Chapter Text
Basically everything could be blamed on one very orange, very demanding, very spoiled kitten.
She hadn’t been named yet, given that she’d been surrendered to the shelter when she was only a few weeks old, so you couldn’t name names exactly how you wanted to. But the point of fact was that you were only in place to meet your soulmate because she had gotten into a pile of the remaining puppy pads, and had shredded the entirety.
If she had been well-behaved, or if your coworker had been a little less of a sucker for her big brown eyes, or if anyone had had the same understanding you did that Little Miss Orange was absolutely not to be trusted—none of it would have happened. And you might have never met your soulmate, or have ever experienced the landslide of events that followed directly thereafter—neither the good, the bad, or the very unexpected.
But the orange kitten had gotten into the puppy pads, only ten minutes before you’d gotten on shift, and Mari was already flagging you down from behind the front desk as you made it into the shelter that morning, waving you over frantically.
“Please, I need you to run back out and get more puppy pads—the little orange girl got into the supply,” Mari said breathlessly, the criminal in question perched directly on her shoulder, looking deeply unrepentant and actually very pleased with herself.
You had no doubt that Mari had purposefully let the kitten into the supply room with her for some company–-completely whipped after only two days of sheltering her, though anyone who had experienced the kitten for more than five minutes could have predicted her criminal intent.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” you said, only because it was literally sleeting outside, the closest pet supply was at least a twenty minute walk away, and your gloves had finally given up the ghost this morning, after almost three generations of wear and tear.
“Unless you want us to be cleaning poop directly off the floor for the next day or two, then yeah, I’m serious,” Mari said, sounding almost as unrepentant as the kitten looked.
You huffed. You so did not want to be cleaning up poop this afternoon, either, so it was really a question of suffer now or suffer later. And considering the size of some of the dogs you’d been sheltering as of late, you really did not want to suffer later.
“Oh hell—okay yes, I am going,” you finally allowed, turning almost straight back around.
You were not about to play games here. After several years working at an animal shelter, you were fairly well-versed in the requirements of all the animals, all of the things you might need to keep things clean, fun, and as low stress as possible. This week, you had several big dogs in the process of being adopted out, one very sweet and very shy bunny, a pair of tiny, shivery chihuahuas with the most deafening vocal range you had ever experienced, and a litter of orange and cream-spotted kittens, of whom Little Miss Orange was indisputably the princess.
The princess of puppy pad destruction.
You stepped back out of the shelter and into the torrent of sleet that painted the cityscape a violent, churning white. Even when only a few feet ahead of you, your fellow pedestrians were little more than silhouettes, hunched and nearly colorless through the snow. The sidewalk was a dangerous pool of greying snowmelt that slid out from under you as you stepped onto it, and the buildings around you all but vanished into the sleet barely ten feet above your head.
By the time you made it closer to downtown, your scarf hung heavy with the weight of built up sleet, your fingers were numb, and your cheeks and ears ached with the cold. You shivered in your jacket, which had appeared much cozier on the sale rack than it was when tested against the elements.
The pet supply was wedged in between an upscale grocery, which boasted a riot of brightly colored flowers in the window despite the season, and a stately-looking bank, through whose windows you could see two bored tellers almost asleep at their counters. You grabbed the door handle with frozen fingers, and hurried into the warm interior of the pet store, shuddering violently.
The store was familiar—a biweekly checkpoint for you, as part of your job at the shelter—and it always smelled exactly like the shelter—grainy kibble, fresh hay, and recently applied floor cleaner. You always liked it here, especially when people brought their own pets in, and what might have been a five minute endeavor often turned into fifteen minutes of pets and coos and enthusiastic kisses. There was only one other patron in there with you this time, aside from the college student cashier slumped over a pile of homework.
You made your way to the back, gathering up as many packs of puppy pads as you could feasibly hold, and took your time meandering over to the checkout, soaking in the warmth of the shop.
And then, just as you finished checking out, credit card just tucked back into your bag—it happened.
A violent slam rocked the building, causing the floor under your feet to shudder angrily, like a juddering wave. You stumbled, banging an elbow on the counter, and the cashier tripped over onto the register, saving herself with a hand on the buttons.
“What the hell—?” you demanded reflexively, peering around. You rubbed your stinging elbow.
“I know! What—what do you think that was?” the cashier asked nervously, straightening herself.
The store was quiet for a moment—normal, as you looked around—before another brutal blow shook the building, sending you staggering back into the counter. The other customer quickly came scurrying out from between the shelves as they lurched frighteningly.
