minbells

[minbells]

porcelain

pairing: todoroki shouto x f! reader status standalone, one-shot, completed wc: 25k

summary: you are nothing more than a broken doll of fine china, the shards of a porcelain vase. and yet time and time again, he tries to cup the whole of you in his hands, uncaring of how sharp they are, nor how cutting. contains: childhood friends to eventual lovers, mutual pining, fluff, angst with an eventual happy ending, coming of age, pro!hero au. mentions of: victim blaming, eating disorder, depression, sexual assault, domestic violence, arranged marriage, pregnancy + miscarriage/fetus death

author's note: dancer! reader, predetermined family. i hope to have written the themes i wished to explore well, but as i have not experienced a great majority of them personally, i can only hope that i have done them relative justice. repost, and also cross posted to ao3.

In the earliest of your memories⏤ the core ones, the ones that are said to follow a child for life⏤ your mother is almost always there, in some way, shape, or form.

It is only natural: for most children, most mothers are. And you are no different⏤ she bore you for the full of the nine months between your conception and your birth, and as you have been told, for the first of your many years, and then all the ones after that. She has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years⏤ the ones any actress worth her salt would never even think of giving. But she does, because she is your mother, and you are her firstborn; her most prized darling; the first of the children she will have with your father⏤ and also the only one, though you will not know why until later. 

You are five, and you know only that she is your mother; the only one that you will ever have in the world, and that is why you also believe her when she tells you a woman’s worth amounts to only three things. 

You don’t need to see it for yourself to believe it, though you do so, anyways. The world views women as flowers, she will tell you later; a tired rendition of the same words she has repeated to you, time and time again. They have no interest in the older ones; the ones that have already started to wilt. 

You will say that, to you, she will always be the most beautiful woman in the world⏤ and she always will be, even if her youth nowadays is only preserved through the power of your father’s money; the countless tucks and lifts and numerous other surgeries that pile up throughout the years. 

But you believe it when she tells you that the face is the first of the three things that make up a woman’s worth, and the slimness of her body the second. And honestly, why wouldn’t you? This is your mother, the one who has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed most of her youthful years; so much that after you are born, she never returns to her acting career again. This is your mother, who still undergoes a thousand and one different operations, different treatments, to ensure her body is as spotless as it once was and free of the remnants of childbirth; free of the remnants of you. 

This is your mother, who tells you that your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to.

( And you believe her, because why wouldn’t you? )

This is the first of your core memories, and it is one that you will carry for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first time you meet Todoroki Shouto is on a July afternoon, with your mother behind you, and his father behind him. 

You’re not really concerned by this⏤ it’s only the standard for a meeting between the children of families like yours, and you have already met enough of them that such a sight is familiar enough to you. 

What concerns you more is the heat of the sun scorching down upon your skin, through the shade of the parasol clutched in your hand, and through the abominable amounts of sunscreen your mother had made you lather onto your skin. The press of summer heat makes your clothes cling rather uncomfortably⏤ you’ve never been out when the sun shines so bright; your mother has never allowed it of you, so you’re rather unused to the feeling. 

That doesn’t mean you show any of it, though.

Your mother had stressed to you the importance of this meeting, though she didn’t really have to; she would not have brought you out like this if it were for anything less than imperative. And you are old enough to understand by now that marriage at the end of the line is not just a possibility, but a goal expected of you⏤ your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to⏤ and Todoroki Shouto, your father tells you, is the perfect candidate for this. 

Your mother does not say a word⏤ in your father’s presence, she rarely does. But she does not need to for you to know she agrees. 

You think this is why you study him a little closer than the rest, even though you already know him, or rather, know of him, from the profile that was given to you, that you have spent time reading. 

There’s less written about him than any of the other children⏤ he has had very little in the way of public appearances, unlike the rest of them; so little that the only useful information is what your father deigns to tell you over dinner. A Hero family quickly rising in the ranks, one I’d like you to make connections with, he says, and you hear: a hero family we are looking to marry you into. 

Your father does not deign to talk to you often, but you know what your answer is; what your answer should be. 

“Yes, father.” You say, and you don’t mind⏤ your worth will only ever amount to the sum of your face, your body, and the arm of the man you cling to, after all, and given your status, a family as renowned as the Todorokis is already more than you can ask for. 

It’s why you straighten a little, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear as you greet him with a smile. 

“Hi!” You greet softly, but no less warmly⏤ your mother’s smile shutters a little at the scar marring one side of his face, but truthfully, you think he looks pretty enough in spite of it. 

“Hi,” He returns, and it’s a little cold, but you’re undaunted. 

“If it’s alright with your dad, maybe we could go play something?” 

Your mother smiles down at you⏤ as she does every time you’re good and attempt to properly make your connections, but you still soak up her praise like a flower finally graced with the light of the sun. 

“Would that be alright with you, Todoroki-san?” 

The red-haired man is polite in his nod, though you suppose the look in his eyes is a little scary⏤ the whole of him is, you think, bigger than even your father; one of the most intimidating men in your world. “Shouto. Show her around the house.” 

You hear the similar command in his tone, but your eyes are focused on the way the red-and-white haired boy’s lips thin, displeased⏤ “Yes.” He says in the end, and you note the way he does not even bother to call him father. 

Your mother squeezes your shoulder. “Be good, alright?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

She laughs, the corners of her eyes crinkling. The older Todoroki-san does not, only gesturing her in welcome forward. 

You wait until they’re out of earshot to turn to the younger one and say: “You know, Todoroki-san⏤” 

But then you hesitate.

You’re not sure if you should say this, and you never have to anyone else⏤ you think your father would disapprove, and you know your mother would. You think of what your mother would say, the opportunities you would be giving up, but you’d seen the displeasure upon his face, noted how uncomfortable he seemed, and still seems, even now. 

And in the end, though your words are hushed, you still say them, anyway. 

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

He blinks at you. You wonder if you have said something wrong. 

“I don’t mind showing you around the house.” 

“Oh! I mean, that too, but…” 

You waver again, glancing around a little. He’s still watching you, confused, but your mother is nowhere in sight, so you continue. 

“I mean, marriage. Like, I’m only seven, and I’m sure you’re great, and I guess I don’t really mind if mother really wants it, but you seemed really uncomfortable, and I also don’t really want to get engaged to anyone yet, so…” 

You’re not sure what exactly you’re saying, and you falter. 

“Um. Sorry. Please don’t tell anyone else I said that.” 

You can already imagine the emotion that would cross your mother’s face, the same as what your father would call you. Disappointment. You swallow. 

You shouldn’t have said that.  

But his answer comes, soft and simple. “I won’t since you don’t want me to.” 

You gauge his expression, a little wary. His features are still emotionless, and though you don’t think he’s lying, you ask just for reassurance. “Really?” 

He nods. “And…” His expression shutters a little. “I don’t plan on marrying for anything other than love.” 

There goes your parents' plans, you think, and though you are a little bit down at the prospect of disappointing them, your chest feels somewhat lighter. 

You’re not entirely sure why. 

“I think you’re the first person I’ve ever heard saying that,” You muse. Your mother certainly never has, and you have never been delusional enough to think it of your father. 

You don’t mind it, though. You used to dream about love, in the way many little girls do, awestruck at the romances in the fairy-tales your nanny used to read to you before bed. You are about to say, I’m happy for you.

But then, you think of their expressions, the way they will look at you when you go back and tell them that he doesn’t want to marry you; he wishes only to marry for love. You know what your mother will say; how she will simply tell you to make him fall in love with you⏤ your worth as a woman lies in your face and your body, and how you should make good use of it, before you wither.

So you are just a little bit selfish when you say: “Let’s just be friends, then!” 

He blinks at you. “Friends?”

You flash him a grin, your heart rattling in your chest. You hope he says yes⏤ firstly, because you won’t be entirely a disappointment, and secondly, because that means he’s the only one you’ll be meeting for the purposes of anything other than developing your family’s connections. 

“Friends.” You confirm, before backpedaling at your forwardness “I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s also okay⏤” 

You’re glancing up at him a little worriedly, trying to gauge his expression. 

“It’s not that.” He says. And then, after a beat of silence, even quieter. “It’s just that no one’s ever asked to be my friend before.”

You blink. Oh. And then, hope bubbles, like a warmth in your chest. 

“Well! That’s okay!” You think of all the other children your parents have had you make connections with. “No one’s ever asked to be mine, either.” 

He’s watching you a little strangely, you think. “Okay.” 

There’s a beat of silence. You’re not sure what he means⏤ okay? Okay to what? Okay that no one’s ever asked to be your friend before? You flush a little. You’re not sure what to say⏤ you’re not usually so bad at holding a conversation, but then again, you’ve never had one quite like this. 

Then, he asks, a little awkwardly. “What do friends… do?” 

You think your heart stops. You can’t believe your ears. You’re not sure what expression you have on your face, but you’re sure it’s something between disbelief and gaping.

You shut your mouth and still your features the way your mother has taught you to, but you can’t help the smile tugging sharply at your lips, wide and beaming. “Well, no clue! I’ve never had a friend before. We can figure it out!” 

“Okay.” He says, a touch serious. “Do you want me to show you the house?” 

You’re not sure that’s exactly what friends do⏤ you’ve read enough about them in your books, but you appreciate him all the more for trying. “Anything to get out of the sun.” You sigh a little. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sweating.” 

“I’m not.” He supplies, helpfully. “I can make some ice.” 

You’re a little surprised. “Oh, are you sure? I wouldn’t want to trouble you⏤” 

You know of his Quirk, of course, and how he’s Endeavour’s son, but you’ve also seen your brother struggling with his own, and you don’t want to burden him.

He only holds out his left hand in response, the top of it icing over.

You gasp a little at the ease with which he does. “You’re so cool!”

“Only my left side.” 

You’re a little confused, but then you remember. Ah. Half-cold half-hot. You nod, understandingly. “Does that mean you can use fire on your right side, then?” 

He stiffens at that, and your heart drops like a stone⏤ you’ve said something wrong, you don’t know exactly what, but it’s too late to take it back. 

“Yes,” He says, a touch colder. 

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you innately wary. Not of him, exactly, but the topic itself, and then you think of how you’re at his house, but his mother hasn’t come out to greet you; how his father, the older Todoroki-san, had offered no explanation.

Briefly, you wonder if his family is just like yours. 

But you don’t dwell on it long, catching yourself mid-thought. It’s not polite to gossip about others’ affairs, your mother tells you once. 

“Well, I think you’ll be a good Hero, if that’s what you want to be,” Your smile is an olive branch. 

“It is.” He blinks, slightly confused. “Thank you.” 

You only laugh a little. “My Quirk wasn’t strong enough, so that dream ended before it could even start. Not that my mother would let me, anyways, I guess. I get to dance now, though, and I think I like it better.” 

You can see that he’s unsure of how to respond to this, so you flash him another smile. 

“Your ice was really cool, but I’m still sweating so much that I’m scared I’ll melt.” 

“Humans can’t melt.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I don’t want to be the first!” 

This is your second core memory. It is the only one absent of your mother, and it is also one you will treasure for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your mother presses you for details on the car ride back, and you are feeling both proud and just a little guilty when you report to her that you and Shouto are now friends. 

She looks a little surprised when you tell her⏤ clearly, you hadn’t been the only one to notice his more reclusive tendencies⏤ but no less than pleased. 

Your guilt soars, and you confess right then and there that he’d told you he’d only ever marry for love.

Her brow rises a little at that, but all she says is: “Well, the two of you have many years for that, don’t you?”

The ease with which her reply comes makes you feel just a little uncomfortable. Of course you don’t mind marrying him⏤ he’s kind, he’s your first friend, and his arm is undoubtedly worth a lot, but you’re not sure that’s what love is.

But you say none of what you think, and none of what you feel. 

You only dip your head, murmuring a yes, mother, and listen to the pleased tone of her hum.

You don’t see him for a good month after that. Between your extracurriculars⏤ your advanced classes and your dance lessons, you don’t get much of a chance to even think of him, and when you do, you wish you hadn’t forgotten to exchange numbers. Even the other children⏤ the ones you connect with for your family⏤ text you every so often, but you’re not officially friends with them like you are the red-and-white haired Todoroki-san, and honestly, you think you like him just a bit more. 

But what if he forgets you? You worry when you find the time, you worry even when you don’t, you worry while you are being driven to his house for the second time and your mother asks you what’s wrong, and you say I’m fine because that’s what you’re supposed to and⏤ did you forget me? 

You freeze. You didn’t mean to ask that. 

But then, he’s blinking up at you, looking a little lost. “Was I supposed to?” His brow furrows a little. “I’m not sure it’s possible, but I can try if you’d like.” 

You don’t know what exactly you’re feeling, but you think it’s a little bit like how you felt when you managed to slide into the splits the first time, or when your sensei praises you for landing a particularly difficult spin in your routine.

You beam wide. “No, it’s okay! I was just worried!” 

“Why?” He’s assessing you, a little confused. “We’re friends. Aren’t we?”

You think this is the first time you’ve smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.  

“Yeah!” You bring your pinky up, a little more shy, as you recite a line you’d seen in one of your books. “Best friends forever?” 

He alternates his gaze between your face and the pinky you proffer, before eventually offering up his own, a question written into it. 

You only link yours together. “You pinky promised. That means forever. You can’t break it now, okay?” 

His glance is still a little questioning, but eventually, something settles upon his face. “Okay.” He says, simply. 

You think you do not care if you do not get married to him, like your parents want you to. You think it is okay if he never loves you like that, because this has already made you happier than you have ever been.

You think that being best friends with him is more than enough, as long as forever means the rest of your life. 

And it is.

For the rest of that summer, and for several years after that, you get to see him weekly. 

You call him Shouto-san now, after he’d allowed it of you the first time you’d met his siblings and instantly confused them all with the sheer number of Todoroki-sans you were saying, but he also gets to call you by your first name, so it’s something of an equivalent exchange. You’re always the one getting dropped off at his house, though your mother has offered for him to visit you several times⏤ Endeavour-san’s always the one to refuse, and after so much time spent at their house, you think you understand some of it. 

After all, sometimes, you think the way he tries to shape Shouto in his image is just a little bit like how your mother tries to shape you. 

You don’t say anything, of course. You have been taught to be quietly observant the whole of your life. 

But it’s why you notice certain things. 

You notice the way Endeavour looks at you, and how it feels a little bit like your father’s. You know what they see⏤ you have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all; child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter of a whore mother⏤ and you know right there and then, that even had you wanted to marry Shouto, you would not have been able to. His father would not have allowed it, though he will allow you as you are⏤ friends and no more, for the sake of the connections, the opportunities you allow him. 

You are fine with that, though. Shouto is going to marry for love, you hope he does, and you are already happy enough if you get to be best friends for the rest of your life. 

Your mother has taught you to be quietly observant the whole of your life, and it’s why you also notice the way he treats his son, though you don’t say anything; it’s not your place. But you note the way your friend tenses a little whenever his father walks around, his own footfalls quieter than they have ever been before, the muteness, and the anger-fuelled resentment, even if he does not yet know how to express it. You think the way his father tries to shape him in his image is a little bit like how your mother tries to shape you in hers, though it’s a little different⏤ she never bruises you, at the very least.

You don’t say anything; you have asked your mother, and she has told you that it’s not your place. 

But your heart hurts a little, so you still ask your driver to fetch you some soothing cream, and you leave it on his desk the next week. 

He doesn’t mention it, and yet the next time you arrive, he hands you a pile of CD’s, wordless.

It’s a mixture: some of your favorite opera songs, the ones you’d told him you dreamed of starring in one day, and the recordings of several ballet pieces interspersed between. 

You stare at the stack in your hands, entirely mute, so many emotions stuck in your throat that the words simply do not come out. Something in you aches. 

He’s watching you a little worriedly. “Do you… like them?”

“I do.” You croak.

He draws a little closer. “But you’re crying.” 

“Happy tears.” On impulse, you reach over to wrap your arms around him⏤ he freezes, the two of you have never been particular on touch, but his are coming around you in the next moment, somewhat awkward in placement, but you don’t even care. You only say, somewhat thickly into his chest. “I love it.”

You mean it. 

It’s not just about the expenses⏤ though looking the quality, of course they cost a hefty sum, you think a little despairingly, but of course it is, it’s Shouto. 

Shouto, who tries his best to text you back even when the both of you are tired from a long day at your respective training, who listens to you ramble about the things you found interesting with a small smile on his face, who claps for you when you show him your dances⏤ even in the beginning, when you weren’t nearly as good and stumbled a few times. 

Shouto, who notices all the little things, like when you’ve stopped taking as much food as you have before because your mother told you you should start eating less, and pushes a little bit more towards you, a questioning look on his face. Shouto, who makes a social media account for you only because you said you’d started one, who follows only you, likes only your posts, who remembers it all, your preferred genre, the songs you mention once upon a time. 

Shouto, who cups the whole of you in his hands now, hesitant, but no less careful, as if he were handling one of your mother’s porcelain dolls, as if you are something precious. 

“I’m glad,” He tells you. “I was worried you wouldn’t like them.” 

You think back to all the other gifts you have received in your life, piles upon piles of birthday presents, exquisitely jeweled, enough to buy a small fortune; enough to buy what is in your mind equivalent to that of a small kingdom. The pieces your mother buys you, a little more suited to your taste than the gaudy opulence of the others, and far more expensive than this, but⏤ you want to tell him that none of them can even compare. You want to tell him that this is the most thoughtful thing you have ever received in your life, the first thing that isn’t bought just because someone thought it might look pretty on you, so that you can wear it just once and then throw it away⏤ that you like it so much maybe just because it’s so thoughtful, and maybe just because it’s him. 

( But then, you think of the way his father looks at you, how it’s a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. 

You think of his hesitance the first day, the way his shoulders had relaxed, ever slightly, when you’d said it was okay because you didn’t really want to get engaged, either⏤ a lie, you’ve known it was only your duty the whole of your life, and you’d said it even though you knew it would have wholly disappointed your parents, because you’d seen his displeasure, how uncomfortable he was. 

You think of the absence of his mother, the one he tells you he has started visiting in the hospital, and how the day before, he is the most nervous you have ever seen him. )

And in the end, all you settle for is this. “It’s the best thing I’ve ever been given in my life.” 

He smiles, soft and beautiful. “I’m glad,” He tells you again. 

You think of the firmity in his tone when he tells you that he is going to marry only for love, and you think: you are fine with this. You are glad that Shouto is going to marry for love, and you hope that he does. 

After all, you think you are already happy enough being here with him, solidified in your position as his first real friend, his best friend, forever, for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s around age thirteen when the routine the two of you have fallen into begins to change. 

Shouto is the one to tell you first, and then Endeavour contacts your parents officially a week later. He needs to prepare in earnest for UA, he tells you, and won’t be able to see you as often. He is apologetic as he says it, but you understand⏤ you have understood that though he holds no small amount of resentment towards his father, heroism to him is no less than dance is towards you. Something natural, as easy as breathing, like you were simply made for it; a discipline that has already been carved into you, from the top of your head and down to the tips of your toes. 

You don’t mind, not entirely, because though you are similarly despondent at the prospect of not being able to see him nearly as often, you have only just begun to kickstart your own career in earnest. Your mother pulls you from your school, leaving only the most necessary of subjects for your tutors to cover⏤ your days start becoming measured in the hours you spend with your dance instructors and pop-quizzes you barely have the presence of mind to study for, between the constant mini-shoots your mother puts you through for your social media accounts, and the bone-weary training you endure before passing out upon your bed each night. 

You don’t mind it though, you think. You enjoy it, actually, the way dance seems to hem itself into your very soul, a silent song that lengthens your every step, the grace of your arms. 

You don’t mind the hunger that gnaws at you, sharp and cutting, nor do you protest when your mother tells you to eat a little less, despite the fact that you haven’t had anything for breakfast, nor really for lunch. Because she’s your mother, and you believe her, and she is right; you did look a little bloated in that picture the other day, and that’s why it didn’t get nearly as many likes as the previous. Your face is beautiful⏤ it is the face of your mother, and you are too young yet for the arm of a man to hang off of, so you measure your worth in the last: your body, and the width of your hips. 

The next time Shouto sees you, it’s on video call, and you don’t think you’re mistaking the way his face tightens a little. “Have you been eating?” He asks you, direct and straight to the point. 

You are not really lying when you tell him that yes, you have, and you are not really lying when you don’t tell him: not as much. You are not really lying as you don’t tell him that you threw up the other day, sick on the taste of one of the foods you used to love so much, because you’d eaten it, and then started thinking of how many calories it was, how bloated you would look for the next picture, how your likes would fall, how your followers might fluctuate. 

You only thank him for liking all of your posts, anyways, like he always does. Between the rest of your activities, you barely have any time at all to yourself, and when you do manage to scrape some together, you are texting him. You tell him about your dances, how you feel about them, the music, your upcoming performances, and he tells you about his days in return. 

You tell him about the company you’ve started dancing for, how you’re not one of their lead dancers yet, but that you’re really good, so you might very well be one day. You’re not sure though⏤ you know you’re an amazing dancer, it’s a discipline you have carved inside you, like an extension of your very soul, but there are also a thousand-and-one girls who have done the exact same, who wear themselves out in hopes of achieving the coveted title of prima ballerina. You’re not that worried, though, you know you’re good, and achieving it isn’t just a pipe dream; it’s a very real possibility that you will achieve with your own two hands in the future. 

Shouto nods, and says, very seriously, that he knows you will, too. 

You smile at him when he says this, and your chest is so light that you almost forget everything else⏤ the gnawing hunger in the pit of your stomach, the despair you’d felt after your last post didn’t gain so much traction, the fact that you hadn’t gotten the lead role this time, because there’s another girl who’s not-quite as good as you but that your company still wishes to see develop; see flourish. Shouto has always had this effect on you⏤ you don’t know if it’s because of the simple way he says it, or the genuine way he seems to believe in you, and in everything you do, but when you talk to him, your worries seem entirely insignificant, like nothing else even matters.

But your mother does not think the same.

She believes a woman’s worth is measured in three things, just as you do. The worth of the man’s arm you cling to, but you are still a little young for this, your body⏤ the width of your hips⏤ and your face, and by extension, your youth. The world views women as flowers, she has told you once. They have no interest in the older ones; the ones that have already started to wilt. 

She means it the first few times as a criticism of herself. But every time after that seems to sound more like a warning; a prodding to you⏤ you, freshly thirteen, and at the very start of your career, you who are undoubtedly talented at dancing, so much that becoming the most renowned prima ballerina in the world isn’t just a pipe dream, but very real possibility you will achieve, with your own two hands in the future. 

You don’t know if your mother thinks the same, but you do know that in the future is just not good enough for her.

After all, youth to her is like a broken fountain, a well with no water, a stream already run dry. Yours may be glorious and still-gushing, but the timer is ticking, and in the future is not good enough at all.

And when everything after happens, you will understand, innately, that this is the why. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The third of your core memories starts something like this. 

You are in a room with three people: you, your mother, and a man you do not know.

You do not remember the specifics of his face. You remember only that he was older, so much older that much of his hair had turned white, that he smelled sort of like your grandmother, in the way that all old people do, and that he was touching you.

Your mother was in the room with you. She was not watching, but she was aware⏤ you know she was, because you were looking at her, wondering if it was okay⏤ you did not think it was, but she didn’t do anything, didn’t say anything, and you thought that it was, that it had to be, that you were the strange one. ( This is your mother, the one that has held you, nursed you, sacrificed a great many of her youthful years for you. ) 

You remember only that he was touching you, and that you did not like it. 

It’s not sex. You’re thirteen, so you’ve learned enough about it in school to know what that is, but he’s touching you in places that no one ever has before, and you think that there is something wrong with the situation, but you’re not sure⏤ your mother does not say a thing, so you think that you’re the one in the wrong. This is normal, and it’s strange of you to feel so profoundly uncomfortable, to want to tell him to stop, but you don’t, because your mother doesn’t say anything, so it’s okay, so it has to be, right? 

You suppose it’s not something to care about that much, anyways. He doesn’t hurt you, you’re only uncomfortable, and his company is so renowned that when you land the lead ballerina role the next week, your social media account does numbers. 

It’s fine, you think. You were only uncomfortable, and when you ask your mother about it later, she says only this. Well, you didn’t say no, and then she gives you a look. You’re doing just fine, aren’t you? 

She’s right, you think. You had been uncomfortable, and you hadn’t wanted it, but you hadn’t said no, so really, it’s your own fault for not communicating properly. And you’re the strange one⏤ your mother had been in the same room, after all, and she hadn’t said a thing, so it must have been normal.

You do not tell anyone else about this. You are not sure if you should; you are ashamed, and you do not think you want to. There is no one else you can, anyways, outside of your mother, because the only one you are really close enough to talk to about non-surface level topics is Shouto, and you don’t want to bother him with your worries. He’s studying to enter UA, he has enough on his plate, and you were the strange one for overreacting like you did, how you are the strange one for being uncomfortable.

It is your fault in the first place, you think, because you did not say no.

You do not end up telling Shouto about it. 

This is the third and last of your childhood memories, and it is also one you will carry for the rest of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You flourish like your mother wants you to. 

Your social media account explodes, your follower count with it, so many that you are not just known as a dancer and occasional influencer in circles, but a celebrity, true and proper. You are recognized on the streets now, there are people that ask for your autograph, you are scrutinized everywhere you go; your outfits and your makeup are the talk of the town.

It is not so strange. You have always been the subject of scrutiny wherever you go⏤ when you were young, it was because you were your father’s youngest child, the one born from his whore-wife turned eventual actress, the subject of a thousand countless speculations; if they had gotten together only because of you, and if you were even his child at all. 

But even before that, it had been your mother always; watching you with an eagle eye, micromanaging your every move, every step, and after, you had started to do much of it yourself. You know what beauty requires of you⏤ hunger gaping like a chasm in your stomach, pain as they wax the hair from your arms, angles that make you look better than the others, though at the moment, you do not yet need procedures only money can buy. When you are not dancing, you are primping yourself, obsessing over the slightest of flaws⏤ your mother boasts that you don’t need drugs like all the others in the industry to survive, to keep yourself slim, and there is pride in her voice. 

Shouto still makes sure to text you every day, and you do the same to him. Sometimes it’s longer, the two of you managing to scrape enough time together to have a longer conversation, the ones where you always initiate a voice call, missing the sound of his voice. ( Eventually, he starts asking you if he can call you, and your heart beats beautifully light in your throat. ) But you don’t video call him, not like the first time⏤ where he’d asked you if you were eating, and you could only try your best not to lie. 

You do not see each other often. Sometimes you miss the early days, when you could go over to his house every week and spend hours simply sprawled in the sun, doing whatever you could, whatever you’d like. You miss your conversations about anything and everything and nothing at all; some manga you thought he’d enjoy, learning how to bake⏤ he’s horrible at cooking, and so are you, but you have fun while doing it, and that’s all that matters⏤ but more often, you simply miss him. 

But you get your chance to see him soon enough, two years since you last laid eyes upon each other, sometime during the school year. 

It’s been a long time since your mother withdrew you from your own school⏤ you still have your tutors, but they’re significantly lesser than before. Your career is already set in stone, after all, and you are neither a man nor your father’s heir, so anything you learn beyond the basics is mere formality. But your brother’s giving a presentation to the older business kids at UA, and he asks you if you’d like to tag along. 

You know your father would disapprove⏤ he doesn’t like it when you interact with his heir. But your brother has always been kind to you, even though you are a child from another mother, even if your mother is not so kind to him⏤ he is kind to you when he offers, and you think you have never been so grateful. 

