the end of life, but not of love

fran • she/her • 18+ • fic sideblog

[sednonamoris]

jason todd // dc

leave the lights on

john marston // rdr2

ghost story

ghost story: hauntings

javier escuella // rdr2

“tousle”

john price // cod

hellhound

“bedside”

sfw alphabet

[ceilidho]

TWO OF CUPS | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

You can’t remember wanting anything with ease. Certainly not the man of your dreams.

or: the anxious avoidant au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Mildly Dubious Consent, Anxious Avoidant Character, Coffee Shop AU, Strangers to Lovers

You can’t remember wanting anything with ease.

It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.

Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”

That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).

Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether. 

It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.

But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold. 

And it happens that way with your heart too.

There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine. 

It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.

The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.

You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.

They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them. 

Then, to him. 

He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down. 

Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence. 

Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun. 

You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him. 

It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again. 

And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time. 

That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he. 

It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—

It grows.

It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat. 

You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache. 

He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy? 

Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee. 

You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.

You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day. 

Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.

What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you. 

It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side. 

“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”

He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.

You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it. 

And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips. 

The only problem is—

Now he knows who you are.

You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger. 

But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in. 

It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.

Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.

His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could. 

“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.  

You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return. 

“Sorry?” you croak.

He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”

You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”

You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.

For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way. 

The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out. 

And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle. 

Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable. 

You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.  

Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.  

His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you. 

At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.

Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it. 

“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?” 

That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress. 

“For real?” you repeat.

“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you. 

“Oh.” 

You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu). 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died. 

It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat. 

You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely. 

The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.

But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land. 

What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?

Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection. 

But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous. 

You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you. 

Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town. 

To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory. 

Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.

You have to shut your mouth before you—

“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date? 

Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”

He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight. 

You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch. 

What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch. 

He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design. 

“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm. 

“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now. 

You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.

The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose. 

You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs. 

There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.

He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts. 

He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy. 

If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat. 

That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that. 

He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory. 

Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread. 

You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons. 

When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—

He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again. 

“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching. 

“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”

“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks. 

Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut. 

They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface. 

Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.

He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath. 

Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels. 

He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—

You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him. 

What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.

“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day. 

Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly. 

When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin. 

“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.

And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”

“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you. 

“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling. 

And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do? 

You nod. 

“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.” 

When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone. 

You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up. 

So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his? 

Besides, when have you wanted anything with ease?

[felinecyan]

A Forecast for Two

[Shoto Todoroki x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Sometimes love doesn’t always begin with fireworks. Sometimes, it starts with rain, an umbrella, and Shoto Todoroki’s quiet honesty.

WC: 1801

Category: Fluff, Slow Burn

I’m so bad with posting on this account, it’s not even funny 😭Anyways, since my last fic was about Shoto, I decided to start off with him again too

『••✎••』

It starts with rain, because of course it does—UA's campus always seems to conspire against anyone trying to stay dry on a Wednesday afternoon. You've always been the type to pick up on the little shifts in the air: the way the humidity thickens like a warning, the faint ozone bite before thunder rumbles in the distance. It's a habit, really, scanning for patterns in the chaos. And Shoto? You've been scanning him for months now, longer than you care to admit, even to yourself.

You're both lingering on the front steps of the dorms, your bag slung over one shoulder, and your umbrella forgotten in your room because who checks the forecast anymore? The downpour hits like it's personal, turning the world into a smeared gray haze. Shoto pulls out his own umbrella from his bag—black, unassuming, the kind he probably bought on sale without overthinking it. There's a soft click as it snaps open, the fabric unfurling with that efficient pop. He doesn't hesitate, just shifts closer and tilts it out toward you.

"Here," he says, voice even, like he's stating the weather instead of offering shelter. It's not a grand gesture, no dramatic flourish—just Shoto being Shoto. Practical. Steady.

You duck under it, the space between you shrinking to inches. The umbrella's not huge, and the wind's already tugging at the edges, so your arm brushes his as you start walking. He adjusts without a word, angling the handle so the drip line falls more on his side. A few fat raindrops speckle his shoulder almost immediately, darkening the fabric of his uniform jacket. He doesn't flinch or complain; if anything, he seems oblivious to it, eyes fixed on the path ahead like it's a mission parameter he needs to memorize.

You try to focus on anything else—the splash of your shoes in the shallow puddles, the rhythmic patter on the nylon overhead—but your gaze keeps drifting. To the way his hair clings a little at the temple, white strands stark against the red, both dulled by the storm's filter, to the scar that tugs faintly when he swallows, like it's pulling at some old, invisible thread. He's not oblivious to the rain, at least; his free hand flexes at his side, a subtle tell you've caught before when he's weighing whether to use his quirk. But he doesn't. Not for this. It's just rain, after all.

The silence stretches, comfortable in that way only long acquaintance can make it. You've known him since the sports festival fallout, when the whole class was still piecing together the jagged edges of who he was under all that ice. And in the quiet moments like this, you let your mind wander to the list you shouldn't keep but do anyway: the small proofs that he's noticed you back, even if he'd never say it outright.

Like that late-night study grind in the common room, when everyone else had bailed and you conked out face-first on your textbook. You woke to the scratch of his pencil on paper, a blanket draped over your shoulders—heavy, worn, carrying that faint, crisp scent of frost and exertion from his last training block. He hadn't looked up when you mumbled a thanks, just murmured, "Keep going. The chapter's important." No fuss, no pity. Or the walks to class, how he'd fall into step beside you without fanfare, his longer legs dialing back to yours like it was automatic. You remember testing it once, on a whim—jogging ahead just to see—and he'd matched without breaking stride, brow furrowing slightly like you'd thrown off his rhythm.

And then there was the exam week gut punch, when nerves had you skipping meals until your stomach was a knot. A knock at your door, and there he was: two steaming bowls of cold soba balanced in his hands, chopsticks tucked under his arm. "You didn't eat," he'd said flatly, like it was a fact he'd observed from across the cafeteria. No how-do-you-know, no you're-worrying-me lecture. Just a quiet handover and a shared meal on your floor, his presence steady as the steam rising between you.

You shove the memories down, because dwelling means admitting things you haven't earned the right to yet. He's Shoto Todoroki—half-hot, half-cold, all guarded edges. Raised in a pressure cooker of expectations, emotions locked away like a quirk he hasn't mastered yet. But you've seen the cracks: the way his shoulders ease when Bakugo's not yelling, the rare half-smile when Midoriya geeks out over strategy. With you, it's subtler—a lingering glance during sparring, or how his voice dips just a fraction softer when he asks about your day. Tells, if you're brave enough to call them that.

A gust rattles the umbrella, sending a cold trickle down your neck. You shiver, stepping closer on instinct, and your sleeve catches his fully this time. Heat prickles up your arm, not from his side but your own stupid pulse. He doesn't pull away. If anything, he holds steady, like the contact is just... there. Neutral. Except nothing about him feels neutral anymore.

"You're quiet today," he says, breaking the rhythm of the rain. His tone's the same low register, but there's a thread of something—curiosity? Concern?—woven in.

You huff a small laugh, more breath than sound, because yeah, pot, kettle. "Says the guy who communicates in grunts half the time." It's light, teasing in that careful way you do with him, testing the waters without splashing.

He glances at you then, heterochromatic eyes steady under the umbrella's shadow—one a cool storm-gray, the other flickering like embers in low light. No smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. "Fair." A beat, and he adds, quieter, "Everything okay?"

The question lands softer than it should, like he's handing you a spare bandage for a scrape you didn't mention. Your chest tightens. "Yeah. Just... the rain. Makes everything feel heavier, you know?"

He nods, once, deliberate. "It does." No elaboration, but he doesn't look away, and for a second, the world narrows to the space under the umbrella—just you, him, and the storm's muffled roar.

The path curves, forcing you closer, shoulders pressing now. His warmth seeps through the layers, a quiet counter to the chill, and your heart kicks up, loud enough that you swear he tilts his head like he's listening. By the time you hit the fork where your routes split—his to the main gate, yours to the library—you're equal parts grateful for the reprieve and gutted by it. Grateful for the space to think, to breathe without inhaling him, but god, you don't want it.

You start to murmur your typical goodbye, but he stops, umbrella still arched over you like a shield. Rain beads on his hair, one sliding down his temple before he swipes it away with his free hand. "I'll go with you."

It's not phrased as an offer; it's more of a decision he's already made. Classic Shoto—blunt as a quirk activation, no room for debate unless you push.

Your mouth goes dry. "You don't have to. It's out of your way."

He shrugs, the motion small, water scattering from his sleeve. "It's fine." And that's it—end of discussion.

You nod, falling back into step. The silence is thicker now, charged. The wind fights the umbrella harder, straining the fabric, and you risk a glance up. He's already looking—not intense, just... present. He's watching you with that calm intensity he saves for analyzing opponents or maybe, something more personal. Your stomach flips, a mix of dread and hope twisting like bad soba.

"I know," he says, out of nowhere, voice cutting through the downpour like frost on glass.

You nearly trip over a puddle. "Know... what?"

He doesn't break stride, but his grip on the umbrella tightens a fraction. "That you like me." Matter-of-fact, like he's naming the temperature or the time. No smirk, no drama—just the truth, laid bare.

Heat crashes through you, cheeks burning hotter than his flames ever could. You choke on a response, words tangling—

"I—how—why would—"

"You watch me," he interrupts gently, not unkindly. His eyes flick ahead again, but not before you catch the faint flush creeping up his neck, barely there, gone in a blink. "It's... I don’t mind, really. I just wanted you to know that."

His honesty's a shock, as raw as if he'd confessed. Your heart hammers in your chest, a mix of embarrassment and elation, and god, this is real. All this time, and it's finally, actually happening. But you need him to say it. To prove it.

Your foot catches on a stray rock, and you stumble, grabbing his arm to stay upright. He steadies you, and it's the most contact you've had, ever, period. You don't pull away, and neither does he.

"Why?" The question's soft, vulnerable. Your voice shakes, but the rest of you doesn't, not with his solid warmth against your side.

Shoto looks at you again, and this time, there's a spark there, an ember catching. His lips twitch, barely, into something that's not a smile, not yet. "Because." He says it like it's obvious, the answer to the test question you should have already known. His free hand hovers at your elbow, hesitant, then settles, thumb grazing your sleeve. Gentle, like a question.

"I see you too," he says, his voice low and almost shy, his face tipped close, and his eyes held steady. It's not the words so much as the way he says them, the way his touch lingers. You know, in that moment, he's not talking about noticing.

The umbrella tips, forgotten, and normally you'd care, but the heat that suddenly rushes over you is far more pressing. You realize then he activated his quirk, just a smidge, enough to warm the hand that's still gripping his arm. The gesture's deliberate, careful, like he's been practicing for this—or at least, thinking about it. It's not perfect, and that's what makes your heart skip a beat, because it's so perfectly him.

"We should keep walking," he says, softer, his expression open and hopeful. His other hand drifts toward your hip, stopping just shy of contact. You wonder, vaguely, if he's counting the seconds like you are, because this can't be happening.

But it is, and there's no room for doubt.

"Yeah," you murmur, fingers brushing his. "We should."

But neither one of you move.

The rain pours. The sky cracks. And beneath the umbrella, the space between you narrows until it's gone.

It starts with rain. But, like every good storm, it ends with the sun.

[seiwas]

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

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

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

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

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking? 

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?) 

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all. 

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

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

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

Kirishima’s right. 

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

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

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

You. 

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time. 

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

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

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

“Y’coming or what?” 

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?” 

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

Shouto stares right back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.” 

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head. 

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

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

These family lunches keep them connected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

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

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

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

Another thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

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

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

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

You nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

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

Touya’s words come back to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you. 

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done…”

“...just be honest about it when the time comes.”

The streets are calm at this time of night, with cars occasionally passing by and the chimes of shop doors tinkling as they open and shut. Not a lot of people stay up late in this part of the neighborhood, but Shouto still hears them—all the jumbled voices of Bakugo and his brothers merging in his mind. 

He steps onto concrete, footfalls muffled by the cushion of his boots—a new update on his costume, one you suggested after a stealth mission mishap caused by the drag of his heel. 

Tonight is his scheduled patrol—a route he knows like the back of his hand, memorized from the many years he’s been assigned to it. The streetlamps ahead cast a dim glow down the road; an atmosphere he would otherwise find unsettling if not for the fact that it’s provided him odd comfort in times he’s needed it the most. 

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

Lately, his interactions with you have been… different—shy glances and awkward slip-ups; the intentional way he’s been expressing himself more around you. 

He can’t tell what you think of it yet. 

Yet, you still sit with him in comfortable silence on the nights that you both work late, and you still bring in fresh flowers for his desk every few days. He’s sure that when he gets back to the agency after his shift, you’ll still be there, claiming to finish a report when you both know it’s just an excuse to make sure that he finished patrol safely.

You still care for him in the same way. 

And now that he’s thinking more about it, maybe it’s been those little things all along—the same way you’ve been treating him all these years shifting into something deeper and more significant, beating its way out of his chest. 

You know Shouto better than anyone—so much so that his family asks you for lists of gift ideas because they don’t have the slightest clue what else to get him. He’s found himself seeking your opinion on things more and more over the years, and if he’s being honest, a big chunk of his decisions are now partly influenced by what you think of them first. 

Across the street, a couple sways to the beat of the jazz bar they step out of, their hands intertwined and smiles giddy with adoration and love. He looks away quickly before they catch him staring. 

There are things Shouto’s discovered that he likes seeing you do—like how you shift your feet when you feel flustered at something he says, or when you tap your index finger against whatever surface it’s on when you’re deep in thought. Your eyes widen when he says things you don’t expect him to, and something about that intrigues him.

He thinks you look cute. 

He wonders if you know that about yourself; and if you don’t, a part of him is saying that he should be the one to tell you.  

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

The company trip spans an entire two weeks, with each department coming in a few days at a time. You both would stay if you could, but Shouto’s schedule doesn’t allow him to be gone for more than a day.

It’s always been unspoken: wherever Shouto goes, you go too. 

This day of the teambuilding is assigned for the managers and those under Shouto’s direct reporting team. 

The estate is still as beautiful as the last time you both visited, summer shining atop the glistening surface of the lake across the green field. Company trips aren’t typically this grand, but this is also the first time in years that Shouto’s had free time to drop by. 

(It’s a bit funny, you think, watching him struggle to reach the finish line in a three-legged race paired with his finance director. Shouto is typically awkward in most team activities, but you find it endearing, watching him put full effort into things he normally doesn’t do.) 

By mid-afternoon, the day’s activities have consisted of tank rolls, marble balancing, and a classic game of pass-the-message (which, you’ve learned, Shouto is absolute garbage at). And for the final game of the day, the both of you are paired for a duo tug of war against his PR manager and support engineer. 

The afternoon heat burns the back of Shouto’s neck, his cap providing little to no protection for that area of his skin. He stands behind you, rope twisted firmly in his grasp as he prepares to pull. You mimic his stance, bracing yourself with your knees bent as you grip the rope tightly. 

Prior to the game, you were all given three minutes to discuss strategies. 

And so now, Shouto counts, low and steady, “One.” 

“Get set,” the facilitator for this activity announces. 

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

You both pull, holding your ground for a few seconds. He can see your knuckles turning white from where he’s standing, and when he glances at the other team, they’ve begun to lean back, anchoring their bodies to the ground before pulling away slowly. 

Shouto digs his feet into the earth, the rope’s rough fibers sticking to the calluses on his hands. It doesn’t take long before you both slip forward, being dragged by the other team and eventually pulled into your loss. 

You turn back to him immediately, apologetic as you rub your palms, “Sorry!”

(Before the game even began, you already knew whoever your partner was would be carrying most of the work. And you feel a little bad because your loss does make a bit of sense, you think. 

Though Shouto is strong, you know he’s developed his agility far more than his strength. It doesn’t help that his support engineer lifts bulks of synthetic thermal cloth everyday. 

The both of you didn’t stand a chance, really.) 

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

“Are you okay?” he looks down at your hands. Your skin is an angry flaming red all over your palms, but what causes him to frown are the small cuts resting at the base of your fingers. 

“Yup, all g–” you attempt to hide it, but Shouto’s reflexes are quick, and he catches your wrist the moment you pull away. 

It’s an instinctive reaction when he looks over it once, pressing his thumb to the center of your palm to get a better look. He reaches for his utility belt out of habit, patting the area above his hip only to feel nothing but the smooth cotton of his shirt.

Right, he remembers, he isn’t wearing his gear today.  

He drops his arms, looking around the field for a first-aid kit nearby. 

(A small chuckle escapes you, endeared, and Shouto looks up at the sound. His eyes meet yours briefly before he jogs all the way to retrieve the red box by the tree. 

It’s just a friction burn; a few small cuts from the rough material of the rope, at most. 

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

When Shouto comes back, he ushers you to the side, grabbing a few cotton buds and antiseptic ointment from the box. His brain works on autopilot, barely thinking as he tends to your injury.

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

He peels the bandaid for you and gently places it on top of your wounds—a yellow checkered pattern decorating your skin. 

(You don’t need first aid. But you kind of get it, you think. It’s the same instinctive reaction you have when he gets papercuts. There’s no need for you to mend them with your quirk, but it’s an inexplicable feeling that makes you feel uneasy at the idea of him getting injured off the field.

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

“Better?” Shouto stares at you from under his cap, readjusting it as red and white strands touch the tips of his eyelashes. 

(He looks unfairly pretty like this. How can he even expect you to answer?

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, swallowing your breath. 

When Shouto walks towards everyone else, you follow, pressing your thumb onto your palm.) 

.

.

.

Shouto drops by the greenhouse at the end of the day. 

The sky above the glass dome ceiling is warmed by orange and pink hues. At sunset, the greenhouse looks ethereal, an almost otherworldly escape. The flowers haven’t changed much from his last visit here, but they seem to have blossomed further now that time has passed. 

He walks past the familiar cluster of chrysanthemums and spots a patch of white flowers he doesn’t recall from last time—a wooden placard with the name ‘iris’ sticks out from the soil. His knees bend to crouch low, fingers grazing over the softness of its petals. 

Earlier today, the estate so kindly offered to let him bring home flowers of his choice, and this bunch in front of him calls out to him, a purity and warmth that reminds him of his mom. 

The nippers in his hand feel clunky, a heavy-duty version of the ones he uses when he helps with gardening at home; but he cuts the stems gently, careful to remember all he’s been taught. 

When he thinks he’s gotten enough, he continues to stroll around the greenhouse, the wicker basket in his hand half-filled with pure, white irises. 

A little further down the path, he passes by the hydrangea bushes, his steps slowing as fragmented pieces of that memory with you replay in slow motion. 

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

Your desk always seems to have some, and you’re consistently on top of keeping fresh flowers around the agency—on his desk specifically. 

It’s only right.

His mom always tells him that flowers can never lie; they bloom where they are loved and speak from the heart when words are not enough—it’s why she loves them so much.

And, maybe she has a point, because the pink hydrangeas look pretty; they remind him of you, especially.

On his way here, the white camellias spoke to him too. Maybe he’ll get them both for you. 

He crouches low again, nipping the hydrangea stems before backtracking to collect a few camellias. By the time he finishes, his wicker basket is filled to the brim, an assortment of pink and white threatening to spill from its edges. The leaves of the irises stick out, poking at his wrist and making the skin itch.

You find him that way—struggling to wrangle in the abundance of blooms into his basket.

“I think you need another basket,” you chuckle, walking towards him. 

There’s something about you and this hour; how it feels like you fit right in this moment, at the peak of sunset, blooming the same way the flowers do. 

Your smile is radiant against the warmth of diffused sunlight, and though he’s seen you in this same exact slacks-and-blouse combination before, the way he sees you now has shifted. 

You look different, but in all the ways he can’t visibly point out. 

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

His arm moves before he can comprehend it, the bunch of camellias and hydrangeas outstretched towards you.

Your eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you tilt your head slightly, your hand reaching out for it reluctantly. 

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

(The flowers feel lush in your palm, and you can’t help but wonder who he intends to give them to. There are irises in his basket too, left untouched for reasons you’re not sure you’d like to know. 

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

The camellias stare back at you, an immaculate white, with the pink hydrangeas adding a delicate softness to them. It’s a pretty combination, and you can’t help but think that whoever they’re intended for should feel—)

“It’s for you.”

You lock eyes when you look up. There’s a weight to Shouto’s gaze that intends to get his message across, the words still barely forming on his tongue. 

“Oh,” is the only thing you manage to say.  

(—surprised; grateful; confused; the emotions swirl inside of you. The shock is apparent on your face, your eyes widening at his admission. Confusion presents itself in the tilt of your head as you stumble over how to express your gratitude.

“It’s not…” you hesitate, diverting your gaze to anything else but that piercing pair of gray-and-blue. Your mind is drawing up a blank, figuring out what reason he has for giving them to you.)

“There’s no occasion…?”

It comes out as half a question and half something else, your uncertainty marked by the semi-lilt at the end. 

Shouto blinks. 

He wonders if he should tell you now, if he should just confess that he’s been feeling differently about you these days.

You shift your feet, your thumbs rubbing against the flowers’ leaves. 

The thump persists in his chest, knocking at the base of his throat—

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

—but even with its persistence, the words still struggle to come out.

Thump.

Maybe not now; it’s not the right time. 

But he says something else, an admission much easier that still holds just as much truth.

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

You switch out the flowers on his desk for a different arrangement of blooms every week. Then, you give him a run-down of his schedule, going over important announcements and upcoming events. 

The mornings go by quickly, with you constantly moving around your desk. Shouto can’t tell what you’re doing exactly, but you’re always working on something whenever he sneaks a peek through the single glass panel cut-out from your shared wall. 

