Thinking abt Todoroki Shouto, and how he isn't as dense as he comes across...
When reading fanfics Shouto is always oblivious and dense, and yes, I wholeheartedly agree with that—
But i feel like Shouto also does it on purpose, you know? Like, one day you're both talking, and he's just soo up close to your face. 'He probably doesn't realize' you rationalize inside your head, but no, he's definitely aware of the affect he has on you. Your reactions are cute, he thinks, cute in the way he can't seem to stop teasing you.
I think he'd pay extra close attention to people that are close to him, people he holds dear, so whenever you stutter, or your mind goes and blank and you think 'Oh, I hope he didn't notice that—' he does.
I think that's why I like the idea that he's actually a little menance, but the worst part is that he gets away with it !!
Whether it's saying something so humbling and out of depth— something that many would take offense to but think, 'well, he didn't really mean it that way— that's just how he is', NOPE!! he definitely meant it that way, but not clarifying anything saves him the trouble so why should he care yk...
Though, he mostly (all the time really) does it with you. Getting up in your personal space, saying things like "When we're on a mission together, I feel like I can handle anything as long as you're the one by my side"— and it flusters you sooo badly, but no, this is Shouto we're talking about, clearly he didn't mean it like that, right? Right? (And the entire time, he's trying to bite down a Cheshire grin)
So, yes, in the earlier years of being a hero he wasn't really great at communication and unaware of social cues— but now, he's practically evil with the way he acts around you.
Sometimes you think you see it; you're going to call him out on his behavior. There's no way he didn't know what he was doing when he held your face in his hands on a hot summer day, pulling you close and saying, "Is this cooling you down?" (No, actually, this was just heating you up)
But whenever you do call him out on it—
"You know, you're not that slick." You say one day, ice cream cone in hand as you walk next to him, bumping him with your hip. Your eyes slide over towards his mismatched ones, gauging his reaction closely. If you were anyone else you would have probably missed the slight quirk of his lip; the uplift of his brows. But you don't, and the grin on your face overtakes most of your features. Maybe today will be the day he finally admits it. Instead he doesn't speak, takes one lick of his mint chocolate ice cream and then he turns to you, a silent question appearing on his face. A taunt.
You let out a humourless breath, cone tight in your hand as you point it in his direction. Accusing him of something both of you know you won't be able to prove, but he knows you know, and you know he knows you know. But, it'd be really great if he could just admit it, because it's almost like a game.
A game between just the two of you.
"Don't try and act blonde now!" You chide, biting on your bottom lip to control the smile that tries to force it's way on your face.
Shouto smiles at your antics, leaning in close to you, and all of a sudden he completely invades your senses. The smell of mint on his lips is so close, and yet so far. He stares deeply into your eyes, and just as you thought you were getting closer to the truth— he brings his thumb up to wipe absent mindlessly at the corner of your mouth. He pulls back, looks you in the eyes, and takes a tentative lick at the frosty flavour on his thumb. With a cat-like tilt to his head, he says, "I'm not blonde?"
But, the worst part is whenever he speaks about you to others, he speaks so fondly of you; like one would do about their partner— but you guys aren't together. Sometimes he does it right in front of your face whenever you guys are at a hero gala. Shouto sees you talking to a new and upcoming, young, pro-hero and he immediately comes to your side. With how close he is, and with the things he says to them, "I can never imagine myself without them by my side." It gives people the idea that you're both, you know, a thing.
Little do you know, he's been playing this 'game' ever since high school, and even though the two of you aren't exclusive— it doesn't mean he can't get in his fun.
Summary: Childe asks you a question for Halloween.
Pairing: Childe x Daughter!Reader
Childe can’t help but laugh as he watches you tackle a caramel apple with all the focus and determination of a warrior. Since receiving the festive treat from kind Mr. Zhongli, he has seen you devise your own way of eating the candy-coated fruit—admittedly brilliant in its simplicity—that ensures at least some of it gets into your mouth while coating most of your face in the process.
Beside him, a growing pile of dirty wet wipes accumulates on the bench. He chuckles, wiping a streak of stray salted caramel from your forehead. “You know, sweetheart, I think you’ve invented a new way to eat apples.”
