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seiwas · 11 months ago

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three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

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

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing.

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in.

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating.

A crush. On you. Huh.

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

This feels… new, he thinks.

Shouto knows his Mondays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering.

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking?

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?)

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking.

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all.

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

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

He gives you a look.

You stop moving.

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.”

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

Kirishima’s right.

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

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

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

You.

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time.

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit.

Bakugo watches.

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

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

“Y’coming or what?”

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.”

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto.

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now.

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip.

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?”

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

Shouto stares right back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it.

A thump.

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

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

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

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

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in.

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.”

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back.

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head.

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly.

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

These family lunches keep them connected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

All Shouto hears is a thump.

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is.

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw.

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.”

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

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

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

Another thump.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!”

He takes a step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring.

Touya snorts as he passes him.

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

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

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence.

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

Touya’s words come back to him.

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!”

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head.

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you.

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

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

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

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

A thump.

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you.

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

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

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

You still care for him in the same way.

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

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

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

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

He thinks you look cute.

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

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.”

You take a deep breath.

“Go!”

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need first-aid. But—)

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

(You don’t need first-aid. But—)

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

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

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!”

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too.

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

It’s only right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and that thump beats once more.

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

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

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?”

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

Your grip on the stems tighten.

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

“It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no occasion…?”

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

Shouto blinks.

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

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

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

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

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

Thump.

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

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

“No occasion.”

Shouto knows your Mondays.

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

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

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

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

Shouto knows your Mondays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thump.

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

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

“You’re back!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

So for you to keep it for this long—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is out of the ordinary.

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

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

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly.

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

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

He places his palm on the top folder.

“What else do you have to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That promptly shuts you up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

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

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

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

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

A thump.

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

A thump.

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

A thump.

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

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

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

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

You know him better than anyone else does.

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk.

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

You freeze, holding your breath.

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.”

A three-beat thump.

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

additional material: moodboard + playlist

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

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

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#shouto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #bnha x reader #prettyboysummercollab #mha x reader #shouto todoroki x reader #shouto x you #todoroki shouto x you #bnha x you #shotorus.writes #shouto #bnha #three-part honesty #if i have any typos pls let me know.... HHAHAHAHA

1K notes · View notes

elizaleclerc · 1 year ago

Text

austria ୨♡୧

lando norris x reader

summary: journalist!reader and lando get into an argument after the austrian gp

song: novacane by frank ocean

author's note: for the lando girlies who are struggling after the triple header </3 (also im back hiiii long time no see)

word count: 2.3k

As an F1 journalist, your job is not for the faint of heart. You are constantly on edge, especially when it comes to your boyfriend's performance on the track. Today, at the Austrian Grand Prix, he battled fiercely with Max, their cars weaving in and out of each other's paths. You watched with bated breath, your fingernails digging into your palms as you feared the worst - a catastrophic collision that could send either one of them careening into the unforgiving walls. The smell of burnt rubber and gasoline filled your nostrils as you anxiously awaited the outcome of this intense race.

As a professional in the racing world, you were well aware of the scrutiny and attention that came with your job. But nothing could have prepared you for the media frenzy that erupted when news of your romance with the British driver, Lando, became public knowledge. You felt a twinge of fear for the safety of your job, but thankfully no major consequences arose from the slight controversy.

In fact, as fans began to capture sweet moments between you and Lando on their cameras, it seemed that they had come around to accepting and even celebrating your relationship. As you often walked together through the bustling paddock, surrounded by the sights and smells of burning rubber and adrenaline, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and support of those around you.

The rumble of engines crescendoed as the final laps of the race drew near. Max and Lando were neck and neck, their cars weaving through tight turns as they fought for first place. The tension was palpable in the air, and the crowd held its breath in anticipation. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed throughout the track - Max and Lando's cars had collided, their tires punctured and dreams of victory shattered.

Max raced into the pits, his heart pounding as his crew frantically worked to repair his car. On the sidelines, Lando's team watched helplessly as he climbed out of his damaged vehicle, frustration etched on his face. The once friendly rivalry between them now burned with disappointment and regret.

As you stood in the garage watching the chaos unfold, memories of shared dinners and late night parties with Max and Lando flooded your mind. But now, all you could feel was an anxious knot in your stomach, knowing that you wouldn't be able to see Lando until after his post-race interviews.

As your boss informed you that you would be the one conducting Lando's post-race interview, your worries swelled to a fever pitch. You anxiously fiddled with your microphone, feeling its weight in your hand as you mentally prepared for the task ahead. As you completed your first couple of interviews with ease, speaking to Charles and Lewis who had their well-rehearsed PR speeches at the ready, you couldn't shake off the nagging feeling that Lando would be a different challenge altogether. You knew his tendency to deviate from the script given by his assistant, opting instead to speak his mind. And today, you knew he would have plenty on his mind - most likely anger.

Over the past couple of weeks, Lando had grown increasingly tense as he climbed higher and higher in the championship standings. He was on track to beat Max, a feat that seemed impossible just a few races ago. The pressure and expectations weighed heavily on him, evident in the way his muscles were constantly tight and his jaw clenched. Even when the two of you were alone, he couldn't seem to fully relax.

As he approached you now, his face was still flushed and glistening with sweat, but there was an undeniable edge to his demeanor. Normally, you would swoon over his post-race glow and heavy breathing as he cooled down, but now it only made you more worried. You couldn't decipher if his ragged breaths were from the intense race or from simmering anger.

As he locked eyes with yours, a warm smile spread across his face. Your heart fluttered in response, but you quickly composed yourself and began asking your prepared questions. Normally, you were the one to come up with these interview inquiries for the post-race interviews, but this time your boss had given you a list of specific ones to ask. You did your best to steady your shaky breathing as you spoke, directing your questions towards Lando and the intense racing between him and Max. You couldn't help but notice the slight furrow of frustration on his brow, likely from being asked the same question multiple times before you got to him. With a professional tone, you probed into whether Lando believed the collision at the end of the race was his own fault or an error on Max's part.

Your hand trembled as you hesitantly raised the microphone to ask the question that had been weighing heavily on your mind. It was a topic rarely broached in these types of interviews, personal and sensitive. But you couldn't let this opportunity slip by without getting the answer straight from the source. Lando's expression grew serious, his voice tinged with frustration as he spoke about the standing between him and Max's friendship. His sweat was beading down his forehead and staining his hair. The intensity of the race still radiated from his every pore.

As he recounted his version of events, memories flooded your mind. Dinners with Max and Lando, their laughter filling the fancy restaurants and drawing curious glances from other patrons. Days spent out on the yacht with them, diving into the cool ocean waters with abandon.

It seemed impossible to imagine that anything could come between their strong bond. But as Lando's voice trailed off with a final statement about the potential permanent damage to their friendship, a sense of sadness washed over you. The reality of their argument sinking in, and the possibility of a rift between two close friends threatening to become a painful reality.

Despite his harsh statement, you maintained a composed demeanor and continued to ask him questions about his race performance. It was your responsibility to gather insights from him so he could identify and address his errors and shortcomings, something that Lando despised doing. He often downplayed his own abilities and would remark that certain mistakes had "ruined" his performance. It pained you to hear him speak negatively about himself, but it frustrated you even more that you were the one tasked with extracting these self-deprecating comments from him.

As the interview went on, your frustration grew hotter in your chest, and Lando's once cold stare now burned with anger directed at you. Did he truly blame you for the uncomfortable questioning? You hoped he knew it wasn't your choice to ask such probing questions.

As the interview ended, you mustered up a small, reassuring smile for him. However, his piercing green eyes held no warmth or affection - only anger. You mentally cursed yourself, knowing he was pissed off at your questions. Hastily, you flashed your friendly grin at the next driver approaching for an interview. Time to move on and leave dealing with Lando for later.

As the clock ticked closer to your official end of day, you couldn't wait to make your way to the McLaren paddock. The crew there had slowly started to embrace you with open arms, once they accepted your relationship with Lando. Now, you were free to come and go as you pleased outside of work hours.

You softly knocked on Lando's driver's room door, anticipation bubbling in your chest. After a few moments, the door swung open, revealing those familiar brown curls and that sun-kissed skin you had grown to love. But this time, Lando's face held no smile and he didn't speak when you walked in.

"Hey Lan," you spoke softly, the tension evident in your voice as you cautiously entered the small room. The air was thick with unease as you walked on eggshells around this version of Lando, deciding to take a seat on his small bed.

“Hi,” he mumbled. As he unzipped his sleek driver's suit and peeled off his fireproof shirt, revealing a chiseled and sweat-glistening torso, you couldn't help but admire his muscular physique. His back muscles rippled as he reached up to the top shelf, revealing the orange McLaren shirt that hugged his body perfectly.

“I’m a- I’m sorry about that interview.” The weight of your apology hung heavy in the air, almost suffocating. You longed to see him smile again, it was one of your favorite sights, but instead, his face was a mask of frustration and anger. Your heart ached at the sight of him so upset.

He scoffed bitterly, "Yeah, sure." He began to peel off the rest of his suit, exchanging it for a pair of sleek black pants. He had more press interviews lined up, but you had made sure to check the time before entering his dressing room. You knew he wasn't in a rush. As he changed, his movements were swift and precise, like a dancer rehearsing their steps. Despite the tension between you, you couldn't help but admire him.

"Come on, Lan, don't be like that," you pleaded, your fingers running nervously through your hair. You wanted him to understand, to let go of his anger and return to his cheerful self.

"It doesn't change the fact that I had to answer those questions," he replied, bitterness creeping into his voice. You couldn't blame him; who would want to be bombarded with inquiries about their friendships and personal flaws right after a grueling race?

The air between you was thick with tension, tinged with the scent of sweat and adrenaline. The sound of heavy breathing and distant cheers filled the silence as you both stood there, trying to bridge the gap between your feelings. But it seemed impossible in that moment, as if a chasm had opened up between you. You sigh, “I know, I’m still sorry.” You looked down at your feet, unsure as to what else you could say.

You heard his movements come to a halt, and you instinctively lifted your gaze to meet his intense stare. His piercing eyes seemed to be searching your very soul as they roamed over your face and down your body. You felt a familiar heat rising in your cheeks as he took in every inch of you, his expression shifting from serious to playful. A small smile tugged at the corner of those irresistible lips. He ran his fingers through his tousled curls, letting out an audible sigh before settling down beside you. "You wore orange today," he said with a sly smirk, his eyes still fixed on you.

You broke into a smile, “I believe it’s called papaya, actually.”

“For me?” he asked in a slightly shocked tone. As if you’d wear this color for anyone else.

“Always for you, Lando.” You looked over into his eyes as he placed a hand on the top of your thigh.

“I'm sorry about earlier, I know that interview wasn't your fault,” he apologized, his eyes gazing deeply into yours. The intensity in his gaze showed that this was more than just a formality; he truly meant every word he spoke. You couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him, remembering the emotional outburst he had during the race.

“I know, and I want you to know that you're so much more than your mistakes today,” you reassured him sincerely. “You're an incredible talent, and it's a shame that it wasn't fully recognized today. It feels like you're not getting the recognition you deserve as someone who is fighting for the championship right now.” Your words spilled out earnestly, unable to hold back your admiration for him any longer. As a reporter and journalist, you were often expected to maintain an unbiased stance towards Lando, especially with the growing romantic relationship between the two of you.

But in this moment, you couldn't help but express how truly talented and deserving he was. Because if there was one thing that was undeniable, it was Lando's sheer brilliance on the track. However, deep down, you knew that sharing your true opinions may result in backlash from those who accused you of being biased. But in this moment, all that mattered was showing Lando how much he meant to you and how highly you regarded his abilities.

