#bcaps writes

He’d sneak romance and dating tips from the 3-E girls who ask Irina-sensei for advice after classes. Obviously, he’d try really hard to not let anyone see or figure out what he’s doing; he’d rather die than be caught like this, especially by either you or Koro-sensei.

People will eventually figure it out, not because either of you revealed the relationship, but because Karma is surprisingly unsubtle when he does his best to force proximity with you.

In PE Classes, “Hey, Karasuma-sensei. I think something’s wrong with Terasaka, might have punched him a little too hard. D’ya think I could get a new sparring partner?”

He immediately motions to you, “Hey, her partner isn’t around either.” Having paid off Nakamura to fake sickness so he could be guaranteed to partner up with you.

“Karma, you-” “Kay, thanks Teach. I’ll make my way over to her now.”  

Will make Nagisa third-wheel constantly at the start of the relationship because he’s worried about leaving awkward silence between the both of you, often not knowing what to say after long conversations and worrying he’ll tire you out because of it.

Has a bad habit of hyper-focusing on you even when you’re with the friend group, to the point where everyone else feels awkward in observing the two of you interact. (Especially when Karma tries to initiate PDA to irritate jealous onlookers.)

He’s definitely a little rough around the edges, and he gets a lot of things wrong at the start, but he’s a fast learner, and once he knows what you like and what makes you smile, then he jumps on those opportunities whenever they arrive.

Karma is also a serial blusher, and for as much as he likes to fluster you with his over-the-top flirting and excessive proximity, if you take the initiative and make a move first, he’ll turn as red as a tomato and start mumbling and trying to hide his face and feelings.

He won’t admit it just yet at this point in time, but you make him feel really happy and giddy, in a way that’s unexplainable to him. He’s at the very least glad that he took the chance to confess so that you can be together now, experiencing new things as a couple.

His favorite thing to do with you is walk together in the rain under your umbrella, because he either “broke his” or left it at home (He won’t be upright about what happened to it, but you’re sure it’s broken because he beat someone up with it.)

Karma also loves to tease you about indirect kisses before you two actually kiss for the first time, buying lots of his strawberry milk cartons and sharing with you, immediately grinning and pinching your cheeks when you drink from his straw.

“Aw, sweetheart, if you wanna kiss me that badly, we don’t have to go through a straw to do it.”

When you’re a little more established

You’re literally 90% of his motivation for studying, because he gets to see your cute, focused face when you work on assignments, and admire you when you fall asleep at your desk, using your arms to cushion your head.

“Karma, what are you looking at? Do I have a pen mark on my face again?” You ask him, still sleepy from your impromptu nap.

“Nothing cutie, ‘was just looking at you.” He blurts out before he can think about it too much.

He laughs relentlessly at you when you hide back into your arms, glad that his flirting still flusters you after all this time together.

Karma is also really soft when receiving physical affection from you, and his favorite form of that is in cuddling and hugs, especially during naps.

He naps a lot, and he’s so comfy and warm that you usually end up falling asleep for hours instead of that 5-minute power nap that he promised

Will definitely help you with your work if you wake up upset or worried about it— that is, if you don’t already wake up to work that’s completed and somehow forged perfectly in your handwriting, because he’s crazy like that

For poetry assignments, he would wax horrible poetry to you as a joke and you’d laugh about it together, trying to use tentacles and all those weird assassination-related words for rhyming.

“Your love is like a shattered bottle that has stabbed through my chest." Karma announces dramatically, putting an arm over his forehead and splaying out on your couch; he smiles brightly when he sees you giggle non-stop at his theatrics.

“That’s so lame, you expect me to believe you’re some English prodigy?” You tease him back, and he reaches out to poke your side and tickle you.

Only for him to submit something for class that’s exceptionally wholesome and well written. Korosensei would probably read it out loud in class, much to Karma’s chagrin, blushing like the tomato that he is; so unused to praise.

He’d try to recover by saying it’s because he has such a good muse, and now you’re blushing in the middle of class too…

Would still commute home with you, making sure to walk you to your door everyday you’re together. Mostly because he wants to spend more time with you after school, and because of his over-protective nature that causes him to worry about you relentlessly when you aren’t together.

You haven’t ridden the train alone in years, at least not without Karma accompanying you. The two of you ride on the mixed-gender trains so he can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t get lost, and also so he can press up next to you when the car gets crowded.

He’d make sure to stand in a place where you can’t grab onto any railings or handles for balance, all so you can grab onto him instead. 😈😈😈

Karma posts a picture on his socials of you holding his hand on the train handle, just like this video from Puuung 퍼엉 .

Karma also really appreciates cooked meals from you, especially since he just used to cook his own food before.

Even if it’s microwaved or a low-effort packed sandwich with candies, the very act of being prepared food makes him feel incomprehensibly happy.

He’d cook for you too, whatever you wanted at any point that he’s available. Even if it’s the middle of the night and you want some fancy fillet mignon, or even if it’s just some trendy food you saw while doom scrolling that you off-handedly mentioned to him as being tasty looking.

He also loves spoon-feeding you teasingly, with a lot of pictures of you just him capturing your reaction to him bringing a spoonful of food forward.

He’s actually a boyfriend that knows how to take good, Instagram-worthy pictures, but he still keeps the ones of yourself that you hate because any picture of you is precious to him.

Keeps mementos of your dates, like receipts and movie tickets, and especially arcade tokens that he stole…

Karma would amp up his PDA game even more than before if he’s jealous, straight up kissing you in the middle of the mall if he sees anyone look at you for too long.

“Karma, we’re in the middle of the mall! Have some shame.”

“But I haven’t kissed you in years~”

“You literally kissed me just a few minutes ago in the department store???”

Lastly, no matter how long it’s been for you two, he will still always want to share an umbrella with you.

It’s gotten so bad to the point where you could never have more than one umbrella between the two of you, and if you were stuck outside in the rain without one, you’d have to wait for him to pick you up before being able to go back home.

The one point you both brought umbrellas, he immediately pauses.

“Uh…” Karma trails off, thinking about how to turn the situation in his favor. He immediately sees Terasaka and you swear you could see a lightbulb turn on over his head.

He immediately tosses the umbrella at Terasaka, the latter not being able to react fast enough to dodge, so the umbrella snaps in half upon contact with his skull.

“KARMA YOU SON OF A-” “Welp, too bad my umbrella’s broken. Can we share?”