Lunch is a wildcard. On some days, you bring your own; on others, you grab a bite down in the cafeteria. Your routine is largely dependent on how busy you anticipate work to be that day, and though it varies from time-to-time, you never forget to knock on his door—a two-part thump that takes him out of his own little work bubble. 

He almost looks forward to it now, the way your head peeps in from behind his office doors. You call out his name softly, only continuing to speak when he looks up from whatever file he’s working on. 

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

You spend the afternoons all over the place, much like he does; while he roams the city, you roam the agency, attending meetings and checking in on different departments. He knows because when he comes back by the end of the day, you almost always have a new set of updates prepared on your desk for the next morning. 

He also knows that Mondays are when you often work overtime, preferring to get a bulk of any urgent matters completed and out of the way.

The back door of his office clicks shut as he walks into the room, his rubber boots leaving no trace that he’s arrived from how quietly his footsteps hit the floor. He unbuckles his utility belt, one hand automatically reaching for its lock; it’s a habit, the ‘clack’ that sounds from it a satisfying marker he looks forward to at the end of every patrol. 

In the corner of his office is a private restroom that he slips into. He quickly changes out of his hero suit and into a pair of sweatpants, throwing on one of his many favorite white shirts—his go-to outfit on the days he works late. 

There are still some reports he has to look over tonight, but nothing too time-consuming. 

It’s really you he’s staying behind for. 

He glances at you through the glass panel of his wall, your face dimly lit by your computer screen. Your eyebrows are scrunched, eyes squinting in pure focus. 

It never feels right for him to leave when you haven’t left either. 

He settles into his seat, finger tapping on his desk as he contemplates whether or not he should offer you his help. 

You always decline when he does; he can already hear your response. But there are stacks of folders on your desk right now and he’s predicting that it’ll take at least a few more hours before you get through all of them.

He taps his foot, staring at the report in front of him. 

A thump. 

The wheels of his chair roll back, leather squeaking as he stands up. 

As soon as he exits his office, you look up, surprised. 

“You’re back!” 

He nods, walking closer to your desk. “It’s 8:00 p.m.”

You glance at the top of your screen, a sheepish smile forming on your face, “Right.” 

(This is his way of telling you it’s late, you’re well aware.)

He looks around your desk, folders and stationery all neatly organized and labeled. You keep a few touches of your personality around your space, with personalized pens and notepads gathered in one corner. 

They’re all things he’s seen before, but what makes him do a double-take is the vase sitting in the corner, obscured by your computer screen. 

Sitting inside it is the arrangement of flowers he gave you back at the teambuilding, the pink hydrangeas still as good as new next to the white camellias. It’s been a little over a week since, and you always change the arrangement on your desk as frequently as you change his. 

So for you to keep it for this long—

“And how may I help you?” you ask jokingly, biting down your smile. 

His eyes flit over to you, your gaze set on your screen as you continue to type.

(It’s hard to focus on the documents in front of you when he looks at you like that. Shouto’s stare has always been unnerving, but it feels especially scrutinizing when he merely stands, watching without a word.)

“You have a lot of work left,” he gestures towards the stack of folders on your desk. 

(Your eyes glance over the pile quickly as you mumble, “Yeah.” 

A few seconds of silence pass before what he really means starts to sink in. 

It’s not often that Shouto finishes work before you—at least, to your knowledge. You still see him inside his office when you pack your things, ready to leave. 

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

And if he’s standing in front of your desk, hinting at how much longer you’ll be staying at work. Then, it can only mean—

“A-are you waiting for me to go?” you move to stand, guilty. “Don’t worry about it, I can lock up.”)

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

That’s never been a thing; he’s always gone home last, and has always waited for you when you have work left to do. He makes sure of it every time, watching carefully for your computer light to turn off. 

But he won’t tell you that; letting you know would mean admitting that he’s been doing it for years. 

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

You stay quiet for a few seconds before reluctantly listing it all—reports, meeting summaries, and a few emails you plan to schedule for tomorrow morning. His frown deepens as your list only grows, immediately cutting yourself off the second you notice your ramblings. 

“… but if you’re waiting, I can bring these home and—”

“What can I do to help?” he interjects, stopping you just before you shut down your computer. 

(You can only stare when proceeds to take a seat in front of you, the legs of your guest chair dragging against the floor as he pulls it closer. 

It hits you a bit like déjà vu, this moment, how it feels just like early days back in that rented studio unit; back when you could count the number of people comprising his team on one hand. 

Back then, your desks were just a few steps away from each other, an overflow of paperwork inevitably spilling into each other’s spaces. Because all of the files were stored in your drawers, it was more convenient for Shouto to sit himself across your desk, splitting the work and going over them one at a time. 

Things are different now that the agency’s grown—you have a bigger space, and the work isn’t nearly as packed as it used to be; but some days still end up a little bit more hectic than others. Like today.

“There’s no need,” you reach for the stack under his palm, “I can finish this at—”

“We can finish faster if we do this together.”

That promptly shuts you up. 

Shouto is blunt to a fault, unafraid of saying things as they are; his voice carries an unbothered cadence no matter who it is he’s talking to. 

You figure, there’s no point arguing with him when he’s right, after all.) 

Shouto begins going over a few of the reports that you’ve tagged red and yellow, listening intently as you instruct him on which parts to focus on. In exchange, you make space for him on your desk, setting aside some of the folders you had brought out earlier.

It’s a good hour into working before Shouto notices you easing up slightly, your shoulders more relaxed in comparison to how bunched up they were earlier.

He knows you’ve been glancing at him occasionally, your head turning every now and then to check on how he’s doing—a failed attempt at subtlety. 

“Are you almost done?” he asks, head down as he slips another completed file into its folder. The stack beside him is growing, his ‘done’ pile nearly as tall as the unfinished one. 

(You turn to him, attention shifting to the split of red and white hair down the center of his head, “Yeah, I just—”

Your words trail off, eyes squinting as you move closer to where he’s hunched over. 

Right on the shoulder of his shirt is a small tear, big enough to touch the edges of its collar but small enough that you’d only have to be up close to be able to notice. 

You assess the tear intently, looking carefully for any cuts underneath and thankfully find none.

But—

He notices you’ve gone quiet and looks up, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You make a sound, something in-between a squeak and an ‘oops.’ 

“Sorry, I just,” you point, “your shirt’s ripped.” 

His eyes follow the direction of your finger, finding the small tear running horizontally along the fabric of hjs shirt. 

“I can fix it,” you offer, the wheels of your chair rolling to land you directly across him. 

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

He barely thinks when his body acts on its own, pressing itself closer to your desk as you slightly bend over for better reach. 

You don’t have to patch up his shirt, especially something so small. He has plenty of the same ones in his closet; and if it comes to it, he wouldn’t mind buying a new one. You really don’t have to patch up his shirt, because he wouldn’t have even noticed had you not mentioned it. 

But it’s that kind of tender care and attention to detail that you’ve had for him since you started working together that’s always drawn him in. 

Shouto has lived most of his life with the means to live comfortably, but since starting his own agency, he’s learned the value of maximizing resources—and it’s all because of you.

A thump. 

The moment your fingers touch his shoulder, he hears nothing but that continuous three-beat thump. Your quirk tingles when it touches skin, but you aren’t mending that—you’re fixing his shirt, separate from your skin, and yet, he still feels the little zaps go off inside of him. 

A thump. 

Up close, the strands of your hair tickle his cheek. 

A thump. 

The fabric of his shirt mends itself slowly, and it only makes him think of everything else—of the leather chair you helped fix, painstakingly going through each and every crack to bring it back to near-new condition. He thinks about every cut and scrape you’ve helped heal without having to, about every time you’ve insisted when he’d shrug it off as nothing. 

From you, he’s learned that things can be fixed without having to change them whole. 

It’s how he’s (you’ve) managed to keep the agency running; it’s why you get along so well with him and the rest of his family. 

And these feelings in his chest are pounding, built up over time to tip over and transform into something more than just an excellent work dynamic. At this point, it’s become companionship, a presence he seeks out a little bit more than friendship. 

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

So, he says your name, voice low and tender by your ear. 

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

(You don’t believe it at first, the urge to ask him again right at the tip of your tongue. But, he pulls away, unfinished, and looks you in the eye to continue. 

“But it feels more than a crush, I think.” He presses his fingers against the table, grounding himself, “Natsuo told me it was a crush, and he told me to think about it, so I did.” 

Shouto is a man of sufficient words; not too few, not too plenty. But when he gets nervous and a little excited, he starts rambling, and—

“Bakugo told me his mom thought we were dating, and even though I said that wasn’t the case, I almost didn’t want to deny it. Touya has been a dick about it, but he makes good points, so I also owe it to him.”

(The shock on your face shifts into fondness. You can’t see the point of what he’s saying yet, but it’s cute—one of the many things that make him endearing.) 

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

“It started with this thumping,” he places a hand over his chest. “It used to only come sometimes, but lately it’s been happening all the time.” 

Shouto keeps his gaze deadset on yours. He doesn’t say anything else, sentences just barely forming in his head to fully capture what he really means. His feet and palms stay firmly planted where they are, his only movement being the steady blinking of his eyes. 

(But it’s okay, because you can understand. 

If you’re being honest, the signs were all there. 

Nothing Shouto does can be subtle when you know him as well as you do. 

A smile breaks out on your face, the one you can barely contain around him. It’s a little teasing and shy but completely genuine from the way it softens your eyes. 

“We’ll have to come up with something for HR,” you try to contain your smile.)

And he isn’t worried at all. He knows you’ll both find a way, just like you always do.

additional material: moodboard + playlist

a/n: so much to say about this fic but i'll sum it up with saying this is my baby! and i hold it close to my heart for many reasons. writing this made me love their dynamic and i hope you did too! also maybe slightly unrealistic office/hr rules but 🤷‍♀️ he’s the boss he makes the rules 🤧

thank you notes: to @soumies for literally beta reading this. i owe this fic to you fr you are my lifesaver i love you. to @augustinewrites @scarabrat @stellamancer @arcvenes for helping me a ton with characterisations, dialogues, songs, inspo, everything!!! ily all!! it took a village to write this fic fr. (+ to my bf for sitting me down so he could explain the whole point system of golf for like 30 minutes LOL)

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[weltenwellen]

Andrea Gibson, The Madness Vase

[cellophanejpeg]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ when did you get hot? | h. sero

s. After being forced to download a dating app, you find a familiar face in the sea of shitty profiles, and everything gets a little more complicated. w.c 5.5k n. wrote this at work hope you like it

m. list | read on ao3

…

If you’re being honest, you’ve never thought of Sero like that.  Maybe you haven’t really thought of him at all.

Back in high school, you barely exchanged a word. He was always surrounded by people you never quite clicked with, so you learned to steer clear of that crowd.

So it catches you off guard when his name appears on your screen.

It’s not like you even wanted to be on a dating app. Hagakure insisted, in that bright, impossible-to-argue-with way of hers. You’ve been painfully single for so long it’s embarrassing to admit, even to yourself. She wore you down, piece by piece, until you finally gave in and downloaded an exclusive app developed for pro heroes only.

You swiped for a while, thumb moving on autopilot as profile after profile blurs together. Nice enough. Not your type. Definitely not. 

Then you see him.

You sit up straight on the couch, shoulders squaring as if you’ve been caught. The movie is completely forgotten, and the popcorn bowl tips over, kernels spilling across the cushions as your eyes stay locked on his picture. You barely notice the mess, heart thudding a little harder than it should as you stare at the screen.

You stare at his profile longer than necessary, thumb hovering just above the screen. His smile looks different up close, softer than you remember, a little crooked at the edges. There’s something relaxed about him now, like he’s grown into himself. You tilt your head slightly, lips pressing together as you read his bio once, then again.

There are photos of him in his hero suit, confident and sharp, a few candid ones with his friends, all easy smiles and loose limbs. Then there’s one of him shirtless on a beach, sun-warmed skin and scars you don’t remember him having back then. Something shifts in your chest, subtle, like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. People change. High school was a lifetime ago. Still, your chest feels oddly tight, and you shift on the couch, tucking one leg under yourself as if that might settle it.

Your thumb finally moves. Right swipe. Heart hammering inside.

The app immediately flashes a match on the screen. You blink, then let out a short, surprised laugh, one hand coming up to cover your mouth even though you’re alone. Your heart starts beating faster, and you sit there for a second, staring, trying to convince yourself this isn’t a big deal.

A shaky breath leaves your lips as you lock your phone and set it on the coffee table. You glance at the TV without really seeing the movie anymore. Should you message him, or should you wait? Dating apps are hard.

You can’t calm your mind down, so you hop off the couch and start cleaning the mess you made. You carry the popcorn bowl to the kitchen, appetite suddenly gone. When you return to the living room, you don’t fight it. You grab your phone, drop back onto the couch, and unlock it.

There’s a message waiting for you. It’s his.

Your breath catches, and you clear your throat out of habit before opening it, shoulders rolling back as you straighten without realizing.

hey :) we went to high school together, he texts as if he hadn't seen you at the last high school reunion. Maybe he forgot about you. You exhale, typing an answer.

You: yeah, I know. Hi.

Is that too rude? Your heart hammers inside your chest. Maybe you should add a smiley face too. You start to type, but the speech bubble with the blinking dots appears on your screen.

Sero: funny seeing you here

You scoff softly, shaking your head because it’s true.

You: Yeah, Hagakure made me download this… wasn’t expecting a familiar face though

The dots appear again, disappear, then come back, like he’s second-guessing himself too. You hold the phone a little tighter, thumb resting uselessly along the edge as you wait.

Sero: me neither… you’ve been working at her agency, right?

Your shoulders loosen a fraction. You hadn’t realized how tense you were until now. You let out a quiet breath through your nose, gaze drifting to the ceiling for half a second before returning to the screen.

Maybe he didn’t forget you. Maybe he’s just nervous.

You type again, slower this time.

You: Yeah! As a side-kick. You’ve gone independent, right?

Sero: sure did. didn’t have the guts to open an agency.

Sero: or the money

The honesty of it catches you off guard, casual and a little self-deprecating. 

You: Yeah, I can relate. How have you been? Despite everything.

Sero: good. busy, in a good way. you?

You smile without meaning to, the corner of your mouth lifting as you think about it.

You: Same, I guess. Life kind of sneaks up on you.

There’s a pause. Longer than the others. You chew on your lower lip, eyes flicking to the typing bubble when it finally appears.

Sero: yeah… i wasn’t sure if you’d swipe right.

Your breath stutters, just a little. 

You: Why not?

Sero: you seem like a person who has high standards

You frown.

You: So you’re saying you’re… not?

The dots appear almost immediately.

Sero: hey, no. that’s not what i meant

Sero: just that you always seemed like you knew what you wanted

You huff a quiet laugh, head tipping back against the couch.

You: fake it ’til you make it, i guess?

A string of laughing emojis comes through almost immediately, and you smile at the screen before you can stop yourself. He doesn’t answer right away after that. The speech bubble appears, disappears, then comes back again, like he’s thinking through whatever he wants to say next.

When the message finally arrives, you exhale a slow breath.

Sero: guess we all do that a little

Something about the way he phrased it sticks with you. “Always seemed like you knew what you wanted”. Like he’d been watching from a distance, without your knowledge. Your chest feels warm in an unfamiliar way.

The conversation drifts after that, easy and unremarkable on the surface. Small updates. A joke about patrol schedules. A complaint about coffee that tastes like burnt regret. Normal things.

But when you finally set your phone down, screen going dark, you lie there staring up at the ceiling, replaying his words over and over.

“You always seemed like you knew what you wanted.”

You hadn’t realized how much being seen, even quietly, might change things.

…

Days pass like a flash in front of your eyes.

Somewhere between late-night texts and quick check-ins during patrol breaks, the app becomes irrelevant. Your chat moves to your phone, his name replacing a generic notification, his messages slipping into your day like they’ve always belonged there.

You hate to admit your stomach twists pleasantly every time you see his name on your phone screen.

You glance around your bedroom and sigh at the mess. It’s your day off, and Sero finally asked you out for coffee. And you have no idea what to wear. You’ve already changed twice, panic starting to settle in the back of your throat, tight and familiar.

Taking a deep breath, you decide to go with the first outfit you originally chose. You don’t look in the mirror, afraid you’ll change your mind again if you do.

The café isn’t hard to find. It’s a nice place downtown, warm light spilling out through the windows. You hesitate outside, fingers curling around your phone, pulse loud in your ears. For a moment, you pretend you’re not nervous at all.

Fake it ’til you make it.

You push the glass door open, and the smell of roasted coffee beans greets you first. Soft music hums somewhere in the background. You scan the room out of habit, eyes moving automatically, and it doesn’t take long to find him.

Sero is sitting near the window, legs stretched out under the table. He looks up, and his expression shifts as soon as he sees you. A wide smile spreads across his face, and he starts to stand as you approach the table.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You know he was tall in high school. You remember that clearly. And even though you meet up with your old classmates every year, you’ve never really interacted with him long enough to notice just how much he’s grown. His shoulders are broader now too, something you can see even through the oversized T-shirt he’s wearing, the fabric sitting differently on him than it used to.

“Hey,” he says, smiling when you stop in front of him.

Up close, you can see details, like the sharper line of his jaw, the faint shadows under his eyes, the quiet confidence in the way he moves… He’s handsome in a way that feels settled, like he’s grown into himself instead of trying to fill a role.

“Hi,” you answer, voice softer than you mean to be.

For a moment, neither of you moves. He rubs the back of his neck, a gesture you recognize, unmistakably like the boy you went to school with.

“You look the same,” he says, then shakes his head, cringing. “I mean— good. You look good.”

You huff a laugh, noticing the nervousness in his tone. At least you’re not the only one.

“You also look the same,” you reply. “Except— bigger.”

Sero chuckles too and then motions to the table. You sit across from him, knees almost touching.

“So,” he says, glancing toward the counter and then back at you, “do you already know what you want, or are you the kind of person who panics under pressure?”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head.

“I absolutely panic,” you admit. “I’ve been standing outside mentally ordering for ten minutes.”

That earns a grin. He leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along the back like he’s trying not to look too comfortable and failing.

“Good,” he says. “That makes me feel better. I stared at the menu for so long the barista asked if I was okay.”

You laugh, shoulders easing.

“You look like a black coffee kind of person.” You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes a little as if you’re analyzing him. 

“Wow,” he chuckles. “Called out immediately.”

You shrug, a smirk tugging at your mouth. “It’s very hero-coded. Especially independent heroes who patrol a lot at night.”

He laughs under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like you’ve caught him in something obvious.

“Fair.” He gives in. “What about you?”

“Guess.”

Sero narrows his eyes, mirroring your earlier gesture, pretending to analyze you just as seriously.

“Maybe something sweet, like those crazy, half-sugar, half-caramel-syrup orders we see on the internet.”

Your jaw drops, and a laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it.

“That’s gross!” You keep laughing, and he joins you for a moment. “I do like sweet coffee, though.”

“See?”

“Not too sweet,” you add quickly, lifting a finger as you explain yourself. “Like a simple latte, or something.”

“Right,” he says, an easy smile settling on his face. “Do you want to order now, or…?”

“Yeah, I think if I take any longer, I’ll have a panic attack.”

Sero snorts, as you both stand from your seat. “I’ve got you.”

After getting your orders, you don’t notice time passing.

One topic bleeds into the next, stories stacking on top of each other so easily it almost feels unreal. You talk about patrol routes and bad coffee, about coworkers who drive you insane and the kind you’d trust with your life. He tells you about going independent, the freedom and the fear tangled together, and you admit things you usually keep tucked away, thoughts you don’t share often because they feel too honest.

At some point, your cups are empty. At some point after that, you realize the café has grown quieter. The sky outside is darker now, blue bleeding into a soft orange as the sun sinks lower.

There’s a pause between you two as the realization settles in. You’ve been here all afternoon. Neither of you reaches for your phone. Neither of you rushes to fill the silence. It’s the kind of quiet that feels comfortable, heavy in a good way, like leaving it would mean breaking something fragile you didn’t know you were building. You don’t want it to end, and judging by the way he lingers, neither does he.

“I should get going.” You slowly start grabbing your bag, movements careful, heart beating a little faster. You don’t want to go.

He hesitates.

“Hey,” he says. “Do you have plans for dinner?”

You pause, fingers tightening briefly around the strap of your bag, then shake your head.

“No,” you admit. “Nothing planned.”

There’s a beat. He watches you, searching your face like he’s making sure he’s reading this right.

“There’s a Mexican place a few blocks from here,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just good food.” He shifts in his chair, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the table. “If you want. No pressure.”

Your heart gives a small, traitorous flutter. You glance out the window again, at the darkening sky, then back at him. He’s still waiting, giving you space, like he’s learned to do that somewhere along the way.

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”

…

The margaritas are his idea. Then the second round is yours.

Somewhere between tacos disappearing from the plates and salt sticking to your fingers, the edge comes off completely. Your cheeks feel warm, your laughter comes easier, and the space between you feels smaller without either of you actually moving closer.

Sero leans back against the booth, one arm slung over the backrest, eyes a little glassy but still focused on you.

“I have a confession to make,” he says, lowering his voice like it’s a secret.

You sip on your drink and nod once at him, elbow resting lazily on the table.

“Go ahead, my boy,” you say, clearly drunk.

“I almost didn’t come today.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, but it isn’t casual. Not really. His shoulders lift and fall a little heavier than before.

“Thought you might cancel. Or realize you could do better.”

You snort before you can stop yourself, lifting your glass slightly. “Wow. You really have a low opinion of yourself.”

He grins crookedly, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. “Only a little.”

You take a sip, then another, fingers tightening around the glass as you study him more closely. The confidence is there, sure, but now you can see the cracks around it, the careful way he chooses his words, the hesitation tucked just beneath the surface.