So here you were now, babbling to Lando, all the while he has this grin on his face. He was captivated by your knowledge and passion for racing, how you always seemed to have the right things to say on driver moves and strategies when some of your colleagues were clueless.

Mid-sentence, Lando's hand reached up to gently grasp your chin, tilting your head back as he pressed his lips firmly against yours. In between kisses, his smile was infectious as he teased, "You really do know how to stroke my ego, don't you?" The warmth of his breath against your skin sent shivers down your spine, causing you to melt even more into his embrace.

You grinned into the next kiss, resting a hand around his neck, “Maybe.”

This was the Lando you had fallen head over heels for, the charming and flirtatious driver who constantly sought recognition for his talent. You knew that there would be difficult days ahead, navigating through the media's constant criticism of his abilities, but you were determined to show him love and support no matter what. After all, it had been a while since you felt this kind of intense connection with someone. The way he flashed his dimpled smile and playfully teased you made your heart flutter like a bird in flight.

You couldn't imagine a future without him by your side.

#formula 1 #formula one #formula one fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 #f1 fic #f1 imagine #lando norris #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x reader #austria gp 2024

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claramelooo · 29 days ago

Text

CHECKMATE (6/20)

I'm on my lunch break, so why not give you these surprises?

I guess you will be able to breath a little after that tension...

Enjoy!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: a delicious tension and mild-angst

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Suddenly, everything you were running away from comes rushing back to you, and your worst nightmare becomes your reality. But is it really that bad?

Truce

noun

an agreement between enemies or opponents to stop fighting or arguing for a certain time.

You had barely taken two steps toward your desk when Jennifer Barkley’s voice echoed down the hallway—sharp as a scalpel.

“You. My office. Now.”

No good morning. No smile. Just that dry, commanding tone that made even the most seasoned stomachs twist.

You felt the adrenaline start to crawl up your spine. Something inside you screamed that this wasn’t good. Nothing that started with “now” coming from Jennifer ever was.

You walked in.

She had her back to you, fiddling with the coffee machine filters like she was operating someone’s heart. Every movement precise, controlled. She didn’t even look up.

“Close the door and sit.”

You obeyed. The click of the door behind you sounded like a seal being shut. You sat down across from her desk, trying to appear steady, but your heart was already hammering in your chest.

Jennifer turned slowly, finally looking you in the eye. She held her coffee cup like it was a verdict. No warmth in her eyes. No anger either—which, honestly, was worse. Because that meant you had no idea what was coming.

“Harkness wants you on the campaign,” she said, straight to the point, as always. “Starting today, you’re officially assigned as Agatha Harkness’s personal image assistant.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

What the fuck????

Your brain was still catching up when the avalanche hit:

You and Agatha.

Same room. Same plane. Same rhythm.

You could barely share elevator air with her without wanting to throw something, and now this?

You opened your mouth, protest already loaded but Jennifer raised a hand, silencing you with a gesture sharp as a blade.

“Don’t even try, this isn’t a request.” Her voice carried the weight of an unchangeable order. “She demanded someone. I picked you. And you… will smile and accept it, like the smart girl you seem to be.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart wasn’t pounding now—it was roaring.

Demanded?

Why would Agatha want you? After everything? The bathroom? That conversation in the elevator? The almost... touch? The almost... everything?

Jennifer calmly stirred her coffee with a spoon, and when she looked at you over the rim of her glasses, it felt like she was already reading your thoughts.

“You’ll accompany her to interviews, events, media briefings. You’ll revise speeches, tweak language, manage tone. Stop her from strangling reporters on live TV,” she paused. “And most importantly, you’ll make sure her image stays polished, powerful, and consistent. Understood?”

All you could do was nod, barely aware of your body.

The office felt way too small now.

“Good,” Jennifer leaned back, satisfied. “First assignment’s today. Live interview at Northwest Current. Two hours. I want you back with enough material for three solid posts, two edit-ready videos, and a press release that doesn’t make me want to fire someone.”

She took a sip of her coffee and finally smiled. It was small, sharp.

“Welcome to the front lines, darling.”

You sat there for a second longer, stunned, trying to understand what had just happened. When you finally stood with your legs a little shaky.

A whole month. Stuck to her. Breathing the same air. Watching every move. Every silence. Every look.

This was all you could think about.

May God help you.

You rushed to the office kitchen, caffeine your only salvation, stumbling over your own thoughts and nearly forgetting how to push the door open.

You were burning inside.

Personal image assistant to Agatha Harkness. A sentence disguised as a promotion, a trap tied with a satin ribbon.

Billy’s voice hit first, dripping with irony and rehearsed charm.

“…so I told him, no one handles a media agenda like you, senator-boy.”

You froze.

He was leaning against the counter, mug in hand, that crooked smile on his lips.

And across from him?

Daniel, from the comms team. Crisp shirt. Eyes down. A faint blush on his face. Laughing nervously, stirring his coffee like it was more interesting than the tension floating between them.

You stepped in quietly, like someone intruding on a moment they weren’t supposed to see. The air seemed to tighten. Billy saw you and his smile faltered with not guilty, just... caught being too familiar.

“Hey, meeting beast,” he said, trying to play it cool. “Did Jennifer scream at you yet?”

“Nope. She just signed my death warrant with a cup of coffee," you walked to the machine and poured the hot liquid into your mug, already salivating for the hit. “I’ve been assigned to Harkness’s campaign.”

Billy’s eyes went wide. He completely forgot about Daniel—who took the opportunity to quietly vanish. You barely noticed. You were too busy emotionally combusting.

“What?” He stepped closer, nearly spilling his mug. “Like... actual campaign? Travel? Official car? Champagne flavored trauma?”

You turned to face him. “Personal image assistant. Full-time. Speech edits. Dancing with wolves… and probably some retirees.”

Billy took a step back and clutched his chest, as if he’d been metaphorically shot.

“Girl. This is serious. This is... working with the Miranda Priestly of politics.”

“Worse.” You took a sip. It burned your tongue and you couldn’t care less.

“And why the hell did you say yes?”

You looked at him. Wanted to say because I didn’t have a choice. Wanted to say because she asked for me.

But what came out was:

“Because apparently, I’m a smart girl who wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”

He stared at you for a moment. The intensity faded into a small, sad smile.

“So... you’re already dead inside. All that’s left is the burial.”

You laughed. For real. Brief, a little shaky, but yours.

“Promise me something?” you said.

“Anything.”

“When I lose it… like really snap and need to be committed, lie to me. Tell me it was quick. Painless.”

Billy placed a hand on your shoulder like a priest blessing the damned.

“I’ll tell them you died as you lived. Stubborn and surrounded by questionable decisions.”

You smiled. Almost forgot the bitter taste of your “promotion.”

Northwest Current.

Two hours.

You took a deep breath.

Okay. You can do it, you can be professional.

Right?

[...]

You were alone in the car. The same official car that would later take Agatha Harkness to the studio but for now, it was yours—just for a little while.

The driver was outside, smoking, and you had the whole back seat to yourself. Your papers, your tablet, and the growing weight of stepping into a war that wasn’t yours.

The screen glowed with a browser tab open. Agatha Harkness. Gubernatorial candidate. Sky-high approval ratings in recent months; former senator and committee leader. A respected and feared political strategist; founder of social, environmental, and educational initiatives. Every line of her resume felt like a medal burned into her chest.

You could almost hear the metallic clang of honors being pinned on a woman who didn’t need applause to be undeniable.

But it was the video that stopped you.

An old campaign recording, from her first run for Senate. Poor quality, choppy lighting. But her gaze… her gaze was intact. Steady, direct and always so severe..

She started talking about climate justice. About single mothers with no access to housing. About Black children treated like statistics before they even learn how to write. And in that moment, something ignited behind her eyes.

A raw, genuine passion.

You realized you were holding your breath, that your fingers were gripping the edges of the tablet too tightly.

She wasn’t there for vanity or for empty ambition. Agatha was there because she believed, because some part of her still wanted change. Still wanted the world to bleed a little less.

And that was what threw you off.

She wasn’t just powerful.

She was real.

In a barely noticeable moment, her husband's name slipped from her mouth. Thanos Harkness. Her voice faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough to make you pause the video. Rewind and watch it again.

You frowned and read the description.

Banker, international investor and oil tycoon.

You scoffed, alone, muttering with a crooked smile.

“Seriously? An oil tycoon? That’s the best you could do, Harkness?”

It was like watching a nun marry the devil and say he “had kind eyes.” The contradiction was glaring. And yet, intriguing. Because if there was one woman on this planet you thought was immune to contradiction… it was her.

Or maybe not. Not after that night at the bar. Not after the two of you touched each other with so much intensity and intimacy—without even knowing each other's names.

You almost expected Agatha to appear in the passenger seat right then, sunglasses on and that glacial look in her eyes, ready to kill you with a single sentence.

But no.

It was just you and the silence, the growing discomfort of realizing you were starting to understand her.

Truly.

You scrolled down the page. Stopped on an old photo. Agatha with him and a little boy between them.

Nicholas Harkness.

The contrast was almost absurd.

Agatha was in jeans. A simple T-shirt. No makeup. Hair pulled back in a messy braid and she was smiling. Not the political smile, or the cynical one. An open smile, almost silly. That kind that makes your eyes close and dimples appear on your cheeks.

You stared in silence.

There was tenderness in the way she held her son. Steady hands, but also… so gentle. A kind of protection you don’t pose for.

It was instinctive.

Genuine.

A knot formed in your stomach.

You inhaled. Exhaled. But the weight stayed.

Because in that photo, she wasn’t a candidate. Or an opponent. Or a challenge. She was just a woman who had lived. Who had lost. Who was raising a child on her own and, despite everything, still smiled in that way.

And the only reaction you’d managed to draw from her so far… was anger.

You shut your eyes, almost ashamed of yourself. It wasn’t envy, or guilt. It was just… frustration.

Maybe for hitting a nerve. Maybe for not knowing how to handle the wound you glimpsed in that elevator. Maybe… for wanting… more.

More than disdain. More than fights. More than this.

You tossed the device beside you, leaned your head against the seat. The leather still carried her scent. Subtle, woody, slightly citrusy. A precise fragrance.

Exact, just like her.

Shit.

You exhaled slowly, as if trying to empty your chest of that mess of unnamed emotions.

And then, the car door opened.

You flinched like you’d been caught snooping, heart pounding from the surprise. The papers slipped from your lap, and you scrambled to gather them, as if you could hide both the external and internal chaos just like that.

She entered with her usual military grace, sunglasses still on, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“What were you doing?” Her voice came warm, yet sharp. Her eyes flicked from the mess in your lap to the half open tablet beside you. She didn’t seem to be asking just about the papers.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to pull yourself together.

“Studying.”

Before you could stop her, she picked up the tablet. Skimmed quickly through what was on the screen. The biography. The interviews. The personal photos.

“Studying my personal life?” She asked, one eyebrow now fully visible above the rim of her sunglasses.

You rolled your eyes. Felt your face heat up. Yes, there was anger. But also the shame of being caught looking too hard.

You snatched the device from her hands—the gesture sharp, but your eyes… no. Your eyes said something else.

You didn’t know how to protect yourself from her.

“I’m getting to know you. How am I supposed to work for someone I don’t even know?”

That seemed to catch her off guard and for a moment... a brief, but weighty silence, like a misstep in an over rehearsed speech.

She leaned back into the seat beside you. Let the sunglasses slip down into her lap, her eyes meting yours with an expression you couldn’t immediately decipher.

“Getting to know me, huh?” she repeated, voice tired. “You don’t need to do all this for that. You can just ask me anything.”

You blinked.

Oh.

You weren’t expecting that. Not from her mouth. Not from that face. Not from that woman carved in marble and steel who had spoken such cruel words to you.

“That easy?” You asked, as if challenging her was the only way to avoid crumbling under her gaze.

