#anyway this is mostly stating the already obvious
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Odysseus LOST the reasoning he had to get back to Penelope and Telemachus.
"I keep on trying to embrace you both, why won't you let me" (Keep Your Friends Close)
I always interpreted this line as 1-) him literally fighting off falling asleep so he is trying to embrace them in his dreams but also subconsciously stopping himself from falling asleep 2-) him trying to get back to them but also questioning if he's a good enough person to deserve them in his life with everything he has done
So the next line
"So much has changed, but I'm the same. Yes I'm the same" (Keep Your Friends Close)
Is him trying to find a REASON as to why he deserves to go back to them. He is trying to convince himself that yes he has done some unforgivable stuff but deep down it's the same Odysseus who loves Penelope and wants to be a father to Telemachus.
But then comes Monster.
"And I'll become the Monster, like none they've ever known" (Monster)
This is most likely saying Odysseus will become a much worse monster compared to his enemies but it could also be interpreted as him becoming something Penelope and Telemachus could have never guessed because that is never the way they knew him.
"I must become the monster, and then we'll make it home" (Monster)
This is almost like Odysseus saying "It doesn't matter if I deserve to return to them or how I will do it. I WILL return to them because THIS is the only way I can get to them and I'm crossing that line right now"
But in doing so he also LOST the only reasoning he had for deserving to get back to them.
So much has changed. And he WAS the same.
But he's no longer himself.
#anyway this is mostly stating the already obvious#I just wanted like an edit with smooth transition between the lyrica I mentioned above but I don't have the skill set to do that so#I guess a tumblr post will do#it's also 2 am I have to get up early tomorrow I've doomed myself#feel free to share your own interpretations btw I would love to read them#epic the musical#epic the troy saga#epic the underworld saga#epic the circe saga#epic the ocean saga#epic the cyclops saga#jorge rivera herrans#odysseus#the odyssey#telemachus#odysseus and penelope
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hi pls talk more about mona im so curious and id like to see the take of another genuine morgana enjoyer
i really like mona. it's like. well. he's a little guy...!!!
he does the whole "non human party member discovers their place in the world/with their friends" thing that the series has done before (though he's not teddie and he's definitely not aigis!) but goes hard every time.
it's neat that in a game that's so much about outcasts we have morgana who is literally a cat (or appears as one at least) who most people can't understand who doesn't even know what his own deal is. i haven't gotten to that one part of the game yet in my replay where they discuss this so no screenshots but you know what i mean!! he's like i don't fit in with you guys... and they're like bud you definitely do! (i believe this is the post-madarame hot pot scene)
the pipeline of being like hmph well im just using you that's all -> i wanna stay! this is where i belong! is cute also. maybe the real best friend is the cat we carried in our bag everywhere we met along the way
(also i don't blame ppl for being annoyed with the "lady ann" thing (persona is really weird about women!!) but it's always read as like. a silly little-brother type crush. to me. and also a joke on the whole "she's cat themed" thing. it's kind of lame/silly but shrug. bro marinated in the collective unconscious for too long so now he thinks a proper gentleman thief means having a lady friend. lmao)
also guys... he's the embodiment of humanity's hope... i feel like we as a society always forget that part. like. wow... he rules in the yaldabaoth fight! he rules a lot! <- i have no structured thoughts on this point it's just very much a thing
also he's just really cute :)
um. mona gender screenshots to finish this off LOL
#bobtalk#ask#p5 spoilers#ive already established that i dont have anything particularly interesting to say so forgive me for. mostly stating the obvious. LOL#one big difference between teddie and mona is like. teddie is blissfully unaware of human stuff meanwhile mona is like To Be A Proper Thief#also the scene where sojiro finds out he can talk is rlly funny. i think those two make a funny duo#im glad joker has a buddy with him going back to his hometown with him. do u think he told his parents he was coming back with a cat#also i just replayed the beginning sections and hes all like 'well you guys mightt kill this guy on accident but shrug' LOL#anyways yeah we cherish mona here. i love that guy
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the bosses daughter part one
words: 1.9k
warnings: 18+ only, smut, male and female receiving oral, p in v sex, unprotected sex, semi public sex, golfer!rafe
part one / part two
“who is that?” rafe asks, leaning forward to get a better view of the ponytail that's swishing through a sea of polo shirts.
“bosses daughter.” his coworker quickly warns. “don't even acknowledge her of he'll fire your ass.”
rafe doesn't take the threat too seriously. he's mostly just working to please his dad and show ward that he can commit to something, even if it is just teaching golf lessons twice a week.
“she's hot though.” he argues back, eyes moving down your back to the short golf skirt covering your ass, accentuated by your thick thighs.
“which is why she'll never go for you anyways.” despite his coworkers jokes, he's got it all wrong.
“why hello.” you smile, walking up to rafe a while later, when he's out away from the central club and warming up with some swings. “i don't think we've met before. im y/n.”
“rafe.” he answers happily, finishing the last ball of the line off with a powerful swing that you both watch go sailing through the air. “pleasure to meet you.”
“you haven't been working here long.” you state. “im sure i would have remembered you.”
“oh yeah?” rafe smirks. “and why's that?”
your cheeks tinge with blush but it doesn't stop your tongue. “you're just my type. i already remember all the cute golf guys.”
“all of them?” rafe raises his eyebrows. “you're already making me jealous, princess.”
“well, if it makes you feel better you're the one i left the club to find.” you hum out, leaning your hip against his golf cart.
“and it would make me feel even better if you found me again after my lesson.” rafe looks at the 10 year old he's been teaching as he trods through the grass. “don't want your dad to get mad about me missing a lesson, though i would for you gorgeous.”
you smile, biting your tongue to stop yourself from continuing to flirt as the mother of the young golfer crests the hill. you watch the lesson for a few minutes before retreating back to the country club.
“any of the guys giving you shit, y/n?” your dad calls as you enter into the bar area, of course sat chatting with a customer and longtime family friend, which was the category most of the clientele
fell into.
“nope.” you answer, popping your p. “i was just watching a lesson for a bit. cute little kid and the instructor was real nice. i think he's new.”
“rafe?” your dad raises his eyebrows and you don't miss his friend chuckling. “you stay away from him y/n.” he says sternly.
“ugh, you tell me to stay away from everyone dad.” you roll your eyes dramatically.
“exactly.” your dad says, giving you a pointed look.
you give him a pout right back and leave the room, finding a quiet spot to scroll on your phone as you wait for time to pass, ready to not take your father's advice.
you figure rafes lesson must be over by now and make your way back outside, deciding to ditch the golf cart and go on foot looking for him. you make it only a short distance down the main path until you spot him.
“still jealous?” you question, sliding into the passenger seat of his golf cart. rafe instantly takes off, driving you slowly away from the centralized area.
“depends on what you were doing while i was teaching.” rafe hums out, a hand reaching over to place itself on your thigh, a still respectable distance for now.
“oh, just getting a lecture from my dad to stay away from you.”
“and yet here you are…” rafes hand inches higher. “letting me drive you away from the club.”
“hopefully to the most isolated spot…” you take rafes hand and move it upwards, guiding his fingers underneath your skirt, making your intentions blatantly obvious.
“as concealed as possible, yeah?” rafe asks, hand slipping between your thighs, pressing against your core as he begins to stroke softly. “not a fan of being watched?”
“not when everyone would run back to tell my father.” you chuckle before gasping as rafes fingers change their angle to rub directly against your clit.
“then your better keep a straight face while we drive past these guys.” rafe warns. your eyes blink open, you hadn't even realized that you closed them.
you let out a soft moan as rafe presses further into your clit, knowing that the front of the golf cart is blocking their view of his hand underneath your skirt.
“come on, at least try to hide how good im making you feel.” rafe smirks at you as you attempt to straighten out your face as you drive by, thankfully the golfers are more interested in their game than whoever is speeding by.
rafe moves to a hole that's been taken off the course in favor for new builds, waiting for it to be revamped, meaning no one is likely to be around.
“behind the trees.” you point ahead at a patch of pines that should conceal you perfectly.
rafe pulls his hand from your pants as you let out a huff of disapproval, only for him to quickly put the car into park.
you both jump at each other at the same time, lips finding lips as you straddle rafe, hands on his neck as you kiss him passionately.
rafes hands are now free to explore without worrying about wandering eyes, rubbing down your back before dropping to grip your ass from underneath the flap of your skirt.
you can't help yourself, needing the stimulation back on your clit as you push your hips down, grinding against rafes cock as you feel him stiffening and growing underneath you.
“wanna suck you off.” you tell rafe, sliding off his lap and onto the floor of the golf cart.
“hell fucking yeah.” rafe growls out, watching with anticipation as you reach for the zipper on his golf shorts, tugging at the metal until he lifts his hips to help you pull the khaki material down to his ankles.
your eyes crinkle with a smile as you see rafes length clearly pushing against the fabric of his underwear.
despite needing him desperately, you can't help but tease him as you press kisses from his base to the head of his cock, a small wet spot already forming.
your tongue pokes out to taste him, wetting the material even more until you can't take the barrier any longer and shove rafes underwear down, allowing his cock to spring out.
you open your mouth to tell rafe how big his cock is, when his hips surge forward and his hand comes to the back of your neck at the same time, pushing your head down onto his cock.
you gag at the sudden and unexpected intrusion, but the sound only seems to turn rafe on more as his cock twitches in your mouth.
you begin to start a steady rhythm, rafes hips raising to meet yours as you get used to the feeling of his length down your throat.
“fuck!” rafe groans out. “what a mouth you got on you.”
you try to resist the urge to smile, but rafe can still feel the sides of your mouth quirking up.
rafe pulls you by your hair, raising your face up to meet his as he smashes his lips against his, not caring that he can taste himself slightly under the overpowering flavor of your strawberry chapstick.
“need you.” rafe says, tugging on your hair again.
you move quickly, standing up with slightly wobbly knees as you pull your skirt and panties down in one smooth go.
“shit.” rafe groans, pussy right at his eye level. “need to do this first though.”
rafes chin forces your thighs further apart as you fall backwards, bum landing on the steering wheel while his mouth finds your cunt, tongue teasing your clit in wide circles as you wait for him to finally pass over the bundle of nerves.
just when you think that rafe isn't going to, his tongue flicks against your clit before latching around it, sucking harshly as he looks up, watching the way you moan out, still trying not to be too loud.
“ride me.” rafe says, pulling away, knowing he could eat your pussy forever but that you both don't have the luxury of time. certainly your dad would be getting suspicious of your absence soon.
rafe leans back, allowing you to straddle him again, knees pressing into the leathery seat material.
you reach down to take his cock in your hand by the base, lining him up with your entrance before sinking down with a moan falling from both of your lips.
“god, you're so warm and wet.” rafe moans out, eyes glossed over as he looks at you, both soaking in the moment of your bodies joined together before you start to move, hips rising up before falling quickly, pussy clenching around his cock with every movement.
“you feel perfect.” you tell rafe honestly, loving the way he hits that hidden sweet spot inside of you every single time without fail.
you place your hands on rafes chest, providing you some more stability as you speed up until you're bouncing up and down on his dick.
rafes hands find your hips, helping you move up and down the second you show any sign of fatigue.
“im- i don't know how much longer im going to last.” rafe warns. he wishes he could keep going, but with already having your mouth around him, he knows he's about to reach his limit.
“touch my clit.” you command rafe, knowing that's all you need to reach your own high.
rafe listens to your demands instantly, thumb finding your clit as he places the pad over it, rubbing in quick circles, even concentrating enough to spell out the letters of his name onto your clit.
“f-fuck!” you squeal. “keep going!”
rafe begins to push his hips up to join you, both of you pushing your tired muscles as hard as you can, waiting to see who the first one will be to break.
your high breeches suddenly, back arching as you cum with a gasp of rafes name. you push yourself as deep onto rafes cock as you can, moaning when you feel him release, cum flooding your insides as you reach your highs simultaneously.
you fall forward as rafe gives a few more thrusts to help ride out your highs.
“shit.” you whine with a giggle as your face presses into rafes chest. “that was so fucking good.”
“honestly, i could stay like this forever.” rafe says, hand squeezing your ass.
“but…”
“but your dad.”
“ugh.” you sit up, pushing a couple strands of hair off your face that are sticking to your sweaty forehead. “i hate that you're right.”
“but my next lesson is thursday.” rafe says as you carefully slide off his cock, knowing you need to redress immediately. “if you'd like to find me after that shift.”
“hm…” you sit back down next to rafe once you've got your skirt on, watching as he covers himself back up and makes himself presentable again. “i think i can do that.”
“promise you baby, you won't have to look too hard.” rafe pulls you into one last strong kiss before taking off back towards the club.
#rafe smut#rafe cameron smut#obx smut#outer banks smut#rafe fic#rafe fanfic#rafe fanfiction#rafe cameron fic#rafe cameron fanfic#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe x you#rafe x y/n#rafe x oc#rafe x reader#rafe cameron x you#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x oc#rafe cameron x reader#rafe imagine#rafe one shot#rafe blurb#rafe drabble#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron one shot#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron drabble#rafe cameron x female reader
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three-part honesty | todoroki shouto
wc: 16.3k
summary: honesty, you've realized, is shouto’s most cunning trait—a quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before.
contains: intended as f!reader but no pronouns used, reader wears heels, a skirt, & a dress, post-canon (divergent), aged-up pro-hero!shouto and assistant!reader, workplace romance, development of feelings, confessions, boss/assistant dynamics, co-workers to lovers (ish), todoroki family dynamics and healing, fluff, slow burn.
sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror
a/n: primarily from shouto’s perspective but switching of character pov’s is denoted by ‘( )’. i enjoyed the entire process of writing this fic and hope you do too!
sponsored by @arcvenes for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please do check it out and support if you can! this is also my submission for the pretty boy summer collab by @andypantsx3.
I. LISTEN CLOSELY
Much to his relief, Shouto’s yearly health check-up turns out just fine.
His blood work results come back stellar, levels all floating within normal range; some x-rays and scans reveal injuries healing up nicely—that collarbone he’d fractured months ago, especially. Save for a few recommendations on better sleep and stress management, Shouto receives no additional diagnoses for anything particularly concerning.
Except for this one thing—
“Maybe you have a crush.” Natsuo sinks into the backrest of his chair. A slight ‘squeak’ sounds from its springs as he props one foot up on his knee and clasps his hands over his stomach.
Shouto thinks it must be some doctor pose; Natsuo’s been doing it more often now that he’s gotten deeper into his medical practice.
In Shouto’s final year at UA, Natsuo made the decision to fully shift into Pre-Med. The aftermath of the war left a big portion of Musutafu lost and in dire need of a society to believe in. To Natsuo, this felt like a calling; an effort of playing his part to restore faith in a better, functioning system that did not discriminate. Internal medicine felt expansive in that way.
This, of course, also meant that Natsuo was now the (unofficial) assigned private and personal doctor of the Todoroki family—to Shouto, mostly.
So—
A… Crush?
“How does that happen?” Shouto turns to his brother, head tilted in confusion. His brows furrow slightly.
This isn’t what he was expecting at all.
“I mean, you said it in your text,” Natsuo reaches for his phone, clicking it open to scroll. The light from his screen reflects on the gray of his irises; then, he air quotes, “you said: ‘my chest feels weird’, then when I asked if anything happened,” his index finger glides across the screen, swiping through a long block of text uncharacteristic of Shouto’s typical dry responses.
“You detailed the entire scene of–” he pauses for a moment, squinting to find a specific line, “–a santa hat? Being put on you, or something. You didn’t mention who but I figured it was—”
You, Shouto thinks, at the moment Natsuo says your name. That same two-part thump sounds in his ears.
You, who’s stayed by his side for the past five, nearly six years. You’ve carved your presence so deeply into his life, it’s become an undercurrent in his speech. He doesn’t even think of having to say your name when he talks about you.
You, and how he turns over this familiarity with you inside his brain. How everyone knows—
“—who else stays with you in the agency past office hours, anyway?”
Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing.
“We’ve been working together for a while.” Shouto replies, lips pressed firmly into a small pout.
If he’s being honest, he’s not sure what compelled him to say something Natsuo already knows. To state the obvious? Or to argue, maybe? To act in denial? To express disbelief?
He takes a long breath, surveying Natsuo’s clinic. The walls are pristine white, the desk and examination bed the same shade of ashen gray—a conscious choice to keep patients calm; ironic, given the state of his thoughts right now.
Shouto’s mind is buzzing, and Natsuo watches the muddled confusion in his little brother’s eyes shift and swirl in blue-gray emotion. Then he chuckles, holding onto his arm rests as he stands up from the other side of his desk.
“It can happen, Shouto.” he plants a palm on his little brother’s head, ruffling red and white the way he would have when they were teens, “It’s been years, right? Feelings can develop over time, that sorta thing, you know?”
Shouto lets the realization settle in.
Under the weight of his brother’s hand, he feels like a kid again—right before all the training started; and right before being kept away, excluded from the childhood he could have had with his siblings.
Shouto feels like a teen again, without the trauma, without the war, being taught things about life and himself, about feelings he never had the time nor capacity to explore.
The two-part thump continues, beating.
A crush. On you. Huh.
The rustling of his hair dusts strands of warm, fuzzy feelings over his eyelids.
This feels… new, he thinks.
.
.
.
Shouto knows his Mondays.
He gets to Shouto Agency an hour before everyone else does because he likes the stillness of it right before the day turns busy. The sun is up but only barely, casting a soft glow of blue and orange hues through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office.
This habit began years ago, back when the agency functioned on the 7th floor of a commercial building. It was called Flashfreeze then, and even though it had an entire floor of 24 office units, being in a commercial building still meant sharing common areas with other companies and agencies. The morning rush left the elevators flooded in utter chaos daily.
To Shouto, going in early meant less people and less noise—a quiet bube he could use to prepare himself for the rest of the day.
A lot has changed since then: the agency’s move into a larger, newly constructed building of its own; staff, interns, and sidekicks quadrupling in numbers; better office spaces, bigger teams, more facilities—a big expansion, essentially.
Somehow, despite being more settled in the industry, he finds that the days feel even busier than before.
So, Shouto keeps his Mondays the same: his preference of coming in early carrying itself into this newer, much larger and private office space, and his same habit of brewing himself a cup of tea finding its own spot by the small kitchen nook you helped design during the construction of his office space.
Everything about his office is optimized for efficiency: the backdoor, where he enters from on most days, opens to an elevator with a matching staircase that both lead straight down to the costume unit, training grounds, and his own parking area; the blinds of his windows automatically draw up and down at set times of the day; and the minimalism of his entire space is carefully considered, with every area plotted for easy navigation.
It’s sleek and neat, sharp edges and clean lines, straightforward much like he is. Cold, for the most part, save for the corners touched by your warmth.
Pale yellow jars sit on the counter of his kitchen nook, with each one housing sugar, cinnamon, and his stash of tea.
When he looks more closely around the room, he spots the fresh flowers on his desk—a vase of luscious white chrysanthemums starkly contrasting the dark grays and browns of his interiors; they tell him you must be in already, because even when he manages to come in an hour ahead, you always, without fail, beat him to it 30 minutes too early.
And also, like always, you enter his office in the same way you do every Monday morning.
Your heels clack against his stone flooring, marking your arrival. He turns to face you from the kitchen nook, cup of tea in hand as he greets you.
“Good morning.”
You jolt, nearly tripping. Your head whips up quickly as you clutch a mass of folders tightly to your chest.
He takes a sip of his tea, the corners of his lips curling slightly on the edge of his cup.
“Si–” you clear your throat, correcting yourself as you take a breath. Then you smile warmly, bowing your head slightly, “Shouto, good morning.”
“You scared me a bit there,” you add with a soft chuckle.
It’s endearing, he thinks, seeing you caught off guard, so out of your usual composure.
You loosen your grip on the folders, “I just came to place this on your desk,” your finger taps against the plastic, “I didn’t notice you were here already, sorry.”
“No worries,” he sets down his tea cup, pocketing one hand in his sweatpants, “do you want some tea?”
“I’m good, thank you,” you shake your head, walking towards his desk to set the folders down, “Just a couple of debriefs for the case last month.”
He nods, eyes tracking your movement around the room. You pause then turn to him, clicking your pen as you say, “Let me get your schedule so we can do the run-down.”
Shouto moves to his desk when you leave, settling into the few squeaks and cracks of the leather chair you helped restore using your quirk—the ability to minimally reconstruct organic matter.
Not even a few minutes pass until you return, a tablet perched on the crook of your elbow with a digital pen in hand.
This is part of his Monday routine.
The agenda you follow is the same: a schedule run-down for the coming week, any notable trips or events, report updates, and department updates. Occasionally, PR will have you relay messages they have trouble communicating nicely—most of the time, they involve suggestions for him to ‘smile more’ or ‘answer questions more enthusiastically’.
You have no problem telling him these things straight up, and he has no issue hearing it directly from you, either.
For this week, you detail a few meetings scheduled for tomorrow and Wednesday, along with updates on his costume revisions, to be fitted on Wednesday afternoon, and—
“Deku requested a joint patrol on Thursday morning, so I moved your fitting for the gala to that evening instead. Is that okay with you?” you look up from your tablet, the tip of your pen hovering over the screen.
In this light, you’re bathed in the colors of sunrise.
(From where you’re standing, Shouto is backlit by the rising sun. His figure is washed over by a faded shadow, but you can see his eyes clearly, bright turquoise and dark gray staring right at you.
You hold your breath; you are well aware of Shouto’s tendencies to stare, but he’s taking much longer to answer you this time. And you don’t know what to do, where to look. Do you wait until—)
Shouto nods, catching himself lingering.
You mumble an ‘okay’ before tapping on your tablet.
The rest of your reminders are about upcoming events and deadlines: there’s the company team building happening in a few weeks, and a few reports due today and tomorrow. Fuyumi moved the family lunch to Saturday to make way for his photoshoot on Sunday.
He watches you from his desk as you speak, your foot tapping in conjunction with each item you relay to him, as if marking every point. It’s a thing you do, something he’s noticed in the years you’ve worked together.
Shouto knows his Mondays, and he’s always been relaxed during these earlier parts of it.
But ever since that check-up with Natsuo, he’s been more… conscious about it lately. It seems to be a consistent trend that every time he’s around you, he feels a significant uptick in his heartbeat.
Except now, when you speak—
“Will you be bringing a plus-one to the gala this year? The committee is confirming how many seats they’ll reserve for you.”
—his heart feels like it drops, plummeting straight to his stomach.
He looks at you intently, a slight crease forming between his brows.
You go to most of these things with him; you always have, ever since.
So, why are you even asking?
He thinks about it, deciding what to say next. The thought of you not going with him feels weird. Unusual.
If you’re unavailable, he supposes he can just go alone.
But—
“What should I do then?” Shouto shifts in his seat, peering up at his brother.
