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lees-chaotic-brain-reblogs · 11 months ago

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okay so tumblr ate the rest of my tags (i think i hit the limit) so just read those first then return to up here sorrrrry (but also don’t feel like you need to read it this fic is my everything so i wrote a whole essay)

waistcoat?? waistcoat?! i want to chew it off him

not mitsuki shipping us with our outfits 😭

holy- not the outfit. if i could draw i would draw him looking like such a snack in a HEARTBEAT

not bakugou and mitsuki gossiping about our relationship 😭😭

how did he cut his EYELID with the gala invitation 💀💀

i love how we’re already part of the fam 🥹

awww not us helping to hold the todorokis together

i love that in some ways shouto and touya can be closer with each other than with the others but at the same time i just. i really hate it ☹️☹️

i love that touya is there to give him a kick in the ass. lord knows he needs it

how well he knows our routine just goes to show how longs he’s been paying close attention to and admiring us

i aspire to be about to include little details that make it so immersive like this in my writing one day

ughhh the sweatpants 🤤🤤

omg the end

this was so beautifully written

i just know that this is a fic i will return to again and again

this is a fic i will lay awake thinking about ten years from now

thats how good it is

thank you so much for sharing this with us

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

sponsored by @arcvenes for the @ficsforgaza initiative, and my submission for the pretty boy summer collab by @andypantsx3.

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing.

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in.

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating.

A crush. On you. Huh.

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

This feels… new, he thinks.

Shouto knows his Mondays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering.

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking?

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?)

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking.

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all.

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

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

He gives you a look.

You stop moving.

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.”

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

KIrishima’s right.

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

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

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

You.

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time.

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit.

Bakugo watches.

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

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

“Y’coming or what?”

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.”

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto.

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now.

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip.

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?”

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

Shouto stares right back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it.

A thump.

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

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

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

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

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in.

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.”

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back.

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head.

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly.

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

These family lunches keep them connected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

All Shouto hears is a thump.

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is.

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw.

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.”

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

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

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

Another thump.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!”

He takes a step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring.

Touya snorts as he passes him.

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence.

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

Touya’s words come back to him.

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!”

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head.

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you.

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

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

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

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

A thump.

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you.

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

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

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

You still care for him in the same way.

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

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

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

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

He thinks you look cute.

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

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.”

You take a deep breath.

“Go!”

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need first-aid. But—)

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

(You don’t need first-aid. But—)

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

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

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!”

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too.

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

It’s only right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and that thump beats once more.

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

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

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?”

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

Your grip on the stems tighten.

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

“It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no occasion…?”

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

Shouto blinks.

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

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

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

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

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

Thump.

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

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

“No occasion.”

Shouto knows your Mondays.

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

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

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

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

Shouto knows your Mondays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thump.

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

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

“You’re back!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So for you to keep it for this long—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is out of the ordinary.

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

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

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly.

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

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

He places his palm on the top folder.

“What else do you have to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That promptly shuts you up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

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

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

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

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

A thump.

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

A thump.

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

A thump.

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

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

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

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

You know him better than anyone else does.

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk.

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

You freeze, holding your breath.

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.”

A three-beat thump.

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

additional material: moodboard + playlist

a/n: so much to say about this fic but i'll sum it up with saying this is my baby! and i hold it close to my heart for many reasons. writing this made me love their dynamic and i hope you did too!

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

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#okay i’m back i finished #first of all #only shouto would go to the doctor because he has a crush he’s so dense but i absolutely adore him #also the way you built out the characters of the todoroki family??#please i’m sobbing #natsuo as a doctor and touya in rehab and all of them making uo for lost time #mah heart can’t take this #and the way you wrote natsuos reasoning for becoming a doctor #internal calling to fix the system #that hit hard #shouto: my heart feels weird #natsuo: oh on what happened #shouto: ten paragraph text rambling about a five minute encounter involving his secretary and a santa hat #natsuo: using all of my med school knowledge i diagnose you with a crush #shouto: how does that even happen #please 😭#You #who’s stayed by his side for the past five #nearly six years. You’ve carved your presence so deeply into his life #it’s become an undercurrent in his speech. He doesn’t even think of having to say your name when he talks about you #omg sel #(is it okay if i call you that)#the imagery in this???#i felt it in my BONES #Shouto feels like a teen again #without the trauma #without the war #being taught things about life and himself #about feelings he never had the time nor capacity to explore.#awww baby boy 🥹🥹

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kxsagi · 2 months ago

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may I ask for blue lock characters headcanons on how they would propose to the reader if they have been together for more than 5 years? you can add anyone you like but this is for my one and only glorious supreme king isagi yoichi.

THANK YOU

“𝐬𝐚𝐲 𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧”

a/n: i might like writing proposals more than fluff (i also have an isagi proposal fic i wrote here and i still love it sm)

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, bachira meguru, kaiser michael, mikage reo, nagi seishiro

isagi yoichi

he’s been thinking about it for months. writing drafts in his notes app. texting rin for help and getting roasted. pacing the training room during breaks muttering, “what if she says no?” even though you’ve been his person for five whole years.

when he finally does it, it’s quiet. domestic. intimate. just you and him on a sunday morning. he makes you breakfast with heart-shaped pancakes (they’re wonky, but endearing), and insists you stay in bed. when he brings the tray over, there’s a little folded napkin next to your juice. you open it and it reads: “marry me?” in his handwriting, complete with a nervous smiley face.

you look up and he’s on one knee holding a ring with trembling hands, eyes glassy, voice cracking when he says, “i want to be with you forever. through every win, every loss. just… us.”

he fumbles the ring, panics, catches it mid-air. cries when you say yes. you end up lying on the floor laughing with him, tangled in blankets and feelings.

won’t shut up about how he bagged the love of his life. reposts his own engagement post three times.

itoshi rin

takes 7 business days to say “i love you,” so proposing is the olympics of stress for him.

he keeps the ring in his pocket for weeks. but every time he tries to do it, something throws him off. you burp mid-dinner. you wear his hoodie. you beat him at mario kart. it’s too much. he short circuits.

finally proposes when you’re brushing your teeth together at night, and he’s looking at your face in the mirror like, this is it. this is what peace feels like.

mutters, “marry me,” like he’s asking if you want takeout. then freezes. stares at your reflection.

when you ask, “wait, for real?” he just nods and pulls out the ring from his hoodie pocket. he’s literally shaking.

later pretends he had a whole speech of “i know i’m not good with words. but being with you makes life feel… less heavy. you make things better. you make me better. so please stay with me. forever,” but forgot it. he did not say that. he ended up saying: “u cool. marry me.”

itoshi sae

it takes him years to admit he wants to marry you. not because he doubts it (he's known since day two), but because he's scared. terrified, even. of needing someone that deeply. of showing that part of himself.

he doesn’t want something loud or flashy. instead, he books a quiet trip to a secluded coastal town in spain. it’s the off-season, the weather's breezy, and you spend the whole day exploring sleepy streets, eating gelato, watching the boats drift lazily in the harbor.

at the end of the day, he takes you to a rocky overlook at sunset. the water’s glowing. the sky is all peach and gold.

and then he hands you a little notebook. every page is dated. he’s been writing you letters for five years.

entries from after matches, on planes, in hotel rooms. thoughts he never said out loud. memories. fears. the way his chest tightens every time he looks at you. how your laugh sounds when you’re brushing your teeth. how the world softens when you're near.

the final page just says: “i don’t want to be brilliant without you. will you marry me?”

you look up and he’s already kneeling, lips pressed into a line like he’s holding back a million emotions.