“That easy.” She confirmed, with a lightness that felt… sincere.

You looked at each other for a moment. Long. Tense, but warm.

There was no provocation, no judgment, no irony. Just two women in the backseat of an official car, holding the frayed threads of a conversation neither of you knew how to start.

You cleared your throat, triying to remember where you’d left off before being swallowed by eyes and words and unspoken promises.

“Right,” you cleared your throat again. “I took some notes... on things you might want to try.”

You held out the tablet, but didn’t look at it. You looked at her and she looked back. As if, finally, she’d stopped seeing you as just a pawn on the board… and started to see the girl.

Agatha read your notes silently. The only sound in the car was the soft hum of the idle engine and your two breaths, occasionally overlapping by accident.

“‘Avoid overly absolute statements,’” she read aloud softly, quoting one of your suggestions. “‘Like: ‘I’m the only realistic choice’ or ‘my opponents have no idea what they’re talking about.’”

She looked up at you with an expression… almost amused.

“Are you saying I sound arrogant?”

Yes.

You shrugged, pretending to be neutral.

“I’m saying people like to feel included. Especially when they’re about to vote for you.”

She made a low sound in her throat, something between a quiet chuckle and a silent acknowledgment. Turned back to the screen.

“And this one? ‘Soften tone when discussing public safety’?”

“Yes… well… the tone you usually use is a bit…” You searched for the right word, but she said it first.

“Authoritarian?” She offered, one brow raised.

“You said it, not me.”

She smiled—not the political one, not the ironic one. A small, honest smile, like someone caught in the act who doesn’t even try to defend herself.

For a few minutes, you stayed like that: reading, suggesting tweaks, cutting a word here, rethinking a line there.

You noticed she was listening. Even when she didn’t seem to be. That she was mentally taking note of what you said, even without replying.

She listened.

And that, coming from Agatha Harkness, was already more than half the battle.

“I didn’t think you’d take the job.”

She wasn’t looking at you, still staring at the screen. But you could feel the warmth of her skin, the scent of her expensive lotion hanging subtly in the air.

“I like a good challenge and the salary’s not bad, you know… a girl’s gotta live.” You shrugged.

“A girl… Right.”

She went quiet for a moment—long enough for the sound of cars outside to feel overwhelmingly loud.

You couldn’t quite tell what had bothered her more.The term, the tone, or the little bit of ease you’d allowed to slip through.

Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it. Maybe… something else.

But she just took a deep breath and, with a gesture too practiced to be spontaneous, changed the subject.

“Alright,” she said, flipping to another tab on the tablet, back to the game. “What about the interview questions? Which ones do you think they’ll use to try and take me down?”

You slid a little closer on the bench, showing her your own screen, where you’d highlighted a few predictions. Agatha leaned in just enough to get a better look, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

Almost.

You ignored the shiver.

“They’ll probably push on the education fund and your lack of ties with the major unions.”

“Typical. They’ll think they’re being clever.”

“And you’ll look smarter if you don’t take the bait.” You said, tossing the words like a coin into the dark, hoping they didn’t hit any walls.

But she only nodded, as if you’d said exactly what she was thinking.

And for a few moments… the world went still. Time paused, suspended between scribbled notes, shared tablets, and a cramped back seat that had never felt so full of meaning.

Right there, between strategy forecasts and tonal adjustments, something new was born.

Complicity.

Not the easy kind. Not the comfortable kind. And that—just that—felt, for the first time, like the beginning of something.

[...]

The backstage hallway was lit with cold, impersonal lights You watched from a distance as Agatha adjusted the mic clipped discreetly to the lapel of her dress, exchanging brief nods with the tech crew like she’d been doing this for decades.

She looked ready. Impeccable, untouchable. But you knew what a moment like that took.

You knew because you’d studied every one of her speeches. Because you’d stayed up all night refining her word; because you recognized the way she pressed her fingers together when she was trying to keep her anxiety at bay.

And that’s why you approached.

In silence with no jokes.

Just you, the solemn and peaceful memory of the two of you in the car, and the slightly absurd thought that maybe she needed something that wasn’t in the script.

She turned her head toward you, surprised by your silent approach.

You didn’t smile, neither did she.

“Good luck.”

Just two words. But you said them with a steadiness that didn’t match the nerves in your stomach.

For a second, Agatha said nothing. She looked down, like she was weighing the gesture. Not with arrogance—with care.

Then she looked back up.

“I don’t believe in luck.” She said. Her voice was the same—steady, restrained. But there was something… gentle in how she said it.

You nodded, accepting. But you didn’t step back.

“Then pretend you do,” you replied. “Just for today.”

Her eyes held yours a moment too long to be professional, long enough for you to feel the air shift.

Then she let out a soft breath through her nose, something between a laugh and surrender. She straightened her shoulders with that posture you already recognized from a mile away.

Agatha Harkness, campaign mode.

“Thank you, then.” She said and walked away.

You stayed where you were, the director’s countdown starting in the background.

The show’s intro ended with a sharp saxophone note, and the main camera opened on a wide shot of the studio. Bright lights, restrained audience, and the host already wearing that plastic smile of someone who knows exactly what game they’re playing.

You stood backstage, next to the sound producer, arms crossed, heart beating too fast.

Agatha sat at the round table, posture perfect, eyes alert. Too elegant for the set around her.

Everything started smoothly.

Questions about public safety, sustainability, education and the woman was responding like a word surgeon You could see the audience turning their heads toward her, attentive. She was magnetic. You even forgot to breathe for a few minutes.

Until he started.

The host paused dramatically, leaning slightly over the table, his face stretching into a smile that didn’t match anything that had come before.

“Now, former Senator Harkness...” he said, like he was about to whisper a secret into a mic, “you’re known for your progressive views. Sustainability, taxing the ultra-rich, climate justice… all these bold stuffs. But… weren’t you married to an oil tycoon? International banker? I mean, Thanos Harkness doesn’t exactly match with your "pro-Amazonia" outfit, does he?”

Muted laughter from the audience.

You froze, your eyes locked on her.

Your stomach flipped.

This wasn’t about politics.

It was personal.

It was low.

And it was about her.

But Agatha didn’t move, not even a single muscle. She looked at the host with the kind of calm that doesn’t need volume to destroy someone.

“Really funny,” she said. And it was like the air in the studio thickened. “But every time my husband and I discussed the future of this planet, the only thing I ever found truly hard to digest… were comments like yours.”

Silence.

She folded her hands on the table, her voice still soft. But her words weighed like lead.

“Thanos believed in transition energy investments. He was one of the first in his sector to fund sustainable initiatives. We disagreed on a lot, of course. But we also had something sorely missing from most debates today: respect.”

The host tried to smile, and it was forced.

But Agatha didn’t care.

“I’m not Thanos. And he never tried to be my politics. Now… if your goal is to undermine what I’ve built because I married someone with different views, maybe you’re more into gossip than governance. In which case… let me know, and I’ll switch channels.”

She winked at the camera.

You laughed. Brief, incredulous, and utterly charmed.

It wasn’t about policy, indeed.

It was about her.

And God… you were proud.

So proud that, for a second, you thought maybe you were screwed. Because this was the kind of woman who made you want to… be part of something bigger.

Even if it was just her team.

The host gave a dry chuckle. “Well… on that note, let’s take a quick commercial break, shall we?”

He tried to seem in control, but the truth was in the nervous grip on his pen and the way he couldn’t quite meet the camera’s eye as he called for the break.

The studio lights dimmed slightly, the red recording light turned off, techs appeared out of nowhere with water bottles and mic adjustments, moving with professional silence.

And Agatha just leaned back, as if she hadn’t just turned a potential public humiliation into pure political gold.

You, backstage, didn’t move for a moment. Like someone watching a magic trick and needing a few seconds to accept it wasn’t an illusion—it was talent.

Her body was still leaning forward, like she was ready to run in and protect you. But she didn’t need to protect you. She was the protection. A thin, sharp shield, wrapped in a flawless suit and a voice steadier than any attack.

You crossed your arms, let out a slow breath, disguised as a whisper. “This wretch is fucking good.”

Billy would’ve laughed in your face if he were there. He would’ve said you were spiraling straight into emotional doom and maybe you were.

Because this wasn’t regular admiration. It wasn’t political pride, it was something more intimate.

More dangerous.

You weren’t just rooting for her, you were starting to… care.

Agatha turned her head slightly in your direction. She didn’t say a word, didn’t need to. That quick glance was enough, a silent kind of acknowledgment.

You stared back, wearing the same neutral expression you’d mastered since childhood.

But inside? You were losing it. She had surprised you and she knew it. You were exactly where you needed to be and Agatha Harkness... was the only woman who could completely wreck you, if she wanted to.

And maybe—just fucking maybe—you wouldn’t mind that so much.

When the show ended, Agatha walked into the dressing room with the heaviest aura in the world.

She yanked off her mic with a harsh motion, fingers too tight on the wires, like ripping it off might erase what had just happened.

The door clicked shut behind you both, loud and final.

You didn’t say a word. Not yet.

She brushed past you without looking, went straight to the lit vanity, and tossed her notes on it. Her reflection in the mirror was the image of control cracked at the edges.

“Vultures,” she muttered, pulling off her earrings with a kind of cruel precision. “They turned everything into a footnote about what Thanos were. Like I’m just his reflection. My fucking dead husband.”

You bit your lip. You knew this wasn’t the time, but you felt the same disgust rising in your throat.

This wasn’t just politics.

It was personal.

It was filthy.

And even knowing she was on the edge, you didn’t expect the first jab to be aimed at you. She turned, her gaze sharp like a blade wrapped in velvet.

“And you?” Her voice sliced. “What was that little smile in the middle of the interview? Was it funny to you, seeing a man try to humiliate me?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Then narrowed your eyes.

“Oh my God. Are you serious?” You crossed your arms. “I thought it was brilliant, Agatha. You shut him down without even raising your voice. But if it makes you feel better, I can stop rooting for you. Makes it easier, right?”

She took a step closer. The tension between you was thick like smoke.

“I don’t need someone like you rooting for me,” she said, coldly.

You let out a sarcastic laugh and stepped back twice.

“Someone like me?” you echoed, your smile tilting. “Guess we’re back to that game, then. Great! I thought I’d seen the real you for a second, but of course I was wrong!”

Agatha’s head snapped toward you like you’d just spat poison. But she didn’t yell. Her voice came out low, tense, ragged from the inside.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be me.” She stepped closer. “You think you get it with your bright eyes and your idealism. But you don’t know a shit about spending decades having to be perfect. Tireless. Unquestionable.”

The air in the room felt thinner.

“You think that was just a joke? Just a moment? That is every fucking day, girl.” Her voice was sharp, like glass. “Every single day someone tries to reduce me to a last name, a dress, a tone of voice. If I’m firm, I’m bossy. If I’m kind, I’m weak. If I get emotional, I’m unstable. If I don’t, I’m cold. And all of it… while smiling. While acting like it doesn’t hurt. Because the second I show that it hurts? Then I’m hysterical, unfit, fragile.”

She tapped her chest lightly with her fingers like touching a shield that had taken too many hits.

“You don’t know what it’s like to live in this, and if you do… and you don’t agree… get out while you still can. You’re not built for politics, girl.”

You opened your mouth, but the intensity in her eyes stopped you. This wasn’t about you, it was the weight of years. Decades.Centuries, carried in every woman who ever dared to take up too much space.

But you expired, your shoulders falling apart, as well as your armor.

“I… I’m sorry.” Your voice came out soft, but sure. “I really don’t understand, but I’m sorry.”

You stepped closer, careful, like approaching something sacred. She dropped onto the couch with a long sigh, as if her body was begging for mercy.

“You’re not alone, you know.”