UA is large in a way you have never known a school to be. Their campus sprawls before you, building after building, and it looks so cool. You are a little in awe, and just a little jealous of the people that get to go here⏤ not that you have any particular desire to learn, you were never very good at it, but more so because you’ve never really gotten the chance to experience what it’s like. And the interior is even better⏤ the halls almost exactly like the ones in the shoujo manga you enjoyed, once upon a time. You wonder how many of the people who attended here have gotten to live out those scenes in real life; the people that are loved enough to make protagonists out of, whose stories are enough to touch their audiences, to inspire them. 

You have seen many of these faces on social media, up-and-coming heroes that the Pros post, on occasion. You are a little surprised when some of them even recognize you⏤ not that much, because you’re something of a celebrity by now, but you did not think people as cool as these aspiring heroes would pay attention to something like you. You honestly thought your brother would be the popular one⏤ he’s your father’s heir, after all, and he’s already a rising star in the business industry, but it’s you they’re fawning over, you who’s being asked for your autograph, you who the girls approach with shy smiles on their faces, complimenting your outfit, your lip shade, calling you pretty. 

“I’ll go ahead and get set up. Text me when you’re ready to leave, alright?” Your brother smiles down at you, and you’re about to ask him why, but then you see a flash of red-and-white, out of the corner of your eye. 

Heart held like a butterfly in your throat, you turn. 

You’ve seen him on the television, of course⏤ you watch every moment of his from the Sports Festival, complimenting his cool moves, telling him to start posting actively onto his social media account⏤ you’d be famous! you tell him, but it’s only teasing; you know he has no interest. You’ve seen him fighting villains, follow all the fan accounts there are of him with your alt account⏤ he makes an account for you, and you decide it’s only fair if you make one for him⏤ but you haven’t seen him like this in person, in almost three whole years. He’s taller than you remember, of course he is⏤ he’s not thirteen anymore, and he’s significantly more well-muscled, and you understand why girls gush over him, even though he’s not officially a Hero; the real-life version of your fairytale Prince Charming. 

He’s panting a little as he walks towards you, the crowd parting before him⏤ you wonder if he’d run to see you, but then your arms are opening, and he’s holding you, cupping the whole of you in your hands like he did the first time⏤ hesitant and careful, as if you were one of your mother’s porcelain dolls, like something precious. You don’t want this moment to end, and from the way he’s holding you, if you were delusional enough, you might have thought him to think the same. You squeeze back a little⏤ it’s been years since you’ve seen him, and he doesn’t say anything at first, and you don’t need him to. Shouto has always spoken more with his actions than he ever has his words, as you have come to know⏤ you don’t need him to say anything to know that this is his way of saying I missed you. 

You don’t want this moment to end, but it’s broken, eventually, by a voice from the other side of the hall⏤ “She’s your girlfriend ?” A golden-haired boy gapes. “You’ve been holding out on us, man!” 

You’re the one to step away a little, flushing. “It’s not⏤” 

“Todoroki, you bastard,” Someone else moans. 

“It’s not like that,” You correct, a little more firmly. You don’t want them to get the wrong idea⏤ you don’t want to ruin anything he has. You are his best friend, you have decided a long time ago; you will not destroy what you have for something so uncertain, and that is why you inform them. “Shouto-san’s only going to marry for love.”

You realize right after the words leave your mouth that there are multiple interpretations to this. First, the way you meant them, that Shouto is only ever going to marry for love, and as an extension, that he is not in love with you. There’s a beat of silence⏤ they’re looking at you a little bit strangely, you think, and the thought has you clutching your box a little tighter to your chest.

But then, you remember. That’s right. Your box. You hold it up like an offering, a practiced smile spreading over your face⏤ “I brought macarons for you!” You say, bright. “I practiced a lot after the last time, so they’re a lot better than the last time we tried to make them, so I thought you could maybe share them with your class? Or your friends? The chefs helped me, so they should be okay to eat⏤” 

You’re rambling, you think, just a little, but you are relieved when he accepts the box as you thrust it towards him. 

He stares at it a little blankly. “Why?” 

You blink. “Why did I make them?” 

“Why do I have to share?” 

“Todoroki, you bastard.” Someone⏤ a different someone this time, groans again. 

“Think of it as me bribing your friends so they’re a little nicer to you.” You laugh a little at the small frown on his face. “Do you want to introduce me to them?” 

You see his mouth open, already forming a no. 

“The friends and classmates in question would love to introduce themselves to you.” A pink-haired, pink-skinned girl cuts in, grinning. 

You smile a little at this, but then Shouto cuts in, a little assertively. “Over lunch, then. I’ll buy it for you.” 

You are about to say, oh, there’s no need, or I’ve already eaten today, but he only glances at you, the purse of his mouth a little insistent. 

You think of the way he’d asked you the one and only time you facetimed him if you’d been eating well, to take care of yourself, and you see that same worry in his eyes now.

You nod, mentally counting up the calories, but you still say in the end, “Okay.” 

His expression softens, brightening a little, and though you don’t really think you should be eating, you don’t entirely mind. 

You think he is a bit different from the boy you once knew.

You remember how he was sullen and a little bit quietly churlish, though he was not actively trying to be⏤ closed off to the world, a pearl stuck in a clam shell. But you look at him now, and you think he is not at all the same. There are some parts of him left, of course, but he seems brighter, now, more open; comfortable and almost entirely at ease. And it’s no wonder⏤ you think his classmates are very lovely, and they are very kind. 

You find yourself enjoying their company⏤ you internalize their names, telling them that they can reach out to you if they’d like; you’re pretty alright at social media yourself, and are always happy to help them with anything, though you’ll only probably be of help in the public relations aspect, you note a touch apologetically. You offer to do some photoshoots with the girls Shouto’s closer with⏤ the brown-haired one looks a little starstruck, though the black-haired one looks less sure.

“I’d hate to trouble you,” She says, politely⏤ Yaoyorozu Momo, you remember, from a family less well-off, but still memorable enough to occasionally haunt the same circles.

“Shouto-san’s friends are my friends,” You sense him watching you, so obligingly, you take another bite of your food.

You’re not watching him, but you still get the general sense that he is pleased.

“Yaomomo, you did mention you like tea, right? Maybe we can all meet up sometime for a party!”

“Oh! Yes, I’d love that! My place is open, I’d love to host⏤” She glances at you. “Would that be… amenable to you?” 

You smile, and you feel a little warm. “I’d love to attend, if you’ll have me.”

She smiles back, delighted.

You only think, you are glad that Shouto has so many friends like this at his side; open and warm, accepting him for who he is, as comfortably as you have ever seen him.

You tell him exactly this as he walks you back to the front entrance.

“Your friends are really nice,” You say. “I’m glad I got to meet them. Tell me how they’re doing, every once in a while?”

He glances at you, a question in his eyes. “Why not ask them yourself?”

He must have seen the question in yours.

“They want to be your friend. Anyone would.”

He says it so simply, so naturally, that your heart is beating so fast you think it might escape from your chest.

“Thank you,” You say, because you don’t know what else to.

He nods. Your brother is there, you have arrived, the limo and your driver in the background, but his mouth opens, and you find yourself hesitating, wanting to hear what he has to say.

“When you said I was going to marry for love,” He says slowly, and you are hanging onto his every word. You get the sense that he is watching you very carefully. “You didn’t say anything about yourself. Does that mean you aren’t?”

And the first thought that rises to your head when he asks you this is: no. 

You dream of love once upon a time, of course, as many little girls do; immersing yourself in your fairy tales, the princesses stolen by dragons and then the ones who save them, their one and only Prince Charmings. You dream of it every time you read a romance novel, one of your shoujo manga, the plotline of one of the operas you dance for⏤ the ones you send him, discuss with him, the ones that he reads, even though it’s not necessarily the kind he likes.

You dream of it the first time you meet him, and every time thereafter, because how could you not?

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who texts you every day, even when you know he is tired from all the training he has to do, who listens to your long rambling over the phone, who doesn’t hang up on you so that you can fall asleep to the sound of his breathing. Shouto, who makes sure to send a small gift to your residence every year after you cry at the first one he gives you⏤ because it is the best present you have ever received in your life. Shouto, who notices all the little things, pushes the things he knows you like towards you, asks if you’re eating, who makes his one and only social media account for you to like your posts and solely to like your posts.

You don’t know how it happened, if it was slowly over the years, or all at once, but you know what you feel for him now, as you look at him. You look at him now, your heart tight, your chest light⏤ at the face of your best friend, and when you look at him, the thought comes to you, naturally, upon a breeze, as if it were as easy as breathing.

But you do not know if he feels the same; he tells you once upon a time that he is only going to marry for love, and you have long since decided that you are happy enough like this, with what you have, so long as you are able to stay his best friend for the rest of your life.

You smile, and when you say we’ll see what happens, it does not feel entirely like the truth, and yet it also does not feel entirely like a lie.

You turn away before he can see your expression shutter, and that also means you do not see his.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your father has always been an intimidating man.

It’s in his nature⏤ he’s a businessman, and a powerful one which means there’s always been a surety to his step, an inherent confidence that most people cannot even hope to emulate, nor to learn. He is a man born from old money and steeped fully in its traditions, something that has carried into the way he treats the things around him, along with the people.

You understand this quite well; after all, that is why he married your mother.

You learned the reason for this when you were younger. You had never questioned his treatment of you before⏤ after all, your father is a traditional man, and you are neither a man nor his heir, so it has never really bothered you that he treats you differently from your brother; addressing you only across the dinner table to inquire about the state of your connections, when he does deign to speak to you. And you don’t mind⏤ you’ve always thought of him a little cold, a little intimidating, and your mother is the parent you go to, anyways⏤ your mother who has held you in her arms, nursed you, and sacrificed a great many of her youthful years for you. 

But you are six when you first learn the meaning of bastard, and then all of a sudden, it all makes sense.

Your mother was a famous actress, this, you know. You also know of how she was made from nothing, how she never finished high school, how her first agency whisked her away before she even turned fully sixteen. How she, a girl born from nothing, who had nothing, managed to dig her roots deep, carving out her own place in the world, clawing her way to the top. A woman’s worth, she says to you once upon a time, is made of three things⏤ her face and her body, two things she has in abundance, and the arm of the man she clings to.

You are six when you understand; your father is a traditional man, and that is the only reason he marries your mother. 

Perhaps that is why when he gives you your ultimatum, you are already expecting it.

You have already known from early on that this is what your parents want from you. Your father is a businessman, his heart ruled in strict transaction, and your mother is not much better in her own views⏤ marriage to her is a way of elevating her social standing, of cementing her worth. 

And that is why when you stare at the file before you, the world around falling away, you are not surprised when she does not say a thing. 

He is a good enough match, you suppose; a rich man, one that’s greeted you after your performances enough time that you see his face, and you are able to recall his name. You could do worse⏤ he is handsome enough, and rising quickly through the ranks⏤ likely blood money, you think, but that is common enough in your circles that you do not bat an eye. You feel the satisfaction in your father’s gaze, and wonder how much he offered for you, if it was a fortune⏤ it had to be no small amount, you think, but you would not be surprised if it wasn’t. 

“Surely we can find a suitor closer to her age,” Your brother is the one to break the silence. You are a little surprised⏤ he doesn’t usually question your father’s decisions, after all, he is the golden child; the one that is favored most. “What about any of the children from the other families?” 

“None of them would’ve matched the offer,” Your father rumbles, and you hear what he doesn’t say. How none of them would be able to match the offer, to be willing to pay enough, because you are not worth that much, because all you are worth is your face, the width of your hips, and what you are; your father’s bastard daughter, the one conceived out of wedlock. 

He adds, as an afterthought. 

“Unless, of course, you manage to convince the Todoroki child, that friend of yours, to marry.” 

Your fork pauses midair, and you consider the possibility, for all of a moment. 

( You dream of love once upon a time, of course, as many little girls do; immersing yourself in your fairy tales, the princesses stolen by dragons and then the ones who save them, their one and only Prince Charmings. You dream of it every time you read a romance novel, one of your shoujo manga, the plotline of one of the operas you dance for⏤ the ones you send him, discuss with him, the ones that he reads, even though it’s not necessarily the kind he likes.

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who has been your best friend since you first met him at age seven, who has been the one unchanging constant in your life, your rock, who looks at the post where your mother called you bloated and tells you, in that simple way of his, that you look beautiful. Who looks up to you, an inquisitive look in his eyes whenever you call out to him, giving you the whole of his attention in a way no one else has ever done before, hanging on to your every word and listening, taking every one of your worries and thoughts into consideration, no matter how silly, nor how unwarranted. 

You don’t know how it happened, if it was slowly over the years, or all at once, but you know what you feel for him now. You think you always have, and it was simply so natural, how could you not? )

You dream of love once upon a time, because this is Shouto, Shouto who knows you just as well as you do him, and that is also why you know, if you asked him, he would undoubtedly say yes. 

And then, the guilt hits.

You think of the way his father used to look at you, the way it looked a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. You think of how Shouto tells you once upon a time that he will only marry for love, and though you are sure he cares for you, you do not know if he feels the same as you do. You have promised yourself once upon a time that you are already content enough, and happy enough, to be able to call him your best friend for the rest of your life. You think that, though you know he would agree to it in an instant, because you are the one to ask it of him⏤ your kind, thoughtful Shouto, who has always put your needs before his own, thought of you before anything else⏤ you are happy enough with what you have; you do not want to be the one to ruin it, to ruin him, and his choice. 

And that is also why you put your fork down, and say, quietly. 

“The man you’ve picked will do, father.” 

You think your brother’s eyes widen as he looks at you, the only member of your four-man table who looks even remotely upset at your answer. Your own face is blank, as it always is at these dinners, your mother sees no difference between the two of them; one man’s arm to her is worth just the same as another.

Your father is smiling, pleased. 

“Very well. We shall announce your engagement within the year.” 

Your mother smiles. “Is there something you’d like as a present, darling? Some new pointe shoes, maybe? You were always complaining about how yours don’t even last a full two weeks.”

“No need.” Your father places his fork down. “You’ll be stopping all your dance activities. It was one of the conditions of your marriage.” 

The food tastes like ash in your mouth. 

You think: you can handle being a wife. You were always prepared for the eventuality of it. But not dance⏤ a prima ballerina’s time in the spotlight, you have known, will always be limited, but you are not prepared for this. You are not ready for this part of you to be cut away just yet, like a surgical incision.

You swallow. “But father⏤” 

“A wife has no need for such trivialities as dance.” 

The words die down in your throat. 

Your mother is silent. Your brother tries, at least. “But surely some⏤” 

“That is final.”

You dip your head. Your voice is thick. You say only one thing.

“Yes, father.” 

You say only the mantra you have been repeating for the most of your life. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first thing you say to your future husband is to ask if you may finish up the rest of your season’s performances. 

He allows it of you. Of course he does; he is drunk on his victories, pleased enough to offer you this small consolation. 

You dance the best you ever have. The tabloids applaud each of your performances as better than the last, the kinder papers worry about your health, you dance for you and yourself, the years you have put into it, the years you will lose; you dance like you will never get the chance to ever again.

You won’t; you know this, and that is why you dance until your body breaks, ignoring each and every last one of your friends’ concerned messages⏤ from both Shouto and his friends; the kind and lovely ones, that you used to see sometimes for tea. 

You dance until your body breaks, literally, on the last of your performances. 

Your fall from grace, the media calls it.

You do not care. You have given it all you have, and there will be no more dance after this, anyway. 

You ignore your friends’ concerned messages⏤ both from Shouto and his friends; the kind and lovely ones, that you used to see sometimes for tea. He calls you directly⏤ is everything alright, you hear him ask you, what’s wrong, what can I do for you, what happened? 

He must have seen the articles, then. You think it is the most panicked you have ever heard him. 

You tell him that you are fine, you just hurt your ankle a bit.

You don’t tell him that the doctors do not think you will be able to dance like you did ever again. 

He is silent for all of a moment, and then he asks you, simply. “Are you okay?” 

The sound of it, his simple concern, is enough to bring tears to your eyes, a lump to your throat. You don’t remember the last time anyone’s ever asked you that. 

You almost break, right then and there. You don’t want to marry this man you do not know, this man who reminds you of the other one, once upon a time, from your core memories, this man that you do not want. You know if you did, if you asked, he wouldn’t even hesitate to agree, because it’s you, only because it’s you, and you want to. You want to ask so badly that it aches.

( But then, you think of the way his father used to look at you, the way it looked a little bit like yours. You have seen it in their eyes the whole of your life, after all: child born out of wedlock, near-bastard, daughter to a whore mother, good enough to be friends with but not good enough, never good enough to marry. 

You think of how Shouto tells you once upon a time that he will only marry for love, and though you are sure he cares for you, you do not know if he feels the same as you do. You have promised yourself once upon a time that you are already content enough, and happy enough, to be able to call him your best friend for the rest of your life. 

You think that, though you know he would agree to it in an instant, because you are the one to ask it of him⏤ your kind, thoughtful Shouto, who has always put your needs before his own, thought of you before anything else⏤ you are happy enough with what you have; you do not want to be the one to ruin it, to ruin him, and his choice. )

You do not ask.

Instead, you tell him only the truth, soft and quiet. “I’m getting engaged, Shouto.” 

There is a beat of long silence. Only then do you realize the question he had asked⏤ are you okay, and realize what his mind is undoubtedly sifting through at the moment, that you are not okay because you are getting engaged.

You hasten to correct yourself. “I mean, I’m fine, that’s not why. It’s just…” 

You swallow. You don’t want to say this, but you know you should. You know what kind of person you are, you know that you will cave eventually, at some point down the line, because you love him so much that your heart hurts, and you do not think you can bear the burden of continuing like this any longer.

“I don’t think we should call like this any longer.” 

You want to take the words back as soon as you say them. Already, you are trying to memorize the way he shapes his words, the tone of his voice.

He is silent on the other end. Too silent, and for too long. And then, all he says is this, softer than you have ever heard. 

“Do you love him?” 

You think: no. Never.

You say: “Yes.” 

Another beat of silence. You listen to the sound of him breathing, thinking of all the other calls you have had, where he stays on the line just so you can fall asleep a little easier. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and furious.

“Okay.” You can almost see him hesitating, the tentative look on his face. “I’m always here for you, whenever you need it.”

“You’ll always be my best friend, Shouto. You know that?” 

“Forever,” He says, a tad serious now. “We pinky promised.” 

You laugh. You can’t help it, thickly through your tears. “I can’t believe you still remember.” 

“Of course.” He says, and all you can think is, of course he’d remember.

You think you love him so much that it hurts. 

Your mother walks in, a questioning look in her eye.

You don’t want to cut this last conversation of yours so short, but you say, anyways. “I have to go now, Shouto. It was really nice talking to you.” You mean it.

You hang up first.

“You shouldn’t be calling him anymore,” Your mother advises. “You’re to be married soon. Your husband won’t like it.” 

“I know,” You say. 

Your smile feels bitter.

“It won’t happen again.” 

Your mother looks at you, her lips pursed. “See that it doesn’t.” 

You wait until she leaves, the basket of fruit left behind her.

Then, and only then, do you turn your head into the pillow, and let the tears fall. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

The first time he sees you, he thinks you look a little like a porcelain doll. 

Your skin is just as smooth, your features just as exquisite, but he thinks it’s more of the frailty of your figure, and the delicate grip you have on your parasol. You are ephemeral in a way he has never seen before, but with the kind of beauty that he thinks he’d see in a book, or in one of his manga. 

And yet⏤ you are beautiful, yes, but he has no intention of marrying you⏤ not when he has seen what the lack of love can do to a household, to his mother and father, and to every other soul that lives still in it. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, but he doesn’t know how to tell you⏤ and then you say, it’s okay if you don’t want to.

He blinks a little. No one has ever said that to him before. 

He is a little apologetic, when he tells you the truth: that he only ever plans on marrying for love, and he is relieved when you smile. 

You ask him if he’d like to be friends, but you also say that it’s okay if he doesn’t want to be⏤ but he does. He’s never had a friend before⏤ he has his tutors, his combat instructors, his siblings, but he hasn’t been allowed outside yet, so he hasn’t had the chance to, and you are kind, he thinks. The kindest person he has ever met, to be kind to him for no reason at all; you are not his sibling, not his anyone, and he thinks you are kinder to him than he deserves. He wants to be your friend, and that’s why he thinks to himself the whole of the month you are gone, thinking of how to get you to call him by his first name, like they do in the manga, in the stories.

You are a little surprised when he tells you that you can, and he adds the only reasoning he can think of⏤ it’d be confusing with so many Todorokis in the house.

You are smiling as you call him Shouto-san for the first time, and at that, he feels oddly pleased. 

It’s a little awkward at first⏤ he doesn’t know what to do, or what to say; he’s never had a friend before, and neither have you. But friendship with you is easier than anything he’s felt before, he finds, like something natural, something that comes to him like breathing. He does not know if he’s doing it right, only that you are pleased when he remembers something that you said the other day, something that you like. You weren’t interested in the manga he liked before, but you try them for him, and he finds he doesn’t mind your romance ones, not entirely⏤ he doesn’t mind reading them, listening to you ramble about anything and everything you found interesting. He only hopes you don’t mind that he doesn’t talk as much, but you don’t seem to⏤ you cover up all the awkward silences with a change in topic, even when he’s a little more curt than he means to be. 

Friendship with you is easier than anything he’s felt before. You don’t mind his awkward pauses, his sharper silences, the shortness of his words, and you are simply so easy to talk to. You are thoughtful and altruistic, pay close attention to every single one of his moods, and even though he knows there is more you don’t say⏤ he knows it’s you that leaves soothing cream on his desk, there’s no one else that would, and his heart clenches then, an ache, like something painful. You and your soft, considerate way of doing things, thinking it’s not your place but wanting to show your support for him anyways, doing it in a way that he might never see at all, without expecting even a thanks.

He tries really hard, combs every shop with Fuyumi he can think of, practically every one in the city.  

He stares at the pile of CD’s held in your hands, afraid of looking up, but when he does, you’re crying. 

I do like them, you tell him, but you’re crying.

You smile. “Happy tears.” And then you’re reaching for him, cradling him in your arms, and he’s freezing⏤ he doesn’t remember the last time he was held like this, that he was able to hold something like this. You fit perfectly into his arms, though he doesn’t know where exactly to put them, and he thinks he likes the way that you hold him, the way you smell, the way you bury your face in his chest. “I love it.” You croak, somewhat thickly. 

“I’m glad,” He tells you. “I was worried you wouldn’t like them.” 

And he doesn’t know how to say it, nor what exactly the feeling in his chest is, but he thinks: he doesn’t mind if he’s frozen in this moment a little longer, maybe even forever, just so long as he gets to hold you like this.

He does not know if this is what they call love, but he thinks it must be; the love that they show in your romance novels, your shoujo mangas, the ones he reads on occasion, because you ramble about them to him. Nothing else can explain it⏤ not the way his steps seem to lighten whenever he sees you, the way he checks his phone more often than ever, just in case you’ve left him another message, so much that his father starts threatening to take it away for the whole of the week. It must be⏤ it’s more than caring on just a fundamental level, it’s feeling delighted when he wakes up on his birthday because he knows there will be a present from you sitting there, reading a passage and hearing your voice in his head, thinking of how you’d react. It’s asking you to show him all your dances, and thinking you are an art form; the way you look, the way you move, and thinking you look beautiful even when you stumble; in spite of it. 

It’s running across the school when he hears that you are here. 

He is panting a little, but his steps are light, and he doesn’t mind, not when he hasn’t seen you in two years, and then there you are. 

You look just like you do in the photos, he thinks. Taller, more grown, but still so beautiful that as always, it takes his breath away. He’s always thought you are; like a porcelain doll the first time, like the heroines in some of the shoujo manga he reads or the princess of your romance novels. You are smiling at him, a vision in the sunlight, and he simply steps towards you. 

It’s a thousand little things. It’s the way you fit in his arms like you are made for them, and then he notices how thin you have become, your muscles lean, but your wrists like bone, and all he can think of is: you need to eat. It’s the way he doesn’t want to share the macarons you make him, because you spent time on them, you made them for him, not his friends that you do not even know. It’s the way you make everyone around you feel instantly at ease, smiling at Yaoyorozu as you tell her: Shouto’s friends are my friends, in the way you are simply thoughtful and considerate, in everything that you do.

“When you said I was going to marry only for love,” He says, and it’s a careful question. “You didn’t say anything about yourself. Does that mean you aren’t?” 

You hesitate, and he’s hanging on to your every word, your every breath. 

It’s a thousand little things. It’s the way his heart shutters when you smile, and when you say: “We’ll see what happens,” and his feelings do not change towards you, not even when you make it clear that you don’t feel the same. It’s the way he tamps down upon them, careful not to let them seep into his messages, into your conversations, because he thinks the only alternative worse than a world where you don’t love him is a world where he can’t talk to you at all. He can be your best friend, he’s willing to be, as long as you’re happy, as long as you let him stay in your life and by your side; he’ll take anything that you want to give him, even if it’s never more than just this.

And then you tell him that you’re getting engaged. It’s out of nowhere, you’ve never even mentioned such a thing to him, and he’s still worrying about whether or not you’re okay, what this means for you, because dance is your everything, it’s a discipline hewn into you like heroism is to him, you haven’t even told him about a man? And then you tell him⏤ I don’t think we should call like this anymore, that he finally realizes the enormity of what you’d just said.

Some part of him had always thought it would happen one day, he thinks. He just had not expected it to happen so soon. And he is fine with it, he tells himself⏤ you only said no more calls, that doesn’t mean you don’t want to talk to him, you’re still allowing him to stay in your life, and he will, even if his heart is breaking, even if it hurts.

He only asks you: “Do you love him?” 

He knows you just like how you know him. And that is why, when you say yes, he knows you mean no. 

He almost offers to marry you, right then and there. He wishes he would, he wishes he could. He wants to. But then he thinks of the way you have steeled yourself when you lie to him, the conviction in your voice.

And in the end, all he settles upon is: “Okay.” 

Your wedding is a small affair, closed off to only the closest of friends and family. He hears it is at your bequest. 

You do not invite him, and he is almost glad for it⏤ he knows he is your closest friend even without the invite. But what he wonders is if you didn’t invite him because you knew all along; the love he holds for you, and decided to spare him this pain.

You have always been so thoughtful, so considerate of him, after all, and when he thinks about it like that, his heart hurts a little. 

It’s okay, he thinks. He can be your best friend, he’s willing to be, as long as you’re happy, he’ll take anything that you want to give him, even if it’s never more than just this.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. 

He is better in some ways than your father. 

He allows you to speak to him, though you must be respectful when you do so⏤ you do not mind, of course, you have lived that way much of your life. He does not make you cook, nor clean, nor anything that a typical housewife should; understanding of your upbringing and your dancer background. You have all the food in the world, a roof above your head, a mattress beneath you, all the jewels a woman could possibly want, a mountain of wealth before her. 

You only have to smile when he comes home, kiss him upon the cheek, drape yourself around him, and allow him to use you as he wishes. 

Your mother has told you in advance about some of it, what you should expect, and how you should let him take what he wants from you, keep quiet. What if he hurts me? You find the courage to ask, because though your father hasn’t, you think it is a very real possibility, and she only looks at you, pursing her lips. 

“Keep quiet, of course. Anything else would be shameful.” 

You had meant during sex, but you internalized her words, the judgment on her face, much as you had the first time, all those years ago, in that little office with you, your mother, and the man whose face you don’t remember. After all, this was your mother, the one who has always known best; the one who has always meant to give you her best, this mother that has held you, nurtured you, sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years for you. 

You think of her very often, and more specifically, her words, because you don’t think you can bring yourself to think of much else, not when their wounds are still fresh, still gaping. You think back to that time when you were thirteen, in that little office with you, your mother, and the man whose face you don’t remember, how it felt the same, how you are still as uncomfortable then as you are now. You don’t like him, you don’t want him to touch you, even on the days he is gentler, even though he is your husband⏤ you think a part of you never will. Your mother is not there this time, so you cannot look to her for advice, and you already know what she will say the same things that you think. After all, this is your husband, the one you are supposed to stay with for life, and it’s like the first time, where you did not want it, but you’re not sure if you can say no, or even how to. 

