#i meant to pose this ages ago BUT

[gatheredfates]

Poses. Hello! 💫

I'm doing something both extremely regular and very on point for me, but also new in the grand scheme of things. Normally this single-word drive would be done as a flash prompt and be for fics only. However, with Dawntrail coming up and me taking a break from my longer asks until well after the expansion's launch, I wanted to extend the life of my single word drive and allow people to engage in creative mediums beyond writing; aka, gpose, art, meta analysis — whatever makes you happy and engaged creatively with Final Fantasy XIV!

To that end, please consider this a single-word (anything) drive!

...Okay, but what is a single-word (anything) drive?

By liking/reblogging this post, you consent for me to go into your askbox to send a one-word prompt generated from this website, picked from a selection of five, as a prompt for you do something creative with your oc. I will then queue any and all completed works to my character question tag, which can be found here.

There is no word limit or time limit, no barrier for skill, and you are welcome to ask for another prompt if the original one doesn't vibe. This is all about giving you the opportunity to explore a concept or part of your character you might not have considered, or expand upon your artistic/technical ability.

As this is a longer drive than my flash ones, I will be advertising it accordingly, and will send multiple prompts for those who'd like them. If you have finished an ask and would like another, please reply to this post with an emoji of a sea creature. 🐋 You can do this as many times as you want until the end of the drive; it counts as an extra like/reblog!

Sea, when does the drive end? I'm glad you asked! It'll end when (Count)Down To Dawntrail starts or when I manually call it — whichever comes first. It'll be announced on this post, but feel free to join my community project discord over at SEAFLOOR where you'll see (ha) me announce it in real time.

That's all for now! I'll either update or reblog this post with more information as needed, so please check the notes of this post for any updates.

[astrxealis]

taking funny little gposes with my wol and raha makes my little heart swell in a funny nice way ... >_<

[uno-san]

Hiii! Could I rq reader who was Fords gf/so before he left and when he comes back he’s happy bc he realizes reader stayed in Gravity Falls the whole time and maybe even helped Stan fix the portal!

But then Bill comes and it’s totally up to u whether to make Bill like super jealous of reader or become just as obsessed with reader as he is with Ford idk.

Thank u!

Hello! Thanks so much for sending in a request. This is the first thing I've written in FOREVER, so I miiiiight have gotten carried away. Hope you and everybody else enjoys!

It always reminded you of the night sky. 

That, or what lied far beyond it. Beyond you, maybe. But never Stanford Pines. Who, in this very moment stood several yards from where you yourself were. The both of you had that strange, not-quite night sky wrapped around your forms. Yet instead of the endless expanse that space was known for, various journals, textbooks, and equations littered that space around you.

It would have been a marvelous sight if you didn’t know the purpose behind this all-too tailored world for Stanford. A trap meant to make him feel seen and applauded in ways you couldn’t quite match. A place for them to meet.

Beside Stanford was another figure. A three-sided one to be exact who had taken place near his shoulder, where he had been far longer than you could have ever known. But here he didn’t need to whisper his lies. Here, the two of them could simply converse and enjoy each other’s company. A wonderful plan to make Stanford feel known while also shutting you out from the light altogether.

Their laughter was uproarious.

“AHAHAHAHA! COME ON, SIXER, YOU DON’T MEAN THAT!”

A shrill voice cut through your observations. The devilish figure that it belonged to had placed his hands over his chest, or stomach, as if he were trying and failing to hold in his joy. His one eye was closed and curved to show a smile that his body didn’t have the means to actually do. His tie meanwhile spun in circles as if a toy had been wound up.

‘Sixer’ had his eyes lowered to the platform of which he stood. Tucked under his arm was one of his prized journals, where each of his six fingers drummed against its spine. He looked bashful under interrogation.

“What, not quite the term your ego would prefer, Bill?” Stanford finally shot back, his gaze raising to meet Bill’s while his eyebrow raised to pose a challenge.

“NOT AT ALL!” 

The demon began to circle around Stanford, who’s whole body began to turn with a determination not to break eye contact again. As if he were afraid of losing sight of Bill. Or his attention. Seeing it reminded you of a puppy enamored with its owner. Its everything, really. You had been familiar with it at some point yourself. What felt like ages ago now.

“JUST SURPRISED, IS ALL. I MEAN, AAAAAAAAALL I’VE DONE IS EXPAND YOUR MIND TO THE UNIVERSE OUTSIDE YOUR PUNY WORLD, SHOW YOU NEW COLORS, AND GIVE YOU THE PERFECT COMEBACKS EVERY TIME YOU GET INTO AN ARGUMENT,” He humbly bragged, “BUT IS THAT ALL REALLY WORTH IT TO BE CALLED YOUR-”

MUSE.

Muse.

Muse.

Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse. Muse.

That damn word was going to be imprinted on your brain with how often it was quite literally repeating. Out Loud. High-pitched and nearly shattering your ear drums, a physical manifestation of the word appeared in the space to hurl itself in your direction; A move you’ve seen one too many times. You nimbly dodged off to the side without losing your footing like you had the first time this occurred. With both your feet planted firmly on the ground you whipped your head around to catch the end of the show.

The scene had frozen. Stanford’s expression was stuck in a form of denial, his cheeks tinted a rosy color that you used to make them turn. His brow was furrowed as if he were concerned. Or desperate to assure Bill that he truly was worth it all. Bill meanwhile had his arms folded behind his back while his half-lidded eye bore down on its prey like a benevolent mentor.

Bill’s pupil slowly slid in your direction.

“A BENEVOLENT MUSE, YOU MEAN.”

Bill Cipher became animated again. This time he no longer addressed the version of Stanford standing before him. His smug attention was all focused on you now. His small frame managed to tower over you in mere presence alone, even at the distance you two stood at.

Arms folded behind his back, there was a silence that followed while Bill inspected you. Perhaps waiting for you to give a response before he settled on his own. He feigned surprise.

“DIDN’T EXPECT TO CATCH YOU HERE. SIXER AND I WERE JUST HAVING A MOMENT ALONE,” Bill emphasized, his arm outstretching far past its supposed physical limit to wrap itself around Stanford’s still frame, “YOU KNOW, LIKE WE’VE BEEN HAVING FOR A WHILE. BEHIND YOUR BACK. IN FACT HE WAS JUST ABOUT TO GET TO COMPLIMENTING ME. SINCE I’M HIS MUSE. HIS SKY. STARS. WHATEVER.”

Muse.

Another manifestation hurled its way in your direction. You weren’t nearly as prepared and the edges of the word were sharp, slicing into your arm to draw what you assumed to be blood. With a wince you had to steady your balance before your glare shot back to the bastard in front of you.

He was a menace who you hadn’t realized you had been in competition with for years. And now, in a pissing contest with as the man you’re both fighting over like teenagers was lost in worlds unknown. The man you had loved and had been prepared to marry was gone now. Leaving you with his unfaithful ‘Muse’.

Oh, how you’ve come to hate the word.

It happened first when you had learned of the existence of an other-worldly being that had been secretly leading Stanford’s ambitions. Second was when you had discovered Ford’s hidden collection of idols and paintings. All squirreled away in a private chamber of his own viewing pleasure. That had been manageable.

But the fondness in his gaze when discussing their meetings made your heart ache. How he’d talk as if Bill Cipher was the sole purpose of everything now. His reason for continuing his research or facing adversity for his talents. Or the way he’d pause in the middle of a task to instead laugh at a memory of Bill from earlier, with his hands looking to busy themselves as a distraction.

All of that had hurt. But what made you hate the word most of all was its constant use to torture you. That the moment Bill had sensed your distaste for the term he had done nothing but plague your mind with it. Shoving it in your face as if he was a secret side woman in some stately affair.

Thus far this has been your nightly routine for several months now. Ever since Stanford Pines went missing from this world and so many others. With his brother, Stanley, being left behind with you to pick up the pieces to get back your lost loved one. And for some reason or other, Bill had set his sights on tormenting you.

Every night. Different visions of their bonded moments played in your mind while Bill sneered and poked fun at you for being fool enough to never notice the signs of your man slipping away. You never knew if what he showed you was true. You hoped not.

“THEY’RE REAL.”

You ignore him a moment to get back on two feet. Standing tall before him.

“Do you plan on taking me through your ‘Greatest Hits’ every night or are you going to fuck off already?” The venom in your tone caused interest to gleam in his eye. Most nights you try not to dignify his taunts with a response. But you were tired. Both mentally and physically thanks to late nights with Stanley to try to get the portal running again, or your lonely crying sessions blaming yourself for letting this go on for so long. You were exhausted.

“AW, DIDN’T THINK YOU’D GET SO CRANKY OVER A LITTLE FUN FORDSY AND I WERE HAVING! I’M SURE IT’S EASY TO GET INSECURE OVER THE IDEA OF YOUR MAN GETTING THE CHANCE TO VISIT A SUPERIOR BEING EVERY NIGHT BUT HE MENTIONED YOU ONCE OR TWICE. Y’KNOW, ABOUT HOW YOU’RE ‘SAFE’ AND ‘STABLE’.”

You knew he was just trying to get a rise out of you. Perhaps even deter you from working on that portal any further, ensuring that Stanford would remain lost to mystery forevermore. “Say what you want Bill but I know him better than what your mind creeping could ever do. You miscalculated by seeing only the parts that benefited you and that’s going to end up biting you in the ass. Because it doesn’t matter what you and Stanford had before. Whatever was there is GONE, and I know that Stanford will be coming to end you too.”

It was difficult to keep your voice steady to feign the confidence that you hadn’t had in a long time. You stood bravely in the face of Bill, who’s form only grew in size while you charged up your own argument. He was nearly towering over you now while his gaze remained steady on you. His expression was unreadable.

“WELL WELL WELL, I-”

He’s yapped for far too long.

“Maybe that’s the point to all of this,” You gestured to the spectacle put on pause, “You realize you fucked up. Pushed too hard. Or maybe you’re not even playing this for me. You’re just trying to convince yourself that Ford is still in the palm of your hand when in reality, he despises you. Wants you dead. That despite all the compliments and praises you keep showing me he still picked me over you.”

You weren’t sure if any of this was going to strike a chord. Especially with being in the dark as long as you had, there was nothing for you to fight with. The best you could do was treat him like the vindictive affair partner he was pretending to be. And it worked. Or it was the hint of a suggestion you made in saying you were chosen over him.

Bill’s form skyrocketed in size from its already heightened form, with the triangle now bending over you now to force you to nearly tilt your head all the way back just to make eye contact. His pupil was entirely black to reflect your new surroundings as the static image of Ford and their place of contact was suddenly whisked away. What used to be a bright yellow turned to blood-red bricks that you swore you could feel heat coming off of.

“STANFORD PINES FEARS ME,” Bill’s voice boomed, “AND THAT’S EXACTLY WHERE I WANT HIM. THINKING OF ME AND CHASING AFTER MY COATTAILS UNTIL THAT NERD COMES TO REASON. AND UNTIL THEN YOU-”

His fingers snapped. The ground beneath you disappeared and you felt weightlessness hit as you began to descend into a dark pit. “YOU WILL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN!”

The vision of the gigantic demon began to fade away. His voice still boomed and echoed despite the void that they were shouted into. As your conscience begins to fade into its own form of nothing you close your eyes to instead repeat his words to yourself.

Never see him again.

__

The Mystery Shack above you groaned with disapproval. Its wood and structure creaked as it finally settled back on the ground, thankfully still supported by its own weight once gravity returned to normal. You were face first on the ground with your head still spinning from that hasty landing you made to resist any damage. With just one peek of an eye you could see that your vision was still hazy. Only a sickeningly familiar blue light kept the basement of the Shack from being in total darkness.

Darkened figures up ahead began to move. When you tried to join them you were quick to discover that your leg caught in debris. A quick examination told you that it wasn’t anything dangerous like active machinery, and the small tugs you gave to test your aching body showed that nothing was quite broken. Hurt, yes, but all intact.

Just like the house you could feel your bones settling back into place while creaking with resentment. You could only imagine how Stanley must have been feeling. Propping yourself up with one arm you then used your freehand to begin pulling away at the rubble on top of you, trying to carefully dismantle it piece by piece so that it wouldn’t collapse on top of you.