“i know i’m difficult. i know i get quiet. but you’re the one thing i’m sure of. please say yes.”

and when you do, his hands shake. his breath catches. he presses his forehead to yours, and for the first time in a long time, sae itoshi lets himself cry.

you whisper something like “i love you, dummy,” and he laughs softly, the kind of laugh he saves just for you.

he doesn’t post it. doesn’t tell the world.

but at the next press conference, a reporter asks about the ring “so pretty it makes influencers cry” spotted on your finger by fans inspecting recent paparazzi pics of you.

he just smirks and says, “guess i won something better than a trophy.”

bachira meguru

his proposal is a chaotic masterpiece. it starts with you waking up to a crayon-drawn treasure map taped to your forehead. yes. your forehead.

he’s turned your entire city into a love quest, each stop filled with inside jokes, goofy gifts, and memories from your relationship: your favorite boba place (the cashier gives you a note), the alley you once slow-danced in (there’s a heart chalk drawing), the bench where you first kissed (a polaroid taped under it).

the final clue brings you to the soccer field where he first told you he loved you. it’s covered in fairy lights and handmade decorations (and probably a few fire hazards). he’s waiting at the center in a suit covered in paint splatters because “i wanted to look fancy and like me.”

he runs up to you with a goofy grin, gets down on one knee, and says: “you’ve always been my favorite teammate. wanna play life together?”

you say yes and he tackles you into the grass. you're both crying and laughing and covered in glitter somehow. he puts the ring on your toe as a joke first. classic bachira.

kaiser michael

obnoxiously extravagant. skywriting? rented out a soccer stadium? flash mob in berlin? absolutely.

but here's the twist: he plays it down. tells you you’re going to a “boring sponsor event.”

when you get there, it’s pitch black… then boom. lights, camera, roses in the shape of your name, string quartet playing a romantic song, and kaiser walking toward you in a tux.

"everyone knows i’m great. but being with you? that’s the only thing that ever made me better."

drops to one knee like he’s on the cover of GQ proposals edition. the ring is a custom design with your birthstone and an engraving that says “you win. i surrender.”

when you say yes, he kisses you so obnoxiously dramatically that the quartet messes up their notes.

later posts a selfie of you two mid-kiss with the caption “#ringed 💍 #shewonfr.” comments on his own post: “undefeated.”

mikage reo

reo has had the ring for eight months. he’s shown it to nagi. to his driver. to the chef. to his tailor. hell, he’s almost asked you during brunch three different times but chickened out because “no, it has to be perfect.

so, he builds perfect.

he rents out an entire rooftop in tokyo, overlooking the skyline where you both made so many memories together. he has a custom-built garden placed on the deck with flowers flown in from your childhood town. your favorite piano music plays softly in the background, courtesy of a live quartet. the air smells like your favorite scent.

there’s no crowd, no press, no flashy headlines, just you and him, dressed in your finest, alone at a candlelit table under the stars.

after dinner, he leads you through a string-lit walkway where framed photos from your relationship hang like a timeline: your first trip. your first christmas. your matching sweaters disaster. the moment he realized you were it.

at the end, he stops, takes both your hands, and says with a nervous, reverent breath: “i’ve had access to everything: money, power, comfort. but nothing ever came close to what it felt like holding your hand for the first time.”

he kneels. his voice wavers, but his heart doesn’t. “i don’t want a future if you’re not in it. will you marry me?”

your “yes” comes with tears, kisses, and a full dip spin because reo is dramatic and romantic and very in love.

later, when he twirls you around to slow music, he whispers: “you made me believe in forever.”

(he doesn't even post it on social media. the moment is too sacred. but nagi leaks it by accident with a story captioned “finally. he shut up about it.”)

nagi seishiro

nagi never liked effort. until you. and for the first time in his life, he wants to try. for you.

he doesn’t propose with a big event or a plan that reo drafted. instead, it happens on a normal day, a slow, rainy morning where you're both wrapped in blankets, watching old anime on the couch.

you’re sitting on his lap. he's playing with your fingers, tracing your knuckles with soft, sleepy circles.

out of nowhere, he mumbles, “you ever think about marriage?”

you blink. “uh… yeah?”

he nods like it’s no big deal. “cool. wanna marry me then?”

you pause. “wait… what?”

he stretches, yawns, then digs into the hoodie he’s been wearing for three days and pulls out a velvet ring box like it’s nothing. like he didn’t practice this moment in front of the mirror at 3 AM while trying not to wake you.

“got a ring and everything. it’s comfy. like you.”

you’re crying and laughing and he just stares at you with those tired eyes that hide galaxies of devotion. “been with you so long it’s hard to imagine not being yours. don’t wanna try, honestly.”

when you whisper yes, he finally smiles. a sleepy, bashful smile as he slips the ring on your finger.

he kisses your cheek and hums, “cool… now i don’t have to stress about it anymore. let’s nap.”

(he later uses the story to brag to reo: “took me five minutes. still beat you.”)

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #isagi yoichi x reader #yoichi isagi x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #bachira meguru x reader #meguru bachira x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #seishiro nagi x reader #reo mikage x reader #mikage reo x reader #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser michael x reader #say yes to heaven

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izzyy-stuff · 1 year ago

Text

𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃 - 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐈 𝐒𝐎𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐍

choi soobin x afab!reader

summary: After you found out the smarty-pants in your class was in love with you you thought it would be fun to play around with him a bit, but things take a wrong turn when he is the only one you can text when you are horny and he doesn't hesitate and runs to you, making you feel better than any of your ex boyfriends could.

words count: 3.9k

warnings: smut content, she/her pronouns used twice (in the texting part) sorry 🙏, oral, vaginal fingering, unprotected sex (don't!!), cum eating, gentle sex, squiting, idk tbh

You glanced to your side, watching the black-haired boy on the other side of the classroom as he wrote down some notes. If you were to be honest, you weren’t paying any attention to what the teacher was saying, so you had no idea what he was writing down either. But it didn't matter anyway, you knew he would let you copy his notes later.

It was one of the perks of having the class’s smarty-pants be in love with you. You chuckled when you saw him look your way too, smiling at him before you turned away again.

“What's going on there?” The black-haired girl next to you asked, her eyebrow raised as she pointed at the male on the other side of the class. “Why do you two keep stealing glances at each other?”

“You know Yeonjun, right?” You asked, watching as the girl next to you nodded. “Who doesn't,” your best friend scoffed. “What does he have to do with anything?”

“Well, he is the one that told me last week our little nerdy here has a crush on me. It all makes sense now if you think about it. I couldn't wrap my head around why he would always send me the lesson notes when I asked for them but not to others. I told Ryan he could ask Soob because I thought he wouldn't have any problems with it, but it turns out he only sent them to me to get me to like him, or something,” You explained, watching as your best friend laughed quietly.

“It's kind of cute though that he does that.”

“But I don't want ‘cute’ anymore,” you rolled your eyes. “I want someone who can actually make me cum and not just stare at me questioning why I wouldn't finish as if he even tried.”

“Okay, I know the last boy was a fail as fuck, literally, but who knows,” the black-haired girl shrugged. “You want to tell me you think he of all people could make me cum?” You scoffed. “Please, he probably hasn't fucked a girl in his life.”

You said that, but God, you had no idea what was coming your way.

“Who are we gossiping about?” You turned as you heard the male’s voice, scoffing at how needy he was for the tea. “No one,” you shook your head. “Your rival,” your best friend grinned, answering instead when you didn’t do so. The blond boy scoffed, looking at the black-haired boy. “Oh yeah, I am so sure he didn’t fuck a girl - or anyone else - in his life,” he agreed.

