#my personality fracturing and coming back together fully

[is-mayonnaise-a-coping-skill]

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[seiwas]

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

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

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

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

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking? 

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?) 

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all. 

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

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

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

Kirishima’s right. 

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

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

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

You. 

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time. 

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

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

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

“Y’coming or what?” 

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?” 

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

Shouto stares right back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.” 

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head. 

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

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

These family lunches keep them connected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

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

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

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

Another thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

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

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

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

You nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

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

Touya’s words come back to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you. 

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

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

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

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

You still care for him in the same way. 

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

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

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

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

He thinks you look cute. 

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

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

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

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

It’s only right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

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

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

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

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

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

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

“It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no occasion…?”

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

Shouto blinks. 

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

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

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

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

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

Thump.

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

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

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

“You’re back!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

So for you to keep it for this long—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

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

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

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

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

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

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That promptly shuts you up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

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

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

additional material: moodboard + playlist

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

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

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[bueckers-sturniolo]

the alchemy.

paige x fem!teammate! reader

word count: 2k!

warnings: uhhh, cursing? literally one suggestive-ish comment, if i think of anymore ill come back and lyk!

authors note: HIIII! this is my first time ever writing anything whatsoever, and i can’t tell if i genuinely enjoy or really hate this. you gotta start somewhere though, right? 🤔🤔🤔

go read part two here!

this happens once every few lifetimes; these chemicals hit me like white wine…

you and paige were inseparable. it didn’t go unnoticed by fans, not by any means. you were a year younger than paige, you started playing for uconn her sophomore year. as soon as this was announced, paige followed you on everything, immediately commenting on any post the uconn instagram page made about you, commenting something along the lines of just saying your name in all caps with a bunch of emojis, or even, when she was feeling bold, “Theres our girl! 🤩🙌 (or, ‘my girl’ if she was feeling silly that day),” and even on your own, individual posts about yourself, she’d like and comment some form of encouragement or a subtle compliment just to hype you up, as she does the rest of the team.

she couldn’t deny her nearly unbearable attraction toward the minute she first had laid eyes on you. even if it was over a tiny screen. the first time she saw you was when geno had shown the team videos of you playing and explained to them who you are, where you’re from, what position you play, and all other things they should know. you were around 5’10, and you were a point guard. you had gotten a scholarship to uconn, and obviously, you took it up. the first time paige physically saw you play, she knew you two would become close. not only working together on the court, during games and practices, but also, off of the court.

and you guys did. by the time the season started, you were sure you guys were unstoppable. every practice, you guys were fully locked in, becoming an outstanding duo together. that is, until, she got a tibial plateau fracture. she sat out a whopping 19 games after her surgery, and it was sad to see. she was such a powerful player, and now one of your best friends. games and practices didn’t feel nearly as good without her, but she made you promise that you’d work everyday to improve your already very strong talent, to play for ‘the both of you,’ as she said. she’d come to practices, games, and even just to your personal training sessions to provide some form of support.

what if I told you I’m back? the hospital was a drag, worst sleep that I ever had, I circled you on a map; I havent come around in so long, but im coming back so strong.

as soon as paige was cleared by doctors to begin playing again, she worked several hours, every single day. she came back as a fucking beast. since the day she got cleared and started working her ass off, she earned the nickname ‘sniper’ from you. your nickname for her was ‘killer,’ which, is kinda where she got the idea for sniper. you both were very powerful point guards. every day since she came back, you were amazed by just how hard she was working to get back up to her already impressive level of skill. and as time went on, she got even better than before. from the wise words of your guys’ coach, geno, she literally ‘came back better than she was when she was named player of the year.’

so when I touch down, call the amateurs and cut ‘em from the team, ditch the clowns, get the crown. baby, im the one to beat. cause the sign on your heart said it’s still reserved for me. honestly, who are we to fight the alchemy?

one night, after a practice, you guys are sitting on your couch, scrolling on your phones in the living room of your apartment. she was over there often. you didn’t live in a dorm, but she did, so this is where you typically hung out. you didn’t get a dorm, for mainly one reason, living on campus is expensive. you personally thought that if you were gonna pay so much to live somewhere, might as well be somewhere bigger than the dorms at uconn. your parents somehow agreed, and helped you through paying for it your first few years. you’re now a junior, and paige is a senior. though, she was technically going into her junior year of playing basketball, but it was her last year as a uconn ‘student.’ over the past several months, it’s been…. flirty, to say the least. you’ve always been not ‘just friends,’ but, you never talked about it. it was just ‘normal’ to you guys. you had talked about to kk once, and the conversation didn’t really help. at all. not in the fucking slightest.

“well, i mean… yeah, we all notice it. she just…. acts so different around you…? it’s not a bad difference, per se… it’s just like, why the fuck is she so nice to you? she’s constantly like… on her knees praising you. it’s crazy, lowkey. but none of us wanna say that, so we kinda just have accepted it all season.” kk says, finally looking up from her phone at me, sitting on the edge of her bed, giving her a ‘please help me’ look.

i stare at her for a few seconds, then sigh. is it actually different? does she really do that, or is kk just exaggerating, like she always does?

“kk, i don’t- i don’t know, dude. i don’t notice it. it’s just- like-“ kk interrupts me, knowing i couldn’t find the words to explain what i was feeling, “normal to you?”

i nod, putting my face in my hands and letting out another sigh. “yeah, i get that. but, also… like, how do you not notice it? it’s like- remember that guy she said she had a crush on, like- 7 months ago or some shit?” she said, sighing.

“yeah, why?” i say, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion on where the fuck she could possibly be going with this.

“she literally flirted with you more than she flirted with him. then, she rejected him, and said there was ‘no reason behind it….’ is that not suspiscious to you? in that one picture of you guys and the weird ass dude she apparently liked, she’s leaning closer to you than she is him? does that not even slightly spark a tad bit of suspiscion?” kk says, getting frustrated that im not seeing her point here.

“i mean- no? i didn’t even notice it, kk.” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “exactly my point,” kk says, sitting up to really try to get her point across. “she acts like she’s in love with you, and heaven forbid you notice it even slightly. i could name so many things that just, like- we have all noticed, and paige knows we’ve noticed. like, that time that one bitch was pushing you on the court the entire game, and paige eventually got pissed off and pushed her back off of you, then got a fucking technical foul over it…? or, how about when she gets drunk, she literally is all over you. like, hugging you, holding you, falling asleep on the couch with you literally on top of her? is that not somehow making you just use that little brain in your head?” kk says, and i just stare in thought. maybe she was right. maybe it is more than a close friendship.

you snap out of your thoughts as paige says your name, looking over at her. “yeah?” you say, trying to seem cool.

“are you okay? you just spaced out for like…. 10 minutes…” paige says, turning her phone off sitting her it down on her chest. “oh, yeah,” I say, chuckling. that’s fucking embarrassing, you thought. but why wouldn’t she notice it? she notices everything about you.

“y’know… you did really good today,” paige says smiling at you. you smile too, looking down at your hands, “thanks. you literally always do good, so. no point in boosting your ego any more than it already is.” you say, looking back up to meet her gaze.

“i call you killer for a reason, you know that, right? you’re fucking phenomenal.” and she meant it. you were a goddess, in her eyes. if there was any person closest to heaven on this earth. it’s you. everything about you. she couldn’t get enough of you, and if it was up to her, she’d show you just how perfect you are to her. you smile, shaking your head in disbelief. “you’re insane.”

“im literally complimenting you, idiot- how does this make me insane,” paige says, laughing. you shrug, shaking your head. “you know, you’re my bestfriend, right? like, the best, best-friend i’ve ever had? ” paige says, after a few seconds of silence. you look back up, your gaze softening, your big grin also softening into a sweet smile. kk was right, you thought. you knew what that was. you knew what she meant. she is in love.

hey, you. what if I told you we’re cool? that child’s play back in school is forgiven under my rule. i havent come around in so long, but I’m making a come-back to where I belong.

you sit in your room in silence, staring at the ceiling. you keep replaying things in your mind, things she’s said. things she’s done. you knew you liked girls, you knew you liked paige. but, at what cost? did your whole friendship form from the attraction you guys had from the start? was this random to her? were you guys ever going to talk about it? this whole situation is ridiculous. right now, paige is visiting her family in minnesota. you’ve met them before, and you loved her little brother, drew, like your own brother. he was precious to you. but, this time you didn’t go, you had to stay back and practice. which, sounds ridiculous to paige given that you’re already the best player in the world to her. but, you knew you’d been slacking on practicing and certain skills you were supposed to be good at. you didn’t want to let her down. or the team, of course. but, paige specifically.

these bloakes warm the benches, we’ve been on a winning streak. (s)he jokes that it’s heroin but this time with an ‘e.’

today, you guys had a game. you were always pretty hard on yourself, but, today was worse. paige noticed this, quickly. as she always does. right before halftime, you shoot a three. you make it, but, it still was kinda sloppy. not all of your shots were sloppy, of course. but, today you felt like shit and were on your period. you didn’t feel great, and you were pissed off that the girl guarding you was on your ass all damn game. the girl in question was no other than kate martin, who was always on your ass specifically, when you guys played iowa. it was infuriating, and not to mention that you kept getting fouls called on you by a ref who clearly doesn’t realize that kate won’t stay off of your case. as soon as half-time hits, you walk over to the bench, muttering a ‘holy fucking shit’ under your breath. you sit down, paige immediately following after you, sitting beside you.

