#and i need some level of honesty to BREATHE

[babyilluwu]

being autistic in my experience involves having made fic authors cry with the comments you left when you were exactly 11 years old (yes) so now that you are an adult and have acquired the ability of Tact™ you think very hard about what is and what isn't acceptable to leave as feedback

[himbosandhardwear]

Eddie has a bad habit of picking at his skin when he's nervous. Not, like, shy nervous or stage fright nervous, but the real kind of nervous, not-sure-I’m-gonna-survive-this kind of nervous. Like while he was alone in the boat house, he'd shredded every one of his cuticles. That time Hopper caught him behind The Hawk, very obviously selling his wares, he'd bitten his lips bloody.

Tonight he's picking a scab off his knee. It's practically healed already, so it won't bleed, he just needs to feel something on his body come loose before he does.

“You good, dude?” Steve asks, so in tune to Eddie's nervous disposition. Such a good guy. What a friend.

Eddie lets his head hit his knee caps with a thunk.

“Yup.”

Steve snorts. “You don't look good. I mean… You know what I mean.”

He smiles, tilting his head to look at Steve, always happy to give him a hard time.

“Oh, absolutely. You think I look good, don't cha, Stevie?”

He gets a couch pillow to the face for that, but they're both laughing so he doesn't think he's crossed the line yet.

Yet, yet, yet.

“Seriously, what's up with you? You've been quiet. It makes me want to call the squad.”

“Har har,” Eddie mumbles, but he does uncurl himself, sitting back against the couch again. “I'm trying to work up the nerve to ask for advice but it's-” Christ, he doesn't even want to admit to being embarrassed, that's how embarrassed he is.

“It's what?” Steve asks, the picture of earnest encouragement. “You can talk to me about anything, man, we're, like, bonded in blood or whatever.”

“Right. Yeah. Except this has the potential to get real awkward, real quick, and I'm not sure we're at that level of friendship yet.”

“Well,” he drawls, “if you ask me whatever it is that's got you all flustered I'm sure that will level us up. Right?”

“I'm not flustered.” God damn his red fucking face. Steve just laughs at him. “It's just, I don't have anyone else to ask about this. Jonathan probably doesn't have this particular problem, cause he's got- Uh. Sorry.” Steve waves it away, so Eddie goes on. “The kids are too young and the band guys don't understand what we went through-”

“Eddie, just spit it out.”

“Fuck! Okay, fine! You asked for it.” He takes a giant breath, steels his spine and just says it. “The Trauma is affecting my ability to get laid and I don't know how to fix it. Every time I get close to it I freak out and have to bail.”

There. All out now.

He looks over at Steve, and it's so much worse than being laughed at or pitied. He just looks sad.

He shakes it off quickly, hair barely moving, Eddie notes. He finds Steve's hair routine both endearing and ridiculous.

“Yeah. Okay. That's super common, just so you know,” Steve assures him first. “Robin says it's all connected, your mind and your body, so trauma can, like, get trapped in weird places like that. I can't play baseball anymore. Cause the memory of beating demodogs to death.”

“As you do,” Eddie quips.

“Right. But your thing. Uh. Yeah, it took some time before I could relax enough to even attempt getting laid, let alone actually do it.”

“So?” Eddie drawls, waiting. “How did you get over it?”

Something is off. Steve's not known for being skiddish about sex, but his hesitation and his inability to look Eddie in the eye is setting off alarms.

“Hey, if this is too weird for you-”

“No, I'm good, it's fine. Just, I'm the only person you have to talk to about this, so I'm gonna try to be helpful but, uh,” he scratches at the back of his head awkwardly, “in all honesty, I haven't been laid since before Vecna either. Way before. So. Yeah. Not sure I should be giving out advice on anything.”

That's crazy. Like actually crazy. He can't even compute Steve Harrington not absolutely dripping in women. He must have some look on his face because Steve gives a dry sort of laugh, self deprecating, and leans back against the couch with him.

“Weren't you on a date with Brenda Mulligan the night- Vecna’s first attack?”

Steve shoots him a look. “Y- Yeah, but that didn't go anywhere. We weren't, like, compatible or whatever.”

Oh, yeah, it was weird that Eddie knew that at all, let alone remembered it nine months later. “That's too bad,” he replies lamely.

“Yep.”

He feels terrible for dragging down the whole night, it would've been better if he'd just kept his mouth shut. But that's never been his strong suit, as evidenced by him blurting out, “If the hottest guy in Hawkins can't find a suitable date, what fucking chance do I have.”

Steve snaps, “Don't say that. What the fuck?”

Great, now he's gone and made it weird. Good job calling your straight friend hot, you fuckin’ dipshit.

They sit in the awkward silence, out of things to say or out of useful things to say. Either way it's them breathing, the clock ticking, and the M.A.S.H. rerun playing softly in the background.

Steve clears his throat. “Whatever, let's get back to the point. You don't have to tell me if you don't want but…what do you think the specific reason is for your…issue?”

He thinks about it. Has been thinking about it, for a while now. “My dick still works, if that's what you're wondering.”

Steve chuckles, high and surprised. “Good for you.”

“Yeah. It's more like, I can't get out of my head. I start worrying about my scars, explaining them if someone asked. I think about how even though I don't want anything long-term, I wouldn't be able to do long-term anyway, because I'm a fucking mess. If it's really bad, I'll get flashes of Chrissy or Patrick's bones snapping, as a little soundtrack to the fun shit happening outside my head.”

Steve looks sad again. Maybe it is pity but it looks more turned inward, like he's dealing with his own shit more than Eddie’s.

“You hooking up with strangers then?”

Eddie blinks at Steve. “Well…duh. Right? Not like I have guys lined up around the block here in Hawkins.”

Steve is full blown scowling at the TV. It's weird.

“What if-”

Eddie waits but Steve doesn't finish his thought.

“What if…what?” He prompts, giving a little nudge with his foot.

He's still avoiding eye contact, not even turning his head to look in Eddie's direction.

In a soft voice, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “What if we helped each other out?”

He must've heard that wrong. Or he's misunderstanding.

“What?”

“What if we help each other out? Like, a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

That can't be right. No fucking way. It's a test. Like as soon as Eddie agrees, Steve yells ‘Aha! I knew you wanted to molest me! Goodbye forever!’ and runs out the door.

“What, exactly, do you mean? Like, what are you getting out of it?”

Steve finally looks over. “Well, I would think that was obvious. If you're willing.”

Eddie's legs are starting to go numb.

“Okay, so I blow you and you blow me, except when you're doing it I have to watch you take it like you're being force fed liver and onions at Grandma's house?”

Steve slowly shakes his head no.

“Oh, okay, so you're going to blow me and enjoy it,” he snaps sarcasticaly.

Steve nods once.

“You want to blow me?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums without moving a muscle.

“Since when!” Eddie brings his octave down from the upper atmosphere. “Since when, Harrington? This is insane behavior. Should I call the squad for you? I'm serious. I'll do it.”

“You don't have to say yes. I was just offering.” He says it like Eddie isn't one green flag away from stomping on the gas.

He starts nervously laughing, which makes Steve flinch unfortunately, but he can't stop.

“It's cool, just forget I said anything.” He moves like he's about to get up and leave, which is fucking insane because it's his living room. Eddie stops him with a tight grip around the bicep.

“Don't you dare. If you're even remotely serious, we have to have a much longer conversation. Sit.”

Steve drops like a sack of bricks. Which is…something.

“Right. First off, this is uncommon behavior in a straight friend. Is there something you'd like to tell me, so I don't think you've been body snatched?”

He pinches at the top of his nose, like Eddie is inconveniencing him greatly. Too bad.

“I'm probably bisexual.”

“Probably?” Eddie asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I'm an inexperienced bisexual,” he amends through clenched teeth.

“Good. Great. Happy to hear it.” His heart may explode from his torso à la Ridley Scott's Alien but sure. “Second on the agenda, what do you mean help each other out? What's on the table? Mutual handjobs and then we never talk about it again?”

“No,” Steve answers immediately. That's good. “I'm open to…whatever you're open to.”

“Steve.” He has to clear his throat. “You dont even know what you're agreeing to.”

“I trust you.”

Fuuuuuck.

“Okay, right, uh, let's circle back to that later. Third thing, what, uh, what is your level of commitment with this?”

He just stares at Eddie, all doe eyed. It shouldn't work, Eddie fucking invented that look. It's gotten him out of more scrapes than he can count. Now it's being used against him but to what end? Does Steve want to get bundled up in a blanket and tucked into bed? Because Eddie can make that happen for him.

“Whatever you want, I guess,” he finally says. “I mean, like I said earlier, friends who help each other out. Casual. I'm not interested in looking for Mrs Harrington anymore and you're having a problem relaxing around guys who don't understand what you went through.” He makes a gesture like ‘Ta da.’

He's not wrong. It makes sense. But…

“Fourth thing. Is this just an experiment for you? Cause I'm all for you exploring your sexuality but, historically speaking, friends are a bad place to start.” AKA ‘it will break my fucking heart if you decide you're not that into it and it's because it's me.’

“Eddie. Look.” He gets more comfortable, facing Eddie straight on finally. “What you're going to provide is practical knowledge on what has only been theoretical up to this point, but the theory has already been well established.” He taps his head. “Understand?”

A smug confidence melts Eddie into the couch. “You liiike me,” he sings. “You think about me naaaked. You wanna-”

Steve lands on him, lacking any elegance or grace, and nearly caves their skulls in with his Jay Garrick approach to kissing. Eddie doesn't say a fucking word. He does wonder at the fucking majesty that is making out sober. What a revelation. Steve keeps making these tiny, almost wounded noises, to the point where Eddie tries to back up and do a check in but Steve doesn't let him, he chases him down and latches back onto Eddie's bottom lip like he's Hannibal Lector. It's stupid hot.

Everything is going great until Steve lets out a sound that legitimately has Eddie worried he's upset about something.

He pulls back and asks, “Are you okay?”

“Oh fuck, I'm sorry. I just can't, I can't believe I got this fucking far. You're so hot I'm losing my fucking mind.”

“Me?” Eddie snaps. “Dude, you're out of your mind.” He pokes Steve in his meaty chest. “Literal. Prom. King.”

“Fucking stupid high school shit, are you kidding me?” He sits up, straddling Eddie's hips, which is boner enhancing to say the least; he's got Steve's thighs in his grasp immediately. “You don't get it, I'm gone on you. I've got it bad, man. I was playing it cool earlier-”

“At no point tonight were you in any way playing it cool.”

“-but, fuck it, guess I'm ruining it, cause I can't be cool about this. I don't want casual. I don't even want to date you,” and before Eddie can even worry about that, he says, “I wanna skip straight to boyfriends, man. I know you said you didn't want long term with anyone but-”

Eddie interrupts again, this time by pulling Steve back down horizontal and kissing him like he just bravely declared himself as all in.

If this is a pod-person, well, that's a problem for Tomorrow Eddie. Tonight Eddie just landed Steve Harrington as a boyfriend.

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ keep this drive to just us two | fushiguro megumi

wc: 2.7k

summary: megumi is a liar, but there’s a reason for all this.  

contains: f!reader in mind but can be read as gn!, college!megumi, pre-relationship stuff, feelings, some swear words

a/n: happy birthday to our boy ♡ set in the same universe as this megumi fic (so a ~kind of part 2); some songs that inspired this & ones i imagine playing in the car: the shining by the neighbourhood, paradise by chase atlantic, & over the moon by the marías

part: 1 | 2 | 3 series m.list: by your passenger seat

It’s just you and Megumi on a late night drive—a quarter past 11 p.m.

The passenger seat has long since been adjusted to you, his car a somewhat second home. There’s that characteristic reverb accompanying the deep bass of the music he listens to, and his knee is bobbing to the beat of it, like it always does when the music is good. 

Megumi’s car always smells of mint, a fresh, crisp scent that cuts through—an accurate depiction of the man: level-headed, cool. A sharp honesty exists in every word he speaks; it’s the only way he knows how to be.

Except, maybe, lately. Like this moment.

Megumi’s a liar right now. 

He feels a little guilty for it, tricking you into coming out tonight. But how bad can it be to invite you under the guise of it being from Yuuji? 

“Yuuji said he’ll meet us there?” you settle into your seat, dragging the seatbelt across your body before locking it into place. 

Megumi shifts the gear to drive, nodding as he turns the wheel to get out of the parking lane. He can’t trust himself to speak. 

The ride is quiet save for the music, a comfortable silence he seems to only have with you. Nobara and Yuuji like to talk, to fill in the empty pockets of air he never feels the need to. You—you adjust, read the room; you become what the situation calls for all on your own. 

That’s what he likes about you, among many other things—he’s stopped lying to himself about that, at least. 

The streets whiz past you in a blur, both vaguely familiar and unrecognizable. There’s a fast food joint your group of four frequents as a post-party drive-thru, and the holiday lights are strung up on lampposts lining the sidewalks. 

