨ you quickly said running out of the room.

¨Surprise, surprise!¨ Harley said in her taunting tone. ¨Oh my god Harley, I can't believe you.¨ ¨Well, you know a girl needs to help her best friend, so... I called another friend and voilà!¨ ¨What am I supposed to do? I don't have the fucking cure for sex pollen Harley! I owe you one, can't believe Ivy did this for me.¨ ¨You just said it, sex. C´mon Y/N!, it's your moment to play with him! He had you like a sad girl, why don't turn her into a mad girl? Make him cry for you. Break his heart like he did with you.

You ended the call, and just in time, Kory came. ¨Y/N, we need you Dick keeps talking about you and rambling about some stupid things.¨ You could sense a strange behavior from her, like if she just discovered something big.

Watching Dick twisting in pain and saying your name in just some black briefs felt good. You can't lie to yourself Harley was right.

¨It's sex pollen¨ You admitted.

¨And what's the cure? Do you have it? That's why you made the call?¨ Donna asked.

¨No, the only cure for it it's well... sex. The pollen might last for at-least 3 days or even a week, symptoms are well... extremely high sex-drive, dehydration, high temperatures, and... I think that's all.¨

Donna chuckled at what happened to Dick, ¨Let's go girls, let's leave this to Kory.¨ Dawn just laughed at a very shocked and blushed Kory, ¨Don't be like that Donna, Kory and Dick haven't confirmed anything yet.¨ You felt your jaw clenching, but decided to act calm, and when all of you were almost leaving, you were stopped.

¨No. I want her.¨ Dick said, pointing towards you. All of you stayed quiet at the sudden confession. You were shocked to say at least, blood rushing to your cheeks, you were about to leave that damn room until you remembered what Harley said.

Cry for me.

Donna grabbed your shoulder, looking at you. ¨You don't have to do this if you're uncomfortable.¨

¨No. It's okay, i'm in.¨

After mentally preparing yourself, bringing some water bottles into the room, they left you alone with him.

You sat next to him on his bed, memories came back flying around the both of you.

¨Look, I know that-¨ He completely cut you off when he started kissing you, making you lay down on the bed, you left a small moan when he broke the kiss for a moment.¨Oh my god, you don't know how much I wanted to kiss you again.¨

Did he missed you? Every question that came to your mind was easily erased when he started kissing and sucking your neck while unbuckling your jeans and taking them down with your underwear, he pulled apart to admire the bruises he left, he grabbed your panties and threw them to his nightstand.

He started kissing your thighs, making small pauses on each to make sure he's marking you as his again. Every time he went higher until he gave a small peck on your clit. ¨I can't wait to taste you sweetheart.¨ There it is... the nickname.

He got your legs over his shoulders and gave a testing long lick on your pussy, teasing your hole. At which he started sucking your clit once he heard the high pitched moan you did when he teases your hole.

His started spelling his name with his tongue on your pussy at which it only made you hornier, suddenly he inserted his index finger inside you. Dick sped up, fingers now flicking in and out of you at light speed, nose pressed into your clit, and before you knew it you were cumming, shuddering on his mouth, crying out his name.  Quickly he took all the remaining clothes from you and him, now both of you completely naked for each-other.

He was rock hard. No, scratch that, his cock looked like it was made of fucking ruby. Red and painful and already half-soaked with pre-cum.

He pressed your legs impossibly closer to your torso, moving down to meet your eyes, until you were folded in half beneath him, legs on his shoulders, putting you into a—

Oh. 

Oh. 

This was going to be a long night.

He fell on his forearms, and you wondered how much more you could take- He laced his fingers on top of your head, thumbs on your forehead, holding you still. He mumbled out another gonna make you feel s’ good before pounding you in earnest, practically bouncing you both on his mattress. His balls smacked against your ass, and the feeling was so damn satisfying that he just had to go harder. You would sport matching bruises tomorrow, his hips on your ass. You pushed out moans in time with his unforgiving pace, a metronome playing the beat to which his sanity danced away from him. 

“More?” He sounded fucking pathetic, like he was asking himself that, his voice octaves higher than it usually was, but he didn’t care. “More, you little slut? That what you want? You want more?”

“I’ll give you more,” he babbled, “More, baby, give you more give you everythin’ gonna fuck you so hard you won’t walk for weeks.”

He’s not too worried about hurting you—you’re already so wet—more that he’s afraid he’ll cum the second he starts moving again. Out of his previous partners, he doesn’t think any of them have felt this good around him.

“Please-” a strand of incomprehensible begs and pleads leaves his mouth when he starts thrusting into you again.

¨Shit- how are you even tighter huh? You've been keeping this tight pussy just for me?¨ He's a whiny mess, small kisses every time he cans, praises here and there.

“Mmm yes please yes please yesyesyesss—” was all you could manage. He laughed at you, breathless, and you wondered how he could keep up this pace and still rattle off incredibly filthy little comments, looking right in your eyes. 

“You’d like that? Yeah? Gon’ look so pretty, little baby, so pretty full of my child, yeah? All round and glowing and heavy with me. All of ’em will look at you and see me, all me, see that I did that. You want that? You want that you want that—”

He leans forward to coo praise into your ear, gently nipping at your earlobe. Goosebumps raise along your exposed flesh. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoes through the stairwell. Sometime during this his teeth find the soft muscle of your neck, leaving a crescent shape mark that’ll certainly bruise in the morning.

You're pretty sure everyone on this tower have heard the both of you fucking like rabbits by now, but knowing this was going to follow him his whole life, with the memories of him fucking you every way possible just so you could leave him, it's all you need to don't care about that.

The first time he cums, he doesn’t even realize he has. He shudders. It felt good—a bit too good—but nothing out of the ordinary. It makes him do a double take. His cock doesn’t even go soft. Drips of cum run down your thighs, pooling on the bed-sheets beneath you.

His thumb traces circles around your clit, moving in erratic, uneven motions. Dick leans back down for another kiss. You can taste yourself on him, though it’s not entirely unpleasant. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding him to your chest. The two of you can only fuck and cum until you’re too exhausted to continue. You’ve never felt so full. The thought of using protection crossed your mind once—and only for a moment—the pollen leaving you too desperate to care.

Second day and he wouldn't give you a break to nap for a minute.

His body curved and bowed, hips pressed hard against you, arms below your body and hands gripping your shoulders. “Mmm fuck baby,” Dick muttered into your mouth, your moans coming out of you almost breathless. “Yeah, yeahyeahyeah milk me fucking milk my cock gonna cum in you fuck a baby, my baby into you and you’re gonna fucking take it take it nnngh —”

He buried his face into your neck, teeth latching on to skin, biting down to draw blood, a choked groan as he came, really came, his balls squeezing painfully, a deep ache in his gut, indescribable tingles all along his cock, his spine, down to the soles of his feet.

Third day, and you started getting him where you wanted it.

“Sensitive,” you hissed, “Sensitive, Dick, you insatiable—”

“Insatiable is right,” he said to you, eyes wide, still looking like you just told him the Earth was flat. He towered over you, kneeling now, and with horror and a bit of something else you felt how hard he still was. 

¨I missed you so much, the biggest mistake of my life was leaving you.¨

Fourth day he started getting sensitive but that didn't stopped him, and he was a little more languid, strokes slow and smooth, his thighs shaking just a bit as exhaustion started to settle in. His cum was spreading in a pool on the sheets now, and you couldn’t bring yourselves to be even a little disgusted. He loved it. He loved so much how it felt that tears dropped from his eyes every-time he felt that electric shock come to him when he was about to come. He was crying for you.

Last day. Fifth day. Barely even thrusting anymore, just a slow grind of his hips, the friction and the pressure and the raw sensation squeezing out what could have been an orgasm if only both of you were awake enough to feel it.

When you both woke up the next day, he was staring at you, straddling your hair, and that's when you knew it.

¨Good morning sweetheart.¨

You just answered with a small ¨hey¨

¨I never through of seeing you laying next to me again, it felt like home. I'm sorry I did that to you, you don't know how much I regret it, please, give me a second chance.¨

Bingo.

Without saying a word, you grabbed some shirt of his, long enough to cover yourself and went back to your room, stumbling and shaking someway you made it. You changed yourself, taking a minute to observe how he marked you, it was time.

You went back to his room, already changed, you gave him a smile and sat on the bed with him, with no emotion behind your eyes, it was your time.

¨You were ready to leave me for her.¨ Confusion, first stage he made you go through.

¨I was doing fine, really, but then you walked again into my life again and fucked me up.¨ Sadness and lies. Second stage.

¨You think this will make me stay?¨ You signaled the both of you. ¨You think with just some stupid sex to heal you is enough of an apology?¨ A laugh escaped your mouth. ¨You thought this was real?¨

¨You know for a fucking fact this wasn't supposed to happen.¨ You got your hand on top of his, faking a caring smile looking at him.

¨When friends of yours make jokes about how you always leave them, you think it's funny, but it's not. That hurts a lot, actually.¨

You got up from the bed and stepped closer to the door, you paused for a second and turned around to see a hurt Dick naked on the bed with just some blanket covering him.

¨And Dick... Of course I still love you, if it wasn't for me, I would go crying and throwing myself into your arms again.¨

¨You still can.¨ He tried.

¨No.¨ You chuckled. ¨I won't let myself get hurt again. Our love isn't worth the fight. Goodbye Dick Grayson.¨

[swordsandholly]

Treat Me Gently (Because No One Else Will)

Ch 1: The Arrangement | next | masterlist | Ao3

Ghoap x reader | MDNI 18+ | cw: PiV sex, fingering

You yawn and stretch, back popping all the way up as you finally give it some reprieve from your hours of sitting at your low coffee table that doubles as your work station. As much as you try to stop hunching like a goblin, you always slip back into it. It’s hard when your mind gets lost in the words and the pages flying by. Good posture seems to equal bad writing, unfortunately.

Your knees pop slightly as you stand up from your cushion that doubles as a ‘chair’, decidedly clocking out for the evening. Really, you should have stopped two hours ago, but you just can’t get this one damn scene right. You sigh, heading to your dresser to change out of your “work” clothes and into a ratty, oversized shirt and pajama shorts. Your phone dings just as you go to stand in front of the fridge that you already know is practically empty.

S >> Come over?

S >> I got takeout.

You snicker. Perfunctory and presumptuous, as usual. He timed it out for when he knew you’d be done with work - even taking in your propensity to go well passed your designated office hours. He probably knew you were out of food, too. Not that you’d ever expect less from Simon Riley.

>> Give me 5

You pad across the the hallway between your flats, the dangling of your keys echoing off the old walls. The floorboards always creak, announcing your presence before you could even knock on the door. Simon’s place is bigger than yours - a one bedroom as opposed to your studio. Both have small balconies, his furnished with only two fold-out chairs. You’ve tried to convince him to get a plant or something, but he just insists it will die in a day despite that being literally impossible. The whole of the apartment is sparsely decorated - the main features being that of his well worn L-shaped couch and the fancy surround sound system Simon installed. The rest of it made up of shelves lined with physical media and books.

“Evenin’.” Simon says from his kitchen as you let yourself in. He stands at the island, broad shoulders hunched as he fiddles with something.

The lock clicks behind you when you shut the door. Some soft classical music drifts from the speakers. You don’t recognize it, but you also know that asking will result in a lecture that will undoubtedly become a pop quiz at a later date. You don’t need another Tchaikovsky incident on your hands.

“Sushi?” Your brows raise as you eye the rolls and sashimi. He really went all out. “What’s the occasion?”

Simon shrugs, plating the food up on his uniform black, square plates. Yours sits neatly on a plate of it’s own, soy sauce and all. Sometimes you wonder if he keeps an index of your take out orders or if his memory is just that good. “Shipping out soon. Figured I’d get it while I could.”

You grin and move behind him. He shivers slightly as you push your cool hands up under his shirt to run along his strong core. “Doesn’t have anything to do with the whole aphrodisiac thing?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, bird.” Simon feigns ignorance. The corner of his mouth briefly quirks up before he forces it back down.

“Sure, sure.” You retract your hands, wandering over to pick up the TV remote off the well worn coffee table. “Which movie are we on?”

“Blackwell Ghost 5.”

You settle in your usual spot on the couch, leaning on the right armrest. Simon has always liked the middle - he says it’s the best for his back. You know it’s just because he likes to manspread five miles wide. It doesn’t bother you, as you generally prefer to curl up in the corner with your feet tucked. The movie rolls and you eat in comfortable silence, humming around the fresh food. He really does spoil you, sometimes.

You eye Simon while you eat. With anybody else this would all be pretense - an unnecessary preamble to imply, somehow, that this is more than a booty call. Not with Simon. Never with Simon. This is just as important as the rest of it. You watch the way his hands practically dwarf the single-use chopsticks, the way his body melts into the cushions. Your eyes rake over the strong planes of his face littered with various scars; his nose broken one too many times, the ear that’s been slightly clipped by a bullet. His hair has grown out and more stubble sprinkles across his jaw than he usually allows.

“Wotcha lookin’ at?” Simon mumbles around some tuna.

You tilt your head, smiling. “You’re fun to watch.”

“Creep.” He nudges your foot with his knee.

“Freak.” You push back.

“’ow’s the book goin’?” Simon asks.

You groan, shoving your last piece of sushi in your mouth while you debate your answer. “S’fine. Slow. My agent is being a real pain in my ass.”

He hums, that slight smirk gracing his lips. If you knew him any less you might have missed it entirely. “Need some inspiration?”

You sputter out a laugh, placing your plate on the coffee table. “Very smooth, Riley.”

“C’mere.” Simon rumbles, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you over his lap. It’s almost uncomfortable how far you have to stretch to accommodate his hips, but its so worth it as his hands rest on your waist, grinding you down against him. You gasp, giving him entrance to press his lips to yours - tongue flicking over your lower lip.

One hand tangles in his hair, the other caressed downward, shoving his shirt up and tracing the lines of muscle across his torso. You’ve always loved bodies - loved taking in their shapes and texture, their variety - and Simon’s has so much to take in. Ridges of muscle and scars, plus that little plush layer over his middle he gets while home from deployment. You tug on his shirt, only breaking the kiss long enough to yank it off and toss it somewhere on the floor.

“Y’so fuckin’ pretty…” Simon mumbles, hands wandering from your waist, to your hips, to knead at your thighs and the curve of your ass.

You squeak as Simon lifts you, locking your legs around his waist. No matter how many times he does it, his strength still catches you off guard. He doesn’t unlock from your lips, moving back to his room purely based on muscle memory. You have to resist the urge to tease him about the time he knocked your head against the doorframe in this exact position.

Your hands drift over the curvature of his broad shoulders as he lays you back on his bed. You can’t help but be fascinated by him - all hard muscle and sinew. So different from your own soft figure. Even the pads of his fingers are rough as they push under your oversized t-shirt, kneading at the soft layer over your middle.

“This okay?” Simon mumbles in your ear. You nod vigorously as his hands move up, up, up until he’s pulling your shirt and bralette off in one swift motion.

Simon buries his face in your chest, nipping at the sensitive skin before taking a nipple in his mouth. You arch into the touch, unsure of where to put your hands and opting to let them wander.

“May I?” He murmurs, fingers catching in the hems of your underwear and sleep shorts. Again, you nod, forgetting that isn’t enough for him at this stage. “Use your words.”

“Yes! Please, Si.” You whine, rolling your hips against the too-light touch.

Simon chuckles at you, pulling your bottoms off and dropping them onto the floor somewhere. He runs his fingers between your folds, obviously reveling in the way your breath catches and your chest heaves when he finally circles your clit. His lips connect with yours, swallowing every gasp and moan as he presses a finger inside.

“Fuckin’ tight t’night, bird.” He grumbles into your mouth. “‘ave I been neglecting you?”

Quite the opposite. If anything, he’s fucked you silly this past week, but you can’t exactly argue that when he presses against your g-spot and retakes your nipple between his teeth.

“Oh, fuck!” You moan as a second finger joins the first. Your nails dig lightly into his shoulders when he pressed his thumb against your clit, moving in short circles to the rhythm of the fingers inside you. You swear he’s too dexterous to be human sometimes.

You keen, body tensing as stars dance behind your eyes. You can feel the slickness of your cunt on your thighs, the squelch of Simon’s slowed movements almost too lewd.

He only disappears long enough to shuck off his pants before he’s hovering back over you, tucked into the crook of your neck. Simon gives you a moment to come down, cooing praises in your ear. “Doin’ so good f’me. Always so good f’me.”

He sits back to lightly tap his cock against your pussy, sending jolts up your spine, obviously enjoying your reaction. He grinds his cock against you, sliding easily between your soaked folds. “Christ.”

Simon reaches into the nightstand, plucking a condom out from their designated spot. He hands it to you for inspection, as always. You don’t really understand why he still does it after the two of you have had this standing agreement for so long, but it’s not a gesture you’re going to call into question. Some of Simon’s sexual habits are simply best left as they are - they’re always for your mutual benefit, anyway. You flip it over in your fingers briefly before passing it back.

No matter how many times you take him, it’s always a stretch. He’s not the biggest you’ve had, but thick enough the sensation would teeter into pain without any preparation. That’s another thing he insists on: pain has no place in intimacy.

Your lips fall open in a pitchy moan - hands fisting the sheets on either side of you. Simon falls onto his forearms resting on either side of your head. You revel in the way he cages you in, the way his tongue laps at the sweat-slicked skin of your collar bone. You both sigh in sync as his hips finally settle against yours.

You wrap your legs tightly around his back as he begins to move. A solid rhythm slowly turning into something more desperate. Simon sits up, his weight suddenly off you. Just as you crack your eyes open his hands grab tightly onto your hips, lifting them just off the bed. The new angle ruts him against that spot inside you, pushing you over the edge into another orgasm faster than you can process it.

He eventually lets go of your hips, one hand braces by your head, the other tracing your body. Plucking at your nipples, kneading at the flesh of your thighs, pressing onto your soft stomach to emphasize the fullness with him inside you.

“Give me another.” Simon demands, thumb pressing to your clit. His eyes bore through you, watching your every minute expression. “C’mon, one more, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. A rarer pet name - one you’d probably be pissed about coming from anyone else. With Simon it melts into your bones, pooling at the base of your spine. Your eyes roll back, pathetic sounds and babbling falling from your lips as you cum again in such a short span.

“Fuck.” He grunts, voice low and breathless in your ear. “Cunt feels so fucking good when you cum f’me.”