“I am pretty sure I’ve been with a girl more times than he has,” Ryan next to him nodded, joining their conversation. “Kinda crazy,” you commented, laughing. Before you could say anything else, you were stopped by the teacher hitting the board with his hand, making you look his way. “As I was saying,” he started his speech again, giving you a warning look before he turned around, facing the board again so he could write down a few things.

Your head fell on the table soon after out of boredom, and before you could even start paying attention to what the teacher was talking about, the bell rang, announcing the end of the lesson.

“Okay, guys, who is coming with me to grab lunch?” Your best friend turned towards you and the two boys behind you. “I am passing,” you mumbled immediately, not even fully sitting up and simply turning your head towards her. “I am going,” Ryan proclaimed, already standing up from his place, the blond following him right after.

“Okay, I see you guys later, then,” you smiled at them, waving them off as they left the classroom. You knew you should get up too and move to your next class, but you were starting to feel unwell, and the thought of getting up sounded terrible. You sighed, closing your eyes for a few seconds. You knew this classroom was empty for another hour or so anyway.

“Hey, are you alright?” You opened your eyes again upon hearing the soft voice and feeling the tap on your shoulder, blinking a few times to make your eyes focus again. “Mhm, sure I am,” you mumbled, sitting up straight as you looked around. The class was empty by now, only the two of you were left there. “Why? Were you worried about me?” You chuckled, teasing him. Suddenly, it was as if your headache completely disappeared when you saw the nervous look on his face. “Relax, I am joking,” you shook your head, but couldn’t hide your smile.

“I don’t want to annoy you,” you started, slowly packing your stuff as he stood beside you, waiting like a puppy. “But do you think you could give me today’s notes, Soob?”

“You-” he gulped, trying to ignore the nickname. There was simply something about you calling him Soob. “I don’t want it for free though. You could consider it as me owing you one and helping you when you’d need it?” You suggested as you stood up, grabbing your now packed bag. “Uhm, sure,” he nodded, not even paying full attention to what you were saying.

“I’ll text you tonight about the notes then,” you beamed happily, looking like a completely different person as you placed your hand on his arm as a sign of thank you. You were devastated minutes ago, but whoever would see you now wouldn’t believe him if he told them so. Soobin wasn’t sure why, but he was glad you looked fine again.

Soobin threw his bag on the side of his room, jumping into his bed immediately after the long day. He laid down on his back, simply staring at the ceiling of his room. He reached into his pocket for his phone, seeing two unread messages from his best friend. He opened his phone, staring at the two texts. “Look at Instagram” “Thank me later” There wasn’t much for him to question. Even though to many it might seem confusing, he knew exactly whose Instagram he should check. There was only one person that the two of them talked about together after all.

The black-haired male clicked on the icon, waiting for the story to load for a second. Then his eyes widened at the sight. It was a picture of you, but not just any picture. He sat up immediately, looking properly at your body. You were wearing a white top, cropped slightly above your waist. He couldn’t help but notice you weren't wearing a bra underneath, your nipples showing through the fabric. Then he saw the black miniskirt, that you definitely pulled higher than you should. He gulped, remembering how you touched his arm earlier today, your fingers brushing on his skin as your hair fell in front of your face.

He whined silently as he felt his boxers becoming tighter the more he stared at the picture, your body curves exposed for anyone to see. He shared the story with Yeonjun, his best friend, and immediately texted him how good you looked.

Only, did he not know it wasn’t Yeonjun he shared the story to.

Soobin stared at the messages, screaming as he turned his phone off faster than ever before. He couldn’t believe it. He just told you he needed you. There wasn’t anything worse that could be happening at the moment. Not to mention the image of your body was still stuck in his head, making him hard.

He stared at the messages again, his heart fighting with his brain at that moment. He didn’t want to make you do anything, he felt like it would be too forced, even though you were the one suggesting it. But a part of him knew this was his only chance. There was no way he could get you differently. He knew about your dating history, so he also knew you had never been with anyone like him. It was always the boys like Yeonjun, who just understood how to talk to girls properly, how to make them fall for them. But he wasn’t like that, he had no idea what he was doing.

And just like that, he was in front of your place, rethinking his decisions as he knocked on the front door, trying his best to ignore the boner in his pants that still hadn’t gone down. How could it be when you shared a picture like that with him?

“You came,” you mumbled as you opened the door, looking up at him. Soobin looked down on you, noticing the same top you had in the Instagram picture. He gulped, his eyes then falling on the bottom part of your body and the white panties that were the only thing you were wearing. “How could I not?” He whispered, making sure this picture would stay in his mind.

You grabbed his hand as you took him inside, closing the door behind you immediately. It was only now that you noticed how big his hands were against yours. You just hoped he could use them too.

Soobin blindly followed you to your bedroom, his mind full of thoughts about how he should go about this, while his eyes were stuck on your ass, unable to look away as you walked in front of him.

“Can I-” he started as his eyes followed you while you sat on your bed. “You can do absolutely anything, Soob,” you interrupted him, watching as his face turned red. “Soob? Soobie?” You smirked, noticing what the nicknames did to him. “Is that what turns you on?”

“Everything about you turns me on,” he admitted, slowly getting closer to you while you moved back, not taking your eyes off him. You didn’t say anything, you couldn’t. You simply bit your bottom lip as you found him above yourself, holding eye contact. This was becoming more intimate than you thought it would.

“Is it okay for me to kiss you?” He wanted to assure himself one more time. You thought about it for a second, not wanting to give him any hope, but also desperately needing his lips on yours. You nodded to him in the end, grabbing the collar of his shirt and bringing him closer to yourself, pressing your lips on his, your mouth slightly opened which only made it easier for him.

His right hand found its way to your boob, carefully sliding under your top, his cold fingers brushing over your nipple. You groaned into the kiss, clenching around nothing but thin air. It felt pathetic. He had barely touched you and you were already getting wet.

Soobin left your mouth for a second, getting a disagreeing whine immediately that made him smile as he started placing wet kisses all over your neck, slowly moving down to your collarbone and then between your boobs. Your lips parted as you breathed out from the pleasure, raising your head to look at him. “Mhm, take it off,” you whispered, your hand reaching for his sleeve. He didn’t hesitate for a second and listened to you, taking his shirt off while you took down your own, exposing your breast to him completely.

“Fuck,” he groaned at the sight, feeling more and more uncomfortable in his sweatpants. He ran his fingers through his hair, looking at your body one more time before his lips found their way to your breast again, his hand cupping one of them as he pressed kisses on your other boob, his tongue making wet circles around your nipple.

“Fuck,” it was you groaning this time, quiet moans escaping your lips as your nipples became hard at his touch. “Soob, please,” you whined, throwing your head back into the pillow. “Please, what? Hm?” He asked, not even looking up and just continuing what he had been doing until now, his lips moving down again, leaving wet traces on your stomach now as his hands found their way to your waist. “I don’t know. Just- fuck,” you moaned out again when you felt his lips on your clit through your panties.

“Just?” He asked again, looking up at you. You could swear you had never seen anything better in your life. The male was in between your legs, his breath landing right on your clit as he looked at you, absolute need in his eyes.

“Just fuck me already,” you begged, watching as he took down your panties, his eyes fixated on your already leaking pussy. “I don’t think so,” he informed you, moving up again so he would face you. “I doubt you could take it just like that,” he whispered, moving his fingers to your lips. You didn’t need to hear anything else and immediately opened your mouth, sucking on his fingers.