Natsuo’s instinctive reaction is to laugh; after all, it’s not often that you see pro-hero Shouto at a loss on troubleshooting. But when he spots pure and genuine uncertainty swirling in heterochromatic gray and blue, he sees his little brother—Shouto at ages 4, 8, and 12, still a little helpless on what to do.
“Do you want to do something about it?” Natsuo asks gently, squeezing Shouto’s shoulders.
Shouto doesn’t say anything.
The lack of response tells him all he needs to know.
“Maybe figure that out first, then just be honest about it when the time comes. Nothing beats saying it plain and simple.”
—‘just be honest about it’ echoes in his head, Natsuo’s voice morphing into his own.
“Will you not be available?” he manages to ask flatly, masking his worry.
(You look up from your tablet and his eyes meet yours, an intensity in his gaze that’s only been directed at you a handful of times before.)
“Oh,” you fluster a little, shifting your weight, “I will be, but I just thought…”
He can hear you hesitate, voice trailing off as if contemplating your next words. His head dips to coax you to go on.
“...I just thought, maybe you’d want to bring someone from your family?” you give a small smile, half-genuine, half-uncertain.
You know Shouto’s family; know their stories and know what each of them are like, individually.
You know how far they’ve come into healing, seeing Touya through multiple cycles of rehab and relapse. You’ve witnessed his mother’s strength first-hand, watching her rebuild their family with the help of Fuyumi. On the weekends when work wouldn’t let up for Shouto, she’d welcome you to join in family lunches too.
There were days during Natsuo’s medical internship when he’d go to the office at midnight because the hospital was nearby. It was the only free time he and Shouto had at the time, but Natsuo would ask you to join in, the three of you slurping on cup noodles while Natsuo prattled on about the absurdity of some of his coworkers.
So, Shouto can fully understand your intentions. After all, he thinks you’ve been instrumental to his family’s healing, too.
But he has his reasons for never bringing Fuyumi—she usually has school the next day, if not volunteer work at an orphanage. Natsuo has gotten increasingly busier with his practice, and Touya—Touya is still in rehab, and though he’s allowed at home three times a week, Shouto’s sure he’d rather spend it doing things other than being in a room full of pro-heroes.
“It might be nice to bring your mom,” you add on.
And as for that—
“The gala is this Friday?” he leans forward, the tips of his bangs brushing his eyelids.
You nod.
“She and Touya are going to the gardens,” he recalls, his mother casually mentioning it the last time he visited.
You look pleasantly surprised, “Oh,” then your small smile returns, “that’s good to hear.”
(It must mean a lot to Rei, you think. She’s always wanted to make up for lost time.)
You don’t say anything else, silence filling the conversation as you hold his gaze.
It isn’t uncommon for Shouto to hold stare-offs, with you especially, but this might just be the first time he feels fully conscious about it—wondering what you’re thinking; if you can read his mind and tell what he’s thinking.
“Do you not want to join me?” he asks, a small pout forming on his face.
(The softness of his cheeks sink just a little bit, and his eyes lose some of the luster they typically carry in the morning.
He looks so sad, you wish you just said yes in the first place.
How do you even respond to this?)
“No, n-no–” you stutter, inching forward subconsciously, “–it’s nothing like that.”
You check your tablet, swiping through your calendar. He can see portions of it from where he’s sitting, your Friday definitely freed up and empty.
He pushes himself up, standing to full-height. His hands dig into the pockets of his sweatpants as he tilts his head to the side.
“What seems to be the problem then?”
(In your years of knowing Shouto, you’ve learned that he never intends to sound harsh even though his words may seem like it. But even though you’re aware that he only means to be curious, you still feel a little embarrassed admitting that you didn’t anticipate the possibility of going to the gala with him this Friday.
You’ve always been prepared; it’s in your job description to be like this. You should have had a back-up dress just in case. You shouldn’t have shown Shouto your hesitation in the first place.
So, you breathe out, voice level and calm. This is your problem to fix, you don’t have to let him know about it. You’ll find a way, like you always do.)
“There’s no problem. I’ll add my name to the list then.”
Then you smile, but it’s just a touch uneasy, and if there’s one thing you underestimate about Shouto—for just as much as you know him, he’s gotten to know you pretty well too.
He pauses. The last thing he would want is for you to feel forced to go.
“If you have other plans, I hope you don’t feel obligated to go. I can go alone.”
His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking.
(And you can see it, that little pout on his face staying right where it is.
You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.
“I don’t have other plans,” you grin, brighter and more at ease, “and I don’t feel forced to go either,” you sigh, hiding a small chuckle.
A pause.
You mull it over before deciding to admit why you were hesitant in the first place, “I thought you were going to bring your mom, so I wasn’t able to prepare a dress.”)
Shouto’s eyes widen slightly, mouth opening to express his apologies.
“But–!” you interrupt, “That’s my fault,” you raise your hand, swaying it side-to-side. “So please don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
The smile on your face is meant to reassure him, he knows, but he still feels guilty.
This Friday’s gala is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards; it’s grand because it’s important, and the dress code is always black-tie—everything typically made custom.
He tilts his head slightly, thinking, eyes zeroing in on the small calendar propped up on his desk.
“My suit is being made by Bakugo’s parents, correct?”
You nod, reiterating, “Your final fitting is on Thursday night.”
His gaze flits to you once again.
(There’s that look in his eyes you’ve become all too familiar with—a glint of mischief accompanying a sort-of ‘Eureka!’ moment that means he’s thought of something.
The pieces click together, realization dawning upon you, but when you open your mouth to refuse—)
“I can ask them to do yours as well.” Shouto beats you to it.
It wouldn’t be fair for you to scramble for your outfit last minute simply because he assumed you knew you were going. You shouldn’t be more stressed than you already are.
“Si– Shouto,” you say firmly, “That’s too much.”
“I’m sure they won’t mind,” he flashes you a small smile.
(And you hate to admit it, but he’s right.
The Bakugo’s have known you for as long as you’ve been Shouto’s assistant. They’ve consistently designed his suits for big events like the Pro-Hero Awards, and Mitsuki has always extended their services to you too, knowing full well that you are Shouto’s plus-one most of the time.
She likes to chat with you during suit pick-ups, with Masaru serving you a cup of tea as you wait for minor tweaks and adjustments to Shouto’s outfits.
“It would be too last minute,” you resist, feeling bad for the hassle this would impose on them.
“Then I can call them later today.” Shouto reaches for his phone, eagerly typing what you assume is a reminder to call Mitsuki some time later, just as he said he would.
“You–” your voice hesitates, “you don’t have to do that. I can contact their secretary–”
This is part of your job, after all.
“It will be much faster if I call them directly.”
And while he does have a point, you still feel bad, inching closer towards his desk, “It’s okay, you shouldn’t have to concern yourself with this–”
He gives you a look.
You stop moving.
Shouto is stubborn, this much you know. When he looks like this, you’re well aware that there’s no point dissuading him from doing something he’s already set his mind to.)
“It’s only right given that I told you last minute.”
He tells this to you sincerely; it really is the least he can do.
Besides—
“…be honest…” the words replay in his head.
—he swallows his truth; lets it sink deep into stomach along with that two-part thump in his chest.
“I only feel comfortable going to these with you, anyway.”
(Your mind blanks, coming up with nothing else to say but ‘okay’.)
.
.
.
Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van.
The building ahead of him is colossal, tall pillars and perfect arches made of raw stone and marble—it feels both ancient and otherworldly, fitting to represent Musutafu in this new age. Ahead of him, the staircase stretches on, steps spanning the width of half a block. Down its center cascades a luscious carpet, thick velvet that further lends to the grandeur of the event.
Standing at the foot of the staircase, Shouto takes a moment to unbutton his suit jacket, revealing his perfectly fitted waistcoat underneath.
(You know he isn’t doing it on purpose; it’s hardly ever Shouto’s intention to make people swoon, but you’re positive that that one move alone can make anyone melt on sight—you included.)
Tonight is the Annual Midyear Pro-Hero Awards, a prestigious event where hero rankings, major announcements, and charity biddings take place.
(It’s not anything new to the both of you, but Shouto skipped out on the past two, and it’s been years since you joined him on the last one he went to. Being here again after so long makes you feel a little out of practice.
After he scales the flight of stairs ahead, Shouto turns back to you, offering his arm for support as you step down from the vehicle. You hesitate, partly because you don’t know whether it’s acceptable behavior for you to take it, and also because you don’t remember if this was something you did the last time you went to one of these with him.
You can’t think straight—not when he looks as seraphic as he does, face half-illuminated by the lights behind him with the shadows hugging the softness of his cheeks.
Shouto is beautiful, a fact you’ve known long before you ever even started working with him; but you’re reminded of that fact in moments like this, especially.
“The steps are tall,” he tells you, shaking you out of your thoughts as you glance back at the staircase behind him. You try not to stare, but the strands that frame his forehead shift from his sudden movement; it scatters into a perfect mess—characteristic of how anything out of place always seems to look on him.
You take his offer.)
His forearm is firm against your palm, the thick fabric of his suit jacket providing cushion for your touch. When he bends it towards his chest, your fingers slip towards the crook of his elbow.
Scarlet red contrasts the building’s stone white structures, the carpet providing a center stage for all heroes and public figures to parade their outfits. If not for the photographers yelling, “Shouto, right!” and “Shouto, left!”, he would have gone straight inside, barely pausing on the landings between each flight of stairs.
You stand to the side when he takes them, just as you always do. But between each flash that goes off, Shouto thinks about whether you should join him too; after all, Mitsuki did intend for the dark navy of your dress to match the stone gray of his three-piece suit.
When you finally arrive at the lobby of the city hall, the two of you are welcomed into a receiving area adorned with crystal chandeliers. The lights bounce off the sharp white edges of the building’s neoclassical interiors, the carpet’s scarlet red returning as a recurring motif in the form of drapes cascading from the high ceilings and down the sides of the room.
By this time, Shouto’s relaxed a bit more, his hand slipping loosely into his front pocket.
(You don’t realize you’re still holding onto him until you’re midway across the floor.)
“Hey, you guys!” Kirishima waves over, squeezing himself within a narrow space between the backs of who look like one of the executives of the hero commission and last year’s awarded peace ambassador.
(You don’t know how he could have possibly fit, the width of him wider than any pro-hero you know, but you chuckle at his timid mumbles of “sorry, excuse me, just passing through.” It reminds you of how he typically approaches you when he asks for favors regarding joint patrols and assignments with Shouto.
He greets you both with his trademark hug, a bone-crushing grip that leaves you a little winded.)
“I didn’t know the two of you were coming!”
“It was a last minute decision,” Shouto smiles, small and fond.
(You look at Shouto intently from beside Kirishima, as if processing what he means. And when his eyes meet yours, you feel caught, shy, averting your gaze quickly.)
Kirishima clears his throat, no doubt noticing the interaction but choosing to focus on something else instead—Shouto’s outfit, a dark navy tie tucked underneath a fitted gray waistcoat; the white collar of his button down peeking through the all stone-gray ensemble. His hair is styled down, bangs curled inwards to form commas that frame his forehead.
“Looking good, man.” the red head deflects, joining his index finger and thumb to form an ‘O-K’ sign as he nods at Shouto. Then he turns to you, the same genuine smile on his face as he says, “That color really suits you.”
You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.”
(Kirishima is a sweetheart; you can never doubt that his intentions are pure. But the attention makes you feel a little self-conscious, even more now that—)
Shouto looks at you then, again, too.
It’s the only time he’s managed to get a real good look at you if he’s being honest; from the incident in the car to the flashing lights up the staircase, there haven’t been many opportunities to fully see what you’re wearing.
And—
Kirishima’s right.
The color really does suit you, but so does the design of your dress—a simple cowl neck joining into halter straps; it dips low at the back, this detail of it, he knows. He’s been careful not to touch you there the entire time so far. It doesn’t help that your hair is tied into a low bun, accentuating the vacant space with how the dress hugs you beautifully in all the right places.
The dark navy satin was a good choice, the perfect vessel for catching ripples of light.
It’s simple but classic; understated, just like the accessories you’ve chosen are. And it brings out the one thing he thinks carries this look the most—
You.
He tries to form the words in his head, urging himself to speak up—he wants to give you a compliment of his own.
But—
“Bakubro!” Kirishima waves overhead, much like he did earlier.
—maybe he can try again next time.
You and Kirishima don’t stay long after Bakugo arrives, Ashido coming in to whisk you and the redhead away to the main room. She loops her arm around yours and pulls you towards her, prompting you to give one last glance at Shouto as an expression of your apologies.
The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit.
Bakugo watches.
“Don’t forget the drinks, Blasty!” Ashido calls over her shoulder, green silk flowing behind her.
He tuts, grumbling as he heads towards the reception bar, leaving Shouto in the middle of the receiving area, unsure of where to follow.
“Y’coming or what?”
Shouto lingers for a few seconds, watching your back disappear into the hall before he decides to walk after Bakugo.
The lobby begins to quiet down as people flood into the main event area, a large hall adorned with the same scarlet red drapes and crystal chandeliers. The table arrangements have been pre-selected and arranged, you and the others most likely finding your seats inside.
“Old hag told me you’re dating.”
Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto.
The bar in front of them offers a generous selection of drinks, all ranging from different wines to cocktails and liquor shots. It isn’t a surprise that Bakugo knows all of his friends’ chosen drinks, down to each specificity—it’s how he shows that he cares. Shouto’s come to learn that over the years.
Their friendship has settled into its own dynamic as Bakugo’s mellowed down. Shouto will ask a question here and there, and Bakugo will look at him like he’s the dumbest fuck on the planet, but still answer anyway.
It works, as evidenced by right now.
Shouto stops right beside Bakugo, leaning against the countertop as he hums, confused, “Who?”
Bakugo sighs, sliding Shouto his gin and tonic, “Mom.” Then he rolls his eyes, gesturing towards the door of the main room, “She told me you two are finally dating.”
Shouto pauses mid-sip.
When he recalls the conversation he had with Mitsuki, it went a lot more like:
“Can a dress be made for my assistant as well?” he speaks into the line, “I will be bringing them to the gala.”
He doesn’t think he insinuated anything.
But now that he replays it in his head, it’s no wonder Mitsuki’s enthusiastic reply sounded so eager.
Bakugo snorts, smirking as if his suspicion was just proven right, “Knew that lady was hearin’ shit.”
The bartender serves up another drink, Ashido’s raspberry daiquiri being placed right in front of the blond before he moves on to mix another one. Clacking ice fills in the silence, the drink coming together inside the shaker.
Shouto stares at his drink and watches as little bubbles form on the slice of lime submerged in it.
“Are you at least thinkin’ about it?” the blond faces Shouto, leaning his forearm against the counter.
Shouto furrows his brows, a single thought running through his mind.
“How did you know?”
Bakugo stares, deep vermillion as he speaks, deadpan, “You can’t be serious.”
Shouto stares right back.
Another drink is served, Kaminari’s mixed drink of vodka, lime, and lemonade.
The stare-off persists for a few seconds, a series of blinks emphasizing Shouto’s cluelessness to the whole ordeal. Because—why does it feel like everyone knows? Did he mention it without knowing? Or is it really just that obvious?
Bakugo sighs, mentally facepalming as he turns back to watch the bartender shake another drink, “Whatever. S’none of my business.” He leans onto the counter, elbows resting on the steeltop.
Shouto isn’t sure what else to say. He knows that Bakugo is observant, that his friend has always had a keen sense of awareness for the things going on around him; it just never crossed his mind that that would include his interactions with you.
The blond slides over Ashido’s drink, prompting Shouto to hold the flute of the glass between his fingers, “Just don’t be a fuckin’ dumbass about it. Gotta be dense as hell if you think the way you’re treated is part of the job description.”
The bartender serves up the final drink: Sero’s whiskey on the rocks. Bakugo takes it along with Kaminari’s and starts walking back to the main room, Shouto following right behind him.
He thinks about it.
A thump.
Because right before they both enter the hall, Shouto spots you, further back at the right side of the room as you laugh at something Yaoyorozu must have said.
He blinks, wondering if the soft glow around you is from the haziness of his eyes.
“If y’don’t do shit first, some other loser will,” Bakugo mumbles, just within ear-shot before he walks ahead to where Kirishima and the others are seated.
Shouto makes a mental note to drop off Ashido’s drink before heading over to you.
.
.
.
You and Shouto leave the gala early.
A message from the police station came in the middle of the event: a request to bump up a few reports for submission tomorrow.
You’d mentioned to Shouto that he could stay, especially since he’d be needed to accept awards that you were sure he’d be the recipient of—among them being one of the top performing agencies of the year, a big chunk of it based on the high turnover rate of timely reports. But he insisted that someone else could represent him instead; he’s certain Midoriya wouldn’t mind.
If you were going back to the agency to work, so was he.
The night shift at the agency is minimally staffed, with most sidekicks and pro-heroes out on patrol. Regular employees have clocked out by this time, and it seems that the only ones left in the building are the emergency unit and the two of you.
You’ve split the work between you two: Shouto tasked to fill in the second pages, where the scene-by-scene breakdown and additional comments can be found, and you, in charge of summarizing those details along with all basic information onto the first pages.
It feels nostalgic, watching you flip through the papers laid out on the coffee table of his lounging area at a quarter past midnight. Back then, he had just hired you, and the only other employees in the agency were his gear tech and PR manager. There was no way the volume of workload could be managed without spending late nights organizing investigations and reports on the floor of that rented studio unit.
Now, you sit by the coffee table in his lounging area, one you helped decorate. The books atop it have been pushed to the side to give you ample workspace, but even those remind him of how much consideration you’ve put into helping him build his space.
Bakugo’s words linger when he thinks about it—how the books you’ve chosen remind him of his family. There’s one on the language of flowers that his mother would love, and a cookbook that he’s sure Fuyumi’s used (some corners are folded, with her handwriting scrawled on every other page). On another stack lie a few comic books he remembers Touya and Natsuo reading when they were younger (that he’s pretty sure he’s seen them flip through during their visits to his office over the years).
And along with all the books sits a family photo taken years ago, framed and taken by you during one of their annual trips to their family beach house a few hours away from the city.
It begins to sink in.
A thump.
He folds the sleeves of his button down to his elbows, his gray suit jacket long since draped over the back of his leather chair. You’ve changed out of your heels too, opting instead for the soft slippers you keep under your desk.
It’s cute, he thinks, the formality of your entire get-up toned down by a pair of fluffy yellow slippers.
When he glances at you again, he finds you hunched over yourself on the sofa of his lounging area, an arm wrapped around yourself as if to contain whatever warmth you have left.
He furrows his brows.
“Are you cold?” his voice booms through the stillness of his office, jostling you out of focus. You whip your head up to look at him, shaking it immediately as if on autopilot.
(He pouts, then, a small downturn of his lips that you find adorable, more than anything.)
“I’m okay,” you smile, but he can see the slight twitching of your lip; the goosebumps dotting down your trembling arms.
You always seem to be doing things like this with him.
He pushes himself away from his desk, the wheels of his chair rolling against the stone floor.
You never express your discomfort in any situation you’re put in, and you diligently work and endure all conditions to get the job done. He always extends his help, but you often decline, and—
“You have to be dense as hell if you think the way you’re treated is part of the job description.”
—Shouto is beginning to realize that the way you treat him really is so much more than that.
You’ve laid the groundwork of the operations in his agency and you always smooth talk your way to getting him out of schedules he mistakenly forgets to show up to (typically with good reason, though). You cover all the areas he misses—this entire building would not be how it looks and functions without your help overseeing its construction.
You’re organized and driven, eager and compassionate, and you care, above all else.
The flowers you leave on his desk are never needed, but you always insist on them to keep his space alive. You fix all his clumsy papercuts, even though he never asks you to; he’s dealt with much, much worse, yet it’s only a split-second after you spot it that the tingling of your quirk works its way to mend his split skin.
It’s just like what happened in the car earlier tonight, a few minutes away from reaching the city hall. Shouto had accidentally cut himself with the invitation to the gala, and though he insisted that it was okay, it was right on his eyelid—a miracle it even missed his eyeball in the first place, you’d commented.
You managed to convince him then, saying, “It’s going to sting every time you blink.” —which was true; it did sting every time he blinked.
That care extends to the people in his life too. His mom loves to go to the weekend market with you, and Fuyumi can always count on you to help her cook when she needs an extra hand. You keep up with Natsuo’s jokes and Touya talks to you, long enough conversations that allow him to be himself.
You care, and you insist upon your care especially when you know he needs it but would never ask for it.
It’s only fair, then, that it’s time he does the same for you.
He removes the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, the movement drawing your attention.
(Your eyes widen as he approaches you. You feel shy, a little flustered as you raise your hands up to reassure him that you don’t need it.)
“Your arms are shivering.” he points out, holding up the thick fabric.
You crane your neck up to look at him, just a few steps away from reach.
(You can’t deny the facts.)
From above, he only sees skin—the plunging dip of your exposed back, the small hairs standing along your arms. He tries his best to look into your eyes only, but—
“At least let me place this over you.”
(And you know you can’t deny Shouto, either.)
—when you concede and let him, he steps closer and bends just a little bit, his full height too tall to be able to place it on you properly. His arms circle around you, carefully resting the thick wool around your neck and onto your shoulders.
He bends lower to adjust the sleeves, making sure that your arms are fully covered. You’re so still, and so close, the tips of his ears nearly touching the highest points of your cheeks.
(It’s just like the gala—)
It’s just like the car—
(—with Shouto helping you navigate through the crowd of people exiting the event as early as you both did. His presence was a steady heat against your back, near and warm but barely touching.)
—with your face almost nose-to-nose with his; apart from the gentle touch of your fingertip against his eyelid, Shouto can only remember feeling that, along with the traitorous thump of his heartbeat.
It’s a good thing that he had his eyes closed then; he wouldn’t have known how to react at the proximity.
But now, he can see you so clearly, your low bun kept in place by bobby pins the same color of your hair; there’s glitter on the inner corners of your eyes, some of it falling to dot the corners of your nose.
This has to be more than just a crush if he’s feeling this intensely.
Your eyes meet for a brief moment, then it’s two blinks before you look away, clearing your throat as you glance at him again, a little bashful, “Thank you.”
Shouto nods, taking one step back.
“The estate we booked for the company outing offered to host a visit for you next weekend.” you speak before he fully returns to his seat, shifting in your seat, “I checked your schedule and there’s nothing set for that day yet.” His suit jacket dwarfs you, the deep navy silk becoming an accent the further you sink into it, “Maybe you’d like to go with your mom?”
You suggest it to him again. Because you know and you care.
He taps his foot, looking out into the city, “That would be nice.” Then he turns back to you, strands of his bangs falling to dust his forehead as he puts his hands inside his pockets, “You’ll be coming too, then?”