You whine, useless under him. Your limbs are utter jelly. Even as you try to roll your hips with his, your movement is stuttered. Uncontrolled. You know he enjoys how sensitive you are, how pliant you become. It feeds his ego - the part of him that needs to do things right. Your body shudders under Simon’s as he groans, all depth and gravel, his hips stuttering and slowing as he cums.

You both stop, for a moment, foreheads pressed together as you catch your breath enough for Simon to push himself up, tying off the condom and tossing it before falling into his back beside you.

A silence lapses over you - the only sound in the room is that of your breathing with a slight pitch difference between your breaths. You’ve always loved this part. The quiet afterglow. The gentle way Simon will reach over to soothe down your hair while you lazily meet his eye. No words, no expectations. Just existing with someone in your vulnerability. With someone you know is safe.

“Go piss.” Simon points to the bathroom as soon as his breath is even.

You snort, pushing yourself up on slightly shaky arms. “So demanding.”

“So considerate.” He quips back. “It’s important.”

“Fine, fine.” You throw your hands up and pad off to the bathroom. You pause, looking at yourself in the mirror. What is it about Simon’s bathroom that makes you so much more beautiful than your own? Your skin glows nicely, your hair shines even as it’s mussed up from getting fucked six ways to Sunday.

When you come back Simon’s sitting up against the headboard, scrolling through something on his phone. You crawl back into bed beside him, flopping on your back and staring at the ceiling fan as it circles, circles, circles.

“When do you have to leave?”

He sighs, dropping his phone back onto the nightstand. “End of the week.”

You nod, accepting the oncoming semi-dry spell as usual. You’ve always wondered what he does when he’s gone - if he has another you out there. Another arrangement. You can’t imagine Simon going more than a couple days without someone. That’s what brought you into this in the first place - a mutual benefit. You don’t truly feel the need to ask; it’s more curiosity than anything and you don’t want the question to go misinterpreted. Not that Simon would, necessarily, he’s always been good about taking your words at face value.

With a sigh, you roll onto your side to face him, head propped on your hand. “Know where you’re heading?”

“Mexico.” Simon grunts in that tone that signals you to stop asking questions.

You trail your fingers over his chest, through the dusting of blonde hair. “Wanna go again?”

“Fuck yes.” He rolls over. You can’t help but giggle as he knocks your knees apart and eagerly plants himself between your thighs.

banner by @the-aesthetics-shop

[seiwas]

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

summary: honesty, you've realized, is shouto’s most cunning trait—a quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before. 

contains: intended as f!reader but no pronouns used, reader wears heels, a skirt, & a dress, post-canon (divergent), aged-up pro-hero!shouto and assistant!reader, workplace romance, development of feelings, confessions, boss/assistant dynamics, co-workers to lovers (ish), todoroki family dynamics and healing, fluff, slow burn.  

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

a/n: primarily from shouto’s perspective but switching of character pov’s is denoted by ‘( )’. i enjoyed the entire process of writing this fic and hope you do too! 

sponsored by @arcvenes for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please do check it out and support if you can! this is also my submission for the pretty boy summer collab by @andypantsx3.

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

Much to his relief, Shouto’s yearly health check-up turns out just fine. 

His blood work results come back stellar, levels all floating within normal range; some x-rays and scans reveal injuries healing up nicely—that collarbone he’d fractured months ago, especially. Save for a few recommendations on better sleep and stress management, Shouto receives no additional diagnoses for anything particularly concerning. 

Except for this one thing—

“Maybe you have a crush.” Natsuo sinks into the backrest of his chair. A slight ‘squeak’ sounds from its springs as he props one foot up on his knee and clasps his hands over his stomach. 

Shouto thinks it must be some doctor pose; Natsuo’s been doing it more often now that he’s gotten deeper into his medical practice. 

In Shouto’s final year at UA, Natsuo made the decision to fully shift into Pre-Med. The aftermath of the war left a big portion of Musutafu lost and in dire need of a society to believe in. To Natsuo, this felt like a calling; an effort of playing his part to restore faith in a better, functioning system that did not discriminate. Internal medicine felt expansive in that way.

This, of course, also meant that Natsuo was now the (unofficial) assigned private and personal doctor of the Todoroki family—to Shouto, mostly. 

So—

A… Crush?

“How does that happen?” Shouto turns to his brother, head tilted in confusion. His brows furrow slightly. 

This isn’t what he was expecting at all. 

“I mean, you said it in your text,” Natsuo reaches for his phone, clicking it open to scroll. The light from his screen reflects on the gray of his irises; then, he air quotes, “you said: ‘my chest feels weird’, then when I asked if anything happened,” his index finger glides across the screen, swiping through a long block of text uncharacteristic of Shouto’s typical dry responses.

“You detailed the entire scene of–” he pauses for a moment, squinting to find a specific line, “–a santa hat? Being put on you, or something. You didn’t mention who but I figured it was—” 

You, Shouto thinks, at the moment Natsuo says your name. That same two-part thump sounds in his ears. 

You, who’s stayed by his side for the past five, nearly six years. You’ve carved your presence so deeply into his life, it’s become an undercurrent in his speech. He doesn’t even think of having to say your name when he talks about you. 

You, and how he turns over this familiarity with you inside his brain. How everyone knows—

“—who else stays with you in the agency past office hours, anyway?” 

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

“We’ve been working together for a while.” Shouto replies, lips pressed firmly into a small pout. 

If he’s being honest, he’s not sure what compelled him to say something Natsuo already knows. To state the obvious? Or to argue, maybe? To act in denial? To express disbelief? 

He takes a long breath, surveying Natsuo’s clinic. The walls are pristine white, the desk and examination bed the same shade of ashen gray—a conscious choice to keep patients calm; ironic, given the state of his thoughts right now. 

Shouto’s mind is buzzing, and Natsuo watches the muddled confusion in his little brother’s eyes shift and swirl in blue-gray emotion. Then he chuckles, holding onto his arm rests as he stands up from the other side of his desk. 

“It can happen, Shouto.” he plants a palm on his little brother’s head, ruffling red and white the way he would have when they were teens, “It’s been years, right? Feelings can develop over time, that sorta thing, you know?” 

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

Under the weight of his brother’s hand, he feels like a kid again—right before all the training started; and right before being kept away, excluded from the childhood he could have had with his siblings. 

Shouto feels like a teen again, without the trauma, without the war, being taught things about life and himself, about feelings he never had the time nor capacity to explore.

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

The rustling of his hair dusts strands of warm, fuzzy feelings over his eyelids. 

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

He gets to Shouto Agency an hour before everyone else does because he likes the stillness of it right before the day turns busy. The sun is up but only barely, casting a soft glow of blue and orange hues through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office. 

This habit began years ago, back when the agency functioned on the 7th floor of a commercial building. It was called Flashfreeze then, and even though it had an entire floor of 24 office units, being in a commercial building still meant sharing common areas with other companies and agencies. The morning rush left the elevators flooded in utter chaos daily. 

To Shouto, going in early meant less people and less noise—a quiet bube he could use to prepare himself for the rest of the day.  

A lot has changed since then: the agency’s move into a larger, newly constructed building of its own; staff, interns, and sidekicks quadrupling in numbers; better office spaces, bigger teams, more facilities—a big expansion, essentially. 

Somehow, despite being more settled in the industry, he finds that the days feel even busier than before. 

So, Shouto keeps his Mondays the same: his preference of coming in early carrying itself into this newer, much larger and private office space, and his same habit of brewing himself a cup of tea finding its own spot by the small kitchen nook you helped design during the construction of his office space. 

Everything about his office is optimized for efficiency: the backdoor, where he enters from on most days, opens to an elevator with a matching staircase that both lead straight down to the costume unit, training grounds, and his own parking area; the blinds of his windows automatically draw up and down at set times of the day; and the minimalism of his entire space is carefully considered, with every area plotted for easy navigation. 

It’s sleek and neat, sharp edges and clean lines, straightforward much like he is. Cold, for the most part, save for the corners touched by your warmth.

Pale yellow jars sit on the counter of his kitchen nook, with each one housing sugar, cinnamon, and his stash of tea.  

When he looks more closely around the room, he spots the fresh flowers on his desk—a vase of luscious white chrysanthemums starkly contrasting the dark grays and browns of his interiors; they tell him you must be in already, because even when he manages to come in an hour ahead, you always, without fail, beat him to it 30 minutes too early. 

And also, like always, you enter his office in the same way you do every Monday morning. 

Your heels clack against his stone flooring, marking your arrival. He turns to face you from the kitchen nook, cup of tea in hand as he greets you. 

“Good morning.” 

You jolt, nearly tripping. Your head whips up quickly as you clutch a mass of folders tightly to your chest. 

He takes a sip of his tea, the corners of his lips curling slightly on the edge of his cup. 

“Si–” you clear your throat, correcting yourself as you take a breath. Then you smile warmly, bowing your head slightly, “Shouto, good morning.” 

“You scared me a bit there,” you add with a soft chuckle. 

It’s endearing, he thinks, seeing you caught off guard, so out of your usual composure.

You loosen your grip on the folders, “I just came to place this on your desk,” your finger taps against the plastic, “I didn’t notice you were here already, sorry.” 

“No worries,” he sets down his tea cup, pocketing one hand in his sweatpants, “do you want some tea?” 

“I’m good, thank you,” you shake your head, walking towards his desk to set the folders down, “Just a couple of debriefs for the case last month.” 

He nods, eyes tracking your movement around the room. You pause then turn to him, clicking your pen as you say, “Let me get your schedule so we can do the run-down.” 

Shouto moves to his desk when you leave, settling into the few squeaks and cracks of the leather chair you helped restore using your quirk—the ability to minimally reconstruct organic matter. 

Not even a few minutes pass until you return, a tablet perched on the crook of your elbow with a digital pen in hand. 

This is part of his Monday routine. 

The agenda you follow is the same: a schedule run-down for the coming week, any notable trips or events, report updates, and department updates. Occasionally, PR will have you relay messages they have trouble communicating nicely—most of the time, they involve suggestions for him to ‘smile more’ or ‘answer questions more enthusiastically’. 

You have no problem telling him these things straight up, and he has no issue hearing it directly from you, either. 

For this week, you detail a few meetings scheduled for tomorrow and Wednesday, along with updates on his costume revisions, to be fitted on Wednesday afternoon, and—

“Deku requested a joint patrol on Thursday morning, so I moved your fitting for the gala to that evening instead. Is that okay with you?” you look up from your tablet, the tip of your pen hovering over the screen. 

In this light, you’re bathed in the colors of sunrise. 

(From where you’re standing, Shouto is backlit by the rising sun. His figure is washed over by a faded shadow, but you can see his eyes clearly, bright turquoise and dark gray staring right at you.

You hold your breath; you are well aware of Shouto’s tendencies to stare, but he’s taking much longer to answer you this time. And you don’t know what to do, where to look. Do you wait until—)

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

You mumble an ‘okay’ before tapping on your tablet. 

The rest of your reminders are about upcoming events and deadlines: there’s the company team building happening in a few weeks, and a few reports due today and tomorrow. Fuyumi moved the family lunch to Saturday to make way for his photoshoot on Sunday. 

He watches you from his desk as you speak, your foot tapping in conjunction with each item you relay to him, as if marking every point. It’s a thing you do, something he’s noticed in the years you’ve worked together. 

Shouto knows his Mondays, and he’s always been relaxed during these earlier parts of it. 

But ever since that check-up with Natsuo, he’s been more… conscious about it lately. It seems to be a consistent trend that every time he’s around you, he feels a significant uptick in his heartbeat. 

Except now, when you speak—

“Will you be bringing a plus-one to the gala this year? The committee is confirming how many seats they’ll reserve for you.” 

—his heart feels like it drops, plummeting straight to his stomach. 

He looks at you intently, a slight crease forming between his brows. 

You go to most of these things with him; you always have, ever since. 

So, why are you even asking? 

He thinks about it, deciding what to say next. The thought of you not going with him feels weird. Unusual. 

If you’re unavailable, he supposes he can just go alone. 

But—

“What should I do then?” Shouto shifts in his seat, peering up at his brother. 

Natsuo’s instinctive reaction is to laugh; after all, it’s not often that you see pro-hero Shouto at a loss on troubleshooting. But when he spots pure and genuine uncertainty swirling in heterochromatic gray and blue, he sees his little brother—Shouto at ages 4, 8, and 12, still a little helpless on what to do.

“Do you want to do something about it?” Natsuo asks gently, squeezing Shouto’s shoulders. 

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

The lack of response tells him all he needs to know. 

“Maybe figure that out first, then just be honest about it when the time comes. Nothing beats saying it plain and simple.” 

—‘just be honest about it’ echoes in his head, Natsuo’s voice morphing into his own.

“Will you not be available?” he manages to ask flatly, masking his worry. 

(You look up from your tablet and his eyes meet yours, an intensity in his gaze that’s only been directed at you a handful of times before.) 

“Oh,” you fluster a little, shifting your weight, “I will be, but I just thought…”

He can hear you hesitate, voice trailing off as if contemplating your next words. His head dips to coax you to go on. 

“...I just thought, maybe you’d want to bring someone from your family?” you give a small smile, half-genuine, half-uncertain. 

You know Shouto’s family; know their stories and know what each of them are like, individually. 

You know how far they’ve come into healing, seeing Touya through multiple cycles of rehab and relapse. You’ve witnessed his mother’s strength first-hand, watching her rebuild their family with the help of Fuyumi. On the weekends when work wouldn’t let up for Shouto, she’d welcome you to join in family lunches too. 

There were days during Natsuo’s medical internship when he’d go to the office at midnight because the hospital was nearby. It was the only free time he and Shouto had at the time, but Natsuo would ask you to join in, the three of you slurping on cup noodles while Natsuo prattled on about the absurdity of some of his coworkers. 

So, Shouto can fully understand your intentions. After all, he thinks you’ve been instrumental to his family’s healing, too. 

But he has his reasons for never bringing Fuyumi—she usually has school the next day, if not volunteer work at an orphanage. Natsuo has gotten increasingly busier with his practice, and Touya—Touya is still in rehab, and though he’s allowed at home three times a week, Shouto’s sure he’d rather spend it doing things other than being in a room full of pro-heroes. 

“It might be nice to bring your mom,” you add on.

And as for that—

“The gala is this Friday?” he leans forward, the tips of his bangs brushing his eyelids. 

You nod.

“She and Touya are going to the gardens,” he recalls, his mother casually mentioning it the last time he visited. 

You look pleasantly surprised, “Oh,” then your small smile returns, “that’s good to hear.” 

(It must mean a lot to Rei, you think. She’s always wanted to make up for lost time.) 

You don’t say anything else, silence filling the conversation as you hold his gaze.

It isn’t uncommon for Shouto to hold stare-offs, with you especially, but this might just be the first time he feels fully conscious about it—wondering what you’re thinking; if you can read his mind and tell what he’s thinking. 

“Do you not want to join me?” he asks, a small pout forming on his face. 

(The softness of his cheeks sink just a little bit, and his eyes lose some of the luster they typically carry in the morning. 

He looks so sad, you wish you just said yes in the first place. 

How do you even respond to this?) 

“No, n-no–” you stutter, inching forward subconsciously, “–it’s nothing like that.” 

You check your tablet, swiping through your calendar. He can see portions of it from where he’s sitting, your Friday definitely freed up and empty. 

He pushes himself up, standing to full-height. His hands dig into the pockets of his sweatpants as he tilts his head to the side. 

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

(In your years of knowing Shouto, you’ve learned that he never intends to sound harsh even though his words may seem like it. But even though you’re aware that he only means to be curious, you still feel a little embarrassed admitting that you didn’t anticipate the possibility of going to the gala with him this Friday. 

You’ve always been prepared; it’s in your job description to be like this. You should have had a back-up dress just in case. You shouldn’t have shown Shouto your hesitation in the first place.

So, you breathe out, voice level and calm. This is your problem to fix, you don’t have to let him know about it. You’ll find a way, like you always do.) 

“There’s no problem. I’ll add my name to the list then.”

Then you smile, but it’s just a touch uneasy, and if there’s one thing you underestimate about Shouto—for just as much as you know him, he’s gotten to know you pretty well too. 

He pauses. The last thing he would want is for you to feel forced to go.

“If you have other plans, I hope you don’t feel obligated to go. I can go alone.”

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

(And you can see it, that little pout on his face staying right where it is. 

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

“I don’t have other plans,” you grin, brighter and more at ease, “and I don’t feel forced to go either,” you sigh, hiding a small chuckle. 

A pause. 

You mull it over before deciding to admit why you were hesitant in the first place, “I thought you were going to bring your mom, so I wasn’t able to prepare a dress.”)

Shouto’s eyes widen slightly, mouth opening to express his apologies. 

“But–!” you interrupt, “That’s my fault,” you raise your hand, swaying it side-to-side. “So please don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” 

The smile on your face is meant to reassure him, he knows, but he still feels guilty. 

This Friday’s gala is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards; it’s grand because it’s important, and the dress code is always black-tie—everything typically made custom. 

He tilts his head slightly, thinking, eyes zeroing in on the small calendar propped up on his desk.

“My suit is being made by Bakugo’s parents, correct?” 

You nod, reiterating, “Your final fitting is on Thursday night.”

His gaze flits to you once again. 

(There’s that look in his eyes you’ve become all too familiar with—a glint of mischief accompanying a sort-of ‘Eureka!’ moment that means he’s thought of something.

The pieces click together, realization dawning upon you, but when you open your mouth to refuse—)

“I can ask them to do yours as well.” Shouto beats you to it. 

It wouldn’t be fair for you to scramble for your outfit last minute simply because he assumed you knew you were going. You shouldn’t be more stressed than you already are. 

“Si– Shouto,” you say firmly, “That’s too much.” 

“I’m sure they won’t mind,” he flashes you a small smile. 

(And you hate to admit it, but he’s right.

The Bakugo’s have known you for as long as you’ve been Shouto’s assistant. They’ve consistently designed his suits for big events like the Pro-Hero Awards, and Mitsuki has always extended their services to you too, knowing full well that you are Shouto’s plus-one most of the time. 

She likes to chat with you during suit pick-ups, with Masaru serving you a cup of tea as you wait for minor tweaks and adjustments to Shouto’s outfits. 

“It would be too last minute,” you resist, feeling bad for the hassle this would impose on them.

“Then I can call them later today.” Shouto reaches for his phone, eagerly typing what you assume is a reminder to call Mitsuki some time later, just as he said he would. 

“You–” your voice hesitates, “you don’t have to do that. I can contact their secretary–”

This is part of your job, after all. 