“Ooookay this is terrifying,” you said. “Do you think we need to get outside in case the building comes down?”
The women nodded, and that was really all the agreement you needed to get the hell out of there.
Except, as you dashed for the door, another violent shudder wracked the building, sending all three of you stumbling into one another.
And then, just as you righted yourselves, the wall to the bank next door exploded.
One second you were reaching out for balance against the other two women—and the next you were on your back, blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. Something sharp dug into your thigh above your knee, hard and unyielding, and there was a strange weight against your shoulder, pinning it to the floor. Something moved next to you, soft, and you glanced down to find one leg of a pair of blue jeans, kicking out from under a pile of grey cement—the other woman who’d come running out from the shelves.
“Holy shit—” you coughed, something strange and grainy coating the back of your throat. You choked, wheezing out, “Are you okay?”
“I—I think so,” a voice floated back to you from the other side of the cement pile, and the leg shifted again, pressing against your hip.
“Can you breathe?” you asked.
“I—yes. Yes,” the woman answered back.
You nodded, though she couldn’t see you, trying to sit up. Only, the thing above you kept you anchored against the floor, unmoving. You glanced down to find your own chunk of cement arching up over your body, two protruding pieces pressing against your shoulder and thigh. Your heartbeat kicked up, spiking straight into your throat.
Oh fuck.
Oh big fuck.
You swore, going still under the cement, not wanting to disturb it any lest it fall directly onto your chest instead. You realized your shoulder and thigh hurt where the chunk was digging into them, a bright haze of pain that you couldn’t believe you hadn’t felt at first.
You hoped to god nothing was broken.
In the muddle of your own confusion, you could hear sounds pouring over the rise of the cement, voices shouting, and the wet slap of feet in the sleet outside. There was another boom, and the ground shook underneath you, and then there were several loud crackles that pinged off the rock around you, magnifying the sound.
In the distance, you heard a siren start up. More people began yelling, their tones horrified, voices strained with panic.
And then, something strangely familiar, though you couldn’t quite place it—-a crackling, crystalline sound, ringing out clearly. The ground shook again, several loud slams echoing in the hollowed out space of the pet supply.
It was then that you remembered the cashier girl, too, and your head whipped around, searching for evidence of her. Over the crackling sounds, and the sudden shriek of voices outside, you managed to yell. “Hello—cashier girl? Cashier girl, are you okay?”
If there was any answer, it was drowned out by a sudden burst of heat, a roar of flame, and the concrete lit up bright orange, momentarily blinding you. The shrieks got louder.
There was a sudden ruckus of sounds you couldn’t place—all loud, violent, completely jarring. You lay still, frozen, as over the course of minutes the sounds grew louder, as the ground continued to shudder and shake around you.
And then finally, almost as quickly as it all began—things went quiet.
You could hear your own breaths—rapid, panicked, rasping—as you yelled out, “Hello? Is anyone there? People are trapped in here!”
It was only a few moments before you heard the rapid crunch of boots on the gritty floor, and then a familiar head of red and white hair peered around the cement block pinning you down. Your heart fluttered in recognition—a weird little thrill of relief and interest.
Pro hero Shouto.
The hero's hair was mussed from combat, color high in his cheeks, and there was a tear along his high collar and down one arm of his suit. Your eyes dragged down his face greedily, and it felt quite suddenly like the concrete block had tipped over and crushed all the air from your chest.
In person, Todoroki Shouto was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.
It had been one thing to see him on news broadcasts—all tall, lean, and strong, with a face biologically engineered to strike a woman dumb. But it was another to see him in person, to see the sharp perfection of this man up close. To witness the perfect symmetry of his face, the flex of a hard bicep under his suit, the way his temperature jacket strained over those broad shoulders. To be subjected to the hot intensity of his gaze as he quickly made his way over to you, that pert mouth forming a question.
“Is anything broken?” he asked, in a low, soft tone you recognized from a thousand TV broadcasts.
You shook your head. “I don’t think so—but there’s another woman on the other side of me, also pinned down, who might be in worse condition. And there was a cashier girl in the store with us who I can’t find now.”
Todoroki nodded. He waved a hand, and a slow cascade of ice poured from it, creeping up around your body, pressing up along the concrete block. Slowly, carefully, it shifted it off of you, and your shoulder and leg began to throb in earnest, somehow hurting more now that the weight was off of you.
