#i do like ephemeral stuff | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

Tumblr is available in 18 languages.

#i do like ephemeral stuff

ghost-of-you · 2 years

Note

old 5sos and current 5sos literally feel like two different bands tbh

Anon, my love, apparently I've been waiting for this ask my whole life cuz it sent me into a frenzy. It does but it doesn't. Depends on what you're comparing. Looking at them as people, yes, definitely, they grew a lot in the past decade, obviously, considering the fact that they were literal teenager when they started. Sonically, depends on the jumps you're making. Put she looks so perfect next to wildflower youll be asking what happened (hi dad ✌️) but put slsp next the 2011, it works. I joked in the gc when blender came out that blender sound like english love affair, if english love affair was in yb and they work side by side, play take my hand and never be, that makes absolute sense. I don't know if this is gonna make sense to anyone else, but me myself & i makes me think of vapor. I know you said current and old and yb is not exactly new anymore, but I'm feeling the need to tell you to put Babylon right next to tomorrow never dies, those two go so well together and the fact that they'll never give me a sick live transition between them makes me want to scream. Honestly, I think that over the years they played a lot with their sound so there's a lot to go around and they evolved as musicians A LOT so there are songs that make you question if they are the same band, but you can group old 5sos and new 5sos together if you try. I personally think that's awesome. There's a 5sos for every mood.

#do only have this opinion because i do deep dives into their sound or does someone else agrees with me?#like disregard the lyrics #cuz lets face babysos were painfully teenage boys while writing #and just do a dive into the sound #and you'll see that they just evolved when it comes to using their skills #and they aquired a few new ones #and they have to considering how ephemeral the music industry is and how they say they're striving for longevity in it #using some big words here anna ksosmslksoaks chill out #In the end yes but also no #its all fascinating really sjspksoaksosk #you can find oldsos in the new stuff and that makes my heart warm tbh #sorry i have many many thoughts #i was asked

10 notes · View notes

solarisposting · 7 months

Text

sometimes online friendships REALLY suck. there's this person i became friends with on here in like 2014 or so. followed each other on instagram, twitter, and snapchat, and we spoke pretty regularly! then their online accounts slowly dropped off over the years, deactivated here and deleted there, until i guess they got rid of them all since the last time we spoke in october 2022? and it's not in an 'i'm being shut out' way - i think they just got wiped all their socials over the years and we never swapped more permanent contact info. and really, i do miss that friendship, and a few others that weren't quite so established but were still there, ya know?

#like we know each other's full names and i know he moved to such and such city last year #his full name is super common but mine isn't #so at the very least (and this goes for any online friend who knows full name etc and could probs find me anywhere)#i'm easy to look up one way or another. plus my name is on some stuff professionally #but yeah it's such an ephemeral sort of relationship and again. sometimes it can just suck #anyway i did find this person on linkedin so i know they didn't like die lmao #i do so love to look a bitch up on linkedin #ann with an ie

1 note · View note

zedecksiew · 3 months

Text

DECOLONISING D&D

In 2019, after seeing yet another round of alarmist discourse in Xwitter about how Dungeons & Dragons is FULL of COLONIALIST tropes and patterns, and needs to be revised, SCRUBBED of its PROBLEMATIC FILTH---I rage-tweeted this brainfart:

"Decolonising D&D"

I've seen this thread round the community, since. Humza K quotes it in Productive Scab-picking: On Oppressive Themes in Gaming. Prismatic Wasteland quotes it in Apolitical RPGs Don't Exist. Most recently, it was referenced in a 1999AD post about Western TTRPGs (an interesting discussion on its own merit; one that already has a counterpoint from Sandro / Fail Forward.)

If folks are still referring to it five years later, maybe I should give the thread a little more credit? Perhaps the fart miasma has crystalised into something concrete.

In the interest of record / saving this thought from the ephemerality of Xwitter, here is the text in full, properly paragraphed, and somewhat more cleanly expressed:

+++

"DECOLONISING D&D"

Firstly: saying "D&D is colonialist" is similar to saying: "the English language is colonialist".

If your method of decolonising RPGs is to abandon D&D---well, some folks abandon English; they don't want to work in the language of the coloniser. More power to them!

For those who want to continue using the "language" of D&D---

Going forth into the "wild hinterland" (as if this weren't somebody's homeland);

to "seek treasure" (as if this didn't belong to anybody);

and "slay monsters" (monsters to whom?)

Yeah. There's some problematic stuff here, and definitely these aspects should make more people uncomfortable.

But! I think it is an error to "decolonise D&D" by scrubbing such content from the game.

That feels like erasure; like an unwillingness to face history / context; like a way to appease one's own settler guilt.

Do you live in the West? Do you live in any Asian urban metropole? White or Person of Colour(tm)---you are already complicit in colonialist / capitalist (yes, of course they are inextricably linked) behaviour. (I can't speak for urban metropoles elsewhere, but I bet they are similar centres of extraction.)

Removing such patterns from the TTRPGs you play might let you feel better, at your game table. But won't change what you are.

I think it is more truthful and more useful NOT to avert one's eyes from D&D's colonialism.

The fact that going forth into the hinterland to seek treasure and slay monsters is a thing, and fucking fun, tells us valuable things about the shape and psychology of colonialism. Why conquistadors in the past did it; why liberal foreign policy, corporations, and post-colonial societies do it today.

Speaking personally:

I write stuff that evokes / deals with the context I'm in---Southeast Asia. An intrinsic part of that is looking at the ways colonial violence has happened to us---as well as the ways / reasons we now, supposedly free, perpetrate it on others.

A long chain of suffering. Heavy stuff.

I also write for people who want to have fun / kill monsters / pretend to be elves, of course. But for those people who want to consider serious stuff like colonialism: I offer no FIGHT THE POWER righteousness, no good feeling, no answers.

Only discomfort. Because the truth is uncomfortable.

Here's a screenshot of the Author's Note for Lorn Song of the Bachelor:

"Any text inspired by Southeast Asia has to reckon with colonialism ... This text presents a difficult situation; there are no easy solutions. "... If I offered a mechanical incentive for you to fight colonial invaders, you wouldn’t be making a moral decision, but a mercenary one. "The choice you face should echo ... the kind of calculus my grandparents faced."

I stand by that.

Also: might we be more precise and more careful about using the term "decolonising", please?

Here I quote Tuck and Yang's landmark and (sadly) still trenchant "Decolonization is not a metaphor":

"Decolonization brings about the repatriation of Indigenous land and life; it is not a metaphor for other things we want to do to improve our societies ..."

+++

Further Reading

So this post isn't just me reheating a hot take, here are some touchstone writings from around the TTRPG community about colonialism as a subject and mode of play in games:

"Jim Corbett was called upon to hunt down another fifty maneaters over the course of the next 35 years. Together, those tigers had killed over 2000 people, for much the same reasons as the Champawat Tiger - injury, desperation, starvation, and habitat loss. Would you look at that. The root cause was British colonialism."

D&D Doesn't Understand What Monsters Are from Throne of Salt

"Another effect of having colonizers in my setting would be giving players the opportunity to drive them away from the islands, their home. This maybe just be for the catharsis. After all, isn’t catharsis a big part of why we play roleplaying games?"

I’m Adding Colonizers To My Setting from Goobernut's Blog

"When you have a slime boy and the other characters are a really fat lizard and one's playing Humpty Dumpty, it completely shatters the straight-faced serious authoritarian illusion of race, and replaces it with complete fucking nonsense. I love the idea of proliferating the number and types of "races" into absurdity, to the point where the entire logical structure of it collapses in on itself and race as a category ceases to become coherent or meaningful in any sense."

Interview with Ava Islam - Designer of the RPG Errant from Ava Islam / The Lost Bay

"Perhaps most critically, the fundamental basis of power is not land or even money but manpower. That’s what local rulers fight over, and what Chinese commercial networks export, in return for unique island products. It’s what the European colonists really need (even if it’s not what they most desire). There is rich loot to be grabbed in the form of spices, Spanish silver, Indian gold, sea cucumbers (the Chinese love ’em), perfumes, dyes, cloth etc. so there’s ample opportunity for piracy, trade and smuggling, but the key to long-term success – the key to independent survival – is nakedly and unquestionably uniting people."

Counter-colonial Heistcrawl: previous high scores from Richard's Dystopian Pokeverse

"They worked their own land—which they dispossessed from American Indians—or became small shop owners or opportunistic gold diggers or bounty hunters or itinerant ranchers. To me, substituting these situations for one ruled by industrial monopoly ignores that the Wild West is a perfect example of how capitalism operates outside of (or prior to) mass industry, instead being composed of self-employers and self-sustainers."

Fantastic Detours - Frontier Scum from Traverse Fantasy / Bones of Contention

"... using the Western framing and D&D's baked-in imperialist and capitalist structure to get people earnestly participating in the experience of forming imperial power structures and the early roots of regional capitalism ... The PCs aren't the drifters on the train or the townsfolk watching with apprehension - they're the railroad itself."

An Arrow for the General: Confronting D&D-as-Western in the Kalahari from A Most Majestic Fly Whisk

+++

#colonialism #theory #ttrpgs #d&d #politics #lorn song of the bachelor

795 notes · View notes

shroomi1e · 1 year

Text

❝ i object! ❞

kazuha + albedo

summary: you as a noble should naturally marry another noble, despite your love for another. your parents had managed to pry your lover off of you and get you wedded to a powerful nobleman- that is, until your past lover comes barging through the doors on your wedding day.

cw: gn!reader, arranged/forced marriage, teeny tiny bit of alcohol, angst to comfort

what i listened to while writing: wave - wave to earth

a/n: *slowly crawls out of my cave* hey guys. it's me again😭 i randomly got the motivation to write again, idk what demons possessed me to write this in the span of 5 hours but at least i have new content!!!! i was gonna do this with more characters but kazuha and albedo were the only ones i see pulling this cheesy-typa stuff tbh

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

kazuha

“…what?”

your gaze fell down towards the wooden docks you were standing on. kazuha frowned, his grasp on your hand loosening. he was aboard the crux, and the crew was preparing to leave inazuma for another trip to liyue.

“i’m from one of the tri-commissions, kazuha,” you said defeatedly. “it’s over for us now. i’m going to be wedded as an alliance with another commission. i… i’m sorry…” but before kazuha could respond, the large ship began to sail away, his hands completely slipping away from yours.

kazuha leaned over the edge of the ship, watching your figure get smaller and smaller. though he hoped you would at least give him a wave goodbye, you simply turned around and left the docks of ritou, leaving him saddened and confused.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

kazuha spent the next month lost in his thoughts. ink blots were all that filled the pages of his journal now that he’s lost his muse.

“it’s over for us now.”

those words played in his mind like a broken record in hopes that maybe he could find a sense of doubt from those words, just a hint that it wasn’t truly over. he’s tried to understand, truly. but the thought of losing you ate kazuha up from the inside, especially knowing that he had no control over it. there weren’t any flaws in him or you that caused this, only circumstance. and that stung his heart more than anything.

despite kazuha’s wishes and prayers, the wedding would happen either way. news eventually reached his ears that two commissions from inazuma would be joined through a marriage between the two heirs, and that was when kazuha truly felt like he was losing control. you were being swept away so suddenly, carried away in the arms of another man. what was he to do?

you were being fitted into a kimono that very second, the maids tying the knots and wrapping the fabric around your body. your limbs felt heavy like lead, your head hanging low like rotten fruit on a tree. you tried to live in a fantasy just for at least a few moments, imagining that kazuha was the one you were being wed to, not a nobleman.

kazuha almost felt like a dream now that he was gone, as if he was only a fleeting imagination before you had to wake up to reality. the ephemeral touches, the honey-dipped sunsets, the smell of salt and the sea. that was all simply an illusion. you had to go back to the wooden floors, the inked papers and the melting candles. this was reality now, where everything was out of your control.

“this is all for the sake of our family, you know that?” your father’s voice broke your train of thought. “think of this as a way to pay us back for raising you. you’re much better off with a nobleman than that wandering fugitive anyways.”

you grit your teeth and tightened your fist, your knuckles whitening. “i know.”

the ceremony went through in a daze, the sacred sake tasting bitter on your tongue. a part of you felt like you should’ve just jumped on that ship along with kazuha. regret sat in your stomach like a sickly bag of bleach. but you knew it was for the better, both for you and your family.

after the vows, the priest then asked, “does anyone here object to the wedding?”

a heavy silence followed. the two of you were heirs to the biggest commissions in inazuma, it was obvious that nobody would dare to object this wedding. your gaze fell further down in defeat. it was really happening now.

“i object!”

your head snapped up from the ground and turned towards the voice. at the end of the crowd stood kazuha, the wind blowing softly through his hair, the golden light from the sunset outlining his silhouette.

emotions rushed through your chest: happiness, regret, sadness, doubt, and guilt. the cup you were holding dropped to the ground and shattered. the crowd began to murmur and gossip.

“kazuha,” you breathed out.

the crowd parted to make way for your lover, who confidently walked towards you and held his hand out. everything around you seemed to suddenly disappear the moment your fingertips met his. it was only the two of you now.

“kazuha… what on earth are you doing here?”

“i just need you to answer one question for me,” kazuha said softly. “do you trust me?”

by the way he eagerly interlocked his fingers with yours, his intentions were obvious. if you were to answer this question, it would mean throwing away everything you’ve known thus far: your family, your possessions, your wealth, your inheritance, your responsibilities. everything. but with the way kazuha was silently pleading you with his eyes… how could say no?

you let out a shaky breath. “i do.”

kazuha merely smiled in return, his eyes softening as if to tell you that everything was going to be alright. that he understood your choices, and that all you need to do was take this final leap of faith.

“hurry up kazuha!” beidou’s voice interrupted. a few meters away, the crux was anchored to the docks, the crew eagerly waiting to set sail. “the guards might come and take ya anytime soon!”

kazuha held your hand tightly and began running towards the docks, the two of you giggling as he helped you up on the ship. the nobleman, priest, and the crowd all watched in disbelief as you hopped onto the crux, sailing away with the samurai.

the crew cheered as you and kazuha shared a kiss of reunion, the anchor lifting from the seafloor and the two of you sailing away into the golden sun, just like you were meant to be.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

albedo

“i…see.” albedo’s eyes wander off to nowhere in particular after hearing your explanation. he blinks a few times as if to confirm that he wasn’t dreaming.

“it’s not your fault, albedo, and neither is it mine,” you added. “i hope you understand.”

for the first time since albedo was created, he feels numb. his fingertips lose grip as it all finally settles in. you’re leaving him for another man.

of course, he knows that’s not really the case. albedo understands your circumstance as well as the political powers at play, but at the end of the day, that’s what’s happening, right? you’re being wedded off to another man, which of course means you’ll have to leave him.

and when he sees you take off your ring- the ring he gave you- and put it on his desk, his heart shatters. you silently take your leave, disappearing into the dragonspine snow. albedo’s gaze is immediately pulled to the golden band on his desk, which seemed so much duller now that it wasn’t on your finger.