“It will be much faster if I call them directly.” 

And while he does have a point, you still feel bad, inching closer towards his desk, “It’s okay, you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with this–” 

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

Shouto is stubborn, this much you know. When he looks like this, you’re well aware that there’s no point dissuading him from doing something he’s already set his mind to.)

“It’s only right given that I told you last minute.” 

He tells this to you sincerely; it really is the least he can do. 

Besides—

“…be honest…” the words replay in his head.

—he swallows his truth; lets it sink deep into stomach along with that two-part thump in his chest. 

“I only feel comfortable going to these with you, anyway.” 

(Your mind blanks, coming up with nothing else to say but ‘okay’.) 

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

The building ahead of him is colossal, tall pillars and perfect arches made of raw stone and marble—it feels both ancient and otherworldly, fitting to represent Musutafu in this new age. Ahead of him, the staircase stretches on, steps spanning the width of half a block. Down its center cascades a luscious carpet, thick velvet that further lends to the grandeur of the event. 

Standing at the foot of the staircase, Shouto takes a moment to unbutton his suit jacket, revealing his perfectly fitted waistcoat underneath. 

(You know he isn’t doing it on purpose; it’s hardly ever Shouto’s intention to make people swoon, but you’re positive that that one move alone can make anyone melt on sight—you included.) 

Tonight is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards, a prestigious event where hero rankings, major announcements, and charity biddings take place. 

(It’s not anything new to the both of you, but Shouto skipped out on the past two, and it’s been years since you joined him on the last one he went to. Being here again after so long makes you feel a little out of practice.

After he scales the flight of stairs ahead, Shouto turns back to you, offering his arm for support as you step down from the vehicle. You hesitate, partly because you don’t know whether it’s acceptable behavior for you to take it, and also because you don’t remember if this was something you did the last time you went to one of these with him.

You can’t think straight—not when he looks as seraphic as he does, face half-illuminated by the lights behind him with the shadows hugging the softness of his cheeks. 

Shouto is beautiful, a fact you’ve known long before you ever even started working with him; but you’re reminded of that fact in moments like this, especially. 

“The steps are tall,” he tells you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you glance back at the staircase behind him. You try not to stare, but the strands that frame his forehead shift from his sudden movement; it scatters into a perfect mess—characteristic of how anything out of place always seems to look on him.

You take his offer.)

His forearm is firm against your palm, the thick fabric of his suit jacket providing cushion for your touch. When he bends it towards his chest, your fingers slip towards the crook of his elbow. 

Scarlet red contrasts the building’s stone white structures, the carpet providing a center stage for all heroes and public figures to parade their outfits. If not for the photographers yelling, “Shouto, right!” and “Shouto, left!”, he would have gone straight inside, barely pausing on the landings between each flight of stairs. 

You stand to the side when he takes them, just as you always do. But between each flash that goes off, Shouto thinks about whether you should join him too; after all, Mitsuki did intend for the dark navy of your dress to match the stone gray of his three-piece suit. 

When you finally arrive at the lobby of the city hall, the two of you are welcomed into a receiving area adorned with crystal chandeliers. The lights bounce off the sharp white edges of the building’s neoclassical interiors, the carpet’s scarlet red returning as a recurring motif in the form of drapes cascading from the high ceilings and down the sides of the room.

By this time, Shouto’s relaxed a bit more, his hand slipping loosely into his front pocket. 

(You don’t realize you’re still holding onto him until you’re midway across the floor.) 

“Hey, you guys!” Kirishima waves over, squeezing himself within a narrow space between the backs of who look like one of the executives of the hero commission and last year’s awarded peace ambassador. 

(You don’t know how he could have possibly fit, the width of him wider than any pro-hero you know, but you chuckle at his timid mumbles of “sorry, excuse me, just passing through.” It reminds you of how he typically approaches you when he asks for favors regarding joint patrols and assignments with Shouto.

He greets you both with his trademark hug, a bone-crushing grip that leaves you a little winded.) 

“I didn’t know the two of you were coming!” 

“It was a last minute decision,” Shouto smiles, small and fond. 

(You look at Shouto intently from beside Kirishima, as if processing what he means. And when his eyes meet yours, you feel caught, shy, averting your gaze quickly.)

Kirishima clears his throat, no doubt noticing the interaction but choosing to focus on something else instead—Shouto’s outfit, a dark navy tie tucked underneath a fitted gray waistcoat; the white collar of his button down peeking through the all stone-gray ensemble. His hair is styled down, bangs curled inwards to form commas that frame his forehead.  

“Looking good, man.” the red head deflects, joining his index finger and thumb to form an ‘O-K’ sign as he nods at Shouto. Then he turns to you, the same genuine smile on his face as he says, “That color really suits you.” 

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

(Kirishima is a sweetheart; you can never doubt that his intentions are pure. But the attention makes you feel a little self-conscious, even more now that—) 

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

It’s the only time he’s managed to get a real good look at you if he’s being honest; from the incident in the car to the flashing lights up the staircase, there haven’t been many opportunities to fully see what you’re wearing. 

And—

Kirishima’s right. 

The color really does suit you, but so does the design of your dress—a simple cowl neck joining into halter straps; it dips low at the back, this detail of it, he knows. He’s been careful not to touch you there the entire time so far. It doesn’t help that your hair is tied into a low bun, accentuating the vacant space with how the dress hugs you beautifully in all the right places. 

The dark navy satin was a good choice, the perfect vessel for catching ripples of light. 

It’s simple but classic; understated, just like the accessories you’ve chosen are. And it brings out the one thing he thinks carries this look the most—

You. 

He tries to form the words in his head, urging himself to speak up—he wants to give you a compliment of his own. 

But—

“Bakubro!” Kirishima waves overhead, much like he did earlier. 

—maybe he can try again next time. 

You and Kirishima don’t stay long after Bakugo arrives, Ashido coming in to whisk you and the redhead away to the main room. She loops her arm around yours and pulls you towards her, prompting you to give one last glance at Shouto as an expression of your apologies. 

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

“Don’t forget the drinks, Blasty!” Ashido calls over her shoulder, green silk flowing behind her. 

He tuts, grumbling as he heads towards the reception bar, leaving Shouto in the middle of the receiving area, unsure of where to follow. 

“Y’coming or what?” 

Shouto lingers for a few seconds, watching your back disappear into the hall before he decides to walk after Bakugo.  

The lobby begins to quiet down as people flood into the main event area, a large hall adorned with the same scarlet red drapes and crystal chandeliers. The table arrangements have been pre-selected and arranged, you and the others most likely finding your seats inside. 

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

The bar in front of them offers a generous selection of drinks, all ranging from different wines to cocktails and liquor shots. It isn’t a surprise that Bakugo knows all of his friends’ chosen drinks, down to each specificity—it’s how he shows that he cares. Shouto’s come to learn that over the years. 

Their friendship has settled into its own dynamic as Bakugo’s mellowed down. Shouto will ask a question here and there, and Bakugo will look at him like he’s the dumbest fuck on the planet, but still answer anyway. 

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

Shouto stops right beside Bakugo, leaning against the countertop as he hums, confused, “Who?” 

Bakugo sighs, sliding Shouto his gin and tonic, “Mom.” Then he rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the door of the main room, “She told me you two are finally dating.”

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

When he recalls the conversation he had with Mitsuki, it went a lot more like:

“Can a dress be made for my assistant as well?” he speaks into the line, “I will be bringing them to the gala.” 

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

But now that he replays it in his head, it’s no wonder Mitsuki’s enthusiastic reply sounded so eager. 

Bakugo snorts, smirking as if his suspicion was just proven right, “Knew that lady was hearin’ shit.” 

The bartender serves up another drink, Ashido’s raspberry daiquiri being placed right in front of the blond before he moves on to mix another one. Clacking ice fills in the silence, the drink coming together inside the shaker. 

Shouto stares at his drink and watches as little bubbles form on the slice of lime submerged in it. 

“Are you at least thinkin’ about it?” the blond faces Shouto, leaning his forearm against the counter. 

Shouto furrows his brows, a single thought running through his mind.

“How did you know?” 

Bakugo stares, deep vermillion as he speaks, deadpan, “You can’t be serious.” 

Shouto stares right back. 

Another drink is served, Kaminari’s mixed drink of vodka, lime, and lemonade.

The stare-off persists for a few seconds, a series of blinks emphasizing Shouto’s cluelessness to the whole ordeal. Because—why does it feel like everyone knows? Did he mention it without knowing? Or is it really just that obvious?

Bakugo sighs, mentally facepalming as he turns back to watch the bartender shake another drink, “Whatever. S’none of my business.” He leans onto the counter, elbows resting on the steeltop. 

Shouto isn’t sure what else to say. He knows that Bakugo is observant, that his friend has always had a keen sense of awareness for the things going on around him; it just never crossed his mind that that would include his interactions with you.

The blond slides over Ashido’s drink, prompting Shouto to hold the flute of the glass between his fingers, “Just don’t be a fuckin’ dumbass about it. Gotta be dense as hell if you think the way you’re treated is part of the job description.”

The bartender serves up the final drink: Sero’s whiskey on the rocks. Bakugo takes it along with Kaminari’s and starts walking back to the main room, Shouto following right behind him. 

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

Because right before they both enter the hall, Shouto spots you, further back at the right side of the room as you laugh at something Yaoyorozu must have said. 

He blinks, wondering if the soft glow around you is from the haziness of his eyes. 

“If y’don’t do shit first, some other loser will,” Bakugo mumbles, just within ear-shot before he walks ahead to where Kirishima and the others are seated. 

Shouto makes a mental note to drop off Ashido’s drink before heading over to you. 

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

A message from the police station came in the middle of the event: a request to bump up a few reports for submission tomorrow.

You’d mentioned to Shouto that he could stay, especially since he’d be needed to accept awards that you were sure he’d be the recipient of—among them being one of the top performing agencies of the year, a big chunk of it based on the high turnover rate of timely reports. But he insisted that someone else could represent him instead; he’s certain Midoriya wouldn’t mind. 

If you were going back to the agency to work, so was he. 

The night shift at the agency is minimally staffed, with most sidekicks and pro-heroes out on patrol. Regular employees have clocked out by this time, and it seems that the only ones left in the building are the emergency unit and the two of you. 

You’ve split the work between you two: Shouto tasked to fill in the second pages, where the scene-by-scene breakdown and additional comments can be found, and you, in charge of summarizing those details along with all basic information onto the first pages. 

It feels nostalgic, watching you flip through the papers laid out on the coffee table of his lounging area at a quarter past midnight. Back then, he had just hired you, and the only other employees in the agency were his gear tech and PR manager. There was no way the volume of workload could be managed without spending late nights organizing investigations and reports on the floor of that rented studio unit. 

Now, you sit by the coffee table in his lounging area, one you helped decorate. The books atop it have been pushed to the side to give you ample workspace, but even those remind him of how much consideration you’ve put into helping him build his space. 

Bakugo’s words linger when he thinks about it—how the books you’ve chosen remind him of his family. There’s one on the language of flowers that his mother would love, and a cookbook that he’s sure Fuyumi’s used (some corners are folded, with her handwriting scrawled on every other page). On another stack lie a few comic books he remembers Touya and Natsuo reading when they were younger (that he’s pretty sure he’s seen them flip through during their visits to his office over the years).  

And along with all the books sits a family photo taken years ago, framed and taken by you during one of their annual trips to their family beach house a few hours away from the city. 

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

He folds the sleeves of his button down to his elbows, his gray suit jacket long since draped over the back of his leather chair. You’ve changed out of your heels too, opting instead for the soft slippers you keep under your desk. 

It’s cute, he thinks, the formality of your entire get-up toned down by a pair of fluffy yellow slippers. 

When he glances at you again, he finds you hunched over yourself on the sofa of his lounging area, an arm wrapped around yourself as if to contain whatever warmth you have left. 

He furrows his brows. 

“Are you cold?” his voice booms through the stillness of his office, jostling you out of focus. You whip your head up to look at him, shaking it immediately as if on autopilot. 

(He pouts, then, a small downturn of his lips that you find adorable, more than anything.) 

“I’m okay,” you smile, but he can see the slight twitching of your lip; the goosebumps dotting down your trembling arms. 

You always seem to be doing things like this with him. 

He pushes himself away from his desk, the wheels of his chair rolling against the stone floor. 

You never express your discomfort in any situation you’re put in, and you diligently work and endure all conditions to get the job done. He always extends his help, but you often decline, and—

“You have to be dense as hell if you think the way you’re treated is part of the job description.”

—Shouto is beginning to realize that the way you treat him really is so much more than that. 

You’ve laid the groundwork of the operations in his agency and you always smooth talk your way to getting him out of schedules he mistakenly forgets to show up to (typically with good reason, though). You cover all the areas he misses—this entire building would not be how it looks and functions without your help overseeing its construction. 

You’re organized and driven, eager and compassionate, and you care, above all else. 

The flowers you leave on his desk are never needed, but you always insist on them to keep his space alive. You fix all his clumsy papercuts, even though he never asks you to; he’s dealt with much, much worse, yet it’s only a split-second after you spot it that the tingling of your quirk works its way to mend his split skin. 

It’s just like what happened in the car earlier tonight, a few minutes away from reaching the city hall. Shouto had accidentally cut himself with the invitation to the gala, and though he insisted that it was okay, it was right on his eyelid—a miracle it even missed his eyeball in the first place, you’d commented. 

You managed to convince him then, saying, “It’s going to sting every time you blink.” —which was true; it did sting every time he blinked. 

That care extends to the people in his life too. His mom loves to go to the weekend market with you, and Fuyumi can always count on you to help her cook when she needs an extra hand. You keep up with Natsuo’s jokes and Touya talks to you, long enough conversations that allow him to be himself. 

You care, and you insist upon your care especially when you know he needs it but would never ask for it. 

It’s only fair, then, that it’s time he does the same for you. 

He removes the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, the movement drawing your attention. 

(Your eyes widen as he approaches you. You feel shy, a little flustered as you raise your hands up to reassure him that you don’t need it.) 

“Your arms are shivering.” he points out, holding up the thick fabric. 

You crane your neck up to look at him, just a few steps away from reach. 

(You can’t deny the facts.)

From above, he only sees skin—the plunging dip of your exposed back, the small hairs standing along your arms. He tries his best to look into your eyes only, but—

“At least let me place this over you.” 

(And you know you can’t deny Shouto, either.) 

—when you concede and let him, he steps closer and bends just a little bit, his full height too tall to be able to place it on you properly. His arms circle around you, carefully resting the thick wool around your neck and onto your shoulders. 

He bends lower to adjust the sleeves, making sure that your arms are fully covered. You’re so still, and so close, the tips of his ears nearly touching the highest points of your cheeks. 

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

(—with Shouto helping you navigate through the crowd of people exiting the event as early as you both did. His presence was a steady heat against your back, near and warm but barely touching.)

—with your face almost nose-to-nose with his; apart from the gentle touch of your fingertip against his eyelid, Shouto can only remember feeling that, along with the traitorous thump of his heartbeat. 

It’s a good thing that he had his eyes closed then; he wouldn’t have known how to react at the proximity. 

But now, he can see you so clearly, your low bun kept in place by bobby pins the same color of your hair; there’s glitter on the inner corners of your eyes, some of it falling to dot the corners of your nose. 

This has to be more than just a crush if he’s feeling this intensely.  

Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then it’s two blinks before you look away, clearing your throat as you glance at him again, a little bashful, “Thank you.” 

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

“The estate we booked for the company outing offered to host a visit for you next weekend.” you speak before he fully returns to his seat, shifting in your seat, “I checked your schedule and there’s nothing set for that day yet.” His suit jacket dwarfs you, the deep navy silk becoming an accent the further you sink into it, “Maybe you’d like to go with your mom?”

You suggest it to him again. Because you know and you care. 

He taps his foot, looking out into the city, “That would be nice.” Then he turns back to you, strands of his bangs falling to dust his forehead as he puts his hands inside his pockets, “You’ll be coming too, then?” 

(There are things you don’t allow your heart to feel in moments like this—hope being one of them. Shouto looks dangerously attractive in a suit, and it’s been difficult to keep your feelings at bay the entire night. He speaks honestly, rarely with double meaning, so when he speaks to you like this, you try not to think too much of it. 

“Yes,” you agree, thinking that he must want you to scope out the venue for the company outing activities, “is there anything in particular that you want me to check out for the team building?”)

Shouto tilts his head. 

“Not for work,” he clarifies, staring straight into your eyes. “Just to spend the day with us.” 

He expects your reaction already, your eyes widening and your hands raising to wave off a ‘there’s no need.’ But, he finds that there’s no reason for you to be shy, already beating you to the final say.

“Mom would want you there,” he mentions, because it’s true. She’d look for you. 

And if he’s being completely honest with himself, with how he’s been feeling around you lately—he would too. 

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

Since Touya’s return, his mom has moved into a smaller, more modern place to stay. The walls of its exteriors are painted a warm off-white, its features complemented by light wood and bluish-gray accents. At the back exists a garden large enough for a few small trees and her growing flower collection—a complete flip from their larger and darker old home. 

The tall windows stream sunlight into the living space, each corner of the house doused in its comfort. Opting for a smaller home was a conscious choice—everything would be within reach, and so would the people in it. 

On the days that Touya is allowed to stay home from rehab, he lives here, sometimes with Fuyumi, but always with Rei. 

“Food is ready!” Fuyumi calls from the kitchen, prompting Touya and Natsuo to look over from the couch. Shouto is just about to finish setting the table when Rei brings out a piping hot pot of soup, Fuyumi in tow with a whole plate of tonkotsu. 

Natsuo heads inside the kitchen for anything else that might need carrying, and Touya opens the fridge to take out the iced tea he helped make last night.

It’s taken some time to get here—with Touya willingly doing anything with his family. Getting used to living with people he thought abandoned him for a decade is hard; learning to become a family has been even harder. 

But Touya has always lived in a special corner of his mother’s heart—never forgotten and always considered. Shouto thinks it’s the same case for all of them; that’s how it’s managed to work. 

Touya takes his seat beside Shouto, pouring himself a glass of iced tea while waiting for the rest of their family. 

“Played any golf lately?” Touya eyes Shouto from the side.  

Shouto shakes his head, staring at his palms; calluses used to line the base of his fingers, “Work at the agency has gotten busy.” 

