When Natasha is captured by Hydra, she expects pain, interrogation and silence. She doesn’t expect the woman assigned to break her to be just another prisoner wearing a different kind of chain. Blackmailed, controlled and forced to obey, you’re walking a razor’s edge between survival and betrayal. In a cell built for monsters, trust becomes the most dangerous weapon of all and the only way out may require destroying the man who holds both their lives in his hands.
Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader
Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI!, torture, blood, Stockholm syndrome, making out, trauma
Word count: 9,5 k
A/N: Based on this request here. I’ve never written Stockholm before, so I hope it somehow makes sense. I had to split it into two parts because it’s about 20k words in total. The next part will be posted tomorrow (Monday) at the same time. Afterwards, requests will be closed so I can fully focus on my new series!
Natasha leaned back against the cold interior wall, gloved fingers drumming a soundless rhythm against her thigh holster. Below them the city sprawled dark veins of streets lit in orange. Somewhere in that maze, Hydra had a bunker full of stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. intel and a data broker who knew how to use it.
“Three minutes.” came the pilot’s voice over the comms.
Steve was going over the plan again, “Sam, rooftop sweep. Wanda, you’re with me on the entry. Natasha-”
“Ventilation shaft, east side.” she finished, pushing off the wall. “Get in, find the server, ghost out with the hard drive before anyone notices. I remember.”
Sam snorted. “She just wants the vents. Spiders and spiders.”
“Bird jokes from the man in wings.” Natasha replied. She felt the faint twitch at the corner of Steve’s mouth even through the helmet. He passed her one last look and she gave him a short nod in return and checked her gear.
The quinjet dipped and the building came into view through the hatch window, “Intel said minimal resistance.” Wanda murmured.
“Yeah, well..” Natasha said, “intel’s been wrong before.”
The hatch opened with a hiss. Cold air and the faint tang of smoke rushed in. Sam was off first, wings flaring in the night. Steve and Wanda jumped together, dropping toward the shadowed alley beside the compound.
Natasha went last, stepping cleanly out into the dark. “Widow in position.” she whispered.
“Copy.” Steve’s voice crackled in her ear. “On your mark.”
She moved low along the rooftop, hugging the shadows beyond the sweep of the security lights. Up close, the place looked wrong. The outer patrols were lazy and cameras turned on predictable arcs.
“Anyone else getting a bad feeling?” she muttered.
“Bad how?” Sam said.
“Like they cleaned the house before we got invited over.”
She found the vent near the east corner, just where the schematics said it would be. The grate was newer than the surrounding metal, almost polished. She didn’t like that either.
She popped the cover, slid into the shaft and let the darkness close around her. She moved silently, elbows and knees flowing like water, counting turns, counting moments.
Two ducts down, a left turn, and she had a perfect view of the corridor leading to the server room through a narrow slotted vent. Empty, no guards and the keypad on the reinforced door glowed a steady green.
Nope.
“Steve.” she hissed. “Change of plans. This is a setup.”
“Define setup.” Steve said.
“Define ‘no guards on the most important room in the building.’ I’m backing out.”
A faint click sounded behind her in the shaft and her body reacted before her mind finished processing: she twisted, knees bracing, hand flying to her belt. A thin mist burst into the vent from a hidden nozzle above her and a cold metallic-smelling spray that hit her face, her eyes, her throat.
Natasha held her breath instantly, lungs burning as she slammed an elbow into the side of the duct. She shoved herself forward anyway, pushing through the chemical fog, vision already starting to smear at the edges. Her head felt too light and way too heavy.
“Natasha?” Steve again, louder this time. “Natasha, talk to me.”
She couldn’t pull enough air to answer. The muscles in her chest spasmed, reflex forcing a shallow inhale. The gas scorched its way into her lungs and fireworks went off behind her eyes. She kept moving. Just a little.. but the world swayed, metal shifting under her palms like liquid.
Her hand slipped and her shoulder slammed into the vent wall. Her limbs suddenly felt far away, like they belonged to someone else. The last coherent thing Natasha registered was the faint echo of boots on metal above the shaft and the sense, distant and darkly amused, that her bad feeling had been right. Then the world dropped out from under her.
She woke to pain. Her shoulders throbbed with a bright, steady burn and her arms were stretched above her head, pulling at the sockets. Cold seeped in through the back of her suit and the air smelled like bleach, rust, and something coppery and old that she knew too well.
She cracked her eyes open and the light made halos around itself, her vision still swimming. Her boots were on, she could feel the edge of the sole scraping the floor barely.
They had her suspended, chains running from metal cuffs at her wrists up to a bracket in the ceiling. Her toes just brushed the concrete, enough to send a faint tremor up her legs as she tried to take some of the weight off her arms. They’d stripped her of her gear. No belt, no stingers, nothing. Even her earrings were gone.
She rolled her head, slow and careful, taking in the room. Four concrete walls, one heavy metal door with a bolted lock and no handle on the inside. A table along one wall with neat rows of…tools. She didn’t look too long at those. A camera in the corner, red light blinking.
She shifted her weight, testing the give in the chains. They clinked faintly but didn’t rattle in any way that said loose bolts. Her shoulders burned brighter at the movement. Behind the hum of the light and her own breathing, she could make out faint sounds through the walls. Distant footsteps, a muffled shout, too distorted to make out words.
Suddenly, metal scraped on the other side of the door and Natasha’s gaze snapped to it. Her body shifted, feet bracing as much as they could on the slick concrete. She let her face smooth out, for all that the light overhead made every line sharper.
The lock clanked and the heavy door swung inward with a slow, grating squeal. The man who stepped in first was flanked by two armed guards in black tactical gear, the stylized Hydra emblem on their shoulders. Their weapons stayed low, not quite pointed at her, but she could tell by the set of their hands: ready.
The men walked with an easy, practiced confidence, hands behind his back, dark hair combed neatly away from his forehead. His suit was too well tailored for this concrete hole, dark fabric catching just enough of the light to look expensive rather than shiny.
He stopped a few feet from her, close enough that she could smell his cologne under the bleach and rust and he smiled.
“Agent Romanoff.”
The voice hit first. It reached past the pain, past the flickering light, and grabbed at an older memory. Natasha’s lips curved, just barely. “You really need a new hobby.” she said.
Surprise flashed across his face before the smile widened. “Ah. You do remember.” He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen on a table. “I take that as a compliment. Considering how many you put in the ground.”
It came back in shards. Years ago, a Hydra facility in the Caucasus mountains. A list of names and accounts tying half a dozen senators to Hydra’s payroll. A man in a lab with a disarming smile and a mind for systems, not weapons. He’d used information like a blade, dividing and gutting organizations with a few keystrokes and one whisper in the right ear.
She’d put a bullet through his shoulder then, watched him go down bleeding, before he vanished into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. S.H.I.E.L.D., which had been riddled with Hydra like a corpse full of maggots..Of course he’d gotten out.
“Last time I saw you..” Natasha said slowly, “you were handcuffed to a hospital bed, ranting about restructuring intelligence ecosystems. I have to say, the decor hasn’t improved.”
His eyes glittered, “You should remember my name if you’re going to mock me.” he chided. “Morozov, but Hydra preferred ‘Architect.’”
“Cute.” Natasha said. “Does it come with a business card?”
One of the guards shifted, jaw tightening at her tone. Morozov noticed, but he didn’t look away from her.
“I heard you died.” she went on. “Burned facility, missing body, the usual drama. I was almost disappointed.”
Morozov stepped closer, not enough to be in reach, he knew better than that but enough that the details sharpened: the faint grey at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Time had worked on him, but not softened him.
“Hydra does many things poorly.” he said. “Recruitment, public relations, basic sanity. But we excel at survival. You should know. You survived us too.”
He let that hang there for a moment and Natasha met his gaze without flinching. “I walked out.” she said. “You crawled.”
He laughed quietly, “You always did prefer violence to conversation, Agent Romanoff.” he said. “Which is…unfortunate.”
He turned away, strolling toward the table of tools along the wall. He trailed a finger along the metal surface, not touching anything yet. “I have a problem.” he said conversationally. “You could help me solve it.”
“You should’ve thought of that before you gassed me in a ventilation shaft.” she replied.
“Your friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. what’s left of them have something I want. Access to old databases, old files, buried operations. Hydra ghosts still walking in borrowed skin. Your new family, the Avengers, built a lot of their infrastructure on the rubble. I want it all.”
Natasha went very still. “You broke into our systems before.” Morozov continued. “You know the framework. You know where the cracks are. You know the people.” He glanced up at her. “And you even volunteered your phone once, if I recall.”
Her mouth felt dry. That little piece of past resurfacing in a present she did not like. “And you think..” she said slowly, “that if you hang me from the ceiling long enough, I’ll just hand you the keys?”
His smile thinned. “I think..” he said, “that everyone breaks. The question is how much you take with you when you do.”
“You really think SHIELD’s going to leave access codes lying around in my head?” she said. “That I have Avengers fail-safes memorized like grocery lists? You’re outdated, Architect. The world moved on without you.”
Morozov watched her for a long beat, eyes searching her face. Then he sighed, as if genuinely disappointed.
“I suspected as much.” he said. “You’re not a database..You’re leverage.”
He set the tablet down again with a soft click and turned toward the door. “Bring her.” he said to someone outside.
Natasha shifted her weight again, chains jingling faintly. “What, getting your hands dirty yourself is too much effort these days?” she asked. “I thought Hydra believed in initiative.”
He paused at the threshold, half turned. “Oh, I’ve learned to delegate.” he said. “Interrogation is an art, but it’s also..exhausting. And I have much larger structures to maintain.”
The door opened wider and for a moment, all Natasha could see was the darker rectangle of the hall beyond. Then boots stepped carefully over the threshold. The person who entered was different from the guards. Leaner build, a little shorter. Dressed in black tactical gear that fit just a bit too well, like it had been adjusted and readjusted to someone who’d grown into it fast.
“Agent L/N.” Morozov said, as if introducing someone at a dinner party. “Meet Natasha Romanoff. Natasha, this is the woman who is going to ask you some very important questions.”
You didn’t flinch at the way he said it. You stood very straight, hands clasped behind your back and from this angle, Natasha could see the faint, yellowing shadow of a bruise peeking above the high collar of your suit, the edge of what looked like a metal band around your throat, mostly concealed by fabric. Some kind of restraint? Control device?
Natasha filed it away, expression giving nothing. Morozov stepped between them, turning slightly so Natasha could see both their faces. His hand settled on the younger woman’s shoulder with casual familiarity that made her shoulders pull even tighter.
“If you don’t cooperate..” he said to Natasha, voice almost gentle, “it will not be easy. For either of you.” His thumb pressed, just for a second, into muscle, a reminder. “I would strongly advise you to consider that before you get creative.”
Natasha looked from his hand to his face, then to the girl’s eyes, “Here’s a fun fact.” she said. “Threatening me with other people stopped working a long time ago.”
The lie tasted bitter in her mouth and Morozov’s smile didn’t move. “We’ll see.”
He walked to the door and the guards followed. One of them glanced at Natasha as he passed, eyes briefly meeting hers, before snapping forward again. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy clang.
Natasha and you were alone and for a moment, neither of them moved. The chain above Natasha creaked softly as her weight shifted, her muscles trembling with the effort of staying upright.
You took a slow breath and your shoulders dropped a fraction, the rigid set easing just enough to show how tense you been standing in front of Morozov.
You moved, not toward Natasha, not immediately. First, you crossed to the wall opposite the camera. You didn’t look up at it, but you angled your body just so, giving it a clear profile as you reached for the table.
Natasha watched every detail: the way your fingers curled around the edge of the metal, the slight tremor that ran through your hand before you forced it still. The way you picked up a pair of latex gloves from a box, rolling them on with practised efficiency. Then you picked up a scalpel. Its blade flashed once under the strip light, a cold, clean line and you turned.
The chain above Natasha’s head groaned again as she adjusted her stance, trying to ease the throbbing in her shoulders.
“You’re quiet.” Natasha said, voice low, conversational. “New to this? Or just shy?”
You stopped a meter away, right at the edge of Natasha’s reach. Your fingers tightened on the scalpel’s handle, just enough that the knuckles.
“Talking won’t help you.” You said.
Natasha arched a brow. “Debatable. It’s helped me plenty in the past.”
Your gaze flicked to her wrists, the red skin, the already-forming bruises. Something flashed in your eyes, anger maybe, or disgust, but it shuttered almost instantly.
You took one more step closer and Natasha rolled her shoulders as much as the chains allowed, “Okay then.” she said softly. “Let’s get this over with.”
By the fourth day, the room knew her.
It knew the pattern of Natasha’s ragged breathing, the creak of the ceiling bracket when her weight shifted, the rhythm of chains grinding in their anchor. It knew the stain her blood made when it dried and got washed away and dried again. Bleach and copper and sweat had sunk into the pores of the concrete.
And it knew the sound of your boots. You’d come in twice a day, every day, like clockwork. Each time a little more composed, a little more efficient. You spoke rarely, hands doing most of the talking, tightening restraints, checking her pulse, adjusting the angle of the chains to expose new targets and give old ones a chance to swell and bruise.
You were careful and you knew exactly how long to hold the stun baton to leave muscles twitching and useless without stopping her heart. You knew exactly where to put the blade so cuts bled just enough, shallow and ugly, never deep enough to risk losing your subject. You broke skin, not bones. You made pain, not permanent damage.
Hydra liked their assets alive and Natasha hung from the ceiling and let herself be a problem. Pain moved through her in waves: electric fire along her side where the baton had kissed ribs; a steady throb in her shoulders; the sting of thin cuts along her forearms and thighs, each one a bright little nerve buzzing under her skin. Sweat plastered red hair to her temples; her suit hung open from the sternum up, fabric peeled back so you had access to skin.
You didn’t meet her eyes much at first. You kept your gaze on your hands, on the tools, on the places your orders said to hurt. Your expression behind your eyes stayed flat, controlled, but you were too young to hide everything.
The first time you pressed the baton to her side, your hand shook. Only a little but you felt the tremor in the current. By day four, the tremor was mostly gone. You had a script, “Facility locations.” you said now, tone flat. You reached for the small bottle and cloth again, dampening it. Disinfectant dabbed carefully at the slice you’d just opened along her bicep. “Old S.H.I.E.L.D. fallback sites, anywhere that survived the purge.”
Natasha let the silence stretch and you dabbed a little harder than necessary. She hissed, a soft exhale between her teeth.
“Avengers’ secure channels.” you went on, as if ticking items off a list. “Protocols. Off-site weapon caches. Emergency extraction contacts. How you get out when you fall.”
Natasha let her head loll, eyes closing, chains creaking above. “You want my Netflix password too?” she rasped. “Maybe I’ll start with that.”
The corner of your eye twitched. It was small, but it was there and your gloved fingers pressed the cloth to the wound. “You’re not helping yourself.” you said.
“Not my habit.” she replied.
You stepped back, tossing the stained cloth into a metal bin. The scalpel returned to its spot on the table with a soft clink. You wiped the blade down with practiced motions, disinfectant pad whispering over steel. Natasha watched your shoulders as you worked. The way they hunched slightly, like you were bracing for something that never came from her.
From behind you, the lock on the door clanked and you went very still. Natasha felt the change in you like a shift in air pressure. Your spine straightened, your chin angled toward the door and the hand holding the scalpel tightened, then loosened quickly, as if you remembered the camera, remembered eyes.
The door swung open and Morozov’s silhouette filled the frame for a second before he stepped in. No guards this time, he didn’t need them with her hanging half-conscious and you between them. His gaze flicked over the room, taking in the tools, the blood, the sheen of sweat on Natasha’s skin.
“Progress?” he asked lightly.
“She’s resistant,” you said. Your voice held the same professional flatness, but Natasha heard the edges of it, the way the words ran a little too fast, like you were eager to get them out and done. “But she’s tiring. The pain will…slow her thinking.”
Morozov’s eyes slid to Natasha and she let her head stay down. He took a step closer, shoes clicking on concrete.
“Hmm.” he murmured. “She looks…impressive.”
His hand reached out and fingers brushed a line where you’d opened skin along Natasha’s forearm. Not touching the wound, he wasn’t stupid but close enough to feel the heat.
“Romanoff.” he said, almost fond. “You never disappoint. Still nothing to say?”
Natasha let a small, broken laugh escape. “You talk enough for both of us.” she whispered. “Have you considered therapy? Might help with the god complex.”
He smiled, “She’s still lucid.” he noted to you, as if she weren’t even there. “Good. Don’t break her too quickly. Valuable assets are more fun when they know what they’re losing.”
He turned his full attention to you then. Natasha watched your body react before your face did. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly and you shifted your weight like you wanted to step back and forced yourself not to.
Morozov closed the distance between you with casual familiarity. You held your ground, but Natasha could see the fight in every rigid line of you.
“How are you holding up?” he asked, tone smooth. “You’ve made impressive strides this week.”
His hand came up and without asking cupped your cheek. His fingers slid along the line of your jaw. From the camera’s angle, it probably looked affectionate. A mentor praising a promising protégé.
From where Natasha hung, she saw the way your eyelids twitched. The quick flare of your nostrils as you forced yourself to breathe slow.
“I had my doubts when they brought you to me.” Morozov went on soft and his thumb pressed a little harder against your cheekbone. “Damaged goods are…unreliable. But you learn fast and you understand consequences.”
Your gaze stayed fixed on some point just over his shoulder. Natasha tracked it: the camera.
“I understand..” you said.
“Do you?” His fingers trailed lower, briefly touching the high collar of your suit where it hid the metal band at your throat. Natasha saw the barest flicker of blue beneath the fabric, like a device light catching breath.
You froze just for a heartbeat. Then forced yourself to swallow, the movement visible against his hand. “Good.” Morozov murmured. “Because if she doesn’t start talking soon, I’ll need to make an example.” His eyes lifted and meet yours. They had gone flat and cold.
Natasha felt your reaction in the air, more than saw it. A sharp, invisible recoil and for the first time since you’d walked into this room days ago, real fear flashed across your eye.
Morozov smiled, satisfied and patted your cheek lightly, like rewarding a dog. “Keep at it.” he said, “I expect results.”
He turned and walks back toward the door without another glance at Natasha. He reached for the handle and left with a pleasant, “Carry on.” the door closing behind him with the now-familiar clang.
You didn’t move for a few seconds. You stayed exactly where he’d left you, shoulders squared toward the door, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Then, slowly, you turned back to her.
Natasha lifted her head, meeting your gaze. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been a moment ago. The mask of pain shifted into something cooler, more intent.
“He always this handsy with his employees?” she asked. “Do you all get the deluxe package, or are you special?”
You jolted, it wasn’t a big motion just a small, startled jerk like someone had snapped fingers in front of your face. Your grip tightened on the scalpel you’d almost forgotten you were still holding.
“I thought you were out.” you said, too quickly.
“Sorry to disappoint.” Natasha’s mouth tugged up at one corner. “I don’t nap well to the sound of people threatening to fry their own agents.”
A flush rose along your neck, visible just above the collar. You stepped toward her, anger flaring as a shield. “You don’t-” you started, then cut yourself off. Your eyes hardened. “You heard what you were supposed to hear.”
“Oh?” she said softly. “Because what I heard was ‘she’s damaged goods’ and ‘I can’t touch the Avenger, so I’ll hurt the girl instead.’” She rolled her wrists in the cuffs slightly, chain clinking. “That about sum it up?”
Your jaw clenched. “You should focus on yourself.” you snapped. “You’re not here to analyze me.”
“Funny.” Natasha murmured. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all week.”
Your fist moved before your brain caught up. The punch caught her in the ribs, just under one already bruised welt. She grunted, body jolting against the chains, breath hitching. Pain flared hot and bright behind her eyes, but she rode it out, sucking air through her teeth.
You stared at your own gloved hand like it had betrayed you. Then you curled it into a fist at your side.
“Keep talking..” you said, quieter now, “and it’s going to get worse.”
“You keep pretending you like this..” Natasha shot back, “and it’s going to get worse for you.”
Something went very still in your face. For a second, the mask slipped. Behind it she saw a flash of something she knew too well: bone-deep exhaustion, threaded with a kind of quiet, shaking terror that had nothing to do with the person in front of you. Then it was gone and you stepped back, turning away, busying yourself with wiping an already-clean instrument.
“I don’t care if you talk.” you said. Your voice had gone flat again. “I just care if you answer.”
You didn’t turn back around and Natasha let her head rest briefly against her raised arms, feeling her pulse hammer in her wrists against the metal.
“Yeah..” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “That’s the problem.”
You left her like that, hanging, muscles screaming, skin stinging without another word, the door slamming shut behind you, leaving only the buzzing light and the echo of your footsteps.
By the seventh day, the bruises had started to overlap. There was no more clean skin for you to work with on her torso, so you went for the legs, the arms, carefully avoiding major arteries. Electrical burns marked her side in ugly, blotched arcs. Her wrists were raw and her voice was rough from dehydration and disuse.
She still hadn’t given you anything useful.
Bits of false intel, trivial things, fragments that led nowhere. Names of defunct safe houses. Outdated codes that would set off silent alarms the second anyone tried to use them. Enough to keep you from looking completely ineffective on the camera feed. Not enough to be called cooperation. You came in that morning walking stiff, like you’d slept on concrete. There was a new bruise high on your cheekbone, someone had hit you with a ring on.
“You know..” Natasha rasped, “you’re going to run out of real estate eventually. Maybe just paint me? Save time.”
“Shut up.” you muttered.
You picked up the baton and for a second, your thumb hovered over the activation switch. Then you set it back down with more force than necessary and reached for the scalpel instead.
“I’ve been thinking.” Natasha continued, ignoring the way the blade gleamed. “Dangerous habit, I know.”
You walked toward her and the scalpel rested between your fingers. Your eyes were dark, shadowed, like you hadn’t slept.
“Maybe I misjudged you.” she said. “You’re not Hydra.”
“Excuse me?” you said slowly.
“You heard me.” Natasha said. “Hydra likes zealots. People who believe the lie so hard they’re happy to die for it. That isn’t you.”
You took the last step, as if sheer forward motion could undo the moment of hesitation. You stood close enough that she could see the faint freckles on the bridge of your nose, the tiny scar near your left brow.
“What am I then?” you asked.
She looked down deliberately at the metal band at your throat, the faint bruising where it met skin. Then at the mark on your cheek.
“Leverage.” she said. “Just like me.”
You swallowed. “The collar?” she went on, tone conversational, like they were chatting in a café instead of a cell. “That’s not Hydra fashion. That’s a control device. Probably shock-based, maybe with a tracker built in. You don’t put that on loyal agents, you put it on assets you can’t afford to lose.”
Your free hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing the collar under your suit. You caught yourself halfway and forced your hand back down.
“Stop.” you said.
“The bruise on your cheek?” Natasha continued, relentless. “That wasn’t from a fight. Wrong angle. Wrong shape. That’s a ring. Someone wanted you to remember who’s in charge. Let me guess: your ‘performance review’ didn’t go well last night?”
“Stop.” The word came out sharper, cracking.
“You flinch every time he touches you.” Natasha said. “You breathe shallow when you hear his steps in the hall. But you don’t flinch when I do this.” She shifted her weight and let her boot slide clumsily along the floor until it bumped your ankle. The touch was light, clumsy given her restraints, but deliberate.
“I’ve seen soldiers afraid for themselves.” she said. “They look at the tools, the doors, the exit routes. You..” she tilted her head, studying you, “you keep looking at the camera.” Your gaze flicked up to the blinking red light.
Got you, she thought, “Who are you really afraid he’ll hurt?”
The question hit you like a blow and for a heartbeat, all the tension in your body dropped out, leaving something raw and exposed behind your eyes.
“Don’t.” you whispered.