You look up at him with wide, pretty eyes, your lips shiny with caramel and apple juice, grinning proudly as if he just praised you for a grand achievement. Then, with a gleeful laugh, you smush your caramel apple onto Mr. Narwhal's smiling face.
Childe tries not to wince at the thought of you crying later when it’s time for bed and Mr. Narwhal has to stay in the laundry room for his bath. But for now, he chooses to stay in the moment, savoring the still-rare but growing pool of memories with you. You’re perched on his lap, gleefully feeding your narwhal friend the remnants of your food, and doing a pretty good job of smearing caramel and apple juice all over Mr. Narwhal’s fuzzy blue face and Childe’s clothes in the process.
“Who are you going to dress up as for Halloween?” he asks, bouncing you a little to keep you snug as he wipes away a bit of juice that drips down to your wrist. “Princess Anastasia? The Tsaritsa?”
You giggle conspiratorially, as if you’ve been planning something for a long time and keeping it a secret, finding it all quite silly. Then, smacking the caramel-covered apple against Mr. Narwhal’s face, you give a decisive answer. “Daddy!”
Childe stills, unsure if he's hearing you right.
“Daddy?” He raises an eyebrow, trying to suppress a grin. “You want to dress up as Daddy?”
“Yeah!” You squeal, wiggling in his arms as if the whole idea thrills you more than anything. An image of you in a miniature version of his uniform, hair tied in his best attempt at a ponytail, laughing and running around pops into his mind. He shakes the thought away and chuckles, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. “You don’t want to be a fairy princess?”
“Daddy’s better,” you say knowingly, factually, like how one would say water is wet or Snezhnaya is cold—and so surely, like how he’s sure he loves you more than anything in the whole world.
Childe’s eyes soften, and his heart swells at your innocent declaration. “Are you sure?”
This time, you nod with absolute resolve, your whole body joining in, apple juice and caramel spreading even further as you try to maneuver your tiny frame in his lap without dropping your friend. Keeping a strong arm around you, he helps you place your half-eaten, mostly fuzzy caramel apple on top of the dirty wet-wipe pile. “I want to be Daddy.”
Childe laughs and, with a gentle hand, pulls out another wet wipe to clean your sticky fingers. He hopes you'll still feel this way in a few years when you finally learn about who he truly is and what his job entails. He hopes you'll still be as sure as you are now. “Alright, sweetheart. Daddy it is.”
Then, with all the clumsiness of a child on a mission, you twist in his lap to face him. He’s ready for the mess—or so he thinks—as you plant two still sticky hands right on his cheeks. Your little fingers press into his face, spreading caramel from his jaw to his hairline. And then, with the utmost concentration, you lean forward, pressing a very wet, very sticky kiss to his cheek, right by his mouth.
Childe feels his heart swell. He can feel a warmth blossoming in his chest, spreading like wildfire—a sensation stronger than any thrill he’s ever experienced on the battlefield. If he hadn’t been sure then, he is sure now. In this moment, with your laughter ringing in his ears and the sticky evidence of your antics all over him, he realizes that nothing could ever compare to this joy.
He watches you pull back, watches your shy smile lighting up your face as you say so surely, "I love you, Daddy."
And for the thousandth time since he's returned to you, he feels his heart melt. Gently, Childe smiles, wipes your caramel-coated lips, and kisses your nose. "I love you too, sweetheart. You can be whoever you want to be."
“Mr. Narwhal too?” you ask, squeezing the stuffed narwhal close.
Childe laughs, pulling you in for a warm hug as you snuggle into him, full and content. “Mr. Narwhal too.”
With all that he has, he hopes that even as you grow, this bond you share will be something that remains. For someone who spent so much time away, moments like these were pure magic, grounding him in a way nothing else could.