Before you could even register his actions you felt him slowly inserting his two fingers into you, carefully watching you. He did so to make sure he was doing everything right. You weren't completely wrong when you said he probably hasn’t been with a girl in his life. He couldn’t say he would have much experience, but all of his friends were sex addicts - and now he could finally see why - and they couldn’t keep their mouths shut every time the topic came up, so it was only natural for Soobin to catch on to a few things.

You gasped, your eyes rolling back. You knew there was an obvious difference in your hand sizes but god, his fingers were bigger than you thought. “Fuck, curl them now,” you commanded, not daring to look down. He did as you said, feeling his precum on his boxers. He wanted nothing more but to fuck you right then and there, but he knew he had to wait.

It didn’t take much longer for you to squirt on his fingers, especially after he added pressure to your clit too, his thumb making slow circles around while his fingers were stretching your inside.

“Can I eat you out, please?” He asked, looking up at you again, his thumb still rubbing your clit slowly. “Please, y/n,” he begged, making you go crazy. You weren't sure if it was the way he begged you, the way he said your name, or because of his breath on your skin, but you couldn’t say no to him even if you wanted to. “God, please do,” you whined out and just like that, his tongue was pressed on your pussy right away, not wasting any second of the time he had with you.

It had been months since you had cummed thanks to a boy, so you didn’t have any expectations for him when you invited him over. But you were wrong when you thought no boys knew how to take care of their girls anymore because he did exactly what he should, making you cum on his tongue a few minutes after he went down on you, not leaving your trembling cunt even then, letting you ride out your orgasm as his nose was pressed on your clit, his tongue carefully licking every last bit of your cum.

“Soob,” you groaned, pulling his hair, making him finally raise his head and look at you. “Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he mumbled, going up again to kiss you. “And delicious,” he informed you, pressing his lips on yours. “Fuck, Soob, you’re too good,” you mumbled before you kissed him again, slowly sitting up. “Come closer,” you said, grabbing the hem of his pants, and pulling him closer at the same time.

He groaned, his eyes shut tight, his lips unable to stay away from yours. You smirked into the kiss, your hand grabbing his trembling cock over his pants, making him moan. “I don’t usually do this but…” you started, breaking your kiss so you could look at his body properly. “You were so good earlier,” you praised him, not breaking your eye contact as you changed your position so you would be kneeling. “Pants off, baby,”

That alone was enough to make him go crazy. You calling him baby just did something with his head. And with his dick.

“Fuck,” You breathed out when you finally pulled down Soobin’s pants and boxers, your pussy clenching around nothing again. You knew he would be bigger because of his height, but this was more than you had expected.

He cupped your cheeks, making you look up at him. “Are you sure?” You chuckled, simply nodding. “I can take good care of you too, you know,” you proclaimed, looking up at him as your right hand wrapped around his cock, not breaking your eye contact. You knew it must have been making him go insane.

You started slowly, simply kissing his tip and licking off his precum. Then, you decided to try to take his full length into your mouth, but stopped shortly after getting to his half, already feeling like you were going to gag any second. There was no way you could do this.

However, Soobin saw it differently. To him, it looked like you were playing with him, moving slowly and carefully on purpose to tease him. His hand found its way to your head, carefully tugging the hair that was getting in front of your face behind your ears before he held your chin up, making you look at him, his dick still in your mouth. “Think you can go faster, pretty? Please,” He asked, hoping maybe begging would help him.

He groaned when he felt you suck harder, trying to go faster too but failing miserably. He chuckled at the sight, his hand in your hair so he could control the speed himself. “If you want to stop, just punch me, or something, okay? Try not to bite my dick off if you can’t take it anymore, though,” he told you, and before you could even look up at him again and question what he was talking about, he was moving with your head on his own as if you were just a toy to fulfill his needs. If you were honest, you were glad he did so. It was turning you on more.

“Fuck, just a bit more,” he moaned out, thrusting his hips into your mouth as you sucked on him. He didn’t dare to look at you just yet, he felt like he would stop if he saw you in the moment, scared he might have been hurting you by determining his speed.

When Soobin finally looked at you there were tears in your eyes, and his cum was all over your mouth. He cupped your cheeks, wiping the tears from your eyes with his thumbs. “Sorry,” he mumbled. You looked up at him, high on all the pleasure you felt until now thanks to him. God, you knew you needed to do this more often from now on. You licked the corner of your mouth, making sure not a single drop was wasted.

“You’re not done yet, are you?” You asked, your puppy eyes almost making him cum again right away. “Fuck, no I am not,” he answered, leaning down to you to kiss you again.

Soon after, Soobin found himself sitting on the edge of your bed, his back pressed against the white walls while you sat on him, your head on his shoulder, biting into his skin so you wouldn’t get too loud as he fucked you. Holding your ass, he was helping you remain at the same speed, moaning along with you. “So close, Soob,” you cried out. “Hold in a bit more,” he whispered, closing his eyes as he felt himself getting closer to finishing again, too.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, a mixture of your own and Soobin’s cum leaking from your pussy. You raised your head slowly, your cheeks completely red as you looked into his eyes, still sitting on his cock. “Soob, this was the best sex I’ve ever had. God, you were so good.” He bit onto his bottom lip, watching your fucked out face. “Oh, yeah?” He asked, even more embarrassed than you were. “Does that mean you’ll let me fuck you again next time?”

“Soob…” you mumbled, just watching him for a second before you carefully got off him. He just shook his head before you could say anything else. “I know, I know, don’t worry,” he muttered. “I still needed to try it,” he smiled awkwardly, his dimples being the cutest thing you had ever seen. “Let me help you clean yourself up before I leave. It's the least I can do,” He suggested. You nodded to him, convinced this was the last time you were together like this. You couldn't be more wrong though.

You knew you couldn’t stay away from him for too long when he helped you to get into your bathroom and his fingers found their way to your clit again, making you melt at his touch. Even worse was when he carried you to your bed after he switched your bedsheet for you, asking you to let him eat you out one more time before he would leave you alone for good.

You just couldn’t let him get away.

“Fuck, Soob,” you mumbled, sitting on the edge of your bed, watching him kneeling in front of you, begging to feel your cum on his tongue again. “You’re going to be the death of me, aren’t you?” His innocent eyes looked up at you, his hands rubbing your thighs. You sighed, “Just stay here.”

You could swear you saw sparks in his eyes as the words left your mouth. “Really? Can I?”

You nodded, agreeing. “Sleep here tonight, I’ll let you eat me out again next time.”

Soobin smiled proudly, his hands squeezing your thighs. “Only next time?”

“God, just come here,” you proclaimed, pulling him up from the floor into a warm kiss, feeling his hands roaming on your body again. The night was still nowhere to be done.