It wasn’t a threat, it sounded almost like a plea. Natasha went quieter. She could feel the room like a live wire, the camera a red eye in the corner, watching.
“You’re not the first person Hydra’s chained.” she said. “You won’t be the last. They took you. They strapped that thing around your neck. They’re holding something over you. Family? Someone you care about? Your own life?” She blinked, letting exhaustion seep into her voice, a crack in the armor that made her seem less like the Avenger and more like the ex-asset who’d once worn a different kind of collar. “I get it.”
“You don’t know anything about me!” you shot back, but it came out shaky.
“I know fear.” she said. “And I know the sound of someone trying to convince themselves they’re the monster so they don’t have to feel bad about what they’re made to do.”
Her words hit something and you stepped back like she’d burned you, “If you keep this up..” you hissed, “I..I will make it worse. I have to.”
“Do you?” Natasha asked softly. “Or does he?”
You stared at her and the silence stretched, pulsing between you. On the other side of the camera, Morozov would be watching and listening, evaluating every micro-expression.
“We’re done talking about me.” you said. “He wants infrastructure. Locations. Codes. That’s what we’re going to talk about.”
You moved back to the table, grabbing a strip of cloth and twisting it between your fingers to give your hands something to do. The scalpel clinked down harder than you intended and Natasha let herself sag a little, feigning more exhaustion than she felt now that adrenaline had her humming.
“You can keep doing this.” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keep hitting me, cutting me, shocking me. You might even get something he wants, eventually. But when he’s done with me…” She let the sentence trail off, heavy. “You know what happens to you, don’t you?”
You froze, it was written all over you. In the stiffness of your shoulders, in the way your fingers tightened on the cloth until the fabric creaked. In the hollow look that flashed across your eyes before you turned your head away so the camera wouldn’t see.
“He doesn’t let loose ends walk.” Natasha continued, relentless but quiet. “Not prisoners, not coerced agents or witnesses. Once I’m emptied out, you’re redundant and Hydra hates redundancies.”
“Shut up..” you said again, but it sounded like you were talking to yourself as much as to her.
“I’m not your enemy.” she said.
“You’re an Avenger.” you spat, fury finally breaking through. “You’re the Avenger. Do you have any idea what they showed me before they brought me here? What they blamed on you? On your team? Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch everything you love burn and be told it’s all because they didn’t care enough to stop it?”
Natasha’s heart stumbled. There it was.. A crack big enough to see through.
“Yeah..” she said quietly. “Actually. I do.”
You froze halfway through your next breath, eyes locked on hers and all the noise in the room, the buzzing light, the hum of distant machinery fell away for a second. There was just the two of you and the weight of too many ghosts. Natasha watched your eyes flick up to the camera again, that tiny red dot blinking in the corner. Her ribs hurt with every breath, but she still had enough air for one more push.
“He’ll never see you as anything but a tool.” she rasped. “You know that, right? The second I’m empty, you-”
The scalpel kissed her side before she finished. A clean, practiced line along an existing bruise, turning purple into red. The pain was white-hot, ripping a hiss from her throat. She jerked against the chains, metal biting raw wrists.
Your hand didn’t shake this time. “You think I don’t know what he is?” you asked quietly.
“You think I don’t know exactly what he’s capable of?” Your eyes were darker now, voice dropping low enough that the mic in the ceiling would still pick it up, but barely. “You’re famous for it, right? Reading people. Getting under their skin. But you don’t know me.”
Natasha swallowed against the taste of copper. “I know fear when I see it.”
Something in your face flinched, not physically, but behind the eyes. Then your jaw locked.
“He has my family.” you said, and there it was, dropped like a stone in a pond.
Natasha’s breath stuttered and you saw it and almost laughed humourless. “Yeah. That’s right. Not my handler. Not my boss. Some I actually chose.” The words came faster now, pressed out by pressure building under your skin. “He showed me a live feed. Showed me what he can do to them if I breathe wrong.”
Your fingers tightened on the scalpel handle. “And now you want me to risk their life?” you finished, voice gone quiet and lethal, “For a woman whose job is manipulating people?”
Natasha flinched like you’d hit her with the baton and you took the opening, stepped into it, because that’s what you’d been trained to do.
“He warned me about you.” you went on. “About all of you. The Widow, the witch, the soldier, the captain. ‘They’ll use whatever they can,’ he said. ‘Pain. Sympathy. They’ll look for cracks. You don’t have any.’”
Your mouth twisted, “But I do.” you added, almost to yourself. “I have some. And he owns them.”
Silence pooled for a second and Natasha’s shoulders ached. Blood from the new cut ticked down her side, “I’m sorry.” she said.
The words slipped out before she could stop them and for a heartbeat, you looked startled. Then your expression hardened like frost forming. “Keep it.” you said. “I don’t need your pity. I need you to talk.”
You wiped the scalpel, calm again and when you turned back, whatever crack had opened was sealed over. “If you try that again.” you added, voice low and steady, “if you try to make me doubt for even a second, I will make sure you regret it. And it won’t be because I want to. It’ll be because I don’t have a choice.”
You stepped closer, close enough that she could see her own reflection warped in the scalpel’s metal. “And I’m not risking them.” you said, each word precise, “for you.”
This time, when the baton snapped to life in your hand, there was no hesitation in the way you pressed it to her ribs.
Another week blurred by and the days fell into a jagged rhythm. Morning: footsteps in the hall, the familiar clank of the lock, your silhouette in the doorway. Always you. Never anyone else. You asked the questions Morozov wanted asked, your voice a metronome. You inflicted the pain he expected, your hands a routine. Sometimes blades. Sometimes electricity. Sometimes nothing but pressure on bruises already blooming like storm clouds under her skin.
Afternoon: silence, darkness behind her eyes as she drifted in and out, counting the cracks in the ceiling, the breaths between throbs in her shoulders. Evening: you again, or sometimes Morozov himself, to “review progress.”
The methods changed but your presence didn’t. If anything after that slip about your family, you hardened. Whatever edge of reluctant humanity Natasha thought she’d seen got buried under steel. You cut deeper. You held the baton just a second longer. You left her hanging a little higher so her toes barely brushed the floor.
Outwardly, you became exactly what Morozov wanted: effective, efficient, merciless. But you never left a mark on her face where a future camera might see. You never broke a bone. You never went for her hands, her fingers, the delicate tools of her trade. You never touched her throat.
And you always, always cleaned the wounds. It was a small thing, it shouldn’t have mattered. Alcohol burned. Disinfectant bit like fire. But your hands were careful, even when the rest of you wasn’t. You knew how to wrap a bandage too tightly to stop bleeding without cutting off circulation. You knew where to put pressure to minimize swelling.
“Wouldn’t want infection.” you said once, tone dry as you taped gauze along her ribs. “That would be…inefficient.”
“Touching concern..” Natasha rasped.
You didn’t answer but your fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary before you stepped away.
Natasha started noticing other things. How you stood between her and the door when Morozov came in, body angled just so, like a shield you weren’t even conscious of being. How you flinched, barely, when he praised you in front of the camera, his hand heavy on your shoulder.
How you never met your own reflection in the steel tray when you set tools down. The collar at your throat became an obsession for her. She watched the faint pulsing light under the fabric, the way your fingers brushed it sometimes when you thought she wasn’t looking, like a tongue prodding a sore tooth.
Once, late, when the room stank of bleach and the last of her screams had faded to ragged breathing, you stayed a little longer by the door.
“You’re quiet.” she managed, because filling the silence felt safer than the drift of her own thoughts.
“You’re tired.” you said, as if that answered anything.
Her head lolled against her raised arms. “You get paid by the scream or by the hour?”
You huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh and then flattened out. “By results.”
“Then you’re doing a shitty job.” she murmured.
Your eyes flicked to the camera. “Or a smart one,” she added. Your jaw worked and you opened your mouth like you might say something real.
Then Morozov’s footsteps echoed down the hall again. You shut down like someone flipped a switch. The door opened before you could move and he stepped in, immaculate as always, eyes sweeping the room.
“How is our guest?” he asked.
“Noncompliant.” you said, voice gone smooth and professional. “But patterns are emerging. She’s more responsive to certain topics. The Avengers. Old S.H.I.E.L.D. ops. We can use that.”
“And you?” He studied you, gaze lingering on the faint yellowed edges of old bruises. “Are you holding up?”
“I’m fine.” you said. He stepped closer and Natasha watched the muscles in your back tighten.
“You’ve been very devoted.” he murmured. “Despite…earlier doubts.”
His fingers brushed your collar where it hid under your tactical gear and Natasha saw your shoulders twitch. “Good girl.” he said, hand patting your cheek with casual ownership.
Natasha’s stomach turned and you didn’t look at her as he left. You didn’t look anywhere at all until the door shuddered closed. Then your shoulders slumped, just a fraction.
She was supposed to hate you. It would’ve been much simpler. Hydra agent..torturer, Enemy. She knew what to do with that. She’d spent a lifetime compartmentalizing feelings, putting people in boxes: target, asset, obstacle, ally. But you refused to stay in the box she put you in.
The third week changed something. You pushed too far and Natasha had been hanging for hours already, muscles trembling with each breath, vision edging dark. You came in late; she could tell by the way your eyes darted to the wall clock first thing, the tightness around your mouth.
“Problem?” she croaked.
“None of yours.” you said.
You went harder that day, less precision, more force. The baton’s current arced along the line of her spine, making her teeth clench against each jolt. You asked the same questions Morozov always wanted asked, but there was a frantic undercurrent this time, a desperation that wasn’t for information.
“Old S.H.I.E.L.D. sites.” you snapped. “The ones that went dark but didn’t collapse. Where did they move the servers?”
“Burned..” Natasha gasped. “You should know. You crawled out of one.”
You hit her again and she screamed, “Quinjet call signs.” you demanded. “Overwatch patterns. How many pilots cleared for stealth insertion?”
“You wanna fly one?” she rasped. “You have the legs for it.”
Your eyes flashed and you grabbed her jaw, fingers digging into already-tender skin, forcing her to meet your gaze. “Stop.” you hissed. “Stop making this harder.”
“For who?” she whispered.
For a moment, something like panic flashed across your face. You let go of her like she burned you, stumbling back a step. You turned, shoulders heaving, fingers digging into your own scalp.
“Fuck..” you breathed quietly. “Fuck.”
Natasha hung there, chest rising and falling, chains creaking with each tiny shift of weight. She watched your back.
“What happened?” she asked hoarsely.
“Nothing!” you snapped.
“Liar.”
You whirled, eyes blazing. “You’re calling me a liar?”
“Professional opinion..” she said. “You’re terrible at it.”
Your nostrils flared and you took one step toward her, then another, until you were right in front of her again, so close she could see the fine tremors in your hands.
“They moved them!” you spat.
Natasha’s breath stilled. “I don’t know where..” you went on, words coming too fast. “I just know they moved them. New facility, new protocols. Less…friendly.” The last word twisted in your mouth. “And Morozov made it very clear that the slower you are, the worse it gets for them.”
Ah. There it was. The clock.
Natasha closed her eyes for a second, letting the room sway around her. “You think hurting me faster will help?” she managed.
“I think not giving him results will get them killed..” you shot back.
“And you think he’ll keep his promise if you do?” she whispered. “You think Hydra lets anyone walk away happy?”
You laughed sharp and broken. “Of course not. But maybe they walk away alive. That’s more than I get.”
The honesty in that sentence hit her harder than the baton. You saw it land and immediately regretted saying it. Your mouth snapped shut and you turned away again, grabbing for a roll of bandages with more force than necessary.
“Your belief in self-sacrifice is very noble.” Natasha rasped. “Very…Captain America of you.”
“Don’t.” you said, voice low. “Don’t you dare compare me to any of you.”
“Why not?” she asked. “You’re willing to die for people you love. That’s basically our brand.”
You clenched your jaw, wrapping gauze around her arm with brisk, efficient movements. “You are not going to get into my head, Romanoff. I know what you do. Turning people, Isn’t that what they trained you for? Seduction, infiltration, psychological-”
“Says the one monologuing about their tragic backstory..” she interrupted softly.
You yanked the bandage tight and she hissed. “This isn’t a story.” you snapped. “This is math. Input: your pain. Output: Their chances. I can’t afford to care if you’re scared or if you’re lonely or if you think I’m redeemable. That’s not my job.”
“What is your job?” she asked. “To survive? Because you’re doing a terrible job of that too.”
“Weren’t you listening?” you said. “I’m not the one I’m trying to save.”
You taped the bandage, fingers pressing hard enough to sting. Then you stepped back, chest rising and falling, something wild flickering behind your eyes.
For the first time, Natasha saw past the cold.
Past the technique. Past the collar. Underneath it all, you were breaking and not in the way she was.
“Get some rest.” you said abruptly, voice snapping back to something like neutral. “You’ll need it.”
“Promise me something..” she blurted.
You stopped mid-turn, hand on the door.
“No.” you said immediately.
“Promise me.” she insisted, surprising herself with the urgency in her own voice, “that if this kills you, it wasn’t for nothing.”
“How could it not be..” you whispered, “when the only choice I ever get is who it hurts?”
You didn’t wait for her answer and walked out, the door slamming behind you. Natasha hung there, pulse pounding in her ears and realized something that made her stomach lurch.
She didn’t hate you. She should. God, she should. You’d carved screams out of her throat, painted the floor with her blood. Your hands were the ones that tightened the restraints, pressed the buttons, turned pain into data. But in the sick, warped ecosystem of that room, you had become the only constant. Morozov came and went like a storm. Guards rotated. The camera’s red light blinked, unblinking, but it was an eye, not a person.
You were always there and learned her rhythms. When to push, when her body would snap, when to stop just short of irreversible damage. You adjusted the chains so her shoulders wouldn’t dislocate, not because you cared, she told herself, but because a ruined shoulder was bad for interrogation subjects. But it meant you touched the shackles, the chains, her wrists. She learned your rhythms too. The way your footsteps sounded on days you’d been punished, the tilt of your voice when you were lying for the camera. The tiny pause before you picked up an instrument you hated using.
The room did something to time. There were only two states: when you were in it and when you weren’t. When you were, all of Natasha’s nerves lit up, whether from pain or anticipation. She was hyper-aware of you: the brush of your sleeve, the warmth of you standing close, the smell of sweat and cheap soap clinging to your skin. She watched your eyes more than the blade in your hand.
When you weren’t, the silence was a physical weight. The absence of your voice, your footfalls, your breathing made the room feel bigger and emptier at once. She caught herself once, counting seconds after the door closed. Counting how long until she might hear you again. The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.
Absolutely not, she told herself. No.
She’d spent most of her life being used, shaped into a weapon by people who needed her to love them or at least depend on them to make obedience easier. She knew about trauma bonds. About Stockholm Syndrome. About the human brain’s nasty habit of clinging to the hand that fed it, even when that hand was also tearing it apart.
She had scars that spelled out those lessons. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
The next time the door opened and it wasn’t you, her heart dropped. Two guards stepped in instead, faceless behind masks, guns slung. They adjusted her chains and one of them grabbed her jaw too hard, fingers bruising, breath sour in her face as he inspected the state she was in.
“He wants her conscious.” he grunted to the other. “Don’t break the toy.” A hand cracked across her cheek and she bit the inside of her mouth until iron flooded her tongue, swallowing the sound.
When you came in that evening, late again, you froze. There was a new bruise blooming along her face, a purple-red handprint.
Your gaze snapped to the camera, then back to her.
“Who?” you asked.
She smirked, bloody mouth twisting. “Jealous?”
“Who?” you repeated. She shrugged as much as the chains allowed. “One of your friends with the guns. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him my tragic backstory.”
You moved faster than she’d seen you move yet. Your hand came up, fingers brushing carefully along the edge of the bruise without touching the center. Your thumb hovered near her cheekbone, warm and callused.
He could’ve been watching, the camera might be eating every frame but you did it anyway.
His voice echoed faintly in her memory: He warned me about you.
“Did he hit you before or after he adjusted the chains?” you asked and Natasha blinked. “After.”
“Then he was just entertaining himself.”
You went very, very still. “If anyone lays an unapproved hand on you again.” you said quietly, “Tell me.”
Natasha stared at you. “So you can…what?” she asked. “File a complaint with HR?”
Your lips twitched without humor. “So I can remind him who you belong to.”
“Possessive.” she murmured.
“Practical.” you shot back. “You’re my responsibility. His rough fun could kill you in ways I can’t explain to Morozov. He kills my asset, he risks my family. I will not let some bored bastard gamble with that.”
Her pulse did something stupid in her throat. “You are very romantic about this.” she said, because humor was easier than acknowledging the weird heat curling in her chest.
You snorted and stepping back. “You’re delirious.” But later, when you tightened the straps around her wrists, you did it with enough care that the pressure eased on the rawest patches. The way you slipped the water bottle straw between her lips at the exact angle to minimize choking, even when you could’ve just dumped it. The way you always left the room more or less the same tools lined up, drains cleaned, like control over small details was all you had.
The way, when you thought she was fully out after a session, you stood at the door and looked back at her. Not triumphant or satisfied.
Haunted.
The moment she realized she was in trouble was quiet. No screaming, no threats. Just a statement, dropped into one of the rare lulls where pain faded enough for thought.
“You keep telling yourself I’m manipulating you.” she went on. “Maybe I am. I want you alive. I want out. Our goals…for now…they line up.”
You scoffed. “I don’t like watching people be punished for me.” she said. “Never did. That’s…old wiring. If I let myself care, it’s because I can’t not. It’s not a trick. It’s a flaw.”
That did something to you. Your eyes softened, then went sharp again, like you’d remembered who you were supposed to be.
“You’re very good with words.” you said.
“Occupational hazard.”
“You’re very good at making yourself sound small and broken so people let you closer.”
“That too.”
Then, very quietly, like you couldn’t believe you were saying it, you asked, “Why do you care? About me. You don’t even know my name.”
She could have lied, she could have said: I don’t. You’re a tool.
But she didn’t. “You’re the only person who comes through that door.” Natasha said simply. “And you’re breaking yourself to keep someone else breathing. That’s…familiar.”
A beat. “It’d be easier if you were just a monster..” she added. “I’ve got enough of those.”
You exhaled, long and shaky, That’s your problem.” you muttered. “You keep looking for something worth saving.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“In this place?” You glanced around the concrete, the chains, the camera. “It’s suicidal.”
She considered that, “Maybe.” she said. “But I’ve survived worse habits.”
You stared at her a second longer, then shook your head like you were trying to rattle something loose and left without another word.
You’re in trouble, she told herself.
Because somewhere in the lines between enemy and asset, fear and fury, something else had started to root. Not love..not yet. Love was big and bright and required too much future for this concrete box.
But attachment? That lived in smaller spaces. In the hitch of her breath when she heard your footsteps and knew it wasn’t Morozov. In the way her mind, fuzzy with sleep deprivation and pain, conjured the exact pitch of your voice to fill the silence. In the sick drop of her stomach when you were late and the wrong boots passed her door.
She cared if you were alive. She cared if you were hurt. She cared enough that when she caught herself imagining putting a bullet through Morozov’s head, she saw two images: freedom and your collar unlocking.
It was irrational and dangerous. Exactly the kind of vulnerability she’d spent her whole life avoiding. And still, in the sleepless stretch of the third week’s night, hanging from the ceiling with her hands bleeding and her body one giant bruise, Natasha admitted a quiet, terrifying truth:
If it came down to it, she wasn’t sure anymore if she wanted to escape this place without you.
That was the realistic horror of it. Not that she’d “fallen” easily. But that piece by piece pain by pain, mercy by mercy you had become, in this small, ugly world, the person she couldn’t stop watching.
And that was how it started..Weeks didn’t pass in days anymore. They passed in visits. One “morning” the light never changed, but the routine said morning, you walked in to find Natasha half-conscious, lips cracked, tongue slow in her mouth. The guards on the previous shift hadn’t bothered with hydration.
You grabbed the bottle from the trolley, popped the cap with your thumb and brought the straw to her mouth. You didn’t just jam it in and dump it; you touched her chin with your gloved fingers, tilting her head just enough.
“Hey. Romanoff.” Your voice was softer than usual. “You’re not dying on me from something this stupid. Drink.”
Her eyes fluttered, focusing on you with difficulty. For a second she didn’t see the room, or the chains, or the collar at your throat.
Just you.
She sucked at the straw, greedily, water hitting her throat like glass. You drew it back, letting her breathe, then offered more. She watched your eyes the whole time. No one had ever looked at her that intently while giving her something as basic as water. Her body filed it under relief. Her brain filed it under source of relief: you.
The first time she called you anything but “Agent” was an accident. You’d just finished cleaning a long, nasty cut on her thigh. Your hands were steady. Hers weren’t. Her muscles quivered under your touch.
“You know..” she croaked, “if you’re going to keep carving me up, I should at least know what to shout when I haunt you.”
You snorted despite yourself. “Cute.”
“So?” she pushed.
You hesitated because Morozov had told you: keep it professional, keep it distant. Names were hooks. Names meant you could be called, remembered, mourned.
“I’m not-”
“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to brand the Black Widow..” Natasha rasped. “Don’t waste it.”
You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest eased just enough to let the word out.
“Y/n.”
It sounded wrong in this room, too soft for concrete and blood. It sounded like sunlight and coffee and someone saying it because they wanted you, not because they needed a report. Natasha repeated it back to you, like committing it to memory.
omega Jake x omega Quaritch x omega male metkinya avatar reader.
Like what knows what an omega wants best than another omega? Essentially when Jake gets captured by the rda (well he turns himself in but it’s not the point) . Bottom Jake who’s in heat, with top Quaritch and reader.
also do you write for Mha. I have plans here 🤔
-🕊️
I may potentially write for MHA.. PS btw this is a private cell instead of the very open one cause lmao + reader is a fellow Recom + omegas have pussies and dicks in this + Jake’s a slut lowkey
"You’re surprisingly quiet for a man who spent the last decade screaming at the top of his lungs," Quaritch remarked, his voice rattling against the reinforced plexiglass of the holding cell. He didn't look at Jake immediately; instead, he was preoccupied with the rhythmic clicking of a heavy-duty mag-lock.
Jake didn't answer, his spine pressed against the cold alloy of the bench, golden eyes tracking the same smudge of grime on the opposite wall for the hundredth time. He was a specimen now, stripped of his gear and his dignity, draped in a coarse, oversized orange jumpsuit that did little to hide the subtle, frantic tremor in his thighs.
The air in the cell was recycled and metallic, but as the door hissed open, it was sliced through by a scent that made Jake’s pupils dilate: a heady, suffocating mixture of smoke, expensive tobacco, and the unmistakable, honeyed musk of another omega.
You stepped in behind the Colonel, your presence a jarring contrast to the military rigidity of the room. You didn't enter with a flourish; instead, you let your rifle slide down the interior wall, the heavy metal clanging against the frame of the door with a dull, echoing thud that sounded like a closing coffin. The weapon leaned there, forgotten and precarious.
Your nostrils flared, catching the scent that had been leaking through the ventilation slats long before the door opened. It wasn't just the smell of a Forest Na'vi— the usual loam and rainforest— but the cloying, syrup-thick musk of an omega in the peak of a heat cycle. It hit the back of your throat like a physical weight, an invitation carved out of pheromones, screaming of a biological desperation that Jake was trying, and failing, to mask with his silence.
Your tail strikes the floor. You don't need words to communicate with Quaritch; a slight tilt of your head, a shared glance that lingers a second too long on Jake’s shivering frame, and the understanding is absolute. You both recognise the scent for what it is— a biological siren song— and the shared knowledge of it creates a sudden, predatory tension in the small room.
Quaritch doesn’t look away from you immediately, his eyes glinting with a cruel, amused understanding that this "traitor" has walked right into a trap of his own hormones.
