#he fixes his hat omg

[killuaisaprincess]

☁️💜☁️💜☁️💜

[lees-chaotic-brain-reblogs]

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

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

not mitsuki shipping us with our outfits 😭

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

not bakugou and mitsuki gossiping about our relationship 😭😭

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

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

awww not us helping to hold the todorokis together

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

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

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

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

ughhh the sweatpants 🤤🤤

omg the end

this was so beautifully written

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

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

thats how good it is

thank you so much for sharing this with us

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

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

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

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

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking? 

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?) 

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all. 

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

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

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

KIrishima’s right. 

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

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

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

You. 

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time. 

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

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

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

“Y’coming or what?” 

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?” 

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

Shouto stares right back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.” 

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head. 

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

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

These family lunches keep them connected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

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

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

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

Another thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

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

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

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

You nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

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

Touya’s words come back to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you. 

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

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

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

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

You still care for him in the same way. 

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

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

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

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

He thinks you look cute. 

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

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

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

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

It’s only right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

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

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

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

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

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

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

“It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no occasion…?”

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

Shouto blinks. 

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

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

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

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

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

Thump.

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

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

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

“You’re back!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

So for you to keep it for this long—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

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

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

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

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

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

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That promptly shuts you up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

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

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

additional material: moodboard + playlist

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

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

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[misteria247]

I'm realizing that Stan is actually incredibly smart. Like in a Ford kind of way to some extent.

Like yes Stan's street smart and life smart but he's also got the smarts that Ford's praised for. Because he had rebuilt the portal and figured out his brother's notes and equations.

Like do you know how hard math is on Ford and Fiddleford's level of expertise??? How complicated and delicate it is????? Especially the kind that brings portals to life???? And Stan figured it out. Had taught himself to read and comprehend these difficult things. Difficult things that requires college degrees in science and mathematics.

And Stan did this on an incomplete high school grade level of academics.

That's fucking nuts. Sure it took 30 years but he learned it. By himself, can you imagine how frustrated he got, teaching himself Ford's educational level??? Using his mechanical skills of fixing his car to be up to par to Fiddleford's impressive craftsmanship????

And I can just see how Ford and Fiddleford react post apocalypse. Ford doing equations and science stuff and talking while Fiddleford listens and gives his input when Stan pipes up unintentionally and puts his hat into the ring. And it's mathematically sound?? And these two men are just blown away cuz what the actual hell?? Ford's immediately questioning Stan, wanting to hear his thoughts while Fiddleford watches impressed and Stan's mortified and a bit overwhelmed. Or Fiddleford working on something and Ford's watching him when Stan points out a better way to make a part work and Fidds is like omg thank you Stanley??? And Ford's looking at his little brother dumbfounded and itching to bomb him with questions and whatnot.

Stan never knows peace afterwards.

[finniestoncrane]

HELLO I'm in love with the way you write for Cooper 😩👏💝fix idea: I was thinking he's DEFINITELY somebody who doesn't care who he looks anymore, but is still aware that he's got that CHARM yano, but maybe the reader is just "wow your eyes are so pretty" and he fuckin BLUSHES (Mr cooper Howard aka Mr ghoul cowpoke absolutely keels over cus somebody said he was puuuurrtty) 💥💥💥🔫 just all "shut your pie hole girlie" and shes 😏😏😏 ok handsome

Can Ghouls Blush?

Cooper Howard x GN!Reader, word count: 1k aaaaah thank you ;-; also i love this, i love the idea of flustering that horrible boy omg 🤎 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: some threats (imean it's cooper), guns, mostly fluff though!

“I know time means very little to someone who has been around for two hundred years, but how much longer are you gonna be?”

Cooper���s voice echoed out from the main room of the abandoned building you had slept in. From the bathroom, you could hear the frustration, despite his attempts to soften it up. He had no time for fun, no time for relaxing. It was survival and sweating, or nothing at all. But you could tell he had tried to soften it up a little, just for you. His irritation was still so obvious however, even as he offered you a playful roll as he approached the door, catching your eye in the reflection of the cracked mirror.

“Just a sec, then we can head out.”

The old hairbrush you had found by the sink was a well-received miracle. A little bit of normality, a chance to tidy yourself up somewhat.

“I just think it’s a waste of time is all. Preening for the Wasteland. I mean, who are you trying to impress out there? You already got the best catch.”

He flicked the brim of his hat with his gloved fingers, grinning wide, yellowed teeth bared at you as he ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

“That’s exactly the problem. I have to make sure I look good to keep up with you, handsome.”

Your hand stroked along his cheek, a brief moment of eye contact as you walked past him towards the door of the bathroom and back out to the front of your temporary shelter.

“Handsome, huh?”

His voice seemed so much lighter now, more so than you had ever really heard before. And as you turned, you noticed the slight smile on his weathered lips, cheeks pulling up at the corners, eyes glinting as he stared straight back at you.

“Uh… yeah. You’re a very handsome guy, Coop.”

You almost had your fingers on the door knob, ready to leave for the start of your day, when you realised that you couldn’t feel Cooper’s presence behind you. Turning to see what was holding him up, you caught something in his eyes. A look of confusion, almost. Surprise. Disbelief. And a little bit of what you could swear was embarrassment. All this time together. Sleeping in each other’s arms, protecting each other from danger. Had you really never expressed to him your attraction? You had just assumed he knew. You spent long enough staring lustfully at him, it was surely a given. So you worried there was something else to it.

“What’s wrong, Cooper?”

“Nothing, I just… I was used to being called handsome, long time ago… not so much these days.”

As you stepped back towards him, closing the short distance, you could make out his expression much better, realising how astute your previous observation had been.

“Oh my god… Coop, are you blushing?”

He raised one finger, narrowing his brows as he tried to hide the endearing glee, offering you a forced stern look as he spoke.

“Don’t start playin’ stupid with me, you know I am not.”

Biting your lip, a mischievous smile forming, you gripped the lapels of his duster, teasing him as you stroked your thumb along one of his ridged, warm cheeks.

“Why, I didn’t even know big tough cowboys could blush, especially not the more ghoulish ones.” Can they blush? I'll need a closer look."

His fingers were tight around your wrist, gripping you fast and firm. He was trying so hard to maintain his tough exterior, but you could tell there was something softer in there that longed to come out, or at the very least, was desperate for someone to notice it. It was so obvious, even as he lowered his voice and growled at you.

“You turn around right now and start walkin’ out that door.”

Cooper took a step forwards, an attempt to regain his control of the situation, to push you towards doing his will, but you brought your hand up and laid your palm against his chest.

“Wait, just a second…”

It was nice to see him in this light. His confidence was always the dominant feature in his peronality, and it rarely wavered, if at all. But to know there were aspects of himself that he wasn't as sure of, and to know you could render him a little flustered just by complimenting them, made you smile. A grin that was returned by Cooper as you gazed into his warm, brown eyes.

"What is it you're lookin' for now, huh? You find it?"

"Yeah... turns out they can blush."

You turned quickly from him, practically skipping back towards the door of your temporary shelter, ready for another day of survival, this time tinted with a little more joy than usual. Your smile only grew wider as you heard Cooper, catching up with you, still trying to cover his embarrassment with the strained, empty aggressive threat that he chased you with.

"Now I will shoot you, you know that? You're pushing your luck today and we ain't even done anythin' yet."

But when he was certain you weren’t going to turn back around, he let himself smile a little. A soft glow in his eyes as he allowed himself to remember who he was, really. The kind of man that resided deep down inside, buried by years of solitude in the deep, dark ground, of struggling to adjust to the world. And struggling to adjust to himself. Even just a tiny reminder that, despite his charms and the charisma that tended to pull people in, that there was a bit of his old self left. That despite everything, despite who he had become, both physically and emotionally, someone might look at him with something other than fear first. With kindess, or lust. Or even love. That was enough to help him cling to the memories and look to the future with just the tiniest bit of hope, something he hadn’t felt in such a long time.

“You comin’, handsome?”

He smiled, biting his lip to curtail the spread of the easy grin.

“You bet.”

[giuseppe-yuki]

fashionista

zhou guanyu x teacup pig shapeshifter!reader

w.c.: 1.5k

warnings: none :)

part of my shapeshifting!reader series

summary: you get a new outfit (ft. a trip to the convenience store)

pictures credits from pinterest :)

as one of the unofficial fashion moguls in the paddock, it was your job to serve face whenever you appeared in the paddock. the sound of paparazzi camera shutters clicking were almost always a sure sign that you were near. 

today, you entered the paddock hand-in-hand with your boyfriend zhou. he, of course, was dressed to the nines next to you. your baggy parachute pants paired with a tight cutout top and zhou’s baggy jeans with an almost see-through mesh top looked like the pinnacle of haute couture streetwear. 

you smile directly at the cameras following you both, sending a small wave at a man dutifully taking what looked to be at least twenty pictures of you per second. continuing down the paddock, you stop a few times in order for zhou to sign a few pieces of merch. you adjust your slim sunglasses on the bridge of your nose to hide your eyes from the blazing hot texas sun. as you pass the vcarb motorhome, you spot daniel ricciardo dressed in a cowboy outfit. he clicks his tongue and sends finger guns to you and zhou when you walk by.

zhou leans towards you and whispers into your ear, “baby, we should have dressed more like that, for cota!” 

you turn to face him, wrinkling your nose. “no way am i ditching my outfit for cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, zhou!” you tilt your head, looking at him with a questioning look. “i mean, would you rather wear that or the outfit that marc jacobs sent you tomorrow?”

he sends you a chagrin smile. “point proven, i guess.”

before you could continue your walk, a snow white samoyed bolts out the mercedes motorhome next door. it sniffs zhou twice before plopping itself in down. lewis runs out of the motorhome a second later, skidding to a stop next to the dog. 

“holy cow, you need to calm down,” he says pointedly to the dog. he bends, hand on his knees, panting. “i’m getting old, and i swear im not going to be able to catch you anymore!”

the dog shoots lewis a look, as if rolling its eyes. lewis looks up, as if just noticing you two standing if front of him. 

“well, if it isn’t the best dressed couple on the grid,” he says, chuckling. he scans both of you up and down. “nice outfits, by the way! i think you two are possibly the only people that can outdress me.” 

“thanks!” zhou replies. “i honestly think you are still the undisputed fashion icon of the paddock, though.” 

you nod, agreeing. 

“why thanks!” lewis says, beaming. he then glances at his watch, and frowns. “oh shit,” he says, “i think fp1 is starting soon! i gotta go. you guys should probably run to the garages too.” he waves at you both and starts sprinting away, samoyed at his side.

“you ready to go?” your boyfriend asks, smiling at you. 

you take a second to fix your sunglasses again, and give him a quick nod. zhou grabs your manicured hand, and you both dash towards the kick sauber garage.

“omg, wait for me!” your boyfriend shouts, hands still on the driver’s wheel. but, you had already leaped out of the barely stopped alfa romero 33 stradale, clutching your snakeskin birkin.

the sun had already set in the texas sky, painting everything with a dark blue haze, including the white car that you had just jumped out of. by the time zhou had turned off the engine and hopped out of the car, you were already in front of the convenience store, giddy with excitement. he lightly jogs to you, briefly turning his body to lock the alfa romero with the car key lob. you press a light kiss on his cheek when he arrives next to you. 

after getting a pretty good result in both fp1 and fp2, you had promised zhou that you would both go on a run store, pick out a ton of snacks, then go back to the hotel to watch a movie and possibly “celebrate,” if you get my drift. unfortunately, after multiple meetings and an unplanned dinner with valtteri, it was too late to go to any normal store, so the next best choice was the convenience store that was open 24 hours. 

you grab his hand and run into the store, dragging zhou behind you. you walk past the candy aisle, hot dog warmers, and stunned cashier, arriving at the chips aisle. the colorful packages jump out at you, advertising for you to “face the intensity” or warning you that it was “dangerously cheesy.” 

“which one should should we choose, zhou?” you ask, turning to him. he too, is looking through the wide variety of snacks in front of him. 

after a few seconds of pondering, a grin spreads across his face. “my trainer is probably going to kill me, but all of them!” 

after fetching a big basket from the front of the store, you and zhou fill it to the brim with different kinds of chips. next, you walk over to the drinks area. both of you choose your favorite drinks, all the while giggling at the blue printed pictures of checo and max on the redbull cans on the shelf. 

your boyfriend walks over the cashier counter with the basket with the snack and is about to start checking out, when you spot the slurpee machine in the corner of the store. 

“zhou, come look! they have the famed slurpees here!” you exclaim, pointing at the thrumming machines stirring brightly colored concoctions. 

“i know we have a few drinks in the cart, but we should totally get some,” he says, looking at the bright letters spelling out SLURPEE.

you nod in agreement, and grab a cup from the row of cup bottoms sticking out from under the counter. when you hold up a cup, your eyes grow the size of saucers. “there is no fucking way. this cup holds fucking 22oz of liquid and it is only the second largest size there is!” you cry. you look next to you, and sure enough, zhou is holding a cup that says MEGA on the side that holds 40oz of liquid. he laughs at your reaction, but starts laughing even harder when he spots another cup to the right of you. it has bubble lettering spelling out DOUBLE GULP on the side, and it holds a whopping 50oz of liquid. 

after a laughing fit and a slurpee overflow mishap, you both walk to the counter to check out all your snacks. 

the cashier, still stunned, slowly scans the mountain of snacks next to him. gathering up his courage, he looks at the two of you shyly. “you’re zhou guanyu and you’re his girlfriend, right? i’m a really big fan of you both and i always love your paddock outfits.” 

zhou thanks the cashier, and you give him a warm smile in appreciation. 

after bagging the snacks, you and zhou load everything into the trunk of the alfa romero. it looks out of place next to the few battered chevy pickup trucks still in the lot at the dead of night. instead of climbing into the car after,  you and zhou take your giant slurpees and a few bag of snacks and sit on the edge of the sidewalk. from an outsider walking by, you both looked like a typical couple, (albeit very fashionably dressed one at that) with zhou’s arm around you and your head on his shoulders. 

later, when your tongues are stained with blue and you brush chip crumbs off of your baggy parachute pants, you find yourself looking at the plaza opposite of the convenience store. zhou, strolling back to you from throwing away the empty chip bags and melted slurpees, nudges your shoulder.