Yellows, reds, and greens melt into one another as the backdrop of your window. But all Megumi sees is gray—

When he dislodges his phone from the stand clipped to the AC vents at the center console, handing it over so you can control the music. His eyes stay locked on the road until he feels it, the slightest brush of your fingers against his.

He turns to you, a quick glance; you’d shrugged off your puffer jacket some time during the drive and tossed it to the backseat, leaving you in this right now.

—the gray sweater that he knows all too well; that you haven’t returned but you wear like it’s yours, as if this piece of him is something you’ve chosen to keep. 

It looks better on you, anyway, he thinks.

He turns back to the road, breathing a little quicker, grip tighter and knuckles a bit whiter. 

If he listens carefully, the comfortable silence between you hasn’t actually been all that silent lately. A constant beat’s been drumming in his ears, exacerbated only every time you’re near. You’ve locked eyes far too often for two people sitting in a car, driving from point A to point B, and this isn’t the first time your fingers have brushed, nor is it the second, or third (or even fourth if he’s thinking about the technicalities). 

He finds himself smiling too easily when you speak, the corners of his lips aching by the time he’s dropped you off on the way home. You’ve looked at him fondly too, a handful of times, when you think he won’t notice; but it’s impossible not to when he’s paying just as much attention—from the corner of his eye, in his periphery. A responsible side-glance that inconspicuously catches everything. 

There’s something between you two, and he’s grown more confident of that the more he’s accepted his fate:

He likes you.

It’s why he called you tonight, out of all nights, in the first place. 

Aimless driving can only be so convincing up to a certain point, and that point comes fast approaching as Megumi is about to pass the same street for the third time. You don’t notice because you’re queueing songs on his phone, but he has to think of a diversion—just something to tide him over past midnight. 

“I’ll get us some snacks,” he signals to the left, pulling over to a 7-Eleven. 

“Oh!” you look up from his phone, swapping it for yours, “I’ll ask Yuuji if he wants anything. Did he mention if Nobara’s coming?” 

Megumi freezes, panic setting in—if you message Yuuji now, you’ll realize that he’s been lying. He holds his breath, shifting the gear to park before pulling at the edges of his sleeves.

Think. 

“He’ll eat anything, it’s fine. Nobara probably won’t come too. Wouldn’t pick up when he called.” 

For someone who always puts things bluntly, he’s surprisingly good at coming up with lies right now. 

You hum, nodding, “Okay. Do you want me to go down?” 

“I’ll be quick,” he shakes his head, fishing around the center console for his wallet, “you want anything?” 

Then he looks at you, your head tilted to the side as you think. A little pout causes your lips to jut out and he can’t help it, how his eyes fall to them, shiny in the way only your lip balm can make them. 

“Maybe something warm?” 

Your voice snaps him out of it, but the moment is frozen—like he’s been caught red-handed. He’s so sure you saw him staring, your eyebrows shooting up, flustered while watching his gaze shift from your lips to your eyes. 

He doesn’t expect it when you do the same thing. 

It’s freezing outside and his lips feel chapped; he wonders if they’re cracked, if you’re studying the grooves of split skin—if he should buy lip balm by the counter, on the way out. 

He looks away, clearing his throat, one hand to the door handle. 

“Okay,” he opens it, “turn up the heat if you’re–”

You nod.

“Yeah, okay.” 

He steps out. 

The cold is biting as he tucks his hands inside his pockets, rushing to get into the convenience store. 

(You watch his back retreat from the window of his carseat, and the influx of cool air should make you shiver, but you feel warm, heat rushing to your cheeks. 

This whole night has been confusing; the subtle touches and lingering gazes—ones like just moments ago, especially. Being alone with Megumi lately has been both comfortable and nerve-wracking; you have feelings that you aren’t quite sure are reciprocated, no matter how much Nobara teases the both of you already. 

You can’t take it; you need a buffer—where is Yuuji? 

11:41 p.m. 

< are you otw already? we just went to grab some snacks

You wait, fingers tapping on the back of your phone. 

11:42 p.m. 

yuuji 🍡

> huh?

> otw where? 

> who’s we?

> i’m outside fushiguro’s rn! with gojo-sensei!! apparently he surprises him every bday…

> you should come! you live near right?

You scrunch your eyebrows, confused. There are too many thoughts in your head right now—has Megumi been lying? 

11:43 p.m.

< oh ok, i probs misunderstood!!

< and i’m out tonight, idt i can make it but lmk how it goes!!

You’ve never known Megumi to be a liar, but he’s definitely in it right now for some questioning.)

The 7-Eleven doors swing open, revealing Megumi with his shoulders shrugged up to his ears, hands deep inside his pockets as a plastic bag hangs around his wrist. He opens the car door, immediately settling in his seat before shutting it. 

He still won’t meet your eyes, fishing through the random snacks he bought instead. It’s awkward, the air in the car tense; and it takes the biggest guts in him to look up as he hands over the warm bottle of tea he got you, just like you wanted. 

It’s even worse when you’re staring right back, expecting—almost like you’re about to confront him. 

“Be honest,” you start, eyes squinting. 

Shit. Sweat forms at his palms as he blinks, the beat drumming in his ears intensifying. 

“Did you bring me out here to murder me?” 

He raises an eyebrow, expecting you to convict him for lying, “The fu–”

Which you do, bringing your phone up so he can read. Your text chain with Yuuji casts a white light over his face, his eyes darting from side-to-side as he scans each message. 

(You aren’t mad or anything, just even more confused than you already are; some clarity would be nice, once and for all. 

Embarrassment is painted on his face the more he reads through your phone screen, lashes entirely too long as it bats against the tip of his cheeks; a faint pink blooms on his skin, like winter peonies.) 

There’s a reason for all this. 

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath; he’s dreading having to open them—do you think he’s weird now? That he had some ulterior motive bringing you out? His jaw clenches at the thought—

But then you laugh, a soft chuckle that accompanies the ‘click’ of your phone turning off. And when he takes a peek, squints one eye to catch a glimpse, you’re smiling; your lips are pressed together with the corners curled up slightly, as if you find this entire thing funny. 

The tension dissipates, but he frowns, eyebrows scrunching as he considers whether he wants to be the reason for whatever it is you’re thinking. 

“Stop it. Don’t make fun of me.” his head turns to the side. 

You chuckle again, biting your bottom lip, “You’re just too cute.”

A beat.

(It slips out before you can catch yourself, heat rising to your cheeks. Megumi isn’t doing any better; his ears are flushed red, crawling down to the sides of his neck as he swallows.) 

The plastic bag crinkles on his lap, cutting through the silence. 

How can you just… say that? 

You clear your throat, “So, uh, did you know about the surprise?” 

(Your eyes shift to the corner of the infotainment system, 11:52 p.m. in white.)

He sighs, running a hand through his hair as he leans back on his seat. 

“Gojo-sensei tries to surprise me every year, I didn’t think he’d call Itadori this time.” 

“You sound like that’s a bad thing…” you tilt your head, curious. 

He pauses, staring ahead as he considers his response, “Not bad… just,” his fingers fiddle with the plastic bag, “too loud, sometimes.”

(Megumi’s mentioned a bit about this ‘Gojo-sensei’ guy, his kind-of-mentor slash benefactor since being orphaned with his step-sister at age 6. You’ve never met him, but Yuuji never stops talking about how fun he is, how cool. 

It makes sense why Megumi finds him a bit much, if anything.)

“And you think I’m any better?” you snort offhandedly, joking as you turn to the side, facing him. 

He tilts his head towards you, leaning back on the headrest; your eyes lock for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting subtly before he looks away, straight ahead again. 

If he had the courage, he’d tell you that you’re the only company he wants to spend this birthday with—

That there are songs in his playlist he’d otherwise never listen to, but repeats and repeats and repeats because it reminds him of you;

That he looks forward to doing deep cleans on his car every weekend, but has started to dread it once he noticed that it washes away your scent from the Fridays that he drops you home; 

That he’s a liar because he really likes you, but can’t find the words to tell you.

So he doesn’t say anything, shrugging. 

The silence is telling. 

(You feel too warm, whether from the heating system or from the implications of this moment. The 11:58 p.m. on the clock adds a pressure that it shouldn’t, an almost taunting presence that tells you if you act now, tomorrow could be very different. 

Are you reading the signs right? 

Should you just say it? 

Each second drags on twice as long, and you think—

Fuck it.) 

“Megumi?” your voice breaks through softly. 

The plastic crinkles on his lap as he turns to you. 

He could be any other place right now.

But he’s chosen to be here, with you, parked outside a 7-Eleven, minutes before midnight. 

“If I tell you something, will you be honest with me?” 

He blinks before humming, nodding. This is the least he can do after today’s blatant lying. 

There’s an intensity to your gaze that makes him nervous; your fingers tug at the edges of his (your) gray sweater, a piece of him you’ve taken with you. Then you speak—

“I like you,” you say it plainly, unblinking, “and I need you to tell me if you don’t feel the same.” 

—and you take the rest of him too. 

12:01 a.m.

He stares at you, turning the confession over and over in his head. He’s always had a feeling but it’s different when it’s out in the open, when it’s from you and isn’t based on some gut-feeling. 

There are so many things he can say, but you did ask him to be honest—to tell you if he didn’t feel the same. 

“Do I stay quiet if I do?” he mumbles, cheeks deepening into red. 

There’s a smile he’s trying to hide, one he won’t allow himself to let out until he gets one from you too. 

You visibly relax, releasing the breath you were holding. Your lips curl up instinctively, wide and infectious—that feeling of your heart bursting. 

“Smartass,” you scrunch your nose before glancing at the time, “happy birthday.” 

When you look at him this fondly, there’s not much else he can ask for, really. 

.

You eat the snacks in his car (an exception—whether it’s because of you or his birthday, you’re not sure) and tell him that your actual gift is back home, sitting in dog-patterned wrapping paper by your entryway. 

The drive back is, for the most part, the same—lingering gazes when the stoplight permits, a brush of your fingers when you hand him his phone after queueing songs. You’re wearing his sweater and his car still smells like mint. 

But you both can’t stop smiling. 

And when he drops you off, he’s tempted to tell you to stay longer for just one more song, but he figures there’s lots of time for that now. So instead, he grabs your puffer from the back, gets down and rushes over to open your door, helping you out. 

He holds up your jacket as you slip your arms into it, zipping it up so you stay warm and toasty. Cute, he thinks, when your grin reaches your cheeks; he could pinch them, would you complain if his fingers are too chilly? 

Your hesitance is evident in the way you bite your lip, but you go for it anyway, diving in to land a soft kiss to his cheek. It happens so quickly, it barely registers to him—the touch of your lips to his skin. When you pull away, you look shy.

He doesn’t say anything, heat rushing to the place you’d kissed. You take this as a sign to go ahead, so you move, but he can’t—

—can’t let you go just like this. 

Not when he’s been thinking about those lips since he last laid his eyes on it. 

It’s reflex, the way he grabs your wrist, pulling you back to him. He lets go immediately, hovering, but his eyes drop dangerously, down to your lips—shiny and plump from the lip balm he knows you carry. 

His breathing quickens and he asks so softly, “Can…”, he gulps, nervous, “Can I?” 

You nod, humming. 

(When Megumi leans in, long lashes fluttering over your eyelids, you think, this can’t possibly be real. But then his lips slide over yours, cold but not cracked, and you move yours against them, gentle in the same way he is.

His fingers slot themselves at the edge of your jaw, palm pressed to your cheek; it makes you shiver, how cool it is, but it warms up quickly.) 

The kiss is over far too soon (you think so, too), and when you part, you’re beaming, a twinkle in your eyes that makes him want to kiss you again, if only to keep them shining the way they do. 

It’s the end of the night, but the beginning of something new and Megumi’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the noise; this constant beat drumming in his ear is all he can hear now, swiping his tongue over his lips to taste mint—your lip balm of choice.

thank you note: to everyone who was just as excited abt this as i was—@soumies @mysugu @augustinewrites @mididoodles @twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat @selarina @pastelle-rabbit @mymegumi @kagelun @irisintheafterglow & @shidouryusm for making me see that paradise is so megumi 🥺

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[bunji-enthusiast]

Closer And Closer

Note || as requested by many, here is the sequel! This was a ton of fun to write 🤲

WC || 2,535

<(Previous Part)> <(You are here)>

Sypnosis || With your new friend in hand, you begin earning some unexpected honesty—and new understandings.

Once, there was a dream. Sometimes it would recur, coming back to you in the encroaching depths of your mind no matter how much you wanted to stop dreaming this very same dream. It was always on and off, how it can always come back–like a nightmare–just how can one describe it?

People can forget their own dreams long after they wake up, lest they be lucky to want to write down the dream. So you were one and the same, the trepidation always sneaking upon you, like an approaching danger that will never fail to make your nerves stand on end. 

“Mommy,” You tugged at the hem of the woman’s dress, a baby trapped within a limited consciousness; yearning for love, curiosity and just always wanting to be around your parents. It’s natural and in nature for a young child to always want their parents. “Why are you gonna be gone for so long?”