Taking up golf has been part of Touya’s rehabilitation program for the past few months, a recommendation to aid in improving focus while keeping himself calm. And though there was much resistance at first, Touya’s grown fond enough of the sport to play it on his own; it’s made all the difference, Shouto’s noticed, his brother’s overall disposition a lot less angry—

“Looks like I’m going to beat your ass next week,” Touya smirks, cracking his wrists. 

—but still equally as snarky.

Shouto doesn’t normally care about competition; the only person he really has to beat is himself. But he and Touya are alike in many ways, with eyes as sharp as their father’s but their faces holding the same innocence as their mother’s. They are both lit up by fires—one forced to blaze and the other forced to dim. There is a bluntness Shouto shares with Touya that no one else in the family can argue with.

“Being too confident can jinx it for you on the fairway,” Shouto replies, turning to his brother with his signature blank gaze. 

Natsuo laughs as he settles into his seat beside Touya, watching as his older brother’s smirk quickly dissolves into a frown. 

“Little shit,” Touya mumbles, taking a sip from his drink. 

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

Rei and Fuyumi join the table last, bringing out a steaming pot of rice and a few side dishes to complement the rest of the meal. 

These family lunches keep them connected. 

Fuyumi believes that no matter how busy they are, having this time to gather together and share details on each other’s lives is important.

“Sorry I can’t join you and these two next weekend, mom,” Natsuo starts, slicing through his tonkotsu as he points an elbow towards his brothers, “The hospital has a medical mission out of town.” 

Rei simply smiles, waving her hand, “No need to apologize. I’m so proud of you, Natsuo.” 

“Will you be free, Fuyumi?” she turns next to her, placing a hand on Fuyumi’s lap. 

Fuyumi swallows her food, smiling apologetically, “Sorry, mom, the school’s hosting a kiddie pool party for the first day of summer.”  

Rei pats her lap reassuringly, smiling again as she says, “It’s no problem, I’m glad the kids are having fun under your care.” 

“It’ll just be the three of us, then.” Rei looks at her two boys across from her—her eldest and her youngest. 

Touya blows at his bowl, puffs of steam dissipating into the air. For as hot as Touya’s flames can get, he dislikes anything too hot to eat—a preference of his that Rei’s taken note of as she reaches across the table to cool down his bowl ever so slightly. 

“Thanks,” Touya mumbles, still hesitant to call her ‘mom’ when it’s face-to-face. 

“I heard the estate has a greenhouse,” Shouto mentions, Rei instantly perking up at the information, “You can take a look at the plants there, mom.” 

“That sounds lovely, Shouto,” she smiles; this time, it reaches her eyes, “We can take photos in your handsome outfits too.” 

Touya scrunches his nose as Shouto nods. As per the invitation, the estate prepared a whole day’s worth of activities—a game of golf in the morning, brunch by the gardens, and a simple wine tasting to cap off the afternoon. 

Lunch continues with Fuyumi sharing more about the kids she’s handling this year, and Natsuo retelling interactions of the most obnoxious patients he’s had yet. 

They laugh, a little more like a family—Shouto chuckling as Touya gives a snarky comment or two. Fuyumi laughs, full-bodied, and Rei giggles, softly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. 

“How are your flowers, mom?” Shouto asks after they settle down, remembering that you helped her pick out which ones to plant last time. 

“The morning glories are going to be blooming soon,” Rei replies, her smile fond and proud. Since being released from the hospital years ago, she’s taken to planting and flower arranging, oftentimes asking you to help her choose which ones to use. 

“Really?” Fuyumi turns her head, gasping as she catches a glance from the window across the room, “They look good, mom! Can I have some when they bloom?” 

Rei nods, turning to her youngest, “You can get some too, Shouto.” 

For you, she adds.

Natsuo eyes him from the side as he freezes, Rei suggesting some more, “You can place it in a vase. It’s not fair, you always receive flowers for your desk.” 

Shouto nods, a small ‘okay’ because he doesn’t really know how else to respond without giving his feelings away. 

Touya observes Shouto’s expressions, his eyes twinkling in sinister aquamarine.

“Speaking of,” he shifts in his seat, crossing his legs to face Shouto, “s’your hot assistant coming?” 

Something twists in Shouto’s face, his brows furrowing slightly. 

Touya knows just how to get on Shouto’s nerves.

(What stares back at him is a deadly shade of gray and blue. 

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

Shouto stares at almost everyone he interacts with; it’s unnerving and uncomfortable for people who aren’t used to it, but Touya’s noticed that his little brother stares at you for far longer than he needs to. 

And though he’s missed a big chunk of how Shouto grew up, he likes to think he reads him pretty well now—how he acts around you, especially.

At his core, Shouto believes in carving his own path, choosing to fix wrongs and better himself for the now. Touya knows these things, knows where a person is weakest, just like he’s been taught—just like he’s been made aware of his entire life. Yet, for how independent Shouto’s become, he still chooses to lean on you; turns to you for thoughts and opinions,  considering you in everything. 

Touya has met you a few times; the whole family has. During the worst of his relapse, you were the only person apart from family who was trusted to accompany him in and out of rehab. You picked him up and dropped him off, often joining Rei and Fuyumi on visits when Shouto would be too busy. 

To him, you’re an extension of Shouto at this point—an olive branch that’s been just as instrumental in healing this family and the people in it. 

It’s never in the big things, but those few minutes of small talk you attempt with him in the car ride home help loosen his tongue, training a muscle that with time, has helped him open up more. 

Touya doesn’t care much for people; he’s still just beginning to learn to love his family again, but he thinks you fit in well, because you and Natsuo have the same god-awful humor, and Fuyumi only trusts you to help out in the kitchen. His mom likes having you around, and you never stick your neck in too deep in other people’s shit when they aren’t ready for it—especially his. You never nag Shouto, but you stand firm on the things you disagree with, because as far as Touya can see, you care, far deeper than your job requires you to. 

In all ways, you are the stability and calm authenticity that Shouto needs after growing up in such a tumultuous family.

So, Touya likes to stir the pot a little. Or a lot. Maybe.

Just for fun.)

Shouto continues to stare, his frown deepening. His jaw clenches, tension throbbing in his temples.

“Don’t say it like that,” he mutters, low and firm.

He feels like a kid again; like this would be a conversation they’d be having if things were normal and Touya had been around when Shouto turned 15, teasing him about a crush he might have, like older brothers do. 

Natsuo and Fuyumi have always felt like his protectors, siblings forced to be parents by circumstance; but Touya feels like his brother, the one he can fight and steal food from; the one who holds a toy up above head where Shouto can’t reach—even though he’s much, much taller than his older brother now. 

Touya scoffs, smirking, “Just saying what you think, little brother.”

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

A succession of them, in a steady three-part beat. 

The golf ball in front of him sits on an even plot of vibrant green, its dents and grooves emphasized by the sunlight of the early morning—there’s pressure, a thump; he needs to beat Touya in this hole to tie overall. Another thump; you’re watching him play. 

He analyzes all conditions, feels the heat on his back seep through the fabric of his white golf shirt. He breathes in and prepares to swing. 

Today is the visit to the estate. 

The agenda starts with an early game of golf, followed by brunch at the gardens and wine tasting in the early to late afternoon. It’s a beautiful day, and Shouto should be focusing on winning this game, but it’s distracting when you’re all he’s really thought about since the start of this round. 

—you, in your perfectly fitted white golf shirt and its complementary skirt; you, sitting with his mom at the back of the golf cart, smiling and laughing as if you aren’t the slightest bit aware of how much you brighten a space when you look like that. You, with your head whipping right in his direction when you hear the loud ‘swauck!’ that the impact of his club makes with the ball—your eyes excited and hopeful. 

Shouto misses the hole, and Touya snickers from the side. 

The thumbs up you give him is a soothing balm to his miss.

Shouto readjusts his cap as they walk closer to the hole, tucking in the strands of hair clinging to his forehead. He glances back at you and lingers, interrupted only by—

“Pretty thing, your assistant,” Touya teases, nudging his head towards your direction, “Cute skirt and all.” 

“Stop.” Shouto stares, impassive and unamused. His eyebrow twitches before he turns, walking away. 

From afar, he can hear Touya’s chuckle, breathy from the movement of fixing his arm sleeve. Shouto only pays attention to preparing his putter.  

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

Since the start of this round, Touya’s managed to lead by a few strokes, with Shouto falling behind in every hole. It’s frustrating and annoying, aggravated even more by Touya’s teasing and the fact that Shouto has played the sport for far longer than Touya has.

It doesn’t help that he ends up missing again, with Touya managing to make the put afterwards. 

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

“You know,” Touya eyes him as they walk to the next hole, “staring’s not gonna get you anywhere.” 

“I’m not staring,” Shouto retorts immediately. The expanse of greenery ahead of him is taunting, an endless plot of land that feels like it’s watching.  

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

The golf course in the estate is landscaped with luscious trees, vibrant in the brightness of summer. Flowers bloom along the perimeter, yellows and reds carving out this specific section of the estate. You and his mom follow closely behind, riding the cart at a slow and steady pace. 

Just a few meters down, the little red flag for the next hole comes into view, moving with the breeze. 

“If you don’t plan on acting on it, you should let me know.” Touya mentions it a little too casually. 

Another thump. 

It’s a joke. Obviously. Something only meant to rile him up—it’s how Touya is. 

But it still makes him feel just a tad bit uneasy; it makes him feel a little bit like it did when they were kids. 

Before Touya disappeared, they used to sneak into the garden on winter nights. Shouto must have been no older than five and learning how to manage his quirk properly. 

They used to play a game: The Twigfire Race, Touya called it—a competition on who can form the longest and fastest fire trail using a bunch of twigs. 

Touya would always win, his long legs and lanky arms gathering more sticks than Shouto ever could at that age. His flames burned a deep azure blue, eating through the twigs much faster than Shouto’s flames did. Then, he’d press onto the pads of his burnt fingertips, teasing Shouto in some twisted attempt at motivating his little brother to do better. 

Touya would always win, but not without getting a word in. Not without leaving Shouto with a lesson or two about it. 

“I said, stop.” Shouto warns him, voice stern as he turns slightly to catch his brother's eyes. 

“Damn. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Touya raises a hand in mock surrender, smirking, “I can just do it without asking you.” 

Shouto stops walking, fists clenched tightly around his golf club. 

“That’s not funny.” 

“Oh, I’m not joking,” Touya taunts, holding back his laugh.

The stare Shouto gives him turns icy, glare intensifying as he inches closer towards his big brother. Touya doesn’t move, the stare-off lasting long enough for you to notice the confrontation. 

From his periphery, Shouto can see you looking at them in confusion. 

“Or am I?” Touya snickers right before he turns away, walking straight towards the next hole. 

Shouto watches him walk away, each thump matching the footsteps his brother makes. To the side, the cart slows to a halt and you get off, standing up as if to gain a better view of what just happened. 

You lock eyes with Shouto and he musters a small smile, raising a hand as if to say ‘everything’s fine.’ 

“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done, Shouto!” Touya calls from a few steps ahead. 

Shouto stares at his brother’s back; it’s just how Touya used to say when they were kids—

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

Touya wins the round, with Shouto losing by only a few strokes. 

Rei hugs them both, Touya’s slight reluctance evident in the way his arms stay glued to his side as she wraps hers around the both of them. 

Shouto brings one hand up, resting it against her back; from his line of sight, he spots you smiling fondly, giving him another thumbs up when your eyes meet. 

.

.

.

The estate’s staff escorts everyone to their respective rooms, allowing some time to change into clothes more suited for the late morning brunch. 

When Shouto and Touya finish, they make their way to the greenhouse, a glass dome teeming with life. It’s art in bloom—chrysanthemums, hydrangeas, sunflowers, and camellias all in varying colors of pink, red, purple, and yellow. Under a small bridge is a pond, alive with koi fish swimming underneath pads of water lilies, and right up above, where the sunlight streams in, are baskets of japanese roses, hanging in bright, fuschia clusters. 

He walks atop the bridge, hands stuffed inside his linen pants—a pair that matches the linen shirt you gifted him birthdays ago. What surrounds him is beautiful; perhaps the most heavenly place he’s been to. 

A morning of golf under the sun, nature in florescence. A (relatively) peaceful morning. 

And you—

The moment Shouto spots you, the scenery on your backdrop fades into muddled hues. You and Rei enter the greenhouse side-by-side, with his mother wearing an all-white ensemble: a cardigan with a long, flowy skirt. 

And you—

—you walk in wearing a pale yellow sundress, its hem hitting just above your knees. There are dainty flowers dotted all over it, but nothing too loud; the straps sink into a v-neck with bust details, flowing down into an a-line skirt. It’s perfectly understated, only emphasizing the focus on how radiant you look in it. 

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

This day, this sight, is going to stay in his memory for a long, long while, he thinks. 

From up ahead, he can hear his mom call for Touya, dragging him around to ask which blooms would look best for the garden at home. And when he snaps out of the daze you’ve put him in, you appear right beside him, asking if he’s okay. 

“Yes,” he answers promptly, unsure of what to say next. His eyes flit to the baskets of japanese roses hanging above you, then to the view peeking from outside. “Do you want to look around before we eat?”

You nod. 

The depth of the greenhouse is deceiving upon first glance, with Touya and Rei now out of sight as you explore the area. You walk close enough to be side-by-side but still stay a step behind like you typically do, pausing every now and then to take pictures of the flowers around you. 

“You seem more relaxed,” he points out, pushing up the sleeves of his button-up. 

You turn to him from the chrysanthemums you’re snapping, a little flustered at his comment. 

(And at him, mostly. You don’t know how anyone can look this good in a simple linen set. Nature favors Todoroki Shouto, and it shows in moments like now, with sunlight hitting his face at just the right angle that it paints stardust on the tips of his eyelashes.) 

“It’s good,” he quickly follows-up, fluffing through his bangs, “I did mention this wasn’t for work.” 

(You feel warm at the reminder.

“It’s nice to see you with some down time too,” you return the sentiment, uncomfortable with the attention on you.

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

“Did something happen earlier?” you put your phone down, continuing to walk. “At the course. Things looked pretty tense.” 

Shouto hums, considers his next words. He takes a few more steps before answering, “Touya is a dick.” 

A laugh escapes you, and you cover your mouth quickly as you mumble an apology. Shouto knows it’s because it’s completely out of character for him to be so vulgar and insulting when it comes to his siblings.

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

“...Something like that.” he responds. 

“That’s okay,” you scrunch your nose, peering up at him, “You haven’t had much time to play lately.” 

And Shouto wonders if he’s just that easy to console, or if it’s a specific comfort that only comes from you. You make it so easy for him to feel better about all the little and big things—whether it’s news articles headlining him as a PR nightmare, or near-losses on missions gone wrong. 

Not a lot of things get to Shouto, but when they do, you somehow always know how to handle it. 

You continue to stroll around the greenhouse, looking closely at the steel bars holding up the glass arches. From a few steps ahead, Shouto can hear your mumbles—something about measurements and the logistics of turning the rooftop of the agency into a smaller version of this greenhouse.  

“You and mom looked like you were enjoying yourselves earlier,” he mentions offhandedly, hands clasped around his back. 

It’s something he’s noticed for a while—his mother seems to relax more around you, laughing and smiling in most of your conversations. He gets it; you have that effect on everyone around you, the warmth you exude a welcome invitation to be opened up to. 

(You eye him from the side knowingly; Todoroki Shouto is nothing but a closet snoop.) 

“We were talking about plant stuff,” you smile, “and how she’s happy you and Touya finally got to play together. You should’ve seen how red her hands were from clapping for the both of you.” 

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

It’s at a different section of the greenhouse that he pauses, giving you time to admire the shrubs of hydrangeas blooming around you.

Touya’s words come back to him. 

He wonders if he should say it, if he should ask—

“Don’t move,” you tell him, raising your phone to eye-level.

Shouto stares at you, hands in his pockets as he watches you tap on your phone.

“Look to the side,” you instruct him again, and he follows, albeit a little confused. 

When he turns to face you again, the smile on your face is beaming, glowing as you turn your phone to show him the photos you managed to take. 

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

And when you point to the way sunlight streaks highlights onto the redness of his hair, down to the slope of his nose and the width of shoulders, he can’t help but agree. 

Now, he wonders—

“Do you want a photo with the flowers?” Shouto asks, because it makes no sense that you deem him worthy to be pictured in perfect lighting when there’s you, looking like you do—the walking subject to the backdrop of greenery behind you. 

Your eyes widen, a stuttered “O-Oh,” falling from your lips. You tug at your skirt again, fiddling with the soft fabric until your eyes nervously meet his. “I don’t really need—”

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

“Oh,” you respond, a hint of diffidence as you flash a small, hesitant smile, “Okay.” 

As Shouto angles himself to take your photo, he notices you turn restless, the smile on your face never quite reaching your eyes and your fingers constantly twirling the fabric of your dress. 

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

(Your brows shoot up, embarrassed by how he’s noticed. 

You shake your head in response, providing no other explanation besides “Sorry.” 

He continues to stare, as if waiting for you to continue. You know there’s no point hiding the real reason you feel so nervous when he’s already noticed this much.  

“I think I might be underdressed,” you admit, smiling sheepishly as you clasp your fingers in front of you, “This entire place is gorgeous.”

The estate screams high-class; apart from the golf course and the greenhouse, the area also boasts its own private lake glistening across a large green field. It feels a little too good to be true—a paradise you find yourself out of place in. 

But—)

Shouto looks at you, really looks at you—at the way your dress hits right above your knees at the perfect length, at how your collarbones peek through its dainty v-neck cut. Its pale yellow makes you look like summer, radiating in light, and he thinks he hasn’t seen anything more beautiful, really; anything more fitting—for this occasion, for this venue, for this day. 

For you. 

The words have been lodged at his throat since he first saw you step in, and now they’re being pushed out, coaxed slowly by the honesty beating thunderously in his chest. 

He thinks about his mom, how she speaks of beauty whenever and wherever she finds it, with nothing stopping her speech and—

There’s a hum, a thoughtful vibration priming his throat as he continues to stare. 

“I think you’re dressed just right,” is what he manages to get out. 

A thump. 

It’s more than that, though, he knows. 

If this is his chance, if this is ‘next time’ from his attempt at the gala—

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

“You look beautiful.” he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.

(And when he says your name unlike any way he’s said it before, you feel your chest expand, terrified that it might explode.

Shouto is blunt and honest to a fault; and that honesty, you’ve realized, also happens to be his most cunning trait—a quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before. 

“T-Thank you.” you straighten your dress, “You—”)

Shouto’s phone vibrates in his palm, a call from Touya breaking him out of your conversation. He bows his head slightly to excuse himself and you nod in acknowledgment. 