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄

projects seem more pointless than ever before, and piles of crumpled up drafts fill albedo’s trash bin. he’s taken down all the portraits of you in his home because it was too painful to bear, yet he can’t deny that he was still hopelessly in love with you. the thought of you standing at the altar with another man made albedo positively sick. and there was nothing he could do about it.

he even decided to abandon his projects to visit the city in hopes that he could catch a glimpse of you, but you never seemed to be there. he’d wander for what seemed like hours, only for it to be in vain. ‘of course,’ he tells himself, ‘they’d be busy preparing for the wedding.’

the ring in his pocket weighs heavier than before. he takes it out and twirls it in his hand, the afternoon sun reflecting off of it almost blindingly. the church bells ring in the distance, as well as the melody from the church organ.

wait… the organ is playing.

albedo clasps his hand around the ring tightly before frantically running up the stairs towards the cathedral. the scent of flowers fills his nostrils as he makes his way past the statue of barbatos and climbs the final flight of stairs until he’s met with the wooden doors of the cathedral.

he won’t lose you. he can’t lose you.

albedo’s hands feel heavy as his palm rests flat against the door. once the organs stop playing, the faint voice of a priest could be heard from outside. he can hear the nobleman say his vows, then you. his flat palm turns into a fist as he contemplates what to do next. he’s never liked crowds, nor has he ever liked being the center of attention. this could certainly ruin his reputation, and hell, the clan you’re getting married to might even get him fired but-

the thought of you being by his side again gives albedo more than enough courage to push against the doors.

“does anyone object to this wedding?”

with one strong push, the doors swing open. sunlight spills into the cathedral and forms a path of light leading to you. and dear lord barbatos, you look breathtaking.

albedo watches as you turn around in confusion. the ring you were holding in one hand clatters to the floor, echoing down the hall.

though albedo had planned on walking towards you, he couldn’t help but start running down the aisle. panting, he turns to the priest. “i object this wedding. i am their rightful lover, am i not?”

you step down from the altar, your hands reaching to caress his face and gently wipe the sweat from his forehead. “even after everything i told you… you still came. i tried so hard to hurt your feelings, so why are you here?”

despite the tears pooling in your eyes, you’re smiling. and that’s all albedo needed to see. “i must be going insane, y/n. i’m not one to act like this.”

he kneels down right then and there, holding up the ring with two of his fingers. “will you marry me?”

you take a moment to look down at albedo, who’s kneeling before you in a silent plead. the faint bags under his eyes are proof enough that he’s missed you. your family would hate you for this. doing this would mean to be shunned and disowned from your clan. the support you once had would dissipate in an instant. albedo might be put in danger as well. but you’d rather have nothing and albedo rather than everything but albedo.

“yes,” you said before sliding the ring on your ring finger, right where it belonged. you grab albedo’s arm and run out the cathedral, much to the protest of your family sitting at the pews.

you skip down the steps in a hurry before turning your head to see albedo smiling softly. you’re dolled up, and the afternoon glow of the sun hits your face just perfectly. and with his ring resting on your finger, albedo can’t help but simply adore you.

‘you are killing me softly,’ he thinks, ‘yet you seem to be the only thing keeping me alive.’

4K notes · View notes

shibaraki · 1 year

Text

TO BUILD A HOME ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

synopsis: todoroki shouto is the ideal roommate. he is tidy, quiet, considerate, and one of your dearest friends. you almost wished he were a tactless slob. it would certainly make navigating your feelings for him easier.

tags: GN reader, friends to lovers, pro hero shouto, quirk support engineer reader, living together (and they were roommates!), mutual pining, fluff, alcohol, other character interactions, domesticity, jealous shouto, a little angst, minor oc, love confessions, making out + frottage

wc: 14K+

a/n: I wrote a little bonus sequel for this au about their first date which you can read here !! [+4K]

Shouto’s home strikes a dissonant note with you.

You’re a statuesque centrepiece in his living room, staring out his tall standing windows, paneled wall to wall and making for a beautiful view of the city. There’s a soft shine to it, iridescent from corner to corner. A privacy film to block any view into the apartment from the outside, you’re guessing.

Despite your closeness you’ve never had reason to visit until now. There’s far too much space for one man, you think. Jarringly, it’s as if you’ve stepped into a studio display. A picture perfect bachelor pad— but really, what bachelor pad needed three family sized bedrooms?

It feels awfully lonely.

Shouto heaves the last of your boxes onto the kitchen island with ease. The muscles in his arms flex under his loose shirt, fabric briefly tightening. Unfair, you think. He hasn’t even broken a sweat.

Back straightening, you watch Shouto roll back his shoulder and rub at the joint. The movement causes the hem to lift and flash a pale swath of skin, his shorts hung low on his hips. The weight in your arms is somehow heavier with his eyes turned onto you.

“You can set it down,” he says, his tone full of warm mirth. The disbelief must be written plain on your face. Your fingers tighten on the corners as he walks over. Tilting his head, the red strands that have been haphazardly pushed back into white slip over his forehead. You watch his gaze dart over the label scribbled onto the card that reads ‘toiletries’.

“I know. I’m just…” your jaw shifts and you swallow, a frown etched into your brow. “I don’t know. Got a little lost in my thoughts”.

“Feel free to change whatever you like,” his mouth curls into a small smile, scar wrinkling by his eye. You are taken by just how happy he looks to have you here. Shouto seemed the type to appreciate his own space. “I want you to be comfortable”.

“Whatever I like?” you echo teasingly, shucking the box up in your embrace and bumping his shoulder. “Famous last words. Maybe I’ll decide to renovate your other guest room into a mini workshop”.

Shouto exhales a quiet laugh. The air around him is displaced by an ephemeral wave of heat that seeps through your sweater; it cools back to room temperature as quick as it came.

“I wouldn’t oppose it,” he says, and your breath catches. Reaching to poke at the box, he adds, “Do you want me to help you unpack?”

You begin to shake your head. “No, no. I can do all that, don’t worry,” you demurred nervously.

“It wouldn’t be a problem”.

Memories of all the things you managed to salvage in the wreck flicker across your mind's eye. Mugs and plates, a few clothes, oil stained tools and various other inappropriate things you’d rather die than have him accidentally discover.

But he’s staring at you like a restless puppy. You relent, “Maybe you can put away the kitchen stuff then”.

After Shouto retreats you are left adrift to navigate the narrow corridors. The room he directs you to has the biggest guest bed and it shares a wall with his own room. You shuffle in, processing your surroundings. Your linens are freshly washed, tucked in tight at the corners, and they smell like him.

You lower another box on top of the bed and sit by the headboard. The mattress yields. Admittedly it is much more comfortable than your old bed used to be. Soft, you sink into a foamy embrace, smoothing a hand over the matching pillowcases, then reaching up to the shared accent wall.

Reality has hardly set in for you yet. It’s been four days since you lost your home, most of your earthly possessions along with it, and the life you had spent years building. The villain that managed to frisbee a car through your living room had been apprehended but not before destroying half the city block.

Shouto immediately volunteered his own place. You have been close friends for years now, having met during your second year at UA as a support course student. You’d worked with Yaomomo on redesigning her costume for your portfolio and managed to worm your way into their quaint friend group.

Your initial crush on him all that time ago burgeoned into something you’re too anxious to put a name to. When he first suggested you live with him while the city fixed everything you’d wanted to refuse. So far lack of proximity has been your only saving grace.

But you really had nowhere else suitable to stay. A hotel would be too costly in the long run. Your other friends are scattered across different prefectures and those who are in the city are too far from work.

Shouto practically sparkled when you agreed, plucked right out of a shoujo manga.

You remember this as your fingers curled into a loose fist and gave the wall a quiet knock. All the tension accumulated in your shoulders relaxes at the dull sound. “Atleast it isn’t thin,” you mused.

There’s a large closet adjacent to the bed, deep enough that you could crawl inside comfortably. Windows that stretch above your head and overlook the busy streets. You notice that same iridescent sheen, alongside a large blind connected to the control pad fixed by your doorway. They roll down as you fiddle and remind you of those old school projectors from the pre quirk era.

The walls are almost entirely bare. Your imagination drifts to the countless books and photo albums you managed to bring, envisioning them taking up the empty space. It makes you wonder what Shouto’s room looks like. You squash that thought.

When you rejoin him he stands with his back to you, blades shifting under the material as he plays with a small round object held between his fingers. Closing the distance you realise it is one of your stress balls.

His expression is entirely relaxed, bright with a little child-like satisfaction. He pulls at the flexible rubber, rolling it under his thumbs, flattening in between his palms. Your novelty mugs are lined up in the open cupboard right beside his own, entirely forgotten.

As not to startle him you call out gently, “Hey”.

Your voice stalls his movement. Shouto pivots and meets your eyes; they widen as you laugh, amused by his forced nonchalance. He clears his throat, “Hi. Are you happy with the room?”

Humming an affirmative, you sidle up next to him and poke at the ball. “It’s fine, thank you. Nicer than my old place”.

Redirecting his attention to the ball, he squeezes it so hard the foamy rubber protrudes through the gaps in his fingers and lets go, smiling as it retains its original shape. “I liked your old apartment,” he murmurs. “It suited you”.

“Because I’m a mess, you mean?” drawn back into Shouto’s orbit, you lean against his left side. He mirrors your weight until you are like two pillars braced against one another, standing uselessly in the middle of his obviously unused kitchen. Your heart aches recalling all those nights he spent at the agency doing unnecessary overtime. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to come back here.

“No,” Shouto huffs lightly, passing the ball hand to hand. He doesn’t elaborate. Instead he bumps you with his hip, “Come with me. I’ll give you a tour so you know where everything is”.

You are guided back to the genkan; it’s gorgeous, modernised with a calligraphy feature wall that breaks up the light colours. There is a narrow door leading to a coat room and two white cabinets under a granite countertop housing a small decorative bowl painted in Deku’s colours. Inside are your keys and his, the chains entangled.

Very quickly you realise Shouto doesn’t even know where ‘everything’ is. He opens the cupboard doors hesitantly, in a way that suggests he had no idea what is in them. One filled by his shoes and slippers, the other left empty.

The coat closet holds a few jackets you only ever see him wear in winter. He pinches the waterproof puffy sleeve between finger and thumb with a curious sound. Quietly, “I forgot that I had this”.

“You wore it once and Bakugo said you looked like an ugly toasted marshmallow”.

“That’s right,” a smirk pulls at his lips, mouth thin to restrain his laughter. You dip your chin to hide how infectious it is. “He hated it. Maybe I should take it with me tomorrow and wear it around the agency”.

“Please don’t. He’s coming to see me later in the day and I need him in a good mood”.

Shouto glances at you from the corner of his eye, sunlight reflecting through the blue iris. You would recognise that air of mischief anywhere. “I mean it, Shouto!”

“The day after, then”.

“As long as I’m not in the line of fire,” you snort, itching absentmindedly at your forearm where the skin feels tender. Probably bruising after carrying everything up. “Antagonising Pro Heroes should be listed as a hobby on your wiki page”.

You fall in line with his footsteps once more and keep pace until he stops by another door. There’s a laundry room and a separate toilet by the genkan, first door to the right. Upon opening the door the white toilet lid lifts.

You gasp and clutch his bicep, far too excitable to register how firm it is. “You never told me you have a happy toilet. What the hell, Shouto?”

Still nestled in his palm, you notice Shouto squeezes the stress ball until the foam is straining under the stretchy skin but you say nothing of it. He swallows and echoes your words, “A happy toilet?”

“Yeah, ‘cause it's happy to see you! Isn’t it cute?”

He turns with his cheek between his teeth, exhaling a warm puff of air through his nose. “Yeah,” Shouto rasps. “It’s cute”.

The entrance leads to a hallway, opening at the end to an open plan living area and kitchen. A black and white palette, dark stained wood flooring from room to room. You stand by and watch fondly as he opens every half empty drawer. The sectional couch is a welcome splash of colour— deep royal blue, huge, L shaped and plush, facing a 60 inch TV held up by a cabinet with a few books and photographs inside.

You toe at the fluffy grey rug laid out under the coffee table. His place is spectacular, sure, but it isn’t Shouto. While left unspoken it seemed you both knew that. There’s an abashed pinch to his expression that’s endearing, yet sad; you thought he might be embarrassed by how threadbare his home life appeared to be.

“You ever use that thing?” you ask, pointing to the TV. Predictably, Shouto shakes his head.

“Not very much. These days it feels like I only come here to sleep,” he leans over to pick up the remote from between the cushions and balances it on the arm of the couch. “Every few months Uraraka and Midoriya will visit to order food and watch movies with me. You can use it whenever you want”.

The bathroom is opposite your bedroom doors. He taps his own in passing but does not open it. You step into a bright, white tiled room with a double vanity sink and murmur in awe. Above are ceiling lights that give a soft glow, giving it a warm toned hue. Behind a glass door is a bowl shaped bathtub, big enough to fit two.

“Damn…” you whisper, running your fingers over the control pad connected to the tub. There’s a big bath cover propped by the wall. “A sauna button, too?”

“Not that I need it,” he muses, standing by the doorway, hands loosely interlocked as he observes you navigating his space. Intuitively, you get the sense that this is the beginning of a true paradigm shift. His offer had been the fork in the road and your agreement took you down a path soon to be irreversible.

You could survive seeing him at work or out with the mutual friends you shared. You’re not sure how you’ll weather the domesticity that comes with living together.

The reflection in the mirror shifts awkwardly and you grimace at how hard you’re trying to act like a normal human being. This is just Shouto: your good friend and longtime supporter. Just the man you might possibly be in love with.

“We should probably talk about ground rules and stuff,” you begin, hoping it’ll wipe that gentle look off his face before you say something stupid.

“Ground rules?” Shouto pushes off from the door frame with his back straight. He tilts his head, sight following you closely as you scoot past him back into the hallway.

“Like a chore rota and stuff. Rules so we can live in harmony or something. And you still need to let me know how much I’m paying you”.

“But I don’t want you to”.

You pause mid step and turn to stare at him in soft incredulity. “Why not? It’s only right I contribute”.

Steadfast, he holds your gaze and bluntly says, “I have a higher income than you. There’s no need for you to pay me rent”.

“Way to rub it in”.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you laugh at the rare wobble to his voice and knock your hands together as a sign of forgiveness. His eyes squint into a smile. “It just feels unfair for me to ask that of you”.

The hallway falls dim as clouds gather, casting shadows that make the private bubble you’re in seem that much smaller. “But I want to,” you reassured him. “Come on— forty percent?”

“Thirty”.

You hold out three fingers up on the right and five on the left. You try again, “Thirty five?”

“Thirty,” he doubles down, covering the entirety of your left hand with his own. You feel his thumb skim your inner wrist and your resolve breaks.

“…Fine”.

Shouto grins boyishly and you do not acknowledge the flutter in your stomach.

The first few days are cautious despite your desire to behave as normal. At night you found yourself acutely aware of Shouto’s presence behind the bedroom wall. Your senses latched onto every muted bump and creak; the quiet drew thoughts you so valiantly avoided the surface and you could do nothing besides parse through them.

It made sleeping difficult.

