#there are more in the shed but bc half of it is collapsed and i bit difficult unsafe to get to

[loser-user-noaccuser]

Alarm is on so I can get up early and help with the last bit of boxes

[gretahayes]

love ur repair shop au love all ur yj stuff <33 what kind of hero adventures would happen/how often would they happen? idk just any thoughts abt it bc it seems so cute and nice

so I've already mentioned dimension shenanigans, but also supernatural shenanigans?? every now and then obviously there's some major crisis that sends one/all of them back home or like an alien invasion, but mostly it's dimension and supernatural stuff. need these kids to not have Any main nemesis', no jokers or eobards (I would go evil too if my name was fucking EOBARD) or luthors or cheetahs or big giant monsters, nobody dedicating their life to hurt them.

bart's shaken awake at two am by a grumpy tim tromping into the bedroom and saying theres a dimensional rift opening up in their living room. bart deals with it then comes back to see tim's taken his place in the cuddle pile so he wiggles in between cassie and kon (didn't betray him) and wakes all of them up in the process. they get back to sleep eventually but half on top of bart as revenge (it doesn't work, bart likes the pressure) then cassie cracks open an eye to ask, "hey, why were you even up?" and they're back awake again.

they've got to deal with wayward spirits and confused ghosts, plus people who got dragged through the thin spot in space time their shop is based in. bart multitasks by also keeping an eye on it, so wally can't mind his business west has no reason to keep popping in. speedsters are still their most reoccuring visitors because it's a convenient place to dimension hop so bart's learnt to suck it up.

their hero stuff is less big flashy monsters and tech geniuses. its supernatural stuff they have to deal with, and it sent everyone off-kilter a bit because this is Odd yeah but so relieving actually?? nobody waiting to stab them in the back except for the creepy vampire that's been following them all day, and they can deal with that well enough. a huge but needed change of pace.

kon's got the neatest handwriting because bart and tim both scrawl unintelligibly (the consequences of being geniuses whose brains move too fast for their hands), cassie scribbles only barely legibly (why does this girl write like she's always in a hurry?) and kon's handwriting is neat because he cares about how it looks. the others don't really—they can make it look nice, tim especially, but you have to understand; they can't be bothered. so kon tends to do all the writing for everything, and thank god for ttk otherwise he'd have permanent hand cramps.

they have a garden! it took a lot of trial and error, but now they're finally growing more things than they kill (it took several trips to the farm to figure that out—books didn't help much against their non-existent green thumbs. they're not complaining though, they love ma and pa).

of course, they're still called home for big events and all brought together when there's a huge world-ending event or whatever, but their shop and their home are sort of a break from that, y'know? after a long day of saving humanity they shed their armor and collapse in a pile together and know there's nothing that'll hurt them as they are, right then and there. and that's reassuring.

[if-i-was-a-cucumber]

currently watching part 8 || my gear and your gown

had some free time (read: it was 4:30 am) so i cranked in half an episode of my gear and your gown before i collapsed. here were some of the notes i wrote on my phone while i watched. everyone pack it up for episode 8! don’t read if you don’t want spoilers!

it's been a while since i was on this show so obv my brain is recollecting what happened in episode 7 and my first question is what exactly is up itt’s ass here?? and does no one care at all to ask why tf he’s even at this school? like yes i love that they’re getting a second wind and all with college but also — pai. have you no curiosity at all?

how can this fond of a smile be produced by your crush slamming the door of Friend Zone right in your face?? either folk is terminally down bad or we're about to see some extreme romantic conflict in the upcoming episodes.

it's such a cliche but can i talk about how much i adore aggressively flirty short men paired with tall men who always seem to embody the essence of "wtf is going on rn"? i was put off earlier by the erasure of a possible pure-waan romance but this?? oh this i can get behind.

THIS MAN'S AUDACITY. i'm so confused. am i forgetting an explanation for his actions somewhere in between episode 7 and episode 8 because ??!??!??!? this show is doing a fantastic job at making me physically require understanding wtf is wrong with itt.

i mean i can see he's trying to help pai out but why? and why like that? why was he such an asshole before and now he's trying to be all sweet and subtly kind? i'm sure he's had some kind of emotional realization or something but what is the approach he is taking?

this smile in response to pai angrily staring at him is giving the same energy as folk smiling at pai's shut door except with more chemistry. the only difference is that itt is a true love interest and also batshit crazy rn

AND WTF IS THIS LOOK FOR??? if i look up an encyclopedia definition of the word "whiplash" this man's face better be plastered right there, front and center

a moment of silence please for the guy who got alcohol poured ALL OVER HIS WOUND. bro didn't even shed a tear. when itt walked in he just walked away. the way i would be sobbing. that little girl who felt his pain? that would've been me.

it seems at this point i fell asleep and/or wrote no more notes bc i have no further recollection of the episode or records of my reactions. hopefully i'll be a little more active in the coming week/s since a wave of work just passed

love you all and please get a good night's rest! (or have a good day depending on where you are.) <33

[vacantgodling]

to expand on this point bc i can’t be stopped and analyzing my own brain and writing habits is a very fun habit of mine, here are two scenes from chapter 12. this first scene i visualized in my head as an image:

All he cared for was their arrival, and perhaps a bed, as they made their way through the air towards La Castra and its looming temple. It’s peaks nearly kissed the moon as it stood atop of its towering foundation, coming into view like a foreboding crest. From the windows of the airship, it was hard to make out the barely there buildings scattered like ants against the oppressively massive structure; even more difficult to make out those who roamed the city at night, scurrying in little figments of motion across the barely visible cobble that lined the ground around it.

and this was a scene that i built using words instead of an initial image in my head:

Click clack his soft kitten heels went, the only anchor that he had to keep from falling into this dream. The bridge seemed to stretch on forever even if it was only a short way. When he reached the end of it, he was standing outside of a large round stained glass window. Up close the details were severe and intricate. Thousands of small designs were woven into each individual pane of glass, woven together in a clever mosaic to create a large portrait of The Savior hung like a sacrificial lamb in front of the pitch purple and black of The Vat of Darkness. Each outstretched arm did not weep blood but tears; crystalline watery blue stains, each depicting some horrible tragedy that had befallen Galeré over the centuries. The collapse of the first Iron Storm Bell that killed several thousand people; the flooding of the Halifax river in 841 that put half the city near underwater and truly established the difference between Uptown Halifax and the slums; even the horrible airship accident that took the young and beloved Princess Kalimeris from the world and set back the world he was familiar with today by nearly one hundred years. These tragedies pooled at the hanging Savior’s feet but not a tear was shed from the portrait’s eyes. Their dark black eyes were depicted with a humble determination, no different than the dark and wondering eyes of Aloe, and for a moment Hyacinthus was struck by the similarity.

even if both sound good (i hope) i can hear how my own description is muddled in the first one; it’s not truly clear enough (to me) what the sanctuarie looks like. i don’t feel like i really captured the grandiosity of its scale, how it’s literally up in the fucking air with its height and everything is dwarfed next to it. it’s a description i know i’m gonna come back to when i do draft 2. but to me the second feels intentional and rich; i can clearly see what i’m trying to say and what details i’m calling attention to and it’s all very PURPOSEFUL. and i think that’s the difference in how i “visualize”. i tend to visualize when i write with the intention of what words will best capture what i want the readers to pay attention to and not like the actual camera angles or physical appearance of the scene itself. it’s why i like long sentences and i tend to use a lot of description because description isn’t just what things look like it should also (to me) convey important plot points and feelings and draw your attention to what needs to be outwardly and intrinsically understood to have the impact of a scene take full affect. as a writer i don’t have the crutch that visual design cues be it real life or animated/drawn scenes hold; i have to be subtle enough to not bog down the narrative, paint a clear enough picture so it makes sense, but also convey WHY i’m showing you this part of a scene all at the same time. so i think i kinda adopted that ideology early on when i started to write more seriously and bc of that i rarely have an actual image in my head beyond the words on a page.

capricorn & pisces for the ask game? - @void-botanist

thank you for asking!

capricorn: what does your writing schedule look like? how often does it take you to write a chapter?

if i had a writing schedule i would be done writing paramour by now 💀 tbh i go by the rule that i write as much as i’m able to when i feel like it. i have my wip structured so that i’m alternating between chapters i really want to write and chapters that will require a little more thought and struggle (for me) so i’m not just only writing everything i like and then leaving the stuff i don’t really want to write by the wayside until i can’t ignore it (which is how many of my stories end up in limbo). in general though how long it takes to write a chapter depends on my interest level. both versions of chapter 20 for instance (my favorite fucking chapter) only took me a day/day and a half to write. however chapter 12 took me nearly a month.

pisces: how do you visualize scenes? do you see it like a movie in your head, or do the words just flow?

i most often visualize things through my understanding of the meaning of words. meaning, i suppose, that words tend to flow out of my brain. occasionally i can visualize a scene; and those scenes tend to be the hardest for me to write out because i’m trying to describe what i see, versus using words to build the scene like one would use bricks to build a house. the scenes that i tend to like the best are ones i don’t imagine at all whilst writing, but after i write it i can see what i’m trying to say through a combo of words and sparse imagery. usually the words just have to feel right so i’m pretty particular with how i describe things to get the desired affect.

[drwcn]

I loved your fem lwj take on things. How would thibgs go if WWX was the lady? Other than ppl assuming she stood up for the Wens bcs she jad feelings for WN ( and that Yuan was hers)

Heyyy friend, I think I’ve seen a couple of girl!wwx fics floating around in ao3 so i certainly won’t be the first :P.

Also I completely misread your ask initially, I thought you were asking me what I think would happen if A-Yuan was WWX’s kid, and I was like oh?? But then I realize wait... I can make it worse.  

Today, I decided that my mortal soul doesn’t matter, so here we go. Let’s see how accursed I can make this idea: 

[1]

It started with Jiang Cheng. Jiang Wanyin had set out for the Burial Mount with the explicit goal of throttling speaking with Wei Wuxian, but what greeted him at the entrance of the “Demon Subduing Palace” — more of a cave than anything really — was not his martial sister, but Wen Ning. Well, what had once been Wen Ning.

Black veins ran across his pale, ashen face, down his equally ashen neck , and into the major veins beneath his clavicles covered by the collars of his black threadbare robes. Lifeless eyes, white as his skin, stared into a void the living could not see. There were talismans littering his body, and Jiang Cheng knew that when he spoke to this fierce corpse, he was not speaking to the young Wen boy, but to his mistress who controlled him with her demonic cultivation. 

Wei Wuxian refused to face him. Refused him explanation. Refused him closure.

“Er-jie!” Jiang Cheng screamed into the stony expressionless face of Wen Qionglin. “If you continue to protect them, then I can’t protect you!!” 

There was no response. 

Suddenly, just as Jiang Cheng was about to kick and fight his way into the cave, Wen Ning thrusted out his right fist, and in his grasp was a piece of purple silk. Jiang Cheng unfolded the silk, vaguely recognizing that it had been cut from someone’s robe, and saw what was wrapped within was a slip of parchment.

割袍断义*, the paper read. Tell the world that I, Wei Wuxian, first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang has forever defected (Note: 割袍断义- to rip one's robe as a sign of repudiating a sworn brotherhood (idiom)).

With this, there was nothing left to say. Hurt and furious, Jiang Wanyin threw the piece of parchment onto the dirt ground, grinded his heel down on it, and left the Burial Mount without ever having drawn Sandu. 

Inside the cave, Wen Qing held Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Why won’t you just tell him? He’s your brother; he can help you, you can —” 

Wei Wuxian’s mile long stare seemed to be gazing at something — someone — very far away. Slowly, she placed her other palm over her belly, which horrifically was already starting to round out. “Nobody can help me now, Qing-jie.”

“I can,” said Wen Qing, blunt as ever. “I can make it go away, if you want.”

“No.” A droplet of tear escaped pass long lashes. “No.” 

[2] 

It continued with Jiang Cheng.

On a snowy night, the first winter after Wei Wuxian escaped with the Wen remnants to the Burial Mount, Jiang Cheng was rudely awakened from his slumber by a less-than-stealthy intruder breaking and entering into his bed chamber.

Zidian whipped through the air, lighting the room with her eerie violet glow, before the intruder could think to take one more step. It was a man, judging from his silhouette colliding against the wall and the pained groan he made in response. The very next second, the tail of Zidian coiled tightly around his neck and dragged him across the floor towards beneath Jiang Cheng’s waiting foot. 

The Sect Master of Yunmeng Jiang summoned Sandu, ready to deliver the final strike, but just as his blade sailed towards the intruder’s chest, a pale arm jutted upwards, blocking Sandu’s descent and revealing a pale hand holding a … a... 

Even in the dark, Jiang Cheng immediately recognized the mahogany comb. 

“Jiang — ! Zongzhu —!” The man croaked out urgently, throat still stomped on by Jiang Cheng’s foot. It was - it was Wen Ning?!

Jiang Cheng looked him over. He was pale, yes, but his eyes appeared human. His hair was brushed and haphazardly done up in a farmer’s top knot. He was wearing farmer’s clothing too, probably more inconspicuous for travel than his Ghost General getup.  

“Jiang-zongzhu! P—please!!”

No, impossible. 

“Wei — Wei-guniang—”

Jiang Cheng lifted his foot and dragged Wen Ning up in a split second. “What’s wrong with Wei Wuxian?!”  Wen Ning coughed and shook his head desperately. “No time to explain. My sister asked me to fetch you. Please, you have to come! Wei-guniang’s life is in danger! If you won’t come, I’ll...I’ll have to go to Gusu, and I don’t know if - if -” 

Jiang Cheng followed Wen Ning. 

For speed, they travelled by sword, but even so, dawn was breaking by the time they arrived. The crowd of Burial Mount’s villagers huddling anxiously outside of the Demon Subduing Palace parted for them upon their arrival. Jiang Cheng took a moment to gather himself and square his shoulders. Whatever it was; he was ready.  

He was wrong. None of the dozens of scenario he had agonized over on the flight here could have prepared him for what awaited him inside. 

Wen Qing, pale and drenched in sweat, was near complete spiritual collapse, and without Wen Qing’s spiritual energy sustaining her, the single tenuous thread by which Wei Wuxian’s life hung on would have undoubtedly snapped under the toil and devastation her body had been put through. 

There was so much blood, so, so much blood everywhere, and amidst the blood, there was a baby. 

Fuck. 

Jiang Cheng transfused his sister half of his total spiritual reserve over the course of a day, while an exhausted but unrelenting Wen Qing worked diligently under blood-soaked sheets. 

Then at dusk, when the storm finally passed, Jiang Cheng sat at the mouth of the cave with a tiny, perfect little human — a girl, a niece! —  in his arms and cursed Lan Wangji’s name. 

Wen Qing was extremely clear with them: 孩子要是留在这里，养不活。

If the newborn was left to be raised at the Burial Mount, she would not live. And so, because parting was inevitable from the start, Wei Wuxian adamantly refused to hold or nurse the child. Her child. 

I can’t. If I do, I won’t be able to let her go. Those dark eyes burned with more than just the delirium of her childbed fever. For once, Jiang Cheng could not find it in himself to argue.

Thus, he took his niece home and named her Jiang Yan 江曕. The name was not his doing. His foolish, misguided, stubborn sister had stroked her daughter’s soft, baby cheek and whispered it to her as a farewell gift. 

Yan - to be bathed in daylight. In the end, when given a choice, Wei Wuxian still opted for her child to walk on broad sunny road. 

It made Jiang Cheng wonder why, then, she would choose the dark twisted path for herself instead. 

[3] 

It ended with Jiang Cheng. 

The truth was simple: Jiang Wanyin killed his shijie Wei Wuxian. He did. He meant to. 

He killed her. But that did not mean he wanted her dead. 

In one day, he had lost both of his sisters, leaving two orphans in their wake. Jiang Cheng could not ignore the cruel irony of their fate: one’s father murdered by his aunt, and other’s mother murdered by her uncle. 

This was the kind of tragedy fairytales were made of, and if there were anything left in him to shed tears over it, he would.  Standing amongst Nevernight’s carnage, he could not dredge up even a single drop of tear.  

Jiang Cheng didn’t know how he could return home to Lotus Pier to face that cherub face, always so happy, so sweet, so utterly untainted by the world. She had her mother’s smile. Yan'er was starting to learn how to speak. Her first words were da-da. 

Da-da. Die-die. Father. 

He was standing beside her father now. 

Lan Wangji. Devastated. Destroyed. …Deceived.

Jiang Cheng hated him so much, so fucking much that for one insane second, he thought about telling Lan Wangji the truth just to see what would happen. Maybe he would run Jiang Cheng through with his Bichen - that would be a relief now, wouldn’t it? - or maybe he would jump after Wei Wuxian. 

Truly, if he knew, he would. Jump, that is. Jiang Cheng was almost entirely sure. Oh the utter melodrama that would inspire indeed!  

But then... 

Wei Ying birthed you a daughter, a lovely, perfect, blessed little girl, and she carried that secret to her grave. I may be damned by my actions, but you, who have done nothing for her and taken everything, why should you deserve something as sacred as the truth?

Jiang Cheng turned away. 

He was acutely aware that one day Jiang Yan may very well be the literal death of him. After all — 杀母之仇不共戴天 — one cannot tolerate living under the same sky as the murderer of one’s mother. 

Be that as it may, he would raise Jiang Yan well, just as he promised. Unlike his sister, he would not break his word. Jiang Yan was of Lotus Pier, of Yunmeng, like her mother and grandfather before her. That for him, was enough. 

Jiang Cheng clutched Sandu and gripped Zidian. Whatever his fate, he already made peace with it, and the rest was inconsequential. 

One day, he may die, but today he lives, and so as long as he lives, Jiang Yan and all of Yunmeng Jiang will be protected . So as long as he lives, they will flourish. 

[...and in between]

On the streets of Yiling, Lan Wangji tilted his head inquisitively at Wei Wuxian and the little boy at her side and asked, “This child, he...” 

In response, Wei Wuxian patted her chest in a self-declarative kind of way and announced, “Oh this child, I birthed him!” 

He stared at her in shell-shocked silence, his mind racing with panicked thoughts of but that’s impossible — that was just once — even if — the boy is too old to be —

“怎么，蓝湛，不要我们娘儿俩了？” What, Lan Zhan, you don’t want the child and I?

“Wei— Wei Ying—” 

Then of course, she had laughed, and Lan Wangji thought no more of it. 

Just a joke. A silly joke. 