“I have a confession too.” You turn your body toward him a little more. “I almost didn’t come too.”

His eyebrows lift. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” you say, nodding once.

“Because of me?”

“Because I didn’t know what to wear,” you say honestly.

That earns a laugh from him, sincere and contagious, his head tipping back slightly.

“I’m serious!” you exclaim, laughing too. “You know those days when nothing looks good on you? I almost had a mental breakdown. I didn’t even look at myself before I left the apartment.”

“That’s crazy, you look beautiful,” he says, sincere and immediate.

You feel your cheeks warm at the compliment, heat creeping up your neck. You glance down for half a second before looking back at him.

“Well.” You try to shrug casually, even as a small smile betrays you. “Thank you.”

He watches your reaction for a second longer than necessary, like he’s committing it to memory. Then he lifts his glass again, tapping it lightly against the table.

“Okay,” he says. “Since we’re doing confessions now.”

You perk up immediately, leaning your elbow on the table and resting your chin in your hand. “Oh, we’re doing confessions?”

He nods once, serious in a very unserious way. “Yes.”

“Go on,” you prompt, lips quirking.

He takes a slow sip, eyes drifting toward the table before coming back to you.

“Confession,” he says. “I practiced what I was going to say to you today. In the shower.”

You laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.” He groans softly, covering his face with his hand for a second. “Full conversations. Different versions. None of them went how this is actually going.”

You grin, warmth spreading through your chest. “That’s adorable.”

He lowers his hand, squinting at you. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“Well, I did,” you say lightly. “My turn.”

You lift your glass, considering it like it holds the answer.

“Confession,” you say. “I checked your Instagram before coming here. Multiple times.”

His eyes widen. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” You nod, completely unapologetic. “I almost liked a six months old picture.”

“Which one?” he asks, leaning in just a little.

You don’t hesitate, thanks to the alcohol.

“The one where you’re shirtless. On a beach. With Kaminari and Kirishima,” you say, taking a sip.

He exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “That tracks. That photo did numbers.”

You hum. “I noticed.”

“Confession,” he says. “I was sitting in that café for ten minutes before you came in, pretending to text someone so I wouldn’t look like I was waiting.”

You laugh again, shoulders shaking.

“That’s so cute!” You exclaim.

Red paints his cheeks as he laughs with you. You finish your margarita and place the glass back on the table.

“Confession,” you say, alcohol giving you the liquid courage you need. “This is my first date ever.”

Sero’s eyes widen, his smile faltering slowly instead of blooming like it usually does. The split second of silence stretches, uncomfortable and loud, and it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Alcohol loosens your lips and tightens the regret right after.

“Are you serious?” he asks.

You exhale, fingers tightening around your glass.

“Yeah… I mean—” You trail off, already wanting to backtrack, already bracing yourself. Maybe you made it weird. Maybe you ruined it.

Sero exhales a laugh, but it’s sharp, almost offended.

“Wait. Hold on.” He sits up straighter in the booth, blinking at you like the words still aren’t registering. “Your first date? Like— ever ever?”

You nod, eyes dropping to the table. “Yeah. Guess I never really—”

“Okay, no.” He shakes his head immediately, cutting you off. “I refuse to accept that.”

You glance up, confused. “What?”

He gestures vaguely between you and the space around you, like the entire situation is personally insulting him. “You’re telling me no one—no one—ever asked you out?”

Your shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I guess not.”

He lets out another breathy laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “That’s insane. That’s actually insane.”

You swallow, heat crawling up your neck. “I didn’t mean to make it awkward. You don’t have to—”

“And this,” he adds suddenly, looking around the restaurant with exaggerated offense, “this is where I took you for your first date?”

“Sero—”

“It’s a great place,” he rushes out, pointing at the table, the half-empty plates, the salt stuck to your fingers. “I love this place. But still. I should’ve—” He stops himself, huffing. “Damn it.”

Despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I am appropriately dramatic,” he corrects, then looks back at you, expression softening in a way that makes your chest ache just a little. “You’re amazing. Like ridiculously amazing. I don’t get how no one ever asked you out.”

He stops, squints at you, then laughs quietly to himself.

“Confession,” he says suddenly.

You raise your eyebrows. “Yeah?”

He leans closer across the table, voice dropping, eyes warm and unfocused in that drunk, too-honest way. “I had a crush on you in high school.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“Yeah,” he admits easily, like the truth has been waiting years to come out. “Big one. Thought you were the coolest, prettiest girl in class. Never said anything because I figured you were way out of my league.”

You stare at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

He snorts. “See? That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.”

The air between you shifts, heavy and charged, and for the first time all night, neither of you rushes to fill the silence.

“Confession,” you say, now more serious than before. “Back in high school, I’ve always felt intimidated by you.”

The words hang between you, heavier than the others. Sero pauses.

“Me?” he asks, genuinely startled.

You nod, a small, almost embarrassed movement.

“Yeah. You were loud, and confident, and everyone liked you. You always looked like you knew exactly where you were going, what you were doing.” You let out a quiet breath. “I felt like if I stood too close, you’d see right through me.”

He laughs at first, a short sound of disbelief, but it fades quickly when he realizes you’re not joking.

He leans forward, forearms resting on the table now, eyes locked on you like he’s trying to understand a puzzle that doesn’t make sense. “I thought you were untouchable.”

That makes you look up.

“Untouchable?” you repeat.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding like it’s obvious. “You were smart, and gorgeous, and always so put together. You had this look like you didn’t need anyone.” He shakes his head, letting out a soft, incredulous laugh. “I was terrified of you.”

You huff, a quiet sound that’s half disbelief, half something dangerously close to emotion. “That’s insane.”

“See?” he says gently. “That’s exactly how I felt.”

Your chest tightens at that, the realization settling in slowly. All that time, all those years, and you’d both been standing on opposite sides of the same misunderstanding.

Sero swallows, gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you.

“Confession,” he says, softer this time.

You brace yourself. “Okay.”

“I never thought I’d get to sit across from you like this.” His smile is small, almost shy now. “Definitely never thought I’d be your first date.”

Your heart stutters.

“And I really,” he adds, glancing around the table, then back at you, voice low and sincere, “don’t want to mess this up.”

The admission settles warm and heavy in your chest, and suddenly the restaurant feels too loud, too close, too aware of the fact that neither of you wants this night to end.

“Confession,” he continues, moving to take your hands in his.

“That’s two in a row,” you whisper, but Sero ignores you.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

His fingers curl around yours, warm and a little unsteady, like the alcohol has finally caught up to him. His thumbs brush against your knuckles, slow and absent-minded, but he doesn’t let go. He’s looking at you openly now, eyes dipping to your mouth and back up again, no attempt to hide it.

Your breath stutters.

For a split second, doubt flickers—maybe this is moving too fast—but it dies just as quickly. The buzz in your veins, the hours of talking, the honesty piled between you like kindling. You squeeze his hands back, grounding yourself, grounding him.

“Confession,” you reply, voice quieter but steady. “I really want you to kiss me right now.”

Something shifts in his expression. His shoulders relax like he’s been holding tension there all night. He lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh through his nose, forehead dipping just a little closer to yours.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

You nod, pulse hammering, heart practically climbing into your throat. “Yeah.”

That’s all he needs.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull back if you want to, but you don’t. When his lips finally meet yours, it’s warm and tentative at first, like he’s checking if this is real. Then your hands slide up his arms, fingers curling into his shirt, and the kiss deepens, confidence settling in like it’s always been there, just waiting.

It tastes like lime and salt and tequila and something unmistakably his.

When you finally pull back, foreheads touching, you’re both breathing a little harder than before.

He smiles, dazed. “Best confession so far.”

You laugh softly, still close. “Agreed.”

…

The next time you see Sero in person is at the Class 1-A reunion, two weeks later.

Both of you got busy with hero duty, but you never stopped talking. Texts turned into phone calls, late at night, his name lighting up your screen when you were already half-asleep. He asks how your day’s been, and you tell him about work. You ask about patrol, and he tells you about bouncing between joining Kaminari’s agency or staying independent, still undecided, still restless in that way you’re starting to recognize.

You haven’t told anyone about your date with him. Too shy to admit it. Too unsure of what it means to say it out loud.

Sero’s already there when the three of you arrive at the restaurant—you, Aoyama, and Hagakure. Your eyes find his immediately, like muscle memory, and you have to bite back a smile as the rest of your former classmates greet each other loudly around you.

You both agreed to keep whatever this is on the low, at least until you figure it out. Mostly because you know the entire class would tease you relentlessly. Just thinking about it makes heat creep into your cheeks.

You take your usual seat between Hagakure and Aoyama, across from Uraraka. From here, you have a clear view of Sero at the other table. Your eyes meet more than once as conversation flows and plates are passed around, little glances you pretend are accidental. At some point, you force yourself to look down at your food, worried someone will notice if you keep staring.

When you stand to get another drink from the bar, you can feel his gaze on you. It makes your shoulders pull back without thinking. You keep your eyes forward and ask the bartender for another cocktail, fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

“Confession.”

The familiar voice behind you makes your stomach flip and your heart skip hard enough to hurt. You turn, finding Sero standing close, an easy smile on his face like he hasn’t been wrecking your focus all night.

“I can’t take my eyes off you tonight,” he says quietly. “You look so beautiful.”

You try to hold it in, lips pressing together, but the smile breaks through anyway. Heat rushes up your neck and into your face, your heart pounding loud in your ears.

“Confession,” you reply, voice softer than you mean it to be. “You’re not doing a very good job of helping me stay normal right now.”

There’s a pause between you, both of you smiling like idiots, tension sitting thick and familiar in the small space.

“You wanna go somewhere after this?” he asks, casual, but his eyes give him away.

“Somewhere like…?” You tilt your head.

He shrugs. “Anywhere. It’s really hard seeing you across the room and not being able to talk.”

“We can talk,” you say, lifting one shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping a little closer, “but by talking, I mean kissing.”

You laugh, shoulders shaking, the sound spilling out of you before you can stop it.

“I don’t think we can do that in front of Hagakure,” you say, wiping at the corner of your eye. “She’ll never let me live it down.”

“Remind me again why we’re keeping this a secret?” He leans one hand against the bar behind you, close enough now that you’re aware of his warmth.

“W—we’re not!” You rush out, heat flooding your face again. “We— we went on one date, Hanta. Don’t you think it’s too soon to tell everyone? What if—”

You stop yourself before the rest can slip out, before your insecurities have a chance to surface.

He studies you for a second, then straightens, adjusting the hem of his shirt like he’s grounding himself.

“You’re right,” he says easily. “Then go out with me again. Tonight.”

The smile comes back to your face without effort.

“Of course,” you say. “Took you long enough to ask me out again.”

He grins, head tilting slightly as he looks down at you. “Wow. So I was on a timer.”

Before you can answer, the bartender sets your drink down between you, glass clinking softly against the counter. You reach for it automatically, fingers curling around it more for something to do than anything else.

When you head back to the table, the conversation has shifted. Hero rankings fade into the background as gossip takes over. Apparently, someone from class 1-B is dating someone else, and the girls at your table are losing their minds over it. Voices overlap, hands gesture wildly, laughter bubbles up.

Across the room, you hear Sero laughing too, teasing Kaminari about opening his agency right next to Jirou’s.

“You’re one to talk!” Kaminari calls out, pointing. “I saw you getting cozy with miss little sidekick over by the bar.”

The room goes quiet for half a second.

All eyes turn to you.

Your face goes up in flames. You freeze, eyes widening as your brain short-circuits.

“We were just talking,” you blurt out, hands coming up instinctively, palms warm against your cheeks. “That’s literally all.”

Hagakure gasps like she’s been waiting her entire life for this moment.

“Just talking?” she presses, leaning in, invisible hands somehow still very accusatory. “You don’t blush like that from talking.”

She knows you so well, it’s annoying.

“I don’t blush,” you argue weakly, even as your ears burn.

Aoyama hums thoughtfully beside you. “You are glowing, mon amie.”

You groan, dropping your face fully into your hands. Before Hagakure can strike again, Sero’s voice echoes in the room, loud and clear.

“Okay,” he says, voice cutting through the noise easily, still light but steady. “Yeah. We were on a date.”

Your head snaps up.

The reaction is immediate.

“Ooooooo!” erupts from half the room, followed by clapping, gasps, and someone nearly knocking over a glass.

You stare at him, stunned, heart slamming against your ribs.

Sero shrugs like he didn’t just drop a bomb on your entire social life, one hand lifting in a half-surrender. “What? It was a good date.”

Your face burns hotter than before. You hide it again, this time out of sheer embarrassment, shoulders curling in as laughter washes over you.

Through your fingers, you steal a look across the room.

Sero is laughing too, head tipped back slightly, cheeks flushed, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar way. But when his eyes find yours, the teasing softens into something warmer, something meant just for you.

For a second, it’s just the two of you, sharing the same look, the same stupid smile.

The attention eventually drifts away from you, pulled toward louder conversations and fresh gossip. Someone orders another round. Someone else starts arguing about hero rankings again. The moment loosens its grip on the room, but your heart is still beating a little too fast.

Eventually, you make an excuse to leave early, saying your goodbyes to your old friends, still a little dazed.

Sero catches up to you outside. The night air hits you, cool and sharp after the warmth of the restaurant.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You catch a glimpse of Kaminari, Jirou, and Sato a few steps away, laughter mixing with the faint curl of cigarette smoke as they talk among themselves, mercifully distracted.

“Hi,” you reply, smiling as you cross your arms, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. Sero mirrors you without realizing it, hands slipping into his pockets like he feels the same way.

“Sorry about… that,” he says, not quite meeting your gaze, a faint blush still lingering on his cheeks. “You looked like you were about to combust, so…”

You snort, suppressing a grin. “I was handling it.”

“Debatable.” He finally meets your eyes, smiling now. “I don’t regret it, though.”

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with nerves. You shrug, trying to play it cool even as your cheeks warm again. “They were going to figure it out eventually.”

“Probably,” he admits, tilting his head slightly, eyes softer now. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I am.”

Relief spreads across his face, his smile slow and real.

“Good,” he says. “You still wanna go?”

“Of course,” you reply, nodding as you reach out, brushing a piece of lint from his shirt. It’s a flimsy excuse, and you know it. You just want to touch him.

Sero catches your hand before you can pull away, fingers closing around yours as he tugs you closer. He leans down, pressing his lips to yours without hesitation.

Cheers and whistles erupt behind you. You let out a breathless laugh and bury your face against his chest, heat flooding you all over again as his arm comes around you, holding you there like he doesn’t mind the attention at all.

And for once, neither do you.

[tentypos]

“HOT DOG!”

a mha college au feat. DENKI K. & HANTA S.

“ladies and gentlemen, introducing, the chocolate starfish, and the hot dog flavoured water…. BRING IT ON!”

mdni

cw: “HELP!! MY BESTFRIEND WANTS ME TO SUCK HIS DICK SO HE CAN RECORD IT AND SEND IT TO HIS SITUATIONSHIP?!”

wc: 2k

starting track….

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

…….

“dude, you’re fumbling with the thing—”

“—i’m not, s’literally fine—”

“you’re gonna— you’re gonna smudge the cam— oh my god—”

“shit, i dropped it, hold on….”

“…you’re a fuckin’ mess.”

“me?! i’m the mess??? this was your idea.”

sero snatches his phone back from his bestfriend with a half-scoff half-snort. it was a bad idea asking denki to do this, the guy never takes anything seriously.

not that this is serious.

this, this is the funniest thing of the century.

this, this is him proving how fucking petty he can be.

because you, oh god, you’ve been taking the piss. ignoring his messages, acting like you don’t know him when he sees you in public, posting another guy on your story. really? and the dude wasn’t even all that.

he had to get his lick back, obviously.

but he has to be smart about this.

posting himself with a girl wouldn't do anything other than push you further away, and while he does enjoy your little games. he does actually, sorta-kinda like you.

he needed something, something good, something smart, something to make you jealous, but also hot, bothered, and horny.

how could he pass up an opportunity like this, a gift from above, or below, however you wanna look at it, in the form of denki kaminari.

because you're aware, he told you himself, offhandedly, about how he and denki used to fuck. not heavy, just two bisexual best friends, down on their luck, fried as shit, sometimes denki's dick in his mouth was just the natural progression of things, he can't help that.

but he remembers what you had said in reply.

“that's hot.”

and he was tickled, ego stroked, he prodded you further, because what exactly is the hot part, him, denki, both of them together? and you, in your own words said you wouldn't mind watching.

something about, yaoi, hentai, and something else about heated rivalry, and something else that he wasn't fucking listening to, because he was already filing this away for later.

you wouldn't mind watching.

but you’re not here. in fact, he hasn’t seen you for weeks, he thinks you might be mad at him for something he forgot about.

but just because you're not here doesn't mean he's just gonna fuck his fist, and mope about. not when his roommate is the denki kaminari.

the camera flips around.

they’re in hanta’s room, low blue lighting, nu metal on the speaker, loud enough to mask the noise they’re about to make, but not loud enough to distract from the task at hand.

denki’s leaned against the headboard, face lit by the blue light of his phone, probably scrolling on reels.

because sero was right. denki is not taking this seriously, at all. because this is stupid, you and hanta always fight like this, and he has to hear all about sero’s new ‘get back plan’ every fucking time.

at least this time he gets a good fuck out of it.

“hey princess,” the blonde says when he realises the camera’s facing him now. he throws a lazy peace sign at sero’s phone with a grin.

yeah, he’s gonna get a good fuck out of this.

he can already tell. sero came to him with an ‘idea’ which was just cornering him in the kitchen and pressing his boner into the crease of denki’s ass and murmuring lowly in his ear, asking him to come up to his room and ‘help him out with something’.

if he had known then, that he was about to make a sex tape with his bestfriend, he would've oiled up for the camera.

instead he's shirtless, hair tousled, the corner of his shitty sonic tattoo poking out from under his waistband, and emoting like a dickhead.

just before he can do one last bicep flex, the camera flips back round to sero. eyebrow raised in distaste, the piercing catches the flash of the phone, he's rolling his eyes and scratching the corner of his nose.

"anyway," hanta clears his throat, slips back into that stupid fake nonchalant tone he gets when he’s sending you voice messages, “i remember you said you were into that whole ‘yaoi' thing.”

he snorts, like he's mocking you, "me n' denks were gonna bang, so, i figured," he's collapses onto the bed next to denki with no grace or care for where he lands, you can hear denki complain in the background. "why not show you what you're missing?"

he grabs the blonde by the face, squishing his cheeks with his palms and drags his face into the picture. both of 'em cheesing at the phone, with matching hazy eyes and drooping smiles. like ying and yang with equal degrees of swag and stupidity across them both.

denki runs his tongue across his teeth, he’s been waiting for sero to do something for a minute, to touch him, to touch himself, a kiss, anything.

instead sero’s still fumbling with his phone, trying to figure out where’s he’s gonna put it to get the perfect angle.

and denki’s tired of waiting.

“dude,” the blonde’s voice is lower now, softer, two steps away from a whisper. “dude, dude— hanta.”

there’s a shiver that snakes it’s way up sero spine when he hears denki say his name. it’s weirdly intimate, in a way it’s not normally. it scratches an itch somewhere deep in his gut.

denki sighs again, impatient, borderline pouting at the lack of attention. but his gaze is heavy lidded, and his voice is syrupy. “just hold it for now, you can put it down later.”

and sero’s easy. they both know this. that’s why denki takes it upon himself to crawl over to where his best friend is still sat on the edge of the bed.

“you’re thinking ‘bout this too much,” he winks at the camera, hands running up and down the faded material coating hanta’s thighs.

as he curls his fingers around hanta’s waistband, nails gently tracing the exposed skin, “let’s just do what we normally do.”

hanta’s disembodied groan echoes, “yeaaah—ngh, yeah,” denki palming his erection through the fabric, “yeah, you’re so fuckin’ right.”

denki smirks at the shaking camera, because he knows, whenever you watch this, that you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

he traces the tip of hanta’s weeping cock through the fabric, softly, barely there, so easily pulling groans out from his friend. it’s so easy to get sero worked up, a bat of your eyelashes, the promise of a blowjob, he’s already half way to busting.

“hanta,” denki coos again. coy. so fucking coy. batting his pretty eyelashes with that doe-eyed look on his face, of course sero was a goner. the camera is visibly shaking from where he’s trying to keep the screen tilted. the blonde paws at his waistband, “lemme suck you off, real quick, i promise.”

what’s a guy to do?

fuck, he can’t do anything. except gulp, audibly. and nod his head like an overeager puppy.

but denki wants to have fun, why not. isn’t this supposed to be a show, a show for you, something sweet to wash out the bitter taste of the toxicity of your ‘relationship’ with hanta, in the first place.

“that’s not an answer,” slow, syrupy, as he licks his lips, eyes directed at hanta through the phone screen. he’s gone back to featherlight touches.

you both know sero loves this the most.

the build-up, the steady climb upwards. and every breath, every stutter, every sigh, every moan, in between then and now, he inhales all of it. almost like he enjoys this more than actually getting his nut. the act of dangling the pleasure in front of his face, just out of reach but so easily obtainable.