He’s not a bad husband. He showers you in gifts. His arm is worth a lot, you know very well⏤ you have seen the jealous stares in your usual social circles, while he only grins, arrogantly all the while. But you don’t trust it, not entirely⏤ your mother had warned you about the honeymoon era, and she does so again on your next outing, when you tell her that he is treating you well. 

“All men are like that,” She tells you. “They treat women like flowers. Something to admire, something to pluck when you are fresh and fully in bloom. Just wait until you wither.” She scoffs. “Your father was exactly the same.” 

You think here, instinctively, protectively. Shouto wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t. 

The thought brings a wave of fresh agony to your throat, but you only dip your head a little forward and nod. “Yes, mother.” 

You don’t text him as often now. You don’t have that much to tell him, and honestly, you don’t really know what to say, in fear that you might break or cross the line in a way that you shouldn’t. He’s the one that texts you, asking you how your day went, sending pictures of cats he found on the road, things he thought were cute, things he thought you might like. You text him back when he does⏤ you want to talk to him, after all, even when you think that you shouldn’t, and it feels a little bit like the old days, back when you were young and had all the time in the world, to do whatever you wanted, whatever you’d like. 

You don’t text him as often now, but you are glad when he does you. 

You think that, in the early days, he was the only thing holding you together; the only thing that kept you from falling apart. 

It takes a while for your husband to lay a hand on you, but when he does, you are not entirely surprised. 

Your mother had prepared you for this, after all, showed you what was expected of you, even if she had not explicitly said it herself. And he is terribly apologetic of it after⏤ he’d just been really stressed at work, he’d said, but this was something you had already known, from his rougher treatments of you the nights previous. It’s because you’re texting that friend of yours so often, he says, and he’s really sorry, it won’t happen again, but it might help if you text him a little less.

You hesitate. You don’t want to text Shouto less, you already are, you’re texting him less than you ever have before, but you agree. He’s your husband, after all, and that means his comforts should take priority over yours, right?

Yes, you hear your mother in your mind, agreeing.

You nod. You can text him a little less. 

He is tender with you that night, apologetic and loving.

You weep to yourself after he falls asleep. Quietly, because he does not like it when you do.

It takes him one month until the next. He tells you the same thing, once again⏤ work is stressing him out, he’s really sorry, it won’t happen again, but you are still texting that friend of yours so often.

You have heard this tirade before. You do not know why you hope it to be different the second time.

Still, you nod. You do not know what else you can do.

It happens five times, and on the fifth, he shatters your phone. 

You stare at its remnants, trying your hardest not to cry. 

“Please don’t cry,” He murmurs. “You know I don’t like it when you do. I promise this won’t happen again, okay?”

You want to tell him that he is a liar. You want to tell him that you don’t like it when he holds you, when he touches you. You want to say: you said this the last time, and every time after that. When will it stop? When will it end? 

( Your mother tells you your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. )

You are out in public, and you splashed a little bit of water on yourself by accident⏤ you’re not eating that much, less than you ever have before, and your wrists trembled just a little. You cover the wet spot on your skin immediately, the greenish-blue prints, but too slow⏤ you see the way her eyes flicker over you, assessingly, taking in the places you have covered painstakingly with makeup, layered in thick, expensive concealer, places where your skin dips a little hollow, the bags under your eyes, the dryness of your lips.

“You could do worse,” She simply tells you again. “He’s handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, doesn’t he?” 

She is supportive in the way that she says it, in the way she always is. 

You dip your head forth and say, quietly. “Yes, mother.” 

You suppose that she is right. It could be worse. Because while he hits you, he makes sure not to break you, in places that are easier to conceal, places that heal easier, and never on your face.

You are making your way back to the limo when you see Yaoyorozu Momo, or rather, she sees you.

You hear the gasp first, and then she’s before you, as present and beautiful as if your first meeting was just yesterday. Instinctively, you hide your wrist⏤ the exposed bruise, the one where your makeup had been accidentally washed and wiped away⏤ but she only blinks at you. “Hi! It’s been so long! How are you?” 

It strikes a chord within, and your smile stretches onto your face, bright and unfeeling. “Just fine. And you?” 

“I’m doing good, thank you for asking.” She smiles warmly. “It’s so good to see you. I never got to properly thank you for that shoot you helped me with.”

You remember this. It had been one that had helped her significantly in kick-starting her Hero career, after all. “Oh, it was no trouble. I’m happy to help. Shouto’s friends are my friends.” 

Even after all this time, the words still come naturally to you, and you don’t realize you have said them until you do. 

Your heart shutters, but your face does not. 

Your mother has trained you well. 

“Speaking of Shouto… he tells me he’s worried about you,” She says, haltingly. “We all are. He tells me you haven’t texted him back in a while.” 

“Oh,” Your excuse slips smoothly. “Tell him there’s no need to be. I just broke my phone, that's all, and lost the numbers upon it.” 

She is looking at you a little strangely here, you think, though she tries to keep her eyes trained upon yours, you see the way they flicker, taking in the places you have covered painstakingly with makeup, layered in thick, expensive concealer, places where your skin dips a little hollow, the bags under your eyes, the dryness of your lips. 

You watch her take out her notepad, write a series of numbers upon it. You think of what your husband would say if he knew you were talking to him again, what he would do.

“I don’t⏤” You begin. You feel only your shame. 

But this friend of yours has always been smart. Perhaps smarter than anyone has ever given her credit for. After all, she grew up in a world quite similar to yours⏤ not quite the same, but similar enough, was told of the stories, haunted the same circles, was made aware of what might happen, and what could. 

“It’s not Shouto’s,” She asserts, cutting you off. “It’s mine. Call me if you need anything, alright? I’m a Pro. I’m here for you.” 

It has been so long since anyone has told you that.

Your eyes burn. Your chest feels a little tight.

She presses the paper to your hand insistently, and smiles when you finally curl your fingers around it. 

“Thank you,” You say.

It feels empty. You don’t think you will use it, but you think it should be fine; after all, it’s only a number, you’re not texting anyone, and the person on the other end is a girl.

You are wrong. 

It is not, and you have barely managed to place it upon your dresser when your husband comes in.

He’s early today. You have not yet had the time to change from your outdoor clothes, to prepare yourself mentally to greet him, and you are only half-risen from your seat when he crosses the room. 

He doesn’t head for you like he usually would, and when you look back upon this moment in hindsight, his target is clear. 

“Wait⏤”

You don’t even manage to get the whole of your words out before he rips your lifeline to pieces. 

You stare at them as they fall from his hands, and you don’t know how exactly you manage to find your voice⏤ you never have before this, but you do. “That was a woman’s number, one of my friends, it wasn’t⏤” You don’t know what you’re saying. You just don’t know why he’s doing this, he shouldn’t be jealous like this, you haven’t texted him in months, haven’t reached out to contact him since. You don’t understand. Why isn’t this okay? 

“But she’s one of his friends, isn’t she?” 

You don’t even know how he knows about it, who you’d met. The driver, you think, but he’s only continuing, more frenzied than you have ever seen him before. 

“Your Shouto. The one you didn’t want to stop texting, the one you’ve known since you were five. Yeah, your mother told me all about him.” You don’t know what expression you have on your face. “Your Shouto, the one you made an account for, to like all his fan’s posts?” 

You haven’t gone on that account in years⏤ it’s too painful to see him as he was, as he is. The protest rises to your throat. “I don’t⏤” 

“I give you everything a woman could ever want, anything you could ever ask for. I attended all of your recitals, brought you flowers after every single one, drape you in any gem you could ever think of, I give you the world.”  

Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered. Your mother tells you that he is handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, and he is; he allows you to dance out the rest of your ballerina days, even after it’s already stated in your marriage clause, after your father forbids you from it. You could do much worse, your mother says, and you truly could⏤ he pays your father a pretty fortune, bedazzles you in diamonds, more than you have ever seen, more than you are worth⏤ ( you, your father’s almost-bastard child, the daughter born to your whore of a mother, conceived out of wedlock )⏤ and while he hits you, you know from your mother’s look that she thinks it is normal. You are lucky, even, that he hits you only in places that are easy to cover, so that the world may not know of your shame, your failings.

You could do worse. You could have a husband that flies into rages whenever he likes, that drinks himself into a stupor and then takes his anger upon you however he likes; one that does not bother to apologize after he hits you. You could do worse, because at least he does not break you. 

His voice is strained when he asks you. “What does he have that I don’t?”

Even after all these years, your answer comes to you easily, naturally, as if you were only taking another breath.

His heart. His gentle hand. His thoughtfulness, his willingness to listen, his ability to remember the little things. The way he holds you. How heroism is carved into him so naturally, as if he were born for it, like dance was for you. How you can talk to him about anything, everything, all your fears and your insecurities and your smallest of worries, and he will only nod understandingly, a comfort to you, even if he does not entirely understand. How you knew, then and now, that if you were to only ask, he would marry you in an instant, even though he’d said he’d only ever marry for love, because it’s you. How you know that even now, though it’s been years since the last time you’d talked to him, if you decided to reach out, to call for him, he would be here for you. 

You think that in another world, one where you didn’t love Shouto as you did, as you do, you might have been able to learn to love your husband, to accept his temperament and his feelings. 

And you do not say a thing. 

Your answer is written all over your face. 

For the first time in all the years you have known him, he strikes you right then and there, as if it will do anything to erase the expression he has already seen upon it. ( Your mother tells you once upon a time that your worth as a woman lies in your body, in your face, and he knows this, so that is why he is careful when he hits you. ) He is not this time, you are thrown, sprawling across your shared bed, and then he strikes the wall above you⏤ you feel the force in your body, the thunderous anger behind it. Beneath his fist, it crumbles, and you do not move.

You lie there. He does not apologize, and yet you feel no fear. 

You might have, once upon a time. Might have burst into tears. But your eyes are dry, there is nothing left in you, you have been laid bare; scoured of even your last trace of hope. 

“FUCK!” He roars, and he punches the wall again. His fist is bleeding, you register, like something distant, as the crumble splatters against your skin, bouncing off like gravel. 

Your mother tells you that you could do worse, and you believe her. He is handsome, charismatic, and showers you in gifts, but beyond that, he is large enough, strong enough, that he has always been able to beat you to a pulp if you so wished. You could do worse, because you could have a husband that flies into rages whenever he likes, that drinks himself into a stupor and then takes his anger upon you however he likes; one that does not bother to curb his hits into something softer, something lesser, so it does not break you. 

You close your eyes. You might have cried, once, felt the hot sting of tears behind your eyes. 

But you have been wept dry. There is nothing left in you, you have been laid bare; no fight in you, no hope. You’re not sure when it happened, how it happened, only that it has not been there for some time. 

“Fuck,” He says quieter, something quieter, almost like defeat. 

You lay there, the shell of a woman, scattered into a thousand shards, rubble on your face, and crumbled around you. 

He sweeps from the room. 

At some point, the maids come in to clean you up. 

You lay there and let them.

He does not come back for a week, and in his absence, you throw up for the first time in several years. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s not the first time you’ve thrown up in your life, of course. You’ve thrown up because of sickness, though that’s rare⏤ your mother coddles you too much, and you have access to too many doctors, to ever be sick with something remotely serious. And when you were older, into your teens, sometimes it was because the hunger ached so much that you couldn’t help but gorge yourself, and then you felt so full, so sick, that you had vomited into the nearest toilet you could right after. 

But you have not done that in years, so when you vomit, you think only that you are sick.

You are fine the rest of the day, and you wonder if it was just a fluke.

But the next day, you throw up again. 

It’s not. You look at the two lines on the test the maid handed you.

“Congratulations!” She tells you. 

Your head is empty. There are no thoughts in it.

You think only that this must be a joke. 

But it isn’t. You take more tests, one after another, as many brands as you can get your hands on, as many as you can find. 

The trash can overflows. You stare at them, each of them double-lined, mute, a silent scream building up in your throat. 

The door slams open. You flinch a little at the sound, what it means, and you are right: your husband stands there, his shoulders heaving, hair in disarray. There is blood on him, you note idly, though he himself is unharmed⏤ it does not surprise you. You have always known to some degree that his hands are unclean. 

You watch him, resignation in your chest.

Your pregnancy tests are still strewn all around you, and there is no point in hiding. He had not allowed you to take contraceptives, and you know he will not allow you to even think of abortion. 

He looks up at you, and you think he is more delighted than you have ever seen him; the smile on his face so bright that you almost see him for what your mother says he is: handsome, charismatic, caring. He touches your stomach, and you do not move to stop him⏤ you never have, even when you didn’t want to, and you don’t care enough anymore, anyways. 

“We’re having a baby?” He breathes, reverent.

You echo the words in your mind.

We’re having a baby. 

You only think, somehow, that your tone does not sound anything at all the same. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Despite yourself, you decide, about a month in, that you will love this baby, and that if you don’t, you will learn to. 

You do not think it’s possible not to, anyways. It hits you one day, as you’re holding your hand over the flat of your stomach, and then you understand how your mother felt, why she’d held you, nurtured you, sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years, and put all she had into raising you after. 

You do not love your husband. This much has been made clear to you, even though he is kinder now to you than he has ever been before, from even before you married him, before the early days, when he allowed you to dance in the spotlight for the very last time. 

You will not ever grow to love him. This much has also been made clear to you. He has done too much, you have seen too much, to ever trust him in the ways that matter, even if he remains kind to you for the rest of your life⏤ the memories will linger forever, even if the bruises do not. 

But, you think, you understand how your mother felt. 

You understand why she sacrificed a great many of her most youthful years for you, bore you for the full of the nine months, even when she did not love your father beyond the worth of his arm, why she did not mind the wreckage it made of her body, the scars that linger even after the thousand and one different operations and treatments to clear her from the remnants of childbirth, free of the remnants of you. 

You think, that even if you do not love his father, even if you never will, that you can love this child, that you will. You are sure of it, and even if you can’t, you hope that this child will be able to live out the rest of their days, sure and happy in themselves, never wanting for anything, that they will turn out better than you. 

And when you think of this, you straighten.

You don’t know what exactly prompts you to. A sense of motherhood, perhaps, which is almost laughable, because while you had always known that it was a very real possibility for your future, it had not seemed real to you. You had never considered that you would ever be a mother; you did not think you would be a good one. 

But, that doesn’t mean you don’t try.

You eat more than you have in years. Your body gobbles it up, famished after so long, a little bit at a time, and you’re slow, but you try to eat as much as you can, as many types as you can. You don’t look at yourself in the mirror⏤ you are scared of what you will see, you don’t want to think yourself bloated and lose the fat of your hips again. You accept the things the baby’s father lavishes upon you, allow him to look upon you in reverence, to touch your stomach. He does not apologize for what he has done, though the wall seals up, and you do not ask him to. 

You think only that for the sake of this baby, you are willing to try. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You are three months along when it happens, and your husband is beside you when it does. 

There is no warning, other than a loud knock at your door, and the way you see your husband’s shoulders tense, sense him still. 

He shoves you towards your shared bedroom, harsher than he ever has these past few months. “Hide”, he hisses at you first, and then: “Call for help.” 

You sense, rather than hear the doors close shut between you, lock behind you, separating the two of you. 

You think you have always had an inkling that this would happen, one day. Your husband is not that bad of a man, all things considered, but only because he could be worse⏤ he is not that good of a man. You have also known this. 

But even then, even after all he has done, you do not think he deserves to die. 

That is the only thing that has you moving towards the phone. 

Your hands move on instinct. You do not have his number saved anymore, you do not know if he has changed it, and no one has offered it to you, but there is a part of you that has always remembered, part of you that hopes he hasn’t had the heart to change it.

The first thing you say directly to Todoroki Shouto in several years, after you tell him not to call you again, and after your phone is broken and the two of you stop texting⏤ is the whole of one word.

Help. 

It’s been so long that you don’t know if he recognizes your voice. You don’t know where he is, if he knows where you are, so you say, your heart racing a thousand miles a minute. “The penthouse,” You rasp, and you hope he knows what you’re saying. You still trust implicitly, somehow, that he does. 

And then you hang up. 

You call the police department next. You know it’s stupid, the order in which you did things, but you were so panicked in the moment, you could not separate one thought from the next. The operator manages to calm you down enough that you say this time, more coherently, more clearly than you have in years. “There are men in the house. I don’t know who they are. My husband is dealing with them right now. Please send help as soon as possible.” And then you remember, they don’t know where you are. “The penthouse,” You say, automatically, because you don’t quite remember the address. 

You have never had a need to remember it, after all. There is a driver to take you to and from the place, and you have never quite thought of it as anything important; it is not your home. 

Panic freezes in your chest. Of all the things to be unable to remember, at a time like this⏤ you tell the operator your husband’s name, and when the moment of silence stretches just a beat too long, then you tell him yours. 

That seems to work. 

He tells you that they will be there as soon as possible. 

But then, the locked door bursts open. 

An unfamiliar man smiles at you. “There you are, darling.” 

You’re frozen, like a deer in headlights, the phone still clutched in your hands, the operator still on the line. 

“DON’T TOUCH HER.” You think it is your husband that is roaring. 

The man ignores him. 

He steps forth, and instinctively, you take a step backwards. Out of the room, and onto the balcony. 

Your heartbeat is roaring in your ears. You are terrified. It’s like something out of a movie, you think, something that you had never even considered happening to you.

Distantly, you register the gun held in his hands. 

He takes another step forth. 

You stumble.

Your back hits the glass of the rail. 

“She has nothing to do with this,” You think you hear your husband saying. 

The man laughs. 

“She’s pregnant,” There is a note of desperation in his voice. 

The man laughs. “So was my sister, you piece of fucking shit.” 

He raises the gun, levels it at your head. 

Please, your husband says in the background. 

( You have always known your husband is not that bad of a man, though he is not that good, either, because he could be worse. )

You think there is desperation in his face, and there is only resignation in yours. 

He is not looking into the eyes of your would-be killer, after all. Does not see the set of his face, the determination, the anger and the hurt and the loss. 

And honestly, you are not really thinking. You do not know why you say it, why you tell him you are sorry.

You think, there is some part of you that is. You do not care about yourself⏤ you have been wept dry, there is nothing left in you, you are bare of anything and everything; no fight in you, no hope. You’re not sure when it happened, how it happened, only that it has not been there for some time. 

You do not know why⏤ it’s not you who had done it, you did not know it even happened; it’s not your fault and it never has been. You are not responsible for the actions of your husband, you never have been. There is no reason for you to apologize, save for the faults others have placed unreasonably upon you.

But you are sorry, you think, for your unborn child, the one who will not ever get to know life, to treasure the small things in it, to hold the joyful ones close to their chest, even amidst the tides of their sorrow. And you are, you think, for this man’s unknown sister, because even though you do not know her, you imagine that in her final moments, she feels a little bit like you. 

You do not know why you say it, but you do, anyway. 

His face tightens. You do not know what he sees on your face, but you imagine it is the picture of resignation. His finger tenses on the trigger.

You only stare back at him. 

You have been wept dry, you are empty, and you do not even bother to plead.

Please, you think your husband whispers.

The gun moves. You don’t feel the shot. 

You are nothing more than the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards.

He hits what he aims for; your womb. 

The glass shatters, and with it, so do you.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wake in an unfamiliar room. 

The walls are white, and there is a machine at your side, beeping. A hospital, you recognize, somewhat distantly. 

Your mother is at your side, your brother, too. Perhaps they notice your particularly sharp intake of breath, the tremble of your fingers. 

“You’re awake,” Your mother says, before her face crumples⏤ in a way she never would have allowed of herself before, for fear that it might give her wrinkles. “Oh, my baby.”

She presses her face to the back of your hand, and you feel the tears that stain it.

You only turn your head to your brother. “The baby?” 

He is silent, but you see his face, the way it tightens.

He does not need to respond. You feel the pain in your own body very well, you remember exactly what happened; you already know the answer. 

You close your eyes. You feel the loss acutely, and yet they do not sting, do not prick, and are not hot. 

You have been wept dry, after all. There is nothing left.

Then, you sense, rather than hear, your father walk into the room. 

“They’ve caught the culprits,” He announces. “The Heroes are dealing with the lot of them now.” 

You think of the way the man’s finger had tensed on the trigger. How he had moved his gun away from your head. Does that make him a better man than your husband? But, you suppose, that’s an irrelevant question⏤ you don’t know what to feel, and in this moment, you don’t really care. 

Your father continues, into the silence. “I’ve found you another suitor, one who’s still willing to take you⏤” 

You suppose you are not really surprised; after all, that is all you have ever been to him, a bastard-child, daughter of a whore mother, child conceived out of wedlock; your worth only so much as the fame you can bring in, the connections you can make. 

You just did not expect this level of callousness, so unashamed of his words that you almost find it funny. 

“Surely there’s a better time⏤” Your mother begins.

Your brother jumps to his feet. “She has just lost her child,” He hisses, and he sounds angrier than you have ever heard him be in your life. “I asked you not to let her marry him. I told you he wasn’t the good sort, that he was dabbling in the black market⏤” 

“That is enough,” Your father snarls. “I will not tolerate this disrespect from you.”

“His corpse hasn’t even cooled,” Your brother hisses right back. 

You have never seen him speak up to your father like this before. 

Your father sets his shoulders, and then he turns straight to you. “There is a suitor willing to take you. He’s offered more than enough, given your condition.” He glances, you think somewhat distastefully, in the direction of your womb. “I plan to accept the offer. You will likely never get one so high again.” 

Your brother’s seething is so loud, despite its silence. Your mother seems similarly disapproving, but she has never spoken up once, and you do not think she will, now.

You can only think: once, you might have tried.

( Your father is a businessman to his core. It’s in his nature⏤ he’s a powerful one, which means there’s always been a surety to his step, an inherent confidence that most people cannot even hope to emulate, nor to learn. He is a man born from old money and steeped fully in its traditions, something that has carried into the way he treats the things around him, along with the people. You have known him long enough to know that his heart speaks only in transactions, as does his mind, calculating the worth of the things and the people around him, how much he stands to gain from them, squeezing them dry for every last drop. You know your worth in his eyes: bastard-child, daughter of a whore mother, child conceived out of wedlock; worth only so much as the fame you can bring him, the connections you can make. )

But you did not, then, back before you were wrung dry, before there was nothing left in you, when there was still some semblance of hope, some semblance of fight.

There are no tears in your eyes, only the final sort of resignation. You are empty. You feel nothing.

You slide your ring from your finger, and you say, “Yes, father.”

Your brother’s face tightens so terribly you think he might yell at you. 

Your father nods, pleased. “Very well.” 

Your mother is silent. She presses your hand to her cheek.

You close your eyes. They do not sting, prick, or feel hot, not even the slightest.

You have long since been wept dry. You are hollow, there is no fight left in you; no hope. You are hollow, the shell of a woman, still living, still breathing, alive only in the ways that don’t matter. 

You are a wraith. You are a ghost. You are sold off to your next husband like a brood-mare before the corpse of your previous has even cooled. 

But there is not enough left in you; you are the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards. 

And you cannot bring yourself to care. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He gets the call, and he does not recognize the number, but he still answers it, anyway.  

It’s like instinct, like clockwork, in the way that he does. He thinks he’ll never stop, though it’s been years since you’ve last called, since your last text. He thinks at first that something’s happened, but you’re seen in public again the next day, but you seem fine, so maybe it’s just something with your phone, or that you don’t want to talk to him. That’s okay, he can give you your space, but days turn into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years, and the text messages between you two turn one-sided, into a record of only his own. But he starts to answer every call, just in case it’s you on the other side, no matter how many of them are spam or entirely unrelated, because even though he’s not even sure you remember his number, there will always be some part of him that hopes you do. 

So he gets the call, and he still answers it, anyway. Another spam caller, likely. He doesn’t recognize the number. 

Help, you say, the first words you have said to him in years, and you sound different, but he would know your voice anywhere, blind and in the dark. 

He’s frozen. His heart is hammering a thousand miles in his chest. Where are you? He wants to voice⏤ are you at your penthouse, the one you share with your husband, or at your childhood home? Are you outside, and if so, where? He doesn’t mind combing the city for you⏤ he will if that’s what it takes to find you, to keep you safe and unharmed, but somehow, even after all these years, you manage to know what he’s thinking. The penthouse, you hiss, and then you hang up.

But that doesn’t matter, because that is all you have ever needed to say.

His mind shoots into overdrive. Your location is already being sent to his class group chat by the time he makes it to his car⏤ he’s halfway across the city. What if he’s late? It’s just your location, nothing more, but he knows that it’s enough⏤ Midoriya likely remembers that entire incident with the Hero Killer, after all, and his classmates should know that such a thing is urgent. 

The streets are packed. He leaves his car in the middle of it to start running.

His phone buzzes. He nearly runs headfirst into a pole while checking. It’s the location of a hospital⏤ Midoriya’s next text is frazzled. She’s fine, injured, but the doctors say she’ll live⏤ and his first thought is a bone-crushing relief. You’re alive. 

His next one is, you’re injured.

He breaks into another run. 

The hospital is closer than your penthouse, at least. He barely feels the burn of his muscles, though he’s sprinting faster than he ever has before, faster than he should⏤ the doors slide open before him, and he’s walking into the attention of a thousand gaping individuals.

He walks straight up to one of them, the man at the counter, and says, as calmly as he can. “Where is she.”

“U-um.” The man stutters. There is only one she they can be talking about⏤ the world has always known of your friendship, has speculated about it, along with the falling-out in the aftermath. “They’re limiting visitors to family only.”

Todoroki Shouto is not a violent man. It is not in his nature; he has seen enough of it in his father to know that even if he was, he would spend the rest of his life carving that part of it from him, until he wasn’t. But in this moment⏤ with fury gripping every aspect of his being, this man telling him that visitors are limited to family only, telling him that he can’t make sure you’re fine, you’re okay⏤ he seriously considers it. 

A hand clamps down upon his shoulder. 

He turns to look into the face of your brother. 

Your brother’s expression is blank.

“How is she?” He asks, the anger gone, desperation taking its place. 

Your brother’s lips tighten. “Come with me.” 

Shouto thinks of a thousand scenarios here. Ones in which you’re bleeding out on a hospital bed, and all the money in the world; the doctors, cannot hope to save you. But then he thinks of the way Midoriya had texted: she’s fine, injured, the doctors say she’ll live, and what he finally understands the words to mean is: I’ll tell you, just not here.

He listens, heart held in his throat. 

“She’s just lost her baby, along with her husband. The villain shot her through the stomach. But she’s stabilized, she’ll live.” Your brother lists the facts coldly, clinically. “My father has already sold her off to the next highest bidder.” 

The world seems to freeze.

He remembers your last call, how he asks you if you love him, and the way that when you say yes, he knows it is a lie. But he did not do anything, did not say anything, because he’d heard the conviction in your voice, the way you’d forced yourself to say it, and thought it wasn’t his place.

Your brother is watching him, and his voice is soft. “The final choice was him or you. But⏤” A pause. There is understanding there, lit up like a dawn. “She didn’t even ask you, did she?”  

No. You didn’t. And he wonders why, for all of a moment⏤ had you found the idea of marriage to him so horrible that you’d risk a man twice your age, a man you barely even knew? But you’re not like that, he thinks, and you know him just as well as he does you, which is why you’d also know that even if he didn’t love you, he would’ve married you in an instant, just because you were the one to ask.

Understanding dawns. His breath is like a gasp, something choked, like a sob.

You didn’t ask, because you did not want him to marry for anything other than love. 

