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pluviophile-imagines · 2 years ago

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Sleeping in the Garden: Part I

in which bakugo katsuki is your next door neighbor, and he’s just gotten custody of two girls he’s far too young and far too inexperienced to be a father for—but he’s bakugo katsuki, so he’s damn well going to do it anyway

bakugo katsuki x fem!reader

wc: 21.5k genre: pro hero au, neighbor au, single dad au, slow burn, kidfic type: longfic (6 parts) reader: fem (she/her pronouns, fem terms, neutral clothing) part warnings: children (7&16 years old), parent illness/death, discussions of toxic relationships (pre-fic), discussions of age gap (pre-fic; 20 & 34) note: this is the first part of my submission to the @mybigbangacademia big bang! this was an incredible opportunity, absolutely full to the brim with such talented writers and authors, and i for one can’t wait to check them all out! i’d also like to give a quick thanks to @phen0l and @sipsteainanxiety for their incredible beta work ♥️ this fic is a real work from the heart, something i’ve been working on for over a year now, so i hope you all enjoy!

masterlist || part ii ⟹

You sit at your kitchen counter to do your work. It’s not exactly ideal; you can’t see them, and you’re certain your back will ache in the morning as punishment for using the tall bar chair for an hour and a half, but you make it work. The minutes pass, the girls continue to work on their assignments and help each other out when needed. It isn’t until a text chime blares out that you turn around and realize how long it’s been.

Ayame is looking down at her phone, reading the text with her arms still preoccupied with academics.

“Did your father get back to you?” you ask.

“He’s not my father,” Ayame snaps immediately, head snapping over to fix you with a fierce glare. “Despite what he and everyone else thinks, he is not my dad, so don’t call him that.”

You raise your hands in surrender, palms out. “Peace. Understood. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

She seems to startle at that—her glare doesn’t pause but her brow furrows further in confusion and when she speaks it’s muttered more than angry. “Yeah. You shouldn’t’ve.”

“But I need to know he knows where you are.”

“He does,” she grumbles. “He’s stuck in traffic, he’ll be here soon.”

Your next door neighbor is the number two pro hero.

It’s a nice neighborhood—admittedly most of the inhabitants are getting on in years, and at times can be unbearably wealthy, but you’re not about to complain when you inherited your half of the duplex already paid off by your grandparents. It’s an unusual western-style house, connected on one side to a reflected twin, with three floors, three bedrooms (though you’ve converted one into an office), two (and a half) baths, and a shared rooftop terrace with the remains of planter boxes and a run-down little greenhouse that your grandfather once used to grow food; a nice place, something you’d never have been able to afford if you hadn’t come into it by luck.

The leftmost wall is shared with none other than the Great Explosion Murder God Dynamight, though contrary to what the name might suggest he’s actually a pretty okay neighbor. That is to say: an almost entirely absent one.

You don’t see the man very much. Hero work, you presume, keeps him more than busy; when he’s home there’s always a shiny, clearly expensive sports car in the driveway (you have no clue what kind but it looks like something a car nut would drool over) and you definitely see it gone more than not. The older ladies like to coo at him when he shows up—sometimes with another tall, built hero in tow, often with groceries in arm. You’ve only talked to him a few times but he remembers your name, and he gives a brusque little nod of acknowledgement whenever you wave at him in greeting. He’s not exactly known in the news as the friendliest type but you’re never felt entirely unwelcome when you’ve gone over to let him know that you’ll be on vacation for a week, or that you’re expecting a handyman to stop by to fix your sink. And that’s just about all the friendliness one inherently needs from a neighbor, so you’re content with the whole relationship.

That kind of goes out the window when the girls show up, because you’re too meddling for your own good and nobody, not even (or perhaps especially) an incredibly busy top hero, is prepared to suddenly take on two children without warning.

You’re not one to keep up with hero gossip—not one to pour through those magazines filled with blurry photos taken from a distance, speculating about which pros are dating which models and how long they last in bed—but since you’ve moved in next door to Mister Number Two you’ve kept half an ear out for stories involving him.

It’s not as if you’re prying, really, because the whole damn country has been unable to shut up about it since the day Dynamight went into a hospital and came out with an elementary schooler in arm and a teenager trailing behind. Your own grandmother called you a day afterwards to ask if you’d met them. And more importantly you’re there—you work from home and you share an entire wall (and a porch and a roof) with them, so it’s really only natural for you to take notice.

It’s only been two weeks, and things are showing no sign of dying down. You don’t know their names or their ages or even how Dynamight is really related to them—it’s all been conjecture, from what you can tell, and either way you figure it’s none of your business—but it’s impossible not to have noticed the younger’s red eyes. They’re stark in contrast to the other’s dark brown, and they match perfectly with those of the very man they’re living with. The conclusion is less of a jump and more of a modest step.

Today, when you lock up your door behind you with Tadeo on his leash for his afternoon walk, you find that they’re standing at the top of Bakugo’s front stoop. The younger sits pouting on the top step with her head propped in her hands and the elder leans back against the railing with an angry expression, phone held up to her ear as she speaks rapidly into it. You don’t entirely want to impose or assume, nor do you want to seem unapproachable, so as you pass the pair of them you give a little smile and a friendly bow of the head in greeting.

The little one perks up slightly, responding in kind. The older one glances at you, but is solidly preoccupied.

“I’m Riko!” says the girl. “Your dog is cute!”

You give her your own name. “I live next door. It’s nice to meet you. Tadeo is cute, isn’t he?”

Riko nods excitedly. When she opens her mouth to speak again, however, the older girl behind her lets out a huff that startles her into turning around. At the same time, Tadeo yanks you along, eager to continue his walk; and while Riko looks disappointed to see you go, her companion distracts her quickly by bending down to hand her the phone and, you’re fairly sure, giving her some kind of order for what to say into it.

You pay it little mind. In fact it’s dashed from your thoughts quickly as you allow your dog—surprisingly strong for how little and old he is—to lead you down the road, determined to sniff at a fire hydrant and then a telephone pole and then a mailbox. The neighborhood streets are familiar. It’s the very start of spring so the early flowers are beginning to break through the soil and the weather is nicely brisk but not too cold, and you let Tadeo dictate your route according to his own graying canine whims.

Soon enough, though, you’re approaching your house the way you’d left. Thirty minutes have passed—a longer walk than typical, but it seemed Tadeo needed it and it was a pleasant enough day that you hadn’t minded—and that’s why you’re mildly concerned when you come up to the building to find Dynamight’s two mystery wards still hovering on his front porch. Riko perks up once again at your reappearance, pulling her head out of her hands.

“Ayame,” you hear her hiss, turning around to tug at the other girl’s pleated skirt, “Ayame she’s back.”

Ayame looks up from her phone, looking terse and annoyed, and glances down at Riko before zeroing in on you.

“Hey!” she calls out. “Can my sister pet your dog?”

You smile, pausing right in front of the stairs. “Yeah, sure thing. He’s friendly. And old, so don’t let his excitement fool you—he’s about to go in and take a nap until dinner.”

The girl races down the steps like a bullet, falling to her knees on the sidewalk right in front of your dog and reaching out to pet his face. Tadeo responds in kind, hindquarters swaying frantically to keep up with his tail and barking excitedly as he puts his front paws up on her knees to get closer.

“Riko!” Ayame scolds immediately. She puts away her phone and comes down the steps herself to stand over her sister with hands on her hips. “Don’t just sit on the ground like that, you’ll get dirty.”

Riko only laughs as your dog licks at her face. Ayame’s nose wrinkles in distaste. You can’t help but smile at the pair.

“He’s so cute,” Riko coos. She looks up at you with a grin—there’s a gap where she’s missing a tooth in the bottom row. “My dad says dogs are messy and too much work and so we’re not allowed to get one unless we’ll be taking care of it.”

“That’s a reasonable rule to set.”

“My dad’s a hero so he’s really busy.” Her attention is back on Tadeo. “But I think he’d like a dog anyway.”

“You think?”

“Mhm.” She nods. Her hair is pulled up into a pair of pigtails, tied by two sparkly pink bows, and it sways back and forth with the motion of her head. “He always goes on runs and he keeps asking Ayame if she wants to join him. I think he gets lonely.”

“He is not asking me to come with him because he’s lonely,” Ayame mutters.

“But if we get a dog he’ll just take it and you can stay behind!”

“Yeah, maybe.” It’s absent-minded, a little dismissive; she’s returned her attention back to her phone, clearly wanting to drop the topic and equally clearly disagreeing though she doesn’t outright say so.

“I don’t think staring at your phone is going to make daddy come home any sooner,” Riko says matter-of-factly. Then she leans forward to whisper to you, in that loud way little kids do when they don’t understand how to be quiet yet, “Ayame forgot her key.”

“Which wouldn’t be a problem,” Ayame snaps, “if he would answer his phone! Or act like the guardian he’s supposed to be!”

Her tapping is furious as her thumbs fly in a flurry across her screen. When she puts the phone to her ear, she shoves her free hand in her pocket and glares off in the distance as she waits.

“He’s just—ugh.” She huffs and shoves the phone into her pocket; you’re pretty sure it had immediately gone to voicemail. “He turns off his phone when he’s on patrol so the only way to contact him is his earpiece and his secretary says this isn’t an emergency.”

“Well, it’s not!” chirps Riko. You’re pretty sure it wouldn’t be received well if you agreed.

Ayame just huffs again, this one a bit more growled. She bites her cheek, glaring off at the distance for a moment—surely cursing Bakugo out in her head silently—before letting her eyes roll back, heaving a big sigh, and then turning her attention to you curiously.

“You live next door, right?”

“Yes. I’ve been meaning to come introduce myself, but I didn’t want to intrude. I’m glad to have the chance today—even if the circumstances are less than ideal.”

“That’s an understatement,” Ayame grumbles under her breath, but she holds back the eye roll that you can tell has been building up and instead gives you a short bow of introduction, stating her name.

You give her your own in turn. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Now we don’t have to keep calling you Miss Sunny.” She snickers a little, not entirely cruelly but certainly with the kind of vaguely derisive tone only a teenager can manage. You don’t take it to heart.

“Miss Sunny?”

“‘cause of the sunflowers!” Riko pipes up from where she’s still doting upon Tadeo. He’s relishing the attention, rolling around on the street with his tail valiantly putting up an effort to keep wagging despite being pressed into the pavement. Looking up at you and beaming, she points over at the meticulously kept flower boxes you’ve managed to fit along your stoop and down the sides of the stairs, filling up every available space in front of your house. And the balcony above, the leaves lush and full and spilling out down the railing.

The boxes are painted with bright, pretty sunflowers. You can see how they made the connection.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Sunflowers are one of my favorites, actually,” you tell them. “I can’t grow them year-round but when they’re in season I keep as much as I can. And when they’re not, well. I supplement.”

“Did you paint them?” Riko asks in awe.

“My mother did, actually, when I first put them in.”

“She’s a really good painter.”

“They’re just sunflowers, Riko,” Ayame says.

Riko pouts at her. “But they’re nice.”

“Anyone could do it.”

“No, I bet you couldn’t!”

“Uh, yeah, I could.”

“No you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, I could.”

“Then do it.” Riko finally stands from where she’s been petting Tadeo to fix her sister with a baby-cheeked glare and put her hands on her hips.

“We can’t get inside our house, Riko. Where are you expecting me to find paints?”

As if on cue, before you can decide whether to intervene or not, Ayame’s phone begins to ring again from her back pocket. She answers with such speed you might think it was her quirk. The conversation is short, barely a few sentences exchanged, and when she hangs back up she’s somehow notably more agitated.

“He has to stay out longer,” she says, now so angry she’s moved past shouting and turned monotonous. Or, perhaps, moved past the anger stage of grief and launched straight to depression. “It’ll be another hour and a half, Riko, I dunno what to do.”

The statement gives way to another huff. She glares down at her phone like that’ll somehow make it light up with a response saying he’s five minutes away.

“Ayame,” you say kindly, and her head snaps up immediately to look at you. “Do you want to wait for your father at my house?”

For a moment, more anger flashes across her face. She blinks it away, frowning, then glancing over at Riko not for advice but rather to check-in. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“It’d be irresponsible of me to let you two stay out here when I live right next door and can let you in. C’mon, or Tadeo will get impatient.”

She nods. Riko jumps up, following you closely as you lead them both up the front stoop. Tadeo leads the charge, excited to return and have his dinner. He scratches at the base of the door as you pull out your key to open it, and he sprints in with you tripping behind him the moment it opens; Ayame and Riko follow after you. You find your large guest slippers easily, and your smaller guest slippers with much more difficulty—you don’t have children over particularly often, admittedly—but soon enough you’ve pulled off Tadeo’s harness and leash to hang up and are leading them further into the house.

“Here, make yourselves comfortable.” You gesture to your dining room table. “I’m sure you both have work to do, I can help if you need. Do you want any food?”

They both shake their heads, though Riko hesitates and waits for Ayame to respond first. You choose not to check a second time with her.

Soon enough the girls are sitting around your dining table. Riko has her homework pulled out, and so does Ayame, but Ayame’s work is long forgotten as she’s sidled over next to her younger sister and is bent over the younger’s work, helping her. From your kitchen, where you’re fetching yourself a glass of water, it makes a sweet sight.

“Ayame,” you realize suddenly, “you should text your father and let him know you’re here.”

She glances up at you. Again that anger passes across her face like a shadow, but when she speaks it’s calm. “Oh. Yeah. Probably a good idea.”

You watch as she slides herself back over to where her things are, including her phone. Her work is organized cleanly, papers and notebooks stacked by subject with only a few on the table while most remain in her bag. In contrast, Riko’s side is a mess; she has fewer papers but despite that has more supplies. Three pencil cases, all different shades of light pink with varying baby animals on them, have been opened and half their contents strewn about the table and even the floor. Despite this, she’s dutifully working on a writing assignment, face scrunched up and tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration.

Ayame is looking down at her phone, reading the text with her arms still preoccupied with academics.

“Did your father get back to you?” you ask.

“He’s not my father,” Ayame snaps immediately, head snapping over to fix you with a fierce glare. “Despite what he and everyone else thinks, he is not my dad, so don’t call him that.”

You raise your hands in surrender, palms out. “Peace. Understood. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

She seems to startle at that—her glare doesn’t pause but her brow furrows further in confusion and when she speaks it’s muttered more than angry. “Yeah. You shouldn’t’ve.”

“But I need to know he knows where you are.”

“He does,” she grumbles. “He’s stuck in traffic, he’ll be here soon.”

“Thank you! Okay,” you nod, making up your mind about how to proceed. “Okay, let’s pack up now so you’re both ready to head out when he arrives. We can watch some TV or something.”

Riko perks up at the mention of TV. She’s already packing up her things before Ayame can agree; it takes them both little time at all to gather everything and fit it all back into their school bags. Soon enough they’re both seated on the couch with a brightly colored hero cartoon playing on the screen.

Ayame is on her phone; Riko is enraptured by the television. You have work to do still, so you sit at the table facing the kids with your laptop before you.

Soon enough Ayame is standing, announcing that “Uncle’s home!” mere moments before a harsh knock raps on your door. Both the girls follow you as you head to the door and open.

Bakugo is there. He’s scowling—though admittedly, you’ve often wondered if that’s the only facial expression he’s capable of. He’s gruff when he greets you, gruff when he greets the girls, and gruff when he tells them it’s time to go.

“Y’have fun?” he asks, seemingly to Riko, though his eyes end up on Ayame as he says it.

“Yeah!” Riko bounds up to him, already in her outdoor shoes. “Miss Sunny’s great!”

The grunt he gives in return is pleased. “Good. Comin’ home with me, though, right? No fuss?”

She shakes her head, pigtails flying across her face with the notion. “Nuh-uh!”

He nods at the bright pink bag in her hand. “Y’want me to carry that, kid?”

Her expression falls. She clutches it closer, face scrunching up, and stares up at him with a look that isn’t quite suspicious or accusatory but certainly doesn’t seem inclined to take his offer.

The low puff of air he lets out is something like a sigh, perhaps disappointed, though you don’t think it’s quite at her. He lowers himself to her height—lower, crouched down with arms braced on his knees to look her in the eye. When he speaks it’s startlingly placating.

“Ya don’t gotta say yes. Was just tryin’ to be nice, yeah? C’mon. I’ll walk you in. You can carry it.”

Then he rises to his feet, and holds out his hand, and Riko’s hesitance disappears as she takes it. In fact she’s beaming. She doesn’t look back as she follows him over to his door.

Ayame hovers in the entryway, leaning through the open door watching Bakugo lead Riko into his house. Once they’re out of sight, she turns to you.

Her eyes are cast downward, a little to the side. She seems to rock on the balls of her feet slightly, almost as a comfort, and is clearly working up the nerve to say something. You wait, letting her take her time.

“I, uh. Earlier, when you called Uncle my dad…”

“No worries,” you assure her. “I shouldn’t have assumed, and I’m sure you get it a lot and I know it’s been a stressful day, so really. It’s fine. If anything, I’m sorry.”

“Nobody’s ever… apologized before,” she mutters. “Not for real, anyway. It’s always—like, they all start saying uncle all rude and condescending like I’m not well aware they’re still calling him my father in their heads. But you apologized and you haven’t called him that since, so… I dunno. I ‘preciate it, I guess. It feels like you’re the first person who’s really listened to me in a while.”

You give her a quiet smile. “I’m sorry, that sounds difficult to have to go through.”

“I just said you were the best one to respond, y’don’t gotta apologize more…”

“But I upset you,” you counter. “I do regret it.”

“Right.” Her shoulders heave, not really a shrug. “Well. I better go off then. Thank you for helping us.”

“You’re always welcome.”

She turns and heads to her own door. You wait for her to get inside, too, before you shut your own and make your way back to your office. You have a little more work to get done before you can start making dinner.

Not five minutes later, however, you hear a knock on your door again.

Bakugo is standing there when you open it, fist raised to knock a second time. He lowers it immediately, letting it fall to his side aimlessly.

“Did Riko forget something?” you ask, thinking back to the messy array of writing implements and assorted school supplies—all glittery or pink or shimmering—that she’d strewn about your living room, certain she must have misplaced one or two beneath a pillow or a rug.

“Hah?” His brow furrows at the question. “No. What, did you find somethin’?”

“No.” You snort a laugh. “Why’d you come back, then?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

It’s gruff, low, said without meeting your eye.

“For letting them in? No worries. I couldn’t just let them wait around out there for you.”

His eyes narrow. When he speaks the tone is defensive, the words slightly growling. “We‘ve been looking for some new sidekicks to pick up the slack so I won’t be working so late anymore, but it’s a process ‘n we’ve only just started.”

“Whoa, hey, I’m not judging you here. You’re a busy man. I get it,” you rush to say. He’s still glaring at you a little, and admittedly it’s probably one of the most intimidating glares you’ve ever been on the receiving end of. “I get it, really. It’s been sudden. They’re great kids, I was happy to have them over for an hour or two. The company was nice, actually. It’s usually just me and the dog during the week.”

The words soothe him. Or maybe he realizes he’d been overreacting—either way, his shoulders relax and the tension eases. Though he doesn’t quite seem like he’s no longer glaring, you’re coming to realize that perhaps he never does look very relaxed. At least you’re no longer feeling like he’s attempting to send you flying back into your home with a single, very intense glare.

“They’re welcome any time,” you continue. Steer away from need and help, you decide. And anything too critical. “If they want.”

He grunts in what you decide is appreciation. Better, then, than the other attempt. Could be even more coherent, if you tried at it a bit—but you’ve already made the appeal to Ayame, so you suppose she can pass along what you told her. In the meantime you choose to change the subject.

“Hey, do you mind if I ask… why’d Riko respond like that when you offered to carry her things?”

You’re not sure he’ll tell you, really. But he surprises you. He sighs, long-suffering and annoyed, and says, “Ayame told her I’d take all their things when they moved in with me. She hasn’t quite stopped believing it.”

There’s an attempt made at biting back your laughter. It’s a failed attempt, but an attempt nonetheless. Your stifled giggles earn you another glare, but this one seems less serious.

“Don’t fuckin’ laugh.”

“I’m not laughing,” you lie through stuttered puffs.

“It ain’t funny.”

“It’s kinda funny.”

He rolls his eyes. “You ‘n fuckin’ soy sauce face…” he mutters, and you don’t know who soy sauce face might be but he sounds like he has a good sense of humor. “Don’t go laughin’ in front of Ayame, it’ll only encourage her.”

“I promise I won’t laugh in front of Ayame.” You do mean that—you really don’t want to encourage her.

“Good,” he grunts, then pauses momentarily. “You said it was just you and the mutt during the week?”

“Over the work week I don’t get many visitors—I mean, I’m single, no roommate. My family lives about an hour away by train, not a trip anyone’d wanna make on a work day. My friends have careers.” You pause after that spiel, realizing finally what he likely meant by the question. “I work from home. Have an office here.”

His brow furrows. “The fuck do you do, then? As a career”

“I’m an accountant,” you reply easily, getting used to his mannerisms. “Freelance. Clients are mostly small businesses, a few tiny companies. Most of my work’s done in my office. So, yeah, here pretty much all day, save for the occasional in-person meeting. Those only happen a few times a year.”

“So, what, just some fuckin’ hermit?” It’s not entirely derisive, the way he says it. More just surprise, a little curiosity.

“I have friends, Bakugo. I go out for drinks, the occasional girls’ trip. I visit my family and they visit me. Perfectly healthy, I promise. Not a hermit.”

He grumbles at that, but clearly you’ve convinced him that you’re annoyed by the implication, because he mumbles out a, “sorry,” afterwards and sounds genuinely apologetic.

“It’s fine. Nothing wrong with making sure. I’m just offering for if you need it. I’m sure you have plenty of options, but. If you think of me. I gave Ayame my phone number; you should have it already, from when I first moved in, yeah?”

Nodding at first, he pauses, and then frowns. “Actually…”

“What, you lost it?”

He looks a little sheepish, somehow. Still surly and cross, but apologetic. “I got a new phone. Lost all my contacts. Was about a month ago. If you’d’ve texted me I’d’a figured it out, but…”

“No worries.” You reach into your pocket and take out your phone. It takes a moment to find his contact—the pair of you really haven’t spoken beyond the initial exchanging of numbers and one incident where Tadeo had gotten loose and Bakugo had found him for you—but you send off a quick text once you do, and are filled with amusement when his own back pocket immediately plays the sound of an explosion.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, so you don’t either. You wonder if he even knows how funny that is (endearing, even, if you were to be bold) or if he thinks it’s completely normal. What he does is pull out that phone (which looks downright tiny in those huge hands… it’s the same model as your own, your mind is left spinning a little) and, clearly, add you to his contacts once more.

“Perfect. We’re all set, then? Just text me if you need me. Yeah?”

A nod, a low grunt of approval; his phone is back in his pocket quickly, and then he’s turning to go. You shut your door right as he opens his own.

The next time you see him afterwards is a week later; he’s locking his door on his way out of his house, you’re on your way in from your morning walk with Tadeo.

“Bakugo!” you call out as you make your way up the front stoop.

He turns to you as he pockets his keys, gives a curt nod and a low rumble of your own name. “Mornin’.”

“This is great timing, actually. I needed to talk to you.” Pausing, you take a moment to take in his attire and recall that it’s a Tuesday and he’s almost certainly headed off to work. “I promise it won’t take long.”

He raises an eyebrow, not exactly kindly but not altogether brushing you off. “Spit it out.”

You shift the leash in your hand to the other one. The process tugs Tadeo over to your other side, crossing in between you and Bakugo, and it draws Bakugo’s attention to your dog, who pauses briefly to sit and beg at his feet. To your surprise it works—your neighbor squats down, raising a hand to scratch at Tadeo’s ears. He looks at him for a moment, and that stern look softens just a bit.

Then you remember what he’d just said. “I was thinking about starting a garden,” you say quickly.

Bakugo pauses, looking up at you and then rising to his feet to regard you fully. “A garden?”

He seems to be sneering, and you bristle.

“Yeah, my grandfather had one back when he and my grandmother lived here—”

“The fuck’re you telling me for?” he interrupts. This time you recoil, pursing your lips.

“It’d be up on the roof, which we share,” you say slowly. “Wouldn’t it be rude of me not to check with you first?”

You might add that you hadn’t bothered to ask when you’d made your little flower garden in the front—it’s on your side entirely—so you haven’t exactly made a habit of asking him about unimportant things, but that scowl softens a little, replaced by a slightly furrowed brow and a seemingly sheepish breaking of eye contact as his eyes dart to the side.

“Do what’cha want. I don’t care.”

You nod. “Okay. Thank you. And if Ayame and Riko—or you, I suppose—want to help out at all, I’m sure I’ll need it.”

At mention of the girls, he finally seems to register exactly what you’re saying. He nods finally, expression relaxing, and though you almost feel it’s too little too late you’re pleasantly surprised—and appreciative—when he apologizes.

“Sorry. That’d be good for ‘em. Real good for ‘em. Thanks for reachin’ out.” He pauses, seems to hesitate, then clears his throat and tells you, “Their mom had a gardening quirk, y’know. They’ve both got ‘em too. I dunno if they told you.”

You blink. “No… I didn’t know. It’ll be a team project, then. If they’re interested, anyway.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll let ‘em know.” He’s nodding, clearly having convinced himself. “When’re you gonna start?”

“Mmm, next week. It’s still a little early to start planting but I’ll probably head up to clear out the space and make planter boxes this weekend. You’re welcome to join for that but it’ll be tedious stuff. Next week I’ll start planting, though.” You purse your lips. “The greenhouse is too broken down, I’ll have to completely remake it, but we shouldn’t need it for a while yet so I suppose I can put that off…”

You trail off, realizing that you’re thinking aloud and rambling at Bakugo far more than he cares about. But when you turn your attention back to him, from where you’d been staring absently off to the distance, you find that he’s regarding you with an amused look.

“That what that mess up there is? A greenhouse?”

Frowning, your response is indignant. “My grandfather built that ‘mess’ himself, I’ll have you know.”

“Not very well, clearly, seein’ as it collapsed like that.”

Your jaw drops. Coming from someone else, you might interpret his words as teasing—but he’s so blunt, and gruff, and his expression hardly shifts to indicate that he’s anything but serious, so you blink at him in almost shock.

That makes him tense. “What?”

“Was that a joke? I didn’t know you were capable of humor.”

“Hah? I’m funny as fuck.”

“Mmm. Very.” You purse your lips, playing at disinterest, but the smile tugging at them does you no favors. “Making fun of something my grandfather poured his heart and soul into… very funny. You’re a real upstanding hero.”

“That damn greenhouse fell down weeks after he made it, ‘n when I offered to fix it up he refused every time. Stubborn old man insisted he’d get ‘round to it. Never did. Obviously.”

“You offered to help?” you ask in shock.

He raises an eyebrow at you, clearly indignant. “I worked on that garden for months after his back gave out. Your grandmother wouldn’t stop nagging me when I missed too many days, said he got restless and wouldn’t leave ‘er alone. ‘course he only ever watched me by then, but I get it. ‘n she fed me in return, always reminded me of that when I slacked off.”

Bakugo had moved into the house next door during the five year stint between graduating university and your grandparents moving out that you spent living in an ever-changing series of small apartments further in the city. You’ve known that he’d had a good relationship with them, but you hadn’t known that he’d helped with the garden at all.

They ask you about him, fairly often in fact, though you’ve never been able to give them the detailed report of his current status that they always want. You’ve always thought that at least part of them giving you the house had been some convoluted attempt at setting the pair of you up together. Perhaps that’s why he’s always kept his distance. Perhaps it’s your other theory—that he just likes old folks. Or maybe he just makes more of an effort to be there for them. Considering his heroic choice of career, it’d make sense if he felt obligated. But it’s undeniable that he’s always reached out more to the elderly in the neighborhood over the younger corporate executives and trust fund kids who otherwise populate it—understandable, frankly, considering how unbearable the latter kind of person tends to be even in the best of circumstances.

Though, you admit, you’ve also lucked into your own property through inheritance. Perhaps you shouldn’t be so quick to separate yourself.

“They ask after you, you know,” you tell him in an effort to break the silence that’s fallen over the pair of you as you’d ruminated.

“Don’t s’ppose you had much to tell ‘em.” He chuckles, then pauses. “‘til Riko ‘n Ayame showed up, anyway.”

“Trust me, I didn’t have to tell them about the girls. Grandma called me the moment she saw them on the news.”

Anger crosses his face when you say that. You tense when you see it, wracking your mind in an attempt to figure out why he might be suddenly pissed at you, but when he growls out, “fuckin’ paparazzi, damn shitty gossip magazines, waste of fuckin’ space,” you realize it’s about the fact that you mentioned the news.

“Oh. That’s… an understandable response. To that photo.” You hadn’t quite put that together, but it does make sense. Dynamight has always been known to be especially private regarding his personal life and even antagonistic towards the press; he has an infamously bad attitude towards reporters out in the field and is rarely interviewed, and when he bothers it’s always abundantly clear that his manager has forced him to. “Really intrusive, actually.”

“No fuckin’ right to take photos of my fuckin’ kids when their damn mother just fuckin’ died.” The scowl on his face is heavy, and you’re very happy that it’s not directed at you. “Wish I could blow up every damn copy of it.”

“Yeah… yeah, I get that. I guess it’s lucky that others haven’t been spread around…” Or their names, you think. Names and ages and life stories—none of that is out there, which is frankly surprising, but good.

“Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it. My team knows how to stop that shit before it spreads.”

“I’m sure it doesn’t hurt to have the threat of number two hero Dynamight coming after you to stop it, too.” You shoot him a grin.

He doesn’t return it. The topic at hand, you think, bothers him far more than he’s even letting on; now he’s silent, and you hover awkwardly, not entirely sure how to continue the conversation. It isn’t unbearable exactly, but considering you’re holding him up from going to work you decide the silence is better off broken.

“Hey,” you say, “I’ve been meaning to ask, actually, and because you mentioned them earlier I might as well. What are their quirks?”

“The girls’?”

“Yeah. They haven’t told me—well, I never asked them, anyway. You said they were related to gardening?”

“Riko’s is called Boom Bloom. She can speed up the growth of flowering plants ‘n when they bloom they’ll explode. Ayame’s is similar—’s called Bloominescence, hers glow. Takes a lot out of ‘em, though. Can’t do it often.” He pauses for a moment. Then he adds, “I expected ‘em to be real filthy tree-hugger types when I learned. Figured there’d be fuckin’ flowers everywhere. Thought the petals ‘n leaves’d get all over the damn place. Thank fuck they ain’t like that, think I’d go insane.”

You bite your lip. “Sounds like something you’d hate.”

He snorts. “Let that be a warning, then, yeah? Don’t go trackin’ dirt around my place. If ya turn ‘em into that shit I’ll never let ‘em visit you again, y’hear?”

“Loud and clear, Dynamight, sir!”

You get another snort of laughter for the dig. But then he falls silent, looking at you pensively. That crimson stare regards you as you twist the leash in your hand a few times, a nervous tick. The way he’s looking makes you feel a little raw—like he’s taking you in, pulling you apart, seeing what makes you tick. And the silence is heavy, palpable.

“What about you?” he breaks it suddenly.

“Hm?” You know, and you stiffen despite yourself. You know what he’s asking, and you only have two options: the truth, or evasion. You’re giving him one last chance not to ask. He doesn’t take it.

“Your quirk. You haven’t told me what it is.”

It’s not an altogether unexpected question, not when you’ve just asked about the girls’ quirks, but it’s one that you hesitate answering nonetheless. And you could refuse to—it’s personal, though not technically rude most people understand when you choose not to say.

But you don’t really want to, not the least because the man before you is a pro hero who could most certainly look it up on his own time; if he’s going to cut whatever this relationship is brewing into short because of your answer here, then you’d rather know now than months down the line.

So you roll your shoulders back, look him in the eye, and tell him you’re quirkless.

Dynamight isn’t known for being the most understanding of pro heroes. In fact what he’s known for is a certain level of ruthlessness; a resolve to win fights while on duty and a lack of patience for anyone who he butts heads with, professionally or otherwise. Where no.1 hero Deku is considered the modern Symbol of Peace—all charismatic smiles and diplomacy, having learned well from his late mentor the great All Might—the man you’ve just informed of your quirklessness is colloquially called the Symbol of Victory, and weakness is hardly something you’d assume him to be particularly accepting of. Despite your logic telling you it’s ridiculous to be concerned, there’s a little nagging worry in your mind that he’ll turn away, get in his car, and drive to his agency and you’ll never talk to him or his girls again.

But Bakugo doesn’t do that. He hardly reacts at all, in fact. Instead he nods, purses his lips as if in thought, and grunts out, “a’ight. Good to know.”

Somehow he’s managed to give the best possible response. You have to give him credit; you never would have assumed that from the interactions you’ve been having with him all week.

“I can garden despite that, though,” you assure him with a smile. “In fact I can’t say it has a single effect on my gardening ability whatsoever.”

“Mmm.” He grunts. “And carpentry? Can you rebuild that fuckin’ mess of a greenhouse up on that roof?”

“Well, I’ll have you know it isn’t my quirklessness that makes my carpentry skills suck. It’s a lack of practice. And there’s no better time to start than the present.”

Bakugo wrinkles his nose, brow furrowing in tandem. “Don’t fuckin’ think I want you to practice with a big ass structure made of glass that my girls’re gonna be goin’ into.”

“Mmm that’s understandable, I suppose. Maybe you should find me a good carpenter to help me out, hm? Since you’re so—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Tadeo begins to bark frenziedly, lunging at the end of his leash and tugging you towards your front door. You stumble that way for half a step, unprepared for the sudden attack, before you manage to steel yourself and brace against his forceful jerking.

Bakugo, however, takes that as his cue to leave.

“‘m runnin’ late already,” he tells you. “Don’t build that greenhouse without supervision, I won’t have it collapsin’ on my fuckin’ girls.”

Then he nods in farewell and then turns to walk away, off towards that sleek, flashy car sitting parked waiting to take him into the city where his countless sidekicks and managing staffers and support technicians await his return to work.

You turn back to your front door and let Tadeo drag you inside.

The roof, when you first go up, is a mess.

You’d expected it. You’d experienced it first-hand before, even; you’ve often gone up with intent to clean it since you’d inherited the home and moved in, yet it’s always been too looming of a task to tackle on a whim and a mere weekend of time.

But there’s nothing quite like outside pressure to make you buckle down and take on such a challenge, and doing something for other people is precisely the pressure you apparently needed. It takes you a little longer than a weekend—in fact, in the week between you beginning the project and the roof being ready for planting, you spend most of your long, agonizing meetings with your laptop set carelessly on the concrete floor amongst the dirt and rotting wood, and a bluetooth headset in your ear as you advise your various clients about their finances.

It’s a good process. Mind and body moving, allowing for each to operate at a better capacity. You barely realize that you’re making progress on the roof until your daily alarm goes off alerting you of Riko and Ayame’s potential arrival, and then it’s a mad dash to get down to your house and shower off all the dirt and grime accumulated by your efforts. You often return up there the following morning, when the wind is biting cold and nipping at your cheeks and ears, to admire your handiwork with a new eye.

There’s an end in sight, eventually; by the time most of the old planter boxes are gone and you’ve reclaimed what you can of the greenhouse Bakugo had once called a mess to pile up in the corner for what will eventually become your own, it’s Friday, and you’re ready to start making new ones.

You’d created a plan weeks ago, complete with growth times and when to plant so that you’ll be able to harvest throughout the spring and summer and on into autumn. Now you take the time to design the layout, easy to see now that the space has been cleared out, and spend a day assembling salvaged wood and new supplies—helpfully brought up for you the evening before by, you’re informed but not present to witness, a small team of Bakugo’s pro hero friends—into the calculated sizes, shoving them into the designated spots, then filling them with soil.

The plants you choose to take on for the first year are simple, relatively easy to care for; carrots and zucchini, tomatoes and chard, cucumbers and potatoes. You’ll add more as time goes on, expanding and improving, especially if Ayame or Riko (or, ideally, both) take to it enough to reliably help you.

They both certainly enjoy it enough that first weekend to show up the second day early in the morning. Ayame has more of an attention span than Riko, naturally; Riko will help for a good fifteen or so minutes at a time, then wander off to do her own thing. That’s solid, you think, for a seven year old.

They help you out more than you anticipated; a few hours every weekend, in Ayame’s case at least, and in Riko’s often passing the time with you after school when she’s done with homework. For the first couple weeks after your initial meeting, they’re around more often than you entirely expect (though you’re happy about it, to be honest).

Ayame has her key past that first day. You doubt she’ll make that mistake again. But it’s hardly fair, in your opinion, to expect her to take care of Riko in Bakugo’s absence—especially when you’re around and more than capable. So they both spend much of their time at your place during the hours before dinner that he isn’t around.

He hadn’t been lying that first day. Once the new sidekicks are hired, he’s back long before dinner, often right when they’re getting home from school, far more consistently, and it becomes less frequent for the girls to stop by out of need for an adult; Ayame is more than capable of being in charge for the hour or so between their arrival home and Bakugo’s, but you always keep an ear out and often end up answering the door to one or both of the girls at some point during the day.

Riko takes, almost immediately, to paying visits to your door and no further just to stand outside and talk to you; Ayame stops by as well, though she’s far more abashed and taciturn about it, and tends to come in entirely with the excuse that she wants a quiet place to study. You enjoy both forms of visitation. There’s no shortage of occasions where Bakugo is unexpectedly required to stay later or go back in after returning home, however. You’ll get yourself a text on those days, curt and straight to the point and a bit crass—though you wouldn’t expect anything else—asking you to let them in, though more often than not the knock comes before the request and they’re already settled.

Ayame soon joins an after-school club, however. She’s cagey about what it’s for but it has her staying later at her high school three days a week, which leaves Riko with nobody to watch her on the occasions her father cannot.

You’re the natural pick to fill that role. And you like it. What you’d said that day still stands, the break from your typical workday is appreciated. Riko is good company for the hour or two she tends to spend with you. You’ll make her something light to eat and help with her schoolwork for much of it, then take a break and do something else for the rest of the time. Sometimes she wants to watch TV—there’s a show she adores, a cartoon called Twinklestar after the titular character who is, naturally, a pro hero and princess of a deserted human colony on Mars—but sometimes you can get her to garden with you, or help out with things around the house.

That’s what you’re doing now.

Ayame is still at school, at her mystery club. Riko has been with you for nearly an hour now. After an episode of Twinklestar, you’d convinced her to come join you outside while you hang up a suncatcher that a friend had sent you while overseas, and she’s been entertaining herself with a little keyring game that she’d found squirreled away in some drawer in your house. You’re not really sure where you got it, or when—it’s probably a holdover from your uni days, there’d been times when you’d hoarded such little pockets of joy and played them under your desk during lulls in lectures; low on brain power and high on dopamine—but it’s age appropriate and she’s been well absorbed while you work, so you’re not going to complain.

Your biggest worry now, frankly, is the very real chance that Bakugo will arrive home and witness you in your currently failing attempts to set up the suncatcher. You’ve brought out a step stool, and you’re perched at the top of it, hammer in hand as you stand on your tiptoes to put the nail in place and pound it in as a peg to hang the decoration. You’re just barely too short. Really what you ought to do is go back in and retrieve the taller step stool from the kitchen, or the ladder that you keep folded up under your stairs, but somehow that feels like admitting defeat.