(There are things you don’t allow your heart to feel in moments like this—hope being one of them. Shouto looks dangerously attractive in a suit, and it’s been difficult to keep your feelings at bay the entire night. He speaks honestly, rarely with double meaning, so when he speaks to you like this, you try not to think too much of it.
“Yes,” you agree, thinking that he must want you to scope out the venue for the company outing activities, “is there anything in particular that you want me to check out for the team building?”)
Shouto tilts his head.
“Not for work,” he clarifies, staring straight into your eyes. “Just to spend the day with us.”
He expects your reaction already, your eyes widening and your hands raising to wave off a ‘there’s no need.’ But, he finds that there’s no reason for you to be shy, already beating you to the final say.
“Mom would want you there,” he mentions, because it’s true. She’d look for you.
And if he’s being completely honest with himself, with how he’s been feeling around you lately—he would too.
II. IF I SPEAK
The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends.
Since Touya’s return, his mom has moved into a smaller, more modern place to stay. The walls of its exteriors are painted a warm off-white, its features complemented by light wood and bluish-gray accents. At the back exists a garden large enough for a few small trees and her growing flower collection—a complete flip from their larger and darker old home.
The tall windows stream sunlight into the living space, each corner of the house doused in its comfort. Opting for a smaller home was a conscious choice—everything would be within reach, and so would the people in it.
On the days that Touya is allowed to stay home from rehab, he lives here, sometimes with Fuyumi, but always with Rei.
“Food is ready!” Fuyumi calls from the kitchen, prompting Touya and Natsuo to look over from the couch. Shouto is just about to finish setting the table when Rei brings out a piping hot pot of soup, Fuyumi in tow with a whole plate of tonkotsu.
Natsuo heads inside the kitchen for anything else that might need carrying, and Touya opens the fridge to take out the iced tea he helped make last night.
It’s taken some time to get here—with Touya willingly doing anything with his family. Getting used to living with people he thought abandoned him for a decade is hard; learning to become a family has been even harder.
But Touya has always lived in a special corner of his mother’s heart—never forgotten and always considered. Shouto thinks it’s the same case for all of them; that’s how it’s managed to work.
Touya takes his seat beside Shouto, pouring himself a glass of iced tea while waiting for the rest of their family.
“Played any golf lately?” Touya eyes Shouto from the side.
Shouto shakes his head, staring at his palms; calluses used to line the base of his fingers, “Work at the agency has gotten busy.”
Taking up golf has been part of Touya’s rehabilitation program for the past few months, a recommendation to aid in improving focus while keeping himself calm. And though there was much resistance at first, Touya’s grown fond enough of the sport to play it on his own; it’s made all the difference, Shouto’s noticed, his brother’s overall disposition a lot less angry—
“Looks like I’m going to beat your ass next week,” Touya smirks, cracking his wrists.
—but still equally as snarky.
Shouto doesn’t normally care about competition; the only person he really has to beat is himself. But he and Touya are alike in many ways, with eyes as sharp as their father’s but their faces holding the same innocence as their mother’s. They are both lit up by fires—one forced to blaze and the other forced to dim. There is a bluntness Shouto shares with Touya that no one else in the family can argue with.
“Being too confident can jinx it for you on the fairway,” Shouto replies, turning to his brother with his signature blank gaze.
Natsuo laughs as he settles into his seat beside Touya, watching as his older brother’s smirk quickly dissolves into a frown.
“Little shit,” Touya mumbles, taking a sip from his drink.
The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly.
Rei and Fuyumi join the table last, bringing out a steaming pot of rice and a few side dishes to complement the rest of the meal.
These family lunches keep them connected.
Fuyumi believes that no matter how busy they are, having this time to gather together and share details on each other’s lives is important.
“Sorry I can’t join you and these two next weekend, mom,” Natsuo starts, slicing through his tonkotsu as he points an elbow towards his brothers, “The hospital has a medical mission out of town.”
Rei simply smiles, waving her hand, “No need to apologize. I’m so proud of you, Natsuo.”
“Will you be free, Fuyumi?” she turns next to her, placing a hand on Fuyumi’s lap.
Fuyumi swallows her food, smiling apologetically, “Sorry, mom, the school’s hosting a kiddie pool party for the first day of summer.”
Rei pats her lap reassuringly, smiling again as she says, “It’s no problem, I’m glad the kids are having fun under your care.”
“It’ll just be the three of us, then.” Rei looks at her two boys across from her—her eldest and her youngest.
Touya blows at his bowl, puffs of steam dissipating into the air. For as hot as Touya’s flames can get, he dislikes anything too hot to eat—a preference of his that Rei’s taken note of as she reaches across the table to cool down his bowl ever so slightly.
“Thanks,” Touya mumbles, still hesitant to call her ‘mom’ when it’s face-to-face.
“I heard the estate has a greenhouse,” Shouto mentions, Rei instantly perking up at the information, “You can take a look at the plants there, mom.”
“That sounds lovely, Shouto,” she smiles; this time, it reaches her eyes, “We can take photos in your handsome outfits too.”
Touya scrunches his nose as Shouto nods. As per the invitation, the estate prepared a whole day’s worth of activities—a game of golf in the morning, brunch by the gardens, and a simple wine tasting to cap off the afternoon.
Lunch continues with Fuyumi sharing more about the kids she’s handling this year, and Natsuo retelling interactions of the most obnoxious patients he’s had yet.
They laugh, a little more like a family—Shouto chuckling as Touya gives a snarky comment or two. Fuyumi laughs, full-bodied, and Rei giggles, softly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.
“How are your flowers, mom?” Shouto asks after they settle down, remembering that you helped her pick out which ones to plant last time.
“The morning glories are going to be blooming soon,” Rei replies, her smile fond and proud. Since being released from the hospital years ago, she’s taken to planting and flower arranging, oftentimes asking you to help her choose which ones to use.
“Really?” Fuyumi turns her head, gasping as she catches a glance from the window across the room, “They look good, mom! Can I have some when they bloom?”
Rei nods, turning to her youngest, “You can get some too, Shouto.”
For you, she adds.
Natsuo eyes him from the side as he freezes, Rei suggesting some more, “You can place it in a vase. It’s not fair, you always receive flowers for your desk.”
Shouto nods, a small ‘okay’ because he doesn’t really know how else to respond without giving his feelings away.
Touya observes Shouto’s expressions, his eyes twinkling in sinister aquamarine.
“Speaking of,” he shifts in his seat, crossing his legs to face Shouto, “s’your hot assistant coming?”
Something twists in Shouto’s face, his brows furrowing slightly.
Touya knows just how to get on Shouto’s nerves.
(What stares back at him is a deadly shade of gray and blue.
Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun.
Shouto stares at almost everyone he interacts with; it’s unnerving and uncomfortable for people who aren’t used to it, but Touya’s noticed that his little brother stares at you for far longer than he needs to.
And though he’s missed a big chunk of how Shouto grew up, he likes to think he reads him pretty well now—how he acts around you, especially.
At his core, Shouto believes in carving his own path, choosing to fix wrongs and better himself for the now. Touya knows these things, knows where a person is weakest, just like he’s been taught—just like he’s been made aware of his entire life. Yet, for how independent Shouto’s become, he still chooses to lean on you; turns to you for thoughts and opinions, considering you in everything.
Touya has met you a few times; the whole family has. During the worst of his relapse, you were the only person apart from family who was trusted to accompany him in and out of rehab. You picked him up and dropped him off, often joining Rei and Fuyumi on visits when Shouto would be too busy.
To him, you’re an extension of Shouto at this point—an olive branch that’s been just as instrumental in healing this family and the people in it.
It’s never in the big things, but those few minutes of small talk you attempt with him in the car ride home help loosen his tongue, training a muscle that with time, has helped him open up more.
Touya doesn’t care much for people; he’s still just beginning to learn to love his family again, but he thinks you fit in well, because you and Natsuo have the same god-awful humor, and Fuyumi only trusts you to help out in the kitchen. His mom likes having you around, and you never stick your neck in too deep in other people’s shit when they aren’t ready for it—especially his. You never nag Shouto, but you stand firm on the things you disagree with, because as far as Touya can see, you care, far deeper than your job requires you to.
In all ways, you are the stability and calm authenticity that Shouto needs after growing up in such a tumultuous family.
So, Touya likes to stir the pot a little. Or a lot. Maybe.
Just for fun.)
Shouto continues to stare, his frown deepening. His jaw clenches, tension throbbing in his temples.
“Don’t say it like that,” he mutters, low and firm.
He feels like a kid again; like this would be a conversation they’d be having if things were normal and Touya had been around when Shouto turned 15, teasing him about a crush he might have, like older brothers do.
Natsuo and Fuyumi have always felt like his protectors, siblings forced to be parents by circumstance; but Touya feels like his brother, the one he can fight and steal food from; the one who holds a toy up above head where Shouto can’t reach—even though he’s much, much taller than his older brother now.
Touya scoffs, smirking, “Just saying what you think, little brother.”
.
.
.
All Shouto hears is a thump.
A succession of them, in a steady three-part beat.
The golf ball in front of him sits on an even plot of vibrant green, its dents and grooves emphasized by the sunlight of the early morning—there’s pressure, a thump; he needs to beat Touya in this hole to tie overall. Another thump; you’re watching him play.
He analyzes all conditions, feels the heat on his back seep through the fabric of his white golf shirt. He breathes in and prepares to swing.
Today is the visit to the estate.
The agenda starts with an early game of golf, followed by brunch at the gardens and wine tasting in the early to late afternoon. It’s a beautiful day, and Shouto should be focusing on winning this game, but it’s distracting when you’re all he’s really thought about since the start of this round.
—you, in your perfectly fitted white golf shirt and its complementary skirt; you, sitting with his mom at the back of the golf cart, smiling and laughing as if you aren’t the slightest bit aware of how much you brighten a space when you look like that. You, with your head whipping right in his direction when you hear the loud ‘swauck!’ that the impact of his club makes with the ball—your eyes excited and hopeful.
Shouto misses the hole, and Touya snickers from the side.
The thumbs up you give him is a soothing balm to his miss.
Shouto readjusts his cap as they walk closer to the hole, tucking in the strands of hair clinging to his forehead. He glances back at you and lingers, interrupted only by—
“Pretty thing, your assistant,” Touya teases, nudging his head towards your direction, “Cute skirt and all.”
“Stop.” Shouto stares, impassive and unamused. His eyebrow twitches before he turns, walking away.
From afar, he can hear Touya’s chuckle, breathy from the movement of fixing his arm sleeve. Shouto only pays attention to preparing his putter.
He knows this is just how his older brother is.
Since the start of this round, Touya’s managed to lead by a few strokes, with Shouto falling behind in every hole. It’s frustrating and annoying, aggravated even more by Touya’s teasing and the fact that Shouto has played the sport for far longer than Touya has.
It doesn’t help that he ends up missing again, with Touya managing to make the put afterwards.
Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw.
“You know,” Touya eyes him as they walk to the next hole, “staring’s not gonna get you anywhere.”
“I’m not staring,” Shouto retorts immediately. The expanse of greenery ahead of him is taunting, an endless plot of land that feels like it’s watching.
Touya scoffs, “Sure.”
The golf course in the estate is landscaped with luscious trees, vibrant in the brightness of summer. Flowers bloom along the perimeter, yellows and reds carving out this specific section of the estate. You and his mom follow closely behind, riding the cart at a slow and steady pace.
Just a few meters down, the little red flag for the next hole comes into view, moving with the breeze.
“If you don’t plan on acting on it, you should let me know.” Touya mentions it a little too casually.
Another thump.
It’s a joke. Obviously. Something only meant to rile him up—it’s how Touya is.
But it still makes him feel just a tad bit uneasy; it makes him feel a little bit like it did when they were kids.
Before Touya disappeared, they used to sneak into the garden on winter nights. Shouto must have been no older than five and learning how to manage his quirk properly.
They used to play a game: The Twigfire Race, Touya called it—a competition on who can form the longest and fastest fire trail using a bunch of twigs.
Touya would always win, his long legs and lanky arms gathering more sticks than Shouto ever could at that age. His flames burned a deep azure blue, eating through the twigs much faster than Shouto’s flames did. Then, he’d press onto the pads of his burnt fingertips, teasing Shouto in some twisted attempt at motivating his little brother to do better.
Touya would always win, but not without getting a word in. Not without leaving Shouto with a lesson or two about it.
“I said, stop.” Shouto warns him, voice stern as he turns slightly to catch his brother's eyes.
“Damn. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Touya raises a hand in mock surrender, smirking, “I can just do it without asking you.”
Shouto stops walking, fists clenched tightly around his golf club.
“That’s not funny.”
“Oh, I’m not joking,” Touya taunts, holding back his laugh.
The stare Shouto gives him turns icy, glare intensifying as he inches closer towards his big brother. Touya doesn’t move, the stare-off lasting long enough for you to notice the confrontation.
From his periphery, Shouto can see you looking at them in confusion.
“Or am I?” Touya snickers right before he turns away, walking straight towards the next hole.
Shouto watches him walk away, each thump matching the footsteps his brother makes. To the side, the cart slows to a halt and you get off, standing up as if to gain a better view of what just happened.
You lock eyes with Shouto and he musters a small smile, raising a hand as if to say ‘everything’s fine.’
“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done, Shouto!” Touya calls from a few steps ahead.
Shouto stares at his brother’s back; it’s just how Touya used to say when they were kids—
“You just have to go for it!”
He takes a step.
.
.
.
Touya wins the round, with Shouto losing by only a few strokes.
Rei hugs them both, Touya’s slight reluctance evident in the way his arms stay glued to his side as she wraps hers around the both of them.
Shouto brings one hand up, resting it against her back; from his line of sight, he spots you smiling fondly, giving him another thumbs up when your eyes meet.
.
.
.
The estate’s staff escorts everyone to their respective rooms, allowing some time to change into clothes more suited for the late morning brunch.
When Shouto and Touya finish, they make their way to the greenhouse, a glass dome teeming with life. It’s art in bloom—chrysanthemums, hydrangeas, sunflowers, and camellias all in varying colors of pink, red, purple, and yellow. Under a small bridge is a pond, alive with koi fish swimming underneath pads of water lilies, and right up above, where the sunlight streams in, are baskets of japanese roses, hanging in bright, fuschia clusters.
He walks atop the bridge, hands stuffed inside his linen pants—a pair that matches the linen shirt you gifted him birthdays ago. What surrounds him is beautiful; perhaps the most heavenly place he’s been to.
A morning of golf under the sun, nature in florescence. A (relatively) peaceful morning.
And you—
The moment Shouto spots you, the scenery on your backdrop fades into muddled hues. You and Rei enter the greenhouse side-by-side, with his mother wearing an all-white ensemble: a cardigan with a long, flowy skirt.
And you—
—you walk in wearing a pale yellow sundress, its hem hitting just above your knees. There are dainty flowers dotted all over it, but nothing too loud; the straps sink into a v-neck with bust details, flowing down into an a-line skirt. It’s perfectly understated, only emphasizing the focus on how radiant you look in it.
He can’t stop staring.
Touya snorts as he passes him.
This day, this sight, is going to stay in his memory for a long, long while, he thinks.
From up ahead, he can hear his mom call for Touya, dragging him around to ask which blooms would look best for the garden at home. And when he snaps out of the daze you’ve put him in, you appear right beside him, asking if he’s okay.
“Yes,” he answers promptly, unsure of what to say next. His eyes flit to the baskets of japanese roses hanging above you, then to the view peeking from outside. “Do you want to look around before we eat?”
You nod.
The depth of the greenhouse is deceiving upon first glance, with Touya and Rei now out of sight as you explore the area. You walk close enough to be side-by-side but still stay a step behind like you typically do, pausing every now and then to take pictures of the flowers around you.
“You seem more relaxed,” he points out, pushing up the sleeves of his button-up.
You turn to him from the chrysanthemums you’re snapping, a little flustered at his comment.
(And at him, mostly. You don’t know how anyone can look this good in a simple linen set. Nature favors Todoroki Shouto, and it shows in moments like now, with sunlight hitting his face at just the right angle that it paints stardust on the tips of his eyelashes.)
“It’s good,” he quickly follows-up, fluffing through his bangs, “I did mention this wasn’t for work.”
(You feel warm at the reminder.
“It’s nice to see you with some down time too,” you return the sentiment, uncomfortable with the attention on you.
Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)
“Did something happen earlier?” you put your phone down, continuing to walk. “At the course. Things looked pretty tense.”
Shouto hums, considers his next words. He takes a few more steps before answering, “Touya is a dick.”
A laugh escapes you, and you cover your mouth quickly as you mumble an apology. Shouto knows it’s because it’s completely out of character for him to be so vulgar and insulting when it comes to his siblings.
“Was he sabotaging you?”
“...Something like that.” he responds.
“That’s okay,” you scrunch your nose, peering up at him, “You haven’t had much time to play lately.”
And Shouto wonders if he’s just that easy to console, or if it’s a specific comfort that only comes from you. You make it so easy for him to feel better about all the little and big things—whether it’s news articles headlining him as a PR nightmare, or near-losses on missions gone wrong.
Not a lot of things get to Shouto, but when they do, you somehow always know how to handle it.
You continue to stroll around the greenhouse, looking closely at the steel bars holding up the glass arches. From a few steps ahead, Shouto can hear your mumbles—something about measurements and the logistics of turning the rooftop of the agency into a smaller version of this greenhouse.
“You and mom looked like you were enjoying yourselves earlier,” he mentions offhandedly, hands clasped around his back.
It’s something he’s noticed for a while—his mother seems to relax more around you, laughing and smiling in most of your conversations. He gets it; you have that effect on everyone around you, the warmth you exude a welcome invitation to be opened up to.
(You eye him from the side knowingly; Todoroki Shouto is nothing but a closet snoop.)
“We were talking about plant stuff,” you smile, “and how she’s happy you and Touya finally got to play together. You should’ve seen how red her hands were from clapping for the both of you.”
He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence.
It’s at a different section of the greenhouse that he pauses, giving you time to admire the shrubs of hydrangeas blooming around you.
Touya’s words come back to him.
He wonders if he should say it, if he should ask—
“Don’t move,” you tell him, raising your phone to eye-level.
Shouto stares at you, hands in his pockets as he watches you tap on your phone.
“Look to the side,” you instruct him again, and he follows, albeit a little confused.
When he turns to face you again, the smile on your face is beaming, glowing as you turn your phone to show him the photos you managed to take.
“The lighting was nice. See!”
And when you point to the way sunlight streaks highlights onto the redness of his hair, down to the slope of his nose and the width of shoulders, he can’t help but agree.
Now, he wonders—
“Do you want a photo with the flowers?” Shouto asks, because it makes no sense that you deem him worthy to be pictured in perfect lighting when there’s you, looking like you do—the walking subject to the backdrop of greenery behind you.
Your eyes widen, a stuttered “O-Oh,” falling from your lips. You tug at your skirt again, fiddling with the soft fabric until your eyes nervously meet his. “I don’t really need—”
“The lighting is nice here, too.”
“Oh,” you respond, a hint of diffidence as you flash a small, hesitant smile, “Okay.”
As Shouto angles himself to take your photo, he notices you turn restless, the smile on your face never quite reaching your eyes and your fingers constantly twirling the fabric of your dress.
He puts down his phone, tilting his head.
“Are insects biting you?”
(Your brows shoot up, embarrassed by how he’s noticed.
You shake your head in response, providing no other explanation besides “Sorry.”
He continues to stare, as if waiting for you to continue. You know there’s no point hiding the real reason you feel so nervous when he’s already noticed this much.
“I think I might be underdressed,” you admit, smiling sheepishly as you clasp your fingers in front of you, “This entire place is gorgeous.”
The estate screams high-class; apart from the golf course and the greenhouse, the area also boasts its own private lake glistening across a large green field. It feels a little too good to be true—a paradise you find yourself out of place in.
But—)
Shouto looks at you, really looks at you—at the way your dress hits right above your knees at the perfect length, at how your collarbones peek through its dainty v-neck cut. Its pale yellow makes you look like summer, radiating in light, and he thinks he hasn’t seen anything more beautiful, really; anything more fitting—for this occasion, for this venue, for this day.
For you.
The words have been lodged at his throat since he first saw you step in, and now they’re being pushed out, coaxed slowly by the honesty beating thunderously in his chest.
He thinks about his mom, how she speaks of beauty whenever and wherever she finds it, with nothing stopping her speech and—
There’s a hum, a thoughtful vibration priming his throat as he continues to stare.
“I think you’re dressed just right,” is what he manages to get out.
A thump.
It’s more than that, though, he knows.
If this is his chance, if this is ‘next time’ from his attempt at the gala—
He blinks, and you only get prettier.
“You look beautiful.” he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.
(And when he says your name unlike any way he’s said it before, you feel your chest expand, terrified that it might explode.
Shouto is blunt and honest to a fault; and that honesty, you’ve realized, also happens to be his most cunning trait—a quality that's endeared you over the years now rendering you into a stuttering, fumbling mess like never before.
“T-Thank you.” you straighten your dress, “You—”)
Shouto’s phone vibrates in his palm, a call from Touya breaking him out of your conversation. He bows his head slightly to excuse himself and you nod in acknowledgment.
“Brunch is served,” he relays, pocketing his phone soon after he hangs up.
(Then, with his hand inside his pocket, he bends his arm deeper, creating a wider loop as if to offer it for you to hang onto—the same way he did during the gala.
And just like you did then, you take it.)
.
.
.
Brunch was served at the estate’s main patio, a circular table made of light wood adorned with dainty white tableware and muted green linen. In the middle was a centerpiece, an assortment of fresh flowers from the greenhouse coming together for a pop of color against the main neutral color scheme.
The food was divine, a lovely selection of seasonal salads and warm breads, along with eggs cooked in every way possible. Newly harvested fruits were served before and after the meal, a kind of appetizer-dessert to complement the main piece—a large slab of freshly caught salmon.
Now, you all gather on the second floor of the estate’s main building, right at the balcony overlooking the greenhouse and the field—a perfect view for wine tasting.
Shouto doesn’t care much for alcohol, all technicalities going past his head as the sommelier explains notes and wine pairings.
He can’t taste much of the difference, if he’s being honest.
In the sommelier’s hand is a bottle of red wine; he describes all of the technical parts of it before finishing off with the fact that it’s ‘beautifully balanced’, something that causes Touya to snort at the side.
Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously.
Touya leans in closer to his little brother, swirling the wine in his glass as he lowers his voice mockingly, “‘You look beautiful’.”
The expression on Shouto’s face remains unreadable, his brain processing the fact that his brother must have overheard his conversation with you earlier. It’s while Touya begins to gulp down his glass that Shouto steps on his foot—a sharp pressure stomped onto freshly cleaned loafers.