In time, he would come to realize his mistake. 

~~~

[A/N]: I’m not even a little bit sorry. 

[wolfmoonblues]

a quick werewolf short story im not publishing anywhere else okay bye <3

(Temp project name! Beauwolf: Wulven Knight. hopefully a drawn comic eventually bc i'm very bad at sharing written word lol)

Feel free to reblog, comment, follow, or like! If it gains traction I may continue it, and if not, I simply hope you enjoy :)

__

To begin: there is a wolf, and a girl, and a dragon. The wrought trials of a crusading animal duel have ceased after tirades of blood-slicked blades and roaring fire. Here beauty and beast crouch together as one singing and smoke-blackened heart, unsure in their fate at the whim of an even mightier monster before them, and the final flag remains to be thrown.

Though thrilling from the fear, the princess plays the dead rabbit well. She is still, and barely lets herself whimper as the great black wolf coils its body over hers. It lifts her up to its quivering lips and wet nose and adrenaline capsizes her every remaining ability to move.  Under the jealous shadow of the beast, she hears its drum heart and the whistling, violent creaks of exertion, and when she drops her head back, its jaws crack open. They are gleaming and stained gold. The rush of hot breath sends goosebumps down to her chest.

It clamps a foaming maw over her neck, but the teeth don’t puncture. The touch is achingly delicate, hot and gentle over the prone neck—but one notch of pressure, and blood would pop and fill its mouth like overripe fruit.

The wolf growls. The sound freezes the maiden further. It’s a low, vibrating instrument and thrums in her ears with terrifying determination. At the warning note, the wicked dragon before them staggers to its feet. It’s twice the wolfbeast’s size, ichor-drenched and ragged from a moonlit battle, and it has decided, wisely, to count its losses. After a last vile glare, the massive villain slinks away.  The wolf stares it down, a relentless snarl jumbling through its teeth at any sign of hesitation, until the fearsome lizard flaps its herculean wings and heaves itself into the dawn. They do not move until it’s a shadow in the clouds.

For a moment, the princess fears, manically, that the trust she had was merely lunatic hope. The werewolf does not let go. In fact, the teeth seem to begin pinching through skin. She gawks, drags her hands up to its neck and almost clasps it as if in prayer.

“Please—let go. Please.” She begs with her open mouth and grasping hands until the wolf, shaking, vomits her from its mouth. Before she can drop to the stone, it catches her—and they collapse, one body and then two.

It takes a moment for the wash of post-panic cold to leave her. She heaves herself up by the elbows and finds herself cradling the massive brute head of the beast. White scars criss and cross its pelt, but more urgently, blood and ichor from fresh wounds streak through its fur. The mess sticks to the princess’s skin. The wolf’s body kicks and convulses, and every breath wretches a pained cry from its entire body. The princess searches vainly for cause, until the sun lighting the horizon finally yields an answer. With the full moon gone, the lycan curse bades them alone at last.

The werewolf’s bones snap and knit tighter and tighter, pushing a new terrain from skin and muscle, and the monstrous screams of pain become gulping, human sobs. The fur recedes, or sheds—she’s not quite sure—until what’s left is a starkly naked woman, shivering and bleeding under a heavy coat of furs.

As the princess realizes she’s now instead clutching a very human head in her hands, attached to a very human body, she finally follows a charged  emotion other than panicked fear: panicked care. She tears the sleeves of her dress away and finds a wound to wrap them around—a nasty gash close to the collarbone. With a half-dead grunt, the woman strewn on her lap reaches up and pushes her hands away. She forces her eyelids open and looks at the princess. Her eyes are the color of coal and night, and the bridge of her nose is smeared with blood, and it’s the most intensely anyone has ever stared at her. She strains to reach over again, but the knight’s grip strengthens and she forces her gaze to hers once more, this time unshakeable. She gives the faintest of disapproving grumbles—almost a growl, the princess swears—and then curls into a fetal position under her cape and is still.

–

She doesn’t move for hours. The princess has time enough to wash up, feed the horse outside, and prepare a lonely lunch before there is any movement from her rescuer. It’s quick, as well—one minute, she’s the lump on the floor, the next, she’s sat stretching her arms behind her back.

The princess watches from behind a stone outcropping. The knight’s back, gored the night before, is stitched together with threads of healed white sinew. Her entire body is downy with black, curly hair that trails from the nape of her neck and hugs in swirls around her shoulders and thighs, thickest at her hands and feet. She turns her head to yawn and dull fangs poke from under stretchy, cracked lips. Her ears are pointed and her hair is as well, and the princess’s stomach turns from the queerness of it all.

She doesn’t realize her transfixation until she cling-clangs against the lunch pots at her feet. The knight’s head whips around, unnaturally almost. A flash of assessment, and the dangerous reflex quells from her rigid stance. She pushes herself up and pads over to the princess in what feels like one swift motion. The princess stumbles back on instinct. She leans against the outcropping to catch herself and finds the knight already with her, standing close enough to count the fuzzy hairs on her neck.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”

The knight says nothing but cocks her head to the side.

“I—I made you lunch. I thought you might be hungry. And there’s water and bandages, too, if you’ll take them.”

The woman’s face softens, just for one second. She turns to look at the spread and tilts her chin up with an agreeing nod.

The princess’s cheeks burn and chest tightens. She feels, somehow, like an idiot, but also very reasonable, and it mostly makes her confusedly indignant. “You don’t have to take it.” She manages to sputter. The woman-knight is taller than her. Her frame is lanky, and had it not been that she’d seen her nearly kill a dragon last night, she would appear unassuming in build.  

She is also still freshly naked, and smells like wet hair and earth. The princess tries to find purchase anywhere but her gaze and her eyes travel downwards. She wears a necklace—a metal crucifix. Where it sits her skin burns red and raw.

This captivates her, until the soft brush of fingers against her neck flings her to the present. She flinches, and finds the knight looking despairingly at her throat. Teeth marks ring around it, bruising.

She catches the question in the knight’s gaze and hums, “Oh, did it hurt? No, not much.” Her eyes travel and try for distraction. The calloused tips of the knight’s fingers graze over her skin, and this charges her like metal in a storm. She freezes up again, nearly as badly as when her life hung between the teeth of the wolf, and the familiar aching gentleness bleeds her once again from air and thought. She reaches up, and stops the touch.

The wolf knight only looks at her, persistent in search of assurance. “You didn’t pierce skin. I’m okay.” The princess promises again, frigid, and she steps away, pushes her hair over the teeth marks. “Come and eat, now. It’ll be cold soon.”

She leaves to gather the plates and feels the gaze of the wolf linger on her back. This chills her thoroughly, but she says nothing. The lunch is served and at last the knight sits and eats, dutifully and with a practiced restriction. She swallows hungrily, though, and masticates as if to savor every last crumb.

The cape of furs rests over her shoulders and blessedly leaves the princess shy of imagination. She must have grabbed it before sitting, or at least, the princess believes that’s what happens. Her movements are far too damn quick for the inattentive. 

A hearty grunt denotes satisfaction, and she hands the plate to her. The princess, scraping at her own empty plate, says, “Thank you.”

Puzzled, the knight arcs an eyebrow.

“For saving me. Thank you.”

The knight grunts again, nods. Quickly, this combination has become the signature of the dark-haired warrior.

“I really do appreciate it,” the princess continues, and she hears the frustration tip at the end of her words.

The knight follows with a shrug, then, as if sensing the curiosity, taps near her heart, lifts her necklace, and hands it over. The princess takes it with hesitant anxiety.

The necklace bears the cross, as well as two stamped tags: the king’s crest, adorned with the rampant lions, and a coat of arms. The design of the coat of arms is uniform, but shallow and dark, likely hand-carved. It bears only a crescent moon and the words ‘Beauwolf’ lettered at the back. She thumbs over the words carefully and mouths the name. It molds itself over her tongue.

“The knight Beauwolf.” She proclaims at last, soft. “You’re one of the Wulven warriors of the King’s order…of course.”

She folds the necklace in her hands and returns it. Beauwolf takes it and drops it over her head. Faintly, her skin sizzles at the jewelry’s touch, and the princess covers her hands with her mouth.

“You’re wearing pure silver?” She whispers. Beauwolf nods, and the fact that it doesn’t seem to bother her upsets the princess further. “Does the order make you?”

Beauwolf shakes her head, nigh amused.

“Then why?”

Beauwolf takes the necklace again and holds up the cross, as if every answer was obviously inside it. The princess squints. “For God? He makes you?”

Beauwolf shakes her head again, more vigorously than before, still with that glint of amusement.

“For what then?”

“You.” She speaks, finally. Her voice is smooth, and warm, and firm. The princess’s cheeks flush. The noises around them all suddenly quiet, sucked away to some other less important part of the world.

“...Me?” The princess squeaks. “What on earth could you ever mean by that? I wouldn’t make you wear something that hurts you so.”

“The cross to abate the curse, lest harm come to you.” The cadence she speaks with is rhythmic and low, as if the words dig themselves out of her chest one by one. She looks up under her furred eyebrows, and her eyes are like flint.

“You pain yourself to…to keep yourself from hurting me? To keep your flesh holy to the commandments.” The princess fumbles into the right answer, then. “But you’re a lycan! Cursed! Are you not damned by the Devil already?”

“Yes.” Beauwolf denotes, and the princess knows this will be the last she speaks for now.

They sit in their silence and smolder, with only the noises of crumbling ash and wind and morningsong between them. “I’m Adeline.” The princess finally says.

Beauwolf nods.

Adeline stirs and stews and crouches into herself. Beauwolf takes this as an end to their lively conversation, and rises to leave. Adeline feigns a huff and turn of the head for modesty, but her eyes trail when Beauwolf walks away; the knight really is light on her toes. She sheds the coat and dresses in the spot where she’d awoken earlier in the day.

She steps into linens first, and pulls a shirt over her head. The fabric is tight over the arms, but not so fitted over her breasts and torso, torn in places, and it hangs limp and sheer. Somehow the simple act of covering leaves Adeline more ashamed to watch than before—but she doesn’t stop, instead straining around her peripheral to see better.

Beauwolf pulls her trousers over the curve of her hips and ties it tight with the end strings. Her shock of black hair seems even more stark with the plainclothes. The woolen hose next, then a threadbare black aketon. Her armor takes longer to fit into, first with the metal mesh followed by a puzzle of plated armor, until the only piece missing is the gaunt wolf helmet Adeline had first seen her in. Her uncovered head looks silly and smaller, now built up by a menacing gilded frame, triangular in most proportions. Adeline finds herself chewing her lip to shreds, but feels she would go dizzy if she stared anywhere else.

Beauwolf ties her hair back into a tail and cranes her head back to watch Adeline with a knowing look. She kneels to fit her shoes, then picks up her cape and flips it over her shoulders, ties it tight to the base of her neck. Adeline watches openly now, until Beauwolf is walking back to her. She stretches out a gloved hand. Adeline takes it, and she’s lifted to her feet with a grace that she couldn’t have managed alone.

“Are you taking me home, Sir Beauwolf?”

The knight nods, then gestures over to the fireplace. Her helmet rests strewn on the floor, close to wrecked stone and overgrown plant.

Adeline steps to pick it up, then turns and finds Beauwolf, again, a heartbeat’s width too close.  She bows her head and Adeline realizes, in a rush, just how aware she was of her consuming gaze and participation, and that the knight is offering her a hand in the ritual. She slides the helmet over her head and watches it swallow her coal eyes and crooked, scarred nose and narrow lips, until it’s only her chin that pokes underneath. Beauwolf drops her shoulders back, and seems to pause.

She stays paused for a while.

Adeline’s lips purse, annoyed the most you could be at your savior. “Am I to wait for you to carry me?” She crosses her arms, with the premeditated answer of ‘if you insist’ ready for harrumphing.

The knight points to the kitchenware, the scattered belongings—the recovered tiara wrapped hastily alongside spoons.

“Oh,” Adeline sucks her teeth, and ends with the, “Right.” on a sharp ite.

She squats to pick up the tiara—her one remnant of personal treasure, any other trinkets hoarded in whatever depths existed in this ruinous cavern of a castle. She brushes away the lint from its gems, and fits it back to the crown of her head.

“The rest can stay. Better to travel light, I assume.”

Beauwolf seems to have decided this is well. She takes her longsword, which had been leaning against a crook in the wall, and wipes away the dragonblood with her cape before she sheaths it, and they empty the castle.

[insinirate]

i was thinking earlier about pcnj shedding and it's like, it can go two ways can't it. like one half of him wants to hide away and have NO ONE see him, and the other half is like "🥺 dragons have to take care of each other 😤 i need to find my soon-to-be mate and have him care for me 🥰" and him dramatically collapsing in front of the tower door like "oh woe is me, i cannot stand shedding all alone with no one to help ease my suffering, and there's no one else i trust more than you, pico 💜" and looking extra pathetic. but then the other side of him speaks again like, "HE CANNOT SEE ME LIKE THIS!!! WHATSOEVER!!!! I FEEL AND LOOK GROSS!!!!!!!!"

absolutely obsessed w the idea of pcnj going back and forth between himself the entire trip there and cringing through his act not bc he thinks hes cringe but bc hes ugly atm, yet he pushes through solely on the assumption that pico will bathe and massage him through his shedding process

[gallickingun]

break the glass {in case of emergency} || t.s.

SUMMARY: Todoroki Shouto needs help, so he hires a nanny. More specifically, he hires you. 

PAIRING: Pro Hero!Shouto x Fem!Reader RATINGS: M/E+ WARNINGS: language, smut, slight violence, etc. WORD COUNT: 21.2k+

LINKS: ao3 | masterlist | mobile | writing tag

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* TAG LIST *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ is at the end of this post!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is the definition of a labor of love. big thanks to @k-atsukidayo, @freckledoriya, and @lady-bakuhoe for keeping me sane. and super shoutout to my love @shoutogepi bc she’s been my hype lady! i hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations because wow has it been a wild ride ♡

if you like this, feel free to request more HERE!

Shouto’s feet are trudging through the proverbial thick of life.

His ankles twist the further he tries to advance, and with every step forward, another tragedy breaks the fragility of the glass box he now lives in. The etching begins at the center, spreading out into cracks like lightning, threatening to shatter what remains of the clear cage.

And yet, Shouto must put on the mask, he must pretend that everything is fine when in fact he really would rather crumble to the floor with his hands in his hair. There are nights when he presses his palms into his temples, wishing and praying that someone out there might be listening so they can help him to will away the painful throbbing between his eyes. He can’t whimper, can’t make a sound, because if he does, if he withdraws the curtain and allows the world to know how inundated he truly is, then it will all be for naught.

“Daddy?”

Shouto blinks harshly to bring himself out of the vortex of his trepid thoughts, “Hey, love, what are you doing awake?”

Her teetering body scrambles into the room, pawing at the bedsheets as a broken sob parts her lips and shakes her chest. Shouto leans down to tuck his hands under her armpits, jolting her upward so she’s pressed into his chest. Her small hands grip onto the skin of his pectorals, thin fingernails scraping at his flesh. Shouto winces, but cradles her around the back regardless, the warmth of her heated cheek on his collarbone alarming.

“Did you have a bad dream?” he asks, soothing one of his hands through her hair while the other rests splayed against her back, dipping gently to try and ease her crying. She doesn’t answer, hiccupping cries making her whole body shake as she clutches onto him.

“Hey,” Shouto presses his lips to the crown of her head before coaxing her head backward. He tucks his thumb underneath her chin, “Talk to me.”

The little girl’s lower lip is wobbling, eyes doe-like and full of tears, thick white eyelashes dense with the little saltine droplets. She palms at Shouto’s face with one hand, seeming ancient when she whispers, “Why did they take mommy from me?”

And just like that, the glass box shatters.

Shouto feels the explosion, but maintains his composure regardless of the impact. Shards lodge into his throat and lungs, painful twinges jutting into his insides. His voice feels jagged when he speaks next, grating against his esophagus and tongue, “Sometimes the world just isn’t fair, love. I wish I had a better answer for you, but there’s not always a perfect explanation.”

Her bejeweled turquoise eyes behold him, thumbs against his mouth as she stares up at him. Glassy irises are blown wide by frightened pupils, “I miss her.”

She collapses back into him like a star shattering in the galaxy, explosive tears dripping down his chest as she tremors. The implosion of her life plays before him in the form of an empty half of the bed, a bare side of the bathroom, and a nightstand still left unembellished despite having been there for almost two years.

“I miss her too,” Shouto murmurs into the child’s silvery hair.

If he sheds a few silent tears of his own, she does not admonish him for it, instead laying quietly until her tears and shaking sobs have exhausted her tiny body. Her lips part and she begins to drool into the pocket of his collarbone, hands twitching against his chest.

A gentle melody vibrates Shouto’s lungs as he rolls himself to the side, carefully displacing her from his body to the empty half of the bed. The toddler grabs for him as soon as the warmth of his body disappears, and Shouto focuses all of his energy into regulating the warmth of his left side. He brushes his thumb over her cheek, pushing her silken hair from her mouth so it does not stick with her drool.

He chuckles, tucking her locks behind her ear, cupping her cheek with his warm palm, “Good night, Hana.”

The only acknowledgement he receives is a gentle snore that flares her nostrils and expands her chest, small body only looking tinier in the large expanse of the king-sized bed. Shouto lies there in wonder, his heated hand keeping in contact with her body until she halts her shivering.

How did I get so lucky? He thinks to himself, the threat of tears pressing intensely against the backs of his eyelids. He can’t close them, though, because he’s afraid he might miss a moment of his daughter’s sorrow.

Shouto leans forward to press a kiss to her furrowed brow, the familiar weight of his lips on her head giving her the comfort she needs to release the tension in her sleep. Her expression mellows, the crinkles in her forehead smoothing until she looks something akin to peaceful, ethereal.

The last thing Shouto sees before his mind succumbs to the lure of unconsciousness is her silvery hair glistening in the moonlight of the bedroom, her tiny palm wrapped around his index finger, clutching on like he were her lifeline.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“I can handle this on my own.”

“This isn’t just another assignment. This is your daughter, Shouto.”

His nostrils flare, “Yeah, and?”

Fuyumi rolls her eyes, containing herself by taking a deep breath through the nose. Shouto’s eyes wander as Hana teeters around the kitchen with a few crayons and a plush rabbit.

“There’s no reason to keep yourself from admitting you need help, Shouto,” Fuyumi grits her teeth and attempts to appear somehow cheerful, even if just for Hana’s sake. She flexes her jaw, “This is an insanely large house, brother. You could use the extra hands.”

Shouto narrows his eyes, the scar over his left side appearing even more intimidating when his expression shifts, “You’re not moving in here, ‘Umi. I’ll figure something else out.”

His sister runs a hand through her hair, shaking her head as she turns her attention to the toddler bobbing her head to an invisible jukebox as she colors another page in her book. Fuyumi licks her lips, “Listen, will you at least call her? She’s great with kids, and she’s between jobs right now. It could at least turn into a short-term benefit for the both of you.”

After a moment of aggressive silence, Shouto nods. He decides, internally, that his agreement is purely out of the recognition that it will force his sister to let the topic rest.

“I’ll call her.”

“Thank you,” Fuyumi’s chest deflates, releasing a pent-up breath she had been holding in unexpectedly. She sifts her fingers through Hana’s hair, thumbing at her ear gingerly, “I know you hate that I loom over you like another mother, but I just want to make sure that you’re both taken care of.”

Shouto’s expression softens, eyes turning from jeweled beads to something more pliable. His chest tightens at her admission, the reality of their situation doing nothing to lighten the burden on his shoulders. He takes a step towards his sister, praying she can see the sincerity in his eyes as he speaks, “I’ll be okay, ‘Umi. I promise.”

Fuyumi allows herself a moment to take in the sight of Shouto’s twenty-one month old child, watching as she scribbles her crayons onto the coloring book in front of her with as much precision as she can muster. A somber smile tugs on her lips and she sighs, closing her eyes as she readjusts her glasses, “I just worry about you, is all. Taking over a large agency is a lot of work, especially with the added pressure of being a good father.”

“I will be a good father,” Shouto is quick to refute her lofty accusations, the intensity of his voice causing Hana to turn her attention from her book to her father. He narrows his eyes at his sister, “I won’t turn out like dad.”

Holding her hands up in mock-surrender, Fuyumi takes a step back, “I know, Shouto. Trust me, I know.” Her eyes are wide and Shouto feels fear grip his spine like a cold shadow, curling up into him and suffocating his throat. He wants to gasp but he cannot show weakness, not now. Fuyumi inhales a short breath, “You’re the furthest thing from our father. Which is why I think you should seriously consider reaching out, getting another pair of hands on deck.”

Shouto considers her, tilting his head. The implications that his ability at caring for his daughter makes his chest constrict, heart aching in a way he’s never felt before. His eyes dart downward, catching on the silver hair of his child as she sits on the floor, grubby hands gripping at crayons while she smears color all over the pages of her book.

“I’ll call her,” he repeats his words from earlier. “I will.”

Fuyumi reaches out to take her brother into a hug, breathing her peaceful nature onto him like a ghost begging to infiltrate his body. Shouto takes a long drag, lips parted when he wraps his arms around his sister’s smaller frame.

As his sister is leaving, Hana’s eyes focus on the door. Todoroki can’t help himself wonder for a moment if she believes that someone else might come walking back across the threshold, if only she were to look at just the perfect moment. The sun shines on Fuyumi’s figure, forcing a silhouette onto the floorboards of the entryway. If he were to squint the right way, it’s possible he could see her outline there, darkness shaped by the light.

Shouto must bite the inside of his cheek to keep his mind still.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Later that evening, when Shouto has his daughter resting in the crook of his arm, an educational children’s program playing on the television for background noise, he pulls his phone from his pocket to sift through text messages and emails. There are dozens of alerts to sort through, but the one thing his fingers keep returning to is the sight of your contact information in a message forwarded to him by his sister.

If you are every as bit as wonderful and kind as Fuyumi says you are, then Shouto is frightened of what you are capable of, based on your resume and photograph alone.

Not only do you have a stunning personality – caring, gentle, organized – but you have a beautiful outward appearance as well. Shouto notices the curve of your lips, the structure of your jaw and cheeks, and the way your eyes lilt upward at the camera.

The one thing Shouto hates the most about himself, the very being engrained within him to emulate, is that he was brought up worrying about these different kinds of things – the anatomy of a potential candidate.

It’s the Todoroki within him, the lurking presence of his father threatening to stifle his breathing, to suffocate him until Enji is the only glowing ember left in his charred, desolate soul. Shouto sits in the dark, the looming reality that he may very well end up exactly like his father forcing him to press the little green button at the bottom of the screen.

You pick up on the second ring, “Hello?”

“H-Hi there,” Shouto’s voice sticks in his throat.

A gentle laugh from the other end of the line makes his heart stop beating within the confines of his chest, “What can I do for you?”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Shouto has never been so worried about the interior design of his house before.

He realizes suddenly that there are no photographs on the walls, no pictures hanging to tell the sad tale of his life story. The recognition of this little detail only further throws him into a darkness he knows he won’t ever be able to fully crawl out of. Every day he must fight this beast, this unseen presence that sits on his shoulders, forcing him to carry the burden. He’s never wanted to tell his life story, not with the way it played out, especially not now.

Abusive father. Hospitalized mother. Deceased wife.

When the doorbell rings, he pulls himself from his stupor to step forward into the foyer. Shouto takes a deep breath and curls his toes into the rug to ground his body as he turns the doorknob. It’s as if the door stands for something much weightier, a distance currently built between you and him, something he can control.

But when the heavy door gives way to the sunshine outside, your body casting an elongated shadow on the hardwood, Shouto’s ankles lock and his fingers still against metal.

“Todoroki Shouto?”

The sound of your voice, completely unadulterated from the natural static of a phone, makes Shouto’s head spin. He nods, swallowing so hard his throat bobs, “Yes, please come in.”

You kick your shoes off as soon as you step across the threshold, tucking them to the side near the other pairs of dress shoes and sneakers accompanied by little ballerina slip-ons and tiny formal shoes. He notices the way your eyes linger on the pink ballerina slippers that aren’t really shoes at all, more like glorified socks, and he has to hold back a chuckle.

Shouto raises his hand in a greeting, kicking the door closed with his ankle as he turns to face you, “Thank you for meeting me.”

“I appreciate you interviewing me,” you answer him, reaching forward to meet his handshake. You’re grinning when he makes eye contact with you, cheeks round with your smile. “I know that your schedule is very hectic.”

Shouto can’t think about it too much or it makes his brain throb within his skull. He grits his teeth, “Yes, my assistant was able to push out a few other unimportant meetings for this. I do apologize, but my daughter is currently with my sister. I thought it may be best for us to meet first and then decide if it will be a good fit before we introduce her into the situation.”

“I can respect that.” You smile, wrapping your arms around your waist as you stand in front of him. The surprising warmth from his hand sits with you, palm tingling even as it’s tucked between your body. A nervous laugh parts your lips as your feet shuffle, “I wouldn’t want to get too attached to her if you didn’t like me.”

Shouto chuckles, his eyes darting to his toes, “Oh, it’s not you I would be afraid of being incompatible. Hana can be very picky.”

Your thumbs dig into your biceps, rolling your lips together as you consider your reply. A soft padding forward of your feet on the dense rug makes little sound, but still breaks Todoroki’s gaze from the floor.

“You’d be surprised,” your left eye dropping in a wink. “I have quite the effect on people. Especially those who stand three feet and shorter.”

He is shocked to find himself grinning at your jesting remark, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he shuffles a step backward from you. You tilt your head, eyes washing over his tall frame, “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Todoroki. Usually children are withdrawn from their caretakers because they fear we’re trying to replace someone more important in their lives.”

You are closer to him now as you stride across the tile. Todoroki feels his chest constrict when you speak, “I’m not here to be anything more than supplemental. You set the boundaries, Mr. Todoroki, and those are what I will abide by without a shadow of a doubt. I’m here to do as much or as little as you need of me.”

It takes him a moment to recuperate, faltering before he replies, “I appreciate that. I-I’ve never done this before. I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shouto notices the way you visibly shrink away from him, understanding the subliminal tones in his words. He holds a hand in the air, palm face-up, “No, that’s not, I just-”

A sigh parts his lips and he looks back down at his feet, but you’re careening forward to save the day before he can dig himself further into a hole he’s already drowning in. You chuckle, “I don’t think many people choose to have children only to set them into the hands of a nanny, Mr. Todoroki. You needed help, that much is clear, and I don’t blame you for reaching out. I think being able to push through your pride and do what is best for your child is not something you should be ashamed of.”

Oh yes, Todoroki thinks to himself with a smirk on his lips, hand outstretched towards you again, He’s going to like you just fine.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

You did not imagine your initial meeting with Todoroki Hana to go like this.

Shouto’s voice is mildly frantic on the other line, which is telling in it of itself. Even upon your first meeting, you knew that he was to be a mild-mannered, easy-going man. He does not seem to be a person who is easily upset by much, so the lilt in his voice is a clear indicator to his mood.

“It’s okay,” you try to remain calm in spite of his fear, praying that your clear head can help him to unwind. “I’m sure she’s fine, Mr. Todoroki. I’m already in the car, on the way to the daycare right now. I’ll go pick her up and call you as soon as I have my eyes on her.”

A breath is exhaled from the other end of the receiver, and you can imagine the way his chest deflates at your words. You smile to yourself, phone pressed to your ear as you drive down the highway, “It will only take me twenty minutes. Until then, try to keep yourself busy, okay?”

The two of you exchange pleasantries before you close your phone, slipping it back underneath your thigh before focusing on the road again. You were thankful that Shouto had already installed a car seat into back row, allowing you to go pick up Hana without having to do too much extra preparation.

Driving to the daycare facility takes eighteen minutes on one stretch of highway. You feel your palms sweat the entire way, recalling Todoroki’s words about Hana’s injuries she sustained on the playground not very long ago. The tremor in his voice sent a jolt down your spine, your bones rattling around in your body as you imagine the dozens of different cuts or gashes she might have on her body.

And then there’s the reality that this will be the first time you ever lay eyes on Todoroki Hana. It will be your reckoning day, the deciding moment of happenstance when she makes the choice of whether or not you are worthy of her acceptance.

You park and walk into the building, your eyes wavering over the entire intricate structure. It’s a formation of pillars and high roofing, accented with filigree of metal curved into beautiful shapes. The price point of this facility does not go over your head, given the marble pillars look genuine, smooth and rounded in all the right places. You run your fingertips over the cool stone as you walk to the thick, mahogany door. The doorknob is sparkling gold, as if someone polished it when they saw you park.

All the details wrapped into a pristine package ease your mind about the salary that Todoroki Shouto is paying you. Originally, you’d wanted to fight him on it, but you acquiesced into silence after taking note of his watch and the name brand of his suit jacket.

Your hand shoves at the front door, weighted and dense, and you step up to the front desk. Resting your forearms on the top of the divider, you smile down at her, “Hi, I’m here to pick up Todoroki Hana.”

It’s clear this woman has never seen you before by the way her eyes gawk over your appearance. You may not be dressed as pristinely as she might like, but you still look rather presentable, given the time restraints you were under to come pick up the young girl.