“watcha looking at?” 

you gesture with your head towards the store on the other side of the street, where a sign blares in bright red, “Pet Shop.” 

he shoots you a smile tinted with blue food coloring and takes your hand in his.

right as you enter, you are pulled by zhou into a random aisle. 

“wha-?” you splutter out as he continues to pull you down the walkway. your voice echoes throughout the deserted shop. that’s when you notice the products around you. pet clothes. you recognize his intent immediately. “absolutely not, baby,” you declare disgustedly, pulling against his grip. “those cheap costumes are not going an inch near me.”

“come on,” zhou says, trying to reason with you. “it’s not that bad!” 

he points to a little cowboy outfit on the sea of costumes, that has a little red hat, blue bandana along with four little cowboy booties. “perfect for cota, no?” 

you glare at him.

you find yourself in front of a horde of photographers and camera people the next morning when you arrive in the paddock. zhou adjusts you in his arms, tilting the red cowboy hat in a fashionable way and tightening the bandana on your neck while also smoothing down his brown leather jacket. you let out an oink as a sign of appreciation. you know what, you think contently, this outfit is starting to grow on me.

a reporter, holding a mic out, approaches you both. “martin brundle, for sky sports. excellent drive yesterday, for fp1 and fp2 yesterday, zhou. also, you and your erm- teacup pig here, fantastic outfits. may i ask, who is the designer behind her outfit for today? is it perhaps ralph lauren? or tom ford?"

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin @ale-522 @formula1-motogpfan @aceyalonso @my0hmary @mbappebby @madkohi @ralshatos @heartsforleclerc

[gh0stsp1d3r]

Hii!! Can you do a Wonka x Male!reader fic where reader owns a toy shop and makes toys? And Willy enters the toy shop and becomes friends with reader and then Willy would visit every now and then, and could it be like a slow burn? Thank you!

Toy shop

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

(should I make a part 2??)

A/N: omg i love this sm its so cute. s/n= shop name, also I have no clue how old noodle is but I’m gonna say like 12 just for the fic.

warnings: lots and lots of pining.. nothing rlly

“Where would you say, is the best place to go for Noodle’s present?” Willy asked Abacus one day after closing. He decided to pack up early to go run some errands, like buying some things for his apartment and also for Noodle.

It was almost Noodle’s birthday, and Willy had been making her her favorite chocolates but he felt like she deserved more. Besides, he had more money now.

“Mm… I passed by this toyshop not so long ago, its on that street somewhere. You can’t miss it.” He pointed, Willy smiled and thanked him, and began to walk over.

Now he wasn’t too sure on what to get a young girl. He hadn’t thought of it until he entered the shop.

You were smiling and helping a family out, pointing to an aisle. Your eyes then landed on the door, an oddly dressed man walked towards you. You smiled and greeted him.

“Hi, welcome to S/N, how can I help you?” You asked him.

He looked at you and smiled back. “Hi, I’m terrible at gift picking, forgive me.” Willy said with a small laugh. “But I was wondering if you could help me try and find a gift for a little girl? A 12 year old girl, to be exact.” He for some reason felt himself getting nervous as he talked, he’s never felt that before.

“No worries, I would love to help.” You said with a smile, you looked to one of your employees and asked for them to fill in for you for just a second.

“Of course, sir.”

“This place is…” Willy started as you walked through the aisles with him.

“Huge? Yeah. It used to be some old restaurant. It took a while for me to fix it up but..” you shrugged.

“You’re the owner?” He asked you, turning his head to you now. You nodded.

“That’s amazing. Oh- I’m Willy, Wonka.” He held his hand out for you to shake, you shook it and just the feeling of your hands made him feel like he was floating.

“Y/n.” You paused, the name sounding familiar.

“Wait, you’re that new chocolate shop owner, right?”

“That’s me.” He said with a grin, tipping his hat.

“That’s amazing, I went actually the other day, and just the outside looks beautiful, and the inside is just.. wow.”

“Really? I’m glad you like it.”

“Yeah… so, uh, what does this girl like?”

“Not too sure. She’s been cooped up in work all her life, really. So I’m not sure she knows..”

“Working at 12?”

“It’s a.. long story. She hasn’t really been able to live a life.” He shrugged.

“Well, I think I have some ideas. We have dolls, tons of teddy bears, a lot of three wheeled bikes have been pretty popular as well. Like this one.” You gestured to one on display,

“Yeah. I think that’s perfect for her. How much is it?”

“5 sovereigns.” You responded, he thought for a moment and pulled out some.

“Only 5?” He was shocked, cheap for such a product.

You shrugged with a small smile. “I like to make sure that every kid has something they love.”

He smiled back at your thoughtfulness. He wished he had met someone like you when he was a kid.

You rang it up, and you both talked for a bit more after.

"It was nice to meet you, Y/n." he said with a smile.

"Nice to meet you as well, Willy."

And he could already tell this was not the last time he would be visiting your shop.

He visited one day after closing, and you had just closed up as well.

“Hey, Y/n!” He called your name, you turned around to see him running over to you.

“Willy?”

“The one and only.” He said with a small smile, and walked next to you. You both talking and laughing for a while, and he had asked to walk you home which you obviously said yes to.

The next time you both saw each other, he came into the store.

“Hey! So, did Noodle like it?” He had told you the name of his friend before.

“Hey! She loved it. She’s still learning, but you know..”

“I’m glad.” You said, looking into his eyes and felt yourself almost getting lost in them.

“What are you here for? Something else?” You questioned.

“Just wanted to talk.” He said, “you know, you’re a fun person to talk to.”

You quirked an eyebrow as you opened a door and motioned for him to come in behind the counter. You walked over to the break room and you both sat down.

“That’s a compliment I’ve never heard before.”

“It’s true.” He said, you laughed and shook your head to yourself.

“What?” He asked, laughing along.

“Nothing, nothing.” You waved it off, and you both smiled at each other for a while before one of your employees came up.

As she approached them, the woman stopped mid-sentence, feeling like she was interrupting something.

“Oh- yes?” You turned to her quickly, snapping out of it and feeling your cheeks heat up. Willy felt the same as his cheeks turned a shade of pink and he looked the other way, trying to hide his large smile.

“There’s a customer asking for you…”

You sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

He watched you, following you as you got up and over to the counter.

“Hello, what seems to be the problem?” You asked.

“They’re wondering if they can get this fixed. I told them we wouldn’t know how-“ your employee started.

The little girl held up a broken wooden toy.

“We can’t afford another one..” her mom started.

“Luckily, I know exactly the solution to your problem.” You said, a small smile on your face as you swiped your hand over it, as it seemingly fixed itself, looking brand new.

The girls eyes widened as you handed it back. She looked up at you.

“Thank you, sir!”

“Of course.“

Willy watched from a distant, a small smile on his face as he watched you interact with the girl and her parents. You were amazing, in his eyes.

You turned around, your employee also seemed shocked at you as you walked back into the room with Willy.

“Well, I’m not even gonna ask how you did that.” Willy started.

“A magician never reveals his secrets.” You held your finger to your lips, you both smiling at each other again.

[merakiui]

What do you think of savanaclaw rook? I'm very curious about your thoughts about him 👉👈

ꉂ(°□°˶ )

?!?!?!?! TRULY??????? AM I DREAMING??!?!?! omg what a vision,,,,, why would Vil fix him….. T^T he’s perfect……….. the unkempt, fluffy hair, dirt and sweat, ARMS???!!?!?!!!! THE MUSCLES……… his hat!!!!!!! AND ARE THOSE FRECKLES????? DOTH MINE EYES DECEIVE ME!!!!!!

orz uuuwaaa what a fabulous card. I can’t believe Vil took one look at his ruggedness and domesticated him. OTL oh, to be railed raw and messy in Savanaclaw by a Rook who operates under the dorm’s motto. Oh, to be a beastman who thinks they’re strong enough to fend anyone off, but it’s a different story during your heat……… he was probably even more unhinged in his Savanaclaw era than he is now. I just know it in my heart. \(//∇//)\

[togenabi]

breaking news

roronoa zoro (opla) x journalist!reader

♡—you always had a feeling the straw hats could change your life, but meeting zoro shifted the entire world on its axis.

word count♡— 5.4k (omg?)

genre♡— fluff

content notes♡— opla zoro, afab!reader is a journalist whose boss is evil, inaccurate journalism and newspapery, mild violence, kissing/making out, alcohol consumption, long intro so start might be slowish?, no use of y/n, only slightly proofread

also on♡— ao3

author's note ♡— get yourself a man that can kick ass and let you use his arm as a tape dispenser

A stack of papers are slammed onto your desk. The pages are riddled with edits and red marks. Towards the end of the document, the person just started crossing out everything you had written.

“Stories like that won’t sell. It’s highly inappropriate.” Chief Editor Tildie scowls down at you. “Shame that you waste your talents on such rubbish.”

“But it’s not a story.” You mutter under your breath, not meeting her gaze.

“Did you say something?” She bends down, bracing one hand on the backrest of your chair.

“...No, ma’am.” Your response is barely a whisper, but she relents and begins to head back to her office.

“Stick to the politics and gossips, hon. If you know what’s good for you.” 

You almost break your pen in frustration.

All the other journalists in the room witnessed what happened, but they all keep their heads down, buried into their typewriters and desks. No one ever tries to fight for things to change anymore.

The Oceanic Times is such a joke. Why would a newspaper company named after the ocean not be allowed to publish anything related to it? Some people have said that the current chief is running the company to the ground. You’re beginning to think it’s true.

Running your palms over your face, you take deep breaths until you’ve calmed down somewhat. The first thing you see when you uncover your eyes is your article. The one you were so excited and passionate about.

You wrote about Orange Town, they had been suffering after the Buggy Pirates invaded. Everything was destroyed and the residents were imprisoned, forced to be the audience to their own home’s ruin.

Things had stayed that way for months, until the people were saved by pirates. It sounded so unlikely to happen, and yet it did. 

Knowing a scoop when you saw one, you sent a letter to Mayor Boodle along with some berry to donate for the town’s restoration. You tried asking if he wouldn’t mind being interviewed on what happened. 

He agreed. The result was an excellent piece on how a small group of rag-tag startups got the better of Buggy the Clown, saving an entire village from his reign of terror.

…And yet, this is what you get for your hard work. Your fingers trace the red marks and strikethroughs Editor Tildie made.

You know you’re right, people around here could do with some accessible, actual news and well-researched information. But simply knowing what’s right doesn’t come with the power to fix things, doesn’t it? 

The window by your desk offers you a view of the sun setting. It was one of the things that thrilled you when you first started, having a desk on the second floor. You were so determined back then.

It’s getting far too difficult to breathe in here. You grab your pen and treasured notebook, leaving the newsroom behind.

Your feet take you to the harbor. It’s quiet, with only a few fishermen around. You find yourself gazing out into the sea. The waves push and pull and ripple in patterns that calm you down. 

For a world with so many pirates, and many enthralled by the idea of adventure, you’re sure your writing will be appreciated… It will be appreciated here, eventually.

Once, you thought about moving somewhere else. Maybe to a bigger city and work under a more renowned publisher. But you like this town too much for that. There’s a good balance of things; it has all the amenities of a developed town, but is still close enough to adventurous waters. 

This place could be an excellent hub for information. If only you got the chance to show others what you dream of.

You know some people who are eager to leave, however. Some of your friends would give anything to work in some big city paper. You even heard rumors of Chief Editor Tildie applying for work in the East Blue Daily.

Oh, what you’d give to write about real news and the feats people are achieving. Letting out a sigh, you wonder where those upstart pirates are now.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait too long to find the answer. One of your co-workers bursts through the door a few weeks later, holding onto the wall to steady himself and catch his breath.

“Arlong has been defeated!”

Everyone in the newsroom stops what they're doing. Even Chief Editor Tildie looks shocked.

Apparently, Marines were chasing down a group of pirates, and those same pirates saved a village in the Conomi Islands from Arlong.

Pirates saving people? Could it be?

“It’s a new pirate crew, but they’re really powerful!” Your co-worker explains further. “Roronoa Zoro is second in command, and their captain took down Arlong by himself!”

“Does the captain wear a straw hat?” You ask, but something already made you sure he did.

“Yeah, here!” He passes you a wanted poster.

A boy is smiling in the photo, wearing the same straw hat Mayor Boodle mentioned to you. 

“Is that why there have been more pirates around lately?” Editor Tildie says gruffly. “Darn sea lovers should stay at sea.”

No one comments on how Editor Tildie curses like a pirate. You value your jobs (and lives) too much. (But everyone thinks it.)

Another thing no one mentions is the excitement that seems to buzz through everyone. Like an electric current, making the air feel alive and crackle with an energy you haven’t seen in this newsroom in a long while.

News is about to break. You have work to do.

Your research leads you to trace the Straw Hat Pirates’ steps. A map of the East Blue is laid across your desk, and you begin to plot the locations where they’ve been. Holding your breath, you analyze their trail. 