Instead you balance precariously atop the one you first brought out, tapping at the nail far too lightly so as not to knock yourself off balance and hoping to whatever might be listening that your dour, captious neighbor doesn’t arrive home to lecture you about setting a good example for his daughter and not doing something so needlessly dangerous. He’d probably startle you—for how big the man is, he’s annoyingly quiet when he wants to be. Then it’d be his fault if you fell, really. For scaring you. Some hero he’d be.

Of course that’s when your foot slips. It’s only fair. Punishment from the universe for getting angry at something Bakugo hadn’t even done yet, a swat on the back of the hand.

And it’s your fault, really; hardly even a slip so much as your ankle rolling and your legs being thrown from under you. Though the stepstool you’re perched upon is small, your life flashes before your eyes; you imagine dashing your head on the concrete steps, breaking an arm or a leg at the very least, already trying to figure out how you’ll call an ambulance and what you’ll do with Riko—send her across the way to stay with Ms. Rose or Ms. Tulip for the remaining few minutes before Bakugo comes home? You certainly wouldn’t bring her to the hospital—when, rather than slamming into the hard ground, you’re suddenly caught by a pair of big arms.

It’s effortless. They hold your weight without struggle, having found purchase on your form with practiced ease. You’re left reeling, wide-eyed, and unable to do much beyond staying limp within them in an attempt to reorient yourself.

“Whoa, there!” your savior says good-naturedly. He doesn’t hold you any longer than necessary, placing you down on your own two feet before you can even fully register what had happened. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” Still a little dazed—understandably so, you should think—you shake your head in an attempt to clear it as you regard him.

The man who’d caught you is someone you really ought to recognize immediately, though in your defense you’re a little too busy thanking everything that you haven’t fallen and busted your head open (or at least broken a limb) to register his face until he sets you down.

He’s absolutely massive, towering well over you and boasting an equally impressive width, with a mane of bright red hair and a warm grin exposing a mouthful of sharp teeth. Another point in your defense for not recognizing him: he’s out of uniform, dressed in casual clothes, and you are not nearly versed enough in pro heroes to recognize even the top ten without those brightly colored and intricately decorated hero costumes.

It’s Red Riot, sturdy and robust, not even batting an eye as he subtly inspects you for injury. You brush yourself off a little self-consciously.

Up where she’s been hovering near the door, Riko squeals in excitement. Your attentions are both pulled to her as she darts down the stoop and flies past you, making a beeline for Riot. His face lights up as she approaches.

The moment she’s close enough, he grabs her from the ground and swings her up, pulling excited giggles from her lips as he sets her up on his shoulders. “How’s it going, kiddo? Being good for your sister?”

“Ayame isn’t here,” Riko whines a little, pouting, and though he can’t possibly hear her at all the evidence is plain in her voice. “She’s joined a club after school.”

“Really, now?” Riot is even better than you, you realize; he sounds even more interested than you do without even a hint of condescension. He’s always been known for how well he works with kids—even you’ve heard that—and it’s evident in full force as he interacts with Riko. “What club?”

Riko wrinkles her nose. You watch as she rests her elbow on his head and braces her chin in the palm of that hand, pouting, in a pose reminiscent of a grouchy adult lost in thought.

“She won’t tell me.”

“Oh?” Riot laughs good-naturedly. “Well, everyone gets to have their secrets. I’m sure you have yours.”

“I don’t,” Riko says flatly, in a tone so confident and annoyed that it makes both you and Riot burst into laughter. Luckily she takes it as a compliment; grinning wide, even joining in on the laughter though you doubt she quite knows what’s amusing.

“You must be the neighbor, yeah?” Turning his attention to you, Riot says your name, and at your nod, he gives a quick bow, Riko still perched on his shoulders and giggling wildly as she holds onto his neck. He does most of the work, keeping a hand on her legs to ensure she won’t fall even as his head bears most of her weight. “Kirishima Eijirou. Red Riot.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“Bakugo had to stay behind at work, something came up. He asked me to come relieve you of duty.”

“How valiant of you.”

“Just doin’ my job as a hero, ma’am. And, uh, hey.” He gives you a warm smile now, softer than the victorious smirks after won fights and beaming grins during awards ceremonies that you’ve always seen in the press. You think you might be a little flattered to be receiving it. “In case he hasn’t said it himself, thank you for helping Bakugo out. You’ve been a lifesaver more than you know. He really appreciates it, though I’m sure it might be hard to tell.”

You snort. Clearly he knows his friend well. “He’s said it, actually, but I’ll say again that it’s no problem. We have fun. Right, Riko?”

“Yeah!” Riko cheers with hands thrown up in the air carelessly, prompting Kirishima to again grab her legs to keep her stable before she can fall the impressive distance to the ground.

“Good to hear it!” he gives back the same energy, even uses his hands to kick her feet against his chest, drawing out more giggles from her. When he says more, though, it’s aimed directly at you, voice amiable. “What were you doing up on that death trap, anyway?”

“It’s just a step stool…”

“How can I help?” he clarifies. The corners of his eyes wrinkle a little as he smiles at you.

You gesture back at the mess behind you. You’re not even sure where the hammer went, you’ll have to go searching before you go back in, but it’s okay; you’d managed to get the nail in deep enough that it’s in no danger of falling, so it’s mostly the unhung suncatcher lying in a heap on the stoop that draw Kirishima’s eye.

He whistles at the sight. “Pretty.”

It does look pretty lying there, crystalline prisms tied together with fishing line. It’ll look even nicer hanging up where the morning sun will catch it and cast rainbows across your front doorway. You think that’ll be a nice way to start the day, out on your porch after you’ve walked the dog, laptop in hand to begin working.

“It’s a Prism Prison.” Riko bends down and leans over so that her mouth is right near Kirishima’s head, and speaks in a stage whisper, eyes wide like she’s telling him a secret.

“Like from Twinklestar?” he asks without missing a beat, and with just the right amount of awe in his tone.

“Uh-huh!”

“Does it have any villains in it?”

“Yeah, yeah! Miss Serpent and Gunk Guy and Novagleam!”

“Novagleam?” Twinklestar’s greatest nemesis—her evil clone, created by a mad scientist, determined to hunt her down and steal her quirk for herself. It’s wildly endearing that Red Riot recognizes the character immediately. “Well, then, we’d better set it up, huh? Otherwise the villains might escape!”

Riko gives a horrified gasp. “Oh, no! We gotta, we gotta!”

She starts squirming around from her perch; Kirishima’s grip tightens on her legs as he chuckles and approaches. A nod from you to the suncatcher takes you a moment to decipher, but as he gets to the first step you realize he intends to help Riko put it up herself and is asking you to hand it up. You dart up ahead of him and by the time you’ve retrieved it he’s moved the step stool and had his hand held out.

Handing it over, you watch as he passes it up to Riko, and with how tall he is—and, therefore, how high up she is on his shoulders—it’s no struggle for her to hook it onto the nail you’d put in mere minutes ago.

She cheers when it settles, and Kirishima whoops in turn, stepping back enough to make sure she won’t hit the very thing they’ve just hung up as he finally sets her down.

“There,” he says. “Now we’re all safe, yeah?”

He casts his gaze over to you, and gives a subtle nod at the step stool to let you know exactly what he’s really saying. It makes your face heat up a little—embarrassed, but only slightly, at the mess of an introduction and his apparent self-assigned duty to make sure it won’t happen again. Maybe you shouldn’t befriend any more pro heroes.

“All right,” he says assuredly, turning over to Bakugo’s door and fiddling with the knob, clearly to open it. “Riko, Daddy wants me to bring ya back to his work to have dinner in the city, we’ll stop by on the way and pick up Ayame from school. Why don’t’cha head on inside and grab somethin’ to play with for the ride? I’ll be right with you to help you pick.”

Riko, like all little kids, jumps at the prospect of visiting her father’s workplace. Squealing, she bursts into the house just as Kirishima pushes the door open and you hear the sound of her footsteps as she sprints up the stairs to her room. You stifle a laugh. She’s probably already dumped all her toys out of her toy chest and is sifting through all the options on the floor.

“Bakugo’ll have your head if he comes home and her room’s a disaster,” you tell him when he turns back to you.

“Ah, but he’ll clean it up anyway, and he likes taking care of things. I’ll be doing him a favor if I leave him a mess.”

You recall, distantly, what you’ve heard of their history together; that they’d been in the same class at UA along with a record-breaking number of other top heroes. Unprecedented, you remember all the reporters saying, even back when they were all first breaking out onto the scene at eighteen and nineteen and twenty. A monster generation of pros, all coming off a war in their first year, trained by All Might himself.

Living right next to you. Helping you put up your suncatcher. Dropping little bombs about the quiet interworkings of their friends’ minds, learned from years of camaraderie.

Best not to ruminate on that too much.

“Don’t think he’d take too kindly to you spilling his secrets, either,” you tease.

“He’ll forgive me.” Kirishima waves it off. He leans against the frame of Bakugo’s front door, one big hand around the edge of the door and swinging it absent-mindedly. “We should exchange numbers, by the way. Odds of this happening again are pretty high, would be good to be able to text you so you can tell Riko what’s happening.”

“Ah! Yeah, sure.”

“Gimme your phone, I’ll call myself.”

You reach into your back pocket to retrieve it and unlock it to hand it over without question. That hand that’d been swinging the door around abandons it, letting it close on him without so much as a jolt to his body, and reaches out to take the device from your outstretched grasp. He looks down at it, finding the phone app easily.

“How’s the garden treating you, by the way?” he asks conversationally as he types in his number.

“Hm?”

“The garden,” he repeats, glancing up. His thumb presses the call button and you hear his back pocket begin to chime with a ringtone. “I helped bring up supplies a few weeks ago, how’s it going?”

“Oh! Thank you! I would’ve struggled getting all that up there without you guys, you helped a lot. It’s going well! Things’ve been sprouting and some are beginning to blossom, we’re gonna plant for the summer sometime soon. I could probably give you some if you want. You like zucchini?”

“I will adore any homegrown vegetables, dead serious.”

He certainly sounds dead serious. You smile. “Perfect answer. I’ll have Bakugo bring you some of the next harvest.”

Grinning, those sharp teeth on full display, he hands back your phone and you take it. “I look forward to it.”

Where Riko’s visits tend to be requested by Bakugo and done mostly out of necessity (no less welcome, though, of course), Ayame’s occur during much the opposite times. Often she’ll stay behind after he comes and picks up Riko, claiming that she works better at your place. She’ll also show up at your front door later in the afternoon, backpack slung over her shoulder, complaining about her house being too loud with Riko watching shows or Bakugo helping with her homework. You invite her in every time.

Then she joins that club, and for three days a week she doesn’t come home until after Bakugo has. Her visits drop in frequency at first. Then after the first two weeks they increase; she’s compensating, you think. If you didn’t know any better you’d say she missed you. She’d never tell you that, though.

There’s a concept known as parallel play—two toddlers playing adjacent to each other, not quite interacting with one another but undeniably playing together. Ayame’s visits remind you of it. She’ll unpack her bag onto your dining room table and set to work silently while you do your own work, typically on your laptop sitting at the couch or across the table from her or up at the counter bar in your kitchen. You’ll venture into your office to take phone calls, or excuse yourself to the back terrace, but you tend to stay on the main floor with her.

At first she rarely holds more than a few conversations with you, and they’re often little more than you offering food or help with schoolwork and her turning you down. By the time she joins her club she becomes a little more talkative—often about her work, sometimes about her day. The latter you tend to have to probe for.

You ask if she wants to stay for dinner every time. She’s yet to accept. As the weeks go by, however, she grows more hesitant to reject the offer; soon enough, you think, she might just do it.

Today she’s been particularly quiet. It’s been three weeks since she joined the club; even you can’t tell how much she’s enjoying it and how much she’s merely done it to get the adults in her life off her back. You’re pretty sure she likes it okay.

Her teachers, you know, had been pressuring her to join an extracurricular. There’d been leniency for the first few months of the semester, a general understanding of and sympathy for her situation (it’s hardly easy to transfer to a new school so suddenly, let alone as a result of one’s mother passing and being forced to move away from one’s childhood home to live with a man you’ve never met before) allowing her some time to breathe, but life doesn’t stand still no matter how much one feels it ought to. Teenagers might be distinctly lacking in forethought, but Ayame has enough sense to give in on certain matters.

You haven’t pushed her to tell you about what she’s doing. You know she’s wary of you, worried you’ll go running to Bakugo immediately, and you can respect that. Frankly you’re also just not as interested as he and Riko are—you figure if it’s something embarrassing then you’d just feel bad if you wheedled it out of her, and it isn’t as if you think she’s doing something wrong.

So you haven’t so much as mentioned that Riko keeps asking you about it, even if you find it amusing. Ayame, however, is notably more suspicious than thankful.

“You haven’t asked me about my club,” she says as you sit down across from her after making yourself tea. She’s been working for nearly two hours with you; you’d just had to step out to take a call. “Why not?”

You shrug. “If you wanna keep something a secret that’s your right, I’m not gonna try to pry it out of you.”

“Oh…” The tension in her shoulders eases a little, defensive posture loosening as she sits up straighter. “Thank you. I thought for sure you’d be curious.”

“Well, I’m not not curious,” you clarify. “But my curiosity doesn’t trump your comfort. I’m okay never knowing if you never want me to.”

She doesn’t seem to know how to respond to that. She stares at you, mouth slightly agape, but doesn’t say anything; instead, after a few moments and with a light dusting of pink across the bridge of her nose, her head snaps downward and she returns her attention to the papers before her.

You do the same. It’s silent for some time, a few minutes, as the pair of you work sitting across the table from each other. But then Ayame speaks, suddenly, voice wavering a little with hesitance and bashfulness and unable to meet your eye fully.

“It’s cooking,” she says. You look up from your laptop and raise a brow, silently asking her to clarify. She does. “The club I joined. I wanted to join the cooking club at my old school but… I never had the chance to. I always had to watch Riko.”

“Ah.” You nod in understanding. “I’m glad you have the chance now. It’s an important skill to learn.”

“Don’t tell Uncle,” she demands curtly. “Or Riko, because she’ll tell Uncle.”

Now you lower your laptop, just slightly. Her shoulders tense from the motion. You ask anyway, though you know it’s at the prospect of the question you’re about to pose.

“I won’t, I promise. But… can I ask why not?”

For a moment, you wonder if she’ll answer at all, or if she’ll stubbornly ignore the question and remain silent for the rest of the visit as she has so many of the other times you’ve pushed for explanations like this. She surprises you instead by sighing, and tapping her pencil rapidly against the table, and then answering.

“Because he’ll get pissy.” It’s sullen, and she obstinately refuses to look up from her work, but she responds. You give a warm smile of encouragement, and she sighs again. “He’s, like, really particular about cooking, okay? But if he knew I wanted to learn from someone else he’d get all… y’know. Pissy. ‘Cause he cares or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” you repeat, not entirely mocking but rather in agreement. “Is he bad?”

“At cooking? No. He’s good. Really good.”

“So..?”

“So that’s the problem. It’s intimidating being in the kitchen with him and not knowing, like, how to cut things or what temperature to cook at. He’s always judging, and yelling at me when I mess up.” She hunkers down where she’s seated, crossing her arms. Her next words are quieter, and you might call them petulant if they weren’t clearly laced with hurt. “He never yells at Riko when she makes a mess…”

You wish you could comfort her more. Maybe Bakugo does yell at her, and maybe he doesn’t yell at Riko, but in your experience even his normal voice sounds irritated and you’d probably wager a guess that she’s misinterpreting, and whether or not that’s the case it certainly doesn’t help the way she feels about it. So you take a different approach.

“It’s very mature of you to find an alternative way to learn, then. You must care about this a lot.”

It works. She perks up at the praise.

“Mom was always busy… she never had the time to help me learn. Or cook much at all, anyway. But I’ve always wanted to know.” It’s the first time you’ve heard her talk about her mother, you realize. Her tone is melancholy, a little wistful. She swallows, shakes her head, and adds, “And—and when I go visit Grandmother, I’d like to have some skills beforehand, so that I can focus on learning the recipes and not the basics.”

“Well, your secret’s safe with me. And…” you hesitate, not entirely sure how she’ll take it, but say it anyway. “I’m willing to teach you some things, too, if you want.”

Her head snaps up to you, eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”

“Of course! You’re always welcome, and I’m always making something.”

“Thank you!”

“In fact,” you start, “do you wanna help me cut strawberries?”

“Like… right now?’

“Yeah. I’m making a strawberry shortcake later this afternoon.” You look down at where she still has schoolwork scattered across the table. “Oh, if you have to keep working that’s okay. We can do it another time, too—”

“No!” she exclaims, already jumping to her feet. “I’m okay. I wanna help! But I do have to go back soon, Uncle’s gonna be making dinner soon and he’ll probably want me home so I can make sure Riko doesn’t interrupt him.”

Nodding, you stand up after her. “Understood. We’ll be quick, then. But not too quick, because we’ll be cutting things, and I’m pretty sure if I send you back to Bakugo with fewer fingers than you had when you showed up then I’ll get arrested or something.”

The joke gets you a little laugh. You think it might be pity, but you don’t really mind.

The strawberries are in the fridge. You direct Ayame to get out two cutting boards as you rinse them, dropping them into a paper towel lined bowl and setting them down in between the two cutting boards she’s laid out on the counter.

“Knives are in the knife block next to the sink,” you command her next. “You want a small one, a paring knife, not a really big one.”

She nods. It’s not until she’s pulled out an older one that you realize the one she ought to be using isn’t in the block at all—you’d used it this morning and cleaned it by hand, so it’s on the drying rack where you’d put it to let it air dry,

“Mmm, sorry, not that one.” You reach over to take the knife from the drying rack and slide it over on the counter for her to use. “This one’s sharper. Safer.”

Ayame’s brow furrows. “Wouldn’t that be more dangerous?”

“The opposite, actually. A dull knife can still cut you easily, but you’ll struggle more with cutting what you want to cut, so accidents are more likely. A sharp knife, however, will cut things far easier, and do what you want it to do with less force.”

“I see…”

“Now. Let me cut one.” You pull out a strawberry, one big enough for her to see what you do with it. “Pull off the leaves, throw those out. Then we cut it in half, put the flat side on the board, and cut out the center white part with the stem. Other half, and now we’re done.”

You hold up the cutting board to show her more clearly what you’ve done. Then you pick up both pieces and drop them into the bowl you’ve set up in between the pair of you.

“Now you try.”

“Okay,” Ayame says, clearly more to herself than to you. She pulls the leaves off, then holds out her knife and begins to follow your lead, cutting the fruit in half before setting the flat side down. “Cut out the center.”

“Careful, don’t point the blade at your fingers like that. You could slip really easily and chop off part of them instead of the strawberry.” You reach out slowly, trying hard not to startle her, and move the knife and her fingers into a far more safe position. “There, see how your fingers’ll be out of the way even if the knife slips?”

She nods. “Yeah… Okay, yeah. Lemme try again.”

She does it perfectly the second time around. You tell her as much, watching as she swells up with pride, and then turn to your own cutting board to take your half of the strawberries and start hacking through them. She doesn’t need any more help past what you give to her at the start; you’re still faster by leagues, certainly, but it’s to be expected. You’ve had far more practice.

Soon enough you’re finishing not just your own portion, but half of Ayame’s that you stole as well. She’s nearing the end of what’s left in her bowl; in fact, just as she finishes the last one, her phone lights up. You pause in your own work, glancing over as she checks the message.

“It’s from Uncle,” she says, attention fixated on the phone screen. “He wants me to go help Riko with her homework while he works on dinner.”

“Then you’d better head back over.”

She looks up to meet your eye. She seems hesitant—a little dejected. “Yeah. I’ll, uh… I’ll help clean up? I’m sure it can wait a few minutes…”

“No need, you were already helping me by cutting. I’ll bring over some of the shortcake when I’m done with it, sounds good?” You wink at her. “The best part of cooking is getting to eat the fruit of your labor, we wouldn’t want you to miss out.”

“Okay.” She’s smiling now, nodding at you, clearly excited by the prospect.

“And if you like it, I could send you the recipe. It’s fairly easy, good for beginners.”

“Yeah! Definitely! See you after dinner, then.”

With that promise, she’s heading for the door, pausing only momentarily to nab a cut strawberry to pop in her mouth as she’s leaving.

Spring gives way to summer. Your days are occupied with the garden and with work; the end of the semester draws near for the girls, Ayame is busy preparing for exams which, ironically, means you’re seeing more of her. She studies late with you now, staying for dinner on occasion, and she even helps you make it sometimes, finally confident enough after weeks attending her cooking club to allow herself more freedom in the kitchen.

You find it surprisingly nice. There’s a certain kind of pride that comes with aiding her, helping her along and cheering alongside her when she does it properly for the first time. And with seeing her become more and more comfortable cooking, and by extension with you.

That isn’t to say she’s entirely open. She still locks up sometimes, goes quiet when you say something that reminds her of her mother or pry a little too hard. On very sparse occasions she’s had to leave and go back home—you look on the bright side when that happens, that she’s comfortable enough at Bakugo’s (or, perhaps more accurately, with Riko) that it’s a place she can go to calm down when she’s feeling too much.

Riko, meanwhile, eagerly awaits summer break. She’s made countless friends at her new school, and she talks at length about every one, excitedly telling you about how they’ll see each other every day while school’s out and play when they don’t have to do schoolwork. She’s expressing a bit more interest in the garden, too, after a day where her teachers explained how good for the environment household gardens are.

In the last remaining weeks of the first semester, a large plant appears in a pot in the corner of the roof.

You certainly didn’t plant it, nor did you bring up the pot or the soil or anything else. But it’s meticulously cared for, large and thriving, and though you don’t mess with it too much you do pay enough attention to notice when it begins to flower and then, slowly, bear fruit.

It’s a pepper plant. Not a bell pepper, certainly—hot peppers. Thai chili peppers, you’re fairly certain; they’re the right size and, as they continue to grow, your little inspections begin to leave your fingers feeling itchy with the telltale sensation of capsaicin.

Where before you thought it might have been Ayame’s pet project, the realization of what they are has you assuming a new culprit. And that assumption is proven correct a few days into the girls’ summer break.

Now that the weather is sweltering, and the midday sun is borderline unbearable, you shift your gardening time to after dinner when the sun is lowering. Of course that does very little for the bugs, and it leaves you with fading light, but you prefer it over the heat.

Bakugo apparently does too. Or perhaps he just doesn’t have the time otherwise. Either way, when you climb up the metal steps to access the roof, you find him crouched over the mysterious pepper plant.

For a moment, you watch. He’s solidly occupied by it, with his own set of supplies at his feet and his attention solely on the plant. You can’t quite see what he’s doing, but he’s definitely looking at the peppers; you get small glimpses of his face and he looks, you think, strikingly serene.

The missing scowl almost throws you for a loop. You’d have thought it’d be permanent by now, but clearly it isn’t.

And you’ve had enough of your creeping. You clear your throat, walking up onto the roof to catch his attention. “Lovely evening for gardening, huh?”

He looks up. The serene expression is gone; you almost wish you could bring it back yourself.

“I was wondering what that plant was,” you say, undeterred by his silence. “Should’ve figured it was yours. Dunno why Ayame would be growing chili peppers.”

“I’ve had it for years, actually.”

His voice, when he finally speaks, is nice to hear, even if it’s gravelly and curtt. You cock your head at the admission.

“Really? Kept it indoors?”

“Balconies, mostly. The terrace for a bit. Too shady, though. Full sun up here’s better.”

“It seems to like it.”

“Yeah…” Bakugo looks back down at it, clearly proud. “Been usin’ this plant forever. You like spice?”

You shrug. “Normal amount.” Then your eyes narrow as you give him a side-eye. “Something tells me my normal is different from your normal, though.”

He snorts. “Probably. S’okay, just means we won’t be competin’ too bad for these things.”

“True enough, I suppose. How long have you had it?”

“‘bout a year. Give or take. Longer than I’ve had this house, that’s for damn sure. Lugged it all the way to the back terrace when I first showed up, dirt ‘n all.”

“You take good care of it.”

He puffs at the compliment, just slightly. Not much.

“‘Course I fuckin’ do.” He stands, rolling out his shoulders and loosening himself up from squatting for what you’re sure is a long while. Meanwhile you pick a spot and kneel next to it, pulling out tools and other supplies from the tote you use to bring it all up. “I better head back down before the girls drive each other insane. Enjoy your gardening.”

“Mmm. I will.”

He goes to head down the stairs, but pauses, turning back momentarily to look at you. “Oh, one more thing.”

“Yeah?” You lean back to look at him, just in time to see his eyes jump up from what you’re pretty sure is the spot under your legs. You look down, where your thighs are taut from your position and bulging where the tiny shorts you have on are pressing into the skin, and move them to check beneath. “What were you looking at?”

When you find nothing, you return your gaze to him, and he’s pointedly looking away; it’s difficult to tell in the fading light but you think he might be a bit pink.

“Nothin’,” he mutters, barely audible from how far away you are.

“But—”

“Nothin’!” he says again, louder, as he raises a hand to rub down his face in exasperation. “Just—forget it. Didn’t see shit. Wasn’t even what I wanted to tell ya.”

“Okay…” you draw out the word in confusion. “What did you want to tell me?”

“We’ll, uh. We’ll be taking a trip to see my parents next weekend.” He’s flustered, you realize; voice gruff as always but less assured than normal, stumbling over his words just slightly. It’s endearing, though you’re still perplexed by what brought it on. He clears his throat. “Just… y’know, figured you should know.”

“Oh? Have fun.”

“We’ll be back ‘round Tuesday.” His attention snaps over to the pepper plant. “Peppers should be ready to harvest ‘round then… ‘ll be able to grab the early ones ‘n the late ones, but go ‘head ‘n nab the rest if I’m gone.”

“Sure thing.”

“Don’t let ‘em go to waste.”

“I make no promises except that I’ll try.”

“‘kay, y’got me there. Night, then.” He pauses, a little frown, eyes off in the distance as, despite saying goodnight, he still hovers. That red gaze darts back to you. “Don’t stay up too long.”

“I won’t.” You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t fall on your way down.”

This time he huffs out a bit of laughter. And rolls his eyes, taking the hint as he turns to really leave. “Fuckin’ won’t. No nagging needed.”

Before you can retort that he’d nagged you first, he’s gone, and you stare a little dazedly at the place he’d just disappeared. Had he been dawdling to keep talking to you? You couldn’t tell.

Shaking your head, you turn back to your plants. No use lingering on it.

Ayame shows up at your door unannounced one Tuesday morning directly after they return from their trip to Bakugo’s parents’. You find her leaning up against the side of your house, right next to the door, as you return from your walk with Tadeo’s leash in hand.

She greets Tadeo eagerly, though that’s easily overshadowed by his own frenzy. His tail wags so enthusiastically that his whole butt shakes, and he attempts to jump on her once—she puts a stop to that by pushing his paws off her thighs and giving him a stern “no” before bending down to his height to pat his head.

“Good boy,” she coos to him, then looks up at you without letting up from her affection. “Morning.”

“Morning! You’re here early.”

She’s dressed fashionably, in distressed jean shorts with fishnets beneath and a ripped-up black t-shirt with a skull on it. The bright pink band on her wrist might ruin the aesthetic, but she makes it work; Riko gave it to her. At your words she stands to look at you fully.

“I know, I…” She frowns, looking away and shoving her hands into the pockets of her shorts. “I dunno. I needed to talk, I guess? And you were… my first thought? So here I am?”

“Here you are,” you repeat. “You’re always welcome to talk with me, whenever you want to. Come inside, I’ll make you some tea.”

“Thanks.” The tension in her shoulders eases at your words. She follows you quietly when you open your door and gesture for her to join you. You haven’t set out your guest slippers for her—this visit, after all, is unexpected—but she’s seen you take them out enough times that she finds them with little prompt before you can finish taking Tadeo’s harness off. He sprints off to wait by his food bowl the moment he’s free.

“Have you had breakfast?” you ask as you walk into the kitchen. “I usually make mine now.”

“Um… no, but I’ll be making breakfast with everyone this morning. Uncle’s up but we’re waiting on Riko, she’ll probably wake up in an hour or so. Thanks, though.”

You nod in acceptance. “Let’s just have some tea, then. Let me know if you change your mind, though; we have time and I have plenty of food.”

The first thing to do is feed Tadeo—you direct Ayame to do that, turning your own attention to brewing a pot of green tea for both of you as she scoops kibble into his bowl. Predictably, he sets about devouring it as soon as it hits the metal, and without you asking her to, Ayame has already removed the water bowl from the raised tray to dump and refill it.

It’s quiet as you prepare the tea. You decide that if she wanted to talk now, she’d have initiated it; instead she leans herself back against the countertop and watches as you pad about the kitchen. She might not be eating with you but you take the chance to start the rice for your own breakfast, rinsing it and turning the cooker on while the water comes to temperature.

Once the tea is steeping, however, you send her to sit at your dining table; she seems a little stiff still, but better. Hopefully even more so as she gets more comfortable. You join her quickly.

Sliding her cup of tea over the table and hugging your own as you sit down, you give her a warm smile. “All right, what’s up? Is this about your trip?”

She’s been stressing about it, you know. Worried that Bakugo’s parents will reject her.

“No. It’s—” Ayame cuts herself off with a sigh. Shoulders tense, she stares down at the steaming cup in her hands with a strange look on her face. “It’s a boy.”

“Oh?”

Her nose wrinkles. “If you’re gonna be weird I’m not gonna talk to you.”

“I won’t be weird, promise. You sound like you’re very conflicted.”

“Hayao’s his name. He’s the first guy who’s ever been interested in me and he’s, like… I dunno. One of the cutest guys at school. All my friends were so jealous when he asked for my phone number.”

“Yeah? Sounds flattering that he was interested.”

“It was. Is! I mean, he really is cute… They say he was on the hero track in junior high, but his parents refused to let him do something that dangerous. And he’s pretty smart. He asked me to help him study for our literature exam at the end of the semester, which is how I knew he was, like, into me? Because he didn’t really need the help, yanno? Which was cute. And—yeah, flattering. He asked me out on the last day of the semester, right before break. I thought it’d be nice, getting to go on dates and stuff when school’s out. But…” She trails off. Her gaze falls to her tea before her, and she traces the rim dejectedly with the pad of a finger.

“But?”

“But, I dunno. It’s just not really working? He kinda ignores me whenever we hang out as a group and his friends kinda laugh when I try to talk to him. And he lets other girls hang around him all the time—people don’t really know we’re, like, together, so I don’t blame them but I mean he should tell them right? I dunno. I feel kinda sick when I see him now, or when I might see him, or when he texts me. Like my stomach drops and I almost wanna throw up? My friends say it’s probably butterflies but I really don’t think it is. I think it’s anxiety? I dunno.”

“I see.” You nod sagely. “We do not like this boy. Message received.”

“No, it’s—” She cuts herself off with a huff and her eyes cut to the side. Still cradling her teacup, her knuckles go white with a self-soothing grip. “The truth is I don’t think he really likes me.”

“Oh.”

“Like…” Ayame’s shoulders slump. “My friends are like ‘just go along with it, you’ve never been asked out before’ but I’m miserable. All he wants to do is talk about school and Dynamight.”

That makes you pause. You hadn’t quite thought about it, but it makes sense in hindsight—people wanting to get to know her and Riko because of their connection to the number two hero. Especially stupid, shallow teenage boys with no understanding of how much that might sting.

“Well… okay. Firstly, I have to say I disagree with your friends here. No guy is worth feeling miserable for.” You pause, and she snorts, but doesn’t disagree. So you continue. “Do you wanna work out what you think you should do? Or just vent, because I’m here either way.”

“I… dunno what I can do.”

“Well, you could always break up with him, no shame in that. Or,” you add quickly when she opens her mouth, “you could talk to him about it, communicate what’s wrong. If he’s the kind of boy you should stick it out for, he’ll be receptive to that.”

She’s silent for a moment, staring dejectedly into her tea before her. You let her think, process your words, while you sip on your own and watch as Tadeo, done with his breakfast, waddles over to his favorite armchair and hauls himself up to settle in for the morning.

Then you turn your attention back to your visitor.

“What’re you thinking?”

“I…” She sighs. “I don’t know if he’ll be receptive.”

“You never will unless you try.” You take a sip of your tea and give yourself a moment to arrange your thoughts. When you can order them into the right sentences to get across what you want to say, you lean in, lacing your fingers together on the table in front of you. “Look, Ayame, relationships are hard. They take work, even when it’s the right person. I’m not going to tell you if this boy is right or wrong, you’re the only person who can decide that. But no matter what, none of your choices here are going to be easy.”

Ayame squirms in her seat. That, clearly, had been the wrong way to go about it. You can practically see her shutting down at the prospect. A new approach, then—you lean back instead, bracing yourself on the floor with your arms and looking across the table at her.

“You know, the first guy who ever expressed interest in me was the school delinquent when I was a second year. Real cute—though he’d take issue with that description—very charming, got in a fight for me. I liked him a lot, I really did. But..” You let it linger, hoping to create intrigue.

It works; she looks up at you, tilting her head in question. “But?”

“I wasn’t ready.”

She ruminates on that for a moment. Her face is pensive, her gaze unfocused. “How’d you figure that out?”

“I melted down two days after he first asked me out and my mom had to break up with him for me on my phone while I was crying my eyes out on our living room floor.”

Ayame gives a burst of laughter, then covers her mouth. You shake your head and laugh, too.

“It’s okay to laugh, it’s funny. Really!” you insist when she shakes her head in disbelief. “She read the text out loud and I was wailing, absolutely bawling, rolling around on the floor begging her not to and then begging her to just send the message. I swear, that woman had so much patience for me…”

“How’d your dad react?”

The question, admittedly, takes you aback. You tilt your head, trying to gauge Ayame’s intent—it’s an odd jump to make, you think, but she’s looking a little expectant and you realize she’s fishing. You haven’t talked to her about your father before. So you decide to be candid.

“I don’t have one, actually. Had a stepdad for a bit when I was really young but he left… when I was about Riko’s age, maybe a bit younger. Then it was just me and my mom—at least, until I got accepted to university and my grandparents offered to put me through it.” You smile softly, hoping to get across your affection instead of letting Ayame feel awkward or ashamed for asking. It only kind of works.

“Oh.” She deflates a bit. “Sorry, I didn’t realize…”

“It’s okay, it’s not something I try to hide. And you didn’t know either way. Besides,” you gesture between the two of you, “we gotta stick together, yeah?”

If you weren’t looking for it, you might have missed the way her lips quirk up slightly at your declaration. “Yeah.”

“Good. So I wasn’t ready—that was my point. Who knows what would’ve happened if I’d tried to force it; maybe I would’ve been miserable and come to resent him, and he didn’t deserve that. The way it worked out was better for both of us.”

“How?” She sounds a little desperate. You think you understand. It must be hard to believe that her situation can work out. Maybe that’s right—maybe this specific boy really can’t—but that doesn’t mean it’s permanent.

“How’d it work out? Kenzou and I stayed friends—well,” you hold up your hands to do air quotes, “‘friends,’ because admittedly we were both still pining—until graduation when I kissed him and we started going out for real. And that lasted a good long while the second time around. I don’t regret taking a little longer to date him, because it meant that when I was ready it was a much more successful experience. And trust me, if a boy really likes you, he won’t care.”

“You mean he’ll wait for me?”

You tilt your head. It’s more difficult than you anticipated, walking the line between encouragement and setting her expectations too high.

“If he likes you,” you settle upon saying, because it’s safe. Safer than telling her this boy will wait for her; you honestly doubt that, from what she’s been telling you. “And if he’s the kind of person who’s satisfied with that. But if he doesn’t, it’s not your fault. There’ll be other boys who do like you and who are the kind of person who’ll wait for you, if needed.”

“I guess.”

“Just trust me on this. It’s true.”

“I… okay.”

She doesn’t believe you, that much is obvious. It’s never going to be easy to convince a teenager that life continues after high school—never going to be easy to convince them that what’s before them right now might not be the ultimate happiness they think it is. Maybe you should have just told her that he’s a jerk and she shouldn’t waste her time.

But no, it means more if she comes to that conclusion herself. All you can do is finish your cup of tea and hope she takes what you’ve said to heart.

“How’d he get in a fight for you,” Ayame asks suddenly.

“Who, Kenzou? My high school boyfriend?” You chuckle. “Teenagers tend to be a lot more subtle than younger kids, but I still got picked on a lot for being quirkless. He caught some boys stealing my stuff—one of them was levitating it up above me so I couldn’t reach it—and stepped in.”

“And beat them up?” She’s excited now, a little starry-eyed at the concept.

“Oh, soundly. Used his quirk to overpower them—he was a hero prospect, too, once upon a time, though he’s always been too critical of the hero system to become one, even back then. ‘Course quirk usage got him in a world of trouble with administration, but… he always said it was worth it to meet me. I learned later on that he’d liked me for a while, actually, just didn’t know how to approach me.”

“Wow, that’s… so romantic. I wish a guy would do something like that for me…” A sigh, wistful, and you’re reminded that the girl before you has never had a relationship before. She deserves a first boyfriend like your own, you think. “I can’t believe you’re not still together.”

You snort. “Well, our lives just diverged. We’re still friends! He visits me whenever he’s back in Japan.”

“Back in Japan?” The awestruck tone has returned tenfold. “Where does he go?”

“Oh, all over the place. To tell you the truth I hardly know what he does. Something about quirk research, it’s all a little over my head honestly. But he comes back about twice a year to see his family and stops by when he has the chance. I’m sure you’ll see him someday.”

Just as you finish the sentence, in the kitchen behind you, your rice maker gives a little chime to indicate it’s done. You pause to look back at it, and—prompted by the music—Ayame glances at the clock on your wall.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the time. “Oh! I should probably go back, Riko should be up now.”

She jumps up from her seated position, careful not to rattle the teacups on the table. You follow after her, albeit more slowly, as she removes the house slippers (you should get a pair just for her, you think; Riko, too) to change back into her shoes.

“Thank you!” she says as she opens the door to go, turning back to give you a small bow that makes you grin from where you hover just inside. “I don’t know if I’ll break up with him… but your advice helped. I’ll see you this weekend? For the garden?”

“This weekend,” you assure her, and with that she runs off to catch her train.

The following morning, as you return from your daily walk with Tadeo, you find your neighbors (plus one) gathered at the front stoop.

The addition is a teenage boy. A little taller than Ayame, dressed in the most unremarkable teenage boy outfit you think you’ve ever seen, he hovers near her and seemingly refuses to take his attention away from Bakugo, who he’s intently talking to. Riko stands at her father’s side, hand in his, while Ayame is turned away with her arms crossed over her chest and a frown gracing her lips.

Riko is the one who notices you, turning and waving with her free hand as she tugs at the other one to get Bakugo’s attention.

“Miss Sunny! Miss Sunny!”

You give a little wave, gesturing for her to return her attention to her father, and intend to pass on by without issue. Unfortunately Tadeo has different plans.

He goes certifiably insane as you try to pass, barking up a storm and managing to tug so hard against his leash that you stumble (a true feat of strength, considering how small and how old he is) towards the group of four at the front of the steps. You do your best to reel him in but he’s making a beeline straight for Ayame’s visitor and before you can manage to pull him back towards you to pick him up, he reaches the boy’s legs.