“hey, killer…. it’s okay, i promise. you’re doing so, so good.” paige says, leaning closer to you trying to reassure you in a soft, gentle tone.

“doesnt feel like it.” you say, grumpily, grabbing your water and taking a drink of it. “i know, but hey,” she says, smiling. “you’re fuckin’ killing it. if it makes you feel any better, you scored and knocked her down because of how close she was to you, maybe she’ll back off. but…” she says, pausing. “do not get a tech because of her.” you look over at her, slowly nodding. “yeah, im trying. but, the next time she gets in my face, i’m knocking her to the fucking ground again.” you say, quietly. paige smiles, “no being too aggressive… i mean, yes, be aggressive. but, no techs.”

“yeah, yeah. okay, idiot face. i’ll try.” you say and paige smiles wider, shaking her head.

as the game continues, we’re up by a solid two points. youre now in the last 45 seconds of the game. iowa has the ball, clark scores a 3 on paige. of fucking course, you think.

kk gets the rebound, and we get the ball, finally. with now only 30 seconds left, you’re panicking. you’re losing by one damn point. geno calls a time out out to the ref, the ref granting him this and you all huddle over. paige leans over to you, mumbling a, “you’ve got this, killer. im leaving this up to you. you won’t let me down.” you smile, nodding. she smiles at you for a few seconds. she is so whipped, and it’s obvious. you’re addicting. you’re like heroin, but with a fucking ‘e,’ paige thinks.

shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads. beer sticking to the floor, cheers chanted, cause they said, “there was no chance, tryna be the greatest in the league.” where’s the trophy? (s)he just comes runnin’ over to me.

as the game resumes, the ball is passed to paige. 15 seconds. the time is ticking, so, so fast. paige does a pump fake, immediately passing the ball to you. you catch it, turning slightly so you can dribble around martin, who’s still on your ass. you nearly lose the ball. you’re wasting too much time time, you think. you glance up at the clock. 5 seconds. you try to think fast, then quickly preform a fake pass to paige, then as soon as kate turns her attention toward paige, you shoot directly behind the point the three-point line, and you make it. the buzzer sounds. you look over at the score counters, wondering if it’s able to be counted. they announce it is, and you feel like you’ve never been happier than in that damn moment. your entire team is screaming, all of the fans in the bleachers standing up and cheering. you place your hands on your knees, leaning down and panting while smiling. that’s when you see paige, her shirt is lifted up so her stomach is showing, still cheering. smiling ear to ear, she suddenly runs over to you from across the court. she hugs you, picking you up and spinning you around.

this type of shit only happens once every few lifetimes. who are you to deny your love for her any longer? who are you to fight the general chemistry between you two? who are you to fight the alchemy?

a/n: RAHHHHHH I HOPE YOU LOVED IT IM SORRY IF IT SUCKS ASS!!!! IF YOURE READING THIS RN I LOVE YOU SO MUCH

[snowthatareblack]

His Sunshine

TW: mentions of death and dying, mourning, emotional pain, spoilers for one of the endings of ADWD (Despondent), spoiler of Grim's real name.

Inspired by: Die With A Smile, and The Night We Met. (So I recommend you listen to either one or both of these songs while reading!)

wc: 600+ words

The grim reaper had gotten used to the way the souls of mortals would glow and shine, the way the soul ember would float to his hand like a magnet once he had reaped their lives, the way that when the time comes when a mortals soul would leave their body, there were the rare percentage of bodies that would simply be reduced to ashes, that would blow in the wind and fall to the ground.

That was the grim reaper's job. He was death. He knew it.

And yet he would never get used to and forget the way his Sunshine had looked up at him, with a smile on their face, as the soul in their body slowly dwindled out, like a small fire weakly losing it's life and light.

“You win.” They had said, both the grim repear and his Sunshine knew this was it, this was the end of their bet, his Sunshine was dying. And that would mean he would win the bet.

He remembers how they were scared, not of death, not of dying, not of him, the grim reaper, but of leaving. Leaving their pet alone, leaving their life behind, leaving him behind?... And yet they had that smile on their face, the smile that he would always see through their video calls, the smile that would tease him all the time, making him- though he would never ever confess this in his ever immortal life- flustered and feel something, something different and new and weird.

The way their smile would come out as they laughed at their own jokes and the conversations that they had, the way it would make him feel, in awe and happy and make himself, smile as well. The way their smile, that goshdamn smile, was still on their face now, as they looked up at him with shining tears in their eyes, it was the same ever smile, and yet this last one was the most bittersweet.

Casper was crying, with his Sunshine, in his arms, painfully losing the light that lives inside of them, even though they represent light themselves. “Life is unfair. The only fairness is in death.” Is what he remembered saying. But now all he had was fear. Fear of losing them. Fear of losing his Sunshine. He was scared of losing his first and only love ever.

Because how could death be fair if it was taking away his one and only person forever?

“And, Casper?” They whispered lowly to him, he didn't even have to close his eyes and concentrate on the connection between them to know it was unraveling. The tug no longer being fully there anymore, just a distant spiritual touch despite the physical contact they were having in his Sunshine's last moments.

Even with his vision completely blurry, full of his tears that were streaming down his face without mercy nor bashfulness, they still looked absolutely captivating as ever.

“I... Think I really like you too—” And then they stopped. Frozen, but still with that sweet sweet smile on their face.

As their body started to fall apart and fall into bits because their soul was shattering in their body, the fractures spreading everywhere, inside and out. But instead of disintegrating into ashes like all the other mortals and souls Casper had reaped before, theirs glowed.

They floated in the air and shined like the light and life they were to him, every bit of them, slowly becoming the Life that they themselves have represented and was. They were like the sun, his Sunshine.

(Hello everyone on Tumblr! I am Snow and Casper has singlehandedly brought me back from my years of writers block hahaha, this was also inspired by one of my posts before about Despondent, one of the two bad endings in ADWD. Sorry if this might've been seen as rushed, especially the ending, but I feel like this all fits together in the end and for the possible typos. Thank you for reading!)

[nickel156]

Not you being an abuse apologist 🤮 mind you, tamlin is an old ass fae high lord who's had plenty of time already to reflect and change his ways, his abusive tendencies are clearly ingrained into his entire being. Funny you only mention feyre as an example even though it's also implied that he's abusive towards lucien. And you clearly know very little about abuse because intent is irrelevant compared to impact. Feyre and Lucien LEFT his ass and wanted nothing to do with him so that tells you everything.

Here we go again with the dramatics. Abuse apologist?

That's the best you've got? I mean, come on, at least try to be creative. But I see we're back to the same tired argument: if someone doesn't immediately throw Tamlin into the "irredeemable villain" category, suddenly they're an apologist. How original.

Oh, you’re right—let’s set the record straight. In ACOFAS, Tamlin and Lucien did, in fact, get into a physical fight, and I’m fully aware of it. But it’s interesting how you’re framing that like it’s the defining moment of their centuries-long relationship. Sure, Tamlin hit Lucien, but let’s not forget why—Lucien had just helped Feyre demolish his entire court and then went off to work with Tamlin’s literal enemies. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure most people would have some feelings about that.

And let’s not pretend like Lucien and Tamlin didn’t have a deep bond before all this went down. They were best friends for centuries, long before Feyre showed up and threw a grenade into their lives. Yes, their relationship got messy—Tamlin’s spiraling, Lucien’s torn between loyalty to his friend and loyalty to Feyre—but reducing that fight to just “abuse” is a laughably simplistic take. They’re two grown-ass fae dealing with the fallout of betrayal, power struggles, and centuries of loyalty crumbling in the span of, what, a few months?

Do I condone Tamlin hitting Lucien? No. But am I surprised that their relationship fractured after everything went to hell? Also no. It’s almost like you expect Tamlin to just sit there and smile while his best friend runs off with the person who wrecked his entire life. Sure, Tamlin messed up in ACOWAR, but pretending Lucien is some innocent bystander in all of this is just laughable. They’re both in the mess together.

So yeah, they fought in ACOFAS. But it’s not like that defines their entire relationship or suddenly makes Tamlin the monster you’re painting him to be. It’s not as simple as “Tamlin is abusive, end of story.” Their dynamic is way more complicated than that, but I guess it’s easier to ignore context when it doesn’t fit your neat little narrative, huh?