Agatha scoffed, eyes looking away.

“Oh, sure. Jennifer’s with me because she’s very well paid,” she slowly turned to face you. “And you… you don’t want to lose your big shot. I really understand you.”

You gave her a small smile.

“I’m not talking about Jennifer. I mean people, Agatha. You have something no one else has. You convince with a look, you win with silence. People… see themselves in you, even when they hate you.” You chuckled. “And honestly? We both know I could ruin your campaign with six words.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“That was your attempt at reassuring me?”

You looked at each other for a beat frozen and you got lost in those cold blue-green orbits.

“No," you shrugged, laughing. “It’s just the truth. But I don’t want to. Mostly because I’m not that kind of person and because I believe in you. I really do. Even when you’re being unbearable.”

Her laugh came fast, almost unwilling, genuine. And you saw her shoulders drop just a little.

Your eyes met. And this time, it wasn’t a battle. It was… recognition. Like something between you had finally been named, even without needing a word.

And then, with a teasing half-smile, Agatha asked:

“So… what were you doing at Lux that night? With a fake ID?”

You threw your head back, exasperated but amused.

“Oh. It was my roommate’s idea. She wanted to be ‘grown up for a night,’” you air quoted, laughing. “Apparently pretending we’re older and more powerful would help us cope with academic trauma.”

“What nonsense,” Agatha scoffed, one of those short, fake disdainful laughs. “You young people love playing with consequences like it’s a board game.”

The way she said it felt… maternal, concerned and suddenly, you froze.

“Oh. My. God.” You sat up on the couch, eyes wide. “I just had a brilliant idea!”

“Of course you did.” Agatha rested her chin on her hand, sarcastic.

You were already up, grabbing your notebook, your tablet, sparks flying.

“You’re going to tell me now, or…”

“Create an Instagram account targeting young people, make edits of you, post on TikTok. Subversive. Smart. With real digital reach. I have to sketch this out right now!”

But before you could sit again, three knocks on the door interrupted.

“Excuse me, Ms. Harkness. The car is waiting in the garage.”

You walked side by side through the hallways. You typed furiously on the tablet, caught in the idea. Agatha, on the other hand, watched you with a mix of exhaustion and curiosity.

“So… you’re not going to tell me this big and brilliant idea?”

“Hmm… tomorrow,” you smiled still looking at screen. “After I test everything and build a solid plan. No loose bets, remember?”

She let out a breath of a laugh, but didn’t say a word. You just walked side by side, creating an invisible bond and at that moment things seemed to be heading in the right direction.

~*~

Ohhh, I'm so proud of her!!!

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @milfovers4 @jaylie-bee @holystrangersalad @chlondykebar @natashashill @harknessshi @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @ahintofchaos

#agatha all along #wlw post #checkmate #agatha harkness x fem reader #agatha x reader #agatha harkness #domme mommy #mommy k!nk #lgbtq #lgbtqia #agatha harkness x reader #mommy knows best #dom mommy #bdsmkink #bdsmdominant #older woman younger girl

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n0tamused · 5 months ago

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Could I request Dr Ratio's s/o defending him when people insult him (calling him a boring lover and a man of loose morals)?

A/n: This request was long coming, but I hope you enjoy this nonetheless! Dr. Ratio defense squad, assemble! I feel a little rusty writing this, so I hope it's all good :,)

Contents: Veritas Ratio x GN!Reader, fluff, headcanon format

Words: 1163

-It is well known that Dr. Veritas Ratio is well known throughout the entire cosmos for his feats, but however good or grand those accomplishments may be, not everyone looks at them fondly

-Not to mention that one particular hater he has noticed posting about him for 10 years, without a stop? He honestly admires their persistence. It takes a lot to be a hater too y’know

-There was a time where even Veritas wasn’t made of tougher skin, when the comments really did get to him; thankfully, he had the patience and pride to get him through without publicly reacting in a way that would only fan those flames further. Still, some words have left their mark on him - even diamonds can suffer scratches and cracks

-You, as his partner, naturally knew of these things. You’ve picked up on them from the things he has told you and from his body language when put in certain situations. And when you did openly ask him about it, although he appears stiff, he did not lie to you in private

-Knowing his innermost opinions and his background was, probably, what drew you to be particularly defensive over your the plaster-head-donning professor. They were all so quick to judge, yet none of them took a moment to think how much hard work it actually took for Ratio to reach the position he was in now. Knowledge does not fall into your hands, you have to work for it.

-And one day, this inner justice seeker had gone short of patience. The academy was always filled with wandering students and professors alike, all chattering among each other during breaks. And you just happened to pass by a couple conversing about him.

-Ears perked and focused on the little group, you heard them speak rather unsavory words about a professor. Words ‘hard exam, unpassable, books that were too thick and chalk being thrown’ were all mentioned in their conversation, and it truly didn’t take a genius to figure out who the person in question was. Then they began to throw out insults they wouldn’t dare speak in front of another professor, let alone Veritas. But worst of all, they touched upon the subject of his relationship, your relationship, making such wild claims you had to wonder whether they were really talking about Veritas or someone else. Even worse - since it can always get worse - an assistant professor joined in on this gossip, spilling a “fact” that he even had other lovers than you and that he had loose morals.

-WHAT?

-Feeling your blood boiling and teeth grinding together, you couldn’t hold it within yourself. It was wrong! Ratio worked for his place and knowledge and pay, and sure - his exams and classes were tough, but he was neither a bully or an unjust professor!

-That little group heard you loud and clear, and one did try to argue back but was quickly silenced. And one tried to walk away - you didn’t let that happen either. The people close around stopped and gaped, and perhaps they saw similar or shared characteristics between you and Veritas, maybe that’s why they also didn’t feel brave enough to keep talking or leave before you’re done. Who is to say? But what’s true is that they listened to you.

-As you were getting to the end of your speech of defense, a familiar figure walked out of one of the classrooms close by. Clearing his throat he sent you a look, ‘enough’ he said without a word, but he was not angry. The students were dismissed after he feigned ignorance to the situation, as if he hadn’t heard a peep outside of those four walls of the classroom.

-”I am done for today, have you wanted something of me? Anything you need?”

-He spoke calmly, but his eyes showed some softness you barely ever saw. It was a rare sight, a look reserved for when he looked at you in bed, having you in his arms or when you held him, when he told you he wasn’t staring or being ‘too sappy’, but he was just looking at you, perhaps even admiring ‘if he may be so bold as to say that’.

-”A walk would be nice, I even got us a spot at that restaurant for lunch”

-And so it was. The walk towards the location was unusually quiet, and somewhere along the way he uttered “You shouldn’t have caused such a scene in the hallway”, his tone once more lacking the anger many expected of him.

-”I should have, and I did. They were being rude and such behaviour is not fit for any student” You have been a student once, and there were terrible professors and your own opinions of them had been sour at some points in time, sure, but to openly spit venom? That was ridiculous. Or were you perhaps being stubborn, hypocritical? You wouldn’t say so. They were being rude, period.

-”They are students, they are also young. Gossip, however much unsavory, and however much I do not like it, is natural for them. It is not something that needs to be challenged, especially in a situation like this”

-You gave him an unsatisfied look, and he returned it in equal measure. It would take a while to convince him.

-”It doesn’t matter.. I did what I did, because I had enough of hearing people spread lies about you.. Disagree with me as much as you wish, but I’d do it again”

-He sighed and shook his head. He wanted to say something more, but for once he chose to keep quiet. It was better to leave it be as you were still not cooled off from the encounter

-The rest of the evening went well, and you touched upon the subject briefly, not going too in depth. Ratio told you about his day, the upcoming events and plans, and you told him about yours. It was enjoyable, and it certainly helped to calm you both down

-But once you both came home and changed into more leisure wear, you told him of the thorn you felt whenever people spoke badly about him. He only looked at you, told you he understand, but “My name has been through a lot, I can take it”

-You weren’t sure if you wanted to slap some sense into him or kiss your reasons into his skin. He may be used to it, but you weren’t and you didn’t plan on getting used to it. And even as you took his face firmly between the two of your hands and brought him closer so he could hear your crystal clear, even as you saw the defiance melting from his eyes, he looked more vulnerable than ever; not angry, not sad or shocked or disappointed - vulnerable.

-So with conviction you kiss his face more times than you care to count and tell him he is someone worth defending, no matter what

#dr ratio #veritas ratio #dr ratio x you #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio headcanons #veritas ratio x you #veritas ratio x reader #veritas ratio imagine #dr ratio fluff #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr headcanons #hsr x y/n #hsr imagine #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail #headcanons #comfort fluff

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industrialdyke · 2 months ago

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if you wanna know the state of disability rights in poland rn: a disabled mp who is a powerchair and vent user made a speech yesterday in support of a current legislative bill that would improve the personal care assistant system for disabled people and just one single mp showed up. out of four hundred and sixty people. just one. and now all four hundred and fifty nine of them are on twitter washing their hands saying they really do care about disabled people, posting their photos from rallies with wheelchair users, and implying that we're the crazy ones for thinking they don't care.

#irys.txt #cripple punk

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alcrego · 10 months ago

Note

Do you ever use ai stuff? Cus like your work is really cool but it can be hard sometimes to tell if digital art has been made using ai and I was just wondering?

Sometimes, yes.

But I'd say that only about a 2-5% of the works I post.

As I already explained I use AIs to assist my work in the same way I also use cameras, computers, softwares... Of course I never 'steal' other people work, I use my own custom models trained with my own work (that is not few). And I use it locally in my own computer, so please, don't start again about this 'eco-speech' about waste of resources and blah, blah blah...

I do not support nor agree when people steal other people art to train custom models. Even so, we should start to accept that we are ALL 'trained' with other artists works (paintings, sculptures, comics, films...) Our brain is our own custom model.

Thanks for asking!

And...👀👇

Thanks for asking!🙏

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logicpng · 2 months ago

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Aster™ Assistant Software update (05.09.2025)

[ Video demonstrating the Side Panel (used by Vega) shows up next to Aster (Rigel fronting) even after being moved ]

Long story short: overhaul of how the side panel follows Aster around.

Also be mindful as the update may shift the position of speech balloons! You can reset balloon positions with Ctrl+Shift+F10 or via utilities in right click menu.

A minor change for the users, but a pretty massive change on the internal side of things. I have some things to say about it, there's a tech ramble under cut.

The update is currently available in the initial .nar pack download and via Network Update in the right click menu!

Thank you for downloading Aster™ Assistant Software!

[ 🌟 What is Aster™ Assistant Software? 🌟]

[ 💥 Check out Aster™ Terror Star! 💥 ]

The need to make sure side panel stays at Aster's side has been haunting me since their initial development, but with help of the community and my own accumulated knowledge of ukagaka development, I can finally say that it's been put to bed.

Before this change, the windows were basically glued together and if you wanted to reposition the panel, you'd use the according option in the menu. The option was introduced later after release.

This has since been broken by an SSP update, so it was time to end it once and for all. On my set of displays in particular this also resulted in the two getting constantly stuck together. Thanks Windows 11!

While there's ways to bypass this, i think the previous solution was a bit janky to begin with. Instead, now the side panel changes position whenever it needs to show up, while keeping primary screen boundaries in mind, just like SSP changes directions of the speech balloons.

Instead of calling up the panel to move it, you can just disable or reenable this.

Lastly, as I'm slowly getting back into ukagaka development again and remembering how things work, I want to mention that this change was also necessary, as I will need it in the next CaelOS ukagaka project.

It will be more of an idle visual novel than a companion on your desktop, but I hope if/when it comes out people still enjoy it. I've only so far made up a prototype ghost to test the kinds of animations i want it to use.

as before i'll probably be posting progress on this as it happens. but i can safely call it a start!