The Colonel finally turns his attention back to the prisoner, a slow, jagged grin carving into his face. "Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with a mock sympathy that feels like a slap. "Coming back to the fold just as your body starts screaming for a knot. Tell me, Sully, did you think the RDA would provide a nursery? Or did you just figure a cage was the safest place to spend your week sobbing for someone to touch you?"
Jake bared his sharp fangs, but it, frankly, looked pathetic with his ears pinned back and his chest heaving in shallow, desperate hitches. The orange fabric of the jumpsuit was clinging to his skin, damp with a sweat that smelled of overripe fruit and salt.
He tried to shift his weight, but the movement only served to rub his sensitised thighs together, a friction that elicited a broken, involuntary whimper from the back of his throat. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated need, a biological betrayal that stripped away every ounce of the warrior he had tried to maintain.
Quaritch stepped closer, his heavy boots clicking with a slow cadence. He paused just inches from the bench, his presence looming over Jake like a shadow. "Execution is a waste of a good specimen," the Colonel mused, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly hum that vibrated in the small space.
"Killing you while you're in this state… it lacks a certain poetry. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying if you died with your heart racing for a reason other than fear." He glanced back at you, a silent invitation dancing in his eyes.
"I think a deal is in order. A little 'stress relief' for the prisoner, provided by the staff. A reward for your cooperation, Sully— provided you can actually handle it."
You felt a slow, heavy heat pooling in your own gut, your instincts overriding the sterile environment of the holding cell. The scent of Jake's heat was becoming a physical pressure, a thick fog that clouded the air and made your own pulse thrum in your ears. Your tail gave a slow, rhythmic wag, a subtle flick of anticipation that betrayed your hunger.
The idea of breaking him down, of using your shared nature to dismantle whatever pride he had left, felt more urgent than any military directive. You didn't need to be told twice; the air between the three of you had shifted from interrogation to something far more carnal and suffocating.
Jake’s head snapped up, his eyes clouded with a hazy, gold-rimmed desperation, though his voice still tried to claw its way back to defiance. "You think… you think I'll just let two alphas use me as a toy?" he spat, his voice cracking, a raw edge of grief for his displaced loyalty cutting through the lust. "I'm not… I'm not betraying her. Not like this."
He was thinking of Neytiri, the fierce alpha who had claimed him, and the thought of another's knot— especially those of the RDA— felt like a sacrilege he was biologically wired to crave despite himself.
You didn't speak. You simply caught Quaritch’s eye and gave a slow, knowing nod, a subtle shift of your shoulders that signaled a shared secret. The Colonel let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh, the sound echoing off the plexiglass. He leaned in, his scent shifting, shedding the facade of the dominant commander to reveal the same honeyed, heavy musk that you carried— a mirrored fragrance of an omega who knew exactly how to manipulate the hunger of another.
"That's the problem with you, Sully," Quaritch murmured, his voice dropping to a confidential, predatory purr as he stepped even closer, invading Jake's personal space until their chests nearly brushed. "You always assume we're the ones holding the leash. But…" He reached out, not to strike, but to let his fingers graze the damp fabric of Jake's shoulder, his own omega pheromones surging forward to envelop the prisoner in a suffocating, sympathetic wave of heat.
The shift in the air was instantaneous, a chemical tidal wave that turned the sterile room into a humid hothouse. You mirrored the move, stepping forward to flank Jake's other side, releasing your own scent in a slow, deliberate bloom— a thick, cloying musk that acted as a catalyst, amplifying the Colonel's signal.
It wasn't an attack; it was a biological synchronization, a coordinated sensory assault that told Jake’s body he wasn't being hunted by enemies, but welcomed by his own kind.
The combined weight of two omega scents, both primed and pulsing with a shared, hungry intent, snapped the last thread of Jake's composure. He didn't just whimper this time; he let out a shuddering, broken gasp, his head lolling back against the alloy bench as his pupils swallowed the gold of his irises.
"Fine," he rasped, the word barely a whisper, a surrender that tasted of salt and defeat. "Just… Eywa, just do it."
Quaritch stepped back a half-inch, though his gaze remained locked on the trembling line of Jake's throat. A jagged, triumphant smirk played on his lips as he shifted his weight, granting a silent, permissive space. "Go on then," the Colonel murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle the very floor. "You can go first. Give him a taste of what he's been missing while he was playing forest-dweller."
You didn't hesitate. With a slow movement, you caught your own reflection in the plexiglass for a fleeting second— eyes dark, predatory, and entirely focused— before giving a sharp, affirmative thumb-up to Quaritch. You stepped into the narrow gap, the heat radiating off Jake’s skin almost searing through the air.
Your hand moved with a clinical precision that betrayed no mercy, your fingers hooking into the heavy metal tab of the orange jumpsuit. The sound of the zipper descending was a violent, metallic screech in the sudden silence of the cell, carving open the fabric to reveal the flushed, glistening skin of his chest and the desperate, twitching heat trapped beneath.
As you peeled the coarse material away, the sheer scale of his arousal became an indictment of his supposed loyalty. Between his thick, trembling thighs, the contrast was stark: a dick strained to a painful, rigid limit, leaking a clear, frantic bead of pre-come that smeared against the orange fabric.
But it was the sight of his pussy that truly anchored the room, the delicate, ribbed folds completely saturated, glistening with a translucent, syrupy flood that drenched the inner seams of his clothing. He was overflowing, a biological spill that pooled against the alloy bench, smelling of salt and a sweetness so aggressive it felt like a physical blow to your senses.
You leaned in, not touching him yet, but releasing a concentrated, heavy surge of your own pheromones— a thick, musk-laden wave designed to signal a claim. The effect was visceral; Jake’s entire body jolted, his hips snapping upward in a sudden, violent spasm of longing. The internal muscles of his pussy clenched in a frantic, rhythmic pulse, squeezing out another desperate burst of lubrication that painted his thighs in a shimmering glaze.
You didn't offer a gentle touch or a comforting word; instead, you let a slow, jagged grin pull across your face, your eyes locking onto his blown-out pupils with a predatory hunger that promised absolutely no restraint.
Dropping to your knees was a singular, decisive motion, the heavy thud of your joints against the metal floor echoing the finality of a closing trap. You didn't tease. You dove in with a starved intensity, your mouth locking onto him with a sudden, bruising force that tore a near-scream of pleasure from his throat.
You ate him like a man possessed, your tongue scouring every glistening fold, drinking in the salt and the syrupy sweetness of his peak heat with a frantic, gluttonous desperation. It wasn't a caress; it was a consumption, a systematic dismantling of his remaining dignity through the raw, wet friction of your tongue.
Jake’s hands flew up, fingers clawing uselessly at the air before slamming into the alloy bench, his knuckles whitening as he tried to anchor himself against the onslaught. His tail lashed wildly, striking the metal with a rhythmic, metallic clang that timed itself to the frantic pace of your mouth.
Every lap of your tongue was a calculated assault, driving him further into a haze of submission. He was sobbing now, the sounds small and broken, his voice a shredded ribbon of noise as he begged for something— anything— to stop the overwhelming sensory overload that was currently rewriting his entire world into a single point of pleasure.
Above you, Quaritch remained a silent, looming sentinel, though his own breathing had grown heavy, his chest heaving beneath his tactical gear. He didn't intervene; he simply watched with a clinical, hungry fascination, his hand resting on the hilt of his knife as he tracked the way Jake’s body buckled and arched under your tongue.
The Colonel’s scent had shifted, the honeyed omega musk sharpening into something more aggressive, more demanding. He was waiting for the moment Jake completely shattered, for the exact second where the warrior vanished and only the craving remained, and the anticipation in the room was so thick it felt like it could be touched.
Just as Jake’s hips gave a final, violent buck— his back arching into a bridge of sheer, agonising need as he neared the precipice of a climax— a heavy hand clamped onto the back of your head. With a sudden, jarring force, Quaritch yanked your head back by the queue.
The movement was abrupt, snapping your jaw away from the glistening center of Jake's heat with a wet, popping sound. You were frozen, your head tilted back at an awkward angle, your chin and mouth dripping and painted in a thick, shimmering glaze of Jake's slick that clung to your skin like a second layer of lacquer.
Quaritch didn't let go of your queue immediately; instead, he leaned over you, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive heat. He looked from your smeared face to the shaking, ruined mess of the man on the bench, a low, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest. "Patience, soldier," he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp that seemed to strip the last of the air from the room. "Don't go finishing him off just yet. I'm not about to let you have all the fun while I'm standing here getting worked up."
He shifted his weight, his hand sliding from your head to the small of your back, shoving you slightly to the side to make room for himself. The Colonel’s gaze was predatory, his focus locked on the frantic rhythm of Jake's core. "I think it's time we showed him how an actual team operates, yeah?"
Jake didn't just open up; he practically split himself apart. His knees fell wide, slamming against the cold metal of the bench in a desperate, ungainly sprawl that left him completely exposed, his thighs trembling with a violent, rhythmic instability. He let out a high, thin whine—a sound of absolute biological surrender that vibrated through the recycled air. It was a pleading noise, a raw, guttural request for the very thing that would destroy his pride, his hips twitching in a futile attempt to find a friction that wasn't there.
Quaritch didn't offer a soft landing. "Up. Now," he growled, the command vibrating in his chest like a landslide. When Jake hesitated, his movements sluggish and clouded by the heat-fog, the Colonel didn't reach for his arm. Instead, his hand shot out with a sudden, bruising precision, gripping the base of Jake's kuru with a firm, possessive squeeze. The sudden tension on the neural queue sent a jolt of sensory overload straight into Jake's spine, snapping his head forward and forcing a sharp, strangled gasp from his throat as he was hauled upward.
He was dragged to his feet, his legs barely supporting him, his body swaying like a reed in a storm. He leaned into the grip on his queue, his head lolling back, eyes unfocused and blown wide. The friction of the orange jumpsuit, now bunched and damp, grated against his hypersensitive skin, making him shiver with a mixture of terror and agonizing anticipation.
You moved back into his orbit, your own breath coming in shallow, hot hitches. You didn't touch him yet; you simply circled him, your shoulder brushing against his trembling side, letting the scent of your shared omega nature coil around him like a physical shackle.
Quaritch didn't wait for Jake to find his balance. He stepped back, his heavy boots clanging as he dropped onto the alloy bench with a jarring thud. He sprawled there, legs spread wide, the tactical fabric of his trousers straining against the sudden, aggressive surge of his own arousal.
He didn't look at Jake with kindness; he looked at him like a piece of equipment that needed breaking, his gaze cold and demanding. "On your knees, Sully," he commanded, the voice not a request but a directive that bypassed the brain and spoke directly to the heat-addled marrow of Jake's bones.
The collapse was instantaneous. Jake didn't just kneel; he plummeted, his knees hitting the metal floor with a hollow, desperate sound. He crawled forward, his palms slapping against the cold alloy, his hips undulating in a frantic, rhythmic search for relief. He didn't hesitate, his mouth opening in a silent, starving plea as he lunged for the Colonel's crotch, his head bobbing with a manic eagerness. He worked the fabric of the trousers with a clumsy, frantic desperation, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of the Colonel's scent through the cloth, sobbing into the rough material as he fought to uncover the thing he had been conditioned to crave.
While Jake was preoccupied with the Colonel's lap, you stepped in behind him, the sudden heat of your presence pressing against his shivering spine. You didn't waste time with formalities or tentative touches; your hand reached down, the metallic rasp of your own zipper cutting through the sound of Jake’s frantic sobbing. You gripped the back of his neck, fingers digging into the muscle to pin him forward, forcing his chest flush against the edge of the alloy bench so his backside was arched high and inviting.
The entry was a violent, singular motion. You didn't tease the entrance or wait for a signal; you simply aligned yourself and drove forward, your fully hard cock sliding into his tight, drenched pussy with a sickeningly wet, vacuum-like thud.
The fit was claustrophobic, the internal walls of his heat-swollen core clamping down on you with a rhythmic, desperate intensity that nearly stole the breath from your lungs. Jake let out a sound that wasn't a scream but a shattered, high-pitched keening, his fingers scratching frantic, useless grooves into the metal of the bench as your length filled every single millimeter of his available space.
At the front, Jake was a creature of pure, mindless hunger, his mouth working over Quaritch with a manic, gluttonous pace. He was trying to devour the Colonel, his cheeks hollowed and his eyes rolled back as he gagged on the sheer size of the man, the wet, slapping sounds of his efforts echoing off the plexiglass.
Quaritch didn't offer any stability; instead, he kept a white-knuckled grip on Jake’s queue, the sensitive neural fibers acting like a leash. He yanked the queue back in sharp, jagged intervals, timing the tension to the deep, punishing thrusts you were driving into Jake's backside.
You reached down, your fingers curling around the thick base of Jake's tail. You didn't hold it gently; you gripped it like a handle, pulling the appendage taut to arch his spine further, forcing his pussy to open even wider to swallow you whole. Every time you bottomed out, your pelvis collided with his with a heavy, meaty thud that vibrated through the alloy bench. The combination of the neural pull from the front and the physical anchor of his tail in the back left Jake completely pinned, a living bridge of shivering, overstimulated nerves.
Jake's movements became erratic, his hips jerking in a frantic, disjointed dance as he tried to reconcile the two points of penetration. He was sobbing into the Colonel's lap, his voice a ruined whisper of "please" and "more," his body vibrating with a frequency that suggested he was moments away from a total neurological collapse.
Quaritch looked down at the top of Jake's head, his eyes narrowed in a mix of genuine irritation and predatory satisfaction. He didn't offer a compliment; instead, he let out a sharp, mocking huff, his fingers tightening further on the neural queue to tilt Jake's head back just enough to see the glazed, vacant look in those golden eyes.
"For a traitor who spent his time playing house with the locals, you've still got a hell of a mouth on you, Sully," the Colonel spat, his voice a jagged edge of disdain. "Damn near a waste of talent, letting a little jungle fever turn you into a professional. You suck dick better than most of the recruits we've burned through at the academy."
The comment was a calculated blow, designed to strip away any lingering sense of nobility, but it only served to drive Jake deeper into his delirium. He let out a broken, guttural moan, his tongue darting out to lap at the Colonel's skin with a desperation that bordered on the pathetic. He wasn't just taking it; he was worshiping the very hand that held his leash, his body reacting to the insult as if it were a caress, the shame of the comment acting as a lubricant for his spiraling desire.
Suddenly, the Colonel’s grip on Jake’s queue shifted from a hold to a shove. With a sudden, jarring force, Quaritch slammed Jake’s head down, driving his face deep into the crook of his lap. There was no room for air, only the thick, pulsing reality of the Colonel's climax. As Quaritch let out a low, guttural roar, he emptied himself with a violent, rhythmic intensity, flooding Jake’s throat in hot, thick bursts.
Jake didn't choke; he leaned into the invasion, his throat working in frantic, rhythmic gulps to swallow every drop, his eyes rolling back into his head as he accepted the seed of his enemy as the only thing that mattered in the world.
The sudden, overwhelming surge at the front triggered a sympathetic explosion in Jake's core. The moment the last of the Colonel's release hit his tongue, Jake’s pussy clamped down on you with a terrifying, vacuum-like force.
It was a full-body seizure of pleasure, his internal walls squeezing you with a crushing, rhythmic intensity that felt like it might snap your cock in two. He let out a muffled, high-pitched shout against the Colonel's thigh, his entire frame shuddering in a violent, prolonged orgasm that left him limp and leaking, his muscles twitching in a series of dying spasms.
You didn't stop. The feeling of his core milking you with such mindless, frantic desperation pushed you past the point of control. You drove one final, bruising thrust into him, bottoming out so hard that the alloy bench screeched against the floor. You poured yourself into him, your own release hitting him in thick, jagged waves that filled his overstimulated depths.
Jake collapsed forward, his forehead resting against the cold metal, his breathing a series of shallow, rattling hitches.
Any tips on how to describe indoor spaces so they feel real and match the vibe of the story without throwing in too much detail?
Getting interior scenes just right is all about finding the balance between setting the mood, showing the unique personality of your story world, and keeping the plot moving. There are lots of ways you can use senses, action, and background to set a scene, all of which can work seamlessly with the type of story you want to tell. Here are some tips on how you can achieve that:
How does it look?
Lighting: does your space contain the soft glow of lamps, harsh fluorescent lights, or natural light?
Use colour and textures like peeling paint, plush velvet, or sleek marble.
Size and scale: is it claustrophobically small or impressively grand?
Architectural features: does the space have high ceilings, crown mouldings, or exposed beams?
Furnishings: are they modern, sparse, antique, or cluttered?
Style and decor: what style is represented, and how does it affect the atmosphere?
State of repair: is the space well-kept, neglected, or under renovation?
Perspective and layout: how do spaces flow into each other?
Unique design features: describe sculptural elements, or things that stand out.
Spatial relationships: describe how objects are arranged—what’s next to, across from, or underneath something else?
How does it sound?
Describe echoes in large spaces or the muffled quality of sound in carpeted or furnished rooms.
Note background noises; is there a persistent hum of an air conditioner, or the tick of a clock?
Describe the sound of footsteps; do they click, scuff, or are they inaudible?
Include voices; are they loud and echoing or soft and absorbed?
Is there music? Is it piped in, coming from a live source, or perhaps drifting in from outside?
Capture the sounds of activity; typing, machinery, kitchen noises, etc.
Describe natural sounds; birds outside the window, or the rustle of trees.
Consider sound dynamics; is the space acoustically lively or deadened?
Include unexpected noises that might be unique to the building.
Consider silence as a sound quality. What does the absence of noise convey?
How does it smell?
Identify cleaning products or air fresheners. Do they create a sterile or inviting smell?
Describe cooking smells if near a kitchen; can you identify specific foods?
Mention natural scents; does the room smell of wood, plants, or stone?
Are there musty or stale smells in less ventilated spaces?
Note the smell of new materials; fresh paint, new carpet, or upholstery.
Point out if there’s an absence of smell, which can be as notable as a powerful scent.
Consider personal scents; perfume, sweat, or the hint of someone’s presence.
Include scents from outside that find their way in; ocean air, city smells, etc.
Use metaphors and similes to relate unfamiliar smells to common experiences.
Describe intensity and layering of scents; is there a primary scent supported by subtler ones?
What can you do there?
Describe people’s actions; are they relaxing, working, hurried, or leisurely?
Does the space have a traditional use? What do people come there to do?
Note mechanical activity; elevators moving, printers printing, etc.
Include interactions; are people talking, arguing, or collaborating?
Mention solitary activities; someone reading, writing, or involved in a hobby.
Capture movements; are there servers bustling about, or a janitor sweeping?
Observe routines and rituals; opening blinds in the morning, locking doors at night.
Include energetic activities; perhaps children playing or a bustling trade floor.
Note restful moments; spaces where people come to unwind or reflect.
Describe cultural or community activities that might be unique to the space.
How is it decorated?
Describe the overall style; is it minimalist, baroque, industrial, or something else?
Note period influences; does the decor reflect a specific era or design movement?
Include colour schemes and how they play with or against each other.
Mention patterns; on wallpaper, upholstery, or tiles.
Describe textural contrasts; rough against smooth, shiny against matte.
Observe symmetry or asymmetry in design.
Note the presence of signature pieces; a chandelier, an antique desk, or a modern art installation.
Mention thematic elements; nautical, floral, astronomical, etc.
Describe homemade or bespoke items that add character.
Include repetitive elements; motifs that appear throughout the space.
What is its history?
Mention historical usage; was the building repurposed, and does it keep its original function?
Describe architectural time periods; identify features that pinpoint the era of construction.
Note changes over time; upgrades, downgrades, or restorations.
Include historical events that took place within or affected the building.
Mention local or regional history that influenced the building’s design or function.
Describe preservation efforts; are there plaques, restored areas, or visible signs of aging?
Describing indoor spaces doesn’t have to feel like a chore. Focus on the details that matter most, tie them to the mood or characters, and let your readers fill in the blanks. A well-crafted space not only sets the scene but builds your character's relationship to it. Use sensory language, background, and action beats to tie it into your narrative, and don’t be afraid to play around with motifs and contradictions, depending on who is experiencing it!
Air conditioning may keep a room cool, but using it is heating up the planet. It is time for something new — or old, like "wind catchers."
From 2021:
87% of all U.S. homes are equipped with air conditioners, and air conditioning accounts for 12% of residential energy use. Besides the fossil fuels that power them, many use refrigerants to cool the air, which can be potent greenhouse gasses if released.
In addition, air conditioners cool us down by capturing heat from the interior of buildings, but they expel that heat outside, directly warming the environment and contributing to the urban heat island effect.
And ironically, the warmer it gets, the more cool air we blast and the more electricity we consume.
The solution: Innovators are working hard to find ways to cope with the new normal — extreme heat and rising temperatures. The creativity is high, from apps that help pedestrians find cool walks and shady spots to next-generation technologies like cooling paper that lowers the temperature inside homes.
....
In the hot, arid Iranian Plateau, ancient structures, called “wind catchers,” are attracting academics, engineers, and architects who want to find creative new (and old) ways to cool off.
The wind catchers, or bâdgir in Persian, are common structures that extend above the rooftops in rectangular towers, reports BBC. They made life livable. And, because they cool a building without using electricity or fuel, they are an attractive green solution.
.....
Wind catchers are designed differently based on the prevailing winds and temperatures in a local region. The most uncomplicated design faces the tower opening toward the prevailing wind to create natural ventilation. But local climates are complicated, and often wind catchers had many features: filters, passive cooling systems (by passing hot air over cool water), or multiple openings to account for varied wind directions.
i wasn't trying to replicate what we see in lvl "home", but instead wanted to build the interior layout based on my hcs. i'll mention in advance that my version of the game didn't have that many accessories to make it look lively.
overall this house is simple, old school and isn't in the best shape - since dude alone does not make time to properly take care of it. a small family lived here before dude moved in, he left most of the interior untouched. once the strong paranoia settled, he added extra locks and boarded up some of the windows.
hallway. a couple wardrobes for storing clothes and useless junk dude won't throw away. a fancy clock left from the previous owners used to work perfectly, does not anymore. dude punched the glass when he got sick of hearing it go off during random hours. or did it? here you can immediately see all the doors to the other rooms. white one is the bathroom, next one is dude's bedroom. and the last one opens to the staircase, which leads down to the basement.
bathroom. a tiny combined bathroom that hasn't been cleaned in ages and is definitely infested with some type of crawlers, especially considering how close this place is to the woods. it's wet, smells like mold and 5-in-1 bodywash. i hc dude completely avoiding the mirror during especially bad times. otherwise perfect for diy haircuts.
kitchen. originally pure, doctor's office white, now decorated with various stains, scratches and general clutter of dishes. the ceiling is especially bad because dude smokes in here the most. he also peeks at his neighbours through the blinds. here you'd find him tidying up one of his guns or having a drink. dude doesn't cook often, it's easier to order a pizza. but when he occasionally hunts some animal it's a real mess. last remained functioning window for ventilating the burnt grillcheese.
living room. my favorite. if you were to visit dude during the day you'd see him right away rotting his brain off watching tv and getting wasted with his best friend - the couch. the 1997 house has a chimney so i added a small fireplace.
bedroom. a safe space yet so unwelcoming. it holds a lof of memories for dude: playing video games, listening to music, attempting at doing crafts. shaking in the corner on the floor. painting walls with blood from his knuckles or forehead. sleeping with his guns. speaking of which, some guns he keeps under his bed.
basement. i didn't build it in the game but it's a simple, kinda eerie looking room where dude has arranged a couple gun storages with secure locks and fancy lights. most treasured things after all, only his weapons understand him. there's also a movie projector with an armchair taken from the living room. he owns a collection of tapes, most of which are horror movies bought at the nearest video store.
Here's the "lil' something something" I've been working on for your Creators In the Flesh AU! The fic ran away from me. It was only supposed to be a drabble, but then I got carried away. And now it's, like, an entire one-shot.