She tilts her head as if considering you like prey before grabbing up the phone on her desk, muttering a few words into the receiver. As she hangs up, she holds out a clipboard, “We’ll need a copy of your ID. Mr. Todoroki called ahead to let us know you’d be coming, but we’d just like confirmation. For Hana’s safety.”

It all makes sense, and is rather sound policy, but the curl of her lips when she says it forces a vat of acid into your stomach. You swallow your retort that is sitting on your tongue like a knife and gently take the board from her hand.

As you’re filling out the paperwork, the sound of little footsteps starts down the hallway. You tilt your head, pen stilled in your grip, awaiting what feels like your very own doomsday. This little almost two-year-old holds your fate in her tiny, grubby hands.

You stand and replace the clipboard onto the front desk, sliding your ID along with it. Turning your head, you await the arrival of your own two-foot-tall guillotine. You twist your hands together, knuckles wrung out white as you wait for Hana to approach the curve of the hallway and seal your fate. You know you should not be this anxious over a child who has just broken into real sneakers, but the rational part of you never wins out in these kinds of situations.

Todoroki Shouto is paying you something on the upside of expensive, offering you a generous starting bonus in addition to your typical pay so you could start working earlier than expected and still make your rent payments without worry. It would be a shame to lose that thick paycheck just because you could not win over a teetering toddler who probably babbles about princesses and the color purple most of the day.

“Hana, it looks like your-”

“Nanny,” you interject as you hear the voice echoing down the hall, attempting to avoid any confusion if possible. You brush your thighs free of any imaginary dust and crumbs so you can hide the shaking of your joints, “I work for Mr. Todoroki.”

When they finally round the corner, you stop breathing.

The little girl standing in front of you cannot be much over two feet tall, bright blue eyes shining as she drinks you in apprehensively. Her pupils shrink the closer she gets, bejeweled eyes swallowed by the inkiness. Her hands fidget at her sides while she stutter-steps towards you. The long locks of pale, silver hair reach midway down her back, the curled tips giving her an almost doll-like appearance with their perfection. Her full lips are drawn inward, tentative, much like her father.

And there, covering her right eye, a gauze bandage attempting to staunch and protect a wound.

You cannot help the way your eyes widen at the sight of her injured face, your hands ready to snag her up and race her to the nearest emergency room. Todoroki hadn’t told you the extent of her injuries, just that she had an accident on the playground, and someone needed to pick her up immediately.

“Hi Hana,” you squat down so you can appear to her at eye-level, an effort to put her at ease. “Your daddy heard you took a fall outside with your friends and he wanted me to come pick you up. Are you okay?”

She has obviously been crying, cheeks dark red and swollen, her visible eye puffy from tears. Your inner nature is telling you to reach out and comfort her, taking her by the hand and drawing her up into your arms to give her a gentle squeeze. But you know that there is a time and place and threshold for each form of affection, so you withdraw.

“How bad is it?” You turn your gaze upward, calves screaming as you shift your weight. You seek out the eyes of her teacher, trying to gauge your reaction based on her body language, “It doesn’t look like it’s bleeding too much now, and she’s rather calm. Was her eye directly injured?”

“No, it’s just around the orbital,” her teacher runs fingertips through Hana’s hair, “I don’t think she’ll need stitches, but she will definitely need this wound cleaned up by a professional. I know Mr. Todoroki has a nurse he usually calls.”

It’s as if these women are trying to suffocate you with their knowledge of Todoroki, almost like them knowing he has a nurse, or not knowing he’d hired you until today, would win them some sort of award or accolade. You try your best not to let your stomach turn at the sight of them, desperate and petty.

“Hana?”

She tilts her head up at you, another round of tears welling up in her eyelids. You wonder if it is from stress, pain, or a mixture of that and the uncomfortable feeling she can sense from the way you’re interacting with the daycare staff. She sniffles and wipes her face with the back of her forearm, careful of her injured eye, “Y-Yes ma’am?”

So Shouto has taught her manners.

You attempt to keep your composure at the sound of her tinny, trepid voice echoing out the words that are normally rare for even full-grown adults to use. In reaching out your hand, you notice she does not shrink away from you, not this time, “I think we ought to go have that nurse of your dad’s check out your eye, what do you think?”

There is silence for a moment, genuine concern evident in her sparkling irises. She blinks quickly, like she is trying to figure you out before she makes her decision in response to your question. You don’t want to clue her in to the fact that, at the end of the day, it’s not really her choice to make – that plight between staying here and going somewhere else has been completely left up to you.

“You know,” you’re whispering now, dramatically hiding your mouth behind the palm of your hand, pretending that that others standing around can’t hear you. “I think that I saw this cool ice cream shop on the way here. You think you could help me try a new flavor?”

This makes her eyes widen, pushing herself up on her tiptoes as she fails to contain her excitement at the suggestion of a sugary treat, “Wh-What flavor?”

You grin, warmth seeping into your chest as a giggle bubbles up in her throat, “I was thinking bubblegum, or maybe cotton candy?”

Hana’s nose scrunches at the suggestion, “No way!”

“Well,” you stand to your full height, hands on your hips as you pout, “what would you rather have then?”

She is full-on smiling now, cheeks drawn upward so her dimples can dip into her cheeks on either side, “I like mint w-with choco-chips in it!”

You hold your hand out again, praying that now, after divulging your favorite ice cream flavors, she won’t totally reject you. The last thing you want is for her to force your hand in making a decision to pick her up and take her out of the daycare.

Hana pushes herself up and down on her toes, biting her lip before bursting with a smile, “Y-You really mean it?! Ice cream?”

“I don’t see why not,” you shrug, wriggling your fingers as the other women watch on in amazement as your connection to the child. “I think you deserve it after that nasty fall you took.”

Bouncing towards you, Hana bobs into the air by pushing upward on the balls of her feet. She reaches out and snags your hand into her grip of her own accord, before beginning to tug you to the exit. She is babbling on about all of the ice cream flavors she’s tried, and what they taste like, and the last time she had ice cream was oh so long ago…

“See you later, ladies,” you wave over your shoulder, unable to hide the satisfied smirk making your mouth crooked, “I guess we’re going to get ice cream.”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

Hana knows how to buckle herself in, so she’s already clambering up into your car as soon as you have the door open. Her injury is completely forgotten as she bustles up into the seat, climbing in awkwardly before turning around to plop her backside into the curve of the cushions. Her fingers are frantic as she desperately tries to get the straps clicked together so you can be on your way to the nearest ice cream shop. You smile at her struggle, allowing her to settle with a pout before offering her your help.

“I-I can do it!” she insists, eyes misted. “I-I’m a big girl!”

“Oh, no doubt,” you shake your head in reassurance, pursing your lips as you hold your hands up in midair, palms facing her. “I’m just trying to help so we can get to our ice cream just a tad faster.”

Your reasoning seems to be sound, because Hana releases the offending buckle and puts her hands on either side of her car seat to give you enough room to maneuver and snap the contraption in place. Your hands make swift work of the buckles and straps, tightening them to the perfect spot on her chest and hips. She smiles up at you when you’re finished, expectant and excited.

It is strange, the intense desire to protect her that immediately washes over you at first sight. You have to stop yourself from rushing into allowing her between the cracks of your heart. You are frantic to seal them so you can let yourself down easy if this job ends up being as short-term as you’re worried of it becoming.

You pull away from her, face blank, and shut the door as Hana begins to fiddle with the remaining length of the straps around her body. Her fingers swirl around the black fabric and plastic, tugging and pulling, but not hard enough to adjust any of your hard work.

On your way to the parlor, you decide to call Shouto.

“Daddy!”

A relieved sigh sounds from the other end of the receiver, and you can’t help the warmth that blooms in your belly when you grin. Shouto coughs thickly, clearing his throat, “Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay!” Hana twirls her fingers in midair, watching around like Todoroki may appear out of thin air like his voice echoing in the car. “We’re going to get ice cream!”

“Ice cream?” his voice sounds slightly judgmental, but you try to push it off and pretend it means nothing. You spare a glance over your shoulder, “Tell him what flavor you’re getting, Hana.”

You pull into the drive through window of the ice cream shop, listening as Hana babbles on about the different flavors you two talked about and whether she’ll get a cone or a cup. You put the car in park as the person in front of you orders, swiveling your hips so you can look her in the eye, “I was actually thinking about a milkshake. How does that sound?”

“Ooh,” her eyes grow wider, chubby little hands curling into fists in her lap. She’s practically buzzing at just the thought of it all, “That sounds like fun!”

You chuckle, hand on the gearshift, “Oh, I meant to ask, have you already scheduled the nurse to be at the house? I wasn’t sure if you’d rather it be someone personal to look after her, or if you’d want me to take her to a general hospital.”

“I’ll call Masuyo and have her meet you at the house.” Todoroki’s voice is muffled as he turns to speak with someone else in his office, hand over the receiver. You hear him cough, voice tense, “S-She’s okay, though. Right?”

“I think she’s a strong girl,” you make your voice confident, straightening your spine, “she’ll be fine once we get her cleaned up. Right, Hana?”

You spare one final look at the little girl in the backseat, all bright eyes and buzzing fingertips. She’s already shuddering off of pure energy, and you wonder if sugar was really the best route to go down for her comfort. Either way, she nods her head, enthusiastic about what’s to come next.

“Yes!” She leans forward in her seat, getting closer to his voice, “I can’t wait until you get home, daddy. We’ll play prince and princess, right?”

You can sense the hesitation on Todoroki’s end and your heart turns to granite in your chest. When he speaks, you feel the weight of it settle in your belly, throat tightening.

“I’m not sure, love. I’ll have to see. It’s very busy this afternoon.”

Hana allows her expression to fall for a mere moment. You honestly would not have caught the change in her demeanor if it weren’t for you studying her as Shouto uttered the words. Every bit of enthusiasm that was previously holding her cheeks high is drained. Her face pales and her lips turn downward in a frown, eyes dropped to her hands as she fiddles with her knuckles in her lap.

And yet, almost as soon as she falters, her smile returns, albeit not enough to light up her eyes as it did before. It’s like she is reconstructing a mask that she feels pressured to wear in order to keep her father satiated and undisturbed.

“Oh, that’s okay, daddy,” Hana’s voice is as cheerful as her little strong will can force it to be. She attempts to be dismissive as she waves her hands, despite Shouto unable to see her, “I played princess at school anyway.”

Your heart continues to crack as she says her final line, “I love you, Daddy.”

Shouto exhales, voice breathy when he repeats the sentiment, “I love you more.”

“I love you most.” Hana’s tone lilts then, a crack in her metaphorical armor at his affections despite his absence. She swipes at her face and you wonder if she was crying, because you certainly didn’t see any tears.

Your throat grows thick with emotion, making it difficult for you to tell him goodbye. You roll down your window and rattle off your order, trying to keep a close watch out of the corner of your eye to monitor Hana’s mood and expressions as the moments progress. You feel horrible for intruding on their very personal, private moment, and it only makes your heart wrench more when you see Hana’s glazed eyes unable to focus on one thing in particular. She’s docile, void of emotion as she stares out of the window, watching clouds pass as the world grows darker with the threat of a sunset on the horizon.

You settle the milkshakes into the front seat, finishing up at the drive through window before rolling forward into a vacant parking space. With your foot still on the break, you reach back to hand Hana the small milkshake cup with the straw already pushed through the opening on the lid, “There you go.”

She takes it from you gingerly, small palms wrapping around as much of the cup circumference as she possibly can. Her lips are pouted just enough that you wonder if she’ll take a sip at all. You busy yourself, pretending to clean up trash in the front seat and maneuver things around on the floorboards, waiting on her first drag from the ice cream cup.

But it never comes.

After five minutes of waiting, you press your hand to the passenger’s side headrest and look her in the eye – as much of her pupils that you can catch in spite of her hooded lids. Hana is still dazed, looking into her milkshake cup as if it might have the answers to all of her life’s confusing questions.

“Hana?” Your voice calls her from whatever lull she was in, eyes blinking slow as she connects back to this version of reality. A vague, “Yes?” is uttered from her lips, but she isn’t focused, not just yet. You brush your hand against the top of her knee, quick and gentle, and it does the trick. She blinks one final time before her pupils dilate back to their usual size, gaze settled clearly on your face.

“Did something upset you?” you ask, your hand wrung around the headrest again. “Or do you just not want your milkshake?”

“I dunno,” Hana admits quickly, eyes downturned once she realizes she’s let the emotion slip from her voice. It makes the edges of her words raw and ragged, “I guess I just don’ wan’ it anymore.”

You are persistent; your job is to make her happy and keep her safe, and right now with a milkshake melting in her lap, part of you feels like you’re failing.

“Was it what your dad said?” Your question is asked in a low tone, something you’re trying to use to convey that you are being patient and kind. You take a chance and rest your palm against the car seat armrest, close enough to make contact but not adjacent enough to infringe upon her personal space. You swallow thickly, taking a short breath, “About not being home to play?”

Hana is pinching the straw between her fingers, looking into the little opening as it closes with the squeeze of her fingers. You wonder if she does this often, with tangible objects. Does she ache to control something so much so that she becomes lost in the euphoria of it all?

She sighs, kicking her feet, “Daddy is just always working. It makes me sad sometimes.”

You aren’t sure how to respond, not really. If you had known her for longer, or met Todoroki some other way, you could likely refute her statement. However, there’s truth in what she’s saying, a vulnerability that you weren’t sure you would see from the child so soon.

When she speaks next, Hana reminds you of a full-grown woman, attempting to redirect the conversation from something personal to something vague, “What’id you get?”

Her voice sounds like an echo of her true self, nothing like the way her tone lilted when she first spoke with her father. There is a seemingly eerie mask she has perfected, something both audible and emotional. And it would appear she knows just how to slip it on and off when the time is right, despite her young age.

Then and there you choose to burden yourself with the purpose of breaking her out of her glass box of entrapment.

“I got cookie dough,” you say as you take an over-dramatic sip, crossing your eyes at the sensation of cool ice cream flowing down your throat, “What did you get?”

Her face scrunches inward, nose wrinkling at the bridge, “Y-You know what I got, don’ you? You ordered it for me!”

You make an exaggerated face of confusion, tilting your head backward and tapping your fingertip against your chin. “Hmm,” you nod, agreeing with her accusation, “I guess you’re right, huh?”

“You’re silly,” Hana giggles before going in for her first sip of her milkshake. Her eyes are narrowed downward at the cup, hands cradling it carefully as if it were the most important thing in the world and she might be in danger of spilling it at any moment. Her eyes are wide, doe-like in nature, as she comes up for air, “This is good!”

“Great,” you answer her, switching the gearshift back into drive so you can pull out of the parking lot and out onto the highway to head back to their house.

The remainder of the drive back to the Todoroki residence is spent in moderate silence, gentle music playing on the radio as Hana preoccupies herself with licking every last drop of her milkshake from the straw. She sucks the mint chocolate chip ice cream from her thumb and looks up at you when you park the car in the driveway, “We’re home?”

You unbuckle yourself from your seat and answer her, hopping down from the car to open her door. She’s already working at her buckles, undone the top half, but still struggling with the bottom. By the time you’ve gotten her undone from the chair, she trusts you enough to reach out her arms and ask for you to help her down to the ground so she does not have to clamber down and risk falling onto the concrete.

When the soles of her shoes hit the concrete, she’s reaching up for you, grabbing you around your fingertips to hold on as she walks. You squeeze her hand gently, fishing the keys out with one hand to unlock the door.

The nurse is already inside, set up on the couch. Hana runs straight to her, plopping herself unceremoniously down on the furniture, hand hovering over the patch as she talks with Masuyo about her ice cream experience from just moments ago.

You busy yourself with dinner, prepping meat and vegetables, as Masuyo starts to clean and treat Hana’s wound. It’s another thirty minutes before you start to sear meat on the stovetop when you hear the garage door rattle open unexpectedly. Todoroki shouldn’t be home until later this evening, he texted you after you’d been in line for ice cream to tell you as such.

And yet, when the door opens to reveal his familiar frame, you can’t help the way your jaw unhinges.

“You’re home early,” you mention, flipping the steak pieces in the pan to sear the other side. “Everything okay?”

Todoroki is stunned by how grossly domestic the sight of you in his kitchen is and he’s jarred back into his prior lifetime where he had the full family package. He blinks and takes a short breath, forcing himself away from the swirling blackhole of the past to smile at you, “Yes, well. I decided that my daughter’s health was more important than some paperwork. I had a few of the first-years handle it.”

That is how it starts. Your first day as the new nanny of the Todoroki household.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“Are you sure you got the right color plates?”

“Yes.”

“And what about the cake?”

“Ordered it three weeks ago.”

“How about the-”

“Shouto.”

He turns to look you in the eyes, breath frantic, “What?”

You can’t help but laugh at the wide-eyed expression he wears, all of his emotions blatantly displayed on his face. You take a step toward him, reaching out to cup his elbow, “I’ve got it all handled, okay? Her birthday party isn’t for another week, Shouto. Are you ready for the zoo?”

Todoroki hesitates, gritting his teeth together so harshly that you can see the muscles in his jaw quiver. He turns his palm to press flat against your forearm, heterochromatic gaze seeking you out for some sort of comfort, “Did you need me to pack the bag?”

“No,” you chuckle, forcing yourself to remove your body from his grasp by walking back to the sink to finish up the load of dirty dishes you wanted to get into the wash before you left. You tilt your head to look across the bar at him, “We’re leaving in half an hour.”

Hana comes careening down the hallway, a doll in either hand, her pajamas still crooked on her body. She giggles, bouncing on the balls of her feet before launching herself forward to latch around Todoroki’s calf like an animal, “Daddy!”

Shouto bends at the waist to pluck her up, hands careful under her armpits when he tucks her into his side, “Yes, love, I’m going to the zoo. But it looks like you need a change of clothes.”

“I already laid some out on her dresser,” you pipe up from behind the sink, “but you’ll need to spray her down with sunscreen first, it’s not very cloudy outside today.”

As Shouto turns to walk Hana back to her room, you allow your gaze to linger a moment longer than the ordinary. Ever since you first took this job, you could note Todoroki’s beautifully carved body and stellar facial features. He is built perfectly for the type of Pro Hero that he is – thick muscles wrapped around dense bones, and yet still a relatively lean frame to hold it all into place. Shouto’s face is cut sharp at the jawline, cheekbones stark against his skin. You are sure to admire him whenever you can.

When you hear him and his daughter talking, sharing words and laughs, it only adds to the flame that burns in your belly at the thought of Todoroki Shouto.

There is no doubt in your mind that it is improper to feel the way you do about a client. They should be nothing more than a paycheck and a steppingstone, and yet somehow you have found a way to allow Shouto to wind his pristine claws into you. He’s got you by the heart and it has only been a few months.

You force your hands to work at the dishes, cleaning what remains so you can start the dishwasher. After you’re done, you make your way upstairs towards Hana’s room, where you hear various grunting noises.

A laugh threatens to part your lips and give away your spying secret when you notice Shouto frantically trying to pull the shirt you picked out over the top of Hana’s head. Her arms are stuck in the wrong spots and you can already tell that it’s somehow inside out, but none of that pushes you to step forward and take over.

It’s only when Hana spots you spying in the doorway that you’re coerced into treading into her bedroom. She pouts and Todoroki doesn’t look much happier. He chuckles, “I swear I’m better at this than I look.”

“Oh, I know you’re helpless,” you smirk across at him, squatting in front of Hana to help untangle her from the clothes and put her back in right side up. Her little hands grab for your face, squeezing your cheeks as she surges forward to kiss your nose, “Daddy is helpless, isn’t he?”

You are too busy fussing over Hana’s hair to notice the way that Todoroki drinks you in like he has been parched for years. He cannot stop himself from memorizing the color of your irises, the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips.

The reality that he could even be attracted to you is lost on him – he swore after his wife died that he would never find another woman to replace her. You have only been here a few short weeks and he’s already begun to question his earlier statement.

It’s just the way she is with Hana, he tries to convince himself. I am kidding myself into believing she’s here for us, not just because it’s a job.

And yet, when his gaze connects to yours, Hana babbling about lions and tigers as you slather her down with sunscreen, Todoroki swears that he feels something different.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The day of Hana’s party comes quicker than expected.

You’re frantically spinning around, making sure there is enough food and drink for everyone in addition to trying to keep an eye on the children as they play around on the various structures setup outside.

A group of moms gather at the bar, one of them urging the others to look at you with a sinister lilt in their gaze. You continue to serve everyone at the party, filling drinks, bringing new plates of food, and yet their eyes never waver from you.

When you are cleaning up some stray garbage in the kitchen, the blonde woman near the end of the bar perks up, “Excuse me, nanny, would you mind filling my glass?”

It is like the floodgates have opened, and now they are all asking you for favors. You swallow your pride and do as they say whether that’s food or drink or a new napkin or even cleaning up their garbage. They are all gossiping behind their hands, palms raised to their mouths as if that will do anything to staunch the flow of the conversation, or even make it more difficult for you to hear the way they speak of you.

Your pride takes each hit in stride, attempting to roll the insults off your shoulders while you tend to them kindly. It takes Shouto stepping into the kitchen for your face to falter.

You gaze across the room at him and your strong façade falls away, hands shaking by your sides as you look at the floor in shame. You swallow your self-importance and build your walls back to their full height before looking up at him once more.

Todoroki is fuming, to put it nicely.

His hands are curled into fists, knuckles white and cheeks hot at the sight of your unease. He takes a few strides forward, features softening as he reaches out to press his fingertips into the small of your back.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs into the shell of your ear. His breath is warm, spilling down your spine like molten lava, pooling the heat in your belly and turning your insides to mush. The expanse of his palm splays against your back, the plane of his chest flush with your arm when he stands too close.

You take a short breath, unable to get enough oxygen with him crowding your space like this. It is like he’s thinning the air within a few feet of his body, making it difficult to breathe.

“I’m fine,” your voice is high and thick, nostrils flaring when you make eye contact with one of the women at the bar. She is smirking proudly, head tilted so she can look down her nose at you. You swallow the shards of emotion sticking in your throat and look up at Todoroki, confused at the fury held in his irises, darkening them both so they look almost the same color as his pupils.

He turns and you watch in slow motion as his jaw hinges open, anxiety gripping your throat tightly. Your body moves before your mind can catch up; you shift your feet, so your hips are in front of him, hands palming against his pectorals to bring his attention down to you.

You tug on the fabric of his shirt, breathlessly calling to him, “Shouto.”

Todoroki turns his eyes downward, jawline quivering just enough for you to see at this close of an angle. He is intoxicating, the combination of his cologne and his body heat sending your mind spinning. You lick your lips and his eyes track the motion, turning butterflies over in your belly, their gentle wings brushing the insides of your body delicately, enough to tickle.

“Shouto,” you mumble his name again. “S’okay, alright?”

The sound of barstools scraping the floor signifies the judgmental women taking their leave, and your chest deflates at the change in atmosphere. Your hands go slack against Shouto’s chest, head falling forward to rest against his collarbone.

When his hands brush your hips, you snap your eyes upward, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle to meet his gaze. Shouto grinds his teeth together before speaking, “I’m sorry they were bossing you around. You’re not here to take care of them.”

“It’s okay, really,” you pat your hand on his chest as if solidifying your statement, smiling enough to sell it.  

His thumb grazes the hem of your shirt, fingertip slipping beneath the fabric to brush against your skin. Your breath hitches and every instinct within you tells you to push yourself up on your toes and grab his shirt in your tight fists, but when you’re eye-to-eye with him, you wish you wouldn’t have listened.

You can feel his stuttering breath on the bow of your lip, and it makes your shoulders quiver. Your name is whispered between his teeth and suddenly he is too close, so close that you’re intoxicated, and every inhibition of yours has been forgotten like dust in the wind.

“Daddy!”

The sound of her voice breaks you apart, stumbling like teenagers caught underneath the bleachers. Todoroki turns to Hana, tending to her face with a napkin and listening to her sugar-driven babbling. You take the moment to slip past them and back to the outdoor area where everyone is gathered.

For the remainder of the night, you feel Todoroki’s eyes on you, following your movements as you maneuver throughout the guests, offering them refills and to take their garbage. He cannot help but feel the heat incinerating his body from all sides, not just his left. The sensation is strange, the ice on his right side usually taking over any and all feeling he might have.

It feels foreign, but not unpleasant. Todoroki’s neck prickles at the impending awareness that he might be in for a crude awakening soon.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

The next few months are a breeze.

Until they are not.

Todoroki has begun to spend more time at work and less at home with each passing day. The threat of his job creeping over him like a looming dark shadow, slowly engulfing him inch by inch until he is surrounded entirely. He spends his days fighting crime, and nights doing paperwork.

You are slowly starting to spend more and more time at the Todoroki house – you are now expected to arrive around five in the morning, and sometimes you do not leave until nine in the evening. It is exhausting, given your drive back to your apartment is a half-hour on a good day with little traffic.

Somehow, you have been able to keep Hana satiated, even without her father around. There are fleeting moments where her cheery expression falters and she sheds a few tears, but you are there to wrap her up in your arms and let her cry until she has nothing left. And then, after she’s dried her face on your shirt, she looks up at you with those beautiful blue eyes and begs you to play princess.

One night, when you are half asleep on the couch with Hana curled into your arms, you feel a palm press to your shoulder, “I’m home.”

You blink blearily, a short jolt of breath stinging your lungs. You swallow and look to the right of you where Todoroki is squatted beside you. He is smiling; you can tell, even in the darkness.

“Hey,” you whisper, careful to cradle Hana’s head as you sit up. “Sorry, it’s been an eventful day.”

Shouto shakes his head and helps you to your feet, palms finding any juncture of you that he can use to support your body. His hand is against your elbow when he speaks next, “No, I’m sorry. I should have been home hours ago. I know you were making dinner.”

“I make dinner every night,” a laugh parts your lips and you run your fingers through Hana’s hair to try and keep her asleep despite the noise. “So, it’s nothing new, Todoroki. Let me go put her down and I’ll head out.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but his jaw snaps shut before he can let out whatever secret he is harboring. You disregard it, walking upstairs to tuck Hana in for bed. She stirs but does not wake entirely and you are thankful. The day has already been tumultuous enough without having to sing her back to sleep or stay up any longer.

As you are walking down the steps, you’re surprised to find Shouto pacing in the hallway, his thumb pinching his chin and his brow furrowed harshly. He looks rather intensely conflicted, and there is a moment where you’re worried, he may decide to fire you. Could you have done something wrong with Hana? Did she not like you? Was he upset that you let her have chocolate before noon the other day?

“Shouto?” you call, padding forward, toes sifting through the carpet. “Is everything okay?”

Another yawn splits your lips and you cover it with your palm, apologizing through your teeth. He shakes his head and steps toward you with a palm outstretched, “Yes, everything is fine. I just have something I’d like to ask you.”

You tilt your head and it reminds him of a curious animal, sniffing him out for food in the form of information. Your hand rests on his bicep and it is dizzying to be this close to you, even after several months of working alongside you. His head still spins when you are too close.

“I was wondering if you might consider moving in.”

You blink dumbly, mouth parted so he can see the pad of your tongue and the tips of your canine teeth. Your fingertips graze against his arm and you feel like lightning is sparking at the cusp of your touch.

The reality is this is not far from normal – most full-time nannies do end up living with their families. It makes everything easier and cheaper. If you live there, he does not have to pay you for drive time, and your boarding costs can be directly deducted from your standard paycheck. This option is what makes the most sense, but you are not focused on sense right now.

All you can see is his bare torso.

You are imagining accidentally walking in on him after he’s taken a shower, or him stumbling in after his morning runs with his tiny running shorts and shirtless upper half. Your tongue goes dry at the thought of it all, but you force yourself to push words past your lips, so you won’t look like a dead fish.

“That’s a pretty permanent decision, Shouto.” Your words hold weight and he knows it, he’s thought this through a dozen different ways to Sunday. You swallow and when your hands brush over his skin, he swears sparks light beneath your fingertips; it makes his arm numb. “I don’t mind, but I just want to make sure that you’ve really thought this through.”

He nods, stepping closer so he’s almost flush with you now, “I feel awful having you drive so early and so late. Your hours would not change, your responsibilities wouldn’t change. You would have your own room and privacy, and I don’t expect to lessen your pay just because you live here. It’s just-”