He turns, hope held like a candle in his chest. “Is that choice still open.” 

Your brother blinks. “What?” 

“Where is your father?” 

A room number is given to him, and he’s running again. He still has a chance to save you, he thinks, and it’s okay if you don’t want to marry him, if you don’t love him, as long as you’re safe, alright, and happy. He would’ve married you if only you’d asked, even if you would never love him in the way that he wanted for the rest of his life⏤ but he doesn’t even need to worry that you don’t, he thinks.

After all, it’s so obvious that you do. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wake in an unfamiliar room. 

You are no longer in the hospital. Your body does not ache any more than it did before, there is no pain between your legs, and yet you still wonder, very briefly, if your father has already married you off.

You would not put it past him. 

But then Shouto walks into the room. 

You stare at him, lost for words, entirely mute. His eyes widen. “You’re awake,” He says, putting the plate of fruit he bears off to the side. He steps towards you, reaching for your forehead, but then he hesitates. “I’d like to take your temperature,” He says softly. “Is that… okay?” 

Your throat tightens. Even after all these years, he is still the same; gentle and thoughtful and considerate in a way you have never known anyone else to be. 

“You came,” You say. It’s all you can muster.

“Of course. You called.” 

You close your eyes. 

His touch is feather light.

Your eyes sting, here and in this moment. 

“You don’t have a fever, I think. Are you feeling any pain?” 

“No more than before.” 

“That’s good to hear,” He says, just as soft.

You close your eyes. Inevitability dawns upon you. “What of my husband?” 

A pause. Then, “He’s dead.” 

“No. The one I’m marrying.” 

“You won’t be.” 

You are a little surprised by the conviction in his voice. 

He only continues. “Neither he nor your father will bother you again.” 

You had not known you could still feel relief. 

You are wordless. You only reach for his hand. 

You squeeze it, and you hope he knows what you are trying to say. 

And when he squeezes yours back, you know that he does. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You learn that the Pro Hero Deku was the one to save you that night.

You remember him from before, you think; green curls, a freckled face, back from the UA days, along with his name. You remember that he was one of Shouto’s closest friends, and that he was very kind.

You do not think you have it in yourself to meet him, to greet him properly. But you are your mother’s child, and your manners have been carved into you like a second nature. So you ask Shouto to pass on your gratitude, to let him know that you are thankful.

You suppose that, even if you are empty, even if you have been wept dry, that you are. 

You don’t do much the first few months. You do not even have the strength to try. Shouto brings you food in your bed, watches you eat, spoonful by spoonful. It’s not much⏤ you no longer have another life within you to feed, after all, and your appetite has never been particularly large. Sometimes, you think he swallows his words, tamps down upon the urge to ask you to eat more⏤ but you do not think you can handle another bite, and he does not push. 

He only accepts the plate you set down, your half-eaten meal, and comes back with another glass of water. 

You ask him, at some point, if this is okay. He’s a Pro-Hero, after all, and duty must be calling, but he only shrugs. 

“I have more than enough vacation days stacked up,” He informs you.

“I’ll be just fine alone,” You say. You don’t want him to waste them on you. 

“I won’t.” He says, immediately. 

You blink up at him. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the way he flushes, just a little. 

“Let me take care of you,” He says, a touch softer. 

“You don’t have to.” 

“But I want to.”

There is a firmity in his voice, and you are reminded of the conviction he’d had, all those years ago, when he’d told you he was only ever going to marry for love. 

You sigh. He’s as stubborn as you remember, and yet you think, somewhat ruefully, that you’re glad he hasn’t changed in the slightest.

“Do what you’d like.” You say. 

He smiles, and just like every time before it, you think it is the most breathtaking thing you have seen in your life. 

You attend your husband’s funeral. It’s the first time you’ve been seen in public since the incident, and Shouto is by your side. You’re dressed in mourning black.

You watch as they lower his coffin.

You have long since been wept dry, and for him, you do not shed a single tear. 

Your brother drops some of your belongings off at Shouto’s house. Your clothes, mostly, some pieces of jewelry you’re partial to, but the bulk of it is your recordings, the CD’s you’d saved. 

Shouto pauses over one. “I did not know you’d kept them.”

It’s not a question, but a statement. You do not answer.

You only think, of course I would. 

You listen to the songs sometimes, watch the recordings of your dances. You haven’t in a long time⏤ when you still danced, you did only to examine every flaw of your body and note your falters with a critical eye. Later, you could not bring yourself to, not when it was only the reminiscence of everything you had lost; your ankle that still ached in the dead of the night, a phantom pain that served only as a reminder: you would never be able to dance again, even if you could. 

Even now, you do not listen to or watch them very often.

You allow Shouto to tug you outdoors, sometimes, for a walk, to stretch your legs, but mostly because he smiles when you allow him to. It’s always in the grounds of his estate, and never another soul in sight, for which you are more grateful than you think he will ever know. Sometimes his mother joins you on the walks, and you don’t mind⏤ she is lovely, she seems to like you, and she is very kind. 

You are the shell of a woman, a thousand porcelain shards, but though you are only alive in all the ways that don’t matter, you are still alive and breathing. So you sit up for food, you get to your feet to use the washroom, you stand when Shouto takes you out for a walk. 

Mostly, you lie in your bed.

People send you flowers, gifts of condolence⏤ mostly people you had known for the sake of your father’s money, your family’s connections⏤ but also from others, ones you have held closer to your heart. Shouto’s friends are my friends, you remember yourself saying, and you had meant it.

They seem to think the same. 

You look at the flowers they send you, the heart in their penned letters, so different from the short and clinical notes you have been surrounded with the whole of your life. 

You ask Shouto to thank them for you. You are more grateful than they will ever know, but you do not think you can muster the strength to meet them. 

He does not push you, nor does he ask. 

Mostly, you lie in your bed. Your father told you that the villain who’d done this to you had been caught, imprisoned, and you only remember the look on the man’s face. The anger and the hurt and the loss. The way his fingers had tightened upon the trigger, how he had moved the gun, from your head to your stomach. 

You do not know why he’d decided to spare you in those final moments, why he had chosen to aim at your womb instead. You think back to the moment you’d first vomited, the sheer horror with which you’d asked the maid to go to the store and buy you every single pregnancy test she could get her hands on, every brand, again and again, the lines littering the floor of that penthouse as the truth stared down before you and how your first thought was: he would never let me get an abortion. You wonder if the villain, this man who’d chosen to spare you, was only trying to wipe the last traces of your husband from the world, if he’d spared you because he thought you were a little like his sister. 

( You wonder if that makes him a better man than your deceased husband. )

Often, you think of your baby. How that, though you are grateful that you are free from the last remnants of your husband⏤ the guilt hits you as soon as you think it⏤ you think a part of you will always mourn your unborn child, how they will never know what it means to draw breath, the little things in life, the thousand and one little joys that will help tide them through their sorrows. You think of how, though you knew you would never learn to love their father, you had been determined to love them anyway, through thick and thin. You think of how you had felt, how you had finally understood why your mother had held you, nurtured you, and sacrificed the most of her youthful years for you, how for them, you were willing to do anything and everything, how you were willing to try.

And in the wake of it, you make your decision. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You lay eyes upon your mother for the first time in months. 

You are sitting in a coffee shop. It’s quaint, homely. It’s the first time you’ve been out in public since your husband’s funeral, and you haven’t talked to her since that day at the hospital⏤ she had tried to talk to you at the funeral itself, and many times since then, but you have always asked Shouto to turn her away.

You did not tell him why, then, because you did not quite know yourself.

But, you think, now, you do.

There are three drinks on the table in front of you. Shouto had ordered them⏤ coffee for your mother, for himself, and another for you, just exactly the way you always have, the way you’ve always liked. 

Your mother cups hers somewhat nervously.

You do not reach for yours.

“I’m glad to see you doing better,” She starts. “Shouto told me you weren’t seeing any visitors.” 

You are silent.

“I was so worried. You didn’t call. You could have left me a text!” She frowns. “Not a thought spared for your poor mother, but you look well, at least.” 

Beside you, Shouto is tense. You reach for his hand.

He squeezes it.

It warms your throat. You set your shoulders, you lift your chin, and you find your voice. “I am well. Thank you for the concern. But that is not why I am here.” 

You pause to organize your thoughts. 

“I called you here to let you know that I am cutting ties. So is my brother. Father will know sometime within the week.” 

The store is oddly quiet. Beside you, you do not know if Shouto is breathing. 

You say, more clearly than you have in years. “This will be our last meeting. Please do not contact me again in the future. I do not wish to talk to you, nor do I wish to see you, and if I do, then I will be the one to reach out.” 

Your mother stares at you, silent. You do not think there’s anyone in the store who’s breathing. And then⏤ 

“I am your mother. What’s wrong? Is he making you do this? Is he holding anything against you? Talk to me, darling.”

You breathe in.

“He has nothing to do with it. This choice is entirely my own.”

You are expecting some of what she says next.

“I am your mother. How could you do this to me? I held you, nurtured you, fed you from my breast. I gave up my body for you, the whole of those nine months. I gave up my most youthful years for you. I could have lived out my career as an actress. I have loved you since the moments before you were born, before you breathed. I have attended every single one of your recitals, spent every single waking minute thinking of how to better you, how to advance your career. I was the one who pushed to let you continue dance, who won you your husband, I married your father for you. I was always there for you. How could you even say this to me?” 

It’s all true, you think. Every last bit of it. 

She has always been there. She has held you, nurtured you, sacrificed the most of her youthful years, sacrificed her body, so much that the remnants of childbirth still linger, even after the thousand and one surgeries. She has pushed you towards dance, allowed you to flourish, spent hours obsessing over every one of your flaws until you were perfect under the lens, because she had worried, had known, that the world would have made a mockery of you if you were anything but. 

But.

“As a daughter, I have forgiven you a thousand times over.” You tell her, quiet. 

You think of the way you had not wanted to get married, not the first time nor the second, and how she had been silent, how it was your brother who spoke up. It’s not her fault, you know, she truly thinks you could do worse⏤ she truly believes that a woman’s worth lies wholly in her face and her body and the arm of the man she clings to, and that once the flower has withered, all that is left is the man. She is trying in her own way, she loves you wholly and in the only way she knows how. 

And you have. As a daughter, you have forgiven her a thousand times over.

But then you also think of how you felt. When she had been telling you about how best to prepare yourself, and you had asked her: what if he hurts me? You had been talking about the sex, if he was rough, but she had taken it to mean: what if he hits me, and she had only told you to keep quiet, because to her, letting anyone else know about your personal business would be nothing short of shameful. You think of how you had felt when your father had pushed for your marriages, how you had not wanted to, but forced yourself to say yes. You think of how she had seen what your husband had done to you, what she had said, that you could do worse, of the difference between the way she reacted and how Yaoyorozu had. 

You think of that one time when you were younger, when your career had just started, flourishing too slow, not fast enough⏤ when she had stood in that office with you and that man you do not remember. You think of how you had not wanted it, how you had been uncomfortable, how you had looked to your mother, and she had not said a word. How you had asked her about it, told her of how you felt, a little ashamed, and she had only looked at you with a crease in her brows. But you did not say no, she had said, and you remember feeling guilty about it then and in all the years after. 

You think of your child. How that though you had not given birth to them, though you knew you would never learn to love their father, you had been determined to love them anyway, through thick and thin. You think of how you had finally understood why your mother had held you, nurtured you, and sacrificed the most of her youthful years for you, how for them, you were willing to do anything and everything, how you were willing to try.

You say, soft. “But as a mother, I cannot.” 

You say it because when you thought of your child, now and all the times before, the thing you thought of most was: you did not want them to have to feel like you. Not ever. Not the way your mother had made you feel, that time when she told you you could do worse, that letting the world know of your hurts would be the most shameful thing in the world. Not the way she made you feel when she told you that you did not say no, when the answer was so simple.

You think, then, of the way Shouto treats you. How he has never touched you first without asking you if it was okay, if you had wanted it, until he had heard your consent. 

( You had not said no. And you had felt so much guilt over it after, over how uncomfortable you had felt, but the answer to this was so simple.

You had not said no, but you had also not said yes. ) 

You stand. You think there is heartbreak on her face, and you also think that though you do not wish to speak to her again, you think that there will always be some part of you that always loves her, even if the rest of you does not wish to. 

But this is a decision you have thought of a thousand times, have mulled over for a while. You’ve thought of it so much, how she will react, how you should, if you will regret it.

You turn. There is a steel to your shoulders, a firmity, your posture set. 

“If you walk away now, don’t you even think about coming back.”

It all comes down to threats, in the end.

Shouto squeezes your hand. 

You say softly, but no less clear. “Goodbye, mother.” 

You walk away, and you do not look back. 

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You do not speak the whole of the car ride back, and neither does Shouto, though your hand is still held in his own, and you sense that he is watching you carefully. 

You wonder if he expects you to burst into tears. It would not be strange of you, of the girl he had known; the one who had listened to everything her mother had to say, who took every single one of her words to heart. But it has been a while since you have been that girl, you are older, now, no longer vibrant and beautiful under the spotlight. You have seen yourself in the mirror, noticed your gauntness, the hollowness of your cheeks, the shadows in the eyes. You are the shell of a woman you once were, a thousand shards already wept dry and empty.

And yet. You pause by the doorway. Shouto’s still holding it open for you, an inquisitive look in his face, watching you questioningly, carefully. 

You say, “That was… oddly freeing.” 

A beat of silence.

You quirk an eyebrow. “Was this how you felt when you yelled at Endeavour all those times?” 

He laughs, the sound of it warm. “Just about.” 

You still feel empty. You’re not sure if it’ll ever stop. But what you do know that is in this moment, there is a lightness to your chest that has not been there for years. A sense of freedom, perhaps.

“Is there anything you’d like specifically for dinner?” 

You hesitate. 

You are empty, but you are also light, and you are free; you are empty, but you don’t think you have to be.

It’s time, you think. 

And that is why you say: “Actually… would you like to cook together?”

He freezes. He looks at you, his eyes blown wide. You don’t think he’s breathing. 

You hasten. “Though it’s been a while, so I’m not sure if I’m still okay in the kitchen⏤” 

“I’d love to. You can make a mess of the kitchen all you’d like.” 

You smile a little. You don’t remember the last time you have, but you say: “Just like old times, huh?” 

There might just be tears in his eyes, and he asks if it’s alright to hug you. 

You let him, of course. It’s Shouto.

He holds you like he did the first time, hesitant and careful, like you are a porcelain doll, like something precious. 

You lean your head on his shoulder, your own throat something thick. 

You still feel empty when you wake up in the mornings, when you look at yourself in the mirror. You are not as gaunt as you were, as hollow⏤ you see your cheeks fill up slowly, feel the flesh of your bones, the width of your hips. You get an urge to eat less, sometimes⏤ it’s hard to unlearn the habits you have lived in most of your life, but Shouto is always there, reinforcing, slowly and gently. You need to eat. You have always been beautiful, and still are, but first, you need to be healthy. 

Obligingly, you eat another spoonful, and this time, when you push the plate back towards him, he does not protest. 

He pulls you out to walk with him more often. It’s still always on the grounds of his estate, away from prying eyes, and when his mother joins you on occasion, you find it in yourself to talk to her. You don’t walk by yourself very often, but sometimes, you do⏤ just because it’s nice to feel the sun on your face, to see the flowers, and you don’t want to bother Shouto when he’s busy poring over his documents. 

He still sets a chair apart for you in his office, though, and he tells you you’re welcome to come in anytime. You do on occasion⏤ he has an extensive manga collection, ones from when he was younger, and some still that are new; ones that you’ve told him about and ones that he thinks you might like. You spend most of your time there poring over them, though eventually, you do wander over to him, asking if you can look at his paperwork, because though it’s been years since you’ve attended school, you weren’t bad in your tutor’s lessons, so maybe you could be of help? 

He says you don’t have to, but he lets you look, anyways, and when you say you want to, he lets you take what you’d like. 

You still feel empty when you wake up in the mornings, but it’s not like you have nothing to do. You busy yourself in the kitchen sometimes, searching up old recipes and trying new things. You’ve always enjoyed it, you think, to some degree⏤ even back when you were absolutely terrible at it, because it was fun to be so horrendous at something, and have to work towards improving yourself. Sometimes Shouto joins you, and sometimes he doesn’t, but he compliments every dish you make, even if you personally think you’d added a little bit too much salt or burned it just a little. 

You are a year into this routine when the realization finally hits you, and you find the courage to ask. 

It’s evening. You are sprawled out upon the couch, your novel spread before you, an old classical piece playing softly in the background. It’s undignified⏤ Shouto himself is seated normally upon a chair, a manga volume held normally in his. But it’s the comfortable sort of silence, the two of you have never needed to put on particular airs; the sort of companionship where you’re settled just by knowing the other is there, by feeling their presence.

You think it has always been this way. You think of the care in the way he treats you, in how he touches you, and back in the early days, when he’d asked you about every little thing, if it was okay to touch you, skin upon skin. 

He’s focused on his volume, but you’re watching him.

You think of the way he tells you not to worry about his vacation days, that he has enough of them, you think of the way he’d told you your father and the man who was meant to be your husband would never bother you again, the certainty in his voice. You think of the way your brother had fetched all of your clothes, all of your belongings, the jewels that you’d liked, your recordings, and left them to him. 

Something clicks. And then, you say, as you push yourself up into a sitting position.

“You told my father you’d marry me, didn’t you?” 

You see the way he freezes. The way his hands tighten on his volumes. 

You already expect the answer when he says, softly. “Yes.” 

The breath you loose feels shaky as it leaves your chest.

He is kneeling before you in an instant, reaching for your hands. “I did it because I wanted to,” He starts, and you think there is a touch of desperation in it. “But you don’t have to feel pressured into anything. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, not now, and not ever. We can stay just like this. Whatever you want. Anything you want.” 

Your heart clenches. You reach up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. Your Shouto, you think, a little despairingly. Always so hesitant, so thoughtful, so considerate. You only ask him, a little quietly. “Was it for love?” 

Does he love you? 

He does not hesitate when he says, “Yes.” 

A pause. Your exhale sounds loud in the silence.

The words come out in a torrent. 

“I’m not sure if I’ll ever be the same again. I’m not sure if I can bear another child. I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if⏤”

You don’t know if you can bear another man touching you in the same way, even though this is Shouto. You might, maybe, further down the line, only because it is him, but you do not know if you will. You do not know a lot of things. You do not know if you’ll ever stop feeling so empty, if you’ll ever be anything like the girl he once knew, the girl he loved and loves.

He puts his hand on your cheek, and his thumb brushes across it, feather-light, gentle, and heartbreakingly tender.

He repeats, a touch softer, a touch firmer. “Whatever you want.” 

You look at him. 

Your Shouto, who has been your best friend since you first met him at age seven, who has been the one unchanging constant in your life, your rock, who looks at the post where your mother called you bloated and tells you, in that simple way of his, that you look beautiful. Who looks up to you, an inquisitive look in his eyes whenever you call out to him, giving you the whole of his attention in a way no one else has ever done before, hanging on to your every word and listening, taking every one of your worries and thoughts into consideration, no matter how silly, nor how unwarranted. 

Your Shouto, who knows your voice even with the years between you, who cannot make it in time for you, but ensures that his friends are there to rescue you anyways, who ensures that you are, first and foremost, safe. Shouto, who takes a whole year off for you, who asks you if it’s okay before he touches you, because he’s afraid that you don’t want him to, who is thoughtful and considerate of you, in a thousand different ways. 

Your throat feels tight, and in the wake of it, you make your decision. 

You say, “I’d like to marry you, if you’ll have me.” 

It’s not much of a proposal at all, but you still see him smile, like the widest thing you’ve ever seen. 

You think his eyes look something silvery, like something bright. 

He only tugs you up, and though you don’t know what he’s angling for, you follow, obligingly, as you always have. You always will, you think; after all, you trust this man, your Shouto, you always have, with the whole of your pieced-together heart. 

You watch a little confusedly, as he rewinds the music. It’s a familiar piece, not one you’ve danced to before, though you remember telling him you’d have liked to, once upon a time. 

He turns to you, and says, a little breathlessly. “Dance with me.” 

You splutter. You haven’t danced in years, you don’t know if you’re still any good, and though you know he doesn’t mean ballet and on pointe, you’ve never danced like this before. “I’ve never done ballroom.” 

“Neither have I.” He tells you honestly. “I’ll bet my entire fortune that you’ll still dance better than me.” 

It’s such a ridiculous statement that you laugh. 

But you allow him to pull you close, to twirl you. You haven’t danced in years, and you’ve never learned ballroom, but you’re not that bad at it, you think. You’ll never dance professionally again, but dance is a discipline that has been carved into you, part of your soul. You allow him to pull you close, to twirl you, because you see the I love you he does not say, not yet, but is so evident in every one of his actions, in his thousand-and-one little considerations. And you know he sees it in you, too, because he knows you like you do him; knows that you love him, that always have, how you always will, with the whole of your pieced-together heart. 

( For the first time in years, you dance. )

There will be time for that yet. A thousand and one mornings where you wake up to the sun, your chest light and warm, no longer empty, where you wake up held in his embrace, like you are a porcelain doll, like you are something precious.

But for now, you allow him to pull you close, to twirl you. 

( For the first time in years, you dance, and you do not do it in front of an audience. )

You smile up at him, your heart light as a feather, as he holds the whole of you, your heart and your porcelain, like you are a fine-china doll, like something precious. 

He does not say anything, and neither do you; you do not need to. 

After all, there will be time for that yet. 

( For the first time in years, you dance, and you do not do it in front of an audience. 

You allow him to pull you close, to twirl you.

And this time, when you dance, you dance solely for you. )

[minbells]

Megumi who doesn’t think there’s anything more breathtaking than the sight of you in this very moment. And yet, there’s nothing too extravagant nor inappropriately enticing about what you’re doing. You’re just, there. And that’s enough for his heart to start racing.

"Can’t sleep?" he attempts a greeting, and you turn your head towards him, surprised to see him up and on the same rooftop as you in the late hours of the night. You have a book on your lap and your fluffy blanket is loose around your shoulders. As he gets closer he can spot goosebumps on your skin. You sleepily smile up at him, your legs dangling on the side of the rooftop and he almost wants to scold you from sitting too close to the edge. Instead his heart just melts because you look absolutely adorable and he wants to kiss you.

"Yeah, it’s just harder to fall asleep some nights," you hum, and you catch an understanding nod from him as he settles next to you. You stay silent for a little bit, book forgotten, and you both stare at the leaves rustling with the wind, appreciating how quiet and secluded Jujutsu Tech is, especially at night. The moon peaks through heavy clouds and your features are enhanced by the gentle glow — Megumi has to slightly shake his head to suppress the lovesick smile that threatens to appear on his lips. Lord, why does he only lose his cool around you?

"We should do something tomorrow," you suddenly blurt out after a long yawn, and it immediately triggers a blush on his cheeks. "You know, we never really hang out just the two of us."

"We’re hanging out right now," he responds before he could stop himself, and you smile sheepishly, turning towards him in an attempt to catch the look on his face. Dread is what you see, because why the hell did he say that? He almost wants to slap himself for his smart ass comment, but you just smile gently at him and all thoughts leave his head at the sight.

"I know, but I mean we should do something when we’re less sleep deprived and stores are actually open. We could go that arcade Yuuji always talks about, win tons of plushies and get into a food coma," your eyes sparkle slightly at the idea — you are so cute — but then you seem to come to your senses. "I mean, we could also do something more, uh, mature I guess, like taking a walk or something, I don’t know… do your demon dogs like to be walked?," you ramble and he finds it so endearing he almost doesn’t realize that you just asked him out.

Wait, did you just asked him out? And then he blurts it out; "Are you asking me out?," and part of him wants to jump off that roof because why is he so awkward about those things meanwhile you’re an absolute angel. There’s a few seconds of silent where your eyes just widen at him and you pull the blanket closer to your body, feeling slightly smaller under the pressure of his question.

"I- I mean," you trail off, avoiding his intense stare at all cost and finding a sudden interest in picking at the dirt under your nails. But then you remember that it’s Megumi, one of the most practical and calculated guy you know, always so unbothered — unless it comes to you, although you’re unaware of the effect you have on him — and you have a feeling that if you’re not completely clear about what you want he’s probably never going to do anything about it.

And so you find enough confidence in yourself to say what you really want to say. "Yes, I’m asking you out. On a date."

Again, the silence is heavy. You wonder if you came on too strong, if you’ve misread the connection that you’ve always felt with him. This wasn’t your first late night talk, and usually you would always train together. You were always close, and you definitely thought that there was something more that the two of you could share together. Meanwhile, he wonders if you’re joking, or maybe you’re sleepwalking and that’s why you ended up on the roof telling him things he would only dream about.

"You don’t have to, you know…" you try not to sound too disappointed.

"I would love to," he responds immediately, almost eagerly, and he scrambles for anything more coherent to say, but your whole face just lights up and you smile so bright at him that all his worries and awkwardness just melts away at the sight of your happiness. Your smile is exactly what he needed to boost his confidence.

"I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven after training, at your dorm," he says right before he loses his cool demeanour again, not realizing that his cheeks are pink and the tip of his ears red, heart pounding and hands suddenly sweaty — yeah he’s definitely not unbothered by you.

You happily lean in and kiss his cheek, only adding to the fire that’s already raging in his soul. "I can’t wait! What should I wear? I’ll ask Nobara… see you tomorrow, Megumi," you stand and leave, almost with a skip in your step, and he’s dumbfounded, completely lost in the moment, staring ahead with nothing but the sound of your lovely voice echoing in his head, saying his first name for the first time.

He’s left smiling so bright his cheeks hurt.

[minbells]

✮ tags ; gn! reader, established relationship, fluff, alcohol.

"Shouto,"

"Hm?"

"You're drunk,"

Your boyfriend leans his head on your shoulder and makes a noise in the back of his throat. "A bit."

More than a bit, you think. In actuality, you don't think you've ever seen him this drunk before. He's okay with alcohol, usually - but tends to stay away from drinking too much. You think the last time you saw him get actually drunk at all, you were both twenty and he was barely tipsy then.

He doesn't like getting drunk, he's told you before. A few times. The lack of control and hazy memories make him just slightly anxious, so he's careful around liquor.

You've been dating for years now, and unless he's living some double-life (a different one than being a hero) - you've never seen him get this wasted. Ever. To everyone else in your surroundings, it probably doesn't look that way.

But you've spent enough time to know him, and he's not like this usually. Nowhere near as absent minded he is now, at least. He hasn't been able to sit still since he downed that last bottle of shochu. He went to go play with Bakugou's cat, Momo and you couldn't find him afterwards. You lost sight of him for about half-an-hour until you finally found him in the living room while everyone else was outside, feeding Momo some treat that squeezes from a tube.

(You still don't know where or how he found where Bakugou kept the treats, but you decide it's better you don't ask. Plausible deniability, or something.)

You're both grown-ups, and you're not one to worry about his liquor intake. Still, though - you're worried. Even if it seems like he's not different to everyone else, you can tell. And it's bothering you.

"Shouto," You call out to him, your hands reaching to pet the back of his neck. He's a head taller than you, and a little heavy. Palms smooth against the prickly ends of his hair - tapered and neat. He presses his cheek to your shoulder. "Shouto, love."

"Oh," He says, suddenly remember where he is. He stands up but doesn't back away far enough to give you space. You're in a far off empty corner. Most people are in the backyard but Shouto wanted some air - so you're crowded against a wooden fence and wall with your boyfriend locking you in out by the entrance. He smells nice, you think - clean with a soft touch of aftershave. You look up at him. "Hi,"

"You're drunk," You repeat, watching him blink rapidly - bleary eyes and the faintest line of a smile whenever he glances at you. He's bent over, staring at you hard. "Is something wrong?"