(Also, I've elected to call myself the Perchance Anon, bc it's funny.)
Also, just wanna put a few warnings here for yandere behaviors, drugging/kidnapping, slight blood, some of the lore-related liberties I took when writing this which I can explain later, and what is probably going to be some ooc-ness on SG! Rung's part. I haven't written for him before. So, yeah...
You enter the unkempt project lab slowly, as the scientist responsible for checking in on, and maintaining the dimension you'd had a hand in creating. Stepping through the interdimensional groundbridge, and setting to work bringing the diagnostic systems back to life. You note immediately that a strange layer of dust blankets the keyboard you type on, whilst you work and it irritates you that nobody cleaned this up while you were away. Shouldn't somebody have been here to clean all of this? Surely Rung would've seen to that, at least. He was always so thorough when it came to dusting, cleaning, and well, whatever task you gave him so he wouldn't bother you whilst you did your job.
When you were around, at least. You'd heard from the others that he wasn't always that cooperative when you took a sick day.
You pause to light a cigarette before continuing, and thus fail to notice the quiet pattering of a single set of pedes trailing into the groundbridge emitter's room. A few minutes later, your diagnostic tests finish, and you take the datapad containing the report with you when you trudge back into the groundbridge emitter's room. Almost completely ignoring the fact that you are no longer alone in favor of completing your final task for the day. But. As to be expected, because it could never be Easy coming here. The groundbridge closes mere moments before you could cross back through it. As though somebody was waiting to pull the plug on you.
Setting aside your report, you roll up your sleeves in preparation for what you'd have to go through to get home this time. You sigh loudly once you've opened the hastily tampered with maintenance panel, and witnessed the chaos that somebody had wreaked upon the machine's interior. It certainly could be worse, though, couldn't it. After a few minutes of tinkering with the old machinery, you stand up, and attempt to reestablish the connection. Nothing. Huh. Guess it's gonna take a minute or two. Suddenly, the door closes and locks behind you as familiar footsteps creep closer to your position. Rung? Of course. He must've tampered with the emitter to buy himself some time with you.
You try to turn around to face your needy creation so you can buy yourself some time whilst the groundbridge emitter does its job, but Rung wraps an arm around your neck before you can even move. He wraps his right arm around your waist, and pulls you close. Nuzzling his faceplate snugly into the side of your neck in the process. Rung ventilates deeply, and shudders quietly for a minute or two. The quiet sounds of living and non-living technology fills the silence between you. The mech curls himself around you tightly like he hadn't seen you in centuries, and had scarcely believed you to be alive. A strange sort of desperation, to be sure, considering that you'd only been gone for a month at most.
You shift uncomfortably in Rung's grasp for a few minutes, and issue his release command once you'd had enough of his clinging. Taking the chance to shuffle out of his grasp when the purple bear trap pries itself open for you automatically. Rung's optics narrow slightly at your casual use of a command once he composes himself. Had thought that you'd grown past ordering him about like a dog, but alas.
You cough awkwardly when you make eye contact with him again, and back away further when he tries to bridge the gap between you. "Sorry. I didn't want to do that, you know. But breaking company machinery called for a higher reprimand than the scolding from HR you'd have received if you'd only just invaded my personal space. You're lucky I knew how to fix the groundbridge emitter, by the way Rung."
Your reprimand softens slightly into a mild complaint, because you aren't paid enough to hold something this minor against him. Not to mention, he'd even left the removed parts inside the maintenance panel. Like he wanted you to find them, and put them back. A lazy attempt to endear himself to you, probably.
"Now, if you don't mind, I've got to get this datapad report back to HQ. Seems like I'm the only Project: Primus member they trusted to complete the task. Orrrr at least the only one that hadn't left to take on a separate project shortly after their first attempt. If the scientist running the diagnostic tests didn't disappear outright during the process." You carefully pivot 90 degrees to simultaneously address the groundbridge terminal, and keep an eye on your possessive creation post explanation. But find, to your dismay, that the emitter hasn't even begun to bridge the gap between dimensions yet. "Huh? Why hasn't it reopened yet? Everything is back in place in the emitter, it should be working by now." You turn fully to run a diagnostic test on the machine, and to reopen the maintenance panel just in case there was something you missed in your initial repairs.
Ignoring Rung once more in favor of efficiency, to his growing agitation. A minute passes, and then two before Rung growls, and grabs you again. Wrenching you away from the control panel, and telepathically shutting the machine down again with the connection he'd established to the ancient machinery occupying the Dimensional Control Center decacycles ago.
"Woah, Rung. What's gotten into-"
He pivots you around swiftly to hug your smaller frame to himself properly, and to plant your face into his neck cabling.
He presses his faceplate into your hair afterwards, and then begins to stroke the back of your head in an attempt to self-soothe. You still smell of cigarettes, machinery, and sweat when he ventilates to draw in your scent once more. How is your scent still the same as when you were actively checking in with your team on Project:Primus all those vorns ago?
How long had it been since you've been gone?
Years? Centuries? No. It was much longer than that. He was sure of it. No matter. He simply won't lose you again.
Never ever again… Not now that he's finally gotten you back.
"Perhaps. ...hah... Perhaps, the reason it won't reopen for you, my Dear. Is because it was never meant to. I'd been waiting for you to return for Such a Long time, after all. All of us have. Even the machinery you'd used before longed to feel your gentle touch again." He shudders again before picking up where he'd left off. "And you know how lonely I-We get. When you aren't around to monitor our progress. To witness how far we'd come under your careful supervision." He shifts his servo onto the back of your neck after his little speech, and jabs his transformed pointer digit into the side of it once he'd identified a proper injection site.
Injecting you with a sedative, and installing a tracker in you, all at the same time. In case you get any ideas once you woke up in your new home.
You feel the sting of his claw piercing the side of your neck, and you begin to thrash wildly in his iron grasp. He hesitantly releases you once he's certain of the trackers installation. Smugly satisfied at your panic, but not angry enough with you to properly enjoy it. Not now that he knows you hadn't meant to leave him behind.
You press your hand to the minor wound, and look back at your creation incredulously before you stagger over to a nearby med-station. Surely there must be some kind of omni-antivenom in here…? Right? But upon further investigation, you only find the odd bottle of ointment and a few gauze rolls in the dusty old med station.
You push yourself away from it in frustration, and turn to face Rung head on. Shaken, but undeterred. "Alright. -Just. What did you dose me with? … Rung. Look at me. What. Did You. Dose me with?"
He doesn't respond this time, but the bitter longing in his optics speaks volumes. It couldn't have been poison, then. There's no way he'd get rid of you with how obsessive he'd been since his creation day. The mech watches you stagger away from the med-station with a predatory interest. Head turning to center you in his crimson gaze as you set about restarting the groundbridge emitter again.
Not that he'd let you escape, of course, but all you're doing is wasting time before that sedative kicks in fully. Truthfully, he'd broken the machine in a far more complicated manner than you had initially realized when you "fixed" it earlier. Just enough to prevent a real connection with your prior dimension, but not so much that it wouldn't even power on. It would such a shame if you were to look deep enough to find the real root of the problem now wouldn't it?
Rung stalks closer to you like a hungry wolf as you silently try to figure out why the machine isn't working. Drawing ever closer as you type away desperately at the diagnostic panel, akin to a rabbit clawing desperately at the walls looking for an escape route.
Luckily however, this wolf isn't looking for an easy meal. Just the permanent return of a beloved companion. His arms stretch out towards where you lean against the groundbridge emitter's maintenance panel, poised to catch you once you fall, with twitching claws primed to dig in and never let go.
You try to haul yourself upright again when your knees buckle under the weight of the sedative, but your grip falters too. Leaving you to slump into Rung's arms as the two of you collapse to the ground. Your world swims in and out of focus as you fight to stay awake, and Rung carefully brushes your hair out of your face. He stares into your eyes for a moment, temporarily lost for words. But you speak up with the last of your strength to ask one simple question: "Why?"
His optics widen in disbelief, as if he couldn't believe you had the nerve to ask him that. But he composes himself again, looks away, and then he answers you. "It seems that time runs differently between our two dimensions, Dear. What felt like little more than a month to you in your previous dimension, was millions of years in ours. We waited ever-so-patiently for you to return, you know. But your usual arrival time came and went repeatedly. And beyond your coworkers appearing less, and less frequently, your primes and I feared the worst."
When he looks back to see you asleep, he huffs in frustration before lifting you into a princess carry. The doors between the two of you and your new home open easily at his command. And seal shut behind you. Locking firmly in place. They'd never open again if Rung had it his way. And he's finally ensured that he would from now on.
Chapter 8: Unusual————————————————————————masterlist: Mrs. All American🤍
<<prev next>>
After the Sports Festival, you can't wait for things to get back to how they usually are
tags: MHA x fem!reader, MHA x Black!reader, reverse harem x reader, slow burn, sfw, Izuku Midoriya x reader, Katsuki Bakugo x reader, Shoto Todoroki x reader, Tenya Iida x reader, Eijiro Kirishima x reader, Hitoshi Shinsou x reader, Mirio Togata x reader
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You don’t remember the walk out of the arena. You remember the buzzer. The way the crowd exploded into noise. The way Bakugo hit the ground and didn’t get back up in time. The way Ms. Midnight raised your arm and declared you the winner of the first-year Sports Festival. But emotionally? You feel the same walking back through the tunnel as you did walking out of it.
Competently removed from it all.
You went all out, just like he demanded.
You didn’t beat him within an inch of his life. You didn’t humiliate him. You didn’t drag anything out. But you were sure it was the most brutal beating you’ve ever given someone.
But hey, that's what he wanted out of you, right? Not to hold back? And you certainly didn't.
And yet, beyond how you felt about him, how annoying, how demanding, and how infuriating he’d been all day, a feeling settles uncomfortably in your chest as you pass through the cool shadow of the tunnel and back toward the waiting rooms. You flex your fingers absently, remembering the way his face looked when you’d finished the fight.
A look of acknowledgment, acceptance, and maybe a little fear.
It was guilt. That feeling wafting over you like smoke. You felt guilty.
You didn't regret what you did, though. And you didn't feel bad for winning, or for putting him in his place. But that didn’t mean you wanted him to fear you. All you wanted was for him to respect you, to see you, to try and get to know you…Maybe you should check on him.
You slow your steps, debating whether to swing by Recovery Girl’s office before you’re inevitably dragged back out for the awards ceremony. You were sure he’d be there after a fight like that, you were only hoping he’d be conscious by the time you got there.
You push into the waiting room as you juggle the thought around. The TV mounted in the corner is already replaying the highlights of the match. Present Mic’s voice blares excitedly over slow-motion footage of you cutting through Bakugo’s final assault.
“—an explosive finish to an explosive day for our first-year champion!”
You grab your water bottle off the table and pop the cap open, taking a slow sip while watching yourself move across the screen. At least your form and attacks looked clean. A still frame freezes on the moment you first disarmed one of his attacks early in the match. The crowd had loved that part. But the feeling at the back of your head doesn’t fade. It nags, refusing to be ignored.
If you don’t go see him, you know you’re not going to stop thinking about it. You set your water bottle back down. And head for the infirmary.
The hallway toward Recovery Girl’s office is quiet. Or maybe it's the deafening focus in your head that's making the whole world feel silent. The roaring crowd is muffled by concrete and distance, replaced by the low hum of ventilation and distant footsteps.
Halfway down the corridor, you spot someone walking toward you and recognize him instantly. You’ve never seen him in person before, but from what you could see, photos and broadcasts didn’t do the sheer presence of him any justice.
Endeavor.
He was massive. Easily as broad as All Might, but just a hair shorter. Flames curl and lick across his face, illuminating his sharp features far better than the dull, windowless interior of the arena ever could. The fire throws shifting light across the walls, painting everything around him in a restless, shifting shade of orange. And beneath that blaze, you see them. Bright, piercing turquoise eyes.
Just like Todoroki’s. Or, one of Todoroki’s that is.
And from this close, the resemblance was undeniable. Todoroki was the spitting image of his father. Or at least exactly half of him is.
You try not to stare, but he must feel your gaze because his eyes shift and lock onto yours. Heat prickles along your spine, and you quickly look straight ahead as you both close the distance between you. Just as you’re about to pass him, he stops. And unconsciously, you slow down too.
He turns fully toward you, flames crackling softly as he studies your face.
“You’re the girl who won the tournament just now.” Despite the suspicious tone, you know it’s not a question.
You straighten slightly. “Yes, sir. And your Endeavor.” You weren't asking a question either.
He makes a small, assessing sound in his throat. “That I am. Congratulations.” It’s flat and impassive, much like how you felt about the whole thing.
You bow politely at his congratulations. Despite how you may have felt right now, this was still one of the strongest pro heroes standing here, complementing you. “Thank you. That means so much coming from you, sir.”
He hums at that, almost thoughtful.
“Your quirk control and strength impressed me out there. I’ll be honest, going into the final round, I wasn't convinced you’d have the firepower to beat that explosion boy after seeing his match against Shoto.” He pauses, as if he were replaying the match in his head. “It’s a shame it wasn’t you and Shoto in the final,” he continues. “That would have been a match I’d be very interested in seeing.”
You can’t help the small chuckle that escapes you, both at the idea of him underestimating you while overestimating his own son. “Honestly, I was hoping it would’ve been Todoroki and me in the finals too.”
His brows lift faintly. “At Shoto’s current strength,” he says, voice cooling, “and with his refusal to use the full extent of his power, the outcome would have likely remained the same.”
You hum softly in acknowledgment, but you were sure not to let your expression change. But deep down, you're more sure of something than ever before. You understand Todoroki’s dislike for his father more and more with every word.
Endeavor doesn’t talk about Shoto like a son. He talks about him like a project. A tool. A means to an end. Todoroki had told you what training with his father was like. The expectations. The conditioning. The relentless demands. Sure, hadn’t gone into vivid detail, but he never really did. And right now you’re sure he didn’t need to. The man standing in front of you is exactly as described. An overdemanding shell of a father figure who sees perfection as the only acceptable outcome. Anything less is wasted potential.
But despite your thoughts of him personally, you bow again, wanting nothing more than to keep this conversation as brief as humanly possible.
“Excuse me,” you say smoothly. “I was on my way to the infirmary to check on a few classmates.”
He nods once, dismissive but not in an unkind way. “Of course, Congratulations again.”
You straighten and step past him. Only once you turn the corner and his flames disappear from view do you allow your face to shift. A small, disapproving crease pulls at your mouth as you keep walking.
Once you reach the hall leading to the infirmary, the fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly. You notice that there are a few seats lined up against the wall beside the door, likely for students who were hurt, but not badly enough to need a bed inside. And in one of the chairs sat none other than Midoriya’s first tournament opponent, Shinsou.
You swallow back a scoff as you recognize him. He’s slouched low, an ice pack pressed to the back of his head, indigo hair slightly mussed. He looks up when your footsteps echo closer, but you don’t slow, as you have no desire to get wrapped up in another conversation with someone you had no desire to speak to. And you were already very familiar with his brand of verbal confrontation.
You stop at the small window in the infirmary door and cautiously peer inside. And there he was. Spiky blond hair. Bandaged shoulders. Lying in one of the beds at the far side of the room.
Still unconscious.
You let out a quiet sigh at the sight of him. You know he’ll be fine. If Recovery Girl has him, he’s in the best hands possible. Plus, you know he’s tough. Stubbornly so. But that doesn’t stop the guilt from nudging at you. Just as you lean closer to the window, the doorknob turns from the inside. You step back quickly as the door swings open.
Todoroki stands on the other side.
You make a small, surprised sound. “Oh! Todoroki! I didn’t know you were here.”
He shrugs lightly, his tired eyes moving up to look into yours. “My fight with Bakugo took more out of me than I expected, so I’ve been here since it ended.”
You soften at that. “I hadn't realized. Well, I hope you're feeling better now.”
“I am.” He nods. “I was up to watch most of the final round on the tv’s in here, though. So congratulations on winning, but after the first round, it was pretty obvious who the best in the class was.” Todoroki’s words make Shinso perk up, listening in on your slow conversation.
You can't help but smile at your classmate. “Thank you.”
Then something in your brain clicks as you remember seeing Endeavor in the hallway.
You blink as you point at him, “If you’ve been in here since the last round, that explains why your dad was wandering around in here. I actually ran into him like a minute ago.”
The shift in Todoroki’s demeanor is subtle, but practically immediate.
He shifts his weight from side to side, and his grip on the door handle tightens as his eyes sharpen.
“He didn’t speak to you, did he?”
“He did, actually,” you say evenly. “It was hort conversation, though. He congratulated me on winning and said he wished it had been us in the finals instead of me and Bakugo. I told him I was kind of hoping for that too.” you cant keep back the laugh that tumbles out of you as you admit that to him.
Todoroki exhales slowly, as if he were trying to relax. “Did he say anything that made you uncomfortable?” he asks.
You smile faintly at the cautiously protective tone of his questions. “No, no. Nothing like that. I kept it short and respectful, and so did he.”
He hums quietly, like he’s trying to map out the whole interaction in his head.
“Well, I guess that's…something,” he mumbles, sounding slightly unconvinced. “But anyway, I’m heading back to the student section,” he says. “The awards ceremony should start soon, too. Are you coming up?”
“In a minute,” you reply. “I just wanted to check on something.”
“You're not hurt, are you?”
You giggle lightly. “No, I’m fine, I just wanted to come up and…see something.”
He glances toward the room behind him. Then back at you.
“...Right,” he says quietly. “Well then, I guess I’ll see you later.”
You wave him off as he walks off down the corridor with his hands in his pockets. Once he disappears around the corner, you turn back toward the door window. Bakugo still hasn’t woken up. You cross your arms and lean against the wall, bouncing one leg anxiously as you stare through the glass. From beside you, a voice cuts in.
“Here to check on your friend?”
You glance at the sound of the voice. Shinsou hasn’t moved much. He’s still slouched, still holding that ice pack to the back of his head. Now that you’re really looking, you can see faint bruising along his jaw. Midoriya must have hit him harder than it looked.
“Something like that,” you answer dryly.
He hums, long and knowing.
“Blondie must not really be your friend then.”
You shrug, not in the mood to unpack that statement. Your non-answer allows a long pause to drift between you, and for some reason, Shinso didn’t like that. He wanted to keep talking.
“It’s still nice that you’re checking on him,” he adds. “Even if you don’t like him much. It’s very…heroic of you.” You bite back an eye roll at the condescension in his voice.
Again, another silence settles between you. And again, he doesn't like that.
“Congrats, by the way,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t catch most of the later matches, but after how you handled the first two rounds? Makes sense, you won.”
“Thanks,” you reply flatly, still not looking at him.
He studies you for a second. Now that the tournament was over, he could see you as another student again, and not a potential threat. You looked far less threatening now. And it was no shock to him why you had been a fan favorite. Even now, with concentration and nerves all over your face, your looks were undeniable. But for some reason, he could feel a slight sneer pulling at his mouth.
“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you,” he says quietly. “The guy looks tough. Hell, he is tough. He’ll probably be up in a few minutes.”
You sigh again, allowing more emotion to seep through your voice. “I hope so.”
You finally drag your eyes away from the door and turn more toward Shinso.
“Are you still too banged up to go back with your class?” you ask, tilting your head as you give him a once-over.
He hesitates, then shrugs. “Actually…I think I’m fine And this thing is completely melted by the way. It’s barely even cold now.”
He lowers the ice pack from his head and stares at the floor for a few seconds. “I’m just…not in a rush to go back.”
“Why not?” you ask, facing him completely now.
He exhales. “Because I was the first one out,” he mutters. “And being the first to lose just feels like…it feels like I let them down.”
You study his face as he continues looking down at the floor. Despite all he's done in the last few days to torment your classmates, you can't help but sympathize with the feeling he's describing. But even though the feeling made sense, you knew he shouldn't feel like that. Not when he’d made it all the way to the finals. Most of your classmates couldn't even say they did that.
“I can’t imagine why you’d feel that way,” you say honestly. “You were the only general studies student to make it into the final bracket. That’s crazy impressive, not to mention the strength and perseverance that takes.”
He shrugs off your compliments and snorts. Aggravation from the sensitive topic boiling deep in his chest.
“Oh, thank you, that means a lot coming from the hero course prodigy who just bulldozed the whole festival.”
You roll your eyes at his sorry attempt at deflection. He was pretty decent at it, honestly. But he was no Bakugo, so you weren't all that impressed.
“Please. If I had your quirk, I would’ve won this thing in half the time.”
He actually laughs at that. “You sure you're not the one with the minor concussion here? You might wanna ask Recovery Girl to take a look at that head of yours.”
“I’m serious,” you insist. “Your quirk is incredible. It would be insanely useful for a hero.”
He rolls his eyes in return. “Now you’re just trying to be funny.”
“Why would that be funny?”
“Because I could never be a hero,” he says plainly. “Not with a quirk like this, and you know it. Heroes protect people; they save people. They don't scare them like I do.
“Your quirk isn't scary, and neither are you,” you state.
He shrugs. “Well, of course, you aren't scared of me. You know you could pummel me into the ground. But anyone else would be. I control people, I use them. That doesn't sound scary to you? How could I ever be a hero with a power like this?” He still refused to look up from the floor.
You continue to study him for a long second before asking, “Well…do you want to be a hero?”
He finally throws you a passing glance.
“Who doesn't?”
You smile smugly at his honesty.
“But just wanting something doesn't mean it’s meant for you. I came to this school because I wanted a front row seat to see the next generation of heroes, not to be one. But today, for a second, I almost felt like one. But then reality set back in, and I was reminded that wanting something just isn't enough.”
His thoughtfully pitiful explanation hangs in the air as you try to find the most careful and comforting response to give him after hearing that. But all you can think of is—
“That’s stupid.”
His head snaps up.
“Wow.”
“Sorry,” you say, not sounding that sorry. “Bad wording. But you're right about the wanting thing. Just wanting something doesn't mean it’s meant for you, but working for it helps.” You lean forward a bit as you speak to him, wanting your words to reach him. “That feeling you felt today wasn't you losing touch with reality; that was hope. You felt that your dream was attainable for a moment, because it was. You just need to work to reach it. But if all it takes for you to abandon your dream is realizing that you need to work hard to get it…then you must not have wanted it that bad enough.”
He scoffs, bristling. “Easy for you to say. Mic said you got in on recommendation. You probably never had to fight this hard for anything in your life.”
You shake your head, laughing as you do at his ridiculousness.
“Bakugo was right about you.” That shuts him up.
“It’s obvious you want to be a hero,” you continue. “And that you want to be in the hero course. But you let other people spoil that idea for you, and now you’re miserable about it.”
He opens his mouth to argue, but you don’t stop.
“Today, you got a taste of it. Of what your life could’ve looked like if you’d trusted yourself. If you had more faith, more confidence in yourself and your dream. And you know that. That's why you don't want to go back. And you’re not ready to give that up yet.”
His fingers tighten around the ice pack.
“As long as you don’t go back out there,” you say, gesturing toward the arena, “you stay Shinsou, hero in training.” You glance back toward the door, looking over Bakugo’s still unconscious figure.
“But the second you walk back to your class section, you go back to being Shinsou from general studies class C.”
His eyes widen slightly.
“That’s why you don’t want to go back, right?” You finish quietly. “Not because you’re embarrassed you got out first, but because you want to live in the ‘almost’ a little longer.”
Again, another S]silence falls between you. And this time, he doesn't fight it. All he can do is stare at you in disbelief. After several seconds, he shakes his head. Resetting and reorganizing his thoughts.
“You’re wrong,” he says, though it sounds less certain than before. “I didn’t give up. Me getting that far proves that.”
You’re about to respond—but then you see movement through the window. And Bakugo’s hand twitches, and slowly but surely, he shifts awake.