The kid (what was his name? Hayato?) yelps, leaping back and almost cowering behind Ayame. She seems unimpressed—the whole family does, and you almost feel sorry for him considering he now has the number two pro hero, a seven year old, and his own high school sweetheart staring at him in varying levels of disdain. You hadn’t even known Riko could look that bored.

Tadeo seems largely unfazed by the sudden movement. He attempts to out-maneuver and bypass Ayame’s body but she’s faster, head whipping down from where she’d been staring down her nose at her friend to bend over and snatch up your dog swiftly and gently.

He’s still yapping up a storm when she hands him off to you with a troubled expression.

“Sorry about that,” you say cheerily. “He’s usually so chill. Dunno what’s up with him today.”

The kid (Hayao, you remember suddenly. You’d been close enough) side-eyes Bakugo, stepping forward slightly and opening his mouth to speak when your neighbor beats him to it.

“Nah, s’fine.” He gives a dismissing wave of his hand. “Mutt’s so old I doubt he even has teeth left to bite with.”

“Yeah,” Hayao rushes to agree. “It’s okay.”

“Yeah?” Tadeo makes a particularly valiant struggle in your arms, wiggling around. You might be playing up how hard it is to keep hold of him, if only to watch the boy’s eyes land on your dog and widen as he hesitantly takes a step back. “Don’t worry, I got him.”

“Well it doesn’t matter,” Ayame cuts in, “because we gotta go or we’ll be late.”

Hayao’s attention is pulled from the dog as she grabs him by the wrist and begins tugging him away down the road. He stumbles after her; before they can get far, however, Riko darts forward to intercept.

She gives the teen a hug, wrapping arms around his waist and looking up with a bright grin to say, “Bye-bye!”

He seems to startle from it. He’s stiff as he stares down at her with wide, baffled eyes and clearly has no clue what to do with his hands as he holds them both out wildly. “Uh, yeah, bye.” Then he looks up at her father with a strikingly nervous expression. “Good to—to meet you, Mr. Bakugo—Mr. Dynamight, sir.”

Ayame pulls her sister off him, hissing something like stop being weird before grabbing Hayao’s hand again and pulling him down the road all the more insistently. Riko is entirely unaffected as she stands with suspiciously innocent posture and waves as they head off.

She comes bounding up to where you’re hovering next to Bakugo with Tadeo still in your arms. You set the dog down as Ayame and Hayao disappear over the hill, and Riko sidles up next to her father.

“Did he notice?” he asks, still looking down the road.

“No, daddy,” she says sweetly, giggling like it’s the funniest joke she’s ever made. You glance down at her to find that she’s not-so-subtly trying to shove something into Bakugo’s hand.

“Nothing less from my best fuckin’ sidekick,” he responds gruffly as he takes whatever she’s trying to give him. You can only gape as he turns to you—no, your dog—and bends down to offer Tadeo the mystery item.

It’s a dog treat. You remember a jar full of them always on the kitchen counter back when your grandparents still lived in your current home. You’d asked them where they bought the things, because they looked fancy as hell and Tadeo always seemed to adore them—still does, clearly, judging by the way he barks and his whole lower half shakes with the force of his tail wagging—but you’d never gotten a straight answer. Now you think you might have found it.

“Played your part well, too, mutt.” It’s surprisingly affectionate—for Bakugo, anyway. He gives Tadeo a pat on the head as the dog snarfs down the gift; you haven’t yet overcome your shock when he stands.

“What the fuck,” you’re saying before you can stop yourself. “Is that why he was being weird?”

“Used to love those things. Made ‘em for him all the time.” Bakugo stands to his full height before turning to his daughter. “Ready to go, bug?”

“Whoa, whoa, no you can’t just leave after that, I need an explanation.”

Bakugo doesn’t answer you at first; he lifts Riko with ease, resting her on his hip. She’s still acting incredibly self-satisfied.

“My dad asked me to put a dog treat in Hayao’s pocket,” she tells you smugly.

Her father frowns, turning to her and raising his free hand to press a finger to his lips and shush her playfully. “We agreed not to tell anyone. Secret mission, yeah?”

She pouts at the reprimand. You interrupt, slightly annoyed.

“Why, exactly?”

“He’s not really interested in Ayame,” he tells you hotly, though you get the feeling the anger isn’t directed at you. “Punk’s just some fuckin’ hero fan. Wanted to meet me, weasel his way into my good graces or some shit. If I told Ayame directly she’d just get pissed off at me. Trusts the mutt, though, so figured I’d use that.”

The explanation surprises you, just a little. Frankly you hadn’t thought he’d paid enough attention—not to Ayame’s emotional state but to her boyfriend himself and his unsaid intentions behind asking her out—to have come to such a conclusion. Ayame almost certainly hadn’t told him as she’d told you, so it had to have been his own observations and his own conclusion from them. You wonder, briefly, if you ought to tell him about the conversation yesterday morning, but decide not to. It feels like a breach of trust somehow, and even if she doesn’t feel comfortable talking to her guardian about things you’d rather not make her feel like she can’t trust you, either.

Riko, however, has a different plan. Perched against Bakugo’s hip, she squirms, calling for the attention of both of you.

“Ayame told me Miss Sunny told her to break up with him,” she informs the both of you proudly.

Bakugo’s head snaps back to you. You shrug. “She came to ask for my advice yesterday morning.”

“That’s why she was stompin’ around so early? Thought she had a school thing.”

“Don’t you get up that early?”

“I don’t stomp.”

Biting your lip, you meet Riko’s eye and widen your own comically until she giggles. “Somehow I doubt that.”

“I don’t,” he insists, sounding indignant.

“He does!” Riko interjects. “He stomps all around and wakes us up when we’re sleeping even though we’re all the way upstairs.”

You raise an eyebrow and meet Bakugo’s gaze. It doesn’t even require words—he narrows his eyes in response and turns Riko away from you.

“Don’t manipulate my daughter. She’s only sayin’ that ‘cause you laughed.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Playin’ dumb doesn’t suit you.” You watch his jaw tighten with his words, and it makes a smile pull at your lips. It’s never less than amusing, the way he takes things so seriously.

“Still in the dark here,” you respond, voice sing-songing. “I’ve thought up my fine, by the way.”

“Your fine?”

“Yes. My fine. Well, Tadeo’s, I suppose.”

“For what?” Bakugo sounds incredulous.

“For his participation in your plan,” you chirp in response. “You used my dog, you have to give him something in return.”

“We gave him a treat!” Riko pipes up helpfully in response.

“Ah, true, but he played a vital role, no? Wouldn’t you say he ought to get more?”

“Hmmm…” she purses her lips, mimicking someone thinking hard, before nodding enthusiastically. “Yeah! He should get all the treats he can have!”

“I agree.” You nod with her before returning your attention to her father. “So, in order to provide him with as many treats as he deserves, the fine is you telling me where to get those, because I could never get a straight answer out of my grandparents…”

His scowl deepens. He opens his mouth, and you can tell already that he’s going to brush you off. Sorry, bud, you’re already telling Tadeo in your head, because you’re never going to learn where his favorite treats come from.

Riko, however, has different intentions.

“Oh! Oh! I know!”

“Riko—” Bakugo starts, but she’s already saying it.

“Daddy makes them! He makes them from scratch! I helped him yesterday, he asked me to help knead the dough, but I wasn’t allowed to help put them in the oven because the pans are too heavy and it’s too hot and I might burn myself.”

Against your will, your jaw drops a little. When, you wonder, will this man stop surprising you—making dog treats from scratch for your grandparents’ elderly dog? You’d never have guessed. Your mind recalls the jar of them from a year ago, full to the brim every time you’d stop by, and wonder how much baking he’d had to do to keep it that way.

“Oh,” is all you can say in response. “So it’s not some… crazy expensive boutique.”

Standing before you, he looks embarrassed; a little sheepish. “Nah. Was gonna give you the rest of the batch tonight, actually. Wouldn’t want ‘em to go to waste.”

“How much?”

He shrugs. Riko bobs with the motion, giggling excitedly. “‘bout thirty. Not a ton.”

You nod. “Okay. Okay, how’s this. If Tadeo did his job properly, and Ayame comes back single… you’ll take a day and make five batches. If he didn’t, we just get the leftovers.”

“Deal,” he barks. Riko cheers. Tadeo, not to be outdone, barks as well.

That afternoon you don’t see them—you have a call with a client that lasts well into the afternoon, and on Fridays Bakugo always makes sure to come home early to make and eat dinner as a family. It’s sweet, you think; your mother used to do the same, though on a less consistent schedule. The perks of owning one’s own agency and being one’s own boss, and not having to be subject to the ever-changing requirements of the service industry as your mother had been.

In the evening, however, Ayame and Riko wander up while you’re working on the garden. It’s been thriving; you’ve had to wage a small war with blossom end rot on your beefsteak tomatoes lately, but other than that you haven’t had any pressing issues, and everything else you’ve harvested has been on time and good quality. With summer coming to a close, and the weather beginning to cool, you’ve begun the process of planting for autumn and winter harvests.

Riko finds a spot near the stairs and sits herself down on the concrete before one of the dilapidated flower boxes you’ve yet to clean up, filled with overflowing weeds and stubborn herbs. Her hair is plaited now, two long braids down her back tied with little pink bows at the end—it had been down this morning, and you get the feeling her sister might be behind the style change.

“Uncle’s finishing up dinner,” Ayame tells you as she approaches, and you nod.

“Well, you two are more than welcome out here while you wait, if he says it’s okay.”

“My dad’s a really good cook,” Riko says from behind you.

“Is he now?”

You can’t see, but you can hear how vigorously she’s nodding from the sound of her voice. “Yeah, yeah! He says his daddy taught him.”

“Your grandpa?”

“Yeah! He’s a really good cook, too. He made us food when we went to visit him last weekend.”

“Really? What’d he make?”

Riko regales you with all the food Bakugo’s father made the three of them over the two days of their visit. She lists off all the dishes, then starts on the ingredients—with extensive help from her sister, who corrects her when she mispronounces things or gets lost in her train of thought.

“I got to practice cooking a little,” Ayame adds to you quietly while Riko is talking, smiling excitedly. “Uncle’s mother didn’t let him in the kitchen while I was there, so his father helped me, and let me help him some.”

“Was it fun?”

“Yeah. It was.”

“Did you learn some stuff?”

“He showed me how to make tonkatsu. Said I was a natural, actually.” She sounds proud as she tells you, perhaps a little bashful. “I wanna visit again soon. Uncle said we might go back for a weekend when school starts back up, I think I’d actually be really excited for it.”

It’s then that you realize Riko has stopped talking. You raise a finger to quiet Ayame, who pauses immediately.

“Riko? You wanna keep talking?”

She doesn’t answer. You turn around, only slightly concerned, but find her attention completely gone. She’s turned away from you, having scooted even closer to the busted flower box, and she’s put herself to work on her own form of unstructured gardening as she pulls up weeds and pushes the dirt around into piles. It isn’t impossible to get her to focus and do real gardening with you, but it’s hardly worth it for the minor upkeep you’re doing tonight, so you turn back around and drop the conversation to let her play.

With Riko solidly lost to the infinite possibilities of her imagination and the planter box, you’re left with Ayame, who stands across from you. Beckoning her down to join you in your work is easy; a quiet gesture with your head and she’s kneeling with you, pulling from her pockets gloves that she’d taken from the pile near the stairs.

You hardly have to direct her on what to do. She’s already weeding with you, meticulously plucking unknown stems from amongst the shoots of your late-blooming carrots and radishes and onions.

“It sounds like it was a productive trip for you, too, then,” you tell her.

She nods. “Yeah. It was really nice. Uncle’s parents are great, they were real nice to me. I appreciated it. His mom took me to her work on Monday, actually. She’s a fashion designer. She took me to lunch, too, and we talked. It was… fun.”

“That’s great!” Not that you’d thought it likely for Bakugo’s parents to react poorly, it’s still good to hear that they’d welcomed Ayame readily.

She doesn’t seem to want to keep talking, though. She lets the conversation die down, and you let her, the pair of you focusing on the work before you in silence. Though there’s a more pressing discussion to be had.

Once the pair of you seem to get into a groove, you broach the topic. “So did you do it?”

“Do what?” Ayame blinks at you, and you push down the urge to tell her that she’s not nearly good enough at lying to convince you.

“Break up with him,” you decide to say instead.

“Oh… yeah. I wasn’t really sure this morning—I mean, I wanted to but I didn’t want to? So I wasn’t going to? But…” She moves to kneel next to you, not even bothering with gloves as she digs her hands into the dirt. “Tadeo’s freakout this morning made me change my mind.”

That throws you for a loop. Somehow you hadn’t been expecting it—somehow you’d thought it’d have been your talk with her, if anything. Maybe you should give Bakugo more credit.

“Your talk helped a lot too!” Ayame rushes to add. “I just… well, you told me to choose and I was still unsure. But, like, dogs are really good judges of character, you know? And Hayao… really didn’t like Tadeo, either. He kept talking about him on our way to school. And I don’t wanna be with a guy like that. So I told him we were through when we showed up. Which was probably not a good plan, I probably should have done it after school so he could have the weekend to, like, process or whatever. But I can’t take it back now, I guess.”

“Hey, look at it this way: if you’d waited then you’d have spent the day fretting, and that’s worse than what he got. Plus you might’ve overthought things and not gone through with it. Good on you for getting it over with.”

She doesn’t seem like she believes you; she nods absently, keeps her attention fixed on the work before her. You decide to go for a different approach.

“How’d he take it?”

Ayame makes a face.

You chuckle quietly. “That bad, huh?”

“He was awful. Told me I was a bad girlfriend anyway. Said I was all distant, I guess? Like, we were dating for two weeks. He really can’t judge that. And—and if I was that bad, why didn’t he break up with me first? Would’ve saved me the trouble…”

“How’re you feeling, though?”

“Uh, good, honestly?” She shoves her hands in her pockets, then seems to realize just how dirty they are and removes them, instead moving to brush them off over the seeds she’d just planted. “I mean, all things considered. Also I’m not supposed to know but Riko told me Uncle got me purin from my favorite bistro to cheer me up, so. Great? I guess?”

“Food solves all of life’s woes,” you tell her sagely, and she huffs a laugh. “Really, though, I’m proud of you. Breakups are hard on everyone involved, including the one who does it. It’s a difficult decision to make, but I think you made the right one.”

Again she makes a face, this one even more exaggerated. “Don’t be weird.”

“I’m not being weird! I just think you made a mature choice and I’m proud of you!”

“Yeah, okay.” Despite the dismissive tone, her next words are clearly genuine as she sidles up next to you. “Thanks for the advice, weirdo.”

“You’re always welcome.” You nudge her softly, drawing a smile from her surly face with ease. “I’m just glad it helped.”

She nods. The pair of you fall silent for a moment, you returning your attention to the seeds you’ve just planted and her simply squatting next to you watching you work.

Then a voice calls out her name.

“Ayame!”

You both startle, whipping about to find Bakugo standing at the top of the stairs, arms crossed. Though his face is stern, he doesn’t seem angry—no more so than typical, anyway—and the call of her name hadn’t been particularly irate either.

“Set the table,” he orders, then turns to go back down before Ayame has even acknowledged him.

She huffs audibly, and mumbles a snippy response under her breath even as she stands to do as he asked. “Couldn’t even say please? Like living with a drill sergeant.”

Despite yourself, and the knowledge that laughing will only encourage her, you snort in amusement. Luckily he couldn’t have heard either her comment or your reaction—Ayame does, though, and you catch a hint of a smile as she walks over to the stairs where Bakugo waits.

He lets her go down first, then follows, though not before locking eyes with Riko and telling her to behave for you—and then giving you a curt nod before ducking down.

Riko is entirely occupied with her broken-down planter box. It’s funny, you think (adorable, even) how much she enjoys the dirt, when her other primary loves have always been pastel pink and sparkles. Considering her quirk, though—and her mother’s—it makes sense. You suppose you ought to be happy she’s not using it to explode half your garden. Instead, she’s tearing up the weeds from the dirt and using them to make what you’re fairly certain are dolls; little stick figures with arms and legs made of stems and flowers as heads, which she’s moving around in piles of dirt. If you asked, you’re certain each pile would have a convoluted, highly detailed story behind it, explanations for what structures they are and what the different dolls are doing within them. You choose to leave her alone.

Instead you focus your attention back on gardening. While the conversation with Ayame had, obviously, been important to have, you hadn’t actually gotten much work done during it; too busy talking.

So you take the time now to actually garden. There’s mulch to be added, leaves to trim back, plants to water. You tentatively have hope that you’ve fixed the blossom end rot that had been plaguing your tomatoes, though it’s a bit too early to be fully certain of it.

You get to the eggplant, however, and realize that while you hadn’t anticipated it, it’s ready for harvest. You’d brought up the right tools to do it, a pair of shears, but they’re not on your person—they’re over in the pile of supplies you’ve left near the top of the stairs.

Now, you could go get them yourself. But there’s a certain child in the vicinity that you’d like to get to help out at least a little.

“Riko, sweetie,” you call out, “there’s a pair of shears over there that I need. Could you hand them to me? The orange ones?” You reach out your palm and wait for her.

But it’s not an eight year old’s hand that gives you the shears. The hand that reaches out is far too large—larger than your own, even, hardened with rough work and attached to a massive forearm that also couldn’t belong to a little girl. You yelp in shock, yanking your hand back and dropping the tool in the process.

Bakugo grumbles as he stoops to pick it up and you’re left reeling with your hand pressed flush against your chest where your heart hammers rapidly beneath your ribs.

“It’s just me, dumbass.” He holds the packet of seeds out for you again, scowling all the while.

“I didn’t know you were still up here, prick.” There’s a number of more obscene insults you might have employed if not for Riko still hovering in the vicinity, but unlike her father you refuse to encourage that kind of language from her. It doesn’t escape him; his eyes crinkle and his mouth twitches in what must be him holding back laughter. Your own eyes narrow as you stare at him. There are more pressing matters either way—such as how he in all his pro hero muscle managed to climb back up the metal staircase to the roof without making a sound. It’s worth asking. “How are you so quiet when you’re that big?”

“Trade secret.”

The only response you have to give to that answer is a low hum—not quite dismissive, but certainly unamused. You make an attempt to turn your attention back to the box before you, seeds in hand, but Bakugo doesn’t stay quiet for long.

“Riko,” he says suddenly, drawing the girl’s attention from her little floral dolls. “Go help your sister set the table.”

She pouts a little, but with a stern look from her father she’s quickly tossing the handmade doll in her hand to the side, rising to her feet, and darting off back towards the top of the stairs where, you realize, Ayame hovers and is clearly waiting for her—she must have come back up with Bakugo, you think. On her way over, Riko pauses briefly near Bakugo to stand up on her tip-toes and pull him down so that she can press a kiss to his cheek. You smile a little at the sight, at how he caves to her tugging so easily, and at how Ayame beckons her to lead her down the stairs—they’re steep, a little rickety, and you’re glad that Ayame is making Riko go first to ensure she stays safe. They disappear down, the metallic sound of their feet tapping on the iron rungs fading as they descend.

And then you realize that Bakugo is still standing before you, watching you as if waiting for something.

“Is there… a reason you’ve stayed? Need to tell me something?” you ask, but he remains stubbornly silent, still scowling, not quite meeting your eye. You sigh quietly, this time turning away from him entirely to focus on the dirt before you, and mutter under your breath, “Okay. Nice chat.”

There’s a kind of tension in the air. You can’t quite place what it is, but you can feel his stare on your back like the midday sun, and you have a funny feeling that if you were to turn around he’d be wearing an expression on his face like he’d smelled something funny. The only thing you can do, you decide, is continue until he eventually says what he wants to say or gives up and leaves. Luckily you don’t have to wait nearly as long as you feared.

“Was wonderin’ if you wanted to join us for dinner,” he says after a few minutes. You pause in your work.

“Huh?”

“Dinner,” he repeats. “You got plans or d’you wanna eat with us?”

Now you stand fully, staring at him with your mouth a little slack. “Oh! I’d, uh—I’d love to! I was hoping to finish planting tonight, though.”

“How much?”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes at you. “How much planting, dumbass. How much time.”

“Um, well, like half an hour if I’m doing it—”

“Then I’ll help.” Bakugo nods decisively. “Food can wait ten minutes.”

Arrogant—for reducing the time to one third by virtue of his help—you might say teasingly if you weren’t half in shock. Instead you nod silently, mouth a little slack, and gesture towards the pile of supplies at the edge of your planter boxes before lowering yourself again to return to your previous task. In your peripheral, you can see him retrieve what you can only assume is gloves and perhaps a trowel before he returns to your position.

Crouching down next to you, he sets to work by your side.

It’s silent for a while. He doesn’t seek direction nearly as much as you had expected; that’s a pleasant surprise, not needing to handhold him through helping you. The other pleasant surprise is that the quiet between you two isn’t awkward. It’s comfortable, easy. There’s no air of awkwardness lingering, or any hovering inability to speak. That’s proven, if anything, by Bakugo breaking it quite suddenly halfway through the work.

“She broke up with him.”

You pause. Ayame, surely, hadn’t informed him; that leaves only one option. “Riko told you?”

He grumbles inaudibly towards the dirt in front of him, and you suppress a laugh. It doesn’t work; he shoots you a glare that has no heat.

“Shaddup,” he barks at you with a scoff. “Ayame told you herself, then?”

“I think she likes me more than you,” you tell him smugly, earning yourself a second scoff, this one louder.

“Y’don’t gotta rub it in. Riko tells me everything, anyway.”

“Mmm. Smart, getting the little one in your pocket. They do teach you some good tricks at those hero schools, huh?”

The huff you get this time is certainly laughter. He nudges you with his shoulder—just like Ayame had done, you note with silent amusement and perhaps an equal amount of affection, though admittedly this one leaves an ache beneath your skin that she certainly hadn’t managed—and doesn’t budge a millimeter when you return the gesture.

“You still owe Tadeo a month’s worth of those treats, though.”

“Hah?”

“Your little scheme worked, that was what finally convinced her. I can’t take all the credit. Though,” you add, pretending to think carefully, “he is my dog, so I think I get half credit for that trick anyway—”

“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” he interrupts. “Riko was my assistant, if anyone gets half credit it’s her.”

That gets you to burst into laughter. He says it so seriously; as if he were genuinely offended you hadn’t given his daughter the recognition she deserved.

“Okay,” you say through your peals of laughter, “okay, that’s true. But I really do have to hand it to you. It was smart. Maybe smarter than my own approach.”

“Nah, you told ‘er what she needed to learn. She needed that, too. And she ain’t gonna fuckin’ hear it from me, even if I’m right.” He pauses, then rolls his eyes and huffs angrily. “Scratch that, ‘specially if I’m right. She listens to you more.”

It isn’t as if you can refute that. Though, to be fair to him, his ability to bond with Ayame is weighed down to an extent you’ll never have. Even if you don’t know every detail, that much is abundantly clear.

“She’ll come around,” you say finally, and though you can’t possibly guarantee it you’re pretty sure it’s the truth. “Eventually.”

And he grunts, a tentative agreement. You both fall back into that comfortable silence.

Ayame and Riko have to venture back up to fetch the pair of you, lost as the pair of you become in working together. You haven’t become so absorbed in gardening with another person, you realize, since your grandfather’s health had grown so poor he’d been unable to maintain the prosperous garden you’d been accustomed to while attending university. It isn’t until Ayame’s voice calls your name, and Riko calls for her father, that you realize how dark it’s become.

The feeling that blooms in your chest as you watch Bakugo pluck Riko from the roof and swing her into his arms to carry her inside, as you gesture for Ayame to go down ahead of you and follow behind as she tells you what they made for dinner, is a little odd but warm. You think maybe you’d like for this to be your new normal.

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personasintro · 2 years ago

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hi mimi, omg i literally created an account to tell you that you’re an amazing writer. i’m not much of a reader but i was constantly seeing tiktoks talking about ‘mutual help jk’ and i just had to find out what everyone was talking about. i was hooked immediately, i think i read 20+ chapters in a couple hours because i couldn’t stop reading. you have a gift, your attention to detail and the way you’re able to captivate us with your words is incredible.

i’ve read mh 3 times already and the most recent chapter about 5 times, i think it’s one of my favorite so far. it made me feel every emotion possible. in chapter 53, you can tell how much more the dynamic of their friendship changed but as always, they’re in denial. at first, i had the exact reaction y/n had when jk mentioned inviting ester and the pettiness in me still agrees with her in a sense but i can see where jk is coming from. maybe he truly sees ester as just a friend and that’s why he’s having a hard time seeing why y/n is so angry but at the same time i get her anger. it would’ve been better if it was discussed with everyone before just inviting her. i also remember from a previous chapter where it was mentioned that ester was shy and doesn’t really put herself out there much so the fact that she agreed to the trip, not really being close with anyone other than jk, i commend her tbh because my socially anxious ass could never😩. i know she’s familiar with tae, jimin and y/n but it’s not the same😭

i think y/n’s jealousy stems from two places:

1. she has been the only girl in the group for so long and she’s the closest girl to jk so she feels threatened.

2. although she’s still in denial, her feelings for jk are coming out.

i honestly don’t think jk likes ester more than a friend though and he’s still dealing with the fallout from kiko, no matter how much he tries to mask it, so he won’t jump into something with someone new just yet. plus he’s SLOWLY coming to realize he might have feelings for y/n but that’s just what i think.

i’m curious to see how she’s going to bring up this camping trip to yoongi and invite him as well. i know a lot of people think he’ll just go but i think it’ll take A LOT of convincing to get him to go, he won’t just agree because he’s yoongi so he’s all for himself. maybe if she explains everything really well, he’ll go to see the drama unfold because he likes the entertainment and if yoongi actually goes on this trip, maybe jk’s jealousy will show even more.

who knows, maybe ester and yoongi hit it off on the camping trip💀

okay i’ll stop rambling now but keep up the great work mimi, your talent is wonderful. please don’t ever doubt your skills. if there’s ever a time you feel pressured and things start to feel overwhelming, take a break and focus on yourself.

i can’t wait to see how the next chapter unfolds. take all the time you need, you’re worth the wait💜

Oh my god, I appreciate you creating this account just so you could send me this message 🥹 that’s very sweet of you!

Yes, you’ve got a point and maybe that could be the reason why most readers are on her side — because they relate to that feeling, perhaps even more then she does haha! Everyone has so little faith in jk tho 🥲 like some ppl would be really thinking the worst of him and that is so sad 😖

Thank you again for this feedback! 🫶

#ask #ask: mutual help

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duskholland · 4 years ago

Text

Crash Into You || Tom Holland Smut

ice hockey!tom x figure skater!reader — smut.

summary ↠ you can’t stand the ice hockey team. they’re loud, brutish, and incredibly annoying. it’s just inconvenient that you can’t seem to stop running into their star player, an irritatingly suave man called tom, nor deny the way your pulse quickens every time he’s around... word count ↠ 20.2k. warnings ↠ mild depictions of sport-related injury including blood and nose breakage, a lot of bad language, some jealousy, and nsfw smut material! extended smut warnings are beneath the cut, but this is 18+ !!! minors dni. a/n ↠ it’s funny because I tell myself I don’t like sport aus, yet this is somehow one of my favourite things that I’ve ever written...? the au is kinda ~obscure~ I guess, but it checked so many of my boxes whilst writing it, and I had a great time. it’s also the longest thing I’ve ever posted?! ahh !! I hope you’ll like dutchy, and give this a go even if you’re not really into hockey <3 —↠ there are so many different people that helped me out with this!!! in addition to all the wonderful anons that sent in ideas last month, I want to extend a huge thank you to @geminiparkers @tetralea @hollandharrison @honeyspidey @stixnstripesworld and @uglypastels for each helping out in some way, whether that be through brainstorming ideas, making incredible art, or teaching me about hockey and/or skating! <3<3 also—the biggest thank you ever to the lovely sammy @t-holland2080 for not disowning me after editing this for me and seeing my basic spelling errors lmfao. ily <3 hope you all enjoy !!

extra !! @uglypastels made two beautiful pieces of fanart for tom aka dutchy — you can view these here + here !!! @softholand also made an absolutely incredible moodboard based off the fic, and you can view that here :’) thank you to both of them for using their amazing artistic talents on this fic + making me literally like. the happiest writer on the planet :’)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

extended smut warnings ↠ two sections of smut. this is a certified Horny Warmy™️ (thanks chlo for that category) so it’s very gentle, very wholesome. includes oral and fingering (fem-receiving) and protected MxF sex :’)

✧ *:･ﾟCrash Into You ･ﾟ:*✧

“Why are they always so noisy? How hard can it be to hit a bit of plastic?”

You laugh quietly, glancing at your friend, Yelena. She’s staring out across the rink, hands resting on the plastic barrier that lines the perimeter with irritation in her icy blue eyes. A warming blush tickles the apples of her cheeks, and it softens the expression of frustration that she wears so well.

“Seriously,” she adds. “Listen to them… It’s so… unpleasant.”

Your teeth catch your lower lip as you bring your gaze away from Yelena and instead onto the object of her anger: the hockey team.

Your eyes zip around the rink, watching as the players run through yet another drill. The team—Kingston Kites—, 20 in full, 7 currently on the ice, crash around the arena like a cyclone of a thousand moving calamitous parts. For the last few months, the practice rink at your sports centre has been closed, which has led to the pre-existing rivalry between the hockey team and your own team of figure skaters deepening. There have been arguments between your managers and theirs about which team gets priority over the exhibition rink. What’s emerged has been a bitter taste in the air. Simply put: the figure skating team dislikes the ice hockey team, and the feeling is mutual.

“I dunno,” you mutter. “I guess it means they’re working hard.”

The noises are rather distracting. You watch as the blurry figures, shrouded in the team colours of white, green, and orange, line up and take shot after shot at the small net on the ice. After each attempted shot on goal, the players have a tendency to release loud grunts and exclamations of exertion, and they echo around the empty arena. Whilst you agree with Yelena that the noises are irritating, a small part of you also admires their commitment.

“Perhaps.” Yelena steps back from the side and starts to stretch her arms. You do the same. There’s a fifteen-minute overlap in the scheduled slots on ice when the figure skating team uses half the rink to warm up as the hockey team uses the other to cool down. After the fifteen minutes play out, the Zamboni skims out the cuts in the rink, and the hockey team finally leaves you alone. It’s not ideal to share the rink, but every second you can spend practising helps. “I can’t stand them.”

You smile softly, slowly rotating your right arm as you warm up the muscles. “I know,” you agree. “You always complain about them.”

She scowls, eyes glistening with fierce irritation. “Because they’re annoying. So dramatic and messy.”

“Mmm, well, I don’t think they’re very fond of us either,” you respond. You bend over, slowly rubbing your fingers over the bandage you have wrapped around your right ankle. “Did you hear about Jenna and Lou in the gym last week?”

“No. What happened?”

You sit down on the cool floor of the arena, thankful for the many layers you’re wearing. As you slowly start to massage your ankle, you glance up at your friend.

“They got interrupted by a couple of the guys. Uh, Osterfield and Barrett? They wanted to do a weights competition or something.”

Yelena scoffs. “Losers.”

You smirk. “They won, though. Lou and Jen. Apparently, the guys stormed out. Couldn’t take getting beaten by a couple of skaters.”

Your friend cackles then offers you a hand up. You grunt as you stand and steady yourself, glancing down at your skates and checking the laces. A loud buzzer goes off, and you hear a few yells of disgruntlement come off the ice as the players realise it’s the end of their solo practice and the start of your turn on the rink too.

“Can’t wait to get out there,” Yelena murmurs, eyes sparkling. You nod in agreement and crack your knuckles in anticipation.

Together, you walk over to the small gate in the side of the rink, joining the line with the rest of your team. Ten of you make up the competitive figure skating team, and all of you wear varying articles of black, thermal clothing. You’re in a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a loose burgundy t-shirt, drifting over the top. The cold doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, but that’s only through the years you’ve spent gliding around at sub-zero temperatures.

You sigh happily as you inhale a breath of the frozen air that hangs crispy above the rink. You step onto the ice, closing your eyes as you skate forwards, your body supported effortlessly by the skates you wear so well.

There’s a line of bright red cones set out across the middle of the ice, sectioning off the hockey players from the rest of you. You smile to yourself as you risk a glance across the rink and take stock of a few of the players, huddled together, grunting and exchanging low words of irritation. They look very funny, wearing various layers of thick padding and helmets—less formal than they’d be at a match, but still dressed up enough to mean business. You feel them staring at you, glaring and bemoaning the fact they have to share the rink, but you let it brush off you like water.

“Y/N! Show me your cannonball. Weren’t you working on it?” Yelena’s back, skimming to rest beside you, plaited blonde hair hanging in two bunches either side of her face. You nod, pushing off and checking the ice is clear ahead of you before skating into a space.

Nothing beats the rush of adrenaline that comes with skating. You think that you’re addicted to it now. The charge of the nervous build-up, followed by the relief of the payoff never gets old. Your fears of failure get swept away the moment you sink into the ultra-focused headspace of an athlete, and the buzz of reward you get every time you land a move perfectly trumps the blood, sweat and tears that such an unforgiving sport has taken from you. You wouldn’t be able to quit skating, even if you wanted to.

A cannonball sit spin is one of the hardest spins in your repertoire, and the element that has been giving you the most grief in your show routine. This season, you’re competing in the national circuit for solo ice dance. It’s not your first time taking on the competition—in fact, consistently over the last few years, you’ve been ranking higher each time you compete. Last year you finished third, and so this year, your eyes are fixed very firmly on the prize. You know securing first place in the competition will attract the Olympic scouts’ attention, and that’s your greatest dream.

Moving quickly, you skate in a brief semi-circle to build momentum before getting low, resting on one leg as you stretch the other out in front of you. Your hands curve around the ankle of your extended leg, and you use the energy to carry you into a spin, the fresh air wafting off the ice and cooling your cheeks. It carries out for a few seconds, then you have to concentrate as you exit the manoeuvre, brows creasing as you continue to turn. You end in a standing spin, arms held out as you slowly bring them back into your sides and end elegantly with a little bow.

Yelena claps, cheering from across the ice. “Fuck, Y/N, that looks perfect now,” she calls out. “Wouldn’t ever be able to tell that it was causing you trouble— oh, look out!”

Your eyes are only just beginning to widen in response to her concern when you feel a very strong figure slam into you, hurtling at top speed and taking you both down onto the ice. You don’t need to see anything beyond a flash of white, orange and green to know that it’s a fucking hockey player, and the ache of getting thrown to the hard ground is quickly overcome by the anger that replaces everything else.

“Oh, shit,” you hear a gruff voice say.

You groan as you try to sit up, opening your eyes just to see that the player is crumpled on top of you. Your chest feels heavy from where he’s laying sprawled over you, and you glance down to look at his face, a scowl holding tight over your features.

Despite the helmet and the visor sticking over the top of his face, you’re able to make out a few details of the man. He seems to be around your age, his skin pale but flushed warm from the cold and such a vigorous practice. The brown depths of his eyes swell with concern and guilt, pairing nicely with the regretful smile that pangs across his thin pink lips. You get a peek at his brown hair sticking out from beneath his helmet, and can’t quite stop your eyes from catching on the hard line of his impressive jaw.

“You idiot,” you mutter, shaking off the daze that comes with admiring such a handsome stranger. “Did you even look where you were going before deciding you were going to try and kill me?”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up, his expression of concern burning into irritation as he scowls at you.

“Fucking hell,” he replies. His accent twangs prominently, cool and unyielding. “It was an accident, darling.”

You grunt, rapidly scooting back across the ice the moment he’s clambered off you. He sits across from you, brushing at the pads on his knees as he stares at you remorsefully. You can’t tell if he’s pouting at you or the shards of ice messing up his knees.

“An accident is brushing into someone, not slamming them onto the ice,” you mutter. Bitterness sweeps into your voice. “Twat.”

“Alright, alright.” He throws his hands into the air and leans closer. “I’m sorry. Okay?”

You draw your lips into a tight-lipped frown and look away, ignoring him as you try to stand, only to end up wincing as pain shoots up your bad ankle. “Fuck,” you whisper, your irritation growing stronger as you try to rotate your foot and feel the pain thicken.

Opposite you, the man clambers to his feet, getting his bearings on his skates before begrudgingly sliding up you. Your eyes take in his figure, running the lines of his stocky form. It’s always hard to tell what the guys look like beneath the padding and the helmets, but he doesn’t look as tall as you’d expected when he was laying on top of you. He’s smaller than the rest of them, but you have a suspicion he can probably move remarkably fast. How else would he have been able to take you out so easily?

He offers you a gloved hand, staring at you through cold eyes. “C’mon,” he urges, when you do nothing but stare at his palm. “Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do.”

You eye him suspiciously, but you know you won’t be able to get up without some assistance. A brief glance at your team around you suggests they’re all watching your exchange, intrigued. So, you swallow your pride, grit your teeth, and slip your hand into his glove, digging your skates into the ice as he helps you back to your feet. A short hiss of pain falls through your lips as your ankle throbs. When your leg threatens to buckle, the man moves in closer and grabs at your waist.

“Woah!” he exclaims, holding you up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself, “no thanks to you.”

You hear him release an exasperated sigh, and he lets you shake yourself free, but his hand drifts down to pull at your arm and hold you back when you try to skate off.

“What do you want?” you snap, tension in your voice. Beneath the visor, you can make out the guilt dusting his face, but you’re too focused on your recurring injury to pay it much mind.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. “I am.”

You pull your arm free again, and you hear a few hoots drift over from the other side of the rink. The word Dutchy rises louder, and you watch his expression twitch with irritation.

“Whatever,” you reply. You skate backwards, moving away from him, only relaxing when you feel one of your friends link her arm with yours. “Just forget about it.”

The hockey player looks as though he wants to argue with you, but when you harden your glare, he seems to let it go. He shoots you a very tight-lipped smile, mouth puffing a little with air, and then he picks up the discarded hockey stick and skates back to the other side of the rink. Your eyes briefly flutter over the bright text of Holland before he disappears, being enveloped back into the fold of raucous players as you sink into your friend’s side.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, touch far gentler than his had been.

You grimace, looking down at your ankle. “Yeah,” you reply, frowning sourly. Your eyes lift up across the rink, and you let yourself scowl. “Just pissed off.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Following the incident, and an incredibly bad skating practise, you find yourself reprimanded by your coach and put on bed rest for a few days so you can rest your ankle. It’s hard not to blame the distracted hockey player, but you know you probably had it coming. You’ve been walking the knife’s edge for several weeks with your injury, and as much as you hate to admit it, the time off is necessary.

The moment you’re allowed back on the ice, you’re there in a heartbeat. The training arena also operates as a commercial venue, and there are different slots available during the day for the general public to skate. After receiving the thumbs up from the team physiotherapist, you immediately turn up to one of the open slots available to the public, hoping to brush up on a few things before you rejoin your team in the morning.

For the first ten minutes of your practice, things go well. Your ankle is better for a few days off, and you’re able to sink back into your routine and get back to focusing on the gnarly parts that always throw you in a loop. It isn't too busy either, so there’s room to skate around and feel the air running over your face. It’s easy to get lost in it, your chest full of a lightness you’d spent the last few days bed-bound and dreaming of.