#ukagaka #english ukagaka #ukagaka ghost #original #artists on tumblr #oc #original character #ai oc #robot oc #aster #rigel (aster)#vega (aster)#CaelOS #aster ghost update

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awetistix · 11 months ago

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#awetistix originals #disability #disabled #autism #actually autistic #asd #autism spectrum disorder #aac #augmentative and alternative communication #aac user #polls #posts made with speech assistant #awetistix polls

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idkplzhalp · 2 months ago

Note

What do you know about Caroline in full? /genq

Some background for those who don't know, Caroline from Portal 2 is my favorite character as of 6 years and at some point I started keeping a big list in which I document everything such as info during development, things from devs/voice actors, debunking theories, literally any of her appearances anywhere and other silly stuff too. I also made an image folder with any potential reference or appearance to her in the series/behind the scenes, which i started to upload to a google drive folder and i need to finish it. When I finally make the entire Caroline post & drive folder, I'd wanna post it to my Valve fact blog @thatvalvefanatic. I'm super into getting canon/official facts about things and Caroline is the funnest for me to do as she's so obscure.

So here's some facts (know I have way more but this is already long enough..) since it'll be awhile since I do the big complete analysis post (or the Caroline lore bible, as I call it) that I've been promising for like 3 years lol!!!

Her heels are red! (This is her face model, Laura Dubuk, when she was at SDCC 2012 with Bill Fletcher, Cave's face, for the Neca booth)

Caroline's name was taken from Jay Pinkerton's (the writer's) mother. Erik Wolpaw says the name also means coincidentally "free man/woman". It's also a variant of the name Charles/Charlie (which is a coincidence to Aperture Desk Job's character Charlie (who is likely more of a reference to Chell)).

She's Argentinan and Ukrainian as that is her face model Laura Dubuk's ethnicity (she's stated she's Argentinian, her family speaks Ukrainian/their last name is Ukrainian (ty to the person who gave me that info!)).

The brand of her dress is "Daniel & Rebecca", an Italian brand made in the 80s/90s. Laura got the dress specifically for Caroline from a thrift store.

Caroline is referenced by Jerry the Nanobot. If you slow his audio down and reverse it, you hear "his injury is not expected to end but she's in charge instead". Hearing is subjective here but that's what I've seen as widely accepted. Though Portal 2 has done similar before with the Ghost of Rattmann track, which was just cut up audio of Marc Laidlaw reading an entirely unrelated paragraph. Or like the Dinosaur_fizzle audios from the radios in Portal 1 that people theorized was Caroline screaming from the radio, when it wasn't that at all as that update came before Caroline was created.

Unlike popular belief, Ellen Mclain did not refuse any of Caroline's lines. People spread rumors that the deleted GLaDOS related lines made her cry and that JK Simmons refused to say his lines due to how they sounded like SA, but that's not true at all.

Also, Caroline is NOT Chell's mother. She's too old and too white to be her mom! GLaDOS' arc towards Chell has been confirmed & implied to be queer/romance-esque. You can see some of that in my LGBTQ Valve post, though I need to update it, and I will be making a singular post just for queercoded GLaDOS since there is SO much. One of Valve' employees, Makani, confirmed Chell was not her daughter.

Cave and Caroline aren't married, confirmed by the Portal 2 guidebook. Though they were still likely good friends, based on some of Cave's cut lines, in which he trusts her to do a lot more.

Cave wanted Caroline to be taken care of and respected as CEO/GLaDOS! That part of his GLaDOS speech had been cut though. Those lines are, "Treat her just like you’d treat me." and "Just make sure she’s taken care of."

Portal RTX has a bunch of hidden codes you can find. There are some you use to change the design of the companion cube. Inputting Caroline's name changes it to the pillow cube!

According to Josh Weier, Caroline wasn't added to the game until one month before its release. Originally she wasn't a part of the story and Cave's assistant was a man named Greg. They didn't want to hire an actor for just a couple lines, so they decided to reuse Ellen Mclain, thus creating GLaDOS' human backstory. Though Greg was reused for Perpetual Testing Initiative and the Cave Johnson DotA announcer pack.

Caroline appears in the spinoff/tech-demo Aperture Desk Job, though only as her portrait. This confirms that she can be in other universes just like Greg, though we don't know what happened to her in this one. She's potentially dead, as Aperture Desk Job had Cave live long enough to be put into the machine. The machine was started and he killed some of the scientists. Also Caroline's portrait there is partially covered, covering her side.

I personally believe Caroline to be biromantic asexual! This one isn't a confirmed fact but more speculation. I think the "she's married- to science!" bit could indicate not being apart of traditional straight relationships, also knowing she was never married to Cave either. We already know GLaDOS is biromantic due to her liking Chell (and in spin-offs liking Claptrap and Batman for a time), and she could be considered ace to her cut line in co-op mode saying she found human reproduction ridiculous. Presumably the same would apply to Caroline.

The "Say goodbye, Caroline!" / "goodbye, Caroline!" Bit is a potential reference to The George Burns and Gracie Allen Show (1950) or Rowan and Martin's Laugh In (1968) as both had bits similar to that, and would make sense for Caroline and Cave to reference due to when the shows aired. Some people interpret that line as Caroline being dumb, though that's not true at all! We know she was intelligent from Cave's high praise of her, and if she was actually making a reference to a TV program then it would be even smarter and show that Caroline probably had inside jokes or references with Cave.

Want You Gone says Caroline and Chell are similar (“She was a lot like you”). If true then Chell, as officially described from the Collaborative Disposition Test, “Resolute and tenacious, you won't quit until a puzzle's solved. Your inability to give up against impossible odds makes you a bad match for cooperative test partners who give up against any odds at all, racing to the internet for answers” Could give insight into Caroline’s personality. The Collaborative Disposition Test could give even more insight into her from Cave’s description “You don't see crises - only challengitunities. you choose to scale like mountains. You're a can-do, shoot-from-the-hip, silver-tongued self-starter. You're a good match for any cooperative test partner, providing they shut up and listen.” Caroline didn’t have much dialogue and we know she did the majority of what Cave asked of her/they worked together for at least 30 years. Caroline may very well be Cave’s testing partner who will “shut up and listen”.

Caroline was in the Steam 25th anniversary artwork! Art by Claire Hummel. It is her and Cave drawn over this meme:

okay that's it for now but I did find an iceberg chart I made a few months ago about her so I'm including it even tho some things gotta be adjusted because it's not 100% correct. It's the same as this but I wanna share it anyways. Happy Caroline Portal 2 lore learning. I'll make a part 2 with more stuff later.

#Portal 2 #Portal #Glados #Cave johnson #caroline portal 2 #portal caroline #I have so much more to say but there's too much and i don't feel like finding all the sources for them rn.#Caroline lore bible will be real

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no-name-omo · 1 month ago

Note

I like the crush post for Miyabi on the reader you did so I’m requesting something kinda similar for Belle and Yanagi. Head cannons centered around it being accidentally revealed to the reader that they have a crush on them. For Belle it would be Wise who does it while with Yanagi it’s Soukaku.

[A/N] I know you said "kind of similar" but I did wanted to add the how they develop the crush too so I hope you still like it and thank for your request (ooc for Yanagi just a little and Soukaku just because I don't know much about the blue child of course I did a little bit of research)

[Type] Imagine

[Summer] how they develop their crush on you and how someone reveal their crush to you

[genre] fluff / crush

[Pairing / Characters] (separate) Belle x reader / Yanagi x reader / (Wise / Soukaku)

Belle

Ever since you achieved a flawless victory over her at God Finger in a street fighter type game, she became more determined than ever, making it her second Life goal to settle the score.

This motivates her to spend more time with you, especially when you're at the arcade, playfully teasing and joking around, though nothing too serious. Over time, what began as a friendly rivalry has blossomed into a genuine friendship.

She also started to notice just how increasingly sweet and caring you were, whether it was helping a stranger with her bag, offering assistance to Enzo when his mechanical arm was acting up, or simply showing kindness to those around you. Your genuine concern and helpful nature did not go unnoticed, and her gaze couldn’t help but be drawn to you more and more each day.

There was just a warmth in your actions and over time, she found herself more captivated by your caring personality and the effortless way you made everyone around you feel special.

Her friendly feelings towards you gradually deepened into something more tender and heartfelt. What once were playful pushes and gentle punches transformed into warm, affectionate hugs, and she couldn’t hide her excitement whenever you were around. Her gestures became more meaningful, revealing a growing affection that went beyond mere friendship, making her feelings unmistakably clearer well annoyably not to you

"HA!" she exclaimed triumphantly as victory flashed on her screen, jumping up with her arms raised in celebration. “I finally beat you!” she declared proudly. You rolled your eyes with a playful smirk, teasing her with a comment about how many times you’d won... so many, in fact, you’d lost track. “It doesn’t matter,” she replied cheekily, planting her hands on her hips with a grin. “All that matters is that you lost and I won,” she finished with a giggle, clearly enjoying her triumphant moment. As her brother watches from the side noticing that she became more happy if that was even possible and ohhhh you two must be dating

Watching you and Belle together, it was clear to Wise on how comfortable and natural you both are, how easily you make her laugh and how much she talks about you. It’s obvious you’re dating, but Wise wonder why Belle didn't mentioned it? Or maybe she did while he was lost in he phone reading the Inter-Knot, nodding along and pretending to listen. He really should cut that habit if she is going to bring something like that up, but he can play it cool; he’s seen you around and knows how kind and genuine you are. He genuinely believes you're a good fit for his sister, so he doesn’t need to give the typical older brother speech—after all, that’s not really his style anyway. Still, he needs to remember: you two are DEFINITELY dating.

As Wise was closing up the place, sweeping the wooden floor as it grew late, the doorbell rang, and in walked you and Belle, returning from your movie date—he guessed. Belle’s face lit up as she exclaimed, "That was so much fun!" she said, "I don’t usually go to the movies," she added gesturing to all the videotapes around her "obviously". with a playful smile, clearly excited. Then, her expression brightened even more as she looked at you and said, "Thank you so much." Suddenly, she paused, seeming to remember something. "Oh! Wait right here, I’ve got something for you." Without missing a beat, she hurried up the stairs, leaving you and Wise standing there.

Seeing his sister disappear upstairs, Wise took the opportunity to approach you, clearing his throat to get your attention. He began softly, "Thank you." Noticing your confused expression, he added, "For being there for my sister. Ever since you came into her life, it’s been clear she's been happier." Realizing what he meant, you tried to brush it off as no big deal, but he gently placed a hand on your shoulder and insisted, "It’s a big deal. You're good for my sister, so please take good care of her." Now you're back on being confused, feeling something different in his tone. You hesitated and asked what he meant, to which he replied, "Well, she's your girlfriend, after all." Your face immediately flushed red, and you quickly denied it, caught off guard.

Wise, puzzled, began to recount what he had observed to you, the way she brightened at the mere sight of you, how she couldn’t stop talking about you, and the subtle hints he had noticed. With each revelation, unintentional to Wise it wasn't meant for you, you started to realize what had been going over your head: Belle had feelings for you. As the pieces fell into place, it became clear that what Wise thought you two dating, it was just a crush. Suddenly, he sensed a dark presence behind him—an ominous, murderous aura. Closing his eyes in resignation; (dog closing its eyes looking at the sun meme; if you know you know) you look behind him seeing Belle with a close eyes smile.

Yanagi Tsukishiro

As the newest member of Hollow Special Operations Section 6, you have made it your personal goal to forge stronger bonds within your squad, not just through formal formations but by genuinely connecting with each member, a dedication that Yanagi has clearly noticed.

She noticed how much effort you put into effortlessly connecting with everyone—encouraging Miyabi to fulfill her responsibilities, convincing Harumasa to stay focused, and displaying remarkable patience with Soukaku’s childlike attitude, which, given her age, is understandable.