You’d wondered if Shouto was having the same issue but the drowsy gait and hair plastered to one side of his head only ever spoke of a good night's rest. He wears loose silk pyjama pants to bed, low on his hips and an inch or so longer at the leg so they always caught under his heel as he walked.

Seeing him relaxed and fumbling like a fawn before his morning tea felt as if a big star was fizzing in your chest. It’s strange, in a tentative way, not an uncomfortable one.

The dust settles and a chore rota is scribbled out on a white board and pinned to the refrigerator with a worn All Might magnet. Your hours are less hectic so you offered to do the weekly shopping. Shouto volunteers for the laundry— his sister set the machines up for him when he first moved and he hasn’t moved the dials since— and taking out the garbage. Together you build a precariously clumsy peace, a mimicry of home.

Things started to change.

A kaleidoscope can take on an entirely new pattern with just the subtle turn of the lense. Weeks lapse. You stopped asking for permission and he no longer sought reassurance that you were happy. Existing parallel to one another, your lives fit seamlessly, though not without effort.

You’ve never known him to be a tactile type of guy— back when you rushed to hug him at graduation he’d brandished his diploma like a weapon before noticing it was you. Now, Shouto playfully hip checks you in the kitchen, he sits closer than he needs to on the couch and texts you at random throughout the day. He brings you a treat if his route overlaps your commute, keeping it hot in his left hand. He even greets you by the door on the rare occasion he finishes a shift first.

Your heart is fatter than ever and you aren’t quite sure what to do with it or where to put it down. After the city has rebuilt your apartment block and deemed it safe you’ll be returning to a normal you don’t recognise anymore.

You’re finalising the upgrade for Dynamite’s summer gauntlets when your phone buzzes on your bench. The vibration carries it closer to the edge and you scoop it up before the inevitable fall, cursing at the oil smeared around the case. The screen lights up.

shouto : 1 minute ago

There’s an image attached with no explanation. You are met with the open skyline, dense clouds of every shape and size dotted across a blue canvas. Shouto’s arm is in the shot, finger pointed towards one cloud in particular.

You squint at it. Zoom in on your phone, tilt it to the side, flip it in the editor and outline it— and nothing rings a bell. It’s a white blob.

Another notification drops down at the top of your screen. You wipe your hand against your overalls and open it.

shouto : just now

ヾ(=^・ｪ・^)

Your nose wrinkles as you glance back to the photo. Granted, it does have two pointed edges that could be interpreted as cat ears if you squinted. Maybe. This isn’t new — he burned his toast three days ago and took a picture simply because it looked vaguely feline.

you : delivered

aren’t u supposed to be on patrol?

The message turns to ‘read’ quicker than expected. You panic and click off the conversation, setting the phone face up on your workbench and reading from your locked screen. Lately, despite living together and seeing one another every day, Shouto seems to have more to say to you than ever.

shouto : just now

Divine intervention. We should get a cat.

The use of ‘we’ pings around your head like a pinball. Ever since the initial dubitation smoothed out he's become much more flippant about things— treating your situation as though it were permanent.

An intern shuffles into the workshop with a thick binder. Not one of yours, you realise. One of Mei’s. They blink curiously as your phone buzzes again, loud where it clatters on the hard surface, and you bite down on your inner cheek, hard, keeping your feelings at bay.

When handed the papers you breathe in recognition. They’ve been coordinated into two groups, and you’d know that logo anywhere. “The costume applications for the upcoming UA students! I wondered why they hadn’t come in yet”.

“Yes, for 1A and 1B. Hatsume-san said these ended up on her desk,” they said, gesticulating nervously, “and that I— I should give them to you?”

“Well If not for you I’m sure these would’ve ended up buried under all her discarded prototypes,” you demurred, offering what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Thank you”.

Abruptly, your phone gives another violent jerk and disrupts the moment. The intern squeaks, rigidity returning to her posture, and scurries out with a rushed goodbye. You sink into your arms, forehead pressed to the cool metal. Surely you aren’t that scary.

Turning the screen, you read the texts and sigh fondly.

shouto : 4 minutes ago

An older cat would be nice.

shouto : just now

Should we order tonight?

My treat.

Your gaze lifts to find the time at the top of the screen. It blinks back at you, the hour changing. Not long until you can head out.

you : delivered

it isn’t a treat for me if it’s more cold soba. give me variety or give me death (งಠ_ಠ)ง

The cursor flickers. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, hesitating on the final letter. Something so minor that feels bigger than it has any right to be.

“Stop being ridiculous,” you mutter, sending it before your mind can change.

you : read

be safe ok? I’ll see you at home.

When he doesn’t reply you figure he’s returned to his job, thus you return to yours.

Dynamite was once again trusting you with his gear. Bakugo had been extraordinarily protective over his initial design in highschool. Great bulbous things strapped to each wrist, grenade-like appearance, so big that his arms became pendulous and swung away from his body as he walked. The shoulder strain was immense.

You fought tooth and nail to get him to accept your adjustments. Now every summer you remodelled the gauntlets to be lighter and ventilated, and in winter you added in insulation and flexibility.

Respectively, the gauntlets still weigh a lot without additional stored nitroglycerin. You lift, bending at the knees and groaning as you lower them both down into a protective case, slotting into foam padding for protection. No doubt they’d end up rough on the first day but you still wanted them to arrive without a scratch.

Evening draws near. Closing the lid, it gives a satisfying click. You fiddle with the lock pad and calibrate it to open only for Bakugo’s thumb print before lugging the case to the built-in vault in your workshop, where it’ll be kept over the weekend.

Mei’s lab is directly opposite your own. Despite the dense soundproofing and reinforced steel concrete the jarring screech of a saw echoes throughout the hallway. You press your hand to the towering door, muscle fibres wracked by vibrations. Bidding her goodbye would be futile— she’s been working on a new patent for months now. The rest of the world fell away when she got like this.

Heading through to the main lobby, you greet those passing by with a nod, exchanging hurried words. It was always as though time didn’t exist here. People worked all hours, any hours. Flexibility was a point of pride for your company, and seeing someone eat breakfast after midnight wasn’t uncommon.

You preferred a regular schedule. Routine keeps you moderately sane. A cool breeze gusts through the sliding doors as you duck into the street; you hiss at the immediate change in temperature. Patting down your coat pockets you dig out your phone, sending a one-handed text to Shouto while you slip in your earbuds.

Cacophonous bustling of the streets now muffled, you scroll through a playlist and click at random. An upbeat melody carries you to the station, scooting through the throngs of people and tapping your card at the barriers.

You pick up the pace, scurrying onto the train right before the doors close. A stranger glares, looking over your dishevelled state with judgement. You find a narrow corner, left standing on the far end of the carriage, squashed up against the window to make room for other passengers.

Conscious about the volume. you turned down your music a tad and sank into the confines of your coat. Shouto’s apartment is miraculously closer than your old one, meaning the commute is much shorter, and your time spent in bed is much longer. Three stops pass and the sky begins to bruise. Purple hues blend gently into red, the sun a fiery hearth on the seam of the horizon that blinks abruptly between the passing buildings.

When you reach home Shouto still hasn’t texted back. You bend to arrange your shoes, coat hung beside his terrible winter puffer. The floor is cold under socked feet, pottering through to the living room in search of the TV remote.

You flinch as the newscaster's voice blurts out of the speakers. Shouto must have left it on the news channel this morning. Watching the scene unfold on the screen you feel your heart climb your throat.

Shouto is a hero— a number of your friends are. Villain fights are not only inevitable, they’re a requirement. The truth of it doesn’t make reality any easier to swallow. Uravity is a welcome sight. She’s fighting diligently alongside Shouto, up against multiple villains seemingly working in tandem to destroy the area.

You always thought villains were a good example of how versatile and powerful even the most innocuous quirks can be. Topspin can morph their limbs into a whirling top, and with years of training has gained the ability to form small tornados using momentum. Another you recognise is Cryo, a woman capable of making her body intangible similarly to Lemillion— though she is able to freeze you temporarily if she phases through your body.

There are others, too. Criminals you don’t recognise. It’s been a long time since a big group tried to organise in this manner. You worry at your lip, bracing against the back of the couch for support. What you find most concerning is they don’t seem to have a goal. Just mass destruction, plain and simple.

“Come on,” you think anxiously, nails digging into the cushion as you watch Shouto brace a falling building with his ice, creating an emergency slide for those left inside to escape. You’ve always marvelled at his parallel processing skills— Deku, too. Their thoughts must be running a million miles a second.

The cameras switch to highlight the other heroes and you realise you’ve been holding your breath. You exhale, physically deflating, feeling the weight of your phone in your pants pocket. Clean up would take a while once the battle is won; curry night is off the table.

That’s fine. You could forgive it as long as he came back in one piece.

Evening sinks into night. Shouto comes home after you’ve retired to your bed, though you aren’t asleep yet; you took to staring at the ceiling, waiting for a call from the hospital that you hoped wouldn’t come.

The distant sound of his boots hitting the floor has relief flooding through your system. You strain to listen as he makes his way through the apartment, deliberately quiet. You hear him head straight to the bathroom. The echo of running water muffles after the door closes with a soft click.

You check your phone once more, scanning over the recent updates and not finding much. You consider leaving him alone. Villain fights are hard on the body and the heart. Shouto likes space to process things before he speaks on them, and so you don't want to overstep.

That sentiment dissipates steadily. Five minute intervals that feel like hours. Shouto is in the bathroom for a long, long time. You are seated on the edge of your bed with the covers pulled back when he finally comes out.

Warm light streams beneath your doorway. Muscles clenched, you daren’t move an inch as a stretch of shadow moves across. Shouto stands outside your room and you stare, silently urging him to knock and give you an excuse.

After a beat, Shouto turns away. He flicks off the bathroom light and shuffles down the hallway, away from his own bedroom. Your feet tentatively touch the floor and you slide off the bed with hands held out, careful not to knock into any furniture on the way.

Goose pimples raise across your forearms. You’re in sleep shorts and a ratty old shirt on a cool spring night. No wind and no clouds, the moon hung high and bright. You have never seen the city so eerily still at this hour.

The air always retains the warmth of his body for a while, and you feel it lingering when you step into the hallway.

Voice kept to a whisper, you softly called for him, “Shouto?”

You find him sitting in the middle of the couch. The blinds are up, moonlight flooding in. Shouto is a solid silhouette outlined in white.

“Did something happen?”

The fight ended up dragging on for a while, so you’re in the dark. Details about casualties were steadily being released to news outlets as the heroes dug through the remaining rubble. You’ve yet to hear of any deaths, civilian or otherwise, which is a relief.

He lifts his head, “I’m fine. Sorry if I woke you”.

“You didn’t,” Shouto’s gaze follows as you shuffle towards him, footfalls loud on the hardwood floor. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

The silence is suffocating. Your vision adjusts to the darkness, stuck on the downturn of his mouth and pallid eyes. “We’re friends right? Friends share their burdens,” you try again, awkwardness leaking out with every syllable. “I’m here for you”.

He looks away. There’s a dark, disquieting bruise blooming on his jaw. Subconsciously, Shouto presses a finger onto the bruise and the blood beneath it recedes, paling and returning like the tide.

You don’t sit too close— worried proximity might be suffocating. The couch arm is firm under you, feet propped on the seat cushion. Shouto wets his lips, as if to alleviate the gravity of his words.

“A group of school children were in the theatre when it collapsed,” he rasps. His hand curls into a tight fist, sparks of fire diminishing between his knuckles. “They were young. No older than ten”.

“You blame yourself”.

Turning to you, light casts softly across half of his face, pooling in his left eye. “I was a second too late and now—” he stops, the words caught in his throat.

“Because of my mistakes those children are stuck with the traumatic memory of being trapped under all that rubble. I... I could hear them screaming”.

You gulp and slide down onto the couch, guided by the urge to touch him, “Hey. But you got them out safely, yeah? They’re okay, Shouto”.

His eyes crinkle a bit, if only a trick of your own, and you take it as permission to reach over. One by one you unfurl each finger, massaging your thumbs into his palm to smooth away the crescent marks.

“We got them out,” he amends quietly, taking a brief pause to find the right words. You spend it appreciating the nicks in his skin, scars and rough edges, proof of his tenacity.

Shouto closes his hand around your own, staring dolefully at the point where your bodies meet. You see it for what it is— a request for comfort — and your palms kiss as you realign your fingers, holding on tight.

“You know what I think?”

He hums, curiously peering up through his damp bangs.

“Those kids? They won’t just remember the bad stuff,” you smile, as tender as you feel, “I think they’ll remember how at ease they felt when Hero Shouto opened the way with his ice to save them. And now they know a hero will always come”.

The strain bleeds from his bones and his expression opens up in quiet wonderment. “Really?” he asks, his voice small, mouth finally curling. Your heart gives a squeeze.

“Really,” you affirm, knocking your knees together. Shouto’s smile widens, chin tucking to hide it. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“No. Just bruised up,” he says. An idea clicks into place.

“Good. I’ve got something we can do to make you feel better,” you scramble to your feet, weight shifting as Shouto’s stare lingers on your bare legs. It feels as though the moon is casting a spotlight, and you resist the urge to pull your shorts down.

“What is it?”

“Mug cake!” you exclaim happily, bringing your hands together. Adding an afterthought, “and a movie, too. One you haven’t seen yet”.

Shouto tilts his head, amused, but stands with you all the same. You notice then that he's changed into a pair of sweatpants, cuffed at the ankles. The t-shirt he’s wearing has a Pinky logo branded across his chest in bubble font.

“Mug cake?” he repeats.

“Cake in a mug,” you ribbed, poking at him. You start toward the kitchen. “Come on, it’ll only take like five minutes, tops!”

“Do we have cake ingredients?” he muses, following close behind. You flick on the recessed light over the stove and root through the cupboards, trying to ignore the natural warmth of his body beside yours.

“We have everything,” you insist. “I would know. I do the shopping, remember?”

Hovering unnecessarily close by, Shouto leans back against the counter and observes you with fondness as you list off the ingredients under your breath. It shouldn’t be so magnetising— you can feel something in your chest being drawn in, as though you were two unlike poles meant to come together.

Meeting his gaze, you look away and try to tame your giddiness. “Quit staring and find me two big mugs”.

You breathe a little easier when he does as you ask. Two large ceramic mugs are placed on the counter— a hideously priced vintage All Might mug gifted by Midoriya, another with cat ears on the rim and a tail curled into the handle.

“Will these do?” he murmurs. You startle at the closeness of his voice, nearly dropping the teaspoon in your hand.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “Yep. Thank you”.

He nods, satisfied. “Tell me what else to do”.

You grab another teaspoon and hand it to him. The joy in his eyes gleams, so pleased at the opportunity to help. “First we need to put four teaspoons of flour and caster sugar in our mugs, then add two teaspoons of the cocoa powder. You follow?”

Shouto mirrors each action, always glancing back to your movements to check he was doing so correctly. It is unbearably endearing.

“Now we add an egg in each— one sec,” the fridge light bursts through the dimly lit kitchen, and you squint, grabbing two eggs from the tray. You give him an egg. “Now crack it into the mug and stir”.