You look at him incredulously, feeling a little bad for Terasaka, but overall amused at just how smitten Karma has to be with you to have done that.

“Let’s go home, you dummy.” You smile softly at him as he offers you his arm.

Other than you, only a few other non-department members from Rhodes Island dare enter due to the wild and often hazardous experimentation that occurs there on a near-daily basis. There are deadly and unseen toxins which stain the deceivingly pristine-looking surfaces of the lab, as well as a few plates of inconspicuous food lying around — highly probable those are laced with an experimental venom — that are still irresponsibly unlabeled.

Your favorite morbid fact of the place was the constant, non-zero possibility of some poisonous gas floating around unchecked, ready to knock out any unfortunate guests or passersby; a fact that you were all too aware of due to an excess of personal experience.

Truly, such a place was only made lovely to you because of its eccentrically endearing residents. Regardless of the very unwise decision in becoming a regular at the ironically life-threatening medical labs, you aren’t so picky when it comes to where you stay — be it a raging battlefield or an insufferably quiet historical abbey — because as long as your dear companions are nearby, you’d happily accompany them wherever you may be.

At least, that’s what you tell the acquaintances and strangers who ask you why you continue to go there despite the clear hazards.

Unfortunately for you, your dearest and closest friends Weedy and Glaucus — and Blue Poison too, on her more confident days when she wills herself to approach first — can see right through you, and more often than not, you have to beg the former to not make it obvious to the brazen and loudmouthed Elysium why you frequent the toxicology section of the labs especially so; and especially despite your R.I. designations requiring you to be elsewhere at most times.

“Operator Thorns!” In front of the metal door to his personal lab, you announce his name dramatically, as one would an unfamiliar colleague although you two are anything but; giddy in your excitement to see him again after your latest long mission away from the landship. You even put your arms behind your back and straighten your posture for the extra theatrical flair once he slides open the door.

For as much as you cherished the rest of the members of the medical department, Thorns is different to you in some unexplainable way. You aren’t that much closer with him than you are with the others, but his companionship always gives you a sense of quiet comfort and the distinct lack of needing to perform socially. Around him, you can always be your authentic and bizarre self, and the same could be applied vice versa, where he’ll mindlessly listen to you prattle on and on about some new Arts-related theory of yours, before then offering you some weird concoction that you’ll probably consume in a heartbeat — with full trust and a lack of unnecessary questions such as ‘Am I going to die?’ or ‘Is this going to explode me?’

Thorns is… nice to be around, for a lack of better words.

So nice in fact that now, saying you ‘miss him’ is a severe understatement, and if Aak is anywhere nearby to have mentioned that to at this very moment, he would probably just outright stab you with his durian-flavored stimpack and crudely tell you to ‘steel your balls and stop lying to yourself, now go full speed into his face already—’

You try not to continue that thought right before talking to Thorns after a long while. If you keep that thought up when he finally opens his door, and when he looks at you with that constant fondness that disparities against his wry and sardonic greetings? Well, you might actually blurt out something stupid like how you think his golden eyes are pretty or that you daydream about holding his hand while you’re mid-dispatching a target during a mission?

No doubt about it, you’d rather give Ifrit full permission to blast away at you with no Shaw or fire protection in sight. The shame would kill you faster than the aforementioned pyromaniac’s flames could even try.

Shaking the thoughts out of your head, you call out to him once again, “Thooooorns!”

You bounce expectantly in place, now a little upset at the lack of his usual immediate answering to your presence — especially considering you’ve been gone for quite a while — and your previous excitement paves its way into anxiety, as you find yourself more and more worried as minutes pass by. Was he even inside? Did Glaucus feed you false information and get your hopes up?

“Thorns!” You shout, with concern strengthening its grip even further around your conscience. You press the call button next to the door, hoping the buzzing noise would pull him from what was actually just his absurd focus and that would be the end to your anxieties.

Well, in retrospect, Glaucus did offer to show you the daily log-in cards, and she isn’t the type of person to play pranks either.

Surely she would have known if Thorns had exploded himself in your absence, right?

Before you can catastrophize further in place, you notice that the door’s locking mechanism has not fully closed, meaning you can simply slide it to the side and enter. With that new knowledge, you decide to completely disregard proper laboratory safety rules, and any consideration for your own wellbeing, to briskly move aside the door and set foot into the room.

Immediately, the first thing you register is that it’s darker than usual inside, which either meant Thorns wasn’t actually in here, or that he was experimenting with a light sensitive compound and kept the lights off. Knowing him and his unbelievable work ethic, you assume the latter, and you also assume he might have accidentally knocked himself out with either the said compound or just straight up sleep deprivation.

You can at least hope for the second hypothesis as you stumble across his lab in the near darkness. Closure will probably execute you for missing out on the field robot debriefing that is supposed to happen right now, but she’ll throttle you once she finds out you skipped despite not even having met up with Thorns — who she owes tremendously right now for his equipping Lancet-2 with new anti-venoms that helped greatly on the field, and who she only allowed you to meet with in the first place because of said reason.

“Hey Thorns, are you alright?” You yell, hoping for an immediate response now that the metal, sound-muffling door was no longer in your way.

He doesn’t respond, so once again you ask into the darkness of the room, “Are you even there? Wh-” However, before you can finish your calling, you feel a sharp prick on the side of your leg, and immediately, your lower appendages go numb, leaving you helpless to tumble to the ground with a loud crash from the offending object following suit.

You cry out in pain as your forearms slam harshly onto the floor, “Ow! Ow- What the hell?” You’re glad that your arms are still in working condition, enough to have let you catch yourself when you fell just now. However, you notice the complete lack of feeling in your legs — sheer utter numbness that refuses to subside even as you try to move them around — and you become extremely disoriented; fear quickly builds up in your gut at your now helpless situation.

"¿Quién está ahí?"

Luckily for you, a familiar voice calls out in response to your ruckus, and the lights turn on, blinding you for a moment before your eyes adjust. You recognize the voice, and immediately, all your previous fear was abandoned immediately for your mind to return to the sheer excitement that you had prior to entering the lab.

Now extremely ecstatic, and somehow also forgetting your current situation, you yell back at the voice, “Hey!” You even try to run forward, but the signals of your brain can’t travel to the nerves in your legs, so you end up flopping miserably onto the floor once again, your chin nearly smacking against the tiles.

“Owww.”