“m’sorry,” he exhales, eyes fluttering at the mere idea of denki’s mouth on his cock, “wan’ you t’suck my—fu-uck—”

shit, he would’ve dropped his phone if not for the burning desire for you to see this too, because denki’s mouth is like velvet.

the fleshy walls of his inner cheeks coax thick dribbles of pre-cum out of hanta’s throbbing cock. that perfect fuckin’ tongue of his glazes the underside in hypnotic waves, and all hanta can do is sit there and take it, let denki make a mess outta him.

it feels disgustingly good as the blonde pools his saliva and spits it right back onto him, that hanta can’t help but whine, low in the back of throat.

it’s a shame you can’t see his face. the way he tips his head back exposing the deep flush that blooms underneath the hickeys layering the column of his throat. his eyes, dark, dazed, and actively rolling back into his head, then fluttering closed, automatic, the puppet strings of his pleasure being pulled taut.

but you’d be able to hear how he hisses, “shii-it,” you’d be able to hear the pants pattering within his lungs increasing in volume every second, and the broken groans echoing in his chest with each bob of denki’s head.

you’d definitely get a clear view of denki. you’d see his mouth stretched around the base of hanta’s cock, bulge pressing against his cheek, visible from the outside, nose flush against the dark hair of his crotch.

and you know exactly what that smells like, if you inhaled now you’d probably still get notes of it. of that musk, the sweet sweat, that thing that is so uniquely hanta, that you could recognise with your eyes closed.

unlike denki, who’s dewey eyes are half lidded and fixed directly onto the camera. he’s a show off, he can’t help it, it just comes naturally to him at times like this. he might be laying it on a bit thick, swollen lips glistening with spit and jizz, eyelashes wet like lily stalks after rainfall. tears beading in his water line. the soft pout on his face as he slaps hanta’s cock against his lips, again, and again, and again.

but the dick-drunk daze in his eyes is real enough.

enough to let you know, whenever you do watch this, that denki’s cock is probably just as leaky as hanta's. in fact, if you're paying attention, you'd be able to see the way his hips roll, ever so slightly, and the friction making his mouth water. every subtle shift is just another drag of his cock against, either hanta's mattress, or, plainly, the material confining him.

either way, it's hot as fuck.

hanta seems to think so, "t-that's it, yeah, all the way into-nngh, shit, just. like. that."

deeper and deeper, all the way down into denki's throat, all the way down—

and that's where the picture goes black. muffled. fuck.

lucky for hanta.

because i doubt he'd want you to hear how wrecked he sounded, how animalistic. or see the primal instincts that caused him to grab denki's hair with both palms, white knuckled grip, and breed his throat. or watch him lose all composure as he forces the blonde to swallow every last drop.

and i doubt denki would've wanted you to see the way he limply accepted it, came back for seconds even, licking up every last spurt of his best friend's frothy cum. or the way he whimpered pathetically when he matched pace, and made a mess all over himself.

or the way he said thank you, afterwards.

or how hanta had grabbed him by the face and yanked the blonde back down on top of him. or how their mouths mashed together, hanta slurping the remnants of his own cum from the crevices of denki's mouth.

and i seriously doubt either one would've wanted you to see the electric current of overstimulation that phased through them both, after their sticky spent cocks made contact, in matching, delicious, pathetic humps.

or the way they spent the next twenty minutes torturing each other with the sensation, twitchy bodies and dazed grins.

…end of playback

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺

ermmm… haiiiii thank you for waiting 🫪

@dollybabygirly @blueheavenmilkshake @kamislop @dhyuns @rumisgf @scarletgremlin @mymixedupfandoms @lilszier @zmbkats @bussdownflockiana @juliethhhh @salixeris @cattleqtie @realbadgyalll @sinister-italian-music @tokkushin @dotalicious @updownandbatty

[spacelabrathor]

You feel jittery, as you try the door and find it unlocked. Peeking your head out into the hallway and seeing no one - not Kirishima or the old woman or any of the other patrons of the inn. Your heart kicks against your chest as you realize that you feel…naked, with this. Bared in a way you’d never been before, your gender shouted to the world by your presence alone instead of buried beneath your skin like a shameful secret. 

There is muffled sound coming from the far end of the hall, light from the dining hall shining along the seam of a cracked door, and you swallow against the sudden and deafening knowledge that there are alphas, here. Alphas other than yours, who could smell you like this. Who would want you, if they did. 

Something tightens in your chest, a faint throb on the bond, and it’s only when you look down at your chest in dazed bewilderment that you realize it was a reply. An echo back to you, in response to the distressed clench you’d sent down it at the scent and sound of other alphas. 

The bond lights again, a heated, sharp pulse, and it has you drawing back into the room and letting out a shaking breath. Retreating further back into the dimly lit space as you draw the neckline of your tunic up to your face. Breathing in deeply and shuddering quietly at the flickers of Bakugo’s scent still woven into the fabric. 

It’s only a minute but feels like much longer before the door to the room swings open and the bond scorches. Instinctive and flaring hot, making your lips drop open unconsciously, as Bakugo steps into the room and his eyes slam to yours. 

His chest heaves lightly, bared beneath his pelt and cape, and even at his distance from you, you shiver at the deluge of his scent in the air. A heavy rush of it, all but dripping from him as he stares at you across the room with a stunned expression he struggles to wrangle back to something more neutral. 

“What the fuck happend?” His voice is coarse, out of his throat. Low, almost a growl. 

You swallow, your shoulders wanting to curl inwards from the tension vibrating in every line of his body and between you on the bond. 

“The bath,” is all you can make yourself say, motioning weakly to the tub at the center of the room, and it stirs Bakugo into motion. Shutting the door so sharply that it slams and crossing the room so quickly that it makes your heart leap up into your throat. 

You back rattles against the shelves of herbs and ointments behind you, and he halts, abruptly. His nostrils flaring, eyes dark as he looks you up and down. Scent pouring from him so headily that you feel like you need to clutch the wall behind you for strength. 

You watch him swallow, his throat bobbing, and he shakes his chin like he’s trying to clear his head. “Are you hurt?” 

The bond pulses, sharp and hot. 

You shake your head. Finding your voice tight and small inside of you when you say, “No.” 

“You’re afraid.” 

Not a question, but you shake your head anyway. Trying to clear your head, trying to hear the sound of his voice over the roar of your heart. 

“Not…of you,” you manage, shaking your head again. “It’s…it’s so much. I didn’t know.” 

Something flickers across his expression, and he takes half a step back. Thinking, loudly, as his eyes rove over and over you. 

“I should get Kirishima.” 

“No! No, I…” 

The thought of him leaving is unbearable. 

Your voice trails and he watches you. Locked rigid in place as he so clearly tries to read this situation. To read you, to know what you need.  

Your voice comes out a squeak when you speak next. Pathetic, but the bond tugs hard in response. “Can you calm me? I…don’t like feeling this way.” 

His jaw tightens, and he looks away for a moment, before looking back. “I can,” he says, a bit slowly. “Kirishima would be less affected by your scent.” 

You’re shaking your head before he finishes the words. You don’t want Kirishima. Not for this. 

Bakugo doesn’t move from where he’s stood. Just a few feet away from you, his muscles locked tight like he was frozen in place. Every line of his body radiating the strength he’s calling upon to stay rooted where he is. You search his face, seeking, and it occurs to you like the touch of a gentle hand what has his expression so strained.

“You’re afraid,” you realize. 

“‘M not afraid,” he says through his teeth, reflexively. A low growl, but the tension in his jaw, in his shoulders, says otherwise. 

It should frighten you, seeing an alpha grapple to maintain control so near to you. It should raise your hackles, trigger some flight or fight response. Kick on some instinct to defend yourself that’s laid dormant for years. 

It doesn’t. Seeing Bakugo take in short, shallow breaths as he holds himself back from you makes something in your chest ache sweetly. Like a bruise, and it helps to clear your mind to feel the echoing pulse down the bond between you. A tender trill, a desperately offered and invisible hand extended to you. 

You swallow again, finding your mouth pooling with saliva at the luscious weight of his scent around you. “What are you holding back from?” you ask. Voice dropping nearly to a whisper in the silence. “What do you want to do?” 

His lips lift, a silent bare of his teeth at you, before he forces himself a half-step back. Letting out a deep, rasping breath as he shudders back into control of himself. His eyes are bloodied dark in the candlelight, when his eyes meet yours. 

“Scent you,” he admits, after a moment. Voice scraping up his throat and drawing goosebumps down your arms. “Pin you down and drench you in my scent.” It takes him another moment to murmur, “Taste you.” 

You shiver where you stand, your belly dropping low and hot, and you’re not sure what overcomes you when you say, breathlessly, “You can.”

[spacelabrathor]

⇢ pairing: katsuki bakugo x fem!reader

⇢ rating: eventual e, 18+

⇢ chapter wc: 11,493 (ao3)

⇢ warnings: a/b/o dynamics, mating bites, scenting, knotting, a/b/o-typical animalistic traits, hunting and butchering of animals for consumption, villain-adjacent endeavor and hawks

⇢ tags: alpha bakugo x omega reader, slow burn, aged up characters, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving)

⇢ art: by the incredible @king-bito here!

✸ part of my big bang academia - see other incredible works here! ✸

⇢ summary:

In the Kingdom of Eldur, you’re an anomaly, an omega born to a society of betas, and treated poorly for it. During a celebration of the long-standing peace between the Kingdom of Eldur and the distant mountain tribes where alphas and omegas live freely, you meet their leader, Katsuki Bakugo. He is strong and wild and bares his teeth - an alpha’s alpha, who finds the forceful suppression of your omegan nature reprehensible. 

When the King of Eldur rejects your request to accompany him to live with the among mountain tribesfolk, he makes you an offer that stops you in your tracks. A mating bite, knowing that even the King has no authority to sever such a bond. You must decide, then, what you will do - stay and languish within the safe walls of Eldur or trust yourself to an alpha with pointed fangs and sharp temper, whose scent awakens something inside you that’s laid dormant for years. 

The day passes in a haze. Strange and distant, as you go through the motions of your daily tasks. Shelling peas into a bucket perched between your thighs. Rolling up your sleeves and sweating as you stir bed linens in giant vats of boiling water in the laundry den. Carrying barrels overflowing with dark grapes from the vineyard to the winery in the castle cellar, stepping with care to not trip on the hem of your dress. 

Your thoughts tangle on a rhythmic loop through it all. 

Don’t think about it.

Don’t think about them.

The King will never let you leave. 

Don’t think about it. 

Don’t think about them. 

You’ll only be broken when they leave you behind. 

Don’t think about it - 

The weight of it is nearly unbearable, a pressing weight on the tense line of your shoulders, and by the early evening, you feel wrung out. Feel heavy and body aching from the weight of carrying the uncertainty of it. Knowing the answer already, in some part of you, without needing to be told. 

You’re headed to the kitchens to begin preparing the nightly feast when you come around a stone corner and nearly collide with a body that smells of spiced oil and fine silks. 

You apologize reflexively, stepping back and bowing your head, but you look up at the soft, pleased sound you hear over your head. Familiar to you, in a gut-sinking sort of way. 

Hawks looks at you with that sharpened gaze he has. Appearing intrigued by your presence in a way that makes the hair on your arms prickle and want to stand. 

“My Lord,” you say in greeting. Wanting nothing more than to step around him and continue on, to avoid whatever encounter you can feel brewing in the air between you.

But his gaze has you pinned to your spot before him as he tilts his head and offers you a smile. “Ahh,” he says, showing his teeth. “It’s you.” 

You swallow thickly. All too aware of the looks other castle hands are giving you as they step around you in the hall - gawking and curious as to why you’ve been stopped by someone so adjacent to the royal family. 

“How do you mean, my Lord?” you ask.

His shoulders lift in a huff of soft laughter. “The wild men would talk of nothing else today over the afternoon meal. I wonder what it is you’ve done for someone as plain as you to bewitch them so thoroughly?” 

The back of your neck heats, shame feeling like creeping vines in your belly. Well aware that he’s implying unsavory things, even if his tone is light and airy. 

“Perhaps it speaks to the simplicity of their nature,” he muses, his eyes drifting across your face contemplatively. “That they see one of their own and so barbarically desire to claim it as theirs. They asked the King to release you to their custody, can you believe it?” 

You barely hear his amused chuckle over the sudden kick of your heart. 

They’d asked. 

They’d said they would, but your fear couldn’t help but assume their word to be empty platitudes. Niceties were more than people in your station could expect in life. To hope for anything more was a fool’s errand. 

Hawk’s laughter fades as he studies you. Like he’s waiting for a response, knowing full well you’re in no place to give one. A prisoner here in this interaction, rooted to your place by the weight of his authority. 

“The King said no, of course,” he says, after a moment. “Told them the only power higher than his over his citizens is the old ways, which they surely have no intention of invoking.” 

Your heart sinks like a stone, and you feel foolish for it. Knowing. Having known that this was the only way it would be. The only way it could be, and chastising yourself for letting yourself hope for anything different. 

“The old ways,“ you murmur without much thought, when he waits for your reply. Trying to keep the souring of your insides off your face, fearing he would delight in the sight of it. 

Hawks’ brows lift, a bit salaciously. “You know, mating claims. The laws that ruled the land before the betas found civility and defected to Eldur. Their king is unclaimed, did you notice?” 

You feel vaguely like you want to vomit and you swallow heavily, making a noncommittal and somewhat rude noise that Hawks takes as a reply. 

“If only you had some worth,” he muses. His expression is kinder than his words, some sincerity there that does nothing to settle your twisting belly. “A kitchen maid has not much to offer a king.”

“Indeed, my Lord,” you murmur, your chin dipping. Wishing with every ounce of you for this conversation to end so you can go cry in a linen closet around the corner. 

He watches you for a long moment, those sharp eyes of his sweeping over you and settling on your down-turned face. A castle page brushes by the two of you in the hall, bumping into Hawk’s shoulder and apologizing profusely, but he doesn’t take his eyes from you. 

“I assured them that you’d have no interest in giving up your life here to scrounge around in the brush for scraps with them up in the mountains,” he says. “But perhaps that isn’t true.” 

A warning shivers up your spine and you straighten at once, like a reflex. Tightening your jaw and forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I am a citizen of Eldur,” you say with as much force as you can muster. All too aware of the tenuous grace already extended to you by King Enji for allowing you to stay within the kingdom walls. 

Hawk’s gaze is appraising as he watches you. “By the grace of the King.” 

You nod, your stomach turning. “By the grace of the King.” 

A ringing sounds down the hall, the shrill chime of rattled bells, and you duck into a curtesy. Trying not to sag with relief from the sound. 

“Those are the bells for the evening meal, my Lord. I must go.” 

He huffs softly to himself and tilts his head. “Very well, little dove. Fly away.” 

You dip your head in another show of respect before you turn and go. Feeling the weight of his gaze on the backs of your shoulders as you disappear down the hall and doing your best to ignore it. Forcing yourself to straighten up and head to the kitchens. To focus your mind and your heart on the coming food service, so you don’t sink into the hollow pit of grief that’s begun to root dark and sinking in your stomach. 

The summons comes for you late in the evening. Well after the nightly feast, when your feet are aching and you’re helping wipe down the kitchens before retiring for bed. 

You walk to the Eastern Corridor in silence, too exhausted and hollow-empty in turn to care about your disheveled appearance from the nightly service. Pushing sweat curled hair back from your face as you climb long sets of stone staircases and draw in deep, grounding breaths of the crisp night air as you go. 

This is another kindness to you, you think. A chance for them to let you down gently, after the hope they seeded in you this morning over the morning meal. 

They didn’t have to ask after you at all, you remind yourself. Didn’t have to share their food with you or speak to you with kindness. They certainly did not have to inquire about you to the King of your realm, nor did they have to call you here now to surely apologize for their plan having failed. 

So you push down the bitter grip of disappointment, empty and achy feeling, and force a smile onto your face as you approach the great wooden doors of their chambers. 

You can return their kindness to them, if nothing else. You owe them so much more than just that but it’s all you have to offer. 

You knock on the door with your knuckles, stepping back when you hear movement beyond it, and then Kirishima is there. Appearing in the open space of the door as he opens it, a soft, kind smile on his face that tells you all you need to know. 

“Hey,” he greets, and you nod in reply. Your cheeks smarting from the smile you keep there, even as your heart aches like a bruise. 

He steps back to let you in, and you’re struck at once by the difference in the room since the morning. Gone are the golden sunbeams and blue skies beyond the open windows. The room is dark from the inky night and lit by torches sconced along the stone walls. 

It makes the light of the room flicker and dance across the floor, a golden shimmer and twist, and you swallow deeply as you step within the fire-warmed space. 

Kirishima shuts the door quietly behind you and a hush settles in the room as he makes his way back around you, drawing air past you as he goes and tickling your nose with a tingle of his scent. 

You wonder how long it’ll take you to forget what an alpha smells like. What the presence of one feels like on the surface of your skin and in the marrow of your bones. 

The smile you offer Kirishima is sad, unable to do any better, and he returns your gaze with a thoughtful look. His mouth opens to speak, but another voice cuts across the quiet. 

“You know.”

A shiver trickles down your spine as your whole body moves to face him without thought. Turning in place to where Bakugo is leaning against the sil of the window, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you. His head is bowed a bit, his eyes glinting red in the flickering candle light. 

Kirishima frowns, and looks from Bakugo to you. “Wait…did someone talk to you?” 

It takes some effort to nod, the aura of the room thick with anticipation of this miserable conversation. 

“I, um. Yes. Hawks found me. He told me what happened.” 

Bakugo huffs a sharp exhale, straightening up a bit as his eyes roll, and Kirishima frowns deeper. 

“We wanted to talk to you first,” Kirishima says, jaw setting lightly, as he shakes his head. “This is all out of order.” 

You shake your head right back at him, your hands coming up. Chest aching sharply with grief only compounded by the strain in their expressions. “It’s alright,” you say to Kirishima. To both of them. “I know - that you tried, and I…I can’t thank you enough for even - ” 

Bakugo’s voice cuts through yours, a knife through a petal. “What did he tell you?” His eyes remain on you, his body pulled tight like a bow string as he leans against the edge of the window. 

“Oh,” you murmur. Chewing on your lower lip for a second, your heart kicking a little behind your ribs at the intensity of his gaze. You can feel it against your skin, like a prickle of electricity in the air. “He told me that…it wasn’t possible. That you’d made your request but the King had denied you.” 

Bakugo’s brows dip down in the center, and Kirishima makes a soft sound. 

“He told you the King said no?” Bakugo asks, his mouth lifting in a bit of a sneer you think is directed more at Hawks than yourself. 

“Well,” you say. Trying to think back now to the conversation, feeling like you’ve somehow said something wrong. “He said that the King stated the only power higher than his was that of the old ways. Of a…mating claim.” 

Bakugo’s chin lifts. Huffing softly, in apparent agreement. “That is what he said.”

You cast a quick look to Kirishima, confused, as your stomach twists lightly, but he looks back at you like he’s just as confused as you are, which is of little help.

Kirishima scratches his knuckles along his thigh absently. “Have you had time to consider it?” 

A laugh punches from you so suddenly you can’t stop it. An abrupt, coarse sound that has you clapping your palm over your mouth too late to contain it. 

When neither reply, you shake your head at him. “What is there to consider?” 

Bakugo draws your eyes again with a slow, exhale between his teeth. “Said we wouldn’t force you, didn’t we? You’ve gotta choose.” 

You nearly take a step back from where you’re stood near the door. A sudden heat simmering in you, almost overwhelming, as you try to make sense of what they’re saying. 

“I don’t understand,” you manage, after a long, breathless pause. “Kirishima is mated. And you’re - ” 

Bakugo’s brows lift, waiting for you to finish, but already unimpressed with your response, it seems. 

“You’re - I know you said you don’t have the - hierarchies, but you’re…important. You’re the leader of the wild people? You cannot be offering…” 

“But I am,” Bakugo says, a bit sharply. “You’ve already said you know nothing of our people, so why do you assume to know now?” 

That knocks you into a silence punctuated only by the hard beat of your heart. 

Kirishima takes a step toward you, his hand outstretched, as he gives Bakugo a look over his shoulder before turning back.

“It’s okay,” he says, nodding softly, and you feel the tension in the air lift as he offers you a quiet smile. You draw in a tight breath and he nods again, encouraging. “I’m sorry, we’re doing this all backwards. We can explain it better, okay?” 

You’re struggling to take your eyes from Bakugo, every cell in your body alight and turned towards him, but you step blindly forward until your knees knock against the side of the feathered mattress in the center of the room. 

Kirishima sits down and pats it with his hand. “Yeah, yeah, come on. Sit down for a second, your heart sounds like it’s going to beat out of your chest.”  His hand touches lightly against the back of your arm, and it makes you jolt softly. 

His voice is gentle when he speaks. “Do you want me to calm you? Like I did this morning?” 

Your heart is lodged tight up somewhere in your throat and it’s making it difficult to breathe. So you nod, haltingly. “Um. A little, please. Just a bit…I - can’t really think.” 

You offer your hand into the broad span of his, and the whisper of his thumb smearing across the gland in your wrist cuts your strings. Has your shoulders slumping forward on an exhale as you breathe through the sudden, syrupy surge of soothing pheromones pulsing through your veins. 

He places your hand back in your lap after just a moment of a touch, but you feel your head clear in the wake of the heat, as you breathe deeply and ground yourself in the moment by tracing your fingers along the linens beneath you. 

You swallow again after a long moment and find it easier, so you nod, to tell him to continue. 

“Okay,” Kirishima says. “So, uh. Hmm.” He scratches his jaw with the pads of his fingers and shoots you an apologetic look. “Where do I even start, here…” 

“A mating bite laid outside of a heat won’t take,” Bakugo says from his spot near the window. His arms uncross from his chest, then. Coming to rest behind him on either side of the sil. “But there’s no way they know that.” 

“They being your people,” Kirishima agrees. “Or at least, we figure, since we haven’t seen a mating bite on anyone since we crossed the borders of Eldur. It’ll look legitimate when it’s fresh, and you’ll feel some echoes of the bond, but it won’t even come close to the real thing.” 

Your head is clearing, you realize. Your heartbeat simmering down from its pounding roar. A glimmer of something prickling along your spine as you work to make sense of what they’re saying to you. 