You straighten up against the door frame and step back a bit once you watch him come too completely. He was awake.
“Hm, I guess you’re right,” you murmur.
Shinsou notices your shift and follows your gaze, realizing Bakugo must be awake now. You turn back to him one last time.
“That’s true,” you concede. “You didn’t give up.” He blinks as you step closer to him.
“And as long as you keep taking small steps forward, you’ll get there eventually.”
You pause, reaching a hand out to the melted ice pack he was still holding. You place a hand over his, touching two fingers to the thawed jelly pack, freezing it solid again with barely any contact.
“But just imagine how much faster you’d get there if you took big ones instead, hm?”
You don’t elaborate. You just turn and head back down the hallway toward your class. Behind you, Shinsou sits in his chair, his gaze just as frozen as his ice pack as he stares at the space you’d just occupied.
When you slip back into your class’s section, the stadium is already settling into ceremony mode. The battlefield is cleared. The giant screens cycle through highlights. Confetti cannons sit poised at the edges of the arena floor. The awards ceremony begins not long after. You stand with the other finalists as your uncle steps forward to assist with the medals. The top four are called one by one.
After rejoining your class, the awards ceremony is held shortly after. You watch your uncle bestow medals to the top 4 finalists. Iida received his first, a simple silver medallion. Next was Todoroki, who received the third-place bronze medallion. Then, a freshly awoken Bakugo received his second-place silver medallion, but Bakugo doesn’t lean forward. He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t even tilt his head. Instead, he snatches it from All Might’s hand and just holds it in his fist.
And finally, your name is called, and you step forward. All Might’s smile is radiant as he lifts the gold medal. You bow slightly, leaning forward so he can place it around your neck properly. The weight of it settles around your neck. For the first time since the final round had started, you really felt the reality of your win settled in.
You really did it.
You wrap your fingers around the medal and lift it slightly, staring at it for just a second as the crowd erupts. Confetti explodes into the air. Flashing cameras go off in blinding bursts. Your uncle leans in close enough that only you can hear him.
“Ya’know, I thought you looked every bit as confident out there as you hoped today.”
You glance at him, smiling. You’re glad he thought so, because you felt confident. You felt more tant confident. You felt like a winner. And not because of the applause, or the cameras, or the gold. But because, for once, you can say it without hesitation, you earned this. All on your own.
After the ceremony, the First-Year Sports Festival officially came to an end. You head outside the arena to find Luke and spot him not long after. He wastes no time gripping you up and pulling you into a long and excited hug, congratulating you over and over as he squeezes you in a bear hug. He looked and sounded like he was about to burst as he gave you an overexcited recap of the whole festival from his perspective.
“I nearly filmed the whole thing,” he says, shoving his phone toward you. “Your parents called me like five different times! They looked so proud! So we’re probably going to have to call them back when we get home.”
You laugh softly. “I figured.”
“Sir left around halfway through the final match to catch the last event of the third-year festival,” he adds. “I’m pretty sure it's still going on, actually, if you wanted to catch whatever’s left of it.”
“Of course I do!” You blurt, wrapping yourself around one of his arms as you drag him toward the third-year Festival grounds.
Unfortunately, by the time you arrive, their festival is practically over, too. The stands are far emptier than the first-year arena had been. Still, you spot a few familiar faces. Sir stands out immediately in his crisp navy suit, perfectly pressed, dress shoes polished to a shine. Beside him is Fatgum, in a hoodie and khaki shorts, his large hand resting on his knees as he chats away to Sir.
They both greet you excitedly as you approach, congratulations and high praises spilling from their mouths as you get closer. Sir stands and pulls you into a brief hug before you can greet him properly, murmuring a quiet, ‘I’m so proud of you’ as you hug his back, your hands rubbing up and down his slender back.
“Heard you crushed it!” Fatgum beams with a thumbs up as you gradually separate from Sir. “How does it feel, champ?” he asks.
“Pretty great, I can’t lie,” you admit.
You tilt your head slightly as you turn your attention back to Sir. “What were you thinking while watching? I’m assuming you’ve got a few notes.”
Instead of critiquing you, Sir simply hugs you again.
“I felt incredibly proud,” he says. “You were absolute perfection.”
You hesitate in his grasp, shocked by all the emotion from your usually overly stoic mentor. Luke grins at your stunned expression. The two of you take the seats beside Sir and Fatgum as Sir fills you in on the third-year results.
“It was a good festival in my opinion, much better than last year's at least,” he explains. “Mirio and Tamaki both performed better than usual. But unsurprisingly…this year, they were no match for Nejire. She’s advanced quite a bit since last year, I’d say.”
You nod along, listening as he breaks down their strengths, their weaknesses, and the improvements they’ve made. But your eyes drift to the arena floor. It’s so much quieter here, but no less filled with talent and skill than the first year festival was. Was watching the class that survived a villain attack so much of a draw in that the other years' Festivals were this slow in comparison? You were sure Nejire was just as interesting to watch as you were. Maybe even more with all the years of experience she has under her belt by now. Nejire. You’ve heard her name countless times from Mirio and Tamaki, but you’ve still never met her. What was Nejire like?
Principal Nezu appears at the center stage to distribute the awards, and finally, appearing from the arena tunnel with the other runners-up, you see her. Long, shining periwinkle hair cascading down her back. Bright blue-grey eyes that sparkle as her face is plastered on all the available screens in the arena. She was gorgeous, but honestly, even in her school gym uniform, she looked more like a pop idol than a hero student. When she receives her gold medal, the crowd cheers wildly. You clap respectfully, studying her carefully. Second strongest behind Mirio. And now, first place in her very last Sports Festival. And you were dying to meet her.
As the crowd begins to clear, Mirio and Tamaki round the corner of the guest stands, only expecting to see their mentors, but spot you in the stands right along with them. Mirio shouts out your and Luke’s names as he and Tamaki quicken their pace over to the four of you.
“What are you doing here?” Mirio laughs as you stand to hug him.
“I guess our festival ended kinda early compared to your guys’,” you explain. “I wanted to catch what was left of yours, but Luke and I only really made it in time for the awards.”
“Thank God,” Mirio says dramatically, scratching the back of his neck. “My performance this year wasn’t exactly all that impressive.”
“That’s okay,” you assure him in an empathetic tone as you rub his back.
He laughs. “I’m not upset or anything, really!. I guess I’m just bummed since it’s my last festival. This is one of my favorite events of the whole school year!” His smile softens as he pulls you closer to his side. “But now that you’re here, I get to have just as much fun watching you every year. Especially since you've got a streak to uphold now, miss first place!”
You grin at the title. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I don’t let you down.”
He plops a hand on your head, ruffling your hair. “Like you could ever let me down anyway.” Then he tickles you lightly with his other arm. “But seriously, first place! Let’s see that medal already!!”
You squirm free and flash the gold medallion at him and Tamaki in a bout of laughter. They both ‘ooh’ exaggeratedly as you pose with the award.
Tamaki stares in awe. “You really won your first-ever festival…When I was a first-year, I don’t even think I broke the top twenty-five.”
“Of course she won,” Mirio says, hands on his hips. “She’s the most qualified and talented first-year in the hero course by far!”
Sir nods in agreement as he steps closer, resting a hand on your shoulder. “He’s absolutely right, and I’m proud of you. Both of you. Placements aside.”
Fatgum claps Tamaki on the back. “That's right! Super proud of you, too, kid.”
After a few minutes of light teasing and praise, you ask Tamaki what the rest of the Festival was like, and how Nejire won, your growing interest in her still on the front of your mind. Mirio suddenly snaps his fingers at the mention of her name.
“Whoa thats right!? You still haven't met Hado! Let’s introduce you guys before she leaves! She’s like obsessed with you, I swear. And that way we can get a picture with 2 out of 3 of this year's winners!”
You and Tamaki look at each other before agreeing. Mirio leads the way, marching back into the arena with you and Tamaki following closely behind. Once inside, Mirio asks Tamaki if he could call her to see if she was still around. Tamaki pulls out his phone and steps aside, slowing his pace significantly, but still following behind you both as he tries to call her. With Tamaki preoccupied with his phone, Mirio nudges you.
“So…excited to be an official intern at the agency?”
“I am,” you say. “But I’m sure it won’t feel all that different. I’m practically there like… every day already.”
He shakes his head and smiles. “Trust me, it’ll feel totally different. You’ll be in costume. You’ll be patrolling. You’ll be reporting hourly. Y’kow really hero stuff!”
You grin. “Better than sitting at Sir’s desk while you two go have all the fun.”
He laughs. “I’m just hoping Sir will warm up to the idea of letting us patrol alone sometimes. He can be a bit of a killjoy when it comes to doing hero stuff by the book...”
“Sir? A by-the-book killjoy? I would have never guessed.” You gasp theatrically. “But patrolling with you does sound nice, especially because I want to learn as much from you as I possibly can before you graduate,” you continue, looking up at him as you do. “I mean, you are the number 1 student here after all, so you must be doing something right, right?”
Mirio chuckles.
“That’s true, but you make it sound like once I graduate, you’ll never see me again,” he adds lightly.
“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” you insist. “I just mean, you’ll be busy either being a sidekick or debuting as a hero, but I won’t be able to see you or call you whenever, like I can now.”
All of a sudden, he stops walking, so you stop too. He looks at you seriously.
“Well, that’ll never happen,” he says. “You’re one of the most important people in my life. I’ll never be too busy for you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it—I’m there. You know that.” The last bit sounds more like a question. Your expression softens.
“Yeah, I know,” you say, pouting at how sweet he was being. You bring a hand up to grab his face and squish his cheeks together.
Tamaki approaches again, saying both of your names to get your attention. “Hey, Hado says she’s outside, in front of the arena.”
Mirio makes an affirmative sound of acknowledgement before turning back to you and telling you how psyched she’ll be to finally meet you. The three of you hurry out to the front of the arena grounds. And there in the middle of the walkway, Nejire stands waiting. Mirio shouts her name. She spins, spots you all, and wastes no time rushing over to meet you all halfway. Mirio and Tamaki congratulate her first, exchanging quick hugs and compliments. Then Mirio steps aside dramatically. “Nejire, I’d like you to finally meet (Y/N)!”
Nejire claps her hands frantically and squeals. She grabs your hands immediately. Rambling on about how excited she is to finally meet you, and how much Mirio and Tamaki have talked about you over the years. She was talking so much, and every other sentence out of her mouth was a completely different topic than the last. And here you thought Hagakure could be airheaded sometimes…Nejire was something else. In the midst of her question and comment frenzy, she notices the medal around your neck and squeals even louder than the first.
“You won the Festival!? That’s amazing! I still can’t believe this is our first time meeting, and we both won today! This has totally got to be fate or something, right?! But of course, you won. Mirio never shuts up about how strong you are! And your quirk is incredible! Oh my gosh, can you say something in English? And your hair looks so pretty! You look even better than the pictures! You're like an off-duty model or something! I love it!”
All you can do is stare with wide eyes and a weak smile as she continues to bounce in place, her grip on your hands tight, as if she might float away if she loosened it. This is not the personality you expected from the composed, top-ranked third-year you saw earlier.
But you laugh and answer her questions anyway, at least the questions you remembered. And quickly, the two of you tumbling into a chaotic exchange. It was a little jarring to have a conversation with someone whom you so badly wanted to know more about, when all they wanted to talk about was you. And boy, did Nejire seem to know a lot about you. Like a lot.
She eventually asks you if your family is planning to come and visit you for the summer during their yearly trip to Japan, like they usually do. Your brows shoot up, and you tilt your head curiously at the detailed question.
“Wow! uhm…I’m actually not sure, hah!” you reply, shooting Mirio a puzzled look before asking, “Just how much has Mirio told you about me exactly?”
Nejire beams. “A decent bit! But don’t worry, I know you like to keep the finer details quiet. I won’t tell a soul! Pinky promise!” She brings her hand up, displaying her pinky finger to you as proof.
You chuckle a little as you wrap your pinky around hers, taking her word for it. But you can't help yourself as you press her for more details, wanting to know exactly how much she knew. She counts on her fingers as she lists off all her fun facts about you.
“Let’s see…I know your parents are super loaded, especially your dad! That you stay with a guy named ‘Luke’ and say he’s your cousin when he’s basically your bodyguard. And that your oldest sister is a pro hero, a super cool one too!”
You smile politely and cut the meanest glare at Mirio. He rubs the back of his neck nervously again, too scared to break eye contact. Desperate to save himself, he blurts out, “So how about that picture, huh?!” pulling out his phone, and opening the camera.
First, he snaps selfies of himself, Tamaki, and Nejire together. Then he waves you over to stand beside Nejire, both of you holding up your gold medals and smiling for the camera. As the camera flashes, you notice Sir, Luke, and Fatgum approaching from the arena.
The introductions and pleasantries continue as Sir and Fat congratulate Nejire on her win, and Luke congratulates her as well, then introduces himself to her. Her face lights up again as she jumps into another frenzy of questions, asking Luke everything that comes to the front of her mind. From how old he was, to how long he’s known you, to where he’s from originally, and what his quirk is, or if he even has one. Luke is reluctant to say anything to her, looking to you for help. You smile and tell him not to worry, as Nejire was very sweet and very trustworthy. Not that you had much choice in trusting her, though, as Mirio had told her ‘so much’ about you both. Again, Mirio laughs along nervously, feeling your sharp eyes on him again.
Hoping to change the topic from you and Luke to something, or literally anything else, Mirio asks if all of you should go out to eat and celebrate after having such an action-packed day.
“Who doesn't love a good celebratory dinner, huh?” he insists, throwing an arm around Tamaki’s shoulders and nearly dragging him along. “We’ve got two gold medals between us. That definitely deserves food to me!”
You quickly agree, sensing Mirio’s ploy to quiet all this talk about you and your family life, and because, well, you were starving.
So you, Luke, Mirio, Sir, Tamaki, Fatgum, and Nejire find yourselves squeezing into a long booth at a cozy restaurant not far from campus. The warm and bustling restaurant is a nice contrast to the Olympic-sized arena you’ve been circling for the last few hours.
After detailing her win, Nejire asks Mirio and Tamaki what they thought about their final Sports Festival and what their favorite parts were. Both boys go into full storytelling mode, recounting every detail of their matches. Mirio reenacts a particularly dramatic dodge with wild hand gestures that nearly knock over Sir’s water glass. Tamaki corrects him quietly three separate times, reminding his bold friend that they were still in public. Fatgum laughs loudly through most of Mirio’s tales, only stressing Tamaki more. Causing you to cut in and calm him down as well.
Nejire asks you the same, and you share your highlights as well, detailing all of your favorite parts of the Festival. You keep your tone light and chipper. Sure, you were tired after the day you had, but you didn’t want to come off as ungrateful for your win, or sound like you thought it was no big deal. It was a big deal to you. A huge one, actually. But what you were really trying your hardest to conceal was your guilt. Your tunnel vision. And how empty you felt leaving the arena that final time.
By the time dessert is cleared, you lean back in the cushy booth and sigh contentedly.
“And now that all of this festival stuff is done with, I’m ready for classes to go back to normal,” you admit. “No more stress or nerves. I just want to hang out with my friends, and not have to work every muscle in my body training every weekday.”
Luke laughs at your simple wishes, then pipes up, “Oh, I guess it’s still a Saturday. Do you want me to drop you off at the dorms after dinner? Or were you planning on coming home with me for the rest of the weekend?”
Your smile flutters for a second as you ponder the easy question. But for you, it feels like the most loaded question you've been asked all week. The image of Bakugo, silver medal clenched in his fist, fills your mind. Then you think of the dorm hallways, the common room, the kitchen, and all the other possible places you could run into him. You shake your head lightly, the choice now feeling just as clear as the question.
“I think I’ll stay at the house.”
Mirio perks up instantly at your choice. “Yes! That means we can hang out until Monday!”
You laugh at his dramatic enthusiasm and pull out your phone. If you were planning on being out of the dorm until Monday, you had to let someone know. And, of course, that someone was none other than Iida. You shoot him a quick message.
“Spending the rest of the weekend at home. See you Monday!”
You hit send and wait for his response. You found that he never took more than a few minutes to reply to your texts. And this was no different than all the others you’d sent him as you quickly watched the ‘delivered’ badge change to ‘read’. Then the grey typing bubble appears.
You smile, anticipating his simple and well-punctuated reply. Only for the bubble to disappear altogether. Your smile slips, and you wait for the bubble to return. Nothing. You tilt your head slightly at the screen. Maybe he’s retyping, or his connection is bad. You wait another minute. Still nothing. You make a small face and slide your phone back into your pocket. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he’s out celebrating just like you were.
You would only hope.
When you get home, you text Mirio, telling him you had made it home safe, just like he had asked you to as you were both leaving the restaurant. He responds to your message with a thumbs up, and not even thirty minutes later, he’s at the door, knocking to be let in.
Luke opens, chuckling as he makes a little joke about how long it’s been since he’s last seen Mirio. You giggle along from the couch, as Mirio keeps Luke’s joke going, telling him it really has been too long.
Mirio enters the living room, collapsing down on the couch next to you, and planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on your cheek. Telling you that it had been too long since he’s seen you last, too.
For the next hour, you both go back and forth, telling each other about your days, not skimping out on a single detail. You tell him everything. Every feeling, every thought, everything you liked, everything you loved, and everything you downright hated.
You reiterate how relieved you are that it’s over, just as you had talked about at the table. But this time, you allow yourself to admit how nice it felt knowing that you were officially the first-year to watch.
Mirio listens contentedly as you speak, slipping in his thoughts and comments where he finds it appropriate. Ignoring everything else in the world, as he hangs on to every word that leaves your mouth. Despite his easily excitable, golden retriever-like exterior, nothing made Mirio shut up and focus quite like you. He loved listening to you. Loved the way you could slip off your everyday mask and be completely yourself with him. And loved the way the longer and longer you went uninterrupted, the thicker and thicker your American accent would slip through your Japanese. It was so cute. Absentmindedly, he slips his tongue out of his mouth to swipe across his lips as you go on explaining your conversation with this ‘Shinso’ guy, as he continues focusing on you. Blocking out everything else as he does. Like your phone, which had been dinging with notification after notification ever since he had sat down next to you. At first, it was just a few little dings, but now they were just flooding in, one after the next.
Mirio is brought out of his concentration-induced haze as you reach down on the couch for your phone, tapping the screen, and making a face in disbelief. You had hoped that maybe Iida had finally responded to your message, but all of your notifications were from Instagram.
But when you unlock your phone, you see that it's not just a few notifications; there are hundreds. Maybe even thousands. You scroll through your notification tab as more and more come flooding in: new followers, comments, DM’s, tagged posts, it was insane.
Mirio quietly says your name to get your attention, but you just keep scrolling, hands floating across the glass as your page looks like it's been set ablaze. Mirio leans in closer, peering over the top of your phone screen to see what has you so transfixed right now.
His eyes widen as he sees the notifications flying in. “Whoa!” he shouts. “What did you do!?”
“Nothing! I swear!” you shout back, genuinely confused by all the sudden account traffic.
“Holy crap!” he says quieter, taking your phone from your hands and scrolling through your account himself. You scootch in closer to him and watch from over his shoulder as he bounces from your account tab, back to your notif tab, and DM’s. He begins reading through random DM’s in your general tab, quietly mumbling to himself as he reads them aloud.
“Congratulations on your win today…” he reads quietly. “I guess all these new followers and stuff really are from the Festival today,” he concludes.
“There's no way this many people are interested in my boring ass insta Miri…” you mumble as he opens and closes more and more messages.
He laughs, “well of course they don't care about your Insta, they care about you.”
“How could this many people care about me when they don’t even know me?!” you whisper yell.
He closes the message he was reading and clicks on your profile and opens your tagged posts, clicking on a post of you standing out on the field in that God-awful cheer outfit.
“That’s how…” he says smugly, turning to look at you.
You make an animalistic sound as you try to wrestle the phone out of his hands. He begins laughing at your embarrassment, fighting you back for the phone, insisting that e wasnt done reading. You release the phone and flop back onto the couch, grabbing a throw pillow and covering your face with it.
“Just delete my whole account!” you yell through the pillow, its thickness muffling the sound significantly.
“Why?! What's wrong with a few well-wishers and fans? All the best heroes have die-hard fan bases, don't you wanna be one of the best heroes?”
Mirio chuckles to himself as he hears you whine again from under the pillow as he goes back to your DM’s, wanting to see just how well-wishing some of your new fans were. He begins opening up more and more as they pop up.
‘You’re amazing!’ ‘You were incredible today!’ He smiles at the phone as he reads sweet message after sweet message. His heart filled with pride all over again. It really was your debut as a hero in training, and you already had a supportive and growing fan base.
He opens another DM, and his face immediately falls.
‘You looked perfect in that cheer uniform.’ ‘That body of yours is insane!’ ‘Hope your hero costume is as cute as that cheer costume ;).’
He begins furiously swiping away at the messages, blocking the senders as he does. He feels a rageful twitch at the side of his nose as his hands work faster than his mind could keep up. Of course, you’d have fans; you were incredible. So strong, so capable, so perfect. So good. But with anything good, of course, there would always be the bad to come and ruin it. He didn’t want you seeing this shit. Not when you were already so flustered at the thought of having fans and supporters. These dirty-ass creeps were just going to ruin this for you. But Mirio wasn’t going to let that happen. You worked too hard for this, sacrificed too much for this. He’d block every creep if he had to, untag every post if he needed to. He was going to make sure these assholes didn't mess with your head. He had to protect you.
He was going to protect you.
You move the Pillow from your face and look up to see Mirio working away at something on your phone. You toss the pillow aside and sit up on your elbows, asking him if he was good. He cuts his eyes over at you, for barely even a second, and the expression on his face is loud and obvious like alarm bells. Your brows furrow as you say his name, your voice testy. His expression dissolves completely, and he looks over at you with his usual big, loving puppy dog eyes and faint smile. Humming quickly in acknowledgement as he moves the phone away from his face.
“Everything ok?” you ask, sitting up completely as you move your legs into his lap.
“Yeah! Why wouldn't it be?” he asks, grabbing your legs and tugging them closer the moment they hit his thighs.
“I don’t know…you just looked really…focused for a second…” You say cautiously, “Are you still looking at my Insta?”
“Yeah, I was just reading some of the messages people were sending you, all nice stuff from what I saw! But pretty repetitive,” he replies, locking your phone.
“Besides, you weren't done telling me about the end of the Festival! You were talking to that ‘Shinso’ kid, right? I’m pretty sure that's where you left off?” You continue to study his face as he speaks and notice the way he quickly and subtly places your phone face down on the other side of him, too far for you to reach. You also notice how he even more subtly slips the phone under his large thigh, so you wouldn’t be able to reach it anyway.
You stare at him. He stares back.
“What?” He asks, trying not to laugh, knowing he’s caught.
You try not to laugh to yourself as you don't break eye contact with him. “I can see you, dummy, you can’t just confiscate my phone!”
“Sure, I can!”
“Miri, it’s my phone!”
“I know! But it was distracting us! And I don't want you to start doom scrolling and gett all in your head about Festival stuff when you were just talking about how glad you were that it was over! So let's just have a screen-free night and let the Festival hype die down, yeah? Hell, we could even make it a screen-free weekend!”
You open your mouth to argue, but close it again. He had a point, especially about the doom scrolling. So you honor his request and let him keep the phone, allowing yourself to get back into the overly detailed retelling of your day. And allowing him to get back to getting lost in the sound of your voice as you go on and on.
As the night drags on, you and Mirio jump from topic to topic, talking about any and everything that came to mind. You loved nights like these with him, though it was moments like these that made you feel bad that Tamaki didn't tag along. However, you knew long nights and even longer conversations weren't really his thing. Plus, you found talking to Mirio like this to be so therapeutic. He was an amazing listener, and he gave surprisingly great advice. The only downside to nights like these was that they usually got cut short just as they were getting good.