But thanks for the reminder. Truly, your ability to dig up the most basic of facts is impressive. I guess I’ll just sit here, twiddling my thumbs, while I wait for you to come up with something actually original or remotely interesting for once. Because, honestly, if this is the best you’ve got, I’m not exactly holding my breath for anything groundbreaking. You keep bringing the same recycled points to the table, and it’s getting real tired.

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 2, Unspeakable - Pt. 4

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, Steve Rogers (he is not my favorite, okay?), Emotional discussions, Explosions!

Word Count: 868

Previously On...: You celebrated Bucky's new arm by watching the Hobbit movie. When you mentioned that one of your friends would let him do "unspeakable things" to their body, he immediately thought of Natasha. Why did that make you feel icky inside?

A/N: I'm posting this from a coffee shop, which makes me feel very much like a "legit" writer, when, in reality, I'm just waiting for my dog to get out of the groomer, and the coffee shop is a Dunkin' lol.

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917

Taglist: (Please let me know if you’d like to be added!)  @blackhawkfanatic @les-sel @marcswife21 @buckybarnessimpp

"I've been meaning to thank you," Steve said as he stood over your shoulder. It was about a week after your movie night with Bucky, and you and Steve were working a mission together in Eastern Latvia. He'd already cleared the facility of hostile agents, allowing you the time you needed to infiltrate the site's computer systems and copy all necessary files for extraction back to the US government’s counter-terrorism task force. It was something you'd done a hundred times before, and could probably do with your eyes closed.

"Thank me for what? We've done this dance plenty of times." Your eyes narrowed as you concentrated on the computer code, fingers moving almost too fast for your own eyes to follow. You had nearly done it- the breach was wide open, and the terrorists' files were all laid out before you. The hard part was over, now it was just a matter of copying them over securely.

"Not the mission," he clarified, clearing his throat. "I wanted to thank you for what you've done for Bucky, for being there for him. I... I know you don't like me and things between us haven't been the same since Berlin, but it means a lot to me, knowing that he can call you a friend."

You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and stared blankly at the screen, not able to look at him in the moment. "I never disliked you, Steve," you began, slowly, choosing your words with care, "but you broke us. You had your reasons, I get that, and maybe, to you, they seemed like good ones, but you fractured our family instead of trying to find a way for all of us to work through it, together. The only reason we're even in this room right now is because, by some grace of God, Tony was able to put his ego aside and offer you an olive branch to come home. We might look whole on the outside, but the cracks are still there. And they're always going to be. They'll never fully heal.

"So, it's not that I don't like you anymore. It's that I can't trust you. Not right now. Because I don't know if you're going to break us again." Your voice cracked by the end, but you felt surprisingly lightened, as though a massive weight had been lifted from your shoulders, and you realized just how desperately you had needed Steve to know how his actions had affected, not just you, but the others, as well. None of you had wanted to be forced to take sides in the civil war between Iron Man and Captain America; it had felt like burning down your own house, but in the end they had left you no choice. You'd already had it out with Tony. He'd apologized in the only way a man like him knew how-- with a brand new Ferrari that you were too anxious to drive and an obscene raise to your salary, but you'd never spoken about it with Steve. He'd seemed too content to act as though nothing had changed, like he hadn’t upended your entire existence.

You heard him clear his throat above you and you looked up. He was looking away from you, his face impassive, save for a tic in jaw. You'd known him long enough to see he was working on holding back his emotions.

"That's fair," he said softly. "That's entirely valid, and fair. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I was so caught up in trying to bring back my best friend that I didn't realize I was throwing away my family." He stole a glance down at you and caught your gaze; you could see his eyes shining. "I'll do better, Pocket. I'll do better for all of us, and I’ll especially do better for you."

His words didn't heal the wounds on your heart, but they did make them hurt a little less. You flashed him a small smile of gratitude, amazed that just his acknowledgement of the pain he'd caused you could be such a soothing balm to your anger. "Thanks, Cap. I appreciate it." He smiled at your use of the nickname; you hadn't called him anything but Rogers in forever. “And, for what it's worth," you added as the computer began beeping, signaling the transfer of files was complete and your objective had been reached, "I'm grateful you brought Bucky back with you. I can't imagine not having him in my life now." You stood up and pocketed the flash drive that now contained 18 months worth of terrorist plans. "Now, what do you say we blow this fucking Popsicle stand?" You gave him a cheeky grin as you deposited a small detonator on top of the computer server.

Steve returned your smile and offered a flourished "After you" as the two of you made your way out of the facility. Once you had cleared the perimeter, he gave you the all clear, signaling you to set off the detonators. You watched together as the building imploded into a spectacular fireball. Your relationship may not have been fully cured, but it had finally begun the process of healing.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[mywritingonlyfans]

Cornerstone.// Alex Turner X Reader! (Non-smut)

prompt: Alex used to date your sister, but now that she has passed away, you're the only thing that can keep her alive for him, making him not worried that he might forget her face.

words: 3K.

a/n: I have a habit of revisiting some old fics of mine, as is the case with this one. It helps me improve my vocabulary. I thought it was fair to repost this one in particular, now with Alex.

You vividly recall the first encounter with him.

It happened at the inaugural party of many to come in your life, precisely on your 18th birthday. Given your introverted and reserved nature, your sister, despite the physical resemblance, had a personality that stood in stark contrast to yours. With a two-year age gap, she possessed a demeanor at parties that belied her years. Able to handle drinks effortlessly, her charisma was perfectly suited for celebrations. While you had always imagined her to be that way, having grown accustomed to her returning late on weekend nights, witnessing it firsthand was both fascinating and slightly intimidating. Parrot's Beak, it seemed, was made for her.

Approximately 45 minutes into the party, your gaze landed on Alex, engrossed in conversation with some friends. His adorable cheekbones and striking eyes were prominent, and the effects of the drink had bestowed a lovely, flushed pink hue on his face — almost as if his skin begged to be kissed. The memory of that moment remained etched in your mind, easily replayed without closing your eyes.

Over time, you found yourself mustering the courage to smile at him, occasionally adjusting your hair between shy glances, attempting to present your best self. However, the anticipation and hope in your smile quickly transformed into disappointment as he approached. It soon became evident that his occasional sweet eyes between sips of beer were not directed at you but at your sister. He hadn't even noticed your presence, and then a discomfort sensation enveloped your entire being.

That night, you accepted being an outsider as they walked away to the bathroom, deciding it was best to keep your initial impressions of Alex to yourself. It seemed like the wisest course of action, even after four years of witnessing their relationship and continuing to find him captivating.

"You need to stop calling me," you sighed, running the back of your hand over your eyes. The dawn unfolded around you, and in her absence, you imagined how she would have already roused you, taken the phone from your hands, and playfully sprawled on top of you, eliciting laughter until you both drifted into sleep together. "It's been almost a year now; you need to stop calling me."

"But you always make it better," his inebriated voice resonated in your mind. Oddly, you found solace in listening to him. After spending numerous years making her happy, hearing his voice felt akin to experiencing her broad smile after buying a chocolate cake at the corner coffee bar where you now worked.

"What do I make better, Alex?" You asked, elongating a conversation that felt uneasy.

"Me," he sighed deeply, prompting a mirrored response from you. "I like your voice, especially after you've just woken up. It's so calm and crystal clear." He continued speaking until your voice fractured into a sharp sob, and you attempted to bite your lip to contain yourself. If she were there, a single word from her would have pacified him. But she wasn't, and he was like this because he no longer had her.

"I like you, Al. I genuinely wish you nothing but the best, but I can't do this anymore," you expressed, aware that there was a chance he remained oblivious to the fact that he sought you out because you reminded him of her. "I miss her too, and it's becoming too painful."

With those words, you ended the call, pressing the phone against your chest, fully aware he would call again the next night, and you would pick up. You'd exchange a few words with him, feeling miserable afterward for allowing him to repeat the cycle. Yet, the truth was, the following day, you'd feel a strange sense of contentment—not in a healthy way but in a nostalgic manner that trapped you in a cheerful image of your sister. Whenever she had the chance to describe how wonderful a date with Alex was, you would endure the day.

As you drenched your pillow, the pulsating music from The Rusty Room, coupled with dancing figures, prompted Alex to moisten his lips. His night would unfold like countless others since she departed – he'd drown himself in alcohol, envision her face in someone else, and either find solace in the arms of a new acquaintance or get ousted for being too much, leaving him no choice but to dial your number. On nights when his emotions surged more intensely than before, he would do both. He'd call you, harboring the hope that, upon hearing your voice, you would magically transform into her. Then, he'd share the details of his day, lamenting about how no one in the band seemed to tolerate him anymore, and wait for your reassuring words. Obviously, reality didn't align with his expectations. You were as resilient as she was, which, although beneficial for him to picture her, wasn't what he needed in those moments. Especially because the two of you had never spoken for more than five minutes. Consequently, he had no option but to persist in his search for her.