“Fuckin–” Touya hisses, cursing under his breath as he pulls his foot away.
The edges of Shouto’s lips curl up as he turns back to his glass of wine, watching from across the table as his mom smiles fondly at something you must have said.
(You still feel flustered, a little fuzzy. You’re unsure whether the heat emanating off your cheeks is from the wine or the lingering echoes of his compliment earlier.
From across the table, you lock eyes with Shouto, gray and blue sitting strikingly atop flushed cheeks. You look away quickly—a knee-jerk reaction of bashfulness. He doesn’t hold his liquor well, a fact you’ve known for many, many years, so you can’t tell for sure whether he’s turned red from the wine, or from the same thing you’re feeling, too.)
III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)
“If y’don’t do shit first, some other loser will.”
“Losers lose ‘cause they don’t get shit done…”
“...just be honest about it when the time comes.”
The streets are calm at this time of night, with cars occasionally passing by and the chimes of shop doors tinkling as they open and shut. Not a lot of people stay up late in this part of the neighborhood, but Shouto still hears them—all the jumbled voices of Bakugo and his brothers merging in his mind.
He steps onto concrete, footfalls muffled by the cushion of his boots—a new update on his costume, one you suggested after a stealth mission mishap caused by the drag of his heel.
Tonight is his scheduled patrol—a route he knows like the back of his hand, memorized from the many years he’s been assigned to it. The streetlamps ahead cast a dim glow down the road; an atmosphere he would otherwise find unsettling if not for the fact that it’s provided him odd comfort in times he’s needed it the most.
Tonight, his mind ruminates on you.
Lately, his interactions with you have been… different—shy glances and awkward slip-ups; the intentional way he’s been expressing himself more around you.
He can’t tell what you think of it yet.
Yet, you still sit with him in comfortable silence on the nights that you both work late, and you still bring in fresh flowers for his desk every few days. He’s sure that when he gets back to the agency after his shift, you’ll still be there, claiming to finish a report when you both know it’s just an excuse to make sure that he finished patrol safely.
You still care for him in the same way.
And now that he’s thinking more about it, maybe it’s been those little things all along—the same way you’ve been treating him all these years shifting into something deeper and more significant, beating its way out of his chest.
You know Shouto better than anyone—so much so that his family asks you for lists of gift ideas because they don’t have the slightest clue what else to get him. He’s found himself seeking your opinion on things more and more over the years, and if he’s being honest, a big chunk of his decisions are now partly influenced by what you think of them first.
Across the street, a couple sways to the beat of the jazz bar they step out of, their hands intertwined and smiles giddy with adoration and love. He looks away quickly before they catch him staring.
There are things Shouto’s discovered that he likes seeing you do—like how you shift your feet when you feel flustered at something he says, or when you tap your index finger against whatever surface it’s on when you’re deep in thought. Your eyes widen when he says things you don’t expect him to, and something about that intrigues him.
He thinks you look cute.
He wonders if you know that about yourself; and if you don’t, a part of him is saying that he should be the one to tell you.
.
.
.
You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding.
The company trip spans an entire two weeks, with each department coming in a few days at a time. You both would stay if you could, but Shouto’s schedule doesn’t allow him to be gone for more than a day.
It’s always been unspoken: wherever Shouto goes, you go too.
This day of the teambuilding is assigned for the managers and those under Shouto’s direct reporting team.
The estate is still as beautiful as the last time you both visited, summer shining atop the glistening surface of the lake across the green field. Company trips aren’t typically this grand, but this is also the first time in years that Shouto’s had free time to drop by.
(It’s a bit funny, you think, watching him struggle to reach the finish line in a three-legged race paired with his finance director. Shouto is typically awkward in most team activities, but you find it endearing, watching him put full effort into things he normally doesn’t do.)
By mid-afternoon, the day’s activities have consisted of tank rolls, marble balancing, and a classic game of pass-the-message (which, you’ve learned, Shouto is absolute garbage at). And for the final game of the day, the both of you are paired for a duo tug of war against his PR manager and support engineer.
The afternoon heat burns the back of Shouto’s neck, his cap providing little to no protection for that area of his skin. He stands behind you, rope twisted firmly in his grasp as he prepares to pull. You mimic his stance, bracing yourself with your knees bent as you grip the rope tightly.
Prior to the game, you were all given three minutes to discuss strategies.
And so now, Shouto counts, low and steady, “One.”
“Get set,” the facilitator for this activity announces.
“Two.”
You take a deep breath.
“Go!”
“Three.”
You both pull, holding your ground for a few seconds. He can see your knuckles turning white from where he’s standing, and when he glances at the other team, they’ve begun to lean back, anchoring their bodies to the ground before pulling away slowly.
Shouto digs his feet into the earth, the rope’s rough fibers sticking to the calluses on his hands. It doesn’t take long before you both slip forward, being dragged by the other team and eventually pulled into your loss.
You turn back to him immediately, apologetic as you rub your palms, “Sorry!”
(Before the game even began, you already knew whoever your partner was would be carrying most of the work. And you feel a little bad because your loss does make a bit of sense, you think.
Though Shouto is strong, you know he’s developed his agility far more than his strength. It doesn’t help that his support engineer lifts bulks of synthetic thermal cloth everyday.
The both of you didn’t stand a chance, really.)
But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly.
“Are you okay?” he looks down at your hands. Your skin is an angry flaming red all over your palms, but what causes him to frown are the small cuts resting at the base of your fingers.
“Yup, all g–” you attempt to hide it, but Shouto’s reflexes are quick, and he catches your wrist the moment you pull away.
It’s an instinctive reaction when he looks over it once, pressing his thumb to the center of your palm to get a better look. He reaches for his utility belt out of habit, patting the area above his hip only to feel nothing but the smooth cotton of his shirt.
Right, he remembers, he isn’t wearing his gear today.
He drops his arms, looking around the field for a first-aid kit nearby.
(A small chuckle escapes you, endeared, and Shouto looks up at the sound. His eyes meet yours briefly before he jogs all the way to retrieve the red box by the tree.
It’s just a friction burn; a few small cuts from the rough material of the rope, at most.
You don’t need first-aid. But—)
When Shouto comes back, he ushers you to the side, grabbing a few cotton buds and antiseptic ointment from the box. His brain works on autopilot, barely thinking as he tends to your injury.
(You don’t need first-aid. But—)
He peels the bandaid for you and gently places it on top of your wounds—a yellow checkered pattern decorating your skin.
(You don’t need first aid. But you kind of get it, you think. It’s the same instinctive reaction you have when he gets papercuts. There’s no need for you to mend them with your quirk, but it’s an inexplicable feeling that makes you feel uneasy at the idea of him getting injured off the field.
A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle.
“Better?” Shouto stares at you from under his cap, readjusting it as red and white strands touch the tips of his eyelashes.
(He looks unfairly pretty like this. How can he even expect you to answer?
“Y-yeah,” you stutter, swallowing your breath.
When Shouto walks towards everyone else, you follow, pressing your thumb onto your palm.)
.
.
.
Shouto drops by the greenhouse at the end of the day.
The sky above the glass dome ceiling is warmed by orange and pink hues. At sunset, the greenhouse looks ethereal, an almost otherworldly escape. The flowers haven’t changed much from his last visit here, but they seem to have blossomed further now that time has passed.
He walks past the familiar cluster of chrysanthemums and spots a patch of white flowers he doesn’t recall from last time—a wooden placard with the name ‘iris’ sticks out from the soil. His knees bend to crouch low, fingers grazing over the softness of its petals.
Earlier today, the estate so kindly offered to let him bring home flowers of his choice, and this bunch in front of him calls out to him, a purity and warmth that reminds him of his mom.
The nippers in his hand feel clunky, a heavy-duty version of the ones he uses when he helps with gardening at home; but he cuts the stems gently, careful to remember all he’s been taught.
When he thinks he’s gotten enough, he continues to stroll around the greenhouse, the wicker basket in his hand half-filled with pure, white irises.
A little further down the path, he passes by the hydrangea bushes, his steps slowing as fragmented pieces of that memory with you replay in slow motion.
“The lighting was nice. See!”
“You look beautiful,” he confesses, the sentence overflowing with honesty.
And he decides—
He should get you flowers too.
Your desk always seems to have some, and you’re consistently on top of keeping fresh flowers around the agency—on his desk specifically.
It’s only right.
His mom always tells him that flowers can never lie; they bloom where they are loved and speak from the heart when words are not enough—it’s why she loves them so much.
And, maybe she has a point, because the pink hydrangeas look pretty; they remind him of you, especially.
On his way here, the white camellias spoke to him too. Maybe he’ll get them both for you.
He crouches low again, nipping the hydrangea stems before backtracking to collect a few camellias. By the time he finishes, his wicker basket is filled to the brim, an assortment of pink and white threatening to spill from its edges. The leaves of the irises stick out, poking at his wrist and making the skin itch.
You find him that way—struggling to wrangle in the abundance of blooms into his basket.
“I think you need another basket,” you chuckle, walking towards him.
There’s something about you and this hour; how it feels like you fit right in this moment, at the peak of sunset, blooming the same way the flowers do.
Your smile is radiant against the warmth of diffused sunlight, and though he’s seen you in this same exact slacks-and-blouse combination before, the way he sees you now has shifted.
You look different, but in all the ways he can’t visibly point out.
He blinks, and that thump beats once more.
His arm moves before he can comprehend it, the bunch of camellias and hydrangeas outstretched towards you.
Your eyes widen in surprise, eyebrows scrunched in confusion as you tilt your head slightly, your hand reaching out for it reluctantly.
“Would you want me to have this wrapped?”
(The flowers feel lush in your palm, and you can’t help but wonder who he intends to give them to. There are irises in his basket too, left untouched for reasons you’re not sure you’d like to know.
Your grip on the stems tighten.
The camellias stare back at you, an immaculate white, with the pink hydrangeas adding a delicate softness to them. It’s a pretty combination, and you can’t help but think that whoever they’re intended for should feel—)
“It’s for you.”
You lock eyes when you look up. There’s a weight to Shouto’s gaze that intends to get his message across, the words still barely forming on his tongue.
“Oh,” is the only thing you manage to say.
(—surprised; grateful; confused; the emotions swirl inside of you. The shock is apparent on your face, your eyes widening at his admission. Confusion presents itself in the tilt of your head as you stumble over how to express your gratitude.
“It’s not…” you hesitate, diverting your gaze to anything else but that piercing pair of gray-and-blue. Your mind is drawing up a blank, figuring out what reason he has for giving them to you.)
“There’s no occasion…?”
It comes out as half a question and half something else, your uncertainty marked by the semi-lilt at the end.
Shouto blinks.
He wonders if he should tell you now, if he should just confess that he’s been feeling differently about you these days.
You shift your feet, your thumbs rubbing against the flowers’ leaves.
The thump persists in his chest, knocking at the base of his throat—
Thump.
He takes a deep breath.
Thump.
—but even with its persistence, the words still struggle to come out.
Thump.
Maybe not now; it’s not the right time.
But he says something else, an admission much easier that still holds just as much truth.
“No occasion.”
.
.
.
Shouto knows your Mondays.
You switch out the flowers on his desk for a different arrangement of blooms every week. Then, you give him a run-down of his schedule, going over important announcements and upcoming events.
The mornings go by quickly, with you constantly moving around your desk. Shouto can’t tell what you’re doing exactly, but you’re always working on something whenever he sneaks a peek through the single glass panel cut-out from your shared wall.
Lunch is a wildcard. On some days, you bring your own; on others, you grab a bite down in the cafeteria. Your routine is largely dependent on how busy you anticipate work to be that day, and though it varies from time-to-time, you never forget to knock on his door—a two-part thump that takes him out of his own little work bubble.
He almost looks forward to it now, the way your head peeps in from behind his office doors. You call out his name softly, only continuing to speak when he looks up from whatever file he’s working on.
Shouto knows your Mondays.
You spend the afternoons all over the place, much like he does; while he roams the city, you roam the agency, attending meetings and checking in on different departments. He knows because when he comes back by the end of the day, you almost always have a new set of updates prepared on your desk for the next morning.
He also knows that Mondays are when you often work overtime, preferring to get a bulk of any urgent matters completed and out of the way.
The back door of his office clicks shut as he walks into the room, his rubber boots leaving no trace that he’s arrived from how quietly his footsteps hit the floor. He unbuckles his utility belt, one hand automatically reaching for its lock; it’s a habit, the ‘clack’ that sounds from it a satisfying marker he looks forward to at the end of every patrol.
In the corner of his office is a private restroom that he slips into. He quickly changes out of his hero suit and into a pair of sweatpants, throwing on one of his many favorite white shirts—his go-to outfit on the days he works late.
There are still some reports he has to look over tonight, but nothing too time-consuming.
It’s really you he’s staying behind for.
He glances at you through the glass panel of his wall, your face dimly lit by your computer screen. Your eyebrows are scrunched, eyes squinting in pure focus.
It never feels right for him to leave when you haven’t left either.
He settles into his seat, finger tapping on his desk as he contemplates whether or not he should offer you his help.
You always decline when he does; he can already hear your response. But there are stacks of folders on your desk right now and he’s predicting that it’ll take at least a few more hours before you get through all of them.
He taps his foot, staring at the report in front of him.
A thump.
The wheels of his chair roll back, leather squeaking as he stands up.
As soon as he exits his office, you look up, surprised.
“You’re back!”
He nods, walking closer to your desk. “It’s 8:00 p.m.”
You glance at the top of your screen, a sheepish smile forming on your face, “Right.”
(This is his way of telling you it’s late, you’re well aware.)
He looks around your desk, folders and stationery all neatly organized and labeled. You keep a few touches of your personality around your space, with personalized pens and notepads gathered in one corner.
They’re all things he’s seen before, but what makes him do a double-take is the vase sitting in the corner, obscured by your computer screen.
Sitting inside it is the arrangement of flowers he gave you back at the teambuilding, the pink hydrangeas still as good as new next to the white camellias. It’s been a little over a week since, and you always change the arrangement on your desk as frequently as you change his.
So for you to keep it for this long—
“And how may I help you?” you ask jokingly, biting down your smile.
His eyes flit over to you, your gaze set on your screen as you continue to type.
(It’s hard to focus on the documents in front of you when he looks at you like that. Shouto’s stare has always been unnerving, but it feels especially scrutinizing when he merely stands, watching without a word.)
“You have a lot of work left,” he gestures towards the stack of folders on your desk.
(Your eyes glance over the pile quickly as you mumble, “Yeah.”
A few seconds of silence pass before what he really means starts to sink in.
It’s not often that Shouto finishes work before you—at least, to your knowledge. You still see him inside his office when you pack your things, ready to leave.
So, this is out of the ordinary.
And if he’s standing in front of your desk, hinting at how much longer you’ll be staying at work. Then, it can only mean—
“A-are you waiting for me to go?” you move to stand, guilty. “Don’t worry about it, I can lock up.”)
Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly.
That’s never been a thing; he’s always gone home last, and has always waited for you when you have work left to do. He makes sure of it every time, watching carefully for your computer light to turn off.
But he won’t tell you that; letting you know would mean admitting that he’s been doing it for years.
He places his palm on the top folder.
“What else do you have to do?”
You stay quiet for a few seconds before reluctantly listing it all—reports, meeting summaries, and a few emails you plan to schedule for tomorrow morning. His frown deepens as your list only grows, immediately cutting yourself off the second you notice your ramblings.
“… but if you’re waiting, I can bring these home and—”
“What can I do to help?” he interjects, stopping you just before you shut down your computer.
(You can only stare when proceeds to take a seat in front of you, the legs of your guest chair dragging against the floor as he pulls it closer.
It hits you a bit like déjà vu, this moment, how it feels just like early days back in that rented studio unit; back when you could count the number of people comprising his team on one hand.
Back then, your desks were just a few steps away from each other, an overflow of paperwork inevitably spilling into each other’s spaces. Because all of the files were stored in your drawers, it was more convenient for Shouto to sit himself across your desk, splitting the work and going over them one at a time.
Things are different now that the agency’s grown—you have a bigger space, and the work isn’t nearly as packed as it used to be; but some days still end up a little bit more hectic than others. Like today.
“There’s no need,” you reach for the stack under his palm, “I can finish this at—”
“We can finish faster if we do this together.”
That promptly shuts you up.
Shouto is blunt to a fault, unafraid of saying things as they are; his voice carries an unbothered cadence no matter who it is he’s talking to.
You figure, there’s no point arguing with him when he’s right, after all.)
Shouto begins going over a few of the reports that you’ve tagged red and yellow, listening intently as you instruct him on which parts to focus on. In exchange, you make space for him on your desk, setting aside some of the folders you had brought out earlier.
It’s a good hour into working before Shouto notices you easing up slightly, your shoulders more relaxed in comparison to how bunched up they were earlier.
He knows you’ve been glancing at him occasionally, your head turning every now and then to check on how he’s doing—a failed attempt at subtlety.
“Are you almost done?” he asks, head down as he slips another completed file into its folder. The stack beside him is growing, his ‘done’ pile nearly as tall as the unfinished one.
(You turn to him, attention shifting to the split of red and white hair down the center of his head, “Yeah, I just—”
Your words trail off, eyes squinting as you move closer to where he’s hunched over.
Right on the shoulder of his shirt is a small tear, big enough to touch the edges of its collar but small enough that you’d only have to be up close to be able to notice.
You assess the tear intently, looking carefully for any cuts underneath and thankfully find none.
But—
He notices you’ve gone quiet and looks up, the sudden movement catching you off guard. You make a sound, something in-between a squeak and an ‘oops.’
“Sorry, I just,” you point, “your shirt’s ripped.”
His eyes follow the direction of your finger, finding the small tear running horizontally along the fabric of hjs shirt.
“I can fix it,” you offer, the wheels of your chair rolling to land you directly across him.
It’s one of his favorite shirts.)
He barely thinks when his body acts on its own, pressing itself closer to your desk as you slightly bend over for better reach.
You don’t have to patch up his shirt, especially something so small. He has plenty of the same ones in his closet; and if it comes to it, he wouldn’t mind buying a new one. You really don’t have to patch up his shirt, because he wouldn’t have even noticed had you not mentioned it.
But it’s that kind of tender care and attention to detail that you’ve had for him since you started working together that’s always drawn him in.
Shouto has lived most of his life with the means to live comfortably, but since starting his own agency, he’s learned the value of maximizing resources—and it’s all because of you.
A thump.
The moment your fingers touch his shoulder, he hears nothing but that continuous three-beat thump. Your quirk tingles when it touches skin, but you aren’t mending that—you’re fixing his shirt, separate from your skin, and yet, he still feels the little zaps go off inside of him.
A thump.
Up close, the strands of your hair tickle his cheek.
A thump.
The fabric of his shirt mends itself slowly, and it only makes him think of everything else—of the leather chair you helped fix, painstakingly going through each and every crack to bring it back to near-new condition. He thinks about every cut and scrape you’ve helped heal without having to, about every time you’ve insisted when he’d shrug it off as nothing.
From you, he’s learned that things can be fixed without having to change them whole.
It’s how he’s (you’ve) managed to keep the agency running; it’s why you get along so well with him and the rest of his family.
And these feelings in his chest are pounding, built up over time to tip over and transform into something more than just an excellent work dynamic. At this point, it’s become companionship, a presence he seeks out a little bit more than friendship.
You know him better than anyone else does.
The flowers he gave you are still on your desk.
So, he says your name, voice low and tender by your ear.
You freeze, holding your breath.
Another thump.
His honesty spills outs—
“I like you.”
A three-beat thump.
(You don’t believe it at first, the urge to ask him again right at the tip of your tongue. But, he pulls away, unfinished, and looks you in the eye to continue.
“But it feels more than a crush, I think.” He presses his fingers against the table, grounding himself, “Natsuo told me it was a crush, and he told me to think about it, so I did.”
Shouto is a man of sufficient words; not too few, not too plenty. But when he gets nervous and a little excited, he starts rambling, and—
“Bakugo told me his mom thought we were dating, and even though I said that wasn’t the case, I almost didn’t want to deny it. Touya has been a dick about it, but he makes good points, so I also owe it to him.”
(The shock on your face shifts into fondness. You can’t see the point of what he’s saying yet, but it’s cute—one of the many things that make him endearing.)
He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity.
“It started with this thumping,” he places a hand over his chest. “It used to only come sometimes, but lately it’s been happening all the time.”
Shouto keeps his gaze deadset on yours. He doesn’t say anything else, sentences just barely forming in his head to fully capture what he really means. His feet and palms stay firmly planted where they are, his only movement being the steady blinking of his eyes.
(But it’s okay, because you can understand.
If you’re being honest, the signs were all there.
Nothing Shouto does can be subtle when you know him as well as you do.
A smile breaks out on your face, the one you can barely contain around him. It’s a little teasing and shy but completely genuine from the way it softens your eyes.
“We’ll have to come up with something for HR,” you try to contain your smile.)
And he isn’t worried at all. He knows you’ll both find a way, just like you always do.
additional material: moodboard + playlist
a/n: so much to say about this fic but i'll sum it up with saying this is my baby! and i hold it close to my heart for many reasons. writing this made me love their dynamic and i hope you did too! also maybe slightly unrealistic office/hr rules but 🤷♀️ he’s the boss he makes the rules 🤧
thank you notes: to @soumies for literally beta reading this. i owe this fic to you fr you are my lifesaver i love you. to @augustinewrites @scarabrat @stellamancer @arcvenes for helping me a ton with characterisations, dialogues, songs, inspo, everything!!! ily all!! it took a village to write this fic fr. (+ to my bf for sitting me down so he could explain the whole point system of golf for like 30 minutes LOL)
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
#shouto x reader#todoroki shouto x reader#bnha x reader#prettyboysummercollab#mha x reader#shouto todoroki x reader#shouto x you#todoroki shouto x you#bnha x you#shotorus.writes#shouto#bnha#three-part honesty#if i have any typos pls let me know.... HHAHAHAHA
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Origin Story
Pairing: Alpha Alexia Putellas/Omega Reader, Omega Mapi León/Omega Reader, Alpha Ingred Engen/Omega Reader,
Summary: You get invited to a Barca game by an Alpha at your school who wouldn't accept.
Tags/Warnings: Dubious consent, Bathroom sex, scent marking,
Note: Only is Mapi the only one in this but there will probs be a part 2 with the rest of the pack.
The only reason I've been writing lately is @insomniakisses who definitely doesn't know I exist but I love their blog.
Something about their writing has inspired me for better or worse.
Wordcount: 1.1K
When you got invited to the Barca vs Real Madrid Game by a girl at your college of course you accepted. She was in a couple of your classes but all you knew about her is that she is an alpha and is kind of a dick. But you would be crazy not to know how expensive tickets are and surely she can’t be as bad as everyone says. But this girl surely has another motive for inviting you. It will come to light soon as you sit next to each other in the crowded stadium. Her scent is aggressive forward and fills the space around you it's almost like Lily and maybe an undertone of patchouli. Overall not the best when you're already surrounded by unfamiliar scents.