Oh, that sweet, sweet voice. How adorable could you be? The woman just looked down upon your small form with a smile, so very reminiscent of motherly love. Only a mother could bring a kind of peace like that to their child, the woman thought. She crouched down to your level, patting the crown of your head with a gentle hand, so very gentle as you remember her even gentler heartbeat. A voice came from her mouth, words carried with a saccharine tone. “My little sweet apple pie, it is only a work trip!” She giggled, then wrapped her arms around you and held you close. Causing you to giggle as well, laughter so joyous even the woman holding you now couldn’t help but feel such joy because of you alone. “I’ll be back before you can say Poppies!”

You look up at her, strangely the woman’s face was misty, enshrouded by black shadows. As if reality didn’t want you to see her, your own mother. Still, a smile remained upon your face as you nodded at the woman. “Hehe! Okay, mom.”

Slowly you blinked, the world suddenly began disappearing from sight, the environment twisting upon your peripherals. 

“What?”

You groan audibly, cursing to yourself under your breath. “Of-fucking-course.” 

Slowly, You remember where you are now. A hand comes into your view and holds you steady, a very familiar one. 

“Don’t get up too quickly, you will get weary Angel.” His voice warns, it still seemed so strained and worn worse for wear. Just what kind of things had Catnap done to DogDay? Perhaps you shouldn’t worry about it, something like that is a very personal thing to ask about, no doubt. 

You coughed, pounding on your chest as you slowly rose awake. Your companion had been waiting calmly for you to collect yourself, but that had made him a little worried as he winced when you coughed. Slowly enough, you ease yourself into standing with DogDay’s help, all that jumping and landing seriously hurt your body a great deal. No wonder you were exhausted as hell right now.

Right, no time to worry about that now. It was time to be more worried about what to do next, “DogDay, you think you can handle being carried around by me in that state?” You asked with an airy tone, you didn’t want to be too loud and accidentally attract any nearby toys who are under Catnap’s influence. DogDay slumped for a moment, most likely still very worn out from probably the way he had been hanged. He let out a heavy sigh, feeling everything coursing through him, he was very much here and alive.

He always had been continually reminded of this very thing.

Reminded of Catnap.

“No need to worry about me, Angel.” Your companion spoke, his fur ruffling about in his movements. You probably were gonna have to do something about that later, DogDay sorely needed some cleaning up. “I am tougher than you think.” 

It seemed his words carried a half-hearted weight, carrying no affirmed meaning to them. You looked at DogDay incredulously, clear as night and day that you knew this well; worn out, tired and cramping for a plan to end the Prototype. You’ve never gotten a good look at the Prototype, only a few times you have gotten a good look at the Prototype’s hand–there must be a whole body from beyond the shadow’s.

Awaiting, no doubt terrifying too. But, you dealt with adrenaline rushes and terrifying monsters from the moment you stepped foot into the abandoned Playtime Co. 

“Ah, well, just tell me if anything is bothering you.” You nodded at him, patting down your clothing, the dust falling in your wake. DogDay was quiet for a moment, taking a hand-step back as he looked around at the environment once more. He was considering something, considering how to go about the next phase of the way. 

“No safe places here, nothing good.” For a moment, you swore that you had seen his mouth contorting into a frown–though in every Smiling Critter, they always are smiling–So this was completely new, different somehow. “My apologies Angel, safe places are rare to find.” DogDay sighed, he in a sense was habitually instinctive to keep his loved ones safe; going so far as to make sure they have a good sleep. Even if it meant at the cost of his own health. 

He cared deeply for his friends, but they were gone now. Catnap was someone he could not recognize anymore, that wasn’t his friend.

DogDay’s only focus was making sure you are alive and safe.

Something of which is admittedly difficult to do, knowing all the horrors that had occurred in Playtime Co. but it wasn’t too troubling for someone like you. DogDay was glad for you about that, impressed even that you had managed to survive thus far before you had met him. 

You patted his head, causing him to look back at you. “Nothing to apologize for! Everyone’s just… a little too crazy nowadays.” You mutter, walking over to a dusty pile and finding a tape. There seemed to be thousands of these tapes all around the Factory, some of which you could’ve sworn recording yourself. 

Being a former employee for Playtime Co. is one thing to say, but being an engineer was a different process. You were only involved in the works of designing and constructing, not once had you ever really got hand in hand with actually building things. But you were highly proud of the work you had done and completed alongside your fellow co-workers, looking back on it now… all it had done simply saddened you.

How it seemed to be the way that the toys seemed to be so lifeless, once so full of joy, love and empathy for everyone in this place all together.

You wouldn’t mind turning back the clock and doing good for once more, the right way this time. When everything was said and done, the toys you came across were well justified in their anger for being abandoned–but you weren’t looking to be on the top list of being killed either. Considering how you had gotten lucky apparently by quitting the day before your co-workers had all disappeared.

Getting through this place was no trouble, you remember some good places of this Factory like the back of your hand. Huggy Wuggy, Kissy Missy of whom is his spouse, was rather different to the likes of the tall-blue furred beast. Rather inconceivable in behaviors, Kissy Missy was a perturbed ally, one you didn’t expect. All the toys you met so far, (save for Poppy, and Kissy Missy) had full intentions to kill you from going any further.

This Factory is a whole goddamn amalgamation of mysteries you weren’t sure you wanted to solve anymore. Let alone having any trust in every being you come across now too, how disturbing must this get? You sure as hell weren’t Elliot Ludwig. 

“I simply wish I could be of more help.” DogDay recounted with a mournful tune, breaking you out of your thoughts and consolation. You frown at him, wanting to offer comfort: the words could not come through. He shuffled around to begin looking for things too, but now something had crossed your mind. 

You still couldn’t piece together almost everything between DogDay and Catnap, some things he had said back at the heretic altar had stuck with you. Until now it was dismissable, out of sight and out of mind you supposed. Though you recounted some thoughts that had warmed you in ways you didn’t expect, at first meet he already was of great character–someone you truly wanted to be around.

The repugnant smell that had always seemed to be invading your senses was gone now, this particular area was an untouched one. “DogDay… do you mind if I ask you something?” You spoke, stepping over the rubbish and noting the sound footsteps that echo in your wake. Don’t walk too much, this area may be empty but it didn’t mean that Catnap wasn’t watching. That cat was terrifying to you. Permeating nightmares had run endlessly through your mind, and his gas before when calling back on previous close counters with the obsessed follower of the prototype were far too close. 

Continually he had gone about looking for anything that may be of assistance to you both, still he had spoken in reply, “Angel, I will answer anything. You deserve as such.” DogDay recounted, noting what he had said to you before you fell to the slumbers of sweet, sweet sleep. 

Cool, cool cool… that was dandy and nice of him. You just weren’t sure how to articulate the very question that lays burning in your mouth, for fear of the fact you might be gazed upon with ranicid and covert questioning, like an ornery old bitch. Pointedly you stepped around the rubble, in turn you came across an old set-up, as if there used to be children here. A blanket laying upon the ground and the ravaged pillows, still in condition that you could say that was okay to be recycled for use. Still quite in a-okay position to sit down on, waiting for DogDay to finish scrambling around.

“So,” You began, lacing your fingers together and intertwining them purely out of your nerves spiking in your body as of right now. “What’s… the deal between you and Catnap?” Abruptly, at those words, his very being felt as if he tensed up. You couldn’t read him right now, suddenly incomprehensible to understand. 

“I suppose you should know about it, in order to really understand Catnap.” He motioned, steadily crawling over to where you sat. “Catnap was someone you could get along great with, quiet and not much of a talker, but actions speak louder than words Angel.” 

Then, there was a lapse in his words; DogDay was doing his best to keep himself steady and calm. He certainly couldn’t allow himself to fall apart in front of you, that is not very leader-like of someone such as DogDay.

“Oh, his actions spoke so much more for him than one little word.” He nodded, laying his head upon his crossed arms. DogDay had made himself comfortable as he shifted to a proper position. “But, things happened. Very bad things.” You were albeit surprised he was willingly sharing such information with you, as personal as it would appear. 

Still, you had remained muted, this was something that could conceivably help you in dealing with the nightmare cat later on. “Something had happened to him, something I wasn’t aware of. Angel, he.. wasn’t the same Catnap. He wasn’t my friend anymore.” Now, you could understand this well.

You yourself never had a good trade off within all your relationships, no matter what kind of relationship it was… be it; platonic, romantic, friends even! Humans are odd and sometimes indescribable in nature, but it simply has always been this way. But friends change, sometimes partially and even supernaturally.

In DogDay’s case, it was gruesome and religious. Catnap by no means was someone to act fool with, something you could pick out with merely just from first impressions. In passing, this was no offense whatsoever–personally that cat looked scary as hell.

“All my friends just,” Then, DogDay allowed himself to breathe again once more. “I wouldn’t wish it even on my own worst enemy.”

“The Prototype?” You snorted, shifting your weight from one end to the other as you gave him a benign quizzical look. 

“Angel.”

“I'm messing with you!” 

You waved him off, then put your hands in your lap. It was oddly endearing in how you behaved, the normalcy around here is rare, DogDay would admit. “So it seems, Prototype is his god. I don’t understand every detail, but The Prototype saved him.” He beckoned, recounting the mention of the Prototype from not even two minutes ago. 

“So Catnap began viewing this, Prototype as such?” You finished for him, tilting your head. Your companion nodded, lifting his head to recover proper eye contact with you. 

“Poppy, the rest who are on your side want nothing more to end the terror of the Prototype’s reign. Come to save me Angel, I thank you so much for that.” Honesty was a fickle thing for DogDay since recalling recent events, but had it come to you? The fearless dog didn’t mind. 

“Oh it’s nothing to be thanked for,” You grin at him, ever so slightly. But he’ll take that, “You were in so much pain. That’s a position no innocent person, or toy deserves to be in.”

DogDay had to consider this for a moment, so much consideration had been done lately. Yet, it was all done to simply understand the chaos underlying this factory, no doubt it had caused a lot of trauma (to many in this place) alone. “You're right about that, Angel, I suppose I had gotten too comfortable in all my reckless decadence.” Willfully, he was well aware of his actions as a leader. Some of which he had questioned why he had made them.

Your hand on his ragged-torn furred head had snapped DogDay out of his conscious thoughts, “We all deserve peace, that means you too DogDay.” 

You were right.

It seems there are still many things to be learned.

“You are far too kind to me.” He sighed, leaning into your hand. You never moved your hand away from him. 

“Though we should probably get you cleaned up.” That sentence alone suddenly broke the comfortable atmosphere, still much rather comedic however. 

“Right,” DogDay barked, as if he really was laughing. His whole body shook, it was rather a wave of happiness. Something he had not often felt, it had almost shocked him a little. “I believe they would have some bandages and towels nearby, water too.” Your companion then noted it would most likely be at a medical station somewhere.

You raised a brow at this, causing DogDay to nod with an air of laughter about him as he spoke once more whilst you had hoisted him over your shoulders. “I worked with children quite more often than not, you would be surprised at the amount of things that happen during playtime Angel.”

[Taglist: @zacklover24 ]

[hockeymenarehot]

Late Night Calls Feat. Bill Kaulitz

pairing: best friend!bill kaulitz x fem!reader

summary: bill kaulitz has always been your best friend, and you've always confided to him. when you wake up startled from a nightmare, you decide to call him. what you don't expect are his feelings towards you.

warnings: smut, fem reader, phone sex, masturbation (fem. & m.), squirting, praise, pet names (darling, princess), it's implied he steals your panties, u cry and it turns him on, depictions of nightmares, lmk if I missed anything!

for my bae: @billkaulitzbaeee

You heave in a large amount of air, your body shooting up from its once peaceful resting spot. Your eyes frantically survey your room, and you clutch the silky smoothness of your nightgown as you attempt to collect your thoughts. Just a dream, it was just a dream you repeat in your head as you feel the cool air of your fan, the sweat on your forehead slowly dissipating. The attempt to calm yourself seemed to be working for your mind, but not so much your body. Your heart was still beating at a fast pace, and your ears still had a subtle ring. Deciding that trying to get some sleep on your own would be futile, you slowly reached for your phone.

3:38 A.M.

You weren't sure if your best friend, Bill, would pick up his phone but decided that it was more likely he would. He would do almost anything for you and you knew that. You found comfort in his presence, from his subtle sweet touches to his kind words. He was always there for you. You searched through the sea of your contacts before finding his number, giving it one final thought before pressing the Call button.

Ring, ring. Two full rings before he picks up.

"Hello?"

His voice sounded husky, like you had just awoken him from what might've been the best sleep of his life. Feeling guilty about this quite obvious realization you muster up a meek "Hi," and you begin to question if this was actually a good idea. I mean, it isn't like you've never been vulnerable with him before, but this time seemed so much different.