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sam-keeper · 1 month ago

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Hey Look At This Comic: Chainsaw Man and Don't Get Around Much Anymore

this title is so funny. hey you probably haven't heard of this small indie comic, yeah it's pretty obscure it's called Chainsaw Man.

here's an even funnier joke: hey have you heard of this comics guy, name of Art Spiegelman?

before Spiegelman wrote that book you probably know him better for (ha ha he he) he did a lot of other comix, particularly a lot of one page experiments. one in particular stuck with me: Don't Get Around Much Anymore, a simple exploration of a narrator's apartment. there's a lot things Spiegelman does to enhance the sense of stasis, isolation, and depressive gloom in this comic, and the New Yorker a while back published a great summary by Spiegelman of his own techniques. what stuck with me the most was the sense of time out of joint created by his manipulation of narrating text and panel contents. throughout the comic, the text and images are "out of synch [sic]". for many panels, the text describes the image we've just seen rather than being illustrated by the panel it's in. there's even a weird pivot in the middle where we briefly look ahead before getting caught again in the backward flow.

because of the kind of person I am, I flashed back to this comic after reading Chainsaw Man issue 172. in it there's a bunch of moments where speech bubbles and panels also seem to be out of sync. so, I dug DGAMA out again and took a look. actually, I did more than reread it: I followed its soundtrack instructions, "to be read to the accompaniment of a dripping faucet, slowly." I'm trying to do more dumb bullshit that artists tell me to do these days because A. it's not like they're going to squirt me with their rubber flower or get me with the ol' ink around the telescope trick, come on and B. we do all kinds of arbitrary, annoying tasks in order to access an intended artistic experience: we call it "video games".

so I went in the bathroom with my girlfriend's copy of Metamaus, found the page where they reproduce DGAMA, and adjusted the faucet. how slowly to drip? well, if it's too low "slowly" becomes "inaudibly" so nudge it up a bit more. ok, tap... tap... couldn't hear that one... tap... good enough. and I read, and when I got to the panel where the narrator's description lines up with the panel contents, "all the water I can use pours out of the faucet with a flick of the wrist," the faucet made the loudest little "plop" yet. damn. A+ Art.

the reading experience is something like this: where a comic might often get chewed up fast, eyes rushing across the page, this one encourages a kind of juddering, halting back and forth between panels. it's almost got a hypnotic quality, paired with the dripping tap. it's such a simple page, but I found myself weaving back and forth over it many times in order to make sense of all the relations. the schematic representations at the top of the page take on an almost mocking quality--you can piece together the floor plan and how everything fits together, but doing so just pulls you into the comic deeper.

the effect of disjointed time in Chainsaw Man isn't the same, but there's some parallels. I find that I have to reread Tatsuki Fujimoto's action sequences a lot of the time to figure out just what is happening in them. this could be seen as a flaw but I think creates a deliberate sense of chaos. whatever occurs in Chainsaw Man can be understood, but only after the fact. in the moment events just occur, then we are invited to dissect the aftermath like crime scene investigators.

for that kind of effect, the disorienting pairing of seemingly out of sync words and drawings works perfectly. Fujimoto likes action sequences that don't linger on the tweens, jumping instead from impact to impact to impact. (this contrasts his dialogue scenes which often incorporate pauses and repeated static panels.) in the page here, a devil whose deal I can't be bothered to remember says "I dodged it!" only to realize that their head's been cut off. only, that's not really right, is it? the speech bubble is "I dodged it!" but in the panel the killing blow has already been struck. the speech bubble, as in Spiegelman's comic, seems to be lagging a bit behind the action. look at the two page splash too: if we're inclined to read the action the same way we read the rest of the comic, right to left, we arrive on the right hand of the page, where the action has already completed. we don't follow Chainsaw Man's trajectory but instead focus on where he already is, reconstructing the violence as we pass back across the rest of the page. to me, the skipping of intermediate moments, the page compositions, and this disunity between text and image, invites something similar to the passing back and forth over panels that we see in DGAMA.

is it that deep? if you think about this I suppose you can conclude "this is the character dying before they know it" which, sure, though I think that raises some interesting questions like "how do you get a whole sentence out with a severed windpipe and vocal cords". there's a moment later on when some dude is like "you guys! get behind me!" as, again, the panel shows his head and arms flying off. I guess there's a pretty established convention in manga and anime at this point of allowing gravity to be as weak as it needs, in order to let someone say as much as they want while their limbs are flying off, not unlike opera's convention of having someone get stabbed and then stand up to sing an aria with the sword still sticking out of their lungs.

nevertheless, I think it feels experientially distinct when you have a static image, ostensibly representing a unit of time, and the panel contents are this transparently incompatible. a more interesting way of looking at it is: death comes so fast for these characters that the comic can't keep up. it's not the speech but the speech bubbles that are out of joint here, the action leaving its medium behind. it's a radically different end effect than the one Spiegelman aims for, and is a lot less ready for the cover of The New Yorker, but the underlying principle of decoupling word and image in order to create a sense of time not quite functioning correctly remains the same.

if you wanted to achieve this in film, what could you do? maybe desync the audio track? it's an interesting possibility, though one I think a lot of viewers would experience as a transcoding error rather than an intended effect. or you could do something like the astonishing sequence in the most recent episode of The Elusive Samurai where, like Chainsaw Man, intermediate actions are removed so that a character is abruptly standing next to a bunch of headless corpses blooming blood flowers in slow motion. there's ways to capture something of the energy of Fujimoto's work.

...I don't think the anime adaptation of Chainsaw Man really tries, for the most part. both the slow awkwardness of conversations with their static compositions, and the way the action tends to skip clear movement for noise and destructive aftermath, aren't really suited to the style of high budget blockbuster anime, which wants to pack the screen with little movements, as though to make sure the money is visible with each frame, all the ones accounted for. the adaptation has largely opted to look as good as possible all the time, for a given value of good, in a way that I think loses a lot of the grungy charm of the comic.

even the most suited adaptation, though, would still lack one of the fundamental qualities of the comic page: its altogetherness, its arthrology as Thierry Groensteen terms it, its nature as a bunch of panels in a metaframe, taken in at a glance, or pages easily flipped back and forth across. it's this that allows us to pass back and forth over the page like we're reconstructing the calamity from the evidence after the fact.

this post originally ran on Cohost on August 19, 2024. you can read more reviews in the Hey Look At This Comic tag and support me on Patreon.

#Hey Look At This Comic #comics #Chainsaw man #manga #comix #art spiegelman #tatsuki fujimoto #comic review #comic recommendations

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mbsneur · 8 months ago

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Secret Games

Alexia Putellas x Ona Batlle

Summary: friends? Lovers? Friends with benefits?

WC: 4,5k (a long one)

Warnings: Smut18+,vibrators,rough sex,oral sex, Dom!Alexia, strap-ons, cunnilingus,overstimulation,squirting

My Masterlist

please just read the text before you start reading :)

It has happened what some of you have been waiting for all this time I AM BACK and then with Alexia x Ona you all wished for it and your wish is my command it has been time to think and if I post now it does not mean I will post every day or every other day understand and let me come back in I will post when I am well and have enough time maybe in the next few weeks this fic may not be my best work yet I appreciate any kind of feedback it is a fic I wrote with @patrywoso a collaboration and I love it! !

every mistake and the punctuation was taken care of @melissabarreraswife lots of love <3

I'm curious how you like the fic, let me/us know and if you have any wishes or want to write something, my requests are open :) now u can read

Lots of love <3

spain camp.

Alexia and Ona played against Canada yesterday; it was a tough game that ended 1-1.

The two sit in the meeting room. Montserat just gave her speech about things that need to be improved and that could be better.

Ona sat in the second row with her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her tongue clicked against her palate, and her head rolled to the side. Her eyes met Alexia's.

Alexia and Ona were friends with benefits; they didn’t know what they were; maybe friends who had sex from time to time; nobody knew about it, only the two of them. Alexia looked at Ona as if she would undress her at any moment, preferably in front of all her teammates.

After every game, the captains had to give a speech about how things went from their point of view, so Alexia had to do the same.