You take a break to drink some water after a while, leaning up against the barrier at the edge of the rink and bending over it to rummage through your bag. When you feel a presence behind you, you stand up, glancing back expecting to see a stranger, and feeling your eyes widen as instead, you recognise the man.

He looks very different without the shoulder pads and the rest of his ridiculous costume, but it’s him: Holland, the hockey player responsible for your skating ban. Still tall, and perched on hockey skates, but more relaxed. Like you, he’s wrapped up warmly, with a tight black thermal shirt curled around his arms, and another t-shirt resting over the top. His brown hair flies freely, bouncy and slightly curled, and his eyes are soft.

“Hi,” he says, biting at his thin lower lip. “Do you remember me?”

You frown as you skate to be in front of him, nodding slowly. “The guy that smashed me into the ice the other day?” you tease, voice cool. “Of course. How could I ever forget?”

You watch as his face darkens in shade, his eyes flickering down to your leg. “I’m, uh, Tom,” he leads with. “I saw you skating and I just wanted to see how you were doing… I haven’t seen you at practice in a few days, and I was, uh… sort of worried I’d seriously hurt you.”

Tom looks at you like he’s scared of you, and you have to bite back a smile as you wonder if you were too harsh on him the other day.

“Hmm.” You cross your arms over your chest and inspect him, gaze following how pronounced his biceps look, pushing up against his shirt. “Well, I was benched for a week.”

He curses softly, accented voice sounding out of place speaking such vulgarity.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says. He looks as though he means it, too. Shoulders sagged, eyes concerned, lower lip bitten red. “I promise, love, it wasn’t intentional. If I could go back in time and stop myself from behaving like such an inconsiderate twat, I would.”

You giggle slightly, unable to disguise the glee that comes with hearing him call himself a twat. You watch as his eyebrows arch up, confusion replacing his sincerity as he slowly crosses his arms over his chest. You’re still irritated by the situation, but you’re no longer incensed. It’s hard to harbour a grudge whilst he’s pouting so acutely.

“Well, Tom, I forgive you,” you say, voice lighter. He releases a deep breath, and you nod to affirm your point. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” Instinctively, you offer him a hand and find a shiver rolling down your back as his warm palm presses up against yours. Tom’s grip is firm and grounding, and his skin is a lot softer than you’d expected.

“Y/N is a nice name,” he says, voice perkier. His eyes seem more alive, and you don’t miss the way he takes in your form with an inquisitive gaze.

Your lips twist into a smirk. “I’ve already forgiven you, you can turn off the charm now.”

Tom shrugs, eyes glinting cheekily. “It’s not charm, darling,” he returns. “This is just who I am.” It seems to be true, too. He’s a lot bolder now the air between you has cleared, no longer looking like he wants to melt through the ice.

You snort loudly and feel your heart quicken when he smiles. “Well, Tom, what are you doing here?” You quirk an eyebrow. “Don’t you guys practice in the mornings?”

“Yeah,” Tom agrees. He breaks off as he looks over his shoulder and waves a hand at the near-deserted ice. “Coach said I need to work on my sprints, though, and it’s a lot easier to do that without the rest of the team hanging around.”

“Makes sense,” you say, deviously deciding you want to see how far you can push him. “You hockey guys are always so slow on the ice.”

Tom’s jaw drops, and you watch as he straightens up and stands a little taller. He meets the challenge directly, and you can’t deny it—it’s attractive. The way he squares his jaw, flares his nostrils and hardens his gaze is hot.

“Fuck you,” he says, voice light, “I’m definitely faster than you.”

You smirk. “As if,” you quip. You raise a hand, twirling a finger around in the lazy direction of the centre of the rink. “Show me what you’ve got. I might give you some pointers if I’m feeling nice.”

Tom releases a very loud laugh, the skin by his eyes crinkling into fine lines. “You’re hilarious, love,” he responds. “Like a figure skater is going to be able to teach me anything of importance.”

It’s your turn to laugh, and you cross your arms as you stand a little straighter. “That’s bold talk from someone who doesn’t look where he’s going,” you tease. You run a hand through your hair, eyeing him closely. “I could easily beat you in any skating-related activity, and I wouldn’t even break a sweat.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, seeming to feed into the idea of a challenge just as much as you. There’s something about him that fires you up the right way—a shared competitiveness that burns as brightly in you as it clearly does in him. It overpowers everything else, taking over, enticing you into letting go of any residual resentment and embracing the chance to beat him.

“How about we put your bragging to the test, darling?” he suggests, tongue tracing his lower lip. His eyes flutter around the curves of your mouth. “A few races, just to see who’s really better.”

You don’t hesitate to nod. “Sure, Tom,” you agree. “But don’t be too pissy when I beat you.”

There’s something endearingly irritating about how confident he is as he smirks at you and leans forward to briefly rest a hand on your shoulder. “Same to you, Y/N,” he responds. “I know it’s annoying to lose.”

You just shake your head, scoffing as you push away from him and move down to the end of the rink. He follows you, coming to a stop on his chunky skates beside you.

“First one to the other side wins,” you announce, reaching back to rest a hand on the barrier. You tilt your head and stare at him until he does the same. “Ready?”

“Mhmm.”

“3, 2, 1, go!”

It’s slightly ridiculous how badly you want to beat him, but there’s just something so infuriating about Tom. Your competitiveness burns in your chest, makes your blood boil and your hands clench into fists, and you find your eyes zeroing in on the opposite side of the rink as tunnel-vision encroaches. You block him and everything else out, your desire to win taking over as you swiftly launch across the ice, skates clipping the surface with metallic sounds as you sprint it. You don’t break—you don’t give up, slow down, or even turn back until you’re slamming into the barrier at the other side, turning around just in time to see Tom come in behind you, lagging about a second behind.

“Shit,” Tom mutters, grimacing.

You smirk. “Told you I’d beat you.”

Tom pulls a sour face, and it makes you giggle. “Best of three?” he offers. “C’mon, Y/N.” His elbow nudges against your side. “I’m still warming up.”

“Alright,” you agree. “But for the record, I still won.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Tom mutters, shooting you a sly smile. “Just you wait.”

You win best of three skating forwards, but Tom manages to snag a victory when it comes to speed skating backwards. You can’t take the smirk of triumph on his face, so you offer up a third competition, yearning to prove yourself.

“Can you do an axel?” you ask. Your eyes drift down to his heavy hockey skates. “Or are your boots too chunky and annoying?”

Tom’s face twitches with doubt, but he’s quick to smooth it away. “Fuck yeah,” he states boldly. “I can do anything you can do.” If he doubts the truth of his words, he doesn’t let it show. “Just, uh… Show me how you do it first.”

You have the suspicion he can’t remember what an axel is, so you decide to oblige him.

“Alright,” you agree, boosting away from him. His eyes follow you, and their presence on your figure brings a hidden smile to your face. “Watch this.”

You perform the trick easily. An axel is the simplest of all the jumps, and it gives you no bother to glide forwards, leap into the air, do a swift, neat turn, then land on your back foot gracefully. You could probably do it with your eyes closed.

“There!” you announce, smile on your face.

Tom gulps nervously.

“Easy,” he says, voice slightly quieter. You cross your arms and watch, incredibly amused, to see how far he’ll take his act before giving up. Tom skates forward, confident in his movements, eyes focused, eyebrows furrowed. He takes his time, failing to do anything beyond skating in a straight line before he suddenly, jerkily, attempts the trick.

Time moves in slow motion. It’s with a combination of glee and horror that you watch him fail spectacularly, doing a rotation of approximately 180 degrees before slipping on the return to the rink and landing flat on the ice, groaning loudly. The few of the people sharing the rink with you look around, concerned, and you’re quick to skate over to him, biting your lip guiltily.

“Well,” you say, stopping in front of him. Tom’s still on the ice, arms crossed, glaring angrily at his skates. “I admire you for trying.”

His attention shifts up to you, and his scowl intensifies. “Whatever,” he mumbles. There’s an element of amusement in his eyes, and he takes your hand when you extend it out towards him. Tom’s heavy, but he springs up easily, his fingers tangled in yours and jerking you a little closer. “That was way harder than it looked.”

You hum, and then gulp as he drops your hand. He’s near to you, breath crystallising into a cloud of icy fog in front of you. Your eyes glide over the spray of brown freckles on his face before skimming down the curved line of his nose until you can admire his mouth.

“Well, it is a sport,” you say, voice a little tight. You clear your throat, shaking yourself from your funk as you realise you’re just staring at his lips. “Just like… Like hockey is a sport. I know we make fun of it, but I doubt me or anyone else on the team could play like you guys do.”

Tom seems to enjoy the praise, standing with a little more confidence as you finish speaking. He nods, then brings two slender fingers up to nimbly scratch at his chin.

“Have you ever tried it?” he asks.

“Not properly.”

Tom smirks. “Well, we need to change that. Go down the end, I’ll grab a net.”

You don’t know how he manages to convince the supervisors of the free skate to let the two of you set up an attack zone in the end segment of the rink, but you don’t question it. The sight of Tom reappearing, haphazardly balancing a net, a hockey stick, and a puck in his arms makes you smile, and you briefly think about how easy it's been for your resentment to melt away. There’s something about him that’s incredibly warm, and you don’t dispute the realisation that he’d probably make a good friend.

“Right,” Tom announces. He’s set up the net and shown you how to hold the plastic stick. Now, both of you are staring at the puck, black and stark against the scratched white ice. “Just hit it.”

You glance up at him, sceptical. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t know what I’m working with until I see you take a hit at it, darling.”

You nod. The stick feels unfamiliar between your hands, but you’re determined to make a better show of it than Tom when he tried to do the axel. After staring at the small open area of the net, you grit your teeth and hit it, watching with widening eyes as the puck soars wide out to the left.

Tom cackles.

“Well… That was an attempt,” he says. His grin doesn’t falter at all, even when you turn around to glare at him.

“Teach me, then,” you quip, scrunching up your nose playfully.

Tom hums, and you watch as he briefly skates away after the puck. You can’t stop yourself from staring at him as he bends over, the bottom of his shirt briefly riding up and exposing the printed band of his boxers. The words Calvin Klein burn into the back of your eyes, still lingering there as he turns and skates back to you. You blink rapidly, shame burning at your face as you try to look more like you’re focused, and less like you can’t stop your eyes from gravitating towards his figure.

He drops the puck back on the ice, just in front of your stick. “Your angle was wrong,” Tom says. “Show me your hands again.” When you do as instructed, he frowns and shakes his head. “No, it’s… It’s more like, your top hand higher, and the lower more angled… Uh… No, no, no. Can I just touch you?”

“Okay,” you squeak, standing a little straighter.

Tom skates forward, resting behind you. He doesn’t hesitate to carefully wrap his arms around you from behind, slender fingers curling over your hands and repositioning them on the stick. You feel like you’ve been electrified—eyes wide, skin responding to his touch. His breath, warm and minty, wafts across the side of your face, and you realise you’re holding your breath.

“Yeah...just like that,” he coos, voice a little softer. He squeezes your hands before letting them go. “Give it another go.”

You swallow back your nerves as you nod, waiting until Tom’s drifted back to hit the puck. You can’t stop yourself from smiling when it goes sailing into the back of the net, and Tom lets out a loud hoot.

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, laughing gleefully. “Look at that!”

You glance back at him, enjoying the expression of pride that finds his features. “Pretty good, right?” you say, playing it cool.

“Spectacular, darling.” Tom’s nodding, face alight. “Let’s step it up a notch.”

He brings you through a few drills, and you find yourself enjoying the game despite your early blunder. Before you know it, there’s the sound of a buzzer ringing, signalling that there are five minutes left of your session together. Tom rises to the challenge, announcing that he wants to end by watching you skate at the goal and shoot a point whilst moving. You fail at your first three attempts, unable to coordinate moving the stick, the puck and yourself without something going askew.

“Show me again,” you whine, growing conscious of the timer ticking down.

Tom skates closer, gliding easily with his hands behind his back. His thin lips wear his smirk well.

“Just visualise it, darling,” he says. “Believe in yourself, and you’ll do it.” He pauses, eyes skimming over you. “I believe in you.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Follow my line in.”

Tom skates backwards, beckoning you forwards with outstretched hands and a smile like you’re a toddler he’s teaching to walk. He leads your attack, mapping out your path before shifting out of the way just in time for you to successfully skate and hit the puck into the back of the net. His expression clears into relief, but as you start to celebrate, it’s quick to fall flat. You watch, eyes widening, as Tom gets distracted by you and drifts backwards into the goal, skates getting tangled in the netting. You lunge forward to try and catch him, only to make the situation a thousand times worse as you crash into him, grabbing at his shirt just as he manages to steady himself.

It feels like a cruel trick of fate. A repetition of the past, just, instead of Tom tackling you to the ground, it’s you that manages to slam him back onto the ice. It’s more comfortable this time around, though. For you. Tom’s chest is a lot warmer and softer than the ice.

“Fuck,” Tom groans. His face twists into an aching expression, then his eyes slowly blink open. As you make contact with his brown orbs, you’re surprised to see amusement shift across them. “Oh, how the tables have turned.”

You snort, taking stock of how muscly his front feels. You’re sprawled out completely over him, face suspended above his, Tom’s palms holding your waist. It’s intimate, especially when he reaches up with one hand and pushes your hair from your face so he can peer at you better. You can’t stop your eyes from going straight to his lips.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, voice breathless. You admire the way his hair is spread out around his head, bold against the ice like a halo. “I don’t know what happened.”

“‘S okay.” Tom’s quieter too. His gaze circles quickly between your eyes and your mouth. There’s something cockier about him, and you know the way you’re clinging to the front of his shirt has something to do with it. “I think you fell for me. Again.”

He’s leaning in. You start to do it, too, even go as far as to let your eyes drift close. He gets so close that you can almost feel the warm outline of his lips, brushing against yours, but then there’s the loud noise of a buzzer vibrating through the air. As the sound dies, it serves to signal the end of such a tender moment, as well as the end of the session.

You startle and push off him as you shoot him an apologetic grin.

“Sorry,” you say. You’re shaking a little, but you hope he puts it down to shock. You manage to clamber up and offer him your hands.

Tom accepts your help, and he groans as you help him up.

“It’s fine, Y/N,” he says, pausing to shake out his legs and slide forward. He swings your palms through the air, squeezing at your fingers as he very gently twirls you beneath his arm, then moves in nearer. “Accidents happen. I’m not surprised you wanted to be on top of me.”

All you can do is laugh and hope Tom can’t tell how he makes the base thrumming of your heart pick up.

“As if,” you return. You glance down at your intertwined fingers and feel your heart pang. “A hockey player? I could never.”

Tom just smiles, then squeezes your hands before letting them slip from his grasp. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmurs. He nudges your shoulder then shifts away, off in the direction of the net. “You know there’s no one that could give you as good a time as me.” He’s joking—it’s obvious in the cadence of his voice, the smile on his face. But why does it feel so layered?

“Ha ha,” you respond, skating over to him. When you notice him struggling, you dart forward and grab the net, slinging it over a shoulder. You glance back, arching an eyebrow as you decide to test the water. “I have had fun, though,” you add. “With you.”

Tom tilts his head to the side, ruffling up his hair with a hand. His smile lights up his entire face.

“Me too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Almost a week passes, and though you don’t see Tom again, he’s certainly on your mind. You find yourself thinking about him all too much, considering he’s a hockey player, and it goes against the team ethos you’ve been surrounded by.

One day, after practice, you end up sitting on a bench outside the rink, waiting on Yelena as she finishes talking with one of your coaches. Bored and curious, you pull out your phone and decide to open Instagram. All around the arena are banners advertising the hockey team’s social media, and you find yourself drawn to the official account with a few easy taps. You start to scroll through the feed, eager eyes skimming over every face until you find the one you’re looking for.

It’s Tom, from last season, clutching the victory trophy in his hands as he’s held on his team’s shoulders. His face is animated, pulled wide in a large grin as he stares at the camera, the skin by his eyes pulled into smile lines. He’s tagged in it, so, curious, you click through and look at his profile. Unsurprisingly, it’s set to public, and you’re careful as you scroll down.

His photos are exactly what you’d expect—a collection of team photos, action shots, and gym selfies. Typical hockey player, but the longer you spend staring at one of his selfies, the cuter he seems to get. Trying to shake yourself out of the daze, you scroll back up, thumb absently wandering over to his Following list. Your eyes widen as you see your profile, at the very top of the accounts.

Tom follows you…?

Brows furrowing, you flip onto your own account, double-checking this new fact by typing out his username in your followers tab. He pops up, at the top, and you sit back, blinking.

Interesting.

After taking a brief moment to compose yourself, you go back to his profile and follow him. You start to flick through his story from the day. You get about halfway through when a shadow casts over your figure. You glance up, expecting to see Yelena, only to startle when it’s Tom.

“Hi,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. You blink a few times in quick succession, glancing between your phone which shows a mirror selfie from him shirtless in the gym to where he’s now standing in front of you, burgundy hoodie on, flask in hand. You immediately turn your phone off.

“Oh, u-uh, hi,” you say, voice suddenly thick. He tilts his head to the side, an amused smile finding his lips as he sees you flustered. “What… What are you doing here?”

“I was in the gym,” he says, telling you information you already know. “Saw you down here on my way out, thought I’d say hi.” He rocks back on his feet, looking a little nervous. “I, uh… Keep thinking about last week. On the ice.”

“Oh?” Tom nods. He hesitates, and you realise he’s just awkwardly standing in front of you. “Wait,” you say, shuffling up the bench. “Sit.”

He perches on the wooden slats beside you, offering you his flask. “It’s hot chocolate,” he says, cheeks blushing slightly.

“After the gym?” you return, arching a brow.

Tom smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, pressing the flask into your hand. “It’s good, trust me. And, uh, I don’t have any germs or anything. I think.”

You snort, clicking the top open as you look at him over the brim. “Well, I wouldn’t mind catching anything from you,” you say, speaking before you have time to process the words.

Tom’s eyebrows soar up his forehead, a short chuckle leaving his lips as you hide your embarrassment behind the metal flask. The burn of revealing such a humiliating thought is quickly soothed away as you taste the deliciously sweet liquid.

“Well?” Tom coaxes, stretching an arm up as he scratches the back of his neck. His hoodie smells of fresh fabric conditioner. “Good, eh?”

Begrudgingly, you nod. “Yeah,” you say, shooting him a soft smile. Trying to move on the conversation, you return to what he’d said before sitting down. “Uh, what was that you said? About last week?”

Tom nods, seeming a little less apprehensive now to speak to you after your enthusiastic praise. “I was just thinking about how fun it was to skate around with you. It sort of made me regret not getting your number, darling.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “You can have my number if you want, Tom,” you say, speaking softly. His eyes are so pretty up close. “And I’d be down doing it again. I’m free every Wednesday afternoon.”

He nods his head, curls bouncing from the enthusiasm. You pass him back the flask, carefully angling your phone away from him as you unlock it, quickly exit from Instagram, then open up contacts. You watch him input his number, tongue between his lips as his brows furrow. He curses softly as he messes up the numbers and has to backspace a few times, and you have to focus hard on not letting your face betray how cute you find the whole interaction.

He’s cute.

“There you go,” Tom says, passing your phone back. He stands from the bench, tilting the flask towards you. “I’ve gotta go,” he adds. “Carpool. But, uh… See you tomorrow?”

You nod, biting back your smile. “Yeah,” you agree. “Sounds good.”

Before he leaves, Tom darts down to gently kiss your cheek, his lips lingering there for a moment before he springs back and walks away, waving as he goes. As his broad smile fades from sight, you find your hand drifting up, going to your cheek and touching the spot which tingles with the remnants of his kiss.

Swallowing back your nerves, you return your attention to your phone. You open your contact, clicking on Tom and opening up a text message. After a brief moment of contemplation, you decide to play it safe.

Y/N: hey x

A moment later, the notification changes from delivered to read, and the typing bubbles pop up. You shift on the bench, holding your breath.

Tom: hi xx

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

A few weeks pass, and it becomes a habit.

Despite already spending most of your days on the ice, you carve out another hour every Wednesday afternoon and dedicate it to Tom. Over time, he teaches you hockey, and you continue to give him pointers on his skating. After a while, you even manage to coach him through a jump. It’s easy with him. There are no expectations, no routines you need to nail. All you have to focus on when you’re with Tom is having fun—and also trying not to fall too deeply into the reserves of his deep brown eyes. Tom feels like a breath of fresh air—if the air also happens to be loaded full of charm, cheek, and wear an irresistible smile.

Halfway through the hockey league, you end up at the arena on a Saturday night, staying late with the rest of the figure skating team. Your competitive season begins in two weeks, so the team is in for outfit fittings, everyone split across the changing rooms at the arena. You’re competing solo this year, which grants you the rare position of having the freedom to design your dress—a privilege you’ve had a lot of fun with.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasp. “I can’t believe how nice it looks.”

You’re staring at a clothes mannequin, wearing the costume you’d spent hours conceptualising with the team’s designers. It’s a shade of red that perfectly compliments your skin, accented with silver and gold detailing in a beautiful pattern over the front. Gems glimmer and sparkle, and you can’t stop your eyes from tearing up as you look at an object of such beauty.

“Do you like it?” Standing beside the masterpiece, eyes nervous, is Jazzy, the lead costume designer. When you clasp your hands together and nod, she releases a deep sigh of relief. “Thank goodness,” she murmurs. “Let’s get you in it and start marking out the alterations.”

You feel a little bit like a doll, standing on a raised platform as you pull on your costume, but it’s worth the reward of seeing yourself in the dress. After slipping into it, you pull your hair back and pin it sloppily, so you’re able to admire the ensemble fully. You’re in tights, matched to your skin tone, and the tops of your thighs are covered by the red material. It floats down, and you run your fingertips over the hem of the velvety skirt as a smile finds your lips.

“Stunning,” Jazzy compliments. She passes you a tube of lipstick. “Try that one.”

You carefully smooth the shade over your lips, noting with enjoyment how the hue matches the bodice of the dress. As you stare at your reflection in the mirror, you release a breath. When you have your face painted and your hair done properly, you’ll look the part, and clinging to the image of what you’ll look like on competition days is enough to steady some of the nerves. Even if you mess up your routine, you’ll do it looking like you deserve to be there.

“I love it,” you say, releasing a breath. You reach up and pull your hair free, running a hand through it and ruffling it, so it sits normally. You do a small spin, smiling as the material drifts around the top of your legs. “You did an incredible job. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you for wearing it so well,” she returns, winking. “Let’s get a few more opinions.”

It isn’t long before the changing room is swarmed with the rest of your team, each one of them wearing garments in various stages of completion. The men are here too—four of them, combining with the five other women and yourself, bringing your team up to an even ten. Each season, your team puts forward various combinations of skaters for the duet, team, and solo events. You’re one of the only skaters competing solo this year—a decision your coach had made as she decided she wants no distractions for you as you try to reach Olympic level. The only other member of your team in a similar position is Tai, your lean, incredibly friendly male counterpart.

Tai saunters across the room, running a hand through his thick black hair. His outfit is deep purple and shimmery, and you wiggle your eyebrows as he does a little spin.

“Pretty sick, right?” he says, shaking a sleeve at you. “I look like Dionysus.”

“So cool,” you compliment. You do a small spin too, smiling widely. “What do you think?”

“Stunning,” Tai returns. He nods to affirm his point. “You’re going to kill it, Y/N. This is your year.”

You smile nervously. “I hope so,” you reply. You take a tight breath. “I really hope so.”

Before the conversation can continue, there’s the slamming of a door opening, followed by an approaching wall of noise—men, talking loudly, a few of them hollering. You raise an eyebrow towards Tai, who scowls.

“Saturday night,” he says. “The team are in the playoffs.”

“Wait, is it a home game?”

Tai nods. “Starts in twenty,” he says. His frown intensifies. “They’re so loud. Idiots.”

You watch from your position on the dressing podium as flashes of white, green and orange pass by the open door. It’s the hockey team, alongside their coaches and their managers. They walk determinedly in the direction of the hockey changing room where you presume they’re going for a pre-game pep talk. You can’t stop yourself from scanning the crowds, looking for Tom. When you fail to seek him out, you feel your heart pang sadly in your chest.

“Y/N?” Tai’s looking at you, amused. “Are you okay?”

You swallow, then nod. “Yeah,” you mutter. “Just tired.”

He hums, eyes wide and sympathetic. “Me too. It’s been a busy week, hasn’t it?”

It’s easy to agree. At this point in the season, with so few weeks to go before the competition begins, you’re at the rink every day.

“Absolutely.”

You stifle a yawn. Your eyes flutter back across the changing room, and you see your tired sentiments seem to be shared by the rest of the team. As they slowly start to leave the room, it grows quieter. Tai drifts away, lingering in the corner and talking with Jazzy and Yelena. It isn’t long until you’re the only four people remaining. You spend a few moments taking photos of your fit in the mirror, trying to get in all the angles so you can send them to your family and fuel their excitement about the season. Your actions are interrupted only when there’s a tender knock on the door, and you glance up towards the entrance to see a bulky, padded figure. Tom.

“Uh, hello? The hockey room is across the corridor,” Yelena says, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tom isn’t in his helmet, but he is perched tall on his skates. You’re able to watch as his face twitches with annoyance. He offers a tight smile to Yelena before glancing straight at you, raising a teasing brow.

Chest feeling tight, you step forward, padding quietly towards the door. Your friends are all looking at you, but you’re more preoccupied with Tom and the way his eyes seem to glint as they take you in your form. There’s a small swagger to your step as you watch him shift from leg to leg, his cheeks warm and red, eyes full of appreciation as they stick on the curves of your hips, chest, and then your lips. Your suit is tight, and it brings you enjoyment to watch him admire you. He clears his throat as you fall to a stop in front of him.

“Hey,” you say, voice quiet, perplexed. “What are you doing here? Don’t you have a game?”

Tom nods. “Yeah,” he says. His tone is darker, and it catches slightly. “I, uh… I wanted to see you.”

You bite your lip, standing a little straighter. “Oh.” You can’t stop yourself from smiling. “Well… Do you like it?” You toy with the hem of your skirt. “It’s my outfit for the competition circuit.”

“Give me a spin, darling.”

You oblige him, feeling slightly giddy as you do yet another rotation. You hear him hum, and when you fall to a stop in front of him again, you’re closer.

“Beautiful.” Tom rubs together his hands, slender fingers gloveless and unaffected by the imminent game. He rocks back on his skates, clicking his tongue as he looks a little apprehensive. “I, uh… I was thinking about what you said last week about never going to a hockey game before.” He pauses to dig through one of his deep pockets, pulling out a few pieces of paper. He offers them to you tentatively. “If you want, I have some spare tickets for tonight’s game. Pretty good seats. My family normally use them, but they’re busy tonight, so…?”

It’s with a mix of shock and gratitude that you nod your head immediately, reaching out to take the tickets. “I’d love to, Tom,” you murmur. “Thank you.”

He grins, face lighting up. “Perfect,” he returns. “Maybe you’ll be my lucky charm.”

Your teeth graze your lower lip, and you smile. “I hope so.”

Tom opens his mouth as if to say more, but then there’s a holler from further down the corridor.

“Dutchy! Five minutes! Hurry up!”

He grimaces, rolling his eyes. “Well, that’s me.”

“Dutchy?” you question.

Tom shrugs, then turns around and extends his thumb over his back to gesture at his jersey. “Holland,” he says. He turns back to look at you, grinning. “Just a nickname.”

You coo. “That’s cute.”

Tom licks his lip. “‘S not the only thing that’s cute.” You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning forward to quickly kiss your cheek. “Have fun!” he says, already on his way down the corridor.

“Good luck!” you return. You can almost feel the ghost of his touch, resting on your face so perfectly.

Tom turns, right at the end of the corridor, and he winks. You don’t realise how tightly you’re holding yourself until he disappears, and your lovestruck muscles unravel.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s hard to explain to Tai and Yelena the relationship you have with Tom, so you just give up after a while. They accompany you to the arena. You manage to change your dress for something more casual, deciding to keep the red lipstick on. Tom’s seats are at the end of the rink, positioned mid-way up the stands. They give you a clear view across the ice.

The atmosphere is electric. You’re surrounded by the home crowd, decked out in replica jerseys, printed scarves, and hats that have Kingston Kites printed all over them. It’s a sea of white, green, and orange, and you can’t stop yourself from slipping out during the first break to buy yourself a scarf—just to support the team, and Tom. The teasing you receive from your friends when you reappear is hard to ignore but mellows out when you procure a bag of Maltesers you’d also bought from the stand.

And Tom… Tom.

Tom’s incredible. You can’t keep your eyes off him. The silhouette of his padded figure feels like it’s burnt to your memory. When he’s on the ice, he’s magnificent, commanding the space well, grunting and spinning as he plays. When he’s waiting for his turn on the bench with his team, he’s focused and calm. His eyes are sharp and intense, glinting almost black beneath the harsh rink lighting as they follow the puck across the ice. You find yourself admiring everything about him—watching the way his cheeks are flushed a rosy red, his jawline sharp and fierce. He’s on fire, passion rolling off every part of him, and, quite honestly, it’s incredibly attractive.

Tom’s explained the basic rules of hockey to you a few times, but there’s a stark difference between him telling you, quietly, how line rotations work and actually seeing them in action on a scale like this. The players swap out every minute, only staying on the ice for a short burst of energy as they chase the puck around. Tom, holding the loose position of centre forward, goes wherever needed, carving up the ice like it’s his one task in life. You’re high in the stands, but even from so far, you’re able to see the determination and the passion burning in his eyes.

The game is brutal. By the time it reaches the third and final twenty-minute segment, the score is tied 2-2. You watch, on tenterhooks, as Tom jumps the barrier on the side of the rink, swapping in for one of the players and taking his spot on the ice.

He’s antsy, as are the rest of the team. You know it’s an important match, and if they want a chance at continuing to the next stage of the competition, they need the result to swing in their favour. Your eyes are wide, fingers curled into fists as you watch Tom cut up the ice. The helmet on his head protects his skull, but you can make out a few strands of dark brown hair sticking out, and you find yourself struck with the very prominent and aching thought that you’d quite like to play with it.

The puck ends up at your end of the rink, and the Kingston Kites take on a defensive strategy as their opponents try to put pressure on the goalie and get in another shot. You find your eyes trained directly on Tom and startle as you catch him looking up at you. Through panting breaths, his lips quirk into a brief, tight smile of recognition, but then it sours as his eyes slip beside you and look at Tai. Your friend is sitting to your right, his arm loosely wrapped around your shoulders, and you’re casually leaning into his side. It’s entirely platonic, but you don’t miss the way Tom’s eyebrows shoot up as his gaze hardens and his jaw sets with determination.

The whole interaction lasts less than a second, but as Tom refocuses on the game and hurtles after the puck, he seems more aggravated. You sit forward, gaining a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach as you shrug off Tai and stare at Tom. Your eyes follow him as he goes in hard, trying to wrestle the puck out from beneath his opponent’s stick. It looks to be a bit of a mess, and you hear everyone in your section gasp as Tom roughly elbows the other guy. He goes spinning with a yelp, and the referee blows on the whistle, pausing the game. There are a few yells of ‘Dutchy’, coupled with disgruntled hollering from the people around you as they question the referee’s decision to pause.

“Fucking hell,” Yelena murmurs, leaning forward on her elbows and staring across the ice. “Your guy is crazy.”

You suck in a breath, watching as the referee points at the penalty box and Tom stomps towards it. You can almost see the frustrated steam pouring from his ears.

“He’s… passionate.” You bite your lip. Somehow, you feel responsible for his outburst.

“Shit,” Tai mutters. He too leans forward, until all three of you are sitting there, elbows on your knees, staring at the penalty box. “That’s kind of hot.”

Your throat feels dry as you watch Tom throw his stick on the ground of the penalty box. Given all the walls are made of plastic, you have an unobstructed view as he pulls off his helmet and tosses it on a seat too. He marches a few paces up and down, speaking angrily to himself, his expression one of pure irritation. When he finally sits down, he runs a gloved hand through his hair, pushing away the sweaty strands that stick so deliciously to the top of his flushed forehead. You watch, your breath light and shallow, as Tom jerks off the glove and shoves his fingers into his mouth, pulling out his mouthguard before picking up a bottle and squirting a long stream of water into his open mouth.

“Fuck,” you murmur, eyes transfixed. There’s a heat in the pit of your stomach, building as you take in the way Tom’s glowing with a mix of exertion and anger. The match is continuing back on the ice, but you can’t stop looking at the hot flush of his cheeks and the angry lines of his flexed brows and curved jaw. “It is.”

A minute passes, and Tom slowly seems to chill out. It’s only as the seconds fall down into the 30s that he finally seems to release his tension, fixing his mouthguard, and his glove before glancing up at the stands. You’re surprised when, again, he looks directly at you, his entire demeanour shifting when he sees the concern in your eyes. His features soften, lips losing their angry frown and mellowing into a warmer smile, and you watch as his gaze grows fonder.

Yelena hits at your knee immediately. “He’s in love with you,” she announces, certainty in her voice.

You can’t stop looking at Tom, not even when he breaks contact with a wink and shoves his helmet back on.

“Shut up,” you murmur. “He’s not. We’re just friends.”

Tai cackles. “Fuck off,” he says. “Yelena’s right. Friends don’t look at each other like that.”

You sit up, glaring at him. “Like what?”

He smirks. “Like you want to jump each other.”

It’s hard to dispute that one, so instead, you just cross your arms over your chest and stare back at the ice. “You’re wrong, but okay.”

Yelena nudges your side. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“Hmm?”

“Stay behind after the match and ask him.”

You swallow nervously, briefly looking at her. “But what if you’re wrong?”

“I’m not,” she promises. “But… If I am, I’ll let you style my hair for the rest of the season.”

Your eyes light up, and the way that Yelena smirks, you can tell she knows the offer is too good to refuse.

“Fine,” you agree. Your eyes shift back to Tom, watching as he vaults back over the barrier and joins his team. Apparently they’ve forgiven him for the penalty, as he’s welcomed back with firm pats on the back, and you can see his blinding smile from across the rink. “I’ll do it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

The Kingston Kites win the match, and the arena is quick to empty. You part ways with your friends as they head home and you end up wandering the changing rooms as you try to hype yourself up. There’s a text from Tom waiting on your phone, simply asking how you’d liked the game, so you respond and tell him that you’d much rather go over it in person. After agreeing to meet him outside his locker room, it’s just a waiting game.

You reapply your lipstick and mess around with your hair to kill the time. It’s a little eerie being alone in the skating changing rooms, and as time passes, you hear fewer people hovering around the arena as the players slowly leave the building. It’s hard not to get stuck in your head as you think about your plan to confess your feelings, so you end up pacing in the long corridor that winds between the skating changing rooms and the hockey locker room.

The corridor is bright white and decorated with various sporting memorabilia. Autographed jerseys, shining medals, and printed photographs hang framed on the walls. On your side of the corridor, you catch glimpses of yourself, wearing a tracksuit and hugging your friends, showing off your medals, mid-action on the ice… It makes you proud to see that your team has placed you so frequently in the collage, and you feel a swell of bittersweet gratitude in your chest as you look at snapshots of competitions gone by.

On the other side of the corridor is a similar spread for the hockey team. You stroke at your chin as you examine this season’s photos, skimming your eyes over the group shot and trying to spot the people that you know. When you see Tom, dead centre, grinning widely, it makes you smile.

“—I’m just saying, Dutch, something was going on with you tonight. It can’t happen again. We can’t have you losing focus at this stage in the competition.”

The sound of a gruff voice drifting up the corridor makes you startle, and you glance down to see two figures emerging from the locker room—Tom, and one of his coaches. Tom has traded his gear for a pair of blue jeans and a loose black hoodie, and you watch as he nods and looks at his coach with wide-eyed respect.

“Of course, Spike,” he responds, voice clear, open. “It won’t.”

You watch as Spike sighs, then gives Tom a hearty pat on the shoulder. “Good lad.” He walks back, then makes the okay sign with his fingers. “Your final goal was phenomenal, though. More of that next game, and less time in the penalty box. Got it?”

“Yes, coach.”

“Good. See you tomorrow.”

Tom grunts and the two separate. You watch as he tugs on the front strings of his backpack before turning, his face lighting up as he spots you, leaning against the wall. He quickly strides towards you, footsteps echoing against the cold passage.

“Hey,” Tom calls out, voice bouncing down the hall.

There’s an uncontrollable smile on your face as you stand up and walk to meet him halfway. Tom instinctively wraps you in a hug, lips catching on your cheek when he pulls away.

“Hi,” you reply, voice shy. Tom smells of shower gel and mint, his curls a little damp and darker than usual. “Congrats on the win.”

Tom smirks, nodding as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Thanks, love. Did you enjoy it?”

You release a short laugh. If enjoyment equates to found it incredibly erotic, then, of course, the answer is,

“Yes. Loved it.” You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing. “Did you get in trouble for the penalty box?”

He winces, grimacing at you with his teeth glinting. “A bit,” he admits. “Doesn’t matter though, ‘cos I scored a goal after. I just need to, um… Not do it again.”

The air between you is thicker, and you find yourself swallowing as you note the way Tom’s looking at you, eyes hungry.

“What happened?” You say, testing the waters tentatively. “You seemed fine, and then you got… Fired up.”

Tom swallows. “I… Just got tetchy.” He clears his throat. “Who, uh… Who were you at the match with?”

You smirk, realising that your hypothesis was right. “My friends. Yelena and Tai. They’re on the team with me.”

“Friends?” Tom confirms, expression perking up.

“Yeah. Friends.”

He steps closer. “Did they like the game?” he asks.

“Yeah. They thought you were hot.”

Tom chuckles, briefly glancing at the floor before drawing his eyes back to you. They linger on your lips, and your breath hitches as he tentatively, testingly reaches out and places his hands on your hips. When you sink into it, he grows bolder, pulling you closer until your faces are near. You love the way his hands feel as they rest on your waist.

“Did you?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you think I was hot?”

It’s hard to concentrate when Tom’s standing so close to you, looking at you with his eyes so intense, but somehow you manage to wrap your arms around his neck and nod. “Yeah,” you admit. You toy with his curls, giving them a short tug when he groans enjoyably. “I always think you’re hot.”

Tom wears his smirk so well that it’s almost infuriating.

“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks, fingers softly caressing your sides. When you squeak out a noise of affirmation, Tom lets his nose brush up against yours. He swallows deeply, nervousness mixing with his teasing. “I think you’re stunning, too. All the time, but especially tonight, when you were sitting up there, wearing a team scarf and watching me play.”

“Oh,” you murmur. It’s hard to maintain eye contact with him when there’s so much going on in the depths of his gaze that it dizzies you. “Thank you.” Growing a little bolder, you let your fingers glide up, tangling in the ends of his hair. “It was fun watching you play. You’re really talented, Tom.”

His nose is still cold against yours, and you let your eyes fall shut as he slowly traces patterns over your sides.

“Thanks, darling.”

Instinctively, and embarrassingly, you feel a shiver roll down your spine as the pet name falls from his lips. Usually, you’d be able to play it off from the cold, or like you’re stretching a muscle, but he’s holding you so close that you’re sure he felt it.