You’ve ended up with the All Might mug. Using it is nerve wracking; all you can think of is how expensive it was, but the cat mug is Shouto’s clear favourite. Gently, you tap the egg on the counter. A hairline fracture forms on the shell. You push your thumbs in, prying it apart over the mix, letting the whites drizzle.

Shouto is… faring well enough. There’s clear viscous liquid all over his fingers, and his shell is broken in three, but the yolk made it in.

You laugh quietly at his sheepish expression as you pass him some tissue. He wipes his hands, leaning to observe while you add three teaspoons of milk and vegetable oil. “Where did you learn to make these?”

“During my apprenticeship,” you admit. Graduation hadn’t led to immediate incredible offers like it had for Shouto. You needed to get your foot in the door first, which meant working awful hours with shit pay and little recognition. “I was trying to save up back then, so I ate a lot of crap like this”.

“I’ve never tried it,” he says, repeating the steps as you had shown him. Your fingers brush with a pass of the milk. “I wasn’t allowed treats as a child so I guess I didn’t develop much of a sweet tooth”.

“That’s just like you,” you grin, tearing open the bag of chocolate chips and shaking them in his direction. “Always gotta drop depressing lore in the middle of a nice moment”.

The truth about the Todoroki family had been outed during your first year, right before the war. It’s a subject Shouto can joke about now that time has mostly healed over those wounds. Granted, his relationship with his father was cautious at best, and his older brother was locked away in a private facility for a good few decades, but things were better.

“Did you hear me?”

You blink, startled out of your reverie, “What?”

“I said I have plenty more material but you zoned out,” Shouto raised a brow, dipping into the bag of chocolate chips and sprinkling them over his cake mix, “Where did you go?”

“Ah…” you take his mug and set it beside yours inside the microwave, turning the dial to the two minute mark. “I was just thinking I kinda want to kick your dad’s ass”.

Your heart leaps. You will never be sick of Shouto’s laugh; it’s like hearing his soul. The sound is rich and warm over the loud hum, glass plate turning, mixture bubbling.

“Don’t worry about that,” the laughter tapers off into an affectionate murmur, body naturally leaning into you, “he’s been kicking himself for years now”.

“Good—!” the microwave pings, and your soul jumps out of your skin. “Jesus. Why is it always so much louder at night?”

The mugs are still hot. You press a kiss to your stinging fingertips and step aside; Shouto takes each cake out one at a time with this left hand wrapped around the mug. “Show off,” you pout.

A sweet aroma fills your senses. They’ve risen well. You lightly scratch the top with your spoon, pleased by the firmness. “We did pretty good,” you chirped.

“Smells good,” Shouto notes, cradling his mugcake to his chest as though something precious. “Are we watching a movie?”

“Yeah. Let’s pick while it’s still hot”.

You cast a fleeting look at the counter before you walk around the kitchen island, putting the minor mess to the back of your mind. Bouncing back onto the couch, you run your free hand down the cushions in search of the remote.

“Where’s the—” Shouto sits to your right and passes it to you. “Did you pull that out of thin air?”

“Yes. I have a third quirk called ‘remembering where I put things’,” he grins, dodging the half hearted swat you send his way.

“You’re a real comedian. Just for that I’m picking what I want to watch”.

Infuriatingly, Shouto looks happy about that, “You know what I’d like anyway”.

In the end you choose Ponyo because he had not yet watched it— a fact you deemed criminal. You watch his expressions soften at the vibrant scenery, idly pushing the tip of his spoon into the cake. He scoops out a piece and brings it to his lips.

You try not to beam when he visibly freezes, eyes widening with his spoon held in his mouth. Slowly, Shouto starts to chew. He makes a happy little hum. Three words crossed your mind, travelled down to your heart and diffused throughout your body. You feel them restless in the tips of your fingers. You don’t say them.

Only then do you let yourself eat yours. The spoon sinks into the sponge, a faint waft of heat bursting from the centre where the chocolate chips have melted. It’s just the right side of fluffy.

Comfortable silence hung over your heads, masked under the clinking of your spoons against the mugs.

After the soft thud of an empty mug meeting the table, breaking through the quiet, Shouto speaks.

“Bakugo mentioned you today,” he says. “Asked me to pass on a message”.

You hum to indicate that you’re listening. “He said ‘hurry the fuck up or kiss my sponsorship goodbye’, verbatim”.

“I’m not sure I like those words coming out of your mouth,” you laugh, shoulders shaking with it. Shouto tips his head back, lips twisted to hold laughter of his own. “What a bullshitter”.

Bakugo liked working with you too much to pull out. Even if he didn’t, the man was a hard nut to crack and refused to trust anyone else with his gear.

“Are you almost done? Working on his gauntlets, I mean”.

“They’re finished,” you responded, cheek resting on the heel of your hand. Shouto repositions his hips, turning his body to face you in your periphery while you watch Sousuke and Ponyo eat ramen. “Good and ready for the summer. Now he won’t level half the city when he sneezes”.

“Thank you for your hard work,” comes his mirthful reply. “Oh, and Uraraka says hello. She wants you to go to the get together tomorrow night”.

“You know I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, right?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose. A soft sound that has satisfaction singing through your veins. “I wasn’t planning on going so I forgot to mention it”.

You run your tongue along your molars. There’s still a lingering chocolate taste. “You aren’t going to go?” you ask, tone trended downwards, plainly implying your disappointment. It wouldn’t be so odd. While you’d befriended Momo and some of class B before ever meeting Shouto, you’re not sure you want to be there without him.

“I will go if you do,” he eyes the way your shoulders relax at that, attentive to a fault. “They can pick on you instead of me”.

You roll your eyes with exasperated affection and arms crossed over your middle. “Tomorrow?” mhm. “Is it at that place Denki likes?” mhm. “Thought it might be. Guess I can be your buffer for a few hours”.

“I’ll let them know,” Shouto murmurs. Colour dances across his skin, shadows moving with the picture on the screen. Ponyo dunks her head into the depths alongside Sosuke and the room is suddenly awash with vibrant blue, and you witness an unwelcome epiphany cross his mind.

Stated like a huffy accusation, he says, “You know, you’ve worked on most of my friends gear, but never mine”.

“You never asked,” you reminded him. “And you had connections in my industry already because of your… Endeavor. But I would’a jumped at the chance to get rid of that first costume you designed”.

Cheek pressed to the cushion, he smiles. “What, was the glacier too much?”

“It was so ugly Shouto,” you bemoan, leaning closer with your dramatic outburst. “The worst part was it covered up half of your pretty face. Now that’s just bad for branding”.

A soft intake of breath. Shouto’s lips part and you are caught in his awestruck stare. His voice deepens as he asks, “You think I’m… pretty?”

You swallow and muster up an easy grin, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Everyone thinks you’re pretty, you goof”.

His eyes lower, pensive for a moment, and then flicker back to the movie. Ponyo is sleepy, and the boat has shrunk, and Sousuke has big tears rolling down his cheeks.

You can’t help thinking it was the wrong thing to say.

Eventually the noise settles into static; the kind that makes the shadows seem a little darker, dense branches spreading across the ceilings and walls into a daunting canopy. You burrow into your hoodie, pulling the collar up over the bridge of your nose as Sosuke and Ponyo are reunited with his mother in a vast underwater paradise.

The earlier exchange weighs on you. Stealing a quick glance at Shouto, you feel your anxiety chip at the expression on his face. Somewhere there, beneath the scar tissue and laughter lines and eye bags, is a small boy watching in awe.

Neither of you speak until the film comes to an end. Your head bobs along to the final song, drawn into a bubble of nostalgia. Through the thick of it, you hear a whisper. Shouto says your name and there’s barely any strength behind it, uncharacteristically timid. Blinking away the haze, your eyes adjust. You can see an inviting, wide open embrace, his left arm now outstretched, the intention clear.

Shouto looks right back. Your vision has sharpened enough to make out the small smile on his face. You crawl across the couch cushions and curl under his arm, turning your cheek to watch the credits play out.

“You looked cold,” he belatedly adds. “Is this ok?”

You hum in agreement. Compared to his body heat, you’d say it had been freezing. Despite all the hard earned muscle over the years Shouto is pliable when he’s relaxed, doughy, and he yields when you begin to adjust your shared position.

Swallowed by warmth, you guide his arm down to cinch around your waist and nestle against his chest. You can feel his heart beating like a wing beneath your palm.

“Better?” he murmurs, breath tickling your ear. A final shiver dances the length of your spine as the faint tremors dwindle and your bones thaw. Fatigue creeps up, making your eyelids heavy.

Quietly, “Better”. Then you mumble, “And I do think you’re pretty, Shouto”.

“Hm?”

“Was bein’ a bit of a coward earlier,” you continue, a sleepy drawl to your words. A yawn pulls at your jaw, nose flaring with it. You think you could sink right into him, like a hot bath. “Shouto’s pretty… all… all the time…”

Your weary eyes gave in to the rhythmic stroke of his hand, consciousness drifting away. Soft dreams undulate, drawing you in, pushing you out. There’s a familiar face. They turn into your palms when you cradle them. Your stomach clenches at the sudden weightlessness and you grasp at their shirt, worried you might float away.

When you wake up you are in your own bed again. It returns to you in fragments— Shouto’s arms around you, his rumbling laugh, the tangible intimacy that had hung over your heads. Realising he must have carried you to bed you turn over to groan into your pillow.

Eventually, what draws you out into the open is the smell. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you pad out into the living room, searching for Shouto. Leggings, your mind whispers. He’s milling about the kitchen in his workout clothes; a little pair of shorts overtop and a green hoodie.

“Morning,” he says, placing a small plate onto a tray. You notice two bowls have already been prepared. “I made breakfast”.

The greeting dies in your throat when he looks up. A stream of dewy morning light illuminates the room, reflecting on the pale surfaces, creating an ethereal view. He combs his hair back with his fingers, tucking the longer strands behind his ears. Your gaze strays from the bruise on his jaw— now turning a sickly shade of green— to the food on his tray.

“Wow,” you mumble, feeling hunger twist in your stomach. “This actually looks edible. What’s the occasion?”

It’s a traditional breakfast. A bowl of rice, miso soup with some vegetables, a rolled egg and a plate of grilled fish. Shouto sets a pair of chopsticks down. “No special occasion. I just wanted to cook for you”.

“God. You are so…” you wave your hands at him, too overwhelmed by the sudden flush of tenderness.

He blinks, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. “You just gestured to all of me”.

“I just woke up and there’s a prince using my shitty old rice cooker. Forgive me,” you remarked groggily. It feels as if your entire being is a soft spot that he won’t stop prodding at.

Gathering the tray in your grasp you avoid his stare and make way to the dining table, his quiet chuckle close behind. You sit, unnerved by his presence and fighting off dregs of sleep. The seat is cold under your thighs. “Thank you for the food,” you murmur.

Chopsticks tucked in the crook of your thumb and finger, you pick up a rolled omelette. The egg tastes sweeter than expected— mixed with more sugar than required, you think, but it’s good, and you finish in the next bite.

“Are you not leaving for work?”

Shouto hovers across from you; his hands rested on the back of another chair, and stood silently. “How is it?” he deflects.

Your teeth sink into a tofu cube, umami flavours bursting on your tongue. You hum your approval, making a show of it. “It’s delicious. Thank you, Shouto. Really”.

Over the years you’ve come to learn that Shouto reacts to praise in subtle ways, and often smiles without his mouth. You can hear it in the lilt of his voice and see it in his spirited stride. You watch as his shoulders straighten. He’s alight, peacocking his pride, and you’re not sure he realises it.

“There’s a secret ingredient”.

You pause mid chew, swallowing thickly. “If you say love I’m moving out”.

Shouto tempers his amusement with a shake of his head. Stray hair falls forward to frame his cheeks. The chair reclines back on two legs as he leans. “My mother told me that making a meal for someone is a simple way to show gratitude,” he continued. “Thank you for taking care of me last night”.

Heat simmers under your skin, all buzzing energy and jitters. The sincerity is disarming. Had this been a dream you would’ve kissed him.

Shoving another tofu cube in your mouth you chew it down to fine paste, vying for time to formulate a coherent sentence. “Don’t thank me for that,” your initial playfulness softened to reciprocate some of his vulnerability. “I know I’m not a hero but I’ll always be there for you in whatever way I can”.

Whatever his response is, you don’t hear it. Shouto murmurs inaudibly, eyes falling closed with a long exhale. Your only respite is the warmth in his gaze when he looks back at you. “I need to leave now if I don’t want to be late. But I’ll see you tonight?”

You hum an affirmative, nodding around the white rice pinched between your chopsticks. It falls apart gently on your tongue. Covering your mouth, you say, “I’ll be there”.

Shouto steps away with some finality, readjusting the hem of his shirt. The fabric hangs loose around his hips, emphasising how tight his shorts are. You mentally kick yourself.

“I’ll text you, then”.

The day passes frustratingly slowly after Shouto leaves. You technically could be sifting through the new student’s designs, but all you can think about is how charged the atmosphere had been this morning. Retiring back to your room to scream into a pillow or two, you eventually find yourself getting ready.

Shouto let you know he would be going straight from the agency. He had clothes in a locker here— casual, some jeans and a sweater, which at least allayed the fear of being underdressed.

You pull on one of your nicer jackets, holding the lapels close to your chest as you step out into the cold evening. Dark cumuli gather in sparse clumps across the darkening sky; as mercy has it, the wind is pushing them in the opposite direction.

The place isn’t far. You don’t frequent it very often but liked it well enough despite management being a bunch of rich guys playing dive-bar dress up. The low ceilings, vintage mismatched furniture and dim red lights created an intimate atmosphere.

People loved the idea of finding a hole in the wall that nobody else knew about. The catch was everybody knows, but not everybody can get in.

Flashing above the door in green neon lights is a sign grimly reading ‘The Love Shack’. The first thing you notice is the strong woodsy smell masking the faint scent of alcohol. There’s a floral tinge to it that you have trouble pinpointing.

You head inside and greet the bouncer standing by the entrance. He’s a big guy, standing around 6 feet 9, mutton chops swallowing a great deal of his face. Resting on his bald crown are a pair of comically small sunglasses.

Before he can ask for your name it is being hollered across the bar. A few heads turn and you dip your chin to shield from prying eyes. Uraraka is bounding over, Mina hot on her coattails. The pair topple into you with canorous laughter clear over the music.

“You’re here!” Uraraka effused, grabbing at your shoulders and shaking them. “I haven’t seen you in so long! Shouto has been keeping you all to himself”.

Mina slumps against you, echoing Ursraka’s words with a slurred whine. “Holy shit. Are you guys already tipsy?” unsteady on your feet you try to keep them upright.

“No,” Mina tittered, pink lips jutting into a pout. She pokes at your cheek. “You’re just too sober!”

You startle. Another hand, large and hot, splays at the small of your back. The bouncer grunts and encourages you in the direction which they came from. That appears to spur the girls on— you’re dragged to the far end of the bar, a wide booth nestled just around the corner, hidden from view.