“Brunch is served,” he relays, pocketing his phone soon after he hangs up.

(Then, with his hand inside his pocket, he bends his arm deeper, creating a wider loop as if to offer it for you to hang onto—the same way he did during the gala.

And just like you did then, you take it.)

.

.

.

Brunch was served at the estate’s main patio, a circular table made of light wood adorned with dainty white tableware and muted green linen. In the middle was a centerpiece, an assortment of fresh flowers from the greenhouse coming together for a pop of color against the main neutral color scheme. 

The food was divine, a lovely selection of seasonal salads and warm breads, along with eggs cooked in every way possible. Newly harvested fruits were served before and after the meal, a kind of appetizer-dessert to complement the main piece—a large slab of freshly caught salmon. 

Now, you all gather on the second floor of the estate’s main building, right at the balcony overlooking the greenhouse and the field—a perfect view for wine tasting.

Shouto doesn’t care much for alcohol, all technicalities going past his head as the sommelier explains notes and wine pairings.

He can’t taste much of the difference, if he’s being honest. 

In the sommelier’s hand is a bottle of red wine; he describes all of the technical parts of it before finishing off with the fact that it’s ‘beautifully balanced’, something that causes Touya to snort at the side. 

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

Touya leans in closer to his little brother, swirling the wine in his glass as he lowers his voice mockingly, “‘You look beautiful’.”

The expression on Shouto’s face remains unreadable, his brain processing the fact that his brother must have overheard his conversation with you earlier. It’s while Touya begins to gulp down his glass that Shouto steps on his foot—a sharp pressure stomped onto freshly cleaned loafers. 

“Fuckin–” Touya hisses, cursing under his breath as he pulls his foot away. 

The edges of Shouto’s lips curl up as he turns back to his glass of wine, watching from across the table as his mom smiles fondly at something you must have said. 

(You still feel flustered, a little fuzzy. You’re unsure whether the heat emanating off your cheeks is from the wine or the lingering echoes of his compliment earlier.

From across the table, you lock eyes with Shouto, gray and blue sitting strikingly atop flushed cheeks. You look away quickly—a knee-jerk reaction of bashfulness. He doesn’t hold his liquor well, a fact you’ve known for many, many years, so you can’t tell for sure whether he’s turned red from the wine, or from the same thing you’re feeling, too.)

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

“If y’don’t do shit first, some other loser will.”

“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done…”

“...just be honest about it when the time comes.”

The streets are calm at this time of night, with cars occasionally passing by and the chimes of shop doors tinkling as they open and shut. Not a lot of people stay up late in this part of the neighborhood, but Shouto still hears them—all the jumbled voices of Bakugo and his brothers merging in his mind. 

He steps onto concrete, footfalls muffled by the cushion of his boots—a new update on his costume, one you suggested after a stealth mission mishap caused by the drag of his heel. 

Tonight is his scheduled patrol—a route he knows like the back of his hand, memorized from the many years he’s been assigned to it. The streetlamps ahead cast a dim glow down the road; an atmosphere he would otherwise find unsettling if not for the fact that it’s provided him odd comfort in times he’s needed it the most. 

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

Lately, his interactions with you have been… different—shy glances and awkward slip-ups; the intentional way he’s been expressing himself more around you. 

He can’t tell what you think of it yet. 

Yet, you still sit with him in comfortable silence on the nights that you both work late, and you still bring in fresh flowers for his desk every few days. He’s sure that when he gets back to the agency after his shift, you’ll still be there, claiming to finish a report when you both know it’s just an excuse to make sure that he finished patrol safely.

You still care for him in the same way. 

And now that he’s thinking more about it, maybe it’s been those little things all along—the same way you’ve been treating him all these years shifting into something deeper and more significant, beating its way out of his chest. 

You know Shouto better than anyone—so much so that his family asks you for lists of gift ideas because they don’t have the slightest clue what else to get him. He’s found himself seeking your opinion on things more and more over the years, and if he’s being honest, a big chunk of his decisions are now partly influenced by what you think of them first. 

Across the street, a couple sways to the beat of the jazz bar they step out of, their hands intertwined and smiles giddy with adoration and love. He looks away quickly before they catch him staring. 

There are things Shouto’s discovered that he likes seeing you do—like how you shift your feet when you feel flustered at something he says, or when you tap your index finger against whatever surface it’s on when you’re deep in thought. Your eyes widen when he says things you don’t expect him to, and something about that intrigues him.

He thinks you look cute. 

He wonders if you know that about yourself; and if you don’t, a part of him is saying that he should be the one to tell you.  

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

The company trip spans an entire two weeks, with each department coming in a few days at a time. You both would stay if you could, but Shouto’s schedule doesn’t allow him to be gone for more than a day.

It’s always been unspoken: wherever Shouto goes, you go too. 

This day of the teambuilding is assigned for the managers and those under Shouto’s direct reporting team. 

The estate is still as beautiful as the last time you both visited, summer shining atop the glistening surface of the lake across the green field. Company trips aren’t typically this grand, but this is also the first time in years that Shouto’s had free time to drop by. 

(It’s a bit funny, you think, watching him struggle to reach the finish line in a three-legged race paired with his finance director. Shouto is typically awkward in most team activities, but you find it endearing, watching him put full effort into things he normally doesn’t do.) 

By mid-afternoon, the day’s activities have consisted of tank rolls, marble balancing, and a classic game of pass-the-message (which, you’ve learned, Shouto is absolute garbage at). And for the final game of the day, the both of you are paired for a duo tug of war against his PR manager and support engineer. 

The afternoon heat burns the back of Shouto’s neck, his cap providing little to no protection for that area of his skin. He stands behind you, rope twisted firmly in his grasp as he prepares to pull. You mimic his stance, bracing yourself with your knees bent as you grip the rope tightly. 

Prior to the game, you were all given three minutes to discuss strategies. 

And so now, Shouto counts, low and steady, “One.” 

“Get set,” the facilitator for this activity announces. 

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

You both pull, holding your ground for a few seconds. He can see your knuckles turning white from where he’s standing, and when he glances at the other team, they’ve begun to lean back, anchoring their bodies to the ground before pulling away slowly. 

Shouto digs his feet into the earth, the rope’s rough fibers sticking to the calluses on his hands. It doesn’t take long before you both slip forward, being dragged by the other team and eventually pulled into your loss. 

You turn back to him immediately, apologetic as you rub your palms, “Sorry!”

(Before the game even began, you already knew whoever your partner was would be carrying most of the work. And you feel a little bad because your loss does make a bit of sense, you think. 

Though Shouto is strong, you know he’s developed his agility far more than his strength. It doesn’t help that his support engineer lifts bulks of synthetic thermal cloth everyday. 

The both of you didn’t stand a chance, really.) 

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

“Are you okay?” he looks down at your hands. Your skin is an angry flaming red all over your palms, but what causes him to frown are the small cuts resting at the base of your fingers. 

“Yup, all g–” you attempt to hide it, but Shouto’s reflexes are quick, and he catches your wrist the moment you pull away. 

It’s an instinctive reaction when he looks over it once, pressing his thumb to the center of your palm to get a better look. He reaches for his utility belt out of habit, patting the area above his hip only to feel nothing but the smooth cotton of his shirt.

Right, he remembers, he isn’t wearing his gear today.  

He drops his arms, looking around the field for a first-aid kit nearby. 

(A small chuckle escapes you, endeared, and Shouto looks up at the sound. His eyes meet yours briefly before he jogs all the way to retrieve the red box by the tree. 

It’s just a friction burn; a few small cuts from the rough material of the rope, at most. 

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

When Shouto comes back, he ushers you to the side, grabbing a few cotton buds and antiseptic ointment from the box. His brain works on autopilot, barely thinking as he tends to your injury.

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

He peels the bandaid for you and gently places it on top of your wounds—a yellow checkered pattern decorating your skin. 

(You don’t need first aid. But you kind of get it, you think. It’s the same instinctive reaction you have when he gets papercuts. There’s no need for you to mend them with your quirk, but it’s an inexplicable feeling that makes you feel uneasy at the idea of him getting injured off the field.

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

“Better?” Shouto stares at you from under his cap, readjusting it as red and white strands touch the tips of his eyelashes. 

(He looks unfairly pretty like this. How can he even expect you to answer?

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, swallowing your breath. 

When Shouto walks towards everyone else, you follow, pressing your thumb onto your palm.) 

.

.

.

Shouto drops by the greenhouse at the end of the day. 

The sky above the glass dome ceiling is warmed by orange and pink hues. At sunset, the greenhouse looks ethereal, an almost otherworldly escape. The flowers haven’t changed much from his last visit here, but they seem to have blossomed further now that time has passed. 

He walks past the familiar cluster of chrysanthemums and spots a patch of white flowers he doesn’t recall from last time—a wooden placard with the name ‘iris’ sticks out from the soil. His knees bend to crouch low, fingers grazing over the softness of its petals. 

Earlier today, the estate so kindly offered to let him bring home flowers of his choice, and this bunch in front of him calls out to him, a purity and warmth that reminds him of his mom. 

The nippers in his hand feel clunky, a heavy-duty version of the ones he uses when he helps with gardening at home; but he cuts the stems gently, careful to remember all he’s been taught. 

When he thinks he’s gotten enough, he continues to stroll around the greenhouse, the wicker basket in his hand half-filled with pure, white irises. 

A little further down the path, he passes by the hydrangea bushes, his steps slowing as fragmented pieces of that memory with you replay in slow motion. 

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

“You look beautiful,” he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

Your desk always seems to have some, and you’re consistently on top of keeping fresh flowers around the agency—on his desk specifically. 

It’s only right.

His mom always tells him that flowers can never lie; they bloom where they are loved and speak from the heart when words are not enough—it’s why she loves them so much.

And, maybe she has a point, because the pink hydrangeas look pretty; they remind him of you, especially.

On his way here, the white camellias spoke to him too. Maybe he’ll get them both for you. 

He crouches low again, nipping the hydrangea stems before backtracking to collect a few camellias. By the time he finishes, his wicker basket is filled to the brim, an assortment of pink and white threatening to spill from its edges. The leaves of the irises stick out, poking at his wrist and making the skin itch.

You find him that way—struggling to wrangle in the abundance of blooms into his basket.

“I think you need another basket,” you chuckle, walking towards him. 

There’s something about you and this hour; how it feels like you fit right in this moment, at the peak of sunset, blooming the same way the flowers do. 

Your smile is radiant against the warmth of diffused sunlight, and though he’s seen you in this same exact slacks-and-blouse combination before, the way he sees you now has shifted. 

You look different, but in all the ways he can’t visibly point out. 

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

His arm moves before he can comprehend it, the bunch of camellias and hydrangeas outstretched towards you.

Your eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you tilt your head slightly, your hand reaching out for it reluctantly. 

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

(The flowers feel lush in your palm, and you can’t help but wonder who he intends to give them to. There are irises in his basket too, left untouched for reasons you’re not sure you’d like to know. 

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

The camellias stare back at you, an immaculate white, with the pink hydrangeas adding a delicate softness to them. It’s a pretty combination, and you can’t help but think that whoever they’re intended for should feel—)

“It’s for you.”

You lock eyes when you look up. There’s a weight to Shouto’s gaze that intends to get his message across, the words still barely forming on his tongue. 

“Oh,” is the only thing you manage to say.  

(—surprised; grateful; confused; the emotions swirl inside of you. The shock is apparent on your face, your eyes widening at his admission. Confusion presents itself in the tilt of your head as you stumble over how to express your gratitude.

“It’s not…” you hesitate, diverting your gaze to anything else but that piercing pair of gray-and-blue. Your mind is drawing up a blank, figuring out what reason he has for giving them to you.)

“There’s no occasion…?”

It comes out as half a question and half something else, your uncertainty marked by the semi-lilt at the end. 

Shouto blinks. 

He wonders if he should tell you now, if he should just confess that he’s been feeling differently about you these days.

You shift your feet, your thumbs rubbing against the flowers’ leaves. 

The thump persists in his chest, knocking at the base of his throat—

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

—but even with its persistence, the words still struggle to come out.

Thump.

Maybe not now; it’s not the right time. 

But he says something else, an admission much easier that still holds just as much truth.

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

You switch out the flowers on his desk for a different arrangement of blooms every week. Then, you give him a run-down of his schedule, going over important announcements and upcoming events. 

The mornings go by quickly, with you constantly moving around your desk. Shouto can’t tell what you’re doing exactly, but you’re always working on something whenever he sneaks a peek through the single glass panel cut-out from your shared wall. 

Lunch is a wildcard. On some days, you bring your own; on others, you grab a bite down in the cafeteria. Your routine is largely dependent on how busy you anticipate work to be that day, and though it varies from time-to-time, you never forget to knock on his door—a two-part thump that takes him out of his own little work bubble. 

He almost looks forward to it now, the way your head peeps in from behind his office doors. You call out his name softly, only continuing to speak when he looks up from whatever file he’s working on. 

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

You spend the afternoons all over the place, much like he does; while he roams the city, you roam the agency, attending meetings and checking in on different departments. He knows because when he comes back by the end of the day, you almost always have a new set of updates prepared on your desk for the next morning. 

He also knows that Mondays are when you often work overtime, preferring to get a bulk of any urgent matters completed and out of the way.

The back door of his office clicks shut as he walks into the room, his rubber boots leaving no trace that he’s arrived from how quietly his footsteps hit the floor. He unbuckles his utility belt, one hand automatically reaching for its lock; it’s a habit, the ‘clack’ that sounds from it a satisfying marker he looks forward to at the end of every patrol. 

In the corner of his office is a private restroom that he slips into. He quickly changes out of his hero suit and into a pair of sweatpants, throwing on one of his many favorite white shirts—his go-to outfit on the days he works late. 

There are still some reports he has to look over tonight, but nothing too time-consuming. 

It’s really you he’s staying behind for. 

He glances at you through the glass panel of his wall, your face dimly lit by your computer screen. Your eyebrows are scrunched, eyes squinting in pure focus. 

It never feels right for him to leave when you haven’t left either. 

He settles into his seat, finger tapping on his desk as he contemplates whether or not he should offer you his help. 

You always decline when he does; he can already hear your response. But there are stacks of folders on your desk right now and he’s predicting that it’ll take at least a few more hours before you get through all of them.

He taps his foot, staring at the report in front of him. 

A thump. 

The wheels of his chair roll back, leather squeaking as he stands up. 

As soon as he exits his office, you look up, surprised. 

“You’re back!” 

He nods, walking closer to your desk. “It’s 8:00 p.m.”

You glance at the top of your screen, a sheepish smile forming on your face, “Right.” 

(This is his way of telling you it’s late, you’re well aware.)

He looks around your desk, folders and stationery all neatly organized and labeled. You keep a few touches of your personality around your space, with personalized pens and notepads gathered in one corner. 

They’re all things he’s seen before, but what makes him do a double-take is the vase sitting in the corner, obscured by your computer screen. 

Sitting inside it is the arrangement of flowers he gave you back at the teambuilding, the pink hydrangeas still as good as new next to the white camellias. It’s been a little over a week since, and you always change the arrangement on your desk as frequently as you change his. 

So for you to keep it for this long—

“And how may I help you?” you ask jokingly, biting down your smile. 

His eyes flit over to you, your gaze set on your screen as you continue to type.

(It’s hard to focus on the documents in front of you when he looks at you like that. Shouto’s stare has always been unnerving, but it feels especially scrutinizing when he merely stands, watching without a word.)

“You have a lot of work left,” he gestures towards the stack of folders on your desk. 

(Your eyes glance over the pile quickly as you mumble, “Yeah.” 

A few seconds of silence pass before what he really means starts to sink in. 

It’s not often that Shouto finishes work before you—at least, to your knowledge. You still see him inside his office when you pack your things, ready to leave. 

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

And if he’s standing in front of your desk, hinting at how much longer you’ll be staying at work. Then, it can only mean—

“A-are you waiting for me to go?” you move to stand, guilty. “Don’t worry about it, I can lock up.”)

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

That’s never been a thing; he’s always gone home last, and has always waited for you when you have work left to do. He makes sure of it every time, watching carefully for your computer light to turn off. 

But he won’t tell you that; letting you know would mean admitting that he’s been doing it for years. 

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

You stay quiet for a few seconds before reluctantly listing it all—reports, meeting summaries, and a few emails you plan to schedule for tomorrow morning. His frown deepens as your list only grows, immediately cutting yourself off the second you notice your ramblings. 

“… but if you’re waiting, I can bring these home and—”

“What can I do to help?” he interjects, stopping you just before you shut down your computer. 

(You can only stare when proceeds to take a seat in front of you, the legs of your guest chair dragging against the floor as he pulls it closer. 

It hits you a bit like déjà vu, this moment, how it feels just like early days back in that rented studio unit; back when you could count the number of people comprising his team on one hand. 

Back then, your desks were just a few steps away from each other, an overflow of paperwork inevitably spilling into each other’s spaces. Because all of the files were stored in your drawers, it was more convenient for Shouto to sit himself across your desk, splitting the work and going over them one at a time. 

Things are different now that the agency’s grown—you have a bigger space, and the work isn’t nearly as packed as it used to be; but some days still end up a little bit more hectic than others. Like today.

“There’s no need,” you reach for the stack under his palm, “I can finish this at—”

“We can finish faster if we do this together.”

That promptly shuts you up. 

Shouto is blunt to a fault, unafraid of saying things as they are; his voice carries an unbothered cadence no matter who it is he’s talking to. 

You figure, there’s no point arguing with him when he’s right, after all.) 

Shouto begins going over a few of the reports that you’ve tagged red and yellow, listening intently as you instruct him on which parts to focus on. In exchange, you make space for him on your desk, setting aside some of the folders you had brought out earlier.

It’s a good hour into working before Shouto notices you easing up slightly, your shoulders more relaxed in comparison to how bunched up they were earlier.

He knows you’ve been glancing at him occasionally, your head turning every now and then to check on how he’s doing—a failed attempt at subtlety. 

“Are you almost done?” he asks, head down as he slips another completed file into its folder. The stack beside him is growing, his ‘done’ pile nearly as tall as the unfinished one. 

(You turn to him, attention shifting to the split of red and white hair down the center of his head, “Yeah, I just—”

Your words trail off, eyes squinting as you move closer to where he’s hunched over. 

Right on the shoulder of his shirt is a small tear, big enough to touch the edges of its collar but small enough that you’d only have to be up close to be able to notice. 