“Shouto,” you’re laughing now, shaking your head as you look down at your toes, “I don’t expect everything to stay the same if I move in. I’m prepared, are you?”

Truly, he’s thought about that question far too much in the passing days when he sees you around the house or speaks with you on the phone during the day. The idea that you will be here every hour of every day is suffocating, but in a way that makes him want to drown. As time moves faster, Shouto realizes that you have become a second nature in his house. He is thinking of you during his office meetings and the late nights on patrol.

He cannot be honest with the true reason he is asking you to move in, because then he would have to face his emotions and he’s not ready for that yet. And yet, his body betrays his mind as he reaches forward to brush his thumb over your cheek, “I think I can handle it.”

Emotion swells like a blooming heat between the two of you, your bodies almost entirely pressed up against one another as your voices grow softer. You are not sure if it’s the sleep-muddled brain you’re working off of, but you swear that you see his eyes drop to your lips. There is some part of you that wants to fall into him, to let him take you and burn you and leave you for dead, but the rest of you is working off of sense and logic and you know that would never work.

“Well,” your voice shatters the fragile moment, “I guess I better get home and start packing.”

Shouto releases you and something shifts in his irises, but it is gone as soon as it appears, and you don’t have enough time to discern the emotion. You pluck up your bag and slip on your shoes, turning to wave at him over your shoulder as you step past the threshold and back to the garage.

As you start your car, you rest your forehead on the steering wheel before you pull out, and murmur to yourself in utter chagrin, “What have I just agreed to?”

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“I’m telling you - Red Riot is going to give you a run for your money.”

“That blockhead?” Shouto chuckles, swirling his glass, “I doubt it.”

You tilt your head, “And what about Ground Zero? He’s got his own agency now, doesn’t he?”

Shouto rolls his eyes, “God, can we please leave Bakugou out of this conversation?”

Another swig of the rum and coke slides down your throat, burning in the best way. Your head feels hazy, but you don’t mind, taking advantage of Hana’s early bedtime for the first time in a few weeks. You push your mostly empty glass towards him, “Bartender?”

Todoroki smiles, tipping the bottle downward to refill your glass. You grab the soda off the countertop and fill it to the brim, swirling the mixture with your straw. Another gulp of the liquid has you asking, “You and the other big players all went to Yuuei together, right? Ground Zero, Deku, Red Riot?”

Shouto nods, “Yes, we did.”

“Wow, to have gone to Yuuei,” you whisper in wonder, eyes heavy as you look down into the dark liquid fizzing in your glass.

He leans forward on the counter, body close to you as he asks his obvious question, “You don’t have a quirk, do you?”

“No,” your answer is quick, curt. You swallow thickly, shards of shame sticking in your throat. “I was born without one. You’ve seen my shoes.”

You are referring to the wider shoes that those with no quirk have to wear thanks to the extra joint in their pinkie toes. You lift your foot up in the air for good measure, painted toenails catching the light just right as you wriggle your toes around dramatically. You sigh, “I didn’t fully know who you were when I took this job. It’s kind of embarrassing that I don’t have a quirk, and you’re some superhero saving people with ice and fire.”

Shouto holds out his left palm, face up, and ignites a small flame, “I hated this side of my body for so long. It comes with a burden I’m glad you do not have to bear.”

The weight in his voice entices your eyes upward, connecting with his gaze as the heat blossoms, sucking the oxygen out of the air. Shouto curls his fingers inward and cuts the flame short, a gentle wisp of smoke floating from his palm.

“What does it feel like?” you find yourself asking, the alcohol creating a dull buzz behind your eyes that latches onto all of your inhibitions and immediately tosses them away.

His breath hitches audibly, pupils dilating as he attempts to focus on something other than the way your lips bow when you speak. Shouto steps forward, hands gentle as he cups your cheeks, a bravery he did not know he could muster bolstering his movements. His fingertips tickle your skin and it’s difficult for you to keep your eyes open when he is holding you so tenderly.

Shouto closes his eyes in concentration, taking a deep breath before narrowing his concentration onto the pores of his hands. His palms are flush with your skin and you let your mind wander while he is working up his quirk.

How would his touch compare to different parts of your body?

Your eyes slip shut at the thought, biting your lip as your mind runs rampant. The heat curling in your belly reminds you of his quirk – burning and licking at your belly like a raging flame. You only wish you had his right side to cool you down from the inside out.

Slowly but surely, you feel the right side of your face grow warm while the left side has started to chill. Your eyes go wide, and you circle your fingers around his wrists, voice breathy when you speak, “Wow, Shouto, that’s amazing!”

Your voice goes quiet and it is like the world stops spinning when he opens his eyelids to look down at you. You feel frozen in your spot, but you know it isn’t his quirk affecting you. Your grip tightens but he doesn’t seem to notice, his eyesight directed to your lips, zeroed in on the way that you gnaw at them when you’re nervous.

The tension is like a rubber band begging to snap. You feel the coil twirl around your spine, bunching you together and screaming at you to run away. There are a thousand different reasons why getting too close is dangerous, but your wanton body cannot be bothered to list them. Instead you are pushing yourself up in your seat, so your back is arched toward him, chest brushing his pectorals.

Shouto reminds you of something innocent when his mouth parts and irises glimmer beneath half-hooded lids. You feel distinctly profligate for envisaging his mouth on other parts of your body, the pink of his tongue peeking from behind pearly teeth doing little to quell your thoughts. You swallow thickly and shudder as his hand that produces cold shifts into your hair, rustling through the tresses at the nape of your neck.

Your hands are suddenly wrapped up in the fabric of his shirt, fisting the soft material, and you are pulling him towards you. Even so, it is Shouto who tilts your head upward, heels of his palms gently angling you by the cheeks.

The two of you take a breath before devouring one another whole.

His mouth tastes like whiskey, sharp and biting, but his tongue is in stark contrast to the flavor. He is gentle while still taking over your every sense. His tongue maps out the curves of your teeth and the pad of your tongue while his chilled palm keeps your skin from searing with blush.

The tenderness with which he holds onto you makes your heart rattle around within the cage you have built just for him. You knew this entire time that if he were to wriggle his way in, to touch your heart in just the right spot, you would crumble beneath his ministrations. This entire time you’ve been beholden to him, despite the utter denial you’ve been bathing in to hide the confession.

“Todoroki, I-”

Your voice is cut off by a blazing hand drifting beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dipping against your spine, “I hate it when you call me that.”

Your eyes go wide but he’s enraptured you with another kiss square on the lips. Your words fall into the confines of his throat, never to be heard again as he swallows them into silence.

Hands are everywhere, so much so that you can’t tell where you begin and he ends.

Shouto nips your lip and you gasp, your hips canting forward of their own accord. Your mouth is gaping, begging for air, and he gives in to your silent request, drifting his lips downward to your jawline. He mutters a string of curse words as your hands finally make their way to his hair and shoulders, digging into him like he might float away.

He hums against your collarbone, teeth bared as he licks and nips at your skin. The alcohol in your bloodstream mixed with his essence in your veins only spins your mind into overdrive, dizzying you to the point that your eyes cross. You whine as he bites kisses into your skin, fingernails dug sharply into the skin of his back through his shirt. There will most likely be little crescent moon imprints when you release.

The trail of his kisses loops back up the column of your throat, teeth grazing your jaw as he works his way to your mouth again. You whine into his lips when his frozen fingers stroke your bare skin beneath your top, “Shouto, please-”

Todoroki’s confidence grows when he hears you moan his name into the air, begging him with only a few syllables. He disconnects his mouth from yours to look you in the eyes, “God, you’re so damn pretty, y’know?”

Your mouth hangs open and Todoroki must hold himself back from slipping his thumb between your parted, full lips. A shuddering breath passes between the two of you, time frozen as the moment sits still. It allows the both of you to agonize over one another, taking in each and every wanton feature as you beg quietly.

“So pretty,” he whispers before digging his hands into your backside and tugging you forward so you wrap yourself around him. His mouth is on you in a flash, all teeth and tongue pulling and prodding at you in a divine way you’re sure only he has mastered.

You are enraptured by him, fully captivated with his dual-ended quirk sending your body into a haze. Your mind is bewildered, thrown into a twirl of rum and Todoroki. If he were to give you a moment to catch your breath, you might be able to find it within your resolve to push him off you, to tell him how wrong this is. And yet, with his tongue tangled in your teeth, you can’t force the word no out of your throat.

Instead it is just his name.

Todoroki picks you up to deposit you on the countertop, thumbs digging into your hips to help you settle. His fingers make quick work of your top, slipping beneath them hem to graze over the swell of your breast on the underside. You whimper at the ghost of his touch, trying to angle your arms so you can tug at the band of his sweats.

When he realizes what you are fumbling with, he uses the bottoms of his feet to tug his pants down to his ankles. He steps out of them, but you can’t focus on anything other than the prominent bulge strained against his dark briefs. You have to swallow the drool accumulating in the center of your mouth, threatening to pool over the corners of your lips if you were to speak.

Before he tugs your shirt over your head, he looks into your eyes, sincerity cutting through the lust clouding his irises, “Last chance.”

He is giving you an out. One last clear path to purity.

You hesitate for a moment and his hands curl tighter around the hem of your top, restraining himself from ripping it away like an animal. His jaw is quivering as he waits on your response, nostrils flaring when you do not answer right away.

Whether it is the alcohol or the need talking, you are the conduit for the words spoken next, “Fuck me, Shouto. Now.”

Your shirt is yanked over your head unceremoniously, but you don’t care. Your eyes are wandering, begging for him to be nearly as naked as you. You don’t have to ask, because he’s already stepping away from you to remove the offensive piece of clothing, baring his body to you.

You’ve seen him shirtless countless times, especially upon moving into the Todoroki residence. He goes on shirtless jogs and sometimes does not wear anything on his torso for a while after he’s showered. There are days he has hardly anything remaining of his costume, after a particularly rough villain or training session.

And yet, this time it feels different.

He is baring himself for you. The intimacy of the moment does little to dull the ache in your mind, the strain of your heart in your ribs. You know that if he were to show you much more openness, you may have bruises beneath your skin from the way your heart threatens to beat at such a quick, tumultuous pace.

Shouto wastes little time in lurching forward to palm at your breasts, mouth too busy with your lips to pay attention to much else. You hitch your thigh between his hips, the curve of your leg brushing into his clothed cock. He grunts into the trap of your teeth, brow tugged with focus as he ruts his hips upward into you. You’re sure to put pressure back against him, the tip of his cock bulging on your thigh.

“Sho’,” you whimper when his mouth drifts from your lips to your neck. Your hands find his hair and his shoulder, eyelids fluttering halfway closed while he licks and nips at your thin, sensitive skin. Your throat burns, flesh aching as he starts to bite into you, rolling the skin between his teeth slowly, agonizing your very core.

A fresh wave of arousal coats the inside of your walls, and you know it is stained your panties, but you don’t have enough dignity to care. All that is on your mind is how he can take you on the countertop, and if you’ll be able to keep quiet enough not to wake the sleeping girl up the flight of stairs.

“Shit,” he’s cursing when your hand finds his bulge, “sweetheart, I-”

His breath is stuttered over your collarbone as you begin to palm him through his briefs. The nickname tumbling from his lips in a moan turns your stomach, effervescent champagne bubbles drifting up from your belly until they are suffocating your lungs. You gasp to relieve yourself of the pent-up anticipation as his left hand reaches the button of your shorts.

Shouto is careful as he unbuttons your pants, slipping the coarse fabric of your jeans down your thighs. As he squats down to help you out of them, all you can think of is what might happen if you were to grab him by the hair and force his mouth to your cunt.

Almost like he was reading your mind, he leans forward after he’s tossed your jeans to the other side of the kitchen floor and his mouth ghosts over your core. Your lower lip wobbles and you must bite your tongue to keep your mewling cries from tumbling out in excess. Todoroki kisses the top of your thigh, nose nudging over the edge of your lace underwear, his eyes closed so you cannot make out the expression settled in his ordinarily stoic irises.

“If you smell this good, I can only imagine how wonderful you taste,” Todoroki smirks against your skin, tilting his head so he can look up at you from his crouched position.

Your hips cant forward at the sentence, pussy already dripping just from the timbre of his deep voice. The vibrations of his word are like shockwaves straight to your core and you want to beg him to give you something, even a teasing lick over the center of your underwear.

Shouto kisses the little bow at the center of your panties, smiling as he snags the accent between the bite of his teeth and uses it to tug your underwear down your thighs. Your muscles tense, his ministrations slow and tantalizing. He chuckles and the sound shoots through your bones as if they were hollow like a feather, the warm honey of his laughter seeping slowly into your every pore and breaking down what remains of your resolve.

You have to cover your mouth with your hands when you yelp at the pad of his thumb brushing back the hood of your clit. His cool palm finds your thigh, just below the curve of your ass, and he stabilizes you with a firm grip, “Sit still, Princess.”

The authoritative tone of his voice turns your spine rigid, eyes facing the wall as he butterflies your pussy so he can see the silvery strands of slick built up between your layers of skin. He licks his lips and you feel the threatening heat of his tongue near your clit and you’re squirming. You are white knuckling the countertop, jaw under immense pressure as you clamp your teeth harshly.

He does not give you warning before delving his tongue between your folds, licking up your accumulated slick with one slow movement. His glittering grey iris tries to find your face, but the only thing he can make out is the line of your jaw and chin as your head is thrown back. Shouto chuckles before starting to explore the glutenous walls of your cunt with his tongue, his one hand still pressed into your thigh, fingers digging so hard that you are sure there will be bruises tomorrow morning.

Your body responds to him quickly, hips canting forward to buck against his mouth, begging for something more than just the quick slithering of his tongue in and out of you. In retaliation, Shouto presses his tongue flat, creating the illusion that it is thicker than before. You keen when he turns the pad of his thumb near your clit, close but not near enough.

“Sho’, please,” you pant, sweat beginning to bead up on your temples from the anticipation alone.

His cocky smirk is something you can sense when he speaks, but even further, you can feel it as he continues to lavish your pussy with his tongue. He huffs before standing to his feet, your slick mixed with his saliva giving his mouth a dangerous glint in the lowlight of the kitchen.

Shouto licks his lips as he steps closer to you again, bodies flush with one another. The hand that you know could burn you in an instant drifts down your side towards your pussy and you feel every muscle in your body clench at the thought of what kind of damage he could do to you if he tried.

Oh, and you’d let him.

You are about to beg him again, wanton moans vibrating your throat, but he intercepts you before you can lower your inhibitions any further. Shouto’s elongated middle finger slips just between your folds, using his saliva and your slick to lubricate his digit as he begins to pump up into you.

Todoroki Shouto is by no means a small man.

However, he is not so muscular that it looks like he is uncomfortable whenever he is walking. He is lean but built, which means that even though his hands are thick with muscle, they are not painful when pressed into your tight heat. Rather, they are snug and comfortable, his knuckle providing a pleasure you’ve not experienced before.

The tip of his finger brushes the spongy spot at the base of your core, and you swear you feel him in your spine. Shouto leans forward kiss you and you receive him quickly, desperate for some sort of tactile relief. He’s grinning into your lips, but you do not care so long as you find some reprieve from the coil beginning to twist within your stomach.

“So fuckin’ tight,” Todoroki whispers into your teeth as his tongue licks against your gums.

At his comment, you clench your cunt around his fingers, tightening your hold only to see how he will react. His hand stills for a moment, but then he is pushing another finger to accompany the first, splitting your cunt open despite the vice-like grip you have on his knuckle. He pumps until the base of his digits are finding the heat of your pussy, his fingerprints searing into your walls as you attempt to stay clamped around him.

Your legs begin to shake from the way you are holding yourself up on your toes, knees bent so you can be closer to his body. Todoroki feels the tremors in your thighs as his hand roams the dense muscle, whispering, “C’mere, love,” and then he’s picking you up gingerly.

Shouto hooks one of your legs around his waist at the knee, arching your back so your cunt is still butterflied open for him. Your other leg dangles from the countertop as he balances you on the edge.

The way his fingers work into you is nothing short of sinful, that white-hot flash of pleasure sinking into your eyelids slowly but surely. You begin to lose your peripheral vision as the impending ecstasy begins to settle in. The crest of the wave is close, his knuckles dragging salaciously against the innermost part of you.

Your jaw hangs open the closer you are to coming undone, panting breaths prying your lips apart. You feel utterly exposed in front of him like this, lewdly strewn against the counter that you were sipping rum and whiskey against not even a half hour ago. And yet, somehow, Shouto’s hand cradled against your shoulders is all you need to bring your self-consciousness down to a manageable level.

From this angle, you can reach down and pull Shouto’s briefs down so his cock can spring free. You’re palming at him as soon as you see the dark red of his cockhead. He stutter-steps forward when you pump him the first time, eyes close to bulging from their sockets at the sensation.

You twist his cock in your palm, running your thumb against the pearlescent bead of pre-come collected at the curve of his slit. Using what you can of the liquid, you drag your damp thumb down the length of his cock for slight lubrication. Shouto bucks into your hand when you bob your palm up and down to connect with the base of his pubic bone.

Now that you’re secure on the countertop, Shouto allows his free hand to wander around the curvatures of your body, mapping out the dips and contours of your frame. His hand is on your neck, thumb brushing your jaw, when your mouth drops open from a particularly pleasurable swipe of his fingers. Your cunt is dripping, and you’re honestly not sure if it even matters if you come, he should be able to slip right between your tight heat with ease.

“S’pretty,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek as his thumb brushes the bow of your bottom lip.

On instinct, your tongue laps towards the digit, silently begging for him to do more.

Shouto listens, dipping his thumb into your mouth, pressing the pad of his finger into the thick muscle of your tongue. You lick and suck at him, rolling your mouth to match the pace of your hand as you work his hard cock towards release. Shouto fixes the rhythm of his fingers so every part of your bodies are going at the same speed.

The collective sensations of his hands and mouth are too much and you cry out, digging your free hand into his shoulder to attempt and ground yourself. You pant, looking up at him with bejeweled irises, tears sitting dormant on your lashes as a whine sits pretty on your lips.

“What is it?” he asks, borderline patronizing. “Are you gonna come on my fingers?”

Your lower lip trembles and you feel yourself slipping into some subservient headspace at the tone in his voice. You nod, rolling your hips to meet him as he slows his hand, “P-Please, Shouto, I-”

“I want you to come,” he murmurs into your ear, leaning forward so his breath is hot on your skin. The hand he has buried in your cunt begins to heat and the searing sensation sends your mind reeling. Shouto nudges his nose along your jawline, warmth creeping along the base of his palm, “C’mon, love, I want to see you come. Make a pretty little face for me, yeah?”

His words do little to quell the growing ache between your thighs, the pent-up need begging to be released. You clench around him again, not forgetting his cock between your hand. You continue to twist your wrist, flicking your fingers along the length of his dick, dragging with just enough pressure to make his eyes cross. Teasing the head, you drag the pad of your thumb over it, catching another swell of pre-come and trailing the liquid down the thick shaft.

You whimper his name, squeezing your eyes closed so harshly that the corners of your lids crinkle. Your sounds only grow louder when his mouth begins to suck at your nipple, massaging your breast in his chilled hand. The crystallization of ice draws your attention, a frozen cold so intense that it almost feels hot in its own unique way.

There is a stinging excitement at the duality of the temperatures that grow further apart the longer he activates his quirk. Your nipples pebble while your pussy floods from the heat, copious amounts of slick trickling down his fingers to pool in the creases of his palm. Shouto murmurs obscenities against your earlobe but you’re in such a realm of fevered phrenzy that you can’t make out he’s even speaking English.

“Sh-Shouto, I-I’m close,” you manage, feeling the way his cock throbs beneath your touch helping to bring you back to the cusp of reality. You dive deep again when his fingertips brush against your cervix, allowing his passion to force you beneath the surface.

His thumb is circling your clit as he murmurs, “C’mon, darling, I know you can do it. Come for me, yeah?”

It’s as if his words united with his caress are enough to shove you head-first into the pool of desire. You are whimpering, cunt fluttering around his fingers as your come drips down the crevices of his palm. Your release reaches his wrist, milky liquid tickling his skin.

“Atta girl,” he kisses your cheek, fingers stilling for a moment to allow you to collect yourself. You continue to ride out your high by bucking your hips over his knuckles, slippery fingers easily providing you the rest of the comfort you need to come down from your high.

“Your turn.”

You’re pushing your way off the countertop when the creaking of the stairs makes your heart still within your chest.

Shouto’s stare flickers from you to the staircase, jaw hung open as he analyzes the sound. When another step echoes in the hallway, he’s quick to yank his briefs and sweats back over his hips. He helps you into your shorts, the silvery strands of your release forgotten as he tugs the fabric up your hips.

You’ve just gotten your pants buttoned when Hana’s teetering figure creates a shadow on the kitchen floor.

“Daddy?” she whimpers, fists digging into her tear-filled eyes.

Shouto swipes his hands against his sweats before crouching in front of her. His palms find her sides quickly, thumbs grazing her rib cage in an attempt at comfort, “Hey, love,” the sound of the nickname makes something stir within your belly, “what’re you doing awake?”

Hana swallows a hiccup, “I-I had a bad dream.”

You step forward, pressing your hand to Shouto’s shoulder, offering a gentle nudge of comfort. Hana blinks up at you, jeweled irises focused on your face, “M-Momma?”

The title holds a weight you had not prepared to carry.

She’s all but forgotten Todoroki, pushing past him to barrel into your shin, wrapping her stubby arms around your knee. She wipes her face against the skin of your thigh, sniffling louder as a fresh wave of tears takes over her body. Her shoulders shudder and you don’t have time to wonder whether she’s cognizant enough to realize that she’s just called you her mother.

You scoop her up in your arms, holding her gingerly by the back and head, and she wraps her legs around your midsection to anchor her little body to your torso like a frightened animal. Hana buries her head into your neck, tears sticking to your skin and creating an unbearable heat.

“You’re not leaving, right?” Hana whimpers, “I-I had a dream that you left.”

In an effort to comfort her, you run your fingers through her hair, gently separating the strands so your nails can scratch her scalp. You kiss her temple, “Of course not, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me.”

She retracts from your neck and a rush of cool air washes over you. Her irises are swallowed by her pupils, thick droplets of tears wetting her cheeks. You smile, forcing yourself to forget the way you were just about to jump her father’s bones, and brush your nose against hers in an eskimo kiss.

“It was just a dream, babe,” you comfort her, making sure you are looking at her directly when you say it so she feels much more solid in the reality that you are here to stay. A soothing hand reaches forward to couple with yours, thumb tracing the bump of her shoulder.

Todoroki kisses the back of her head, “Hana, there’s no need to worry, love.”

“I already lost one mommy,” Hana sounds ancient when she speaks, voice far away and intelligent beyond her young years, “I don’t wanna lose another one.”

Your voice is lodged in your throat now, tears of your own pressing threateningly against the back of your eyes. You try to swallow but the shards of your heart are blocking your windpipe, cutting off your oxygen. Todoroki slips his hands beneath Hana’s armpits, separating her from you so he can cradle her body against his chest, “You’re not losing anyone, sweetheart. Let’s get you back to bed.”

You take this as your cue to leave, grabbing your things as Todoroki takes Hana back up the stairs to her bedroom.

A sense akin to despair settles in your chest, restraining your heart in such a way that makes it difficult to breathe. The world seems to settle atop your shoulders and in the next moments you have turned into Atlas, forced to hold the earth up by your careless grip. Tears settle in your lids as you pull away from the Todoroki residence.

Something tells you that things will never be the same.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

As much as you hate it, that little voice eating away at the back of your mind was right.

The looming reality that Todoroki is avoiding you does little to satisfy the curiosity settled in your bones, affecting you down to the marrow.

Ever since that night, he hardly looks you in the eye.

In fact, he’s barely even around to see you at all.

Todoroki leaves for work before you can emerge from the bathroom with Hana in tow, fresh from a bubble bath and ready for breakfast. He slips back through the doors late at night, normally after eight, so Hana is either passed out with you on the couch or curled up beneath her covers in her bedroom. There is not another time where he touches you gingerly on the shoulder and guides you back to bed, not anymore.

You have wondered many times if you should approach him, beg him for some sort of explanation. Not only is his distance affecting you, but it’s turning Hana into a child you hardly recognize. She is still cheerful a majority of the time, begging you to play princesses and watch Bubble Guppies. But there are times when she turns angry, ripping the heads off her dolls and trying to sabotage Todoroki’s work clothes by drawing on his shoes or dropping her glass of morning milk on his suit jacket.

You start to cook his meals the day before, packaging them up in a Tupperware container that’s always gone when you check at breakfast the next morning. You are not a blind woman, and you normally choose to indulge his silly game of hide and seek instead of confronting him about what happened that night.

However, tonight, you’ve had enough.

Even though he’s decided to spend the weekend at home for the first time in a few weeks, you’ve never felt more on edge. Hana is extremely irritable, nightmares plaguing her mind during the time she’s supposed to be sleeping, and it would seem there is nothing you can ever do to satiate her throughout the day.

Playing princess is boring, coloring is stressful, blowing bubbles is stupid.

You are reaching the end of your rope and Shouto’s evasive presence does little to satiate your temperamental moods. You clutch at the cusp of sanity, praying that it will not leave you just yet; the only thing holding your tongue back from lashing out is the sliver of discretion that you’ve managed to sustain in spite of the day’s events.

“Hey, uh-” Todoroki’s voice is strained as he stands in the archway of the kitchen, “Would you mind making us a couple of sandwiches? I think Hana is getting hungry.”

The warmth from the dishwater gives you something other than his irises to focus on, your eyesight directed downward, “Sure. What would you like?”

“Let’s just do peanut butter and jelly,” Shouto shrugs nonchalantly. “Grape, if we have it.”

Your ears perk up at the mention of a specific flavor. You are certain that if you were to look into the refrigerator that you would not find grape jelly, but it’s obvious that Shouto is otherwise unknowing.

“Grape?” you echo, pulling your hands from the dishwater to wipe them on your hand towel. “You think that’s a smart choice?”

Shouto scoffs and it stings so much that you turn your head away from him, eyes now focused on the floor beneath your feet, “Yes, I’m sure. Why does it matter anyway?”

“Oh, no reason.” You pluck a jar of strawberry jelly from the refrigerator and begin to prepare the countertop for your sandwich making.

He takes a step forward to protest, but you’re waving the knife in his direction before he can stride across the tile, “You listen to me, Todoroki. And you listen good.”

Shouto pauses, throat bobbing as his line of sight zeroes in on your lips. His eyes widen, pupils swallowing his irises in fear. The knife wavering in your grasp holds much more weight than any other butter knife he’s come into contact with.

“We don’t have any grape jelly because your daughter is allergic to grapes.”

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the butter knife in your hand, “And if you were ever here you might notice a thing or two, such as an allergy to something that could, I dunno, kill her?!”

The sound of your voice raising an octave or two reverberates off of the walls and thrums at Shouto’s heartstrings. He swallows thickly, but you’re not done tearing into him just yet.

“This little charade you’ve got going on has got to end.” Your voice is desperate, unhinged, and you feel the honesty scrape against the front of your throat, “Your daughter is turning into someone you can barely recognize, and you’re not far behind her.”

Silence envelopes the room, and the only thing you’re able to hear is your heart beating frantically in your own ears. As your pulse thuds rapidly, rushing like a river of thick emotion throughout your body, you feel your palms begin to sweat. The longer you keep quiet, the louder the sound grows.

Finally, after giving him a few minutes to respond, you press the tops of your fists into your hips, glaring down your nose at him, “If you want me gone, all you had to do was ask. I thought we respected one another enough for that.”

You slap together two sandwiches quickly, tossing the plates onto the counter for him to pick up on his own before you turn and walk from the room. You’re unable to look at him any longer, not sure if it’s the loitering reality that you may have to move on from this chapter of your life or the loss of a generous paycheck and living situation that wraps your heart like the talons of a bird, squeezing until you can’t breathe.

The tumultuous roll of emotions scrapes away at your chest, and you’re surprised that there isn’t blood gushing from your ribs. You lean back against your closed door, head tilted backward to stave off the tears, saltine droplets coating your lashes as they sit in your ducts, pending the gentle sway of your neck to drip down your cheeks.

You aren’t sure how long you stay this way, crumbled against your door with the heat of disappointment building smoke in your lungs. It’s difficult to breathe, a dizziness taking over your mind that you’ve never felt quite so acutely before. You cradle your head in your hands, massaging your temples with your thumbs to try and mitigate the oncoming migraine.