Alexia’s eyes left Ona’s before she stood up and walked forward. Ona naturally admired Alexia, her powerful eyes that made her melt, her breathtaking smile that she always uses at the perfect moment, and her defined muscles. Her biceps peeking out of her t-shirt, her god, her veiny hand

Ona had other thoughts than this soccer game and it‘s mistakes. Ona thought about what Alexia could do with her hands. Ona couldn’t hold back her heavy breathing as she hastily crossed one leg over the other and pressed her thighs together. Her jaw visibly tensed, and her eyes bored into Alexia’s form.

Ona watched closely as Alexia’s lips moved. She noticed how nervous Alexia became at her looks. Alexia tried to look away.

Ona noticed that someone next to her was keeping an eye on Alexia, the new player in the squad. Sheila, you all called her "shei."

She looked at Alexia as if she were in love, and Alexia gave Shei a little smile. Ona didn’t know if she should be jealous or what it was that made her feel that way. She wanted to be the only one for Alexia.

Ona looked away annoyed and decided to concentrate on the game and alexia’s speech. She leaned back in the chair, and her face turned into an annoyed look.

The Team meeting was over, and Ona walked with Cata and Patri towards the exit.

“Ona-Onita”

She heard shouting from behind as she tourned around, smiling Alexia came towards her with the biggest smile she had seen in a long time.

Alexia put an arm around Ona’s narrow shoulders and came closer to her hairline.

“Why don’t you wait for me, idiota?” says Alexia ironically

Ona rolled her eyes in the back of her head. “Why don’t you go with Shei? i think you can ask. Maybe you’ll be assigned to a room with her.” Ona says annoyed, and Alexia starts laughing.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are u being mean to her? We should be nice to the new ones,” Alexia replies with a laugh.

Ona looks angrily at Alexia. Her breathing becomes loud as if she could burst at any moment. “I’m serious, Alexia, go to her,” says ona, more annoyed than before.

“Mh, do you want to go to our room and I’ll massage this anger away from you? How does that sound?” Alexia whispers in Ona’s ear, gently stroking her auricle

Ona’s breathing becomes heavy at the light but intense touch. “i want to rest, Ale,” Ona says and shakes her shoulders to remove Alexia’s arm.

Alexia sighs and lets go of Ona. She groans annoyed and trots after Ona.

The others have gathered in the common room as they do every evening. Will it be

noticeable that Ona and Alexia are the only ones who will be missing?

When Alexia and Ona reach their shared

room, Alexia's arms immediately wrap

around Ona's narrow hips and pull her close to her chest.

She lays her head gently on Ona's shoulder, and Ona tries to squirm, but Alexia pulls her closer to her.

"What's wrong with you, Bonita?" Alexia whispers in her ear and nibbles on her earlobe. Ona lets herself fall close to alexia

and sighs against her, her eyes closed and her body tight against Alexia in her arms.

Alexia's lips move to the side of Ona's neck, and she gives out lots of firm kisses that combine with sucking and nibbling ona‘s

mouth wide open before she gets a word in edgewise.

"Talk to me, what's wrong," Alexia says

emotionally and leans closer to Ona. One of her hands moves up Ona‘s belly and pulls lightly on the hem of her shirt.

"Because she wouldn't stop fucking looking at you like she wants to eat you out," Ona says, annoyed and tries to push away from Alexia.

Alexia starts to laugh. Her hand moves to one of Ona's breasts and pinches her nipple. Ona yells, "Shh, are you jealous, Cari?" Alexia says in a deeper voice. Her finger pinches Ona's now-hard nipple again.

"I am not," Ona sighs.

"I think it's fucking hot when you're

jealous," Alexia says, taking Ona's whole

breast in her hand. Ona moans and lets her whole weight fall against Alexia now.

With a quick movement, Alexa turns Ona around, and her mouth presses down on Ona's Her strong hand grabs Ona's neck, and Ona gasps into Alexia's throat.

Alexia's grip tightens, and she takes the opportunity to slide her tongue into Ona's mouth. Alexia suckers on Ona's tongue. Alexia's hands go from Ona's neck to her breasts. She squeezes them tightly.

Ona finds it hard to kiss Alexia; her kisses

become wet and a wild mess.

After a few seconds, Alexia lets go of Ona, breathing heavily, and looks at her swollen, wet lips.

"Take your clothes off," said Alexia and tilted her head up slightly.

"Ale, if someone hears us and we are the only ones not there," says Ona with slight fear and takes a step back.

"Now," Alexia said confidently.

Ona liked playing around with Alexia; she

loved being a brat who gets punished.

Ona pulled her shirt over her head and

threw it straight into Alexia's arms cheekily

with a mischievous smile.

"Ona, behave or you'll get the fucking

punishment," Alexia says dominantly, and

Ona just rolls her eyes.

"Don't you want to play with me?" Ona asks

cheekily and winks at Alexia.

Alexia hates this cheeky way Alexia could fuck her until she can't spell cheeky anymore.

Ona removes her pants and sees Alexia's

hungry eyes staring at her, at which Ona could only smile

Alexia crosses her arms and doesn't let the little girl out of her sight for a second. She loves it when Ona does what she wants and how every single one of her muscles tenses with these movements. Alexia's eyes widen as Ona bends down to fold her clothes carefully.

Alexia put Ona's clothes aside and then

took up her form. She wore Alexia's favorite underwear, the white lace bra and the

white thong, and with the little bow, Ona

knew what she was doing.

"Thong out of bra on," Alexia said bossily

and pointed to Ona's bra and thong.

Alexia walked past Ona and sat with her legs apart on the edge of the bed. Ona stood small and frightened in front of her. "Where is your big mouth? Are you scared?" Alexia asked with her lip hanging out.

Ona just shakes her head. "Come on my lap, ass up in the air, babygirl." Alexia spits out, and Ona walks tenderly towards her. She knows exactly what's coming. Alexia is leaning back. Her arms hold her up. She watches Ona as she lies down on her lap.

As soon as Ona lies completely on Alexia's lap, Alexia's hand gently strokes Ona's back. "What a pretty girl." Alexia moans, and Ona's lower lip lies firmly between her

teeth. Her whole body is tense.

"Say it," Alexia says before reaching into the meat in Ona's ass. Ona grunts and thinks about her next words, "Imma, pretty girl."

slap

"Fu-fuck," Ona groans and supports herself, but Alexia presses her head firmly onto the

mattress.

"Say it again, baby," Alexia says with raised eyebrows.

"I'm a pretty girl," Ona says out of breath.

slap

"Fuck ale," Ona moans in pain.

One of Alexia's hands grabs Ona's bun and pulls her up. "You're a pretty girl, my pretty girl, lo entiendes?" Alexia says harshly and pulls harder on Ona's hair.

"I understand," Ona gasps and tries to look

at Alexia.

"What do you understand?" Alexia pulls harder, and her teeth clench tightly.

"That I'm your pretty girl, please," Ona says tearfully, and Alexia drops Ona's head. Ona bounces back onto the varnish, and Alexia's

hand lies flat on her tailbone.

"I'm going to have to remind you who you

belong to, relax, Valerie?" Alexia says,

watching Ona's every reaction.

"You want to beat me? You want to torture me," Ona says cheekily, and with a raspy voice, Alexia smiles at her words.

"Count them for me," Alexia says with a

grin, and Ona sighs hard into the sheets.

slap

"one..."

slap

,,two.."

,,Good girl," Alexia says proudly and massages Ona's ass cheeks.

slap

,,Three fuck ale."

"You can still take some, I know it," says

Alexia, whimpering and pressing against

Ona's cheeks.

slap

,,four-,,

slap

,,Five.. I can't ale."