Thorns turns the corner, with a look of surprise forming as soon as he sees you sprawled on the floor — sees your delighted yet pained smile towards his presence — and his eyes narrow slightly when he spots your legs unmoving below you in an awkward position. “¿Que paso-”

He then sees his toxin-coated sword on the floor next to you and immediately clocks what just took place as soon as he spots the patches of yellow substance present on your pant legs.

“¡Ay!” Thorns exclaims, immediately making his way towards you and kneeling down by your side to help you sit up. He mutters your name worriedly as he looks you over, trying to see if you had been affected elsewhere, if you’d been injured grave enough for him to make a mad dash to Warfarin for an immediate blood transfusion. He puts a hand on your shoulder to help prop you up, before then adjusting his arm to wrap around your back for support.

“Hi…” You say, sheepish and utterly humiliated as you have to lean back against Thorn’s forearm to stay upright, feeling absolutely no strength in the muscles below your hips.

Thorns adjusts your legs to a more comfortable, stretched out position, before questioning you, “What happened?” He smooths out the fabric of the pant leg, and wipes away the excess toxin with a new-looking clean cloth he pulled from his coat. You notice some of the substance wind up on his arm, but he doesn’t seem to be affected by it.

Figures. He’s immune to his own poison, because if he had — in the past — somehow ended up stabbing himself with his sword mid-battle while using Destreza, then he probably wouldn’t be here with you today, fussing over you and worrying about the long-term consequences this might have on your permanent leg health.

“I just went in here looking for you ‘cause you weren’t answering the door, and then I… bumped into your sword in the dark.” You try to explain.

Thorns stares at you with what you interpret to be stern eyes, and you can barely handle the shame, so you avert your gaze and try to balance yourself better on your own arms. However, your legs still don’t have any semblance of feeling in them, so you end up just falling back on his forearm, to which he reprimands you, “Oy, don’t try to stand yet.”

In a panic, you turn to look at him, apologizing profusely, “Sorry! I’m sorry. I didn’t… I was just worried, I was—”

Before you can sputter any more incomplete explanations, he interrupts you in your nervous rambling, “No, no.” Thorns utters hastily, his eyes softening in attempted reassurance while he rubs a small circle on your back with his thumb. “Es mi culpa, lo siento."

You get a little confused when you hear him apologizing to you, when it was your recklessness that led to you bumping into his sword. To urge him to continue speaking, you tilt your head to the side as he goes back to wiping the toxin from your pants with muttered curses under his breath at the stubbornness of the stains.

“I hope you can forgive me for my carelessness. I don’t have an antidote for this one just yet, so we’ll have to wait it out.” He says earnestly, wiping away the last remnants of the toxin from your pants with one arm while he supports you with the other. You stare back at him, trying to compute, wondering why he wasn’t displeased with you for irresponsibly endangering yourself with his weapon, although accidental.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone- No, regardless. This could have happened to me as well if I didn’t develop an immunity quickly, I should keep a tidier workspace.” Thorns expresses, accepting his fault in the matter before any excuses could come out.

You pause for a bit, registering his response before replying. “Well, maybe. I’m glad it didn’t happen to you then, but what were you doing in the dark, anyway?”

He puts the cleaning cloth down to the side and puts a hand on the back of his neck, and Thorns mumbles abashedly, “I— fell asleep. I left my sword here because I was waiting for the toxin to settle, and I haven't woken since… Well, I’m not so sure, but it was the first I’ve slept in a few days.”

It takes a while for you to process his words, as you get a bit distracted by what seems like a flush of color decorating the tips of his ears, but once you finally do, you realize your ongoing situation was an indirect result of him falling short on his promise to you to have better lab etiquette by keeping healthy work hours.

“Ehh! Have you been overworking yourself again? Can’t your experiments wait—” you trail off into reprimands and accusations, slightly irked that he had been disregarding his health and wellbeing in your absence when he swore he’d try to be better. You jab a finger into his chest as you admonish him, and Thorns finds himself a bit lucky to have his long bangs to hide behind at the moment.

After a few more statements from you of the importance of taking care of oneself, and your constant worrying for him, you notice that he seems to be deep in thought now, not really paying attention to your words anymore; looking exceptionally distressed as he stares at the puncture wounds on your pant legs and the yellowish stains that he can’t seem to wipe away with cloth alone.

“Thorns?” you ask, uneasy at the thought of unnecessarily troubling him.

He gazes back up at you, “I’m sorry… I’ve gotten you hurt because of my disregard for safety. What if I hadn’t been here?”

Thorns looks awfully guilty, like a subtler version of a sad wet cat begging for shelter in the rain, or a disgruntled sea urchin who just lost his favorite plastic cone hat to the tides. Yet, there’s an aspect to his evident distress at your injury — which he clearly feels at great fault for — that endears you, and you can’t help yourself in wanting to comfort him instead.

You let out a small, good-humored laugh, “Silly. You’re so silly.”

“Hm? ¿Por qué?” Thorns asks, confused at both your switch-up and statement, flustering a bit when you reach up a little behind yourself to ruffle his already unruly hair.

You turn your waist a bit more to look at Thorns directly and reassure him, “Hey, I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.” His expression betrays a little frown at your words, still irrationally worried about what his new toxin could possibly do to you, even if he’s already gone through several rounds of testing and should objectively know that the poison shouldn’t have any long-term or adverse effects.

Unfortunately for him, all objectivity seems to fly out the window when it comes to you.

“Nothing hurts, and if anything happens, you’ll be right here with me to help.” You attempt further to put his mind at rest, patting the top of his head softly. Thorns sighs in response, putting his hand on top of yours to lift it off his hair and hold it in place on your lap, and he concedes to you, “Perhaps.”

Delighted that he’s loosening up again, you emit a hum followed by a short giggle, “Now you know to clean up your lab better, and not put your sword where people could walk, right?”

A slight grin forms on the edges of his mouth at your words, “That’s right.”

You verbalize a subdued ‘yipee,’ and an intrusive thought enters your mind, travelling out quickly as words through your lips before you can think too much about them.

“Well, as compensation for now, you’re just going to have to carry me until my legs work again.”

His eyes widen at your request, and you immediately start regretting saying such a teasing statement that will definitely make you internally combust if he’ll actually follow through with your suggestion. Despite your own supposed dismay at his possible approval, Thorns is suave enough to save face and agree to your ostentatious proposition. “Sí, pues claro."