Having been so focused on your escape you had only caught the tail-end of what Stanley was telling dipper.

“The author of the Journals…”

Your head whipped around so fast it could have snapped, “My brother.”

As if on cue a figure cladded in a black cloak removed his mask with a six fingered hand, his silver hair whipping around him as he slowly revealed a face you thought you could have anticipated after having aged years with Stanley. The fact that they were twins did little to stop you from tearing up at the handsome visage that was your Stanford Pines.

The wrinkles in his face had deepened from the last you saw him. He was still chiseled with a hint of facial hair he might have shaved off recently while his posture and expression gave off a confidence you weren’t familiar with.

Stanley began to approach him with open arms, prepared to greet the brother he’s missed for years for longer than yours. Stanford didn’t match his sentiments. Instead his fist drew back to strike Stan who had flinched out of the way- But not before Stanford’s fist froze. Left hanging in the air as something else caught his attention. Past Stanley and Dipper. Through various piles of cement and broken wood.

You.

Neither of you moved. His eyes flickered back and forth in a manner that suggested he was examining you all the same. Taking in every detail of your graying form, of each new wrinkle that has marked your age like a tree. The intensity of his gaze made your heart stall for more reasons you could count.

Was that disappointment in his gaze? Or worse, indifference? The world had already been cruel in tearing you apart in the first place. How easy would it be to have Stanford simply forget you? To have moved on to grander and exciting things since his time away. After all, Bill Cipher had enticed him once before. YOU nearly lost him once before. Who’s to say you haven’t wasted your years chasing after a man who could no longer remember your face?

Tears began to gather. They soothed the sting of debris in the air to instead replace it with a dull ache in your heart. At this point you could have been crying over any number of things. You tried calling out his name but the words caught in your throat.

He shouted yours instead. Pushing passed his stunned brother and great nephew to run in your direction. Just as Stanford was a few feet away he suddenly dropped to his knees to slide the remaining distance. It was a physical endeavor you envied in this moment.

Already Stanford’s arms wrapped around your form, drawing you in close to his chest while he buried his face into your hair. You didn’t dare utter a sound of discomfort. Swallowing your tears you chose to focus on his warmth rather than the pain your body was in. How much studier his arms felt from the last time you were held in them, however long ago that was.

“M…My dear…” Stanford gasped, as if the term of endearment hadn’t been uttered in history before. His six fingers nearly dug into your body with his tight grasp. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “This…This is real. Bill isn’t lying again. You’re here. You.”

From the corner of your vision you could see both Soos and Mabel staring in wonder. Their mouths were left hanging open while they slowly turned to each other to clasp hands together. Mabel began to mouth ‘they have a histooooory!!’

You opted to turn your face into Stanford’s chest to ignore all that as long as you could.

“All these years I’ve waited here for you, Stanford. Every year was spent fixing the portal, I-” Your eyes wandered to his twin, “-We’ve been fixing the portal. Stan and I together decided we weren’t going to stop until you were home safe.”

Stanford drew in a breath. The tension that coiled his posture was a familiar sign of his frustrations being withheld, and with the copious warnings in his Journals to not open the portal again you had a fairly safe guess as to what that tension was. Stanford managed to swallow it down as his hand cupped your cheek and directed your eyes to his.

The years have really gone by. For the both of you, you realized as you gazed into weary and worldly eyes. Did he see the same thing in you? Or has it occurred to him just how truly long it's been since the two of you were close like this. Since way before he was lost in the first place. To where Bill’s schemes began to put the first cracks in the foundations of your relationship.

From the distance the portal still glowed a blue hue, flickering every few moments as the machine began to lose its life at long last for what you pray is the last time. Both of you were left illuminated with blue. The beautiful sight of Stanford had been imprinted on your mind, nearly washing away the years of trauma the color had come to be associated with.

You could have sworn Stanford’s eyes were brimming with tears as well before they closed, the distance between you two gone as he leaned down to capture your quivering lips in a kiss. With it came the relief of a thirty-year grief. Not of a healed relationship but of a path to recovery and trust. You nearly grinned into the kiss. Stanford Pines chose you.

[seiwas]

three-part honesty | todoroki shouto

wc: 16.3k

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

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

sequel to: two-part something ao3 mirror

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

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

I. LISTEN CLOSELY

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

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

Except for this one thing—

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

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

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

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

So—

A… Crush?

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

This isn’t what he was expecting at all. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natsuo raises an eyebrow, knowing. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto lets the realization settle in. 

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

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

The two-part thump continues, beating. 

A crush. On you. Huh. 

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

This feels… new, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Shouto knows his Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of his Monday routine. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, catching himself lingering. 

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

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

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

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

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

Except now, when you speak—

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

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

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

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

So, why are you even asking? 

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

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

But—

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

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

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

Shouto doesn’t say anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And as for that—

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

You nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do you even respond to this?) 

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

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

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

“What seems to be the problem then?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow, crease deepening and heart still sinking. 

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

You’re endeared, touched by his consideration.

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

A pause. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His gaze flits to you once again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is part of your job, after all. 

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

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

He gives you a look. 

You stop moving. 

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

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

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

Besides—

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

Cameras flash as Shouto steps down from his van. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take his offer.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile sheepishly, mumbling, “Thanks.” 

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

Shouto looks at you then, again, too.

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

And—

Kirishima’s right. 

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

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

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

You. 

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

But—

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

—maybe he can try again next time. 

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

The corner of his lips curl only the slightest bit. 

Bakugo watches. 

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

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

“Y’coming or what?” 

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

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

“Old hag told me you’re dating.” 

Bakugo speaks, his back still turned to Shouto. 

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

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

It works, as evidenced by right now. 

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

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

Shouto pauses mid-sip. 

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

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

He doesn’t think he insinuated anything. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did you know?” 

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

Shouto stares right back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

He thinks about it. 

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto leave the gala early.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It begins to sink in. 

A thump.

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

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

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

He furrows his brows. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(You can’t deny the facts.)

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

“At least let me place this over you.” 

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

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

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

(It’s just like the gala—)

It’s just like the car—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto nods, taking one step back. 

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto tilts his head. 

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

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

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

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

II. IF I SPEAK

The Todoroki family home comes alive on the weekends. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—but still equally as snarky.

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

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

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

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

The corners of Shouto’s lips curl up slightly. 

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

These family lunches keep them connected. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you, she adds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Touya does this pretty often: provoking just for fun. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for fun.)

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

All Shouto hears is a thump. 

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

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

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

Today is the visit to the estate. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows this is just how his older brother is. 

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

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

Shouto sighs, clenching his jaw. 

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

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

Touya scoffs, “Sure.” 

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

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

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

Another thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not funny.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You just have to go for it!” 

He takes a step. 

.

.

.

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

And you—

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

And you—

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

He can’t stop staring. 

Touya snorts as he passes him. 

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

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

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

You nod. 

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

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

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

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

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

(You feel warm at the reminder.

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

Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your dress.)

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

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

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

“Was he sabotaging you?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He chuckles softly, matching your steps in comfortable silence. 

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

Touya’s words come back to him. 

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

Now, he wonders—

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

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

“The lighting is nice here, too.”

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

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

He puts down his phone, tilting his head. 

“Are insects biting you?”

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

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

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

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

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

But—)

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

For you. 

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

He blinks, and you only get prettier. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shouto looks, raising an eyebrow curiously. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

III. LET ME TELL YOU (HONESTLY)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight, his mind ruminates on you. 

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

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

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

You still care for him in the same way. 

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

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

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

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

He thinks you look cute. 

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

.

.

.

You and Shouto attend only one day of teambuilding. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two.” 

You take a deep breath. 

“Go!” 

“Three.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Shouto waves it off, smiling softly. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

(You don’t need first-aid. But—) 

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

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

A whistle is blown to call everyone back to huddle. 

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The lighting was nice. See!” 

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

And he decides—

He should get you flowers too. 

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

It’s only right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, and that thump beats once more. 

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

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

“Would you want me to have this wrapped?” 

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

Your grip on the stems tighten. 

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

“It’s for you.”

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

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

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

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

“There’s no occasion…?”

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

Shouto blinks. 

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

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

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

Thump.

He takes a deep breath.

Thump.

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

Thump.

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

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

“No occasion.” 

.

.

.

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

Shouto knows your Mondays. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

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

“You’re back!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

So for you to keep it for this long—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, this is out of the ordinary. 

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

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

Shouto furrows his brows, tilting his head slightly. 

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

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

He places his palm on the top folder. 

“What else do you have to do?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That promptly shuts you up. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But—

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

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

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

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

It’s one of his favorite shirts.)

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

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

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

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

A thump. 

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

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

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

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

You know him better than anyone else does. 

The flowers he gave you are still on your desk. 

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

You freeze, holding your breath. 

Another thump.

His honesty spills outs—

“I like you.” 

A three-beat thump. 

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

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

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

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

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

He pauses, watching your expression shift into curiosity. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

additional material: moodboard + playlist

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

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

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[easy-there-leftovers]

Magnum Opus (Prologue)

When an MIT prodigy on their gap year is contacted by the FBI regarding potential involvement in a series of murders in Washington D.C., she must now cooperate to uncover how paintings are mysteriously appearing at the crime scenes. (Written with Season 1-4 Spencer in mind, but the timeline could be anywhere pre-season 12. No mentions of past cases)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Artist! reader|cw: Canon-typical violence|word count: 700 words

Notes: I made up a bunch of chemicals and their chemical properties up so shhhh!! Also, I'm not American, I have no contextual understanding of the distance of one place to another. The US is large enough.

Also on Ao3!!

Series Masterlist

---------

"Muses are the silent artists of our souls, whispering inspiration into the canvas of our thoughts, painting the colors of creativity with the brushstrokes of imagination." - Author Unknown.

“Seven months ago, one freelance architect named James Carter aged 42 was murdered in his own home in Newton Massachusetts. The victim was posed like the painting placed at the foot of his own couch. All forms of ID on him were missing.” 

JJ made her way from the map inside the meeting room to the screen to present pictures of the crime scene. All other agents made their way inside, with Garcia jotting down notes, as they listened and took their respective places.

“Four months after that, indie artist Daniel Lopez, aged 25, was also found dead in her apartment with another painting and missing ID. Posed just like the girl in it too. Autopsy revealed similar entry and exit wounds through the chest.” 

Images of the victims’ wounds that have already been cleaned up were exposed to the camera. Wounds that could’ve been missed if investigations weren’t conducted made themselves notable as Emily and Spencer opened up their files.

“Ballistics?” 

JJ shook her head at Morgan's question. “No bullets were found.”

“The unsub probably killed them somewhere secluded, then placed them back in their home.” Emily looked to Spencer, only to see him already getting up towards the screen.

“Look at the way they’re dressed. Clothes fitted like that aren’t meant to be worn without the intention of meeting someone.”  Spencer motioned to their clothes. “They didn’t intend to go just anywhere looking like that.”

“Yeah, well neither did this man.” JJ then presented a picture of another victim, another male, another painting, posed in another home. She then turned to redress the rest of the team. “Found yesterday with similar signatures. The only difference is that he was actually staged in a vacant apartment. Everything in there was left by the previous owners. Still no ID on him.”

The resident team genius furrowed his eyebrows at the information, turning to see what the others thought. “Kills both males and females…”

“Victims were found with their clothes on. Dressed to impress but no signs of torture, no experimentation,” Hotch lifted the pictures nearer to his face. “Doesn’t look like he’s interested in either.”

“A serial killer with no sexual preference?” Emily raised her brow at that.

“Wouldn’t be the first.” Spencer replied, looking closer at the paintings in his own file. “Although the subjects in the paintings look exactly like the victims they’re placed on. It brings up the question of which one came first, the person depicted in the painting, or the painting itself…”

“Says here forensics found no prints anywhere but did find traces of  5-dur– durasta—”

“5-durastalene. Also known as ‘Lunacite.’” Spencer corrected Rossi.