In the light streaming from the window where she stood gazing out, her hair shimmered like yours, yet somehow it seemed to complement her better.

"Do you think he'll come in the cute blazer?" She asked dreamily, evidently already envisioning the date like a movie. Witnessing her enthusiasm brought a sense of joy to you.

"Yeah, and 'comfortably' smelling of cigarettes," you laughed, mimicking air quotes as you repeated what she had confided to you the night before.

However, her expected laughter never came. In seconds, as soon as she spotted him approaching, she flung the door open and leaped into his arms. Her limbs encircled his neck, and so did her legs. He held her securely, accustomed to this routine, and kissed her head with a broad smile.

"I missed you," he sighed, muffled against her shoulder, embracing her tightly as she nestled into his black blazer. The words carried such weight that you almost believed they hadn't seen each other the day before.

They continued murmuring sweetly under your observant eyes until you realized how awkward it was to linger there. Forcing your legs into motion, you retreated from their line of sight.

"Sis, babe. You want some cake? We’ll bring you some!" She shouted, causing you to glance back at them before truly departing. He waved at you. Apparently, they hadn't even noticed your presence. Even if you declined, she would bring the cake, knowing you'd indulge regardless. You nodded.

"Fine, we're going to deliver some pieces of red velvet," he declared, his focus already back on her face, causing your stomach to flutter with the realization that he remembered your favorite — as inappropriate as that was.

Still absorbing your dry words, he caught sight of her shiny hair and perfect skin bathed in the strong red light. She smiled at him, huddled up in a wicker chair, her eyes at the same level as his as he wandered up for a closer look. It felt like the first time, so he came close and kissed her, stealing all the air from her lungs; the random girl wouldn't mind having another name tonight.

Alex returned home the next morning in his car, swearing he could still smell her scent on his coat, transferring it to his seatbelt as he extended his trip to the next coffee bar just to feel her presence for longer.

"He's all yours today!" Your manager said in mock animation.

His eyes were lazy, his lips rosier than usual trapped in a perfect pout, stubble on his face, and yet he looked like an angel; but smelling of booze and sleep-deprived.

"What do you want?" You asked, observing him up and down; putting on your best character to try to fool him, or yourself. "You need to stop harming yourself like that, Al." You let your eyes dip into his, and what a regret, now your whole body tingled.

"I just want a nice coffee, I need to be alive to work," he raised his hands in redemption, giving you a cute half-smile. His voice as melodic and sweet as on the phone. "I just need to calm my mind down, buttercup."

His whisper ran down your spine, making drops of coffee from the machine splash onto your hand instead of into the cup; your body knew it was wrong, but your mind had liked being called that.

"How's life?! How are things going, huh, after all that, y'know..." He went on while you gave him his usual hot coffee.

In response, you shook your head, looking around you, cursing the place for not being so busy so that you could have more customers.

"Fine, no more talk, buttercup." He sounded low and careful this time. You had to take your eyes off him because you felt like you were going to cry.

No more smiles on his tired face, he straightened his clothing, handing you a crumpled currency. Avoiding his eyes, you took it in your hand, taking his change and writing it out in Letraset for him.

"Thank you," he said, this time without repeating the pet name, since both you and him were now being watched by your manager. Even in front of others, his eyes filled with tears as he looked at your writing; so similar to hers in form, yet so cruel.

“She deserves a better job.” You heard her speak even though you were away from their table. She was in his lap, not in a vulgar way, they were just enjoying each other's presence like that. Couples passing by whispered about how cute they were; you didn't deny it.

“She seems to like it ‘ere. It's super cozy; you love it too,” he said in his husky voice, running a hand through his dark hair. He was right; you didn't hate it there.

“I know, but I think she can do better. I trust her. She has potential; she just needs help.”

You dodged it, even though you knew she only wanted your best. Hearing her talk about it made you feel smaller, and seeing her talk about it to other people—Alex—made it worse.

“And...?” Al pouted, letting her kiss him. His smile grew, face lit up, and for a minute, you thought she wouldn't speak anymore as she focused on his lips.

“I wish you could ask her to do some marketing for the band, like around here and Twitter. She would do fine. You know I wouldn't lie. She likes these things; could be a good try.” She winked at you, and you smiled excitedly. It was a good idea; she knew you well. You loved her.

“That sounds good for the band too; we could have more people listening to us,” Al said in agreement, beaming just as she was. You would be the first person working for them. “That’s wonderful, buttercup.” He added, making her hug him tightly, nearly knocking them off the chair.

Your tongue flicked over your lips, repeating the endearing nickname silently. It was adorable and suited her. Running a hand over your hair, which now had a dark coloration, you wished you hadn't dyed it. Not that that would change anything.

"You shouldn't let him call you the same way he sweetly called her," the manager warned when he saw him leave. Your sister was always around with Alex; they were completely in love with each other and never hid it from anyone. It was evident he had noticed.

"He just needs to heal."

"So do you."

'No, you can't call me the way you used to call her' was marked on his change.

Next night, at Battleship.

Rum had already become a vital elixir to oxygenate his blood. By the 4th shot, his mind swirled with thoughts of you, from the tip of your nose, seemingly tracing him as he spoke, to your conflicting voice when you expressed that you didn't want him around. He craved you.

He glanced around the room, searching for his daily fix of sex for the night but soon changed his mind, taking his cell phone in his hands and punching in your number that he already knew by heart.

"I'm sorry, you're by yourself?" A serene voice awakened him from his trance. The shiny hair and lips drawn in a perfect shape that made him forget about his cell phone.

"Yes, I am," he confirmed, his throat going dry. Every night the same thing, but he still got carried away by a vision trick; given that the reality was way too difficult to face. "All by myself, yeah."

She chuckled at his despair, and even though the sound didn't resemble hers, he decided he could play pretend in his mind. The girl remained silent, planting the image of her in his head as he tightly shut his eyes. For a moment, he swore he couldn't feel his feet anymore, wondering if it might be the effect of being close to her ghost. However, when he spoke it out loud, calling the random girl by another name, all he felt was a pair of hands pushing him back while she cursed him in as many ways as possible. Did the girl say her name to him? He couldn't tell; it wasn't like he cared.

"I need you," tears streamed down your chin, your voice reduced to sobs.

His smile broadened, scratching the affected spot, his body easing as he listened to your voice fill the phone call. You needed him, so you called him, just like every other night.

"A nightmare again?" he asked cautiously, not even needing to inquire about its content; he already knew.

"Yes," you looked tired, as much as he did. "I need you, Al. I can't stop thinkin’--."

"I'm on my way, buttercup."

The shared room still carried her scent; he recognized it as you dispersed the remnants of her perfume across the bed she once slept in. The ambiance shifted in her absence, a palpable change felt by both of you. Strangely, it felt comforting to be there, surrounded by the lingering trace of her false presence.

"You're drunk again," you sighed as his fingers grazed your cheekbone, wiping away some tears. "She wouldn't like that."

He nodded, "she really wouldn't." Alex smiled, observing a shy smile form on your lips.

In the ensuing silence, your movements were sudden. Your arms encircled his waist, compelling him to embrace you tightly. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he found solace in the fact that you were no longer shedding tears. The absence of words rendered the atmosphere more comfortable, clearing his mind and relaxing his muscles. As you buried your face deeper into his shirt, he let his chin rest on your head, and you sought comfort in the scent that had once clung to her clothes.

“Sis?”

“Huh?” You mumbled in pain.

“C’mere,” she replied before you vomited again. You were seated in the bathroom, facing the toilet—for the third time this week. “You have to promise you won't drink like that again—or I'll have to let our parents know about it.” She pulled you into her arms, her voice shaky with concern.

“I’ll try,” you said, the words sounding funny and somewhat meaningless. She furrowed her brows, uncertain about how to handle the situation. “I promise.” You buried your nose in her sweatshirt, which belonged to him but had been in her possession for a long time. The scent was potent, with lingering traces of cigarettes that infiltrated your mind. It brought a mix of sadness and comfort, akin to having him somehow. She didn't say anything else, just squeezed you.

The weather mirrored your mood—grey and somber. Finding motivation for work was the last thing on your mind today, and on many other days.

"What’re you doin’ outside? Weren't you supposed to be workin’?" Al said, tucking you under his umbrella. His eyebrows turned into an adorable concern.

"I can't work; I'm very sad and sleepless," you imitated your manager's voice, displaying pure irritation.

"Not a good day, I see," he remained in high spirits, even with your angry face as your Uber request was denied on the screen in your hands.

"Wouldn't you go get a coffee?" You deposited your disappointment in him. His face still in a smile, he was never one to be shaken by so little; just like her, in fact so alike to her that it was quite annoying at times. She wouldn't be giving hate to anyone for her bad day.

"There's no point; I only come ‘ere for you." Your mind knew well; it was already used to his tricks, but you still couldn't help but melt.