You assess the tear intently, looking carefully for any cuts underneath and thankfully find none.

But—

He notices you’ve gone quiet and looks up, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You make a sound, something in-between a squeak and an ‘oops.’ 

“Sorry, I just,” you point, “your shirt’s ripped.” 

His eyes follow the direction of your finger, finding the small tear running horizontally along the fabric of hjs shirt. 

“I can fix it,” you offer, the wheels of your chair rolling to land you directly across him. 

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

He barely thinks when his body acts on its own, pressing itself closer to your desk as you slightly bend over for better reach. 

You don’t have to patch up his shirt, especially something so small. He has plenty of the same ones in his closet; and if it comes to it, he wouldn’t mind buying a new one. You really don’t have to patch up his shirt, because he wouldn’t have even noticed had you not mentioned it. 

But it’s that kind of tender care and attention to detail that you’ve had for him since you started working together that’s always drawn him in. 

Shouto has lived most of his life with the means to live comfortably, but since starting his own agency, he’s learned the value of maximizing resources—and it’s all because of you.

A thump. 

The moment your fingers touch his shoulder, he hears nothing but that continuous three-beat thump. Your quirk tingles when it touches skin, but you aren’t mending that—you’re fixing his shirt, separate from your skin, and yet, he still feels the little zaps go off inside of him. 

A thump. 

Up close, the strands of your hair tickle his cheek. 

A thump. 

The fabric of his shirt mends itself slowly, and it only makes him think of everything else—of the leather chair you helped fix, painstakingly going through each and every crack to bring it back to near-new condition. He thinks about every cut and scrape you’ve helped heal without having to, about every time you’ve insisted when he’d shrug it off as nothing. 

From you, he’s learned that things can be fixed without having to change them whole. 

It’s how he’s (you’ve) managed to keep the agency running; it’s why you get along so well with him and the rest of his family. 

And these feelings in his chest are pounding, built up over time to tip over and transform into something more than just an excellent work dynamic. At this point, it’s become companionship, a presence he seeks out a little bit more than friendship. 

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

So, he says your name, voice low and tender by your ear. 

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

(You don’t believe it at first, the urge to ask him again right at the tip of your tongue. But, he pulls away, unfinished, and looks you in the eye to continue. 

“But it feels more than a crush, I think.” He presses his fingers against the table, grounding himself, “Natsuo told me it was a crush, and he told me to think about it, so I did.” 

Shouto is a man of sufficient words; not too few, not too plenty. But when he gets nervous and a little excited, he starts rambling, and—

“Bakugo told me his mom thought we were dating, and even though I said that wasn’t the case, I almost didn’t want to deny it. Touya has been a dick about it, but he makes good points, so I also owe it to him.”

(The shock on your face shifts into fondness. You can’t see the point of what he’s saying yet, but it’s cute—one of the many things that make him endearing.) 

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

“It started with this thumping,” he places a hand over his chest. “It used to only come sometimes, but lately it’s been happening all the time.” 

Shouto keeps his gaze deadset on yours. He doesn’t say anything else, sentences just barely forming in his head to fully capture what he really means. His feet and palms stay firmly planted where they are, his only movement being the steady blinking of his eyes. 

(But it’s okay, because you can understand. 

If you’re being honest, the signs were all there. 

Nothing Shouto does can be subtle when you know him as well as you do. 

A smile breaks out on your face, the one you can barely contain around him. It’s a little teasing and shy but completely genuine from the way it softens your eyes. 

“We’ll have to come up with something for HR,” you try to contain your smile.)

And he isn’t worried at all. He knows you’ll both find a way, just like you always do.

additional material: moodboard + playlist

a/n: so much to say about this fic but i'll sum it up with saying this is my baby! and i hold it close to my heart for many reasons. writing this made me love their dynamic and i hope you did too! also maybe slightly unrealistic office/hr rules but 🤷‍♀️ he’s the boss he makes the rules 🤧

thank you notes: to @soumies for literally beta reading this. i owe this fic to you fr you are my lifesaver i love you. to @augustinewrites @scarabrat @stellamancer @arcvenes for helping me a ton with characterisations, dialogues, songs, inspo, everything!!! ily all!! it took a village to write this fic fr. (+ to my bf for sitting me down so he could explain the whole point system of golf for like 30 minutes LOL)

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[frances-baby-houseman]

I would have bled out in the parking lot

Amber Nicole Thurman's death is on Trump's hands

Bess Kalb

Sep 17

In 2019, about six weeks after my first child was born, I found myself on the bathroom floor in a small, but nonetheless unsettling puddle of blood.

“Oh no,” I remember thinking. “I just did the laundry.”

I called out my husband’s name, but the sound caught in my throat. The pain I felt inhaling to get enough air out of my lungs to yell the two syllables in “Char-lie” jabbed my guts like a bicycle spoke to the abdomen.

So I was quiet, trying to keep breathing in a way that didn’t move anything inside me, and the pain pulsed a bit, then steadied, then dulled, then evaporated into whatever hell ether it came from.

Because there is no G-d (unless there is, in which case I abbreviated His name so as not to desecrate it, and also thank you, King of the Universe, for subscribing to this newsletter) this was the one time in my life I hadn’t brought my phone with me to the bathroom.

I decided to sort of slither-lumber to the door like a lame harbor seal, because I didn’t want to stand and loosen the spoke that had just stabbed me. I reached for the knob and let the door creak open.

The cat was there, looking at me right at eye level, keenly aware what was happening, and completely unmoved by it.

“You are dying,” he blinked, “Pity. Have a nice time.” He sashayed away.

Fortunately, our house in Los Angeles was small enough that from the bathroom door one could see everything. My husband was sitting on the couch with our infant, and I knocked on the open door to summon him. Within one one thousandth of a second, he set the baby on the (since-recalled) donut pillow and was holding my head.

I sat up. I breathed. No pain. I took a picture of the bloody mess on my husband’s phone, texted it to myself, he found my phone, then I texted the picture to my OBGYN.

Apologies for being graphic, but within the puddle there was something roughly the size and shape and color of a fig.

“Is this ok?” I said to my doctor, the bicycle spoke scraping lightly at my insides again from all the lumbering.

“Come in,” she replied.

Within two hours, I was in the waiting room of her office, accompanied by my terrified but SMILING mother, who was still, as is the Jewish custom, in town for “a few days or so” after the birth.

An ultrasound which felt like the finger of Satan himself revealed there was retained placenta in my uterus. If I hadn’t come in, there would have been more hemorrhaging, then sepsis, then whatever the cat foretold.

The next day, I was in surgery getting a Dilation and Curettage.

I went home, pumped the anesthesia milk, then fell asleep perfectly fine, my sweet newborn cooing merrily in the bassinet next to his alive mother.

Amber Nicole Thurman’s story was the same as mine, but it happened to her in Georgia in 2024, not California in 2019. She was a Black woman in a healthcare system that disproportionately kills Black women, especially postpartum. In 2021, the Black maternal mortality rate was nearly three times the rate it is for white women. Post-Roe, the toll is and will continue to be staggering.

Because post-Roe, the procedure that saved my life, the D&C, is something doctors cannot perform in states where matters of life and death have been left up to non-medical Christian-supremacist superstitions.

I know the pain Amber Thurman felt when that placenta dislodged and carved its tiny, treacherous hole in her uterine wall. I know the terror she felt when she saw the blood, and the rush of dread when she thought of what her child would do without her.

And when I vote in November for Kamala Harris and every progressive down-ballot candidate, I will do it because she can’t. And I will do it so that women in Georgia and Idaho and Texas and North Dakota and South Dakota and Utah, Arizona, Nebraska Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Indiana, Florida, South Carolina, and West Virginia won’t have to meet the same completely preventable doom.

This election isn’t just about Amber Thurman. Every day of my lucky, breathing life is about Amber Thurman. Because the only thing that separates us, is one of us bled out under the right Supreme Court.

Let’s raise absolute federal hell about it.

-- From Bess Kalb's newsletter The Grudge Report. I pay for this substack -- though it's free-- and think this is a message worth sharing far beyond her newsletter.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Unpersoned

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

My latest Locus Magazine column is "Unpersoned." It's about the implications of putting critical infrastructure into the private, unaccountable hands of tech giants:

https://locusmag.com/2024/07/cory-doctorow-unpersoned/

The column opens with the story of romance writer K Renee, as reported by Madeline Ashby for Wired:

https://www.wired.com/story/what-happens-when-a-romance-author-gets-locked-out-of-google-docs/

Renee is a prolific writer who used Google Docs to compose her books, and share them among early readers for feedback and revisions. Last March, Renee's Google account was locked, and she was no longer able to access ten manuscripts for her unfinished books, totaling over 220,000 words. Google's famously opaque customer service – a mix of indifferently monitored forums, AI chatbots, and buck-passing subcontractors – would not explain to her what rule she had violated, merely that her work had been deemed "inappropriate."

Renee discovered that she wasn't being singled out. Many of her peers had also seen their accounts frozen and their documents locked, and none of them were able to get an explanation out of Google. Renee and her similarly situated victims of Google lockouts were reduced to developing folk-theories of what they had done to be expelled from Google's walled garden; Renee came to believe that she had tripped an anti-spam system by inviting her community of early readers to access the books she was working on.

There's a normal way that these stories resolve themselves: a reporter like Ashby, writing for a widely read publication like Wired, contacts the company and triggers a review by one of the vanishingly small number of people with the authority to undo the determinations of the Kafka-as-a-service systems that underpin the big platforms. The system's victim gets their data back and the company mouths a few empty phrases about how they take something-or-other "very seriously" and so forth.

But in this case, Google broke the script. When Ashby contacted Google about Renee's situation, Google spokesperson Jenny Thomson insisted that the policies for Google accounts were "clear": "we may review and take action on any content that violates our policies." If Renee believed that she'd been wrongly flagged, she could "request an appeal."

But Renee didn't even know what policy she was meant to have broken, and the "appeals" went nowhere.

This is an underappreciated aspect of "software as a service" and "the cloud." As companies from Microsoft to Adobe to Google withdraw the option to use software that runs on your own computer to create files that live on that computer, control over our own lives is quietly slipping away. Sure, it's great to have all your legal documents scanned, encrypted and hosted on GDrive, where they can't be burned up in a house-fire. But if a Google subcontractor decides you've broken some unwritten rule, you can lose access to those docs forever, without appeal or recourse.

That's what happened to "Mark," a San Francisco tech workers whose toddler developed a UTI during the early covid lockdowns. The pediatrician's office told Mark to take a picture of his son's infected penis and transmit it to the practice using a secure medical app. However, Mark's phone was also set up to synch all his pictures to Google Photos (this is a default setting), and when the picture of Mark's son's penis hit Google's cloud, it was automatically scanned and flagged as Child Sex Abuse Material (CSAM, better known as "child porn"):

https://pluralistic.net/2022/08/22/allopathic-risk/#snitches-get-stitches

Without contacting Mark, Google sent a copy of all of his data – searches, emails, photos, cloud files, location history and more – to the SFPD, and then terminated his account. Mark lost his phone number (he was a Google Fi customer), his email archives, all the household and professional files he kept on GDrive, his stored passwords, his two-factor authentication via Google Authenticator, and every photo he'd ever taken of his young son.

The SFPD concluded that Mark hadn't done anything wrong, but it was too late. Google had permanently deleted all of Mark's data. The SFPD had to mail a physical letter to Mark telling him he wasn't in trouble, because he had no email and no phone.

Mark's not the only person this happened to. Writing about Mark for the New York Times, Kashmir Hill described other parents, like a Houston father identified as "Cassio," who also lost their accounts and found themselves blocked from fundamental participation in modern life:

https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/21/technology/google-surveillance-toddler-photo.html

Note that in none of these cases did the problem arise from the fact that Google services are advertising-supported, and because these people weren't paying for the product, they were the product. Buying a $800 Pixel phone or paying more than $100/year for a Google Drive account means that you're definitely paying for the product, and you're still the product.

What do we do about this? One answer would be to force the platforms to provide service to users who, in their judgment, might be engaged in fraud, or trafficking in CSAM, or arranging terrorist attacks. This is not my preferred solution, for reasons that I hope are obvious!

We can try to improve the decision-making processes at these giant platforms so that they catch fewer dolphins in their tuna-nets. The "first wave" of content moderation appeals focused on the establishment of oversight and review boards that wronged users could appeal their cases to. The idea was to establish these "paradigm cases" that would clarify the tricky aspects of content moderation decisions, like whether uploading a Nazi atrocity video in order to criticize it violated a rule against showing gore, Nazi paraphernalia, etc.

This hasn't worked very well. A proposal for "second wave" moderation oversight based on arms-length semi-employees at the platforms who gather and report statistics on moderation calls and complaints hasn't gelled either:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/12/move-slow-and-fix-things/#second-wave

Both the EU and California have privacy rules that allow users to demand their data back from platforms, but neither has proven very useful (yet) in situations where users have their accounts terminated because they are accused of committing gross violations of platform policy. You can see why this would be: if someone is accused of trafficking in child porn or running a pig-butchering scam, it would be perverse to shut down their account but give them all the data they need to go one committing these crimes elsewhere.

But even where you can invoke the EU's GDPR or California's CCPA to get your data, the platforms deliver that data in the most useless, complex blobs imaginable. For example, I recently used the CCPA to force Mailchimp to give me all the data they held on me. Mailchimp – a division of the monopolist and serial fraudster Intuit – is a favored platform for spammers, and I have been added to thousands of Mailchimp lists that bombard me with unsolicited press pitches and come-ons for scam products.

Mailchimp has spent a decade ignoring calls to allow users to see what mailing lists they've been added to, as a prelude to mass unsubscribing from those lists (for Mailchimp, the fact that spammers can pay it to send spam that users can't easily opt out of is a feature, not a bug). I thought that the CCPA might finally let me see the lists I'm on, but instead, Mailchimp sent me more than 5900 files, scattered through which were the internal serial numbers of the lists my name had been added to – but without the names of those lists any contact information for their owners. I can see that I'm on more than 1,000 mailing lists, but I can't do anything about it.

Mailchimp shows how a rule requiring platforms to furnish data-dumps can be easily subverted, and its conduct goes a long way to explaining why a decade of EU policy requiring these dumps has failed to make a dent in the market power of the Big Tech platforms.

The EU has a new solution to this problem. With its 2024 Digital Markets Act, the EU is requiring platforms to furnish APIs – programmatic ways for rivals to connect to their services. With the DMA, we might finally get something parallel to the cellular industry's "number portability" for other kinds of platforms.

If you've ever changed cellular platforms, you know how smooth this can be. When you get sick of your carrier, you set up an account with a new one and get a one-time code. Then you call your old carrier, endure their pathetic begging not to switch, give them that number and within a short time (sometimes only minutes), your phone is now on the new carrier's network, with your old phone-number intact.

This is a much better answer than forcing platforms to provide service to users whom they judge to be criminals or otherwise undesirable, but the platforms hate it. They say they hate it because it makes them complicit in crimes ("if we have to let an accused fraudster transfer their address book to a rival service, we abet the fraud"), but it's obvious that their objection is really about being forced to reduce the pain of switching to a rival.

There's a superficial reasonableness to the platforms' position, but only until you think about Mark, or K Renee, or the other people who've been "unpersonned" by the platforms with no explanation or appeal.

The platforms have rigged things so that you must have an account with them in order to function, but they also want to have the unilateral right to kick people off their systems. The combination of these demands represents more power than any company should have, and Big Tech has repeatedly demonstrated its unfitness to wield this kind of power.

This week, I lost an argument with my accountants about this. They provide me with my tax forms as links to a Microsoft Cloud file, and I need to have a Microsoft login in order to retrieve these files. This policy – and a prohibition on sending customer files as email attachments – came from their IT team, and it was in response to a requirement imposed by their insurer.

The problem here isn't merely that I must now enter into a contractual arrangement with Microsoft in order to do my taxes. It isn't just that Microsoft's terms of service are ghastly. It's not even that they could change those terms at any time, for example, to ingest my sensitive tax documents in order to train a large language model.

It's that Microsoft – like Google, Apple, Facebook and the other giants – routinely disconnects users for reasons it refuses to explain, and offers no meaningful appeal. Microsoft tells its business customers, "force your clients to get a Microsoft account in order to maintain communications security" but also reserves the right to unilaterally ban those clients from having a Microsoft account.

There are examples of this all over. Google recently flipped a switch so that you can't complete a Google Form without being logged into a Google account. Now, my ability to purse all kinds of matters both consequential and trivial turn on Google's good graces, which can change suddenly and arbitrarily. If I was like Mark, permanently banned from Google, I wouldn't have been able to complete Google Forms this week telling a conference organizer what sized t-shirt I wear, but also telling a friend that I could attend their wedding.

Now, perhaps some people really should be locked out of digital life. Maybe people who traffick in CSAM should be locked out of the cloud. But the entity that should make that determination is a court, not a Big Tech content moderator. It's fine for a platform to decide it doesn't want your business – but it shouldn't be up to the platform to decide that no one should be able to provide you with service.

This is especially salient in light of the chaos caused by Crowdstrike's catastrophic software update last week. Crowdstrike demonstrated what happens to users when a cloud provider accidentally terminates their account, but while we're thinking about reducing the likelihood of such accidents, we should really be thinking about what happens when you get Crowdstruck on purpose.

The wholesale chaos that Windows users and their clients, employees, users and stakeholders underwent last week could have been pieced out retail. It could have come as a court order (either by a US court or a foreign court) to disconnect a user and/or brick their computer. It could have come as an insider attack, undertaken by a vengeful employee, or one who was on the take from criminals or a foreign government. The ability to give anyone in the world a Blue Screen of Death could be a feature and not a bug.

It's not that companies are sadistic. When they mistreat us, it's nothing personal. They've just calculated that it would cost them more to run a good process than our business is worth to them. If they know we can't leave for a competitor, if they know we can't sue them, if they know that a tech rival can't give us a tool to get our data out of their silos, then the expected cost of mistreating us goes down. That makes it economically rational to seek out ever-more trivial sources of income that impose ever-more miserable conditions on us. When we can't leave without paying a very steep price, there's practically a fiduciary duty to find ways to upcharge, downgrade, scam, screw and enshittify us, right up to the point where we're so pissed that we quit.

Google could pay competent decision-makers to review every complaint about an account disconnection, but the cost of employing that large, skilled workforce vastly exceeds their expected lifetime revenue from a user like Mark. The fact that this results in the ruination of Mark's life isn't Google's problem – it's Mark's problem.