Initially, you and Yanagi, as the two responsible members, began spending more time together—at first, it was purely professional, but gradually, that shared time fostered a genuine friendship.

What Yanagi didn't expect was how attentively you noticed her, you noticed her clumsiness outside of work, often making light-hearted comments, and found her adorable when lost in thought, her face would flush whenever you spoke, making her increasingly aware of her growing feelings.

Yanagi always strives to stay on top of everything, but like anyone, she’s only human and sometimes neglects her own health. Fortunately, you’re there to remind her to eat, drink, and take care of herself, often stepping in to distract Soukaku whenever she needs a moment to breathe. She truly appreciates your care and hopes she can return the favor.

Yanagi was busy in her office, sorting through papers and trying to organize the upcoming mission when suddenly, "Ah! So cold," she exclaimed as a chill pressed against her cheek. She was utterly confused until she heard your laughter, she huff that carried no real anger. "That was quite rude; I was in the middle of—" she started to protest, but you interrupted, gently informing her that she needed to take a break. She looked at her clock and, realizing more time had passed than she thought, hesitantly sighed and admitted, "Going to take a break."

You let out a chuckle as you shuffle a chair behind yourself, sit down beside Yanagi and hand her a red bean bun. "Thank you," she says softly before you place a can of peach tea in front of her, which she immediately regards as her cold enemy. "Hm? I’ve never tried this flavor," she comments, reaching for the can. You mention that the pink color reminded you of her, and the simple comment made her face flush just like her hair. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise, and she responds with a soft, "...oh." and this was witnessed by the blue oni, Soukaku

Soukaku continues to observe the two of you, noticing how Yanagi’s gaze and manner of speaking to you are markedly different from how she interacts with the rest of Section 6. While Yanagi is never unkind to anyone of course, there’s a subtle but distinct warmth and familiarity in her tone when she speaks to you—something Soukaku can’t quite put into words. She wonders if perhaps you’ve become Yanagi’s favorite, but she’s not entirely sure. What she does know is that you’re incredibly kind and cool, which she genuinely appreciates. However, the way you treat Yanagi feels different—more personal, more special—and that difference doesn’t escape her eye... She should probably just go ask you yeah that's a good idea.

You're relaxing in the break room, lying on the couch and savoring a sandwich when Soukaku’s familiar voice suddenly interrupts, calling your name repeatedly: "[Reader], [Reader], [Reader]!" You calm her down, then take a bite of your sandwich then question her on what she needed. She responds straightforwardly, "I just wanted to ask you something." You hum in response, signaling her to continue as you chew. Without hesitation, she asks, "Are you going to marry Yanagi?" The question catches you so off guard that you nearly choke on your sandwich, startled by her directness and the unexpected inquiry. She adds, "Harumasa says that’s how you two interact—like a married couple."

Internally, you curse Harumasa for planting such thoughts, but the idea of marrying Yanagi—no, you really shouldn't think like that about a coworker. You shake your head, about to respond to Soukaku's question when the door of the brick room opens, revealing Yanagi. she greets you with a gentle smile, softly patting Soukaku's head in a motherly gesture as she asks, "What are you two talking about?" Before you can answer, Soukaku blurts out, "Are you two planning to get married?" Yanagi’s demeanor shifts instantly; her hand pauses, her face flushing as a single word escapes her lips: "...oh?"

After a brief moment of silence, Yanagi asked softly, "What made you think that?" and immediately, she regretted her words—because what followed was everything Soukaku had seen and heard: how much Yanagi seems genuinely happier when you're around, her unspoken affection evident in her eyes, and her theory that you're her favorite. Then she mentioned Harumasa's comment about how you two interact, almost like a married couple, revealing her awareness of the bond between you and hinting at deeper feelings—an unintentional revelation that left the air thick with unspoken emotion and how much of a fool you are don on you.

A/N: I wanted to try making the colour words smaller just to see how it looks if this doesn't feel right to you just say so I'm just trying to figure my style out

#zenless zone zero #zenless zone zero x reader #zenless zone zero x you #zzz x reader #zzz x y/n #zzz x you #yanagi tsukishiro #Yanagi Tsukishiro x reader #tsukishiro yanagi x reader #yanagi x reader #belle x reader #gn reader

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zeezelweazel · 1 year ago

Note

A fluffy Leah fic for her comeback???? Maybe r being the one to give her the armband when she gets subbed on or like Leah being shy when asking r to be there during her comeback game??

Leah Williamson| Welcome Home|

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LEAH GOT AN ASSIST ON HER FIRST GAME BACK

(I also hit 1k followers 🥹 thank you so much guys)

I wrote this just to get my mind off jilly so it's short, sorry but I'm so sad rn

Finally some fluff to cleanse all the smut

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You remember the day Leah tore her ACL vividly. You were on the bench, having been subbed off just a few moments before. Nothing compares to the feeling of absolute dread that filled your entire body the moment you saw her go down. When the stretcher brought her on the sidelines Leah looked at you her eyes wide and scared and you knew.

Her recovery was long and hard but you were there. For every small step forward and every step back, for every time she was angry or frustrated or sad you were there. To hold her and brush your fingers through blonde strands of hair and whispers sweet nothings in her ear and kiss her forehead. You loved her when she didn't love herself and you kept loving her as she got stronger and stronger. You watched as she picked up different hobbies and did amazing things she never thought she'd do.

And now you watch as she gets up from the bench to warm up and your heart soars. You grin wide as you try to keep your head in the game but your body is buzzing with excitement at what's to come.

Soon enough you hear the crowd soar and you look at the bench to see Leah, smiling free and happy, ready to take your spot on the field. You didn't care about being subbed off, having done your part, so you run towards her. You carefully slipped off the captain's armband and approached her.

The loud stadium was tooned out as your whole world turned into blonde hair and blue eyes. As you reach the white line you take Leah's hand, holding it longer than necessary, and you slip the arm band on. Leah pulls you in for a quick hug and you don't waste the opportunity to place a chaste kiss on her head.

For the rest of the match your eyes are firmly locked on Leah. You watch closely as she sprints around and goes for tackles, because of course she does, and you watch as she puts in the perfect ball for beth to score. She was perfect in every way even after being gone for so long. Only your Leah would be able to do that.

You jump up from the bench to celebrate, probably too excited for a goal in a match that's already been won, and you wish you could run on the field and scoop her up in your arms.

And that's what you did. The moment the final whistle blew you made a beeline for Leah who was already looking for you. When your eyes met you recognised all those different emotions swirling in her blue irises.

You pull her in for a tight hug, Leah giggling happily as you spin her around.

"I'm so proud of you baby, you did amazing."

Leah smiled at you blushing and placed her head on the safety of your shoulder. She stayed there in your arms until the team had to huddle in a circle while Jonas gave his post match celebratory speech. You squeezed Leah's shoulder from your place next to her when he talked about her injury, her recovery and the fight she had to put up to get here. Leah blinked rapidly, her head moving from the sky yo the ground as she desperately tried to fight off her tears.

You moved your hand to rub her back and Leah gave you a grateful smile even though the tears didn't leave her beautiful eyes.

"You did it baby, I couldn't be more proud."

She turned and placed a kiss on your lips, not caring about the rest of the team. You enjoyed the warm feeling of her lips on yours and the soft hands on your hips. You chuckled at the cheers and whistles of your teammates and leaned your forehead on Leah's.

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#wlw #female reader #arsenal wfc #arsenal women #woso #leah williamson #woso fanfics #woso x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #arsenal wfc imagine #arsenal x reader

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starzoutlet · 6 months ago

Text

Beyond the game

.1 Winner takes it all..or maybe not ??

Series master

The monitor light shines on your face, your heart beating in your chest. The roaring crowd and the timer that ticks down.

3... 2... 1!

“Teams, the round has ended. Make your way to the back as the game’s winner is decided.”

You walk offstage and sit down, letting out the breath that you didn’t realize you were holding. Lumine sits next to you, putting her arm around you. You sigh and look to your right, catching sight of Scaramouche.

You stare in admiration at his calm demeanor. He stares back, his brows furrowing.

“Stop looking at me, you nobody,” Scaramouche whisper-yells at you.

“No one’s looking at you, dingbat,” you snap back, turning away from him.

“ALL PLAYERS RETURN TO THE STAGE.”

You jump and quickly walk back toward the loud crowd. The announcer hands you a microphone to give a speech before the results are released.

“Thank you all for supporting me throughout this journey, and thank you to my team for getting me to the finals.” You swallow and smile at the crowd.

Ei walks onto the stage beside her assistant, Yae Miko.

“All of our players worked their hardest to get here and all equally played their part. This is why we’ve decided this year’s Tournament finale... ends in a tie. Further announcements will be coming.”

Ei walks offstage. You stare, dumbfounded, at your teammates.

Masterlist

Notes - First chapter posted woooo. Follow me for updates and don’t for get to send in ask about btg questions, head cannons, songs for the playlist etc ! I need motivation 😭😭. Thank you so much 🫶🏽🫶🏽 ( got it done at 3 am 😰😴)

Ei owns both of the companies you and scaramouche work for. So we just made the companies merge together.

This was you first time ever competing at a tournament.

Scaramouche only sees you as a competitor as of right now

Taglist 📩

#genshin impact #scara smau #scaramouche smau #genshin scara #scara x reader #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche #BTG stuff #x reader #starz space ~ writes

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eatommo · 1 year ago

Text

Hotshot [c.f.99]

CW: Poly!batchxreader, group sex, exhibitionism, oral sex (m&f recieving), double penetration, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, vaginal and anal creampie, multiple partners, cumshots, anal sex, ass eating, spanking, praise, authority kink, cucking? kinda?, implied recording of sex, mention of weapons, mentions of aftercare, overstimulation, post season 7 pre omega, dom/sub dynamics, allusions to subspace, slight degradation, shower sex, mutual pining lots of kissing, no clonecest, liberties for hunter's tattoo, reader has hair long enough to pull, reader gets picked up and carried, i probably missed something let me know!

A/N: 5.6k of pure smut, absolutely no plot here. All mistakes are mine, repost and let me know what/if you like <3

As you climb the steps to the Marauder, something about this mission feels different. It's been months since you've been away from the boys, and almost as long since you cared.

Since running away from the clutches of the empire and charming your way aboard the ship you've become an asset to the team even in just your companionship, but it was also nice to have someone around who wasn't a clone. It made it that much easier to do recon, and also that much easier to infiltrate a group because your face wasn't spread across every corner of the Empire.

However, the longer you stayed with them, the more you valued what made them different. You learned who to go to for help with blaster trouble, and even learned to overlook Crosshair’s slights during your target practice. You’ve also learned that Hunter was sensitive to flowers and strong scents and that he had the best-smelling soap aboard the ship (and never seemed to mind when you used it). Tech, on the other hand, was always great at making you feel included, but was always, always going to double-check anything you did to the ship ‘just in case.’ Echo might've been one of the most interesting people to talk to, during his work with the 501st and the glory days of working alongside some of the most powerful Jedi in the galaxy he saw many planets and cultures that you had only dreamed about. Wrecker, well, he was a big softy despite his talent for demolitions and overall penchant for violence, he was the first to volunteer to take you out and stretch your legs in a nearby city and to help you bring home rations (and a sweet treat or two) for the rest of the crew, and has even carried you home from cantina trips a time or two.

They were closer than any other troop you'd seen, all depending and working so tightly and neatly together you'd think that adding you to the mix would complicate things but all you seemed to do was fit in like sand in the desert. You fell into a routine, they'd leave you at the ship during more dangerous jobs, typically with Echo or Tech at your side to assist with any repairs as you kept the inside of the ship in order, and kept a close eye on any equipment and prepping rations and meals as they became available.