As the sun dips lower and the festival lights start to twinkle like the stars in the autumn sky, Childe holds you close, knowing that this Halloween is already unforgettable—just because he gets to share it with you.
warnings: miya atsumu x f!reader. soft angst (maybe).
the first time that osamu had gotten mad at him—like really mad—was when atsumu had kissed you on a dare.
they were sixteen, at some stupid party, and you had smiled so sweetly at him. the setter ended up kissing you once more by the end of the night.
meanwhile, osamu intercepted the sushi platter some idiot had delivered at the end of the party and didn’t speak to atsumu for a week.
the next time osamu found his brother kissing you was at their high school graduation, the two of you behind gymnasium doors.
very briefly, for the first and only time in his life, osamu was grateful that inarizaki didn’t have those stupid, manly uniforms. osamu would bet on his homemade rice koji that his brother would’ve unceremoniously, unhesitatingly, shoved the second button of his uniform jacket into your hand.
and he’d bet on atsumu’s next dye job that you would accept it.
so he didn’t stay long enough to see you kiss his brother back, atsumu’s metaphorical second button been pressed tightly between your intertwined hands.
over the years, as the twins went their separate ways and pursued their separate dreams, osamu also found girls to kiss once and in some rare occasions, twice and a few times more. by the time the doors to onigiri miya opened without much pomp or ceremony, by the time he listened to atsumu cry heart-wrenchingly into the phone after the lost of their first olympics final, osamu could proudly tell kita-san at counter number three that he had forgotten all about his brother’s first kiss.
so why is it now that when they’re thirty, you walking towards them, he thinks that he might just punch the groom in the face?
for a brief moment, he looks down, as if to contemplate this thought.
but he won’t.
as much of a miya twin antic he could pass it off as, he won’t punch the groom in the face.
it’s funny, it’s what he wishes he wants to do, but he won’t.
he just won’t.
and he’s long resigned himself to this fact.
osamu himself knows and perhaps more importantly, atsumu knows.
they know that osamu loves his brother. it’s been this way since they opened their eyes and saw the world together for the first time.
it’s always been atsumu and osamu — always ‘hey ‘tsumu’, ‘hey ‘samu’.
behind them, the music is soft.
osamu glances at the groom.
that pair of eyes that came into the world with him, always similar but never the same, watches as you make your way down the aisle in a halo of light.
“beautiful, ain’t she?”
osamu responds blandly. “sure.”
when your foot catches a little, he has to hold himself back from lurching forward.
you look up with sheepish smile, and atsumu laughs as quietly as you would most likely let him. he told you those heels were going to be a little too high.
when you straighten back up, he beams. it’s fine, his eyes twinkle and a little wink, this just means that he’s on foot massage duty tonight.
with a small grin back, you resume walking down the aisle towards him.
atsumu watches with pride.
he nudges his twin lightly. “nothing to say to me on my big day?”
osamu doesn’t respond.
“‘samu?” atsumu tries again. there’s a falter that only osamu would recognise.
osamu would’ve normally rolled his eyes but instead, he turns away from the bride. there’s guilt in his brother’s eyes.
this is so typical of miya atsumu. you’ll be up here any minute now to exchange your vows, and the groom is finally unable to ignore the brotherly love.
sometimes, osamu thinks that his brother relies on their bond a little too much, thinks that things are a given between them.
but osamu supposes that this is also his fault. after all, he makes all those that become a given.
because like many of their identical similarities, atsumu’s eyes have always been a little lighter, a little brighter, and just a little more honest than his own. he’d be the first and the last to admit that they’re beautiful, miya atsumu’s eyes.
in life, on the court, in how they reflect your smile.
it’s been this way since they saw you at the party for the first time, and it’ll be for forevermore.
he knows.
osamu lets out a snort of laughter and shakes his head. the clouds clear in his head for the another, not final time.
what an absolute fucker.
he looks back to the front, where his brother’s bride is walking towards them at the altar.
“hey, ‘tsumu,” osamu’s tone is just as cheeky, smile a bit more calm, as they were when they were sixteen. “if she smiles at you first, i dare you to kiss her.”
contains: christmas, holiday parties, santa, mid-20's pro-hero!shouto x assistant!reader
full fic sequel: three-part honesty
a/n: just a lil writing exercise on shouto! first time writing him hehe
shouto’s late to his agency’s holiday party tonight.
he breathes out, warmth floating as white puffs from his lips. the heating system on his office floor has been turned off, subtext directed solely to him: whoever’s here today, at this time, shouldn’t be.
his fingers move deftly around his waist, routinary—utility belt unbuckling as he reaches his desk.
the venue for tonight is on one of the lower floors—a function room where briefings and press conferences are normally held. the number of attendees has grown compared to last year’s, sidekicks doubling and staff tripling; expected, given the agency’s projected growth next quarter.