The cloud is many things, but most of all, it's a trap. When software is delivered as a service, when your data and the programs you use to read and write it live on computers that you don't control, your switching costs skyrocket. Think of Adobe, which no longer lets you buy programs at all, but instead insists that you run its software via the cloud. Adobe used the fact that you no longer own the tools you rely upon to cancel its Pantone color-matching license. One day, every Adobe customer in the world woke up to discover that the colors in their career-spanning file collections had all turned black, and would remain black until they paid an upcharge:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/10/28/fade-to-black/#trust-the-process

The cloud allows the companies whose products you rely on to alter the functioning and cost of those products unilaterally. Like mobile apps – which can't be reverse-engineered and modified without risking legal liability – cloud apps are built for enshittification. They are designed to shift power away from users to software companies. An app is just a web-page wrapped in enough IP to make it a felony to add an ad-blocker to it. A cloud app is some Javascript wrapped in enough terms of service clickthroughs to make it a felony to restore old features that the company now wants to upcharge you for.

Google's defenstration of K Renee, Mark and Cassio may have been accidental, but Google's capacity to defenstrate all of us, and the enormous cost we all bear if Google does so, has been carefully engineered into the system. Same goes for Apple, Microsoft, Adobe and anyone else who traps us in their silos. The lesson of the Crowdstrike catastrophe isn't merely that our IT systems are brittle and riddled with single points of failure: it's that these failure-points can be tripped deliberately, and that doing so could be in a company's best interests, no matter how devastating it would be to you or me.

If you'd like an e ssay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/22/degoogled/#kafka-as-a-service

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

[ipcommunications]

Mitigate Cyber Threats and Enhance Cyber Security With These Practices

If you belong to the technology sector and work in a company mainly dealing in computers, data sciences and so on, believe me, you are on the front lines of information security. Even the most robustly secure companies and those releasing their anti-virus software are always under the threat of hacking or data and information getting compromised. Check point software can be immensely helpful in preventing any breach, but apart from this, there are some best practices also recommended by experts to keep your data and company server secure. Let us educate ourselves with these best practices related to cyber security.

Data Protection Should Be Prioritised

In any case, you should have a 'no compromise' approach related to data protection. You should avoid sharing personal identification information everywhere on the Internet, particularly when answering unsolicited emails, phone calls, text messages or instant messages. This information could include social security number, credit card number and most importantly, any one-time password.

Avoid Pop-Ups, Unknown Emails and Links

Pop-up messages, unknown emails and links are game changers as far as phishing attacks and hacking is concerned. Phishers send a pop-up hoping that the user will open the pop-up window and, somehow, reach the page where the data breach is most straightforward for them. These pop-ups and malicious links could have viruses and malware embedded in them. Hence, it is recommended to be very cautious during opening links or attachments in emails from senders whom you don't recognise. Here also, the golden rule should be followed of not disclosing any personal information on any email from an unidentified source.

Use Strong Password Protection and Authentication

Checkpoint software is undoubtedly the best practice, but for better security, your password is also very instrumental. A strong and complex password can prevent any breach from cyber thieves who are always searching for your personal information. A strong password is needed, and it should have at least ten characters, including number capital and lowercase and special symbols. Your password manager can help with this, and nothing is better than your company server reminding you about changing passwords every month.

Enabling firewall protection at home and office is another very impressive defence against cyber threats. Apart from this, as mentioned above, check point software is beneficial, and you should not mind investing in software and security systems. You must also ensure that the software is always updated and works flawlessly to protect your data and personal information. 

[vcpphones2]

Small Business Phone System Features

The right small business phone system can boost customer service and increase productivity. Advanced features like call recording and auto-attendants ensure that your customers are assisted with speed and ease.

Other useful tools include a customizable hold music, call routing, and advanced ring strategies. To learn more, check out our CIO buyer’s guide to choosing the best phone system for small businesses.

Features

Whether you’re looking to upgrade an existing business phone system or set up one from scratch, finding the right features can help you streamline your processes and boost productivity. The right small business phone system also improves your customer experience and drives professionalism across your organization.

A PBX or Private Branch Exchange solution has the flexibility to integrate a range of business calling features, including music on hold and call transfer. These advanced calling options allow your team members to manage calls effectively and efficiently.

Missed calls can be costly for a small business. That’s why many small businesses choose to invest in a telephone solution with key call-management capabilities. For example, call routing allows you to redirect incoming calls to the staff member who’s best suited to handling the query, rather than letting the caller hang up or go to voicemail. Other essential call-management features include a mute function that electronically turns off the handset microphone so you can discuss private matters without interrupting your team.

Pricing

The first contact a potential client or customer has with your business may be over the phone. That’s why small businesses need to provide a high-quality interaction that leaves a great impression. That requires a business phone system that offers valuable tools to help employees easily communicate with customers and each other.

When choosing a small business phone system, it’s important to understand what your needs are now and where you hope to go in the future. For example, do you need a solution that integrates with mobile or do you want to make sure your team has access to video calling?

You also need to consider your budget. Many business phone systems offer flexible pricing options and no contract requirements. Some providers even have a metered pay-as-you-go plan that can save you money over time. You should also look for a provider with robust security standards. Lastly, look for a platform that integrates with other business technology and software you use, such as CRM systems or collaboration tools.

Installation

A small business phone system will enable your team to communicate more efficiently, improve customer service and boost productivity. However, it’s important to choose a solution that fits your specific needs and budget.

Most of these solutions come with a wide range of features including voicemail, call routing and integrations with key software like CRM tools and email management. The best solution for your business will depend on whether you prefer a traditional telephone line or VoIP lines.

Those that use VoIP can often be set up without the need for costly wiring and contracts. They can even be rolled out to mobile devices and home offices.

Businesses that rely on remote and hybrid working need a small business phone system that allows them to deliver an exceptional customer experience without any barriers. Weave’s combination of sleek phones and integrative software enables companies to revolutionize their customer communication with unlimited local and long-distance calls. It’s also easy to port an existing number to Weave and get started right away.

Maintenance

A phone system is your main point of contact with customers and prospects. With advanced features like auto-attendants, call transferring, and visual voicemail, your business can deliver a seamless and professional customer service experience that builds brand loyalty and customer retention.

Unlike traditional landlines and PBX phone systems, which require expensive hardware, maintenance, and new lines, a cloud-based business phone system is cost-effective and uses your existing broadband connection. Additionally, a hosted phone system is easily scalable to meet the needs of your business.

UCaaS also offers a central hub for all your communication channels, such as email, text messages, web and video conference calls, and more. This provides ultimate connectivity for your team and allows them to be hyper-focused on their work and client demands. This results in enhanced productivity, increased collaboration, and better overall company performance. You’ll also gain access to customer data, analytics, and reporting for complete transparency and accountability. Click here to try Dialpad’s all-in-one small business phone system for free.

[chaosandmarigolds]

Before we begin. I would like to remind you all that Caleb is a fictional character, he cannot be hurt- but so is Simon Riley so do with that information what you will :)

“Garrick.”

Johnny clears his throat before speaking, the commotion of the station loud through the phone, “Ya n the missus still in th’ country?”

To that Kyle frowned, moving carry on bag to sit down on the chair, “We’re just gettin back from Las Vegas, Becca got-“

“Ollie is gone.”

well. That sent a shock through his system, with a quick straighten of the posture Kyle speaks again, “An’ Simon doesn’t-“

“Some bullshit happenin’ makin it look like he helped his girl with kidnappin em from da dad, dad’s takin em …”a breath, “Si doesn’t know Ollie is gone yet. He’s been in questionin for five hours kno.”

Kyle looks down at his boots for a moment, meanwhile his wife gives him a confused stare, “Jesus- fuck, you need me?”

“I dunnae ye. Probably, ya got a ETA?”

Kyle shrugged and then looks at Rebecca, who had her luggage stolen so they were waiting on the security to do their work. “Si’s kid is missin.”

She stares up at him in disbelief for a moment, “How?”

“Bio-dad bullshit.” Kyle puts the phone to his ear again, “Hows Cap holding up?”

“Pissed off. But we all are.”

“Ya seen LT yet?”

“Nah, got her’ two hours go.”

-

If he were being honest, he wanted to simply take the gun and shoot the detective- it would finally make that man shut his mouth. However, Simon was showing self restraint, yet that task grew harder with each moment. So as he sat in the empty room, he was mainly focusing on keeping his breathing even, and temper in check.

About ten minutes went by before someone came to let him go, and to no one surprise Price was behind the door with the officer.

“I need you to be-“

“Where’s Ollie? Where is she?”

Price tried to keep his expression neutral, “Caleb had temporary rights-“

“The fuck does that mean? Where is MY SON?” Okay, so temper wasn’t in check but he was doing his best.

“He’s going to Las Vegas.”

—

Rebecca sipped her coffee as she sat in the airport lounge, after talking the security and as Kyle gave out the description of the small boy. She was currently going through Caleb’s social media, as someone had gone through a lot of trouble to edit photos where Simon had been in and replace them with himself, somehow editing the timestamps as well. Which was funny, because normally she was the phone taking the family photos.

With a frown she turns her phone over and looks around the bustling airport.

That’s when she spots Caleb. Hoodie pulled up to cover his face and quickly walking through the terminals.

Some part of her knew she needed to tell Kyle, and to not rush after him. And she knew he probably could’ve over powered her/ but it was so easy to just use that book she had grabbed as she went after him to take him down.

He probably could’ve thrown her off but instead he let her pin him down, panicked eyes and heaved breathing. “I swear! I didn’t- it wasn’t my idea! They-I owed the em money! I had to!”

“Where is Oliver?”

“They had me hand him off-off to some lady! I don’t know! Russian, tall, I don’t know!”

Rebecca looks down at him, her heart beginning to race as the security began to come over and to grab them, and she slowly turned as Kyle pulls her away. “I don’t…I don’t think is about Ollie. I don’t think this is about him at all.”

-

Ollie stares at the ground of the small plane, having a cup of water and a little baggie of goldfish in front of him. His eyes red with tears.

“Oh, come now little man, eat up. Get strong.” The woman coax’s, her voice muffled by the accent but her smile sweet, “Your father does not want to see you hurt.”

“I wanna go home.”

“I know. But you cannot go right now, your father- he owes us a debt.”

—-

Tee…tee hee 🤍🤍

(Am I getting carried away? Yes obviously. But I am having too much fun to stop)

[femmefatalevibe]

Femme Fatale Guide: Office Essentials Every Woman Should Own

A sturdy, sleek tote that fits your laptop but isn't too bulky (with at least one closable interior pocket)

Laptop, AirPods/earbuds, portable charging system for phone/laptop

Laptop stand (changes the game, tbh)

Protective laptop case/sleeve

A planner and a black pen/another color pen for marking up your notes

Another notebook/pad for random notes or a running to-do list

A pen cup holder

A ziplock of hair-ties

Disposable toothbrush, Listerine strips, and travel-sized container of floss picks

A discreet feminine hygiene pouch or two with at least 2 products in it (you can use the additional pouch for extra underwear to be safe, honestly)

A simple, easy to zip and clean makeup bag

Lip balm

Hand cream

Vaseline/Aquaphor/Homeoplasmine

Mini stick antiperspirant or deodorant wipes

Travel-sized tweezers

Lint roller

Hand sanitizers

Disposable Shout wipes/stain remover stick

Travel-sized container of antibacterial and baby wipes

Band-aids

A pair of nail scissors

A mini nail file

Small sunscreen that doesn't leave a white cast

Travel-sized hair brush

A pigmented lip color (or two)

Compact powder

Portable stick cream blush/brusher

Eyeliner/mini mascara

Eyebrow pencil

A snack pack or two of a protein-rich, plant-based snack (roasted edamame, roasted chickpeas, lupini beans, almonds, or Feel Protein bars are great options because they're portable and keep you full in a pinch without forcing you to reach for something unhealthy/not filling when you need to eat – you can also carry some freeze-dried fruit to pair alongside it if desired)

Pouch for keys, wallet, IDs, etc.

Blue-light glasses (for long days in front of a screen)

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Never Give Up

Pairing: Rockstar!Jensen Ackles x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: complete fluff, getting blood drawn so needles and blood

Summary: Jensen is in town for his next concert and visit you for a check-up before performing. You two have known each other for your whole life since his sister is your best friend, and he never fails to ask you out every time he sees you. You’ve always said no. It’s his mission to get you to say yes.

Square Filled: rockstar!jensen (2022) for @spndeanbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

You grab another vial of blood and mark down in the system which patient of yours this belongs to. Afterward, you place it inside a medical plastic bag and set it off to the side for the lab to pick up later. Today has been non-stop tending to patients, drawing blood, and taking vitals. You’re only halfway through your shift and you feel like your head is going to explode.

“Did you see his post?” another nurse asks as she and her friend walk into the office. “God, he looks so hot. I can’t believe he’s single.”

“I bet he’s fucking random fans every show he does. I could be one of those fans if I got tickets. Can you believe even the nosebleeds are two hundred bucks?”

You don’t need to hear his name to know who they’re talking about. There is only one artist that is big enough in the news right now. He’s been on a steady incline to fame ever since he left Texas for California.

“Do you think he’s good in bed?”

You roll your eyes at that but don’t comment on it. You just want to do your job and go home. You can’t be sitting here thinking about your best friend’s brother and how much of an arrogant bastard he is who thinks the world revolves around him. It doesn’t help that he has a major crush on you, and he isn’t afraid to show it. Besides him telling you every time he calls you how much he likes you, he’ll always try to show you either with flowers, dinner, or other small presents that he has mailed to you.

There isn’t a time that goes by when he’s with you that he doesn’t try and ask you out on a date. If he was just your best friend’s brother, you would consider it. It’s the fact that he’s an up-and-coming rockstar who isn’t near his peak that has you on the edge. You know rockstars. You dated a few of them. All they care about is music, money, and sex. They’ll get it anywhere from any woman who is willing to spread her legs for them. You’re not saying Jensen is like that, but you don’t want to be a notch on his belt.

Still, that doesn’t stop you from using your vibrator and fantasizing about him.

A few days pass without incident when you’re inputting patients into the computer. The same two coworkers who were talking about Jensen before come strolling in with big smiles on their faces.

“What’s got you two looking like that?”

“Jensen is in town for his concert.”

“Did you two get tickets?”

“No, but I know of a way inside. I have someone working security.”

You’d rather not sit here and watch them fangirl over him so you decide to finish your paperwork later and check on the patients. Your best friend, Sabrina, pulls you to the side as soon as she sees you.

“I need you to take the patient in Room 15.”

“Why? That’s your section.”

“Please? I can’t do it.”

“Why?” you ask, your eyes narrowing.

“He’s my brother. They won’t let me work on him.”

Jensen is here. You think about what it might mean if he sees you entering the room and think it’s better than sending the fangirls in there with him.

“Fine. You owe me.” You start to walk away from her with the blood draw supplies and pause. “Don’t tell the other girls. They’ll cause a riot.”

You walk to Room 15 and knock twice before entering. Jensen is sitting on the small table with the paper lined for people’s safety even though half the time, it gets crumbled and tossed out of the way. He is scrolling through his phone but it’s not that that has you staring in awe. He is wearing a tight black shirt that really shows off his muscles and tattoos and dusty blue jeans that you know hug his ass so nicely, all with a backward hat on. His hair peeks out the back of his hat. It was shorter than the last time you saw him.

There’s a new image for your fantasies.

“Growing out your hair, huh?”

Jensen’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and he gives you a thousand-watt smile. He immediately puts his phone away so that he can give you all of his attention.

“I was hoping Sabrina would send you in here.”

“Oh, you’re lucky it’s me and not the two fangirls out there. I’m pretty sure one of them wants to have sex with you.”

“What about you? Do you want to have sex with me?”

You smile shyly and grab two latex gloves to start the blood-drawing process. “You wish.”

“Yeah, I do.”

You wrap a tourniquet around his upper arm before grabbing his arm and rubbing the area with an alcohol swab to sterilize the area. Don’t think about his big muscles. Focus, Y/N! You open a packet that contains a new needle and place it where you need to. Without counting down, you stick the needle into his vein and start to grab blood samples.

“So, come here often?” he flirts.

“I work here,” you giggle.

“I know. I just wanted to hear your giggle. So, when am I gonna take you out?”

“Hmm, how about never?” you tease.

“Don’t do that to me, sweetheart. Throw me a bone or something.”

“I’m not even going to comment,” you laugh.

You take out the first vial and shove a new one into the case for more blood.

“I’m serious. When are you gonna let me take you out to a nice dinner? I’ll pay.”

“Oh, you will? How generous of you,” you say sarcastically yet playfully.

“Does that mean yes?”

“No.”

“I’m not gonna stop asking you.”

“You’ll turn blue in the face if you continue that.”

“It’s okay,” he shrugs. “I look good in blue.” You roll your eyes and try to hide your smile knowing he sees it. You finish getting four blood samples before patching him up with a Hello Kitty bandaid. You were just treating two twin little girls and this is all you have. “Nice band-aid.”

“It’s all I have. I can get a different one if you want.”

“No, no, I happen to like Hello Kitty.” You trash your gloves and the needle packet before standing. “Come to my concert.”

“I have to work.”

“No, you don’t. It’s on Saturday and you don’t work the weekends.” You silently curse knowing he’s right. “How about this? I will have a VIP and all-access badge with your name on it. Come if you want. It starts at seven. Are we done here?”

“Yeah, but--”

“Give my love to Sabrina.”

He hops of the table and kisses your cheek as he leaves. The two fangirls see him and fawn over his good looks but when he looks back, it’s at you. He only has eyes for you. He winks and turns to the fangirls who are practically tripping over the other to get to him. He signs what they want to be signed and takes pictures with them before leaving.

Today is only Wednesday but you can’t stop thinking about Jensen and his offer the rest of the week. Saturday comes faster than you’d like, and you find yourself driving with Sabrina to the concert hours before it even starts. There are already people lining up to get to the front of the pit but you bypass the entire parking lot to head to the back where the service entrance is.

“I can’t believe I’m going to this,” you say.

“So, when are you and my brother going to fuck?”

“Sabrina!”

“What? If anyone should be with him, it’s you. That boy is in love with you.”

“No, he’s not. He thinks he is because I don’t want him.”

“Does telling yourself that help you sleep at night?”

“Sabrina… He’s a rockstar. He’s a famous rockstar. He doesn’t want some rundown nurse. He could have anyone.”

“Yeah, but he wants you.”