You nod, unable to summon any words. 

“It’ll fade with time unless it’s renewed during a heat,” Kirishima says. “So you won’t be tied together forever. Just long enough to get you out of here.” 

Bakugo grunts a soft assent. “After it fades, you can decide to mate for real, or not. You’ll have settled into the pack by then and you’ll know your options.” 

Kirishima grins. “They’re great,” he promises. “You’ll love them.” 

A silence settles between you then, as you look down at your hands and try to wrangle the messed tangle of your thoughts. Trying to wrap your mind around the possibilities of a world split wide open for you and laid at your feet. 

Your life would change, entirely. For better or for worse, everything you’ve known would be written over by the new and novel. By the thrill of adventure and the fear of the unknown. 

Bakugo’s watching you, still, as your mind turns around and around like a dog trying to settle for sleep. 

“We leave in the morning, so you have until then to decide.” 

But you shake your head. A stillness coming over you that has nothing to do with the calming scent still gently wafting off of Kirishima beside you. Every hope you dared to dream during the business of your day settling within you like silt to the ocean floor.

“No,” you say. Clearing your throat when your voice comes out a little thick. “I want to…I want to go with you. If you’re sure.” 

Bakugo huffs softly, pushing himself up from the window. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. Stop asking.” 

Beside you, Kirishima is instantly nearly bouncing in his seat. “Wow,” he says, his teeth sharp and bared in a grin. His mood turned on its head at your agreement. “This is - I am so excited. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” 

“I didn’t either,” you admit, and it comes out on a soft puff of laughter. You smooth your palms down over the skirt of your dress. “This doesn’t feel real.” 

“I know,” Kirishima agrees. “Everyone’s going to lose their minds when they see Bakugo come back with someone.” 

Bakugo groans under his breath, but it sounds as good natured as he can be as he moves across the room to a rope that dangles down from the ceiling along the wall. He gives it two sharp tugs and you hear the faint echo of clanging bells. A summons for castle servers to appear at their doorstep with food and drink, though it’ll take them a minute or two. 

Kirishima rises to his feet too, with apparent purpose, and you feel your heart kick in your chest at the sudden motion. 

“What do we do now?” you ask. The edges of your nerves prickling as reality begins to settle around you, and becoming more aware by the moment that Bakugo’s fangs will pierce your skin by night’s end. That the only life you’ve ever known will expire with the rising sun. 

Kirishima looks up from where he was sharing a quiet word with Bakugo and he offers you a smile. “We’re just going to get some things ready. You can just…oh, actually…” He leans into Bakugo for a moment, then his face lights when he looks back to you. “There’s baths adjoining, just through the doorway. Have you used them?” 

The question is funny, and you nearly laugh. Your last bath was with a coarse sponge and a bucket of well water, near a month ago. 

You shake your head instead, and it seems to please him. 

“Get in there, then! The water is warm and there’s oils and stuff - it’s awesome.” 

You look to Bakugo, though you’re not quite sure why. But he tips his chin towards the doorway along the far wall and somehow that’s all the permission you need. 

You gather the skirt of your dress and give them one last look before you step through the doorway and into the heady mist of the baths. 

Heavenly is an understatement.

You lose track of time submerged in the baths, hot water slipping up over your shoulders and lapping against the nape of your neck. Breathing in the steam rising from the water’s surface and the hazy musk of the oils you’d added with a delicate glass stopper, you let yourself lean against the cool, stone edge of the pool and let your mind drift. 

The heat of the room has your head feeling like it’s filled with cotton, but your thoughts come to you somehow clearer than before. The events of recent days, the absurdity of Bakugo’s offer to you, and the audacity of you to accept it, seem more grounded than before. More rooted beneath your feet, steady and sure. 

You will go with them when they leave Eldur at first light. You will pose as Bakugo’s mate, bitten and bonded and true, to gain your freedom. You will journey with them over the plains and then up the distant mountains of their lands, to join their wild people and their wild lives with nature. Your omegan nature will be freed, if it can be, and you will be given choice and chance to do as you wish. 

Tonight, you will accept Bakugo in whatever way is needed. You know not the intricacies of their bonding ritual or what it requires of you, but you know in some centered part of yourself that you’ll do what is necessary. That he won’t hurt you without purpose and that whatever ends may come justify those means. 

Your skin has started to prune by the time you remember to properly bathe, running a soft cloth laid on the pool’s edge down your arms and beneath, scrubbing weeks of sweat and grime free from your skin. A part of you wonders if the suggestion to bathe was for Bakugo’s benefit for whatever is about to come more than a generous offering to you, but a half-hearted scrubbing will do no one any good regardless, so you make your cleanse thorough.

Your fingers still when the cloth drifts over the ridge of the scent gland in the side of your throat. It slips easily over the waxy film caked there, and you sit still for a moment, before you press down and scrub hard. Sucking in a breath at the bright spark of pain that flashes up your neck and down your arm, your stomach turning traitorously, until you manage to slough the cap of wax and it slips down your body and into the steaming pool. 

It takes a minute for you to catch your breath. For the stars in your eyes to clear from the jolt of pain, and you find yourself steadied against the side of the pool as your stomach settles and your throat aches hollowly. 

There’s no sudden rush of endorphins, no dizzying pull of hormones in your blood from your gland touching air for the first time since you can remember, but it’s strange all the same. The skin beneath the wax is thin, you can tell. Paper thin, from being covered for so many years, and even the faint breeze that trickles through the room catches against it and tugs a shiver down your spine. 

You treat the rest of your scent glands with similar care, then. Moving from one to the other and gritting your teeth to weather the spark of discomfort before the wax slips free and down into the baths. 

You realize when there’s nothing more to do in the bath that the only clothes in the room are the dress you wore into it, dusty and damp in parts from your sweat, and a pile of folded clothes left on a chaise beside the pool. You consider your choice as you step carefully from the water and shiver in the cool air, weighing the propriety of taking someone else's things with the unpleasant thought of slipping back into your dirty dress. 

The choice is made for you when you pick your dress up from the ground and it leaves an immediate smear of grime on your palm. You huff softly, shaking your head, and gingerly take apart the pile of clothes set there on the chaise. It’s a shirt, linen and airy and open around the collar, and a pair of simple trousers. The material is soft and clean beneath your fingertips so you push past any lingering doubt and dress yourself in them. 

They’re far too large, belonging surely to Bakugo or Kirishima, and you have to tie the trousers tight around your waist to keep them from slipping down. You hope, as look down at yourself, swimming in men’s clothes, that whatever ceremony you’re about to partake in does not require you to look appealing to Bakugo. 

You’re nearly dry by the time you’ve gathered your courage, and you take a steadying breath to try to calm the flutter of your heart in your chest. Nerves and anticipating thickening in your throat, but you push yourself forward, because this is your choice, and it’s right. 

You leave the heavy air of the baths behind and shiver again when you step back into the bedroom, still lit by flickering torch light, and it takes you a slow moment to find your bearings. Feeling a bit like you’ve stepped out of a dream and back into waking, unsure if the ground will hold steady beneath your feet. 

There’s food on the bed, fruits and pastries piled high on a platter. Beside it is a leather flask you know contains a dark and spiced wine. 

Something bursts in the air, a faint crush of musk you taste on your lips, and you turn to see Bakugo watching you from where he’s stood near the window. He’s dressed in what you’ve come to know him in - his furred cape secured over his shoulders, his forearms clad in leather bracers. There’s a tension to him that makes you want to dip your head. Avert your eyes from the intensity of his gaze on you. 

“Those’re mine,” he says, and his voice comes out a soft rasp. 

You know what he means and you feel your face heat as you touch at the tunic with your hand. “I, uh. I’m sorry. I had nothing clean.” 

Bakugo shakes his head, though. One hard shake, like he’s clearing his mind. “No…it’s fine. C’mon.” 

He motions towards the bed and you sit, a bit haltingly. Unsure of what’s expected of you and what’s to come. He sits on the opposite side of the bed, reclining back against the wall, and letting out a breath that you maybe think means he’s a bit uncertain too. 

“Where’s Kirishima?” 

Bakugo plucks a pear from the platter and turns it in his hands. “Went to go gather your things.” 

Your brow creases. “I don’t have any…things to gather.” 

Bakugo’s eyes lift to yours and he lets out a soft snort. “That’ll keep him busy, then.” 

Some of the tension eases, then, and you draw in a deep breath. Taking a coarse slice of bread from the plate for something to do with your hands and running the pad of your finger across the gnarled crust. 

“He is very kind,” you say. Watching Bakugo though your peripheral as he takes a wet bite out of the pear in his palm. 

He draws it back from his face as he chews, his brow pinching. Mutters, “He’s a dipshit,” but there’s no malice in his words. “What is this?” 

The corners of your mouth lift before you remember to school your expression to something more neutral. “A pear. Is it not to your liking?” 

He takes another bite, like he’s not quite sure. “It’s sweet. Everything here is fucking sweet.” 

A memory tickles at you. “Kirishima said the same,” you murmur, a smile soft on your mouth, and Bakugo shakes his chin, setting the half-eaten fruit back on the platter and grabbing a pillowy bread roll instead. 

“Even the meat is sweet here,” he says, a bit critically, tearing off a piece with his teeth and you bob your head in quiet agreement. 

“Honey,” you say. “They glaze everything in honey.” 

He shakes his head again and leans back against the wall with a soft thud. Taking another mouthful of bread before grabbing the flask near his knee and popping the cork free. “Beta fucking senses,” he mutters, taking a pull from the flask. “Weak as shit.” 

You watch his throat bob as he swallows and lick your lips to chase the smoky taste of his scent from them. 

He offers you the flask and his brows lift when you hesitate. You offer an apologetic smile and end up taking it, curling it in your lap as you look down into the mouth and see a dark liquid swirling there. 

“Not to your liking?” he says after a moment, his voice a gruff scrape against the air, and you find yourself shrugging. 

“I never have before.” Wine is reserved for people in the castle far more important than you. You’ve only ever seen it turn men to fools, or worse. 

He seems to consider that for a minute, watching you, before he makes a soft sound. “Well,” he says, tearing free another bite of bread. “You don’t have to. It’ll just make what’s comin’ easier.” 

You force a breath past the tight squeeze of your lungs and raise your eyes to his, watching him met yours evenly in the dim light. It takes you a moment to find your voice, but you do. 

“What is…coming, exactly?” 

Your eyes drift to the bed beneath you, the rumpled bedlinens, and watch his expression tighten as realization dawns. 

“Not…” He scrubs his hand over his chin, then his jaw. Coming up the back of his head and tugging shortly at the spikes of his hair there before his hand smoothes across his thigh. “Nothing like that. Relax.” His mouth opens again, but then closes, and you see his jaw work as he breathes out through his nose. 

His voice is a breath softer when he speaks again. “Told you. Not gonna…” 

“Force me,” you finish on an exhale, and he nods. Looking at you seriously, now, something in his eyes that you can’t quite read. Frustration that he seems to be holding back, you think. Or anger. “I’m sorry.” 

He looks away from you, then. Shaking his head softly and exhaling through his teeth, before his eyes return to you. “No,” he mutters. “It’s just…fuckin’ backwards.” 

Your fingers smooth over the stitched leather of the flask, your eyes tracing over the broad line of his shoulders where they’ve hunched slightly forward. Torchlight glimmers off a curved claw at the center of his lowest necklace and you trace the shape unconsciously against the flask. 

After a moment of stillness, he brings his hand up to the side of his throat. “You’ve got a gland here. Beneath your skin,” he says, running his pads over where his neck meets his shoulder. 

You mirror him and your fingers slip over the hard knot pitted deep in the muscle there, making you shiver. Even the faint brush of your fingertips aches against your skin and your lower lip catches between your teeth. 

Bakugo’s eyes linger on the spot for a beat, before he drags them back to your face. “Alpha marks there. With a bite.” 

You brace against a shiver. Nodding, your fingers tightening around the neck of the flask. “Does it hurt?” 

He looks away again, slowly. Tearing the heel of the bread roll between his hands and tossing the pieces back towards the tray. “The bite is usually given in a heat,” he says, after a long beat of silence. “Things get…mixed up for omega during a heat. Pleasure, pain, all of that. It all blurs.” 

Your heart thuds between your ears. Hollow and ringing. Hearing his answer. 

“I’m not in a heat.” 

Bakugo’s eyes slide to yours. Heated garnet in the flickering torchlight. “No. You’re not.” His gaze drifts down the line of your throat. Settles on the lump of your gland, and you feel a faint pulse there from the weight of his gaze. 

After a moment, he nods at the flask in your hands and your fingers tighten reflexively around it as you look down again towards the dark liquid. Feeling lost, all of the sudden. Like he’s a mile away from you, even as his thigh sits within a foot or two of yours. 

“What should I do?” you ask. Swallowing, when your voice catches in your throat. 

He lets out a low breath and you feel the weight of his gaze on your face. You think for a moment that he won’t respond, silence falling between the two of you like a shroud, but then he answers.

“Drink up, kit.” 

So, you do. 

The wine becomes more agreeable as the night slips by. The first sips are caustic down your throat but the flavor softens and smooths with each following pull from the flask, and in an hours time, you’ve gone loose-limbed on the bed. Staring over at Bakugo with your hand propped up on your palm, slouched over on the bedding in a way that would be mortifyingly familiar at any other time. 

He’s being kind to you, you think. You’ve only known him a few days but you’re certain the ebbing and flowing conversation he keeps up with you as you slip deeper into the pull of the drink is solely for your benefit. 

He hasn’t seemed an overly social man, nor one occupied with pleasing others, yet here he sits with you. Handing you pieces of food every so often and encouraging you to eat with a soft nod of his chin, answering the questions about his people and his land that come from you easier and easier as the night drifts on. 

You’re in the middle of asking him about Kirishima’s mate, your voice drifting a bit as you try to remember what he’d shared about her before, when Bakugo’s patience seems to reach its limit. He looks towards the window abruptly, as if he’d heard something, and you realize, when you squint, that you see the very first hints of daylight in the night sky. Hours off, still, but you realize you’ve been laying around Bakugo’s bed for much longer than you realized. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, pushing yourself more upright on the bed and pushing your hair back from your face. “I was…going on.” 

Bakugo’s brows tick up for a second, like he maybe agrees with you but is kind enough to not say so, and he tells you simply, “You’ll need time to rest. After. And we leave at first light.” 

A thumping thud of your heart, sluggish through your body with the weight of the wine, as you remember why you’re even doing this. Why he’s let you drink to a syrupy, weighty point. Why he’s slowly let his scent thicken and go heavy and low in the space of the room. 

“Oh. Alright.” 

They’re all the words you can muster, and you make a dim mental note that you don’t like feeling this way. Like your bones are heavy and your tongue is too large for your mouth. 

Bakugo’s eyes flick to you. “Relax,” he says. “I’m not gonna spring it on you.” 

You wonder if he can hear the hammer of your heart, suddenly loud in your ears as you brush your hands once down the front of your borrowed trousers, then twice. 

Bakugo starts to clear the bed and you stand to get out of his way. Forcing yourself to breathe in and out as he sets the platter of food scraps on the floor near the door and takes one pull from the wine flask before tossing it down to the ground, too. 

“Sit down,” he mutters when he walks past you and into the baths, and you plunk mutely back down on the bedding, until he reappears with a clay cup in his hands. 

He passes it to you, jerking his chin, and you sip it tentatively, before groaning softly and tipping it back. 

Water. Cool, crisp, clearing water. 

You finish it quickly, leaving your lips wet and your breath a bit rushed when he takes the cup from you and pushes it away from you on the ground with his foot. 

When you look back up at him, your eyes meet, and you realize that there isn’t really much to do besides…what you’ve come to do. 

“You’re nervous,” Bakugo says, an observation without much heat to it, and you feel your shoulders lift towards your ears. He sits beside you and the bed dips from his weight.

It takes you a second to realize your mouth has twisted into a frown. “I don’t like pain.” 

He breathes out his nose for a long moment, his eyes like bloodied gems. “Few do, kit. Give me your hand.” 

He takes your wrist with more care than you expect. Turning your hand in his until your palm is facing up, letting his fingertips drag along the surface of it. 

“Easy,” he murmurs. “I’m just gonna show you.” 

His thumb finds the swollen knot on the inside of your wrist, your scent gland that’s aching faintly with each rapid beat of your heart, and he smooths over the bump of it. 

Something simmers in your blood at the pressure, something that draws tight on an inhale and loosens on an exhale, and you let out a wobbly breath as you feel some of the tension between your shoulders give. 

It’s the same touch Kirishima has given you, twice now, but your wrist aches deeper with Bakugo’s touch. He rubs over the raised bump of it, working away the last of the wax remaining there, his eyes remaining on your face. 

“This is scenting,” he tells you. His voice gone a bit low in the space between you. “It’s how we bond to each other.” 

He holds your hand steady in his palm and gently rubs the inside of his other wrist against yours. You shiver, full-bodied, at the pulse of heat beneath your skin when his wrist gland oils lightly against yours. 

“You’ll smell like me, now. Any other alpha will know you’ve been with me.” 

You nod, slowly. Breathing out between your lips, wiggling your fingers to remind them to uncurl. Using every ounce of your strength to stay grounded in the moment so you can hear what he’s telling you, as every piece of you aches to lean into that honeyed, mindless warmth. 

Bakugo’s thumb replaces his wrist and he continues to soothe over the rise in your skin. Slow, steady brushes of his thumb. “It’s a comfort thing, usually. Here on the wrist. Families will scent each other here. Friends, too.” His eyes lift up your front, landing on the side of your throat, and his hand follows. 

The sides of his knuckles brush against the gland in the side of your throat, and your eyelids flutter. 

His voice is a murmur. “This is more intimate. Mates scent each other here.” He watches you carefully, then asks, “This alright?” 

You nod again, your eyes drifting closed as you lean into the pressure of his hand. “Feels good,” you feel yourself say, the words slipping softly through your lips. 

You can feel yourself beginning to drift. Feeling like the wine in your blood but hotter, somehow. More potent, as he tugs your heart towards him with every slow brush of his fingers over your throat. 

“Let go,” he murmurs, his voice closer than before, and a wave of his scent washes over you as he shifts closer. “You’re fighting it.” 

“It’s strange,” you protest softly, but you go when he tugs you towards him. Feeling as if your limbs have turned to honey as he arranges you to sit across the broad spread of his thighs. 

What remains of your rational mind marvels at your lack of reaction as you slide easily into place on his lap. No surge in your heart, no prickle of fear along the back of your neck. Just sinking into place like gravity is pulling you. Like you’ve been denying yourself something your entire life and it’s here for you now, if only you’ll give yourself to it. 

“It’s safe,” he says back, tilting your chin the side as he nudges his nose along the line of your jaw. Breathing in deeply when it reaches beneath your ear. “Breathe.” 

You make a sound you don’t recognize when his cheek brushes against yours. A soft little sound that catches in your throat as you turn towards him and deepen the touch. Breathing through parted lips and rubbing your cheek against his, shivering in his lap at the flutter of warmth you feel trickle down your spine. 

Giving into it is irresistable. Inevitable, in a way that feels beyond your control, as you feel your thinking mind slip further and further from you with every slide of his skin against yours. 

He breathes out against your throat, his breath hot and a little strained, and it cuts something loose in you. Tugs you free from the last of your propriety and has you leaning into him. Breathing in puffing pants between parted lips, your cheeks heated and your hands clutching at him to keep you close. Feeling some part of you flickering to life that you’ve never known before today. Before this exact moment, as he scents you with firm rubs of his skin against yours and a tight grip of his hands on your waist. 

Time passes like that. With you writhing on his lap and begging him for more without words. Feeling your mind turn and twist beyond your comprehension, beyond reason, until all that remains in you is instinct and need, simmering up scalding beneath the surface of you.

It’s this pull that possesses you to lean down over him. To nudge your nose submissive against his jaw and then lick beneath it. Whining softly, mindlessly as you taste at his throat. Giving little nips and tastes of your tongue, knowing, in some buried part of you, that you’re giving yourself to him by doing this. 

An urgency comes over him that you can’t help but mirror. Your breath coming quick as he shifts you in his lap. Tugging you deeper into the cradle of his hips as he nips lightly at the hinge of your jaw and makes you moan softly, unconscious and instinctive. 

He lifts his arm to you, breathing, “Here,” to you as he presses the inside of his wrist against the part of your lips, and you moan again at the slick of the oil from his scent gland trickling onto your tongue and making your insides clench on a sudden scorch of heat. 

You begin to suck on it without a thought, a gentle grip of the ridge of it between your teeth as you whine softly and try to drink him. Wanting to bathe in the scent of him that’s so rich here. So slippery on your tongue and down your throat, making your mouth flush with saliva as he tilts your head to the side and presses his teeth bluntly against the line of your neck. 

You shiver, your body pressing against his because you know that you should, and you’re so lost in the heady pleasure of lapping at his scent gland that you barely hear the warning he murmurs into your skin. The apology his lips press to the heated curve of your throat, before his lips smear across the slick of your scent gland, and he sets the points of his teeth there. 

You have a moment, an instant of bright, flickering knowing, where you realize what’s happening. What’s about to happen, what he’s about to do, and you have time only to suck in a rushed gasp and try to pull away, before his free hand presses your mouth against his wrist and he clamps his jaws down onto your throat. 

You lurch against him like you’d been shocked, a scream catching in your throat as your jaws snap in surging, blinding pain, and you only have a moment to realize that your teeth have pierced his skin, blood filling hotly your mouth, before he groans and bears down again. Clamping his jaws tight and making you scream. Muffled into the bloodied skin of his wrist as pain scorches through you like a flame, dragging you down, and down, until you feel the edges of blessed darkness, and throw yourself towards it with every fiber of strength not torn asunder by the suffocating pain that’s turning your mind to madness and your body ablaze.