“Tom,” you say, voice hushed. You feel safe in his arms, you feel loved in his arms, but your skin is still crawling with built-up desire. There’s an ache in your chest that burns brighter with each second he lingers so close, but yet remains so far. “Do you want to…”

“What, sweetheart?”

Again, your breath catches. You hear Tom release a small chuckle, and then, after a final moment, his lips fill in the small gap between you both. You sink into it immediately, heart rejoicing as his lips, warm and slightly chapped, explore your own.

It’s a little fumbly, and it takes a few moments for you to learn the slopes of his face so intimately, but once you’ve both readjusted and altered your positions, it’s quick to heat up. Tom’s fingers grip your waist tighter, mouth pressing to yours with more hunger as you wind your fingers into his hair and sigh. Between gasped breaths and soft sounds of enjoyment, you feel him slip his tongue along your lower lip, and so you open your mouth a little wider.

You end up against the cool brick wall, making out like you’re both teenagers again. The exhilarating butterflies twirling in your stomach match the memories, too. You moan softly as Tom pulls away from your mouth, his attention shifting to your neck. As you tilt your head to the side and open up your throat to him, you whimper as you feel his lips drag over your exposed skin. He nibbles and suckles until he finds the sensitive part that makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” you whimper. You tug on his air-dried curls, coaxing him back up to your lips so you can enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Tom sighs, and you can feel him smiling into it.

There are noises, coming from further down the hall, and when they increase in volume, Tom reluctantly pulls back from your mouth. He links your hands together and swings them through the air, looking up to meet your eyes. His face is cute, lips puffy and red, eyes dancing with hope.

“D’you want to—”

“Oi, Dutchy!”

You jump as a holler comes from down the hall, echoing off the vast brick walls. Tom’s expression shifts, his lips pursing as he glances down the corridor. He turns away from you to yell back.

��What?”

You think it’s Osterfield, one of Tom’s friends. He too is dressed casually, standing tall with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“We’re going out! Don’s got us the VIP section down at the Grove. C’mon!”

Tom looks torn, a ripe line carved out between his brows. He glances back at you, biting his lower lip.

“Go,” you urge, smiling softly. “Celebrate with your team.”

He frowns slightly. “Come with us?” he asks.

You shake your head. “No, it should just be you guys.” As much as you like Tom, you can’t think of anything worse than going on a night out with the entire loud, boisterous hockey team. You smile encouragingly when you see the turmoil in his eyes. “You deserve it.”

“Are you sure? Because I can stay here, and we can—”

You lean up, moving your hands back down to his shoulders as you kiss him very softly. “Go,” you urge, whispering against his thin lips.

Tom leans into you, keeping your lips pressed until you can feel him smiling into it. He begrudgingly steps back. “Thank you,” he says, “for coming to the game. And being so lovely.” His lips quirk a little taller. “And for letting me kiss you.”

“Well, it didn’t take much convincing.” You cross your arms over your chest and lean back against the wall, your figure feeling colder without Tom’s touch. His eyes run the lines of your face, gaze warm and comforting.

“Have a nice night,” he says. There’s still hesitation on his face, so you step forward and kiss his cheek before gently pushing his shoulder.

“You too” you respond. Tom finally walks away, but only after shooting you a wink.

You lean back against the wall, pulling out your phone and staring at the blank screen as you discreetly keep your focus on Tom. When he reaches the end of the corridor, Osterfield thumps him on the back and murmurs something unintelligible which earns him a shove into the doorway as the two friends leave together. Tom glances back just before disappearing, and you smile at him as he waves his hand playfully.

Once alone, you release a tight sigh of contentment. You deflate, sagging against the wall as you feel your heart beating faster in your chest. Absently, one of your hands drifts up, fingertips resting on the outline of your lips. Your mouth is still warm from Tom’s kisses, and your heart feels a little softer, too.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

You don’t see him for a while, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t constantly on your mind. At some point, Tom adds you to his private Instagram story, and it feels like a gentle confirmation that he feels the same way as you. You stay in constant contact, and he starts to send you more memes and silly texts each evening. The smile on your lips barely fades, and every time your phone lights up with a new text from him, you get excited.

Unfortunately, the high doesn’t last forever. All too soon, it’s a week before your first competition, and the good feeling finally goes away. As extended practices cut into your life, you’re left frazzled and stressed, trying to balance your team’s expectations against your own personal competitiveness. It doesn’t help that your ankle is giving you grief again.

“No, no, no. You’re better than this, Y/N! Stop cutting the spin too early. You have to extend it into the end of the beat!”

It’s a Thursday morning, and you’re exhausted. The bags beneath your eyes hang heavy, and every manoeuvre you try to execute just seems to leave you worse than before. You’re cold on the ice, and your bones are chilled from fatigue and stress. Everything aches, and try as you might, you can’t land the final ten seconds of your routine. Your coach has forced you to go over it again and again, minutes blurring to hours as your frustration festers.

“It’s not working,” you call back, reaching up to tug on your hair. Your coach is leaning against the rink barrier, resting on her elbows as she watches you, pursed lips.

“Do it again,” she encourages. “Faster!”

You grit your teeth, skating back into the centre of the ice. The music starts again, and you run through the entire final section, nailing the parts that you know. Yet, as you reach the big finish, you falter. You end up flat on the ice, frustrated tears burning your eyes as your ankle throbs. As the track cuts out again, you hear your coach’s loud sigh, carrying across the ice.

“Pack it in. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

You grimace as you climb back to your feet, wincing slightly.

“I can do it again,” you call back, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You want to. You have to.

Your coach shakes her head, lips set in a firm line. “You can’t,” she responds. “You’re worn out and making mistakes. Your injury won’t sustain you.” She pauses to shake her head. “This isn’t what any of us want, Y/N, but you need to rest.”

Your fingernails dig into your palms as you grit your teeth. “But—”

“No. Go home.” Your coach pushes off from the barrier, shaking her head. When you fail to move, she turns back, arching a brow. “Go.”

A string of irritated cuss words falls quietly from your lips as you reluctantly skate from the centre of the rink. Your fingers go to your cheeks, wiping away the cool tears that fall from frustration. It’s a private session, but a few of your team are hanging around. Their sympathetic smiles and gentle arm pats make you bristle, and you’re silently seething as you stomp over to one of the benches and throw yourself onto it, groaning.

You lie down and stare at the ceiling for a while, trying to focus on your breathing. It’s just one bad training session. You’ve landed the end section of your routine plenty of times before. It’s just a bad day.

…But it’s also a bad day, one week before the first rounds of competitions, where a performance like the one you just gave would have you finishing in last place, your Olympic dreams crumbling to pieces.

You close your eyes, clenching your hands into fists as you stretch out over the bench. Your teammates know to give you space, so you aren’t sure why you feel a shadow falling across your face. You ignore it for a few moments, putting it down to someone unknown peering at you fleetingly, but when it persists, you pry an angry eye open.

“What— Tom?”

For the second time, you find yourself surprised by his presence. Tom is standing beside your bench, swallowed by a deep green hoodie with a blue denim jacket pulled over the top of it. In his hands are a stack of papers and his eyes are full of concern.

“Hi,” Tom says quietly, looking a little embarrassed. His cheeks are dusted light pink. You wonder how long he’s been staring at you for. “Are you okay? I, uh… I saw the end of your training.”

You feel rigid and breakable as his eyes pool with warmth, his gaze like tender sunbeams. When he steps closer and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder, your stress bubbles over. As you bring your knees to your chest, you press the side of your face into them, blinking up at him as a few tears skate down your cheeks.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, cooing softly. “Don’t cry, darling.”

Tom gently coaxes you up the bench and sits behind you, throwing a leg either side of the wood to straddle it. You let him pull you back into him, his arms feeling warm and strong as he hugs you tightly from behind. He burrows his face into your neck, warm hands going up to cup your cheeks as his fingertips carefully flick your tears away.

“I’m not sad,” you murmur, swallowing back another wave of tears. “I’m just annoyed.”

“I know.” Tom pauses, and you take a moment to breathe in the scent of fresh laundry. “It’s the most frustrating thing in the world when you can’t get something right. But if you work yourself into the ground, you won’t ever be able to do it.”

“But- but what if I want to work myself into the ground,” you mutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Then you’d be silly.” Tom kisses your cheek, his lips warm and light. “And you’re not silly. You’re the strongest athlete that I know, Y/N. You just need to let other people look after you. Let… Let me look after you.”

Your breath hitches and slowly, you pull your face away from your knees. You stretch your legs out in front of you and turn to look at Tom, curiosity in your gaze as you think about how close he’s holding you, and how passionately he’s speaking to you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. A shy smile curls across your lips.

Tom hums. His hands fall down to your shoulders, and he gently squeezes your arms. “Go have a shower,” he says. “You’ll feel better, and then I’ll look after you some more.”

You reach out, fingers twirling around the strings of his hoodie. “You’re too nice to me,” you murmur, shyly ducking away from his gaze. “How are you so perfect?”

He laughs, the sound so ripe and joyful that it brings warmth back to your chest.

“I’m not,” Tom disputes. “I just care about you.”

You hum, and before you can lose your cool, you lean in and softly kiss him. Tom’s still for a moment, but then he pushes closer, gently and delicately kissing you back. His hands swoop down to hold your waist, lightly stroking over your sides. When you pull away a few moments later, you feel steadier.

“Hmm,” you say, mind running slow, ensnared by the glimmers of warmth in his eyes. “I like kissing you.”

Tom chuckles, nose brushing yours. “I like kissing you too.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It turns out that Tom’s right—you do feel better after having a shower. As you find yourself in the deserted skating changing rooms, the sight of your troubles being swirled away down the plughole releases a large part of your stress. The hot water coaxes your good mood back, and it continues, even when you have to wrap up your ankle again.

By the time Tom reappears, knocking gently on the changing room door before entering, you feel better. You’ve changed clothes, washed your hair, cleansed yourself of all the bad energy that had clogged you up. You feel like you again.

“I got this for you,” Tom announces. He holds a disposable cup in his hand and presents it to you with a grin. “Hot chocolate, for m’lady.”

You roll your eyes as you accept it, looking up at him with gratitude warming your chest. “Thanks, Tom.”

He glances down, eyes taking in your form. You’re again stretched out on a bench, one of your legs bent at the knee, the other laying out in front of you. A few bandages hang around, and Tom looks at them curiously.

“How’s your ankle?” he asks, chewing on his lower lip as he stares at your fluffy sock.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “I braced it. Should be alright as long as I take it easy.”

Tom nods, then very slowly walks to the end of the bench. He runs his index finger down the bottom of your leg, his touch light but warm. You’re in a skirt, your legs bare and exposed, and as you take in the mischievous glint in his eye, you wonder what he has in mind.

“Y/N,” Tom starts, voice gentle. His fingertips play around with the top of your sock as he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. “Can I kiss it better?”

You’re breathing a little lighter as you look at him. “Yeah,” you agree. “Go ahead.”

Tom kneels on the floor, settling beside the bench with ease. With gentle fingers, he rolls down the top of your sock, just far enough so he’s able to leave a very soft kiss to your tender skin. He doesn’t linger there too long, his eyes fixed to your face, but his lips don’t leave you, either. Very carefully, taking his time, Tom starts to drop kisses to your skin. He gradually works his way further up your leg, dusting warm, open-mouthed kisses from your ankle to your shin, then your knee.

You shift on the bench as Tom starts to come higher, one of your hands drifting down to rest in his curls. You put the disposable cup on the floor as you watch him. There’s a heat slowly building in the pit of your stomach, and with each meeting of your flesh and Tom’s mouth, it grows more pronounced. It isn’t long before you’re parting your legs, his lips pausing at the bottom of your thigh as he changes from light kisses to deeper, needier sucks. A short whimper travels from your mouth, wobbling into the air as his lips draw the blood to the surface of your skin.

“You’re so pretty,” Tom murmurs, looking up at you from the ground. His eyes are wide, darkened with lust. He splays his hand along your neglected thigh, rubbing gentle circles to the skin. You whimper when he drops his tongue to lap over one of the marks he’s pulled to the surface of your skin. “Do you want me to go any higher?” His voice is raspy.

The space between your legs is throbbing, and immediately you nod. “The, uh, the door,” you murmur, voice shaking. Tom presses a final kiss to your inner thigh before standing up. He winks at you before jogging to the changing room door, easily flicking the lock, then coming back towards you. “Are you, um… Are you sure you don’t mind?”

Tom grins. He sinks down to his knees beside your head, his hands tugging the bottom of your legs. You sit up on the edge of the bench and turn as your thighs open over his shoulders. Tom kneels between them, his bed of brown curls complementing your skin tone nicely. He presses a kiss to your neglected leg before his hands carefully skim up to play with the hem of your skirt.

“I wouldn’t mind one bit,” he replies, his voice a little darker. He tilts his head as he meets your gaze, smirking softly. “I’d really like to. Do you want to know a secret, darling?” Tom’s fingers slide up, his index and his middle making contact with the front of your panties. As he traces delicately over the front of your core, small arcs of pleasure roll out from your centre. The way his lips twitch taller makes you wonder if he can feel the way your cunt seems to throb.

“Yeah,” you respond, voice light. A whimper passes through your lips as Tom applies a little more pressure to your covered clit, your hips gyrating down to meet his fingertips in response.

He pulls back, only to push your skirt out of the way, tutting quietly when you mewl.

“Been wondering what you’d taste like for ages, love,” he coos. He uses his grip on your thighs to pull you closer, and you moan when he buries his head between your legs. Your panties are still on, but that doesn't stop Tom from nosing up against your slit, hot breath fanning out across your warmth. When he draws his tongue over the front of your panties, you release a breathless whine. “Bet it tastes as pretty as you are.”

You reach down and bury your hand back into his curls, pulling Tom closer as he ghosts his tongue over the front of your panties. He’s lapping lightly up your slit, the pleasure muted but still there, and your eyes fall shut as the muscles in your thighs tense.

“Fuck, Tom,” you whine, feeling your cunt pulse. “Take them off. I need more.”

His nimble fingers are quick to follow your instructions, and as soon as your hips are falling back to the bench, his mouth is on you. You cry out as you finally feel him, the pleasure direct and far greater than you’d expected. Tom devours you, using both of his thumbs to press your lips apart as his tongue travels all over your heat. He spends a while focusing on your clit, the tip of his tongue firm and unrelenting, but when you start to whine a little louder, he teases you by drawing away. He flattens his tongue and licks a few broad strokes up your centre, moaning against you until you’re fisting at his hair and shaking.

“Fuck,” you whine, voice barely there. “Feels so good.”

Tom’s complete attention is on you and your eyes roll back when he teases your entrance with his mouth. One of his thumbs rolls up to toy with your clit as he pushes his tongue into you, your walls throbbing as he explores you. You push him deeper, obscenities mixing with slurred acclamations of his name, and it’s as though you can feel your pulse hammering in your head.

“Knew it. Tastes like fucking heaven,” Tom murmurs, pulling away from your entrance to shoot you a smirking smile. He brings two fingers to your pussy and teases you there, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead when you moan and rut down against them, taking agency and fulfilling your desires. “Shit, baby. You’re so wet.” He fucks your heat, eyes moving off your face and fixing on the mess between your legs as he coos. “I can feel you clenching around my fingers. Does that feel good?”

“Yeah,” you whine. When Tom drops his head and wraps his lips back around your clit, you cry out. “Getting so close,” you say, words tangling together as your chest heaves. You feel so hot, your body trembling as your edge hangs in sight. “Keep going, f-fuck, Tom. You’re so good.”

He adds a third finger to your heat, and your jaw slackens. Tom changes the angle of his digits a few times before curling them just right, and he continues to stroke up against your g-spot as you cry out. You stammer out a few words of warning, and he moans in response. The vibrations of the sound coupled with the way his tongue is applying the perfect amount of warm, sloppy pressure to your clit push you over the edge. As you peak, you fall back onto your elbows, tightening your grip on his hair as your pussy throbs, taking wave after wave of pleasure as it rocks across you and smothers you.

Tom doesn’t stop until you’ve ridden it out completely and you’re sensitive. With a push at his hair, you coax him away, still trying to gather yourself as your throat feels dry. The expression of cocky fulfilment hanging from his lips makes you shiver, and you almost moan again as you take in the sight of his chin, glistening with your arousal.

“How was that?” he asks, cleaning his chin with the back of his hand. Tom carefully stands up, still looking at you as he leans back and picks up a box of tissues from one of the benches. He passes a few to you then leans back against one of the lockers, looking at you admiringly with his arms crossed.

“Really good,” you manage, voice still a little hoarse. You clear your throat and ignore his chuckle as you take care of the mess between your legs with a tissue. Your eyes soften when you look back to him. “Thank you.”

Tom just nods, taking the used tissues and binning them before making a quick stop by a sink to wash his hands. When he strolls back over, he stands in front of you and cups your cheeks in his palms. You stare up at him, smiling as he meets your eyes.

“Glad I could make you feel nice,” he says, voice soft. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Now… If you have time, I want to take you home. Run you a nice bath, make you some lunch. Make sure you’re looking after yourself.”

You feel your face warm as you listen to his musings, and find yourself biting the inside of your cheek. “You’d want to do all that for me?”

Tom nods. His hands run over your face, fingertips gently caressing your cheekbones. It’s as if he’s examining you, trying to ensure that you’re okay, that you’re safe, that you’re happy. It makes your heart soar.

“‘Course, darling. I care about you a lot.”

You tilt your head to the side so you can kiss the inside of his palm. “Okay,” you agree. You stand up, wincing slightly as your ankle disagrees with taking your weight. Tom’s hands move down to hold your waist, steadying you. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

You start to walk, only to look back at him and glare jokingly. “Can’t believe you ruined my underwear,” you say. “Feels fucking freezing without them on.”

Tom arches a brow, picking up his bag and slinging it over his back before catching up to you. “Um, I think technically it was you who ruined your underwear.”

You scrunch up the tip of your nose, only for your scowl to melt when he kisses it. When you reach the door, you undo the lock and open it, letting Tom through before following him out into the corridor.

“Whatever,” you reply, sinking into his side. His hand is warm in yours, your fingers tangled together nicely. “Worth it.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

It’s noisy in the arena.

With the final match of the season underway and the league title up for grabs, the atmosphere is electric. The stands are packed, frenzied by the presence of the large broadcasting cameras that stream the match live to thousands online. Sitting in the home section, the noise seems louder than it would be elsewhere in the arena. Everyone around you is as invested in the result as you are, and as the energy rises and falls, you feel connected to the mass of strangers around you. You know that they share the ache in your fingers built from the tight clenching of your knuckles into fists, and the strain of your eyes as you spend too long staring at the bright white ice.

The score is 4-4. The players from both teams have been giving some of the most convincing performances of their careers. It’s been close all match.

You hadn’t been sure that you’d be able to make the game, your own days filled with the later stages of your competition, but you’re glad you managed to swing it. Tom needs you.

He’s skating well. He’d assisted one of the team’s goals, and managed to subvert several other shots on goal attempted by his rivals. Tom looks as handsome as ever, face flushed, eyes focused, figure bulked wide with protective padding, but you know he’s nervous. He’s looking up at you more than usual, his teeth gritted together, and his jaw tensed. It’s clear just how much the title means to him.

It’s been a few weeks since Tom came and picked you up after your meltdown at practice, and since then, your feelings for him have escalated. You think it must be a form of torture to watch someone you care about so much getting pushed around, and injured, and hurt on the ice, knowing you can’t do anything but sit and watch it play out in front of you. Every time he gets slammed up against one of the plastic wall barriers, you wince, almost feeling the pain yourself, and despite him always brushing it off and getting on with the game, you worry for him.

“Fucking hell. That looks like it hurts.”

Beside you is Harry, one of Tom’s brothers. You’d met him before the match when Tom had thrust a ticket at you and told you that he’d wrestled it off one of his other brothers. Your guilt had been assuaged when you’d been told that Paddy finds the finals too stressful to sit through. Harry’s been entertaining you all evening, acting as a buffer between you and his parents, who make you feel nervous being so close to.

“Shit,” you agree. You wince as Tom gets barged into and goes spiralling across the ice, only stopping when one of his teammates catches him. “This is actually brutal.”

Harry makes a low humming noise. He turns to glance at you, then he hesitantly reaches down to pat your knee.

“He’ll be fine, though, Y/N,” he says, speaking a little awkwardly. “It’s uh… just part of the job. He’s used to it. I’ve lost count of how many times he’s broken his nose.”

You hum as you think about the wonky lines of Tom’s face. “True,” you agree. You pull your team scarf further around your figure, snuggling into it in search of relief. “Just isn’t nice to see him hurt.”

Harry makes a humming sound of agreement and releases your leg with a final pat. The game continues, and before you know it, they’re into the last third. As the clock ticks down from 20 minutes, things are tense. Tom blurs with the rest of the team, and your eyes skim around all the figures, moving and spinning across the ice like it’s choreographed. There’s something quite beautiful about how they’re able to execute formations and manoeuvres amidst such chaos.

Your eyes stick to the back of Tom’s jersey, screaming Holland in bright orange. He’s closing in on an opponent, trying to steal the puck with gritted teeth. The air leaves your lungs as the scene plays out in slow motion, your eyes widening to the size of gold coins as you watch the larger man smack the puck with ferocity, attempting a shot on goal before Tom manages to steal it. Instead of the puck flying near the goal, the angle flicks it to the side, and the entire section around you gasps as it soars through the air and collides with Tom’s face. His eyes are fine, given the visor on his helmet, but his nose is exposed, and it bears the brunt.

Your heart stills for a moment, the volume of the arena fading out completely as you see Tom go down, clutching at his nose as a trail of blood drips over the ice. There’s the sound of a whistle, and you only start to breathe again when you see one of Tom’s teammates haul him from the rink. His blood freezes to the ice, leaving a trail of dark marks staining the ground behind him.

“Fuck, fuck,” you find yourself saying, finally tearing your eyes away from Tom to stare at Harry. Tom’s brother is wincing. “What do we do?”

Harry shrugs, grimacing. You look back to the ice to where Tom’s being dragged on his skates back to the team bench. You can see him smiling, but it's indisputable that he’s in pain. You can see it in his eyes, and the way his blood mixes with the salty blend of aching tears. “Can’t really do anything,” he says. “Told you his nose gets it.” Harry pauses for a moment, then gently elbows your side. “You could go down, though. They’ll probably do a quick fix in the tunnel. I doubt he’ll want to be benched for the rest of the match.”

You nod stiffly, but find yourself hesitating. “Are you, uh, sure that he’d want that? It wouldn’t be annoying?” When Harry turns to raise an eyebrow, you chuckle nervously. “I don’t want to knock him out of the zone, y’know?”

Harry’s eyes fill with understanding, but you think you can still detect a layer of teasing to it. “My brother is actually obsessed with you,” he says. “He watches compilation videos from your competitions every single bloody night. Even if you broke his heart, I doubt he’d ever be able to find you annoying. So…” Harry pokes your shoulder. “Get down there, alright?”

You shoot him a smile, unable to pretend that his words don’t warm your heart.

The game is still paused, yet you hurry down the aisle, stepping over trays of discarded nachos and half-filled plastic pints of beer as you utter words of apology to the disgruntled fans. Moving quickly, you dodge up and enter one of the back stairwells, flashing your team ID at security. The arena is a complex system of back corridors and passages, but you know them inside out.

You reach the long corridor that connects the changing rooms to the ice, and you see Tom standing in the middle of it. He’s surrounded by people—doctors, his coach, a few reserve players. Out in the arena, you hear the game pick up, but back here, time is standing still.

“Stay still,” one of the medics says. Tom grumbles something before yelling out a light curse word. The closer you walk, the more you see. Tom’s holding a bunch of stained tissues to the bottom of his nose as the medic quickly bandages his bridge. It’s not advised for him to go back on the ice with a broken nose—but you also know that with ten minutes left on the clock, the patchy fix-it job probably won’t cause permanent damage. You quite like Tom’s wonky nose, anyway.

“He’s such a twat,” Tom grumbles, wincing again. “Did he get benched?”

“Yeah. Penalty.”

“Good.” Tom folds his arms over his chest. When the medic pulls away to dig through his bag of bandages, Tom glances up the corridor. His eyes widen as he sees you, and you watch him do a double-take. When you raise a hand in greeting, his face softens. “Y/N?”

“Hi,” you call out, stepping closer. “Is it okay I’m here? I, um… I was worried.”

He nods, only to receive a scolding from the medic. Smiling sheepishly, Tom beckons you closer. He offers you a hand, gloveless and cold, and you hurry forward to take it.

“‘Course,” he murmurs. Now close, you’re able to see the flecks of dried blood on his face. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he says, speaking softly as if he knows how frazzled you feel. “Happens all the fucking time.”

“Mmm. Harry said so.”

Tom raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? How is he? Looking after you?”

You chuckle. “He’s funny,” you say. You roll your thumb over the back of Tom’s knuckles as he winces again, the medic pushing his ice pack out of the way so he can dab a wet tissue at Tom’s nostrils. You realise that his nose has stopped bleeding.

“Funnier than me?”

“Never.” You squeeze Tom’s hand. “You’re doing well out there.”

“Thanks, darling.” Tom glances away from you, looking back at the medic as he finally steps away to gather his stuff. “Can I-?”

“Yes,” the medic confirms. “Just don’t touch anyone. The second you’re done, come find me and I’ll fix you properly.”

Tom nods, then bites back a noise of pain. “Thanks, Doc,” he murmurs. Tom looks back to you, dropping his voice as you’re left alone with him. “I, uh, I gotta go,” he says, tilting his shoulder back in the direction of the ice.

“Okay.” You shoot him a soft smile and squeeze his hand before stepping back. “Good luck, Tom. Smash it.”

He pouts slightly, a wedge forming between his brows. “Kiss?”

“Kiss?” you repeat, snorting softly. When Tom nods sadly, you step nearer and press your hands to his shoulders. You lean up and capture his lips in a warm kiss, smiling into it as his palms paw at your waist. For a very brief moment, you get lost in it, overcome by the round lines of his chapped mouth and the heat of his hands, but you force yourself to step back. You can feel how badly he wants to be out on the ice. “Good luck, handsome,” you say, whispering against his lips. You step back and cross your arms, smiling widely as he blushes. “You’ve got this.”

Tom gives you a final nod, eyes alight. “See ya in ten!” he says, before turning on his skates. You stay watching him until he reaches the end of the corridor, and the smile is still on his face as he turns back to grin at you. The arena goes wild as he reappears, and you find yourself biting your lips as you try to control the butterflies in your stomach.

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

Tom lives about twenty minutes from the arena, and you find yourself waiting on his front step. With your knees pulled to your chin, the chill of a March evening cools your face. You don’t feel the cold much—instead, you’re distracted by the images of the team winning, playing on loop in your mind.

It’s a blur. A snapshot collection of Tom scoring the tie-breaking goal, the sight of the crowd going wild as the final buzzer sounded, the spray of champagne foam sticking to the ice. You’d hung around afterwards, receiving a very messy kiss from Tom who was vibrating from excitement. After a round of celebratory photos, Tom had been hunted down by the medics, and he’d pulled you aside briefly to ask you to meet him here.

You sigh as you stretch your legs out in front of you, looking down at the laces of your shoes and how they contrast the dark cement paving stones. Tom shares his house with Harrison and Harry. You’ve been here a few times, and it feels odd to be here without him.

“Y/N!”

You startle as you look up, so distracted by the loops of your laces that you’d failed to see Tom. He finishes clambering out of a large car, and you think you catch a glimpse of Harry in the front before it goes speeding away from the pavement. Tom approaches, his nose bruised but free of bandages, a wide smirk on his face as he picks up into a light jog. When he reaches you, he sweeps you to your feet, taking your hands firmly and kissing you before you have a chance to say a word. You shiver as he reaches up to cup your cheeks, craving the body heat, sinking into him and the scent of his fresh shampoo.

“You’re shivering,” Tom murmurs, pulling back to stare at you. His eyes widen as guilt shadows his features. “Fuck, how long have you been waiting for me?” He steps back to dig through his pocket, tongue settling between his lips as he hums.

“Ten minutes,” you estimate. When his eyes widen, you shrug bashfully. “Hasn’t been that bad. Next door’s cat came and said hi.”

Tom scowls as he steps past you, driving his key into the front door with ease. “Little ratty thing, isn’t it?” he mutters. He opens the door with a flourish, then steps aside to invite you in. When you walk across the threshold, Tom winds his arms around you from behind, pressing his chin to your shoulder before tilting his lips so he can kiss your cheek. His warm breath fans out across your face. “I’ll warm you up, darling. I’ll make you feel better.”

Ten minutes later, you’re in his bed. Despite his promise of warming you up, you seem to be losing more and more clothes. What had started out as a celebratory kiss has ended in you straddling him, grinding over Tom’s crotch as he gasps into your mouth and grabs at your waist.

You like being on top. It gives you better access to Tom—to the sight of his face constricting with pleasure every time you grind a little harder, and to the sound of his small moans. There’s a shadow along his nose and lining the swell of his cheeks from the break in his nose, and if he wasn’t so tender, you’d try to kiss it better. Instead, you decide to make him feel better in a different way. He’s calmer now than he’d been at the arena when he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you or his lips away from your neck, but the longer you spend making out with him, the more eager he gets. There’s a dark spark in his eyes that matches the fervour in his grip.

“God,” he murmurs to your lips. “You’re such a beautiful girl.”

A hot flush travels through your body, and you shy your face into his neck. You distract him with kisses, dragging your lips over the firm flesh of his warm skin.

“Can I mark you?” you whisper, dragging your lips up to his ear. Tom moans loudly as you move your teeth over his earlobe and bite lightly.

“Fuck yeah,” he murmurs, rolling his hips up against you. You’ve ditched your jeans, and so has he, but where you’re still draped in a shirt, Tom’s chest is bare and exposed. You run your hand over his arm and feel his muscles there as you kiss up the side of his neck. Deep marks follow in the wake of your lips, but they aren’t nearly as pretty as the sound of Tom’s moans. “Fuck, darling. Shit. Feels so good.”

Tom lasts about a minute more before growling and pushing you from his neck. His eyes glint and a shrill squeal leaves your lips as he picks you up and presses you down onto the mattress. As your back sinks into the bed, the slats creak. Tom cages you in with a forearm either side of your head, one of his hands drifting into the ends of your hair as he very lightly rests his nose against yours.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.” Your smile twists a little darker as Tom rolls his hips against yours and you feel his cock straining against his boxers. You reach up to play with his hair, tugging on the strands when Tom moans. His curls are fresh and fluffy, air-dried after the shower and silky smooth to touch. You’ve been together a few times since he ate you out in the changing rooms, and though you’re yet to go all the way, you’ve picked up on a few of his preferences. “Are you okay?”

He isn’t doing much, just staring at you, lips parted. His eyes skitter across the shapes of your face before linking up with your own, and you feel your heart clench in your chest as Tom shifts his hand to cup your cheek.

“Just thinking,” he murmurs. He’s speaking quietly, voice gentle as if he’s being fragile with you. “I, um… I want to ask you something?”

You tilt your head to the side. “Right now?” you ask. To prove your point, you snake a hand down between your bodies and apply pressure to his member with the flat of your palm. Tom groans, eyelashes fluttering out across the top of his cheeks. It seems to take him a lot of self-control to nod, and you feel his hips quiver as he holds himself back from grinding into your hand.

“Yeah.” Tom takes a moment to pause. “We’ve been hanging out for a while, Y/N, and I really like you. I think that you’re so talented. And beautiful. Shit, you’re really beautiful.” He chuckles, his nerves showing on his face. “I can’t imagine being with anyone else. I wouldn’t ever want to be with anyone else. So, darling… Do you want to be my girlfriend?” He pulls back to peer at you, teeth clenched, eyes wide.

A smile breaks out across your face.

“I’d love to be your girlfriend, Tom,” you whisper. You lean up to kiss him just as he leans down, and you gasp as you accidentally hit Tom’s nose with yours. He groans, pulling up and dramatically falling onto his back as his limbs splay out. “Shit,” you giggle, sitting up and crawling closer. Tom’s pouting, tenderly poking at the edge of his nostril as he grimaces. “Sorry, baby.”

Tom melts, pulling you back on top of him. “Call me baby again and you can do anything you want to me,” he mutters. A small blush finds his face as he comprehends his words, and you end up smiling softly as you settle over his thighs. One of his large hands curls between your legs and you whimper as he teases you over your panties for a few moments. When he finally dips his fingers beneath the silky material, you find yourself whimpering.

“Feels good,” you moan, pressing your hands to Tom’s chest as he rolls two fingers around your slit. You get antsy and grind down against his touch, wriggling up his legs until his fingertips nudge against your hole.

His hair is spread out against the white sheets of the bed, face screwed into an expression of concentration as he curves his digits into your heat. You whimper, tossing your head back as he works you open with ease, brushing up against your g-spot and stimulating it until you’re gasping. As heat slowly begins to take over your body, you reach down to the hem of your shirt and pull it off. Next to go is your bra, and you guide Tom’s other hand to the curve of your breasts as you ride down on his hand.

“Look so pretty up there,” he murmurs, biting at his lip. “Like an angel, or a princess.” Tom skims his thumb over your nipple, smirking as you whine. “My princess.”

You gnaw on your lip for a moment before sitting up, letting Tom’s fingers slip out from you. You reach down and hook your thumbs beneath the material of his boxers, and Tom seems to get the hint.

“I need you,” you say, speaking quickly. You have to roll away to kick off your pants, and by the time you’re ready, Tom’s sitting up again. He slides up to sit against the headboard, fiddling with a condom and sheathing himself before you can spend too long admiring his length.

“C’mere then, lovie,” Tom coaxes. He pumps his cock in his fist a few times before hitting at his thighs, beckoning you forward. His lips kiss your forehead as you straddle him. Blindly, you reach down to cover his hand in yours, and together, you guide his tip to your entrance. Your slit is hot and pulsing, your body worked up from the teasing and the anticipation. “Are you sure you want this?” he asks, voice softer.

You shoot him a teasing look. “Yes,” you emphasise. You bite your lip as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping softly. “Been thinking about this for so long, Tom.”

Tom grasps your lower lip between his teeth, sucking on it harshly before flicking it up and stealing your mouth in a deep kiss. You moan as you settle there, in his lap, your walls stretched around him completely. You can feel everything—the curves of his cock, the press of his tip against your velvety walls, the feeling of his skin on yours. You love it.

It’s quick to become hot and intense. Tom’s hands on your waist, your fingers tangled in his hair. The stretch burns to enjoyment before long, and then you’re just lost in it. You feel so bare to him, beyond the fact that your naked bodies are intertwined so closely, like he’s able to see straight through you. For someone who spends so much of his life fighting aggressively, Tom is remarkably soft. His hips are firm, and his thrusts unrelenting, but his lips on your face are warm, and the words of heated affirmation he whispers into your ear make you melt.

“So tight, princess,” Tom moans, grasping at your waist. He kisses you, groaning into your mouth as you continue to ride him. You alternate your movements, swapping between deep bounces and swirling your hips in broad circles so that you get to feel every delicious line, bump and curve of him. “God. Feels like fucking heaven.”

“I know,” you manage, voice hoarse. You’re not embarrassed by the way there are wet sounds of arousal filling the air—it only seems to spur Tom on as he squeezes at your waist.

Things blur quickly. You can tell that he’s wound up from the stress of the game, and his hand is shaking when he reaches up to cup the top of your heat. You’re quick to match his arousal, feeling your own climax jerking closer as Tom brings his thumb down to your clit. You’re aroused, and your slit is wet, so it’s seamless as he toys with the bud.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, the syllables blurring as your eyelids drop closed. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins, but you like it. Tom wraps his other arm around your hip and holds you close, touching his lips to yours as he finally spills.

“You’re so perfect,” he moans, his eyes screwing shut. “Shit, Y/N—”

The action of him throbbing against your walls pushes you over the edge too, and you’re panting into him as warm shivers spread over your entire figure. You’re full of a golden buzz as you stop moving, stilling with his cock still pressed inside you. Tom’s lips come down over the top of your head, following in a line from your forehead down your nose before going to your lips. When he finds your mouth, both of you are smiling.

“Wish we could do that forever,” he murmurs. “Felt amazing, darling. You’re amazing.” There’s a rosy flush to his cheeks, and he looks at you like he’s won the greatest prize of the night. “Stay?”

“Overnight?”

“Yeah. Right here.” Tom reaches out to hit the mattress. “I’ll cuddle you,” he promises. “Make you tea. Bring you breakfast.” He smirks. “Make love to you all night.”

You roll your eyes.

“Okay, boyfriend,” you agree.

Tom raises a brow as if he likes the sound of that, then seals the deal with a softer kiss.

“Perfect.” His hands skim up to cup your breasts, and he pecks your lips a final time. “Girlfriend.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

There’s an hour to go before you skate in the biggest competition of your life. You’re at the largest arena in London, killing time on one of the practice rinks as you try to forget that you’re so close to delivering your final routine of the season. This routine will decide if you come out on top or not and reveal whether you’ve managed to impress the Olympic talent scouts.

You feel a blend of two very fine emotions—confidence and nervousness. You’re prepared, you’re in control, and you’re ready, but that doesn’t make the prospect of going out there any less daunting. Adrenaline soothes the nerves, and distraction is your best friend.

Tom’s sitting on one of the benches, flitting between watching you and messing around on his phone. You’ve learnt that he’s the only person you like to be around before a competition, and in the month you’ve been officially together, he’s become your rock. He seems to get you—understands the way your brain spins when you’re stressed like this, knows when to step near and when to leave you alone. As if sensing your thoughts lie with him, he glances up from his phone.

The month off from competitions has been kind to Tom. He’d had a cracking set of bruises following his broken nose, but they’re healed now, and his skin carries the golden glow of a champion. After mouthing a few words to him from across the ice, you watch him sit up straighter and put his shoes to the bench. Tom had brought his skates to the arena, despite not being the one competing, because he knows, just as you, that sometimes the best way to relax before a competition is to mess around and distract yourself. Sitting beside him is a very large banner, hand-painted, that wears the words, Go Y/N!. He’d made it with the rest of his team, and you’d almost cried when he’d unrolled it and given it to you, grinning with pride like a small child showing off his art project.

You do a few spins as you wait for him, the small practice arena blurring. A few other people are hanging around—mainly your friends, and a few coaches, but none of them pay attention to you. You go so fast that you miss whatever it is Tom scoops up from the bench and then proceeds to hold behind his back, keeping it out of your sight as he skates towards you. A frown finds your lips as you drift nearer, squinting your eyes.

“What’s that?” you ask, trying to make out the object.

Tom juts out his lower lip, eyes dancing teasingly. “Not gonna say hello, darling? That’s a bit rude, don’t you think?”

You shoot him a poisonous look but sigh when he just smirks in response.

“Hello,” you say. You skate forward, planting your hands on both of his cheeks and drawing him in close. Tom’s lips are warmer than yours, and you savour their firm press. When you pull back, you cross your arms over your chest. “What is it?”

“Close your eyes first.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Begrudgingly, you shut your eyes. You hear the rustling of plastic, and then smell the scent of fresh flowers. Tom presses a bouquet into your hands, and your lips twist up at the corners.

“You can open them now.”