You couldn't tell what it was that was off, but something about it made you feel a little embarrassed, shameful even. Almost as if you'd walked in on him doing something he wouldn't want you to see. And honestly, you were enjoying it. "I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" You whisper, still feeling a certain amount of guilt. "No, no, not at all. I barely sleep." Liar, you thought to yourself. "Is there something you needed? Did something happen?" His voice had a slight sense of urgency to it, which you found quite endearing. "No... well, sort of," you begin quietly "I had a nightmare..." Your voice left your mouth in almost a whine, and you could almost catch the way his breath hitched over the poor phone quality. "I'm sorry, darling" That name he had never referred to you by. Strange. "Tell me... tell me what happened." Some shuffling on his end. You began telling him about the great atrocities of your nightmare, all of the chasing and adrenaline. The monsters you would see around every corner, or maybe your lost loved ones. He would acknowledge you every so often with a short "Hm," or "I'm sorry" to let you know he was still listening. Or at least to keep you under the impression that he was. He truly did care about you and your wellbeing, its just in all honesty you were perfectly fine. Your voice sounded so perfect to his ears, and the subtle whines and borderline moans you would serve him as you described your nightmare had him in a shameful position. One you had yet to pick up on, and this was annoying him. He decided he was going to test the waters. "Nggh-" Silence. "Are.. are you okay? You sound hurt." There was a level of surprise and concern in your voice, still trying to interpret the noise that just left his mouth. "I'm fine, don't worry about me darling. Just keep running your pretty mouth." You had no reason to question him or his honesty, so you continued. Your story of your nightmare turned into more stories of previous nightmares, some even worse than the one you had experienced tonight. But you trusted him with all this information, and it felt good to finally get it off your chest. Eventually, the recollection of all these horrible visions brought tears to the corners of your eyes. Your voice began to quiver as the tears fell down your face and rolled onto your plush comforter, leaving tiny damp spots. Not even 30 seconds into your crying session, and you heard a loud moan from his end, along with an undeniable squelching noise. This left you speechless, before you said "Are you?..." His breath hitched once more "Fuck princess, so you finally caught on. So sorry... You have no idea how crazy you make me. When you called me whining 'n moaning I just couldn't help myself." You felt your heart skip about two beats at his words, your face heating up and painting your cheeks a rosy pink. He would probably tease you if he could see you. "I- I had no idea you, um, that of me like.. that." You heard a sarcastic sounding laugh before he spoke again "You're telling me you had no idea? Come on princess, I know you aren't that stupid. Plus, I know you feel it too." His voice was still coated with the same huskiness as he spoke. "Bill, I have no idea what you're talking about. You aren't making any sense!" You whisper yelled. "Really? Don't play dumb with me. You don't think I see the way you look at me? The way you clench your thighs every time I so much as brush your arm? The way you stutter any time I compliment you? You can't do all that and leave me hangin', princess." You took a moment to think before noticing how hard your thighs were pressed together, and how your core was aching. Aching for him. You never wanted to acknowledge this part of yourself, the part that wanted him so badly. But as he's on the other end of the phone fisting his cock to the mere sound of your voice, you come to the conclusion that you're passed the point of return.

So, with shame you let out a strained whisper "Please," and you hear him groan on the other side of the line. You can tell he's been waiting for this. "Please what, princess? Use your words, I know you can." Your ears pick up some subtle sqeulching sounds again, so you swallow your pride and try your best to stabilize your voice "Please help me cum, I need you. Need you so bad." This apparently satisfies him. "That's my girl. Why don't you take off those pretty panties for me? I know you're wearing those pretty pink ones that you wear so much. Just for me, huh?" You choose to ignore the implications of his words, too focused on the increasing noises he's making and the fire in the pit of your stomach. Doing as your told you remove your pink panties and throw them onto the floor, bunching up the buttery silk of your nightgown to give you better access to your soaking cunt. "Now what?" you groan, feeling your neediness increase. "Mm, Fuck. Bet you're so wet. I bet you can already take two fingers. Do that for me. Fuck your fingers, I know you can." You whine at his words, feeling your arousal pool onto your comforter. But you do as your told, trailing your cool fingers down your abdomen and towards your aching pussy. "Nuh-uh, pretty girl. Need you to put the phone next to your sweet cunt. Need to hear the way your fingers go in 'n out." Your face heats up with embarrassment at his words, but you comply as your move the phone to rest in between your thighs. You continue your previous minstrations, using two fingers to prod at your wet hole. You swirl your fingers, gathering your juices before plunging your fingers into your pussy. "Ha-!" You let out a high-pitched moan as your fingers travel deeper and deeper, slowly alleviating the aching in your stomach. "Oh, fuck. Just like that, princess." You hear Bill moan, followed by increased noises of him sliding his hand up and down his impressive length. The fact that he was getting off to just the noises you made egged you on even further, using your fingers to try and navigate towards your g-spot. "Say my- shit- name, baby." Not wanting to dissapoint, you loudly mewl "Bill!" as your fingers find there way to your sweet spot, repeatedly brushing up against it. Bills moans gain in ther frequency and pitch, which you find hot. "Are you close? I bet you are. Come with me, princess." His words make you loudly moan, your second hand coming down to rub fast circles on your clit. You hear Bill let out a final grunt as he comes, "Oh fuck, Y/n!" Him moaning your name as he orgasms has your back arching off your bed, your fingers pinching at your clit. You fuck yourself onto your fingers hitting your g-spot, and your abdomen tensing before your juices spray onto your bedsheets. You're left a twitching mess as you chant his name like it's the only word you've ever been taught. You pull your hand away from your clit and your fingers out of your pussy, allowing your back to find a resting place on your bed again.

"You did so well for me, princess. Now that you're all nice and wet for me, why don't you come over and see how well you can take my cock?"

a/n: i hope u enjoyed! i haven't wrote in a couple months, so i might be a little rusty. if you have any ideas or prompts, feel free to send in a request! :)

[thestitchywitchy]

Future Spouse: First Impressions Pt 1

Hello my dears! Here’s a little PAC I’ve been working on…. This is going to be a 2 part (possibly a third, 18+ post, depending on how well these do) series as this one became a lot longer than I intended it to lol. This one will be about your future spouse’s first impression of you. The next one will be your first impression of them. Please leave feedback 😁

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To book a reading with me, please DM or send an email to thestitchywitchy@yahoo.com with your inquiry 💌

My Links <- 🔮please support your witch💕 -> Masterlist

Please donate if you’re able to 🙏

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Here we go! Shake it out, take a breath, close your eyes, and choose one of my favorite movie couples that calls out most to you. This is a general reading, so take what resonates and leave what doesn’t. If you feel inclined to choose more than one group, please feel free to do so.

Pictures are from Pinterest, credit to the owners. Editing was done by me, Stitchy!

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Gomez & Morticia - Pile One

6 of cups reversed, Queen of Swords, Page of Pentacles

All right, pile one, welcome to your reading! You will strike your future spouse as a complex individual from the very first moment. You may have seemed a bit guarded and reserved, which made them immediately think “💡I need to see what’s past that guard”. Aw cute lol. Some of you have a femme fatale thing going on and some of you are incredibly private or reserved, so you give off this mysterious vibe to your FS. The energy is as if you were carrying a heavy emotional burden from your past experiences on your shoulder, which makes you seem hesitant to open up to someone new.

As you two start conversing, they notice that you may have an air of authority about you. You may even be a manger/boss. Could even own your business or attempting to at the point of meeting them. This is only for some of you, but I’m also seeing kids? So you may be a parent or work with kids often. Teenagers/middle school age, specifically. They will also notice that you are very clear and precise in the way you communicate, and you seemingly have a sharp mind and quick wit about you. You may talk with your hands a lot too. They can tell that you’re someone who values honesty and straightforwardness above all else, and you are not someone who would suffer fools gladly. Get it, boo! Show those suckers what you’re made of 😉 But there was also something very innocent and curious about you under the surface that they are going to be intrigued by. Despite your guarded nature and no-nonsense attitude…you still seemed eager to learn and grow. They like that you may be open to new experiences and perspectives. You may have even called them out playfully or wasn’t afraid to stand up to them when they said something out of pocket. They aren’t typically used to receiving that energy so you made them go a bit gaga (even turned on for some of you lol) with this display of power.

Im sensing that, for a lot of you at least, you guys may really gravitate towards each other when you first meet because it seems like they were able to get to know you better on a deeper level right off the bat. They see that your past experiences have indeed left a deep mark on you and that you may be struggling to move past them. You may even bring up an ex or family issues during your conversation? But They also see that you had the strength and resilience to face your pain head-on and work towards healing and growth. They have/had no doubt that you have the intelligence and determination to make progress. They were inspired by your willingness to learn and explore new ways of thinking. You inspire them to become a better version of themselves. They may be going through some personal issues of their own at the time and the way you tackle issues may differ from they way they would usually do it. But they prefer your outlook on life so they may get inspired to take a page out of your playbook.

By the end of your meeting, they were left with a deep respect for this complex and multifaceted individual standing before them. You may have had a guarded and stand offish first impression, but they could see that beneath the surface was a person with a strong will, an open mind, and the courage to face your past and move towards a brighter future….and they would do anything in their power to be apart of it. Aww I love that for you, pile one! I hope you enjoyed your reading.

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Adam & Barbara - Pile Two

4 of pentacles, Ace of swords reversed, 9 of cups

Hey pile two, thanks for joining! Upon first meeting, you left a deep impression on your future spouse. To them, you seem to have an air of wealth and luxury about you. You may be dressed in your finest clothes or rockin your most expensive jewelry. Lmaooo I just heard “they’re bangin!” Sooo they’re really going to like your body, pile 2! 😂 can't get enough of it, apparently! That night/day, you will just all around be dressed to the nines and that will catch your FS’s attention right away. They may have noticed you right away, but it’s going to take them a little time to approach you. So as they continue to examine you from afar, they could sense something underneath all of the pretty wrapping paper. They feel a sense of possessiveness emanating from you. Like you’re holding on too tightly to your material possessions. It’s like…though you’re dressed to kill, they catch on to your insecurities beneath the surface. They’re trying to get familiar with your poker tells, basically.

Oop. Ok….Your FS may think that you might be having an identity crisis. Not necessarily in a negative way (although it might be for some of you who chose this pile), but it is apparent to them. You may be the type of person that struggles with their decision-making abilities. You may even seem lost and unsure of yourself, even though you’re dressed confidently. Like you don’t really belong in that setting, but you’re trying to fake it until you make it for whatever reason. This lack of clarity may also hinder you from making better choices for yourself. What I’m getting is like a nightclub, bar, or busy restaurant setting (take what resonates). You may have a lot of suitors physically surrounding you before your FS gets to you, so they’re still watching you from afar. They may see someone flirting with you and you’re eating up the attention and they’re just thinking to themselves… “really? You’re impressed by *that*?” Lmao your future spouse cracks me up. They’re a cerebral person, that’s for sure. They take in their surroundings before doing anything.

To them, it seems as though you are trying to use your wealth or material possessions to fill a void within yourself. Your future spouse feels like you’re trying to find emotional fulfillment in all the wrong places. They may also think you may be hard to satisfy or please, but are still not entirely sure what you really want. They see that you are seeking happiness but are met with fleeting moments instead and may even have lost touch with your emotional well-being. But they’re thinking that you’re knock out gorgeous, so why are you so sad?

Overall, their first impression of you is that you are struggling to find true happiness and emotional fulfillment in your life. While you may have amassed great wealth, luxury, and success ( whatever that means to you), you still seem to be missing something important in your day to day. They may have a fleeting thought of “ could it be me that’s missing from this equation?” Aww cute 🥰 hope you enjoyed your reading, pile 2!

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Seymour & Audrey - Pile Three

4 of Pentacles, Queen of Cups, Knight of Pentacles reversed

Hello pile 3, ready for your reading? Your future spouse’s first impression of you would be one of complexity and depth. They would see in you someone who is highly guarded and may be struggling with a fear of financial insecurity. You may be going through some difficulty at the time of meeting your future spouse and you may wear your worry on your face. For some of you, they felt your energy before they laid eyes on you. You may have been in a whirlwind of panic or frustration, maybe even tripping over yourself a bit, and they picked up on it before you even entered the room. Fear not, they will think your dishevelment is rather adorable lol awww!

However, they would also sense a deep emotional intelligence and sensitivity in you, much like the Queen of Cups. They would think that you’re someone who is highly empathetic and in tune with your and other’s emotions, but you may also be very protective of your feelings and hesitant to fully open up to others. I see a lot of nervous chuckling happening when you’re around them. They may have approached you in a teasing manner and you reacted shyly and a bit embarrassed. That’s so adorable pile 3! But remember, you’re the prize…no need to be nervous 😉 oh, I’m getting that they really like your smile! They instantly see in you someone they can start a life/family with. There’s just something about you that tick off all their boxes.

Your FS will also feel that you may be resistant to change and may prefer to stick to a routine or maintain the status quo. They see you as the type of person who doesn’t want to step on any toes, even in detriment to yourself. They feel that you may be cautious when it comes to taking risks or trying new things, but this energy can also indicate a strong sense of dedication and a willingness to work hard and persevere. They see that you like things done a certain way so that’s how you’re going to do it.