Sleep leaves you slowly the next morning. 

You come back to consciousness in slow, warm waves of wakefulness. Rhythmic and soothing, flowing back and forth over your exhausted mind, and building slowly, surely upon the last, until your eyelids flutter finally open and you blink yourself awake.

Your head feels cottony and hazed, confusion thick in your mind as you flinch at the sharp ache radiating from where your neck meets shoulder. You shiver as the pain flares as you come back to yourself, a whimper slipping from you that’s pressed against something warm and firm. 

A sound comes from over your head, something low and throaty, and it makes you shiver again, down your back and to your toes as your blood prickles in helpless reply. You shift against the warm bulk beside you, your lips parting as you nudge your nose forward blindly. Groaning softly as you try to squirm closer, chasing the relief the scent draping thickly over you is easing over the pain like balm on a burn. 

Something drags softly up your back, touching along the bumps of your spine, and you exhale when you feel the warm grip of a large hand along the back of your neck. Grounding you, tugging you closer, and making some place buried deep in your chest warm like it’s a glowing light. 

You don’t have the will to pull yourself from the comfort of it for some time. Breathing through the weakening waves of pain from your shoulder as a nose nudges against your temple and breathes in deeply the scent of you. 

You know it’s Bakugo. Know without looking, know without thinking. The ruddy spice of his scent, earthen and dark, greets your slow-waking mind like an old friend. Like something beloved and known, imprinted on the oldest parts of you. If you thought it seemed eerily familiar to you before…

His hand is a steady anchor on the back of your neck. Not gripping, just resting with the thumb over your syrupy slow pulse. Keeping you close as he snuffles lightly against your hairline and makes soft sounds from deep down in his chest. 

When you finally manage to draw yourself back, your mind is still stirring slowly. Drifting so lazily in the haze of the thrumming warmth you feel where the two of you are pressed together that you can’t even gather a sliver of embarrassment from how you’ve found yourself. Pressed against the heated skin of his bare chest, your toes curling as you try to press yourself even closer still, something like a low purr wanting to rumble from you. 

You blink blearily up at him against the morning light, only realizing after a moment of significant delay that the sun is casting beams of golden light across the stone floor. Confusion tickles at your mind again, sure that they’d said the day before that they’d leave at first night, but your eye is drawn to Bakugo’s face, and your dim and uncollected thoughts on timing fade as quickly as they formed. 

You’re slipped too far beneath the surface of whatever spell you’re under to know what to expect from him in this moment. Not even able to string the thoughts together to worry if he’s angry with you for sleeping late or looking down at you on his bed with regret painted over his face. 

Your palm is pressed between the two of you, resting flat over the beat of his heart, and you swear you feel something physical there. Something heavy and warm and tender that wasn’t there before. 

His brow is softly pinched as he looks down at you. Laying on his side and brushing his thumb in slow strokes over the pulse point in your throat. His mouth set on a soft shape that you think means he’s deep in thought, and when a whispered whine escapes you, soft, questioning, his reply is unconscious. A low, gentle chuff from his throat, and it’s only Bakugo’s hand on the back of your neck that keeps you from nudging back forward on instinct. From seeking his warmth and his scent and burying your face back into the crook of his shoulder. 

It takes you a moment to find your voice, and even then, it comes out hoarse. 

“I thought we were to leave at sunrise?”

His eyes drift down your face, then back up, his thumb still sweeping gently over your pulse. Rubbing softly around the softly aching outer edges of the bite he laid into your skin there, his touch making the hair on your arms want to stand. 

He makes a soft, noncommittal sound. “When Kirishima returns, we’ll go.” His voice is rough, too. Raw sounding, almost, like the night prior had taken as much out of him as it had you. “You’re in pain.” 

You shake your head, gritting your teeth to stop yourself from flinching when the skin of the bite in your throat pulls with the motion. Your head is clearing now, with your face pulled back from the warm pillow of scent coming from the bare skin of his chest. 

“It’s better now,” you say. Meaning it, the pain you feel softening with every passing, wakeful moment. The sharp edges of it soothing with the buttery comfort of his scent pillowed around the both of you. “Where is Kirishima?” 

Bakugo exhales slowly, and you realize his eyes have begun to clear. Only realizing then that they’d been a bit hazed too, curled up with you in his bed. 

“Readying the horses,” Bakugo says, his thumb stilling over the side of your throat like he just now noticed he’d been stroking there. “We’re not staying here a second longer’n we need to.” 

The leap of your heart when he begins to pull himself away from you is sharp. Almost painful in your chest, and you nearly chew into your lower lip to keep yourself from whining as he guides some space between the two of you with careful hands. The air that rushes between you is cool and the skin down your arm prickles with goosebumps that chill you to the bone. 

Your head is clearing more with each passing minute of wakefulness and with every inch of distance added between you and Bakugo, and the first thought you have that isn’t warm safe stay is a disquieting realization that this whole situation should probably feel terrifying and strange, but it doesn't. A realization that even as your mind comes back to you and reminds you of propriety and dignity and the frightening unknown, every instinct beneath your skin is beckoning you forward. Towards him, towards the gentle grip of his hand and the soft brush of the edge of his nose against the shell of your ear. 

Bakugo pushes himself to the edge of the bed, then stands. Moving to the window to look out of it, his sun-darkened skin glowing in the morning light, and then the strangest feeling quivers behind your ribs. 

You feel the quick length of his steps away from you like a physical thing. A tug, painful and rooted deep within you, that warm thrum that had been echoing back and forth between the two of you in bed stretching taut and thinning. Invisible in the morning air, nothing between you but dust motes drifting, but something very real all the same. 

You have a moment, laying in the rumpled linens of Bakugo’s borrowed bed, to wonder if you’ve gone mad. If the claiming bite had broken something in you, to have you feeling something this intense, this connected, to a man you barely know. 

But then Bakugo turns back towards you from his place at the window. His eyes roving over you laid out in his bed and smelling of him. Shaking his chin almost imperceptibly, like he’s trying to shake a trick of the light from his sight. 

You don’t know what to say. Laying there, feeling a pressure in your chest from the distance he put between you that feels cavernous and cruel, a jagged loss of something whole, feeling like you’ve lost all of your senses, when he makes a soft, incredulous sound. 

“They said it would be…muted.” 

You can’t think very straight over the urge, physical and pressing, to crawl across the bed and go to him. Holding yourself back with nothing but the power of your will, as you try to hear the words he just said. “Muted?” 

He shakes his head softly. Swallowing, his brows dipping gently on his brow in a fleeting glimpse of feeling. “The bond. It’s supposed to…pale in comparison to a true claim.” 

Your heart kicks in your chest.

He feels it, too. 

You swallow heavily. Unable to stop yourself from staring hard in the stretched space between you. Looking, squinting, to see anything to validate this excruciating pull you feel, like gravity itself is tugging you towards where he’s stood. 

There’s nothing glimmering in the morning light besides the sun on the stone floor, but you know, when the garnet of his eyes meet yours, that it’s real. That he’s feeling that same thrumming pull, just the same as you. 

It takes you a moment to speak. Trying to find the words, and only able to murmur. “What do we do?” 

Bakugo watches you, his chest rising and falling with slow, deliberate breaths. When he speaks again, he pulls his eyes from yours, and you try not to flinch at the loss that blooms around your heart at the feeling. 

After a long moment of lingering silence, he squares his shoulders, and you see the king of the wild people appear before you in the soft morning light. Seeming to shake the last of whatever haze you’d both been under when you’d been skin to skin, scenting each other out of instinct and need, doing what your bodies told you to because you were both too far beneath the surface of it to stop yourselves. 

He finds his cloak and drapes it over his shoulders. Securing it in place and turning back to face you, like he’s finally found his footing and come back fully to himself. 

“We wait for Kirishima to get back,” he says, his voice gone a little low in the quiet of the chambers. His eyes drift back to yours, and your heart clutches in your chest in reply. 

“Then,” he says, “we get the fuck out of here.”

You’re still dazed from the pull of bond when you’re brought alongside them to the dining hall in the center of the castle. There’s a length to their stride you struggle to match and Bakugo’s hand around yours is the only thing that keeps you in tow as you walk between them and try to focus on placing your feet in front of you instead of floating uselessly in the thrumming pulse of the bond. 

Bakugo is tense. You know from the grip of his hand on yours and the faint strain prickling at bond, while Kirishima is deliberately light as you make your way through the castle halls. Making conversation with you about nothing important that you manage to keep up with while your mind swirls with the pull of the bite and the knowledge of what you’re all about to go do.

It’s the last day of Friður and the last meal is to be held in the dining hall and with King Enji. A formal farewell and close of the festivities, but Bakugo told you that you won’t be partaking in the meal this morning. Assuming, correctly, surely, that once the King learns of what’s happened, your welcome within the kingdom walls will wane considerably. 

The three of you had discussed what was to come in their chambers, so you had some idea of what to expect. An expeditious exit from Eldur that retained as much diplomatic grace as possible, for the sake of the peace treaty and the futures of both countries. Kirishima had seemed optimistic that the revelation of the bite would be received with the same distant, forced cordiality they’d been treated with their whole stay, but the set of Bakugo’s jaw makes you think that perhaps that was just Kirishima hoping for the best. 

The large wooden doors of the dining hall swing open as you approach, draw back by castle hands who can’t hide the shock on their faces at the sight of you, hand in hand with the leader of the wild people and striding forward dressed in a man’s clothes.

The din of conversation in the hall abruptly ceases as the three of you step into the space, and you find yourself shifting minutely towards Bakugo. Turning your nose against the side of his arm and breathing in, to try to steady the sudden and violent beat of your heart in the silence. 

King Enji is sat at a long table at the center of the hall, a full, steaming place setting before him. You’re late to the meal, you realize, and your nerves climb even higher in the tight tunnel of your throat. 

Hawks is sat beside him and you don’t miss how he straightens in his chair at the sight of you. Standing between Bakugo and Kirishima, your hand clasped within Bakugo’s. 

He huffs a laugh. “What’s this, then?” he asks, blinking like he’s properly shaking off sleep for the first time since waking this morning. 

King Enji’s gaze is a glare, edged and sharp, and it lands on the place where you and Bakugo are joined. 

“You’re late,” he says, voice stiff, and in a instant, you know that the forced pleasantries of the festival have run themselves dry. 

“Yeah,” Bakugo says, not an ounce of apology in his voice. “We’re leaving.” 

Kirishima takes a half step forward to stand level with Bakugo. “Thank you for your generosity,” he says to King Enji. “We’ve had a wonderful time. Perhaps we can host you on the mountain for the next festival.” 

King Enji waves his hand sharply, his jaw set. Pushing past the political formalities and zeroing in on the spectable standing before him. “Was I not clear when I declined your request yesterday,” he asks. “She is a citizen of Eldur and will remain so.” 

Bakugo shrugs, irreverent, and it makes King Enji bristle. “I invoked the old ways. Not up to you, now.” 

Hawks makes a delighted squawking sound, his palm slapping against the table, as King Enji’s expression darkens. 

“You did no such thing.” 

Bakugo offers him a sharp, humorless smile that shows none of his teeth. “No higher power than the old ways, right King?” 

“You’ve lost your minds,” Hawks mutters, delighted, grinning across the hall at the three of you. “You wild people…” 

“She’s not yours to take,” King Enji says, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. Rage there, simmering beneath the surface. 

The bond snaps tight, anger scorching down it so quickly that you flinch bodily. 

“She’s no one’s to take,” Bakugo spits, his hand tightening painfully around yours. “She chose this, as did I.” 

King Enji motions sharply to a page standing along the far wall and he scurries off, leaving the hall rigid with tension as two kings stand their ground in the face of another. 

“You’ve no decency,” King Enji says lowly. “No respect. You come to my kingdom and spit on our culture.” 

Bakugo snorts, derisively. “Your opinion means jackshit to me, King.” 

“Ookay,” Kirishima says, stepping forward with his hands raised, just as Hawks darts out a hand to keep King Enji from flipping the table, and the tension in the room ratchets higher. Unbearable, almost, and you find yourself barely able to be present in it. Choosing instead to continue to breathe in Bakugo’s scent in a desperate bid to calm the panic you feel clawing up your insides. 

The moment draws out, silence and hard stares, until the hall doors swing open again and a man in draped robes comes through. You recognize him as the royal healer, and your stomach twists a miserable turn. Fear brewing anew when you realize what his presence means.

King Enji has settled back into his chair now, but his gaze is like glowing embers. Furious, as he waves the man forward. “Release her,” he says to Bakugo. “She must be examined so I know this claim is legitimate.” 

Bakugo laughs shortly. Darkly. “Take her from me. See what happens.” 

The healer shuffles forward warily, giving Bakugo distance as he comes around to stand between the kings and looking like he’d do just about anything to be anywhere but where he’s standing. 

After a moment of uneasy silence, Bakugo barks, “Come up, then. I’m not gonna fuckin' hurt you.” 

The healer glances back only to meet the steelen glare of King Enji, so he steps forward cautiously. Stopping a foot away from you and requesting in a low, deferential voice to see the claim marks. 

Bakugo turns his forearm, and you shudder at your first sight of your bite. A ringed circle of bloodied skin from where your teeth sunk deep, and you can’t help the pulse of heat down the bond that Bakugo echoes back unconsciously. 

The healer doesn’t touch but he does give it a good look, shifting a bit to change his view, before his eyes lift to you. “And hers,” he says. 

You look up to Bakugo, nervous, suddenly, and his eyes are sharp when they meet yours. Still primed with anger he can’t soften, so you look back to the healer just as quick, raising your hand to the neckline of your tunic and tugging it gently to the side. 

He takes a moment there, staring critically at the swollen lump around the scent gland on the side of your throat. His brow furrowing, taking so long that you begin to fear that he’ll know, somehow. That he’ll sense your deception or the incompleteness of the bond. 

But after a moment, he steps back. His eyes looking between you and Bakugo one last time before he turns and goes to the head table. Leaning across and murmuring into King Enji’s ear before drawing back and away. 

King Enji’s gaze does not change, anger painted across every inch of his face, when he says through gritted teeth, “Get out of my Kingdom.” 

Bakugo makes an unkind sound and turns, tugging you alongside him as he makes his way back from where you came. Kirishima follows suit but manages a “Thank you for your hospitality!” before the wooden doors of the hall are slammed behind you. 

The three of you stand there for a moment, in the empty castle hall. Bakugo drops your hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, stress souring the plume of scent emanating from him, while Kirishima sucks in a deep, gusting breath and then lets it out through his mouth. 

“Well,” he says, clapping his hands together and laughing softly when Bakugo cuts him a weary look. “That could have gone worse!” 

You slump against Bakugo, your heart ringing still in your ears, as something like an exhausted laugh falls from your lips. “I suppose…” 

You all stay there for a moment in the silence of the hall. Catching your breath and calming the roars of your hearts, before Bakugo straightens himself, running the edge of his knuckles against the gland on your wrist where it hangs by your side. 

“Alright,” he says. Shaking his chin as if to clear the tension from it, before his eyes raise to Kirishima’s. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

In the end, leaving is easy. There’s no fanfare bestowed on the departing foreigners, nor any grief from the Kingdom for losing their greatest blight as you walk to the gates of Eldur at Bakugo’s side, with Kirishima on his other. The streets are cleared as you proceed through the city, people busying themselves to avoid staring as you pass by open windows and doors, and Bakugo and Kirishima walk with such an easy pride that you can’t help but marvel at. Can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever possess such a feeling, all squared shoulders and raised chins and long-legged, easy strides. 

The two horses they’d ridden in on are waiting for you at the gate, held by two castle guardsmen who avert their eyes as the three of you approach.

The towering front gates are opened on deep-groaning hinges when you stand before them, and the three of you slip through them without a word uttered. Stepping out onto the grasslands beyond the kingdom walls, and you turn back to watch when the doors slam shut behind you with a deafening crescendo of finality. 

You take a moment there, your gaze lifting up the gates and the towering walls that spread out on either side. Seeing your homeland in a way you never have. From the outside, as the world sees it. The tall, impenetrable walls, the towers with slits for the notched arrows of guard archers. 

It occurs to you, as you tilt your head back to see it all, that perhaps Eldur has always felt this way to you, in your heart. Like it didn’t belong to you, or you to it. Like it was a cold place gilded in stone and steel that you were never meant for. 

You feel a flutter on the bond and when you turn back, Bakugo is watching you from beside his horse. There’s an expression on his face that’s a bit guarded, so you can’t quite decipher it, but his voice has a note of gentleness when he speaks. 

“You ready, kit?” 

Kirishima mounts his horse with ease, his massive bulk settling lightly into the saddle, and Bakugo holds out a hand towards you. 

Warmth trickles through you, like heated oil. Finding comfort there in Bakugo’s sure gaze and Kirishima’s lopsided grin as he chats quietly to his horse, and you step forward and slip your hand into Bakugo’s. 

His skin is rough against yours, his hand enveloping yours entirely as he draws you beside his mount. His scent is rich, this close to him, and you draw in a pull of it, to feel the relief of it shudder down to your toes. 

“Ready,” you say. Nodding, trusting, and you see Bakugo see it in your face. 

He helps you aboard his horse, lifting you up and over his head like you weigh nothing at all, before he joins you. Settling into the saddle behind you and resting the width of his forearm over your thigh. Nudging you back against the cradle of his hips, til your back is pressed to his chest. 

He gathers the reins in one hand and you feel something like the nudge of his nose behind your ear as his horse steps sideways beneath you. A comforting shiver trickling down your spine as he scents you lightly, making a soft sound beneath his breath, before he urges his horse forward with a pulse of his knees. 

Kirishima falls into step beside you atop his horse, his smile eager. “Just a week or two of riding, and we’ll be there,” he says. “It’s only been a few days here but it feels like ages. Are you feeling good?” 

You nod to him, the corners of your mouth lifting in a soft smile. Feeling a bit shy, tucked against Bakugo’s chest, but sure. Ready for what’s to come. 

Bakugo makes a soft, huffing sound of ascent above your head. “Let’s go home.” 

The two alphas turn their horses to the west and start forward across the plains, taking you towards your new life. Full of mystery and promise, both nothing you’ve ever known and maybe, everything you never knew you needed. 

[kitkat13001]

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞

⤷ eijirou kirishima x reader

⤷ friends to lovers, kiri implied to be taller than reader, inspired the song “look after you” by the fray

compassion is second nature to eijirou kirishima. he’s always willing to lend a helping hand, no protest and no questions asked. 

he’s the ‘bro’ friend, the big-brother of the group standing over you all like a shield. they don’t call him the sturdy hero for nothing. 

he’s saved your life plenty of times, common in your line of work. but most often the things kirishima saves you from aren’t as big as falling buildings or supervillains. 

he always carries an extra hoodie for you in case you get cold. he makes sure everyone drinks water on the weekend group hikes. he always, always offers to share his snacks and insists even when you refuse. 

he texts you to make sure you got home safe, even when he’s the one who drove or walked you. 

for god’s sake, this is the man that sprinted two blocks to a corner store to buy tweezers when you got a splinter one time a few years ago. 

you wonder sometimes how a heart as big as his even fits in his broad chest. 

every other weekend bakugou insists on dragging everyone out for a hike because he can’t catch up with you all over dinner like a normal person and needs to do something active. 

today’s hike had taken longer than you’d originally thought. bakugou got a little too ambitious with his destination, and then mina and denki had wandered off the trail, and then sero twisted his ankle chasing after them. 

it’s nighttime now, and everyone’s been dropped off. you’re the last stop, sitting in the passenger seat of eijirou’s car and wondering how long you can linger without it being weird. 

you sigh after a long moment of sitting in peaceful silence with the faint radio music, finally moving to get out of the car. 

“night, kiri,” you say in the voice of someone who really doesn’t want to say goodnight. 

he moves when you move, clambering out of the drivers seat with a little smile. “i’ll walk you up.”

you stop, meeting his big crimson eyes. “it’s a ten foot walk to the door.”

“yeah.”

“you could just watch me from here, y’know?”

he shrugs, coming around to your side of the car. “‘s no big deal.”

you can feel the warmth coming off his body from when he’s standing next to you. you’re staring up at him curiously, and he blinks down at you. 

“i can see your breath,” he chuckles, taking his scarf off and wrapping it around you loosely while you stand there, stunned. his hands linger on the fabric, warm on your shoulders as he beams down at you. 

“eiji, don’t you ever get tired of looking after everyone?” you ask after a minute, walking up to the door at his side. 

kirishima hums thoughtfully, thinking on it for a second. “i mean, maybe sometimes i guess? but not really, ‘cause i look after the people i care about. so it’s not really work for me, y’know?”

“but don’t you ever want someone to look after you?” you’re at the door now, but you don’t want to go inside just yet. 

“you do,” he replies with a little smile, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you blink, stunned by the revelation.

“you always check up on me. text me good morning and good night. make sure i rest when i’ve been working too hard. carpool front seat so i don’t have to drive alone in the night.” he’s ticking them off on his fingers, an indescribable fondness in his voice. “and besides,” he adds cheerfully, “seeing you happy always has me feeling brand-new.”

you stare up at him with big, soft eyes. “kirishima, i love you.”

he laughs bashfully, scratching at his neck. “yeah, man, i love you too.”

“no, eiji, like i love you.”

he looks at you, meeting your loving gaze. his cheeks darken, and he looks almost nervous. “you…you do?”

you don’t dignify him with a spoken answer. you try to put any words you might’ve strung together into the kiss you pull him in for, clutching at his jacket to bring him down. 

he almost gasps into your mouth, but after a moment he’s cradling your face in big, careful hands like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. 

he’s grinning when you pull away, eyes like melting rubies. “i love you, too. but i think maybe you knew that already.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics and @/anitalenia — one hug from kirishima could fix all my problems. no further comments.