His words softened your body, and you allowed yourself to look at him. He didn't seem to have had a rough night; his eyes were as intense as she had described the night she met him. "Cornerstone doesn't make any sense without me, I agree with you." His lips spread; you were happy to be the cause of it.

The comfortable silence wrapped around you. He brushed your hair back from your eyes, getting so close he thought you might understand. "Can I get much closer?"

You nodded, feeling the tears blurring your vision. You knew he saw in you a way not to forget her face, but letting him go would hurt more. "Look, I'm really not supposed to – but yes, you can call me anything you want."

taglist: @ohladymoon @indierockgirrl @bloo-wisteria @bellaturner @cosmoschaotic @nikisfwn @andrews-lovr @nela-cutie @alexturnersbbg3 @blackberryblossom @lilmisssweetdreams @alexshotelandcasino @tbhclove @rostarblog @babieswiftie @yourstartreatment @atticssmellgood @aacheinthejaw @mingods @theonlyoneswhoknowsblog @andulina567 @tonyxstanks @picturezonthewall @harrysbestiee @ultragirrl @billyseye @ouroboros311 @viviannagiorgini @turnerside

...

taglist? !forms!

[highfantasy-soul]

Ok, my theories on season 3 of The Wheel of Time based on the teaser and the few things I've heard:

I'll be talking book spoilers, so beware!

So obviously, we're getting the Waste and tons of book 4 shenanigans with Rhuidean and the Aiel.

We see Rand and another red-headed man with two dragon tattoos standing together, so looks like the end of book 4 reveal of Rand as the Car'a'carn to the Aiel - whether that's mid-season or closer to the end, can't tell, but I'm going to bet that it's closer to mid-mid late season and NOT the finale like it is in the book.

I really think that they're gonna go full Fires of Heaven for Rand and Moiraine's story because they really set up Mo and Lanfear's conflict in the teaser - Mo literally coming out and telling the audience now, rather than in a letter later, that her visions have told her it's her life or Rand's.

I think the season finale is going to be the famous confrontation where both Lanfear and Moiraine are destroyed - whether through a red-stone doorway or not is still to be determined, but I think that it's a natural point in the series to have Moiraine, who's been the main POV character for the show, to take her bow in a massive and shocking way that leaves viewers hanging until the next season rather than like in the book where it happened mid-way through and they still had all the Camelyn/Rhavin plot to go through.

---

Now for what I really wanted to theorize about: The Tower politics

Rafe has said that the first 15 minutes of the season is bonkers and he separately talked about how in this season, middle-aged women are going to shred through each other or smth to that effect.

So, we have 2 events that that could fit (that I think are most likely): 1) the Black Ajah is found out and they escape and 2) the Tower coup

Based on the flashes in the teaser of Egwene going through the accepted's test - led by Suian, as well as Elayne and Nyneave in white - plus our delightful flash of who I think is Galad in Warder training, I'm going to guess the first 15 minutes of the season WON'T be the coup.

I don't think they've built up enough solid Tower drama for that to fully land as the first thing viewers see coming back - darkfriends being found out amongst their ranks that will lead to more and more suspicion and fracturing: much more likely, I think.

Add to that Alana and Liandrin's fight we see in the teaser in a place that looks very much like Tar Valon's streets, and I'd bet the discovery of the Black Ajah and them killing as they flee will be that 'shredding' Rafe was talking about.

With that, I think the reveal of the Black Ajah is why we see Suian personally overseeing Egwene's test - and likely Elayne's too - so that she can immediately send them out to hunt down the Black Ajah which leads them to Tanchico for half (or maybe more) of the season.

Where our leads will be at the time of the 'shredding' - Rafe did say they'll start together, so I think they're still in Falme as I don't think Moiraine will let Rand within 3,000 leagues of another Aes Sedai at this point if she can help it. Whoever goes back to Tar Valon will return to a shockingly different place than they left

For if Egwene or Mat makes it to the Waste, idk - I really hope so, but I can see why they might not because TIME TIME TIME is something Amazon needs to give WoT more of and MAT NEEDS TO FIND THOM!!!

[laughhardrunfastbekindsblog]

I've been reflecting recently on why I love Bad Batch SOOOO much (no, seriously, I've been obsessed since the show first started airing and my obsession isn't fading anytime soon) while also still having some issues with the finale. And I think it's because the story reminds me so much of my own family. (Note: my ramblings in this post do get personal.)

I loved Clone Force 99 from the moment they were introduced in The Clone Wars. A band of clone misfits who are instantly recognized as different but also are close to each other and work together seamlessly with plenty of banter? Give me more! The amazingly resilient Echo is brought back and of course joins them? YES!!! So when it was announced that the Bad Batch would be getting their own show, I was thrilled! Yay for more crazy sibling shenanigans!

And then season 1 happened, with the squad almost immediately fracturing amidst all the changes occurring with the rise of the Empire. Ooof, hello reality.

I grew up in a large family with lots of siblings. We were all super close (and kinda crazy 😂) growing up; as we've become adults, however, personality differences have led some of my siblings to stop talking to each other which then bled over into them not talking to anyone else in the family. Not gonna lie, the past few years have been really hard, trying to figure out how best to navigate things so as to not push any of my siblings away but also give them their space.

Needless to say, I saw my family reflected in the Bad Batch. The Bad Batch were so close for so long, and then started falling apart. When Crosshair not only wouldn't go with his family in the season 1 finale but also seemed to be rejecting Hunter's statement that they could pursue different paths without being enemies, my heart broke even more. I know it will be a long time - if ever - that my own family members all reconcile with each other, so I really wanted this little clone family, at least, to get that chance. (Living out my hopes and dreams in fiction, I guess?)

Season 2 continued the season 1 trend of showing us both sides in such a sympathetic and nuanced way. I like to try keeping an open mind and seeing a situation from different angles/POV, both in real life and with fictional stories; so I think a big part of the reason why I adore this show is because it gave us the opportunity to consider both the main squad's AND Crosshair's perspectives, which honestly was a great exercise for me over the past few years in keeping an open mind regarding my own siblings' experiences and opinions (even if I don't always agree with them). And I was still holding out hope that this little clone family would have a chance to reconcile and be whole again.

And then Tech fell.

I'm crying right now just thinking about it.

(Tech was my favorite OG CF99 member since the moment he first stepped on screen, so his death would have been excruciatingly painful regardless; but the fact that he apparently died before the family could be fully reconciled... Well, I already know such a scenario - someone dying before reconciliation - is sadly possible with my own family, but having it happen to this fictional family just hit WAY too close to home, and I would have been equally devastated about this if any other Bad Batcher had died.)

Going into season 3, I knew there was a chance Tech wouldn't come back, much as I wanted him to. I LOVED watching Crosshair build a relationship with Omega, rejoin the family and reconcile with his other brothers, but... Tech is his brother too! With each passing episode, it was a struggle between hoping Tech would come back so the family would actually get their chance to be whole again, while also looking for any closure, any indication that Tech's memory and legacy would be acknowledged and honored by all the siblings he'd sacrificed himself for. I wanted Tech to be alive to get his own happy ending for his own sake, but if a comeback wasn't happening I wanted his life and sacrifice to clearly serve as an influence and motivation for his family. And for his siblings' sake (ESPECIALLY Crosshair's), if Tech was really dead and there wasn't going to be a full reunion, at least let the whole family heal from the loss, at least let the family honor the brother who gave everything to give them a chance to reunite.

The finale concluded, and I realized we got neither: there had been no full family reunion, and there had been no real closure/healing for the family regarding Tech's sacrifice either. (And I don't think it's at all unreasonable to have assumed the show would give us one or the other.)

Look, I'm one of those people who walked into Rogue One assuming it would have a happy ending. (Oh, those days when I was so young and naive...) So let me tell you, that ending traumatized me almost as badly as the ending of ASM2.

But, while other tragic/bittersweet endings have shaken me, it was the Bad Batch finale that literally left me feeling physically ill for days afterwards. Like, I was so relieved that everyone else lived? But it was so strange to be told it was a "happy ending" when, out of the entire family, only Omega kinda sorta maybe (if you squint) had a moment to honor their fallen brother? The family goes through all that trauma and loss and we end the show without actually resolving it, without the family actually healing? Tech's sacrifice made the Batch's eventual retirement possible, and the show won't even just say it? And to add insult to injury, after an entire season with the narrative teasing the possibility of Tech still being alive with CX2 being the forerunning explanation for it, it's all "well, we're still not going to provide any real closure on this plot point, but aren't you glad you can maybe assume Tech ISN'T CX2 since Hunter ran that sucker through without blinking an eye? Look, happy ending!"