“Be honest,” Mirio begins, going off on another tangent, “what did you really think of Nejire, now that you’ve met her?”
You fiddle with Mirio's fingers as he rests his hand on your stomach, your legs, still resting in his lap, now crossed at the ankles.
“I thought she was sweet! She just wasn’t…what I was expecting, I guess?” you reply honestly.
“Well, what were you expecting?” he asks.
“I don't know?... Maybe for her to be more like me? I just really wasn’t expecting her to be so…?”
“—Airheaded?” Luke interrupts.
You and Mirio both sit up to look over the back of the couch to see Luke standing in the doorway.
“Sorry for eavesdropping,” he says, stepping into the living room, “I just couldn’t help myself.”
You and Mirio both laugh a little as you respond with a ‘yes, exactly,’ as Luke rests his hands on the back of the couch.
“What's up, cuzzo?” You say in a laxed tone as you slide back down onto the couch.
“It’s getting late, that's what,” he says. “And I should probably be taking Mirio home soon.”
You groan dramatically.
“Already?”
“It’s almost midnight,” Luke deadpans.
You throw your arms over your head as they dangle off the armrest of the couch. Then, suddenly, move them from your face as you stare up blankly at the ceiling.
“Lukey pookie…” You say in your sweet, begging voice.
He narrows his eyes immediately. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“I don't need to know. As long as that name is involved, I’m not interested.”
You turn to Mirio. “Miriiiiii,” you sing out. “Do you want to spend the night?”
Both Luke and Mirio make nearly identical confused expressions. You rush to defend yourself.
“It’s a special occasion! I won the Sports Festival. Just think of it like a…a celebratory gift?”
Mirio barks out a laugh. “A gift?”
You glare at him. “What? You don’t want to stay? You were the one talking about hanging out the whole weekend at the restaurant. All of a sudden, you don't wanna do that anymore?”
“No, no its not that. I’d love to! You know I’d love to! I just didn’t expect you to try to hold me hostage, that's all,” he teases.
You cross your arms dramatically. “Well, if that’s how you feel, you can let Luke take you home. It’s not a big deal.”
He coos at your fake anger and begins pulling you closer by your legs, making you fight back laughs as he tries his hardest to get a hold of you. He wrestles you into his lap and pulls you into a tight hug.
“Awwww, don’t be like that,” he laughs softly. “If you want me to be your special prize for winning the festival, I’ll stay. My dad won’t care, I’ll just text him that I’m staying over. As long as it's cool with Luke.” Both of you slowly turn to look up at Luke.
You unleash your most dangerous weapon. Puppy dog eyes. Luke sighs heavily, bowing his head to avoid your sparkling eyes.
“Really?” he asks, sounding exhausted by the whole situation. You and Mirio only squeeze each other tighter and whine out a squeaky chorus of pleases as you continue to look up at Luke, emphasizing how much you both want this.
“I’m only agreeing because today was a big day for both of you,” he says sternly. “But don’t think this is becoming an everyday thing, alright? And Mirio, you're calling your dad, not texting. Got it?”
You squeal triumphantly, and Mirio laughs, pulling out his phone.
“Yes, sir!”
As he slips off the couch and into the foyer to make the call, you sit up on the couch, grinning up at a defeated-looking Luke. Mirio steps back into the living room after a few miutes giving you and Luke the ok that he could stay. You cheer again, and Luke pats his hand against the couch twice as he turns.
“Alright…Well, it’s still almost midnight, but I know it's a Saturday. So I’m not saying you have to go to bed, but I do think you should start getting ready for bed, ok?” You and Mirio both nod along in agreement as you rise from the couch. “Since Mirio doesn’t have anything here, I'll grab a couple of things for him, so you—” Luke says, pointing at you, “Go get ready for bed, and take him with you. I’ll bring all his stuff to your room once I’ve got it all together.”
Luke leaves to grab all of Mirio’s spend-the-night essentials, as you happily lead Mirio upstairs. You push your bedroom door open and begin giving Mirio a quick tour, as he’d never really been in your room other than for a quick peek.
He gets comfortable on your bed as you excus your self to your on-suite bathroom to get showered and change into your pajamas.
Luke comes in to drop off Mirios make shift ‘temporary guest kit,’ including a towel, washcloth, deodorant, toothbrush, a plain t-shirt, and a pair of sweats, while you're busy in the bathroom. You take your time in the shower, washing away all the sweat and stress of the day. By the time you open the bathroom door to release all the steam from your shower, skin warm and soft, bonnet tied neatly over your hair, and pajamas slipped on, you feel like yourself again.
Mirio slides off your bed and leans against the bathroom doorframe, watching you open your medicine cabinet and line up bottles and jars along your sink as you prepare to do your nighttime skincare routine.
“Still so high maintenance,” he teases. “Even when you’re not living in the lap of luxury. I guess some things never change, huh?”
You scoff. “I am not high maintenance. Everyone should have a good nighttime skincare routine.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I’m just too lazy for that. Or too broke. I'm sure all of these products are well over 15,000 yen.”
You laugh. “Once you get out of the shower, we can do your skincare, too. Then you’ll see it’s not all that fancy.”
He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You’re going to slather me in mystery goo, aren’t you?”
“No, just trust me!”
He watches skeptically as you wash your face and apply sweet, floral, and fruity-smelling product after product to your face. As ridiculous as the whole thing seemed to him, he couldn’t lie and say it didn't seem like it worked. You had gorgeous skin, and he knew how much of a stickler you could be when it came to your appearance. You knew all the things that made you look good, and knew to avoid all the things that made you look bad. Whether it was what colors washed you out or made your eyes pop, or what clothing silhouettes looked best on your figure and body type. Even now, the way even your pajamas looked carefully picked out, even though they were just a cut up yale crew neck and a pair of navy blue cotton sleep shorts. He always liked how much pride and time you put into how you looked.
You examine your glowy face in the mirror before stepping back from the sink and telling him you’d let him get showered and changed. Mirio sarcastically thanks you, teasing that he was beginning to think he wouldn't be able to shower until the morning with how long your ‘routine’ was taking. You check your hip against his as you slip past him out of the bathroom, telling him to hush up. Minutes later, the door opens, and there your friend stands smiling in his makeshift pj’s, hair damp and wild, steam trailing behind him.
“Like your shower?” you ask, mirroring his smile.
“Mhm!” he says, lifting one side of the towel draped over his shoulders up to his still damp hair and roughly towel drying his hair.
“Good. Now sit,” you command, pointing to the bed, heading past him back into the bathroom to gather all your products. He happily obeys, perched on the edge of your bed while you kneel in front of him and begin your demonstration. You explain every step in intense detail. Mirio doesn’t care about the science. He cares about your hands. The way your fingers glide over his cheeks. The gentle pressure along his jaw. The focus in your voice as you lecture him about layering.
The whole time, his iconic smile never leaves his face.
When you’re done, you gather everything up and head back into the bathroom. He follows to inspect himself in the mirror. He leans close to the glass, turning his head side to side.
“I look… glowy,” he admits. “Kind of greasy. But glowy.”
You grin up at him. “Still think it’s just high maintenance nonsense?”
He pokes your cheek. “Of course I do, but I gotta admit I look pretty good.”
You swat his hand away and shoo him out, as he laughs all the way back to your bed, snatching one of your pillows from your bedspread and tossing it onto the floor.
“Hey!” you scold, “Just because you're a guest doesn’t mean you can just start throwing my stuff around!” You pick the pillow up from the floor and place it back on the bed.
“I wasn’t ‘throwing your stuff around’, I was gonna use that pillow,” He explains, picking it up again.
“For what? Pushups or something? Don't tell me you're one of those people who work out before bed?” He laughs hard at that and throws the pillow back down on the floor mid-laugh.
“No, I’m not,” he assures.
“Then what do you want the pillow on the floor for?” You ask, still perplexed.
“To sleep on, (Y/N)! Now, do you have a throw blanket for me?” he asks.
You blink up at him, brows still knit together. “Why do you wanna sleep on the floor?”
“I just assumed I’d sleep on the floor,” he says in an obvious tone.
You burst out laughing. “Why?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Because it’s the respectful thing to do. Plus I like sleeping shirtless, so…ya’know…I didn’t wanna make you uncomfortable and stuff.”
That only makes you laugh harder.
“Mirio. We cuddle all the time. We’ve literally fallen asleep like that. Plus, I’ve literally seen you nude like a dozen times?”
“Yeah, but I make sure you don’t see any of the bad stuff!” he shyly defends. “And sharing a bed is different.”
You tilt your head, sitting down on the bed as you look up at him. “I asked you to stay so we could spend more time together. If you’re on the floor, that like…defeats the whole purpose.”
He raises a brow and steps closer, sure to keep his voice relaxed. “So you only feel close to me when we’re…physically close?”
You answer honestly. “I mean…Yeah, when it comes to stuff like this. Don’t you?”
He shakes his head lightly. “I know what you mean, but… I just wanted to be… gentlemanly.”
You smile softly. “You’ve known me long enough that you don’t have to do the ‘gentlemanly thing’ with me. I trust you.”
He bends down, picking the pillow up from the floor, and places it back on the bed next to you, and rests his hands gently on your knees.
“Because I know you so well and so long,” he says quietly, “is exactly why I have to.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders and bury your face in his neck.
“Can you just sleep in the bed?” you mumble. “You can take your shirt off, and take all the covers, and do whatever else. I don’t care. I just want you next to me. It’s not the same if you're on the floor…”
He sighs, shoulders slumping a bit as he can physically feel his resolve wavering. “(Y/N)—” He says your name like he’s preparing to argue again.
“—Please, Miri….” You whisper softly in return. His breathing stops for a second.
He exhales loudly in defeat, running his hands down his face slowly. “Get under the covers.”
You scramble under the blankets with a grin.
“I am sleeping in the bed,” he clarifies as he walks back toward your door and reaches for the light switch. “Only because you won the festival and I refuse to ruin this day for you.”
You fire off rapid, breathless ‘yes’s and ‘thank-yous’. He flips the light off and walks back to the bed, picking up his floor pillow from its spot on the bed and whacking you with it. You squeal and snatch your pillow from under your head, hitting him back immediately. He laughs, finally settling beside you, then opens his arms and gestures his hands toward himself in silent invitation. You hum in satisfaction as you scoot in close. Your head finds his chest. You shift until you’re comfortable. Then you peek up at him.
“You said you like sleeping shirtless.”
He peeks down at you and whistles low. “If you’re going to try and sweet-talk me out of my clothes, maybe I should’ve taken the floor.”
You smack his arm and try to keep in your laughter. He laughs as he rolls onto his other side and sits up, pulling his shirt off quickly and tossing it aside before sliding back down and pulling you back into his arms again.
“Better?” he teases.
You press your cheek to his bare chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“Yup.”
He chuckles softly. “You’re a little freak.”
“I can’t help it,” you mumble. “I just like you too much.”
He kisses the top of your head. “I like you too.”
You tilt your chin up, knowing Mirio well enough and for long enough to know that a kiss on the nose was next. And like usual, he kisses your nose.
“Goodnight.” He whispers. You whisper it back, awaiting your last kiss. One on the lips. If Mirio had kissed your head, then your nose, the last kiss was always going to be on the lips. Always. And as usual, he presses a soft kiss to your lips. And, of course, you return it.
The kiss is short and sweet, the perfect ‘goodnight kiss’. You open your eyes and look into his eyes with a small smile on your face. Pale moonlight illuminates your room just enough to make out the details of his face.
Then, after a second, you see him lean back in. You assume he must want another kiss. Which also wasn’t all too unusual for him. You lean in too, meeting him halfway, and press your lips to his again. Only this kiss is slower. And deeper.
You hum into the kiss, and your hand rises to his shoulder without thinking. Mirio takes this as a good sign and slowly moves his hand from your side, up to your face. A large palm cups your jaw gently, thumb brushing your cheek. It wasn’t planned. He hadn’t meant to. He really did just mean to kiss you goodnight, like he usually did when you both parted ways at night. Maybe it was leftover adrenaline. Maybe it was all the pride he felt for you, seeing you do your thing out there in the Festival today and win it all. Maybe it was the way you’d virtually begged him to stay close to you.
He doesn’t know. He wished he did. But he doesn’t.
He just knows he wants to kiss you.
You move your hand from his shoulder to his chest, turning your head slightly, and breaking away from the kiss. But this doesn't deter Mirio, instead he begins pressing soft kisses along your cheek and jaw instead, making you giggle.
“Mirio,” you laugh, catching your breath, your head feeling dizzy. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles against your skin. “Why?”
“I dunno’ you just…you don’t usually kiss like that.”
He pulls back immediately, eyes a bit wide as he looks down at you. His nervous eyes searching yours for any signs of discomfort or worse… disgust.
He stammers through a mix of what you could only guess is an apology, mixed with an explanation.
“Did you not like it?” he asks, already sitting up. “Did I make you uncomfortable? I did, didn't I? Damn it—” He sits up completely, cutting himself off before you have a chance to answer, and swings his legs out of the bed,
“—I’ll just sleep on the floor.”
You grab his arm before he can get any other part of his body out of the bed. “No. No. That’s not what I meant, Miri!” You whisper-yell, trying to tug him back under the covers.
He covers his face with a hand. “We don't usually kiss like that, we’ve never kissed like that. I don’t know what that was or why I thought to…Ughhh I don’t know?! Maybe it was the day. Or us…spending all this time together, since we really haven't been able to between school and training, and the festival. Or the way you said you needed me close to really feel close to me, and…Oh my God…”
His voice trails off as he throws his head back in disbelief and embarrassment.
“It just felt good, kissing you always feels so…natural,” he admits quietly, cringing at his own admission, sounding a lot like the creeps he swore he was protecting you from on your Instagram. “I didn’t want it to end. I don't know why! I just… lost it for a second…But I should’ve said something first. I’m sorry.”
You slide closer, keeping hold of his arm.
“Miri, you don’t have to apologize. I wasn’t uncomfortable, I promise! I liked it! I just wanted to know if something happened. Like if something made you want to…do…all that…all of a sudden…But if it was just the heat of the moment that makes sense too, I get it.”
He frowns slightly and lets out a deep, frustrated groan. “Don't say it like that…It wasn’t a heat-of-the-moment. That makes it sound so… sleazy.”
You laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, as you rest your head against his. “Trust me, you are the least sleazy person I know.”
He turns his head to look at you carefully and scoffs. “Not after that…”
“Yes, after that,” you snort out, and press a soft kiss to the side of his head. “Miri, I love you,” you say simply. “But I know that you're a pretty… touchy-feely person, and so am I! You know that, so if that means that sometimes kisses might get longer or feel more… intense, trust that I’m not complaining, I’m not going to be mad about you showing me love.”
“You're just trying to make me feel better…” he pouts, making you rest your chin on his shoulder and giggle at his childishness.
“I promise I’m not just saying that to make you feel better. I mean it. I love you.”
He exhales slowly. “I love you too, but I won’t kiss you like that again. I promise. And I should probably sleep on the floor as punishment…”
You groan, not wanting to hear any more of his ‘gentlemanly’ decrees. “Mirio—.”
“I’m serious… I feel…Bad…I shouldn’t have gotten carried away with you like that.”
“Mirio,” you repeat, your voice much firmer than before.
But he ignores it. So you say his name again. And Again. Nothing.
You sigh an over-exaggerated sigh, and lean forward, bracing both your hands on his shoulders as you press a soft, long kiss to his cheek and say his name one last time, just as firm as the last. This time, he finally turns his head to meekly look at you. You pat his shoulder with your hand as you slide off the bed and stand between his legs, tilting his chin up gently before pressing a soft kiss to his lips just as long as the one you had just pressed to his cheek to get his attention.
Mirio shuts his eyes and kisses you back, restraining himself and not putting much force behind the kiss. You pull away first.
“I liked it,” you tell him, still holding his face to force him to look up at you. “You have nothing to apologize for or feel guilty about. You didn't make me feel uncomfortable, I promise. It felt natural. That’s how I want it to feel when I’m with you.”
He brings his hands up to gently hold you at your sides. “(Y/N)...” he repeats quietly, regret and a little embarrassment still evident in his voice.
You bring your hands up and back, moving them from his chin up to his head and pushing his mushed shaggy hair out of the way so you can kiss him on his forehead. Then his nose. Then his lips. Again.
He watches you with tired, lidded eyes as his own mouth twitches a bit in anticipation, knowing what was coming next.
“Can you kiss me like that again?” you ask quietly, knowing the only way to get him out of this mood and salvage your sleepover would be getting over this tiff.
Mirio hesitates, and you can practically feel the slew of excuses he’s about to say to you before he can even say them.
“Please, Mirio?” you whisper. He gives in to you instantly.
His lips meet yours, and he gently pulls you to sit on his thigh, arms wrapping lazily around you, but keeping you incredibly close. Your hand rests against his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek just like he did to you. He sighs into the kiss, which makes you giggle against his mouth. A smile creeps across his mouth the second your sweet giggles reach his ears, breaking the kiss to pepper exaggerated, obnoxiously loud smooches across your face and neck until you’re both laughing.
You lean back against him.
“Now was that so bad?”
He presses his forehead to yours. “No… it wasn’t. I just panicked a little, I’m sorry. I’d never forgive myself if I messed up our friendship over something…so stupid. I love you too much to do something like that.”
You kiss him again. “I love you too, so don't worry. No amount of affection is going to change how I feel about you, and I don’t see anything wrong with going with the flow sometimes, right?”
He swings your legs over his as he thoughtfully repeats ‘Go with the flow’ aloud a few times as if he were trying his hardest to remember such a simple idea. He hugs you close in his lap for a minute before insisting that you both really should get to bed, as it was getting pretty late.
You both slip back under the covers just as you had before, you snuggled in close to his chest with his arms draped loosely around you. You give him another kiss on the lips before whispering goodnight and snuggling back into his chest and letting his soothing heartbeat lull you to sleep.
Although it did sound just slightly faster than before.
You wake up warm. Warmer than usual. Much warmer than usual. Your back is pressed flush to Mirio’s chest, one of his arms heavy and secure around your waist, while the other is tucked beneath your head like a makeshift pillow. His breathing is slow and even behind you, soft snores brushing against the back of your neck. You blink the last of your sleep away and tilt your head slightly to glance over your shoulder.
His hair is a disaster, tousled in every direction, flattened on one side, and sticking up wildly on the other. His mouth hangs open just enough for a tiny snore to escape. You turn back around and quietly laugh to yourself.
He looks crazy. And adorable.
Carefully, you slip a hand beneath your pillow and fish out your phone. The screen lights up, 8:12 a.m.
Still too early to be up on a Sunday for your liking.
You scroll through notifications, tapping away missed alerts from the night before, and opening all your usual apps out of sheer muscle memory. When you open your messages, it pulls up your last conversation automatically. Your conversation with Iida. Or lack of conversation, more like. Your texts from dinner sit there. You're still on read, and still no reply.
You frown slightly. This wasn’t like him at all. Even after something as big as the Festival, he would’ve responded after a few hours. Even if it was just a polite acknowledgment, or giving a thumbs up or an exclamation mark reaction to your message.
You hover your thumb over the keyboard, debating whether to double-text. When a large hand suddenly wraps around yours, gripping your phone slightly and locking it for you. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, the hand is flipping your phone face down against the mattress. A groggy voice mutters against the back of your shoulder.
“No screen weekend… nd’no more Instagram…”
You burst out laughing quietly and turn to face the owner of said hand. His eyes are barely open, lids heavy, a faint scowl on his face.
“Don’t worry, I wasn’t on Instagram,” you whisper. “Did my phone brightness wake you up?”
He shakes his head slowly, too sleepy to elaborate. You giggle again. Without warning, he shifts and pulls you firmly back against him, arm sliding around your shoulders this time, chin resting on top of your bonnet. You hum contentedly at the new position.
“Luke’s probably gonna start making breakfast soon,” you murmur. “I don’t know if I can fall back asleep.”
Mirio makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a whine and buries his face deeper into your bonnet, inhaling the scent of all your fancy hair products through the soft satin.
“Does that mean you don’t wanna stay in bed and cuddle?” he mumbles into your bonnet.
Then giggle again, blown away at how cutesy your big, strong hero in training was first thing in the morning.
“I’ll stay,” you promise, draping an arm over his side and nosing at his bare chest, smiling wider, releasing that he smelled like your fancy body wash. “But only for as long as my bladder lets me.”
He snorts quietly at that and squeezes you once more.
“Just go now,” he mutters, voice deep and gravelly with sleep as he rolls aside, releasing you from his human cage as he stretches and rubs at his eyes.
You grin. “Ohhh, I see,” you joke, “No distractions during morning cuddles, huh?”
He stretches his arms overhead with a sleepy groan and sits up on his elbows, jerking his head toward the bathroom. “Nope. So hurry up.”
“Alright, alright,” you snort as you slide out of bed and head toward the bathroom.
As soon as the door shuts behind you, Mirio drops back onto your mattress and stares up at your ceiling. Despite his still sleepy body, his brain, unfortunately, is wide awake.
What the hell happened last night? Why did he kiss you like that? And why did he panic after?
He’s never been awkward with you. Ever. Not in all the years you’ve known each other. He’s kissed you a hundred times before, your cheeks, forehead, lips, hell, even your neck from time to time…
But that?
That was different. It felt different. And all that stuff he’d said to you about why he did it. It was all true, but…that was just it. How long had it been true for? How could kissing you like that feel so wrong, and so right at the same time? You were his best friend. His oldest friend. He’d been kissing you since you were little kids, but last night? That was a completely different monster.
The only problem was…he felt like the monster.
The sound of your toilet flushing and faucet running pulls him out of his head before any more self-critical thoughts can fill his head. The bathroom door swings open, and you stand in the doorway with your toothbrush in your mouth.
Mirio smiles as he sits up and makes his way over to you, pulling the elastic on your bonnet to make it slap against your head. You let out a muffled, indignant yell through toothpaste foam and swat at him as he brushes past you. You both stand at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, brushing your teeth in comfortable silence. Like nothing weird had happened at all last night. Mirio nudges his chin toward the toilet when he’s about to spit, silently telling you to move.
You roll your eyes and shuffle out so your special guest can take a piss.
The rest of your Sunday is blissfully uneventful. Luke makes breakfast. You and Mirio head into the city to build him a carefully curated skincare routine, which he pretends to be deeply invested in just to hear you ramble on some more.
You grab lunch after your shopping, and Mirio details what an afternoon interning with Sir will most likely look like for you. The whole day was perfect, and just what the two of you needed after that messy end to your night before. By the time you make it back home, the sky is streaked with orange and pink. Mirio heads upstairs to change back into yesterday’s clothes while you wait downstairs on the couch, with all of his freshly purchased skincare goodies. When he returns, you stand and walk him to the door.
“That was fun,” you tell him. “Our first sleepover.”
His smile widens at the word first. He takes the little bag of skincare products from your hands.
“Too bad we can’t do this every weekend.”
You sigh dramatically. “Tragic, really.”
“But,” you add, “starting Friday, we’ll see each other all day, every day for a whole week. That might be better than a sleepover.”
His face lights up instantly.
“And if I can sweet-talk Sir into agreeing to it like I was able to sweet-talk Luke into agreeing to a sleepover,” you continue, “maybe we’ll get to patrol together.”
Mirio steps closer, grin bright and boyish.
“Let’s hope,” he says softly, “But i’m sure you can do it, you can be pretty convincing.” You wrap your arms around him, and he sighs, wrapping his arms around you, too. “I’m just…really looking forward to all the time we’re going to be spending together now. I’ll finally fit into that crazy schedule of yours.”