this is the agency’s third move since humble days in a rented studio unit (one shouto stubbornly and adamantly paid for fully, on his own), but one thing’s invariably stayed the same—
shouto’s office has always existed in its own space, whether tucked in a corner or spread out over an entire floor.
and wherever that space is, so are you.
he settles in his seat, leather creaking as he twists to stretch his back. it’s been a long night, being dispatched earlier for an emergency downtown. his hand reaches for the folder on his desk, fingers swiping to release the yellow paper clip on the far left corner—evidence of your presence.
since being hired as his assistant five years ago, you’ve devised a system for shouto that he now deems essential to keeping his entire agency afloat. his own urgency for paperwork hinges on the color of your paper clips (blue for next month, green for next week, yellow for tomorrow, and red for now).
he should listen to you; the details of this evening’s take-down can be set aside for tomorrow—tomorrow, when everyone’s allowed to clock-in midday for the sake of tonight’s festivities. knowing you though, you’ll still show up early, if only to go over his desk, ensuring to swap that yellow paper clip for red.
if he finishes this now, you won’t need to ensure anything; in all the years you’ve been his first and only assistant–a perfect match for how much of a workaholic he is–you might actually opt to sleep in for once.
besides, it’s more productive if he gets it over with; crimes and mishaps never take breaks to party, after all—even during the holidays.
that’s what he’ll tell you, at least.
the party’s more for everyone else than him, anyway.
he clicks his pen, letting out another puff of warm air as he spreads the document in front of him:
page 1: basic information. identification details, time markers, a summary of the take-down.
page 2: breakdown of events. scene-by-scene, additional comments, a two-beat knock on his door.
then comes your voice, soft, unsure—
“sir?”
—before you step inside, heels clicking against the natural stone finish of his office floor.
he looks up, wide-eyed, piercing gray and blue.
your gaze flits to the papers in front of him, eyebrows scrunching before you sigh. there’s an all-too-familiar smile on your face, a quiet chuckle brought about by how characteristic it is of him to be in this situation right now.
“sir, that report is tagged yellow.”
he shifts, looking at your paper clip; without a word, the leather of his seat crinkles again. it’s like this with shouto sometimes, you’ve come to learn: a non-response is a response on its own.
when his eyes meet yours, you shiver.
goosebumps litter the sides of your arms, the decision to forego your blazer leaving yourself exposed to the chill of tonight’s office air. you try to hide it, but some things are impossible to keep from shouto.
of course he notices your jaw quivering.
“are you cold?” he stands up immediately, already moving halfway out from behind his desk.
“i’m okay, sir,” you stop him just as quickly, hands motioning for him to stay where he is.
two beats of silence find him tilting his head, gaze as intense as it’s always been pointed towards you.
“shouto.”
“pardon, sir?” you step closer, leaning forward.
“call me shouto.”
the red fabric in your hand almost slips from your hold.
this isn’t the first time shouto’s insisted on you using his name—he offered it up the moment he hired you, and the day you searched store after store for his thrifted leather chair during the agency’s second move; he’s suggested it plenty over the years, a casual reminder that it’s no big deal—if the world can call him shouto, so should you.
pro-hero shouto, top three in the charts.
pro-hero shouto, late to his agency’s holiday party because of paperwork—his tendency to be a workaholic.
pro-hero shouto, asking you to call him shouto, but not in the way the world does.
his eyes don’t leave yours as you blink, swallowing down your feelings (inappropriate, you tell yourself).
“shouto.” you repeat.
he nods slightly, a small, imperceptible lift to the corners of his lips. there’s an awkward pause as he looks down to the papers on his desk then up at you again.
“the party,” you clear your throat, smoothing out the fabric between your fingers, “you’re running late to your own party, si–shouto.”
he tilts his head again, confused, “is this party not for everyone else?”
you blink—he’s got you there.