I'm still stuck in "season 1" with my own family, so watching this story play out and ultimately conclude with this fictional family not getting full closure regarding one of their own siblings who had never been anything but supportive of all of them was... unsatisfying, to say the least. I LOVE that the clones, who were created by Palpatine to be discarded, managed to (unknowingly) strike a significant blow against Palpatine's plans. I LOVE that Omega and some of the other clones were able to choose to live peacefully on Pabu. I LOVE that Crosshair came back to his family. Still, I will never get over how Tech was handled - both the character himself and the characters he was closest to.

And I think this is part of the reason why I really hope the Bad Batch's on-screen appearances aren't completely over yet - and why, even without factoring in all the narrative ambiguity in season 3, I'm still rooting for Tech to return. Tech himself definitely deserved better, and his family deserved better too.

So there's my long-winded explanation for why there's not a single day that goes by that I don't think about this show 😅

[trendywaifus]

hello there! Nice seeing you post again— been following you since your first Kny’s posts and I love your writing style! Since we’re under the HSR train, can I request reader who is part of the express and like March and Stelle are very protective of them because they’re really weak due to a past injury? And Then they tell the Characters that one day they’ll find the strength to be able to fight for themselves soon? Heurhuryeue that’d just be cool, only if you wanna tho!! Thank you!!!! Have a bread day

omg!! rlly?? eeeeeeeeee, its so nice to see long time followers! its been like. .5 or 4 years since i made this blog? wow time goes by fast, im really happy that you’re still here! i hope you’ve been growing as a person without much struggle as time passed!

“ march! “ you swatted her prying hand away and adjusted the crutch to your side. “ for the last time, i can get up and walk myself, can’t you see i have this crutch to support me? “ taken aback by you swatting her hand and your warning glare, her expression saddens. you were injured from the encounter with the doomsday beast. march made a mistake she wish she could take back. during the doomsday beast encounter, she gotten cocky; biting more than she can chew and recklessly attacked the beast with barrage of arrows while staying in one spot. at that moment, one of its hands quickly appeared in front of her, ready to strike. luckily, you managed to push her out of the way at the cost of your side getting clawed and a fractured leg.

march’s stomach churns at the horrible memory. what stuck to her mind was the look of horror written on your face as the creature’s large claw nearly dug itself into your side as you clumsily dodged backwards. you nearly screamed as you landed in a bad position and danheng had to escort you far away from the fight as far as he could. she swallows hard, digging her nails into her palm, enough to engrave crescents into her skin.“ i know that, but still! i want to support you too. i-i was the one who made you like this! if i had buffed you with defense, i- “

“ march 7th. “ your partner shakes her head stubbornly, tears in her eyes. “ you don’t understand, seeing you back there—seeing you in pain like that— haunts me! i can’t pretend to be all happy and joyful when you’re not even with me on adventures! i know that i’m ignorant to many things that i shouldn’t be ignorant to. but. . i don’t want to be insensitive to your struggles either that’s why i been so protective.”

you sighed deeply, dropping your gaze to the floor. unusual silence fills the atmosphere of your cabin while you fully process march’s confession. you were wrong for being annoyed at her protectiveness. things could of been much worse and you could only imagine how’d she think of herself then. march takes your hand in hers, your eyes immediately reverts back to hers, gaze softening around the edges. her lips curled into an apologetic sad smile, she looks at you with pleading eyes.

“ months from now march. .” you cast her a tight—lipped smile, “ me, you, stelle, and danheng will all be together running around making memories in some random planet. i’ll be able to do things for myself fully again so don’t you worry, you reckless girl.”without any protest, you let her throw her arms around your shoulders to embrace you.

“ i’ll do better next time, i swear on it (name)!“

“ i know that i don’t miraculously come back alive after i die like you but you’re watching me as if i’ll just suddenly fall over and perish. “ you remark, striking the wooden dummy with a wooden sword. you were careful not to swing too fluidly because of the stitches on your abdomen. you’d rather not reopen them and bleed out on the spot. “ danheng said that you’re not suppose to be training while you have stitches in. “

you scoffed, “ alright? well i am, now what? i’m not in much pain anymore and i just have to reduce my movement in my slashes. danheng’s a snitch for telling you that i’m here. you know what they say stelle, snitches get sti—fuck! “ a momentary sharp sensation shoots in your wound area and you crumble to your knees. stelle is by your side, her countenance contorted in disappointment. her gloved hand rests on the small of your back and the other on your knee. “ i-i’m okay, this normally happens after a few weeks of having stitches. pretty fun experience time to time. it’ll be completely painless sooner or later. “ you comment, mustering a shaky smile.

“ i think danheng is right and i don’t like seeing you like this. “ stelle frowns. you sighed in relief at the sensation going away and lifted yourself from the floor, stelle follows suit. “ then leave, stelle. you don’t have to be here. “ you shrugged her off and repositioned yourself into sword stance. she blocks you from the dummy, giving you a pointed look. “ don’t look at me like that. unless you want to be my training partner, i want you to step aside. “ you commanded, glaring at your stubborn girlfriend.

she shakes her head, a mocking smile erasing the frown from her lips. “ i don’t want to so now what?”you roll your eyes, she continues, placing her hands on her hips playfully, “ i don’t think you have the strength yet to defeat the likes of me, foolish mortal.“

“ oh no! you’re right! “ you gasped, dropping your sword dramatically, “ i wonder how i can defeat you! oh, i know how. “ before she can react, you pulled her in by the hoodie and smashed your lips against hers for a brief moment then pulled away. stelle looks absolutely dumbfounded, her jaw slightly ajar at the surprise kiss. you smirked, “ i don’t even need my full strength to defeat you and when i do, i’ll do a lot more than this. “

[honeybewrites]

OC Intro: Ronan "Rage" Airvix

I've been a little too excited to do this one. Rage is one of my favorite characters from EoWC so I hope you guys enjoy!!

Once again, because of my lack of drawing skills, I have used picrew for Rage's pictures. If you're curious, I used this one and this one.

Yes, you guys get two picrews this time. The second one is a lot closer to how he actually looks, but I also wanted a front facing one. It was surprisingly difficult to find picrews with beards and man buns.

Name: Ronan "Rage" Airvix

Mors Title: Field Handler and Certified Healer

Age: forty-six

Birthdate: (still working out the Realms calendars) July 17th

Pronouns: He/Him

Species: Namuh, Mirralian

Physical Description

Light tanned skin. His face is blemish free except for some slight wrinkles around his eyes. He has dark gray eyes and matching gray and white hair* that is long enough for him to pull back into a bun, which is how he usually wears his hair. He has a few various scars from his military days. He's a little tall for a Mirralian, coming in at 7'0 (213 cm). He works out regularly and has a decent amount of defined muscles. He's also very healthy when it comes to food. Being a Healer tends to do that.

*side note: the gray/white hair is not due to aging. Most namuh species have 'unnatural' hair and eye colors. This color ‘dulls’ with aging rather than losing color.

Skills/Abilities

Elemental, specifically healing, certified healer, Negotiator™, multiple languages, survival skills

Greatest Fear

Failing

Personality Type

ENFJ-A

Love Language

Physical touch

Typical Outfit

Mors certified suit, healer's uniform, or work out clothes

Method of Manipulation

Blackmailing and gaslighting

Born to the predominant Airvix family, Rage has spent most of his life exposed the Mirralian government and military. All of his family members hold high standing titles and the Airvix name is well known through the Realm. After graduation basic school, he went into healing, becoming a certified healer and joining the Mirralian military. After outstanding services, Rage was invited to join the Mors, which he accepted. He continues to be one of their top healers, so much so that he is assigned as a personal field handler and healer to a specialist. Asset 703.

Relationships

Gerd

Rage never dealt much with Gerd until getting assigned as 703’s handler and healer. Since Gerd is her main handler, Rage often has to defer to what he says, even if it puts 703 in more danger. The two butt heads constantly, almost always over 703. Each would be happy to see the other end up dead.

Healer Asurr

Rage and Asurr went to healing school together where they were roommates (no, not that kind of roommates. Asurr has no interest in that). The two were close friends until they drifted apart after graduation. Now with Asurr heading Project Viall for the Mors, they see each other more frequently, but their relationship is much different. Rage doesn’t fully agree with the Project, but tries his best to remain friendly and to avoid Project Viall as much as possible.

703

Assigned as her handler and healer, Rage was mostly curious about why she would get a personal healer. As he got to know her, that curiosity quickly turned to protectiveness and slight awe at how she operated. The best way to describe it: “I’ve only had 703 for a day and a half, but if anything happened to her, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself.”