Overall, their first impression of you would be that you’re a person with a complex and multi-layered personality. They would see someone who is both highly sensitive and guarded. They want to tear your walls down. Make you feel safe with them. Hmm…Your fear of financial security keeps coming up… like you fear financial instability, so you’ve married yourself to your work to never see your bank account dip lower than a certain amount. It may worry them a bit that you may not have room for a relationship (with them) in your life because of this. However, On the same note, they would also see someone who is dedicated and hard-working… Someone who has the potential to break through their blocks and achieve success and fulfillment in life. Your FS would be drawn to your emotional depth and dedication, and would be eager to help you navigate any challenges that may arise….they’re just hoping you’ll make a little bit of space for them in order to do that. Aw, congrats pile 3. That sounds sweet!!

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All rights reserved to @thestitchywitchy . Thank you for participating in this pick a card reading 😊 if you liked this reading and would like to dive in further, please DM me for a $7.77 extended reading 💞

[soothinglee]

| shitty 808s - kim jongseob x gn! reader - 1.2k wc✔︎

my notes⎯ sorry for not writing in a bit- I got hit by a scooter and lost hearing in my left eye. anyway- enjoy! (ilovejongseobsm). also the reader is younger than jongseob- so they're the maknae! warnings⎯ lowercase intended, cursing, not really proofread, I don't know jackshit about making music- I do make it just for fun but I don't know it on a professional level. songs⎯ "take you there x no bs" | dj short and "trillions" | alicia keys

“dude this sounds like shit.”

“it’s literally only 808s. it’s not going to sound good.”

“tell that to carti.”

jongseob groans and relaxes his body into the creaky studio chair. from where he's at; body slouches and neck bent, he feebly grabs for the mouse, each time he reaches he just barely misses it- giving a pitiful grunt every time.

you slap his hand away playfully, scooting your chair over in his place to play with the track. in the 30 minutes you've been in the studio you only managed the 808s. ass, in your opinion but something to start the song off as a base.

"what are you doing?" he mutters, looking towards the desktop screen. the black background of the software lights up every time you move around tracks. the purple and blue sections reflect off his glasses, "stop pressing stuff, you're gonna mess it up."

a scoff leaves your lips absentmindedly, choosing to replace the pre-made 808s with a original. you play it back for a spilt second- nodding to yourself feeling content in your work.

"you should be thankful I'm helping you," you start, adding a few high hats some measures into the song, "today is my off day and youngji just came out with a new episode."

he rolls his eyes and reaches over to grab his water bottle, he uncaps it and throws the lid on your lap. you make no effort to move it, "you would've had to come in eventually. jiung needed you today to record your verse."

you reach over to twitch your hand infront of his bottle, as if faking him out. he jerks his body away from you quickly, the water shakes in his hand- some even coming from the top and onto his sweater.

"bro." it comes out weak and quiet, a frown forming on his lips but you're quick to talk over him;

"for him, I wouldn't have complained. it's different when I have to do it because it's scheduled then come in to help someone work on his song." you spilt the back ground voices you added from files and slip in theo's guitar solo along with a 4 bar bass drum.

at this point you haven't listened to what has been added, jongseob still hogging the headphones. though you have enough confidence in yourself, and as one of the main producers, to know that the song will be somewhat decent- and way better than whatever he had before.

"what even is your inspo?"

"'bambi', baekhyun."

he makes a face, "sexy, no?"

you shrug, clicking around on the application to add some reverb, "piece will love it, fnc will tolerate it, intak will be happy. what more is there?"

he doesn't respond.

the difference between the software when jongseob had it compared to it in your hands is insane. infront of you the screen decorated with rainbows of colors, the static lines tracking the sound range from lengths and size. it's beautiful.

you feel a heavy weight on your left arm and look down to see jongseob leaning on you, he lets out a tired breath, and reaches up to fiddle with the loose string on your sleeve.

"are you almost done yet? you're hogging my equipment and I have other stuff I need to do."

"is all you do is complain?" you ask, titling the song with a random phrase and saving it, "because if that's the case I'll just get keeho."

his grip on your sleeve tightens as he tenses. for some reason jongseob is afraid of keeho- the latter always picking on him and fighting him. you would ask why and how it started but in all honesty, you couldn't really care.

"no no no, it's okay. you can keep working."

a proud smirk graces your lips as you reach over to slip the headphones off his head. he lets you, reaching forward to give you better access, smiling when he feels your hands pat down the mess they left.

you bend down slightly, apologizing when his head falls from your shoulder, and blindly reach for the tower to unplug the cord from its socket. "alright," you mess with the setting once more, turning the volume up enough so it can be heard. "you ready?"

jongseob yawns, "about time." you smack him upside the head.

the song is only about 3 minutes long, but in that three minutes it sounded wonderful. even though you were on playing around with it, something to keep jongseob satisfied until he could figure out what he really wanted to do with it, you think it could actually be the final product.

as the song plays you would take a look at his face to gauge his opinion. he seemed to like it; bobbing his head with the melody, a soft smile on his lips. it made you feel somewhat better about missing youngjis' show.

"okay, what do you think?" you ask as the beat fades out, you pause it so it doesn't play again and turn your body towards him, knees knocking each other.

he doesn't say anything for a minute, staring at the poster on the wall behind your head. his face is back to neutral. you think about snapping your fingers infront of his face to wake him up.

after a while he takes in a breath and says, “buns, actual buns.”

“you’re only saying that because it’s not jiung working on the song.”

he doesn't say anything but nods in agreement. there's a cheeky smirk on his face. "if that's the case, I'll just delete the song." you move the mouse to press erase before a hand catches you before you do.

"don't." he says, a mild glint in his eye as he pries your fingers from the mouse. he gently places your hand back in your lap while maintaining eye contact, moving the device to his side of the table.

"so it's not 'buns'?" you ask, the smirk back on your face.

he hesitates and then says, "no it's still ass, but why would I delete it just to start over, waste of time."

you laugh and go to answer but your phone vibrating catches you off guard. you use your face to open it to read the message;

멘토르 (mentor) come to floor 4 pls, we're ready for you :)

"uh oh," the chair beneath you slides backward as you stand up to collect your belonging. the bottle cap falls from your lap as you hand jongseob his headphones, "duty calls, i'll be gone for about an hour or two, if you need me, don't. I'll be busy."

he laughs, watching as you put on your shoes. you places a kiss on his head as you retreat for the door. you hear the clicking of a mouse and muffled music from behind you.

as soon as you reach for the door knob a voice calls out. "yeah?"

jongseob, hood pulled back so that you can see the bangs of his brown hair, his glasses that reflect the sparkle in his eyes, and the big smile on his face says, "I know I give you shit but thank you. you saved me a lot of trouble."

you smile back at your elder, a content look matching his own, "hey, anytime."

you close the door and head towards the elevator.

⎯if you want to be apart of my taglist let me know!

→ thank you for reading!

[shapard]

Feather of Fate🕊️

Lucifer x seraphim!fem!reader

Soulmate arc

Soft Lucifer

They talk in honesty

A/n: When someone wants to request something, go on!

Eternal Sunshine

Chapter 10 > Epilogue

Saying that Lucifer got over protective is an understatement. He always was at least one feet away from you.

Lucifer created a little goat guardian for you, when he wasn’t there and able to protect you. 

You named her Lammy. 

Lucifer always said that it was a boring name. You should name her Shazam or something similar, which you gladly declined. 

Lammy may be a simple name but it is a cute one for your cute little white-brownish goat. She had two small pairs of fairy wings and a pink bowtie. 

You loved your little Lammy and hugged it 24/7 which made Lucifer a little Jealous. 

When Lucifer was there Lammy wasn't allowed on the bed.

Husk and Angel dust were more than happy that you’re alive. They didn’t even let you move an inch. 

And now you were crouched down to the medicine cabinet, because the pain on your back was too much.

“Luce! Where are the pain killers?” You shouted as you looked in the small medicine cabin, you couldn’t find your medications anymore.

A golden shimmer appeared next to you and Lucifer descended from it. 

“They should be in here Apple pie. Why do you need them?” He asked as he crouched down to your level and helped to find the medications. 

“I have pain on my Shoulder.” The pain was on your shoulder blades reminding you of your missing pairs of wings, with a disappointed sigh you sat down on the red carpet. 

“Is there anything more you want to talk about darling?” Lucifer asked out of worry. Since a couple of days, he watched you closely as you sometimes looked outside with a sad expression on your face. You talked a lot less and sometimes you weren’t listening anymore to him. 

“It’s nothing Important.” That was a half lie. 

Even though you and Lucifer were very close and loved each other dearly, there was still a big elephant in the room. 

What was that with Lilith? 

And the way you thought about your wings, you missed them dearly. Now you know how Maleficent when she lost her wings from her own Lover, except it wasn’t Lucifers fault.

“I can see that you’re lying honey.” He snorted and chuckled and took your soft hands in his black clawed ones. “If you don’t want to share that’s okay. Only when you’re ready.” His voice was smooth like butter and his soft lips kissed your forehead softly. 

You take a deep shaky breath, “When I was in that Playhouse. Azrael showed me something.” Lucifer slit eyes switched onto your shaking hands, no doubt was that a very Traumatic event. 

He held them tight letting you know that he’s there for you and will protect you this time. “What has he shown you?” He asked carefully as he watched your eyes fill with sadness, a feeling that clenched around his heart in a hard force.

“You and Lilith, you two were kissing. Meanwhile I-“ A sob escaped your throat, and you laid your head on his chest. 

A pang of guilt resides in Lucifer as he stroked your back in circular motion. “I am sorry my Apple pie. I really hoped you didn’t see that accident, but I guess it was planned."

"She forced herself on me and right after I took care of her that she’ll never show herself back here. Please believe me.” His face was pressed on your hair and he took a deep breath in.

Well, you believe him. You believe him more than you do Azrael, you don’t even know him. 

Michael was dead, he was killed by his own twin brother Lucifer. 

How Ironic. 

You stayed in Lucifers arms a while until your cries calmed down. “Sorry to ruin your day.” Lucifer shook his head and chuckled, “You haven’t ruined anything! Besides we still have the whole night.” 

You started to blush, and your body started to heat up. 

A spark started to swirl on your back, and you felt something coming out. With a quick motion you grabbed some familiar soft feathers on your back and Lucifer whistled. 

“Seems you got your wings back cutie.” He bit his lips and brushed his clawed fingers softly down your Humerus towards the Manus and your body grew hotter every second. 

“Kinda Hot I gotta admit.”

A/n: I wanted to write smut in here but decided against it.

This is the most Pixelated image I've seen in my whole life. Neitherless a God piece.

💫

Sadly I couldn't tag you

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[frenchonionsoop]

How did Oda leave such a strong impression on Dazai?

OOHH ok i have a lot of thoughts on this topic so bear with me, this is gonna be a long one My interpretation is the first thing Dazai latched onto about Oda was his honesty.

Oda is a very straightforward person, he rarely ever if at all has an ulterior motive and it totally blindsides Dazai. He can't manipulate Oda because he'll take what he says too literally, he can't predict him - not because Oda is good at hiding his thoughts, he just naturally has the most unreadable resting poker face imaginable - and no matter what he does nothing seems to phase Oda (keyword "seems", it often does he just doesn't show it) , and it intrigues Dazai.

As seen with Chuuya we know Dazai gets hooked on people who surprise and/or impress him, so I can absolutely understand how he saw the enigma that is Oda and said "you're my friend now we're having soft tacos later <3".

I could go on for hours about the various times Oda has bamboozled Dazai and how each effected him profoundly in so many different ways, but that's a discussion for another time. I don't think just these factors would realistically warrant Dazai's drastic change in world outlook and spur on his sudden redemption arc, so what did?

I believe it was his complete lack of judgement. Despite Dazai's constant suicide attempts and harsh view of the world not once did Oda outwardly judge him for it, which is in some ways a blessing and in some ways a curse. Oda never viewed himself as qualified enough to call Dazai out, which in hindsight might've done harm as there were times were Dazai needed someone to call him out, but unbeknownst to Oda that lack of judgement gave Dazai room to breathe.

He saw right past the silly facade and the darker side to Dazai, he saw a "sobbing child abandoned in the darkness of a world far emptier than the one we're seeing", and he saw a friend.

And this is exactly why Oda's last words hit Dazai so hard. Odasaku, who never speaks up for himself, Odasaku, who's so genuine he'd believe a murderer if they simply said "I didn't do it", Odasaku, who is now telling Dazai life might just be little better if he decides to help rather than hurt.

Bleeding out on the floor of a mansion, in a desperate attempt to make up for all the times he didn't confront Dazai Oda has to find some way to get through to him and fast. His harsh words to Dazai on how he'll never find that happiness he so desperately craves are so jarring they snap him out of his panic, suddenly he's blindsided all over again, and that vulnerable state gives Oda's next words the chance to reach deeper - "be on the side that saves people."