“i guess that’s true,” you sigh, chuckling. a pause, “that report is still yellow, though.”
blue and gray land on white, bond papers spread out on his desk. he could argue with you, but where has that ever gotten him? you’ve kept him in check for years—it’s how he’s managed to stay on top of things.
he looks down at his jumpsuit, the same shade of blue since he was 15. not much has changed with the design of his hero suit, just an overall sleeker design fit to match his age. the utility belt still exists, albeit more compact and less clunky; a similar modification was done to the straps that run down the sides of his chest.
if anything, the biggest change is how the suit has molded around him—shoulders more defined, arms large enough for the fabric to cling onto it. shouto’s build has always been lean, but the areas of defined muscle stick out more evidently now that he’s older, much taller and wider.
“i don’t have a costume.” he pouts.
you grin, stepping closer to his desk, hips digging into the edge. the red santa hat unfurls from your hands as you wave it in front of him—a perfect match to the shades of his hair.
he blinks before you catch it, the slight curve of his lips as he leans forward, dipping his head low enough for you to reach the top of it. you tiptoe just a bit when you open up the hat to place it over his head.
you’re gentle with your touch, fingers running through the strands of his hair lightly; you tuck them neatly underneath the fluffy white rim of the santa hat.
(it’s warmer near him, you notice—his quirk regulating a circumference of heat around himself that extends to you right now, you know. but you’re confident you’d still feel your own version of it–on your cheeks, down your neck–even if he weren’t).
the hat sits perfectly atop his head, much like anything else that’s on him. when you lean back, moving away to take a better look, you notice it—
midnight blue, the backdrop on shouto’s floor-to-ceiling windows, littered with speckles of white—the first snowfall, and one you stand in awe of.
—gasping at the sight.
you’re still so near when your eyes light up, zeroing in on the view behind him. you can’t help it, that smile on your face, bright and pretty, he thinks; it’s a short moment, but he feels it, a two-part ‘ba-dump’ that resounds in his heartbeat.
a/n: they thrift the chair bc it's real leather so buying a new one is just no-no + he texts natsuo otw home after the party that he feels a bit funny! (it's just his feelings 😭)
comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡
a part two of where love lives because i am such a sucker for rei getting those kids the hell out of that house and the todoroki fam being normies
You would almost be drifting off to sleep—if it wasn’t for the dead weight of Shouto’s limbs on your lap and the irritating buzzing of Touya’s whines in your ear.
“He’s out cold.”
Touya gestures to the blob of red and white hair sprawled out by your side. After one episode of his cartoon and a few head scratches from your hand, Shouto was out like a light.
It’s been about thirty minutes since then, and the low mumble of the cartoon still humming across the dim living room speaker is driving Touya up a wall.
“If you’re not gonna let us go upstairs, at least let me change the fuckin’ channel,” he mumbles behind a scowl.
You roll your eyes but gently toss him the remote regardless. He hums at his victory, catching it easily and flying through countless channels, eventually landing on some poorly produced scary movie from the early 2000s—and if it wasn’t for his youngest brother wedged in between the two of you like a cushion, he’d be using the film as an excuse to cling onto you.
It’s not long before the sound of a key in the lock softly rattles the front door, and a few seconds later, Rei enters quietly, almost like she’s not trying to make a single sound. But when she sees two (and a half) silhouettes on the couch, she tosses her keys on the counter with a bit less caution.
big bro touya & little snotty brother shouto, noncanon verse where rei got the kids the fuck out of that house!!!! slightly suggestive at first but shouto is a cockblock, i love u todobros, part 2?
Against the creaks of the floorboards and the buzz of the streetlights outside, the Todoroki household is relatively calm.
It’s barely the beginning of summer. Though it’s rather late, the sun only set a mere hour ago and the humidity in the air still holds up, even without the harsh rays marinating the sky.
The Todoroki house itself is on the smaller side, especially for a family as large as they are. Filled to the brim with trinkets and out of place belongings, there’s not much wiggle room for architectural design or things that aren’t deemed necessities.
But it’s well-loved, by a gentle mother and her four rowdy children. There are scratches on the floor from Shouto’s scooter that’s meant to be used only outdoors, and a chip in the beige paint from where Natsuo pushed Touya into the wall. Fuyumi’s work sneakers carefully sit beside the front door’s welcome mat. It’s a house and a home.
With Touya’s mother out for the night, the eldest son was left in charge of the house—and with that, his siblings. When your boyfriend charmingly invited you to spend the night at his place, he might’ve left out that tiny detail.
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