You giggle as you look up at him, resting your chin in his chest, “ya’know we used to spend all summer together anyway,” you tease. “Why would now be any different?”
He laughs and squeezes you a bit. “That’s true. Why didn’t I think of that?”
You smile a bright, knowing smile as he kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Your smile falters for a second as he pauses for just a second at your nose. You watch him carefully, wondering if he’s overthinking again.
Instead, he dips down and gently rubs his nose against yours, making your toothy smile return as you giggle.
“Sorry,” he murmurs quietly. “Just… trying to go with the flow.”
And then he kisses you, deep and slow. Not unlike how he had kissed you last night.
Your hands slide up his back, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. His arms wrap around you firmly, pulling you flush against him. He breaks the kiss only to press three softer, quicker pecks to your lips.
“I love you,” he says between each of them. You’re smiling so hard it almost hurts.
“I love you too.”
He lets you go reluctantly and smiles widely as he pulls the door open.
“See you Friday!” he calls cheerfully as he steps outside and shuts the door behind him.
And just like that, he’s gone. You stand in the foyer for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the closed door. The last twenty-four hours have been wild. From winning the Festival. To officially meeting all of the Big 3. To…that.
You exhale slowly. Yeah. Wild.
To you theres no better kind of Monday morning than a Monday morning after a fun and restful weekend. You’re just stepping onto campus, bookbag on your shoulder, hair behaving despite wind and weather, mind still half back on your bed at Luke’s and Mirio… when you spot Mina and Kirishima walking into the building ahead of you.
“Hey!” you call to them, jogging to catch up.
Mina spins first, easily recognizing your voice, face bright as ever. Kirishima follows, grinning and replying to you. “Yo!”
You nestle in beside them, linking an arm around Mina’s as you all approach the building. “How was your weekend?”
Kirishima rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off the entire Festival. “Honestly? I slept. Ate. Slept again. It was… so nice. Relaxing for sure.”
Mina’s eyes go wide as you and Kirishima both await her reply. “I was losing my mind all weekend! I’ve been WAITING to get back.”
You squint at her as the three of you cross the threshold. “You? Excited for school? Mina… be serious.”
She waves you off with a dramatic flick of her wrist. “Not for classes, crazy. For that.”
“What’ tha—”
She points, proud and smug, toward your locker, stopping the words just as they begin to leave your mouth.
Your locker.
Is… overflowing.
Truly, visibly overflowing. Notes stuffed in the seams. Little bundles wedged in the vents. A corner of a ribbon is peeking out of one of the sides. You and Kirishima gasp at the same time.
“No way,” you breathe, already hurrying over to the poor overstuffed thing. You yank your locker open, and it’s an avalanche of paper and tiny wrapped gifts, congratulations cards, little wrapped candies, and sticky notes slapped everywhere like someone tried to wallpaper the inside.
You grab the first note you see and tear it open.
It’s a sweet little message, neatly written. From an unnamed second-year general studies student. telling you how they loved watching you at the Festival. There’s even a candy taped inside.
And their phone number was scribbled on the back. You press your lips together and sigh.
Mina appears behind you like a menace in pink, grin absolutely feral. “OH MY GOD—GIVE ME—”
She starts pulling notes out and reading them aloud like it’s story time at the local library. Kirishima stands on her other side, making increasingly horrified faces as Mina happily reads out the more desperate-sounding ones. “Oh, jeez dude… this is… wow.”
Mina is in heaven. “I told you! I TOLD you this was gonna happen!” She flips through another letter and squeals. “This one’s definitely from a third-year—look at the handwriting—ugh, mature guys are so sexy! How many of these do you think are from upperclassmen?”
“OK!” you shout, mortified, and in no mood to think about third-years while your locker is swimming in wannabe love letters. You shove a handful of letters back into the locker and force it shut.
Mina pouts. “What? I was just starting to get to the good ones!”
“As nice as this is,” you hiss, tugging your bag higher on your shoulder as you all shuffle into your school shoes and head up to the room, “I wanted to win the Festival to show off my strength and hero skills. Not to collect attention from ‘sexy mature guys.’”
Mina shrugs like she’s offering business advice. “All publicity is good publicity. Especially when hot older guys are involved.”
“No,” you argue immediately. “Not all publicity is good publicity!”
“Yes, it is,” she says, walking faster, like she can outrun your morals.
The classroom feels just as lively as the rest of the school does this first Monday post-Festival. Inside, your classmates are bubbling with weekend stories like the Festival still hadn’t ended, just spilled into the real world outside of the school gates.
Uraraka and Tsu chatter about seeing themselves on the news that night. Ojiro, Shoji, and Tokoyami talk about random people recognizing them on the street this morning. But the moment you, Kirishima, and Mina step in, you can feel how most of the questions are now orbiting around you.
Your classmates wanted to know about you and how winning the whole thing had affected you. In all honesty… You didn't feel any different. Your life didn't feel any different. And your goals hadn't changed. But one thing definitely did.
Your digital presence.
While you and Mirio were hanging out Saturday night, your Instagram following practically quadrupled, and you hadn't checked it since, trying to see his ‘screen-free weekend’ out.
As you place your stuff down at your desk, you look to the opposite side of the room and see that Iida isn't here yet. And not ‘he’s in the bathroom’ empty. His things aren’t there. Your stomach dips. You pull out your phone, thumb hovering over the messages app icon, mind flicking through possibilities. Maybe he overslept, maybe he’s with Aizawa, maybe…
Hagakure slides up and rests her elbows on your desk as she asks, “Whatcha doing?”
“Nothing,” you say quickly, already tucking the phone away.
“No, she’s probably watching edits of herself,” Kaminari cuts in, loud and smug.
Your head snaps up. “What? No—why would I?— Where would I even find edits of myself?” you ask, sounding baffled.
He laughs and pulls out his phone, “Where wouldn't you find them?”
He unlocks his phone and taps away before turning the phone around to show you and Hagakure with a proud, ‘see!’
It was a TikTok edit of you in the arena. Chalked full of all the best edit chops. Slow -mo, dramatic music, and shaky transitions. He scrolls. There are more. A lot more.
He even shows that he can type your name into the search bar, and more results fill the screen instantly. You stare, genuinely stunned.
“It hasn’t even been two days,” you whisper.
Mina appears at your shoulder like a heat-seeking missile. “OH MY GOD—MOVE—” She snatches Kaminari’s phone and scrolls like she’s clocked in. “This one’s cute—WAIT this one’s CRAZY—oh my god the comments—”
She clicks one, and all three of them watch it multiple times while you slowly melt into your chair as Mina taps into the comments and starts reading the top ones out loud.
Your face gets hotter and hotter until you flop forward, hiding your face in your hands with an anxious groan.
“This is so WEIRD,” you mumble into your palms.
Kaminari pipes up dreamily. “But it’s a good weird! I would kill for people to make cool edits of me.”
You drag your hands down your face. “The edits are… kinda cool. But my Instagram is a completely different story; now I'm too scared to ever open that app again…”
Mina’s head whips toward you like a predator. “Your Insta?”
She tosses Kaminari’s phone back and holds her hand out. “Show me.”
You chuckle weakly at how serious she’s being, then pull your phone out, open the app, click your account, and hand it over. She thoughtfully scrolls for a few seconds as Kaminari moves in beside her to see the damage for himself, too. She opens your profile tab…
And her jaw drops.
“YOU HAVE OVER A HUNDRED AND FIFTEEN THOUSAND FOLLOWERS?!”
Your head snaps up so fast your neck nearly pops. “WHAT!?" you screech. "It was like four thousand when I last checked!?”
“When did you last check?” Hagakure asks, leaning closer to Mina.
“Like… late Saturday night,” you answer, voice tight.
Mina scrolls like she’s doing taxes. “That’s… you’d have to be averaging like… almost…three thousand new followers an hour, at least.”
You put your hands on your face again, but can’t deny how proud you are that Mina actually got that math right. “Should I just make all the madness stop and go private?”
All three of them shout, “NO!”
Hagakure points like she’s presenting a business pitch. “You could have heroes or brands reaching out to you with this many followers! If you go private now, you’re totally killing your momentum!”
You blink at them. When did your least competent friends become… terrifyingly competent? Mina keeps digging through your account like she’s digging for buried treasure, moving from your DM’s, to your profile, to your tagged posts and back to your notifications tab.
Then the classroom door slides open.
And Iida walks in.
You look up instantly, watching intently as he moves straight to his desk, shoulders tight, face set. Not tired. Not sad. But almost?
Angry?
You’re out of your chair before you even think about it, hurrying over to your partner. “Iida—hey! How…are you?”
You hover beside his desk, trying not to get in his way as he unpacks for class. His movements are precise, but clipped. As if he’s trying to make up for all the class prep time he missed due to his tardiness.
“Iida,” you say softly.
He glances at you, dry, and huffs. “Apologies for my tardiness.”
You wave it off quickly. “Oh, I don’t care about that. I was just…kinda worried. Cause, ya’know, you didn’t text me back on Saturday.”
There’s a pause that feels… odd. Unlike him. Unlike the both of you. You rush your words, trying your hardest to sound gentler. “Not that it was super important or anything, I just— you’re usually fast to text back, and I noticed you left me on read so I—”
His eyes cut to you. His voice stays low, but it lands with a sharp edge.
“I don’t always have time to reply to every message.”
Your brows twitch together. He keeps going, now seeming more agitated than before. “I was preoccupied with other things this weekend. I’m sorry if I didn’t get back to you promptly enough for your liking.”
You stare at him for a beat, thrown completely off-balance by his tone.
“Iida…” you try.
He sits, adjusting his glasses like that will hold him together. “I’m fine. But I certainly don’t have time to answer all your questions right now.”
Your hand lands on his shoulder before you can stop yourself, gripping him firmly, as if you weren't fully convinced this was your Iida. “Did something happen?”
He huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. “No.”
But he doesn’t look at you when he says it. You swallow, heart sinking a bit. You’ve never seen him like this. You don’t even know what version of yourself is supposed to handle an Iida who won’t let you in, like this. What made your relationship work so well was usually your communication. So this just felt… unnatural.
So you back away. You return to your seat. Your phone sits face down on your desk as your classmates have apparently retreated back to their respective seats.
You notice your row neighbor has arrived. Bakugo.
You cut your eyes at him in anticipation, but he doesn’t look back. No snide comment. No threat. No irritation. Just silence. Which is almost as unsettling as Iida’s behavior this morning. You rest your chin in your hand and stare out the window, trying to pretend your chest doesn’t feel weirdly tight, and that your eyes don't have that familiar teary stink in them.
Aizawa’s voice pulls the room back into order as he slides the room door open and addresses the class. He looks fully recovered now, no bandages, no sluggishness, just that same dead-eyed calm like nothing in the world could surprise him.
“The Sports Festival is over,” he says, “so we’re moving on.”
The class slips into an attentive focus as he continues, “Next week is your first year work study internships.”
A ripple goes through the room instantly. He explains what you’ll all need: hero names, suit upgrades, agency choices. Then he starts handing out manila folders and a paper with three rectangular boxes on the front, your top three internship picks.
When he sets your folder on your desk, you feel the weight.
It’s thick.
You open it and slide the contents out. Offer letters spill across your desk. One. Two. Five. Ten. You count roughly and stop. Over thirty. Your mouth parts a little.
It feels… insane. Flattering, of course, but crazy. Just like the rest of your morning had been so far. But this almost felt disrespectful, to the heroes and their agencies, of course. Because you already knew where you’d be interning. And you were positive nothing could change your mind. But you thumb through them anyway, because…you can’t not.
Ryukyu. Mirko. Edgeshot. Even FatGum, which makes you smile. Then your fingers hit the last letter. Bold header.
THE ENDEAVOR AGENCY.
Your lips part in surprise as you pull out the offer letter and read the full thing.
Twice.
Endeavor was inviting you to intern at his agency? Why? Had he truly been that impressed with your performance in the festival? Did he have to reach some sort of student offer quota, so he just decided to throw your name in? You analyze the paper and notice his signature at the bottom. You flip it over and see the imprint, the debossing in the paper from the pressure of the pen. He signed this himself. You glance at the other letters again. Printed signatures, all of them, even Fat’s.
But this one? This one was unmistakably real.
Your mind flashes to the hallway and your brief conversation. Your lips twitch, unsettled.
You slide the offers back into the folder, leaving only one letter out, the one your mind decided on months ago. Years ago, more like.
Sir’s agency.
You pick up your form and write it into your first choice box without hesitation. Second choice, you write FatGum. Then you pause over the third box. The tip of your pencil hovers over the paper. But you ultimately decide you don’t need a third.
You’re going to Sir’s. You know that. You’ve known that.
But Endeavor’s letter sits there, weighing down your folder like a brick. You stare at the blank third box a moment longer than you mean to. But you still don’t write anything.
The rest of the morning before lunch turns into a hero-name workshop with Midnight, which sounded fun in theory, but in practice, your class realized it was a little trickier than first anticipated. Each of you gets handed a small whiteboard and a dry-erase marker to write down your name ideas.
Midnight claps her hands once, bright and energized at the front of the room. “Alright, babies! Write down your potential hero name, a slogan or tagline, and the reason behind it. This may be your hero name for your whole hero career, so make it personal! Don’t be afraid to dig deep!”
She sets a five-minute timer, and the room immediately breaks into controlled chaos. The sounds of markers uncapping and side conversations blooming fill the air.
You stare at your blank board, marker hovering, mind drifting through what you want people to feel when they think of you. You think back to your last lunch with All Migh,t and your hand begins moving unprompted.
Suddenly, Midnight’s timer beeps.
“Pens down!” she sings. “Let’s hear these names!”
Momo goes first, poised and graceful at the front. She flips her board around.
Creati.
Midnight beams. “Love that. Clean, memorable, and it ties directly to your Quirk. Great start, Yaoyorozu! Who’s next?!”
Ojiro goes up next with a straight face and zero shame.
Tailman.
A couple of people snort. Ojiro shrugs like, ‘what? it’s accurate’.
Midnight nods, amused. “Simple! Descriptive! Maybe not the most… poetic… but you know what, it works for you and that's all that matters! Next!”
The class falls into a rhythm after that, one after another, everyone holding up boards, explaining taglines, tossing out meanings. Some names get praise. Some get laughter. Some get the gentle, unconfident look from Midnight that means try again.
Mina’s first attempt, Alien Queen, gets instantly shot down.
Midnight taps her chin. “Cute, but… You can do better than that, honey. Something more original. Something that feels like it belongs to you.”
Then Bakugo stomps up and flips his board around, and the room goes silent for half a second before erupting into howls of laughter.
Lord Explosion Murder.
Midnight pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting for her life. “Absolutely not.”
A few presentations later, there’s a short lull. Which feels like just the right time for you to go up and present. You stand and walk up to the front, taking your place behind Aizawa’s podium. You turn your whiteboard around.
Oasis.
The room quiets as you give your brief explanation.
You keep your voice steady. “I want people to think of me as… relief. A refreshing face in the hero world. Calm, confident, dependable. Someone who shows up when you need her, like an oasis in the desert… So, I’ll be Oasis, the refreshing hero.”
Midnight’s face softens immediately. She gives you a delighted little clap and a thumbs up. “That’s gorgeous. Strong concept, strong identity. I love it!” You slip back into your seat with a content smile on your face.
Then Midnight starts calling on students who haven’t gone yet.
“Todoroki! You're up!”
He walks up, board already turned away from everyone, like he doesn’t want to spoil the surprise of his hero name. He flips it around.
Shoto.
Midnight smiles, but it’s the polite kind. “Points for originality.” Then she tilts her head. “But dig deeper, okay? A hero's name should say something.”
Todoroki nods once, expression unreadable, and goes back to his seat.
Midnight looks around again.
“Iida! You’re next!”
Your stomach tightens at the sound of his name. Iida stands, and when he walks to the front, you watch him come to the front of the room, watching him just as intently as you had when you spoke this morning. His expression still hasn't changed, looking just as spent as he had earlier. Making you worry more.
He flips his board around.
Tenya.
No explanation. No tagline. He doesn’t even speak. Midnight blinks, thrown for the first time in the period. Then she recovers, gentle but firm. “Same advice as Todoroki, sweetheart. Dig deeper. Give it meaning.”
Iida nods once and walks back to his seat without a word.
When the lunch bell rings, everyone files up to pass their internship sheets forward, now with hero names written at the top. You do the same, Oasis, neat and centered on your paper.
As you, Mina, Uraraka, and Jirou walk down to the cafe, all the other girls are happily chatting about their new hero aliases and how much fun working under real heroes is going to be. The halls are filled with other students of varying years heading down to lunch. Many of them are whispering or chatting as the four of you pass. Whispering, glances, phones half-lifted like people are debating whether to ask for a photo.
Mina and Jirou exchange a look and try to fight the smiles growing on their faces.
You stay quiet, mind still stuck on Iida. Snapping at you was one thing. Being moody was another. But not speaking during an in-class assignment? Not even trying? That wasn’t Iida. Not even a little.
Jirou nudges you. “So… how’re you liking your new celebrity status?”
“Hmm?” you mumble, barely present.
She jerks her chin. “Look around.” So you do. People are watching. Whispering. Tracking you as you pass. You stiffen.
“They’re probably looking at all of us,” you lie, growing more and more tired of this Princess Diaries-esque storyline.
Uraraka scoffs. “Oh, stop it! When are you gonna admit the Festival worked in your favor? You’re about to be one of the most popular girls in the whole school.”
You groan. “You make it sound like teen drama.”
Jirou deadpans, “We are literally teenagers in high school. Our lives are what they base teen dramas on, (Y/N)...”
You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches. “So what do you want me to do? Wave like I’m in a parade? Smile while people stare at me like I’m a zoo animal?”
Mina laughs. “They’re not treating you like an animal. They’re treating you like someone they admire. Someone they wish they could know. Kinda like a new calm, confident, dependable, refreshing face that they all got introduced to in the sports Festival?” She gestures vaguely at you. “They’re dying to know more about (Y/N)(L/N). But that’s probably not gonna happen, since you can’t befriend the entire school. So…” Her eyes sparkle. “Why not show them Oasis? If they’re already fawning over you like you’re a hero, why not just…lean into it?”
You go quiet, thinking as you walk. Then you glance at her. “That’s… actually a really good point.”
Mina beams, thrilled that you were finally listening to her. “Finally! I told you, publicity, baby!”
You point at her as you all turn the corner into the cafeteria. “Not all publicity is good publicity.”
She giggles as she waves you off with an airy, ‘yeah, yeah’.
In the lunch line, your eyes focus on some familiar-shaped and sized movement near the exit. Iida. He’s leaving the cafeteria with his lunch tray, obviously headed out to eat somewhere else. You sigh quietly to yourself the moment he’s out of your sight again.
Once you’ve got your food, you wonder if you were the only person noticing his odd attitude. Other than you, you knew Iida was fairly close with a few of your other classmates. Like Momo, or Koda and Sato. He was pretty close to Uraraka and Tsu, too, but who was he closest to? You wrack your brain for a few seconds before snapping back into focus as your brain produces a name and face. Midoriya. You scan the cafe for your freckled classmate. If anyone might know what’s going on with Iida, it’s him. Not only was he Iida’s closest friend in the class, but he also seemed to notice the finer details of most things, which you could really use right now.
You spot him at a table, alone, which saddens you all over again when you remember that he usually ate lunch with Iida.
You walk over and point at the seat beside him. “Hey! Is this seat taken?”
Midoriya looks up at you, mouth full of food, with a quiet video playing on his phone on the lunch tray in front of him. Apparently not minding too much that he was eating alone. “O-Oh! (Y/N)! Hi! Uh—No!—I mean, no one’s sitting there! So you can—please—yeah!”
You sit with a smile at his vocal eloquence. “Thanks.”
He fidgets immediately once you take your seat. “Sooooo… what are you doing here?”
“Well, I wanted to eat with you! And maybe talk a little,” you say, resting an elbow on the table as you pivot to look at him.
“Oh! Well… Ok! But I just meant, ya’know—” he stammers, his face looking pinker as he avoids your eyes. “—What are you doing in the cafeteria, more like? I mean… it’s Monday! And you…You don’t usually eat lunch in here… on Mondays….”
You make a face at him as you tilt your head a little, not negatively, more out of shock than anything else, surprised that he knew that. But you couldn’t be too shocked, just like you hoped, he notices a lot. “…You noticed that?”
His face goes red instantly. “Well, yeah! I—! Not like— not in a weird way, or anything!— I’ve noticed other things too! Like, um, Tokoyami always sits in the same corner spot, and how Jirou picks at her food first before she actually eats and—”
You smile and laugh despite yourself at his nervous rambles. “I know, I know, Midoriya. It’s okay!”
He stops his rambling, relieved but still nervous.
You soften your voice. “I actually think that’s really thoughtful and sweet of you! And… since you notice so many things… I was hoping you could help me with something.”
He focuses on your words at the mention of you wanting his help, not wanting to blow a chance to help you with something. “Sure! What do you…need?”
You lean in slightly. “Have you noticed how… Iida has been acting today?”
Midoriya exhales, shoulders dropping. “Actually, yeah…I did.” He sits back, gaze drifting. “But I… can’t really blame him, all things considered.”
Your brows knit at the insinuation, wanting to know what he meant. “Why? Did something happen to him over the weekend?”
He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing happened to him directly, but… his family is going through…a lot right now….”
Your voice turns careful. “Midoriya… what do you mean?”
He hesitates for a second, not sure if it’s his place to say anything. Then remembers that you were sitting next to him, asking for his help, so he says it anyway. “His older brother…was attacked by a villain Saturday night.”
You gasp out loud, hands flying to your mouth.
Ingenium?
The kind man you met on move-in day. The one who smiled at his little brother like he had hung the stars.
“That’s—” Your breath shakes. “Oh God, that’s awful. Do they know who did it?”
Midoriya nods and unlocks his phone on his lunch tray. He taps away for a bit, then picks the phone up and turns it to face you and shows you a clip. It’s grainy CCTV footage of a sword-wielding villain attacking a hero. Despite the crappy video quality, you can clearly see his lightning-fast and overly violent movements.
He swallows. “The media thinks it’s the same guy as the one in this video. They’re calling him Stain. The hero killer.”
Your stomach twists hearing his sickening name, a hand still holding your face just below your mouth as the video replays. “Does he… have confirmed kills?” you ask, your mind flashing back to Iida’s smiley older brother.
Midoriya nods, expression tight as he opens his phone browser to double-check his facts. “Around four. And the attacks are becoming more and more frequent. He attacked someone else last night, too.”
Your hand lowers slowly, your whole body feeling tingly and numb all at once. “How bad is Iida’s brother? His condition, I mean?”
Midoriya’s voice drops. “Last I read, he was in the ICU. But… recovering.”
He hesitates. “But injuries like that… Some news outlets are saying he could be paralyzed. And if that’s the case, that would definitely mean retirement for a hero like Ingenium.”
Your throat tightens. “Oh, Iida…” you whisper, staring down at your tray like it’s suddenly unfamiliar. Your appetite disappearing so fast it’s almost dizzying.
You look up again. “Do you know where he went? I watched Iida leave the cafe a while ago, but I don’t know where to. I know he usually eats with you, so—”
Midoriya shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure. But if I had to guess… I’d check…the library, maybe? If I were going through something like that, I’d want to be alone somewhere quiet.”
You nod once, already standing. “That’s smart…Thank you.”
Midoriya’s eyes flick to your tray. “Wait—are you not going to eat?”
You force a small smile. “I… don’t think I could if I wanted right now.”
You thank him again and promise to let him know if you do find him and get the chance to talk to him. You carry your tray back to your usual table and set it down in the spot your friends saved beside Hagakure, and speak quickly, excusing yourself.
“Sorry about that, but I’ll be back in a bit.”