In order to truly get through to him, Oda needed to level with Dazai, the only way to do that in such little time was to repeat back to him his own internal mantra of "never filling that hole that is his loneliness". It's clear his words are false, especially the line "nothing beyond your own expectations will happen" as Dazai's entire speech to Fyodor in the prison is about his belief in the unpredictable nature of human beings.

But regardless, that slap in the face of hearing his own self-destructive thoughts voiced aloud after going his entire life without ever considering anybody else could understand them heightened Dazai's faith in Oda's promise of a life that's "a bit more wonderful."

What makes me adore Oda and Dazai's friendship so much is how grounded and natural it feels. Oda isn't some perfect saviour who always knows exactly what to say, far from it, he was a 23 year old PM grunt with 5 kids and a love for spicy curry, but that's all he needed to be.

Sorry this is so ramble-y and long winded if you couldn't tell already Oda's my favourite character so I have a lot to say about him 😭 Thank you so much for the ask!!!

[mimsynims]

Fool For Love

part 2

~~~

part 1

~~~

Author’ Note: For one, I’m still on my first play-through and this will definitely stray from canon, but hopefully some things will give a nod to some of the actual events in the game. (Also there will be no Wyll or Minthara because I haven’t gotten to know them for…reasons 👀)

(As for when this takes place, I’m thinking around late act 1, early act 2-ish)

~~~

Astarion x reader/Tav

Tags: (mild?) angst, pining, pining while fucking, jealousy, eventual happy ending

Summary: You thought knew what you were doing when you let Astarion into your bed. He doesn’t have feelings for you, and vice versa. Only… Now you do. And the question is, how will you deal with it?

~~~

“Have you been crying, Tav?”

Fuck. You should’ve known Karlach would notice. “Yes,” you admit, knowing it’s no use lying. “Nightmare,” you add, because it’s not entirely untrue.

“Ah, yeah, that’ll do it.” The hand Karlach places on your shoulder feels reassuring. Supportive without a speck of judgement. “I’m here if you ever want to talk about it, you know.”

You smile, because you don’t know what you have done to deserve such a great friend like her. “Be careful,” you laugh, “otherwise I might take you up on that offer.” Gods knows you’re in need of someone to confide in. It’s just that you’re not a hundred percent sure she’s not one of Astarion’s other conquests.

“My tent is always open for you, Tav. I hope you know that.” Karlach’s soft smile quirks into a grin as her eyes shift to look at something over your shoulder. “Oh, hi, Fangs. Trying to sneak up on Tav, are you?”

“And a good morning to you too, Karlach.” You don’t need to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Of course not, I just did not want to break up what looked like an intimate moment.”

Strange. Underneath the snark, Astarion almost sounds… jealous. That doesn’t make the least bit sense, so you brush the notion away.

“Nothing intimate about it,” you press out. “Just Karlach being a good friend.” One deep breath, and then you turn around to face him. It takes all of your determination, but you make sure to keep a neutral expression. Except you catch his eyes narrowing, and too late you realise that he, too, notices the small but telling signs of the tears you shed not even an hour ago. Unlike Karlach, he keeps his thoughts to himself, because of course he does. You’re not even sure why you’re not surprised, but deep down you knew he wouldn’t acknowledge it.

You momentarily stop breathing when the truth slams into you like a blow to the gut: he doesn’t care enough to ask. Or if he does, asking could mean complicating things he wants to keep simple.

“Tav?”

You hear Astarion addressing you, but you’re stuck inside your own head now. Of course he doesn’t want to know. Freedom and survival are the key factors driving Astarion in everything he does, and getting entangled with you beyond pleasure and safety — and feeding — could compromise both of those things. While he probably does consider you a friend at this point, it’s only surface-level. In all honesty you can’t blame him. After all he’s been through, trust doesn’t come easy to him.

You could hold a grudge for the lies he told you, but the truth is, you went into this with your eyes wide open. You could’ve called him out on it, but you were so curious about what it would lead to that you let him believe that you were fooled.

“Tav?”

A cool hand on your arm snaps you back to the here and now.

“Sorry, did you say something?” He’s eyeing you warily, and you wonder fleetingly how he would react if you told him the half-lie about the nightmares.

Astarion’s brow twitches as he opens his mouth to speak. “Tav–”

“Gooood morning, everyone!”

Gale. Of course. “Good morning, Gale.” Not letting yourself ponder what Astarion might’ve been meaning to say, you fling yourself at the opportunity of a new topic of conversation as if it was the last potion of healing in an otherwise empty pouch. “Aren’t you chipper this morning?”

“I saw a falling star just before going to bed last night, and it felt like a sign that this day would be an exceptionally good one.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Speaking of.” Lowering his voice, Gale slides closer to your side. “I was thinking of doing some stargazing tonight. Want to join me? The sky should be clear enough for it.”

You can feel Astarion’s eyes on you. “Sure,” you hear yourself say, immediately regretting it.

“Perfect!”

“What’s perfect?”

Saved by the Tiefling. “Gale says tonight should be perfect for stargazing.” When you turn around to face her, there’s no Astarion in sight. That should feel like a relief, and yet, you can help but worry. Why that is is beyond you, but the guilt is still there, confusing you even more.

“That’s not–”

“Why don’t you join us? We can ask the rest of the group too.”

“Excellent idea, Tav!”

“Mm, yes. Excellent.”

Gale sounds disappointed, but it’s better this way. If you were more callous you would use Gale to try to get Astarion out of your system and out of your heart, but that is out of the question now. During your weeks together, he has become a friend. They all have.

Perhaps you can find yourself a handsome druid when you all go back to the Grove to trade with the merchant Arron later today. If for nothing else, you desperately need to work on your flirting game because it has never been your strong suit to begin with.

“Tav?”

“Yes, Halsin?” You don’t know it, but the druid can tell that something is troubling you.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, never been better.” If you keep saying it out loud you might perhaps believe it at some point.

“Right.” His seemingly all-knowing eyes scan you up and down, making you feel like he can see into the deepest parts of your heart and mind. You’re not entirely sure that he can’t. “I heard from Karlach that you’re going to the Grove,” he continues after a moment of heavy silence. “I have other business to attend to today, but I wanted to ask if you could do me a favour while you’re there.”

Your body relaxes with relief. “Yes, we are. What do you want me to do?”