You’re met with a chorus of cheers. Kirishima, Jirou and Shinsou beckon you forward. Bakugo is nursing a pint, offering you a wordless nod. Momo shakes her head as Denki attempts to climb out and greet you despite being trapped by the table, patting his back when the effort is fruitless.

“Alright, alright. I missed you too,” you grin, helplessly charmed by your friend's excitement. Uraraka ushers you into the booth. You scoot up beside Momo, the group packed in like sardines to make room.

Mina bends to press a wet kiss to your hairline. It leaves behind a sticky impression of her lips. “Let me go grab you a drink, babe!” she chirps, skipping off toward the bar and immediately draping her upper body over the black countertop to wave the bartender over.

The conversations resume, an easy atmosphere settling over your group. Though you aren’t entirely from their world they do well to involve you, asking for your thoughts, trying to make you laugh. Jirou blushes under the red lights when you bring up her latest album, sending you an appreciative grin. Mina returns holding an impressive amount of drinks, her fingers slipping dangerously on the condensation.

You are one strawberry daiquiri in. There’s a muted yet pleasant buzz under your skin, no doubt aided by the good company. Still, you cast an anxious glance around the room, curious about Shouto’s absence. A soft tap to the knee draws your attention.

Momo turns to whisper in your ear, “Shouto said he’ll be here on the hour,” answering that unspoken question. Your cheeks fill with an indignant breath, embarrassed by your own transparency.

“We aren’t attached at the hip, you know,” you rasp childishly. It’s a lie— you’ve lived with Shouto for only three weeks and you have already forgotten where he ends and you begin. Momo laughs, hiding it behind the back of her hand.

“Could’a had me fooled,” Bakugo interjects, scoffing behind his drink. The glass tips and he drains the last of it. “Your name is all I hear outta his mouth these days. Starting to think he doesn’t know any other words”.

You hold up an accusing finger, “Quit reading our lips, dickhead”.

The other bares his teeth, gums and all. He moves his hands in recognisable patterns at a deliberately slow pace, as if talking down to you. ‘Fuck you’ he signs.

“Oh!” Kirishima claps abruptly. You startle, almost knocking over your drink. He’s so big that it rocked the table. “Check this, Bakugo. I’ve been learning more signs, you gotta tell me if I’m doing ‘em right!”

“Fuck do I look like to you?”

“Like my handsome best bro,” is his smooth reply. Cheeks red as his hair, a cocksure grin flashing his sharp teeth; Bakugo softens, clicking his tongue in feigned annoyance, betrayed by the twitch by the corner of his mouth. You think Kirishima is like an overgrown stray that manipulated Bakugo into being his human.

Whatever he clumsily signs must have been obscene, because Bakugo roars with laughter.

“Who the hell taught you that, shitty hair?”

The hour comes and goes. Rings of water collect under the glasses. Shouto is five minutes late. You displace the group, accepting Uraraka’s loose lipped complaints as she is forced to scoot back out the booth. Pinching the fat of her pink cheek, she’s placated by the promise of another round on you.

“I’ll come with,” Shinsou offered with a lazy wave.

“Thanks,” waiting for him to get to his feet, you smile. You liked Shinsou well enough. Working as an underground hero meant you didn’t get to see him too often.

You approach the bar. The man working behind it has gossamer insectoid wings on his back, sprouting from two long slits in his fitted shirt. They glint in the light, colours refracting iridescent, reminding you somewhat of a church window.

He comes over as he catches your eye, wiping down the sticky surface. You’re honest enough to admit he’s handsome. Rugged with a baby face, hair falling over his forehead in loose curls. There’s an easy air about him, and when he flashes a crooked grin you feel the alcohol a little too thick in your veins.

Tattooed forearms brace against the bar and he leans into your magnetism, “What can I get ya?”

“They’ll have the same as last time,” you reply. “I think the tab should be under Kaminari’s name?”

He nods, eyes skimming over your form, “Won’t be long”.

You turn to find that Shinsou is staring, kissed by a reddish glow. His mouth downturns into a smirk. “I don’t think he even noticed I was here,” he drawls.

Defensiveness prickles over you. “Don’t think anyone has,” you lightly knock your arms together. “You’ve been quiet tonight”.

“Not my scene,” Shinsou sinks forward, propped up by his elbow, and rests his chin in the cradle of his hand. His heavy lidded eyes never stray. “But I can’t say no to free drinks”.

The barman works the taps in your periphery but you remain focused on Shinsou. There’s a new scar across his cheekbone, right where his persona mask ends. Another over his mouth, a thin line of rough tissue that cuts through his five o’clock shadow. The mass untameable hair on his head has been cut shorter, tapering around his neck.

“Leech”.

“Look who’s talking,” his smirk widens. You watch his gaze slide over your head and dread swirls in your stomach at the gleam in his eye. “I think your nepo baby boyfriend just got here”.

“Not my boyfriend,” you hiss under your breath. He holds his laughter between his teeth. “And don’t call him that!”

Shinsou laughs into his palm, low and rumbling. You hear the fond invocation of your name as the heat of another body appears at your back. Met with brilliant teal and stormy grey, Shouto greets you both apologetically.

Perking up self consciously, you say, “You made it!”

“Hi. Sorry, I got caught up and lost track of time”.

You’re happy to see him. He’s in fitted jeans and a dark button up shirt over an old black turtleneck. Heterochromatic eyes slide from your smiling face to Shinsou’s own disinterest, then drawn to the drinks that have steadily begun to accumulate on the bar counter.

“Ah, let me get you a drink—” you wave over the guy who served you, though it is hardly necessary when he’s already observing. He saunters over with a pint of lager, setting it beside Mina’s garish rainbow concoction.

“Everything alright?”

Squinting at the messy kanji on his name tag, you think you can make it out. Kei, it reads. “Would we be able to add another to the tab? Our friend just made it”.

For some reason Shouto crowds in closer, the cool press of his left side seeping through your shirt. Kei barely pays him any mind. “No problem,” a cold flush crawls across your back when he winks. “Anything for you. What’ll it be?”

“I’ll have a highball,” Shouto interjects. You frown at his sudden sharp demeanour, and lean your weight back in hopes of comforting him. The air warms up.

Kei’s enthusiasm fractures imperceptibly, “Alright. Let me get started on that for ya”. Shinsou snorted, his head dipped to his chest and shaking; you think you aren’t nearly drunk enough for whatever this is.

“Shit. You really are petty,” Shinsou speaks up after Kei departs to the other end of the bar. “I always thought Midoriya was exaggerating”.

“Petty?” you echo, squinting at your roommate with a soft pout. Shouto fixes his gaze to the bottles lined across the wall and looks as though he wants the earth to swallow him whole.

“Highballs are tedious to make,” Shinsou turns his back to the bar, leaning against it with his drink in hand. “You definitely chose that on purpose”.

“I didn’t,” Shouto monotoned. “I like whisky”.

“I’ve never seen you drink whisky,” your voice lilts into suspicion. Shouto narrows his eyes, pointedly avoiding yours. A terse beat passes, and you inhale with defeat. “Oh, whatever. Go say hi to the others while we bring the drinks”.

Shouto blanched. “I can help—”

“I’ve already got a big strong man here to help me,” Shinsou scoffed. There’s an umbrella resting on the lip and a purple straw in his mouth. You put a hand on Shouto’s bicep and squeeze, “You need to let Momo know you’re here before she sends out a search party”.

The contact visibly placates him. You watch after him as he makes his way to the booth. Slurred over the low music, he turns the short corner to be met with a cheer in much the same way you had.

“You two are ridiculous,” Shinsou murmurs, amused exasperation clear in his tone. Splitting the drinks into two groups to carry, you ignore his remark and the fondness swirling in your chest.

Kei appears and sets the highball down. A tall glass of liquid gold, three carved ice cubes fizzing at the bottom, a lemon garnish on the rim. “Thank you,” you tell him, pleased when he reciprocates your sheepish grin.

You let Shinsou take it— your hands are already full and slipping. The others have pulled Shouto into the booth and sandwiched him between Denki and Mina, whose distinct voices are overlapping as they try to get a word in.

Denki stops mid sentence as Shinsou slams the drinks onto the table. You do the same, albeit much more carefully. He lists them off one by one, sliding the glasses over to their persons. Shouto’s comes last.

“And in a surprising turn of events we have Todoroki with a japanese highball”.

Shouto accepts the drink with his right hand and a straight face, ignoring the harmonious ‘ooh’ that reverberates around the booth.

Bakugo points his pinky at him, “And since when do you drink whisky?”

Petulantly, Shouto mutters, “Since now”.

Ultimately deciding to pull up a chair, Shinsou sits at the head of the table while you are squeezed on the end beside Bakugo; he side glances, raising his brow in acknowledgement.

“Dude, now that we’re all here, let's have a toast!” Denki exclaims, literal sparks of joy bouncing from his crown. Everybody groans.

“I’ll hear your toast bro,” Kirishima lifts his pint, the wonderful enabler that he is. Shouto meets your gaze across the table and raises his own with a shrug.

“I, uh…” Denki shrinks under the pressure. “I dunno what I was gonna say”.

“To a quick death,” Shinsou proposed, halfheartedly holding his sake in the air.

“Hear hear,” muttered from beside you, Bakugo’s eyes fell closed. You snickered, alcohol weakening your inhibitions as you hook your chin over his shoulder. He allows it.

Momo voices her disapproval and tips her glass, “To good health”.

“To Chargebolt,” Jirou adds, a grin splitting her cheeks, laughter already bleeding into her words. “Seen him at his best, seen him at his worst, and still can’t tell the difference”.

“Oi!”

“To a livable minimum wage!” Uraraka hiccups. All the blood in her body seems to have rushed to her face; expression comically determined, betrayed by her spasming diaphragm. Everyone lifts a glass.

The night crawls on. Another round, then two. Kei refills your glass, never without a flirty comment. You feel thawed from the inside out, a silly smile fixed to your lips. Your cheeks hurt from laughing, from the too-forceful kisses given by Mina, the rough pinch of explosive fingers.

You might as well be engaged in a game of musical chairs; the only one refusing to surrender his spot is Bakugo. Jirou and Momo slink away somewhere private— ‘private’ being behind the vintage jukebox right by the bathrooms— and Kirishima scoots over to wrap you up in a side hug and pushes all the air from your lungs. Uraraka drapes herself across your front. Shinsou surrenders as Mina sits in his lap. Being with them is as innate as breathing.

Maybe you didn’t fight a war together but they still embraced you as their own. And Shouto watches with that terrible, awful, shoujo twinkle in his eyes; you flush hot whenever you catch him, inundated by the desire to reach across and kiss him.

Your pulse is quick and movements slowed. A pleasant buzz circulates around your body. After the third round Shouto begins insisting that you stay put. “Okay,” you conceded tipsily. “Tell Kei I said hi”.

Shouto leaves with a vaguely constipated frown.

Bakugo cackles and refuses to tell you what was so funny. Momo returns to the sight of you clinging to the stubborn hero’s arm, cursing his name. “What are we laughing at?” she muses. You notice a few things first: there’s a fresh bruise on her neck, a button on her dress undone, and a glass of water in her grasp.

Disheveled Momo is a rare treat. You’d tease her about it, if Bakugo did not immediately jump at the opportunity to tease you first. “Just gearhead and halfie being oblivious idiots,” he surmised. Another snort bursts from his nose. “‘Tell Kei I said hi’. Shit. Should’a seen his face”.

“Bakugo,” Momo chides, attempting to disguise her own amusement. “Go easy on them”.

He clicks his tongue, shaking you with a rough shrug of his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel and fuck already”.

Your mood tumbles, dampening as you sulk, “Shouto doesn’t want me like that”.

“Yeah, right. And vice prez didn’t just get fingered by the jukebox”.

“Bakugo!” Momo’s voice is stronger this time. She whips her head toward the other patrons and back, embarrassment flooding her cheeks. “I did not get… fingered,” she protested with a sharp whisper.

“What’s that?” you feign ignorance, drowsy and loose lipped. “Momo got fingered?!”

Making Bakugo laugh feels a little like winning the lottery; having him throw an arm around you as he does it leaves you dizzy with accomplishment. You curl into his side, shoulders shaking. You mouth an apology across the booth and Momo stretches to take your hand, stressing her forgiveness.

Shouto shatters the jovial atmosphere. He returns stiffly, his glare set in stone, and places a drink you did not order in front of you. After a quick sniff you realise that it’s water.

“Once you’ve drunk that we should head home,” he says. It’s posed as a suggestion but you hear the instruction. Not wanting to irritate him any further, you begin to sip.

Momo’s brow pinches with worry. “Is everything alright, Shouto?”

He breathes harshly through his nose, coming out in a puff of cold air. ”Yes, everything’s fine. I’m sorry to cut the night short, Momo,” his face softens. “It was good to see you”.

Astonishingly, Bakugo says nothing. His arm snakes from around your back. You finish the water with a big gulp, resurfacing for air. “Done,” you wipe the back of your hand across your lips.

Shouto steadies you while you awkwardly scoot around the booth. Momo gathers you both into a hug, her kind hand stroking the length of your spine. “Text us when you get home”.

“We will,” you promise, saluting as you’re gently pulled away. “See ya on Monday, great explosion murder god dynamite, sir!”

The others have dispersed amongst the small crowd. You mourn not being able to say goodbye to them all. Shouto cinches around your waist and guides you to the door. You can’t complain— instinctively sinking into the embrace, surrounded by his cologne— but you do wonder what the hurry is.

You waded through the mass of people until you both finally made your way out into the open air. The breeze encourages you closer to his front, cold and refreshing in your lungs. Already you feel as if some of your drunken enthusiasm is dissolving.

“Shouto?” his pace slows mercifully, coming to a stop underneath a streetlight. The bulb blinks in five second intervals, dousing him in sickly orange. “Are you mad?”

A warm hand hooks your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye only to avoid looking back. His lips part to speak, and when nothing comes they close. “I’m not mad,” he intoned quietly, thumb skimming over the line of your jaw. Your breath catches.

He seems so… guilty.

“I think you are,” you observe, wrapping your fingers around his wrist. You bring his hand down and intertwine it with yours. The alcohol must be making you brave. “But if you’re not ready you don’t need to tell me”.

Some colour returns to his skin. Shouto huffs a disbelieving laugh. “You’re so—” cutting off that train of thought, he tugs you forward and wraps you into a hug. The crook of his neck shields you from the cold, and for a few short moments all you can hear is your heart beating in your ears.

“…Have you ever felt like there are things you want to say but there’s something that always stops you from expressing them?”

You take note of how his grip tightens, warm nose squished into your cheek as if he thought you might run. Shouto is nervous— rather, he’s making himself vulnerable to you. “I have,” you murmur.

He bows his head to burrow into your shoulder, “Then, would you give me the chance to say them?”

What you hear is: will you be patient with me?

“Now?” you ask gently. The light overhead flickers again and your vision swims. You’re realising now that his impulsivity might simply be because he’s drunk. “Don’t you want to talk at home?”

Shouto shakes his head. “If I say it now you can change your mind and go back”.

That’s worrying. You chew nervously on your bottom lip, “…Okay”.