His expression is the same as always. Unchangingly neutral with a strong and uncharacteristic rosiness to it. Your boyfriend is handsome, alarmingly so. You're aware of it constantly, but this new face knocks the air out of your lungs.

He's... pouting you think. But not fully. His lips aren't drawn together, it's subtle like most expressions on him.

But it's...there. You're not imagining it - the soft furrow of his brow, the press of his lips. His expression grows warmer and it only makes you more confused. He shakes it off, all of a sudden, a micro-expression that fades just as quickly as it appears.

"I'm okay."

"Are you?""

He blinks slowly at that. Concern aside, you can't help but think he's cute like this. His ears are pink enough to stick out against his skin, cold air making them flush even darker.

"I'm okay," He says, then looks at you. He sobers up if only for that moment. "Had something on my mind."

"Something you can't tell me?"

"It's supposed to be a secret," He mumbles. He's really drunk. You realize this late. "So I don't know if I can."

"Mm," You reply. You feel like doting on him suddenly, so you do, petting the back of his neck before hugging him a little. "That's okay."

He follows up with a light groan. You've never heard him complain like that, so you laugh. "But I want to tell you."

"I promise I'll keep your secret at least."

He smiles at you more fully that time.

He pauses for a minute, thinking it over. You don't do or say anything in return. A beat passes of you two standing and swaying with silence where Shout to grabs your hands from in front of you. You think he's being affectionate again, wanting to hold them.

He draws your hands to his pocket though. The angle is awkward, makes you bend your wrist on the inside of coat pocket until you feel something hard and square touch your fingers. It's velvet from the material. A box of some kind.

...A box?

Shouto guides your hand again, this time out. When you pull it out, his palm is over yours. It's a jewellery box. You blink a few times, confused. Shouto hasn't let go of your hand.

"I keep missing the timing," He says, hiccuping. The lack of sobriety more clear than ever from the slight slur in his words. "It's been in my pockets for a while."

Your eyes go wide open. You can feel your own confusion and excitement twist and tangle inside of you, frantic to get a better read on the situation. He smiles down at you, disarmingly and then closes his eyes. His forehead is warm as it touches yours.

"...I thought you didn't want to married. Not really, at least." You whisper.

"Me too," He says, a wetness to his laugh that tugs at your heart . "It was on a whim. I wanted to talk to you about it. But." He frowns a little "It's tough."

You chuckle, a sudden wetness to your voice too. "I bet it was,"

He smiles at you, big and stupid. "I love you," He closes is eyes and presses his forehead to yours more. "Thank you for everything."

"Shouto," You repeat, unsure of what else to say. "What brought this up?"

"Mm," He shrugs, getting sleepier by the minute. "I thought giving you my last name would make you suffer." He admits, soft and unsure. "But taking yours. That felt...okay. Felt nice."

"You're silly."

"Yes," He says, not denying it. "And I love you."

"And you love me." You repeat, a grin splitting your face. Big tears at the corner of your eyes, making your vision sting and your cheeks ache. You look up at him again. "Enough to marry me?"

He seems almost sheepish that time. "If you'll have me."

"Are you sober enough to even remember this?"

His embarrassment makes him blush and laugh again. "My heart is beating so loud I'm a little afraid of it. So yes. I'm sure I'll remember." He admits.

"Let's get married, then." You repeat to him, so achingly happy you think you could die. You wonder when to tell your friends. Bakugou will be pissed you did at his place. "If you'll have me."

He smiles. "I'd like too."

You lean up to press a kiss to his mouth, and Shouto holds you there to kiss you longer than you expect. When you're done kissing, he's smiling.

"Anymore secrets?"

He thinks on it, then hums.

"We should get a cat."

[minbells]

shouto todoroki x reader

word count: 2k

warnings: reader has hair that can be tucked behind their ear, reader is bullied, forced self-harm (forced to pinch their cheeks)

a/n: this is my entry for @bloompompom ‘s “to all the fictional boys I’ve loved before” writing collab!!! the rom com I chose was ‘Ella enchanted’ because I instantly knew Shouto would fit perfectly ❤️ thank you for letting me join!! i love this but I also think it is not my best work and kind of cringey 💀 this was also inspired by many kdrama cliches djsjsks

summary: you have a quirk that makes you obey every command you are given. if only there was a prince who could come save you? or better yet, help you save yourself.

You're six years old when you develop your quirk. Your parents had taken you to the doctor, scared that you were quirkless, which in turn made you scared as well. The doctor reassured them that everything seemed fine, and your quirk should develop soon. Who would have thought that being quirkless would have been better.

It happened one day in kindergarten. Your then best friend was mad at you because you didn’t want to play dodgeball, and instead wanted to sit in the sandpit. In the heat of her anger, she screeched at you to “go eat rocks!” only to be shocked whenever you stiffly got up and did just that.

Your teacher was horrified when she was dragged over by your friend to see you, with gravel filling your mouth and tears running down your cheeks. When asked why, all you could simply muster was that you had too. You ended that day with a trip to the ER, multiple cuts inside your mouth, and a broken tooth.

Looking back, your quirk probably had already developed. You were known to be a very obedient child— it just took something extreme to clue everyone in. And it would only go downhill from there.

Your parents didn’t mean to take advantage of your quirk. Normal parental comments like “eat all your vegetables” and “go clean your room” just meant that you couldn’t talk back and had to follow the commands instantly. It became a habit almost to voice their requests as demands instead of suggestions or requests. You couldn’t fault them for it really. Especially not whenever they praised your good behavior in front of others, always so proud of their perfectly behaved child. Eventually, when you stopped talking as much and began secluding yourself more to avoid the feeling of your body and mind being forced to do something, they didn’t really seem to notice.

It was a day in your last year of high school that you met Shouto. You had always noticed him of course. Your general studies class and his hero class had been keeping the same lunch time for your entire high school career. He was princely in his stoicism. Perfect face not marred by his scar, only enhanced. He moved like an elegant dancer— every move calculated and on point. It would be no surprise to anyone that you had started harboring a crush on the fellow student. Who hadn’t had a crush on him would be the better question.

Alone at your table in the corner, you’d admire Shouto and his friends at lunch. They always looked like they were so close— the whole class did to be honest. Deku and the others were the only ones who you ever saw crack that perfect facade. A tiny smile here, a barely wrinkled brow there. It was magical to watch. The prince and his court.

You were glad he had made friends. You couldn’t say the same. Try as you might, you just couldn’t keep your quirk a secret. And once one person knew, it wasn’t long until there were many people taking advantage of it. You had gotten by relatively unscathed so far. You mostly got orders to do others homework and class chores. Many afternoons it was only you left in the classroom working away without choice, trying to finish the class chores before dark.

Your only reprieve came in the home room teacher of said prince: Aizawa. He had learned of your quirk, and it only took him one afternoon seeing you doing the chores alone for him to figure out the bullying. You refused to tattle, knowing that it would only make things worse, but he was able to release you from the power of your classmates’ demands.

You were given a strict suggestion, not an order though this time you don’t think you would have minded, to come find him anytime you needed his help. No adult had ever helped you like this before. All of your parent’s friends fawned over your quirk, and lamented about how they wished their own children had developed the same quirk. They had no idea.

It was an afternoon where the sun was shining brightly. A perfect day for something ugly to happen— especially to someone with luck like yours. There was one girl in your class who always had it out for you. You didn’t know why, you had never even talked to her. Your attempts to remain unseen unfortunately did not work this day, because for some reason the most popular boy in your class had decided he thought you were cute and voiced that to his friends.

Enraged, the girl hissed at you after class in a voice filled with venom, “He won’t think you’re cute if your face is full of bruises. Pinch yourself and don’t stop.” As your body filled with syrupy static and your hand raised to your cheek to grasp it in a hard pinch, you fled to try and find the only man who could make you stop.

By the time you made it to the hero department, your cheeks were sore and tears had filled your eyes. You didn’t even notice the prince you had always admired from the top of your tower pause as you sped by, face marred by a frown at your distraught expression.

The pro hero was obviously unamused by how you refused to tell who had made you pinch yourself. A trip to Recovery Girl however had you right as rain, and you were honestly ready for the day to just be over. The last thing you were expecting was Shouto to be standing outside the nurse’s room waiting for you. His face serious and his large arms crossed over his chest. His uniform fit him perfectly, you noticed, like it was tailored just for him.

“I’ve heard about you.”

Your mouth dropped open without your permission . His voice, deep and smooth, glided over you like water and cooled on your skin.

“You have a quirk that makes you do what people tell you to do.”

You had heard about his blunt nature, but hearing it for the first time in person shocked you. At your timid nod, his brow furrowed, and his eyes gave you a once over quickly.

“You can come get me. If you ever need help.” With this statement he pushed off the wall, and without a goodbye walked away.

You tell yourself that it’s just in Shouto’s nature to help people in need. He is in the hero course, so naturally he would follow you whenever he saw you were distress. Shouto being, well Shouto, makes it very hard to keep this in mind.

After the pinching incident, you seemed to have become a target for your classmates’ anger and frustrations. One classmate failed an English test, and to make themselves feel better they ordered you to jump on one foot until you couldn’t anymore.

Eventually left alone in the hallway, your jumping not being entertaining enough to them anymore, your saving grace came in the form of your prince. You don’t know why he was in the general studies section of the school, but you couldn’t complain— multiple students had walked by you with barely a glance. He walked over to you quickly and put a hand on your waist.

“Stop.” His voice cleared the haze in your mind making you obey, and his cool hand kept you steady as you wobbled, unstable after jumping for so long. Shouto straightened your uniform jacket with nimble fingers before walking away, leaving before you could even say thank you.

The next big incident came in the form of you being told to dump your glass of water over your head in front of everyone in the cafeteria. You quickly ran off afterwards, and your prince followed only a few feet behind.

Staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, your shoulders dropped. The bathroom door opening suddenly made you whirl around, heart racing whenever you saw the signature two toned hair of Shouto.

You had never seen this much emotion on his face before. He looked angry as he stalked over to you. He grabbed the paper towels you were using to dry yourself, and his hand raised up close to your face. The air around you turned warm. Steam surrounded you as he evaporated the water from your hair and down to your shoulders. You were reminded of how you would sit in front of the heater after playing in the snow as a child, defrosting contently.

“Why don’t you tell the teacher who does this?” His voice was soft, a contrast to his angry demeanor.

You looked up at him, and saw how genuine he was. He cared so much about the wellbeing of a stranger. A prince indeed. You decided to take a big step, and tell him something you’ve never told anyone.

“I-I can’t.”

Your voice was meek, and his face turned stoic as he took in your answer.

“You can’t, as in someone ordered you not to.”

It wasn’t a question but you nodded nonetheless.

“You know there is a loophole for this, yes?” He said it so simply, no judgement in his voice, only the same warmth.

With a sigh, you begin to explain. “Their dad is my dad’s boss, and somehow they figured this out.”

With a hum, Shouto grabbed a strand of your hair between his nimble fingers. He twirled it around before tucking it behind your ear and smiling. It was like looking at the sun.

“I think I can help.”

He held your hand as you both walked back to the cafeteria. It was his fire side, and the warmth radiated up your arm and into your heart. Before you both entered the cafeteria, he spoke.

“I know you can’t verbally tell me who is responsible for this, but whenever I point them out I want you to squeeze my hand. I already have some idea.”

To show him you understood, you gave his hand a shy squeeze. This made him send a small smile your way, and you could feel the breath physically leave your lungs.

Shouto confidently walks you to the right table, leaving a quiet room after him. Everyone seemed shocked to see you both hand in hand, except his friends. Glancing over quickly you could see that Deku and Ochaco had large grins on their faces, while Iida was nodding in what you could only interpret as aggressive approval.

Your classmates stared at the both of you in trepidation as you and Shouto came to a stop in front of their table. Without saying anything, Shouto quickly pointed at the girl who had always had it out for you, and made sure the rest of the class began to feel the same way. Surprised he knew so fast, you squeezed his hand, heart beating furiously.

“I see.” Was all he said, and you watched as the girl’s face turned pale in the glory of his ire.

The next few days seemed to happen in a blur. Shouto had taken you straight to Aizawa to tell him who your tormentor was, as well as the concerns that held you back from using the loophole of your quirk sooner. The next day, the girl and her family met you in Nezu’s office to apologize.

They bowed to you, and the father told you that he was relocating himself and his family to South Korea, so there would be no worry of any retaliation against your father. Your father might even get a promotion. You noticed how pale he seemed as he looked at the tall figure looming behind you, icy hot eyes staring the man down.

Later that day, you stood shyly in front of a stoic Shouto, trying to put into words how grateful you were.

“That wasn’t the first time I had noticed you, you know.” He spoke first.

“What?”

“I’ve um. I’ve always thought you were really pretty.”

Shouto looked away from you suddenly, bringing a hand up to scratch the back of his head. A soft pink highlighted the tips of his ears.

“I’ve always thought you were really handsome as well.”

Shouto’s head snapped back towards you in surprise. Before he speaks, his eyes focused over your shoulder and his expression crumpled. You looked behind you, shocked to see Deku, Ochaco, and Iida peeking out from behind the corner. Deku was exaggerating his expressions and mouthing “ask them out!” They spot you looking and quickly popped back behind the wall.

You laugh brightly, and find your confidence.

“Will you go out with me, Shouto?”

[minbells]

Oh, how precious they are, really. The flustered look on their face, the telltale signs of adoration that seem to surround them whenever they are in your presence. The shy men are truly gifts from the gods, angels on earth, butterfly kisses on your soul. Breathtaking and so cute.

It took forever for him to finally get enough courage and actually commit to a relationship with you. All because he was way too shy and inexperienced, and his heart was beating way too fast whenever your eyes would meet his own in that love stare of yours, so enticing and hypnotizing that he thought his brain would turn to mush. Frankly, his insecurities would also keep him away from you. How could you, a being so perfect and so kind, choose him ? Of course, this never kept him from daydreaming about you constantly. Your beautiful face, your lips, your hands wrapped around him, your blinding smile, your body… how ashamed he was of those inappropriate thoughts that made his whole face (and other places) heat up like a furnace. He was shy, sure, but definitely not innocent. All that was on in mind was you, you, you. When he wakes up with the sun and then late at night when he falls asleep under the moon, you’re everywhere. And yet whenever he tried to talk to you, he was becoming a stuttering mess and making a fool of himself. In his opinion he was quite the idiot, but to you he was utterly perfect.

How could you not fall for him ? Despite being shy and unsure of himself, he rises to any given occasion to comfort you in your lowest moments. Determination and love overcomes his anxiety, and when it comes to you and your honour, he always speaks with confidence and conviction. He would go on walks with you and listen to whatever is on your mind. He follows you around like a lost puppy, watching your every moves with interest, especially whenever you would cook something for the two of you. Wanna taste ? You would ask, and he happily obliged, wrapping his lips around the spoon you presented him and humming in delight at the flavours hitting his tongue, made with love.

All the anonymous — not so anonymous — handmade gifts he would make from scratch for you before you started dating were piling up in your room in a secluded space reserved just for the things he would give you. Needless to say, your genuine feelings for him as well as the flirtatious remarks you made every now and then — oh those teasing compliments that would make the tip of his ears heat up — finally coaxed him out of his shell.

And now that he finally got a taste of your lips and attention, he was done for. Does the nervousness ever goes away, even after months of a steady and healthy relationship with you ? No, not at all. But it’s different now. He knows he’s head over heels for you, and he knows you love him back. Which truly just unlocks a completely new side of him, one that is fully devoted to your happiness and pleasure, one that wants to try new things and go over his limits. This side of him gets flustered just as much, but he’s much more confident in his affection, more than willing to pleasure you and impress you in order to get your attention.

He puts all his attention in touching you and kissing you right, until you’re completely out of breath, putty in his hands, and weak in the knees. He actually has to hold you up in his strong hold so his mouth can keep chasing yours, otherwise you might melt in a puddle at his feet. Again. More. Kiss me more. His pleas never fall on deaf ears as you are always as eager as he is, and you kiss him more and more until he’s satisfied and your lips are puffy. The sparkles of admiration in his eyes seem to shine a little brighter every day that passes by, and his lips are always more eager to meet your own, no matter how shy he gets whenever you praise him and moan breathlessly in his ear. Yeah, it’s impossible not to fall for him.

amajiki tamaki, midoriya izuku, kamado tanjiro, armin arlert, kozume kenma, yamaguchi tadashi, azumani asahi, okkotsu yuuta, yoshino junpei, + all your favs.

[minbells]

Men who are academically gifted, very smart and calculated, but somewhat clueless when it comes to love. He has a good reason for that though; nobody before you had caught his attention. Now that he’s found you, his heart is beating faster, cheeks heating up, fingers itching to reach out and hold you. His normally cool demeanour is crumbling. Did you cast a spell on him? He has a lot to learn about romance, and the good thing is that you basically have a completely blank canvas to paint on. He didn’t pick on any bad habits and he’s already a perfect gentleman.

He would do anything for you, he might not know much about being in a relationship, but he adores you. He is eager to learn about affection, dating, kissing, establishing a routine with you, loving you. He’s an act of service kind of person, eager to please and care for you. He’s the one reminding you of your appointments, making sure you eat enough and stay hydrated, taking care of you when you’re sick, helping you study or work on whatever projects that you have. Whenever he comes over, he cleans your dishes without even a second thought, and you felt bad at first to subject him to your messes until you realized that he loves doing those things for you.

He quickly learns how and when to hold your hand, what kind of dates you like, the pet names that make your heart skips a beat, how to kiss you until you’re breathless and wanting more. He’s also a very good listener, which is actually impressive since he seemed mostly socially clueless when you first met him. He takes an interest in all the things you like. He does research on your favourite music groups, he catches up on TV shows you enjoy so he can understand what you’re talking about when you mention them, and he tries to learn the recipes of your favourite meals. He has a whole folder in his notes app dedicated to gift ideas and things he wants to remember about you — your drink order, favourite restaurant, the flowers you like, the brand of a bag you were eyeing last time he went to the mall with you. He doesn’t want to miss anything.

He’s become completely attached to you and he’s so touch starved that he takes each and every opportunity to be near you and hold you in some way, usually burying his nose in your neck. He takes note of your sweet perfume then, mentally adding it to the list of things he knows about you, right next to the flavour of chapstick he tasted on your lips the last time he kissed you.

fushiguro megumi, todoroki shoto, shinso hitoshi, tsukishima kei, kozume kenma, armin arlert, tomioka giyuu, hayakawa aki, + all your favs.

[minbells]

Men who are a little bit dumb (it’s cute though), but who would do anything for you. He can’t remember any important dates, never really performed well academically, and naivety is his second name — but he is a lover.

You always have to remind him of appointments (which can be a struggle in itself since sometimes you barely remember your own). You don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the number of times he planned a date with you only for you to gently remind him of the dentist appointment he had that same day (so many dinner reservations and concert tickets gone to waste). He always makes it up to you with an extra date the next week, lots of kisses and chocolate as a token of his appreciation for putting up with his tendency to let those kind of things slip from his mind. You don’t mind his forgetfulness though since it’s so obvious how much he loves you. In a sea of forgotten dates and appointments, he never fails to remember your birthday, important events in your career, and your anniversary. He even circles the dates in glittery red on your shared calendar, which makes you feel a little bit special.

He buys you flowers every week — or picks whatever he can find in the wild, flowers are expensive after all — he defends your honour like his life depends on it, looks at you like you hung the moon and stars, and he always takes pictures of you. He’s your number one fan and hype man. He might be a little bit of an airhead, but he knows how to treat you right and he’s far from clueless when it comes to romance.

For instance, kisses and hugs. He is a huge cuddle bug, and you’re on the receiving hand of about thirty kisses every day he spends with you; on your cheek, your forehead, your hand, your neck, your lips, there’s really no stopping him. He’s the type to make you meaningful playlists with love songs that reminds him of your relationship, buy your favourite candy and win plushies for you at the local amusement park. Movie marathons are also a go-to date-night for him. He’s the best workout buddy too, full of praise and admiration for you, hearts in his eyes. He’s all muscles and not much brain, but his heart is so pure that you couldn’t care less (plus he’s so buff, like what’s with this gorgeous man).

itadori yuuji, kaminari denki, kirishima eijiro, bokuto kotaro, connie springer, reiner braun, denji, shinazugawa genya, + all your favs.

[minbells]

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹ BLAME IT ON THE BLACK STAR — hayakawa aki

summary . . . maybe aki’s in the wrong for all the mixed signals he sends you, but it’s your fault for always picking up the phone.

contents . . . f!reader, angst, complicated relationships, smoking, miscommunication, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, ambiguous ending, hurt/comfort i suppose — 5.6k

notes . . . this is my first time writing for aki so pls be nice i’m nervous hdjwjwk <33 i’m not all the way caught up w csm so it might be inaccurate idk

Aki calls you, sometimes, when he’s feeling lonely. You figure, by now, he must have your number memorized, with how frequently your phone ends up ringing. 

Of course, you always pick up, knowing you shouldn’t, knowing it’ll just end up hurting. But you can’t help yourself, really. You’re incredibly weak for a man that you know will never commit his life to you. You learned that lesson a long time ago. 

Still, you’re a fool who refuses to move on. 

Instead, you stand, shivering in the cold in front of Aki’s door, waiting for him to answer it. The lights are off in the apartment — you have no idea where his new roommates are for the evening, but they clearly aren’t there. Aki wouldn’t have called you otherwise; you’re certain he doesn’t want anyone to know about the two of you, save for those that have known since the beginning.  

Heavy footsteps pad across the floor, and then the lamp in the hallway flicks on, illuminating the threshold in a beam of yellow. The door unlatches, opening just a crack, as his blue eyes drift down to trail over you. 

“You got here faster than I thought.” 

“I’m freezing, Aki,” you say, pushing through the door. His palm falls away, rests at his sides. Its only eight o’clock, but he’s already in sweatpants, a loose sweatshirt hanging over his tall frame. Dark hair falls across his cheeks, still damp from his earlier shower. 

“Sorry,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “I was in the bathroom.” 

You don’t reply, and shrug your coat off instead, hanging it on the rack that is now full of jackets that don’t belong to him. But you’re barely able to get it onto the hook before Aki has a palm around your wrist, tugging you towards him, the smell of his body wash and shampoo lingering in a cloud around him. 

A little welp of surprise leaves you as you spin around, nearly falling into his chest. Instead, you collide with his mouth, the heat already settling down on you as heavily as it always does when Aki is around.

He kisses you, long and hard, hungry for the taste of you, his head craned down to meet your height. For a moment, you let him. It’s sweet and familiar, all the things you’ve ever wanted.

In moments like these, you indulge in thoughts of a life where things are different. A life where Aki can greet you at the door, smile when you kiss him, instead of the pensive expression he always wears. A life where Aki doesn’t come home with new scars every few days, where he isn’t hell-bent on a goal you’re not sure he can ever achieve.

That dream of yours won’t ever become a reality, but it doesn’t stop you from savoring the taste of his mouth against your own — how much you’ve missed it, even when you shouldn’t. 

When you’ve run out of air to breathe, you push him away, and Aki stands straight, blinking like he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. 

“Not even going to offer to make me dinner?” you ask, keeping him at a distance. Although you meant for it to sound playful, teasing, it comes off full of a bitter resentment. Your face is probably drawn up into a scowl, even if you can’t see it.

Aki blinks, rubbing his forearm. His lips part, then he shuts them, furrowing his eyebrows together. “You said you were cooking — over the phone, you said you’d already eaten.” 

“Well, at least you remember that.” 

Confusion spreads even further, tighter, stretching to every corner of his expression. Aki’s hands twitch listlessly at his side, just as his mouth does. “Are you upset with me?” he asks, and you know he’s smarter than that, that he might not be the most sensitive to others’ emotions, but he is certainly no fool when it comes to yours. “If you didn’t want to come over tonight, I wasn’t forcing you.” 

A laugh almost escapes you — instead, you muster up a cool grimace. Like you aren’t going drop everything for Aki every time he says I don’t want to be alone tonight. 

Really, it was laughable how tightly he had you in the palm of his hand, and you can’t fathom that he would think otherwise. You’ve always done whatever he needed; given him whatever he wanted. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were in the hospital?” you ask finally, swallowing back your annoyance as you gesture towards the bandage around his arm. It’s wrapped up tight, but the bandages are fresh, still a starched white. 

His eyebrows tighten further. The air around him changes, even though his expression doesn’t. “Who told you about that?” 

“Himeno.” 

Aki purses his lips. “I didn’t realize you two were friends now.” 

You did laugh then, shaking your head as you make your way into the living room, looking for any subtle changes in his apartment. There are new pairs of shoes that certainly don’t belong to him, a sweatshirt that looks about two sizes too small. 

“I wouldn’t really say we’re friends,” you shrug, not bothering to look at him. The air in the room is somehow off-putting, and you take it in like it’s the first you’d ever seen of the place. “But how else am I supposed to find out if you’re still alive?” 

You give him a sad little smile, and slowly, the irritation seeps out of his face, his shoulders slumping. He looks tired, then — far too old for a man that is still so young. 

“It wasn’t that serious. I’m fine now, aren’t I?” Aki gestures to his arm, flails it wildly, as if to prove it’s still working properly. “Just a scratch.”

“It is serious. It’s serious to me,” you say, narrowing your eyes, and though his tone is warmer, he doesn’t smile at you, not like he used to. He maintains a vague air of surprise, while dampening any emotion that could cloud over his lack of understanding. It annoys you to no end, that he won’t let you see him.“I’m always worried about you, idiot. Don’t act like you don’t know how I feel about you.” 

Aki blinks, then draws his lips together in a thin line, shaking his head. Although you were pointedly avoiding each other’s gazes, you could feel the tension drawing you together like a cord. 

God, you missed him every time you were apart. You went to your regular job, thought all day about the man who would never love you like you loved him, wondering if he was okay, if he’d pick up the phone and call you again next week. Or if, one day, it would be Himeno instead, telling you that you’d never see him again — or, god forbid, Makima, with her careless tone of authority. That thought alone haunts you even with your eyes open.

But for now, it’s still Aki who calls you, and every time, you are overwhelming relieved to hear the sound of his voice again. Heavy tears always drop down your cheeks as you dig the phone into your ear, wishing that it was his mouth there instead, and wishing that those pretty blue eyes still looked at you with the same sort of softness they once had. 

“I told you…” Aki begins sharply, but then he trails off, finally meeting your gaze. His features pinch once more, melodramatic, as he scans the sadness that you could never hide in your expression. “Damn it.” Car lights flash over his face through the window as someone drives past the apartment complex. The darkness of the room becomes even more evident when they disappear.

“I know,” you say, resigned, as you watch him scrub his hands over his face, and inhale heavily. It’s hard for you to keep your emotions from getting the best of you. “You’ve reminded me — many times. I know this doesn’t mean we’re back together. I know, Aki.”

His jaw parts, lips faltering at the beginning of a phrase. Despite his tall frame, he falters, looking so small, as sadness filters into the eyes that shine a deep navy in the shade of the evening. Beside him his fingers twitch, curling up into his palm, before he takes two long strides towards you. 

The mere second it takes him to get there passes without your memory, and your back hits the door to his bedroom, softly, as he looms over you, fingers brushing your cheeks. 

A thousand times you’ve been in this position, and it’s so familiar that your hand reaches up instinctively, splaying across his chest. Aki’s breaths leave him, deeply, expanding through his lungs before he exhales them across your cheekbones, oxygen splitting at the bridge of your nose. “What’s wrong?” you ask quietly, blinking up at him from under your lashes. 

“That’s not what I meant.” His voice comes out on a hoarse whisper.

“Hm?” You dig your fingers into his sweatshirt, the material thick and warm. “What did you mean?” 

