word sculpture

TORTILE - (tawr-til) - adjective

Definition:

  • twisted; coiled

Related forms:

  • noun - tortility

Example sentence:

  • The turtle emerged from the pond, water lapping off its tortile shell.

Stovenly thinks:

  • i love that noun form
  • imagine a man being bested by a tortoise
  • his entire future having been at stake
  • and in his death throes, he screams
  • OH THE TORTILITY

Touch me

Hold me

Ruin me

Caress me like

clay


Mould me into beauty that I can see

Craft me into something finite

I want to be art worth completion

I want to be the sculpture you use as your morning coffee cup, or

for holding the pens you write poetry with, or

the flame fired pot holder you keep on your counter to hold the fresh pan of brownies we’d make at 3am

I don’t want to be a happy beautiful accident, put on a shelf to be admired,

I want purpose.

The last tododeku week fill! This is a generic desk job au when they’re adults but of course they don’t relax.  

“I don’t use my fire side,” Todoroki commented, and Midoriya breathed through his mouth, walked over, and punched him in the face.


His boss forced him to buy flowers as an apology gift, which were nice, but Midoriya was still reeling from the animosity he felt so he tore all of them off except one. It was one of those fancy flowers that were grown with dye so they blossomed with two colors.

The flower was a rose, and half of it was the normal dark red that was so romanticized, but the other was a pure white that resembled snow. It wasn’t perfect—there was a single red petal on the white side—but the resemblance was uncanny and the meaning behind it impossible to ignore.

Midoriya had planted it himself, though he hadn’t expected to use it for such a reason. Todoroki took one look at it and covered it entirely in ice.


The next day Midoriya brought in another rose, and placed it on Todoroki’s desk without a word.

At the end of the day it’s covered in ice, put in a pretty glass vase, and placed next to Midoriya’s laptop.


He brought in another rose. It was returned with frost.


The next rose got more creative—Midoriya painted the pot half red and white, used red multch on one side and covered the other side in sand.

In turn, it was replaced as an ice sculpture, the words “fuck off” shaved into the side of it like it was some beautiful design.


Midoriya does not fuck off. The next day he brings three roses.


He runs out of roses then, at least home grown ones, and resorts to using red roses and white roses.

“Aren’t red roses supposed to be romantic?” Uraraka mentions. Midoriya is too worried about making the colored roses stay on their specified side to hear.


“What do I have to do to make you stop?” Todoroki asks, face blank but the air turned chilly when he walked in the room. His eyes look furious.

Oh, thank god, Midoriya thinks. He had been losing a lot of money on the roses.

“Use your fire,” Midoriya says relentlessly. For all the anger in Todoroki, Midoriya tops it all with his determination and pure spite.

“No,” Todoroki responds. Midoriya narrows his eyes slightly.

“Then I won’t stop.”

Todoroki stomps away.


Another week passes and Midoriya buys a coolor to melt the ice in. Todoroki’s taken to carving creative insults in the ice he returns, so Midoriya buys cards (red on the outside but white inside) to reply.

One day the sculpture asks to meet him outside. Midoriya responds with a generic ok and also a picture of a fire.

“Will you use your fire?” Midoriya asks as a greeting.

“No,” Todoroki answers, “I will not use my father’s fire.”

The story comes out then—about how his father and mother married because of quirks, how his father trained him like a mule and his mother tried to alleviate the pressure, tried to take the pressure away, only to crack under it herself. Todoroki’s scar is a testament of how terrible it was.

“I don’t like talking about this,” Todoroki admits, “but I am. So will you stop your stupid mission now?”

Midoriya hesitates—his heart is breaking in his chest from the other’s story but the tears are gathering in the corner of his eyes because of how nonchalant Todoroki is as he tells it, how emotionless he tries to seem towards to whole thing—but he steels himself. He breathes.

“No,” he says. This time Todoroki is the one to punch him in the face.


Somewhere between the adrenaline and sweat and punches and kicks, Midoriya thinks it probably wasn’t the best idea to piss someone off with such a strong quirk when he himself was quirkless.

He hurts himself more than Todoroki when he kicks at the other’s ice, twirling and jumping to escape the other’s crystalized dagger, but he grabs the pepper spray he’s allowed to have as a quirkless and sprays the other so the liquid condenses on his freezing skin.

“It’s your power!” Midoriya screams, thoughtless in his anger because—

Because Midorya would do anything for a quirk. He had always wanted to be a hero, eyes bright with hope; to fit in with Kacchan with his flashy explosions and devil-may-care attitude; for all the relentless bullying and mockery to stop following him for just one second. He wanted to stop having to say he ‘fell’ and for his mother not to have to grow increasingly worried and uncomfortable as her son came home with bigger and bigger bruises.

But here was Todoroki, blessed with a quirk that he refused to see as his own, didn’t want to see it as anything more than an extension of his parents. Everyone always put in their best and pushed themselves harder than yesterday and went further to catch onto their dreams. Uraraka, Iida, even (especially) Bakugou—they all demanded more of themselves than possible and refused to be stopped.

But here was Todoroki, haunted by his past or maybe haunting his past himself, like a spirit who couldn’t move on, who not only didn’t try his hardest but refused to.

Something gets through, something in Todoroki’s eyes spark to life, but Midoriya doesn’t have time to take advantage of the distraction before the alley is covered in a loud burst of fire.

It crackles and burn and towers, larger than life and certainly larger than the building next to them, and even the knowledge that he probably just provoked someone into murdering him can’t stop the large grin from spreading across Izuku’s lips.

“What are you smiling for?” Todoroki screams, because he has to be in order to be heard over the loud cracking and sizzling the flames are causing. His words aren’t angry—there’s something pulling at his mouth that makes Midoriya want to call him a hypocrite—but then Todoroki pulls back his arms, winding up, and Midoriya lift his pepper spray—

(the chemicals will react and cause more fire if I can control it then i)

All Might steps deftly between them but a loud crack is the last thing he hears before Midoriya is a goner.

(Ah right—when cold air heats up really quickly–)

Boom.


The next week Midoriya is back behind his desks, meekly rubbing the back of his neck as Iida chastises him, when he notices the rose. It’s pure red, but the card attached is white. As soon as Iida leaves, Midoriya tries to convince himself he isn’t ripping it open.

sorry about losing control but also thank you

do you want to meet this friday for dinner?

And then on the back:

the florist said they were out of white roses. i wonder why?


Todoroki opens the red and white card in amusement, different from the flames of anger the fancy lettering would have caused just last week.

Sure! :) Don’t be sorry about the flames—I hurt myself more than anything else! Are you okay? I heard you had to get checked out for frostbite!?

p.s. no clue about the white roses :P

He chuckles light to himself.

Friday can’t come quick enough. 

Strung Tight

a/n: sequel to ‘Out of Sorts’ as requested :)

@today-in-fic @fictober

_________________

Not sure if she stood for two seconds or ten minutes, deep in chaotic debate on whether to let go the doorknob and move to him or use the knob and move away, hide herself behind thin motel wall and just a little bit of angry shame. Fingers voted for first, head screamed about second, heart pounded a deafening decibel in her ear until, finally, eons after her comment, she looked at him, smile dissolving to decision, “they do say anything less than three hours sleep is useless anyways.”

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