"If that is what you so desire, muñeca.” He replies, the once-subtle smile now fully forming at your behest. Your face burns up at the Iberian endearment, although you don't exactly know what it means to him contextually, outside of its base translation.

Thorns moves to a crouch, putting one arm under your legs and the other moving to the space on your back by your shoulder blades. The sensation of his arm between the underneath of your lower thighs and inner knees would have probably made you jolt, especially if your local nerves in that area weren’t currently asleep.

“¿Está esto bien? Good?” Thorns asks, and you give him a bashful nod as a reply. He hums in acknowledgement, running his hand down and across the small of your back, before returning to the previous position a little below your shoulders; deciding that would be much more stable. You try not to think too much about it.

“Make sure to hold onto me, then.” He takes a brief pause, before smirking, “Just in case, of course?”

In comparison to the other Rhodes Island melee combatants, Thorns may not outwardly look as strong, lacking the intimidating and bulky build of other operators such as Matterhorn or Hung. However, his five plus years of combat experience speak for themselves, and he wouldn’t be a master of Destreza if he had no strength to show for it.

With a low humph, he stands and easily lifts you up with him into a bridal carry, holding you close to his chest to ensure your slack legs don’t end up colliding with any of his lab equipment. You wrap your arms around his neck to help the both of you with balance.

Thorns stares at you with a silent query of whether he can start moving or not, and you chirp a quick “Mhm!”

While you can’t deny just how much more attractive he became in your eyes because of your current predicament — bridal carry and all — you hope he starts moving as soon as possible so he can put you down somewhere even quicker, because you’re sure you might actually erupt into flames with how hot your face is getting; you don’t think you can handle any more of this new proximity and touchiness without just straight-up declaring your inappropriate feelings.

As he walks, carrying you to the office area of his lab with barely any effort, you feel your face flush even more as you continue perceiving the intimacy of the situation. To hide the tinting of your cheeks, you shy away, turning your face to his chest and hoping he wouldn’t be able to see the red from his angle.

Also, you relish the feeling of being against him, but you’d rather straight up die right now than admit that to him outright.

Thorns, meanwhile, glances down at you trying to burrow into his chest and feels a weird spike of his heart rate that he has to try and calm lest you hear the speed of it from where you’re pressed against. He looks up and around the interior office of his personal lab, and his lips purse slightly in thought. He considers a more rational option on what to do with you for a brief moment, but then his own intrusive thoughts win and again, his objectivity flies out the landship.

He briskly walks over to his chair and sits down with you still in his arms.

Startled by the movement, you glance around, confused, as you assumed he would have put you down first elsewhere. “Uh, you only have— one chair?” You then realize it may be because of the distinct lack of available chairs, or even open surfaces that lack any space unoccupied by flasks and beakers.

“It’s to prevent Elysium from hanging around too long while I work.” Thorns replies nonchalantly, adjusting you to sit upright on his lap and then looking at you in the eyes as he normally would when waiting for you to start up a new conversation — as if he hadn’t just put the both of you in one of the most amorous positions two friends can be in.

“Oh, okay…” You mutter distractedly, clearly not knowing what to say to that, nor to this scenario you find yourself in.

Your discomfort seems to catch onto him, and he tries to adjust you further to give you more space away from his chest but still using one arm to support your waist so you don’t fall off of him. Thorns questions you, “Is this fine? ¿Cómodo?”

“Yeah. This is… It’s fine. Um, what about you?” you ask, wondering what he planned to do while having to take care of you — while he had you on his lap.

“I’m fine.” He states, brushing stray strands of hair away from his face with his free arm. “If you want, I can massage the pressure points in your legs to allow the toxin to circulate out of your system faster. Would that be alright?”

Wow. How straightforward of him, and totally to business. What on Terra were you thinking was gonna happen? Of course he wants to treat you first and foremost, especially considering his current occupation and interests. You briefly consider facepalming at your own racing thoughts, only if it wouldn’t alert him, that is.

Who the hell massages their friend’s legs while said friend is sitting on their lap, while still somehow remaining apathetic to the suggestiveness of the situation?

I guess that’s Thorns for you.

Peering to the side in thought, you decide that this might as well be happening, just so you can start walking again. Preferably towards your room, so you can start screeching into your pillows after this whole ordeal happens.

“Yes, that’s fine.” you say, like a liar — like you’re not going to be freaking out about this with Weedy later today, and like she won’t just spread that information to the rest of Rhodes Island and completely doom you and Thorns both to the interminable rumours.

Thorns starts by massaging the area around your injuries, working in silence except for the occasional hums, asking for permission to continue without saying the words. You agree every time, mostly because you can’t actually feel any pain — you can’t feel anything in your legs after all — but seeing him go through the motions while remaining cautious and respectful of your boundaries, flusters you unimaginably so.

You try to scan the room around to distract yourself, to find some weird colored mixture to inwardly wax poetic about as a diversion to your frenzied thoughts, but to look away from Thorns right now would be a crime to you both.

Hence, you resolve to distract yourself instead by fiddling with the tufts of his dark brown hair. He has most of it tied back as usual, but because of its tendency to frizz and dry up, many strands end up askew and move all over the place. It’s a good compromise for you to still pay attention to him without just sitting there awkwardly, and it isn’t as if you hadn’t previously fussed with his hair before this day.

On that note, a small smile graces your face when you notice the loose and messy braid adorning the right side of his hair. The one you tied for him before you left on your mission, when you noticed he kept having to brush his unruly hair out of his face during a random lab session where he humoured Elysium, who had asked Thorns to analyze the possible regenerative properties of a fallen strand from his beloved red patch of hair.

You air a pleasant croon at the sight, and Thorns halts marginally at the sound before returning to his ministrations, pretending as if he didn’t hear nor enjoy your delighted noise.

After all these weeks, he tried his best to keep it braided like how you did it.

That’s… sweet of him to do. You expected him to unbraid it as soon as you left, but it seems he’s taken a liking to it even now. He never struck you before as the sentimental type, but then again, he has always been someone to defy expectations and initial impressions.

You take the bunch of hair between your fingers, running them down gently along the braid and trying your best not to undo it. The smile on your face grows with you being unaware of your expression, and you don’t see the tender look that appears on Thorns’ face as he observes you interacting delicately with his braided hair; nor do you notice him completely stopping his work on your legs.