“Actually, this synthetic compound is a little on the newer side, a compound that was originally developed by an MIT student for their dissertation in the Chemical Engineering program. I tried figuring out what the naming convention she used was but she didn’t give an explanation on that part. I assumed it could’ve been one out of a number of references, ranging from an anagram of—”

“How new are we talking?” Hotch interrupted, but deeply thankful that someone on the team seemed to have a lead.

“13 months, 2 weeks, and 5 days new. But it’s weird.” Spencer punctuates his statement by flicking through the papers. 

“The compound shouldn’t be commercially available anywhere and it’s meant to make other materials resistant to corrosion. No one should be using it in paint, let alone processing it.” The team let his words ring in their head before Hotch broke the silence.

“Garcia, look for MIT graduates who have worked with Lunacite and a background in fine arts.”

“Already way ahead of you chief, and deliciously, only one name fits the bill in every angle you can have it.” Their tech analyst who had been typing away then placed her laptop pointedly and turned it onto the round table for everyone to see. Everyone leans forward, but the BAU’s resident pretty boy is the one who says the name out loud.

“Y/N L/N.” On the screen is a put-together picture of you on various digital scans of your passport, driver’s license, doctoral degrees in Chemical Engineering and Anthropology, and undergrad degrees in both Philosophy and Sociology.

“Watch out, pretty boy. You may have just found your match.” Morgan’s comment is greeted with a few snickers, much to Spencer’s dismay.

------------

[call-memissbrightside]

warnings: age-gap, adultery, mentions of cheating, NSFW scene hinted at

"Mrs. Bakugou look over here please!"

You squint against the harsh flashing of the paparazzi cameras, careful to not let your smile drop as you pose for them. Your feet were killing you in the heels your mother-in-law made you wear to match the custom dress she also had her say in designing for the annual Hero Gala. Thankfully your husband was by your side, hand on the small part of your back to keep you steady.

Peeking up at him through your false eyelashes that felt too heavy for your eyelids, you were envious that Katsuki wasn't pushed to smile for the cameras.

It was his role to be the brute, strong man while you played into the dainty, tempting trophy wife that was so small compared to his large size of pure muscles and testosterone.

You weren't a fan of the label his publicist team slapped onto you after you said 'I Do' to Japan's #2 Top Hero almost a year ago. Yet, being a trophy wife was better than being known as —

"Hey home-wrecker, you still talk to Uravity? I heard she's taking full custody of their daughter, would you like to comment?"

Bakugou moved to correct which ever journalist spoke out, and the they just loved that.

"Dynamite, are you on good terms with your ex wife?" "Does (Y/N) prevent you from seeing your child?" "Sir, did you only marry her to save your image?"

Their questions were harsh, as they were just mean. Thankfully the Bakugou family security moved in before Katsuki had to, and soon the pair of you were ushered off the red carpet.

You could still hear them calling out to you from behind the closed doors of the venue before another victim caught their eyes.

"Stupid fucking press, think they know everything," Katsuki mumbled before hiking up the stairs that led to the main ballroom where the award ceremony was held.

You hesitated at the bottom, staring up at the man who was your husband, the man who called you his wife. He was just as handsome as he was when he debuted as a hero even though now he was hitting his mid-thirties while you barely just turned twenty-two. The invasive questions that were thrown at you are rattling in your head, making it nearly impossible to move to be beside your Husband, The Hero Dynamite.

Katsuki notices you're not following him mid way up the stairs and scoffs before walking back to you.

"Stupid hag, I told her you don't know how to walk in heels," Is all he said before taking your hand and helping to lead you up the stairs.

You want to ask him about what the paparazzi was saying, if it was true that Ochako was trying to get full-custody of Katsumi. That meant he was lying to you when you asked if everything with his ex-wife was okay, right? And that last question... did he only marry you to save face —?

"What's wrong, you look like you're going to cry?" Katsuki asked quietly as a waiter showed them where you were sitting, up and center to the stage where the shiny awards were shown off on the platform.

You sit in the cushy seat, and not even the delicate decorations of the table; the shiny, white plates surrounding the centerpiece made up of what seemed to be hundreds of red roses— were enough to make you swoon and forget your worries.

Taking in Katsuki, how handsome he looks in his sleek black suit with the handkerchief peeking out of his chest pocket matching your dress, makes your heart clench.

You didn't want to cause a scene, or be an issue.

That's what Katsuki wanted, that's what he told you when you first met him.

"My wife is such a worrier, always on my ass and so damn dramatic." That's what he said, and it stuck with you because if he could leave her, a distinguished hero and the mother to his first and only child, he would leave you in the blink of an eye. Then what will become of you? The press would have a field day with that, "Fellow homewrecker gets her karma and now is heartbroken, single, and broke."

So, you suck it up, and shake your head. Putting back on your fake smile, your facade, you try being what he wants.

"Nothing at all baby, I'm just so proud of you," You lean in the gain a kiss, and it does make you a tad better when Katsuki grants you it.

———————

"Daddy!"

Thank god Katsuki had fast reflexives.

The moment the bedroom door is flung open, he's sitting up in bed. Katsuki pulls your naked chest to his and wraps the comforter up your shoulders to hide any naked skin from the view of his six-year old daughter Katsumi.

"'Sumi," He grits his teeth in annoyance but Katsuki never yells at his daughter. You hide your face into his neck, his body heat almost feeling scorching hot against yours as you blush red from embarrassment at almost being caught doing it by the little girl.

"Hi (Y/N)!" Katsumi yells when she spots your hair poking out of the comforter.

"Shhh," Katsuki shushes Katsumi, making her red eyes widen in worry. "(Y/N) is sleeping baby, what do you need?" Katsuki was sure that leaving his daughter occupied in her room with snacks and her favorite Bluey episodes playing on her TV would give him at least an hour to destress.

Katsumi cups her hands to her mouth, whispering, "I missed you guys and wanted to see if (Y/N) would play with me?"

Having Katsumi love you unconditionally was something you were immensely lucky to have, and her plea to play with you makes you teary eye at her sweetness.

Being identical to Katsuki in terms of looks, with his blonde hair and red eyes, she didn't inherit her father's temper. Katsumi was kinder and more willing to wear her heart on her sleeve, which made loving her easy for you.

Katsuki could feel the annoyance of being interrupted vanish at his daughter's sweet question, his hands that were anchored on your bare, bruised hips, gave you a gentle squeeze.

"Sure baby, let me wake her up and (Y/N) would love to play with you," Katsuki said.

Katsumi cheered before she quickly quieted down to not 'wake you', running out of the room after softly closing the door behind her.

You shimmy the blanket off you, both you and Katsuki red in the face from almost being caught.

"Do you need help with this?" You tease, rolling your hips to reignite the pleasure Katsuki was pulling from your body. His cock was still hard inside of you, seeing how he was almost finding his release before Katsumi interrupted.

Usually, Katsuki would take any opportunity to use your wet pussy to make himself feel good so imagine your surprise when he shakes his head no.

"I actually have to head to the office to finish up some reports from the week. Do you mind watching Katsumi until I'm finished? We could go out for dinner afterwards?"

Katsuki doesn't wait for your answer, he easily lifts you completely off his cock and placing you on the bed next to him before he gets up and begins getting dressed. You sit there for a bit, watching as your husband covers up all the love bites you left on him.

"Reports?" You ask, still in shock that he didn't finish what he started.

Katsuki's head falls back as he sighs, annoyance making his brow furrow as he puts on his shirt.

"Yes (Y/N), reports. They're important to hero work, you would know if you were one."

The last part bites, and it's the sting you needed to get up and dress yourself. Katsuki knew talking about your lack of having a quirk was a sore subject to you, you told him this countless times. Yet, he would bring it up time to time when he wanted to showcase how he was wiser, older, and knew what he was talking about and how you were stupid for questioning him.

You're having a pretend tea-party with Katsumi in the living room when Katsuki bids his farewell.

"Girls, give me a kiss for luck," He orders, and Katsumi springs up in giggles to give her father a big kiss on his cheek.

You are slow to make your way to him, still hurt by what he said and because he hadn't apologized.

Katsuki doesn't wait for you, he pulls you to him with a strong hand cupping your asscheek and giving it a squeeze. You kiss him, and he groans softly against your mouth.

"Tonight, we lock the fuckin' door, yeah?" He growls against your ear, too soft for Katsumi to hear as she already was back to playing.

It wasn't a proper apology, but the way your core tightened and your cunt leaked, it would do.

Later, as you now played princess in Katsumi's bedroom in front of her giant doll house, your mood began to damper again.

"(Y/N), does my daddy still pay you for babysitting me?" It was an honest question, and you knew Katsumi didn't mean anything by it but you still flinched at her words.

You try smiling the pain away, shaking your head. "Of course not silly girl, your daddy and I are married now."

Katsumi's sweet smile looks too much like her mother's and it reminds you of how Ochako would look at you when she'd come home from work: naive and so happy, oblivious to the fact that Katsuki had you bent over the bed he shared with her just moments prior to her return.

You had to look away so Katsumi wouldn't see the tears gathering in your eyes as you swallowed back the guilt you felt for breaking up the sweet girl's family.

Katsumi, still oblivious and not able to read nor have access to the internet just yet, still treated you like you were the best stepmom ever.

How many years do I have left before she only sees me as the other woman?

———————

Drop-offs were always awkward for you.

Despite the rumors the paparazzi spread, the relationship between Dynamite and Uravity was civil. Yet the relationship between you and Ochako was a bit strained, to say the least.

You hug Katsumi goodbye as she leaves to spend the week with her mother, before she gets into Ochako's car.

"No Katsuki?" Ochako asked with a raised eyebrow.

You cower under her questionable look, and you shrug. "He got caught up in the office again this week."

Your answer seems to be funny to her, and Ochako laughs before shaking her head. "I've heard that one before."

Saying nothing, you almost feel relief when the woman turns to walk back to her car before turning back to you.

"Let me give you piece of advice sweetheart, wife-to-wife," Ochako said coldly. "When Mr. Bakugou starts using the excuse of being 'caught up at the office', you better start claiming assets for the divorce."

Your eyes tear up, and your bottom lip quivers as the older woman rips into you.

"Trust me (Y/N), you don't want to keep holding on when he's already balls deep in someone else," Ochako warns, scoffing at your distress and walking away finally.

"I can't believe Katsuki liked them so young and stupid," The former Mrs. Bakugou said as she walked.

You openly sob as she drives away, Katsumi's confused face zooming past as you cry standing in the huge driveway of the house Katsuki owned.

It felt like your heart was ripped out of your chest, the idea of there being someone else when you've given your all for Katsuki and this marriage nearly drives you insane with grief. Karma was a bitch—

Your phone dings which takes your attention away from your pain, and you nearly cheer up when you notice a new message from Katsuki, only it read:

be home late, don't wait up

part two

[whenmemorydies]

The Claw, The Scrunchie and The Prayer Card

What - or who - do the hair claw, the scrunchie and the prayer card that appear in season 3 represent? I think I know, and no its not Claire or Mikey. Join me for an unhinged trawl through all 3 seasons of The Bear (with screenshots cos you know I love me some evidence).

A few weeks ago, @vacationship posed a fascinating question about the hair claw seen in Carmy's apartment in 3x01 Tomorrow:

This question branched off into many lovely and thought-provoking discussions including this post from @thoughtfulchaos773 about the significance of hair accessories and this post from @moodyeucalyptus on Catholicism and miracles. Both posts refer to another memento that we are shown in Carmy's apartment, a scrunchie, which we see at the end of 3x09 Apologies:

A particular theory that intrigued me was that the hair claw from 3x01 morphed into the scrunchie we see at the end of 3x09, as one of the many sleights of hand/instances of legerdemain in season 3, potentially indicative of a softening of Carmy's self-loathing and/or guilt (contrasting the hardness and teeth of the hair claw with the gentle grip of the scrunchie). I think the assumption behind this theory was that the hair claw was associated with Claire (in fact we see the hair claw in 3x01 sandwiched between scenes of Claire at home looking forlorn in bed and then later at work in the hospital) and the scrunchie being associated with Sydney as she's often seen wearing scrunchies throughout the series.