It might not be so far-fetched to say that they could show up here.

You think of the article you wrote on Orange Town. It’s still there, you’ve kept it safe in the trusty notebook you keep strapped to your waist. You couldn’t bear to just scrap it. But, maybe there’s hope for it after all, now that those same pirates rose to prominence in such a short amount of time.

“Still working, huh?” One of the photographers asks you. “We’re all headed for the tavern if you want to join us.”

You smile, but can’t imagine leaving your desk for the foreseeable future. “Thanks, but maybe another night.”

Everyone else leaves, the only light left on in the office is from the lamp on your desk. The night blankets the newsroom in shadows, and you pour over your research in the welcomed silence.

A loud crash is heard outside.

Someone is getting beat up. You were just about to ignore it and chalk it up to a brawl between drunks, but you hear the local librarian yell out in fear.

You sit still for a second, steeling your resolve before rushing out to the scene. You may not know how to fight, but you should at least help the old man get out of there.

The library is the building beside the news publisher’s, so you see everything the moment you step out of the door.

Thankfully, the old librarian seems to be protected by a green-haired swordsman. He stands menacingly against several thugs, his sword glints under the moonlight. 

Not that the thugs look like they have a chance despite their numbers. Two of them are groaning and wounded on the ground, the other two are hiding behind a cart full of books.

The green-haired man raises his blade. “Cowards.” He spits out, looking severely unimpressed.

It seems he intends to strike the other two thugs where they stand, but the librarian begs the swordsman not to damage the cart or the books.

“Please!” The librarian wails. “Not the books!” Are his priorities on straight, you wonder?

“I don’t really care about that.” The man says, getting ready to charge at the men—through the books.

“Wait!” You yell, unable to just stand there. They all look at you with varying degrees of ‘who the hell is she?!’.

You use their surprise to your advantage, running quickly to the cart and pulling it out of the way. Everyone watches, astonished, as you take away the only thing that separated the thugs from the swordsman.

Said swordsman merely shrugs. “Fine.”

He’s so fast his form almost blurs. The thugs scream in fear, and for good reason. They’re cut down in two seconds.

“Oh thank goodness!” The librarian sobs, cradling the books that did not get shredded.

“Would you like some help carrying those inside?” You ask him, but he declines.

“No, it’s alright. Thank you for saving the books my dear. Pirates just can’t seem to fathom not solving things with violence.” 

You’re baffled at how the old man can smile at you then look at the swordsman in disdain in the same breath. Shouldn’t he be grateful his life was protected?

He leaves, heaving the books into the library, but you stop him.

“No, hold on, let us help you.” You try again. “We insist.”

“We do?” The stranger asks incredulously.

“Yes.” You say, gesturing at how the old librarian’s arms are about to give out.

The swordsman looks displeased, but retrieves the books anyway.

“And you, sir,” You turn to the librarian. “You should thank him.”

The old man sputters. 

“Don’t bother.” The stranger says. “Don’t even know why I did.”

The librarian huffs, but his glare falters this time. “...Thank you, lad.”

The green-haired man blinks. Like he doesn’t know what to do after somebody thanks him. It’s strangely endearing.

You both help the librarian get settled inside. It’s still painfully awkward, but you like to think that things turned out well.

The two of you leave the library together. Being in closer proximity, you get a better look at him. He’s exceedingly handsome, but what catches your eye are the three earrings dangling from his left ear.

Your eyes widen in recognition. “Roronoa Zoro.”

“...Do I know you?” He asks, looking at you impassively.

“I’m a journalist.” You say instead of answering him, as you introduce yourself. You point to the newspaper company next door

“Hm.” Is all you get from him. 

You expected many things if you ever met any of the Straw Hats, but extreme disinterest isn’t one of them.

“Do you think I could ask you a few questions?” You ask, hopeful to convince him.

“You get one, and you just asked. So I guess we’re done here.” Zoro says. “Here’s my question, where’s the closest place I can get a drink around here?”

Undeterred, you try to meet him in the middle, “I have a bottle of whiskey in my desk drawer with your name on it.”

When he doesn’t reject you outright, you realize you have a shot at this.

You step towards him, eyes not leaving his as you make him an offer. “How about, I get you a drink, and you answer some questions for me?”

The confidence you feel surging isn’t normal for you, but you lean into it. When else are you going to get this chance?

Zoro studies you, more seriously this time. You can tell the moment his eyes shift that he must see right through to you. That you’re no fighter, but you’re determined. You’ll follow him around town until he gives you what you’re looking for if he disagrees.

To your delight, he nods.

But when you enter the building, you find something that you didn’t expect.

The entire place looks like it had been ransacked. You gasp in horror at the mess. Papers were strewn everywhere, all the desks were in disarray. How could this have happened in the time that you were gone? 

Zoro steps in front of you protectively. A hand hovers on the handle of his blade as he surveys the damage. You can’t help but feel responsible for this.

You should have locked the door. You should have just called it a night. You should have just joined your friends for a drink and worked in the morning like a normal person. You should have—

“This isn’t your fault.” 

Zoro’s back is still to you. For a while, he simply stays still.

Then he says it again. Slower this time, as if to emphasize the words, “This isn’t your fault.”

It’s not much, but it manages to make you pull yourself together. He’s right, it isn’t. So you have to find out who did.

You and Zoro head deeper into the building, taking careful steps in search for clues.

Zoro eyes the staircase leading to the upper floor, and he holds out his arm to block you from going any further.

“What’s wrong?” You ask in a very hushed whisper.

He points up the stairs, where you see the shadow of someone moving.

“I’ll deal with them. Stay here.” He instructs, but you grab his arm before he can take another step.

“No!” You whisper-yell. “I’m going too.”

He gives you that same, unimpressed expression he seems to be so fond of. To be honest, you’re becoming fond of it too. The effect on you is waning, if that's any indication.

“Why do you always look for trouble?” Zoro sighs. “Do what you want.” 

Is it because he’s whispering, or does his voice lack its previous edge when he spoke to you?

You don’t have time to think more on that, however. Zoro begins ascending the stairs. You’ve never been more thankful that the steps are carpeted, your shoes would have clattered loudly otherwise. 

Together, without a sound, you reach the second floor landing. It’s dark, but the damage you see is no better up here. The intruder really left no surface undisturbed. 

Sounds of someone opening and shutting drawers alarms you. Zoro, very carefully, pulls out his sword.

More alarm bells start to ring when Zoro approaches the sound, and you realize it’s coming from your desk.

Zoro holds out an arm again, giving you a look that says stay put this time. Fine. You hang back while he impressively sneaks up behind the intruder without a sound.

The person is rummaging frantically through your desk, making noises that helps Zoro conceal himself. A document falls to the floor, and the shadowed figure kneels down to pick it up. 

Zoro points his blade to their neck before they can get up. They freeze.

You turn on the lamp on the desk nearest you. The light illuminates the room enough that you can finally see the intruder’s face.

Only, it isn’t an intruder.

“Chief Editor Tildie?” You gasp, confused.

Your boss looks like a deer caught in the headlights, but her expression suddenly melts into relief.

“Oh, I’m so glad you two got here! Everything was a mess there were, uh, robbers! Yes, yes—nasty thieves got into the building.” 

That doesn’t make any sense. What would thieves want to steal from a publishing business anyway? 

She cuts you off when you’re about to point out her suspicious behavior, “There were so many of them, I have no idea how they got in! I was going back to pick up some things, and the place was already like this.” 

“My dear…” Editor Tildie looks at you with mock concern, “You didn’t leave the door unlocked, did you?”

How dare she?

“You’re so full of shit.” Zoro tsks, inching his blade closer to her skin. “I would have noticed if a bunch of guys went through the front door.”

You blink when the puzzle clicks in your head. “She was in here the whole time.”

“You can’t prove anything, you wannabe writer!” Editor Tildie bursts out, her expression once again shifting back to panic.

“Who do you think they’re going to believe?” She glares, daring you. “You? Some no-name writer? Or ME, the Chief—”

Zoro knocks her head with the hilt of his sword. She falls with a thud.

You run a hand through your hair, letting out a long sigh. You’re exhausted, but you should really investigate why your boss did all this then try to put the blame on you.

Like the others, your desk was trashed. Even your notes are scattered all over the floor. The map you were painstakingly studying was torn in half. But strangely, the other things you had been working on are missing.

Zoro walks around the desk. “Over here.” He says, having found something.

It’s a large duffel bag, filled to the brim with papers of… rejected articles? You sift through the contents, they all seem to be your co-workers’ recent work. You remember proofreading several of them, everyone has been doing so well lately. 

But why would the Chief Editor steal these after rejecting all of them?

“Could you watch her for a minute, please?” You ask Zoro. “I need to check her office.”

Zoro looks at you strangely, you can’t quite pinpoint his expression. It’s half ‘you’re leaving me here, really?’ and half ‘will you be okay?’.

“Scream if you get into trouble.” He sighs, settling into your office chair. “‘Cause you eventually find it.”

You leave, shaking your head fondly. So he does care.

Inside the Chief Editor’s office, things are a mess as well. You suspect that was probably done to throw investigators off. But she left some things here, and from there, it’s easy to put together what happened.

A briefcase sits on her desk. It’s left open, with several letters lying inside. They’re all correspondence with famous newspapers.

‘The East Blue Daily would be delighted to host your article on the events in Orange Town. Please submit a draft at your earliest convenience. We are excited to...’

You have to set the letter down and stop reading. This bitch was planning to steal everyone’s work. Fury rushes into your head as you let out a disbelieving laugh. How could she do this after tearing everyone down?

It finally makes sense why she never greenlit any of the best articles. She probably sent them to other companies claiming they were her original work.

Judging from the other letters and her packed bags, she likely intended for this to be her last stunt. The Oceanic Times would sink into nothing, and she would be off to work for some famous paper.

And she was right. If you and Zoro hadn’t caught her, no one other than your co-workers would believe you that she did this. And none of you were reputable enough to be considered credible. You would probably have to take the fall for leaving the door unlocked, just like she planned.

Zoro calls out your name when you’ve been in here for a few minutes. Despite how drained and tired you feel, you gather the evidence in the suitcase, carrying it out with you. 

You must look worse than you thought, because Zoro’s brows furrow in concern when he sees you.

Zoro hasn’t gotten up from your chair. He remains silent and still, but his attention on you is unwavering.

“She was planning to steal our work.” You explain, sitting on top of your desk. “I would’ve been powerless.”

“Would’ve been.” Zoro says. “But you’re not.”

When he stands, you worry that he might be leaving you. But instead, he drags Tildie (who you notice has been tied up) and traps her in her own office. Zoro moves a desk to block the door.

As he pushes it, your eyes follow the movement of his arms. You have to turn away to hide your flustered expression. For some reason, you remember Tildie’s words about your article: this is highly inappropriate.

He comes back, reclaiming his (your) chair. His hands reach for something under the desk. Under your legs. This is highly—

All thoughts in your head stop on their tracks when he meets your eyes again. He’s holding the whiskey you mentioned. You were about to mention your surprise that he didn’t drink any yet, but the words die in your throat. It’s entrancing the way his eyes seem to glow the same color as the liquid. 

Zoro taps the glass with his fingers. “I think this bottle has both our names on it.”

If you were in a normal state of mind, you would probably be embarrassed by how much you’re crying in front of Roronoa Zoro. Maybe Zoro would even regret offering you a drink.

You’re not drunk yet, but you’re probably getting there since you’re becoming an emotional mess. Thankfully, Zoro is an excellent listener. You let everything out.

“I just want to write. I want people to read my work.” You sob as you tape your map of the East Blue back together.

Zoro hums, indicating he hears you. One of his arms is extended on your desk, laden with strips of tape. How you managed to use Roronoa Zoro as a tape dispenser is beyond you, but you feel strangely proud of it.

“Why don’t you write, then?” Zoro asks, not taking his eyes off you.

“I can’t!” You sniff before pulling another piece of tape from his skin. “Tildie—that bitch—do you know her? She’s awful, she never approves of our good articles.”

“She’s gone now.” He says. “You can write what you want.” 

“Oh.” Right. He’s right, of course he is. “Okay then.”

There’s a beat of silence while you fix your map. When you’re done, you beam at Zoro.

“I’ll write about you.”

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Will you, now?”

“You can bet on it.” Smoothing your fingers over your mended map, you say wistfully, “I wonder where you’ll head off to next.”

Before he can answer that, you voice out a thought that feels strangely sad.

“...I wonder if you’ll come back.”

You can’t even meet his eyes anymore. Half-drunk or not, you knew how embarrassing that was to say. You only met a few hours ago, but why does it feel like you’ll miss him more than anything when he leaves?

“That depends,” Zoro clears his throat. “Are you going to give me a reason to?”

The way your face lit up with shock and happiness was so adorable that it caught Zoro by surprise. He almost lets out a full laugh, but he manages to conceal it with a fake cough.

Leaning down, you grab his shoulder and pull him to you. The office chair rolls over to right where you want him.

This is highly inappropriate… But you can’t help yourself when you respond, “You can bet on that too.”

Kissing Zoro feels electric. You feel your head go fuzzy and your hands are eager to hold onto something. So you hold onto him; the back of his neck—thread your fingers into his hair. He keeps his hands on your waist. They do not wander, but he grips you like you’re some sort of lifeline.

Lifeline.

You break the kiss abruptly, getting an epiphany. This whole experience was a mess, but this could be the lifeline you've been waiting for.

Zoro groans, trying to pull you down for another kiss, but you stop him with a grin, “Do you think I could ask you a few questions?” 