Mina and Momo both look up at you at once. “Where were you?” “Yeah, what’s up? Are you okay?”
You wave them off. “I’m fine. I’m just… worried about Iida.” You pause for a moment before turning to the exit, and turn to Uraraka. “—Hey, Uraraka…Do you think Iida’s been acting… off today?”
Uraraka thinks, then frowns. “Ya’know…yeah…a little, I saw that he got to class kinda late today? But, I… haven’t talked to him much today, either. Why? You think something’s wrong?”
You nod. “Yeah. I just… really want to talk to him, just to be sure.”
Mina drops her chin into her hands dramatically and deadpans in a low voice, “Even with the whole school flocking to you like birds, the only boy you’re interested in is… Iida?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that, Mina. This could be serious.”
She keeps poking. “I always thought you and Iida were super close, but like… in a professional way, ya’know? Like how the president and vice president of countries seem close? But I didn’t know you cared like this.”
“Of course I care,” you snap, then soften as you take in her comments. “He didn’t answer my texts this weekend. Which is weird as is... And then today he just seems… worse? At least worse than I thought…”
The second you say “texts,” every girl at the table perks up like you just set off alarm bells.
Mina and Uraraka exchange a look, as curious grins spread across their faces.
Your eyes dart between them after no one responds to your thought. “What?”
Uraraka leans forward, trying to act as casual and carefree as possible. “You and Iida… text? Like… a lot?”
You tilt your head back, exasperated. “Oh my god,” you drone. “We’re friends!” You insist. “So yes, we text! Sometimes!”
They look like they want to keep going, but you throw your hands up. “You know what, I don’t have time for this.” You grab your bag and stand. “I wanna talk to him before lunch ends anyway, so I gotta go.”
And with that, you're out the door and headed to the library.
You hurry up the steps to the second floor, and slow as you walk by the long glass windows that fill the hallway leading to the library. You push through the heavy doors and enter the space, immediately greeted by the smell of bleached book pages and the comforting quiet of the space. You silently search the area, trying not to look too suspicious, as you really didn’t need one of the librarians to approach you, and as if you needed help finding anything.
Just as you were about to rule out finding him here, as you wander down another narrow aisle of filled bookshelves, you spot him.
All the way toward the back, at one of the study tables near the librarian's office, sitting alone with his lunch. He’s slightly slouched over his lunch as he slowly eats in silence, looking just as out of it as he had in class. His glasses catch the overhead lights when he lowers his head, but even through the thick glass, you don’t miss how heavy and sorrowful his eyes look behind the frames. And for a second, you feel like you’re trying not to cry again.
But at least Midoriya was right about checking the library.
You make a mental note to thank him later, then force yourself to carefully approach Iida. You don’t want to startle him or to make him feel cornered. You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say to him, knowing what you knew now. The only thing you were sure of was the fact that you couldn’t stand seeing your friend like this.
When you get close enough, you stop just behind his shoulder.
“Hi, Iida,” you say gently.
His spine stiffens like you touched a bruise. He peers over his shoulder, face set in something sad and tired.
“Yes, what is it?” he asks, tone empty.
It isn’t rude or angry, but it still lands heavy in your chest.
You swallow any regret you may be feeling down and keep your voice soft. “Would it be ok if I sat for a minute?”
He looks away again, jaw tight. “I told you this morning, I’m not in the mood to talk.”
“I know,” you say, immediately. “I’m not expecting you to.”
You wait for his answer, but all he does is sigh through his nose, like he’s giving up on the idea of fighting you for control over something as pointless as sitting down next to him. He gestures stiffly to an empty chair next to him, and you cautiously take a seat.
Silence stretches between you, thick and awkward at first, then slowly settles into your usual quiet calm. The library hums around you. Students studying in silence, pages turning, a distant printer whirring as paper slips out of it. All while Iida stares at his food like it’s just another obstacle for him to get through to finish the day.
After a moment, he asks, low, “Is this all you came in here to do? Watch me eat in silence?”
You shake your head as you look at his eyes, heart aching as he is still looking straight ahead. Ignoring you. “No, I came to tell you that…I heard…,” You say, carefully. “About your brother, about Tensei.”
His expression doesn’t change, but the way his blinking slows at the mention of his brother's name confirms everything for you.
You continue, voice gentle but firm. “I’m…so sorry, Iida. I can’t even…imagine what you're going through right now… I have siblings. I know what it’s like to love someone so much you’d do anything, anything, to keep them safe. So I couldn’t imagine a feeling worse than… whatever you must be feeling right now… I’m so, so sorry.”
Your throat tightens as you feel your eyes growing a bit misty, but you keep going.
“I know you don’t want to talk. And trust me, I’m not asking you to.” You lean forward slightly. “I just want you to know… if you ever do… want to talk, that is. About… anything. I’m here. Whatever you need, however you need me, I don’t care. Even if it’s just sitting in silence, just like this. Even if it’s just… not being alone.”
That makes him look over at you with something in his eyes other than anger or disappointment for the first time all day.
You meet his gaze and ask quietly, “You know that, right? You know I’d be there for you. No matter what?”
His throat bobs. But he nods. small, and weak, as he quickly averts his eyes again, but it was a response nonetheless.
You exhale, soft and relieved that you were finally getting something, anything other than short-tempered replies from him. “Good.”
You stand, slow, careful not to make a scene out of it. “That’s all I wanted you to hear, so…I’ll let you have your space. I’ll see you later, ok?”
You turn to go, your hand dragging lightly against the tabletop as you step away.
“(Y/N),” he says, softly.
Your steps stop immediately as you look back at him, and your heart jumps in your chest. Iida’s eyes are glossy now, lips pulled tightly together as he fights back tears. He’s staring down into his lap like he can’t stand the idea of you seeing him like this, which only makes your heart ache all over again.
“I’m… sorry,” he says, voice strained. “For how I spoke to you. This morning… Even with… everything that had happened…I had no right to treat you like that… Please, forgive me…” His voice cracks slightly on the ‘please’, causing any resolve you had stored up for this conversation to crumble away.
You cross back to him in an instant, hands coming down square on his shoulders. “Oh, Iidaaaa, it’s ok? It’s ok! You don’t need to apologize? I’m not upset, I promise! I know how hard all of this must be for you. I promise, I’m not mad.”
He shakes his head, shame and regret pooling in his chest. “I still shouldn’t have— I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He says it again. And again. Like repeating it will make it undo itself. And the more he repeats himself, the weaker and weaker his usually strong and steady voice gets.
You bite your bottom lip as you feel it begin to quiver, and pull him into a hug, not knowing any other way to reassure him that you weren’t upset with him, and silence his apologies.
For a second, he freezes, feeling slightly undeserving of your grace after how he had treated you. But then his arms come up around your waist like he’s finally giving in. He buries his face into your stomach, and his breath turns uneven, and his shoulders begin to shake, finally allowing his tears to flow. Muffled sobs fill your ears as you stare up at the library's ceiling to fight your own tears from falling at the sounds of your suffering friend.
“Oh, Iida,” you whisper, one hand cradling the back of his neck, and lovingly stroking his soft hair. “It’s okay. I promise. Everything is gonna be ok, alright? I’m right here.”
You try your hardest to focus solely on him, allowing a few loose tears to drop and quickly swiping them away with the back of your hand as you continue to comfort your friend. The whole time your head feels completely empty, other than one recurring and poignant thought…
…Poor baby.
As Monday comes to a close, your busiest and most drama-filled day of the week closes with it. The dorm is lively again after a short weekend away, and everything starts to fall back into place. Iida is looking, and hopefully feeling, better. Classmates are giddy about their internships next week, and you're back to your most peaceful and rewarding pastime after a stressful day:
Music in your ears. Knife in your hand. And a new dinner recipe completely under your control.
You listen to the conversations floating through the common room, as more and more people talk about the hero agencies they're hoping to be at next week. You can't help but smile to yourself as your friends talk about meeting their idols, and finally getting to do the work they’ve been dreaming of doing since they were kids.
You, of course, feel the same, and then some. Coming off your sports festival win and seeing how many heroes offered you a spot at their agencies, calling all of this a dream come true would be an understatement. The comforting thought of all that brings you back to that odd conundrum you had this morning in class.
You cut your veggies with careful precision as you think back over the letter. Why were you thinking about it so much? Did a part of you want to accept the offer, or at least add it to your list of possible second choices? He was the number 2 hero in Japan after all. But he was also Todoroki’s father, with whom he had a very…complex relationship. Was he even going to be interning with his father?
You’re halfway through slicing when you glance up and catch Todoroki crossing the common room, heading to his usual spot in the dining area with a notebook in hand. You watch him for a second longer than you mean to.
Then you call, “Todoroki!”
He pauses, looks up, and, without further questioning, stands and walks over. He stops at the other side of the kitchen island. “What do you need?”
“It’s nothing serious,” you say, returning to your cutting like you’re casual about it. “I was just wondering where you were hoping to intern next week?”
He answers without hesitation. “My father’s agency.”
Your knife pauses for a fraction of a second. Todoroki continues, voice even. “After the Sports Festival, and after talking with Midoriya during our match. I realized there’s still a lot I need to learn about controlling my quirk.” He looks away briefly, like the words taste bad. “And as much as I hate to admit it, there’s no one better suited to teach me to better use my fire than the Flame Hero himself.”
You nod slowly, processing his explanation as you keep chopping.
He watches you for a moment, then asks, genuinely, “What about you? I noticed that your folder was pretty thick. I’m sure every major hero wants you as an intern after seeing you in the Festival.”
You keep your tone neutral as you answer. “I’m actually planning on interning with a smaller agency. More old-school. Less flashy, ya’know? I want a little more perspective on this whole ‘Japanese pro-hero’ world, and I don’t think I’d get that anywhere else.”
You're hoping that your answer would satisfy him without you having to say Sir’s actual name or having to dive too deep into specifics.
“Hm. That’s an interesting choice,” he says. “I trust you know what's best for yourself.”
A steady silence slips in as you continue to follow your recipe. You want to say it. To mention, or ask really, why he thought his dad would send you an offer letter. But you're not sure how to frame it without sounding like you were bragging, or making it sound creepy. You didn’t forget how he interrogated you when you told him you had spoken to his dad after your final match. But as the silence stretches on your worried your window of opportunity is closing…
You breathe out, then decide to just say it.
“It’s funny you mentioned the offers,” you add, wiping your hands on a towel hanging from the handle of the oven. “Because I got one from Endeavor, too, oddly enough…”
Todoroki’s head snapsin your direction as his brows lift. “Endeavor…? He sent you one?”
You nod. “He did! He even signed it. It looked like it was by hand, too.”
Something changes in his focus. His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s looking at a puzzle piece that doesn’t match the picture. Then, just as quickly as it had sharpened, it fell right back into his usual nonchalant demeanor. “Well…I can’t really say I’m surprised. Any smart hero would want to send you an offer.”
You let out a small, affectionate sound at the compliment as you look at him before pulling your eyes back to your recipe on your phone. After another pause, he pipes up again, quieter now. “Are you… considering it? At all…?”
“Absolutely not,” you say, instantly.
His gaze lifts to your face again at the speediness of your reply. “Why not?”
The simple question stills your knife, but before you can respond, he adds, like he’s reasoning it out aloud, “He is the number two hero. If I’m there too, it could be a learning opportunity for both of us.”
Your mouth curls into a tight smile at the idea of you and Todoroki sharing a mini ‘learning opportunity’ together.
“Well, when you put it like that, it sounds tempting.” You say as you resume chopping. “But I’ve already decided where I want to go.”
You glance up at him. “And besides, I didn’t want to put your father’s name on my list, even as one of my backups, without talking to you first. That’d just feel so…? I don’t know? Disrespectful?”
Todoroki tilts his head, confused by your thoughts. “Why would that be disrespectful?”
“Because I know your relationship with him is… complicated.” You state carefully, not wanting to say something insensitive. “And I didn’t want you to think less of me for choosing to be around him, knowing how you feel about him.”
He studies you, then asks, almost incredulous, “You really put that much thought into a dumb paper?”
You laugh softly at the way he says it, always amazed by the ways he could oversimplify almost everything.
“Of course I did.” You shrug, like it’s obvious. “Our friendship is important to me, Todoroki! I’m not going to make a decision that could affect it without at least talking to you first? Communication is the foundation of any good relationship!”
Todoroki goes quiet and sits with that for a moment, then apologizes and says, “If you had listed him, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it.”
He looks genuinely puzzled for a second before adding, “Does that make me a bad communicator to you? Or a bad friend?”
You blink, then laugh again at how adorable his cluelessness could be.
“No,” you say, warmly. “That doesn’t make you a bad friend. That just means… that's not how your brain works. Which is totally fine!”
You place your knife carefully on the cutting board as you rest both your hands on the island counter top as you meet his eyes again. “I’m just an overthinker. You don’t have to overthink like I do. I just wanted you to know. Ya’know, just in case.”
Todoroki nods once, accepting it the way he accepts most things you say. He stays nearby as you finish cooking, a companionable presence at the island while you plate up everything, while your music continues to hum low.
Once finished, you grab your phone to text the class group chat that dinner’s ready if anyone is hungry. You notice two new notifications.
From Iida.
One message reads:
‘Thank you for today.’
The second notification was from your original text from Saturday night.
He had finally hearted your message. Just as he usually would.
Summary: After months of quiet longing and stolen moments at the Avengers Compound, Bucky finally gathers the courage to ask you out on a proper date. What starts as his carefully planned evening quickly spirals into one hilarious disaster after another—but sometimes the best nights are the ones that don’t go according to plan at all.
word count: 1000+
Paring: Bucky x Reader
warnings: Fluff, Nervous Bucky, Probably some spelling mistakes
A/N : Hi there! Here is chapter 3! Enjoy!
Masterlist
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Chapter 3: When Plans Meet Reality
The hallway outside your room felt narrower than usual as Bucky offered his arm—the flesh one, warm and steady despite the faint tension you could sense in his frame. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow, the navy dress swishing softly against your legs. The peonies sat in their improvised vase on your small table, a splash of soft pink and white that made your modest quarters feel a little more special. Their faint, sweet fragrance lingered as you locked the door behind you.
“Shall we?” Bucky asked, voice low and courteous, that old-world politeness wrapping around the words like a well-tailored coat. He guided you toward the elevators with careful steps, matching his pace to yours without making it obvious. The Compound’s residential wing hummed with its evening quiet: distant laughter from the common area, the low whir of ventilation systems, the occasional beep of a security panel recognizing your biometrics as you passed.
Descending in the elevator, the mirrored walls reflected the two of you—him tall and composed in that dark blue button-down that made his eyes strikingly vivid, you in the soft navy that felt just right for tonight. He kept glancing at you sideways, as if still processing that you’d said yes, that this was really happening.
The garage level opened into a vast, climate-controlled space that could have doubled as an aircraft hangar. Rows of reinforced bays housed everything from sleek Quinjets in their maintenance cradles to a fleet of unmarked SUVs, motorcycles, and specialized tactical vehicles. Stark-level engineering gleamed under bright overhead LEDs: reinforced concrete floors etched with traction grooves, tool walls stocked with every gadget imaginable, and scent of rubber, oil, and faint ozone from charging stations. Security drones hovered silently near the exits, red lights pulsing in standby mode. This wasn’t just parking—it was the logistical artery of the Compound, capable of deploying a full response team in minutes.
Bucky led you toward one of the black SUVs in a reserved senior-team section. He’d spent time on it earlier: interior vacuumed, leather seats wiped to a soft sheen, dash polished until it reflected the lights like new. He’d even adjusted the mirrors twice, old habits from a time when cars were simpler machines you coaxed into life with a crank and prayer.
He opened the passenger door for you with practiced ease—classic 1940s gentleman move—holding it wide and offering his hand to help you step up into the elevated seat. “Watch your head, doll,” he murmured, the endearment slipping out naturally, softening the edges of his nerves. Once you were settled, he closed the door with a solid, satisfying thunk and circled around to the driver’s side.
You watched him through the windshield, heart doing a pleasant little flip. He looked so him—broad shoulders filling out the shirt, metal arm hidden beneath the sleeve but moving with that subtle mechanical precision. The faint woody scent of his cologne drifted in the enclosed space as he slid behind the wheel, key fob in hand.
“Should be about an hour and a half to the city if traffic cooperates,” he said, starting the engine. It purred to life smoothly at first, the dashboard lighting up with modern displays—GPS already plotting a route toward the Brooklyn Bridge and Park Slope. “Place is called Convivium Osteria. Rustic Italian, candlelit tables, supposed to have good homemade pasta. Reviews say it feels like stepping into the Italian countryside. Thought… it might be nice. Not too loud.”
“It sounds perfect, Bucky,” you replied honestly, buckling in and smoothing your dress over your knees. You weren’t picturing some flawless evening. Just this—him making an effort, the low hum of the engine, the quiet anticipation building between you. You’d liked him for months; the late-night kitchen talks where he’d fix your tablet without a word, the way he’d bring your coffee exactly right, the careful space he gave you until you closed it. Tonight was a chance to see more of the man behind the legend.
He pulled out of the bay, the garage doors sliding open with a hydraulic hiss to reveal the long driveway winding through the wooded grounds. Evening light filtered through the trees, turning the upstate landscape into a palette of deepening greens and golds. The Compound’s perimeter lights flickered on as dusk settled, security fields humming invisibly beyond the fence line.
For the first ten minutes, the drive felt promising. Bucky kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear selector. Conversation flowed easier than you expected—light, meandering. You asked about the restaurant; he described the exposed brick and antique-filled windows from the photos he’d studied. He asked about your day; you told him about the comms calibration and how FRIDAY had sassed Tony again during testing. His low chuckle filled the cabin, warm and rare.
Then Disaster #1 struck.
About fifteen minutes down the private access road leading toward the main highway, the engine coughed. Once. Twice. The dashboard lights flickered erratically. Bucky frowned, easing off the accelerator. “What the—?”
The SUV lurched, then died completely. Rolling to a gentle stop on the shoulder, surrounded by nothing but trees and the fading light. The rain from the previous night—steady and soaking—had left puddles everywhere. Apparently, it had found its way into the electrical system somehow. Or maybe it was just Bucky’s luck tonight; his metal arm had a way of acting like a lightning rod for minor mechanical gremlins when tension ran high. The plates in his left shoulder shifted with a soft, frustrated whir as he tried the key fob again. Nothing but a weak click.
Bucky sat there for a long second, jaw tight, staring at the dead dash like it had personally betrayed him. Mortification colored his expression—cheeks flushing beneath the stubble, shoulders slumping just enough to show the weight of all those rehearsed plans crumbling. “Dammit,” he muttered under his breath, voice rough. “I checked everything this afternoon. Wiped it down, made sure… This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not tonight.”
You looked at him, then at the quiet road ahead, and couldn’t help the soft laugh that bubbled up. Not mocking—genuine amusement mixed with affection. “Hey, it’s okay. Really. The subway station isn’t that far if we walk back a bit, or we can—”
“No,” he cut in quickly, old-fashioned stubbornness kicking in hard. He was already pulling out his phone, scrolling for a cab service. “I’m not making you walk or take the subway on our first date. Not in that dress. Not after I promised a proper night.” His thumb hovered over the app, metal fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on his thigh. “Cab’ll be here soon. Safer. Cleaner. I’ll handle it.”
You didn’t argue. You didn’t mind at all. The car failing felt like a quirky anecdote already, not a ruin. Being with him—watching him navigate this with that mix of determination and self-directed frustration—was exactly what you’d hoped for. No perfection required.
While you waited, the world outside the tinted windows settled into full evening. Crickets chirped in the underbrush. Distant highway sounds carried faintly on the breeze. Inside, the cabin grew quieter except for Bucky’s occasional muttered apology. “Should’ve taken the bike and risked it. Or called ahead for a service car. Stupid.”
“Bucky,” you said gently, turning toward him. “It’s a car. Cars break. Especially fancy ones that live next to superheroes who probably magnetize half the electronics. I’m not upset. Promise.”
He glanced at you, blue eyes searching your face for any hidden disappointment. He didn’t quite believe the reassurance yet—the weight of his own insecurities pressed too hard: the arm, the history, the fear that one glitch would prove he couldn’t give you something normal.
The cab arrived faster than expected, a yellow sedan pulling up with its lights flashing. Bucky got out first, circling to your side and opening the door with the same careful chivalry. He offered his hand again, helping you down from the high SUV seat, then walked you the few steps to the cab. Old habits ran deep: he placed one large hand lightly on the top of the cab frame so you wouldn’t bump your head as you slid into the back seat. Only after you were comfortably settled did he close the door with a gentle click and climb in from the other side.
The driver—a middle-aged man with a thick Brooklyn accent—nodded in the rearview. “Where to?”
“Park Slope. Convivium Osteria on Fifth Avenue,” Bucky replied, voice steadier now. He gave the exact address he’d memorized.
As the cab pulled away, leaving the dead SUV behind for a Compound retrieval team to handle later, the real New York evening swallowed you both. The drive started smooth enough along the quieter upstate roads, but as you merged onto highways feeding toward the city, the inevitable hit.
Disaster #2: Gridlock.
It began as a slowdown near the bridge approaches—typical Friday evening crawl. Then it thickened. Brake lights stretched endlessly ahead, a river of red in the gathering dark. Horns blared sporadically. The cab inched forward, then stopped. Inched, stopped. Forty-five minutes turned into an hour of near-immobility somewhere in the tangle of lanes feeding Manhattan before crossing into Brooklyn.
Your stomach rumbled audibly. Bucky’s did too, though he tried to hide it. The mission debrief yesterday had been long; neither of you had eaten much since. Hunger gnawed, sharpening the edges of the wait.
Bucky kept apologizing, each one more earnest than the last. “This is my fault. Should’ve left earlier. Or picked a place closer to the Compound. Traffic in this city… it’s worse than I remember.” His metal hand rested on his knee, fingers flexing occasionally as if itching to fix something—anything. The cab’s interior smelled of faint air freshener and old vinyl, the radio murmuring low traffic reports that only confirmed the mess.
You shifted closer on the seat, the leather creaking softly. “Bucky, stop. Please. I don’t care about the traffic. Or the car. We’re still going to dinner. We’re still doing this.” You rested your head lightly on his shoulder, the fabric of his button-down warm against your cheek. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the clean smell of him grounded you. “I’m exactly where I want to be. Right here. With you. Even if it takes all night to get there.”
He stiffened at first, unused to casual touch that wasn’t combat or comfort after a fight. Then he exhaled, long and slow, his flesh hand coming up to rest tentatively over yours where it lay on the seat between you. “You say that… but you deserve better than sittin’ in a cab starving because I couldn’t even get the damn car to work.” His voice was quiet, rough around the edges with doubt. That soft smile from last night felt far away now, replaced by the anxious set of his jaw.
You squeezed his hand. “I mean it. No perfection needed. Just this.”
He didn’t fully believe you yet—the years of believing he was too broken, too dangerous, too much of a liability for something simple and good still whispered loud in his mind. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the contact linger, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a rhythm that matched the slow thump of his heart.
The cab crawled onward. City lights began to bloom brighter as you drew closer to the bridges—skyscrapers glittering across the water, the distant arch of the Brooklyn Bridge strung with lights like a necklace. Horns faded into a dull roar. The driver muttered about “these damn Fridays,” but you barely noticed.
Bucky stared out the window at the stalled sea of vehicles, anxiety coiling tighter in his chest. The restaurant reservation ticked closer. His plans for candlelight, violin music if they were lucky, a proper conversation over good food—all of it felt like it was slipping. Please, he thought, metal arm humming faintly with tension. No more bad luck tonight. Let the rest go smooth. Let her have one good thing.
The cab inched forward again, but his mind raced ahead, hoping against the growing knot in his gut that the evening could still be salvaged.