I was so intrigued by the sleight of hand theory that I went on a very ill-advised search throughout all three seasons to find these hair accessories (ill advised because it took ages and it meant sitting through every Claire scene in this show lol) I did not find either the exact hair claw or scrunchie (womp) but I did find the characters who'd be most likely to wear these items. Notably, Claire never wears a hair claw or a scrunchie throughout the show.

So who does?

Hair claw: Natalie

(Note: Tiffany is seen wearing a hair claw once in 3x09 Apologies but I think this is just a coincidence. There's no reason for Tiffany's hair claw to be in Carmy's apartment so I'm going to disregard this possibility here. If anyone has a reason why I shouldn't though, let me know!)

Scrunchie: Sydney

Now Carmy's personal interior design style is probably best described as...utilitarian? If that? The man has nails in his walls that have nothing hanging on them. He's got storage boxes strewn around his living space. There's the occasional bottle of painkillers and Pepto and a bundle of hanging herbs drying in his kitchen. And of course, his chef's whites and a large pile of culinary texts and cookbooks. Oh yes and denim in his oven. Other than this, we are not shown much of anything in Carmy's apartment that could be said to be overtly personal to him. Which is why the hair claw and scrunchie stand out. We've never seen Carmy wear a hair claw or scrunchie so their presence in his apartment is significant.

Similarly, there's one more memento we are shown in Carmy's apartment that is distinct from the rest of his belongings. This is the prayer card that Carmy pulls out of his suit jacket pocket and places with the scrunchie at the end of 3x09:

In the discourse of the show, this particular prayer card is often associated with Michael, as its presumed that this is the card that was available for mourners to take at his funeral. We also see it during the show edited next to images of Michael or of his last note to Carmy, reinforcing the association.

Note: I've previously misidentified the figure on this prayer card as St John the Apostle (apologies, I saw the lamb and the staff and assumed it was St John! I'm also not a practising Christian - my knowledge of the religion has been obtained entirely passively because...well I live in the West and my history is enmeshed with the history of European Christian colonisation of the majority of the world including the part where my family's historically from. Soz.). The image on this prayer card is actually "Fresco of Jesus as Good Shepherd" by Josef Kastner.

Prayer card: Richie

BUT...after going through the last three seasons again (much easier to do this time around lol), I've come to the conclusion that the prayer card is actually Carmy's memento of Richie, not Michael. This is primarily because prior to 3x09, whenever we are shown this card in the show, it appears either with, near or when someone is talking about Richie. Lets take a look...

So we first see the card in The Beef in 1x01 before shots of Mikey's body in the morgue and of the back of his head as he's cooking: these are memories Carmy is having while Richie is telling a story to The Beef staff and as Carmy finds his prized chef's knife on the floor of the kitchen.

We see the prayer card next in 1x02 Hands during a nightmare that Carmy is having that features a voiceover from Joel McHale's psychotic Chef Fields. Notably, the sequence of images where we see the card is as follows:

The next time we see the prayer card is in 2x01 Beef to the left of Carmy's head on the wall, when Sydney is telling Carmy that Richie does not have an appropriate certification because...he's Richie.

Later in the same episode we see the card again, after Richie tapes up Michael's Fenway poster (that Sydney had previously fallen through):

The prayer card is immediately followed by a shot of Mikey's last note to Carmy:

The next time we see the prayer card is throughout 2x07 Forks, the most Richie-centric episode of the series. This is because we find out that Richie keeps a copy of the card on his bathroom mirror, so he sees it everyday:

Given the above (i.e. the strong physical and visual association between the prayer card and Richie throughout the show), I believe the card represents Richie for Carmy.

So why would Carmy have a prayer card as a memento representing Richie and not an actual personal item of his brother from another mother/"cousin", like it appears he does for Nat and Syd?

I think this is because Carmy’s connection to both Natalie and Sydney is direct. The former is his sister, the latter his soulmate (I'm not arguing re: Sydney, check my metas if you want to fight). It makes sense that the trinkets he has of them would belong directly to them.

But Carmy's connection to Richie is not direct. Richie is cousin to Carmy because he was best friend to Mikey first. Carmy’s relationship to Richie has always been mediated through his relationship with Mikey. In life, Richie would only be in Carmy's orbit because of his proximity to Carmy's brother. In death, Richie and Carmy have been thrown together because of the restaurant that Mikey left to Carmy but where Richie works. As a result of that forced employer/employee relationship, they're also forced to navigate their grief and mourning for Mikey in close proximity. In this context, it makes sense that the memento Carmy has for Richie is emblematic of Mikey, and is also representative of that shared sorrow between the two of them due to Mikey's passing.

So why does Carmy have these mementos in his apartment?

I'm not entirely sure what the answer to this question is, but my hunch is that these mementos represent the three surviving relationships in this show that are the most important to Carmy but that have all been severed to some extent by the end of season 3.

Carmy's nosedive into Michelin Mode, his psychological spiral triggered by grief, his past traumatic work experiences, his family history, his entitlement borne out of his racialisation and socialisation (among other things) all of this has coalesced into Carmy pushing away those closest to him. He's slipping into that pattern of behaviour he described at Al-Anon in 1x08 Braciole where he cut people out of his life. Carmy doesn't recognise this though because physically, these people are around him all the time. He doesn't realise that you can be physically present but emotionally and mentally AWOL. I mean, the man isn't even physically present for his sister after Natalie gives birth to her daughter, Carmy's niece. He has some explaining and making amends to do! And hopefully we see this next season.

Its likely that the framing of the hair claw and the scrunchie on the show (via suggestive editing) has been a sleight of hand/legerdemain: to get us thinking their presence only has to do with Sydcarmy/Claire. And as I've discussed, the prayer card is widely associated with Mikey. I reckon this is also a sleight of hand too, for the reasons I noted above. Storer and co got us focusing on the romance and dead brother tropes while they continue to push the theme of chosen family home. By the end of season 3, the hair claw, scrunchie and prayer card appear as reminders to Carmy (and us) that he needs to fix his relationships with Nat, Syd and Richie, and that the loss of them is haunting him as well.

And so next season, Carmy needs to move through and past this:

And fight like hell for this:

After all, this show is about love in all its forms, but above all, its about the love we fight for, the love we choose.

Alright chef,

Tagging: @vacationship @moodyeucalyptus @currymanganese @thoughtfulchaos773 @brokenwinebox @espumado @tvfantic87 in case you're interested but keen to hear from whomever wants to discuss!

[ghcstao3]

soap but he’s a honeypot and ghost is his lookout send tweet

ohohohoh i like this (also sorry this is so late, i feel like i’ve been so one-track minded lately. and i wrote most of this with a concerning amount of cold medicine in my system so) warning for lots of ghost pining

-

It’s a mission just a bit unlike any other.

Sure, they’ve all taken their turns offering themselves up as bait to the enemy, but not like this.

Ghost doesn’t like the mission one bit. And he knows exactly why—but he’ll choose to blame it on anything else. Like the fact that his lookout post is within the facility, a crowded club, and not some high perch where he gets to peer through the scope of his rifle, where he feels most at home.

He chooses to blame his unease on that fact, and not at all because Soap is currently posed to be seducing their target.

Ghost remembers how he felt watching Soap getting brought to his knees and a bag over his head what felt like ages ago, their first time working together—yet somehow watching from the balcony, seeing the sergeant’s easy smile as he sidles up to the target and looking entirely within his element, it feels worse.

It’s harder convincing himself it’s not jealousy curling in his gut.

“Hey, handsome.”

Even amidst static, bass-filled music, and loud chatter, Ghost could close his eyes and pretend the low, Scottish drawl of those two words was meant for him.

But he can’t close his eyes, because he’s working, goddamnit—and besides, those words aren’t for him. Probably wouldn’t ever be.

Ghost tunes out of most of the conversation that follows, only keeping an ear out for the code word to initiate Soap’s extraction. But seeing as Soap and the target have just begun talking, it’d be a while yet before Ghost could escape this hell.

God, he hates this.

The purr of Soap’s voice is so difficult to ignore, right in his ear, even as the man in question is at a bar what feels like miles away.

Ghost has been tortured, but being forced to watch Soap put his hand on another man’s thigh is the only thing that would get Ghost to give up anything if only it could be him instead.

It’s almost painful. It is pathetic.

Especially when he nearly loses eyes on Soap while caught up in his moping, as the sergeant is escorted away by their target, who is unknowingly leading himself directly to where the operation wants him to be.

Ghost watches with an intensity that's even startling to himself as Soap is eventually pulled into one of the club's private rooms. He could vomit, listening to the ministrations and sweet nothings exchanged behind a closed door.

He prays for the signal. A confession, an arrest, an end to the mission. A reprieve, freedom.

Some fresh fucking air. Ghost thinks the scent of alcohol and sweat is getting to him.

Or is making things worse, at the very least.

Ghost barely registers when the code word is said into comms. He acts with a readiness and efficiency formed of scavenged professionalism and an overwhelming bitter jealousy that has Soap's look of triumph briefly replaced by surprise when they're finally reunited.

The lieutenant tries his best not to think about the tight fit of Soap's civvies as they work side by side to immobilize and extract the target.

If Ghost is extra rough, then that's no one's business.

And when all is said and done, it takes an enormous amount of strength not to spill his guts right then and there about how that night made him feel.

Though he's not certain he does a great job of keeping it all in. Not when Soap bumps their shoulders and cheekily asks, "Reckon they'd let me do a mission like that again, LT?"

And Ghost can do nothing but scowl and tell him, "Absolutely not."

Because he reckons this mission will remain unlike any others, so long as he can help it.

So long as it's not him that Soap is lending his attention to.

[firelxdykatara]

Dragon Age 4 looks amazing, that gameplay trailer had me on the edge of my seat and I cannot fucking wait for the game to drop. Somewhat less enthused for the inevitable wave of fandom discourse that's gonna rear it's ugly head, especially given how BG3 went over, but whatever. (Also I hate that the name changed to 'The Veilguard', not just because 'Dreadwolf' was cool as fuck but the 'the' throws things off. DAV looks better as an acronym than DATV. But whatever whatever no one consulted ME on this, it's fine, I'm fine.)

It did make me start thinking about Solas again and how little nuance the fandom approached him with last time, and it's just funny because like... it's very easy to understand where Solas is coming from. How he sees what he is planning as necessary, as fixing an ancient wrong that he has always meant to put right.

Will people die? Yes, and he thinks that's unfortunate--and, according to him in the trailer, he took the precautions he could to minimize that loss of life as much as possible. But he's not doing any of this with the specific aim to kill people or 'do genocide'--that was never his goal.

He is trying to fix something that he broke countless ages ago.

As he says, 'the veil is a wound'--a wound that he ripped open in the very fabric of space and time, and which he is trying now to heal.

And the thing is, he is ancient. He does not conceive of time the way mortals do, nor the importance and significance of mortal lives. I would like to think that romanced solas vs unromanced will have some affect on the way he goes about things, because falling in love was entirely unexpected and had to alter his views at least a little. Not enough to sway him from his course, but perhaps enough to make him feel the coming losses more keenly than he otherwise would. But even failing that, the connections he made during Inquisition are clearly not nothing to him--Varric is able to draw his attention, keep him distracted, might even have been on the verge of talking him down, we don't know. But as easily as he shattered Bianca, he could've killed Varric to end the threat he posed, and he didn't.

Mortal lives mean something to him now that they didn't when he set out at the beginning of Inquisition to tear down the veil with no regard for the mortal lives he would destroy in the process. And I'm wondering if those very safeguards are what release the big bads when Rook fucks up his ritual and that leads into the rest of the game. But anyway, my point is this: Solas does not look at life the way someone with a mortal lifespan does. He can't! Modern Thedas is the burned out shell of a building that he once set fire to without realizing what the consequences would be--and he is determined to rebuild it, because no matter what life has sprung up in the cracks of the burned out husk, his original fault was destroying the life that had been there to begin with.

People don't tend to overly worry about the insects and birds nests and whatever else they might have to bulldoze through when it comes to tearing down some condemned structure and rebuilding in its place, and that's how Solas views the modern world of Thedas and the lives within it. And I get disagreeing with him and wanting to stop him at any cost, but I don't get assigning maliciousness or bloodthirst to his motivations when there's no reason to believe he sees this as anything less than a tragic necessity.