You can’t help but grow excited as they walk out. Okay, so you may have a major crush on some of the players. By some you mean most but it makes since it’s pretty common knowledge that the different teams are packs. Which makes transfers even more devastating. Even so, everyone knows that Barca has two omegas already which is already more than most other packs. They differently don’t need another which is devastating to you but it's not like you could ever be with them anyway. It’s rare for a Futbal pack to mate with someone outside of the football world.
It’s around 20 minutes in before Maddie, whose name you’ve just learned, takes off her sweater revealing that she is wearing a Real Madrid jersey. “Are you seriously wearing that right now?” You ask incredulously. “Ya Real Madrid is going to win, I promise you. They are the superior team,” she responded as if you were stupid for thinking any different. “Barca is definitely better, they have a stacked roster.” You argue back, growing more annoyed. Most likely due to her attitude problem and overwhelming scent. “Real Madrid will win” She seems so assured of herself as if she can already see the outcome of the game. “That's never going to happen. I bet you Barca will win and If they don’t I will write your next essay for you.”. “Deal”
It's not even 10 minutes later that Hansen scores and you're left with a smile on your face. It’s a good feeling to know your rights. Maybe you’ll pick up a sweet treat on the way home. You deserve it after dealing with this idiot. But it's all worth it for free tickets. “I told you” You gloat but only a little. “They're going to pull through one goal doesn’t mean anything,” Maddie responds sharpley her scent turning sour. “One goal can be the difference between winning and losing” You count to praud her mostly for your amusement. “ You think I don’t know that. I know football better than you.” She growls her fangs obvious in her aggressive state. So maybe you fucked with her a little too much but god it was so funny. “Sorry,” You startle as Pajor scores. You definitely made the right choice when picking a team to support.
By the end of the game, you are bursting with excitement a 5-0 win is crazy. You can feel Maddie seething beside you but it doesn’t sour your mood. As you move to stand at the barricade watching the players trade jerseys and such. Then Mapi Leon comes to your section and you're practically vibrating as she strips off her jersey. She walks closer to you her scent is so strong probably from running for so long. “ Would you like it?” She asks looking directly into your eyes. It's like a shock to your system “Yes” You take it from her gratefully and she flashes a toothy grin. “You so pretty princess” Her voice is so low. “Thank you” You can’t help but blush as she sprints off to join her team.
You gather up your things and walk out of the stadium with Maddie. You are starting to feel overheated and are growing quickly annoyed by Maddie. Her mood has only seemed to worsen since the end of the game. The heated feeling only grows as you move through the stadium. “I’m going to run to the bathroom before we leave.” You split off from Maddie not waiting to hear her response. You have all your things if she leaves you it won’t be the end of the world. You slip into the bathroom and lock yourself in. You lean against the wall and take a deep breath of the jersey. It smells strongly of citrus and has an undertone of cinnamon. It soothes some of the heat under your skin.
You startle as the bathroom opens and someone else steps inside. It takes a moment for their scent to register. Citrus and cinnamon same as the jersey. You open the stall door and peek out to see Mapi standing by the door looking directly at you. “I thought I could smell you in here” She hurried towards you and pushed you back into the stall. “What are you doing” You ask dropping the jersey as she grabs your wrist. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You smell so good” She nuzzles her face into your neck. “Let me have you please” She whispers her accent thicker than before. “You want me but you have Ona if you want an omega” You reason. Sure you want this but you want her to think clearly. “I can and have had Ona but I want you. Once I have had you im sure they will want you as well.” she pushes you into the wall and slides a hand down your pants. Her fingers trace along your cunt through your underwear. “Say yes please I need you” She whimpers into your shoulder tonguing at your scent gland. “Yes. Yes please” you moan rolling your hips against her hand. She slides her fingers past your underwear to rub at your clit. ‘Take me please I need it too bad.”You moan grinding against her. “Shh you can have it see” she slips two fingers inside you with ease. It makes you uncomfotbly aware of how slick you are. It only last a second before shes distracting you by moving her fingers and using her other hand to rub at you clit.
You cum twice before Mapi finally lets up. As you catch you breath she is collecting your things and straightening out your clothes and hair. “ Come with me we are having dinner tonight. Please,” she asks tacting on the please almost as an afterthought. “I'll go but I've got school tomorrow and I really can’t afford to miss any more of my lectures this semester.” You explain as the two of you head out of the stall. Mapi stops to wash her hands before leading you out of the stadium.
#woso x reader#woso community#woso fanfics#woso imagine#woso soccer#woso one shot#woso#mapi león#mapi leon x reader
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/the ref is a bit old, but the info is mostly accurate/
So, I did kinda sketch ref for my Kraang character and make her more of a person, or something, with a name and all. I'm still going to use they/them pronounce and Y/N when people will be asking something about Krangified AU.
More information about her below.
So, her name is Ana now.
About her personality before she was turned into the Kraang zombie I still can't say much at the moment (because I'm mostly focused on their interactions in the present timeline), except for her being the person who was genuinely worried about Leo and what's been going on in his head. She saw his attitude and for her it was obvious it was mostly a facade to hide his real emotions and wanted to help him, being a shoulder to lean on. I see her being the weirdo to others that found his jokes actually funny.
After Kraangification, I can describe her with one word: DEPRESSION. I mean, you've been a mindless zombie for about 10 years that practically flashed before your eyes. You wake up facing the facts that the world has been at war with the Kraang for all this time, everyone you knew grew up, your family is long gone, your boyfriend been through hell and lost his arm, and, yeah, your still kinda a zombie also facing some self-control issues. Your Kraang half is taking control over you from time to time, attacking others and even friends if provoked. Not to mention that a lot of things that used to be casual to you are now something you need to learn to be used to again, like bed or actual food. Yeah and also that little inconvenience that she has to eat people now.
She's been dozing off a lot at first, after Leo got her to their base, just staring at one point, processing the whole situation and still feeling like it's just a very long nightmare. And only Leo could snap her out of this state at least for a short amount of time.
When I've been making first sketches with her I gave her this pointed ear and horn like Kraang appendage on her forehead, and thought this kinda reminded of oni's (demons) from Japanese folklore, which kinda resonated with this whole Kraang AU concept.
I also can't stop thinking about Beauty and the Beast (original Disney animated movie) concept, only with them swapping roles in contrast to the original story.
I really like the concept of the turtles being able to make this chirping and churring sounds, and thought, why can't she make something like this? So, yeah, she can churp and purr (I don't know if there's a difference between churring and purring, still didn't understand, and this churring sound is still mostly fictional, fanon thing..? but, anyway). I like this idea of Leo and Ana being able to communicate with the language only they (and other turtles) understand.
A few more sketches with her and a couple of scenes.
Her claws on the Kraang arm can extend. I thought about her being able to shapeshift her arm further, but for now it's either extended claws, or something like a sword or some other sharp pointy thing...
I've been thinking about her fighting style, and for a reference I used the The Witcher 3 again (yeah) There's a vampire species, Bruxa and Alp, and I'm thinking her fighting style would be something like of an Alp. Fast and agile, also pretty strong (tho still not strong enough to take out big enemies like the Kraang in their suits).
I have this scene in my head that I actually been sketching already, where she's fighting the Kraang hounds, and pretty much able to lift one grabbing it by it's throat and throwing it into the tree like a rag doll.
youtube
Another thing is her screech she uses to intimidate/immobilize her enemies. It's also more of an alp than bruxa, especially in this video time code 00:36, this is pretty much how I imagine it.
I also know that I've messed up her eyes when she's in her Kraang mode, because they should be turning purple, like Raph's left eye that wasn't covered by Kraang flesh, but, uuuh, I don't want to change that at this point...
I think that's it for now...? If I'll have more ideas I'll either be making other posts, or updating this one.
#my art#sketch#krangified au#oc x canon#leo x oc#future leo x oc#rise oc#rise leo#rottmnt leo#rottmnt#rottmnt oc#rottmnt au#rise leo x oc#rise of the tmnt#rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles#riseofthetmnt#future leo#tmnt2018#tmnt 2018#Youtube
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The Meet-Cute - Zoro's Story - 7
Source for pic
Trouble 7
Word Count: 4814
Tags For The Whole Story: Fem!Reader; Protective!Zoro; Soft!Zoro; Sexual Tension; Teasing; Flirting; Mature Audiences (I'll always tag the NSFW chapters); Modern Day AU; Reader is being stalked; Fear; Paranoia; Angst; Rom-Com Vibes; Mild Gore-like Descriptions; Blood; Dead Animals Mentioned; Reader in a terror-like state; Fluff; Romance; Banter; Manipulation; Miscommunication; Frustration; Reader is very clumsy;
Special Warning: English is not my first language, I apologise for any possible spelling or grammar mistakes.
Summary: After moving away from the hustle and bustle of Grand Line City to help your father around the property following a horse-riding accident - and in the hopes of healing your broken heart after your asshole ex-fiancé cheated - you settle into the country calmness of the Calm Belt. You and Zoro are slowly returning to your easy friendship filled with banter and flirting and you actually begin to glimpse a future with the green-haired cop. But then you start to receive weird gifts. They quickly escalate to manipulative texts. And now you're stuck in a spiral of terror and there's no way to get help because the Stalker, whoever he is, is threatening something other than just your life.
Notes: I told you guys this was going to get worse... and believe me or not... it STILL gets worse. Also, mind the red tag, above, please.
Masterlist
The police.
You need to tell someone, and the police are the obvious choice. You've been tossing and turning in your bed for over an hour, and this is the smartest, simplest answer.
Zoro is unreachable for a week, so the next best option will have to do.
You remember your ex, Ichiji, once had a problem with a girl who loved and followed the Vinsmoke siblings everywhere. She was obsessed with the whole family, but mostly Ichiji, since he's the eldest. She resorted to possessive letters and creepy calls, and you've been trying to rack your brain as to how he dealt with the problem. You're almost positive he went to the police.
And they couldn't help.
That was when he hired the bodyguards.
Maybe they took care of the problem?
A shudder that has nothing to do with the cold travels through your body. Anyway they dealt with it, you don't have the resources to do the same. And Ichiji's bodyguards were real beasts: massive, bulky, scary. They were elite, all-stars.
You don't have anyone like that to look out for you.
Lies.
You have Zoro. But you'll have to be very careful about how you'll tell him once he gets back. And even though the police did nothing to help with your ex’s problem, that doesn't mean they won't help now.
Oh!
You still have the picture he sent you of Rob Lucci, that has to get them to act!
You sit upright in your bed and grab your phone. It's been muted and silent since you retired to your bedroom after closing all the doors and windows, including the door to your room.
You left the light in your bedroom on anyway, too scared of invisible shadows, too frightened of unseen ghosts.
Obviously, there are texts waiting for you. You knew that, and that's why the phone was silenced. The dread in your stomach seems like it has come to stay, but it still manages to increase as you read the texts.
Unknown: How are you feeling, Kitten? You barely ate dinner. You need to eat. Unknown: Tucking into bed already? Don't be scared. You're safe. No one will harm you. Unknown: You're mine.
You don't know who it is, but that doesn't mean your mind doesn't conjure up the scariest, raspiest voice to go with the possessive texts. With a heavy sigh, you swipe the texts aside and search for the picture.
It's gone.
Just like that.
You know you deleted some texts when you first started to receive them, but you didn't delete the picture, no matter how ghastly it was. But it's gone.
With a shaky inhale, you return the silenced phone, face down, to your bedside table and curl up on your bed, comforter tucked high against your chin. You'll still go to the police. You have to tell someone.
A creak of the old house brings desperate tears to your eyes and you stifle a sob. You don't dare turn off the light and you know sleep will elude you tonight.
God, you miss Zoro.
And he's barely been gone a day.
-*-
Sometime during the night, you must've fallen asleep from exhaustion because the sound of the rooster’s call jolts you awake with a surprised gasp.
Daylight seeps through the closed curtains, and you will your heart to steady to a normal beat. Nothing bad happened, you're safe, you're alone in your room. You're fine.
Everything's fine.
You refrain from grabbing your phone, trying to prolong the moment you’ll have to face the creepy texts, perhaps even new texts waiting for you, and instead head to the bathroom to freshen up and get ready to face a new day.
Your eyes are baggy and darkened, likely because you only slept two or three hours. A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you lay down your plans for the day: feed the animals and do the morning chores, then head to the police station and tell the cops about what’s going on.
They will have to help you. And even if they don’t do much, at least you won’t feel so alone.
As you finally gather some courage to grab your phone, a shaky laugh escapes your lips: there’s nothing new. No new text, no new photo, nothing. You were suffering from anticipation without any cause to do so. So, you take the phone off silent mode and stuff it in your pocket.
The day already seems lighter and brighter. Perhaps you won’t even need to go to the police.
Grabbing a quick breakfast, you open the door, still chewing on your apple, ready to face the day. You don’t find it unusual that there are hardly any birds singing.
Though you should’ve.
Because as soon as you open the door, you’re assaulted by a foul smell. The apple you are holding rolls in your hand and falls to the floor with a thud. Blood. There’s so much blood.
Nausea turns your legs to jelly, and you grip the handle of the door tightly as your eyes widen and sweep the scene. There are countless dead birds, squirrels, rats, and even cockroaches. They’re scattered across your porch and thrown carelessly over the railing and the porch chairs. Blood is smeared and pooled everywhere, and the smell of rot and decay makes your eyes tear up.
You gag and fight for your breakfast to remain inside your stomach as your hand flies to cover your mouth. What could this mean?
Then, from the corner of your eye, you find your answer: there’s a cat - its fur an oddly close resemblance to the colour of your hair - dead, lifeless, gutted, and covered in blood, pinned to your door. The note attached to the poor animal is written in crimson words, and the message is clear as day:
Don’t tell anyone, Kitten.
You’re powerless to stop the retches and heaves as you fall to your knees.
-*-
After what you found on your porch in the morning, you lock yourself in the house again. With the windows locked and the curtains closed, you curl into a small ball on the couch, put on your headphones, and will yourself to just disappear.
Bzzzz. Bzzzz.
But he doesn’t leave you alone.
Unknown: I love seeing you scared, Kitten. The way your big, bright eyes widen. The way your chest heaves. Unknown: You’re so beautiful. Unknown: I hope you understood my message, darling. Don’t tell anyone. Unknown: Not. A. Soul. Unknown: Or next time, it won’t be animals…
More threats. More possessive words. More praise.
The tears keep falling from your eyes, and you feel trapped and utterly alone. How did this happen to you? Who could this person be? He’s a man - you can tell because of the hand that was holding Rob Lucci’s eyes in the photo. That much is clear.
But who?
Who would want to hurt you? Who would want to scare you?
Unknown: You don’t need to be afraid of me, Kitten. I won’t hurt you. Not you, never you. Unknown: I think your dad’s animals might be hungry. Unknown: Are you going to be cooped up inside all day? Do you need me to feed them?
What? How sick is he? How can he say this? Is he close? How close?
A whimper escapes your lips as you clutch your face in your hands, shaking your head and shutting your eyes shut.
He’s right, though. You need to feed the animals. You’ve been inside the house for around four hours already. The animals must be starving.
It takes you about fifteen minutes to gather the strength and courage to face the slaughter on your porch and then another five minutes to gather a trash bag and gloves. Then it’s with heavy breaths that you place your shaky hand on the doorknob, turning it slowly, your eyes still closed.
The smell is still overwhelming, but it’s not as bad as you thought it would be after the dead animals were left rotting in the sun for hours. With another shaky breath, you finally open your eyes.
There’s nothing there.
No animals. No blood. No note or cat pinned to the door.
For a fleeting second, you think you’re going crazy. You have to be. But then your eyes fall back on the door. Your nails scrape gently against the dark wood: there’s a mark where the knife was pinning the cat and the note.
You didn’t dream it, you didn’t imagine things. It happened.
And he cleaned it all up.
What is going on? Why is he playing these mind games with you?
Suddenly, you hear a distant noise coming from the treeline, just beyond the barn. Your blood runs cold, and a shiver filled with dread makes you tremble. With a shaky step forward you grip the railing, straining your eyes against the brightness of the day to try to discern if there’s something lurking there.
Your breathing slows down, and your knuckles turn white with the force you’re clutching the railing. Dread rises from somewhere in the pit of your stomach and settles right in your chest.
There’s definitely something - someone? - there. And it looks big. Massive, even.
The shadow moves forward, and you gasp at the same time your phone begins to ring. A scream climbs up your throat, and you stumble backwards, fumbling with your pockets to fish out the blaring phone.
Nami.
You pick up shakily, your eyes already moving back to the place where the shadow had been. “Y-yeah?”
“Hi!” Nami’s voice is bright, she might not have noticed the strain in yours. Your left hand grips the railing again as your eyes dart left and right. Nothing. “How are you, honey? Are you feeling lonely now that your broody cop left for the week?” She giggles, and you force out a shaky, fake laugh. Nothing! “I thought you might want some company. Want me to come over?”
Nothing at all.
Fear grips you again, and you stumble backwards, closing the door with force and leaning against it with heavy breaths. “Come over?” Breathe. Just breathe. There’s no way in hell you’re going to tell Nami to come over. No matter how much you want her company, how alone you feel, or how much comfort you seek. You won’t risk her getting trapped in this person’s web. “Sorry, Nami. I can’t today. Maybe another time?”
She groans on the other side of the line as you move to the window, your eyes scanning the trees again. “Fineee! I was just postponing some boring house chores anyway. I’ve been procrastinating since the weekend.” She giggles. “Talk soon, then?”
You let out a noncommittal noise, and silence fills the line. “Are you okay?” She asks, worry lacing her voice. Calm down! You try to force some semblance of control back into your voice. Nami always sees right through your bullshit, so you need to be a good liar. Just this once. One time.
“Of course I am! I’m just sooo tired! Ace couldn’t help me today, so I’m tending to all the chores alone. I need rest.” You let out another shaky laugh and hope against all hope she believes you.
There’s still nothing out there.
“Hmm, okay, okay. I believe that. Farm chores are so tiresome. ‘K, gotta go. Call me later?”
“Sure, Nami. Thanks for checking in.”
She hangs up, and you grip the phone tightly. You could’ve sworn that the shadow was coming for you when you picked up the phone. And that thought alone is enough to make you stay cooped up inside for another hour.
-*-
You don't quite know how you do it, but you force yourself to tackle your morning chores, even though they’ve now turned into afternoon chores.
Every little noise, every tiny movement makes you tremble and whimper. Even the cows sense your discomfort, some of the older ones gently bump you as you pet them and whisper soothing words.
How ironic is it that you're the one in need of soothing, not the cows.
Somehow, you manage. And as soon as you're done, you rush inside, bolting the door and sighing as you lean against it. You did it. You're safe inside. He can't get in.
He can't get in.
You're safe.
-*-
You take a quick shower and have a meager dinner. You wouldn't be able to eat anything different even if you were hungry. Your fridge and pantry are almost empty. You should've gone grocery shopping yesterday, but the sick cow threw those plans out the window and now the last thing you want to do is leave the safety of your home to buy food supplies.
You can always survive on nuts and cereal.
A groan leaves your lips as you finish cleaning the dishes. No, you can't.
You place the towel on the rack to dry, then halt your movements, tilting your head to the side to listen for any noise. You’ve closed all the curtains, but you still feel watched. It's like someone is creeping in on you, watching every move you make, every sound, every thought.
Shaking your head, you leave the kitchen, turning off the light and running towards the stairs like a child scared of the dark. Your stomach still rumbles a bit, though you're so nauseated and scared that, even though you're hungry, you know you can't eat anything right now.
Plus, empty pantry and all that…
So, tomorrow, grocery shopping will have to be. Get out, buy stuff, get back in.
How hard can that be?
-*-
Hard. So very hard.
Considering you didn't sleep much last night. Maybe an hour, two at most. He kept texting you with praise and soothing words, telling you to turn off the light and rest. But how could you turn off the light when he was watching you, and every shadow felt like it was looming closer? How could you rest when your heart kept pounding with adrenaline?
You don't know how much longer your body can function without sleep, with barely any food and under constant stress. But the truth is, you can't even bring yourself to worry about those things when the real terror hides behind creepy texts.
And there are still three more days before Zoro returns.
Trying to ignore the dread in your stomach or the way your breath leaves your mouth in shaky exhales, you open the front door, bracing yourself for anything.
But there's nothing.
A longer and much more relieved exhale empties your lungs, and you feed the animals before rushing to your car. The farm feels eerily silent, as if the animals can sense all the apprehension coursing through you.
And they probably do.
You drive a little faster than you should on the way to the store and as you park the car and exit with rushed movements, new texts greet you, and you grimace in consternation
Unknown: Slow down, Flash. There's no one following you, don't worry. No one will get near you.
Right. No one but this creep, whoever he is. There's no need to worry at all.
Fear induces hurry, and you take little care in picking the prettiest vegetables or the plumpest fruits. You just want to grab your essentials, and get out. Rush home, and lock yourself in until Zoro returns and you can find some solace in his arms.
Is that too much to ask?
“Well, hello there, gorgeous. I see you're all alone today.”
Oh, no, no, no.
“Hi, yes, I'm in a hurry, excuse me.” It's the store clerk who flirted with you when you returned. And his advances are especially unwelcome today. Even more so since Zoro isn't around to pretend to be your boyfriend.
He places an arm on your cart, a cheeky smirk in his lips and you suppress a groan as his hand inches closer to touch yours. “I'll help you. What do you need? Besides my number?” He chuckles and now it's the urge to roll your eyes you suppress.
You feel a faint vibration in your pocket and push the cart forward as you decide to ignore it. “I really don't need your help, thank you.”
“Are you sure?” You nod and try to push past him again, but his hand moves, gripping your forearm instead of the cart. “Because I can be very… serviceable.”
Hell, no.
A loud crash from the next aisle - that sounds like broken jars - echoes through the store, and the clerk groans. “Not the pickles, come on. They stink up the place!” He releases your arm with frustration, and you seize the opportunity to slip away, grab the rest of your essentials, and cash out.
Your nerves are frayed to the breaking point, and all you want is to curl up and disappear.
It's not until you finally get home, unload the groceries and lock the door, that you look at the unread texts on your phone.
Unknown: Who does he think he is? Unknown: He dares flirt with you? He dares TOUCH you? You're mine! Unknown: Don't worry, Kitten, I won't let him bother you again.
No! Oh, no!
A quick online search shows you the phone number of the grocery store and you're fast to dial it, your foot tapping the floor impatiently as guilt gnaws at your insides.
You can't let anyone else get hurt because of you. It's not fair. Not fair at all.