You expect him to let go but he doesn’t, though he does loosen his hold, as if giving you the chance to leave. Following a deep inhale, Shouto solemnly admits, “That guy at the bar. Kei. He asked me to give you his phone number”.

“He did?”

“Yes,” he says.

“So where is it?”

Dread and fatigue curdled in your stomach. You hear the moment Shouto swallows his caution. The atmosphere sours as he admits, “I burned it”.

You step back, leaving his arms limp at his sides. He looks betrayed. Like you’re testing the strength of a promise you don’t recall making. This was not a good time nor place to talk about this.

“My feet hurt,” his eyes widened in confusion. “I’m cold and I’m drunk and my feet hurt, Shouto. I want to go home”.

The request registers slowly. You watch his face fall, gathering a facsimile of a smile. “Okay. Then let’s go home”.

Your chest aches. You want to cry. You scramble for his hand and squeeze it tight, hating the despondent tone in his voice. “We’re too drunk. We’ll talk about this in the morning,” and that seems to lessen the rigidity in his bones.

From then on, the walk is done in heavy silence. Your thoughts are muddied and loud, emotions bouncing back and forth between resentment and uncertainty.

Underneath all of it is a seedling of hope that you daren’t nurture.

The atmosphere clings, following you all the way home, suffocating as you stand a metre apart in front of your respective bedrooms. You bid him goodnight, hand lingering on the handle. Anticipation sits like a stone in your chest.

You lie in bed waiting for him to knock.

He doesn’t.

Next time you open your eyes you wince at the throb behind them; it pings around the inside of your skull and you groan into your pillow.

There’s movement in the apartment. Shouto had always been an early riser. Cold relief washes over you at the confirmation that he was here. Last night filters through your mind. One scene after another you try to make sense of it all.

Kei had been genuinely flirting— you didn’t really think to take it seriously at the time. It was harmless fun, and you figured he was just the type that enjoyed teasing.

Shouto must’ve realised it early on. That was the reason he stepped in and kept you away from the bar. But that didn’t line up right with the reality you knew, because the only reasonable explanation for his behaviour would be that—

You shoot upright, kicking off your covers, and immediately feel it rebound. Thumbs pressed to your temples, you massage firm circles into your skin until the pain dulled.

Holy shit. Shouto was jealous.

A strange blanket of exhaustion settles back over you, as though your muscles have atrophied. You slide down the headboard and stare up at the marks on the ceiling, all sprawled out like dropped skeins of yarn. Suddenly your bedroom was a refuge from an inevitable relationship altering conversation.

Shouto had been jealous of a man vying for your affection. Your Shouto: gentle, placid, considerate, patient, funny, beautiful Shouto.

“Fuck,” you whisper into the emptiness. You can hear the coffee machine brewing in the distance. You’re torn between screaming into your hands and jumping on the bed.

You settle on getting up. Slowly. It’s clear you had been drunker than you thought; your pyjamas are on back to front. You tremble as you slip your arms through the sleeves and right the collar, padding over to the door.

Shouto wanted to talk last night and you stopped him. Guilt gnaws away at you. All that courage was shot down. Pretending to forget about it isn’t an option— you had to do this.

The plan to be stealthy is squandered by the hinge on your door. A harsh squeak reverberates through the apartment. You huff, lowering from your tip toes, and walk towards the kitchen.

Another body enters the hallway. Shouto turns on his heel and nearly drops his mug as you almost collide. Reflexes hammered into him, he catches it in one hand and manoeuvres you away from the hot splash with the other.

“Shit. Did it burn you?” he breathes, bringing your hand up to his mouth. A chilly puff of air blows over your skin and you shiver.

You clear your throat and try to find your voice. “I think you got it. Thank you, Shouto”.

The sound of his name pulls him out of his reverie. You try not to feel hurt when he drops your hand like hot coal. “Sorry,” casting a forlorn look at the half empty mug and the small coffee puddle at his feet. Lips pressed into a thin line, he says, “I was bringing you some coffee. Thought you might need it”.

Delicate tendrils of steam dance and dissipate into the air. You gently cup your hands around his and receive the mug, a small smile pulling at your mouth. His eyes are keen and searching as you take a drink.

“I definitely needed it,” you tell him between sips. The coffee paves a hot path down your throat to your stomach— the warmth spreads, seeking to fill the spaces between. All the earlier fear is washed away.

The time you spend observing one another feels like a short eternity. You watch hope visibly thread into his features, brighter; the way he always should be.

Softly, you ask, “Do you think we could talk about last night?”

“Yeah,” the word comes in a whisper. Head inclining, Shouto nods in one slow motion. Then, louder, “I should clean up, first. Where do you want to…?”

“Where?” you repeat. The thoughts in his head are written plainly across his forehead and you longed to rid him of them. Tilting and raising your brows suggestively, you tease, “Bedroom?”

Shouto gives an amused huff and the remnants of caution are blown away like seeds in a dandelion clock. His steps are lighter, a subtle bounce to them. Light filters into the living room and your spirit is buoyed by giddiness and wonder.

What had you been so afraid of?

You wait in the crook of the L shaped couch, legs curled beneath your body, facing the tall standing windows that overlook the city. Your headache has lessened into a quiet echo.

While he mops up the coffee you finish off the last drops in your cup. You take a moment to appreciate your surroundings. The emptiness you once felt in this room no longer exists. Blankets strewn across the cushions, small crochet coasters, pictures put into frames, books left face down to save the page, things out of place— it felt so lived in.

It felt like home.

You sit up when footfalls approach. Shouto is pretty in the late morning light, under eye shadows and all. “Did you even sleep last night?”

“Not much,” he confesses. His weight shifts before he finally decides on sitting beside you, turning to mirror your posture. “I thought I might’ve messed things up”.

You stretch to put your mug on the coffee table and his eyes follow attentively. “Shouto, you didn’t mess anything up,” he wrings his hands together in his lap, searching your face for dishonesty and finding none. “Though you probably shouldn’t have burned up that guy's number”.

“Probably,” he affirmed. The hair on his left side is pressed flat to his head. You count the creases on his cheek, stopping at the healing bruise on his jaw. The movement of his full mouth draws you back, “I am sorry for that. It was childish of me and I took away your choice”.

You hum, shuffling closer on your knees. Shouto’s expression is beautifully open, and you understand it, because your heart beat is thrumming just the same. “Next time, give me the number so I can ask you to burn it myself”.

Shouto’s fiddling halts. It’s a relief. You thought if he pulled at that hangnail any more he might unravel in front of you. A crease forms between his brows, “What?”

“I don’t want anyone else’s number. I…” losing some of your strength, you close your eyes for a second. Inhale deeply, continuing on an exhale, “Last night, you were jealous”.

It’s not a question. Shouto nods, his hand making an aborted reach for your own but thinking better of it.

You slide your palm against his. Your fingers fill the spaces between his knuckles. Shouto holds on tight and you ask, “…Why?”

A nail traces random shapes into his skin. You watch him watching your finger, mouth curled into a small, wobbly smile. He steels his resolve, an internal monologue you aren’t privy to. With spine tingling cadence, he says, “Because I’m in love with you”.

You’re not sure what you anticipated. There isn’t much that could prepare you for such a long awaited admission— for something you’d only daydreamed about hearing. The hunger in your heart rears its head, seeing his words as permission to want. To take.

Shouto carries on, incognisant to your plight. “I made peace with my feelings a long time ago. It’s not something I wanted you to worry about”.

“You’re doing it again,” you tell him. “Deciding things for me”.

“I don’t want you to make peace with them. I want you to share them. With me,” Your eyes meet as he peers up. There’s a stray kiss curl by his temple, white and soaking up the sun. He shudders when you twist it gently around your finger. “I love you too, dummy”.

Heat prickles at the back of your neck, feeling the shift in atmosphere. “Oh,” is his eloquent reply. A slow blooming grin pulls at his mouth as the reality sets in.

“Yeah. Oh”. Giddiness bubbles in your chest like water in a wellspring and you let go to cup his face. Shouto leans into the cradle your hands form, eyes fluttering closed as your thumb skims over the scar tissue. His ears are warm.

Guided by fleeting impulses you press a quick kiss to his left eyelid, and he sucks in a shaky breath. You move lower, nose bumping his cheek, to press another to the corner of his mouth.

“Is this okay?” you whisper, feeling like you were on the delicate precipice of something incredible. His mouth turns to chase yours, bicoloured eyes peeking beneath his lashes.

“Kiss me,” he murmurs, and it comes like a puff of steam. “On the mouth this time”.

Your lips tremble as you try not to laugh, aligning with his. You kiss him, petal soft and gentle, and feel it when he smiles. Tentative, derived from uncertainty and unfamiliarity.

Shouto’s cool fingers slide around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. Don’t go anywhere. You answer in kind— hands sliding down to his chest to guide him back into the cushions and feel his heart racing as you settle your knees either side of his hips. You barely part for air, and Shouto follows your lead.

“Again,” he mumbles.

The intensity grows. Shouto kisses like it’s his last. Strong arms wrap around your waist, wandering hands mapping out the topography of your body. Somewhere between, your tongue dips into the seam, biting his bottom lip and plucking a whine right from his mouth. Heat flutters low in your abdomen; hips squirm between your thighs, his chest pressed to your own.

“Shouto,” you groan, pushing harder, needing to be closer, threading into the soft hair at the back of his head. Fingers curl into the fat by your hips, they pull, rocking you into his lap. Invigorated, Shouto nips at your lips. Arousal spikes through you at the cool exhale— his tongue slides over your own and along the grooves in your teeth, wet and cold.

“Fuck, is that—” you pant, head falling back as he begins to leave a trail of hot kisses down your throat. “S’that your quirk?”

He hums an affirmative. The sound is resonant, deep in his chest and satisfied. Smug. You feel the impression of his smile against your jugular. Static fills your brain. Your thighs clench, rutting forward to relieve the ache between your legs, imagining all the things his mouth could do.

At some point you part to catch your breath. Your foreheads come together, sharing awed laughter. Shouto cheeks are pink and there’s a soft smile on his swollen, kiss-bitten lips. His hand moves to cup your jaw, rubbing small circles into the cheekbone.

“We should… slow down…” his chest heaves, eyes swallowed by his pupils. They fall to his lap, right where you’re pressed to his cock. You file away the lazy slur in his voice and wonder if that’s where all his blood went. “…I want to do this properly”.

Figures that he would have more willpower than you; though you get the sense if you pushed, he’d give, and every surface in the apartment would see you laid out. Gathering your thoughts is made much more difficult as he kneads at your thigh, heedless to your struggle.

“Okay baby,” you murmur, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to his brow bone. His ears turn red and you’re alight, “You like that?”

Shouto tucks his grin against your shoulder. Like before, he locks both arms around your back and holds you close. You comb your fingers through his hair, overlapping white and red, a long tender moment passing.

“You love me,” he whispered apprehensively. Then again, thick with wonderment. “You love me”.

It’s unbelievable to him— and that’s unbelievable to you. Shouto is easy to love, moreso than anyone you have ever met. All clandestine glances, soft spoken words and inside jokes; a book of every witty little thing you’ve said, keeping your words close, giving importance to the things you enjoy; he’s gag gifts and thoughtfulness and open arms, the reason all your hot drinks never go cold, he’s the cream that never melts. He’s home.

You cradle him to your chest with no intention of letting go. The sun crawls higher, casting a warm blanket over your shoulders.

“I do,” you reply. “How could I not?”

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #todoroki x reader #todoroki shouto x reader

3K notes · View notes

netherworldpost · 1 month

Text

Rules For Making Art

You can quit. If you want to quit, if you explicitly want to quit, you can. You must never forget that. It is not a negative, it is not a penalty, it is not a failure. Your life is yours to live. The amount of time spending art is yours to choose.

If you do not explicitly want to quit, you cannot. You can rest. You can rest as long as you like.

But unless you say, to your self, in a quiet moment, "I do not want to do this" then you keep going.

You can rest as long as you want.

Months. Years. Decades.

It doesn't matter. The art is there when you get back. It doesn't expire.

You're alive? It's still in you.

Skills can be relearned. All of them. New skills can be added.

You should rest.

It isn't a need, it is a demand. It is maintenance, it is itself part of the art because it is part of being alive and being alive is part of the art.

There is no penalty for slowness.

The benefits of speed are vastly outweighed by the hidden costs: wear and tear on machinery, your body, your mind. You think these are gossamar costs because they are out of sight, out of mind.

Until they are not.

There is no penalty for slowness, the benefits to speed are ephemeral and difficult to calculate, resting is not a need it is a requirement.

Your art is yours. Your life is yours. It can be big, it can be small, it can be both. It can be cheap, it can be expensive, it can range between the two.

The audience brings to the table their wants, their needs, their curiosity.

The audience does not dictate the art.

You do not dictate the audience.

This is a collaboration. Both sides are equal, artist and audience. This keeps your feet on the ground and your head in the clouds.

With fire, I recommend making art that you think should exist, but doesn't yet. That's the stuff, that's the best stuff.

Weigh the costs. Financial, social, physical, mental, spiritual, temporal. Constantly. Is this what you want? Are you following your heart? This is not a loaded question. It is spoken softly. I speak this to you as softly as I would a lover who has fallen asleep in an uncomfortable position.

If you can't make what you want, where can you reduce scope? Where can you increase time? Can you make it smaller, can you make it less elaborate? Take longer time to do it?

Can you make something else entirely?

Can you keep this idea in idea form while you work on something else?

Weigh the costs. An unrealized dream left to dust because it was too hard, too expensive, preventing you from making a realized dream, is worthless.

Make it small.

Make it simple.

Review the scope. You want to make a widget. I ask you softly, do you want to make this widget? Not something else?

Make it smaller than that.

Make it simpler than that.

Review the scope. You want to make a fidget. I ask you gently, if you pursue this path it will cost you much, would you be as satisfied if you made smaller things in greater quantity?

When you feel like quitting, ask yourself with the clarity of cold water on a hot day. Hot water on a cold day. Do you actually want to quit or do you need to rest? Are you not resting because the cost of resting feels like giving up?

There is no giving up.

Failure doesn't exist.

You either want to do this, and do.

You either want to do this, and do it simpler, smaller.

You either want to do this, and rest for awhile, so you can gather resources to do it later. Mental, physical, financial, social, spiritual.

You either want to do this, and plan alternatives, break it apart and do other things first, work up to the grand vision, rescope the grand vision, remix it, shift it around.

Or you don't.

And if you don't? If you truly don't? Then don't force it.

Live your life doing literally anything else. That's great too. Equally. The entire point of being alive is to fill up the well of your soul. There are infinite paths.

If you want to make the thing? Make the thing. Maybe it's great. Maybe it is objectively terrible. Most likely it is somewhere on that spectrum.

Did you enjoy it?

Then it was worth it.

That's literally all that matters.

Everything else is secondary.

Quality is secondary.

If you make things publicly? Quality is quaternary. Here is the order of priority. I'll spell it out. I believe this with my entire soul.