Before the interview, Zoro set some ground rules. A few of them involved you, like how you were not to disclose your relationship unless absolutely necessary, since it could put you in danger.

Others involved his crew, such as he couldn’t go into detail with the members and their abilities. That would just be too risky.

The questions themselves don’t necessarily matter to you, since the interview alone will be a huge boost for The Oceanic Times. So you agree to all of his terms… Including the one where he gets a kiss for each answer he gives.

“When you met Luffy,” You begin, “Did you know that you were going to follow him? Or did it take some convincing?”

“Convincing.” Zoro answers.

You wait for him to elaborate. “...Is that it?”

“Yes.” He responds before nudging you, “That’s two.”

Rolling your eyes playfully, you kiss him twice but pull away before he can deepen it.

He frowns at you, and you laugh as you ask your next question, “So you didn’t plan on becoming a pirate?”

“No.” 

“...”

“...”

“...Zoro, stop making me ask more than one question.” You say, unimpressed.

“Don’t ask questions that can be answered with one word, then.” He quips back challengingly.

You hate that he’s got you there. You miss his lips on purpose, kissing his cheek in retaliation.

“What was that?” Zoro complains.

“A kiss.” You answer smugly as you write things down in your notebook. You hit him with your last question.

“Why do you follow your captain?” 

To your credit, this one makes him think for a minute. 

“...Because we all have dreams, and we’re all going to get there together.”

You smile at him, touched. “That’s beautiful.”

Zoro makes a face, leaning back into his seat. “Nevermind, don’t write that down. I take it back.”

“Aw,” You tease. “I wonder what your captain will say about that.”

Zoro grumbles something about how he shouldn't have answered that, but you can tell he meant it. But not to worry, you weren’t about to write some sap piece his enemies can use against him.

You were going to make breaking news.

That was the plan. Or it was, until you fell asleep at some point during the night. You had pulled over another chair, working your typewriter to the bone as you burned through your adrenaline rush.

You woke up the next morning with Zoro leaning on your shoulder; he was still asleep. You took this quiet minute as an opportunity to admire him.

Things would have gone so much differently if he hadn't been around. You probably would have gone out to help the librarian with those thugs alone, and you wouldn’t have made it back to the office soon enough to catch Tildie.

Realization dawns on you. Tildie probably hired those thugs herself, so that you would be preoccupied. You make a mental note to have those thugs questioned later. 

All that’s happened… It was scary, yet exciting, since Zoro was with you. He makes you feel eager to find the next big story to write about.

He rouses at that moment, eyes slowly blinking awake. He yawns and stretches, and when he properly looks at you, he shakes his head at your expression.

“Now I know what face you make when you want to go looking for trouble.”

After you reach out to the authorities, Zoro leaves to find his crew. You were sure they were worried sick by now, since he’s been gone so long. He tells you that they’re scheduled to leave this afternoon.

You’ll miss him, but you know it’s for the best.

The harbor is bustling with life when you get there, the complete contrast to how it was months ago. Funny how in both times your feet take you here, you’re wondering where a certain group of pirates are.

But your pirate is easy to find, he’s waiting for you by his crew’s ship. 

“Came to give me a reason to come back?” Zoro jests, taking your hand once you’re close enough.

“Couldn’t wait to see you leave, actually.” You joke. He startles you by pulling you close.

You’re about to kiss him when he spots something over your head that makes him frown. Your eyes follow his gaze to find his crew members watching you both.

“Don’t mind us! We’re just enjoying the show!” The one with a bandana on his head yells out.

“Did I miss something? I missed something, didn’t I?” A blond man asks, his face completely flabbergasted.

“I think we all did.” The woman next to him remarks.

“But we’re really happy for you, Zoro!” Their captain cheers and whoops.

Indeed, now might be a good time for the sea to swallow you up. Maybe you should jump?

“Get lost.” Zoro snaps at them. They all holler and laugh, but do as he says.

“Um,” You say. Maybe you should just give him his farewell present to distract yourself from the embarrassment. “I got you this.” You hand him a folded piece of paper.

It’s your article on Orange Town. One of his very first adventures, and the moment you first heard of him retyped on a special kind of stationery and everything. You even made sure the ink is good quality so that it doesn’t fade. (You also spritzed it with your perfume, but he doesn’t need to know that.)

“Ask your friends to read it, please?” You request. “Then tell me what you all think about it.”

Zoro glances at the paper, recognizing how much work you put into it, and how much you went through to get to where you are now. 

“I’m sure it’s perfect.” The soft, small smile he gives you makes you feel weak in the knees.

He pulls you in again, his arms embracing your waist. You respond by draping your arms over his shoulders. Your fingers play with the back of his hair.

“Write to me?” You ask softly, only for him to hear.

“Writing isn't really my thing.”

You pout.

“...I’ll send you a postcard or something.”

A laugh escapes you. That was such a Zoro kind of compromise. “I’ll take it.”

“As for me,” He presses his forehead to yours. “I’ll take this.”

The kiss is different from the kisses you shared last night. Maybe it’s because you don’t know when the next one will be. He kisses you dearly, showing you how much he cares when he holds the sides of your face tenderly.

“...See you soon.” You greet him.

The words strangely get stuck in Zoro’s throat, but he gets them out nonetheless. 

“See you soon.”

…

“Right,” Sanji taps a pen on his notepad. “Does anyone else need anything from the market?”

Luffy approaches him, reading the contents of the list over his shoulder. “Nope! I think you got everything.”

If the captain says so, he must be right. But Sanji makes a face, still feeling like he's missing something. He's double checking the cupboards when Nami walks into the kitchen.

“Nami!” Sanji beams. “Do you need me to get you anything from the market?”

“Sanji thinks he's forgetting something.” Luffy explains to her, pointing to the notepad left on the counter.

Leave it to Nami to figure out what's missing at a glance. “Zoro's newspaper.” She says, and the boys nod in realization at the same time.

“Ah, right.” Sanji scribbles The Oceanic Times onto the list.

“I’m actually really impressed by her.” Nami says on her way to crash on the couch. “She writes well.”

“Damn right she does.” Zoro says, entering the room with Usopp right behind him.

“Yeah but man,” Usopp complains, “You need to let us finish reading. You always hog it or give us a time limit on it.”

Zoro merely shrugs, like that isn’t his concern. “Buy one for yourself then.”

Nami smirks. “She must have you really whipped if you’re marketing for her.”

“I don’t think she needs it, actually.” Luffy comments. “The paper is doing really well, isn’t it?”

A small smile forms on Zoro’s lips. “Damn right it is.”

When he gets his hands on The Oceanic Times later that day, Zoro reads every bit of it. He rereads your name over and over again, proud of the ‘Editor in Chief’ title that goes before it. 

Though he reads every single word, he always skips the small gossip corner first, where anonymous people send in messages or thoughts.

Every week, like clockwork, there’s an anonymous reader who submits messages for her distant lover. When he first saw it, he instantly knew it was you.

‘I heard you were injured. I can’t believe you’re making me worry like this.’

Zoro laughs, and everyone in the kitchen freezes.

He slowly, almost cautiously, glances up from the paper. The Straw Hats look at him with a tricky sparkle in their eyes that makes him uncomfortable.

“Don’t even—” Zoro starts, but it’s too late. Usopp is already standing on his chair, acting like a newspaper salesman.

“Step right up! Read all about it! It’s breaking news: The Roronoa Zoro giggled because of his girlfriend—” 

“You have three seconds to run.” Zoro threatens while folding the newspaper carefully. Usopp runs for his life.

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[animequeen4]

okay y’all hear me out… alastor, Lucifer, and Adam and their s/o meeting their fandom personas

alastor x reader x cursed cat alastor

Yn: “Al look at what I found! Isn’t he the cutest 😍”

alastor: “what is the world is that? 😃”

is genuinely confused on what and where it came from all he knows is that it hates him and everyone else except yn

Yn once putted a bow tie on him and looked like he loved it by this smile seeming genuinely yet when his bow tie was coming undone he would hiss and scratch at anyone who tried to fix it and only allowed yn to fix it

had a tendency to bring gifts for yn like nice and one time a ENTIRE deer carcass but after seeing she would throw it away he started to bring started bringing stuff like Freshly pulled out of the ground flowers, sometimes jewelry, and one time a cute hat

as for alastor he does not like the thing

he hates how the thing will always try to get in the way when he tries to do anything with yn like when it’s early in the morning and he wants to enjoy the peaceful moment with you he will just show up somehow in the room cuddling you, when he tries to give you a kiss on the cheek the will but bring your attention to him instead, and onetime he tried locking the door to get some quality time alone together and keep him out, THE CAT NEARLY BROKE DOWN THE WHOLE DOOR!!! The only time they got along was when they were protecting yn and when they both showed dislike for Susan

then one day a cat version of yn showed up also out of no where and immediately Cat Alastor stopped beefing with regular alastor because now both have their own yn

although yn was sad cat alastor wasn’t hanging out with her as much anymore she was happy and hopefully she can finally enjoy some peace of mind knowing they were not fighting anymore

lets just say a few months later there would be some kittens and they become permanent residents because cat alastor would bite who every tried to touch the kittens and his yn 😅

Lucifer x reader x cursed cat Lucifer

Out of all three he is the one who is actually loving meeting their fandom persona

“OMG HE IS AS CUTE AS KIKI! 🥹”

Lucifer gets even more excited see he too has a appreciation for ducks

let’s kitty Lucifer sleep with any of his ducks (except the Lilith one which he hides)

Kitty Lucifer loves yn almost as much as regular version of him

Like cat alastor he lives little gifts for yn except they usually come some with ducks mostly rubber ducks

however it is a bit of a hassle sometimes with him having wings where as when it’s time for a bath we will try to fly away but will get in the bath willing it there are some rubber ducks

when a yn cat showed up Lucifer was excited but not as much as his feline counterpart who acted like they were husband and wife and he missed his wife dearly

Kitty Lucifer was latter found being groomed by cat yn who was licking him clean and the too we’re sharing kitten kisses with kitty Lucifer having a completely smitten look 🥰

Adam x reader x squished/tiny Adam

Adam: “THIS LITTLE SHIT STOLE AND ATE ONE OF MY RIBS?!?! We need to get rid of it!”

yn: “oh come how Adam he is like you so he too likes ribs”

tiny Adam will often ask for cuddles and I imagine he is about as the same size as the cats so when cuddling he is pressed against yns boobs so tiny Adam will smirk at Adam making him jealous and flip regular Adam off while yn Isn’t looking

tiny Adam will also sleep on top of or cuddle yn while she sleeps so sometimes he just likes hanging out in her between her boobs

will often try to steal things like food, phones, jewelry to try and make him look cooler, and one time he has been caught stealing yns bra but was stopped easily due to how small he is

Will basically always come between the two of you when you tried to do anything romantic

not sure if he is wearing a mask like Adam or if that is his actual face due to always fighting anyone who tried to check

once Adam realized how he is able to get away with stuff they suddenly become good friends and caused a lot of mischief

I don’t know why but I imagine tiny Adam would also try to sing songs like hell is forever but it ends up sounding a lot cutter due to how high his voice is or he ends up squeaking instead

one day a tiny yn showed up and Adam finally understand why yn loved tiny Adam so much. ITS LIKE HAVING A TINY VERSION OF HER HE CAN TAKE AROUND WITH HIM WHEREVER HE GOES!! ITS SO FREAKING CUTE!! 🥹

tiny Adam then started started liking tiny yn and to regular Adam and yn it was like watching how they fell in love

ps these are not my art please don’t get after me I am just using these for illustrations on what they look like I am not claiming ownership and I hope you enjoyed 😁

[princessbrunette]

https://www.tumblr.com/princessbrunette/747782413291307008/some-guy-asking-jj-if-hes-fucked-bsfreader-and

this omg bc now im all heart eyes and dickmatized bc what do you mean youre beating guys up for me!!!!! this would turn me into a total fiend bc now i need you to fold me in half bro ☹️ cue reader fed up with everything n going “well… are you?” bc whats taking so long!!!!!! bsf!jj and bsf!reader is so underrated bc nothing beats their tension i fink. like you said they’re literally the epitome of “why does everyone think we fucked?” like have yall seen how you guys act together lol!!!!!!!!

holding this ask so dear to my heart bc one thing about me im gonna write reader to be so down bad n in love n horny <3 gives me butterflies to think about them getting to experience tht

the whole time he’s ranting about the situation he’s so wound up that he doesn’t even notice you shuffling closer until you’re practically on his lap, all doe eyed just nodding along to everything he says. his dick catches up with his brain n he sorta trails off, staring back at you like “oh, uh— hey.” fixing his hat suddenly all nervous cos you’re in his space.

“are you gonna fuck me jj?” and it’s like a genuine question all innocent and curious :(( he just stares like

before asking “y’want me to?”

[marcspectorstannie]

Moonboys birthday blurbs bc it's Oscar Issacs bday as well ≛

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Marc☯

Bc of his childhood he never really celebrated his birthday since he was around 9

Ofc you're changing that

You bought him a small cake with "Happy birthday!" written on it and balloon shaped candles

You got matching bracelets and they were sun and moon themed :3 (ofc u got the sun)

He cannot hide his giant ass smile (or so called smile) when you surprise him with singing

Ofc in his head he's going insane and lowkey freaking out bc he's so greatful and also bc he kinda forgot he had a birthday*cough*

Oh and u forced him to wear a party hat with a pompom on it and now u have a Polaroid of him looking very annoyed :3

Steven☕︎︎

Also never celebrated his birthday bc he doesn't have anyone to celebrate with and finds it really awkward to celebrate by himself :(

Would only by small treats like cookies or sweets as a gift to himself

but then u came!!!