Someone picks up at the third ring and it's an older female voice. It's not him. You try your best to describe the clerk you wish to speak to and, thank God it's a small town, because the woman on the line knows who you're talking about and calls him.
The phone buzzes in your ear and you glance at the text while you're waiting.
Unknown: How selfless of you, Kitten, trying to save him. Unknown: You can't, though, you know?
“Hello?” He sounds pissed.
“Hi! Oh, thank God. Are you okay?” You collapse into a kitchen chair, your legs wobbly all of a sudden.
“Who is this?”
“Right! Sorry! Uh… I’m uh… The girl you were talking to earlier? Erm… The one you offered to help?”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “The gorgeous one? Yeah, I remember you. Guess you really needed my number, then.”
Bzzzz.
Unknown: He's gone, Kitten. Might as well say goodbye now. Nobody touches what's mine.
“Good! Listen, you're in danger.” Your voice falters as you think about how crazy you must sound. How delusional. “I can't tell you much, but someone might try to harm you. Don't ask me how I know, I just do! Please don't leave the store alone! And go to the cops, please!”
There's a moment of silence on the line and you hope he's considering your words, listening to the faint edge of fear on your voice, something that shows him reason.
“Wow…” He's not convinced. “This has got to be the most elaborate excuse anyone’s used to get me to back off.” He chuckles again, but this time in disbelief. “Listen, I get it, okay? I'll back off. You're not interested. I won't try again.”
“No, no, wait! That's not what I–”
“Don't worry, miss. I got it.” He sighs. “I got to go, some asshole spilled the whole aisle of pickles and that shit’s already spilling to the other aisles. Er… Bye, I guess.”
And he ends the call. You hold the phone to your ear, ignoring the beeping signaling the end of the call. This can't be happening. It can't. Someone will get hurt again because of you.
You drop the phone, and it slips to the floor with a thud, your fingers threading through your hair and gripping tight. The walls feel closer now, the air thinner. You're alone. You're frightened. You're vulnerable.
And you will be responsible for another terrible crime.
-*-
The chores that could be postponed, got postponed. Those that couldn't, got done half-heartedly. It will have to do. At least until Zoro comes back and you can rely on him.
You miss him. You need him. So, so much.
As per usual, you lock the door tightly and double-check all the other locks on the back doors and windows, though you haven't touched those since this whole ordeal started. Everything's locked, and though apprehension still grips your heart tightly, you feel as safe as you're going to feel for now.
He won't get into your home. You're safe inside.
You still rush up the stairs and lock yourself in your bedroom, lights on and covers pulled up to your chin.
After you've settled, and after you've made sure there's nothing hiding in the shadows or inside your closet, you unlock your phone, skim through the new set of texts: ‘You're mine’, ‘Sleep tight’, ‘Drink water and get some rest’, and then open the website of the local newspaper again, dreading the time when you'll see the store clerk's picture or some reference to him.
It dawns on you that you don't even know his name.
And yet, you're going to be the one to blame for whatever gruesome thing that happens to him. Should you go confess to the cops?
No… You can't. He doesn't let you go to the police, you got that message loud and clear: if you do that, somebody else will get hurt. And maybe next time it could be one of your friends. Or you.
A shaky inhale leaves your lips as a new set of tears threatens to fall. How do you have more tears to cry? How are you still hanging on? How long will you last without fully breaking?
-*-
Like all the other nights, you eventually give in to exhaustion and fall asleep for a few hours. Except this time, the events from the day before are still pretty fresh in your mind, so the first thing you do is grab your phone - no new texts. Yet. - and open the newspaper website.
Nothing.
A relieved sigh empties your lungs, and you actually manage a small smile. Maybe this person, this stalker, is all bark and no bite.
Though even as you think this, you know you're wrong. He's very vicious. Rob Lucci, the dead animals… You feel he's capable of terrible things. But maybe, just maybe, this time he was just bluffing.
Bzzzz.
No. No. No.
It's a picture.
Bzzzz.
Unknown: I always follow through on my threats, Kitten.
And then there's an address.
No. It's your fault again. You know you shouldn't open the picture, you already know it's gruesome, you already know you'll regret it, and yet…
You still open it.
The shop clerk is blindfolded and tied up with intricate knots, the rope is binding his chest, his legs, his arms. His face is swollen and barely recognizable. There's blood everywhere. And his hands… They're detached from his body, hanging on his neck like a necklace and holding a paper with a bloody note: Nobody touches what's mine.
-*-
You used the address to make an anonymous tip to the police. You didn’t even know you could do that online, but apparently, there are specific websites that offer that anonymous service.
You can’t bear to look at the picture one more time, but you hope he’s still alive. All he did was talk to you. Just like Rob Lucci.
They aren’t guilty of any other crime. And that’s why you feel so responsible for what happened to them.
The urge to tell Zoro all that’s been happening is stronger than ever, but then there’s a nagging feeling at the back of your mind telling you that if the stalker managed to do this to men who only flirted with you, what could he do to Zoro, someone you’re actually interested in?
You know Zoro is a cop, and you know he can take care of himself, but still…
You fear for his safety more than you fear your own.
And that is terrifying.
-*-
Shanks called and said he and Beckman are having a wonderful time, and business is blooming. Some of your father’s best horses have already been selected by breeders, so, unfortunately, Shanks is going to have to prolong his stay for at least three more weeks.
You didn’t have the heart to tell him how alone and terrified you felt. So instead, you feigned happiness that all was going well for him and told him he could stay for as long as he wanted because you had everything under control.
Lies, after lies, after lies.
The rest of the week passes in a haze. You barely sleep, hardly eat, and are in a constant state of stress and nerves. The only time you leave the house is to feed the animals and clean the stables. And even then, there are times you manage to ask Ace for help, pretending to feel sick.
The rest of the time is spent curled up, frightened, and being constantly harassed over text by this creep.
You’ve been wracking your brain as to who he is, but you have no idea. Absolutely no idea. And the fact that he could be some random person might even be scarier than if he were someone you know.
Friday finally arrives, and as you down your third mug of coffee of the morning, sitting iyour couch, your phone rings. And this time you’re actually happy to see the name on the screen.
It’s Zoro.
But as you’re about to answer, the call disconnects suddenly. Did he hang up?
Bzzzz.
No. He didn’t.
Unknown: Remember, Kitten, don’t tell him anything. You don’t want to see the cop pinned to your door next, do you?
Zoro calls again, and once more, the call dies before you pick it up.
Unknown: You know by now that I don’t make idle threats. You do not want to see me mad, Kitten. I don’t want to hurt your friends because I don’t want to see you sad, but I will hurt him.
Zoro calls again, and still you have no time to answer.
“Shit!” You almost sob. “I won’t tell him anything… I won’t…” You mutter to yourself, tears already gathering at the corner of your eyes as the feeling of being trapped and alone overpowers you.
This time, when Zoro tries again, you manage to pick up.
“Hey, Troublemaker! What the hell is wrong with that damned phone?”
God, oh God, you missed him so much. His strong voice, his confident demeanour, the way that just hearing him speak to you makes you feel instantly safer.
It’s too much.
Too much.
You try to keep the tears and the sobs at bay, but you can’t. “Zo…” You sniffle, and it’s clear that he immediately stands at attention on the other side of the line.
“What’s wrong, Trouble? Talk to me. I’m still heading home, I’m about two hours away. What’s wrong?”
Bzzzz.
Unknown: Kitten… don’t disappoint me.
“Nothing!” A wet, shaky laugh climbs up your throat, and you bring your knees to your chest, trying to feel smaller. “I’ve just been feeling lonely this week. Nami and Robin have been busy, I don’t want to bother Kaya and Usopp. Luffy is busy at the fire station, and… and… I’ve missed you so, so much… I’m such a crybaby, I’m sorry.”
Is this enough?
Silence stretches, and all that you hear on the other line is the sound of cars and chatter from his coworkers. “I’ve missed you too, Trouble.” At least his worry is hidden behind a semblance of softness. It might’ve been enough. “Are you sure that’s it?”
Another excuse, quick.
“Yeah… I mean, my dad just called saying he has to be away for more weeks than he initially thought, I guess that I also miss him…”
Zoro chuckles softly, and you sigh in relief.
“You’re an emotional mess today, Trouble.”
You laugh softly and sniff, your hand cleaning the remnants of your tears from your cheeks.
“I guess I am.”
“Well, Nami texted me earlier, saying the gang’s going to meet at Robin’s. Are you coming?”
You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. You don’t want to put any of them in danger, but you don’t think you can spend more time alone inside a locked house. You need your friends, you need Zoro…
“Yeah, I guess.”
“See you soon, then?”
You hum, and before you can say anything else, the call ends again. Did he hang up? Was it the service? Or… maybe you should think about changing phones…
Bzzzz.
Unknown: Such a good girl, Kitten. I knew you could do it. Unknown: I hope you think of me at the gathering later. I do want you to have fun, you know? But remember… Unknown: Behave, Kitten. You do not want to see me angry. I don’t want to have to punish you.
Taglist: @rosidaze @beachaddict48 @armiliadawn @jintaka-hane @sprinkklz @baby5555 @hopelesslover06 @mars-mizuko @sleepykittycx @nerium-lil @eustasscapitankid @ren-ni @jqperi @lycoriskalmia @daydreamer-in-training @iloveyoushanks @thegalaxysedge22 @kyllium @keiva1000
|Chapter 8|
#reader x roronoa zoro#roronoa zoro x reader#zoro roronoa x you#zoro roronoa x reader#roronoa zoro#you x zoro#zoro x you#reader x zoro#zoro x reader#reader insert#the meet-cute#one piece#one piece au
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Since I made a post about Mother's Day w/ Daryl, I gotta make a Father's Day one too.
For obvious reasons, he didn't like Father's Day (me neither Daryl). It felt insulting to see people celebrating their dads, felt so forced and unfair, stupid even. How come other people got to have fathers who were there for them and cared for them while he didn't? What made him undeserving of that? (Mother's Day was already hard enough when he was young, sitting in class and nearly trembling from how hard he was straining himself to not cry while those around him made cards and talked about their plans for the weekend with their moms) So he tried to push the existence of the holiday out of his mind.
Fatherhood was never something he pictured. Even when the hypothetical idea of kids crossed his mind, he was sure it would never be plausible: he'd just follow footsteps and end up some doped up abusive deadbeat as well. Although he never pictured an apocalypse with the undead either, and that pushed the idea of fatherhood even further into a realm of impossibility.
So both those happening, and someone as perfect as you being directly involved in it, was leagues outside his imagination.
The first Father's Day after your child was born was rough. He enjoyed how the collapse of society made people lose track of the dates, too occupied with survival to care about minor things like this. But with the stability Alexandria provided, over time celebrations reintegrated into routines, this included, and he was not fond of the reminder.
He didn't mention the day at all leading up to it, or of, continuing his ignorance and hoping it'd slip your mind. He knew it wouldn't: you were too attentive and appreciative of him to miss any excuse to celebrate and congratulate him no matter the context.
But you threaded lightly, knowing it'd be touchy and let most the day pass by as any other would, just being extra sweet on him. You never wished him a ‘Happy Father's Day’, instead when you were going to bed that night thanking him for being a father, for everything he did for you and your daughter and how good he was at it.
He ended up just breaking down, falling apart in your hold and attempting to bury himself in you the same way he tried to bury so much else.
The next couple years were largely similar; little acknowledgement to the day, but extra acknowledgements to him. It was your daughter that started to make it more distinctive. A little older now, she saw the other kids in the community making little gifts and cards for their fathers the same way they did for mothers on the respective day. Even those who didn't have dads made them in memoriam.
So of course she did it too, she loved her daddy and did those things all the time anyway. Why not do it when it's even more special? She didn't even tell you about it, secretly assembling it all herself.
You shared Daryl's surprise when she presented her crafts, repeatedly saying the token phrase you'd held off from using. He was mostly frozen for a moment, trying to just see her and this singular day rather than previous decades of Father's Day's that came before, all negatively tinted and crossed out from his personal calendar.
He accepted it all, and her innocent recognition of the holiday's purpose. Though the urge flared up in some part of him, he couldn't shut her down. She meant well, and wasn't to blame for his rocky relationship with the day and his own father. He wouldn't create reason for her to despise the holiday too, and how could be cold to the human embodiment of sunshine while her toothy smile was beaming at him?
He put her to bed that evening, spending an extra while stroking her hair and admiring how peaceful she looked while sleeping. Despite the state of the world, she had the privilege to not only sleep, but feel safe while doing so. And he's what allowed that; gave her that.
She got to feel safe from all the horrors he'd seen: the walkers, blood, guts, violence, death, immorality, all the disturbing things about life that were amplified by the apocalypse.
But more importantly, she felt safe with him.
She got to excitedly jump on him while he was still asleep in the morning, roll around and shake him till he finally got up. She got to play with him in the dirt while out in the yard, or sit him down with jewelry and accessories surrounded by stuffed animals and toy dinnerware. She got to chase him around and bombard him with curious questions and learn everything she could from him.
She got to make messes and break things, make mistakes, and know he'd always help her clean or fix them.
She got to show her emotions and be a kid and cry, and know he would always hold and soothe her, wipe away her tears and do anything to make sure she was okay.
And she never knew a different response. She never knew the yelling or insults, the degradation, the mockery, the beatings and burnings and whippings. She got to fall asleep by her father's side, lulled to rest by his comforting voice, be in the most vulnerable state a person could be, and know that the last thing he would ever do was hurt her; the idea – the worry – of him hurting her did not exist in her mind.
Daryl'd crumbled to tears by the time he returned to you that night, collapsing into your arms the way he did every time the reality of being a parent hit him. He would never truly understand how he got to this point in life, how every unfathomable thing – good and bad – had genuinely occurred and this is what was real.
From the instant you found out you were pregnant, he'd promised you, promised himself, and promised his child he would always be the father he'd wanted, that he'd deserved, that his kid deserved and that every child deserves. He healed his own childhood by assuring his daughter'd have a good one, and that he'd be regarded as a good part of it.
She made Father's Day something that could actually be ‘happy’ for him.
The daddy issues hit a little too hard while writing this
I fr don't know where the last week of my life went I just remember watching Lost 🗿
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Because You Know That I Love You...
Solomon x GN! reader
Summary: You surprise Solomon with a special little evening, little does he know the true plans you have in store for him...
AN: I've had this written for like a week, but wasn't happy with it, so I finally sat down tonight to fix it up a little. Just a goofy little thing, and so help me I'm going to MILK us living with Solomon as much as I can until the next season comes out! Enjoy this little goblin creature of a fic I made :)
Warnings: It's a little suggestive but it never goes anywhere, it's a silly I swear! (mostly), slightly possessive reader (matching Solomon's energy really, lol), Solomon calls reader "sweetheart" and "love," pre-established relationship
Now playing: Sacrifice (2019 Mix) - London After Midnight
“What are you doing?”
Solomon leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed as he takes in the sight before him. Scattered around the common room are dozens of lit candles, each one flickering with your movement as you make your way around to continue lighting more. There’s also a bouquet of dried red roses on the coffee table.
It seems he caught you in the middle of whatever you were setting up.
“Preparing.” you state bluntly, though your response leaves much to Solomon’s wandering imagination.
What could you be preparing for? The candles, the lighting, the flowers – in the solitude of your shared dormitory, no less…
Oh, oh my…
A slick grin pulls on his lips as it dawns on him that you’re trying create a romantic atmosphere for the two of you. That’s the only explanation there is.
He chuckles as he crosses the room to get to you. His arms circle around your waist from behind, causing you to jump slightly from his sudden touch. “Oh, love… Putting in all this effort for little ole me?”
He’s already feeling amorous and you haven’t even finished setting up yet. Tender kisses brush along the shell of your ear, his lips moving to your neck all the way down to your shoulder. Your body shivers in his hold, and his heart nearly bursts out of his chest with the knowledge that he’s affecting you in a similar manner.
“Well, you deserve the best.” It’s obvious to him that you’re fighting to keep your voice even and your hand steady as you light the last candle.
“Is that so?” Solomon places a little kiss right behind your ear his time, his hands simultaneously squeezing your hips in anticipation.
With a quick flick of your hand, the match between your fingers goes out, and you shimmy out of his eager grasp. This confuses Solomon as his eyes follow your form to the coffee table. You pick the bouquet up with a soft sigh, before mumbling in disappointment, “you weren’t supposed to see yet...”
Solomon just watches you silently for a few moments, noticing how down you seem that he ruined your surprise.
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay. I’m flattered you’re doing this for me at all! I was certainly surprised to see all your efforts,” he slowly approaches you, gingerly taking the bouquet from your hand. “How about I help you finish setting up?”
With a small smile, you nod, easily agreeing to his compromise. “Okay. I could use some help anyways. Why don’t you go ahead and start picking the petals off the flowers?”
Solomon returns your smile and instantly begins on his task. He sits on the couch, holding the flowers over the table as he plucks at the petals, letting them pile up there until he’s done and you tell him where to scatter them.
“You know...” he starts, “I can’t help wonder if there’s a special occasion I’m missing here. I didn’t forget our anniversary, did I?”
“No, no special occasion, no anniversary,” you say softly as you fish into your pocket for a piece of white chalk that you had hidden there, “but there is a reason I’m doing this…”
A curious brow cocks at the piece of chalk you present. His fingers pause their movement as he watches you push the coffee table towards him on the couch and as you roll up the rug, clearing up space in the middle of the room. “Oh? And why may my adorable apprentice want to go to through such lengths for me tonight?”
You then kneel on the old, creaky floorboards, beginning to draw a large circle right on them...and a large star to match right in the center. This looks familiar. Too familiar, in fact. You’re silent as you work, almost as if you’re in some sort of trance. Solomon’s about to re-ask his question when he hears a faint whisper fall from your lips.
“I’m going to sacrifice you.”
Solomon’s eyes widen as he swallows thickly, struggling to comprehend what you just said. Where in the Seven Hells did that come from?! And why?
Although, the more he thinks about it, the idea of you being the one to sacrifice him for whatever purpose doesn’t sound so bad. You successfully caught him in your web, seducing him with gestures that seemed one way, but were really another. And here he was, foolishly aiding you along. He stares in disbelief at the pile of rose petals which were actually to be scattered around him on the pentagram... Not on the couch like he’d expected. He could almost laugh at himself right now.
“And by sacrifice, you mean…”
“Laying on the floor as I chant above you and accept you as my own personal offering.”
Oh, this just got even better.
He looks up to you, grinning as he realizes what you plan to do. “You mean to sacrifice me to yourself so that I’m permanently bound to you? Am I understanding this correctly?” Because he’d do it. Gods, he’d let you in a heartbeat if it’s what you wanted, if it meant he'd forever be tied to you.
A sly grin of your own appears, almost maniacally, on your lips. “You understood perfectly. After tonight, you’re mine.”
“I see...” Solomon nods before ultimately shrugging. He’s so into this. “Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s do it.”
#i love readers and mcs being just as obsessed with solomon as he is them#he deserves the same treatment does he not? :(#he WANTS that same treatment#and i'm here to deliver#obey me#obey me nightbringer#obey me solomon#obey me solomon x reader#obey me fluff#jo writes
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Holy CRAP GUYS!!! I JUST FINISHED WATCHING
HANGOVER SQUARE 1945 Thriller movie for Frederick!!
This one was W I L D OH MY GOSSSHHHHHHHHHHH 🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌🤌
They POPPED OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFF with this Deduction Skin FOR REALLLLLLLLLLLLL OH MY WORD
MASTERPIECE RIGHT HERE This skin is a 100000000000000000000000000000% times more tragic and beautiful to me now like HOLY
NOW~ BELOW are SPOILERS for the movie If you want to watch the movie before reading~ I just summarize:
So in the movie this guy has these blackout periods, that he has no recollection of, that are triggered by LOUD SOUND or LOUD RINGING
Normally he has a mostly calm demeanor with a burning passion for music as a composer, an extremely talented one~ He is soft spoken and horrified with the thought that he might have committed the murder, at the beginning of the movie, so he goes to the mental doctor to ask for help and to look into it, cause he had blacked-out for 24 hours this time, the longest period of time he has no memory of and thinks he could have done it during that time.
Anyway the doctor tells him to avoid music and to get his frustrations out and dealing with the stress in a different way, since music obviously isn't working, if he is reacting in such a dramatic way of blacking-out.
He obviously doesn't stop working on his music
But for a good portion of the movie he is being taken advantage of by this singer woman, that he thinks is in love with him cause of her purposeful honeyed words, etc. but she just wants him to be her composer monkey on a leash so she can climb the ladder to success.
ANYWAYS he finds out she has been using him cause he finds she is with another man behind the scenes after trying to propose to her.
SideNOTE: By this point he has already tried to strangle his friend, (a beautiful woman who likes him for him and cares for him deeply, who has been encouraging him to finish his great piece) cause she saw how poorly the singer woman treated him and she got mad that he is letting that happen. He was just gonna be angry and keep to himself until a load of pipes fall from a carriage and ring LOUDLY and that is the first we see him go into blackout mode!!
ANYWAY
He does lash out at the guy the singer lady was with but does leave without ending anyone, only to return after the loud crashing of his instruments after throwing stuff around his home. So in a blackout state he goes back and uuhhhhhh gets rid of the singer lady 🙃
ANYWAY he starts finishing his masterpiece and the doctor and police are on to him, despite him having zero memory of the events
then we get to the end, he has finished his music and is prepared to perform it but the doctor has found him out and wants to put him in a place where the composer won't harm himself or anyone else. But composer ends up showing up to his performance without the doctor PFF and its getting more obvious that he will do anything to finish this performance, and as he is playing he is remembering everything he did 🙃 and it gets to the point where he can't play anymore and the people are arriving and prepared to take him into custody (two dudes found the doctor locked in the closet so they let him out. So the doctor is there with the police)
Anyway he is at the point he can't play anymore and his lady friend takes over for him so the music is still going while he is in another room and he admits that he remembers now and they are all like "we know none of this was on purpose etc etc so you won't hang, we will just put you into a place where you won't hurt anyone else" but he realizes that they won't let him listen to the rest of the piece he created so he starts wiggin out and starts with chucking a lamp and stuff starts catching on fire as he runs out and locks the door behind him.
So now he is crying as he listens to the music until people start freaking out about a fire and the doctor and police that he locked in the room have gotten out and are trying to help evacuate everyone, so the music has stopped, this triggering the composer again and he goes running to lock doors so people can't get out (he doesn't get to all of them) and he is trying to get everyone to sit in the fire and listen to the rest of the music. Everyone is getting out anyway they can and he just runs to the piano to finish playing and won't leave despite his lady friend's pleading and the doctor.