A knock sounds at your door and you jump, hand pressed over your frantic heart, “Y-Yes?”

“Can-Can I come in?”

Shouto.

The sound of his voice does little to staunch the metaphorical puncture wound in your chest. You flex your hands before standing to your feet and opening the door, allowing him to step over the threshold into your room.

“Listen, I think there’s just-”

“No,” you interrupt, a short breath filling your lungs, “I’m going first.”

Todoroki’s eyes dilate, his feet stuttering backward as he takes in your assertive sentence. He grits his teeth, jaw quivering under the stress, but keeps his lips sealed in spite of desperately wanting to speak out.

“If you don’t want me here, you could have just said so.” You wring your hands together, knuckles knocking against one another as you twist your fingers. You close your eyelids and inhale a deep breath, “What happened, u-us kissing, wasn’t professional, and I apologize. But what you’re doing to Hana?”

You flare your nostrils as your hands turn to fists at your side. Todoroki watches you closely, eyes never wavering from your frame as he takes in your quivering, quiet fury. Your jaw muscles tense and you force your eyes to meet his, despite the glossiness settled in them, “You’re never here, Shouto. You missed her ballet recital last week, then you forgot she was allergic to grapes, and now you’re not seeing what’s directly in front of you!”

The more you speak, the louder you become. You can feel your cheeks heating, the tears building up in your eyelids with every syllable. Your fists clench at your sides, and your fingernails dig irately into your palms, so harshly that you swear you might draw blood. Each word draws out an anger in you that you didn’t realize you were harboring, like a fugitive sitting in the cage of your chest, tugging on the bars of your heart as they beg to be broken free.

“Hana deserves better than this, and you know it, Todoroki. So if you don’t get your head out of your ass,” your lower lip wobbles and you reach forward to poke him directly in the chest, index finger dug into the space between his pectorals, “you’re going to lose your daughter.”

You’re shaking your head and your fist as the next sentence comes tumbling from your lips, heart strings fully wound as you speak, “Listen, I don’t know what your problem is, but if it’s me, then I’ll leave.”

Shouto’s brow furrows as he looks down his nose at you, “Are you finished?”

The deadpan of his voice stirs something in your belly, something like an acrid fire that plumes in your chest, the smoke of it all curling around your throat and begging to be spewed like acid from your tongue. Your teeth grind into each other, a creaking sound echoing in your own ears. The way your heart twists in your chest makes it difficult to breathe, but you manage.

“Fuck you, Todoroki.”

You go to turn away from him, your hand falling from his chest, when he snatches you by the wrist, repeating his question, “Are you finished?”

A small remaining sliver of your patience sits heavy on your chest, forcing you to nod your head. Regardless of how you feel about him, Todoroki Shouto is an important man, and you need to leave here a dignified woman. If you make a scene, if you flash your fists and bare your teeth, it’s possible you won’t have another job ever again.

“I don’t want you to quit,” his voice is breathless, an octave higher than normal; he almost sounds sick, “but there is a problem.”

The anticipation of what he might say next brings back that acidic wash in your belly, throat squeezed shut by the clamped hands of insecurity and doubt. Shouto takes a careful step forward, mindful of your personal space as he does so. His fingers never leave your wrist, circled around your arm even as it’s pulled away from his body.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

To say that the world stopped spinning was an understatement.

You feel the whole planet turn on its axis, your body undergoing vertigo as the metaphorical rug is yanked out from beneath your feet. Your stomach flips, the acid molting into lava, hot and sticky as it licks up against your skin, pooling just below your navel. His grip is too restrictive, and you can tell your body is beginning to shift into panic mode.

“You’re right,” he barges in on your internal monologue of self-hatred, eyes boring into your soul, “I’ve been a shitty father, which is painful for me to admit. But it’s the truth.”

The conviction in his voice is solid, and you know that he is being authentic. Todoroki has a clouded past when it comes to his father, Enji. You are aware of the influence his estranged parents have on his relationship with his child, which is one of the reasons his distance has troubled you. Every time he has had enough vulnerability to allow you to peek into the glass panes of his soul, he’s shown you the scars that Endeavor has left on him.

Todoroki uses his free hand to cup your cheek, thumb under your chin to pull your attention back to him, “I tried to distance myself from you to get a better grasp on the way I was feeling.”

His palm grazes down the column of your throat, his eyes careful not to stray to close to your lips or else he’ll get distracted. Your mouth bobs open but you have nothing to say, and the bewildered expression on your face makes him laugh. The sound of his baritone chuckle does little to quell the storm raging beneath your skin, lighting striking with every single touch of his fingers and thunder booming in your chest at the sound of his voice.

“For the longest time, I believed I would never love anyone again after my wife passed away.” The feel of his knuckles slipping between yours, palm searing into you despite it being his right side. At the mention of his wife, your whole being begins to shudder, the weight of expectations and self-doubt pressing into your chest like a mass you cannot remove.

Todoroki swallows the lump in his throat, neck bobbing, “I was content with it just being Hana and I for the rest of our lives, us against the world, until you came along. You fit so perfectly into our family, sliding in seamlessly as if you’d been here the whole time. You managed to win Hana over in a day and now she can’t stop talking about you. And then, when Hana called you mom, it threw me.”

Shouto’s eyes are intense as they stare into you, narrowed and attentive. The odd combination of one blue, one grey, is hard to grasp, unsure of where you should look specifically. His fingers against your neck card through your hair, keeping you anchored to him and this world.

“It was easier for me to dive into work because I knew I’d have you here to pick up the pieces,” Shouto admits, his gaze finally breaking away from your face to narrow focus to his sock-clad feet. “I was so weak for you that I couldn’t bear it. And then you and Hana both suffered for my cowardice.”

A wave of destiny washes over you, looming like a shadow, begging you to make a decision.

“Todoroki, this is-”

“I told you,” his thumb grazes your cheekbone, “not to call me that.”

Your jaw hangs open and tears cloud your vision, and you want to smile no matter how hard your body fights against you. Your lower lip quivers and you shake your head, saltine droplets lingering on your cheeks, “I-I can’t, Shouto. I’m not right for you and Hana, I’m not-oh.”

His mouth slots against yours, angled perfectly to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. Shouto’s hands are on your face, holding you in place so you can’t run from him, despite how every cell under your skin is screaming to bolt from your place.

As he parts from you, you’re left in a daze of euphoria, eyes half-lidded, mouth still pursed as you chase after him, pleading for more.

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel the same way,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your lower lip before retreating to trace your jawline.

And you know that you can’t; your body has already betrayed your words with the simple action of a kiss. Your hands follow suit, wrapped around the fabric of his shirt to keep him close, frightened he might leave you all over again.

Shouto’s hands drift down your abdomen, slow against your rib cage as if he were counting each bone to make sure they were all there, safe and sound. He kisses your forehead and then your nose, mouth hovering over the bow of your lips, eyes begging you even though his voice is caught in his lungs.

You say a stupid thing then, just something meant to break up the quiet, but with the floaty tone of your voice it breeds for much more wicked thoughts.

“Your lips are really warm.”

Shouto laughs before devouring you at the seam of your mouth, leaning forward to scoop you up in his arms, hands dug in at your thighs. You squeal against his lips, wrapping your legs around his waist, your fingers dipping into the muscle of his shoulders for an anchor.

He’s got you back against the bed before you can breathe again, leaning back on his thighs so he can pull his shirt over his head with ease. Your palms are like magnets to his abdomen, fingerprints finding each curve and dip of his muscle, praying you can map it out so you might memorize it for the times when he’s not able to be this close.

As his fingertips graze beneath the hem of your shirt, your eyes go wide, stuttering breath accompanied by panicked words, “H-Hana? Is she-”

Shouto chuckles, “She’s laid down for her nap. We have about two hours.”

The devilish glint in his eyes does little to quell the rampant thoughts running in your mind. You suddenly want to feel his hands and mouth everywhere on your body, insatiable in your lust for his touch.

“Sh-Shouto, please,” you’re panting and he hasn’t even undressed you yet, “need you.”

A devout confession such as that one, something so primal in its nature, shifts his demeanor from playful to sinful. Now his fingertips are dancing beneath your shirt, palming over your skin like he might find a hidden treasure in your bones.

He shakes his head, nose grazing your cheek as he starts towards your collarbone, “Tell me what you need, darling.”

“Need you.”

You are quick in your answer, eyes screwed shut at the tantalizing ministrations of his fingers on your flesh. He is teasing you, just close enough to your breast that it hitches your breathing, but not too close to where you can feel pleasure. A hot wash of arousal rolls into your body, slick beginning to gather between your thighs.

“More specific,” the words are muttered around the skin of your chest, one of his hands tugging on your collar to bare more of your body to him.

You whine, bucking your hips upward, knowing exactly the shape his cock will be in beneath the underwear that has him caged from you. You reach forward and tug at the waistline of his briefs, “Please, Shouto, I want to feel you.”

At the mention of feel, he takes you by surprise as he slips two fingers between your folds, curling into you quickly. You muffle your whine into the pillow, turning your face so your cheek is smushed against the downy cushion. Shouto’s palm that isn’t occupied with your tight heat tugs your shirt up over the tops of your breasts, baring your chest to the cool air of the bedroom.

“You are feeling me, sweetheart,” he teasingly licks over your nipple, thankful for the lack of a bra separating you from his wanton tongue.

Another moan drags salaciously from your lips, vibrating your throat and making his cock twitch, “Sho’, wan’ your cock. Please.”

You’re able to drag his pants and briefs down at once, his cock springing free from the restricting fabric. When it bobs against his abdomen, enflamed red cockhead leaking pre-come, you feel saliva build up in the back of your throat. You start to pump him as best you can, watching as his weighty balls swing under your touch.

Everything about him is enticing, from his dual-toned hair to his heterochromatic eyes to his chiseled body. You’d use your tongue on every part of him if he’d let you, but right now you’re focused on only one thing.

Once Shouto has coaxed enough of your arousal to coat his hand, he curls his fingers into you one last time, collecting the silvery fluid on his fingers, and then stands to step out of his clothes. You keen at the loss of contact, eyes wide open so you don’t miss a second.

“C’mon, baby, take your clothes off for me.”

At his command, you’re stripping down until you’re bare in front of him, clothes in a pool of fabric on the floor right next to his. Even the simple intimacy of his clothing overlapped with yours does things to your heart, a pinpricking sensation making your skin heat.

“Hi,” he whispers, fingers framing your face as you get lost in his touch. His voice is gentle, and his touch is probing in the best of ways, a genuine smile tugging his lips upward as you echo the word back to him.

You can feel your arousal tumbling within the confines of your body, begging to be put to use as you feel his cock against your thigh. Todoroki guides you back into the mattress, shoulders pressing into the cool sheets, your body given some sort of contrast to the molten heat circulating under your skin. Your blushed skin draws Shouto’s attention, eyes dragging over each inch of your body, mesmerized by your beauty.

Todoroki shakes his head, “You’re beautiful, you know?”

And at the end of his sentence, acting like punctuation, his cock slides between your heat.

Your eyelids flutter shut and your hands are on him in an instant, nails dug into his flesh to try and dispel some of the energy already built up within your fragile body. Shouto feels lightning spark up into his spine, the trails of it striking his hidden heart, licking at the edges of the glass box keeping him imprisoned from the world.

As your cunt clenches around him and your mouth utters his name like a prayer, Shouto can tell that his chest is constricting, tightening around his heart in an attempt to break himself free from the confines of his past.

“Sho’,” you’re mewling for him now as the veins of his cock drag salaciously against your tight, glutenous walls. Silvery slick coats his dick and he moans as your pussy clamps again.

He begins to build up the speed of his thrusts, his thumb brushing over your clit slowly, the very beginning of a pleasurable end building up within your belly. His mouth is attached to anything on you he can find – breast, collarbone, jaw, throat, cheek. Teeth and tongue lash out at you, parting his mouth so his heated breath can wash over your body.

Shouto focuses as best he can on forcing heat down the length of his arm, pinpointing the warmest point onto the tip of his thumb. You preen, eyes bulging out of your sockets well enough that he can translate your pleasure. On the opposing hand, the one currently preoccupied with your nipple, begins to freeze. Gooseflesh trembles on his arm but he does not mind, not when he gets to hear your panting whines of his name mixed with the begging sounds of please, please, please.

“Such a good girl,” Shouto murmurs into the thin skin of your throat, tongue delving from between his lips to lavish your jugular. “So pretty, laid out just for me.”

You nod your head as best you can, eyes wide as you drink in his praise. Your mouth bobs open but you can’t form words, not anything intelligent anyway. Shouto reaches his icy thumb towards your lips, brushing his cool touch over the heated skin, steam wafting between the two of you.

“Have you been thinking about this as long as I have?” he asks rhetorically, not expecting you to answer based on the fucked out look in your eyes, the drool seeping from the corner of your mouth as his body makes quick work of you. Shouto grunts, “I’ve wanted to take you against every damn surface in this house for months.”

His left hand peels from your clit, running up over the curve of your thigh to press beneath your knee, pushing your leg upward so he can thrust into you from a better angle. Your hands are stuck on the sheets now, his body just out of reach thanks to the twisting of your hips. Shouto slams into you, balls slapping your ass as he ruts forward.

You feel his cock harden even further from within the confines of your cunt, the tip of him brushing against the spongy corner of your insides. After another deep thrust he’s bottomed out within you, hips absolutely flush with your thighs as he presses into you.

Shouto leans forward, not daring to pull himself away from you just yet, enjoying the way you envelope him fully, “You think you can come for me, love? I want to feel you come all over my cock.”

“Y-Yes, Shouto, I-I’m getting there, almost,” you promise him, eyes fucked out to the point you can barely make sense of his frame loitering above you. Your lower lip wobbles as you pout, “A-Are you gonna-fuck-want you to come in me.”

It’s a simple sentence, but the weight of it makes Todoroki’s heart stop. He knows you’re on preventatives, he’s had to stay home with Hana to cover during the day for your doctor’s visits. But something stirs at the base of his cock, weighing in the thick of his body, and for some reason he wishes you were his for the taking in every sense of the word.

As you whimper beneath him, his eyes trail over your body, landing on your belly. His fiery touch grazes the swell of your stomach where he knows his cock is pressed deep within you. His balls throb at the thought of coating every inch of you in his spend, you begging for more as it leaks out of you and onto the sheets; him drawing you into another round just to make sure that you’re stuffed full.

Suddenly, a fracture within his chest allows him to breathe deeper. As you buck your hips into him, begging him for more, telling him how good he’s making you feel, Shouto recognizes the fragile box surrounding his heart, guarding it from the world, has begun to shatter.

“Shouto, please,” you are begging him now, glassy eyes and pitched tone designed just for him, “Need to feel you, everywhere.”

Your plea is the final rock thrown at the glass box, cracking it in every direction. Shards of emotion lodge in his throat, tearing into him so he cannot breathe. As he gasps for breath, fingers digging into your skin, he knows he’s bruising you but he can’t bring himself to think of it as anything other than finally marking you down at his.

And then, when your breathy voice curls in the air, settling on his chest like a balm, he feels the glass melt away, turning to liquid fire in his gut. The words you utter tear open his heart, leaving a gaping, belligerent wound that he knows only you can mend.

“I love you, Shouto, I love you too.”

His eyes find yours, wide and wanting. You nod as if that will solidify his place in the universe, tears blurring your vision, repeating the sentiment over and over again, uncaring to the way your face looks glassy beneath the lowlight of the bedroom. You just need him to know, need him to understand.

“Shit,” he pushes the heel of his palm into the bottom of your stomach, itching to feel the way his cock pulses in and out of you as he thrusts into your body. His thoughts are even more permanent now, the idea of filling you up, pouring his body into you in the most primal way possible, is the only thing he can see. Your hand makes its way into his hair, tugging at the crown of his head as you lean forward.

A mix of crimson and white is bunched between your fists, matching the little tufts of hair that tickle your pelvis every time he bottoms out within you. You scrape your nails against his scalp, but that only spurs him on faster, panting moans busting his throat open and begging you for more.

Your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, mouth parted so he can see the pink of your tongue, “Sh-Sho’, I’m close.”

He makes it his mission to twitch his cock within your walls, providing an extra layer of stimulation as his channels himself into you mercilessly. Somehow, he does it with such a finesse that it does not feel rushed or sloppy. Shouto is very careful, precise, in everything he does, and you are not surprised it works its way into the mannerisms he exhibits between the sheets as well.

“C’mon, darling,” he coos into your ear, folding your thighs upward so you’re fully pressed into the mattress, “I want you to come for me, yeah? I want you to coat my cock. You can do it, you’re close, I can feel it.”

His praise intertwined with the thickness of his cock bulging within you breaks the crest of the wave, allowing pleasure to flow through your body and onto his cock, coating him in your thick, sweet release.

“Fuck, you feel good.” Shouto continues to thrust upward into you, eyes focused on your face as he uses your cunt to bring his own euphoria down from the clouds. He’s looking down at you, jaw hung wide as he buries his cock into your tight heat, enjoying the way your slick lubricates his length.

You buck up into him and he drops his head to your collarbone, thrusts becoming sloppier the longer he tries to hang on to the edge of the cliff. Your hand in his hair tugs on the strands, mouth by his ear as you whisper, “Please, Shouto, want to feel you come in me. I want you to pump me full of your hot load, stuff me-ah.”

His hips stutters as he releases his seed into you, tongue lapping at your throat carelessly to try and force his body not to start up again. The need to feel you coming around him, begging for his cock and come, is something he has been denying for too long.

“I love you,” he whispers into the curve of your earlobe, nipping at the skin as his hips still. “Fuck, I love you.”

You smile, pressing a kiss to the curve of his scalp, “I love you too.”

As he reaches the extent of his high, he presses his body flat into you, cock twitching within your core. Your palms find his shoulders, grazing gently with your fingernails until he’s moaning into your neck, hot breath fanning out over your skin.

“Unless you want to go again, I suggest you put an end to that,” he warns, but there is no intent behind it.

You laugh, rubbing your ankle against his calf, “We’ve got a little one about to wake from her nap. Maybe later.”

And that is a promise you fully intend to keep.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

“Momma?”

You turn your head, pancakes on the griddle in front of you, “Yes, honey?”

Hana bounces towards you, white chiffon dress bubbling out at her knees, “When is breakfast ready?”

“When daddy gets back from his run,” you answer her, squatting in front of her to smooth the wrinkles from the fabric of her dress. “I made yours with choco-chips.”

Her eyes go wide and you feel a little sunbeam shining directly on your heart, warming your chest. She grabs you by the cheeks, palms squishing your lips together, “You can’t tell daddy!”

“Oh, I won’t,” you promise, voice distorted from the way she has you in her grasp. You brush a hand through her silver curls, tucking the strands away from her face. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“Don’t tell daddy what?”

Hana squeals, turning on her heels to sprint towards the garage door. She’s on Shouto’s leg in an instant, clutching him like her life depends on it. You stand back to your feet, brushing your thighs clean before turning back to the griddle to start another round of pancakes.

“We can’t tell you or else it won’t be a secret, duh!” Hana sticks her tongue out as she pokes Shouto’s leg, rolling her eyes like it should be obvious. “Look, Momma’s making pancakes!”

Todoroki looks across the room at you, eyes reminding you of colorful gems as they behold you. Every time you catch him staring at you, you swear it’s even more infatuated than the last, his love for you only growing as time passes.

“Is she?” He peels her from his leg to shift her into his arms, holding her securely against his side. Todoroki walks over to you, leaning into the counter so he’s close enough that you can reach him but far enough that he can’t burn Hana on the griddle.

“You’re back quicker than I expected,” you admit, pouring batter out onto the stovetop. You grab the spatula, prepared to flip once they look done enough, “Did you pull something?”

Shouto shakes his head, leaning forward to intercept you with a kiss to the lips, “I just missed you.”

“Ew, gross! Kissing means cooties!” Hana pushes your faces apart, a hand on your mouths as she dramatically lolls her tongue out of her mouth to prove her disgust.

You chuckle, leaning forward to brush her hair from her eyes again, tucking it behind her ear even though you know it will spring forward not long after. Your eyes flash from her to her father, watching the pride settle into his irises, solidifying them even more. A gentle touch of your hand to his bicep brings him back to you, gaze unwavering as he maps out the features of your face yet again, each time finding something new to behold.

“Well, that means you have time to shower before we eat,” you squeeze his arm and return to your station at the griddle, flipping the next set of pancakes. “I’ve still got to make eggs and bacon, and some hash browns for the princess.”

Hana is beaming, bright smile tugging on the strings of your heart, “Momma makes the best hash browns.”

Todoroki places her back down on the ground, patting her backside as a silent gesture to tell her to go play. She takes his hint, sprinting back into the living room to resume her tea party with a stuffed elephant and a Ken barbie doll.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You never-ooh.”

He’s got you by the neck with one hand, the other anchoring to your hip to hold you close. Todoroki melds your mouths together, the heat of his body quickening your pulse. He steps closer, knee between your thighs so you can feel the hard bulge pressing into the fabric of his running shorts.

You hum as he parts from you, pancakes momentarily forgotten in the wake of his affections. You pat your hands on his chest, gnawing on your lower lip, “Smooth one, Todoroki.”

Shouto pinches your hip, growing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, “You. Me. Nap time.”

“Oh?” you ask as he unwinds himself from you, nudging your body back towards the griddle.

“And I’m not talking about sleeping.”

Todoroki disappears from around the corner, slipping up the stairs to your now shared bedroom.

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles from your lips. When you go to turn this set of pancakes, the diamond sitting on your left hand catches the luminescent lights of the kitchen and you marvel at it. You roll your ring around on your finger, trying to find a different angle to appreciate it from, but you’ve already memorized the shape of it after three years of marriage.

Your palm finds the gentle swell of your navel beneath the baggy t-shirt you’re wearing, one of Shouto’s early proofs for a new merchandise design. You bite your lip and look down, speaking to the rustling new life currently blooming in your belly, “Here’s to tomorrow, little one. May it always be just a little better than today.”

The pancakes are done and the bacon is sizzling when Shouto returns with damp hair and a pair of sweats on the lower half of his body. He curls an arm around you from behind, kissing your shoulder, “Smells good, love.”

You turn to offer him a kiss, which he takes with fervor. Hana voices her disgust from her seat at the table, but Shouto hushes her quickly with a playful rise of his eyebrow, pointed finger making her giggle.

The three of you are sat down to breakfast, just like any other Saturday, but this one feels special for some reason. You can’t quite make it out; maybe it’s the sun shining outside or the crisp breeze blowing through the open windows, but your soul is settled in a way that can only be achieved by utter bliss.

“Hey,” Shouto calls you from your stupor, “your choco-chip pancakes are going cold.”

You blink slowly, returning your gaze to him, a gentle smile on your face.

At least you’ll get to spend the rest of your life with someone as mindful and kind as Todoroki Shouto.

≫ ──── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ──── ≪

taglist: @bakugous-forehead @kamehamethot @burnedbyshoto @rivendell101 @cookies-n-chaos @katsukisprincess @rat-suki @bitchtrynafck @bnhatrashh @succulent-momma @multifandom-fanfic @that-one-enthusiast @blue-peach14 @pastel-prynce @bokunokangae @shoutodoki​ @todorki-shoto​ @bakuoushoe​ @1-800-callmekatsuki​ @tenyaingenium​ @lxvely-mha​ @myherorambles​ @ramen-rambles​ @honeytama​ @sleepysuneater​ @bratwritings​ @samanthaa-leanne​ @orokayagi​ @whats-her-quirk​ @riotfuckery​ @sunbeamwrites​ @bnhawritten​ @aizawamirite​ @lovekatsukibakugo​ @suckersuki​ @secondhand-trash​ @yaoyorozuwrites​ @kingtamakimurder​

[yandere-daydreams]

Yandere dragon x servant darling? The dragon is so old and powerful and has been kept sealed for many years bc no one has managed to kill it but the prince was stupid enough to unleash it hoping it would destroy the enemy kingdom but instead it kidnapped the servant who always came by to clean the room and give it some food

I decided to use Dragon-Shifter!Bakugo for this, if only because it’s my favorite bastard’s birthday and he deserves to wreak a little havoc. I think I just have a soft spot for this Fantasy AU, in general.

TW: Mentions of Death and Imprisonment, Fire, and (Non-Graphic) Violence. 

~

The smoke was overwhelming.

The castle had gone up like kindling, despite all its many precautions and safeguards. You were just a servant, voiceless and powerless in the grand scheme of things, but you’d been there when the Prince made his decision. It was one of anger, of hate and frustration and pride, but you could understand the state he must’ve been in. With his army defeated and his enemy marching ever-closer, there wasn’t another choice. He could either release Bakugo, a King among beasts, or scrape together what was left of his forces and pray his surrender would be a shameless one.

Of course, his act of desperation had ended as acts of desperation always do - in screaming and destruction and fire, so much fire. Even in the open courtyard, without a roof to contain the flames and surrounded by untouched flora, the smoke bit at your lungs, permeating every piece of clothing on your body and forcing its way into your eyes, your skin, your head, your mind soon spinning and aching, turning your frantic sprint towards the castle’s gates into a stuttered, lethargic stumble. Clouds of grey obscured your vision, the stench of chemicals and burning stone quickly becoming nauseating, but you knew Bakugo’s rage better than anyone, you knew his hatred better than anyone. He’d been imprisoned far longer than you’d been alive, and rumor had it that he outlived your kingdom in its entirety. Whoever he encountered, friend or foe, would not be treated kindly. They’d be lucky if they lived to tell the tale, honestly.

Thus, the panic that ran through you as you felt a gust of wind flow over you was more than understandable, nearly strong enough to make your knees buckle. You were tempted to stop running, to search for a garden shed or a notch in the brick walls and hide until your blood boiled in your veins, but you bit the inside of your cheek and focused on your target, reminding yourself that the woods less than a hundred paces away would make a much better haven than a fortress already half-burnt to the ground. You were only able to make it a few steps forwards before something massive collapsed to the ground behind you, sending a tremor through the soil and knocking you off balance. You glanced over your shoulder reflexively, equal parts out of confusion and curiosity, but regretted the action the moment your eyes landed on that giant, terrible monster.

You’d seen Bakugo before, but he was chained down, hidden in darkness and made smaller by his captivity. He’d been crushed and barely alive, but he was free, now, his fury blazing and his golden scales catching every ray of light, only muted by the long, pitch-black spikes that jutted out at every odd angle. You gasped, a scream caught in your throat, then cursed, beginning to scramble to your feet, but another small quake forced you to stop, pinning you against the turf as Bakugo edged closer. Still, that did little to disarm the predator. You could only hold your breath as he lowered his head, his neck arching to lower himself to your height, but pain didn’t accompany his approach.

Rather, a weight pressed against your chest, heavy but not oppressive. Hot air fanned over your skin as he exhaled, a flat, reptilian nose pressed against your diaphragm, nudging at nothing in particular, eventually finding its way to your shoulder. Your fear wavered, momentarily replaced with some unnamable, elusive form of bewilderment, and your mind raced to find the logic behind his current tranquility. If he was fond of you, it couldn’t be for any rational reason. You’d cleaned his chamber one or twice a week, mostly when he was unconscious, and you’d fed him every other–

Oh, god. That was it.

You’d fed him.

You’d taken care of a dragon.

Your dread returned suddenly, and you didn’t think before pushing forward with your efforts to writhe your way from underneath him. Bakugo didn’t seem to care for that, pulling back abruptly before snapping forwards, jaw unhinging and rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth making a drive towards your neck, but by the time you’d shut your eyes and flinched back, you realized the blow would never come. Instead, pointed talons scraped delicately over your scalp, something close to a hand rooting itself in your hair and jerking you upwards, forcing your eyes to open.

You almost choked when you saw the human above you, scales still lining his jaw and gathering somewhere below his chest, every part of him normal save for the fangs poking out from behind his lips and his height, Bakugo managing to tower over you despite hovering less than a hair’s width above your form. Both of you were still, for a moment, quiet and stunned, but you broke the silence, your voice emerging in an airy, absentee mutter. “A shape-shifter,” You mumbled, curling into yourself. “I didn’t think they existed.”

His response came in the form of a grunt, uninviting and nearly inaudible, but he didn’t have to say anything. You knew everything you needed to from his scowl, from the feeling of his eyes prying into your skin as he analyzed and appraised, only pausing to click his tongue and shake his head, as if he was trying to dismiss a bad thought without fully releasing it. When he rose, he did it wordlessly, pushing himself to his feet and taking you by the wrist, his nails cutting harshly into your flesh. He was graceless, as he dragged you forward, letting deny the impulse to run, flee, beg him not to kill you. Not seeming to care for your stupor, Bakugo started towards the castle’s gates, pulling you with him when your legs failed to move. 

Your voice was still weak, but you forced yourself to use it regardless. If only to earn some kind of explanation from the creature in front of you. “I… I’m not going anywhere blindly with you, Bakugo. Tell me where we’re going, or I’m not taking a step.”