Changed this man's life for the better I tell you

You didn't get him a cake but instead just got a candle and lit it so he can blow it out (ofc) and then went for ice cream

You got matching build a bears!!1!1!1!! He as a regular dark brown bear and you have a golden Bear (both have matching t-shirts *cry*)

Cutest b'day pics together omg

Jake☠︎︎

*ik this gif isn't him but shhh*

It's like this man celebrates nothing tbh he's allergic to joy and cheer

You obviously fix that bc duh

You got him a cake but it's mainly you eating it and he has like 15% of it (his fav is red velvet argue with the wall)

Singing to him is the most awkward thing bc he'll give you the nastiest side eye even though he kinda likes it

You got him a pocket knife with MoonKnight engraved in the handle

He totally didn't almost smile when you gave it to him instead of smirking

Spent majority of the day inside with takeout food

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[aclowntiny]

Meeting Pirate!Ateez (Female Reader)

This is an old request I'm so sorry OMG! But thank you @matzbear for giving me inspiration to get (semi) historical 🏴‍☠️😁 I GOT SO CARRIED AWAY HELP 💀😂

Warnings: hints of violence/death mentions, fire in one, suggestive at times, depiction of poverty/homelessness in one, LONG POST! lmao the way I’d write a part 2 to this at the drop of a (pirate) hat

☠ Hongjoong ☠

He smirked as he strode into the tavern, satisfied, evidently. Even if you had yet to see the wanted posters, shivering in anticipation-and maybe even something else-at even the depiction’s intense stare, you would have been able to recognize the man as a pirate. It was the way he walked, tilted slightly, legs used to a sailing surface. The confidence with which he moved, swagger suggesting he’d gained control of many a situation and lived to tell about it to anyone who’d listen. The long, roguish coat swirling at his booted feet, the single hoop earring dangling from his left ear, ruby stud adorning the right. Cutlass at his hip.

Outlawed, this man was. Bountied by the crown for what they claimed egregious theft, an epithet you found laughable. They got their knickers twisted over art, artifacts, riches they had stolen from countless around the world. Thieves righting the work of thieves, that was the crew they called the Eightfold.

And the man seating himself boldly before you was the captain. Kim Hongjoong, according to the posters. A face more beautiful than criminal, he glanced around the room with a look of anticipation. Waiting on the rest of his crew, you imagined. Your tavern was one of few that turned a blind eye to piracy, so it was a safe bet the other seven would arrive.

As it was, you made your way to Hongjoong’s table. “A drink while you wait?”

His eyes slid over to you, smile spreading across his face as they met yours- for all the talk, all the images, he looked upon you kindly. “That would be great, thank you, Madam. Nothing too strong, just a light ale if you have it.”

You liked the way he called you Madam. Liked it very much, in fact. “I do indeed. If I was running a tavern without ale, we would be in trouble, wouldn’t we?” You teased, heading back to the bar to grab and fill one of the pewter tankards lined atop the wood.

Foam rose rapidly to the top as you carried it over, setting it gingerly in front of the captain, who fixed you with another look.

“You knew I was waiting for someone,” he said.

You nodded. “The other seven are on their way, I imagine,” you replied matter-of-factly.

Hongjoong grinned, message well-received. “I love this place.”

“I try,” you answer with a smirk, “there is fresh bread in the oven and meat on the stove for when the crew lands.”

He raised his tankard, intense eyes positively glinting in the firelight. “You’re a goddess!” He called out before taking a sip, honeyed words sliding right to the core of your chest.

~

Smoke choked your lungs, wracking your chest with coughs. With a massive crack, a beam crashed from your tavern’s ceiling behind you, sending you jumping as you pulled your shawl tighter over your face. The torch had almost struck you, but thank the stars, it missed your skirt, leaving your clothing and skin intact for the time being. The heat was closing in on you, though, as panic shot through your steadily pumping limbs.

All you could think of was your next motion, of escape, even as laughter rang out. They’d taken everything from you.

Pirates, the lot of them. Not the Eightfold, but a band of sorry thieves that killed without reason or care. The kind who kept every cent of it, that should have been wanted by the crown, but they pillaged ordinary villages, not crown jewels. Their goal was a slow domination of your country, your home and business their latest target.

Another beam fell, this time closer, and you jumped, arms flailing uselessly above your head in a weak defense. Unlike the torch, this one did connect with your dress. Sweating beneath your layers, you strained, trying fecklessly to free your hem from the fallen, burning wood. For the first time, you risked the shooting pain to your chest to scream for help, scream for someone in your desperation. The fabric of your dress strained also, not giving yet but threatening to rip as your body heaved, almost falling to the wood planks that once rang out with dancing boots. Tears streamed down your face at the mere thought, a sob escaping you with a heavy breath.

But then, you heard it: a voice. “They didn’t.”

You didn’t bother a direct answer. “Help! Help, please,” you called out, voice weak and vision blackening.

~

And that had been the last you remembered until you woke up in an unfamiliar room, the floor rocking beneath you and a hand closed around your wrist, feeling your pulse as your eyelids fluttered open.

“I knew you’d make it. You’re a goddess.”

You didn’t even have to see clearly to know the voice’s owner was none other than Hongjoong, the pirate captain you’d served numerous times. The one who always threw troublemakers out for you, especially the ones that tried carousing with you. There were times you’d even suspected you’d seen him pull out a knife once he got outside with them, assuring you upon his return you’d never be troubled again, but you could never be sure. You smiled weakly, but your eyes sought a window, the motions feeling awfully like…

“We are still docked. I would hardly whisk you off to sea yet,” he chuckled, the sound a bit uncertain, “Please, please Madam (y/n), stay still.”

Everything you knew had changed in the blink of an eye, but one thing was certain, it hit you as you sat up, coughing and feeling a rasping burn in your fluttering chest: whether by debt or by initiation you would see, but your life was now inexplicably bound to the Eightfold.

☠ Seonghwa ☠

The market was bustling, shoulders knocking yours almost every moment. Flutes and fiddles filled the air from performers hoping for a coin, and the scent of sea breeze wafted through the sunny air. Shouldering your sack, you wound between a fishmonger’s table and a farmer’s honey, wandering closer to the woodworkers and painters.

That day, you were not seeking the necessities, rather preferring something fanciful, indulging the brushes of your fingers over blown glass and thickly-spread paint. A woman’s weaving caught your eye, cords tied into ceiling hangings and finely shaped tapestries of interlaced color. But somehow, there among it all, your eyes fell upon a man with an inkwell.

He sat alone, at a table too small to really be selling much, quill moving deftly, carefully. His dark eyes never moved once from the parchment he bent over, revealing a handsome, serene profile.

“What are you drawing?” You asked, stepping carefully to his side.

Flinching, the man moved his arms to hover over the parchment, his eyes finally leaving it to meet yours widely. “Why?”

You stepped away slightly, taken aback by the startlement in the man’s sparkling eyes. Your hand drifted to your chest and back out as if unsure what to do. “You just looked so focused, that was all. I meant no offense, truly.” Bowing your head, you made to leave again, but his voice beckoned you back.

“It’s a map,” he said, raising his spread arms back from his work.

Gazing over the parchment, you found a detailed representation of your town’s coastline, down even to the groves of trees, all rendered in thin ink swirls quite gorgeous to your eyes.

So many words rose to the front of your brain, then died at your lips. “You are…not from here, then?”

“No,” he shook his head, smiling sadly, “this is only a stop. At least for now. The map will help us remember our way back.”

“So you’re sailing,” your eyes lit up as you gushed, bringing an eager smile to the cartographer’s face, too, “oh, the beauty you must see! How I’ve dreamed of the works of faraway lands, the amazing art!”

“You sound like my captain,” he chuckled, “quite an art lover as well. His vow is to contribute somehow every place we go.”

“That is wonderful,” you continued, a hand resting on the table near the map, “but be warned: I have heard talk of the Eightfold approaching our waters. That their skeleton crew drifts into towns, pillaging, even killing!”

The man’s smile fell into something more thoughtful as he lowered his quill at last, tilting his head as his gaze fixed you. “What if I told you the truth was more complicated than a townsfolk tale? Perhaps not even so bad?”

“What would a man like you know of pirates?” You gaped at the gentle artist. “Unless…you are one of them! Someone like you, and yet you stand with the Eight?”

“I do, and I shall until death.” He rose from his seat, voice dropping lower, tone intent as he stiffened, bracing himself for the descent of his words. “Park Seonghwa, First Mate of the Eight at your service. I think my captain would like to speak with you.”

You gasped, stepping back from the table. “With me? Forgive me, I am but an apprentice. Surely you want my master, or-”

Seonghwa’s eyes saddened slightly. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but the secret is out. Our faces are being plastered around town squares as we speak. It would hardly be safe for either of us if I let you return to town now.”

Your face fell. This elegant man was taking you as a pirate’s hostage? “But- But I- The market,” your words flopped hastily, clumsily out like freshly netted fish upon a deck. As if the market was your greatest concern.

“I know,” the man whispered, soothing tone of his voice almost infuriatingly calm, “have you a handkerchief, by chance?”

“Why?” You bit out.

“If you have one, let me see it.” He didn’t sound angry, in fact this adoptive tone was more akin to that of a disappointed parent.

Sighing, you reached into a fold in your sack, handing off a wad of cloth. Tying it over half his face, Seonghwa motioned out to the stalls you’d just wandered. “As long as nobody questions me, ask it and it is yours. That is the least I can do.”

“You’re going to rob this whole-”

“Buy you what you want before we go,” you heard him chuckle beneath his makeshift veil, “I don’t do it often, but I will remind you that I am in something of a lucrative business. Have you seen the blown-glass figurines yet?”

Something about the upward tilt of his tone clued you in- he was just as excited as you were. Perhaps he’s been looking for an excuse to do more than carry out orders. Shaking your head, you moved back to his side. Telling yourself you were only doing it because the man was likely armed, you agreed to go shopping with the first mate of one of the most famed, feared pirate crews in the seven seas.

He bought you each five little glass animals before ushering you onto his ship, one of which contained a silvery effect because that was his favorite color. Maybe you really did need to learn the truth behind the tales.

☠ Yunho ☠

The sky was bluer than the sea that day. Shifting your grip on your parasol, you made your leisurely way down the wooden steps, careful not to step on your skirts. The beach was your happy place, the spot you sought to quiet unwelcome thoughts beneath the roar of waves.

Inheritance was not supposed to be so lonely. Being the only heir to a fortune was the dream of many, but you’d have far preferred not being the final member of your family, the only one alive to receive the estate. Take all the fine furniture, every painting on your walls, if you could give back your loneliness in exchange. Certainly you’d receive marriage proposals soon enough once the word got out, but why would anyone marry a suitor who only sought your hand for the money they thought it held? Would marriage to a stranger not be simply a small plaster over a larger, bloodier wound? You wanted nothing more than to fall in love, but until then solitude was the finest, nay, the only, solution.

Instead of dwelling on it, you tried to use your newfound fortunes for good and calmed those thoughts that flitted like troublesome mosquitoes at the sea’s edge.

The wind whipped about your head, whistling in your ears as your bare feet fell upon warm, dry sand, ground shifting beneath their gentle weight. Taking step after step further, uncaring of the grains sticking to your feet and clinging to the hem of your skirt, you soon approached the powerful waters. It was low tide. Small waves formed wide crests some distance out from where you stood just out of the water’s reach. Stooping, you picked up a sand dollar, rubbing rough sand off between your fingers. It would go in your shell jar with other pretty seaside offerings.

The sea kept you company, dulling your desire for a conversational partner. Restlessness took over your feet, carrying you toward a gathering of rocks near the raised hills. As a child, you loved squeezing into little hollows and pretending you’d found a new home.

Nostalgia propelled you toward the hill, where you found your lips parting in surprise. A hollow you had found, yet this one looked quite a bit deeper than a divot to crouch in. This was truly a cave.

It was dim, curtained with dangling dried seaweed you timidly parted with the back of your hand, heartbeat picking up as you realized you could have stumbled upon a makeshift home on the sea built beneath the hilltop houses.

You jumped as your foot struck something cold, lifting it at once with aversion before you realized it wasn’t wet, it was…gold?

Gold coins covered the cave floor as if sprayed upon it. Kicking them aside, you squinted into the dim space, moving toward the rocky edge and sliding along that wall toward the center. There, a chest sat, a padlocked box opened to overflow with riches like in every tale of pirates you’d heard.

Your next breath was interrupted by a hand clapping across your mouth, suppressing your shout of alarm. The cold steel of a knife’s edge rested against your throat. Straining, you fought to sink your teeth into the large hand, which released your lips and whirled you around as your body struggled against your captor’s.

“Wait, you’re a woman?”

Your captor was tall, younger than you’d have imagined- near your age, it seemed. His wide-eyed expression was surprisingly innocent for one pressing a blade to your jugular. Clad in a loose-sleeved, open black tunic, high boots, and a much larger blade sheathed at his side, it was little wonder what you’ve stumbled upon.

This was the hiding place of a pirate.

“Yes, I am,” you whispered, fear rising as heat to your face with each small motion of your neck, “why? What do you want with me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, deflating slightly, “what brings you here?”

“I- I used to like pretending to explore caves as a child.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Let me go and I leave. I return home and never speak a word. I wish no further fortune. Please,” you begged.

The pirate lowered his knife, a different look in his eyes. Sympathy? Calculation? Then, it fell in favor of a smile.