So he dies in the fire playing his song til its very end orz
---------------------
-does a checkmark- yup this has Frederick written all over it orz
-Issues with the mind -Music is everything -Good at heart but there is a side to him that is beyond his control -Taken advantage of -Is desperate -Loud Ringing plays a part with his mind state
Now with the skin I LOVE that red-ish fabric wrapped around his wrist and forearm cause he uses a curtain fasten thing for the strangling he does Then the hat he wears so he can hide his face and then the knife at the very beginning of the movie and he doesn't know where he got it
they even have the blood on the coat and the gash on his forehead aaahhhh
This is SUCH A FANTASTIC SKIN OH MY GOSH THEY POPPED OFF ON THIS ONE GOSH DANNNGGGGGGGG
I am still reeling from the movie so I am sure there is stuff my brain is still trying work out but DANG This skin is a 100000000000000000000000000000% times more tragic and beautiful to me now like FOR REAL FOR REAL
#identity v#idv#frederick kreiburg#idv composer#idv frederick#identity v frederick#I want to watch the 1949 version of Alice in wonderland for Alice and I also want to write a whole thing for Norton as well#its why I deleted the last thing cause I was like 'heck imma just write it all out in one place'#so PREPARE YOURSELVES LOL#minty yappin#minty speaks
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Redesign / Alliance fit for Theron!
I was kinda sad that our husband didn't get a new design like our wife Lana did, so I decided to try to make something nice for him✨
Not that I don't like his original design. I just wanted to try something different.
(I got too tired drawing, so that's why he doesn't have a face XD)
I'll be describing some details of this design below if anyone is interested to read about them!
A little bit of warning. There is some headcanon / fanon stuff here, and, also, the opinion on some stuff is just my opinion, and you don't have to agree with me. Please don't be too harsh to me. I just wanted to have fun UwU
For the lower part of his body, I mostly got rid of a bunch of details, like the blue stripes on his pants, to make it simpler (in contrast with the upper part, which has some interesting stuff going on).
Got rid of those hanging things on his belt cuz they seemed pretty redundant, and I couldn't think of what they could be used for. Belt, in general, is more simplified. As a cherry on top, he now has the alliance symbol on it ✨
I added the metal thing, which I like to call "magnetic plate", on his right leg, and it's basically for carrying stuff like his datapad, keys, Eternal Fleet ashes, etc.
(I do remember seeing a similar thing in imperial designs, but I'm not sure what it's called)
Since he relies on tech a lot, he now has a fancy new toy - the glove on his left hand! Very useful thing for operating stuff and also hacking!
Remember that scene when we get our ship back, and Theron just presses something on his very regular glove? I always found it amusing. Not it will make more sense since he now actually has a suitable glove for this kind of action XD
[the scene in question]
He now hides his blasters inside his jacket (hence the belts on his upper part).
The jacket is a pretty memorable part of his design. It looked really good with a yellow color, but it's hard to imagine him wearing a jacket that isn't red.
I have to admit that a lot of new stuff in that thing was added based only on my headcanons. Mostly because I wanted to add an interesting story to it.
(A little bit of explaining is in order) Theron is a chilly person; he often feels like it's cold even if the room temperature is normal. Tauntauns are also his favourite animals.
This jacked is a gift from a very dear person to him. They knew all that and that's why they gifted Theron a warm jacket made with Tauntaun's fur (no tauntaun was harmed in making this jacket).
That person is no longer alive, but he still holds on to this jacket like it's his second skin; it's very important to him.
Anyway, the white parts of the jacket are now fur. And the fur inside only extends to shoulders (having natural fur already sounds too expensive for a republic soldier salary it was bought with). It's still warm tho. Sleeves have fur only at the ends and have zippers so that they can be easily folded back.
This jacket also can be closed (sounds kinda pointless stating the obvious, but in comparison with his original jacket, to me at least, makes sense cuz I can hardly imagine the original one closing).
Almost forgot.
A turtleneck for Theron. It just makes sense.
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hi girlie!! i see that your requests are open... can i pls request hurt+comfort on orter with a flirty girl reader pretty please??? the lack of orter fics is crazy T_T
(guess who btw :3)
why hello there, dear. I'll guess you are m***i, and I agree, there aren't enough works on him.
Anyway, here's a poorly, quickly written one. It is supposedly proofread but it's 5am and I am very eepy!
Just a flirt!
Word count: 2.6k
Warnings: none!
“Took you long enough.”
You blinked a few times as he looked up from his paperwork, and mostly at the report you were holding. You had spent longer than necessary on this paper you’d received from Renatus, correcting rewriting the entire thing as it was just full of mistakes and this jerk was too lazy to give you anything that was decent.
“What, did you miss me that much?” You raised your eyebrows with a slight smile as you chuckled to yourself. Oh yeah, that was funny. Orter didn’t seem to find it amusing, as his expression didn’t really change at all. You made your way to his desk and sat on the chair facing it, handing him Renatus’ report.
He decided not to dwell on that stupid remark of yours and started reading the paper, taking notes on the side and making sure nothing is missing. Meanwhile, you were staring carefully studying his expression, and every single small nod he gave while reading.
“Renatus isn't usually this thorough with reports. Colour me surprised.” He blankly said and slid the report inside one of his drawers. You raised an eyebrow and looked at him with a proud grin. “Renatus gave me a piece of scrap, so I rewrote it entirely using the information he gave me.” you stated, crossing your arms as you looked at him, visibly waiting for some praise.
He stared blankly for a second and sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Well done, (Y/N). Very good work.” Though he was praising you, his expression didn't change that much and you could just feel how exhausting it was for him to give compliments.
“Mm, mm. That's right. I’m always good with my work when I know you'll review it…” You trailed off, looking at him with a satisfied smile and a small wink. He raised both eyebrows at your obvious flirting and chose not to comment on it, but you weren't done anyway.
“Anyway, I think I deserve more than just a little compliment! I rewrote the entire thing, you know?” You playfully pouted, putting on a dramatically sad, puppy eyes expression for him. Orter pinched the bridge of his nose with a deep sigh; he knew you wouldn't back down anyway.
“That was amazing work, (Y/N). Rarely have I ever seen a report written with such incredible finesse and precision.” He said blankly again, and it was clear he didn't mean it that much, although there was a part of truth in his words that he refused to admit, even to himself.
“Thank you, thank you.” You chuckled, knowing very well that he was exaggerating, but seeing as he played along, you decided to push your luck a little. “So what, am I getting a reward for all this hard work?”
Even if his expression didn't change, you could read him like he was an open book. “Was the praise not enough?” was probably what he thought at this point. You could've stopped there and brushed it off as a joke but your ego had been flattered just enough to make you bolder.
“How ‘bout… a little kiss? Just on the cheek! Like mwwwah!” you mimicked a kiss while pointing at your cheek and were absolutely convinced that your imitation was flawless. Of course, you were partially joking, and assumed he would just sigh and dismiss your comment, but no such luck.
“I have better things to do than to entertain your delusional little fantasies.” He simply spoke and grabbed his pen again to fill out some of his paperwork. Ouch. But that was his whole personality anyway, of course he wouldn't give you a little kiss, you already knew that, but hearing him say it this way tugged just a tiny bit at your heartstrings.
“No fun.” You sighed and crossed your arms on top of his desk before nesting your chin in-between them. “I am being highly underappreciated here.” You whined dramatically, and then regained your usual smug expression. “That's okay though, you're still my favourite.”
You could tell you were slowly but surely getting on his nerves, and it was kind of amusing to see him have to close his eyes and take a deep breath before focusing on his tasks again. He was already being very patient by allowing you to laze around in his office when you had free time, but he was gradually starting to regret this decision.
You were already done with your work for today, and sat in Orter’s office simply to enjoy his company. He knew, and for some reason he tolerated your presence as long as you didn't disturb him too much.
Was any of your flirting serious? Of course it was. You genuinely liked him! You had been blessed with a sweet voice and a pretty face, and most of your colleagues at the Bureau would've dreamt of being in his place right now. He was very much aware of that, but it seemed off to him.
Even though your coworkers kept flirting around with you and quite literally trying to slide in your pants, you had denied every single one of them. From nameless staff members to the Flame Cane, none of them had your attention except Orter, and all of your flirting surely showed it… or so you thought. Things were awfully different in his mind.
Now, you were just looking at him and his paperwork, fiddling with some trinkets on his desk. Being in the same room as him was almost enough for you, but you kept feeling this physical need to flirt with him, to demonstrate how much you liked him, and you would've thought he had a clue, as you kept making it painfully obvious.
His eyes travelled to your hands as he put one of his papers down. “Stop it.” He ordered, and you immediately let go of the trinket you were toying with in a deep sigh now.
“But I’m bored.” You mumbled, and he put down his pen, his hands now joined on top of his desk. He looked at you for a bit, your almost childish behaviour was starting to irritate him slightly.
“Then leave.” He raised his head slightly as he took off his glasses to wipe them. “Nobody asked you to sit here and disturb my work with your… immature antics.” Ouch, another one, but at this point, you were used to his spiky remarks and simply shrugged it off.
“Aww, but I'll miss you if I leave, you know~?” Again with the puppy eyes, making your expression unnecessarily dramatic again even though you meant every single word you said; but saying it in a completely blank tone would embarrass you way too much. “And I know you'll miss me too, hehe.” You playfully added.
He put his glasses back on and gave you a very stern look and raised an eyebrow very slightly. “Surely, there are other victims that await your attention somewhere else. Why not pay them a visit instead of constantly disrupting my focus?”
He sure was in a foul mood today, wasn't he? But his comment felt like a sharp blade into your stomach and you just needed an explanation for it. “What is that supposed to mean?” Your flirtatious demeanour was temporarily suspended as you weren't quite sure what you'd just heard.
“Are you already done seducing your other colleagues? Must I suffer your incessant flirtations in their place now?” He asked again, and it didn't sound like he was being sarcastic at all, but at least you now knew.
“Orter… are you jealous?” You asked, and your tone was dead serious. It was inimaginable that he could ever feel jealous about something so petty— something you hadn't even done in the first place.
He took a deep breath. “Nonsense. This is wishful thinking; I am merely aggravated by your attempts to turn me into one of these loyal… dogs you have around at the Bureau.” he scoffed, and you could tell he was not pleased with your behaviour.
“...what?” was all you could utter, as you looked at him in disbelief. “You don't know how wrong you are about this, clearly.” You didn't want to be rude to him even though he really deserved it right now, but you seemed to be testing each other's patience.
“How wrong could I be? These people are head over heels for you. Surely, this doesn't happen without a push.” He firmly stated, and again, he was wrong. “Whatever have I done for you to think I’ll be one of them?”
You had always hated arguments, but having one with Orter was the worst that had happened in a while. He was fully convinced that you were but a flirt, a temptress that relished in having people crawl at her feet… but that wasn't it, and these people weren't exactly crawling either.
“How can you say such a thing?” You looked at him in heavy disappointment. “How could you think such a thing, after all of… this?” After all of the obvious flirting you gave him, the endless remarks about how you miss him when he isn't around or your constant winking.
He was just staring in religious silence, thinking you'd give up and simply admit your faults so he could go back to work without any disturbance, but he was once again very wrong, and you needed to justify yourself.
“Why would I flirt with anyone other than you at the Bureau?” you asked, standing up from your chair and placing both hands on the desk in front of him, and he simply adjusted his glasses on his nose.
“Because that's who you are, it would seem.”
You sat back in defeat, looking at him, completely dumbfounded. Every word you wanted to say ended up getting swallowed in the whirlpool of emotions you were feeling, and you couldn't do anything else than stare at him. You could physically feel your heartstrings being pulled now and it was disturbingly painful.
“Is…” you swallowed your emotions down before trying again. “Is that really what you think? That I'm just the type of girl to flirt around and just… sleep well afterwards?” Your tone made it obvious that you were hurt, and it didn't go unnoticed.
But he was convinced. Convinced that your flirting was not a rare occurrence, that it extended beyond the limits of his office, that surely you had already done it before and he was probably just one of those targets you'd use to boost your self-esteem. Even though he was upset with you, his goal wasn't to hurt you, and he decided to avoid your question, not knowing what to answer anyway.
“I don't even know why you're trying to justify yourself that hard.” He finally sighed and grabbed his pen again, which was his way of telling you that this conversation was over and you had to leave; but you wouldn't let go just yet, not before you had said your piece.
“Because it's you we're talking about.” You blurted out, once again flabbergasted by how dense a man could be. “How straightforward do I have to be for you to understand? Have I not been vigorously flirting with you?” You asked loudly, almost laughing nervously.
“You sure have, but—”
“Have I not made it crystal clear that I am into you? That I want to spend time with you?” Oh, you had no will to listen to his flawed reasoning and you just couldn't take it anymore. You were trying your best not to tear up in front of him already, and any more of his baseless accusations surely would make a sufficient push to make you cry.
“I never said you didn't d—”
“Then why are you so blind to my feelings?” You interrupted again, but this time way calmer. You sat back, weakly plopping down on your chair and staring down at his desk for no apparent reason. He didn't really say anything. In fact, he was processing the information you had just given him.
You felt terribly awkward after your half confession, and that clumsy part of your personality couldn't take the silence anymore. “How can someone that dense be in charge of the Magical Power administration..?”
Were you jesting? Probably. But what else could you do anyway? Your main goal was to keep your composure and hold your tears back, at least until you were out of his line of sight. His eyes were on you, they had been the whole time, but you couldn't muster the courage to look at him anymore.
“May I speak now?” He asked, first of all wanting to make sure you wouldn't interrupt him anymore, and only now did it occur to you, how rude you had been these last few minutes. You gave a nod and he sighed deeply, joining his hands against his desk and looking at you with a bit of a softer expression.
“I never said you haven't been straightforward.” He started, and now that you were a bit calmer than before, you could feel your shame grow at his words. “I never said you didn't do all these things you talked about so… fervently. I am merely saying that I do not believe you are exclusively trying to seduce me.”
You sighed again, and he braced himself for another rant but instead of justifying yourself again, you ran a hand through your hair and took a deep breath. Looking all sad and defeated wasn't like you at all, and you needed to prove yourself to this dense, silly, overworked man.
“I don’t get it. Why does the fact that I supposedly am flirting with other people bother you?” You decided to ask, your arms crossed over your chest as you were now back to studying his expression and tone. If you were going to cry, so be it, but you wouldn't go down without a fight, especially for him.
He takes a minute to think, narrowing his eyes slightly. “What bothers me is the way you act with those people, and how you pretend to be innocent afterwards.” You gave him a confused look and he decided to develop. “The way you politely smile at them and make small talk. You're almost inviting them.” He said that while keeping his straight face and cold glare, completely serious.
Oh. Oh.
“So you are jealous.” You couldn't help but smile a little and finally look up at him, only to be met by an utterly confused Orter, ready to absolutely deny your claim.
“I am not jealous, (Y/N).”
“What if I stopped talking to all of them then, would it make things a little better?” You offered, suppressing a smile and pretending to act serious. He seemed to think for another minute again and leaned back into his chair.
“Yes, I believe it would.”
Ah, you couldn’t take it anymore and just burst out laughing; he didn’t seem to like it very much but it was impossible to resist. You just had to make sure again, and so, you slowly regained your composure and caught your breath, then exhaled deeply. “So, let me get this straight…” you started, and he listened. “What upsets you is the fact that I am supposedly flirting with other people, and if I didn’t smile at them or made small talk, you wouldn’t mind my flirting?”
You did not miss that sigh of relief. He adjusted his glasses again and crossed his legs, looking at you very seriously. “I am glad to know that you have ears.” He said blankly, his expression still so cold as his eyes landed on yours again. “Are you making fun of me now?” His voice sounded slightly irritated and you had to calm yourself down again.
“No, not at all. But you just admitted to being jealous so… I win.” You could feel all of your earlier worries dissipating. He wasn't denying it either, instead looking like he was thinking about your reasoning; you had him cornered now.
And the best part about all of this is that he has no clue what he just signed up for.
#orter mádl x reader#orter x reader#orter madl x reader#orter madl x you#orter madl#mashle x reader#mashle#mashle imagine#mashle fluff#mashle x you#mashle x y/n#madl orter#mashle orter madl#orter mádl#mashle orter
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amethio, silver x hex maniac reader.
requested
amethio and silver! oreo and jalapeño duo (this is separated.) sorry for the big wait, school is biting my toes. uhh silvers is very short, because I feel like ive mentioned most of the things silver would do in other fics. I don't wanna seem repetitive or uncreative!
— AMETHIO
amethio would initially be unsure what to make of you. your eerie aura and cryptic way of speaking would intrigue him, but he’d be cautious. he’s logical, so he’d view what you do as something he needs to understand rather than dismiss, because every person is different why judge them. he’d probably think, "are they like this all the time?" when you casually mention something spooky like the “ghosts watching over” him.
amethio’s edgy demeanor and your crazy words would balance each other out. he’d act as the grounded counterpart to your whimsical nature, often giving you a deadpan look when you go off on a supernatural tangent.
“amethio, the spirit (random gengar) says this battle will be tough.”
“the spirit is stating the obvious.”
your comments often catch him off guard, not because he gets scared of it. it's just becuse you just say it so randomly it's kind of concerning, leading to some amusing exchanges.
“The ghosts approve of you, amethio.”
“good to know. now, tell them to get out out of my way.”
your unpredictability often throws him off balance. whether it’s your cryptic compliments (“the spirits find you quite handsome today”) or your sudden affection, he finds himself flustered more often than he’d like to admit.
your spooky vibe complements his calm and calculated style perfectly. he’d use your unnerving presence to throw off opponents while he plans a precise attack. he might even ask you for “spiritual advice” during critical missions, though you’re never quite sure if he’s joking or went insane.
he isn't really phased from ghosts, neither is his pokemon. ceruledge is one of the few pokémon that isn’t fazed by your team. it often stands protectively between amethio and your more mischievous Pokémon like (for example) misdreavus, who enjoys pranking people by floating off with their belongings. ceruledge gets really paranoid and assumes all your ghosts are evil at first.
amethio never disregards your interests, and tries his best help you enjoy them, even if he's not a fan of it himself.
— SILVER
silver is honestly pretty game with whatever crazy stuff you do, he didn't stop loving you after you did questionable things in order to see ghosts (he'd be apart of it anyway.)
first time meeting you silver already felt discomfort/concern. (not negative) he’d wonder if you had some hidden agenda, but over time, he’d notice how kind and sincere you are, even with your random outbursts, which would ease his initial distrust.
silver reluctantly tags along when you explore spooky ruins or abandoned buildings to “connect with spirits.” he’d grumble about how impractical it is, but goes anyway. (his honchkrow becomes your flashlight during these adventures.)
your spooky jokes and ghostly references catch him off guard, but he grows to enjoy your sense of humor. he won’t laugh out loud, but the corner of his mouth quirks up when you say something particularly clever. silver might even use them too, but to an extent. gold never understand the jokes...
when travelling on a mission sent by professor oak by the dex holders (gold, and crys mostly) he makes sure to find and pick up eerie trinkets and paranormal items to give to you on his return. he'd just silently sneak them in his pocket without the other two knowing, sometimes what he does though leads to a bigger problem.
"hey silver what are you doing! this place is completely abandoned don't touch that!" crys silently yelled (if you get it) in the corner.
silver unresponsive, shrugs and picks it up... suddenly a locked door opens "WHAT DID YOU DO?" gold yelled from the other room, echoing through the entire building.
"silver you pay for my life insurance."
"it's just another room, there might be something important we could give to professor oak there. you guys are just overreacting."
"GHOST!"
silver knows alot of paranormal information because of you, and it definitely saved the 3 idiots lifes maybe twice. lesson learned: don't go to abandoned haunted building, (unless you're a hex maniac the ghosts are pretty cool with you.)
it's not just him that gives the other trinkets, it's also vice-versa! you gift silver supposedly "haunted" charms, he's skeptical but carries it around anyway. when he wins a tough match, you proudly point at the many trinkets you gave him.
"the spirits were with you, horray!" you say celebrating.
"or maybe it was my training, but you know that works too."
silver has a beef with your pokemon, doesn't matter which he hates them and they hate him. (don't worry though) your pokemon like taunting him and whenever he complains, you brush it off as them bonding together.
“tell your pokémon to stop stealing my items,” he says, holding up a poké ball with a stone faced expression.
“it’s just trying to bond with you!” you reply.
“...bond less.”
#pokemon#pokemon x reader#pokemon horizons#pokemon horizons x reader#amethio x reader#pokespe#pokespe x reader#pokespe silver#pokespe silver x reader#silver x reader
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𝐹𝒶𝓇𝓂𝑒𝓇 𝒜𝒷𝒷𝓎 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑅𝒶𝓃𝒸𝒽 o𝓌𝓃𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒹𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇
Part 1: If you guys like it I can write part 2 (with smut)
@osteologistimpostor
@mitski-lovesems
A/N: Despite my VERY frequent Abby x female reader stories, I actually write original pieces too. This one isn’t an original piece- the character is still Abby, but I’m pushing outside of my comfort zone and I’m doing Abby x OC. It's also modern(ish) day Abby
So without further adieu:
Light drifted across the room, pouring onto the table where a rather unimpressed and not-very awake girl was seated. She chased the letters of the paper in her hand, paying more attention to the lack of colour more than how interesting- or rather, uninteresting- the words were.
The view from the balcony was gorgeous, it’s serenity drifting through the house and offering enough “fresh air” to cure a lifetime of hangovers. And still, it was lonely. Not the cleansing kind people often searched for when investing in large areas of land just to have 5 unneeded bathrooms with pretty tiles to be admired; but the desolate and painfully boring kind that was becoming all the more prominent to a woman new to adulthood with her whole life worth of dreams and ambitions with no aim or prospects to go about pursuing them.
Of course any talk of leaving the nest was disregarded as swiftly as it was brought up by her rather reserved, single father, who was more protective of her than anything. This was unsurprising of course. She had great beauty and wit who would be sure to have people swooning over her had she been raised in the city, and this prospect was what scared him the most.
“Good morning Clara.” Spoke a tall, scrawny brunette who grabbed the paper off of the table and sat beside her. “Anything interesting?” He questions, more to the paper than to her. The girl shrugs, using just as much energy to remain neutral as she did to bury the rather obvious deep seated resentment she held towards him. With most guilt, of course.
“Nope.” She replies quietly, getting back up from the table and walking over to the kitchen.
“Coffee, dad?” The man is unresponsive, eyes drifting happily over the page. Clara rolls her eyes.
“Coffee-“
“Huh? Oh yes, yes thank you sweetie.” Clara nods, walking over to the machine and pressing a button, the espresso machine pouring out the rich smelling liquid with a loud and familiar noise.
“Oh, I hired a new ranch hand…by the way.” Explains her father in an awkward mutter. Clara turns her head with a force which very nearly gave her whiplash.
“A ranch hand?” She exclaims, already forcing herself to believe it was just her mishearing over the sound of the coffee. Her father sighs.