[ghouljams]

holding you by the hands: you know that the "you" in a 2nd person pov isn't literally you right? you know that even in a "reader insert" story it is still a character, right? you recognize that because they are not actually you they may make choices different from the one that you would make for the sake fo the story, right? you know that? you know that the only "you" that exists in the context of the story is the you that is reading it? right?

[philcollinsenjoyer]

about 90% of fanfiction takes place in a utopia where men are thoughtful and unsure of their place in the world

[jangofctts]

MASTERLIST 

Key: Smut and Mature Content *

(also all other warnings will be put in the header of the fic! make sure to read them!)

The Mandalorian 

Quixotic Series (Din Djarin):

1. Quixotic *

2. Profound *

3. Blister *

4. Tender *

5. Static *

Are You In Or Out Series (Din Djarin/reader/Paz Vizsla)

Are You In Or Out? *

Sink Your Teeth In *

Being No One, Going Nowhere Series (Boba Fett)

Being No One, Going Nowhere *

Leave it All Behind *

Anything At All *

No One Like You *

Thing for Trouble*

Headcanons

how the boys eat you out (boba, din, paz, cody, wolffe, rex) *

some of boba fett’s kinks *

thigh riding * (boba, din, paz, cody, rex, wolffe, wrecker)

NSFW Alphabets

Paz Vizla *

Star Wars Original Trilogy

Last Favor Series (Boba Fett):

1. Last Favor *

2. Tough Luck  *

3. Don’t Push Your Luck *

Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

 Madness (Poe Dameron) *

Oblivion (Poe Dameron) *

Rogue One

Between Everything and Nothing (Cassian Andor) *

The Clone Wars

Hell and You (Commander Wolffe) *

Mirrored Heart (Captain Rex)*

Prospect (2018)

Elegy to the Void (Ezra) *

MARVEL

As you Are * (Bucky Barnes)

All the Love We Never Had (Zemo) *

Really, Truly (Moon Knight)*

Peacemaker (2022)

Hot Venom || Sweetest Touch (Adrian Chase)*

Dying For (Adrian Chase)*

The Batman (2022)

Surely, You’d Burn the Same (batman/bruce)*

Until Ashes Are All We Breathe (batman/bruce)*

With Hearts Aflame (batman/bruce)*

A Burning Hill (batman/bruce)*

Feel the Heat (batman/bruce)*

House of the Dragon

Ungrateful Heart (Daemon Targaryen)*

The Hobbit

The Slow Regard of Silent Things

[sednonamoris]

good news: i’ve been writing and posting lately

bad news: it’s been oc stuff on my other ao3 account

[juniferyw]

𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐝. [costco misadventures]

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐬: it costs nothing to be kind. so you leap at your chance to do a good deed for a clearly irate stranger and in return you’d feel a warm, self-righteous feeling in your heart knowing you’re a good person—though you start to question the depth of your kindness when said stranger asks you for a favour you should, by all logic, refuse.

masterlist | ao3 | mdni | take heed: simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader, afab reader, domestic au, pretend relationship, fake marriage, size difference, love at first sight, dubious consent, obsessive behaviour, possessive behaviour, fluff, angst, stalking, manipulation, dark romance.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢.

The glaring fluorescent lights from above strains his eyes just a little. The clamour of customers busying themselves with their tank of carts from every which way only exacerbated Simon’s growing irritation. He can’t even hear his thoughts above all the noise; if he could, he’d choose to be back in the derrick, suspended high above the rig floor just labouring away through all the mud and chemicals in the height of summer.

Simon is only at the threshold of the large wholesale warehouse, and yet he is already flexing his taut fists, ready for a poor lad to even look at him sideways. The anger in him is palpable. 

Price is the only reason for why he is suddenly at earth’s very own purgatory. Hearing him mention something along the lines of scoring a fair deal on a bulk of premium meats piqued his interest enough to drive ungodly miles for some measly groceries. 

Simon has been meaning to stock up his barren fridge since he got back less than a week ago. The amount of takeout he’s been ingesting was beginning to slow him down. The food was quick, easy and predictable. But there was always an after effect where he’d feel the lull of his energy depleting. He figures he might as well make use of the grill he got for his twenty-ninth birthday that’s been collecting dust ever since. 

Then again, that might not even happen. 

A short elderly woman clad in Costco’s garish red trademark vest is staunchly refusing him entry, pressing him hard about some bullshit membership card. Still, Simon has to commend her, to be able to have gumption at her age against someone like him—even if the shrill of her critical, condescending tone is getting under his skin. 

He’s about to call it quits. Despite wanting—with every fiber of his being—to sock someone in the throat, he’d figure a punching bag was a better alternative for some stress reliever at times like these—mainly for one, they don’t call the police on him. 

The rumbles of an oversized cart emerges close from behind, and with that incessant noise accompanied the sweetest sound he’s heard in his waking lifetime. 

“Honey!” a laugh that sounds strikingly like a gentle, chime of bells follows. “Honey—I thought I told you to wait for me by the trolleys.”

“Silly man.” You shake your head in feigned indignation; the smile on your face never falters.

—And god have mercy, that smile..

Simon wonders if he really is with the land of the living or if he's finally kicked the bucket. But too many tell-tale signs reminds him that he’s alive—because the stale air around him still lingers and the obnoxious, blinding lights have finally given him a slight migraine that rings softly in the back of his head. And above all, Simon can feel the blood pumping through his veins; he can feel his heart beating—pulsing so hard he fears you can hear it too.

“Please excuse my husband—he hasn’t listened to me since I told him Arsenal is better than Man. United.”

You dig into your purse before flashing the employee your card. The woman takes a quick scan of your printed picture and back up to your face; her face remains hard and unconvinced. “Why do you not have a household card?” 

Simon raises his brows slightly and crosses his arms, looking down at you expectantly, wondering what you’ll say next to cover up your impromptu façade. Impressively, her question doesn’t shake you. Instead, you casually tuck the card back into the pocket of your purse and stand closer beside him—close enough that he suddenly feels off about himself. Like he isn’t sure why he’s caring about his attire that haphazardly chose this morning—or how the scent of his aftershave that permeates his being might be received. 

So he hardens his face and resolve, flexing his taut muscles as if the tension alone could will away the flicker of doubt he refuses to acknowledge. 

“I’ve just never bothered to change it—especially since he rarely comes with me to do the groceries.” You bump your shoulder against him lightly in playful admonishment. 

Simon is afraid to admit to himself that the touch was electrifying.

Quite embarrassing really that you, a pretty stranger, could have such an effect on him. He doesn’t necessarily consider himself a philanderer, but he also doesn't consider himself particularly celibate either. He had his fair share of experiences with women—tasted them enough to kill the mystery.

The countless nights where he tangled with naked limbs in the throes of passion had never reset him back to his awkward youth. But somehow with you, he is reminded of what he used to be; where simple, innocuous exchanges would render him useless. 

Simon clenches his jaw and puffs up his chest. 

“Next time, if you come without your wife you will still be refused entry—doesn’t matter if she is a member, you have to come with her or exchange your membership card for a household one.” She waves the two of you off to continue manning her post with more shoppers trickling in.

You take a furtive look back behind your shoulder before sharing him a knowing smile. 

“They’re very tight on security around here, unfortunately you have to show your card when you checkout as well.”

Simon notices the way you do not attempt to abandon him, keeping close to him like a familiar friend. He bites the bottom corner of his lip to keep it from pulling and looks ahead after stalling his gaze a second too much. 

On your end, your stomach was doing leaps, walking aimlessly with a stranger who you thought would be filled with gratitude. You imagine a scene where you both share a laugh at the whole situation—something along the lines of cheating the system; the man would tell you that it is his first time at this store, tell you that the security was as tight as the military, and thank you for your generosity and quick wit to help out a poor, lost soul like him. 

Instead he passively strolls at a leisurely pace, letting you take the lead of the direction—which makes sense as he has never stepped foot here before—but his silence was overbearing; your previous attempt failed to invoke some sort of conversation from him. 

You begin to overthink—perhaps, you have overstepped. 

Perhaps he does not need nor appreciate the help—that he would want to sign up for a membership on the spot and not have a convoluted lie follow him from a stupid, intrusive stranger who gave him an unwarranted favour. Thinking about it much harder, he does not seem like the type to even ask for help. 

Big. Formidable. Intimidating. You’re now all too aware of the tattoos that ran across his arm, the scars and the permanent glower etched onto his face. You’re never the type to make assumptions based on another’s appearance, but the man next to you has you breathing slow and careful—waiting for the moment he’ll cuss you out for dragging him into your needless fabrication. 

Your mind races as you second guess your actions—but he never protests. 

Still, he allows you near and yet you still feel small next to him. Like a stray dog, you are unsure whether he’ll bite your hand if you keep stretching it out. 

When you feel the moment has gone far too long with words unspoken, you instinctively kick your sociable, friendly pretence into overdrive—something to quell this oppressive hold he seemingly domineers over you. You start with your name. 

“I come here once or twice a month, I don’t necessarily need a bulk every time but I guess it’s just the novelty of shopping wholesale—plus their bakery selection is amazing!” You look up at him with eyes wide and hopeful, desperate for just one acknowledging nod.

“Simon.” The man finally utters. You inconspicuously breathe out a sigh of relief and he contains the blood rushing to his cock when you repeat his name to yourself. 

“What are you after? I noticed you didn’t grab a cart, something small?” Your steps instinctually lead you to the fresh produce aisle you religiously start with.

You stop slowly, inspecting the array of fruits and vegetables before you. He adjusts the crotch of his pants when you busy yourself with finding the ripest box of strawberries.

Simon clears his throat before replying, “steak cuts.” 

“Oh I won’t be long then–” He cuts you off by taking a sharp breath through his teeth and shakes his head. 

“Take your time,” Simon says with a gruff, slight upward tilt of his chin—and for some strange reason, you feel the need to comply. It’s as if he was your commanding officer, and he just gave you an order you’re bound to fulfill. You feel comfortable and uncomfortable all the same. He gives you no reason for you to be afraid of him, yet not enough for you to let your guard down. 

You give a frail smile and put down your chosen box of berries. Unexpectedly, Simon grabs a hold of the handle and begins pushing, in which you entwine your fingers at the end of the metal cart, allowing you to resume taking charge of the navigation. 

When you look back to flash him a gracious mien, Simon is suddenly lost in his view.

Time seemingly ceases to exist. The world he once knew unravels before him. His core beliefs—his ingrained convictions after years of moving through life with grit are now being questioned. His soul that is tempered by struggle and unyielding resolve, weathering the harshness of whatever finds him; it slips through his fingers like sand. 

The meaning of life. The purpose of his existence is suddenly here. In a wholesale warehouse. With you.

This sudden domestic bliss. Unfamiliar, surreal, hopeful—it makes him sick and yet he craves it all the same. 

His ghost leaves him for a mere moment, leaving him whole and human. For the first time he is unsure, can someone like him be deserving of something so good—something so innocent and pure? After all he’s done, what he’s seen—does he even deserve someone like you? 

Simon is not above stealing. No stranger to the sins condemned in every house of god. Anything shiny he’ll take—no moral conundrum in himself or as to how his actions would make him seem to those who have the chance to perceive him. 

And yet he is laughably wary and wanting. He wants to earn it, wants it given to him freely, unconditionally—can’t pull your hand in his and drive off in his truck to where you’ll cease to exist to none other than him in this world. No—you’ll run for the hills, won’t look at him the same way ever again, he’ll be lost to you forever. 

This time something is different. He doesn't know what happened—but something happened.

All Simon knows is that he wants you to keep calling him ‘honey,’ introduce him as your big, silly husband to the masses—wants you to want him just the same, and you’re making it so hard for him to stay grounded to reality. 

He doesn’t allow himself to be deluded enough to believe your kindness was only reserved for him—there are others before, and a part of him finds himself resenting you for that. 

It doesn’t matter. In the end he’ll have you on your knees begging for his forgiveness, pleading for mercy for how could you possibly think to be so generous to anyone other than him. Just the mere fact that this isn’t your first time is enough for him to persecute you. There will be no leniency—won’t hear it, doesn’t care if you weren’t aware of his existence prior to this; he’s astute in his jurisdiction. 

Simon slouches languidly against the handles with his arms crossed in front of him. His eyes follow your swinging hips as you walk ahead, blissfully unaware of his perverted fantasy to bend you over his knee and have you atone for the sins you’ve transgressed against him; he’ll make you believe as if kindness and decency were crimes worth condemning. Simon will do proper work to get through to you. A scornful, apathetic woman to the rest; a simpering, delicate bird just for him. 

The cart quickly fills up with time. You begin to feel your shoulders drop, slowly learning to be comfortable with the silence, but you never let it linger long enough for it to be prolonged; always at the ready to share your personal opinion on the products you meticulously choose. You point out their longevity, their taste—hell, you’re sharing with him how much he can save by doing calculations on your phone. 

Your prattle doesn’t seem to exhaust him, even if all he replies is in either a grunt or a nod; his eyes and demeanor tells you he’s ready to receive whatever you have to say. An oddly endearing feeling. 

“Oh—Simon,” you stop him in the middle of traversing into another aisle. “They’re handing out free samples!” You're embarrassingly too excited about this. You catch yourself when he gives you a slight huff accompanied by a faint grin. “Would you mind waiting? O-Or you’re free to go on ahead without me, I’ll catch up with you later.” 

You turn and join the small hoard of customers waiting for the next fresh batch of dumplings to be served. Suddenly feeling self-conscious, you do not dare to look back—instead, your attention is now solely on the savoury pieces of steam-fried morsels of assorted meat and vegetables. You await your turn with impatience, feeling anxious at the time you’re taking away from the man and his one, single item he means to purchase. 

Finally, when you stand at the front of the counter, the woman behind gives you two pieces in lieu of one as per everyone else. When you think it’s just good karma coming your way, she acknowledges you with a gushingly, sweet grin, “you two are absolutely adorable.” 

“Oh..” Your mind works overtime to generate the meaning behind her comment before you grasp it entirely. Simon stands imposingly behind you—eyeing the dumplings wrapped in parchment paper liners in your hands.

You look back at the woman to give a bashful smile. “We’re not–” Strong arm winds its way naturally around your waist, guiding you gently into the gravity of his being. The words fall silent at your lips; your eyes search for his, glancing up cautiously and gauging his face to read into his intentions. Simon instead softly envelopes your wrist and leads it to his mouth, easily capturing the sample with a quick swipe. 

Your bewilderment must have been plain on your face, seizing your features altogether as he chews absentmindedly to the side and gives a curt nod to the cooing woman before him. 

“It’s good,” he approves with calm indifference. 

You don’t reply; a spell enchants you, rendering you useless in speech. 

You wonder if this is appropriate, whether you both had gone too far for a simple subscription to shop in a discounted store. Granted, you were the one who initiated the ruse of being a married couple—however, with this man, it is difficult to gauge if he is a willing participant in the silly, white lie of your own making. 

So you are entirely blindsighted when he leans in and soothes the sides of your hip with his thumb, casually asking you if you wanted a bag to take for home. 

In the end, two bags of dumplings now sits neatly at the front of your cart—one spicy, the other original. Simon has yet to let go of you, even when you both are far out of line of sight from the woman who enthusiastically asked far too many questions for you to be comfortable with.

It was easy to put out a blanket statement, but turning the lie into something more personal, something more lucrative—knowing you could never back it up if you ever come across her again—made you restless, for this particular Costco was one of your usual haunts. 

When the temperature shifts, indicating that the fresh meat and seafood selection is near, you vacantly pull from his embrace to busy yourself by scanning at the rows of packaged salmon, studying its vibrancy in colour with tunnel vision to conceal the tremor in your chest. 

Too absorbed in your own focus, you fail to notice the disappointment that flickers across his face—how his hand follows the spot he previously occupied longingly; Simon clenches his fist in defeat and lets it fall limp at his side. 

He picks up two packs of Aberdeen Angus in one hand and returns to his post by the cart. You look back and set the kilo of salmon back down to join him readily with an air of ease. A moment of solitude with you and the fishes is enough for you to gather your thoughts and dismiss your need to read into the meaning between the lines that were never written.

“All done?” you ask, pushing the cart towards the entrance to check out. Simon trails behind you, and this time you don’t endeavour to fill in the silent gaps with your small talks—though every part of you inclines to do the opposite—it feels somewhat natural, to leave what is needlessly complicated behind and forgotten on this busy Saturday morning.

Walking up to a slightly less crowded register, you begin to unload your items into the conveyor belt strategically, placing your boxed and compact goods before your fresh and delicate produce. When you’ve empty the bottom of your cart, you take the sizable prime cuts of meat from his hand with a reassuring smile and place it among your other items as well.

Simon lets you, albeit not without a quiet struggle of hesitancy from his end—in which you find rather gentlemanly of his character. He’s even more so when he joins you at your side to help you load the checked items back into the trolley, effortlessly deciphering your preferences and aligning them to your own design.

After you sort the final pieces neatly together, you sift through your purse once again for your membership card to the cashier. He gives your ID a quick once-over, nods in routine satisfaction and hands it back over to you. Just as you’re pulling your credit card from its tight confines to pay, you hear a mechanical beep quickly following suit.

The receipt monotonously rolls out a copy of your invoice as Simon casually slips his wallet back in his back pocket. You’re reeling—you can’t fathom what just happened. He takes the receipt from the clerk without much thought and begins to drag the cart from the register with one hand to make way for the hoard waiting behind. 

“Simon!” You exclaim in quiet, eyes wide-eyed with disbelief, trailing after him as he takes the lead towards the exit. 

He only spares you a sideways glance, waiting for you to continue, as if what he just did were nothing at all; but you wait a beat for him to explain. Comment on the reimbursement of his purchase on your behalf. Elaborate on the efficiency he has done for you as a favour. Give a simple shrug. Anything. 

Instead, his countenance remains still, like he can’t quite understand you’re looking at him like that and calling out his name with such urgency. 

‘This man really has no social cues,’ you think—teetering on the verge of a crash out after a full morning reading into the obscurity of him as a being, second-guessing your words and gestures towards him. Your social energy is spent, and this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

You shake your head lightly and let out a soft sigh of laughter while still settling your gaze at him. Social diplomacy has always been part of your strength; avoiding direct demands and fluffing requests to preserve a sense of decorum is embedded in your speech and character. And now you find yourself getting tired of it—tired of him. He wants you to spell it out for him—and perhaps you should. You should figure by now he probably receives directness better than skirting around niceties. 

“Give me your bank account details.” You pull out your phone and tap your screen rapidly with haste. “I'll transfer you right now, who are you with?”

He’s lost interest entirely.

“Don’t worry about it.” 

You blanch, unimpressed at his answer. “I can’t let you pay for over a hundred pounds worth of groceries for me.”

“Why?” he furrows his brows together. The question is not meant to challenge, but one to understand. 

“Simon,” you hold on to the handle of the cart he’s taken control of before he strays further from the exit. “It doesn’t feel right on my end to have someone else pay for something that substantial—especially when I’m fully capable of covering for it myself.”

He straightens at your words. Looking down at the space where your hand nearly meets his at the handle before looking at your steadfast disposition; he curses silently at your sweet face. 

In the end he could give fuck all about being reimbursed—but Simon isn’t quite ready for this dream to end just yet. And so, he expects this—expects the refusal from you. Fully aware that the unspoken rules of courtesy that you live by will keep you from accepting his act of generosity; tying him to you indefinitely until a similar, if not grander, gesture is repaid.

More than that, there is another incentive in this predicament he’s designed; he, a generous stranger who’s overpaid the favour, and you, will keep him in the back of your mind from now, always. 

“You saved me a trip back; I don’t come home empty-handed,” He says simply. “Just paying it forward, alright love.”

You begin to feel the invisible string that entangles you to him—a debt that grows with interest, compounding over time—and you mean to cut it. 

“Where did you park?” 

A quiet conundrum remains with you, restless at the unresolved matter you take an issue with and even more so when your case is denied. In spite of all that, you guide him to your hatchback pulled in conveniently near the trolley bay; your apprehension is easy to see.

Simon helps you load your items into the back when you’ve unlocked it. You peer up at him from the corner of your eyes, looking for any kind of indication of smug—a sense of gratification or doubt that might flicker across his face. And yet he remains composed, simply focusing on lifting the heavier items you struggle to carry on your own and into the trunk thoughtfully.

Once you place the final item inside, you finally find your voice with a vestige of courage to offer him some goodwill to settle the debt there and then. 

“Would you like a membership card?” You ask hopefully. Recalling the reason why you are with him in the first place. It seems like the best outcome for both parties, honouring each others’ generosity and kindness and parting ways with no strings attached. “I would love to pay—in fact, I insist.”

Simon quickly shoots down your offer, head shaking in refusal. Simon sucks the air through his teeth to reinforce his answer. He looks off towards the vast parking lot, hands on his hips before his attention returns to you, “Doubt I’ll be back here.” 

You’re deflated but you accept defeat in his answer, albeit not without one last attempt to repay the favour. Your phone unlocks with a single tap of your thumb as you navigate the home screen to your contacts application, handing it to him with a blank profile at the ready.

“Well, at least give me your number—just in case you ever need the money back, in some way or another.” you explain, unsure in the latter part of your words but you’re hopeful he’s sensibly across the meaning behind them. 

This he does not refuse.

Simon punches his numbers into your phone and dials it for good measure. When he feels the familiar buzz of his cell in his pocket, he presses the end call button before handing it to you.

“Thanks—and yes, call or text me anytime you need anything. And truly, thank you for paying for my groceries—you really, really didn’t have to.” You take a second to laugh softly behind your hands, alleviating the absurdity and the awkward tension of it all when he allows you to ramble by yourself.