The tuft between your fingertips feels coarse and dry, and you swear you should gift him some oils or conditioners to help him manage this unruly beast on his head. You think about giving him your own favorites, but swiftly disregard that thought due to the romantic implications a gift like that would relay, and you don't want to risk anything at the moment.

Not when this is the closest you’ve ever been with him, even if he may not see it the way you do. Even if you’re just deluding yourself into this little corner of temporary heaven.

When you pull your hand away from the braid, you notice a dark gray powder — probably ash, you think — discoloring the pads of your fingers.

“Mm, hey! What happened to the inflammable hair net I got you?” You ask, remembering you had given him that self-made invention in order to prevent the many singes and near-full chars of his hair due to his wild experiments that often ended up exploding in his face.

Thorns pauses to think for a brief moment, before clearing his throat to sheepishly reply, “Perdóname, cariño. I… did not anticipate the magnitude of the splash… of a particularly acidic mixture.”

You look at him with a shocked and horrified face, before your expression morphs into a sad pout, “Aww, and I spent so much time Thorns-proofing it with Shaw!”

He utters a noise of confusion, “Thorns-proofing? ¿Qué?” You raise an eyebrow at him questioningly, putting your hands on your hips to emphasize the sass of your reaction. Surely he was jesting? His sheer audacity otherwise would astound you.

“Why use such a demeaning term?” Thorns asks, followed by an amused huff of air.

“Not demeaning!” You exclaim. “Just, predictive. We both know how you are. Remember how the Doctor always reacts whenever they see you walk around all unkempt and messy, with the evidence of some explosion on you?”

He laughs, soft and light, “Mm. I see. Point proven.”

You let out a haughty noise of victory and flash him a big, smug grin, with your nose scrunched and your eyebrows furrowed.

It’s moments like these with you that he cherishes. The back and forth bantering, the witty remarks, the sarcasm and the quips. Thorns could be as dry with you as he wanted to be, and you’d never take it personally. No matter how eccentric he’d be, you’d still stick by him through all his fixations and failed experimentations; even his disorderliness and often tousled hair wouldn’t turn you away from him.

He doesn’t know how long he stares at you after that. He just knows he likes the image of the sheer delight that reaches your eyes, the stifled giggling that you try to quell from laughing at your own silly theatrics, and the warmth of your body pressed up against him.

Thorns barely even notices the first few times you call his attention after a while.

“-ou listening? Everything okay?” You ask, the presence of a smile still faint on your lips, but a hint of concern showing in your eyes.

He takes a deep breath, “Sí, everything’s alright. I just-” Thorns takes a moment, thinking carefully about his next words, thinking about whether or not this is even an appropriate time to bring up a conversation like that.

“There has been something that I’ve been wanting to discuss with you for a while.” He decides to try.

You tilt your head to the side, acknowledging the request with a bit of surprise — with a small prick of worry — and you ask, “Okay, what is it?” You’re seemingly completely unaware of his intentions, and he can feel his resolve waver the longer he makes eye contact with you.

Is it really worth it to lose someone like you over his silly feelings that he couldn’t even make clear prior? What can he say — what can he do — to ensure the successful result that he so desires to have with you? He’s no Elysium when it comes to heartfelt, passionate speeches, and he’s nowhere near his friend’s level when it comes to flirtatious advances either. What little experience he has with romance is purely theoretical, researched from data banks during late nights in his lab when his thoughts wandered to you.

Most of all, how could he subject you to such a vulnerable and possibly uncomfortable heart-to-heart, when you can’t even remove yourself from his presence without assistance from him?

“Actually, olvídalo. I would prefer to have this conversation when you can walk away from it at any moment. But—” He gestures to your legs, still unfeeling — completely opposite to him currently.

“Hmm? Wait, why? Just say it!” You exclaim, confused as to why the conversation had to be stalled for when you could walk again. Thorns looks away from you, somewhere off to the side where he can focus on something that wasn’t you; something mundane and inconsequential that could help him gather his thoughts better.

“No, no importa. I can’t— I’d rather not say it right now.” He mumbles.

Your exasperation at his obstinate behavior grows, but whatever it is, he wants to say, it’s clearly important to him, so you do your best to encourage him to just spit it out already. “Isidro.” You assert his name, causing the hairs on the back of Thorn’s neck to stand.

“You can say whatever it is you have to say. I’ll see it through to the end. I promise.”

Thorns glances back at you, seeing the anticipation on your face as you eagerly await his words. He sighs, conceding to you, “Ay, pues… If that is what you desire, then I’ll oblige. Tell me at any moment if you wish for me to put a stop to it.”

Before you can say anything, he shifts his posture on the seat, adjusting your position as well in order to have you face him better. He gathers up every ounce of courage and sense that he can scrounge around for and utters your name like a prayer, with the reverence of a heretic begging for another chance from the divine.

“I’ve known you for quite a while now, and you’ve always been a very dear friend to me… However, I’ve been finding it more and more difficult to be without you, and I fear I do not see you in the same way I see our other companions.” Thorns states, trying to get the words out — quick and clear — before his anxiety causes him to freeze and before the realization can fully set in for you.

“I surmised that failure is definitely on the table as an outcome, and that I might lose your companionship as a result of these untoward feelings, and yet—”

He hesitates, finding it immensely difficult to meet your eyes. But, he knows he has to look, knows he has to see you figure it out for yourself. Thorns needs to relay to you as much sincerity as he can muster to assure you of his resolve, to ensure the best possible conclusions to the most terrifying experiment of his life.

“And yet, I can’t seem to help myself. Perhaps if you know, then I would not feel so strange at every waking moment that I am by your side.” He pauses, steeling himself once more. “When you are not even here, I still feel your presence in every aspect of my life, and I cannot rid my mind of the thoughts of you.”

His uncertain expression changes to a tender smile, with an adoration that reaches his golden eyes, gazing upon you as if you are the dearest thing in the world. It’s entirely possible that, to him, you are that and more.

“At any miscellaneous moment, I could just be transferring some liquids from a graduated cylinder to one of my flasks, then… I would imagine you there at the opposite end of the table, looking intently at the chemicals merging forms and properties, and anticipating a reaction with that blinding excitement on your face.”

Thorns brushes a strand of hair out of his eyes, ensuring — hoping — that he’ll see you look at him with that expression once again. Sheer, infectious positivity at the infinite probabilities you both can discover together. Wishing that you’ll grant him the blessing of the light you so endlessly shine.