Todoroki quickly stepped around you, sending another wave of ice curling up along the other woman’s side, slowly shifting the concrete off of her too. You watched him quickly make his way deeper into the store, a couple of meters, halting when he found something. Another wave of ice told you he’d located the cashier girl.
You slowly clambered up on your knees, watching as Todoroki crouched, pulling the cashier girl up into his arms. Your gut churned, watching her hang there limply, hoping she was okay.
“I’m going to get her to the EMTs,” Todoroki said, quickly making his way back through the rubble. “Do not move, I will return quickly.”
As he spoke, spikes of ice formed at his boots, swelling up into several enormous walls, pressing up against the remainder of the ceiling, propping it in place.
“Got it,” you said, though you guessed he meant the other woman more than you. Your whole entire body hurt, now, probably covered in a million tiny scrapes, but your shoulder and leg were clearly not broken—just massively cut up.
The EMTs must have been waiting just outside because Todoroki was back in under a minute, stooping over the other woman. You watched his handsome face shift in concentration, watched him press gentle fingers along the worst of her injuries, asking her questions in his low tone.
His voice was almost hypnotizing, so low and calm, and you almost forgot you were rocked up in a recently-collapsed nightmare hellscape.
He must have assessed the woman’s injuries as non-severe, as he helped her to her feet, pulling an arm over her shoulder and walking her over to you. Her steps were ginger but effective. Todoroki propped her up against the concrete, and then squatted down next to you.
Your heartbeat kicked into your throat and you concentrated on breathing normally as he leaned over you. Those heterochromatic eyes flickered over you, checking you for injury, rapidly calculating where and how you’d been injured. “Your shoulder and leg—can you move them?” he asked.
You shrugged your shoulder and wiggled your leg compliantly. “I’m fine. I think I’m just bruised, probably—it doesn’t feel like anything is broken.”
Todoroki nodded. “I’m going to help you stand, then. Tell me if anything hurts.”
You murmured your assent, heart shooting all the way into your mouth as Todoroki got an arm under your shoulder, the other under your leg. You probably wouldn’t have noticed any change in sensation even if it had occurred, as suddenly, all your nerve endings were concentrated directly under his hands, shivering in the warmth and the careful strength of his touch.
You tried to force your attention back to your extremities, evaluating whether anything hurt more as you stood.
They really should have made the pros uglier, just for public safety.
Once he’d gotten you to your feet, Todoroki helped you test your step, eyes hot on you as you winced involuntarily at the sore shift of your leg muscles. He stooped and pulled your arm over his shoulder, and then moved to get the other woman’s arm over his other shoulder, keeping a firm hold on you both.
It was mostly under Todoroki’s strength that you made it out into the still-whipping sleet, air cold in your lungs. Despite the weather, a crowd had gathered, scores of onlookers knotted along the sidewalk, several medical transports pulled up alongside the building. Next to them, EMTs were checking over a few injured people who must have been from the bank building. Police sirens flashed, lighting up the sheets of sleet a blinding red, and a couple of officers were struggling to cordon off the block, with the crush of interested onlookers.
Several news vans had also arrived, and you could hear a few breathless reporters detailing the scene.
Todoroki helped you over to two waiting EMTs, first depositing the other woman into their arms. You made to pull back from him as well, heartbeat going haywire from all the time you had spent pressed along his strong, hard body.
And then it happened.
The thing that set everything into motion. The thing that would have never even been possible, if it wasn’t for one tiny, spoiled kitten, who’d sent you out into the snow in the first place. The thing that would set you on an alternate course for the rest of your life.
As you jerked your arm back, you accidentally knocked Todoroki in the cheek, embarrassingly antsy in your attempt to get off of him. You reeled back, stumbling, and Todoroki quickly caught you around the arms, catching you before you slid right into the slush.
“Oh shit—sorry!” You said hastily, reflexively gripping the sleeve of his uniform for balance.
You could feel a paramedic’s hands on your shoulder, helping right you as well.
And then you noticed it, high on Todoroki’s cheekbone. Two fingerprints, dark like ink, standing out starkly against his pale, perfect skin. Two fingerprints that had not been there when he’d helped you over his shoulder and started walking you out onto the street.
Two fingerprints—which looked terribly, horribly like two soulmarks, two impossibilities, right in front of your eyes.
You blinked.
That had to be wrong.
Maybe you had whacked your head and hadn’t realized it. Maybe you had been crushed to death under the concrete and you were wishing desperately for this entire rescue in your final moments. Maybe the stress of the entire thing was getting to you and you were hallucinating the literally impossible as some kind of trauma response.