It’s a bunch of roses, dark red and delicate. You trail a thumb over their petals, breath caught in the back of your throat. Your boyfriend continues to speak as he watches you.

“You said that no one had ever bought you flowers before,” he explains, voice steady. “I was going to save them for afterwards when you win, but I know you’ll end up being given about a thousand when they all see how talented they are, so I wanted to get in first.”

You look up at him, tears blurring your waterline.

“They’re beautiful, Tom,” you whisper. His confidence in you, and the support he shows you, every single day, means everything to you. He means everything to you. “I love them. I…” You look up, meeting his eyes as you finally speak the words that you’ve felt so strongly but kept tucked away in your heart for fear of rejection. You aren’t scared anymore. “I love you.”

Tom’s eyes widen, his lips briefly parting. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he betrays nothing, but then life twitches across his face. He relaxes, sinking forward to touch your waist as he pulls you closer and brings his lips to yours.

“I love you too, darling,” he says. He’s able to press his nose against yours now, and you feel his cold tip press to your face as you shift the bouquet into one hand and curl the other around his back. “I feel like the luckiest man in the world.”

You smile against him. “It was lucky, wasn’t it? That out of all the people on the rink that day, it was me you managed to crash into.”

Tom chuckles. “Felt less like luck at the time,” he admits. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

You smirk. “I was pretty mad. Can you blame me, though?”

“Nope.” Tom kisses the tip of your nose. “Worth it, anyway.” He surprises you by skating back, plucking the bouquet from your hand with ease before spinning you beneath his arm, cooing as the hem of your dress flutters in the air. “Did I ever tell you how much I love your outfit?” he adds. “You look like a princess.”

Your cheeks hurt, and when you stop spinning, you turn to face him.

“I feel like a princess,” you admit, accepting the flowers for the second time. “Does that make you my prince charming?”

Tom nods, smiling. “It’d be an honour.”

The air between you stills, and all that’s left is love.

“I’m nervous,” you admit, glancing down. “What if I fuck this up? What if I fall over? Or- or what if I don’t land a jump? What if my ankle can’t take it?” You gnaw on your lip. “Then it’ll all be over.”

Tom soothes you with a hand on your cheek. “You won’t fuck it up,” he says, voice confident. “You’re incredible, Y/N. You know the routine, and you know yourself. You’re ready for this.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting warmly. “You’re going to go out there, smash it, then you’ll come back, and we’ll celebrate. Alright?”

You look down at the roses, then back to your boyfriend’s face, and you know that you believe him.

“Okay,” you agree. You bite your lip before darting up to kiss his cheek. “Love you, Tom.”

His eyes are full of adoration. “That’s my girl,” he murmurs. “I love you too.”

Tom presses his forehead to yours, and you relax there. With your fingers grasping the flowers and his hands caressing your waist, you let him support you. You let him kiss you, and hold you, and love you.

(And, later on, you let him hold your shiny gold medal, too.)

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

i hope you guys liked dutchy as much i liked writing him :’)) this has taken almost a month! if there’s any interest, maybe we could do a hockey!tom blurb night soon...? idk ! i’d be down. let me know if you’d be too <3 thanks so much for reading!!!! please let me know what ya think!

mlist and taglist can be found through the link in my bio!

#tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #tom holland smut #tom holland x reader smut #tom holland x reader fluff #tom holland fluff #hockey!tomfic #tblr....please let me in the tags...? please?

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sweet-villain · 2 years ago

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It’s You~ Joseph Quinn Part 2

Author’s Note: I am so happy everyone liked the first part. I know I am not the best writer but I wanted to work on this before I go to Atlantic City with my friends for the weekend.

Tags : @kellysimagines

Last night we got a surprise of a lifetime, Stranger Things actress and singer, Y/N has shocked the world with her talent once again performing on stage at the Awards. She has inspired so many people, lets take a look again at her performance.

Every online article, tweet, instagram and even the radio was talking about you.

Over one night you had blown social media, the news, every article. You were the talk. Every where. On everything. You.

It was wild. After you got home you had long drink to yourself feeling overwhelmed with everything that had happened moments ago, things were about to change but you held that fear. Fear of what people thought of you. You shouldn't but you mattered. Your image was important to you. You wanted to belong. You felt seen and heard.

Your phone hasn’t stopped blowing up with messages from your co-stars, one important person. Joseph. He has been sending you so much questions and asking if you were okay.

You haven’t touched your phone all day fearing what it said from everyone.

A knock came to the door both eyebrows coming together curious who was on the other side. You weren’t expecting any one after everything that had happened.

The tapping of knuckles against the door kept at it. Biting the inside of your cheek you walked over to the door peeking into the small hole seeing who it was.

Blonde hair and blue eyes. Jaime. What did he want?

Looking down at the brown like floor to your Winnie the pooh socks to your hand on the handle of the golden knob twisting it as you threw it open laying your eyes on your best friend.

Jaime brushed past you inside. Your eyebrows continued to be knotted together as you stared at him as he paced back and forth now in your house.

He stopped and raised his head at you.

“ You’re incredible, you know that?” He asked, his question made you confused and taken back a bit. “ Okay?”

He chuckled shaking his head, “ Darling, you blew the whole world in one night.”

You rolled your eyes knowing that already pushing past him into your kitchen leaning against the counter with your back folding your arms across your chest.

“ I know, Jaime. I know”

He watches you closely. Your hair a bit wild, your eyes looked tired and you had a frown on your face. Why were you acting like this? What happened?

“ Wait, what’s wrong?”

You sighed, shaking your head. “ Nothing, Jaime.”

He walked over to you and wrapped his arms around you pulling you into a huge resting his chin on top of your head. He was much taller than you. Your own arms wrapped around him resting your head on his chest.

“ I’m overwhelmed with everything” you spoke after a few minutes of being held by him. He nodded understanding now what’s going on. He of all people understood.

“ Darling everyone loved you last night. You shook the world. Your voice changed, you are so loved. You are amazing. You even shook poor Joseph off his feet. I saw the way he looked at you last night...”

You pulled away from Jaime looking up at him.

“ Huh?” Jaime laughed and repeated what he said.

“ Oh.. yeah.. Joseph..”

You forgot for a moment that Joseph and you haven’t talked in a bit. Jaime notices the messages on your phone and look back over to you.

“ Talk to him. He deserves to know you’re okay. Don’t shut him out, he’s your friend and I know how you feel about him.”

“ Jaime, I can’t”

“ You can, darling. You can. He adores you as much as you adore him”

You sighed running a hand down your face looking at the ground.

“ He hates me”

Jaime shook his head. “ Don’t do that to yourself, call him or go to him. He misses you.”

Jaime kisses your forehead placing your phone into your hands, squeezing your hand before he leaves your house. You stare blankly down at the phone before calling the familiar number.

The silence was killing you sitting across from him as he waited for some sort of explanation from you. He was upset and worried that you ran off and closed yourself. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

His fingers tapped against the table but his eyes remained on your face. Those beautiful brown eyes. You were hunched over looking elsewhere but his face that could give you away at any second. Hands in between your legs, biting your bottom lip. You felt like screaming and breaking down.

Your anxiety was through the roof.

Then your eyes locked with his and just like that you melted.

“ I-I don’t know what to say..” you spoke, voice cracking feeling your hands become sweaty. His head tilted to the side as he stopped drumming his fingers on the table and leaned forward running a hand through his curls.

“ Then I will” he start “ you were incredible last night. Mind blowing. I had no idea you had such a voice like that. When I saw you uncover your face, my mind stopped. It was like I shut everyone out and the only sound was your voice. The sweet melody you were singing, the lyrics, everything. You were so beautiful up there”

Beautiful

Your heart sped up at the word hearing it for the first time from him.

“ that’s so sweet of you to say, I just wanted to be seen and heard for the first time from a different view”

He nodded feeling nervous on how to tell you the next part.

“ It made me notice something” He says. Something? What was that something?

“ What do you mean?” you reached over to grab his hand noticing how nervous he is. He looked at your hand on top of his feeling the warmth sending you a small smile.

“ It’s you, Y/N. It’s always been you..”

You had no idea what was he getting at and urged for him to continue. He cleared his throat leaning back into his seat.

“ I’ve been wanting to say this for awhile now since I first saw you. When you sat at the table read right next to me. The first time I smelled your perfume, the strawberry one that you first wore. The first time you smiled at me and told me your name. The first time you laughed at my joke or the first time you complimented me. The first time I knew you had to be part of my life. I just knew you were going to the woman I wanted to be with..”

You gasped listening to him feeling tears coming.

“ I had feelings for you for a while now and I am so glad that you were casted as Eddie’s love interest. I am so lucky to have you in my life, I am trying to tell you that I like you, a lot. More than I liked anyone in my life..”

“ Joseph-” he shook his head.

“ I needed you to know before anything else came up in your life and you forgot about me”

“ Forget about you? No! Never in a million years” he looked down at his lap feeling his own tears coming and his heart racing like no tomorrow. He was afraid you’d reject him. Afraid he will lose you.

“ Joseph look at me, please” He remained silent afraid of the look on face or what he would see in your eyes. You slide out of your chair making your way over to him sitting next to him grabbing his hand. He glances over to your hand in his, small smile lits up on his face before he glances over to you.

“ You’ve got it all wrong, I would never forget you. I love having you as part of my life. I love every time we get to talk or even when you just look at me. That’s enough to make my whole day” you squeeze his hand before continuing, “ You make me feeling like I belong, you make me want to be the better version of my self. The reason I showed my face last night, I finally didn’t want to hide.. all because of you. Because Joseph Quinn, I Iike you a lot.. Like really really bad.”

He laughed wiping his eyes before glancing down at your lips then back to your eyes. You turned fully to face him, smiling at him.

Joseph cups your face with both his hands before leaning in brushing his lips against your own. You pressed your lips against his confirming that you wanted this. His lips were soft and so gentle. He kissed you as if you were going to vanish if he lets you go.

He pulls away leaning his forehead against yours looking into your eyes.

“ You’re mine, now.”

You nod bringing him back to your lips.

He was yours. It was you all along that had his heart.

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn imagine #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #jewls writes #I had to write this before I left for the weekend

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aminiatureworld · 3 years ago

Text

Spotlight

Characters: Albedo, Kazuha, Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,707

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: Modern AU in which the reader’s s/o is famous.

Author’s Note: My first crack at a modern AU and I enjoyed it immensely! My personal media of choice definitely came through in this prompt. I would now kill for Albedo to read Shakespeare. Also streamer Kazuha is an inspired idea, thank you anon for that! Not to mention musician Xiao, truly chef’s kiss.

Albedo

Albedo was a stage actor, both by education and by trade. Starting in high school he began in local productions, before entering into the Mondstadt Theateracademie. After appearing as Estragon in a filmed version of Waiting for Godot, he began to be scouted for various television miniseries, eventually becoming a well-respected film actor.

You arrived somewhere in the middle of his career. Working as a costume assistant at the Academie you had quickly fallen for the inquisitive and deceptively intense soul that exuded every color of emotion onstage, from raging anger to soft sorrow, before stepping into the wings and resuming an aura of utter calm. He had captivated you, both as an actor and as a human being; and when you learned that he had also become slightly infatuated with you, well, it was hard not to feel like you had stepped into a wonderful play, or perhaps simply a wonderful play had been brought to life.

The switch from theatre to screen was certainly a jarring one for both of you. When the first film contract was offered Albedo had stared at it for a long time, rereading it over and over again as the coffee in front of him quickly turned cold.

“Is there something wrong with the contract?” You had asked.

“No, it’s not that. It’s only…”

“Only?”

“Only on stage there is a single audience. You can feel their reactions, can measure their response. There is nothing nebulous about the people around you. But on film you cannot do that. You cannot adjust for time of day, or whether it’s a weekend or a Friday performance. You must let your lines out and hope that they land without even being able to calculate it.”

“It’s not a science experiment my darling,” you had teased.

“Maybe not,” Albedo admitted. Still he continued to read and reread, and it was only until the next afternoon that he had told you his answer.

Still, you had to admit that he made a fantastic actor. The naturally inward part of your partner’s personality, the part that always seemed to jump out the moment he left the stage, worked well to balance with the camera’s need for subtlety, unlike the projection required for stage plays. It was little surprise then that he should grow so popular. Despite all the worries about measuring audience response, there was no doubting the success of Albedo’s acting career.

Being a naturally withdrawn person Albedo mostly stayed off of social media. He had one private Instagram for friends – he didn’t post anything; one private Facebook for family – the only picture was one of you two in the mountains next to a particularly weird looking rock; and WhatsApp – which could barely be counted. Thus when he started blowing up on Twitter – a platform you had a mostly unused account on – the reaction was mostly one of “why are they talking about me?”

Not that Albedo minded fan enthusiasm, indeed when people started showing up in droves at the stage door for him he was always careful to thank everyone collectively and talk to as many people as possible, it just sort of confused him that so many people should take a vested interest in the actor and not just the character.

“It’s because they want to show you how wonderful they think your performances are,” you’d explained.

“I don’t have Twitter,” Albedo deadpanned.

Despite his protests though you sometimes caught him scrolling on your account, face slightly red at all the positive attention. His habit of internal self-deprecation had never truly gone away. That fact became slightly unfortunate in the face of hate comments. It was hard for Albedo not to take things personally. If someone said his acting was shit then you would catch Albedo reading the same line over and over again, as if to achieve mathematical perfection. It was a difficult urge to fight, and you were always careful to give Albedo plenty of reassurance when these things popped up, as well as surreptitiously blocking the trolls that wandered their way onto your dash.

This habit to take things at face value did not apply when you entered the mix. As far as Albedo was concerned you were his partner and no amount of complaining online would make him second guess that or second guess your worth. Even if you thought that you had a better hold on social media assholerly than he did Albedo would still make sure that for every hate comment that floated your way there were at least three compliments on his part. Mentioning you off-handedly in press interviews, saying that he had to go home to his partner, leaving small sketches on post-it notes scattered throughout your apartment, there were no lengths that Albedo wouldn’t go to assure you. And, if you had to admit, these things truly did make you feel better on the days when the small part of your brain said that this wasn’t mindless social media harassment.

Being an actor Albedo had an incredibly fine-tuned sense of the way that people responded to emotions, as if he were performing some grand sort of scientific experiment to see how many people he could sway with his gift. As of such he was always careful that, regardless of his success, things between you were never upturned. You were with him before he was really famous, and you would be there during and after. Albedo loved you deeply; though he often said that he hated romance plays for how sappy they were in his mind your relationship was the one, glowing exception – regardless of the other happy couples in the world. Though it was slightly idealistic, it was the kind of intensity that comprised Albedo’s personality, was the thing that had garnered him so much success.

Albedo loved you deeply, and no amount of surprise movie contracts would change that.

Kazuha

You had to admit that when you had met Kazuha you had no idea about his double life as a streamer. He was merely one of the many singers that came and went to the recording studios, all people eager to unleash their talent on the world. But unlike the rest of them, Kazuha could make you laugh.

Perhaps then it was unsurprising that Kazuha should be a popular streamer. Though his often florid talking style might seem on paper like it would be too grating for streaming, in reality his soft cadence combined with a dry sense of humor made him wildly popular. He rarely lost his temper, making him palatable to those who wanted to have a fun time without blowing their ears out, and when he did lose it his hyper-specific, often nonsensical insults were the stuff of memes. No, in retrospect it was not all that surprising that Kazuha was a beloved streamer.

At heart though, Kazuha had told you over coffee, the enthusiastic and earnest internet sensation was a poet.

“When you’ve had a life as dissonant as mine, how can you not be?” He’d joked. And indeed perhaps he was right, for Kazuha was as wonderful a poet as you had ever read. He was born to be a writer, you had told him.

You were also an aspiring singer, as well as a friend of the studio owner where you did your recordings. As such you had made it a habit to help around the studio when you weren’t also working or studying. As you and Kazuha were both students with intense side jobs, the good natured complaining of overworked students also made their way into you rapport, a friendship that grew day-by-day. Eventually it sprouted into love.

Though you knew that Kazuha was a streamer when your relationship started, in reality you hadn’t realized how truly popular he had become. The first time you watched one of his streams you were blown away by his popularity. Watching your first livestream only cemented that. It was hard to believe that your down-to-earth, slightly self-effacing, partner could have garnered such a large fanbase. Not that you didn’t think he deserved it. He absolutely did. However after seeing that you admitted you were a bit awestruck.

“Why? Am I not the same person on screen and off?”

“Of course you are! It’s just, well, my partner’s a celebrity!”

“I would go that far,” Kazuha laughed.

“Well you certainly are to me!”

Nevertheless your dynamic didn’t change much afterwards, besides the occasional teasing on both of your parts. Kazuha was after all Kazuha at the end of the day.

At the beginning Kazuha didn’t mention you much on stream, certainly not by name, you had to admit you were a bit intimidated by the idea of being recognizable on the internet, even if it was just by name.

“This is also my partner’s favorite map.” Had been his first mention, during a game of Mario Kart.

Despite this offhanded remark however the chat had almost immediately exploded, followed by the rest of the fanbase. Though there was, of course, some disappointed buzz – isn’t there always – the reaction was immensely positive. Positive, and curious.

After a while Kazuha started mentioning you more often in streams, especially after the two fo you moved in. Sometimes you would hear him as you passed him room – Kazuha liked to keep the door open – other times you would watch it on stream yourself.

“My partner hates this character. Too bad you can’t throw evidence.”

“Nobody tell my partner that I’m afraid of basements. I don’t need them to know that when laundry day rolls around.”

“Hey if you’re watching this dear, I promise that it’s not that much money. You don’t need to look at the bank account. Who am I kidding, this is why we don’t share one.”

“Hey, darling I know you’re watching this. Can you check and make sure I left my keys on the coffee table, they aren’t on my desk. Also can you make tea?”

Despite fans knowing very little about you, you were surprised by the amount of positive comments that flooded the streams. You had to admit that your initial expectations had been “people are going to find me annoying”. Instead funny comics of your voice drifting in from the other room popped up, along with a lot of waving and “tell your partner not to trust you with the keys” after Kazuha fell off a cliff one too many times. It was an odd experience, to be so happy about the comments of faceless people, people to whom you were also faceless.

Eventually Kazuha’s hardwork in singing paid off and his first single was recorded and given a deal. On the evening of the release livestream Kazuha set up in the living room, angling the camera so that you could sit on the chair just out of frame. You had talked about the release for months now, and a few weeks ago Kazuha had brought up the idea of a pseudo-stream reveal.

“I was wondering if you’d like to say hello to the audience or wave when my song is released. I understand that you’re hesitant about those sort of things, and I would never ask of you something that would make you uncomfortable. This relationship is the most precious thing to me, and I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured or exploited in any ways.”

“Thank you for being so considerate Kazuha. I’ll think about it.”

Now you sat in the chair, fidgeting slightly, waiting as the countdown on his laptop reached one. You excitement certainly seemed matched by that of the fans, who were typing wildly in the chat.

Eventually the screen faded to black and the chatting quieted down. The first few notes of a wooden flute emerged, combined with the strumming of a guitar. As the familiar words began to echo through the laptop speaker you found yourself washed away. Kazuha was always enthralling when he sang. At the end of the song was a dedication, and though Kazuha had already alluded to it, the sincerity still took your breath away.

To my dearest partner. My compass and my guiding star throughout this realization of my dream. You are my sun and my stars, and I’m forever devoted to you. Thank you for sharing in this project, and thank you for giving me such love.

Perhaps it was slightly saccharine. Regardless you felt the sudden, uninhibited urge to cry.

“So, what did everyone think?” Kazuha asked into the mic, face reappearing on screen. He was slightly giddy, and you watched as his hand tugged on the fabric of his linen belt.

Immediately the chat exploded, as waves of “that was amazing”, “I’m crying now”, and “the end was so sweet!” flooded the screen.

“Thank you all for the encouragement!” Kazuha let out a laugh, one that you could tell was one of utter euphoria, and no little relief. “There’s someone else I think who would like to thank you.”

Who knew that a small sentence could cause such a splash?

You barely had time to let out a tentative “Hello,” before an immediate wave of excited screaming covered the bottom left of Kazuha’s stream. “Thank you for supporting Kazuha’s song. And thank you for always being nice to me.” With a tentative wave of the hand you collapsed back on your chair, slightly hysterical laughter rising inside you out of the relief that flooded through you upon seeing the enthused fan reaction.

Afterwards your voice became the occasional guest on Kazuha’s streams, always greeted with enthusiasm. Kazuha continued to grow in popularity, and his music continued to capture a larger and larger audience.

All throughout this you never felt a snag in your relationship. Kazuha may have been a big streaming personality, but he was also a kind and considerate partner, the best that one could ask for in a significant other. Kazuha’s love was never in question. And neither was yours.

Xiao

Sometimes you were a little self-conscious about the way that you met Xiao.

Though Xiao had definitely grown a following by the time you met – being the main pianist for a popular singer and a classical pseudo-prodigy in both piano and flute his own right certainly had roped him an enthusiastic fanbase – you had simply known him as “the guy who hogs the practice room”.

“I swear to the gods, how long can that bastard take to practice!” You texted angrily at your friend one day. Qixing Conservatory was the premiere music place in Liyue, but what should’ve been an amazing opportunity was being overshadowed by a practice room partner who appeared to not have a life, one who also had the obnoxious habit of playing the same damn thing over, and over, and over again.

“Playing the same piece as before?”

“Yes! Ugh I don’t even know what it’s called but I’ve heard it enough times to last a lifetime, maybe five!”

“Damn I’m sorry, what time does he usually end?”

“I don’t even know. Some time in the early evening. It’s obviously never gotten through to his brain that other people also need to practice. Or that hearing the same notes over and over while waiting makes me want to chuck my binder against a wall.”

“Lol. I kinda want to hear it now. Can you send a video, will the sound pick up?”

“I don’t know how it wouldn’t.”

“…”

“Holy shit! Okay, I need you to watch this video and tell me if you recognize the pianist.”

Safe to say you nearly fell out of your chair upon figuring out Xiao’s identity. Not that you weren’t already about to out of pure exasperation. Still, there was something much more intimidating about shaming a successful musician, and you no longer had the urge to glare at Xiao every time he left the practice room. Honestly, you would have been perfectly happy keeping your head down and never interacting with him at all.

Fate, however, has a sense of humor.

To be fair, some of it was your fault. You knew that Erlkonig was a massively difficult piece. You knew that you should’ve picked something else, knew that even Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata mvt. Three had to be less painful than the non-vocal arrangement you’d placed in front of your eyes. You were never trusting your music taste with your piece choices again. This was a terrible mistake.

“These stupid fucking running notes!” You let out, a groan of exasperation racing through you. Half slamming (you weren’t crazy) the piano cover down you swung the door of the practice room open. You didn’t want to deal with this anymore. Trying to ignore the embarrassment that rose up seeing Xiao waiting on a chair next to the door you went to walk down the hallway.

“You should work on it with a dotted sixteenth note pattern.”

It was the first time that Xiao had ever spoken to you.

Afterwards a rapport slowly grew between the two of you. Often Xiao said nothing as you passed, rarely you made a gesture of recognition when he finally reappeared from the practice room. However soon the occasional word or phrase of advice grew into longer sentences, later these sentences evolved into pieces of conversation. Soon enough you discovered, to your slight horror, that you found yourself yearning for Xiao’s company.

Almost as soon as you’d finally figured out your feelings you were hit with a wave of denial. You weren’t falling for Xiao? How could you fall for someone who got on your nerves so much? Sure he gave you advice, but what about it? You deserved it after having to hear him over and over again while waiting. Certainly Xiao didn’t seem interested in you, he barely talked to you! Yeah he was getting more talkative, but it’s easier to talk to people when you’re giving them advice. There’s no way you were in love with Xiao. And there was no way he was in love with you.

To say that Xiao’s career as a musician, never mind his genuine technical talent at two instruments, was a barrier would be an understatement. The moment you thought you were making some progress, finally admitting to yourself that this crush was, in fact, real, a wave of anxiety would pass over you. Xiao was too good for you, he was too important. Here was a man who had a successful musical career already up in the air while you banged frustratedly on the keys. Why would someone that successful be interested in you? Not to mention the fact that he didn’t seem interested.

Because, you had to admit, you did like Xiao’s music. Not just his classical repertoire, but his pop music as well. It was slightly jazzy, mellow and playful and utterly unlike the scowling musician behind it – something you secretly thought extremely cute and surprisingly charming. To him you were just a practice roommate, and you were sure he’d find the idea of dating someone who was more familiar with his public persona irritating.

So you buried your feelings, or tried to. Unfortunately like sometimes attracts like, and just as Xiao secretly had the emotional understanding of a teaspoon, you weren’t nearly as clever about things as you would like.

“Is there something on my face?” Xiao asked, his voice gruff and slightly reluctant.

“No, why would there be?”

“Because you’re staring at it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You let your head drop, looking intently at the ivories in front of you. Eventually there was a sigh.

“You don’t have to do that. I… I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! You staring down is weird too. Let’s, let’s just hurry up and do this passage.”

After that you became more aware of your staring habit. You also became more aware of Xiao’s own habit, leaning towards you. Sometimes you swore that you could feel the tips of his hair tickling your neck, light and feathery and stealing all your attention.

“Hey, Xiao, do you need glasses?”

“Why would you asked that!” Xiao flared up, face reddening. By this time you’d become more accustomed to these flareups of grumpiness, and ignoring it you pressed on.

“It’s just, you seem to be leaning forward.”

“I’m not!” Immediately Xiao shifted back, almost stepping away. Without thinking about it you reached to grab his hand.

“I didn’t mean it was a bad thing!” You got out, before becoming aware of your hand grasping Xiao’s. The touch felt electric, and you were suddenly so very aware of everything, yet unable to focus at all.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Xiao grumbled.

Slowly the musician leaned closer to you once more. You had already half stood up and now you found yourself stepping closer to Xiao. The world continued to shrink until you were almost pressed together. Xiao was leaning forward, as were you, and the longer tufts of his hair were tickling your cheek, helped by the fan whirring away in the corner. Your hand was still in his, but all your thoughts appeared to have died away.

“Xiao?”

“Is this, too close?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

“Xiao?”

“What?”

“I like your music. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“Why would it?”

“I don’t know. I just, I also like you, not just your music. But I also like your music.”

“I also like yours too.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the most romantic of confessions, but at that point you were far too carried away by the moment, or maybe by the fact that was the most sentences Xiao had strung together that weren’t about triplets. Regardless of the fact, you were suddenly seized by incredible happiness, as all appeared to right itself.

Afterwards initially little changed, Xiao was a gruff as ever, you were still itching to play in the practice room more. Nevertheless when you went to a concert of his for the first time and he let out a small, almost imperceptible, smile your way you knew things had changed. They would keep changing perhaps, or maybe they wouldn’t. After all, this moment was beautiful.

So much that you didn’t even mind the hours spent waiting for the practice room.

#genshin impact #albedo x reader #kazuha x reader #xiao x reader #genshin albedo #genshin kazuha #genshin xiao #genshin impact fanfiction #requested #my writing #scenarios

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sortasirius · 4 years ago

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what makes you think the writers want deancas? not trying to be an asshole, i'm just genuinely curious as to why you think that. i know berens' episodes are pretty heavy with subtext so i can see why you'd say that he wants it, but i'm not so sure about the rest of the writers/dabb. it seems like meghan isn't a huge fan either, given her "they twisted it so fast" tweet :/ of course she's a very new writer (think she's only writing one ep this season?) but still

OKAY this is a great question, welcome to my dissertation.

I’m going to address the end of your question first. Meghan is actually DeanCas positive, she has been for quite a long time. She actually, a few years back, posted a picture of her reading a literal book about Destiel and captioned it “writing reading” or something like that.

This whole thing just comes out of a boiling over of tensions because of how nasty fandom twitter can be. Like I said here, I think this has just gotten blown out of proportion, they shouldn’t have posted all this randomly disparaging stuff, but also like...can you blame them? The fandom is a lot, we always have been, and they’re probably also under a gag order not to talk about the finale, and are annoyed that people keep asking.

So nah, Meg is not anti Destiel.

To the first part!! So let’s take a look at the show runners since Cas has been around.

Seasons 4 and 5: Kripke

Seasons 6 and 7: Gamble

Seasons 8-11ish: Carver

Seasons 11ish-15: Dabb

So starting with Kripke. Okay, yes, I will be the first to admit that we have some pretty incredible Destiel moments in these seasons, but it’s less directly written into the plot and much more from Misha and Jensen’s uhhhh ~chemistry~. The only times it was directly written into the script was when the episode was handled by someone like Edlund (“On The Head Of A Pin,” “The End,” “My Bloody Valentine”). And you have to remember, if in season 5, there are moments here and there where you’re like huh that’s suspiciously romantic dialogue, remember that Cas took Anna’s place. Anna was supposed to be endgame for Dean, but due to a myriad of issues and Misha’s general greatness, Anna was replaced with Cas.

Onto 6 and 7. Hmmm. Gamble. 6 and 7 are my two least favorite seasons and that’s no secret, and that’s not only due to the plain old weird shit in the overall storyline, but also that homegirl killed off Cas in s7 and then Bobby like four episodes later. (Also it ALWAYS rubbed me the wrong way they couldn’t have Baby in that season lol). We still had some great DeanCas moments, but again, it wasn’t really written into the overall arc (until they had to change the end of season 7 because of tanking ratings and bring Misha back lol, anyone remember the fact that Dean kept Cas’ jacket and would randomly dream of him? Yeah.). But we still had those moments, those distinctly romantic moments, probably the best example in these two seasons is from Edlund again, specifically “The Man Who Would be King,” I wrote a little about that here.

We move onto Carver, who gave us, at this point, the most overt DeanCas season with season 8 (season gr8 is a better name imo), and this is the first time Dean and Cas’ relationship is directly written as an arc of the season. I mean, you have everything in Purgatory, Dean “seeing” Cas everywhere, the fact that he felt so guilty that Cas stayed in Purgatory that he manipulated his own memories to think that he was the one that failed Cas, because he couldn’t comprehend that Cas would want to leave him, and let’s not forget Dean snapping Cas out of Naomi’s hold on him in “Goodbye Stranger.” It was a very obvious shift, not enough to alert the general audience, but more than enough for most of us in fandom.

It’s also important to note that this is when Andrew stopped co writing with Loflin and started writing his own episodes (”Hunter Heroici” anyone?) I like Loflin fine, but Dabb was able to stretch his legs a little bit more once he stopped co-writing, and we also began to see some DeanCas themes in his solo episodes.

In any case, them and their issues being a big part of the seasons continued with Carver, and Berens entered the scene, his first episode (”Heaven Can’t Wait”) is one of my favorites, with human Cas and the fanfiction gap and Dean and Cas just generally being awkward and funny and sweet. This is Bobo’s FIRST episode, remember that. He comes right out of the gate with it.

Also in Season 9, this is when Dean takes the Mark of Cain, and the Cas/Colette mirror is born, so obviously, Dean and Cas are the fabric of the season once again. This is also the season where Metatron says Cas is “in love with humanity,” and then immediately refers to Dean as Humanity so uhhhh yeah.

Onto season 10, Dabb and Berens continue with their greatness (I could write pages on the DeanCas date in “The Things We Left Behind” alone). And then we have one of the best scenes in the entire show in “The Prisoner” where the Cas/Colette mirror continues and Dean, driven by grief and pain and rage and the Mark, still doesn’t kill Cas. He still can’t kill Cas.

Season 11 is important because it takes choice away from both Cas and Dean, and shows us, as the audience, how much losing each other takes out of them. We saw in season 10 how much losing Dean takes from Cas, but what about Cas losing Dean? Dean loses his choice with his connection to Amara this season, and loses even more when Lucifer reveals he’s been possessing Cas, and plays on Dean’s connection to Cas like a mockery. It’s also worth noting that, similarly to season 8, Dean breaks out of the connection with Amara when he’s worried about Cas, and that’s something that even SHE is surprised by.

But then season 12, the beginning to the Renaissance. This is when we get the writer’s that become important for what Dean and Cas are today, and, truly, why I believe they want canon Destiel as much as we do.

This is the first season with Dabb’s writers: Davy Perez, Meredith Glynn, Steve Yockey, and of course Bobo all come in with their incredible talents and gave us episode after episode of good content. “Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets” is probably my favorite, probably the best example of what I’m saying. An episode where Dean is called out by an enemy directly, told to “roll the dice” on Cas’ life. And Dean won’t, it’s not even really a hesitation. And this comes from a character that has known Dean for ten seconds. I also wrote more in depth about this episode here. There are also some.....distinctly domestic details we get this season, specifically in “The Future” (written by Berens and Glynn) with the mixtape. The most tropey of tropes mixtape. Yeah, I’ll just leave that one here.

And then season 12 ends with Cas’ death, but also with the parallel between Sam and Dean with Jess and Cas. Sam literally has to drag Dean away from Cas, just like Dean had to drag Sam out of his burning apartment in the pilot. The episode drives it home in every way that it can: Dean is the one left kneeling by Cas’ body, while Sam goes to find out what is upstairs. Dean is the one who stares at the sky, finally broken. This isn’t a random thing, this is Dean’s whole arc, it’s the entirety of the beginning of 13. Dean’s pain, his anguish, his anger.

Season 13 starts with them burning Cas, with Dean, who has begged God to bring him back, who has split his knuckles punching a door, standing, staring at Cas’ pyre with brokenness on his face.

I mean.....

Anyway, season 13 is where it gets interesting (well, I think all of this is interesting but I’m a writer nerd so). So Cas comes back from the Empty in “Advanced Thanatology” written by Steve Yockey, and then a wombo combo of “Tombstone” by Davy Perez next (”Brokebacknatural” as the PR said at the time). Listen. This is the part that SPN crossed a line that they couldn’t come back from. With Cas being Dean’s “big win,” the fact that Dean and Cas watch movies together, “I told you, he’s an angry sleeper. Like a bear.” Talked about it here.

This is where, in my opinion, the network stepped in, but the damage was already done. They had already established that Cas was Dean’s big win, that Dean’s poor coping was not due to Mary’s disappearance, but solely due to Cas, and that Dean and Cas have more married energy than anyone else. The network had nixed blatant canon at this point, and they writing room had been pushing the boundaries of what the network would allow.

After these episodes, we see a marked drop off of DeanCas heavy scenes. They’re still there, still a part of the fabric of the season, but not as...obvious as it had been in early season 13.

And this continued through season 14, we’re back to scraps of Destiel scenes here and there, but to me it always felt like there was something bubbling under the surface, something distinctly unsaid in the themes of the season, even after the walk back of obvious “Dean and Cas are in love” scenes.

And then we get to season 15, which, y’all know I talk about all the time. What’s important here is that Bobo and Glynn are both executive producers, calling more of the shots than ever before. Additionally, it’s important to note that, though they only co write occasionally, Glynn and Berens refer to each other as “work husband” and “work wife.” Each episode has just turned up the volume, and, not for the first time, but certainly the most obvious, Dean and Cas ARE the season. Sure, they’re trying to beat God, they’re trying to finally find peace, defeat the final big bad, but really? This season has been about Dean, and Dean’s relationship to Cas.

And not only do we have obvious and clear Destiel in nearly every episode, but we have episodes like “Last Call” which canonize bi!Dean (wrote about that here).

And, maybe most importantly so far, we have “The Rupture,” the breakup, and “The Trap,” Dean’s confession (both written by Berens). And here’s the thing. These episodes feel connected, but also feel like they’re missing something. Beren’s last episode is 15x18, “The Truth.” We’ve all spec’ed about what could happen in this episode, and I think *I* know what it’s leading to. But for it to be leading to that, it means that the network has to have approved what we’ve all been waiting for years for.

Who got this change to happen? Who got the network to change their minds? It wasn’t us. It was them. I am fully convinced that Dabb and Berens quite literally put their careers on the line for Dean and Cas. They believe in them, they’ve shown that from the beginning, but the only thing standing in the way was the network, never allowing them to take the final step.

So, to answer your question: I think the writers want canon DeanCas because they’ve already shown us that they do. Take a look at their episodes, at Dabb’s, at Beren’s, at Glynn’s, at Perez’s, at Yockey’s. They’ve been telling us what’s going on with Dean and Cas for years.

Sure, I’m not in their heads, I guess I don’t know for *sure* that this has been their thought process, but if we put it all together, from the marked shift when Dabb fully took over in s12, to the change right after “Tombstone,” to the new shift, the blatantly romantic shift in season 15, what else is there?

I’ve said for a long time that we, the SPN fandom, are beyond lucky to have the writer’s that we do. They’re all going to go on to have prolific careers and we were lucky to get them at the end of our little show. I give them a lot of credit for what we have in the show today.

Just remember, they’ve been telling us in all of s15 who Chuck is. He says he’s the writer, right? But a writer who doesn’t have control of his characters? A writer who wants to do the same ending over and over because it “works”? That doesn’t sound like a writer, it sounds like a network exec.

They’ve been showing us what they want for years, and the way s15 is going? I think they may have convinced the network to let us have it.

#supernatural #destiel #spn #my writing #anyway yeah i love these writers #welcome to my essay lmao #spn writers #anonymous #lilly answers

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drabsyo · 3 years ago

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Drabs, I know that you usually draw Fleur with slightly darker blonde hair than Narcissa. Was it a choice so that it’s easier to distinguish them from each other or was your Fleur maybe slightly influenced by the actress from the movie who had darker hair?

In the books Fleur didn’t seem to have much description other than having long silvery hair (waist length?) and having this glow around her. So like with Narcissa, what works have influenced your design of Fleur?

It’s fascinating sometimes to read the artist’s perspective and your previous reply to the anon about Narcissa has been very interesting.

Thank you!!! 🥺

I was actually pretty embarrassed over how enthusiastic I got over the whole hair thing, but I'm glad it made some sense at least 😂 And now that I've been given even more reason to talk about it... (Let's face it, I shouldn't even be allowed on this website to begin with, ya'll have been way too nice to me.)

Only click on keep reading if you want to read Some Nonsense.

I did consider Fleur's actress when I thought about her hair color. Though I pictured it to be something of a mix between movie Fleur and Elsa’s (from Frozen) hair. But the way I drew Fleur's hair, the way it falls across her shoulders, that was more of... well, I imagined Fleur to have effortlessly perfect hair, like she doesn't seem to need to style it so much because it's already whimsical as it is, what with her being part-Veela. There were a lot of fanfictions that helped me to sort of see a better image of Fleur in my head so really, I owe it to all the talented writers out there!

It's also the same with Narcissa's case. Though I decided to give her paler hair, compared to Fleur's, because I wanted to emphasize that air of vulnerability Narcissa has—this image she conjures, like she's this fragile thing made of glass, which typically in fanfiction is what Narcissa uses so that Voldemort would overlook her a lot, hence why she wasn't given any "missions" or "tasks" while Voldemort was in Malfoy Manor. Slytherin preservation. This "fragile" image was something Narcissa capitalized on and maintained perfectly, but in post-war Cissamione fanfictions, she no longer has to put on that façade—she starts living for herself, but the quiet sadness about her never really goes away.

I really did struggle at first, I had to find a way where I could draw them without confusing people and myself.