Tenderly, his thumb brushes across the hollows of your cheek, the sharp bone that juts out. Aki’s fingertips are so rough and calloused, but that familiarity brings a sob out of you, your hands springing up to grab his wrists. “That I’m not fooling anyone,” Aki says, swallowing, eyes roaming all over your face. “That I can’t stay away from you, no matter how hard I try.”

Your lips part, but your breath is stolen away by another kiss, blanketing your mouth, warm and with an emotion that you’re certain you can taste. It takes you less than a moment for you to close your eyes, to relax into him as always, melt into his familiarity. The taste of the cigarettes he smokes lingers on his tongue, seeping deep into your own lungs. 

As he bumps his nose with your own, you reach up, run your fingers through his hair, untangling all the knots that have accumulated since his shower. At the same time, Aki palms at the door behind you, not bothering to look up as he fumbles for the door handle, slipping it open.

Aki always kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever do it, struggling to unglue you from himself. He kisses you like he knows he’s going to leave again, and it might be for the very last time. 

It’s a sickening emotion to live with, but you’ve accepted it all the same. 

You ignore the feelings that never leave you alone when you’re with Aki, and stumble backwards into the room, feet catching under you. Although you nearly fall, Aki catches you, arms heavy around your waist, large palm spreading across your lower back. 

“You’re so pretty,” he says, nearly carrying you to his bed. The two of you latch so tightly onto the other, that you will surely go tumbling down if either of you makes the wrong move. “I’ve never met anyone as pretty as you.” 

“Aki,” you mumble, shaking your head. “I don’t want to hear that.” 

He stumbles, and you do fall onto the bed, then, his heavy body on top of you, landing with a thud. But he’s careful to catch himself, to tuck his arms into the space beside you, as he kisses across your cheeks, down your neck, to your chest. 

“Why?” he asks into your skin, voice low and rough. “You don’t think you’re pretty?” his tone is dry, sarcastic. Aki’s fingers fumble with the zipper on your jeans, slipping your pants off faster than you can inhale a fresh set of air into your lungs. “Want me to prove it to you?”

Despite your lingering resentment, you crack a smile, shift your hips so he can pull your bottoms off completely. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall in love with me again?” you say off-handedly, running your hands along the edge of his shirt, before slipping cold fingers under it. His skin is hot there, abdomen soft, muscle just as lean as it was last week, but stronger than when you’d first met him. 

Aki’s eyes soften. “Why would I be afraid of a thing like that?” 

You don’t like the double meaning in his words, and you don’t want to read into it. Instead, you pull Aki back down to your mouth, hoping he’ll take and take from you, even though he’s always one to give. The one who calls you, who needs to be inside of you, but won’t worry about himself until you’ve come apart at least once. 

“Feels like it’s been a while since I’ve seen you,” he says, pushing your thighs further apart, muttering the words against your lips. His fingers graze the outside of your panties, as you slowly begin to wet them with desire that burns hot in your stomach. “I missed you.” 

You feel his smile curl as he kisses across your chest, around your collarbones, and you sit up far enough to slide your shirt off. Aki does the same — there are fresh scars on his body, healing wounds. You can’t look at them for too long, before grief rises up in you, mourning a man that is not yet dead. 

“Whose fault is that?” you ask bitterly, pushing the top of his head to sink him to your thighs. Instead, he takes his time pressing his mouth around your belly, swirling his tongue just past your hips. 

A sigh leaves you, and you sink deeper into the mattress, eyes blinking closed. He’s so slow, so deliberate with every movement, like he’s been waiting all of this time just to lose himself in you. Ridiculous, really, considering that he could have you at anytime, and he knows it. 

You’d hate him for it, for stringing you along like this, but that would be hypocritical, really. You’re the fool that continues to play the game. 

Aki ignores your passing comment, squeezing your thighs as his face drifts down your body. His hair brushes against your bare skin, still a bit damp, but so soft, the scent of his soap so familiar you could pick out the shampoo with your eyes closed. 

“Want my fingers or my mouth first?” Aki whispers into the inside of your thigh, kissing the delicate skin there as he looks up at you from under thick, black lashes. They flutter over his cheekbones, the hollows of his eyes, and he’s so pretty… it’s no wonder you’re so far gone for him. “Since you’re in such a mood tonight, I’ll let you choose.” 

There’s a tiny smirk on his face, and even though you’re about to answer, Aki takes it upon himself to kiss your cunt through your panties, the fabric sticking to your skin. 

“A-aki,” you stutter, caught off-guard, fingers lacing through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. “You didn’t give me a chance to answer.” 

He drags his tongue up your clothed cunt, wetting it even further, so you can’t tell if you’re soaked from his spit or your own arousal. “I picked instead. Like the way you moan when my mouth’s on you,” he says off-handedly, and heat rushes to your cheeks as you stare at the ceiling, still so shy when it comes to his dirty mouth. “No one’s here,” Aki continues, words vibrating against the bone, puffs of air drifting around your sensitive area. “Want you to be loud.” 

A tiny laugh escapes you, but it is quickly stolen by a whimper as he sucks your clit into his mouth through the cotton of your underwear, an old pair that was anything but sexy. Although, you’ve known Aki for so long, been with him for so long, there’s never any reason to try and impress him. 

“Feels good,” you say, closing your eyes as you rest on the pillow. Aki pushes his tongue against your hole, teasing. His fingers dig deeper into the flesh of your thighs, keeping them from locking around his head as you search for more friction. Your chest rises and falls with the heat of your breathing, but Aki doesn’t let you rub yourself against his tongue, doesn’t let you move much, really. “Aki,” you whine, and though there are times when he doesn’t let you get your way, this isn’t one of them.

“So impatient,” he says cheekily, but he slips your panties to the side, your cunt vulnerable to the frigid winter air. You shiver, and he sinks his tongue into you completely, the heat of it warming you as he swirls it inside, spreading you further open with his fingers. 

Your body grows hot all over when Aki thrusts his tongue in and out of your aching walls, your juices seeping onto his tongue. He moves slowly, savoring every moment that you’re in his bed, even as you try to arch into him, speed him up so that you can orgasm faster. He’s right: you are impatient, because it’s been days since you’ve last felt him inside of you, and nothing feels as good as Aki’s thick fingers and cock. 

His nose bumps your clit as he drags his tongue in a thick stripe up your cunt. A moan leaves you, and without thinking, you jerk your hips up, forcing them towards his face. The sound from your chest is so lewd, and you’ll feel shy about how loud you were later, but all you can think about is his mouth on you. 

Aki smiles, kisses the inside of your thigh. When he lifts his head, the ache inside you burns deeper, the sight of him with saliva and fluid dripping down his chin almost too much for you to handle. “Taste so good,” he hums, massaging the skin around your knees, hoisting your calves up over his shoulder blades. “Think you can cum from just my tongue, baby? You’re so pent up, I don’t think you can last much longer.” 

You whimper, pressing your heels into his back as Aki’s tongue resumes lapping up your cunt, long and hot, massaging the most sensitive spots inside of you. You can tell he’s hard, aching as he shifts his hips awkwardly, trying not to press them in the bed. 

Aki picks up his speed, head bobbing slightly as the heat insides of you builds; normally, you would’ve lasted longer, but you can’t remember the last time you’ve even touched yourself, and your most recent orgasm must have been with Aki. 

You don’t tell him when you’re close, but he already knows, sucking harder on your clit as you finally come, body jerking into him, walls spasming. Your eyes squeeze shut, and his name leaves your lips much quieter than he would’ve liked. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” Aki says, tugging off his sweatpants, the only layer between you and his cock. His dark hair is slightly mussed from your fingers, the way you’d pulled at him, tried to guide him where you wanted him, even if he already knew. “So easy for you to get me hard, you know that?” His cock is leaking at the tip, desperate for release, and you haven’t even touched him yet. “Just the thought of you spread out like this is enough.” 

A desperate whine leaves you, and you reach behind, unclasping the straps of your bra, the last remaining garment between you and Aki. He grins at that, his canines so sharp, teeth a little crooked, but the prettiest smile you’d ever seen because you see it so rarely. 

“Gonna play with those pretty tits while I fuck you, baby?” 

“Fuck, Aki, please,” you groan, reaching for him, pulling his mouth to your own. You kiss him hard, hoping that he knows you love him, and hoping that he feels guilty about that fact. “Want you inside me. God, I need you so bad.” 

He presses his forehead to your own, lining his cock up with your entrance, the head prodding at your gaping walls. You get so sensitive, even from just one orgasm, that you wince a little bit. But the uncomfortable feeling eases as he presses into you, kisses you sweetly.

“Fuck, fuck,” Aki groans, biting down hard on your shoulder. “God, you’re so wet, so warm. You feel so good around my cock, baby. Such a pretty girl for me.” 

Your nails dig into his back as he slides, slowly, out of you, before he thrusts back in, still not rough enough for your liking. Aki’s hair falls around his face, his mouth parting just a bit, focus dilating his irises. His biceps flex as he holds himself off the bed, snapping his hips into your aching cunt. 

“H-harder,” you mumble, trying not to shout, to moan too loudly into the open air of the evening. Aki’s walls are far too thin, and his neighbors know who you are. The last thing you want is for them to see you as Aki’s fuck-buddy that moans like a bitch in heat. “Please, sweetheart.” 

Aki groans, a deep sound that reverberates all the way from his chest down to his stomach. The affectionate name twists something up in him, and Aki thrusts his hips faster, kisses your forehead, your cheeks, any part of your skin that he can get his mouth on. His hair tickles your jaw, nose nudging against your face as he mumbles into your skin, “so needy, aren’t you? I want to take my time with you, and you just want to get off.” 

“Can’t help it, Aki,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut tight as you buck your hips upward. “God, you feel so good, I lo—”

You stop the words from leaving your mouth, but Aki already knows. He’s known it for a while now, and you should be embarrassed by the fact that you can’t let him go. 

Wide blue eyes stare back at you, full of something you can’t define, but still so soft as he pulls away. He draws you closer, slides your legs around his hips before pinning your own to the bed with large, heavy palms. Aki’s built with all lean muscle, and he’s so tall — so much taller than you that it’s easy to forget because he treats you so gently. Still, he blankets your body, makes you feel small in the nicest way. 

Because you know that even though he can never commit his love to you, he’d never let anything — human or devil — lay a finger on you. You love him, you love him, you love him.

Aki follows your wishes, sinks faster inside of you as you exhale heavily. Your nails dig into his back so tightly that you start to worry you’ll break the skin. But Aki loses himself in the feeling of you, panting into your chest as he moves his hips. 

“F-fuck,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m not going to last long inside you like this. Maybe I should slow down—”

“No, no, I’m close,” you stumble over your words, meeting Aki’s intense eyes, a thousand emotions relayed in them as he blinks at you. “It’s okay.”

“God,” he mutters, whispers the word between you, even though you’re certain he hasn’t believed in him for a while, and you’re not sure you do either. “I don’t deserve you.” 

You wonder if Aki meant to say that at all, so you let it go, let the words exist between you as if they were never there at all. 

His palm guides it’s way across your stomach, the touch featherlight, before he reaches for your breast, thumb flicking across your nipple. The nail catches, and you moan, almost there once more. Aki’s cock hitting all the right places, so much better than your own fingers.

“Aki,” you say his name over and over, your mind going numb from thinking about him. 

“I know,” Aki mutters against your lips, hot air ghosting across them on his exhale. “You’re okay. Let go for me, baby. Did so good for me, want you to cum on my cock.” 

His voice, so deep and rough in your ears, sends you over the edge, and a sound forces its way up your throat as you clench down on him, your cunt spasming from your orgasm. It hits you harder than you’d been anticipating, legs squeezing around Aki’s hips as you dig your toes into the mattress. 

“There we go,” Aki wipes your hair away from your face, kissing your temples, so gently that you think you might cry. It’s not fair for him to be so sweet, so loving when you know he’s going to kick you out of his apartment before the night is over. “My pretty girl. Shit,” Aki mumbles, cursing lowly before pulling out of you, quick, and spilling into his palm. It takes him less than a stroke down the length of his cock, the thick cum spurting out, falling onto your hips, beside you on the mattress. 

It’s not your mess to clean, though, and you can’t bring yourself to care. Breathing heavily, you watch Aki fumble for something on his nightstand, before he gives up, wiping his wet hand on the already soiled bedsheets. Then, he collapses down onto his side, staring, watching your chest rise and fall. 

“Aki,” you say, turning away from his eyes to stare at the ceiling, the cracked plaster, stained from water leaks. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

Silence falls across the room, and you can’t bear to look at him, refusing to see the indifference on his face. There’s nothing, he says nothing, before sitting back up, shuffling through the nightstand once more. 

The beams of streetlights sway against his silhouette, encased in a beautiful swirl of purple and navy hues. His hair seems an even darker curtain, coiling around his jaw as he hides from you, hides the emotion that was less than evident on his face. 

You sigh, and flip back on your side. 

Aki takes a few drags of the cigarette, puffing them into the stale air. It reeks, probably, in the tiny bedroom, but all you can smell is the tangy scent of Aki’s soap, the lavender that lingers on his skin, the cleanness of the linens that have been recently washed. This apartment, sometimes, feels more like home than your lonely one does, even though being with Aki is almost like being on your own, sometimes. 

“Those things are going to kill you,” you say under your breath, still fascinated by the way the smoke draws deep into his lungs, puffs out in a cloud, relaxes him easily. His veiny palms flex, long, slender fingers holding the cigarette between them. 

Aki doesn’t laugh, but it’s close to one, a snort almost, as he breathes again. “Not like I’ll be alive much longer, anyway.” 

“You sound like Himeno.” 

“Do I?” 

You sniff, and scoot up against the wall, sitting beside him. Despite your argument, you take the cigarette from him, smoke it yourself, and place your lips around the exact place where Aki’s had been. He watches with the same rapt fascination, blinking slowly, before staring at the ceiling as you had before. 

It’s Himeno he should be with now, really. Another Devil Hunter. A woman he can fuck without getting his feelings all mixed up, someone who probably understands him better than you do. He’s never loved her like he loved you, and she wouldn’t take offense to it either, you think. 

But it’s you he calls instead. It’s you who is too weak to leave.

“I’m sorry,” Aki whispers.

“So am I.” 

You reach across him, press the cigarette into the ashtray and drop what’s left of it amongst the other ends. Aki’s fingertips dance along your spine as you do so, and you wish he wouldn’t touch you, wish he’d just kick you out of the bed, toss you out of the apartment, spit at you like you weren’t anything but a whore. 

Instead, he kisses your shoulder, draws you in close, curls his tall frame around your body, and drags you back down into the bed. 

It hurts more than you want to admit, because this is what you want. You’d truly go the rest of your life, never have sex with him again, if he’d always hold you like you meant something to him. 

“I need to go home,” you say, remembering that you still haven’t eaten dinner, that you’d left your things in disarray, your clothes unfolded on your bed. There was never a reason to before, because with Aki, you’d always go home, just before the last train. You’d be tucked into your bed that same evening after a nice shower. “Aki…” 

“Stay.” He kisses your collarbone and shoulder again, throws his thigh over your own, and traps you against his body. “Please stay. You can wear that T-shirt of mine you like so much. I’ll make you breakfast. You can meet Power and Denji, and then I’ll take you home tomorrow morning.” 

You swallow, damning your weak-willed heart for succumbing so easily. Fingers curl around his wrists as you bask in his embrace, how warm he is, despite normally running so cold. “Aki,” you whisper again, tears welling along your eyelashes. “You can’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me.” 

“Do what?” His voice is just as quiet as your own, and he’s still kissing you, holding you like you’re something precious. But he is surely not that stupid about your feelings, to how he has been tearing you apart for the past year, even though you let him. 

You sniff, trying not to cry, never wanting to embarrass yourself, even if you have sobbed in his arms on numerous occasions. “You must know that I love you. I’ll never stop loving you. Even if I marry someone after you die, I’m certain your name will still be etched into the chains on my heart. I’m just a stupid, dumb girl.” 

He says nothing, and you do cry, then, tears streaming down your face as you twist away, stare out the curtained window, the thin fabric fluttering from the heat that kicks on. 

“Please don’t call me anymore. Just let me hurt for awhile, so I can get over you. You’re so selfish, so selfish, why can’t I just move on?” You bury your face in your hands, wipe your tears, try to fight against him as he pulls you into his strong chest, kisses the top of your head. Still, even then, even when you want to hate him, you’re putty in his heads, melting and craving the place in his arms that feels like home. 

“I can’t let you go,” Aki says, wiping your tears. “Fuck, I can’t — I need you. Do you understand? I need you, and I know I’m a selfish piece of shit, but I don’t want you to move on.” He frowns, clenching his jaw, twisting his expression up. “I’ll be better.” 

“Aki—”

“I’ll love you like you need, honey. I thought,” Aki scrubs his palm over his face, the other still stroking across your back. “I thought it’d make it easier, all this distance between us, to let you go. I can’t put you in danger, but I can’t stop loving you either.” 

You inhale sharply, leaning your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, committing the harmony to your memory. Who knows how much longer it will be in there, how much longer Aki will allow it to exist before he destroys himself completely. 

“Aki, you’ll never love me like I need, because you’ll always put your work first,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut. “I realized that a long time ago.” 

He shifts, pushing you away so you could look each other in the eye, the astounding resoluteness in his irises. How serious he was about trying to be someone he was not. “I can try.” 

You sob.

And you wish you could just say no; say no and walk away, forget his name, never answer the phone again, never call Himeno to check up and make sure he’s still breathing. 

But you can’t — it’ll never be that easy. 

Pushing him away, you rest your head back on the pillow, trying to make yourself comfortable as you turn your back to him. Perhaps, the morning will give you clarity. You’ll stay, but you’re not sure for how long. 

“I’m tired.” 

Aki curls against you, rests his arm around your hip, kisses your neck, cheek, temple. “Okay,” he relents, holding you close, chest pressed against your spine. “I meant what I said about breakfast. Maybe we can talk about it then?” 

You want to say no, but you won’t. He’ll kiss you in the morning, and you’ll kiss him back. Settle on your knees and give him a blowjob while he’s still groggy, before slipping on his T-shirt, chattering off his ear as he makes you breakfast. You’ll probably even curl your arms around his stomach from behind, stand on you tiptoes to reach the space between his shoulder blades. 

Power and Denji will come home at some point, and probably say something rude, as Aki says they do to everyone. Then you’ll go home, and you’ll still be in love with him, and Aki will forget the conversation even happened, because he’ll say anything to get you to stay. 

Or, maybe, he’s being honest. Maybe he will love you like you want him to. 

Less than likely.

“Okay, Aki,” you agree, too tired to argue or acknowledge the emptiness in your stomach. “We’ll talk about it in then.”

reblogs appreciated!! thank you for reading!

[minbells]

reflections

tags: armin x reader, reader is an artist, reader uses she/her pronouns, takes place during the tent party in marley, mutual crushing, drunk confession

warnings: inebriation

words: 2.4k

★ Tucked into the corner of a drunken party, drawing a secret of your own, Armin finds you; more importantly, he finds a reflection of him on paper, crafted carefully by your hands, and you do not even try to resist his plea to let him see.

★ Or the one in which Armin has terrible alcohol metabolism, your heart comes this much closer to a stroke, and an intervention is required to resolve the mess that comes to.

He'd been so silent. Akin to a mouse. By the time she noticed him, quiet and solemn, towering over her shoulder, the drawing had been almost finished.

And he was staring at it. At her.

She didn't even have time to yelp in surprise. Her body froze when she saw him, his shadow spreading like ink over her journal, and an odd sort of shock coiled through her muscles as she looked back. Heat sinking into her cheeks, breath stuttering, she felt herself grasp at the leatherbind in her hands, so tightly it almost hurt.

Watching him now, staring back at him, she doesn't say anything. He stands there, one shoulder leaning his weight on the wooden frame of the tent, and she knows he can see her skin grow flushed.

In truth, she shouldn't have startled this much. She knows that. He always does this. He always finds her, no matter where she may hide.

Finally, voice deliberately slow and eyes cast down at her, he tells her: "I feel like I should apologise."

She opens her mouth. She thinks to say – what? To admonish him? She thinks to snap her journal shut, or to leave with an indignation. But there he stands still, watching her with that darling, repentant glint in his eye, and who is she to stay mad at him, or to grow upset with him in the first place? She simply sighs, waving her hand at him, waiting for him to sit beside.

"I'm sorry," he says, smile all sheep and no teeth, and she scoots over for him. "I noticed you were gone, and–"

"–And you went ahead to try and find me–"

"–And then I saw you here, drawing your heart away. I thought to call out, and, well.." His eyes cast down, lingering on the drawing laying helplessly in her lap. "I'm sorry." He looks back in her eyes, face earnest and shoulders tight. "I know how private you are about your drawings, I know I should have asked."

She can't help the sigh that leaves her. Looking at him, feeling him press against her shoulder so tentatively, she really can't be upset with him – even if she tried. "It's fine."

And he knows this. Of course he does. Armin grins at her, bordering on something someone else could call impish. "Am I forgiven?"

"Don't push your luck," she warns, and he laughs, loud and indelicate, and it sounds so delightful that she can't help but laugh with him, filled with an odd murmuration within her heart at how close he is sitting to her.

Then his eyes linger on the drawing again, and she can tell he tries to be subtle about it, or to resist it. She pushes the journal into his lap, his eyelashes fluttering with a soft panic. "You don't have to," he murmurs, his fingers curling delicately around the edge of the leather.

"It's okay," she tells him, just as gently. "You can look. You've already seen the most of it anyway."

And he does. This time, with a careful hold and a soft, with an amused smile curling at the edge of his lips, he looks at it unabashedly, eyes roving through the lines. "If I ask, will you tell me?" He asks, tone playful, outshined by the happy flush on his cheeks, and he chuckles when she sighs.

She thinks about lying. She wonders, for a moment, if it would be the best course of action. But he does not look back at her as she thinks to herself; instead, he looks ahead, at the journal in his hands, over and over, as if it were magical, or something he wanted – needed, desperately – to commit to memory. So instead, timidly, she admits: "You looked so happy. I couldn't let it pass by. I wanted to save it." And even as she says it, so awfully earnest and open, she thinks perhaps she should have kept her mouth shut. She feels breathless, almost vulnerable as she sees him close the journal shut at her words, as she watches him raise his eyes and look at her, eyes wide and simmering with something that she can't quite read. Then she watches, panicked, as his lips part, as he inhales, words ready on the precipice of his tongue, so instead she tells him: "You can look through the rest."

He blinks at her. Her words swim and sink into him, and then he is closer to her, so much closer, loud and exuberant. Clutching tightly at the journal, he asks her: "Really? I can see?"

Her heart skips a beat. Loathe as she may, it does; for a moment, he is so close she can smell the sweet wine on his breath. Watching the spark burst and sizzle in his gaze, she feels her panic die, dragging her hesitation with it. "Of course you can," she finds herself breathing out, watching, with a private, quiet satisfaction, as he pulls her journal open with that sheer, pulsating delight.

And he does. He does look. Fingers ghosting reverently over each page, she watches as his joy changes, morphing into a strange sort of awe that has his eyes transfixed on each stroke of her pencil. His hands follow the lines, some more delicate than others, but he never touches them, not once. She can see it in the way he holds the corners of each page; he is wary of them, of tarnishing them, as if his touch could somehow ruin them, despite the charcoal and graphite having been smudged by the years of wear already.

"You drew all of them," he breathes then, taking her back to the reality before her. "All of them. Ymir, Reiner, Berthold. Annie. Even Erwin." He flips another page, his chest rising heavily as he inhales, a quiet reverie passing between them as he flips and flips the pages, the reflections of their peers and their seniors, the dead and the living, staring back at him – at the both of them. "None of them knew, did they?"

"Annie caught me once," she admits, pulling her knees to her chest. "Made me show her. I think she liked it."

He chuckles. He doesn't look back at her, flipping through the pages slowly and attentively. She continues to watch him, too: feeling brazen, bold, as if she were taking something in return, a sort of penance for allowing him to have this. It stretches and stretches, this quiet exchange, until he pauses, swiftly and suddenly. It is an odd pause, a stretching one, and she knows what he sees. He doesn't say it, he hasn't once this whole time – but she knows.

"I remember this," he says eventually, lingering on the page. "Six years ago. In Trost."

She hums in response. As the man sits by her side, enveloped in the years of graphite she has put down into these pages, his reflection as a boy from six years back looks back at him, smiling wide and bright. This one, it used to be a favourite of hers. In a way, it still is.

She tries not to blush, or to begin explaining herself. She wonders if he will say it –– if he will ask her, finally, if he will wonder out loud why her journal is filled not just with their friends, but with him; him, and him, over and over again, hiding in every nook and cranny of the paper she had once felt too treasured to tarnish with her drawings. He had not said it yet, but there he is now, paused mid–journal and staring without a word.

She waits for it; she thinks she is ready for it. But he doesn't say a word. He turns to her, smiling kindly, softly, and instead of curiosity she sees a sadness in his eyes, deep–rooted and strange and almost sorrowful, and it is all that takes for her heart to flip upside down.

"What's wrong?" She asks, hand steady on his elbow, and he only blinks at her in return.

His gaze falls. He looks down, face growing even more somber, and looking at him like this, she almost grows desperate. She waits, hand unwavering on his arm, and eventually he tells her: "I look so much happier. In your drawings. I guess it's just.. Odd. An odd feeling, that is. A lot has changed."

She wishes she could erase it. Take the pain from his voice, spread white paint over it until it is gone, until it is sparkling clean and bright.

She knows she can't. She can't do that – neither would he allow it. So instead, she scoots closer, leaning her side into his. They sit in silence, and she feels a warmth undulate from him; one she tries to not think of, to ignore, until she feels his head lean on hers, heavy and weighted.

Her hand travels to the page he's on. It ghosts over her drawing, watching the boy memorialised in it with the man beside her.

"I think that can be said about the lot of us," she says quietly, and he sighs, his breath stuttering in his lungs. "All of us have gone through changes. I see it. Perhaps they don't, but they're all here. All versions of them." She traces her finger over his hair, a deep gray within the page. "Including you." For a moment, they are silent. Her hand on the page, his own at the edge of it, untouching. "Why'd you cut your hair?" She asks quietly, wondering out loud, suffocating from the feeling of him so close, so warm – his hand just out of her reach, tracing the edge of her journal.

For a time, he doesn't reply. He leans on her, and he is so heavy, so quiet, that she thinks he may have fallen asleep, driven to exhaustion by the excitement and the drinks.

Then he tells her, so softly, so weakly: "Don't laugh."

"Of course not."

He does not pull away when he tells her why. He stays leaning on her, hiding his face from her, his breath hitching quietly once in a while, as if he were short of breath. "I thought I could be more like him. Erwin. If I'd cut my hair, if I wore my uniform like he did, if I talked more like him. I think, I.. I think a part of me feels indebted in a way I can't really repay. So I've got to, you know.. Fill his shoes. Make up for it. Something."

"Armin," she begins softly, leaning away, looking to turn towards him, reach to him, and then she freezes, muscles tight as she sees the tears streaming down his cheek, the skin red and blotchy.

"I.. I don't know. It's stupid. Fuck." Did she hear that right? "I know. I know, that's not how it works." He brings his hands to his eyes, pressing deep, urging his eyes to stop.

She flusters. Pulling herself straight, she crawls to him, her hand closing around his wrist. "Armin–"

"It's so stupid," he interrupts her, and she sees it now – the dragging of his breath, the red sheen on his skin; he looks at her, eyes wide and glistening, tears never–ending.

"Armin, that's not.. How much have you had to drink? Armin," she calls, wiping at his tears, and he sniffles, and then he hiccups, honest to Rose. "Oh, Armin," she says, cooing desperately, pained at the sight of the boy in front of her.

Armin is drunk. Armin is drunk, and now he is clutching at her hand, and he is weeping into it, words incoherent and slurred through the tears and the alcohol that must be hitting him belatedly, over and over and over again.

And she thinks it will be that, she thinks it will fizzle out; his cries will soon ebb, and he'll tire himself out, and until then she will stay here, wiping his tears, letting him hold onto her hand as tightly as he needs – even if it's bruising.

But he has other plans. Of course, this is Armin; when are his plans orthodox?

He pulls at her, both hands in his grasp, and he is looking up at her now, eyes wide and pleading. "I didn't even thank you. I'm sorry. Your drawings are so pretty." She can't think. He is so close to her once more, and her heart is going rabid, wild at the sight of him like this. She can't even wipe his tears, not with both hands in his hold. "And you're so pretty," he cries more, small, pitiful wails shaking his entire frame.

"What?" She squeaks out, embarrassed and out of her wits, and it takes all of her self–restraint to not scream bloody murder when a crack echoes through the tent, the cloth dividing them from the rest pulled open.

"What the bloody walls is going on here?" Eren asks, laughter bubbling out of him.

In mere seconds Mikasa is towering over the both of them, eyes cast in a glare that makes her whole skin crawl with a panic, and before she can even open her mouth to say a single word, she feels Armin tug at her tighter, crying out the woman's name.

"Mikasa," he sobs, cheeks glistening and tongue stumbling over itself. "Mikasa, she's so nice to me. Did you know? She's.." she watches as Mikasa sighs, kneeling to try and peel Armin’s desperate hands from her. The man sniffles in return, refusing to let go. "She's so pretty!" He cries out.

Mikasa curses, putting effort into prying his hands off, and Eren laughs and laughs, scarlet in the cheeks. "You had to get piss drunk to finally tell her that?" He bursts out, bending down in hysterics.

"Armin, I swear.. I didn't raise you to be like this," Mikasa says, hauling the crying boy over her shoulder with an impressive force. Then the woman turns to her, cheeks red not in amusement but in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," she says, looking over her with care.

"No! It's fine," she replies, standing quickly. "I mean– Mikasa, I think you really need to put him down. Like, right now. Immediately. Mika–"

"Ohhh," comes a thin wail. "I'm going to be.. I'm gonna be sick."

"Mikasa–"

"Oh, walls."

[minbells]

flower crowns

You twist the stems together, mixing greens and whites with pinks and blues. You figured you had some time before he would wake up. His head laid on your thighs and his arms were wrapped around your middle, burying his nose in your tummy. You had spent the first few minutes playing with his hair, lulling him to sleep while you were reading your book and sipping a glass of sparkling cider. Then, his little snores and even breaths had caught your attention and you had smiled down at his peaceful, sleeping form.

Cute.

The leftovers of tasty foods and a pack of Uno cards were laying out on the thick blanket, long forgotten, and you just finished reading the last word in your book. He was still sleeping, and you refused to bother him while he rested. You mindlessly fiddled with a daisy that had been tickling your calf for the past hour. That’s when you let your creativity overtake you. Gathering the nearest flowers while staying as still as possible, you tried to match the prettiest colours and scents together. You knew he liked daisies, which was why he had chosen this place for your little picnic date. Right here is perfect, with all the daisies, he had said, dropping the little basket of food in the field of white flowers and smoothing the blanket carefully on the ground. You selected a few blue and pink flowers to add to the little daisies and started to craft a flower crown to the best of your abilities. The activity was pleasant and you felt all worries leaving your mind, lost in your task.

Suddenly feeling something soft tickling his cheek and pulling him out of his pleasant dream, his eyes fluttered opened. It took a few blinks before his vision cleared and he noticed you, beautiful, playing with flowers and twisting them together to make a pretty creation, the leaves brushing his skin. He felt a burst of affection ripping through his chest as he stared up at you, so focused on your task that it took you a few seconds before noticing him peering up at you.

"Oh, I didn’t notice you were awake. Sorry love," you smiled sheepishly, your fingers momentarily leaving the stems and going through his hair — him leaning instinctively towards your gentle touch and feeling your nails scratch his scalp in all the right places.

"What are you making?" he asked curiously after a few seconds of enjoying your soft caresses. You beamed.

"A flower crown! Here," you carefully placed it on his head, and it slightly tilted due to the awkward angle of his head on your lap. Nevertheless, he looked breathtaking with the flowers in his hair, making his features even more handsome and his smile all the more endearing. The crown in itself was a bit droopy, and some flowers had already fallen on his face, which made him scrunch his nose. You giggled and brushed the petals from his face. He smiled.

"I love it," he sighed, almost dreamily, blissful. "Thank you, love."

Looking down at his sleepy features and cute flowers, you couldn’t help but smile proudly. "I’m glad you like it. You know, I put all my love and talent into that crown," you said playfully, fixing up his hair and misplaced leaves.

His smile got larger, eyes gentler, features softer. He wasn’t sure if he would ever tell you this, but he always felt like the most peaceful and cared for when he was with you. The way you cradled his face, kissed his lips, played with his hair and crafted little things for him — there was no doubt in his mind, he would let you put a thousand flower crowns on his head if it made you happy.

armin arlert, jean kirstein, kamado tanjiro, rengoku kyojuro, kirishima eijiro, todoroki shoto, shinso hitoshi, shoji mezo, nanami kento, fushiguro megumi, okkotsu yuta, akaashi keiji.

[minbells]

Armin chasing Sasha 😊

[minbells]

He never really thought about kissing anyone before meeting you. But then here you are, and suddenly he craves your affection more than anything else in the world. Whenever he sees your beautiful smile or your pouty lips, he wants more. More than just the lingering eye contacts, the shy graze of his hand against yours when you’re walking side by side, the gentle touch of your fingers when they go through his hair or adjust his collar that he purposefully neglected, seeking for your attention. He craves your lips against his, and this feeling leaves him confused as to what he’s supposed to do to fulfill his desires. He noticed quickly in your fresh situationship that romance is important. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know how to approach the subject. Why won’t you kiss him? Why won’t he kiss you? He’s not scared or embarrassed, is he? He shouldn’t be, for the comfort he felt whenever you were with him soothed his deepest anxieties.

Then, he doesn’t have to ponder any longer, because all of a sudden your lips are on his. He doesn’t know if you had been too tired to wait or if the moment, right under the stars, was all too perfect, but the softness of your lips had met his own. Fuck, why hadn’t he done that sooner? He cupped your cheeks in his palms and melted into the kiss. His instincts took over, lips dancing against your peach flavoured ones, the taste of your chapstick on his tongue, and he suddenly wondered how you could taste so heavenly. It wasn’t long before you gently, almost shyly, bit his lower lip and met his tongue teasingly, almost like a preview of the many more kisses you will exchange in the future, before you suddenly broke the kiss. He found himself chasing your lips.

Again, please. But you only smiled teasingly, lovingly, barely brushing your lips over his before whispering words of affections that made him melt in a puddle of pure softness.

todoroki shoto, shinso hitoshi, aizawa shota, midoriya izuku, fushiguro megumi, kamo choso, kozume kenma, wakatoshi ushijima, kageyama tobio, armin arlert, eren yeager, tomioka giyuu, kamado tanjiro, hayakawa aki.

[minbells]

born to die - itadori yuji

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ 10k follower event special! ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

word count: 8.7k warnings: canon-typical angst and talks of death summary: itadori's fate has been sealed, and he can't bear dragging anyone down with him. especially not her. more info: friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, angsty confession rain scene, you're gonna eat it up

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[ feet don’t fail me now, take me to the finish line // oh my heart it breaks every step that i take, but i’m hoping that the gates they’ll tell me that you’re mine ]

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Itadori Yuji hasn’t always lived his life on borrowed time.  It used to be normal- as some called it.  He used to be just a boy, with an intrigue in the occult and semi-above average grades.  Back when things were normal he’d never thought much about girls or dating, not seriously anyways.  In the back of his mind he always figured the right person would come along at the right time, and he’d settle down when things worked out that way.

He didn’t know that the right time would cease to exist the moment he swallowed that finger.

At the sound of lightning cracking, Yuji flinches slightly, not having realized just how bad this storm had gotten since he’d stepped out of the dormitories to appreciate the rain.  He must’ve been out here for longer than he thought, but he hadn’t exactly been trying to keep track of time.  One thing led to another and he’d gotten lost in his thoughts, and…

“Megumi, what the hell is happening?”

Her shock was evident not only in the way she’d called out to her classmate and friend, but also in the speed at which she’d brought herself from one end of the corridor to the other.  It was almost as if she’d teleported there.  

At the time, Yuji thought maybe that was her special power.  If the grumpy dude had shadow animals, it wasn’t too outlandish to believe she could warp from one spot to another, right?

He’ll never forget the way she’d looked at him then.  For the first time.

Confusion and panic washed away for the briefest of moments, instead gazing upon him with wide eyes and a dropped jaw.  Yuji had confused it at first for recognition, thinking maybe they’d met before and he’d forgotten, but that wasn’t the case.

“Who is that?” 

“This is Itadori,” Fushiguro huffed, more annoyed by the introduction than anything.  “He’s the one with the finger” 

It wasn’t exactly the introduction Yuji would have wanted, but there was no changing that now.  Besides, as long as he was able to say that he met her, that he knew her, he’d consider that more than a blessing.  

(He always sort of had that soft way of speaking about her whenever she came up, whenever he brought her up.  His eyes would glaze over with that dreamy look and before he knew it his heart was getting fluttery and his face was getting warm)

A lot of that fateful night was a blur, especially the parts where his body no longer belonged to him, but when it came to her, it was like the images were crystal clear.  If there was a way for him to enter a memory and relive it- that’s how he’d describe the sensation.

“Is he still passed out?” A voice- Yuji couldn’t be sure if it was Fushiguro or his supposed mentor who’d shown up- asked, but it was fuzzy and distant.

“Seems so,” A gentler one replied.  This one was undoubtedly hers.  “Probably for the best that he rests” She added before he felt the faint touch of fingertips pushing the hair off his forehead.

“What do we do with him now?” It was obvious it was Fushiguro asking, and it was obvious that he was asking his mentor, but it wasn’t the older man who replied.

“We take him back with us,” She piped up, her voice holding a firmness that suggested she’d argue harder if she had to.  “Right?” 

The pause before an answer came was long, Yuji wasn’t sure if he had faded in and out of consciousness, or if the silence really did drag on for minutes.

He’d never told her that he’d heard that small bit of conversation, that he remembered the way her careful fingers had touched him with more compassion than he’d felt in a long time.  Yuji couldn’t decide if it was because he was a coward or if he simply wanted to keep hold of that precious memory all to himself.

Another roll of thunder rumbled through the sky.  Yuji lifted his head to try and make out the dark clouds among the night sky.  Without a flash of lightning it was difficult to make out, but he did always enjoy watching a good storm, even if the darkness made it difficult.

He’d surely been out here for a couple of hours at this point.  It was nearing midnight when he’d crept out of the dormitories to watch the rain, hoping for a peaceful moment.  It was peaceful, the storm, at least.  His mind had gotten foggy after spending too much time within it and he was starting to go down that path he hated.

What if I’d done things differently? Do I really deserve to still be here? How long until we find the last finger and the higher ups have me executed? 

It wasn’t your average person’s derailed anxiety.  In fact, all of the anxieties Yuji had ever faced before being introduced to jujutsu had faded away.  He’d have to think for a few minutes to recall the things that used to be on the forefront of his mind on sleepless nights.

He was certain none of them involved being executed, though.

It was only a matter of time, and he’d known that for a while.  He was quite sure he’d come to peace with it, too.  Or at least he almost had.  He was just wrapping his head around the idea of dying, but as long as he’d helped people before that time came, he could accept it.  He could die at peace knowing he’d done everything he could to fulfill his grandfather’s dying wish.

And then she came along and everything turned upside down- again, and not for the last time.

The relief between the group of four upon finding everyone alive and as well as they could be- not unscathed, but nothing that couldn’t be bandaged up- was quickly replaced by utter shock as they watched Sukuna’s mouth appear on the palm of Yuji’s hand.  There was no time to react before it was gobbling up the finger Megumi had obtained after a hard fought battle.

It’s suddenly so silent you could hear a pin drop from anywhere in these woods, everyone’s eyes focused on the skin that reappeared over the boy’s palm, each hoping their eyes had played tricks on them as the reality of the situation settles in.

Yuji wants to say something, in fact, he almost cracks a joke.  But the words are stuck in his throat and all he can do is flex his fingers into a fist a few times as he processes what just happened.

Another finger consumed is another finger closer to death.

“We won’t tell anyone about this,” She speaks first, gaze lingering on his hand for a moment longer before lifting to Yuji’s concerned expression.  She hesitates again, then turns to Megumi and Nobara.  “No one.  We keep this to ourselves” 

“Not even-?” 

“Not even Gojo-sensei” She cuts Megumi off before he could finish the question.

Nobara gave a solid nod in agreement right away.  She always trusted her say in anything, and would blindly follow her anywhere.  Megumi took a minute longer to catch up, but eventually agreed as well.  The idea of keeping such a massive secret hidden from Gojo unsettled him, but when he weighed out the other options, he didn’t like the idea of Yuji being any closer to death than he was before.

“Let’s get moving” Was all he said, but it was enough for his peers to know he was on board.  Nobara followed after him as he took off towards the direction they’d come hours ago.  Yuji hung back a few steps, not sure how to feel about everyone covering for him.

“(y/n),” 

He called her name softly, as he always did, but it was loud enough for her to perk up.  She sends him a small smile as she slows her own steps to walk beside him at his slower pace.

“I don’t want anyone getting in trouble for covering for-” 

“No one’s getting in trouble,” She assured him mid-sentence.  “And no one’s doing anything they don’t want to do.  It’s fine” 

She was always so sure of herself that it was endearing.  She was a natural leader, even when Megumi tried to form a plan, she had a way of rallying the small group up before any assignment.  Just last week Gojo made them stay behind after lessons to clean the classroom, and she’d found a way to make it into a competition that had them finished in under thirty minutes.  Yuji admired that about her.  Her spirit could be over exaggerated, but it was never phony.

Yuji was at a loss for words, leaving him stuck gaping at her like a fish, which was at least effective in making her laugh.

“You care so much for others- I really admire that about you, Yuji,” She spoke as if she could read his mind.  It had his chest buzzing in that familiar way she sparked.  She looked at him and it was like her eyes were made of the stars themselves.  “But you underestimate how much… others care for you too” 

He’ll never forget the way her cheeks had gone pink after the soft admission.

If the circumstances had been different, he’s sure he would have confessed to her right then and there.  If things were different he wouldn’t have been able to hold it back.  If it weren’t for his reality, he would have loved nothing more than to take her in his arms and tell her- well, everything, really.

It wasn’t like he was doing that great of a job keeping his heart in check.  His friends had noticed the way his demeanor changed as soon as she walked into the room.  Megumi may have wanted to ignore the subject just because that was his nature, but Nobara was happy to blurt it out one night when it was just the three of them.

“So when are you gonna address the whole (y/n) thing?” She’d barely looked up from where she was sitting on Megumi’s floor painting her nails.  Yuji had to do a double take just to make sure she was talking to him.

“... (y/n) thing?”

He’d acted like he didn’t have a clue what she was referencing, but truthfully, his heart was already racing.  He hadn’t been that obvious about it, had he?

“C’mon Nobara, he doesn’t want to talk about that yet, leave him be” Megumi had come to his defense, but only sort of, because now Yuji realized that they both knew about his hidden feelings.

Did he not hide them that well? 

“It’s been months!” Nobara barks back, ever so focused on the perfect coat of cherry red.  “He’s gotta be bursting to tell someone! Might as well be us” 

“This is why people don’t come to you with stuff” Megumi huffs.

“You got something you want to say then?” Nobara argues.

“No, I’m just saying-” 

“Then could you shush so Yuji could actually open up about his undying love?”

“Uh… heh…?” Yuji mumbled his confusion to himself, but it was enough to interrupt their bickering.  He glanced between the two with a lost look on his face, waiting for someone to better explain it to him.

“Yuji, if you need some advice on how to ask out (y/n), we’re here for you” Nobara says with complete seriousness.  He knows because she paused in her nail painting to stare him down while she said it.

He swallowed the lump in his throat- which he hadn’t been aware of until that very moment- and wildly looked between both of his friends.

Megumi, although slightly disinterested, seemed just as invested as Nobara in this offer.  Maybe he was just bored of reading, because he didn’t often follow along with Nobara’s antics unless there was something in it for him, but it was clear in his raised brows that he was waiting for Yuji to say something.

And that’s when the pinkette remembers-

“No way man!” He shouts defensively, standing suddenly from his spot on the floor.  “You’re like her best friend! You’re just gonna tell her everything I say!” 

Unceremoniously, Megumi points to himself like the statement confused him.

Nobara huffs and rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, you!” 

Yuji had his moments of airheadedness, but he wasn’t a complete idiot.  (y/n) and Megumi had known each other for a long time.  They’d trained together as sorcerers in their younger years and it wasn’t until recently that they even had other classmates.  Megumi wouldn’t openly call any of his classmates his friends- at least not until Yuji begged him to admit it- but it had been clear that the bond he’d formed with (y/n) before Yuji and Nobara’s arrival had been built on an unshakable foundation of trust and respect.

To Yuji, that made the pair best friends.  And best friends shared everything with each other.  Including secrets shared in confidence from other friends.

“So you admit there’s something to be told?” Nobara asks, raising a brow in curiosity.

“I didn’t say that!” 

“You sort of implied it” Megumi said.

“Well then I un-imply it!” 

“Not how that works” Nobara pipes back in.

Yuji groans, covering his burning face with his hands in the hopes that it helps to hide the giveaway that was his blushing face.  It was too late, of course his friends were perceptive enough to have already caught it.

“I didn’t- I wasn’t saying that I-” His stammering only seems to prove the claims made against him, but still, Yuji tries to find the words to explain himself.  Probably because there was no way to explain himself.  His feelings were made clear in his actions already.

“So you won’t mind if I set her up with the guy at the pastry shop we go to then?” Nobara asks, and before she’s completely finished talking, Yuji drops his hands, and his eyes are wide with panic.

“Guy? Pastries? Why? Does- does she talk to him a lot?” 

Nobara glances at Megumi, who’s finally cracked a smile as he scoffs and shakes his head.  He’s trying not to break out into laughter, but sometimes those two just made it too hard.

He wasn’t the kind of guy that shared other people’s secrets.  If Yuji needed (y/n) to know something, he’d tell her.  Tonight was the first night that he’d ever contemplated crossing that boundary.  Just so he could see the way she’d light up at the insinuation that the boy she loved could love her back.

It didn’t seem like the storm would let up anytime soon.  The rain was hitting the ground harder than ever.  If he were to step out from under the awning, he’d be soaked to the bone in just seconds.  Standing in the rain actually sounded sort of nice.  It might have been a relief, even for just a minute.  Or maybe a decent enough distraction from where his mind had wandered off to.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like to think about her.  Hell, so much of his time had been thinking about her that he was starting to go absolutely crazy.  Even if he knew how to stop, he probably wouldn’t have.  He definitely wouldn’t have.

The pipeline from having a crush to being full on crazy about someone was faster than he would have expected.  Yuji didn’t have an exact timeline, but he knew that it wasn’t long after meeting her that he was lost in his adoration for her.  Soft, warm, all consuming adoration.

“These are really good!” Her eyes were lit up and her mouth was full of food as she praised Yuji for the meal.  She was already reaching for another meatball before she’d swallowed the first one.  “Your grandpa gave you this recipe?” 

Megumi and Nobara, who were also knelt around the table, had given Yuji their compliments as well.  But the brightness on his face now outshined his reaction to their five star reviews.  With the wide grin splitting his face and wider eyes following her greedy movements to snatch another meatball.  Nothing zapped his heart with pure electricity like the way she did just by enjoying his food.

He’s nodding his head in a small, slow motion to her question.

“That’s amazing, I wish I knew how to make anything.  Especially something this good,” Her approval was laying itself on thick, but he knew that it was completely genuine.  “I’m honestly jealous, Yuji” 

He laughs, his face pink from the bashfulness.

“I’m glad you like them,” He says, keeping his gaze focused on the one meatball on his plate that he hadn’t even touched yet.  

He couldn’t bear to look over at Nobara, who was snickering through her full mouth.  Or Megumi, who was staring so blatantly between him and (y/n) that Yuji thought he might burn up completely if he met his eyes.

So he keeps his head down, for the love of all things good and sane, he kept his head down.

“Well… I’ll make if for you anytime you want” 

It takes a lot of courage for him to peek over at her from his peripheral, but it’s completely worth the trembling in his fingers.  She’s beaming at him, cheeks full, eyes bright, completely overcome by his generosity and sweetness.

Nobara had to lift her napkin to her face to keep herself from spitting out her food.  Megumi finally shifts his gaze to his food, hoping he’ll at least be able to keep it down with all the lovesick nonsense at the table.

Yuji would have to use both hands to count the amount of times he made those meatballs for her.  Both out of request, and by his own choice.  She definitely was treated to them the most, despite Nobara and Megumi also enjoying the recipe.

But Nobara and Megumi didn’t get them at two in the morning when they couldn’t sleep and wanted a snack.  Nobara and Megumi didn’t get them when they were sick in bed with the flu for a week.

And the two would tease him for it relentlessly.  Not only because the treatment was unfair- they wanted delicious meatballs too! But of course when they caught Yuji up at odd hours to make her favorite meal, they just couldn’t resist calling him out on it.

Yuji would fluster, but it would never matter once he finished his masterpiece and presented them to (y/n).  It was like the entire world would melt away when he was greeted with her pure delight for his food.  He wished he could learn to make something else to give her, but it had taken so long for him to learn this recipe from his grandpa, he worried he’d only mess up a new dish.

His throat starts to feel hot.  Was that tears?  It constricts until he can’t breathe without it burning, and even when he tries to swallow to relieve the throbbing sensation, it remains.  Was he going to cry over meatballs? 

(It wasn’t the meatballs) 

“I have a surprise for you students!” Gojo’s cheery voice wasn’t out of the ordinary, and neither was the little dance of excitement he did as he wheeled up a large box to present to the first and second years.

While no one held any interest, they all remained there, waiting for their eccentric mentor to get the display over with.  No one knew what to expect, but they figured it couldn’t have been important.

But then he steps aside and does a grand introduction, and even though he states Yuji’s name, it’s not until the boy is popping out like a jack-in-the-box that it really settles in for anyone that Itadori Yuji was there.  Alive.

No one moves.  No one even says anything.  Yuji’s grinning and holding his hands up in peace signs as he’s returned to his friends, but even his cheerfulness couldn’t penetrate the unsettled trance the first and second years seemed to be in.

“Uh- Gojo- sensei…?” Yuji glanced towards his teacher for some help, not having expected anything other than a warm welcome.  However, Gojo was also wincing as he took in his students’ faces.

The second years looked aghast.  With Maki’s entire face in a disgusted cringe, as if Yuji was brought back as a zombie.  All three of them seemed more shocked than relieved.

The first years also didn’t appear like they were struck with relief either.  Megumi and Nobara had gone so pale they looked like they could faint at any moment.  With Megumi’s eye twitching and Nobara’s nose wrinkling, they were certainly processing it slowly.

Then there was (y/n).

To this day Yuji couldn’t describe the way she looked at him.  He was certain she didn’t blink once.  Tucked behind Megumi as if his tall stature could protect her from the boy raised from the dead, she looks more small and fragile than he’s ever seen her before.  Her jaw wasn’t dropped like Maki’s, but her lips were parted, trying to form any word that comes to mind.  Nothing comes out.  Her eyebrows can’t stop pinching and relaxing.  Worst of all, the tears that were silently streaming down her face.

Maki was the first to bark out an insult at Gojo for his insensitive display.  Panda welcomes Itadori back as he and Inumaki follow after Maki to come up with a plan of attack before the Exchange Event begins.

Yuji awkwardly climbed out of the box he was still standing in, approaching his friends with a frown.

“I thought you guys would be more excited”

“You- you were dead, Itadori” Megumi’s the first to stutter over his quiet statement.  

Nobara’s chewing on her lip, but some of the color was returning to her face the longer he stood before her, and she was sure that he was going to disappear like a ghost again.

(y/n’s) left to stare with wide teary eyes, still half behind Megumi, still rendered speechless.  Yuji wonders if she even knows she’s crying.

“I’m… I’m glad you’re back.  We’re glad you’re back,” 

Megumi would love it if one of the girls would speak up.  But Nobara still looks like she might be sick, and he hasn’t found the courage to check on how (y/n’s) been taking the last few minutes.  He’s pretty sure she’s crying behind him and he didn’t know how to take that on.

“Just in time too, yeah?” He finishes with an awkward cough.  Yuji can barely manage a nod before Megumi leaves.

Nobara mutters something of a similar sentiment before she leaves as well.   It’s through a cough and a gag, but she tries, and Yuji appreciates it nonetheless.

With everyone else gone, and without Megumi to hide behind, (y/n) seems more exposed now.  Never before in Yuji’s presence had she wanted to shrink down into the earth, and she hates feeling that way now.

“Gojo thought that would be fun…” He starts to explain himself, his hand going over the back of his neck.  “I’m realizing now that it was probably… really stupid, huh- oof!” 

He didn’t get the chance to properly apologize before she crashed into him.  It’s so fast, almost a blur, that he nearly loses balance.  But her arms are wrapped around his middle so tight he thinks even if he had tripped up, she would’ve righted him with her strong hold with no issue.

“So stupid,” She repeats before pulling away, and finally wiping away the tears on her face with the back of her hands.  “You were dead Yuji, you can’t just- just pop out of a box and expect us to think that’s normal!” 

“I’m sorry,” He blurts out the apology before he can lose any more time.  “I’m really, really sorry, alright? I wish I could have told you guys sooner but Gojo-sensei… well, we thought it was right while I was training.  He was just trying to protect me” 

She nods in understanding, but it’s shaky, and it was clear that she was struggling to actually understand  the whole picture.  Yuji couldn’t be upset with her for processing it all slowly.  Hell, he wasn’t all too caught up himself.  He might’ve gotten ahead of himself a bit with the whole surprise reappearance.

“Look, I get it, I… do,” (y/n) sighs, blinking quickly to rid the last of the tears from her eyes.  It doesn’t quite work.  “Just don’t ever be that stupid again, alright?” 

He chuckles a bit, and for a moment it makes a smile crack on her lips too.  It’s wobbly, but it’s enough to warm his heart.

“I know that’s hard for you,” She teases weakly, before sniffling.  “But you’re gonna have to try, alright?” 

“Alright,” He’s still smiling, but it comes out so genuine it’s heavy.  “Promise, I won’t do anything that stupid again” 

Her wobbly smile stretches a little more, before a small laugh escapes her.

“Don’t go making promises you can’t keep” 

“I don’t” 

To his luck, he hadn’t done anything too stupid since his little ‘I’m still alive!’ bit.  Well, he was pretty sure, considering she had yet to give him that look she had that day.  Thank the gods too, because Yuji’s pretty sure if he ever had to see her cry like that again, he’d die on the spot.

Unfortunately, this means that Yuji learned that day that he couldn’t live with himself if he was the cause of her suffering.  Seeing her cry was hard enough, but knowing he was the sole reason for it? Even thinking about it now, his throat burned hotter.  His eyes did, too, but he was trying to ignore the blur that kept invading his vision for now.

What the hell was with his emotions tonight? He’d come out here to find some peace while storm watching, and instead he’s standing here reminding himself of everything he’d done wrong in his life.

Falling for someone despite knowing he wasn’t meant to walk this earth for much longer had to have been some twisted punishment for something wicked he’d done in a past life.  

Or was it punishment for carrying the most wicked thing within him now? 

Swallowing that first finger months ago on a whim to save a stranger’s life, was that the day that sealed his fate? 

Was he doomed from the start or doomed somewhere along the way?

Would he be able to live with himself, not for the evil residing inside of him, but knowing that one day he’d have to leave the people he’s grown to love more than anything in the world, and he’d leave them knowing that they wouldn’t see him go without fighting, kicking, screaming- 

Wait, did he just see something move?

Shaking his head of his self pitying thoughts, he blinked away the fog in his eyes and tried to focus on where he could’ve sworn he’d seen movement.  Sure enough seconds later his eyes were bulging out of his head and he was abandoning his safe and dry spot under the awning in order to take off towards the figure.

She’s half jogging, at such an awkward speed Yuji could only wonder if she wasn’t even rushing to get to a dry spot.  Maybe she’d indulged herself in the rain the same way he’d thought about doing earlier.  Either way he’s sprinting towards her and closing the distance in rapid time.

He’s surprised upon his approach when he hears her laughter.  Sweet and bubbly, as if being caught in the rain was the funniest thing in the world.  Even though it had to be intentional, didn’t it? At this hour? She had to have chosen to come outside- much less walk around the campus? 

“What are you doing out here?” He hollers over the loud rain once he reaches her.

(y/n) grins at him, and he swears even with the moon in hiding behind the storm clouds, it reflects it’s light onto her somehow anyways.  She’s already soaked through, the walk from the girls’ dorms to the boys’ isn’t a short one by design.  Even if she was doing a half-jog the whole way over.  Her body trembles like a leaf in the wind and Yuji tries to usher her back to where he was, but she seems to have no urgency about her at all.

“Aren’t you freezing? C’mon, you should get out of the-” 

“It’s alright!” She waves her hand around to dismiss Yuji’s worries.  “I wouldn’t have come out here if I was afraid of getting a little wet” 

(Yuji thinks this is why Megumi used to make fun of her for being a manic pixie dream girl.  He had yet to fully understand the term himself, but this painted a pretty clear picture.  He’ll have to ask Megumi about it later) 

“A little wet?” He chuckles, hoping that if he picks up his pace she will too, but she doesn’t.  “You’re soaked through” 

She just shrugs, and follows alongside him towards the boys’ dorms, where he had been sitting dry just moments ago.  That’s long gone now, his tee shirt and sweatpants felt heavy and cold as they clung to his skin.  His hair hangs almost in his eyes, raindrops dripping onto his eyelashes and making him rub his eyes from the irritation every few minutes.  

It wasn’t very pleasant at all.  He’s glad he didn’t step out into the rain earlier.  Without her company, it wouldn’t have been worth it.

“What’re you doing out here anyways?” He’s still yelling through the rain, but they’re almost to the peace and quiet of the awning now.  “It’s pretty late” 

“You’re up too,” She shoots back like it’s a scold, even though there’s still a grin on her face.  

He’s dying to know what has her so delighted even in these awful conditions.  He’s certain it’s nearing two in the morning- if not later- the storm was so awful they had to yell to hear one another, and now they were both soaked to the bone and shaking like dogs to try and preserve heat.  Honestly, everything about this present moment should suck.  But it simply doesn’t.

“Which I should’ve expected.  Once the storm really started I wanted to come see if you were watching it too.  I know you like that sort of thing” 

His heart does a stupid flutter at the simple fact about him she’d remembered.  It might have also had something to do with her coming all the way here.  In the rain.  In her pajamas.  Her cute hello kitty themed pajamas.

They finally reach the awning and (y/n) gets to work ringing out the hem of her tee shirt.  It’s useless, even with the shocking amount of rainwater splashing on the ground, but Yuji doesn’t comment on it.

“You could’ve just texted you know” He mumbles, hoping the dark would hide the heat that rushes to his face.  Although, it’s somewhat welcomed, as he’s still shivering a bit from being in the rain.

(y/n) looks up at him, stopping her movements to wrap her arms around herself instead.  She was still cold too, but she didn’t say anything about it, didn’t try to rush back to her dorm or anything of the sort.

“Well maybe I wanted to come and see you, too,” She suggests, her smile softening as she gazes up at him.

He laughs, bashfully hanging his head to bite back the smile that threatens to take over his whole face.  (y/n) laughs with him, solely for the fact that she’d gotten him to crack just a little bit.

It had been awhile since he’d acted himself around her.  Maybe only a few days, but there was a notable change.  He wanted to hang out less, was rushing out of class, and training on his own more often.  For someone as extroverted as Yuji, it was easy to notice.  It had been nagging at her for longer than she would’ve liked, but she didn’t work up the courage to address it until tonight.

“Yuji,” 

His name comes out in a soft whisper.  Had she spoken so low while they were still caught in the rain, he surely wouldn’t have heard it.  It hits him now with the force of a truck.  He can’t help but give her every ounce of his attention.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… are you alright?” 

The concern laced in her gentle voice has him worrying, too.  There was some sort of hypnosis involved whenever she spoke to him, as if she had the power to compel him to answer anything she asked.  It was a terrifying ability, however Yuji was convinced she didn’t know she possessed it, so theoretically he was safe.  For now.

When he doesn’t answer right away, (y/n) feels an overwhelming need to explain herself.

“You’ve just been a little distant and… and I want to make sure you’re doing okay.  It’s okay if you’re not, just…” She trails off for a moment, her eyes flickering between his as she tries to decode whatever heavy emotion is sitting behind them.  “Just know I’m here for you if you need to talk, or anything, alright?” 

“I know,” He nods back at her right away.  Of course he knew.  She was the most compassionate person he’d ever known.  Just being in her presence relaxed him to a dangerous state of relief.  That said, his heart was beating at odd intervals as she displayed this much concern over his well being.  “I’m okay, you don’t need to worry” 

He tries to convince her with a smile, but she must see through it, because she gives him a puzzled look as her gaze sweeps over him.  A beat passes before she takes a deep breath.

“Of course I need to,” It’s not intended for it to come out in a whisper, but it does anyways.  “I’ll…” She loses her voice again as her eyebrows pinch together.  

Yuji wonders if she doesn’t know what to say, or if she can’t say what she wants to.  Either way, he waits with as much patience as he can muster for her to finish.  

“I’ll always worry” 

When it finally comes out, (y/n) seals her lips together, pressing them just tight enough that she’s sure they won’t let anything slip that she isn’t prepared to say.  Although if the pounding heart in her chest has anything to do with it, it very well could all come tumbling out before she could stop herself.

The corners of Yuji’s mouth tilt into a frown as he stares back at her with his own concern.  This isn’t right, she shouldn’t be worrying about him.  The logical corner of his brain is raising red flags at alarming speeds.  He needs to find something to say to right this, before she could put too much of her worry in him.  He wasn’t worth worrying about, didn’t she see? He wouldn’t be here forever anyways, there were definitely more worthwhile things for her to focus on.

Instead, all that comes out is a quiet, “Why?” 

(y/n) blinks, as if not understanding what he means at first.  Her arms squeeze around herself a little tighter to preserve warmth, but really she’s only squishing the cold and soggy material of her pajama shirt against her stomach.

“Why?” She repeats in a soft huff, before shaking her head.  “You’ll never really get it, hm?” 

The tiniest of smiles forms on her lips as she looks up at him, gauging his reaction.  Just like before, he’s got that lost look on his face.  It’s cute, the little knot between his brows and the way his frown deepens but only makes his lip jut out in a pout.  One of these days she’ll tell him how adorable this look on him is, but right now she’s only seeking to help him understand the way she feels about him.

“Yuji, do you remember when we all thought you’d died, but then Gojo brought you back?”

“Of course” He answers her without hesitation.

“And I cried at you and made you promise not to do anything stupid like that again?” 

This time, Yuji nods his head back at her.

“I’d never seen you cry before” He mumbles.  Just like earlier, thinking about it makes his stomach squirm uncomfortably.

“Well, that was probably the thousandth time I’d cried over you,” She tells him, and his eyes go wide with alarm.  A short, humorless laugh escapes her as she shakes her head at him.  “Not because of anything you’d done,” She says quickly, already knowing there was going to be a misunderstanding.  “But… we thought you were dead for quite some time, and I… I didn’t know what to do with myself.  I’ve never felt like a larger failure as a sorcerer- as- as a person, when you died,” 

Yuji’s frown worsens.

“I mean I… I was a wreck, it was awful.  I could barely sleep, eat, train- I actually was denied assignments for a while.  Gojo thought I would be a liability.  I know he was just worried about me, but… what I’m trying to say is it was hard,” Her voice strains and she has to take a pause to even her breathing before her emotions could get on top of her.  “Really hard” She adds quietly.

“I… I didn’t realize it was like that,” Yuji mumbles, ducking his head to stare down at the ground.  How could he be so stupid? She’d suffered over him and shortly after coming back he’d started distancing himself without an explanation.  “I’m sorry, I feel so-” 

“No, don’t,” (y/n) steps forward, tilting her chin to catch his line of sight even when he tries to avoid her gaze.  “I don’t need you to apologize, you haven’t done anything wrong, not at all,” She even gives him a small smile to convince him.  It takes a minute for him to commit to looking back at her.  “Yuji, it’s quiet the opposite” 

“The opposite?” He repeats, and she nods her head.

Her nerves have her repeatedly pushing her wet strands of hair behind her ears, tucking the same strands over and over to make sure they couldn’t possibly fall out of place.  Even though with how wet they were they practically slicked back against her head.

“I’m trying to tell you that I care about you, idiot,” She breathes out the insult so softly, so lovingly that even though it’s nature is cruel, his heart accepts it as the most darling pet name anyone had ever called him.  “So I’m going to worry about you… because I’ve lost you before, and I don’t want to go through that again” 

It doesn’t dawn on him how much closer she’d gotten to him until he lifts his head and they’re almost nose to nose.  Her eyes don’t shy away from his once.  They’re soft, and full of his favorite constellations.  He melts little by little before her, until his muscles stop shivering.

“I don’t ever want to put you through that again,” 

He whispers it as if it’s the most hidden secret he could offer her.  With it, his hand reaches out towards her, his eyes landing on the smallest strand of wet hair that she’d missed in her rampant tucking.  It’s clung to her cheek from the rain.  But his movements still just before his fingers could graze over her skin.

“But…” 

He doesn’t have to say it.  They both know.  There’s no sense in speaking about the thing that they never talk about.  It was his burden to carry, wasn’t it?  It wasn’t fair to make anyone else carry the weight of his punishment.  Even if just for a moment.  Even if his back is tired and he longs to love her like a man with no worry about a scheduled death date creeping up on him.

Yuji swallows, hard, trying to keep the unspoken reality just that- unspoken.

But he can’t help but feel as though he owes her an explanation.

“But I’m afraid I’m going to,” His mouth feels dry as he finally tiptoes towards the subject.  (y/n’s) face falls.  “One day, you know I… I’ll be gone and- and I won’t be coming back again” 

As her eyes flicker between his, there’s the smallest of movement in her chin, and incidentally she feels his fingertips ghost over her cheek.  Her head tilts towards the warmth of his featherlight touch right away, leaning into it until the pads of his fingers are pressed into her soft cheekbone.

As Yuji tells himself to pull away and step back, he finds the rest of his hand following her movement, until his palm is fitted over her cheek, and the tip of his index finger is finally pushing that stray hair back behind her ear.

“Are you afraid of death?” Her question is murmured so softly it’s almost spoken right into his lips.

He shakes his head.

“No,” He answers quietly.  “No, I’m not afraid of death.  I’m afraid of… what gets left behind,” 

He’s never shared this with anyone before.  He’d been bottling up the nasty feelings that come with knowing you’ll be executed for so long that it felt criminal to admit them to her now.  Especially when she frowns up at him, and he can see the tears forming in her pretty eyes.

“I’m afraid that I’m going to hurt the people I care about because… because I cared about them” He admits.

When she blinks, a tear escapes, and makes a run for it down her cheek.

“Yuji…” She trails off, a small gasp interrupting her.  “You won’t hurt anyone,” She tells him, even as another tear follows suit.  Just as it slips past her cheekbone, Yuji’s thumb catches it, and he wipes it away without hesitation, determined to keep her from crying over him anymore than she already has.  “We’ll be okay” 

“I don’t want to keep making you cry” He sighs, and she reaches up to grab him by the wrist, squeezing onto it as she presses her cheek further into the palm of his hand.

“You’re not making me cry,” She assures him, a watery smile stretching over her lips.  “I’m crying because- because what I’m afraid of is that you’ll die not knowing how loved you were,” 

His frown finally softens, morphing into faint surprise.

“I would never forgive myself if I didn’t make sure that you know that, every single day, for as long as you live,” She’s stammering a little bit, but there’s a sudden rush that overwhelms her, making her want to spill it all out before it’s too late.  “I’ve never… I’ve never felt so moved by another person before I met you, Yuji,” She confesses.  “I was just… training to be my best every day just because I thought that’s what you do when you’re in my position but then… then you came along, seemingly out of nowhere, and you turned everything so upside down I could barely see what the right direction was,” 

She’s cut off by a giggle that escapes her, and it’s almost out of place, but her entire face brightens with it as she relives that first blossom of feeling he’d sparked in her.  She’d never be able to describe to him exactly what he’d done for her, he’d never understand the way he sparked a purpose in her so deep that it made her feel like she’d finally grown a soul, but she could try.

“Yuji, you gave me a reason to want to be a jujutsu sorcerer, you know?” And he doesn’t know, but she continues anyway.  “You made me not only want to be a better sorcerer, but a better person.  That’s why when you died I felt so pathetic, for not being able to do something, to help you,” She explained.  “You were so bright and- and eager to do the right thing even when it was hard, even though you have every reason to just- just do whatever you want, to leave if you wanted…” 

She gnaws on her lip for a moment as she processes it all herself.  Her heart felt heavy in her chest, but she felt a certain responsibility to tell him the full truth.

“But you didn’t… you… you stayed,” She mumbles.

At this point, Yuji’s too stunned to speak, so he just stood there, frozen, taking in every word she had to say.  He doesn’t want to interrupt her, but he’s also at such a loss for words nothing would come out if he tried.

“I’m trying to tell you I- that I lo-” 

“Don’t,” 

He shakes his head, his hand sliding lower over her cheek, thumb hovering just over her lips, ready to press down if his interruption wasn’t enough to keep her from finishing her confession.  But she does stop, and he watches closely to make sure she doesn’t try again, his thumb still hovering just over her quivering lips just in case.

“Don’t say that” He whispers, quieter than the rain around them.

With the hand she still has curled around his wrist, she pulls his hand away, dropping them at their sides.

“Why not?” Her brows pinch together, her heart aching with the weight of the words still stuck inside of her.

“Because, you…” He tries to give her a reason, but it’s not an easy feat.  It takes a few tries of him opening and closing his mouth before something actually comes out.  “Because you can’t” 

She doesn’t like that answer.  She frowns back at him.

“Yuji, you-” 

“Because if you say that, then when I’ll die, I’ll know it, and I’ll know that I’m letting you down again.  I’ll know that you’ll cry over me, and you’ll- you’ll hurt and I can’t- I’m selfish, alright? I can’t cause that, I don’t want that-” 

“Yuji,” She calls his name again, this time reaching for him with her trembling fingers, clutching at the front material of his shirt to grab his attention enough to cut him off.  “It’s far too late for that now,” She says it with a chuckle and a bittersweet smile forming on her face.  Her head tilts at him, just a short angle, but enough that it makes him feel weak in the knees.  “Don’t you think?” 

No, there’s still time to take this all back, there’s still time to fix this.  There’s still time for him to end whatever is happening now and forget that it ever happened.

The faint nod he gives is only received due to the movement of his wet hair.  He’s not sure why he’s agreeing with her, but the logical corner of his brain was being squandered by his body’s instant reaction to be honest with her, to comfort her, to make everything okay, anything to keep her from crying.

“Too late?” He echoes the words curiously.  

Her smile softens as she nods back at him again, her free hand touching his jaw, so lightly he wants nothing more than to grab her wrist and press her hand into his face until the warmth of her small palm against his jaw was the only thing that he could feel.

She nods back at him, her lips pursing towards the corner of her mouth as she fights the urge to grin back at him.

“Afraid so,” She murmurs back.

They share small smiles and warm cheeks for a moment, and (y/n) becomes a little more sure of herself as she lays her fingers against the length of his jaw.

“But either way, are you gonna let me fess up now?” She asks, and it seems she really was waiting for his approval.  “I walked all this way in the rain, you know-” 

“When you have my number” He reminds her, and she laughs again, quiet and sweet.

“I felt like the walk” 

“During a huge storm?”

“Needed the air” 

“You’re soaked to the bone, you’re still shivering” 

“And it’s so bad that I wanted to come ‘n see you?” 

“I’m in love with you,” 

The bantering ends there.  (y/n’s) eyes double in size, and her shaking fingers finally still against his skin.  There’s no doubt that she heard him, but with how frozen she is before him now it was as if he suddenly lost the ability to understand the language.

Yuji’s cradling her face again, his hands cupped under her jaw and his face so close she could almost tear up again.

“I’m so in love with you,” He says it again for good measure, or just because he couldn’t hold it back now that it was out there.  “I…” He shakes his head, a breathless laugh escaping him, before he can’t help but confess one more time.  “I love you” 

“I love you too” It comes out so fast, as if the blockage in her throat was suddenly removed.  It’s followed by the faintest of smiles at first, timid and sweet- it’s the most innocent he’s ever seen her look.  

(Compared to the twisted grins she’d wear on assignments and even while training on her own, at least)

The shy smile quickly spreads wider, until it’s a goofy and toothy grin.  She can’t contain the spurts of giggles that escape her, because it’s just all too cliche isn’t it? Getting caught in the rain, sharing confessions that might be better left unsaid- and yet they just couldn’t help themselves.

He’s laughing with her, quiet and soft, before his hands drop to her hips and wind around her waist, tugging her against him in a tight hug. 

The sticky wet clothes make them both chilly again, but no one seems to mind.  Not when she’s wrapping her arms around his neck so tight that their wet clothes are clinging together.  They hang on as tight as they can before the wet clothes become too much of a hindrance, and they have to peel apart.

“C’mon,” Yuji’s quick to sling his arm around her waist and pull her towards the door.  “Let’s get some dry clothes” 

She follows him in, keeping as close as she can and walking on the tips of her toes once they’re inside, just to be sure that they wouldn’t be heard.  Even though the thunder was still rolling outside, Megumi was a known light sleeper, and they wouldn’t put it past him to wake up at the slightest creak of a floorboard.

“And something to eat, too?” She whispers, peeking up at him with hopeful eyes.

Yuji nods, smiling back at her.  It was ridiculously late, they surely wouldn’t be getting enough sleep to be well rested tomorrow, but that was a problem for tomorrow.

“Anything in mind?” He asks as they creep their way through the halls.  The smile she gives him in return suggests that she already knew exactly what she wanted.  Yuji can’t say he’s surprised when she answers.

“Meatballs…?” 

And it might be a ridiculous ask- because it’s two in the morning and it’ll be at least an hour before they could actually eat the meatballs, but Yuji beams at the suggestion, and agrees to the request right away.

“It’s about time I teach you how to make them, anyways” He says softly.

“Yeah,” (y/n) agreed, whispering just as carefully.  “I’d like that a lot” 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

[ lost but now i am found // i can see that once i was blind // tryna take what i could get, scared that i couldn’t find all the answers honey ]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

xoxo ~ jordie

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Reunited.

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jealousy jealousy!

includes : jjk boys reacting to you being jealous! , Yuuta’s a little mean mwehehe , cursing , fluff , small argument in Megumi’s

𓂃 yuuji 𝜗𝜚

I’m gonna be straight up with you

This poor boy is so so oblivious

It was a pain in the ass for you both while in the pining stage because he could not take any of your hints!!

So it’s not any better when a girl is CLEARLY hitting on him

Yuuji is flattered but also offended when you get jealous

Flattered because “oh my god you love me so much and you look so pretty.”

But offended because he loves you and you only:( is he not good at showing it?

So you explain to him it’s not him it’s the girls that can’t take a fucking hint :D

However your boyfriend is a little dense, half the time he won’t notice you’re jealous unless you say something

He’s in a pickle when a girl from middle school approaches him while he’s ordering for the both of you.

“Itadori?” She squeaks out and he turns around, blinking in surprise.

“Ozawa? How’ve you been!” He smiles brightly and she melts.

Unbeknownst to the girl, you’re pouting in your seat

Anyone could tell that she had a crush on him, from the way she blushed to how she timidly messed with her skirt

They converse for quite awhile and you pout, growing a little insecure

She was very pretty and he seemed so excited to be talking to her

You were guilty for being jealous, you were never the type to make Yuuji cut off contact with any girls

I mean one of his bestfriends was a girl and you were comfortable with that

He waves bye to her though yet she doesn’t leave, her eyes following him as he sits across from you

“I ordered our stuff baby.” He smiles, grabbing your hand from across the table.

You only nod, causing him to tilt his head

“Hey are you okay?” He pouts, his other hand coming to rub along your knuckles. You hum and narrows his eyes

“Come on, what’s wrong?”

Curse his damn puppy eyes because you cave, feeling embarrassed

“W-Who was that girl.” You murmur and he perks up.

“Oh! That’s Ozawa, we went to middle school together.” He answers honestly and it somehow doesn’t settle the feeling in your stomach.

“Oh, she’s really pretty.” He blinks, shrugging right after

“Yea, she changed a lot though.”

You hum and it finally clicks in his head

“Hey, you’re not jealous are you?” His pout returns and you can only flush

“Well! I don’t know you just looked so happy with her.” You laugh awkwardly and he stands up abruptly, seating himself next to you.

He pulls you into his side, resting his head on your shoulder.

“Don’t say that please? I only love you, I don’t need anyone else.” He huffs, messing with your fingers.

You lean your head against his, his words finally putting you at ease.

𓂃 megumi 𝜗𝜚

He’s not stupid. He knows when a girl is interested in him

He just doesn’t understand why your jealous

Like hello?? He took how long to confess to you?!

You really think he’d humor any girl that’s not you?!

Be for real

He doesn’t really do anything because well, you guys are together and you both know he loves you to death

But sometimes you just want that reassurance

Your eye was twitching every single time Kurusu had opened her mouth

It didn’t help that her and Megumi went way back , voicing to you that he had saved her when she was little

She was all over your boyfriend the whole night! And she knew you guys were together

You didn’t know if it was Angel that was doing the flirting and talking or if it was really just Kurusu

“I’d love to hangout with you! It’s been awhile since we seen eachother Megumi.” She batted her eyelashes as Megumi’s face remained stoic.

You get up from the couch, walking away, despite Megumi calling out to you.

“Where’re you going!” He snaps his head at your retreating figure

“Home.” You grumble and he gets up, however Kurusu tries to get him to stay

“She seems upset, you should just stay with me.” She smiles and Megumi’s sighs

“Sorry, I gotta go. Maybe we can talk later or something. I don’t know.” He rushes out following you outside.

“Y/n!” He yells and you don’t stop until he’s grabbing your wrist

“What’s wrong with you?!” He huffs and you pout

“What’s wrong?! I don’t know maybe it’s a little annoying to watch my boyfriend not do anything as a girl flirts with him?” You say passively and he rolls his eyes.

“Really? She just wants to catch up.”

“If catching up to you is going on a date as she gives fuck eyes to you the whole time then you’re stupid.” You fold your arms.

“Why’re you mad! You’re acting like I like her.” He says back just as harsh

“That’s not the point! You’d be mad if a guy was flirting with me and I wasn’t doing anything to stop him!” You pout, tears brimming at your eyes from the frustration

He curses at the sight of your teases, pulling you into him

“M’sorry.” He mumbles and you whine, holding him just as tight

“I’m sorry for calling you stupid.” He laughs at that, caressing your hair.

“I love you, you know? It’ll always be you but I’ll make sure to shut it down if it makes you uncomfortable.” He mumbles in your ear and you hum

“I love you too megs, thank you.”

He could never stay mad at you

𓂃 yuuta 𝜗𝜚

He shuts shit down sooooo fast

He isn’t stupid either!

And he isn’t afraid to be a little rude if a girl is being very persistent

Of course he’ll be nice at first but if they continue to keep pestering him he’ll snap

It is rare for you to feel jealous though because yuuta is a little possessive

And he’s always reassuring you that you’re his and he’s yours

However he likes your jealousy just a teeny bit!

(He fucking loves it)

Yuuta was so excited to take you out tonight

It was your guys anniversary! And god you looked stunning, gorgeous, a goddess

(He kisses the ground you walk on)

However he didn’t think you’re beautiful night would be ruined by a stupid waitress

It was one thing for her to be openly flirting with him as you were sitting right in front of him

But to give you those nasty looks as well?

Oh, he was gonna blow up

“Is everything tasting good?” She directly says to your boyfriend, not even acknowledging your presence

He just nods, smiling brightly at you

When she had served your food, she had wrote her number on a napkin, giving it to Yuuta

“Actually I have something to say.” He smiles but you know he’s pissed

“Of course! I’m all ears.”

He picks up the napkin, his eyes turning dark and cold

“I just find it disrespectful that you have the guts to offer your number to me when I’m clearly on a date with my gorgeous girlfriend .”

She straightens up.

“Not only that but neglecting her as well? You’re a terrible person you know?” He rips up the napkin, placing it on his plate.

“I’d like the check and a new waiter please and thank you.” He smiles back to you, his eyes in crescents.

She mutters a sorry and of course, scurrying away.

“Wasn’t that a little too far Yuu?” You mumble, feeling a little bad.

“Nothings to far when it comes to you, she was treating you bad anyways. She should know better.” He huffs and you smile.

“I love you.” You whisper and he smiles, kissing the promise ring adorning your finger.

“I love you more pretty.”

𓂃 toge𝜗𝜚

HES SOOOOO ANNOYINGNGNGN

he literally does shit on PURPOSE!

at some point you grow used to his stupid antics

BUT THAT SMALL PERCENTAGE

When you actually do feel a little jealous

YOU GET SO MAD AT YOURSELF

because you know he’s only doing this to get a rise out of you

He’s a loser and you carry his heart without a doubt

He’s the most loyal and caring person ever

But he LOVES teasing you

You’re in an anime store with your boyfriend

Both of trying to decide which figure to splurge on

You both had split up, roaming opposite sides of the big store

You sigh when you can hear a girl say in the next isle.

“Gosh! You’re so cute, can I get your number?”

Your boyfriend blinks down at her, his doe eyes doing nothing but making the girl gush even more

Curse his stupidly pretty eyes and pretty face

He taps his chin, letting out a “hm” as if he’s really thinking it over

You stomp your way over to him, grabbing him by his wrist and tugging him away

“He has a girlfriend.” You grumble and Toge giggles

He turns around wiggling his finger to the girl his way of saying no

Then he holds up your guys hand as he kisses your hand and waves bye at the girl

All with a huge smile on his face

“I can’t leave you alone for five minutes because you’ll just go and cheat on me.” You huff and Toge pouts immediately

He crosses his arms, shaking his head frantically

He wraps his arms around you, shoving you in his chest

You playfully roll your eyes, rubbing his back

He leans his head down, he lips ghosting your ear, making you shudder

“Love you.” He kisses your cheek right after

“Love you more Toge.”

“Okaka.” He kisses you again

© yuuuhiii 24 : don’t plagiarize, translate, or post my work on other platforms

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Itadori Yuuji | Jujutsu Kaisen SS2 ep6

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Was watching a couple episodes from S4 for a meta post and I found some of the CUTEST ARMINS EVER!!!!

Just look at that pookie-face!