“That is refreshing. Your…your husband is waiting, isn’t he?”

You shook your head. “I have none. Who but a lonely fool would go running off into a cave?” You joked weakly, a hand waving at the dim expanse. “Truly, I want no trouble. Just admiring the sea.”

“I understand,” the pirate replied, look softening still, “guilty myself, quite frequently. Come, let us leave this hole, huh?”

Not that you had any choice, you thought grimly, glancing one more time at the pair of sheathed blades the man carried as you stepped carefully back out of the rocky hollow and into the sun. With a breath of relief, you looked out upon the calm blue-grey waves again.

“I love looking at the clouds, too,” the pirate told you, pointing a surprisingly fair hand, one which bore a single silver ring upon the little finger, at one fat shape drifting across the sky, “like that one there. Reminds me of a snail!”

Reminds me of a snail? However you thought pirates behaved, this was not it. You chanced another laugh and the man smiled.

“What?” He fixed you with a smile of surprise.

“Not what I expected, that is all.”

“I’m sorry about the knife. That chest, we- This land is very affluent. My friend’s hometown? They have nothing. These riches could rebuild the whole thing from the ground up.”

“Oh, is that what pirates do?” You asked with an arch of your brow and a sardonic smile.

Guilt flashed across the tall man’s face, then steel returned to his eyes. “Not all of it, no. You would not believe what happens unpunished on other shores, though.”

“And you give that to them?” You asked.

“Sometimes,” he nodded, “and that is why I need the comfort of the sea, of my companions at my side. The sea quiets many a memory.”

“I understand that,” you reply, “perhaps both of us are lonely fools, then.”

“You needn’t be,” he shrugged, glancing out along the water again, “care to take a walk? I suppose I owe you.”

“All you pirates deal in is favors,” you tutted, but you still followed him.

You strolled in oddly comfortable silence for some time, feet caked then with sand they sunk into every time the man stooped, plucking something from the sand he never revealed. He looked down at his hands a great deal, occasionally nodding at fallen jellyfish or clouds to show you and once bursting into a run, chasing a squawking seagull and bringing another smile to your lips. You two had entered the shallow edge of the sea, feet submerged and rocks housing the cave were specks on your eyes’ horizon when he finally held out his busy hands. Dangling from them was a string of dainty orange shells. Your head tilted in surprise, you extended your right wrist when he nodded at it, letting him fasten the shells there. This time, his grin was wide, childlike, and he was a new man.

“So,” he asked proudly, “are we even now?”

“For threatening my life? Not yet,” you replied, shaking your head, “not until I meet the whole crew.”

Baffled, the pirate spoke again. “You seek an audience with my captain and crew?”

You crossed your arms, stealing his prior look of victory with pride lifting your chest. “Do you want a safe house on these waters or not?”

☠ Yeosang ☠

“Well, what say you, handsome?”

The man in question’s eyes bugged, tavern torchlight reflected in the shine of their deep irises. “What say me?”

“Yes, you,” you teased, a hand raising to rest on his shoulder, “care for a dance or not? If no, well, I suppose I-”

“I do,” he blurted out, glancing at your hand, “I definitely do. Let us dance.”

And as if he were a different man he stood up from the stone bench and took you in his arms, holding you like you were made of glass and yet turning you effortlessly in time with the crowd’s other couples.

You’d been sat across from him, sipping your drink and listening to him tell a stupid joke about two fish when you decided you had to be his. Something about the dreamy smile, the way he said he wrote a few poems out at sea, the way he was the last to laugh in the little group and how his eyes so clearly lit up with late recognition. So you’d asked him to dance, not even knowing he’d been blessed with that, too.

Soon the raucous tune was melting into a softer shanty, something begging for a slower sway, and you took the opportunity to slide the man’s hands about your waist.

“The moon is full. Why are you not sailing?” You asked him.

“We have business in town here.”

You quirked a brow, head jerking towards the group of three men he’d been sat with. “Like singing and drinking?”

“You may not see it, but I am conducting it.” He smiled cheekily.

“Much like writing your poems, I imagine,” you replied, “it is always on your mind.”

He nodded, then burst into a giggle, eyes falling from yours. “Something like that. And what fine work do you find yourself in?”

“Me? I am a jeweler’s daughter. Unconventional, perhaps, but I am learning the trade.”

“Good at identifying stones, then? And putting all the pieces together? Not to mention the beautiful designs- a valuable skill set indeed,” your dance partner flushed, pulling you that much closer, and something in it sent an ache through your beating heart.

“Thank you,” your eyelashes fluttered, “I try. Say, shall we go where we can see the stars?”

Your bodies stilled, the man nodding and taking your arm, leading you out to the surprisingly solitary patio. As you tapped across the wood, you saw him stealing glances, lips breaking into a wide, involuntary smile.

“Beautiful, just beautiful.” He glanced very fleetingly between the sky and you, as if your chest hadn’t turned enough somersaults for one evening.

You told him your name. He told you his- Yeosang, it was. And that, that and the way he muttered about his favorite constellation being visible, was enough. The two of you had stood about peering widely into each other’s eyes, frozen, waiting on a word- a word you had no need for. Surging forward like the waves you could hear crashing on the shore below, you cupped Yeosang’s cheeks, pulling his lips into yours and smiling at the hum of surprise he gave into the kiss before responding.

Soon, your tongues had resumed the night’s prior dance, each of you pulling back just enough to get a breath in, never daring end the kiss. His lips were soft, never once challenging yours, just savoring the feeling of them, the taste mingled with the salty breeze as he clutched your waist for dear life.

Finally, though, you parted, lips swollen and smiling as you stared into those wide eyes, his hands still resting firmly on you.

“Wow. And here I thought pickpocketing a solid gold watch was my highlight for the evening,” he chuckled, shaking his head, “but I’d turn on my heel and give it back if it meant you’d run off, come with me.”

This time, it was your eyes that bugged, forgetting briefly the starlight reflected in his. “You’re a thief?”

“A pirate,” he corrected, “one who loves shiny things as much as you, I daresay.”

“Ah,” you laughed the shock away, “now I see why my skills are so valuable.”

“I appreciate the craftsmanship too!” He shot back indignantly, hand that wasn’t on your waist rising to rest above his heart. “For pirates, we all love beautiful things, us eight. Building them, taking them apart, sharing them, stealing them. You would be a natural. And even if you weren't I would have you anyway. So, what say you?”

☠ San ☠

Inhaling deeply, you breathed in the warm, comforting aroma of the stew being ladled into the bowl you held out, barely suppressing a sigh. Thanks fell from your lips again and again, yet the old woman just smiled.

“You remind me of my daughter when she was your age. Can you tell me what happened? If you wish it, if you wish not to speak of it, I understand.”

Shaking your head as you took a spoonful of stew, its warmth radiating through you, you spike when you were ready. “I was orphaned some years ago. My family’s landlord had no pity on a young girl, so my meager income was not nearly enough to satisfy him.”

In your hometown, you’d been known as the shoe-shine girl, for that was how you made your money. But years of your former neighbors, people who knew your name and acted as friends, barely doing more to help you than dropping a coin in passing ached nearly worse than homelessness or hunger. A lot of the help came as just enough for them to feel better.

So you found a town with a boardinghouse welcoming enough to let you stay, your first night there heaven as you fell upon a feathered mattress for the first time in what felt like an aeon. Your new home’s proprietor even prepared you a hot meal, and it took everything you had not to yank her into an embrace. No one had hugged you in so long- not that you’d entirely blame them. This was your first day with a full bath in quite some time, too.

After you told the landlady this, she nodded, and without speaking pulled you into her arms just like you’d imagined. Leaning into the warm embrace, you smiled, energized for the first time in quite a while.

~

You’d shined three pairs of shoes when he sat down. The sound of boots hitting the plank of your makeshift seat alerted you to another presence as you prepared a new rag. As soon as you turned around the man smiled, and you were taken by how handsome he was. Around your age, the man had sharp features, but the kindest face to greet you upon traveling beside your landlady’s. Black hair fell upon his forehead and his dark eyes lit up when you met them. His clothes were nothing formal, in fact you took him to be a worker despite his regal features and the elegant, sweeping bow he gave you from his seated position. Maybe a docker, judging by the muscle his tucked, sleeveless white tunic revealed.

“Might I shine?”

“I daresay you already do,” you replied with a smile, pleased at the flush of his face- did he not receive many compliments? “Few in this area have been so polite or kind to me.”

His mouth fell open in genuine shock. “Even the townsfolk?”

“This one has proven more friendly than my former home,” you replied as you began working on his boots, alternating between looking up to meet the man’s eyes and cleaning the leather as best as you could.

“The people seem good here,” the man agreed, “fair.”

Smiling at the way he glanced at you with the final word, you found yourself torn between drawing out your work and giving the man the most efficient shining you could. He distracted you from your duties enough, pointing out birds that flew overhead and gleefully calling a cat over to stroke while you worked, making sure you took a break to pet her, too. He told you stories of the sea, too- a sailor, it seemed, not just a docker. It made you long for the glittering expanse yourself, the sound of the waves even louder than it could be heard a bit inland at town’s center. The sight of water lapping upon wood, your hands dangling down to greet it, you could almost see it as your customer spoke and scrawled with charcoal on a little pad.

In the shine of it all, the glow of all the kindness you’d suddenly come to enjoy in a day, you forgot to push your coin hat forward when he left, but caught the glint if him dropping something into it regardless as he left, shaking your hand warmly. It was as if life was making up for lost time, apologizing for your wanderings. Good things coming to those who waited.

After watching your latest customer’s trim figure disappear around the corner, sparing you one more glance and wave that fluttered your heart, you turned around, picking up the old hat of your father’s off the cobblestone to peer inside.

Your jaw dropped. Rather than coin, the sailor had placed within the battered band the most gorgeous necklace you had ever laid eyes upon. Dripping with soft pink and yellow topaz, the gold chain sparkled in your hand. The number of gems shocked you, too- its wearer’s neck would be entirely ringed with the oval-cut gems, the largest of which hung on the bottom row. You began rising, ready to chase after the man and tell him you couldn’t accept something like that. How on Earth could a simple sailor even afford something like-

A torn piece of parchment tumbled into your lap, bouncing of your unfolding knee as you stood. Holding the necklace gingerly with your left hand, you smoothed it and picked it up from the ground between your thumb and forefinger. As you walked, hat and necklace clutched tightly in hand, you scanned the note.

‘Miss (y/n),

The way your eyes lit up when I spoke of the sea sparked hope in me- hope for you, hope for the people of this town. Even more now do I wish to give back to them. If you care not to join me and my crew, I will still smile at your beautiful memory, hoping to be met with it again someday. And of course that my gift has helped you earn your deserved lot (though it would look very nice too!).

Fondly,

Choi San (don’t tell anyone this though on account of the wanted thing- I trust the shoe shine girl!)’

Rounding a corner, you picked up speed, taking your skirt in hand and feeling a flood of relief that the lane was not crowded. Soles thudded against stone as you wound past the baker’s stall, catching a glimpse of black hair and white tunic. As if playing a child’s game, you tapped his shoulder as he caught up, relishing in his jump of shock as it melted into a smile. Words failed you as his head tilted, ready to listen; all you could do was hold up the note, nodding.

☠ Mingi ☠

The moment the sound of the windows shattering pierced you, you were on your feet, scurrying towards the nearest doorway. Clanging metal and gunshots rang out behind you as you crawled as close to the ground as you could.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” a deep voice rang out from behind you.

With a shudder, you turned around, seeing a tall, hatted silhouette surrounded by the chandeliers’ light. “You don’t?” You asked, shuffling to a half-seated position, legs folded at your side.

“These people aren’t your friends, are they?

“What makes you say that?” You shot back, arms crossing defiantly in spite of the way your eyes avoided the pistols slung at each of the man’s hips.

“You were willing to leave them for dead,” he chuckled, “you were only interested in saving yourself. Something about that told me these people haven’t exactly shown you much kindness.”

Posture softening, you sighed. “You are, unfortunately, correct. I’m all but being sold into a marriage to a man who’s been nothing but horrible to me.”

The man in the hat glanced beyond the counter you’d been ducked behind. “Er, fellow with a purple jacket? Ponytail?”

You nodded.

“I suspect you will no longer have to marry him. Will you show me up to this house’s main chambers?”

“I will,” you nodded again, wondering if you had much of a choice, “but what are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re free,” the man stepped forward once more, this time revealing the kindest smile you’d seen in a long time. Quite a contrast to the guns. “Free, just like me.” He extends a hand, helps you up. “You could even join us on the ship if you find no happiness here.”

As you left the room, making for the stairs, you glanced down at the stiff, fine clothes you hated being yanked into every day. Clothes someone else’s money bought to fabricate a standing, a life for you. You were silent as the tall man, grinning like a charming, eager young boy, shot the lock out of the estate owners’ vault, and filled a sack with jewels.

“What do you want?”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He waved his revolver over an array of fine rings, necklaces, bracelets, furs. “I offer you your pick. Even if it is to be your last, this is your first plunder, isn’t it? We always keep a sign of it.”

Eyes drifting across the glittering spoils, one standing out to you immediately, your hand darted out with speed surprising even to you. An onyx seal ring, the shining black surface stamped with the crest of the family you would now never join. You strung it on a chain and fastened it around your neck.

As you looked up to the hatted stranger, your eyes hardened. “I’ll join you on the trip, pirate.”

The pirate with the pistols grinned at you proudly, though a good percentage of it seemed to be self-satisfaction, that he knew you would. “On one condition.”

Your fingers curled into a fist instinctively, used to strings being tied around your actions. “What?”