“Katsuki,” He corrected, harshly, spitting the name coldly. “Where else? We’re going home.”

You were tempted not to follow. You could scream and struggle and pull yourself from his grasp, and linger to see what was left of your kingdom when the sun came up. But, a wayward glance to your home, your real home, only affirmed that your reward would come in the form of ash and cinder. If not swords and a guillotine, if anyone had seen you survive your encounter unharmed.

So, you cast your gaze downward and grit your teeth, following closely in Bakugo’s tracks.

[betweentheracks]

Heyo! Not to be too nosy here but you mentioned you're in bad health and recovering, and I just wondered what happened? Also how would it impact your career since, from how you've made it all seem thus far, it's a highly active and demanding job?

Hope you take care and get well! You appear quite strong and not like you'd take whatever has happened just lying down, so here's to you!! 🙏💓

No sweat and no worries here, I dont find this particularly invasive. If anything, I'm flattered you care to ask after me lol. 😁

A few weeks back I met a friend I hadn't seen in some time for lunch. This was against my better sense of caution that I've held firmly to throughout the pandemic, but I would feel regretful and dismissive if I didnt agree to see her while I had the chance. I should've listened my gut and stayed safely at work because this "friend" failed to mention she had tested positive (she knew already by the time of our lunch date, she has since admitted) and had figured since she had no symptoms there was no harm in being in public.

FF only a few days later and I was feeling a little unwell but had put it off as an effect of the winter blast that had just hit where I live. I'd spent half a day out in the cold and snow for a photoshoot only the day before and thought it was probably due to that since I'm susceptible to weather influenced head colds and bronchitis. Fortunately, my job mandates a rigid COVID-19 screening twice a week due to our high profile clientele and as an assurance of health and safety for us all. Mine read back with a positive and with the way I had been feeling I was immediately sent home and the company closed its doors while the building was sterilized and our clients notified.

Thankfully I managed not to infect anyone I work with nor my son. Regrettably, I did infect my best friend since we're horrifically incapable of maintaining personal space and have weak shit immune systems. We both agree it is a wonder we made it this far into plague times without it catching us.

So I went and got looked over and sent on my way with my prescription of potent anti-virals and steroids. I was well prepared to abide the quarantine guidelines and had sent my son to my mother's home for the duration so that he was out of the danger zone. It was fine, I was kinda cool and keen on getting a few days to myself to rest up and all that jazz. But it wasn't meant to last and I found trouble in the form of being unable to remain conscious much at all and would pass out constantly. After a few times of this I gave my brother (he's a doctor and vaccinated) a ring and told him that my fatigue was no joke dude and needed him to come give me a better once over than the one I'd gotten before bc I was sure I was not meant to feel this badly. He found me unconscious in the shower that night, my head battered from crashing to the basin.

After ensuring I wasn't concussed and jokes on what a hard head I have to take such a beating and show no signs of registering it beyond bruising (a joke between us due to him having once accidentally put a golf club into my forehead and fracturing my skull but that's a different story) he told me to call him regularly so that he can review how I feel and the progression of my symptoms and left. By the morning I had already had two more instances of sudden fatigue and collapsing in on myself. I had been posting on my main blog here about how I was doing and due to this I caught the concern of @peekbackstage and upon their suggestion to have my O2 levels tested it was revealed that I was having issues with my blood not circulating oxygen as it should and nearing hypoxia.

Here's the rub. I have a heart condition that is already very dangerous and bleak which limits my heart's capability of delivering blood through my body as it should. Cardiomyopathy or, as it seems better known, congestive heart failure. I've had surgery for it and it has been a while since it caused me any real issues as long as I stick to my routine of care and manage my health, but when COVID-19 infiltrated my body it immediately snagged upon this weak heart of mine and sank its fangs in.

Within a day of being admitted to the hospital I had a grand mal seizure due to the constant fluctuations of oxygen in my blood and the way my body was working double time to supplement for it. And only 2 days after that and when my nervous system had finally quieted down, I went into full cardiac arrest with a heart attack at my young age.

My next weeks were spent connected to machines doing more for me than my own body could. I developed pneumonia in my lungs, acute though it was it was still another complication that my wrecked body had to overcome as it made my already ragged breathing even worse. I was steadily shedding muscle tone and definition due to a lack of mobility and the fact that my body felt like a deadweight I could hardly take command of, and generally very weakened. My heart, the horrible thing, was inflamed and trying too hard by beating too fast, too hard.

FF some more and I was doing fairly well and treatments were showing some improvement. My heart was still being an ugly and gnarled beast in my chest and throwing weird spikes on the monitor that raised alarms. The pneumonia was retreating and I had no further seizures. It was the dawning light of my first signs that I was recovering!

It took a while more and so fucking many tests day in and day out for me get cleared for release. I tested negative for COVID-19 and was ashamed that I actually forgot that that was why I was even in the hospital to begin with, given all that happened. I have to undergo physical therapy and counseling; PT for heart happy exercises as well as to manage to my depleted muscles, counseling bc I was rocked mentally from all the almost dying and the depressive haze of being holed up in the hospital and surrounded by people who, like me, came in with COVID-19 but unlike me did not come out of it.

I'm home now. I had to have a pacemaker implanted and must stay vigilant for any showing that my heart is not performing as it should. I still have some severe inflammation and chest restriction in my airways as well as my blood vessels but nothing too daunting. I also have a full battalion of prescriptions, most for my heart, and a nebulizer to ease any breathing issues. The worst is honestly that I still am very weak and have severely limited reserves of energy.

My job is required to make me take 12 weeks of leave for rest and recuperation. This is very upsetting since I had been requested by name to be an assistant stylist at the Grammys this year which is truly a dream (especially with BTS in the mix 😩😩) and also bc I'm just a workaholic by nature and love my job. When I return I am expected to learn how to properly delegate tasks that do not directly require me to handle and slow down the pacing of my projects. My boss terminated a contract with a client that was nearing the scheduled end of our agreement and was also incredibly problematic to help lighten my workload. It's imperative that I reign in my stress levels or my heart will not last until the next surgery I'll need, so I'm gritting my teeth and letting my job be picked apart to reduce my responsibilities.

My post awaits my return but I will not be returning to full activity for a while after, which means no rifling through the racks for hours alongside the archivists in search of the perfect piece. I'll be welcome to meet with my clients and oversee the glam teams, will still be the command tower for final verdicts on which styles to use. But I will not be running around showrooms nor personally handling matters any competent trainee could be tasked with like I've always done. I will no longer be able to fly out anywhere for destination shoots or fashion shows.

If, after my next surgery, things are better and my heart stable to the point that they are hopeful of things will be reevaluated. While it is difficult beyond measure for me to relinquish the reigns of my career and be restricted in what I can do now, I am very thankful to be alive and upright when that wasn't a certainty just a little while ago. This is such a humbling experience to have survived when my stats kept dropping every day. I've been told to expect that I will never make a full 100% recovery and to expect to stall out around the 70%-90% range, with 70% being the most realistic.

My best friend (the one I gave the plague to) will be moving in with me so that I am never on my own if things go tits up and to assist in wrangling a toddler since I am currently without the energy to do so as my child is, sincerely, a crazy gremlin spawn with limitless battery life. Slowly, my life will regain some normalcy 💖

[sleepless-in-starbucks]

Logan's Flawless Plan to Getting Out of Being Sick

Ao3

Summary: Logan was sick. He was well-aware of this fact. He was also well-aware that he had better things to be doing than lying about and ‘resting.’ His husband disagrees Content: Sickfic, fever + coughing are the only mentioned symptoms, brief unsafe binding, one alcohol mention, taking more medicine than the dosage amount, the consequences of that (gaps in time/memory, minor hallucinations, senses going fuzzy), half-collapsing, swearing, transmale!logan, transmale!remy, lots of sappy losleep Pairing: Romantic losleep Notes: Three of them:        -Based on this post        -You’ll notice Logan doesn’t try to keep Remy from getting sick. This is bc they both know Remy’s already doomed to get sick, given he and Logan live together. This was important to me to say bfchsdf        -This story’s in Logan’s POV. And Logan is very loopy. Keep this in mind.

~~

    Logan was sick

    “You’re not going to work today.”

    Terribly, horribly sick.

    “Yes I am.”

    But that wasn’t going to stop him from doing his job, damnit.

    Logan heard his husband sigh as he tried to properly tie his tie for the fifth time. The normally easy, effortless action had become difficult, his fingers slow and fumbling as he tried to pull the loop together. He dropped the fabric with a huff after another attempt failed.

    Hands that weren’t his own entered his field of vision, tugging the tie off his neck. “You shouldn’t be wearing this anyways.” Remy murmured, likely tossing it to the side. “You’re already coughing enough without it.”

    “I’m not coug-” Logan broke off halfway through his sentence, taking a moment to cough into his arm and think about the irony of the moment, “-coughing that much.”

    “Mm-hmm. I call bullshit, darling.” Remy said, brushing some of Logan’s hair behind his ear before resting his hand against Logan’s forehead. “You’re burning up.”

    “I’m fine.”

    “You’re sick, is what you are.”

    “No, I just-” Logan once more paused to cough, Remy guiding him to sit back down on the bed when a few seconds passed and he was still coughing.

    “You want to finish that sentence?” Remy asked, tone slightly mocking but mostly concerned.

    “Alright, fine. I’m sick.” Logan admitted before continuing on petulantly, “But I’m still going to work.”

    “No, you’re not. You’ll just make yourself worse, and you’ll get all your students sick while you’re at it.”

    “They have better immune systems, and I‘ll keep plenty of distance between myself and them.” Logan reasoned. “I’m going to work.”

    Remy shook his head. “You have a minor death wish, babe. What’s so wrong with staying home and resting and being doted on by your wonderful boyfriend?”

    “Husband, Remy, we’re married.”

    Remy’s eyes widened in both surprise and recollection, and Logan let out a little content sigh, leaning his head against Remy’s shoulder. “We are, aren’t we?” Remy said, voice joyfully awed.

    “We are.” Logan confirmed. “I got you a very pretty ring for it and we exchanged some very cheesy vows and everything.”

    “I know. Just forgot for a moment.” Remy said, raising Logan’s left hand so he could press a kiss both to the back of his hand and over his wedding ring. Logan knew he should tell him not to, warn him of germs and the like, but he found it doubtful Remy would listen to him anyways. “Now. What’s so wrong with staying home and resting and being doted on by your wonderful husband?”

    “I have important lessons to teach. And it’s unfair to just abandon my students with no warning.” Logan answered. “They at least need a warning that I’m not going to be there tomorrow.”

    Remy rubbed circles into the back of Logan’s hand. “You really want to go in, huh.”

    “Yes. But only for today, I promise- I’ll stay home tomorrow.”

    “I’m not sure you can make it through the day, babe.” Remy said, concern once more leaking into his voice. “Your temp’s real high, and you haven’t even been up for an hour yet.”

    “One class then. I can leave a note for the rest of the classes. Please, Rem.” Logan begged. “Just one class.”

    Remy pulled his head back a bit, still allowing Logan’s head to remain on his shoulder while also letting him look at Logan’s face. “Why do you want to go in so badly, hun?”

    “I promised my students I wouldn’t flake out on them if they didn’t flake out on me. I have to keep that promise.”

    “I hardly count being too sick to work ‘flaking out.’”

    “Please, Remy, please?” Was Logan’s only response, using his new advantage of Remy being able to see his face by pouting. Remy always folded when he pouted. “One class. Just so I can leave notes for the students. Please.”

    Remy’s resolve against his pouting husband lasted for five seconds. “You know I hate it when you do it.” He huffed, though he didn’t sound very annoyed as he moved to card his fingers through Logan’s hair. “One class. That’s all.”

    Logan let out a sigh of relief and slumped further against Remy. “Thank you.”

    “You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Remy said. “But I’m coming with you to make sure you don’t try to stay longer. And you’re staying home tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. And you’re going to get changed into your comfy clothes. You don’t need to be in your polo and slacks right now.”

    “Fine.” Logan said neutrally, still just thankful he had managed to convince Remy to let him go at all. Hopefully, going through the motions of the first class would make him feel better, thereby making him less sick, thereby letting him further convince Remy he was fine enough to work the whole day. A foolproof plan. Probably. “Can I at least leave my binder on?”

    Remy went stiff next to him, which Logan thought was rude, considering Remy’s shoulder was much nicer to lay against when the muscles in it weren’t so tense. “Hun, please tell me you’re joking.”

    “About what?”

    “Having your binder on while you’re having coughing fits, that’s what!” Remy said, sounding slightly frantic. “Love, you know I’d give you anything I could, but you need to take that off. Now.”

    Logan whined against Remy’s shoulder, not particularly inclined to feel childish for doing so. “I like it on.”

    “I know you do, starshine, and normally I do too, but right now I’d really, really like it if it was off of you, okay?” Remy said, still sounding frantic though his voice was very gentle. Ah. That meant he was really worried. Maybe Logan should take the binder off.

    “...Alright.” Logan mumbled, trying to not feel too put out. He was sure there was a good reason Remy wanted him to take his binder off. Granted, at the moment, he couldn’t remember it, but he tried not to worry about that. He didn’t need to remember all the important stuff. Remy would remind him. Remy was good like that. Remy was so, so good.

    “Alright. That’s good.” Remy said, sounding calmer. He pressed a kiss to Logan’s forehead before getting up, making sure Logan wouldn’t fall over without him supporting Logan’s head before stepping away. “I’mma grab you your sweater, okay? The nice, big lumpy one. And some other comfy clothes. I’ll be right back, okay?”

    Logan nodded as he started to tug his shirt off, aware that his polo didn’t count as comfy clothes. Remy nodded with him before turning and wandering out of the room. Logan wasn’t sure where he was going- to be frank, Logan wasn’t completely sure where the door he had gone through led to, but he was sure that wherever Remy was going, it was the right place to be going.

    Though it took a fair amount of fumbling, Logan managed to shed his shirt and binder, having moved on to fighting his belt buckle by the time Remy returned.

    “Here, let me help you with that.” Remy said, dropping a pile of clothes next to Logan as he easily undid the belt, pulling it free of its loops before helping Logan to pull his pants off as well. “There we go.”

    “I took off my binder.” Logan said, a bit abruptly. He knew that Remy could see that the binder was off and next to him, but he felt he had to say it too, just in case, to make sure Remy wouldn’t start sounding frantic and worried again. Logan didn’t like when Remy sounded like that. Remy shouldn’t have to be frantic and worried.

    “I know, love, I saw.” Remy said, reaching up to cup Logan’s cheek. “And I’m so proud of you for doing that. You did very good, yeah?”

    Logan nodded. “Yeah.”

    Remy smiled at him. “Let’s get you into these nice comfy clothes now, okay? Then we can go and make sure you’re not late for class while also being very cozy and very lumpy. And I’ll be lumpy too so we can both suffer the world binder-less together, because I’m pretty sure that’s what true love is.”

    “True love is you.” Logan said, and while he wasn’t quite sure where the words came from, or exactly what they meant, he was sure he meant them.

    Remy chuckled. “You’re cute when you’re loopy.” He said, picking up the first article of clothing on the pile- a pair of dark sweatpants. “Now come on. Let’s get you dressed.”

    It took ten minutes for Logan to get dressed, mostly because he insisted on trying to put on each article of clothing himself, only to be forced to accept Remy’s help when he proved unable to fully pull anything over his head. He did, however, manage to get the pants on by himself, and he decided that was the greatest achievement of his life.

    Remy got himself dressed while Logan put on his shoes and prepared his ‘secret weapon’, only taking three minutes to get on an outfit nearly identical to Logan’s, which Logan considered to be unfair. He looked good, too, even in his bigger jacket and with his tousled hair. Logan felt and looked like a lump. A hot, frustrated lump. Though maybe that was the minor fever.

    Logan took a swig of his secret weapon and tried not to choke on the taste. Hopefully the fever would be taken care of soon enough. And he could deal with being a lump if it made Remy happy.

    At Logan’s grimace after his sip, Remy, who was waiting for his coffee to finish brewing, raised an eyebrow. “Forgot to add the sugar to your tea?”

    Logan shook his head. “Not tea.”

    “...What is it?”

    “My secret weapon.”

    Remy frowned. “Logan, honey, I can’t let you drink vodka while you’re sick. Or whiskey. Or whatever alcohol you have in there. And I definitely can’t let you bring it to school-”

    “It’s not alcohol!” Logan defended, just managing to bite back on a ‘mostly.’ That wasn’t going to help him or his mission.

    Remy’s eyes widened. “Rat poison is worse.”

    “Why do you- it’s not rat poison either, I promise.” Logan said, taking Remy’s hand and squeezing it. “It’s just some tea. My throat’s raw, that’s all.”

    “...I thought it wasn’t tea?”

    “Did I say that?” Logan asked, because he really wasn’t sure. Everything felt fuzzy, memory included. He hoped that meant the secret weapon was kicking in and not that his fever was getting worse. He had things to do.

    Remy was still watching him a bit too closely and Logan realized he hadn’t given a very good answer. “We should be going.” He said, hoping that would distract Remy. He knew pushing the point that he was only drinking tea would result in Remy wanting to taste said tea to be sure he wasn’t lying and Logan knew that wasn’t going to work.

    Luckily for him, Remy let it slide.

    “Yeah, we should.” He agreed, reaching over to grab his coffee before wrapping his free arm around Logan’s waist, pulling him close as they started to head for the door. “I already got the keys in my pocket.”

    “I can walk perfectly well on my own, you know.” Logan pointed out, even as he leaned into Remy’s grasp. Just because he didn’t need to be coddled didn’t mean he didn’t like to be near to his husband.

    Remy chuckled. “I know, babe, but I also know that you keep wobbling with every other step. I don’t need you adding a bad fall to your list of problems.” He teased. When he got to the door, however, he stopped before opening it, glancing at Logan with light concern. “Are you sure you want to go to work? I know you want to warn your students you’ll be gone, but the more rest you get, the quicker you’ll be better-”

    Logan silenced Remy by leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. “I’ll be just fine, dear.” Logan said as smoothly as he could. “But your worry is appreciated.”

    Remy didn’t seem wholly convinced, but he still nodded, pressing a quick return kiss to the top of Logan’s head. “Alright. I believe you.” He said before he moved to open the door, somehow managing the feat despite still holding his coffee cup. Leaning slightly more into his touch, Logan allowed Remy to lead him out to the car.

    The ride to the university Logan worked at was unimpressive, mostly due to the fact that Logan barely remembered a minute of it. He felt as if all his senses were going fuzzy at the edges, what little focus he had left becoming untrustworthy as he could’ve sworn he saw green stars dancing across the windshield at some point during the drive. The lack of feeling was, however, sufficiently numbing the pain of his fever, so Logan was taking that as a plus.

    He only realized they were at the university when Remy was shaking his arm, looking at him funny as Logan partially snapped out of the daze he had been in.

    “Are you sure you’re okay, sugar?” Remy asked, sounding once more worried. Logan frowned. He didn’t want Remy to sound worried. “We can go home if you need to…”

    Logan shook his head instinctively when he heard home. He couldn’t go home. The whole point of this was to be at work and get into his schedule and pretend everything was fine until it was and feel better so that Remy didn’t have to be worried.

    “If you’re sure.” Remy said, though he certainly didn’t sound very sure. Logan frowned more as Remy helped him get out of the car, leaning against him without comment this time. Remy made a very good support. Especially when the entire world was jumping up and down. Repeatedly.

    The walk from the parking lot to his classroom was not one Logan remembered, but Logan tried not to let that bother him. He must have drunk more of his secret weapon, though, because the world was starting to become easier to focus on again. The world was also filled with purple and yellow scars that seemed to be tearing apart the fabric of reality, but Logan was fairly certain those were always there.

    A blink took him from outside his classroom to inside, where he found his class already waiting for him, all eyes on him and Remy as soon as they entered. Good. They were there, and he could see them clearly. Double win.

    “Professor…?” One of the students (send Logan home if he knew which one) said hesitantly. Probably confused by why Remy was there.

    Logan patted Remy’s shoulder, hoping that would signal to him that Logan didn’t need his support anymore. Remy promptly let go of him, albeit slowly, watching Logan carefully to make sure he didn’t fall over the moment he stood on his own. Did Logan wobble? No, not at all.

    ...Maybe a little.

    Logan rubbed at the new bruise he had on his hip that may or may not have come from him stumbling into a desk, hard. Okay, maybe a lot. But it was fine, he was fine- he hadn’t fallen over, yet, and that was what really mattered.

    By the time he had made it to his desk, set in the center of the front of the room for a reason Logan was sure was very logical, all eyes were on him, including the eyes that were normally still on their phones or closed in faux rest. Another point in his favor. No need to call the class’s attention when he already had it.

    Of course, now he needed something to start the lesson with. What was the lesson anyways? Actually, while he was wondering, what class did he teach? How was Logan going to start a class he knew nothing about?

    Logan’s gaze flickered to the corner of the classroom, ignoring the sea of concerned looks from his students to focus on the concerned look from Remy, who had even taken his sunglasses off just so Logan could see it. If he had ever had them on. Had he? Didn’t matter. Unimportant. What was important was that Logan had an idea: if he didn’t know how to start class, he would simply steal Remy’s style.

    That thought (and no others) in mind, Logan slammed his thermos on top of his desk.

    The entire class, Remy included, startled at the noise, all thrown off by it. The only reason it didn’t startle Logan was because he didn’t hear it. At the newly bewildered expressions of everyone in front of him, he cleared his throat, still channeling Remy as he began,

    “There’s more pressure in my sinuses right now then there is at the bottom of the sea.” A lie- the real problem Logan was dealing with at the moment was the fever he couldn’t feel but could taste (it tasted peppery, which was appropriate, Logan decided). That and the fact that Logan didn’t think it was humanly possible for his sinuses to be more pressurized than the bottom of the sea. Maybe it was. He should test that.

    But not now. Now the class was clearly waiting for him to continue, and continue he would, because he had planned an entire paragraph of this and he was going to say all of it so long as he had vocal cords.

    “This,” Logan paused. The container in his hand had a name. Too bad he couldn’t remember it. Logan clicked his tongue, deciding a substitution would have to do before he started again, “This thing’s full of NyQuil.”

    That sparked a reaction- gasps from multiple students, and one person he was fairly certain was his husband yelling, “That thing’s full of WHAT!?” Logan nodded to himself. Good. Reactions were good. They meant that his class was following along.

    “I’m going to drink it while I teach,” Logan went on, ignoring the continued gasps of shock and possible horror, “and when your heads are replaced by swirling rainbows, I will cancel the rest of class.”

    That, of course, was a ridiculous timeline to set. The students’ heads would never become rainbows, swirling or otherwise, which mean Logan wouldn’t have to cancel class, which meant he could teach the full class, which would certainly go over as well in reality as it had in his head, and when Remy saw how well he was doing he’d let him teach for the whole day through. It was a foolproof plan. He truly was a genius.

    “Professor… is that safe?”

    Logan was pulled from his thoughts and mental back patting by one of the students in the front row. He wasn’t quite sure who they were, probably because their face was blurring into the student’s next to him. He took a swig of the NyQuil. Hopefully that would fix things.

    “It’s perfectly safe, as long as I don’t die while doing it.” Logan answered, which was true. Another true thing was that Logan… didn’t know if this was safe. But NyQuil was medicine, so it couldn’t be too bad to take extra of it, right? Right. Right right right right right right-

    “Sir, maybe you should go home.” Another student spoke up, sounding concerned. A chorus of agreeing murmurs rose at the suggestion.

    “That’s what I told him to do!” Remy added from his spot leaning against the back wall. “But he said he had an obligation to not ‘flake out’ on all y’all lovelies.”

    “That’s a great sentiment, prof, but uh… really unneeded.” A student who Logan could see right through said. “We’ll be fine without you for a bit… you should get your rest.”

    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Logan said dismissively, taking another sip from his thing of NyQuil. He no longer cringed at the taste, mostly due in part to the fact he could no longer feel his tongue- therefore meaning he could no longer taste much of anything. “I’m perfectly fine to teach. There’s no need for me to rest.”

    “Bullshit.” Remy said, pushing off of the wall and walking towards the stairs, though he didn’t go down them just yet. “I love you hun, but that’s bullshit. Do you even know what you’re teaching today?”

    Logan frowned. “Of course I know. Why wouldn’t I?”

    “Then teach us.” A student near the back said, which Logan considered rude, because he was fairly certain that student was ganging up with his husband to… something. They were certainly doing something. Something trap-y probably. Normally Logan was very good at avoiding traps. But he had to see them coming to do so.

    “I will.” Logan told them flatly, doing his best to look as put-together as he could as he turned down to look at his desk. Surely, his lesson plan was somewhere there. That would have all the answers he currently couldn’t remember.

    Luckily for him, his lesson plan was right in the middle of the desk, easy to see and grab. Perfect. Now, if the words on it would just stop dancing, Logan would have everything he needed to convince his husband and class he was perfectly fine.

    Logan drank more of his no-longer-a-secret secret weapon as he lifted the paper up to his face, hoping that by decreasing the distance between his face and the paper he would also decrease the dancing of the letters. He was fairly certain it would work because ‘distance’ ‘decrease’ and ‘dance’ all started with the letter ‘d.’

    Sadly, his perfect theory was somehow proven wrong- the letters got closer together when he raised the paper, but they didn’t stop dancing, now waving and wiggling in place, as if to spite Logan and his attempts to read them.

    “Love?” Logan jerked as he turned towards the source of the word, surprised to find Remy only a few feet away from him. When had he gotten so close? “What are you doing?”

    Logan waved his lesson plan at Remy. Wasn’t it obvious? “Checking the lesson plan.” He answered as he took another sip from his thing, ignoring Remy’s frown when he did so.

    “I know I’m not a professor, hun, but I think that’s an attendance sheet.”

    Now Logan frowned as he moved the paper back in front of his face, squinting at it. It seemed the letters were now willing to still, albeit only a little, just so that Logan could see it was, in fact, a list of student names followed by boxes that, when marked, could indicate a wide variety of things. None of the boxes could, however, tell Logan what his lesson was.

    “So it is.” Logan commented neutrally, flipping the paper over to see if perhaps the lesson plan was hiding there. “So it is.”

    “Yeah… sweetheart, I’m starting to think it was a bad idea letting you come here.” Remy said, prompting Logan to look up from his search for the lesson plan to focus on Remy instead. That proved hard to do, however, given his face was blurring into a swirl. Logan frowned, feeling distressed. Remy’s face wasn’t supposed to look like that. It was supposed to be pretty and have a chin and brilliant eyes and other features Logan was sure he also loved.

    “Your face is wrong.” Maybe if Remy knew his face was wrong, he’d fix it, and it would look right and Logan wouldn’t have to feel distressed and upset and very unable to focus on mundane things such as teaching.

    “And you’re proving my point.” Remy responded, though he didn’t seem to be trying to fix his face, which was very unhelpful of him. Though maybe Remy couldn’t see that his face was wrong. Maybe only Logan could because of his stupid fever. Of course it was still messing with him. Nothing another sip of NyQuil couldn’t fix-

    “Yeah, we’re not having any more of that.” The thing was taken from Logan’s hands before he could actually get any of the drink into his mouth. He looked at Remy in betrayal as his husband opened the lid and glanced into the container. “How much of this stuff have you drunk, anyways?”

    “Not enough.” Logan said, reaching out to take it back. Remy just stepped away, holding the NyQuil out of reach. “Remy.”

    Remy just shook his head. “Nope. No more of this for you.”

    Logan huffed and stepped towards Remy, reaching out to try and make a grab for the thing. “Let me-”

    Remy grabbed the hand that Logan had put out, stopping his attempt and his sentence. “I said nope, sugar.”

    Logan’s focus had fallen away from retrieving his NyQuil, however. He was now looking concentratedly at their linked hands, slightly wiggling his fingers in Remy’s grasp- experimentally, not attempting to escape his hold.

    “...You good there, hun?”

    “Warm.” Was Logan’s only response. Remy tilted his head to the side, confused, before his expression became one of understanding. Still holding Logan’s hand, Remy bent over and placed the thing on the ground before standing back up and moving closer to Logan, taking his other hand in his newly free one.

    “Is that nice?” Remy asked, gently, which Logan vaguely registered meant he was trying to lower Logan’s guard and that that was Bad. It was, however, working, as Logan was now fairly certain anything outside of holding Remy’s hands was completely and utterly unimportant.

    “Very good.” He said, very eloquently in his opinion. “You’re very good.”

    “I know I am.” Remy responded, squeezing Logan’s hands. “I’m so good, in fact, I’m going to take you home now, because I should never have let you leave the house. A mistake, I note, was yours since you used your pout on me knowing full well I would not stand against it.”

    “But my classes-”

    “Would really prefer you stay home and rest.” A voice that was not Remy’s said. Logan was fairly certain that meant it was one of his students, but he didn’t look to check. He was extremely busy looking at Remy. “You look like you’re going to collapse, prof- just take the day off.”

    “I’m fine.” Logan said automatically.

    “None of us believe that lie, love.” Remy said as he released one of Logan’s hands. Logan whined at that, and Remy softly shushed him as he moved to rest a hand on Logan’s forehead. “I think the NyQuil’s made your fever worse-”