You’re torn because you do want Jensen. He’s every girl’s dream. Even if he wasn’t a rockstar or famous, you’ve known him since you two were kids. You grew up together. You know who the real Jensen is, the one he doesn’t show anyone else. Still, there is that nagging feeling that he'll dump you once he gets bored with you. 

All of your exes did.

You show security both your IDs and he hands you and Sabrina your access badges before directing you where to park. After you two get out, you follow security to the back where the band is hanging out. You’ve gotten to know Jensen’s band a little over the years. They’re nice guys.

“Bean!” Jensen turns and grins when he sees his sister. His drummer has a major crush on your friend and has called her Bean ever since she told him she hated it. They’re in the “will they, won’t they?” stage but everyone knows they’re gonna be endgame. “Where’ve you been?”

“I told you not to call me that,” she rolls her eyes and hugs her brother. 

“And I told you I don’t care. I like how you blush when I do,” he smirks.

Jensen’s gaze goes over to you and he visibly relaxes at the sight of you. He walks over to you and takes off his hat so that his hair falls over his face.

“Hi, Jensen.” He smiles but doesn’t answer you. “What, cat got your tongue? I know I’m breathtaking but come on.”

“He doesn’t speak before a show to preserve his voice. He has breathing exercises to do,” Josh, the drummer, says.

“What a blessing,” you joke.

Jensen pulls you in for a hug, and you allow this minute to really feel him. His arms have always felt so safe around you, and you find yourself relaxing into his body. He pulls away and takes out his phone to text you since he takes his voice exercises seriously. Your phone pings and you look at the message he sent.

I love that you’re here.

You blush under his gaze and try but fail to hide your smile.

“You know I would have come.”

You and Sabrina leave for the VIP tent on the floor while the band gets ready. The opener comes out and does her performance which gives you time to enjoy the music and get some food before Jensen comes on stage. Since you and Sabrina are on Jensen and Josh’s social media, you’re both easily recognizable. Fans come up to the tent to chat and take pictures with you two. You never had a desire for fame but it’s nice to know you’ve made someone’s day just by saying hi to them.

The entire stadium goes dark and the intro to the concert begins. Immediately, the entire crowd cheers for Jensen. He walks on stage in a different outfit than when you saw him earlier, and you have to admit he looks really good. He’s wearing a classic muscle shirt that definitely shows off how much he’s been working out and his tattoos. Gone is his hat so that his hair can flop around freely.

His eyes immediately find the VIP tent, and he smiles when he sees you. You’ve seen his concerts over TikTok Lives and other social media platforms but nothing beats the real thing. He sings each song with passion like he means every word he’s singing. There is a long catwalk where he walks, and all the girls fawn over him whenever he gives them two seconds of his attention.

By the time he’s at the halfway point of his concert, your feet are hurting from how much you’re dancing and your ears are ringing from how loud it is, but you love it. Jensen is in the middle of a song when he suddenly stops and takes out one of his earpieces.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he pants. The band stops playing and everyone quiets down in confusion, including you. He’s never done this at any of his other concerts. “I’ll get back to the music in a second. I just want to say this is a very special concert because there is someone very special here tonight.”

“Oh, my God,” Sabrina gasps.

“Her name is Y/N and she’s right over there in the VIP tent.” The camera pans over to your shocked face so that everyone in the stadium can see. Sabrina can’t stop smiling. “You see, we’ve been friends since we were kids and she doesn’t know this but I am absolutely crazy for her.”

Cheers erupt throughout the stadium, and you shake your head at Jensen with a smile.

“Now, I’ve asked her this many times but she’s always said no to me. I don’t think she’ll be able to say no in a room full of eighty thousand people. Someone get her a microphone. I want to hear her answer.” Jensen waits for someone to bring you a microphone. “Y/N, will you let me take you to a really nice dinner date?”

You wait for the crowd to quiet down a bit before giving your answer.

“No,” you smile sweetly. “You just won’t take no for an answer.”

“You’re right. I won’t.” He drags one of the barstools to the middle of the stage and sits on it. “That’s why we’re not continuing until you say yes.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am, sweetheart. I won’t sing another song until you say yes. What do you say, Los Angeles? Should she say yes to me?” Almost every fan in the stadium including Sabrina cheers for you two. “See? Even they think you should.”

“Well if they think we should…”

“Is that a yes?”

“No,” you grin.

“Alright.” Jensen sits and drums his fingers on his legs patiently. “I wonder what I’m going to do next weekend. I think I should take up fishing. My dad always brought me but I never appreciated it before.”

“You’re seriously going to sit there and not continue your concert?” you ask.

“Put everyone out of their misery and just say yes to the date. Come on, everyone. Y/N! Y/N!”

Everyone starts chanting your name, and Sabrina tugs on your arm to grab your attention.

“Has any of your exes done this for you? What are you scared of?”

She’s right. None of your rockstar boyfriends have ever stopped a concert for you. None of them even mentioned you were there. Jensen doesn’t have to say it but he is in love with you and you’re in love with him.

“Fine. Fine. Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.”

“Yes!” Jensen cheers. You hand the microphone back to the stadium worker, and Jensen puts the earpiece back in. “This next song is for you, sweetheart.”

And he plays the song he wrote for you in high school.

x

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[theblessedcap]

A Weekend to Remember 💕

Summary: Terry wants to give his girlfriend Siya (Sigh-ya) a peaceful weekend away at his place to help her loosen up after a rough week. 🩵

Warnings: Some smut 💋 and 420 friendly 🍃

This is my first fanfic y’all so take it easy on your girl. It’s been a while! lol. Enjoy!!!

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Terry POV

Friday Night 🌙

My girl Siya, who I’ve been seeing for about five months now, has been expressing her frustration with work all week. I’m not quite sure what her exact job title is but I know she works with badass kids and intense parents everyday in the school system. I’ve always admired her patience with people on a daily. I told her I do labor and engineering work for a reason cause I’d catch a case. Nonetheless, I know she needs an outlet and frankly, just a good time so she can let her hair down a bit. I can admit I’ve been slightly negligent to my lady’s feelings recently due to my own work being a shit storm with high volumes of orders and requests needing to be completed. A couple nights in a row I’ve been falling asleep on her mid conversation from pure exhaustion. I know that stings her a bit because we don’t live together and she really treasures our nightly FaceTime calls. She lives about 35 mins away from me on the other side of the county so anytime I get to see her face I try to make it last. I know she knows I still love her and I’m here for her like always but I’m the type of man to show it. Especially when I know I’ve been slacking a bit.

On the way home from work today, on a high from finally making it to Friday, I text Siya to let her know my plans.

T: Hey babe, hope your work day ended on a high note today. I want you to pack a bag to stay over my place for the weekend. I wanna show you how much I’ve missed you all week.. I’ll be there to get you around 6. I love you ❤️

S: Oooo you got plans plans huh? 😏 lol ok baby, I’ll be ready when you get here. Just let me know when you’re on the way 😘

I smile down at my phone at her response. She always finds a way to make me laugh. That’s why this weekend I want her to feel like she’s fully taken care of. My girl is the kind of woman who loves detail but loves simplicity even more. She loves good vibes and ambience.. she loves to be able to take in all the small joys around her and revel in them while spreading that same feeling to the people around her. It made me think about what I wanted to plan for us this weekend. I want to take Siya’s mind off of all her stress and worries and I have to be quick because I only have about 2 hours until I pick Siya up…

Siya POV

That text from Terry made my day. I haven’t stopped smiling since I got it just as I was about to sprint to my car after calling it a day at work. Don’t get me wrong, I love aspects of my job but the mental rigor of trying to put out fires everyday is A LOT. I was just starting to get annoyed with Terry actually, he’s been seeming a bit distant and uninterested but those thoughts faded away as soon as I read that text. If there’s one thing I know about my man its that he’s thoughtful when it counts and loves to prove it.

Getting home to my quiet condo, I drop all my stuff in my office room then head straight to my bathroom to shower off all the angst of the day. Blasting some Summer Walker and Kehlani while the hot water slowly soothes my body into relaxation. I make sure to shave and moisturize something serious not yet knowing exactly what Terry has planned. I just have a feeling it’s going to make me fall in love with him even more.

After my shower, I decided to fix something small to eat to hold me over and then pack my bag for a stay at my man’s.

*phone vibrates*

T: I’m heading to you now babygirl 🩵

S: Ok be safe ❤️ see you soon daddy 💋

I don’t know what it is but Terry still makes me giddy and nervous. I can’t stop checking my hair and light makeup in the mirror just to make sure nothing is out of place. If he knew I was taking what I looked like so serious, he would reprimand me saying you look beautiful regardless, don’t trip but hey, I’m just a girl with nerves!

Dressed in a causal three piece cozy fit, perfect for this fall weather and brisk evenings, I wait for Tory to arrive while chilling on my living room couch. Just as I start to feel a little antsy my phone vibrates again.

T: Come open your door for me beautiful

Without texting back, I hop out of my seat and speed walk to the door with a smile. I open the door to find my tall, muscular, ocean eyed teddy bear of a boyfriend dressed in a hoodie and joggers to match.

“There she is” he says before softly pulling me into his arms and lifting me into a tight hug. He smells so good..

“Hey baby, I missed you so much” I say before planting a kiss on his soft, plump lips.

“I’ve missed you too baby girl. More than you know. Come on, let me get your bag for you” He says slightly brushing past me into the living room to grab my pink duffle bag. “You ready, mama?”

Terry POV

It feels so good having Siya next to me again. It’s only been about a week and a half since I’ve last seen her in person but right now let me know that’s too long without her. Her soft, luscious, radiant skin. Her fragrance that always smells like something sweet that makes me hungry for her. Head full of curls and that amazing smile that still makes my heart skip a beat. I’m sprung, no doubt. I can’t keep my hands off her as I hit the highway heading back to my place. My free hand found its way in between the heat of her thighs and rested there for comfort as I gripped the steering wheel. Snoh Alegra playing from my truck speakers and our heads bobbing to the smooth tunes. I look over at Siya softly singing the words and I crack a smile involuntarily. Call me corny but I made a playlist just for this ride back so I knew she’d be feeling it.

“You know this is my song” She says with a playful smirk while dancing in her seat.

“Yeah I know love”

Siya went back to her karaoke as i focused on not missing a turn right up ahead of us. As soon as I made the turn off our usual route, Siya stops her concert and looks at me with curious eyes.

“Where we going?” She asks

“Just a little detour babe, don’t worry” I reassure her grabbing onto her hand to hold.

I could tell my words put her at ease. I watch her lean back in her seat to take in the beautiful sunset outside our car windows. The sky barely lit but just above the horizon it’s painted a firey bright orange with clouds leaving small traces of purple and blue. Approaching our destination, I see Siya sit up, peeking out of the windows to take in the view before us. A walking park adorned with vast land scattered with trees and a beautiful lake front that provided a perfect view to watch the remainder of the sunset. The area is empty and barely any cars drive past at this time of day. Perfect for a chill ass smoke session to get my girl right for this relaxing weekend I got planned for her.

Siya POV

Terry is always up to something I tell ya. I’ve always appreciated the effort and thought he puts into the things he does for me. No matter how little or large. Terry knows I’m a sentimental nostalgic who loves taking in sunsets and sunrises. I mean, I couldn’t even count the amount of moon photos I have in my camera roll too. He also knows I don’t take the time to enjoy these things as much as I’d like to. To just be present.. with a beautiful view.

“Let’s sit at these benches over here” Terry said taking my hand and leading me to our seats near the lake.

“This is beautiful Terry. How do you know about this place?”

“Me and a homeboy of mine use to come here and go fishing sometimes. We even came out here just to chill. Get our minds right” Terry reaches into this hoodie pocket, “So, with my beautiful lady having the hard week she did.. I figured we’d start this weekend with some reallll relaxation” he declares pulling out a thick cigar blunt with a playful, big cheesy smile.

Terry and I have smoked together before but it’s been quite a while. Shortly after we started dating we both decided to take a tolerance break and focus on work and being a bit healthier. Not to say we didn’t break our pact from time to time but it has definitely been a couple months since I faced a fat blunt.

“When did you start smoking again?” I ask genuinely curious.

“Right now. I figured since work has been kicking both of our asses, we deserve this. You deserve this,” He says lighting the blunt and passing it to me. Instantly the thick weed smoke and scent hit my nose and brought back all those fond memories of getting high and letting my worries roll off of me like water.

I take a deep breath and allow the smoke to hit my chest. I hold it for a few seconds before a deep harsh cough escapes my throat.

“Take it easy, babe” Terry said laughing while patting my back.

“Oh whatever! It’s been a while” I snap back at him out of a little embarrassment of my fragile lungs. I take another puff and force myself to keep in the smoke long enough to feel the after effects.

“You good mama?” Terry asks me as I pass him back the blunt.

“Yeah I’m good. This shit is hitting me nice..” I say leaning back into the bench, letting my body and mind unwind. I start to listen to the gentle wind of the night breezing past my ears, the lake in front of me rippling from the wind. It’s so peaceful. I feel Terry’s arm cradle my shoulders from be side, providing extra warm from the cool breeze. We continued to pass back and forth until our blunt became a roach. The lowering sun completely gone but now the fluorescent moonlight took its place. It gave us ample light reflecting from the shimmering lake. I could feel every bit of my body soften and loosen up. My head lay back to rest on Terry’s buff arm still wrapped around me. We were both pretty quiet enjoying our high and the tranquility around us. I look over to Terry to make sure he’s okay only to meet his incredible grey eyes, low and hazy from the marijuana, already locked on me.

“How you feeling?” He asks deep in tone, his gaze still stuck on me.

“Good. I feel great actually”

“Good. I’m glad to hear, babe. Come here…” Terry whispers before grabbing me around my waist and pulling me into his lap. Never taking his eyes off me. I was starting to really get lost in them. All I could picture was the last time we fucked, soaking my satin panties as I clinch my thighs on Terry’s lap. My eyes gaze down to his juicy pink lips that just seem to be calling my name. Without hesitation, i pull Terry in for a passionate kiss. Lips smacking and soft biting making us both groan into each other’s mouths. I could feel Terry’s thick bulge grow stiffer below me as he shifts my booty on his lap to help adjust himself. He let out a soft moan before placing lewd, wet kisses all over my neck.

“Terry you know that makes me weak” I moan out as he hits all my spots causing me to quiver.

Ignoring my plea, gripping onto my thighs, he continues to place warm kisses on my neck and slowly down my chest. Suddenly he stops and looks up at me. The moonlight beaming out of his now dark clouded eyes. He sits up, gently moving me off his lap and back on the bench before standing up and starting to take off his hoodie. I bite my lip watching him undress, revealing a white tee hugging his defined abs and massive arms. I quietly stare up at him from my seat, heat rising within me from anticipation, wondering what’s next to come. Also forgetting that we’re technically in public.

I’m high as shit.

“Lay back on my hoodie babygirl” Terry says softly while stretching his hoodie out on the bench space beside me. I do as he ask and lay my heated back to the wood bench to rest. Terry, now sitting by my feet and smirking down at me, slowly turns to me with his eyes still intensely on me, lifts my legs and places them firmly over his shoulders. Now I get the hint..

“Take these off” he whispers before licking his lips and pulling at my pants with authority.

I lift my lower body to assist him in slipping my pants and panties off in one quick swipe. The cool air hit my bare legs and made me clinch my legs shut.

“Open up for me, babe” Terry commands sliding his large body back on the bench and lowering his head right above my wet, aching pussy. “I got the munchies.. but all I wanna snack on is you”

With a sloppy, wet kiss to my throbbing clit, Terry began to devour my pussy like his last meal. I couldn’t help but to moan loudly as he slurps and licks me with purpose. One thick swipe of his tongue after another. As he playful darts his tongue in and out of my pussy and tenderly rubs my pulsing clit, I stare up at the stars above. Thanking God and the universe that I’ve found this man.

“Ahhhh Terry.. this feels so fucking good babyyy” I cry out reaching for the bench arm rest behind my head for leverage.

“Mmm.. you taste so damn good mama.. I could eat you all night..” he spoke with all his concentration still on my leaking pussy. Suddenly feeling two thick fingers slowly sliding into me, I arch my back out of pure ecstasy.

“Fuuuuck” I cry out letting Terry quicken his pace. Beginning to feel an amazing but unfamiliar pressure build within me.

“Pussy clenching up baby, you about to cum?”

“Oh my god… Terry!” I shout unable to explain what I was feeling. Silence falls as nothing but the sound of Terry’s fingers slipping in and out of me and his slurping and smacking fill the air. My eyes close shut and I swear even with them closed, I can still see stars. Suddenly, a loud gush erupts from my slippery center.

“God damn..” Terry groans staring at my pussy forming a puddle below him with a look of pride and accomplishment.

“Did you just make me squirt?!” I asks out of pure shock. Did I really just squirt on my boyfriend on a public bench?

“Hell yeah I did. You got me and my hoodie soaked baby girl” he says with a chuckle and a menacing smirk.

“Oh my god” I say laughing to myself, covering my face as Terry lifts me up to hold me in his arms, face to face.

“Aww none of that now. Shit, that was fucking amazing. I didn’t know you could squirt like that, mama. I find it sexy.. lets me know I’m doing all the right things.. maybe I should get you high and eat you out more often” he suggest with that enticing smile of his.

“Yeah maybe” I respond with a smile and gaining a little sense of confidence back. The sound of loud car exhaust approaching made us both grab for our clothes and get dressed. Terry wasn’t lying when he said I soaked his hoodie. Even with it being black I could tell I left the majority of it damp and knew he’d be cold in this frigid wind as we walk back to his truck.

“I’m sorry again about that Babe” I say with my arms crossed in front of me to shield my exposed skin from the breeze.

“You don’t hear me complaining do you? Stop worrying, love. So what I’m drenched? I love that shit. All that matters to me right now is that you feel good.. you gushing all on me like that just shows me you was feeling more than good though.. right baby?” He asks slowly stepping closer to me, forcing my back against the truck door, invading my space in a way that makes my knees almost buckle. Him and these goddamn eyes!!

“Oh I’m more than good..” I almost whisper looking deep into his glistening orbs, feeling like I’m under a trance.

“That’s what I like to hear. Gimme kiss..” Terry says before pulling me into him by the waist and giving me two sweet, wet kisses, “come on, beautiful. Let’s get back on the road. We still got the night ahead of us.”

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YALL THINK and sorry for any typos 🙈🩷 Depending on feedback I’ll write the rest of the weekend with Tory and Siya 🥰 I have a feeling this is gonna get cute and nasty lmao appreciate y’all! -Kye ✌🏽