Because the soulmarks couldn’t be possible.
Not that soulmarks themselves were impossible. But on Todoroki Shouto, right where you thought had just touched him…
Soulmates were common enough. Purportedly everyone had one, whether or not they were lucky enough to meet them in this lifetime. Every person on earth was linked to a soulmate, a destined other, a person you would know by the marks you left behind on them and only them. When your fingers pressed to their skin, you would leave behind fingerprints, that would slowly fade with time. But they would tell you that that person was yours, your one, your soulmate.
For most people, the soulmate relationship that resulted was romantic.
Scientifically speaking, the fingerprint reaction was born of an innate compatibility, a body chemistry that induced a particular physical reaction during skin-on-skin contact between the hand and other parts of the body, and there was no implicit romance tied up in that respect. Not everyone experienced physical attraction, some people were already emotionally tied up in another person by the time they found their soulmate, and a lot of people experienced chemistry in different respects. So there was no guarantee of exactly what it meant to be someone’s soulmate.
But it was largely a romantic connection, for most.
Which is why it was one hundred billion percent impossible that you had left those marks on Todoroki Shouto’s horribly perfect cheekbone.
You had to be hallucinating.
Except, then the paramedic behind you suddenly went still. You could hear several intakes of breath from the people around you, the other woman who’d been in the pet store with you let out a little gasp. They’d seen the fingerprints too.
Todoroki blinked, alarmed, looking around at the people who had suddenly turned to peer at him in interest.
Hot panic rose up in your throat, as someone exclaimed, “A soulmark! Shouto, is that a soulmark?”
Those heterochromatic eyes went wide, and for a moment, they flickered to you. For a moment, all you could see was two points of grey and blue, holding your gaze in mutual shock as you both ran through the unlikely thing that was beginning to unfold between you.
And then there was the slap of feet in wet slush, and one of the nearby reporters was darting over, nose pink from the cold. Her cameraman was only seconds behind her, and then they were pushing into the crowd of EMTs. There was a startled call from one of the policemen, and you could hear the slosh of more feet in the snow, as more people quickly made their way over.
“Is it possible?” The reporter asked breathlessly, microphone to her mouth. “There appear to be two soulmarks on pro hero Shouto’s face!”
It wasn’t possible.
It literally wasn’t possible.
You knew in only a few seconds, once the shock of seeing the marks on Todoroki’s face tempered, that there was only one natural follow up question that everyone would have. Only one possible way for that soulmark to have appeared on Todoroki’s face.
Someone would have had to have put it there.
Recently.
Your panic seized you, coming over you in a white haze.
Your eyes slid between Todoroki, his handsome face perfectly still in his surprise, and the other woman from the pet supply, still slumped in between Todoroki and the EMT he’d handed her down to.
Still within reach, still feasibly someone who had touched him, too.
It could have been her, right?
She might have touched him, before you’d accidentally knocked him in the cheek. She’d been on that side, after all, as he’d helped you two out of the ruined pet supply. It was completely probable that she’d touched him on the face, too, a quick little brush as he helped her off of his shoulder.
It could have been her.
It had to have been her.
You opened your mouth before you could think better of it, and the words tumbled out of you. “It’s her! That woman there! She’s Shouto’s soulmate!” Your hand flung out, finger pointing at the woman in question.
There was one second of quiet, as everyone registered your shout. Todoroki’s eyes narrowed in on yours.
And then there was a sudden crush of people, crowding in around Todoroki and the woman, people exclaiming this way and that, a press of jackets and scarves and surprise and excitement. You were knocked to the side by several eager elbows, a reporter’s microphone flying past your injured shoulder and into Shouto’s face. The click of a thousand phone photos being taken and camera shutters going off underlaid the clamoring voices.
You quickly ducked between two women as they crowded in, sliding out from between Todoroki and the EMT, shoes slipping in the slush. More people crowded in as the police perimeter failed, and people came running to see just who had put a mark on the number four hero, the most eligible bachelor in the entire country.
You ducked and wove between people, your panic driving you as you emerged from the throng. Sleet whipped you in the face, cold and wet and shocking on the sudden heat of your skin. Your leg throbbed, shoulder singing in a reminder of your injury.
You stumbled, just catching yourself before faceplanting in the slush.
You looked back just for a minute, watching Todoroki’s tall silhouette disappearing into the mass of fans and reporters.
And then, picking up speed—you did the only thing you could think of.
You ran.