Then again, I think Anders was right too so, y'know. But one bomb lobbed into the fandom commonroom at a time lmao.

[soufcakmistress]

Temptress

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick Black OC

The intricate oil painting hanging on the wall threatened to fall by the incessant pounding of the bed frame. “I wonder what they’re serving at the pub tonight…” Sybil Freeman pondered as this sad soul rutted away between her legs. The Viscount Peters was one of her frequent visitors, and always tipped well. A lackluster lover, but always super sweet. The viscount shuddered and finally expelled into the sheepskin condom, with sighs of much awaited relief. Her corset has her abundant breasts grazing her chin, which have now spilled out from the romp that just ensued.

This is the part that the men come for. “Ooooh, the Viscount is feeling very frisky this evening. I’ll be sure to put those juniper berries in your wine every time we meet, sugar.” The short and dumpy nobleman always moseyed down her street for a bit of loving. Black and white men alike patronized the house—a house of nothing but Black bawds and whores.

~

London is a long way from colonial Charleston. Sybil Ravenel was one of eleven children to an enslaved couple working the indigo crop on Edisto Island. Keen on her surroundings and fierce about her family, one particular overseer would always harass her. She was very shapely and purposely wore baggier clothes to conceal her body. She’d managed to make it this far without getting whipped or separated from her family. The overseer was tired of Sybil spurning him. Easter Day came and the slaves were able to take the day off for once. While everyone was congregated by the fire, Sybil was caught off guard and gagged and pulled around the tobacco barn. Little did that overseer know that Sybil had been preparing for that day.

She sharpened this stick every day and hid it in the waistline of her skirt. Today, she made good on her intentions and shoved the stick into his neck. “I the last Negro woman you try to push up on. Bastard.” Blood drenched her apron and bonnet, and she wrenched them off and hid them under her skirt. Scrambling to the slave quarters, she gathered up the few clothes she had, tied them up and ran towards the harbor with all of her might in the dead of night.

Sybil understood sex and how easy men were guiled once it entered a dynamic. Men had few motivations and if it didn’t involve money, food or sex, Sybil found they didn’t have much use past that. She wasn’t entirely sure of her age, but she was a woman full grown. She had no education but she had the will to live and extremely limited means to do so. Offering what she had between her legs was how she was able to convince the captain of a nearby merchant ship not to ring the alarm for a fugitive slave on the run. She sucked his pecker so good as a matter of fact, he gave her her own cabin, left to be undisturbed until the ship docked.

The manifest was set for London Harbor, with a large store of indigo posed for shipping to the British Isles. England outlawed slavery years ago and all Sybil can remember being in awe of how Black folks roamed so freely. London was expansive, a different feeling versus Charleston. Attempting to navigate the streets, she bumped into a striking woman, with incredible cheek bones and dwarfed almost every man. “Careful, darling. Yuh ‘ave to actually look where yuh walk in this city. Before yuh get trampled.”

Needless to say, her life was changed from then on out. Bellemere Almodovar. Born in Jamaica, she was purchased by Spanish spice traders in exchange for bushels of saffron. She was so beautiful that she was whisked away from the auction block to accompany a lord in the Spanish court in the Spanish royal seat in Madrid.

Bellemere took Sybil under her wing. Showed her the ropes, how to keep herself safe, how to articulate herself, and recognize what the means to the end was. Fuck the frogs until you find the prince. A marquis or a lord having you for his mistress meant security and stability. A binding contract between the two of you kept the relationship mutually beneficial at all times. You provide the cunny and ego stroking, he provides the lifestyle. It’s plain and simple as that.

Until then, Sybil would stack her money. Her and Bellemere have expanded their stable, with an extremely diverse group of Black women with various treasures to offer. Lola and Liza Ibeji, the Sierra Leonan twin Amazons liked to play with the kinky politicians on Downing street on every bank holiday who liked to be tied up and degraded. Sarah Macenroe was a biracial beauty from Ireland, looking for a new home since her last bawd kicked her out. She was a contortionist, and petite like a nymph who loved to stick her finger up a John’s bum. And Sybil’s best friend Janie Smith from Trinidad, always quick to cuss her in patois. She was plump and shaped like you and that brought you both closer. Janie learned that she did not have a gag reflex, allowing any man to aim his prick down her endless throat with no resistance.

And Sybil. Sybil’s prized possession was between her legs. It was wetter and tighter than anyone around, and was guaranteed to make any man lose his pride before he wanted to. Her blue fingertips were a marvel to gaze upon and added to the fantasy. These English nobles ached for the chance of sleeping with a liberated Negro woman from the colonies. Her life was easy now. Fuck her regulars, and live good. She was free. Free to eat in any cafe of her choosing. Led her girls into any social gathering with their heads high and guaranteed to garner whispers and gasps. Music to her ears.

As of late, Sybil had been bored to tears of the social scene. Janie had just snagged her keeper, and she’d been whisked to the northern countryside for the next month. On this particular occasion, Sybil’s carob skin emitted radiance unknown to this world with the midnight blue gown hugging her body close. Her scalp itched under the powdered wig, and she daintily threw back her 6th drink of the night. Her girls worked the room as always, prowling for the next kill, and yet Sybil couldn’t give a fuck about any of these men.

She grabbed her sachet, picked up the ends of her dress and sashayed to the terrace. Some fresh air was needed. A cigarette she already rolled was pulled out and heavy footsteps lurked behind her. “Is this seat taken?”

A puff of tobacco smoke billowed in front of her cherubic face. A pleasant surprise that a Black man with a familiar accent met her. “Do as you like.”

The strange man quietly observes Sybil’s appearance. Their eyes finally meet and she’s enraptured and forgets to mask her intent. He’s very handsome, with a sterling smile and dashing garments. And an American accent. Interesting. “What’s a southern Belle doing mingling with English society?”

“I could ask the same of you. You’re like a fly in a glass of milk with this crowd. American?”

The gentleman wore his own hair out, a beautiful tangle of curls, and an emerald green suit that was immaculately crafted. His scent was alluring, and made Sybil want to know how deep his pockets went. “Yes. I was formerly enslaved, just like you. My father was African however and fell in love with my mother on a trip to the colonies. He bought us and we went back to his country to live. I grew up and wanted to explore this world. So for the moment, here I am..”

He took her cigarette out of her hand and began to puff on it himself. “And how would you know that I was enslaved? I could have been born free for all you know.”

The gentleman blew out the tobacco smoke, and gently placed her hand in his. The indigo dye. Permanently marking her as a piece of chattel. A former piece of chattel, for that matter. He kissed every fingertip on her left hand, and Sybil gulped. Her eyes became glassy, and she pulled away. She adjusted her dress, and stabilized her towering wig. “I didn’t catch your name, miss.”

Sybil took the cigarette back from him, taking a harsh pull. Why did this man make her feel like this? “Sybil. Sybil Freeman.” She had to get out of there. As seemingly progressive as London purported itself to be, Black men were almost never gentlemen and of the ton. He exuded high levels of breeding and class. His skin was gorgeous and he had piercing eyes that never left her….and roamed all over her body. He was clearly different.

“Good evening, sir.” Sybil gave the stiffest curtsy and zoomed away, flustered and confused. Something told her that that wouldn’t be the last she saw of him..

A/N: I totally forgot that I had most of this written up already LMAO. Please let me know if you want me to continue this story. Pleaseeee reblog and comment, love yall!!!

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[idontplaytrack]

all the things that could go wrong

Janis ‘Imi’ike x physically disabled fem!reader

Warnings: pet/nicknames, internalised homophobia, arguing, mentions/descriptions of violence, mentions of reader’s disability, mentions of alcohol consumption…(rollercoaster of emotions incoming)

In which lol I don’t know how to summarise this. except: “If this is the happiest I've ever been, why do I feel so afraid of it?”

“Y/N!” Janis screamed, chasing you.

You only ran further, as fast as your feet could carry you. “Y/N, stop!”

You knew your efforts were futile when you felt her grip on your wrist. Of course she’d catch up to you. What were you thinking? Showing up at her door?

“I’m sorry, Janis.” You gave up running, “I don’t know what came over to me but here I am, at your door.”

She looked at you, very confused- it was as though you had posed her with the toughest question ever. “What…?”

You knew why- she asked you to come over to have a night in, but instead that plan just unraveled. She kissed you, and things got a little handsy, but you simply couldn't get past the mental hurdle of being with a girl. “If this is the happiest I’ve ever been, why do I feel so afraid of it?”

Age 7, you thought Tori Vega was really pretty. But also thought that Beck Oliver was cute. You didn't tell anyone and let that be your little secret.

Age 9, you let that slip. You told a friend and she called you a weirdo for liking both a guy and a girl. That same year, the friend Mabel mentioned it at your birthday party and everyone heard it. They laughed it off, saying that your friend was just joking. But it wasn't a joke, and your Mom told you it was wrong and you took it to heart.

Age 10, you found yourself having crazy swarms of butterflies in your stomach whenever this girl in your class talked to you. Her name was Dawn, and she was your only friend for the next few years because ever since your party a year ago, Mabel made sure to tell everyone your little secret. And no one wanted to be your friend anymore. You were lucky to have Dawn. You didn't tell her about the butterflies, though.

Age 14, High school started. You moved to Illinois, and said goodbye to Dawn. She was sad to see you leave, but promised to talk to you everyday. At North Shore High, you met Janis- and her best friend Damian, who almost immediately took you in to join them. You became a part of their trio. While the school feared her, calling her a threat to students' safety, you did not. She was nice to you and you felt safe and protected. Life seemed pretty good. Until summer rolled around, and you started spending more time with Janis. The butterflies in your stomach made their presence known, and very aggressively. You were falling for your best friend, fast and hard.

Age 15, Sophomore year began and Damian notices the closeness. However, you didn't know that and neither did Janis. He also didn't say a thing, not wanting to assume, nor interfere. Life went on as usual, except your crush on Janis kept growing with each day. Over thanksgiving break, you had your wisdom teeth removed. All four of them were impacted, so they had you go under and get them removed. Janis came by to spend time with you every single day for two weeks- much to your mother’s dismay. But Janis knew she wouldn’t say a thing, because your mother was also afraid of Janis. She could see her protectiveness over you. (She’s also heard of the bunsen burner incident)

Age 16, Janis asks you out to the Winter Ball. You agreed, it was a lot of fun- she made you laugh until you cried. Lingering touches, holding your hand, her hand on your shoulder, her hands squeezing your cheek as she said, ‘you’re adorable’. You laughed it off, looking away as you blushed. She teases you for it. But you know she meant it not in a negative way. Christmas, your parents were out of town and Janis invites you and Damian over for Christmas dinner. Damian hung out for awhile then went home, you spent the night. You two sat in her bed watching Home Alone, which you completely forgot about when you feel her hand on your thigh, traveling upwards on your side to your face. Janis leans in dangerously close and the two of you nearly kiss. The night ended awkwardly after you told her you couldn’t do it, with Janis feeling disappointed and you feeling conflicted.

Age 17, when the clock struck midnight, signaling the start of a new year, Janis was standing before you, holding your hands in her own. As fireworks went off in the distance, she captures your lips into her own. With the help of a drink or two in each of you. ‘Happy birthday’, she says, ‘and happy new year, y/n.’ And her lips were quickly back on yours, what felt like fireworks went off in your chest, making its way down your spine. This was your new little secret- this kiss you shared. It was like a dream come true, little you would always dream of experiencing one day but then learnt it was impossible because of what people around you all said. But Janis, she made the world seem fine. Then, Regina George’s Burn Book joined the mix along with a certain redhead by the name of Cady Heron. That new year concluded tumultuously - every one got mean. The book called Damian ‘almost too gay to function’, Janis a ‘pyro lez’, and you ‘the queer one to fear’. Along with a picture of you and Janis kissing at new years, two photos of you kissing a fellow cast-mate in two separate school plays. When everything blew over, Cady flirted with Janis which left a sour taste in your mouth. You were jealous, but you didn’t say a thing. You couldn’t. Janis did- rejecting her, telling her she had her eyes on someone else. You were hoping she meant you.