“I think of you at every possible moment, and every time my pulse races so quickly, so unnaturally. Not even the adrenaline of using Destreza in battle — of those uncertain moments on the field where even the Doctor struggles to lead us to victory — or the total exhilaration of a sudden and successful breakthrough-” He stops for a second, taking a breath at the sheer sight of you, flustered yet in awe, having fully realized long before his next words what he already means to say.

“None of them could make me experience even a fraction of what I feel when it comes to you.” He says, causing a breath to hitch in your throat at his absolute earnesty.

Without thinking, Thorns reaches up to cup your face with his hand but stops himself before he can do so. “You inspire me to a terrifying degree, and you only fuel my motivations to learn, and grow, and excel. These past months, that’s what I’ve been tirelessly trying to understand.”

You make his heart skip a beat when, after a slow blink, you subtly lean into his palm, silently encouraging him to continue his passionate spiel and looking up at him with a small, growing grin, and ever-gentle eyes.

He continues to speak before the erratic beating of the pulse in his head can distract him. “Whatever this feeling is, I thought there must have been a scientific explanation for it. Perhaps I could have recreated the symptoms somehow, with some medicine or concoction, with the right mix of hormones or synthesized chemicals — with my alchemy.”

Thorns breathes in deeply, and you feel his hands shake as a shiver runs through him. “Something — mierda, anything — to explain how you affect me so vulnerably, to the incalculable degree that you do. I could never find the answer. I can’t even now, with you here, listening to me pour my heart out.”

You put your hand on his own as he continues to cup your face, faintly brushing his thumb across your cheek as if he couldn’t believe you were holding each other at that moment. His heart is terra figulina in your hands; yours to shape to your desires as you so pleased, and he can only yearn for your continued touch.

Thorns continues, “It is so daunting a task, to understand you, to understand what you mean to me. Sometimes I feel as if I’d be able to alchemize the secret to life itself before I could even come close to even fathoming the depths of my affection for you.” He lets out a light huff of air at his own expense.

“You are to me, the living gold that alchemists search for, the Philosopher’s Stone that creates the very beauty of life itself. My Fatima, mi tesoro.” Thorns feels his teeth chatter with the weight of the words that finally reveal to you his long hidden intentions; feels himself struggling to keep his composure at the sheer fervor in your eyes.

“And I often find myself questioning whether your presence in my life is a gift from the gods of Iberia that I have long since abandoned, because no science of mine can ever hold a candle to the divine you.”

His grand words strike the chords in your heart, feeling the beating pound loudly in your ears, as your face struggles to contort appropriately to the myriad of emotions his confession is invoking within you. Thorns uses such beautiful language to declare his affections, and you can barely process every striking line in your own disbelief at the profundity of his devotion.

“I would give you my heart, all that I am, if I could.” He begs. “If you’d let me.”

Thorns raises his other hand and places it under your chin, gently tracing against your neck and jaw with his fingers, holding and cherishing you as if it might be the last you’ll see of each other from this moment forward. Once again, he speaks, “In the simplest of words that I can express, in the language of that distant place I wish I could have called my home,

Me he enamorado de ti. Por favor, déjame amarte como te mereces."

And now, with his words exhausted and every aspect and part of his heart laid out bare for you to analyze, all Thorns can do is pray in quiet thoughts; a non-believer begging the gods for this one miracle, for this one last chance at heaven, when all rationale and logic can do nothing more to carry him forth so he must try to rely on faith.

You stare at him, seeing the desperation in his eyes, mixing with the boundless adoration and reverence he clearly holds for you, the one you always doubted to have ever had a chance of existing.

Thorns is right now, just as he usually is.

Straightforward.

Honest.

Intensely passionate.

He looks at your quivering lip, and you shake from the shame of not knowing how to respond to such a profound declaration of love. How can you hold a candle to a performance like that? What can you tell the man in front of you that would be on the same magnitude and level as his own wholehearted confession?

What would someone like Elysium say? ‘Bro, I like you too.’ You think, and immediately purge the thought of using him as an influence for serious romantic conversations.

You let out a nervous laugh, “I— Forgive me, I don’t have the words right now…”

It feels extremely awful, all the stumbling phrases mustering from your lips, stark in contrast to the extraordinary poetry that Thorns had waxed for you with all his heartfelt words and diction.

But this is Thorns, and you’ve never had to perform anything for him when you didn’t want to, and he wouldn’t do a thing to change that now. “That’s alright, I did say quite a lot. Know that I am not rushing you for a response, mi querida. It’s alright if you don’t reciprocate-”

He removes his hands from your face and you see shame and disappointment paint his features, but before he can continue his words, you immediately cut him off to make sure he doesn’t back out now.

“No! It’s not that, I do — I like — love.. You too, yeah?” You mumble, words suddenly so foreign in your mouth, but you grab his previously retreating hands and hold them in your own.

Thorns’ breath hitches, and he can’t help the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. You try to save face and convince him, moving one of your hands from his, so you can caress his face and trace his now-flushing cheeks; doing your best to relay in actions what you can’t in words.

“Maybe there is something I can do instead, as a better answer for now. That is, if you’d let me?” You ask, feeling tense and on edge once you realize what you want to ask from him, looking up at him bashfully through slow fluttering eyelashes.

He murmurs a low, “Hmm?” Leaning subconsciously into you, his anticipation and curiosity start building, with Thorns doing everything in his power to keep his restlessness at bay; to not just combust right then and there at your attempts at reciprocation and his embarrassingly desperate hypotheses at the next course of actions to possibly be taken by you.

Exhaling deeply, you gather your own courage and confidence, hoping to do your best to pay homage to his devotion by showing him how much he means to you as well. “May I?” You finally ask, gesturing to his alarmingly soft-looking lips with your eyes, tracing the edges of them languidly with your thumb.

You feel Thorns freeze under your touch, breath once again caught in his throat as he registers what you are asking of him. You prod a little more to assure him, leaning forward into his face, close enough for your noses to nearly bump against each other. You feel your face burn more and more at the proximity, but you can’t deny the sheer rage you’ll feel if either of you backs out now.

“Please, Isidro?” You beseech him, feeling his labored breathing against your lips, still hesitant, still unsure if he can close that distance which he narrowed so greatly with his words. Are you certain?

Though, Thorns can barely help himself anymore, not at this point, not when you’re looking at him with those expectant, anticipatory eyes. With your fingers tracing the lines of his lips, intent and impatient, yet still trying your best to wait for his response in this back-and-forth of yours.