Your enjoyment

The enjoyment of your friends

The enjoyment of people who don't know who see it

The quality of the piece itself

Maybe it wins awards. Maybe it's in publications, maybe museums. I've had work win awards, be published in books, shown in museums. I have stuff you've seen if you've shopped in the grocery store in the United States sometime in the last 25 years or so. And far broader places.

That's great. Resources to keep going.

Secondary.

I love making art.

If you do, too, I hope you make art. If not, that you're resting. And if doing neither, I hope you rest until you it's art time again.

Cheers my fellows.

I hope we all make it.

244 notes · View notes

2kmps · 9 months

Text

gojo satoru returns to you after 20 days. you don't just let him waltz back into your life.

notes; 1.4k, mc punches gojo and draws blood, he's an oddly supportive prick here, roughly proofread, mdni

when gojo satoru disappeared from your life twenty days ago, you didn't want to consider any of the worst case scenarios. they turned in your mind like a spinning record, a needle skipping across the uneven surface. gojo was a man who embodied permanence; not in the sense of everlasting love and devotion, rather he would remain long after everything and everyone else ephemeral wasted away.

even in his absence in your life, he still remained there at the forefront of your thoughts while you listlessly navigated life-- waiting tables, handing out room keys to salacious businessmen, chiseled through hundreds of pages of heavy reading and dissertations for grad school.

life was an exhaustive dichotomy of moving on without him there next to you, yet him still wholly consuming you and lingering just there on the fringes of your every thought.

so, when the locking mechanism in your front door clicked and he walked in the apartment twirling the spare key around his finger, shoulders rolled forward, hand in his pocket--a look and pose so intimately familiar and reminiscent of what you knew: something snapped.

"yo!" he tracked you down immediately, glowing azure piercing into your core. "long time no see! c'mere, I could use a hug."

the floorboards rattled underfoot as you tromped towards his open arms, hearing the key land with a metallic rattle as your first swung into his face, peaks your knuckles making contact with the corner of his nose and high cheekbones.

you punched him as hard as you fucking could, put everything into winding your shoulder; all of the hurt, frustration, anger, agony, and longing he had caused you. the sleepless nights, empty dinner table missing his plate, and cold, kempt sheets that you had started inadvertently smoothing your hand across to keep your body from aching too much.

you punched gojo satoru and he let you.

he took the hit to his face, still smiling even when he crumpled against the wall, sliding to the floor in an unceremonious heap. it wasn't the force that did it, rather he thought it was something you deserved in that moment. a sense of closure to those long-held emotion that had been piling up for almost a month.

"not bad." he said, letting the back of head rest against the wall. there was a subtle saltiness filling the crevices in his lips as blood dribbled from his right nare. "do you feel better now? did you get it all out?"

"you're gone for twenty days and you're just gonna walk through that door like nothing?" your throat felt wet and clamped, words croaked and stilted. "you don't call. text. anything. and you just show up? what the fuck is your problem?"

gojo let his long legs sprawl wide, hands resting between his thighs as he gave you a look. "well, yeah. I live here, too. where else am I supposed to go? don't tell me you threw out all my stuff already?"

"god, you're so... stupid." you crumbled with a sob and a bitter laugh, hands pressed into your face as you dropped to your knees in front of him. "you're so fucking stupid. you're so fucking stupid. you're such a jackass. a prick. an asshole. I hate you so much."

his smile faltered, but only a little. "no, you don't. don't lie to me."

your voice was eclipsed by your cries, the warmth of your tears dampening your cheeks and palms. it was all coming out now; the mourning and suffering and too many emotions that you had forced at bay the entire time-- because satoru told you once that he didn't like it when you cried.

and, it seemed that was true even now because you heard him shuffle across the floor, his large hands seizing your arms to pull you against him and reacquaint your body to his.

he always ran a little hot; every part of him that touched you right now burned. when his fingers landed at the base of your neck, you thought they would sear through flesh and bone. his other hand was splayed across your back, holding you form, pushing presence into your spine as you twitched against him trailing up-and-down the length of it.

"it's really not attractive when you cry. you make all kinds of weird faces, and you always get my clothes wet." he was telling the truth here. "I'm giving you a free pass today, though. get it all out."

you rolled your face against his sturdy chest, wrenching the fabric of his black tee in your fingers until your sobs ebbed and the room mellowed into amicable silence. satoru simply waited like that the entire time, caging you against his body with his arms and legs, chin tilted towards the ceiling with his eyes closed.

you sniffed, cleared your throat. "do you plan to tell me where you've been?"

"nope." he replied, airily.

to expect anything else from him would've been your folly, even with him comforting you as he was right now. not knowing what had taken him from you for so long would haunt you for a long time, but there were other things that mattered more.

you loosened your fingers from his shirt, crimps staying in the fabric as your hands moved to his jaw. he leaned the weight of his head in your palms, coaxing you to lift your watery eyes off his chest to look at him. there was something otherworldly about those depths of blue; somehow fathomless, yet emphatically beautiful.

"are- are you going to stay? are you here to stay?"

satoru's pale lashes fell with his heavy eyelids, moving his weight nearer to your face. "who knows? I'm here with you right now. isn't that enough?"

it was amazing just how many times that man would break your heart with a single reply. how effortlessly it all came from his mouth without inflection or a stutter. as horrible as he was, he never once lied to you about anything; no matter how much it hurt, how it made you cry, how it sent painful torrents crashing through your limbs and heart.

"don't start to cry again," his voice rumbled low, vibrating hard in his throat as the tips of his soft, white hair were flattened against your forehead. "you've used up all your allotted cry time forever. you're also not allowed to wipe snot on my shirt, or get your tears all over my face, or in my hair."

it took a few tries, but he got a smile out of you. "you're literally the worst man in the world."

"nah." he still had his hand against your nape, the weight of it luring your face in closer. "I think you think I'm pretty great. alluring. hot. amazing. spectacular. you missed me. you love me."

satoru tilted his head as he brought you the rest of the way in to kiss you. his lips felt so full against yours, tasted metallic and salty from the blood and wet tears that fit between the cracks. he never let up on the pressure on your neck, using it as his leverage to keep you still as his kisses grew in fervor; lasting and lingering, unrelenting.

your hands moved off of his jaw to float up into his hair, fingers twining strands of white into rings at the base of his scalp, tugging only when you felt his tongue try to slither between your teeth. he let you have your way long enough to pull out of the kiss, lips swollen and moist from saliva.

"I missed you." you finally confessed, leaving a hot trail on his skin wherever your lips touched him next. "I love you, satoru."

in that moment, he thought he felt the breath stolen away from his lungs; like something knocked against his chest hard enough to leave him winded. twenty days without your syrupy, tantalizing words had done more to him than he wanted to recognize, and would ever admit to you.

still, he looked at you fondly, now feeling along the planes of your face with his thumb as he leaned into you once again for one kiss after another. he crushed anything else you had to say between your lips where they died in your throat as agonized moans spurred by his fingertips ghosting beneath your shirt.

"I know."

divider; @/anlian-aishang

repost from my deleted blog: cardeneiv

#jjk #jjk gojo #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk imagines #jjk x reader #jjk gojo satoru #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #gojou satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #2k writes

426 notes · View notes

madschiavelique · 9 months

Note

Mads babe I have a v self indulgent request 👀

What if Miguel is self conscious about all his scars from Manning those Spiders and reader traces them and kisses them and he's just so in love with reader and how they make him feel and AUGHHHHHHH 😫😫😫😭😭

AAAAA BESTIE you read my mind because this is literally one of my favourite things to read generally WE KNOW THE GOOD STUFF

I FINALLY feel good enough to write so i am BACK BESTIES HEHEHE

summary : reader kisses miguel’s scars and reassures him about it

content warnings : mentions of scars miguel had during fights, self conscious miguel, reader comforting miguel, mention of reader's scars (had during missions), other than that SO much reassurance, genderneutral!reader, no use of y/n word count : 1,4k

tag list : @fandom-ash

Depixelating his suit at the end of the day was often, if not always, a difficult step. He was well aware that worrying about things as superficial and ephemeral as looks was pointless, but knowing that the marks that ran the length and breadth of his body would stay with him forever was a constant reminder of what he was: a hunter, a tracker of balance, control left on him handcuffs drawn into scars different from those administered to the anomalies under his care.

He sighed, his brown eyes roaming his body in the reflection. So many enemies, so many traces, so many marks eternally etched on his skin.

Costumes are all well and good, because like a carnival mask, they hide enough of oneself not to appear whole, but they also reveal enough to others. It's almost impressive, the way a single thickness of pixel covers the deep lacerations, the acid stains, the ancient fissures when he was cut.

He tucks in his chin as he observes his arms. Long trails of scratches, burns and other poisons erased in his blood but not on his skin ran across them like randomly scribbled textures and patterns.

Only doodles are much more pacifist in idea, he thought. Maybe... maybe he could find a way to reconstruct his skin tissue? Arranging a new technological prototype. He'd heard of an Earth-199999-style device for reconstructing skin tissue. Perhaps he could make use of it? Find a way to get rid of all this... filth.

He wasn't proud of it. They represented his violence, his willingness to put himself in danger and endure brutality just to get the job done.

A sword is said to be good by its marks, its nicks, its scratches, all proving its durability and the fact that no matter the enemy, it holds. How long could his sword last?

You had just entered the bathroom, coming face to face with Miguel, looking at his hands. How many irreparable, eternal scars had he left in his wake? How many bodies had he marked with his claws and fangs with such rage and zeal that the gesture had permanently altered skin and minds?

"Is everything okay, amor?" you'd asked as you approached him, placing your hand on his back.

He had shuddered at your touch, how could you let the softness of your hand reach out to touch the evidence of atrocities that littered his body?

"Yeah," he assured with a deep breath, "yeah I'm just..." he pursed his lips, "I was thinking about doing something about my scars."

The idea made you frown for a moment, was Miguel worried about his appearance? He was always the first to tell you that your body didn't matter, that he thought you were absolutely gorgeous no matter what you looked like, so the fact that he was saying this for himself caught you off guard in the moment.

"What do you mean?" you asked, coming to guide your hand to his shoulder where a gash resided.

He remembered every cut, every pain he'd felt when he'd received new marks. He breathed in, watching your eyes in the reflection of the mirror as he bit the inside of his cheek.

"I want to remove them."

Your lips parted, mixing surprise and tenderness. You probably only had the surface of Miguel's ideas, for he was still occasionally secretive about his thoughts. And the realization that Miguel might be ashamed of his scars had struck you right in the heart.

"Why?" you questioned anyway, caressing his skin.

"Because they're... ugly," he said, bobbing his head and lowering his eyes to your hand placed on his shoulder, "they're proof of some of the things for which I'm not the proudest."

Your eyes sought his tenderly, you saw them lowered, ashamed, as if the mere possibility of meeting your gaze made him feel like a child who had broken something, dreading the scolding of his parents.

You lowered your eyes to your hand, your thumb lightly tracing the scar on his shoulder. Your other hand came to rest on his arm, and you placed a kiss on the tanned gash.

He took a shaky breath: nobody had ever kissed him here, his skin exposed. Only to the sun had kissed him there. Only the sun.

"Those scars do not represent you, Miguel." you affirmed as you took a step to the side to face him, tilting your head up to see him. He was so tall, his vast torso covered in oscillating traces of colours and shapes.

Your hand trailed from his shoulder to his chest, which was cleft by three large marks, no doubt a claw. You wondered if he'd come close to death when he'd been scratched here.

"They're not admirable," he sighed, his breathing almost ragged as the travel of your hand over all those areas he hated so much made him shiver.

The contrast of the softness of your touch against the obscure reality of him was electrifying. It was as if, with your simple touch and your pure words, you'd managed to right a wrong you hadn't committed, evils of which you weren't the author.

"Not all scars can be considered to be admirable," you said as you traced his cut skin, "we just consider them to be a proof that we survived no matter how little or great the menace was. It's nothing you should be ashamed of." Your eyes settle on his face. "There has never been any shame in surviving, has it?"

He breathed, his eyes finally meeting yours. They were soft, almost melancholic.

"Maybe..." he murmured, his voice almost inaudible as he listened to you.

You kissed his scratches on his collarbones gently, your hands caressing the tender skin of his completely lacerated back.

"Scars are not us, they're not our identity. It's terribly complicated to forget the pain, but I think it's even more difficult to remember the softness. After all, we don't have any scars to show for the joys we've had... "

Your fingers illuminated the darkest parts of him. Those sensitive places that held so many crimes of sorrows and screams, you covered them with colours and creams. He felt so soft under your hands, under your touch, under your mouth.

He couldn't get over the fact that you were kissing the most monstrous parts of him with those same lips full of sweetness and sweet words.

You learn so little from peace.

You pulled back.

"I'll show you mine."

You looked up at him, and your hands came away from his body to take hold of your T-shirt. You took it off, pulling it over your head to let Miguel rediscover the multiple gashes in your skin.

You'd been on many missions, some less successful than others, and since it's part of the spider's panoply to always get up no matter how heavy the blow, your body had experienced great agonies that had left marks all over you.

His eyes were riveted on you, shifting from one scar to another. It wasn't the first time he'd seen them, but he'd never looked at them from the angle in which the discussion was taking place. His hand came to rest on your shoulder, his fingers gently tracing one of your cuts with tenderness.

"We're not always proud of it," you asserted, "but sometimes scars bloom no matter where we plant them, and we don't decide what garden our bodies become when we do the job that we have."

"Mine don't bloom," Miguel whispered, his eyes returning to yours as his hand traced down your arm.

"Why not?" you questioned.

He shrugged, his hand continuing its path until it reached yours, caressing your fingers.

"They're weeds," he whispered, taking your hand in his.

You smile, little stars forming in your eyes as he looks at you questioningly.

"I like weeds."

He pouted confusedly. "Why?"

You came and kissed the three gashes on the centre of his torso, resting your chin on them as you looked at him, clasping his hand in yours.

"They always survive."

He could almost feel the tears welling up. He brought you against him, hugging you gently.

You drew stars around his scars, and he felt more loved than ever.

374 notes · View notes

dailyadventureprompts · 5 months

Text

Faction: The University of Taloncliff

"Enter with open eyes and behold the truths of the world unending" -Inscription beneath the fountain of the pensive sage, in the gatehouse courtyard.

Founded by dedicates of Ioun who wished to study where the land met the sea and sky, the institution that eventually became the University was founded three centuries ago when the sages of Taloncliff found themselves inundated with eager pupils who had travelled far and wide seeking their wisdom.

Growing quickly along with the coastal village that supported it, the university is today one of the most famed and foremost centres of learning on the continent entertaining scholars of what seems like every discipline imaginable. If the party needs to know something, Taloncliff is the place to go.

Adventure Hooks

Gaining access to the halls of knowledge is not as easy the heroes may hope, as only those who have joined the university are allowed to peruse it's near endless archives and deep vaults of lore. That said there are other options: they might find a sympathetic ear at one of the tea-houses wherein students and faculty partake in the boisterous debate discouraged in the august lecture halls, or persuade a smuggler of forbidden literature to clue them in on the tunnels beneath the university's walls.