And then the smirk melted back to the boyish smile as he patted your shoulder gently, reassuringly. “Call me Mingi.”

And as he led you out of the foyer, trying his best to distract you from the handful of bodies laying about the room with sea stories, somehow all you could feel was your numbness fading away, turning to excitement.

☠ Wooyoung ☠

“Hey, now what is a beauty like you doing in a place like this?”

Your eyes practically got sprains from how hard they rolled. As if such words had not been spit at you five times already that very evening. Badly as you wanted to ignore the man, you were serving him. In title of vocation only.

Swiveling on your heels, you bit out, “Making the best bit of coin I can without selling myself.”

At that, the man winced, black hair flowing back as his head bowed slightly. You smirked. Half the men that came through the tavern were all bark, no bite, and that was fine by you. You had enough bite for two after a few years there. Several bruised patrons would have been able to attest to that.

“You’re trying to survive too, aren’t you?” His voice, boisterous moments before, softened to just above a whisper.

Eyeing him suspiciously, you remained where you stood, tugging up the far-too-open-for-your-liking bodice of your dress. “What do you mean?”

“That this world isn’t kind to orphans and outcasts,” he shrugged, running a hand through his hair. He was handsome in a roguish sort of way- clearly not high society, you could tell that much. But you’d have been able to say the same for any clientele of a tavern such as that which employed you. “You are far too beautiful to be cast to the fringes. You should be sailing the high seas, your name inspiring fear, terror, and arou- er, well, anyway, you do not deserve this drudgery.”

You crossed your arms, but leaned closer to where he reclined, boots on the table. “And what would you have me do? Risk whatever the ruffians on the nearest pirate ship would do to a woman?”

He shook his head. “You have that wrong, my dear. Have you hear no tales of the pirate queens? We have much greater respect for women than you’ll find here.”

“Cute words for the man whose first line was the cheapest flirt I’ve ever heard,” you countered.

“I’ll get you a sword as sharp as your words,” he shot back, leaning closer, your noses almost touching. You could feel his breath on your face.

He didn’t back down, so you didn’t either, eyes steeling further.

“I can’t believe you are not a pirate already,” he chuckled, smiling widely, giddily, as he leaned back again, “if you join us, you can smack around all the deserving scoundrels you want. Like those horrible officers you put in their place earlier.”

You’d seen them grab women and throw innocents in their carriage enough times, not to mention not tipping you. Trying their old routine on your coworker was the final straw, and you knew just how to make a tipped tray look like an accident. So did the young, roguish pirate that grinned from your table, apparently. You couldn’t help a proud smirk, one he gladly returned.

Your fingers twitched. The part of you that had been on edge for so long, tired of being grabbed by rowdy patrons and ordered around, wanted nothing more than to land a solid punch upon this man, and yet your heart fluttered with excitement. Perhaps your fighting spirit was in need of a vessel. Seafaring pun intended.

“You take me to your ship tonight,” you told the man, “and I speak to your captain. Anything goes wrong, I will not hesitate to make the seas run red.”

“Oh, I doubt it not,” the man purred, leaning his elbow on the table, chin upon a gloved hand, “well, to celebrate, how’s about a dance?”

Curse the fool, you loved dancing. Well, at least he looked quite fit for it, you reflected as he stood up, movements graceful as he took your hand and whirled you off toward the tavern’s music. And judging by his earnest smile, the pirate loved it as much as you did. He spun you dizzy until you couldn’t help but laugh.

“There we go, now we’re smiling! Can I have a name, then, or do we save that for the captain?”

“Only if you tell me yours,” you chuckled, grip on his firm shoulder tightening a bit when you careened close to an open stool.

“Wooyoung. I sail with the Eightfold- though perhaps we have room for a ninth after all.”

“Don’t push it,” you told him, but the smile you shared as you bobbed about the room said otherwise.

☠Jongho☠

Fortuitous had your father's connections become, it was said, that you had been invited to such a ball. Couples danced in sweeping circles, women's skirts opening like blooming flowers as they whirled around, and you hoped to join them soon. A new dress had even been purchased for the occasion, so you were decked out in a winsome cut of your favorite color as you crossed the glittering ballroom with your drink.

Your opportunity came in the form of a young man you had never seen before approaching you, serious expression melting into a small, handsome smile as he carefully extended a hand, asking if you'd like to dance.

"Certainly," you agreed, and as he led you to the floor you couldn't help staring into the allure of his deep brown eyes.

His hands held you firmly as you waltzed a few songs through, his expression careful and calm as you eventually introduced yourself, asking his name in return.

"Choi Jongho," he replied quietly, as if it were a secret. You hadn’t heard it before, you were certain.

"Well, it truly is a pleasure. Is this your first of such occasions?"

"It is."

You lit up. "Mine too! And who are you acquainted with here-”

A loud smashing of wood resounded behind you, killing your sentence on your lips as you cried out in alarm. Turning you away from the sound, Jongho kept a hand on your shoulder, scanning the room with such calm on his face, you could hardly help but wonder if he expected destruction wherever he went. Leaning into the warm point of contact, you watched awestruck as he launched into the ballroom, meeting a blow by another far more roughly dressed man.

Your hands flew to your face as your dance partner landed a punch himself, the other man attempting to shove him into the drink table in retaliation. He stood his ground, though, as couples scurried across the dance floor, some screaming and some simply muttering indignance, thinking them drunkards. You watched as Jongho lifted the ruffian like he was but a sack of flour, flipping him onto his back and pinning him beneath the heel of his shoe.

“You think I had no cover? The others had you running, it seems,” he shook his head, expression still as if it was a casual conversation, “fight with honor next time. This is our bounty.”

Wide-eyed, you watched as Jongho stood the man up, wiping off the front of his dirty tunic, and hauled him out the door. Half his words were lost upon your ears, but you couldn’t help flushing a bit at his strength. You gaped as he made his way back over to you, bowing his head in apology.

“I am sorry you had to see that,” he told you, smiling earnestly, looking only slightly ruffled for the first time as several ball-goers crowded him, shaking his hand in thanks.

“You have no reason to be, that was amazing!” You gushed, laughingly pulling him free of the crowd to sit at a table. “It was like you knew that man would come crashing in! In fact, it was almost as if…you knew each other.” Your eyes narrowed.

Talks of thieves had drifted through the city of late. Robberies during a dinner or ball, right under the cover of pandemonium. Had that fight been staged?

Jongho sighed. “I was hoping you hadn’t heard that. Believe me or not, that man was no one I care to associate with. Murderous thieves, all they want is gold to line their pockets.”

You frowned slightly, tugging on the sleeve of your fine gown as you searched his eyes. “And you and your…others? What do they want if not that, then? What is your bounty?”

“I won’t lie to you- we steal,” Jongho replied bluntly, straightening his jacket as well, “have you heard the tale of Robin Hood? Think of our crew as the Merry Men, then.”

Cocking a brow, you stepped back and forth. “Robbing the rich to give to the poor?”

Jongho nodded. “The aristocracy has gotten out of hand. Er, no offense.”

“None taken. I am only here for a rare bit of fun. Call my family middle class,” you answered, biting your lip as you processed your dance partner’s admission, catching his stately reflection in one of the estate walls’ looking glasses, “though we are working our way up. Station is the only way to succeed in this world, after all.”

“We want to change that,” Jongho shot back, crossing his arms, gaze lighting as a newly-oiled lamp.

“I cannot blame you. My only task in this world is to marry well and hope I enjoy it. These balls are quite nice, though.”

Jongho snickered at your words before his gaze softened again. “And are you enjoying it?”

“I have no suitors,” you replied, “dancing tonight was my opportunity. All I could hope for was to fall in love tonight.”

“Well, sorry I derailed that. I’ll let you get back to it, then.”

Your chest sunk as he started to walk away, though, every tap of his shoes against marble echoing louder even than the orchestra to you. Without thinking, you reached out, catching his elbow. “No.”

He arched a brow, sending it all but disappearing beneath his shining black bangs. “No?”

“I cannot in good conscience turn back to this all. You are right. Let me help you. I can pretend to lead you out to the garden for a stroll. Meet there with your others.”

And for the first time, Jongho grinned widely at you, an expression joyous enough to send your already jittery heart leaping straight out of your chest. He nodded.

“The Merry Men were never complete without Marion.”

[mukbangg]

Billy and an ex-outlaw reader who has a bit of ptsd? If you’re still in the market for prompts :)

Omg I have so many of yalls prompts writings in progress....trynna write between school and work. Nonnie, iiiii dk if this is written right might make part 2.

(Me writing during work: you write porn w the same hands you serve coffee ?)

Jesse and his boys were old acquaintances of yours.

Though you never did ride with them, you've crossed paths with their lot quite a few times. What started out as a rivalry had turned into more like friendly competition before you had earned their respect by saving their asses more times you can count.

But when your crimes had caught up to you, resulting in much bloodshed involving your family back at home well...you werent eager to get back in business.

Fact is, you've left your past behind and settled down a little way off a lone town, behind a beautiful spread of a meadow.

A cozy barn, small and snug.

Just like your momma had always wanted.

So when a familiar group of cowboys come trotting through the meadow....let's say you werent all that pleased.

"Jesse,"

You tip your hat at the blonde astride his horse.

"Boys,"

"Well, look who's alive,"

He laughed, swinging off his horse and sweeping you into a crushing hug. You softened with a sigh, patting him on the back.

When you'd decided to settle, he'd kicked up such a fuss, mad that you decided to leave in your prime.

You were like the gang's little sister, or maybe an annoying cousin that swings by every now and then.

"Here lemme introduce you to-"

"Billy,"

You were suddenly aware of the towering fella who had emerged abruptly from the group. Dark curls peeking out from his hat, broad shoulders and a rugged air to him, he was a handsome one. But what takes the cake was his piercing blue eyes, fixed unwaveringly on you.

It would be intimidating if not for how subtly they raked over your body.

"Eyes up here cowboy,"

You mutter to the man lowly, gripping his outstretched hand in a firm shake.

"Replaced me so soon, jesse?"

You turn back to the blonde, raising a brow at him.

"Well doll, Billy heres quite the gunslinger, maybe even better than ya,"

You swat playfully at his chest, a round of laughter rising from the group. Jesse chuckles, before he shrugs, kicking at the ground. You know that look.

"So my boys and I need to lay low for awhile and well..."

He raised his brows at you, a sliver of a sheepish smile on his lips.

"Hell no, jesse, you know I'm out,"

You huffed, shaking your head firmly. Annoyance rises like a whip in your chest, you alway were quick to temper.

"You know that, after what happened...."

"Aw c'mon, just a couple o' weeks? We promise we wont bring you no trouble, we'll even help out-"

You held up a finger, trying hard to maintain your stern facade.

"I cant risk it, such a large group of men, oh I swear to god-"

"Using the lord's name in vain-"

Jesse attempted at a joke before swallowing his words when met with your burning scowl. His group stirs uneasily behind him.

"Just a week?"

Billy's voice rang out. He steps forward, blue eyes pleading as a warm smile crack over his lips. You sighed, ready to turn down his offer.

"Towns people talk, what if they see y-"

"We'll do chores, we'll earn our keep, surely you can use the rest, miss? It's a big place to take care of,"

Now that, was tempting. Your barns not huge but you're only one person, and the day passes quick when you busy about with the chores. And to add on, a group of men you trust does put your worries at ease.

Living away from town always had the threat of robberies and whatnot, especially for a lone girl like yourself. You've hidden pistols everywhere in the house, one slung around your hip, though you're never sure if you'd be able to pull the trigger on someone when it comes down to it...

What a joke, you used to be one of the most feared outlaw with an aim as true as the sky is blue.

Now you cant even stand the sound of your door slamming.

"Fine,"

You finally relented, clicking your tongue with a jerk of your head to allow the group to flood into your house.

They cheered and hollered, Jesse and slapping Billy on the back before heading in.

"G'job butterin' her up Billy boy!"

"Y'better believe I'll be working the lot of you to your bones!"

You huffed after him, before turning back to Billy.

"And you! I swear t'God if any of yall give me trouble I'm coming for you first!"

He leans close, tipping his hat at you with a smirk on his stupidly handsome face.

"Your wish is my command, pretty,"

Billy brushes past, leaving you all flustered and red in the cheeks , with a looming dread that you've got more than a few rowdy cowboys to worry about.

What did your momma used to say?

Butterflies in your damn stomach.

(Haiii I'm lowkey bad at story stuff might make a part 2...? If yall want? Gimme some ideas what you wanna see in part 2 if you want)

[wonipeun]

ㅤ ༉‧₊˚ how would enhypen members text you as your boyfriends ?

pairing: bf!enhypen x gn!reader | genre: fluff, as always! warnings: none! | wordcount: 1.2k words

✶﹒author's note: i'm back, yayyy!!! long time no see huhu,,, i've recently been thinking of writing some headcanons of how enhypen would text when dating, so here it is!! hope you enjoy it!! (*˘︶˘*)♡ there is some kind of glitch with the small font? there are random letters that are bigger, sorry about that, i have tried to fix it like 10 times and it keeps popping up smh. hope it's not too much trouble!!!!

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이희승 · lee heeseung ‧₊˚

oh my god heeseung is so in love it's embarassing.

i can literally see him sending flirty texts like "thinking about me?" with the stupidest grin on his mouth, and when you reply with a "yes" he'll start kicking his feet on the bed.

i dont really see him using pet names over text, probably he has you on his contacts as "y/n" and some cute emoji that reminds him of you.