Age 18, Janis couldn’t care less about whatever shit went down in school. It was you and Damian with her, against the world. It was your birthday and she took you to the park for a quiet picnic, handing you a small bouquet of beautiful roses. She confessed. You do the same, both a rambling mess. Pushing aside the feelings of disgust you had for yourself for feeling this way, for being in love with a girl. Until you couldn’t. On this warm spring day, the heat made you feel like it was burning you to a crisp, coupled with the strong emotions you were feeling…

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, in the spur of the moment her words flew out harshly, piercing your ears and your heart. You couldn’t say anything now, with that painful lump in your throat, your anxiety causing the skin all over your body to feel as though it was being pricked, or burned. You squirmed uncomfortably both at the anxiety-induced skin burning sensation, and for Janis to free you from her grip. You knew she didn’t mean it. She’d never lay a hand on you, she’s never done that ever. You wanted to snap her out of it, to tell her it was you that she was talking to. But you couldn’t, all you could manage were pathetic little cries that quickly turned into sobs before your knees buckled and you fell like a child in Janis’ front yard. The thud snaps her out of it, everything you said. Everything you’ve ever said, or not. Everything you’ve ever done, or haven’t. They all rushed through her mind, giving her a slideshow that allowed her to understand just what it was that was causing this…meltdown.

“You don’t have to explain anything to me…I get it. I get it…that internalised homophobia you’re dealing with, because of what people around you taught you growing up.” She sits down with you on the prickly grass. She cups your cheeks, wiping the tears away. “You’ll be okay with time, be gentle with yourself. It’s okay to do what you want, feel what you feel, love who you love. You are your own person. You are not your Mother, not your old friend Mabel, you are not those little fuckers at school talking about people behind their backs.” She spoke, a small sigh at the end.

You could only sniffle, as you looked her in the eye. Her gaze was soft, and loving. A complete three-sixty from the fierce, intimidating gaze she shows the world. The one she shows to the jocks who made fun of you, for your height, for your weight, for having a limp, for having scars from surgeries that improved your mobility…your life. Strangers.

Janis continued to speak, “I love you, and you know that. But I want you to remember that, and I won’t stop reminding you until one day. That all goes away, what’s in your head- that voice…it will become so small one day it will sound like nothing. And what matters is…we have each other. To conquer whatever comes our way, wherever life takes us. Because, baby…you are the strongest person I’ve ever known in my entire life. And that will never change.”

Upon hearing her words, your natural reaction was to cry harder. Her whole frame shook as she took you into her arms. Janis’ head whipped around, looking at a concerned neighbour. “She’s okay, Mrs. Alvarez. We’re just having a moment.” The woman says an ‘okay’ and was on her way.

“You’re okay, hmm?” Her hands held the side of your head against her chest, her head resting on your own. You hear her sniffle. “You’re okay. We’re okay. Everything’s okay, baby.”

She stayed with you in this position until you’d fully calmed down, swatting away any insects or even butterflies, that you were afraid of. “Okay, you ready to get up, lovey?” She asks you softly, breaking away from the embrace slowly just in case you didn’t want to get up. Because…let’s face it- she’d sit here with you all day if you wanted to. That was Janis for you. Your Janis. She’d give you the world if you wanted it…

“Yeah.” You managed to tell her shakily, “Yeah.” Finally pulling away from her chest, you were met with her face, tear streaks on her cheeks and watery eyes. She’d cried. And she didn’t hide it. Something she’s never done before. Janis contemplated between holding out her hands so she could pull you up, and letting you stand up on your own. She chose the latter, then wrapped her arms around you again, smooching you on the cheek. “Okay?” She watched you cautiously. “Mhm.” You sniffed, the phlegm in your throat causing a coughing fit after you spoke that nearly made you retch. She rubs your back, “Let’s go get you a drink.”

You were back in her house. She leads to you kitchen and sat you down at the table, opening the fridge door so you could see the drink choices. You shook your head. “How about some tea, then? Would you like that?” She suggested, shutting the door. Janis then walked over to her pantry and pulled out a bunch of different little boxes that contained a variety of different teas. It looked a little comical, her holding them all in her arms then putting them on the table for you. You chuckled, then smiled. Then she smiled, relieved to see that after the literal buckets of tears you’d wept outside. You looked at your options and soon picked one out, picking up the green Lipton box and handed it to her. Janis took it from you and placed it on the kitchen counter, proceeding to fill the electric kettle with some water to boil. Then, she got out your favourite mug. While waiting, she returned the other boxes of tea bags to the pantry before sitting with you once again.

“Janis, I- I don’t know what to say except…thank you.” You told her quietly, licking your dry lips but unwillingly tasting the salty tears along with the action. You swallow thickly, avoiding her gaze. Janis’ hand found its way to yours and gave it a squeeze- she didn’t need to say a thing for you to know what it meant. “I love you.” You told her later when you were up in her room. Her face lit up with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen from her. “I love you, so much.” You said again.

That one letter word before the two meant the world to Janis. It was a step toward the right direction for you, and she was so, so happy to hear it.

“I love you, too, sweet girl.”

[katy-133]

Whose Skeleton Is Who? (TF2 Comic #7 Preview)

Regarding the issue 7 preview for the Team Fortress 2 comic, I know I joked a while ago that we as a fandom are trying to figure out which skeleton is which merc like we're reading and analysing that one page from The Castle of Fear by Patrick Burston all over again, but I wanted to take a moment to actually go through each skeleton and tell you the observations I've made, since I've noticed others' interpretations have sometimes been different, which I think is very interesting as someone who likes to compare art interpretations for fun.

Team Fortress 2 pays attention to art principles like colour theory, strong silhouettes, and invoking art history, and that also includes the comics, not just the games, and invites you to draw parallels between things.

So without further ado...

Miss Pauling ^

The preview script we get to read notes that the first skeleton we see (before the wide shot) is Miss Pauling's skeleton, which is in a crawling pose. It's meant to parallel a pose she does with a group of other vultures in an earlier part of the comic:

(Image: Comic issue 6, The Naked and the Dead)

Script transcript of the image below:

PANEL 2 We pull back to reveal a SKELETON, half-baked from years of wind-blown sand. The skeleton looks like it was crawling AWAY from something. It lifts a single skeleton hand out to nothing. VULTURES lurk. Let's try as best we can to mirror the position of the body and vultures from the opening of Issue #6, so it's clear we're insinuating this is MISS PAULING.

(Image: Script preview by writer Jay Pinkerton)

Additionally, her skeleton has two vultures above it, squabbling at each other (I assume over who gets to eat the skeleton marrow), which parallels Redmond and Blutard (the owners of RED and BLU, respectively) fighting each other over land and Miss Pauling "playing both sides" by pretending to only work for one of them.

Scout ^

The skeleton is in a running pose, representing Scout being characterised as the faster runner. The skeleton also has a brown shoe, similar to a pair Scout wears in Expiration Date to impress Miss Pauling.

(Right image, above: TF2 Official Wiki, Argyle Ace)

Soldier ^

The skeleton has the right arm up, similar to Soldier's pose when he's carrying his rocket launcher.

(Right image, above: TF2 Official Wiki, Soldier)

Pyro ^

The skeleton with the missing hip bones (or are hidden in some way by the sand and tree branches). In anatomy, the hip bones are one of the easiest ways to identify the sex of an adult skeleton (owing to the width of the hips being different if there is a birth canal). Pyro is gender ambiguous. The legs are also crossed, which is seen as more feminine body language when a person is sitting. This matches Pyro's body language, since Pyro's canonically done foot popping (a term coined by The Princess Diaries) which is associated with women film stars during the Golden Age of Hollywood.

(Image: The Jungle Inferno Update, Day 3)

Demoman ^

The vulture is pecking out the left eye socket of the skeleton, which is the eye socket that Demoman got cursed upon by reading the Bombinomicon. This creates a kinda visual parallel to Prometheus from Greek myth being cursed to have a bird of prey (an eagle) feast upon him as punishment for giving the forbidden knowledge of fire to humanity.

(Image: Bombinomicon comic)

The left leg is also missing at the knee, or majorly separated from the rest of the body, and Demoman can have a peg leg on his left side in the game:

(Image, above: Weapon Demonstration: Bootlegger, video by OfficialTF2Wiki)

Heavy ^

The skeleton with the largest ribcage, fitting Heavy's body silhouette. The skeleton also dwarfs the skeleton to the right of it, which invokes Heavy's size compared to the other mercs (he's the tallest merc in a lineup).

Engineer ^

The shortest skeleton. Note that the forearms are either missing or hidden in the sand, which invokes the image of Engineer being an amputee (missing his right arm at the forearm) and being the shortest merc when they're all A-posing. The skeleton is also wearing boots, which Engineer wears.

(Image: Reddit post titled, anyone else surprised that Scout isn't the shortest Merc? by Ok-Mastodon2016)

Medic ^

The tall skeleton that has the vulture with its beak poised over the skeleton's heart. Medic surgically removed and replaced each of their hearts, which allows them to be Ubercharged.

(Image: Meet the Medic video by Valve)

Sniper ^

The skeleton with its back lifted up by a stone, creating a visual focus towards it. The vulture is standing over the skeleton, as if it had been pecking at the skeleton's back. This could parallel being backstabbed, and I'm deducing the skeleton as Sniper's because his class is designed to counter Spy, who is the class who does backstabs. This skeleton also has brown shoes, which could be Spy's, but could also be Sniper's if he wears shoes instead of (what I had assumed before were) boots. Another vulture watches over the scene, perched on a higher ledge of rock and focused on that skeleton. Similar to how Sniper likes to climb up trees and higher ground to have a vantage point to scope areas.

Spy ^

The skeleton with a hole through the skull. This looks like a bullet wound from a headshot by a Sniper (again, Sniper and Spy are counter classes to each other).

I know this scene could be a bait and switch and that these aren't the mercs. I actually assume that's what the context is--otherwise, it'd be a pretty upsetting comic! But I think it's neat that the writers and artists went out of their way to make each skeleton characterised like this. The attention to detail is amazing, even in just this one page preview!

[logicaldelta]

Prince is Just a Title

This is a silly story that I've been writing over on AO3 and I decided to share it here despite how mortifying that idea is to me (/lh).

Description:

Cloud Strife is the prince of the kingdom of Nibelheim, however he was a fragile child, and grew up very sheltered by his mother. All he's ever wanted was to accompany her when she left for her political meetings, finding the castle cold and lonely when it was just him. At the age of twenty, his wish finally comes true, and he's invited to accompany her to a trade alliance meeting in the nearby kingdom of Gongaga.

Sephiroth is a beloved knight in the kingdom of Gongaga, often accompanying the royal family wherever they went as their main guard. As such, he's in the room the day that Cloud arrives. He finds the young prince amusing, especially when Prince Zack seems to take a liking to him and strives to befriend him.

Cloud doesn't understand why Zack's lead knight keeps giving him that look.

Sephiroth can't get over how amusing it is to see the prince go red.

This is the story of their time together.

Chapter 1: The Beginning

The kingdom of Nibelheim was a small but valuable kingdom. Founded upon some land in the mountains, it was built atop a large natural source of gems and minerals that neighbouring kingdoms paid a lot to have exported. Their royal family didn't have many members, but the two it did have were loved by the people and viewed as fair rulers.

Queen Claudia had been in a ruling position ever since she married the now-deceased king of Nibelheim, nearly three decades ago. She was a princess from a different kingdom and retained her title of queen ever after her husband passed from an illness.

The only other remaining member of the royal family was Prince Cloud, the son of the King and Queen and the next in line for the throne.

However, Cloud wasn't well. He had been born weaker than most children, and an incident where he had been injured in a fall as a young child had only made it worse. He didn't often leave the grounds of the castle, and when he did it was under close supervision from Sir Angeal, a knight employed by his mother to keep him safe.

Normally this wouldn't pose any sort of problem. But as Cloud grew older, the responsibilities he was meant to have in the world were growing harder to push back.

Claudia sighed, resting her head on her hand as she gazed down at the letter she had received from an allied kingdom -- the kingdom of Gongaga -- requesting her and Cloud's presence for an upcoming meeting of their alliances. Nibelheim and Gongaga were both part of a decently sized group of allied kingdoms, grouped together by a trade and export alliance, and it appeared that with her son having turned twenty they were no longer taking his medical problems as a reason for his absence.