The fictitious druid can wait for another time.

~~~

[danistartt]

Jamie Tartt's Awful Breakfast and Lovely Morning

pairings: jamie tartt x reader, roy kent warnings: reader is not a very good cook, fire?, language a la kent about: a request about reader not being a very good cook and jamie kind of liking it, and a request about touchy jamie <3

“You don’t have to get up with me ev’ry day, babe,” Jamie insists, his honesty doubted when he rests his chin against your shoulder.

“I don’t mind. I miss you when you’re gone.” You shrug, trying your best to keep the motion identifiable but unbothersome for the man gnawing at your skin. You laugh at him, shimmying your shoulders to get him away. “Jamie, what are you doing?”

“Y’smell good,” he hums. 

“It’s the batter,” you say. Jamie disagrees. “Can you get some butter, please?”

Jamie raises a brow and looks over to your hands, busy with the flour. Clumpy yellow bubbles trap more white into sticky goo. “More, love?”

“Yeah.” You wrinkle your nose, scraping gross residue off your index before sticking it back inside the mix. “I don’t think I used it right. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to melt it?”

“What’d the recipe say?” Jamie asks, opening the fridge.

“Soften. But there are different levels of soft, right?” You grimace at your concoction, but take your free hand and wrap it around the stick of butter he hands you. 

He watches you settle into your position, microwave ignored. “What’re you doin’?”

“Softening,” you murmur, concentrating on your mixture.

“Don’t ya think we’ve advanced a little further than that as humanity?”

“You’d think, huh?” Your fingers squeeze a little tighter.

He stares at the jutted bottom lip, the little lines between your brows, and decides you must be right. With only a chunk of your attention, you’re trying to figure out a way to rush heat into the stick of butter through your palm. He bites his lip. “We have mix,” he offers.

Your head swivels toward him, features scandalized. “I’m doing good!” you defend.

“I know,” he says. “You’re doing great, I can see that.”

“I wanted to make them from scratch. With love.”

“You are.”

“They’re easy,” you insist, turning back to your task with a distressed look on your face. You squeeze the butter a little harder, the wet noises of your mixing speeding up. The butter’s wrapped ends crinkle. “It just needs more butter.”

Very suddenly, you drop the bar inside the bowl, holding its greasy wrapper between your middle and index. Jamie winces as it plops in, some of the mix drooling onto the counter.

Nodding happily, you shove both hands inside the too-small bowl and look at him over your shoulder with a grin. “See?” You wince when your nails glide into the cold middle, recovering quickly in a facade of surety.

He nods, eyebrows uneven in light concern, but encourages you anyway, trying not to shudder at the sound before you decide you’re finished and begin pouring it onto a hot pan already smeared with more butter.

It’s both too runny and too thick, creating a wavy circle in the center of your pan. You frown at it, looking at your batter again. “Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“That doesn’t look very right, does it?”

Jamie loops an arm around your waist and presses a noisy kiss to your cheek. “I like it. Like a flower.”

“A wobbly flower,” you comment, leaning toward it, “that’s not bubbling.”

“I don’t think they’re supposed to bubble, love.”

“Inverse bubbling,” you explain. “Nothing is happening, is it on?”

Jamie turns the knob very gently, satisfied when it rotates easily. “Yeah. Give it a second.”

“It’s not doing the thing!” you exclaim, grabbing the spatula and flipping it too early. Jamie watches as it splatters part of the stove and streaks a thin line across the counter. He breathes in, about to say something, and decides against it.

“It’s bubbling,” you say optimistically, sheepish at its ends.

You’re correct. Thin, popped-bubble circles peek out from the edges of the lump-petals. “Huh,” Jamie says inquisitively, leaning in. “That’s interestin’.”

Your brows knit. “I think that’s good.”

Jamie is inclined to disagree, but he refuses to.

“It’s browning really quickly,” you observe, turning it over. It’s splotchy, but it should be fully cooked. You plop it on a plate, lips pinching and face struggling to stay proud.

“It smells edible. Could even say good,” Jamie comforts.

“It’s the bacon.” You say solemnly, poking at it with your spatula, its sizzling soft and barely beginning.

“No,” he says stubbornly, edged hair poking the curve of your arm. 

You pluck a fork from your cupboard and cut a neat square of pancake, popping it into your mouth. Jamie watches you chew amusedly, raising an eyebrow when you look down at your flapjack forlornly, a defeated realization on your face.

“What’s wrong, babe?”

You swallow solemnly, meeting his eyes. “I forgot the sugar.”

Jamie inhales, the air stuttering in his throat before shifting into a laugh. You look so sad, and he wraps you up in his arms, kissing your temple through soft laughter. You slump into his chest.

“It was not good,” you admit. “It was really gross.”

“I love ya,” he tells you, still chuckling. “You—” he snorts, “You’re great, you know that?”

“This is awful, Jamie,” you moan, making him laugh harder against the crown of your hair. 

“It’s not,” Jamie insists. “We still have the bacon.” He giggles and you watch him, pointy strands of hair prodding his cheekbones.

“Where’s your headband?” you ask, lowering the heat on the stove to turn to the man next to you. You cup a side of his jaw with your hand and pull hair away from his face with a frown.

“Broken.” He mimics your motions, both of his hands flat against your cheeks and squeezing with a careful mischief.

Breakfast failure forgotten, you huff, dropping your fingers to circle around his wrist and pulling him to your bathroom. You lead him inside and push his shoulders to sit him down. He watches as you pull little boxes out of the cabinet, hooking an index inside and pulling out random colors of bands, big and small.

You find a yellow-lined one that seems appropriate and turn to him again. “This should fit even you and your big head,” you murmur affectionately, gently combing his hair back to tug it on. He shuts his eyes when you drag it over his face, pinkies keeping it from brushing against even the highest of his pretty features. You use your index to fix his sliced brow, marriage fixing the band to fit his face. You drop a sweet kiss at his hairline, wiping it away as if it left a mark. “Perfect.”

“Thank you,” he says very quietly, light eyes constellating along your pinched lashes and pursed lips.

“I don’t know what you keep doing to these,” you scold playfully, slipping two others, a glittery blue one and a speckled pink, out of your tray to hand to him.

“Me big head,” he reasons, the left edge of his lips quirking up at your laugh.

“Probably,” you say.

He stares at you for nearly a second before realizing he has no reason to hold back, the heat of his palms grazing your ears when he kisses you.

You hum, delighted, and hook your arms around his waist. “Jamie,” you murmur, nudging his nose with yours.

He laughs against you, pulling away to see your confusion. “You taste like batter.”

You grimace. “Not very good?”

"You always taste good," he rebuts easily, stealing another kiss. He smiles at you when he pulls away, that wonderfully insolent lid to his eyes. You are putty in his hands. He knows this too well.

You twirl a blond strand of his hair around your finger. “Did you use that hair mask I got you?”

“A li’l while ago. Worked great.” He presses his lips against the hard hill of your cheek.

“You’re supposed to use it regularly.”

“Can you do it?”

“Right now? You don’t have enough time, babe.”

“Then when I come home.”

“Sure. We can use those cucumber things I’ve been meaning to try out, too.”

“Can’t wait,” he tells you, crushing you in a sudden hug. You laugh in surprise, going limp in his arms.

“What has gotten into you?” you ask, wriggling in his hold when he presses open-mouthed kisses to the thin skin of your neck.

“I can’t touch ya now?” he teases, a cruel finger digging into your ribs. You squeal, twisting away from him. He only catches your cheek, biting above your jaw with just enough pressure to sting. 

“When has that ever happened?” you challenge, turning your face to finally catch his lips.

“Does right now count?” he asks against your mouth, diving back in to press a harsh kiss to your bottom lip.

“Right now is not an example,” you laugh, quiet. His palm smooths over your cheek. 

“Agree to disagree,” he offers with one last kiss. “‘Cuz I like ya.”

You snort, pushing him away. He doesn’t let you, dragging his hands down to your waist and keeping them there. “I’m honored.”

He shakes hair away from his eyes, giving up when it does little. You raise an index finger to do it for him when the fire alarm shriekingly cuts in. It bumps harmlessly against the rise of his eyebrow, landing very sorrowfully in sorry circles on his temple when you and he flinch.

You turn your face away from him and toward the door. It only takes you a moment to realize what is going on, the smell of burnt bacon sudden and harsh.

“Fuck,” you say, scrambling to the kitchen.

Your breakfast is but a dark chunk of coal when you arrive, plumes of smoke gathering at the ceiling like a flipped waterfall. You turn off the stove and wince at your tragedy while Jamie shuts off the alarm and opens the doors, pulling you away from the worst of the fog after too long of your lingering.

“You’ll inhale smoke,” he warns.

“It's the only edible part of our breakfast,” you say mournfully.

“Not anymore.”

You snort and lean against him, pouting at your little garden still clothed in the residue of pale moonlight. The flowers haven’t even opened their petals yet. “I’m sorry you won’t get bacon for breakfast today. Or flapjacks.”

“S’okay.” Jamie shrugs, genuine pleasantry leaning delight. “I’m distractin’. You got distracted.”

“So did you,” you oppose.

“You’re distractin’ too.” He grins at you, dropping a swift kiss along your forehead.

“I’ll drop you something off today,” you amend.

“You don’t hav’ta do that, love.”

“I want to. I’ll go to that cafe and get you one of those sandwiches you like. And cookies.” Your smile goes gooey. “Maybe a cinnamon roll.”

Jamie raises an amused eyebrow. “Alright, then.”

You inhale deeply, face contorting at the smoky vignette it comes with. “Do you think the smoke went up to our room?”

“Probably. Stay out here for a little after I leave.”

You moan at the stars. “It’s like five AM. It’s cold out here.”

A loud noise erupts from the opposite end of the house; Roy has arrived.

“He’s earlier than usual,” Jamie muses.

“Give him some of the leftover eggs,” you urge. “And apologize.”

Jamie stares at you quizzically. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I told him I’d send breakfast today and because none of it is fit for human consumption, I’m sending something we bought yesterday.”

“You talk about my breakfast with Roy Kent?” Jamie sputters.

You glare at him, rushing inside to collect the container. “I feel as though you’ve missed the point.” The smoke that continues to linger rushes hatefully into your throat. “Not your breakfast. His breakfast.”

“What? Why?” Jamie asks no one, staring at the little case of eggs you shove into his hands.

“Because I thought it would be nice for him to have one.” You give his dazed face his goodbye kiss before opening the door. Roy stands in your doorway, clearly impatient. He gives you a tight smile.

“Hello.” You smile, some smoke rippling from behind you. 

“Hello,” Roy says, slanting two fingers in greeting. He watches the plumes swirl around you with an upturned bushy eyebrow.

You wave it away. “Sorry, we had a little incident.” 

You shove Jamie out the door. Roy watches him stumble beside him. “No rush.”

Jamie turns to him, nose wrinkling. “Right. The poundin’ of the door really says that.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “You haven’t seen me impatient, Tartt.”

“Will I?” Jamie dares, glancing at you. “By the way—totally unrelated—lovely, lovely y/n’s sent you some breakfast today.”

Roy follows his line of sight and growls. “No,” he answers.

Jamie steps closer to you with a cheeky smile and kisses you goodbye. “Love ya.”

“I love you too. Have fun. Be nice,” you tell him.

“Tell that to Kent!”

“I’m nice,” Roy grunts. “I’m like a fucking golden retriever.”

“I can see that,” you nod supportively. 

Roy juts a thumb toward you.

Jamie shakes his head, lips parted. “I don’t like this.”

“And I don’t fuckin’ care,” Roy buts in. “Let’s go.” He ducks his chin at you respectfully. “Y/n.”

You mimic his motion. “Roy.”

Jamie looks between you two, an index gesturing lazily. "Stop that."

“How about you stop blabberin’ and start runnin’?”

“I’ll see you later, Jamie,” you assure, pulling him in for one last kiss. “I recommend you run, babe.”

“Me too,” Roy barks, a few steps away. “Babe.”

[vividraft]

more than friends ! *ੈ✩‧₊˚ - in which you and Medi finally figure out your feelings for eachother ⋆·˚ ༘ *

⇢ ˗ˏˋ characters: Medicine Pocket

⇢ ˗ˏˋ important note: this is going to be my one and only reverse:1999 post. I honestly don't play the game enough to keep up with all the new characters, and that's why I don't think I will post for re:99 again... super sorry!!

⇢ ˗ˏˋ a/n: this is like super unrealistic... why did I think of this, it's very poorly executed!!

masterlist

“Medi I need your help”, you stood in their doorway with disheveled hair, that one could tell was previously done and a half finished outfit.  “You look… like you previously looked good”, Medi eyed you up and down. 

You two had known each other for as long as you could walk. People would consider you best friends, although that is an understatement. You guys were more like… people who were tied together by the wrist. 

“I know I know, but I seriously need your help”, by now you had entered their lab and a dog started jumping at you.  “Help with what”, Medi looked back to whatever they were working on before, some tool in their hand, and eyes no longer interested in looking at you. 

You took a really deep breath. Like really deep. You could have exploded right then and there, from embarrassment or from taking in too much air at once. 

“I have a date today, and I… need to practice before this date”, your thumbs were twisting around each other like a young couple dancing. 

“Practice what? Dancing around your words like an Idiot?-”

“Practice kissing”

Medis' tool fell onto the floor, and silence laid upon the room. Medi looked at you like you had just committed the most heinous crime, and you stared back with a weird smile (?) and a really REALLY red face. 

You don’t know why you found this to be a weird request. You definitely kissed them once before. Granted, you were ten years old and you and Medi swore that you guys would get married when you were old. You had a fake marriage on the playground that day.  A real marriage never took place. 

Why did you guys never get married? 

“And why am I your candidate for this?”, were the first words that came out of Medis’ mouth.  “Because if I mess up, you won’t try to pretend but laugh at my face, and I need the honesty right now”, was the only explanation you could find. 

Medis’ stomach already felt weird at the idea of you going out on a date. The idea of you practicing kissing on them, to then go off and kiss someone else was just… wrong? 

But why did it feel so wrong? It’s not like you and Medi were a thing. 

“No thank you” “Come on Medi I need help”, you really did look desperate. Medi found it a little funny how you were begging to kiss them. 

Another long silence. By now you were standing right by them. 

“Ugh. Fine. But you owe me one”, Medi reluctantly agreed, yet seemed to refuse to get out of their chair.  “Obviously I owe you one. Anything you want literally”, this was going to hurt your wallet. 

“Uhm… alright”, suddenly the air felt thick. You felt if you were going to take another breath you might explode, or choke on the lack of oxygen in the room. 

And Medi felt the same, and neither of you knew. 

“Just…”, Medi was as flushed as a tomato already, and since you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything, Medi seemed it was their mission to move. 

They brushed your hair behind your ear, and left their hand on their cheek to pull you down. You bend down to their level, since they were still sitting in that stupid chair, and your lips met Medis’. 

For just a quick moment, and you both pulled away again. 

None of you would have expected Medi to do what he did, but he pulled you back in for another kiss. 

And for another one. 

And another one. 

Your lips stayed on Medis’ long enough that you had the time to think about how you felt. Everything felt like it brought up feelings that you had long buried deep inside you, something that you had hidden not just from the world, but also from yourself. 

Everything felt right. Finally, right.

Your lips parted again, and you could only look at Medis’ face for a second, before they turned away, yet their ears were a burning red as well. 

Suddenly you darted out of the room. 

“Where the fuck are you going?!”, Medi shot up from their chair, face still red as ever. 

“To cancel my fucking date what the fuck do you think?!”, you shouted back from down the hallway. 

Suddenly Regulus looked around the corner.  “Oh did you guys finally figure out whatever was going on between you two?”, if an Apple could facepalm, he would.  

“Shut up Regulus”, you and Medi said in sync. 

extra: 

Back in Medis’ room, you were sitting on their bed, and they were on their chair, when they suddenly turned around to you. 

“Remember when I said that you would owe me one for the kiss?”, Medi asked. 

“Which you said right before not letting go of my face for a good while? Yeah I remember”, you replied with that stupid grin of your face which Medi loved hated. His face took on a little red color again. 

“If you kiss me again we’re quits”

taglist: @lupicalbestwolf

[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 ♡

[twopoppies]

Gina, have you seen the article about Hs workout routine for LOT? I mean, we all saw the results… but I find it almost even more impressive to learn how its been done! His dedication and work ethic is so inspiring and surely part of why I adore him so much 🫠🫶

Holy hell. No wonder he’s in such great shape. Just a note that Thibo David was his old trainer with Live On Tour. I assume Brad Gould was his new trainer for Love on Tour. But I doubt his regimen was any less insane.

[…]

If you include the one-mile run and bodyweight challenge, this is the hardest warm-up I’ve ever done, but, given the intensity required for the next two elements I’m promoting them to workout status.

[…]

David says Harry Styles can run a mile in an impressive 5min 13sec—a standard some of the professional athletes David coaches can’t match—but I was urged to run my own race.

[…]