“Why don’t you bring that over here?” With a pounding heart, she obeys, bringing the coffee to him and sitting in the chair in front, fiddling with her hands and noting how the two textures feel as she rubs her hand on one another. The man takes a deep breath.
“I figured we could use the help just in case you…end up going to college. Sometime soon, maybe. And I saw this girls ad so I thought…” Clara doesn’t say anything, partly due to her state of disbelief but mostly because she believes saying something will break this reality in two, and that her dad would instead, change her mind and ask her to stay forever.
“Anyway, it’s just a trial run-“ Clara leaps over and hugs him.
“Thank you dad. When does she start?” The man lets out a short laugh.
“Tomorrow.”
***
Clara had spent the morning cleaning the dishes she had put off doing last night, watching TV in her bed and chilling on her balcony naked. She had been painting something out there and had lost motivation for it recently. As for the lack of clothes, she had a tendency of spilling paint on her clothes to a point she had decided just not to wear them since she was home alone. Or at least she thought that until she heard a loud thud in the barn.
Flinching so high she almost saw the heavens, she knocks the painting, causing the stranger to reveal themself at the noise.
There she was. A beautiful, unfamiliar woman with long blonde hair braided ever so nicely down her back, black tank top revealing arms bigger than on any man she had seen, and a face so stunning Clara was blushing even before returning to the realisation that she was butt naked.
The woman immediately covers her eyes with her hand and turns away from her.
“I…I…am sorry-“
“Who the fuck are you?!” Demands Clara, picking the painting back up and hiding as best she could behind the frame.
“Uh…I’m Abby. I think your dad hired me. I take it you’re…Clara?”
“Fuck.” She says, taking a stabilising breath. “No, the new hire is coming tomorrow.”
“I decided to drive in early, I was going to start organising the barn to make it easier for myself when I start tomorrow. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to look.”
“No…No it’s my fault, I’m sorry Abby.”
“I can come back if you want to…keep painting.” She clears her throat awkwardly. “Naked.” she adds. Clara laughs softly.
“No I uh, think I’m done with that. Let me put some clothes on and I’ll come down.” Abby blushes, head still glued to the floor like the most interesting object she could fathom was there. “There’s no need for that miss-“ Abby blurted out, but Clara had already returned to her room.
The second those doors are closed, Clara is hitting her hand over her head in dismay. Of course this would happen to her. Her first god damn impression with some tank, godess-of-a-woman stranger was that she’s some sort of farmer hippie who paints in the nude. It was only somewhat true, but regardless it made her want to move out and start a life as an actual hippie some place where no one will find her. In a scramble, she grabs a dress from one of her clothes piles on the ground. She couldn’t be sure it was clean, but it certainly looked better than her other shit. Thankfully she spotted a coat on the rack behind her door. Mind you, mildly clashy, but better than nothing.
“Abby?” She asks warily. Abby steps out of the barn, face bright red.
“Still here Ma’am.”
“Oh. Yes…good.” Clara says, mentally kicking herself at each word. Abby nods, words failing her too.
“My…dad said he saw your ad. That…you stayed with two seperate families from a young age.” Abbys expression bears much interest, allowing Clara to take her time with what she's saying.
“They kept you on for years so you must be pretty good at what you do. Why’d you decide to take this job instead?”
“Change of pace. Mr and Mrs Harkin are lovely people but, both well into retirement. It was their families farm and they had a lovely house up their when they were newly weds. Had their own jobs on the farm. I guess now that they’re older, they’re less able to enjoy the space. Plus Mrs Harkins has a lot of medicine she needs to refill and…well there ain't many hospitals nearby and if I do it every day the sheep don’t get fed and…well they’re movin in to their sons house.”
“Must have been a shame…” Clara offers, eyes drifting up and down the taller woman. Abby nods.
“Yeah. You know, I’m surprised you live out here. Most of em’ farmers are old folk or entrepreneurs.”
“My dad’s an entrepreneur. Sort of. He sells like IT to big companies. He leaves often for work trips.”
“Leaves you here? I can’t imagine many babysitters being willing to drive all the way out here when you were younger. Did you go with him?” Claras eyes soften and she shakes her head.
“My mum stayed with me. When she was alive.”
“Oh…Miss I’m so sorry.”
“Ah, don’t be. And yeah it is pretty lonely but, on the plus side, I can’t imagine painting in the nude being appropriate in whatever city you come from.” Abby laughs.
“Utah.” Claras eyes widen.
“Utah?” She nods with a smile that makes Claras whole body tingle.
“Salt lake city.” She explains. Clara nods.
Each breath that left the muscular woman seemed to ripple in the space between them, and Claras own breathing mirrored it, as if they’d fallen into a rhythm only the two of them understood.
“I hope the painting can still be salvaged.” Abby spoke after some time. Claras eyes widen.
“What?”
“Well, you kinda knocked it when you…”
“Yeah.” Clara interrupts, not needing the memory of her naked body being exposed to be rehashed. “Though I wouldn’t care if it was ruined. I’ve never been much into art. Too impatient. I paint when something drives me to. A feeling or something inspiring but, I’ve felt that less and less of late.”
“Hm.” Abby responds, examining Clara as if to squint in between the lines she had placed.
“If not art, then what? Surely a sweet thing like you has some big ambition. Art school maybe?”
Sweet thing like you. Repeated the voice in Claras head. Each word lingered in the air, thickening the atmosphere between them, drawing her in closer as if to shield her from the world. It was a delicate label, yet it bore an unexpected weight, making her feel seen in a way that both thrilled and unsettled her, like stepping into the sun after a long winter.
“Have I said something…?” Abby asks, her own nervousness becoming obvious as she talks. In truth she hadn’t expected such beauty. An old man and an already married daughter was what she had expected when Claras father had accepted the ad, not a scrawny, decently young man and his perfect fucking daughter. One who, from what Abby had seen on the balcony, had a physique that mirrored that of an angel itself.
Fuck. Thought Clara at the realisation that she had no recollection of what Abby possibly could have asked her.
“No…sorry I, what did you ask?” Abby smiles reassuringly.
“I was just asking about your plans for the future, but…well I should probably get back to work. I’ve already wasted enough time as is just gettin’ you out here and…well I shouldn’t waste your time any longer.” Clara nodded shortly.
“I’ll be in the house…my rooms just there if you need me.” She offers, stepping away from Abby this time.
***
It had been days without contact from her. Or at least, face-to-face contact. Clara had found herself on that balcony more often than ever. Waking up at dawn to the sound of tools being russled in the barn and the sheep making happy “baas” in response to Abby feeding them. She would look out and see her tending to the crops, sweat on her skin illuminated by the morning sun and bringing a colour that painted her like one of the finest artworks in creation. She had Claras mind coursing in ways that she would warrant was unhealthy. Daydreaming. Fantasising. There was a yearning that words couldn’t describe.
She wouldn’t face her though. Their first conversation had an unspoken definitiveness to it. Like they would speak only as formalities when situations required them to. Plus it’s not like Clara had that kind of confidence. No, that kind of confidence was only discovered at the bottom of a bottle of alcohol most of the time, and thankfully her dad was away for yet another weekend trip, leaving his stash of expensive bourbon unattended to.
There was some point into her night where she had stumbled her way into the barn. It was her hiding spot when she was younger. Nothing much to do on a farm as a kid other than force your parents to play games, and now Clara found it offered her some comfort. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was looking for when she opened up those barn doors. A quiet place to chill out that wasn’t the same four walls of her room? Or was it Abby? She couldn’t be sure.
Clara climbed up the ladder to the top level of the barn, heading over near the small window where a desk and a beanbag was. She clambered onto the beanbag, forming a small ball and closing her eyes. That was till the a haybale dropped, pulling an audible noise of shock from Clara. Abby gasped.
“Shit, fuck Clara?? Are you in here?” Clara simply laughs at the reaction.
“Calling me by my first name? Not very professional-profess?” She asks, continuing to stumble around. “I profess myself in banqueting to all the rout…”
“I…Miss I don’t-“
“It’s Shakespeare ‘Miss’ Anderson. You know, Cassius? Othello?”
“Oh.”
Clara’s voice, playful and teasing, had an ease about it that left Abby feeling unmoored and unsteady. She could barely keep up with what Clara was saying, but the mystery of it, the way her name sounded from Clara’s mouth, filled Abby with a raw, delicate ache.
“What are you doing in here?” Abby asks gently, walking over to the ladder. Clara shrugs.
“I live here. What are you doing in here? You know my dads away right? What if you were like a burglar who…burgled.”
“Are you drunk?” She asks, though the tone lacks any sort of accusation. Clara sighs.
“Come, look at the stars with me.” She hums. Abby sratches the back of her neck.
“Uh….well I really shouldn’t be…”
“Oh come on. You gonna leave a ’sweet thing like me’ up here by herself?” Abby laughs at her words, giving in and climbing effortlessly up the ladder.
“You can do that one handed? That’s hot.” Clara remarks. Abby just tilts her head with confusion.
“What did you just say?”
“I said that out loud?” Clara asks with a tone of genuine confusion. “Oops.” Abby blushes as she sits on the floor beside her.
“You usually get drunk like this? Just you?” Abby inquires. Clara shrugs, her smile fading a little.
“That over there, that’s Saturn.” Clara explains, shifting a lot in the beanbag. Abby looks at her, surprised.
“Saturn? You sure it’s not a star?”
“Nope. Saturn is m’most….mmm” Abby laughs, using her middle finger to push some hair out of your face.
“You’re so drunk.”
“Do you like me?” Clara asks, a rather sudden and drastic shift in both emotions and conversation.
“Well, sure Miss you seem uh, real nice.” Abby says simply.
“No I mean…you saw me. Naked. Did you like what you saw?”
“Wh- I…I wasn’t looking. Honest.” She states, parting the wisps of her blonde hair framing her face away from her eyes.
“Oh.” Clara replies, feeling the drunken urge to start bawling appear.
“Why do you care what I think anyway?” Abby asks, noting her expression and relaxing her tone as she spoke. Clara shrugged.
“I’ve been alone a lot. Thought I liked it, but…I watch all’em mmm….romances and the sit coms…never once been desired like that. Or desired…” Her words trail off, as if Clara is on the verge of sleep. She quickly snaps back into it.
“Anyway…I don’t know why I’m sayinallthis t’you. You’re…big…muscly…pretty. Sure you’ve had your fair sure of desir-ara-bles?” Abby laughs harshly at this.
“I think we should get you some water…”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Abby’s gaze softens, confusion clear.
“My apologies, Miss. What did you ask?”
“Don’t give me that. You saw me, even if you said you didn’t “look.” what’s wrong? Y’don’t like girls? Or do you just not like me??”
“Clara, it’s simply something I don’t want to talk about while you’re not sober enough to know what you’re saying. I think you’re very beautiful, but I don’t feel comfortable talking about how I…looked at your body without your consent.”
“Fine.” Clara says, unbuttoning her comfy red flannel. Abby gasps, immediately covering her eyes with her hands.
“Jesus, Miss-“
“I consent now, just look.”
“I’m not gonna-“ Abby starts to say, the corner of her eye betraying her as she sees the outline of a lace, purple bra.
“Wanna see something else?”
“NO- no just…wait here, I’m gonna get you a blanket mkay?” Abby stammers, getting up in a rush. A solid grip quickly stops her.
“I’m sorry.” Clara says. Abby smiles softly, turning to look at her face, (as well as she could) with reassurance.
“Don’t be. Being drunk alone is…well, I’ve done that once or twice should we say.” Abby says, kind blue eyes staring into Claras green. “Tomorrow morning we can talk as long as you like.”
“You’r staying here?” Clara asks, bewildered. Abby shrugs.
“If you’ll have me.”
“Yes.” Clara responds at an embarassing speed.“Though we are in a barn, don’t you want to go to my room?”
“Miss, I’ve worked here less than two weeks. What would your father think if he finds me on your bed with you?” Clara rolls her eyes.
“Fine, but you better grab me that blanket.”
“Be right back, your highness.” Abby teased.
Claras eyes drift closed in Abbys absence, hearing faintly the sound of her heading down the ladder. Even while in a state of almost sleep, she can still sense Abbys presence return beside her—the steady rise and fall of a chest, the delicate sigh of a muscular and yet still soft form settling in. A stray strand of hair slips across her cheek, stirring as she breathes, and she reaches up with barely a thought, brushing it aside before realising she’s also touched the woman beside her. Their hands meet, fingers resting in a quiet, unplanned tangle.
That’s how they wake up, too. Clara, who is usually as opposite to a morning person as one could fathom, wakes up before Abby, feeling dehydrated and disorientated. She moves to get up before feeling a body. A muscular body that builds her with the fear of the reality that she hadn’t simply dreamt of coming onto Abby while in the comfort of her bed, but rather that she had done that, and that it was rather thick, barn air she was smelling.
“Fuck.” Clara cursed under her breath, waking the other girl who calmly rubbed her eyes.
“Morning.” Abby says.
Fuck.
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EROS & PSYCHE
genre. fluff. greek god au. warnings. although it is an eros and psyche au i don't follow the actual story of psyche and eros. kissing. not proofread. pairing. eros!youngjae x psyche!fem!reader. wc. 593. request. requested by anon for #32: "one more kiss". a/n. idk why i made this a greek mythology au i just like aus okay SO I HOPE IT SLAYS. also for those of you who don't know, eros is the greek equivalent of cupid and psyche has butterfly wings sdjksd anyway.
When you heard the snap of a twig beneath your feet, you knew you were screwed. You silently cursed in your head, whipping your head up to see if he had heard the noise. Of course, he had.
He had his bow drawn straight at you, the gleaming golden arrow that he regularly drew replaced with a blunt lead one, serving the opposite purpose. Instead of making people fall in love, it would erase any desire for love and instil fear instead. The boy used it mostly to keep people from pestering him.
When he saw that it was you, though, his face brightened and he loosened his grip on the bow. Jumping down from the hill he had climbed, he jogged over to you, a boyish smile on his face.
“You need to stop sneaking away from home, Eros. Your mother keeps sending me to find you.” You hit him lightly on the shoulder, teasing him by calling him by his god name.
“Everyone tries to bribe me to make their love come true at home. I feel like I’m being used.” Youngjae shuddered, securing his bow on his hip and freeing his hands of all sharp objects. He practically bounded into your arms once he was free to do so, nearly knocking you off balance.
“I missed you, Psyche.” His words were earnest. A few days of not seeing you felt far too long for the boy more in love than even his arrows could replicate. He grinned as he pulled back, his nose scrunching slightly. His eyes wandered over your face, admiring your unmatched beauty. Your hair blew slightly in the breeze, and your butterfly wings swayed gently.
“I saved 4 marriages and got 15 new couples together in 3 days. Pretty impressive, right?” He fished for compliments, his eyes searching your face eagerly.
“Your aim has definitely gotten better.” You smiled.
The boy scoffed, “My aim was always good. What do you mean?” You laughed, a sound that Youngjae would probably never get tired of.
“Weren’t you the same one who missed me by half a mile with an arrow?” You teased, leaning a little closer to him, eyelashes fluttering. His cheeks blossomed with pink tones from the close contact, but he was still able to think of a suitable response even in his nervous state.
“You’re in love with me now regardless. I don’t think my arrows would’ve done much when you’re already obsessed.” His words wrung true, as even in the moment you couldn’t take your eyes off his face. He was the most stunning boy you had ever seen, face suitable for that of the son of the Aphrodite. Your gaze faltered to his lips, your stare too obvious for him to miss. He smirked slightly, the satisfaction of knowing you were entirely charmed by him greater than any remarkable feat he pulled off with his arrows.
He pulled you into an ardent kiss, holding you with a gentle but firm hand on your waist. There was something more natural about his kisses than anything else. His entire purpose was to love— it was intuitive to his nature. Each kiss, each glance, each smile, had you falling ever deeper into the drunken feeling of adoration for him. And the kiss had the same effect.
He pulled apart only to hold you comfortably in his arms again, hearts racing in sync. You caught your breath, hands finding his, lacing together with his warm fingers.
He lifted your chin up with his other hand, “One more kiss, hm?”
↳ tws taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @eternalgyu,, @seunghancore,, @sobun1est,, @talkingsaxy,, @talking-saxy,,
@50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @imyuna-06,, @kristianities,, @stannwjnss
#fics ❀˖°#youngjae#choi youngjae#tws#tws youngjae#youngjae x reader#youngjae fluff#youngjae fic#tws x reader#tws fic#tws fluff#tws fanfic#tws youngjae x reader#choi youngjae x reader#choi youngjae fic#choi youngjae fluff#kpop imagines#tws kpop#choi youngjae imagines#tws imagines#tws youngjae fluff#tws youngjae fic#tws youngjae imagines#tws choi youngjae#tws choi youngjae x reader
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Trapped between time and space
Today, I'm going to walk you through my new theory, which is about Cheng Xiaoshi going through the same ordeal than Lu Guang, except for longer, through more repeats.
I brushed the topic over my Curve Theory meta, stating that there was probably a sort of parallel universe or original unchangeable node around Lu Guang's death instead of Cheng Xiaoshi's.
The number of repeats from CXS' perspective is unknown for now, but my bet is on 10; X. 8 is also a repeated number in some official artworks, but never in the XIII format, so I'm ruling the hypothesis that it is related to time/timelines. (My guess is on the number of people with powers, because there are 8 seats on the promotional poster for season 2 and in the THE TIDES)
X marks the spot
Okay, one more time: this poster is a treasure hunt on its own. Beside the V clue, you'll notice 10 clocks. Cheng Xiaoshi underlights the biggest V with his silhouette but his entire body covers X on the smallest clock, while both hands point to X.
On both pictures, you'll find 10 candles on chandeliers (2 more candles are smaller but brighter than others). 8 glasses are on the spooky table while 10 glasses (8 wine glasses + 2 champagne glasses) are used for celebration on the second poster. I'm not the only one, someone else noticed the number 10.
X is often present, either in the background or near CXS specifically:
And I'm probably reading too much into this one but it's too perfect not to mention, since The Tides is mostly empty of clues to explore for now:
5+3 windows on the first floor (Lu Guang's perspective)
10 windows upstairs (Cheng Xiaoshi's perspective).
Anyway, what could it mean? As I argued before, Cheng Xiaoshi could be living through timelines where Lu Guang is dying while Lu Guang was diving from one picture to another to save Cheng Xiaoshi's life, except in two different universes; not inside the same Curve.
Paradox: is LEAVE possible?
Could there be more than two curves? Well, I think it's absolutely possible that the House of the Hothead, as the fandom call them, as a whole or individually, on purpose or by accident, could try and succeed to create yet another one; I'll mark them with VI (Liu Xiao is showing it to us in the artwork above).
I do believe that the Lu Guang we know and the stuck Cheng Xiaoshi are from the same timeline, originally, and keep "missing" each other somehow. They basically created a paradox, fracturing time in two intertwined curves.
Now, what did I say? Cheng Xiaoshi is stuck? Not dead? That's one interpretation of the signs, yes. What is interesting in this fandom is that clues are numbered. Cheng Xiaoshi, the original, is out of time right now, while we're witnesses to Lu Guang's struggles. And we know this... how?
First, LA!Lu Guang has different sets of rules than donghua!LG. It could be narrative error, or it could very much be on purpose. Supposely, the live action is the original timeline and the dongua is the 5th timeline of our Lu Guang's journey. Mistakes were made and rules changed accordingly. Lu Guang appears in the dongua as very composed, except when the timeline he's living in changes from what he knows had to happen.
Canon states: Cheng Xiaoshi keeps not listening to him, risking Lu Guang's hard work. This is what is stressing Lu Guang out the most. He is already changing things, but he needs Cheng Xiaoshi not to touch anything while he's diving. Why? Beside the obvious, if CXS erases one important node, there might be a rupture between then and now, making it impossible for Cheng Xiaoshi to return.
The original Cheng Xiaoshi could be lost in time. This meta suggests as much anyway: CXS's has no hands on some of his clocks, while LG's turn anticlockwise. Lu Guang is going back but Cheng Xiaoshi broke time and is stuck.
Beside clocks, Lu Guang's symbol is the hourglass and Cheng Xiaoshi's is cogs. A hourglass only stops when there is no time left, it's only a pause until it's turned over. Cogs stops when the mechanism stops working altogether. If truly broken, it won't work again. And most of all, one cog is part of a machine, can't function on its own, alone.
BREAK! could refer to Lu Guang's godlike nature and his goal to break CXS free:
I saw my fate flash through my own eyes Waitin' and watchin' for the sign Take control of all the timelines Lost in the dark, Lost in the rush
Go click the parallel line Fate's in control Play your role You ain't just a tool Clock's ticking though
Lu Guang is also pictured steady on a chair, against concrete, or as an safe anchor in the openings/endings.
While Cheng Xiaoshi is not anchored in his surroundings, though, except when holding frames or cameras. The things in contact with him hurts him.
In the Tides, he only interacts with a frame and the red cloth on the table, and with dust; arguably a proof of time, a way to print his presence in a place forgotten by time itself, it seems.
There's the mirror thematic, which might as well be called a glass prison. It shows Lu Guang on the other side, Cheng Xiaoshi seeming to be on "our" side, the side where the story we're following is unfolding. And that's true. Lu Guang is the addition in this universe we are witnessing, he's from outside of the current universe.
However, in Lu Guang's perspective, Cheng Xiaoshi is the one unknowingly prisonner. The artworks are still in Lu Guang's perspective though, his watch is purposely hidden from our view to keep us uncertain on the matter of which side is the "real" one.
Going full circle, I'd say this also can reflects two intertwined curves; never meeting. It wouldn't be about one of them diving in the past to save the other, it would be about both of them trying to find each other again.
Cheng Xiaoshi's and Lu Guang's are happening simultaneously, mirroring each other, trying to respect the timelines as much as possible except for the death of their best friend.
>>> In conclusion, there is actually three sides of a story: Lu Guang's, Cheng Xiaoshi's and the truth. I have no doubt the whole show is making the biggest diversion in history of tvshows by serving us everything but the actual plotline. Some "memory of the week" in season 1, then season 2 told us two can play this game of playing with fate, and now yingdu chapter is going to prepare us for the truth. What is amusing is that each season gives us a set of new "rules" for this universe. (I'll try to make a detailed post about it at some point, after some summer re-watch.) Each rule is usually a forshadowing on what happens next.
Liu Xiao's character is also a very interesting one. Some people suggested that he could be Cheng Xiaoshi or Lu Guang from the future. But he could be from another curve, with a different kind of unchangeable node. He could be a version a Cheng Xiaoshi who never met Lu Guang for example. His goal seems to melt everything into One True Timeline, I think? That alone rises some questions.
~
That's everything for today! I would like to dive even deeper about all the different timeline according to colors but it will probably be a whole other meta.
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