So, again, I sifted through a lot of canon and non canon material about these two characters which funnily enough made me see some kind of parallel going on between them. I know. Fleur Delacour and Narcissa Black. Parallels?! It's nuts. But again, this is only within Fleurmione and Cissamione fanfiction, and it really helped me to draw them better. (At least in a way that made them distinguishable from one other at first glance, I’d like to think.)

These 'hair scenes' are mostly the bits where Hermione "first" sees Fleur. Hermione is entranced, a little curious, sometimes she feels indifferent, but the general theme is Hermione immediately finds Fleur beautiful—which probably explains why Hermione in fanfiction sometimes thinks Narcissa could be part-Veela like Fleur. And as you can imagine, that's where my struggle began.

You'll see what I mean in a minute. And just like last time, remember that this part comes with spoilers.

🔹 In Fighting is our form of Flirting by InsomniacAndBi in Chapter 2 Hermione sees Fleur for the first time. This is the first Fleurmione fanfiction I've ever read, and also the first time I've encountered Fleur's character. Tall, bright blonde hair, won the genetic lottery, aristocratic features, face held in a scowl, floats into the room with effortless poise, immediately starts demanding things out of people... Sounds vaguely familiar, doesn't it. Like some other blonde we know.

"Non!" A voice from the doorway said. "This is not what was agreed."

For a moment, Hermione thought about ignoring it but turned to glance over there if only to quell her curiosity. A girl stepped into the room and Hermione's phone call was forgotten in a moment. She knew that it wasn't nice to stare but Hermione couldn't help but do it because, in all honesty, this was the prettiest girl she had ever seen. She was definitely taller than Hermione was, with bright blonde hair and...clearly she had won the genetic lottery.

Her skin practically glowed and it looked so smooth and soft. It made Hermione wonder if she used those fancy beautification charms or had a very lengthy skincare routine. Or maybe, just maybe, this is what being rich did to people's faces. There was no doubt in Hermione's mind that this girl was rich - like extremely rich, like even rich people thought she was rich. That kind of rich. That was the type of rich that this girl was.

Also, only super rich people curled up their lip like this girl was doing.

She breezed into the room like she was floating and Hermione hastily ended her phone call and promised to call back later.

"This is not what was agreed," The girl said again and Hermione felt incredibly small sitting in front of her. Not to mention, the girl's clothes screamed 'I'm rich and I know it' and Hermione's screamed 'I'm so out of place that I might as well be a bull in a China shop'.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Hermione managed to get out when it became apparent that the girl was waiting for her response.

"You are English." The girl looked shock for a moment at Hermione's accent before shaking her head angrily. "This is not what was agreed."

🔹 In Oath of Silver by i_shall_wear_midnight immediately in the first chapter, when Witcher Hermione first meets Fleur, it's something Hermione quickly notices. Vivid sapphire eyes. Silvery blonde hair that shimmered in the torchlight. And once again, right off the bat, Fleur is pushy. She wants things done her way. It’s just so cute how she doesn’t even let the fact that Hermione is a Witcher, an extremely dangerous outcast in society, get in the way of that.

(I'm sorry for this but I just have to gush about Oath of Silver. Hermione as a witcher is just so fitting for her character; she possesses that natural eye for detail that remarkable witchers have, witchers like Geralt and Vesimir (a skill that gets even more honed through the Witcher Trials). Hermione even has Geralt's dry sense of humor, a bit rough around the edges, brilliant, snippy without really meaning to (because she asks a lot of questions and would rather get to the point), but has a good heart.)

The witcher figured that would be the end of her human interactions for the evening, but only a few minutes later, the stunning newcomer from before appeared before her. Upon closer inspection, Hermione couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be conspicuous in any group of people she happened to find herself immersed in. The woman was looking back at her with vivid sapphire eyes, and silvery blonde hair that shimmered even in torchlight. Her attire was travel-ready, but elegant.

“Bonsoir. You are a witcher, oui? Or perhaps a ‘witcheress’ is more accurate? I am not familiar with all the terms…” She watched the beautiful stranger patiently while she fumbled through Hermione’s professional title. As if the distinctive, amber colored cat-eyes hadn’t given her away, the brunette mused wryly. Eventually, the blonde gave up and sat herself down at Hermione’s table, her medallion twitching faintly as the stranger got settled. Hermione filed that away for later. Her new dinner buddy seemed to be oblivious to the curious and concerned looks now being thrown her way at boldly taking a seat at a mutant’s table.

“I came from Ellander,” she began in a non sequitur. “The temple, and spoke to the priestess Nenneke, who told me about you.” Hermione continued eating her second serving of stew and waited for her to get to the point. “I would like to hire you as an escort as I travel back to Toussaint.” The witcher finally put her spoon down.

“Sounds like you ought to be asking some mercenaries to be your bodyguards,” she responded, eyeing the bow the woman was carrying on her pack meaningfully.

“A pair seems doable, and I’d prefer you.”

“I’m not a bodyguard.”

“Yes, technically, I am aware,” she replied, beginning to show signs of impatience.

“Then why are you soliciting a monster-slayer?”

🔹 Witnessed here in Time and Blood by whistle.the.silver is probably the most interesting one because it uses the concept of Veela hair as a wand core brilliantly. Again, this comes with huge 🛑spoilers🛑. Read the italicized words at your own risk. I can't add the entire clip here, as the topic of Fleur's hair is littered throughout several other chapters. But this story shows us a Fleur who is willing to do anything in order to protect Hermione during the course of the war.

My memory is a bit foggy, I haven't read this story in months, but here's what I remember:

This takes place during the time of Shell Cottage, where Fleur is married to Bill and takes care of Hermione. Fleur didn't expect to fall in love with the young brunette and, as the Golden Trio's time in Shell Cottage comes to an end, she worries over Hermione's safety. Fleur, using magic only known to the Veela tribes, does her best to offer Hermione protection in any way that she can--even going as far as to study what Lily Potter did so Harry could live. At one point, Fleur cuts her own hair with a length now roughly above her shoulders to give Hermione a new wand. But this isn't the only bridge Fleur is willing to cross to make sure Hermione survives the incoming battle. Fleur's grandmother, Ron, and even Bill himself, is a little sceptic over the propriety of Fleur's actions, but Fleur is determined to do whatever it takes to make sure Hermione makes it out of the war safe and alive.

So that was a lot to wade through, I know.

But if you've skipped all those parts for the sake of missing spoilers then let me go ahead and explain why the parallel between Fleur and Narcissa are there. Sure, it's plain to see that they have similar physical characteristics, but they're also similar in other ways.

In Witnessed here in Time and Blood, Fleur is willing to do whatever it takes to protect Hermione during the war: sacrifice the secrets of the Veela, make Hermione a wand, make her marriage and friendship with Bill suffer, be scrutinized by her Veela tribe, etc. And didn't Narcissa do the exact same thing during the war to make sure Draco made it out alive? They both chose to 'betray' everyone else for the sake of this one person. Not to mention, in Extinction by rubikanon Narcissa even makes Hermione a wand. (I’m telling you, there are so many parallels between these two ships and I can probably list more but I'd rather not make this post longer.)

Here, I’m just going to go ahead and say it—it’s almost like Fleur and Narcissa in fanfiction have the same love language.

A glaringly obvious difference between them is their upbringing, and we could argue that this why Fleur tends to be more open with her emotions while Narcissa tends to be more carefully guarded with hers. And I don't know if writers realize these parallels but as someone who's a huge fan of both characters and as someone who makes the occasional fanart of them, it's a pretty difficult detail to ignore. This crazy conspiracy all started because I had to find a way to make both characters look distinct from one another... It's just so interesting that writers from two different ships unknowingly make these parallels with two completely separate characters who are often at the opposite ends of the seesaw.

But again, let's take a look at Extinction by rubikanon. (I know. Extinction?! AGAIN?! Always.)

Spoiler warning!

🔹 Extinction by rubikanon has a marvelous take on this, as it turns out Fleur and Narcissa are actually good friends, and if I remember correctly, occasionally exchange letters (I’m unsure about this bit, I might have read it in a different story). They just get along remarkably well; I imagine they both share a kind of mutual respect for each other, a quiet understanding for the way the other woman carries herself: poised, meticulous, they pride themselves in their work, they both know how to handle an Ocean Of Secrets™, they're both accustomed to being under the spotlight of the public eye, and they’re both dedicated to their loved ones. Needless to say, Fleur and Narcissa are both giddy over the prospect of being with someone they love and adore, and end up meticulously planning numerous (I think it was hinted) double dates (Fleur with Bill, and Narcissa with Hermione) with the same kind of endearing enthusiasm that leave Hermione and Bill with no choice but to agree to the whims of their respective lovers.

(Scene seen in Chapter 23: Build Up Your Defense 2 of 2)

Narcissa and (Hermione) I were sitting together on one of the couches when Bill and Fleur arrived later. They showered Teddy with kisses on his little cheeks. He'd gotten past his clingy phase and adored us all, struggling to walk around the room by bracing himself on everyone's knees.

Suddenly Narcissa reached up and grabbed onto someone's wrist behind her head. "Don't even think about it," she said.

"That's just scary. How did you know I was there?" George stood up from behind the couch, a toy spider dangling from his hand. Teddy shrieked with laughter.

"She has eyes in the back of her head," Draco said.

"Mothers," George grumbled, sitting down close to Angelina. "Dump her, Hermione. I need you to date someone more prankable."

Fleur looked in surprise at the two of us on the couch. "Oh, la vache! How did I not know zees? You are lovers?"

"We're dating," I said mildly, though we really were lovers. In every sense. I glanced at Narcissa and bit my lip as heat spread through me. My imagination started planning a middle-of-the-night rendezvous.

"No wonder she (Narcissa) was so adamant about healing that curse," Bill said thoughtfully.

"Adorable! Simply adorable!" Fleur exclaimed, sitting down on Narcissa's other side. "We must go out for a double date next week, all four of us. We'll dine at L'Escargot!"

Narcissa's eyes lit up.

"Oh, no," I said.

"You won't have to eat snails," Narcissa said. "Please, mon amour?"

"French doesn't work on me."

"Please?" She kissed my cheek again and again. "Please? Please?"

Laughing now, I pulled her in for a kiss on the lips and said, "Yes, alright. But only because I have fond memories of trying new foods with you."

"As do I," she agreed.

Then we realized everyone was staring. Narcissa cleared her throat and straightened up, blushing. Draco made a face. Ginny looked a little more favorable. Harry held in laughter, and Andromeda hid her camera.

"Adorable!" Fleur declared again.

🔹 Also, I just have to add Sugar and Spice by waltzlikeits1698 because Chapter 4: Happy Birthday, Harry is absolutely hysterical. During Harry's birthday party, Hermione sulks in a corner because Fleur has apparently been avoiding her. Ginny decides to do something barking mad, something Hermione typically falls for.

“Ooh, someone’s grouchy,” Ginny teased, retracting her arm and facing Hermione fully. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Hermione insisted, although even she could hear the pout in her voice.

“Sure seems like it,” she snarked, summoning two shots and offering one to Hermione with a waggle of her eyebrows. Hermione pulled a face and Ginny shrugged before downing both, one after the other. (...) “You know, I spotted a tall, blonde drink of water hanging around the stairs.”

“What!?” Hermione exclaimed, whirling around and leaning out of the room to look at the staircase. Sure enough, standing at the bottom and resting a slender hand on the bannister was a tall, blonde witch who made Hermione’s heart stop with her mere presence. She had started forward before she knew it, her heart taking up an even quicker beat as she crossed the few steps and reached out a hand to clasp her elbow. The woman turned, that beautiful blonde hair catching the candlelight as it moved in one long sheet.

Hermione retracted her hand in horror, her eyes widening. “Mrs Malfoy!?”

Narcissa Malfoy raised an eyebrow at the witch who had practically accosted her. “Miss Granger. Can I help?”

What was she even doing here?

“Uh,” Hermione said dumbly, “sorry, I just… need the loo. Can I-?”

She gestured lamely to the staircase. Both women stared at the perfectly reasonable gap that Hermione could easily pass through. The moment stretched on.

Slowly, Narcissa returned her inscrutable gaze to Hermione, who squirmed uncomfortably in response. She then took a small step to the side and gestured for Hermione to pass. She did so and, as she turned the corner of the staircase, sent a deadly glare at Ginny, who was practically pissing herself with laughter.

(...)

Fleur had arrived. Hermione couldn’t explain exactly how she could tell, considering she had been in the duplicated bathroom for the last ten minutes after humiliating herself in front of Narcissa, but she knew it like she knew that it was levi-O-sa.

(...) (Hermione) She tried to avoid eye contact with Narcissa on the way back down and was thoroughly unsuccessful: the witch had physically reached out and laid her own hand over Hermione’s on the bannister, forcing her to stop and look up. Then, with an intention behind her eyes that Hermione had neither the brain capacity nor the energy to delve into, she said “It’s Ms Black now.”

Then she had released Hermione’s hand and turned back to her conversation with Andromeda and two wizards Hermione didn’t recognise.

Come to think of it, there were a lot of people Hermione didn’t recognise.

Anyway, long story short, this is the result of reading both Fleurmione and Cissamione—

But RIGHT. At the end of the day, again, these are just some crazy little things I picked up on and I may or may not be right, no one has to agree with me, everyone can disagree with me. Actually, yes feel free to disagree with me. I need to get out of this damn site and you know, touch grass.

Okay. Well. I'm gonna stop here now. So. Bye. But thank you anon for this lovely ask!! I’m really touched that you wanted to know what inspired the way I drew Fleur 🥺💕💖 But still. So sorry for this massive word vomit!! 😂

#fleurmione #cissamione #fleur delacour #narcissa black #narcissa malfoy #hermione granger #stupid rants #drabstuff #yall im telling you im the mad scientist but remove all the science

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iliveiloveiwrite · 4 years ago

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Millie’s Massive Fic Rec Post

To celebrate 700 followers I’m showing all the love, people. What you’ll find here are fics that were sent to me who I agree deserve a bit more love as well as fics I’ve read and adored. They’re split into characters so all you need to do is scroll to find your fave and bask in its glory. There is some swearing but it’s only because it’s the only way I know how to express my feelings. This is also my thank you to each of the authors involved for taking the time out of their day to write these fics for free. There are also some authors I know I’ve forgotten and I am so so sorry if I have, I promise you it wasn't intentional, I love you all very much.

As always, I love and appreciate you all. Let’s get started on this ridiculously long post!!

Harry Potter:

Don’t Walk Away - @kalimagik - THE ANGST. I was on the edge of my seat through it all; I knew what was coming but did I look away? No. I was completely sucked it and that ending... oh my god, I was broken. If you’re looking for an incredibly written piece of angst that has you in tears, then this is the fic.

Dandelions - @lupins-sweater - The first post of A Very Harry Potter Summer and it was kicked off so brilliantly!! This fic had me wishing for my very own Harry to take morning walks with. It’s so wonderful; it has you wanting a summery morning and dandelions to make wishes on.

Always You - @bl597 - inspired by Louis Tomlinson’s song Always You, so I was already sold on that front. It’s an angst piece - Harry pining from afar, regretting his decisions but with a happy ending. I love that it's written from his perspective, that he realises what he’s done. I really do love this fic, and I aim to work my way through her masterlist!

The Truth Behind The Kiss - @justauthoring - the anticipation from the first sentence, I was on the edge of my seat. I loved every single word of this fic, it’s written so well. I just, I need you all to read this fic bc it is SO GOOD. Harry, Triwizard tournament, feelings, fluff - it has it all.

For how long? - @siriusly-addicted-to-writing - It seems for Harry fics I am drawn to angst even though I write nothing but fluff for him. This fic is no different. Dani, this fic is wonderful, I love it. You capture the angst brilliantly! Go read this everyone!

Ron Weasley:

“can we pretend I never said that?” - @hello-everyfandom - I love this so much! Ron calling himself ‘the snog master’ had me snorting out loud - it’s great. And then the dialogue continues to be brilliant. I really enjoyed this fic! Ron needs more attention people!!

Crossing Lines - @kalimagik - ADORABLE. CUTE. WONDERFUL. Oh, Ron. Everything about this fic is marvellous. The relationship between Ron and the reader, the realisation, the meddling. It was perfect, so so perfect.

birthday - @lupinsdarling - FLUFFY AND CHAOTIC AND I LOVE IT. Why oh why doesn't Ron get more love? Why doesn't this fic have more attention? It’s so fluffy and Ron is so bloody cute that my heart physically hurt while reading this. It hurt because it was so PURE.

Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley:

Girls in one room - @eleven-times-lively - Hermione x Reader - oh my god I snorted at Ron, I love it. And the fluff? There’s so much fluff, I can't deal with the fluff. If you’re going to read a Hermione fic, read this one!

just as lovely - @vanillann - this is so pure! it’s so wonderful, and the relationship between Hermione and the reader is so cute!

Hug ur friends drabble - @firewhisky-kisses - Ginny x Reader - it’s the cutest thing I’ve read, oh my god, is it cute! I love everything about this, Steph is so talented! But I go into that further down.

Neville Longbottom:

Never the Bride - @obsessedwithrandomthings - Dee’s fic reads as a rom com, it’s so brilliantly done. By the time you're at the end, you feel as if you’ve just watched a two hour rom com and need to squeal into your pillow because of the feels. I love this fic.

Moonlight Swim - @kalimagik - Neville. Oh, Neville. This fic stole my heart and it won't give me it back. The idea of a moonlight swim with Neville? Here for it. And the confession? *chefs kiss* incredible.

Healing - @firewhisky-kisses - I cannot put into words how much I loved this fic,. Steph is just so incredibly talented and writes Neville so wonderfully. Healing is the first fic of two and that second part had me in happy tears because Neville deserves the world. I go back and reread this a lot when I need to boost my emotions, so thank you for this Steph.

Good News - @peachesandpinks - Let me explain something here, Ron repeatedly and without fail hypes up fic writers to the point where she makes me cry happy tears at her comments. Her writing (and I'm going to swear now) is fucking brilliant. I love it, I adore it. Ren has a way with words that I only hope to master. This fic? Marvellous, magnificent, wonderful - pick a synonym and go wild. It’s so sweet and wholesome - what more could you possibly want other than to be on her taglist?

Tally Marks - @obsessedwithrandomthings NEVILLE WITH TATTOOS PEOPLE! NEVILLE! WITH! TATTOOS! Do I need to say anymore? Yes? Okay. Dee is a fantastic writer but she writes Neville perfectly. We have had many conversations about her love for Neville and her love for him shines through in this fic. She writes with such care and I love reading everything.

Draco Malfoy:

The Purist - @mxl-foy - This series is so good. Like, so good, that if it was a physical book, it would be sat on my shelves. I would religiously check her account every time I came onto Tumblr to see if a new chapter was posted, and if there was, you best believe there was a happy dance. It’s so incredibly thought out and plotted. And there’s going to be a part two! It’s so great!

Notes - @malfoys-demigod - This is so sweet! I live for fluffy Draco as you all know if you read my Draco fics, but I adore reading fluffy Draco as well. This fic is so adorable, I love it!

Always so Cold - @teheharrypotter - Five times Draco gave you his sweater and the one time you accepted. I love these sort of fics, they’re my indulgence fics. Jealous!Draco is one of my favourite things to read as well. and he’s so dramatic. I couldn't ask for more in a fic, definitely one of my favourites.

the distance between us - @sdicapriox - This is a genius idea. I love this idea, and I love how it was executed. Almost 10k words of brilliance. I love the reader and her first letter to Draco and her entire personality - fish funeral? genius. I really like how you portray Draco and the effort you put into his internal monologue, it really is something excellent. The ending as well, I won't spoil, I just urge people to read this.

Heartbreak - @slytherinprincess03 - you have to have a little bit of angst in a Draco fic rec right? This fic has it but the ending is perfect and fluffy, gah! I love it!. Not to mention, Draco is such a gentlemen in it. I can't wait to see what else you write, lovely!!

Hardly A Date - @fanficflaneuse - I love this fic. I love it so much. I tend not to read sibling!reader but I adored this. The relationship between Harry and the reader, and then Draco and the reader. It’s amazing. I could rant for hours and hours about how much I love her work - her series are out of this world and she captures Draco’s character perfectly.

George Weasley:

Red with Rage - @kalimagik - AGH ANOTHER OF MAGGIE’S FICS. The prank? Genius, and that end line - incredible. Her characterisation of the twins is so good, I love reading her fics. She deserves more than 300 followers! So if you don’t already follow her, go now!

When Everything Changes - @strawberriesonsummer - Based on the song Everything Has Changed by Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran. This is so pure, it’s so fluffy. George is adorable in this! I can't wait to read what else you write for George!

Come back to you - @dreamer821 - JJ, JJ, JJ. Ugh, this fic is a work of art and George is so bloody caring. I mention this a lot but the relationship between George and the reader is so important to get right and JJ does it flawlessly. My heart hurts for this fic and that last line, LOVE IT. I live for how JJ writes George, I could read her work all day. GO READ HER STUFF, YOU WON’T REGRET IT.

Fred Weasley:

The Right Bird - @dreamer821 - I’m not only just involving this because it was used in my writing challenge but oh my days, it is so wonderful. The relationship between Fred and the reader is just *chefs kiss* perfect. JJ has such a way with words and I just love how she depicts Fred.

Lost, are we? - @prongsies - I think I’m going to make my way through your masterlist because I loved this so much. The teasing was so cute, and Fred helping her at the beginning? Ahhhhh brilliant.

Watermelon Sugar - @prongsies - COMPLETING THE FINEST SERVICE TO THE HP FANDOM AND WRITING FICS INSPIRED BY FINE LINE - I SALUTE YOU. This is so good, so so good. The references to the song are used so well and that little bit of fluff at the end? Amazing. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put the song on repeat now...

Percy Weasley:

Nothing We Can’t Forgive - @firewhisky-kisses - This series really does showcase Steph’s talent. She’s an incredible writer and this fic deserves all the attention it can possibly get. It’s the first Percy fic I’ve ever read and I’m already planning a reread. Steph captures Percy’s character flawlessly whilst also depicting his healing in a manner that is so relatable. I’ve linked the masterlist because once you start reading, you won't want to stop.

Sight is Relative - @hufflefluff-writer - This fic has a blind reader which I think makes it all the more beautiful. Amelia’s characterisation of Percy really is wonder, she captures him brilliantly. The fic after they eat is quite literally breathtaking. The description of colours, the dialogue - it’s fantastic.

Hufflepuff!Reader Headcanons - @soft-nerdy-wolf - I loved this from the beginning where the reader was already helping Percy out of his comfort zone by disregarding curfew. Then the further, I read, I loved more and more because of how fluffy it is! And the confession? So so sweet! This needs more attention!

Bill Weasley:

Estrellita - @fanficflaneuse and @hufflefluff-writer - It is a fic inspired by the Sound of Music, what more could you possibly want? It’s so delicate and incredibly written by two extremely talented writers. The relationship between Bill and the reader = adorable. The whole series is so fantastic, I’ve linked part one and you’ll find the rest on Amelia’s masterlist, which you’ll need because you’ll be reading the entire thing in one sitting, I swear.

Charlie Weasley:

As Family the First Time - @kalimagik - you’ll have noticed that Maggie features a lot here but that’s because she is so damned talented that I adore most of her fics. The first Charlie Weasley fic I read and I fell in love. It’s just so fluffy and humorous with features from the whole Weasley family. Basically, by the end of it I was ready to raise dragons in Romania with a certain Weasley.

Meeting the Weasleys - @soft-nerdy-wolf - This made smile all sorts of stupid. From the beginning, I wanted to own Hepaestus (the perfect name for a dragon in my opinion - Zeus’ own forger, amazing.) And the fluff with Charlie straight after? I love, love, love it as well as the fun relationship they have. And the pranks with Fred and George? Ah! I just love.

Dragons blurb - @hufflefluff-writer - I know it’s only a blurb but oh my god, I loved it, I love it. Jealous!Charlie and a buttload of fluff - the best to boost your mood.

Cedric Diggory:

A Ghost Story - @wondernimbus - So beautifully haunting. Ysa has a way with words that make you feel as if you're physically there, living the fic alongside the characters. There aren't really any words to describe how talented Ysa is - all I can do is urge to read her masterlist and discover for yourself.

My Boys - @potterverseimagine - Cedric and dogs - I am in love. This fic is so sweet and pure and playful. Playful Cedric is so great omg and this fic is full to the brim with it. I just... ah I love this so much. AND HE’S ALIVE. I LOVE FICS WHERE HE’S ALIVE. Thank you for this!!

It’s a Date - @angelinathebook - Lena, this is so good. You need to write more Cedric! Ah, I hate those boys so much but I love Cedric!! This is so good! Cedric needs more love 100% - if you haven't read this already, you need to read it now!!

Sirius Black:

Lost Time - @obsessedwithrandomthings - Reader standing up for who she loves against Bellatrix? Yes, we love that. Slow burn romance with Sirius? I love that even more. Dee never fails to astound me when she writes Sirius, and I know she won’t fail to astound you too. Seriously (lol), go through Dee’s masterlist, read her works, you won't regret it. She’s the loveliest.

Our Godson - @nebulablakemurphy - Christina is so talented. The letters!!! Are so good!!! AND WHEN THEY FINALLY MEET? My heart! Christina, it's as if you broke it and then rebuilt it again all in the span of 2.8k words especially with that ending. I love this fic, and you will love this fic.

Curiosity - @siriusly-the-best-gryffindor - I don’t know what else to say that I haven't already said in my reblog but I love this fic. I am heavily pierced and heavily tattooed and I love seeing a reader as the same. I love all of this fic, it 100% needs more love!

The Jimmy Jab Games - @im-a-writer-right - A Sirius fic inspired by Brooklyn-99. I loved every single chapter, it made me so happy. And that final chapter, I was smiling like a fool throughout. Sirius is a dream through this, and that bet? I love! I’ve linked the masterlist because you won’t want to move as you read.

Secrets and fears - @firewhisky-kisses - Steph does it again with the masterpieces. Honestly, I squeal a little whenever I see her in my notifications with a new fic because everything she writes is stellar, and this is no exception. If you’re going to read anything tonight, let it be her masterlist. If you haven't read her latest Sirius piece as well, you are sorely missing out.

Remus Lupin:

Protect - @obsessedwithrandomthings - Oh man, this one hurt. There are so many feels to this fic, so many layers. The enemies to lovers? Amazing. That ending as well - so fucking good. Like everything Dee writes, so fucking good.

Sleeping Beauty - @poppin-potter - This is adorable. There’s no other words for it. The relationship between the reader and Remus is so cute, I was smiling all the way through it. Not to mention the relationship between the reader and the Marauders, so bloody good. And that ending? It was so peaceful, like I was reading and I was like yeah, I would’t mind a piece of that.

Pain of reality - @heloisedaphnebrightmore - I had to involve some Remus angst, and oh my word. You smashed my heart into pieces in the beginning and had put it back together by the end. Heloise is an incredible writer, so so talented. This is a Remus fic you cannot miss out on!

Bruise and Scars - @peachesandpinks - Soulmate AU and Marauders Era Remus. What more could you possibly want? It’s poetic. If you look to my Neville section, you’ll see why I love Ren’s writing so much but let me tell you, I am a SUCKER for Remus. Always have been, always will be. You will not regret reading this fic or any of Ren’s fics.

Nights like These - @teheharrypotter - another fic in A Very Harry Potter Summer and the description in this fic is so good! The way the summer night described has you feeling every moment of it. And the conversation between Remus and the reader is so beautiful, where they touch upon their grief. It’s a wonderfully written piece of work.

James Potter:

Numb Love - @heloisedaphnebrightmore - Unrequited love is like my guilty pleasure because I love the angst of it, and this fic. Oh this fic, it destroyed me and I loved every single minute of it. How this fic doesn't have more notes, I have no clue. It’s a masterpiece of emotions.

Reading between the lines - @approved-by-dentists - ohhh this fic is great, I love the flirtation between the reader and James in the beginning all the way to end. It was one of the first James fics I read (I’m late to the party, I’m well aware) and omg I love it. Just go read the fic!

Book-thief - @wondernimbus - I’m going to repeat my words from earlier, there are no words to describe Ysa’s talent. James Potter and a bookshop and I was sold. She captures his character so brilliantly. Just... go binge her work.

Summer revelations - @pregnant-piggy - I keep saying this about all the fics I put on here but I love this fic! I love it! First, I love James. Second, I need those muffins - seriously, where can I get these muffins? And their realisations and confessions! It’s such a pure fic, I’m absolutely in love with your portrayal of James.

Newt Scamander:

Cheeky Niffler - @eleven-times-lively - reader is an archaeologist - from that moment, I was sold. I loved reading this, I loved the idea and I love Niffler as it is! I always need more Newt in my life and this is perfect.

Online Love - @strawberriesonsummer - Modern AU! I really loved this idea, I love the idea of Newt with a phone and ringing the wrong number. It’s such a wonderful fic, I haven't read Newt in so long so this was such a lovely one to read! I can’t wait to read what other Newt fics are posted!

desire - @blisfvll - I am a huge fan of their works; their Draco fics are incredible and their Newt fics are just the same. This had me feeling all sorts of emotions, and I loved every second of it.

You stared Newt right in the eyes. - @fantasticnewtimagines - I didn't know what the title to this was so I just type out the first sentence, I hope you don't mind! This is a delicious piece of angst with a lovely, happy ending. I adore this piece so much because it conveys so much. I love it!!

MARVEL:

I want to take a moment to appeal to the followers of mine who also enjoy reading marvel. @shaynawrites23 has started to write some marvel fics and even entered my writing challenge and her fics definitely deserve some attention! She’s a wonderful writer and her fics are so cute! If you’re a fan of Bucky, you’ll love these fics!

Catty

Soulmate

Rosy Proposal

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xjoonchildx · 4 years ago

Text

guilty | knj x reader | chapter one: how odd

summary: as the man at the top, kim namjoon has almost everything he wants. almost. could a familiar face from the past change his future?

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: mafia AU, pining, eventual smut

rating: 18+

word count: 2.8K

notes: you guys have been so amazing with your feedback on “guarded” and it warms my heart that you loved hoseok and ms. kim -- so it’s time to show mr. kim some love, too. this series will not be long (probably three parts) but i had to break it into chapters because of the POV shifts. please let me know what you think about this chapter and as usual thank you so much to all the tiger wives and my amazing betas @ladyartemesia and @hobi-gif.

this series is dedicated to the amazing @sahmfanficbts who is an incredible writer, an awesome woman, and kim namjoon’s number one fan.

this fic is a continuation of the Guarded Series but can be read as a standalone piece.

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | Epilogue

**********************

“You fired me?”

Namjoon turns at the sound of the quiet accusation that comes from over his shoulder.

There is color in your cheeks as you cross the length of his office. Your jaw is tight, one lock of hair falling free from the loose knot at the base of your neck. One perfectly-arched brow is raised high.

You look hurt.

Beautiful -- but hurt.

Guilt hits Namjoon like a freight train.

“Of course not,” he deflects, taking a seat. He picks up one of the papers scattered across his desktop and pretends to read it carefully. “I reassigned you to a position I believe will be a better fit.”

There’s no way he could miss the irritated breath you suck between your teeth but Namjoon keeps his eyes glued to that paper in his hand. He realizes, absently, that it’s a takeout menu.

He hopes you haven’t noticed the same thing.

“Well, was there some kind of problem with my performance?”

Namjoon winces at the dejection in your tone. He finally forces himself to meet your gaze and finds your eyes brimming with frustration.

He certainly can’t blame you on that account -- you have every right to be frustrated. You shouldn’t be made to feel somehow lacking when it’s him who is lacking in every way that counts.

“Quite the opposite,” he says carefully. “I think it’s a waste of your skills to have you keeping my schedule and taking calls. Seokjin can make better use of your talents on the business side.”

A strained silence settles over the room and Namjoon clears his throat before looking back down to his papers.

“Well, the new girl is terrible at this,” you say flatly. “I certainly wouldn’t have let me walk in here unannounced. She’s too busy looking at her phone to look after you.”

Namjoon knows you’re right about that.

In the few short months you’ve worked for him, you’ve proven yourself to be unnaturally attuned to his needs. You knew without asking which calls he was trying to avoid and when, when to clear his schedule the day after a rough night on the streets. You’ve kept his office stocked with every comfort he’d ever wanted and some he hadn’t even realized he wanted.

You are the single best assistant he’s ever had and he couldn’t stand to keep you around for one minute longer.

You don’t wait for Namjoon to formulate some kind of response to your damning and accurate observation. By the time he looks back up from his papers, you’ve already turned on your heels to leave.

He watches you walk away with regret weighing heavy in his gut.

**************************

Namjoon’s keys clang loudly when he drops them on the table in his foyer.

This penthouse is the best apartment in one of the best buildings in Seoul. It’s filled with lavish furnishings and expensive paintings and boasts a stunning view of the Han River. It’s one of the finest residences in the city.

And Namjoon hates it.

The vacant rooms and the echoing walls seem to mock him, making him all the more aware of how empty it is. How completely devoid it is of any life. Most nights he stays at the office until he’s delirious with exhaustion just so he can collapse straight into bed once he gets here.

Tonight though, for once, this place seemed like a better option.

Namjoon pulls off his tie and releases the first few buttons of his shirt before pouring a scotch.

He’s drinking too much these days -- he knows it -- but the drinks help slow the constant movement of his mind. They help dull the anxiety that seems to take over when he’s too still for too long.

He walks to the window to look out over the night sky.

This is his favorite way to see the city -- high up enough that everything looks pristine. Get closer and you’ll be assaulted by the noise and the crowds and the pollution. Get closer and the flaws are too hard to ignore.

“Was there some kind of problem with my performance?”

Your words echo as clearly in Namjoon’s mind as if you’d spoken them out loud in this cavernous apartment. He takes a seat in his plush chair and sips his drink, savoring the familiar burn of the scotch.

He thinks back to when you both were kids.

Your father -- one of the few decent men in his own father’s inner circle -- didn’t bring you around much. He can only recall a few social functions you’d attended before taking off to university. News of your father’s death came shortly after that and it had been years since Namjoon had even spared a thought for you.

Then you came walking through his office door.

You definitely weren’t a kid anymore, that much was clear.

What was much less clear was why you -- a college graduate -- turned up one day, desperate for a job. He hadn’t questioned your need for fast work and fast money and you hadn’t questioned the long hours and strange requests.

You repaid him with a flawless work ethic.

And he repaid you by fantasizing about fucking you blind over his desk basically every chance he got.

So yeah, there was a problem, all right.

The problem was Kim Namjoon.

*********************

“There you are.”

The voice on the other end of the line practically slithers into Namjoon’s ear when he answers the late call.

“Mina,” he sighs, infusing the name with a displeasure that comes through loud and clear across the connection. “This line is for business only, you know that.”

Mina makes an exasperated sound.

“I wouldn’t have to call your cell if you’d return my messages from the office. I’ve been trying to reach you for more than two weeks now. I’m starting to feel like you’re avoiding me.”

Namjoon pulls the phone away to allow himself a long exhale before putting it back to his ear.

“How did you get this number?”

“You’re hung up on that?” Mina groans. “Honestly, Namjoon. I reached out to your new assistant who was more than happy to pass it along.”

Fuck. He’s going to have to fire the new girl, isn’t he?

“She’s a nice girl,” Mina muses. “Far more competent than that last assistant of yours. Excellent decision on replacing that woman if she fails to complete a task as simple as delivering a message. Three messages, actually.”

Namjoon mulls that information over in silence.

“Where is your mind these days, Mr. Kim?” Mina tries to cover her displeasure with a laugh but he hears it anyway. “You’ve been so distant lately. It’s been too long since we had the chance to enjoy one another’s company.”

Namjoon can envision the pout she is wearing on the other end of the line and it aggravates him beyond belief. Pouting ranks near the very top of his least favorite female manipulation tactics.

Pouting makes him want to put his fist through a wall.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” he mutters. “I’m here.”

“Are you drunk?”

Namjoon grits his teeth, fingers tightening around his glass.

“No, Mina,” he grinds out. “Not drunk. Just not in the mood. Not anymore.”

She sputters on the other end of the line as Namjoon ends the call.

Maybe he should feel bad about being so blunt, but he doesn’t. It’ll be a week before she’s onto the next wealthy, connected man. Women like Mina make sport of locating and latching on to power.

She’ll survive.

Namjoon stares out into the night sky and sips his scotch, letting his mind wander back to the one piece of the conversation that did capture his interest.

What are the chances that you -- a woman with seemingly unerring attention to detail -- forgot to deliver three separate messages from the same caller?

He contemplates that in the dark.

How odd.

***********************

YOU

Kim Namjoon was the most serious boy you’d ever seen.

Even as a young man, he seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. You can still close your eyes and remember exactly how he looked back then -- standing solemn at his father’s side, lanky body swimming in a suit he’d not yet grown into. His hair just a touch too long and falling into his eyes.

You thought he was the most handsome boy in all of Korea.

Namjoon kept mostly to himself -- no easy task given that his status alone made him the most celebrated catch amongst the children of the Gajog.

Everyone fought for the attention of the boy who would be king.

It would have been so easy for him to abuse the power he had over his peers, to treat them with disrespect, but Namjoon never did. You noticed how kind he was to the children who idolized him. You noticed how well he managed the volatile moods of his alcoholic father. You noticed how he hovered protectively over his sister.

He never noticed you, of course.

Your own father was careful to limit your exposure to the Gajog and as such, you lived on the outskirts of the social circle. By the time you were a teenager, you’d only spoken to Namjoon directly a handful of times. The few times you did see him face-to-face, you’d had to suffer through that awkward moment before his eyes lit with recognition.

It always took a minute for him to remember who you were, but when he finally did -- every time he finally did -- your heart would stop just a bit at his shy smile.

That was the image you held on to when you held your breath and walked into his office a few months ago. You’d taken a deep breath and prayed that the quiet, kind kid you’d known so long ago hadn’t changed too much over the years. And then you stepped into his posh office.

Kim Namjoon definitely wasn’t a kid anymore.

The Namjoon who stood up from behind his desk to bow a greeting was nothing short of devastating.

Standing in place of the slender boy from your childhood was a man with deep, dark eyes and a striking, angular face. His suit -- cut to fit every line of his body to an exacting standard -- did nothing to conceal his powerful frame. He had grown into the full lips that once seemed a bit too large for his face.

Without a doubt, he’d become the most handsome man in all of Korea.

The shy smile remained, though -- dimples prominent when Namjoon extended a hand to shake yours and you woodenly accepted, blinking back. You’d realized, absently, that you were gawking.

You hoped he hadn’t noticed the same thing.

If Namjoon had picked up on your mortifying reaction to seeing him after all these years, he was far too much of a gentleman to let on. He’d offered you a seat and then listened patiently as you explained that you were in need of a job -- any job -- so long as you could start right away.

You left out the painful details, of course.

Namjoon nodded quietly as you outlined your education and qualifications and emphasized your willingness to serve the Gajog in any role he saw fit. His eyes were warm and reassuring as you spoke, but you still braced yourself for the possibility that he’d send you away empty handed.

He didn’t.

At the end of your impassioned speech, Kim Namjoon made you an offer you could not refuse.

Reporting directly to him and starting right away.

***************************

The serious boy you’d known so many years ago had grown into an even more serious man.

It didn’t take long on the job to notice the bone-deep melancholy that seemed to emanate from Kim Namjoon. He was good at concealing it in front of others but you saw it clearly. The way he would stand at his window at night, drink in hand, brooding. The way the shadows behind his eyes would surface when he thought no one was looking.