If anyone wants to be added/subtracted to the tag list, you can comment or DM me :D

General Tag: @orions-quill @fractured-shield @anaisbebe @leahnardo-da-veggie @pluppsauthor

@wyked-ao3

[jazzmckay]

after much discussion with friends, a lot of wiki and codex reading, throwing spaghetti at the wall, and arranging details in spreadsheet format, i have some up with an approximate headcanon for everything that happened in thedas' ancient history. some aspects im still on the fence about / don't have a strong enough inclination one way or the other to be steadfast in my thoughts, so there's definitely room for adjustment.

spoilers for just about everything, as what little we know canonically is sprinkled throughout. since we know so little and almost none of it comes from a 100% reliable source, all of this is purely headcanon and what i personally think seems viable AND cool. it's not intended to be a hard statement for what i think is the truth

in as close to a coherent order as i can manage:

the titans, the evanuris, and the forgotten ones all come into existence close enough together that there isn't much hierarchy in who was first

the titans are the denizens of the physical world, the others are denizens of the spiritual. the evanuris and the forgotten ones are all spirits of some nature to start with, then make physical forms for themselves -- much like cole did. they have features of both spirits and (im)mortals, and are capable of shapeshifting

magic is EVERYWHERE, including below the ground, where the titans reside, their blood acting as a magical foci

the titans create dwarves. the dwarves have magic

solas is a spirit of wisdom and pride, simultaneously

mythal is a spirit of justice and vengeance, simultaneously

the evanuris lean towards the "spirit" side, while the forgotten ones lean towards the "demon" side, which is not a dichotomy of good and bad, as the evanuris can be corrupted, and the forgotten ones can be righteous. an individual is more balanced when tapping into both aspects. solas is the most balanced, his wisdom and pride tempering and guiding each other

the evanuris are the most powerful elvhen as they were formed from spirit essence itself, while those descended from them have magic but are not usually so attuned to the source of it (ghilan'nain has a remarkably unique power that eventually earns her a place among the evanuris)

there is conflict between the evanuris and the titans, because the titans cause earthquakes that destroy elvhen settlements. the evanuris and the forgotten ones disagree on how to handle this, about the evanuris wanting to dominate all others, and potentially about what applications of magic are "acceptable"

the forgotten ones release their physical forms to become fully spirits again and descend into the void

solas remains somewhat neutral in the conflict. he agrees with the forgotten ones that the evanuris have no right to exert their will over other beings, but he does not agree with some of the practices of the forgotten ones either. he remains, determined to show the evanuris the error of their ways. the forgotten ones still respect him as one of them, and solas gains mythal's favour. he can walk among both groups

mythal strikes down the titans. the evanuris decide to harvest titan blood for their magical use. this has a drastic effect on the dwarves -- losing close contact with the titans muffles the stone and silences their magic. the evanuris use the dwarves to harvest lyrium

(jumping forward a loooot of time, the breach in the veil awakens a titan as it feels its magical connection strengthening. valta comes into contact with this titan and gains magic)

solas tries and fails to sway the evanuris entirely. mythal hears him, and a couple others go back and forth, but it isn't nearly enough to change things for the better, which leads to the all-out war and rebellion. during this, andruil has been hunting the forgotten ones in the void, becoming more fractured from it, and other members of the evanuris have been becoming more corrupt, adding tension especially between mythal and the others as she has to temper them

the last straw: the evanuris "kill" mythal, and solas loses his balance. he puts up the veil, trapping the evanuris in the fade, and the forgotten ones in the void. arlathan -- the golden city -- falls into the void and becomes corrupted with the taint. the elves on the other side of the veil become mortal and no longer inherently magical, experiencing something similar to what happened to the dwarves.

solas goes into uthenera, disappearing from the world

in time, the chantry will claim that the maker raised the veil because he was disappointed in the spirits, but ended up disappointed in mortals too, and turned away from the world

mythal fuses with flemeth -- i don't have a solid opinion on when exactly in the timeline this happened

the forgotten ones manage to call out to human mages, who summon them out of the fade/void. those who become the dragon gods tevinter worship are now referred to as "old gods" and the rest are "the forbidden ones". the magisters learn blood magic from them, and eventually enter the fade/void to seek out the golden city. it leaves them tainted, and brings about the darkspawn and the blight

additional theory i am still toying with and hammering out: some of the forgotten ones also manage to take physical, elvhen form again, and become the kossith, who create the qunari through blood magic involving either dragon blood and/or archdemon blood once the blights start

andraste's magic is either the cause of or triggered by a traumatic experience with her sister that her sister doesn't survive. from then on, she dreams of the fade, and interprets memories of solas' rebellion against the evanuris as guidance to fight against tevinter -- both the evanuris and the magisters are powerful mages and the leaders of a society with slavery. seeing her 'maker' in elvhen form inspires her to ally with shartan. both the orlesian and the imperial chantries are formed

eventually, solas wakes up to a fucking nightmare ✨

[fullmetal-scar-simping]

Dante/Sloth is a dilemma to me… From Dante’s POV her fascination is self-explanatory. But what of Sloth’s? On some level I can see her pursuing it to spite the men in her life, to show just how much she isn’t Trisha Elric. But she’d also be aware of the fact that Dante’s obsession hinges on seeing her as Trisha Elric, so she’s still fueling someone else’s perception of her in that role.

Does she just go along with it? She’s named Sloth because of her boys’ sin, but also because she’s seen as shirking her motherly duties. In some ways it’s easier to be Dante’s pawn; You have a benefactor feeding you the elusive red stones. Don’t need to worry about becoming human because that would just make you more like Trisha (Which is fine by Dante; Managing another Homunculus impatient to become human is a slog).

And you don’t need to worry about any other purpose in life because Dante will tell you what to do, and that’s all you need. She guides you, cares for you. Dare I say it… Dante is like the maternal figure that Sloth would’ve preferred to have rather than be.

Which um, oedipus complex…? Or Sloth is just accepting Dante’s “eccentricity” because she’s done the calculus and has decided she’d rather pay that small price to continue having someone to take care of her. Perhaps Sloth is like Pride that way, and they are introduced working together under human aliases so that seems fitting.

It’s a strange, mutually(?) beneficial arrangement between Dante and Sloth. Does Sloth accept this as part of the terms because she doesn’t have the energy to fight Dante and take care of herself afterwards? And there’s nobody else like her out there? Or does she genuinely consider that she’ll have to kill Dante too in order to eliminate her past, because Dante is too linked to her husband to ignore?

Ooh, I'm enjoying your take on this ship, even with them posing as a dilemma. Leaning into that dilemma with the pragmatism of Sloth's survival, eventually fracturing into Sloth's murderous rejection of Dante's projection of Trisha onto her gas flavour. The potential oedipal-adjacent roles they inhabit in this interpretation of their toxicity, especially since Dante herself is not maternal (not to Envy, not with anyone)-! The image of this dead mother who rejects that previous-self so thoroughly that she's remade into the passive, dependent daughter Dante never had. An emotional and psychosexual punching bag against Hohenheim, rendered fully dependent on her 'mother' to care about her and make her world for her. She's orphaned by her children, themselves her progenitor (an inversion of the mother who births her children; the children birthed her). So, orphaned, Dante takes her into this "orphanage".

I personally never considered whether Sloth would view messing around with (or lbr being messed around by) Dante as her own revenge against Hohenheim. In some ways I almost see Sloth as being nearly indifferent to him (not fully, but nearly). Something to think about! As for Dante, we never see overt disdain for Trisha from her in canon, though it's hard to imagine she doesn't hold some contempt towards her. So it's easy (and fun) to have her intersperse her feelings around Hohenheim's new dead wife at the homunculus she now owns.

To circle back to this leading to Sloth ending Dante for her own liberation fron Trisha's past: it's poetic, and who doesn't love Dante's malevolence coming back to destroy her in the end?

I went into my own interpretation of this ship in this reblog [here]. For me, I see Sloth's perspective of this quagmire of a "relationship" as being informed by an emotional and almost human connection made while she was still fresh and suffering in her initial form. That Dante's manipulation started -immediately-, with the addition of Dante's disturbing treatment of women spliced into the mix. Like the intimacy is formed from that rescue of Sloth's body from horrific circumstances (and her mastery over alchemy) gives Dante ownership over Sloth in all conceivable ways. Sloth's depressive pit informs her passivity in the relationship, but I'm seeing that additional dependence with an existential-level of ingratiation. It may contort into the most fucked facsimile of "love" on Sloth's (maybe even Dante's?) end after enough time spent being treated cruelly-and-tenderly while being physically rehabilitated.

Sloth does not want for destiny or filial but she'll exist as per Dante's plots and whims. Dante may command her into whatever role she sees fit, nearly mirroring her creation as a being for other's benefit, but at least with Dante it's more malleable than what that pair of brothers wanted of her. Maybe Dante's control over her strangely doesn't feel like the kind of mockery that seeing Trisha's children makes her feel. Dante sees no worth in Trisha's family and neither does Sloth.

The thing that makes a 'new' ship fun is feeling out all the intricacies, conundrums, potential, and even dead-ends that can arise. Making it work narratively is half the point, the horny bullshit being the other big draw imho.

[glowyhaze]

This Is Me Letting You Go, For Real.