After a stop on Batuu, in which you fought every urge to procure a Loth cat, instead letting Crosshair buy you a long thin vibroblade to appease you. “I haven't given up by the way.” You shout over your shoulder, as you settle into your seat before the others.

“I've thought so.” Tech, his voice more amused than anything. “Let us not berate the woman so that she uses that thing on us, shall we? We are cleared for takeoff.” Wrecker chuckles at the idea of you brandishing the thin blade to any of them. You could hold your own for sure, but you were no ARC trooper.

You settle aboard, staying seated until you reach the upper atmosphere, locking your cloak away with your blade, settling back into the seat near the cockpit, and resting your head against the wall.

“If you need rest, my bunk is open,” Wrecker whispers his words and his voice contradicting each other. He's gruff but his speech is soft like he's afraid to startle you, he's cleaning his blaster but leans forward to speak softly to you. “It's still the biggest bunk.” He smiles and with his helmet in his lap, you can see the intense scaring over the side of his head, and your fingers twitch at your side begging to caress it.

“I'm fine thank you.” You beam at him surprised by the crack in your voice and not wanting to seem ungrateful for the gesture. “I’m quite content out here.” Wrecker blushes, as if embarrassed he even brought it up.

You can hear the audible judgemental breath of Crosshair even from your position behind his back, as he examines his rifle, something amiss and there's a thick tension in the room you can't quite place. Glancing around as they settle in for take-off, none of them seem to want to meet your eyes.

“I didn't expect you all to get so shy, I thought maybe you were starting to warm up to me.” You let your voice trail off, a hint of a tease that cuts into the thick tension in the air for a brief moment. Before Hunter sharply stands up and lets his feet carry him towards you.

Last night’s mission for Rex was messier than any of you had expected and used up the last of your bacta supply. Hence the trip to Batuu, and what you thought was a tense conversation about purpose or authority between the group. You’d overheard something about keeping secrets when you’d greeted them at the ship’s ramp and the pinched nerve in Hunter’s jaw encouraged you to keep your mouth shut. Since the tension between each of them has been as taught and dangerous as a tightrope. As the long-haired clone approached you, you sat straighter, already apologizing for being difficult before he cut you off.

Leaning down until he is practically whispering in your ear, "We are programmed to be professional first and foremost. And we are not always so shy."

Just sharing your space with him has your body reacting to him, vibrating in both fear and a sneaking feeling of arousal. His breath is hot and you turn to look into his dark brown eyes, eyes you should be so familiar with. “I am not an officer, I do not bite, and there's no reason to be formal.” the sentence comes out as a squeak, and you try to hide embarrassment flashing through your cheeks.

He smiles, his voice dips lower but is so soft you swear you can feel his words caress your skin, “Easy hotshot, we might like a woman who bites.”

Oh, oh wow. We.

In an instant, everything and all your feelings about them shift and change. You spent the last few rotations convincing yourself it was normal to feel bubbly around them, they'd saved you, and they were providing for you. This feeling, the unmistakable pull of longing and need in the pit of your belly, would complicate things.

Hunter stands and departs the conversation with an ease you envy. You take a deep breath and compose yourself just to look up and see the rest of the crew watching you, like a wounded animal, you catch just a glimmer of a blush in Echo’s face.

Rex mentioned they were a tight-knit group he seemed shocked you fell in line with them, but hell you didn't expect this. Each of them is in their thoughts as you glance around the ship. Echo and Tech are busying themselves with the controls, but you can see Echo worrying his lip, and Tech turning his head to glance at you every few moments as if wondering what will happen first. Or rather who?

Crosshair stares at you, blankly like he's trying to read every line in your smile or every wrinkle in your clothes, your eyes click together and he smiles like a lothcat with a womprat in his teeth. “You're not intimidated by us?” It's almost as if he's as shocked as the fact itself, there's a cutting edge to the statement like you should be, and then a corner of his mouth turns up. “You like being here,” he tests the statement as if tasting the fact on his tongue, “with all of us.”

You smirk, doing your best to match the heat in his stare, “I am grateful. I've never felt so important or wanted,” you swallow thickly letting the heat in your body you know Hunter can sense, speak for itself, “At least, not yet.” You shift in your seat glancing up at Hunter who is glaring hungrily at your chest as if he could hear your heart leap in your chest with every passing moment.

You glance up to the stars ahead of the ship, Tech looks like he's preparing the ship to jump to light speed. The return mission, at its worst, should only take a few days and even less of that is travel, normally you're not one for long lightspeed trips but this time you wonder if it will be too short.

The way the crew looks at you makes your skin tingle, not sure if you’ve ever been paid this much attention before. As the ship lurches into hyperspace, you let your head lull back to catch Hunter's attention, peering up towards his face as your chin hovers just a foot away from his codpiece.

Doing your best to keep your breath even, a part of you wishes to stand and kiss him, but this time it’s your turn to feel shy. You stand, brushing your chest across Hunter’s’ and waltzing over to lean against the control panel of the ship and the two quieter clones on this ship.

The moment Tech realizes you’re moving towards him his posture is stuck straight, but Echo only leans slightly towards you as you pass your hand over his shoulder. Standing at the front of the ship has only allowed them all to stare at you, your heart skips a beat. You see Hunter’s eye twitch, he is reading you like a book.

“Well,” you speak slowly and eloquently, playing into their curiosity, “How should we pass the time?”

“Come here.” the room's attention snaps to Crosshair, whose red-hot gaze is marring into your skin. Silence falls over the craft as Crosshair lifts a hand and gestures toward his empty waiting lap. Slowly, Echo, Tech, and Wrecker turn again towards you but Hunter stays strong locked into some silent dialogue with his brother.

You feel as if it is entirely dangerous to cross the space between the two. Yet your feet carry you without worry, and neither of them breaks until their vision is obstructed by your body. You turn facing the softened expression in Hunter’s eyes, and slowly lower yourself onto Crosshair's lap.

Placing your hands on his knees to steady yourself, you lean back until your head is resting on his chest and his breath is hot against the shell of your ear. “Good girl.”

His whispers send shivers down your spine and Hunter sinks to his knees in front of you, as Cross removes your shirt from over your head and the rest of the Batch descends upon you like wolves.

As Hunter’s face presses against the softness of your hip, Tech's teeth graze your neck and Wrecker's hands smooth over your nipples, you're overwhelmed at their strength. These are battle-hardened soldiers, Crosshair runs a calloused finger down your spine, and you're reminded how soft you are. Your skin is plush and comforts all of Hunter’s senses as the boys proceed to lose themselves upon you, you're reminded of the comfort they provide for you, a safety net you never knew you craved and the appetite you never knew could become so hungry.

Your canvas pants are ripped down the leg by Wrecker and Hunter’s combined efforts, the sound almost drowned out by a collection of panting wanton noises, and the scraps hit the floor out of sight.

Hunter noses across the top of your panties, letting his breath fan over the sensitive skin of your pussy as you feel Cross shift his hips and push his hard cock into your ass. All of them are in full armor, save for the helmets, yet you lie strewn out before them slick pooling in your panties as they take turns pulling pleasure from your body like they serve no higher purpose.

It's Wrecker who pulls himself from his flight suit first, and you can't remember ever having such a physical reaction to something like this before. You reach out on instinct, fingers not wrapping completely around his girth and teasing the pink tip until it begins to leak into your palm. He towers over your head as whimpers and shudders wrack through his body as though he's never been touched.

You catch a glimpse of Echo, standing slightly off to the side, watching with his pupils fully dilated as he follows the path of Hunter’s mouth on your skin his face flush with crimson. Tilting your head back you turn towards Crosshair and give him a deep kiss, letting him lick into your mouth feverishly. Hunter’s fingers trace over your seam delicately over the thin fabric of your panties as they grow transparent with your desire.

Wrecker’s cock is thick and heavy in your hand, and you clench wantingly around nothing, his hips brush into your hand with a tenderness you long to experience. Crosshair snakes a hand up your chest and cradles the thin skin over your throat, chasing Tech’s glancing kisses away, but taking the opportunity to encourage you to grind your hips against his cock.

In a few mere movements, the men surrounding you have altered your state of mind and each passing touch coaxes you further into submission. Tech shifts and lets his breath ghost over your nipples, you turn your head and catch Hunter in a deep kiss noting how different he tastes and feels against you. You let your thumb swipe over the leaking tip of Wrecker's cock, and fight the urge to stuff your fingers in your mouth to taste.

Hunter breaks the kiss and steps away, letting Echo take his place between your legs but not before using his dagger to cut the hip of your undergarments and stuffing them into one of his pant pockets.

You blush at the obscenity of it all, but it quickly soothed away but the cool metal of Echo’s headpiece brushing over your thighs. Wordlessly Crosshair adjusts the seat so your pussy is presented to Echo, leaning more onto your back and looking up at the boys devouring your form.

His mouth is hot, licking softly over your clit as you relax with Crosshair stroking the pulse point in your neck. You’re slick with arousal and he doesn’t hesitate to lick it up teasing your entrance with the tip of his tongue.

You writhe, letting yourself melt against him, fighting to stay concentrated enough to play with Wrecker’s balls tugging and rolling them beneath your fingers. Eager to pleasure every one of them.

Echo’s glove ghosts over your sex, teasing your entrance with a digit, the leather smoothly gliding over your skin. Hunter and Tech each take to stroking down your thighs and holding them in place, “Easy, meshla, we will take good care of you.”

Your mind is swimming, when did this start? Tech steps a hair closer to your face, tilting your jaw up with his free hand, and slips a finger past your lips. You suck lightly, sure to match the pace at which you’re stroking Wrecker. You get a praising hum, and Tech surprisingly is the second to drop his pants and pull himself free. Stroking himself to the rhythm of you teasing him with a curl of your tongue.

It's the tangled moan of you around Tech’s fingers that breaks Crosshair, his pants unbearably tight and each little movement of your hips making him clench his jaw to stave the noises that die in his throat. He lifts you to your feet, and removes his pants, letting himself spring free. You have to admit you expected the armor to be harder to take off.

You stand on unsteady feet, in an attempt to turn your head towards Crosshair, Hunter captures your chin in two fingers locking your eyes together. “Echo.” A chuckle reverberates between them, all seemingly on board with whatever plan this could be. Echo slides flat onto his back looking up at you and the rest of the boys. The realization is enough to make you shiver. Your pussy clenches, still empty, but a dripping mess sticks your thighs together. Hunter’s eyes are burning through your resolve, there’s an intensity you’d come to respect that now sends a spike of fear through you. “Sit.”

You go to protest but are quickly shut down and you look around at the men surrounding you eagerly but patiently waiting for you to follow his instructions. Swallowing thickly over the lump in your throat, you sink to your knees and hover a few inches from Echo’s waiting mouth. From your knees they tower above you, all but Hunter free from their confines. You get a good look at the three cocks, all weeping and swollen pink across their tip, beautifully complimenting the darker-tanned skin of their shaft.

Each of them was different, which only slightly surprises you, Wrecker being the thickest, but both Tech and Crosshair meet him in length. You can feel each breath from Echo’s mouth, knowing you're probably close to dripping across his chin. You lower slowly, afraid to hurt him, until he licks the seam of your entrance savoring the hot flesh and you seek his tongue sitting on his face in earnest. His mouth brings welcome waves of pleasure as he suckles on your clit.

They pump themselves slowly, enjoying the view of your tits bouncing with each shiver. You start to move your hips in small circles while reaching to palm over Crosshair’s balls and stroking up over his shaft squeezing a bead of precome from the tip. You open your mouth and glance between them, expecting to see some kind of hierarchy emerge but they take a half step toward you together.