"can i call you?" is probably the text he sends you the most.

heeseung prefers calling over texting, but he's shy about facetiming, especially when you have just started dating.

although he's a bit blunt over text, on calls he's a very veryyyy sweet boyfriend. his smitten voice gives away his love for you completely!!! (>᎑<๑)/♡ even when he tries to keep that "cool guy" image, he just can't do that with you-

"i've missed you" "you did?" "mhm"

oh he is blushing hard!!!!

and so are you!!

you both giggling and all- thisissocuteimsobbing.

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박종성 · park jongseong ೀ

he's so well spoken???

he sends you a looong text every morning to remember you everything you have to remember, wish you a good day and say i love you, ofc.

"good morning y/n, have you slept well? remember you have a dentist appointment at 5 o'clock today. i love you 💗"

"good morning my love, sorry for leaving so early today! your breakfast is on the fridge, hope you enjoy it! have a nice day, see you tonight. i love you 💕"

no because park jongseong is the epitome of husband material.

randomly sends you selcas to let you know where he is and what he is doing. and sends another message right after. like "bowling 🎳" or something (pls- 😭).

"have fun!!"

no. wrong answer.

send him your photo. match his energy.

that's the only correct answer.

"*insert your photo here* cooking dinner👩🏻‍🍳"

the moment he sees the photo he's smiling right away! ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

"new wallpaper, hehe~" "NO JAY STOP NOT THAT ONE"

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심재윤 · sim jaeyun ˖ ࣪ ⭑

jake is clingy even over text it's amazing actually

uses a lot of emojis, but he's starting to use ":))" and "ㅠㅠ" recently as well!

"jake" "i miss youuu" "wru??"

the average waiting time for jake to respond to you is about 2.058 seconds, i.e., the time it takes for the phone to unlock and open your chat.

"omw!!!!" "i'll be there in 5 mins!" "i miss you too my love <333" "wait for me!!"

will always, always make sure to show you how much he cares about you, whether in person or over text. that's why he sends several messages a day, although sometimes he has to hold back to avoid being a burden,,,, (pls tell him he's not he just loves you sm).

the most effective way to make jake happy? send him selcas!! at any time! it will take him a few seconds to answer so he can calm his heartbeat and type correctly, but his answer will always make you flustered!! ૮₍ ⸝⸝´ ꒳ '⸝⸝ ₎ა

"wow" "woah" "baby omg you're beautiful" "how can you be so pretty?" "and mine" "i'm so luckyyyy" "i love you i love you i love you"

he's the cutest i just cannot handle this

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박성훈 · park sunghoon ⊹ ࣪

sunghoon gives me the same vibes as heeseung

but hoon is,,, cuter???

he sends you cute gifs and think is hilarious 😭

"y/n look at this"

probably a picture of a hedgehog wearing a santa claus hat but he's laughing so hard laying literally next to you.

so you can't help but start laughing as well.

he turns around and looks at you with his pretty sparkly eyes and lovely smile.

"it's funny, isn't it?"

tell him it's funny!! he loves to make you laugh <;33

sunghoon is not that expressive when texting, so you can consider his adorable gifs as his virtual displays of affection!! ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

doesn't want to tell you but he has you on his contacts as "my beautiful girlfriend" or something like that because this man is very much in love.

he tries to be discreet and not look too desperate, but when you both are apart for several days he sends more messages than usual…

"y/n" "i just had lunch" "did you?" "i did" "good" "i miss you" "but not to much" "just a little bit" "i miss you too..?"

he has no idea how to express affection by text please bear with him.

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김선우 · kim sunoo ౨ৎㅤ۫ ㅤ֪

you already know what's coming-

kim sunoo is INTENSE

"my baby y/nieeeeeee💗" "i missed you so much today😢" "shall we have lunch together????" "todays interview has been cancelled!" "i want to see you and kiss you and hug you💕💕💕" "right now😤" "so be ready!!!!"

texts cutely!! and uses a lot of emojis too, mostly pink hearts!!

your photo library is full of his selcas…

although it is true that he takes a lot of pictures for engene and posts them on twitter and weverse, he always saves the best one for you ૮꒰っ˃̵///˂̵c꒱ა

give him compliments!!

"you look so cuteeeeee<;3"

GIGGLES

"i do??" "really???" "but y/nnnn" "if you're saying i'm cute" "being you the cutest one on this world" "then i must be really really cute"

lowkey flirting as he confesses his undying love for you.

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양정원 · yang jungwon ׅ ࣪ ✧

if jungwon is so active on weverse when talking with engenes, just think of the amount of messages you will receive from him in a single day.

wants and needs to tell you anything that happens in his life!!!

"y/n i've just tried this new restaurant" "everything is soooo good!!" "should we order from there next time??" "i want you to try it"

he really wants to involve you in every aspect of his life!! ଘ(੭˃ᴗ˂)੭

loves loves loves facetiming before going to sleep!

my condolences to sunghoon, ni-ki and sunoo who will have to listen to your late-night love calls (they're kinda jealous because you both sound so in love ߹ᯅ߹)

sends lots of pictures of things he thinks are pretty or remind him of you.

"look this little kitten i just came across!!" "is so cute!!" "it looks just like you, so i thought of you right away" "like me??" "of course!!!!!!!!" "look at the eyes" "it looks like you!" "...right?" "maybe i just miss you"

he does.

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にしむら りき · nishimura riki ♡   ֺ  ׅ

he just loves to make fun of you even over text

"y/n" "why do you send me all this texts?" "you really miss me that much???"

he misses you more please keep texting him

has you in his contacts as "girlfriend" and you always ask him to change it because is so unaffectionate, but he loves it because it reminds him he can call you his girlfriend????!!!

"girlfriend has text you" yeah he's so proud of that

sends you 984569 tiktoks and gets upset if you don't reply to all of them individually. also doesn't like it when you react to his messages with a heart instead of sending it as a text!!!! >:(

"if you love me show it properly!!!" "IS ALSO A HEART" "IT'S NOT THE SAME"

sends you funny pictures of you late at night because that's when he checks his pictures of you and always ends up laughing so hard that the members have to scold him.

"nishimura riki" "delete that rn" "NEVERRRRRRRR"

instead you send him nice pictures of him on your dates but he always says he looks bad smh (っ- ‸ - ς)

"what. the hell. is that." "i look ugly" "wdym???" "you look cute" "really?" "yeah" "alright you can keep that one"

maybe he just wants your compliments... 🤭

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taglist! (open): @love-4-keum @tyunni @lovr4lix

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ©wonipeun 2023 | ㅤall rights reserved.

[bloodweep]

Pleaseeeeee write more Floyd omg I'm so in love with the way you write <3333

AHH thank you, he’s so bb I love him so so much ,,,

This is been my little brainrot for a bit all day yesterday:

━━━━━━━ ✦❘༻༺❘✦ ━━━━━━━

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Mistletoe ࿐ྂ

Floyd never felt so giddy like he did today, well, perhaps not as much as he felt when he was reunited with his brothers but it was close. His cheeks burned a soft purple constantly since he’s been up, the flush sometimes adventuring to his ears and down his neck, he was sure his chest was covered too but he would like to pretend no one could see. Or maybe people did see and didn’t care to point it out as many were doing the same thing.

He held the present close to his chest, his ears wiggling and flattening out as he buried his small snout into it, inhaling the scent softly as his tail wagged behind himself. He felt overwhelmed, not sure how to go about anything and inhaling the soft cinnamon scent of the wrapping and bow he used did help ground him. With a soft sigh he lifted his head back up, fixed his furred collar of his jacket vest around his neck - in attempt to cover the blush traveling down rather than the cold, his brothers never were really affected by it like the other fellow pop trolls.

However his feet didn’t move still, he felt planted in place, it was just exchanging gifts right? There wasn’t anything too difficult with it? But to him, it meant and felt so much more to him, like it was so much more special to give this gift to you. He’s used to giving gifts to others all the time, but he couldn’t help but feel a little dejected if you didn’t like it.

He was taken out of his internal stupor when you called out to him, your hands waving in the air as you jumped up and down. He smiled, his teeth coming over his lower lip to show off his teeth, his tiny little fangs digging into the flesh slightly. “Floyd!” You called, making a few flinch and look at you with how loud you were, but you didn’t care as you bounded over to him. He couldn’t help but giggle a little; you were completely bundled up, a cute little hat over your hair that made it spill around your face and neck, some cute ear muffs on top of it - he could feel his own ears melting off with his warm yours must be - you had this cutest little scarf around your neck, the tails fluttering in the wind as you ran over to him, a thick fur jacket that was buttoned and zipped all the way up, thick pants and topped off thick furred boots. The only thing missing was the mittens, he would be dying of heat stroke if he wore all that. Compared to him, it seems you were about to travel to the Antarctic.

“Hello,” he called out, his arms opening up to invite you in for a hug, knowing it was going to happen anyways, the present clutched tightly in his left hand, without hesitation you bounded into his arms. Your feet planted on his hips as you forced him to bend backwards as you hugged him tightly. He wrapped his arms around your waist tightly so you wouldn’t force them to fall backwards on the snowy ground and you wouldn’t fell off of him.

“Oh I missed you!” You exclaimed hugging around his neck tightly and rubbing your cheeks together lazily. “It’s been since yesterday,” he murmured out, sighing in content at the closeness even if the extra warmth from the fur was making him heat up a bit more. “I missed you more,” he admitted before gently setting you down on the ground before looking you over. “Aren’t you hot?” He laughed his head tightly slightly. You shook your head, “oh gosh no; I’m so cold,” you giggled rubbing your hands together. “I can’t find my mittens and my hands are so so cold I feel like they are going to freeze off,” you whined out.

You paused looking over Floyd in shock; only seeing his furry vest jacket, even more appalled to see he was still wearing his belt and shorts and no shoes. Your mouth was basically through the ground at this point. “Oh my god!” You nearly screeched your hands coming up to grip his face, nails skimming his ears and making him shudder. You moved his head around examining him, your eyes so wide. “How are you not cold?” You asked waiting for a response.

Floyd shook his head gently, “I am not, my brothers and I can withstand the cold better,” he replied nearly breathless, he wasn’t used to you being this concerned for him and being in his face like this. “Well screw you,” you laughed out shaking your head. “Oh!” You replied giving him whiplash as you looked at his hand to the present. “Who is that for?” You asked his head tilting lazily, a soft smile on your lips, which was different compared to your teasing one.

He stuttered a little before bringing it to you; “it’s.. for you” he replied softly his eyes downcast to the ground afraid to see your reaction. You paused before gently grabbing it, “you didn’t have to,” you whispered. You tore into the paper before sniffing softly “cinnamon?” You questioned.

“The scent reminds me of you,” he whispered his ears turning a deep purple now. You blushed lightly at them before going back to your present. Once the paper was off you opened the box and gasping. What laid there was a beautiful handmade mittens, hat, jacket, boots, with a little note on top with Floyd’s elegant handwritten with a heart. You grasped the note and opened it with one hand.

‘For you, my dear, I hope these bring you all the warm and comfort while the weather continues to try to dwindle your brightness

- Love

Floyd’

Another box inside the box caught your eye too before you could get all sentimental about the card, but you did put the card into your pocket and patted it softly. You set the box of new clothes down before grabbing that one with box hands and gently opening it. In that box was a beautiful necklace, coated in sapphire and diamonds with a beautiful elegant rose quartz that hung on a chain so it could rest over your heart. Tears coated your face now as you lifting it up out of the box, letting the box drop as you held the necklace to your chest. Floyd look at you worriedly grasping your face in his hands so gently to look you over.

“Oh please don’t cry, do you not like it?” He asked worriedly chewing his lower lip after but you shook your head. “Oh Floyd I love it,” you sniffled pushing your hand up between his hand and your cheek to push the necklace in his palm. “Put it on me please,” you breathed out. He let out a shaky exhale before nodding, moving closer so his nose brushed yours and gently began to clasp it asking your neck. “I found the gems and made it myself,” he murmured. This brought more tears down your cheeks, you never had someone do this for you.

Once he was done with the clasp he brought his hand down to place the rose quartz over your heart and leaving his hand there. You looked him in the eyes before looking up trying to content your emotions.

“Oh Floyd look,” you whispered pointing up to the branches above. “A mistletoe,” you beamed, grasping his ears and pulling him in, you pressed your lips softly to his, your ears closing. He responded back so quickly, his hands sliding down to your waist and holding you tightly and swaying.

“This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had,” you whispered into the kiss making him beam. He gently picked you off of the ground and spun around slowly. He didn’t even know why he was nervous about you accepting his gifts.

━━━━━━━ ✦❘༻༺❘✦ ━━━━━━━

He’s so soft it makes me heart warm

[kuromiscat]

Crafty!reader who sees the Union Jack back onto Gaz’s hat

crafty!reader who modpodges and plasters Simon’s skull back together

crafty!reader who always has to re thread the line in Prices’s hat

crafty!reader who made Johnny a special hair geel container, with his name on it and everything

oh my gosh!! And can you imagine like maybe Gaz’s Union Jack comes off it it’s falling off the hat and Price is like “we can always get you another one. The hats lasts longer than I thought!”

and Gaz is like “nah, the mrs will fix it when I get home!”

and the 141 being like “??? Wife???? Crafty wife?? Can she fix my ___”

:)

AHHH YOU ARE SO RIGHT!!! Crafty reader stays up well into the late hours of the night fixing things for the boys <33

Gaz is so cute !!! Everyone else would be so surprised because omg??? Gaz has a wifey??? He never mentioned anything about a lil lady at home !!! The rest of the guys beg to meet her and when they do they can’t help but immediately be smitten for her once she offers to fix things for them 😩<333