The easiest way to gain entry by far however, is to simply join as a student, bypassing the yearly enrolment process by earning an invitation as a renowned seeker of knowledge... or by having the party's noble patron purchase your way in.

Alternatively, you could start your campaign with students already enrolled as students of the University, engaging in a few apprentice level adventures before flashing forward to when they've graduated to doing fieldwork.

Also, I'd be remiss if I made a whole faction dedicated to learning and didn't mention my advice/system for how you should let your players research in campaigns, which you should check out before exploring the University's inner workings below the cut.

Though it appears stately and unified from outside, behind its alabaster walls Taloncliff is in fact a contradictory mess of overlapping "Curricula" like a dozen different organizations of varying sizes dressed up in a wizard's robe trying to look important. Each Curricula is named after one of the original Sages and follows generally in their footsteps, here are some of the most relevant:

Curricula Endaris: The prestigious institute of learning to which the noble families of nearby realms send their learning minded scions. Endaris gave council to kings, and her followers teach statecraft, diplomacy, history, as well as the good governance of the land itself. One of the largest factions and the one most likely to receive outside donations, Endaris maintains a strong influence over the rest of the university as holding onto its coin purse.

Curricula Jadek: Adherants of the knowing mistress who maintain the campus as part of their devotion and studies into more mystical forms of knowledge. They tend to be inward focused and act to balance out the other voices, giving them a respect that superscedes rivalry.

Curricula Gazerette: a wizarding school that functions like a music conservatory, looking to instill a basic level of competence in all students while hunting for talent that could be refined into something prodigious. Gazerette wanted only the best from his apprentices, and the cutthroat rivalries between Gazerette wizards are the stuff of legend, going back nearly as far as the university's founding.

Curricula Oddolgyn: Still headed by the ancient eleven astronomer of the same name, last of the original sages. This group operates out of the university's observatory studying the ephemeral patterns of the firmament and the multiverse beyond. Currently small and thought of mostly as dabblers It's been more than a century since they were superseded by Gazerette as the foremost of Taloncliff's mages.

Curricula Narthex: Adventurous and daring, the explorers of the Narthex always seem to be recounting their last great expedition or planning their next, even maintaining their own airship docks to make it easier to seek out new horizons.

Shortly after one of the party have really proven themselves to be a true asset ( or liability) to the school, they'll receive a note that says "seek to Know the secret of the waters, at the place where Torthane met her Mistress". This requires catching up on some very old University gossip, as well as tracking down some otherwise unnoticeable histories that are always misfiled in the library. Doing so reveals Torthane to be one of sage Jadek's first pupils, one who frequently clashed with her austere teacher about his insistence that dedication to Ioun and true knowledge meant abstaining from the physical world and the "earthly knowledge" that came with it. Torthane loved Ioun, but she also loved the ladies, and was said to meet with her lovers right under Jadek's nose in a particular garden that the campus grounds have since grown to encompass.

These clues further lead the party to the statue of the fountain of the pensive sage, which boasts a statue of Jadek poking his staff into a basin of ever rippling water. One who looked closely might notice a glow distorted by the ripples of the fountain, and that if the primary spout is plugged or diverted that the glow originates from where Jadek's staff disturbs the unearthly white sand that rests at the basin's bottom. (Leave a comment if you can figure out what the party will need to draw in the sand to progress)

With the passphrase entered, a secret stair opens in the cobbles surrounding the statue, inviting the party down into a dungeon crawl that takes them to the university's flooded foundations. After battling past arcane traps, more puzzles, and creatures of the tide, they stumble into a room wreathed in cascading water, in which the images of a dozen or more cloaked figures manifest and pass judgment upon them. The question that the figures are to argue: Are these trespassers cringe?

Some of the figures will argue that the party are indeed cringe, a never-before seen collection of narcs, fuckboys, killjoys, and karens. It will be up to the party to plead their case. If they manage to win over a majority of the crowd then the waters will part and they'll be invited into the secret headquarters/speakeasy of Curricula Torthane, the resident secret society of Taloncliff made up of all those who are willing to bend the rules and collaborate in the pursuit of knowledge and those little pleasures that are so often neglected in scholastic dourness. You haven't lived till you've had wizard moonshine, so cheers and bottoms up troublemakers.

Further adventures

I'll be adding more Taloncliff adventures in the future, so feel free to check out my blog.

While the party is sure to meet no end of red tape as they explore the campus, they'll make an easy ally in Oroteia, a rising star in the Gazerette and Narthex Curricula who seeks to overturn every expectation placed on her by her by others after discovering her lowborn country origins. Blazing a trail through the University's establishment, she'll see the party as useful allies against whatever campaign level threats the rest of the institution is too set in their ways to even contemplate dealing with.

#faction #wizard #seeking knowledge #ioun #heist #press start #seaside #seaside settlement #mystery #arcane dungeon #arcane #taloncliff

178 notes · View notes

twocrowssinatrenchcoat · 6 months

Text

Incorrect quotes: Thrawn novels edition

Thrawn: You're smiling, Commodore. What happened? Karyn: What? Can't I smile just because I feel like it? Hammerly: Ronan tripped and fell down the stairs today.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Thrawn: That's ridiculous. Eli doesn't have a crush on me. Karyn: Yes, he does. Hammerly: Yes, he does. Pyrondi: Yes, he does. Eli: Yes, I do.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Karyn: We’re playing Scrabble. It’s a nightmare. Pyrondi: Scrabble? Scrabble’s great. Hammerly: Not when you’re playing with Thrawn, it’s not. He puts words like “ephemeral” and I put “dog.”

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Thrawn: It's cold outside... perhaps it would be best if we hold hands? We shall stay close. Eli, blushing: Okay. Karyn: It's fucking summer.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Ar’alani: *sees Thrawn and Eli together* Ar’alani: They're good for each other. I would put them on a boat. Karyn: You mean... you ship them?

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Ronan: I’m not stupid, you know. Eli: Well, you’re doing a really good impression of it!

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Vah’nya: Name something you believed in as a child that you no longer do as an adult. Eli: Myself.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻

Karyn: Sorry I'm late, I was doing stuff. Ronan: YOU PUSHED ME DOWN THE KRIFFIN’ STAIRS!

#I promise I'll come back to drawing as soon as I can #(or as soon as uni stops killing me)#thrawn books #thrawn (2017)#thrawn novels #chimaera crew #isd chimaera #thrawn #eli vanto #thranto

166 notes · View notes

riveracheron · 4 months

Text

hey guys have my wild magnus protocol theory that stemmed from me just overanalyzing the little bits of content we have

i think lena is a homunculus.

(spoilers for the pilot and jonny + alex’s post pilot discussion under the cut)

basically this stems from. a lot of places w small amounts of information so some of this might be stretches. But

1. a lot of marketing around protocol mentions the theme of “what does it mean to be a person?” which. leads me to believe there’s gonna be a plot around a protag being Not Human but has the heart or whatever the fuck. standard pinnochio or wizard of oz story. sure youre not human but ur a person bc of xyz free will or whatever

2. lena’s behavior in the pilot is So odd and almost inhuman in its extremely dull corporate jargon way. she literally uses things like “you can file a complaint” or “here at the oiar we….” (advertiser shit) , in genuine conversation. she doesn’t leave the building, either and has a Generic office party.

im genuinely thinking bureaucracy and the weird eldritch stuff of the oiar is Literally all she knows, not that shes being manipulative and evil in the trailer like elias; she doesn’t or maybe cannot question the whole. asking sam about the eldritch trauma thing, something something cant understand human emotions and why that might be troubling.

also “people like chocolate cake.” that sounds weird and something someone with only base knowledge of humanity would say.

she’s described as “an odd one” by jonny and that we will “get her soon”. im under the full belief that shes the non-human character of the bunch thatll yknow. have the Real Boy plot

3. homunculus specifically comes from all the alchemy shit around protocol, and homunculi are some of the most famous alchemical creations in popular culture, and i think she’s not. an entity creation. lenas too much of an important character to just be like. tied to An Entity, as a main character extremely tied to the OIAR, that entity would have to be the basis of like the entire plot of protocol; which i doubt theyd do.

the eye is so important to archives because the themes of archives was the consequences of knowledge- the entire plot was engineered around the Eye as the Main Character Entity and the Eye was written to be that in turn, sorta similarly to how Griffindor is the Main Character House (TM) of HP with its themes of bravery. i doooont think the oiar is tied to the stranger or flesh or any other simulacrum creating entities.

all that to say i think lena is a different kind of artificial human, one that’s manmade rather than entity made yknow?

we get glances of the people above her in status, theres mentions of an ephemeral “he” in the pilot, so. heres what i think

the He in question is an alchemist whose in charge of the OIAR (and maybe other branches but lets focus w the oiar). He created Lena the homunculus to be the middle manager of the branch in his stead; “programming” her to be as dull and corporate as possible to keep the employees in line or whatever. something something shes got a plot wrestling with that and her inherent lack of persondom

EDIT: totally forgot this part

adding that the first statement’s plot was about an abomination of corpses given a humanlike shape and coming back wrong which is. exactly what frankenstein’s monster is, and frankenstein’s monster is considered a homunculus.

with the anglerfish’s importance to season 3 of archives i definitely think the Arthur monster will come up again in some form, but maybe instead of Actually being In Podcast maybe its a parallel to the main characters’ story in the same way that many s4 statements were used to give us more information on how jon is working through it all. the zombie statement when he just wakes up comes to mind especially. maybe it’s a hint and echo of what a Character in podcast (lena) is

#the magnus protocol #tmagp #tmagp spoilers #lena kelley

110 notes · View notes

ilikekidsshows · 3 months

Note

hey I figure that you’re probably tired of talking about the Sentimonster nonsense but I genuinely still can’t stand that it’s an actual thing. The wildest thing about it is that I JOINED the fandom because of the Sentimonster theory, actually got excited for it and looked forward to hints, not believing the skeptics or the salters bc it didn’t seem like such a big deal—that is until I saw with my own eyes how SO MANY FANS said with their whole chest that, in “Ephemeral” Adrien HAD to be a Sentimonster or there was no other “sympathetic explanation” for why he didn’t de-akumatize himself or fight off Gabriel.

Seeing the victim blaming in real time was such a punch in the gut—and then they just kept on coming!! It finally hit me how damaging the entire thing because for the show as a whole. If even regular fans that weren’t even known for salting could so willingly disregard and ignore genuine abuse coping mechanisms in favor of magical BS… it was such a dark time. Abuse Apologism and victim blaming in a whole package

Sometimes, when I write about Miraculous, I pretend I'm writing about a show that only had three seasons. That's what the "zagulous fandom" tag is for; it's for posts that are about the parts of Miraculous that had Zag's executive control keeping Astruc in check. I also kinda accepted long ago that my blog's kind of a support blog for people who are against the Sentihuman concept.

When I first heard of the expanded Sentimonster theory, the one that went "all the rich kids are Sentimonsters", I instantly went: "You do realize how making victims of child abuse nonhumans with questionable rights minimizes their victimhood and excuses their abusers, right?" people told me I was making stuff up and whoopsie doo, the writers did exactly that.

Neither Gabriel nor Tomoe faced any consequences for abusing Adrien and Kagami because, after all, since they're Sentimonsters, the real abuse was that they didn't have their Amoks so giving them their Amoks resolves all their problems. The only abusive parent who gets acknowledged as such is Félix's dad, who is dead by the time we hear about any of this, because we can't have abusive parents face consequences for their actions because that might upset people or whatever excuses Astruc's giving for Gabriel's vindication now.

This also minimises all the affects of the abuse on the kids, since they can be handwaved away with: "They were just programmed that way." Kagami's bad social skills aren't because her mother isolated her, it's because she forgot to program Kagami with those skills. Félix's villainous behavior isn't because his mother is overly permissive with him, he was just programmed that way (by the eeeeevil Colt). Adrien isn't a people pleaser because he's repeating his abuse coping mechanisms with his overly controlling girlfriend to keep her happy the same way he did to his overly controlling father, he was just programmed to be the perfect doting son and boyfriend.

You'll notice how neatly this ties into the crew denying that Chloé was abused in any way ever by her clearly abusive mother. Chloé wasn't made into a Sentimonster, so we can't have her bad coping with her abuse be excused by "Sentimonster programming", so now the writers are just gaslighting the audience and saying: "Chloé wasn't mistreated by her parents which caused her to act to out to get attention (which she literally stated to be her motive in season 3), in fact, she's the one who's been terrorizing her poor, innocent father and he needs to be protected from this naturally occuring evil hellspawn."

All child abuse in this show gets excused.

Of course, now the writers have an added reason to make sure Adrien's abuse gets excused in particular: because they made Marinette benefit from it. As I said, Adrien is repeating abuse coping mechanisms learned from dealing with his father to keep Marinette happy. He's always prioritizing her feelings and never brings up his own problems, and this is good for Marinette, because she can just enjoy having a perfect boyfriend who caters to her every need and doesn't have problems of his own or with the ways she treats him (for all she knows). She's even maintaining this status quo by lying about Gabriel to Adrien, so Adrien won't get upset (and have emotional needs that she would need to help him with). Either we have to excuse Adrien's abuse, or we have to admit Marinette is benefitting from the fact that Adrien was abused, and even taking advantage with the way she makes no effort to improve their communication on her end, preferring to spy on Adrien and lie to him instead of just talking to him like an equal.

The show writers are also allergic to following through on their creative decisions, is what I think. They put all these different victims of child abuse and neglect in the show, and then dehumanized these children in different ways so that they wouldn't actually need to say anything about that abuse they wrote in and they can instead pretend it was never there. This is why I also think that, no matter how much the show's defenders insist the story isn't over yet, we will never be getting a proper resolution to the Sentinonsense.

#ml critical #ml salt #sentimonster salt #ml writers critical

108 notes · View notes

dollish-shard · 7 months

Note

HI! i recently stumbled across "empty spaces/combat doll" stuff on tumblr, it looks really intresting, BUT i have no idea where to find actual fics, can you maybe point me towards some good ones, and where i can find my own?

like, human domestication guide has its own website where it lists fics, maybe something like that?

As far as we're aware, Empty Spaces doesn't have a website or wiki or anything like that, the same way HDG does. There are some long form pieces posted on various sites like ScribbleHub, but for the most part, what you see on Twitter and Tumblr and Cohost and the like is what you get.

Empty Spaces doesn't, as a whole, really do that kind of 'long form' fic stuff. Most ES stuff is microfiction, the kind that's rarely longer than what can fit in a Twitter thread. It's also deliberately ephemeral, coming across your feed, stabbing you with indescribable hurt, and then bubbling away back into the void.

It also lacks any form of solidified worldbuilding or rules like HDG does; every author interprets common concepts differently; what a 'combat doll' means to any one author can be radically different to another. All this to say, if you're looking for a shared mythos of longer form stories, we're afraid you won't find it here. We're more about vibes. There was a site that linked back to all the socials of Empty Spaces authors, but as far as we're aware that hasn't been updated in a while.

#empty spaces

185 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

bloodpups

ideasforimmersive-blog

Immersive Project

allistrations

Allistrations

satoriberry

oh-katsuki

ARCHIVED.