This was far closer to my wheelhouse as a CrossFit fan. I chose to tackle it in alternating sets of 10, transitioning quickly between exercises to finish within the eight-minute limit. But even commando rolling from push-up to sit-up then springing into the squats left me little time to spare.

[…]

I took 7min 39sec, and, somewhat unexpectedly, given I can barbell squat more than 300lb, it was my quads that blew up the most. Whether this was the result of the one-mile run before it or heavy front squats the day before, I couldn’t say, but my thighs were on fire by the final rep.

“I like to say that I train very smart, but you also have to be very stupid sometimes, you know? Do this type of workout in the most stupid way; go hard at the task at hand, like when you throw a ball for a dog and it goes super crazy.

“This is a very good workout for that. Very good at building everything that needs to be added after the aerobic base; aggressiveness, speed, that go-hard mentality.”

[…]

Things did become particularly spicy during round three and four though, as my body began to tire with the sustained effort.

My posterior chain (the muscles running along the back side of the body) took a battering from the kettlebell swings and sandbag-over-shoulders, my already-fried legs felt heavy during the box jumps, and my shoulders grew tired from two minutes of straight clean and presses—it was a serious test of muscular endurance.

[…] I also did 12 total rounds—I wanted the full Styles experience, after all—but I’d live to regret this. The hill I chose grew progressively steeper as I worked my way up it, and by the eighth round I felt like death. My sprints turned to slogs, and the time it took me to complete the distance I established in the first interval grew longer.

[…] The prior running and box jumps didn’t help either, but I got it done eventually in less than 30 minutes.

[…]

This was a relaxing way to wrap up a far from relaxing morning of training, and gave me a second to catch my breath after a monumental effort which lasted a little over two hours.

I swapped his day of training for one of my usual CrossFit sessions and had a lot of fun doing it. Every part of my body felt like it had been put through the ringer thanks to the muscle-burning circuit and lung-taxing running elements. I was also very, very hungry.

Another thing that impressed me was Styles’ evident fitness levels and work ethic; how he has the energy to perform for two hours during a stadium tour is no longer a mystery.

Another thing I liked about my chat with David was his openness and honesty. I often see articles online saying celebrities do a few Pilates classes or HIIT workouts each week to stay in unbelievable shape, and he was keen to dispel this myth.

“Collaborating with Harry Styles was an absolute delight; his commitment is unparalleled,” says David.

“But it’s important to note that this level of training isn’t suitable for everyone. Harry was inherently fit, but achieving the level of fitness needed for this session still required time, work and effort. Rushing into such high-volume workouts can pose risks.”

David also stressed that sessions of this intensity weren’t done every day, and the nature of his workouts will often “depend on the day and the state of the athlete”.

“It’s crucial to emphasize the significance of proper periodization,” says David. “Not every day constituted an intense session. In fact, we strategically incorporated recovery sessions which often involved a light run combined with core exercises and mobility work. Every workout was thoughtfully placed within the overall training plan.”

Read, full article here

x

[section-chief-prentiss]

Maternity Leave (part 4/?)

Summary: You and Emily bring your daughter home from the hospital.

Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Reader 

Word Count: 638

TWs: pregnancy, labor, fluff, comfort, newborn

A/N: I thought this would only be a 3-parter, but I've had a few ideas in the last few days to expand this fic a bit further, so we'll see where it goes!

Ao3

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE PART FIVE

As you waddled through the front door of your home, you pouted, having foolishly thought that when you waddled out of the house to have the baby you would be in more control when you returned.

What a foolish idea that had been.

Walking had already been a part of your post-surgery recovery, but long distances still made you winded. By the time you reached the couch, you sat, in desperate need of a break.

Emily followed closely behind, wielding your daughter’s carrier. She set the carrier on the ground, unbuckling your curled-up daughter and handing her directly to you before you could even ask for her.

When you weren’t holding her, even when she was in Emily’s arms, you felt empty—like there was a crucial part of you missing. Once you’d been strong enough to hold her on your own, you hadn’t wanted to ever set her down.

“You are so beautiful,” Emily breathed, kissing your cheek.

You flushed. “My hair hasn’t been washed in days, and I’m in a diaper. But I appreciate the flattery.”

Amelia’s head nuzzled against your chest, and you unbuttoned your pajama shirt to give her easy access to what she was looking for. 

“I can’t believe she’s ours,” you mused, staring at her in wonder. “They really let us leave with her.”

Emily chuckled. “Of course, they did. What did you expect?” 

“I don’t know; it seems like it should be harder to bring a baby home.”

Emily scooted over so she was directly beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Making her was the tough part; now we get to enjoy her.”

You hummed in agreement. Getting pregnant hadn’t been easy, and Amelia’s labor had somehow been even more difficult. Ever since you’d fallen in love with Emily, the two of you had talked extensively about wanting a large family. But now you weren’t sure if you had it in you to go through it again.

Even if the result was so perfect.

“Would you be disappointed?” you asked, unable to look at your wife. “If she was our only baby?”

“Y/N,” Emily said so fiercely that you had to meet her gaze. “You two are my greatest joys. I could never be disappointed in that.”

Her honesty brought you some level of comfort, and you took it. 

“I was thinking, though…” Emily continued. “If we decide we want another, I think I’d like to carry.”

You looked at your wife in surprise. “Are you sure? When we tried for Amelia, you said you weren’t sure you wanted to be pregnant.”

“I wasn’t sure then,” she admitted. “But I am now.” 

You raised an eyebrow at her. “What about this process made you want to go through it?”

Emily laughed, throwing her hair over one shoulder. “I want to experience everything you do. I want to know what it feels like to carry our child.”

You could’ve melted on the spot. You leaned over to kiss your wife before turning your attention back to your daughter.

“Let’s get through one day alone with Amelia before rushing to knock you up,” you joked.

“Fair enough,” Emily amended.

As Amelia finished feeding, Emily threw on one of your favorite TV shows to watch together as you shifted your daughter up to burp her. Emily tossed a burp rag over her shoulder, and you passed your child over to let your wife take over. 

Though your favorite show was on, you couldn’t take your eyes off of the way your wife held your daughter. How perfect of a mother she already was. How lucky you were to have this amazing, little family. 

“Fine,” you sighed. “Let’s have another one. But I want to enjoy some time with her first.”

Emily pressed a kiss to your daughter’s head. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Tag List:

@yena-reyna, @propertyofemilyprentiss, @chaekhan, @obsessedwjill, @mrs-prentiss, @i-lovefandom, @tireddeadgirl, @lez-talk1, @emilyprentiss-ily

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[inwhosereverie]

afab!reader x kyle ‘gaz’ garrick | 1.9k words

description: you were in need of relief after your boyfriend broke up with you. your last ditch effort to go in a club was not wasted.

note: my first time writing smut, i felt like i lost my vocabulary.

warnings: 18+, mating press, p in v, drunk sex, unprotected intercourse.

you stood lost as the music blare into your eardrums through your head prohibiting you from hearing your logical opinions as to why you shouldn’t even be here in the first place.

it was not your place, far and opposing to what you usually are into. you didn’t even know how to enter the place, yes, a club.. the scent of vomit, alcohol, sweat, drunk mindless people screaming and dancing through bright colorful lights you could get blinded by.

you pull the hem of your pink silk dress, nervously brushing a strand of hair off your face, brushing it behind your ear with a shaky breath walking further into the very messy place.

your reasoning, very dumb, even for you. your boyfriend of 2 years just recently broke up with you about 2 months ago.. which was still fresh in your mind and one thing you very much miss about the relationship was the physical touch, in which at first you weren’t so fond of but now you searched for—

the way he’d hold you, nestle into you, breathe you, kiss you, fuck you, you missed that. and now to find the most saddest excuse to have it, a club, get drunk, get too out of your head and finally have the guts to pull a guy out the bar for some fun time.

a dangerous yet very endearing idea you’ve been thinking every night about, your fingers never satisfied you, your thoughts weren’t enough— and maybe tonight you can finally get him out your head, wish that somebody in here would knock the longing out of you via their dick.

despite how insanely nasty your thoughts were, how everything was just about getting laid.. the way you prep yourself, look all dolled up and ready to mingle, putting yourself in a dress that felt it revealed too much of you shouldn’t go to waste no matter how embarrassed you already felt.

in all honesty, if it weren’t for your personal needs you’d be bundled up in bed, on your phone in a cozy outfit throughout the whole day and night, relaxing, enjoying your free time before you go back to work. not this, be around loud social people who slurs their words.. but you were only comforted by the thought that maybe someone here has the same intentions as you.

first thing you went to was the bar, of course, where else? you weren’t going to dance sober because you’d be sober enough to get flustered and run as if everyone was laughing at you. you wearily asked for a shot of whiskey, the only alcohol you knew that was high on its level; probably just a few shots would get you drunk.

and that you were correct, you sat down on that bar stool no longer than 30 minutes with 4 shots and you have a spinning world, your brain foggy, eyes droopy, looking around made you want to puke. but no! you have a mission! clumsily hopping off the stool, snaking your way to the dance floor.. bumping into everyone that is.

“woah.. easy there, dove.” you’ve harshly bump your shoulder against a man’s chest, you were about to tip and fall over if not for his large hands catching you around your waist, the other held you forearm in place.. your eyes fluttered up immediately from the sound of his soothing voice, a tone that immediately got your veins to pump. not only was his voice charming, so was his appearance. you didn’t realize his own slurring of words, but be damn sure you were more drunk than he was.

tall male, chiseled jaw, pretty smile, a clean faded cut, properly shaven, strong arms, handsome… very.

“drinkin’ me up well?” he teased, pulling you forward, a cheeky smile plastered on his face. “mhm.. you got the looks.” you slur, though you try to hide it willingly stumbling ahead, watching as he would slide his hand from your forearm to your hand— calloused, rough and bigger than yours yet, he held you gently now that you’ve managed to balance yourself in his hold.

“you’re not too bad yourself.” your breath hitched when he twirled you around, tugging you closer, getting your back to press against his broad chest- tipping his head forward to whisper down your ear. you felt his breath caress your jaw and cheek, the smell of alcohol coming from him. something you never knew smelt so attractive until now. he whispered, the gravely tone in his voice tickled your ear “a gorgeous babe, in fact..” it was suggestive, without even looking over your shoulder you knew the man was smirking.

you felt a shiver ran down your spine, especially when his large hand slither down your abdomen, feeling the silky fabric of your cute pink dress.. a mischievous hand resting roughly over your pelvis pushing your ass to press on his crotch. you, stupid you, mindlessly started grinding for him. you heard him sigh, keeping his hand over you, the other repositioning to your hips— the subtle grinding while following along the music as if you were only dancing.

you feel him slowly get hard over his trousers, only from the feeling of his bulge against your ass, you bit your lip by how big he felt. you never knew you were this needy for something so quickly, you were always someone who stood by your words that sex means more when there’s strings tied. you’ll stumble upon those words when you spoke of it again, now that you’re doing something you once believed was stupid and useless.

but that is a thought that will not appear in your fucked out head now that you were prompted near the edge of his bed, smelling the fragrance he’d normally use, the soft cotton of his grey sheets underneath the dim light that his bedside lamp lit. legs pushed up your chest as he rammed his cock deep into you, your silky dress somewhere on his floor.. you two couldn’t wait, even in his car on the way to his place you were already sucking his veiny dick greedily..

yes, he was drunk driving but shit he had to get you home, he just had to.

it escalated so fast but if someone like you had to bump into him, such an eye-catcher, well-dressed, drunken eyes yet your eyes still held such innocence within such a place when you looked up at him, what would you expect a man would do? he swore his brown irises was covered by his blown pupils from the sight of you. you both quickly muttered your names in-between hungry lips when you two were stumbling to get inside his house, undoing the first strap of your dress.

he’s got you where you both wanted yourself to be, underneath him with the only sounds you knew how to make were moans, whimpers, and whines of his name. lips not once leaving yours or the skin you let him behold as he marks your insides with his pre, your tightness made him growl with every hard thrusts. “fuck, y’feel good..” he breathily moan out, trailing kisses down the sides of your lips to your jawline. his room echoes the sound of his creaking bed and the slapping of skins.

you cry out of ecstasy, a pleasure you haven’t been feeling for months, or maybe even years.. a whole stranger treating your pussy better than your boyfriend ever did. “Kyle..” you called his name in such a slutty tone that it caused him to push deeper, the tip of his fat cock bullying your cervix over and over. ruining your insides as if he wants your pussy to remember every veins of his cock. his size. “mmhh, fuck, lovely.. say that again. say my name.” he grunts, his dick twitching only from the sounds you were making, his balls hitting your ass with every hard shove. “K-Kyle!” you repeat, gasping it out this time.

clawing the bottoms of your thighs while he fucks you deep, the kisses and love bites he gives from around your neck down to your collarbone and breasts making you shiver underneath him. nipping your nipples, pulling at it roughly by his teeth continuously plunging his girth into your needy little hole.

you were seeing stars, every pistons of his hips felt like he’s sobering you up. watching him lick your hardened nipples, sucking like his life depended on it only for him to stop when you clamp down around him. leaving his mouth open yet remained pressed on your small plump breast, a loud moan erupting from his throat— you felt so fucking good it made him dizzier, like you were better than any alcohol or drugs he would ever take. both your thoughts were hazy, rutting into you like a horny animal.

the sight of your head tipped over the edge of Kyle’s bed, your body rocking along with the rhythm of his hips, you felt so full- looked so full.. your gummy walls leaking around his cock creating a creamy ring around his base, the wet sounds your pussy makes mixing with both of yours’ fluids, he was sure his sheets were soaked of your juices with the way you were leaking. “shit.” he mutters, movement slowing down only to lean back and watch you through half-lidded eyes.

so fucked and stretched out beneath him, like a wonderful.. pleasurable wet dream his drunk ass had created in his head, perfection. “fuckin’ gorgeous, you are..” he praised bending back down with a smile drawing on his lips, it’s not just his drunkenness talking ‘cause you are one hell of a pull. his hands leaving your thighs alone to bring your arms above your head, pinning you further down the soft mattress of his bed.

you squealed from the sudden jolt of Kyle’s hips, plunging his cock impossibly deeper down your bullied womb, the heels of your feet hooking around the back of his thighs to hold on to while he bounces his cock into your sopping pussy. your hips jumping at the sudden friction he gives your clit, a hand in-between your sweaty bodies swiping at it with his thumb. you felt your orgasm approaching, you started to spasm— your toes started to curl, with your eyes rolling back and you arching your back.

you’ve probably met the fucking lord by how good it felt, feeling heaven just above you, you squirt painting his pelvis and thighs with your sticky cream.. “mmhh, there you go.. there she is..” he caressed the tip of his nose over your jawline with a gentle chuckle. continuing to move inside you helping you ride out your high, overstimulation hitting you like electricity when he kept going on a rhythm. the last thrusts before he nestled his dick deeper inside your sensitive little cunt shooting thick ropes of cum inside you, filling your womb.

next early morning you’ve been greeted by a strong migraine and very sore muscles especially along your inner thighs. took you a whole minute to recall bits and pieces of what happened last night, you were reminded. a panic flowing through your blood but only for it to immediately falter when you took sight of a snoring man beside you.

his lips slightly open, half his gorgeous face buried into his fluffy pillow. you’ve sobered up, just a bit hung over but you know for damn sure your drunken mind didn’t fool you when you first looked at him back at the club, he was undoubtedly something to behold. to have him pressed against you like this, a hand draped over your midriff.. the faint looming smell of sex and alcohol still lingering in the air, maybe a little more rest would do fine.. choosing to cuddle yourself closer to his warm body, missing the way Kyle would subtly smile when you did.