There’s a heaviness in writing this, like I’m pulling each word from a place I’ve kept buried for too long. But the time has come, hasn’t it? The time to let you go. I’ve replayed the memories we shared over and over, clinging to the good moments, trying to justify the bad ones. For so long, I’ve held onto you, believing that if I just tried hard enough, if I kept you alive in my mind, maybe I could keep us alive too. But that’s not love. It’s fear. Fear of facing the empty space you’ve left behind. But that space is there, whether I acknowledge it or not.

I’ve spent months wondering where things went wrong, how we unraveled so quickly. I used to think that if I could just find the answer, I could fix it. But now I realize there was no one moment, no singular event that caused the fracture. We grew apart, slowly and quietly, until the distance between us felt too far to bridge. We fought it, resisted the inevitable, but some things just aren’t meant to be. And it’s taken me far too long to understand that sometimes love is not enough. Sometimes, letting go is the only way forward.

I kept telling myself I’d move on, that I’d stop thinking about you, but in truth, I’ve been holding onto fragments of us. Little pieces of a past that no longer exists, replayed in my head like a favorite movie. It’s comforting in its familiarity, but it’s not real. You’re not the same person, and neither am I. And I think that’s why I’m writing this now. To finally accept that it’s over. To acknowledge the truth I’ve been avoiding: you’re not coming back.

And there comes a day i saw you happy with your new life. With someone who's believably much better than me. Probably loves you so much than i've ever had. Probably gave you the world i've never been able to gave you for years. I won't lie, it hurts me in a way it could possibly can. But then i realize, your happiness is the one that matter. Maybe, somehow, at some point in my life, i will have that kind of happiness too; find someone who'll love me unconditionally. And that thought bring me here, to the point i have to let you go once more. For our own sake.

This is not a bitter goodbye. I won���t say that I wish things had turned out differently because, deep down, I know this was meant to happen. I’ve learned so much from our time together, and I’m grateful for that. You helped me grow in ways I never expected. But now I need to move forward, without the weight of what could have been holding me down. I need to make space in my life for new experiences, new people, and maybe, eventually, a new kind of love.

So this is me, letting you go. Finally, fully. It’s hard, but it’s necessary. I wish you all the best in your life, wherever it leads you. And I’ll always carry the lessons, the memories, the parts of you that shaped me. But from here on out, I’m walking my own path. And for the first time in a long time, I’m okay with that.

So, goodbye, My long-lost love. I have, and will, always love you.

p.s : i'm writing this while crying in my office all alone while listening to ocean & engines by NIKI. can't believe a post for no one like this can bring me to tears. i just can't stop crying my eyes off for more than an hour.

[motorcitygem]

MY OC’S ALINA AND ADRIANA’S RELATIONSHIPS

( face claims- Alina: Madison Beer Adriana: martina stoessel)

ALINA

Friendships

CLARK CONNERS~ Alina and Clark knew each other well before joining Bc as they’ve wrestled against one another in tag team matches and also in singles matches, when Clark joined Bullet club he spent a good while trying to convince David to let Alina join them when it was just him and David but to no avail he said no but as time went on he realised that Alina might just be a key player in bullet club.

GABE KIDD~ These two met through Clark and instantly clicked like they knew each other for longer, they’d have a few matches in the uk before bullet club then in came the new era and their bond was stronger than ever.

MELINA TETSUYA~ former tag team partners and best friends since their humble beginnings in new Japan and stardom, they met through their first tenure at bullet club and were invincible! Winning loads of championships in singles AND tag team competition. ( @oedojoshitai)

MORE TO COME

Relationships

JAY WHITE~ Ex: Jay was Alina’s first ever relationship she felt like a queen when they were together he made her feel like she was the only one for him but things drifted apart when he betrayed Chaos and became the leader of the bullet club, he tried his hardest to recruit her but she wasn’t budging she wanted to stay as Okada helped her a lot in the start of her career and she felt like if she left she’d be leaving all that she worked behind and letting it disappear, that made their relationship fracture and would cause their eventual split.

DAN MOLONEY~ current boyfriend: after everything she went through she finally found someone who just gets her, they kept their relationship a secret since he joined the empire and when he eventually joined bullet club he let the world know that she’s his and no one else’s that caused some friction within the empire and would lead to her eventual departure from the group.

DRIA

Friendships

CHRIS BEY~ As much to MCMG’s dismay she made friends with Chris instantly due to her father being a person that Chris looks up to and as well as bumping into one another backstage a lot, they bonded over their love of music and professional wrestling!.

JESSIKA HAVOC~ Jess and Dria recently started working together as a tag team in Pro Wrestling Revolver and their tag team name is SICKSUPERNOVA and they have the best time talking to each other about makeup and their interests.

DEONNA PURRAZZO~ Dria and Deonna became friends when Deonna won the Knockouts Championship back, after a while Dria felt like she could go to Deonna with any problems she had if Alex and Chris were too busy she gained a sister in Deonna and was forever grateful for the friendship they have cultivated in that short time.

MORE TO COME

Relationships

ACE AUSTIN~ current boyfriend: through chris Dria met ace and pretty much instantly fell in love, she thought the who love at first sight thing was so cliche but it wasn’t until she actually experienced it that she fully understood what it meant, the more time she spent with I’m wether it was in impact, revolver or even outside of the ring she felt the love grow stronger each day. So when the time finally came where they asked one another out it felt like a weight was lifted off of their shoulders…. Kinda 😂 they weren’t quite sure how to tell not only Alex and Chris but Oscar too after a few months of dating something happened that will forever change their lives!

[crown-jay]

Hello!

I am someone who thinks they also might be a Median System. Your posts about you figuring this out are super helpful and relatable! I also felt the same click when I found the term median system where I was like “That’s it.. that’s me..” I also had the same experience of discovering what DID was in 2018 and being like “Am I??? NAhhhh… right???” up until this year when I started really swinging the opposite way of “Oh no this is a thing I am somewhere in this group” I'm trying to relate my experiences to others to see if I'm on the right path to figuring this all out.

Tell me if these are relatable or not:

I also feel comfier with plural first pronouns, I've always felt like it's me and my brain (where the now discovered "others" live) and together we are a "we".

Another way I kinda described it to myself was feeling like a system that never fully fractured.

Or that it was the way people describe masking but at an extreme where I’m not TRYING to change my behavior, it just sorta happens and I’m “someone else”. 

Or what I called masking felt more like skipping songs in a playlist to get to the right one instead of putting on a mask. 

For me sometimes I expect to see a different face in the mirror and I get weirded out while still recognizing that, that is me and my face.

If these are not relatable at all please let me know and be honest.

Some questions:

Do you have amnesia?

You said that you can’t tell someone has been fronting till after. What tells you that someone was fronting?

No pressure to respond or answer any of these btw. Bottom line: Thank you for sharing your process through all this it has been very helpful comparing experiences.

Hi, thanks for reaching out! Sorry for the delayed response, we had a small crisis and went back in denial but we're good now.

We're much more comfortable with plural first person pronouns, though we're still getting used to using them online, sort of testing the waters at the moment. We agree with the "me and my brain" sentiment. It's like there was always something there but we just couldn't figure out what it was. Turns out, there was something, and that something was other people lol

Our system is definately less fractured then others. Our switches are smoother and we're less distinct from each other.

We mask a lot. Although we have a hard time figuring out what is masking and what is the host fronting, as a lot of the time we mask to copy the host. So maybe we're not actually that similar, we just mask a lot. We assume time will tell.

More often than not, our reflection doesn't reflect (hehe) our inner appearance. It can be quite jarring at times, especially for Orym, since he is a cis man in an AFAB body.

In answer to your questions:

No? But also, kind of? We don't experience amnesia in the sense that we blackout and can't remember what other alters have done while we're not fronting. We remember that but it's like we remember it from a different perspective. Like we witnessed fronting instead of experiencing it (unless, of course, we were the one fronting at that time) that's the best explanation we've come to. We tend to have emotional amnesia when looking back on times we weren't fronting, unless we were close to the front. For example if I (Sawyer) was fronting and experienced an angering experience, Orym would remember the experience, but wouldn't remember how exactly I was feeling. He might feel anger about it, but he won't remember or feel my anger. Not sure if that makes sense.

We've gotten better at knowing who's fronting. Usually we use process of elimination. While our alters are quite similar, they still have their differences, even if they're little things. Not masking a lot? Probably Bastian, since it doesn't mask as much as the rest of us. They also don't talk much. More soft spoken? Probably Orym. Generally less dysphoric? That's Ajax. Et cetera. I think that's a good tip, especially for median systems. If you find that alters are sometimes too similar to differentiate them effectively, find their small differences, ones that generally only correspond to one of them. You can then look for those when determining who is fronting, co-fronting, co-con, etc.

If you have anymore questions, feel free to ask! In fact, answering these made us realise things about ourselves which helped us understand our system better! So that's pretty cool.