But you were always looking.

You wanted so badly to help.

You wanted to do something to help ease the burden he seemed to carry around at all times. So you threw yourself into the work, memorizing his routines and taking note of the things he needed. You organized his files. You streamlined his schedule. You ran interference on Yoongi and Hoseok and Seokjin on the nights when his moods turned dark and ominous.

Tiny gestures, in the grand scheme of things -- but there were days when you could convince yourself the gestures made a difference.

Days when Namjoon would look at you with a quiet appreciation that made you feel heat down to your toes. Days when his eyes would soften as you’d instinctually met some need he hadn’t voiced out loud. Days when the darkness inside of him seemed to recede and one of those heart-stopping shy smiles would emerge.

You convinced yourself over time that this was enough -- that taking care of him like this would be enough for you.

It had to be enough.

To allow yourself to imagine otherwise was nothing short of delusion.

**********************

“Eomma?”

You call out into the quiet as you lock the door behind you. You can barely make out the sound of your mother’s soft reply from her bedroom.

This is where she spends most of her days now, shuffling between her bed and her chair, too weak to stand for more than a few minutes at a time. Pill bottles litter the nightstand, obscuring the yellowing photograph of your parents as newlyweds.

“My sweet Ttal,” she rasps, voice hoarse from disuse, “You’re home.”

“I am,” you sigh, sweeping into the room and pulling off your coat. You bend down to drop a kiss on her forehead before taking a seat at her side. Your mother’s once-luminous skin is now spotted with age, eyes cloudy and dull, but she is still one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

She flinches when you take one of her hands into your much colder ones.

“Sorry,” you murmur, massaging over the paper-thin skin. “It’s freezing outside. I should have warmed them first.”

She gives your fingers a gentle squeeze.

“Home early again,” she croaks. “Is everything okay at work?”

Her innocent question brings the sadness simmering just under the surface of your thoughts back to a full boil. You still can’t understand why Namjoon chose to reassign you -- and you still can’t forget the sting of getting the news secondhand from your replacement.

Your face falls at the memory and you hope your mother doesn’t notice.

The last thing you’d want to do is add worry to her already long list of concerns.

“Yes, Eomma,” you soothe, smoothing back her hair. She leans into your touch with a tired smile. “Everything is fine. My new boss doesn’t keep me as late as the old one did. But that’s a good thing, right?”

“Right,” she agrees, closing her eyes. “Mrs. Sim left just a short while ago. She brought some Japchae for dinner. Not as good as mine, but not half-bad, either.”

You laugh at the way the corner of her mouth lifts into a smile at her jest.

People like Mrs. Sim are in large part why you’ve fought so hard to keep your mother here in your childhood home. The financial strain has been tough -- particularly when paired with the medical bills -- but you need the help. With no siblings to share your burden, you’ve had to lean on the goodwill of longtime neighbors.

“Leave Mrs. Sim and her Japchae alone mother,” you tease, standing to stretch. “I’m going to get a shower before bed.”

Your mother makes a noise that sounds like approval, but you can tell she’s already drifting off again.

She’s on so many pills these days; a blessing and a curse. More pills means less pain and better rest -- something she desperately needs. But more pills also means far fewer moments of lucidity -- much shorter windows of time for you to enjoy your mother’s quick wit and dry humor.

She’s back in a sleep state before you even make to stand. You stroke your fingertips across her face just as your phone pings in your pocket. You pull it out and very nearly dismiss the routine banking alert altogether -- but something catches your eye.

You swipe into the app to confirm you’re seeing the numbers correctly -- that your tired eyes and tired mind aren’t playing games with you.

They aren’t.

The direct deposit of your paycheck is coming on the date it should, at the time it should. But the number glaring back at you from the screen is higher -- much higher -- than it should be.

A demotion and a raise in the span of one week?

How odd.

******************************

GLOSSARY:

Gajog: Family

Eomma: Mother

Ttal: Daughter

tag list: @barbikatherine

#namjoon smut #namjoon x reader #namjoon mafia au #bts mafia #ficswithluv #networkbangtan #btswriterscollective #btscreatorscorner #ksmutclub #bangtanarmynet

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blossom-hwa · 3 years ago

Note

hi hi! i know it’s the last day for your 4 year anniversary drabble game, but i absolutely love your writing & wanted to send a request <3 could you do han jisung with the title “long way home” ? :)

again, i really love your work & i think you’re such an incredibly talented writer! keep up the amazing work <3

hi love! I see you in my notifs a lot so I got really excited when you sent this request - thank you so much for all of your support!!! I hope you enjoy what I've written for this <3

4 year anniversary drabble game: send me a Stray Kids/The Boyz/Golden Child/Ateez member + a prompt (check out the post for ideas) and I’ll write a drabble for you!

This is a sequel to For You, a fic I wrote a while back - you can read it here!

Reminder: REQUESTS ARE CLOSED.

Title: Long Way Home

Pairing: Jisung x gender neutral!reader

Word count: 1.1k

Triggers: none

Jisung stares out the window of the train, even though there's been nothing to see but dark tunnels for several miles. He isn't really watching, though, more just... looking. Wondering.

Maybe even praying, a little.

It's been a year since he left his small town for a career in the city, producing alongside the company of his dreams. It's been a year since he started working with Chan and Changbin, two people who have grown - even over just twelve months - to be some of the best friends Jisung has ever had.

But it's also been a year since he left you at the station, fighting back tears as you tried to smile and wish him the best as he headed onto the train. It's been a year since he kissed you for the first time before he went away, waving as long as he could before you disappeared.

And most importantly, it's been a year since you both made a promise that Jisung has kept, to wait for each other until he could make it back home.

Jisung swallows. It's been a long time - not longer than he expected, he knew how difficult it would be to prove himself at such a young age - but still, twelve months. Twelve months. Twelve months since he last saw your face, twelve months since he really heard your voice. There have been letters, of course, texts and a grainy phone calls, but Jisung's heart races at the mere thought of being able to see you in person again, to hear your sweet voice from your own lips.

He can only hope you kept the promise he asked you to keep.

The train finally pulls to a stop in the dingy, familiar station, and Jisung quickly heads out of the doors. If he had his suitcase in hand, it'd feel a little like deja-vu, walking through the station like he did the last time he saw you. But the suitcase is back in the city because he's returning. He isn't here to stay.

He just wanted to see you again.

A rush of cold air hits Jisung when he exits the station, burrowing his hands in his jacket. It takes him a moment to get his bearings - it's been a long time, after all - but then he recognizes a building at the end of the street. If he just turns left and keeps walking for a few blocks, he'll find himself in front of the coffee shop where the two of you used to work.

You're still there. Jisung confirmed that a few weeks ago, when he was finally planning to come back. It took a lot of effort to keep his plans hidden under a mask of casualness, but thankfully, you can't see his face over text.

So you have no idea that he's here.

It seems to take an eternity to reach the cafe, but once he's standing in front of the glass doors, Jisung doesn't know what to do. In the back of his mind, he does - take the door handle, open the door, go inside and up to the counter so he can surprise you - but stupid, irrational fear roots his hands at his sides.

What if you don't want to see him again?

Someone gently pushes past him and opens the door. A cloud of warm air gusts over Jisung's still figure, beckoning him inside. He swallows. He has to see you. Has to.

So he steps inside.

Warm air hits his skin with a pleasant tingle, and for a moment, Jisung stands still, breathing in the familiar smell of roasting coffee beans. His eyes find the counter and his heart leaps into his throat -

There you are, smiling, handing a cup to the last customer at the counter. Once they're gone, you turn around to begin wiping something down behind the counter.

Step by step, Jisung walks forward, heart pounding with every second that passes. The top of the counter feels cool beneath his hands and his breath sticks in his throat but he swallows, swallows again, and then he's able to speak -

"Y/N."

You freeze. Immediately. It almost looks like you've become a statue with how motionless you are. But then slowly, slowly you turn around, face startlingly neutral -

"Jisung," you breathe. "Jisung?"

He smiles tentatively. "It's me," he says, fingers digging into the counter to hold himself up. "I'm back, Y/N."

For a moment, nothing happens. You stare at each other, neither moving a muscle.

Then -

Before Jisung can blink, you've thrown yourself around the counter and have wrapped him in a hug, pushing him back several steps as you fling yourself against his body and sling your arms around his chest. You're hitting him, saying something about 'why didn't you tell me you were coming back?' and there are tears, too, soaking into his shoulder, and all Jisung can do his close his eyes against his own tears and hug you back, silently swaying you from side to side.

"I hate you," you say, smiling, through a voice choked with tears. You've pulled away for a moment and Jisung can only stare into your eyes, the eyes he wrote songs about back in the city, the eyes he hasn't seen in a year - you look even more beautiful than when he left, face shining in the light of the cafe. "I hate you. Why didn't you give me any warning? Then I wouldn't look like -" You gesture at your uniform, the coffee stains on your apron. "Like this."

"You look beautiful no matter what," Jisung says sincerely, smile spreading wider. "I wanted to surprise you."

"Well, you surprised me." You wipe at your eyes. "How long have you been planning this? How long are you here? Who else do you want to visit -"

"Questions later," Jisung interrupts, settling his arms around your waist. He can't find it in himself to care that you're in public, that you're literally at work - he's waited a year to see you again, the rest of the world can wait a moment. "Can I -" He swallows. "Can I kiss you?"

Your mouth snaps shut. Your lips tremble. And your eyes, oh, your eyes -

They shine like the millions of stars in the sky.

"Of course," you whisper. "Of course."

And in the next moment, with his lips pressed to yours, Jisung's heart feels at peace for the first time in months. The world falls away, replaced with only your warmth and your lips and the hands around his neck pulling him closer, closer.

Jisung smiles against your lips. It's been a long way home, but the gift he came back to...

It was worth it.

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fictionissocialinquiry · 4 years ago

Text

FISI’s Favourite Zutara Fics

A lil late for ZFAW’s Saturday prompt, sorry about that! Haven’t had any internet over the weekend. But better late than never!

I’m not gonna lie… a lot of these are angsty af. But I promise you they’re not gratuitous angst! They’re well written, beautiful stories that will make you feel like a better person for having read them. These are my favourite all time fics, ones I’ve read more than once and will continue to read (even though I’m taking a week break from fandom and fic).

Multi-Chaptered Fics

The Sparrowkeet Series by audreyii_fic

To be honest, this story’s summary doesn’t do it justice so I ain’t including it. Originally a one shot, Sparrowkeet is headcanon for me now. Move over canon, this is where it’s at. Audreyii_fic’s characterisation, world building, and writing is exquisite. It’s incredible. She manages to channel the same fun and whimsical energy from the show while allowing the characters to grow and develop to places I wish they had actually been taken.

This one is a fandom Must Read and one I return to regularly.

Clothe Me in Seasons, Dress Me in Snow by sadladybug

It is not the memorial she deserves, nor the one she would want. But it can't be helped. He owns no property in the other nations, and he needed to keep her close. Closer than she was in life, anyway.

Zuko's reflections on a life lived and a life that could have been.

This is one of the best written fics I’ve ever read. It’s tragic and deep and will hurt you in all the tender places but you would be doing yourself a favour if you read this. There’s a real bittersweet feeling to it and the love between them is just… urg, visceral.

Lovable by LadyCharity

Zuko knew that he could not save Azula. He could only try to forgive her. Fittingly enough, those two were one in the same.

I love stories that make Zutara their centerpiece but every now but then a story like this comes along. A story where their relationship builds almost incidentally because the plot and character development straight up hijack your emotions. I got so invested in this story. Zuko is amazingly well characterised and his complicated thoughts and feelings around his father and Azula are incredibly well written!

One Shots

Lunar Ephemerality by @formerlygoldilocks (goldilocks23)

After multiple failed attempts on his life and years of self-set expectations, Fire Lord Zuko is a shell of the man he used to be. But Katara won't turn her back on those who need her.

I really didn’t expect this to hit as hard as it did. This straight up snuck up on me, fly-kicked my feelings, and by the end I had written an 800 word comment that was too big for AO3 and I had to contact the author directly to send it to her. Awkward. I couldn’t help myself. The side to Katara we see here is so good, her empathy and love for her friends are one of the things I love seeing most in AtLA fanfic. I’m a sucker for Zuko having complete breakdowns and having to piece himself back together too. So sue me. I like it when they suffer a lil bit. The writing is absurdly good and I will be keeping an eye out for any new stories by goldilocks23!

31 Minutes by @ifyouwereamelodymeg

It's quite astounding, really, how quickly she's learned to translate him. They've spent a grand total of zero time together outside of training, and he's hardly big on chat so she knows next to nothing about his life.

But she knows him, probably better than she knows anyone at the moment – with every tap of his fingers, every crook of his lips, every turn in his voice, he just...

He makes sense to her. It's weird.

I’m a sucker for fic writers playing with style to make the story pop and boyo does this fic deliver. This is one of the rare times that I’ve been dumbstruck at the end of a story— I just couldn’t accept the ending. Because I’m a sucker for pain, (and this story will bring The Pain) I loved it. The ease of Zuko and Katara’s growing relationship in this bowls you over, it’s absolutely beautiful and you find yourself nodding along emphatically when Zuko calls himself an idiot for waiting… “Life’s short, kids, live each moment as though it could be your last,” says this fic as it pulls my heart out and dropkicks it off a cliff.

i count to five (and life passes by) by @markedmage

Five heartbeats.

I still haven’t forgiven Mage for this one. I think it’s the best thing she’s written to date! I mean, tragic and painful and heart-rending but holy shit is it powerful <3

The Lake of the Dismal Swamp by @thewhiitelotus

Spook af. Spook (horror) is real hard to do well but thewhiitelotus is coming for your goosebumps and those shivers down your spine. She has a way of balancing beautiful, evocative imagery with action (in this and other stories of her) that just keeps you reading!

Calloused by @rideboldlyride

Iroh hadn’t been able to watch. The pure horror of a man - a father- burning their child for a slight infraction... He couldn’t do anything to stop it, but he will stop his brother from destroying entirely the kind boy he knew Zuko could be.

This is a painfully underappreciated fic for how great the characterisation is. I know we in the zutara fandom tend to not read stories that aren’t Zuko/Katara centric as often but do yourself the favour of reading this (or listening to it: RideBoldlyRide has done us the gift of recording a podfic for this and it’s stupidly *good*). This story is Iroh confronting Ozai just after he burns Zuko’s face and it kicks.

four days and three nights by @hinaoyamas (lettersfromnowhere)

Zuko discovers firsthand that nothing is more fleeting than happiness, or more enduring than memory.

Do you like reading stories with a distant, omniscient narrator? The kind that read like a myth from the ancient world? Welp, hit the hyperlink, friend, cause this one’s for you. Not only is the writing exquisite but the characterisation and painful inevitability of the plot is grade A.

For the Fire Nation by tullyblue12

He falls in love with her for his country before he falls in love with her for himself. A Zuko/Katara AU that explores how love and duty aren’t always mutually exclusive.

There are about 40,000 exquisite lines in this story but here is just one of my favourites: “He falls in love with her for his country first. That’s what his people never understand.” This fic says a lot with so few words, which is something I really look up to! In 2,800 words, tullyblue12 does what some 100,000k fics cant: They make you feel.

Guide Me Home by Rashaka

To sleep, perchance to dream. Katara and Zuko find a friendship they never expected in a place that seemed impossible.

This is a one shot I will forever wish for a continuation of. The setup is just… so juicy. There’s a real sorrowful innocence to this story that the unique short, dialogue only scenes really punch home. I know some people don’t like dialogue only fics but when done well like in this one, it leaves you with the impression of something deeper than a 1,185 word fic has any right to!

Other Favourites!

Hopeless by tullyblue12 — Kids grow up fast when a cruel world awaits them. In times of hopelessness, Katara and Zuko grow together. In times of separation, they hope to see each other again.

Speechless by goldilocks23 — Zuko has a medical condition. Or: Zuko speaks in haiku at inappropriate times.

Don’t Follow Me Down by eleventy7 — Katara is the dread queen of the underworld, ruler of the dead, destined to reign her cold kingdom alone. Until a sun god catches her eye. A Hades/Persephone retelling with incredible writing.

I Don't Speak Meow Language by @botherkupo (Boogum) — In which Zuko adopts a cat and Katara just wonders what spirits she pissed off to deserve this fate.

I have the privilege of being friends with some of these authors (they know who they are) and am in near daily awe and gratitude for the works of free fiction they provide us, the fandom. And not just any old stories: Guys... Really good ones!! Can I ask that if you go check out these fics, can you just drop a kudos or a comment their way? If you’re feeling shy just copy and paste this into the comments box anonymously: “WOW! Loved this! Thank you so much for writing it!”

I know it would mean the world to this talented bunch <3

#ZFAW #Fic Rec #favourite zutara fanfics of all time #zutara #atla

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athenadione · 4 years ago

Text

‘you are mine (and I am yours)’

In which you can find out the hard way that demons don't like sharing. @vi-la-vi

AthenaDione and I did a thing! Everyone loves jealous Damian, but hear us out....jealous Raven? Hope you enjoy! -Vi

I’m so incredibly honored to participate in this collab. Vi practically paved the way for me to give you all the delicious demon Raven smut that ensues and did a superb job writing the majority of this piece, as always. If you enjoy and feel so inclined, you can leave a kudos HERE on A03. Vi— thank you for allowing me to be a part of your writing process. You’re such a talented writer and I’m happy to have found you :) -AD

She couldn’t stop staring at him. Not just because it had been years since she last saw him, but because ever since she met him, Anna Vandergilt had thought of little else.

Damian Wayne.

They’d met at a benefit when both were sixteen years old, and it had been love at first sight. The elusive heir finally returned to Gotham after five years abroad, doing god knows what. She’d collected every bit of information she could about him, academic transcripts, tabloids, medical and legal records. Vandergilt influence ran deep and she had no compunction about using it to fuel her obsession. Securing an internship at Wayne Enterprises as Tim Drake’s assistant was just the latest step.

And now he’s here, and I won’t let him get away again.

Damian had to remember her, the spark when their eyes met, the unbreakable connection they’d made. He didn’t acknowledge it when they were introduced, but that was fine. He was an intense, secretive man and likely just didn’t want to make a scene.

Green eyes flashed to hers and narrowed, catching her staring. She willed herself to keep it together, sitting up straighter and crossing her legs in an attempt to draw his attention to the slit in her pencil skirt. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and leggy, she knew how to make men stare.

Or so she thought. Damian had turned his attention back to Tim’s presentation, arms crossed and expression impatient. So serious. She planned ways she might be able to get him alone, with no one and nothing to distract him from her. After today, I’ll have more than just fantasies. She’d been looking for an opening to approach him all day and was sure she couldn’t wait much longer.

They broke for lunch, but just as she moved towards him she was intercepted by Tim.

“Hey Anna, can you run up to my office and grab my blue flash drive? I forgot to bring it down earlier.”

Get it yourself! she wanted to snap. An assistant position was well beneath her pedigree, and she hated taking instructions from common-born Tim Drake. Swallowing her irritation, she smiled and nodded.

When she finally returned, Damian had already gone, apparently having had a lunch appointment with someone else. Anna sighed. I’ll speak to him after work, I’m sure he wouldn’t say no to dinner and drinks. No man had ever refused her.

She spied him later as she was returning to the conference room, speaking to a dark-haired woman she didn’t know outside of his office. She took a moment to admire him in his suit, noting curiously that the girl with him was only casually dressed in black jeans and an off-shoulder top with a band logo. Unprofessional much? He’s probably scolding her about the dress code.

Just as the thought solidified, she leaned up and pressed a kiss to the underside of Damian’s jaw, tugging his tie playfully as she did so.

It was as though a bucket of freezing water had been dumped over her head. Anna stood stock-still, mouth falling open in horror. Who the fuck...how dare…?

The woman whispered something in his ear, kissing his jaw again as Damian rolled his eyes and smirked. She continued to stare, waiting for him to shove her away, glare, do something. She heard someone approach from behind.

“Ugh, those two,” Tim groaned.

“Who is that?” Her voice was tight and strained, and the man next to her gave her a curious glance.

“That’s Rachel, Damian’s girlfriend.”

“Oh,” she said, at a loss for anything else.

It’s not fair. I planned...I’ve been waiting…

She shook her head, determination moving in. A minor setback. He just needs to know there’s something better on the market. Vandergilts were practically royalty, after all. Her beauty and breeding were no doubt superior. She bit back her anger as Damian dropped a kiss on the other woman’s forehead before walking away.

Just a minor setback, she mentally repeated.

Tim’s assistant had a serious staring problem, and Damian was relieved when he was finally able to retire to his office. Annoying. The older man had joked earlier that Damian’s constant absence in Gotham and avoidance of the public eye elevated him to mythical status among some of his father’s employees. He longed for this week to end, eager to be back in Jump and away from the Wayne gawkers.

His phone buzzed, distracting him from the revenue charts in front of him.

“Stephanie is insane.”

Damian smiled, eyes darting to his watch to see how much longer he’d be stuck in this office. As necessary as it was that he be here for the audit, he felt bad abandoning Raven to his siblings. Next time they came to Gotham he’d make sure it was purely recreational and personally show her the sights.

“A half hour more, then I will come rescue you.”

Then two days more, and they would be home.

A knock on the door called his attention. “Mr. Wayne? Could I borrow you for a moment. I need a second pair of eyes on this file.”

He looked up, raising an eyebrow at the worshipful expression on her face. The scent of expensive perfume assailed him and Damian fought the urge to wrinkle his nose. She looked at him hopefully, blinking rapidly.

“Ask Drake.”

She shifted, reaching up to toy with her platinum blonde hair. “Oh...he just has so much on his plate. I wanted to avoid bothering him,” she replied, voice high and lilting.

Strange woman. Damian wondered where his older brother had found this one. He hadn’t really been paying attention when they were introduced, Vander-something or other.

He sighed. “Fine.”

“Oh, thank you,” she breathed.

She circled around the desk to stand next to him, laying the file in front of him and bending low. A fall of blonde hair brushed his shoulder and Damian shifted slightly to put some distance between them. He spent so little time in normal society it was easy to forget how bad most people were with personal space.

“What exactly did you need help with?”

“This.”

Without warning, she sat on his lap and pressed her lips forcefully against his, throwing one arm around his neck for good measure. Damian completely froze, protests firing rapidly through his mind. She tugged on the waistband of his pants and it was enough to break his paralysis. He shoved her off of him violently and she caught herself on the desk, shifting it several inches back.

“What are you doing?!”

The alarm on her face lasted only a second before being replaced with a coy smile. “Don’t be shy, I know you remember me. It’s been years, but you’re all I’ve thought about, Damian. I swear.”

“I - don’t…” Damian felt uncharacteristically frazzled. “I have - no. I’m not interested,” he finally managed.

“Please, Damian.” She tried to take a step forward and he instinctively backed away. He hated the way she said his name, he realized distantly.

“I have a girlfriend,” he said, hard edge in his voice. One who would kill you and probably me if she was here right now. Raven did not share.

The woman sniffed. “Her. Don’t be ridiculous, you’re a Wayne. She can’t possibly-”

“Enough.”

He glared fiercely, daring her to try and continue. Tears swam in her blue eyes and Damian felt a touch of relief that he finally managed to get through.

“I...hmph, fine. Keep her on the side if you must. My father had a mistress. Just keep her out of my sight.”

She’s insane. What the fuck kind of vetting process do you have, Drake?

He closed his eyes and exhaled before meeting her watery gaze once again.

“Listen very carefully. I. Am. Not. Interested. I want you out of this building in the next five minutes or I’ll call security.”

“I - but - we…” She straightened, eyes glassy with disbelief as she tried to compose herself. “I see.”

Damian kept his glare on as she left the room, feeling a headache build behind his eyes. He grabbed his phone again, feeling a pang of guilt when he saw Raven's name, and called his brother.

"I fired your assistant. You're welcome."

"What? Damian, you can't just show up and start firing people!"

"I'll...explain later." Vaguely, and with as few details as I can manage.

The hint of discomfort in his voice must have given him away. "Seriously? No wonder she was staring at you all day.”

"Drop it."

"Alright, alright. Her dad's going to be pissed though, he pushed Bruce for months to take her on here. Sounds like you got your very first stalker."

Well that was a disturbing thought. Damian shook it off. "Just tell him it didn't work out." He didn't want any rumors getting back to Raven if he could help it.

Lying to an empath is easier said than done.

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

"I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She snorted disbelievingly, eyes glued on the book in her hand. “Why do you feel so guilty?”

“It was a long day. I felt bad for you.” Half-truths were the only semi-effective way he’d found of getting around her lie detector. Normally Damian would smother inconvenient questions with lips, hands, and other parts of him that Raven was always deliciously responsive to, but touching her would have felt wrong right now. She deserved to know the truth before she decided how near she wanted him.

She rolled onto her side then, burrowing down against her pillow and studying him curiously. “You don’t have to spend every second with me, Damian. I’m pretty self-sufficient, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He shrugged, laying back and closing his eyes. “I’ll just be glad to get out of here. People in Gotham are a different breed.”

Raven hummed. “Fine, don’t tell me what’s actually bothering you.”

With that, she leaned over to kiss him goodnight. Damian flinched at the contact before responding in kind, and pretended he didn’t see the confused look in her eyes.

“I love you,” he said, focusing the emotion to make sure she felt it as well.

She closed her eyes, slightly mollified. “I love you, too.”

I'll tell her when we get home, he promised himself. As much as he hated keeping secrets, he knew she was going to be upset and preferred a controlled setting. Damian remembered an incident shortly after they began dating when the ticket-taker at the theater had slipped him her phone number. Raven said nothing at first, but the night ended in a supply closet instead of a screening room.

"I don't share," she whispered dangerously, legs tightening around his hips to draw him in deeper. Red flickered across her purple irises. “You’re mine.”

He smirked at the memory. We never did get to see that movie.

Definitely safer for all involved to wait until they'd left Gotham.

Anna stared at her discreetly from the park bench. He’s loyal, that’s all. And I wouldn’t have him any other way.

She grudgingly admitted to herself that the other woman was pretty, if unconventional. Pale purple eyes and dark purple hair - hadn’t anyone told her the punk rock look was out of date? She had nothing on the blonde’s classical beauty.

A hefty bribe to the Wayne's chauffeur had given her knowledge of the woman's - Rachel's - movements throughout the day. She was ordinarily accompanied by Tim's banshee of a girlfriend and one of Bruce's orphans, but had separated from them earlier in the day to visit Gotham’s Arts District. Anna waited until she saw her enter the nearly empty arboretum before making her move. If Damian couldn’t be persuaded to break things off, this one could. An affair with the office hottie - tale as old as time.

“Pardon me?” She adopted a nervous affect as she approached, eyes downcast. “You’re Rachel, right?”

The other woman tore her gaze from the plaque in front of her, violet eyes locking on baby blue. “Do I know you?”

“Anna. I work - worked at Wayne Enterprises. I’m really sorry to do this, but...there’s something you need to know.”

She regarded her silently and the blonde fought the urge to fidget. There's something off about her. What were you thinking, Damian? Finally, Rachel nodded once, crossing her arms. Anna smiled internally and fiddled anxiously with her hands, doing her best to look miserable.

“I was Tim’s assistant until Damian fired me yesterday,” she began, voice weepy. “Tim’s the one who told me about you, I swear I didn’t know before.”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed, something dark and inscrutable flashing in and out of her gaze. “...Excuse me?”

Anna took the low anger in her voice as an encouraging sign and continued. She dropped her eyes again and let out a harsh sob. “I’m not the kind of person who fools around with other women’s boyfriends, and-"

A massive burst of black and red interrupted her thoughtfully planned speech, demolishing the stone plaque next to them and knocking her to the ground. She screamed, covering her head with her arms. A bomb? What’s happening?

Before she could get her bearings, something hauled her up by the throat, slamming her painfully against a tree. She blinked against the white spots in her vision and the dust in the air, squinting to see what held her.

Four slitted golden eyes met her own, radiating fury so thick she could almost taste it. I’m seeing things. I hit my head and I’m seeing things. The devil tightened its hold on her neck and stepped closer, heat pouring off its red skin. Terrified beyond anything she’d ever felt, Anna felt her bladder let go.

“Did you fuck Damian?” it - she - asked in a deadly calm voice.

“Wh-what?” she croaked. No way...what the fuck is she?!

“Answer, mortal.”

She sobbed in her grasp, all her carefully crafted lies flying away in the wake of her terror. “No! I just kissed him!”

The claws (claws?!) around her neck tightened and she felt warm trickles of blood start to seep down into her collar.

“That - that’s all! That’s all I did! I’m sorry!” she cried, “I’m so sorry! It won’t happen again!”

“I know.”

Shadows wrapped around the two of them and she screamed.

Stupid, stupid woman, Damian thought furiously, raising his eyes from the weeping figure on the floor. He’d put it together fairly quickly after walking in the door, and was currently kicking himself for not considering this possibility. She’s clearly deranged, I shouldn’t be surprised she approached Raven.

The woman in question sat in a nearby armchair, looking every bit the queen of hell she was. Her demonic appearance and the regal way she carried herself in this form lent their mundane bedroom at Wayne Manor the feel of some macabre court.

“Something to confess?” his demoness asked lowly.

“I was going to tell you when we returned home. This is the exact situation I was trying to avoid.” Sparks of black and red magic at her fingertips told him that was the wrong thing to say.

“You think a couple hundred miles would have saved her from me when I found out? I would cross entire universes.”

The woman before her seemed to curl in further on herself, as if trying to become a smaller target. Prayers fell from her lips, whispered and unintelligible.

“She’s not worth it. I would have made you see that.”

“That’s not your decision to make. You are mine, this was a challenge to me. A proper demon would have brought just the head.”

A loud wail met her words and golden eyes flicked downwards, oozing contempt. Damian felt a thrill race down his spine. He'd never seen her this angry - possessive. The idea that he was the catalyst, that his composed, serene Raven was burning so brightly over a stolen kiss made his blood tingle.

Apparently feeling the weight of the demon’s stare, she covered her head with her hands and tried to choke back her cries. A prey-like instinct to hide taking root.

He swallowed before speaking, mindful of the thin ice he was on. “I know you’re upset, but you can’t kill her.”

An amused sound escaped her, and Damian wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret it. “Beloved?”

She finally met his eyes again, clearly unhappy with the situation. “Fine. But if I ever see or sense this creature near you again, I will tear her apart slowly. Testor ego eam.”

With that, she waved a hand and the other woman vanished in a rush of black. He didn’t bother to ask where, not wanting to push his luck with Raven right now. Hysterical as the other woman was, no one would believe anything she had to say anyways.

The demoness crossed her arms, studying him silently. She seemed to have no intention of changing back to her human form. Oh.

“I suppose I’m in trouble as well?”

“Lies deserve punishment. And you need to be reminded who you belong to.”

“You, habibti. Always.”

Her smile offered nothing but trouble and his heart started to pick up. "That’s a start."

“Oh?” he asked her, not moving from the spot where he stood. It seemed that court was still in session, and her final judgement on his own transgressions had not yet passed.

She picked at a claw unhurriedly, hooded eyes flicking over his figure. Not one to back down, he met her appraising stare inch for inch.

“Did you know that demons mate for life?” she asked without warning.

“No, beloved,” he breathed. The information was new but it hardly mattered. He had already decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life with her long before they ended up together. He just wondered why she felt it necessary to mention now.

“It’s a sacred bond. Actually sacred, unlike human marriages. Challenging it is the worst insult one demon can deal to another.” Her eyes narrowed, and her claws seemed to sharpen before his eyes.

“She wasn’t a-”

“No one will threaten our bond. Do you understand, mate?”

Dear gods.

He resisted the urge to lick his lips, instead pressing them firmly together. “You should know that you will never be at risk of losing me, beloved.”

“I know. I also know you will never lie to me again.” The demoness waved a clawed hand before resting it underneath her chin. She was waiting for him. He swallowed again.

“What can I do to make amends?”

Her grin widened, boarding on malevolent, as if she finally found the answer she was looking for. Lifting effortlessly from her chair, she began to stride across the room to him with measured steps.

“I have a few ideas.” She purred.

“Oh?” he asked again, displeased at how out of breath he sounded.

Golden eyes held his own, and she didn’t speak again until she was just an arm's length away from him.

Then she pointed at her feet. “Kneel.”

He felt his jaw go slack. She wants me to do what?

She cocked her head at his hesitation. “You will not kneel for your demoness?” She clicked her tongue in distaste. “Don’t you want to remedy your indiscretions?”

He set his jaw, barely suppressing a wince. When she put it that way, there was no reason not to kneel before her, even if the thought of doing so went against every instinct in his body. He did, after all, lie to her, and if this was what she wanted from him then who was he to deny her?

Besides, there would be an opportunity for her to return the favor. I’ll make sure of it.

Revealing nothing, he stared at her impassively and slowly dropped to one knee, biting back a scowl as her smirk grew.

Then, he watched as a slender leg poked out from the slit of the dress she was wearing, and a strappy, black heel. He gave her a simmering look, then took it in his hands without a word, and pressed a kiss to her ankle, trailing up the side of her calf.

“That’s very nice, mate.” She murmured, resting a clawed hand onto this shoulder. “What else are you willing to do for me?”

A light smirk replaced his features. She was asking him to seduce her. To fuck her. That was something he would be more than willing to oblige.

He promptly stood to his feet and grabbed her wrist, pulling him into his chest. To his amused delight, she went pliant in his arms— nearly purring as he captured her lips with his. He kissed her thoroughly, drowning out the memory of the other gods-awful kiss that’d been forced upon him.

Then a clawed hand traveled his cheek lightly, moving its way to the back of his head. She suddenly grabbed a fistful of his hair and tugged downwards, tearing his lips from hers. He hissed when sharpened teeth latched themselves on his neck, nipping at the exposed flesh there before soothing it with her tongue.

Then she began to walk forward, forcing him to step with her— until the back of his knees touched the mattress of their bed.

“Meus es tu.” She said lowly, and she pushed at his chest, sending him backwards.

It turned into a battle for assertion. One that he admitted he thoroughly enjoyed— and intended on winning.

He took her with him, grabbing her waist to position her underneath. His smile was smug when he peered down into four golden slits, obviously dissatisfied at the turn of events.

Ignoring her bared teeth, he nudged open her legs with one knee before settling between them, then rolled against her in one swift movement, taking pleasure in the way she threw her head back with a growl.

He continued his ministrations, trailing hot kisses down her neck, just as she did to his moments before. One hand reached up to graze her breast as his kisses went farther down the middle of her chest, while his other hand roamed over the swell of her hips.

Raven in turn, was growing more frustrated with every second he kept her distracted with his teasing, light touches.

“Enough.” It was a command.

By the time he managed to blink he found himself on his back and she was straddling his waist.

Her hands encased with her dark magic. “Alliges duplicia.”

His arms lit up with her magic and they were forced above his head. When he tried to bring them back down he was met with resistance. What the hell? When he looked up his eyes widened with realization. She bound my fucking hands to the headboard.

“Raven.” He snarled in warning, tugging on his bonds. The demoness was unperturbed by his outburst.

“You will submit to me, mate.” A dangerous red swirled in those golden irises, and he clenched his jaw in response, then bit back a groan when she brushed against his length.

“Let me go.” He glared.

“I will not. This is your punishment. You will stay like this until you beg for me.”

“Tch.”

He detested how painfully hard he was. His erection strained against his trousers, and he couldn’t contain his next groan when she palmed him.

It didn’t matter how much he wished she’d slip her hand underneath his belt. He would not beg.

She began to strip slowly, until she was completely bare before him, and then she peeled off his pants carefully— and then his shirt. His full erection was on display for her, and he released a strangled noise in the back of his throat when she settled her heated core against him.

She chuckled darkly when he twitched underneath her. “Say please.”

“No.” he gritted out, breath hitching when her mouth latched onto one of his nipples, nipping roughly. Her tongue flicked it right after, mixing the pain she had caused with pleasure.

“No?” Her claws wrapped around his throat, squeezing in warning. “You are in no position to deny me, mate.”

He just glowered.

“Fine.” She relented, retracting her claws. “You will break eventually.”

Her fingers lifted to her full breasts, reddened from her true form, and her fingers began to tease one darkened nipple into a tight peak. The bonds went taut when he pulled at them roughly in an attempt to reach out to her. She noticed this and smirked as she teased her other nipple, then rocked against him. They groaned together.

He watched as she then slipped one hand down to her core and began to tease herself, parting her folds before slipping a finger inside while grazing against his cock.

She moaned, mouth parting slightly and he growled again in protest. That should be his fingers inside of her.

“If you insist on not obeying me, then I will use you for my own pleasure.” She sunk down onto his cock and his head hit the wall with his groan. Fuck, she felt so damned good and the pace she was setting set him on a steady course towards an impending orgasm, regardless of how much he despised not being in control.

“Beloved.” He growled when she brought him to the brink all too soon, then slowed back down while teasing her clit with her own fingers. Quick, circling motions that revealed her own need to him— that she was nearing her own orgasm.

He caught her hitched breath. She was losing resolve, caught in her own wave of pleasure.

“Release me.” He tugged on his bonds again and bucked his hips into her for good measure. “I want to be the one to fuck you when you come.”

She gasped and clenched around him, drawing him even deeper. “I will come soon. If you want to fuck me, you must beg now.”

He cursed. Goddamn her.

“Please, habibti. I am yours.”

With a victorious smirk, she waved a hand. That smirk was short-lived however, because as soon as the bonds disappeared he lunged for his little demoness, twisting them both before pulling out of her to roll her onto her stomach.

“You are mine too, Beloved. I will also make sure of that,” he snarled into her ear, teasing his cock at her entrance. His hands held her pressed against the bed.

The demoness laughed, then inhaled sharply when he pushed into her with one swift movement. They were both right at the edge, only a few more thrusts was all it would take to throw them both over.

“I can feel how close you are,” He reached a hand underneath her to press his thumb directly against her clit, “Come with me, now.”

She cried out— a sound that was more animalistic than human, and she fluttered around him. He fell shortly after, nearly seeing stars. He continued to thrust languidly, drawing out their orgasms. Vaguely, he watched as Raven’s skin turned from red to flushed ivory. One pair of eyes turned to peer up at him instead of two, and the color of her irises receded to lavender.

For a moment he watched her transform, breathless.

She smiled up at him as her breathing returned to normal and he returned it before dropping his face to her neck. “I’m going to have to make you jealous more often,” Damian murmured into her skin.

Raven snorted, lifting a hand to run through his sweat-soaked hair. “Unwise. Not only will I definitely kill the next one, it will hurt the entire time she is dying.”

“Green is a good color on you, habibti.”

She said nothing, but he could feel her contentment in the gentle run of her fingers across his hair and skin. As post-orgasmic clarity continued to take hold a question popped into his mind and he leaned up to regard her.

“When were you planning on telling me we were essentially demon-married?”

She flushed. “Eventually. Are you...did you not want…?”

He silenced her with a kiss, letting his actions and strength of his emotions answer her question. As though he could ever give this up, or stomach the idea of either of them being with someone else.

After all, Damian didn’t share either.

#damirae #damian x raven #damian wayne #raven #teen titans #fanfic

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