"Have you had enough? You have to understand if you behave like a brat, I will treat you like a brat, mh?" Alexia says, stuttering and looking at Ona's now red ass.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Will you fuck me now, please?" Ona asks tearfully and turns her head to look at Alexia.

Alexia smiles, and Ona's legs spread

automatically.

Alexia's fingers graze the inside of Ona's

thigh. Ona trembles at the gentle touch.

"Are you wet, Bonita?" Alexia asks, and her fingers move on to Ona's core.

"So wet, please, Alexia," Ona says slightly out of breath and tries to rock herself

against Alexia's finger. "God, you're so desperate," Alexia says nervously, and her middle finger goes straight through Ona's folds and absorbs her wetness.

"F-uck," Ona whimpers, and Alexia's finger

plunges into her dripping hole. She moves painfully slowly; her walls squeeze around her finger. "You are so tight. How long have you not been fucked, mh?" Alexia asks, and Ona moans, "I need more, please."

"Answer my question," Alexia said,

croaking, and gave her another slap on the bottom. Ona squirmed.

"Stop moving so much," Alexia says and

clicks her tongue. Alexia pushes another

finger in, which immediately makes Ona moan louder.

"The last one to fuck me was you, and it's been 3 days," says Ona, moaning and

pushing her body upwards.

“That’s right, it will be the last thing you remember,” says Alexia and bends down to kiss Ona’s back

“You feel so fucking good fuck,” Ona screams and arches her back. Her legs spread wider as Alexia’s pace became more erratic.

“Do you want to cum like this spread out?” Alexia asks out of breath, and her eyes widen as she notices Ona’s arched back.

“Fuck yes, please,” Ona begs and tries to cover her moans.

“Don’t you dare cover your mouth. I want to hear you, and i don’t care if the others hear it,” Alexia warns and pulls ona up by her bun again, this time with more force.

Ona’s eyes are glassy, so desperate for an orgasm, “I want to cum please,” Ona moans and looks at Alexia.

“Will you do what i want without being a brat?” Alexia asks, and her fingers hit the perfect spot in Ona’s hole. Ona’s legs tense and tremble against Alexia’s hand.

Ona grinds her teeth. She tries to delay her orgasm as much as possible. “Yes, please, can i cum?” Ona whimpers and rolls her eyes into the back of her head. The sounds with each thrust are obscene and pornographic.

“Good girl, cum for me,” Alexia whispers and speeds up. Ona’s walls get tight around Alexia’s thick fingers. Her thigh muscles are tense, and Ona’s head rests on the lacquer. With her little scream, she comes on Alexia’s fingers.

Ona rides out her orgasm when she has fully relaxed, and Alexia removes her fingers from her Ona’s juices stick to her hand— quite a mess. Ona’s inner thighs are soaking wet, and Ona whimpers to herself

Alexia caught sight of Ona. The aftershocks of her orgasm rushing through her body caught Ona’s gaze and stared into her hazel eyes. “Suck on it,” Alexia said energetically and stretches her wet fingers into Ona’s face.

Without thinking, Ona takes Alexia’s fingers in her mouth up to her knuckels. Alexia moans at the feeling and watches Ona as she licks a long strip from her knuckels to her fingertips to make sure everything is clean.

“Swallow it all of it,” Alexia orders and rams her fingers deeper into Ona’s throat, making her gasp with a loud pop. Alexia pulls her fingers out and spreads her saliva over Ona’s cheek.

“You’re so fucking hot, baby,” Alexia says with a grunt and gives Ona an intense kiss on the lips. Her hands reach for Ona’s hips to place her gently on her back

Alexia works her way to Ona's jawline and

nibbles at her skin. Her hands find their

way to the clasp of Ona's bra; she removes it and throws it somewhere in the room.

Ona's mouth is open. Her breathing is heavy. Alexia's tongue is now working on her neck. "You will take my cock... the big one, Cari," Alexia says in a low voice, and Ona's eyes meet hers. Ona nods at her words, "Talk to me, Onita; I won't fuck you for the next three months otherwise." Alexia spits and rolls her eyes, annoyed.

"You won't make it anyway." ona grin

Alexia doesn't like the words at all. She slaps Ona on the thigh and runs to her suitcase. ona startles. The pain spreads over her entire left side.

She looks up and down as she pulls her shirt over her head, her eyes full of lust. "See my little slut to ruin," Alexia says devilishly, and she pulls her trousers down her strong thighs. Alexia's legs are tense.

ona watches Alexia bent down to her

suitcase. Ona wasn't a butt girl, but something about Alexia's bum turned her

on. It was defined and muscular, and with every walk it tensed and moved slightly. Ona's bottom lip is between her teeth. Her eyes wander over Alexia's whole body, and she can't suppress the moan that comes out of her mouth.

Alexia wasn't lying when she said that Ona would take the big strap; it was really

bigger than the ones they usually use.

Ona's eyes widen at the sight of the cock. between Alexia's legs uncontrollably. She opens her legs wider and slides up and down. She is impatient.

Alexia steps forward to the edge of Ona's bed. She kisses her shin and takes her other knee firmly in her hand. Her other hand caresses Ona's thigh. Ona's skin is flushed. Her cheeks burn. Alexia's mouth moves higher and opens Ona's legs wider. She kisses all the way up to Ona's neck, and she now hovers completely over her.

"You want my cock inside you, don't you?" Alexia says, breathing heavily against Ona's sensitive skin, "Yes, please." Ona whimpers tearfully and presses herself against Alexia to create some kind of friction. "Please, who?” Alexia says, stunned, smirking slightly at what she knows is driving Ona crazy

"Please, ma'am," Ona says breathlessly and reaches for Alexia's body to pull her closer to her.

"You're so pretty when you know how to use your words." Alexia whispers, and her cock gently brushes the inside of Ona's

thigh. Ona's breath hitches, and her hips lift against the cock.

"Be gentle, Ale," Ona whispers against Alexia's lips. Alexia strokes her cock right in front of Ona's entrance; her hips gently

thrust in, causing a deep croak from Ona's throat.

Alexia pushes deeper into Ona; her lips

collide and catch in a frenzied kiss. "Mark

me; everyone should know who I belong to," Ona moans against Alexia, and Alexia, lets out a harsh grunt. Her lips land on the crook of her neck. She nibbles and sucks on

it like the world champion she is.

"Fuck faster-shit-harder, please," Ona

moans.

Alexia doesn't need to be told twice, and her hips start to find a fast rhythm, her hips. slapping hard against Ona's bare skin with every trust.

"Arch your back for me." Whimpers Alexia Ona's back lifts and presses against Alexia's tits. “You take me so well, Bonita.” Alexia croaks againts Ona’s chest, her lips still firmly against her skin to mark her.

Alexia gets faster, and Ona’s noises get louder.

“Ah, fuck you close so well around me,” Alexia croaks against Ona. Her fingers press firmly into the sides of Ona’s hips.

Alexia’s teeth scrape over Ona’s neck. A shiver flies over Ona’s back.

“You’re mine,” groaned Alexia, and Ona cried out her thighs, squeezing tightly around Alexia’s hips. “Naw, do you want to cum already, baby?” Alexia asks, and Ona just moans and presses her head deeper into the sheets.

“I need to cum please, Alexia.” Ona’s words were coiled in her throat. Her voice is rough, and Ona’s legs start to tremble, and Alexia realizes how tight Ona gets around her cock. it’s a rush of emotion.