Finally, you see the bump of his throat bob up as he breathes in deep once more. He gives you a slow nod of approval, tilting his head sideways to lean into you, shutting his eyes in preparation. Unwilling to wait any longer, you follow Thorns’ actions, pulling him in with your hand on his jaw and gently closing the gap between the two of you.

Your lips are soft against his, and Thorns feels all warm and tingly, heart thumping loudly, as the experience of your timid actions register in his senses. You squeeze the side of his jaw lightly as you try to deepen the kiss, and the innocuous action drives him up the wall, so much so that he cups your face in both of his hands to join in your efforts of intensifying the ardor.

The two of you test the waters for a while, pushing and moving against each other, no words or coordinated communication exchanged between the two of you outside of muffled vocalizations — grunts, hums, and the like.

Thorns kisses you as if he is actively learning from every small little detail of your movements and the noises you make, and to some extent, he’s a very fast and adaptable learner. Once he finds a better position to kiss you, or a more appropriate hand movement to augment the sensations you feel, then he’ll go for it immediately until his next shiny discovery; new things to apply for next time, when you make a new cute sound because of the right amount of his push and pull, or the added thrill when he runs his teeth on your bottom lip and you grip his shirt a little harder than necessary.

Completely breathless at this point and flushed red, you pull away slightly, just enough to breathe but with your upper lips still hovering on Thorn’s own; refusing to part from him for too long. He opens his golden eyes and you can feel the molten heat of his gaze, impatiently waiting for you to catch your breath so you can return to the kiss again.

When you finally press back gently against his lips, he feels you faltering, insecure in your movements and reluctant in trying to find new places to put your hands without making things awkward or painful for either of you.

Restless, and completely agitated that you haven’t gotten back to properly kissing yet, Thorns hoists you by your waist, shifting you upward on his lap so he can feel you pressed up against him more, practically having you straddle him for more proximity. You let out a surprised yelp against his mouth, to which Thorns just contently grunts in response. He guides your arms around his neck, and finally satisfied, presses his lips back to yours firmly with his eyes shut once again.

Now, instead of testing and learning, Thorns kisses you in a way you can only describe to be similar to his behavior in battle, precise and calculated, no miniscule movement wasted; every shift successful in driving you more and more restless and needy.

Holding the side of your face with one hand, and gripping your waist with another, you don’t know how long you two had kissed for this time, but by the end of it, Thorns is the one that has to pull away, out of breath and panting heavily from his own efforts.

You loosen your hold around his neck, choosing to take the moment to breathe as well, leaning against his forehead to appreciate him and this new dishevelled look of his. Lips parted, breathing heavily, face flushed a deep red, eyes unfocused for all aspects of sight except you.

“You’re so lovely like this.” You mumble against his lips, and you wonder if that’s all you’re getting for today. An intense, passionate kiss spelling the first of your new relationship with Thorns.

His eyes soften at your words, and during any other occasion, he would probably have some witty remark for you as a response. But right now? He’s still drunk on the experience of you. Thorns craves more, wanting to be closer, wanting this moment to never end. With all foresight and rational thought completely gone from him at the present, he hungers still.

“Again. Again— please, corazón.” Thorns begs, his eyes fervently gazing at your own. He leans into your forehead as well, your noses brushing against each other. You can feel his labored breathing on your lips as he waits — as he prays — to kiss you again.

“Okay.” You concede, because how could you deny him when he looks and sounds like that — when you’ve both waited for what seemed like centuries to finally share a moment like this with each other — when he beseeches you so ardently, as if you are his last lifeline, as if you were his aqua vitae.

With one hand still hooked around his neck, you take the other and run it across his face — with a brief caress up his cheek — and up into the strands of his unmanageable dark brown hair. He looks at you with growing interest for a fleeting second.

But what he doesn’t expect is for you to tug him downwards into you, by his hair, nonetheless. Thorns lets out a surprised but delighted grunt, before closing his eyes once more as you deepen the kiss. You feel him smile into your lips at some point, and while this experience is definitely less intense than the last one, it still makes you feel all tingly and warm; the butterflies fluttering around helplessly in your stomach as you continue kissing him.

Eventually, you both pull away, breathless once again, but without the remains of the hunger that overtook you both. You stare at each other for a little while longer in silence, both of you processing the intensely passionate events that just happened.

Breaking the silence, you can’t help but let out a few giggles, giddy and in absolute delight that — yes — that just happened, and you’re totally gonna keep doing that with Thorns in the future. You try your best to stifle your laughter, but you’re much too joyful and probably high off of the lack of oxygen right now to stop.

He lets out a soft and light chuckle alongside you, not devolving to incessant little snorts and guffaws like you, but laughing gleefully nonetheless — satisfying, like the sound of small, tinkling bells or the subdued pitter-patter of a gentle rain.

You chuff into the palm of your hand, unable to stop yourself from smiling as Thorns is just unabashedly admiring you, brushing strands of hair from your face and rubbing light circles on your lower cheek. You decide to gently bonk him with your forehead, your noses colliding with the action; to which he tenderly rubs his nose against yours, tickling you faintly and making you laugh further.

He huffs fondly, “Dios ayúdame-"

"Eres hermosa.” Thorns whispers, crinkles forming in the corners of his eyes as he can’t help his smile widening. You can barely formulate a proper response at all your giggly-ness, so all you can choose to do is blush and try to hide your face into his neck; to no avail, as his hand keeps your head in place for him to continue adoring you for as long as he so pleases.

He gives you soft pecks all over your face, starting from the tip of your nose and all around your cheeks, meanwhile trailing off affectionate mumbles of “Te amo, te amo…” in between kisses.

Eventually, the two of you calm down as you settle your head upon his shoulder, looking up at him with a loving twinkle in your eyes. He gazes back at you, content and ecstatic at how things turned out so well between you two. Thorns nuzzles the top of your head, and your interest turns back to the now-extremely loose braid in his now-extremely tousled hair.

“I’ll braid that again if it comes loose.” You mumble into his neck, beaming at the thought of it staying tied despite the intense kissing session you went through earlier.

He grins back at you, “I hope you do, preciosa. Perhaps you can re-do it right now?”

“Mmm, okay!”