Though it was a source of dread for her, she'd always known that this day would come. She knew what being a prince brought with it, and she'd tried her best to shield her son from it for as long as she could. But the time had come for him to step into the view of the public, for him to become more present in their political affairs.

She'd never admit it to anyone, but she wished she'd never been born into royalty. She could handle it. But she was worried that Cloud couldn't. He was a gentle kid, always had been, and being secluded for so long had made him somewhat naive about the world.

But Gongaga was one of their closest allies, so she sighed, wrote back a letter accepting their invitation on behalf of herself and Cloud, and tried to stomach her anxiety.

Cloud never thought the day would come where his mother actually allowed him to travel with her. She was out of the castle on political journeys often, sometimes for weeks at a time, and he had longed to accompany her and see their allied kingdoms in person.

His heart was racing as he burst into the castle kitchen, startling the staff there, in his search for a particular cook. He spotted her towards the back of the kitchen, raising his hand to get her attention.

"Tifa! I have something to tell you!" She smiled and waved at him, saying something to Wedge – a kitchen hand that Cloud knew she was friends with – before approaching.

"Hey, Cloud! What's so important that it couldn't wait until later?" Her tone was playful as she gestured for him to follow her out of the kitchen. He obliged, knowing that she just didn't want the others overhearing their conversation.

"Mother called me into the council room earlier to discuss something with me. I worried that I was in trouble, but she informed me I'd be accompanying her on her annual trade alliance meeting!" His tone was full of excitement, and Tifa clapped at the news.

"That's amazing!" 

"Right? I've already begun packing for the trip. I believe we'll be gone for around a week? I can't really remember how long her other alliance trips were."

Tifa's brow furrowed, though her smile remained. "Cloud, those meetings sometimes last a month. You could be gone for a while."

"Oh." Cloud looked away from her, one of his hands brushing back his hair. "I may need to pack more stuff."

Tifa laughed, shaking her head. "Just don't take your entire room, okay?"

"I make no guarantees."

Despite his excitement, Cloud wasn't feeling very well the morning they were to depart for Gongaga. Though it made him grimace, he chose to drink one of the concoctions left for him by their royal doctor. While they tasted foul, he knew they'd help with his condition.

It was unknown what exactly affected him. Just that he was born frailer than most, with a weakened immune system. After the fall he had, he'd sometimes experience random pains that he knew made no sense. The doctor said it wasn't likely to go away, that it was a lasting condition caused by the trauma it caused his body.

He knew it was no one's fault but his own, so he tried his best to just push through it. Normally, he'd get rest time when it flared up, but he didn't want to be removed from the trip because of it. His mother had a tendency to overreact where matters of his health were involved.

So, he threw on an extra shirt to compress it more, as most of the pain happened in his torso, and stepped out of his room with a mind full of determination to not get kicked out of the trip before it even began.

Within seconds of leaving his room, head tilted downwards to look at his feet out of habit more than anything, he almost collided with someone, who stepped quickly out of his way as he froze in place, trying to give the person an apologetic smile.

Before his brain caught up with his body, and he realised that the person he had almost crashed into was Angeal Hewley, his mother's personal guard. His eyes widened, and an apology spilled from his lips as he looked away. As far as palace hierarchy went, Cloud was not obligated to apologise to the man. But Angeal had always been kind to him, and Cloud felt bad that his own distracted nature could've caused harm to him.

But Angeal simply smiled, clapping a hand onto Cloud's shoulder. "There's no need to apologise, highness. I suppose you're excited about our departure?" Cloud's eyes lit up, and he grinned, nodding. "Well, I've been sent to collect you! The carriage is prepared, and your mother is waiting."

Hearing that news, a new wave of excitement bubbled up within him. It was such a dream come true that he worried he was actually asleep as he made his way out of the palace with Angeal at his side, waving enthusiastically to Tifa as he passed her, and finally exiting the doors of the palace for what felt like the first time ever.

A carriage was waiting for them, and he could barely contain himself as he speed walked up to it, finding his mother waiting within it for him. He climbed up into it, ignoring the almost burning pain in his chest because it was finally happening. Everything he'd ever wanted waited for him within that carriage, and he didn't want to wait any longer for it to begin.

[that-one-i-think]

My Tu'la and Liochant Messy Summary post!

@anonmothgod chatted with me a bit and gave me the idea to do a little summary post! This will be long and messy

KEY ELEMENTS BEFORE WE GET STARTED

Temple of Menphia - Menphia is the major divine of Tu'la so she is the center of worship. Unlike the Irene churches, they do not have priest, nuns, or really a clergy, instead they train lawyers, judges, and more importantly warriors. The goal of the church is to be the embodiment of righteous fury while protecting people from mistreatment.

Another part of it is also killing shadow knights, with members of the church being given magical tattoos that prevent them from turning into shadow knights/making it incredibly difficult to do so. They are given tattoos of the sun on the palm of their hands and one covering their back, for the sun cannot get to the nether. Essentially, they aren't nuns but religious warriors.

The two kingdoms of Tu'la - I refer to them as North and South for ease

North Tu'la: The Toraichi Dynasty - Belonging to the northern jungle and plains area of Tu'la, with the royal family all being tiger meif'wa (allegedly). The Toraichi family was originally known to be kind before the head family all died due to a plague that ravaged the kingdom 30 years ago. The leader of the branch family who was deemed the "Last Royal Tiger" took the throne because he was the only viable candidate due to being a tiger, allegedly. He quickly became power hungry and sought to not only take over all of Tu'la but Ru'aun as well. (It's giving england.) The capital of this place is Havas and the region is based on China and Japan.

South Tu'la: The Desert of Sa'Haresha - This area is almost completely desert and savannah, the dryer half to the norths hot and humid climate. Due to the location, this area had a high sense of community and while they did have a royal family, one composed of lion meif'was , they were more symbolic since a lot of desert villages kept to themselves. This area has the highest amount of Menphia temples The considered capital was Solspear, and region is based on India. The Tu'la continent meaning to represent Asia to Ru'auns Europe.

POPULATION/Big Cat Meif'was - Big cat meif'was are to meif'wa what werewolves are to the weredogs of mystreet. Just bigger breeds than the domesticated ones who can turn into a big animal. ~55% of the population of Tu'la is meif'wa, 32% humans, 12% werewolves, 1% others/werewolf-meif'wa hybrids. The majority of the human population in Tu'la are part meif'wa in some capacity and 15% of the population are big cat meif'was. (cheetahs, leopards, lynx, and lions being the most common). Non-ears and tail half meif'wa and called Sphinxes after the hairless cat, and werewolf and meif'wa mixes are essentially were-hyenas cause hyenas look like dogs but are closer in the cat family than canine.

NOW ONTO MORE LORE! This will kind of be a mess so bare with me. (Broken up into parts for ease)

LIOCHANT EARLY LIFE

Liochant was born to a young couple composing of a human mom and a cheetah meif'wa father. He didn't inherit his fathers meif'wa features but his eyes can slit and he is a lot more agile than most humans. For the first 3 years of his life his parents did try to raise him but since they only had him at 17, they have found that they weren't suited to be parents at the time and gave him up to his mothers temple in Bronze Peak. From there he was raised by the temple and show to have great promise as a warrior.

(Around this time, Aph and the gang are now in the irene dimension)

At the age of 7, Liochant earned his first tattoos, being the sun on his palms and back, by successfully winning a spar with a teacher. (Not a prodigy, teacher was meant to pose a challenge but able to be defeated). From there Liochant managed to continue his training and pass it with flying colors, having gained a large affinity for the khopesh and spear. He was not all tough warrior child though, because he had a large affinity of trying to pet snakes, getting bit, and then having to be healed. He was a kid with spear skills who liked to pet things he shouldn't and he had a normal childhood until he was 10.

THE MASSACRE OF SOUTH TU'LA

During Liochant's time at the temple, a year and a half after aphmau and her gang were trapped in the Irene Dimension, Garte descided to contact the Northern King of Tu'la and they struck a deal. Garte would provide some troops to help the Tiger King invade the south and the king would provide Garte troops to invade Ru'aun. They planned for 2 and a half years, with one of the most instrumental parts being the nephew of the Tiger King, Kai (Yes like Mystreet!) who had been placed with the South Tu'la royal family as an advisor and a peace offering since he was 15. Kai fed information in the belief that it was going to be a peaceful takeover, believing that the poison he was giving the royal family would make them sick enough to give up, he was not expecting to be responsible for a massacre at the age of 20. (Kai lore here if you want to check that out! Do it after reading this)

The invasion and massacre started with the death of the royal family, using the shock to have both northern tu'la soldiers and O'khasis knights invade and slaughter people. Their main focus being the Temples of Menphia given how they contained the strongest warriors. Whoever they didn't slaughter they captured for the purpose of recruiting more soldiers, leaving any children left in the temples to either live on the streets or burn along with their temples.

THE NEXT TWO YEARS

Liochant's temple was one of the first to be attacked since Bronze Peak was one of the closest villages to the capital, so at the ripe age of 10, not only was Liochant now a fully blown orphan but homeless. He had to live on the streets and stole to survive, his training in agility being the only thing keeping him alive as he evaded soldiers. He did managed to keep up with his training, as unconventional as it was, because it was the only thing he had left of home.

While Liochant was on the streets, the Tiger King was dealing with the problem of the fact that none of the captured warriors were turning to his side, so he found another use. Solspear was home to many training pits so he turned what was once a form of worship into his personal entertainment. He made gladiator pits and forced the remaining warriors to fight for his, and all of the nobles of North Tu'la, entertainment. Creating betting rings and turning it to a hunger games esc thing.

Since all of the warriors were no longer on his side and now dying in the pits the King had to come up with a new solution for power. So he descided to take it from Ru'aun. He gathered up all of the remaining O'khasis guards in Tu'la and slaughtered them all. WIth the fact that O'khasis was practically defenseless, he slowly started the process of taking them over. Succeeding after two years, and taking Garte to his new palace in Solspear to rub in his face his success.

LIOCHANTS START OF BEING A GLADIATOR

After taking over O'khasis, the Tiger King was running out of entertainment for the gladiator pits so he descided to turn to a new source of fighters. Criminals. Anyone in South Tu'la who was caught of a crime was now sentenced to being in the gladiator pit, regardless of age or severity of the crime. Crimes as simple as stealing, or "agression" if you are a werewolf were sent to the pit. That is how Liochant, who was caught stealing some fruit at the age of 12, was sentenced to the pit.

His first "benefactor" or owner was a former high ranking soldier of the North Tu'la army. An old man who was essentially given Liochant as a form of payment, a train it so it can become an investment, situation. A do with it what you will. The man was not upper class and was only being treated as such because of his military position, so he made sure to train Liochant so he could rise above. The benefactor wasn't kind nor was he incredibly unkind to Liochant he punished Liochant when he lost but made sure Liochant could always practice his religion. A basic right that someone of Liochant's position wasn't able to have.

Liochant fought and won many fights, mostly against feral animals or others his age or slightly older. He lost a few but never lost his life which was something he was grateful for. The fight that put Liochant on the map though happened when he was 14, where he had to face off a one armed man who had never lost a fight before. It was supposed to be a massacre but the man refused to kill a child and instead requested Liochant to mercy kill him, a request Liochant couldn't deny because of his religion. This win garnered another benefactor to buy him.

HIS MIDDLE CAREER

Liochant was then bought by a former O'khasis noble who had helped in the invasion of O'khasis for money. He married an "exotic" white cat lady from North Tu'la, a gift to him from the king. This man was particularly cruel to Liochant, whenever Liochant lost he made sure that his punishments would hurt but never injure him enough to make it so he couldn't fight. It is also where Liochant recieved the most food insecurity has his meals were often withheld. The only benefit that came from that man was Liochant learning some of the Ru'aun language.