Alexia’s head falls to the side, and she realizes how close she is. “That’s it, cum for me, baby,” Alexia says, yearned. Her legs get heavy. She struggles to keep one open. Ona is a big mess. “so desperately for my cock, cum finally,” Alexia adds.

Ona's walls squeeze around Alexia with a

moan of her name, Ona Cum, on her cock.

Her breathing has become heavy just a little bit of life. She is so fucked, but Alexia is far from done with her.

Ona was just about to relax when Alexia takes mine and presses it over her head. Ona screams at the feeling of the cock going deep inside her "sensitive ale." Onal cries and knocks against Alexia's thigh.

Alexia doesn't stop pumping into her. Her hips get faster.

"No, take it." Alexia grunts and feels her orgasm getting closer and closer. Ona is overstimulated; her tears are shaking, and Alexia's hips are getting faster and faster.

Alexia holds Ona's legs in the air. Ona cries; only tears form at the corner of her eyes.

"Tell me who you belong to." Alexia's words become stuttery. Her eyes roll, and her

mouth is wet. "To you, Ale, go on, cum

inside me," she moans, and her hands

scratch Alexia's back.

Alexia gets weaker. Her legs get weak with

her last trust. When she comes into Ona,

she drops Ona's legs and falls on the little, now weak girl.

Ona's arms immediately close around Alex's neck to pull her close for an intimate hug. She kisses Alex's temples. Alexia's

breath is faint, as is her whole body.

“What’s going on? Are you done with me yet?” says Ona playfully.

Alexia lifts her head, and her eyes darken. “Una zorra así no se cansa de mi polla.”

Alexia says angrily before grabbing Ona’s hips and turning her onto her stomach. Her Cock hasn’t left Ona for a second. “Ask me that again after a few more orgasms, you fucking little slut.” Alexia spits and starts pumping into Ona again from behind.

Ona screams out; she wasn’t prepared for the speed Alexia puts on.

“Ale, a little slower, please.” Ona cries, but Alexia doesn’t slow down; on the contrary, she only gets faster.

"You like being such a naughty bitch; you'll

take what I give you," Alexia says with clenched teeth, her hands firmly around Ona's hips.

"Fuckfuck," Ona screams, her legs giving

way.

"You're doing so well; we'll keep going until you've learned what a brat you were once

again," croaks Alexia and gives Ona a slap on the shoulder.

Alexia gets faster. Ona can hardly think straight; her next orgasm builds up; her

belly is kind and Alexia merciless.

"Ale, you're going to make me cum fuck-

right there," Ona cried out. Alexia hits the perfect spot inside Ona.

"No apology first."

"please alexia I'm sorry it won't happen again, please." She begs, and a small smile spreads across Alexia's lips.

"I can't hold it anymore, ale, please." Ona is

a trembling mess.

"yeah baby? Do you have to cum?" Alexia asks playfully, her nails scratching over Ona's sensitive cheeks.

"Such a pretty girl, let me give you what you

need, mh?"

"Ya, please, I beg you." Ona grunts; her noises are getting smaller; it's too much.

"There is it; what a good girl cum on my cock," Alexia says she feels relaxed around her.

Ona comes over to Alexia; Alexia's thighs

are wet from Ona's juices. "Look what a pretty pussy you have. You are so fuckable, you know that," Alexia asks.

"Stop; I can't take it anymore. Too much

ale." Ona cries; she tries to move away from Alexia. “Sh, you can take another one for me, mh.”

“I swear I’ll get Shei in here.” Ona shouts angrily and overstimulated. Her fingers are sore, and her hips will probably be blue from Alexia’s hands tomorrow.

Alexia grabs Ona’s bun and pulls her head up a little. “Stop with these stupid statements; otherwise, I swear I’ll fuck you in hotel corridor, and we’ll all take turns on you; better behave yourself,” Alexia says, and then immediately drops Ona’s head on the sheets.

Alexia keeps pumping into her without a break.

"Come on, babes, I got you; you just want to fuck you dumb, mh."

Alexia's hands glided over every sensitive part of Ona's body. "So good for me."

Alexia's voice was soft, yet her thrusts were rough.

Ona's breathing is interrupted with an obscene moan as she pushes the toy into her alexia's hands. Feel Ona's flushed cheeks before she thrusts hard. Her hips move backwards before she pulls the toy out completely until only the tip is left

inside her before Alexia thrusts hard into Ona again.

"Fuck-oh god," moans Ona as Alexia starts to fuck her again at a brutal pace so that the bed starts to shake with evers trust. The back of the beds hits the wall. Ona was sure the whole house would hear it.

As Alexia thrusts her hips forward and hits places Ona didn’t even know existed, screams escape Ona as she alternately tries to bury her face in the sheets. “Stop it, I want to hear you; I want to hear you scream my name, fuck.” alexia whimpers

“Please, can i cum?” begs ona and moves her hips in a rhythm with Alexia.

“Cum for me,” she gasps as she pushes her hips further into Ona. Ona tenses up immediately. She lets go and lets orgasm come over her with a scream of Alexia’s name.

Ona twitches underneath her. After a few seconds, Alexia removes herself from Ona’s dripping cunt. With a pop, the cock pops out of her. Ona’s juices are spread on her and Alexia’s thighs. She literally drops her arse cheeks redden, and her legs struggle to hold herself up.

Alexia lets the toy fall off her before standing up and going to her suitcase again. “Turn around and lay down, baby, and open your legs wide. I want to your dripping pussy,” Alexia says with her back turned to ona.

She rummages in her suitcase and pulls out a black vibrator. Ona lies weakly on the bed, her legs wide open, her juices running out of her, her chest rises and falls only weakly, her belly is wet, and her breasts are full of hickeys. Alexia smiles at the sight of her fucked brat.

Alexia scurries over to Ona and lies down between her spread legs. She switches the vibrator on to the middle, and Ona lifts her head to meet Alexia’s eyes. “ Look at you all fucked up, mh?” She taunts and presses the vibrator against Ona’s clit, causing her to squirm. “Sh, stay calm, baby, I’ll take care of you,” Alexia says caringly and brings Ona legs back to her place.

“My little slut, my good girl,” Ona’s legs tremble. her eyes shake in the back of her head. She feels her coming closer. A guttural sound escapes her as Ona comes again.

Ona hopes Alexia will stop, but she doesn’t. “i can’t fuck” Ona sobs. Ona is mixed with pain and tears. Her legs try to close, Alexia pushes her head between them and starts to lick the juice from Ona’s thighs.

“Yes, you can,” assures Alexia, and she licks her thighs mixed with little kisses. “Come again for me, Bonita; you look so pretty.”

As if on cue, Ona’s body tenses under Alexia one last time fluid pours out of Ona as she squirts over the vibrator and Alexia’s mouth

A series of screams echo through the room. Ona’s hips jerk around wildly until Alexia sets up the vibrator and puts it aside.

“Shh, baby, you were so good. I’m so proud of you.” Alexia whispers and crawls up to Ona.

“What do we actually do here every time?” Ona asks sentimentally and lies down gently in Alexia’s arms.

“I don’t know. i don’t if i can try.” Alexia says and spreads kisses on Ona’s face. “What do you want to try Ale?” Ona asks and closes her eyes while lying tightly on Alexia’s chest.

“To love you, Alexia says nervously and quickly moves away from Ona. “I’ll get something to clean you up, then we’ll cuddle for a while, okay?” Alexia says and sits up. She makes her way to the bathroom to make a rag with warm water.

a loud knock on the door

“Stop fucking yourselves and come play Fifa, my god,” yells Jenni from the other side of the door.

Fuck

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