    Remy probably continued speaking after that, but Logan stopped listening, instead choosing to lean into the warmth that was now against his already too-warm forehead. The motion of leaning in was slight, barely a shift at all, but it was also apparently too much, and Logan’s hard fought for balance completely failed him. He tipped forwards, not bothering to try and slow his descent as he began mentally writing his will.

    Arms, warm arms, arms that were warm, wrapped around his midsection, stopping Logan from falling all the way over. “And look at that! You’re actually collapsing now. We’re going home, Lo.”

    “Mhmmm.” Was all Logan managed. Remy was warm. Remy was really warm. And nice. So nice. Had Logan been trying to work? That seemed silly. Work wasn’t Remy.

    Speaking of Remy, he was shifting Logan, pulling him up a bit and resting his head against Remy’s shoulder, arms wrapping more solidly around Logan, all of which were actions Logan was immensely favorable to. He was even warmer, now, and even closer to Remy, and Logan considered these to be very good things.

    “I love you.” Logan murmured into Remy’s shoulder, because he decided right then it was very important Remy know that. “You’re very warm. And nice. And warm. And pretty. Very pretty. Too pretty.”

    Remy chuckled. “Don’t mind him.” Remy spoke, though Logan got the impression he wasn’t talking to Logan. “He gets sappy when he’s loopy.”

    Logan glared at nothing. He wasn’t saying he loved Remy because he was loopy. He was saying that because he loved Remy a lot. More than he loved… planets. And pencils. And peaches.

    “You’re not making any sense, starshine.” Remy told him, and Logan realized he had been speaking out loud. Remy pressed a kiss to the top of Logan’s forehead, and he melted even further into his grasp. “But I love you too.”

    Logan smiled into Remy’s shoulder, ignoring the background noise of ‘awww’s he was sure was coming from his class. Remy scoffed at them.

    “Can we go home now?” Logan asked, because home had bed and bed meant lying down and most of the time lying down meant lying down with Remy and that sounded very nice to Logan right then.

    “Of course, honey. Can you walk?”

    Logan considered the question for a moment. He probably could walk, if he put his mind to it, given he had mostly walked here and he had been walking earlier. But, if he was going to be Logan (and not Frank, why would he be Frank if he was telling the truth-), he didn’t particularly want to put his mind to it. So he shook his head.

    “I think you’re lying.” Remy said, but he still shifted so he could pick Logan up- a move he had perfected back in their courting days as soon as he learned it was a near guarantee to fluster Logan. Instinctively, Logan’s arms wrapped around the back of Remy’s neck and he once more tucked his head into Remy’s shoulder.

    “Do you guys, uh… know what to do from here?” Remy asked, the question clearly directed at Logan’s class. “Because I don’t think you’ll be seeing your teach for a good week.”

    “You said two days.” Logan mumbled into Remy’s shoulder, though not very aggressively.

    “Yes I did.” Remy agreed as he started moving, assumedly towards the door. “That was before you drank half a bottle of NyQuil in an hour and collapsed.”

    Logan nodded into Remy’s shoulder. That made sense. Remy was good at sense. Remy was good at a lot of things.

    “If anyone asks, we’ll say the professor was here for the full period before leaving.” A student assured Remy.

    “And I’ll hold onto his thermos until he gets back!” Another chimed in. “Since you probably want to keep the NyQuil as far away from him as possible for now.”

    The class laughed and Remy did too. “Yeah, no, I’m tossing out whatever NyQuil’s left at home. If you get a chance, I highly suggest you dump out the contents of the thermos too.”

    “Will do!”

    Logan felt Remy nod his head. “Great. So… that was easier to settle than I expected. Though I guess you’re all getting a free class period now.”

    “We’ll use it responsibly, Mr. Professor’s Husband.”

    “You don’t need to lie to me, kid, I skipped every class I could get away with.” Remy said before he pressed another kiss to Logan’s head. Logan, who was more or less completely asleep, made a little happy noise. “And then I married a teacher. Life’s funny.”

    Remy let out a happy little sigh and Logan smiled at his happiness. “That’s enough from me. You kids have a nice day.”

    And there was a good chance that something else was said or done after that, but it truly was very cozy pressed against Remy’s chest, and Logan saw no reason to bother keeping awake when Remy was taking care of everything so well. So he didn’t.

    Logan wasn’t sure when he woke back up, but he didn’t mind that much. He did know that he was at home and in bed and that was nice. Logan also knew that the NyQuil was at least partially out of his system because his fever was back and it was back with a vengeance. He groaned, turning over and pressing his face into the nearest pillow.

    Next to him, he heard Remy laugh, and a hand soon settled in Logan’s hair to card fingers through it. “Hey there, darling.”

    “I feel like shit.”

    “That’s what happens when you’re sick but you still try to go to work.” Remy softly teased. “And when you drink way too much NyQuil.”

    “It was my secret weapon.” Logan protested. Remy laughed again.

    “Maybe stick to the more conventional methods of healing next time?” Remy suggested.

    “Cuddles?”

    “I was thinking more homemade chicken soup and watching old game show reruns, but I suppose cuddles might work too.” Remy said. “Why? Is there a particular reason you mention cuddles?”

    Logan huffed as he flopped over, glaring at a very amused looking Remy as he grabbed at his shirt, tugging as well as he could on it to try and pull Remy down. “Don’t be obtuse.”

    “Oh you’re so weak- oh, babe, this is sad-” Remy laughed at Logan’s poor attempts to force him to cuddle, gently taking Logan’s hands and holding them in his own. Remy smiled at him. “You’re cute.”

    “I’m sick.” Logan responded. “Cuddle me.”

    “And why should I do that, now?”

    “Because you love me.” Logan told him, shuffling over a bit so that he was closer to Remy, making the pout he then put on more effective. “And I love you.”

    “I can’t believe you’re using the pout again.” Remy chided.

    Logan pouted harder.

    Remy sighed, but he still pulled up the edge of the blankets and sheets, sliding in next to Logan. “One of these days I’m going to find a way to say no to you, you know.”

    Logan wrapped his arms around Remy’s chest, pulling him closer and turning his chest into a pillow. “But will you want to?” He mumble asked, not as concerned with the answer as he was with falling back asleep and trapping Remy on the bed with him.

    Remy chuckled as he wrapped his arms around Logan as well, seemingly completely alright with becoming trapped as he dropped a kiss on Logan’s forehead. “Never. Because while you may have proven today that you can be wrong of many things, you did get one thing very, very right.”

    “Oh?” Logan hummed, only half-interested in knowing what he had gotten right.

    “Even if you do stupid things like go to work sick and bind while sick and try to drink NyQuil like it’s water, I still love you.” Remy said sweetly, once more running his fingers through Logan’s hair to help further lull him back asleep. “And as such I will always want to say yes to you.”

    Logan let out a small laugh. “You’re a sap.”

    “You should’ve heard yourself earlier, hun.” Remy said, chuckling when Logan’s only response was a hum and snuggling closer to Remy. “I’ll tell you about it later. Go to bed, starshine. I’ve got nowhere else to be and nothing better to do than love you.”

    Deciding he’d mock Remy’s accidental rhyme later, Logan happily did as his husband said, putting aside the burn of his fever to focus on Remy’s comfortable, loving warmth, quickly falling into a sleep as gentle as Remy’s embrace.

[robertsheehanownsmyass]

I've no idea if that works or not, but if it doesn't, it's one of the gifs in Mute where Luba meets Leo in the "red room" from Vousnavezrienvu. Could I please have an imagine where a fem! reader is sent by her friends to the parlor to Luba bc she needs to "loosen up" and she just wants to take it slow, but still wants sex. Hope you're having a good one.

Hopefully this gif does the trick as yours didn’t come through. Gif courtesy of @vousnavezrienvu

Sheehanoween!

Five Times

Luba x Fem!Reader Warnings: this is probably the smuttiest smut I have ever smutted. Just a lot of sex with a sex worker here. 

Your friends never let you live it down that you hadn’t had sex in almost a year. You were in postgraduate school studying for your Master’s degree in engineering, so you didn’t have time to date. They also never stopped teasing you over the fact that your last boyfriend was a boring bloke who only had sex in the missionary position with the lights off.

I really need to stop telling my friends about my sex life-- or lack thereof, you thought to yourself as your taxi zoomed through the dark and glittering streets. It was your birthday, and your friends had promised you quite a surprise.

You pulled up in front of a very nondescript building with no signage. You all climbed out of the taxi, and your friend Gerta hooked her arm through yours, leading you toward the building. “First stop, we’ve booked you a special massage.”

“A massage?” you said, eyeing the building dubiously. “This doesn’t look legit.”

“Oh, it’s something,” Greta replied with a chuckle. “Go on, your appointment is in just a few minutes. We’ll see you after!”

Your friends waved and called well wishes to you as you slowly entered the building. You walked into a dull reception area where a woman stood behind the counter. She looked up from her book with an inquisitive eyebrow cocked.

“Hello,” you said hesitantly. “I have an appointment?”

The woman nodded. “Down the hall, third door on the left.”

“Uh, okay,” you said, and headed down the hall. You entered the room and saw that it was clearly a boudoir, appointed with red furnishings and rather seductive decor. “Goddamn you Gerta,” you mumbled under your breath as you closed the door behind you.

“Who is Gerta?” said a smooth voice from the other side of the room. You jumped in surprise at the sound.

The owner of the voice materialized from the shadows, catlike in their movements, lean muscles poured into skin-tight leather pants. Your breath caught at the sight.

“Did I startle you? Forgive me,” the creature purred as they approached you.

“No, it’s...it’s alright,” you stammered.

“You seem frightened,” they said. “Relax. You can call me Luba.”

“Okay, Luba…” you said. “The thing is, that my friends did this and I’m not sure that this is what I want, and--”

Luba stopped you. “You didn’t know what you were walking into? Oh you have interesting friends. Nevertheless, you should give me a try. You might enjoy yourself. In fact,” Luba stepped up to you so they were looking down on you, close enough that you could feel the warmth emanating from their bare chest, “if you stay, I will make you come five times.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Wha-- five times? I don’t...um…”

Luba stopped your stammering with their mouth, which they pressed to yours firmly, soft lips opening. They cupped the back of your head and leaned into the kiss, and your jaw opened widely to accommodate the deepness of it, and you couldn’t help but sigh into it. It really had been so long since you’d been with anyone.

Luba broke the kiss and looked down with heavy-lidded eyes. “Is that a yes then?”

You nodded, swallowing anxiously.

“Take off your clothes and lay back on the bed,” Luba commanded.

You hastily shed your clothes, feeling shy, and you attempted to cover your nakedness as you laid down on the bed, curling around yourself.

Luba sat next to you. “I won’t rush you,” they said softly. “But by the end you won’t be feeling shy anymore.”

You smiled in response, and then Luba kissed you again. Your tongues danced together as you began to relax, and you closed your eyes. You were beginning to melt into it when you felt Luba’s fingers on your sex, softly at first; teasing. The kiss became more passionate as their fingers found your clit, which they rubbed and circled and you moaned at the sensation. Luba stopped rubbing your clit to gently slide two fingers into you, and they slowly pumped them, gathering the slickness from your arousal, and then they began to pump faster. You broke the kiss to gasp, “fuck!” before Luba’s mouth crashed back onto yours, cutting off your moans as they began to finger fuck you roughly, and you could feel the pleasure building like a cresting wave. It built, and built, and built until it finally crashed down and over you, and you rode out your first orgasm on Luba’s fingers, your strangled squeals muffled by their lips.

Lube broke the kiss and smiled down to you. “That’s one. Are you loosening up now darling?”

“Yes,” you panted, and you noticed you no longer had the desire to curl around yourself to hide your nakedness.

“Good,” Luba said, and got up from the bed. They walked over to a dresser and rummaged in a drawer, pulling out a metal vibrator. They returned to the bed, and gently pulled you by the legs so you were laying at the edge of the mattress. Luba spread your legs, and knelt before you on the floor. They leaned forward and licked up the length of your slit, pausing to flick your clit with their tongue. They repeated this pattern for a little while before Luba closed their mouth over the bundle of nerves, alternately sucking and flicking with their tongue. You threw your head back and gasped, and Luba reached one long arm up to massage your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple with their fingers, and you felt your next climax approaching, stronger this time. You bucked your hips and dug your fingers into their silver blonde hair as you came, and your legs collapsed, shaking.

“That’s two,” Luba said as they licked your moisture off their lips. You were flat on your back and panting with your eyes closed when you heard a small click and the telltale whirring of the vibrator. You looked up to see Luba’s eyes fixed on yours as they slid the cold metal into you. Having already climaxed twice you were very sensitive, and the sensation made you cry out loudly. “Oh fuck! God!”

Luba again bent to suck on your clit as the vibrator sank into your depths, and you arched your back and cried out again and again as Luba worshiped your cunt. They held the vibrator steadfast so that it assaulted your inner g-spot, and it was in this manner that you came undone a third time, and each time was more powerful than the last.

“I believe that was three,” Luba smiled, and climbed onto the bed to kiss you. “Are you doing alright love?” They said gently.

“Oh yes,” you said, your voice hoarse. “Oh yeah, I’m doing just fine.”

Luba chuckled as they stood and peeled off their leather pants, stepping out of them, revealing the rest of their lean, toned form and impressive cock, which was standing at attention. They got a condom off the nightstand and tore the wrapper with their teeth, rolling on the rubber in a quick fluid motion. “I’m going to fuck you now,” they said, and you nodded wordlessly.

Luba climbed onto you and hoisted your legs over their shoulders, leaning forward and folding you against yourself tightly. They reached down to test your wetness with their fingers and, being satisfied, they grasped their cock and pushed into you fully, stretching you in a way you have never been stretched.  They hit depths that have never been reached, and they circled their hips in acclimation before beginning to thrust. The sensation was mind-blowing and you moaned as Luba began to fuck you roughly, their hips slamming into yours at a punishing pace. Your moans became full blown cries as you reached around to claw at Luba’s back, and they hissed and gasped at the combination of pleasure and pain. A ball of white-hot ecstasy was building in your core, and it wasn’t long before the most powerful orgasm you had ever had hit you, leaving you a sputtering mess shaking on the bed.

Luba slowed their pace, letting your legs slide off their shoulders and they fucked you slowly as they nuzzled your neck, nibbling and kissing gently. After a short while, they stopped.

“That’s four. Now roll over,” Luba said, pulling out of you, and you complied; rolling over onto your stomach before raising yourself up on all fours. You turned your head to watch Luba slide into you again, and the sight alone was so arousing that you moaned, and then you screamed as Luba began fucking you, the pair of you rutting like beasts. Their pelvis slapped your ass audibly, and you grunted and cried out repeatedly as Luba pumped into you.  You had never been stretched like that, never felt such pleasure, never felt so completely free.

As your next orgasm overtook you, tears spilled down your cheeks as you screamed. You thought you had just had your best orgasm, but this one took its place. Luba’s thrusts grew erratic as they arrived at their own climax, and the two of you collapsed on the bed in a tangle of sweaty limbs, breathing heavily. 

Luba pulled off the condom and tossed it in the bin beside the bed, and then they rolled over to spoon you. “How was that, darling? Are you feeling better?”

“Luba, that was the best sex I’ve ever had.” you sighed, and you meant it. “What do we do now? Should I go?”

“You have me for an hour, and I’ve just given you five orgasms in half that time,” they said, and chuckled softly. Luba turned your head with their fingers so they could plant a gentle kiss to your forehead. “We have a little while if you want to fool around some more, or we can just lay here and talk.”

“Let’s see what I have the strength for,” you replied, and the two of you laughed together as you snuggled closer.

******

Your friends were standing outside and sharing a smoke as you exited the building, walking a little unsteadily on your heels. 

“Well,” Gerta said when she spotted you. “How was it? Oh my god girl, you can’t walk straight.”

“Best. Birthday. Ever,” you said dreamily as your friends clapped and whooped. “And,” you continued, “I got a bonus.”

“Yeah? What?” Gerta asked.

You held up a little white card. “I got their number!”

Your friends gaped at you. “Look at you,” Gerta breathed. “Could our shy little gal actually be dating a professional?”

“Let’s just say I’m not very shy anymore,” you said, and you headed off into the night with your friends.

[atinykidult]

The Wind in His Ears — Choi San

[angst w/fluff] [2221 words] — A prompt taken overboard, wherein San loses his heart but finds it again. Disbandment!au, be warned. No tws except for loneliness (and reference of sex, I guess)

[prompt] — Travel!au, strangers to lovers, “That was a very bad idea. 0/10 would not recommend.”

[dedication] — If you like soft or sexy stuff please check out @sanflowerseeds‘s works! They’re phenomenal (and written by an also phenomenal person!) I’m so sorry this took so long! I love you, Nanda, and hope you’re doing well!

[a/n] — This may be my worst fic ever, bc it has gone through so many directional changes. But it’s been a WIP so long, I just wanted it posted haha If you have time, please leave me some notes on what went wrong/right! Thank you for reading!

.

When Choi San hits his mid-thirties and feels his joints crackle a few decibels too loudly, he knows his body won’t take much more. So when their second round of contract negotiations roll around, his decision has already been made for him. 

But when Hongjoong delivers the official group stance, his heart still cracks.

.

And when they have their final performance, San’s the last one to cry.

Because his tears will last the longest.

.

The crack in his heart spreads into a veritable canyon in his world.

A scattering wind blows through that empty cavern, pulling Hongjoong to mentoring a new rookie group and Jongho to OST deals. But San gets to stand with Yeosang at his wedding; he grabs coffee with Wooyoung every other week, usually...

So San pretends he’s fine for six months.

After all… Mingi sends memes to the group chat all the time—

And Seonghwa makes sure to Facetime regularly—

San wanders the streets of Seoul, hands stuffed in his pockets, the loud wind in his ears for his only company. At home, whenever he stands up stiffly, there’s only him to laugh at his cracking joints. Well… he laughs at himself, to begin with. Then he doesn’t laugh.

One day, he’s wandering the streets again when he sees it. An ad for a travel agency.

There’s only wind in his ears as he considers it.

“A toast to San!” announces Hongjoong, voice forcibly cheerful. “Who’s going on a world tour!”

Eight glasses are lifted in the air; seven pairs of eyes look incredibly worried.

Someone wraps themselves around San as other voices chime in.

“San, fighting!”

“Let’s gooo!”

“World travel!” someone shouts in English.

San’s heart both heals and breaks again as he looks at his seven friends who dropped everything to wish him well.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he tells them wetly.

Maybe it’s Jongho’s knowing eyes that make him shed the first tear.

Maybe it’s how the others all know how much he’s hurting, and how utterly relieved San feels to be back with these seven other people.

No matter the reason, San cries at this moment, clinging to his former groupmates as they hug him goodbye. There’s promises to text, proclamations of staying up just for video chats. There’s also seven whispers of the same sentiment: I hope this can help you heal.

.

He meets you in a coffeeshop. Your coffeeshop, actually.

It’s his second visit, and for some reason, it’s one of his favorite places he’s found in his travels. Something about its atmosphere draws him in. The warmth. The way it has nooks where he can sit and people-watch. The way the food tastes nearly perfect every time. The way it’s so empty when he comes in for his breakfast.

The way it’s just a minute’s walk from his hotel.

Correction: It is his favorite establishment he’s found in his grand travel.

Truthfully...

The “grand travel” hasn’t been so grand. He’s jumped around the world a little, going wherever the wind blows, renting a room for however long the wind calms down. Leaving for the next city or town whenever it gets worse.

On good days, he can look around himself and feel his heart stir a little. Because he’s gotten to see some incredible things.

On bad days, he can feel the wind utterly drop. When it does, he’ll look around himself. He’ll wonder if he really wanted to see Canada that one time. Or if he just chose a country 12 hours different from Korea because maybe, just maybe, flipping his clock completely could flip his life around, too.

Today’s one of the better days, actually.

As he hands you his payment, you offer small talk.

Ask about his day.

He tells you he’s fine, that he could be much worse off, truly believing it. (But also believing he could be much better off, too.)

Something in your gaze seems to understand him.

“And how’s your day?” he offers, his pronunciation a little messy.

“It exists,” you reply. 

A mirror of him, at heart.

.

He comes into your coffeeshop the next day and knows it’s just going to be a daily thing until he leaves this city.

That one booth in the back left corner… It has good seats.

As he settles down with the same order he had gotten the last two days, he catches your eye. Smiles with his lips.

And something about that one thing makes him realize.

He hasn’t truly had anything like this in a while. The same food, three days in a row. Someone who’s met his eyes, three days in a row.

It’s another good day.

The howling wind grows just a little quieter.

.

“Two orders of today’s special and an einspänner?” you ask as he moves to the counter.

His eyebrows furrow. “Oh?”

“You’ve been here three days straight, exact same order,” you smile, “first customer of the day.”

“Ah.” He takes a moment to gather his words, unsure if this was accusatory or just observation. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I can—”

“No! It’s, ah, it’s nice. You’re always very pleasant, to me.” He recalls that first encounter, how you had seemed to understand the weight of his few words. “Are you a tourist? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before this week.”

“You could say so.”

“Any plans for today?”

The wind pushing him around never made plans.

“Not really,” he admits.

“Taking it as you go?”

“You could say so.” He notices how you look at him with a measuring look. One that makes him feel seen, and he hasn’t felt that way for a very long time. But it isn’t an unwelcome feeling. “Do you have any recommendations? On what to do? Things you like?”

You smile bittersweetly. “I have some ideas.”

“Can you tell me a few?” The words come out of San’s mouth without thinking.

At that moment, the door opens with a whoosh, and another customer steps in.

“Tell... tell you what,” you say. “I have an employee coming in in half an hour. If you would like the company, I can give you those suggestions over a second cup of coffee?”

Meeting your eyes, something in him feels like hiding. But something else in him leaps at the offer. “I’m a slow eater. So yes.”

You smile again, a little wider.

His lips, too, twitch upwards of their own volition.

That day, San makes an itinerary for the first time on his trip—and, maybe, a friend.

.

After a long day of hiking, San collapses on his hotel room bed and feels a stirring of optimism in his chest. The weariness in his bones almost feels familiar. He had collapsed like this many times after concerts or performances.

He stares at the ceiling, consciously wondering for the first time on this trip, if he’s ready to face the wind.

His eyes land on his suitcase.

His hands move to unpack it.

And the wind in his ears, again, gets a little quieter.

.

As he walked into your coffeeshop the next day, he asks you to sit with him from the get-go.

You peer into his eyes, spotting equal measures of hope and uncertainty, and immediately drop your paperwork. “Of course.”

His conversation is nice; his personality is nicer. (Possibly his skin is nicest, but that’s irrelevant.)

.

Your conversations continue, and by the tenth day, you’re sharing the thoughts that sometimes scare you. From your worries about disappointing everyone to wondering if your degrees even mattered... you spill it all out. He does the same.

Which is scary, because you’ve only known him for ten days. Seven, really.

Based on the way he’s ducking his head right now, his story hanging in the air sadly, he must feel similarly.

(He hasn’t told anyone about his story, his sad state, since he left Korea. He doesn’t share every detail, but he says enough that both he and the wind in his ears feel very shaken.)

Forty minutes later, he stands to leave, and you hear some joints crack.

“Maybe the chiropractor?”

His smile in response is remorseful.

You stand, too, and feel your neck crack a little.

“Maybe we both can go?”

And the smile is a little less sad.

.

You have known San for two weeks now, and today, he enters the shop much more confidently than usual. With a shy smile (but genuine, you realize), he shows you pictures of a lake you had directed him to. He had caught it on a good day. As he lets you scroll through the pictures, you find that someone must have taken his picture for him.

You want to say something meaningful as you study the way his skin has grown so golden in these two weeks. The way his smile reaches his eyes.

“You look nice here,” you say simply.

That shy smile turns larger.

.

You don’t know if this is a bad habit, dropping everything to share breakfast with San every morning. But, what did it hurt anything? After you asked your employees to come in early to cover for you, they agreed too quickly.

Because they are amazing humans, you think.

And because they are ridiculous humans, they smile knowingly at each other as either you or him look at the other for a moment too long.

And, because you both are pathetic, San and you never notice.

.

By the third week, you wonder why you haven’t exchanged phone numbers.

Naturally, then, you laugh and casually give him your number after he admits getting lost yesterday.

“I know you’re not a damsel in distress or anything, but next time… just call me if you get lost.”

He doesn’t mean to look at you so intently after that, but he does.

You don’t look away.

Swallowing, he wonders if you can see the lingering sadness he feels, the wind still throwing him off balance sometimes. The weight of knowing how worried his hyungs are for him, the fear that he had done something to his body when he was younger, so it was all his fault somehow...

But as your gaze slips to his lips for just a moment, he also wonders if you are seeing what thousands of fans had once seen. Something worthy.

When your gaze moves back to his eyes, and you start talking about nonsense, he knows: You could see it all, and more, even.

San feels something stir in his chest, something warmer and kinder and more enticing than the thrall of dancing to thousands of cheers. 

When he finally finds it in himself to say goodbye, he can’t help but ask. “Can I call you when I’m not lost, too?”

.

Three days after that, San wakes and feels an impossibly strong urge to sing. Just something bright and loud. Something hopeful.

He pictures your coffeeshop and your face.

And he feels himself smiling widely.

Opening his phone, his fingers type faster than the wind:

Heading your way in 10 :)

.

That weekend, you go drinking together.

You’re both tipsy, sitting in a bar booth with your sides pressed together, and everything comes to head.

You’re both tipsy and warm, filters long lost, when San pours out the rest of the story to you. The side of the story that the wind in his ears usually hid in white noise.

It’s a euphoric story with deafeningly beautiful highs, but also a heartbreaking one with devastatingly ugly lows. But as he pours out the joys of standing on stage, of the laughter-filled, starlit walks back to the dorms, you know it was worth it to him.

And you also come to know, he didn’t choose to quit.

He keeps pouring drinks; keeps pouring out his emotional, earnest soul.

Midway through the night, your dulled head has just enough awareness to realize you are in love with that soul.

And as you have to wave away another glass, you will always hold onto the magnificent moment when he admits: “But I don’t feel sad about any of it when I’m with you.”

.

The next day, you wake up at your place. San’s lying beside you.

“Morning,” he groans.

If your head and body didn’t hurt so much, that alone would have inspired you to restart last night’s activities. 

“Everything hurts,” you groan.

“Same.”

Your legs are slightly brushing each others, but your torsos aren’t touching. It makes you feel sad. Then something in you melts when he shifts his weight closer to you so they are.

“Are”—you yawn—”we going to that… ugh…. waterfall today?”

“Not after last night.” He buries his face against your hair.

“Yeah…” Your head throbs, and you groan again. “That was a very bad idea, 0/10 would not recommend.”

San makes an offended sound in the back of his throat. “The alcohol or the sex?”

Yawning again, you can barely reply. “You know which one.”

He kisses your head and yawns as well. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

“Soon.”

“Soon?”

“But... not right now.”

After yawning together, he chuckles against your hair. “Yeah, sleep... for now.”

.

As you both close your eyes again, San can only hear two things:

One, the steady rhythm of your breathing.

Two, the soft hum of your ceiling fan.

He falls asleep knowing:

There’s no wind.

.

[ateez taglist] — @seongghwaa​ @s1ardusk​ @yunwoo​​ @toffee-hwa​ @yunhowhoitiss​ @sippn-the-tae​ @yeocult​ @barsformars​ (thank you for your support! I love y’all so much!!! <3 <3 <3)

[horde-princess]

A Meta on Catra’s Relationships with DT, Scorpia, and Adora

I’m so excited to write this finally ljsdflkj okay so. I’ve been thinking about why the creators would choose to center a whole season around this new character Double Trouble. They drove the plot and played a major role in a really important part of the story, Catra’s redemption. So I wanna think more about the purpose of this character and go deeper into a couple of their scenes with Catra.

tbh Catra and DT’s very first interaction says it all: DT literally takes the form of Scorpia and tells Catra “I’m about to become your new best friend.” As the season goes on, Double Trouble replaces Scorpia as a sort of artificial confidant for Catra. But it blows up in her face and the purpose of the whole thing is to shed light on Catra’s main internal conflict: her desire for love vs. her fear of heartbreak/vulnerability.

In other words, I believe Double Trouble was introduced as a foil to Scorpia. But if we think about how Scorpia is also a foil to Adora, then that means DT is like... a foil to a foil. So they’re not directly associated with Adora but a lot of what they do relates back to her. Yeah there are a lot of layers here lmao but basically what I’m gonna analyze is how Catra’s relationships with these three characters intertwine and build off each other in season 4 to set the stage for Catra’s redemption (and catradora endgame hollaaa)

So in the beginning, Catra and DT both understand their relationship to be a business arrangement. When does that start to change for Catra, and why?

Catra’s History With Betrayal

Just think about Catra’s relationships at the start of s4.. After the portal, Adora had basically severed whatever was left of their relationship, and that was shown to be weighing on Catra all season. Scorpia and Entrapta were the only other people she cared about, but Entrapta betrayed her (first by monopolizing Hordak’s attention then by refusing to open the portal), then Scorpia dared to question her decision to send their friend to die and her presence became a constant reminder of Catra’s guilt. In fact, the mere mention of Entrapta’s name in 4x03 causes Catra to snap and yell at Scorpia “we are not friends!” ... which of course isn’t true. Catra may think Scorpia’s annoying but she confided in her, her loyalty made Catra feel like she could trust her.. and that’s exactly why Catra always tried so hard to push her away. All the betrayals in her life scarred her so deeply that she wanted to avoid emotional intimacy at all costs. I’m about to get Jungian up in this shit bc we see a deep disconnect between Catra’s outward actions (her conscious) and her inner desires (subconscious) this season and it’s this i believe that leads to her breakdown in 4x10. It’s an unsustainable way to live.

Why Catra Trusted Double Trouble