The mans wife, Lady Kanika, was as nice as she could be to Liochant. She was a former priestess of Menphia, though from her northern temples and was a taleneted seamstress and tattooer. She allowed Liochant to practice his religion and gave him the tattoos of protection given to most Menphia warriors after their first kill. The biggest thing she helped Liochant with was his marketing, for she knew that he wasn't just a warrior but had to be entertainment. Made sure that the crowds ate up the "Young teen underdog who fights for his Divine" angle and dressed him up

When Liochant was 17 he had the biggest fight, for the first time the gladiator pit managed to get a fully turned shadow knight. Red eyes and all. The shadow knight has blazed through other warriors until Liochant was sent it. It was another thing of Liochant supposed to be massacred but the entertainment value was higher for it was a Menphia warrior against their sworn enemy, a Shadow Knight. The thing it, Liochant won because he was specifically trained to defeat them. After a long battle, one lasting much longer than the crowd expected, he had lost his weapon but like a snake, he lunged and wrapped himself around his opponent and choked them out before slitting the throat.

After that fight Liochant was bought by a new benefactor who forced him to get two new tattoos, snakes running up his arms before their heads meat on his chest, his symbol of Menphia and protecting tattoo between them. He gained the name Pit Viper and his new benefactor ran wild but it wasn't all fun and games, for while Liochant was being shown off the man was cruel. A noble whose trade was in medicinal herbs and poisons who wasn't at the pits to make money but for the pure enjoyment of bloodshed had his hand on Liochant.

THE END OF HIS GLADIATOR CAREER

(At this point, the gang is now out of the Irene dimension)

When Liochant was 20 he was finally put in a fight he refused to participate it. A small child, no older than 14 who had just been turned into a shadow knight was against him. While Liochant knew that he didn't have to kill them in order to win, the child was shaking so much that the idea of knocking them out was vile. Thus he let himself lose, and that is when his owner descided to give him the worst possible punishment.

After Liochant's back was torn to shreds, the large sun now covered in crisscrossed wounds, he had scorpion venom poured onto his back, the venom causing him not only extreme pain but not allowing his back to even close for six months, and during this time he was still forced to fight. When his benefactor got bored with him, he was then pawned off to his last benefactor, the Scorpion of Tu'la, Kai the Traitor.

After Tu'las invasion of O'khasis, guilt started eating Kai alive so he made it his mission to help free gladiators. So he started gaining the reputation of his gladiators and servants "disappearing", so when people were sick of their gladiators, they would send them to him so they would die. Liochant was no different so after a year and a half of Kai playing the role of cruel owner and Liochant earning him more money in the pit, he managed to send Liochant off to Ru'aun with a khopesh, some money, and a shit ton of clothes because Kai had no idea how a poor person survives. FASHION! (For expanded, check out Kai lore)

(During this time, Lilith is found and Garroth is freed)

LIOCHANT IN RU'AUN

So after coming to Ru'aun at 22 and a half Liochant had to find work but his only skills were "fight good" and he had no formal education nor did he understand the language so he turned to the guard academy. Since it was rather normal for 20-24 year olds to be entered into the guard academy if they already had fighting experience, nobody batted an eye at him unless he talked. Something he never did much since becoming a gladiator.

From their, Liochant managed to learn the language and make his way through the academy rather quickly. Having 10 years of battle experience proved him incredibly beneficial but not too beneficial as Liochant had found a love of losing. Since his life wasn't on the line he found losing not be a big deal. He also started cooking because while he cooked often with one of the Temple Maidens when he was young, his history of food scarcity made him obsess over it.

Soon Liochant became part of the dragon ward and was assigned to watch over Alina and Lilith, as he was the most patient. By this time Liochant gained a better grasp on the language and kept his history hidden enough. The biggest benefit of now guarding children is learning to reading with them, for he still can't read much of the language. Seriously, the now 26 year old man has a sad history but the patience of the saint, which is why in my fic he and Garroth are getting shipped because I need Garroth to have his ass handed to him. And boy does he.

SIDE BAR: Liochant's full name is Lais Ravanah Havilah, meaning Lion's Chant of the Sands. He was asked to provide his name when entering the guard academy and he thought he needed to translate it. The guard who was listening to him barely understood him due to his accent and quiet voice so he thought his name was Liochant Sands. Lions Chant of the Sands, he has been too anxious to correct people and thus his name has been Liochant for the past four years.

[thelampisaflashlight]

A Nightlight For Your Pride

[Lamb meets the usually confident Swiss in a time of weakness and doubt. Short read, but a wholesome one.] Below the cut.

"You're just... not really my type."

It shouldn't bother him, Swiss knows.

Most of the time he can let that sort of thing slide, cause, shit, if he was everyone's type he'd be up to his ears in warm bodies to cuddle, but he thought...

Swiss thumps the back of his head against the stone wall behind him, running a hand down his face as the other fiddles with the cigarette pinched between his fingers, unlit.

"I'm sorry if I led you on, that wasn't my intention."

He really thought...

"I don't mind hooking up, but dating's a no."

He was so fucking embarrassed.

"No, it's, it's fine." He'd said, "No worries."

Fine.

No worries.

"Dammit..." Swiss groans, sinking down into a squat.

He'd kind of walked off after that, after saying it was fine, and just... kept going.

Honestly, Swiss had only meant to take a short walk to clear his head, but now he's here; The old chapel on the other side of the woods past the lake.

It's a place he's maybe been once or twice before, but never alone, and certainly not this late in the afternoon.

"Haahhh... Man, why am I so hung up on this?" he mutters to himself, rummaging through his pockets for his lighter, "I didn't even like her that much, I just..."

What had he been thinking?

"Stupid."

They just got back from tour, he should be celebrating, not getting hung up over some girl.

Some pretty, smart, talented girl, who made his stomach feel all wiggly...

"We can still be friends though."

Swiss lets the cigarette hang in his mouth and go to ash.

"I don't think... that's possible." he mumbles, then asks the air, "Do you?"

"I have... no idea." a voice from somewhere above his head has Swiss scrambling away from the wall.

"Who's there?!" he shouts, panicked, "Who-"

"The nightshift." says a little ghoul as they hang over the top of the wall, horns glowing bright green in the fading light, "I did not mean to startle you, but there was not a good time to announce my presence."

"The nightsh-Oh. Oh, shit! How late is it?" Swiss asks, patting himself down for his phone, but coming up empty, "Shit..."

The ghoul on the wall slinks down and crouches on the ground in a very froglike pose, reaching into a pouch around their waist and withdrawing Swiss' phone from it, holding it out to him carefully.

"You dropped this by the lake."

"You've been, uh, you've been following me that long?" Swiss chuckles nervously, wondering how he hadn't noticed them before taking his phone back, "You... you could have said something sooner."

"Mn, you did not seem like you wanted to be bothered." the ghoul replies, long, pale tail sweeping through the leaves on the ground, the eerie glow coming off the spade casting yet more of that strange green light, "Normally, I would not follow someone so far. I do not like wandering too much, but it will be getting dark soon."

"Wait..." Swiss stares at the ghoul for a moment, tilting his head, "Wait, do I know you?"

"I do not think so?" they reply, mirroring the tilt, "You do not look familiar to me."

"No, no, I..."

Swiss bites the inside of his cheek, thinking back on a conversation he'd had with Dew ages ago now...

What was...

“There’s only one other ghoul from that incident that’s still in residence here, but they live in the dorms with the human clergy, and they’re honestly kind of weird.”

“How so?”

“Walks on all fours all the time, glows in the dark like a radioactive sleep paralysis demon, dislikes other ghouls …except for fucking Aeth for some reason…”

“Why do you sound so bitter about that, hm~?”

"You're... Satanas I never did learn your name, but, I heard about you from a friend." he says finally, "You live with the clergy, right?"

The ghoul nods.

"I did not know whether or not I should be worried that people speak of me." they muse, "Or flattered."

Radioactive sleep paralysis demon...

"Ehn, it's subjective..." Swiss lands on, "So you are...?"

"Lamb."

"Lamb, okay. Uh, I'm Swiss." he says, offering his hand to them, "Nice to meet you."

"Swiss like the cheese, or Swiss like the country?" Lamb asks, giving Swiss' hand a gentle pat instead of shaking it.

"Oh, it's, I guess like the country kind, but it's more like, Swiss Army Knife, 'cause I'm a multi-"

...dislikes other ghouls...

Swiss pauses, biting his lip.

"-talented individual." he grins, "So, Lamb, um, care to escort me back to the abbey? Since it looks like the sun's going to set soon, and, ya know, can't see very well in the dark."

Lamb nods.

"Stay close then."

The walk back to the abbey is cathartic if nothing else.

Watching Lamb weave through the tall grass on all fours is silly, but something about the way they pause and wait for him to catch up, or look back at him, or warn him of dips in the path makes Swiss' chest feel warm.

"...Possibly rude question, but... why do you walk like this?" Swiss asks as they make their way round the lake, which Lamb stops at to lap at the water there like some kind of predator mammal taking a break from the hunt to hydrate, "Is it comfortable?"

Lamb peers back at him and hums.

"It's not particularly uncomfortable." they say, moving back into a seated position, "Feels safer."

"Safer?"

Lamb shrugs, then raises up, albeit not very high, standing at their full height.

They're really quite small, maybe around Aurora's height, possibly a smidge taller, but it's hard to tell without the ghoulette around to compare them to.

"I wasn't saying that to make you feel like you needed to stand up-" Swiss frets.

The ghoul gives him a confused look and carries on walking towards the abbey, their tail flicking through the grass, now brighter than before.

"Why..." Swiss starts, but cuts himself off.

"You can ask questions." Lamb tells him, as if sensing his hesitation, their tone shifting to a gentler one that puts Swiss strangely at ease, "I don't mind."

Swiss considers this, catching up to walk beside them.

"Why does your tail... glow?"

Man, he sounds like a little kid.

"I don't really know." Lamb admits, "But Omega said it's not hazardous or really... uh, toxic or anything of the sort. Although, I would not touch it."

"Why not?"

Yeup, little kid.

"It can get on your skin and stain it."

Swiss blinks.

"Really?"

And just like that, he's reaching out and-

"...Hey, Aeth, do we have any of the good dish soap?"

His hands keep that unnatural glow for two whole hours despite Aether almost scrubbing off a full layer of Swiss' skin, but it fades eventually.

And when it does?

He misses it.

[anachrosims]

Talk of d*sphoria and gender identity and body types and self-image... and child abuse.

It took me decades (see also: until a few months ago) and actually living with my close trans friend to discover that what I feel sometimes when I want to rip off my physical attributes and Be Something Else is... dysphoria.

I don't think it's dysphoria of the gender variety, because I enjoy wearing femme clothes and masc ones. But I don't know.

I have a very weird body type. I literally have Big Bones but everything ELSE is too small, so, y'know, when I go to the doctor they have to get the This is For Children Size Doctor Tools out.

I've never been comfortable as strictly A Woman and I know I'm not A Man. I'm fine with she/her pronouns, I don't really care.

I don't know if what I'm feeling, have felt since literal childhood, is gender dysphoria... largely because I have a loooot of body shame. My mom used to drag me to JCPenny literally every Saturday for YEARS and force me to try on clothes for hours, to pose for her, in the dressing room mirror. It was always the dressing room for handicapped folks, because it was larger and it meant she could sit down and lord over me like some fucked up wicked bitch queen. She'd critique how I walked, how I stood, how my body moved and was shaped.

I was twelve when I finally was able to start saying, "hey, I have a lot of homework this weekend" and eventually put a stop to that weekly nightmare. Can you imagine a parent doing that to you from age 4 to 12, almost every Saturday? God only knows how I didn't end up stabbing that bitch to death during my parents' divorce when I was 16, but I came very, very close.

I hate how I'm heavy. I hate how my joints creak. I hate that I have glaucoma and arthritis at 34, and that I have a cyst in my uterus wall that they'll have to remove eventually, and it causes me pain every fucking day.

I want to not feel disgusting and adverse to physical contact. I am so, so, achingly touch-starved. I want to hug people without being disgusted by my own breasts, or worried that no one will ever call me beautiful/gorgeous without me having to prompt it out of them.

I don't know why I'm posting about this. I don't know what I'm supposed to be, or who. I don't really care, though, except that I just want to find a version of me who is healthy and happy with the meat prison she never asked for.