You opt for taking Tech into your mouth, but only because he's in the middle, letting yourself drool around him as you suck on the thick knot of his cock head, before turning and spitting the excess saliva onto Crosshair’s cock coating it with slick to make your fist glide against him nice and quickly. Tightening around the base and working more of those beautiful precum drips from his leaking tip.

You snap back to Tech’s cock, tasting the sweat of his skin, and the desire for your body grows with each passing second as he throbs needfully in your mouth.

Echo is teasing your clit with calculated movements of his tongue, licking around it in sharp purposeful circles, and sucking on it every few passes. Enough to make your brain fuzz up each time his lips seal around you as Tech nudges the back of your throat to earn a gag.

You pull off him again, this time gathering the drool in your mouth to cover as much of Wrecker's cock as you physically can. His cock is so heavy it sways low on his hips thick and so hard your body is already aching for the sting that will accompany the stretch. You use the thick spit to pump him slower, allowing yourself a moment to admire what has to be the largest you'll ever get the chance to worship.

The slick sounds are broken with an “Atta girl.” in the shape of a deep growl from Wrecker’s chest. He reaches and gathers some drool from your chin and brushes it over your lip and you open instinctively, just as Echo uses his tongue to prod at your entrance. His praise is as wholesome as his affection for you.

Hunter has taken a seat across from the rest of you, watching as if analyzing each movement of your legs as they quiver from the ravenous pleasure and your throat tightens around the length of Crosshair's shaft. His thin fingers find purchase at the back of your neck, urging you to sputter around him and the sick squelch just barely audible beneath your moans.

Echo swiftly plunges two fingers into your pussy, crooking them and stroking deliciously at your g-spot and forcing you to pull yourself away from Crosshair to let your head drop as you fight for composure. “Let yourself enjoy it little one. It won’t be your last.” Cross takes the tip of his cock and taps the tip to your tongue.

You swear, body humming and teetering on the edge before losing yourself to one hellishly explosive orgasm. It shocks you, body shaking and toes curling against the cool floor as your body burns in the aftershocks Echo works you through it with some tentative kisses to your entrance, and he encourages you to sit up so he can slide out from under you.

So much of the room is spinning you don’t notice Tech sitting in front of you until you’re kissing him. His tongue finds yours in a syrupy sweet and methodical kiss as you fight to catch your breath. Wrecker moves behind you, running his rough hands down your back and palming the flesh of your ass, striking it with a loud slap.

Tech swallows your gasp, pinching your nipples and pulling them as Wrecker bends you at the waist until you’re scrambling to your hands and knees sucking Tech into your mouth with a compliant and satisfied hum.

Hunter speaks up, “Turn around.” The trance is broken for the briefest of seconds, and you don't have time to think before they’re turning you so you’re faced with Wrecker’s huge cock and Tech teases your entrance with the tip of his cock. The passive command that Hunter has over all of you gives you goosebumps, his authority even stronger than the ache they share for you.

You sink to your elbows, propping your ass up on display and practically begging for Tech to fuck you, pushing back onto the head of his cock, all while blinking away tears as Wrecker’s size makes your jaw ache. The larger man splays his hand across the back of your head, inciting your thick moans as you work as much of him as you can fit.

Tech’s hips pitch forward and he’s splitting you open in one fluid deep thrust until your ass is nestled against his hips and he grunts at the eager squeeze of your sex around him. You work your hips in sync with your head the drag of his cock along your walls is unlike anything you’ve ever felt. He shifts from both knees to one, allowing a deeper thrust to kiss your cervix with a hiss of pain-laced pleasure. He sets a pace, hips meeting yours in synchronous harmony, and the three of you get lost in each other's pleasure.

You’re briefly aware of Crosshair stroking himself above you and Hunter is still watching with bated breath as you service his brothers, wondering if you’ll let each of them have a turn or if they’ll need to give you a break.

Tech snakes a hand around to press a firm thumb against your clit, and a rush of fluid hits the floor of the cargo space that permeates his senses. The sickly sweet smell of your release coats his tongue and he chokes the head of his cock through his clothes to stop him from cumming before he even gets to touch you.

Your vision is white, and you’re vaguely aware of the spend running down your thighs. When Tech pulls himself free with a grunt you feel the hot ropes of his cum on your back you whine, feeling ashamed that you long for him to finish inside of you. You clench around nothing and sit up to look at Wrecker who brushes a hair out of your face. You kiss him, softly at first, unsure of his comfort with the taste of his precome in your mouth, but he growls and lifts you by your waist, licking into your mouth as he helps you hover over his cock.

You take advantage of the break, wrapping your arms around his neck and taking the weight off your knees in favor of straddling him. Even in his lap, you’re looking up at him. Letting gravity do some of the work, you adjust to let him prod at your entrance and sink slowly onto him, the slick warmth of your pussy a welcome substitute for your pretty mouth.

His chest rumbles beneath yours, groaning as your pussy flutters around him. You kiss him through a grimace, “Take your time.” He whispers against your mouth, low enough you’re not sure the others hear him. Heart swelling at the compassion, you let him slowly rock his hips against you, easing his way into your heat and keeping his hands splayed across your hips to support you.

It’s a slow process, each inch accompanied by breathless and muffled moans followed by kisses and words of endearment. “You can take it mesh’la.” You’re nearly there, body so in tune with his every word you nearly forgot your showmanship.

Crosshair is to your right, one hand gripping the base of his cock as precome dribbles and hangs just out of reach from your eager tongue, muttering something in a language you don’t understand.

You swear you can feel the throb of Wrecker inside of you, and he presses his mouth to your forehead as he pistons his hips slowly angling your body in a way so that he’s moving you along his shaft effortlessly.

Breathless and spent, you let him. Being filled by him is almost overwhelming, each push and pull feeling like he's going to split you in half. He mumbles and groans into your hairline, speaking nonsense in between bitten-off praise. When his fingers find your clit you all but cry, shaking your head in protest, “Please- I can't.”

It's Hunter that answers your cries, “You can.” His voice hoarse with need and restraint, “Be a good girl.” Your brow furrows, in concentration, tossing your head back in near agony at the overstimulation.

Wrecker leans forward and presses his mouth to the column of your throat sucking on the thin skin and leaving a pink welt in his wake. You feel as if you could explode, not able to hear the sounds of your screams as you shudder and writhe under his touch, against his skin and your body falls slack with the overwhelming pleasure.

He lifts his face and you catch a pleased smile, like a loth-wolf with its prey in its teeth. As he throbs and fucks his spend deep into your core. They all see the muted smile tug at the corner of your mouth as Wrecker cums inside you.

He holds you for a moment, kissing over the reddish blemish on your throat and waiting for you to make eye contact with him before slipping free with a tangled whimper from both of you.

Wrecker wraps your legs around him and stands on sturdy legs, you cling to him, resting your cheek on his shoulder hyperaware of the wetness between your thighs. He sets you on Hunter's lap, in your euphoria, he’s lost his pants and sits still in a pair of soft cotton underwear, stark black against his tanned abdomen. It’s now that you notice his tattoo, so familiar with the portion on his face you never notice how the tattoo bleeds across the entire left side of his body.

The lines are both clean and elegant, highlighting the rich flawless tone of his figure. Gorgeously broad shoulders with rippling cords of muscles supporting your cheek as you rest your head lazily and admire him. Placing a lingering and exhausted kiss to the stretch of skin between his shoulder and neck and relishing the warmth of him against your sweat-soaked skin, in the extra cold air of a ship in hyperspace.

He runs his fingers through your hair, scratching lightly and working every line of tension out of you over a few minutes. You distantly hear the sound of the fresher’s shower being turned on. Crosshair is gone, and you fear a pang of regret and pity.

Your breath is coming easier by the time, Hunter carries you towards the sound of the water. Crosshair meets you both under the water’s spray refreshing your senses and soothing the ache of your muscles. You get settled on your feet between them, legs feeling like they’re made of sand, Hunter’s body is pressed tightly to your back, anchoring and steadying you as you greet Crosshair with an inviting kiss.

He welcomes your touch, all but overtaking your space completely as you get pressed between the two of them and lost to the feeling of their bodies against yours, Hunter nestled into the small of your back and Crosshair’s cock leaking and purple with need against your belly.

The steam only adds to the dreamlike quality of it all, tendrils wafting off the ground and highlighting the sight of your ass pressed against him. Hunter doesn’t want to hurt you, but each passing second without fucking you is making him lose his sanity. As if he might just sink into the floor with the weight of his need crushing him entirely.

He nibbles at your earlobe, earning a low whine from your chest. You tilt your head in invitation for his affection, kissing up the column of your neck and tasting the water on your skin tangled with the smell of his brothers. He makes eye contact with Crosshair, and they communicate silently as they spin you around and switch roles.

Hunter licking into your mouth and letting his hand run down to your hip and pull you to him. Expecting the press of Crosshair to your back, you’re startled when you feel the graze of his teeth on your ass. His palms run over the smooth skin, kneading the flesh and watching it move in response to his touch.

Crosshair splays a hand on the small of your back, urging you to lean forward. You glance over your shoulder as he spreads you open and licks a stripe across your asshole. The feeling sends a shiver down your spine, you hear a chuckle as he presses the pad of his thumb into you and watches you with a hungry stare.

Hunter distracts you, kissing you slowly and running his hands soothingly down your back as Crosshair preps you to take him until he’s working two fingers in and out of you and sucking a bruise into your hip to match the one adorning your throat.

You nibble on Hunter’s lip, and bury your hands into his hair, tugging at the root living for the whimpers you get out of him. Crosshair kisses his way up your spine, standing straight, and this time you see them. There’s a small nod of agreement and both of them turn their full attention to you, “You gonna let us fuck you cyar’ika?”

Without hesitation, you nod. You’re not able to explain, how you were able to wrap your arms around Hunter as he hoisted you up his waist and you sank down onto his length. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was the way he demanded your submission through the tone of his voice. No, you thought, it was the way he sounded like he was begging you, he commanded your attention but the way he used his authority had you believing that you, and what he asked of you, was the most important thing in the galaxy. You wanted nothing more than to give him everything he asked for and more.

They give you a moment, Hunter biting his lip as your cunt squeezes him like you haven’t already come three times already. You throw an arm around Crosshair’s neck opening your legs just enough for him to slot himself against you and slowly push into you with the cant of his hips.

He goes incredibly slow, sawing his hips back and forth and relishing in the feeling of Hunter’s cock also nestled deep inside you making you impossibly tighter and the friction of your walls against him.

It feels like too much, pain and pleasure mixing in an enchanting cocktail of stimulation, yet still the familiar tug of an orgasm stirs in your belly. You suppress a sob at the idea of coming for a fourth time around the both of them. They hush you, nuzzling against you and pressing righteous and thankful kisses to your skin, “Look at you, pretty girl.” Crosshair’s voice is so low and drawn out that it takes every last shred of your concentration to hear what he’s saying, “You look so good taking everything we give you.”

The inflection acts like a highlight reel, your body remembering along with your brain the feeling of being the center of attention during your first orgasm. The complexity of your second. The white-hot stretch of Wrecker using and worshipping your body filling you to the brim during the aftershocks of your third. Hunter whispers against the shell of your ear, “Good girl.” Reading the signs of your body and feeling the crest of your orgasm build around him, and pulling you over the edge with his praise.

He presses his forehead to yours as he follows close behind, senses overwhelmed and fighting the bend to his knees as they buckle with the intensity of his climax.

Crosshair pumps into you from behind, lifting one of your legs slightly and changing the angle so he can thrust deeper grinding into you, and urging you to lean more heavily on him to keep the three of you from collapsing as he stills and spills into you.

The three of you pant in silence, ragged breath lost in the noise of the water hitting the metal floor of the fresher, you wordlessly separate. The endorphins running through your bloodstream turn your muscles' pain into a blissful ache you never want to forget.

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