So by 4x04, Catra had sabotaged her only two relationships. She was utterly alone, and vulnerable, and Double Trouble was in the right place at the right time offering their loyalty to her.. so Catra did what any emotionally stable person would do and subconsciously used a hired mercenary to try and fill the growing void in her heart. I don’t think Catra actually cared about DT much at all, like sure they got along and that matters on some level, but I think it’s more that Catra was in a vulnerable place and DT was the only one around.

So why does Catra trust Double Trouble when she won’t let herself trust anyone else? I’ve seen some posts saying it’s because Catra is self-destructive--i.e. she only seeks love from people who won’t give it to her because she doesn’t believe she deserves love--which is super true.. but I think her motivations can be better explained by saying that Catra knew from the start that Double Trouble didn’t really care about her, and that’s why the partnership was attractive to her (at first). She thought it would be safe--no vulnerability, no risk of heartbreak. But the truth is Catra’s just not as disaffected as she wishes she was.

The moment Catra really let her guard down was when Double Trouble saved her from the collapsing building in 4x04. 

can we just!! talk about this scene!!!! the way her voice shakes when she says “saving me” just, oh my god... like what a touchy subject for her, right? Shes spent her whole life resenting how Adora was always trying to “save” her from everything. I’m not sure but I think White Out (2x05) was the only other time Catra thanked someone for saving her life, and she just says “thanks for getting us out of there.” So her use of the word “save” here is special and it illustrates how deeply vulnerable Catra feels this season, and more importantly it’s a sign of character development! It’s no coincidence that the theme of saving is connected between DT, Scorpia, and Adora. It’s leading up to Catra learning to replace her resentment towards Adora with something closer to gratitude. 

But while the scene connects these relationships, it also highlights their differences. After Catra displays an astounding amount of vulnerability with DT, they coolly reply “well, I live to serve... for a price, of course.”

This right here is the first step of Catra’s breakdown. Suppressed desires making themselves known, one half of her heart rebelling against the other. She was pushing away her real friends and finding hollow companionship with someone she thought she wouldn’t get attached to, but it happened anyway.

The difference between Double Trouble and Scorpia must have become glaringly obvious to Catra in that moment. Whereas Scorpia was loyal to Catra out of love, DT was mostly interested in getting paid. And she was surprised by how much that hurt. She fucking hated how much it hurt, you can see it written all over her face. It’s why she fails Scorpia’s little test in 4x06. Because of Double Trouble, Catra’s true desires were threatening to break free, so outwardly she fights against it and acts more resistant than ever to being friends with Scorpia. She castigates her, calls her annoying and incompetent, harsher than we’ve ever seen... but she didn’t expect Scorpia to hit back (we did, tho. Scorpia’s an icon).

In four words Scorpia teaches Catra a hard lesson about what it means to earn someone’s loyalty. She knew she must’ve really fucked up if she somehow managed to push away the most loyal person in all of Etheria. And again the fake nature of Catra’s relationship with Double Trouble provides a reference for her to see why Scorpia’s loyalty, based in love, was so valuable, and why she shouldn’t have taken it for granted. It also relates to Adora because, similar to Scorpia, Adora had been trying so hard these past 3 seasons to connect with Catra, but she refused to forgive her and her behavior eventually forced Adora to cut ties. So Scorpia calling her out pushes Catra towards accepting some personal responsibility for everything that happened with Adora, too. Man there are just.. a ton of implications here.

Then Catra gives Hordak a fun pep talk but really it’s just her self-projecting all over him:

At this point her hateful actions and her goal to conquer Etheria are extremely out of line with her true desires and we can see it’s really affecting her mental state. It wasn’t just one thing or person that caused her breakdown, it was a combination of Adora severing their relationship, and Scorpia’s disappointment in her, and Double Trouble’s indifference towards her. All three of these situations were playing off each other and chipping away at Catra’s carefully crafted armor, revealing a desire to be loved hidden underneath... which she continued to fight against for as long as she could. Adora and Scorpia were playing their roles in helping Catra learn to take responsibility for her life, but those relationships wouldn’t have been so effective had it not been for how they were contrasted with Double Trouble’s indifference. Anyway have I mentioned how amazing and complex this show is????

Catra Loses DT and Scorpia Around the Same Time

4x07 is the last time Catra talks to Double Trouble before they get captured by the rebels. Coincidentally, Catra realizes that Scorpia left her just one episode later, which once again points to a connection between these two characters. From 4x08 to 4x11 Catra is completely alone, feeling like she has lost everyone in her life. It sets the stage for her meltdown in 4x10. But my fave part about Scorpia leaving is how it changes the way Catra thinks about betrayal. 

Even if Scorpia didn’t tell Catra where she was going in the note she left, Catra had to have assumed she was leaving to join the Rebellion because where else would she have gone right? So the two people Catra loves most have now BOTH abandoned her to join the rebellion. I don’t even wanna think about how triggering that betrayal must have been for Catra.. I don’t wanna think about how the next time Catra sees Scorpia she’s going to be a full blown princess with powers and everything, just like what happened with Adora. 

But there’s a key difference between Adora and Scorpia. Catra knows at this point that Adora didn’t want to leave her behind, but she did anyway to pursue some destiny that Catra wasn’t a part of, which left her feeling betrayed. Scorpia, on the other hand--the very definition of ‘loyalty’--left her specifically because Catra pushed her away. Her fear of vulnerability manifested as anger towards someone she refused to admit that she cared about, and it pushed her away.

Once again I think Scorpia is teaching Catra a lesson about taking responsibility for some of the shit in her life. It’s a privilege that Adora lost after being careless with Catra’s trust, and thus Scorpia was the only one in a position to reach Catra and help her. But I think that the things Catra learned from Scorpia are going to play back into her relationship with Adora and allow them to reconcile (when Adora deals with her own issues too).

We can also say a little about how Double Trouble’s betrayal contrasts with Scorpia’s and Adora’s. I think their complete emotional detachment is the perfect frame of reference for Catra to be able to acknowledge that even though Scorpia and Adora left her, they DID love her, and they never stopped trying to reach out to her--at least, not until Catra crossed a line with both of them. At some point, Catra went from being justified in her feelings of betrayal to overdoing it, placing too much blame where it didn’t belong and closing the door to forgiveness. So I think that’s the role that Double Trouble played there, helping Catra see that difference. Like even if someone leaves you, hurts you, it doesn’t always mean they don’t love you. Relationships take work and understanding and forgiveness and you have to learn how to handle that or you’ll always be alone. Scorpia’s the pure embodiment of that lesson, and she’s lighting the way for Catra to navigate the much more nebulous waters of her grudge against Adora.

Double Trouble’s Betrayal

So now Catra is feeling abandoned by Scorpia and Double Trouble (her only friends) and we see the disconnect between what’s in her heart and the front she’s been putting on come to a head in 4x10 when she has that meltdown. She’s kind of losing it because her fear and heartbreak are driving her down a path that she doesn’t actually want. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion. In 4x12 she continues to hold on desperately to the idea that beating Adora will make her happy, because at this point she doesn’t see any way to turn the car around.

There’s an absolutely fantastic scene early in 4x12 that sets up Double Trouble’s betrayal beautifully, like really it’s a masterpiece. Catra’s childhood friends walk in on her in the locker room and they’re laughing and joking around and for a second it’s like... Catra longs to be a part of that again.. To have friends, to be happy. But then Kyle accidentally kicks one of Scorpia’s old doodles (a painful reminder that she’s gone) and Catra freaks out and attacks them. Kyle’s like “we used to be friends, why are you treating us like this?” So she lets them leave, feeling alone and miserable, and THAT’S when Double Trouble waltzes in... having had just made a deal with Glimmer to double cross Catra.

God it hurts so much. The contrast between her pushing away Scorpia and her real friends, and then her childlike relief upon seeing the person who just sold her out.

This scene gives me fucking chills with the nightmare-ish music and everything.. It’s like, at this point DT is just fucking with her, they’ve already got Catra figured out. This face touch is so cruel and fits with the show’s motif of manipulative affection, too. For me it felt very disconcerting to see Catra like this... unaware that she’s been defeated yet she’s so emotionally vulnerable here, she’s like putty in Double Trouble’s hands. Scorpia leaving cracked her open and, as they’re the last person left standing with Catra’s trust, Double Trouble’s in the perfect position to come in and break her.

So the next episode 4x13 has that crazy scene where Double Trouble totally obliterates Catra and I’m not even gonna talk about it lmao because yall have already done a great job analyzing it. But I do wanna draw attention to the fact that this is the only thing she says in this whole scene:

Can you believe that’s what mattered the most to her in that moment? Not that literally everything she had been working for for the past 4 seasons had just turned to dust before her eyes, but the fact that this random mercenary she hired betrayed her. And there was no anger at all, just... heartbreak.

And then look at what she says to Glimmer afterwards (setting aside the fact that Catra is basically giving up on life...) she says nothing about the war, nothing about winning or revenge. The only thing she’s thinking about is how lonely she feels.

So by the end of Season 4, I think Catra did finally figure out what she truly wanted in life. She didn’t want to be on top just for power’s sake, she wanted people to respect her, to love her, so that no one could hurt her anymore. But she was so obsessed with winning that she ended up losing everyone’s respect. Wow haha if only she could get a second chance to earn it back the right way.... like say if, idk, she was trapped in space jail and forced to team up with her sworn enemy to survive and they came out best friends or something <:)

To sum up, Double Trouble’s role in Season 4 was to break Catra’s mask and force her to consider what she truly wants. I think their betrayal taught Catra to really appreciate what a terrible mistake she made in pushing Scorpia and Adora away. It taught her the difference between someone leaving her because they don’t care about her, and someone cutting ties with her even though they do care for her very deeply, they just couldn’t take Catra treating them like crap anymore. It showed her that what Adora did was nothing like what DT did. That’s what a betrayal feels like when the person doesn’t care about you. Someone who doesn’t care about you isn’t going to beg for your forgiveness for 3 seasons and risk being obliterated from existence just to get you back.

But the real beauty of season 4 was how Catra hitting rock bottom had almost nothing to do with Adora. With the help of other friends Catra has begun to find her own reasons to change, she’s acknowledging her guilt and heartbreak and discovering the person she wants to become. She’s learning to take responsibility instead of just blaming other people. And this character development had nothing to do with romance, just like how Adora breaking free of her destiny and learning to let go of control had little to do with Catra. I love the different perspectives on love that they give us with Catra, Adora, and Scorpia. I love how this show takes the “love conquers all” trope and subverts it, saying that sometimes.. love breaks you. Sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes it’s used as a weapon. Sometimes you have to let go of people you love, but it opens up space for you to figure out who you are and what you want and to conquer your own demons. You’ll come out the other side with a better understanding of what real, healthy love is supposed to look like. And maybe in the end, the love you always sought will find you again, in its own time, in its own way. 💘

[artbymintcookies]

if ur taking requests still.. could we get foggy antagonizing matt in the office? i read a fic once where karen didn't know about dd and came back in the middle of an out of control throwing-shit battle instigated by foggy who kept throwing things at matt's head to see if he could catch them (he could) anyway matt didn't want to out himself to karen so he took a textbook to the face n that scene lives within my brain forevermore

hope you don’t mind more words! Also Idk if this is what you had in mind but these boys are straight up mean to each other. under the cut bc long

wait how did this lowkey turn into a full kinda sad fic i’m so sorry

Foggy was angry at him. He knew this because Foggy had told him as much, but also because there was no way any person who was not driven to insanity through passionate rage would put rancid coffee in the coffeemaker. It was from the tin at the back of the cupboard that no one dared touch, liquid tar sitting in their kitchenette just to waft into Matt’s nose until someone did something about it.

Foggy, meanwhile, had a nice steaming cuppa from the coffeeshop across the street. He had bought one for Karen as well.

Finally, noon rolls around, and the stench had been looming around the office for long enough that he broke. He dumped it into the sink, worsening the smell as it coated the drain.

Tersely, he brought the empty carafe into Foggy’s office and plopped it down onto his desk.

Slowly, Foggy looked up to him.

“Can I help you?” he asked sweetly.

“Do I have something to apologize for?” Matt shot back.

“Was there something off about the coffee?”

“I’m not doing this right now,” he said, storming out of the room and trying to focus.

-

Foggy clicked his pen when he was peeved. It was usually only semi conscious, with the added benefit that it bored into Matt’s skull every time.

Matt could take precisely 6 minutes of it before he stormed into Foggy’s office, felt around for a capped pen, and replaced it in Foggy’s hand.

“This is a red pen. I’m not writing notes with this,” Foggy said flatly.

“As long as the clicking stops, I don’t care,” Matt retorted. “Is this also part of my torture?”

“I’d hardly call it torture.”

“You’ve been rude to me all week, and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“If you don’t know, you don’t know.

-

Foggy continued not to talk to him for another week. Matt developed an urgent need to punch something. So he did, repeatedly and hard, every night for a week, and then he stumbled into Karen’s apartment with bloody knuckles because he sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to Foggy about it.

“Woah, hello there, Mr. Devil. Doesn’t your partner usually look after you?” Karen asked, opening the window to let the man enter.

“‘Usually’ being the operative word,” Matt spit bitterly.

“On the outs again?”

“Rough patch,” he corrected. “I’ll fix it. I just need to find out why he’s being so pissy.” 

“Ouch,” Karen deadpanned. “Why can’t he just be legitimately upset at you?”

“I haven’t done anything.”

Karen sighed. “What do we know? Inaction can sometimes be as harmful as action. Willful ignorance, negligence leading to serious harm, what have you.”

Matt paled. “What did I miss?”

“Well, a couple weeks ago, you were supposed to meet Foggy for dinner with his mother.”

“The Rosalind dinner,” he said, horror dawning on his face. “I had to stop a bombing on the other side of town. Did he do it himself?”

“I had to come to his rescue, a half hour late. Apparently, when he had told her she’d be meeting his partner, she had assumed he had meant business partner. She congratulated us on our engagement, by the way.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, she hated that I was the tardy type. She said she’d ‘loathe to have her son tethered to a flaky type.’ Now, usually, I would hate to agree with the reason Foggy has to take Xanax, but just this once, I see where she’s coming from.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She shrugged. “Don’t tell that to me. I wasn’t the one losing out there. Foggy is a surprisingly good kisser.”

“Okay, yeah. Just invite me to the wedding,” Matt waved at her over his shoulder, booking it out the window.

“You owe me one!” she called after him.

-

The window to Foggy’s bedroom had a trick lock. Normally, it wouldn’t matter because he lived on the 11th floor and no one was ever trying to open it from the outside. Matt thought maybe he should let Foggy know as he shook it open and climbed inside. He could hear Foggy in the kitchen, which wasn’t good because it smelled like he was eating sugar cookies at 11pm, which was a definite depression meal.

“Hey,” Matt said, tapping Foggy on the shoulder. He dropped his plate and it shattered in a deafening noise.

“Get out.” Barely a whisper, and barely concealed irritation.

“I came to apologize.” He put his hands above his head in a show of surrender. “I’m sorry I missed dinner. I’m sorry you had to suffer Rosalind alone.”

Foggy paused for a long moment and shoved him out of the way to get a broom.

“I wasn’t alone. I had Karen.”

“Congratulations on your engagement, by the way.”

It earned Matt a jab in the ribs. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t as violent as it could have been, so he took it as a good sign. “Shut up, I’m still mad at you.”

“And how can we expedite your anger so you go back to loving me?” Matt was suddenly glad no one else seemed to be able to hear heartbeats, because it was hammering in his chest. His palms were clammy in his gloves. What if Foggy still refused?

Foggy was silent as he cleaned up the stray ceramic. The pieces jangled into the trash before he spoke. “Just be better, Matt. I’ve been begging you for years.”

Shedding his gloves, he places them carefully on the counter, and his mask along with it. He felt all the ways his hair is disheveled, the myriad directions it was being pulled. He wanted to look away, but he needed Foggy to see his face.

“I can’t do that if you don’t give me another chance.”

“How many more will it take, Matty? How many other chances am I supposed to give you?”

“I’ll get it right one day, don’t you think?” He tried to smile sheepishly, and hoped it didn’t read as smug.

“Your track record says otherwise.”

Matt frowned, felt his muscles lurch downward grotesquely. He took a step forward and reached for Foggy’s hand. It was selfish, but he wanted to chase it when Foggy slipped out of his grasp. “I can’t lose you, Fogs. Don’t tell me that ship’s already sailed.”

A sigh. “You know, for the first time since maybe ever, I think Rosalind was actually proud of me. She was happy that there’s a firm out there with my name on it big enough to have employees, and that it’s competent enough to win cases more than it loses. I mean, I’m still poor as dirt, but at least I’m not a failure. She was proud that I found a smart and pretty woman to love me. You know what she said?”

“Foggy-”

“She said, ‘thank God you’re not so attached to that Murdock fellow anymore. You were getting a little codependent, were you not?’ I mean, what can I say to that? It’s not like it wasn’t true. She had investigators look you up. Came in with a stack of files three inches thick on everything that you’ve done that might reflect badly on me. And that’s just the Murdock side of you. Can you imagine if they found out about Daredevil?”

Matt felt his chin quiver.

“She called it a proposal. She wanted us to split. And it was so tempting, you know? All these years later, chasing her green light. Pathetic, don’t you think?”

“Is this a break up?”

Foggy shook his head. “No, Matt. I told her to fuck off, and that you’re my best friend and that she won’t be the one to split us up. Stormed out of there faster than Rosalind could be billed. Because I show up, for you, Murdock. I can’t do this if it’s not reciprocal.”

“It’s reciprocal I swear. I had- I’m sorry, I know it’s not an excuse, but there was a bombing on the other side of town.”

“Yeah, in Queens. You could have let Spider-Man handle it. Hell, he showed up to the scene faster than you did, according to the Bugle.”

Matt scrubbed at his face. “Okay, maybe Rosalind scares me a bit,” he admitted.

Finally, it got a chuckle out of Foggy. Dry and barely amused, but present nonetheless. “Yeah, she scares me, too.”

Before they could help it, they were laughing and collapsing onto the floor, and melting into each other’s arms.

“I really am sorry, you know. I’ll never let you face her alone ever again,” promised Matt, finding Foggy’s pinky finger to loop it around his own.

“See to it that you do. And you’re paying next time.”

“I can work with that. Just don’t leave me. Please.”

“It’s a deal, I guess.”

[renaer-is-allegedly-hot]

actual session 8 notes

• I made a mistake

○ Mistake as in I came in late oops

• Anyways

• They're talking abt hair

• For sneak attack you roll 2d6 just a friendly reminder to yourself

○ oH IT TELLS U IN DNDBEYOND HOW MUCH FOR SNEAK ATTACK OKAY

• Now they're talking abt pranking ppl in the rides

• Now they're talking abt disneyland problems

• Now they're talking abt rollercoasters

• Jacob's fish ate each other

• Ok dnd time

○ "no worries" re: me being late s u r e ok nvm it's not depression time

• Passive perception checks and then we do smth idk

• Last session(s)

○ Downtime and then breakfast was bombed

○ Found out the attack was deliberate

○ Went to the one fancy villa house and got into a few fights

○ A nimblewright ?? Was responsible for the attack ig

○ We dipped and it's rainy

• The city is engulfed in thiccccc fog

○ Walking back to mirt's house

§ Lillian got prankt

• Lillian's sister has a guinea pig

○ Its name is buttercup

○ "buttercup dumpy tho" - jacob, 2020

• We're talking abt china's laws wrt eating dogs

• We're in the fog going to mirt's

○ Mirt's house is in sea ward, we're in north ward (a ward away)

○ If we just walk it's a half mile away

○ But there r streets so like a mile walk

○ Visibility is bad bc spring fog

○ Disadvantage on perception checks, visibility reduced to 30 ft

○ We're walking we get there

• Cel knocks

○ No one answers the door

○ Adam is making an investigation check

§ Does a short tour of the front, nothing out of the ordinary

§ Door is locked

§ Looking into the house there's an occasional candle burning by itself

□ Adam uses thaumaturgy to rapidly change the color of the lights inside to see if he can get anyone's attention

® Lights change color, nothing happens

§ Maybe we'll break in but cel will try the pebble on a window thing first

□ Throws, door opens and floon lets us in

□ Mans just got up

® We're a lil wet

□ It's abt 5am

• Short rest? There's no medium rest

○ I want cake I might make cupcakes after this bc I need cake sugar

§ I'll make cake after this and watch criminal minds bc it had me scream

○ We're taking shifts for keeping watch sleeping in mirt's living room w windows facing out onto the street

○ We're taking a long rest

• When cel is on watch she's just watching the door and windows

• Eventually renaer and floon get up n operate on a normal schedule

• Cut straight to wake up

○ Once we're all up it's raining

○ Hi jacob's dad isn't his name frederic ? Oh god I could b v wrong but I'm p sure bc when marguerite named the squirrel someone was like it's jacob's dad

§ "usually what I say should be cut off" - frederic, 2020

§ Aw bye jacob's dad

§ Jacob sounds exactly like his dad

□ Tb to the one time we were playing split the room on jackbox w my cousins and my dad and the choice was trading ur average newborn for an uber smart one or not and all of the cousins and myself said don't trade and mY DAD SAID TRADE

• It's pouring

• Mirt doesn't seem to b here but we can talk to renaer and floon

○ Gonna talk to them abt the mansion n ppl / things at the mansion

○ Oh a nimblewright is the one thing

§ Oops I accidentally googled it and turns out they're employed as bodyguards / assassins / spies

○ "renAer . Do u recognize this symbol"

§ He is indeed familiar w the crest

§ "well to me this looks like the house of grahlund (idk) ?? Or smth"

§ The houses of waterdeep

§ We're suss abt the book

□ We don't see any other black pages tho

§ Adam says the gnome was unfortunately barbecued

□ "trying to deliver the stone of galore" to us probs

□ Y would he deliver it to us

□ "bc mirt is relatively well known ,, this house is probs well watched"

□ The stone of galore v sought after by noble families apparenTly

□ The house ppl r embezzling that's y they want the rock

□ Had their robot blast our door for it

□ But now city watch probably has it

□ Theo remembers the one elven lady having seen someone run off

□ The zents want it, the nobles want it, the citywatch want it

○ So is the plan to go find a zent ??? Or what we'd learn if we went to the robot's location

§ I don't remember any frickin robot I'm just trying to pick up on context clues

§ Oh right grinda in mistshore ? 

§ We're gonna go find grinda

□ It's like around 4 in the afternoon

□ Sun not shining too brightly

□ Renaer not coming

® Ur leaving groot w renaer this time

□ Neither is floon, mirt mentioned he had to go do some business elsewhere

® Adam is currently suspicious of mirt

□ We need a ride

® We all dish out 3 copper for a taxi

® Dom dabbed and no one cares

○ Can u drop a message to the guy ?? Somehow ?? Somewhere ?? Just like ,, keep him in the loop ???? Ur confused

• Ok we pay

○ Adam is playing the uke

§ We're in the cab 

§ Imagine it's raining aggressively

§ A dwarf guild member picks us up

§ Ugh I want cake

§ Could I bake while playing hm

§ Cab driver has a rigging of sorts set up

§ I have to pee too

§ Any interesting looking ppl in the cab w us ?

○ A gnome w a fedora looking p drenched, dragonborn woman half sleeping kinda elderly, human man

§ Adam slaps the gnome, you stare at the gnome, gnome looks at adam and adam runs an insight check adam rolls 23, gnome tries to look surprised but looks like he's overacting

§ "there's not a lot of big ideas here"

§ "well that's obvious enough"

§ Gnome picks up on stare

§ You get the paper you flip it, you roll for insight gets 22

□ Takes the bait, looks at the paper; eventually human gets off

□ We're getting close to outskirts of dock ward, road is mud

□ At some point the gnome tries to start conversation

□ "say what's that you've got there"

□ "well I only saw him at the carnival that shows up every fall"

® Common in the autumn but not nowadays

® Would have to wait another summer

□ "are you a nimblewright fanatic sir"

® "all I'm saying is I like springtime rain as much as the next guy but when the wind season comes in it's kinda unusual"

® Gnome's name is elbridge

◊ Adam rolls for insight

} 25

} Looks like he's used to saying that name but it might not be his name

® "say I have some business to attend to so driver u can keep the tip just don't tell the guild" dwarf nods and slows the horses down, gnome gets off and dips

• Adam wants him to blow a nose

• "did he leave any little hairs" - marguerite, 2020

○ Cab driver shouts and says no stabbing on the cart

• We're in the dock ward, cart stops and dwarf leans over and makes us get out

○ Shakes his head and says we shouldn't go to mistborne

○ "is there any instruction you can give us for how to 'get there get there' because you're not 'taking us taking us'" - adam, 2020

• Aerana's leading

○ Dom sends a map

○ We're not standing on the muddy running water streets but on wooden planking

○ You have your dagger at hand

○ Beached ships but ppl living inside them probably

○ U can see there r some ppl peeking out of various doorways + shifty characters milling abt

○ Cel and adam r holding hands

○ Adam is sweating a lot but cel still holds it

○ At some point a dragonborn that looks like a sailor or smth w lots of battlewounds n tattoos looks p savage w dull brown color to scales, stands in front of u without saying anything

○ Ur like a lil shorter than humans and dragonborn r much taller

§ "I have business in mistborne what are you doing in my way"

§ Not so many city types

§ Adam mumbles smth under his breath

□ Asks adam what kind of business

□ "we're looking for grinda"

® Tries to appear jovial

® Says ah yes she lives here

® Dragon therapy

◊ He takes and puts to temple 

◊ U pay him 3 gold

◊ Grinda garloff

} Strange woman w a shed at the end of the dock

} Take a left here and follow the sounds of the waves

} Throws out a fourth

– Has many visitors w strange visitors

◊ Cel says she likes his tattoos

} "yes these r when I was sailing around the isle of chault"

• We follow his directions and eventually get to d1, we see ppl trying to set a fire

○ Walk down the dock towards d2, door to north of d2 has small assemblage of ppl

○ Can see up to 60 ft away some odd looking ppl

§ Four thugs bearing weapons; three humans w a dwarf barking instructions, attempting to break down the door to d2

§ Might b grinda's house but we really don't know

§ Adam spruces up the one fire of the dock workers

□ Cel lets go of adam's hand

□ They don't notice adam did it

• Adam tries to hear what the dwarf is saying bc it's rainy and doesn't hear anything

○ Lots of shifty ppl around

○ Some of them r watching the scene and also us

○ We approach the audience

§ Adam nudges the friendliest looking person

§ We all go up onto the elevated ship

§ Immediately ppl look at us suss

□ Confrontational almost and eventually a half-elf woman asks us if we're here to watch them string up grinda

® Cel makes persuasion check

® Isn't there another door ?

® Adam goes to cushiest looking person and asks y they're after grinda

◊ Old grizzled halfling answers adam and says grinda took smth she wasn't supposed to have

◊ "we're here to make sure that grinda doesn't escape unharmed"

◊ "we're pretty tough as well" adam says

◊ More ppl come over closer to us

◊ Adam asking how much it would be to outbuy

◊ "that depends on how much you're asking oh wrinkly one"

◊ Halfling confers w fellows

◊ Halfling appears to be a ringleader

} Says 15 dragons

– 19 for insight

w Confident guy, lived a tough life

w Ppl put their trust in him

w Halfling says 15 is bargain price

w Unsuccessful try to push the price down you all cough up 3 dragons

– They start distributing dragons

w Not used to containing excitement

○ After distributing money asks if we have a bone to pick with the xants

§ Adam's gonna play them a song and plays it so hard it casts shatter on the dock the thugs are standing on

□ Constitution saving throws for everything

® Two of the bandits and the dwarf fail their saving throws, other two succeed

® Tl;dr the dock - two of them r shocked so hard they're either dead or unconscious

® Dwarf Is particularly affected

® Dock they're standing on collapses

® Door blasted off inwards

◊ "that's a little trick I learned at bard school"

◊ Ppl on the boat have moved away

® Humans and dwarves screaming

◊ 3 left

} We're not killing them just going into the house

} Go to the side entrance

– V small room w all bare necessary fixtures

– Strange safes n intricate bolted locks

– Hanging talismans from the roof

– Nvm went too fast

w Aerana jumps and runs into a wall but you run into a cabinet

w 3 damage

w Human woman looks unconscious

w Adam casts healing word

w Resuscitates her

w Has mismatched eyes, one yellow other dark green

w V gray hair

w Doesn't look particularly old just has gray hair

w Startles when she wakes up trying to assess our intentions

w Adam tries to convince her the thugs outside tried to blow up her door

w 18 for deception

w Lie works

w "who are you people?"

® Theo asks if she knows anything abt this *pulls out paper*

◊ Affirms we're not w the xants

◊ "I appreciate what you did my name's grinda"

◊ Doesn't look used to talking to this many ppl at once

◊ Stands up and busies herself w putting the room back in order

◊ Looks like she had been barricading the door w stuff before everything was knocked over

◊ "you're telling me you just happened across this place and drove off some xants for some odd purpose"

◊ "actually we were looking for you" - theo

◊ Were told she might have smth to do w the paper

◊ "all the homies hate xanathar" - adam, 2020

} "I've had my dealings w the xanathar before…" admits she was in over her head

} Looking at the paper "so this nimblewright was instructed to drop off an artifact I was supposed to hold for the xanathars

} She got greedy bc she's a treasure-seeker

} The artifact is worth a lot

} "it's just what we do lady" - adam, 2020

} Adam is gonna charm her

– Adam tries to flex "what exactly what was the dangerous item that put a poor, poor, well-facially featured woman like you in danger" what is this jacob

w 17 persuasion

– Her expression changes a little

– It's the stone

w "I was attempting to attune with it but I was unable to in time"

w She put it in a hide hole

w Adam offers to trade hidey-hole locations

w She has a rat familiar and instructed it to take the stone to the city of the dead

w "can you tell the rat to bring it back"

• The city of the dead: mass cemetery where ppl of waterdeep bury their dead within city limits

○ Almost like its own ward

○ In the garlock? Garlof? family mausoleum

○ Adam gets her to pull out some of the items she's collected; some resistance

§ She comes back w a brass ring

□ Once one is attuned to it you are rendered invisible

□ "hold on to that for me hun and I'll come back"

○ Aerana is aware there are guards posted at night but it's a vast open space

• To the cemetery we will go

• Summary

○ Successfully dispatched the thugs

○ Gradually learning more abt the alleged horde of dragons