You sit up again, straightening your posture on Thorns’ lap so you can get a better position to braid the front part of his hair properly. You untangle the tufts, removing the sea-urchin patterned hair tie that was previously used, wearing it around your wrists as you comb through his locks to smooth them out before re-braiding.

Humming a random tune and pretending you don’t see Thorns and his sickeningly sweet smile at your antics, you deem the strands of hair smooth enough to braid. However, right as you get to your second plait of his, “Hey! Don’t move, you’re gonna mess up my work.”

You scold him for moving his head downwards, nuzzling into your neck and shoulder, which was insanely cute — mind you — but which also ruined the neat first plait of the new braid.

“Pero estoy cómodo~” Thorns teases, to which you reply with a sigh, yielding instead to his unexpected cuddly nature. As soon as you finish, you tuck the braid behind his ear, admiring him for a moment, before giving him a quick peck on the cheek to sate your cuteness aggression. He simply chuckles in response.

Now having finished the braid, an air of awkwardness settles over you as you realize you have to talk about what to do next and how to proceed as — whatever you two are at this point.

“Well, what do we do now? Are we— Should we go on a date, or something?” You question, completely unaware of what to do next, of what to do when starting a new relationship with a guy like Thorns.

He replies to your query with a casual response and an immediate plan, as expected of him. “We could. I can take you dancing if you’d like. Ah— somewhere in Iberia, there’s a small town by the ocean that I used to find pleasant. I’m sure I could scam a chess bet out of Elysium and have him book us a villa by the beach. We can try their arroz à valenciana, or if you prefer something sweeter, perhaps the ensaïmada?” He rolls out suggestions so you don’t have to feel lost on what to do.

You put your hand on your chin in a thinking motion, leaning a little away from him to straighten your back. Thorns has to steady you by the waist because you nearly flop over from the lack of feeling that still afflicts your legs; when you let out an embarrassed giggle, he has to resist the urge to not just bite you right then and there.

“That sounds exciting! And I didn’t even know you could dance, could you teach me? What dances do you know, and— Gosh, my heart is beating so fast, this must be what Ceobe feels when it comes to food. Wait, aren’t your Iberian dances hard to learn? Uhhh, I’ve seen videos of the Flamenco-” You prattle on, giddy with delight at all the possibilities, especially one where you’d get to dance with Thorns, but your excitability left no room for him to reply with the speed of your words.

“¿Como?” He cuts you off, breaking his silence and looking at you with a mix of confusion and endearment. “¿Puedes repetirlo más despacio, por favor?”

You acknowledge his request, and start with the first and most important thing that you asked prior. “Could you teach me a dance? Something from your home?”

Thorns looks at you, feeling all tenderhearted and sentimental, and what else could he answer you with if not an agreement? How could he resist such an offer from his cariño?

“Of course.” He says.

You beam brightly at him, yet before you can go on another spiel or ramble on, a thought comes to your mind. ”But, now that I think about it— ” Thorns’ face falls a little at your apparent hesitation. “Aren’t you a bit mean to suggest dancing, when I literally can’t walk right now?”

Thorns lets out a loud, boisterous laugh. “Once again.” He rubs a circle on your knee as he emits another chuff of amusement, “Perdón, amor.”

He pulls you into a hug and nuzzles into your neck, whispering apologies mixed with flirtatious Iberian sentiments.

“What can I do right now to make you forgive me?” Thorns asks, looking back up at you with a faux expression of guilt terribly masking his amusement and mischief.

“Mmm, I can think of a few things~” You reply, tilting his face towards yours with a few fingers holding his jaw up, tracing lightly just a little below his lips.

A roguish smirk forms on his Thorns’ face at your oh-so-appealing suggestions. --- END ---

translations (in order of apperance): - ¿Quién está ahí? = Who's there? - ¿Que paso- = What happened- - Es mi culpa, lo siento. = It's my fault, I'm sorry. - ¿Por qué? = Why? - Sí, pues claro. = Yes, well of course. - muñeca/muñeco = doll - ¿Está esto bien? = Is this alright? - ¿Cómodo? = Comfortable? - Perdóname, cariño. = Forgive me, sweetheart. - ¿Qué? = What? - Sí. = Yes. - olvídalo = forget it - no importa = it doesn't matter - pues = well - mierda = shit - mi tesoro = my treasure - Me he enamorado de ti. = I've fallen in love with you. - Por favor, déjame amarte como te mereces. = Please, let me love you the way you deserve. - mi querida/querido = my dear - corazón = love - Dios ayúdame- = Lord help me- - Eres hermosa/hermoso. = You're beautiful. - Te amo, te amo... = I love you, I love you... - preciosa/precioso = precious - Pero estoy cómodo~ = But I'm comfy~ - ¿Como? = What? - ¿Puedes repetirlo más despacio, por favor? = Could you repeat that slower, please? - cariño = darling - Perdón, amor. = Sorry, love. credit: - Please visit Pixiv Artist Froth for the wonderful Thorns art that I used for the banner! Go check their page, THEY HAVE SO MUCH MORE ART FOR HIM AAAA-

end notes: - haysusmariosep... ang dami nun sa translations lololol - Nakaka-Juan Karlos Labajo, ERE, Chorus, Line 1. Ay Thorns, literally no one could make me hate you. Except maybe when you don't kill the freezing drones on time. But then again, that's largely my skill issue and not yours. Anw, Elysium can also get it and we can all hold hands together I guess? behind the scenes:

Ewan ko na LMAO, this is an impromptu holiday gift for my frend who convinced me to not skip pulling for Lodestar, and so I got him at the first 10 pulls with no pity. The conversation near-verbatim was:

Me: But he's not limited and I need to save… Frend: BUT HE'S HOT! YAN LANG KAILANGAN MO NA RASON, ANG POGI NIYA AND GWAPO BOSES, NOTHING ELSE MATTERS GURL, MALEKNIGHTS WOOOO!! Me: A. Oke, but only one 10 pull.

Meanwhile, Lodestar: appearing at the 6th pull

Also, my beta-reader, who shares the lovely experience of having been born and raised Catholic, experienced with me the tremendous amounts of Catholic guilt associated with the kiss scene. She's older, so she told me, while covering my eyes:

Bate: You shouldn't be reading this. Me: BUT I WROTE IT? ---

Hope you enjoyed! Comments and constructive criticism would be much appreciated, especially if you're a fluent Spanish speaker and have some corrections for me. Have a good rest of your day, whoever you may be! :DDD