“Uh.. I hope you enjoyed your first shopping experience here—so much so you might come back? Maybe? Not too late for me to shout you that card.”

With his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he shakes his head again with a slight curve playing in one corner of his lips in a smirk. 

“Well maybe the quality of that steak is so good you’ll dream of it for days and beg me for one when you run out.” 

Your smile strains when he doesn’t join in on your playful quip. Instead he looks amused, almost satisfied with how much you seem to be enjoying yourself in this one-sided conversation. If you were a bit more pessimistic, you would think that he’s making fun of you—but you would ruminate on that later in the late hours of the night when you’re trying to sleep.

“Alright then, it was nice to meet you—and yeah, let me know when.” You take your leave first, turning your feet around towards the driver’s seat, but not without looking back to give him a small wave to keep up pleasantries. “See you.” Your words travel light and fragile, but he receives it all the same. 

Simon nods in acknowledgement before taking his own leave when you shut the door beside you. Taking steady strides to his truck parked all the way across the lot, he repeats your registration plate like a mantra under his breath with an absentminded shadow of a smile painted across his face. 

When he finally disappears from view from your rearview mirror, you let your head fall against the headrest and sigh in relief. As if you’re Atlas, the weight on your shoulders is relieved when you no longer burden yourself with the world. Closing your eyes tight in exasperation before looking up at the ceiling of your car, you take a moment to settle in what you had done to over complicate a simple errand run. 

The feeling is heavy; being monetarily indebted to someone you don’t quite know—none other than that, to someone who is horribly unsociable and taciturn. This didn’t turn out exactly how you would want it to go, and now you sit and wonder just how you had let this happen.

First of all, there is no reason for you to turn the other cheek if it costs you more than you’re willing to give. It seemed simple enough back then. The man clearly intends to purchase from the store, there was no reason for that lady to berate him publicly. The woman must’ve thought that she’s just doing her job—but to you it felt like a power trip. And so you feel for him when he just stands there and takes it. 

Your overly big and sensitive heart felt the inconsiderate reprimand like it was also yours to receive. That’s why helping him felt like second nature to you. In your mind, you had it all planned out. You get to stick it to the needlessly strict corporate rules and he gets to shop in peace. You’ll both share the same sentiment of how cruel the public display was, he’ll profusely show his gratitude through kind words and you would feel a great sense of self-satisfaction knowing you’re a good person. 

Then you imagine the both of you exchanging in some playful banter, turning a rough start to a pleasant shopping experience in the early morning before you inevitably part ways—never to see each other again, but yet look back to think of this encounter as a fond memory to tell others. 

However, this man is different. 

You can’t read him as well as you do for others. You would rather him show his hands freely even if they're not the most agreeable to you. Preferring some kind of sign of indignation even, in lieu of being so reclusive and withdrawn yet—annoyingly rational.

And now he has your number and you’re sitting on the edge of your seat for his call at anytime. 

It’s at these times you catch yourself recognising your weakness in character. Your kindness, it’s performative. You know part of the reason why you help is that it’s so you could also feel good about yourself—and you’re only as good as your last impression, keeping it up is what you struggle with. You could only spare so much of yourself for a stranger before it gets too close for comfort. 

But that’s all meaningless now; your karma has been reversed. 

You strongly believe that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction—and it doesn’t apply to just physics. Your intention to help out a man shop for his own groceries, have him transfer you his fair share has now ended up with you being a-hundred-and-eighty-four pounds indebted towards him. It doesn’t feel good. The feeling still lingers even when you pull from the parking lot.

The balance of the universe is law to you. In short, if something good comes about, then something bad tends to follow.

[sednonamoris]

leave the lights on

Pairing: Jason Todd x f!reader

Summary: Your best friend discovers that you’re still a virgin on a quiet night in.

Warnings: Porn w plot (but the plot is losing your v card), fluff, first time, mild suggestions of Jason’s body/self image issues, so much consent, makeout sesh, granny panties, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected piv sex, creampie, gratuitous use of italics and em dashes (ai can get FUCKED), a little sappy and a little goofy but mostly sincere, Jason uses so many pet names, and yes the show is 90 Day Fiancé

Word count: 3,627

A/N: I’m not projecting YOU’RE projecting 😭🫵

Masterlist • AO3

—

Your legs lie across Jason's lap snug on the couch, his scarred hands resting over them protectively. He runs cold, so there's a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. One of the ones you knitted crooked, lopsided but cozy enough. His face is bathed in TV glow while something trashy plays in the background. Reality. Perfect for the peanut gallery commentary you both love to provide.

Empty hot chocolate mugs rest on handmade coasters on a scratched wooden coffee table that's seen better days. Full of character is how you like to describe it. Hunk of junk, Jason always corrects. A smile flickers across your face as you take in the deep gouge on its rounded edge where Jason's knife embedded itself upon your first meeting. Dumpster diving in Gotham City is a high risk, high reward venture, but you never imagined you'd come face to face with Red Hood doing it, or that he'd be sitting on your couch watching bad shows with you almost two years later as a result.

"What are you smiling about?" he asks with a soft one of his own. A little crooked and a little fond, the kind that flusters you every time you see it. His eyes catch yours for a moment before you have to look back to the television screen.

"Nothing," you deflect. "The show. This guy is a total loser."

He snorts. "Yeah, I can't believe they stayed together after he admitted he doesn't get off when they have sex."

"Oh, please," you say. "He's a loser for so many other reasons. How many women stay with men who don't get them off?"

The question is rhetorical, but he looks at you then and you feel caught in his crosshairs. Your face heats in embarrassment but you can't look away. The resulting giggle, nervous and high up, gives you away entirely.

"How many guys have you been with like that?" Jason seems scandalized on your behalf.

"None!" you blurt immediately. It's only true because you haven't been with anyone.

Not that you're uninterested or incapable or whatever… it just hasn't come up. Nothing wrong with being a late bloomer.

"Uh-huh," Jason says thoughtfully, head tilted, blue and otherworldly green eyes still staring into your own.

You're worried what he's finding there. Too much, probably. Far too much. Why does he have to take everything you say so seriously? And why can't you play it cool?

His hands tighten around your calf and your heart thuds, but all at once he's looking back at the show and you're saved.

His grip relaxes but remains.

The breath you puff out is audible.

You chance a few nervous glances in his direction over the course of the episode. He's staring at the screen but seems lost in thought. There's that wrinkle he gets between his brows like when he's serious about something. You can't count how many times you've seen it. During lectures about personal safety. Dissertations on the Brontë sisters. A detailed catalogue of the differences between semi-automatic and automatic weapons.

You hadn't realized that your guilty pleasure TV shows counted among these passions, but maybe you underestimated his interest.

…It couldn't be that he's thinking about you. That would be silly. Too foolish even to contemplate.

Right?

The embarrassing moment fades as the evening stretches on, allowing you to fully settle back into the couch and the points of contact between you. When you first met it felt like there were miles of distance between Jason and the rest of the world. Now only a few layers of clothes separate you.

A new couple is introduced on screen and you have to bite back an awkward cough as the woman admits to the camera that she's a virgin.

You can feel Jason looking at you.

You can't make yourself look back.

"Just ask," you snap.

"Have you ever—?"

"No."

"Really?"

He sounds so genuinely surprised that you turn to face him. Jason is unfairly handsome in this soft light. Eyes bright and hair tousled, freckles dancing across the tapestry of tight pink scar tissue that holds so much of him together. Kintsugi.

You fold your arms across your chest and scowl. "It can't be that surprising."

"Why shouldn't it be? You're funny, smart, beautiful." He lists these things off as fact. You know they're fact, but it's different when someone like Jason says them out loud.

"Shut up." You're sweating.

He leans forward, forehead wrinkle making an appearance. "I'm serious."

"I know, you're making your serious face!" you cry, covering your own face with your hands. It's too much. Not enough. You don't know.

"I don't have a serious face." You can hear the wrinkle deepen.

"Yes you do," you peek between your fingers. "There! Between your eyebrows. You're serious."

Silence stretches between you. Something normally peaceful - companionate, even - is suddenly electric. What if hangs in the air between you, close enough to reach out and touch.

It's just that you had sort of already come to terms with dying a virgin and never ever doing anything about the stupid crush you have on your best friend who also happens to be an undead vigilante with a soft spot for classic literature and illegal firearms and definitely not you, who once got mugged for trash out of a dumpster in broad daylight and had to be rescued, coffee table and all. It has never once factored into your pining that he might like you back enough to tease about your inexperience, to pry these kinds of answers from extremely embarrassed lips that seem unable to stop incriminating you. Even hiding your face like this you know he sees right through you. He always has.

"We're best friends, of course I am," Jason finally says, voice much closer now as he shifts across the couch. He moves your legs aside to get closer. You tuck them under yourself, sitting up straighter. Then he peels your fingers from your face, holding your hands gently, not letting them go even as they fall away. "Have you ever thought about it?"

You look down at your joined together hands and give a faint squeeze. "Obviously I think about it sometimes, but it's just—" you sigh in frustration. "I can't— I mean I'm not—"

He lifts a hand to your chin and tilts your face toward him. When you finally meet his gaze there is so much care and steadiness and tender wanting in his eyes that anything you might have said gets stuck in your throat. "Do you want to try?"

"I don't know how," you whisper. You're not sure why you're whispering.

His hand is still on your chin, touch featherlight but firm. Grounding. Electrifying. He runs his thumb over your lips and your breath catches.

"I can show you," he whispers back, pupils blown wide, tips of his ears and apples of his cheeks dusted pink. "If you want."

Your exhale is shaky and your nod slow, eyes wide with fear and want. You do want.

"Can you say it for me?"

"Yes. Please can you— Yes."

Jason moves his face to yours slowly, slowly, eyes searching for any sign of discomfort or disapproval. Giving you time to run, if you want. Say no, push him away, anything. You reach out your hands and fist them in the soft material of his shirt. His breath tickles against parted lips.

Your eyes remain wide, even knowing what's coming. Wanting to take it all in, maybe. His crinkle with affection as he presses his lips to yours oh so softly, never once looking away. The kiss is brief. Tender. You blink owlishly when he pulls away.

The moment you remember to breathe again you use your purchase on his clothing to pull him back and kiss him once more.

This time both of you close your eyes and sigh. It's soft and explorative, the natural give and take of figuring out what it is that you like. You try different angles, giggling breathlessly when the bridges of your noses bump. His lashes flutter butterfly kisses across your cheeks as he presses another to the corner of your mouth. Your chin. Your jaw. Open mouthed down the column of your neck until he reaches the spot where you gasp. He stays there, smirk pressed against your skin while you squirm.

The graze of his teeth against your hammering pulse jolts you into action, hands loosing from his shirt to begin a thorough exploration. First the soft of his stomach, then the strength of his shoulders. The broadness of his back. Raised skin from scars old and new tell their stories at your fingertips as you touch beneath the fabric of his shirt. A thousand and one battles fought over the course of two lifetimes. All of them bringing him here. To you. To this.

His hands roam as well, broad and strong and cold against the scorching heat of your body. He groans when he feels that you aren't wearing a bra, cupping your breast and passing a thumb over your nipple to feel it stiffen against his cool scarred skin. You arch into him, keening at the sensation.

"You're cold," you whine.

"You're burning up, angel," he murmurs back between kisses. "All this for me?"

You tilt your head back and sigh as he kisses that spot you like again, thighs clenched together desperately. "You know it is."

He hums against your skin, pleased, before pulling back and looking you in the eyes. "Do you want more?"

You're nodding before he can even finish the question, adding a please just in case he needs to hear it out loud. Like he truly needs it now; Your body is playing traitor, skin furnace hot and pupils blown wide and pulse racing and underwear damp already.

He nods, serious face back as he looks between you and the couch and your bedroom door. "I can't fuck you here."

"Wha…? Why not?" you clutch at his shoulders like he might disappear.

"It's your first time," he says. Smooths your hair back. Kisses your forehead. "Has to be a bed, nice and proper."

"Didn't know you were gonna pull out all the stops," you grumble, but the consideration makes your heart ache.

"If you want all the stops…"

Without further preamble he scoops you into his arms and marches to your bedroom. There's no hiding his smile at your delighted shriek of his name.

The television hums in the background, forgotten.

Jason lays you atop patchwork bedding with the gravitas of an old school lover. He flicks on the bedside lamp, soft orange glow illuminating the adoration that shines through his mismatch eyes.

"You're doing so good, angel."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he says. "Can I take some of these clothes off you?"

The way you throw your oversized t-shirt across the room in one swift motion before he even gets the chance has him laughing, soft and intimate. Just for you. It makes you forget to be embarrassed. You're already halfway through shimmying your sweats off when you remember that this isn't an equal exchange.

"What about you?"

He hesitates only slightly. "If you want, gorgeous."

You do.

Jason pulls his shirt off slowly, revealing a broad expanse of pale, scarred skin. It's impossible not to notice that he's built like a brick shithouse with his clothes on. Without them, you send a silent thank you into the universe that he hasn't been skipping meals. There are freckles on his shoulders, but the way he's flushed from his chest to the tips of his ears it's a little hard to tell how many. You'd like to count them, someday. Dark hair peppers his chest and stomach, trailing down to where his sweatpants are slung low on his hips. Your mouth goes a little dry when you see the bulge in his pants.

There's a moment where you both just stare. It should be awkward, most of the way to naked in front of the best friend you've been quietly in love with for forever.

It isn't.

Jason makes you feel safe. You only hope that you make him feel the same.

"Are you ready, beautiful?" he asks.

"Your pants are still on."

"I know," he smiles. "Wanna taste you first. Can I?"

You nod, returning his smile with a sheepish one of your own. "Should've worn a thong."

That earns you a laugh, bright and clear and from his belly. He hooks his arms around your legs and pulls you to the edge of the mattress. When he settles there between your legs he looks up with dark, hungry eyes.

"I dunno," he kisses along your inner thigh, "the granny panties are really doing it for me."

Your laugh is a choked, embarrassed thing, cut short by the gentle nip of his teeth. Maybe full coverage faded polka dots are in right now. When he finally makes his way to the soaked core of your underwear his hot breath sends thrills up your spine. Then he presses his nose to it and takes a long, deep breath.

If it wasn't so hot you'd be mortified.

"So wet f'me, baby," Jason groans. "Smells sweet. Bet you taste even sweeter."

The shock of cool air against your wet core when he peels your panties away makes you squirm. Your first instinct is to close your legs, but he holds them open with steady hands and admires.

He glances up at you then, eyes sparking with mischief and something warmer, before leaning in and licking a long wet stripe. You gasp at the sensation. He moans at the taste.

Jason quickly adjusts to your body and its wants, eating you out slow and steady, listening for each hitch of your breath to know if he's found something you like. It feels so good that you're not sure what to do. He holds you so there's no wriggling back to escape the intensity of pleasure. Your hands feel useless fisted in your bedsheets, cupping your breasts, covering the wanton sounds trying to escape from your mouth.

He comes up for air when you bite back another just to say, "Uh-uh, baby. Let me hear you."

So you do.

His broad shoulders shudder as you chant his name into the bedroom air like some kind of prayer. Your hands find purchase in the thick waves of his hair. When you grab a fistful of black and silver strands at the root and tug him even closer his nose nudges against your clit and you swear you see stars.

He's quick to notice and replaces the sensation with a thumb working tight circles while you cry out your pleasure. His tongue is then replaced with fingers working themselves inside of you. First one, then two, then the delicious, aching stretch of three. He crooks them just so with each thrust, brushing up against heaven inside you. Writhing, roiling heat coils itself in your belly, winding tighter with each touch. His moans at the way you're coming undone make you feel lightheaded and hazy.

"Shit, Jay," you pant. "Fuck, think I'm gonna— I'm—"

"Close?" he finishes for you. "It's okay, angel. It's supposed to feel good. Just let go. Can you do that for me?"

You nod desperately. Anything. You'll do anything for him right now. His steady rhythm and pressure has you tumbling over the edge of an orgasm that leaves you breathless. It's a symphony of pleasure that spreads to the very tips of your fingers and toes, Jason working you through it the same patient way he's worked you through everything else. You've touched yourself before, of course, but right now it feels like you haven't. Like everything up until this was just a shadow puppet show of the real thing. Plato's allegory of the pussy.

"Holy shit," you whine once the ringing in your ears quiets and your vision clears. "This is so much better than whatever the fuck we've been watching."

His laugh is halfway between smug and shy when he crawls up your body and claims your mouth in a triumphant kiss. You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue.

He leans back and wipes his mouth and smiles. "We can stop here if—"

"I want you to fuck me, Jason. Please."

You don't even care how desperate it sounds. It's true. Despite the sarcasm and cynicism and dramatic monologues he fronts with, Jason is the most kind, considerate person you know. He's known among the elderly population of your apartment complex as the nice young man who carries groceries in without being asked. He walks Crime Alley hookers home after their nights working the streets, staring down any weirdos that try to follow them. Once you caught him handing out books he'd stolen from some high end crook's collection to kids on the street. Who else would you trust with your first time?

"Fuck, angel," he shakes his head like he still can't believe this is happening, "you only ever had to ask."

It sends heat rushing to your core all over again to hear him say it. You watch with rapt attention while he rids himself of his sweats and briefs. His cock stands erect, leaking a bit from neglect and just as flushed as the rest of him. He's… big. You knew he would be, but still your tummy flutters in anticipation.

He leans in and kisses you again as if to distract from the size. "Gonna be so gentle. Make it good for you."

"Will it be good for you too?"

Another kiss, this time to your forehead. Brief. Sweet. "It's already good for me, baby. Let me take care of you."

He moves to line himself up with your entrance, but only rubs back and forth. The light friction teases, makes you squirm.

"Next time—ahh—" you say as the tip of him catches against your clit, "Next time I'm gonna take care of you."

"Yeah? Next time?”

"Yeah," the word comes out a desperate sigh as he finally pushes himself past your entrance.

He goes slowly, giving you time to adjust to the foreign stretch of him inside you. It's so strange at first - not bad but different. Inch by inch you breathe through the pleasure-pain to the sound of his fervent praise.

Just like that, I've got you.

Easy, baby, that's it.

You're so beautiful. Can't believe I get to touch you like this.

Feel so perfect, angel. Doing so good for me.

When he finally bottoms out he holds there, hands cradling your head, and just looks at you. His smile wobbles, adoring. Tears shine unshed at the corners of his eyes. You reach a hand up to cup his cheek and he melts into the touch, turning his head to kiss the palm of your hand.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

His thrusts start slow and shallow, allowing you to adjust until he settles into a deep rhythm that pulls a medley of sound from you. Sweet nothings and sighs and moans and groans and a steady stream of filthy cursing that quirks the corners of his lips.

A single tear escapes down his cheek the moment he settles into your body, looking down at you like you're some kind of salvation. He presses wet kisses to your face, your breasts. When he captures your lips again you kiss back with all the emotion brimming in your chest.

Panting into each others mouths you rake your nails down his shoulders and back. His nostrils flare and his eyes seem to go even darker. When he presses down on your clit and starts circling it you let out a cry as the heat that's been burning in your belly turns wildfire.

"Jason," you keen. "Fuck, I'm close."

"Yeah?" he pants. "Gonna cum for me?"

You nod senselessly, babbling yeses into the air as he takes you closer and closer and closer to the edge and then farther and farther and farther past it. He fucks you through ecstasy, the wet snap of his skin slapping against yours muffled by your pleasure.

He's gentle in the comedown, waiting until your hips start moving to meet his once again before setting a brisker pace, chasing his own pleasure.

"Where do you want me to—?"

"Inside. Wanna feel you." Your cheeks burn saying it but you've always wondered what it might be like.

A lightning bolt of desire zaps through you as he whines at the thought.

It only takes a few more thrusts before he collapses over you with a cry of your name. His body is warm and solid and strong and he murmurs something that sounds like thank you between chaste kisses to the crook of your neck.

The two of you lie there until your breathing steadies. Your arms are wrapped around his body, fingers running over the back of his scalp in soothing patterns. He sighs into you. Then slowly, carefully, he eases off your body and sits back. You wince slightly at the sensation of him slipping out of you, feeling empty. He watches with fascination as some of his cum drips out as well, cheeks pink with pride as much as bashfulness. When he looks back up at you your heart feels fit to burst with all the love and gentle concern you find there.

"How do you feel?" Jason asks.

You stretch, catlike, and smile up at him utterly satisfied. Utterly in love. "Like I want to finish our episode. Think we can still make it to the tell-all tonight?"

A laugh bursts out of him. It's a warm, welcome sound. His eyes sparkle. "Let's get cleaned up first, angel. Then we can do whatever you want."

[juniferyw]

just a man. | MASTERLIST

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐬: to most he’s sergeant garrick—to those who knew better, he’s gaz; to you, he’s still that kid who tagged around your little brother. years go by and he comes home a decorated war veteran. only this time, he comes back taller than you remembered and far meaner. he reminds you of the hurt he still carries when you rejected him as a young boy. gaz continues to hold that against you. forgiveness is wasted on him—

that is, if you only give him just half a chance to prove he’s the man for you.

𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠

ao3 | mdni | take heed: kyle ‘gaz’ garrick x f!reader, afab reader, younger man x older woman, resentful gaz, slightly mean gaz, possessive gaz, hidden feelings, ardent pining, but he can’t let you know he’s still in love, angst, ulterior motives, if i can’t have you no one can, age gap, size difference, forced orgasm, love confessions, slight coercion, manipulation, manhandling, dubious consent, actually, extremely dubious consent, possessive behaviour, obsessive behaviour, fluff, dark romance.

masterlist:

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐢𝐢.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢𝐯.

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐯.