#and think of all the effort i put into this thing that's now been rendered useless

[spacedlexi]

i may still be recovering from the psychic damage done to me by my high school art teacher but at least it taught me early that art teachers dont always know wtf theyre talking about

[whitecatlegend]

White Cat Legend s2e07 English subs

So there was supposed to be a note about the specific prison mentioned in the episode, but I'm too busy spitting blood from frustration, so it will wait until manhua. Sorry.

This was already done, so it's going up, but I probably won't be translating the following episodes, because... well, we got a (nice, generally) surprise

Basically, today episode 10 came out. With English subs. I jumped through some hoops to watch the earlier episodes on the official app, and indeed, the previous episodes have also been subbed. I'm not 100% sure when it will be possible to find those official subs elsewhere, but we'll see.

Once I can find those official subs I might do a release where I add the translations for various stuff left untranslated in the official subs (namecards, place names, the "X years ago", etc.) to make it better, but we'll see.

[lobautumny]

So like, the Reddit strike going on right now, yeah? I've been seeing a lot of people comment on how they appreciate the protest and then go on to say that this has the notable downside of them constantly looking up questions and not being able to easily find the answers because all of the easily-findable answers are exclusively on Reddit. I am not sure if most of the people making this observation are within the line of thought of "man, maybe this protest isn't such a good idea after all" or "man, it really sucks that we've let the internet get so consolidated," and I'm really hoping its the latter.

Like, all of this? This right here? Reddit making a shitty, anti-consumer grab for money and control over how people are allowed to access the information on their servers, and the website going dark in protest causing tons of people to not be able to access important information? This is exactly what people mean when they say that it's bad that the internet has shrunk down so much and is mostly comprised of, like, 10 websites. It's a fucking problem that one company making one bad decision and causing their website to crash and burn can jeopardize so much of humanity's cumulative information.

This two-day glimpse into the internet without Reddit is the warning shot. Imagine what will happen if Reddit actually goes down for good for one reason or another one day. Imagine what will happen if/when Discord or Fandom bites the dust, or gets rendered practically-unusable without paying an ever-increasing premium because they're owned by blood-sucking corporate leeches.

Another big thing is Twitter clamping down really hard on your ability to DM people if you don't have Twitter Blue. If this goes through, it'll put a ton of artists and sex workers who rely on Twitter DMs for their business operation into a shitty situation. Now, obviously, it's not gonna be the end of the world for them, but once again, it feels like a warning shot to me. Twitter is a sinking ship, and unless something changes and it starts to course-correct, I worry that it'll go under and all of the creators who rely on it will suddenly be in an extremely precarious situation.

These are the sorts of things that we, as the users of the internet, need to seriously think about as time goes on, and if we don't find an adequate answer sooner, we're going to pay for it later. I still hold that the best solution is to start making and using more individual, niche websites. Things like Twitter, Reddit, Discord, etc. have their place, of course, but I seriously think a lot was lost through the death of things like individual forums and the existence of many different wiki-hosting sites.

We need a concerted effort, not just on the side of larger creators, but on the users themselves, to stop exclusively using these larger websites and support the creation and growth of smaller, more niche websites, and prevent a catastrophe before it actually happens. I simply hope that people with larger platforms than my own pick up on all this and start talking about it and swaying people to act sooner rather than later. I know it's possible to correct the problem of the mysteriously tiny internet before a modern Library of Alexandria moment happens, I just don't know if that correction will actually happen in time.

[moyazaika]

squeaky clean; yandere. non/dub-con. heavily implied nsfw. mdni.

“i’m sorry– m’sorry, please! swear i won’t–!” your thighs ache, pressed painfully against the edge of the bathtub, held in place by cold, firm hands that refuse to relent, despite your very best efforts. “i won’t do it again. promise.”

“oh, yeah?” you feel the tug of his lips; a cruel smile against your bare shoulders, which shake with sobs that wrack your whole body. he can feel them, you know he can. he’s got your back pressed right up against his chest; he just doesn’t care. “how sorry are you, baby?”

“very very sorry, i swear!” with wide teary eyes, you turn to face the apathetic man behind you. he only looks down at you levelly, appraisal in those eyes, crinkled with amusement despite the facsimile of a loving, if not remorseful, boyfriend’s expression on his features–when he is anything but. 

not loving. not remorseful. and certainly, if the way he keeps you all locked up and confined to the halls of his home serves as any indication of how little your opinion of his unwanted, unrequited affection matters; not your boyfriend.

and yet, you bend over backwards in an attempt to keep him satisfied. how unfortunate it is that all your efforts were undone by a single moment of carelessness; the cathartic release of a convoluted, complicated rage; hard work and pandering and pliant disposition rendered void by a few stupid tumbling past your lips before you could stop to just fucking think.

but you don’t voice any of that to him. it’s not what he would want or care to hear. “i didn’t mean to–to be so rude. please, please, please don’t make me do this…”

a noncommittal hum; “you can do better than that, surely.”

“i’ll never do it again–promise, promise i won’t.” your pleas inevitably fall on deaf ears, breathy voice echoing within the vast, bleak bathroom you’ve ended up in; awaiting the punishment your captor intends to dole out, begging in a lovely little futile attempt for a compassion that the both of you know he does not possess. “i didn’t mean to, i swear! m’so sorry, i’ll be good from now on. i-i love you. i love you.”

lithe fingers dig into your jaw almost painfully, as he kisses his teeth in mock sympathy. “oh, baby. you poor thing, i know you're sorry.”

hope, unfurling in your chest as you allow yourself to let out a relieved sob, mercy—

“but it’s just no good now, is it?” 

you freeze, rooted to the spot. your heart physically drops; a weight that sits low in your belly, alongside the fear of how he’s going to make you pay for your mistake.

“should’ve thoughta that before ‘ya called me ‘psychopathic bastard' you wish would 'do the world a favour by dying.'” he recites your words gleefully, a light and playful tone that contrats his far more forceful hand, as he angles your face forward; the hand that was at the back of your thighs reaching out, muscles taut, you realise–terrified all over again, with restraint. “but no matter. we can fix that.”

you shake your head, curl away from the soap; and right back up against his hard chest. “please don’t”

“hush now, sweet thing. i’ll show you what happens next time you run your little mouth like that later. first,” he reaches for the silky pink bar of soap that rests on the bath caddy, and you hear the sound of mellifluous laughter, low in the back of his throat. “let’s wash that dirty mouth of yours out with some soap.”

“i’m sorry.” it’s a pathetic, useless apology that carries no weight. you know it as much as he does, and yet, you're still a mess of nerves before him, "i love you."

“you weren’t so sorry and sweet when you told me to go ‘suck a dick.’” he grins cruelly. “now how ‘bout you quit whining and get some of these suds in your mouth, so you can think twice next time ‘bout tellin’ me what to put in mine.”

and you've always been good; so why should this time be any different?

it's the oddest thing, though; even after the mortifying ordeal, the overwhelming aftertaste of the soap doesn't make you feel cleaner, so much as it makes you feel dirtier than before.

even more so than when he will place something far less sweeter against your lips hours later, repeating your own words back to you whilst you look up at him helplessly through long lashes, weighed down by your tears.

"'ts not there to stare at, baby. you wanna prove just how sorry you are?" he runs a hand through your hair when you only nod in response; words failing you, mouth squeaky-clean. "good. you've already shown me what a dirty mouth you have today..."

"now," he mockingly taps the side of your face with a single finger, looking down at you a pleased little smile that has lingered on his lips since his fingers were in your mouth, hours ago, forcing the bar of soap onto your tongue. "let's see you put it to work."

[seiwas]

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

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

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

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

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking? 

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?) 

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all. 

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

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

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

Kirishima’s right. 

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

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

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

You. 

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time. 

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

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

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

“Y’coming or what?” 

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?” 

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

Shouto stares right back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.” 

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head. 

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

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

These family lunches keep them connected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

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

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

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

Another thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

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

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

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

You nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

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

Touya’s words come back to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you. 

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

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

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

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

You still care for him in the same way. 

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

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

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

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

He thinks you look cute. 

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

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

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

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

It’s only right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

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

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

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

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

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

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

“It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no occasion…?”

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

Shouto blinks. 

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

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

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

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

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

Thump.

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

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

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

“You’re back!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

So for you to keep it for this long—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

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

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

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

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

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

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That promptly shuts you up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

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

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

additional material: moodboard + playlist

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

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

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[yandere-sins]

[Spoiler Critter Pick Event in Honkai Star Rail]

I played the critter event in HSR and when you make the Blade 'cat' you get this text with Silver Wolf

And oh my god, I'm just imagine her showing Blade his phone, being all like "you HAVE to see this" and he takes it and it's a picture of... a cat that looks like him. Then he checks who sent it.

You.

And there it is again, the feral need to abandon whatever he's doing and come and get you. Tear you out of your life and have you all to himself. It was suppressed for so long by duty and him not understanding what he is feeling (also thanks to Kafka keeping him in check) but it never disappeared completely. It cannot. No one can take his twisted love for you from him, no matter how impractical it is for everyone involved. Not when he has imagined what it would be like to be with you—peaceful. Silence, no pain. Finally peace.

He couldn't care less about the creature you sent him—but you saw something that reminded you of Blade, and all these feelings he suppresses in the best of times come rushing back. There's no denying how good it feels to know you think of him. How much the thought satisfies the madman inside of him that wants to destroy the worlds separating you two, just so he can pull you into his arms.

Blade wants you all to himself, breathing in the scent of his love and feeling your warmth against the coldness that has taken hold of him in your absence. To hold and feel you, protect you by hiding you away from anyone or anything that could harm you. Have you all to himself, possess you. He knows now that you think of him, though probably not in the same way as he thinks about you squirming in his arms or the touch of your hands pressed into his chest as you try to get some distance between you two. The tender threads of fear woven into your beautiful eyes as you defy him in a meaningless but exhilarating scuffle in which he'll neither hurt nor let you get hurt by your own actions (but it's so adorable to watch you try to fight him). And finally, the sweet, sweet taste of success when Blade takes over and fills your head with thoughts of only him and nothing else.

He wants to be the only thing that matters to you, just like you do for him.

It renders him completely useless, and Kafka has to actually put in some effort to tear him out of his imagination and back to reality. Silver Wolf gets a light scolding for watering the seeds of his insanity that have been sown a while ago. Luckily, Blade can be momentarily righted, focusing on the task at hand.

But not without the thought of you in his mind as he strikes down his enemies, every splatter of blood getting him a little closer to you ♥

[doc-who]

When Green Turns Red

Emily Prentiss/Reader

Rating: Mature (18+)

Chapters: 5/?

Words: 1236

Categories: Angst, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort, Violence, Eventual Smut

Emily hasn’t moved from that spot, torn between the urge to see you and the feeling that you were better off without her. She’s not sure how long she sits there warring with her emotions before JJ is suddenly standing in front of her. 

“She’s awake,” JJ says shortly.

Emily’s head shoots up. “Is she okay?

JJ gives Emily a look that makes her want to turn away in shame. “What do you think?” Emily hangs her head and JJ sighs in exasperation. “The first person she asked for was you, Emily. She had barely opened her eyes and she was saying your name. Where the hell were you?”

“I didn’t think she’d want to see me,” Emily whispers.

“Well she did,” JJ says, not bothering to sugar-coat her words. 

Emily shakes her head, “I can’t. All I’ve done is hurt her. It’s better if I stay away.”

“Better for who?”

Emily stutters, “For her.”

JJ swallows down her frustration, “That’s not your choice to make, Emily. If you don’t want to see her, then fine. But don’t try to make it that you’re doing her a favour.” 

Emily blinks away tears of shame. JJ looks at her and sighs. “I know these past few days have been hell. For all of us, but especially for you,” she places a hand on Emily’s back, “but she’s here. She’s alive,” JJ gives her an imploring look, “don’t let that go to waste.” JJ squeezes her shoulder and Emily watches her leave, the echo of her words hanging in the air.

JJ’s right. Emily almost lost you forever. The memory of holding your body as you clung to life washes over her. She remembers thinking she would do anything to bring you back to her. Now she sits here wallowing in her own guilt and shame, instead of being there for you.

 

Her legs start moving on their own accord, leading her straight to you. She doesn’t linger in the doorway this time but heads straight for your bedside. Quietly, she sits down in the chair next to you, eyes roaming your sleeping face. Gently, she reaches out, tracing the cuts and bruises on your cheek with her fingertips. 

You stir at her touch, eyes fluttering open. They widen when they find Emily’s, unsure if you’re dreaming or not.

“Emily?” you whisper. Her eyes fill with tears and she leans forward, hand hovering as if she’s unsure if she’s allowed to touch you, “you’re here.” 

The disbelief in your voice makes Emily's heart ache with guilt. “I’m here,” she reassures. 

Tentatively, you reach out a trembling hand, searching for her. Emily hesitates for a moment, before finally meeting your touch. Holding your cold hand in her warm one, a wave of relief rushes through her at the contact. She tightens her grip, as if you’ll slip away again.

“Where were you?” Your voice shakes.

Emily tenses at the question, the shame of having to explain her actions rendering her speechless. When the silence lingers, and Emily remains answerless, you pull your hand from hers.

“You don’t have to be here,” you say in a quiet voice, “it’s fine Em, really.” 

Emily sees the tears in your eyes as you turn your head in an effort to hide them, and her heart feels like it’s breaking all over again. “Hey, look at me,” she pleads, prying your hands free from where they clutch the blanket. When you refuse to make eye contact, Emily reaches forward, placing a hand on your cheek and gently turning your face towards her. 

At the feeling of her touch your mask falls, as do the tears in your eyes when they make contact with hers. Emily cradles your face in her hands, “I’m here,” she says, “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

You place your hands over hers, holding them against your chest. The pain in your eyes fills Emily with remorse, knowing that she’s the one that put it there. Once again, she starts to doubt whether she’s doing the right thing by being here. 

She lowers your joint hands, eyes following them to where they now rest on your lap. “If you want me to leave, I’ll understand,” she says quietly. 

You quickly shake your head at her words, then wince at the pain. “Careful,” Emily chastises, and your cheeks turn pink as she fusses over you.

“Please don’t go,” you say softly, answering her previous question. Emily stops her fretting over you, the tenderness in your voice reminding her how she has no right to be here. 

“Are you sure? I can go get someone else-”

“I’m sure,” you sound certain, but Emily can’t shake the doubt that plagues her. She must not be hiding her feelings as well as she thinks she is, because your hand tightens around hers, drawing her attention back to you.

“Why don’t you believe me?” Your brows furrow in bewilderment, unaware of the guilt and shame that has kept Emily away from you.

“I do believe you,” Emily quickly reassures, “it’s just…” she trails off, struggling to articulate the internal chaos that torments her. 

“Just what, Emily?” you persist, and Emily’s composure finally breaks.

“You’re here because of me!” she snaps, leaping to her feet to pace the room with her head in her hands. 

“Emily, no-” you try to object.

Emily spins around, “Look at what happened,” she says, gesturing to the wires and monitors that surround you, to the evidence on your body of the trauma you’ve endured, “it’s because of me you’re in this hospital bed.”

“How could this possibly be because of you? As far as I remember, you weren’t the one who kidnapped and tortured me.”

Emily winces at the flippancy of your words. “You know what I mean.” 

She sees you stiffen briefly at the reminder of that night, before you close your eyes and take a breath. “Emily, you don’t need to feel guilty. About anything.”

Emily catches on to the double meaning in your words, and she shakes her head, “Stop! Stop trying to make me feel better, stop trying to convince me that this isn’t all my fault. You almost died, and what I said-” Emily’s voice drops, “you should hate me.”

You watch her pace, the guilt etched onto every line of her body. “I don’t,” you say, voice the strongest it’s been since you woke up.

Emily stops, looking at you with a mixture of hope and disbelief, “Why?” Her voice sounds broken, barely above a whisper. 

You pull yourself up on the bed, wincing at the movement. “Because I know you, Em. There’s nothing you could ever do that would make me hate you.” Despite the weakness that still clings to you, the conviction in your voice is unmistakable.

Emily's eyes burn at the declaration, and she stays silent so as not to betray the tremble in her voice. 

“Come here,” you murmur, your hand reaching out once more. This time, she doesn’t hesitate. She sits back down, taking her place beside you, her hand fitting into yours like it’s where it belongs.

Looking into your eyes, it takes all her strength not to divulge what she truly feels for you- to explain the truth about why she ended things. Her feelings for you are what put you here in the first place, and she’s not going to let that happen again. 

ao3

[valley-of-headcanons]

The males or ladies seeing you really dolled up, like to the 10s make up and all.

I like to think the Farmer looks pretty beat up and dirty most the time so seeing a dressed up farmer would be different XD

bachelors seeing the farmer all dolled up || headcanons

seeing you all dolled up is enough to floor some of our handsome men <3

warnings: feminine! farmer :) pronouns are gender neutral but the farmer is definitely in touch with their feminine side!

requested by: anon! hi, thank you so much for the request! i decided to just do the guys this time around for simplicity's sake since you said or, but i would absolutely do the bachelorettes if you sent in the request! anyway, hope you enjoy! :)

alex

• Alex would be absolutely floored. As someone who was so in touch with his masculinity that it consumed him at one point, he adored how you looked. The toxicity was behind him, finding solace in his own identity. Watching you find solace in your own identity warmed his heart. Plus, you were gorgeous! Of course he couldn't keep his eyes off of you!

• When he was going to bring you out to a fancy dinner in the city, he was surprised to see you so dressed up. His jaw was dropped, staring at you in awe. He rested his hands on your sides, pressing a kiss onto your forehead. He then moved his hands to your cheeks, giggling like a mad man. He was so excited to see his partner all dolled up.

• “God- look at you. You're so gorgeous- I mean, you're ALWAYS gorgeous, but holy ... you are the most beautiful person I have ever seen, and I just ... I love you. And I'm so glad you put all this effort into lookin' all pretty for me. Now, let's go to the city. I'm gonna show you off, gorgeous.”

• While out on the town, Alex was proud to be by your side. He was enthralled by your appearance, happy to have such a gorgeous person on his arm. All throughout dinner, he complimented you. Every single thing he could think of slid out of his mouth, taking your hands in his and kissing your knuckles. He was absolutely enamoured by you, regardless of how you look, but this was just something new about you.

elliott

• Elliott is obsessed with you in general, but when you put effort into what you wear or how you present yourself? He kisses the ground you walk on. Of course he wants to appreciate how hard you work, even if it's not necessarily for him. You're so beautiful in his eyes no matter how you look, but he cannot get enough of you when you look like this. Absolutely floored. Awooga, if you will.

• You two were getting ready for an event regarding his latest novel. He asked you to dress nice, but he didn't expect ... wow. You walked out in the most amazing outfit, and your makeup was absolutely phenomenal. Elliott stared, slack-jawed. After a moment of staring, he cleared his throat. He got on his knees in front of you, kissing your knuckles and not even daring to blink. He certainly has a dramatic flare.

• “Oh ... my ... goodness. I have been blessed to witness such a sight. The gods themselves have sent you down to me. For the first time in my life, you have rendered me somewhat speechless. You ... you light up my life every day, and you keep giving me blessing after blessing. I couldn't ask for a more beautiful human being in my sight.”

• While at his book signing, his focus was almost entirely on you. You were just so beautiful, all of his attention was toward you. No one noticed, aside from you. He read an excerpt from his book with a smile, although he did have to peel his eyes away from you. They were planted on you there after, and when he took you home, he showered you with compliments. He was always affectionate, but this just made you even more gorgeous in his eyes.

harvey

• Harvey is an incredibly respectful partner, so he tries to compliment your personality over your looks. You're gorgeous, of course! He would just rather make you feel good about yourself mentally rather than physically, no matter how much he enjoys both aspects of you. But when you look so gorgeous, he can't help but short circuit.

• He wanted to take you to Zuzu City for a date, he thought about taking you to the newly opened aquarium. So, he mentioned the idea to you and you agreed. He didn't expect you to dress so nicely for the event, but when he saw you ... his face was bright red. His jaw was slightly agape, before clearing his throat and attempting to keep his reaction to a minimum. He didn't want to make you think he hated it, quite the opposite.

• “My dear ... you are- ... stunning. I didn't really uh- expect this tonight, so pardon my reaction, but ... you amaze me more and more each day. Your outside beauty certainly matches your inside ... I don't tell you that enough. You are the most beautiful person I have ever met. I mean that with every fiber of my being. You are so, so gorgeous. Tonight, and every night.”

• Harvey was more than happy to have you on his arm all night. You looked even more gorgeous in the soft blue light of the aquarium tanks. The way your eyes glistened as you stared at the creatures made the shade Harvey's face grow deeper and deeper. It is very easy to get Harvey flustered, you didn't even have to try this time around. He couldn't believe he was with someone so pretty.

sam

• Sam is such a devoted partner, so he tries his hardest to show you affection 24/7. But when you look so beautiful ... it comes out at a rapid pace. He has no filter, and it shows in moments like these. But why would you want to stop the compliments that he throws at you? His intention is to make you feel good!

• He had been invited to a music event, which had a black tie dress code. Of course you were his plus one, and you planned out the most amazing look for the event. And when he saw you ... he didn't really want to go to the event anymore. He just wanted to stare at you for maybe the rest of his life.

• “Holy. Fucking. SHIT! How do you look so good?! Why haven't you shown me this sooner?! My GOD I am the luckiest man on the whole entire PLANET! If I weren't with you right now, I would ask if you're single! And then I'd probably fumble the bag because I don't know how to hit on people- I don't know how I got you in the first place- which is still insane because LOOK AT YOU! Holy FUCK!”

• You two do end up going to the event, but his eyes are entirely on you. Every time the camera panned over to him, his eyes were always on you and talking with you. You were his muse, and the cameras definitely saw that. He loved shooting soft compliments your way, holding your hand and giving you cheek kisses. He is really in love with you.

sebastian

• Sebastian is a pretty nonchalant person, trying his hardest to stay on the "cool" side. You're definitely his soft spot, though. You are strangely good at warming him up. Your personality, your looks, your ... everything. But seeing your looks turned up to ten? Oh, he would not be able to comprehend how amazing you looked.

• Sebastian had asked you to go to the movies with him, there was something in theaters that he thought you both might enjoy. But when he saw you all dolled up for the first time, he was absolutely stunned. Sebastian had a whirlwind of thoughts that wouldn't come out properly. His face was blank at first, before slowly growing pinker and pinker. He tried to turn his head to the side, shielding it from your view.

• “... you look really, really pretty. All this for a movie date? I-I didn't really go all out, but I can go back and change ... sorry, I shouldn't be hiding my face. I'm just flustered and shit ... you're too gorgeous to handle, I guess? God- that was stupid ... you've got me fumbling with my words again. I can never be cool around you ... maybe that's why I like you so much ... now- let's get going, gorgeous. Don't wanna be late now, do we?”

• During the movie, it's safe to say Sebastian couldn't concentrate. His fingers were interlaced with yours, trying to watch the movie. However, he made several glances your way, taking a peek at his lovely partner. He was down excruciatingly bad for you, it was pretty obvious. He made sure to give you a few kisses on your cheek and forehead, a token of silent appreciation for the work you put in. He was so happy to be with you, regardless of how you look.

shane

• Shane would probably not give much of an external reaction. He's not a very expressive person, but his mind ... oh, he would be exploding at the seams. He loves you regardless of how you look, and he finds you remarkably beautiful either way, but he can't help but feel his heart pump a little bit faster when you're so gorgeous.

• When you two were about to go out for a date night, he didn't give you a dress code necessarily. He didn't tell you what you two were doing either, he decided to surprise you. So, you'd rather be overdressed than underdressed. But when Shane saw you ... his face flushed a gentle pink and a soft smile lingered on his lips. He couldn't speak for a moment, taking in your beauty, and letting his mind reset.

• “Wow ... aren't you somethin'? ... I didn't expect to see you all dolled up tonight, but ... wow, I am so glad I am. You're beautiful, by the way. If you didn't know that by now, you're fuckin' stupid. And I'm fuckin' stupid for not matching you. Let me change into something a little more fancy than just some jeans. I know, you're making me step outta my comfort zone ... but you deserve it. Especially when you look so beautiful.”

• While on the date, he tried to keep his comments on your appearance to a minimum. He didn't wanna be too overbearing, but he didn't want to make it seem like he didn't care. He was definitely overthinking this, but ... when he made eye contact with you, he realized everything was fine. You were just so gorgeous, his mind was absolutely boggled. He couldn't believe the person he loved the most had the added bonus of being so stinkin' cute!

[cherrychilli]

18+

Eddie Munson, AFAB reader, "shy" reader, flashing, public setting

A/N: My first Eddie blurb, yay! I'm very rusty but I'm trying to get back into writing with some short blurbs so I'm starting off a little light before I dive back into full on filth and debauchery.

Thinking about...

Eddie and his girlfriend who's often too shy to initiate all the naughty things she wants to do with him.

That is until the sexual tension building inside you reaches an all time high one night when he's on stage performing - your own personal kryptonite.

It's almost too much for you to handle, staring longingly at his skilled fingers as they move deftly over the frets of his guitar, a light sheen of sweat making his neck gleam enticingly under the stage lights, shirt riding up so that his stomach and happy trail peek through.

You loved watching Eddie perform, seeing him shine and thrive in his element and look good doing it. Ripples of want had been coursing through you all night, turning into waves as the gig continued, morphing into a storm of desire swirling wildly inside you until you're finally able to cast your inhibitions aside and work up the nerve to do something you've been fantasizing about since watching him perform the very first time, since before he'd even asked you to be his girlfriend.

You flash him.

Hooking your thumbs underneath the hem of your top, pulling both it and the thin lace bra you'd been wearing underneath up over your breasts smoothly. For all the care and effort you'd put into picking out the pretty lingerie for when you'd be alone together with Eddie in his van after the show, you decided this would be a better way to surprise him in the end.

You're at the back of the bar, all eyes on Eddie and the band, everyone else too caught up in the music to notice the girl with her tits out, thankfully. But your boyfriend's eyes had kept returning to you all night while he was up there on stage so when he looks to you again after nailing his solo, searching for your pretty face and your sweet, shy smile in the crowd he gawps when instead he's met with the sight of your exposed breasts and the big proud grin plastered on your face. He's seen them before, sure; been rendered thoughtless at the sight your pebbled nipples and your soft breasts but this? in a room full of people too preoccupied to know any better? risk and thrill intertwining and all for him? it nearly does poor Eddie in.

It's long time fantasy of his come true, made even better because it was you who'd done it and now that it's actually happened, Eddie's so caught up in it that his fingers fumble over the guitar strings, jumbled notes and chords blaring out of the amp but the botched melody fails to catch his notice for he's still too busy staring at your tits.

Some of the audience members begin murmuring and tilting their heads in confusion at how the front man's lost his composure in the span of a couple of seconds and you decide you've had your fun, pulling your clothes back down in time for Eddie to snap out of his dazed stupor and finish the song the way it was meant to be played, all while his cheeks blazed bright red.

There's still a couple of songs left to be played in the set after that but instead, he announces that the band will be taking a quick break over the mic, hopping off stage and making his way over to you.

"Baby, I can't believe you did that", he exclaimed excitedly under his breath once he'd shuffled through the crown in record time, his hands set on your waist, smile impossibly wide, and eyes bright with a telltale glimmer.

"I've always wanted to do that", you confessed with hot cheeks, adrenaline still strong in your veins. "Ever since I first watched you on stage".

Eddie gives you a look, a mix of impress and adoration playing on his features.

"Who knew my sweet, shy girl had it in her?", he pulls you closer, close enough for you to feel that part of him press against your hip.

"Eddie..." , you flustered, quickly glancing around the crowded bar to make sure no one was watching the two of you.

It's obvious he's dying to slip his hands underneath your clothes and touch you and your body burns hot with the same need. He leans in, lips to your ear as he whispers, "How about we head to the van a little early? Y' can gimme a private show this time"

[genericpuff]

to add to that last ask about highlights, can you explain how you think the colors don't work now? bc as far as I can tell the colors for the background and characters are still the same as they were in s1, but they for some reaosn don't work now. is because of the lack of values? the lack of shading and highlights? no use of textures? you can explain it better than me

A lot of it comes down to color theory and lack of proper rendering.

Concerning the colors, they definitely aren't the exact same as they were back in S1. Someone on reddit actually did a far better visual breakdown of it than I have time to put together, so full credit goes to /u/LowPHvinegar for the following images!

There's this problem with the undertones and shading used now that makes the characters look very 'plastic'. Before they looked ethereal, now they look rubbery and artificial. And there are a few reasons for this, one of which includes how Rachel shades the comic now compared to S1.

There's also the backgrounds themselves. LO's always been minimal in its backgrounds, but they used to have loads of texture, lighting effects, and glow.

(seriously, when was the last time we got an iconic panel like this? So many of the panels in S3, even the ones that TRY to feel 'iconic', don't come anywhere near the level of the S1 art that was truly memorable).

Rachel's also clearly uh... checked out of the comic in a way that shows through her lineart specifically. Rachel's old art is known for having very thick, varying, distinct lines, and there's been a lot less of that lately.

Rachel's lineart:

Who the fuck:

And what happens when the backgrounds stop pulling their weight? The colors look even worse.

The void backgrounds, unlike in S1, have been VERY muddy and dry. So it makes those hyper-saturated colors look even MORE saturated and ugly.

Now, to Rachel's credit, there have been more backgrounds as of late:

But see how the characters still look whack? It feels like Rachel's making attempts to address the criticism while still avoiding the massive elephant in the room - she's not putting in the same efforts anymore and any efforts she does make feel performative and hollow, and it shows. And this happens a lot with Rachel attempting to address criticism, she's trying to address a specific point that isn't taking into account the larger picture where the grander point is coming from. It feels very "SEE! SEE!" while turning a blind eye to everything else.

And yeah, it means even using some of the same colors from S1 can't and won't save the comic from looking like cheap reproduced garbage. Because just using those colors on their own is missing the forest for the trees, the old colors were only part of a much larger thing. Lore Olympus used to be the sum of its parts - now all those parts have been smashed up with a hammer and left in a mess on the floor, and Rachel is simply trying to pick up those individual parts and call it "fixed".

Frankly, until she understands this and is willing to play a more active part in creating the comic genuinely and with real effort that isn't purely performative or meant to "get back" at her critics, then what LO used to have will forever remain a mess on the floor.

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 24th of July, 2024

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 24th of July, 2024

Question: How does Harry feel about the Invictus Games being held in Birmingham in 2027?

Note: All the cards were upright for this reading, so there are no reversals.

Interpretation: He is pleased about it

Card One: The Eight of Pentacles

The Eight of Pentacles is a card of learning your craft, of going from apprentice to mastery level. The energy from this card is a smug, gloating, self congratulatory level. Harry thinks he is a master of his craft and that he has shown great skill in getting Birmingham to host the Invictus Games. The energy is of someone who thinks they have done a very good job and also someone who thinks they are a master manipulator and who are very pleased to see themselves in this way. There is an energy of all the 'bad' people who were slowing Harry down being out of the way, and now he and his 'mates' have free reign to do what they want with the Invictus Games.

Card Two: The Eight of Wands

This is a card of things happening quickly, of smooth sailing after delays or tough times. It has a strong energy of communication about it - messages were flying back and forth about this news. It also carries the same sense of unbridled freedom as the card above - the people who blocked Harry have gone or been rendered powerless, and he now has free rein to do what he likes with the Games.

Card Three: The Empress

This is a card of abundance and of the mother. The energy here is of having abundance dropped into your lap. Harry thinks that the hard times are over and this bid will bring him lots and lots of money without him having to make much of an effort.

There is a smaller energy here that is Meghan's energy (the mother of his kids). He thinks that Meghan will be very happy about this result. He thinks it will give her an unlimited expense account - the energy is of lots of money for clothes and jewels with no restrictions at all (apparently there were a few restrictions in the past in Harry's opinion, but they have gone now). He is happy that Meghan will have this.

Underlying Energy: The Emperor

Underlying Energy Two: The Ten of Wands

I'm going to read these two cards together. The Emperor is the card of The King, the father, the one in charge of things, and this card is giving me very strong King Charles energy. Harry is pleased because it means he can use the Invictus Games to get his father's attention. The second card shows how he is going to do this. The Ten of Wands is a card of burden, and Harry means to be a heavy burden for his father. Wands can be PR, so I expect a lot of PR about this in the future. Harry is going to use the connection to the UK to harass and annoy his father. He wants his father's attention and he wants praise for being so wonderful and such a hot shot high level business person for setting up and getting this hosting deal. He thinks that his actions (which are coming across as on the shady side, to say the least) make him a wonderful member to have back in the BRF, and he is going to act put and push this point until his father agrees to it and rewards him for his behaviour. I am also getting that he expects the BRF to bail him out if anything goes wrong, especially in terms of money.

Cards: The Emperor and the Empress - a married pair, probably Harry and his wife in this together. 2 Eights - assessment, making things go the way you want them (and correcting course if things are not going the way you want). Wands is the dominant suit, so PR and Harry thinking himself to be very creative and clever.

Conclusion:

Harry is very pleased with this result. He sees it as being a direct result of his skills in manipulating people to get what he wants, and he is thrilled about that. The result has caused a lot of messages between Harry and parties unknown. He sees this as a result of the people who were hindering him at the Invictus Games being removed from his path, and that makes him happy as he thinks there is nothing stopping him from doing what he wants with the Games. He views this successful bid as a windfall of money that has fallen into his lap and he thinks Meghan will be very pleased about it.

He is going to use this host city in his PR to harass his father and make a burden of himself until he gets the response he wants from his father, which is along the lines of: You are such a wonderful businessman. Let's take you back into the family and let you handle all the financial deals and investments from now on.

[rosaline-black]

well! in the spirit of being hungover, how about a fluffy hotch and reader where they're nursing their respective hangovers together after a night out with the team? i could see a debate occurring on whether or not pickle juice is an effective hangover cure.

Warnings: mentions of drinking!! Bau!reader since it’s my fave. Mentions of hangovers so maybe don’t read this if you are, I wrote this hungover and trust me it didn’t help. Also I reference rage against the machine since they’re my go to karaoke band. What can I say I love chaos.

The pounding in his head was almost as distracting as the foot digging into his… well somewhere he would rather it not be digging. Last night was impromptu to say the least. He’d been getting into more impromptu situations since he met you, and usually he loved it. Hotch had been more spontaneous over the last few years then he had been his whole life. But sometimes spontaneity feels great in the moment, but not the day after.

This was a prime example.

“Honey… your foot…”

Hotch attempted to reason but if there was one thing he didn’t want to do it was piss you off. Rossi had once made a joke about your messy hair the morning after a pretty wild night out with the team. You didn’t speak to Dave for two weeks after that. It took flowers and a $50 bottle of wine to win you back over and honestly, Hotch didn’t like the idea of not hearing your voice for two weeks (and forking out $50).

“What…”

Your head was still very much smooshed into the pillow so your speech had been rendered into more of a groan then anything considered English. Aaron loved when you were like this. Pouty and a little bit scary.

“Your foot it’s… you’re kind of kicking me…”

At any other moment you’d giggle at how unsure the usually authoritative guy beside you sounded, but the ache in almost every part of your body was overshadowing any joy you may of felt. Moving your foot away from Aaron’s uh crotch area… you turned to open your eyes and face him.

To your surprise he looked just as bad as you felt. Lipstick marks all over his cheeks, dark under eye circles and you could still smell the aroma of lingering tequila which instantaneously made your stomach flip. And not in the head over heels way you usually felt when looking at your partner. It was more like ‘if I smell u any longer I’m gonna throw up the entire bar I drank last night’.

“Please brush your teeth…”

Aarons eyes visibly widened at your blunt frankly kind of rude statement. But who was he to tell you no. And well, you were probably on to something since the inside of his mouth tasted like hand sanitiser.

“Good morning to you too dear…”

Once standing, the full effects of his hangover kicked in. The trademark nausea and dizziness washed over him like a tsunami. Ignoring the overwhelming inclination to empty the contents of his stomach, Aaron successfully brushed his teeth and clambered back into his bed, grabbing a hold of you like you were his life raft.

For about fifteen minutes the pair of you laid in each others arms, cringing at the moments that led to your current predicament. Hotch remembered singing god only knows by the beach boys to you and unfortunately he also remembered Emily’s phone filming the entire thing.

“Did I sing rage against the machine at karaoke last night?”

Hotch snorts at the memory of you screaming ‘fuck you I won’t do what you tell me’ to the tune of killing in the name. Instead of telling you that yes in fact that did happen, he simply kisses your forehead.

Your phone screen catches Hotch’s attention next. You’re typing away furiously, like whatever you were searching for was of utmost importance. In fact Hotch had seen you put less effort into catching serial killers, which is saying a lot since he’s convinced nobody throws themselves into their job like you do.

“Honey you’ll smash your screen if you tap it that hard…”

“Do you think pickle juice will fix this?”

Now Hotch has two options. He can laugh and hope you’re kidding… which seems less and less viable the more he senses the seriousness of your statement. He lands on a neutral statement.

“…fix what?”

Your eyes roll and you tap at your head and then gesture to your face. He’s sure you’re trying to say you look bad but honestly, Hotch can’t imagine a lifetime where you don’t look perfect.

“This pounding in my head… this ache that’s making me want to lay down and die…” You shove your phone in his face and hotch attempts to not flinch at the brightness of whatever click bait wellness page you’ve stumbled across “… it said pickle juice cures hangovers… something about the acidity…”

Aaron’s arm circles around your waist and pulls you to lay on top of his chest, carefully taking your phone in the process.

“Here’s a hangover cure idea… you order some fast food… I’ll go fetch us some litre bottles of water and we’ll spend the day in bed… deal?”

Hotch hopes you give up on the pickle juice idea. He’s pretty sure there’s none downstairs and the thought of going to any kind of grocery store feeling the way he does sounds similar to walking the gates of hell. He hears your answer in the restful sigh you exhale.

“Deal…”

[stuffnonsenseandotherthings]

In my spare time, when I'm not watching dramas I'm either reading books or watching people talking about books on YouTube. One tradition I've always really enjoyed is their "Mid-Year Freak Out" tag, especially because I like the idea of getting a chance to reflect on the year so far as well as look to the year ahead.

This year I thought I'd combine my two passions and use (and in some cases alter) the prompts for my own use, i.e. so that I can talk about dramas rather than books.

The only rule: answer the questions (and go wild I guess).

And we start the list with the biggest risk! No The Trainee is nowhere near finished and, no I have no idea how it's going to finish (it's GMMTV it could drop the ball through the floor and into the earth's core for all I know) but, if it manages to keep going the way it's going, I'm going to absolutely love it. I've mentioned before that The Trainee reminds me a lot of Misaeng, what I haven't said is that Misaeng is my (tied) favourite drama of all time and if The Trainee can get anywhere close to making me feel like I did the first time I watched Misaeng (which it is so far) then it's on to a winning formula.

So far it's got everything I look for in a drama: a solid cast with excellent chemistry, a plot that focuses on the little battles of everyday life, and an excellent mix of fast friendship and slow burn romance with plenty of character development along the way. It also doesn't hurt that it's got the balance between slapstick-funny and emotional tension pretty much bang on either.

I can't get this drama or it's characters out of my head and I am deeply, deeply, invested in where things are going next so, as a nod to the hold it has on me and my hope that I've found a new all-time fave, The Trainee is my favourite drama so far so GMMTV DO NOT LET ME DOWN.

Thai BL opening themes can be very hit or miss for me (I won't lie, I have skipped many an opening sequence because I can't stand the song) but Wandee Goodday's "Fan With Benefit" caught my ear the first time I heard it and refused to leave me alone after that. I think I listened to it on repeat for at least 2 weeks and then at least once a day after that.

It's fun, it's flirty, it's got a chorus I like to dance to and it has now found itself on my "Songs to Cook Dinner To" playlist (I don't know if that says more about the song or how I cook dinner).

Now if only the drama lived up to its theme song...

Last Twilight would have been on this list had I not dropped it in December and, as a result, rendered it ineligible for a 2024 drama. I'm still absolutely fuming about how badly it let its audience down and how terribly it handled an extremely nuisanced topic to the point its final messaging was almost harmful.

I'm not going to get into this in too much detail because my frustrations have been voiced much more eloquently by people @lurkingshan and @twig-tea. I will say, however, that I loved the first 6(?) episodes of Wandee Goodday and I'm really sad about how much I didn't enjoy the rest of the drama.

There were a lot of things to like (and a lot of potential) right from the start: two couples with great chemistry, an ace character with actual depth and dimension, really sweet relationships (both familial and friendships), and the foundations for some interesting explorations of various interpersonal dynamics. Unfortunately none of these things really got followed through on and instead Wandee decided to go dark (with topics like mental health, sexual assault, loss and grief, parental neglect and abandonment to name a few) and do it badly. I don't mind if a show wants to explore difficult topics, in fact I really appreciate it, but what I won't tolerate is a drama introducing those topics as central plot points and then skimming over them in the most superficial way possible.

If you can't be bothered to put in the effort to properly research/explore difficult topics, do not include them in your drama.

I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS SHOW SINCE IT FIRST GOT ANNOUNCED. Which unfortunate because I was so excited for it I got stressed about it living up to my expectations (or not) and then couldn't watch it when it came out. It's annoying, it happens, I know how to fix it.

Anyway, I've given it some space, I've dealt with the other things that were making me stressed and I am now ready to devour it give it a go.

I have long been a fan of Ahn Pan Seok's works and I really appreciate his directorial style, the themes he chooses to tackle, and the way in which he explores his topics of choice. I will fully acknowledge his work is not for everyone; he favours slow (extremely slow) stories with characters and plots who are realistic to a frustrating (and sometimes infuriating) degree. You also need to have a pretty in depth understanding of Korean society and its problems, taboos and concerns to fully understand the underlying messages of his dramas and the structures/beliefs/views he's critiquing. That being said, for me that is the perfect recipe for a drama that's going to claw itself into my brain and stay there.

Secret Love Affair, One Spring Night, and Something in the Rain all had a lasting impact on me and, thanks to @lurkingshan's posts, I'm pretty sure Midnight Romance in Hagwon will join them.

It may come as a surprise after the last entry but I actually try quite hard to not get hyped about upcoming releases, mainly to avoid creating any expectations which can then be disappointed. I like to go in with as open a mind as possible.

As a result, there are a few upcoming releases I'm keeping an eye on but none I'd say I'm properly "anticipating" (á la Midnight Romance in Hagwon). The closest I can get is Monster Next Door which I am genuinely excited for and which I plan to watch from day 1.

I'm not completely sure why I'm looking forward to it so much, I think it's because I do love a good opposites attract, foes-to-hoes dynamic and Monster Next Door seems like it's going to offer that to me in spades alongside a serving of comedy and a sprinkling of heat. Bring the introvert-extrovert pairing and let me watch them be stupidly whipped for each other, it's all I need for now.

Technically all of the dramas on my Want to Watch list because I want to clear it but I'm aware that that's a bit of a reach.... If anyone can spot any dramas on here that you think I should prioritize (or dramas you think I should scrap), recommendations would be appreciated.

I also want to watch more Japanese BLs. The few I've got through, I've enjoyed and, for a lot of them, I've already read and loved the source manga so I know I'll enjoy the plot. Unfortunately I really struggle with the short episodes (30 minutes is not long enough for me to get invested) and that I have to commit to binging them and can't watch them while they're airing, which is a whole other issue. I'm thinking of focussing on Japanese GL for now as a hook (I'm not enjoying the current Thai GL line up and I'm running out of Korean GL I can find online) so I guess the dramas I "need" to watch are She Loves to Cook and She Loves to Eat and Ayaka is in Love with Hiroko.

* Biggest surprise

* Newest favourite actor/director/writer/producer

* Most beautiful drama

* Newest fictional crush

* Newest favourite character

* A drama that made you cry

* A drama that made you happy

And there you have it! Lightly tagging @lurkingshan @twig-tea and @italianpersonwithashippersheart but no pressure! Anyone else who wants to do this, feel free! Just tag me so I can gather more recs to make my To Watch list even longer.

[idkaurl]

Getting Together

Bruce noticed the change almost immediately, it was hard to get anything past him and they weren’t being very subtle about it. The hand holding and public groping was a dead giveaway, he can’t say he was surprised though, Diana had never been shy and Clark had always been easily turned into putty by her.

 Still, though not surprising, the change was very different. The once inseparable trio was now damaged. It wasn’t really their fault; they still made an effort to be around him. It was him who had done the damage. He was happy that they had finally gotten together, but something inside him was tearing him apart. He felt too many things when he saw them together now; anger, envy, sadness, it hurt, so he did the thing he was best at and started tearing himself away from the source of the pain.

 It was easier said than done to pull away from his two best friends. It’s hard to avoid someone when you work with them almost everyday. Needless to say, they took notice. He knew it was only a matter of time before they began questioning his odd behavior, and he was right.

 ~~~

Bruce sat at the computer in the watchtower, he was going over some files, nothing super important, he had really just been trying to look busy. He tensed up slightly as he heard a familiar set of heels heading in his direction. Of course, Diana would be the first to approach him. 

He felt her presence beside him as he kept his gaze on the computer in front of him. She was quiet for a moment before her hand made its way onto his shoulder, “Bruce,” she said calmly, “why don’t you take a break? Me and Clark were thinking we could all grab dinner together.”

He huffed, “I can’t Diana, there’s too much to do,” he lied. He knew that was a dangerous game, lying to both Diana and Clark was an almost impossible task, still he did.

He heard her sigh beside him, “Bruce, there is no work to do. You’ve been avoiding us for weeks,” she stated. It wasn’t a question, it was an observation, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“There’s always work to do Diana,” he stated simply, “and I haven’t been avoiding you, I’ve just been busy.” Against his better judgment he continued, “you two seem to be getting on just fine without me anyway.”

Silence filled the room, he internally cursed himself for putting it out there, he should have just let it be. He felt her grip tighten on his shoulder and for a second he prided himself for rendering Wonder Woman speechless.

That silence was soon filled with the sound of wind coursing through and suddenly Clark was there. A flash of anger crossed Bruce’s eyes, not that they could see it with his cowl still on, Clark could probably sense it through his heartbeat though.

He kept his gaze forward, avoiding them, hoping they’d just leave him be. No such luck. “Bruce,” Diana tried again, “please,” she turned his chair, forcing him to face them, “we miss you.”

He jolted at the sudden change of position, glaring at the two of them, but staying silent.

“Come on Bats,” Clark chimed in, “I know you have to be missing us too,” he teased. Those words stirred something within Bruce. He did miss them, he missed them so much it hurt, but it hurt worse to be with them and see what he could never have.

He huffed pulling himself up from the chair, “I’m taking my leave,” he stated, “you’re right Diana, work here is done for now. I’ll be heading home to check on Gotham then.”

“Let us come with you,” Clark chimed in, “it’s been a while since we’ve come to visit Gotham.” Bruce shot a glare in his direction, why wouldn’t they just leave him alone?

“Do what you want,” he said simply, making his way towards the zeta tube.

There was no surprise when he found both of them following him, and soon they were standing in the Batcave. Bruce immediately made his way towards the large computer to scan for surveillance, ignoring them as they followed.

He took a seat and started clicking through the cameras he had placed through Gotham. It seemed like it was pretty quiet tonight, just his luck. “Bruce, can we talk?” Diana asked after a while of silence.

“Talk about what?” he growled out.

He felt a soft hand reach out to caress his face, “I think you know,” she stated.

He heart stilled at the touch before quickly speeding up, he kept his words level though, “what is there to talk about? If you are referring to the nature of your developing relationship, I am well aware of it and it does not need to be discussed further,” he stated.

She hummed, softly stroking his face, “Clark, I think we might have given him the wrong idea,” she said sadly.

“It appears that way,” Clark agreed, inching closer to the two of them.

“You can’t think we’d want to have a relationship without you, can you?” she asked Bruce. He stilled, did he hear her right?

“What?” he asked dumbly.

He saw both their mouths start to turn slightly upward into the shape of a smile, “We love you Bruce, both of us,” she smiled. Clark nodding shyly beside her.

He felt her hands move to remove his cowl, reaching a hand out to stop her. If they removed his cowl his emotions would be on full display, he wasn’t sure if he could handle that right now.

“It’s okay Bruce,” she said calmly, “it’s just us, let us see how you’re feeling.”

He slowly dropped his hand away, allowing her to remove his cowl. He saw their faces drop when they saw his. He knew he didn’t look great right now, but their expressions only solidified that.

“We’re sorry Bruce,” Clark stated, “we didn’t mean to do this to you,” he started.

“Do what to me?” Bruce demanded, anger flaring up again.

“Hurt you,” Diana ran her hand through his hair softly massaging his scalp. He found himself leaning into the touch, he’d missed them. He felt tears threaten to prick at the corners of his eyes.

Diana slid onto his lap easily, pressing soft kiss to his temple, “shh,” she hushed, as she continued petting his hair. His eyes widened in alarm when he felt himself be lifted in the air, Clark had scooped them both up in his strong arms and was carrying them up to the manor. Bruce stilled, allowing them to do as they pleased. He was still confused, but he figured he’d enjoy the moment while it lasted.

It wasn’t long before the reached Bruce’s bedroom and Clark deposited them both onto the bed before climbing on himself. Bruce found himself stuck in the middle, between his two best friends. His two best friends that he was in love with. There, he’d said it, to himself at least. It felt good to admit, even if he knew it couldn’t be. He was sure this was all out of pity. They had seen the affect their relationship had on him and were feeling guilty, this was all this was. Even so, he was going to soak it in while he could as greedy as that might be.

~~~

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew he woke up to the sound of the soft murmurs of conversation around him. In his comfortable, sleep-dazed, state he couldn’t quite decipher what they were talking about, but he was certain of one thing; it was about him.

He sighed, pressing his face against something warm and firm. He felt hands softly massaging his back, “go back to sleep darling,” he heard a voice whisper in his ear, “we’ll be here when you wake up, we promise,” and then he did.

~~~

When Bruce woke the second time, he was much more coherent. His eyes widened as he realized the position he was in. He had thought it was all a dream, but the proof lay right before him as he found himself still sandwiched between the two. His face had been pressed up against Clark’s chest and he felt Diana pressed close against his back.

He moved to try and pull away, but he found himself trapped under the weight of their strong arms as they each had one arm wrapped around him.

He looked up as he felt a sleepy kiss be pressed against his forehead, Clark’s sleep riddled eyes looking down at him, “good morning,” he smiled, and Bruce felt his heartbeat speed up. He felt the vibrations of Clark’s soft chuckle as he was still pressed against his chest and suddenly felt another set of lips on the back of his neck, “good morning,” Diana smiled, wrapping her arm around him more securely as if he might try and run away.

“Good morning,” Bruce grumbled out, his tone exposing his confusion.

“Did you sleep well?” Diana asked. He could practically hear her grin.

He made an affirmative sound, “Better than I have in a long time,” he found himself admitting.

He heard them both hum happily in response, “I’m glad,” she purred into his ear as she leaned over to give Clark a kiss.

Something stirred in him at the sight, want. He felt her hand start to trail up his chest, trailing over his muscles, all the way until her hand rested at his chin. She cupped it in her hand, encouraging him to turn towards her. He allowed it, looking into her eyes, “can I kiss you, Bruce?” she asked softly.

“Yes,” the words left his mouth before he could even second guess himself and she acted quickly, pressing a soft kiss to his lips as well.

She pulled away far too quickly in his opinion, but he found himself being pulled back in the direction of Clark, “me too,” he asked, “can I kiss you too?”

“Yes,” he found himself answering on instinct, once again being pulled into a chaste kiss before he could back out.

Clark pulled away and Bruce found himself blinking confusedly at what had just happened. Diana hushed him, “I can tell that brain of your is running a mile a minute,” she chuckled into his ear, “you don’t need to think about it, this is real, we promise,” she smiled, “we love you.”

“We love you,” Clark reaffirmed, kissing his forehead once again.

Bruce felt the tension leave his body at their words, a soft smile forming on his face, “I love you too,” he said. 

They held him tighter, pressing soft kisses against his skin and he let them. He didn’t know how long this happiness would last, but he decided he’d embrace it while he could.

[david-talks-sw]

I can’t remember which post it was off the top of my head but you’ve mentioned how George was explicit that nothing in The Clone Wars directly influences Anakin’s fall to the Dark Side, what about indirectly? There’s the obvious one: Anakin finds it easier to give into his anger as the war goes on. But I was also thinking the events of Hardeen and Wrong Jedi arcs weaken Anakin’s trust in the Order that then plays into the circumstances in which his fall to the Dark Side took place. Like that weakened trust meant Anakin distanced himself which gives context for why he refused to go to Obi-Wan when the visions started.

It also fits with his character because one of Anakin’s flaws is that he takes things way to personally, e.g. he was not the only person the Council lied to about Obi-Wan’s fake death. Then when Ahsoka was leaving the Order after the Council let her down, which they did let her down, she had to remind Anakin that it was about her not him.

Of course weakened trust is nowhere near enough to cause someone to commit genocide and Anakin didn’t seem to make any effort to mend those fences either. And of course none of this would have happened without Palpatine manipulating things. Hence my question of how you think The Clone Wars indirectly influenced his journey to the Dark Side even as none of really tied to why Anakin ultimately fell.

I think you summed it up perfectly, actually.

If you're using Lucas' word as the "be-all, end-all", then The Clone Wars is indeed just an asterisk/addendum to the story of the films.

Its purpose? Providing context for the minor changes between Episode II and Episode III, changes that aren't exactly relevant to the story of Anakin's downfall.

"Anakin seems more mature and less whiny, in Episode III, what happened to change that?" He got a Padawan of his own during the Clone War and when you're put in charge of someone, you grow up real quick.

"He and Obi-Wan were constantly bickering in Episode II, now they're best buds, why?" In Episode II, Anakin was in Obi-Wan's care but felt he needed to leave the nest, whereas Obi-Wan was being a helicopter parent. In The Clone Wars, we see that once Anakin gets knighted, their relationship smooths over, now becoming a more brotherly bond than a parent/child one. Obi-Wan will sometimes worry that Anakin will fly off the handle, but he's also able to recognize his former Padawan is now his own man, whereas Anakin takes responsibility more frequently, now, due to now having a Padawan of his own.

"What's the relationship between Anakin and the other Jedi we saw in the background of the movies?" Find out by tuning in to The Clone Wars!

"The clones have names, now? And they're the Jedi's friends, when did all that happen!" You can find out by seeing them fight side-by-side with the Jedi and slowly becoming independent thinkers, only in The Clone Wars.

"The Jedi are more scheming and political in Episode III, they and Anakin are at odds... why the shift in attitudes?" They were drafted into a war, and forced to make compromise after compromise to a point where their values have been rendered pointless and they've become begrudging hypocrites. They're playing politics (and sucking at it) because they've been dragged onto a political chessboard and are trying to keep up with a far more skilled opponent. These terrible decisions impact all of them, even Anakin.

Stuff like that.

But none of that is relevant to Anakin's story, which is more personal, in nature. It's a story about how his own greed turned him into the very thing he swore to destroy, which parallels how the Republic became the Empire for those same reasons.

The films show us this, and The Clone Wars *reinforces* this narrative by giving us further examples of it.

While Anakin is aware of what's right and wrong... the more the war rages on, the more frequently he takes the "easy" path and gives in to his anger and selfish desires, enabled by Palpatine.

Sometimes Anakin does manage to get a grip, he does manage to take responsibility, he does learn to let go... but then something happens (often orchestrated by Palpatine) and he goes right back to square one... then square zero... then square minus one, etc.

He never takes that final step to being a more enlightened person.

The Clone Wars challenges the Jedi at times, questions their actions... but ultimately, the responsibility falls on Anakin's shoulders. The series will show you moments where they fail Anakin, but there's as many moments of him failing them.

Could the Jedi have done more? Yes. But if you think them doing more would've solved the problem, you're missing the point of the story of the Prequels.

Functionally, all that is achieved from the Council/Anakin conflict (again, orchestrated by Palpatine), in Episode III, is creating more pressure for Anakin to cave under. That's it.

They're not a meaningful factor in his turn to the Dark Side.

Padmé is.

When he's hesitating between saving Mace or saving Palpatine...

... he's not thinking "one of them was nice to me, but the other one was mean to me and kicked out Ahsoka, so I'll chop his hand off".

And he's not thinking "this isn't by the book, Mace you hypocrite!"

Lucas tells us what's going through his head, in that moment.

It's about Padmé living. And we've already established that what that's really about is "Anakin not wanting to live without her". So, really, it's about Anakin.

Mace and Anakin butting heads isn't even considered. If Mace had been laughing with Anakin and hugging him on the daily, Anakin still would've ended up chopping off his hand. It wasn't about Mace, it was about Anakin.

If Ahsoka had stayed with the Jedi Order, he still would've joined the Dark Side. Because it was never about Ahsoka, it was about Anakin.

If Qui-Gon had lived, Anakin would've still turned. It was never about Obi-Wan or Qui-Gon being the teachers, it was about Anakin.

Because the message of the story is basically that:

"Ultimately, it's up to you to take personal responsibility and be compassionate. If you avoid responsibility and give in to your darker impulses for selfish purposes, bad shit happens. The only meaningful change can come from within."

And in Anakin's case it didn't. He zigged instead of zagging at almost every turn.

Now, you can agree or disagree with that message. But that's what it is. Even some of the current Star Wars authors acknowledge this.

The story of Anakin Skywalker is told in the movies.

The Clone Wars is there as an addendum to:

Shine a spotlight/provide context on minor changes between Episode II and Episode III.

Humanize Anakin, to further drive the point that what happened to him can happen to anyone.

ADDENDUM:

[majestyeverlasting]

eddie, 21

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Prompt: Tugging a flower onto the side of their head and, oh god, are they pretty.

A/N: Thanks for the request!

Lose Yourself a Little

Nightfall looms in the distance, but for now the sun offers the last of its light amid a rosy sky. The golden streaks shine between thick tree branches as their leaves rustle in the docile wind. A sense of stillness has washed over you like a tide, rendering your breaths languid where you lay. It must’ve hit Eddie all the same with how quiet he’s grown beside you.    

It was as if you’d found your own corner of the world. But there was no way you were alone on an evening such as this, at a beautiful overlook no less. There were surely others hunkered down admiring the very same sky. 

Though, it was nice to pretend that you’d been the only ones with the idea to stretch out on your backs and look up as if nature was putting on its best face just for you.  

You don’t have to reach far to take Eddie’s hand into yours where it rests on the blanket. When you give it a gentle squeeze you’re met with nothing in return. Not even a twitch of his fingers. You peek over at him, only to find that his eyes have slipped closed. Delicate eyelashes appearing to grace his freckled skin. Plush lips parted ever so slightly. As if he needed any more help, the light warming his face makes him appear all the more lovely. 

You don’t let go, and a smile finds its way to your lips when he finally squeezes back. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. 

“What for?”

His eyes flutter open, and he turns his head to look at you. “Can’t stay awake. I think they put something in the air.” 

Those words earn a soft laugh from you, and you release his hand in favor of rolling onto your stomach and propping yourself up onto your forearms. It gives you the leverage you need to draw a tiny heart on his chest before smoothing your palm over it. 

“It’s not like we were on the road all day or anything,” you say lightly. “I offered to help drive.” 

Eddie gives you a lopsided smile. “Better you on map duty than me.” 

Amusement strikes you again, but this time you move to press your lips to his. He hums into the kiss and steadies your face with a gentle hand cupped beneath your chin. He’s so soft and warm that you’re surprised you’ve never completely lost yourself within him. 

A dissatisfied sound rises up his throat when you pull away too soon, and you satiate the lingering need with a few extra seconds that leave his chest brimming with warmth and his lips tingling with the memory of yours.

The next thing he knows, you’re reaching for something above him. All he can do is stare at the pendant of your necklace that dangles over his face as you grunt softly with the effort of your movements. 

His curiosity wanes when he registers the faint sound of an earthy snap. When you move back into his view, you’re holding a white flower he remembers seeing a cluster of when you first situated the blanket. 

It's not too big, and he watches the small smile that blooms on your face as you trace the smoothness of its petals with your fingertip. 

Something in your gaze shifts when you look at him again. It’s one of those rare times where he can’t quite pin your intentions. 

“Be still,” you say. As if that wasn't what he’d been doing for the past thirty minutes. 

But he listens nevertheless. 

You brace on his chest so that you can tuck the flower’s stem behind his left ear, making the petals splay as bright contrast against his dark hair. Before you sit back up completely, you peck his lips one last time, and he sighs contentedly.  

Reaching up to feel the flower, he says, “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

All you can do is nod. 

He realizes then that you’re looking down at him as if he’s responsible for the setting sun. There’s enough love in your eyes to reach and reverberate off the innermost parts of him. It makes him feel shy like it does every single time, and like every single time you don’t care. Because it’s a love he deserves no matter if he has to fight to accept it.

Except, right now, he’s not fighting at all. It had actually been a long while since he had. If anything, he’s soaking it in. 

And as he lays there with flushed cheeks, radiating love right back, it’s safe to say that you’ve never seen a prettier sight. 

-

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